Comments: The purplefect tense

I'm going to start wearing balding pants!

Posted by Tom at October 21, 2005 08:16 AM

I've done that, Tom.

Posted by David. at October 21, 2005 08:35 AM

You must really love balding, Tom!

Posted by Rose at October 21, 2005 09:39 AM

Wow, you really sliced her. (point being?)

Rhinebeck seems like a place where such sardonic flava would be entirely lost on the attendees...

Me, I woulda just been nice and said yes.

Posted by Col at October 21, 2005 01:36 PM

Well, I didn't say it especially cattily. And I'm paraphrasing a bit for retroactive snark value. (I think it was actually more like "No, it just worked out that way.")

Posted by Francis at October 21, 2005 02:07 PM

"Actually, she dyes her hair to match whatever trousers I've decided to wear that day. It's pretty challenging when I wear khakis."

Posted by Orange at October 21, 2005 03:29 PM

"I'm paraphrasing a bit for retroactive snark value."

And, be honest, isn't that really why we're all here? For the retroactive snark value? Keep up the excellent snark, Francis. (Actually both versions of the story now are funny.)

Posted by Victoria at October 21, 2005 10:36 PM

"Retroactive Snark Value" is something that needs to be on a t-shirt.

Posted by erin at October 22, 2005 07:20 PM

Now I want a "Six Things with Retroactive Snark Value".

There must be something about purple hair that brings out the stupid in people. I get some pretty baffling comments, like "Your hat matches your hair -- did you do that on purpose?" Or, for that matter, the ever-popular, "Is that really your hair, or is it part of the hat?"

Posted by neilfred at October 23, 2005 08:42 PM

In the spirit of Garanimals-esque anecdotes, here's something for you...

In my late 20s I was dating an English guy I'd met at a temp job, who was a consultant. He was a very bright guy, but had a proclivity toward disorganization of a very grad-student-esque nature. He was staying at a hotel on business here in NYC, and somehow left or forgotten his passport behind in the hotel room safe, and some sort of professional crisis occurred because he couldn't fly someplace else for a meeting. There was some crazy problem because he had switched rooms, and they couldn't go into the safe where his passport was without the consent of the other new guest. I had given him a pair of orange Levi's jeans of mine -- we wore virtually the same size in clothes -- and the day of PassportGate, I came to meet him at his hotel to see if there was anything I could do, since he was distraught beyond belief -- it was a Saturday in September, and I came running up to the hotel in a short orange vintage dress. Natch, we looked quite the tools, all matchy-matchy as we implored the front-desk people, "Can't you try and track down the new guests"? What a pair of jerks we were.

He missed his meeting, somebody else covered for him, he finally (FINALLY) got his passport returned, and they upgraded him to a luxurious suite and gave us a free dinner. They also sent us, from Manhattan Fruitier, a basket of oranges.

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