Christie's auction house stands to clean up after nailing a quick hand of Rock-Paper-Scissors recently in Japan. I think this is great. Why can't more world leaders realize that, when it comes down to it, schoolyard politics really do hold the answers to all our problems? Imagine how easily the Middle East conflict could be resolved if either the Israelis or the Palestinians had just yelled out, "Dibbs West Bank!" Then the other group could have replied, "Oh yeah? Well, we shot Gaza Strip!" Deposed heads of state could ensure their eventual return to power by calling out "quack quack seat back" as they left their offices at gunpoint. Donald Rumsfeld could have called out "Ally ally oxen free!" and presto voila: Osama Bin Laden!
Hey! You! North Korea! One base on an overthrow. One base. And no leading off...
Friday, April 29, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Welcome To My Summer. Parlez-Vous Roslyn?
June is creeping up on us, kids, and you know what that means: it's almost time for camp. Time for Myster to start buckling down on her pop culture homework. It’s a full-time job keeping up with the kids today. I find myself skulking home from the video store, hoping I don’t run into anyone I know, and trying to hide the covers of the books I read on the subway. But the payoff comes in June, when I am able to say things like:
“Yes, Emily, I do think it’s criminal that they cast Lindsay Lohan in the Gossip Girl movie. No way is Blair a slutty Long Island redhead. Michelle Trachtenberg would have been a much better choice.”
“I’m not sure which Traveling Pants book I like the best. Probably the second summer, especially when Bee runs out onto the soccer field in the Pants. But I really think I’m more of a Carma.”
“Lorelai and Luke are totally made for each other.”
“What I don’t get is how Mr. Krabs can have a daughter who’s a whale. Hello, he’s a crab!”
(Side Note: I can also use the words “jappy,” “tight” and “crunk” in appropriate context, utter the phrase “that’s hot” with a straight face and tell the difference between So Low and Hard Tail fold-overs from 50 yards off. And I solemnly promise to use my powers for good and not for evil.)
Thursday, April 21, 2005
OTS News Briefs
Give That Writer A Raise
Yesterday, I laughed at something President Bush said; not because it was idiotic, but because it was both clever and funny. Somebody do me a favor and check the thermostat in Hell.
Stand Clear Of The Closing Doors
The MTA announced yesterday that service on the A/C line is finally back to normal and all damage done in this winter’s signal room fire has been repaired. The transportation commissioner noted repeatedly that engineers had to be “creative” in rebuilding the switch system, which predates the New Deal. In other news, Manhattan retailers are reporting a spike in sales of Elmer’s glue and dental floss this quarter.
Culkin To Break Silence
After watching the Michael Jackson trial unfold from afar, Macaulay Culkin has agreed to testify for the defense. Apparently one freaky-looking, drugged-out, divorced former child star with limp hair and weird bone structure is just not challenge enough for this legal team.
Back In The Day
According to the New Jersey Star-Ledger, the original St. Benedict was known to have been highly offended by the extravagance and paganism he felt ran rampant through Europe in his day. Sounds like a certain contemporary Benedict I can think of. It also seems that St. Benedict was asked to be abbot of a small religious order, but that the monks later grew tired of him and tried to poison him. See, that’s why Catholicism is great. You just don’t get stories like that in the annals of the Episcopalian church.
Yesterday, I laughed at something President Bush said; not because it was idiotic, but because it was both clever and funny. Somebody do me a favor and check the thermostat in Hell.
Stand Clear Of The Closing Doors
The MTA announced yesterday that service on the A/C line is finally back to normal and all damage done in this winter’s signal room fire has been repaired. The transportation commissioner noted repeatedly that engineers had to be “creative” in rebuilding the switch system, which predates the New Deal. In other news, Manhattan retailers are reporting a spike in sales of Elmer’s glue and dental floss this quarter.
Culkin To Break Silence
After watching the Michael Jackson trial unfold from afar, Macaulay Culkin has agreed to testify for the defense. Apparently one freaky-looking, drugged-out, divorced former child star with limp hair and weird bone structure is just not challenge enough for this legal team.
Back In The Day
According to the New Jersey Star-Ledger, the original St. Benedict was known to have been highly offended by the extravagance and paganism he felt ran rampant through Europe in his day. Sounds like a certain contemporary Benedict I can think of. It also seems that St. Benedict was asked to be abbot of a small religious order, but that the monks later grew tired of him and tried to poison him. See, that’s why Catholicism is great. You just don’t get stories like that in the annals of the Episcopalian church.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
What Would Joanie Do?
