The inexcusable jacket

There is just no excuse for the puffy jacket. None at all.

The puffy jacket was for the eighties and the nineties, when they hadn't quite got their head wrapped around the art of sartorial insulation. When warmth was merely a function how much cottonwool you could put between yourself and the world. But today, the puffy jacket should be made instantly illegal.

It's a winter jacket that is not waterproof.
Unbelievably, it's a winter jacket that is not wind-proof.
And what's more, it turns you instantly into a human lollipop.

That's right, there is simply no excuse for the puffy jacket.

Unless, of course, you're a toddler, for those critters seem like they need as much insulation as possible from everything they run into, and should probably be wearing puffy jackets all year round, even in the summer.

But for everyone else, for gawd's sake get yourself a normal jacket. And if you're in the subway in your puffy jacket, and you bounce off the wall because you failed to anticipate how your jacket doubled your size, and bump across the carriage into me flailing your puffy arms, you know why I'm giving you dirty looks.

Because there's simply no excuse.

Oh to be a Soccer Mom

Last week's Economist did an article explaining how within the next couple months, the number of working women will for the first time outnumber the men in the US workforce. More women than men! Women have already considerably outnumbered men in professional services for several years now. But the entire workforce - that's a huge milestone. This sociological change has been expedited by a couple of seminal points, amongst others:
- In the recession of the past two years, far far more men lost their jobs than women
- Far far more women are graduating college with better academic standing than men

Delta and I had been talking about this phenomenon, the monumental sociological implications it has, and what if anything we thought might change in our own workplaces. There's lots of theories about the intrinsically feminine qualities that women bring to the workplace, and several theorists who expound on why women make better bosses than men.

I'm not sure I buy that really, about women making better bosses than men. At least from my own meagre experience, I'd put women vs men bosses down as pretty equal, even if perhaps different. But it doesnt change the fact that on average, far more women than men are successfully graduating through the education system and emerging on the other end, fit and primed to work. Which probably means, if we extrapolate this into the future, that the trend and momentum only seems set to increase.

The most remarkable thing, the Economist remarked, was how rapidly, and yet how smoothly (or at least with relatively little turmoil) this enormous sociological change took place. And I'd have to agree.

Overall, I'd have to say men have been rather gracious in ceding dominance towards a more egalitarian society - in the US, anyway. It takes a generosity of mind and spirit to offer jobs that have always been yours to the ambitious 'other sex'. I was still mulling over the gentlemanly graciousness of men when we went over to the Cos and his wife's house for dinner.

The Cos and his wife are both medical doctors, about to embark on their long and fruitful careers in the city. I was about to ask them what they thought about all this men-women business, when the Cos helped himself to a large glass of wine and announced, "Phew! I'm so glad my wife's a doctor! Now I can happily retire and be a house husband."
"What do you mean?!" I laughed, taken somewhat by surprise.
"Man, I'm all ready to get myself a minivan and just be a Soccer Mom!" he said, laughing.

And there you have it. The graciousness of men. Knew there had to be something more there.

The lure of the burbs

For the most part, I love this crazy chaotic cacophony of a city with all my heart, and couldn't imagine living anywhere else (except that time we were in Ecuador and I wanted to move there, or the time we were in Peru and I wanted to move there, or the time we were in Cinque Terre...). But for the most part, apart from the vacation distractions, other than the fleeting flutterings of my roving mind, I'm pretty darn happy living in our mad home.

There is one huge problem if you live in NYC though. It's the fact that ultimately, inevitably, unnervingly, all your friends will eventually end up heading to the burbs. I guess I can see why the burbs are attractive to people. The space, the fresh air, the cars, the costcos. But wouldn't you miss the local Chinese dry cleaner, or the little bagel house across the street, or the old guy with his big whiskers running the local wine store? I think I'd miss that sense of neighbourhood. But never mind, for this isn't about me.

Later this month, Gus and Kate move to their new home across the river in Jersey. Problem is, we'd grown rather used to always having them around the corner. To spontaneity and being able see each other in moments, without always having to make a plan about it. And now it feels as though they're moving a seemingy interminable distance away. No matter how happy you are for your friends, when it means they're moving further away, it's rather bitter-sweet no matter what way you look at it. Delta, who will lose his diner-breakfast-and-pub-drinking-BFF as an result of this move, has been morosely brooding about it for a few days now.

