When you think your job sucks...

She's dressed up like a lobster, if you can't tell. And it was cold out today. And she has to deal with smart-asses like this guy bugging her, and setting up pictures for their buddy (that's my co-worker Jose, starring as the smart-ass and helping me set up the picture).

Gotta pay the bills though, those little lobsters at home don't feed themselves, ya know... or do they? What do lobsters eat anyway...?

What was I talking about?

Signs signs, everywhere the "SIGNS"

Went to the DMV today, and posted in several places was this same sign:


What do they mean by "YOUR" ? It's as if they are daring you to complete and sign someone else's application... Psstt, hey - don't forget to complete (wink wink, nudge nudge) YOUR application (wink wink). Or are they making a distinct point, hoping to weed out any confusion of just who's application we are expected to complete? Or could be that the person who made these signs, and then posted them throughout the room has absolutely know idea when the use of quotes is called for?

I used to work with such a person, who in the same fashion would post signs throughout the office. For the cleaning crew: Please "Do Not Clean" floor. Or for the staff: Do not "Lock Door." It always left me feeling that there was some sort of code going on. Like, maybe I should excuse myself and go to the "Bathroom." (Cue: Mission Impossible theme)

Anyway, these signs I saw today at the DMV were not new looking signs. They'd been up for a while. Which means on a daily basis, people look at these signs and say to themselves, Yeah that seems right. Or maybe they don't look at them at all. Just suprises me that a municipal or state-run establishment wouldn't have some sort of system in place where things have to get approval before they post them on the wall. But having dealt with a few DMV's in my time, I don't know why I'm suprised.

Some thoughts on the Gym

First of all, I went to the gym last night and was not struck by lightning as I walked through the doors, so score one for me.

****

Now when I am at the gym I try to remain focused on my work out, and what I am there to do- but some people just bug the hell out of me. Like the guy next to me on the elliptical trainer who keeps getting off every 3 minutes to answer his cell phone. Or the guy who stays on, but just keeps talking on his cell anyway. Who are you talking to that is okay with that?? And like the girl who is chugging along at a snail's pace, out-paced by the speed in which she is flipping the channels on the in-machine TV. Couldn't you just do that at home?

I know everybody's gotta workout at their own pace, but when your flapping mouth or flipping fingers are getting more of a workout than your cardio-vascular system - I think it's time to decide whether or not we need to retain this gym membership. Consider yourself judged by self-professed lazy ass.

And please tell me why only the rankest, most foul smelling people are the ones working out in sleeveless T's or tank tops. There's a guy in particular who will come up the stretching area, and within minutes has permeated the entire room with his stink. I know you're working out and all dude, but a little pre-workout deodorant goes a long way.

***

Acute exercise-mimmick paranoia. I've got it.

You know when you're doing a stretch, or a specific exercise and you look over and the guy or girl next to you is doing the same one? I immediately go to the place where they're thinking Geez, can't this guy think of his own stretches to do?? And it's all I can do to keep myself from saying, "Um, I was doing this first," or "I didn't even see you doing that!" But I don't, because I am not THAT crazy- and for all I know they're thinking the same thing as me!! ...okay, probably not.

**

Speaking of crazy, I have created an alternate universe for myself that kepes me entertained while I am at the gym. I have developed personas for the people I see at the gym. They might be celebrity look-a-likes, or people that look like ugly or chubby relatives of people I know. I'll be plugging away at my cardio, and then, "Hey it's Andrew's ugly brother," or "There's Michael C. Hall," and they're never the wiser. I wonder who I am in their alternate universes? Somebody back me up on this one...

Blue Letter Days

Not beat this one into the ground- but thank god that more people in this country who chose change, than than those who chose fear. That's all I'm gonna say.

Yes, there IS a Hooters in NYC...

Tucked away in a breezeway off 56th Street, on the short block between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, is New York City's slice of heartland Americana. Hooters. Famous for its chicken wings, and its legs and breasts of another species.

Although easy to miss from the street, it does have a little sign out front with a small marquee- the kind you might find in front of any restaurant in any town across the country- where you can change the letters to announce specials and such. And usually that's exactly what it does: "Drinks 2 for 1 - 4 to 7pm," or "$2 Pints Tues. & Thurs" and the like.

Yesterday though, it said: "Welcome Foreign Dignitaries!" Which made me think of many things the made me smirk, such as: Are they trying to change their image- We're gonna get some consulates in here! I pictured a bunch of those big black SUVs parked on 56th Street, right under the sign. Then I wondered, wait- does Alabama have a foreign mission to the UN?

In any case, God bless the members of the German delegation who after turning in their expense reports were faced with the question, "Was ist das Hoo-terz??" And soon after relieved of their posts when it was discovered they had gotten blitzed on Bud Light.

Yes I have been to a Hooters, though I haven't been to the one here in the city. But I gotta think that if you really want to go somewhere to ogle women while drinking beer and eating wings- there has got to be at least a hundred better options here in New York. At least. And if you are a female hoping to land a waitress job where you can use your "assets" to get a little extra in the tips depratment- there's gotta be about a hundred plus better places to do that here as well. Which makes Hooters in NYC an anomoly. I assume it's been around for a while, and it will continue to be around. I guess tourists can't live on McDonald's and Olive Garden alone. It's nice they have options. I HEART NY!!

