Lame Adventure 50: The Satchel Situation

Posted on May 21, 2010 | Leave a comment

Eleven years ago I wrote a screenplay, a rather lame comedy about a lesbian, her brother and their father who are the trinity of boneheads in their failed relationships with women, but at least the father had a good excuse since he was a widower; sis and bro were two knuckleheads.  This script elicited the level of response that lies between indifference and buzz.  Now this script lies in a Pottery Barn wicker basket full of other screenplays, plays and stories I’ve written that have a promising future as mulch.  What I remember most about that script, since even the title escapes me as I write this post, is that it was the calling card that granted me a meeting with a script reader at Miramax, when the company was still run by the Brothers Weinstein.  Full disclosure:  I would like to say she agreed to read my script and hold a meeting with me because I wrote such a stellar query letter, but what separated my project from the herd was that I included a Valrhona chocolate bar with my pile of typing.

Although I would never be mistaken for a vanity case, and my sartorial tastes run more in the direction of the Larry David Collection as opposed to the latest designer offerings unveiled on the Fashion Week runways, I decided that before attending this important meeting it would behoove me to carry a satchel that better matched my predominantly black attire.  The satchel I had was brown.  The satchel I purchased specifically to impress this Miramax script reader was a navy blue Manhattan Portage canvas bag.  I was not so delusional that I actually thought this script reader was going to say:

Script Reader:  I was on the fence about your script, but now that I see you’re carrying a navy blue Manhattan Portage satchel, I’m going to pass it onto Harvey and Bob.

Yet, that would have been novel.

In reality, the meeting went well.  She said she liked my script, she was under the impression that I had literary promise and wanted to read whatever I write next.  Her exact industry-sounding phrase was, “I’m going to track you.”  Unfortunately, there was little to track since it took me five years to write a follow-up opus, and by then, that script reader had moved on and the opportunity had derailed.

Fortunately, the navy blue Manhattan Portage satchel stuck with me for another five years until last month, when I noticed the zipper was wearing out and had ceased to close properly.  I had recently read an article in the New York Times about Eddie Feibush, the 86-year-old proprietor of a store on the Lower East Side called ZipperStop.  His inventory has over a million zippers.  Eddie’s website (http://zipperstop.com/) declares, “Zipping up America since 1941.”

I thought, “I should bring my ailing satchel to Eddie!  Surely, he’ll have the zipper I need!”  What might that zipper cost me?  I looked on his web site and it seems he has YKK products that cost as little as $1.50.  Sweet!  Hm, where would I go to have my satchel repaired?  I could go to one of the tailors in my neighborhood that hems my pants.  These guys charge $12 for hemming.  What might they charge for an alteration that is not even on the alterations chart?  On the Upper West Side, if it’s not on the chart, that means prepare to pay even more.  I can handle a needle and thread; maybe I should just assume this task myself?  Considering that I have yet to get around to resewing a button that fell off a coat two months ago, who am I kidding?  It will probably take me years before I would find the motivation to make this repair to my bag myself.

“So, what to do?” I asked myself.

In response I screamed, “Go on Amazon, you idiot! Order a new bag!”

And that’s exactly what I did.  I ordered the same bag.  It now costs $5 more than what I paid in 2000.  I thought that was odd but when I received my new bag a few days later, I noticed that the label has been updated.  It’s still the Manhattan Portage logo, but it no longer claims it’s made in Manhattan, for obviously, it’s not.  If it were, then it would cost much more than what I paid for it ten years ago.

New bag made who knows where on left and an original made in Manhattan Portage on right.

I still want to meet Eddie Feibush and check out ZipperStop.  I’m sure that’s a building full of not only a million zippers, but millions of stories.

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Lame Adventure 49: Bathroom Matters

Posted on May 19, 2010 | Leave a comment

The time has come to steer Lame Adventures straight into the toilet.  Elsbeth, my boss, is a respected award winning interior designer.  On the night she won her most recent accolade for creating an eye-catching three-dimensional tile, I was undergoing colon prep.  While my Lord and Master was clutching her trophy and delivering a speech thanking the little people I was completely indisposed.  As soon as she could escape the glare of the flash bulbs, she forgot that I had specifically told her that I was spending the evening evacuating my being.  While I am relieving myself voluminously, an elated Elsbeth calls and leaves a message on my home answering machine.

