Tag Archives: Upper West Side

Lame Adventure 278: New York Hospitality

Posted on February 13, 2012 | 10 comments

This weekend, my buddy, Coco, celebrated her birthday, a relatively innocuous one since this year’s ended in a three, not a digit from the trinity of dread — zero, five or nine.  We settled on a plan to meet at 6:30 at an Italian restaurant we frequent in Greenwich Village. This gave me time to run a quick errand before hooking up with my pal.

When I returned to my sanctum sanctorum to pick up Coco’s birthday gift* and head downtown, I noticed that The Trash Phantom had visited my building while I was out.  The Trash Phantom is That Wily One that leaves  junk prominently displayed within close proximity of the trashcans without putting said junk actually inside the trashcans.  The Trash Phantom must deem this junk as having value to some schnook passing by in this neighborhood, where the average resident earns $80k.  I do not earn anywhere near $80k, but I also have standards and an immense fear of athlete’s foot. Therefore, this pair of purple plaid rain boots from The Eyesore Collection stuffed with an umbrella near my building’s trashcans had zero appeal to me.

Eyesore Collection Rain Boots. Look for them in the finest neighborhoods on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

Considering the massive bedbug scare that plagued Gotham City in 2010, I’m very skittish about most junk I see on the street.  Yet, I suppose if it was a pillowcase stuffed with gold doubloon, my skittishness would instantly evaporate and I could easily access my inner pirate.

Regular readers of Lame Adventures, all three of you, may also recall that The Trash Phantoms have left outside my Casa de la Shangri-La fedoras, office furniture, and my personal favorite, an odd looking stuffed fish that reminded me of a tennis ball, possibly because when it was put out for grabs the timing coincided with the US Open tennis tournament and I had tennis on the brain.

Back by no demand, odd looking stuffed fish that reminded me of a tennis ball.

As usual, I wondered about the mentality of someone that would leave a pair of rain boots and an umbrella out for the taking.  Did this person think they were being altruistic, were they ambivalent about chucking rain boots that they knew were still in decent or possibly never worn condition, or were they someone with such advanced attention deficit disorder, they were distracted by a low flying sparrow, and completely blanked on their intended task, dumping the rain boots in the trash?

A few years ago a Trash Phantom left a vacuum cleaner out on West End Avenue.

Adopt-a-vacuum-cleaner.

They attached this note that I thought was responsible.

Sincere sounding adopt-a-vacuum-cleaner note.

Possibly The Trash Phantom of the Rain Boots could have done something similar:

Umbrella – like new.  Rain boots. Woman’s size [whatever].  Never Worn.  Have strong purple plaid aversion.  Please rescue.

*Coco’s practical birthday gift from me — a harmonica and a Mars candy bar – obvious useful objects my fashionista cohort would never think to give herself.

Perfect for the woman that loves Chanel.

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Lame Adventure 272: The White Stuff’s Back

Posted on January 21, 2012 | 6 comments

It last snowed in The Big Apple in 2011 on October 29th when a freak Nor’easter shattered October snow records dumping close to three inches of snow in Central Park.  I have resided in New York for almost 30 years and have never once experienced snow in October.  I was a bit miffed at the timing of that autumn snowfall because my old snow boots had sprung leaks from the previous hard winter.  Loathing boots that produce wet socks, I ordered replacement snow boots from the Lands’ End Ugly Style Great Price Collection on October 21st.

New snow boots. Ugly style. Great price.

I figured that was easily a month before I could possibly need them.  My new boots had shipped October 24th but I did not receive them until two days after that storm on October 31st.  Happy Halloween to me.

Fast forward to the present when I can finally wear my new Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots.  I break them in when I drop a lit match on my kitchen floor and I stomp it out with my left boot.  The match is swallowed whole into the deep grooves of the boot.  Fearing that very soon my left foot will ignite, I risk an expensive neck injury and contort myself Cirque du Soleil-style to examine the boot’s grooves for signs of flame, or at least signs of the expired match.  There’s no sign of fire or any match detritus whatsoever.  I think:

Me:  Well, that’s odd.

Apparently my new Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots have some appetite, or else my foot could spontaneously burst fully into flames and then cough up the remains of that missing match.  I’ll keep you posted.

Foot in Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boot with power to devour lit matches whole.

Since there’s nothing unusual about snow in January in New York City I venture outdoors to check out the action in Riverside Park.