Mick, the canine cat...

Mention has been made in earlier posts on this blog about Mickey Mantle (the cat, not the ballplayer). Spend a little while with him and you'll be convinced, as my wife and I are, that he is more canine than feline. He scratches and pulls up the wood floors, he greets you at the front door when you walk in, he constantly follows you around with the hopes of being fed, he'll eat just about anything you drop on the floor, he does not always land on his feet, and he absolutely obliterates his toys.

Designers of cat toys don't take into account canine tendencies in cats when designing and constructing their toys. Take for instance the popular cat toy, "Da' Bird." It's a plastic stick with a cord attached to it, at the bottom of which is a bunch of feathers. Meant to be chased, batted at, stalked. And he does do all that- he loves the thing. But it's not meant for what Mick also loves to do: Chew and chew on the cord until the toy is two things- a stick with a cord, and a little cord with a bunch of feathers. Attempts to reattach the bird by tying the severed cord back together are thwarted when he just chews through it again. We are on our third bird in just over a year. This last one lasted about two weeks.

Mick does have his feline traits, but he is a dog at heart for sure. One of these days, we'll remember that when purchasing him a new toy.

Change is good...

There's a new winner out there, when it comes to clever pan-handling signs. In this election year, even the the folks on the street begging for coin hop the on the bandwagon of politcal humor. The guy's sign:

OBAMA & ME ARE JUST ALIKE. WE BOTH WANT CHANGE.

Of kudos, I have plenty to offer, my man. You're still not getting any money from me.

Suits & Psychosis...

My workplace is a casual dress enviroment, which fits in with my dressing standard. I am perfectly comfortable in khakis or jeans, and a button down or polo shirt- usually untucked. And that's what I live in during the work week. Well, we held an event the other evening which called for playing dress up- and I dusted off my suit and wore it in to work.

No, it's not the first time I have worn a suit to work- but it's been a while. And despite the fact I was probably one of hundreds of guys on my train wearing a suit, I of course feel like a fraud. And not only that, everyone knows it! They're all looking at me thinking, That guy doesn't usually wear a suit! Look at him him trying to be all dressed up... Yeah, that's really what I'm thinking as I ride the train, walk down the street, what have you.

Not helping the comfort level: in the time since I have last worn my suit, I seem to have expanded a bit(okay a good deal) in the abdominal region and was unable to even come close to buttoning my pants. Rather than accept defeat though, I just counted on my trusty belt- not only to fight gravity, but also to cover up the fact that my pants were indeed not buttoned. And as it turned out, mission accomplished- but my day was spent checking and rechecking the offending waistline, to make sure every thing was- for lack of a better term- on the up and up.

I'm not sure I will ever be a suit man. It's not that I don't like wearing the things, I just like hassle free, easy peasy when it come to the whole getting ready for the day thing. And frankly, the not tucking the shirt in comes in handy with the ever-expanding middle situation. (Okay, okay I'm going to gym- stop yelling at me.)

Intermittent Golfer...

I really enjoy playing golf. But due financial and time and other worldly constraints I don't get to play nearly as often as I like. Now, I hear guys complain about this all the time- how they've only gotten out to play once this week, blah blah blah. I am playing this weekend for the first time since last summer. Last summer. Yeah, that's how bad I've got it, you whiners.

Golf, like many, isn't a sport where you have the luxury of not playing for a long stretch and then coming back to with the hopes of achieving again what little success you had the last time you played. And that's really all that I ask for: a little success. And yet, for this weekend- that may just be to much to ask.

Somewhere near Princeton, New Jersey, a golf course is trembling. Not so much in fear of my conquering it, so much as it is in fear of what I may do to the course: how many balls I will leave out there, what my wake may look like, how much I will be holding up the group behind us.

And yet, I'm looking forward to it. This relationship with golf is strange and troubling- but it's one that I can't refuse. To have few hours where all my frustrations lie in my attempt to make solid contact with a small, white, dimpled ball- and the frustrations of the outside world subside, or at least take a back seat. The adding of stress to relieve stress. It almost makes perfect sense.

In a perfect world, all this would happen more often. But for the sake of golf courses all over the world, we'll probably keep to a minimum for the foreseeable future.

_______________________________________
Also posted on my sports blog The Jayfiss Report.

Yesterday's news and such...

I work across the street from Lehman Brothers' corporate HQ. And with all the grim reports this past week, news vans have been camped out- with cameras fixed on the building all day, as if something spectacular was about to happen.

Now, by the end of the week, the news vans have all but dwindled and left. Somebody must have told them all that the collapse of Lehman didn't mean the building would collapse as well. So much for the big scoop.

****
Other ramblings...

Lots of action on the streets of NYC this week. As always, the freaks seem to find me- as if they recognize a kindred spirit in me. No, you don't have to agree.

Yesterday, this guy walked past a co-worker and I on the street, and as he did, he let out a very full and tone-full belch. Impressed, we got a good chuckle out of it. Wouldn't you know, five minutes later we shared an elevator with the guy. It was a snicker-filled ride, and no more gasses were expelled.

