"Oh, love, peace and harmony?
Love, peace and harmony?
Oh very nice,
very nice,
very nice.
Oh but maybe in the next world."
Love, peace and harmony?
Oh very nice,
very nice,
very nice.
Oh but maybe in the next world."
-The Smiths, "Death of a Disco Dancer."
New York Magazine is a clever little machine. They do this very keen bait and switch thing to keep you on your toes. This is how it goes:
July 17th, 2006: You are unhappy because you live here. Do you want to be happy?
December 4th, 2006: You are burned out because you live here. Sorry!
December 25, 2006: You love living here? Right? You should!
THIS WEEK: Just kidding! You are miserable because you live here. Do you wanna be happy?
(Side Note: 1. It is problematic to have birds/butterflies flying out of a girl's head because of the term "bird-brain," which means "stupid person." And because it's just sort of strange to begin with. 2. Is it a coincidence that there are flowers in her hair, and there's that song about girls in San Francisco with flowers in their hair, and people in San Francisco already have inner peace? Simmer on that, NYMag design department.)The various paths to inner peace the magazine suggests all seem a little time-consuming/expensive to me (e.g. religion, yoga classes, ditching bad habits, acupuncture, investigating toxicity levels of household objects). If they had asked me, which obviously they didn't, I would have said that Seeking Inner Peace is lovely in theory (as the cover so clearly illustrates), but in practice it's better just to Avoid Bad Things. This will better your chances of stumbling upon Those Shreds of Random Goodness that make the path to enlightenment a bit less crowded (unlike the aisles at Rite-Aid, which, as I will discuss, are quite crowded with gigantic boxes of Beta-Blockers and "Get Some Zzzzs" Aromatherapy Linen Spray).
Bad: The Manhattan Mall:
I have to get off the train at the 34th street B station three times a week, and I can't seem to figure out how to exit the station without walking into the Auntie Annies/Charlotte Rouse Orgie that is the Manhattan Mall. Going to the Manhattan Mall is the exact opposite of a Retreat to Como Shambhala Resort at Parrot Cay. Everything smells like Sweet and Sour Chicken/Cinnabun and the escalators never seem to take you where you want to go, and the garishly large signs--large enough even for the blind, which is probably a target audience for most of the clothes sold by the basement boutique "Hype! Hype!"---bear no relationship whatsoever to the actual location of the store advertised on the sign. I know these things because obvs I accidentally shop there sometimes, specifically at that little store by the door that sells trashy underwear for people with no class, like me.It still mystifies me that The Manhattan Mall exists. It has a Food Court. Even the now-remodeled Arborland Mall in Ypsilanti, Michigan, got rid of it's food court. You used to be allowed to smoke in the Arborland food court. It was like a total encapsulation of slow suicide. Manchu Wok + Kools + Merry-go-Round (the store, not the ride)= death.
Good: Discovering New Things About Your Favorite Appliances.
Me and this toaster have been through some rough stuff. The other day I yelled at it and asked Maggie if she knew why it had such an attitude and she said she never uses the toaster. I use the toaster probably 15 times a day. Basically, the problem is that whenever I asked the toaster to toast just one item, it would refuse violently by spitting out said item within only moments of it's insertion, and obviously the item would NOT be toasted to my liking. I tried unplugging and replugging it (I call that the "cool-down" theory) and I tried holding down the lever even when it made terrible noises, like the noise of a ferret being electrocuted. But then I looked a little closer at the problem and saw this:
That is a little "instruction," if you will: the words "One Slice" with two tiny little arrows pointing at a particular toaster slot. A HA! True enough, when I use the slot indicated by the arrows, I have no problems. To think I've been battling this problem for about 5 months without noticing this--or even realizing that my problem only happens when I'm toasting one item. I realized it like, in retrospect.
Good: The Wiggles:
So today at the gym I was watching "The View" and suddenly Rosie and Elizabeth are talking to these really enthusiastic children's performers called The Wiggles? They wear bright colors and they sing songs with lyrics like "Do the Monkey Yeah Yeah Do the Monkey!" and "Romp-Bomp-a-Chomp There's Dorothy the Dinosaur!" I mean: WOW. As I have not given birth to any of my own children and most of my friends are in a similar state of arrested development, I'm not really like "up" on the "Toddler Scene," and I'd forgotten how fantastic it is when grown men dress up in primary colors and totally just let it loose, you know? They put on TURTLENECKS--one of them dresses like a PIRATE--and sing "Let's make fruit salad today, let's make it the healthy way!" and the little kids just soak that stuff (I'm trying not to curse for an entire paragraph, because of the children) up! It totally took me back to the old days of The Gemini Brothers and The Song Sisters, my favorite musical groups when I was a tot. Children's Music is Magic. My face went from semi-horrified to completely captivated in about ten seconds. I just looked at their website and realized these dudes are more rich and famous than I will ever be. On the other hand, no one has ever photographed me in a turtleneck. Though I've been known to don pirate gear from time to time.Bad: Rite-Aid
I know it's weird, since Duane Reade is generally at the top of my list when it comes to bitching about drugstores. But I'm switching camps. Duane Reade is cleaning up it's act and Rite-Aid is officially worse, and here's why: The aisles are crowded with tall stacks of unopened boxes and the cash wrap is crowded with employees--at any given time, you can assume that four of said employees are actively NOT unpacking aforementioned boxes and one is manning a cash register with an imitation of efficient behavior comparable to that of an aging carnie stuck with operating a ride that catapults children to their death while she smokes the cigarettes that cause the hacking cough she emits about every 20 seconds. I assume these boxes contain the stock that is noticeably missing from the shelves, as each aisle looks as though it has recently been ransacked by a band of Wild Cabbage Patch Kids with Rabies and long arms.
Good: Les InnerPeacables:
Maggie and I have decided to communicate only in song today, as if our lives were a rock opera. I'm a notoriously dreadful singer but Maggie says my voice is "cute, like a little girl's." Sample lyrics (imagine these being sung to a very peaceful melody):Me: Would you like me to get you anything from the store?
Maggie: Yes you can get me a whore!
Maggie: Yes you can get me a whore!
Bad: The Things Behind the Deli Counter:
Speaking of the store....Hey ladies! Do you feel like the intimacy of your relationship to your deli guy increases significantly the first time you have to buy tampons from him? (which involves, obvs, telling him exactly which ones you want, and since it's usually on the first day that you find yourself without any tampons, you're all like: "Green!!!!! I said GREEN!") Like the first time he sees you drunk, or the first time he sees you with someone you are clearly dating/fucking, or the first time you drop an armload of food-ish products on his counter that all include, in some form or another, processed carbohydrates, refined white sugar and/or obscene amounts of cream?(Side Note): It's weird for me to mention tampons on this blog because, even though I am old, I still find the-act-which-shall-go-unsaid-which-requires-tampons to be embarrassing and gross and it makes me wish I was a bony boy who never cried or needed tampons. BUT tampons, in and of themselves, are not gross. They are just Q-Tips for Elephants. Plus I'm working on my issues, and one of my issues is "Disgusted by Womanhood In Self, Though Totally Tolerant and Occasionally Enchanted by Womanhood In Others."
Good: Reading About The Guy Who Wanted to Quit Smoking in New York Magazine's "Inner Peace" Issue
(photo from the article itself, which you should read, really, especially at the gym to maximize potential superiority complex)
Smoking for 25 years has made this dude "spit blood at regular intervals" and develop "chronic asthma." Holy shit! I'm like Captain Planet-healthy compared to that stuff.
(photo from the article itself, which you should read, really, especially at the gym to maximize potential superiority complex)
Good: C'mon Get Happy Playlist:
