Prickly

Do you ever go through a stretch of life where everything that occurs results in you automatically responding with prickly irritation?

I don't mean physically so much, although it's a no-brainer that a tumble into a clump of poison ivy renders one less comfortable for a time.

It's more an existential poison ivy patch. If one normally reacts to quotidian woes with Zen-like tranquility or a Gallic shrug and weary chuckle, a stretch of the prickly dials exasperation way up and patience way down, with the result that usual coping skills aren't as effective as they've been in the past.

Perhaps it's nothing more than an annoying itch of the psyche but I'm deep in it now, which leads to blog silence (as writing anything is beyond my whirling thoughts) short attention spans, general snappishness and a well-bitten tongue.

Garcon? One large bottle of Cosmic Calomine Lotion, please.

Blog Silence III - Son of Silence

Short hiatus going on over here at Fresh Hell HQ; nothing to see here, move along folks.

Pesky real life has taken over and I need a brief pause for station identification.

Back soon!

New York City Haiku-Shopping

I must preface my New York shopping haikus with a little explanation: it is widely regarded as fact that New York is one of the world's great shopping meccas; it is, to be sure, but it can also be one of the most frustrating places in the world to shop. The profusion of goods can easily overwhelm one; while there is more cachet in discovering the perfect jacket or pair of shoes in a tiny out-of-the-way boutique, finding the place to begin with is never that easy, and finding the quality item one is searching for at bargain prices constitutes a full time job. Practicality and proximity often trump variables of price with convenience winning the hand. The average New York shopper has little time for shopping and in my case little patience. Having said that, I have over the years found various places which stock Swedish chewing tobacco or antique watches or obscure French cheeses or Moroccan wrought iron garden tables. Not that I stumbled onto to any of these shops by turning a random corner or anything so romantic and delightful - it was more the result of research and applying shoe leather to pavement. On to the haiku!

Prowling discount store.
Suit with skirt - too much to ask?
Sigh. Not in my size.

I do like jewelry;
Great selection, good prices.
I am without cash.

Shoes, shoes, everywhere!
I buy them in brown and black.
Cause for rejoicing.

To The Strand for books.
Longing to own each volume,
I wander for hours.

Hate hate hate R train!
Long wait with shopping bags, but
Route is close to home.

Random Bits of No Importance

What is the trend lately with teeny tiny dogs? Perhaps I ought to blame the foolish idle rich for this disturbing trend, but it seems as if New York streets are clogged with canine miniatures. I am a friend to dogs, but my preference runs to the large types; these tiny yapping creatures, mostly aggressively furry, resemble bath mats for Barbies rather than pets. It's a goddamned miracle that I haven't stepped on one yet - one can only imagine the horror that would ensue. Sure I'll feel bad but criminy! It's a wee bit o'pup that I'm dodging with my career woman heels here, and if they wouldn't dart to and fro so frantically they'd be a hell of a lot safer, I say.

With few exceptions, for the past nine years the Fresh Hell household has held a Christmas Eve party. We are five weeks away from the evening yet preparation already begins; even though Mr. FH and I could probably do this party in our sleep, it is our one big blow-out for the year and past experience has shown me that early, thorough preparation is key. I used to dread and loathe the holiday season - nothing craps on Christmas quite like a parent dying on the holiday during one's teen years - it's guaranteed to completely dampen one's mood for innumerable seasons to come. (More on that in an upcoming post.) But I have learned to cope with the commercialization and enforced psuedo-cheer by alternatively mocking and embracing its inherent schmaltz and cheeziness. It's a delicate balance, but someone's got to do it.

I heaved a sigh of relief last week after the mid-term elections; I was poised with passport in hand to begin the arduous task of extricating myself from the American system, and I was gratified to find I have a few more years of grace before that day may indeed become a reality. Will everything that has gone so terribly wrong in this country be fixed? No, but I'm optimistic that some of the more egregious errors that we've lived through politically over the last six years will at least not be repeated ad nauseum. Not everything will be or can be reversed or corrected, but I do hope for better actions in the future.

Not exactly as I hope to refrain from crushing a tiny terrier beneath my feet, but as in all things hope is relative.

In Which Our Heroine Remembers A Celebrity Sighting

I was saddened to hear today of Ed Bradley's death. I always thought he was a class act for a journalist, and even have a mini-tale to tell of him.

It was probably the mid-80's, definitely around Christmas time; the weather was quite cold but not snowy. I was walking up Fifth Avenue right near Rockefeller Center in the middle of the day. I don't know why I would have been anywhere near such a tourist-infested stretch of Manhattan a few days before Christmas, but I did work fairly close to the Rock then, or perhaps I was there deliberately searching for a one-of-a-kind holiday gift.

Among the oblivious swarms of passersby heading past me downtown I noticed a tall good looking black man in a drop dead gorgeous fur coat. My attention was initially riveted on the beautiful coat, but as I looked up into the man's face I realized it was Ed Bradley - complete with his signature diamond earring. I must have had a startled expression of recognition on my face, and as his eyes met mine, he nodded briefly and gave me a small smile.