*

A couple of days ago, I twice came around a corner (once on the street, once at the gym) and nearly ran smack into a female of the species. Both times it was clear that both parties were at fault, more or less. Both times, I was the only apologetic party. And both times, I received a good deal of attitude from the other party in return. Message to all other carelessly walking women out there: Next time it's all YOUR fault! You have been warned.

*

The other day as I walked down the street, I watched a guy give his girlfriend one hells of back scratching. I mean, hands up the shirt going to town kind of back scratching. Now, I like a good scratch of the back as much as the next guy, but if I am in need of one in public- over the shirt is fine for me. I'm just saying.

*

I saw what was left of a pigeon in the middle of Seventh Avenue, nearly smashed beyond recognition. Just a bunch of pigeon-colored feathers and guts. I don't really have anything else to say about it- it's just something you don't see everyday. Ane the perfect thing to think about just before lunch.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your un-biased captain speaking...

Flying home from Seattle last Monday night, we experienced a really rough patch of unstable air. The captain came over the loudspeaker to say he was turning on the fasten seat belt sign, and to casually mention we were currently flying over Minneapolis/ St. Paul.

No word on whether the turbulence was caused by the rush of hot air that was undoubtedly flowing up from the RNC, a mere 35,000 feet below.

Do-it-yourself take out!

On a recent trip to the Northwest, my wife and I had the luxury of staying the entire time at a friend's house that they don't use... which was perfect, because the primary point of the trip was to relax- and having comfy, domestic lodging made this easy to do. We planned our days so that nighttime would have us at home, to watch movies, order take out and just chill.

Being that we were in a rather remote area, the option of having food delivered was not available- Hello, culture-shock for the city folk! We were apprised of a local pizza chain, and decide to give it try one night. Now this was a different pizza joint than I had ever experienced. A so-called, "take and bake." You order the pizza, they make it for you, and give it to you uncooked to take home and bake yourself.

My wife was all for it. And I admit, it truly worked out for that evening because we were able to grab it on the way home from that day's travels, so as not to have to go out again. But in a way it seems against the whole idea of take out. The idea that take out is something you do that's super easy. You order it, you pick it up (or have it delivered), and you eat it. Where does, you-cook-it, fit in there? Let me answer the question: it doesn't. If you want to cook, you don't order take out... it's really that simple.

The pizza was okay, and no it wasn't that hard to make- but that's not the point. It is like paying somebody to wash your clothes, and then still having to dry them yourself. All right, I'm done. Off my soapbox. Although, it was heaven last night to have a hot pizza delivered to our door- no assembly required.

Visual Evidence

If you are ever late for work, and you need to use some outlandish excuse, like- My cat hit the snooze button! You can use this picture as visual evidence.


Whether or not she actually hit the snooze is irrelevant as far as I'm concerned.

Are ya kidding me?

Yes this actually happened.

Senator Elizabeth Dole (R-NC) introduced an amendment to name an HIV/AIDS relief bill after the recently deceased Jesse Helms. It all has the feeling feeling of a big frickin' joke- albeit a sick and cruel one. And let's face it, Ms. Dole isn't exactly known for her winning sense of humor.

Tom Viola, the Executive Director of Broadway Cares/ Equity Fights AIDS, and its treasurer, Philip S. Birsh vehemently objected to the proposed amendment. Saying among other things

"Dole's recommendation demeans hundreds of thousands of Americans currently living with HIV/AIDS and implies that Helms' hatred for gay men and Americans of color everywhere (except in Africa where they are safely a continent away) is acceptable, even good. In Jesse Helms' world we are all dispensable, better dead. . . . It's a sad, sick and deliberate attempt to re-write history and clean-up Helms' sad legacy."

The story does have happy ending though. The bill passed, without Helms' name.

"Yeah No. 1..."

That's the greeting we get when we call our local chinese take out place. "Yeaah, numba wahn," is probably closer to what is actually said- but that could be construed as being in poor taste on my part (note to self: delete last sentence). On the lovely two-color menu it says "Lucky lucky lucky No. 1," and states "We cater for all parties." Bar-Mitzvah? You're covered. Flag Day celebration? They don't discriminate. Cat's birthday? As long as they didn't use your cat to make the mu shu pork, you're good to go (okay that one was too easy).

Bottom line is, whatever greasy concoction it is, is usually pretty damn good. And every time we order delivery, we give our address and say we are in apt. 4J. To which they always respond: "J like John or girl?" Yes...really. And it does vary a little, like last night she made a guess at it and just said, "J like girl?" To which I respond J like John, but always wanting to add- now be a good jirl and bring me my food. But I don't. 

They do a good job at No. 1 Chinese. And I don't mean to poke fun, but it's just so darn amusing to me. Who could ask for more- it's quick, it's cheap, and it's entertaining. And, now I've got some left over sesame chicken in fridge for lunch, so it must be my lucky lucky luck day.

