New York Pooch

You know it’s spring when New York dogs start tiptoeing through the tulips; decorously sniffing at the resplendent profusion of yellow and red Dutch-inspired blooms cozily planted here and there along the sidewalk, the iconic petals often protected by the confines of low, black, iron fences to keep out said dogs.

The particular flowers of which I speak were sitting happily on a pretty little traffic island. The pooches in question were residents of the neighborhood out on a stroll with their dog walker and fellow coffee klatch doggy buddies. In truth, though just mere, domesticated canines, they believe themselves to be rightful heirs to the hustle and bustle of the streets, the nods of doormen, the fragrance of the blossoms, the whiz of passing cars and runners, and of course the wonderment of curious, stopping toddlers so much closer to their own modest, nearer-to-the-sidewalk height.

As we passed like two ships in the night, except that it was noon and the sun was shining, and I was traveling solo while they were in a little band, I could not help but notice how very  individually and gotham-like each pooch presented itself; each one quite different from the others, and yet all with that same cosmopolitan whiff (or should I say whoof?).

The black brooder with pointy ears, part wolf, part poor sap, ever vigilant. The shaggy busybody, coolly attired in one of those fashionable doggy sweaters, continually looking around, checking things out. The white haired little devil, impertinent and small and so cute; The corpulent, serene scratcher, plopped down on the pavement all fluffy and puffy, bountifully maned in a champagne hue. You could just hug them all, almost.

Because of allergies and upbringing I’ve never actually had my very own pootch with whom to cavort and chat, walk and confide in. At this point I also probably would not want the responsibility. Nor for same reasons do I skip up to random mutts for a good nuzzle. But in the deepest recesses of my dyed-in-the-wool, small apartment dweller’s urban heart, I’ve always retained a soft spot for the idea, along with a healthy dollop of chronic pooch longing. I even fantasized on occasion about a scotch terrier named ‘Duff after Macbeth’s nemesis and all the fun things we would do together.

And so I retained a long lasting if quiet interest in poodles, spaniels, mutts of all sorts. Excluded from this panoply were only chihuahuas for reasons of temperament, as well as dogs the size of ponies and giraffes.

If dogs assume human qualities, then stereotypically NYC dogs can be seen as neurotic, pretentious, scruffy but occasionally well dressed, stuck up, intellectual snobs who like to go for walks in the city, as well as picky foodies who quite often are spoiled. Perhaps they come off as a little brash and hard edged at times, but always willing to help a stranger with directions. They wouldn’t touch a bagel anywhere else in the country and truly believe the place where they live is the center of the universe. . . .

Lucky for them they don’t have to pay the rent. In essence they’ve got it made, and they know it. Who needs the wild prairie when you can stroll, chat, socialize, window shop and never have to worry about grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning the house, meters or alternate side parking? Like I said, they’ve got it made, bless their scrappy little New York hearts. . . .

This is What They Do

This is what three year olds do. 

They hide things. Small dolls and tiny animal figures, plastic bracelets from the plethora of places that have sprung up and make a small fortune selling little plastic bracelets and sparkly hair things for three year olds. 

Three year olds hide bits of things they find on the floor that suddenly  seem useful or interesting. And tiny doll's shoes, maybe under a pillow. And tiny dolls.

Conversely, they bestow gifts!
Plastic bracelets, stickers, soft cuddly dolls. . . . See above.

Three year olds try to sound sophisticated and socially adept. They present themselves  as incredibly verbal and surprisingly seem to know all sorts of words. But sometimes the inflection is misplaced or the stress falls on the wrong syllable, or perhaps a consonant is mispronounced, or something. . . .
"I have an ideeeah!"
"Dats funneee!"
"Aak-choo-uh-leee. . . . "
"I'm ready, let's doe!"

Yes, maybe they haven't quite mastered the hard "g" yet but they know words like actually and already- and for some reason this freaks me out though I suppose they have to learn these things sometime.

They also like to talk on the phone.
Hi. . . whaddya doo-in?

