Sunday, March 05, 2017

We make good on Xmas Gifts-- Taking the Niece and Nephews to the Lion King

Ella wasn’t hungry and Jack said he would only eat a hotdog. Only a hotdog. Mark was hungry and so was Tom but Seth and Mary were not hungry. So we canceled our lunch reservation at the place across the street and walked to the closest hotdog joint - Chelsea Papaya. 

In a wild coincidence, Chelsea Papaya occupies the exact former location of my grandfather’s furrier manufacturer business. So we felt right at home, even though the furrier manufacturers lost their lease sometime prior to 1950. We ordered a vat of deep fried nitrates. Turned out, Jack didn’t want a hotdog at Chelsea Papaya. He wanted a dirty dog from a midtown food truck. 

At the bar table by the window, Uncle Tom played a fun game called “talking about the tourists on the sidewalk but not pointing at them.” It’s harder than you’d think. With no need to waste valuate time eating anything, Jack practiced holstering his finger for the duration of our stay. Unfortunately, he takes after Grandma Tan in the finger department, so he needed the extra time.

Holster that finger!
At Chelsea Papaya.

Back out on the sidewalk, it took us something like two hours to walk 20 blocks to the Lion King. We stopped eight or fourteen times for bathroom breaks, water, tea, coffee, a bag of nuts, M&Ms, a small amount of fruit from a fruit bar and a greeting card. I only bought the greeting card because we were waiting for Jack to pee in Whole Foods and I knew we were looking at logistical and distance delays. Finally, Jack got his dirty dog on the corner of 40th and 7th Avenue. I’m sure it was delicious.

The Lion King is a big show. Big. The kids didn’t know what to do with their eyeballs. Red damask wall paper, red carpet, chandeliers, high ceilings, windows overlooking Time Square, a huge huge curtain across a massive stage. An orchestra with a conductor. Drums in alcove in the wall. 

Row H at the Lion King. Great Seats!

Row G at the Lion King. Great Seats!

Despite Jack’s tiny hieny, he took full advantage of his entire seat. Cheeks to the left, to the right, up, down, two bounces. Repeat. 

Ella stuck her face between the seats in front of us. Luckily a little kid was up there so she didn’t breath on anyone’s neck.

Meanwhile, I was at full medical alert. If the lights flashed, I needed to slam my palm across Jack’s face. I hope the people sitting next to us knew Jack had a concussion. Otherwise they probably wondered why every now and then my nephew found himself in a headlock. There were a number of unnecessary pre-emptive strikes. This may or may not have caused my occasional attacks to appear random and very odd.

As we were walking out, I asked Jack what he thought of the show. He was mostly fixated on the standing ovation. Uncle Tom asked Ella what part she would play, if she could play any part in the performance. She said she’d like to be a plant. Mark kept his thoughts to himself. He’s almost a pre-teen.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Deep thoughts about why i want a sauna. Or not.

I covet a sauna.

I like a sauna all right. I like the rocks and the earthy smell of your hair smoldering. But then, a couple days ago, I read about the fantastic health benefits of sauna-ing. I began to covet a sauna. 

Our friend Guy has a sauna in his basement. His very own sauna. It is electric powered, but an all-wood and glass real-deal. It kind of looks like a small woodland-style enclosed porch. When Guy's daughter was little, she had a playhouse (aka the box their new washing machine came in) positioned right next to the sauna. It was like father-daughter tiny neighborhood. Seriously, I wanted in.

But the YMCA has a sauna. Any day of the week, I can go over to the YMCA and sit in the sauna. 

So I did. 

I was sitting in the sauna, not staring at my phone. Phones fry in saunas. As do Apple Watches. I stared at the wall thinking deep thoughts.

This whole sitting-in-the-sauna-at-the-YMCA experience was pretty much exactly the same experience I would be having had I purchased a sauna all for myself. I mean, really, how much better could sauna time possibly be just because I owned the damn sauna? 

I had to admit, the sauna experience is the same regardless of sauna ownership. Especially because there's never anyone else in the sauna at the YMCA. Therefore, I should rejoice in the YMCA sauna as much I would rejoice in any at-home sauna solution. 

True, maybe it would be more convenient if I had a sauna directly underfoot. But the gym is like 10 minutes away. If I can’t manage to roust myself for a 10-minute journey, how much do I really want a sauna? 

