I have a tendency towards taking ideas towards their limits. I say "towards" because I never really think things are ever finished, perhaps it just runs out of gas. That's why when my friend asked for "a couple of suggestions" for a boy's name, I gave her an even 1,000 (with "Venus Flytrap" the most viable). Once, there was an acronym that an account team used - MEL - and I was asked if I knew what it stood for. By the third page of things like "Mezzanine Encircles Loge" and "Mom! Ewww, Limas!", we still had no idea what it actually stood for. But it was fun pondering.
Brainstorming these lists of things isn't hard - it's the stopping that's the challenge. Lists are easy. Here's a couple of examples from my other blog.
http://screaminseaman.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Freaks of NY
Freaks. I’ve been inundated with them for the past few days. Maybe they came out of hiding when the seasons changed, like some sort of harbinger of upheaval. They stay dormant in some sort of pod-condo, plotting their assault upon normal. It’s as if reality is something that they just watch, not participate in; almost like the rest of us are on their own version of cable – they just choose a different channel for their own view.
I first noticed it yesterday, as I watched my bus approach the bus stop. Apparently, the driver felt as though the best method of propulsion for his vehicle was continental drift. It got better once we were actually on the bus, which was the next day.
As I left the bus, I followed a man who decided he was actually a drum machine. Every once in a while, he’d let out a ba-ba-da-ba, or something. Not quite scat – no, he was no Friend of Ella. Nope. Drums – with no headphones, iPod, or Bluetooth in sight. Freak. When he noticed me looking at him, he gave me a look that said, roughly, “This is perfectly acceptable public behavior. My actions are the result of years of grooming at top-flight finishing schools, genetic engineering, and strict – nearly anal in scope – personal behavior modification techniques. It is clearly YOU, sir, who has displayed the public mannerisms of an ill-trained camel. I take issue with your entire existence. Bu-dum crash!”
If you think that you can avoid scenes like this by forgoing public transportation, that is, by walking, you can’t be from around here. The Freak King title may have to go to the guy with the chair around his neck. OK, so it wasn’t a Queen Anne or a Barcalounger – it was only a funky folding chair, but it was around his neck. Here was an otherwise normal guy walking down Sixth Avenue in Midtown, sporting a four-legged necktie. Maybe he was in an eternal search for his separated-at-birth twin, the one with the same dimples, same laugh, same color eyes, but with a table around his neck. Maybe they had a falling out – one was an avant-garde Ikea fan, one preferred more conservative personal décor. Like I said, the one that I saw seemed pretty normal. Standard business suit, wing tips, briefcase. Chair around his neck.
The latest entry to this freaky circus was a religious experience. I say this due to its very nature – it was part Passion Play, part Bowery Boys. And I nearly walked right by it.
As I walked down 55th Street, I passed a group of five men who were in the midst of a discussion. Hardly freaky initially, until you notice Christ among them. He came complete with a crucifixion-sized cross (with a small wheel at the bottom for easier dragging along the paved Path of Sorrows that is modern Manhattan) and three possible disciples. The other man wore what can be gently described as street attire. I only heard one phrase as I hurried by, uttered by the modern-day leper. He said to this pseudo-Lord, as if discussing a business deal, “But, what I’ve always wanted to ask you…”
There was nowhere reasonable for me to stop within earshot to complete the eavesdropping. Reasonable. Huh. As if a homeless man – speaking to a resurrected Christ and his disciples on the streets of 2006 Manhattan – would even notice if I had stopped where I was, lit my hair on fire and began to lick the building next to them while bouncing on one foot.
In any event, this scene left me thinking down several paths. Were these ancient figures part of a street play, performance art, or demonstration? Was this “homeless man” just their sloppy pal? Had I misinterpreted his inquiry as merely a question to a friend, someone that he had recognized as an actor playing Jesus? Had I actually seen, and blown by, Himself?
Nah. Perhaps our leper friend thought that he’d finally gotten his chance of a lifetime. And maybe he did.