Of course - if we were honest about it - Jersey frankly isn't that far away. And when we see their new home, we'll be excited for them and the huge step in their lives this means. And who can complain about having friends with swimming pools and barbecues (or for that matter cars, space or greenery) anyway.

But for right now, it's a moment of despondence. For right now, all we know is that we're losing a couple of dear friends to the burbs.

The start of our adventure

Delta and I were bursting with excitement when we jumped into a cab for the airport.
"LaGuardia please!" we told the cabbie.
"Eh, good. Going anywhere exciting? I'm going to Ghana myself in a couple months," he added. Delta's ears immediately pricked up, Ghana being one of his frequent work locales.

And immediately, an enthusiastic conversation ensued, giving us a brief glimpse into the cab driver's fascinating life. We found out that he was from a little village in Ghana, about a hundred miles from the capital, Accra. At the tender age of 17, he had immigrated to New York to study civil engineering. And for the next twelve years, he had lived in the YMCA, working as a cabbie full time to get the money to live and put himself through school.

Erm, that's the same age when my only worry was drinks at a pub and my next vacation. I'm mortified.

"For six years," he told us, laughing ruefully, "I ate pizza for every meal, every day. That's all I had money for. If I look at a pizza now, I think I'd throw up!"

Delta and I listened in silenced awe as he told us how he had won a civil engineering contract to build a network of roads back in Ghana. "So I'm going back home, after all these years!" he could barely conceal the elation from his voice. "And I'm going to take some friends back with me to help. Like me, they too are cab drivers from Ghana. Some of them haven't been back in forty years. Such an easy thing for me to do, and it would mean so much to them."

Delta and I had been caught up in our admiration, and hadnt even noticed we'd already pulled up at the airport until the cabbie hopped out and opened the trunk. "Well, good luck to you, guys!" he said, shaking our hands and heading out.
"Same to you, man," we responded.

I was glad he had told us his story. It felt great to start our vacation on such a positive and inspiring note.

Our third NY Cares Day

This weekend past, we volunteered as part of my work team for NY Cares Day. Since this was our third time going, it had become part of a tradition both with work and friends, and Doobie and Ilajna joined our work team as well. This year, 5,000 volunteers around the city worked to revitalize 75 parks, schools, playgrounds, gardens and community centers.

It's a HUGE event, and when I thought about it, I was filled with a surge of pride. Partly because I'd hauled butt early on a Saturday morning to do volunteer work. But mostly because it was inspiring and uplifting, to see the city pull together in this manner!

This year, we were assigned to work in the park. I'd been a bit apprehensive about this at first (after all, what did I know about weeding or clearing brush?) but then the weather forecast predicted a beautiful, warm day, and we were all pretty happy to be working outdoors in the sun. When we got there, the team leader pointed us to a huge hill of abandoned land, overgrown for years by tall weeds.

"We need to weed hill, and take out the top layer of soil, so the land can be re-planted. Rakes and shovels in the shed over there," she said cheerily, before skipping assign the next group with the task of clearing rocks.

And so we got to work, like a team of toiling ants. You know how the saying goes - how does one eat an elephant? A bite at a time. That's exactly how it was. Handful by little handful, step after step. Hack the weeds, shovel the roots, rake the debri. Hack the weeds, shovel...

At first, it seemed never ending. Like we weren't even making a dent in the landscape. The hill was just too big for us to do in a day. But slowly, gradually, we started to see the land transforming under the efforts of our toil. Huge garbage bags full of weeds and leaves started to pile up on the side, one at a time.

And by late afternoon (after a much needed lunch break for pizza), as we started to wrap up, without our even realising it, the scene had changed dramatically. As I put away my rake and wiped my grubby hands on my jeans, I couldn't help but look back in awe at what we had accomplished.

Some day - maybe a month from now, maybe a year - this abandoned land would be part of a park. There would be kids playing on swings, and roller bladers and bikers weaving through happily strolling families, and starry eyed couples.

