Be Nice to the Handicapped

Today is my first day off crutches after four weeks of frustrating and often embarrassing inner-city invalid maneuvering. I couldn't ask for a nicer spring day.
However, I can't stop thinking about how rude some people can be. First of all, when I'm sitting on the bus in the handicapped-designated area and you trip over my brace after looking down and seeing that my foot is in the way, don't shoot me the stink eye. I know that moving fast and minding your own business is one of the tenets of New York society that makes this city work. But I, and I would bet almost all handicapped people here, did not ask to be in such a position. We didn't supremely bust our collective ass or whatever to make your day a little bit shittier. So calm the fuck down and get over yourself.
Second of all, I now have such a profound appreciation for elderly women. When I boarded a crowded bus, without a seat in sight, it was invariably an older woman who would offer me a seat. I once spent 10 minutes perched precariously on my sticks on a full bus right next to a seated middle aged guy, who completely ignored my obvious agitation and presumably didn't notice my chest knocking into his face. Maybe he did. That could be the problem. Bad example.
So yes, exceedingly generous old ladies on the bus, thumbs up. Chunky middle aged businessmen, thumbs down. Also teenagers with bad attitudes, thumbs down. Come to think of it, MTA transportation in general, thumbs down.
When you see someone who is obviously disabled, permanently or otherwise, be nice. We'd appreciate a supportive smile or an already-warmed bus seat. Do it for the karma. I definitely will.

What the Fuck, Spring?

Yeah. What the fuck?

O, New York.

Every once in a while, things happen that make me simultaneously hate the New York system but adore the intrinsic character of its people.
Running late to meet someone near Astor Place, I ran to grab the downtown 1 and headed towards 96th. A few moments after stopping at 103rd, the train came to an abrupt and unusual halt. After the period of respectful awkward silences passed, we began to speculate and complain, but fell silent when a message came on. After the static finished, we turned to each other, confused and enraged: "We're going backwards? To where?" We then began to slowly retreat up to 137th up the express track. Within minutes, we were commiserating over being late for work and appointments, travel plans, and stories. I spent the next 10 minutes in a gypsy cab with some women I had never met before, and will never meet again.

Also this one time, this drunk Mexican guy professed his undying love to me on a park bench in Chinatown.

You Had Me At Hell No.

I have a new favorite place.
Under the coercion of Mon. Dialogue and a friend of ours, I attended Blah Blah Blah at the Bowery Poetry Club. I was not entertained by the thought, and admittedly, I spat "I don't understand why I need to pay $5 to hear some shitty poetry" as we walked in the door.
I was proved so wrong.
The evening was the first in a new series at the club. Blah Blah Blah is a poetry showcase and open mic for youth (none of the amateurs were any more than 21, and the showcased poets not much older than that). I was expecting loner kids getting up to wax about depression and thoughts of revenge, and admittedly, some of the first ones were totally melancholy and depressive. However, I was soon blown away by the talent of these kids slamming about life, love, and sneakers. Admittedly, drawing on slavery and the Man for inspiration got repetitive and exhaustive, but I suppose it's understandable that a 18 year old wouldn't have the same type of life experiences to draw from for exciting poetry. We were occasionally embarrassed on the emcee's behalf, but regardless of the bad jokes and uncomfortable references to militant Islam, people kept pouring in.
The second feature of the event involved performances by renowned slam poets (renowned in a certain circle, I guess) including George Watsky, Eboni Hogan , Chinaka Hodge, and Beau Sia. Being new to the scene, it wasn't until I got home and investigated that I realized it was kind of a special thing to see all these people performing. Eboni Hogan was probably my favorite of the night--her blend of humor, culture, anger and love was completely relatable, comforting, and completely entertaining. George Watsky performed a poem about his "slight lisp" that was amazing (but it's not on MySpace, I already checked). The stories that Chinaka Hodge told were fantastic and awe-inspiring, and Beau Sia (apparently a mentor to many of the people in attendance) slipped seamlessly from poetry to monologue to pure crazy and back.
The original real draw of the event was the dance party to follow. It took some time to get all of us in the mood, but it ended with a circle around Mon. Dialogue and Chinaka Hodge, as they cha-cha'd the night away. There was an inordinate amount of vogueing. The poets grooved. It was fantastic.
We stepped out of the club into a snowy early morning and debated black politics and hot messes until the train lines separated us.

Hot Mess du Jour

Friday night was a hot mess fest.
Hanging around with nothing to do, we czeched out freenyc for inspiration. Passing on ice staking and financial advice, we continued our theme for the week by going to Williamsburg Fashion Weekend at the Monster Island Building. Braving the L line and wandering around unfamiliar construction lots, we finally came across a trickle of fashionably frigid types that you would expect to see at an unfindable fashion show in Brooklyn. Situating ourselves in the front row of an alarmingly tiny and architecturally insensible room and chatting up a reporter with the aid of cranberry cocktails, we waited an hour for the show to begin. Hot mess number one:After the first collection King Gurvy, designed and modeled by Artur Arbit, we waited extensively for the next show. What followed was a peculiar progression of six guitarists repeating the same chord. And then it was over. The collection was by Sovereign Beck, who, according to our reporter friend, designed neckwear. We hadn't noticed.
Another long wait ensued. The final collection, Mandate of Heaven, which seemed to attract the greatest crowd (fifteen chairs was an underestimate by the end) was precarious but entertaining—official models, band (paige wood, excellence), and so on. Instead of being disparaging, we, along with the models, appreciated the hot-messcity. As fabulous as the last installment was (complete with model collapse and flurries of camera flashes), and considering our position as front-row at a fashion show, we jetted as soon as it was over.They promoted the second show, which was tonight, but feeling sated of cheap vodka and emaciated hipster crony models, we opted out.
The restaurant we had investigated before turned out to be a dark, neon, over-cologned cave. We decided on a Japanese place in close proximity, and after a short and rather entertaining wait, were seated and promptly ordered. After commenting on how "seafood" these days implies imitation crab meat, our meals arrived. My yaki udon tasted as though it had been doused in cellar dirt and octogenarian seasoning salt, and Mon. Dialogue's unagidon was flimsy and required significant soy sauce dousing. Conflicted between the professional, smiling service and the disappointing food, we left a decent tip but vowed to never return. Enter at own risk:
We ended the evening with an entertaining train ride back to Manhattan and a shared mistrust of freenyc. At least we have a story to tell.

Vaginas: Here to Stay?

Vaginas seem to be so out of place in our modern society.

In a world overcome by timetables and power lunches, no woman has enough time to worry about her vagina's feelings. Women's autonomy movements and protesting aside, chixxx still gotta werk to gain some modicum of respect and dignity. How are we supposed to be seen as full-fledged, high-flying, marriage-dominating machines when some organ between our legs feels the need to cyclically weep sanguine tears of wasted fertility? One thought crosses my mind when I think about my vagina: passé.

I don't know about the rest of developed society, but I'm sick and tired of watching commercial after commercial glorifying the teeny tiny steps made in better vagina regulation: "Your tampon opens in a full 360°? All of my life problems have been solved!" I admit that applicator comfort and absorbent braids are high on my list of issues, but I am proposing a much more direct solution. The relationship between women and their vaginas is a purely parasitic one.

They need you. You don't need them.

Mission Statement

sacriFabulous (sāk'rə-fāb'yə-ləs) adj. 1. of or pertaining to nirvanic climaxes known only through myths, legends, fables, et al. 2. us.