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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

In January 2016 Donald Trump declared that he could shoot someone on 5th Avenue and not lose a vote. In a string of disqualifying choices, I thought this one would end his run. We all know how that turned out.

I wondered, am I crazy?

I went to the doctor for my annual physical shortly after the 2016 election. She said, “Hello” and immediately followed with, “You have 3 minutes to dump about Trump. Go.” Clearly my appointment wasn’t her first Trump-election-fallout rodeo and my habit of processing shock with verbal vomit was well, normal.

My insomnia was also normal and considering the scope of reported Trump related health issues – heart palpitations, anxiety and high blood pressure to name a few, I got off easy with insomnia.

This was early days.

In the past two plus years of tailspin and topsy-turvy-twisty-turney mess, Trump has reportedly lied an average of 15 times a day. Surly that easy deceit suggests insanity but which of us is nuts? He’s the President and I’m home alone slinging curses at my TV.

My friends also lose sleep and get red-faced in the face of our faltering democracy and moral decay.

When I tell them I curse at the news, they assure me they do too. When I share my constant, unrelenting anger they’re right there with me. Lack of sleep? Check! Feeling of helplessness? Check, check! Protesting, volunteering, staying informed, screaming into the social media void and donating – thus doing the same thing over and over with the same result? YUP!

Is everybody just plain bonkers?

Healthcare is a mess so we can’t rely on the professionals. It’s time to self-diagnose and alert others. We need a universal and simple way to flag insanity. I propose something like a hand signal or an exaggerated wink. One movement to signal when you’re sure you’re on the edge and a different signal for when you see someone even edgier. Something subtle but with enough flair to alert folks in the area.

There’s just one problem. If feeling crazy is at epidemic levels, there’d be so much signaling that whole communities would fall into a never-ending, winking and waving flash mob.

Maybe best to focus on people who are absolutely, positively NOT crazy and take our cues from them? Right now, my beacons of hope are Cardi B (@iamcardib) and Snoop Dogg (@Snoopdogg).

From her condemnation of the shady politics that shut our government down, to her many other astute observations on politics and culture and her ability to own her haters, Cardi B knows what’s up and she’s not afraid to say it.

Snoop also had choice words about the government shutdown. But best of all, he’s confident in who he is and in his choices. When Snoop Dogg got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, he said, “I want to thank me for trying to do more right than wrong. I want to thank me for just being me at all times. Snoop Dogg, you a bad motherfucker.”

So I’m taking their lead. Less questioning my sanity in these times and more doing more right than wrong.

And maybe more cursing.  It would feel good to let a heartfelt “Motherf**er” go right in front of Trump Tower on 5th Avenue.

I’m sure that’s not crazy at all.  Wink, wink:)

 

 

 

 

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Wisdom From Alaska – Where No Worrying Took Place

I suppose worry works for people like Tim Burton. He can turn even the fluffiest of holidays into an animated worry festival.

And whomever is responsible for network dramas, they’re making a mint off worry. In a trailer for a new TV show, a man was riding up an escalator to meet his waiting girlfriend. He had love in his eyes and flowers in his hands. He was surely going to propose! As she came into view, expectant and glowing, the floor dropped from under him and he fell from sight – swoosh – into the crushing bowels of the still moving stair he was riding.

Margagogo’s Seattle Bureau Chief cackled and snorted, “That happens … NEVER.”

I on the other hand, a frequent rider of NYC’s subway, feel sure there’s a chance – maybe a .00005% probability world-wide but that potential must leap to at least 20% at the Lexington Avenue & 53rd Street station here in Manhattan. The subway surgeons are there regularly, pealing back the metal skin of the long escalator riders rely on to ferry them deep underground and out again. Thanks to this show tease, I now imagine being the unlucky one in a game of Stair Roulette. If it happens, as my last act, I hope my disembodied hand rides the rest of the way up, propped upright in the metal teeth with my middle finger unfurled, to meet a waiting and expectant Governor Cuomo at the top.

Clearly, I’m a good candidate for the stairs but I like the boost. I don’t just ride, I climb and since I’m on an escalator, I do double-time without the speed related sweat.

