Lame Adventure 334: Lost and Found

Posted on August 23, 2012 | 132 comments

Losing stuff is a daily occurrence in New York City and this is not just in reference to the propensity of subway riders losing their tempers in this congested metropolis.

An outraged response to MTA cheery self-promotion.

New Yorkers lose their cats.

Anyone seen Chester? Did you look under the sink?

New Yorkers lose their socks.

Sock Monster by the kids at PS 9. (Nice to know where the tubes I lost in the 80s went.)

Sometimes I draw the short straw and I’m the loser on the subway.  Once on my way home from The Grind, I did not lose my temper, but I did lose my umbrella.  This happened while I was sprinting across the 14th Street subway platform to transfer from a local train to the uptown express.  While doing my anemic Usain Bolt impersonation, I unwittingly dropped my umbrella, but speedy me did manage to hop onto that express train just before the doors shut.  The reward for my victory was reaching my stop three minutes and seven seconds faster and arriving home a helluva wetter.

Recently I thought I had lost a book, but fortunately, my pet puppet goat, Bill E. had it.

“I’m on page 103.”

Last week, I sliced my right index finger.  I have no idea how this injury occurred, but I realized that I have now lost my chance to seriously pursue a mid-life crappy-hand modeling career.

“Let me see.”

More often, I’m the one that finds another’s loss lying in the street. Sometimes someone’s loss is my gain, such as when I found a dollar entering the 72nd Street subway station.

It pays to ride the subway.

I applied it toward my replacement umbrella.

Just this week I noticed a tie, a pair of gloves, and a potato.

Tie.

Gloves (flattened by cars).

Spud.

I am sure the rightful owners wondered:

Rightful owner:  Gee, what happened to my [tie, gloves, potato]?

Then, there is stuff that someone no longer wants so they purposely leave it out in an act of passive aggressive charity.

One of a kind combo — microwave in chair.

Recently, I saw a sofa complete with detachable feet, a pair of men’s boots (people in New York are big fans of leaving shoes out), and some mats that I first thought might be for yoga, but upon closer inspection I ascertained better suitability to absorb car grease, or possibly candidacy for residence in a landfill.

Sofa with feet detached.

Leather boots going elf-toe route.

Mats. Next stop can to frame left.

I kept a close eye on the sofa.  First the detachable feet went missing, then the entire sofa itself.  I suppose what is one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, especially if you’re someone that treasures bed bugs.

I agree.

Considering the recent epidemics of these pests in Gotham City, I steer clear of street swag.

There are also some distinct intentional dumps of stuff, stuff that the former owners have decided must go so they just toss it in the street willy-nilly to sound as irritating as former Secretary of Irritation in the Shrub Administration, Donald Rumsfeld.  In this case I have seen chair casters and last year, a movie-style popcorn popper filled with greasy unpopped corn kernels.  It was as if this machine got ditched in mid-use possibly because the original owner has severe A.D.D. or was just a typical Type A orifice – no, not thinking the ear canal.

“I feel detached.”

Degrading departure.

Another New York City specialty is wild trash.  Wild trash is trash that is not in a bag that’s deposited in a trash can awaiting pick-up. This is untamed garbage at its most feral. Newspaper is a popular breed of this type of refuse.  If sidewalks could read, New York’s would be the most literate in the country.

Public health announcement courtesy of the pavement.

Although this has yet to make the evening news, urban wildlife out here is suffering an obesity epidemic.  Who wants to peck at dry seed out of a feeder when the pizza is so abundant in the street?  That would really be bird-brained.

Pizza party!

Notice how both the pigeons and the sparrows completely ignored the pencil — not a writer in the flock.

Finally, there’s what I call the hit and miss style of dealing with wild trash.

Side by side.

NASA can fly a vehicle to Mars but we’ve yet to equip a banana peel with a spring mechanism allowing it to bounce off the eater’s head into the trash can.  Now that would be progress.

132 Comments

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Lame Adventure 332: Pink Pugs in Paris

Posted on August 16, 2012 | 103 comments

As most of you don’t know, my commenting wingman, Mike G, recently celebrated his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with the woman he calls The Bride.  Altogether let’s say:

Us: Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

What is even more monosyllabic-inducing to me is that this is his fourth marriage.

