Lame Adventure 189: Waiting for the World to End

Posted on May 23, 2011 | 2 comments

As with most anyone with a degree of lucidity, I was very aware that Harold Camping, who my dear friend, Martini Max, refers to as “that mummified modern day Boris Karloff without Karloff’s charm,” predicted that the world was scheduled to come to an end this past Saturday at 6 pm EST.  This was one hour before Milton and I were going to the Public Theater to see the latest play written by Tony Kushner with the catchy title that’s almost as easy to recall as page 37 of Beowulf — The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with a Key to the Scriptures.  Milton and I had been eagerly awaiting this play for at least two years.  We had purchased our fourth row dead center $20 tickets (Public Theater membership; an excellent deal) the second they went on sale last January 6.  Therefore, the timing of Judgment Day was incredibly inconvenient for us.  My sidekick, Greg, noted that the world’s end would start with a big rolling earthquake.

Greg (reasoning):  Even if it does happen, you might still be able to get your play in.

Greg raised a valid point considering the integrity of New York’s many dedicated thespians and this production was featuring some of the best, Michael Cristofer, Stephen Spinella and Steven Pasquale.  Anyone acting in a Tony Kushner play must be someone supremely devoted to the stage.  Kushner is one of the greatest living playwrights of his (coincidentally, Milton’s and my) generation.  If the world was destined to come to a grinding hellfire and brimstone halt at 6 pm, where should we be?  Milton emailed me:

Milton’s email: If the world is gonna end at six, that’s not when you’d want to be on the subway.

Excellent point.  Milton and I decided to meet at 5:30 at B Bar over on East 4th Street.  B Bar is also a short walk from the Public Theater, and an establishment that grants Public Theater members like us a 15% discount.  Even though the world could be checking out, why pay more?

Appropriately, this was the last ad I saw on my last subway ride – an N train, when I exited at 8th Street.

Reminder to heathens like me.

Here is the second to last ad I saw.

Head's up to sushi eaters like me.

I photographed it because I thought the goldfish’s implied use of a scatological term was inappropriate if I had a seven-year-old child.  Then, I recalled that I have never spawned and the only child in my life, my niece, Sweet Pea, is pushing seventeen.  If she doesn’t utter “shit” by now, that would worry me, and make me think we do not share blood.

Saturday was also a very humid day.  As I was waiting for Milton outside B Bar my hair was doing Full Bozo.  When he arrived he said:

Milton:  Your hair’s so wide today, from behind I thought you were a different person.

It’s capacity to expand that Saturday was actually more terrifying than the world ending.  Although I had originally intended to have my tresses colored and pruned that day, I never made the appointment, not due to the pending possibility of it being doomsday, but I want to look a little less lousy when my sister, Dovima, visits me in June.  My body may never be 30 again, but my hair can still pull off 20 after my colorist and stylist work their magic.

Once inside B Bar we were given a booth across from the toy trucks.

B Bar's wall of toy trucks.

This prompted Milton to reminisce about his long lost boyhood:

Milton:  Do those trucks bring back memories!  I got so many of them when all I wanted was Barbie.

Usually, I order a glass of wine with a meal, but with the planet on the verge of collapse, I decided to live large and order a Mojito.  Milton decided he’d have a Pear Mojito.  I grabbed the drink menu out of his paws and yammered enthusiastically:

Me:  What’s that?

I saw Milton’s Pear Mojito on the menu and added:

Me:  That sounds good.  I’ll have one, too.

Milton ordered our beverages.  A short while later, our waiter returned with what looked like Mimosas to us.

Mystery cocktails with Milton praying patiently in the background.

Milton:  What’s this we’re drinking?  It seems like a Mimosa.

Me:  I hope it doesn’t have any orange juice in it.  You know my gastroenterologist has forbidden me from drinking o.j. … But I suppose if the world’s about to end, what does it matter?

Milton:  I’d still like to know what the hell we’re drinking.

Me:  Let me handle this.

Milton:  Don’t ask the waiter.  He’ll think we’re idiots.  Hey you, “We don’t know what we’re drinking!”

Our waiter returned.

Me:  We’re not complaining about our drinks.  They’re fine, wonderful, we’re pleased.  We’d just like to see the drink menu again.

Waiter:  Certainly.

Our waiter hands me a drink menu.  I read it.

