Plant a New Seed

I’m taking it literally this year.

The end of another year always brings the usual litany of year-end wrap ups, lengthy year’s “best” lists and endless reels of clips showing the year’s highlights, as if we have already forgotten what happened three months ago. For some, it can bring closure to a project or a fourth quarter they’re happy to be done with. For others, the end of a year can mean saying goodbye to a productive period of time or formally moving on to the next chapter. Whatever the year’s end signifies, it brings with it one thing above all else, the promise of a new year.

A new year. The year. The year when it all finally happens, when you do it, achieve it, receive it; a year that holds the possibility of being just one big fucking great year.

In preparation for this upcoming, epic year of life, many of us will begin to prepare ourselves. We’ll shake off the past twelve months, and take stock of where we are and where we wanted to be just one short year ago. We will cleanse our minds of what didn’t happen and wipe the life slate clean, preparing to take in the new, hopeful energy that comes with the year’s renewal. Yoga, juice cleanses, martinis, our methodology for slate cleaning is as varied as our life experiences.  

And why not feel the positive energy? This year you’ll celebrate another birthday, another anniversary; have another visit with your brother and your beloved pet pigeon. You’ll get to see your dentist, plumber, gynecologist (insert joke about plumbing and gynecology here), mailman, maybe even get to go on another glorious trip to the DMV. You will go back to that place you love, listen to your favorite Foreigner song once more; hear that one about the priest, the rabbi and the stripper, and laugh harder than you did the first time. This year, you will have an opportunity to do it all again, an opportunity to truly win one for number one.

Resolutions will be made, as they often are in the spirit of renewal. Making a resolution allows us a chance to verbalize a goal, a desire, a need for behavior modification, and attempt to attain it. Some stick with these resolutions, basking in the semi-irritating glow of a goal achieved come December; some slack off on the resolutions, moving on to other necessities by mid-February. There’s no shame in that, you went with the infectious spirit of the season and tried something. Don’t be too hard on yourself in eleven months, there’s always next year to finally stop smoking Phillies Blunts.

So, as you take in the flurry of year-end enthusiasm, remember that it doesn’t have to be the end of a year to make a change. Planting the seeds of positivity and possibility can happen year round, just like being ridiculous. I give you permission to wipe your slate clean anytime you need.

Incidentally, vodka is great for cleaning.

"I think I've got it."

For 189 days straight, Francis had not wanted to get out of bed. In actuality, Francis had not really wanted to get out of bed for 12,774 days. She assumed that as a child she’d likely never wanted to get up and was repeatedly forced out of a peaceful slumber by her parents (and other powers that be) from the day she was born. Given that tomorrow was her 35^th birthday, it would bring the grand total of mornings she had miserably greeted the day to a nice round 12,775. Francis was never an optimist.

But it came in waves. The current ebb had begun 190 days ago when she’d experienced a brief brush with enthusiasm stemming from the promise of a callback for an off-Broadway revival of Our Town. She awoke that morning, on day 12,584, in her usual tired, irritated state, but pushed herself to get out of bed, certain the good news she had been pining for was on its way. As she methodically brushed her teeth, A Chorus Line’s “I Hope I Get It” played on repeat in her head. “God, I think I’ve got it. I think I’ve got it.”

Seven hours, four cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes later, Francis had not gotten the coveted callback. Apparently, the “our” in Our Town did not include her.

The very next morning, on day 12,585, Francis once again began the day in a bad mood. One that was certain to last at least through tomorrow.

We Gotta Move These Color TVs

Since 2007, New York City has had televisions in the backseats of its famous yellow taxi cabs. By my genius calculation that means approximately seven years of Taxi TV have elapsed. And I still just hate it.

Yes, like the youthful, radiant skin I once knew and the countless hours spent on bad dates that I’ll never get back, Taxi TV is an unfortunate fact of life, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. In fact, I don’t even have to pretend to like it. I do, however, have to sit there, in the back of the cab, and be taken captive by the repetitive advertising loop that plays at an earth shattering volume for the longest thirty seconds known to man before I can be prompted to turn the thing off.