LA Readership and Mike G:  WHAT?

Just yankin’ ya, but let’s be realistic, I’m queer as, accounting for inflation, a nineteen dollar bill and this is not the site for sentimental straight sap.  I will say this about Mike and The Bride, out there in the hinterlands of New Jersey, they’ve produced three well rounded spawn.  The first-born, Son, is a university wrestling team member with clowns as his kryptonite, so anyone reading this that would like to get him in a headlock fast — dress as Bozo; D1 is their first-born daughter that decorated the car in glitter and feathers so it looks like a rolling drag queen, and D2 is their second-born daughter that hates squirrels after one had the audacity to run off the roof and use her head as a launching pad.  She’s now learning to drive and dreams of exacting revenge.

Alert squirrel on lookout for D2.

If they have any animals Mike hasn’t revealed them to me so I’ll improvise here.

Mike’s funky chicken Miriam.

The Bride and Mike both have Real Jobs that are called a word that’s as foreign to me as any words gassed in Aramaic, Careers.  From what he tells me, she’s even his Best Friend. There you guys go again:

You Guys: Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

With my extraordinary power of perception I’ve deduced that she doesn’t bitch at him to take out the trash or pick up his socks and he’d sooner cut out his tongue than say:

Mike G (never uttering): You know, that dress does make you look fat.

So there was Mike and The Bride in Paris without any of the Spawn nor did Mike stuff his pet chicken, Miriam, in his suitcase Borat-style.  They were alone.  In the city of light.  One of the most romantic places on the planet.  Being romantic …

“Hey Bride is that a dyed pink pug we’re looking at over here?”

… and taking pictures for Lame Adventures!  The Bride even downloaded them for us.  Their marriage sure works for me.  Let’s virtually visit Paris!

Cool flowers in hotel lobby.

Chocolate anniversary cake with edible gold courtesy of Hotel du Swank.

“Bord du smelly cheese” and bottle of bordeaux ordered by Mike.

Gaudy Ferrari with Dubai license plate in front of hotel their entire visit; motorist probably too cheap to park it in a lot.

Gallic Phallic Luxor Obelisk in the Place de la Concord.

Touristy Arc de Triomphe shot.

Cool Hugo-type shot inside clockface in former train station Musee D’Orsay.

Front gate to Abercrombie & Fitch. Yes, A&F or WTF?

The Louvre where Mike and The Bride soaked up more culture.

Eiffel Tower.

L’hopital des Invalides or in Mike-speak, the original Obamacare.

Love those flowers.

Mike optical illusion peeing in Jardin des Tuileries reflecting fountain.

Ferris wheel in Paris’s Central Park aka Jardin des Tuileries.

Mike’s eye view of Paris from Ferris wheel.

Final flower shot. Mike’s applying for his florist license.

103 Comments

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Lame Adventure 331: What a Scream

Posted on August 13, 2012 | 105 comments

I had a very productive weekend.  I stocked up on paper towels.

Cheap thrills.

I also saw a ridiculously souped-up Mini Cooper.  Clearly the souper-upper wished this was a sports car.

Ridiculous from the rear.

It brought to mind a guy I sometimes see in my neighborhood that walks his cat on a leash.  The humiliated cat slinks along miserable, probably dreading encountering dogs.  Cats are not meant to walk on leashes.  Get a dog if you must scratch the leash itch.  That poor cat should be free to do what all cats do, lounge around and claw the couch.  Back to the Mini Cooper faux sports car, I half-expected it to be an automatic, but it was a stick.

Ridiculous from the front.

I also saw some flowers in a planter that were such a vibrant shade of deep pink.  They were so eye-catching, not that I would be caught dead wearing that color.

Nice in a planter, not nice anywhere on my person.

Turning back the clock to just before quitting time on Friday at The Grind, my sidekick, Greg, asked me:

Greg:  Are you familiar with the Wilhelm Scream?

Me:  Should I be?  Is that the noise my mother emitted when she hatched me?