Me:  I’ll be damned!

Milton:  What does it say?

I hand the drink menu to Milton.

Me:  We’re drinking Pear Mimosas!

No Pear Mojitos here!

Milton:  What made you think we were ordering Pear Mojitos?

Me:  The power of your suggestion?

Then, my sister, Dovima, who resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, calls me on my cell phone.

Dovima:  It’s already tomorrow in parts of the world.  The rapture’s not happening today.  Enjoy your play.

And we did just that.

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Lame Adventure 188: Back by Popular Demand

Posted on May 19, 2011 | 2 comments

This is Carl the Helpful.

Carl the Helpful

He is currently working as a security guard this wet and rainy week in Duarte Square located on Avenue of the Americas at Canal Street in lower Manhattan.  He’s one of the guards making sure that nothing stupid happens to an installation by designer and architect, Fabio Novembre, that was originally called “Per fare un albero” (“To make a tree”) when it was first displayed in Milan in 2009.  This installation has also visited Rome, Paris and Madrid.

Fabio Novembre and friends; just another day at the office.

When I walked past it with Coco on a recent Tuesday night, I nearly threw out my neck when I saw it.

Me: Hey Coco, look at that!  It’s the new little Fiats!

Coco: Trees are growing out of them!

Cars as pear tree planters.  Very cool.

A tree grows in Fiat.

When we got up front and personal with the fiberglass replicas of this whimsical little car, the Fiat 500C, I experienced a Proustian-style sense memory of the white almond wedding favors my mother and grandmother would spend days of their lives wrapping in tulle.  My only participation in this ritual was to taste-test a few of the almonds.  Since this installation was guarded, I resisted the urge to take a bite out of a fender.  That would surely classify as “something stupid” requiring Carl the Helpful to spring into action.

Carl told me that this installation is back for a second time.  As he said:

Carl the Helpful:  It’s back by popular demand.

Canal Street angle.

Apparently, it was first displayed in Duarte Square in April during the New York Auto Show.  I noticed that there was an empty space where another car could have fit.

Sixth Avenue side car-size hole.

Me:  Shouldn’t there be another car there?

Carl the Helpful:  Yeah.  Last month, there were eight.  Now there’re seven.

Me:  What happened to the eighth one?

Carl the Helpful:  I don’t know. When they came back, they only had seven of them.

Maybe some fat cat New Yorker like Donald Trump ate it.

Looking down 6th Avenue.

Carl told me that this installation is going to be removed after this Friday, but he would not mind if the run is extended yet again.   Even though he’s been standing in the rain, he likes this gig.

Carl the Helpful on guard duty.

Once the cars go, the trees will stay.  They’re part of the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation and New York Restoration Project’s Million Trees NYC campaign.  Unfortunately, I don’t think Carl will be tagged to guard the trees.

Fiat has posted a music video featuring Vivaldi on YouTube promoting the relaunch of the 2012 version of this classic compact car.  The beautiful people gracing it are sold separately.

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Lame Adventure 187: While pondering litigation in front of a crackhouse-style doorway …

Posted on May 16, 2011 | 5 comments

Not far from where I work in Tribeca is Staple Street, two short blocks west of Hudson Street sandwiched between Duane, Jay, and Harrison Streets.  Staple Street is one of those impossible to find places in this giant metropolis, but I’m familiar with it since I’m drawn to the impossible like metal to magnet.  I also knew that this was the ideal location for my sidekick, Greg, and I to shoot a video birthday card for our friend, Albee, provided we managed to avoid arrest for disturbing the peace. We did, but by our third take, every dog in Tribeca was barking and someone was too shy to scream:

Silent Screamer:  Shut the hell up!

That someone was compelled to hammer lead pipes with religious fervor instead.

Picturesque pedestrian bridge on Staple Street that does not appear in our video.

Although Albee was not expecting a gift from either of us, which was a sane expectation since Greg and I both work get-rich-slow jobs, Greg is a musician and I am just a spewing fountain of creativity.  Therefore, I felt we had to do something, but what?  Then, I had a brainstorm.  I would shoot a video of Greg on my obsolete first generation Flip video camcorder playing Happy Birthday on his saxophone in front of this graffiti-covered doorway on Staple Street.

This must be the place doorway on Staple Street.