Keep 'em outta sight, please

I don't mean to be insensitive. And I know babies have gotta eat when they've gotta eat. But the last thing I need to see when I get on the subway, or sit down for a cup of coffee, is some stranger's boob hanging out while her kid gets their nosh on. Look lady, I'm real glad that you're comfortable with it, or have been exhausted to the point that you just don't care who sees- but guess what: I'm not there.

To me, it just seems like such a personal thing to be shared between mother and child, not something that should be viewed by anybody and everybody in between subway stops. And if the kid's gotta eat right then and there- which believe me, I understand it happens more often than not- there are more discreet ways of accomplishing it. A little blanket coverage goes a long way in my book.

Babies of the world: Demand that your mommy cover herself during your public feedings! Let her know you deserve a little privacy! Don't take... um, hello? Are you even listening to me? All right, all right... go ahead, keep eating- just pretend like I'm not here.

July 16 from my vantage point

When I was walking to work this morning I saw a billboard advertising Coors Light as : "The most refreshing beer in the world." Now, how exactly do they quantify that? 

****

While walking up Seventh Avenue this afternoon there was an older lady dressed in pink outfit walking down, sort of skipping and happily doing jumpy turns. Crazy, I thought as she passed me, but so happy. And then she spat in my direction, and continued down the street muttering to herself angrily.

***

Summertime in city leads to many women parading about in short skirts and dresses. As a male of the species, I don't usually have a problem with this. But the thing that gets me is how uncomfortable some of them look. Constantly adusting them, or holding them down as they walk up stairs. I gotta think, if your skirt is so shirt you feel the necessity to hold it place as you walk up the stairs, it's probably too short. Just throwing it out there- rule of thumb kinda thing. 

**

Note to the guy standing above me on the A tain on the way home: "You're standing right next to your friend! Do you really need to talk so loud!?"

East Coast biaszzz...

Living on the east coast is great. Wouldn't trade it for anything.

That said, the only thing that stinks sometimes is nationally televised sporting events. Last night's MLB All-Star was a harsh reminder of that fact. But other things like the NBA Finals, or Monday Night Football for instance make it difficult to watch the game and get one's proper amount of sleep on any given night when one has to get up for work the next morning. And how about NFL Sundays on the west coast, where you roll out of bed and the day's games are about to begin; and the late games are over by 4pm- plenty of time left in the day to run errands or fix that doorknob or what have you. Although, then there is the Sunday night game... but I digress. Last night was the extreme example of us east coasters getting the time shaft.

Now I am no dummy, I know that an advertised start time of 8pm EST for an event like this doesn't mean that the first pitch will be at 8pm. And I thoroughly enjoyed the opening ceremonies of last night's game, all the Hall of Famers along side the night's starters. But when it came to throw the first pitch, it was practically 9 o'clock. On a school night! But dammit, I love the MLB All-Star game, and I am going to watch it in it's entirety. Well, I'm ashamed to admit- about 1:15am, and after 14 innings I decided I had to go to bed. I would DVR the rest of the game and watch it in the morning before I left for work. Which I did. About which my wife quipped, "That's why you got up so early this morning." To which I realized I had no strong argument.

Now, I realize the other side of the story is that on the west coast, I wouldn't have even been home in time to catch the start of the broadcast. Well, that's when you DVR the bad boy and catch up by fast forwarding through the multitudes of commercials. Problem solved.

Easy fix to this problem would to be move to the west coast. And that's just not happening. So I'll just complain about it, and the next time the Yankees go west to play Oakland or Seattle- I'll arrive at work a little more bleary eyed and cranky than usual.

___________________________________________
Cross posted on my sports blog The Jayfiss Report.

The Queen Bean, adds another royal name...

Flashback: Two nights ago, we had a delicious rotisserie chicken for dinner. After which, we threw the remains in the garbage.

Fast forward to: Last night, I tied up said garbage and left it by the door to take out the following morning.

Fast forward to: This morning around 5:30am, my wife wakes, sits up and says, "Oh, Bean threw up on the bed!" I wake with these words, but upon further review (my wife in her blindness, poking at the mess) we discovered she hadn't thrown up at all. It was a chicken leg- mysteriously similar to one consumed two nights prior. I ambled down the hall, and my suspicions we confirmed: the little brat had chewed through the bottom of the garbage bag and removed an early morning snack for herself.

Flashback (presumed): Bean, sauntering down the hall in the early morning darkness, chicken bone in jowls, howling away- as she is want to do when she is holding things in her mouth.

This female feline of many nicknames (her real name is Josie, after all) has deservedly earned another: Princess Drumstick, as so dubbed by my wife.

The button to the story is that later I discovered that Mickey Mantle, the masculine feline presence in the house, had indeed thrown up in his room down the hall. Thanks for bringing it all home, Mick.

SAUSAGE!

Running of the idiots

Yesterday marked the fourth day of the annual running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. And when I read stories like this one about the people who are injured daily in the run, I think to myself- Good. Now while I don't necessarily wish harm on any person, I gotta say I always find myself rooting for the bulls.

Every year thousands of people come from all over the world, so-called thrill seekers, to confuse and disorient and goad these poor animals. You want thrills? Risk bodily harm to yourself? Jump out of plane, climb a mountain, walk across hot coals. Don't pick on a mentally inferior species to get your jollies.

