Lame Adventure 72: In Death You’re (temporarily) Jesus

Posted on July 14, 2010 | 3 comments

I was at work sitting at my desk doing the unlikely, concentrating on something work-related although I now have zero recollection about what that was, when Greg, my sidekick said:

Greg:  The Boss is dead.

Me:  Don’t be ridiculous.  She’s in her office right now with nothing more than a mild red wine hangover.

Greg:  George Steinbrenner.

Since I am a Yankees fan, I did feel a twinge of sadness, but I was also aware that he was elderly and ill, so I was neither surprised nor prostrate with grief.  I did find the timing symbolic that he bought his rainbow on the day of the All-Star game.  Yankee-haters must have been delighted to hear broadcaster Joe Buck announce at the All-Star game’s conclusion that it was dedicated to Steinbrenner, considering that it was coached by Yankee skipper Joe Girardi and the losing pitcher was Yankee Phil Hughes, giving the National League their first All-Star game win since 1996.  Had Hughes been the winning pitcher, the media spotlight would have burned even brighter considering the significance of this victory on this day distorting it into yet another Hallmark card-style tribute to The Boss.

I knew that Steinbrenner’s death would be a major news story since he was a colorful larger than life personality.  Jeopardy! was pre-empted for a half hour tribute special to him on WABC TV.  The New York Daily News published a special evening edition, something they last did when President Obama was inaugurated.  The New York Times will keep his obituary available on line for months.  Steinbrenner has already been praised all out of proportion to an exhausting degree.  Countless times I have heard about what a business genius he was for buying the Yankees for $8.7 million in 1973, but what’s $8.7 million worth in 2010 dollars?  According to the inflation calculator, that figure would be $44,206,030.59 in today’s dollars.  Not exactly chump change.  All-Star Game color commentator Tim McCarver claims that Steinbrenner invested $168,000 of his own money in the deal.  According to that same inflation calculator, that would be $853,633.69 in 2010 dollars.  Obviously Steinbrenner was in the right place at the right time when he made that investment.  The team’s estimated worth today is $1.5 billion.  To avert Steinbrenner’s threats to move the team, my tax dollars helped pay the billion dollars for the new Yankee Stadium, a sports palace with ticket prices so out of reach I have yet to attend a game.

Although it is considered impolite to speak ill of the dead, in death, Steinbrenner is walking on water with the media today.  His contribution to the Yankees was remarkable, and the franchise is extraordinary.  He restored this legendary sports team to the envy of the league, and the ire to the legions of Yankee-haters.   In response to this team’s winning, Steinbrenner got very, very rich.  He might have been good for the Yankees, but they returned the favor.  The buckets of money Steinbrenner made are between the lines in every story declaring him a terrific New Yorker, a wonderful Floridian, charitable beyond belief; basically a near-perfect human being, possibly God’s other son.  I am waiting for someone to suggest that Alexander Hamilton be given the boot so that Steinbrenner’s face can adorn the ten dollar bill.  This was what Ronald Reagan’s fans were hoping for while his corpse was still warm when he died in 2004.  Five days after Reagan bought his rainbow, Ray Charles followed his lead.  Appropriately, in response to the media frenzy following Reagan checking out, The New Yorker acknowledged the fortieth president’s passing with this inspired cover:

My dear friend and consummate Yankee-hater, Milton, finds the Steinbrenner love-fest stomach turning.  He thinks what is being worshipped is not a person at all but what this person represents, the great American dream i.e. phenomenal, unimaginable, unattainable (for almost all of us) wealth.  I think Milton has a very good point, and as for all of Steinbrenner’s charitable contributions?  He made zillions, why not give some of it away?  He turns on the TV, sees someone suffering, feels sorry for them and sends a check.  That’s the way it should be.  When people regain their senses about Steinbrenner Milton and I doubt that he’s going to be remembered as a great philanthropist.  He’ll be remembered as what he was in his heyday, the tyrannical Yankee owner with very deep pockets and a very short fuse, a guy that was obsessed with winning — not baseball’s Gandhi.

If we outlive Donald Trump, Milton is certain that the media will glorify his life story beyond belief, too.  That will be another good day to have a supply of Rolaids at the ready.

3 Comments

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , ,

Lame Adventure 71: She’s Baaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Posted on July 12, 2010 | Leave a comment

Milton and I spent most of Sunday on the phone talking to each other in our respective hovels on the East and West Sides of Manhattan.  We were busy adding Lame Adventures to Facebook (something I had hoped to avoid doing forever) and solving the mysteries of Twitter.  The fact that I bombarded him with so many irritating questions (“I swear I don’t have that button on my screen!  Where’s it on yours?”) encouraged him to guzzle a fifth of Maker’s Mark.  This might have also delayed our progress a tad.

We finally accomplished our goals around ten in the evening and then Milton spent the next hour complaining to me in a slurred voice about how much he did not want to return to work on Monday.  Ever the loyal friend, I expressed a similar opinion, also with slurred speech, even though I had only polished off a quart of Lipton Cold Brew iced tea.  Just as we were saying goodnight, Milton instantly sobered:

Milton:  I forgot to tell you!

Me:  What?

Milton:  Blow Tart shops at my supermarket!

Even though I heard him perfectly, I said:

Me:  What?

Milton (insistent):  Blow Tart shops at my supermarket!

