Thursday, June 30, 2005

Stedman Rocking All Night Long

Today as I pulled a tab off the number ticker at the Italian deli, the one at the base of the Hancock Tower, and was salivating over the kind of sandwich I would select today, something nearly as huge as Big John loomed next to me; a shadow was thrown across the case of caprese salads and cannolis.


Yep, it was Stedman. Yes, that Stedman, Oprah's...uhhhh...boyfriend? Beau? Life partner? Swain? Sweetheart? Paramour? Intended? Permanent Fiance? Lover?


The man is...enormous. Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man-sized. (and it's clear, isn't it, that there's an entire generation that remembers 1984 in blinding clarity and that will employ this form of measurement, thanks to Aykroyd, Ramis, et al).

A teeny-tiny woman backed into him, and, once she peered upward and saw who it was, murmured his name, mesmerized (and it's clear, isn't it, that I am embellishing the story for blog-effect).

Then Stedman, the Most Useless Man in America, proved he's still the winner and champeen of that title by continuing to wander around L'Appetito in his gray Armani, scraping beige-colored gelato out of a cup and carrying some papers and a folder of some kind. Finally, he settled, alone, at a small cafe table, and continued to scrape-scrape-scrape and to stare into space. Or, rather, into Earth's upper stratosphere, because that man is HUGE.

Meanwhile, in Africa, Oprah continues to nurse starving children back to health with soccer balls and copies of "O" Magazine and chicken-salad sandwiches while supervising the construction of huts custom-designed by Nate.

What else is a Permanent Fiance to do, then?

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Here's Why Flesh-Colored Pantyhose Should Be Banned Forever. And Ever.

There was a woman in the waiting area at work today who was clearly suffering, and not because she had one of those Female Business Monkey-Suits on. No, she'd added to her inexorable heatwave grief by donning a pair of flesh-colored pantyhose.

Later, my boss' boss strolls over for some input during an impromptu meeting (I crumble inside even uttering that phrase--sigh), and old girl is sporting the most heinous hose offense: hose- with-sandals. This is a woman with three, maybe four, advanced degrees. (And I am so joining the ranks of those fired because they blogged about work.)

See, it's some kind of bait-and-switch, an oh-so subtly-played trickery. One is supposed to believe that one is indeed viewing too-too solid flesh rather than a frumpy-looking leg encased in polymers manipulated and--most cruelly of all--colored in artificial hues by heartless machines.

Can we please, please make women (and, yes, drag queens and trannies even) stop wearing these sadistic, homely accoutrements? Here are a few reasons why:

1. It's not 1965. Or 1985.

2. You will never, ever be that color.

3. That's because "Nude" is not nude and mahoghany is lumber, not a skin color.

4. Come on, do you think that in nature, people's toes have a seam going across them?

5. Remember that commercial where the butt depicted on the pantyhose package "wiggled" and made a sound suspiciously similar to that of Samantha's nose-wiggle noise in Bewitched? Yeah, I thought so.

6. Carol Burnett: always, always wore them in every sketch, no matter if she was playing Eunice or Mata Hari or Little Bo Peep.

7. Because isn't pale and/or mottled flesh better than elephant ankles?

8. I don't care if they came in a plastic egg.

9. They're ugly. U-G-L-Y. Ugly.

10. Because. I. Hate. Them.

People of the world, unite against the foe, the Evil Axis of L'eggs, Hanes, and No Nonsense.

And I haven't even gotten to control top yet.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Just Look Above.

Maybe it's the way the evening sun slants through the longest day of the year, gilding the delicate under-wings of a gull that's wheeling over street grit and spilled tacos, and ambitious spires and useless billboards, hothouse condos and bitter minds that reminds: when a waterside bird can soar like that overhead, there's something bigger than this city.