What the hell is up with all the fucking Izod shirts in New York City with the collars flipped up? I mean, seriously. Izod, khakhi pants, boat shoes. I forgot how bad dressin' east coast white guys are. Actually, the people I've been hanging with a lot (when I'm not walking around the city with my family listening to them jibber-jabber about everything and nothing until my mind floats out of my head and into the sky and I hover over buildings while my body jumps into the street with no cares at all hoping a taxi might just mow me down right here right now so I can't hear it anymore) aren't even east coast white people. They are all from Texas and North Carolina and Memphis. They live all upper west side or west side village and talk about business school and investment banking and advertising. There was that one cool conversation about cereal and marketing and how much share Cinnamon Toast Crunch (known in the breakfast business as CTC) has.
But mostly there's just a lot of me staring at people until they get drunk enough that I can dance with the girls while the Izod guys sort of not-move-at-all. The very first conversation I had with some Texas New Yorkans (known in the big city business of my inner mind as TNYs or Texanorkans when I'm not simply calling them red Izod or blue gator) went like this:
Me: Wow, everyone here is from Texas.
Aquamarine amphibious Texanorkan with collar popped: Yeah (pause) but we're not closed-minded.
Because I must believe that TNYs hate black people. Or maybe he thinks I'm Gay. I've been asked twice in the past two days about my sexuality. Is it my expensive shoes and button down non-izod shirts? And both times, I've had my arms around women when asked.
What is that all about? I think its just a power play because while, on the first night, I looked around the bar thinking, "wow, there are cute people in NYC but there's nothing like LA for attractive" and then, "oh snap. I'm like the second handsomest guy in this spot and my shirt buttons down and is ironed and I didn't wear it to the fucking office to trade stocks bitches and my shirt collar will not be popped and my shoes are shined and my jeans did cost more than 50 dollars and yes, I do realize I'm paying for all this quality distressing in them that makes them look well worn but also feel damn comfortable", now I'm feeling all un-pretty.
Despite tae bo and contacts and working out at my fucking exclusive fitness suite hotel with the free gym and in-room massages and fit kits with personal trainers and healthy shit all mixed in with the alcohol in the mini bar (and I have a kitchen in my room y'all with like a real fridge and a stove and plates and pots and pans, what what?!), yeah, despite all of that, I'm feeling like my hair is too long and my skin is broken out and I look weird amongst all this seriousness.
But at least I'm not wearing a peach colored short sleeved 100% cotton shirt with a green gator, tail upturned with light tan pleated pants and brown shoes only found in LL Bean catalogs with no socks.
I may feel un-pretty right now but I'm no tool.