THE DRAIN TEAM!

Egad!* The kitchen sink got stopped up. The water level quickly approached that of a mighty Great Lake,** even though I subscribe to all protocols purporting to mitigate against just this sort of geological phenomena.
          *Often a clue-answer in the New York Times’ crossword puzzles.
         **The extant:  Erie, Huron, Michigan, Ontario and Superior.
       Freddy, a new handyman, arrived with a huge snake contraption and a smorgasbord of other weapons to use to bail me out. NPI: Don’t you just love it when this happens? Freddy was a big serious man with an imposing square head. He got to work with alacrity. (Alacrity was a favorite word of my Mother’s, e.g., “Valerie! Use some alacrity!”) Since I’m the friendly type and also have an abiding interest in tools and mechanical stuff -- my screw driver wardrobe (flat-heads and phillips) are the envy of one and all! -- I tried to strike up a conversation with Feddy. I got nada! And I mean – Nada! So, I started not to like Freddy. Grrrr... Rebuffed, I  left the kitchen and left him to his own snake-like devices. Take that! I said to myself.
         Freddy worked for over an hour, making raucous grinding sounds -- the snake, not Freddy. In due course, I ventured a “How’s it going?” and for the first time, Freddy starts to open up. “It’s nasty. Real nasty. Bad.” It seems his snake will only go up, and not down, where the blockage lies, even though he spooled-out a record-whopping 15 feet. I started to understand that Freddy isn’t stand-offish at all. He’s just shy. And now he’s a shy [handy]man stymied and in pain. It became clear that his assignment meant more than the dislodgement of a gob of gunk. His self-respect was on the line.
       Act III, Scene III. A little while later . . . The ominous final lines were delivered: “It is time to CALL IN THE PLUMBER!” (I can assure you, Dear Reader, I didn’t clap as the curtain came down.) In defeat, Freddy reluctantly gathered up his tools and prepared to leave. His failed mission would now be assumed by the powers that be. Freddy looked at me with baleful eyes and expressed grave concern that the real plumber, who has “so much more experience” than he, might plumb to the depth of the problem lickety-split and put Freddy to shame. I knew, and he knew, that if this eventuality came to pass -- not that Freddy didn’t wish me and my sink well -- he would suffer a deep, dark unremitting sense of shame. Shudder. Shudder.
       Sigh. I called the plumber. I described the problem, gave the necessary info and then – and get this – they said: “WE’LL SEND IN THE DRAIN TEAM!” Do you believe it? Everyone is branding their services these days. I almost fell over laughing, though not at the price.
       Well, all’s well that ends well and, in this case, there was a double happy ending. My sink got fixed within the two hour minimum and, to my great relief, I was able to report to Freddy that the plumber not only had an assistant and didn’t have to go it alone, but he also had benefit of a special “hard” snake available only to the cognoscenti. And yet :-) :-), he still had a difficult time accomplishing what noble Freddy had tried to do all alone and with only a humdrum, run-of-the -mill snake at his side.
       Happily, Querido Lector, I can now report that Freddy, completely exonerated, now holds his head up proudly and high. Adiós and Gurgle! Gurgle! Gurgle!
                     

MY DENTIST AND ME

I was afraid that if I didn't go to see “In Their Eyes,” awarded an Oscar for Best Foreign Film, the next time Bob, DDS, had the opportunity to strap me down into his diabolical chair [Hi Bob!] he might take his displeasure out on my pearly whites because Bob just luuuved the film and was so sure I would, too. Little did he know that although I thrill to Socrates and “Leaves of Grass,” if asked, I would fearlessly declare that my all-time favorite movie is the hilarious romantic comedy, “Pillow Talk” (1959) starring Doris Day and Rock Hudson -- she of wonderful Jackiesque outfits and he a handsome, romantic cad. Quelle bliss! This gets to the crux of it. There are exceptions, but I tend to like movie-movies, not motion pictures that are designated as "Films." More on that in a moment.
       Even though Bob has been peering at me with a magnifying glass for lo' these umpteen years, there is an aspect of  my  psyche about which he clearly wasn’t aware. I am a pragmatist. A born problem solver. Sure, I have a sensitive, squishy side, but not when it comes to life’s bigger issues, e.g., being in love and making it happen, or at least trying, whereas the protagonists in “. . . Eyes” spent most of their adult lives in Argentina/subtitles [Ugh! to sts] not declaring, much less consummating, their love. (There's also murder mystery woven in.) I have no sympathy for those two. These two are just cowardly poops. But back to movies vs. films. Everything in film seems to take so much time and move like a snail. Hey stop throwing popcorn at me! It was inevitable. I became impatient and bored and, once again, left before all was said and done. (See "Greenberg," the May 5th post)

         It’s awfully lonely being me. I don’t dare go to the movies, except alone. My freedom to come and go as I please is paramount NPI. And as I did to my poor dentist, I’ve inadvertently disappointed and aghast many a friend with my minority opinions on some of their favorite films. I know: I’m an awful person. I guess I’ll just have to take out my video of  Pillow Talk once again, because it seems Doris and Rock and I really do seem to see eye-to-eye. Sorry again, Bob, DDS. Ooooouch!
       Even though, this time, I was the one inflicting the pain, Bob magnanimous told me what happened in the end. Can't tell. That's the reason I've kept coming back for more [torment.] It's because Bob, DDS, is one heck of a terrific guy.