That is if it even goes off. Having the option to shut the Taxi TV off was assured by its implementers when Taxi TV first made the scene, hoping to allay the fears of those who objected to television screens being forced on them in yet another arena of life, but all too often the shut-off function is not entirely, um, functional. Having been designed in the early, oh-my-god-we-are-living-the-awesome-futuristic-Buck-Rodgers-dream-we-always-knew-would-come-true boom of touch screen, heat sensing technology (In 2007, The New York Times hailed NYC was “at the forefront of cab technology.”), the power button often forces riders to be at the whim of what the screen can and cannot sense. It goes off, it goes back on, the ad loop starts over, you chastise yourself for leaving your finger lingering one second too long in front of the button, you wonder if you can stab it with a pen. It’s a vicious cycle.

And God help you if you have gloves on.

Volume is perhaps the single biggest complaint cab riders have about Taxi TV. Four out of five people surveyed (by me in a bodega on 23rd street while waiting for a man at the front of the line to count out thirty-seven cents in change) admitted they would be more positive on Taxi TVs in general if they were not so unnecessarily loud. Several years ago, after a wave of passenger complaints, Taxi TV relented, lowering the overall volume of the television sets in most cabs and adding a feature to make adjusting the volume a possibility. Why then, is it still so ridiculously challenging to turn the volume down? Five out of five people surveyed (in the same storied focus group) agreed that in the time it takes them to figure out how to turn the volume down, they could take up a new language, phone a long lost loved one or re-read War and Peace.

These were hard-hitting survey questions.

Between the volume, the aptitude needed to turn the TV off, and the generally perplexing mystery of why we ever needed televisions in the back of taxis to begin with, what has really been lost is silence. That solitary ten minutes of quiet time, sitting in the backseat, watching the city move around you, being forced to sit still for a few seconds, slow down for a few minutes; that’s all gone out the window. Literally. Thanks to Taxi TV that solitude has been replaced by “breaking news” of Justin Bieber’s arrests, the life changing banter of Talk Stoop, and “first looks” at luxury apartments in Manhattan. Because the only thing the average taxi rider needs less than Taxi TV is a $50 million dollar Midtown condo.

Last night, after a long, exhausting day, and with my negativity towards Taxi TV firmly in place, I stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. Slumped down in the backseat, I opened the window. Riding along, the cool air felt good as it met my tired face. I was so calm I could have taken a little cab nap or written a taxi haiku. Approaching my destination, I looked up and suddenly noticed that the Taxi TV had been on the entire time. Had I been so out of it that I didn’t register its presence? Or have I just become used to it? Have I finally been broken down by the Taxi TV to the point where I let it exist, let it win the war, let it zone me out and allow my brain get sucked further into the vortex?

Or was I just a person, finally sitting down for a minute, with the thoughts and sights of real life in my head overruling the news and pictures of Taxi TV? Yes. I was. Even when met with constant noise and action, the mind has an uncanny ability to take over and allow you to find a little bit of peace if you let it.

Maybe Taxi TV isn’t all bad. Some people like it, some people don’t. But, it is here to stay and so am I. And so I found my peace, maybe even made my peace with Taxi TV.

Now there’s some breaking news.

Life for Dummies

Dolly needed a vacation. The phrase, “I need a vacation,” is uttered by millions of people each day, each one firmly believing that they need a vacation, a break from the routine of their daily lives, a change of scenery to interrupt the vague monotony of their existence, but the word “need” has varying degrees of truth. In Dolly’s case, she really needed a vacation.

Dolly looked terrible. Pale, underweight, tired; dark circles below her eyes so large they could harbor fugitives for weeks at a time. She was physically exhausted. Passing by her desk, co-workers often commented she looked like she was going to, “face plant right into the computer.” The computer. Dolly sat in front of the computer for hours at a time, motionless except for the movement in her fingers as they typed along. She could have been doing her assigned tasks or writing the Communist Manifesto 3.0, she barely knew the difference at this point. Although Dolly had never been very political, save for the “New Yorkers for a Green Tomorrow” rally she had attended in 1997 clad in purple Birkenstocks and a homemade tie dye dress she’d ruined a lobster pot making.

