I can't remember my memory being this bad, which shouldn't surprise you if you read on. There are signs that I'm losing it. While ordering lunch the other day, in the minute from deciding and closing the menu to placing the order with the waitress, I completely forgot what it was that I wanted. Things worsened a few nights later when I was discussing Broadway shows with a friend at one of my favorite watering holes. (Don't ask me which one.) "Hello, Dolly" came up in the conversation and neither of us could remember the name of the restaurant to which Dolly Levi returns after a long absence.
"It's something like Magnolia Gardens," I said, knowing I was close but not quite on the money. "I'll probably wake up at about four in the morning and know the right name, so I'll call you." I only meant it as a joke, however, sure enough, in the wee small hours I woke up and exclaimed "Harmonia Gardens!" Unfortunately, by that point, I'd completely forgotten who it was I'd been talking to. If you read this and remember being the person in question, will you please try to remember to let me know next time I see you. Now what was it I meant to write about? Ah, yes. I remember it... well...
28 April 2007
19 February 2007
A Certain View Goes On
I'm back. No explanations. Live with it. And yes, I survivived this particular assassination attempt.
It seems that some deranged and misguided persons (there were two shooters, not one) were so determined to prevent me from expressing a certain view, that they would try to kill me! Can you believe it? Now the neighbours know that they have someone who is not only a real celebrity, but a power-broker of the first order, living in their midst. And with all the television cameras and police cordons, Johnny, Hillary, Rudy, and wee Oby can't just drop by like they used to, to get some unvarnished advice. I will not be forced into making a choice so soon, despite the gunfire. The pre-pre-Primary campaigning will go on and on and on. I assure you.
It seems that some deranged and misguided persons (there were two shooters, not one) were so determined to prevent me from expressing a certain view, that they would try to kill me! Can you believe it? Now the neighbours know that they have someone who is not only a real celebrity, but a power-broker of the first order, living in their midst. And with all the television cameras and police cordons, Johnny, Hillary, Rudy, and wee Oby can't just drop by like they used to, to get some unvarnished advice. I will not be forced into making a choice so soon, despite the gunfire. The pre-pre-Primary campaigning will go on and on and on. I assure you.
31 January 2006
One little word
A Certain View almost never gets serious about anything. For most of the last week I've felt pretty damned serious about everything thanks to one little word: biopsy. Watch this space!
16 January 2006
Some things I don't like
This is just a random sampling.
1. Gratuitous use of the word fuck. It’s too powerful a word to be wasted, and I particularly hate to hear it used by a woman. If you have to use it, make the occasion worth it. Remember that there’s no other word to replace it when its frequency of use leads to its loss of impact. Then what will we say?
2. Blogs that give graphic descriptions of the blogger’s sexual encounters. When I want to read that kind of thing I’ll reach for one of the millions of art magazines that I possess.
3. Turnip. Except when in soup.
4. Liver, though I wish I did like it because it looks so delicious raw.
5. Kidney. It’s disgusting.
6. The works of Lord Andrew Sir Lloyd Webber. Cats especially: the whole kitten kaboodle.
7. The use of the word “savings” when the speaker or writer means “saving”.
8. Stupidity and sometimes just plain old ignorance. Never underestimate the powerful stupidity of people in large groups.
9. Buying drinks after happy hour. It’s a crying shame.
10. Getting home, having forgotten to pick up items from the store, because once I sit on that sofa there’s no shifting me, and that's going to lead to random acts of bloggery.
1. Gratuitous use of the word fuck. It’s too powerful a word to be wasted, and I particularly hate to hear it used by a woman. If you have to use it, make the occasion worth it. Remember that there’s no other word to replace it when its frequency of use leads to its loss of impact. Then what will we say?
2. Blogs that give graphic descriptions of the blogger’s sexual encounters. When I want to read that kind of thing I’ll reach for one of the millions of art magazines that I possess.
3. Turnip. Except when in soup.
4. Liver, though I wish I did like it because it looks so delicious raw.
5. Kidney. It’s disgusting.
6. The works of Lord Andrew Sir Lloyd Webber. Cats especially: the whole kitten kaboodle.
7. The use of the word “savings” when the speaker or writer means “saving”.
8. Stupidity and sometimes just plain old ignorance. Never underestimate the powerful stupidity of people in large groups.