Blow Tart, for the unaware Lame Adventures reader (please see Lame Adventure 65: Pride Baby!), is a person of indeterminate gender that was standing next to us when we watched the Gay Pride parade in lower Manhattan two weeks ago.  I thought she was a woman, Milton thought she was a man, or possibly someone pre-op.  We were both indifferent about that – hey, to each his or her own – but our issue with Blow Tart was the ear splitting piercing whistle that she blew for so long and so loud, even marchers in the parade were shouting at her to knock it off.  An exhausted drag queen with painfully blistered feet told her he could hear her from three blocks away, adding, “Where do you get the energy?  Helen Keller can hear you!”

This wilted rose surely looked a lot fresher four hours earlier that day.

Back to Sunday night:

Me:  Was she still wearing the whistle?

Milton:  I could recognize her even without the whistle.

Me:  Are you absolutely, positively, 100% sure it was Blow Tart?  [hopeful] Maybe you were mistaken.

Milton:  She was with that same odd fellow friend.  They looked at me funny.  If they saw me with you, they’d recognize us.  If they knew about your blog …

Milton’s voice trails off.

Me:  What?  We’d both be entering the Witness Protection Program about now?  Please!  She loves attention.  She’d probably kiss us both on the lips.

Milton emits a groan reminiscent of a constipated buffalo.

Milton:  Now I dread I’m going to see her every time I buy spaghetti sauce.  Don’t you get it?  She lives in my neighborhood!  My neighborhood!

Me:  What was she wearing?

Milton:  I don’t know!  I ran!  I lost myself in the Dairy Department!

On that note, we ended the conversation; Milton polished off the last of his Maker’s Mark, and then passed out with audio of Blow Tart blowing that whistle right into our ears again.

Torture by whistle -- water boarding's great-grandmother.

Leave a comment

Posted in Humor

Tagged , ,

Lame Adventure 70: Let Us Eat Cake!

Posted on July 10, 2010 | 4 comments

There are two things that can instantly unite a gaggle of disgruntled poorly paid office cogs such as my colleagues and I, scandal and cake.  On the topic of scandal, we always snap out of our zombie-like malaise whenever juicy gossip warp-speeds its way up to our floor.  Unit cohesion is also guaranteed to wipe the scowls off our faces when we stuff ourselves with a delectable frosted baked confection that we did not have to finance personally.  The rest of the work-week-month-year, we’re toiling away quietly, a mural of sheer misery until quitting time rolls around on Friday and we’re awarded our Get Out of Jail Free passes.  We always wear our Happy Faces then, and whenever one of us is taking time off for a vacation, that person dons his or her Simultaneous Orgasm Produced with a Companion As Opposed to One’s Own Hand (which isn’t so bad, either except when that hand falls asleep) Face.  But I digress …

Recently I learned that my colleague Ling’s new charge, Under Ling, is celebrating her birthday this weekend.  Under Ling started barely two weeks ago, but somehow during the course of conversation this nice young woman informed me that her birthday is July 11th.  To throw her off the track of what I was thinking (“oh happy day!”), I gave her my fierce why are you telling me this? look.  This look is similar to my regular frown that screams, “If I’d been born a dog, I’d be dead multiple times already, I’ve yet to do a single thing of worth with my thus far entirely misspent life, and my pay sucks out loud!”  In response to Under Ling’s candor I mumbled, “Uh-huh, okay.”

When Under Ling was away form her desk, I spilled my guts to Ling:

Me:  Under Ling’s birthday is this weekend.  You know what that means!

Ling:  Hell yeah, cake!

We shared a brief moment of pause since Elsbeth, our department head, was not in the office this week.  Our boss approves the cake purchases.

Ling:  You think Elsbeth will be okay with it?

Me:   Email her.

Ling:  What should I say?  Under Ling hasn’t worked here that long.

Me (thinking):  Angle it in the direction of Under Ling’s morale.

It took Elsbeth and Ling months to find Under Ling.  Elsbeth had promised Ling that they would only hire someone they both agreed on.  This magnanimous offer is possibly one of the greatest regrets of our Lord & Master’s professional career since Ling absolutely loathed a candidate Elsbeth absolutely loved, and Elsbeth was icy to Ling’s preferred choices.  In addition, there were a few clairvoyant candidates that seemed willing to work anywhere but our company after interviewing for the opening.  For example, one accepted a position scrubbing floors with a toothbrush in Rabbit Hatch, Kentucky because the salary was higher.  Finally, for an instant, time froze and both Elsbeth and Ling were in sync about Under Ling who expressed enthusiasm for the position.  Elsbeth would feel beaten with a bat if she had any hint that Under Ling already wants out.  Within nine seconds of receiving Ling’s email, Elsbeth replied, “Get that cake immediately.”

Awarded our superior’s seal of approval, Ling climbed into our department’s Acme brand rocket ship and jet propelled herself to Duane Park Patisserie, which is coincidentally also walking distance from our office.

An excellent bakery especially if someone else is paying.

She ordered a delicious 6” chocolate blackout cake that was so rich, moist and dense, the five of us could only eat half of it.  Greg, my sidekick, who I periodically pester to quit smoking, remembered to bring his lighter, or as he said, “I need to pollute my lungs and light candles.”  The Quiet Man thinks that since management is in no hurry to return our 20% in cut wages, the least they should do is let us have cake every Friday.  It would be welcome if Managerial Aristocracy said, “Let them eat cake!”   We’d say, “That’s fine with us, but you do the buying.”

Greg in action.

Voila!

Disappointing blurry shot of otherwise excellent cake. We had Under Ling's cake inscribed "Krystle" since that name sounds classier. My suggestion, "Edwige," was rejected.

