Wild Child

August 14, 1998

This is a city of stereotypes. People tend to fall--and fall quickly soon after arrival--into very definite categories.

I've written extensively about the SARAH (the Stoic Attractive Relationshipless And Hungry New York female.) Well, Sarah has a little sister named Sandy. (The Slumming Angry Nubile Downtown Youth.) Sandy comes from the same upper-middle class background that Sarah comes from, but she is at an age when she thinks it noble to see how the other half lives.

Sandy is white or Asian. She goes to school at NYU in the heart of Greenwich Village and takes up residence in some shitty studio walkup in Alphabet City. The digs are cramped and dirty, but it's REAL. (Or, as Ice T would say, "It's so motherfuckin' REAL G!")

One of the first steps in the Sandification process is the selection and application of a tattoo. Usually the tattoo is positioned around the left bicep and tricep, the small of one's back, or around the ankle. (Every once in a while, you'll see a Sandy with a tattoo on the back of her neck.)

Next comes the piercing. The belly button is a must. The nose is almost a given. Five or six in either ear should do. And a stud in the tongue is always a nice touch.

Sandy's hair is usually dyed bright yellow, red, or black and is cropped very short and combed straight forward. She either wears no makeup at all, or bright pastels or mourning black lipstick and eye shadow.

Next comes the costume. In the summer there is, of course, the cotton half-shirt or "belly-shirt"; usually tye-dyed or a solid white or black. (The bare-midriff top gives maximum exposure to the navel ring.) Jeans purchased at a thrift store are next. Jeans aren't any better at a thrift store; Sandy just thinks it cool to tell herself and her friends that she shops at a thrift store. (Again, it's so motherfuckin' REAL!) Her shoes are of the platform variety; three to four inches off the ground should be enough.

All she needs now is a pack of Marlboro Lights and she's good to go. Where's she going? Sometimes to a bar in the East Village that doesn't card. Sometimes to her friend Maximo's apartment. (Maximo is an international student at NYU. He's always got the pot.) Sandy likes having an international student friend. (The whole motherfuckin' REAL! thing again. If the guy comes from the Ivory Coast, is black as coal, and speaks with a French accent, that's even better, because her parents in Connecticut would be really pissed.) Often Sandy finds herself hanging out in some non-descript, non-residential, rented space listening to guys her age wail on electric guitars with visions of Clapton or Hendrix or Carlos Santana dancing in the their mushy heads. "You guys are so fucking good!" Sandy gushes; it seems like the right and only thing to say.

Sometimes Sandy doesn't go anywhere. Sometimes she just sits out on a stoop along St. Mark's Place and stares at me with contempt as I walk by in my suit and tie.

Someday, when she's responsible for her rent and utility bills, she'll be a suit, too. She'll let her hair grow out. Out will come the rings from all parts of her body. The Avenue A Thrift Shop will be replaced by Ann Taylor. Platforms will turn into heels. The only thing she'll have to remind her of those days of being REAL is a big, stupid tattoo on her arm, back, or ankle.

More Stereotypes to Follow!

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		Wild Child
		August 14, 1998 This is a city of stereotypes. People tend to fall--and fall quickly soon after arrival--into very definite categories. I've written extensively about the SARAH (the Stoic Attractive Relationshipless And Hungry New York female.) Well, Sarah has a little sister named Sandy. (The Slumming Angry Nubile Downtown Youth.) Sandy comes from the same upper-middle class background that Sarah comes from, but she is at an age when she thinks it noble to see how the other half lives. Sandy is white or Asian. She goes to school at NYU in the heart of Greenwich Village and takes up residence in some shitty studio walkup in Alphabet City. The digs are cramped and dirty, but it's REAL. (Or, as Ice T would say, "It's so motherfuckin' REAL G!") One of the first steps in the Sandification process is the selection and application of a tattoo. Usually the tattoo is positioned around the left bicep and tricep, the small of one's back, or around the ankle. (Every once in a while, you'll see a Sandy with a tattoo on the back of her neck.) Next comes the piercing. The belly button is a must. The nose is almost a given. Five or six in either ear should do. And a stud in the tongue is always a nice touch. Sandy's hair is usually dyed bright yellow, red, or black and is cropped very short and combed straight forward. She either wears no makeup at all, or bright pastels or mourning black lipstick and eye shadow. Next comes the costume. In the summer there is, of course, the cotton half-shirt or "belly-shirt"; usually tye-dyed or a solid white or black. (The bare-midriff top gives maximum exposure to the navel ring.) Jeans purchased at a thrift store are next. Jeans aren't any better at a thrift store; Sandy just thinks it cool to tell herself and her friends that she shops at a thrift store. (Again, it's so motherfuckin' REAL!) Her shoes are of the platform variety; three to four inches off the ground should be enough. All she needs now is a pack of Marlboro Lights and she's good to go. Where's she going? Sometimes to a bar in the East Village that doesn't card. Sometimes to her friend Maximo's apartment. (Maximo is an international student at NYU. He's always got the pot.) Sandy likes having an international student friend. (The whole motherfuckin' REAL! thing again. If the guy comes from the Ivory Coast, is black as coal, and speaks with a French accent, that's even better, because her parents in Connecticut would be really pissed.) Often Sandy finds herself hanging out in some non-descript, non-residential, rented space listening to guys her age wail on electric guitars with visions of Clapton or Hendrix or Carlos Santana dancing in the their mushy heads. "You guys are so fucking good!" Sandy gushes; it seems like the right and only thing to say. Sometimes Sandy doesn't go anywhere. Sometimes she just sits out on a stoop along St. Mark's Place and stares at me with contempt as I walk by in my suit and tie. Someday, when she's responsible for her rent and utility bills, she'll be a suit, too. She'll let her hair grow out. Out will come the rings from all parts of her body. The Avenue A Thrift Shop will be replaced by Ann Taylor. Platforms will turn into heels. The only thing she'll have to remind her of those days of being REAL is a big, stupid tattoo on her arm, back, or ankle. More Stereotypes to Follow! Broadway Jim Jenkins