9. Buying drinks after happy hour. It’s a crying shame.
10. Getting home, having forgotten to pick up items from the store, because once I sit on that sofa there’s no shifting me, and that's going to lead to random acts of bloggery.
Big hair
People, it’s got to that point! Either I have to get a haircut or take up the violin. I could relocate to the South but the thought and hassle of going through yet another move fills me with dread, and could make me even greyer than I am today. My hair grows at an alarming rate, and it’s almost unmanageable. Years ago I got completely shorn: a complete baldy. Unfortunately, with my build and shape of head, I looked as if I’d just had chemotherapy. The haircut also led to the abrupt ending of a beautiful relationship, and I don’t mean the one with my hairdresser. But that was all a long time ago. I’ve outgrown it.
15 January 2006
Zaggers
Avid and regular readers will be be aware of my ongoing commentary on the behaviour of people on the street. I'm feeling too lazy today to provide links to those particular previous posts, so please feel free to read the archives from start to finish. They're in there somewhere.
Anyhoo, there's a category I'd like to name "zagger": people who don't zigzag down the street as they weave among their fellow pedestrians, they simply get in the way, usually using a diagonal movement in which they obstruct foot traffic in a most annoying fashion. Typically a zagger who wants to make a left turn will start from the extreme right and vice versa. They drive me nuts.
Anyhoo, there's a category I'd like to name "zagger": people who don't zigzag down the street as they weave among their fellow pedestrians, they simply get in the way, usually using a diagonal movement in which they obstruct foot traffic in a most annoying fashion. Typically a zagger who wants to make a left turn will start from the extreme right and vice versa. They drive me nuts.
14 January 2006
New York is such a small world
In the last 24 hours I have participated in four of those unexpected "it's a small world" encounters. First, a client from Florida arrived with a tour group, and as she got off the coach at her hotel, a former student of hers walked by. Secondly, as I was meeting another group from Georgia at their hotel, a friend of mine walked by, who happens to be a friend of the leader of the Georgia group. I did not know that they knew each other. Later, a colleague whom I was with, had a chance encounter with someone with whom he had gone to elementary school in Kansas. And at the end of the day, as I stood outside the Eugene O'Neill Theatre before seeing Sweeney Todd, another client of mine from Florida crossed the street and said hello. She had told me by email this week that she would be in New York for the weekend and she jokingly said she hoped to run into me on the street. She too was seeing Sweeney Todd.
Avid and regular readers will be curious about my view of the show. I'm too much of a Sondheim fan to say anything other than this: if God had wanted actors to play instruments, he would never have given us orchestra pits.
Avid and regular readers will be curious about my view of the show. I'm too much of a Sondheim fan to say anything other than this: if God had wanted actors to play instruments, he would never have given us orchestra pits.
01 January 2006
20 December 2005
The Great Debate
Happy Holidays vs Merry Christmas
In the spirit of the season, A Certain View offers this sensible compromise as a suitable holiday greeting that should satisfy both sides of the debate:
HAPPYHOLIDAYS MERRY CHRISTMAS
In the spirit of the season, A Certain View offers this sensible compromise as a suitable holiday greeting that should satisfy both sides of the debate:
HAPPY
17 November 2005
The Tooth Chronicles Continued
I have to thank Master Moore for the suggestion that I write about my ongoing dental adventures.
Part of the major excavation work that's being done on my mouth happened on Wednesday. I had asked for gas, thinking that it would be like that one time as a child, when the gas knocked me out cold and I dreamt about Muttley from The Wacky Races. Instead, I was given nitrous, which contrary to my expectations, stressed me out.
"How long does this usually take to kick in?" I asked my dentist.
"Usually, about two minutes," he replied.
"How long have I been sucking it down?"
"Oh, about fifteen. Do you feel you've been gyped?"
I did, and it was a bad trip. However, I decided to get on with it, closed my eyes, clenched my fists, and bared my teeth.
Over the course of the next ten minutes, I breathed in enough laughing gas to make even 'comedy' on the WB seem funny, though I didn't laugh once.
The procedure went well. All in all that experience was a gas!
