Here in Houston, where I am spending WAY too much time, there is a Mexican take-out restaurant in the lobby of the building where my office is. I stopped in last week and was perusing the menu, trying to make up my mind. The fellow behind the counter was trying to be helpful and when I told him that I was thinking about the Cuban sandwich (Cubano), he encouraged me to get it. I told him that I was from New York and that I had access to good, authentic Cubanos, and could be quite critical. He told me that if I didn't like it, he would make me something else.
Lo and behold, it was quite good.
I returned today to pick up another Cubano. The same fellow greeted me and told me that he hoped I had a good Easter. I told him that I didn't celebrate Easter. He responded that neither did he. I told him I didn't celebrate it because I am Jewish. He told me that he is Muslim, and went on to say that he is Palestinian. We joked about meeting outside to "mix it up" (yes - it WAS joking) and he made me another Cubano.
It was as I was leaving that it struck me.
I had ordered a Cuban sandwich,
In a Mexican restaurant,
In Texas,
Made by a Palestinian.
Only in America!
Monday, March 28, 2005
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Mrs. Smith
As mentioned in a previous post, my Aunt Judy is in hospice care at a skilled nursing facility (aka nursing home) in Brooklyn. Although she is receiving palliative care, she is in a room on a regular nursing unit and has a roommate.
Due to her condition, she cannot really speak and therefore does not converse or interact with her neighbor (the curtain between the beds is usually drawn as well). Her neighbor, whom I shall call Mrs. Smith, is an older black woman who gets around in a wheelchair. When I visit Judy, Mrs. Smith is always in her wheelchair and out of her bed which is then very neatly made. Mrs. Smith is always impeccably dressed and coiffed. She always has fresh flowers and a selection of apparently homemade snacks sitting on the table near her bed. Clearly, she is a very proud woman with friends and/or family who must visit often.
I do not know Mrs. Smith’s diagnosis, but one thing I do know is that she exists in many worlds simultaneously, and has proven to be a good match for my aunt as Mrs. Smith has conversations with and about anything in her environment. On various visits I have observed Mrs. Smith having a conversation in her soft and somewhat mumbled way with the following: Her nurse, her television, her radio, my aunt, me, and apparently herself. What makes these conversations interesting is that they seem to be formed from a stream of consciousness that encompasses both the past and whatever is going on at the moment.
One day when I was visiting Judy, Mrs. Smith was having a conversation with the minister who was preaching on her radio. At the same time, I was telling my aunt about my son Sam’s birthday party in which we took him and some friends to see the movie “Robots” and then to our house for pizza and cake. I realized that Mrs. Smith must have been listening as her barely audible monologue went something like this:
“That’s right, Jesus was the one. He helped the people and then look what they did to him. I like these cookies, they are delicious but not too sweet because you know I don’t like things too sweet. Yes, I know them little boys do love the movies. I bet they ate lots of popcorn. You tell ‘em reverend. Hallelujah! They just a bunch of sinners. Those tulips are still so pretty. I like the yellow ones but maybe I’ll get me some pink ones to. When I was a girl I used to love pink flowers, especially in church. I used to love pizza but I can’t eat it anymore. I’ll bet that cake was good. Maybe I’ll have some cake later. Don’t know that movie but I know them boys do love goin’ to the movies.”
They may never have crossed paths before and they never will again, but Aunt Judy and Mrs. Smith seem to have developed a rhythm in which they may not be friends but they do not bother each other either. They are soft-spoken souls being cared for by staff, friends, and family. There are worse ways to live out the days of one’s life.
Due to her condition, she cannot really speak and therefore does not converse or interact with her neighbor (the curtain between the beds is usually drawn as well). Her neighbor, whom I shall call Mrs. Smith, is an older black woman who gets around in a wheelchair. When I visit Judy, Mrs. Smith is always in her wheelchair and out of her bed which is then very neatly made. Mrs. Smith is always impeccably dressed and coiffed. She always has fresh flowers and a selection of apparently homemade snacks sitting on the table near her bed. Clearly, she is a very proud woman with friends and/or family who must visit often.
I do not know Mrs. Smith’s diagnosis, but one thing I do know is that she exists in many worlds simultaneously, and has proven to be a good match for my aunt as Mrs. Smith has conversations with and about anything in her environment. On various visits I have observed Mrs. Smith having a conversation in her soft and somewhat mumbled way with the following: Her nurse, her television, her radio, my aunt, me, and apparently herself. What makes these conversations interesting is that they seem to be formed from a stream of consciousness that encompasses both the past and whatever is going on at the moment.