Her mind was spent. So much so that she had no thoughts beyond those that got her from point A to point B. The only thinking that took place was that which was essential to her going through the motions. Her brain read like the table of contents from Life for Dummies:

I. Wake up

II. Turn off alarm clock

III. Sit up

IV. Walk to bathroom

V. Turn on light

VI. Look in mirror

VII. Frown

VIII. Turn on shower to get water hot

IX. Lift up nightgown

X. Sit on toilet

XI. Try not to fall back asleep while waiting for bowel movement

XII. Poop

Another day in the life of Dolly.

A Charter Member of the Joan Collins Fan Club

Levon never liked is name. Being born to an Elton John enthusiast was not quite all it was seemingly cracked up to be. Still, he accepted his lot in life, occasionally self-medicating with reruns of Dynasty and coffee flavored Haagen-Dazs—his default brand of choice due to a childhood umlaut obsession.

Levon wondered what life might have been like as a Jeff or an Edgar, maybe a Mitch or a Brett. Okay, not a Brett. Would he have been a distinguished Richard or a charming Dashell? Perhaps he might have made a sexy Serge or an astutely intelligent Arthur, but Levon would never know.

What he did know was a life of being chastised for his name, endless taunts from other kids calling him “Left on” as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever said. So funny Levon forgot to laugh.

One absurdly sunny day in early July, Levon received a call from the office of Mr. James Pinkerton, Esq. Mr. Pinkerton was looking for someone by the name of Levon, someone who would be the beneficiary of a large estate from a distant relative in Topeka, Kansas.

“Yes, I’m Levon,” Levon said, recognizing the need for a direct answer.

“Levon, my boy, I can’t tell you how great it is to hear that,” Mr. Pinkerton replied.

And it was great to hear that. For once, Levon was happy to be a Levon. A Levon who was also a charter member of the Joan Collins fan club.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie, That's New York, eh?

It happens quietly. A subtle, often untraceable shift takes place. Slowly, but surely, a once occasional foray becomes a full-blown habit.

What is it that breeds such an unconscious, deep seeded attachment? Pizza. And the zombie-like slide towards elevated levels of consumption that I speak of can only mean one thing, you are a New Yorker.

Pizza—not to be confused with “pizazz,” an equally enthusiastic and, not coincidentally, similar word. As a child, pizza held an almost holy place in my young life, personifying all that was festive, celebratory and over indulgent, essentially defining fun itself. Birthday parties, Saturday nights when baby sitters were in charge (supposedly), sporting events, slumber parties, congratulatory meals where the main event was whatever you wanted; it wasn’t pizza night every night, but when it was, hold the phone. Ordering pizza signified you were going all out, letting go and giving permission for the rockin’ waves of excitement to come rushing in.

You were heading straight into the coma-inducing black hole of supreme pizza and Coca-Cola, and it was okay with your mom.

Yes, in those days pizza was god and in the sea of Domino’s and Pizza Huts that made up the proverbial pizza landscape for large swaths of America, no one personified that more so than the man himself, Little Caesar. With his trademark, “Pizza. Pizza,” refrain and his paper covered, rectangular cardboard packaging (mind blowing), the lovable Little Caesar jumped out of the television screen and into our hearts. But while some of us were swimming in Crazy Bread and loving every minute of it, society began to take a cruel turn. Suddenly, adolescence turned into young adulthood and the once popular pizza-pie-palooza birthday parties were replaced by 6-foot party subs, taco bars and worse, all dessert menus.

By my teen years (a.k.a. the delightful mid-1990s), the pizza industry itself had shifted. The designer pizza craze swept the country and chains like California Pizza Kitchen roared into popularity with their nouveau, “fresh cool” vibe and quirky West Coast flavor combinations that kept you distracted just long enough to think their product was healthier. At home my mom began pushing the “make your own” pizza trend, another dark chapter for the pizza establishment. Soon my beloved, piping hot pies were taking on the form of over-stuffed Boboli ready crusts with a panoply of toppings that no doubt had their roots in a misguided CPK visit (“Honey, asparagus is great on pizza!”). Life was imploding.