Three year olds hug you and make you dance with them. Then they twirl, fast!

Sometimes they even can spell their names out loud, quite proudly as a matter of fact.

Yes, this is what they do.

Just thought I'd mention. In case you forgot or maybe were wondering.

Okee, gotta doe now. . . .
                                                  

The Wisdom of the Ages (Reader Participation Encouraged!)

"The holidays. . . ." in any of the four seasons they are designed to mark, often send me right back to my youth and memories of people I knew, things learned along the way; I suspect these occasions have a similar effect on most of us. Over the years, different bits of advice on how to get through life often have come to mind again at such times.

For instance, my mother told me "never leave the house dressed like a shluch!" More about this cryptic message in a moment.

But first, another essential nugget to live by, and also a veritable mantra that the entire family- nay, an entire race- frequently paid fealty to- that well known homily that warned emphatically (if somewhat ominously) "don't be a schmuck!"

These two admonitions, deceptively simple, merit further consideration and deeper analysis if one is truly to understand the correct way to live. On the most basic level, why would you want to dress like a shluch or act like a schmuck, and thereby court personal Armageddon? Would anyone choose to do this, unless they simply did not know better? And frankly, one should always know better.

More to the point, exactly what is a shluch? How do you pronounce this word, and why should you never, ever contemplate walking out the door looking like one?

The correct way to pronounce shluch (sometimes anglicized as shluck, an offshoot of shlock) has you saying it with a guttural "h' at the end, as if you're choking; and in the context of how this terrifying term generally is used, certain horrible insinuations flow  freely from it regarding specific fashion gaffs. At least that was my understanding. Let's just say that it indicates something much, much more than merely being disheveled, disarrayed, disarranged, rumpled or even bedraggled. In the literal sense of its definition in fact it may even be lesser in its implication of bad dressing than one might imagine, depending on the particular outfit; however as you already may have guessed, philosophically and sociologically this condition indisputably can herald nothing short of a major, major disaster concerning your future.

Let me provide some examples: 
-a shluch may let her slip show beneath her hem, if she wears one.
Does anyone still wear one? A slip?? This is of no importance. What matters is that if a shluch does choose to wear one, this is precisely the kind of unsightly and upsetting fashion debacle that may very well ensue. To add insult to injury in the eyes of any potential viewer, such a shluch may not even have the sense to be embarrassed about the slipped slip- further proof of something not good, and certainly nothing to be emulated but avoided at all costs. I'm quite sure that your mothers told you something quite similar, perhaps using a different word.

-another example of shluch behavior would be the donning of clothes that seem ill fitting in some way, even imperceptibly, as this very well could be the undeniable, almost signature mark of a shluch. Again, there is a subtle, qualitative rationale to the rating of this misstep in the shluch hierarchy. A schluch could be dressed in brand new togs, expensive, non-sale items that were completely, outrageously overpriced and no one ever tried on before. But if they hang. . . or the sleeves are too long. . . .

-and finally, needless to say it goes without saying that we should not even mention fabric that appears to look creased when this condition was never meant to be part of the original, manufacturer's "look. . . ." It's just too upsetting to even contemplate such a gross, shluchy misstep.

-it's like this: you want to put your best foot (and torso, hips, arms, legs, neck, shoulders, thighs and the like) forward at all times. No one will take you seriously if you dress like a shluch. Do you know what could befall you if you dress like a shluch?!? Think about it. Don't believe what they tell you, about anything. It's all about not dressing like a shluch! Everything. This is what it's all about.

I think I've made my point, and if you were paying attention it's well taken. Let's move on to an issue of yet more seriousness, one that requires extreme caution in eluding, that is if you know what's good for you. Hopefully you do know what's good for you.

You never, ever, ever, not in a million years, ever want to have anyone look you straight in the eye with pitying, contemptuous exasperation and let fly with the dreaded words you're such a schmuck. . . . 

