Here she is, the Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness, plucked from the subways of NYC and into the ministry of Peace, Love and Happiness. She is wearing the official dress and head gear of the country in keeping with its cultural roots. There will be traditional dancing at the inaugural balls later on in the season. But for now, I give you, ladies and gentlemen, Her Excellency the Minister:
Last night’s commute, straight from my simultaneous note-taking on my blackberry (like Anderson Cooper on CNN blogging through commercials).
Man on the subway is talking about how horrible marriage is. He is really ranking on his wife. Says he doesn’t get why she wonders why he is always drunk. Also, he is a fund manager without a fund. And he is belittling his “friend” who is on the train. Now, he is pissed that his friend recently moved into a new apartment, asking his friend how come he is doing well if he can’t pull it together. He keeps asking about people they know in common and whether they are married. I am gathering that they don’t work together any more. They both get off the train. I guess it is my turn to stand up and ask women if they are wearing matching or clean undergarments. Maybe a therapist will start talking about his or her crazy clients or maybe a disheveled man who is homeless but no more or less crazy than the fund-less fund manager will walk into the car. Nope. Pretty ok although there is a straight guy reading a pink colored book called Sex and the Single Girl. Ok, he just checked out a guy. So, maybe a not-so-straight guy reading a book with a pink cover about single women’s sex lives. Ok, that’s weirder.
Ok ok ok ok. I am heading out of the subway on one of those exit-only stairs that have the out-only turnstiles with the horizontal bars all the way up to the ceiling. A man in his 70s who sports the bohemian, artiste look is aheading of me and climbs onto one of the lower bars the way my 7 year-old does, intending for me to pushing him through. So here I am pushing this strange stranger through the turnstile as I would my son. At least, the (strange) stranger didn’t say weeeeeeeeeee like my son, thank G-d. But I am standing on the street in the rain typing this on my blackberry, so who is the crazy one?
So, I focus on politics which is sometimes a downer. But I can’t write about the Seinfeldian experiences in my family life because many of them read the blog.
In talking about a future gathering, the purpose of which is to pick at the emotional scabs over a wobbly relationship, I advised the person to wear a HazMat suit because although the people present vary in intensity, all will want to ask inappropriately invasive questions. But I can’t go into the background because I don’t want to be excommunicated from my family.
So, you see my predicament. I find people endlessly fascinating, but I need to keep it out of the family.
That is why I am going back to the gym and try to take public transportation. Because the Seinfeldian experiences happen to me or to strangers and then it is fair game.
I arrived at the gym at the crack of 11:30am on Sunday, ready to get back into shape.
Previously, I described my body as a pear with rhombus touches. Right now, I feel like a square rhombus, which is a fatter, squatter, diamond shape. I am going for the diamond shape rhombus — I am not getting any taller but I can shrink the girth. Less girth, more mirth. Somehow that isn’t slogan-y enough. Let me try that again in sing-song perky voice — More Mirth!! Less Girth!!! Naw.
How about: It is time to put the T-O-N-E in my muscles. (Except there is no “t”, “o” or “n” in “muscle”.) Don’t I sound like an infomercial? [imagine someone with perky, sing-song voice singing “All right, okay, waste that waist away!!” while doing something 1980s like jazzercise.] (Didn’t some trainer of C-list celebrities say something like that?)
I still looked dweeby in my gym outfit because, while the length of my work-out pants covered my unshaven legs, they were toooooo form fitting. (Here’s the sad truth — these once weren’t form fitting work-out pants.) And my work-out shirt, which thank G-d was not sleeveless, wasn’t long enough.
I did both cardio and weights. I hurt today. That is an understatement. My body is SCREAMING at me. Yet, I will go at it again, today, or, errrrrr, tomorrow. But DEFINITELY, today or tomorrow. Or Wednesday. But I am committed, clearly.
Just today a Dallas newspaper had an article about secession. It posited that more people outside Texas than inside would like the state to secede from the Union.
I saw my brother for lunch. My sister-in-law suddenly got sick at the sight of me and begged off lunch. I am trying not to connect the dots.
I sat in the bar/lounge of my hotel, waiting for my friends for dinner, and saw a sign that weapons are not allowed in the bar/lounge. I’m from New York City, where grit and crime are part of the urban landscape, and I have never seen such a sign. I suddenly felt safer in NY. At least I know that in No-Where-istan, that fabulous, mythical place, there are no weapons, concealed or otherwise.
Actually, given that my hotel was in the seamy part of Dallas (my secretary allowed “cost-cutting” to go too far), I am feeling like I am in an area of Dallas that, if this were NY, would be called Fort Apache, The Bronx.