Elsbeth:  We won!  We won!  We won! (pause)  Are you there? (remembering) Oh! … I know where you are, uh, well … Just wanted you to know we won!

Insert sound effect:  toilet flushing.

One of Elsbeth’s most inspired creative feats, at least amongst her staff, has been the red light in our office that she had the company craftsman install a few years ago.  If I recall the root of Elsbeth’s inspiration, it was her very own bladder after gulping down yet another 20-ounce bottle of Diet Coke.  When this light bulb is lit, this notifies us when our bathroom is occupied.  This is great since our bathroom is inconveniently located outside our office in our department’s warehouse.  That light bulb was truly another stroke of Elsbethian genius.  Prior to its existence, often one would trek through the warehouse, over to the bathroom, only to find the door shut, forcing the outsider to make a decision, do you wait or return later?

If the occupier was our former cleaning lady, Agnes the Bitter, a pygmy sized woman who excelled at vacuuming near ones desk whenever one was on a business call, odds were good that you might have to wait up to half an hour for her to emerge.  This was not due to A the B diligently cleaning every inch of our bathroom with a toothbrush, it just happened to be her choice destination to park herself with her cell phone.  Since the advent of the red light, our bathroom was no longer a safe haven of privacy for A the B to grouse about how overworked she was, although I suspect that once that red light bulb was installed, it was topic A on her call sheet for weeks on end.

Fast forward to the present.  I am sitting at my desk re-proofreading the same document to the point of developing hysterical blindness, when I polish off my third cup of tea in two hours.  Suddenly I feel the need to urinate with an urgency akin to my ancestors, if any of them happened to be tea-drinking barnyard animals.  I steal a glance in the direction of the red light.  It’s not lit.  I think, “Oh happy day!”

Yes! Vacant!

Fleet of hoof, I race to the bathroom, turn on the light, but before closing the door, I see this:

Maneuver of an imbecile.

With bladderial floodwaters rising rapidly, I defy the odds, speed-race back to my desk, and grab my camera to take the above image.  Then, I am free to thoroughly drain my being.  I emerge feeling three gallons lighter with slight dry-eye and itchy knuckles.

Back in the office, I immediately show the picture to my colleagues, Greg, Elaine and Ling.  Both the Quiet Man and Elsbeth are on the phone so they’re spared.  Greg is quite sure that The Company Blockhead was the culprit.  One of the requirements for anyone working under Elsbeth is that your signature is not your thumbprint.  Therefore, this does appear to be the handiwork of the love child of a small soap dish and a tree stump.  An old adage claims that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I deduce that the positioning of this toilet paper roll rates just eleven more:

This is a statement in the language of bathroom etiquette stupidity.

Groan. Occupied.

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Lame Adventure 48: The Real Reason Why Law & Order was Cancelled – the Elaine Jinx?

Posted on May 17, 2010 | 2 comments

After work one day last month, I was yogurt shopping in Fairway.  My cell phone was on vibrate and buried deep in the pocket of my baggy chinos.  A long hand-truck filled with stacks of cardboard trays of more yogurts was parked outside the dairy case.  Additional stacks of yogurt trays were piled three feet high on the floor.  Clearly I had arrived at the dairy case in the middle of the Let’s Torment the Customers with a Yogurt Obstacle Course, as De Sade, the Yogurt Shelf Stocker, had vacated his post for a break, probably his dinner hour.

My preferred brand of yogurt, Brown Cow, had already been restocked, but the stacks of cardboard trays of other brands were completely blockading the aisle in front of the Brown Cow shelves.  Therefore, I had to strategically stretch over the wide and deep columns of yogurt to reach my cup of maple flavored Brown Cow.

A flavor so good it's worth a pulled muscle.

As I was doing this, my cell phone dipped deeper into my pocket closing in on a very sensitive area of my anatomy that is normally dormant when I am near Fairway’s dairy case.  Just as I was impersonating Elastigirl my cell phone started vibrating dangerously close to that very sensitive area of my anatomy.  As a result I began to suffer a genuine moment of unwanted intimate pleasure in this punishing environment that patrons consider the antithesis of ecstasy (see Lame Adventure 15: Like No Other Market).

The caller was my friend and colleague, Elaine, my company’s Marketing Director.  Her call was unexpected since I had just seen her half an hour earlier when I said good night.

