Stay in NYC for Labor Day
TOM Hanks. Where’s he going Labor Day? Anywhere. He has homes all over. Minus multiple homes, however, for the rest of us there’s packing. The minute we cross whatever the Triboro’s called this week, it’s a U-Haul.
Foodies pack gluten-free bread, herbal tea, lac-free yak milk and enriched cereal. Plus unsalted unsweetened unanything’d homegrown countrygrown farmergrown organically grown fresh from underground Iowa — flown in by a zeppelin handheld by a glove-wearing laboratory professor — bio-cultured zero-caloried alfalfa.
Kindliness forbids my mentioning that certain of these zealots appear so unattractive that their passport pictures are their nicest.
Patti LaBelle schleps one suitcase of pots, pans, hot plates, spices. I visited her hotel room. Even the elevator smelled of garlic. Cooking liver and onions, Patti said: “A lousy room-service hamburger cost me $60 and tasted like s - - t. Now I cook myself. Tomorrow, I make shrimp and rice.”
Large bag needed
AND the toys. Games for the kids. Electric toothbrush. Charger. Waterpik. Phone, iPad, computer, printer. Their chargers. For the hair — dryer, rollers, curling iron, brush, comb, shpritz, shampoo, scrunchy, bobby pins, shower cap. Anything to prevent structural damage for the do. And these are for the ladies with wigs.
Accessories? Suppose there’s a hike. That’s sneakers. Swim? Flipflops. Dressy? Manolos. Beach party? Sandals. Rainy? Boots. To match the coral dress, coral heels. And the tote doesn’t go with the coral dress, so it’s another bag. And the backpack won’t work for evening. And the clutch with gold hardware clashes with the jumpsuit’s silver buttons.
Supplies to suit trip
A town-fair possibility? Caftan. Wooden beads. Tennis match? Straw hat, sport clothes. Swimming? Bathing suit, sunblock, lip gloss, canvas carryall, sarong for over the bikini, which you should’ve stopped pleating yourself into six years ago. And if your arms look like Austrian curtains, a cover-up blouse. Listen, even in the shower I wear a bathrobe.
Hitting the links or tennis courts? You need the clubs, the racket, the shorts, the gloves, the balls, the knickers, the cap, the liniment.
Folks, stay home
NEW York is the world’s No. 1 city. The planet’s prime destination for parking money. The fashion pit for mankind (outside of maybe Albania or Kanye’s closet), yet our millions of inhabitants schlep around in anything. Madison Avenue. You’ll see a Midwestern tub in bright orange short shorts flashing fat fat cheeks. Her blouse is a bra. From sandals poke unmanicured toes the length of a civet cat’s claws. A block away some jerk’s hustling a restaurant inside a sandwich board. Another in pj’s rushes to grab coffee from a sidewalk trailer. Some jerk’s weaving past on roller skates. 7 a.m.’s a guy in a tux heading home from a gig.
And on the corner some schloomp holding the sign: “Buy Girl Scout cookies. Support Johnny Depp’s next wife.”
Nobody blinks. Who cares? Stay home. You can wander the streets in your underpants, and this town’s self-absorbed citizens won’t even give a rat’s ass.
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.