Technology: Can’t live without it, take your life in your hands when you use it.

There’s some tech I vow to live without. Absolutely no fitness tracker for me. If I’m laying in bed awake worrying about robots taking over my job someday, I know I’m awake. I also know I should be sleeping. I don’t need a fitness tracker to tell me. 

I know when I walk a lot because, well, I’m there. My feet and muscles feel it and they know, without digital documentation, when distance has been covered. I don’t need a “buzzzz” or a “ding” to tell me to get off the couch. Doing nothing requires a choice just like anything else. Of course it matters if I climb no flights versus a zillion flights each day. But by my count, the fitness tracker always gets it wrong. And, I don’t want the last bit of recorded history of my life to be my free-fall through a stair. 

I’m not a showrunner so I’m ending this dark digression to get back to my starting point: Worry is a waste of imagination. I’d much rather imagine a great view and a margarita as big as my head. (Considering the whole purpose of this blog (see the origin story) that is a given.) 

Marg Over The Zambezi – Highly Recommended

Here’s to a worry-free 2019!

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What used to be Puttanesca, an Italian restaurant and my neighborhood local, is boarded up and beneath the “Post No Bills” warning, someone scrawled “Love Is The way” in white paint.

This week, someone with more time and more color, embellished the original.

I did love Puttanesca. I doubt the graffiti artist(s) want me to think of food when I see their work but every time I walk by the empty store front, I miss my local and wonder where it went.

One day it was there and the next, it wasn’t. Every table, every chair, every scrap was gone. All that remained was some dust and a few light fixtures left to glow within the cavernous space. The cute Serbian bartender who liked to talk literature and gave me free wine while I wrote blog posts at his bar, moved on to who knows where. The place where I ate (along with hundreds of others) post Super Storm Sandy, wiped out.

Is it possible to put a restaurant’s face on a milk carton?

What’s weird or weirder or maybe just weird to me is that they renovated just before closing. They expanded the bar area to cash in on the wine bar craze and they reopened a few months before they emptied out for good. Clearly, a plan went catawampus.

The building was sold. Could that be the twist?

It’s a corner lot, 6 stories, brick and a little run down. But it’s New York City real estate. The building reportedly sold for $17 million. It’s just a few blocks from “Billionaires Row.”

57th Street (which must be “Billionaires Row” though the moniker is new to me. It used to be, less colorfully, considered part of “Midtown”) is transformed with one high-end hotel next to the other and of course, there’s the monstrosity that gave us the most expensive apartment ever sold in NYC. The sale price? $100,471,452.77.  Yes, that’s right, $100,471,452.77 – I’m sure the seventy-seven cents sealed the deal. Don’t have $100,471,452.77 to fork out for an apartment? I suppose even some Billionaires might find that pricey. No worries! There’s an apartment for rent in the same building and it will only cost you $150,000 per month.  At that rate, you could live there for over 55 years before being all-in on the current high water mark in apartment cost.

I live a few blocks away from “Billionaires Row” so I get to bask in the glow and enjoy the halo effect from my neighbor’s bling-ness. Or to look at it another way, my rent went up 6% last year and 10% the year before.

Glow aside, I wonder if everyone else sees what I see: Do you see the people and places giving NYC its character – the very things that suck in Billionaires and non-Billionaires alike – leaving the city? (I wrote about this once in more detail. Check it out here and I’ll move off of this particular soapbox for now.)

I started with love and rambled quite a ways away. As I read back, I’m afraid I seem a bitter about Billionaires.

I’m really not … mostly … I mean Billionaires are people too and I’m very pro-people!

And love really should be the thread through it all so I invite anyone willing to take the stroll over to Hell’s Kitchen to join me at my new local, Bello. It’s been around since 1985, the Northern Italian food is tasty and when I sit at the bar, they give me a little extra splash of wine. I love a little extra splash. I also love the Rigatoni Matriciana.