Part of the major excavation work that's being done on my mouth happened on Wednesday. I had asked for gas, thinking that it would be like that one time as a child, when the gas knocked me out cold and I dreamt about Muttley from The Wacky Races. Instead, I was given nitrous, which contrary to my expectations, stressed me out.
"How long does this usually take to kick in?" I asked my dentist.
"Usually, about two minutes," he replied.
"How long have I been sucking it down?"
"Oh, about fifteen. Do you feel you've been gyped?"
I did, and it was a bad trip. However, I decided to get on with it, closed my eyes, clenched my fists, and bared my teeth.
Over the course of the next ten minutes, I breathed in enough laughing gas to make even 'comedy' on the WB seem funny, though I didn't laugh once.
The procedure went well. All in all that experience was a gas!
16 November 2005
The Tooth Chronicles
I’m donating my head to medical research. My mouth actually. I’ve been in dental hell since a root that holds a crown fractured when I bit into a french fry. However, there is some good news: I’ve been accepted as a candidate for research on dental implants, which means that I get an implant for a fraction of the usual cost. It gets better: the research study will pay me $20 for every follow-up visit. Twenty-six visits later, I’ll be in profit. Oh, I forgot, there’s all that other dental work I’m having done. Crikey! I will never eat french fries again. Oh, who am I trying to kid?!?! I’ll never be able to afford a bag of french fries ever again.
26 October 2005
Moooove!
You would hope that with the kind of weather we’re having in New York right now (it’s so bad it reminds me of summer in Scotland) the tourists would have the good taste to keep off the streets. Unfortunately, they never seem to learn that they could make those of us who live here and have to manoeuvre around them to get from A to B much happier if they simply got out of our way.
I’ve decided to recommend to Hizzoner the Mayor that tourist lanes and tourist containment areas be introduced in particular in Midtown and especially the Theatre District. Minimum speed limits, no wide loads, single file… you get the idea. As an accompaniment to this I’m forming myself into a Tourist Exclusion Zone (TEZ). During inclement weather, tourists will find that they get rather wet (especially if a gaggle of them is parked under a canopy) if they get too close to me, as I shall be tipping my umbrella to remove the excess rainwater, and if a tourist happens to be in the way of the water as it falls to the ground, that’s just too bad. I was practicing that technique on 8th Avenue today. You should try it. It could catch on.
If the ideas above aren’t effective I want the use of cattle prods by New York City residents on tourists to be made legal, if not compulsory.
Note: the writer makes his living from tourism.
I’ve decided to recommend to Hizzoner the Mayor that tourist lanes and tourist containment areas be introduced in particular in Midtown and especially the Theatre District. Minimum speed limits, no wide loads, single file… you get the idea. As an accompaniment to this I’m forming myself into a Tourist Exclusion Zone (TEZ). During inclement weather, tourists will find that they get rather wet (especially if a gaggle of them is parked under a canopy) if they get too close to me, as I shall be tipping my umbrella to remove the excess rainwater, and if a tourist happens to be in the way of the water as it falls to the ground, that’s just too bad. I was practicing that technique on 8th Avenue today. You should try it. It could catch on.
If the ideas above aren’t effective I want the use of cattle prods by New York City residents on tourists to be made legal, if not compulsory.
Note: the writer makes his living from tourism.
21 October 2005
Patience
I’ve not been visible for a couple of days because (a) I have a nasty cold, and (b) I’m on the phone night and day to those Sharper Image delivery people demanding to know where my Piers’s new massage chair is. While he’s hiking in Peru, I’m looking after the manse, just to make sure that my his wide-screen, high density digital television system and DVR are fully functional. He was kind enough to order a new massage chair for me to keep me amused while he’s gone, and put me in charge of receiving it, so I’ve taken a couple of days off work just in case they call my cell phone to arrange early delivery. You can’t be too careful, I say! I know full well that it’s not scheduled (that’s pronounced SHED-yooled) to arrive till next week and that’s what’s really making me sick. I may have to have it accidentally-on-purpose delivered to a certain apartment on West 56th Street.
19 October 2005
One step at a time
Last night, at one of those support groups for people addicted to Internets, I came out publicly and admitted my problem: I commit random acts of mindless bloggery. It all happened at Bar Rage. Famous Author Rob Byrnes was there, surrounded by his adoring public and this guy. I’m delighted to report that my avid and regular reader was present, and I had the pleasure of meeting such fantabulous wits as Patrick, whom I kept calling Jeffrey, MAK, and Bob.
