Aberration in the Suburbs

Tonight I had a lovely Japanese dinner with Alisa at a place called Abis in Mamaroneck. The great virtue of Abis is their stunning ginger salad dressing. My Christ, you've never tasted anything like this stuff before. We buy "Gio" Japanese ginger by the bottle, and Gio is good, no doubt, but it can't hold a flickering candle to Abis's ginger dressing. Alas, I forgot that long enough not to order the salad, boo, and was forced to bum a leaf of lettuce off of Alisa.

As we got into her car to pull out of our much coveted Mamaroneck parking space, I turned to see, walking down the main street of quaint Mamaroneck, the most garishly dressed transvestite ever. In the history of Greenwich Village, Castro, Oxford Street in Sydney...wherever. Our subject probably started as an overweight light-skinned black man in his mid forties. He added a long, straight black wig (decidedly the best accessory in his ensemble) and some hot pink lipstick that just overstepped his lip line. He wore a long, flowing boa/robe. The feathers--hot pink, of course--lined a lacey body that might have looked near-appropriate on a transvestite with a trim figure. Our subject was not this transvestite. The real kicker of the outfit lay under the robe, where a massive ass was draped with a tiny, white tennis skirt, and enormous man-boobs and a rolling belly bounced under a transparent black mesh top, giant man-boob nipples undulating with every step. Somehow my eyes didn't even make it to the shoes. He was horrible and frightening, yet I couldn't look away. The whole staff and patronage of the Verizon store stepped forward a few seconds after he passed to gape and gawk and the like.

Now, I suppose it's generally considered proper etiquette to call a transvestite "she." Unfortunately, I don't think this feller--yes, feller--earned that right. Many transvestites are a credit to my sex. They dress better than I do. Their makeup is neatly, if brightly applied. They most certainly have better upper arms than I. Our specimen was an insult to all transvestites as well as transsexuals and transgendered folks, who, by the unfortunate non-coincidence of having the same prefix, get grouped under a common heading. Perhaps the boy started in the Village, was told to walk north to find Chelsea, missed it, and kept going. I don't know. I just hope he continued and made it to Playland. Atrocious taste and all, he's exactly what the Westchester kids need.