I haven’t asked them to make me a margarita yet. They’re sort of hard-core on the Italian cuisine vibe so I haven’t made the leap. I’ll get to it though and I’ll give you an update when I do.

I don’t know if sky-high rent drove Puttanesca out of business but given the changes happening all around us, rent seems a likely culprit. On the bright side, I found Bello!

Maybe everything happens for a reason. Maybe I’ll see you at the bar, smiling over a big splash of wine. And hopefully, like the sign says, love is the root of it all.

PS to all Billionaires, Would-Be-Billionaires and Total-Non-Billionaires: The bar at Bello can be chatty so please join in. And FYI, I’m not one of those people who gets offended when someone offers to buy me a drink. So if you’re hesitating and debating, “Should I, shouldn’t I” the answer is always, “Yes, you should!” Love is the way and a lovely glass of wine is a fine and loving expression. And if you’re nice, I might buy you right back. It’s only neighborly. And while we’re on the subject, here’s good reading for any neighbor: The Gentrifier’s Guide To Not Being An Asshole – hot of the press from The Village Voice – a look at neighborhood change from a deeper perspective than my wine glass allows.

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I’ve been actively watching what I eat. And by that I mean I eat whatever I want but track each morsel, with laser-like focus, as it makes its journey to my mouth.

I know what you’re thinking: “It’s not Food’s journey. Food isn’t trying to get into your mouth!” Really? Are you sure about that? Think about it this way: If Food doesn’t have a mind and influence of its own, they why can’t I stop eating the tasty bites?

My relationship with Food is by far the most complicated in my life. (That’s a bold statement for someone like me who’s made many questionable dating choices.)

Food is celebration, sorrow, entertainment, quality time and nourishment but it’s rarely just fuel. I get the concept of “calories in” and “calories out” and the impact of that delta on my waistline. I still find it’s easier to get the calories in. So this time of year, after the high of the holidays and as we slog through the last slow, grinding, snow-filled days of winter, my meager attempts at mindfulness are taxed to the max. That’s a problem.

About 2 years ago I lost weight and thankfully I haven’t found it again, though those pounds stalk me.

I didn’t have a weight loss plan. When my doctor asked how I lost the weight, I told her I was on the “close my mouth” diet – Food can’t jump in if you don’t give it an opening. I ate what I wanted. I just ate less and less often.

The cornerstone of my weight-loss plan was (and still is) my diet donut. Every morning, I have one old-fashioned donut. And here is where the mysterious and mythical power of Food peeks out from behind the curtain.

The diet donut isn’t about portion control. Food has always been a little standoffish with me in the mornings and I don’t pig out at breakfast. It isn’t a health choice. After all, donuts are fried and to the best of my knowledge, a kale, beet, chia seed flavor donut is yet to be invented. The diet donut is a bit funny and a bit of comfort. I remember going to an old-time cider mill as a kid and getting crisp and hot, real-deal donuts. My diet donut is not one of these. It is not the stuff of memories.

I think my daily, diet donut is all part of Food’s master plan. It’s just tasty enough to call me back again and again and just bad enough to prime me for even more deliciously bad things. Like last Sunday at brunch when I thought it was a good idea to have a margarita with my cinnamon strudel cake at Sonny’s (Portland, ME).

You should go to Sonny’s if you’re ever in Portland. The brunch was awesome (even the parts with protein and no tequila) and they take their drinks seriously. When you go, you should take me. Let’s do it before I give up donuts and pry loose Food’s grip on me.

I will quit them one day – donuts, that is. It is my intention to break up with them and keep up the diet. I’m just not ready. I’m not ready to take Food on and break its mysterious hold on me … maybe after one more great meal…?

Disclosure: I wrote a draft of this post back in January after an amazing dinner with margagogo correspondents at Meadowsweet (Brooklyn, NY). The Down East Bureau Chief, the Head of Borough Research and margagogo’s Medical Director all gathered for one of the best strategy sessions ever. The food and drink at Meadowsweet was so good, I’d go back there as fast as the subway will take me. After dinner, we moved the meeting over to Baby’s All Right. It was NOT all right (Ok, you probably saw coming and it was double cheap because I stole it from a Yelp review.) But the waitress promised us a pitcher of margaritas with “like 7,000” limes.

