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

Tom took a snapshot of the napkin from the Golden Unicorn If you are going to Chinatown for dim sum, I highly recommend going with someone who speaks Chinese. If you can't make that happen, take Matt. Our morning got going when the underaged hostess barked our number into her microphone (#118). I did a small inner fist pump. We were whisked into a three-banger elevator and taken up to the middle banquet floor.  I say the middle banquet floor because on a floor below us and a floor above us, diners scarfed down dim sum. I say banquet floor because the place was plush-- as plush as you can get when the floor is linoleum and there's gold lamé curtains and you're seated at a ten-top with two people you don't know who are already halfway done with their lunch. This was no backwater dumpling honky tonk. This was a major dim sum command central. Carts of dim sum flew at us from all directions. It was a frenzy. Up until that moment I had been going throu...

A portmanteau , in case you are unfamiliar, is when you take two words and smash them together so hard a brand new word plops forth from the wreckage. An example is "smog," which is the bastard child of sm oke and f og . Random shot of Pop poking a street sign. My Pop, reading a magazine or paper or something he randomly picked up off my kitchen table: "Fugly?" (no one says anything.) "What's fugly?" (Tom looks up, weighs the pros and cons of engaging, decides against it, goes back to what he was doing.) (Three minutes pass.) "Oooooh. It's a portmanteau! Ha ha ha. Fugly. Really clever. Fugly. You know, the f comes from..." (Props to Pop for speedy code cracking. Also bonus points for managing to drop the word 'portmanteau' into a statement concerning the word  'fugly.') (Three minutes pass.) "Ha ha ha. Fugly."

At our ice cream social on Saturday afternoon, I was lured into a conversation about china patterns. Translation: Laura asked me about my plates, and I swaggered right up to an overly large answer.  I buy my plates at flea markets. I got a whole bunch at that weird little auction in Boonton years ago. Whenever I spy willow ware , I'm sidling up to the table, trying to remember which brands are old and valuable and hoping the shop proprietor has suffered a bout of angina and left her unemployed idiot son-in-law in charge so I can dicker myself a big-ass deal. Willow ware is appealing because it comes with an ancient Chinese story, which is probably only slightly more ancient than yoga. And yoga , it turns out, bears a suspicious similarity to turn of the century Swedish gymnastics. Don't worry about it and follow my lead.  I choose to believe the marketing when the actual facts prove tragically dull. In the willow ware story, a princess falls in love with a low...

My mom gave me a DNA test kit for my birthday to learn about our ancestry. The results came in the other day. If your property overlooked a lake, my family tree would be the kind of tree you'd you go in for. Because it wouldn't block your view. Turns out, my tree has only two honking big branches: Normal family trees are more full-bodied. See me compared to an average German below. You certainly wouldn't want a German family tree outside your picture window. All those twigs and leaves, you wouldn't see shit. At first, I was keen on the idea of such pure simplicity. But then I remembered something. I remembered I did the "swab your cheek" thing while I was eating crackers. Turns out, crackers are unexpectedly sticky. This became clear when I was jamming the swab into the tube. Where did the crackers come from? Because maybe my genetics lean savory spelt crispy with chia seeds. I expressed my concern to Tom. He replied, "Do you think if you eat ...

We flew out of Newark and flew into Omaha. We picked up our rental car and headed out of the parking garage. In Omaha - Pulling out of the Airport Parking Garage "We're not in Jersey anymore, Toto," I said to Tom. Our hotel billed itself as 'located in the heart of downtown Omaha.' Which confused me. All I spied nearby were flat-topped concrete buildings sprinkled along wide-ass four lane roads with passing lanes separated by expansive empty parking lots. No pedestrians. Basically, no traffic either. Downtown Omaha "Where's the city?" I asked the front desk clerk. She gave me a funny look.  "I mean, where are all the things ?" I continued.  "What kind of things ?" replied the front desk clerk. She was really very pleasant. "I mean, where's your downtown?" "We're right in the middle of downtown, actually." I took a moment to regroup. Clearly I've lived east...

photo credit: SBNation.com The expertise in my family unit is amazing, especially when it comes to synchronized diving (“Obviously the Chinese dominate in both synchronization and execution”), uneven parallel bars (“Oh boy, that hop on the landing will cost her”) and the Nigerian men’s soccer team (“Well played in the backfield although clearly outmatched when it comes to that side-of-the-foot maneuver.”)  On the whole, we are easily qualified to take over the expert commentary. Or maybe the color commentary. Or at a minimum just commentary. -