It's been going on for over 400 years, so it will probably keep going on. If that's case I say, Go bulls! Trampled, gore, and ram those idiot humans that can't out maneuver you. As the saying goes, "You mess the with bull, you get," and most-deservedly so, "the horns."

Arriba los toros!

Lost in Translation...

Yes, for real. My co-worker found this in a Puerto Rican grocery store in Jersey City (and bought it for me), and it says on the back of the package- product of Jamaica.

Now, obviously it's some kind of chicken soup mix, but nobody caught this before it hit the shelf in America? Or is somebody having real good laugh somewhere? It's even all over the back label : "Use Grace Cock soup to add body and flavour to... your soup" or "Grace Cock soup can also be enjoyed...without the need to add other ingredients." Oh, I bet it can.

Kinda makes you think twice next time before using the phrase, "Tastes like chicken."

About, Face!

I caved.

It all started years ago, when I started getting unsolicited emails from people I know, saying "[Such and such] wants to be your friend on Friendster! Click this link to join..." I would hit delete, thinking to myself I am not joining that stupid thing- not really even knowing what it was all about. 

Then a couple years went by, and the Friendster emails were replaced by invites to join MySpace. Once again, I scoffed, and I hemmed... and then about a year ago or so.. I joined. I was hooked. So many people out there wanted to be MY friend (including strange girls with web cams i could look at if I just went to their website and had a major credit card handy). I was re-connecting with people I hadn't spoken to in years, and even sometimes connecting with people (my wife) who were down the hall in my living room. The obsession soon died down a bit, but I still would check my MySpace page, feeling I was up to date in this internet based society in which we live.

Then something happened. Fast forward to this year. The emails, they started again. Apparently I had waited too long, and MySpace was now passe', and Facebook was were it's at. Nope, I thought. I don't even check my MySpace often enough, and now I am going to join Fcebook? Please. Well, last week my wife joined. Then I didn't see her for two nights after work, as she loaded up on friends, and wrote on people's "wall." So, just to see what all the fuss was about... well, you know how it happens. 

My Facebook initiation was way more overwhelming than my humble beginnings on MySpace. This time, even more people I hadn't talked to, people who I forgot were on the planet all wanted to be my friend... and BAM, I am one of the popular kids again! They even have this this where you can create pages for your pets- which my wife and I did for each of our cats immediately- after which I felt excited and ashamed all at once.

Where does it all end? And have I waited too long again? When will the emails start again, asking me to join [TheNewCoolKidsSite].com? And how long will I have the strength to stay away? Too much to think about. And plus, I need to get back to Facebook- I just got a friend request from a guy I think I know from class... but I am not sure if it's the guy I am thinking it is. Ain't the internet grand?

Ramblings for a Monday

It's a warm soupy evening in the city- this Apple they call Big. Not particularly hot, just humid as all get out. Even my sweat is sweating.

***
I was walking down Broadway this morning on the way to work, and I passed a newsstand with a Playboy Magazine cover prominently displayed on the side. The headline on the cover, accompanied by the obligatory scantily clad female, was: "Vegas Showgirls Nude!" And I fail to see the gimmick. What next? Porn Stars Nude! Or, Nudist Colony Co-Eds! I'm just saying. Vegas showgirls are supposed to be nude. Putting them in a magazine just takes away the two drink minimum. That's all I'm saying.

***

Did I mention it's damp out? It is. Damp that is.

***

I'm gonna go on record and say cibatta is my favorite sandwich bread. I had a turkey sandwich today on cibatta bread- and one bite into the sandwich I knew I had made the right choice. If you haven't had cibatta, give it a try. I defy you to not enjoy your sandwich. And if you say you don't enjoy it- you're lying. And you're lying to yourself and that's what hurts the most.

***

I'm just saying. It's uncomfortably humid today. And it's only the second full day of summer.

"A" Philosophy to live by

This morning, as the A train I was on pulled into Columbus Circle, my fellow riders and I were instructed by the conductor to "Have an interesting morning." Now pleasantries from a conductor- while not the norm- certainly aren't a rarity, but the choice of words was. I've gotten the "Have a nice day" or "Enjoy your day" - there's even one guy who always says "Have a blessed, safe and prosperous day." All very normal positive affirmations as you exit the subway train, ready to tackle the day. But, have an interesting morning- that's deep. It can be taken so many different ways.

We should all be so lucky to lead interesting lives, and have our interesting mornings blossom into intriguing and mindful days. I'm trying to fight through the crowd to get off the train, and this guy's waxing philosophical in between transfer and other train info. And you know what, why not? He's got the mic and (some) people's attention. As long as your not screaming at me that my soul is destined for hell fire, I say spread your gospel Mr. Subway Philosopher. It gave me pause, not sure if anyone else even noticed.

And maybe, just maybe the conductor meant to say "Have a nice day" and just misspoke. Maybe he was half asleep and just mumbled out the first thing he could think of. Whatever it was, his interesting choice of words got my attention. And while the rest of my morning was somewhat normal, I had already had an interesting morning as I walked off the train.

