A Random Rant Down 81st Street

The Fourbucks coffee shop on my block has two entrances. One is on the street and one is on the Avenue. The entrance on the street faces west, which is odd since most block entrances naturally face north or south, but they pull it off. Its magical. The management of Fourbucks has many tricks up its sleeve like impressing the Wall Street by increasing revenues through raising the prices of the coffee once every three months like a rake at a poker table. Except that nobody I know who plays poker goes to Fourbucks, except for me and maybe a few others. Another is raising earnings by lowering the quality of everything from the employees to the quality of the napkins. Another is not actually using real froth in the lattes and cappucinos. Rather, they use special scientifically engineered froth that is grown in the *$HQ in Seattle. Frapuccinos, which used to be made by hand are now made by a machine. The Caramel Macciato, which used to be the best drink on the menu can now only be made well by less than 10% of the employees. I do not order CarMaccs anymore. I am not willing to spend 4.50 and take a gamble on whether the drink will be drinkable or not. The bathrooms are cleaned less frequently now, the countertops stay strewn with napkins and spilled milk and even the well-read newspapers, which I remember from a few years ago as being a staple on any Fourbucks table and couch are gone. They get cleaned up and thrown out now to facilitate the sale of more of the New York Times, which is sold from a display with a sign that says "For Purchase Only." With all that said, I have been patronizing Fourbucks everyday for years and I will continue to. Truth is, there is not much else one can buy for $2.00. Especially not something that contributes to physical and social well-being like a Fourbucks can. And anyways, I need my coffee. What else should I do?

Zen and the Art of Laundry Negotiations

This morning I took 10 shirts and two pairs of pants to the cleaners on 81st Street, just a few doors down from my apartment. Then I took the same 10 shirts and two pairs of pants to another cleaners, a few doors down from the first.
I will now explain the interesting seder of events which led up to the twice cleaners experience.
On Long Island the cleaners often clean your clothing in their own facility. There, in the dimly lit back rooms of the one story buildings next to Dairy Queens and in strip malls, the odors and stains, the sins of our 9-5 are removed in an unholy chemical process. In the city, the cleaners are mostly middle men - drop off points for locals - the clothing is picked up daily by the real cleaners and retuned either the next night or the morning after that. That's why shirts are .50 cents more expensive in the city and pants are a full $3.00 less economical. That's right - They are $3.75 on the Island and $6.75 in the City. But thats not the point of this thought.
So I go walk into the first cleaners - a peaceful little store. Chinese decorations hung in the back, a neatly made cot too and a clean table with fruit on it. The husband and wife were both there. She was sewing, he was running the counter. All of today's clean clothing was hung neatly on that moving bar thingy so that they can quickly find what they are looking for. The team was obviously well organized. The store had a relaxing air to it. I was in a pleasant mood going in and nothing hapenned until this point to ruin it. So I neatly pour my clothing onto the small counter and begin counting. 1, 2, 3 .... shirts, 2 pairs of pants. He stopped and closely examined my linen shirt. He wanted so say that it wasn't "going to fit on the machine" many have tried that on me before. I usually tell them to just put it on the damn machine. That I don't care if it comes out perfectly.
Then came the moment of truth. "When will the clothing be ready?" I asked. "Maybe in..." he looked up at the ceiling and then to his fingers. "Thursday", he said. Now, if I were to take the clothing to a cleaners on the Island, I would be picking up the stuff tonight, this afternoon if I rush them. I don't rush them anymore though. I look silly when I come two weeks later and the ticket says "crazy customer - super rush!" "Sorry about that" I say. "got busy."
I told him that Thursday afternoon was unacceptable. That it had to be quicker. There are some people who get their shit quick and there are some who get it slow. I like to at least feel like I get mine on time and not last because somebody else pushed their shit to the front.
I knew he could do it quicker. I felt that he was bluffing. I've had negotiations before with Chinese and I was sure about this one. "You can do it for me by Wednesday. I'm sure of it. Plus I'm a new customer" I said to him. Two days for shirts and pants seemed excessive to me to sweat. He told me there was nothing he could do. I felt the statement was counterfeit. I reach for my clothing, not at all angry as I still though I was winning this one, and neatly shoveled the pile into my tote. This was it. I was calling his bluff.
At last...he mumbles something under his breath, reaches for the ticket that he already printed and writes on it. I lean over to see what I have won. Was it a "Rush", a "Super Rush" maybe a "For Wednesday."

He had voided the ticket and told me that I would have to find another cleaners. I went around the block and settled for Thursday.

an early night

Its great to see the folks every once in a while so I make the effort every couple of weeks to stop in for dinner. I enjoy the summer barbeques, the family simchas, Father's Day in New Jersey and Mother's Day on Long Island. I get phone calls from mother when she needs to check the voicemail on her old Nokia, make the spamographic advertisements on the old computer in Woodmere go away, from my sisters when they want to eat kosher on the East Side, and I do not hesitate to call if I should need anything. Like money for example.
This Passover, things got out of hand. Now, I know that things probably get out of hand for many people on Passover, possibly even most. There are simply too many issues in too small a space with too long until the food is served.
For me, it started months before the seder.
The family booked the yearly Pasover trip to Miami. There, we are fed many variations of matzah, matzah meal and jelly cookies until we feel that it is time for the daily "I'm gonna go walk this off" walk on the boardwalk from 40th Street down to South Beach. This contiues for 9 days and then we go home. In between the meals, for the kids and select adults, you can meet people from other hotels and hook-up on the beach possibly while enjoying a cup of potato vodka.
Anyway, this year I informed the family that I would not be joining them for the holiday. I had too much going on this year and I wanted some time to relax for a few days. It wasn't the fact that I would be spending the week without any real food, or even that I would be unable to check my email for four days. I simply did not want to leave New York for the better part of a week. I have things to do here. The family found this unacceptable. "How could you do this to mom and dad?" cried my sisters. "Its Passover. We don't understand." The parents were beside themselves. They simply and almost innocently couldn't get it. I had to choose between ruining their vacations and giving in to a precedent that could have a ripple effect and invade my time and space until the coming of mashiach.
Now, in most families, I assume, an invitation for a seder would require a person to get into the car, possibly leaving work early, take a shower, get dressed up a bit, uncrease the old yarmulke and enjoy a few hours of tradition with the family. Then leave. Leave. Go home. The family has no room anymore. The old bedroom has been turned into an office, a workout room, anything. The visitor has things to do, the visitee has to clean up and has things to do as well.
Not in an Orthodox Jewish family. We like to stay and we like when our guests stay. A long, long time. We don't mind that there are things to tend to, like watering plants, reading the paper, your life. Compounding that is the fact that not only do they want you to stay for 4 days, but you must also pretend like you are living before electricity was invented. And you can't leave in the middle, because you cant drive and if it was known that you were going to leave, it would have been better if you had not come in the first place.
This leaves the not as religious family member in quite a situation.
I chose to stay in New York.

More next time...