Gustav Klimt is the guy who painted " the kiss " which everyone has seen a million times, usually in your first apartment after college. Your roomate bought the poster on sale, squashed it into a shitty frame from Ikea and hung it right above that white sofa no one realized was an ass bad idea until the inaugural coffee incident ten minutes after delivery. The Kiss by Gustav Klimt on sale at AllPosters.com I never was a huge fan of The Kiss. A little too gooey twee with a glass slipper and chirping forest creatures. Plus the gentleman's desperate spinal stenosis situation. But I warmed up to Gustav after I saw Hope , up close and personal, at MoMA a while back: Hope III at MoMA Wow. She's something to stand your ground and stare at. The size, the party colors. And then there's this one I stumbled across at the Met Breuer in the spring: I went back yesterday for another look. It's in the exhibition called " Unfinished ." Meaning, t...

The ice cream thing started when I decided to get Tom a cake for his birthday. Tom's favorite cake is ice cream cake. But ice cream cake poses logistical challenges for someone such as myself who eschews grocery stores and has little understanding of how such a thing as ordering an ice cream cake transpires. So I decided it would simply be less of an ordeal to just make Tom an ice cream cake. I felt a bit more confident in this endeavor because my friend Darcey would be around. I've seen her whip up spontaneous and tasty snacks from gluten-free kitchen scraps and like a tennis ball. So I would make an ice cream cake. Done deal. The main ingredient of ice cream cake is ice cream. I'm very quick like this. So I sped over to Bed Bath and Beyond on 6th Avenue and purchased an ice cream maker. Subsequently, I mentioned this consumer accomplishment to three people and all three immediately asked if I had used a 20% off coupon. The answer is no. I'm not a top decile BB...

Let’s just kick this off by mentioning what I have accomplished since sitting down to write this blog post. And by “sitting down to write this blog post” I don’t mean to imply it was an open and shut affair. Not counting the eight to ten false sits would be disingenuous. But I’ve been called to duty by an endless sequence of important tasks which has hindered my progress. For example: Buying mosquito repellent bracelets on Amazon Looking up what a mushroom expert is called (a Mycologist) Finding the best electric switch you can turn on and off with an app, and then deciding I don’t need one. Skimming a lot of popular NYT articles Aggressively deleting duplicate photos on my computer Copying and pasting quotes about distraction into Evernote. This distraction business is really distracting. In between watching  Ozzyman  YouTube videos, I read a book by Charles Duhigg . Charles says distractions and interruptions are addicting. I mean like, actually addictin...

Just finished reading Blue Nights by Joan Didion . Clawed through it, beginning to end, in like three days. Which is record time considering that every word in the book is meticulously fussed over and concerns dying, death, or scenes involving a child you are fully aware is on a fast track to dying and death. It was harrowing. It was riveting.  I like the idea of the Blue Night. I'm watching one unfurl through the window.  It's that distended hour between daylight and night that lingers -- but only in summer during those few weeks before and after the solstice, when the sun rises highest in the sky.  Now, in other words.  I like the idea of the Blue Nights as a reprieve, where time hangs in the balance and memories fold themselves into the present. Here's what Joan Dideon had to say: "If only I could keep people fully present, keep them with me, by preserving their mementos, their 'things,' their totems. The detritus of this mispl...

I consider it my responsibility to teach the kids important life skills. Like Swedish drinking songs. They almost have it nailed. A couple tweaks and they'll be ready for kräftskiva season.

For several excellent reasons I won’t get into, we watched the Kentucky Derby at a dive bar in Flushing Queens-- dead center, ChinaTown. On the TV, we took in rich whitebread billionaires swanning about in silken spring-themed blazers, white pants and expensive looking hair.  Meanwhile, my immediate vicinity smelled like day old Coors and someone smoking Newports upstairs. Patrons slumped in their barstools, maybe for weeks.  It’s possible that the pock-faced man suffered from an overactive bladder, but curiously, every time he went to the rest room, he chose to go with a new buddy, someone who wandered in off the street. It reminded me of my childhood. There was a lot of economic activity inside the men’s room at the Washington Tavern in my hometown. The restroom in there was like a tiny farmers market. Except in the stalls there were no apples or summer squashes and small bills were preferred.  Remaining on the topic of my hometown… I was kinda thinking t...