Me (deep groan):  Hey.

Elaine:  You sound odd.

Me: I’m shopping in Fairway.  What’s up?

Elaine:  I want you to know that I just spoke to Elsbeth.  I gave her a one-month notice.  I’ve decided to move back to the UK.  She started crying.  Then I started crying.

Me:  Jesus!  And Elsbeth was in such a good mood today.

Elaine:  Funnily enough, I shattered that … You know, you really do sound quite peculiar, like you were strangely exerting yourself.

Me:  If you must know, I was subject to inadvertent foreplay due to your phone call.

Elaine:  I never knew I had that kind of affect on you.  At my age, that’s flattering.

Me (annoyed):  My phone was on vibrate.  It was more like Abu Ghraib.  Why the hell are you quitting?

Elaine:  You know my dad’s been ill, and my mother’s daft.  I have to spend more time over there.

Me (light bulb):  Did it occur to you that you’re not going to be able to see Law & Order next season?

Elaine (horrified):  You’re right!  I didn’t think of that!  They don’t have cable in Banbury!  What am I going to do?

Me:  Tomorrow, rescind your resignation!  Elsbeth will be thrilled and all will be right in the world again.

Elaine:  I can’t!  I’ve booked passage on the Queen Mary.  I’m sailing June 7th!

Me (foiled):  Guess you could always follow it on Hulu when you’re back over there.  Does Banbury have Internet?

Elaine:  Yes!  What a relief!

Elaine is a HUGE Law & Order fan, so when word leaked that it was being cancelled last Thursday and then it was confirmed on Friday that the rumor was true, she was devastated.  I’ve never watched that show once in the twenty years it’s been airing, but rarely have I opened a Playbill and not seen at least one cast member with a credit on that show or one of its spin-offs, it’s such a staple for actors working in New York.  The Quiet Man told us that he has a friend who was on it five times, usually playing a thug.  Last fall, L, a former colleague, was certain that she saw an actor-friend of mine on it, and was thrilled to see she was working, even if the role was only that of a corpse.  According to The New York Times, the demise of this show is going to leave a gaping hole in the Big Apple’s economy:

“Katherine Oliver, the commissioner of the Mayor’s Office of Film, Theater and Broadcasting, said that every year the show provided jobs to about 4,000 people, including one-day acting roles. Its spending totaled about $79 million annually, she said, including things like coffee and bagels, boom microphones and duct tape. During its 20-year run, that impact amounted to as much as $1 billion or more, she said.”

That’s a lot of bagels, duct tape and she said(s).

A few weeks before Elaine gave notice, one of her fellow British friends who is friends with Linus Roache, asked Linus if it would be possible for Elaine to visit the Law & Order set, whether the friend played up or down Elaine’s devotion bordering on fanaticism for the show, I do not know.  I do know that Linus was instrumental in making this visit happen for Elaine.  As it turned out, her visit was on April 14th, the day that Law & Order wrapped camera for what we now know was the very last time.  Elaine thinks she might have jinxed the show, but I suspect that her karma is so healthy, that visit on that historical day in the show’s history was her reward for being such a terrific friend and colleague.

Cool!

Elaine and her hero, Executive ADA, Michael Cutter.

Elaine paling around with ADA Connie Rubirosa.

Elaine making herself at home on the set.

Elaine playing with props.

Elaine in disbelief standing next to Executive ADA Jack McCoy.

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Lame Adventure 45: Encounter with the Pigeon of Fortune

Posted on May 10, 2010 | Leave a comment

On Saturday night, while Milton was waiting to board the cross-town bus to transport him to my place so we could head downtown together to attend Albee’s birthday party, an incontinent pigeon disrupted our plans and dropped its load on his shoulder.  Instead of following Plan A, we followed Plan B; Milton arrived at my place, we laughed like two pre-adolescent girls while photographing the mess, and then he proceeded to vigorously scrub the turd off his jacket with Palmolive and a sponge (which was immediately discarded).

Ew.

One of the guests at the party, a very personable woman whose name I unfortunately did not grasp for I am nearly deaf as a post and the venue was rather loud, told us that when she was residing in Venice many years ago, a bird dive-bombed her in the headscarf.   She whipped it off, crumpled it up, stuffed it in her satchel and went about her day.  Afterward, when she went to launder the scarf, a giant hole was now where the fallout had landed.  This sobering revelation made us ponder what toxic ingredients must be swimming in those storied canals.

