LIVNI VS. PALIN

This is a street fight I'd love to see.

PALINDROME

Palindrome [palin drom] noun: a chronic, debilitating psychopolitological condition currently plaguing Liberals and Comedy Writers on both the East and West Coasts of the United States.  Symptoms include media induced mood swings, obsessive racing thoughts centered around Palin puns, joining pointless Facebook hate groups i.e. Sara Palin should stick to being a Lenscrafters model, and snowmobile-centric auditory hallucinations (see snow machines).

I've got the fever.  Majorly.

Of the 3,000 thoughts I've had today about SP, one seems worth mentioning.  In light of the public skinning of Mr. and Mrs. McCain on The View, wouldn't Palin be a brilliant permanent addition to the panel?  Picture it.  She'd be Hasselback's BFF.  She'd give Joy Behar enough material to sell out Ha Ha's Comedy Club in Seacaucus for years.  She'd make Sherri look learned.  Whoopi would eat her for breakfast.  Barbara could retire, finally.  The show would implode.

Does anyone have the Viewmaster's phone number?

 

smell the crazy

Sometimes you can just smell the crazy.   And last night the Upper West Side reeked.  More specifically, Malachy's Bar on 72nd street, where I have recently taken on the role of sultry bar wench two nights a week. 

A lucky few are born with an innate loony meter.  Others cultivate the skill of "crazy sniffing" from years spent hanging out with Method actors or working in restaurants.  And then, there are the ill fated handful, who seem to attract the deranged, as if by magnetic pull.  

I'm a triple threat.

I knew something was rotten as soon as my crackpot sat down and ordered her pastrami on rye.  There was an edge to her, a shiftiness beyond that of the typical New Yorker.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but my crazy-dar level was instantly on Amber Alert.

Then came the rapid fire q&a:

How long does it take to make pastrami?  It should be done by now.  

How much do I owe?  $8.  I need to pay now.

Where is the closest drugstore?  I need a bandaid now.

Can't you see I'm bleeding?  I am bleeding.

I disappeared into the kitchen, alerting the cook I needed the pastrami stat and on wheels (that's restaurantese for to go).   She was working up towards her show stopping number, it was clear, and better it happened on Broadway than at table four.

It was too late.  She was ready to shine.   

"WITCH!  YOU'RE A WITCH!  I KNOW YOU'RE A WITCH," she hissed at a poor Irish girl I was training and then promptly spit in her face.  A gal who was enjoying her second day ever in NYC.  A wee lass I had assured New Yorkers get a bad rap.  

I rushed down the stairs from the second floor kitchen, avec pastrami, to carry out OPERATION YOU ARE 86'ED.  

And there she was, God love her, waiting for me, practically foaming at the mouth.

I've experienced a few things as cocktailer- being spanked for instance- but never have I been jabbed in the solar plexus.  It was a attack move that, I imagine, Marines are taught in bootcamp or empowered single women learn in self defense class.  

It didn't hurt, but it was shocking.  My Spartan warrior instinct was to lay her out, but since it was my third shift ever, I wasn't sure where Mr. Malachy stood on hitting customers.  But before I could catch my breath, my pastrami loving bandaidless patron was lifted off the ground by two burly bartenders, feet kicking in midair, and escorted back out into the night from whence she came.

So when you smell the crazy, trust it.  Or wear a bullet proof apron.

 

 

      

TASTI D-WHO?

While all eyes have shifted and locked on the financial implosion on Wall Street, back uptown Tasti D-Lite is having a crisis of its own. And aside from a few other disoriented Tastiholics I've seen- staring blankly at where my local outpost used to stand- the problem has gone largely unnoticed.  Sure, I'm sorry the second Great Depression is around the bend, but the collapse of my frozen dessert obsession deserves attention too. 

I should have seen this coming- I saw the signs.

At first, the changes were nearly imperceptible.  So slight, in fact, I thought maybe it was just me.  First, the color of the trademark cup morphed from royal to a less majestic baby blue.  The logo went from the now retro original to a cuter pastel design.  Then, the cup size seemed different- was it deeper?  was it narrower?  My friendly Tasti counter gal assured me it was not.

I saw the toppings selection was changing- more fresh fruit and other naturalish things  like apple chips.  I wrote it off as the inevitable result of living in an ever increasingly Pinkberry/Yolato world.  Denial's a funny thing.

But yesterday afternoon, there was no more lying.  Upon landing on West 80th street after a long car trip- a carsick journey, by the way, spent chomping on Nicorette, visualizing TDL, concocting the utopian flavor combination of Peanut Butter Fudge/NY Cheesecake- I went directly bag still in hand, to my closest, and therefore favorite, branch.  

It was magically replaced by The Lite Choice, which so far I can tell is the Designer Imposter version.  I admit it, I had a sample.  It tasted like a manilla folder.  The same counter gal was there, now in a new uniform.  She acted like she didn't even know me.  

Frantic, I sprinted up Broadway to my next closet branch.  It was still there, but with a "new look" and "new attitude" and a cheery pink grand REopening sign.  The flavors remained, but a new quote/mantra is painted on the wall:

DESSERT YOUR GUILT: A CELEBRATION OF HEALTH AND LIFE

Not even I, perhaps the most d-voted d-lite fan, am buying that.  

Healthy?  Well, it is mostly air.  A celebration of life?  While I don't recommend it, I have, in fact, lived on it.   Just give me the 12 ounces of heaven and save me the Oprah affirmation.

At least it's still kosher.

POLL DANCING

America loves a poll.  

I devour them- Gallop to Glamour, Pew Research to Teen People.  Bring it on.

But this latest Washington Post/ABC News Palin poll, which indicates her popularity with petulant PTA moms has propelled the Republican ticket into the lead has me absolutely sick.

Come on ladies.  

Thanks RNC!

And to think I'd almost fully repressed the memory of former Hizzonerette, Rudy Giullani.

Thanks RNC, the grand old party could use a few more big bad queens from Brooklyn.

PBCSSD

Maybe it's the fancy schmancy Fashion Week invite that just arrived in the mail.  Perhaps it's a simple case of PBCSSD (Post Barney's Co-op Sale Stress Disorder).   Quite possibly, it's the obsessive week long hunt I've been on for the mythological, perfect-in-every-way dress that, like so many things, exists only in my mind.  

Whate'er it be, I woke this morning mentally scrolling through the list of clothes items I would outlaw if I had the power and there were legal fashion mandates.

So before I set out for another mind numbing day of pushy sales types born in the mid 1980's, iron maiden style dressing rooms, looking at my body from every blessed angle under every sort of sacred light, a small list of garments to be eliminated forever:

• gaucho pants
  
• empire waist t-shirts aka baby bump tees
  
• stiletto ankles boots
  
• prairie dresses
  
• arm warmers
  
• bubble skirts
  
• kimono sleeves on things other than kimonos
• high waisted shorts
• bandeau bikini tops
  
• anything ruched
  

This is in no way exhaustive. but list making is just so soothing.