Lame Adventure 201: Close Encounters of the Worst Kind

Posted on June 24, 2011 | 3 comments

Every so often I encounter a complete stranger that is so unnecessarily inconsiderate they catapult to frontrunner status for the Unbearable Dense-ness of Being Award.  This has happened to me twice this week and so I have two nominees.  The incidents occurred at two reliable sources of combat pay in an average New Yorker’s daily life – the subway and the laundromat.

On my way into work at rush hour, I boarded a crowded 2 Express train at the 72nd Street subway station heading downtown.  Using my Elastigirl skills, I elongated my being into a slot of space the width of a pencil next to a lean businessman.  Between the two of us, we easily allowed four more passengers entry including Drizella the Hair Whipper who parked herself next to me.  Initially I did not even notice her, but once the train pulled out of the station and began to pick up speed, Drizella started twirling her ponytail in a circular motion, oblivious that it was continually hitting me in the face.  I think the obvious:

Me (thinking):  Huh, my new low beaten with hair.

I bellow aloud:

Me (bellowing aloud):  Give the hair twirling a rest.  You’re hitting me in the face!

Drizella stops and looks at me with this expression:

What'd I do?

Earlier in the week on an evening that was warm with a nice breeze, perfect weather to be sitting outdoors sipping a cold beverage with any member of my posse, I instead chose to do laundry since I was fast approaching the underwear-I’ve-yet-to-ditch-but-if-I-were-caught-dead-wearing-it-my-corpse-would-be-mortified phase.  This is underwear I would not even photograph for this site for fear that would be the one image from this blog that goes viral.

As I was waiting for my wash to finish, I wheeled over a cart that looks identical to the one pictured below.

If this cart could talk, what might it say?

A woman in my own over-forty-under-death age group, mumbles something incoherent, and makes a point of taking that cart and placing it in front of her own washer that will finish several minutes after mine.  I have a moment of, “Huh?”  I don’t ask questions since this is New York, Loon Capital of America.  As I go to take another cart since there are several to choose from, she gives me the stink eye as if I deliberately took the cart that must have sentimental meaning to her.

Cluster of seen one, seen them all carts - not to everyone!

She elaborately lines it with a white plastic bag, further staking her cart-turf.

My wash finishes and as I load my wet clothes into my new cart, I wonder if she is also going to flash her crazy at me in the direction of the dryer I select even though there are several available?  Normally, I unload the washer and load the dryer at warp speed, and return home until five minutes before my dryer finishes.  As I ponder this next potential confrontation with a dryer, I move so slowly I give the impression that I’m doing Tai Chi, so I look like my own brand of oddball.  The dryer I choose does not set her off, but then I have an even more dreadful thought.  Will she open m y dryer once I leave and pull something out such as a sock?  If I were to enter her abode, would I discover mountains of lost socks belonging to laundromat patrons she’s targeted?

Me (thinking):  Am I in the presence of the Missing Sock She-devil?

If so, how inconvenient for I do need to return home to retrieve my laundry bag. I am now loading my dryer Tai Chi-style, but I’m also waiting for her wash to finish.  When it does, I notice that she doesn’t use the plastic bag lined cart she took away from me.  She removes her wet clothes by hand and carries them to a dryer.

The music from The Twilight Zone plays on the iPod in my head.

Then, a miracle happens.  She leaves!  The combination of my intuition and infinite paranoia suspects her departure could be brief.  Even though she has timed her dryer for almost half an hour, I sense she is going to return much sooner.  I race home, grab this week’s issue of The New Yorker along with my laundry bag, and boomerang back at warp speed.  Within minutes of my return, Missing Sock She-devil is back, too.  There are two other women, one folding and the other, a woman in her early twenties, loading her wet clothes into a dryer. Missing Sock She-devil now focuses her wrath on the woman half her age.

Me (thinking):  What the hell has she done? Leave my daughter alone!

Then, I recall I’m both not this young woman’s mother and I’m also a dedicated non-breeder.  Once the young woman has inserted her quarters into her dryer she leaves the premises.  Missing Sock She-devil removes her clothes from her dryer, even though her load appears to be damp, and her machine still has fifteen minutes to go.  She could have given those minutes to the young woman.  As she walks past me, I resist having myself beaten to within an inch of my life with a bottle of bleach by asking:

Me:  Helped yourself to any socks lately?