When I initially ran this stroke of genius by Greg, he did not do the Toyota jump.  He stood paralyzed holding a tile label and looked rather expressionless.

Greg (mulling): I’ve never played Happy Birthday on my sax before.

Me:  Then play it on your sitar.

Greg:  No, I’m not going to bring my sitar into work.

Me:  Okay, play it on your harp, your xylophone, your castanets …

Greg is massively musical.  He thought more about it and decided that playing it on the sax was the way to go.  Then, he told me something interesting:

Greg:  You know, Happy Birthday’s not in the public domain.

I did not know that.  Greg is right, but luckily for us, we don’t make a dime off Lame Adventures, and we’re both inclined to live on the edge.

The origins of Happy Birthday is as follows, in 1893 two sisters Patty and Mildred J. Hill published the melody, Good Morning to All, which scored a big hit with the children Patty taught in her kindergarten class in Kentucky.  Mildred was a pianist and composer.  The kids were so taken with that song they began to sing it at birthday parties where they changed the lyrics Patty wrote from:

Good morning to you,

Good morning to you,

Good morning, dear children,

Good morning to all.

To:

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear (insert name here)

Happy birthday to you.

Fast forward 118 years to today where the Time-Warner Corporation now owns the rights to this traditional song, especially the lyrics.  They’re like the mob; if you sing it in a restaurant and they find out, they’ll come around trying to extort a chunk of change.  In 2008, they collected $5,000 a day from the singing of this song, or $2 million per year.  Strike up the theme to The Sopranos.  Better not for that surely is not in the public domain.

Many legal minds that tower over mine intellectually, or just anyone that did better in math, think (not necessarily in these words) that this is a steaming pile of crap.  Many logical thinkers, including Associate Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer, believe that this song with it’s long history of problems over authorship (think about it, anonymous five-year-olds essentially revised the lyrics from Good Morning to All to Happy Birthday), and problems with the notice and renewal of copyright, makes it no longer under copyright.  That means it does belong in the public domain, and should not be a cash cow for a media conglomerate that charges sky-high for Internet and cable.

Yet, to play it safe, my inner weasel is compelled to declare here and now that what Greg actually played for Albee in front of that crackhouse-style doorway on Staple Street was a free jazz version of Good Morning to All – and that coincidentally happens to be in the public domain.

Give jazz-man Greg a listen:

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Lame Adventure 186: I’ll Sneeze to That!

Posted on May 12, 2011 | 3 comments

As one can see from this sneeze chart created by my friend, Coco, illustrating the 546 sneezes I sneezed between the 365 days starting with my birthday on May 4, 2010 through May 3, 2011, I am capable of sneezing fairly steadily most months.

One thing I did not sneeze at was when I approached Coco to take all the data I had collected about my sneezing over the course of the past year to create this chart.

Sneeze Diary at start of this count in May 2010.

Sneeze Diary, worse for wear, May 2011.

Me:  Hey Coke, do you know how to create an Excel spreadsheet?

Coco:  Yes, I do.

Me: Great!  Can you whip one up for Lame Adventures?

Coco:  You want me to create a sneeze chart for you now?

Some back-story here; the hour was fast approaching midnight and we had been watering ourselves for the better part of six hours … A week later my loyal clotheshorse friend, who has spent years in retail therapy, resisted to make good on her threat to turn the bullet points into little Louboutin shoes, created this mini-masterpiece depicting the year’s worth of snot and mucous that has flown out of my face over the course of the past twelve months.  What a woman!

Although whenever I glimpse myself full frontal naked, I am reminded why I am not a fan of the aging process, I highly recommend keeping a sneeze diary to anyone who dreads growing older for it will make you crave the arrival of your next birthday, even if it includes more flab and liver spots, with the enthusiasm of a sleek tween.  Within days of beginning this idiocy, I ascertained that keeping track of a year’s worth of sneezing was a supreme annoyance, especially when those sneezes occurred when I was not equipped with my pen and notepad, requiring me to make full use of my hole-riddled memory.  Now that a year’s worth of record keeping is complete, I can once again sneeze with reckless abandon like any other ordinary sneezer.

If I am talking on the phone and I sneeze, riding the subway and I sneeze, writing this blog and I sneeze, reading The New Yorker and I sneeze, watching a play or a movie and I sneeze, in a meeting with my boss and I sneeze, rounding the bases in a romantic moment just before sliding into home plate and I sneeze, I can be like all other ordinary sneezers, and forget about it.  Yet, during my year of sneeze counting, I was compelled to dig out my Sneeze Diary and immediately note that sneeze (or sneezes).

