Break out your formalwear! Even a fashion-spitter usually has one tux, or one gown (sometimes both), gathering dust in their closet; here’s a chance to put it to good use!
Manhattan’s many celebrated five-star restaurants are as legendary for their food, as they are for their pricing, but this special find somehow eluded the recommendations of the city’s top food critics, who must be getting kickbacks from the food-spitting, wealth-hating waitstaff, that is just as legendary for hurling something “extra” onto your plate, or cloaking it brilliantly in your appetizer. Since this is not The Food Spit, we cannot endorse such unsanitary conduct, much as we like to see life made nasty for the world’s very invoiced persons (VIPs). You won’t be hated upon by the helpful staff at this place, and you can see the food being prepared in front of you anyway. The combination of best-in-category offerings of this place, and its unbeatable pricing, make it the perfect dinner-date for cost-conscious fashion-spitters. I’m talking, of course, about Papaya King”, at 86th and Third Avenue (or their newer location at 14th and Seventh Avenue). Not Gray’s Papaya, the well-known knockoff chain that has decent hotdogs of its own. That place is great if you need a quick meal, but culinary snobs who want best-in-category fare, for a premium of a few dollars or less, will want the “original Papaya,” the one started by legendary fashion plate Gus Poulous in the 1930s.
Put some sneakers on under your formalwear, because you’ll want to run from your double-parked limo into this efficient venue, and get ready for the best hotdogs you ever tasted, along with some of Manhattan’s most fascinating tropical-drink offerings. For less than $10.00 a person, and not too much more than $5.00, you will emerge with a pretty fucking good meal, at a damn good price. Your recession-conscious date will be so impressed with your seamless integration of style and thrift, that she’ll instantly want to replicate your DNA.
You can take the IRT to get to Papaya King, but make sure to splure one one of Manhattan’s many fine yellow limousines. Rumor has it that there’s even one floating around that might just pay you, if you’re lucky, and have a thing for trivia.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Reflections On Fashion Weak 2010 (New York)
Recently, New York City just completed yet another Fashion Weak, an industry convention which serves two vital purposes:
1. Play god with everyone’s sense of style by telling them what will make them look cool in the upcoming fall and winter seasons (usually whatever people have the least of in their closets, so they have to buy the most useless shit that slave-labor in China can muster), and, much more importantly;
2. To create gridlock near Penn Station and Port Authority, so that anyone who actually belongs in Manhattan will have difficulty making their train or bus out of the city, by stalling their westbound taxi on 35th, 37th, 39th, or 41st Streets, while exacerbating the existing gridlock on 34th and 42nd Streets. This will also leave etiquette-conscious fashion-spitters with the dilemma of stranding their poor cabdriver in traffic, without the meter clicking, or having to sprint three blocks to make their train, all in the name of helping shallow narcissists impose their will on the masses.
I wasn’t actually at Fashion Weak, but I’m pretty sure there were tall, scantily-clad models prancing down catwalks with pissed-off expressions which say they are, in the words of one famous model, bored, angry, and better than you. Such a cutthroat battle-cry, but they didn’t call the movie The Angel Wears Prada, did they?
The annual “drop” at the surrounding gay bars and clubs was substantial, as usual, as were hissfits, and a few poor allergic types dropping dead after being stuck in the wrong elevator with the most potent, tested-on-screaming-cats fragrances money can purchase, splashed all over the faces of Manhattan’s most successful status-concious social-climbers.
Not all about Fashion Weak is bad, however; it does eventually end, having lasted just long enough for the minor annoyance to pale in comparison to the added Manhattan enjoyment fashion-spitters can derive the other fifty weeks of the year. Kind of like the way some people inflict self-harm, just to experience the good feelings of it stopping.
Ray Gordon
1. Play god with everyone’s sense of style by telling them what will make them look cool in the upcoming fall and winter seasons (usually whatever people have the least of in their closets, so they have to buy the most useless shit that slave-labor in China can muster), and, much more importantly;
2. To create gridlock near Penn Station and Port Authority, so that anyone who actually belongs in Manhattan will have difficulty making their train or bus out of the city, by stalling their westbound taxi on 35th, 37th, 39th, or 41st Streets, while exacerbating the existing gridlock on 34th and 42nd Streets. This will also leave etiquette-conscious fashion-spitters with the dilemma of stranding their poor cabdriver in traffic, without the meter clicking, or having to sprint three blocks to make their train, all in the name of helping shallow narcissists impose their will on the masses.
