Woody at 31 (1967)…
Monthly Archives: November 2007
yeah, so i guess sort of the other day I was just blahing around (whatever), thinking about blah, minding my blahs and q’s or maybe my p’s and blahs, not entirely sure, and I guess perhaps at some point, this nondescript character, um, he comes up to me, his face and hair were both pretty blah, and, he was wearing this gray-blue-green-white-ish t-shirt that had some writing on it, that, I don’t really remember what it said exactly, but I do remember thinking it was pretty blah, you know.
Anyway, he asks me how I’m doing, oh yeah I guess I kind of knew him, we took some seminar together sophomore year maybe junior year on like the cultural implications of carbon dating (don’t take it, btw, the reading list was really blah) so yeah he was like, “How are you doing?” and I’m all, “Well, I don’t know, I feel sort of blah today, I don’t know” and he’s like, “Same here, blah too,” then his stomach makes this entirely audible grumbling, we both heard it, and we’re pretty sure this woman down the street heard it too, she completely stops what she was doing, (cleaning up after her brownish-beige dog, blah), and looked right at us. “Uh, you hungry” I ask him. “Ehh, not really,” he answers wavering. “But I could eat, I guess. You hungry?” My face scrunches up. “I’m not sure,” I look down, deciding not to go into the fact that my stomach’s been feeling blah all day.
“Maybe something light?” I half-offer. He sort of nods. We walk off slowly, in no direction in particular.
I was thinking about writing some slightly-culturally-insensitive post about those subway ads for Trolman, Glaser, and Lichtman, you know that law firm which specializes in representing Latinos and that has the phone number, 1-800-Margarita (not to be confused with 1-800-Tequila). I was gonna write something perhaps-ill-advised like, “Why isn’t the number 1-800-pinatas?” or “1-800-julioiglesias.” But thankfully I found this comment entitled, “1-800-KISS-MY-ASS” on the NYC Rants blog that is way way better, enjoy:
Dear Trolman, Glaser, and Lichtman,
While I understand the use of mnemonic devices to help the public remember phone numbers, I must object to “1-800-MARGARITA”, the number listed for the firm in your Spanish subway ads. It strikes me as very unprofessional for a law firm to use such a silly, condescending number. Is this the only way you can think of for the Hispanic community to remember your number? To make it the name of possibly the only person in your firm who speaks Spanish? One who is likely some receptionist from the Bronx with three illegitimate children that handles the bulk of the case while having no business doing so? Would a Spanish speaking client even meet with Mr. Trolman, Mr. Glaser, or Mr. Lichtman? Three gentlemen, who I would guess, are not Hispanic, but nevertheless represent the “number one law firm for injured Hispanics”?
I’d like to see what phone number is printed on the business cards your firm distributes to your affluent, white clients. I’ll bet the farm that it’s not 1-800-MARGARITA.
Not sure if you heard (how could you have not?), but the aforementioned San-Jose-Sharks-Jacket-Guy, who has been MIA for a good 6-7 months, today miraculously reappeared along my morning-commute-route, only now he’s wearing a NY Rangers jacket!
He looks about the same he did months and months ago, with a thick, long-white beard, perhaps he’s a bit thinner and more ragged, but it’s hard to tell. The NY Rangers jacket is much lighter than its San Jose counterpart, some might call it a “Fall Jacket,” so here’s hoping when the temperature drops he starts once-again donning everyone’s favorite turquoise extravaganza.
On a side note, there’s this other guy who’s consistently along my morning-route, he’s part of that 34th Street community revitalization project, responsible for those flower-arrangements along 8th and 9th avenues. He’s usually cleaning the sidewalk as I walk to work, sweeping, gathering or whatnot, and one day about 2 weeks ago he stopped me: “Excuse me, do you have the time?” “Oh sure,” I gladly obliged, squeezing my cell phone out of my dumbly-tight work-pants (gosh I hate work clothes).
But just a couple of days ago, the same worker-guy asked someone else the time, just as I was passing. “9:37,” the passerby said (give or take) and the worker was very thankful. Made me start thinking: perhaps someone (maybe me?) should buy this guy a watch? Would he even take it? Maybe he doesn’t wear watches for cosmetic reasons like me (they make my arm look too short).
Anywoo, I’ll keep you posted whether NY-Rangers-Jacket-Guy becomes a butterfly, so to speak, and metamorphoses back into his much-beloved San-Jose-Sharks-Jacket self.