Lapsed Manners

I got a "so nice to see you" email from V this morning and I have yet to send her a thank you note for lunch!

Crap! Crap! Crap!

Brit-knee

So, Britney Spears had to cancel her latest tour due to a "severe knee injury". What they didn't tell anyone is how she received it.

Greg ran into a guy in a bar on Saturday night who was a lighting tech for the video shoot at which she was injured. Evidently, she wanted these flat light gels (they give a disco floor effect) all over the floor of the set--it would be funkier that way. The lighting people tried to dissuade her because they're very slippery and it's quite dangerous if people are attempting to dance on them, but she'd have none of it. Then she decided they should be all over the stairs too. Now this is where they really tried to stop her 'cause if every surface is covered with flashing light squares, you lose all sense of perspective. But she was insistent that it would be all be fine. Well, evidently she stepped off into nothing because she couldn't tell where the floor was, thus falling and hurting her knee, requiring surgery, a three-month recovery period and the cancellation of her tour.

And this is why it pays to pay attention to the professionals.

Mr. Jack done me wrong...or maybe it was right...

Wandered solo over to Madison Square Park late on Saturday (Greg was in the Bronx) where the Big Apple Barbecue Block Party was going on--big fest with barbecue champions from around the country with proceeds being split between the Park and VH1's Save the Music. I had a little pulled pork, listened to some New Orleans style jazz. Lovely way to while away an hour or two.

Sunday I dragged Greg out at noon to go back. He was less than happy waiting in line for the first round of 'cue, but once we had food it was all good. We sat on the grass in the shade and listened to jazz all afternoon while critiquing the parenting styles of those around us/being amused by a toddler with a balloon tied to her shoe laces and sipping Lynchburg Lemonades from across the street, getting up only to sample another type of 'cue. Lovely, lovely afternoon.

Unfortunately the lemonades packed quite a punch and things did get a little ugly. Greg came back with our second drink and dropped the comemorative shot glass into my bag directly on top of the first, shattering it. His phone rang and he answered as I started fishing the shards out, I yelped, pulled out my bloody hand and he was forced to say, "I have to call you back, I just cut Tina with a shot glass." The bleeding stopped fairly quickly and Greg sanitized the wound by sticking my hand in our drink. Fortunately, the lemonades packed quite a punch and the pain didn't interfere with the last hour or so of the music.

More amusing yet: when Greg returned the abreviated phone call, I heard him respond matter-of-factly: "What do you think happened? We're at a Blues Fest and my woman done me wrong so I had to cut her with a shot glass."

Yup, we had 3 drinks between the two of us and we were in bed and asleep at 8pm. Of course, we were up at 2 watching Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, eating dried apricots and drinking a LOT of water.

V update

So, I went to lunch and it was rather pleasant, despite the fact that it was two hours of dodging probing questions about others while at the same time being uninteresting enough that it was impossible for her to listen to a full sentence about my life without breaking off on a tangent. Hmmm, usually that was Mr. Harrell's domain.

As for V no. 2: I vacuumed under our bed for the first time since we moved in 2.5 years ago, believe it or not, I had to empty the trap several times. To save time I kept pulling the plastic dust catch off of the machine and taking it out onto the deck to empty it. As I was doing it the final time, I stuck my hand in to scrape out some dirt that was stuck to the bottom.

Ummm, did you know that lightning is really just static electricity? I certainly didn't because had I known, I really would not have stuck my hand in a plastic container in which dust and synthetic carpet fiber cyclone around. I got a shock in my right hand that I felt go through my upper chest and out my left. My right hand tingled for the next half hour. It was absolutely crazy. As I was talking to a neighbor later, she asked if I'd heard a scream shortly before--she'd looked out, but didn't see anything. Um, yeah, that was me.

A Voice from the Past

Okay, so I'm having lunch this Friday with my high school honor's English teacher from junior and senior years.

Last Saturday, the phone rang. A woman said, "Tina? This is a voice out of your past. Do you recognize it?" Ummmm, no. "It's G. V." "Omigod, Mrs. V.!" At this, Greg, in the living room, makes "symbolism" hands.

The long and short:

My mom ran into her a couple of weeks ago at the Gilded Lily (now under the sole proprietorship of Marilyn) and the chit-chatting commenced. Gladys was deLIGHTed that I live in New York, and wondered if she might have my number. My mother reached into her bag and pulled out my business card. (I'm a bit flummoxed by the fact that my mom carries around my business cards--I don't carry my business cards.)

She's in town for a week starting Thursday for Maris' 50th birthday. She'll be meeting me at "Steak Frites" for lunch on Friday. "Old age has been good to [her] except for [her] back; so it's better if [she] can just walk in to the restaurant." I chose the place: moderately priced, good wine list (I'm gonna need some wine), good classic and modern bistro fare, interesting architectural design, close to my office and best of all, the pretention of an entire menu in French (and we know how much she dislikes the French) even when describing the "Union Square Farmers Market salad of the day".

I must say I'm a bit nervous about all this--it took two hours to compose the email about the reservation and then I had Gillespie review it. It's rather difficult writing in a professional and grownup manner to someone who knew you before you were either. I chickened out and invited both Susy and Jennifer to join us. They both declined.

To be sure I don't run out of subject matter, I've been printing out copies of key writings in my life lately: 1) the revised vision statement of derision; 2) Greg's Face for Richard Grasso in which he alluded to Julius Caesar so he could slam the guy without getting in trouble; perhaps David's description of his landlord's father killing caterpillars. Hey, she's going to tell me all about Debbie Yates' journal from India and I was never even friends with her--I'm hoping beyond hope that Mrs. V. got it wrong and it's Anne's journal or it's going to be excruciating.

Alas Maris and his wife will not be joining us although they live in Chelsea only 8 blocks from us, but dare I dream of accompanying Mrs. V to Steuben glass to pick up his present?

"I saw a sailor and thought of you..."

Okay, so it was Fleet Week here in New York--all the ships come sailing into the harbor (quite a sight) and all the sailors come skipping through the City (also quite a sight). Think Gene Kelly, Donald O'Connor and Frank Sinatra, but without the singing in harmony.

Now, as you can imagine, most New Yorkers and the military NOT on particularly good terms at the moment. Kinda tensed for ugly scenes for most of the weekend. Let me take you to Washington Square Park--traditional home of the anti-war movement--on Sunday night: As Greg and I are strolling through we see a Navy officer approaching the circle of 70s/80s musicians who jam there every weekend. An aging hippie moves to intercept the officer. We start moving away, bracing for the "baby-killer" confrontation. The exchange:

AH: You want a cookie?
NO: Thanks, I'm from NYC you know.
AH: Well, I just wanted to say THANK YOU for what you're doing. Oh, I'm against this war, you know. But you're putting yourself on the line for the country and you should know that we do appreciate that.

Damn near fell over in shock.

Now a question, most likely for Mephisto: He may have been from New York, but his country of origin was someplace else. This guy was not in a US Navy uniform--he had light blue epaulettes. What country would that be for? I don't think it was fake either, 'cause he walked like a sailor.

Fieldwork again...

So, we've finished taking photos of the entrances of each building on 42nd Street for our Vision42 project. (Actually a cool premise, take a look.) Next step, clocking the time it takes to get from the street to subway platforms along the same route--it all goes into the travel time savings for workers if they can just step on a street level light rail vs. going down into the subway.

Fine, we can start on it next week, but there's only one problem: SECURITY. A couple of my colleagues were detained for some time while doing a landuse survey around the entrance to the Queens/Midtown Tunnel and Naja and I had a bit of a brush with the police when photographing an area around Grand Central, in fact, we were told "NO PICTURES" and to leave. This was on the street, can you imagine what it's going to be like IN the tunnels? However, the work still needs to be done.

Now, don't get me wrong--I'm really glad security is as tight as it is. It really should be given the world situation. I'm just not looking forward to a task that is not going to be enjoyable in the least in the first place, coupled with the potential for unlimited detention as possible under the Patriot Act.

Hmmm...maybe I'll have Naja do the subway timing.

Field work in New York F***in' City

So yesterday, Naja and I got tired after 4 hours of looking for freight entrances on 42nd St. in the blazing heat, so we decided to time off-peak bus travel (another project requirement). Well, you think wandering around Port Authority with an exposed digital camera is dangerous? Try riding the damn bus.

We're sitting there, stop watch and notepad in our respective hands, and a rather obese woman with a metal cane sits behind us, one leg up on the seat beside her because, as she tells everyone, she just left the hospital after some surgery on her foot. A child with a coloring book sits next to her (small enough to fit on the leftover seat) and the woman spends the next leg of the trip sweetly commenting on what a gifted artist the child is--beautiful colors, composition, yada, yada, yada. The child and her mother leave a couple of stops later.

By the next stop, it's started to rain and the bus is suddenly jammed with people--mainly older tourists looking to escape the downpour. Well, an older, kinda scruffy looking guy takes offense that this woman is using two seats. She offers to move her leg over so he can sit on the edge, but he wants the whole seat. As they're talking, she becomes aggitated and is tapping her cane harder and harder on the back of our seat. Then it gets ugly. He's screaming, she's screaming back and suddenly, she's up on her knees swinging her cane at him with a LOT of force. The guy in the single seat across the way jumps up just in time to avoid the cane coming down on him. She's slamming the cane against her seat and the now-empty one across from her, making as much noise as she possibly can while she screams obscenities and some rather interesting insults at this guy. My favorite was "unwashed toothless bitch". Then she jumps up and starts jumping up and down (on both feet, mind you, despite her supposed surgery) while threatening to splatter his brains against the bus walls out with her cane/smash his remaining teeth up into his head/shoot him with her gun, if only she had it with her. At this point, I had to stop paying attention to what she was saying and pay attention to the cane: the follow-through on her swings had the thing coming within a few inches of my skull. There was no where to go. I had one arm up for protection and was actually touching her tricep at one point to make it NOT hit me. The guy ran off at the next stop--along with a large number of the tourists. She sits down, still screaming threats out the window about how if he ever shows his face on 42nd St again, her "bloods" will kill him.

She starts to calm until some woman sits on the edge and starts comisserating with her on how stupid the guy was--speaking of stupid... She starts to relive it all and the cane starts slamming on the back of our seat again. Then some idiot in the back of the bus loudly says "Gee, well this is New York City--more entertainment on the bus than in a theatre!" Okay, true, but you DO NOT say it within earshot of the crazy woman... She starts in again with "Entertainment!!! I'll give you EMS! This is fuckin' New York fuckin' City! Fuckin' entertainment...and the summer's just starting..."

I've never been so glad to see someone leave a bus in my life. I've never seen anyone freak like that. Naja said that since she's been riding the bus alone (since she was 10) she's never witnessed anything like it--and she was living here in the bad old days.

What the Hell?!!!

Okay, about the pictures from Iraq:

I know that I've never been in the situation where I'm constantly under fire, so I cannot know the context for those actions. However regardless of circumstance, the primary question that came to mind when looking at the photos was:

Are we freakin' Nazis?!!!

'Cause really, while I don't think we're going for all out genocide, the similarity to photos at the Holocaust Museum in DC was really disturbing.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh

So here I am at 10:30 on a Thursday morning, typing from the comforts of home. I'm taking a personal day a.k.a trying to retain sanity. I've been thinking about it since finding out that Greg had this whole week off 'cause of holiday days that needed to be taken, but finding out at 3 yesterday that about 3 weeks worth of fieldwork needs to be finished next week pretty much capped it.

Oh, you may ask why I'm not getting started on it now. Well, the work entails mapping and taking digital images of all the primary and freight entrances of every building on 42nd Street. That's 13 LONG blocks through the very heart of Manhattan. It's something that one person cannot do well alone (lots of stuff to handle/keep track of) and since my partner for this is my boss' daughter who is out more often than in until next week due to finishing her latest Master's...

The one thing I could do alone, is time the walks from subway entrances to platforms for each entrance on the street, but I refuse to do that without a letter of explanation from the client. Unusual activity in the subway can cause some uncomfortable questioning and after some people I work with and their clients were detained by the police for 90 minutes because they were taking photos of the entrance to a tunnel... I'm not going in until my bases are covered.

But really, on to the sanity restoration...last night, we went to our favorite neighborhood Italian for a fabulous meal with a fabulous bottle of wine--Le Solive Connubio--lovely. It was amazing, rainy, romantic, the food was excellent, the music was mellow.

And today I intend to putter about, do a few chores, do a little smoochin', go to a movie at the Tribeca Film Festival, come home for the final episode of Friends...bliss.

To my friends: Enjoy your crappy workdays! HA!

Better places?

Once again the insanity of this place boggles my mind. The HR director is interviewing candidates for a janitorial position today. At an open table in the lobby. On the other side of the half-wall of our area.

Um....shouldn't an office be used for the interviewing process? Wouldn't the interviewer AND the interviewee find it distracting to be doing this within sight and sound of the lunchtime comings and goings of the 300-odd office staff? Also, shouldn't there be some consideration for the staff who work in the vicinity who are being subjected to really stupid questions repeated over and over again very slowly and, of course, very LOUDLY because few of the interviewees have English as their primary language?

Idiots abound. Truly.

Where's MY maid?!

I was just in the pantry here at the office and one of the new partners spilled milk all over the floor while getting his coffee. His reaction: "Wow. What a mess." Then he put the milk back in the fridge, picked up his coffee and went back to his cube. Um, crazy concept--clean up after yourself you freaking slug!!!

The guy behind him at the coffee maker just kinda stared down at it for a minute before stepping over it to the refrigerator.

I walked the two steps to the sink, got a paper towel and wiped it up. Sometimes it seems like I'm the only person in the world (or at least this office) who didn't have a maid following them around and cleaning up after them their entire life.

More movie nonsense

Watched an entire movie last week: Close Your Eyes. Okay, I spent a fair amount of time with my face buried in Greg's shoulder, but that was not due to a poor film. Very creepy, very suspenseful, and surprisingly violent for a BBC production. I must say I found a man being strapped to a table, his belly sliced open and having a live rat sewn inside to eat his entrails quite disturbing. Of course, no one used a gun, so I guess it's not really violent then.

All in all, a very interesting premise, especially if you're into the 16th Century French occult. I'd actually recommend it rather highly, I just wouldn't recommend eating right before.

Kill Quentin...

Last night I went to see Kill Bill Vol. 2. After 40 minutes of being sickened yet incredibly bored, I walked out. Every other line was emphasized with a dramatic pause and super-closeup, which stretches out each scene ENDLESSLY. Somehow Quentin didn't get the memo that that device is really only effective when it happens to underscore dramatic moments. I know that the film is supposed to be an homage to other, older films, but if you're just going to lift the settings and cobble them together, what's the point? Along that line, if you're going to do scenes in black and white, one should really shoot with black and white film--the movie's black and white scenes looked like I'd hit the BW option on my DVD player--no depth in the medium range shots, but every pore and wrinkle in the closeups.

I do have to say that no one else shoots violence the way he does--thus the "sickened"--but without a modicum of dramatic tension (something that Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction were loaded with) Kill Bill was nothing but self-aware drek.

The night wasn't a total loss however, I greatly enjoyed the previews for the coming attractions.

I'm BAAAACK!!!

So my little trip to the homeland is being referred to by Greg as an "Amish Vacation". But, just because I spent the better part of the trip doing heavy labor in the yard is no reason to mock my trip... I'm telling you, digging out sod is a really zen activity, slow, methodical, empty your mind--it's really quite nice.

The key factor in accomplishing anything in the yard is the amount of help you get from others. My niece Jordyn, age 4, was quite the helper, especially when Grandma was gone on an errand. She really wanted to be digging with me, so Ann and I finally decided that she could dig in the vegetable garden. It's yet to be tilled, so no big deal. I used a hand rake to make "Xs" in the soil to mark the spots she could dig. Well, one thing led to another, and soon she was being encouraged to dig deeper and deeper, then to bury her little feet in the dirt as if she were planting herself. That is when inspiration struck, my friends. Struck with the force of a pickax. (No, I didn't get to use one of those, I'm sorry to say.)

"Perhaps, she'd grow if she were watered?"

I looked at Ann, she looked and me, shrugged and said, "What the heck, I used to play in the mud all the time." I went and filled the watering can and returned to water Jordyn's buried toes. When I returned with the second can of water, she was pretty coated from the shins and forearms down. When I returned with the third, she was jumping up and down, shrieking like a banshee and splashing thick black mud all over, including into her newly cut and styled hair. By the time Grandma got home, she was covered from biceps and thighs down. Then came the moment we'd all been waiting for...the wipeout. She was mud from mid-back on down, half an inch thick and peeling off in strips as it started to dry.

In the end, Ann had to strip her naked under the outdoor faucet because she was just too muddy to be carried through the kitchen to the bathroom. Ann and I thought the whole thing was hysterical from start to finish. We were laughing almost as much as Jordyn and while my mom kept shaking her head at the whole mess, it didn't stop her from taking lots of pictures of the little wallower.

PS. I didn't really do any more yardwork that day.

"Baby, no one deserves to end up on my table..."

So, I'm walking to work this morning and there are tons of production trailers set up near Gramercy Park. No big deal, they're always shooting Law and Order in some incarnation or other in the neighborhood. But then I saw Radioman, a semi-homeless guy with a radio around his neck featured in the NY Times this weekend who's known for getting bit parts in movies/autographs of "big" stars. Hmmmm...this is NOT going to be Law and Order.

I walked over to the no parking posts and discovered that the shoot is for "CSI: Miami". Huh? Last I heard, this is New York and there's no way they're gonna make it look like Florida. Kyle mentioned that perhaps they're chasing a criminal to New York. Yeah, 'cause law enforcement EVER crosses jurisdictions. But you know, it's just another example of the blatant disregard for reality that makes the show so fun.

Admission of lameness: I walked through their food area in hopes of seeing David Caruso--I really wanted to ask him if he'd been attending the Shatner school of acting during the 10-year period he had no work. "Tell me.....did you test to see IF...our victim's blood...was the only BLOOD...on the knife?"

Alas, no luck, only a few techies and the clean-cut white guy. Another little note, they should tell them in contracts when they get a big job that wearing wraparound sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled down way low on a really overcast day just makes you even more obvious.

Haunted, we've got to be haunted.

Last night we were sitting in the living room watching an intense episode of CSI. All of a sudden there are steel drums playing a really menacing tribal rhythm in the entry. Not out in the hall, but IN the entry. It took us a minute to figure out that an update was available from Compaq and this was simply the notification alarm. Deep breaths, shut the computer down, go back to watching.

Fifteen minutes later, there's a whoosh and a crash in the living room closet. The end bracket that holds up the clothes bar split in half and the whole load of clothes, etc. came crashing down.

Now, to have these things occur within such a short time was just a little too odd to be mere coincidence. But the real capper is, the first couple of times I've tried to publish this post, it's blanked out.

Freakin' ghosts.

Haunted, we've got to be haunted.

Last night we're sitting in the living room, watching a very intense "CSI" when all of a sudden, there are steel drums playing LOUDLY in the entry--a menacing tribal hunting rhythm. It took about a minute to figure out that a new Compaq update was available and this was the notification noise. Shut down the computer, went back to watching.

About 15 minutes later, there's a whoosh and a crash in the living room closet as the bracket holding up the clothes bar breaks and the entire load of clothing collapses. Once again, we jump out of our skins.

The two incidents occured just a bit too closely to be mere coincidence. Freakin' ghosts.

Will it be the Secret Service or the FBI?

I've sent what I believe is my hundredth hate email in the last year to the Whitehouse today. Actually, it was to the Chair of the 9-11 Commission, but cc-ed to the Whitehouse. If it's not directly to the president, will it count toward my eventual investigation/arrest?

You've seen all the news about Condoleeza Rice testifying next week before the panel? Well, what they're not mentioning is that it's conditional testimony--IF she testifies, no other member of the administration's senior staff may be called. How DARE they?

It's nothing but a token gesture to pacify the public. She's very smart and quite adept at stonewalling. It accomplishes NOTHING.

It is a travesty of justice, it is a betrayal of the public faith and it is yet another slap in the face to families and survivors alike.

She wouldn't recap a bottle of Windex, either--it's wet.

Greg had a show last night for his Reform School improv group (made up from the performance class students) at a new comedy venue a mere two blocks from our apartment--it doesn’t get more convenient than that. We see two other groups and Reform School’s show goes well. Very funny, almost everybody’s on. Great new venue, convenient location, decent space, all goes really well, quite the enjoyable evening. Then comes the bill.

There is a two drink minimum for non-performers. Standard stuff. Now, I had two jack and cokes, which were a mere $6.50 each. This is REALLY good for a comedy club—this place is getting better and better.

Slight problem in that someone else was put on my tab—a friend of Gabi, another performer, who had two bottles of water at $5 each. I approach her about her part of the tab and she’s completely unresponsive, so I go up to the waitress, explain that we’re NOT together and pay my portion of the bill. The waitress approaches this woman, they have a heated chat and then they go out to the front of the club. Five minutes later, the waitress re-enters the room, REALLY upset and yells that someone from Reform School had better get out to the bar, because someone from their entourage is refusing to pay their check and SHE’s certainly not going to pick it up ‘cause she’s got kids to support. Everyone’s very confused, so I fill Gabi in about what’s going on as far as I know. She’ll take care of it while the rest of us exit.

Well, as we pass, this woman is out front throwing a SCREAMING fit about the cost of the water. She’s not going to pay and they can call the police if they want to—they should be arrested for charging so much. (Granted, $10 for two tiny bottles of water is freakin' ludicrous, but welcome to a comedy club in Manhattan, honey.) I continue to walk out—more people involved cannot make this better. Greg and Joe stay behind because they’re in charge of the troupe.

When they exit, they’re totally grim. Evidently, when Gabi and Joe tried to pay, this woman continued her fit—no one should pay this much, it’s ridiculous. In total, the scene lasted for almost 20 minutes. Neither Reform School, nor any member of the troupe, will ever be allowed to play there again.

A really good night, with a lot of potential, is totally ruined, by a haughty self-righteous bitch who can't see beyond her own outrage.