In a somewhat meandering way the article went on to talk about an experiment that was started in 1927 in a lab in Australia.  Although I can’t see a direct connection to the discussion about waiting, I still found it fascinating.  It seems that the purpose of the experiment was to show how viscous a fluid could be.  Hot pitch (tar) was put into a funnel and then let cool.  The first drop of pitch fell from the funnel eight years later! The second drop fell nine years after that.  In the last 85 years there have been a total of eight drops…the next drop is expected in 2013.  Interestingly, no one has ever actually seen a drop fall.  The Pitch Drop Experiment is now the world’s longest running experiment.

By my reckoning, the second oldest ongoing experiment is ME.  In my case however, the drops of ME  that are falling, are doing so constantly.  In almost imperceptible (hopefully) ways I’ve been changing for, what is now, a very, very  long time.  But fortunately, as in the case with the pitch, no one ever sees these “drops”.  Even I, who pays attention to me as no one else does, haven’t ever noticed any change from hour to hour or from day to day for that matter.  Yet, when I see the transformation over a longer period of time, I’m stunned.

I guess I was so drawn to the Pitch Drop Experiment because I see it as a metaphor for slowing down the process of aging.  Hoping that I could glean some information that would be useful in my attempt to slow down time.  Maybe I can figure out some way to make myself more viscous.  Or if I can’t do that, maybe I can find out how long the wait is until you-know-what.  At least then, I’ll know how much time I have to waste.

Even Mao Wondered When It Would Boil

]]> http://ironicman.wordpress.com/2012/01/18/tick-tock/feed/ 3 iron(ic)man triathlon godot mao jpg http://ironicman.wordpress.com/2012/01/05/gezundheit/ http://ironicman.wordpress.com/2012/01/05/gezundheit/#comments Thu, 05 Jan 2012 21:17:22 +0000 iron(ic)man triathlon http://ironicman.wordpress.com/?p=5674 ]]> I have a cold and lately I’ve been sneezing a lot.  I mentioned this to Yduj and added how much I enjoyed sneezing… how satisfying I found it.  Yduj surprised me when she said that she absolutely looooved a good sneeze too; how it was sort of an orgasm of the nose.  I thought about that for a while and realized that she was on to something.  And while it’s true that there’s a lot less romance (usually) leading up to a good sneeze, there are some parallels to an orgasm. A sudden rush, a certain feeling of fulfillment. Of course, a big difference  is that a sneeze often comes out of the blue whereas with an orgasm you kind of know it’s on the horizon…so it really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.  I guess the analogy is a loose one at best.

For some reason, people will offer “God bless you!”s  to perfect strangers whom they hear sneeze in public.  As if all of a sudden they’re living in a small town where everyone knows one another.  I’ve always thought there’s a certain charm in that ersatz warmth and familiarity and I used to participate in it right up until I became an agnostic.  Then, I just found it too awkward to say, “I don’t know for certain if there’s a higher being but in the event there is, God bless you!”  That doesn’t just roll off one’s tongue.  And when I moved on toward being an atheist (this, after having a friend explain that an agnostic is just a spineless atheist) it became even more unsayable. Imagine, “Although I don’t believe any deities exist or that there’s an afterlife, if I had known you back when I did I would have said, God bless you!”  Had I said that, either that stranger would still be running, or more likely, I’d have gotten arrested.

Nowadays when I hear someone sneeze, I’m mute. I know it looks as if I’m being withholding or an asshole, or a withholding asshole, but I don’t “God bless you!” anyone. Not friends, not family, not co-workers…no one.  All part of my larger effort to tell the truth.  Which is even more noble when you consider that I don’t expect that being virtuous is going to lead to any payoff in a great beyond.  Kudos to me!

Obviously, responding to a sneeze with a good old-fashioned, “Gesundheit!” is always a possibility.  Nothing about God in that. I’m not sure when or why Americans adopted a German word for a sentiment (good health) that could just as easily been said in English.  But I’d bet it was before those two World Wars and the Holocaust.  I don’t really think saying ”Gesundheit” is going to be a real option for me.  The truth is, I’m still coming around to the idea of possibly buying a German car.  So I don’t really see myself going around wishing people well in German, for God’s sake!

An Alterntive (But Riskier) Method

How To Have Safe (Nose) Sex

In any event, we made our way to the restaurant and true to form,  De had a beer in his hand before his ass hit his chair.  We all followed suit with our own choices of alcohol (except Zil…the fetus is underage) which loosened me up enough to tell one of the very few stories I keep in my social toolbox.

During the summer after my first year of college I took myself to the beach.  I was in a phase of trying to “better myself” so the light beach reading I had brought along was Dostoyevsky’s, Notes from the Underground.  While I was sitting there not reading,  a  pretty, young woman passed by and I uncharacteristically started a conversation with her that ended with me taking her phone number. I called and we made plans for me to pick her up and go on a date.  When I got to her house I could see that it was situated on a double lot and was grander than the other houses in the neighborhood.  Once inside, I was introduced to her mother who sat me down and started asking me some questions about me and my family.  I remember thinking: “This is  so nice–this person is really interested in me”.  After a few dates I started to get a truer picture.  Ellie’s family was very well off–her father owned Peter Luger– and her mother had been vetting me to see if I measured up.  I may have met the mother’s expectations but apparently, not Ellie’s, because it was a short-lived romance.  But it provided me with the story of how I never got a meal at Peter Luger despite going out with the owner’s daughter.

A number of years ago I had read in The Times that Ellie and her sisters had taken over running the restaurant.  So in a pathetic attempt to belatedly extract some benefit from my almost-relationship, I asked our waiter if her family still owned the restaurant. When he confirmed that they did, I explained the special significance I had in the history of the place.  For this, the waiter rewarded us with a huge plate of schlag (from which I’m still recovering).  Redemption at last!

At the end of the meal I was presented with the check.  As you probably know by now, Garfield is a non-denominational and democratic organization so we rotate paying for things.  But sometimes it’s hard to remember whose turn it is; so we decided a while back that I would pay for the first fifteen years (just one more left) and after that it will be someone else’s turn.  I love how we all agree on so many things.

Thankfully for you, this will be my last posting for 2011.  That is, unless something amazing, awesome and incredible happens in the next several  days.  If not, this is my chance to wish you all  joy and peace for the new year.

*An expression conceived by someone way smarter than I am. (remember that asterisk from way back?)

I'll take mine medium-rare

I’m not exactly sure  how the Lot metaphor applies here…maybe it’s the converse or the inverse or something like that, but I was wondering at what point NG’s sins would become just too much weight for the Far Right to tolerate in its standard-bearer. (I guess “the straw that broke the camel’s back” is the most appropriate adage here–forget the Lot thing.)  Three marriages, transgressions involving one wife, and then a second one seem to not overly concern our righteous friends because apparently, he had sought Redemption when he converted to Catholicism.   I guess had he been a pedophile or something even worse,  all that would also be  expunged from his “permanent record”  by virtue of the conversion.  What a great religion!

But where he seems to have screwed up big time is the stuff he’s done since his Redemption, i.e. lobbying for Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae; accepting the notion of global warming caused by human activities; advancing some progressive ideas about health care and immigration policy.  What a schmuck!  Had he waited until after he committed these “sins” to get Redeemed, he’d be home free.

NG’s wife,  Calista (anagram: Acts Ail) is a bit of a mystery.  I know she’s a lot younger than he is and is the woman he left his second wife for, but not much beyond that.   I’m not even sure if she was Redeemed or not.  But, given her part in NG’s misdeeds, one would think that she isn’t the First Lady the Republicans have in mind when they spout their moral authority.  So why with all this baggage are the Gingrichs’ being swooned over?  The answer is simple–the Far Right passionately HATE BARACK OBAMA!!   They would prefer anyone short of a serial killer (unredeemed, of course) to Obama.  And why?  Just because he’s a minority?  Come on…a lot of them must know someone…or know someone who knows someone, who’s left-handed.  I think it’s about time that they got over that.

Ed Ames (of the Ames Brothers) as Lot (instead of an Indian...his usual gig)

 

Oh my God...is he Jewish now!?

As I and my contemporaries are getting older I’m starting to see some serious signs of aging;  none of which bother me as much as the nascent (and not so nascent) signs of wattles which are making unwelcome (I assume) appearances on too many people who intersect my life.   Although I’ve been pretty successful at holding my sag at bay (unless I’m delusional), seeing friends and acquaintances with wattles at different stages of development seems inexorably, to be a window into my future.  Real life images of Dorian Gray.

You should know that up until now I’ve been a real naysayer when it comes to anyone having cosmetic surgery.  I’m pretty good at adopting a holier than thou attitude;  actually, it’s probably what I do best.  But like Mitt Romney or Newt Gingrich (maybe this isn’t the best company with whom to align myself), I reserve the right to reverse myself at anytime about anything if it serves my self-interest.  So when the time comes to deal with my wattle, I can’t see how snipping off some extra skin is that big a deal.  I’m not even sure I’d call it cosmetic…or even surgery, for that matter.  Really, as I think about it, it’s not much different from clipping one’s nails.

Of course, another way to deal with the looming wattle-battle is to grow a beard.  To an outsider (meaning, someone who isn’t me) this would seem like a reasonable option.  But, as with too many things, I’ve taken  a position in the past which is at odds with one that might benefit me now.  (This is where Messrs. Romney and Gingrich come in very handy.)  In the 60′s and 70′s every guy I knew had a full beard.  I did too.  But after a while I started to realize… we all looked alike.  This beard thing was turning out to be a great equalizer; ugly guys with weak chins, bad skin and puffy faces looked the same as us not-so-ugly guys.  Something didn’t seem right about it.  So I eventually evolved into a person with a pejorative view of people with beards  (think: holier than thou).   Of course, you can see the quandary this puts me in as I consider employing the beard-hiding-wattle gambit. (To say nothing of the problem it creates in having any friends– with or without beards.)

So, what’ll I do when it starts to look like I’m about to begin tripping on one of my chins?   Probably, I’ll opt for the surgery.  Have a little celebration; invite some friends.  Maybe serve some bagels and smoked fish.  A  bris for my chin.  Just another religious ritual–nothing cosmetic about that!

I think that's me....we all looked like that.

Well....maybe not ALL of us

While both movements’ goals are remarkably vague and undefined, we,  like our comrades at  OWS,  are ferocious in our distaste for the large corporations that threaten to set the agenda for the country.  Here at OGR the object of our enmity is not so much  the banking industry–ours instead is directed at the large corporate real estate offices that have infiltrated Park Slope.  Yes, I’m talking about the Corcorans’ and the Douglas Ellimans’ that have moved into our small neighborhood and have tried to run the “mom and pop” agencies out of business.  An aside: Garfield Realty has never been a “mom and pop” enterprise…more a mom and ”pop” one.  (Actually, we now refer to ourselves as a “boutique” agency–somehow that makes me feel like we’re selling miniskirts and halters or things like that.)  We are different (so far) from OWS in that we don’t have an array of clever placards to display in our occupation. But as time goes on, I expect our outrage will find its expression in our own and unique ways.

Another incredible striking parallel between our movements is that we’re both obsessed with percentages.  OWS, as everyone knows, is the quintessential home of the 99 percent.  As you may also be aware, OGR has for many years been the home of the 6 percent.  (Unfortunately, lately it seems that we’re often the home of the 5 percent and sometimes less.)   Yet, despite the differences in our percentages, the occupants here at OGR (at least most of us) stand with our friends at OWS; we intend to occupy Garfield Realty until our unspecified demands are met and are prepared to be here each and every day for as long as it takes (although we won’t be here on Christmas… or New Years…and probably not on Chanukah).

My boycott of those adjectives has put enormous pressure on my use of “incredible”.   Despite my best efforts to abstain from using it, it still seems to show up in every third sentence that I write nowadays.  But really, that’s nothing compared with trying to avoid using the adverb, “really”.  It’s amazing  incredible  really surprising  how much we all rely on that word.  It must be so worn out…or at least really terribly dog-eared. 

I wirte this just to give you some idea of the obstacles I’m up against in trying to stay fresh in writing what is now my 140th blog.  Actually, it’s really my 141st one;  about a year and a half ago I wrote a hysterical post entitled “Separate Checks”.  A number of people in my life thought that it was a bit too mean-spirited and I removed it after a week or so.  It turns out that art has its limitations. Still, it’s possible one of my readers may have  printed it and has one of the few extant copies.  If so, be careful with it; I’m sure it’s as least as rare as the Honus Wagner baseball card…and a lot more readable.  

Unfortunately, the inspiration for some of these writings sometimes comes in the middle of the night.  Occasionally I will make my way to my computer and touch type in the dark with my eyes closed so as not to fully wake myself.  Apparently I had my fingers misplaced on the key board when I typed what appears at the end of this posting.  A (very) small reward is being offered to anyone who can decipher it.

Lastly,  some minor housekeeping details:   I recently wrote about my 50th high school reunion (http://ironicman.wordpress.com/2011/10/28/the-last-hurrah/).  Since that was published, I’ve noticed  people treating me with way too much deference…asking if I was okay, offering me their seat, etc.  As if I’m older than I am.  To set the record straight: I was barely sixteen when I graduated from high school.  So if we’re on the subway together, and we see a vacant seat, feel free to fight me for it.  Lastly, in that reunion post, I mentioned a fellow named Spider Kedelsky.  After several weeks the posting found its way to Spider and he commented on the blog.  Almost certainly,  no one read it because if comments aren’t made currently, they are so  like trees falling in a forest.  Amazing….but true.

Of course, once the deluge began, I left the office to go hide under my bed for a few hours until the storm passed.  Zil, De and Luap took shifts manning the office.   A few weeks back we had bought a bunch of large bags of candy at Costco.  The timing on this was a huge mistake; in the weeks leading up to the holiday, Zil, Giarc and I went through most of it.  I kept replacing the candy with other bags from Key Food but it proved nearly impossible to maintain our inventory.  It was like trying to fill a sieve.   Amazingly, although it was we three who ate all that junk, it was De who put on weight.  It’s surprising how that can happen. 

Our ad hoc committee at Garfield Realty was no match for the hordes of  ”trick or treaters” who showed up and we were out of  candy within an hour or so.  Despite their best efforts, none had the guts, determination and high standards that had been the hallmark of our iconic Halloween gatekeeper, Christine.  Christine was our Candy Nazi; treats were dispensed only if the recipients of her bounty were in costume, well-behaved and polite.  And that was just for starters.  Sadly, Christine is no longer at Garfield Realty.  She’s moved on to greener pastures–literally.  She now works as a dairy maid somewhere in New Jersey.

I think that next year I’m going to try to figure out a way to not be such a Grinch and embrace this new world order.   Somehow turn the holiday into one I look forward to.  Maybe stick around the office and enjoy the revelry, crowds and chaos.  Get a mask or a costume or something.  I’ll let you know how the lobotomy works out.      

A Free Plug

Commercialization of a holiday.....or ART?

My graduating class had more than a 1000 students but fewer than 75 came to the reunion party.  Why the low turnout is anyone’s guess…there was a recitation of the names of those who the organizers believed had passed on (the ultimate pass/fail exam) but those numbers couldn’t begin to account for so many people missing what is sure to be the last convocation of this sort.  My last, for sure.  When I was leaving, as I was saying my ”Good-bye”s, I knew that in most cases it meant forever.  Weird.

 To give you some idea of the ethnic composition of this group, there were eleven “Cohen”s in my graduating class;  also four other “Stein”s (none of whom I knew).  I’ve starting writing a Chanukah song to parallel the Twelve Days of Christmas; I’ve only gotten as far as the lyric: ”Eleven Cohens praying”.   I’ll be spending much of  November working on that.  Interestingly, there was only one African-American in my graduating class.  And even more interestingly, being the liberal Jews we (mostly) were, he was voted “Most Popular“.  A friend of mine at the reunion claimed he had come in second in the voting; we agreed there probably should have been a “Most Popular White Guy” category.

One of the best stories (not this one) to come from the reunion was the appearance of a guy that I may or may not have been friends or friendly with.  (Not remembering the closeness or distance of relationships was a constant theme for the evening.)  In any event, printed on the name tag that had been provided, was the name, “Spider Kedelsky” below which in parentheses it said, ”Formerly, Harold Silver”.  Yes, Hal had renamed himself Spider!   He had become a dancer and has become somewhat of an impressario in Seattle.  When I subsequently Googled him, I found that he’s all over the place… with no mention whatsoever of his former identity.  I thought this name change thing was a terrific idea.   And, he turned out to be a lovely guy.

A few days after the reunion party, I started getting over my disappointment.  But then I started reading the biographies that had been provided by each of us and assembled in a booklet that was  distributed to all the attendees.  Reading these was a big mistake.  Apart from the dry information, i.e. address, phone, email, etc. there was a section we had been asked to complete, the heading of which was, “What have you been doing with yourself since we last met?”    I thought trying to answer that was idiotic–so my hand written response hand which is now in this book for eternity was, “Ask me after the first martini, but before the third”.  Apparently, I was the only one who thought the question was moronic because my classmates wrote down lots of stuff ( occasionally including the names and ages of their grandchildren–something I really needed to know).  A number of the responses included descriptions of lives that had been lived in the most interesting manner.  Stints in Southeast Asia, Africa, Europe.  All  so much richer sounding than my life.  Reading these accounts returned me to that empty feeling I was talking about.  Maybe I should have changed my name.   I’m sure Neil Cougar Mellencamp might have wound up doing some extraordinary things!

Spider K.

N.C.M. or...."The Student Formerly Known As Neil"

There were about a dozen or so people at the party…all of them interesting and delightful.  There was lively, urbane conversation over a terrific meal.  I struggled to keep up but somehow managed. After dinner, we all went upstairs to see the part of the second 5000′ of the “barn” where there was a sound and video studio which my hosts sometimes use in their business.  At this point, Tap, who had recently been inducted into the Iowa Rock ‘N Roll Hall Of Fame played a few tunes on his horn. This instigated some conversation by some of the other guests…one who it turned out,  writes musical scores for films, another, a classical violinist who had recently completed a countrywide tour. It began to dawn on me that I might be rubbing elbows with a group of very accomplished  people.  I was with my friends boB and Lav;  I recalled that boB has an Emmy under his belt and Lav has been a successful producer.  And  Nerak is an amazing cook as well as a successful herbalist.   And so on down the line…almost all of my dinner companions were amazingly talented.  And then… there was no-great-talent me.  I remember thinking, ”This isn’t the Upper West Side or the Village–it’s the COUNTRY for chrissake!!  Where are all the hicks, rubes and hayseeds when you need them?”

After the party had ended, I went back to my house which up until that evening had thought was pretty wonderful.   I was sitting on my couch mulling over the evening’s events. I sat there staring at the fireplace and the mantle above it where I keep my “Least Improved” trophy from my tennis club.  Placed right next to the “Non-Participation” trophy I don’t get each year.  It occurred to me that a nice addition to the grouping might be a “Least Talented” award.  God knows I’ve earned it.