13 October 2005
Mrs T - The Country's Cuppa
Today I send warmest birthday greetings and best wishes to Margaret Thatcher, former British Prime Minister and Leader of the Conservative Party. I had the privilege of meeting her several times during her premiership.
She led the Conservative Party from 1975 to 1990 and was victorious in three general elections. Mrs Thatcher served as Prime Minister from 1979 to 1990, during which time she transformed the political and economic landscape of the United Kingdom and arguably the world. It was an exciting time to be involved in politics and her influence on my views was profound.
The Lady, as she is known, was not defeated by the British electorate. She left office during a party leadership election in which only Conservative MPs could vote. She won an overall majority in that election; unfortunately the rules required her to have more than just an overall majority. Churchill once said a majority of one vote was enough. In Maragaret Thatcher’s case it was not. In her final speech in the House of Commons as Prime Minister, she spoke in a debate on a no confidence motion, wiped the floor with the opposition, and showed her best mettle when under a barrage of heckling by the opposition declared, “I’m enjoying this!” to resounding cheers from her side of the House. At that moment many Members of Parliament and the public at large recognised that a great woman had been brought down by small men.
The Conservative Party today is going through yet another leadership election searching for someone to replace the irreplaceable. I’ve lost count of the number of guys they’ve had in that job since The Lady. It turns out that the last time I met Mrs T was at a reception in Perth, Scotland, and I rode home from that event with my friend Liam Fox and his Mum. We lived in the same town, and I used to show up one night a week to go campaigning with him when he ran for a seat on the local council. He and I also were Chairman and Vice-Chairman respectively of the West of Scotland Young Conservatives.
Today Dr Liam Fox MP is one of the leading candidates in the Conservative Party leadership election. I wish him well and look forward to the return to power of the Conservative Party at the next General Election. I’m sure he’ll feel right at home in Number Ten Downing Street and it’ll be nice having a friend running the country.
Baroness Thatcher, as she now is, loves the United States and has described it as the greatest country in the world. Her enthusiasm is shared by Liam Fox, who has worked hard to build the ‘Atlantic Bridge’ to foster closer ties between the UK and the US. I have a sneaking suspicion that The Lady wants the young lad from Scotland to carry her torch.
She led the Conservative Party from 1975 to 1990 and was victorious in three general elections. Mrs Thatcher served as Prime Minister from 1979 to 1990, during which time she transformed the political and economic landscape of the United Kingdom and arguably the world. It was an exciting time to be involved in politics and her influence on my views was profound.
The Lady, as she is known, was not defeated by the British electorate. She left office during a party leadership election in which only Conservative MPs could vote. She won an overall majority in that election; unfortunately the rules required her to have more than just an overall majority. Churchill once said a majority of one vote was enough. In Maragaret Thatcher’s case it was not. In her final speech in the House of Commons as Prime Minister, she spoke in a debate on a no confidence motion, wiped the floor with the opposition, and showed her best mettle when under a barrage of heckling by the opposition declared, “I’m enjoying this!” to resounding cheers from her side of the House. At that moment many Members of Parliament and the public at large recognised that a great woman had been brought down by small men.
The Conservative Party today is going through yet another leadership election searching for someone to replace the irreplaceable. I’ve lost count of the number of guys they’ve had in that job since The Lady. It turns out that the last time I met Mrs T was at a reception in Perth, Scotland, and I rode home from that event with my friend Liam Fox and his Mum. We lived in the same town, and I used to show up one night a week to go campaigning with him when he ran for a seat on the local council. He and I also were Chairman and Vice-Chairman respectively of the West of Scotland Young Conservatives.
Today Dr Liam Fox MP is one of the leading candidates in the Conservative Party leadership election. I wish him well and look forward to the return to power of the Conservative Party at the next General Election. I’m sure he’ll feel right at home in Number Ten Downing Street and it’ll be nice having a friend running the country.
Baroness Thatcher, as she now is, loves the United States and has described it as the greatest country in the world. Her enthusiasm is shared by Liam Fox, who has worked hard to build the ‘Atlantic Bridge’ to foster closer ties between the UK and the US. I have a sneaking suspicion that The Lady wants the young lad from Scotland to carry her torch.