Greg:  It’s a popular scream from the Warner Brothers sound stock library that’s been used in many films.  There are links to it on YouTube.

Me:  Huh.  I’d like to hear that.

No sooner did I say that than Greg shared the definitive link featuring Wilhelm Screams.  This is a twelve-minute collage of screams that have appeared in films from 1951 to almost the present.  It’s a favorite sound effect of George Lucas’s, and it’s also been used by directors Steven Spielberg and Quentin Tarantino;   Pixar has utilized it in many of their animated films.  It’s familiar wail can also be heard in numerous action and horror movies.  Within the first three minutes of this collage you’ll even hear it in a scene with Judy Garland and James Mason from A Star is Born.  I urge you to click this link, not necessarily to listen to all twelve minutes of Wilhelm screaming in its entirety, like I did at my generally pointless leisure (illustrating that this site is not called Lame Adventures for nothing), but simply so you’ll have a better comprehension of just what it is that I’m talking about.

A few other interesting, or semi-interesting, or “oh, please end this painful as paint drying torture” of a discussion about the Wilhelm Scream include the following factoids — it got its name from a character named Wilhelm who appeared in a Western released in 1953 called The Charge at Feather River.  It was also voiced by Sheb Wooley.  To readers of a certain age, and you know who you are, if that name sounds familiar, that’s because he’s the guy that sang the novelty hit from 1958, The Purple People Eater.  That is a song that’s so irritating it could elicit an endless loop of Wilhelm Screams.

105 Comments

Posted in film, Humor

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Lame Adventure 330: From Barnyard Puppets to Neighborhood Pooches

Posted on August 9, 2012 | 54 comments

Twenty-nine years ago when I was a freshly minted NYU(seless) grad, I found my no fee, rent-stabilized, gas and electrical inclusion (i.e., no charge for gas and electric), Upper West Side hovel in The New York Times.  After making the mistake of agreeing to take me on as a tenant, my Irish-Catholic landlady, Catherine McCrank (name changed to protect the demented), ordered me to sit at her kitchen table to write a list of house rules that she dictated. I made the Faustian deal to follow her rules for the life of my tenancy in her building.

Deal with the devil circa 1983.

Since Manhattan usually has less than a one percent vacancy rate and I had been looking for a garret for three months, I would have willingly signed a confession that I was San Francisco’s Zodiac serial killer between the ages of four and twelve just to land this affordable 312 square foot crash pad.

The first rule was No pets.  No air conditioner which has haunted me brutally this summer appears further down the list.  Back to Mrs. McCrank’s No pets rule, she loathes animals, particularly dogs.  Some tenants have snuck in cats, and occasionally there have been dog visitors, but this has been a dog-free house as long as I’ve resided here and at this stage, I’m almost the oldest tenant in the joint.  The length of my tenancy shocks the younger residents when they ask that irritating question:

Younger resident:  How long have you lived here?

I used to give an honest answer but after a while I grew tired of hearing:

Younger resident:  No way! You’ve lived here that long?

Now when someone asks I handle it as follows:

Me: I can’t remember.  Forever!

Then, I laugh, and they laugh and what we’re laughing at neither one of us knows other than they’re probably paying a good fifty percent more than me in rent, so I suppose the joke’s on them.

Unlike Mrs. McCrank, I love dogs.  I grew up with a mutt I adored that hated my guts, Mean Streak.

Meanie on the lookout.

In the above photo, Mean Streak’s paw was bandaged from excessive nail biting; he was a worrier as well as a canine warrior.  He was also an excellent watchdog and I assumed that he barked and snarled at me to maintain his skill set. I never held his ferocious temper against him.

I always figured I’d eventually live in a place where I could finally have a dog, but after twenty-nine years living in this sweltering, albeit affordable, rat hole – where I’ve just renewed the lease to start year thirty, I’m resigned to the reality that this is never going to happen.  Therefore, the closest thing I have to a pet is Bill E., my newly acquired puppet barnyard goat.

Low maintenance puppet pet. Just dust off on weekends.