A few days later, walking down 54th Street (strange neighborhood), I saw – from a distance – a woman carrying what appeared to be a pole with two other poles sticking out of it. Was this some sort of metallic cross? Was I on some sort of a continuous quasi-religious journey, in which my dream state only transcended into my conscious mind as I walked these strange streets...
Oh, wait! She’s carrying a rack from a clothing store. But, I thought, wouldn’t that be a great metaphor for a bizarre off-off-off-off Broadway Passion play? The new Christ figure: An assistant manager of a retail chain store, a woman who would mark-down 30% for your sins. The evil District Manager from Corporate could attach her to the rack with those plastic price-tag things. Part-timers could anoint her in their finest new merchandise that they had just retrieved from the stockroom. She could teach the poor not to pay retail. She could have the Last Lunch Break. Maybe she’d rise again, three days after the Black Friday sale, to judge the stylish and the poorly accessorized.
I love New York.
I first noticed it yesterday, as I watched my bus approach the bus stop. Apparently, the driver felt as though the best method of propulsion for his vehicle was continental drift. It got better once we were actually on the bus, which was the next day.
As I left the bus, I followed a man who decided he was actually a drum machine. Every once in a while, he’d let out a ba-ba-da-ba, or something. Not quite scat – no, he was no Friend of Ella. Nope. Drums – with no headphones, iPod, or Bluetooth in sight. Freak. When he noticed me looking at him, he gave me a look that said, roughly, “This is perfectly acceptable public behavior. My actions are the result of years of grooming at top-flight finishing schools, genetic engineering, and strict – nearly anal in scope – personal behavior modification techniques. It is clearly YOU, sir, who has displayed the public mannerisms of an ill-trained camel. I take issue with your entire existence. Bu-dum crash!”
If you think that you can avoid scenes like this by forgoing public transportation, that is, by walking, you can’t be from around here. The Freak King title may have to go to the guy with the chair around his neck. OK, so it wasn’t a Queen Anne or a Barcalounger – it was only a funky folding chair, but it was around his neck. Here was an otherwise normal guy walking down Sixth Avenue in Midtown, sporting a four-legged necktie. Maybe he was in an eternal search for his separated-at-birth twin, the one with the same dimples, same laugh, same color eyes, but with a table around his neck. Maybe they had a falling out – one was an avant-garde Ikea fan, one preferred more conservative personal décor. Like I said, the one that I saw seemed pretty normal. Standard business suit, wing tips, briefcase. Chair around his neck.
The latest entry to this freaky circus was a religious experience. I say this due to its very nature – it was part Passion Play, part Bowery Boys. And I nearly walked right by it.
As I walked down 55th Street, I passed a group of five men who were in the midst of a discussion. Hardly freaky initially, until you notice Christ among them. He came complete with a crucifixion-sized cross (with a small wheel at the bottom for easier dragging along the paved Path of Sorrows that is modern Manhattan) and three possible disciples. The other man wore what can be gently described as street attire. I only heard one phrase as I hurried by, uttered by the modern-day leper. He said to this pseudo-Lord, as if discussing a business deal, “But, what I’ve always wanted to ask you…”
There was nowhere reasonable for me to stop within earshot to complete the eavesdropping. Reasonable. Huh. As if a homeless man – speaking to a resurrected Christ and his disciples on the streets of 2006 Manhattan – would even notice if I had stopped where I was, lit my hair on fire and began to lick the building next to them while bouncing on one foot.
In any event, this scene left me thinking down several paths. Were these ancient figures part of a street play, performance art, or demonstration? Was this “homeless man” just their sloppy pal? Had I misinterpreted his inquiry as merely a question to a friend, someone that he had recognized as an actor playing Jesus? Had I actually seen, and blown by, Himself?
Nah. Perhaps our leper friend thought that he’d finally gotten his chance of a lifetime. And maybe he did.
A few days later, walking down 54th Street (strange neighborhood), I saw – from a distance – a woman carrying what appeared to be a pole with two other poles sticking out of it. Was this some sort of metallic cross? Was I on some sort of a continuous quasi-religious journey, in which my dream state only transcended into my conscious mind as I walked these strange streets...
