So I've developed quite a strong interest in "Green Living." Organic food, buying locally made products, putting my middle finger up Wal-Mart's wormhole. Everything from using toxic free paint to researching shoes that don't leave bits of rubber behind with every step.
But when I'm in a clothing shop on Melrose, carrying on with a 30-something milk chocolate tranny owner who sings to an electro beat, "DIRTY! NASTYYY! FILTHY!!! HEEEEY!" I get so caught up in the gayness I can't help but buy those $100 pinstripe skintight black hipster pants made by little kids in India.
"Just taking a look, I think the small will fit you. The mannequin outside is wearing a medium, you can try them, but I KNOW you'll be saying, 'You were right!' I wanna hear it, mmhmmm!"
I emerge from the dressing room with a squozen package, but look at these pants!!!
"Maybe they're too tight though? I mean, will they stretch?"
She whips a look at my friend (and Lisa's cousin) Alice.
"What do you think? They look good, right? See now, two girls agree. One biological and one tranny. Shows off the cute little butt, riiight? Girls like to see that!"
She maintains the positivity now in a faux British accent. I generally can't stand touchy feely super salesmen(women, or combinations thereof), but I'm having fun, my ass has never looked hotter, and the slight belly above her skinny legs is sort of charming.
Bitch, trannies just don't give a fuuuuck.
I can't find the price tag.
"It should be in the back," she says. "I'll give you a good deal. I think it's a hundred and thirty. I could do a hundred. Like, mmm, ninety five for you. That's like I-slept-with-you-price."
Alice tries on a stellar red jacket, knee length, with a smart collar. She informs Trans-store-owner (our favorite new human) that she's from Italy, but the British accent carries on. Either her Blackberry is obstructing or I don't know what part of England she thinks Italy is in.
"Maybe I should check out the medium just to be sure," I say.
"If you really might buy, I'll strip it from the mannequin."
"I'll buy!"
"Alright. You hold the legs," she commands. "This button, what the fuck! I've never had so much trouble getting pants off a man!"
Alice and I clutch the anorexic dummy.
"You two keep him steady while I pull. It's an orgy baby!!"
I soon reemerge from the dressing room in medium, a little more comfortable, looking just okay with more wiggle room. It's obvious.
"Ok, I agree."
She leans in. "What's that you say?"
"You were right."
"Thaaat's what I wanted to hear!" she smiles, spinning in sync to the music.
"So," I ask. "Do you perform elsewhere or only in the store?"
"I've performed all over the world," she proudly acknowledges, her back straightening a little, and her neck getting all into it while folding my $100 pinstripe skintight black hipster pants I'll be dancing in at The Echo, Sunday night.
She then rattles off a half dozen famous sounding names having toured with. Ones that could be choreographers, underwear companies, trick water gun bow tie inventors, who knows. I don't. But I nod and give several approving 'Ohhh wow's.
"Have you performed in Cleveland?" This broke her attention from the Dreamgirls soundtrack currently running in the background and throughout her being.
"That is so funny you mention Cleveland. I have family in Cleveland Heights."
"I like Cleveland Heights! I'm from Ohio."
"Yeah, you know, it's alright," she shrugs.
Probably for a man who became a woman, Melrose is a bit more... Well, everything.
She crosschecks my Ohio license against my Citizens Bank debit card. "You are for real, look at that! Christopher J. That was my boy name."
"Who are you now?" I ask.
"Crystal. I went down and changed it on my birth certificate and my driver's license. Might as well go all the way, you know?"
I love her. I want to be her friend. As long as the credit swipe machine is active, I can call her anything and call anytime, I'm pretty sure.
Alice puts on the cute red jacket once more. She really digs it, but we came shopping for shoes and jeans primarily. A $200 spring jacket is unessential.
"Half off. Fifty bucks, you can have it."
"But isn't it two hundred?" asks Alice.
"Yeah, but you can take it for fifty. Dahling, it fits you so well."
It's pretty damn slick. I kinda hope she buys it and chime in with a Kelly Likes Shoes impersonation.
"Just GET IT." In my queerest tone.
But it still isn't free. And Alice's painful expression with slight head tilt, complete with one leg jutting out to the side while tapping her hip, is saying, "I gotta think about it."
