Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Three Penny Day

I should have known the day would unfold auspiciously because I found three pennies on the pavement in front of the ticket machine at the train station. Of course, I picked them up and stuck them into my pocket. One penny is lucky. Two pennies are really lucky. But three pennies? It was unprecedented.

Tom and I showed up at the holiday party only a little bit late. We hovered around the garlic shrimp and the cupcakes and I started talking with a guy named Larry. Larry had recently been elected to the board of a condo association. He and four other revolutionaries staged a coupe and overthrew the earlier board. I inquired if there had been any defenestration* involved in the coupe but was told no.

*Defenestration. noun. The time honored tradition of throwing somebody out a window, generally in the context of political uprising.

Larry introduced me to his friend Michael, who almost immediately revealed that his lucky number was 13. I, of course, rebutted that my lucky numbers are 11, 3 and 7 to which Michael replied that I had exceeded the permitted lucky number maximum by at least one number, maybe two. I could tell by the look in his eye that he was thinking I was one of those greedy OCD bitches.

At this point, our important conversation was interrupted by a real estate agent who had a friend with a phobia for pickles. If there were pickles nearby, this friend would scream and run away.

I told Michael that my most lucky number was probably 3. Or maybe 7, but 3 really is quite awesome and that I knew something good was going to happen because I had just found 3 pennies. I pulled the pennies out of my pocket and Michael was appropriately reverent, but then Larry chimed in that the day was winding down and the window for luck was narrowing. I snorted. Larry of little faith.

Michael showed me his latest project, a photography website, and then we discussed Robert Mapplethorpe’s Polaroid series, which both of us really liked. Then Michael mentioned that he had known Mapplethorpe. In fact he hired him once to take a picture of Tracy Chapman for her Fast Cars album.


Turns out Michael signed Tracy Chapman and produced her first album. He was an A&R guy for twenty five years. He also produced Nina Simone’s last album. I showed him the remixes I had of hers on my iPhone primarily due to the lovely K. Marcus and secondarily due to the illustrious M. Goodson.

That’s when Michael mentioned quite casually that he also discovered Metallica. “The guys” had sent him a demo tape, and Michael went out to the Stone Rose in Shakeytown to see them play. He loved them. Although he couldn’t describe their music when he told his boss the next day that Electra should sign them immediately.

I said that I had a friend named Andrew who would love to be me right now. I gave a short descriptive oration fraught with wild hand gesticulations about how much Andrew loves Metallica.

After that we discussed Patrick Wolf, growing roses on a north-facing balcony, and the pros and cons of living in a redneck town in Pennsylvania. Michael said he had to head out and went upstairs to get his coat. He came back a couple minutes later and asked me, “Is this friend of yours really a huge Metallica fan?”

I gave him a brutally wide eyed and utterly sincere look and he jammed a white envelope into my hand and said, “Well then he’ll appreciate this.”**

So in conclusion, it might not have been my personal lucky day, but I’m calling it even with Andrew and am no longer indebted in any way for the intensely delicious turkey named Carl or for my treacherously sweet new/old tshirt.

** Obviously I opened up the envelope and obviously I cannot reveal what was inside said envelope until I give it to Andrew.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Edward Cullen twizzling about Emerald City

*scream.* I was cyberstalking Edward Cullen and obviously I'm very good at it. I scored an e-vite to the party he and Victoria were throwing for Glenda the Good Witch. I KNOW. We all thought Edward ripped Victoria into tiny little vampire chunks at the end of Book 3, but apparently it was all a publicity stunt. He and Victoria shack up in Florham Park.

I tottered up to the secret location with Captain Christopher Pike, and Edward greeted us at the door. He was rigged out in a very stylish grey pea jacket setup. OMG. After I came to, I noticed there were a lot of other vampires at the party, but they were the caped, incisored kind. There were also a bevvy of witches, warlocks and warrens. Actually there was only one Warren, but he would have dominated the category even if more had shown up.

Quite frankly I had a bone to chew with Captain Christopher Pike, first commanding officer of the Enterprise, NC-1701. Earlier in the week, he thought it would be a good idea to take apart my iPod speakers to scavenge the dials. He insisted he could reassemble the little pile of wires, screws and broken plastic after he was done, but I remained skeptical. Nonetheless, he did cut a fine boxy form in his space wheelchair. He also sported a tapeless voice recorder and a hair style from the future.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Heat it and Beat It

When I said the Pig Iron Fest was a great place to watch drunken blacksmiths cackling about scrap rebar and flatter fullers, Tom's Aunt Michelle and Uncle Bob were all in. So we carpooled up there to the outskirts of known civilization for an afternoon with the smithies and the groupies. Like Tom. He has no opinion on bending forks.

We stayed for the auction where even a person of limited means could have picked up a hydroponic pot growing apparatus or somebody's old laptop case... as long as they didn't mind bidding against Bruce, the drunken auctioneer. Waving around his number with some vigor, Bruce periodically waded into the fray. "Two dollars from Fat Pete there in the back, who'll give me four? I'll give me four, who'll give me six? Fat Pete. I'll go to eight..."

You can tell you're in bumfuck when the truck in front of you on the highway home is plastered with large decals shaped like automatic weapons and messages like "I heart my Glock."

I said, "Dude likes the Insane Clown Posse," because there were also some stickers to this effect.

Bob pipes up fom the backseat, "Oh, he's a Juggalo."

I spun in my seat. Mystified.

Bob said, "The Insane Clown Posse has a dedicated following, often referred to as Juggalos and Juggalettes."

Hm. So now I know.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Don't Mess with the Bubby

My Bubby has a nurse that visits and tells her things she already knows and insults her cooking. But really, what does the nurse know from kugel? She may very well be a goyishe kop because of course Bubby uses the oil. The recipes call for the oil. And everybody loves a Bialistock. Bubby loves a Bialistock. Nowadays the bialistock are not like the ones from Julie Brothers on 174th Street in the Bronx, but feh, they'll do.

This nurse, she is fat. She hauls around a tuches and a half. Who is she to tell Bubby to exercise? She needs to take her own advice, this nurse. But Bubby read an article about the fat people. They do not eat lunch with others, the fat people. They go out into their cars to eat lunch alone, because of the Cheetos in the backseat. The fat people hoard nosh in their cars so they can go crazy with the Cheetos at lunchtime.

So yesterday, the nurse comes over at one o'clock, right when Bubby was fixing herself a sandwich. She always fixes herself a sandwich at one o'clock. Bubby asks the nurse if the nurse wants a sandwich too because Bubby can certainly fix her a sandwich if she wants one.

But the nurse says she did not want a sandwich and Bubby nods her head slyly. "I didn't think you would want a sandwich," she says.

Turns out, the nurse only keeps carrots in the car.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

Tom: Disrobing

“Why is there a ‘#1’ written in black sharpie marker on the back of my running underpants?"


"These are your Dad’s underpants aren’t they? He’s the only person I know who numbers his underpants. We both bought the same kind and they must’ve gotten mixed up in the wash at the beach."

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Barney's NY Warehouse Sale :: Whatever the Opposite of Love Is

The entrance to Barney’s Warehouse Sale nestles next to D’Agastino’s, the overpriced yet still vaguely ghetto grocery store across 17th street. I went in because Tom said there were a lot of shoes. Unfortunately they were not my kind of shoes-- mostly slinky strappy numbers providing inadequate toe protection for my calamity-ridden lifestyle. I like to think of my footwear as a weapon. It should hurt if I kick you.

I was rolling toward the exit when a warehouse-themed cardboard box came out of nowhere. For a tense moment, I thought I was going to plunge headfirst into a tangled snakepit of price-slashed but still $400 belts. I skirted the box like a retarded ballerina balanced only on one toe.

Already shaken by the almost-catastrophe, I finished my pirouette nose-to-nose with an impeccably coiffed Chelsea boy trying on a silken peach-colored space suit. My eyebrows ratcheted into my hairline in a very non-NYC-acceptable manner.

This did not go unnoticed. “So is that a yes?” he said.

I smiled like an idiot and didn’t reply because from the gleam in his eye and the tone of his voice, that boy was poised to take me down. The only way out would have been to come back with the right answer. Sturdy footwear be damned, I did not, and still do not, know what the right answer was.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Movies IV: While Watching Chocolat

Momster: “Your dad doesn’t like this movie. He thinks it’s a chick flick. What’s the male equivalent of a chick flick?”
Tom: “Hmmm. I don’t know.”
Momster: “Maybe a dick flick.
Tom: “I don't know, but I'd think that’s another genre entirely.”

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Movies III: Favorite Fights!

Family Favorites! Duels
  • Scaramouche
  • Princess Bride (“Aha, I find I am left handed”)
  • Roxanne with the tennis racket
  • That movie where Burt Lancaster is an acrobat and has this partner who is a dwarf

My Personal Favorite Naked Fight Scene

  • Eastern Promises wherein Viggo Mortenson rumbles all steamy, tattooed and buck naked in a Turksish Bath. Holy replay.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Movies II: Dad’s Top Three Favorite War Movies

  1. Dirty Dozen
  2. Guns of Navarone
  3. Stalag 17
  4. Great Escape
  5. Bridge over River Kwai
    Also applauds MAD magazine version featuring Sesua HayaKawa as the bucket, and Alec Guiness as the General
  6. The Desert Rats -
    Plot Synopsis: Rommel chases a small group of Americans (just a regiment) and surrounds them at a mission. The Americans hold out and the Germans run out of water. Really the Americans are out of water too, but to demoralize the thirsty Germans, the Americans go on top of the mission pretending to take baths and fake sudsing themselves up.

    Finally the Germans get fed up and lob a bomb into the mission. Ironically, the bomb blasts out a well inside the mission walls and the water started gushing up.

    So then the Americans capture a Sherman tank and defeat the Germans. They march out 500 german prisoners with their arms crossed over their heads.

  7. I never saw Kelly’s Heros so it can’t be one of my top three. I do know they go to steal some gold and it has something to do with Donald Sutherland.
  8. The original m*a*s*h

Monday, August 10, 2009

Movies I : The Dangers of Eavesdropping : Mom, Dad and Tom on the Porch : A Transcript

"Steve McQueen was in Papillon."

"La papillon means butterfly in Spanish."

"Isn’t la papillon French?"

"Oh yeah, it’s French. Look up French for butterfly on your iPhone."

"Steve McQueen was locked up. Maybe with Dustin Hoffman. They both were locked up."

"See if Peekaboo is in there. In that IBMd. It's a movie from 1951 about a guy who was always getting put in jail, but he could make himself invisible and escape."

"Papillon was on this island and its the guy who shot Lincoln."

"John Wilkes Booth?"

"No, the doctor, he was sent to that island."

"Why would they send Lincoln’s doctor to a french prison?"

"Do you know Steve McQueen’s real first name?"


"No, Terrance."

"See, Steve McQueen was in Papillon."

"And Dustin Hoffman played a creepy little guy, as usual."

"Dustin Hoffman played an Indian Chief."

"The Indian chief was a creepy little guy?"

"Oh, that was Little Big Man."

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Gagging on Pungant Pine Needles

I haven't drunk gin since that one unfortunate incident in eighth grade at somebody's parents' Halloween party. We, the minors, sat in a gazebo in the backyard and polished off a whole bottle of Tangeray which one us, a more proactive and early-blooming dipsomaniac, had swiped from the self-serve bar inside.

I haven't drunk Chabli, from a box or otherwise, since that series of encounters spanning a summer and autumn in a year before any of us figured out how to drive. I only know the timeframe because one of the few things I do recollect is traveling on foot. This series of encounters culminates in a three-part grand finale beginning in the quarry (that rocky hotbed of underage anarchy); pit-stopping under the big tree in the cemetery; and finishing up in the front yard of my house where my mother found us all passed out in the grass some hours later.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Getting your priorities straight when you are 96

"What are the things you couldn't live without?" I asked my Grammy T. I waited, expecting to get an earful of beloved family members, cherished mementos and maybe a word on good health.

"What can't I live without?" Grammy echoed, double-checking my question. She wasn't wearing her hearing aid. "Well, I'd say I couldn't live without my washing machine. And also my photocopier. Although I think I might need a new ink tank."

Sunday, July 12, 2009

And Where Were You When You Heard Michael Jackson Died?

As for myself, I was at Dendrite getting the photo taken for my visitor badge. I happened to look up at the television behind the security desk just as MJ's stretcher was wheeled out into the ambulance and the tragic news scrolled across the bottom of the screen. I know for a fact I had a Mr. Bill-meets-McCauley-Culkin-Home-Alone expression plastered on my face. I know this because it was memorialized on my visitors badge.