7,000 of anything plays perfectly into my notion of excess so even though there was live music in the back and different music blasting in the front and even though our pitcher of margs was “like” 6,995 limes short of the promise, the evening was great.

So tonight I will go home and have soup and an apple for dinner as a token step toward freedom from tasty treats. But as I slurp soup, I’ll be thinking of friends and margaritas and dinners and cake and all the great things I can do with 7,000 limes – like maybe make a donut.

Baby's All Right

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In January 1996, 20.2 inches of snow fell on New York City. I know this because I just googled the stats and because I lived here in NYC in 1996.

Today, we’re bracing for another storm. If you watch the news, you know it’s the storm to end all storms and it’s named “Juno.” Names aren’t just for hurricanes anymore and since a named storm raises anxiety, “Juno” is better click bait than simply saying “it’s going to snow.”

During most of the day, the sun was kind of out. There were flurries flying on the wind and nothing was sticking. Had I been home to watch TV, I’m sure I’d have seen local news teams standing in front of the city’s salt storage or in front of a parked plow because there wasn’t any snow to stand in front of but the reporting must go on. And then I bet the coverage cut away to pandemonium in a supermarket.

Bread aisles up and down the east coast are empty. I guess people crave carbs and refined wheat when it snows.

I remember when a big snow storm, for me at least, was a big social event not a news event.

There’s a magic moment in New York City, when the snow baffles the noise. When they’re aren’t any cars out and plows haven’t made a pass, there are no motors, or horns and any city noise left to float through the air gets wrapped into the snow. People hunker down so if you’re out and about, your feet forge their mark on the pristine path and the crackle and crunch of your boots on the snow is the loudest thing around.

In 1996, I lived in a 6th floor walk up on the Upper East Side and had friends across the hall and on the floor below. We hung out in good weather and bad and on the night of the big storm, we owned First Avenue. Looking both ways was about dodging snowballs, not traffic. We ran circles and walked shoulder to shoulder in the center of the avenue and plopped down to make snow angels and more snow angels. Back home we gathered with pink cheeks, chilled finger tips and snow dampened jeans to sip red wine and wonder if we’d have to go to work the morning.

“Juno” got a late start so I think that perfect snow moment will probably arrive around 2AM when I’m tucked warm in my bed. And the friends I shared the 1996 blizzard with are now spread across the city and the country and by the middle of the night tonight, will hopefully be happily asleep dreaming of snow days.

So tonight, I’m turning off the news. I’m going to read and maybe watch a movie and sip red wine and remember the perfect pink-cheeked abandon of a magic snow moment.

 

Times Square, NYC Snowmagaddon 2015

Times Square, NYC Snowmageddon 2015

 

 

 

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I think America’s love affair with the automobile has less do to with the romance of the open road and everything to do with the grossness of the shared travel experience.

In your car, you’re the master of your destiny. Sure, getting stuck in traffic can mess up a schedule. But you can control your departure time. No need to plan around catching the 10:03 train out of Penn Station. And you have complete control over who rides with you. Your seat mates are hand-picked. You know, before you invite someone into your car, if they have suspicious hygiene habits. You might even appreciate your passenger’s annoying quirks and because you’re friends (or family) you can tell them to “cut it out” if they become too much.

You’re not locked in a hurtling tin missile full of cell phone chatting, coughing, seat hogs who can’t spell etiquette let along display the graciousness required for group harmony.

You can probably tell that I’m bitter because I’m car-less.

Yes, I’m a mass transit user. I take at least one plane trip each month. I ride the subway and I’ve taken a few MegaBus trips. In the last several weeks, I’ve jumped on Amtrak for several round trips. I’ve had lots of experience. I’ve had hours to endure and lots of time to think.

My last Amtrak trip was especially hideous. I fought my baser instincts (as I always do) and didn’t try to protect the empty seat next to me. As much as I’d like a buffer, everyone has a right to a seat and they shouldn’t have to work hard to get one. I don’t need the conductor announcement asking riders to be courteous. I am the picture of courtesy. So when a Converse clad hipster asked if the seat next to me was taken, I beamed, “It’s all yours!”