Currier and Ives-y looking southern entrance to Riverside Park.

Eleanor Roosevelt statue wearing a shawl of snow as well as an insulting splat in the eye.

I imagine that kids that had been aching for an opportunity to go sledding down the park’s hills all winter are now in their bliss, but I notice this sign.

Shirley, you jest!

Upper West Side kids and their parents are clearly undaunted.

"We will not be denied!"

As I trek through my neighborhood I see more familiar sights of the season.

Unhappy Vespa, "Someone please tell my owner it's winter!"

Unhappier bike, "Why the hell can't you take the rest of me inside?"

Uncollected trash, "If bags had middle fingers we'd flash them at that annoying blogger-photographer in those Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots."

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Lame Adventure 223: Anticipating Hurricane Irene

Posted on August 27, 2011 | 8 comments

Hurricane Irene has yet to arrive, it is getting breezy outside my apartment’s window, but most people seem to have gotten the memo – streets are quiet and roads are empty.  My core group of dearest friends and I are predominantly safe (for now).

Tree outside my window that could possibly kill me if it uproots, crashes through my window and I fail to dive into my bathroom fast enough.

Even though we all share a degree of cynicism about Irene taking on Gotham City and the tristate area, no one seems too inclined to do anything too ridiculous.  This excludes my cabin fever suffering Friend From Jersey, Martini Max, who has already made an impulse purchase, specifically this poster of Theda Bara circa 1915.

Theda Bara tearing her hair out for Max. Still from her lost film called "Sin."

He intends to hang it over his TV.  Did I mention that Max is divorced?

Milton is nestled in his Upper East Side apartment with plenty of staples and some massive dessert he waxed about poetically.  While waiting for Irene we discussed our New York Film Festival ticket buying strategy for an hour.  We’re very dull that way.

My sidekick, Greg, is housebound in Brooklyn.  From his texts I’m under the impression that he’s feeling a tad grumpy.

Lola, who also resides in Brooklyn, was evacuated, but she’s made the best of a bad situation.  She’s with her boyfriend in Manhattan, taking it easy.  When I last spoke to her she said he was cooking.  What a guy.

Albee has extended his visit to California until Tuesday.

Ling texted me that she is about three hours away from the city.  On Friday Coco asked me:

Coco:  Where’s Ling?

Me:  At a wedding in Toronto.

Coco:  Oh!  Who got married?

Me:  Lowell’s [editorial comment: Ling’s guy] parents next-door neighbors’ brother’s son.

In response to that response Coco’s eyes glazed over.  Hopefully, Ling will make it back before the heavy rain starts to fall and the wind picks up.

This morning, I took some pictures of unusual sites on the Upper West Side.  Both Fairway and Trader Joe’s closed early.

Eerie site: empty fruit bins outside the Upper West Side's Fairway.

Eerier site: the store that is open every day, closed.

A Guy About My Age (GAMA or JERK) with the physique of a noodle tossed an out of body fit at the burly-direct-descendant-of-Thor-bouncer standing guard outside Fairway’s closed doors.

GAMA or JERK: Why close the store?  This is ridiculous!  The subways are running until noon!

Note:  It’s after 11 am.

Burly Bouncer:  You should have gotten here earlier.  The store’s closed.

GAMA or JERK sneers at the Bouncer, a sneer about as threatening as a Chihuahua’s sneeze.  The Bouncer returns the gaze that I translated as:

Bouncer’s Gaze:  Sucks to be you fool.

I took these other pictures in my neighborhood.

Closed Trader Joe's at 72nd Street and Broadway.

Typical TJ's cheeriness. Why I prefer to shop at jaded Fairway.

Baffled tourists trying to figure out how to escape the city reading a subway map.

MTA poster announcing mass transit closing.

One of the last 1 local subway trains entering 72nd Street station.

FedEx making deliveries.

Time Warner cable is there; but when I need them, they're always nowhere to be found. Grrrrr.

My sister, Dovima, has texted me that our 84-year-old father out on the West Coast would rather talk to me on Sunday, during the heart of Irene possibly pummeling Manhattan into oblivion and knocking out my cell phone service.  He is busy watching sports on TV tonight.   I texted her back to tell him to call me next week.

I was supposed to usher an off-Broadway play today, but all theaters on and off-Broadway are dark.