It was such a quintessentially New Yorker spies celebrity moment that it not only gave me a mild mood lift the rest of the afternoon but was something I've never forgotten.

Remembering that incident and writing about it pings a twinge of nostalgia in my heart - for a time 20 years ago when I was a bit more innocent, and for a time when a handsome black man could walk down the street wearing fur unironically.

Requiescat in pace, Mr. Bradley.

Praise for the Barry

Mr. FH and I have a quintessential bartender who embodies all of the most important qualities a superlative bartender should possess.

We call him Barry. The qualities of a proper Barry (gender completely irrelevant but I'll use the masculine pronoun here for clarity) are few but important:

1. He should be attentive to his customers. He needs to know who's drinking what and at what speed they are imbibing. Drinks should appear to his customers as if by magic, and they should not have to perform frantic waving actions to get his attention.

2. He should be prepared: for example, if he has a small group rapidly downing Heinekens, then he should put extra bottles on ice for the inevitable rounds for which he'll be asked.

3. He should be cheerful, swift, and clean. Economic in his actions, quick to clear away empty bottles, and crisp with a coaster.

4. He should understand the ratio of free rounds to eventual tip, and be able to recognize and cull from the herd the amateur drinkers as opposed to the professionals. Professional drinkers will always tip correctly and lavishly, provided there are free rounds. This is often a matter of trust, and the genuine professional wastes no time establishing this important trust early on in the encounter. The true Barry can rapidly distinguish the amateur by their lack of confidence and/or their inability to tip correctly, thus costing the Barry perhaps only one free round.

5. The true Barry is shrewd but cordial, and should possess a nearly uncanny ability to remember faces if not names. Putting the correct name to a face catapaults the Barry to the top of the heap, which puts more pressure on him to provide properly as noted in point 4.

The most wonderful thing about Barry is that we encounter him everywhere - we've found, cultivated and nicknamed bartenders in New York, France, Spain, Morocco, and Algeria. Our roster includes Paris Barry, Agadir Barry, Casablanca Sports Bar Barry, Sheraton Barry, That One Place Barry, and of course in pride of place, Original Barry.

And one of the best things about the perfect Barry is that he remembers us, even if we only see him once a year.

So to all the Barrys we've discovered - salut! (And we'll see you soon.)

For any readers in NYC or anyone who might be in the city next week, friends of mine Lane and Ilona Siller will be showing their documentary, Deeper Than Y, at the Village East Theatre on 12th Street and 2nd Avenue. The film will run for a week beginning November 3rd.

Here's a blurb from the film's website

“Deeper than Y” is a feature length, humorous and touching documentary questioning 8 eccentric elderly New Yorkers about relationships, politics, careers, and aging, while they faithfully attend the same water exercise class at the Vanderbilt YMCA.

After the director of the film taught their water exercise class for two years, her elderly students opened up to her about relationships, pasts, politics, careers, and their insecurities about aging.

The result is “Deeper than Y”, an enlightening, heartfelt, and humorous journey through the lives of eight people, many of whom you might have passed on the street without giving a second look, people who not only impact the realities, fragilities, and humor of old age but also share their enduring hope for human possibility.

It's a charming, entertaining, well-done film from two talented first time filmmakers who have just begun to hone their craft.

It takes tenacity, vision, and passion to make films. The process alternates between deep frustration and wild exultation. Through my experience with Lane and Ilona, I've seen first hand the tremendous amount of work, dedication and sacrifice it takes to shepherd a film from start to finish, especially with no studio or industry backing. The film has been extremely well received at three independent film festivals during 2006 in San Francisco, Toronto, and Providence.

The Sillers are now at work on a new super-secret project that should really put them on the map - and I can't wait.

When The Revolution Comes

Some years ago, Cupcake Emeritus' wife contracted cancer. The two surgeries she went through were successful; the ensuing chemotherapy treatment eradicated the remainder of the cancerous tissue. She didn't die from the disease, unlike my father, who was not necessarily killed by his cancer but more likely the barbarous treatment employed in the mid 70's.

As is customary for Cupcake CEO's and other wealthy folks, her medical expenses were 100% reimbursed by the generous Cupcake health plan, but this isn't a post to kvetch about our absolutely criminal health care system which allots most of the funds to people most able to pay for their own medical care while people of more slender means often go bankrupt paying for catastrophic illness.

The Cupcake Wife was prescribed a relatively new drug to further combat the reoccurence of the disease, which she took for a short period of time. This particular drug was ruinously expensive, to the tune of $2,000 a month.

As part of my job is to submit health claims and deal with the insurance company, the Cupcake presented me with the bill for this particular medication. In hushed tones of actual incredulity, that I know he couldn't fake, he said to me, "Look at the cost for this one prescription! What happens to people who can't afford this drug?"

While my head exploded at what is probably the most naieve statement I'd heard uttered by a reasonably intelligent person, I looked him right in the eye and choked out a terse response: "They die."

As fond as I am of the Cupcake and his entertaining follies, I've never forgotten this episode. This is all the evidence anyone would ever need to prove beyond all doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that for the wealthy the universe begins and ends at the end of their noses. They don't live in the same world as the rest of us, and if we ignore that, it is at our peril.