70+++++++

Okay, things are a bit slow but they are picking up. For example, on Sunday I had a difficult interaction with an elderly man selling records from the back of a van on Canal Street.

Record Purveyor: Dats a good ‘un. To shure yes ‘ir.
Working Boy: I can’t understand you? Southern wife come over here! I need you to help me understand this fellow.
Southern Wife: Screw you “Roommate.”
W.B: I thought we were over that little episode. Like I said at the time, I don’t like people knowing my personal business unless it makes them resent their lives and I feel like being married doesn’t really have that kind pizzaz, you know?
S.W: I’ll punch you in the face.
W.B: Later. Right now I need you to translate with your Southerness.
S.W: I’m not really southern.
W.B: I know and it kills me inside. But you can still understand people who don’t speak like news anchors.
S.W: You could too if you ever tried to interact with people different than you.
W.B: That’s just liberal hooey. Besides I talk to that man at the liquor store.
S.W: The legless Vietnam vet?
W.B: Oh good lord no. The owner who lives in in Evanston.
S.W: If I help you I get to buy 600 dollars worth of shoes without telling you.
W.B.: Deal. Now ask this gentleman if this is a good record.

W asks question. R.P. responds.

W.B: What did he say.
S.W: It’s not very good, this one’s better.
W.B: But that one doesn’t have a man backlit and sitting at a piano in a smoke hotel bar.
R.P: What you talkin’ ‘bout!
W.B: Oh good heavens.
S.W: Well, I’m just telling you what he said.
W.B: Ask him this: If I left this record sleeve just casually displayed on the coffee table would people find me exclusive and above them.

W asks question. R.P. begins packing up van.

W.B: I say, what’s going on.
S.W: He says he refuses to sell you any records.
W.B: The hell with this.

Then yesterday I went and got my haircut at the Polish hair cuttery on Wells run by a homosexual man and his cadre of what can only be Polish ladies of the night masquerading during the daytime as groomers.

Working Boy: I’m hair for a haircut.
Polish Man: Krishk!ca! Wash!
Kristhk!ca: Okay!
....
W.B: ow, you’re hurting my delicate hair follicles.
K: You man?
W.B: I like to believe so.
K: Man no care. Okay done.

Then of course there’s the actual haircut which begins wit you trying to explain how you want your haircut to someone who doesn’t speak English.

W.B: Ever so little off the top and sides.
K: haircut, yes?!
W.B: yes, but-
K: Okay, we give haircuts!

Then of course there’s the awkwardness of tipping at the end.

K: haircut over! Give money!
W.B: here you go and here is the traditional gratuity.
K: Huh?
W.B: the tip, Kircht!a.
K: Oh you a bad boy. You want the extra yes?
W.B: I don’t understand.
K: Oh sure, sure. Maybe not so much, huh?
W.B: not so much what? Oh good heavens.