Yoink! Stolen from the email archives of CS Lewis in honor of her Birthday

I spent this morning and early afternoon at our local DMV.   Since I have been meaning to become a legal citizen of this metropolis for some time now, I thought that I would take advantage of this free time so generously mandated by puppet company for which I work and change my Virginia license to a New York one. Also, I sort of had to renew it, because technically my license expired 8 months ago.   As is normally the case whenever I go to well populated areas, chaos ensued.

I rolled into the DMV at what I thought was on the early side, 9:30am.  Clearly the rest of Manhattan had the same idea, because when I got off of the elevator, the line just to get in line was wrapped around the waiting room.  In fact, it took a full five minutes just to step out of the elevator, as the end of the line had wound itself over to us.  We all took turns holding the door open and cursing the banner which hung over our heads, mocking us with its slogan, “Don’t stand IN LINE!  Visit us ON LINE!”

Finally I get off of the elevator and stand patiently in line to get in line.  To set the scene, basically there is a line to get into the door, and through the door there is another line, where you tell the trusty DMV employees your situation.  They direct you to another line, where you get your picture taken and hand over your necessary paperwork.  And then yes, there is yet another line, and this one is the doozy; this is the line where they give you a number and lure you with the false promise of actually getting your laminated license in your hot little hand.  You don’t. They mail it to you in 10-15 business days.  I waited 2 hours just to hear that. Oh, and to be accused of having a warrant out for my arrest.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

And so I begin to wait.  My number, might you ask, was B308.  It did not bode well for me that they were on A60.  I notice a lady nearby who is having trouble with her written test.  She caught my eye and whispered, “Hey!  What do you do if your tires break down n’ shit?” I stared blankly at her, because I don’t know how a tire, per se, would break down.  So I asked her, “You mean, if it pops or something?”  At this point, the security guard notices our exchange and comes over.  I’m thinking in my head that I am going to DMV jail for aiding and abetting a cheater.  Turns out that he was a nice fellow and just wanted to clarify the question for her.  He ended up giving her the answer as well, thankfully allowing this clearly competent driver out on the streets.  Well done!  I wish I had a copy of that test, because I wondered on the way home what feasible multiple choice solutions there could have been to confuse her. A.) Keep driving?  B:) Paint your car?  C:) Go back in time to when you had a normal tire?  Anyway, her new nickname shall be Cheater McPumpkineater.

I’ll skip ahead through the next few hours, which I spent running up my cell phone bill by answering “Beetlejuice” whenever someone called.  I thought, perhaps, that after a second or two I could explain that I felt like Beetlejuice in that last scene of the movie when he is in the waiting room.  Unfortunately I confused my grandmother who, when hearing “Beetlejuice,” promptly said, “Oh, sorry, wrong number” and hung up the phone. That killed me.

Finally, the heavens opened up and B308 was called.  I ran over to the counter and handed over my paperwork and my passport. The employee entered in my info, asked me my middle name (it’s Susie*) and then began staring intently at the screen.  All of the sudden, she says dramatically to me, “You have a NDR!”  Now, I have no clue what an NDR is, but my stomach dropped as I thought about the unpaid parking tickets that are still sitting on my desk.  I also thought that perhaps my name ended up on some sort of watchdog list after the whole jewelry box/bomb fiasco, proving once again that I am persecuted for having impeccable taste.   She called over a fellow employee with a very professional, “Boo! Get yo’ ass ova’ here!”  Boo came over and began pounding on the Control key several times.  This highly technical maneuver revealed the following inflammatory information: C.S. Lewis has a warrant out for her arrest in Kentucky.

Now, I have been to Kentucky several times because I have family there, and to my recollection, I have never broken any law in my travels.  Sure, there was the time that I crashed my cousin’s dirt bike into the side of their barn after mowing down several rows of ripened corn.  But that was when I was eleven.  I have been a model citizen ever since then, at least in Kentucky.   So surely there had to be some sort of mistake that even the infallible Control key move might not catch.  We finally figured out that my middle name is “Susie,” and the other C.S.’s middle name is “Suzy.”  So C. Suzy Lewis of Kentucky is a badass.  I never did learn what poor CS II is wanted for, but hopefully she has learned that if you do the crime, you or someone else with relatively the same name as you will do the time.

As I waited for Boo and company to process my paperwork, I saw Cheater McPumpkineater next to me, arguing with the DMV clerk over what type of credit card they take.  Apparently at that counter, they could only take the Discover Card.  So she yells at the clerk, “Who in the hell only takes Discover?  Is that that crazy one with the bald headed guy?”  The clerk and myself were baffled at this question, until I realized that she must be talking about The Diners Club card, which used to be pitched by the late, great Telly Savalas*.  The reason I think this is funny is not because she was confused about the names. I mean, in her defense, they do both start with “D.”  I just find it hilarious that she is referencing a commercial that has to be at least fifteen years old.