And now, forever, we were a part of this story to come.

If we could only do away with salutations

"So I got in touch with my cousin the other day," Doobie told me. "I haven't really ever spoken to her in my life before. But the other day, I wrote her an email. And I didn't know how to sign off!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do I sign off Regards? Take Care? Love? Nothing sounds quite right for someone who's pretty much a stranger, and still your cousin. I hate having to make such decisions."
"What did you choose in the end?" I asked, curious. I'd never been in that position before myself, and I'm not sure what I would have chosen.
"I played it safe and went with love. At least that way I can't offend her. But now I think I might have over-stated the emotion a bit. It's awkward."

I was just mulling such decisions over in my head, when Delta asked me the same question the other day.
"Ficali, one of my friends wrote me this email, but she signed off really formal. How do I respond! Do I write Regards?"
Crikey, I had no clue. Isn't regards reserved for work emails?
"Why don't you hedge your risk and avoid salution, just sign off Delta?" I suggested.
"I hate making such decisions. It's just so awkward."

Clearly, we mastered the art of writing emails, but never how to end them. No wonder they invented Twitter and Facebook. Life made easier - there isnt' enough character space to waste on niceties.

When techies have time on their hands

Last month, someone in Austin, Texas, hacked into a couple electronic roadworks warning signs, and changed the message to read as below.


The city is, of course, obliged to find the culprit and prosecute, but let's face it, at a time like this when all we're hearing is bad news, that's pretty funny.

Lesson 2: Never take anything for granted

We needed to get passport sized photos taken so that Delta and I could get updated membership cards to our club in Bombay. So we headed over to a local photo studio to get the pictures taken.


The taking of passport sized pictures is done with a formidable level of seriousness in this city. Once Delta was seated in front of the camera, the photographer said, "look a little left. No not that much, now look a centimeter to the right. And up a bit. Now smile." And he continued with commands like that until Delta's face was positioned in his camera lens to perfection, before he would agree to click. And then he started with me. "No, look down more, we're seeing too much forehead. Smile less. No teeth. Look up into the lens. A little to the right." All of these commands had to be obeyed by subtle movements of our heads until we were positioned to the photographer's satisfaction. There was something reassuring about the amount of conscientiousness applied to our pictures. I felt like we were guaranteed the mugshots would come out good-looking. Now, if only the guy who took my green card and driving license pictures had applied this level of diligence to my photos, I wouldn't have to cringe every time I produced those documents for inspection, would I.


"Come back in fifteen minutes and we'll have these photos developed for you," the photographer told Delta and I. So we left the store and wandered the streets for a while, taking pictures of everything of interest we encountered. Finally, about half an hour later, we headed back to the photo studio, only to find a dejected photographer shaking his head in apology. "I'm sorry, but my memory card got ruined. I've lost all the pictures on the card. I'll need to take the two of you again." And so began the entire process of perfected head-positioning all over again.


"Come back in fifteen minutes and we'll have these photos developed for you," he said again, once he'd re-taken the pictures. So Delta and I hit the streets once again, with another fifteen minutes on our hands.


There was a shoe-shine man who had set up shop on the sidewalk outside the studio, with an eccentric look to him that immediately drew our attention.
"Man, I would love to take a picture of him!" I said.
"Well, why don't I get my shoes polished, and then you can take a picture," Delta suggested, so we approached the man for a polish.
"How much for a polish?" I asked the shoe-shine guy in Hindi.
"Just pay me as much as you like when I'm done," he suggested.
I hate it when people do that, because you nearly always end up paying far more than you would if a price had been pre-agreed upon. I tried to coax a price out of him, but he was adamant on his "at will" payment policy.

As he diligently rubbed various coats of various types and consistencies of polish into Delta's shoes, I asked Delta, "how much do you think we should pay him?"
"Erm, I was thinking a hundred?"
I smiled. Delta was falling into the tourist trap of paying far too much for a service because he was converting from dollars. "A hundred rupees? You know he probably gets five for this when he does it for the locals."
The shoe-shine man looked up. "This is not a five-buck job, ma'am," he said, in clear, fluent English.

