Category Archives: The Slattern Speaks
Not even if you paid me
Well maybe if you paid me in Dom Perignon…Nah, not even then.
I’m not going to enable the attention-getting behavior of that rat’s-ass crazy chick who posed on the cover of Time with her three year old hanging off her left breast by reprinting the photo. I’m sure by now the image is forever seared on your consciousness, just as it is mine. I’m also certain I won’t be the first person to point out that breastfeeding a child who can pull up his own pants, conjugate verbs in the past tense, and program the TiVo has more in common with molestation than meal time, but if your primary goal for your kid is to end up on top of the library tower in 15 years with a hunting rifle in his hand and a clothespin on his penis, nursing him until he goes to middle school strikes me as a pretty effective way to start.
You’re from away, aren’t ya?
Your guide to vacationing in Maine this summer
It was recently brought to my attention that in my last post, Welcome to New York! Now get out of my way, I may have come across as a bit, how shall I say, strident. Some might even say elitist or xenophobic. I don’t know, I’ll leave the choice of adjective to you. In any case, in the interest of fair play (and as part of my ongoing commitment to tourist safety), I’m taking the quite possibly unprecedented step of rebutting myself on this one with some advice for New Yorkers who plan to visit the great state of Maine this summer. Why? Well, for one thing Maine has fairly “relaxed” gun laws, and those objects you see bisecting the rear windows of pickup trucks are not golf-club racks.
Welcome to New York!
Now get out of my way.
Like virtually every member of my extended family, many of you, I’m sure, maintain a firm “no New York” policy when it comes to vacation travel; however, for the intrepid souls who are considering venturing forth to the metropolis now that the tourist season is officially upon us, I have some advice. First-timers should pay particular attention. This is insider stuff you won’t find in any guide book, no matter what the cover claims.
Disclaimer/qualifications: Please note, I am not a native New Yorker, but a transplant. Most of the people who live here are. I have, however, resided in the city continuously since 1989 and in that time have called both Manhattan and Brooklyn home. Over the years, I have cultivated more than a passing acquaintance with the city’s museums, restaurants, bars, emergency rooms and (better) trial attorneys, so when I tell you this is inside stuff, you can believe it.
First let me say, welcome tourists. You may think New Yorkers are brusque, standoffish, even rude, and you may be right, but please know we do appreciate your visits, and more importantly the dollars, euros, pounds and yuan you spend, give away and are unlawfully relieved of from the moment you arrive until the second you leave. You are our piggy banks, our income stream, our cash cows, and we know it. So when we jostle you on the street, shove you into a subway car, or scream at you to get the fuck out of the way at the top of the escalator at Saks, think of it not as rudeness, but as our way of saying “howdy friend!” We are like the nippy border collies whose sole aim is to ensure the safety of the herd. If on occasion we have to take a chunk out of your ankles, rest assured it’s for your own protection and well being.
Imagine the sheep with little fanny packs and you get the idea.
Via ourworldofdogs.com.
Since we are on the subject of herding, I’d like to offer a few tips for safely navigating around the city while you are here. If I may.
GET THE LEAD OUT. PLEASE.
On the sidewalks, especially on weekdays, you must get out of first gear. This is particularly important if you are strolling en masse as a family or friendly group of fifteen. Like an interstate highway, the streets of New York have a minimum speed at which it is safe to travel. Unless you’re blind, wheelchair-bound or towing an oxygen tank, this applies to you. As a group, New Yorkers are hopelessly late, massively over-scheduled and chronically underfed, all of which makes us rather cranky and subject to fits of pique, so you’d be well advised to keep it moving. Dawdling, shambling, shuffling and strolling will get you injured. It’s not that difficult. Think of it as a matter of pride — do you really want to eat the dust of a scrawny little old lady in three inch heels as you shamble along in your Sauconys? Alright then.
STAY OFF THE SUBWAY UNLESS YOU KNOW HOW TO USE IT
Though safe for travel at most hours of the day or night, the subway is the native’s domain. We rely on it to get to work or cross-town meetings on time when traffic is hopelessly snarled (which is every day), if it’s raining and there are no cabs, or when we’re low on funds. As such, we are seldom at our best below ground. So if you take nothing else away from our little chat, please remember this: Step into the subway car and continue to the interior. Do NOT step in, stop and gaze in wonderment at the vast expanses of space, the lounging street people or the guy wearing the tinfoil hat, hip waders and a thong. There is nothing more infuriating than having the subway doors close in front of us because some rube is pondering whether to turn left or right, or worse, is completely oblivious to the six people trying to force their way past him. We will shove, curse and elbow you if need be, and by the way, we know the difference between tourists and natives. Like Joe Pesci in the deep south, most of you do not blend.
.
TRAVEL SAFELY
On one of these. Sure they’re ridiculous, but they’ll get you anywhere you want to go and keep you securely above both the ground and the fray. We love them for just that reason and would thank you for riding on them if we had time to chat and you weren’t careening down Broadway ten feet above our heads.
