Tag Archives: time out new york

Lame Adventure 293: Missing Magazine Crusader

Most days at work I collect the mail in the first floor in-basket.  Most of the mail is addressed to my boss, Elsbeth.  A week or two ago I noticed the April issue of Harper’s magazine in our in-basket.

April issue of Harper's magazine.

It was not addressed to Elsbeth but I figured that Stu, her husband and the company founder, put it there intentionally.  It’s not my style to question what motivates him to do what he does as I am sure he welcomes my indifference.  Yet, had he left a live hand grenade in our in-basket I still might not have questioned Stu himself, but I would have been compelled to ask one of his Yes Men about that along with enforcing a dictate of my own:

Me:  One of you guys bring that up to her.

When I would reach my office wearing my Minister of Watch Dogging chapeau, I would go straight to my Lord and Master yapping:

Me:  Hey Elsbeth, one of Stu’s Yes Men is coming up here with a live hand grenade for us.  Do we really want that on our floor?

Questions like that to my superior either emit a twenty second long sigh of extreme annoyance or a short, sharp outburst:

Elsbeth:  No!

Apparently, the April issue of Harper’s that was passed onto her was not intended for us. Almost two weeks after I retrieve it Elsbeth asks me:

Elsbeth:  Would you like this issue of Harper’s?

I avert my gaze from the pigeon on the sill that appears to be mocking me and turn my attention to my chief.

Ha, ha, ha, I'm outside in the sun and you're behind bars!

Elsbeth:  The letter carrier delivered it to us by mistake.

The alarm bells ring in my head.

Me:  Sure.

Elsbeth hands me the magazine and returns to her office, satisfied that I accept her offering but I have a hidden agenda.  I look at the address label.  It was meant for a guy named David who resides two doors down from my company.  Every so often, the magazines I subscribe to, all with New York in the title – The New Yorker, New York Magazine and Time Out New York, go missing.  I have called my post office about this and complained.  As they insist that I did receive my issue of New York, I have to remind them that I want to know what happened to my missing copy of The New Yorker.  I have also directly confronted my letter carrier, a very nice woman when encountered face to face, but a side of me wonders if she would love to posit this question to my kisser:

My Very Nice Letter Carrier:  You crazy bitch, why the hell do you have to subscribe to every fuckin’ magazine in the world with New York in the title?

Yet, my letter carrier has made a better effort to deliver my magazines in recent months, but when an issue does go missing, if she happens to stick it in the wrong mailbox, does the neighbor that gets it keep it?  If so, I think that exploiting her mistake for personal gain is theft.  Therefore, I cannot in good conscience keep David’s issue of Harper’s.  If I can return his magazine to him, maybe someone that gets one of my misdelivered magazines will finally do a first in my building, in the almost 30 years I’ve resided there, grow a solitary brain cell of consideration and return it to me, the rightful owner.  The cynic in me, that coincidentally happens to be about 98% of my person, thinks I will sooner be the lynchpin that brokers peace in the Middle East on my lunch hour before that ever happens.

Back to David, I don my Detective Cap, type his name and address in Google, hit the enter key, and voila, I discover his email address.

I share the situation with my Special Someone.

SS: Give it back to your mail carrier.  Let them deal with it.

Me: Trust the incompetent mail carrier that caused this crisis?  I’d sooner give it to the Taliban.  Of course, those Neanderthals would probably use it as kindling.

I send David an email:

Hi David,

It appears that your April edition of Harper’s was misdelivered to [my company] a few doors away from you at [censored] Street.  Please let me know if you would like me to leave it with our front counter so you can pick it up?  I’ll put a post-it on it so people know that you’re coming to get it.

Eleven minutes later David emails me from his iPhone:

That’s very kind of you. Yes. Please leave it at the counter.

That evening, as I depart for the day, I notice that David’s issue of Harper’s is gone.  Hopefully, he had picked it up and I will not find it has boomeranged back into Elsbeth’s in-basket come Monday.  Hey, I want to accrue a few magazine subscription good karma points.