4 Comments

Posted in Humor

Tagged , ,

Lame Adventure 68: Happy 6th of July

Posted on July 6, 2010 | Leave a comment

According to the American Heart Association, healthy American adults should eat less than 2,300 milligrams of sodium a day. This is about 1 teaspoon of sodium chloride (salt).  Keep this in mind and read on.

On Sunday, the Fourth of July, Milton and I were in our respective hovels situated on the East and West sides of Manhattan watching Rafael Nadal put a definitive stop to the Tomas Berdych Express at Wimbledon, so all was right in the tennis world once again.  Elaine, my company’s Marketing Director, is telecommuting and Skyping from the UK, so she was able to attend Wimbledon last week where she saw Roger Federer advance to the Quarterfinals when he soundly defeated Jürgen Melzer of Austria.

Roger Federer on the far side of the court at Wimbledon June 28th, 2010.

Victorious Federer waving.

Elaine basking in Roger's victory.

Two days later living tennis legend Federer was soundly defeated by Tomas Berdych of the Czech Republic.

In response to Federer’s early exit from her homeland, Elaine emailed me, “I am TOTALLY GUTTED–I can hardly speak.”  Milton, who shares as deep a love of Federer as Elaine (they have similar taste in men) was more sanguine about the loss that sent shock waves throughout the tennis world, but possibly this was due to the fact that he was on vacation all of last week and was self medicating with Sangria.  It was not until Berdych blew a hole through Novak Djokovic, another player Milton adores for both his athletic prowess and his looks, or as Milton recently said of Djokovic’s face, “He’s part athlete, part Margaret Hamilton and I find that so sexy,” that Berdych finally succeeded to get on Milton’s nerves.

Novak Djokovic channeling his inner Margaret Hamilton.

Margaret Hamilton channeling her inner Novak Djokovic.

Milton declared that he hated “Berdick” (actually pronounced “Ber-ditch”) so much he was not going to watch the men’s’ final.  Rafa’s my guy so I was going to watch no matter what.  I was hoping for a massacre since I was being denied the match I most wanted to see – Federer vs. Nadal.  Yet, Milton did tune in, and although he was pleased that Rafa won, he pronounced the trouncing “boring.”

Possibly, Milton would have been more entertained had he switched the channel to that American tradition being broadcast live on ESPN, Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest, sponsored by Pepto Bismol.  Viewers tune in hoping to see a competitor vomit, the exact reason why I tune out.  Odds are good that Milton would have found this monument to competitive eating boring as well since the reigning champion Joey “Jaws” Chestnut could not compete against his archrival, Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi, of Japan.  These two are the titans of the competitive eating world, the overeating equivalent of Federer and Nadal.

This year, Kobayashi refused to sign an exclusivity contract with Major League Eating, the body that sanctions competitive eating events, so he was barred against competing on Sunday.  He tossed a fit after the competition and got arrested.  Although he was starving to compete, in jail he was served a single sandwich and glass of milk.  Kobayashi was released on Monday.  He is now claiming free agency, but it baffles me who is going to sign him if he does not re-sign with MLE.  Possibly the hapless Knicks will go after him when they fail to sign LeBron James?

Kobayashi in happier times flaunting a gut full of dogs.

Without having a fellow elite eater in his midst, Chestnut, who devoured 68 hot dogs and buns (or HDBs in competitive eating jargon), in ten minutes last year against Kobayashi’s 64 ½, gave a performance screaming, “diet!” on Sunday.  He ate a mere 54 HDBs.  Chestnut’s goal is to eventually eat 70 HDBs, but that might be hard for him to reach without a competitor of Kabayashi’s caliber and twenty pound stomach capacity to spur him on.

Victorious Joey Chestnut with his post-competition beverage of choice.

Since my gastroenterologist has tube steak at the top of the list of the 7,416 foods I am supposed to avoid, I researched the amount of sodium in a single Nathan’s hot dog with the bun – 684 milligrams.  After devouring 54 HDBs, Chestnut ate the equivalent of 16.05913 teaspoons of salt or one-third a cup of salt.  Writing that sentence alone was enough to make my heart race.  It’s doubtful that the American Heart Association will ever sanction this event, but maybe Ex-lax will come calling in 2011, and Kobayashi will get his crap together by then as well.  Whatever the future holds for the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest, I am steering clear of the vomitorium.  My TV is going to remain tuned to Wimbledon.

Victorious Rafa giving competive eaters an idea.

Leave a comment

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Lame Adventure 67: Broadway revival of Fences

Posted on July 2, 2010 | Leave a comment

Theater-whores Milton and I are both devotees of the playwright August Wilson, who wrote an extraordinary body of work in a life that was cut too short at age 60 in 2005.  When we heard last year that Denzel Washington was set to star in the first Broadway revival of Wilson’s Pulitzer Prize-winning masterpiece, Fences, we were determined to pounce the second tickets went on sale.  For a moment I feared our chance to snag a pair of these precious ducats might have entered the ether.  On January 20th, when tickets first went on sale, I wrote Milton the following email:

I hate Time Warner [my cable company].  For the past 35-40 minutes I’ve only had sporadic Internet access so it’s been impossible for me to scope out the seating situation for Fences.  This is extremely frustrating.  Previews begin in April, and it runs for 14 weeks, closing July 11th.  Tix go on sale to the general public on Jan 30th.  Only Amex card members are eligible to buy them now.  Orch seats are $121.50 plus we’re going to get hammered with fees.  Aisle seats do not seem to be available.  Forgot about buying tix at the b.o. to escape getting hammered with fees.  They don’t go on sale there until March 17th, so it looks to me that if we’re going to see this play, we have to pay the equivalent of an airfare.  As I mentioned on the phone DW’s co-star is Viola Davis and it’s playing at the Cort (currently running A View From the Bridge — I heard from Albee, he sat in the last row of the balcony and paid $36.50).  So … thoughts?