You can’t big-time Joan Baez, that’s for sure. If you walked into her office and talked to her like she was a mentally disabled five-year-old, Joan would look right through you. She wasn’t intimidated by Little Bobby Dylan, she wasn’t intimidated by Ronald Ray-Gun (zzzap!) and she’s not intimidated by you. You would find yourself backing slowly out of her office, mumbling something about how you didn’t need to bother her now and could just send her an e-mail later.
Here’s another thing: If you asked Joan Baez to sing in your wedding and she said yes and then it turned out she couldn’t because she had to move out of her apartment ten days earlier than she thought she was going to have to, your fiancé would certainly not call her up and berate her. If he did, Joan would not start hysterically crying in her office. She would simply comment, calmly and very, very coolly, that she’d noticed that Dr. King didn’t feel the need to raise his voice to Bull Connor when his rights were threatened and his worth publicly demeaned, so it seems completely unnecessary for your fiancé to raise his voice to Joan over something of comparatively minor global import. Your fiancé would hang up and slink away with his tail between his legs and the incident would never be mentioned again.
If her parents were coming to town, Joan Baez would have something nice prepared for them when they arrived, like a whole wheat pasta salad and some cider. Not because she wanted to impress her parents with her culinary abilities or her prowess as a hostess, but because she knew they’d be hungry and thirsty from all the traveling.
Were Joan Baez to start going to the gym in the mornings before work, she would make it every morning. She would not, at least twice a week, look at her alarm clock at 5:15, moan “why do you hate me?” and reset the alarm for 6:30.
On the other hand, Joan Baez also cut off all her hair and recorded “Children and All That Jazz.” So I guess we can’t all be perfect.
Here’s another thing: If you asked Joan Baez to sing in your wedding and she said yes and then it turned out she couldn’t because she had to move out of her apartment ten days earlier than she thought she was going to have to, your fiancé would certainly not call her up and berate her. If he did, Joan would not start hysterically crying in her office. She would simply comment, calmly and very, very coolly, that she’d noticed that Dr. King didn’t feel the need to raise his voice to Bull Connor when his rights were threatened and his worth publicly demeaned, so it seems completely unnecessary for your fiancé to raise his voice to Joan over something of comparatively minor global import. Your fiancé would hang up and slink away with his tail between his legs and the incident would never be mentioned again.
If her parents were coming to town, Joan Baez would have something nice prepared for them when they arrived, like a whole wheat pasta salad and some cider. Not because she wanted to impress her parents with her culinary abilities or her prowess as a hostess, but because she knew they’d be hungry and thirsty from all the traveling.
Were Joan Baez to start going to the gym in the mornings before work, she would make it every morning. She would not, at least twice a week, look at her alarm clock at 5:15, moan “why do you hate me?” and reset the alarm for 6:30.
On the other hand, Joan Baez also cut off all her hair and recorded “Children and All That Jazz.” So I guess we can’t all be perfect.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Down By The Schoolyard
I have an overactive suburban-mom gene and a station wagon fetish. I’m not sure where this comes from. It could be that the Momster was the ultimate activities-and-involvement mom. But I guarantee you this: call me in 15 years. I’ll definitely be the president of the PTA.
I mention this because Bosses Dan and Jane took a few days off last week to relax in Florida (although I think they spent the whole time working), so I volunteered to spend the weekend in Jersey being a soccer mom. Actually, it’s not soccer season, so I was really a softball-and-Model-Congress mom. But the fundamental principle is the same.
Some of my friends don’t get the whole staying-with-the-kids thing. I think they think I have to do this as part of my job—like, there’s a nanny clause in my contract. Maybe they think it’s a tradeoff: international travel in exchange for babysitting. They just don’t get it.
First of all, it’s hardly babysitting. Boss’ Daughter Numero Uno Samantha is 17 and has a driver’s license and a car. Middle Daughter Emily is 14 and almost never home. Youngest Daughter Eliza is 10 and spends most of her time playing outside. And they have a live-in housekeeper, so it’s not like I’m cooking and cleaning. I’m there to drive to guitar practice and tutoring sessions, keep the three of them from killing each other, make sure YD Eliza gets help with her homework, hear about the cute boy BD Samantha met on the train and lend a sympathetic ear when MD Emily gets in a fight with her best friend over IM. This time around, I spent most of the weekend helping YD Eliza build a Rube Goldberg mousetrap for a school project and listening to the play-by-play of BD Sam’s preview day at Penn.