Delta and I both did a double-take. It was entirely unexpected for a man living and peddling wares on the streets of Bombay to speak fluent english. But before I had time to examine the amazingness of this fact, I was overcome with a wave of mortification. Right in front of his face, I had told Delta it wasn't worth more than a fiver. How does one backpaddle out of that one?


"Erm, you're right, you're right," I stuttered.

The shoe-shine man continued to mumble under his breath for a bit, decidedly unimpressed with my attitude. And Delta and I stook in awkward silence, unable to talk to each other about the shoe-shine experience anymore, fully aware that he could understand everything we were saying. The awkward silence went on for about ten minutes, and I'm convinced he put on an extra effort of diligence and an unnecessary two coats of polish, just to prolong his moment of revelling.


Finally, when he was done (and it had seemed like this moment would never come!), Delta thanked him and told him what a fantastic job he had done, and gave him the hundred he had first talked about. And then he sat himself down on the sidewalk next to the shoe-shine man, and asked him if I could take a picture of both of them together. The shoe man was happy to oblige.


I had just raised the SLR to get my shot, when the shoe man suggested, "why don't you stand over there to the left instead, you'll capture a nice light falling on our faces. I moved over to where he suggested, and saw that the lighting was indeed much improved. I looked at him in surprise.

"I used to be a photographer," he explained.


Wonders never cease. Here was this man, living on the streets of Bombay in tattered clothes, who would have ever thought he had been fully educated, spoke english, and had been a photographer. Unbelievable. Shows you can't assume anything of anyone.


I wonder what happened to him in life to bring him to where he was. But that would be a thought for another day. For the moment, we were just filled surprise, awe and admiration.

The "New iPhone" Look

When I stopped at the fruit stand this morning on the way to work, as I do every Monday morning for my weekly supply of bananas, the fruit man was occupied in playing with something on his phone.

So absorbed, in fact, that I actually had to tap him on his shoulder just to get his attention long enough to actually pay him for the bananas I had just pocketed.

And then, immediately, he was looking back at his phone.

I know that look, I thought to myself. It's the same look that Delta has had all weekend, since he got his new iPhone.

A look of absorbed concentration, mixed with rapture, confusion and sheer ecstasy.
"New phone, huh?" I asked the fruit man, as I handed him the money.
"Yeah!!" he said, beaming, and held up his phone for me to see.

Yep, there it was. The new iPhone.

Audacity

The other day, I was waiting in queue at Starbucks, and there was an elderly woman in front of me. She looked the rather well-off kind. Well, you know - the regular Starbucks kind. When she reached the counter,

"Can I just have an empty cup?" she asked.
Then, cup in hand, she shuffled over to the milk and sugar counter, and proceeded to fill the entire cup with milk.

Superslueth Ficali was, of course, watching the entire action covertly, while pretending to innocently wait my turn in line. To be honest, I was as impressed as I was aghast. This entirely beat the Smooth Criminal move Doobs, Bobbis, Delta and I had pulled earlier in the year when we snuck in an extra movie at the cinema. Nope. This was Bonnie and Clyde caliber. Anyways, it's all about bringing down the Establishment, right? Especially when the establishment is Starbucks (a.k.a. FiveBucks).

Just then, "hey!" shouted the Starbucks attendee. And went over to where the woman was neatly finishing topping up the glass with the last sip of milk she could fit in there.
"You're going to have to pay for that milk, ma'am" the attendee told her firmly.

I didn't blame him, I suppose. He was just being the good corporate citizen. I thought she might apologise and pay for the milk. But boy, I guess I just don't understand human nature at all.

"What do you mean?!" She exclaimed, "Why are you picking on me?! I'm just adding milk to my coffee same as everyone else."
"Ma'am, that's a whole glass of milk, and Im afraid you're going to have to pay for it."
"I refuse to pay. I just bought my coffee, and now I'm adding milk."
"Ma'am, I just gave you that empty cup. You didn't buy any coffee. Now if you would kindly pay for the milk, I would really appreciate it."

