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.

******************************
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 .