Unfotunately, as far as Andrew is concerned, I was forced to return the badge at the termination of my visit.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Adventures in why I need a new car

Driving home from the YMCA today, I called ahead to make a request. I requested that Tom find the clear duct tape which I had purchased for an exorbitant $7 at the ramshackle hardware store on 7th Avenue. At the time, I had harbored the mistaken notion that I would use the clear duct tape to repair a ginormous hole in the Flower House that someone, which might have been me, ripped in it during some aggressive weedwacking.

Tom inquired with more trepidation than curiosity as to what the clear duct tape was needed for. I informed him that upon my arrival at work this morning, I had pressed the button to roll up my car window. But instead of it going up, I heard a loud clunk. The noise sounded enough like Henry Rollins that I turned down my iPod and tried again with the rolling up button. The window abruptly crashed down inside my car door.

I cursed like a sailor and jammed my fingers down through the rubber flaps on the door, using all the strength in my sweaty thumb and forefinger to yank the glass back out of the door. I propped it up precariously and it actually stayed up until after work when I slammed closed my trunk and the window violently plummeted back down into the nether regions of my car door. I resigned myself to driving around like my Grandpa Frank with the window fully open and my arm dangling out.

Tom was less resigned to me driving around like my Grandpa Frank with the window fully open and my arm dangling out. He asked me where I had put the clear duct tape and I told him to look in all the places where I most likely would have put it. He has a knack for finding things I don't even remember having. Nonetheless, the clear duct tape never did turn up. So my window is taped shut with regular duct tape. My Grandpa Frank was also a great fan of your regular duct tape. Besides hemming his pants and fixing his shoes, he periodically duct taped large items to the roof of his car for transport.

So I guess I am driving around like my Grandpa Frank.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Because I'm Allergic to Sulfites Like That

On Saturday, we have the fancy wine-tasting party in Sea Girt. I'll be the one in the corner drinking beer and eating candy.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Review: City of New York

If she calls out to you, New York City enchants you like a succubus. Her powerful allure washes over you; it envelopes you; it bewitches, tantalizes and mesmerizes you. She bleeds you of your innocence. She demands mercilessly high stakes and cold flawlessness. She requires relentless effort, expunging the complacent. And you love her even more for it.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Yelp Review of "Just Shades" -- a Specialty Store in SoHo

If you need a lavender 8" x 4" oval lampshade, there's some peace of mind knowing a store like Just Shades exists and they probably have such a thing in stock. So when I saw this review two-star trashing the store on Yelp....

...I realized the dangers of giving computer access to the utterly self-absorbed. Just in case I ever hack her Yelp account, I've prepared some reviews to post on her behalf. She probably won't even notice:

Vegetarian Deli - I can't believe they didn't have pastrami. I always get pastrami for lunch. Three stars but only because the counter boy was cute.

Whole Foods - I had a hankering for dim sum and I walked around the entire store looking for table service and a stubby pencil to write down my order. No luck. Two stars for not even trying.

Starbucks - It sucked. I wanted to buy a windshield wiper blade replacement for my Audi A4 and the barista said they didn't sell windshield wipers. One star for this one trick pony establishment.

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

Date: 5/10/09 20:17
Found: One 3/8" steel ring washer at corner of Wolvenstraat and Hartenstraat, Amsterdam Canal District
Current Status: On dresser originally belonging to Alma Dick, 4 Colonial Court

: 5/17/09 19:11
Found: Galvanized hub bolt and washer assembly from undercarriage of large vehicle, in puddle at corner of Madison and 58th Street
Current Status: Top drawer of sideboard, 4 Colonial Court

: 5/25/09 17:20
Found: One dime and four pennies, parking lot by jungle gym, Riverbend Condominium Complex, New Brunswick
Current Status: Dime in possession of Nuchie T., four pennies, whereabouts currently unknown.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Right-handed Smithie Glove Problem: A Study

I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous. This way I could kiss the Glove Problem goodbye.

The first underpinning of the Problem is that I like my right hand, my hammer hand, in supple leather that fits like a glove. If I can't get a solid grip, my five-pound Uri Hofi hammer whips itself from my fingers and sails across the garage like a cannonball.

Generally, this never ends well.

The second underpinning of the problem is that I like my left hand in a chubby flame-retardant gauntlet, given that it often finds itself in, on, or about some really hot ass fire.

So here you have it. The Problem, as depicted below. One pair of hammer-handers. Left hand - good as new. Right hand - seen better days. Two pairs of fire-handers. Left hand - seen better days. Right hand- good as new.

Same exact point depicted below, enmass:

I've been scoping around for a lefty smithie over at the swapmeet.

I really took a shine to these new-fangled Kevlar IronClad numbers M&D got me for Christmas. Good grip, good fit. Thumbs up. I think I'm due for a new pair.

A hole is a good sign that something happened that's gonna leave a mark. I plan to let my fingerprints grow back, just to be safe.

A person needs a goodly quantity of handwear because if you dangle your grubbies inside the forge too long, your gloves heat up like convection ovens and things get crispy inside. The discomfort level ramps up from mild to a real sizzler, which is when you have to wrench off the steaming glove and throw it out on the driveway to cool off. After that, you need a fresh, sweetly cool glove at the ready. I go through about a glove an hour.

Check out my rad pile of safety gear.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Guest Post by Pop: The History of "The Tub"

Me in "The Tub."
Me and Nutchie and his wife-beater and sour pudge head in The Tub.

When I was maybe a few years older, I barely remember dragging The Tub out underneath a drainage spout in the concrete wall edging the alley. We filled it up with water during a thunderstorm and practically got struck by lightening. I recall the eerie blue light.

- - - - - - - - -

After 40 years and at least 10 with a valueless-rendering hole in the base, we have finally sucked it up and discarded "The Tub".

Last Monday night after hours of deliberation, Mom and I decided to put "The Tub" out for the trash truck to take. But, the gods intervened and the trash takers did not opt to remove "The Tub".

Perhaps they felt it was not truly trash or they felt it should not be removed from its home, but maybe Stanlissteel, the goddess of The Tubs, made it invisible so it would not be seen to be removed.

The bottomline: after a storied history, "The Tub" lives... for yet another trash day!

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Snuff Film at Lip Syncho De Mayo

First I wasn't sure if Marc was vomiting over there in the corner, but when I saw the buck knife, I realized it was just some mischievous harikari. His shaving theatrics and stunning mongoose-like beauty underpinned the entire video sequence. Meanwhile, Janet, wrapped in a glorious white feather boa, egged on the proceedings with some randy episodes of tushy shaking and un-lipsyncmanlike whooping.