Milton’s response:

Oy vey! Thanks to Massachusetts, health care is screwed like a two dollar hooker!

Actually, in-between those two emails, my Internet access returned, and we were able to get incredible second row center orchestra seats for the Wednesday matinee performance on June 30th, a day we both skipped out on work.  Since my boss, Elsbeth, saw it in previews, she was annoyed that I had not seen it sooner for she was eager to discuss it.  She loved it.

Fences is a powerful play set in 1957 Pittsburgh about Troy Maxon, a star in baseball’s Negro Leagues, who was born too early to make the transition to the Major League and is now a hard-headed 53-year-old sanitation worker who is a supreme teller of tall tales. Troy has been married 18 years to Rose, his devoted wife and mother of their 17-year-old son, Cory, who is being scouted by football recruiters.  Troy has a contentious relationship with his son, and he adamantly opposes Cory pursuing sports.  Troy  has transformed himself into a pillar of responsibility after serving time and meeting Rose, but in the riveting second act he takes a hard fall from grace that tests his wife and estranges him from his son.

As tempting as it is to reveal spoilers about this beautifully written play especially since the remainder of the run is essentially sold out (unless you can afford a king’s ransom for the few premium priced tickets that might still be available), now that it has won the Tony award this season for Best Revival, Actor and Actress, I’ll resist.  Both Denzel Washington and Viola Davis were magnificent.  How they can play those roles eight times a week is amazing, but I suppose that’s what brilliant acting is all about.

After the final curtain, since we were sitting so far in the front and we did not want to follow the slow moving herd that were taking forever to get out the door, we wandered near the foot of the stage and spoke to a stagehand.  He told us that he was sad to see this show close on July 11th, even though the theater will not be dark long.  Time Stands Still starring Laura Linney will open next.  If you’re part of this great production, it’s easy to understand why he’s feeling wistful.  It certainly was a privilege to be among the lucky ones that got to see it during this much too short run.

Embedded below are some YouTube clips from Fences.  The montage in the fourth clip features a sample of the lively jazz composed by Wynton Marsalis for this production.

Leave a comment

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , , ,

Lame Adventure 66: The Kids Are All Right — Absolutely!

Posted on June 30, 2010 | Leave a comment

This week Milton and I attended a preview screening of an upcoming Focus Features film, The Kids Are All Right.  This film is one that I have been eagerly anticipating.  Why is that?  It’s a movie with lesbian protagonists.  Many films have been made about gay women, but few are well-told compelling stories.  What makes this one especially intriguing to me is that it did not seem like yet another cliché-riddled tale about women coming out, about women that are under age 20, or about women that are shallow harebrained idiots in plotlines with the emotional depth of the laundering instructions on a tube sock.

The Kids Are All Right theater display.

Much to my relief, The Kids Are All Right is a film that delivers .  It is a refreshing, witty, charming, poignant, and intelligent dramatic comedy directed by Lisa Cholodenko that she co-wrote with Stuart Blumberg.  It stars Annette Bening and Julianne Moore as Nic and Jules, middle age life partners that reside in the Southern Californa suburbs with their two children, 18-year-old college-bound Joni (Mia Wasikowska) and 15-year-old Raser (Josh Hutcherson).  Now that Joni is adult age, Raser urges his sister to find their biological father, an idea that she initially opposes for fear of hurting their moms.  Sullen Raser guilt trips his whip smart sister into doing the research and making the call.  The anonymous sperm donor, Paul, an amiable restaurateur played by Mark Ruffalo, agrees to meet them.  To both the kids’ and Paul’s surprise, they have an immediate rapport.

This is a story about an alternative form of family that at its core does not seem alternative at all.  Obstetrician Nic is the controlling over achieving breadwinner.  The plot pivots on her partner, Jules, the dissatisfied neglected half of the equation who is giving another business — financed by Nic — this time as a landscaper, a go in her quest to latch onto something to give her life purpose as she nears the empty nest syndrome.  Even though they have been together for decades and exhibit signs of taking each other for granted, Nic and Jules are both dedicated to raising their kids well.  Their mutual strong sense of family values is the glue that cements their bond.  They still exhibit sparks of attraction to one another, and when asked, they’re delighted to talk about how they met much to the dread of their children who are not shy to admit that they have heard this tale countless times.

The cracks in the bond between Nic and Jules are quickly apparent, and the sense that the relationship is vulnerable is illustrated when Nic objects to Jules going ahead and buying a truck for her business without telling Nic that she was doing so.  Nic is tightly wound whereas Jules is laid back, so she tunes out the issue Nic has about the truck.  When Paul, an endearing bachelor with a roving eye, enters the picture, Jules, like her children, finds herself drawn to him while Nic feels threatened and tightens her grip.  Paul, who had essentially forgotten that he donated sperm decades earlier, is drawn to the pro-family, pro-commitment life that Nic and Jules have created for themselves.  Every one of the central characters is so likeable, when the ending credits rolled, I left wanting to see The Kids Are All Right 2.