Another thing some of my friends don’t understand is that I really enjoy these weekends. Part of the problem is that most of my friends aren’t really into kids, so they don’t understand that it’s a huge deal for MD Emily to confide in me about her friendship problems while I’m driving her home from a party. They don’t see the fun in sitting at the kitchen table with YD Eliza, coming up with mnemonics to help her remember her spelling words.
Three years ago, Bosses Dan and Jane took their first extended vacation together in years, and I stayed with the girls for the first time. A few days into the stay, I found myself with a half hour to kill between pickups and dropoffs and called Friend Pete from a sale at Bloomingdale’s in the Mall at Short Hills.
“I know what I want to do with my life,” I said. “I want to be a Long Island soccer mom.” I had visions of myself cruising around Hewlett or Roslyn in a Mercedes SUV with a latte in one hand and a hands-free plugged into my ear, balancing ballet recitals and lacrosse practices and meetings with the decorator. Friend Pete told me to hang up and call him back when I’d regained my sanity.
Okay, so today my desire to be a Long Island soccer mom has abated somewhat. (Mostly because I no longer have any interest in living on Long Island, particularly not Hewlett or Roslyn. I graduated from high school and have no plans to bring its politics into my adult life.) But I do relish my occasional suburban excursions, I think, because they are so different from my usual self-indulgent lifestyle. Not that there’s no self-indulgence involved in driving Boss Jane’s Benz too fast with the sun roof open and the Rolling Stones blaring, stopping by Starbucks or Saks on my way to someone’s school or practice or friend’s house. But I am forced to operate on someone else’s schedule and put someone else’s needs first, which is a good exercise in reality. And the more I do it, the more I appreciate my normal life, in which I read the Times at my leisure, spend as much time at the gym as I want, eat when and where I choose, don’t have to see Fever Pitch a second time because “nothing else good is playing,” am almost never forced to listen to “Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard” seventeen times in a row in the car, and am impacted not at all by the weekly events on “The OC.”
But give me a few years. I can hear that PTA election calling my name.
I mention this because Bosses Dan and Jane took a few days off last week to relax in Florida (although I think they spent the whole time working), so I volunteered to spend the weekend in Jersey being a soccer mom. Actually, it’s not soccer season, so I was really a softball-and-Model-Congress mom. But the fundamental principle is the same.
Some of my friends don’t get the whole staying-with-the-kids thing. I think they think I have to do this as part of my job—like, there’s a nanny clause in my contract. Maybe they think it’s a tradeoff: international travel in exchange for babysitting. They just don’t get it.
First of all, it’s hardly babysitting. Boss’ Daughter Numero Uno Samantha is 17 and has a driver’s license and a car. Middle Daughter Emily is 14 and almost never home. Youngest Daughter Eliza is 10 and spends most of her time playing outside. And they have a live-in housekeeper, so it’s not like I’m cooking and cleaning. I’m there to drive to guitar practice and tutoring sessions, keep the three of them from killing each other, make sure YD Eliza gets help with her homework, hear about the cute boy BD Samantha met on the train and lend a sympathetic ear when MD Emily gets in a fight with her best friend over IM. This time around, I spent most of the weekend helping YD Eliza build a Rube Goldberg mousetrap for a school project and listening to the play-by-play of BD Sam’s preview day at Penn.
Another thing some of my friends don’t understand is that I really enjoy these weekends. Part of the problem is that most of my friends aren’t really into kids, so they don’t understand that it’s a huge deal for MD Emily to confide in me about her friendship problems while I’m driving her home from a party. They don’t see the fun in sitting at the kitchen table with YD Eliza, coming up with mnemonics to help her remember her spelling words.
Three years ago, Bosses Dan and Jane took their first extended vacation together in years, and I stayed with the girls for the first time. A few days into the stay, I found myself with a half hour to kill between pickups and dropoffs and called Friend Pete from a sale at Bloomingdale’s in the Mall at Short Hills.