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Lame Adventure 200: Dad’s Day and Location Scouting

Posted on June 20, 2011 | 1 comment

When I woke at noon on Sunday, after brushing the sock taste off my teeth I called my dad out on the West Coast to wish him a Happy Father’s Day.  I also told him:

Me:  I thought I’d let you sleep in today.

He was in good form and said he received my snarky card about a lazy loafer progeny and that it amused him.  He asked me:

Dad:  Do you need money?

Me:  I’m getting by.  I’ve got my bills covered.

Dad:  Do you need money?

Me:  I need a job that pays me better or a gig that offsets this job that pays so pathetically.

Dad:  Yeah, you do.  So do you need money?

Me:  It’s Father’s Day!  This isn’t the day when the offspring hits on the father for a check!  This is your appreciation day.

Dad:  Oh.  Good point.

Later that sunny and warm afternoon when I joined Coco to location scout another YouTube music video featuring my sidekick, Greg, my father accompanied us symbolically.  I brought along this great picture of him.

18-year-old Dad as a member of the DDYC (Draft Dodgers Yacht Club aka the Coast Guard) in 1945.

When Coco and I spoke on the phone earlier, she was quite sure that she had found the perfect spot for filming and added:

Coco:  It looks beautiful at funset.

Me:  What’s that?

Coco (confused):  Funset?

Me:  What’s funset?  What the hell are you talking about?

Coco (daylight moment):  SUNSET!!!!!!!

Fortunately Coco is very used to my being hard of hearing – something I did inherit from my dad.  The location, a pier in lower Manhattan, does seem to be the perfect spot, and she’s right, it surely must look magnificent at sunset.

Lady Liberty on a beautiful Sunday in spring.

What baffled us were the many fishing rods leaning against the pier’s rails with lines dipped into the toxic brew that is the Hudson River.

Death wish fishing with fisherman on verge of collapse.

Me:  Would you eat a fish caught in these waters?

Coco:  No, never!  I wouldn’t even go kayaking in the Hudson for fear I’d somehow fall out.  The second I’d hit the water I’d die just from the shock of finding myself in the Hudson River.

Cruise ship and sail boats holding their own in the Hudson.

I took more photographs, shot a test video, but unfortunately Coco forgot to bring her singing saw so it was music-less.  To her credit, she knows my taste in modern art well, Modigliani nudes and lawn gnomes.  She did remember to bring me a miniature lawn gnome so that offset my disappointment with not hearing her play her specialty, We Will Rock You, followed with an encore of trimming a two by four piece of pine.

Miniature gnome with gnomenclature book.

Coco has been grousing about her “milky white” skin the second spring turned warm some weeks back, but when I photographed our arms side by side, it dawned on her that if I did not look so much like my dad, I could have easily been the spawn of albino rocker Edgar Winter.

Coco, looking Tahitian, in barbed wire bracelet on left and me, looking like Casper crossbred with Cheeta in Timex Indiglo on right.

The one thing I failed to inherit from my own pere is his olive skin.

Edgar Winter

As we sat on a bench talking and broiling, we noticed something that looked like it might have once been among the living floating towards us but it was still too far for us to determine if it was a dead possum or some variation of the Loch Ness monster.

Floater in mid-frame.

As dehydration and heat prostration set in, we headed back down the pier for a beverage when we saw this ferociously ugly side of this idyllic location.

"Bring out yer trash!"

Maybe the luckier people that are fishing will catch a plastic water bottle instead of an eight-finned bass with two heads and fur.

If my symbolic dad were actually with us he would surely shout:

Dad:  Don’t you two touch anything in that water!

Coco might be able to fight anything attacking us with her bracelet.

Dual purpose barbed wire bracelet -- jewelry and Hudson River water pollution slasher.

Or, my dad just might ask:

Dad:  Do you need money?

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Lame Adventure 199: Ceiling Mold, Modern Art and Jesus

Posted on June 15, 2011 | Leave a comment

Yes, here they are together at last that unlikely trio, ceiling mold, modern art and Jesus.  Last week’s heat and humidity had an adverse effect on the bathroom ceiling in my place of employ as pictured below.

Smells pretty, too!

This week’s cooler temperature has put a halt to the leak and temporarily dried the mold that is creeping across the ceiling with the confidence of a nearsighted bucktoothed nerd plowing through a trigonometry final.  The current state of the bathroom’s ceiling mold also brings to mind 1947-J, an oil on canvas painting by abstract expressionist painter Clyfford Still.