As Milton and I walked down the street reeking with the foul scent of baked trash, my normally ultra critical friend agreed that he enjoyed this film very much.  He also appreciated the glimpse of gay male porn star Gordon Grant on a DVD that slyly contributes to accelerating the plot.  In addition, he especially liked how Cholodenko directed a serious introspective scene where Nic suffers a shocking realization.  Cholodenko depicts Nic’s fragile emotional state through the audio track that sounds like she is drowning.  Annette Bening’s face is the perfect portrait of pain.  The entire cast, comprised of three of the best veterans working in film today, and two up and coming young stars, excellently brings these complex characters to life.  The only pithy insult Milton could deliver was a barb in the direction of the droopy blouse that a woman also attending the screening was wearing, “Now I know where all my old drapes went.”

Milton thinks this film has the potential to be quite a crowd pleaser.  I hope that he is right.  Although the unfairness of the illegality of gay marriage is not mentioned, watching Nic and Jules interact with each other and with their kids, it strikes one as absurd that couples like them, essentially ordinary people running a home, raising a family, and paying taxes, are denied a legal union in this country.  This film that is about so much that is all right, indirectly hammers home without hammering the viewer how our laws in forty-five of this country’s states are just all wrong.

Lisa Cholodenko has made a film that strikes a very honest chord about people gay or straight.  Reflecting upon the dearth of good films featuring lesbians, The Kids Are All Right is wonderful.

Posted below is the trailer.  It opens in select theaters (translation: major cities) July 9th.

Leave a comment

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Lame Adventure 65: Pride Baby!

Posted on June 28, 2010 | 10 comments

Milton and I celebrated gay pride New York City-style this weekend by watching the LGBT Pride March from the sidelines on lower Fifth Avenue near West 16th Street.  As we played dueling digital cameras in the humid heat, we did not complain for it did not rain on our parade, something I feared might happen.  We also kept ourselves well hydrated.  I had my 20-ounce bottle of water and Milton guzzled an entire Poland Spring water truck personally before we shared a liter of refreshing mango (not served by Chris Kattan) sangria over dinner afterward.

The parade itself was an uplifting event.  Marriage, family, religious acceptance and equality were key themes.  We noticed many members of organized faiths marching.  In the forty years that this event has been taking place, it’s very moving to see the progress that has been made.  Milton and I both got lumps in our throats when we saw the contingency from the New York Police Department in their dress blues march past.  Forty-one years ago when the Stonewall riots ignited in Greenwich Village, the police bashed the patrons to the point of inciting revolt.  That was the pivotal event that started the pride movement that continues today, but who would have ever anticipated that a battalion of out gay and lesbian cops would march proudly in such a parade?  And they were followed by the out gay and lesbian firefighters.  What’s next out and proud Catholic priests and nuns?  Oops, better not go there.

The person standing next to me, an individual of indeterminate gender who I thought was female, but Milton swore he saw an Adam’s apple, doubled as a human vuvuzela forever blowing a piercing whistle to entice marchers to come her way.  Standing along side this exuberantly demonstrative parade-goer for three hours and forty-five minutes was a bit taxing for both of us.  The limited hearing in my impaired right ear is undoubtedly further decreased, but I pointed out to Milton that “Blow Tart” (our name for this person) was not the worst person in the world.  It was not like we were stuck standing next to Osama bin Laden and his dialysis machine.  Afterward, I asked Milton what he thought someone like Blow Tart did for a living.  He suggested in a droll tone, “Annoy people.  She’s great at her job.”

Posted below are some of our photographs and because we’re devils, a little video we shot of Blow Tart that we posted on YouTube.  This better illustrates why Milton’s knee-jerk response is “idiot” every time I mention this person.  Overall, it was a lovely parade, and we did have a great time.

Traditional parade start with Yikes! on Bikes.

Lovely Yike on her Bike.

Bride of Pride.

Grand Marshal Judy Shepard, Matthew Shepard's mom.

Grand Marshal US Army Lieutenant Dan Choi, West Point graduate and gay rights activist trying to overturn Don't Ask Don't Tell.

Horse drawn Wells Fargo carriage.

Parade worker cleaning crap emitted from Wells Fargo carriage horse prompting Milton to say, "Don't shit on our parade!"

Marriage fairness fighters.

Delta wants LGBT dollars.

Banner says all.

Banner says all but some of us fall between these two poles.

Still on the topic of poles, don't try this at home unless your name is Madonna.

Does not look any easier from this angle, either.

The blood rushed to both our heads just watching this. The dancer is 27-year-old Marlo Fiskin. Her partner is pedaling the bike.

Our senator Chuck Schumer!

A perfect day for a parasol and fan. Why didn't we think of that?

Hebrew National Pride.

NYPD Pride.

NYC Firefighter Pride.

Moms and bambinos.

Beautiful Pride Tot.

Milton's "what the hell" shot of Mr. & Mr. Smith.

If you got it, parade it.

Milton's sweaty paw holding a parade button he caught.

AOL ice cream truck giving out no ice cream.

Fellow bloggers!

Nice day to stroll in your underwear.

Topless girls in hard hats. Meow!

Topless boys clinching.

Mister Pansy Pride.

Buff guy that somehow caught Milton's eye.

Buff guy and buff bud endorsing TD Bank -- move over Regis Philbin.

Asian Pride!

Asian Pride boy feeling good.

Is that you, Courtney Love?

Boys from Peru flaunting it.

Boys from Peru swishing by.

Boy from Peru showing off.

In the mood to wear a top hat.

Peacock.

Wow.

Who the fuck is this bitch with a whistle?

Whistle.

New York Congressman Anthony Weiner -- "Isn't it great to have a name like Weiner on gay pride day?"

They agree with Congressman Weiner!

New York Congresswoman Carolyn Maloney.

Banner says it all.

Under Construction.

Drag queen in need of a Red Bull.

Cleopatra's assistants.

Big Apple Corps Marching Band.

