Leaky Faucets

I don’t find restroom attendants particularly classy.  In fact, I find them a bit creepy.  I don’t really need another man standing behind me while I’m trying to pee just waiting for me to wash my hands so he can give me a paper towel and expect a buck in return.  Most of the time when I’m in restaurants that have such a service-which is not very often-I feel obligated into tipping even though I don’t think I’m really getting much in return. 

Last night we were at the Palm on the West Side-it was my dad’s birthday-and of course I had to go.  More than once actually.  It’s a bit embarrassing when the attendant sees you come in more than once.  I tipped him the first time, but now I was out of singles.  I gave my other one to the blind singer with the high, scratchy yet somehow soothing voice.  I wasn’t going to give this guy five bucks, so I would not give him anything.  Luckily, as it turns out, he was done for the night.  His tip basket was gone as were the complementary(?) mints displayed between the two sinks.  Apparently, the lady’s room had a nicer assortment of goodies.  Aya came out with a Kit Kat which she gave to Paul who complained that he could taste the urine.  I tried it and it did taste kind of funny, but not like urine I don’t think.  Kind of weird eating food that’s been sitting around in a restaurant bathroom all day, even if it is a ladies’ room.  Don’t think I’ll do that again.

Not only does the MTA as an entity have not common sense, but it’s employees have no compassion.  I’m halfway down the steps leading to the platform today after a long and grueling day at work.  I see the train sitting there.  “Hold the doors!” I yell futilely.  There’s not a single passenger in the front car that could possibly help me.  I spy the conductor walking from the car through the door to his driving perch.  I knock on his window pleading for him to open the door.  Instead, he looks away saying nothing.  The train is gone.

“Motherfucker!” I yell with no one around to hear me on the deserted platform.  It’s 6:32 pm.  This is the time when the trains from 179^th Street come every 15-20 minutes or so if you’re lucky.  I don’t have time for this tonight.  I have to be in the city for dinner at 7:30 and need to stop home first.  

A man walks down the stairs and I tell him my sob story.  He politely listens, but I can tell he doesn’t really care.  Then, at 6:34, I see the lights of an oncoming train.  “It’ll go express, I’m sure,” I mutter to myself not quite aloud.  But I’m wrong.  Thank God!  I get on and I’m headed home.

When I walked in the door last night, Aya was watching Channel 13. Frontline was on. I wasn’t really in the mood to watch TV, much less something serious, but I quickly got sucked in. This episode was called “The Dark Side” and it was about 9/11 and Cheney, so I felt compelled to watch. It basically rehashed the whole saga of the past five years: planes crash into the WTC and the Pentagon; Cheney and Rumsfeld see it as their opportunity to assert control over the government; they effectively push the CIA out of the way and gain control of the intelligence apparatus; they bully their way into a ill-thought, disastrous war in Iraq based on exaggerations and outright lies.

Watching the carnage of the war these past three years and the futility of it all, I’ve been lulled into a “things suck, but it’s too late to go back” attitude. Still, I couldn’t help feeling betrayed all over again as I was reminded through interviews with senior CIA officers, State Department officials, politicians (most notably, Bob Graham, who voted against the Iraq war resolution and should have been Kerry’s running mate) and prominent journalists, of how they manipulated intelligence and lied to Congress, the UN and the American people to justify a war based solely on ideology not reality.

It made me wonder again why Cheney and Rumsfeld and Bush are not in prision right now. Just how have they gotten away with such crimes?

How pathetic is my dictionary, Webster’s II New Riverside Dictionary: Revised Edition?  Twice today, I looked up a word and neither time could I find it in this dictionary.  I went to dictionary.com and easily found the words arriviste and kinesthetic.  Why even bother using a paper dictionary any more, especially when it lacks words it should clearly contain?

I’m a big fan of the World Cup, but not so much as a sporting event, but more as a sociological phenomenon.  It’s incredible how worked up people are about it, how they show their loyalty to their team and country (possibly in that order). 

New York is a unique and exciting place during the Cup because there are legions of fans from every single participating country living here.  One can’t help being acutely aware that these games are being played no matter where you are, whether you spot a group of Mexican busboys anxiously gathered around a radio in a diner or you hear your Brazilian neighbor screaming when a goal is scored or your Iranian classmate tells you that she’s anxious about Iran’s pending match with Portugal because her Portuguese husband takes the games quite seriously.  Contrast this with the Olympics, where most people don’t give a shit.  At least I don’t.

I don’t pay attention to soccer (or football as the rest of the world calls it) at all except for the World Cup, I don’t really watch it much.  If I had to pick a team though, I’d go for Argentina.  I prefer pulling for a Latin American squad over Europe, and Brazil is just too good and too popular for me, kind of like the Yankees.