Tis the season

Subway car roulette. You are waiting in the hot, sticky station when the somewhat crowded train finally rolls in. As it comes to a halt, you realize that the car that has stopped right in front of you seems completely empty. Now someone not familiar to the subway system might think- My lucky day! Empty car during rush hour, whoohoo! But to the seasoned rider it can mean one of two things. One: A particularly foul smelling homeless person has either taken residence or left their scent on the car. Two: No air conditioning.

This morning, fortunately, it was the latter. I wasn't feeling tip-top to begin with, so there was no way I gave any thoughts to toughing it out- braving the AC-less car. So when the empty car opened its doors in front of me- lights out to boot, never a good sign either- I made directly for the end door to move in to the next car. A couple people follow suit. Crowded, but about 50 degrees cooler.

Now the curious thing is what seems to happen next with regularity. Whether it's the promise of empty seats, or the tight squeeze caused by the extra people entering the car- a couple people decide they want to move to the car everyone's trying to get out of. I don't know if these people are being brave or stupid, but invariably they come back- and almost immediately at that if the reason winds up being the homeless stench. 

But there always exceptions to the rule. There are those people that will sit in that car no matter what. Impervious to smell or to heat, or willing to put up with hazardous conditions for the sake of a seat on the train? Only they know. All I know is that even the best possible circumstance, you are never 100% comfy on the subway. I am not going to purposely lower that percentage even more, choosing to be nauseated by heat and/or stink.

All in my head

I woke this morning with a song stuck in my head, by the artist Pink. It's a song that I don't know the title, and really know very little of the lyrics. I am not even sure when I last heard this song. It is a mystery to me how this song came to be the first thing that popped in my head this morning. It is possible that I heard it on a radio as I passed by a car the other day, or in a store- and I didn't register at the time.

So, even more confounding then was when I got off the subway and found myself kind of quietly whistling the theme song from "I Dream of Genie." Yup, hum along if you wish... not sure where that one came from either. Apparently my brain has harnessed the ability to screw with me- that is to subliminally store things, and release them only at a time when it will feel completely random and unassociated to anything present... well, songs at this point. Who can say what I'll wake up singing tomorrow.

It's a virtue...

"Due to train traffic ahead, we will be held here momentarily..."

As subway riders, we've all heard it. It's inevitable- almost expected to happen over the course of any commute. But it's the choice of words that follow this announcement that determines my reaction to the situation.

This morning it was: "...Please be patient."

Please be patient? Are you implying that I am being impatient? I was just sitting here, quietly reading the paper- and you're telling me to be patient? I can't any get any more patient, man- this is me at my most patient! Stop telling me what to do, jerk, and start the frickin train already!

(Breath.)

Other times, and much preferably to me, the announcement is followed with: "...Thank you for your patience."

Now that's more like it. At least somebody appreciates the patience I bring to the table. I thank you for thanking me for my patience. You know what? You are very welcome. I'll just sit here and read my paper, whenever you can get the training moving again, that would be lovely.

A little appreciation goes a long way. As the subway fare goes up, maybe the MTA can use some of the extra cash to publish a list of curteous subway banter for the conductors to impart to riders on their merry way. (Okay stop laughing)... Okay, how about this- I won't tell you how to operate the train, if you don't tell me how to ride in it... deal? Or we can just go with status quo- I pay whatever you say to ride in packed, uncomfortable trains, and you can treat me however you like and I will still come back because frankly, I can't afford to take cabs everywhere!

(Breath)

Fine. I can take it. I am patient. Just don't tell me to be.

Mourning Person?

Gone are the days of sleeping til 11am.

My wife loves to wake up early. Even on the weekends. And while there is something to be said for getting your day started early and accomplishing things before the day gets away from you- I have never been this sort of person. Before she and I moved in together, I had no problem sleeping very late on the weekends- a product of usually going to bed very late. Well there's another thing- she loves going to bed early as well.

Well, she's rubbed off on me a little. While I still usually go to bed much later than she does during the week, on the weekends I find myself in bed much earlier than before, and therefore up and awake much earlier the next day. Yesterday is a perfect example. Having gone to bed early on Friday after watching the ballgame, we woke up at 8am on Saturday- in time to eat breakfast and get ready to be on the subway by 9am-ish to get to the gym for a 10am yoga class. After which I was pressed with the task of making a return to a store.

Now, a yoga class at 10am on a Saturday would never even been in my vocabulary before the Mrs. But having to wake up at eight to get on the train early because of weekend construction delays, and then after class to run an errand? Unheard of. And yet I accomplished all that yesterday and headed back uptown and was home just after noon. For some- no big deal, even normal. For me it was a coup. And it's all thanks to the wifey.

Today we slept in til 9am. Glorious. I'm still not a morning person, but I am coming to appreciate the early rise (My wife, bless her, knows when it's too early to impart on me any sort of important information). And I am not, for the most part, missing the days of sleeping half the day away. With a gentle push, I am no longer mourning the time lost in bed.

There's always one...

...like this woman (who shall remain faceless to protect her ignorance). That one person in the deli, in the middle of the lunch rush, who has no clue what's going on. Where do I stand? Where do I order? I want to order from the hot bar and a sandwich! Never mind the fifty other people in this crowded deli on Seventh Avenue who have all seemed to figure this stuff out on their own.

