Sunday, June 29, 2008

Happy Days with My Favorite Sadomasochists

We bought a property on Friday. During the closing, the seller's real estate agent kept offering to give us ("the enemy") stuff. The seller's real estate attorney looked ready to squeeze his head and crack it like a nut.

Tom and I huddled under the conference room table to escape from stray fisticuffs and evil death stares.

Meanwhile, our very own real estate agent's assistant fiddled with her extremely low neckline and wondered aloud why her Blackberry kept sending email messages all by itself.

I was about ready to poke needles in my eyeballs. Here's just a taste of the backstory. There's more where this came from, but I will spare you.


The Cast in Order of Appearance

Robert H: The Seller's Real Estate Agent
Jane: The Seller
Alan Esq: The Seller's Real Estate Attorney
Stacey and Tom: The Buyers

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In a message dated 6/25/2008 4:38:48 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, Robert H (the seller's real estate agent) writes:

This email is sent ONLY to Jane (the seller), and Alan Esq (her real estate attorney). At this point, it is a Secret Internal Communication amongst the seller's dream team.

Hi Jane,
For reasons beyond my control, your attorney has failed to provide the buyers' attorney with a list of certified checks which the buyers' have to provide or this closing on friday will be delayed.

I really like Alan Esq. I think he's a great attorney. However, do you think you could have a CHAT with him about his lack of attention to your real estate closing.

If he needs some assistance sending an email, perhaps he just needs to Turn On his computer. I'm sure a few choice words from you will help him provide the closing information needed to close by friday.

Since there is a 2 hour time difference, this little problem may be cleared up by the time you get this email. I have great faith in alan's professionalism. I'm sure this little problem will disappear today.


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On Jun 25, 2008, at 11:33 AM, Alan Esq writes:

For this email, Alan Esq sees fit to cc: the ENTIRE CAST including me, Tom, our lawyer, our real estate agent and our real estate agent's assistant. So now we all get to read Robert H's original email. Way to publicize your own incompetence, Alan Esq! I guess if you're going to take the time to churn out a nastygram, you might as well expand the size of your readership.

I will deal with Mr. H directly with regard to his false and defamatory statements.

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On Jun 25, 2008, at 12:33 PM, Tom wrote:

Wow, this is going smoothly.


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On Jun 26, 2008, at 1:45 PM, Robert H wrote:


Dear Alan,

As agreed after the closing, I agreed to send a retraction to all parties involved. I am now keeping my promise I made to you today.

I sincerely apologize if any email I distributed caused you great professional umbrage. As per your later email to me, it was absolutely never my intention to publicize defamatory falsehoods regarding your practice of law.

Everyone makes mistakes but only a few people are honest enough to admit their own. I admit I made a mistake. I hope you can accept my sincere apology.

Best Regards,

Robert H


Thursday, June 26, 2008

Two - Four Inches is the Difference Between the Back of a Head and the Artist on Your TicketStub

I have devised an ingenious scheme for increasing my personal elevation above sea level. This skill is essential for general admission shows wherein Only the Tall Can See the Stage.

The secret lies in footwear. Besides the towering platform base needed to jack you up an extra 2 - 4", a light shoe tare weight is also required. Afterall, you can't actually WALK in these shoes so you have to carry them in your backpack to the venue.

Along these lines, I have noticed an interesting statistical anomolie. No matter what doorstep you select to sit on to change out of your commuting shoes and into your stilts, and despite the fact that it takes sub-two minutes to execute the transaction, a resident of the dwelling whose entrance you are blocking will inevitably return home at the exact moment when you have each foot in a different shoe and a sock hanging off his railing.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Richard Cheese feat Lounge Against the Machine : Webster Hall : June 21, 2008


Richard Cheese held my hand. He looked deeply into my eyes and sang about some chick in a green shirt named Vanessa's hoo-ha. It was such a highlight.

At Webster Hall, there is always this big Big big Black dude security guard named Lowes. Lowes sits stone-cold and bulging biceps cross-armed in front of the stage. For entire shows, he steely eyes the crowd and keeps us in line via the silent promise of Unilaterally Assured Destruction.

Not even once, have I seen Lowes succumb to the merest facial twitch. But when Richard Cheese broke into a little swanky Vegas-style Shake Ya Ass by Mystikal, I spied full-on, teeth-baring, LOLing. There is something inherently fabulous about a very white man in a tiger-skin tuxedo sahaying around crooning X-rated gangsta rap.