It was a beautiful moment. He was polite, I was polite. The possibilities stretched before us. Maybe we’d strike up a conversation about the latest must-have plaid shirt or about which Brooklyn restaurants are curing artisanal bacon in their basements.

And then it hit me. The smell. His smell.  He had a dank and stale dirty hair, over-worn clothes smell.

Between his foul odor and his gurgling – yes, he had a rumbling, wet cough, I felt as if he’d unzipped his chest, plucked out a lung and pulled it down over my head. The train ride was four hours long.

Maybe Amtrak could increase ridership over night if they took a page from Soul Cycle’s book. Soul Cycle, a popular spin class, felt the need to put a list of rules up in their gyms reminding riders that nobody wants to share their odor. Check out #3.

Soul Etiquette SoulCycle 1024x695 Soulcycle brands spinning and spirituality

Maybe we’re all a bit bonkers and need to be told to leave our phone out of an exercise class and to be kind. Maybe odor control isn’t just an automatic, well-of-course-I-don’t-want-to-stink kind of thing. Soul Cycle is on to something (and I’m deeply sorry I giggled at the list and I swear, that will never happen again).  It seems we need rules. We do better when we have standards to live up to and guidelines to follow.

And so here I am with… drum roll please …  margagogo’s Official Rules for Harmonious Travel.

The first few apply to all Transit Options (Trains, Planes, Subways, Buses and even Taxis)

Be clean. This includes hair, teeth, clothes – everything on or about you should be spiffy. Once, on a plane trip back from Istanbul, I sat next to a young man who smelled so bad that every time he shifted enough to accidentally air out his pits, I nearly suffocated. When he lifted his arm to take his drink from the flight attendant, I feared I’d faint. I think he was an exchange student off on his first big adventure. I wanted to tell him that the hero, the guy who gets the girl (or the guy), is never smelly. If you think of it from a purely selfish point of view, you never know who you’re going to sit next to – your future spouse, your future boss … or the person who doesn’t speak to you and hates you because they have to share your air.

Smiles Everyone, Smiles! Though it’s a risk, it’s possible to say “hello” without being obligated to chat for the duration of the trip. And I’ve heard (I’m sure I should quote a study here) that being nice in general is not only a good thing for other people but it makes you feel happier. So, when we’re all in it together, being nice is a win/win.

Make an Effort! Make an effort to keep your germs to yourself. Even if you believe that coughing into your elbow doesn’t make a bit of difference, everyone appreciates the effort. Same goes with crying babies. Effort gets you sympathy. Apathy, even due to complete exhaustion, earns ire.

Air Travel:

– If you’re sitting in Row 28, don’t put your luggage in the overhead at Row 5. That just messes everyone up and causes a giant traffic jam when the person in Row 5 has to fight against the tide to get the stuff they had to store in the space above your seat.

– Board as your row is called. As tempting as it is to try to board first, you just gum up the works.

– Please leave your beer soaked rabbit and cabbage curry hot pepper surprise at home. Nobody cares that it was your dear Grandmother’s special recipe. They just care how it smells.

Subway Travel:

– There is a special place in heaven for the subway rider who willingly gives up their position in the car to step out when it isn’t their stop so they can clear the path for people getting off. Please do this.

– Don’t lean on the pole. People need something to hold on to when standing on a moving train. Nobody wants that thing to be your belt loop or any part of you.

– Please take your backpack off. Believe me, you have no idea how big that thing is.

Bus & Train Travel:

– Shhhhhh. I might want to know what you’re having for dinner so if you stand up and make a general announcement, something like, “If anyone wants to swap recipes, meet me in the café car in 10,” I might join you. But, I don’t want to hear a lengthy cell phone discussion about peas, or roast beef or what your Aunt Jane did at dinner the night before.

