With a view toward originality, a great gift idea is a pair of classic spex from any of your local Brown Elephant stores. Not only do they jump-start your fashion battery, these are gifts with a story to tell. And at $2 a pop, these funky frames will talk your ear off. Here are a few examples of the rich narrative which is simply bursting from these necessary accessories.
Ida Perlberg was a real character, she was. A real chatterbox. It was April 1957, when Ida came storming in to Judy's Beauty with a real beaut of a story to tell.
Me and Mavis was in for a quick wash-and-set before the big bowling tournamentyou know, when Murray bowled that perfect game and won a round of Schlitz for the whole alley and Tessie had that allergic reaction to the dirty beer glass and made a real mess of Lane 8? Anyway, Ida threw open the door just ready to bust with this doozy of a story.
Ida had spent the previous night in the company of a certain bachelor gentleman from the dry cleaners who always wore a fresh pink carnation in his lapel, if you catch my drift. Well, her and this gentleman had stopped off for a Tom Collins up at the Rialto Lounge. They had just finished a less-than-stellar steak down the street and, rather than call the date a disaster and part ways, they figured maybe some booze would kick things off a bit.
Anyways, they get their drinks, Ida sits down and this guy excuses himself to the john. After about 10 minutes, he hadn't come back and Ida grew suspicious. Not one to be ditched, Ida slips into the men's toilet to confront the guy and notices two stalls, both with closed doors. She looks underneath to see if she can recognize his shoes, only she don't see his shoes. She sees his knees--and the shoes of the guy in the next stall. And they were gettin' pretty chummy.
Well, we had never heard of a glory hole before but we knew one thing: we was never going back to the Rialto Lounge again!
Late at night, alone in his creaky twin bed, Simon would still hear the digitized beeps and boops of the cash register at which he slaved daily for a meager living. His fingers, smeared with the ink of this week's batch of two-for-one coupons, were rubbed down to the nub from the constant clattering on the grocery computer. He found little solace in the promise of sleep, for this promise was betrayed each morning as he fastened his sickly plaid tie and his diarrhea-brown vest for one more day of dealing with the price checks and plastic bags of his sad, sad daytime life.
Simon's only oasis came when he arrived home at night, consumed his Healthy Choice, washed his fork, placed it back in the drawer and sat down at his antique vanity, a gift his mother had always wished to pass down to a daughter. There, seated in the glow of the fluorescent globes which encircled the mirror, he'd lift the sunglasses off the styrofoam wig form, hit play on the CD player and, in a blinding flash he WAS Miss Maria Muldaur and it was once again midnight.
"Midnight at the oasis,
send your camel to bed.
Shadows painitng our faces,
traces of romance in our heads."
His movements fluid, his silhouette delicate, his motives clear: to head off to a sand dune real soon and kick up a little dust.
Precious Penelope and Sparkles weren't exactly the most captive audience and their admission was free, but Simon knew in his heart of hearts that if diabetic cats could applaud, they surely would.
Awww, fuck yeah. Play with those nips. Just like that. Yeah.
You like to smell my armpit? You like that, boy? I knew you would like that. When I saw you bent over the end of the bar, I said to myself, "I'm gonna shove his head in my sweaty armpit." Were you thinking that too? Well, were you?
Then what are you thinking? I told you what's in my head, now you tell me what's in yours. I don't like to be disobeyed, boy. You know what else I don't like. Holes in my socks. It bothers me all day and I can't focus on driving. I got a ticket last month because I was obsessing about a hole in my sock and blew through a stop sign. The cop yelled at me and I couldn't stop crying...
No, wait. I mean I yelled at HIM and HE couldn't stop crying. That's what you wanna hear, huh boy? That I made that fuckin' cop cry? Well, is that what you wanna hear? Why won't you communicate with me?
What's that, boy? You wanna go? Well, fuckin' fine. If you can't take all this... manhood, I guess... you could... oh, fuck it.
This isn't really me. I found these sunglasses on the counter at Starbucks and I've been really stressed lately at the flower shop, what with this being the holiday season and all. I just thought that I could pull this off.
Don't get me wrong, I WAS totally thinking about the whole armpit thing, but I also thought that afterwards we could watch Gossip Girl and talk about quick and easy Crock Pot recipes. Is that what you wanna talk about, boy? It is? I guess the glasses worked after all!