Milton and I figured that his turd primarily consisted of standard discarded Gotham City food fare – pizza, pretzels, bagels, maybe some Mickey D’s, a Dunkin’ Donut, etc.  I am sure if he woke to a hole in his jacket’s shoulder, I would have been immediately notified of this development.

Something else our delightful fellow partygoer mentioned is that being pooped on by a bird brings good luck.  Why is this so?  According to Wiki-answers, “Somebody came up with the idea that it’s good luck because it’s so disgusting that there MUST be something good about it.”  Elsewhere on the web someone referred to this as a “bird blessing.”  We both failed to ask what unforeseen fortune the Poisonous Pigeon of Venice bestowed upon our fellow partygoer, but having the quick reflexes to tear off that scarf before that vile turd could eat a hole through her head could have been the prize.  She seems to be happily married to a great guy and their offspring is about to graduate college.

As for what luck the Carb-filled Pigeon of the East Side could have delivered Milton’s way that remains to be seen.  Possibly it’s something as simple as only being pooped on by a bird, as opposed to a drenching of dung from a flying rhinoceros, or maybe he should immediately buy a lottery ticket, and see if the odds of winning big are now suddenly in his favor.  The first thing he might do with his windfall is buy a new jacket — and frame the old one.

Vessels of luck congregating.

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Lame Adventure 44: Share the Pain

Posted on May 8, 2010 | 1 comment

Konstantine, the boy next door, appears to have broken up with his boyfriend of two torrid months, Titanic Penis, for TP has not been around much this week and Konstantine is repeatedly playing a Beyonce song, Why Don’t You Love Me.  I have also noticed that during this period of heartbreak, my neighbor has taken down the wind chimes that wreaked havoc with a headache I had a few weeks ago, but I quickly grew used to them and they mixed fine with all the other ambient noise forever playing on my internal iPod.

This morning, when I left on a bagel run, Konstantine was playing that Beyonce song, and when I returned with one very satisfying cinnamon raisin bagel, he was playing it again.  Next, I went out to have my hair colored and cut.  After my hair appointment, when I entered my building, he was playing it so loud, the letter carrier; a very pleasant woman delivering my mail was compelled to comment:

Letter Carrier: You have a Beyonce fan here.

Me:  That’s my next-door neighbor.  He broke up with someone and has been playing that song non-stop.

Letter Carrier:  Oh.  That’s not good.  I prefer Single Ladies.

Me:  I prefer the sounds of silence.  The literal sounds of silence.

Letter Carrier:  I know what you meant.

Me (hopeful):  Hey!  Are you now my regular letter carrier?

Letter Carrier:  No, I’m filling in.

I suffer a downbeat.  She hands me my mail.  Konstantine starts that song again.

Letter Carrier:  You have yourself a great day.  (pause)  Maybe you should go out some more.  The weather’s beautiful.

I resist the urge to ask who I can contact to make her my regular letter carrier.  Back to smashed mail come Monday …

My grieving neighbor has played this song so many times I half-wonder if he has overdosed, but then I see him stick his head out the window, so the only overdosing going on around here is me having to hear that one song over and over and over again.  Realizing that I’m back in my garret, Konstantine lowers the volume from a level ten to the current five.  My books and candles stop vibrating, but right now, he’s still playing that same song.  Milton calls and I tell him about this situation.  He surmises, “Prison time.”  I ask my expert consultant on all things gay male if Beyonce is the Judy for young gay guys.  Milton growls, “They don’t have a Judy.”  I’d give a kidney to hear The Man That Got Away right now.  I have the Judy at Carnegie Hall double LP, but I gave away my turntable to a friend in need (of a turntable) a few years ago.  Hmm.

A must-have Judy recording for all fans of Dorothy.

I have a light bulb.   Actually, I have 51 years worth of ecospiral light bulbs (see Lame Adventure 36: The Calculations of Light).  I Google Judy and The Man That Got Away pops up in its entirety!  I hook my MacBook to my speakers and play it.

Loud.

Konstantine shuts off Beyonce!  I’m not saying that Judy Garland emoting her guts out at Carnegie Hall back in 1961 is the cure to my neighbor’s blues, but she silences Sasha Fierce, and that’s a great thing on this side of the shared wall.  Maybe if I play The Trolley Song next he’ll make an even quicker recovery from his funk.