1947-J

At the risk of sounding like the quintessential jaded New Yorker that I fully resemble, I think my vision of this Still painting is a tad more clear sighted than imagining I’ve seen Jesus on a pancake and then trying to sell that pancake on eBay at a starting bid of $500.  Some industrious Floridians attempted to do this in 2006.  If Jesus does decide to make an appearance in our ceiling mold though, I’ll make sure to share it here in the sequel to this post I will either call, “Ceiling Mold, Modern Art and Jesus 2,” or, “Here’s Jesus!”

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Lame Adventure 198: Same Old Me

Posted on June 13, 2011 | 5 comments

One of the advantages of working a day job that is slightly less captivating than the study of the shape of gum stains on the sidewalk is that it gives one countless hours of opportunity to think, especially while doing mundane tasks such as removing 1,778 images from 889 sheet protectors.

889 sheet protectors at last count.

For example, one can think about wanting to take a nap, lunch, sex, what’s the name of that song playing on the radio, is that smell Windex or a terrible cologne, sex, my foot itches, I must remember to pick up mustard, sex, pigeons have it so easy, what’s the lifespan of a pigeon, sex, is this pain in my chest a heart attack or indigestion, am I going to drop dead here at my desk with my foot itching, sex, is it going to rain today, did I bring my umbrella?

My colleagues, in particular my sidekick, Greg, are also adept at voicing random thoughts aloud.  Recently, Greg pondered the question of how long does it take for us to completely replace every cell in our bodies.  He was unsure if it was seven or ten years.  One of the things I was sure of is that my most recent batches of cells whether they are seven or ten years old are not quite as robust as earlier versions.  Once home, while guzzling a bottle of Magic Hat Wacko beer to lubricate my thought process —

Wacko beer endorsed by Lame Adventures.

I went online and Google searched, “How long does it take to renew every cell in the human body?”

According to Ask a Naturalist.com:

“Recent research has confirmed that different tissues in the body replace cells at different rates, and some tissues never replace cells. So the statement that we replace every cell in the body every seven years or every ten years is wrong.”

Apparently, the number of brain cells you enter the world with are all you get.  When they die and they will, that’s it, you regress into an even bigger dolt.  They’re not replaced and their loss probably helps explain why I keep blanking on getting mustard, even though I recently looked directly at the mustard shelf while in the store, but then went to the meat department and picked up a steak, something I had not intended to purchase.  What is even more annoying is returning home, then recalling I still need mustard, going back to the store and momentarily suffering a brain freeze about why I have made this second trip.  Fortunately, the voice inside my head screamed:

Voice Inside My Head (screaming):  You need mustard you moron!

Ask a Naturalist.com also claims that fat cells are replaced at a rate of 10% per year in adults.  I find this rather ironic since those are the cells I most wish would go away and never return.  They also seem to be the ones that are quickest to multiply, especially in the vicinity of the abdomen and hips while parked at one’s desk pulling hundreds of images out of sheet protectors as the mind wanders.

Heart cells are also replaced at a reduced rate as a person ages, so basically over time, we go completely downhill, but there are always people out there that probably should be dead, but continue to carry on quite nicely like one of my favorite musicians, Keith Richards.  That I find encouraging.  Pigeons on the other hand live on average 3-5 years in the wild, but up to 35 years in captivity.  Maybe they don’t have it that easy after all.

New York City pigeon in Bryant Park in July 2010, possibly already a goner in June 2011.

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Lame Adventure 197: Temperature Wars

Posted on June 10, 2011 | 2 comments

Much of the country is in a heat wave.

Channeling my inner Bill Cunningham, interesting sun bonnet from behind.

On Thursday, temperatures in Gotham City reached a high of 96, but the heat index – whatever that is — the “real feel” temperature (?) made it feel more like 102.  All I knew was that it felt hot as a kiln outside.

My go-to source of weather news, the sidewalk on Greenwich Street.

Thursday was also the day when I inconveniently left my quart-size Cold Brew iced tea bottle at home, but I did remember to bring a new box of tea.  I realized this snafu as I was hotfooting my way up to the subway station, running late as usual.  There was no time to return to my sanctum sanctorum to retrieve this vessel I value on the level of my glasses, cell phone and camera, nor was there time to purchase an overpriced inferior iced tea on my way into work.  The most practical solution for me to savor a caffeine fix would have been to sit at my desk and chew on one of my new tea bags, preferably with the tag hanging out of my pie-hole, but I resisted pursuing that course of desperate action and was in a predominantly foul mood until my 1 pm feeding.