Furthermore, if I need to undertake the ritual of getting myself to the sauna location, maybe it’s a more luminous experience worthy of even greater existential appreciation. 

I am no weak-kneed consumer desperate to acquire unnecessary worldly goods that wind up as non-biodegradable rubble polluting the ocean!

Monday, February 13, 2017

Something -> Dinner -> Dessert -> Drinks = A Decent New York City Night Out

Something -> Dinner -> Dessert -> Drinks

Last Friday night, it was Dinner -> Dinner -> Dinner. Mainly because Tom, in a failed attempt to take his cholesterol medicine, popped a sleeping pill by accident at 2:30 PM. He began walking into walls about 3. He drank 2 pots of coffee and a large Dunkin' Donuts Columbia Blend and managed to remain upright. Of course, adult beverages were not an option for him. For safety reasons. Also because if he drank any more fluids he might have exploded his bladder.

But we were starving, so we had an early dinner. And then we went to a cabaret show that had a two item minimum. And Tom could’t drink, so he had another dinner. Then we met up with some friends who hadn’t eaten. So we had another dinner. Each successive dinner got smaller, however. I don’t want you to think we’re complete pigs.

Mostly, we do Something -> Dinner -> Dessert -> Drinks. I’m talking about your average Fridays and Saturdays and occasionally Thursdays. Evenings when I’m not in the helpin’ business anymore. I’m in the sit down and have people bring me things business.

It’s vital that each segment of the night out transpires at a separate and well-qualified establishment. What is the point of ordering gelato, for example, at a restaurant that just panfried your paella? If you want gelato, you go to a place that pours their heart and soul into their gelato. Unless you are overcome with laziness, which I would never disparage. 

It's best when the evening kicks off with "Something." "Something" meaning a dive jazz club or an off-broadway show or maybe stand-up or some museum open late. Then we walk to Dinner. Pay the check and head out to source Dessert. Followed by Drinks, preferably in a place with lounge chairs in a back room and a fireplace. Hot toddies with Tullamore Dew are a nice option.

Ok let me be more upfront. “Something” might be a code word for “Happy Hour.” And “Dessert" could certainly swap out for “That first bar where we were brutalized by B&T's shrieking words like 'Chanel' and wearing sunglasses so we left.”

If I had to select a short list of what I love about New York City, it would be that evenings such as these are possible. And if I had to select a short list of what I love about life in general, it’s that we have friends with whom to share such evenings. 

Last Saturday, we went out with Dave and Linda and in a freakishly all-star twist of fate, ran into Darcey and Kent at Bell Book and Candle. The next day, I was sitting at brunch listening to someone drone on and on about themselves for literally three hours non-stop. It gave me plenty of time to endlessly appreciate our friends, and the soul-freshening times and conversations we've shared.

Monday, January 23, 2017

Marching in the Women's March in Washington, DC: What was it like to be there?

It wasn't so much of a march... more like a mosey, I'd say. Actually it was more like standing around for a hella long time, punctuated by short busts of mosey. And when I say, "standing around," I mean standing as still and straight as a bottle of beer nestled firmly into a 550,000 pack. It was an amazing experience I wouldn't trade for even the most luxuriously non-claustrophobic conditions.

Here's inside the metro subway car on the way into the city:

Inside the metro train.
Picture a medium sized room. Picture 250 people in that room.

I had carpooled to DC with four friends, some of them brand new friends, staying with Casey's cousin and her husband-- two more brand new friends. Casey's cousin had bought a metro card for each of us earlier in the week. Luckily. Because the lines to the ticket machines were an hour long. And that didn't count the line down to the platform and the massive rabble in the station after we arrived downtown:

Metro Platform.
Still on the Metro platform, on the way to the escalator.

Picture of the Metro platform from the escalator.

All in, a 45-minute Metro ride took over two hours. It was uncomfortable to breathe on someone's neck with someone else's arm in your face for a stretch that long. 

The conductor on the train was my favorite train conductor ever. He had that microphone humming with travel-time updates and words of encouragement. Meanwhile, everyone on the train got busy chatting each other up. I have never been squashed together with so many amazing, tolerant, agreeable people. Above ground, all afternoon, exactly the same scene.

What was it like to be there? It was heartwarming and heartening, inspiring, encouraging. It felt like a dragon stirring, with a tail as long as city streets and a heart as big as the mall. I will do my part to keep that dragon lumbering forward.

