This is Leo. Pampered. Happily unemployed. Well fed. Perfect BMI. Barely 20 in people years.
Leo playing in his back yard.
I’d call him the reincarnation of legendary San Francisco 49er wide receiver, Jerry Rice, but Rice is still very much alive, so Leo is just Leo the Care-free Border Collie. Leo lives in Wine Country, Northern California as opposed to me, a long-time resident of Whine Country, New York.
Since the country is going to the dogs, Leo is my American Idol.
I have been subscribing to The New Yorker for exactly half my life, specifically for over 1,200 issues. It normally arrives in my mailbox on Monday, but there are times when it’s delivered on Tuesday. If I don’t see it by Tuesday, I go completely out of what’s left of my mind. Even though I can access it digitally, since I only have a dumb phone and I don’t have a PDA, I’d have to print the stories I want to read and that’s a hassle. Also, I like to flip through the pages.
Every Monday, The New Yorker emails me a link to that week’s issue, along with headlines about the stories.
New Yorker headline news.
This Monday they notified me that several of my favorite writers are being featured in this issue.
Ariel Levy, a journalist that is brilliant, babelicious and bats on my team, has written about the sexual revolution. This excites me almost as much as getting laid — if I did not already have a date with my TV to watch the US Open Men’s Tennis Final.
Ariel Levy interviewing Alec Baldwin at The New Yorker Festival in 2010.
My favorite short story writer, Alice Munro, has written a memoir piece, Patricia Marx, an excellent humorist, has taken on Shouts & Murmurs. There’s a Roz Chast Sketchbook called “Walkabout”, Gay Talese investigates Tony Bennett collaborating with Lady Gaga, Art Spiegelman has an Artist’s Sketchbook called “Crossroads”, Michael Schulman covers playwright Katori Hall, and last but not least, the fiction is by Ann Beattie.
Could this be the best issue of The New Yorker ever? Probably not, but it’s an issue I will likely read cover to cover. As soon as the tennis match is over, even though my guy, Rafael Nadal, loses, I will have this Christmas in September issue of that magazine to provide solace and to distract me from my mental anguish. There is one glitch.
When I open my mailbox, my magazine is missing.
On Tuesday, I half-heartedly suggest to my pal, Coco, that we get a drink after work. Half-heartedly since the delivery of my magazine is possessing 98% of my thoughts. Fortunately my gym rat friend has other plans. She later texts me:
Coco’s text: I ran 9 miles and lifted weights.
I up the dosage on my morphine drip and text back:
My text back: Jesus, did u circle the entire island? After that epic workout did u quaff 2 martinis & call that home cooking?
Coco ignores my questions, counts to 100 and changes the subject; her tolerant way of telling me to go fuck myself.
I am in a foul mood after discovering that my magazine has not been delivered on this second day. If I don’t see it by Tuesday, odds are good that I will never see it. I have the sinking feeling that my treasured magazine has entered the void. It occurs to me that it’s possible that my letter carrier deposited it in another tenant’s mailbox. This makes me brood. I wonder if that tenant made my loss his or her gain? This makes me seethe.
Me: For the love of David Remnick, do something!
I force myself to do the unthinkable, wake early on Wednesday and call my post office, Ansonia Station, to lodge a complaint. Bill, the supervisor, puts me through to my letter carrier, a very defensive woman who insists that she “always delivers” my magazine.
Me: I’m sure you do always deliver my magazine, but can you say with 100% certainty that you put it in my mailbox this week?
She has no response and hands the phone back to Bill. He also insists that I must have received my magazine adding:
Bill: How can you prove that your letter carrier didn’t deliver it?
Me: I didn’t get it so that’s a pretty good indication that it wasn’t delivered – at least to me.
Bill: Are you sure though?
Me: Am I sure of what? It’s 7:57 in the morning. Are you implying that I’m calling you at this hour about a magazine that I have and this is all some ridiculous game playing on my part?
Bill shifts gears and is now blaming Conde Nast for my missing magazine.
Bill: Contact the publisher and ask them to send you another one.
Me: Send me “another one” as if I received my copy of it already?
Since I am fully aware of the US Postal Service’s dire economic reality, I go in for the kill.
Me: I suppose I could do that and see this week’s issue a month from now. Maybe what I should really do is invest in an iPad, and just read it electronically. That way I wouldn’t have to rely on the Postal Service at all.
Bill: Hold on.
Bill puts me on hold probably to chew a Rolaid.
Bill: I just saw that we still have some copies of New York here.