CLUSTER IN YOUR SPECIAL AREAS
It’s for your own good. There are certain corners of New York City where people who live here never go: the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State building and Times Square are the most notable. If you visit any of these wonderful sites, you are unlikely to be shoved by angry office workers, berated by frustrated shoppers or otherwise hassled by the natives, because we aren’t there. Believe me, my neighbors and I will walk ten blocks out of our way to avoid Times Square, not because we don’t like you, but because trying to move along 42nd Street is akin to swimming through cold molasses, and as mentioned, we are generally in a hurry. And cranky. The only New Yorkers you’ll see in these locations want to sell you something, and as such have a vested interest in being accommodating and pleasant. As Fran Lebowitz observed of Times Square, “We built it for you.” Too true.
There is one place it’s entirely safe to visit, where you will see New Yorkers in their natural habitat and need not worry about your pace or placement: Central Park. It’s the only area of the city with enough space to accommodate all of us and all of you, where we tend to slow down and relax, to stop and smell the roses as it were. So take a carriage ride, rent a boat or photograph yourselves at the Angel Fountain to your hearts’ content. But please, keep it moving on the paths.
“I did NOT have musical relations with that disco band”
Confession can be good for the soul, man
Forgive me Father Elvis, for I have sinned. It’s been thirty-five years — give or take — since my last confession, and as such I can’t really tell you how many times I’ve slipped or exactly what I’ve done. Given the timeframe we’re dealing with here, it’s probably safe to assume I’ve committed all of the seven deadlies at least once, though I’m pleased to report I’ve been almost completely mortal sin-free since we last spoke. True, I’ve been a little lax on the blasphemy front, but otherwise I think I’m pretty solid.
What’s that? Specifics? Well OK, if you insist.
I’d just like to begin by saying that I started out really well. The Sixties were chockablock with great music, and my parents were young and hip. We even had a big old stereo with lots of records – Yourself, the Stones, the Kinks, the Beatles, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, a little soul, a smattering of R&B. The usual. Tasteful, interesting stuff. Hard to say how I strayed from the garden path.
I guess I’d have to say my most frequent transgressions have been the singers who can’t sing. It started innocently enough with Bob Dylan: Mr. Tambourine Man, Blowin’ in the Wind, Highway 61 — you remember, don’t you? He’d scratch that guitar and wheeze into his harmonica and we all thought it sounded, well not exactly good, but cool. By the time we got to Blonde on Blonde, everybody was hooked. From there it wasn’t much of a trip to buying Neil Young records. Hell, after that, Tom Petty sounded just fine, and Bono seemed kind of smooth. I know it looks bad (and sounds even worse), but in my own defense, I’d like to point out that that Robbie Robertson album was a one-shot deal and I never even considered buying anything recorded by Bjork. That’s got to count for something.
What’s that, sir? More? Yeah, there’s more, and since we’re both already here, I guess we should talk about the Eighties. You know, it wasn’t all New Wave pablum. I did go to several Ramones shows, and I saw The Pretenders more than once. I also seem to recall an Eric Clapton/Muddy Waters double bill, but the details from that particular night are a little hazy. I know you’ll understand where I’m coming from on that.
Pardon? Depeche Mode? Aw c’mon man, I was living in England at the time and given the omnipresence of Top of the Pops it could have been a lot worse. You do remember Culture Club? How about Rick Astly? Never even got near either one. No, I think my little flirtation with New Wave hardly even qualifies as venal.
Of course, I can’t say the same for the chick singers. Though I’m more than a little ashamed to admit it, I did buy Sheryl Crow’s first album, but it was a Grammy winner and even though it contains that uber-stinker Strong Enough, there’s also Leaving Las Vegas and a couple of other reasonable efforts, though I can’t really recall them at this point. How was I to know she’d go all save-the-planet and start dating Lance Armstrong? And remember, I have always been a big Patti Smith fan, which I’m thinking should counterbalance that unfortunate Sheryl Crow business.
There is one thing I do need to get off my chest though. That’s right, you guessed it: Stevie. Not Wonder, Nicks. I bought a Stevie Nicks record in college for reasons I still don’t understand. Maybe it was the adenoidal warbling (bad singers — see above) or the platform shoes. Hell it might even have been the twirling. All I can say is I am really really sorry, and I have already repented in my heart and at length, so I hope you’ll go easy on me. I mean, we’ve all got our guilty pleasures, right? Grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches ring any bells? How about In the Ghetto?
Yeah yeah, I know we’re talking about me now. Listen, I realize it looks bad, Sir, but before you hand out penance, I’d just like to remind you that I have a deep and abiding love for the high quality stuff — Nirvana, the Foos, Lenny Kravitz, Elvis (no the other one, Costello. Loved the country album. I know, right? Who’d a thunk?)…Oh, well thanks. I try to stay current.
Act of contrition? Really? I know my record is hardly unblemished, but doesn’t my consumption of tasteful, worthy music count for anything? OK, OK, no need to shout. Let me get a pen. Alright, shoot.
Three Half Breeds — Cher! You don’t fool around, do you?
Three Lost in Loves — Air Supply? I’d hardly have thought they’d be on your radar, but it’ll be good and painful.