But no gunfights so far, so I don’t really feel like I am in the Republic of Texas. This is already a long, strange trip and Jerry Garcia had the benefit of drugs.
there are so many people reading the Bible (especially on New York City subways) and there is so much violence in the world. Do you think they are reading the passages about how the Israelites slaughtered the Jebusites, the Hittites and some other tribes in Canaan? Should we publish the Peaceful Bible that only has passages about communal laws, and lands flowing with milk and honey, and end it with the words to Kumbaya? We can publish it in the University Press of No-Where-istan.
Just another deep thought on my commute on a typical day on my personal road to Utopia.
We No-Where-istanis need an anthem, something to rally around. I was worried about how to choose the right song — a song to capture the mood, the state of mind (or whatever) and the gestalt of No-Where-istan.
On Friday, I was mulling this on my way into the subway. The 42nd Street-Times Square Station often gives me inspiration. Into the bowels of New York I descended. I saw this woman getting ready to play her saxophone:
She did not ask for money, just business cards. She was just learning how to play, as in she would not make the B squad of the high school band. Maybe she was an out-of-work Wall Streeter, trying to find her inner Marsalis.
Anyway, she started playing, of all things, No Where Man by the Beatles. For all I know, she was trying to play On the Good Ship Lollipop, but No Where Man came out in fits and starts from her saxophone. I was the only one who stopped. More accurately, I was the only one not running away from the noise.
Then I thought, “No Where Man. No-Where-istan. THAT’S IT!!! It is a real No-Where-istan. . . .”
This nation-building thing is really coming together, eh?
A friend emailed that she wants a senior position in government AND the townhouse must be in Tribeca. Then again, she thought, the townhouse wasn’t a good idea because there is no staff to help if there is a leak or something. Ok, so she is sensible, but . . . . .
I need to tell you more about this sensible friend. We saw her last evening at a function and she was wearing Jimmy Choo, insanely high-heeled shoes. She is not a short woman and already has a presence about her without being 5 inches higher as a result of lovely but insane shoes. (By the way, back-breaking shoes are NOT allowed in No-Where-istan.)
Of COURSE, it was an I-am-40-and-over-and-I-needed-these-shoes crisis. For those of you not yet in your 40s, don’t think that we are exaggerating the phenomenon. Save up just for your impulse buys for the 40s decade. Trust me. Or ask a female financial planner. Really.
On the plus side, our friend’s calves looked fabulous (for the real confirmation, she couldn’t ask straight women, so she made sure she asked POB (partner of blogger) and me about how hot her calves looked).
But she is not going to be senior health advisor (high heels knocked her out of the running) and we don’t have health care in No-Where-istan anyway.
But, we will have a senior official with killer calves.
She’ll have to take off the shoes when trying to enter the country that is still in my head.
![IMG00054[1]](http://40andoverblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/IMG000541-300x221.jpg "IMG00054[1]")
Much to my relief, the fairy godmother/angel of love is a performance artist, which means while she is a free spirit she is trying to make money to survive. Which also means that she is a good actress so she has talent. When you put money in her bucket, she flaps her angel wings. And she had a new message yesterday:
![IMG00056[1]](http://40andoverblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/IMG000561-300x225.jpg "IMG00056[1]")
Saturday the family came over for our traditional New Year’s lunch. It was pleasant and generally uneventful. Which is why I thought aliens had taken over my family. My sister did not go as far as to say that she agreed with my assessment, but she did note the absence of the usual guaranteed bloggable moments. The rest of the day was a blur except that I chugged Pepto Bismol.
Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) roused everyone to go to synagogue on the second day of the holiday. We went Friday night, we went Saturday morning (and dashed home to prepare for the luncheon). And now we are going to shul for the third day running? Did I go to sleep a Reform Jew and wake up Conservative? Is this my beautiful house, Is this my beautiful wife? How did I get here? WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Theological arguments were a non-starter. So, schlepped we did. Our son was fraying through this. After all, up to this point he was lovely and gentle and sweet-looking in his oh-so-cute bowtie. And he is a boy. And boys need to run around. A LOT. But, he was in services, I was chugging Pepto-Bismol, and he was acting out.
We went to a luncheon at our dear friends’ house that afternoon. Those present at the luncheon played connect the riffs of the rabbi’s talk on Saturday, to see who could string them all together into one message. People did brilliant jobs and came up with different conclusions. (After Friday night, I just played it safe at the children’s services.)
Bottom-line: Two days of RH are too much for me.