I, of course, absorbed by the situation playing out in front of me, had totally forgotten my own coffee. Anyway, this was far more entertaining. Wow, all this for a glass of milk? I hope Starbucks knew how lucky they were to have this employee. I hope he gets promoted to head barista for this.

The woman, obviously, was rather less impressed by his antics than I was. She slammed the glass of milk down on the table (some milk splashed out with dramatic effect). She tossed her head and snorted. "Scumbags!" she said (although she'd been the one thieving). And she stalked out the door, filled with a genuine sense of self-righteousness.

A birthday good deed

It was Delta's birthday on Monday this week, and the two of us headed over to our favourite Thai restaurant for a quiet little tete a tete. As we crossed First Ave on the way to the restaurant, we noticed a bit of a kerfuffle on the road - a bus pulled over to the side, a car stopped in the middle of the road with a telltale dent by it's front headlight, a couple of arguing drivers, and a traffic cop. Typical accident scene with the exchanging of insurance papers etc - but nobody looked to be injured, and we just sighed with relief that we don't need to drive in the city.

We'd all but forgotten about this incident by the end of dinner, but when we were returning back from the restaurant, we noticed that the car involved in the accident was still there in the middle of the road. The bus and traffic cops had vanished from the scene, but an elderly lady stood by the car, presumably the driver.

"Something's got to be wrong, there's no way she should be there for so long!" Delta exclaimed, "come on, let's go over and check if she's okay."
Delta, as always, being the large-hearted helper, and me tagging along like Batman and Robin.
"Is everything okay, ma'am?" Delta asked politely as we approached the elderly lady.
"No! I just have accident, tyre flat. Look." She spoke Russian, and only a smattering of english phrases.
"Shall I change your tire for you?" Delta asked, with a whole lot of gesticulating, to communicate his point.
"You do that?! For me?! Oh thank you! thank you!" She was so grateful, and so helpless, that instantly I was at once delighted we had come.

While Delta set about the arduous task of changing the tire (with a fair share of grunting and groaning to illustrate the efforts he was putting in), I sat at the side like a rather unhelpful companion and chatted with the lady instead.

Surprisingly, given that she had just had a car accident, she seemed in high spirits. She stood by the side of the car waving an unfurled roll of kitchen towel ("like flag to warn other cars no hit us,") she explained to me, since her car was still parked in the middle of the road.
"Will you be okay?" I asked, concerned about leaving her alone for the evening.
"Oh yes, first time have accident thirteen years," she clarified. "Thirteen years! Is rare no have accident so long in New York," she said proudly.
I smiled. I was just impressed with her fortitude and spirit.
When Delta had completed the wheel change, he walked over to us proudly, dusting his hands.
"I pay you?" she asked him.
"No, of course not! We don't want your money!"
She paused, wanting to show her appreciation, but unsure how.
"Okay fine then you take this." It turned out she was an artist, and she proudly handed us postcards of the work she had done. And they were beautiful!

We said our goodbyes and headed homewards, she leaned over and gave both Delta and me long, warm hugs. I was filled with the buoyancy of genuine contentment. I couldn't pinpoint then what it was, but now that I think about it, I believe it was the feeling of being inspired. By Delta's spontaneous good will. By the elderly lady's strength of spirit. By the immediate and and spontaneous connection we had all built, in that odd little situation in the middle of the road.

Flowers make girls silly

I was walking by Clarissa's desk at work the other day, and noticed that she had a beautiful bunch of bright roses on her desk.

"Hey! Those are gorgeous! Where'd you get them?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, from a secret admirer."
"Really? Tell me more!"
"No, just kidding. Carmen gave them to me."
"Carmen??!" I glanced over at Carmen, who was sitting with her head bent over her work, just a few desks away.
"Well, I was on vacation last week, and Carmen missed me so much while I was away, that she got me flowers when I got back."
I laughed, "well that's a surprise!"

Carmen never gets me flowers, I thought with a metaphorical pout, as I headed back to my office.

A few minutes later, Clarissa was at my door.
"Hey, you want to keep these flowers?" she asked.
"Why?! Don't you want them?!"
"Yeah, of course I do, but they're giving me a big allergy attack. It's so sad, but I can't have them close to me."