And when she finally gets someones attention behind the counter, it's all sass. I want this this this and this.. but not this this and only that and this (details have been changed to protect the innocent meats and condiments). And finally- Are you sure that's the smoked this?? To which the beleaguered guy behind the counter answers with a curt- "Yes," accompanied by a full body eye roll.

This was no tourist, either (which in some cases may be grounds for dismissal on this grievance). Makes you wonder how somebody like that even gets up in the morning and chooses an outfit for the day. NO, I want that shirt and those pants! Is this my closet? Which closet are my jackets in? Honestly. Get out of the way and let me get my frickin' turkey hero and be on my way.

One Happy Island

And it is. My wife and I just got back from spending 6 days in Aruba, and it was everything we could've hoped for in a vacation- sun, sand (on our hotel's private island- glorious), good food & drink, and plenty of relaxation.

Of the many places to dine, you can find such obscure island cuisine at these places:

Okay, I jest. But you could certainly pick out the Americans walking down the street, holding their Burger King bags. Like the girls we encountered on the boat to the private island, clutching their Subway cups, and stating to some co-eds, "Yeah, there's totally a Subway in the marketplace... thank god." Jared would be proud.

But, really? It's like the people that come to New York and stand in line to eat at the Olive Garden... in New York, where you can trip and fall into cheaper, better Italian restaurants. What happened to America being the home of the brave? Live a little, people!

My wife and I were a little more adventurous (although we did stop at Dunkin' Donuts for a quick breakfast one morning). We came armed with reccomendations from friends, and stumbled on to few places by ourselves. And the best thing is, you don't need to know where anything is located- you hop in a cab and say, "Smokey Joe's BBQ," and the cab driver takes you there. No, "it's on the corner of blah and blah blah," just the name of the restaurant and they know where it is. Not that it's a huge shock- it's not that big of an island, and tourists are the ones hopping in cabs- but there are good number of restaurants to choose from, and on different parts of the island. It makes me want to hop in a NYC cab and say, "Take me to Cara Mia," or "Chat 'n Chew, please," and see what happens.

We were not without new friends on the beach:

And what's a vacation, I ask you, without a pink duck?



And one more question...


Are you on Aruba's most reliable wireless network?

Anyway... Always hard to make the jump back to the real world. And on Wednesday morning as I crossed Seventh Avenue and felt the late winter wind whipping right through me, I was longing for those warm island breezes. And sadly, the only physical remains from our trip- besides the obligatory t-shirts purchased- are my itchy, sunburned back and scalp, and some extra pounds picked up at the many island eateries we patronized. All I know is- it's Friday, and I am looking forward to the weekend.

Shameless self promotion...

Back in improv classes at Upright Citizens Brigade, with two class shows coming up: March 1st & 31st. Details to come on my website. That's it, continue with what you were doing.

Valentine's Eve

Nothing quite like 9:30pm, on the night before Valentine's Day at a Duane Reade. Everyone sifting through what's left of the cards, candies, and other various trinkets; trying to find the right thing- that card, that box of chocolates that will spell out just how they feel about their Valentine. I admit I was amongst the throng last night, but the great pressure lifted from me, as my wife and I are going away in a few weeks to the Carribbean- and decided that would be our Valentine gift for eachother. So, I was there for a card- hopefully one to make her laugh- and a couple silly candy gifts to celebrate the day.

But for many there, this was their chance to get it right- to impress, to win over that special someone. Macho guys fumbling with akward stuffed puppies and bears clutching some object with a profession of love scrawled accross the front. Girls tearing through cards, trying to found that one that's not-so-mushy-yet-this-is-how-I-feel. I felt the frantic, yet productive vibe of my partners in V-eve shopping. There was one fella that didn't know what to do though, and he had some girl on speaker phone on his cell talking him through it. It was confusing to me, though, what he was looking for and who he was buying for.

"All there is is wife wife wife," he shouted in into his phone, "no cards saying like, I'm glad yer my girl or nothing.." The girl's voice on the other end came out of the phone distorted and impatient. At one point it seemed like she was composing a letter herself- although it was unsure if she was composing it for herself or for our friend with cell phone. "You are writing all this stuff down right?" he would chime in, and then say hold on and unsuccessfully try to click over to another incoming call, which he announced was coming from a private ID. Without much success in his search for the "You're my girl" card, and with Gina, who we came to understand was the girl on the speaker phone, not much help in his opinion- he decides to call his cell phone provider and listen to the automated voice tell him how many minutes he has used since his last billing cycle- all on speaker phone, of course.

I wonder if the poor guy found what he was looking for, or if he got any sleep last night. And I wonder if Gina, playing Cyrano to his Christian, got her words through to him. Or whether she found her Valentine on this day. Who among us hasn't felt like Gina, or felt like calling to find out our used cell phone minutes while card shopping?

The story has a happy ending for me, I got what wanted- a smile from my wife this morning as she found the silly stuff I has procured. And for Gina, cell phone guy, and others challenged by greeting card holidays- my heart goes out to you. And it's my true heart- not a pink heart being clutched by a stuffed blue elephant.