It’s not that I’m anti-American, but I find myself having a hard time rooting for the U.S in the World Cup.  I caught about 30 seconds of the match with Italy today while I was in the shoe store buying new running shoes (the score was tied 1-1), and it struck me that I didn’t really care if they win or lose.  If they win, okay, but they lose, it’s no big deal. 

I guess I’m just not much for shows of patriotism or nationalism these days, and those chants of “USA, USA…” really give me the chills in a creepy way.  (Gee I hope the Gestapo, I mean the FBI isn’t reading my blog; I might just get an unwelcome visit yet.)  

As I was reading a New Yorker piece on Italian journalist Oriana Falacci, I came across a familiar name: George Papadopoulos.  When I heard the name, I immediately flashed back to my childhood, to a time when undersized black adolescent boys ruled the airwaves.  Those were the days of Different Strokes and of course, Webster, starring the diminutive Emanuel Lewis and ex-footballer Alex Karras, who played the newly orphaned Webster’s guardian George Papadopoulos. 

Well, I never knew there was another George Papadopoulos out there (boy, that name just rolls off the tongue, don’t it?) until the profile of Ms. Falaccii revealed to me that George Papadopoulos was also a famous historical figure-the leader of the military junta that ruled Greece in the late 60s and 70s.  Apparently, Ms. Falacci’s love interest, Alexandros Panagoulis, served time for attempting to assassinate Mr. Papadopoulos (no, not Webster’’s adopted father.)  I wonder if the producers of Webster had some political agenda when they chose the name of one of the show’s leading characters.

 As a child, when I was presented with an assortment of Hershey’s miniatures, I always stayed as far away from the Special Dark as I possibly could.  I always opted for the Krackel or the Hershey’s Milk Chocolate.  I hated dark chocolate then, and I found the Special Dark very bitter. 

This morning, one of my co-workers brought in a bag of the assorted miniatures.  I decided to try a Special Dark, and to my surprise I didn’t find it to be bitter at all.  In fact, I felt that it was way too sweet.  You see, lately, most of the chocolate I eat is 70% pure cocoa dark chocolate.  Very strong stuff.  It’s a little bitter, but my taste buds have grown accustomed to it.  In fact, I love it, and it’s much healthier than more processed chocolate.

It’s amazing how your tastes change as you age.  When you’re older you can handle much stronger flavors than when you’re a child.  I guess that’s why most kids wince at the taste of beer or coffee.

What a way to start a week.  Early Monday morning and no one was in the office but me, so I had to answer the main line, which I rarely do.  Who is on the other end?  A raving mad woman ready to blast anyone who answers with a vitriolic rant.  Well, this time the poor sucker was me.  The caller, an elderly woman who shall not be named here, complained that she has been a long time donor to the library, but does not appreciate receiving a phone call inquiring about her health when she knows we just want to know if she plans to leave money to the library in her will and don’t really care about her health.  She had entertained the thought of leaving money in her will, but because she is so annoyed, does not plan to do so anymore.  In fact, she will not donate to the library again and does not wish to receive any more mail or phone calls from us.  She had some other minor complaints as well.

Although I did not agree with the manner in which she delivered her complaints, I certainly felt she had some valid points. I don’t like when people call me asking for money either.  And I could understand her doubting the sincerity of the caller (it was Peter) when he asked how she was feeling.   I was willing to let her have her say, which is what I’m supposed to do.  I could have hung up on her, but that would not have diffused the situation.  It would have only angered her more, and with my approach there is some miniscule chance we could turn the situation around.

This is not the first (and I’m sure not the last) time that I have picked up the phone to be verbally abused by someone who has received a letter or phone call that offended them.  Invariably, these callers have all been old ladies.  Probably, they have nothing better to do than harass people who are trying to work.  I’m sure after they are through with me, they call the phone company or Con Ed.  My only request is that next time they give me a chance to settle into the week before dialing our number.

There’s a new scourge threatening our neighborhood.  And it jingles when it moves.  Yes, I’m referring to that blue and white machine that makes children run: the Mr. Softee Ice Cream Truck.  His jingle has been terrorizing our block lately.  It’s so freaking loud and can be heard way too late these days-past 10 o’clock at night.  The neighbors are starting to complain.  Richard, a septuagenarian on the fourth floor, went outside recently to write down the truck’s license plate number in order to report him to the city.  The driver threatened to beat him up but changed his mind because I guess he has scruples about something.  He doesn’t mind annoying the whole block but apparently will hold back when it comes to inflicting physical harm on an old man.  Just a few hours ago, I heard some shouting outside.  It was getting pretty heated.  It turned out to be a woman engaged in a shouting match with–you guessed it–a Mister Softee driver.  Before I heard the altercation, I myself was annoyed with this nightly aural intrusion.  Although I couldn’t hear the argument, I could guess what it was about.  Maybe he’ll get the message one of these days that he’s not wanted on our street, and he’ll move to terrorize another street.