Stage right could barely contain MJ Andrew's dance on the floor in a round of downtempo pantomime. First, he's all nooooo, with the head shaking. Then there's some sidebar comments and beer drinking and Kabuki theatre references. Next comes a mimed sequence where he possibly unlocks a door and rides away on a smallish Huffy BMX bike. The grand finale is a bout of one-legged triple PG dirty dancing.

The lead singing trio, Tracie, Heather and Heather's various hand puppets and finger-guns, enjoyed karate high-kicks, surfing, barbering, choking, Charlie's Angels fighter chic voguing, boxing, mini-shopping, the monkey and some kind of dangerous war dance.

All in all, the performance made me weep. I still can't believe the shocking coincidence -- all two video entrants selcted the same obscure song. Great minds think fiendishly alike, Mr. Goodson.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Bubby R, Mama & the Birds and the Birds

"When I was a girl, maybe twelve years old, my Mama said to me, 'What is it with the red-haired boy? The one that acts like a girl?'

I say, 'Mama! He's a feygela!'

My Mama doesn't understand these things. She came from the old country. She says to me, 'What's this, a feygela?'

I explained to her how it is.

Mama says, 'Gey Avek! You are kidding. He is a boy.'

Then we walked along. 'Takka? Really?' she says.

A little while later, I hear, 'Roite. The red-haired boy. A feygela!' And she shakes her head like this.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Non-Morning Person Waiting Room Smackdown

One of my customers mentioned his wife got this Martha Stewart monthly calendar for Christmas. When to hang out your Easter egg flag. When to invite the fambo over for tiny sandwiches. When to stow away your toe peeper sandals for winter. All the important dates lined up like crisp croissants on a baking sheet.

As for himself, my customer thought the major pro of the calendar was that on one day in the spring, Martha advised calling up all your doctors and making all your appointments for the year. Meh. Not a bad idea, Martha. I told my customer I was on board with it.

I don't know why I set up an appointment earlier than the earth starts rotating. But what was done was done, so this morning, I slithered into the doctor's office at the appointed ungodly hour. First, I had a fight with the countergirl.

My insurance changed and she wanted me to fill out a bulging clipboard full of forms. Again. These boring ass forms I already filled out. At least once.

I told the countergirl that my birthday had not changed. Nor had my address, my emergency contact nor my family health history. Everything was exactly the same as the last time I cramped my hand doing her bidding. Plus why should I wearifully longhand pretty cursive out all my insurance information when, during the time it took me to tick off all the sections of the many forms which had not changed, she had photocopied my insurance card.

The countergirl remained stolidly unmoved. She stared at me soulfully. She had probably been up for hours.

I said, well, you have a photocopier, photocopy the forms I filled out the last time I was here and I will initial and re-date them.

She said, "No. I will not photocopy your forms." Overly sternly, I thought.

So I huffed back to my uncomfortable seat and wrote over the top of every section on every form, "Information Unchanged. See File." I used a .7mm rollerball.

Tom says I'm going to get a note in my permanent record.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

The Paradox: We Consider Worthless What Has Made us Rich

Pablo Picasso sits at the bar minding his own business, staring into the bottom of his Pernod snifter and trying to remember which one or more of his wives and/or girlfriends he currently lives with. Some dude rolls up and says to Picasso, "I am a great admirer of your art. Could you draw something for me?"

Picasso has some work ethic, so he answers, "Sure." He whips a pencil out of his leather European man-purse, grabs a bar napkin and spends ten minutes sketching up something. He hands it to the admirer. "That will be ten thousand dollars."

The admirer blanches speechless. Finally, he says, "But it took you ten minutes to do this!"

Picasso replies, "Yes, but it took me fifty years to learn how to do this in ten minutes. And that is what you are paying for."

What a noodler of an anecdote! Eventually, after you think about it, you understand the point is that the perfection of the end game is what counts, not how long or hard you day-labored.

I listened to one of those TedTalks today. I like TedTalks because they last a maximum of 18 power-packed minutes, which is approximately five minutes longer than my current attention span but still within a workable range. My new favorite genius is Juan Enrique and he came up with a doozie to rival Picasso.

Before the computer revolution, all the billions of Chinese and Indians supplied 40% of the world GDP. In 2007, their global percentage had dwindled to like 4.8%. That's odd because we all know that I.C.'s underpin the success of Silicon Valley. Not the Integreted Circuitboard I.C.'s, but the Indians and the Chinese I.C.'s.

Conundrum solved by Juan Enrique: it takes 3000 Americans in the U.S. to file one patent. It takes 6 MILLION Indians in India. Holy hell. Extreme Paper Pushing is bigger than Cricket out there on the sub-continent. Middle managers can wear white and sit around for 8 to 10 hour tournaments called "Meetings" or "The Approval Process" or whatever other kinds of sporty play captivates a crowd and involves as many outfielders as possible.

Obviously, it's not hands but brains, and an environment that nurtures the use of brains, that is the commodity of real value nowadays. The wisdom to come up with a way to push less paper and reach a superior end game faster. The wisdom to devise a better computer chip or better robot or more beautiful song or more thrilling movie.

And that's why I'm so disturbed by the paradox. What we are willing to pay for versus what is of value.

Take the invention of the paper clip for example. One piece of folded up metal is worth ten cents. The ingeniousness to fold it up that way in the first place is the priceless part. Right? Seriously, am I right?

Say the woman who invented the paper clip showed it to some manufacturer, who paid her ten cents for the prototype paperclip and then slyly copied out millions of paper clips and made a fortune. The manufacturer paid the woman a fair price for a piece of folded metal, ten cents. Maybe the manufacturer paid her double its value: twenty cents.

Do you believe the woman was fairly compensated? If you do, then go ahead and help yourself to your vendors' business processes or next-gen thinking. Feel free to skulk around Pirate Bay. Enjoy the tangible culminations of other people's years and decades of bloody fingers, insurance-less ill-health and single-minded focus. After all, a .doc, an .mp3, a .mov, or of any other file has an inherent value of, well, nothing; so their work is worth nothing.

Pablo Picasso was wrong.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Off the Grid with a Purple Lampshade

The little subway map I carry around in my pocket only covers Manhattan. Brooklyn is uncharted wilderness. And any time you skulk into the unknown, you really need to be hauling around a purple lampshade.