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Unrelated, last night I saw a Dominos Pizza delivery guy- pizza to be delievered in hand- going down the stairs to subway. Hadn't seen that one before, and dammit if I couldn't get my camera phone up in time to catch it... "In 30 minutes or less, or blame the substandard public transit"- I guess could be the new slogan.

Dining for one in NYC... & other rambling thoughts

Last night I had the inevitable "time to kill" between work and seeing my friend in his show. Not enough time to do something productive, but a touch long to grab that quick bite. But as it was a snowy Tuesday evening, I needed to just decide on place and park myself. There are multitudes of eateries one could happen upon in this great city, from the healthy to the not-so. I came upon this place, that I had seen many times- although have never patronized:




I know, clever name. Leaves you wondering just what's on the menu... it's literally a glorified table at the storefront, where one walks up, and orders and receives chicken out of the back of some other restaurant's kitchen. I am sure it's very tasty, and on the up and up health code-wise -I mean it's right out in the open on 44th Street- but no thanks. Not tonight.

I amble (because that's what you to do in slushy snow, you amble) into Burritoville (pop. 208), and remove layers so as to make myself comfortable. Burritoville is an easy choice for me- a somewhat normal haunt, plenty of locations thorughout the city- mainly because they grace me with the options of soy cheese and tofu sour cream (I know, I know- ewww... but it is actually good, and with my stomach you make do). I order, stake my place and head to the restroom to wash my hands.

We all have nemesis in this world. After I washed my hands I turned to face one of mine. The automatic paper towel dispenser. One just needs to wave one's hand in front of the little sensor and the towels come sliding out, accompanied by the noise of its inner machinery. Now, my dislike for these automated devices doesn't isn't limited to the towel dipsensers- add sinks, toilets and the like to the list (Toilets and urinals are by far the most congenial, flushing and spraying water while I am still using them). Now in theory, these things are great- I'm no germaphob, but the idea of not having to touch things like these in a public restroom is inviting- if only they registered my presence. I could wave my hands, jump up and down, what have you- and this damn thing won't deliver.

I'm like the guy in the commercial where he's trying like crazy to get the water to come out of the automatic sunk, and finally moves to another sink, only to have the sink he just left finally come on (I actually don't know if such a commercial exists, but I think does- and quite frankly it should exist if it doesn't). You may watch this commercial, and laugh. Or think it's stupid say, "that never happens." I watch it and my pulse increases (close-up on the sweat, beading at his temple), thinking of the next public struggle that awaits me.

And yes, these demonic devices usually do wind up completing their pre-appointed tasks for me, but only after they have deafeated me. I have sworn many times that any second I was going to be ambushed by Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew. But alas. My dinner was good, by the way. The story has a happy ending.

And my friend's show was great. Go see it:

Two Thousand Years at The New Group .

One more year...

One more year, kids... breathe it in. I'd like to say I made an honest effort to watch tonight's state of the union address with an unbiased eye. But honestly, the benefit of the doubt went out the window along time ago with this current administration. After 7 years of this, the pomp and circumstance that goes with the address- the standing ovations, the "respect for the office" and what have you- was all a bit much for me tonight.

So why watch at all? Because the heart of the optimist in me wanted to hear something that might move me. Something that might surprise me. But alas, the only things that moved me, moved me to shout at the T.V.

Bush: We share a common goal: making health care more affordable and
accessible for all Americans. The best way to achieve that goal is by expanding
consumer choice, not government control. Me: BULLSHIT.
Bush: We will defend our vital interests in the Middle East. Me: OIL.

You get the point.

I have never cared much for politics. And really I still don't. I am just tired of feeling ignored, if not held hostage by the government, more specifically the office of the President, and hope beyond hope the majority of the American public feels the same.

I thought Bush's finest moment tonight was as he exited, making connections with people one on one- flashing that smile, squeezing hands. While personal connection is important, we are a nation of many, and of many voices that must heard. I hope that his finest hour as President will be as he makes his exit in this his final year- however I'm not holding my breath. Maybe a more reasonable hope is that President Bush doesn't dig us deeper in the hole we all currently dwell in, making the job of future administrations more difficult. One more year. Here's hoping.

2 for 2

This is Mickey Mantle.



The cat, not the ball player.

Now who knows how many times Mickey Mantle (the ball player) went 2 for his first 2 times at the plate? Many, many times in his Hall of Fame career. Well, Mickey Mantle (the cat) has now gone 2 for his first 2. And I am really talking #2. Two times he has been to vet, and two times he has pooped in his carrier on the way home- which makes for an extraordinary subway ride home; for Mickey, for me, and for unwitting passengers who get on the train thinking, Oooh an empty seat!

Thank god for camera phones...

Just walking down 47th Street, and you'll never believe who I ran into...



...that's right! My BFF's Max & Laura! What a small world, and they really made me feel like I was the one that they wanted to see. Thanks to Jose for snapping this candid moment between friends.

Fortunate One

I have in my time received some lousy fortunes in some lousy cookies. It all ends with this one. Sorry to make you all jealous.

That's right... eat your heart out. Looks like I've got some laundry to do.