Lame Adventure 451: Appropriate Behavior

Recently I attended a screening at the Film Society of Lincoln Center of Appropriate Behavior, a romantic comedy set in Brooklyn about hipsters. Shirin is an Iranian-American bisexual obsessing about Maxine, her cool butch lesbian ex-girlfriend, following their crash and burn breakup. The story time travels back and forth when they were happily together in the recent past with newly single Shirin disastrously coping in her miserable present. My expectations for this film hovered at the bottom of the ocean. Much to my surprise, I found this briskly paced debut feature by screenwriter-director-star, Desiree Akhavan, who plays Shirin, entertaining. It’s witty, she’s pretty and this edgy tale is packed with sex, angst and colorful glimpses into Iranian American culture and customs.

What’s not to like?

Something I wasn’t wild about was The Knuckle Dragger who stood directly in front of me completely blocking my view after the film ended, just as the q&a was about to start. Eventually, Lurch realized that they had more in common with a door than a window. Often, I find the questions asked in film screening q&a’s painfully stupid. For example:

Audience Member: How many of you [actors] were playing yourself?

Did this person think that Akhavan had directed a documentary?

Desiree Akhavan standing as she fields audience questions.

Desiree Akhavan (standing) as she fields audience questions.

Akhavan, who has extensively screened her film on the festival circuit, was an admirable pro fielding such an idiotic question that drew audience gasps or maybe I was just hearing the sound of my own less than silent GERD. I later realized that it could be interpreted as a backhanded compliment. Akhavan did a commendable job directing her actors who were very well cast. She and Rebecca Henderson, who plays Maxine, had palpable chemistry.

Akhavan has been referred to as “the Persian Lena Dunham”. Dunham is a major player in the zeitgeist and no doubt Akhavan would love to follow that “it” girl’s influential lead. The comparisons are obvious: Akhavan has screen presence, a clever way with words and she is very comfortable both behind and in front of the camera. For the fourth and current season of Girls, Dunham has written Akhavan into her hit series. That strikes me as a vote of confidence from Dunham to Akhavan.

During the q&a Akhavan admitted that her screenplay was influenced by Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. In lieu of revealing any spoilers, I detected some homage to Mike Nichols’ The Graduate. Appropriate Behavior also brought to mind an early Ang Lee film, The Wedding Banquet, a romantic comedy about an Asian American son’s anxiety over admitting that he is gay to his immigrant parents. Shirin is in the closet to her parents. The stress to come out contributes to her neurosis and adds to her problems with Maxine. Akhavan is blatantly and subtly borrowing from some of the best veteran filmmakers, but I also recognized a unique voice and perspective that is her own. I look forward to seeing what she directs next.

Desiree Akhavan

Desiree Akhavan – you go girl! (Dress from Opening Ceremony for those into knowing that sort of thing).

Appropriate Behavior opens January 16th in New York City at the IFC Center, and theaters in select cities coast to coast. Check local listings. It’s also available on iTunes. Sex, partial nudity, drugs and 90 painless minutes when q&a-free.

Lame Adventure 450: Water Cooler Torture

On my first workday morning of the New Year, I was the first member of my department in our office. I went through my usual machinations: turned on my computer, logged in and then approached the water cooler to make a cup of hot tea. Our water bottle was full, but only one drop of water dripped out of the hot spigot of our dual temperature cooler. I tested the cold spigot. Not a single drop emitted there. Bad sign.

I hightailed down three flights to the Accounting department where I filled my cup when no one was looking. Accounting hates my department, Design. They think we’re superfluous; my boss, Elspeth’s vanity project. I did not want to feel guilted into leaving a kidney and a dollar for them so I raced out their back door sight unseen. When I returned to my office, my colleague, Godsend, had arrived.

Godsend: Happy New Year!

Me: I think our water cooler shit the bed!

I bellowed for the company janitor on the Voice-of-God intercom that is heard throughout our entire six-story building and halfway across New Jersey. This was a crisis. He came quickly. I explained the situation. He disassembled our water cooler and discovered that it was frozen solid inside.

The big freeze.

The big freeze.

We unplugged it and waited a few hours for it to thaw. Once the ice melted, I plugged it back in and tried to run water out of it. Nothing flowed.