My boss, Elsbeth, had a dental appointment and arrived around eleven.  Outside my window I noticed that the usually bickering pigeons I call Israel and Palestine perched on the air conditioner have called a temporary truce and are actually sharing the space in peace.

Israel and Palestine making nice.

As seen in the above photo, Israel does not even have the energy to stand, or possibly it was further weighted by the humidity.  It is at this same time that Elsbeth starts fiddling with the thermostat, one of her favorite pastimes all year round.  I hear her repeatedly turning buttons on and off.  She shifts the gage from 72 to 85 announcing:

Elsbeth:  I’m cold.

Instantly, I can feel my body temperature soar.

Me (screaming inside my head):  Christ on a cross, woman, it’s the hottest day of the fucking year, open your window!

Me (saying in a helpful cheery tone):  Just open your window, Boss.

Elsbeth (epiphany):  That’s a good idea!

She returns to her office and opens her window.  I hurdle my desk and slap that gage back down to 72.  A few minutes later I have to visit the Accounting department three floors away.  When I return, I see the gage has been raised to 79.

Hands off!

I emit my trademark monosyllabic sound effect that’s a cross between a gasp, a sigh, and an acid-reflux induced retch.

My colleague, Ling, is looking flushed.  She’s wearing a tank top and her hair is puddled atop her head.  Chilly Elsbeth is wearing cargo pants and a long sleeve tunic.  I must remember to suggest she bring her fleece or a wool blanket.

Ling (definitive): It feels hot in here.

This is due to the heat wafting in through Elsbeth’s open window.  I give up the fight and announce that I have to run an errand.  I step outside into the soup and invest 26 cents into the purchase of a single banana, my contribution to reviving the stagnant economy.

Even the Dominique Strauss Kahn stalkers in the press abandoned their posts across the street from his lair, it was that hot. They completely missed DSK standing in his doorway clad only in flip flops asking for maid service.

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Lame Adventure 195: Coco’s Meatcake (Better Late than Never)

Posted on June 4, 2011 | Leave a comment

First, I feel compelled to clarify that the title of this post has nothing to do with my dear friend Coco’s taste in men.  Last March I was shopping for tooth twine, while pondering what should be the major dramatic question for a tragedy I’ve been penning over the course of thirty years called The Desert (My Sex Life), when my cell phone rang.  The caller was Coco so naturally I was delighted.

Me (happy):  Hey Buddy!

Coco (ecstatic):  I was walking home from work when I saw this tower of raw meat and I immediately thought of you!

Insert musical cue: the downbeat.

Me:  So it was rotting, saggy and gristly?

Coco (instantly picking up on my tsunami of depression): No, silly, I thought of Lame Adventures!  I saw this raw meat wedding cake made up of chops and bones and steaks and bacon, and thought, “What is that? I have to tell her!”

Me (intrigued):  You saw a raw meat wedding cake?  Who orders a raw meat wedding cake, S&M types that wish they were lions?

Coco: That cake would be appropriate for Alice and her butcher boyfriend Sam from The Brady Bunch if they ever tied the knot.

I’ll have my slice grilled medium rare.

Good point, Coco.

As for the story behind that cake which unfortunately is no longer on display three months later, Coco reported that it was from a very inventive cake bakery called Collette’s Cakes located at the corner of Washington and Charles Street.  They also baked a birthday cake that looked like a spiral ham for when Bette Midler turned sixty.  Maybe when I turn sixty Coco will have them bake me a cake that looks like the Sistine Chapel to compliment my atheism, or when The Desert (My Sex Life) reaches the Best Seller list, whichever millstone (sic) arrives first.

Since June is the most popular month to tie the knot, if any couples out there want more esoteric style wedding cakes, possibly one that is a replica of a dishwasher or weed whacker, Collette’s appears to be the go-to source in that department in Gotham City.

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Lame Adventure 193: Picture Perfection

Posted on June 1, 2011 | 2 comments

Recently over food and beverages, Milton and I were talking about the new Matthew McConaghey ad featuring this Hollywood hunk that seldom makes my radar looking very Greek God-like.  Milton insists that McConaughey’s most recent film, The Lincoln Lawyer, about a lawyer that practices law from inside his car (yes, a Lincoln) was:

Milton:  A dumb sounding premise, but they pulled it off.  It was quite good.

