I'm still working on this humongous project - to be followed immediately by another humongous work project - and one of my own, of the "dealing with financial disaster" variety.
But, before I go down to my office on a Sunday afternoon, a few things to get you caught up...
1. I saw Henry Rollins at work this week. That tripped me out. I don't know who he was there to meet, but it was cool to see him. His hair is all grey into really white now. Many celebrity-type folks come through my place of employment, and you just don't bug 'em, but it was hard to not stop and say, "Dude, I still love 'TV Party'!" Or, just yell "QUINCY!" (This is only funny if you've heard "TV Party.") But I gave him a friendly "I know who you are, and you're f-ing cool" smile and head nod, and I got the nice, silent head nod in return. Good enough.
2. Continuing coughing jags are screwing with my eye big time. Thursday night, I had so much pain, I literally didn't sleep at all. I watched more Adult Swim than I have since my unemployment extravaganza in 2005. Oof. I made up for this sleep deficit by sleeping until 12:25 on Saturday afternoon, which was problematic, as I had an appointment at 1 p.m. and was supposed to have reviewed and edited some docs for work that morning. Off and on, it feels like I have an ice pick lodged in my head. Throughout the week, I had pain from my fingertips to my toes on the left side of my body - it all radiated out of my eye. My neck and shoulder hurt so much, I kept spraying arthritis pain reliever on that area - I smell like an old folks' home. Amusingly, at my reflexology foot massage yesterday (alas, I have officially run out of paid up massages as of now - SOB!!!) I had a new masseuse, unfamiliar with my recent history. As she tended to my feet, she said, "You seem to have real tension in spots relating to the neck, shoulders, eyes, and lungs. Are you having any particular problems?" Hahahaha! Believe in reflexology or think it's bunk - they're always right with me!
3. Suburban yuppie mommies: if there are several empty tables in the coffee shop, don't plant yourself and your coughing, hacking offspring at my little table. (Without asking, no less.) Then, when your coughing, hacking offspring dumps a large drink all over the table with my laptop on it, don't even think of turning to me and saying, "Go get me some napkins?" as your child smacks his hands repeatedly in the drink mess, splashing crap on my screen. Seriously. DON'T DO IT. It may take a village to raise a child, but it only takes you 3 seconds to turn your lazy yuppie ass around and pick up napkins to clean up after your own child.
Sorry. If that sounds bitchy, then so be it. Plenty of lovely folks came in the coffee shop yesterday with their kiddos in tow and behaved like normal people. But there's always got to be one of the Entitled Bethesda Mommies in the room. I cannot imagine for one second my mother telling some stranger in a cafe to go get stuff to clean up after one of us - especially without even saying "Excuse me/help/please"... Of course, my mom wouldn't have brought an obviously sick kid out to a coffee shop or put said sick kid down at a table with a total stranger when there were a bunch of empty tables. My mom also wouldn't have opened up a cell phone at a table with a stranger and had a screamfest, speakerphone conversation with my father, as this woman did with her spouse. "IS RACHEL UP? GET RACHEL UP FROM HER NAP! NO, I STILL NEED TO GO TO SAFEWAY. WHADDYA WANT FOR DINNER? STOP PLAYING IN THE SPILLED DRINK!"
After they finally left, I got some water and cleaned off the sticky gunk on my computer and the table. And I revelled in the sudden silence. I swear to god, if I get sick again from the hacking child, I may have to hunt that mommy down and smack her.
4. Driving home from work far, far too late on a very cold Friday evening, I got to see a naked guy on Connecticut Avenue. I was stopped at a light in that area of tallish apartment buildings north of the Van Ness metro station. As I'm waiting, the door opens on one of the buildings and a completely naked guy runs out - he had to be in his 20s - and he had to be Very Cold. I rolled down my window and heard him screaming, "Ooooh shit! Oooooh shit!" as he raced across Connecticut and back. Another guy, fully clothed, stood at the door of the building, laughing and yelling, "Duuuude! You win! You're fucking insane!" I laughed my ass off. I can only wonder what bet was worth that! I called the Sasquatch and told him about it. I said I would have, at least, kept my shoes on. The 'Squatch figured that being shoeless was probably part of the deal. I bet he's right. I imagine the Naked Dude of Connecticut Avenue is still trying to warm back up as I write...
5. Apparently, "man leggings" are the new fashion "must-have" from Milan. Man Leggings. Dear god. Let's face it: most men should not wear leggings. (Many women shouldn't either - if you ever see me in leggings in public, please shoot me. And be kind. Shoot to kill.) Leggings are simply tights without feet. And honestly, unless you are taking ballet, juggling at the renaissance faire or in a remake of Robin Hood, tights are a Bad Idea for Guys. First, how many men really want to wear leggings in public? (Other than, perhaps, this gent.) Visible panty line issues be damned! This will rapidly become a case of visible "fiddly bits", shifting and chafing and swaying in the breeze! No secrets can be contained in Man Leggings. (Unless they come with an optional cup or codpiece, and that makes it all so much worse.)
Most guys wearing Man Leggings will not look like this:
You see, that creature is a wood sprite. An elf. A tiny man-pixie. Beyond metrosexual. Probably completely depilated, moisturized, and smelling better than I ever will in my life. He is, ladies and gentleman, A Model. He is not A Real Dude. What will Real Dudes look like wearing Man Leggings? Well, they won't look like Master Julian Cheekbones Saint-Slip-of-a-Boy up there.
Instead, they will look like this:
Or, quite frankly, this:
And, bless Jay Maynard's Tron-suit-wearing self... but who needs that?
Outside of Manhattan (and maybe West Hollywood) what American male is going to run to Home Depot or grab the never-ending pasta bowl at The Olive Garden in a pair of footless, microfiber tights? If you find one (who isn't doing it on a dare or a bet), let me know.
I don't care what Godfrey Deeny sez. (Yes, that fashion reporter digging the leggings in Milan really is named Godfrey Deeny.) Men: keep the leggings at home. (Or better, at the store, unpurchased!) If you must slip on something fast to grab a six-pack at the convenience store, go with sweats. Nice, thick sweats. And a t-shirt that covers your crotch. Silently, the world will thank you.
And now, it's time to hit the road for some office time downtown. Broad daylight likely means no naked guys on Connecticut Avenue for my trek today. And hopefully, no men in tights, too.