Debottled and dysfunctional (could double as a band's name).

Debottled and dysfunctional (could double as a band’s name).

The next morning, the water in the well had frozen again. Even though I am not a Water Cooler-ology major from MIT, I guessed that there was something wrong with the thermostat. This would be one of those repairs that would cost more than replacing the unit. It had been in use for the entirety of the ten years that I have been employed in the dual role of Minister of Tile and the Person Who Deals with the Crap No One Else Wants to Handle. It had probably been in continuous use for about fourteen years. I threw myself on the grenade and visited the immovable mountain that is the Accounting department to beg for a replacement. Spewing fountains of contempt, they’re fine if Design is parched.

I return to my desk, Google water coolers. Home Depot is a good source. I see one that I think will work perfectly for us. Elspeth tells me to order it.

Our new cooler arrives on Friday. Our shipping manager unpacks it and I proceed to conduct the setup. The only instructions are a red caution card hanging off the hot water spigot warning not to activate the cooler’s hot switch until after the tank is filled.

Heed this warning!

Heed this warning!

We plug in a new water bottle, wait for it to fill the tank and then I insert the cooler’s plug into the wall socket. Easy peasy.

Ta da!

Ta da!

A cloud of noxious vapor belches out of the cooler’s rear vent directly into my face. The fumes fill our office.

Even though it is nine degrees outside, Godsend opens the windows. I call our cooler’s manufacturer and get through to a technician. He diagnoses that a snafu occurred: it somehow shipped with the off-switch in the on position.

Hidden under this tape behind the black metal grate, the off switch is on.

Hidden under this tape behind the black metal grate, the off switch is on.

Because it seems to be working normally, he is keeping a file on it but will give us a replacement should it eventually malfunction. While I have him on the line, I ask how sanitary it is from the get-go. The conversation gets awkward.

Technician: Most people just pop in their water bottles and start using their coolers right away. [pause and translation: bad idea] They never clean them. [pause and translation: bad idea] No harm in running a few quarts of water through both spigots first.

I heed the message and flush out half the new bottle in a bucket. The stink in our office has faded, but Godsend remains traumatized from witnessing that cloud of vapor explode in my kisser. She has willies similar to the ones she suffered that time we noticed the copper-colored mineral buildup in our old cooler’s well.

Copper-colored much in old water cooler well.

Copper-colored dome in old water cooler well. Ew.

I’m not wild about personally doing a taste test of the new cooler’s water. I call Donald who works upstairs who agrees to be our guinea pig. Before drinking a cup of cold water and a mug of hot tea he tells me that if anything happens to him he has two words for me:

Donald: Screw you.

Me: Thank you for doing this for us.

Donald drinks. Godsend shudders. I check my watch wondering how long before it’s quitting time. He announces that the water tastes fine hot and cold. I get thirsty and try the water. I assure Godsend that it tastes good.

Same color as strychnine, but more refreshing.

Same color as strychnine, but more refreshing.

Me: It’s irrational to fear the water cooler.

Godsend remains unconvinced. I have ways to change her mind.

Psychological ploy.

Psychological ploy.

Lame Adventure 449: It’s the Most Familiar Time of the Year

New Year's Day hangover balloons.

New Year’s Day hangover balloons.

Sixteen hours into January 1, 2015, my holiday season officially entered the ether and the most familiar time of the year resumed. This happened when I encountered my first asshat of the New Year: a chap about my age at my go-to supermarket, Fairway. Fairway is a place where, a few years earlier on another New Year’s Day, the toes of my right foot were nearly severed by a girl not much taller than a walking stick burning rubber on a scooter in the produce section. Apparently, that moppet, with parental approval, was training to compete in the Dakar Rally via the broccoli bin. My market could serve double duty all year round as the Asshat Convention Center of America, or ACCA for short.

Fast forward to the ACCA around 4pm on New Year’s Day 2015. I am patiently waiting my turn in a cue of fellow shoppers to grab a hand basket. The man in front of me takes his hand basket that contains some detritus left behind by previous users of that basket. There is a trashcan nearby at the store’s entrance, but Mr. Asshat upends the trash from his basket into mine.

Me: Was that necessary?