Photo credit:  Keith Paul Medelis We were at the Pearl Theater watching “ Stupid Fucking Bird .” One of the actors approached the front of the stage. He pulled a photo from his fake actor wallet, held it up and said that he had named his child “Malechov.” It was a dramatic moment. Totally out of context, someone behind us giggled. And it ended in a giant snort. One of those snorts that is much louder than it actually is. Tom, myself and everybody else in the entire audience tried not to laugh. So did the actor on stage. He had to pause and compose himself. Suddenly my evening was better. Even better than it would have been.  And trust me, it was a pretty good evening already despite the pissing rain. First, it was Friday, possibly the best day of the week. Second, on the way to 42nd street, someone randomly walking in front of us said something into her iPhone about sailing. Yes! The perfect opportunity for Tom and I to simultaneously shriek “ Boaty McBo...

After I posted  Recent Heroics and Impressive Charts  Pop shot me an email in response. I copied it below. To get the context, you might want to read through my original post first, which is here Pop taking a photo. He's taken thousands of photos but no one has ever seen any of them. On Apr 23, 2016, at 11:46 PM, -Pop-  wrote: I liked your blog. I was able to relate to your counting, felt like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Well first, if in 2013 you listened to 33000 songs, and if each song was 3 min, it would consume over 68 full days, or if you slept 6 hrs/d, it would be 84 days of non-sleeping time or almost 1/4 of your waking-time listening to music. Wow, that’s a lot of music. As for visiting 378 drinking establishments since 2010, the summer I drove a cab in Allentown I too counted my drinking estm’ts visited picking up customers. I got to, if my memory correctly serves me, in the neighborhood of 110.   I never did count...

The best thing about stomping around the west village until 3am is when you wake up the next morning, your phone beeps a little motivational “good going champ!” type message. Because you're more than halfway toward your daily fitness goal. The health app has no idea it took 5000 steps to get from the restaurant on Bleeker to that bar Helen likes. And then somewhere else. If you give me a sec, I can pull up the name of the dive. Because I keep track. Since 2010, I’ve worked hard to accomplish: 378 drinking establishments 98 museums or art galleries 103 music or performing art venues We vacationed in Florida a couple weeks ago with some of Kenny’s longtime buddies. They were polite enough to insist I had “taught them some great new iPhone tricks.” I knew this was code for “holy hell you’ve got a problem.”  It could have been a lot worse, but luckily I kept the menace in check. The only app I showed off was the one to track how many glasses of water I drink every d...

I step into the elevator of our apartment building. A couple is already in there, sporting a certain style of sneaker, cross-body bag, fleece outerwear and frosted hair stripes. I immediately know I am dealing with people who routinely drive a little further for a decent lobby waffle. They type in all caps about libs and Bachman Turner Overdrive. They clearly don’t live in my building.  It’s just the three of us in the elevator. I press the button for my floor, and the husband and wife from Topeka or whoever the hell stand across from me in the corner. The doors slide closed. It’s very quiet. The husband puts his hairy hand up to his wife’s ear and starts whispering. One of those loud cartoon whispers. He whispers and whispers the entire way to my floor. The doors open, I exit. “WELL GOOD BYE,” the husband bursts out all snarky-like to the back of my head.  It’s in that moment that I understand why all the Air BnB squawking at resident meetings in our building. Who w...

I saved myself the 25 bucks. I got the cheaper Kindle, the one where Amazon gets to feed me ads. Every time I put my Paperwhite to sleep, a new ad eases onto the screen. The ad lies in wait for my return. I pick up my Kindle and the irresistible copy and graphics lure me to purchase my next book. Except this never happens. Because as cunning as Amazon is at big data-ing me to immediately click "Yes, Please" on Dansko boots and dual-sided micro-cleaning cloths in fashion colors ... they are the exact opposite on the Kindle. House Trained: A Novel. Can perfectionist Alex take a cue from her dog and welcome the chaos that comes with unconditional love? Seriously, Amazon? Yoshi's Wooly World- Untagle the Fun! Game for Wii How does Amazon not know that I have never, not even once, purchased anything, at any time, that came within 500 feet of a video game, Wii or otherwise? Which data scientist over there felt that the striking visual of this indeterminant c...

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...

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.