One day when I was visiting Judy, Mrs. Smith was having a conversation with the minister who was preaching on her radio. At the same time, I was telling my aunt about my son Sam’s birthday party in which we took him and some friends to see the movie “Robots” and then to our house for pizza and cake. I realized that Mrs. Smith must have been listening as her barely audible monologue went something like this:
“That’s right, Jesus was the one. He helped the people and then look what they did to him. I like these cookies, they are delicious but not too sweet because you know I don’t like things too sweet. Yes, I know them little boys do love the movies. I bet they ate lots of popcorn. You tell ‘em reverend. Hallelujah! They just a bunch of sinners. Those tulips are still so pretty. I like the yellow ones but maybe I’ll get me some pink ones to. When I was a girl I used to love pink flowers, especially in church. I used to love pizza but I can’t eat it anymore. I’ll bet that cake was good. Maybe I’ll have some cake later. Don’t know that movie but I know them boys do love goin’ to the movies.”
They may never have crossed paths before and they never will again, but Aunt Judy and Mrs. Smith seem to have developed a rhythm in which they may not be friends but they do not bother each other either. They are soft-spoken souls being cared for by staff, friends, and family. There are worse ways to live out the days of one’s life.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Houston Billboard
Couldn't help laughing at the text on a highway billboard in Houston for a local funeral parlor:
"Drive Carefully. We can wait."
"Drive Carefully. We can wait."
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
But I Thought John Cusack Killed Him?
As a preface, there is a film called "Grosse Pointe Blank" starring John Cusack as a former CIA assassin turned professional contract killer. It is a black comedy which I like a lot, and in it there is a line where he is telling someone about some of the "jobs" he has performed. "I killed the president of Paraguay . . . with a fork."
I am in Houston on business. There is a section of town known as the Texas Medical Center where some of the country's preeminent healthcare facilities such as The Methodist Hospital, M.D. Andersen Cancer Center, and the DeBakey Heart Center, are located all together in a campus-like environment with its own shops, restaurants, and transportation. I am staying at the Marriott Medical Center which is right in the center of it all and is pretty nifty in and of itself in that it caters to the healthcare community. Since patients and their families stay here, all of the bathrooms are fitted with assistance rails and the restaurants have a significant selection of healthy items.
Returning to the hotel today after meetings, I was waiting for the elevator with some other people, and it seemed to be taking longer than it should. One of the elevators opened and men with earpieces and Uzis peeking out from beneath their jackets emerged advising us all to move aside and stand back. Following these men were another group of well-dressed Latino men, followed by more gun-toting personnel. They moved swiftly through the lobby, exiting the lobby to a set of waiting cars.
We piled into the elevator along with a bellman. One of the other guests asked the bellman what guest was so special that they deserved the security and entourage. The bellman replied that he was not supposed to tell, but after prompting from the rest of us he revealed that we had just seen the president of Paraguay.
Perhaps he didn't die, but was here to have his puncture wounds treated?
I am in Houston on business. There is a section of town known as the Texas Medical Center where some of the country's preeminent healthcare facilities such as The Methodist Hospital, M.D. Andersen Cancer Center, and the DeBakey Heart Center, are located all together in a campus-like environment with its own shops, restaurants, and transportation. I am staying at the Marriott Medical Center which is right in the center of it all and is pretty nifty in and of itself in that it caters to the healthcare community. Since patients and their families stay here, all of the bathrooms are fitted with assistance rails and the restaurants have a significant selection of healthy items.
Returning to the hotel today after meetings, I was waiting for the elevator with some other people, and it seemed to be taking longer than it should. One of the elevators opened and men with earpieces and Uzis peeking out from beneath their jackets emerged advising us all to move aside and stand back. Following these men were another group of well-dressed Latino men, followed by more gun-toting personnel. They moved swiftly through the lobby, exiting the lobby to a set of waiting cars.
We piled into the elevator along with a bellman. One of the other guests asked the bellman what guest was so special that they deserved the security and entourage. The bellman replied that he was not supposed to tell, but after prompting from the rest of us he revealed that we had just seen the president of Paraguay.
Perhaps he didn't die, but was here to have his puncture wounds treated?
Sunday, March 06, 2005
The Meaning of Life
When my dad passed away in 1990, my brother and I were struggling with what, if anything, to put on his tombstone besides his name and dates. We eventually came up with "Gentle Soul - Man of Vision." Part of the genesis for "Gentle Soul" was an essay by Garrison Keillor that I had read at the time titled "The Meaning of Life." It touched me then, and I offer the last paragraph of it here now so that you may enjoy it as well.
"What keeps our faith cheerful is the extreme persistence of gentleness and humor. Gentleness is everywhere in daily life, a sign that faith rules through ordinary things: through cooking and small talk, through storytelling, making love, fishing, tending animals and sweet corn and flowers, through sports, music and books, raising kids - all the places where the gravy soaks in and grace shines through. Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people. If we had no other purpose in life, it would be good enough to simply take care of them and goose them once in awhile."