A word to the wise here, if any readers of this blog decide you want to count your sneezes, and there are signs that you’re on the brink of romantic fulfillment, but you sneeze at a crucial juncture, do not stop what you’re doing with your source of affection and note that particular sneeze at that particular time in your Sneeze Diary.  Simply said, bad idea.  Take it from one that’s been there and done that. Can anyone say, “Buzz kill”?

Upon reflection, my colleague, Ling, who has sat next to me for many years, and has heard more of my sneezes than anyone else, thinks there was very little margin of error in my count, or as Ling recently said:

Ling:  You really think you might have missed some?  You’re writing in that notebook all the time.

I will admit that I was somewhat obsessed with striving for accuracy with my count.  What I have learned about myself sneeze-wise is that like so many other allergy sufferers, I sneeze copiously during the months of May and October.  December was a fluke.  For the first twenty-two days, I sneezed a total of twenty-two times, but then I spent Christmas in Northern California and my sneezing jet propelled almost as soon as my flight touched ground in the Bay Area.  On Christmas day alone I sneezed twenty-four times, so clearly this jaded New Yorker is deathly allergic to happy holiday cheer in The Land of Granola.

2011 started relatively sneeze free until Monday, January 3rd at seven fifty one in the evening, when I sneezed for the first time this year.  For the next five months, I sneezed another 130 times.  55 of those sneezes occurred from April 16th through May 3rd.

Final entries.

What does any of this sneeze data tell me about myself?  It confirms what I always suspected that I am a steady sneezer.  Now, I can move on with my life … Maybe start a new sneeze-related count – how many boxes of tissues I shoot through a year?  Maybe not.

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Lame Adventure 185: Starbucks is Watching Me

Posted on May 10, 2011 | Leave a comment

Last week I had my 364th birthday in dog years.  When I was a teenager, I never thought I’d last much beyond 280 dog years, but now that I’m showing signs of being yet another member of the boomer generation that has failed to die before getting old, I’m not complaining … much.  Everyone nearest and dearest, has showered me with attention, texts, cards, email, phone calls, food, cake, theater, and enough alcohol for outpatient reconstructive liver surgery.

My chief complaint is with Starbucks.

Why?

In general, this coffee conglomerate annoys me primarily because they treat my beverage of choice, tea, like the poor relation that drools and signs her name with a thumb print, but specifically it started back on April 20th, fourteen days before my birthday proper when I received an email that said:

The day before my birthday, it occurred to me that I had yet to receive my “Many Happy Sips” postcard, so I emailed Starbucks:

“On April 20th you sent me an email claiming the following: “You know we’d never miss your birthday. And to make it extra happy, we’d like to buy you a drink. Look out for your Free Birthday Drink Postcard winging its way to you in the mail – and dream up all kinds of delicious and exotic drinks you’d like to try. It should arrive in the next 10 days!”  Tomorrow’s my birthday. I’ve yet to receive my free birthday drink postcard. Am I out of luck?”

The next day, Matt M in Customer Relations responded:

“I checked your account and found that a postcard was not mailed because your date of birth was not included with the personal information provided. To add this information for future reference, please sign in to your account on our website. After you select the “Manage My Account” option, you will see the “Personal Info” page displayed. From there, select the option to add your birth date. Please note this information cannot be changed after it is entered. Once entered, click on the “Save My Changes” key.

In the meantime, I am sending you a birthday postcard which should arrive at the address specified on your account within the next 7-10 business days.

If you have any further questions or concerns that I was unable to address, please feel free to let me know.

Warm Regards,

Matt M”

The process of revising my account page sounded exhausting, so I did nothing, but I did email Matt back:

“Thanks Matt.  How did Starbucks know my birthday was coming if that info was not included on my “Personal Info” page?  Kinda Orwellian from my perspective.”

Matt did not respond.  Instead, exactly nine hours later, I heard from Tracy W, also a member of customer relations, who ignored my question and contradicted Matt.  She also assumed that my first name is the same as the first word in my email address:

“Hello Lame,

Thank you for contacting Starbucks Coffee Company.