Fast forward. The sun shined on me and I moved to New York City, land of pizza and dreams. I say fast forward because we needn’t waste time getting into the dark years when too much late night pizza was nobody’s friend. Yes, people, it was here, here in the Empire State that the first hint of that untraceable shift began to happen. Soon, pizza-as-diet-staple had me in its clutches. Me and everyone else in town.

As a vast array of New York stereotypes underscore, New Yorkers eat a lot of pizza (fuhgeddaboudit). In my ridiculously astute opinion that stems from two main factors: one, there is great pizza in NYC; and two, pizza is the ultimate convenience food. Am I blowing your mind yet or what?

A recent study by the USDA concluded that 1 in 8 Americans eats pizza every day (true to form, Eater greeted the news with the earth-shattering headline, “USDA Scientifically Concludes Americans Eat Lots of Pizza.”). 1 in 8? I can’t speak for the rest of America, but I know that number is significantly higher for New Yorkers. Here, pizza places dot the avenues more than mailboxes, fire hydrants, froyo outposts, fruit stands, guys hocking tube socks and fedoras, and even liquor stores — which is saying something. A slice of pizza in NYC is akin to a piece of Kleenex, a bottle of water, a Metrocard, a discarded newspaper; its presence and use is so ubiquitous, the evidence is everywhere. Although unlike a waded up Kleenex, I don’t typically find pizza crust in my bag.

So how much higher is the rate of pizza consumption in NYC? “I see the same people in here everyday at lunchtime. Every single day they come in,” a staff member at Famous Ray’s Pizza in Chelsea told me. That’s five days a week, one meal a day. Assuming those customers generally eat at a frequency of three times per day, that means almost a quarter of their weekly meals are pizza. Other New Yorkers told me that a slice of pizza makes up closer to a third of their weekly diet. Manhattan resident, Kelly Russell commented, “I eat pizza probably six times a week. It’s just like, right there.” Indeed it is. “And because, I like pizza.”

A truer statement was never uttered.

We eat pizza because we like pizza. And we eat pizza because in the city, you constantly find yourself hungry (thirsty, tired, needing to go the bathroom…) and on the go, and what else stifles hunger for $2.75* better than a slice of pie? We don’t see it as unhealthy and why should we? The USDA study points out that 30% of our daily calcium and 50% of our lycopene can come from pizza — that’s like inhaling an entire crate of heirloom tomatoes right in the middle of the farmer’s market while Dr. OZ watches. We don’t see pizza as a festive-occasion-only food, we see it as necessary, hearty, affordable and accessible in ways nothing else really is. That $8.00 sandwich? I’ll have a slice instead. That $7.50 burger? I’ll still go for the slice. What about an $12.00 salad? Please. Who has $12.00?

For New Yorkers pizza is fuel. And we will fill our bodies with whatever fuel we need to get us from point A to point B. If that fuel also happens to be a wonder of cheesy tomato perfection, hey, that’s the beauty of NYC. Between the amazing local pizzerias and the high levels of availability, pizza makes its way into your life, replacing more snacks than you ever realized and becoming firmly ensconced in your existence.

And sure, we all have our favorite place, the place with the best slice, but let’s get real, in a pinch I’ll eat a $1 slice and keep on moving.

Like millions of New Yorkers, I love pizza and will grab a slice anytime the hunger pains strike, often making it part of my diet by bookending it with a green juice and a non-GMO flax granola bar. I’m nothing if not practical.

But that’s pizza in NYC, practical. Which is why it’s the number one food for New Yorkers (according to ridiculousinthecity.com) and the number one food in my ridiculous heart.

Pizza. Pizza.

*current price of a plain cheese slice at Joe’s Pizza on Carmine Street. Ridiculous in the City keeps it real.

Nothing Carries More Germs Than Money

“This is abysmal,” Doug sighed, staring out at the rainy city below him. Having arrived at JFK a soggy hour and a half ago, he had no idea how long the skies had been pouring for, but he was nonetheless severely annoyed by the onslaught. The hard driving water droplets slammed against the windowed walls of his 54th floor hotel room with a muffled beat, protecting him from the harsh weather outside, but raising a specter of doubt in his mind about how long the windows could hold out.