I could not get beyond the inanity of the premise and made no effort to see that movie.

Thinking about McConaughey’s perfect masculine beauty in that ad caused Milton to inhale three entire French Fries whole without gagging, my dear friend was in such a state of bliss.  If a terrorist with two sawed off shotguns had entered our dining booth and pointed each weapon at our heads and barked this order:

Terrorist:  Name the product in that ad right now or both your heads are gonna paint these walls!

Well, our heads would have easily gone the way of a Jackson Pollack drip painting for we would have sooner guessed he was selling bronzer than Dolce & Gabbana men’s fragrance.  Calling this product cologne must be too Wal-Mart.  For all I know, Milton still has no clue what McConaughey is selling.  When I saw this new wider shot version of that ad (pictured below), I immediately emailed it to my pal.

Anyone want to speed read The Odyssey with me?

My phone rang instantly.

In fairness to Milton, he was actually calling in response to another email I had sent him about what time we should meet for dinner.  Food motivates him to act almost as quickly as images of Greek God-like guys.  While we were on the phone Milton opened my other email and I heard low murmurs of immense approval.

Milton:  Male perfection but he also looks masculine.

Me:  That image reminds me of Leslie Howard.  He should be lighting two cigarettes and handing one to Bette Davis.

Note:  It was actor Paul Henreid that lit the two cigarettes and handed one to Davis in Now, Voyager.

Milton got my point and rather liked the suggestion.  Milton thinks that this McConaughey pose could become an iconic image that stands the test of time.  For readers unfamiliar with Leslie Howard, a matinee idol from the Thirties and Forties, judge for yourselves.

Leslie Howard

I wish I knew who took this photograph of Leslie Howard.  It brings to mind the great Hollywood portrait photographer, George Hurrell.  He was a magician with light.  Now, Photoshop can almost make a Hefty trash bag look equal to Joan Crawford at the height of her beauty.  Almost.

Joan Crawford photographed by George Hurrell.

Or, Photoshop can pull off stunts like a picture Milton recently found while web surfing I don’t know what.  Possibly “pugs stuffed in Eames chairs.”

Puss n' Boots idiot relation Pug n' Eames

I think I’d rather stare at the McConaughey picture.

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Lame Adventure 192: Going Back to the Dogs!

Posted on May 30, 2011 | Leave a comment

As core members of the Lame Adventures Readership (all three of you) know, every so often, primarily in the warmer weather months, I encounter a pooch that rates a shout out.  Scout, the five-month-old Basenji puppy pictured below is the First Dog on the Street of the 2011 Spring/Summer Lame Adventures season.

"You get a two second window to get this shot of me, Sis. Don't screw up!"

Ling and I encountered him while walking down West Broadway in Tribeca.  After sharing a mutual “Awwwwwwww, he’s so cute” moment, we caught up with his master.  She informed us that although Scout’s a non-barking breed, he yodels.  I thought:

Me (thinking):  Wow, Scout and I share a character trait.

In my early youth forty-odd years ago, I took it upon myself to try out for the yodeling Olympics in my parents’ house.  Should I fail to make the yodeling team, I was also practicing crowing like a rooster.  Approximately fifteen minutes into my intensive inaugural training sessions alternating between yodeling and crowing at the top of my lungs my father bellowed:

My Father:  God damn it knock that racket off!  You’re giving me a splitting headache!  I’m warning you, just one more peep and I’m gonna knock your block off!  Do you hear me?  I’m not joking!

The urgency in his tone conveyed volumes even though I was never sure where my block was.  Yet, my desire to maintain self-preservation instinctively knew I did not want it knocked off, especially by a guy that excelled in gymnastics and wrestling in high school.  Thus ended my Olympic level yodeling and crowing practice sessions forever.

Scout’s master told us that his breed is of Egyptian descent, even though this little guy is actually a life-long resident of Tribeca.  She added that his favorite hobby is licking the pavement, a hobby I outgrew in sixth grade, adding:

Scout’s Master:  He’s a real garbage hound.

"You call it garbage, I call it treasure."

Currently, Scout’s enrolled in doggie daycare and that is probably a very good idea. According to The Intelligence of Dogs, a book about dog intelligence written by Stanley Coren, Basenji’s are the second least trainable breed.  If it’s any consolation to Scout, my family’s dog, Thurber, a Poovanese (that’s a hybrid Poodle-Havanese designer dog, or as some prefer, Dr. Frankenstein breed), did not even merit a rating although on many occasions, my niece Sweet Pea, has declared him:

Sweet Pea:  Completely untrainable.