Yep, that's how I showed up at the Tarot Club meeting in Park Slope. Looking bewildered, drenched by seriously enormous rain drops, and accompanying this must-have purple lampshade. Back in Manhattan, the lampshade had seemed like a solid idea. I picked it up in the Just Shades store, which is so convenient right there on the way to the R Train stop on Prince Street. Just before the little R Train yellow route line ends suddenly at the edge of the known mapped universe.

"So who's your friend?" asked one of the tarot readers upon my tardy arrival because the R train apparently covers some distance over the river and through the wood.

I introduced my purple lampshade and took a seat. My first reading partner sported two large hoop earrings and a frilly scarf. Turns out, he does his 9 to 5 as an operations manager for the transit authority. I should have asked him for a more robust subway map but I was distracted by his wild fits of giggling.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

Low Speed Mayhem in a Foot Cast:: On the Road with Pop

Dad smashed up his ankle pulling an over-cocky down a double black diamond trail. He got what looks like a rack and pinion steering system installed in his new bionic foot. Too cool for crutches, Dad elected to rent a knee-scooter. He's getting his money's worth:

"I just got back from a 3.5 miler on the scooter. I went with my friend Owen from down the street.

"Owen is a party to my scootering."

"I clocked myself at 14:46 minutes per mile. I was moving. Yesterday, I'd thought I hit my plateau at 15:04 minutes a mile. And that was a full 45 seconds faster than my previous personal record, which was the 15:49s I did last week. Owen was surprised. He had to break into a run two times to keep up with me. According to the GPS, I topped out at 7.05 mph. Going down the hill by the high school."

"Grade and road surface are key when speed is your top priority."

"I took the scooter out into my shop and adjusted all the settings. I lowered the handlebars for comfort and aerodynamics. I tightened up all the wing nuts and I sprayed Teflon on the wheel axles and the handlebar joists."

"I would wear my bike gloves and maybe my helmet, but really, what would the StyleGuy snicker about that? Street fashion concerns me. I might get one of those orange flags so I can take the scooter down Royal Road. There's a lot of traffic."

"I've scootered 28.2 miles so far. I don't track my speed when I'm scootering on errands, but I do count it toward lifetime total distance. Like today I went to the bank, the post office and the library for a total of 2 round-trip miles. But I didn't check my mph at any point."

"I don't know if the scooter was really built for distance riding. It seems to be holding up fine. Except for the tires."

Saturday, April 04, 2009

It's Not Easy Growing Up Green

I really found it embarrassing to be standing out by the side of the highway, waiting for one of the other girl scouts to roar by in the backseat of her mother's station wagon. My own mother refused to drive me up to the meetings herself. "What a waste of non-renewable fossil fuel," she proclaimed. "We live right on the way."

And so Tuesday evenings I found myself on the shoulder of Route 934 in my green sash with a pack of magic markers and glitter glue for Craft Hour. Fortunately, Beth's mom's car had a broken muffler so I had solid advance warning that my time for arm-flailing approached. When I spied her car rounding the bend, I stepped out into traffic and waited for my wood-paneled ride to slow to a roll before I made a running leap into the backseat.

I recall Beth's mom, her curly 70's afro perm kinky in the wind sucking through her rolled-down window. Glancing back, she said loudly in her annoyed voice, "If this is a carpool, why doesn't YOUR mother drive some times?"

And I remember contemplating whose mother didn't understand what was going on.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

A Weekend at Pukle's: The Woes of Irony

Tom had the extra bone in his giant man foot removed last week. Now he's in the "toes-above-nose" phase of the recovery timeline. He spends his days either on the couch lobbing grenades onto his tiny menacing iShoot enemies, or careening around on his sweet little knee-scooter. I set up a playdate for him.

In a fantastic coincidence of both timing and anatomical involvement, two weeks ago my Dad smashed up his ankle pulling an over-cocky down a double black diamond trail. He got what looks like a rack and pinion steering system installed in his new bionic foot. He is also in the Lie-About and Infrequent Bathing portion of the recuperation regimen.

On Saturday, exactly according to plan, Tom and the D-mon hunkered down for a weekend movie marathon. Meanwhile, I was sort of counting on my wonderful mother of extremely tasty cooking to just double up the portions of her meals on wheels. I mean, the extra workload for one more patient is incremental at most. Plus I was hoping to, you know, leave.

It was an ingenious scheme all the way around.

That is, until my cute Momster came down with a catastrophic viral infestation and spent all night and all day puking into a wastepaper basket in the spare bedroom. Thus increasing my patient load from a mild-mannered one to a really demanding three. Now I know why the nurses wear those hideously comfortable shoes.

All day it was ice for nibbling upstairs and ice for sutures downstairs. Trips to the store for ginger-ale and saltines and Febreeze to spray on the two never-nudes' stank feet. I constructed a really efficient methodology for dumping vomit.

Everybody owes me one. That's the good news.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Further Analysis on Conversation: A Research Project

Upon reflection, I realized that some people can tell absolutely hilarious work stories. Work stories!

What is the difference between the exceptional stories that make you choke on your tongue from laughing (or crying) so hard... and the interminable ones? I think I figured it out.

Maybe, you start out with a short version. Very short. Heavy on the plot. Then you wait for a question. You answer the question. Then you wait for another question. Which you answer. The story becomes a group effort. When there are no more questions, the story is over.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

You are an Egg. Get a Timer: A Research Project

Good conversation engages both mind and heart. I realize I'm generalizing here, but as is often the case when I generalize, I don’t care. An article in the Times mentioned that a vital ingredient of convivial talk is that nobody pops off for longer than three minutes at a clip. After three minutes, it’s not a conversation, it’s a lecture.

I have been surreptitiously timing certain parties engaged in a lengthy yada-yada. Including myself, although I solemnly vow that it won’t happen again, because I’m now championing a three-minute smackdown rule.

A good conversation purveys an exchange of ideas, camaraderie… a connection to other human beings. My hopes for the evening shatter when it becomes clear I’ve unwittingly conscripted myself into a live studio hostage situation for somebody’s All about Me amateur hour. So-called Conversation Vampires suck the life out of a pleasant evening. You can pick them out by the glazed look that comes over them when discussion wanders away from themselves.

Here’s something else that I’ve uncovered in my research, from the standpoint of an avid and frequent listener who occasionally even takes notes. A good story is about the story, not about the star(s) of the story. Unless you’re Brangelina. Of course.

