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 .