When he’d checked in, some kind of magical, once-in-a-lifetime snafu had led to the ultimate room upgrade. Walking through the door of the towering glass duplex suite, he thought of the epic Caesar’s Palace suite in Rain Man. He’d always wanted to stay in that room, and now he was. Relatively speaking. His middle school girlfriend once told him he looked like Tom Cruise. To which his best friend Rodrigo had responded, “More like Tom Arnold.”

He was starving, but afraid to order anything from room service, knowing he couldn’t afford it. The snafu would only take him so far. He walked over to his bag, fished out an Oats & Honey granola bar and took a bite. Having snacks on hand was something his mother had ingrained in him, that and hand washing. As a result, Doug was borderline obsessive compulsive about hand washing. He thought about washing his hands now, but remembered he’d washed them after tipping the bellhop five dollars twenty minutes ago. Nothing carries more germs than money. Should he have tipped ten in a place like this?

Finished with the granola bar, he folded the wrapper in half three times and set it on the table.

The Early Arrival Tendency

Pierre was always on time. In his entire life he had never been late. Born two weeks early, the first child at school in the morning, the first at work as an adult, and always the first person in an establishment when meeting friends. Something the wait staff detested.

He was the early guy. For a date that began at 6:30 p.m.—on the early side for someone whose hair was still brown—Pierre arrived at 5:50 p.m., eager to “get a good seat” and not be late. As if that was possible. Never in his existence was he ever held up by a delayed train, stuck in traffic, or forced to move something back to a later time due to circumstances beyond his control. Because he was always the opposite of late (let’s call it obscenely early), he had his bases covered should anything of the delaying nature occur.

This was of the utmost annoyance to the people in his life. His parents grew tired of him pacing about as he waited for them to be ready. His grade school friends often left him waiting alone at a playground or before a team practice because they couldn’t match his earliness. And his college friends, most of them not even remotely interested in being on time, not to mention early, routinely left him hanging or sent him off to do their bidding while they went about their lives (“Okay, bro, while you’re waiting, we need two kegs, a case of forties, plastic cups… oh, and get a pack of white boxer briefs, size medium.”). This was Pierre’s life.

Pierre had dated one girl, just one who liked him enough to try to break him of his early habit. She would purposely tell him a meeting time half an hour later, only to arrive and find him there, having shown up well in advance. This, coupled with another one of his “early arrival” tendencies (you get the picture), proved to be too much.

But Pierre didn’t want to change. He didn’t want to be the “late guy” or even the “on time guy.” He was the “early guy” and he accepted himself, just as he was.

Being early did not necessarily mean being prepared for what he might encounter in all that early space, however. One Thursday evening, Pierre found himself sitting at a bar, waiting for a group of colleagues, with the compulsory three seats next to him safely saved. Thank god he’d gotten there early. After a few minutes, an attractive blonde sporting Drop Dead Red on her nails approached and said to him, “Excuse, do you mind if I sit, I’m waiting for my friends?”

Looking at her, Pierre wasn’t quite sure how to respond. His chivalrous tendencies told him to give her the seat, but these were saved. What if his friends showed up early? 

“Sorry, these are saved,” he replied.

“It’ll just be for a few minutes,” she smiled, “I’m early.”

Sitting there alone, Pierre knew he was early too. So, he responded the only way he could.

“Nice to meet you early, I’m Pierre.”

French? Catalina? Italian?

Genghis was unsure. Prone to self-doubt and indecision, he was frequently unable to make up his mind, constantly going back and forth in his head over one option versus another, analyzing the possibilities and pitfalls of every single choice he made. Genghis was a man described in the best light as an over thinker. In the worst light, a victim of crippling uncertainty. The thin line between the two was akin to a string between soup cans that was pitched as a genius idea for enabling secret communications, but didn’t necessarily breed mobile accessibility.

For Genghis, every decision was just as challenging to make as the next. A choice of brown loafers or black for Thursday’s meeting, the chicken breasts being on sale when he went specifically to buy brook trout or maybe salmon, the question of whether to hop on the subway for five stops versus hail a quick cab when running late­—the result of that morning’s countless bouts of indecision—, all warranted as much thought and over analysis as the question of whether to move into a new apartment or (hold the phone) get married, something that would never happen given the amount of examination, vacillation and overall throwing of caution to the wind that would have to take place. Genghis never threw caution anywhere but in his own face.

