It has to be said...

I try to stay out of the way, keep my head down and go about my business.
That being said- I find a great many things annoy me.

Why when I go to the supermarket, Duane Reade, CVS or Walgreen's
I'm expected to shell out more money. You know breast cancer, leukemia  & hoof and mouth disease.  I just gave the store all my cash, now you want me to dole out more.
"Do you want to donate to help cure Cancer"?  Asks Nancy the cashier.
"No thanks" I reply.  Of course Nancy gives me that "so you want more people to die" glare.
Just put a jar next to the counter and cut the malarkey.

By the way, does every Chinese food restaurant have that one tin can
"To help stop child abuse".  Some no name charity with a creepy picture
of a  a cute blond kid in pigtails cowering in a corner.
Please I'm begging you- give me my egg drop soup and leave me be.

dicks and cellphones- No not a new indie rock band.
Everywhere I go some schmuck makes me privy to every piece of his or her life.
Imagine being stuck on a bus with a migraine at two in the morning sitting next to the woman
giving a play by play of her abortion to her ex boyfriend, intermittently screaming "can you hear me"?  My only consolation was that she had just sucked out the next generation of her horrid family.

My recent encounter with a jerk off was on Sat.  Dressed like he was going to the Benny and June  lookalike contest- baggy pants and yes he even had the stupid hat.  Talking loudly on his cell, nervously laughing and swinging his arms.  Everywhere I went he was there, constantly making dumb jokes and knocking into me.  Did he say he was sorry or an "oopsie daisy"?  Nope.  Pissed off, I drop my basket and run to the exit. Of course Benny decides now he wants to go and runs to the door knocking into me one last time.  The last thing I heard him say was  "had a rough morning, took  Zanax with my scotch" Adding one last chuckle.  Yes drinking and having a pill addiction is a laugh riot...

1989

My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty five years ago.

Just a bunch of go-getter teens going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor.
How many? Let's say all of them.( remember this was the gentrified NYC, all you needed was a passable ID and attitude).  So after many hours of drinking every technicolor mixed drink we could get our hands on, including one named "The Blue Whale" (don't know what was in it probably Mad Dog 2020, antifreeze and cotton candy. Later in the evening I found myself at a friends house,
with a very strong urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and wisely put a bucket next to my bed. How cute- like a little Bukowski in training.

Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom was watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me.  All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation--"I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.

Happy New Year

One from Past- The Dread Dec 2010

Must be the season: I feel out of sorts.
I hate the cold, I hate that it gets dark so early, I never want to go out at night. 
OK I'm not a night owl, but given better weather I can be reasonable. 

I dislike work--One job is quite alright, the second is depressing,  no I'm not being
over dramatic and yes- I spend all my free time looking for a job.

Oh and the weekends aren't that great. Either filling days worth of errands
into two days hoping I can throw a book or movie into the mix.

One time I was listening to NPR (Nice People Radio as a friend once called it).
The topic was "the dread of Sundays" (sounds like a Smiths tribute band).
They had on a writer for the Wall Street Journal (don't remember his name does it matter)?

His article was about the dread of Sundays. The whole article was about "why do people dread Sundays"?  The premise is the dread starts in childhood--weekend's over; school's on Monday.
Shows on TV that remind us it's Sunday. People are in denial it's Sunday and act like it's Saturday.
What does all this mean?  Nothing, just a crappy time of the year, too damn busy.
I must leave--nothing more to say.

I'm the decider and I decide what's best

So it's been awhile since I wrote anything.

I'll start with an old one not published on Clementines Folly-
Original date- October 25, 2010 Title-This smells funny...Try it

Spent a Sunday afternoon in Dumbo.  I decided to check out this Steampunk event, held at a loft space.  I've been intrigued by the whole concept of the Victorian/Science Fiction meld-
Also I'm a sucker for the old timey style of dress. Top hat, canes, spats, gals in corsets, men with wacky facial hair, drinking tea, and eating lavender infused cookies.  I waltzed in and surveyed the scene.  Looking for a place to sit I found the last empty chair.

Before I sat down I asked the if the seat was taken,  The raven haired sour faced woman responded by "swanning" her hand to the seat.  I took this to mean"you may uninvited guest" As I sat down the gent next to her in proper attire tipped his yes-black velvet top hat and uttered "Welcome".  I stayed long enough to listen to three writers give impromptu readings of their work.  At the event they were serving tea and biscuits  I could have used something to soothe my dry throat, but I already felt a bit out of place, and too shy to ask for a cup I did without.  Not a total convert to Steampunk-but I enjoyed myself and I was impressed by the commitment of the attendees.

So what to do next? I took my camera out of the bag and started taking pictures on a beautifully sunny day.  What would make it complete?  Lets say a lovely grande cup of Pikes Place at Starbucks. Cup at the ready: ( little secret refills are .54 cents as opposed to paying 2.40 for another cup. seems logical, oh and it shows I care about recycling).  I put my cup on the counter proudly exclaim "refill please" and patiently wait for my java.   Change in hand the barista says 2.40 "please".  Confused I say "but this is a refill". "Oh sorry we don't do refills". "If you got the coffee here we would, but you didn't and its at the discretion of the baristas" 2.40 please"... "Please don't hold up the line thanks"... Seeing the barista mafia was holding my cup hostage, unable to handle one more insincere "please miss" from "JANE" damn- I really wanted the coffee, I acquiesced. Before I left I got "sorry about that, please come again" complete with sarcastic smile.

Outside of the store I realized I paid full price for my coffee and they didn't replace the cup. Full price dirty cup-- I take a large swig, not realizing the coffee tasted funny not bitter, rancid. The second gulp was even worse I now have nauseous feeling and an awful taste in my mouth what to do?
I found a frozen yogurt truck, order a simple vanilla hoping this awful taste will go away.
At first it worked. then about 10 min later I found myself feeling the strong urge to throw up.

Now I find myself wandering the crowded streets trying to find an empty space to "take care of the problem". Everybody is blocking my path- Kids, old people, strollers, dog walkers and hipsters-
I NEED ONE EMPTY BLOCK! Finally one garbage can and empty street, I cross the block I look to my left I look to my right , I cross and and of course this guy walks in front of me. "You don't look so good" "Are you OK"? "Do you need help"? He blocks my way to the garbage can. I gently nudge Mr. Helpful out of the way to reach the goal.

As I look up he's standing over me "Oh I get it sorry"... I dab my mouth with a tissue, and say "Sorry you didn't get your merit badge helping me with directions,  but I'm sure you'll find an old lady you can help across the street". He mumbled something and walked away... Later in the evening I found myself in Manhattan, thirsty and a bit drained. I still needed my Pike. Rancid cup in hand go to the counter at Starbucks expecting the worst and order my coffee. Huzzah! grande 54 cents, my faith was tested by Brooklyn but all was well in the isle of Manhattan.
Fare thee well...

Nope, nothing for you..

Living in New York has its privileges.

I could tell you all the tourist brochure reasons I like living here,
but I will spare you. Yes we get it; the city that never sleeps...

Now let me tell you my story...

On a typical day, I check email before hauling to work. After deleting ten messages from the Prince of Nigeria (who, by the way, is in desperate need of our help--I think old royalty in exile needs a little wire transfer of cash and all will be right). After all that palaver, I actually get a message or two I can use.

It's a message from a theater doing readings for a new play, and the tickets are free--first come first served sounds like a plan. Arriving an hour and twenty minutes early, I'm convinced I'm getting in tonight. As I sprint up the stairs, I notice a line; one that starts from the first table to the end of the coffee bar (a lot of people--small theater = not good).

Undaunted, I stand on the line, take out my book, "Revolutionary Road" and wait for a positive sign. A couple of minutes go by. Even though I am engrossed in my book,
instead of staring into space, I'm actually doing something. I feel a tap on my shoulder. "Pardon me, what's this line for?" Then "how many tickets can I reserve?" and, yes, "what's the name of this play?"

Now, clearly these people do not know me very well. Clearly, the one person on line not Twittering, texting or in dreamland with an iPod and I'm the concierge desk for the line?

