King Tiger

Of course I don’t have any way to prove this but at least ten years ago I said, out loud and probably in writing somewhere, that Tiger Woods had sold his soul to the devil. I have the same theory about other superb athletics past and present like Joe Montana, Derek Jeter and Michael Jordon. Their talents were so otherworldly that it just didn’t seem possible they could be that good. It not only had to do with great play but also the breaks that came unbidden; the tipped ball that goes through the net, the line drive that bounces off the top of the wall and into the stands, the Hail Mary pass that succeeds. This pact is the true human-growth-hormone of athletics; the undetectable testosterone injection, the deer antler velvet that is off limits to defensive linemen in the NFL. You cannot legislate and, therefore, ban satanic blessings.

I was reminded of this when Tiger seemed to, again, be touched by the gods while winning the first PGA tournament of 2013 last weekend. His bogey, bogey, double bogey at the end of the 4th round certainly must have reminded him to remain cool and rely on his devil-deal and not to get ahead of himself.

I say this because Satan only gives you one wish and Tiger had obviously sold his soul to be the best golfer ever. Done and done. What Tiger forgot was that was all he was given and nothing else was guaranteed so when his self-perceived entitlement kicked in and the fortune he was making brought him fame and the love of a nice blonde woman, he just didn’t get it that he would need knee operations and lose some mighty lucrative endorsements because of erratic gonadal behavior.

Making pacts with the gods, any gods, can be tricky and/or trouble. Remember King Midas? He loved his deal until his daughter hit the floor with a clank.

Slippery Witches

For a long time, at least a couple of years now, I’ve been squirming about the term “slippery slope.” It seem like every time I open a newspaper or magazine (or read a blog) there it is. Slippery slope this, slippery slope that. Before that every television show, especially the quirky, smutty ones like Two and a Half Men, How I Met Your Mother and Rules of Engagement, you know; shows of the modern family romance comedy ilk, seemed to be using the word “really” a thousand times a day, or at least every 21 minutes or so. A one-word comment to show disbelief about a myriad of subjects: Really? I guess it’s the new version of “Say what?” that used to get to me. And we musn't forget "Who knew?"

Now, what’s grating on my nerves is “You’ve got to be kidding me” and it’s slight variation “You gotta be kidding me.” I just tonight saw a commercial for the new movie Hansel & Gretel, Witch Hunters where the heroine (supposedly Gretel) sees something that just throws her for a loop and she intones loudly, and ironically (and anachronistically in this case), “Are you kidding me?” which is a variation of the point I’m making. What’s odd to me is the word “kidding,” pronounced with a hard “g” instead of having it disappear completely, as in “Are you kiddin’ me?” which would seem to go along more with the slang-speech of the new hip crowd.

For a while we saw a lot of "I didn't see that coming!" but that seems to have abated.

It also seems like every second paragraph of every op-ed piece in every supposedly serious treatise, begins with the words “That said…” I also like “It goes without saying…” after which it goes on to be said.

How about “I can’t wait!” about an upcoming event, when you know darned well you can?

I’m sure my (annoying) examples are the tip of the iceberg (oh my goodness, there’s another one) and goodness knows (I know, I know, goodness has nothing to do with it) what lurks in the shadows right now, the wolf just waiting to pounce on the next idiomatic little red riding hood. It’s not obvious to me at the moment but I hope it’ll be more subtle than what we’re working with now.

That said, I do know that whatever it is it will spread like wildfire and will be ubiquitous for months or more. I know for a fact that the key word in the professional title “Copy Writer” is “copy.”

Global you-know-what

When I first moved to NYC in 1971 I was given an earful on just how cold it used to get back in the “old” days meaning, like, in the 1940’s and 50’s and even, I’m told, in the 60’s. These stories were told to me by first-hand witnesses who actually saw the East River so thickly frozen over you could drive your truck on it. And then, in my time, I personally saw huge icebergs clogging the Hudson River and even experienced a few chest-deep snowstorms that literally buried cars for weeks at a time, with a huge city brought to silence by yet another “storm of the century.”

Now I am the one waxing nostalgic about those bad old days of the 70’s and 80’s when I couldn’t get to work for a couple of days because of excessive bad weather. I actually experienced temperatures in the low single digits and had my eyebrows crackle with ice after a simple walk to the corner to buy eggs and milk.

And now, for the first time in years, I’ve dug out some ear muffs as we are having a string of days clocking temperatures below freezing. It is a matter of record that 2012 was the warmest winter in recorded history here and there were only two days of temperatures below 32. As of today we have already exceeded that in 2013 but it’s only supposed to last a few more days. Our excessive bad weather seems now to be mostly tropical and, unfortunately, of the hurricane ilk. High winds and lots of rain is the order of the day and silent we are not.

Readers of this blog (at least I think I have readers) know I tend a small urban garden here in Brooklyn and I take pride in keeping it nice. I have learned what works and what does not in this particular weather zone (6) and plant accordingly. I pay attention to labels and instructions and sometimes it pays off handsomely and sometimes, I have to admit, beautifully (the iris kills). Over the last few years I’ve noticed certain plants are resurfacing unbidden. They are not seasonally dying as they are supposed to and I’ve learned to only prune them to the ground in the fall, rather than yanking them up by the roots and giving them the heave ho. The line between “annuals” and “perennials” is becoming blurred and I’ve read that this is true of all of the designated zones and that Zone 5 is creeping closer to us every year.