And so it came about that I had this beautiful vase of roses on my desk.

A few minutes later, Metrohom strolled by my office.
"Hey, those are gorgeous! Where'd you get them?!" he asked.
"Oh, you know me. I get these from Delta all the time."
"Really?!"
Sigh.
"Okay fine. So actually Carmen gave them to Clarissa because she missed her while she was on vacation. But then Clarissa gave them to me because she had an allergy attack."
"Not much romance there, is there."
"That's why I told you it was Delta."

"Girls are just silly," and he walked off, shaking his head.

Just-Another-Pub Day

Last week, Lahsiv forwarded an email to the group:

"Guys, it's International Day in New York this Saturday, let's all go for the parade!! Remember to dress in national costumes, and be there ready to have a great time!"

Of course my mind went wild. There would be a street fair, hundreds of people milling around, all sorts of international food stalls, and varieties of musicians and performers. It would be a sensory kaleidoscope of colours, sounds and scents. It was the very essence of New York, and of course we should be a part of it.

In my excitement, I pulled out the only traditional Indian wear I had, and rushed that off to the tailors for some alterations (no, I wasn't having it taken out). My mind was abuzz with the excitement of getting all dressed up. That Saturday, I rushed home after my bike ride, full of anticipation for International Day.

"Guys, what you wearing? Doobs, what do you think I should wear!!"
"Erm, you know that was a joke, right?" said Doobs.
Eh.
"Ficali, there's no International Day Fair, silly. It's just a Lahsiv and his mates going out for a few drinkies at an Irish pub not far from here."
"Oh."

"Now put on some jeans and a t-shirt and let's head over."

And as always, (well, sometimes anyway), Doobs was right. There was no street fair. There were no musicians or performers or (most importantly!) food stalls. Infact, when we got there, it was a tiny little pub, and a bunch of friends downing a beer bong. International Day indeed.

All I can say is, thank gawd I hadn't donned the whole Indian garb.

The painting and singing day

Last weekend, in a moment of grandiose magnanimity, we all pitched up for yet another New York Cares Day. On this one day every six months, thousands of New Yorkers collectively unite to help paint the public schools and clean the parks of the city. Of course, these are the same New Yorkers who would probably draw a gun on you if you bumped into them in the street. But on New York Cares Day, all these pettinesses are momentarily put aside in the name of humanitarian betterment. Oh yeah, and of playing with paint.

Impressively early on a Saturday morning, we all piled pellmell into a little yellow schoolbus headed towards PS184 in Queens. Immediately receding into his yellow schoolbus days, Delta started throwing wadded paperballs at Lahsiv. Kids will be kids. Sigh.

By the time we arrived at the school, Mr. and Mrs. Pooks were already en scene, already covered in paint, beavering away in one of the classrooms. So with economy of time (but after dappling in the breakfast buffet laid out for us), we quickly divided ourselves into little groups and attacked the various rooms that needed painting.

All I can say about our efforts (other than that they really were rather effortful), is that some poor kids in PS 184 have been walking corridors of the most shockingly bright yellow this week.

I'm not quite sure when or how it happened, but suddenly, at the end of the day, the exhausted crew ended up at Keats for a quiet, celebratory drink. And then another.

And then another.

And then, the inevitable, karaoke. Surprise, surprise!

Profiteering in the forever stamp industry

I've realised I really like the friendly staff at the Postal Service. Their kindly and affectionate nature just enhances the otherwise rather tedious process of sending mail. You may also remember, of course, the USPS Super who rescued my check almost three years ago, despite all odds. Yep, that is just how great those USPS folks are.

I trundled to the post office this afternoon, to send a little present for a friend in London. Of course, even in that mundane activity I succeeded in introducing a bit of adventure: when I reached the post office, I realised I had forgotten my friend's address back at the office. So back to the office it was, (and then back to the post office). Obviously, I don't have much of a problem keeping myself entertained.

