a brief walk in manhattan

Posted on June 9, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I attended a meditation class last night in the city. The topic of last night’s talk was particularly meaningful to me. It gave me the fuel to deal with some sticky issues I’ve been having and when I left I was floating on hope and resolve. There was a warm June breeze so I decided to walk to Penn Station.

I popped my ear buds in and headed south on Park Avenue. My freakishly reliable iPod shuffle selected George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue off of the soundtrack to Woody Allen’s Manhattan. That song is New York personified. I turned west onto 34th Street and just as that first crescendo hit after the bluesy clarinet intro, I looked up and saw the Empire State Building.

The crown was bathed in blue light. I am embarrassed to admit that it gave me a tremendous lump in my throat. It was a perfect, harmonious moment. New York City is a magical place that will fuck with you every which way it can.

With Gershwin still playing in my head, I walked down 34th Street and saw:

A group of serious looking businessmen in expensive suits standing on the corner of 5th and 34th. They briskly shook each other’s hands and all walked off into the night in different directions.

The cross town M34 bus racing between Madison and 5th. I could see a couple in the back seat stealing a kiss.

Two tourists standing in the middle of the sidewalk (of course) in front of the Empire State Building carefully pouring over a map of Manhattan. They had big smiles on their faces.

A pretty girl approached from the opposite direction. We did that dance where you try and get out of each other’s way but nearly collide because you both step in the same direction. She smiled at me as we passed. Being smiled at by a pretty girl never gets old.

I bought an ice cream cone ($3) from her.

You don’t see that many girls in a Mister Softee truck. She was parked just off of Herald Square and was wearing a pair of really cool Batman earrings.

The program to close off portions of Broadway to vehicular traffic and create pedestrian malls has been so successful that Mayor Bloomberg decided to expand it for the summer. Here, the section of Broadway in front of Macy’s (The Worlds’ Biggest Store) is open for lounging.

All that from just a lousy walk to the train station. I love this goddamn town.

unfortunate movie ad placement in the Asbury Park Press

Posted on June 8, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I showed this to Mrs. Wife and she saw it as a woman about to have her head blown off. I saw something quite different and she accused me of having my mind in the gutter. What did you first see?

* * *

Last week at A Company Called Malice, we were told that until further notice, we are required to work a minimum of 10 hours of overtime each week. This imposition comes right at the onset of summer; the season to be free. That same day, the new unemployment numbers were released. Here in the U.S. we are up to 9.4%. So I’m just going to keep my fucking mouth shut for once and grind it out.

* * *

I watched the Tony Awards last night. Well, part of them. They were so abysmal that I had to bail out. My sister texted me wondering if Broadway has finally hit bottom. I informed her that that’s not possible since Broadway, apparently, has no bottom.

2 more deaths in the family

Posted on June 6, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

This morning’s Asbury Park Press brought the sad news that Memory Lanes, my local bowling alley, burned to the ground.

If you’re good at shooting billiards, you’re a shark. Pool halls have a dark, sinister, poetic panache associated with them. Being good at pool can get you laid. Have you seen The Hustler? Or its sequel, The Color of Money? But nobody gives a shit if you’re a good bowler. Least of all, hot girls who wear a lot of black and like to hang out in tough neighborhoods. And I don’t know why that is. To me, they’re two sides of the same coin.

Isn’t that a great name for a bowling alley? Memory Lanes? Bowling is perceived as a low-brow form of entertainment but it’s always been a part of my life. There aren’t many things I did as a child that I occasionally still do today. I use to take 7-Year Old Daughter to Memory Lanes. We had a nice time but now it’s gone.

The second passing came courtesy of The Recording Academy, the association that bestows Grammy Awards. Polka music has been quietly eliminated as a category. It’s considered irrelevant. My father was an empty, useless man but one thing he did right was play polka music when I was growing up.

On Sunday mornings we use to watch the locally produced Polka Varieties on TV. It was like (and I’m not kidding about this) American Bandstand for polka music. The host was Paul Wilcox (Paul Whitesocks) and instead of attractive teens dancing to the latest rock hits, there was a live band, usually Frankie Yankovic, and the dancing audience was comprised of extremely old people.

Laugh if you want, but it takes a great deal of dexterity to dance the polka. Especially for women! They have to perform all those complicated steps backwards. Yankovic was a virtuoso of the button box. The Beer Barrel Polka! Who Stole the Keeshka Polka! And the polka guaranteed to offend at least half your audience, The Too Fat Polka.

I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me.

Look, obviously, I’m not trying to insinuate that a bowling alley and an antiquated form of music meant as much to me as my recently deceased mother. Don’t be an idiot. But things pass out of your life and you feel a void, even if it’s a small one.

* * *

This was the first Saturday that I didn’t have my usual afternoon phone chat with my mom. It was weird. I called her number so I could listen to her recorded greeting but the number had already been disconnected.

i givith but my cell phone jammer taketh away

Posted on June 5, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Seated next to me on the train was a 20-something Mexican girl. The conductor informed her that since it was rush hour, she needed to step-up her off-peak ticket an additional $1.50. She didn’t speak English but eventually understood his request.

She reached into her wallet and handed the conductor a $100 bill which, of course, he could not break. It was all the money she had so the conductor pantomimed that she would have to get off at the next stop. She didn’t speak English but by the look on her face I could tell that she clearly understood THAT.

I, hero that I am, handed the conductor the $1.50. She said gracias several times. Then do you know what that ungrateful child did? She popped a Bluetooth in her ear and started loudly yammering away into her cell phone. The volume knob on her voice was set at 8. If there’s a language spoken faster than Spanish, I’m not aware of it (especially if it’s being spoken by a 20-something Mexican girl with a high-pitch, grating voice).

Fortunately for my fellow passengers and I, my cell phone jammer was running on a fresh charge. Of course, I tormented her for several minutes by allowing her to reconnect her call and then knocking out her service. It was delicious fun and she deserved it. I don’t speak Spanish, but I’m pretty sure she was referring to Sprint in derogatory terms.

I can be agreeable but if you cross me I’ll turn on you.

* * *

Latest News story link on CNN homepage that I cannot possibly click on this early in the morning:

Ducklings down drain, mom quacks for help

why write jut one play when you are talented enough write a trilogy? (the second part)

Posted on June 4, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

About three weeks ago, CB and I were lucky enough to get a ticket to Alan Ayckbourn’s The Norman Conquests; a brilliant comedy trilogy that can be viewed in any order or independently as stand-alone plays.

That’s almost seven hours of theater with the same six characters. Norman is a horrible-charming cad who obsessively seduces and deceives three sisters. He’s married to one of them but that doesn’t seem to be a sticking point with him.

We’ve got two down and one to go. This time, we saw Living Together. Although these are separate pieces of the same puzzle, this is considered the middle play.

Since seeing Round and Round the Garden three weeks ago, which is technically considered the third play (we’re doing it ass-backwards), the play picked up a few Tony nominations, namely, best revival, best performance by an actor, best performance by an actress (two of those) and best director. Not a bad day at the office.

It deserves all the accolades it can get. It’s so funny and the actors work their asses off and they’re British and I know that shouldn’t count for anything but because I’m a big Anglophile, it does. You really can’t go wrong with any of these plays so if you live out here or are visiting I would encourage you to go. You’ll laugh. And who couldn’t use a good laugh these days? God knows I need one.

* * *

We sat near Vogue editor Anna Wintour. She was there with her daughter. [CB identified her daughter. I had no idea who she was.] She sat through the entire performance with her sunglasses on. Indoors. At night. What a horrible, pretentious idiot. (With apologies to CB. He admires her.)