Hell was dining out with Genghis as the very word “menu” sent shock waves of doubt to his psyche before he even arrived at the restaurant. Soup or salad? Soup was more filling, salad more nutritious. Soup sounded good, but high in sodium. The salad may have a creamy dressing though. What were the dressing options? French? Catalina? Italian? What kind of Italian? “Olive oil and herbs” Italian or “canola oil and vinegar” Italian? What’s the difference between Italian and Vinaigrette really? Maybe Blue Cheese. But the Blue Cheese could be a bad choice before the entrée… A steak or maybe pasta? The steak is forty-four dollars. But the pasta is high in carbs. Am I gonna pay for a bowl of hot noodles I could have made myself? Maybe there’s a fish special? But Blue Cheese before fish? I wonder if I need a Zantac? The doctor said to rely less on Zantac though. When should I start to do that? Is that my water? Should I be drinking water with no ice?

Today, Genghis’s inability to decide centered around one thing. The weather. One thing, that is, with many little nuanced assessments.

"G" is for Granule

Stew was a pool person. He did not like sand. If given the choice of pool or beach, Stew always chose pool.

In a tropical setting, at a lakeside retreat, along the rugged, rocky New England coast, Stew was to a pool as a sesame seed is to a bagel; stuck on until a force of nature shook him loose.

Lucky for Stew, he was a city dweller. The number of times he came in contact with sand on a daily basis were relegated to vacations and waterside gatherings, leaving his day-to-day life almost totally sand free. And he went to great lengths to stay sand free.

Stew avoided sandboxes like the plague they were to him. He would never be caught dead near a volleyball pit (besides, why were they always wearing bikinis when playing? Hello, you’re not at the beach.) and he always wore shoes and socks when strolling through the park for fear of any small granules making their way into his footbeds.

In Stew’s case, it wasn’t that he had anything against sand, he simply didn’t want to be bothered by it. A pool represented ultimate relaxation to Stew. Relaxation that came with an effortless, no clean up aspect that added to his ability to disengage and enjoy himself in a natural setting. The fact that pools were inherently not natural and, in most cases, filled with enough chemicals to kill a Pepperidge Farm Goldfish cracker (Stew’s preferred poolside snack) was immaterial to him. Stew loved a pool.

When poolside, Stew almost never went in the water. Herein lies the most ridiculous aspect of dear Stew.

Happy Birthday Ridiculous in the City. You’ve never looked better.

Met Museum, NYC

The Great Equalizer

“What is it?” June asked the man.

“What do you think it is?” he replied. Having fielded this question before he now preferred to let the viewer do the mental work.

“A circle.”

“Yes.”

“A planet or a wheel maybe?”

“Okay.”

“A hole? A hole of nothingness?”

And here we go again. He smiled a sarcastic smile.

June’s eyes were fixed upon the piece. “A space that has no beginning and no end. Both full of something and full of nothing.” 

“That’s interesting,” he responded, checking his watch as he felt the familiar rumble of hunger move through his stomach.

“A comment about the great void. About the void that exists between perception and reality.”

“Uh huh.” The Doors of Perception, how original.

“The space wherein the material world ceases to be and everything we think we know, every possession we have, every item has no meaning and we are all back to square one, back to zero. The same. Like babies in utero with no concept of what lies ahead. Like old men just before death who know what’s behind them. Like sold out shows, out of stock shoes, empty shelves at the grocery store… The great equalizer.”

Empty shelves at the grocery store? He took a step back and gazed up at the painting.

“What is it really though?” June asked again, her mind reeling with thoughts of humanity, life and death, globalization, capitalism, society, the material world, Madonna, fingerless gloves, the lace shoelaces in her old, white high-top sneakers, groceries.

“It’s a circle,” he replied.

What's love got to do with it?