So, 4 hours later, I headed out of the DMV.  And in 10-15 business days, I shall have a license of my very own that I will undoubtedly misplace soon.

* Not really, but you know, keeps the pseudonym working…

**Who loves ya’, baby?

joe b. turned back around and informed his father that yes, indeed, someone had called him a faggot

this is not my story, but i had to put it down, because it’s awesome.

a friend of mine, let’s call him joe b., was walking through madison square park a few weeks ago.   being a cool new york city day, he was wearing a jacket, tee and jeans.  whilst traversing the park and talking to his father on his cell phone, he noticed a large man on a nearby bench.

the man was hard not to notice because he was wearing a pink tank top and hot pants and had near a dozen squirrels in his lap (not a euphemism, he was feeding them).  joe b glanced at him and walked past.  from behind he heard: “faggot.”

his father, a cool thousand miles away, asks “did someone just call you a faggot?”

joe b. looked back at the hot-panted squirrel man who said “yeah, i’m talking to you, faggot.”

(beat)

joe b. turned back around and informed his father that yes, indeed, someone had called him a faggot. 

and, scene.

totally not gay.

figwit dances when he’s angry.

**spoiler alert**

only nerds of the highest order will even be able to understand this post, much less appreciate it.

i have recently, and belatedly, discovered and fallen in love with the flight of the conchords.  this may surprise some of you that know me and my absolute inability to tolerate spontaneous singing interspersed in storytelling- comedic or dramatic.  it’s nearly an allergy and it’s thisclose to requiring an epipen when encountered in large or especially egregious doses.

the wonder of all life, of course, is the exception to these hard and fast rules.  usually when something is so exaggerated it becomes sublime.  like moulin rouge.  or the aforementioned duo from new zealand.  of course, watching the first episode when having just returned from new zealand helps, not to mention tobey, murray’s bulldog (nice surprise in ep. 11).  the sillyness, the cleverness, the absolute adorable leads, it all adds up to pure magic.

now, most of my friends of the female persuasion love jemain, who is sort of the main guy, but i, friends, i heart bret.  he’s just so unassuming and adorable.  and compact.  with amazing sweaters.  and the sign-holding mentality.  plus, his hiphop alter ego, rhymenoscerous, and homage to footloose in the last episode are amazing.  and hilarious.  and subtle.  just like him.  sigh.

when espousing the many merits of bret mckenzie (not at the expense of the ridiculous muesli-loving perfectly dead-pan jemain clement), i was informed that part of what makes the show even funnier and self-referential is that young mr. mckenzie was actually in lord of the rings, the pride, glory, and singular export (facetious) of their native land.  he played an elf with one line in Return of the King.  “Elf Escort” is his official credit.  awesome.  i love it.  and also, it makes me giggle because my friends sometimes use “watching lord of the rings” as a euphemism for geek love.  fine, it only applies to me, but they do, too.

imagine my utter glee when entering my new office (that of the ringwraith) and noticing a screen grab of Bret as an elf in Return of the King taped to my wall.  i pointed this out to a co-worker who duly informed me that Mr. Elf Escort is somewhat of a LOTR nerd-dom phenomenon.  Before the movie was released, before Flight of the Conchords, fans became obsessed with this background character in the first installment- Fellowship of the Ring.  He said nothing, yet he captivated many.  They apparently cried out: “

Frodo

Is

Great…

Who

Is

That?”

hence, the moniker Figwit.  He has fans.  He has websites.  He has figures (got one on my desk).  Jealous?!

I guess I’m writing this to point this out to the two or three other fans who somehow missed this phenomenon.

Or maybe, I’m concerned because I think my new office might be like 1st and 1st; the nexus of the universe.  I bring this up in case I disappear without a trace one day.