I am sorry to hear that you did not receive your birthday beverage postcard.  I show that your card was sent on April 20, 2011.  I will be more than happy to send you a free beverage coupon.  Please allow 7-10 business days for you to receive this in the mail.

Also I noticed an error on your loyalty rewards and to fix it I made you a gold level member.  Please [allow] 6-8 weeks for you to receive this in the mail.

If you have any further questions or concerns that I was unable to address, please feel free to let me know.

Warm Regards,

Tracy W”

Evasion tactic

Then, she did something to affix Starbucks all watching eye to my Gmail.  I have since blocked them.

Last Friday I received my free birthday beverage coupon presumably from Matt and today, a letter from Tracy, apologizing “for the experience you brought to my attention” with two more beverage coupons.

Birthday postcard from Matt M.

Letter From Tracy W wth two free beverage coupons.

I suppose if I continue to ask how they knew about my birthday (including the exact year I was hatched and where – 7,349 miles away from Tehran – what’s next the name of Doctor Aloysius Clapthumb, the obstetrician that delivered me?) since I never revealed any of this information myself, they will continue to ignore my question and the free coupons will continue to roll in by the truckload.  Tempting … On the other hand, three free drinks are two too many to this tea drinker, since all I wanted was my free birthday beverage and an explanation about how they know so much more about me than I volunteered.

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Lame Adventure 184: The Pressure to Perform

Posted on May 4, 2011 | 4 comments

A film crew recently spent the day at my place of employ shooting the pilot for what they hope will lead to a reality TV series about the company where I may not be employed much longer if I am foolish enough to get too up close and personal about this.  Hm … today is my birthday.  I’m going to live on the edge.

In anticipation of the invasion of award-winning documentarians, the star, Elsbeth, my boss, spent a day prepping with an acting coach.  Stu, her co-star and husband, busted out a wide array of denim work shirts in similar shades of blue.  The supporting player, The Company Gadfly, opened a Twitter account where he modestly refers to himself as “Potential Reality TV Star.”  Out of the way, Snooki!

When the three-person film crew entered our office, my colleagues and I were not introduced to anyone, equating us with the trash receptacles.  Last month, The Quiet Man was chosen to attend a meeting due to his being an industrial design genius.  It was during this meeting that he made it very clear that he would not allow so much as a hangnail on his person to appear on camera.

The Quiet Man did allow his computer screen to be filmed, but The Company Gadfly has volunteered to play our genius, even though in reality he is incapable of drawing a square in Autocad accurately.  I also heard that he has offered to claim he was the anonymous Navy Seal that shot Osama bin Laden through the head over the weekend should the government need to associate a face with that act of heroism.  Between takes, he was on the Internet researching where his star might go on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.  If they erect a urinal on that site, that could be a possibility.

The crew filmed Elsbeth behind closed doors.  Eagerly anticipating his upcoming on camera face-time, The Company Gadfly hovered outside her door frequently peering through a crack.

The crack in Elsbeth’s closed doors.

Worn down, the crew finally allowed him entry.  When the time came to film the scenes between Elsbeth and The Company Gadfly, who was assigned to enter her office and say, “Hello,” he asked:

The Company Gadfly:  What’s my motivation?

The Camera Operator: My resisting the urge to beat you into the next century with my camera.

The Company Gadfly:  Got it!

In preparation for his entry, The Company Gadfly, emitted a window rattling clearing of his throat that probably measured on the Richter scale.  Following that, he sang “Figaro” eight times in Falsetto.  He changed into four different suits from Sears’ Johnny Miller Collection and was then ready for his long shot.

Polyester at its best.

After rehearsing the scene, the crew was ready to shoot.  Unscripted, The Company Gadfly dropped the centerpiece of the story, a metal light fixture.  It fell apart with a loud clang and pieces scattered.  By the time shooting was finished, the crew was running more than an hour behind schedule.  As they left, I overheard the camera operator, who was very concerned that they might not have enough coverage since The Company Gadfly repeatedly stuck his head in the frame, even during Elsbeth’s cutaways, growl:

The Camera Operator:  Thank God for editing.  I’m joining the NRA.

Elsbeth seemed drained by the entire experience, but unlike The Company Gadfly who is ready for many more close-ups and is now trying to gain entry into SAG, she only flubbed one line and sounded relatively natural.  The Company Gadfly, on the other hand, well … See for yourself how he fared.  He’s the rotund one.