12 October 2005
WOW!
Avid and regular readers have been wondering about my recent lack of bloggery. It’s a very long story, however, I can tell you this much: I, as the poster-child for skepticism about past-lives and all that hoo-hah, am now a convert. I had the most amazing experience of my life on Saturday during a hypnotherapy session and I’ll be sharing some of it here in the weeks and months ahead. All I’m saying right now is that the missing pieces of the jig-saw puzzle that is my life are falling into place, I know more about my soul than I could have ever imagined, I’m happier than you could believe, I know who my soulmate is, my faith is stronger than ever, and I have absolutely no fear of death. There’s so much more to say, but it’ll take time for me to process it, so be patient. And by the way, I’m not raving bonkers!
27 September 2005
Fifty glorious years
Congratulations to Famous Author Rob Byrnes, who today celebrates fifty glorious years of bloggery, or something like that. I'm very touched that Rob would not only think of me but also mention me in his blog on this very significant occasion in the life of the Internets.
23 September 2005
Crazy
My subway ride to work on a Friday usually involves getting my teeth into some juicy theatre gossip courtesy of Michael Riedel in the New York Post. Michael can be quite deadly in his commentary. Today, however, death threats were directed at me. Perhaps it was payback for something I wrote last week about being on the subway. A black guy, who was sitting opposite me, decided he didn’t like the look of me, and started making threats to “murder” [that’s the word he used] me. Here we go again, I thought to myself. This sort of thing happens all the time.
There’s run-of-the-mill crazy, which I encounter a lot because this is New York, and then there’s dangerous crazy. I sensed that he fell into the latter category, so I threw caution to the wind and said loudly in my most disparaging tone, “Did you forget to take your meds this morning?” Well, you can imagine! That really set him off. I haven’t heard so many references to c*ck sucking since I was in Coney Island.
What some avid and regular readers don’t know about me is this: in my first hour in New York, on my first day in America, I was accosted at gunpoint and mugged. Since that happened, I resolved never to take snash from anyone ever again. It’s just as well I’m not armed and dangerous.
There’s run-of-the-mill crazy, which I encounter a lot because this is New York, and then there’s dangerous crazy. I sensed that he fell into the latter category, so I threw caution to the wind and said loudly in my most disparaging tone, “Did you forget to take your meds this morning?” Well, you can imagine! That really set him off. I haven’t heard so many references to c*ck sucking since I was in Coney Island.
What some avid and regular readers don’t know about me is this: in my first hour in New York, on my first day in America, I was accosted at gunpoint and mugged. Since that happened, I resolved never to take snash from anyone ever again. It’s just as well I’m not armed and dangerous.
20 September 2005
MetroCard Mayor
I'd heard that it could happen and this morning it did. Hizzoner Mike Bloomberg, Mayor of the City of New York and I shared a subway platform (like everyone else who uses the subway on a regular basis, he leaned over the edge of the platform to see if the train was coming) and were in the same subway car for the ride uptown from 23rd Street to wherever he got off north of 42nd Street. Isn't it amazing what keeps me amused.
19 September 2005
Another day at the beach
This follows on from It was no day at the beach part i and part ii.
I’ll skip the long and fascinating part about meeting up with Angel at the ungodly hour of 11.00 am on Sunday, and go right to… well read on and you’ll find out. You might even enjoy some of it. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you. I just write the thing.
We’d gone through exotic train stops such as Avenues N, P, U and X, but there didn’t seem to be an Avenue Q. I was sure that the puppets who perform in the Tony Award® -winning best musical of 2004 were simply creations of the show’s writers and technicians. I now take a rather different view, because there was an Avenue Q -type puppet on the boardwalk at Coney Island, performing with the assistance of his human handler. I guess he auditioned for the show and didn’t get a call-back. He needs to find a new agent, or better yet, a new handler.
As we ventured down the boardwalk, we were amazed by the number of women who were wearing high heels. It’s a surefire way of ruining a pair of shoes and getting a twisted ankle. Angel assured me he never wears high heels on the boardwalk. I regarded him and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm.