Liner notes and album art -- more product of a bygone era.

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Lame Adventure 43: The Annual Annoyance

Posted on May 6, 2010 | 6 comments

On Tuesday I had my birthday.  Since it was not one ending in the three dreaded digits — five, nine, or zero, I suffered little and enjoyed myself somewhat.  Actually, much more than somewhat, since I was showered with a tremendous amount of attention from my friends, family and colleagues. My boss, Elsbeth, treated me to an excellent dark chocolate gourmet cake that my buddy, Ling, researched since she knows my dietary issues only too well.  Therefore, I was able to eat the entire cake by myself at my desk chanting gluttonously, “Mine, all mine!”  Take two; I shared the cake with my colleagues.  It was so decadent we ate it over the course of two days.

That evening, Milton and I saw a play on Broadway, Enron, chronicling the rise and fall of those titans of corporate greed.  We were looking forward to this staging since Lucy Prebble, the show’s creator, has had such great buzz.  It’s mind blowing that a woman born in 1981 already has a show on Broadway.

My colleague, Elaine, had seen Enron a week earlier and she thought it was terrific.  Her assessment has clout with us, so it was a surprise that we did not share her enthusiasm.  In fact, it was a bit shocking.  I agree with Milton’s one word assessment, “Dull.”  He said he found it as dreadful as anything we have seen through the years written by Caryl Churchill.  The 2008 staging of Top Girls was possibly our most negative theatergoing experience ever because we found the narrative baffling and I was coming down with a monumental cold.

Following Enron was not a struggle.  Even though it was packed with glitz, dancing, singing, light sabers, actors in mouse and alligator heads, I found myself nodding out during the second act.  At the play’s conclusion, a pudgy balding middle age guy that looked like a Statistical Thermodynamics professor in khakis and a short sleeve plaid shirt sprang to his feet, applauding and screaming in ecstasy.  For an instant I wondered if he and I saw the same show.  Afterward, Milton and I headed uptown to the Magnolia Bakery on Columbus Avenue where we stuffed ourselves with chocolate banana cupcakes.  It is a bit amazing that I did not suffer sugar shock since I so indulged in dessert that day.

Good things come inside this box.

Out of focus good things.

Even though the play was disappointing, the only downside to this year’s birthday was minimal; waking that morning with pillow creases dented into my head.

Happy happy joy joy. Older and forehead creased.

Fortunately, they faded by the time I arrived at work.  On the train ride in, I did not notice anyone zeroing in on my forehead, unlike in 2004 during a blizzard when I smacked my head hard on a low hanging air conditioner and was sporting the General Electric logo for almost the entire workday.  This was when I was working in broadcast news as a digital feed ingester, a position almost as appealing as death row inmate, but less spiritually fulfilling.

Banging my head into that block of frozen metal in white out conditions hurt tremendously.  I had to fight to maintain consciousness.  I arrived at work five minutes late still feeling disoriented.  Due to the fierce weather, many members of the staff were no shows, so the network was operating with a skeletal crew.  When I arrived at 8:05 instead of 8:00, the stressed producer screamed his lungs out at me.  Spit was flying out of his face into mine.  I stood uncharacteristically passive because a gong continued to ring non-stop inside my throbbing head.  I only remember what he said when he concluded his tirade, “Is that the GE logo on your head?”  Too bad I wasn’t employed by NBC.  Maybe they would have awarded me a bonus.

Although I am not a fan of the aging process, it’s going okay thus far.

Me in days of yore; forehead creaseless.

At least I’m not going in the direction of a John Chamberlain sculpture … yet.

Hopefully not me ever.

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Lame Adventure 42: Apple Shenanigans

Posted on May 3, 2010 | 1 comment

As tempting as it is for me to opine about the car bomb that luckily failed to detonate in the heart of Times Square’s theater district on Saturday – thanks to the T-shirt vendor of the year seeing something and saying something – and as much as I wonder if this impotent explosive device was planted by a home grown lunatic or was it courtesy of the rifle-toting bearded guys in ankle length shirts that hate our guts and sleep together in caves, well, I’m not going to participate in that discussion here in Lame Adventures, a forum devoted to the silly in the mundane.  I would like to discuss the literally rotten apple that crossed my path on Sunday here in the Big Apple.