"What keeps our faith cheerful is the extreme persistence of gentleness and humor. Gentleness is everywhere in daily life, a sign that faith rules through ordinary things: through cooking and small talk, through storytelling, making love, fishing, tending animals and sweet corn and flowers, through sports, music and books, raising kids - all the places where the gravy soaks in and grace shines through. Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people. If we had no other purpose in life, it would be good enough to simply take care of them and goose them once in awhile."
New York Magazine Competition
For many years, the “New York Magazine Competition” ran in the back of about every third issue of the popular weekly covering life in the Big Apple. Mary Ann Madden ran the competition and in my opinion, ever since they ceased this feature, the magazine has gone downhill. Readers were given a clever and funny assignment – often a play on words. For every competition there were a couple of first-prize entries, a couple of runner-up entries, and then several “Honorable Mentions”. I entered frequently and although I never scored a prize, I did make Honorable Mention quite a few times. I had saved these and came upon them recently. Here is a sampling of my entries that were printed. I have provided the year for each competition since as you can see, some of them are somewhat dated (especially the first one, obviously pre-DVD).
Competition 656 from 1989 in which you were asked for unappealing items from a catalogue:
VIDEO TOMBSTONE. Leave a personalized message. Granite or marble. Specify VHS, Beta, or laser disc.
Competition 659 from 1989 in which you were asked for the title and characters of an undiscovered work of drama or fiction:
“Gramercy Park” by Woody Allen
Russell, a neurotic accountant
Rose, his widowed mother
Daisy, his girlfriend
Paul, his lawyer and best friend
Linda, his ex-wife now married to Paul
Mr. Rockwell, the IRS auditor
Competition 664 from 1990 in which you were asked to define a familiar name, altered by one letter:
DON QUAYLE: Organized crime figure famous for making an offer you cannot understand.
Competition 775 from 1993 in which you were asked for an item from a doomed catalogue:
PHOTO TARGETS: Turn any picture into a full-size NRA-approved silhouette
Competition 838 from 1996 in which you were asked for prequels:
The Artist Formerly Known As The Little Prince
Competition 846 from 1996 in which you were asked for a no-news headline:
Gene Kelly Tribute Will Include Film Clips
Competition 871 from 1997 in which you were asked for the opening, flashback line of a film noir:
"Funny, I’d always thought Sylvia was a woman’s name."
Competition 912 from 1998 in which you were asked to invent and define goofy words:
posshillbillity – “You might be a redneck if . . .”
Competition 656 from 1989 in which you were asked for unappealing items from a catalogue:
VIDEO TOMBSTONE. Leave a personalized message. Granite or marble. Specify VHS, Beta, or laser disc.
Competition 659 from 1989 in which you were asked for the title and characters of an undiscovered work of drama or fiction:
“Gramercy Park” by Woody Allen
Russell, a neurotic accountant
Rose, his widowed mother
Daisy, his girlfriend
Paul, his lawyer and best friend
Linda, his ex-wife now married to Paul
Mr. Rockwell, the IRS auditor
Competition 664 from 1990 in which you were asked to define a familiar name, altered by one letter:
DON QUAYLE: Organized crime figure famous for making an offer you cannot understand.
Competition 775 from 1993 in which you were asked for an item from a doomed catalogue:
PHOTO TARGETS: Turn any picture into a full-size NRA-approved silhouette
Competition 838 from 1996 in which you were asked for prequels:
The Artist Formerly Known As The Little Prince
Competition 846 from 1996 in which you were asked for a no-news headline:
Gene Kelly Tribute Will Include Film Clips
Competition 871 from 1997 in which you were asked for the opening, flashback line of a film noir:
"Funny, I’d always thought Sylvia was a woman’s name."
Competition 912 from 1998 in which you were asked to invent and define goofy words:
posshillbillity – “You might be a redneck if . . .”
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Blackberry Haiku
A person once said
Being available is
A cure for boredom.
E-mail all the time
And it is a phone as well
Please leave me alone.
Ring, beep, blink, vibrate
The world wants me to say “hi”
Oops! I’m out of range.
What happened to mail
And long conversations on
The phone with a friend?
Finding balance
May mean tossing battery
And live life in peace.
Being available is
A cure for boredom.
E-mail all the time
And it is a phone as well
Please leave me alone.
Ring, beep, blink, vibrate
The world wants me to say “hi”
Oops! I’m out of range.
What happened to mail
And long conversations on
The phone with a friend?
Finding balance
May mean tossing battery
And live life in peace.
I Know A Guy
As far back as I can remember, my Uncle Gary - younger brother of my late father - has been involved with one type of business or another. Each of these ventures has brought him into contact with a variety of suppliers and tradesmen with whom he has kept in contact over time. For many years he was "Frederick the Mattress King" of East 33rd Street and consequently knew many of the other business owners in the neighborhood.