The expletive when hurled at you in this manner is sooooo much worse than having people saying these things behind your back (as for example, what a schmuck. . . ), because in the latter scenario you may not realize folks are dissing you since you are not present, and it may all just be malicious gossip anyway. But to have this said to your face. . .  this does not bode well. You did something that spells L-O-S-E-R, or worse, I-D-I-O-T, and someone else- possibly quite a few others- know about this action. It's incontrovertible, you did it. You did something schmucky and acted like a complete and utter schmuck. This never feels good.

On the other hand, don't be such a schmuck tossed out at you almost sotto voce indicates something quite different, maybe a singular, qualifying, absurd mistake, perhaps a one shot deal of complete idiocy, and therefore the implication is that you may not always be a schmuck, but just watch yourself anyway. . . . 

A variation on this theme is when you metaphorically beat your own breast and say how could I be such a schmuck??? This indicates the worst kind of judgment error on your part, in cards or shopping or love or maybe real estate, the kind of unabashed schmuckiness in a particular instance (like a major life decision) that allowed you to be taken advantage of, or simply put perhaps you somehow managed to do yourself in with another kind of extremely obvious, incredibly stupid and ill-conceived schmuck-like behavior that then had intensely deleterious consequences. And honestly, it's so bad that you really can't get solace from the ol' "no one's perfect" adage. In this case you have to live with it. You may get over it. Or not. Hopefully yes.

And lastly of course is the condition of terminal shmuck-dom, but the miserable souls who are infected with this lifelong plague are too annoying to even talk about; usually they have no friends because they don't deserve any and even their enemies are easily bored with them. So why waste time thinking about this variety, or the particular condition, as it only affects total schmucks? You're never going to have anything to do with them anyway, unless you have to. And alas, probably you will have to at some point because most of us do. And it won't be pretty. Get over it. Put it behind you. 
Not surprisingly, the field of politics often attracts this type.

But everyone seems to fail at one time or another, and examples of being an ordinary schmuck in everyday life are myriad, ubiquitous, they surround us and are everywhere we look. There simply are too many to mention, a billion contexts and situations in which this can happen- just fill them in yourself. The word has made it into the English dictionary and clearly we all know what it means. It's worldwide and has no borders. Just look around.

And so this particular diatribe of mine once again reminds me why I have finally accepted that I never will be a self-actualization trainer, devoted zen acolyte or one of those ludicrously obnoxious, insanely positive goof balls who is perennially smiling; nonetheless, the common sense bestowed upon me by elders, about the essential precepts of shluchs and schmucks, admittedly has helped get me through. . . .

Reading helped too.
Even Polonius, insufferable schmuck that he was (the archetype of a total schmuck!), had a point or two in his parting speech to Laertes. Don't do this son, definitely do that, blah blah blah endlessly on and on, and yet all with a grain of truth!
But aye, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of never daring to leave the house looking like a shluch, nor for one instant acting like a schmuck, what dreams may come. . . . 
It truly is the undiscovered country, that lifelong business of eluding shluch-dom and schmuck-dom. Like everyone else, I've had my regrets, but at least I was warned. 

What golden nuggets of folksy wisdom learned at the knee do you have tucked under your belt that you would like to share with us? 

The Story that Almost Was

I did it, I did it,
The computer's a con. . .
With a click of the key
this week's post was all gone!

I wrote and I wrote,
and the words they did flow,
when all of a sudden,
Hey! Where did they go?!?

The narrative chortled
like a mad opera singer
'cause the tale that I'd keyed
was a real, true humdinger-

But just as I'd finished
the edit all clean,
I found myself staring
at a big, empty screen!

I lamented and struggled
with folders and files,
but this obstinate program
should hence be reviled.

We live in a time
when things move too fast!
Such instant commotion
is not made to last. . . .

So tune in next week
(and with a dollop of luck)
I will not be so careless
and back it all up!!!

Oh February, month so weird. . . .

Oh Feb-ru-ary, month so weird,
of sunny days your sky is cleared,
so fair and foul it makes me howl,
with threats of storms we be afeard.

For various and sundry reasons
frequently we praise the seasons,
but Feb-ru's air? A blast I dread
and oft just want to stay in bed
(reading of course to gather some force)!