Saturday, January 07, 2017

Blinded by Broccoli: The Incident with the New Blender

Tom and I bought a blender for ourselves for Christmas. Tom wasn’t as keen on the blender idea as I was. But don’t get me wrong, the blender still counts as a gift in the Tom column. That box is checked.

Our new blender:

I didn’t pick out one of the really really fancy blenders. We aren’t good enough chefs to warrant a blender that costs as much as an artificial leg. But our blender is good enough to have a smoothie setting that makes your cheeks vibrate when it gets going. The little wheel spins like a helicopter blade. The whole blender might go airborne if you don’t clamp your hands around the chassis.

As soon as the new blender arrived on the scene, I got busy with it. Nothing has been safe from categoric pulverization. Early on, I had a broccoli moment. We had a lot of broccoli. I jammed a bunch into the blender and it was go time. Except not much happened. 

The little wheel was spinning around like a champ but not connecting. It was a classic engineering dilemma. I needed to smoosh the broccoli down further. I took the lid off the blender and brandished the included smooshing tool. I’m a very good smoosher, it turns out. I pummeled so hard I went right through the broccoli and got the smoosher caught up in the blade. 

There came a horrific squeal and a cosmic broccoli explosion. I was all fresh faced and happy-go-lucky one second, and the next second I had so much broccoli plastered to my glasses I couldn’t see anything. I had to change my shirt and I spent ten minutes combing green chunks out of my hair.

Broccoli on the ceiling

The next day, I went to get a haircut and had a little panic attack. If the stylist washer girl found a remnant chunk of broccoli in my hair, how would I pass this off nonchalantly? 

Darcey said to just proclaim that half smashed florets of broccoli are a new secret shiny hair beauty trick. 

I think I might get out of the broccoli smoothie business. Romaine lettuce holds some promise. It would seem to have a shorter propulsion trajectory.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

What to Wear Cross Country Skiing: A Guide for Noobies

Most people are their own worst enemies when it comes to dressing right for cross country skiing. The possibility of being cold gives noobies panic attacks. They think to themselves, "It's better to be warm than cold because you can always take something off."

I'll grant you, there's some logic there, but only if you dress so it's possible to remove a layer and not be left in only your sweaty underpants.

If I were a brand new, or almost brand new, cross country skier, this is what I would wear. But first, let me run through my assumptions:
  • I'm assuming you will fall down a few times. It's almost inevitable, even if you are a downhill skier. Some of the best schadenfreude I've ever had the pleasure of indulging in was watching cocky-ass downhill skiers put on a pair of cross country skis for the first time ever. It takes them about five minutes to get their shit together, but those five minutes are bloody terrific.
  • I'm assuming you'll be doing a bit of standing around, either to listen to an instructor or to pause at the top of a hill and wait for everyone to clear out of your potential crash zone.
  • I'm assuming you are not skate skiing. In fact, I'm assuming you don't even know what skate skiing is. 
Also one last fashion pointer for downhill skiers:
  • Pretty much don't wear anything you wear downhill skiing to go cross country skiing, except maybe your underwear and socks.
  • This means, do not wear your hat, your coat, your pants and under no circumstances, your goggles.
Without further ado, here's your cross country skiing outfit checklist:
  • A running t-shirt, but take two with you so you can change at lunch. Something like this:

  • A thermal long sleeve shirt (not fleece). Something such as:
  • A vest. This vest should not be puffy, it should not be fleece. Go with something thermal with a high neck and a zipper in front like:
  • If it's really hella cold out there (like 20 degrees below freezing), or if you know for a fact you'll be standing around a lot, you could add this on top of everything aforementioned so you can easily remove should you start steaming in your own juices:

  • A shell jacket. This jacket should not be insulated, just windproof and breathable:

  • On your legs, wear one or two pairs of running tights or one pair of long underwear, not cotton. If you're going the long underwear route, get some polypropylene or whatever the new fangled version of polypropylene is called these days.
  • Some sort of waterproof shell pants. These shell pants should be breathable and not insulated. It's best if they have legs wide enough that you can get them on or off over your ski boots so you can strip 'em off when you go in for hot chocolate in the lodge:
  • Bring along three pairs of heavy smart wool socks so you can change if your feet get sweaty. Definitely not cotton. If you want to get fancy, wear one thin pair of smart wool socks, and then one thicker pair. This helps avoid blisters. Another way to avoid blisters is to put silk tape all over the back of your heels and then smear Vaseline all over it. You're welcome, tip of the year, there.
  • For your hat, wear a hat you'd see a runner wear. Some kind of low profile knit affair. Or wear a beanie or a doo-rag and a knit cap over the top of it. It should look like this:

  • Wear a fleece scarf or some sort of scarf big enough that it can cover your chin and mouth when you zoom down a black diamond or the wind starts blowing.
  • My hands get cold, so I wear lobster claw gloves. It'll be a little trial and error to find a pair of gloves that work for you, so bring every glove or mitten you own and try them all out. If you have a pair that are windproof but not too bulky, those might be your winners.
  • Hand warmers and toe warmers.
  • Tie your long hair back. It's a disaster if it starts snowing and your hair gets wet and plasters itself to the side of your face.

If you click on any of the links to Amazon above, apparently I'm supposed to get some sort of cut. They say I'm supposed to mention this. Check that box, even though I've had this blog for ten years and have never, not even once, received one red cent from anybody clicking through on anything. Not sure if this is because my biggest fan is my mother and she has a high tolerance for consumerism or if I never actually set up my Amazon account right. Either way, consider yourself in the know and have a great time skiing!

Saturday, December 03, 2016

A Penny Arcade Discussion Guide

To be candid, I was taken by surprise last night at Penny Arcade's performance at St. Anne’s Theater in DUMBO. Apparently, when I buy tickets to shows, I’m more of a “look at the pictures” kind of online shopper. Here’s the show promo:

I thought we signing up for some sort of drag cabaret. I thought there might be cake. I was wrong. 

In case you are unfamiliar with the work of Penny Arcade, as I was until yestereve, let me clue you in. She’s a 60ish ingenue formerly of the Andy Warhol set. She's hell bent to rage against the machine for 90 minutes. Except it’s not a rant. It’s art. This was a thing in the early 80s downtown.

I can distill 90 minutes with Penny Arcade into four bullets, and I mention this because it’s actually my main point. But here we go:

  1. Penny Arcade considers herself in the “control group” immune from the idiocy perpetuated by uptight suburbanites and their entitled lily-livered, gay and straight children who indulge in artisanal ramen and fancy cocktails and cry great wailing sobs when someone calls them by the wrong pronoun or dares to say something the hive mind rejects.

  2. Penny Arcade is in this "control group" because she has never seen Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Arc or Sex in the City.

    Also because in the east village in the 70’s, a plus-sized, topless beatnik jabbed a meth needle in her ass, right through her clothes, and she learned a valuable lesson that night.

    And lastly, because she is very smart. Much smarter than anyone who didn’t go to Max’s Kansas City every night for a decade and have words with Patti Smith.

  3. Penny Arcade bitches about slow-walking tourists who don’t look where they’re going and run right into you. She dislikes Hummer-sized baby carriages in Park Slope. She also has a problem with hipsters and cupcake shops. She pinpoints gentrification as a problem because local communities lose their unique identity.

  4. Maybe because of her "control group" status, Penny Arcade seems unaware of the 400-500 stand up comedians and 90% of the NYC journalism community who have already beaten the tourist, baby carriage, hipster and gentrification memes into one big-ass vapid chestnut.

    I gather there’s a certain cohort who loves Penny Arcade and it’s not a crew I particularly want to upset. First, she's well-loved by your old queers (her term) who were part of the larger-than-life Lou-Reed-ish scene back in the day, or at least were part of it in their imaginations. 

    Also there’s younger white folk sporting vintage hats hooting and clapping and desperately seeking… something. It could be truth. But I thought of another audience end game. It’s possible I’m rationalizing my evening.

    I could certainly watch Penny Arcade in the same way I watched the new Twisted Sister documentary. Or that biopic on Hugo Chavez or Anthony Weiner. The point isn’t trying to find the lessons in what comes out of anyone’s mouth, but to ponder why they believe what they seem to believe about themselves and about everybody else.

    It's all about the context-- seeing the chess board top down, not taking a queens-eye view on blind faith and because she lectured you for an hour and half. 

    In an ironic twist, I'd bet money that Penny Arcade would fucking hate to be anything other than the all-star big star of her show. In another ironic twist... she did berate us endlessly to think for ourselves. So maybe in the end Penny Arcade had her masterful way with me.