Big Apple Corps Marching Band marching.

Big Apple Corps Marching Band tuba players or as Milton said, "They even have tuba players in this parade!"

Just legalize it.

Okay.

Rich lash mascara!

Pump your fist for pride!

In the spirit of La Cage aux Folles ...

Working out on lower Fifth Avenue.

Daddy-Mommy dearest.

As long as everyone's consenting ...

We want to do LGBT banking!

The talented Mr. Whip Man.

Gay guys for shower curtains.

Go Magazine girls.

Sexy girls marching on spring shoes. Acme brand like Wile E. Coyote's?

A lone Cagelle?

Unreal literally and figuratively.

Another angle on the unreal.

Michelle Dupree, whoever that is.

Pro LGBT Episcopals.

New York Law School girls when they're not hitting the books.

The Randy Blue Boys - up and coming, pardon the pun, gay male porn film company.

Smiling Randy Blue Boy.

Marching Pride pooch taking a breather.

Green party members letting it all hang out.

Gay City News ending the march. Note doggie in driver's side window.

10 Comments

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , , , , ,

Lame Adventure 64: “Do you need a bag?”

Posted on June 25, 2010 | Leave a comment

Wednesday, when I returned from my much too brief West Coast escape to my exalted position of low reward as floor and wall tile sample emissary between my boss, Elsbeth, and sidekick, Greg, I noticed that I was running low on breakfast cereal.  A week earlier Elsbeth and I locked horns over my eating my cereal during the ten o’clock hour instead of the usual nine o’clock hour, the hour before she enters the premises.  The conversation went as follows; Elsbeth is in her office and I am sitting at my desk situated outside her open door.

Elsbeth (bellowing):  Can you come in here?

Me (mouth full of organic wheat carbuncles):  No.

Elsbeth (dumbfounded):  What?

Me (mouth still full):  You heard me.

Elsbeth (insistent):  Come in here!

Me (chewing):  Is this an emergency?

Elsbeth (demanding):  I need you in here!

Me (slurping milk):  Hold on.

Elsbeth (breaking point):  Why?

I finish my breakfast and enter Elsbeth’s office with my ever-ready notepad.  Her hair looks electrified.

Me:  I was eating my cereal.

Elsbeth:  So?

Me:  There’s only a two minute window between crispy and mush.

It’s so exasperating having to explain the fact of cereal eating to Elsbeth, but her ideal desk-breakfast, the kind she usually denies herself due to staggering calorie content, is a bagel with cream cheese, an egg sandwich, or possibly her favorite indulgence, a sugary, buttery and flaky pastry.  I have never seen her spoon anything floating in milk ever.

Elsbeth:  You should have eaten your cereal earlier.

Me:  I couldn’t.  I was taking care of all the things you told me you needed done “first thing” this morning.  I had to delay eating my cereal.

I resist adding “because of you” but my superior knows exactly what I am thinking.   She also knows me well enough that she can hear the abacus inside my head calculating that for most of the 1,461 days that I’ve been sitting at that desk outside her door I have ingested my cereal by half past nine.

The cereal discussion concludes.

As for what it was that my Lord and Master wanted me to do with such urgency, it completely escapes my recollection.  It was not as remotely memorable to me as our sparring over my cup of organic wheat carbuncles, but I suppose that after 1,461 days of fulfilling floor and wall tile requests, they all start to blur a tad.

This week, when I return from my much too brief West Coast hiatus, Elsbeth is quite content to have me back in the fold.  For the two days that I have been absent, she has been unable to locate a box of tile color chips we received earlier in the month.  I walk over to her bookshelf, remove the box, and hand it to her.  She finds my powers of sample location in her lair remarkable.  I resist asking, “Can I go home now?”

Greg tips me off that although it is quite hot outdoors I will not suffer heat stroke since there is a welcome breeze.  Armed with this information, during my break, I decide to run my cereal errand.  Since it is warm, I travel light with only my i.d., some cash, and cell phone.  I traipse down to the Whole Foods in Tribeca that is near my office.

Once in the store, I pick up three organic bananas, and two boxes of cereal, items that are all I can carry without drop kicking anything.  I make a beeline to the express checkout, a little wary since there was that mishap the last time I was in the store when a fellow shopper failed to follow the rules and went to the wrong register wreaking a few moments of blood pressure raising havoc for me.  Fortunately, today I am in the company of Mensa shoppers.  Everyone has extraordinary powers of proceeding to the appropriate register without inciting any brouhaha.  When it is my turn to check out, I place my three items on the counter and have this exchange:

Clerk:  Do you need a bag?

Me (what I want to say):  How else do you expect me to carry all this stuff, on my head?

Me (what I do say):  Yes.

And I feel defensive about this response.

I understand the need to conserve and recycle, and I do conserve and recycle, but sometimes I think basic practicality is ignored.  On the other hand, I suspect that this line of dialogue has been programmed into this clerk, so even if I were purchasing ten boxes of cereal and nine bananas, he’d ask the same question.  Plus, many customers shop with their own bags, such as the ones that Whole Foods sells.  I would carry one of those bags if Whole Foods would pay me an endorsement fee.  Hm, one way to supplement my meager income.  If I were really thinking, or possessed a scintilla of the intellectual acuity of my fellow Mensa-member shoppers, I would have carried my own Whole Foods logo paper bag, possibly one of the many I’ve stuffed inside the storage locker at work.  Had I planned ahead, I would not be suffering a guilt trip now over saying yes to another paper bag.  Will I remember to bring my own bag the next time I do a cereal run?

