Conference hydra::dave_barry

1044.0. "The SoHo Scene" by BOOKIE::chayna.zko.dec.com::manana::eppes (Nina Eppes) Tue Apr 15 1997 18:42

Dave Barry
April 11, 1997

I admit that I don't have a sophisticated lifestyle. I don't party all
night in trendy clubs with people whose hair is the color of Jell-O. My idea
of an exciting evening is to go out at 7:45 p.m. and get a medium dish of
frozen yogurt with -- sometimes you have to walk on the wild side, darn it --
low-fat chocolate topping.

I live on a peaceful street where there's hardly any noise except for a
neighbor's pet parrot, which has been trying for years to make some kind of
important announcement, but unfortunately cannot get past the first syllable,
which is "GRAAK!"

I've worn the same style of clothes since 1967, when I made the breakthrough
fashion discovery that you can't make too much of a fool of yourself if
everything you own, except your underwear, is blue.

I would no more have my body tattooed or pierced than I would stick a live
scorpion up my nose.

In other words, I am, culturally, Mr. American Cheese On White Bread With
Mayonnaise. So I experienced quite an awakening recently when my wife and I
spent a weekend in New York City's fashionable SoHo district. SoHo is located
south of Houston Street; hence the name "SoHo," which stands for: "So, How Do
You Eat With Those Rings Through Your Tongue?"

We stayed in a very nice loft belonging to some friends of ours, who sent us
pages of detailed instructions about how to get past the elaborate system of
locks and entry codes and burglar alarms. I have never personally launched
nuclear missiles against Moscow, but I bet it would be less complicated than
gaining access to this loft. People are very security-conscious in New York;
at one point, we encountered a woman in the lobby, and although we tried to
appear friendly and harmless, she had that expression that you see on many New
Yorkers in such situations, whereby they strain to look as polite as possible
considering that they strongly suspect you're about to whip out a machete and
a vial of hydrochloric acid.

(I'm not saying it's a lot better in Miami. I'm just saying that in Miami we
don't go around worrying that everybody else is armed, because we know
everybody else is armed.)

But getting back to my cultural awakening: SoHo is full of clothing boutiques
selling fashions that are extremely "avant garde," which is French for
"visible from space." Do you remember when hip people wore black, and un-hip
people wore polyester clothes in clashing, retina-damaging colors? Well,
things have changed. There are many boutiques in SoHo featuring comically
unattractive, radioactively plaid outfits -- and these are not cheap outfits
-- that would be barred from Clown School for being too loud.

(Meanwhile, in some variety store in rural Kentucky, the first shipment of
black clothing is just now arriving.)

Do you want to know what else is fashionable in SoHo? Cruddy old furniture. By
"cruddy old furniture," I don't mean "furniture that, underneath the surface
crud, is actually beautiful." I mean "furniture that, underneath the surface
crud, is crud." Some SoHo stores are proudly selling metal yard furniture from
which all the metal content rusted away decades ago, so what you're actually
purchasing is a furniture-shaped shell of hardened dirt.

One store was selling a beat-up "seed cabinet" that had many drawers broken or
missing and that looked as though it had served as a latrine for generations
of diseased bats; the price was $4,000. Nearby, in the store's clothing
section, people were admiring a female mannequin dressed in a color scheme
that had to be distorting the Earth's magnetic field: bright-blue-plaid pants,
a lime-green blouse, and of course a purple scarf. In a situation like that,
you find yourself thinking: "Am I THAT unsophisticated? Or are all these
people insane?"

This is what we were asking ourselves as we returned to the loft and settled
down for a restful night of sitting bolt upright in bed every two minutes
until dawn. Because it turns out that, at night, SoHo can compete, decibel for
decibel, with World War II. There are people whose social lives apparently
consist of standing on the sidewalk directly under loft windows all night
shouting curse words at each other. SoHo is also the site of the nightly
meeting of the Organization Of Easily Irritated Motorists With Very Loud
Horns.

My theory is that nobody in SoHo ever gets any sleep, so that after a while
people become delirious and encourage each other to engage in erratic
behavior:

"I know! Let's pierce our bodies and wear polyester clown outfits!"

"Yes! And then let's buy a cruddy old seed cabinet for $4,000!"

"Great idea! Even though the closest we ever come to engaging in agriculture
is when we steam asparagus!"

That's what I think is going on. Although I admit it could be that I'm just
too unsophisticated to understand the SoHo scene. But I doubt it. I'm not some
yokel who thinks that "fine art" is a portrait of Elvis on a beach towel. Mine
is on genuine velveteen.