Me: I got my copy of New York on Monday; I didn’t get my New Yorker.
I resist adding that I also subscribe to Time Out New York – since that might give the impression that I have a fetish for periodicals with New York in the title.
Bill: I meant to say The New Yorker.
Me (intrigued): Really? Is there one with my name on it?
Bill: I don’t know, but we do have some copies of it here. I’ll see what I can do. I can’t guarantee anything.
Since there is still the possibility that my letter carrier had simply placed it in the wrong mailbox, I pound out a letter to my fellow tenants as well as my letter carrier. I ask my fellow tenants if they got it by mistake to please return it me personally, or leave it on top of the radiator cover. I ask my letter carrier if she sees it on the radiator cover to put it in my mailbox. I conclude that I am now completely out of the closet about being a loon, and should have myself fitted for a straitjacket. I dread the idea that some douche bag or baguette might write something profane on my note.
A lunatic's plea.
When I come home, there is a message scrawled on my note by my letter carrier:
“It just arrive today.”
I open my mailbox and I have both my copy of The New Yorker as well as Time Out New York. Inside the jukebox in my head, Edwin Hawkins is crooning the Gospel classic, “Oh Happy Day”.
Possibly, the happy ending to this debacle is the highlight of my year. I lower my morphine drip and start reading.
Posted in Humor
Tagged alice munroe, ariel levy, david remnick, edwin hawkins, gay talese, patricia marx, roz chast, the new yorker, us postal service
I was pleased that the US Open Men’s Tennis Final was played on Monday allowing Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic a deserved day of rest in preparation for this climactic match in this year’s tournament. Yet, I was practically spitting blood when I heard that the start time would be 4 pm.
May I join you in your primal scream, guys?
Since I am a working stiff making ends meet in a get-rich-slow job, I still had to put in another 90 minutes at the grind before quitting time, and I had to invest another half hour in the commute home from TriBeCa to the Upper West Side. I considered begging my boss, Elsbeth, to let me exit early, but she would ask:
Elsbeth: Why?
Me: I’m dying to watch the US Open Men’s Final.
Elsbeth: You’re into golf now? [snarky] That’s a new development.
Elsbeth is not a sports fan, and for the record, I loathe golf. Masochist that I am, I decide it would be best to avoid conflict with my superior about my urgency to kneel at the altar of bouncing balls and swinging rackets. Therefore, I stick out the workday, a day I spend adhered to my desk crunching numbers with glazed eyeballs. I encounter one Elsbethian interruption:
Elsbeth: How do you spell Agnes?
When I am sprung at 5:30 I am aware that my beloved Rafa has lost the first set to Djokovic 6-2. I could not have rocket-launched myself faster out the door than if my Jack Purcell badminton shoes were manufactured by NASA. Emitting a trail of smoke all the way to the Chambers Street subway station, I deftly side-step two waist-high demon seeds pummeling each other with balloon bats but that maneuver makes me bounce off their mother’s heavily cushioned left hip. Fortunately, she is immune to hyperactivity and the resulting G-force allows me to sail down the station’s staircase at warp-speed — just as an uptown express train arrives. I emerge from the 72nd Street subway station at 5:51 where I’m greeted with a text from my buddy, Coco:
Coco’s text: Nadal needs to focus on his game not his wedgie.
My text back: Maybe u should b his coach.
Coco’s text: Or at least take him shopping for briefs that fit.
When I reach my sanctum sanctorum, Nadal is trailing in the second set 4-3. No sooner do I settle down than Rafa breaks Djokovic and the score is tied 4-4. Yet, before I can emit a sigh of relief, Djokovic breaks back, the sixth time he’s broken Rafa thus far in the match.
Djokovic returning serve.
As Djokovic serves for the second set Rafa looks discombobulated. Djokovic wins the set 6-4. I stare at my TV in disbelief.
In the third set, Rafa seems to have rediscovered his game. The points are long and the shot-making extraordinary. Nadal fights back hard and breaks Djokovic’s serve at love. The score is 4-3 Nadal. Yet, Djokovic, who’s possibly playing the best tennis of his life, elevates his game, too. Following a multi-stroke rally where Nadal brilliantly saves at least four Djokovic winners, Djokovic wins the game, looks towards his box with his family and friends and spreads his arms in a gesture of relief or maybe it’s winged victory.
Mr. Momentum.
Nadal might be thinking what I’m thinking (but in Spanish):
Me: Djokovic looks invincible! What do I have to do to beat this guy?