I mean, it’s a conversation, not Masterpiece Theatre. In conversational talk, the plot is more important than the character development; I’ve come to understand. You’ll see what I mean when somebody starts narrating a dramatic encounter with people you have never met. The plot may be salacious enough or could have the potential to be funny. Or something. Except it is sandwiched inside twenty minutes of biographical information and in-depth character studies. Don’t forget the characters under discussion are normally people for whom crazy means breaking out a holiday-themed tie. How long can you take listening to a dictation of their resumé, favorite food groups and most famous quotable quotes? I’m writing a letter to the CIA because I have a good alternative to waterboarding.

I also think a good story needs to be about something other people, namely me, enjoy hearing about. For example, you need to be a really high-level advanced chatmaster to take on the challenge of a work story. I’m not your manager, so unless you’re going to pay me a consulting slash psychoanalysis fee or you are willing to subsequently endure MY equally impressive tales of woe, for the love of god keep a lid on your unruly customer and your slacker employee. I suspect that myself, like practically everybody else including even the most radically OCD Type A's, leave work everyday hoping to leave work.

"It's all right to hold a conversation, but you should let go of it now and then."
Richard Willard Armour (1906-89)

"It was impossible to get a conversation going, everybody was talking too much."
Yogi Berra

"A good quartet is like a good conversation among friends interacting to each other's ideas."
Stan Getz

"True over-worders are not looking for your feedback. Short of you falling on the floor and gagging or something, I doubt they'd even notice if you threw in a comment about a rubber hand."
Fred Richter

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Andrew Gets his Watch: The Untold Story

March 6 on the island of St. Lucia, two sources independently revealed that Tracie, Bride, told Michael, Best Man, that Lynn, Senior Stylist, had something important to tell him in twenty minutes. Not just then, but in twenty minutes. Michael harbored a trustingly low level of suspicion in regard to the suspenseful 20-minute stay-put directive. Especially given the tropical preposterousness of standard delay-makers such as traffic, long lines at the deli, or a spellbinding episode of House Hunters.

***Twenty Minutes Later***

Upon questioning, Lynn informed Michael that a blue bag had been stashed in his closet. Michael was to present the blue bag to Andrew, Groom, at a poignant moment prior to the vows ceremony. On a sidebar, Lynn also relayed that Tracie had asserted Andrew would recognize the blue bag and know what it contained.

Micheal hustled back to Plantation House and located the blue bag secreted in his closet, right next to his gumshoes. A cursory inspection revealed a smaller bag inside the larger blue bag. Michael placed the smaller bag in his room safe, assuming by the fancy packaging that the contents were of some value. He took the larger bag and placed inside his dirty laundry, which he subsequently toted back to Santa Clara, California.

At approximately 4pm, just prior to the Cocktail Demi-Hour, Kully, Wedding Planner, whispered to Michael that the poignant moment was Now, and to deliver the package. Apparently, Lynn, or perhaps Tracie herself, had congealed a foolproof Back Up Plan. Poignant moment package instructions were also dispatched to Kully.

Andrew did not recognize the packaging initially, but he did in fact recognize the gift, an oblong watch with two dials on it. He had admired it weeks earlier in Ivette's jewelry store. The watch also featured a black leather wrist band with an ornery, unrelenting clasp. Kully had to put the watch on the bedazzled and woozy groom.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Uncle Ronnie's Childhood Memories

"Your father licked my eyeballs. That’s why I turned out this way. I was on track to be a surgeon. Destined for John Hopkins. Your father would hold me down and lick my eyeballs. He was chasing me one time and I tripped and knocked myself out. After I woke up I spoke only Spanish and thought my name was Victor Valentino."

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Bubby R Recognizes Exellent Cross-Dressing

"You went to a 60's party? One time I went to a party where all the women dressed up as men and all the men dressed up as women. One man was gorgeous. I mean, he was a good-looking man, but as a woman? Wow. What a stunner."

Monday, March 09, 2009

Synchronized Swimming in Marigot Bay, St. Lucia.

The synchronized swim in Marigot Bay spontaneously generated. This lack of rehearsal proved dangerous when Andrew was kicked several times on and about the head.

Kully did not participate. He floated like a cadaver nearby.

Warren also did not participate. He was unaware of the goings on until it was all over. He waxed mildly enthusiastic about the possibility that the synchronized swim had been executed in secret, which is why he did not know about it.

Heather also did not engage in any synchronization of swim. She stayed in the boat because she was cold. Allegedly.

The Gift of the Flower

Just before sunset, during Jeannie and Ray’s reading celebrating the vows of love, José sat quietly beside his wife Patti, his hands in his lap.

Suddenly, a glossy pink flower drifted out of the sky and settled in his fingers. He gave it to Patti under the shadow of the Pitons and the light of the setting sun.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

A Terrible Idea

The exit poll bar-chart resembled two Piton mountains. Disregarding statistical outliers and those too drunk to speak coherently, most guests attending the week-long celebration of Tracie and Andrew stated for the record that they most enjoyed either the Catamaran excursion on Monday or alternately, the 60’s Party on Tuesday. Both events were terrible ideas.

“I told Tracie the Catamaran reservation had been stolen by a one-armed man,” possibly confessed Kully, Senior Party Planner. Kully had spent a week last summer trying to talk the headstrong bride out of the terrible Catamaran idea. He locked in on three key downsides of marine pleasure crafts:
  1. Being stuck on a boat all day baking in the sun with the same people,
  2. It is impossible to dance at sea without looking like you have an inner ear infection, and
  3. 10% of people suffer from seasickness, and said seasickness lasts approximately 3 days after disembarking. This would knock out 3-4 people and severely disrupt the seating chart for the reception.
Plus, the whole concept of boat excursions is completely taboo amongst the SPF 40 set. Undeterred, the strength of Tracie’s conviction filled the air with the faint odor of two-stroke oil. The trip was a go. And this was a good thing.

“We all bonded in a I’m-drunk-and-retarded-and-so-are-you” fashion. When you’ve all had too much beer, this makes a lot of sense,” Jenny explained.

Kully himself reconsidered his terrible idea stance less than an hour off the coast of the island. “I very much enjoyed lying in the netting talking with Tracie. We need to do more of that.”

On the other hand, Kully's 60's Party was a terrible idea according to the bride, who probably immediately reversed her viewpoint at the first sight of grand-prize winner Warren in a diaper. Which is what he wore in the 60's.