Probably not.

Clearly, I’m ready for another, and much longer, vacation, or maybe I just need to do the truly unthinkable and eat a bagel for breakfast.  Then, when my boss bleats for me, I can immediately answer her call, and gift her desk with crumbs.

Leave a comment

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , , , ,

Lame Adventure 63: West Coast Getaway

Posted on June 23, 2010 | 2 comments

Often, when people tell me about their vacations, my eyes glaze over, my mind wanders, and I think thoughts like, “Wow, if only this conversation could be put in pill-form, insomnia would be cured forever.”  Therefore, I will do my best to keep this discussion about some of the highlights of my recent West Coast getaway brief and hopefully, not too dreadfully dull.

This past weekend, I was in the San Francisco Bay Area visiting my family.  As a fatalist considering my 83-year-old father’s many later life ailments — three heart attacks, prostate cancer, and the latest, a second hernia, it occurred to me that before he is felled by a piece of errant space junk falling out of the sky, it would behoove me to visit him for Father’s Day, and so I did.  Even though he was quieter than usual, I attributed that to the discomfort he must have been suffering from the aforementioned hernia coupled with the mind numbing monologue that my brother, Axel, delivered about his two cats, Sidd(hartha) and Boo.  My sister Dovima’s dog, Thurber, the resident cat-hater, took Axel-matters into his own paws.  He would periodically jump on Axel, forcing my brother to give the far more popular canine, attention on demand.  How I love that dog!

Thurber the Hero

Fred the Family Fish

Back in 1994, Dovima produced a grandchild, Sweetpea, who I suspect my father finds more interesting than tales of Sidd and Boo, if only because she is pretty tight lipped these days.  Now that my niece is 15 going on 16, she is in a sullen stage that I personally recall can last well past 40, but unlike Axel’s cats, at least my niece is non-allergenic.  When Sweetpea is compelled to engage in conversation, the sounds emitted are showing signs of intelligent life.  I am hopeful that when she enters college, we’ll resume conversation, even if she steers it in the direction of what she should do to avoid turning her life into a sinkhole of failure like mine, and I steer it more in the direction of what she plans to do about me when I enter my dotage.  I feel very optimistic about the future of my rapport with Sweetpea.

As for Dovima, and my brother-in-law, Chuck, they were their usual affable selves.  Dovima chauffeured me to and from SFO at ridiculous hours and Chuck watched several YouTube videos with me shot by Ry, the beekeeping and chicken raising son of my best friend from college, BatPat.  Note to BatPat, Chuck wants a jar of Ry’s honey whenever he and Rick (Ry’s dad) get around to canning it or bottling it or however they plan to package it when it’s ready to go on the market.

Whenever I visit my family, they know that I must make time for BatPat, the woman who is closest to me next to Dovima.  In recent years when I’ve visited, BatPat and I have been attending winery tours in the Napa Valley, but since this past visit was confined to just the weekend, we only had time for an idyllic dinner at Scoma’s in Sausalito where she shared her latest Lame Adventure since we last got together in December.

Scoma's

View of San Francisco Bay from our table inside Scoma's.

Sailboat BatPat wanted that sailed past our table.

Artichoke and steamers appetizers.

BatPat's Filet of Sole entree.

My Ahi Tuna entree.

Fish plate BatPat loved.

My dear friend’s lame adventure concerned a middle of the night escapade orchestrated by her husband and son with a bee hive, a car sunk in mud, and a dangerous bee sting that required her daughter, Ra, coming to her dad and brother’s rescue.  Everyone avoided notifying BatPat about this ordeal because everyone was afraid that she would detonate if she were aware of this lunacy.  (It did remind me of knuckleheaded antics worthy of my pal from New Jersey, Martini Max.)  So, BatPat slept soundly through what could have been a monumental family tragedy had her fast-acting daughter not saved the day.  As annoyed as she was about her husband and son trying to ditch a swarm of bees in a mud flat in the midnight hour, she was very proud of Ra.

Afterward, we returned to BatPat’s house that I’ve renamed “Green Acres” in honor of her son’s back yard beekeeping and chicken farming.  Rick, her husband, a guy I’ve known as long as BatPat, was waiting for us.  He accessed for me a bevy of simultaneously repulsive and compelling videos on YouTube of the survivalist Bear Grylls eating bugs, larvae and dead zebra carcass in the more fetid than great outdoors.  As Bear downs his stomach-turning eats, never once does he say, “Tastes like chicken.”

Buddies!

Overall, it was a lovely weekend away from Gotham City with family and friends.

Back to reality mail not too smashed.

2 Comments

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , ,

Lame Adventure 61: Tony Award Observations

Posted on June 14, 2010 | Leave a comment

Sunday night I tuned into the Tony Awards.  I had been looking forward to this broadcast, but I’m not sure why for it’s always a guaranteed letdown.  Seeing individual musical numbers and snippets of plays strips the shows of their vitality and depth.  Fela!, my favorite new musical, and Everyday Rapture, my second favorite new musical, both came across like two steaming piles of crap instead of fresh, innovative and highly entertaining shows.

Sean Hayes was the host.  He was quite the team player acting the fool in ballet tights, Little Orphan Annie get-up, and in the funniest moment, a Spider-Man suit, an allusion to the stalled Julie Taymor extravaganza that is taking years to open.  In an acknowledgement to a very controversial and absurd Newsweek article claiming that an out gay actor cannot convincingly play straight, Hayes engaged in a prolonged open mouth kiss with his Promises, Promises co-star Kristin Chenoweth.

Sean and Kristin PDA-ing Al and Tipper-style.