Yes, I could have answered the question such as:

"What's the name of this play? Oh, it's not a play it's a musical, "The Rape Of Richard Beck". A jaunty little romp full of song and dance numbers and simulated sex. The shower scene is supposed to be outstanding." Realizing most people DON'T get my sense of humor, I say "not sure--ask these people". The cranky old couple in front of me let them sort out the mess.

Thirty minutes later the line starts moving, actual progress! One by one we state our names and like desperate teenage Welfare mothers we give our names in hope of the Govt cheese, or in this case a measly ticket.

By the time they get to me, the ticketmaster announces "once we are on the list, please come back in an hour and tickets will be given out." Okay; I'm here only another hour--I can deal. I buy a cup of their best sludgy coffee and a bar of something in the realm of raspberry, find a seat and whip out the aformentioned book. I have about a minute and a half of silence, when two gents sit at my table and immediately go deep into conversation.. About movies. If there is one thing that pricks up my ears is anything regarding film. Especially when people get things wrong--I am the Jeopardy master.

In my mind it goes like this: "Who is Sam Rami?". "What is Drag Me To Hell?". "Who is Allison Lohman--no, not Elisha Cuthbert--she was on 24." "No, not Allison Janney; she was on the "West Wing" and no, Allison Lohman isn't a teenager--she just looks young." You get the point. No, I didn't correct them; I just like to be right about minutiae.

This folly is keeping me busy and before I know it, ticketmaster starts to dole out the golden tickets--actually light blue, but you get the point.

Except for one thing: the tickets are for the reserved seats...NOT YOU. These are the people who actually belong to the theater: friends, family, some one's pet allergist, you know--NOT YOU.

With my eagle eye vision, I see the reserved list is filled with names from top to bottom, and I get a feeling I may not be getting my fill of the cultural smorgasbord tonight. Ever the optimist, I hold out hop--it's a surprisingly large theater.

Everyone on line now seems to be a bit annoyed, but I try to be positive. Yes there free tickets but hey, maybe getting your name called might not be so good . Look what happened to anyone who got their name called in the lottery. (short story junior high ring a bell anybody)?

Of course, the woman next to me now has to chime in with "this tsn't fair" and "I have to see this play". Ecch, I know the type; an actress. You know what I mean. Loud; every statement has some wild gesticulation, studies "people" on her downtime for "research"--never been in anything. Just there to irritate... me.

Now the guest list is complete and all of us are waiting for our names. One, two three go in. Then: "That's it; sorry, no more seats". But wait--a couple of people come out of the theater: "we have some empty seats". Hey, my luck could turn, right?

Well, somebody got lucky: the two trivia guys and the actress. "Sorry no more seats" and ticketmaster gave us the old "you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here" look. Funny, we didn't leave; we all milled about as if somehow, if we stood around, maybe someone would come out of the theater and say "Awww,you guys can just stand in the aisle!" What the hell...

Nope, I just left and I still haven't finished my book.

Lesson for today

You exist only in what you do.

Everybody loves the sun

It's 90 degrees here and the living is sweaty.

Yes I know It's June It's hot, I still hate it.
Maybe if I loved to sit on a beach chair lather myself with baby oil and sit in the sun till I was nicely roasted, I would be just fine. But I am a mild weather person with problem(frizzy) hair so all is not well.

I went to Brooklyn today Atlantic Ave. Nice area,
Reminded me of the old version of the Village(when I actually liked going there)
Now it's all overpriced boutiques and Starbucks.
I probably liked the Village because I was younger. Its easy to look back and be wistful
Memory is always influenced by emotions, and yes I know, times change.

At least I'm not one of these people who pines for the good old days of 42 street
Yes everybody misses the crack, underage hookers and peepshow at every corner.
Enjoy the rest of your day, and let Global Warming be damned,
put those air conditioners on full blast.

ASK A QUESTION

I think it is a challenge for human beings to go in the right direction.
Would you agree? Ponder this thought and reply.

No more dusk till dawn, no more Key lime pie.

This had to happen.



The Cheyenne Diner, the last of the railroad car style diners in New York, has closed its doors.
Sadly, every shred of originality has been sucked out of this city. This was the place I used to go
after school (or during school--take your pick). Drink endless cups of coffee and never bothered.

It's where I had my first piece of key lime pie. All the hours, staring out the window...