Something you don't see every Christmas

3 reasons to cry this weekend:

1. Chorizo the hamster had a rough Saturday night (see www.bearswillattack.com). He continued to frolick around the bathtub, seemingly oblvious to his missing ear, which made it all the harder to see it gone. I set my head down on the edge of the bathtub and wept. The next day, still fine, Chorizo received the very best in hamster guilt toys...a plastic ball to careen around in, a top notch salt lick, and not just the average little hamster box for sleeping, but a hamster duplex with a window, french doors and a blue roof. Tomorrow he goes to school to meet his third grade caretakers, who were thrlled out of their minds to hear that he was soon to arrive. Donovan the cat, the ear eater in question, is much loved despite the (very natural) act of eating a hamster ear and in fact, slept with his front paw on my cheek last night. His time in New York is coming to an end soon; he is waiting for the closing on his newly purchased apartment in DC. I asked friends what I should tell my class about the missing ear. One said, "tell them that if they screw around, the same thing will happen to them." Another said, "tell them that some animals look different, just like some people look different." The PC commentor was laughed at by the jerk commenter. Another friend said, "make him a little Mets hat and you won't even have to deal with it at all." We left it at that.

2. All of my pants, except the pants that I am wearing, were lost by the laundromat. I didn't actually cry, but I did bite a pencil anxiously a few times. My friend Gary kindly offered to give me his designer Swedish jeans, which don't fit him quite right. As we stood hip to hip, I noted that his legs are skinnier than mine. This is because he is a vegetarian, and I eat candy all the live long day. If you have pants you would like to give me, please contact hoipollloi@yahoo.com. If my pants were put in your laundry bag by mistake, please return them. If you have any candy in the shape of pants, I would like to try it.

3. Yesterday afternoon, I got out of the subway near Times Square and as walked up the stairs to 48th St., one of those Central or South American bands with the variety of panflutes and the ponchos suddenly launched into a loud song. I had to wait on this corner for a few minutes for a friend that was soon to arrive, and found myself getting teary eyed. Not for reasons you'd suspect, though. The real motivation was explained in this exchange between middle aged woman with a fish shaped purse and myself.

me: (lower lip trembling)
woman: excuse me, are you alright?
me: oh! (trying to laugh) Yeah. It's just this music.
woman: Does it...remind you of something, or--
me: No. I just really hate it.
woman: Ah...excuse me?
me: I just can't stand this kind of music.
woman: (not rude, but very disconcerted). OK. Well, take care.
me: Thanks.

The fact that a stranger in New York even noticed such a mild degree of unhappiness is incredible. I myself have passed sobbing people on the sidewalk and said nothing, then headed for home and a bottle of wine and the chance to feel bad about my unkindness in private. Talking with friends last night, I tried to trace the reasons that such music could bring tears of dislike to my eyes, and came up with this. When I lived in England, I spent many Saturdays walking around London. Once, I was supposed to meet my friend Daniel at a certain point in a very public square. I was running late. There were panflute musicians just like the one I saw the other day on at least two corners of the square (it seemed like there were 10 different ones). Because such bands always look quite the same, and sound definitely the same, I couldn't get my bearings and it got later and later. It was like an episode of the twilight zone, where everyone in the world becomes a Central American flute player. That, and the kind of nightmare where you need to get somewhere and simply can't. And furthermore, I don't like panflutes. At all.

But for every reason to be unhappy, there are millions of reasons to be happy in New York. Friends return from long trips to Scandinavia bearing gifts of the world's best lip balm, bocce is played, dinners are cooked for multitudes of people, bars are open late, new third graders arrive at school with shiny new shoes and giant adult teeth filling their smiles, Mr. Key is smiling on his usual bench, the sun filters down through trees in such a way that means fall is starting, and everywhere, there are good, good people.

*This update typed while listening to REM.

Message to the masses: Women of New York, please, give up your dumb sweater ponchos.