I also like to come and go as I please.  Dogs need a lot of time and attention.  I oversleep nearly every morning of my life.  If I had to add “walk Fido” to my to do list I’d never make it out the door in time to squeeze onto the jam-packed subway train for my commute downtown, sandwiched between satchels with enough space to fit a week’s provisions for a family of four.

What is in here, fifty copies of “Fifty Shades of Gray”?

Fortunately, there is a silver lining to my tale of no-pooch-for-me woe.

There’s Blanca.

“That be me!”

This adorable 9-year-old Westminster Terrier lives across the street from my brownstone with her always pleasant owner, A.  They’re quite a team and it’s probably a reflection that A, who is so cheerful, would have a mellow dog.  Possibly a telling factor in Mean Streak’s sour demeanor was that my childhood phone number was 1-800-LUNATIC.  Was that a coincidence?  Probably not.

Back to Blanca, seeing her and A on my walk to the subway station to head down to The Grind is a welcome start to my day.  Lucky for me, Mrs. McCrank did not have one more rule on her list, “No socializing with neighborhood dogs.”

“Arf you, Mrs. McCrank!”

54 Comments

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Lame Adventure 329: The Gift of Goat

Posted on August 6, 2012 | 63 comments

As someone that suffers stage 4-level lactose intolerance, if I would dare nibble on a sumptuous ripe Brie the after effects on my intestines would be as if I had swallowed a stick of lit dynamite whole.  I have a very sensitive stomach.  Fortunately, thanks to sheep and goats, I am not entirely cheese-deprived.

Get your goat logs, goat medallions, goat Olympic medals here.

Unlike cow’s milk cheese, goat cheese is gamier, but I like gamey to an extent; I’m not going to chow down a pickled farm animal’s hoof anytime soon.  That’s an odd vinegar soaked delicacy my Italian granny was drawn to that made everyone else at the table recoil.  On the other hand, a cheese with distinct character pleases my palate very much.  Lucky for me my posse accommodates my many dietary quirks and limitations.  They’re all pretty much goat cheese eaters now.

Goat cheese with French names.

When my Current Companion has absolutely nothing better to do and visits me, I have been known to get us a variety of both goat and sheep’s milk cheeses.  I have been eating goat cheese for decades, but only recently have I started paying closer attention to the sheep’s milk variety.  There is one sheep’s milk cheese I get that she likes very much, but much to our mutual dismay, I suffered a touch of A.D.D. and forgot to note its name.

Current Companion:  How could you forget the name of that cheese?  It was sooooooo good!

This prompted my usual logical train of thought:

Me (thinking):  Is this a deal-breaker?  Am I gonna get ditched over failing to remember the name of a cheese?

Me (saying):  I think it’s kinda coming back to me.  Relax, I can wing this.

We visited the cheese department in the Upper West Side’s Fairway. I asked the cheese monger with authority:

Me: Do you have a sheep’s milk cheese called something like Idiot Zabel?

A short while later, we settled for Naked Goat and Drunken Goat.

Drunk goat sleeping it off, “Hic!”

They happen to be two of our favorites and Current Companion wryly and dryly observed:

Current Companion:  Those are names you’ll never forget.

Drunken Goat from Fairway.

I did happen to see a wheel of Idiot Zabel afterward, so we got a wedge of that, too.  Once again though I did not write down its exact name, but it really does taste great.  Overall, Fairway has a good selection of goat cheeses.

Cute little goat pillows.

My favorite is Drunken Goat.

Drunken Goat unwrapped with signature violet rind.

It’s from the Murcia region of Spain a mild white cheese with a slightly fruity flavor that’s been soaked in red wine for a few days giving its edible rind a deep violet hue.  It pairs well with olives, salty dry meat, and snarky women.  It’s also miraculous on the digestive tract.

“I’m sober as a judge.”

Note about the guest goat puppet, his original name is Furryosity Goat (since renamed Bill E.).  Even though Bill E. has been relocated to Manhattan’s Upper West Side, his siblings are in SoHo awaiting adoption at Treasure & Bond, a very cool store owned by Nordstrom’s where 100% of all after-cost profits benefit children in need.

Treasure & Bond

Adopt a goat (puppet) today!