After doing my usual daily grocery shopping, I return home and as I am putting my purchases away, I notice that one of my Macoun apples is moist.  As it turns out, the apple is perfect on one side – the side that drew me like metal to magnet, and rotting mush on the other.  I debate what to do, take the time to return it, or just be philosophical about it.  Hey, sometimes it’s just your turn to purchase The Rotten Apple.

Then, I take some photographs.

The Mona Lisa side.

The Wicked Witch of the West side.

After the photo shoot with The Rotten Apple, I decide, “What’s the worse that can happen if I try to return it? Do I look like an apple thief? I’m small, pale, bespectacled, and equipped with a store receipt declaring I purchased The Rotten Apple minutes earlier.”  There’s always a window of time when a purchase goes awry.

For example, last year Milton and I had a Broadway theater ticket snafu.  Broadway’s iron-clad no returns no exchanges policy does have a few hours of wriggle room if you happen to buy your tickets at the theater box office and the ticket seller you purchased your wrong tickets from is still working at that window.  Milton and I encountered this exact situation when we got the wrong seats to Neil LaBute’s Reasons to be Pretty.  Fortunately, the ticket seller remembered us.  She probably thought, “Those two nerds.”  Actually, she was quite considerate.  I recall that she even blamed herself for my inability to correctly read our seat numbers, and was kind enough to take back the tickets in exchange for the seats we wanted in the first place.  I am not suggesting that anyone reading this post purposely screw up a theater ticket purchase to try out this brief window of time theory, but in legitimate cases where you come across as desperate, subservient, and so repentant you appear ready to journey to Lourdes, Broadway ticket sellers do have the capacity to take pity on theater loving fools.

Back to the situation with The Rotten Apple, I venture up the street to my market carrying The Rotten Apple in a bag, and enter through the out door since it’s closest to where the store manager hovers.  Just as I am about to approach him, Shavone, one of my favorite cashiers, calls out to me.

Shavone:  Hey!

Me:  Hey Shavone!

Shavone sees my bag.

Shavone:  You returning something?

Since her station is uncharacteristically empty, I approach.

Me (holding up my bag for emphasis):  Yeah, I bought a rotten apple by mistake.

Shavone:  You have to go upstairs to Customer Service on the second floor to make a return.  They won’t give you a refund down here.

Me:  I don’t want my money back.  I want another apple.  Do you think I can get another apple and make an exchange?

Shavone:  Probably.  Go upstairs and talk to them about it.

Before going upstairs, I grab another comparably sized apple, make sure this one shows no signs of rot, and hightail up to the second floor.   There, I encounter the Customer Service worker who reminds me of myself at work, someone bored beyond belief.

Me:  Hi.

Customer Service (rousing):  Hi.

Me:  I bought a rotten apple by mistake this morning.  I’d like to exchange it for this one.

I show her both The Rotten Apple and the un-rotten apple of my dreams.

Customer Service:  You have a receipt?

Me:  Yeah.

I hand the Customer Service worker my receipt.  She glances at it, hands it back to me, and then takes my rotten apple.

Customer Service:  Okay.

I then hightail downstairs equipped with my un-rotten apple, make a bee-line for Shavone’s register and purchase a six-pack of bottled water.  The woman in front of me in line is making the same purchase.  She notices.

Woman in Front of Me:  Looks like everyone’s buying water today.

Shavone:  It is hot out here.

Me (resenting being equated with everyone thinking):  Thank you.

Me (what I say): ________ (I keep my pie hole shut.)

Shavone completes the transaction with the Woman in Front of Me, the leader in bottle water purchasers.  It’s now my turn.

Shavone:  They take care of you upstairs?

Me:  Yeah, I got a new apple.

Shavone:  Good.

Shavone's trademark nails -- all real -- and she can work a register like a magician with them!

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Lame Adventure 41: The Lip Balm Tragedy

Posted on April 30, 2010 | 5 comments

While standing in the 72nd Street subway station waiting for the 1 train, I looked down in the tracks and noticed a small jar of Carmex lip balm looking up at me.  In an imagined voice, or possibly an aural hallucination that sounded distinctly like Jeff Goldblum’s voice in David Cronenberg’s debatably necessary 1986 remake of the horror film classic, The Fly, the Carmex cried, “Help me!”  I grimaced and replied, “Sucks to be you, buddy.”  Then, I whipped out my trusty Canon digital and took a few pictures.