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Lame Adventure 183: The Rusty Nail Incident

Posted on May 2, 2011 | Leave a comment

While I was walking across the ancient wooden floor in my company’s warehouse to recycle a piece of paper, my heavy soled motorcycle boot caught onto a rusty nail emerging from a floor board.  Fortunately, the nail did not penetrate my boot nor did the g-force of my foot lift it off with the ferocity of a rocket launch.  Then, in its descent it could pierce through some soft, exposed tissue on my being such as my D-cup nose.  A rusty nail protruding from my nose; what a humiliating injury that would be.

Questioner:  What happened to your nose?

Me:  It got hit with a nail at work.

My closest friends would probably lie through their teeth and insist:

My Closest Friends:  It doesn’t look that bad.  From certain angles, you can hardly tell.

Translation of  “certain angles” means the back of the head.  Overall, I am grateful that I dodged a bullet (or nail) and did not suffer any harm physically or emotionally.

Had I been wearing flip flops, swim fins, or been walking barefoot, and proceeded to step onto that nail, I would have been hightailing to the doctor’s office for a tetanus shot instead of trekking to the recycling can to alleviate the immense boredom I endure daily at my desk.  My sidekick, Greg, witnessed this incident.  Before I could dramatically bark:

Me:  Remove that nail before someone gets killed!

He grabbed a claw-tooth hammer and was ripping it out of the floor.

No-nonsense Greg getting the job done.

How someone can sacrifice his or her mortality to a single rusty nail in the foot (or nose) would take effort, but it can happen.  If that nail were implanted deep in the victim’s foot (or nose), and that victim, a stoic idiot named Og, was compelled to ignore his or her excruciating pain completely, that would allow the wound to be a breeding ground for Clostridia bacteria, a bacteria that produces toxins that attack the central nervous system.  Once that happens, it’s checkout time for Og.  At the risk of sounding a tad hard-hearted, maybe the world would be a better place with one less doofus.

My sister, Dovima, is currently suffering an ingrown toenail.  We have emailed each other so extensively about it one might think she had stage four cancer.  Yet, I think maintaining one’s health should be high on the “to do” list.

The building where I work was probably built sometime in the 19th century, so it’s possible that that nail was around when Abraham Lincoln was president.  How impressive.  It’s likely that it was produced from bar iron on a nail cutting machine that looked like this.

Nail cutting machine used in Charles Dickens' day.

When Greg showed me our nail, I was compelled to remark:

Me:  That looks like something used in a crucifixion.

Realistically, I’m certain that the nails used in crucifixions were much larger. From where I was sitting I might have had a slightly distorted perspective on our nail.

In your face nail.

Our nail with its historic past.  If only it could talk, what would it say?

Nail:  I’m a nail, you moron.  I’ve been stuck in the floor for 150 years until today.  If you’re so interested in the past, read a history book.

Greg then proceeded to trash it, so it’s final resting place will soon be a landfill – better than anyone’s foot (or nose).

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Lame Adventure 182: Space Invader visits Tribeca!

Posted on April 28, 2011 | 2 comments

Generally, my energy level plummets the second I arrive at the workplace and it rockets the instant I leave.  Wednesday was no exception.  There I was, the portrait of lethargy sitting at my desk, using the little that remains of my cobweb-cluttered mind proofreading the floor tile equivalent of the Dead Sea Scrolls.  My sidekick, Greg, had just returned from taking a walk.

Greg:  You know that graffiti artist, Space Invader?

Me (groggy):  Yeah.

Disclaimer:  the name Space Invader did ring an anemic bell but at that very moment white noise was predominantly playing in my head.

Greg:  I think I just saw one of his mosaics outside the parking lot on Hudson and Worth.

Me (still muddle-headed):  What’s the name of this parking lot?

Greg:  I don’t know.  It’s the one we walk past whenever we walk south on Hudson.

That reasoning now rings the gong in my head and jars me out of my stupor.  I regain full consciousness, indeed recall Space Invader, recollect watching the documentary film about street artists, Exit Through the Gift Shop, and hack up a feather.

Me:  Yes!  I know that parking lot.

Greg:  The mosaic’s starting to crumble.  It probably won’t be there much longer.

Me:  I should photograph it!