Rafa does exactly what he has to do, he gets the game to reach a tie-break, he never falls behind, and he finally wins a set. Hola!
Psyched Superman.
I want to pray to someone that this match will go the five set distance and Rafa’s game will continue to improve but I’m an atheist. Who do I pray to? My long-dead mother, who, even if I had fallen down a well she’d shout at me:
My Dead Mom: God helps those that help themselves.
Count her out.
What about my favorite Beatles, John Lennon and George Harrison, conveniently in this instance, also both dead? I’d feel like such a jerk asking them for a favor that has nothing to do with world peace or the sitar.
"I can't believe she'd ask us to do this."
Franz Kafka has always been one of my favorite writers.
Franz K.
A voice in my head that sounds exactly like Coco’s shrieks:
Coco: Franz Kafka, who’s been dead what, 85 years, that wrote that weird story about the giant waterbug I was forced to read in high school? Really? Why the hell don’t you pray to someone practical like Arthur Ashe?
American tennis icon Arthur Ashe.
Imaginary Coco is right! I should pray to Arthur Ashe. Right now, Djokovic and Rafa are beating each other to a near-pulp in a stadium named in his honor! Just as suddenly, I come to my senses and wonder why would a legendary sportsman take sides? Arthur Ashe, who was integrity incarnate, would never do that. I quit my pursuit of channeling divine intervention in Rafa’s behalf.
After winning his first game in the fourth set and leading Nadal 1-0, Djokovic is granted a medical time out to have his sore lower back massaged. When they resume play, Djokovic breaks Nadal. Then he proceeds to win his serve and Nadal sinks into a very deep 3-0 hole that he is incapable of escaping.
Super Duperman in flight.
Barely fifteen minutes later, Djokovic decisively wins the set and the match at 6-2, 6-4, 7-6, 6-1. It was not the outcome I wanted, but the guy that played better deserved the victory.
Okay, Novak, you earned your trophy.
As dismayed as I was, Rafa, as always, was gracious in defeat. I text Coco:
My text: I love Rafa, class act.
Coco’s text: Ass picking and all.
That’s the real Coco.
Posted in Humor
Tagged arthur ashe, franz kafka, george harrison, john lennon, men's final, novak djokovic, rafael nadal, tennis, us open tennis
As much of the nation, or at least the nation’s media, focused on the ten-year anniversary of 9/11, I primarily focused my weekend TV-watching on US Open Tennis played here in New York City, specifically Flushing Meadows, Queens. The women’s final between three-time US Open champion, Serena Williams and Samantha Stosur, the 27-year-old underdog from Australia who had yet to win a women’s singles Grand Slam tournament (as opposed to Serena’s thirteen singles titles), was played Sunday afternoon.
I like both players very much.
Serena, who turns 30 in a few weeks, and was ranked a very deceiving 28, has made a remarkable comeback from a lacerated foot injury suffered in June 2010, and this past February she was hospitalized with a very scary sounding blood clot in her lung. Couple her physical ills with her sister, Venus, having to withdraw from this tournament after being diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, Sjögren’s syndrome, Serena won a double dose of sympathy points from me by default. Yet, my close pal, Milton, who is still in a recovery of his own from Novak Djokovic defeating Roger Federer in a heartbreaking men’s five set semi-final has loathed Serena for years. What he loathes most is her personality. He thinks she’s a jerk and it infuriates him when people assume that Venus, who is always gracious, is the same way. When Serena last won the Open in 2008, as she was exuberantly jumping up and down, Milton called.
Thrill of victory Serena-style on September 7, 2008.
Milton: My TV’s shaking.
The following year, 2009, during the second set of the Open’s women’s semi-final against Kim Clijsters, Serena displayed one of her notorious fits of bad temper. She was already down a set, and the second set score was 5-6. Serena was serving to stay in the match at 15-30. Then, the lineswoman called her on a foot fault twice and the score was now 15-40; Clijsters had two match points. Enraged, Serena profanely threatened to shove a tennis ball down that lineswoman’s throat.
Serena not making nice at line judge in 2009
This display of ugly antics awarded me another Milton phone call.
Milton: Do you believe this? She deserves to lose!
Just as he said that, she was smacked with a one-point penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct. The victory went to a baffled Clijsters.
Fast forward to the present. Throughout the entire 2011 US Open Serena has been the model of poise and power dominating opponent after opponent. She had not dropped a set in her entire comeback run leading to the final. Prior to the start of the match, Serena the Magnanimous announced that she was playing for her country in honor of 9/11.