Coco lives in the meatpacking district in lower Manhattan, near, but not in an evacuation zone.  The intrepid type, in lieu of a flashlight, she has glow sticks.

Coco's glow sticks.

Donning her Lame Adventures journey(wo)man photographer hat Coco has also emailed me these pictures from downtown.

Brilliant time to be on a cruise in the Hudson River.

Apocalypse approaching?

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Lame Adventure 211: Garden Wars

Posted on July 22, 2011 | 2 comments

In a futile attempt to escape the steam bath conditions currently smothering the Big Apple, I was walking down my Upper West Side block on the shady side of the street where it was easily two degrees cooler.  As I passed a garden in a co-op building opposite my humble brownstone, I noticed a sign planted in the foliage extolling we’re number one style bragging rights.  This garden had been honored with a block beautification award by the block association.

Blue Ribbon winner.

After looking at the sign, I took a longer look at the victory garden.

Thrill of victory garden

It looked cheesy to me with the four cement urns better suited for a cemetery, but possibly this plot also serves as the burial spot for a rich tenant’s cat, Four-paws. Then I wondered

Me:  Am I being snarky about this because I’m baking inside my skin right now, or is it because my building’s garden lost?

I crossed the street and inspected my building’s losing garden.

Agony of defeat garden

Granted, it’s looking pretty droopy these days, but it is boiling outside.  I’m not trying to make excuses, although the entire city is approximately ten degrees hotter than the basement in Hell right now.  Coincidentally, the architect for that basement is also the sadistic mastermind behind every underground subway platform in Gotham.  His primary source of inspiration was his oven’s broiler.  But I digress … When the rose bushes bloom in my building’s garden, they can look rather lovely.

I wondered if my building even competed in this contest?  Did we win second or third prize and were so offended we didn’t win first that we acted like sore losers and didn’t plant our sign?  Or, were we shunned because of that semi-toasted lump of green pine in the back right corner?

Can someone bring the sunblock over here?

This semi-toasted lump of green pine was my building’s Christmas tree circa 2009.  Back then it was a spindly pile of needles and twigs sitting on the radiator cover in the vestibule.  It was nearly overcome with the weight of ornaments and tinsel.  Milton called it the Charlie Brown tree but he also thought it was adorable.  When the holidays were over, the people that manage my building planted it in the garden.  It’s proven to be a hardy little tree, having survived its second winter, and now it’s weathering its second summer.

Buried in a January blizzard.

Trying to stand upright again in April.

This has prompted me to predict that in about fifty to a hundred years it could be the tree holding court in Rockefeller Center.  Yet, I don’t think it’s a Norway Spruce, so if it does hang in there for fifty to a hundred more years, it just might be the year-long Christmas tree in my building’s garden – and probably why my building’s garden is destined to forever lose the block beautification award.

Block Beautification Award Judges:  Those blockheads with that eyesore Christmas tree in the garden are once again trying for the block beautification award!  Unbelievable!

What I think my building deserves far more is the block association’s equivalent to the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award.  Our garden might be eclectic but at least it has personality – and no creepy cemetery urns!

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Lame Adventure 155: Insult to Misery

Posted on January 28, 2011 | Leave a comment

Since the Eastern seaboard has been pummeled with a fifth snowstorm in the first month of winter, with more surely to follow, the time has come for the silly statistic, a claim that is blathered solely to blow the average Joe or Joe-ette’s mind.  For example, last June, on Day 63 of the Gulf Oil Spill, CBS News reported that the spill would fill 9,200 living rooms.  Naturally I felt immense relief knowing that my home would be spared since it’s a living room-less studio apartment.  How that calculation was determined would be another report in itself.  I hope that either the Onion or Saturday Night Live tackles that story soon.

Today’s silly stat comes courtesy of ABC News blandly handsome correspondent Jeremy Hubbard who reported on Thursday evening that so much snow has fallen over New York City in the past month; it’s enough to fill 1000 Empire State buildings.

The son of Mother Hubbard with his producer standing in the background, who's either the smallest man working in network news, or a tool to illustrate a point that this mountain of plowed snow could fill Neptune.

Real deal silly stat.

Aside from wondering why anyone would want to know that the Empire State Building could pack the past month of snow one thousand times, all anyone who lives in the Big Apple needs to do is walk out the door and look around.  There are miles of snow everywhere.  Who needs to know how many skyscrapers, golf courses, or used car lots it can fill?