“I know what I want to do with my life,” I said. “I want to be a Long Island soccer mom.” I had visions of myself cruising around Hewlett or Roslyn in a Mercedes SUV with a latte in one hand and a hands-free plugged into my ear, balancing ballet recitals and lacrosse practices and meetings with the decorator. Friend Pete told me to hang up and call him back when I’d regained my sanity.
Okay, so today my desire to be a Long Island soccer mom has abated somewhat. (Mostly because I no longer have any interest in living on Long Island, particularly not Hewlett or Roslyn. I graduated from high school and have no plans to bring its politics into my adult life.) But I do relish my occasional suburban excursions, I think, because they are so different from my usual self-indulgent lifestyle. Not that there’s no self-indulgence involved in driving Boss Jane’s Benz too fast with the sun roof open and the Rolling Stones blaring, stopping by Starbucks or Saks on my way to someone’s school or practice or friend’s house. But I am forced to operate on someone else’s schedule and put someone else’s needs first, which is a good exercise in reality. And the more I do it, the more I appreciate my normal life, in which I read the Times at my leisure, spend as much time at the gym as I want, eat when and where I choose, don’t have to see Fever Pitch a second time because “nothing else good is playing,” am almost never forced to listen to “Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard” seventeen times in a row in the car, and am impacted not at all by the weekly events on “The OC.”
But give me a few years. I can hear that PTA election calling my name.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Second Place Never Felt So Good
I hope everyone’s noticed that Rep. Tom DeLay has gone completely ’round the twist. Here’s a thought for today’s reigning Republican representative: when Newt Gingrich starts talking about how you owe the American people an explanation and Bill Frist gives you the cold shoulder, you’re skating on thin ice. This is when red flags should start waving and warning bells should be going off inside your head and a giant robot should come at you flapping its arms and squawking, “DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!” Memo to Tom DeLay: One of the most hateful and controversial Republican leaders in contemporary history not only thinks you’re out on a limb, but has said as much publicly. Maybe it’s time to reel it in, huh, buddy?
What I don’t quite understand is just what he thinks he’s doing. Do they not teach government in Texas high schools? Because this guy appears to lack a basic understanding of how the federal government operates. Second Memo to Tom DeLay: There’s a really interesting document you should probably check out: the Constitution. Wander on over to Sen. Ted Stevens’ office. He gets ’em printed up in pamphlet form with his name on the back. (That’s how I got my copy.) I’m sure he’ll give you one if you promise not to stand too close to him while there are photographers around. No time to read the whole Constitution? I understand. Your schedule is packed, what with making veiled threats to the judiciary and trying to expose the Liberal Media Conspiracy and secretly plotting to overthrow the government. Here’s a shortcut: get one of your aides to run out and nab a copy of Schoolhouse Rock on DVD. You’ll want to watch the one about the government as a three-ring circus. And, news flash, my friend: you are not the ringmaster. It’s called checks and freaking balances, and it exists to keep whackjob nutters like you from taking over the country. Also, it wouldn’t kill you to watch the segment on women’s suffrage. But that’s an issue for another time. Right now I’ll settle for getting you up-to-date on the balance of powers.
Of course, the winners in this whole situation are the good (albeit misguided) voters of Alaska, who for years have suffered under the mantle of having the Absolute Craziest Representative to Congress. Up until now Rep. Don Young has taken the cake, what with his oosik-waving antics, bolo ties and general boorishness. But in the past couple of weeks, DeLay has really stepped up to the plate and blown old Uncle Don out of the water. And none too soon. Texans have been stinging ever since 1959, when Alaska was admitted to the union and replaced Texas as the winning state when it comes to area, oil, frontier mentality and crazies per capita. Now Texas may finally have wrenched the political-headcase crown back from the denizens of the Last Frontier. (Side Note: I suspect that, on some level, that’s why some people keep voting for Young. It’s that whole Alaskan mentality of “whatever we’ve got has to be the absolute limit: biggest, longest, coldest, worst.” Those are the people who particularly enjoy besting Texans, so the DeLay thing is really going to smart for them.) Let the Texans take this one, ’Frontier kids. You can’t win ’em all. Just enjoy the ride.