Through bleakest cloud we schlep and strive,
my plants are barely still alive.
A month so short it should not faze
and yet we stumble through its haze.

March may tease and not so please
but I for one am glad Feb's done.
There is no glad, it makes me sad
to fashion verses oh so bad. . . .

(This may not pack the punch I seek-
a New York winter makes me weak-
my post bespeaks an arctic creak,
but I did banish Feb this week!)

Who is She This Time? Another Installment in the Ongoing Adventures. . .

There's a story by the ineffable Vonnegut called "Who Am I This Time?"

It's about an amateur theatrical event that takes place in a small, New England town, and also a love story. The plot involves a community theater- "The North Crawford Mask and Wig Club"- and some auditions that take place for the town's would be Thespians.

Despite the usual tryouts, everyone pretty much knows beforehand who most probably will be snagging the male lead because it always turns out to be the same guy, Harry Nash. Inevitably the auditions end with Harry Nash as the winner, not as a result of any communal clairvoyance or drama club nepotism, but because Nash, a most unassuming individual in his everyday meanderings, is a veritable master of the amateur acting profession and then some.

There is no funny business or preferential treatment involved in the choice of male lead for these amateur theater productions. It's just that this after-hours actor who invariably lands the starring role happens to be, unfailingly, the very best choice. Harry Nash simply is a fantastically talented individual and a real pro behind the small town footlights. One would never suspect any of this however from the guy's shy, self effacing demeanor while off the stage; in this same vein, usually no one is more surprised than Harry himself when he gets to star each and every time.

Harry Nash apparently could play anything from Abe Lincoln to Stanley Kowalski. When he auditioned for the lead in Streetcar Named Desire for instance, he first appeared on stage a bit awkwardly, wearing something that resembled a "grade school graduation suit" and a "dinky little red tie." He started the audition with his back to the audience. But when he turned around, suddenly he was "huge and handsome and conceited and cruel"- the metamorphosis into the role of the sensual, animal-like and crass Stanley, body and soul, absolute and complete. In essence he was a natural.

What does this have to do with the Nootch?

Well, there is a kind of parallel between Harry Nash and most ordinary toddlers in their everyday trial-and-error behaviors-  the sometimes bumbling, often comical endeavors these kids toddle into and then astonish themselves by completing. Toddler accomplishments in fact often are followed by shy and/or surprised responses- just like those of Harry- when something that looks challenging ends up quite successfully; this is mainly because of the simple discovery that he or she is a natural at the particular activity- like catching a ball or jumping- before which this facility or knack was unbeknownst. Shortly after finishing the feat, the child, like Harry, returns to a previous, unassuming, sometimes puzzled world view, as in "I did that? 

All of which leads me to the Nootch. . . .

In the tiny, less than minutes long video I received one day- a moving snapshot of a tiny dancer- it's the Nootch's turn to do some toe pointing alongside the teacher. Right point, left point, all the delicate positions in perfect form as she marches beside her instructor, the other children sprawled on the floor watching as they await their own turns. 

She doesn't miss a step, it's incredible. So small, so earnest, so precise. A natural!

When this brief and intricate individual jaunt down pointy lane with the large mirror to the right and the teacher alongside concludes with all the finesse she can muster, the Nootch tentatively turns around and humbly walks back to her place in line with the others, a curious look of surprise and almost disbelief on her face. 

Her execution? Perfect. The timing? Spot on, she missed nary a beat.

Her expression on the way back to her place  onthe floor? Quizzical. Almost apologetic.   Golly, I hope I did okay. . . I think I did . . . .Did I really do that. . . really???                                                  

Now Playing in Theaters Part Two: The Empire is Falling (or Judi, Judi, Judi. . . )

(One week earlier on a blustery NYC winter's day. . . .)

The empire is falling!!!

The empire is falling!!!

Both Victoriana and Americanah. . . 

But why worry? We're getting out of here in winter, are we not?