As I was paying for the package, the person at the counter asked me, "so, you want to buy a book of stamps?"
"Nah," I said, having thrown away many unused stamp books in the past. "The price always keeps changing, so there's really no point."
"That's why you should buy forever stamps," she said.
"Eh?"
"Once you buy forever stamps, you can continue to use them even if the price goes up. No matter how much the price goes up."
"Seriously?!" I felt like I'd walked in on a gold mine.
"Yeah, of course." she looked surprised, and probably was, given my disproportionate excitement.
"I should buy a lifetime supply of stamps!"
She gave me an encouraging smile. And, predictably, I was encouraged.
"In fact I could even sell them in 10 years for a profit!"
She just laughed out loud.

Speaking of making profits, I opened my first brokerage account last week. You know, because these volatile markets are obviously a good time to dapple in investments. Anyways, so I opened the brokerage account, and watch my investment half itself in the space of a week.

I guess I should just stick to profiteering in the forever stamp industry.

Smooth criminal

The other day, for the first time in my life, I knowingly and intentionally committed a crime (Well, other than the time that I refused to pick up Bella's poop, which would have resulted in a crime had Doobs not stepped in to help out).

Doobs, Bobbis, Delta and I were at the multiplex cinema near our place. It was an overcast, thunderous, monstrous day - the perfect day to spend watching movies. We went to watch Vantage Point, which turned out to be so bad, just SO bad, that after the two hour film had finally ended, we felt we rightfully deserved our money back. How many times has that happened to you? All the time, right? Me too. But this time, it was different. This time, we were having none of it. We were going to make a stand for consumer respect and dignity.

"I know, let's make up our money by sneaking into another movie!" said Bobbis. Mostly as a joke, but somehow, the idea stuck.
Somehow, we convinced ourselves that sneaking into another movie was our birthright, after having wasted two ours of our precious lives on Vantage Point.

We walked by the other movie theatres in that area. The only other movie about to start was Charlie Bartlett. Heard of it? We hadn't either.
"I don't know," I said dubiously, "none of us even know what this movie is about. Do we seriously want to go risk this again?"

But now that we'd gotten the adrenalised mode of criminal intent, there was no stopping us. In fact we might have even snuck back into Vantage Point if that had been the only option, so intent were we on doing the sneaky thing.

You might think, talk about having a really wasteful approach to time. And you wouldn't be too far off the mark. But turns out, as luck would have it, Charlie Bartlett served us just fine to lift our moods. There was even a poignant moment that brought the single tear to my eye ("I can't believe you're crying at Charlie Bartlett!" Delta whispered, appalled).

As we left the cinema, we still felt obliged to whistle and yawn in feigned nonchalance, to dissuade the wily ticket checkers who might have suspected our malfeasance. Now I feel quite seasoned enough to pull off ye' ol' Italian Job.

Lupine behaviour

This weekend, Delta, Davis and I went to one of the nicest little Cuban restaurants I've ever been to. Your typical family-run establishment, just barely six tables squeezed into a tiny room, grandmum cooking in the kitchen, daughter waiting on the customers up front. When the food came, it just smelled so darn good, I dove into my plate with gusto, and left the conversation to the boys.

I hadn't even noticed how assiduously I had been ploughing through my food, until suddenly I heard a clink, and realised that my fork had made contact with empty plate. I pushed the plate away from me, and glanced up at the boys. They were barely half way through their meals.


Delta raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Boy, that was a serious plateful of rice. You just wolfed it all down."

As usual, I missed the point and got entirely sidetracked by the wrong detail. "I wonder why they say 'wolfed' it down," I mused. "I mean, there must be animals that eat much more and much faster than wolves!"

"Hmm, not sure," Delta conceded, thrown off course by my sidebar.
"Wolf it down?!" Davis interjected, "isn't the correct phrase to woof it down, I mean like a dog barking?"
"Eh?" I grunted (Delta, ever the more polite one, said "oh, really?").


I was fairly sure I was right, but inasmuch as there'd been debate, I decided to come home and do some nifty googling. And confirmed my original belief: Incase you had any doubt, dear reader, (other than this designer dog boutique), the world still seems to have consensus around using the old lupine analogy for such displays of gustatory haste.

We're being nickled and dimed

I heard on 60 Minutes the other day that, due to the growing cost of metals, it actually costs the US Mint two cents for each penny coin they manufacture, and ten cents for each nickel.