63 Comments

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Lame Adventure 328: Hanging Around

Posted on August 1, 2012 | 158 comments

Can you believe it?  Michael Phelps has a record nineteen Olympic medals and now that it’s August it’s been over four months since I first tackled the scintillating topic of tree bagging.  For those of you unfamiliar with the illustrious pastime of tree bagging, that’s when you’re out meandering, your mind is elsewhere, possibly veering in the direction of strenuous wanton sex, sinfully decadent foodstuffs, or you’re wondering if that 2-for-1 sale on nasal decongestant is still happening. Then you look up and notice the phenomenon of shopping bags nestled in tree branches.  If you reside on the Upper West Side like me you focus specifically on one multitasking tree on your block that doubles as a trash receptacle with branches.

That’s the tree in March.

Back in late March the bags in that tree looked like this.

Bags in tree.

Go ahead, take a closer look.

Now, more than four months later, I have reason to report on the State of the Tree Bags. I had just finished doing two loads of laundry after work but before dinner.  I was feeling hungry for my salad; the only dinner I have eaten almost every day in summer because I do not intend to use my stove again until fall. There were days in June and July that were so sweltering inside my un-air-conditioned hovel that I could have easily fried an egg on my bathroom floor, not to imply that that was actually on my “to do” list.  I’ll be the first to admit that greasing one’s bathroom floor is not such a genius idea.  Besides, I’m certainly not going to eat that egg.  Ew.

So there I was, deep in shallow thought while walking back to my sanctum sanctorum, carrying my bag of freshly done laundry.  It had been a long and busy day at The Grind. The soles of my feet were aching.  I was thinking:

Me (thinking):  Why are my feet aching?  Now what, do I have gout?  Doesn’t that only afflict old guys?  Or am I the one woman in the entire universe that’s screwed with this curse?  Can I ever get cut a single solitary break or is my entire life a constant disaster?  What is this going to cost me aside from epic humiliation? I can hear my dad right now, “How the hell did you get gout?  I know guys in the mall with it.  Gals aren’t supposed to get that.”  It would probably behoove me to exclude mentioning this in the “objective” category on my resume, or maybe it would show character and pith?  “Got gout.  Hire me.”  Hm, it does have an original ring to it.

I glance up at that tree’s branches.

Same tree more than four months later.

Then, focus my gaze and access my inner zoom lens.

Closing in …

Close-up.

I thought:

Me (thinking):  Wow!  That Fairway bag is still there!  It’s survived so many elements, the heat, the humidity, several rainstorms, even The Hunger Games entire run at my neighborhood multiplex.  Remarkable!  Am I almost out of balsamic?  I wonder when I’ll next get laid?  What happened to the second bag?

“I’m right here!”

158 Comments

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Lame Adventure 327: Going for the Gold in Inactivity

Posted on July 30, 2012 | 43 comments

Now that the Thirtieth Olympiad is underway, I blew most of my weekend watching the games in a hypnotic state and doing little else.  I had planned to see my buddy, Coco, on Saturday.  That visit surely would have entailed copious glass lifting and draining while shifting my game-watching venue to her TV.  When I ventured outside for bottled water I got caught in a downpour. My Jack Purcell badminton shoes got wet.  I did not want to venture out into the elements again so I canceled. I returned my attention to my TV where I watched scantily clad women play beach volleyball and embrace each other following every kill. This is an event I find exciting on many levels.

When I was younger and possibly more demented than I am now, thanks to a habit of inhaling, I used to fantasize about competing in the Olympics myself.  This fantasy was misguided since I cannot swim, I’ve never taken gymnastics, I’m allergic to horses, I’m not a fast runner, I take after my mother in archery i.e., I could shoot an arrow into the sky and miss, I’m too scrawny to lift weights, I have an aversion to sharp objects ruling out fencing, I lack the gun-shooting gene, judo has no appeal, so what’s left — competitive whining about the absence of an event to suit Olympic misfit me?