The look of ugh.

Where'd the sidewalk go?

Suck morning.

Lambs to slaughter entering West 72nd Street subway station.

With my naked eye, as far as I can see, I see snow everywhere I look.  I get it.  There’s a gargantuan amount of snow out there.  If I hit my head on a low hanging air conditioner, knocked myself out, and fell face forward into a snow bank in the middle of the night, I’d probably wake up dead, possibly with a Friedrich logo partially tattooed across my forehead.

There’s so much snow, some of it was even in my apartment when I left my window a tad too open during the fourth storm two weeks ago.  It was not enough to fill the entirety of my modest digs, but it was annoying and rather snarky.

Suggestion from Cyclops the windowsill snow woman, "Next storm, lower your window, stupido."

Furthermore, I do not need to know how the size of the small toxic lake currently floating in front of the West 72nd Street subway turnstiles compares to 987 sixteen ounce Starbucks Grande soy lattes.  I just know from entering and exiting that turnstile that it’s another snowstorm-related butt-pain I, and thousands of other rush hour commuters like me, would prefer to live without.

Heading to Hell.

Lake Pea Soup

One silly stat that anyone has yet to measure is the steam generated by grousing New Yorkers riding public transit.  My guess is that the hot vapor we emitted en masse as we exited that uptown express 2 train when it went out of service at 14th Street Thursday night was enough to launch a rocket into the next galaxy.   In addition, we could have collectively fueled the rocket’s return to earth in time for a monsoon-like spring.  Maybe it would behoove me to price wet suits now.

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Lame Adventure 153: Tree Piles

Posted on January 24, 2011 | Leave a comment

I was running errands on the Upper West Side.  Everywhere I looked I encountered piles of discarded Christmas trees heaped on the sidewalk waiting for the trash collector, another post-holiday Gotham City tradition that is not as exalted as when those same trees were standing tall and fresh or when they were clad in traditional tree-drag.

Battalion of trees at 72nd and Broadway

Trees with rigor mortis still clad in tinsel.

Tree suffering double indignity piled under snow and carpet.

That afternoon, they were simply reduced to piles of tree corpses that were of no further use to their owners.  Most New York City apartments are tight on space, so the average resident is not going to be inclined to compost his or her tree.  Last week, I tried a new Trader Joe’s cereal containing a key ingredient that could have been mulch.  I gave it to my sidekick, Greg.

Bark in a box.

At the risk of encountering the wrath of The New Yorker and a beating from the angry ghosts of Harold Ross, William Shawn, and their current fire-breathing legal department, pictured below is one of their more profound cartoons by Jack Ziegler that perfectly captures the post-holiday spirit.

Another New York City tradition, dumping trees in any available trash can.

This cartoon is also available as a holiday card on their The New Yorker Store web site.

Some years back I had a next-door neighbor that kept her over-sized holiday wreath hanging outside her door for six months.  By February, it was shedding needles so profusely I had to sweep my apartment’s entryway every time I entered.  By April I was practically vacuuming hourly.  Possibly, every time she entered her apartment, she was blind to the shower of needles forever falling.  Maybe this wreath had some sentimental, or more likely, mental symbolism.  I recall that she worked for Lord & Taylor, or Ann Taylor, or maybe she was a tailor.  She did not strike me as a tree hugger-type.  Several times, I considered politely asking her to “please take that eye-sore the hell down,” but it was her wreath, her door, and it was not as if she was hanging a giant holiday fruitcake that had attracted every fly on earth.

Finally, one day in June while I was home indulging my favorite hobby, procrastinating,  I heard a thunk outside our respective sanctum sanctorums.  We simultaneously opened our doors to find her wreath collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Me (thinking to myself):  Oh happy day!

Neighbor:  How’d that happen?

Me:  Old age or suicide.

Neighbor:  Do you think I should take it down?

Me:  Or piece it back together.  I have a mini pine forest in my vacuum cleaner that I can pass onto you.  Christmas is barely six months away!

She got the message and threw it out.

 

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Lame Adventure 131: Head Loading

Posted on December 1, 2010 | Leave a comment

I am continuing to recover from an excruciating lower backache I recently suffered as a result of taking a walk on the wild side via my bathroom where I adjusted my shower head, an action that has only impaired my ability to stand, sit, stair-climb and sleep, but mercifully, I still have the capacity to swear like a rapper, a skill I recommend honing, particularly when in agony and walking stiffly on the Upper West Side in a semi-incapacitated state.