What, I thought to myself. Nothing costs a penny or a nickel anymore. They should just get rid of those coins.

They interviewed a senior official at the US Mint. "It is unsustainable for the US Mint to continue running at a loss like this," he confirmed.

Then they interviewed a random selection of pedestrians.
"What do you think that it costs the mint two cents for each penny they manufacture, and a dime for each nickel?"
"Get rid of 'em," the people responded.

Then they introduced a senior chap in the government.
"We can't make the penny obsolete!" he shouted. "It's an ingrained part of American culture. I mean, people have grown up storing their pennies in their piggy banks!"
If you weren't squirrelling away all your pennies, you silly man, maybe the US Mint wouldn't have to make quite as many each year, I thought.

And then the government official continued, "the penny is an essential part of American history. There are many adages built around this. Like - 'a penny for your thoughts'. "
At this, I balked. I wasn't having any of it. You've inherited that adage from the British, you muppet! The word 'penny' comes from the British currency not the American! My inner voice was screaming silently at the telly.

So I went home and told Doobs about this. "Did you know it costs the US Mint two cents to make each penny?" I asked.
"Forget the penny!" she retorted. "They should get rid of the nickel!" I hadn't even told her about the cost of manufacturing nickels yet, so I was curious.
"Why?"
"They just don't make sense. They're bigger than the dime and they take up all the space in my wallet and I confuse them with quarters and then after all that, they don't really have any value. Even the homeless glare when I give them nickels!!"
Doobs was so inflamed about the subject, that I almost fell bad to tell her about the cost of manufacturing them.

When even a single banana costs at least a quarter, we really are being nickeled and dimed on this one.

A new look at quality time

Yesterday on my walk to work, I saw three people on one of the park benches in Madison Square Park.

A man (all business suit and bluetooth earpiece), a woman (presumably his wife, for all apearances unaware of anyone arond her, focused intently on filing her nails) and their baby (gurgling unattended to itself in its stroller).

They each sat wrapped up in their own worlds, none of them were interacting with each other. There hadn't been a fight - there was no tension in the air - this was just the normal dynamic of their relationship. I watched them for a long time (my own work temporarily forgotten), intrigued and saddened by their lack of interaction. Not once did they look at, speak to or reach out to touch one another. They appeared not as a cohesive family, but a group of cohabiting individuals.

There was a heart breaking singularity to the group.

Just then the man's phone rang. I deduced from his tone it must be a friend, who had asked him what he was doin.
"Yeah, I'm in the park," he responded. "We're just spending some quality time together."

It saddened me that this was their quality time. This was their special time together, as a family.

I might have been able to tell you what happened next, had I not suddenly remembered I was supposed to be at work myself. Sadly, I had to head on.

A stringent code of ethics

"Excuse me, miss, could you spare me a penny?"

I don't normally stop to give money to beggars on the street. Food, yes. Charity donations, yes. But not money. Don't ask me why, it's a warped principle thing.

But yesterday, I had a few coins jangling in my pocket, and I was feeling at one with the love of life, so before I knew it, I had stopped.

"Excuse me, miss, do you have a penny to spare?"

I fished in my pocket and pulled out a quarter. Usually, I quarters are sacrosanct. They are our means to do laundry. But yesterday, all rules were off. I proferred the quarter to the man sitting on the sidewalk, huddling inside a sleeping bag.

"Here you go!"
He looked at the coin. Turned it over. And then returned it.
"No, miss, I only need a penny."
I gawked. I gaped. I gasped. Essentially, I had no idea how to react.
"Erm, okay, let's see here..."
I fished in my pocket and pulled out the next coin my fingers grasped. Handed him the dime. "Will this do?"
"Only if you don't have a penny, ma'am. All I need is a penny. You see, I just need something to scratch this scratchcard with."
"Oh!" I fished about some more. Found a penny, handed it over.
"Thank you, ma'am. Now I can scratch this card and hopefully get some money."

I couldn't help myself, I laughed out loud. He did too, I guess we both saw the humour in it at the same time.
"Good luck, man!" I said, as I headed off. Sincerely wishing he did win the lottery.