Oh Belvedere! Go Home, Boy!

Here is evidence that Belvedere Vodka's ad campaign at the Bleecker/Lafayette Street subway stop has overstayed its welcome. And that Vincent Gallo is known among many as a "filthy turd."

This stoopid ad campaign has been irritating me for a while now, and I have longed to wield my own Sharpie. Other commuters were not so self-restrained. When the posters are liberally decorated with penii, fangs, and obscenities, it's probably time to remove them, eh?



Enough said.



The writing on the woman's face reads "Take these filthy sexist posters down before I blow up this whole goddamn subway station. Ka-boom, muthafuckah!"



What is with this wet, feral look? Does this make me thirsty? Oh, Belvedere! Come bite me, boy!



Vincent Gallo, Bush Supporter.

Fark This Old House

Our neighborhood is the kind where parents don't make playdates by phone--the kids just go up and knock on the door and ask if little so-and-so can come out to play. When they play, it's often in the street, and that's okay, because cars barely come by. And when they do they almost sail down the street, slowly, as if the great houses are white cliffs and the wind coming down from their eaves pushes the cars, imperceptibly, into a leisurely crawl. Windows roll down and everything goes into slow motion; the kids playing ball shift aside up upon the grassy lawns and wait. Spinnakers, deploy! Everything goes silent for a small moment.

The car sails by, and they all rush into motion again, bikes careening over the old bluestone slates.

If location is everything, then we are at the apex. Seven minutes walk to the train. Eight to town. Fifteen to the beach. Big space on a big block wide enough for the sky.

Our yard is big enough for a chicken coop, a nice tuft of fruits and veggies, and a goat. It might even sustain a cow and a couple of heirloom hogs. (The gun turret to shoot the foreclosure agents will go on the roof.)

But make no mistake: Our house is a real dump. Once, we imagine, it had charm. Built in the 1890s, it still deigns to call itself a Victorian. When I saw the hideous listing pictures, I fairly salivated at what treasures would lie beneath the vile, wall-to-wall shag carpet (putrid green) and the 1970s wood paneling. What beauties might hide behind the "Yellow Wallpaper"-style paneling in the master bedroom--the paneling riddled with weird fungi and creepy gnomelike faces (squinting and mad fevers not required)? Other people--those with no imagination--would not see the potential that WE saw.

Make no mistake, once again. There is nothing original in our house, at least not on the first floor. In the 60s, someone decided that she liked "modern stuff" and away went the crown moldings, original stairs, banister, doors, windows, and whatever else stank of the old days. Up went NU ECONO BRIK on the walls of the kitchen. (If I could catch her I would wring her size 4 neck. I have her dresses, left behind here, so I know she was about a size 4, the lil' harpy.)

Almost every night, though, we puzzle over the mysteries of the house. For every question, there is no answer. "Why would the front door be here?" "Why are there no doors on the master bedroom?" "Why is there no access from the front bedroom to the upstairs bathroom?" "What did the old granny who lived in the attic use to poop into?"

For a few weeks, we carried a prising tool with us so that we could tear up paneling whenever the mood struck us. One night, I goaded my husband into kicking a massive hole into the crawlspace under the front stairs. C.H.U.D. now lives down there, but it was worth the price of admission.

Ah, I am wrong about the lack of original features! There is lead paint in the joint. It's fairly lousy with lead paint. Missing doorknobs, spiders, les mouches, green mold, canted drainspouts, chipped paint, slumped porch.

And yet...there is that lawn. There will be fruit there, and fine fat veggies. There will be soccer games on the lawn, and mud pies, and exploration. We will always find animal tracks in the snow in winter, and in the spring we will start to smell the ocean. In late summer the cricket's hum will begin again, insistent, rising and falling, and we will hear the fountain flow into the neighbor's fishpond. For whatever fool's errand brought us here, it's ours.

These Are the Rules; You Shall Obey Them!

The rules of the household are as follows. If you do not obey these rules, you will be taken behind the shed and shot.