I had been feeling neutral over who should win. I’ve always had a soft (or maybe it’s a wet) spot for scrappy underdog Stosur, who has a powerful serve and a wicked forehand. Her matches, all brilliantly played (including a riveting 32-point tiebreaker against Maria Kirilenko), received second billing. None of her matches leading to the final rated network TV coverage. Only snippets of her semi-final were broadcast live since her match conflicted with the men’s semi-final where Rafael Nadal defeated Andy Murray.
Milton can recognize Stosur’s athleticism but he has issues with her highly toned arms; arms that make me drool.
Female Thor.
Milton insists that they look like a man’s.
Milton: They make Rafa’s look wimpy.
Wimpy? Really?
When it came down to Serena playing Sam in the women’s final, the pressure was on heavily favored Serena to win her 14th title. Since she was vocal about playing for her country on this historic date, the fans were fully on her side to make mincemeat out of the Aussie. Even I, a rare American Stosur fan, assumed that Stosur’s luck was about to run out, so I was rooting more for my country(wo)man due to the symbolism of this day in history. Then, the match got underway …
Serena served first and won her game, Stosur did the same during her serve, but then when it was Serena’s serve again, the unthinkable began, Stosur broke her. When the score was 4-2, Stosur broke her again, and then she served for the first set, a set she won impressively at 6-2 in 31 minutes. I thought:
Me (thinking): Holy crap!
Stosur had all the momentum, but when Serena was facing break point on her serve in the first game of the second set, she flubbed. She hit an obvious forehand winner but made the relatively innocent mistake of shouting at the ball, “Come on!” Everyone knew why she had shouted at the ball. She’s an aggressive competitor and was feeling frustrated with her game, which was sluggish. I felt bad for Stosur was actually making mincemeat out of her. Yet, according to an arcane rule, a player is not supposed to scream before the opponent makes contact with the ball. The chair umpire, Eva Asderaki, correctly called the error on Serena and that gave Stosur both the point and the break.
Serena detonated.
Steamed Serena.
She berated Asderaki, and the crowd booed in her favor, rattling Stosur. During the changeover, fuming Serena continued her tirade against Asderaki:
Serena: If you ever see me walking down the hall, look the other way,
[Serena confused Asderaki with another chair umpire she locked horns with over a controversial call back in 2004.]
Serena: Because you’re out of control, you’re out of control. You’re not only out of control, you’re a hater, and you’re just unattractive inside. Who would do such a thing? And I never complain! Wow.
My full allegiance instantly shifted to Stosur as soon as Serena declared, “And I never complain!” I am sure that gaining my positive vibes was all Sam needed to regain her focus and convincingly defeat Serena in two sets 6-2, 6-3.
Samantha Stosur's thrill of victory moment.
After her loss, in another display of no class, Serena refused to shake Asderaki’s hand.
Milton did not call, a sign that he resisted tuning in. I considered calling him, but I thought better of it not wanting to raise his blood pressure. If Serena was truly intent on being a sports hero and honoring her country with a victory on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, she should have suppressed her inner jerk, shut her pie-hole and played her guts out.
Posted in Humor
Tagged samantha stosur, serena williams, tennis, unsportsmanlike conduct, us open tennis, women's final
Our employer closed business early on Friday so my colleagues and I happy danced our way out the door to the tune of Born Free into the three-day weekend. The weather was lovely as I entered the subway station determined to have a highly productive 72 hours focusing completely on household chores and writing. Just as I set foot on the subway platform I noticed that I received a text message from my buddy, Coco.
45 minutes later, my original plan is drowning in Sangria.
On our way to Sangria-land, Coco and I walked from TriBeCa through SoHo. As we strolled west on Houston Street, we passed several street vendors selling their wares. We have sauntered past street vendors countless times without them ever registering on our radar, but on this occasion, one stand that was essentially full of junk caught all four of our eyeballs. In lockstep we motored over to this table to further inspect a Mad Men-era Polaroid 150 Land camera.
Don Draper’s Polaroid.
Coco: This is such a cool camera!
Me: Yeah!
The vendors, two women in their mid to late sixties, or maybe they were in their late forties and just looked to us as used as the goods they had on display, or possibly they were in their late seventies and they’re of French descent, and are actually aging far better than the rest of us … but I digress. However old they were they were oblivious to Coco and I drooling over this relic designed by Polaroid’s founding father, Edwin Land.
Coco: I want it!