Mr. Asshat looks back at me and cringes, possibly flashbacking on his nagging mother. I swipe out the detritus and dump it in the trashcan he chose to ignore. Sufficiently humiliated, he mumbles an apology before scampering down an aisle in a failed effort to turn invisible. But, I appreciated his civility, unlike the last asshat I encountered in the Old Year: a woman half my age reeking attitude.

She crossed my path on another reliable source of suffering: the New York City subway system. This episode in the series, Meet the Asshat, occurred on my second-to-last train ride before embarking on a two-week hiatus from The Grind.

Ms. Asshat was sitting on the crowded 1 local during the morning rush hour with her legs crossed, determined to give anyone near her the boot.

Shin kicker's boot.

Shin kicker’s boot.

Unlike Mr. Asshat in Fairway, my subway riding survival instinct warned that this was a Code Red Asshat, i.e., someone with the potential to detonate. Don’t provoke her. I got lucky and scored a seat allowing me to escape her foot follies. Everyone else near her came close to getting it in the shin. Her nasty expression screamed f-bomb. Fellow riders shared my cautious vibe and were mute around this volatile asshat. There are times when New Yorkers know to zip the lip.

Days later, I was in mellow mode visiting kith and kin in the San Francisco Bay Area. While in Sausalito with my best friend from college, BatPat, we strolled through a neighborhood of storybook-style houseboats docked on calm waters.

Mini mansions in idyllic Waldo Harbor.

Mini mansions in idyllic Waldo Harbor.

Many of these whimsical vessels belong to artists and writers.

Tim Burton-esqe style houseboat from behind.

Tim Burton-esqe style houseboat from behind.

Tim Burton-esque style boat from the front-ish.

Tim Burton-esque style boat from the front-ish.

I flashed on ditching the steady stream of petty irritations that are such a key ingredient in big city life in exchange for the tranquility of a floating nest and the camaraderie of courteous neighbors with cool cats.

Super cool houseboat cat Bow.

Super cool houseboat cat Bow.

Bow's super cool houseboat home.

Bow’s super cool houseboat home.

But whom am I kidding? Within a month, or an hour, my blunt force trauma temperament would surface and I could be the resident asshat in Shangri-la.

In front of my home, this bombshell might be active.

In front of my home, this bombshell might be active.

I am allergic to cats, I can’t swim and my astrological sign should be Seasick. I can do mellow by the shot glass, but my personality is frantic by the barrel.

Cool in principle but not for me.

The Neversail Ark: cool in principle but not for me.

Shortly after I returned from my California getaway, I was briskly walking down my block on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. It was five in the afternoon, a time of day that looks exactly like ten at night in winter, when I found myself doing a double take on what else? A sweating package identified as fresh chicken.

Re-gift chicken.

Re-gift chicken.

I don’t know what gave me the willies more: knowing that I reside in close proximity to a New York City asshat who re-gifts fowl, or later that evening, when I went out again and saw that there had been a taker. A few years ago, New York City was besieged with a bedbug epidemic. Have we graduated to salmonella sharing in 2015? Meanwhile, a New Year has dawned once again replete with a new crop of New York City asshats. The time of the year may no longer be the most wonderful, but it is certainly back to being the most familiar.

Asshat New Yorker-style Christmas tree disposal.

Asshat New Yorker-style Christmas tree disposal.

Lame Adventure 448: Anatomy of a Cronut

One year ago today, on December 29th, 2013, I started riding a spin bike. I also began eating primarily organic while practicing dietary portion control in an effort to shed the equivalent of a bowling ball and seven bananas in girth. My effort paid off. I’ve slimmed down significantly and no longer sound like a sputtering steam engine when I climb up a flight of stairs. Over the course of this holiday season, I’ve indulged, but I no longer eat like a starving hog. I consciously avoid foodstuffs that are like crack to me: cookies and chips. Muffins and bagels are not welcome on the menu anymore, either. Sandwiches and deli meat have crossed the line into edible enemy territory. My intake of red meat plummeted, as my consumption of fruits, vegetables and whole grains skyrocketed. I quaff much less alcohol and pump gallons more water.