The show itself was full of dreadful moments from start to finish, outpacing the Academy Awards in that department.  There were odd pairings of presenters, the most embarrassing being Daniel Radcliffe, who I did not realize only stands four feet eight alongside six foot nine Katie Holmes.  Katie’s dinky husband must have suggested that match.

Bambi meets Godzilla.

In another head scratching moment, maybe a perverse nod to “Broadway” Joe Namath, New York Jets quarterback and (who knew?) “theater aficionado”,  Mark Sanchez, blandly introduced the musical, Memphis. Much to my dismay, the predictions were spot-on and it would later defeat Fela! for Best New Musical.  About ten minutes later, Catherine Zeta-Jones was on stage singing “Send in the Clowns” from A Little Night Music.  Milton and I had seen her perform this number decently back in February, but this evening, she was making complete mincemeat out of the show’s signature song.  She was over-acting, her voice was off, even her makeup looked gruesome.  She reminded me of the audio-animatronic Abraham Lincoln I saw when I visited Disneyland in my youth.

Catherine Zeta-Jones

Then, my phone rang.

Me:  Hello.

Milton:  Are you watching this travesty?

Me:  Yeah, what’s going on with her?  Is she nervous?

Milton:  I don’t know.  She’s butchering it. This performance could kill Stephen Sondheim.

Me:  I’m not feeling so good myself.

Milton and I remained on the phone for the rest of the broadcast, and watched more low-lights including the montage of all the Best Play nominees.  These were disjointed unidentified clips that made every play look like an equally pointless waste of time, defeating the central message of this telecast since it is a three-hour commercial for theater.  The musicals, as always, dominated the coverage.  Milton loved the performance of “The Best of Times” from La Cage aux Folles, but the splashy song and dance numbers shown from the other musicals Ragtime; Promises, Promises; Million Dollar Quartet; Memphis; Come Fly Away, were all pretty horrible.  When Fela! had its moment to shine, with the African-American cast dancing over the entire stage, Milton drolly announced, “CBS just lost Oklahoma.”  Many of the musicals were given long-winded introductions that made our minds wander.  We began talking about film.

Milton:  Do you know if that Joan Rivers documentary is available on channel 1000?  What’s it called?

Me:  Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work. It wasn’t when I looked yesterday … Are you planning to see The Human Centipede?

Milton:  Are you kidding?  I wouldn’t pay to see that crap!  <pause> I’ll get it on NetFlix.

Briefly, the show got interesting when Viola Davis and then Denzel Washington both won for Best Actress and Best Actor for the revival of August Wilson’s Fences.  She gave a beautiful heartfelt speech whereas he seemed unprepared as he fumbled through his thanks, but she was a tough act to follow.  Milton was bored with Denzel’s remarks, and chose this moment to criticize his suit and creamy color tie.  Cate Blanchett, in a shimmering silver suit that won Milton’s enthusiastic seal of approval, presented the award for Best Revival of a Play to Fences.  I wasn’t as impressed with her outfit.  I thought it looked like something designed by NASA.

More odd presenters included Paula Abdul handing Bill T. Jones the choreography award for Fela! Even more perverse was Raquel Welch, who not only had a difficult time reading the teleprompter but also seemed to stumble through what was written inside the envelope confirming the old adage, “Once a bimbo, always a bimbo.”  Milton quipped that he would love to see her perform Hedda Gabler at a dinner theater in Boca Raton.  She presented the award for Best Revival of a Musical to La Cage aux Folles.  It later occurred to me that Milton has often said that if he had been born a woman, he would have wanted to have Raquel Welch’s body (I’m quite sure minus her brain), so it’s possible that someone overheard him, and that was why she was tagged as a presenter.  Of his ideal woman, Milton observed, “She looked better on Oprah.”

Towards the end of the show, some cast members from the TV series, Glee, performed Broadway show tunes.  Milton is a Glee fan, but he had no idea why this was happening.  I think it was a blatant attempt to hang onto the attention of younger viewers.  When Lea Michele performed the Barbra Streisand classic from Funny Girl, “Don’t Rain on My Parade”, Milton was so incensed, I thought he might rocket-launch himself out of his hand-cranked Barcalounger and strangle her.  Milton worships Babs.  Lea Michele sang the same arrangement as Streisand, and she did hit all the notes.  Milton grudgingly admitted that she did not destroy it, but there is only one Barbra Streisand, and she will be a tough act to follow.

Lea Michele ready to take on Barbra Streisand?

I later did some research and have learned that Funny Girl is going to be revived in 2012.  Bartlett Sher (who attended the same high school as my brother, Axel, but five years apart) has signed onto direct.  He has directed two previously Milton-approved productions, the revivals of South Pacific in 2008 and Joe Turner’s Come and Gone in 2009.  Next season, he’s directing a musical adaptation of Pedro Almodovar’s 1988 film, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.  The big question is who will play Fanny Brice, the role that propelled Streisand to superstardom.  Possibly Lea Michele was using this opportunity at the Tony awards as an audition.  According to Wikipedia, she has been performing on Broadway since age 8.  Milton and I saw her in Spring Awakening. She was Jonathan Groff’s pregnant girlfriend, Wendla.  When Milton reads this, I anticipate that he’ll spit fire.

After Memphis won for Best New Musical, the show ended so abruptly, Sean Hayes barely had time to say goodnight, before a second splashy number from this show could be quickly staged.  I switched to channel 1000 and told Milton that the Joan Rivers documentary is still not available on demand.

Leave a comment

Posted in Humor

Tagged , , , , ,