Oh, wait! She’s carrying a rack from a clothing store. But, I thought, wouldn’t that be a great metaphor for a bizarre off-off-off-off Broadway Passion play? The new Christ figure: An assistant manager of a retail chain store, a woman who would mark-down 30% for your sins. The evil District Manager from Corporate could attach her to the rack with those plastic price-tag things. Part-timers could anoint her in their finest new merchandise that they had just retrieved from the stockroom. She could teach the poor not to pay retail. She could have the Last Lunch Break. Maybe she’d rise again, three days after the Black Friday sale, to judge the stylish and the poorly accessorized.
I love New York.
The Honeymoon
The Honeymoon is the Best Prize
When my soon-to-be bride Jen and I were researching honeymoon destinations, we neglected to get three key pieces of information: 1) Does the location offer secluded romantic areas? 2) Will we find the accommodations to our liking? and 3) Will a persistent man named Greg harangue us about timeshares?
We met Greg while shopping in St. Martin’s capital, Marigot (derived from the French, “Mar”, meaning “town of” and “Igot”, meaning “mostly closed restaurants”). Although our pasty-white WASPy skin had absorbed the Caribbean sun for about a week, we still sported savagely hued hides that mirrored healthy tooth enamel, thanks to my wife’s SPF 8000 sunscreen. We might’ve stuck out less had we actually set our clothes on fire.
Crafty Greg was no rookie. He used the timeworn method of building American trust by wearing a Yankees cap. So when this stranger handed me a free scratch-off lottery ticket, I knew that he had only my Best Interests at heart.
Still moved by the relationship formed by the cap, and his puppy-peeing excitement level, I accepted his gift eagerly and scratched away. Lo and behold – I was sure that this was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me – I had won the “best prize.”
My wife was well down the street, reading an imprisoned menu while our fortunes were being forever altered. “Look, honey,” I said as she returned. “I won the best prize!”
“What’s the best prize?” she asked skeptically. “Zee best prize,” Greg repeated. The male-bonding cap was not working for Jen, so she needed a bit more info. As Greg’s command of English was less than conversational, we had some difficulty determining what bounty awaited us and how we were to acquire it. I had visions of a Caribbean game show; she had visions of ditching this guy and doing more shopping.
Through the miracle of a handy brochure, we read that the mystery prize would either be a $500 check, a Sony video camera, or a free vacation. So, we could get something out of this after all.
The catch was that we had to listen to a half-hour presentation about timeshares. A giddy, somewhat desperate Greg reassured us in suddenly manageable English, “don’t buy anything, just wait for zee best prize.” After some fair and equal “family discussion” time, during which I promised more shopping, we decided to do the little guy a favor and go along.
Once we agreed, Greg’s already amped-up energy level went through the roof, as if he were photosynthesizing caffeine directly from sunlight. Although he offered to drive us to our destination, we politely demurred, choosing instead to stay alive in our own car.
Once at the resort, under his breath Greg reminded us not to buy anything, just get zee Best Prize, and have zee very best time. And, just like that, Greg was out of our lives.
We were passed off to someone much more sinister than pitiable Greg – a polo shirt clad American named Chuck, who told us he was our Property Consultant for the Sapphire Beach Club Resort. He was thrilled to tell us how lucky we were, that the timeshares in idyllic St. Martin were so exclusive, so valuable to the timeshare owning community, that every week in a St. Martin timeshare was considered a peak week! The most valuable timeshare to trade! Can you imagine? If you buy a week in a timeshare in beautiful and exclusive St. Martin, you would actually never have to go there again!
Also, with “Peak Week” ownership came a couple of perks: free rides in the timeshare golf cart, Greg comes to your house and cleans your gutters, and first dibs at the timeshare community spouse-swap. See, I don’t really remember much. The best prize has to be soon, right?