Even though I have transformed myself into a disciple of health and fitness, I remain fully capable of savoring a gourmet pastry every once in a while, especially one that is almost as elusive as a winning Powerball lottery ticket: the Cronut. Ever since the Dominique Ansel Bakery on Spring Street in lower Manhattan introduced this croissant-doughnut hybrid in May 2013, the eating public has been under the spell of these celebrated treats. For a while the only way to get one was to wait in a long line hours before the bakery opened at 8 am. Getting into a line at 5 am to pay $5 for a croissant crossbred with a doughnut was an act of masochism I could not bring myself to do. Ansel only bakes 350 a day so they sell out at warpspeed. Earlier this month I heard that Ansel has introduced an online lottery that happens every Monday at 11 am. I am always at The Grind at that time, so I suggested to The Boss that we do this. Elspeth gave this brainstorm her seal of approval and handed me her credit card.

The problem was that there is so much traffic on the Ansel web site, getting through borders on the impossible. All the heavily Photoshopped junk added to Kim Kardashian’s trunk had nothing on breaking the Internet when compared to ordering a Cronut online. The few times I thought I was getting through, my screen would hang or freeze and I’d get booted off the site. This was agonizing. As expected, the Cronuts were selling fast. Just when I was about to give up because Monday through Thursday’s allotment was sold out, I tried ordering two for Friday. A miracle happened and my order entered the shopping cart. But Elspeth is seldom at The Grind on Friday. I paid for the Cronuts myself and I gave my second one to my colleague, Godsend, as an early Christmas present. We had them on my last day in the office before I left for vacation.

The flavor for December was Valrhona Dark Chocolate Raspberry (with a splash of Chambord). What did it taste like? Immediate thought: the food equivalent of the most satisfying sex ever. Second thought: it’s perfectly balanced sweet and buttery layers of flaky pastry that’s simultaneously crunchy, chewy and messy. The delectable fillings, in this case chocolate and raspberry, have a tendency to spurt out. It’s best to eat a Cronut over a plate — what we did.

Suckers waiting on line for Cronuts.

Suckers waiting on line for Cronuts that might sell out before they gain entry into the bakery.

For those who order their Cronuts online, you bypass everyone waiting to buy theirs.

For those who order their Cronuts online, you have VIP status and can bypass everyone else waiting to buy theirs.

Tray of the pastry equivalent of gold bullion: Cronuts.

Tray of the pastry equivalent to gold bullion: Cronuts.

Gold tulip box containing our Cronuts.

Gold tulip box containing our Cronuts.

Voila!

Voila!

Godsend photographing the Cronuts.

Godsend photographing the Cronuts.

Godsend's Cronut shot.

Godsend’s Cronut shot.

Sideview Cronut.

Sideview Cronut.

Overhead Cronuts.

Overhead Cronuts.

Cross section Cronut.

Cross section Cronut.

Leaked raspberry Cronut filling.

Leaked raspberry Cronut filling.

I would consider enduring the torture of ordering Cronuts again online, but I am not in a hurry to do so. Since savoring my Cronut, I wondered about the calorie content. Woman’s Health Magazine reported last October that a single Cronut clocks in at a terrifying 1,330 calories with about 900 calories in fat.

Cronut nutrition facts.

Unpretty Cronut picture.

That is food for thought:

Me (thinking): Holy fried fat balls!

The sodium content alone contains enough salt to spread on a city sidewalk.  Good thing I’m riding that spin bike, but now I’m compelled to ride it to Mars.

The least pretty picture: Cronut grease stains.

The least pretty Cronut picture: grease stains.

For anyone adventurous who would like to attempt to make Cronuts at home, click here for the recipe.

Lame Adventure 447: Christmas Trees Of Gotham – Bitty, Beastly and Best

One of the most enduring symbols of the holiday season wherever you go in the country is the Christmas tree. Here in New York City, Christmas trees are not purchased in tree lots. New York City dwellers purchase their trees from sidewalk vendors.

Trees being pimped on Columbus Avenue.

Trees and wreaths pimped on Columbus Avenue.

For about a four week period from Thanksgiving to Christmas, New Yorkers not only sidestep the usual: each other, kids in strollers, elderly folks moving at a snail’s pace, dog walkers and walking dogs. Added to the daily dance of pedestrian navigation at holiday time is zigging and zagging around a forest of pine trees crowding the corners on what seems like every other block.