Actually there is one athletic activity I loved back in the day and that was cycling.  I discovered my affinity for bike riding when I attended an eight-week film program at Stanford in summer 1979.  I realize now that pumping the pedals hard to avoid being late for class is not the same as cycling the Tour de France, much less competing for Olympic gold.  At this stage in life I no longer harbor any personal Olympic fantasies.  After watching the endurance test that was Friday’s opening ceremonies I needed ten hours sleep and had to pop two Aleve upon waking I felt so stiff.

Earlier this month I read an article in The New York Times written by Gretchen Reynolds called “The Couch Potato Goes Global”.  Coincidentally I was sitting and eating ginger snap cookies while reading:

“… [T]he total combined weight of human beings on Earth now exceed[s] 287 million tons. About 3.5 million tons of that global human biomass is due to obesity, a third of which exists in North America, although we account for only 6 percent of the world’s population.”

I stopped eating cookies shortly after reading that, but resisted sticking my fingers down my throat.  Hey, they were good cookies. The article went on to discuss research conducted by the World Health Organization about global activity.  They discovered:

“The latest figures suggest that the world’s population has become disturbingly inactive. According to the researchers’ calculations, 31.1 percent of the world’s adults, or about 1.5 billion people, are almost completely sedentary, meaning that they do not meet the minimum recommendation of 150 minutes of walking or other moderate activity per week, or about 20 minutes a day.”

This made me feel a tad guilty about being an armchair athlete all weekend so I worked up a sweat doing masochistic house cleaning.  I scrubbed my bathroom floor with a toothbrush.  Afterward, I resumed watching the Olympics.  During a commercial break I checked out a tool that the BBC posted online that lets users compare their biomass with people in their age groups from other nations.  Much to my relief I discovered that mine is equal to women my age that reside in Vietnam.  This factoid could be convenient if I ever need to pursue a new romantic partner.  I’m confident that I can reel her in by revealing that my Body Mass Index is the same as a grandmother in Southeast Asia.

Here are my Global Fat Scale results.

I can finish eating my cookies!

There are nine nations with women my age with a lighter biomass than me.  They probably cycle and scrub their bathroom floors with toothbrushes.

If you dare, you can check out where your biomass fits in amongst 177 nations by clicking here.  Be forewarned American readers, the US ranks eleventh on the Global Fat Scale.  The mean BMI in the US is 30.46; not an Olympic-worthy feat especially when the medal that’s awarded to inactivity is early rainbow catching.

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Lame Adventure 326: Uncle Vanya and Tom Hanks

Posted on July 27, 2012 | 51 comments

Currently the Lincoln Center Festival is happening here in New York.  Lincoln Center describes this festival as “an effort to look outside the Western European canon, to broaden notions of classicism by presenting classical works from other parts of the world.”  Milton got us tickets to Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya as staged by the Sydney Theatre Company, a theater company run by Cate Blanchett and her husband, Andrew Upton.

Upton adapted Chekhov’s play and Tamás Ascher directed the terrific cast starring Blanchett as the ravishing Yelena.  Hugo Weaving, and Jacki Weaver, who first came to our attention when we saw her in the film, Animal Kingdom, in 2010 are amongst her co-stars.  Milton was certain that this limited ten-day run was going to garner rave reviews and would be a very tough ticket.  He was right.  This story about bleak love-starved bumblers spending summer together in a run down estate was both hilarious and sad.  It’s not every day that I can declare misery so entertaining.  Milton pronounced Blanchett’s performance, “Luminescent.”  She is sensational on stage and I feel very fortunate to have finally seen her grace the boards.

The theater where this play is being performed is the cavernous New York City Center.  It seats 2,750.  I am quite sure that the entire brief run is sold out.  We sat in the last row of the mezzanine, seats that were rather high and quite far from the stage.  At intermission Milton announced:

Milton:  We’re sitting so far away I don’t recognize anyone.  Which one’s Jacki Weaver?

Me: Jacki’s the nanny.  Cate’s the sexy blonde.  Hugo Weaving’s the doctor.

Milton:  Oh, that’s him? Good to know.

Even without knowing who was who, and seeing it from seats located in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, it was a brilliant production and very entertaining.

There were tiers of theater above and behind us.  I think those sections were located upstate.

It is against theater policy to take photographs of the production, and we did not want to get kicked out.  While waiting for me outside the theater Milton did take this gotcha shot of Tom Hanks with an unidentified female companion.