Last October I bought about 70 bulbs of various kinds (mainly tulips) and the instructions are the same as in previous years, which is that they need to be gotten into the ground “before the first frost.” So guess what? Yeah, I planted them a couple of weekends ago because it was predicted that our temperatures would be sliding down into the 20’s and maybe below that and, therefore, we should have our first frost. Sure enough it has gotten cold and the water in the birdbath is solid ice but I haven’t seen any frost on the ground. Does just being cold count as a “first frost?” I guess it does but I hope those little bulb-brains don’t get the wrong idea next week when we are due to warm up again and start shooting up through the un-permafrost. Wait, wait, my beauties…the warming is only global, not local!

Lotion with Emotion

Nancy Boy (on Hayes) is one of those great shops in San Francisco that appeals to my sense of quirkiness. The store makes me sneeze because of the mixture of scents permeating the premises with soaps and oils and sprays and lotions; you know, all those toilette products we like to slather on our various body parts. Kumquat, the gift shop on Clement is another (they specialize in tree ornaments seasonally). And the Russian Hill Bookstore on Polk is a gem for holiday cards and, well, books (and other gifts).

I bought stuff from all three but I have also subsequently gone on-line and stocked up on Nancy Boy shampoo, including the travel size (only $4 each). It smells good, it makes my hair shine like a warm morning sun over Crissy Field and its name tickles my fancy.

The Wicked Stage

Some time ago I started to pay attention to the names of theater groups and casually wondered how they came into being. Not the groups themselves but the names thereof. I suppose when individuals or groups decide to form some theatrical entity he/she/they need to identify him/her/them(selves) to attract attention for the sake of, well, attracting attention. I picture people sitting around with beverages and crudités in some kind of think-tank bull-session bandying about alternatives. I’m sure some name might have appeared full-blown in the mind of some soapy soul while singing in the shower but I would think that more probably naming is a group effort.

Anyway, without questioning motives or creative circumstances I’m listing names that have caught my eye for various reasons. I am purposely leaving out groups/theaters named after people or the streets on which they are located or the cities/communities in which they exist. Feel free to add to the list keeping that criterion in mind.

Adhesive Theater Project
Bang on a Can Collective
Beautiful Soup Theater Collective
Blue Coyote Theater Group
Concrete Temple Theater
Elevator Repair Service
Epic Theater Ensemble
Exit Theatre
Flea Theater
FoolsFury Theater Co.
Half Straddle Co.
Kitchen Theatre Co.
Labyrinth Theater Co.
Manbites Dog Theater
Paducah Mining Co.
Page 3 Productions
Pig Iron Theater Co.
PigPen Theater Co.
Radiohole
Rattlestick Playwrights Theater
Squeaky Bicycle Productions
Shotgun Players
Signature Theatre
Steppenwolf Theatre Co.
Target Margin Theater
Theatre Rhinoceros
Third Rail Projects
Under the Radar Festival
Upright Citizens Brigade
Wooly Mammoth Theatre Co.

Hyundai Boo Boo

See, I own this Hyundai Elantra that has been my relied-upon vehicle since 2003. I have an affection for it (I even named it…Attila, if you must know) because it has been reliable and fairly glitch-free and I’ve taken care of it with the proper tune-ups and oil changes and several sets of new tires, etc. But now it seems I own the only 2003 Elantra in the whole world that totally mystifies every mechanic in the whole world because there is absolutely nothing wrong with the car, yet the Check Engine light will not go off.

I can live with the light, however the grand old state of New York requires an annual safety inspection and mine was due in December. But the Catch 22 is that an inspection sticker cannot be issued if the check engine light is on. Having nothing wrong with the car is not the issue; having something wrong with the check engine light is. The solution, so far, is that I have to go to the dealer and get a certificate from them telling the minions of the law that it’s okay I don’t have an up-to-date inspection sticker. How can this be?

Again, the question is how can I be the only owner of this particular year of this particular car that has this problem? Surely, somewhere in the world, this has happened before! I know, I know, don’t call you Shirley.

Time Bandit

I’m a list maker. Consequently, when I travel I very rarely forget anything important. However, who puts “wrist watch” on a travel list? Well, maybe some people even more anal, er, …lytic than I am might.

In late November when I arrived at JFK airport it “felt like” I had my watch on but it turns out the cuffs of my long-sleeved shirt was deluding my sense of touch. I didn’t really notice my lack of a timepiece until I went through security and went to divest myself of it. Well damn, thinks I, my watch must have fallen off somewhere between getting dressed at home and airport security. God forbid I just forgot to put it on, doncha know. I mean, how could I be that stupid, er, absent minded?

So while cruising around the Bay Area for nine days I kept my eyes peeled for a cheap Timex or Swatch to tide me over but I couldn’t make any spot decision. The upshot? I didn’t bother. I had my cellphone and my sis to keep me apprised of the hour, Pacific Standard Time.

After my return to Brooklyn I reunited with said forgotten watch (it was in my bowling ball bag, of all places) but not before I did some research on-line for an “every day” (meaning cheap) watch that I was cool with. It is important to be cool, you know, even after a certain age when compromise is usually the order of the day. Anyway, I stumbled across a site where you can design your own watch; that is, the various elements of the exterior. This involves choices of Case, Bezel, Dial, Hands, Strap and Crystal and each click gives you an illustration of the watch as you progress through the examples. I am such a sucker for that kind of “participatory” activity that I designed at least ten different watches before I settled on the perfect choices (to my taste) of every facet of the finished product. Then I stewed around for three or four weeks before deciding to go ahead and give it the go ahead (not all that cheap). This is my new watch. Happy New Year to me!

http://teno.com/Boccia-Titanium/Boccia-Watches/Boccia-Watch-Configurator