1. When the Master of the House is cooking breakfast, do not touch the bacon. Do not ask for bacon. If you ask for bacon, you will get no bacon. If you try to touch the bacon before all the slices of bacon are cooked, you will get no bacon. If you plead for bacon, or look at the bacon with a gleam in your eye, you will get no bacon. Commentary on how the bacon is being prepared is unwelcome, and may get you shot.

2. Cheese must be sliced in one direction only. Slicing the cheese "against the grain," off kilter, too fat, or too thin will result in severe reprisals and occasional stabbings with the cheese knife. American cheese and "cheese food" are not permitted in the household.

3. Teabags are not to be left in the sink.

4. If someone in the household sneezes, you must immediately snap to attention and shout "bless you!" Failure to immediately shout "bless you!" will result in an aggrieved cry of "Nobody said 'bless you!'" Attempts to make good after the fact will not result in forgiveness. You will be watched most carefully.

5. If the younger members of the household are engaged in a musical performance, the guests must sit quietly. Talking during the song will result in your name being put on The List. Singing or movement during the song: Your name goes on The List. Clapping before the song is complete will get your name on The List. If your name is put on The List, you will be disappeared. Those whose names are not on The List will get a reward sticker.

6. Only the Master of the House shall be permitted to cook the following:
Pancakes
Spaghetti
Bacon
Oatmeal
If this rule is not obeyed, it will result in aggrieved cries of "These are horrorful pancakes, mommy," "Why is my spaghetti all clumped together?," "Daddy's oatmeal is so much better," and "You messed it up AGAIN. This is horrorful!"

7. If the Master of the House emerges from the shower to find no towel, you will be blamed. Return all towels to the bathroom after use.

8. Mein Schtinky Teddy shall always be referred to by his full and proper name. He is not to be called "that thing," or "that putrid bear." Mein Schtinky Teddy shall be honored and revered, flung down the stairs, and ritualistically gnawed upon.

9. Any inquiry made to the Eldest Son shall not be made during his working hours, when he is engaged in massive art projects, engineering contraptions, birthday-party planning for invisible friends, and the like. Any inquiry made during these times will result in an apoplectic fit and bites to the ankle area.

10. "Pizza patting" is not recommended. Anyone caught "pizza patting" will be subject to ridicule and ostracized socially for several days.

11. If a phone is not placed back in the charger after its use, your phone privileges may be revoked. You will also be beaten about the head with said phone, and made to wash the linens.

12. Wring out all sponges after use. If a sponge is discovered loitering at the bottom of the sink, you will be made to eat a "sponge sandwich," scented with mildew, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

13. In any dispute pertaining to these rules, Baby (aka "Baby Sunshine") shall be consulted to bring order, clarity, and a gummy smile to the proceedings, resulting in fewer purges, deportations, and executions than would normally be anticipated.

The Word "Atop" Is Mentioned Twice Here

16 Random Things About Me [too lazy to write a new blog post so using this]

1. I once danced atop a fire truck to the tune of "Low Rider." I had red feathers glued all over my body at the time. Don't ask.

2. As a child, I forced my pet (feral) rabbit to try to climb a tree. She did not succeed. In the same year, I charged guests at my sister's wedding 50 cents to go to the garage to view the rabbit in its hutch.

3. I cannot ice skate for beans. The last time I tried, I fell and bruised my cheek.

4. I still find poop funny, but increasingly less funny as my children's amusement with the topic grows. I'm sure there is a math formula to represent this.

5. I like chicken pot pies. Especially the "Mrs. Budd's" brand.

6. I went to high school with Lyle Menendez. He was a dope. Once, in math class, I saw his weiner poking out of his ultra-white tennis shorts. It was traumatic and creepy.

7. I have been known to make "rutabaga noises." If asked, I will deny this.

8. In high school, my friends and I invented an evil bunny character named Lumpen. He had red, carroty hair and a mole underneath one eye. And he said things like "bok, bok, bok!"