I generally avoid sunbathing due to my decidedly Scottish complexion, so it became an urgent necessity to find sunscreen if the day was not to end in tears. Chances were of that the day would end in tears anyway, like it often does after having a ‘good lunch’, when the evening concludes with my being tired and emotional. But that’s a whole other baggage. Angel offered his lotion-of-choice, an oily substance designed to turn skin into a human version of pork scratching. It came with the warning “contains no sunscreen”. I declined.
At a Brighton Beach pharmacy we purchased what we hoped was a small bottle of high factor sunscreen, though we couldn’t be absolutely sure what it was, due to our abysmal ignorance of the Russian language and Cyrillic in particular. Lotions at the ready, we ventured forth. The beach, like real estate, is entirely location, location, location, and so we spent a goodly amount of time finding a prime spot, and made camp. Our first task was to attend to skin by applying the appropriate lotions. Angel coated himself in cooking oil.
“Shall I sprinkle you with some rosemary?” I asked helpfully. “How long do you cook for? Twenty minutes a pound?”
Angel replied, “I’m like one of those turkeys that has the little plastic thing that pops out when the bird is cooked. I’ll pop when I’m ready.”
I resisted making any comment on that, offered to baste him later, and began attending to my own sunscreen needs. I poured a small blob about the size of a quarter into my hand and started to spread it over my left leg. It seemed that that one small blob would be enough to coat my entire leg, which was now completely lotion-white. Soon my previously-exposed skin was coated in white mud. There was no way any rays were getting through that mud pack. Or so I thought. (By next morning I had second degree burns on my lower left leg.)
A handsome young Russian arrived and set up camp directly ahead of us. Thanks to cell phone technology, he was able to keep in touch with his important life off the beach, but we became concerned that his ability to communicate was interfering with our urgent need for him to dress down. After about fifteen minutes he ended his call and removed his shirt. Yummy. Just as things started to look up, his phone rang. “Will he never get off the phone?” I asked Angel. “You just want to see him in his Speedos,” he responded. “You got that right,” I conceded. Eventually the call ended and he revealed a beautiful pair of Russian legs attached to a perfect body. And, yes, he was wearing Speedos. We enjoyed the view for about five minutes, when, wouldn’t you just know, the phone rang again. Seconds later, our Russian friend with the legs and the body and all the right attachments, began dressing at high speed. He packed and went tearing off in the direction of the boardwalk. That must have been quite a phone call!
“I hope it wasn’t bad news,” said Angel.
“Bad for us,” I grunted with disappointment and applied another thick coat of white mud.
Angel rolled over and I basted him some more. He’d be ready to pop soon, I thought, and that was something that should be recorded for posterity using the digital camera that I had brought with me. I fumbled with it as the sun beat down. “I can’t see anything in this light... oh, there you are,” I said and pushed the button. Angel then tried taking a picture of me. Neither of us could figure out how to view the images. Several days later, when I downloaded the pictures, I discovered that we had actually taken video of each other, which ended we pressed the button. Duh!
Angel had told me several times that Brighton Beach was ‘Russia with a Mexican twist’. I knew exactly what he meant when we witnessed a gentleman from south of the border who had had such a ‘good lunch’ that his two companions had to support him physically in his efforts to walk from the beach. He’d also had an unfortunate accident that was evident in his crotch area. Or perhaps he’d simply spilled his drink into his lap. As the Mexicans made their way off the beach, who should come driving along in a beach buggy but two of New York’s finest. Timing is everything. Instantly, the two supporters disengaged themselves from their friend, who then struggled to stay upright. He looked as if he didn’t know which way was up. The beach buggy came to a stop and the policemen asked if there was a problem. Happily, as our Mexican friends were heading homeward, the nice policemen did not make an issue of the encounter, and the merry trio staggered off.
Time had marched on with a steadiness that our Mexican friend did not possess, so we decided to rinse, dry and refresh. Angel found a beach shower and I insisted that he go first. “Eeoww, it’s so cold!” he screamed as he sprayed water from a shower that seemed to be designed for use during a drought. Just before it was my turn, a couple of old Russian gentlemen arrived and helped me by making sure there would be a constant spray of cold water. It’s wasn’t horribly cold and it soon felt refreshing. I looked down into the sandy pool of water in which I stood. The water was white. The lotion that I had spread over my body was being diluted and had formed a white pool. No matter how much water was sprayed on me, I was still covered in white stuff, to the great amusement of my Russian helpers. After a while, I gave up and dried off because getting to a bar/restaurant was now the top priority.
