Valentine’s Day is amateur’s night.
The guy picks a restaurant he’s never been to that costs more than he’s ever spent.
He antagonizes over the menu like he’s dead-man-walking to his last meal.
People that never dress, over dress.
One time use lilac bridesmaid shoes make a second go as night-out shoes.
She wants to look sophisticated; her dress is too tight, too short, too summery and she’s wearing the wrong bra.
That dress? Is it even hers?
Don’t try at romance.
Be romantic.
Do what you do well even better.
Tell her what you feel.
Give the best of what you got.
Every day.
Black is the new black.
And blue is the same old blue jeans.
L train east, midnight EST.
Karneval at Zum Schneider is not to be missed.
Not this year.
Not ever.
Welcome to Disco 7C.
Huckapoo shirts, playboy bunny neck bling, and afro wigs in all colors of the rainbow nation are not required but highly represented.
Sylvester Disco Daddy and his glittery cast have transformed the sauerkraut und Dinkelacker hall into a sequin lined cave. Enter these hallowed halls and pray the Hustle, the Freak and the Rock.
The stage show delights and beguiles.
Why has a bare chested actor in bejeweled lederhosen donned a man sized beer mug costume?
Why are the scantily clad singers pelting each other with pillowy beer steins to the funky beats of Kung Fu Fighting?
These questions will not be resolved by plot analysis.
But by drinking more beer.
And by dancing the night away.
Drink more beer!
Dance! Dance! Dance!
The Sphinx is a big old flirt.
By big I mean the biggest monolith in the world. At a whopping 73.5 meters long, 6 wide and 20 tall, he’s huge.
And by oldest I mean 5000 years old.
As for being a living playboy, well, when you meet him you’ll agree, his language may be dead but he’s awesome. A total hunk.
Our fling started with a nuzzle and a purr.
And ended with a kiss.
Every Sunday after church my Dad’d stop at the newspaper store to pick up The Sunday Times.
I walked my Sunday-best into the shop and stood in my father’s shadow just below the register, slid my sticky fingered hand into the candy bin and swiped a piece of Bazooka bubble gum.
The pink of it. The sweet stink of it.
The soft cornered tablet shape.
Crystal sugar that ground against teeth like sand and melted like icing in my throat.
And clinging to the wrapper, the inane pirate-patched Bazooka Joe tiny comic.
The chance to collect cool stuff.
Five minutes off my knees, papery host stuck on my tongue, the Holy Ghost tracking my every patent-leather step, and I stole gum my father would not have hesitated to buy for me.
The force was overwhelming.
The act was Irresistible.
Who knew sIn could taste so sweet?
Until the third fateful Sunday, I was accused.
My father defended his daughter’s honor to the belligerent shopkeeper as I slyly dropped the sweaty wax papered treat back into the bin.
The holy ghost had a good laugh.
I never pinched candy again.
I earned allowance. I saved. I spent.
Down on Soho’s Broome Street, grown-up girls with decorating daydreams can’t resist swank SICIS where you can rifle through their mosaic tile bins and slip your fingers over chicklet shaped glass mosaics infused with real sliver, gold or platinum.
Drop an offered mermaid hued sample in your pocket, or lick the back like a postage stamp.
Does it taste like it popped out of a Pez dispenser?
Or dropped off the counter at Bulgari?
Go to SICIS to get inspired.
Or Daddy Hedgefund willing, to buy.
Me, I browse at SICIS.
I buy at Canal Street Plastics.
At Canal Plastics I gotta pay a buck-a-piece for my 2×2 fluorescent or mirrored plexi samples.
But I don’t have to go down on bended knee for an act of confession.
Kiki at SICIS.