Since I am the older and by default more level-headed half of our equation, I frequently remind young Coco that there is no such thing as retail therapy. It is infinitely more important to save than spend. Therefore, I dole the following advice:
Me: Go for it!
It’s a camera and cameras are my kryptonite, and apparently, they’re Coco’s, too. You know someone for over six years and go figure, you continue to learn new things about them every day. Coco signals for one of the vendors to approach.
Coco: I’m interested in this camera.
The vendor takes it out of the box, and shows us how to open and close the bellows. She has no idea how old it is but insists that being in the original box enhances the value.
Folded Polaroid 150 in box.
She’s pretty certain that this camera is still operational. Upon hearing that, I briefly escape my delirium.
Me: But they discontinued making the film.
Vendor (cornered): They discontinued making the film? Huh. Hm.
Coco: How much is it?
The vendor asks her partner the price and is told $50.
Coco (boldly to vendor): I’ll take it!
Afterward, we are sipping our Sangria and chowing on tapas with the camera on display on our table.
Box with bullet hole, but Coco’s okay with that. She’ll claim that it originally belonged to a member of the mob.
Suddenly, we both have an eiphany and do a spit-take at each other:
Me: You could have bargained with them! We had leverage! The film’s obsolete! Why didn’t I think to tell you this? Am I losing my edge?
Coco is wiping my Sangria out of her eye.
Coco: What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with me? Am I so used to shopping at Barney’s I have no clue how to price haggle with old ladies selling junk on the street?
Then Coco reasoned that even if she did overpay for it by $15, she’s okay with springing for drinks for those vendors.
We later did some research on that camera. Approximately 400,000 Polaroid 150’s were manufactured between 1957 and 1960. In its heyday, it sold for $109.95, the equivalent of $873.14 in today’s dollars. Upon reflection, Coco got a pretty sweet deal on this novelty after all.
Say cheese.
Posted in Humor, new york city
Tagged edwin land, land camera, new york city, polaroid, soho, street junk
Now that Labor Day weekend has arrived and the ending credits are beginning to roll on summer 2011, my sidekick, Greg, and I have taken it upon ourselves to once again collaborate on a music video where he does the playing, I try not to let my delirium tremors get in the way of holding the camcorder steady, and we both do our best to ignore the stench of stale urine on Staple Street, where we recently shot this video in TriBeCa.
The tune we have chosen is Summertime from the folk opera Porgy and Bess, with music by George Gershwin, book by DuBose Heywood and lyrics by Heywood and Ira Gershwin. According to Summertime Connection, a web site completely devoted to this one song, for the past seven years eleven guys from all over the world have been collecting as much data as possible about how many times this song has been recorded and performed. According to this site:
“At May 1st 2011 at 00.01 GMT we know of at least 41,915 public performances, of which 33,345 have been recorded. Of these we have 25,998 full recordings in our collection.”
This treasure trove of information impresses me much more than the state-side guys that are walking encyclopedias about Abbott and Costello. The guys at Summertime Connection have concluded that Summertime is one of the most covered songs in music history, so Lame Adventures is joining the herd in time for the upcoming revival on Broadway of Porgy and Bess, now re-titled The Gershwins’ Porgy and Bess (yes Heywood, the writer, is neglected title-wise).
In a scathing letter to The New York Times directed at the creative team that’s reviving this show, music-theater legend Stephen Sondheim vents his spleen, and almost every other organ in his being, at the liberties they (Suzan Lori-Parks, Diane Paulus, and Diedre Murray) have taken including the renaming of this masterwork. Had I been subject to the intensity of his wrath, I would have either hidden under the covers of my bed for the remainder of the year, or made the humiliation easy on myself and simply blown out my brains.
Fortunately, the creative team forged ahead and their revival is currently in out of town tryouts at the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts before it transitions to Broadway this winter. The initial review by Ben Brantley, top theater critic at The New York Times, gave the star, Audra McDonald, who plays Bess, a rave, and the overall show an endorsement, so the creative forces behind this revival must be breathing a huge sigh of relief. Possibly, after he sees it, even Stephen Sondheim might give it an upward digit. Naturally, I’m thinking about his thumb but he might choose to stick with his middle finger.
Check out Greg contributing to the almost 42,000 public performances of Summertime as summer slips away.