Twice all the way through We Built This City — Tough to listen to Grace Slick doing that, but you’re driving this bus. It’s harsh, but I can handle it. Check.
So, we done here?
WHAT?! Piano Man!?! You have got to be kidding me! Quite possibly the worst song from the worst album ever recorded. Just the mention of it gives me an earworm. If I listen to it even once, it’ll be stuck in my brain for a week. C’mon, anything but that. Please?
Alright, alright, I’ll do it — relax. And no, you do not have to assign the entire record. I mean it’s not like I tried roller disco, or bought Guns ‘N Roses tickets or anything.
Pardon? Six weeks from now? Couldn’t we stretch it to six months? I’ve got Punch Brothers tickets coming up and Sir Paul’s supposed to be playing in the City again. Of course, I’ve also heard Fleetwood Mac may be touring…I’ll see you in June.













Pushing the Rambettes
May 20
Posted by WSW
When exactly did the humble baby stroller become a Humvee?
Outta my way shitbirds, or I’ll light you up like Sesame Street on a Saturday night.
Courtesy graphicshunt.com.
Damned if I know. For the past fifteen years, I’ve been out of the stroller game and otherwise occupied with the usual assortment of science fair crises, bake sale scrambles, emergency room visits (not all mine), tween angst and teen drama. Lately, however, I find I spend a lot of time thinking about prams and the like, more often than not because I am either tripping over one, cleaning a gaping wound on my extremeties caused by one, or popping some totally legitimate prescription pain medication to treat the back strain caused by helping some poor babysitter hump a fully loaded carriage up the subway stairs. Apparently boss mamas are not overly concerned about the portability of their perambulators as it’s just the help who have to hoist them; Mama drives to Fairway.
Also keeping the stroller top-of-mind is the recent phenomenon of sidewalk shrinkage in my neighborhood and the metropolis generally. How else to explain the daily barked shins, crushed toes and human gridlock I experience virtually everywhere I go? Now I’m willing to admit that I may take up just a tad more space than I once did, but my expanded girth cannot be solely to blame for the constant squeeze play that a stroll on a city street has become.
It’s not me, you see; it’s the baby strollers. Not only are there more than I can ever remember seeing, but they have become larger, heavier and far more pimped out than in my day. Here’s what the little Slattern rode in way back when:
Elegantly minimal. $20 and weighing roughly as much as a large bag of Peanut M&Ms.
These days coffee cup holders, running boards, back seats, iPod jacks, cargo holds, satellite uplinks and monthly detailing all appear to come standard. As far as I can tell, modern carriages do not push themselves, which would be an upgrade worth paying for, yet they clearly cost an arm and a leg. Curious to find out exactly what kind of prices these things currently fetch, I took a sniff around Baby Depot, where I had to slog through over 100 models to find anything priced below $200. The top of the line: $1,099.99 for the Switch Four Modular System, which is probably what Jonny Quest rode in. This of course begs the question, Who pushed it, Race Banon or Dr Quest? Also, where did Hadji sit or did he have to walk behind the stroller? Was there a place for Bandit?
But I digress.
Horrified as I was at the stickers on these things, I was all afire to find out how high they went. You would not believe what I found. The highest priced one I saw was a $4,500 model called the Roddler from Kid Kustoms. That’s right, five large by the time you pay tax and shipping. Check it out:
Baby Vader’s wheels courtesy Kid Kustoms.com
Look at the front end of that thing. Get within two inches of it and it’ll peel your shin like an apple. Of course the afterburn from the rear thrusters could conceivably have a cauterizing effect, so maybe it really is worth the cost of a semester at one of our finer state universities.
Now, in fairness, it must be pointed out that the Roddler is fully customizable and comes in a variety of fun colors and finishes, including ostrich leather. At least I think it does. According to the website, a substance that looks remarkably like ostrich hide is listed as “Ostridge Skin.” See?
I couldn’t make this stuff up, folks.
Déclassé as I apparently am, I don’t see the appeal of Ostridge products or, mayhaps I am not completely up to date with the luxury market. (I did look up Ostridge, but the definition I found in the Urban Dictionary was so disgusting I can’t bring myself to link to it. In any case, spelled that way it’s a VERB.) What I probably need is to have a Kardashian ‘splain it all to me. Apparently one of them – Klamydia I think – pushes her little bundle of joy around in a Roddler, though whether his ride is tricked out in quilted leather or Ostridge is anybody’s guess. Clearly, though, the Roddler is a must-have for hot moms in the dough.
You’d think that this might be the end of it, but all this research, in addition to giving me a vicious thirst that only a double vodka can slake, has led me to ask one final question, namely “What next?” A little more internet digging, and I think I’ve found out. Soon to dent your shins, obstruct your path and break your nanny on a sidewalk near you, behold the Rambette…
The next evolution of the baby stroller, the Rambette, courtesy designbuzz and NATO.
I’m going to have to start taking my broomstick everywhere.
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Posted in Commentary, Life and times, The Slattern Speaks
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Tags: Baby, Baby transport, Humor, Jonny Quest, Kid Kustoms, Ostrich, Rambo, Roddler