During my stroll I was distracted from my pain by a guy walking ahead of me wearing a beret.  He also happened to be carrying a toaster oven box on his head.  Since his companion was carrying a shopping bag from Zabar’s, a store that also happens to sell toaster ovens, I was confident that there was an actual toaster oven in that box atop that guy’s head.  I also suspected that they were unable to find a parking space closer to Zabar’s.  As I watched Beret Man, this thought crossed my mind:

Me:  Hey Beret Man, you’re not in Nairobi.

One way to ensure that the beret stays put.

Since Beret Man’s head carrying was an effective means to keep my mind off my aching back, when I returned home, I was motivated to Google search Zabar’s toaster ovens.  Boxed, various name brands this upscale food and housewares emporium offers weigh on average 25 lbs for a De Longhi, 20 lbs for a Cuisinart and 10 lbs for a Black & Decker.  Then, my wandering mind wondered what does a regulation weight bowling ball weigh?  Apparently, no more than 16 lbs, and bowling balls seem like dense weight I would prefer to avoid carrying atop my head, even though it appears that a bowling ball weighs considerably less than Beret Man’s toaster oven.  With that in mind, I Googled the following:

How safe is it to carry objects on the head?

I originally considered Google searching, “How safe is it for a Westerner wearing a beret to carry a toaster oven on the head,” but I decided a more generic search might yield the answer I was seeking.

The answer came from an article aptly titled (at that moment in my life), “Head Case,” published in Slate last August during the flooding that ravaged Pakistan.  This was a terrible time when people were fleeing for their lives carrying massive loads on their heads.  Head-loading is safe, provided your body is equipped to do it:

“…researchers have found that people can carry loads of up to 20 percent of their own body weight without expending any extra energy beyond what they’d use by walking around unencumbered.”

The article continued:

“But don’t start stacking groceries [or toaster ovens] on your head just yet. The subjects in these studies began head-loading as children and had developed a peculiar gait that’s one-third more efficient than the one we’re likely to use.”

I highly doubt that Beret Man has developed that gait, and right now,  I’d rather have my slowly healing aching back than his compressed neck.  Next time, when fleeing Zabar’s with something big and bulky, break out the wallet again and invest $5 in taking a taxi to the car.

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Lame Adventure 111: Gay Christmas Preparation Time

Posted on October 13, 2010 | 1 comment

Gertrude Stein’s most famous quote is a sentence she wrote in 1913 for a poem she penned called Sacred Emily. Stein wrote, “Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.”  This quote is often interpreted to mean that things are what they are.  Had Stein written, “A Tazmanian Devil is a Tazmanian Devil is a Tazmanian Devil is a Tazmanian Devil,” instead, it is likely that this observation might have shot straight out the window and into oncoming traffic rather than standing the test of time for nearly a century.

Recently, I was walking up Broadway where I spotted Mike, dressed for work outside a Rickey’s Halloween pop-up store in a man-sized costume that brought to mind a six tall hound, located between West 77th and West 78th Streets.  If I were inclined to get a Halloween costume, Rickey’s would be my go-to source.  When I do shop there it is for unusual items, such as the cat-butt magnets that scored a big hit with my former sidekick, Jewel, on her birthday.

Formerly a Ruby Foo's restaurant; now Halloween costume shop central.

Bracing myself for Mike’s response I revealed the infinity of my ignorance and asked, “Who are you supposed to be?”  Barely able to hide his contempt for such an imbecilic question, he muttered in an annoyed tone, “Taz.”

Easily recognizable Taz.

In fairness to Mike, many decades ago when I went trick or treating, dressed as Fred Flintstone, nothing annoyed me more than some old-timer asking me, “And who are you supposed to be?”  I wanted to say, “Fred Fuckin’ Flintstone, you moron!”

My protective father hovered behind me like my very own personal Tazmanian Devil.  No sooner would the candy-giver close their door than my dad would channel his inner Ethel Merman/Mama Rose; a Rose Ms. Stein would surely see as unlike any other Rose had she the chance to catch the musical Gypsy.  My dad would be coaching me on how to announce, “Trick or treat!”  The more he urged me to “shout out” the quieter I’d get, to the point where I’d stand mute, and just tap an anemic knock on a door.  This drove my Type A personality father so crazy, he took it upon himself to stand behind me and voluminously bellow, “Trick or treat!”   A deep male voice emanating from a pint-sized girl – dressed as Fred Flintstone — thoroughly confused the candy givers, but somehow he and I got through Halloween together that year.  After we returned home I was popping the Milk Duds, and he, the Anacin.