Before we had to Decide Anything, Chuck took us on a tour. It was a very nice hotel-ish room, equipped with its very own color TV set and brand new toaster oven. We were even told that there were fully stocked vending machines on every other floor! And we could do our own laundry! All for the low, low price of… “Oh wait! I need to show you the pool!”
He should have stopped at the toaster oven. No “best prize” was worth an afternoon of this on my honeymoon. The rancid stench was a mental smelling salt. Marinating in the marginally chlorinated waters of the pool were people who had been prescreened by the same meticulous process that I had been – they had been willing to talk to a random stranger offering them a free lottery ticket, or maybe just a lollipop. I’m not sure. But here they were, participating in some sort of water aerobics program that more closely resembled bovine water ballet.
Once we returned to Chuck’s desk, he left us alone with a large book of worldwide RCI properties. Many resembled places heroin addicts would dismiss as “depressing.”
My sharp marketing professional wife and I exchanged knowing glances. “So,” she asked, “what do you think? We should totally do this. It’s got everything! We wouldn’t have to plan anything else - it’s all done for us!”
Now, the wife that I had come in with was a woman whose single-minded goal in honeymoon planning was to avoid going to an all-inclusive resort. We had already taken several vacations together. She loves to plan them. Meticulously. Each of our previous trips had been a thoroughly researched, take the back roads, discover the culture adventure-fest. Now here she was, considering taking every vacation we’d ever have again in places that would make Branson, Missouri look like Nepal.
This was a lonely feeling. I missed my new bride. Here was this stranger, about three steps away from signing up, putting on purple Nikes and waiting for an RCI, Inc. comet to whisk her off to some magical timeshare somewhere. I had to think fast.
Instinct took over. I appealed to her emotional side. “What, are you nuts?” I asked.
She was only thinking about a good place for family-friendly vacations, she told me. Less than an hour ago, I was a newlywed on my honeymoon.
Now I was a father with three kids on my annual vacation to Superior Shores #1793 in Two Harbors, Minnesota or some other family-friendly resort. How did I get here?
Fortunately, it took me only a couple of minutes to talk her down off the resort’s edge. All I had to do was ask her what she thought of the pool.
We regretfully told Chuck that we’d have to pass this time, but we were really interested in our prize.
And that best prize was...?
Mysteriously enough, we had until December 15th, 2002 to experience the joys of Coconut Bay Resort #2626 in sunny Florida. I put my money in scratch-off lottery tickets instead. That $2.00 was the best prize ever.
When my soon-to-be bride Jen and I were researching honeymoon destinations, we neglected to get three key pieces of information: 1) Does the location offer secluded romantic areas? 2) Will we find the accommodations to our liking? and 3) Will a persistent man named Greg harangue us about timeshares?
We met Greg while shopping in St. Martin’s capital, Marigot (derived from the French, “Mar”, meaning “town of” and “Igot”, meaning “mostly closed restaurants”). Although our pasty-white WASPy skin had absorbed the Caribbean sun for about a week, we still sported savagely hued hides that mirrored healthy tooth enamel, thanks to my wife’s SPF 8000 sunscreen. We might’ve stuck out less had we actually set our clothes on fire.
Crafty Greg was no rookie. He used the timeworn method of building American trust by wearing a Yankees cap. So when this stranger handed me a free scratch-off lottery ticket, I knew that he had only my Best Interests at heart.
Still moved by the relationship formed by the cap, and his puppy-peeing excitement level, I accepted his gift eagerly and scratched away. Lo and behold – I was sure that this was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me – I had won the “best prize.”
My wife was well down the street, reading an imprisoned menu while our fortunes were being forever altered. “Look, honey,” I said as she returned. “I won the best prize!”
“What’s the best prize?” she asked skeptically. “Zee best prize,” Greg repeated. The male-bonding cap was not working for Jen, so she needed a bit more info. As Greg’s command of English was less than conversational, we had some difficulty determining what bounty awaited us and how we were to acquire it. I had visions of a Caribbean game show; she had visions of ditching this guy and doing more shopping.