Posted in Humor
Tagged dubose heywood, george gershwin, jazz, porgy and bess, summertime, Tribeca
If I were inclined to access my inner weasel, I would blame Hurricane Irene holding me hostage in my apartment for almost the entirety of last weekend combined with the public transit shut down for my subsequent erratic behavior this week. What did I do that was erratic? I impulsively purchased a three pack of goat’s milk soap for $5.79 (excluding sales tax). Every so often I walk into a store and it’s my turn to be bitten by that nasty little money-sucker, the impulse-shopping bug. I’ll admit it, I don’t think Irene was a factor at all.
I had purposely gone to my grocer’s (Fairway on the Upper West Side) organic food department to purchase a tube of desperately needed toothpaste. My preferred brand is Tom’s of Maine Whole Care Peppermint Gel. Fairway sells this toothpaste for $3.99, a very good price for this product with its ever-inflating cost off-setting its ever-shrinking tube size (one of my pet peeves along with the announcement “new packaging” since that almost always means the consumer is paying more for less). Before I entered the toothpaste aisle my eye caught the site of the friendly-faced goat on the soap’s wrapper. If a three pack of soap could talk, I could almost hear it calling me by name.
Hi Chump!
This soap mesmerized me as much as porn surely intrigues a prison inmate. I simply could not stop staring at that goat. To fellow shoppers I must have looked either hypnotized or stoned, but I was neither (I like to think).
Quickly, I snapped out of my trance, went to the toothpaste aisle, and grabbed a tube, but before I could take my place in the checkout line, I could not control the urge to return to the goat’s milk soap section. Possibly I was considering how much I enjoy eating goat milk cheese. Being extremely lactose intolerant, I avoid cheeses made with cow’s milk unless they’re so sharp they taste like barbed wire.
This soap is so special it even impairs judgment.
When I noticed that this soap is available in my favorite fragrance, unscented, for people like me with extra sensitive pelts; that sealed the deal. I entered the store only intending to buy just a single tube of toothpaste at the cheapest price I can find and exited with both that toothpaste and a three pack of soap made from the milk of a barnyard animal selling to the tune of almost $6.
I just hope this soap will be kinder to me than the juicer I impulsively purchased seven years ago, five years before I was diagnosed with esophagitis, gastritis and a hiatal hernia, prompting my gastroenterologist to advise me to delete all citrus beverages from my diet immediately since they were searing a hole the size of a dinner plate through my guts.
I did that to you?
Eventually, I will pass the juicer onto one of my friends. Do I have any takers amongst the three most likely candidates – Martini Max, my sidekick, Greg, or you, Albee? I might even toss in a bar of goat’s milk soap to sweeten the deal if one of you agrees to haul that suicide machine out of my sanctum sanctorum.
Posted in Humor
Tagged goat's milk, hurricane irene, impulse purchase, juicer, retail therapy, soap, tom's of maine
I slept soundly as Hurricane Irene took Manhattan or did she? It seems that all 5,912 skyscrapers are continuing to stand tall, nor did Irene knock the Empire State Building off its axis.
Downed leaves and two twigs on the Upper West Side.
Coco, who resides near the lower Manhattan evacuation zone, told me that she got up several times during the night to look out the window, all the while wondering:
Coco: Where the hell’s Irene?
Coco told me that she never once had to make use of a single glow stick. She does not believe in flashlights. I suggested that she light one in her bathroom:
Me: It’s pretty dark in there.
I once had an issue with finding the light switch.
When I woke eleven-ish this morning, I turned on my TV. The reporters who had been on air since Saturday sounded a bit hoarse, especially channel 7’s Jim Dolan. They were reporting about flooding in the outer boroughs and New Jersey, but nothing sounded monumentally catastrophic to me. Of course, if I owned a house without flood insurance, and it got flooded, I’d be completely out of my mind. Instead, what has me most upset is that mass transit remains out of service, so in many respects the city is paralyzed. Businesses remain shut down, there’s no place to go, and not much to do. New York must be taking a bath economically this weekend.
Salumeria Rosi closed -- a restaurant that's normally packed.
MTA is not up and running.
Coco: This weekend’s a total bust!
Me: No kidding. No one can get anywhere.
Car-less and bus-less Upper Broadway.
Since I’m the cash-poor half of our equation, I considered suggesting she find a taxi and get to the Upper West Side to hang out with me, but what are we going to do? We’re two feral creatures, we don’t sip tea, we don’t do embroidery, we don’t play cards, even though a few years ago, a very cool arty acquaintance gave me a pack of Frida Kahlo playing cards. Yet, I’m not in the mood to let Coco kick my ass playing poker with my Frida Kahlo playing cards.
Frida playing cards -- have yet to open pack.
