Good Advice

Today, while checking my Gmail account, I saw an intriguing link in the space directly above the inbox.

How to of the Day - How to Soothe a Baby

It links to Wikihow.com, a site that organizes member contributions (users write and edit its contents) into a how-to guide for everything. I once saw instructions for building an iPod tarot deck that completely mystified me. (What is this? and why in heaven's name would I do it?)

Babies don't come with instruction manuals. Of course people need help and advice. And I guess a Web site is as legitimate as a parenting magazine or library book. I'd like to think that inexperienced parents and babysitters are talking to their moms, neighbors, friends — the lady sitting across the aisle on the F train — for parenting advice. But we now live in the age where Google is just as good.

The Power of the Pen?

	Does this mean anything to you?

I volunteered to help at the will call for the 19th Annual Art Show preview gala last night. We get some rich folks who are annoyed by waiting in line, no matter how short, for anything. Spending thousands for a pair of tickets buys you some privileges, no doubt, but it does not raise you above the laws of physics or supply and demand. Happily, most people are willing to understand that quick and simple procedures for ticket pick-up are meant to prevent chaos and that everyone needs a ticket, whether they buy it or it is given to them.

One gentleman last night with two tickets needed a third. He was dressed rather well, and he spoke perfectly good English, but he was hard to understand because his voice was raspy, like a harsh whisper. (I'm guessing he spent many of the last 60 years smoking prodigious amounts of tobacco.) So we were having a hard time understanding what exactly he wanted to do. His last name starts with C, so he went to my line, "A-L," first. I explained that if he bought two tickets, and if he had both of them in his possession, he would need to buy the third. I directed him to another line where he could do so.

This isn't what he wanted to hear, but he was disinclined to explain further. He stepped away and came back moments later, this time to another will call agent, saying evidently that a gallery owner had left a ticket for him. She had nothing under his name and directed him to the event organizers, also seated at the will call table, who had a record of every ticket.

Minutes later he was back, complaining to my companion that the organizers had been no help to him. Evidently he had visited the coat check, as well, because he had in his hands a dog-eared letter, which he unfolded and placed on the table in front of us.

"Maybe this will give you some insight into my character," he said, proudly but not arrogantly.

The letter, printed on White House stationery and comprising two, maybe three very short paragraphs, was nearly falling apart. He had used it before.

"Sir, I'm sorry," she said. "I don't have any tickets for you."

"Do you know whose name is on that letter? See?"

"Sir, I—"

"Look: Who signed that letter?"

I sneaked a glance and saw a squiggle that I can see might have signified "George W. Bush." Mr. C was getting indignant. Whatever anger he could muster came out as a stage whisper. Was he insulted that we weren't bending to his will?

"Sir, I see that it's the president," she calmly explained. "But this has nothing to do with this event. I don't have any tickets for you."

"Well, I— What's your name. I want your name," he demanded.

"My name is printed on the card pinned to my chest," she said, unperturbed. Was he going to report her? Have her fired from a volunteer job? You're not allowed to volunteer here — ever again! Oh the shame of it! Be my guest.

She directed him back to the event organizers, and he angrily shoved off.

Who knows what that letter even said. I didn't read it. I didn't care. All it really proves is that he knows who the president of the United States is. I do too. And that's not going to get you a ticket, no matter how rich you are.

My Kingdom for a Shredder

Thumbing through the— excuse me, attempting to thumb through The New Yorker or The Economist, my best attempts at quietly turning pages are often thwarted by a vile, vicious advertising technique: heavy paper stock.

Running my thumbnail along the edges of the pages to find my place doesn't work anymore. I hit a heavy-stock ad and stumble, and 10, 15, who knows how many pages skip on past. I have to open the magazine at ad's point of insertion. Then I rip out the offensive page in one swift stroke, crinkle it up and stuff it in my bag or pocket so I can drop it into a trash can (or burn it) later. Then I count over one by one to find my place.

Of course this is the point. They want the magazine to open to these pages. If the thing should drop, they want it naturally (or unnaturally) to fall open to their special place.

Subscription cards used to be the worst of it. Opening up a magazine, several would come flying out in all directions. They still do.

Surprise! Remember me? Subscribe to me!

I am often amused when people pick them up and hand them to me — as if I want the thing, as if it isn't a blessing to be momentarily rid of it. But I have to take it, don't I? Or face the shame of being a litterbug.

Sometimes I go through a magazine first thing and rip out all the crap and shake it upside down until the cards fall out. I curl the volume in my hands, undulating it this way and that, relishing its supple pliability. I marvel at the ability to open it to any page of my choosing at will. Then I read, uninterrupted, as I speed through New York City's tunnels.