What I don’t quite understand is just what he thinks he’s doing. Do they not teach government in Texas high schools? Because this guy appears to lack a basic understanding of how the federal government operates. Second Memo to Tom DeLay: There’s a really interesting document you should probably check out: the Constitution. Wander on over to Sen. Ted Stevens’ office. He gets ’em printed up in pamphlet form with his name on the back. (That’s how I got my copy.) I’m sure he’ll give you one if you promise not to stand too close to him while there are photographers around. No time to read the whole Constitution? I understand. Your schedule is packed, what with making veiled threats to the judiciary and trying to expose the Liberal Media Conspiracy and secretly plotting to overthrow the government. Here’s a shortcut: get one of your aides to run out and nab a copy of Schoolhouse Rock on DVD. You’ll want to watch the one about the government as a three-ring circus. And, news flash, my friend: you are not the ringmaster. It’s called checks and freaking balances, and it exists to keep whackjob nutters like you from taking over the country. Also, it wouldn’t kill you to watch the segment on women’s suffrage. But that’s an issue for another time. Right now I’ll settle for getting you up-to-date on the balance of powers.
Of course, the winners in this whole situation are the good (albeit misguided) voters of Alaska, who for years have suffered under the mantle of having the Absolute Craziest Representative to Congress. Up until now Rep. Don Young has taken the cake, what with his oosik-waving antics, bolo ties and general boorishness. But in the past couple of weeks, DeLay has really stepped up to the plate and blown old Uncle Don out of the water. And none too soon. Texans have been stinging ever since 1959, when Alaska was admitted to the union and replaced Texas as the winning state when it comes to area, oil, frontier mentality and crazies per capita. Now Texas may finally have wrenched the political-headcase crown back from the denizens of the Last Frontier. (Side Note: I suspect that, on some level, that’s why some people keep voting for Young. It’s that whole Alaskan mentality of “whatever we’ve got has to be the absolute limit: biggest, longest, coldest, worst.” Those are the people who particularly enjoy besting Texans, so the DeLay thing is really going to smart for them.) Let the Texans take this one, ’Frontier kids. You can’t win ’em all. Just enjoy the ride.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Media Alert: Britney Knocked Up!
So I'm on the elliptical at the gym this morning, and my heart rate starts to climb. Part of the increase was probably caused by the aerobic exercise. But the other part was a result of the fact that every single news station was talking about Britney Spears' confirmation of her pregnancy.
I don't like the morning news shows to begin with. They're mostly tripe. They're one of the reasons I'm glad we decided against cable. And this morning's baby blitz was just fuel for the fire of my disdain.
Not that I don't love Britney. I have no problem with Britney Spears. (Side Note: I actually found myself defending her to Coworker Drew this morning on the train. He called her a slut for getting pregnant. Right, because Kevin Federline had nothing to do with it. And, hello, they're married. How can one possibly categorize an adult woman having a baby with her husband as slutty behavior?) But when our societal obsession with celebrities reaches the point at which Britney Spears' pregnancy tops the morning news, we have a problem. Hello? We're at war? Remember? You can't tell me that CNN has nothing better to cover than the Federlines' progeny-to-be. And I find it hard to believe that Soledad O'Brien really wants to be covering a story that was broken by Britney's promotional website. Frankly, I was relieved when 7 a.m. rolled around and I could change the channel to Smurf Adventures.
Anyway, forget the news media. There's a bigger issue at stake. We're entering what will probably be a yearlong stretch in which no new Britney videos will be filmed. The demand for artificial sweat is really going to bottom out. So my question is: who's going to warn the glycerine manufacturers?
I don't like the morning news shows to begin with. They're mostly tripe. They're one of the reasons I'm glad we decided against cable. And this morning's baby blitz was just fuel for the fire of my disdain.
Not that I don't love Britney. I have no problem with Britney Spears. (Side Note: I actually found myself defending her to Coworker Drew this morning on the train. He called her a slut for getting pregnant. Right, because Kevin Federline had nothing to do with it. And, hello, they're married. How can one possibly categorize an adult woman having a baby with her husband as slutty behavior?) But when our societal obsession with celebrities reaches the point at which Britney Spears' pregnancy tops the morning news, we have a problem. Hello? We're at war? Remember? You can't tell me that CNN has nothing better to cover than the Federlines' progeny-to-be. And I find it hard to believe that Soledad O'Brien really wants to be covering a story that was broken by Britney's promotional website. Frankly, I was relieved when 7 a.m. rolled around and I could change the channel to Smurf Adventures.