It never fails that when I am alone with this incorrigible wildebeest, he will then take it upon himself to play my niece’s electric piano.   Whenever he plays Lara’s Theme from Doctor Zhivago, I think I’m somewhere in snowy Russia with both Ferrante and Teicher.

Scout was not the only special hound I encountered while pounding the Tribeca pavement these warm weather days.  Recently on Greenwich Street, I saw stately Hubert, the canine mayor of lower Manhattan.  Hubert was the only dog I photographed in winter.  A noble nine-year-old Alaskan Malamute, he manages to look warm on the coldest winter day as well as cool in the heat.  In my next life, I’d like to be Hubert, but I suspect I’m much more like yodeling Scout.

"What can I say, everyone wants to be me."

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Lame Adventure 191: There Goes the Neighborhood

Posted on May 26, 2011 | 7 comments

Former head of the International Monetary Fund, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is accused of moonlighting as a sex offender for allegedly assaulting a hotel maid, has found new digs following his prolonged stay in a Rikers Island jail cell.  DSK has moved into a TriBeCa townhouse located at 153 Franklin Street that happens to be spitting distance from where I work.

Thursday morning media circus across street from 153 Franklin street.

Actually, his followup home to a prison cage is two doors down from where I toil in tile.  That’s jet-propelled spitting distance.  In addition, I work on the fifth floor of my building, and his nest is three stories tall.  Even if I could powerfully projectile spit, my spit would just splat into the wall of the next building that stands at least five stories high.  Just thinking about all this spitting is giving me dry mouth.

I used to wonder who resided in that very swanky townhouse.  Sometimes I see a very sexy Vespa scooter parked out front.

It recently occurred to me that my new(ish) Jack Purcell badminton sneakers are in a colorway similar to that Vespa.

Vespa colored badminton sneaker, about as close as I'll get to tooling around in a Vespa these days.

According to The New York Times:

“[DSK’s] new home is a free-standing three-floor town house in TriBeCa that was recently renovated by Leopoldo Rosati, and had been on the market for nearly $14 million. The town house features a rooftop deck, a fitness center, a custom theater, a steam spa bath, two Italian limestone baths, two Duravit jet tubs, a waterfall shower and a dual rainfall steam shower.

Under the terms of Mr. Strauss-Kahn’s bail, he can leave his home only under limited circumstances, must be under 24-hour armed surveillance and must wear an electronic ankle monitor.”

Translation: it’s highly unlikely that I’ll glimpse my new day job neighbor tooling around on that Vespa in Jack Purcell badminton shoes, as he tries to beat this rap.  What makes me most want to beat DSK with a baguette for residing so close to me that I can almost smell him eating stinky French cheese with my D-cup nose is the fact that he’s going to be living like a sultan.  I know he has to reside somewhere in the interim and it’s not going to be at a Comfort Inn, but this overt indulgence in over the top luxury living is as gag-inducing as the accusations against him.

DSK stakeout on roof outside my boss Elsbeth's window.

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Lame Adventure 190: Before and After Math

Posted on May 25, 2011 | 4 comments

On the Friday before the Saturday that the world was scheduled to end, my sidekick Greg and I saw Bridesmaids.  Although I am a lifelong Woody Allen devotee, and I was equally dying to see his latest film, Midnight in Paris, I was also eager to see Kristen Wiig’s silver screenwriting star turn.  Therefore, I decided that a hilarious film about sisterhood written by two women should be the last film I see before the world falls off its axis.  Plus, I had the added pleasure of attending this yuck-fest with someone that shares my loathing of insipid, vapid, predictable, I-want-to-gouge-out-my-eyes-and-make-this-torture-end, chick flicks.

Greg and I both had a very positive feeling about Bridesmaids and Bridesmaids was indeed very positive.  It was wonderful.  We both liked it so much that Greg almost forgot about his sinusitis that had transformed him into a mucous factory.

The laughs were plentiful; the site gags memorable (my two favorites involve a bag of frozen peas and a defaced storefront).  The script was excellent.  At its core the narrative is very honest about women.  It’s both a hilarious and intelligent story that’s essentially about friendship.  It also has a nice balance of humor and heart with the added bonus of depth.  It’s refreshing to see women being genuinely funny and likeable instead of being ball-busting obstacles to the glut of idiot guys that are having lame brained fun behind their bitchy backs.  I look forward to seeing whatever Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo write next.

