9/28/02 Note to self, and


Note to self, and note to entire blog-reading public: going to the New Jersey Ikea on a Saturday afternoon in September is about as much fun as a trip to the DMV in the Bronx during a heat wave. There are so many humans in one place, all clamoring for the same semi-disposable Swedish furniture, most not speaking English, and nary an Ikea staffer among them. Have a special order? Good luck. It’s like getting extra gruel rations in a Eastern Bloc prison.

I didn’t know Ikea was famous for its Swedish Meatballs, but approximately 1 x 10 to the ninth other people did, and you had to wait in line with them to even get near the cafeteria. Later, Tessa waited half an hour for a shopping cart that never came I swear, if we’re doing this much waiting, there better be a Ragin’ Log Flume Ride on the other side.

The sad thing is that Ikea’s stuff can be so cool, so perfect for your needs, and, once in the privacy of your own home, quite nice to assemble. It’s just the physical store that is so reprehensible, with the airport noise and the crunch of people, and screaming, screaming Russian babies.

I figure there are a lot of good places to get the flu around here, but the sneeze guard at the Elizabeth Ikea cafeteria has to be the best place to start. I was so disgusted that I had to make a list of the other nine:

2. the M23 bus pole during morning rush hour along 23rd st

3. the pediatrician’s office downstairs after 47 baby sneezes

4. the pen for signing Visa bills at the Yaffa Caf on St. Marks Place

5. the copy of New York Newsday on the seat of the 2 train heading out of Manhattan

6. the cab door handle out front of the Chelsea Clearview Cinemas

7. the divot where the cashier tosses you a subway token at the 125th St. A-train station

8. the game basketball at the W. 4th St. courts

9. the “START PRINTING” button on the Rite Aid copy machine on Hudson Avenue

10. tonguing drunk sailor at the Manhole during Fleet Week

The night got better, as we went to Jane Barnes’ 60th birthday party put together by her daughter Nell Casey. We ate, danced, listened to toasts, got high (at least I did) and then rode home with Lorraine, Alex and Bliss Broyard. I forgot my camera, more’s the pity, but Bliss took this cool picture of us:

Tessa, Alex Draper and me. I look like a drunk Southern lawyer

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