Anyway, forget the news media. There's a bigger issue at stake. We're entering what will probably be a yearlong stretch in which no new Britney videos will be filmed. The demand for artificial sweat is really going to bottom out. So my question is: who's going to warn the glycerine manufacturers?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
8-1, Baby!
And that, children, is what we in the business call Wiping The Floor With The New York Yankees. Rough start, schmough start; as of yesterday afternoon, the Sox are off and running.
So I guess, as it turns out, the Red Sox play better with hardware. Here’s my advice to Terry Francona: take all those rings away the day before every game. Put them back in the wooden display boxes. Get 'em all shined up. Then hand them out again before each game this season. That’ll remind them how good yesterday felt.
And let's be honest, it probably wouldn’t hurt to bring Bobby Orr back to throw out a few more pitches. He might be a good match for the Yankees, considering the way Mo Rivera’s been closing (or, rather, choking) against the Sox.
Snaps to the Yankees as well for their good sportsmanship during the ring ceremony. It can’t have been the most fun pre-game activity in the history of the sport, but it was the right thing to do. Their stock has risen in my eyes. (Not too much, mind you. They are still Yankees.)
It was a good day at Fenway. Hopefully the first of many.
Please, God, don’t let it be a fluke. Although if Boston has to wait another 86 years, maybe they'll finish the Big Dig in time for the next ring ceremony.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Sprung
Ah, springtime in New York. Tourists crowd the sidewalks. The aroma of newly-seeded lawn and softballs fresh from Modell’s hangs over Sheep Meadow. We’re now actually wearing sunglasses to keep the sun out of our eyes (rather than just to avoid making eye contact with strangers on the street). I always think that I love Manhattan most in the fall, when the leaves turn and collect in huge leaf-pile enclosures in Central Park. Then it snows and I remember how beautiful the city is in a snowstorm. But realistically, spring is the absolute best time of year to be a Manhattanite. Especially since after the seventeenth month of winter, even the most hardened former Alaskan is ready for some sunshine. (Side Note: You’ll notice I didn’t mention summer in the city. Two reasons: one, I’ve never spent a whole summer in the city. Duh, camp. And two, nobody loves the city in summer. That’s why people have the Hamptons.)
Spring in Manhattan is sublime. Everyone’s happy. We supplement our basic black with flip-flops, polos and the odd Lilly Pulitzer skirt. Upper East Side schoolboys bust out Bermuda shorts and loafers with no socks. Every woman in her 30s in Central Park appears to be happily pregnant. The birds are singing, the bees are humming, the squirrels are once again chipper and well-fed, and even the rats in the subway stations seem to have more energy than usual.
It seems like the New Yorkiest of New York moments happen in high volume during April and May. April and May in the city are about hitting every sidewalk bar in the West Village, smoking on a friend’s roof at an all-night party, and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge just because it’s there. Spring is when Eli’s on 80th starts selling gelato and the Italian ice stands go up in front of all the pizza places and you walk home from the Who concert because the night’s too warm to get on the subway.
My love affair with springtime in Manhattan began one April day two years ago when I walked home to 75th Street from 59th via the park and saw an honest-to-god robin pulling an honest-to-Pete worm out of a hole in the ground with its beak. I kid you not. It was like a Little Golden Book or a Silly Symphonies cartoon or something. Then I turned out of the park and, at the corner of 72nd and Fifth Avenue, encountered a cab driver leaning out his window, engaged in a heated discussion about the Yankees with the curbside hot dog vendor who was selling him his dinner. How can you not love a town where the tourist-propaganda stereotypes actually walk, talk and breathe?
Just the other day, on my own corner, I passed a surly-looking man leaning out the driver’s window of a 15-passenger van. He was frowning so hard I though the cigarette dangling from his lips was going to snap off and burn a hole in the white t-shirt whose sleeve he’d rolled up, hoodlum-style, revealing a hairy bicep. The business name painted on the side of his van? Cheerful Transportation Company, of course.
I love this town.
Spring in Manhattan is sublime. Everyone’s happy. We supplement our basic black with flip-flops, polos and the odd Lilly Pulitzer skirt. Upper East Side schoolboys bust out Bermuda shorts and loafers with no socks. Every woman in her 30s in Central Park appears to be happily pregnant. The birds are singing, the bees are humming, the squirrels are once again chipper and well-fed, and even the rats in the subway stations seem to have more energy than usual.