Or maybe the turning point came as she lipsynched Proud Mary backed up by Heather and Michael and featuring some synchronized money maker shakin.’ Although it could have come later when somehow boots seemed like a logical choice for swimwear.

In any event, Sharon’s favorite moment, besides Michael’s Best Man speech, was jumping into the pool after the party including the “keep the wig/lose the wig” conversation with Lynn.

José and Patti were of course an oft-mentioned highlight, as were Kully’s pants.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Crafty Upstate New Yorker Selects Stalker to Pet Sit

Warren, born in 1965 and currently residing in Albany, three hours from anything good, left his beloved dog in the care of his stalker. “She was sitting in her car near my driveway as I was preparing to leave for the airport. It was a very convenient option.”

Upon questioning, Warren revealed that Savoy, a St. Bernard, had been named prior to coming into his possession and that he usually refers to her affectionately as “Poo Head.” Originally, Warren had envisioned strapping a small barrel of spiced rum to Savoy’s collar for a safety-first take on the possibility of hypothermic emergency. Subsequent to looking into it, Warren discovered that dog-ready small barrels cost in the overpriced neighborhood of $85. It was time to get his craft on, revealed undisclosed sources on the same side of the dinner table at the Mango Tree restaurant on 3/4/09.

“I completely disregarded the most logical suggestion to epoxy the barrel to the dog’s neck hair, despite the obvious advantages of enabling the hypothermic victim to simply clip off the small barrel with any ordinary scissor,” recounted Warren. Instead, Warren firmly espoused gluing the barrel directly to clean-shaven dog skin, a plan fraught with an asymotic number of serious flaws. For example, the hypothermic victim would need to drink the rum with the dog lying on top of him.

“I do not see any problem in drinking rum with a St. Bernard lying on top of you while in the throes of hypothermia,” declared Warren.

A panel of experts subsequently talked amongst themself and ultimately agreed the best answer would probably be to just give the small barrel to the stalker.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Wearing my Spy Pants in Nooch

The second I saw his black and white striped wrist-warmers, I knew I would spend the entire dinner hoping he wouldn't notice me spying. He was waiting for his dinner date to come back from the men's room when our waiter, sporting a white belt and striking black dangly earrings, seated us right next to him. For a second I considered telling him his wrist-warmers looked cozy, but then I didn't because it would have blown my cover.

Apparently, he and his dinner date slash boyfriend had just moved in together. His boyfriend reminded me of Sean Penn playing Harvey Milk, although with less height and charm. They debated the bedroom furniture arrangement (desk, TV, bed, or bed, desk, TV) right before the two of them started lovingly arm wrestling. Milk won.

I considered asking him where he'd found his maroon tone-on-tone eyeglasses. I'm in the market for spectacles. The pair I got from See on Greenwich Aveneue fling themselves off my face at the slightest Looking at Something Short situation. But I kept my queries to myself because their waiter had rolled up with their check. They both studied it intently.

Milk asked him if he had a dollar, but he did not have a dollar. He had seventy five cents. Milk did not take the seventy five cents. Milk shoved two twenties in the bill tray and waited for change.

As they got up to leave, a brooch dropped out of his amber-plaid messenger-style man purse. The brooch was a black rectangle shape overlaid by a red star and accentuated by frilly gold swirls that may have been a "W." Or maybe not, it was hard to tell. I didn't notice the brooch on the banquette seat until they were gone, so I handed the brooch to a waiter. Not the one with the dangly earings.

Walking down the sidewalk on 17th staring back into the restaurant through the glass, I noticed all the heteros were segregated together on the other side of the restaurant.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Saturday Night Flashback

As soon as we stepped off the PATH I told Tom to make sure he didn't go balls up after too much draft beer in plastic cups because I would seriously consider leaving him in Hoboken. It'd been fifteen years since my last Hoboken-a-go-go topped off with a Belgian waffle at the diner alongside the church crowd, but I vaguely distinctly remember the pitfalls inherent in one square mile of bars. Where even the menfolk hold each other's hair while they vomit curbside.

Four bands that hadn't played together for a decade mostly remembered their old songs for a reunion show at Maxwells. The MellowTraumatics did it up right. Poppily songs, tight play, sultry singer. The crowd went wild.

An unbenownst-to-me star of Ugly Betty fronted the next band and several music critics in the press box had a field day. Me and Glenn agreed there are two forms of inaccessible: the math rockers and sludge-core maniacs who are actually decent musicians but hellbent on some sort of inexplicable musical tirade, as opposed to the simple, guitarded honkledoonkeys. Ugly Betty Crew fell squarely in this latter category. Ugly Betty boy isn't famous enough to be that self-indulgent.

We stayed through Band Three, which rocked. In a frisky early 00 kind of way.

On the train ride home I sat next to an Asian kid in black sneakers. He read rows and rows of Chinese characters on an iPhone with a brutally smashed screen. I spied on him.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

60's Party Prep and a Lesson in Cardigan Appreciation

Asking my father for fashion advice is always a risky proposition. Especially since he started wearing around a woodland-print cardigan he found in the basement and telling anyone who asks that it is a quality woolen.

"We're going to a party, what'd you wear in the 60's, Pop?"

"Fornication pants."

"What? What??"

"Fornication pants. High-waters. With shit kickers, a wide tie, and Woody Allen spectacles."

Praise Jesus the only thing he brought up from the basement was a woodland-print cardigan.

Sunday, February 08, 2009

Local Instigator Makes Trouble at CMoM Children's Museum

These two youngsters at left are playing a nice game of Plinko at the Children's Museum of Manhattan just prior to the area lapsing into a snake pit of anarchy and warmongering at 1:30pm on February 2. After hustling from the brouhaha under the watchful glare of nearby parents, Uncle Tom, 40, said, "After the whole room broke out in a free-for-all street fight, I just left."

According to Tom, he had been innocently playing with Nephew Jackson, 1, who had crawled behind the Plinko machine to the backside where a high ledge and exposed electrical outlets didn't appear to be entirely child-friendly. Tom would call out a color and Jackson allegedly found a Plinko ball in that hue and handed it over the top of the machine to his attentive uncle.

"It was good fun until this show-off kid started it all. Every time I named a color, he would find a ball and chuck it at me. Sometimes multiple balls. That kid really had a keen eye as well as a powerful arm. The other children found him very inspirational."