My uncle has also always known where the best deals on anything could be found. It was he who turned me on to Costco (then Price Club) in the early 1990's. As a result of all of these contacts and knowledge of bargains, one of my uncle's common responses when one expresses a need to buy something is "I know a guy . . ."
In 1993 when Betsy and I moved into our first apartment, we needed some bookshelves with odd dimensions to fit a particular space. After an exhaustive and fruitless search for pre-built units, we mentioned our quest to Uncle Gary who responded, "I know a guy." Two weeks later and voila - we had well-built custom bookcases that fit the spot precisely for a reasonable price. They came with us to where we live now and we still use them. More recently, Betsy was bemoaning the price of quality cookware. Gary's response: "I know a place . . ." and Betsy is now in contact with a supplier in New Jersey.
All of this might seem somewhat ordinary, except that Gary is a consummate New Yorker with a seemingly gruff exterior which masks the teddy bear within. A gravely voice and knowing look (complete with raised eyebrow) can make it seem like his recommendations are somewhat nefarious or fell off the back of a truck. Of course this isn't the case, but it perpetuates a caricature that amuses me.
Recently, we have been dealing with my Aunt Judy's unexpected hospitalization and now confinement in a hospice with only weeks or possibly months to live. Judy - Gary and my dad's baby sister - never married and did not have an extensive support system. Consequently Gary, with the help of his wife Gail and support from my brother and I, has taken the lead in ensuring that she has adequate care and arranging her affairs. Upon learning of her prognosis, Judy and Gary had some frank discussions regarding the future and Judy expressed a desire to be cremated.
Last week, I brought up the subject of the funeral and cremation with Gary. I do not know anything about the cremation process and wanted to start exploring options with him. Gary stopped me in mid-sentence with, "I know a guy."
It is my belief that one can find humor in even the most morbid of situations, and I could not help bursting out in laughter at the notion that in Gary's travels through life, he knew someone that would give us a great deal on cremation. Gary explained the circumstances of how he came to know such a resource. It was not the story that amused me, but the fact that somewhere in Gary's brain, in the vast file cabinet marked "Great Deals", there is a folder bearing the label "Cremation."
I love my uncle and I love that this is a facet of his character that makes him uniquely him. This has also confirmed for me that as I go through life, should anyone I know need anything, be it a product or a service, I can proudly turn to them and say, "I know a guy."
My uncle has also always known where the best deals on anything could be found. It was he who turned me on to Costco (then Price Club) in the early 1990's. As a result of all of these contacts and knowledge of bargains, one of my uncle's common responses when one expresses a need to buy something is "I know a guy . . ."
In 1993 when Betsy and I moved into our first apartment, we needed some bookshelves with odd dimensions to fit a particular space. After an exhaustive and fruitless search for pre-built units, we mentioned our quest to Uncle Gary who responded, "I know a guy." Two weeks later and voila - we had well-built custom bookcases that fit the spot precisely for a reasonable price. They came with us to where we live now and we still use them. More recently, Betsy was bemoaning the price of quality cookware. Gary's response: "I know a place . . ." and Betsy is now in contact with a supplier in New Jersey.
All of this might seem somewhat ordinary, except that Gary is a consummate New Yorker with a seemingly gruff exterior which masks the teddy bear within. A gravely voice and knowing look (complete with raised eyebrow) can make it seem like his recommendations are somewhat nefarious or fell off the back of a truck. Of course this isn't the case, but it perpetuates a caricature that amuses me.
Recently, we have been dealing with my Aunt Judy's unexpected hospitalization and now confinement in a hospice with only weeks or possibly months to live. Judy - Gary and my dad's baby sister - never married and did not have an extensive support system. Consequently Gary, with the help of his wife Gail and support from my brother and I, has taken the lead in ensuring that she has adequate care and arranging her affairs. Upon learning of her prognosis, Judy and Gary had some frank discussions regarding the future and Judy expressed a desire to be cremated.
Last week, I brought up the subject of the funeral and cremation with Gary. I do not know anything about the cremation process and wanted to start exploring options with him. Gary stopped me in mid-sentence with, "I know a guy."
It is my belief that one can find humor in even the most morbid of situations, and I could not help bursting out in laughter at the notion that in Gary's travels through life, he knew someone that would give us a great deal on cremation. Gary explained the circumstances of how he came to know such a resource. It was not the story that amused me, but the fact that somewhere in Gary's brain, in the vast file cabinet marked "Great Deals", there is a folder bearing the label "Cremation."
I love my uncle and I love that this is a facet of his character that makes him uniquely him. This has also confirmed for me that as I go through life, should anyone I know need anything, be it a product or a service, I can proudly turn to them and say, "I know a guy."
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