I asked Mike if he had a choice of costumes.  He mentioned Super Mario and a character I had never heard of called Yoshi.   To camouflage my blank expression to the latter half of his response, I rubbed my chin, puffed my Sherlock Holmes pipe thoughtfully, and said, “Interesting.”  When I returned home, I immediately did a Google search on Yoshi who happens to be the dinosaur in Super Mario Brothers video games.  Small world.

Yoshi

What I remember most about my childhood Fred Flintstone costume was nearly asphyxiating behind the plastic mask that fit over my face with a string of elastic wrapped around my head.  Already, by the tender age of six, my nose was B cup bordering on C cup.  The pinpoint-size air holes just didn’t cut it with my industrial strength ventilation system.  I could not have been sweating harder than if I had been hiking the Sahara at noon as opposed to walking a few evening neighborhood blocks in chilly San Francisco with my dad.

It might seem perverse that my mother chose to dress her whippet-thin daughter as Fred Flintstone for Halloween.  Yet, she instinctively knew I would sooner throw myself in front of a moving bus than be seen in a tutu or some princess getup.  Therefore dressing me up as anorexic Fred was the perfect solution.

A real Taz Devil. "Dad, can we keep him for a pet? Can we, can we, can we? I want to call him Marvin!"

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Lame Adventure 91: Pedal Pushing

Posted on August 27, 2010 | 4 comments

I was walking down Hudson Street on a lovely summer day in the city, a phrase seldom said this steamy summer, when I noticed the carcass of the dead bike pictured below chained to a pole.

R.I.P.

Every so often when I see the remains of bikes like this one I’ve wondered how this happens.  What was the owner thinking when he or she initially chained it to this pole?  “Goodbye bike.  Thanks for all the rides.  You’re on your own now”?  When this bike was originally locked to this pole, I imagine it was intact.  It probably once looked as appreciated as this one I saw later that day on the Upper West Side.

Someone's beloved Raleigh.

When the owner of the dead bike went to wherever he or she needed to go, did the bicycle vultures promptly descend and strip it bare?  Was this a bicycle hate crime, or a case of bicycle abuse?  Should there be organizations established called the ASPCB (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Bikes) or PETB (People for the Ethical Treatment of Bikes)?  Did the owner see the ruins of his or her bike and just walk away?

Milton surmised that the owner may have originally removed the front wheel, but for whatever reason, never returned for the bike.  He thinks that over time, hungry bike vultures picked it apart.  Albee offered a more succinct observation,  “Cyclicide.”

Since I was not inclined to get very CSI about what led to this particular bike’s demise, I continued my walk and strolled past my favorite bike boutique, Adeline Adeline, located on Reade Street.

In case you blank on the first name, try to recall the second.

I would not dare enter this store, but often I have gazed at the lovely bikes within from the outside. I drool inconspicuously and tastefully.  I hold a small plastic cup under my lower lip.

It just so happened that on this particular day, they had my all time favorite bike, a Dutch model called the Batavus Breukelen, which normally sells for about $1150, on sale for $1035, ten percent off.  As much as I love the Batavus’s design, it seems like the ideal city bike to me.  The frame is lightweight aluminum.  It’s weatherproof so it won’t rust when chained outside on rainy or icy days.  It’s a solidly built vehicle that can withstand the rigors of potholed Gotham City streets.  It’s in my favorite color.  Last but not least, if I rode this bike most of the time to and from work, instead of the crowded subway, I would be in much better shape physically and mentally.  There is also the added bonus of saving the $89 a month I spend on a Metrocard.  Within 11.62 months, I will have recouped my $1035 investment and find myself the fittest I’ve been in years!

Four Dutch beauties.

Nice price.