Despite conflicting recollections of the sequence of events, Tom maintains his version. "The next thing I knew, a whole rebel faction had piled on top of Jackson behind the Plinko machine blindly flinging balls with wild abandon. They were bouncing off the ceiling. I was helplessly caught in the cross fire. What else could I do but grab my nephew and evacuate?"

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Summer of '76: Projectile Beetles vs. Pantyhose

My biker gang rode up to the church on Sunday around ten a.m, right before services ended. We parked our banana seat rides behind the maintenance shed. Our ammo, hairy legged Japanese beetles, clicked around in glass jars with air holes punched in the lids. We were after the pantyhose.

With a lot of loud yet completely stealthy whispering, we crouched under the shrubbery, waiting for the congregation to stream out onto the sidewalk.

T minus two minutes, we broke out the drinking straws. Except we called them blowdarts.
We rammed a japanese beetle inside the muzzle of the straw, waited for a set of pantyhose to stride within firing range, and blew like a trumpet player into the straw. Thunk. Total panty-monium... some dowdy lady, high kicks and shrieking. An eight year-old's ultimate dream. Although.

Fraught with a dangerous underbelly that to this day makes me cringe and gag convulsively. One Sunday, it all went terribly wrong.

I was premature. I went for the straw before the deep inhale needed for sure and straight fire. The japanese beetle sucked in tonsilbound. I had to pick its sharp furry feet and sticky antennae off my tongue. It was gaggifyingly horrifying but I learned my lesson. I left the thug life behind.

Until we learned how to bottle up leeches from the creek down by the Route 934 bridge.

Monday, February 02, 2009

For All You Grocery Shoppers...
Breaking Laces at the Rockwood Music Hall

No time for fornication
but once I quit my paper route
she'll want my body

Did he really say that? Yeah, I think he did.

Going in, I had no expectations other than some chick named Jill told me she was friends with the drummer. But Breaking Laces totally put a little salsa on my tortilla chip. It was top-shelf spicy sauce magnified by the Rockwood, a tiny tiny brick-walled hole in the L.E.S. How tiny is it? If someone in the band did a high kick they'd probably take down the bartender.

The bass player looked like Dave Faulkner should he become a surfer. The singer had a Death Cab for Cutie moonfaced vibe going on. Although unlike the lead singer of Death Cab during the autumn of 2005, he did not feel the need to demonstrate he can play the drums by firing up a seven minute solo on a miniature drum kit, which I did not feel accentuated my overall concert experience at the time nor subsequently.

In addition to his mad pipes and feisty lyrics, the frontman of Breaking Laces also laid down some entertaining banter. Like the comment about a song named Megan which his girlfriend Sarah figured out wasn't about her because she's quick like that.

As far as their musical influences go, they have a different one on a song-by-song, sometimes stanza-by-stanza basis. It's like an audio patchwork quilt of musical inspirations. Besides Death Cab, I detected Guster, Chevelle, Nirvana, BRMC, Breaking Benjamin (So Cold), Audible, Lifehouse (?!), snippets of the Disturbed, OK Go's first album, Hawthorne Heights, maybe the Lemonheads, BNL or along those lines... The clumps of Other Bands makes for one hell of a killer awesome fiesta platter live show. Although it occured to me Breaking Laces might need a little more time in the oven for all the juices to mingle and come into their own.

Whatever. I loved the show. Their albums rock.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

ADT Sticker Deters New Jersey Jungle Creatures

Our next-door neighbor told me she wants to install a home security system. So the hyenas in the woods out back don't come crashing through her living room windows.

Found! Data for Future Taxidermic Analysis

Date: 1/24/09 00:14
Found: One Dime in World Trade Center subway station at Chambers Street
Current Status: In right front pocket of blue jeans

Date: 1/24/09 13:40
Found: One zinc-plated 1/2" round washer on corner of 5th and 55th
Current Status: Flew out of pocket while dislodging cellular telephone 1/25 01:14, one bounce, and dropped down elevator shaft at 7th floor landing of 270 West 17th Street

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Free Hot Dogs and Raw Sugah Any Day of the Week

Nothing against straight party-planners, but when it comes to naming the affair, gays really shine. I have assembled a list of my favorite titular events, assiduously researched for almost 8 minutes flipping through various periodicals while Tom takes great pains not to become associated in any way with my highbrow endeavor:

Bingo Balls Bingo
Ass Circus
Bum Bum Night
Suck my Diskoteque
Cock Fight!
Whip It Out!
Queer, Beer, Rear

Come one,come all!

References: NeXt Magazine, December 2008, p 32-34. Go! Magazine, January 2009, p 63-66. TONY Magazine, January 15-21, random pages.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Safe Driving Tip for Human Lovers

If you are driving along and suddenly a horse and buggy pulls out right in front of you, lay down across the passenger seat and aim for the horse.

You would already know this if you took driver's ed in Amish country.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Pick up the Phone: It's the Truth Calling

Tom repeatedly accuses me of being a bully in the rack. As it turns out, Tom's a big smack talker. I occupy a wee sliver of the overall available bedspace. May the force of justice prevail!

This is Tom in the sack. Tom's official designated side of said sack is on the LEFT. Please note the vast unoccupied wilderness in this leftist zone. And in case you insist math be an ingredient in your drink of truthjuice:

39 full-blooded inches, Tom's butt to bedside. Here's another view of this delicious wasteland. Camera shot taken over the top of the curiously inert husband in question:

In stark contrast to all this sprawl, please note the below. 15 puny inches. This is the distance from the leftmost edge of moi to bedside right:

In the future it's going to be a little more of a vigorous style of slumber. I'm going to arise at various intervals, decamp, and then get in bed on the other side. This would appear to be the savvy move.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

New Years 2009

Lynn and Michael completed their kitchen project before us, despite my considerable effort eyeballing millions, if not thousands, of tile backsplash samples. I consider myself squarely part of the problem. But sometimes home improvement is best achieved via evolution, as opposed to an intelligent design approach. 

Slowly, as the doors fall off our kitchen cabinets one by one, a new open-air modern casual chic design is revealed. And someday, our humping antelope-themed formica scullery will metamorphosize naturally into Lynnie and Michael's kitchen. It will be beautiful and airy and sleek. Hopefully, much to Charles Darwin's continued and bitter disappointment, I will live to see the day. 

Until then, let me state for the record there is no better way to ring in the new year than in the company of your favorite favorites polishing off Asian food in incredibly stylish glitter 2009 sunglasses and party hats.