How tree-buyers get their trees home is another tale in the playbook of inconvenient. A Christmas tree cannot be delivered like a pizza. Christmas trees are takeout. In the thirty-two years that I’ve lived here, I have yet to see a delivery guy on a bike transporting a Christmas tree in my neighborhood, the Upper West Side. New York City Christmas trees are brought home in a variety of ways starting with Manual: the woman I saw walking on upper Broadway struggling awkwardly as she hauled her tree solo. Next up, there’s Happy Teamwork Style: a guy duo effortlessly carrying their firry [sic] friend in tandem.

Not to be confused with this furry friend who is surely wondering, "When is my tree getting here?"

Not to be confused with this furry friend who is surely wondering, “When is my tree getting here?”

Reported in Gothamist was Irritating: a guy riding with his tree on a subway train. I am sure that some people carry their trees home in taxis, or for the privileged with a car, the Traditional Method: tying it to the roof.

Many apartments such as my own thumbnail-size sanctum sanctorum are too cramped to house a tree, so wreaths and mini trees are very popular. My building’s vestibule is decorated with the trinity of holiday adornment New York City-style: a mini tree, a wreath and a poinsettia.

Holiday decorations in Casa de la Shangri-la.

Holiday decorations in Casa de la Shangri-la.

I do not partake in tree or wreath purchasing but I am an avid tree watcher. Pictured below are some trees, infinitesimal to massive, that I have glimpsed in my neighborhood, as well as that iconic one in Rockefeller Center.

Good luck with that.

Planter Tree: good luck with that.

Nice display of stoop trees, but anyone needing to hold onto the banister is out of luck.

Nice display of stoop trees, but flirting with a lawsuit if anyone needs to hold the banister.

Apartment near my laundromat; looks like a tree purchased on Columbus Avenue.

Apartment near my laundromat; looks like a tree purchased on Columbus Avenue or maybe all the trees are wearing red bows in 2014.

Co-op building tree; I'd prefer a lower maintenance over a tree.

La-di-da co-op building tree.

My building's tree.

My building’s knee-sized tree: what rent stabilized tenants rate.

Lincoln Square tree in Dante Park a.k.a. the tree cross the street from Lincoln Center. Next to no one was looking at it.

Lincoln Square tree in Dante Park a.k.a. the 27 foot tree across the street from Lincoln Center.

Radio City Music Hall's glitz - a light show rather than an actual tree.

Radio City Music Hall’s glitz – a light show rather than an actual tree.

To see the Radio City Music Hall holiday tree light show click here.

85 foot 27 ton Norway Spruce attention whore in Rockefeller Center.

85 foot 27 ton Norway Spruce attention whore in Rockefeller Center.

Is it me or does this year’s Rockefeller Center tree look like a massive, misshapen blob in need of a manicure? Smothered in 45,000 lights cannot hide that this behemoth looks like a shaggy oaf. Possibly I’m being critical because I’m not a fan of big and bloated. I naturally gravitate in the direction of small and lean. My favorite holiday trees are not in windows, rooftops, plazas or parks. They do not
attract herds of gaping gawkers from near and far. Here are my favorite trees of this holiday season: The Trees of West 73rd Street.

First up, a sturdy trunk tastefully swathed in red and gold.

First up, a sturdy trunk tastefully swathed in red and gold.

Second tree in blue and silver: a shout out to those that celebrate Hannukah?

Second tree in blue and silver: a shout out to those that celebrate Hanukkah.

Tree Three: a slender number in formal attire ready for New Year's champagne.

Tree Three: a slender number in formal attire ready for New Year’s champagne.

The fourth in the series: Purple Passion tree.

Tree Four decked out in purple and silver  for those celebrating eggplant and flatware.

The fifth and the finest: the candy cane tree.

The fifth and the finest: the candy cane tree lovingly embraced by a bike.

Each West 73rd Street tree exudes New York City attitude and style. If I could have a beer and socialize with a tree, these are the trees for me. If I were able to interview these trees and ask them what they think of the trees purchased on street corners or the trophy trees that stop traffic they’d likely say:

The Trees of West 73rd Street: Fuhgeddaboudit!