Greg:  You should.  It’s outside the parking lot.

I hurdle my desk and I’m in my boss, Elsbeth’s office, in a single bound requesting a Get Out of Jail Free pass.  She grants it.  Within moments, I’m hightailing down Hudson.  I see the parking lot but no sign of Space Invader’s mark.  Frustrated, I am wondering what Greg meant when he said this mosaic is outside the parking lot.  This parking lot is an outdoor parking lot.  Then, I step off the sidewalk and just as I’m almost hit by a beer truck …

Looking north on Hudson at Worth and simultaneously defying death.

Keep looking.

Paydirt!

One rainstorm away from disappearing.

I return to my desk, satisfied with the sighting that was even more rewarding than the deeply philosophical street art I encountered when my friends and I were in the East Village last Saturday.

The Fickle Finger of the East Village.

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Lame Adventure 181: Day Four (written on Day Five)

Posted on April 26, 2011 | 4 comments

Over beverages late Sunday night, Milton and I agreed that the toughest aspect of a lovely three-day weekend is Day Four, returning to the grind – what we did on Monday as I write this on Tuesday, technically Day Five.

My friend’s weekend started a tad more sophisticated than mine.   Last Friday he scored a free ticket to the Metropolitan Opera’s new critically and now Milton-acclaimed six-hour production of Wagner’s “Walküre.”  Milton was so thrilled with this second installment in the staging of the complete “Ring” cycle, he completely forgot that he was ravenous until it was over.  Afterward, still donning the Brünnhilde garb he keeps in his closet for super-special events like this, he salted the side of a building and devoured it in one swallow.

Ravenous Milton.

While Milton was watching warrior maidens cry, “Hojotoho,” I joined my colleagues, Ling, her bf, Lowell, and The Quiet Man, at Wicked Willy’s, a pirate-themed bar, to watch my sidekick, Greg, alternately play saxophone, bass clarinet, and clarinet with his still-yet-to-be-named three piece band.

Greg fingering his sax.

Hanging out in college bars on a Friday night usually does not make my to-do list, but Greg promised me that he would not wear a pirate hat, so how could I resist hearing him play?   Check him out!

On stage, Greg was in his bliss, and afterward, he remained rather exhilarated too.

On Saturday, Milton and I attended together — with six of our favorite people – Ling, Lowell, Albee, Lola, Miguel, and our terrific fellow blogger, Enchilada, Young Jean Lee’s show called We’re Gonna Die at Joe’s Pub.  This provocative and incite-filled playwright commands the stage and delivers humor-inflected tales about what makes the neurotic life worth living — self-loathing, rejection, humiliation, alienation, loss and death.  What’s not to like on that play list?

Young Jean Lee

These downer themes are interspersed with pop songs she’s written played by her band Future Wife.  What should be an evening that makes you want to leave and immediately stick your head in the oven, actually closes with enthusiastic audience participation.  We joyously chanted, “We’re gonna die, we’re gonna, die, we’re gonna die and it’ll be alright!”  After we left, we felt so high, Lola declared:

Lola:  I feel like dancing!

So we went dancing … After doing a crowd-clearing move I taught myself called the Head Through the Windshield Bossa Nova, I shifted gears and went taping.  The video embedded below is ridiculously dark, but an image is there for those with fine-tuned imaginations that are willing to look very hard.

We’re Gonna Die plays three more performances at Joe’s Pub April 29 and 30.

Sunday night, Milton and I had 99-cent-seat tickets to see the staging of Born Bad at SoHo Rep, a fifty-five minute production about a dysfunctional family written by Debbie Tucker Green, who won the Olivier award for best new playwright for this work in 2003.   The ensemble cast is terrific and Leah C. Gardiner’s direction is inspired.  The play is not a conventional narrative, but vignettes illustrating the deep and disturbing divisions in a West Indies family, presumably living in the UK, where this black British playwright is from.   Much of the language is rhythmic and repetitive as characters beat each other almost senseless with their opposing recollections, opinions, and anger.  Basically, people choose to believe what they want to believe.  Milton was enraptured from start to finish.  For me, I nodded off a time or two or twelve in the middle, and briefly dreamt about Mr. Ed – who definitely never appeared on stage in horse-form or dialogue.  Yet, it did completely regain my attention again in the last third and the ending was powerful.  Born Bad has been extended through May 7.