Fast forward to Monday.  After surviving the non-Rapture Coco and I bolt the grind, hop on a 1 local heading uptown to Lincoln Plaza Cinema where we finally see Woody Allen’s latest, Midnight in Paris.  Coco has an affection for Woody that she inherited from Grand-pappy Coco who was Woody’s transportation captain until he bought his rainbow in 1983.

We arrive early to score good seats, but shortly before the trailers start, a man the size of a Douglas Fir sits in front of me.  His massive bulk completely obscures my view.

Coco (whispering for she does not have a death wish):  Is that the Brawny paper towel guy?

Stay where you belong Buddy!

The seat to her right is empty.  I move.  I notice the next day at work that she is towering over me.  I feel reduced to the size of a lawn gnome.

Me:  How high are those heels you’re wearing?

Coco:  Five inches.  Sitting behind the Brawny man last night gave me the urge to be a giant.

Woody’s film is an exquisitely directed, shot, and art directed fantasy about Gil Pender, played by Owen Wilson.  Gil is a successful screenwriter of formulaic Hollywood fare who is miserable in the present and struggling to write literature about a nostalgia shop.  After a dinner engagement, Gil passes on going dancing with his shallow fiancé and her blowhard friends in favor of wandering the streets of the city of lights solo.  At midnight a vintage limousine picks him up and transports him back in time to the Paris of his dreams, Paris during the Jazz Age.  Then, the film soars.  Gil encounters a host of legendary artists and writers and also discovers a kindred spirit in Adriana, an artist’s muse.  During his time travels, Gil has the time of his life.  The audience shares his thrills every time he runs into a legend.  I particularly liked Corey Stoll’s deadpan Hemingway.  Coco thought the one slight misfire was Owen Wilson, but overall we were both delighted that Woody made another gem.

Upon leaving, there was a crush of people crowding the exit.  We noticed a side door that no one entered.  Coco shoved the door open and I followed her into the night.  We realized that we were the only ones dashing up this hidden staircase.

Coco (elated):  We’re time traveling!

Me:  I hope we enter the era where the rent’s cheap!

We reached the top of the staircase where the world looked exactly like May 2011. To drown our disappointment, we visit our favorite hole-in-the-wall underground Moroccan watering hole, where we order a bottle of a $44 French red, specifically the 2009 La Vielle Ferme Cotes du Ventoux Rouge.  The label is decorated with a hen and a rooster.

Talk dirty to me, Baby. Why did the chicken cross the road?

Our server confides:

Server:  This wine is from the lower regions of barrels where the wine at the top sells for $300 a bottle.

Coco:  You’re telling us that we’re ordering the bottom of the barrel.

Upon trying the wine Coco delivers the verdict:

Coco:  It tastes okay … it tastes better than okay.

Two glasses of better than okay.

We also order food, a number of appetizers.  Coco states:

Coco:  Let’s avoid the Lamb Cigars.  I don’t want to repeat the Snausages incident.

A few months earlier, at a downtown establishment, we ordered a disappointing tube-shaped meat appetizer that Coco forever refers to as Snausages.  At our Moroccan watering hole, we order the Lamb Meatballs.  Our server showers them with praise and then we’re served … the Lamb Cigars.  But … We didn’t realize this until the next day, when we are both at work and I share my epiphany about why our Lamb Meatballs were torpedo-shaped.  Coco beats her head on her desk.

Coco: Why did I not think twice about the lamb balls being shaped like lamb turds?  We weren’t even drunk!  There’s no excuse!

Me:  And another thing … About our $44 $300 bottle of wine … I found a place online in Staten Island where we can buy it for $6.99 a bottle or $83 a case.  That’s less than the cost of two bottles at our Moroccan watering hole!

Big deal.

Coco (fashion on the brain logic):  If the waiter didn’t know the difference between balls and cigars can we trust his statement that old cock wine is the leftover crap of Chateauneuf de Pape?  That’s like saying the fabric that’s leftover from a Valentino dress becomes an Old Navy dress!

Me (water on the brain logic):  Do you realize that’s more than a 650% markup?  Have you ever been to Staten Island?

Long pause.

Coco:  Time to go for a ferry ride!

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