As a result of careful research the previous week, we knew what was available nearby, so we decided to give Tatiana a try, if the waiting staff could give the correct answer to out first question. “Is the bar open and when does it close?” we demanded of the maitre d’. “It’s open and will stay open for as long as necessary,” she replied. We recounted our experience of the previous week at Winter Garden. The maitre d’ couldn’t believe it. Neither could we at the time.
Our waitress approached and said, “There’s a fifteen dollar per person minimum.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll be here for a while. We’ve got a lot of eating and drinking to do,” Angel assured her.
We ordered food and drinks and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.
“Look. More high heels,” said Angel pointing out a couple as they passed by.
“Oh, dear!” I said. “I don’t care for his girlfriend’s shoes either.”
The food was unquestionably excellent to the point that it made us thirsty, so we forced ourselves to have several more drinks. We then had no hesitation in making food recommendations to the couple at the next table who seem convinced that I was South African. White South African. Extremely white, but about to turn pink.
There were many other things that went on that I could set out here, but why bother. That’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. It’s been no picnic writing this and I can only imagine the hardship of reading it. So I’ll finish up and say that the next exciting adventure involving Mark and Angel will be about Little Italy because we’re just about to meet up and go there for some sort of thing that’s happening. That’s all I know for now. Catch you soon, dolls.
UPDATE
We didn't make it to Little Italy but will probably catch some of that culture during the week. Watch this space.
I’ll skip the long and fascinating part about meeting up with Angel at the ungodly hour of 11.00 am on Sunday, and go right to… well read on and you’ll find out. You might even enjoy some of it. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you. I just write the thing.
We’d gone through exotic train stops such as Avenues N, P, U and X, but there didn’t seem to be an Avenue Q. I was sure that the puppets who perform in the Tony Award® -winning best musical of 2004 were simply creations of the show’s writers and technicians. I now take a rather different view, because there was an Avenue Q -type puppet on the boardwalk at Coney Island, performing with the assistance of his human handler. I guess he auditioned for the show and didn’t get a call-back. He needs to find a new agent, or better yet, a new handler.
As we ventured down the boardwalk, we were amazed by the number of women who were wearing high heels. It’s a surefire way of ruining a pair of shoes and getting a twisted ankle. Angel assured me he never wears high heels on the boardwalk. I regarded him and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm.
I generally avoid sunbathing due to my decidedly Scottish complexion, so it became an urgent necessity to find sunscreen if the day was not to end in tears. Chances were of that the day would end in tears anyway, like it often does after having a ‘good lunch’, when the evening concludes with my being tired and emotional. But that’s a whole other baggage. Angel offered his lotion-of-choice, an oily substance designed to turn skin into a human version of pork scratching. It came with the warning “contains no sunscreen”. I declined.
At a Brighton Beach pharmacy we purchased what we hoped was a small bottle of high factor sunscreen, though we couldn’t be absolutely sure what it was, due to our abysmal ignorance of the Russian language and Cyrillic in particular. Lotions at the ready, we ventured forth. The beach, like real estate, is entirely location, location, location, and so we spent a goodly amount of time finding a prime spot, and made camp. Our first task was to attend to skin by applying the appropriate lotions. Angel coated himself in cooking oil.
“Shall I sprinkle you with some rosemary?” I asked helpfully. “How long do you cook for? Twenty minutes a pound?”
Angel replied, “I’m like one of those turkeys that has the little plastic thing that pops out when the bird is cooked. I’ll pop when I’m ready.”
I resisted making any comment on that, offered to baste him later, and began attending to my own sunscreen needs. I poured a small blob about the size of a quarter into my hand and started to spread it over my left leg. It seemed that that one small blob would be enough to coat my entire leg, which was now completely lotion-white. Soon my previously-exposed skin was coated in white mud. There was no way any rays were getting through that mud pack. Or so I thought. (By next morning I had second degree burns on my lower left leg.)
A handsome young Russian arrived and set up camp directly ahead of us. Thanks to cell phone technology, he was able to keep in touch with his important life off the beach, but we became concerned that his ability to communicate was interfering with our urgent need for him to dress down. After about fifteen minutes he ended his call and removed his shirt. Yummy. Just as things started to look up, his phone rang. “Will he never get off the phone?” I asked Angel. “You just want to see him in his Speedos,” he responded. “You got that right,” I conceded. Eventually the call ended and he revealed a beautiful pair of Russian legs attached to a perfect body. And, yes, he was wearing Speedos. We enjoyed the view for about five minutes, when, wouldn’t you just know, the phone rang again. Seconds later, our Russian friend with the legs and the body and all the right attachments, began dressing at high speed. He packed and went tearing off in the direction of the boardwalk. That must have been quite a phone call!
“I hope it wasn’t bad news,” said Angel.
“Bad for us,” I grunted with disappointment and applied another thick coat of white mud.
Angel rolled over and I basted him some more. He’d be ready to pop soon, I thought, and that was something that should be recorded for posterity using the digital camera that I had brought with me. I fumbled with it as the sun beat down. “I can’t see anything in this light... oh, there you are,” I said and pushed the button. Angel then tried taking a picture of me. Neither of us could figure out how to view the images. Several days later, when I downloaded the pictures, I discovered that we had actually taken video of each other, which ended we pressed the button. Duh!
Angel had told me several times that Brighton Beach was ‘Russia with a Mexican twist’. I knew exactly what he meant when we witnessed a gentleman from south of the border who had had such a ‘good lunch’ that his two companions had to support him physically in his efforts to walk from the beach. He’d also had an unfortunate accident that was evident in his crotch area. Or perhaps he’d simply spilled his drink into his lap. As the Mexicans made their way off the beach, who should come driving along in a beach buggy but two of New York’s finest. Timing is everything. Instantly, the two supporters disengaged themselves from their friend, who then struggled to stay upright. He looked as if he didn’t know which way was up. The beach buggy came to a stop and the policemen asked if there was a problem. Happily, as our Mexican friends were heading homeward, the nice policemen did not make an issue of the encounter, and the merry trio staggered off.
Time had marched on with a steadiness that our Mexican friend did not possess, so we decided to rinse, dry and refresh. Angel found a beach shower and I insisted that he go first. “Eeoww, it’s so cold!” he screamed as he sprayed water from a shower that seemed to be designed for use during a drought. Just before it was my turn, a couple of old Russian gentlemen arrived and helped me by making sure there would be a constant spray of cold water. It’s wasn’t horribly cold and it soon felt refreshing. I looked down into the sandy pool of water in which I stood. The water was white. The lotion that I had spread over my body was being diluted and had formed a white pool. No matter how much water was sprayed on me, I was still covered in white stuff, to the great amusement of my Russian helpers. After a while, I gave up and dried off because getting to a bar/restaurant was now the top priority.
As a result of careful research the previous week, we knew what was available nearby, so we decided to give Tatiana a try, if the waiting staff could give the correct answer to out first question. “Is the bar open and when does it close?” we demanded of the maitre d’. “It’s open and will stay open for as long as necessary,” she replied. We recounted our experience of the previous week at Winter Garden. The maitre d’ couldn’t believe it. Neither could we at the time.
Our waitress approached and said, “There’s a fifteen dollar per person minimum.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll be here for a while. We’ve got a lot of eating and drinking to do,” Angel assured her.
We ordered food and drinks and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.
“Look. More high heels,” said Angel pointing out a couple as they passed by.
“Oh, dear!” I said. “I don’t care for his girlfriend’s shoes either.”
The food was unquestionably excellent to the point that it made us thirsty, so we forced ourselves to have several more drinks. We then had no hesitation in making food recommendations to the couple at the next table who seem convinced that I was South African. White South African. Extremely white, but about to turn pink.
There were many other things that went on that I could set out here, but why bother. That’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. It’s been no picnic writing this and I can only imagine the hardship of reading it. So I’ll finish up and say that the next exciting adventure involving Mark and Angel will be about Little Italy because we’re just about to meet up and go there for some sort of thing that’s happening. That’s all I know for now. Catch you soon, dolls.
UPDATE
We didn't make it to Little Italy but will probably catch some of that culture during the week. Watch this space.
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