The empire is defined by its art forms.
From hotels to igloos, a million accommodations blares the ad on the little screen prior to take off. Travel is fun!!! It must be!They're telling us it is! It's fun being encased in a stuffy, thin, metal tube for seven hours!!! Enjoy!!! The sorry list of movies by which to lull yourself into a blank, mindless stare during the flight seemed to grow more and more dismal with each peek.

After a rainy, foggy, interminable wait on the runway, followed by a second and third dubious scanning of titles amid the desolation of the friendly sky play list from empire movie hell, I finally am rewarded with not one but two Judi Dench movies (back to back if I choose!), both depicting Queen Victoria at various times in her reign. Does it get any better than this on a cross country flight??? Well, maybe staying home. . . .

Nonetheless, I seize on this soothing crumb left by the airlines for those one or two reclusive, bookish types who still fly. After refusing the Bose on hygienic and political grounds, I shove the familiar, trusty little earpieces I’ve brought with me into my canals, and begin.

Dench, our beloved queen of Brit Thespianas, gets to play Victoria twice. First we find her sitting at various desks looking officious and exceptionally plumped up in stiff lace collars and brooches as an elderly monarch, and later on as the perky “Mrs. Brown” with older, much grizzled acting partner Geoffrey Palmer serving as one of the sneaky court politicians. In this Victoria incarnation I particularly liked the little white furry thing she sported so coquettishly on her head that kind of resembled an upside down rabbit mitten.

Like most addicts of British drama, I adore Judi Dench and so it pained me to see her much reduced as the older queen- nearly dead in fact- and so sadly opposed by the court in her relationship with the fervent, young Abdul. Admittedly though, it did pass the time during my weird aloft sojourn. “Mrs. Brown” on the other hand cheered significantly with all those gorgeous stallions, sexy kilts, resounding highland pipes, winning brogues and steaming cups of grog.

But I digress. The real subject of this rant regards why you should never leave your house in January, and also the failing empire as indicated by our current state of the arts; we're talkin' the movie empire, and maybe the whole culture. Maybe?!?  Fairy tale milieus may help mitigate the dehydrated boredom of flying in these spare times, but the entire list of selections  (euphemistically called the “library”) from which to choose a few hours of oblivion while thirty five thousand feet above the earth is a lot more evocative, though what it evokes ain’t good.

In alpha order, I began to choose as "evidence" of our downfall a few notable examples from a catalogue that barring the two anomalous Brit flick choices was  99% more or less scary:

-American Made

-American Psycho

-American Sniper

-Baby Driver

-Brigsby Bear

-Captain Underpants

-Clueless

-Crazy Stupid Love

-Descipable Me 3

By the time I arrived at the letter”e” I had become so inconsolable I skipped to the end of the alphabet:

-Warm Bodies

-Wayne’s World

-Zootopia (a fitting finale!!)

I spent the rest of the flight pretty well chagrined.

The bright side? I was getting out of New York in January. Upon landing, I waxed philosophical and girded myself for all that well meaning, unsolicited advice I soon would be receiving from happy checkout clerks on that other coast about antioxidants, free radicals, the horror of carbs and the secret to flavinoids. I buoyed my spirits with the expectation of all that sun and Vitamin D that would infuse me with limitless vitality and seven different kinds of magical immunity-  loopy bouts of maniacal health talk from strangers notwithstanding. And although it's possible to die of starvation in southern California without a car, at least for the most part they don't have to deal with snow or rain or sniffles.

However three days after deplaning at La La Land, the very source of most if not all of the above mentioned blockbusters and the mecca of youth, immortality and healthy living amidst a lingering smog and some Hollywood sex addicts, I found myself in the grippe of one of the nastiest, most vengeful flu variants known to health conscious, movie lovin,’ vaccine shunning, fish oil eating, freeway careening enthusiasts ever. . . .

But the empire struck back. I got outta there! I lived to tell about it.  I returned to chilly, damp, wet, grumpy, sniffling New York.

Gotta go now. The doorbell is ringing & I think it's my pizza.