In light of his musical genre, Richard "Dick" Cheese's stage show was not unexpected. Nonetheless, I wouldn't have predicted the hijinx. The man is hotly smarmy, brazenly greasy, semi-sober, yet broadly captivating in his bountiful array of flashy tuxedos.

The band was "the tightest we've seen in this place," according to Tom. The drummer's ernest Patty LaBelle impression may have tipped off the compliment. Or the height of the piano player's vertical leaps. Or maybe it was the lingering impact of Cheese's inspired selection of moi for some audience participation.

From my standpoint, there was one vital flaw. If the guy standing in front of me was my superhero nemesis, he would be named "The Pendulum." People, don't you realize if you toggle your torso back and forth like a drunken demon, everybody standing behind you of equal or lesser height is forced to rotate in the opposite direction lest we stare at the back of your bald sweaty head all night?


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Thursday, June 19, 2008

Didja Hear The One About....


What do you call it when you get stuck in the airport for hours?













In-Terminal-able.





Well, Melissa thought it was funny at the Sushi Lounge yesterday.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Kashi Masterpiece

My pop is an artist. His medium is cereal. Cold cereal. He layers together high terrariums of flakes and nuggets and mini-biscuits. Masterpieces in glass bowls.

My father's most productive time is in morning. He starts by flinging open the doors of two cabinets entirely packed with cereal boxes. He squintily eyeballs his vast palette of shapes, colors, textures and sizes of pressed grain and dried fruit. He carefully selects the most inspiring for his chunky canvas. Sometimes he pre-blends a concoction of granola and raw oatmeal and flaxseed into a large plastic container. He uses this like primer. For foundation purposes. Flattening it out in the bottom of the bowl.

Clean kitchen counters are not a priority for pop. He loses himself in the process of creation. He takes into account density, mass and buoyancy. He works for varied texture, coordinated color and structural integrity. When the milk and/or applesauce is layered in, the design must stand up to the rapid liquidation.

Pop is a frugal craftsman. He pilgrimages to Lancaster on buying trips, visiting the horse and buggie drivers who trade in expired cereal at steep discounts. He is a fanatical collector of coupons and one time mom had to page him in Big Lots because he became so engrossed unit pricing Cheerios he lost track of time.

Happy Father's Day, D!

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Sex in the Suburbs


Jen's mad delight on and about Sex in the City: the Movie +
Her shepherd-meister herding skills =
Almost all the OC Girls in the Morristown Clearview Theatre Friday night for the 7:30 showing. Despite the veritable fiesta platter of Labels and Love, Melissa could not be deterred from going down the shore.

"Labels and Love." That's the Carrie-proclaimed theme of the movie. A sensitive exploration into the inner lives of brutal shopaholics. As the movie trundled on, I myself decided to slip into something more comfortable. Like a coma.

For the sake of accurate reporting, which I have never purported any aspiration to achieve, my review of the movie would contain the following three points:
  • All the loose ends from the TV show have been tied up nicely enough for Saks 5th Avenue.
  • A tiny meaty nut of plot is embedded inside an enormous foo foo fruit of cashmere, silk and blue peacock feathers
  • You would think that such smart and independently successful women would be a little less into tartan hotpants and a little more into ten-pin bowling, current events, the solar system, low-carb diets, high-def TV, the Yankees payroll, hybrid cars, delft china, the Olympics, aromatherapy, hartke bass amps, or anything... anything else that exists - past, present and future, in all discovered and undiscovered dimensions.
We knew what we signed up for when we bought the movie tickets. After the credits rolled, we hustled ourselves over to Pazzo Pazzo to fulfill our duty and drink a round of cosmos. Unfortunately, the cosmos at Pazzo Pazzo were unlike any cosmo in the cosmos. Undrinkable to the sensitive pallet. After a smallish brawl with the bartender, we wound up with margaritas on the rocks. Speedwell Avenue is maybe a half step down from Greenwich Avenue.

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Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Sprinkle-Spangled Fix Cures What Ails You, Bro

Man rushes into new loose tea store on 9th avenue between 41st and 42nd street. He stops short just inside the tranquil Zen doorway. Wide-eyed and frantic, he twirls around in panic circles, finally bursting out: “Cupcakes? Cupcakes! Where are the cupcakes?”

Tiny hippie shopkeeper peers over her red-rimmed glasses: “Cupcake bakery moved around the corner, Mister.”