Tom Hanks pays the price of fame: Milton’s iPhone gotcha shot.

Odds are good that he sat considerably closer than us.  When Milton was in the men’s room he noticed Bill Irwin at the urinal, but he resisted taking his picture.  I’m sure there were other famous people in our audience, but since I emptied my bladder before leaving my garret, I did not scope out the women’s restroom.

51 Comments

Posted in Humor, new york city, theater

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Lame Adventure 325: Hanging Out in My Back Yard

Posted on July 23, 2012 | 50 comments

I reside in an apartment in a Manhattan brownstone that is so rustic, I suspect that it was built shortly after the pilgrims dropped anchor at Plymouth Rock.  This past Saturday was possibly the best weather day of 2012, a day that was sunny and warm, with little humidity.  It followed an evening so cool and comfortable I entered a coma in my air condition-less hovel where I soundly slept twelve hours straight. I celebrated the advent of this glorious day by doing what else?  I purchased a tube of toothpaste.

Keep it simple.  Pass on complicated.

After completing my errand, I had no desire to return home.  I was feeling uncharacteristically nature-y having had my first good night’s sleep in a month.  Therefore I decided to hang out in my back yard, a place that is walking distance from my sanctum sanctorum, Central Park.

I walked up West 73rd Street where I indulged my Vespa fetish when I saw a lovely red one with a very cool black and red saddle.

Let’s go out on a date.  You do the driving.

Across the street stood the Dakota where Roman Polanski filmed Rosemary’s Baby in 1967.

Back door view of the Dakota.

The Dakota’s fence — a fence on steroids.

I enter through the West 72nd Street entrance and walk a narrow path where I see this tree.

Tree.

I instantly think exactly what you’re thinking:

Me (and you):  Is this a Juniperus virginiana?

Our guess is on the money!

I walk further and see what I am quite sure is People-us On-a-rock-ana but I do not encounter a sign so I have to rely on my stellar powers of perception.

People-us On-a-rock-ana.

To my left is a whole helluva lotta green.

Want green and leafy? You’re in the right place.

To my right I see a cart full of plants.

Got marijuana? No.

Sheep Meadow is significantly more populated this day than it was when I last visited two weeks ago under a sweltering sun.

Sheep-less people-full meadow.

In fact the weather was so lovely it was possible to take a leisurely stroll in a black suit.

For an encore, don’t think about wearing a turtleneck.

I headed over to see the roller bladers showing off.

Anyone lose a water bottle?

This guy with all the joint protection was very good, not that it’s apparent in this picture.

This guy that looked like an accountant had great moves completely unapparent in this picture.

These guys are not performing a bro-dance with each other, even though this picture gives that false impression.

This may look like a pas de deux on skates but it’s not.

It’s even possible that this was the first and last time they ever met.

On my way to the band shell, I walked past statues of Victor Herbert, an early 20th Century composer, and Beethoven with a nymph, possibly symbolizing a 19th Century groupie.

This guy was The Man in the early 20th Century.

Beethoven remains the man in this century.

I also encountered a quartet of modern day musicians that sounded great.

Modern day quartet playing classical drums.

There was a crowd gathered in front of the band shell.

Hm, what’s going on over here?

They were watching these very acrobatic dudes showing off impressively.

I’ll attempt doing this in my next life.

They asked two boys in the audience to participate.

Kids doing exactly what they’re told by dude in red shorts.

How was your visit to Central Park Young Fella? Okay, some guy jumped over my head.

Then, they resumed their acrobatics

Easy for him to do!

I popped an Aleve and moved on where I next encountered the soap bubble dude.

Big ass soap bubble!

Mr. Bubble.

I made my way over to Bethesda Fountain.

I was not alone.

Boating rentals did well.

Boaters boating.

As did the professional photographers.

Cool day to wear hot pink.

This guy was in a world of his own doing yoga moves.

Maybe he’s listening to Victor Herbert on his headphones.

A surefire way for me to pull a hamstring.

Wow.

If I tried this I’m sure I’d bounce off the ball.