Through the miracle of a handy brochure, we read that the mystery prize would either be a $500 check, a Sony video camera, or a free vacation. So, we could get something out of this after all.
The catch was that we had to listen to a half-hour presentation about timeshares. A giddy, somewhat desperate Greg reassured us in suddenly manageable English, “don’t buy anything, just wait for zee best prize.” After some fair and equal “family discussion” time, during which I promised more shopping, we decided to do the little guy a favor and go along.
Once we agreed, Greg’s already amped-up energy level went through the roof, as if he were photosynthesizing caffeine directly from sunlight. Although he offered to drive us to our destination, we politely demurred, choosing instead to stay alive in our own car.
Once at the resort, under his breath Greg reminded us not to buy anything, just get zee Best Prize, and have zee very best time. And, just like that, Greg was out of our lives.
We were passed off to someone much more sinister than pitiable Greg – a polo shirt clad American named Chuck, who told us he was our Property Consultant for the Sapphire Beach Club Resort. He was thrilled to tell us how lucky we were, that the timeshares in idyllic St. Martin were so exclusive, so valuable to the timeshare owning community, that every week in a St. Martin timeshare was considered a peak week! The most valuable timeshare to trade! Can you imagine? If you buy a week in a timeshare in beautiful and exclusive St. Martin, you would actually never have to go there again!
Also, with “Peak Week” ownership came a couple of perks: free rides in the timeshare golf cart, Greg comes to your house and cleans your gutters, and first dibs at the timeshare community spouse-swap. See, I don’t really remember much. The best prize has to be soon, right?
Before we had to Decide Anything, Chuck took us on a tour. It was a very nice hotel-ish room, equipped with its very own color TV set and brand new toaster oven. We were even told that there were fully stocked vending machines on every other floor! And we could do our own laundry! All for the low, low price of… “Oh wait! I need to show you the pool!”
He should have stopped at the toaster oven. No “best prize” was worth an afternoon of this on my honeymoon. The rancid stench was a mental smelling salt. Marinating in the marginally chlorinated waters of the pool were people who had been prescreened by the same meticulous process that I had been – they had been willing to talk to a random stranger offering them a free lottery ticket, or maybe just a lollipop. I’m not sure. But here they were, participating in some sort of water aerobics program that more closely resembled bovine water ballet.
Once we returned to Chuck’s desk, he left us alone with a large book of worldwide RCI properties. Many resembled places heroin addicts would dismiss as “depressing.”
My sharp marketing professional wife and I exchanged knowing glances. “So,” she asked, “what do you think? We should totally do this. It’s got everything! We wouldn’t have to plan anything else - it’s all done for us!”
Now, the wife that I had come in with was a woman whose single-minded goal in honeymoon planning was to avoid going to an all-inclusive resort. We had already taken several vacations together. She loves to plan them. Meticulously. Each of our previous trips had been a thoroughly researched, take the back roads, discover the culture adventure-fest. Now here she was, considering taking every vacation we’d ever have again in places that would make Branson, Missouri look like Nepal.
This was a lonely feeling. I missed my new bride. Here was this stranger, about three steps away from signing up, putting on purple Nikes and waiting for an RCI, Inc. comet to whisk her off to some magical timeshare somewhere. I had to think fast.
Instinct took over. I appealed to her emotional side. “What, are you nuts?” I asked.
She was only thinking about a good place for family-friendly vacations, she told me. Less than an hour ago, I was a newlywed on my honeymoon.
Now I was a father with three kids on my annual vacation to Superior Shores #1793 in Two Harbors, Minnesota or some other family-friendly resort. How did I get here?
Fortunately, it took me only a couple of minutes to talk her down off the resort’s edge. All I had to do was ask her what she thought of the pool.
We regretfully told Chuck that we’d have to pass this time, but we were really interested in our prize.
And that best prize was...?
Mysteriously enough, we had until December 15th, 2002 to experience the joys of Coconut Bay Resort #2626 in sunny Florida. I put my money in scratch-off lottery tickets instead. That $2.00 was the best prize ever.
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