I wasn’t actually at Fashion Weak, but I’m pretty sure there were tall, scantily-clad models prancing down catwalks with pissed-off expressions which say they are, in the words of one famous model, bored, angry, and better than you. Such a cutthroat battle-cry, but they didn’t call the movie The Angel Wears Prada, did they?
The annual “drop” at the surrounding gay bars and clubs was substantial, as usual, as were hissfits, and a few poor allergic types dropping dead after being stuck in the wrong elevator with the most potent, tested-on-screaming-cats fragrances money can purchase, splashed all over the faces of Manhattan’s most successful status-concious social-climbers.
Not all about Fashion Weak is bad, however; it does eventually end, having lasted just long enough for the minor annoyance to pale in comparison to the added Manhattan enjoyment fashion-spitters can derive the other fifty weeks of the year. Kind of like the way some people inflict self-harm, just to experience the good feelings of it stopping.
Ray Gordon
Was Andrew Cunanan A Closeted Heterosexual?
Having played chess in Greenwich Village in my teens, my “gaydar” is pretty well-attuned. Most gays “ping” in some way or another, often very sutbly; Andrew Cunanan, who murdered that Versuvius designer guy, is not one of them. My new theory on his killing spree is that he was about to be outed to the fashion community as a heterosexual, something with which I doubt any true fashion-spitter would disagree. Cunanan’s pinging is much more towards the gay4pay end of the spectrum; his murderous conduct was definitely more consistent with heterosexual than homosexual behavior.
For this year’s Straight Pride Week, and to bravely tell the tale of when I first realized I was heterosexual, I will share. It was 1978, at an all-boys summer camp. Mini-mancrushes on the cool campers were social, not sexual. Instead, my revelation would come in the mail, in the form of the weekly Sports Illustrated that would canonize all I was missing at my “real camp,” one with cabins, not dorms, and a television for viewing only on rainy days, or for special events. Unlike most covers of this magazine, this one had Christie Brinkley in a bikini; the legendary “swimsuit issue.” This was back in the day when such pictures were not so easy to come by, as there was no internet.
All straight men should definitely out themselves, and not fear the backlash, even from the fashion industry. This is a big enough planet, with enough room, and money, for everyone.
For this year’s Straight Pride Week, and to bravely tell the tale of when I first realized I was heterosexual, I will share. It was 1978, at an all-boys summer camp. Mini-mancrushes on the cool campers were social, not sexual. Instead, my revelation would come in the mail, in the form of the weekly Sports Illustrated that would canonize all I was missing at my “real camp,” one with cabins, not dorms, and a television for viewing only on rainy days, or for special events. Unlike most covers of this magazine, this one had Christie Brinkley in a bikini; the legendary “swimsuit issue.” This was back in the day when such pictures were not so easy to come by, as there was no internet.
All straight men should definitely out themselves, and not fear the backlash, even from the fashion industry. This is a big enough planet, with enough room, and money, for everyone.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Whither $12.00 Pancakes?
Aunt Jemima, move your fat butt over! Lean, mean, and clean – as in your bank account, after you’re done with the check – are the pancake-happy, fashion-spitting early bird’s culinary preference. This isn’t the Waffle House, even if their $1.98 pancakes blow away the $12.00 pancakes from IHEPP: The International House of Expensive, Pretentious Panckaes. Make sure you call for reservations, because this is one trendy SPOT!
Empire’s veteran sohisticistas will immediately appreciate the value of these indexed-to-rare-earth-elements frying-pan fluffs, but fashion-spitters, who actually have meaningful lives, will find their eyes fixated on the price at first, as they ponder the eternal question: how the fuck can a simple order of pancakes ever be worth $12.00. The answer is simple: when you have them in Manhattan. Much more than the cost of pancake mix is baked into the cost of this delicious dish. For your dozen diminutive dominations, you get to bask in the luxury of the best décor that mafia-connected general-contractors can muster, as you, and your equally snobby companion, linger over every narcissistic morsel. Savor every bite as your “inner Corbin Bernsen” awakens from his coma, and you exit the venue a full-fledged narcissist.