Every time I walk past these five trees en route to the subway, no matter how late I’m running or how irritated I’m feeling, seeing these festively dressed trees lifts my spirits. Whoever decorated them did this with personality, care and flare and probably at their own expense. Possibly they did it just because they like seeing them. I know that I sure do. This cool, quirky, “all natural” quintet of trees will not be piled high on the sidewalk in round two of street hogging. What’s round two you wonder? That’s when the Christmas trees of New York City prepare to be converted into mulch. That tradition resumes December 26th.

Tree speck in street: swatch of suicidal pine needles.

Tree speck in street: swatch of suicidal pine needles.

Lame Adventure 446: Radiator Cover Gift Giving

Now that my father is no longer walking the earth this holiday season, my family is reduced to its essence: my siblings, Dovima and Axel, brother-in-law Herb (with a silent h), and my college student niece, Sweet Pea. There are also the animals: Dovima’s dog, Thurber, Fred, her geriatric fish (he’s 9; a year older than Thurber), and Axel’s two cats: Blackie, the feral guard-cat at work, and Bandit, the pampered, at home. Seven of the eight rate holiday gifts from me.

Sorry, Fred, you're screwed.

Sorry, Fred, don’t look so glum, but you’re screwed.

I am famous for saying:

Me: If I can’t get it online, you’re not going to get it from me.

I like fast. I like simple. If I must go to a store, as I did for my sister and Herb’s presents, I go at off hours when I know the crowds will be just the way I like them: anemic. After I exited The Grind on Friday, I blew into a store, found exactly what I wanted to get my sister and brother-in-law, paid, and was back out on the street in six minutes flat Toyota jumping for joy. Almost immediately, I suffered a flash of five alarm fire, heart attack-inducing panic. That was because I brilliantly left their gifts in a convenience store aisle when I absently put the bag down to pick up an eight pack of pocket tissues. Then, I walked away. I made it back to get their presents before the four second window of retrieval granted to preoccupied stumblebums had slammed shut.

On Saturday, I shipped my gifts to my sister’s house on the West Coast. I’ll wrap them during my upcoming visit. The gifts that I’ve ordered online are being shipped directly to her; how I’ve been sending my gifts for years.

Now that Trader Joe’s Brandy Bean season is over, and with necessity being the mother of invention, I rewarded my gift giving accomplishment with a bottle of port and a chocolate bar.

Happy holidays to me!

Happy holidays to me!

As I was entering my building with my treats, I noticed a tire pump outside the door.

Home is where the tire pump is.

Home is where the tire pump is.

I thought:

Me (thinking): My building: the gift that never stops giving.

Once again some nameless tenant, possibly the one who places the cardboard pizza boxes in the recycling can meant for plastic and glass, left this hand me down up for grabs.

Does this person also wear their shoes on the wrong feet?

Does this person also wear their shoes on the wrong feet?

If I were inclined to be Tightwad Incarnate to those near and dear, based on what tenants have left on my building’s radiator cover through the years, there are many offerings I could have given.  I occasionally photograph them. Pictured below is a selection. Often, there are books and magazines. Sometimes, appliances, including computer hardware. Once, a glove I lost was left there and once, I placed a glove I found on there. Hey, pay the good deed forward. With great regret, I did not photograph the samurai sword someone left in the trash a few years back, but that artifact from feudal Japan, or more likely, China via a Canal Street junk store, was not gracing the radiator cover.

This is the radiator cover as it is seldom seen: naked.

This is the radiator cover as it is seldom seen: naked.

Here it is with a trinity of plastic what the hells possibly produced by Acme.

Here it is with a trinity of plastic What The Hells possibly produced by Acme.

Acme what the hells.

Acme What The Hells. But anyone’s for the taking.

Currently, there's a soup pot someone no longer wants.

Currently, there’s a soup pot up for adoption.

And a calendar with both November and maybe December!

And a calendar with both November and maybe December!

In September 2012 there was an empty binder and card stock.

In September 2012 there was an empty binder and card stock.

A month later, there was the ceramic blob.

A month later, there was this glazed ceramic blob.

One summer there was The Mystery Box. It sat around for about a week screaming volumes about the lack of curiosity.

One summer there was The Mystery Box. It sat around for about a week screaming volumes about the lack of curiosity amongst the tenants.

These magazine paper wrapped boxes sat in the vestibule for several days last spring.

Magazine paper wrapped boxes that sat in the vestibule last spring. A few were taken by some schmuck or schmuck-ette addicted to clutter.