Crystal doesn't press too hard for the sale. She'll keep on singing regardless. She just don't give a fuuuuuck.
Bye Crystal.
But when I'm in a clothing shop on Melrose, carrying on with a 30-something milk chocolate tranny owner who sings to an electro beat, "DIRTY! NASTYYY! FILTHY!!! HEEEEY!" I get so caught up in the gayness I can't help but buy those $100 pinstripe skintight black hipster pants made by little kids in India.
"Just taking a look, I think the small will fit you. The mannequin outside is wearing a medium, you can try them, but I KNOW you'll be saying, 'You were right!' I wanna hear it, mmhmmm!"
I emerge from the dressing room with a squozen package, but look at these pants!!!
"Maybe they're too tight though? I mean, will they stretch?"
She whips a look at my friend (and Lisa's cousin) Alice.
"What do you think? They look good, right? See now, two girls agree. One biological and one tranny. Shows off the cute little butt, riiight? Girls like to see that!"
She maintains the positivity now in a faux British accent. I generally can't stand touchy feely super salesmen(women, or combinations thereof), but I'm having fun, my ass has never looked hotter, and the slight belly above her skinny legs is sort of charming.
Bitch, trannies just don't give a fuuuuck.
I can't find the price tag.
"It should be in the back," she says. "I'll give you a good deal. I think it's a hundred and thirty. I could do a hundred. Like, mmm, ninety five for you. That's like I-slept-with-you-price."
Alice tries on a stellar red jacket, knee length, with a smart collar. She informs Trans-store-owner (our favorite new human) that she's from Italy, but the British accent carries on. Either her Blackberry is obstructing or I don't know what part of England she thinks Italy is in.
"Maybe I should check out the medium just to be sure," I say.
"If you really might buy, I'll strip it from the mannequin."
"I'll buy!"
"Alright. You hold the legs," she commands. "This button, what the fuck! I've never had so much trouble getting pants off a man!"
Alice and I clutch the anorexic dummy.
"You two keep him steady while I pull. It's an orgy baby!!"
I soon reemerge from the dressing room in medium, a little more comfortable, looking just okay with more wiggle room. It's obvious.
"Ok, I agree."
She leans in. "What's that you say?"
"You were right."
"Thaaat's what I wanted to hear!" she smiles, spinning in sync to the music.
"So," I ask. "Do you perform elsewhere or only in the store?"
"I've performed all over the world," she proudly acknowledges, her back straightening a little, and her neck getting all into it while folding my $100 pinstripe skintight black hipster pants I'll be dancing in at The Echo, Sunday night.
She then rattles off a half dozen famous sounding names having toured with. Ones that could be choreographers, underwear companies, trick water gun bow tie inventors, who knows. I don't. But I nod and give several approving 'Ohhh wow's.
"Have you performed in Cleveland?" This broke her attention from the Dreamgirls soundtrack currently running in the background and throughout her being.
"That is so funny you mention Cleveland. I have family in Cleveland Heights."
"I like Cleveland Heights! I'm from Ohio."
"Yeah, you know, it's alright," she shrugs.
Probably for a man who became a woman, Melrose is a bit more... Well, everything.
She crosschecks my Ohio license against my Citizens Bank debit card. "You are for real, look at that! Christopher J. That was my boy name."
"Who are you now?" I ask.
"Crystal. I went down and changed it on my birth certificate and my driver's license. Might as well go all the way, you know?"
I love her. I want to be her friend. As long as the credit swipe machine is active, I can call her anything and call anytime, I'm pretty sure.
Alice puts on the cute red jacket once more. She really digs it, but we came shopping for shoes and jeans primarily. A $200 spring jacket is unessential.
"Half off. Fifty bucks, you can have it."
"But isn't it two hundred?" asks Alice.
"Yeah, but you can take it for fifty. Dahling, it fits you so well."
It's pretty damn slick. I kinda hope she buys it and chime in with a Kelly Likes Shoes impersonation.
"Just GET IT." In my queerest tone.
But it still isn't free. And Alice's painful expression with slight head tilt, complete with one leg jutting out to the side while tapping her hip, is saying, "I gotta think about it."
Crystal doesn't press too hard for the sale. She'll keep on singing regardless. She just don't give a fuuuuuck.
Bye Crystal.
but still great. (: