It's Official; I'm a Murderer

There are several evils that all Manhattanites must perpetually endure: pedestrian traffic at Christmas, improper umbrella usage in the rain, the scenic views of New Jersey, off-off Broadway, the aroma of human feces in the subway.  To a cynic, the list is practically endless.  I'm not trying to say that these issues are entirely unique to New York City, however, if you ask any one of its egomaniacal residents on the street,  you'll be promptly told that our problems are a particularly bountiful promontory.  

The good thing is that after a while, you get totally numb to it.  You barely notice the teenagers breakdancing dangerously close to your forehead on the 6 train, or the homeless man picking a fight with a telephone pole, or the gangs throwing glass bottles at cars.  There’s simple too much crazy here for you to notice it every time and, thankfully, most of the unpleasantries you tolerate happen when you encounter the throngs of assholes outside your door.  Which is why it is all-the-more upsetting when you must face a threat within your very own home.  

That’s right; I’m talking about vermin. 

Mice, cockroaches, bed bugs; you've seen it on the news and there is absolutely nothing you can do to protect yourself. They live in your walls, your sheet, your inner ears.  They consistently rank as the one leveling factor of status in this city.  Irregardless of income or location, any resident of any urban dwelling can stand idly by as their home rapidly becomes a festering cesspool of infestation. 

My story starts a few weeks ago.  

I'd gotten home from work and I was watching Pawn Stars, minding my own business when, all of the sudden, something moving caught my eye.  It was running, so I didn’t get a good look.  I didn’t know what it was. I was startled, but I tried to shrug it off.  I couldn't get it out of my mind.  Whatever it was that just ran past had gone behind the sofa that I was currently sitting on.  I could feel it ready to attack at any moment.  My muscles completely froze.  And then, I saw it come for me. 

I looked down at my foot and there he was.  He was a chubby grey mouse and he was staring up at me with his khaki tail and crablike eyes.  My foot seized and I kicked the coffee table across the room as I screamed to meet my maker.  The mouse disappeared into the abyss under my sofa. I ran into my bedroom and stood on my bed screaming.  That's when a plan was born.  

First, I put on my galoshes for protection.  Then, I grabbed my umbrella with a curved hook arm and ran to the kitchen to find any kind of weapon.  I grabbed the Swiffer and crept slowly back into the living room.  I stood on the far side of the room and used the hook on the umbrella arm to tug at the legs of the sofa, trying to pry it away from the wall.  Having disturbed his hiding place, the mouse came running right at me.  I screamed at the pitch of a rape whistle, threw the Swiffer like a tribal spear.  Mind you, this is the only time it is apropos to stand on your sofa wailing like a banshee while wearing knee-high galoshes.  

   

I saw him make a run for the kitchen.  I followed him, squealing all the while.  I watched as he crushed his body into the size of a pin and folded himself under the oven.  Immediately, I turned on the broiler.  Honestly, I'm not sure what my thinking was here or how this would help.  Maybe I was hoping that he would catch aflame.  Maybe, in my heart of hearts, I was expecting his flaming body to gallop around the kitchen like Speedy Gonzales during the Battle of the Alamo.  That was the first time a thought of murder had ever crossed my mind.  In my first fifteen minutes, I was already Dr. Mengele of the modern rodent holocaust. 

He had escaped with his life that night.  However, with the devastation he had caused, this moment became my Pearl Harbor.  Now, this was war.  

That night I had a dream about a mouse crawling up my nightstand and across my head as it lay resting on its pillow.  I awoke in the morning with a flash and hurried to investigate my apartment to see the tell-tale signs of mouse intrusion.  Surely enough, filth pellets were strewn everywhere and crackers crumbles adorned the kitchen counter.  I went to grab my shoes so I could head out the door and, as I lifted one up, the mouse was clinging to my shoe as I innocently brought him closer toward my mouth and eyes until he leapt off and scurried away. 

I did what any New Yorker would do: I waged a violet campaign.  I ran to 99¢ USA to buy whatever tools of death were prominently displayed on their walls.  I came home with a bag full of glue traps.  In order to determine where the traps should be place, I needed to think like a mouse.  I examined all of the intricate places that he was likely to run.  To fit the traps into his assumed path, I ruined a pair of good scissors while trimming through glue so I could place the traps as close as possible to the wall. 

Then, time went by.  I would come home from work and peek at the traps like a toddler watching Amityville Horror.  It was exhilarating and distressing all at once, like Purim at the dentist's office.  I never saw the mouse.  Over the next few weeks, it's lifeless body didn’t turn up in any of my traps.  The only thing that I ever found in one was a cockroach the size of an Almond Joy and, strangely enough, that didn’t bother me at all. 

When my mother planned a visit to town, she was naturally going to stay with me.  Before her arrived, I had to tell her my dirty secret, that there was a furry fugitive on the loose, like a sleeper cell waiting for a moment to attack.  She said it would sleep on the sofa instead of the air mattress on the floor, but that she would be fine.  I took all of the necessary precautions from clearing out all of of his hiding places to vacuuming out the dust and crumbs from under the fridge and stove.  I even put out some tasty poison for him to snack on when he got hungry. 

Naturally, the weekend went by without incident.  I suppose that the mouse, too, was taking Memorial Day off. It had been so long since I had seen him that I thought he had moved on to dirtier homes. 

Then, this morning, I woke up early to go for a jog (don’t ask) when I saw a ball of grey fuzz rush past my bedroom door.  Like Shirly MacLaine in 90% of her movies, I was all screamed out.  I no longer feared this revolting pest.  Rather, I just wanted him fucking dead.  At that moment, I would have stepped on his skull with my bare foot if it meant never seeing him again.  As I later headed out the door for work, I dreamed about a way to put an end this madness.   

That was when I launched the final solution. 

On the way home from work, I stopped at the store for a surplus of traps.  When I got home, I used the scissors to form them into a barrier that I placed under the broiler of my oven, having learned that's where he was entering from.  After my ambush was in place, I went in the other to watch Audra sing on PBS.  That's when I heard a terrible noise in the kitchen.  I entered slowly, fearful of seeing my enemy in his final moments of treachery.  and sure enough, there he was, his ass and feet and tail glued firmly in place as he sang an aria of death in the key of screech.  I prepped a trash bag to help clean up the crime scene, but I paused.  After all the time that I wanted this mouse dead, I couldn’t help but notice how cute it looked dying there.   I didn’t know how I would be able to follow through with committing this act of voluntary mouse-slaughter.  Meanwhile he just lay there, howling. 

I texted the dilemma to a friend.  His response: “Yeah.  They do that.  You need to take it outside and bash it on the pavement.”  Revolted, I knew I needed to follow through to make this an official "Game Over".  I picked up the trap and ceremoniously threw it in the bag.  I pinched the bag between my thumb and forefinger and ran down the stairs of my building.  The bag spasmed all the way as I carried it to the dumpster and tossed it in.  Let me tell you, if you’ve never killed an innocent creature, the whole experience is less glamorous than pissing in one’s pants. 

With that behind me, I can rest easier.  Now, his Reign of Terror has come to an end.    The King of Mice that wore the seven crowns has been defeated and may God rest his vile soul.  And may this be a lesson to the rest of his loathsome kingdom; if you ever think to threaten a New Yorker where he lives, you just may leave writhing in a Glad Bag. 

Glee; That Lovable Harpoon to the Soul

"You will come first of all to the Sirens, who are enchanters

of all mankind and whoever comes their way; and that man

who unsuspecting approaches them, and listens to the Sirens

singing, has no prospect of coming home and delighting

his wife and little children as they stand about him in greeting,

but the Sirens by the melody of their singing enchant him.”

- The Odyssey, Homer

Never has a show expected me to so liberally suspend my disbelief as Glee.  It is a cruel mistress, luring you in with its auto-tuned siren song just to leave your rotting flesh floating in Poseidon’s domain.  Remember that it may always be tempting, but it’s usually best sail on by, lest you suffer the crimes of time wasted at its nimble hand. 

I have almost never had the desire to write about a TV show before, let alone this one.  However (stick with me here), Glee could potentially be monumental for the future of Broadway.  When people of the theater ask me if it is important that they follow the show, I reluctantly say yes.  Think of it this way: many generations ago, the movie musical was in the forefront of popular entertainment.  Showtunes topped the top forty.  Until the storytelling techniques in entertainment became more realistic and the attraction the musicals became more compartmentalized.  By the time I became involved in the theater, the idea of liking a musical was gauche and theater news was rarely followed or maintained.  It's gotten slightly better in the past several years, but compare it to the phenomenon that was Spider-Man.  By the time I got home for Thanksgiving this year, it was the only musical that the average American could even tell you was on Broadway.  I've sat in on research groups about theatrical awareness where housewives from New Jersey said they wanted to get tickets for their family to a show that closed 7 years ago.  If the demographics for Broadway were going to skew any older, every performance would have to be a matinee. 

And then came Glee.  Now, all of the sudden, today’s generation thinks its sort of cool to be un-cool and that makes musicals a-ok!  This news delights the theatrical community because it confirms our future employment.  The only trick is going to be maintaining a connection with the audience based on the expectations that Glee has supplied on our behalf.  These will be the ticket-buyers of tomorrow and to not pay attention would be doing the community a disservice.  

Also, this shit happens to be the guiltiest pleasure known to man. 

This season was a rocky one.  Typical boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets boy, boy gets girl, boy loses boy, etc.  It offered a little too much Gwyneth Paltrow and Sue Sylvester, which, in both cases, a little goes a long way. But that’s not to say I don’t get suckered in every single time.  This week’s season finale was no exception. 

The Good: 

This episode had me right off the bat with the panoramic views of Times Square while “Rhapsody in Blue” twinkled in the background.  I am glad that this footage exists because now I have proper documentation of the formation of billboards during the end of the 2010-2011 Broadway season.  Whenever I see a movie that takes place in New York, I can date it within a month of when it was shot based on the marquees, so this could prove useful down the line.  

We were treated to the best Sardi’s scene caught on film since The Muppets Take Manhattan.  Patti LuPone does a charming cameo with a lovely throwaway joke as she exits.  It’s been so long since I’ve Patti do television that I had almost forgotten she knew the meaning of "underplay". 

One word: Charice.  If you don’t know who this girl is, watch this video:  (skip to :57)

Granted, she doesn’t do so well when they let her talk.  But when they let her sing, it’s always a home run.  This is the best Filipina teenage vocalist the world has seen since Lea Salonga hit the scene in 1989.  We're talking goosebump vocals here.  

There was a lovely little scene with Kurt and Rachel where they were having breakfast at Tiffany’s and “Moon River” swooned in the background.  Then, the duo breaks into the Gershwin Theater (my disbelief was so suspended that it almost snapped- in reality, Nederlander security would have brought them to their knees) where they got to stand on the stage of Wicked to sing one of its duets.  I suppressed my thought that this was Lea Michele’s attempt to (yet again) use this as a platform to audition for the movie adaptation of Wicked.  I let the emotion of the moment take over, which it did.  Like in every three episodes of the show, the characters express their sincere joy for performing and it become so truthful of everything I lived in high school that I can’t help but lose myself in blind emotion that I instantly regret. 

Also, Quinn got a haircut. 

The Bad:

Not even one minute into the episode and  I was frustrated.  The glee club jumped through hurdles all season long.  They finally succeed and they make it to New York City.  So do you know what they reveal?  They don’t have any material to sing.  I don’t mean to say that they hadn't yet chosen their material.  No, in this ridiculous case, it’s not even written yet and they only have two days to dream it up.  And then write it.  And then learn it.  And then orchestrate it.  And then choreograph it.  And then tech it.  Oh, I’m sorry- that's what would happen in reality, not in Glee.  The audience for this show must always remember above all that Glee is a magical land where the writers will try to feed you total malarkey about the process of theatrical production.

There were a few original songs this week which were totally non-descript.  I even took notes on this shit and I couldn’t tell you a thing.  The song I vaguely remember is the one the group performed in the competition.  You know, the song that sounded like Ke$ha by way of Kidz Bop.

During a montage, reality was out the window yet again as the club traveled from the Intercontinental Hotel Times Square to Duffy Square, Lincoln Center, Washington Square Park, back to Lincoln Center, 56^th and 5^th, Central Park, back to Washington Square, and the TKTS Booth before they ultimately finished in Lincoln Center.  I checked this one out on google maps; that’s a total of 16.4 miles.  This all took place in 2 minutes which were supposed to represent a single afternoon.  This is the stuff that makes me pull my hair out one strand at a time.  Then, at the end of the number, Artie’s wheelchair was perched dangerously above the perimeter of the fountain at Lincoln Center.  Did the the group him up there?  That couldn't be safe. And just how is he going to get down? 

And then we get to the plot.  This season, we have been given every single relationship combination we thought possible, some of them 2 or 3 times.  But just when you thought they had exhausted their options, get Mercedes and Trouty Lips.  What the hell is that all about?!  In terms of story, the most interesting thing that could have happened at the end of this season would have been for Mr. Shue to have taken that much-debated job on Broadway.  But because this is Glee and every time the plot takes one step forward, it has to take two giant leaps back, Shue loves the kids too much to go and he ultimately stays put.    As for the group not making it to nationals, allow me get into the headspace of the Glee "faculty".  What is going to happen now that New Directions didn’t make the cut?   Well, they're going to have to spend the summer making up a cute story about how, although the group was ranked #12 and the cut-off is #10, it's likely that teams #8 and #9 with both mysteriously be disqualified.  If you think that sounds totally bizarre, keep in mind what show we're talking about here.  

Anyway, enjoy the summer totally free of new episodes while you secretly set your DVR to record the reruns.  Until next season's big Glee-miere, we'll just have to imagine the new ways they dream of to frustrate their loyal audience.  

 

The Suffering Fool

Kathleen Turner doesn’t suffer fools gladly.  I know all about it because I’ve read her memoirs, cover-to-cover.  Her stories were sassy and sincere and the book comes with a free bonus: you get to add Kathleen to the list of people that will openly admit that they despise Nicholas Cage.  Therefore, we know she’s human. 

One of the most human instincts that she reveals after a few good chapters of deep dish is that Kathleen Turner’s number one priority happens to be Kathleen Turner.  I can totally respect that.  She even named the book “Send Yourself Roses” after her fundamental concept in self-love. 

On an opening night, in order to insure that her achievement is properly recognized, Kathleen Turner sends herself the roses.  If you've ever read Virginia Woolf, you’re undoubtedly thinking, “How Clarissa Dalloway of her,” and you’d be right.  The lady buys the herself flowers in case no one else does.  She has, in effect, created an essential back-up plan for those disheartening moments when you get let down by the people you love.  This book is proof being let down can happen even to the normal, everyday woman.  Like Kathleen Turner. 

Still, while sending yourself roses may give you a smile of self-satisfaction, it doesn’t make it any less discomforting when you notice that no one else bothered.  That sad moment can cause you to look across the dining room table and notice that you have dedicated your soul to a relationship where he’s rubber and you’re glue and taking the napkin off your lap and pushing in the chair as you quietly walk away becomes your best option.  And after you do, you barely miss dessert. 

There are people out that tell you, "laughter is the best medicine."  Those must be the same people that seek natural cures for a brain tumor, swallowing a pill that smells like kitty litter while wishing away their pains.  There will be times when you think there is a hedgehog trapped within your skull.  So you look to your loved ones and find them hiding something behind their back, only willing to show you the aspirin in one hand and the vuvuzela in the other. 

It’s not fair to your partner when you expect them to solve all of your problems.  And it’s not fair to you when you think that your problems are well-deserved because you must be their solitary cause.  What they say is true: life is not fair and, then again, neither are expectations.  You might as well learn now that expectations can come down from the heavens and kill you fast as lightening.  I speak true when I tell you that compromise is just as deadly.  Yet, somehow, some combination of all this is completely necessary if you stand a chance at love.

“Maybe things will change,” you fantasize as you stare at a brick wall like you might see through.  “Maybe things will get better.  Maybe we can find our happy.” 

Or maybe not.  Maybe things will end.  And maybe they should. 

Do you know what it says to you on Facebook after you break up with someone and change your status back to “single”?  It says, “Your relationship will be canceled upon saving your changes,” as if you were a sitcom that's gone soft in the ratings.  It cuts real deep. 

However, when you look around the room to remove any memories that could sting and you can barely fill a shoebox, you probably made the right decision. 

Anyway, if you’re lucky, your friends will clamor to your aid.  Beware: they might look at you a little extra close in case they have to identify your body later.  But your sadness is always an appropriate time to put on a show.  Give the world your best impression of a hothouse flower and wilt a little while you rant  You’ve earned it!  Choke back tears and make throwaway remarks about your future as an old maid.  Why not wear black?  Not only would that suit the character, it’s slimming. 

Promise yourself that, no matter what happens, you can always send the roses to your own dressing room.  But, afterward, if there are still no flowers in sight, you are merely a fool to be endured.  

I Know a Place Where Dreams Are Born

There is a complex maze of hills and gardens that sits at the end of my street in upper Manhattan.  It's where I do all of my outside thinking.  If you have never been, take a few hours this spring to lose yourself to the beauty of Fort Tryon Park.  You won’t be sorry.

As you may have noticed, I'm a total nerd for history.  So, I did a little excavating online to see how this magical kingdom came to be.  Here's what I learned:

In 1776, the park was used as an ancillary site in the American Revolutionary War.  It was at this site that the first woman fought for the independence of our country, as it was later recognized by the government.  Margaret Corbin, wife of John Corbin, became a “camp follower” when she accompanied her husband during his entirety of his enlistment.  Mind you, this practice was not uncommon at the time.  John was responsible for loading and firing the cannons that sat atop a ridge in what was then called Fort Washington- the Fort Tryon of today.  Margaret became what was known as a “Molly Pitcher”, and was made responsible for fetching water to cool the mechanics of the overheated artillery.  On November 16, 1776, Fort Washington came under the attack of 8,000 Hessian troops (German fighters commissioned by Great Britain).  John was one of 59 Americans killed in the assault however, when he fell, an unlikely candidate resumed his place at the cannon.  After witnessing her husband's death, Margaret fought until she was wounded by enemy fire in the arm, chest and jaw.  In my book, that makes her a total bad-ass.  There are a few monuments dedicated in her honor throughout the United States.  In Fort Tryon, the circular entrance at the top of the park by the 190th A train is named in her honor.

Take that, expectations!

Over the next 141 years, several large estates were erected on the former battle ground, including this behemoth belonging to C.K.G Billings. 

Billings Estate

The Overlook at the Billings Estate

Sadly, the estate was lost in an fire way back in 1920, but this overlook still remains and can be seen from the West Side Highway.

 In 1917, Uncle Pennybags himself, Mr. John D. Rockefeller, Jr., purchased the 66.6 acres of land at a sum of $35,000 per acre.

Rockefeller then commissioned Frederic Law Olmsted, Jr., son of the designer of Central Park, to transform the rocky terrain into a flowing landscape that included eight miles of pedestrian paths while maintaining the breathtaking views the land had of the Hudson and the Palisades.  The project was completed in 1931 when Rockefeller donated the land to the city as a gift with an official opening in 1935.

Then

Now

 After acquiring the medieval art collection of sculptor George Grey Barnard, Rockefeller combined it with his own and then purchased five monastaries in Europe.  The monasteries were disassembled and combined, brick-by-brick, in his new playground uptown.  The Cloisters Museum, a faction of the Metropilitan Museum of Art, was the final result.  It opened in 1938 and still offers some of the most glorious achievements of architecture to be found in New York City.  It’s truly not to be missed.  Of particular interest is the authentic medieval herb garden and the world-famous unicorn tapestries.  There are guided tours every weekend, so check their website before you go if you think you may want to learn a little more.

This weekend I had an awful lot on my mind.  My brain was practically melting out of my ears, so I went for a familiar walk.  I climbed the hill to the impeccable gardens to sit and write and be with my by myself for a few hours (not a typo- watch more SNL).  Do be forewarned that if you enter the park by its base on Broadway like I do, it is a staggering uphill climb to the gardens, overlook and museum.  If you aren't up for a physical challenge, enter through the Margaret Corbin Circle.

It really is the perfect place to lost yourself in though.  Something slightly mystical happens when you’re there.  The paths seem to pick up from under you and rearrange themselves to take you a new place you never thought could exist.  As soon as your feet put you back on track, you end up lost all over again- sometimes in thought, sometimes in mere wonderment. 

I can't say enough about the gardens in the spring (and partially into the summer).  Here are a few pics I have snapped in the last few years I have spent as an admirer of local volunteers that keep the garden in tip-top shape.  Honestly, screw the Botanical Gardens; this is totally free and just as enjoyable. 

Seriously, all you need to do is take the A Train uptown to the 190th stop and take the elevator up.  This place is completely mesmerizing and has to be seen to be believed.  Let me know if you are headed up, because I'd be happy to show you around. 

-----

On a side note: I promise that I’ll get back to writing more thoughtful posts that don't resemble term papers in the next few days.  It just so happens that, at the moment, I am doing my best to suppress my emotions and would prefer to not write about anything meaningful.  Hope you find this stuff as interesting as I do and, if not, thanks for bearing with me.

Forget Your Troubles...

Fails I've Found

Lesbian Self-Defence

Um, I'll just have a coke.   

Best of Luck!  Love, The MTA

Somebody Get Me Crayola On The Phone

The Grammar Troll

Unless you have the senses of Tommy, the Pinball Wizard, you have likely noticed that I’ve been writing a lot more lately.  There have been many grammatical trials and tribulations that I have faced along the way.  Naturally, I intend to pass that migraine-inducing wisdom along to you, my faithful reader.

1.    How to determine which is appropriate in the battle of “was” vs. “were”.

The rule to determine which is appropriate is based on something called the “subjunctive mood”, which sounds like it should be added to the list of curable symptoms in the jingle for Pepto Bismol.  “Subjunctive mood” is a “verb mood” used in order to express a wish, emotion, possibility, judgment, opinion, necessity, or action that has not yet occurred.  So, now that you know your verbs are bi-polar freaks and refuse to take their lithium, here’s what you need to know:

“Was” should be used when talking about an event that had actually occurred to a singular object:  

ex: I was a big fan of Tomagatchi in the late 1990’s.

“Were” should be used when talking about an event that actually occurred to a plural group of objects: 

ex: We were going to the movies, but would rather kill ourselves than see Gnomeo and Juliet.

 “Were” should also be used based on the likelihood of an events occurrence.  Therefore, the following usage would be correct:   

ex: If I were to go fly to the moon, I would make sure that it wasn’t while my wife was having her skull sewn back together. 

2.  “I am laying on the couch.”  No, wait.  “I am lying on the couch.”  Nevermind.  “I’m taking a fucking nap.”

In researching this insanity, I learned that “lay” is appropriate when referring to the action of a direct object while “lie” is appropriate when referring to the action of an indirect object.  Obviously, this would make a lot more sense if I knew the difference between a direct and indirect object.   Here’s what I learned: to over-simplify, if the subject of your sentence has genitals, like people or pets, you’re talking about a direct object.  If the subject of your sentence does not have genitals, like a lamp (unless you have some seriously perverted lamps), then you are talking about an indirect object.

With that being somewhat understood, it applies to the rule thusly: direct objects “lie” while indirect objects “lay”, but only in the present tense and when referring to a singular object.  Seriously?  Okay, let me try to think of examples for this. 

ex: I am going to lie down on the sofa so I can eat Cheetos and self-loathe.

OR 

ex:  Look at that sexy lamp just lay there while it is being sodomized by the cat.

To complicate matters, the past tense of “lie” is “lay”.  So, if I’m talking about my self-loatihing from yesterday (and trust me, there was plenty of it), the example would be as follows: 

ex: Yesterday, Jeremy lay on the sofa while he cried into a pile of french fries.

Also, the past participle of “lie” is “lain” and the past participle of  “lay” is… “laid”.  

ex:  Jeremy has lain down on the train tracks, because he’s tired of trying to explain this.  

AND 

ex:  Dolly Levi has laid half of Yonkers.

I guess the rules of grammar also determine that when you die, your corpse magically transitions from a direct object to an indirect object so your loved ones can “lay you down to rest”.

I hate to admit it, but the Grammar Troll totally wins this round.  It’s almost impossible to remember the difference between these; even Maya Angelou would have to look this shit up.  It's enough to make your eyes bleed, so my honest suggestion is to just pick one at random and say it.  Chances are, no one in America is going to know the difference.  And it’s a known rule that if they call your bluff, you earn the right to slap them viciously with a white glove, thus challenging them to a duel.  And after you’ve slaughtered them, feel to peel an orange on their grave as they lay in the ground.

3.  “Go towards the light, Carol Anne.” vs. “Go toward the light, Carol Anne.” 

Good news here; either example is correct and neither one of them sounds weird when you say it.  Suck on that, Grammar Troll!  Yet another victory for Zelda Rubinstein, now operating from the great beyond.   

4.  Grammar, like AC Slater, is a sexist pig. 

The rules of “pronoun agreement”, like that of the clientele of a gay leather bar, prefer the masculine form.  If you do not know the sex of the subject to which you refer, “he” and “his” are  more correct than “it”, “they” or “their”.

ex: Omigod.  Did you see that disfigured baby?  He had a leg growing out of his neck!

NOT

ex:  What a beautiful baby!  Do you think its mother gives it botox? 

Also, to further infuriate college-aged women of the 1970’s, it is incorrect to use “she” or “her” unless you are entirely sure that the group to which you refer is comprised solely of females.  This could be expressly problematic should you be discussing the clientele of any lesbian bar.

-----

There are a ton of these stupid rules that I have to research every time my cursor moves.  I would be happy if all of them would go climb a stick and shout “fire”, but I’ll continue to do the homework and post them as they slowly burrow a hole in my brain.

And I Feel Fine

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Peek-a-Boo

I see London, I see France.  I see Tovah's... OMIGOD! 

My Mother, the Star

I got a strange call from my mother a few days ago. 

She said she wanted my opinion on something, which usually means that she’s thinking of buying new drapes for the dining room.  From what she tells me, my father has decided that the only thing worth living for is a game of golf.  Every few years, the old man gets off the couch but it comes and goes in patches of several years on and several years off.  Well, he’s back in it full-swing (sorry, I couldn’t resist) which gives my mother ample time to pet the dogs and watch QVC. 

She was telling me all about how they’d driven to Lancaster for the day to go shop at the outlets.  My father had recently installed a Sirius radio in the “truck” (which is really an SUV, but they call it a “truck”; a choice I cannot get behind) and my mother quickly discovered the Broadway station. 

I was very impressed as she recalled the hosts by name, Seth Rudetsky and Christine Pedi, and said that whenever a new song would come on, she could identify the singer or what show it was from.  Obviously, I taught her well.  In fact, every morning when she would drive me to school, I would pick a different show for us to listen to in the car.  We covered Ain’t Misbehavin’ to You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown (and if you expected me to name a show that starts with "Z", it would never happen because I don't like Zorba).  After that, what she hasn’t heard, she’s seen with her subscription to all of the touring shows that pass through Baltimore, as well as what I take her to in New York.  

Theater originally started as my thing, but I think I made a serious convert.  And, like all of the converted, she is possibly more devout than other ordinary believers. 

But, like I said, she was calling to ask my advice mentioning that she had been bored lately and, for years, everyone had been telling her to get a hobby.  A few days ago, she was sent a catalogue in the mail from the local community college.  Apparently, she thumbed her way straight to the Performing Arts section.

“I’m thinking of taking a basic acting class.  What do you think?”

Wait.  What?  For real?  My mother had registered for an acting class.  

Let me fill you in on a little backstory here.  My mother has been in one play in her entire life.  When she was a teenager, she was cast in the synogauge’s production of Fiddler on the Roof.  She played Yente, the Matchmaker.  She's recounted the story of the performance many times.  When she went onstage for her first scene, she looked into the audience with a dead-eye stare and instantly forgot all of her lines.  Sadly, I don’t know what happened next.  Every time I ask her to finish this story, she cannot seem to recall it's ending.  It seems that her repression of the "acting incident" knows no depths.  

When I was growing up, I did a lot of theater.  My mother was amazing about it.  She drove me to a lot of auditions, and rehearsals, and performances.  She would either wait in the car, or sit in the lobby or buy a ticket.  There has never been a bigger enthusiast for my infatuation with the arts than this woman.  Which is why, when she asked me if this was a good idea, I told her, “... fuck yeah.”  

Look, I would be painting a rosy picture if I didn't say that my mother was officially the last person I would ever ask to run my lines with me back when I was acting.  Or that it doesn’t make my skin do the oogly-boogly dance to think of her working on a scene from The Shadowbox.  At the moment, it feels slightly unnerving to watch as our separate worlds are about to be pureed in a galactic blender.  But I’m sure that will pass. 

Right away, I told her that I think it’s a great idea.  Aside from getting her out of the house, it’s a wonderful opportunity for her to meet new friends, to find a little more value in herself and for her to express some emotion while getting positive attention for so.  Worst-case scenario: she hates it and quits after a week.  If that’s the case, she’s out $85, which is chump change to pay for a valuable lesson in "never do that again".  Best-case scenario: this class can change what she sees when she looks in the mirror. 

Also, selfishly- if I didn’t encourage her, what was I going to write about for June and July? 

This summer got a brand new star.  

We All Have Needs

Consider this entry the equivalent of blog “Homeroom”.  I won’t do this very often- I promise- but I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for choosing to read “I WILL REGRET THIS LATER”.  I know there is a lot of competition out there and I know what they have to offer, so your kindness, support and attention are very much appreciated. 

I never thought I would be the type of person that would write a blog (assuming that they are all basement dwelling mouth-breathers), but the freedom that it offers me to express my opinions about the past, present and future has proved very rewarding.  As you may have noticed, I have been working to continually refresh my page with new content during the past weeks and look forward to doing so again in the coming months.  

Given my profession, I have naturally been thinking about the blog’s potential audience and marketability.  I have always been very self-aware, but gauging the scope of my writing was never a skill that I needed to develop. 

Which is where you come in.  (You knew I was going to ask you for something…)

While I could happily sit around like a fat lump and wait for my readership to grow organically, I would rather take a more proactive stance.  If you’re reading my blog because you’re afraid that I’ll stop talking to you if you don’t, you’re probably right- so keep reading it.  However, if you enjoy reading my blog and you think that you have a friend or two that would enjoy it as well, send them my way.  It could be as easy as posting a link on their facebook page or cutting letters out of a magazine and gluing them to construction paper to reconstruct my latest entry.  Think of this act as a form of cyber-baptism where my words wash their feet and we all dance together in the greenest part of heaven.   

Look, even if there are only 5 people that give a shit about what I’m writing, I’m going to keep putting it out for them to enjoy.  Just be aware that I am not without ego and, should the aforementioned scenario become legitimized and I only have 5 readers, I will have to become a basement dweller in a studio apartment in Sunnyside, Queens before I ultimately pass myself away.  

Please don't let that happen.  

Date-ja Vu

The most important responsibility you have while on a first date is to fool the other person into wanting to sleep with you. Unless they’re ugly. If that’s the case, the most important responsibility you have while on a first date is to fool the other person into wanting to sleep with you, and then trying to prevent yourself from letting that happen. And if it accidentally does happen, the most important responsibility immediately becomes making sure your friends and co-workers don’t find out.

Mind you, I am in no way advocating that, while dating, you need to be a total whore. Sometimes being a partial whore is perfectly appropriate.  But that depends on who paid for dinner (more on that later). 

By the time I was pulled off the dating market and labeled as “defective goods” a year and a half ago, I had seen a lot of men (in both the figurative sense and the that’s-what-she-said sense).  The truth of the matter is, I hated it.  Dating was stressful, irritating and expensive, so I did everything in my power to (A) increase my chances of getting laid and (B) make myself more comfortable while I was along for the ride. 

To achieve maximum serenity while in the dating pool, I began to conduct an experiment.  I devised a simple, fool-proof first date that I would relive to the minute detail every single weeknight and twice on weekends.  My hypothesis with this experiment was: if I could be steered off of my predetermined course of action, my gentleman friend was someone special and was therefore worth a date number two.  

If we’re going to continue this scientific charade, the course of planned events would be labeled as the independent variable, while the boy that was accompanying me would then become the dependent variable.  Please note that, although I think that my acting ability helped me to organically execute this experiment while managing to keep it consistently fresh for my dependent variable (read: possible future husband), you don't need to be Olivier to pull this shit off.

First, of course, you start with dinner and drinks.  The restaurant should be casual and in a neighborhood where you’re likely to bump into at least 2 people you know to demonstrate your popularity.  You should order an entrée that makes it appear as if it wasn’t your only meal for the day.  Even if you cannot hold your liquor, you should order three drinks.  If your date doesn't drink, don’t let that deter you because you're a lush and this burgeoning relationship should be terminated almost immediately.  When the bill arrives, tabulate a comparative ratio of which party is more attractive factoring in looks, age and annual income.  The lesser attractive of the two is then expected to pay while the more attractive sheepishly acts as if this free dinner wasn’t another victory caused by their genetic entitlement. 

Once the debt been settled, you are ready for your deceitfully romantic walk through Central Park.  If your date happens to be a rowdy (or a bore, for that matter), feel free to stop by a liquor store on 9th Avenue and pick up a small bottle of Captain Morgan’s Rum and some Coke to use as a mixers.   

Enter the park through the Merchant’s Gate, which is located in the northwest corner of Columbus Circle.

The statue was dedicated in 1913 and features a commemorative plaque cast in metal that was salvaged from the shipwreck.  You don’t need to tell him any of that, but think it really loud to feel intellectually superior, especially if you just paid for dinner. 

Walk on a diagonal heading northwest across the Central Park Driveway (that’s the road that gives bicyclists the opportunity to play a mean-spirited game of Frogger) and climb the path that faces north, overlooking the baseball fields.  Take the staircase down that cuts through the Umpire Rock and begin to walk clockwise around the perimeter of the diamonds.  Make light conversation throughout, asking about what his mother majored in at college or if he prefers Splenda to Sweet-n-Low. 

At this point, if this choose-your-own-adventure date has become a total “mission abort”, you can hightail it out of there by taking a left after the second baseball diamond and walking out of the park past what used to be Tavern on the Green.  If you choose to proceed, please do so as follows.

Head towards the Carousel. 

By now, you should be holding hands.  Escort him to the bench directly in the middle of the Carousel’s entrance that is across for the ticket seller's window.  Tell him that this is the exact bench where Holden Caufield sat in the final chapters of “Catcher in the Rye” while waiting for his sister Phoebe.  Tell him how Holden wore his red hunting hat, his “people shooting hat”, as he watched Phoebe go round and round and that it made him so happy he almost cried in order to wash away the last 24 chapters of grief.  Explain that there used to be a game that children would play on that Carousel where they would reach towards the roof and try to pull down a brass ring in order to win a free ride.  Tell him that this is where the saying, “reach for the brass ring” comes from- even if he's never heard the saying before and he doesn’t know what the fuck it means.  Tell him that parents let their children play this game back in the time when they were assumed to be constructed of rubber.  This was long before waking up in the morning was ruled a hazard to your health. 

Now that he thinks you’re a sensitive intellectual, it’s time to head towards the Literary Walk on the Mall.

When you see a homeless person wearing sweatpants he just peed in, remark that just 150 years ago, this is a place where ladies and gentlemen used to parade around in their Sunday best.  Let him snicker and roll his eyes as he clutches your arm.  Inspired by the onslaught of author's eyes from statues all around you, urge him to tell you a story.  This is an integral test for both his willingness to comply to your every fanciful whim, as well as an aptitude test for his creative capacity. 

When you make it to the Bandshell, hurry ahead and spring up onstage.

Hold your hand out and stamp your foot to demand he join you.   Stand strong at center like you’re going to proclaim something monumental until you pull him so close to you that you're almost one person with four legs.  Begin to sing the opening lines of “Blue Moon” as you invite him to dance.

Grab his hand like you’ve got to make a quick getaway (danger is always sexy) and tell him that you need to show him to your “favorite part of the city” as you lead him to the Bethesda Terrace. 

Walk down the center of the staircase so you are perfectly aligned with the central arch.  Ooh and aah at the stunning green angel as you get closer and take his hand as you tell him to look deep into her eyes.  Make him spin around backwards and throw a coin over his shoulder to make a wish.  Kiss him before you say, “I think mine came true,” and then laugh about it because it’s hard to say something that stupid with it sounding sincere.  Let him slug you in the arm for being an adorable jerk before you go to the gap at the back of the enclosure behind the fountain.  Look for turtles in the water.  Pretend that you think turtles are adorable even though it’s widely understood that they are repulsive, prehistoric monsters.  This is very important that you find turtles cute, although I’m not sure why; it likely has something to do with the relationship he has with his penis. 

Sit down on a stone bench in the back corner and gauge if he’ll allow you to smoke.  If so, light up and enjoy.  If not, pretend you don’t mind and act like you don’t want to sock him in the jaw.  Tell him two somethings that sound sort of like secrets and wait for him to kiss you again.  And again.  And when your face is appropriately chapped after several more “again”s, take him up the far staircase to the left of the arches and talk about the thought of how many men and women have walked those very steps before you right after sharing their own first kiss and how the city is a natural conduit for all things love and beauty.

Don’t bring up the possibility of sharing a cab ride home until after you cut to the right and you have spilled out of the park onto 72nd Street.  If he doesn’t opt for the cab ride to your place, consider him a classy dullard and walk him to his train.  If he does opt for the cab to your place, immediately rule out the possibility of a second date while you grope and snicker in the back seat.  Nonchalantly celebrate that you’re going to get some. 

When he walks into your apartment, apologize for the mess, even if there isn’t one.  And whatever you do, don’t use the good towels. 

The morning after, don’t make him breakfast and only walk them to the train if he was good enough in bed to warrant that attention. 

Then, all that’s left to do is sit and wait for him to call. 

Dating is a fierce competition and following this experiment will ensure that you perpetually maintain the upper-hand.  Trust me, it will work time and time again.