Tina was a greeter. Her job was to greet everyone who came through the door of Sal’s Midtown Audio Video with the company’s trademark opener, “Welcome to Sal’s. Don’t call it Al’s. My name is Tina. How can I help you?”

Seven times out of ten the response was, “Hey Tina, what’s love got to do with it?!” Occasionally there was a crack about needing a “private dancer,” but those were getting more rare as the consumer population aged.

When “what’s love got to do with it” was thrown at her, Tina had taken to responding, “I don’t know about love, but I do know 46-inch flat screens are on sale. You’ll get a whole lotta love with one of those.”

The Concept of Literal Meaning

Sally sat in seat 32D, the middle seat of a row that was otherwise populated by an oversized, snoring man to her right and a squirming child to her left. To put it plainly, she was wedged in. The cabin smelled faintly of rotten eggs, or sulfur depending upon your reference point, and there was a thick mist emitting silently from the air ducks above the windows. Her eyes darted around, searching for mutual recognition. Did anyone else think that was a dead ringer for some kind of like, poisonous gas?

Physically unable to reach into her bag due to the reclining seat of the comatose person in front of her, and having lacked the foresight to retrieve her book before takeoff, she was now forced to sit quietly, hands folded, watching the repetitive advertisement loop on the screen above her head. Three hours of that would no doubt ensure the further deepening of her forehead wrinkles (Sally had recently faced the music about their existence), not to mention the havoc the cabin’s dry climate was wreaking on her pores. How had the glamour and excitement of air travel fallen so far?

Perhaps it might have been worth it to pay for the extra legroom. Where once there sat a girl unwilling to give the airlines another penny for what was already an overpriced ticket, now there was a woman who would have gladly paid the forty bucks to be delivered from this misery. She really wanted her book. When they called her row for boarding she’d been at the end of a pivotal scene where Vlad is finally face to face with his dead father who, thanks to the aid of an elaborate human face mask, has been secretly masquerading as his overzealous interior decorator. “More chintz, Vlad. You must have more chintz!” Now her mind was obsessing, wondering what Vlad would do next. Maybe there was a clue hidden in the rhythmic wheezes of the guy on her right.

Next to her, the kid had goldfish crackers spread out on the tray table in front of him. Didn’t his mother know about the germs those things harbored? Disgusting. Sally frowned. Looking across the aisle at the rest of row 32, she saw the mom in question holding a little, pink, stuffed pig over her baby’s head, her arm moving up and down towards the child in a flying motion while saying, “piggy, piggy, piggy,” over and over. Great, Sally thought, give the kid the impression that pigs do fly.

“Hey,” the little boy next to her said, jabbing her in the arm with his orange-coated finger.

“Hey,” she responded.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“Vomit is another word for throw up.”

Ah, the friendly skies. Sally raised her eyebrows and thought briefly about handing the kid a barf bag. If nothing else, it might shut him up. He might also be able to look back someday and pinpoint the exact moment he was introduced to the concept of literal meaning.

“So is puke,” she replied, amazed at the gratification gained from intellectually besting a four-year-old.

Turning her head forward, she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. And thus the weekend began.

Upton Wallace

“Irrational Pigeons.”

“No.”

“Insomniac Pariah.”

“NO.”

“Deaf Lemons.”

“Dude, it doesn’t have to be two words.”

“Okay, The Deaf Lemons.”

“It’s too much like Blind Melon. And it’s really stupid.”

“So’s your face.”

“We need a kick ass name. A name that says, ‘We kick ass.’ Nothing about The Deaf Lemons is kick ass.”

“Meat.”

“Meat?”

“Yeah, Meat. That’s kicks ass.”

“Isn’t there already a band called Meat?”

“Probably, it kicks ass… But I thought we were going for more of like a subtly cool name. Not hipster, but like, cool.”

“Nothing fucking hipster.”

“What about Upton Wallace?”

“Who’s Upton Wallace?

“Exactly. Who’s Upton Wallace? Who is Upton Wallace? It’s genius dude.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Ulysses took a drink from his beer bottle and sat back, staring at Mitchell. This was ridiculous. They’d wasted all afternoon on this and he had to be uptown by 6 o’clock.

“Dude, how about Shut The Fuck Up? That kicks ass.”