Sometimes life confronts us with hard choices

I would very much like to attend a lecture by Louis Ferrante tonight. The guy is a Gambino-family insider who spent eight years in jail for committing some of the most lucrative robberies in US history, refused to cooperate with the FBI against former associates of the Gambino family, wrote a book (From Prison to Proust) and converted to Orthodox Judaism. There is nothing overly exciting about a Queens born mafiaman who resolved that, as if eight years waiting for freedom weren’t enough, he shall wait another 2000 years to shake hands with the Messiah. What struck me instead was the picture accompanying the article in Time Out about the Non-Motivational Speaker Lecture Series of which Ferrante is guest. The photo portrays a speaker giving his presentation with a tampax tampon stuck up his nose. At least I suppose that’s a tampon. The caption says it was a demonstration of ‘how to alienate your fellow passengers’. Would I feel alienated by sitting in the train next to a man with a tampon stuck up his nose? Is there anything a fellow passenger could shove up his nose without stirring feelings of alienation? A nasal spray, for example, which is thematically pertinent and thus rationally acceptable? His metro ticket, in case he's got no pockets (functionally understandable)? These are some of the existential questions that stirred my enthusiasm for the event.

Unfortunately we also have an invitation to an advance screening of a movie for tonight. My husband told me the other day that he couldn’t make it because the movie starts at 6.45 and he’s got a meeting at 5.30. So this morning I came up with the Gambino plan:

me: “You know, we could go to this lecture by Louis Ferrante tonight. It’s at 8.00, which leaves you with plenty of time…”

husband: “Who’s Louis Ferrante”

me: “I don’t know, but look, he’s got a tampax shoved up his nose!”

Well, I guess my husband has been sitting in one of those useless we-can-save-the-world-you-go-first meeting this morning, absorbed in some tampax-themed soul searching. He called an hour ago to let me know that after all he’s not supposed to speak on any of the agenda items and thus he can make it for tonight’s movie.

My friend the TV advice guy explained to me that an advance screening is usually a longer cut of the movie, where the consulting firm organizing the event asks the audience for feedback, sometimes they hand out surveys and –quote- ‘you fill in whatever bubble you think is appropriate’. Having been denied the thrill of a lecture by a Jewish mafia man with a tampax stuck up his nose, I’m resolved to take full advantage of my advance screening experience and I have prepared a couple of answers such as “I think this scene best reflects Schopenhauer's nuanced differentiations of the universal substratum, propounding the nonrational, phenomenologist will as the ultimate reality’. I can see those Nielsen folks reading my inappropriate bubble and going “what the f---k?? Who does he think he is? Louis Ferrante?”.

Lower East Side Camel Caravan

I hate dogs. But I would have never dared to tell this black camel that I saw walking his owner on leash around the Lower East Side the other day.

Veni, vidi, velcri

According to state law no vehicle with a license plate can be parked on the sidewalk. Many garages won't rent space to scooters and motorcycles. There are no on-street scooter-designated parking spots in the city. These are some of the reasons why many Vespa riders in Manhattan fasten the license plate to the scooter with velcro (see pic), and just pop it off after parking illegally on the sidewalk so that there is no way to identify them. Oh, this neapolitan attitude feels like home… I just wish I had put that heavenly wisdom into practice at the time I was the parking ticket queen of Rome.

Anyway, there is reason to believe the velcro trick has its days counted. With scooter sales in New York City growing 120% per year, the cops can no longer ignore the issue and in some cases they tow scooters parked with their plates removed, treating them as ‘abandoned vehicles’. On the other hand, last September Piaggio Group Americas has paid for parking for scooters at four lots in NYC as part of a campaign to position two-wheel vehicles as a solution that could greatly reduce this nation’s energy consumption, while helping to preserve our environment and reduce traffic congestion. Not only that. With gas prices rising what is most appealing to scooter riders apparently is the joy of ‘pulling into a gas station behind an SUV and seeing them pay 75 bucks’.

I engaged in a little sociological experiment. I registered on a couple of Italian scooter riders forums and posted a comment on the velcro trick, candidly asking wether the same infamous practice takes place in Italy as well. I’m giving my fellow Romans a couple of months to spread the word. And the Ministry of Interior should thank me I didn’t give the hint to a forum of Naples-based riders.

Someone's getting spoiled here

Things to do in NYC at 7 am :  go see Counting Crows perform live (and free)  on Good Morning America at Bryant Park.

Amazing city. 

A Desperate Finale

The other night we went to a very popular bar in the West Village to meet some friends. They were Belgians and I thought that, like all Belgians, they were friendly, good-natured and genuine people. Plus, they take their beer seriously and deserve the highest admiration and praise for that.

However, all this Belgian goodness surrounding me made me feel guilty about all the fritoland-bashing stuff I write on my blog. I had to order another drink to wash off the guilt. Guilt-free, I looked around and suddenly realized people were dressed in roaring 20's flappers and gangsters outfits. I turned to my husband:

Me: I like this place, it’s cool.

Husband: we never go to bars.

Me: well, that’s because this is a hook-up bar and you’re not supposed to go to hook-up bars with your husband.