A complete personality makeover for a mere $12.00! In this context, it’s a bargain no self-respecting fashion-spitter could ever pass up!
Empire’s veteran sohisticistas will immediately appreciate the value of these indexed-to-rare-earth-elements frying-pan fluffs, but fashion-spitters, who actually have meaningful lives, will find their eyes fixated on the price at first, as they ponder the eternal question: how the fuck can a simple order of pancakes ever be worth $12.00. The answer is simple: when you have them in Manhattan. Much more than the cost of pancake mix is baked into the cost of this delicious dish. For your dozen diminutive dominations, you get to bask in the luxury of the best décor that mafia-connected general-contractors can muster, as you, and your equally snobby companion, linger over every narcissistic morsel. Savor every bite as your “inner Corbin Bernsen” awakens from his coma, and you exit the venue a full-fledged narcissist.
A complete personality makeover for a mere $12.00! In this context, it’s a bargain no self-respecting fashion-spitter could ever pass up!
An $8,000.00 Haircut? No Thanks!!
On January 20, 2009, I had $20.00 in spare cash to my name. I could have taken it downtown to my barber in center city, Philadelphia, to get a haircut, my first in a long while, but I demurred, since Philadelphia Park was running, and I’ve never exited a barbershop with more money than when I entered, so I elected to hurl my fashion-bankroll lugie towards the winner’s circle. Four hours, and $2,563.00 in profit later, I was very glad I did. I would go on to win $8,000.00 over the next two weeks.
Warren Buffet once remarked that the new carpet his wife installed in his home cost nine million dollars, given his average annual ROI, and his super-advanced amortization of what he could have made investing the price of the living-room upgrade.
Here at The Fashion Spit, we abhor wasting money on silly, superficial things like haircuts, new clothing or shoes more than once a decade, or any nonessential accessories. Places with an artificial dresscode are not worth our patronage; ever wonder why they’re going broke?
On another note, avoiding haircuts, while useful, is insufficient. All but the minimum hair products – SOAP – should also be avoided, although bodywash – useful for washing your back by loading it into a bath – can double as hair shampoo. Dishwashing liquid can be used in a jam, but nothing beats a stolen bar of soap. Image-conscious fashion-spitters can still lavish their follicles in uber-luxury within these parameters, by adding a pitstop at their local five-star hotel, invade the five-star latrine, and emerge with a bounty of FREE, five-star soap. The few dollars saved can then be invested in some Philadelphia-Park pick-threes, with the winnings used to return to the five-star hotel to rent the presidential suite, and enough “Spitzers” (see Bettor Off Single) left over to entice a pair of five-star courtesans into following, for an evening of five-star room-service, followed by a five-star threesome.
Fashion-spitters are encouraged to strongly consider the above the next time they are pondering wasting money on a haircut.
Ray Gordon
Warren Buffet once remarked that the new carpet his wife installed in his home cost nine million dollars, given his average annual ROI, and his super-advanced amortization of what he could have made investing the price of the living-room upgrade.
Here at The Fashion Spit, we abhor wasting money on silly, superficial things like haircuts, new clothing or shoes more than once a decade, or any nonessential accessories. Places with an artificial dresscode are not worth our patronage; ever wonder why they’re going broke?
On another note, avoiding haircuts, while useful, is insufficient. All but the minimum hair products – SOAP – should also be avoided, although bodywash – useful for washing your back by loading it into a bath – can double as hair shampoo. Dishwashing liquid can be used in a jam, but nothing beats a stolen bar of soap. Image-conscious fashion-spitters can still lavish their follicles in uber-luxury within these parameters, by adding a pitstop at their local five-star hotel, invade the five-star latrine, and emerge with a bounty of FREE, five-star soap. The few dollars saved can then be invested in some Philadelphia-Park pick-threes, with the winnings used to return to the five-star hotel to rent the presidential suite, and enough “Spitzers” (see Bettor Off Single) left over to entice a pair of five-star courtesans into following, for an evening of five-star room-service, followed by a five-star threesome.
Fashion-spitters are encouraged to strongly consider the above the next time they are pondering wasting money on a haircut.
Ray Gordon
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