9. My friends have dogs and horses with the same names as my children.

10. My sister and matron of honor vomited (repeatedly) on the morning of my wedding with a dreadful hangover.

11. I write snarky articles for www.getinloop.com and was once told in the comments section to "get out of this town and go back to Brooklyn."

12. There is a portrait of a devil in our closet. Red, with horns. Like, the actual devil.

13. I could eat a whole bag of Cheetos if given half a chance.

14. My brothers used to dare me to put "the entire sandwich in my mouth at once," and I always complied, with ill effects.

15. One of my favorite things is a figurine I made out of three rocks glued together. The rock on top looks like an egg, and so I call the creature "eggy."

16. I once leapt atop the bull statue down on Wall Street and rode the poor bugger. Now look what's happened.

Scat!

Some sample audio specimens picked up in our household over a period of two days, beginning 5:56 a.m. 1/2/09 and ending 6:46 p.m. 1/4/09. The specimens were reported to be the work of a 5-year-old male and a 3-year-old male. These items are a representative sample that is approximately 1/16% of the total extruded over the course of the time period noted.

Put your elbow in the potty; it's fun! It's fun!
Put your buttocks in the potty; it's fun! It's fun!
Put your head in the potty; it's fun! It's fun!
[This was followed by screams and an incident in which the younger brother's fingers were slammed in the bathroom door.]

Come to my doody par-ty. Come to my doody par-ty.
Doink! I'm a turd!
[Sung while in traffic on I-95.]

Poop raining down from the sky, oh yeah!
Poop raining down from the sky, oh yeah!
Next it's gonna land on your head.
And cover you in poop! Even your nostrils will be made out of poop!
[Still stuck in traffic on I-95.]

You're invited to see
my poop in the toilet!
You're invited to see
my poop in the toilet!
[This was followed by a plea to send real invitations to a "Poop Party" hosted by the 5-year-old. The Poop Party would take place in our backyard and would include a game called "pin the tail on the poop." I was forced to write the invitations but have refrained from sending them, claiming that I "can't find any stamps." Soon he will be onto me and you may get such an invitation in the mail. Please ignore it, at all costs.]

The Curious Case of the Nutball Who Wrote on Our Ivory Piano Keys With Blue Marker

Normally, one has to keep an eye on kids with markers. When an adult is seen with a marker in hand, it's usually not a sign for alarm. This used to be the case, anyway.

A few weeks back my kindergartner had a playdate with a classmate from school. Because it was their first "date," the mom decided to stay for a while. I was working from home so I made polite chit-chat for a few minutes and then excused myself. Our nanny stayed below to get the kids some snacks, while the mom--who happens to be a piano teacher--played a few sprightly tunes on the 1910 Chickering piano that is a family heirloom of my husband. I worked upstairs happily while she played.

The next evening, my husband sat in the near-darkness, idly tickling the keys. Suddenly he gave a hideous roar of outrage. I ran in to see what was the matter. On about 12 of the piano keys, the notes (C, D, G, etc.) had been penned in bright blue marker. In a vintage music book of Christmas songs, the same blue marker had been applied. The notes were written very carefully, clearly by an adult hand.

We managed to get the marks off with some assiduous rubbing and pure, old-fashioned spittle. But I sent the following note to the mom:

"I don't know if you were aware of this yesterday, but someone actually wrote in blue marker on the ivory keys of our antique piano during our playdate. There were also notes written in the old music book we had on the top of the piano, in the same marker. (I assume this happened while I was upstairs working.) We are trying to get the marks off but worried about damaging the keys, since the marker used seems to be leaving a tint/stain behind....
We're not very happy about this so just wondering how it might have happened. This piano has been in our family for years.
Thanks for any insight."

I thought this was an awfully restrained note.

And she wrote back:

"I am so sorry. The best way to clean the ivory keys is:
Vinegar
I don't know how old this piano actually is, but if it is 50 or more years old, I am pretty sure that the keys are ivory, and ivory tends to yellow over age. DO NOT use chemical cleaners on the keys if they are ivory. The best thing to use for cleaning piano keys is a solution of vinegar and water. Ivory keys used to be the norm.