Do they think this insistence on presenting itself will embed the ad further into my subconscious? I hardly see how. The only reaction I seem to have is to silently but vehemently curse the advertiser and throw away the ad as soon as I can. A pox on you, Microsoft! Oh, no. Maybe they are sticking!

Death and ... (Well, You Know...)

Three things are inevitable in this world. In order of difficulty: Death, taxes and the propensity for party guests to stain one's rugs. (This, among other reasons, is why white carpet is a cardinal sin.)

Death... well, let's not get into that right now.

And I am coping rather well, I think, with the recent news that I owe thousands of dollars to the governments of the United States and the state of New York. That's the big news in my life, at present. I just did my taxes last night and accidentally opened an artery. Those paper cuts can be a bitch.

At this rate I'll be serving government cheese and generic brand soda crackers at the Oscar Night gathering we're planning for Sunday. It's not a party, I hasten to clarify. It's a very small gathering.

At an Easter party we threw last year — bloody marys and mimosas; boiled eggs, kielbasa and saurkraut — a few of our thirstier guests wreaked unintentional (i.e., drunken) havoc on our floors, spilling red wine or cranberry juice (or both — who brought the wine anyway?) on literally every rug in our apartment. The colors in our rugs run from beige to gold, gray to brown. Mostly neutral tones, except for a blue, white and gray rug in the bedroom. You don't exactly need a map to hit the lighter, easy-to-stain areas, but our guests were a consistent lucky shot.

A tempest in my head roiled and sent electricity coursing up my spine every time I saw someone teetering this way and that, red wine or a strong cape cod sloshing dangerously close to the edge of his or her plastic cup.

I had been told that cold water and salt will usually lift the color out of a wine stain. So I got all Martha Stewart and managed get the stains out. I kept calm and maintained a good host's smile — and, to a degree, conversation — while I flitted from spot to spot all night, liberally sprinkling Morton's. (When it rains, it does indeed pour.) The rugs remained largely unspoiled, and I felt spiritually and emotionally purged. It was a triumph.

After that trauma, however, I think we'll have white wine this time on Sunday. And white cranberry juice. (But I'll have my spot remover, my yellow rubber gloves and a salt shaker at the ready, stashed behind the couch, anyway — just in case!)

Bridge to Paradoxia

Some time ago, I heard that there was a new film adaptation of Bridge to Terabithia being made, but I didn't pay much attention. I remembered the book ... mostly. Jeff got me to read it once. I read so few kids' books as a kid, opting instead for The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and other Douglas Adams treats and (nerd alert! nerd alert!) Choose Your Own Adventure. I think he thinks I missed out on something vital. So, as an adult, I've read several Newbery Award winners and liked it. He made me a Little House on the Prairie lover (but he won't read Harry Potter!). Ah, such is life.

I was alarmed to see Walden Media, producer of the Narnia movie(s), and Disney named in the full-page, full-color Bridge to Terabithia ad in last week's Arts & Leisure section. I thought it would be a special effects-ridden disaster — like maybe it would literalize Terabithia and trap the poor children playing the two main characters in an emotionless, Lucasian, green-screen hell. The ad featured a giant troll, insect-like soldiers, fantastical humanoids I presumed to be Terabithians, a castle on a hilltop, somone riding an ostrich, and an overgrown beaver with a colander on its head — which I was sure would talk! And the way the children were rendered, it looked like the whole thing was CGI.

But I knew Jeff and I would have to see it anyway.

I am pleased to report that there are no talking beavers. Jess and Leslie are played by real humans. Special effects, at worst mildly intrusive, were kept to a minimum, and the emotional value of the story rings true and clear. There is a central plot turn toward the end that made several people in the audience gasp audibly, but we, knowing how it ended, were getting weepy long before anything bad happened. So, I guess the film succeeds on that front.

The movie, as well as the book, is about being a free thinker, having your head in the clouds while keeping your feet planted on hard ground. It's about making your environment rather than simply reacting to it. It's about seeing the world around you in a new way, imagining something bigger and more real in many ways.

So, upon leaving the theater, I couldn't help but think: Doesn't the very act of making this movie, "revealing" a Terabithia to us that may not be anything like ours, fly in the face of the whole point of the book?

It's Snowing in the Bathroom

I work on the top floor of a 19th century building tenement building converted into office space. Lots of quirks. Lots of character. One colleague's office has a sink. There are random non-functioning fireplaces scattered about the premises. That kind of thing. And I thought I had seen it all until this morning, when I walked into the bathroom (which includes a shower) nearest my office to blow my nose and felt little crystals of dropping down all around me. It was like Winona Ryder stumbling out into the backyard while Edward Scissorhands is carving an ice sculpture. (Well... all right. On a much smaller scale.) Apparently, when the wind picks up, ice particles are getting through a crack in the seal on the skylight.

Rugby 101

For those of you who may wonder: