“The Time Has Come the Walrus Said to Speak of Many Things…..”

As you may have noticed, the blog factory has, at times, depended heavily on articles in The Times and The New Yorker.  And now, as my interactions in the real world seem to be becoming more and more limited, I’m increasingly relying on these sources for stories that will be fun to write about. So when I come across one that I think is interesting, I tear it out and ordinarily file it on the floor of my living room. Usually in a random pattern. However, not every story that catches my eye can be spun into the gold we’ve all become used to.

A while back I came upon a small piece about a fire in Norway.  It seems a truckload of burning cheese had closed a road tunnel to Arctic Norway for almost a week.  Since I love cheese and because no one was actually hurt in the fire, this seemed like it would be an entertaining incident to write about. And it was. For about a sentence or two. (Which you’ve just read.)

And then there was an article in The Times about yet another new movement afoot in the never-ending quest in New York to raise the perfect child.  It seems that  a segment of the population here has adopted the practice of raising their children without using diapers.   Apparently, this method is a draw for some because of its environmentally friendly nature.  Also, for preventing diaper rash. (Duh!) And, as the article states,  ”Many parents like the thought that they are rediscovering an ancient practice used in other cultures. But mostly, they say, they like feeling more in touch with their babies’ most intimate functions.”  Ordinarily, this would be an ideal piece to write a blog about.  It hits the perfect sweet spot of my general misanthropy and my specific antipathy towards the quest to raise the perfect child.  But because writing about this without crossing the line into mean-spiritness would probably be near impossible and because I will, at times, leave the house and run into other people, I think it’s best to leave this one alone. (But the truth is, I feel like Odysseus being called by The Sirens; so I reserve the right to re-visit this topic.)

Very occasionally a story that I come across on-line attracts me.  This happened recently when I noticed a headline that read: “New app helps Icelanders avoid accidental incest.”  I couldn’t believe what I was reading!  I thought this would be blog post gold. (Different yet very similar to Acapulco gold…you can get high from either.)  It seems that Iceland is such a small country (population: 320,000) and so homogeneous that nearly everyone is related.  So if you’re at a party and  hook up with someone, there’s a fairly good chance that you’ll be having sex with one of your cousins. The purpose of the app, as I understand it, is to let you know just how close a cousin she is.  All you have to do is touch phones to see how closely related you are.  (Talk about things that go “bump” in the night!)  And–you’ll be glad to hear this–there’s an additional menu option that enables your phone to have an “incest prevention alarm”.  I guess the way it works is that just before you get too far along, you touch phones and if the alarm goes off,  you make your apologies and head back to the party hoping this time, to meet a second cousin, at least once or twice removed.  Proving, yet again, that necessity is indeed, the mother of invention.

BEFORE

AFTER

Identity Crisis

A week or so ago, Yduj and I had dinner with my sister, Charnie to celebrate her birthday. (Because her name is so odd, there’s no need to enter her into the witless protection program.) She and her husband, Nek, met us at a restaurant on the Lower East Side.

Ordinarily, I’m not really much of a gift giver; you could check this out with…with…well, with any number of people whom I’ve let down.  But since this birthday was a special one (be polite and don’t ask), I thought I’d try to get her something meaningful.

As luck would have is it, about a week before the birthday dinner I came across a very old photo of Charnie, me, and my brother, Steve, taken on the porch of the farmhouse where we lived when we were very young.  Even though we’re not nearly old enough, the picture looks like  some depression era photo taken by Walker Evans or Dorothea Lange.  Yjud took one look at the picture, saw Charnie striking a pose, and told me that the photo would be the perfect present for her birthday. I happened to have a frame for the picture which was, if not ideal, perfectly serviceable.  So, on the day of the birthday celebration, I framed the photo, put it in a bag and brought it with me to dinner.

Not long after we met up and were seated at our table, I reached for the picture and with a grand flourish presented it to my sister.  Charnie took one look at the photo and said, “That’s not me”.  ”Whadda ya mean?”, I said using my best Brooklyn accent.  Charnie pointed out that the girl in the photo was much older than even my brother who is the oldest of the three of us. Yduj and I looked at it and saw that she was right; that the girl in the picture would probably be about 102 by now.

Maybe you can appreciate how crestfallen I was with this turn of events. But I tried to recover and asked my sister if instead, she’d like the wedding photo of our parents that I recently had framed.  She declined that gift as well,  saying that she’d probably be passing it on to me sometime in the not too distant future so why not save ourselves the back and forth.  It was becoming apparent to me that Charnie, for some reason, was not in a picture receiving mode.  Who knows, maybe she was expecting cash.

So now I’m stuck with this photo of a mystery girl hanging in my apartment. And I probably still owe my sister a birthday present.  Being thoughtful isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Me (maybe), possibly my brother, and a stranger

My Left Body Part

Last week, as part of my effort to publish the fourth volume of the Ironicman blog, I re-read last year’s work in order to edit the preliminary copy.  This was not nearly as painful as you might think.  (For some unknown reason, I get a kick out of me.)  As I was reading the various blogs, I kept coming across references to my ailing left shoulder; not once or twice but a lot.  Apparently, the shoulder has been a problem for quite some time.  But it’s only recently that I have found out why…my rotator cuff has a tear.  It’s my non-dominant arm and while it is sometimes painful and almost always annoying, it’s far from debilitating.

Also last week, I noticed that the movie, My Left Foot was airing on one of the movie channels.  I saw it twenty-odd years ago when it first came out but I don’t remember much about the film other than that Daniel Day-Lewis gave a brilliant performance for which he received an Oscar.  But the confluence of these two events gave me an idea for a sequel or two.  Of course, the first sequel I’m speaking about is the movie version of my injury, My Left Shoulder.  And no, I’m not talking about some self-involved, mundane story of one man’s misfortune and the tribulations that ensue.  Not at all. This movie will be an uplifting and revealing tale of the heretofore unexplored world of ….physical therapy!

And who better to play me other than Day-Lewis?  The fit is so uncanny that it’s almost as if I injured my shoulder with him in mind.  Think about it (well…think about it when you have the kind of time on your hands that I seem to) we’re both thin and both had dark hair at some point.  Although he’s probably more lanky than thin.  Me, I’m closer to thin.  Anyway, a minor detail.  Also, he’s obviously gifted at playing parts where the “left” side of his body is really important.  So, that’s another way that Fate seems to have destined him be the film embodiment of my struggle.  But that’s not all.  Here’s the really freaky part: Mr. Day-Lewis is married to Rebecca Miller who happens to be Arthur Miller’s daughter.  At the height of his playwriting career, Mr. Miller was married to Marilyn Monroe.  And I, when I was a teenager …  and here’s the part that will make your hair stand on end…I used to be crazy about Marilyn Monroe.  How scary is that!?

As you probably know, Mr. Day-Lewis is famous for “becoming” the character he is playing.  Supposedly, when he was filming the Spielberg film, Lincoln, he stayed in character the entire time of the shoot.  This included, I suppose, wearing that stove-pipe hat when he went to Applebee’s for dinner.  His family must have loved that.  But if that’s his “method” he should be forewarned that being “Neil” all the time isn’t going to be a piece of cake.  I know it isn’t for me.

The Divine Comedy

Last week, Yduj and I went to see some stand up at the Gotham Comedy Club.  We were assigned a small table for four which put me on amber alert because it seemed likely that some strangers were  going to enter my cloistered life.  And sure enough, within a few minutes a young couple took the unoccupied seats at our table  We kind of nodded at one another and for a brief moment I thought everything would be okay…meaning that we would ignore each other for the next several hours.

But soon after, someone (not me) asked, “Have you been here before?”  This, unfortunately, opened some floodgates, the controls of which were out of my hands.  On their end, the young man was doing most of the talking because his girlfriend seemed to be really stoned; on our end, it was Yduj because…because…well, because I’m me.  It quickly became clear to me that our newfound friends were very badly mismatched.  He seemed like a straight arrow while she seemed dark; very dark. If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, he was from the Long Island part of Mars and she was from a very downtown part of Venus. I almost felt that I had an obligation to explain to them that they could save themselves a lot of trouble down the road and would be better off splitting up sooner rather than later. Possibly right after the main act finished his routine was what I was thinking.

As part of the “have you been…” conversation, he told us about a diner located on the same block as the club that is filled with amazing memorabilia.  At this, his girlfriend perked up and the two began to speak to us as if we were tourists telling us that we just had to go there; but not on a weekend because it was so crowded.  The woman kept repeating that  the place was just so “kish”.  I had no idea what  she was talking about up until about the fifth, “kish”, at which point I realized that she had been referring to the term, “kitch”.

It was clear to me that she was in love with that word; it was also just as clear to me that it would be all I could do not to correct her.  I don’t mean that as a figure of speech;  really, I had to literally stop doing anything else just so I could concentrate on keeping my mouth shut.  Which allowed her to continue with some more “kishes”, the final one of which included her declaration that, “I’m not even Jewish and I love kish.”  Now I was really being tested.  I thought of countering, “Funny,  I’m not even French and I too love quiche.”

After the show, I spent way too long going on about the “kish” business. But Yduj lovingly did suggest that whenever I do leave the house, it might be a good idea to bring a deck of my “Pardon me….” cards so I wouldn’t have to live with the frustrations that seem to follow me around.  Unfortunately, the way things are going, I don’t think one deck is going to be near enough.  Really, how could I possibly foresee that I’d need a card that read, “Pardon me, you probably don’t realize it…but when you say you’re not Jewish, yet love “kish”, are you sure you don’t you mean that you love a “knish?”

Funny…he doesn’t LOOK Jewish.

Happy Anniversary!

One of the worst parts about not regularly going into the office formerly (and still) known as Garfield Realty is that I sometimes miss a great real estate episode.  This happened the other week and it is only vicariously that I’ve been able to enjoy it.  But here is the event as recounted to me by Luap.  All questions or complaints about this should be directed to him.  If you have anything nice to say, I’m the one you want to contact.

Luap was in the office and got a call from a young man who was interested in an apartment he had seen on Garfield’s website. Since he lived nearby, Luap suggested that he come by so they could talk about it.  The young man agreed but added a caveat.  He explained that he was a Japanese student and it would be necessary for him to take his shoes off in the office.  Luap said that was no problem.  The student then said that Luap would also have to remove his shoes; to which Luap also agreed.  Then, in a Columbo-like move, the client added that they would both have to remove their socks, as well. In the real estate business you don’t get a lot of opportunities for this kind of weirdness so Luap told him to come on over.

When the guy arrived, it turned out that he was a young black man.  When asked about being a “Japanese student”, he said that Luap had mis-heard and that he had said that he was a Japanese Buddhist .  He proceeded to sit down opposite Luap and take off his shoes and socks.  Luap then took off his shoes.  The young man then gestured with his head towards Luap’s besocked feet almost as if they were playing strip poker.  Luap complied, leaving the two of them barefoot in the office.

Luap asked how long he had been a Buddhist.   “Two weeks”, was his response.   I just love that.  Two weeks and already he’s a religious Nazi.  It’s as if I had decided to become an ultra-orthodox Jew on Friday and on Saturday I’m throwing stones at cars that are being driven on Shabbos.  Beware of zealots! (Sam Stein: circa 1955-1959,1963, 1966-1969.)

When their meeting was over the young man said  that he wanted to hold Luap’s naked feet so he could bless them. I don’t know what his problem is, but Luap told the guy he’s not turning his feet over to him for the blessing.  The young Buddhist than grabbed his own feet, said a prayer, put on his shoes and socks and left.

Luap told me this story when I saw him the next day.  I can’t begin to explain how cheated I feel;  this story should rightfully have been mine. Believe me, none of this kind of stuff goes on in my apartment, where I now spend too much time.  There’s only so much writing about nothing that one person can do.  Speaking of which, this marks the conclusion of the fourth year of the blog adventure. Yes, four years!  As they say, “time flies when you’re having gum.”

Too Old To Go Steady

Ada Bryant, Robert Haire

Recently, the Weddings section of the Sunday Times  fell open and the above photo and announcement caught my attention. The bride, it seems, is 97 years old, the groom eleven years her junior.  Talk about robbing the cradle!  Albeit a very old one.

Their courtship was lovingly recounted in the Times article even as it retained some of the standard fare found in all of the announcements.  For example, you’ll be pleased to know that the bride is “keeping her name.”  I guess after nine decades you kind of get used to it.  But my favorite part is when the article mentions who their parents were (“she is the daughter of….”) and includes that they are deceased.  Really!?

It was unusual for me to have seen that article because years ago, I had purposefully stopped reading the Weddings postings. And for good reason. More often than not, those announcements would leave me slightly depressed and feeling decidedly inadequate.  Nearly all of the featured couples were just too good-looking; with too perfect teeth; from the best schools and all having remarkably interesting jobs and/or making a ton at Goldman Sachs. And not to be mean-spirited, but seemingly way too happy, as well.  I would feel that somewhere along the way I had let my kids down.  That maybe I should have made them stay with their orthodontist a little longer or, despite going to great schools, possibly if I had insisted on more college preparatory courses, they’d be Yale and Harvard grads.  And maybe if I had been a better role model, they would be wildly happy.  All the time.

And then there is the part of the announcement that would recount what successes the parents all were.  I never knew there was so many doctors in the world.  Or partners in law firms, for that matter.  And if the parents didn’t have a gaggle of advanced degrees they would at least be the owners or officers of very impressive sounding companies.  A saving grace:  if you read between the lines, you’d figure out that the “President of XYZ Perchlorethylene Corporation” was the guy who had the dry cleaners down the block.  I would console myself knowing that if my kids would ever have had an announcement, I’d be described as: the “President, Founder, CEO,CFO and COO of Garfield Realty Corp.”  We all know what a big deal that is.

The Real Estate Nazi

I was in the office a few weeks ago when a couple came in and asked Luap if Garfield Realty was handling any commercial spaces for rent.  They were looking to open a day care center.  Although I was paying attention to what they were saying, I made sure that I continued to face my wall so as not to get involved in an actual conversation.

Luap had nothing to show them but spent some time going over their criteria and offering them whatever guidance he could.  And then, as they were leaving one of them asked, “So, what are the demographics of this neighborhood?”  I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.  This is Park Slope for gods sake!!   The most child centric neighborhood on the planet!  How could anyone who was thinking of investing a ton of money in a business related to child care not know that.  I bet they  must have tripped on a half-dozen strollers just getting into our office.  It was all I could do to restrain myself from turning around and screaming  at them: “NO SOUP FOR YOU!”

But Luap was very gracious and patient with them and went through the litany of the child’s paradise they had stumbled upon.  In someone else’s life, this small transaction might have been an eye opener, a seminal moment.  I’m sure someone has written a sappy article in Readers Digest or shown up on Oprah with a story that parallels this one and ended it with something along the lines of, “I knew at that instant that it was time to move on. That somewhere along the line I had changed.  And that’s the moment when I decided to devote myself to finding a cure for all the diseases in Africa.”

But of course, this is me; and the truth is that my reaction would have been the same ten years ago. I haven’t changed that much. And, in any event I’ve already moved on…kind of. And the only cure I’m looking for right now is the one for my sinus infection.

I told this story to Yduj and we’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of it.  Probably a day doesn’t go by when we’re not shouting at some one or some thing, “NO LEFT TURN FOR YOU!”, or NO UMBRELLA FOR YOU!” or…whatever;  having a lot of fun amusing ourselves with this silly Seinfeldism. More correctly, I should say I was amused right up until I heard, “NO SEX FOR YOU!”.  There’s nothing funny about that.

“NO BLOG FOR YOU!”

Breaking News: Pope Takes Early Retirement!

“Heavy Is The Head That Wears The Crown”

For about eight hours, it was the news of the day.  But then the hunt for the L.A. cop killer escalated and the stir created by Pope Benedict XVI’s stepping down was downgraded from hurricane to tropical storm.

I was particularly interested in the story because it comes so soon after my own retirement; almost as if I’m a trendsetter and His Holiness had an eye on what I was up to and how I’m handling things.  And, as I think about it,  there are a number of parallels  in our situations. Quite a few, as a matter of fact.  Heads of important organizations; a reputation for always being right; leaving our leadership positions unexpectedly, to name just a few.

But he’ll find, as I did, that once he leaves his post as the Head of his company he will no longer be regarded as being infallible.  To the contrary, he’ll likely find that a lot of  systems he  put in place during his tenure will be dismissed as the work of a Luddite–relics left over from the twentieth century. He should be prepared for wholesale changes.  And if continues to show up at the Vatican (as I do at Garfield Realty), he’ll probably be seen as just another dumb shmuck with nothing to do and wind up with a desk facing a wall.

On the brighter side, if he follows my lead, he’ll no longer have to get dressed in all that regalia to stop by his office.  Although, I don’t see His Holiness in jeans, I bet dressing as if it’s “casual Friday” could save a huge chunk of his day.  It may even free up enough time for him to start writing his very own blog.  He hasn’t asked, but Popeman is one possible title that comes to mind.

Which begs the question: what will he be called?  Does he go back to his given name–Joseph Ratzinger? Or will he go by, The Priest Formerly Known As The Pope?  From what I know, these are uncharted waters.

In truth, I really don’t know enough to weigh in on this stuff.  My knowledge of the Papacy is pretty much limited to what I’ve learned from crossword puzzles.  Which means that I know that a lot of Popes were named Leo…or was it Leon?…  it’s one of those.  And there’s one other fact that rattles around in my semitic head;  I seem to recall that Pope Benedict XVI was a member of a Nazi youth group.  Or maybe it was the previous Pope.  Or, possibly both of them.  In any event, even though we’re both going to have pretty light schedules I don’t see lunch in our future.

Law And Order

You didn’t ask, but I’l tell you anyway; my adjustment to the retirement thing has been a work in process.  I’m still making almost daily appearances at the office formerly and still known as Garfield Realty.  It remains the seat of the rest of my business life.  And technically, I am now a “consultant”, a dream I’ve harbored since I was a little boy.

I’ve already whined mentioned how the new owners, Zil and Luap have downsized my desk.   I was just beginning to get used to that indignity when one day last week, I came in and found that this toy desk had been rearranged so that I now face a wall.  Oh yes, a very lovely and newly painted one…but still, it’s a wall, for Chrissake!  Furthermore, “my” desk chair seems to be somewhere else each time I show up.  I think I may be using a “loaner” seat.

I’m trying very hard not to take this as having some greater meaning than it does. Not to personalize it.  And really, as I think about it, it’s probably simply a matter of no one giving a shit about me.

Actually,  it’s not just my desk that has been relocated; a few others have been moved so as to have that great wall view.  In fact, Luap’s desk is now facing the wall opposite mine.  So we now sit with our backs to one another.  I have a little game I play when I’m in the office–I try to see how many “huh’s” I can get from him when we try to have a conversation sitting that way.  That gets a little tiresome so at some point we spin around in our chairs so we can see (and hear) what is being said.  When we turn simultaneously to face one another, I have this momentary urge to draw a water gun and simulate the Hamilton/Burr duel.  That hasn’t happened yet.

It has occurred to me  that over the years Luap and I have spent enormous amounts of time with each other.  Possibly more, than with anyone else.  Which was usually a lot of fun. We would talk about almost anything… as long as it didn’t have to do with real estate.  It got to the point where one of us would finish each other’s–and this is where one of us would chime in—”sentences”.   We were kind of like those partners in police shows who would often be more significant than the “significant other” in each cop’s life.   True, we didn’t have badges.  Or uniforms.  And we didn’t ride around in a car together. And we don’t have guns. Or pensions. Or paid health benefits. Or a salary.  But otherwise, exactly the same.

“The Truth Isn’t What I Said”

Like a lot of America, I was momentarily transfixed by Lance Armstrong’s interview with Oprah Winfrey.  Not so much with the interview itself, but more with the news coverage associated with it.  And what jumped out at me was a blurb I read in the print edition of the New York Times with the following quote from Armstrong: “The truth isn’t what I said”.  I must have read and re-read that statement  six, seven maybe a dozen times trying to figure out whether he was admitting to lying or maybe lying about his lying.  It seemed very complicated but I think I finally got it straight…he’s a liar.  Yet, I was impressed by his clever way of admitting the truth (or not lying).  The syntax he chose has the feel of a game of three card monte where the meaning of what he’s saying is not exactly where one thinks it is.  Turns out the guy is a world-class liar, as well.  Whether he was abetted by lying steroids is for someone else to figure out.

Being as impressionable as I am,  I’ve incorporated his style when I’m answering questions I find disquieting.  For example, now when I’m asked how old I am, my response is, “Sixty is not how old I am”. You can’t get any more truthful than that.

It seems this inverted way of talking has gotten a foothold in our culture.  Just the other day I was reading an article about what constitutes being middle class in New York City and a discussion of the anxiety around  pre-school options and costs was explored.  One mother, Anna Tolstoy, offered :”The trauma of kindergarten I still have not forgotten”.  Maybe  this is how the world is speaking nowadays and my newly cloistered life has insulated me from these changes. Or maybe she’s Leo’s great granddaughter and she’s just quoting something Anna Karenina said. I don’t remember hearing anything like that in the movie but the book is huge…and it’s possible that it appears somewhere in the first 2200 pages.

There was an article in the New Yorker not long ago that in a loose way (very loose–the blog well is very low) relates to the vaguery and awkwardness of the use of  language I’ve been discussing.  Some fellow in California has spent a number of decades creating a new language, Ithkuil.  Apparently, his enterprise is not unique; efforts like his have been going on for centuries.

Ithkuil has two seemingly incompatible ambitions: to be maximally precise but also maximally concise, capable of capturing nearly every thought that a human being could have while doing so in as few sounds as possible. To accomplish this the inventor has created a unique set of characters for his alphabet.  From what I gleaned from the article, everything I’ve written to this point could have been expressed in Ithkuil by the simple statement: ^*∞∀∑∅≈∍⊆∆.

Which could be great news for you blog readers.  Just think, with the time you’d save reading the blog, you might be able to get through all of Anna Karenina!

“Success, isn’t what your network has had.”