Tag Archives: vacuum cleaner

Lame Adventure 82: Spike Heeled, Naked and Pregnant

Thursday evening, I left work with my friend and colleague, Ling.  As we were walking down Varick Street, I was yammering knowledgeably about a topic in which I am an expert, a topic I now completely draw a blank on, but possibly it was about the failing memory one struggles with in one’s middle years, when a provocative black and white photo plastered over a graffiti defaced wall caught my eye.  I almost threw my neck out looking at it.

Mystery poster

Ling and I were both drawn to this image like metal to magnet, or at least like two deathly-bored office drones cut loose from another dreary day in purgatory.  Intrigued, we slowly approached this perversely carnal picture placed at eye level outside the entrance to the downtown 1 train.

Me:  What do you make of this?

Ling:  I don’t think that was there when I came in this morning.

It could have been there when I exited my train since I was fixated on the doublewide hindquarters of a woman that moved with the vigor of a hung over snail that I could not get past.  She was completely body blocking me as I was climbing up the stairs behind her on the verge of losing my mind.  Therefore, I arrived at work steaming – and fifteen minutes late.

Upon closer inspection, Ling and I noticed that in the lower right corner this image is called Conception.  I interpreted that to be a clue.  When I returned home I Google searched it 517 different ways, but came up empty.  When I searched “conception poster”, I got this:

Juno meets Inception thanks to Photoshop.

It does not appear to be for a music group, but in 1951, a compilation album called Conception was issued featuring Miles Davis, Stan Getz, and Lee Konitz among other jazz greats.  Only two of the twelve tracks are available on iTunes, so I guess that’s not the best go-to source for classic jazz.

There is an upcoming film called Conception directed by Josh Stolberg.  He wrote Piranha 3D which opens August 20th.   I thought I was finally traveling down the right path, but it appears that this film he’s written and directed is a romance that he describes on his blog as being about “ … sex and love.  It follows nine different couples and the moments leading up to the conception of their children.” Somehow, I doubt this would be a teaser poster for his project.

Next, I emailed the picture to my friend, Coco, a reliable source in the department of the unusual.  She was not familiar with it, either, but was on board with the shoes and belly.  She is going to run it by her hairdresser, Carlisle, and fashion photographer bud, Pierre and get back to me.

Last but not least, I emailed the photo to Milton for his input.  I asked if he thinks it’s for a product completely unrelated to the image shown such as clothes; maternity wear?  He absorbed my question and concluded that it looked more like an ad for a European vacuum cleaner.

Milton:  Definitely not a Hoover.

Lame Adventure 34: Blooming and Sneezing

Next weekend’s forecast in the tri-state area is looking dreary, lows in the 40s and highs in only the 50s.  It might even rain both Saturday and Sunday.  The past two weekends the weather has been lovely.  When the weather is warm and sunny, I like to go outside and enjoy it.  Even if I’m just running my usual weekend errands, foraging for food and skin searing cleaning supplies, it’s much nicer doing so under warm sunny skies than when it’s 27 degrees and icy snow is piled everywhere.  One of the downsides of spring is that the tree is blooming outside my window so I’ve been sneezing thunderously.  A few times I think I’ve come close to tearing some upper body cartilage I’ve been sneezing with such ferocity.  Just as I typed that sentence I sneezed.

Tree outside my window starting to bloom and making me sneeze.

At work, Elsbeth’s been dry coughing frequently, Ling’s been phenomenally congested, Elaine, Greg, and I sneeze often, and even the Quiet Man in the back of the room made a sound today that prompted the following exchange while we were sitting at our desks feigning consciousness:

Ling:  God bless you, Quiet Man.

QM:  Thanks Ling.

Me:  Did he sneeze back there?  It sounded to me like he dropped something.

Ling:  No, that was a sneeze.

Me:  Really?  It sounded to me like a falling glass or anvil.

When I sneeze, it’s definitive.  Windows rattle, animals howl and children cry.  But I digress, back to basking in warm weekend sun.  When I stalk the streets of New York, I usually carry a camera.  Two weekends ago, people were photographing the dogwood trees blooming all over the Upper West Side, and I thought, “Yawn.”  Here are my shots of springtime.

Dogwood trees on Broadway. Snore.

Why? When I want a beer, I want a real beer.

The Pink Flamingo of the Upper West Side.

Garden in a can!

Come to the UWS and adopt a vacuum cleaner.

It was gone within an hour.

Last weekend, my errands included trying to exchange a bottle of Kiehl’s Tea Tree Oil shampoo for my preferred variety, Protein Concentrate Herbal, but unfortunately, the scent I like still had not arrived and the Tea Tree Oil is okay.  It only smells slightly like embalming fluid.  Upon leaving the Kiehl’s store, I was walking up Columbus Avenue and then at the corner of 67th and Columbus I thought of my friend, Roz.

Twenty years ago, Roz and I were walking on this same street when we saw Woody Allen and Mia Farrow, pushing two strollers with their kids, Satchel and Dylan.  They were standing at the corner waiting for the walk signal.  Roz starts whacking me repeatedly on the arm with the back of her hand murmuring urgently through gritted teeth, “Do you see!  Do you see!  Do you see!”

Roz is also twice my height and bears a striking resemblance to French actress, Fanny Ardant.

Fanny Ardant channeling Roz.

I have always looked more like a dung beetle, albeit with glasses.

A relation of mine with 20/20 vision.

Of course, I was completely aware of their presence, but Rule 17 in The Cool New Yorker Handbook dictates: under no circumstances will you betray a glimmer of recognition when in the presence of celebrity, and this includes while in the company of spastic close friends.  Back on Columbus Avenue in 1990, Roz is so frustrated with my apparent indifference to this A-list sighting, she is almost pummeling me, indirectly creating a scene.

Woody Allen notices us.  He giggles.  We walk past him.

Roz (exploding):  What the hell is wrong with you?  Do you know who we just walked past?  Are you blind?  I don’t believe you!

Me (uncharacteristically calm):  Thanks to you, we just had the honor of amusing Woody Allen.  How many people can say that?

Now, twenty years later as I cross that corner, I recall that Roz’s birthday is approaching and I have to get her a card.  And, this year, try harder to remember to mail it.  As I continue to walk up Columbus Avenue, I notice a middle age woman in cuffed skinny jeans, a shabby looking double-breasted brown corduroy coat and wraparound tortoise frame sunglasses.  She is trying hard to look inconspicuous and that’s when it dawns on me that this is actress Joan Allen, or the winner of the Joan Allen look-alike contest.  I half want to channel my inner paparazzo and photograph her, but I remember Rule 17, keep walking and respect her privacy.  This was probably for the best since I then sneezed vociferously prompting a car alarm to activate.

Joan Allen and Jeremy Irons on Broadway in Impressionism in 2009. Good cast, mediocre play.