It was still more than 30 minutes until the 9:30 p.m. show for which we had tickets, so we decided to see what was going on upstairs. There was a balcony overlooking the lobby. Was it a bar? We climbed the stairs and pushed open the heavy door, and sitting before us at a table surrounded by a lineup of diehard groupie-fans was Sandra Bernhard. We were there to see her, too, but we were much less gay than the rest of the crowd.
Ricky and I often find ourselves at places where we play the guessing game called: "Is Ricky the only straight man here?" I'm not sure why that happens, but it does. It happened at the Melissa Etheridge concert, and the Cyndi Lauper appearance at a club in South Beach. I don't know. I guess we just like gay stuff.
We sat down in two bright orange chairs just a few feet from the line and watched the goings-on. There was one very large man with a walkie talkie and a shirt that said "STAFF" on the back, but otherwise, there were meticulously dressed men with stylish shoes and glasses chatting up Sandra. "I saw you in LA." "I worked with you in..." Chuckle chuckle. Snap a picture. Sign a T-shirt.
We had seen Bernhard about five years ago, also in NYC, but in a larger venue. This was in Joe's Pub, part of The Public, the same organization behind Shakespeare in the Park in the summer. I loved her show the last time: She is a much better singer than I would have guessed. I'd always thought of her as a comedienne. But her act mixes storytelling and singing. And, okay, I have to admit it. If I can't be Tina Fey, I wouldn't mind being Sandra Bernhard. (Minus the being lesbian part. Not, as Seinfeld would say, that there's anything wrong with that.) I would love to have people pay to come hear me tell funny stories and rant about whatever I want (quite funnily, of course), and then periodically break out into song when I felt like it. Who wouldn't want to do that?
But in the meantime, I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with being a part of the audience, and blogging as funnily as I can.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
What a Panic
I am very calm in emergency situations. Here are some sample comments from me.
Don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll stop bleeding eventually.
Just use the other arm.
That doesn't smell like smoke to me.
It always makes that noise. Just ignore it.
That's not a rash.
While we always hear that people should not panic in emergencies, few may realize that it can also be a problem to be too low key. Like when one is in labor, for example. I was only in the hospital 45 minutes when my daughter Leah was born. The doctor barely got there in time and later told me he had not hurried because I had sounded too calm on the phone.
Before becoming parents, most adults put way too much importance on the screaming/crying of children. That's because when an adult screams and/or cries hysterically, that means something REALLY BAD is happening. Non-parents have that as their only frame of reference. But once you have kids, you come to realize that hysteria can mean that the Teddy bear's bow is askew or the icing on the cupcake is not the desired shade of blue. This parental mind shift was not as big an adjustment for me due to my natural inclination to under-react.
So, I did not freak out when my son at age 3 fell from the top of the play equipment at the park and was unconscious for a moment. Nor when daughter fainted when having blood taken. When husband needed nine stitches in his knee. When son and/or daughter(s) and/or husband lost keys and/or wallet and/or homework and/or broke out with mysterious red bumps on one body part or another.
Clearly, there is just no need to panic. It's not like today is the end of the world. Happy 12/21/12!
Don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll stop bleeding eventually.
Just use the other arm.
That doesn't smell like smoke to me.
It always makes that noise. Just ignore it.
That's not a rash.
While we always hear that people should not panic in emergencies, few may realize that it can also be a problem to be too low key. Like when one is in labor, for example. I was only in the hospital 45 minutes when my daughter Leah was born. The doctor barely got there in time and later told me he had not hurried because I had sounded too calm on the phone.
Before becoming parents, most adults put way too much importance on the screaming/crying of children. That's because when an adult screams and/or cries hysterically, that means something REALLY BAD is happening. Non-parents have that as their only frame of reference. But once you have kids, you come to realize that hysteria can mean that the Teddy bear's bow is askew or the icing on the cupcake is not the desired shade of blue. This parental mind shift was not as big an adjustment for me due to my natural inclination to under-react.
So, I did not freak out when my son at age 3 fell from the top of the play equipment at the park and was unconscious for a moment. Nor when daughter fainted when having blood taken. When husband needed nine stitches in his knee. When son and/or daughter(s) and/or husband lost keys and/or wallet and/or homework and/or broke out with mysterious red bumps on one body part or another.
Clearly, there is just no need to panic. It's not like today is the end of the world. Happy 12/21/12!
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Love Me, Love My Mailbox
We live in a gated community and pay a fairly hefty maintenance sum for the privilege. The bulk of the money from this monthly fee goes to the management company so it can send us an almost constant barrage of letters telling us to do something to our mailbox.
You see, the homeowners association mandated that everyone in the development have an identical mailbox painted the identical pale green color. These mailboxes are not made of metal or plastic, but of a much classier material called wood. This would be lovely except that in South Florida, our weather is broken into: Hurricane Season, Rainy Season, and Humid Season. Each of these seasons shares a common element called moisture. Wood and moisture do not peacefully coexist, so we are always getting letters.
Paint your mailbox. Caulk your mailbox. Replace the numbers on your mailbox. Paint your mailbox again. And then recently, we received a new one: straighten your tilted mailbox.
My what? I walked outside and stood a few feet back into the road, gazing at my mailbox the way art patrons pose themselves in front of their favorite Jackson Pollack. With my elbow crooked and my chin resting in my hand, I attempted to understand this most recent demand: Straighten the tilted mailbox.
"This is tilted?" I thought, the same way the uncultured masses might think, "Isn't this Jackson Pollack just scribbles?"
I tilted my head one way and then the other. Ricky got out the level, and we plopped it on top of the mailbox. The little floaty globule was barely off center. Even so, in the spirit of good citizenship, we complied. We paid a guy to come out and dig and prop and fill and measure until the box was absolutely, perfectly level. And just for good measure, we painted it, too! And cleaned the metal numbers! It was a thing of beauty.
Until two months later when we got another letter that said: Please replace rotted mailbox. Rotted! After all that? Perhaps too much moisture from the Humid Season has gotten into the brains of the homeowners association. I'd be happy to straighten them out with my level.
You see, the homeowners association mandated that everyone in the development have an identical mailbox painted the identical pale green color. These mailboxes are not made of metal or plastic, but of a much classier material called wood. This would be lovely except that in South Florida, our weather is broken into: Hurricane Season, Rainy Season, and Humid Season. Each of these seasons shares a common element called moisture. Wood and moisture do not peacefully coexist, so we are always getting letters.
Paint your mailbox. Caulk your mailbox. Replace the numbers on your mailbox. Paint your mailbox again. And then recently, we received a new one: straighten your tilted mailbox.
My what? I walked outside and stood a few feet back into the road, gazing at my mailbox the way art patrons pose themselves in front of their favorite Jackson Pollack. With my elbow crooked and my chin resting in my hand, I attempted to understand this most recent demand: Straighten the tilted mailbox.
"This is tilted?" I thought, the same way the uncultured masses might think, "Isn't this Jackson Pollack just scribbles?"
I tilted my head one way and then the other. Ricky got out the level, and we plopped it on top of the mailbox. The little floaty globule was barely off center. Even so, in the spirit of good citizenship, we complied. We paid a guy to come out and dig and prop and fill and measure until the box was absolutely, perfectly level. And just for good measure, we painted it, too! And cleaned the metal numbers! It was a thing of beauty.
Until two months later when we got another letter that said: Please replace rotted mailbox. Rotted! After all that? Perhaps too much moisture from the Humid Season has gotten into the brains of the homeowners association. I'd be happy to straighten them out with my level.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
5 Days Until Winter Break
If you think students get excited about the approach of a two-week break from school, you should develop the ability to read the minds of teachers. Actually, no, forget that suggestion. (Really, really bad suggestion.) Instead, I will present you with my Week Before Winter Break by the Numbers.
5 = school days until the break
40 = pages in the December issue of our school newspaper, which is now at the printer (to be distributed Tuesday)
4 = people who will be mad at me on Tuesday about something in the December issue but will not tell me
1 = people who will be mad at me on Tuesday and tell me
96 = yearbook pages that need to be submitted to the publisher this week
3 = students who already told me last week that they won't be here at all this week
200 = papers I will collect this week that I will need to grade
215 = total students I have on my roster this year
6 = classes I teach
10 = average number of extra hours beyond my scheduled work week that I usually work
0 = extra hours it is my goal to work this week (hahahaha!)
50 = estimated number of my students who will be absent at least one day this week
15 = estimated number of Starbucks gift cards I will receive
100 = estimated number of times this week that I will be tempted to eat something incredibly fattening
2 = estimated number of earnest, sweet notes/holiday cards I will receive from students that will make me sigh, get teary, and come back after the break and next school year, too
5 = school days until the break
40 = pages in the December issue of our school newspaper, which is now at the printer (to be distributed Tuesday)
4 = people who will be mad at me on Tuesday about something in the December issue but will not tell me
1 = people who will be mad at me on Tuesday and tell me
96 = yearbook pages that need to be submitted to the publisher this week
3 = students who already told me last week that they won't be here at all this week
200 = papers I will collect this week that I will need to grade
215 = total students I have on my roster this year
6 = classes I teach
10 = average number of extra hours beyond my scheduled work week that I usually work
0 = extra hours it is my goal to work this week (hahahaha!)
50 = estimated number of my students who will be absent at least one day this week
15 = estimated number of Starbucks gift cards I will receive
100 = estimated number of times this week that I will be tempted to eat something incredibly fattening
2 = estimated number of earnest, sweet notes/holiday cards I will receive from students that will make me sigh, get teary, and come back after the break and next school year, too
Saturday, December 15, 2012
A time to be serious
Like everyone else right now, I am wondering: What kind of person guns down little kids? While the horrific mass murder committed yesterday will prompt much discussion once again about our ridiculous lack of gun regulation in this country, I believe we must give equal attention to the fact that we live in a culture where "first person shooter" is a term of art in one of our most popular forms of entertainment. I know that most people who play violent video games do not commit violent acts, but we have raised an entire generation that has become desensitized to violence. A civilized society is supposed to rein in any natural tendencies we may have toward antisocial behavior that will harm the common good -- not promote, cultivate, nurture and glorify these tendencies. Those who are in the process of purchasing as gifts this season the latest installments of games that as realistically as possible maim and murder others should take a long time to think not just about guns and what they do, but also about the games we play and the legacy this will leave.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Don't eat this post
Let me start by saying that if you have allergies, you are exempt from the rant that is about to follow. So, if consuming a peanut can kill you, then this is not directed at you.
People need to get over the dietary idiosyncratic behavior that has taken over America. When did "I don't eat..." become a common starter for sentences among adults. As in:
I don't eat meat.
I don't eat processed sugar.
I don't eat more than one starch per week.
I don't eat cooked vegetables.
I don't eat eggs from chickens that are fed processed sugar. Or glutens. Or anything but whole wheat grain freshwater free-range cod-liver-oil beans.
Want to hear mine? I don't eat anything that isn't considered food. There! I said it!
Full fat, half fat, lite, skim, low-cal, high-carb, low carb, no-carb, here a carb, there a carb, everywhere a carb, carb.
When was the last time you heard this exact conversation:
"Want some pizza?"
"Okay!"
I bet you're thinking really, really hard. Because the odds are that the person being offered the pizza doesn't eat dairy. "As long as we get it without cheese..."
Well, America, I'll be happy to ingest all the glutens you are shunning. Once I figure out what glutens are exactly.
People need to get over the dietary idiosyncratic behavior that has taken over America. When did "I don't eat..." become a common starter for sentences among adults. As in:
I don't eat meat.
I don't eat processed sugar.
I don't eat more than one starch per week.
I don't eat cooked vegetables.
I don't eat eggs from chickens that are fed processed sugar. Or glutens. Or anything but whole wheat grain freshwater free-range cod-liver-oil beans.
Want to hear mine? I don't eat anything that isn't considered food. There! I said it!
Full fat, half fat, lite, skim, low-cal, high-carb, low carb, no-carb, here a carb, there a carb, everywhere a carb, carb.
When was the last time you heard this exact conversation:
"Want some pizza?"
"Okay!"
I bet you're thinking really, really hard. Because the odds are that the person being offered the pizza doesn't eat dairy. "As long as we get it without cheese..."
Well, America, I'll be happy to ingest all the glutens you are shunning. Once I figure out what glutens are exactly.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Rally Dog
The man sitting next to me at the Brooklyn Nets vs. Miami Heat game was eating a hot dog as the whistle blew for the start. I wasn't hungry...yet. But I kept eyeing the dog with my peripheral vision. And of course there was the smell...oh, the smell.
The first quarter of the game was horrible. The Heat looked awful; the Nets looked like All-Stars. The man's hot dog was long gone, but it lingered in my consciousness. By halftime, the score was only mildly depressing, not beyond hope. The cast from Stomp performed, so we decided to stay seated and watch, but I was still thinking about the hot dog.
"Hmm," I said casually to Ricky as the performers below slammed garbage can lids together as artistically as possible. "I think I may want something to eat."
"Like what?" asked Ricky.
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe popcorn. Or a hot dog."
"Well, if you're really hungry, it would probably be better to get a hot dog," he said. (This is why I love him.)
As the third quarter began, I very nonchalantly agreed. Since the arena just updated and redid all the concessions this year, Ricky started flipping through the program to find the map of where the food vendors were located. (Human GPS inputting new data)
"There's a kosher hot dog stand right here outside of section 102," he said.
So at the next timeout, out I went. I stood near our section entrance and scanned back and forth up the concourse. Sure enough, there was a little hot dog stand that I had not noticed, wedged right between gourmet popcorn and gluten-free extreme tacos.
The second I got back to my seat, clutching my kraut-covered bounty, the Heat made a big play. And then another. And moments later, when I was only half way through eating (How long does it even take to eat a hot dog?) , the Heat tied it for the first time after being behind all game. The crowd roared and everyone jumped up. I remained focused on my dog and munched away, trying not to drip ketchup onto my Dwyane Wade jersey.
From then on, the Heat were superstars and they won the game. So, you're welcome, Miami Heat fans. My rally kosher hot dog and I say you're welcome.
The first quarter of the game was horrible. The Heat looked awful; the Nets looked like All-Stars. The man's hot dog was long gone, but it lingered in my consciousness. By halftime, the score was only mildly depressing, not beyond hope. The cast from Stomp performed, so we decided to stay seated and watch, but I was still thinking about the hot dog.
"Hmm," I said casually to Ricky as the performers below slammed garbage can lids together as artistically as possible. "I think I may want something to eat."
"Like what?" asked Ricky.
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe popcorn. Or a hot dog."
"Well, if you're really hungry, it would probably be better to get a hot dog," he said. (This is why I love him.)
As the third quarter began, I very nonchalantly agreed. Since the arena just updated and redid all the concessions this year, Ricky started flipping through the program to find the map of where the food vendors were located. (Human GPS inputting new data)
"There's a kosher hot dog stand right here outside of section 102," he said.
So at the next timeout, out I went. I stood near our section entrance and scanned back and forth up the concourse. Sure enough, there was a little hot dog stand that I had not noticed, wedged right between gourmet popcorn and gluten-free extreme tacos.
The second I got back to my seat, clutching my kraut-covered bounty, the Heat made a big play. And then another. And moments later, when I was only half way through eating (How long does it even take to eat a hot dog?) , the Heat tied it for the first time after being behind all game. The crowd roared and everyone jumped up. I remained focused on my dog and munched away, trying not to drip ketchup onto my Dwyane Wade jersey.
From then on, the Heat were superstars and they won the game. So, you're welcome, Miami Heat fans. My rally kosher hot dog and I say you're welcome.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Keeping It Real
Under the photo of the warm red-orange sun hanging low over the grassy expanse, the hashtag said, "Good morning Everglades." Someone flipping through my son's Instagram account would probably look at it for a moment, consider it a beautiful shot, and then click on to the next image. But I lingered on it. Because I was with him when he took the picture, and I know it was a picture not of the sunrise, but of the sunset.
We've all seen fake pictures doctored in Photoshop and read fake information on the Internet. We who live in the era of irony consider ourselves savvy enough to laugh at crazy photos like the one I've seen of President Obama riding a unicorn while laser beams shoot out of his hands. Or cats parachuting out of planes. Or, cats doing pretty much everything, actually. (What's up with all the cats?) Sure, we get it.
But what about the literally millions of subtle inaccuracies that populate our high-tech world? My son, and everyone else out there who posts items on the Internet, has no obligation whatsoever to be accurate. He's not a journalist. He has no rules to follow when posting something that is for him an artistic endeavor, a hobby.
Alterations are everywhere. Profiles on Facebook or Twitter or any social media range from slightly distorted to laugh-out-loud purposefully and entirely fictional. The way we look, the way we talk, the way we write is all filtered. Instagram has a popular hashtag that says #nofilter when labeling photos. But we are living in a time when all information is filtered. The only question to ask is: To what degree?
When and where were pictures taken? Is the text of that post genuine or satirical? Is she really posting that, or did someone hack her account? Whose voice is it? Whose image?
If a brunette dyes her hair blond for 30 years, and has never been seen as anything but a blonde, doesn't that mean she's really a blonde? What is the reality of her image? And if a sunset is casually referred to and accepted as a sunrise, does that mean that to people viewing the picture, the sun rises in the west?
It's a jumble to consider. And it could very well be that unfiltered truth and reality may soon be gone. So it makes me wonder: Just where is Obama hiding that unicorn?
We've all seen fake pictures doctored in Photoshop and read fake information on the Internet. We who live in the era of irony consider ourselves savvy enough to laugh at crazy photos like the one I've seen of President Obama riding a unicorn while laser beams shoot out of his hands. Or cats parachuting out of planes. Or, cats doing pretty much everything, actually. (What's up with all the cats?) Sure, we get it.
But what about the literally millions of subtle inaccuracies that populate our high-tech world? My son, and everyone else out there who posts items on the Internet, has no obligation whatsoever to be accurate. He's not a journalist. He has no rules to follow when posting something that is for him an artistic endeavor, a hobby.
Alterations are everywhere. Profiles on Facebook or Twitter or any social media range from slightly distorted to laugh-out-loud purposefully and entirely fictional. The way we look, the way we talk, the way we write is all filtered. Instagram has a popular hashtag that says #nofilter when labeling photos. But we are living in a time when all information is filtered. The only question to ask is: To what degree?
When and where were pictures taken? Is the text of that post genuine or satirical? Is she really posting that, or did someone hack her account? Whose voice is it? Whose image?
If a brunette dyes her hair blond for 30 years, and has never been seen as anything but a blonde, doesn't that mean she's really a blonde? What is the reality of her image? And if a sunset is casually referred to and accepted as a sunrise, does that mean that to people viewing the picture, the sun rises in the west?
It's a jumble to consider. And it could very well be that unfiltered truth and reality may soon be gone. So it makes me wonder: Just where is Obama hiding that unicorn?
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