Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Photo Credit: http://dguides.com/newyorkcity/areas/east-village/ Yestereve, on the walk back from the new Mike Birbiglia show with Tom , I make a remark about the East Village. It smelled unusually floral. Like the sidewalk had been strained through the fresh sparkle of Tinkerbell’s underpants.  Our blueberry night continued until we approached Astor Place where the traffic snarls and everybody has to wait around to cross Lafayette Street. My evening took a turn.  There on the corner, I stood and grappled for oxygen molecules. I felt like I was choking on a gigantic pink cookie while being smiled at by Sandy Duncan draped in a cloak made of rainbows and smashing rose petals into my face. Turns out it was this woman. She had been walking about 15 feet in front of us for ten blocks. Exuding random aroma spasms. After the light changed, she turned uptown and we went west.  We breathed easy until I spied a slender gentleman in a pink satin jacket approaching us on

I finished  Reading Lolita in Tehran  and can't shake the dread. I can't imagine going from right now to losing all my rights, money, property ... everything that religious fundamentalists unabashedly stole from women after the Iranian revolution. This happened not so long ago in a country just on the other side of Europe. After the revolution, religious fundamentalists forced women to wear veils over their hair, no makeup, no ankles showing. Even the women who chose to follow these rules before the revolution were upset. Because now they were not wearing a veil to honor their god, but wearing a veil so they wouldn’t get thrown in jail by the secret police. Iran's leadership not only robbed women of their independence and dignity, but also of their ability to worship their chosen god. Because you can’t call it worship if you’re doing it because you have to. Bowing your head for any reason beyond free choice is a mockery. I’d assume any god involved has the wherewith

Pop takes a selfie. (The spectacles are a funny dad joke, btw) My pop got on the phone and announced he has a long tooth. I became confused. It's not that I've never heard Pop bemoan his age before, but it's usually in the context of split times, i.e. "I can no longer run a sub-7 minute mile. I used to run them all day and all night. Now I'm lucky with a niner." But lately, he's been kind of into the whole age thing. A few years ago he got himself into the 70+ age group and started winning all these running trophies. I seek clarity. "Say what? You're long in the tooth?" "Yes I am," said Pop. "I was at the dentist today for a root canal. He measured my tooth. It was 30mm long. The max tooth length the dentist's machine can even handle is 31mm. My tooth was almost off the charts. The dentist said it was the longest tooth he ever encountered." So there you go. Possibly another trophy opportunity.