Movie theaters are closed, and so are the restaurants we like, including the Magnolia bakery. Coco suggested that if her boyfriend were in Magnolia at the same time as Milton, and there was only a single slice of Hummingbird cake left, she could envision them fighting it out. Apparently, her guy is as insane as Milton over that cake. Coco reported that our favorite watering hole in her hood (I am forbidden to reveal its name) was boarded up and The White Horse, a tavern we like, is also closed.
No greeting card purchases today!
The only diner in my neighborhood that is open gave me such extreme stomach issues the one time I ate there sixteen years ago, I remain convinced that if we ate there now we’d both be signing our death warrants.
<shudder>
We could hang in my apartment; I have hundreds of DVD’s but a crummy TV. Coco has a great TV, but no DVD player. My place is cramped and my bathroom light won’t shut off. It’s been on non-stop since Saturday. Coco asked me
Coco: What’s going on with your bathroom light?
Me: It still won’t shut off and it will probably stay on until Tuesday since no one can probably get here to fix it until then.
Of course, I would rather it not shut off than not turn on.
Perpetully burning bathroom light.
So I’m doing what many cabin fever suffering New Yorkers are doing right now – walking around their neighborhoods and shooting several post-Irene pictures. Later, I’ll probably take a nap.
Unhappy pigeon away from the flock.
The flock hanging out in Riverside Park.
Riverside Park closed (but not to pigeons).
Eleanor Roosevelt statue pondering the Hurricane Irene hubbub, or maybe not.
Fallen branch outside Riverside Park.
Fallen branch closer (crossed street after taking that shot).
Trash left by neighborhood moron atop upturned trash can.
Fallen tree branch stuffed into trash can by neighborhood saint.
Delivery bike that survived Irene.
Unimpressed 4-month-old Paco, the neighborhood Norwich Terrier, wondering, "What's the big deal?"
Hurricane Irene has yet to arrive, it is getting breezy outside my apartment’s window, but most people seem to have gotten the memo – streets are quiet and roads are empty. My core group of dearest friends and I are predominantly safe (for now).
Tree outside my window that could possibly kill me if it uproots, crashes through my window and I fail to dive into my bathroom fast enough.
Even though we all share a degree of cynicism about Irene taking on Gotham City and the tristate area, no one seems too inclined to do anything too ridiculous. This excludes my cabin fever suffering Friend From Jersey, Martini Max, who has already made an impulse purchase, specifically this poster of Theda Bara circa 1915.
Theda Bara tearing her hair out for Max. Still from her lost film called "Sin."
He intends to hang it over his TV. Did I mention that Max is divorced?
Milton is nestled in his Upper East Side apartment with plenty of staples and some massive dessert he waxed about poetically. While waiting for Irene we discussed our New York Film Festival ticket buying strategy for an hour. We’re very dull that way.
My sidekick, Greg, is housebound in Brooklyn. From his texts I’m under the impression that he’s feeling a tad grumpy.
Lola, who also resides in Brooklyn, was evacuated, but she’s made the best of a bad situation. She’s with her boyfriend in Manhattan, taking it easy. When I last spoke to her she said he was cooking. What a guy.
Albee has extended his visit to California until Tuesday.
Ling texted me that she is about three hours away from the city. On Friday Coco asked me:
Coco: Where’s Ling?
Me: At a wedding in Toronto.
Coco: Oh! Who got married?
Me: Lowell’s [editorial comment: Ling’s guy] parents next-door neighbors’ brother’s son.
In response to that response Coco’s eyes glazed over. Hopefully, Ling will make it back before the heavy rain starts to fall and the wind picks up.
This morning, I took some pictures of unusual sites on the Upper West Side. Both Fairway and Trader Joe’s closed early.
Eerie site: empty fruit bins outside the Upper West Side's Fairway.
Eerier site: the store that is open every day, closed.
A Guy About My Age (GAMA or JERK) with the physique of a noodle tossed an out of body fit at the burly-direct-descendant-of-Thor-bouncer standing guard outside Fairway’s closed doors.
GAMA or JERK: Why close the store? This is ridiculous! The subways are running until noon!
Note: It’s after 11 am.
Burly Bouncer: You should have gotten here earlier. The store’s closed.
GAMA or JERK sneers at the Bouncer, a sneer about as threatening as a Chihuahua’s sneeze. The Bouncer returns the gaze that I translated as:
Bouncer’s Gaze: Sucks to be you fool.
I took these other pictures in my neighborhood.
Closed Trader Joe's at 72nd Street and Broadway.