The annual Christmas tree that makes my friend Milton's heart melt as if it's a puppy. But I don't think it's up for grabs.

The annual Christmas tree that makes my friend Milton’s heart melt as if it’s a puppy. But I think taking it is theft.

Lame Adventure 445: iPhone, iPear, iForget

Last Thursday, on my way to The Grind I suffered one of the worst feelings in the world. Just as I was walking up West 73rd Street to cross Broadway en route to the 72nd Street subway station, I felt immense dread, if one were to rank worst feelings in this order (your personal preference may vary):

  1. Someone dear dying.
  1. Oneself dying.
  1. Death of a relationship.
  1. Death of one’s livelihood.
  1. Leaving one’s iPhone on one’s writing table: a feeling approaching death.

For a flash I considered dashing home to get my phone. But, due to a plumbing problem in my building, I was already running late. I had cleared out everything in my bathroom so building management could investigate a leak in my shower, not to imply that moving a trash can, a bath mat and a scale requires tremendous effort, but it requires aforethought, something I sorely lack before noon. The reason I had forgotten my iPhone was because my narrow sliver of morning memory, normally reserved to recall taking my phone and wearing my watch, was invested in remembering to strap on the watch and to bring a pear. As soon as I packed the pear into my satchel, my allotment of middle age morning memory was maximized. I raced out the door iPhone-less.

The pear that started my agony.

The pear that started my agony.

Dropping the f-bomb in my head, I decided to forego returning home to get my phone. I crossed the street and entered the subway station. The express train was running with delays so I hopped onto a local where I got a seat. I thought:

Me (thinking): Sweet! I can read The New Yorker!

But I could not read The New Yorker. I download it onto my iPhone and my hard copy of the magazine was at home on my writing table, coincidentally next to my iPhone. In my satchel I only had an umbrella and that pear. The pear had an organic label sticker I could read, but for the duration of a thirteen stop, 4.76 mile subway ride, that story was going to get real old real fast. At West 23rd Street, seven stops into my journey, my local train is delayed. I thought:

Me (thinking): I better text Godsend [my colleague] about this.

But I recalled that I am iPhone-less. I make a mental note to contact my sister and friends not to text me. I don’t want to miss texts from kith and kin.

Recent text from my friend Milton.

Recent text from my friend Milton.

At The Grind, I email the news to my sister, Dovima. She emails me back:

Dovima: Might not be so bad after all. You might actually feel free.

My sister’s philosophical outlook makes me reflect:

Me: Are we related?

The Boss gives me a bubble wrapped package containing two dead light bulbs. These light bulbs are supposed to have a lifetime guarantee. She says:

The Boss: You know what to do about this.

Indeed I do! This has happened to us six times before. I photograph the dead light bulbs with my iPhone and forward the image to our supplier. He sends us replacements. That doesn’t get done that day.

I have to call building management to tell them about the leak in my shower, but I only have their number in my iPhone. Then, I recall that I also have it in hard copy in my Filofax. I think:

Me (thinking): Oh happy day for paper backup!

But I left my Filofax at home. It’s sitting on my writing table, on top of my New Yorker that is next to my iPhone. They’re probably having a three-way.

Sluts.

Sluts.

For good measure, I wonder if I remembered to wear a bra. I did.

I do a computer search, trying to trace my building management’s phone number. Last January, I emailed them! So, I email them again anticipating this missive will end up in their spam folder, but for the first time that day, something goes right. They email me back — with their phone number! They want me to call them! Just as quickly, my elation turns to worry. Do they have something terrible to report about the plumbing problem? I imagine:

Building Management: We’ve pinpointed the source of the problem. It’s your bathroom. We’re going to have to gut it so you won’t be able to use it again until January. And your iPhone keeps ringing.

Inside my head I drop another f-bomb. I make the call. What they actually want me to know is that both their daughters are pregnant and they’ll be grandparents next spring. They add that they fixed my leak. I am thrilled on many levels.

When I enter my sanctum sanctorum that evening and I’m reunited with my iPhone, I feel immense relief.

Together again!

Together again!

Only then do I recall that I forgot to eat the pear that I took in its place.

Grrrrrrrrrr.

Grrrrrrrrrr.