I thought for sure that the lady singing opera while walking around the Central Park reservoir track was going to be the weirdest part of my day. She was dressed in all black, yoga pants and T-shirt, with hot pink headphones like earmuffs covering her ears. I jogged past her as she paused for a moment, slapped her knees in self-admonishment over some error I could not detect, and then once more belted out high notes with a force and clarity I had never before heard up so close in person.
But after I exited the track, as I walked alongside the softball fields, my day got a little weirder. A 20-year-old woman from one of the co-ed league teams warming up waved at me and asked if I would play so they wouldn't have to forfeit.
I did a quick internal analysis:
My softball experience consists of playing a few times about 30 years ago.
I can't throw the ball far enough to reach second base from first.
I am a slow runner.
I have no upper body strength.
"Okay, I'll do it," I said.
I suspected that any team that was recruiting in such a manner was either pretty bad or had a sense of humor or both. And since I am pretty bad and have a sense of humor, it was the perfect fit. As I said yes, a wiry, leathery man wearing a white baseball cap and smoking a cigarette came over to us and said, "You're going to play? Great! Thanks!" Then he took a drag and walked over to tell the others.
They gave me a size large red T-shirt that fit me like a boxy dress and then sent me out to right field. So of course the very first swing was a hit that took a bad bounce in the infield and skidded its way right into my area of responsibility. I chased after the ball and tossed it, underhand, to the second baseman. After that, they put me at catcher.
As the game progressed, I realized my team had a bit of a Bad News Bears vibe but they seemed to be pleased that they were not being "mercy ruled" as usual. I was bringing them good luck! Sure, there were whiffs at the plate and drops and misthrows in the field, but we got to play the whole nine innings. Final score: 16-11, a respectable loss.
This day that started with unexpected opera ended with a grand finish. As I bid my teammates goodbye, I told them what fun it had been to play. And that's when one of them said: "Hey, are you available next week?"
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Liquid Brunch
New Yorkers love their brunch. Every single restaurant in Manhattan offers a brunch menu on Saturdays and Sundays, no matter how unbrunchlike its normal menu may be. Brunch runs pretty much all day, and I've noticed that the most crowded places always have one common offering: drink specials.
Bloody Marys, mimosas, and oh, the hell with it, straight up vodkas and just about anything else that can get a person drunk are the real attraction to getting those bodies in the seats. Having an excuse to liquor it up in the middle of the day on the weekend is the real draw here, not the stuffed French toast.
And since this is a dog town, water bowls and doggie treats don't hurt either. Sleepy people and their sleepy pooches stroll into burger joints, pizzerias and steak houses with last night's dreams still floating through their heads (yes, dogs dream, too), plop down at a cafe table outside whenever weather permits, and pretend they are on the Riviera for a couple of hours while slowly drinking their brunch.
It's Sunday morning, so Ricky and I will be on our way shortly to meet some people as part of this tradition. And just like men who claim they read Playboy magazine for the articles, I will tell you that I go to brunch for the food. That's right, THE FOOD. While I'm munching on my blueberry pancakes this morning, I promise I'll be thinking of you. Cheers!
Bloody Marys, mimosas, and oh, the hell with it, straight up vodkas and just about anything else that can get a person drunk are the real attraction to getting those bodies in the seats. Having an excuse to liquor it up in the middle of the day on the weekend is the real draw here, not the stuffed French toast.
And since this is a dog town, water bowls and doggie treats don't hurt either. Sleepy people and their sleepy pooches stroll into burger joints, pizzerias and steak houses with last night's dreams still floating through their heads (yes, dogs dream, too), plop down at a cafe table outside whenever weather permits, and pretend they are on the Riviera for a couple of hours while slowly drinking their brunch.
It's Sunday morning, so Ricky and I will be on our way shortly to meet some people as part of this tradition. And just like men who claim they read Playboy magazine for the articles, I will tell you that I go to brunch for the food. That's right, THE FOOD. While I'm munching on my blueberry pancakes this morning, I promise I'll be thinking of you. Cheers!
Saturday, July 20, 2013
The Punk Emperor Has No Clothes
All over Manhattan there have been bold pink-and-black banners advertising "PUNK: Chaos to Couture" at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so I was ready for a subversive, in-your-face artistic display as I entered the exhibit space last night.
I was at first pleased to be assaulted with loud music, floor-to-ceiling static-filled video screens, and towering mannequins topped with brightly colored afro-type wigs that changed with the color-scheme from room to room. But after the initial pleasant shock, I started to focus on what was actually on the mannequins and the explanations that went with them. There were original articles of clothing from the 1970s displayed next to updated versions from more recent high fashion. And that's when the whole thing started to feel like a practical joke.
The bands were given credit for channeling the besplattered drip art of Jackson Pollock though they are quoted as saying that they had painted without wearing coveralls and just happened to get paint all over themselves. And their use of safety pins was an iconic look, though one musician says that they were poor and needed to just hold their clothes together.
Of course, these seemingly accidental looks were then followed by others' purposeful splattering and ripping, but then, how anti-establishment are people who are establishing a pattern? In the world of punk, giving someone the finger is no different than giving a salute; all you're doing is following a trend instead of following orders. If you care about looking like you don't care, then you are not subversive, you are self-satirical.
My disappointment was sealed when I got to the section where couture was made out of found objects and, yes, trash. There were trash bag dresses, and then there was a dress made out of material made to look like trash bags. That's right, some designer made material that simulated the look of trash bags. The phrase you've been punked started to take on a new meaning for me.
After leaving the exhibit, I found my time was much better spent at "Photography and the American Civil War," and at "Ken Price Sculpture: A Retrospective." But, for those who think they will enjoy the "PUNK" exhibit, all I can say is: I salute you.
I was at first pleased to be assaulted with loud music, floor-to-ceiling static-filled video screens, and towering mannequins topped with brightly colored afro-type wigs that changed with the color-scheme from room to room. But after the initial pleasant shock, I started to focus on what was actually on the mannequins and the explanations that went with them. There were original articles of clothing from the 1970s displayed next to updated versions from more recent high fashion. And that's when the whole thing started to feel like a practical joke.
The bands were given credit for channeling the besplattered drip art of Jackson Pollock though they are quoted as saying that they had painted without wearing coveralls and just happened to get paint all over themselves. And their use of safety pins was an iconic look, though one musician says that they were poor and needed to just hold their clothes together.
Of course, these seemingly accidental looks were then followed by others' purposeful splattering and ripping, but then, how anti-establishment are people who are establishing a pattern? In the world of punk, giving someone the finger is no different than giving a salute; all you're doing is following a trend instead of following orders. If you care about looking like you don't care, then you are not subversive, you are self-satirical.
My disappointment was sealed when I got to the section where couture was made out of found objects and, yes, trash. There were trash bag dresses, and then there was a dress made out of material made to look like trash bags. That's right, some designer made material that simulated the look of trash bags. The phrase you've been punked started to take on a new meaning for me.
After leaving the exhibit, I found my time was much better spent at "Photography and the American Civil War," and at "Ken Price Sculpture: A Retrospective." But, for those who think they will enjoy the "PUNK" exhibit, all I can say is: I salute you.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Underground Comedy
Maybe you love Barbra Streisand. Or maybe you love making fun of Barbra Streisand. Or maybe both. An added bonus would be if you used to watch Ugly Betty and are familiar with the actor Michael Urie, who played office assistant Marc St. James. And, okay, it would also help if you are gay and/or Jewish.
Last night Ricky and I went to see Buyer & Cellar, a one-man show about an imaginary out-of-work actor who takes a job in the not-imaginary, perfectly-staged, fake old-town shopping mall in Streisand's Malibu basement. (The mall is real! She wrote a book about it!)
Urie completely engages the audience as the actor/narrator who sometimes falls into other characters while recounting conversations between him and: his boyfriend; Streisand's female assistant; James Brolin; and, yes, even Barbra herself.
In the neon-deprived, angled and sometimes curvy streets of the West Village, we found the quaint Barrow Street Theatre, with about 100 seats, simple blacked-out walls, and, for this show, a sparse set of three small, easily movable pieces of white furniture. The show runs for an uninterrupted 95 minutes, and Urie makes the audience feel like it's just us having a little visit with lots of laughs together, our interest never lagging as he presents writer Jonathan Tolins' monologue/dialogue that somehow makes Streisand seem nuts but not nuts, mean but not mean, unsympathetic but sympathetic. I'm not sure how the production pulls this off, but it does.
Intimate theater setting. Sharp funny dialogue. Great acting. Fun night. Go!
Last night Ricky and I went to see Buyer & Cellar, a one-man show about an imaginary out-of-work actor who takes a job in the not-imaginary, perfectly-staged, fake old-town shopping mall in Streisand's Malibu basement. (The mall is real! She wrote a book about it!)
Urie completely engages the audience as the actor/narrator who sometimes falls into other characters while recounting conversations between him and: his boyfriend; Streisand's female assistant; James Brolin; and, yes, even Barbra herself.
In the neon-deprived, angled and sometimes curvy streets of the West Village, we found the quaint Barrow Street Theatre, with about 100 seats, simple blacked-out walls, and, for this show, a sparse set of three small, easily movable pieces of white furniture. The show runs for an uninterrupted 95 minutes, and Urie makes the audience feel like it's just us having a little visit with lots of laughs together, our interest never lagging as he presents writer Jonathan Tolins' monologue/dialogue that somehow makes Streisand seem nuts but not nuts, mean but not mean, unsympathetic but sympathetic. I'm not sure how the production pulls this off, but it does.
Intimate theater setting. Sharp funny dialogue. Great acting. Fun night. Go!
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Conversations with My Husband (Sample #3)
Ricky and I were listening to music when a Bonnie Raitt song came on. Bonnie started crooning about falling under the spell of a green-eyed jackal and being roasted on a spit of love.
"Have you ever been roasted on a spit of love?" I asked Ricky. (We had drunk a whole bottle of wine just the two of us.)
"No," said Ricky. He was trying to program the new cellphone he'd just gotten that day and did not look up from the phone.
"Have you ever fallen under the spell of a green-eyed jackal?" I asked. He seemed to be unaware that he was supposed to answer yes to this question since I have green eyes.
"No," said Ricky.
"But I have green eyes," I said, helping him out. "I'm not a green-eyed jackal? You haven't ever fallen under my spell?"
Ricky stopped focusing through the lower part of his progressive glasses and looked away from his phone, turning his head toward me.
"If falling under a spell can be a good thing, then, yes," he said.
"I don't think that would make a good song lyric," I said.
"I don't think I would be a good song writer," Ricky said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I overthink everything," said Ricky. "You have to just feel it."
"You don't think that Bob Dylan overthought things when he was writing songs?" I asked.
"He probably wouldn't have been popular today," said Ricky. "Would people want to listen to all those long lyrics now?"
I thought about this but could not do the proper analysis to answer this question. Ricky decided to answer himself.
"Well, maybe if he was a rapper," Ricky said. "Rap songs have a lot of lyrics."
Apparently I was never going to find out if I was, indeed, a green-eyed jackal.
"Have you ever been roasted on a spit of love?" I asked Ricky. (We had drunk a whole bottle of wine just the two of us.)
"No," said Ricky. He was trying to program the new cellphone he'd just gotten that day and did not look up from the phone.
"Have you ever fallen under the spell of a green-eyed jackal?" I asked. He seemed to be unaware that he was supposed to answer yes to this question since I have green eyes.
"No," said Ricky.
"But I have green eyes," I said, helping him out. "I'm not a green-eyed jackal? You haven't ever fallen under my spell?"
Ricky stopped focusing through the lower part of his progressive glasses and looked away from his phone, turning his head toward me.
"If falling under a spell can be a good thing, then, yes," he said.
"I don't think that would make a good song lyric," I said.
"I don't think I would be a good song writer," Ricky said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I overthink everything," said Ricky. "You have to just feel it."
"You don't think that Bob Dylan overthought things when he was writing songs?" I asked.
"He probably wouldn't have been popular today," said Ricky. "Would people want to listen to all those long lyrics now?"
I thought about this but could not do the proper analysis to answer this question. Ricky decided to answer himself.
"Well, maybe if he was a rapper," Ricky said. "Rap songs have a lot of lyrics."
Apparently I was never going to find out if I was, indeed, a green-eyed jackal.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
In Search of Licorice at Trader Joe's NYC
The line starts where you walk in the door. Two lines actually. And these lines have one employee each standing at the ends holding up signs that say: end of the line. Should I take this as a warning to flee? But I am in search of licorice!
I am about to take you on a journey with me into the Trader Joe's food market near Union Square in NYC. Grab a shopping basket or push a mini cart and just get on the line. That's right. Don't shop first. Just get on the line that snakes throughout the store, up and down and around many, though not quite all, of the aisles.
While making my way through the store, I pass cereal and cookies, salad dressing and bags of flavored popcorn, turkey patties and chicken apple sausage. I did not realize I wanted all of these things, but as I am forced to linger alongside all of these items, they somehow wind up in the basket I have hooked in the crook of my arm.
Everyone around me is doing the same thing, shopping while creeping along in the line, and a camaraderie begins to develop. The person in front of me puts her basket down on the floor and asks me to kick it along while she goes in search of organic cherries. I try not to let it show on my face that I find this to be an odd request, and I comply. But it is only a matter of seconds before I go from finding this behavior weird to doing it myself as I realize my line has bypassed the pasta aisle. Without shame, I drop my basket to hold my place and ask the same favor of the man behind me. This is how I score some gnocchi. Yes!
But where is the long, chewy red licorice that has caused this visit? (We had received some as a gift and it was time to replace it.) When I realize my journey on the line is nearing the end without a licorice sighting, I drop my basket again with nothing more than a casual nod to my line-buddy-best-friend and dash up an aisle that seems to have candy and other goodies. They are out of licorice!
So what! I no longer care. Look at this container of all-natural fruit jellies! I sprint back to my self-sliding basket, and I see I have reached the bank of more than 20 cash registers. Situated at this juncture atop a step ladder is an employee whose sole function is to direct the next person in line to whichever cashier is ready.
"Number 17," the ladder lady says to me.
I look up to see a cashier at the far end waving a paddle with a big 17 on it. Off I trot there, swinging my overflowing basket, feeling like I just won the grand prize. And as I exit after paying, I walk past the end-of-the-line signs again and know that, actually, it is just the beginning.
I am about to take you on a journey with me into the Trader Joe's food market near Union Square in NYC. Grab a shopping basket or push a mini cart and just get on the line. That's right. Don't shop first. Just get on the line that snakes throughout the store, up and down and around many, though not quite all, of the aisles.
While making my way through the store, I pass cereal and cookies, salad dressing and bags of flavored popcorn, turkey patties and chicken apple sausage. I did not realize I wanted all of these things, but as I am forced to linger alongside all of these items, they somehow wind up in the basket I have hooked in the crook of my arm.
Everyone around me is doing the same thing, shopping while creeping along in the line, and a camaraderie begins to develop. The person in front of me puts her basket down on the floor and asks me to kick it along while she goes in search of organic cherries. I try not to let it show on my face that I find this to be an odd request, and I comply. But it is only a matter of seconds before I go from finding this behavior weird to doing it myself as I realize my line has bypassed the pasta aisle. Without shame, I drop my basket to hold my place and ask the same favor of the man behind me. This is how I score some gnocchi. Yes!
But where is the long, chewy red licorice that has caused this visit? (We had received some as a gift and it was time to replace it.) When I realize my journey on the line is nearing the end without a licorice sighting, I drop my basket again with nothing more than a casual nod to my line-buddy-best-friend and dash up an aisle that seems to have candy and other goodies. They are out of licorice!
So what! I no longer care. Look at this container of all-natural fruit jellies! I sprint back to my self-sliding basket, and I see I have reached the bank of more than 20 cash registers. Situated at this juncture atop a step ladder is an employee whose sole function is to direct the next person in line to whichever cashier is ready.
"Number 17," the ladder lady says to me.
I look up to see a cashier at the far end waving a paddle with a big 17 on it. Off I trot there, swinging my overflowing basket, feeling like I just won the grand prize. And as I exit after paying, I walk past the end-of-the-line signs again and know that, actually, it is just the beginning.
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