Husband: all bars in Manhattan are hook-up bars.

Me: then what’s the added value I get from living in Manhattan?

Husband: you don’t have to wait one year to watch the new episodes of Desperate Housewives?

Right, and tonight is the grand finale: time to grab that remote control, stand up and sing the American national anthem as a token of profound admiration and deep gratitude and knock myself out on the couch.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints

The Cardamom peeler’s wife has sent me a birthday card picturing Hanuman, the monkey deity worshipped as a symbol of physical strength, power and perseverance. I love it not only because it reminds me of the colors and the magic of India, but also because it brings back very special memories of the time the Cardamom peeler’s wife and I shared an office in Brussels, although it’s possible that I have distorted memories of her corkboard; did she hang images of hindu gods or George Clooney?

Now, the fact that Hanuman joined St. Rita of Cascia on the magnetic rack hung over my workstation raises some important questions: is this a blasphemy mix or I just set up a strong lobby with formidable power of positive influence on my life? In a multicultural society, would the avatar of Shiva and the patroness of impossible cases join forces? And by the way, now that I know that St. Rita is venerated as ‘la Santa de los impossibles’ who the hell gave me that little icon?

After careful consideration and deep spiritual meditation, I've come to the conclusion that since I received this hindu god card from an Indian catholic friend, there is no reason why Hanuman and St. Rita shouldn’t be working together across religious boundaries.

Here is my dream team.

A dignified coroner’s report

You see those pictures of people in Pompeii and you think, how weird: one quick game of dice after your tea and you're frozen, and that's how people remember you for the next thousand years. Suppose it was the first of dice you've ever played? Suppose you were only doing it to keep your friend Augustus company? Suppose you'd just at the moment finished a brilliant poem or something? Wouldn't it be annoying to be commemorated as a dice player?

Nick Hornby, ‘High Fidelity’

 

Years ago in college, one day I was having a coffee with friends outside the cafeteria when a huge pinecone fell and landed a few inches from me. That pinecone could have hit and split my head open. Perhaps. At least that’s what I imagined and it was at that point that I started fearing a ridiculous death. Second time I escaped a ridiculous death was in Goa, India, when a killer coconut fell from a tremendously tall palm tree missing our group by a few feet.

It’s not fear of death per se. I’m not afraid of dying. Not that I would ever choose to go heli-skiing –i.e. jumping from a helicopter onto wild snow and extreme slopes- or cheerleading, which seems to be the most dangerous and injury-prone sport for women, although if I had to choose I’d prefer to risk my life while being tossed into the air and rotating in a funky costume rather than by jumping out of an helicopter in ski wears that make me look as if I had to survive a bio-chemical disaster.

I’m not afraid of dying in a sense that, for example, I’m not scared of turbulence when flying, meaning that I don’t flip out and scream WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. You never know what Jacks and Sawyers you will find on that tiny island awaiting you in the middle of the Ocean…

I fear a ridiculous death, though. One of those that make people remember you as “that chick that die from a pinecone”. Or, the coroner’s report indicating “death by coconut”.

One would say, stand clear of trees and of course the closing doors. Nope. Not enough. On my way back from Florida I found myself thanking God I didn’t die smashed by a pelican while swimming in the Gulf of Mexico or hit by a 34 kg flying ray jumping out of the water.

"Tips to help you plan for the worst weather"

To do in NY when it’s 12 degree outside with no sign of real spring-like weather and showers are forecast for the next 7 days:

Book a ticket to Florida.

Between Dante's Inferno and the Moskva River

Colin Farrell gave an interview to GQ magazine where he revealed his current passion for Russian baths:

"Hollywood hellraiser Colin Farrell has admitted he is hooked on taking Russian-style steam baths while covered in honey. He was a daily visitor to the 10th Street Russian and Turkish Baths where guests are smothered in honey before steaming." Said Farrell: "There's something very basic about rubbing honey on your skin and going steaming with a bunch of strange Russian men."

I found out about Farrell’s fascination with the 10th Street Russian baths only after I went. I wasn’t expecting to see any Hollywood stars. That’s what I anticipated instead: in the worst case scenario, we would go back home with a newly adopted family of E.coli bacteria or with a sixth toe growing on my foot, in the best case scenario we would see a two-on-one gangster fight between a Viggo Mortensen-looking guy dripping blood and sweat while struggling with knife-wielding Chechnyan assassins.

It didn’t turn out to be what I’ve anticipated. I didn’t even get to see the contingent of the Russian mafia having a sweat right in front of me, although Russian baths were known to be a safe meeting place for rival gang leaders, obviously because weapons are difficult to conceal on a naked body. Yet, the place is wild. And I’m not referring to the fact that last time it was inspected on April 7, 2008 four violations were cited including mice and “not vermin-proof”. Non-germaphobes will love the radiant heat stone room and the ice water pool which feels amazing once the epileptic fit stops and you manage to convince yourself that you are not going to die from pneumonia tomorrow.

And about the honey rubbing, haven’t seen any honey but it seems that Colin Farrell went to rehab to get off ecstasy, cocaine, speed, Jack Daniels and wine. Well, that explains it.