Even though this looks like such a sweet deal, if I only had an extra $1035 to throw around, but if I did, am I kidding myself?  I’m going to buy a Dutch bike? If I had an extra $1035, I’d probably get an iPhone, a burger at The Spotted Pig, and a mole removal instead.  Even more realistically, the second the first flake of snow falls, I am certain the last thing I’d want to do is ride a bike half-way though Manhattan to work, even one as cool as the Batavus Breukelen.  If I found myself riding a bike in a snowstorm or Nor’easter, I am certain that the mantra playing inside my head would go something like this:

Me:  I’m not Dutch, I’m miserable; this is insane. I’m not Dutch, I’m miserable; this is insane. I’m not Dutch, I’m miserable; this is insane.

By December, I would sheepishly return to paying $89 for Metrocards until April.  If anyone would dare ask me if I’m still riding my Batavus Breukelen or when do I plan to resume riding my Batavus Breukelen again, I’d probably be so irked I’d beat them with a wrench.  So much for my master plan where I foresee my sexy black bike paying itself off within a year.

Yet, I am certain even if I chose to quit riding this bike I covet forever, I would never leave it chained to a pole so it could suffer a humiliating and public death.   I would not want to flaunt that this idea that appears so brilliant in August, proves to be rather boneheaded by December.  Still, that’s a nice price for a lovely bike.

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Lame Adventure 88: Chain Letter Lunacy

Posted on August 20, 2010 | Leave a comment

Pictured below is Cali, a very obedient, mellow and friendly Upper West Side pooch sitting on the street corner waiting patiently for the light to change so she can continue with her evening exercise.

Cali smiling for the camera.

I asked Cali’s Best Friend:

Me:  What kind of dog is she?

Best Friend:  A mix.  I got her from a shelter.  There are so many of them there.  Why not?

Good point.  They seemed like an excellent pair.  Judging from the blueness of Cali’s eyes, my guess is that there’s a little Paul Newman somewhere in her lineage.

It is no secret that I am very fond of hounds, especially mutts.  Aside from being playful and affectionate, another wonderful aspect of dogs is that unlike their human counterparts, they have absolutely no interest in sending chain letter email like the one I received yesterday from an acquaintance I have not spoken to in nearly two years.

This acquaintance is an educated woman, a journalist by trade.  She even appeared in The New York Times last year – with her dog, Maggie.  I met her about three years ago through a mutual acquaintance, my close friend, Albee.  He and I both lost touch with her when she relocated to Colorado last year.  I have no idea where she is living now, but in recent months I get occasional impersonal e-blasts from her on an email address I no longer use.

The chain letter she forwarded to me was forwarded to her from a dimwit in the fashion industry who e-forwarded it from her workplace email providing recipients with her address, cell phone, work and fax numbers.  Sheer genius.  I suspect this dimwit is not the next Donna Karan.

The instructions are as follows — within five minutes read Saint Theresa’s Prayer (included in the email),  lift the left foot at least twelve inches off the ground and with the right pinky pointed at the tip of the nose spin around three times, make a wish, and then forward this idiocy to eleven people. Within eight minutes of all this I “will receive something you have long awaited.  Have faith.”  Oh my, the clock is ticking!  The thinly veiled chain letter threat, for there is always some hint of threat in chain letters, is that Saint Theresa’s prayer cannot be deleted.

Huh.  Hm.  Guess what?  After being subjected to twelve years of Catholic schooling in my formative years I’ve been a committed atheist ever since.  So …

Delete.

That took all of two seconds.

Next, I emailed Albee.  I asked him if he also received this chain letter email from our mutual acquaintance.  He responded, “My inbox has reserved itself for African banking schemes.”

Then, I queried the three other main men in my life, Milton, Martini Max and my sidekick, Greg.  Milton and Max have both been recipients of chain letter emails and they both told me that the senders are always women.  They both delete them instantly.  Greg boasts that he never gets these kinds of emails and attributes that to his anatomy or to quote Greg-speak, “It’s because I have a dangler.”  Or, because he’s under thirty he knows fewer crazy women than Milton or Max.

I don’t know how big a role anatomy plays in this stupidity, but Greg might be onto something.  When I get these emails, it has always been from women, and usually women I know well whom I consider very intelligent.  In January, my boss, Elsbeth, fell victim to the Neiman Marcus $250 cookie recipe story that has been floating around for decades.  Possibly it’s because females are genetically programmed to be nurturing, and it is their natural inclination to want to help someone in need, but it baffles me why their olfactory properties shut down to this distinct smell of bullshit.  Cali and I could both easily sniff this one out.  Woof!  Or, grrrrrrrrrrr.

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