Check for a worm hole under my desk.

he’s the boom boom king.

heeeeeeeeee.  Today, 22nd September 2009, marks the 1 year anniversary of the day I saw Bret “FIGWIT” Mc Kenzie having dinner at Arturo’s on Houston.  The old school wood-fired pizza is amazing.  I had just finished up a birthday dinner for Ms. Savory and was walking out when I saw him in his oh-so-FOTC striped sweater and scarf sitting in a booth near the front.  His back was to the door, so I looked right at him and did one of those spin-around-my-pack-of-friends move muttering “ohmygodit’sbretohmygodit’sbretohmygodit’sbret” and then running out the door*.  I started jumping up and down in front of the joint clapping, saying “YAY” and trying to explain my excitement to the crowd I was with- not so much on FOTC or LOTR. In any case, the two women sitting across from him saw me and started laughing, and told him, who also started laughing.  Joy.  I made the Rhymenocerous laugh.  Yay!
*After my world famous Liam Neeson incident, I never, ever try and interact with celebrities, especially when they’re at dinner, and doubly especially if I like them and don’t want to know that they’re gross.

the culinary caste system;a hot lunch untouchable speaks up

i’ve always been one of those totally low maintenance people when it comes to food.  i am more than ok with elio’s pizza, canned ravioli, tater tots, sloppy joes, burgers from shea, the list goes on.  now, i don’t mean to imply that i would actually cook these things, or chose them over their tastier, healthier and generally just better counterparts, i’m just saying i don’t really mind when these are my options. 

i had always attributed my cast iron stomach and lack of food snobbery to my irish heritage and white trash upbringing.  hell, i don’t even mind airline food.  i’m not saying i seek it out, but it honestly doesn’t bother me.

recently, however, my good friend genghis, currently of chicago, came to stay for a few weeks and we got to talking about many things.  i don’t remember how the topic came up, but we started on about our mutual imperviousness to non junkfood junk food.  “eureka!” exclaimed genghis, remembering that she, too, grew up in the new york city board of ed lunchrooms of the 1980s. 

while she originally hails from staten island and i from flushing, queens, the entire NYC BOE had a subsidized breakfast and lunch program for the broke-ass (oh, sorry.  90s/ Aughts translation: economically challenged), kids.  there was a sliding scale depending on your economic state: those that were pretty poor got a pack of subsidized meal tickets every month with which they paid a minimal fee to receive their two squares of the early day.  those that were in an even lower tax bracket (hee hee.  my mom made less than thirty thousand for four people) got their pack of tickets each month, too, only they had to just to supply their tough-front and ’just mess with me’ grin with their tickets for their meals.

due to the logisitics of the lunchroom, the Hot Lunch Kids (a semi-official title) sat in the back of the cafeteria near the kitchen and slop line, while the Cold Lunch Kids (read: sandwich eating, cookie carrying snotty little spoiled bastards) sat in the front half with their brown paper bags, brand name soda cans and actual bennetton tshirts. 

i’d like to pretend that this culinary imposed caste system had no effect on the social standings of our grammar school or the way we were treated, but i’d be lying.  it sucked at the time- not that we’d ever admit it.  the HLK were too cool for school, half were bussed in, a good number of us had suffered the excrutiating humiliation of ”running to the store” to pick up some milk and such with food stamps (really not fun when you’re six) and were generally feared as the dirty savages poverty defined us to be.

the CLK got first auditions in class plays, were first to recess, wore designer clothes (yes, it mattered in the fashion conscious 80s, even to 10 year olds), almost automatic qualification for yearly talent shows (which always makes me think: “i am seriously beginning to doubt your commitment to sparkle motion.”  holla, nerds, you know to what i refer), perks that can mean a big deal when you’re eight.

i think more than anything, i coveted those brown paper bags.  they used to sell the lunch sized ones in plastic wrapped packs in the supermarket, but the only kind we ever had were the big, wrinkled ones the groceries came in.  i was constantly trying to convince my mom that we really needed a pack, even though we had hot lunch because our book covers would be cleaner and we could store things in them or some such nonsense.  i NEVER won on this point.  but then, i was always wheeling and dealing at King Kullen; trying to get Fruit Loops, Oscar Meyer bologna or Rice a Roni, some kind of rich people food.

back to the point: us hot lunch kids have it good now.  we don’t obssess over what might be served at any function: company outing, long flight, boxed lunch, only diner in town, whatever.  we know we’re good. it may be a pyrrhic victory considering the CLK probably still have the resources to upgrade, but we’re still good. 

we don’t need those crutches.  we’re survivors. 

two footnotes:

low maintenance does not necessarily mean adventurous.  i’m not not open to eating new foods, i’m just not open to eating anything or necessarily even trying everything once.  there’s a reason that my low-budget , solo adventures don’t include south east asia.  i’ll come clean, i’m terrified.

also, tip for all those on the road faced with only shady options: ORDER THE CLUB SANDWICH.  it’s very hard to screw up and when you’re in a pinch, is generally the most edible thing on the menu.  i can’t tell you the number of times i’ve been satisfied at a poor to mediocre or just plain poor hole in the wall whilst my comrades go hungry and disappointed.