And finally, always share. I’m not woman enough to tackle the age-old problem of who gets the arm rest. But, I do know that you shouldn’t try to save the seat next to you for an imaginary friend. Share the aisle space. Don’t hang out in the bathroom, tuck stuff under the seat in front of you if it will fit. Put it on your lap if your ride is short. When you get your private plane or train or bus, you can do whatever you want. (And when you do get that private ride, please invite me along. I’m an excellent passenger.)

See, isn’t everyone feeling happy now? (Did I leave anything out? Feel free to share – sharing’s good!)

If you want to feel happier – or even happiest (and at this point you’re not afraid of a subway ride) go check out the new bar on 121 West 10th street, NYC called The Happiest Hour.  They smile, they’re kind and the only odor I detected was from the free french fries they kept bringing out and setting on the bar. Yes, I said free french fries – could they get any more friendly?

The vibe is tropical retreat meets old school diner meets high-end cocktail bar. Picture getting a grilled cheese in Havana. And you should get the grilled cheese – it was warm, buttery, cheesy goodness and it came with tomato soup. The fries were bottomless. The margarita was excellent.

The Happiest Hour was worth the trip. There was harmony. The Happiest Hour lives up to its name … and they haven’t even published a list of rules.

 

 

 

 

 

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“Shit is about to happen”  –  an Ode to unstructured time. It’s not exactly a lyric poem but epic stuff can happen when you least expect.

Margagogo.com’s Marketing Director met his wife (the margagogo West Coast Correspondent) in a bar on a random night. Of all the saloons in all the world, they both walked into that one.

Years ago, just before a long weekend in Maine with my family, my then boyfriend and I broke up. So instead of entertaining him while my family looked him over, my mother and I went out looking at houses. I bought one.

Life isn’t a Jane Austin novel so every story can’t end with secured real estate and a wedding. Sometimes the prize is more subtle; it’s the adventure itself and the memories you tuck away with the experience.

A few weeks ago on a very raw and rainy Saturday, my friends (and margagogo correspondents) left the warmth of the wood stove and central heating to see what we could see. We braved the drippy sky and dropping temperatures and were rewarded with ocean views. That tends to happen when you’re on the coast but the view wasn’t just “ocean” – it was awesome, rocky cliff, churning ocean! And we found color. Bright red and green popping up to give the finger to the oppressive grey sky.

And then my Brooklyn Correspondent needed a bathroom. A great view can have that effect.

If you’re going to stop into a restaurant to use the facilities, you should probably get a drink. It’s only polite. And if we’re anything other than polite, we’re thirsty. So hitting Cook’s Lobster House was a win/win.

In all the years I’ve hung out in this part of Maine, I’ve never crossed the threshold of Cook’s. I decided it’s too touristy. My New York-living, Maine-visiting self is not a tourist unless there’s a festival, fair, parade, strong man contest, pancake breakfast, national landmark, museum or maybe leaf peeping involved. Cook’s has lobster and it has crowds. Big, giant bus loads of people looking for seafood and salt air. No pie eating contest, no biggest ball of twine, no reason for me to go. Until now.

Stepping into the bar is like taking a trip to 1958 on a WayBack Machine (without Peabody and his pet boy.) It’s the kind of place where hanging out is encouraged and I bet Cook’s has it’s share of friends who sit and stay a while. On this icky November Saturday the crowds were gone. It was just us and some locals who were probably wondering why we were there and wishing we’d go anyplace else. (Tourists!) The thing is, one of them was wearing a t-shirt that said “The drinking will continue until morale improves.” I think that makes us kindred spirits so like us or not, he’s our people.

Cook’s has a Bloody Mary with a lobster tail and bourbon with Maine blueberry and of course, they made me a margarita. As the bartender was mixing our drinks, a string of Christmas lights jumped off the wall (where it surely hangs year-round) and swung into his face. He looked at the lights and looked at us and said. “Shit is about to happen.”

Well, yes indeed it is.

Drinks at Cook's Lobster House. Check out the lobster tail hanging off the drink at the end!

Drinks at Cook’s Lobster House. Check out the lobster tail hanging off the drink at the end!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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