I can do this for you if you want. Also ivory is like "teeth" and many people use white toothpaste as well. Do not use water."

How about SPIT? I wanted to ask. And, if one is so knowledgeable about ivory keys, why would one choose BLUE MAGIC MARKER as a writing tool? Would you go to someone's house and write on their wall? What type of pen would you use? I, for one, would choose BLUE MAGIC MARKER.

A little while later, this email arrived:

" My friend a piano technician at the Steinway piano store also told me that rubbing alcohol mixed with water on a cloth is a sollution they use for their Steinways."

This was very helpful. I have learned a lot about caring for ivory keys through this process, and I hope you have learned a great deal as well. Remember, no water!

As for the book, I fear that none of these methods will make an impact. But at least I'll know what keys I'm playing when I launch into "Jingle Bells"!

A second playdate has not yet been arranged. When it is, I will be packing several Sharpies.

7 Beginnings to Short Stories I Never Finished

1. She had two hours in which to make him love her again. These were his criteria: The proof must arrive in the form of a small envelope or package, she must not deliver it herself, it must arrive between the hours of 8 and 10 a.m. She went about it systematically.

2. When they were several feet from shore, they dispensed the cows to swim the last stretch by themselves. Children on shore waited with sticks to switch the cows to safety.

3. He kept sending her videos of himself performing the most mundane of tasks— shaving, pouring the breakfast cereal, mowing the lawn—and now she felt it was time for him to stop. That morning a videotape of him sleeping in a lawn chair had been delivered to her home. She did not want to watch that video. Despite this, she watched. The video was entitled “Lawn Chair.” It was the most relentlessly dull film she had ever watched. The only discernable action was when he awoke, briefly, and swung at a bumblebee that had alighted on his thigh. The sequence had been relooped so that he awoke, again and again, blinked his eyes, and flung a big hammy hand in a scooping motion toward his leg. She counted, eight, ten, twelve times. Then she snapped off the tape with a vicious impatience. She would call him tonight after dinner, and tell him clearly but politely that his films were no longer of interest to her. Admittedly, her curiosity had been piqued by the first one, which was an hour-long shot of his feet shuffling along a wooden floor, back and forth, back and forth, until the shuffling sound had become almost hypnotic. She searched the film for some hidden message traced by his feet, but they shuffled in one direction only.

4. He was a little man, and she was a big woman. The first time they arm-wrestled she won handily, striking his knuckles against the wooden bar table. They had a conversation that was hardly appropriate for a first date.

5. That was the day that the saints were unashamed to perform little miracles, and they stood on the street corner selling blessings two for a dozen, and the fat old women danced to earn some; because they smiled so nicely they got a few cheap ones for nothing. They took them home and tossed them in their dinners and the grouchy old men ate them without blinking an eye.

6. Beneath the wide compass of her thighs her son Peter crouched like a struck stone. She was conscious of a deepening embarassment, as if she had whelped him right there on the floor, amongst the shifting conversations and cocktail glasses. He was too big to be here anymore, though he didn’t know that yet. He was soon to learn. He was almost ten.
“Peter, go upstairs,” she said, nudging him with an ankle. He crouched closer to himself, and moaned audibly. She took a deep drag of her cigarette.
“Peter, I said to go upstairs,” she said, as she saw Mrs. Moody approaching.

7. He was calf-deep amongst toasters, fans, baby strollers, his hands tearing at a bag of discarded clothes, when something deep underneath gave way. Marcy, on the street below with the flashlight and the bag, yelled something out, but he didn’t hear what it was under the rasp of sliding metal. His arm came up against something rough and serrated, and he pulled it up sharply, opening a thin groove in his skin. It was a rusted saw, small—small enough for a child, really—and he jerked it up and out and onto the pile.
“Marcy?” he called, and he heard a banging, and then her head appeared above the edge of the dumpster. She wore disposable green gloves, and her arms were stained brown with rust and grime up to the elbow.