Typical TJ's cheeriness. Why I prefer to shop at jaded Fairway.
Baffled tourists trying to figure out how to escape the city reading a subway map.
MTA poster announcing mass transit closing.
One of the last 1 local subway trains entering 72nd Street station.
FedEx making deliveries.
Time Warner cable is there; but when I need them, they're always nowhere to be found. Grrrrr.
My sister, Dovima, has texted me that our 84-year-old father out on the West Coast would rather talk to me on Sunday, during the heart of Irene possibly pummeling Manhattan into oblivion and knocking out my cell phone service. He is busy watching sports on TV tonight. I texted her back to tell him to call me next week.
I was supposed to usher an off-Broadway play today, but all theaters on and off-Broadway are dark.
Coco lives in the meatpacking district in lower Manhattan, near, but not in an evacuation zone. The intrepid type, in lieu of a flashlight, she has glow sticks.
Coco's glow sticks.
Donning her Lame Adventures journey(wo)man photographer hat Coco has also emailed me these pictures from downtown.
Brilliant time to be on a cruise in the Hudson River.
Apocalypse approaching?
Posted in Humor
Tagged Fairway, hurricane irene, new york city, new york film festival, theda bara, trader joe's, Upper West Side
Strangers entering and exiting the 72nd Street Subway station on Stranger's Day.
If you happened to read Lame Adventure 221, you’re aware that this past Wednesday was the inaugural Stranger’s Day celebration, and I embraced this brand new commemoration with a degree of gusto more commonly reserved for participating in a holy war. It never occurred to me that while holding a Stranger’s Day greeting card in my paw and politely asking fellow subway riders if they are familiar with The New Yorker, the cartoonist Roz Chast, or if they’d now like a Stranger’s Day card, some would look at me like I was harassing them. The thought bubble above my head said one word:
My thought bubble: Yikes!
One woman in her early thirties seemed petrified, so much so that she scared me. I discussed her with my sidekick, Greg.
Me: What do you think that was about?
Greg pondered the question.
Greg: Could she have suffered a flashback to a time when she was brutally raped by a woman that looks just like you, dresses just like you, and was holding a weapon that looked just like a greeting card?
Of the five people I found the nerve to approach on the subway train, three rejected me – the aforementioned woman that literally ran, another woman who looked at me as if I had grown a second head, but the Wall Street businessman in the pink power tie was gracious. He simply said, “No thanks.”
Of the two people that listened to my pitch and accepted cards, one was a woman around my age (over 40 under death), and a guy in Greg’s 18-34 demographic. She seemed charmed by the idea and he said, “Thank you.”
Personalized Stranger's Day greeting card note or rantings of a mad woman?
I arrived at work dragging my feet for I was still carrying one card that now seemed as heavy as a boulder. I conferred with Milton about strategy in an email exchange.
Me: Wow, giving three Stranger’s Day cards out on the commute in is much easier said than done. Plus I didn’t see anyone reading The New Yorker this morning. Joy. Maybe everyone is boycotting it because they’re so horrified by Stranger’s Day?
Milton (donning his Mr. Succinct chapeau): On the subway, people are on their guard for criminals.
We decided I should hand out the last card at Starbuck’s. I selected the one in the Barnes and Noble at Warren and Greenwich Streets in TriBeCa, primarily because everyone in there is reading so I was confident that whoever I focused on also knows how to write. I zeroed in on a guy around Greg’s age scrolling through Craigslist postings on a MacBook. He did not seem scary at all, nor was he and he did not seem to mind accepting that third card. I left thinking:
Me: Okay, he’s sitting at a computer in a place with WiFi. He was willing to accept the card. I can’t expect any more from him than if he asked me to write his comment on my site for him myself. Hm, should I have suggested that?
What I have concluded from this experience is that Stranger’s Day is rather strange indeed since it appears that 99.9% of the populace has no idea what it is and they’d prefer not to know more about it. A more appropriate name to some might be if it were called, “Don’t Approach Me Day.” Yet, if I had to do it all over again, would I?
Hell no!
Hey, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting a different result. I might be a bit off my rocker, but I’m definitely not a candidate for a strait jacket … yet. Still, it was worth trying once, but now I’ll gladly hand the Stranger’s Day baton back to its creator, Roz Chast … hopefully she’ll accept that from me.
Posted in Humor
Tagged barnes and noble, harrassment, new york city, rejection, roz chast, starbucks, stranger's day, subway, the new yorker
Lame Adventures 