BE KIND TO A DRIVER TODAY!

In the teeming streets of New York, it is often the drivers who conduct themselves with propriety and decorum. Not us. We, the self-absorbed pedestrian, can be cloddish and rude. We think we own the streets. We most certainly do. “Cars-and-drivers, be damned,” we say, as we lunge and plunge into oncoming traffic with every expectation that the cars will part for us like the Red Sea.
        There’s more. While waiting for the light, we stand yards into the street, instead of at the curb, effectively creating a human barricade that prohibits cars from ever making a turn. Doesn’t matter if you’re a VW or a Porsche. We treat all price ranges the same. (It is dangerous and ridiculous that at most corners, cars are able to make a turn at the same time that pedestrians are trying to cross. What's with that?) And if we’re caught crossing the street when the light begins to turn, do we hurry it up so we don’t hold up the flow? Heck, No! We just take our merry old time.
       It’s true. There are many incentives to keep drivers from running us down. Jail. Fines. Licenses revoked. Being hung up by our thumbs. But very little punishment is meted out for offending pedestrians. So be considerate. Get out of the way. Do something nice for a driver today. 

“GREENBERG” Stay? Go?

I recently left “Greenberg” even though there were still 20 minutes left to go. You’ll probably look at me askance, but I’ve always given myself permission to leave a performance before its conclusion, whether or not it's a meaningless something on TV, or Puccini at The Met. It’s all the same to me. I feel this is entirely reasonable strategy if  things start to bore. Or offend. Or ones emotions are being toyed with for no discernible, or worthwhile purpose. (Most of my friends usually stick things out until the bitter, life-draining end.)

          Greenberg is dark, actually charcoal gray. Nihilism comes to mind. The acting, however, was just great, but given the lack of significant content, one has to wonder -- to what useful end? Greta Gerwig, who is Florence, opposite Ben Stiller’s Roger G., appears in her [quote]breakthrough role[end-of- quote.] Florence is a silly, misguided girl, as unkempt inside as she is out. She flounders and flails. Greenberg is your average joyless, boring confused neurotic. But even though Florence is so authentically real, I knew that Greta, the actor, could not be playing herself because that girl probably wouldn’t have made it to the audition on the right day. But about Ben Stiller, I wasn’t so sure. Was Roger Greenberg actually the real Ben Stiller finally revealed? OMG. I hoped not. In this film, Stiller didn’t have the marvelously idiotic Derek Zoolander, or Greg Focker to inhabit. Here he was just playing a "Guy." But don’t worry. It’s OK. A few weeks later, when I saw him interviewed at The Times Center and I knew. No Greenberg – he. Roger Greenberg was just an act! In real life, Ben Stiller is an immensely likable, winning, funny, life-embracing New York kind of a guy. Wheeeeeeew!

          I left Greenberg before it was over because Yuck! I simply couldn’t stand to be in the same room with Florence and Roger any longer. (High praise for the magical reality that good acting conjures up, but a pity when the material doesn’t.)
          So,  Dear Reader, you’re welcome to borrow my MO. You, too, can quit while you’re still ahead. Leave. Go home. Enjoy life. Anytime. Anywhere. Money, be damned! There’s more where that came from, but I doubt whether that applies to your very precious time. (BTW -- Does anyone know how Greenberg ends?)

Black or White?

Did it ever cross your mind that if a black person has some white “blood,” they are always identified as “Black” and if a white person has some black blood they are also identified as “Black?” Contrary to the way things really are, the conclusion one must inescapable draw is that it is better to be identified as Black than designated [the heretofore superior designation] --  Lilly White.” Ironic, isn’t it? If this idea ever caught on, most certainly our prejudices and demographics would fall into cacophonous disarray.

THE WINNER’S REWARD

The Kentucky Derby, 2110. The track was shiny. Slick with mud. The race began in a drizzle of gray, but by the time the handsome Thoroughbred Super Saver won, the sun was out, celebrating his feat. After the valiant field reached the finished line, in victory or defeat, most of the horses began their promenade back to the barn, except for the lucky few, destined for the winners’ circle and all the accolades. Jockey Calvin Borel was in ecstasy. Though still mounted on Super Saver, he was jumping up and down. Trainer Todd Pletcher, who got his first Derby win, basked in all of the attention, hardly able to wait for the roses and the flow of champagne. And what of Super Saver, the hero of the day? His lead pony had joined him on the track. It's the pony's job to keep him calm on the way to his mantle of red. Was Super Saver preening and expecting a reward? No way. Here was no high-stakes winner of world-renown, just a mud-covered horsey whose only wish was to nuzzle his old friend’s mane. I ask -- who is the wise one here? Man who whoops and hollers and rakes in the dough, or a horse for whom nothing is more golden than the company of his friend.