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Lame Adventure 180: “All I see is little dots …”

Posted on April 22, 2011 | 2 comments

“Some are smears, some are spots,” so goes the lyrics to one of my favorite Talking Heads songs, titled Drugs.  I know that as my musician sidekick, Greg, reads this he’s snickering, but I truly do like that song primarily for the melody.  It’s too bad that it is seldom played on the radio.  I’d much rather hear Drugs over Ke$ha’s frantic warbling.

The Talking Heads' "Drugs" not exactly breaking records on iTunes.

Today is Good Friday, so I was a no show at the grind, not because I have an iota of religious conviction or affiliation – I don’t.  Since I’m also a non-breeder, I’m a proud God-loathing atheist.  I have noticed with fellow religiously indifferent friends and family that after they spawn, they feel the need to believe in something out there. I think this has more to do with fear for and love of their children than any sudden death-bed-type conversion that such a thing as a supreme being exists.

I had to have three eye tests and I figured that this day, rife with religious connotation keeping the God-fearers away, might be the perfect day for this pagan to get her testing accomplished.  I headed over to the Lenox Hill Hospital eye clinic on the East Side, a.k.a. The Land of the Punt Dog.  Pictured below is the waiting room when the woman wearing the denim jogging suit trimmed in hot pink exited to use the bathroom, possibly to vomit when she glimpsed her attire in the mirror.

Mine, all mine!

The first test entailed sticking my chin and forehead onto and against rests and staring at a light spot.  With one eye covered, dots of light sporadically flashed.  Every time I detected a flash, I hit a clicker.  This test seemed to take 329 hours, but it actually took my right eye about five minutes and ten seconds to get through it and the left, my stronger eye, four minutes and six seconds.  The technician, an extremely warm and personable Asian woman, told me that she’s had patients that have taken up to 18 minutes per eyeball to complete this test since they’re so lax to click.  She lamented that she often thinks she could have tested three patients in the time it takes to slog through the slow pokes.  This made me reflect that as a woman, my partners have always appreciated my capacity to come quick sparing them lockjaw.  I resisted sharing this factoid with the technician.

Then, I had to have my eyes dilated before proceeding with the next two tests.  When I signed up for these tests, I was not informed that I would need to be dilated, so I did not pack my shades.  I groused about this to the technician who reflected that the sky is rather overcast so it would be unlikely that my eyeballs will feel sheared when I step back outside.  As much as I wanted to grouse more, the voice inside my head that sounds exactly like a dulcet foghorn announced:

Voice Inside My Head That Sounds Exactly Like a Dulcet Foghorn:  Hey, dumb ass, you’re getting three extensive eye tests!  Why wouldn’t you be dilated?

After the technician inserted the dilation drops, I asked if it would be possible to read during the half hour wait.  She gently said that would not be a good idea for my eyes would be fighting dilation, delaying the process.  I returned to the waiting room, and parked myself into a chair thinking:

Me:  What the hell am I going to do now in this, the longest half hour of my predominantly misspent life?

Promptly, I fell asleep, periodically waking myself with the low hum of snoring.  Thirty minutes later, the kind technician roused me out of my slumber.

Me (rousing):  I don’t want to go to school.  Just five minutes more!

The next two tests were much shorter.  What I recall most from the second one was nearly being knocked off the chair with a flash of white light so overpowering I went momentarily blind.  Therefore, due to my jumpy eyeball choreography the technician had to retake that test repeatedly.  I loathed that test, as did she.

The last test had a sixties era psychedelic quality.  I stared at a dot in the midst of a zig zaggy pattern that made me think of people born a little after my parents generation — women in miniskirts and go go boots, guys wearing Nehru jackets with love beads.

Let's dance to "Aquarius"!

People my open-minded parents called, “Jerks.”  Again, my eyeballs were subject to yet another painful assault, but the technician was pleased since I managed to suppress any head movement.  She said I did well but was probably actually thinking:

Technician:  Hallelujah, I’m done with this idiot!  I can eat lunch and go home now!

She confided that I seem to have passed all the tests very well, my corneas are in good shape, and if anything looks irregular, it probably isn’t due to something horrible or terrible, but just to the unique shape of the inner workings of my eyes.  That was a welcome relief.

I left, entered daylight and felt like my eyeballs were sheared off.

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