It seems like the New Yorkiest of New York moments happen in high volume during April and May. April and May in the city are about hitting every sidewalk bar in the West Village, smoking on a friend’s roof at an all-night party, and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge just because it’s there. Spring is when Eli’s on 80th starts selling gelato and the Italian ice stands go up in front of all the pizza places and you walk home from the Who concert because the night’s too warm to get on the subway.
My love affair with springtime in Manhattan began one April day two years ago when I walked home to 75th Street from 59th via the park and saw an honest-to-god robin pulling an honest-to-Pete worm out of a hole in the ground with its beak. I kid you not. It was like a Little Golden Book or a Silly Symphonies cartoon or something. Then I turned out of the park and, at the corner of 72nd and Fifth Avenue, encountered a cab driver leaning out his window, engaged in a heated discussion about the Yankees with the curbside hot dog vendor who was selling him his dinner. How can you not love a town where the tourist-propaganda stereotypes actually walk, talk and breathe?
Just the other day, on my own corner, I passed a surly-looking man leaning out the driver’s window of a 15-passenger van. He was frowning so hard I though the cigarette dangling from his lips was going to snap off and burn a hole in the white t-shirt whose sleeve he’d rolled up, hoodlum-style, revealing a hairy bicep. The business name painted on the side of his van? Cheerful Transportation Company, of course.
I love this town.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Gotta Love Context
"Letter From New York," a collection of excerpts from Own The Sidewalk, appears on page 8 of the most recent issue of Portland Magazine, the fabulous official publication of the University of Portland. Facing it, on page 9, is a full-length shot of a popular professor from the communication studies department. In the photo, Professor Jeff strums an acoustic guitar and sports a plaid shirt.
Need I also mention that Professor Jeff has a beard?
Friend Pete calls it "irony." No, no, I said, this is much better than ironic. It's contextual.
Need I also mention that Professor Jeff has a beard?
Friend Pete calls it "irony." No, no, I said, this is much better than ironic. It's contextual.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Bob Dylan Men Unmasked
I trust we are all at least mildly acquainted with the story of Samson and Delilah (either through the Bible or the operatic works of one Camille Saint-Saens). As it turns out, the mythology of the Bob Dylan Man may well be rooted in the tragic history of Samson the Strong. Read on and all shall be revealed…
Between trips to Europe and camp conferences, it’s been a long time since I had a normal social life. Things are starting to settle down now, but there are a lot of people I haven’t seen since at least February. Last week I encountered one of the growing number of Bob Dylan Men in my life. He was newly clean-shaven.
I noticed the cosmetic change right off the bat. But within a few minutes, I started to notice something else: I was less attracted to him. He hadn’t just shaved his beard. He’d lost something along with the hair. It’s not that he used to be cute and now he’s not. (Please, I’m not that shallow.) There was just something… missing.
You see where I’m going with this.
Could it be that a Bob Dylan Man’s facial hair is not only his protection from the outside world, but the secret to his magnetism? Think about it. On this side of the beard he’s the Unwashed Phenomenon, poet, balladeer and troubled soul. On the other he’s a skinny Jewish kid from Minnesota. A few well-placed strokes of the razor, and Robert Zimmerman is revealed to the world.
I think I’m on to something here. Even Traveling Companion Jonathan, the most clean-cut, emotionally stable Bob Dylan Man I know, usually sports a five o’clock shadow.
But wait, you may be thinking. Does this mean that a Bob Dylan Man has to have facial hair in order to be attractive to women? What if he’s already settled down (at least as much as a Bob Dylan Man can ever settle) and then shaves? Does she fall out of love with him? Of course not. Case in point: the ’Rentsters. The Dadster wasn’t clean-shaven until they were well into their second decade of marriage. At that point, his essential Bob Dylanness was not what bound the Momster to him. Love is love, and if it hinges on facial hair, it’s obviously not meant to be.
Meanwhile, for those of us who are not in love but could benefit from an additional reason to not be attracted to Bob Dylan Men, the facial hair discovery is a boon. Now I just have to figure out a way to get them all to shave and I’ll be set.
Between trips to Europe and camp conferences, it’s been a long time since I had a normal social life. Things are starting to settle down now, but there are a lot of people I haven’t seen since at least February. Last week I encountered one of the growing number of Bob Dylan Men in my life. He was newly clean-shaven.
