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

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...

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 ...

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

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 ...

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.”

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.

Dirty Dozen Guns of Navarone Stalag 17 Great Escape Bridge over River Kwai Also applauds MAD magazine version featuring Sesua HayaKawa as the bucket, and Alec Guiness as the General 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. 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 Sutherla...

"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?" "Gerard?" "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 India...

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.

"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."

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.

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 ya...

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.

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.

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...

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 Date : 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 Date : 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.

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...

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......

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 ...

"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.