man of means by no means; king of the f

So, Mahdis saw him first. That evening we had a lovely dinner with Alex and Arshad at a vietnamese restaurant, then walked through Chinatown which smelled rancid in the extreme, like horses and decomposing shrimp, then got on the F home (after asking directions from a fat woman pushing a stroller who was forthcoming with the information that she had never left the borough of manhattan, ever.) It was uneventful, until seventh avenue when mahdis caught a glimpse of him outside the subway door and said to me "In a moment you will thank me for getting you to move to new york." At which point the doors opened and he stepped into the car. As acutely aware as we were of him, he was of us and sat down in the seat bank directly perpendicular to ours. The immediate tragedy of the whole encounter was that I knew i would never be truly able to describe it or him to anyone. But i have to try. He was approximately five three. About the face he looked a bit like Steve Perry, if steve perry had come to the states in seventy nine after the Iranian revolution. His nose was huge, dwarfed only by his eyebrows. He was wearing all black, black jeans, black sweatshirt with cut off sleeves rolled up, and a large gold longhorn belt buckle and nike swoosh pinky ring, the whole ensemble was topped off by the tallest, puffiest, frizziest, widest, exaggerated pompadour I have ever seen. So Mahdis totally loses composure, she gets the laughs, bad. She breaks out the blackberry and starts pretending to show me "funny" emails so that he doesnt know that shes laughing at him. But tears are running down her face, and he is paying attention! So he says, "I know sometimes its hard." So I look at him, and his face is all concerned. I realize that he thinks that Mahdis is crying. So Im like "no, its not like that, shes laughing, someone sent her something funny." Which took three or so repeats with different language to get across to him. Then I say, cause I NEVER leave well enough alone, "thanks for caring though." That was the launch. "Oh I care too much, its like If i see her sad Im sad, I cant be happy. Its all about happy. Sometimes you have to watch Sesame Street, Cookie Monster and Big Bird and and elmo and all the monsters. Sesame Street! Cookie Monster is big and Huge, (big huge arm motions) and big in Brooklyn! Cookie Monster is big in Brooklyn! Sometimes you watch sesame street. Or you can watch Happy Days, the fonz is on happy days. Sometimes people call me the Fonz (I added that I could see why) The fonz is the best man in the world. And John Travolta? You know that show welcome back kotter? (singing) Welcome back welcome back welcome back. John travolta was on that show (me: Yeah, Ive heard of John Travolta!) And theres full house, (John Travolta, Henry Winkler and John Stamos! Hes obsessed with men who have olive skin and pompadours!) You could watch Full House, there are so many good shows on!" We are silent and staring, I was nodding and affirming of course, immideately falling in love with him, not able to look at Mahdis who had apparantly pulled herself together and mangages to ask "where are you from?" "Where am I from? Oh Im 100 percent Italian!" I know we were both thinking "Yea right! Youre about as Italian as I am!At this point we got to our stop, which we both REALLY regretted as, I think, did he (but since he was DOUBTLESSLY an Iranian or Armenian Jew he was on his way to Midwood or Bay ridge) wished him well and left the train in complete shock. Mahdis got the laughs all over again coming up the stairs and we both toyed with the idea of living on the f train in any and all of our spare time in hopes of seeing Iranofonz again. It was weeks ago but i had another subway experience that bears repeating (other than the hoplessly sketchy guy I saw today clutching a dental pick and crouching by the door.) It was morning and the F was threatening to get crowded. I get on so early in brooklyn that i almost always get a seat. This particular morning, when i got on the train there were two passed out drunk, disheveled homeless guys stretched out across from each other on the bench style seats running along the sides of the train. I didnt detect any kind of smell and I wanted to sit down. If i miss the seat at the beginning I end up smashed against the door without room to take a deep breath by the time we get to Jay street borough hall. So i sat in the two person space above one of the guys head. There was room and the guys looked like waking up was not in the near future. A few stops later this older businessy looking woman gets on the train. She was wearing gloves, dressed impeccably, with a briefcase and a newspaper. She sees that in their napping, the homeless guys are taking up a bunch of seats and leaving her to stand. She surveyed the scene and proceeded to do what I have never seen anyone do anwhere ever. She takes hold of the ankles of the sleeping potential nutcase on the bench next to me and wrenches (with great force mind you!) on his legs, once then twice, finally heaving his lower half off of the seat and onto the floor of the train. He awoke with a start and blinked at this tremendous force which had ripped him from his REM. As she primly sat down where his knees had been, she said "we all need a seat dont we!" Crisply unfolded her Wall Street Journal, tore the corner that had her address sticker off (a nice touch i think) and proceeded to read the paper in her hard earned seat. The man was incredulous, and he was in good company. I dont think anyone had ever seen anything like that. No one in their right mind wakes someone like that who has nothing to lose, who knows what kind of loose cannon he might be. I guess she knew however crazy he might be she could beat him at his game! He sat next to her for several stops, staring into the side of her face whispering curses and balling up his fists, socking the air next to her face and shoulder, stopping within an inch of her body. She sat there as if she were the only person on the train. It was amazing. Donald Trump, we have your apprentice. Her balls are twice the size of yours.
I've been doing a lot of Freelance stuff lateley which is really fun. Did a Tmobil shoot in westchester county assisting shawnelle. I did an editorial spread as a test with a young and cool Photographer woman in Wmsbg which got picked up as an eight page story in a canadian fashion mag which will be coming out next season! Im excited about that! Did a glamour spread (an "advertorial") on Staten Island that was six real women who had entered a contest for do-gooders around the country to see who was doing the most good (you know, horses for kids with cancer, rescuing animals from the katrina aftermath, improving science instruction in the schools, educating kids and adults about coping with bullying, real womany make-a-difference type crap.) But it was fun because they were the least new yorkish women ever with all these nyc fashionista type people crawling all over them doing hair makeup and styling, several of them had never even had a manicure before. They were really cute, taking pictures with us and shit. Talking about how they never thought theyd get this far. It was great because most people just pretend like this is so everyday and they take it for granted, you know models and people who work in the industry all the time you get so inured to it being special that it was nice to see how excited these women were. I feel like that every time I get to do work like that too. I assisted this great french fag hairstylist who was really really nice and gave me advice about next steps, basically that even if I want to do freelance, i should keep one foot in the door at the salon, and it should be a big name salon because thats where you get the big advertising gigs with the hair companies like loreal and clairol. And because its steady and predictable which freelance never is. I think thats good advice and it goes with what I had already sort of realized I wanted to do which was be in the salon half time and have half time freelance. this is all eventual of course. But Judah is talking about putting me on the floor, its starting to feel silly to be in there as an assistant and be tehre two days a week with my own clients doing the sam e work as the other stylists. not to mention that Im like the Jamaican airline pilot in that in living color skit where he changes outfits and comes out to serve drinks, and again to haul baggage. I do every job in that salon: you could call to make an appointment for a blow dry which i make for you, when you get there I check you in and walk you to the back where I wash your hair, then you come out and Im behind the chair to dry it, then you come to the front desk and there I freakin am, asking for your credit card. Stupid. Really stupid.

Stalin the whiny russian nostalgia and music, osman and the rental sitch with the finch interlude,