Portrait of a good week in Lame Adventures-land -- every magazine delivered!

Lame Adventure 160: Eight-Step Program

Today is my friend, Coco’s birthday.  Her natal date coincides with the opening of Justin Bieber’s concert movie, Never Say Never, not to be confused as I was with the 1983 James Bond film Never Say Never Again.

That film was actually a new adaptation of Thunderball, a Bond film released in 1965.  This remake was the final Bond film starring Sean Connery, who had initially stopped playing 007 in 1971.  Connery’s incentive to reprise the role could have been for only one of two reasons, he was tossed a mountain of money, or more likely, he wanted to flaunt his junk again in a wet suit at age 53.

Ten days ago, I received an email from MovieTickets.com inviting me to “enter for a chance to win a date with Justin” at a screening of his film in my hometown.

My invitation.

Doesn’t MovieTickets.com know by now that I am in the over 40 under death age demographic?  I see films with subtitles called Late Stage.  While reaching for one of the air-sickness bags I stockpile in my desk I heaved and wondered:

Me:  Why is Justin Bieber remaking James Bond now?  Is it because they have the same initials so this smiling haircut thinks he can do anything?

Eventually I realized Justin was starring in an entirely different film.  I forwarded the invitation to select members of my posse announcing, “I can so easily say never to this.”  In an email reeking of snark, Coco asked if that film was on my must-see list.  I snarked back, “Thought I’d treat you to it for your b-day so you can access your inner pedophile.”  Chomping the bait, John-Mayer-sleeve-tattoo-loving Coco sounded off about Justin’s lack of appeal.  She did not mince her words about why she considers this latest teen idol unworthy of her time.

Coco's turn-off almost freeing his willy.

Coco's turn-on with come-hither look.

This gave me a light bulb.

Eco-friendly and energy-efficient inspiration!

Coco has recently relocated from the Hamptons to the city.  Although my paltry wages were reduced 20 per cent in January 2009 by my employer, E. Ben Ezer-Scrooge, a fellow in deep denial that the cost of living increases, so due to my financial limitations it is impossible for me to go gift-giving nuts.  Yet, I can afford to use my vast imagination.  There has yet to be a tax for being clever.  Now that I’ve pointed that out, New York City should soon find a way to issue the first think tax in the nation, where I’ll find myself paying several pennies for my thoughts.  It occurred to me during my latest brainstorm that since Coco loathes Justin Bieber and loves the city, I should marry the two in the guise of her gift.

First, I went to my neighborhood news seller and picked up two magazines, one devoted to cover boy, Justin, and the other, this week’s issue of Time Out New York.

"Hi Coco, let's play Crazy Eights!"

Coco's bible for where to go to get trashed.

When I returned home, I went online and ordered a subscription to TONY for Coco that will start in four to six weeks.  Then, I slipped into my Dr. Frankenstein lab coat and went to work.

Step 1: Open the Bieber magazine to the centerfold.  Observe the picture.  Yawn so loudly, several agitated hounds bark.

This wholesome image is definitely a dart board somewhere.

Step 2:  With stainless steel letter opener designed by Enzo Mari in 1962, slip the letter opener under a staple and lift.  Repeat with second staple.

Best. Letter. Opener. Ever.

The right tool for the job.

Step 3:  Lift out guts of Bieber magazine.  Save for wrapping fish.

Staple standing at attention in gutted Bieber-rag.

Step 4:  Open TONY to center section.

TONY's centerfold.

Read excellent Joke of the Week by Dan St. Germain.  Photograph joke.


Step 5:  See Step 2.

Step 6:  Slip the empty Bieber magazine cover’s staples into microscopic holes in now staple-less TONY.  Go blind as you fumble doing this 1,073 times or until you lose count.

Step 7:  Accomplish Step 6 — hide TONY inside a Justin Bieber rag cover.

Opposites not attracting.

Drink alcohol.

Step 8: Regain enough vision to do a mediocre wrap job.

Trademark mediocre wrap job.