I thought:

Me (thinking):  Now I’ve seen everything … and a gondola?  Am I in Venice?

The Central Park gondola.

The boaters were heading towards the boathouse where I’ve been known to pound a beverage from time to time. (hiccup)

Central Park Boathouse.

Here’s the Trefoil Arch.

Trefoil Arch.

I did not walk under it.  Instead I headed for the Ramble, a place that in the not too distant past was notorious for gay male cruising.

Family friendly ramble.

Now it’s considered one of the top bird-watching locations in the US.

All I encountered was a guy serenading his girlfriend with his guitar, a squirrel and one lone robin.

Guitar man.

“Hurry up, photograph me, I’m on the hunt for dinner!”

“Whatever you do, don’t make me look fat.”

I could hear a chorus of birds singing in the branches, but I couldn’t see any of them.

“Hey, if anyone wants to show up for a picture, I’ll send you copies!”

So I photographed a squashed orange safety cone and moved on.

I agree. Not the most photogenic sight.

I then walked down a dirt path, not one of my favorite things in life, since I much prefer concrete and real stairs or an escalator.

Goodbye civilization.

The path led straight to the mouth of the lake but I firmly planted my foot to ensure I would not belly flop into it.

Firmly planted foot in blue Jack Purcell badminton shoe.

Boaters enjoying their idyll as city waits in the background.

I resumed my hike and saw some flora the botanist in me called the ouchy pointy plant.

Trip and fall into this might feel equal to embracing a porcupine.

I also encountered that robin again for I am sure that’s the sole robin in this 1.3 square mile park.

You can’t be serious.

I saw a stream.

Or is this a babbling brook?

And Turtle Pond, the place where there’s all you can eat green algae.

What a time to be without a spork!

I saw the Swedish Cottage Marionette Theatre, something I had no idea existed – puppets in my back yard!

Swedish puppets only steps away from my humble abode!

I walked past Shakespeare’s Garden, not that the Bard ever saw this patch of foliage himself.

Greens for the Bard.

The Delacorte Theater where free Shakespeare in the Park is staged was doing sound checks.

Terrific outdoor free theater — if you can get a ticket.

Hey Romeo & Juliet, get a room!

Don’t mess with this guy.

Meanwhile more fresh air lovers were hanging out on the Great Lawn.

Great Lawn under beautiful blue sky.

I hope whoever is assigned to mow it has access to a lawn tractor.

The ducks were taking it easy, too.

We love this weather and, oh yeah, quack.

So were the turtles in Turtle Pond.

“MIchael Phelps has nothing on me!”

Here’s Belvedere Castle, no big city park is complete without its castle.

Just a castle in the big city.

Then I headed home to brush my teeth.

Think I’ll take the scenic route back.

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Lame Adventure 324: Mother Nature Flips Me the Bird

Posted on July 18, 2012 | 62 comments

Following another productive day of unwinding paperclips at The Grind, I exited the 72nd Street subway station at 5:55 Tuesday evening.  I looked up at the temperature on the Apple Bank digital clock at 73rd and Broadway and thought:

Me (thinking):  I can’t believe it’s 94.

Believe it.

What compelled me to think that made no sense for it’s July.  July is always hot.  Some July days seem hot as hell. What would call for genuine disbelief is if the temperature was half that, 47.  Or 57.  How about 27 and snowing?  Snow in New York City in July would certainly be a global news top story.  The Big Apple had snow in October last year and en masse everyone was bracing for a winter worthy of Siberia.  In fact, last winter was one of the mildest on record. We had next to no snow all season.  Of course people were bitching about that.  I paraphrase:

Bitching New Yorkers:  Where the hell’s the snow?   It doesn’t feel like winter.

Back to the present on this seasonably hot July day that feels exactly like summer, sweat was surfacing from my scalp down to the soles of my feet and all body parts in-between.  Soon you could probably fry an egg off me.  A minute passed. It read 5:56 on the clock.  There was a correction that added validity to my disbelief.

The reward for staring.

I wondered if I continued to stare at that clock like a slack-jawed doofus for another five minutes would the temperature climb to 100?  I didn’t stand around to find out.

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