"Help me!"

I have been on the lip balm losing end on more occasions than I care to recall.  It never fails that on days when my lips are feeling painfully dry, I’ll reach into my pocket or messenger bag and sure enough, I will find myself lip balm-less.  If Carmex were my brand I would half wonder if that was one of the many lip balms I have lost through the years sitting in the subway tracks, but I always assume that my many missing lip balms have entered the black hole that also holds hostage the legions of socks I have lost since birth.  Recently, the subject of missing socks somehow came up during a work-related discussion with Elsbeth, my boss, a fellow lost sock sufferer.  She opined with certainty in her tone, “Once you lose a sock, forget it.  You’ll never see it again.”  Truer words have never been spoken by my superior.

Returning to the subject of missing lip balm and the lip pain that always seems to escalate monumentally when I realize that I have once again failed to pack one of the many tubes I have of my balm of choice, Kiehl’s Lip Balm #1, a curious name since none of Kiehl’s other balms are numbered.  This must be Kiehl’s subliminal way of telling Lip Balm #1 devotees like me, “This is the Mercedes Benz of lip balms that tastes like Vaseline, even though a 12 pack of Vaseline lip balms costs $13.99 on Amazon whereas a single tube of Kiehl’s costs $7.00, excluding tax and shipping.”  Maybe Kiehl’s would not say that.  It has occurred to me that if I had saved all the money I have spent on tubes of Lip Balm #1 through the years, I might have painfully sore lips but also a down payment for a Mercedes.

When I am not carrying one of my nine Kiehl’s lip balms (I have purposely counted my many lip balms for this post), and my lips are a source of searing pain, I duck into the nearest pharmacy or stop at the closest newsstand and pretty much buy the Whatever Brand Of Lip Balm To Stop This Pain That Is Making Me Think Of Nothing But How Much My Lips Are Hurting Me At This Moment.

I easily have nine of those Whatever Brand lip balms, but could only locate two, along with three holiday stocking stuffer lip balms my sister, Dovima, and niece, Sweetpea, have given me.  I am more sentimental about hanging onto gift lip balm from family.  As sorry as I felt for the forlorn jar of Carmex destined to meet a tragic end on the subway tracks, I also pity the poor schmuck or schmuck-ette who might be reaching into his or her pocket right now in need of that very jar of lip balm.  Whoever you are, I know your pain.

The Imelda Marcos Collection of Lip Balms

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Lame Adventure 40: The Syrup Locker

Posted on April 28, 2010 | 2 comments

It is lunchtime and Ling and I are sitting at our desks eating.  My friend and colleague is having a salad while doing some work-related retouching in Photoshop.  I’m stuffing myself with one of my legendarily crummy sandwiches while inhaling The New York Times Magazine online, a story written by Jon Mooallem published March 29,  2010 about if animals can be gay.  Appropriately, it is titled Can Animals Be Gay? Elsbeth enters our office and stands between our two desks.

Elsbeth:  Ling, can you make a sign asking customers to not touch the syrup locker?  They should ask for assistance.

Ling:  The what?

Me:  Did you say, “The syrup locker,” Boss?

Elsbeth:  Yes.  The syrup locker.

Ling:  Huh?

Me (excited):  Is that our version of The Hurt Locker?  Are you going to get all Kathryn Bigelow, Elsbeth, lead us into historical greatness, be a warrior princess, set  a precedent?

Bigelow in action directing The Hurt Locker.

Elsbeth was not overly impressed with Bigelow’s award winning film.  She gives me a withering glance before returning her attention to Ling.

Elsbeth:  You know [thinking/emphasizing] the locker for the syrups.

Ling looks completely baffled.

Me:  Now that’s a Claritin clear way of putting it.

Elsbeth (relieved):  Good.

Elsbeth leaves and returns to her office.  Ling and I are staring at each other like two doofuses.

Me:  What the hell’s the syrup locker?

Ling:  I have no fuckin’ clue.  I have to see that movie.

Me:  I liked it.  It’s good.  Hey, I’ll Google syrup locker.

I Google syrup locker, but that draws a blank.  Googling each word individually draws what one would expect.

Syrup.

Locker.

Ling resumes eating her salad and doing her retouching.  I resume reading about two female birds nursing an egg together making scientists ponder if these creatures are indeed lesbian.  Reading this fascinating article is the most awake I’ve been all day.

Birds of a feather.

The next morning, Ling and I are sitting at our desks eating breakfast.  She, a bowl of oatmeal and I, a cup of flavor-reduced vitamin fortified wood chips in skim milk.  Ling’s phone rings.  The caller is Stan, Elsbeth’s husband, asking Ling to make a sign for the vintage ice cream syrup dispenser we have on display.  Ling hangs up the phone and pounds out the sign. We both know what that is, having played with it ourselves a few weeks earlier.  The syrups are all empty.  We know, we checked.

The Syrup Locker (with sign).

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Lame Adventure 39: Chimes in Hell

Posted on April 26, 2010 | Leave a comment

If sneezing were an occupation, I would have a career, or maybe even find myself CEO of a multinational corporation, one called Sneezers, Inc.  It was Friday night, Milton and I had tickets to see our close mutual friend, Albee, star as Vincent Cradeau, the coward sent to hell, in an Off-Off-Broadway staging of Jean-Paul Sartre’s existential masterpiece No Exit.  The basement theater, 13th Street Repertory, was a tad musty.

As soon as the lights dimmed, I suffered an allergy attack, started sneezing, and managed to sneeze my way through the entirety of this very entertaining ninety-minute play.  When I am at home or at work, I generally sneeze with hurricane force, but in this intimate setting, I stifle my sneezes for fear of shattering the cast’s concentration, as well as distracting my fellow theatergoers.  Afterward, Milton assures me that my incessant sneezing was “remarkably quiet, I barely heard you.  I’m certain no one on stage did, either.”  Albee later told us that the only distraction he suffered was minor, seeing his father dozing in the third row.  If my father attended, I doubt that he would have fallen asleep, but I am sure he would have asked many questions:

Dad:  Where the hell were they supposed to be, hell?

Me:  Yeah, it’s set in hell.

Dad:  So they were just driving each other nuts for eternity?

Me:  Yeah.  Sartre’s most famous quote is from this play, “Hell is other people.”

Dad:  Huh.  Can’t argue with that.

Although this was minimalist staging, and the first production by this new theater company, Marble Bath Productions, when great writing meets talented acting and inspired directing, it’s theater that works well.  It will be very interesting to see what MBP stages next.  In addition, all of the proceeds from this initial production benefited Haiti.  This prompted Milton to remark, “Haiti now has more of my money than I do.”

Professionally, Albee uses the easy to remember stage name Kuros Charney.

A possible side effect of having 327 sneezes implode inside my head over the course of ninety minutes, I wake with a significant headache Saturday morning.  I pop a fistful of high-octane head pain reliever, and just as the pain begins to lift, I hear rustling and jangling outside my window.  Constantine, my next-door neighbor (see Lame Adventure 3: Neighbor and Muffin ), is in the process of hanging wind chimes.  Who the hell hangs wind chimes in New York City?  You hang wind chimes in the country, places with space and soft warm breezes, not cramped urban places rife with airborne soot.  Furthermore, why not hang these wind chimes in one of his other windows, such as the one not facing my bed, and in essence, my aching head?  Now I am feeling beaten in the brains with tubular bells.

I consider raising a fuss about this, but it’s not like he has a belching bagpipe or a screaming car alarm sitting in the windowsill.  Therefore, I decide that getting dramatic about this is rather petty on my part, and besides, my headache has subsided.  I go out and take a walk, burn off some steam.  When I return, I see Constantine leaving our building.

Constantine:  Hi, how are you?

Me (thinking):  Woke with a brain tumor, my neck is always stiff, I can’t stop sneezing, I suffer constant dry eye, and I hate your wind chimes.  Hell is other people.

Me (saying):  Pretty good.  Can’t complain.  And you?

Constantine:  My sister in Greece got me a belated birthday present, wind chimes! They sound so soothing!  I hung them between our windows so you can hear them, too.

If I strangle him, would this be called neighborcide?

Me:  Oh, you shouldn’t have.  You’re just too thoughtful.

I enter my apartment, glare at the chimes and sneeze voluminously.  They tinkle.

My source of force-fed mellow.

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