I noticed the cosmetic change right off the bat. But within a few minutes, I started to notice something else: I was less attracted to him. He hadn’t just shaved his beard. He’d lost something along with the hair. It’s not that he used to be cute and now he’s not. (Please, I’m not that shallow.) There was just something… missing.
You see where I’m going with this.
Could it be that a Bob Dylan Man’s facial hair is not only his protection from the outside world, but the secret to his magnetism? Think about it. On this side of the beard he’s the Unwashed Phenomenon, poet, balladeer and troubled soul. On the other he’s a skinny Jewish kid from Minnesota. A few well-placed strokes of the razor, and Robert Zimmerman is revealed to the world.
I think I’m on to something here. Even Traveling Companion Jonathan, the most clean-cut, emotionally stable Bob Dylan Man I know, usually sports a five o’clock shadow.
But wait, you may be thinking. Does this mean that a Bob Dylan Man has to have facial hair in order to be attractive to women? What if he’s already settled down (at least as much as a Bob Dylan Man can ever settle) and then shaves? Does she fall out of love with him? Of course not. Case in point: the ’Rentsters. The Dadster wasn’t clean-shaven until they were well into their second decade of marriage. At that point, his essential Bob Dylanness was not what bound the Momster to him. Love is love, and if it hinges on facial hair, it’s obviously not meant to be.
Meanwhile, for those of us who are not in love but could benefit from an additional reason to not be attracted to Bob Dylan Men, the facial hair discovery is a boon. Now I just have to figure out a way to get them all to shave and I’ll be set.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
What's New, Pussycat?
Friend Pete is about to become a cat owner. Sometime today, he and Wonderful Lucy will journey to their local animal shelter and pick out a cat of their very own.
This is funny for a couple of reasons. The main one is that Friend Pete is terrified of cats. And I don't mean he doesn't like cats. I mean he has an actual fear of housecats. So when he told me that Wonderful Lucy had finally talked him into getting a cat, I was even more impressed than I was when he told me that he'd finally talked Wonderful Lucy into moving in with him.
Wonderful Lucy is very excited about the cat. Friend Pete is dragging his feet a little.
"You're about to become a kitty daddy!" I squealed over the phone today.
"No," Friend Pete corrected me, firmly, "I'm about to have a cat. It's different."
The name of the cat is going to be an issue. I can tell already. Friend Pete wants to name that cat Timmy. But not regular Timmy -- South Park Timmy, which is really something to the effect of TIMM-AAAY. I find this disturbing, and told Wonderful Lucy so as we talked the other night. In the background, I could hear Friend Pete shouting TIMM-AAAY! over and over.
"You're not really going to name it that, are you?" I asked.
"We'll see," she said. Which we all know means no. Thank God.
So today, Friend Pete enters a new chapter in his life: cat owner. It's not as great a commitment as being, say, a U.S. Marshal or a dog owner, but it's a big step, especially for a man who on some level believes that the cat is probably going to try to suffocate him as he sleeps. I can't wait to see what happens.
This is funny for a couple of reasons. The main one is that Friend Pete is terrified of cats. And I don't mean he doesn't like cats. I mean he has an actual fear of housecats. So when he told me that Wonderful Lucy had finally talked him into getting a cat, I was even more impressed than I was when he told me that he'd finally talked Wonderful Lucy into moving in with him.
Wonderful Lucy is very excited about the cat. Friend Pete is dragging his feet a little.
"You're about to become a kitty daddy!" I squealed over the phone today.
"No," Friend Pete corrected me, firmly, "I'm about to have a cat. It's different."
The name of the cat is going to be an issue. I can tell already. Friend Pete wants to name that cat Timmy. But not regular Timmy -- South Park Timmy, which is really something to the effect of TIMM-AAAY. I find this disturbing, and told Wonderful Lucy so as we talked the other night. In the background, I could hear Friend Pete shouting TIMM-AAAY! over and over.
"You're not really going to name it that, are you?" I asked.
"We'll see," she said. Which we all know means no. Thank God.
So today, Friend Pete enters a new chapter in his life: cat owner. It's not as great a commitment as being, say, a U.S. Marshal or a dog owner, but it's a big step, especially for a man who on some level believes that the cat is probably going to try to suffocate him as he sleeps. I can't wait to see what happens.
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