How did I celebrate the annual Fool's fest?

By leaving my earbuds dangling in a cup of coffee on the desk, of course!

Who's this guy foolin'?

Overheard between aisles at a hip grocery spot in Greenpoint:

"I don't know if you already have plans, but there are some really amazing shows coming up this week."

"Oh yeah, who?"

"Well, actually, Tuesday we're playing..."

"It don't matter to Jesus. But you're not foolin' me, man."

"...You might fool the f**ks in the league office, but you don't fool Jesus." Thanks to the words of Jesus Quintana, it's easy to segue The Big Lebowski into IIK8's fool motif.

I was somewhat more mystified as to why Patrick McDonnell's Mutts chose February '08 to pay week-long tribute to the Coen brothers' cult fave. Lo and behold, though, the 10-year anniversary of Lebowski's release is well nigh upon us. Your options for celebration are not limited.

Swift Justice

Sad, in the first place, that it took me two weeks, but this morning I found myself searching for material cut out for inclusion in the IIK8 leitmotif.
This evening I lost myself, at least in part, slicing a milimeter deep through a pinkie tip in rushed bell pepper preparation.

At least I didn't suffer the fate of this fellow, unlikely to be enjoying the commencement of the Year of the Rat. Gung hay fat choy!
[photo found at www.janchipchase.com, with a zesty description of the dish!]

Our Daily Thanks To Not Be Aboard THAT Ship of Fools

The latest rumblings, as eyewitnessed (and suffered) by the New York Post:

"An MSG spokesman said a media member can ask for special permission through the PR staff to interview a celebrity but must be escorted by a Knick employee to the expo center."

I dunno, squiring specially permitted scribes would be a great way for Starbury to earn some of the $4 million or so he'll be due during these months he's on the DL.
On the other hand, I'd bet being forbidden to tread through the muck of the Garden's "bowels" couldn't further ruffle the feathers of the full-court-offended journos on this beat, Marc Berman included.

I may be playing the metaphor mixmaster here, but the Dolan-ites can process their fans and can the meat of their PR muscle to heart's content--would that this organization only be able to delete its woe like so much spam.

Fool, With Salad

So as I was saying, I'm a man who has over the years shown a fondness for exacerbating any instance of 'eking out' my existence. For instance, over the course of two weeks I once moved from Palo Alto to San Francisco without a car, just a heavily-laden bike which I rolled onto the Caltrain each evening, then pedaled from the SF depot, teetering, up the steady slope from SOMA to Sanchez Street, careful to avoid the trolley tracks crisscrossing my path like so many miniature moats. The night I brought up the dishes was particularly fraught with drama, but that's another tale.

More recently I faced an ostensibly much easier move, from my not-quite-squalid studio at 120th & 1st ave, into my girlfriend Z's 1-bedroom at 107th and Lex. So easy, in fact, that I recognized the opportunity to avoid hiring a truck and a team. For a few weeks I made sure that if I was making the jaunt down to her digs, I'd at least bring a full backpack or two with each trip. Not extreme, just efficient, right?

One Friday evening in the midst of this low-key transition, I offered to cook Z dinner in her (soon to be our) abode. I loaded my backpack with kitchenware necessary to create a dazzling entree, and felt I'd really maximized my space when, with no more room in the bag, I slid a bottle of herbally-infused olive oil and one of balsamic vinegar snug into the webbed pockets on either side of the pack.

Brilliant, as if the makers of this sports sack had envisioned my very needs. Bundled in layers of clothes (not cold out, just me being efficient with the move) I headed down my four flights of stairs, the vision of perfection in packing. As I turned the knob to the front door to the building, the small crowd of neighbors and lookouts who regularly nested on the stoop stood to part for my resourceful self. I swiveled in turn, to allow them to reposition, and in doing so allowed my oily bottle of herbal-infusion to swing to the left, tumbling out of its pocket and splattering on the tiled floor so that glass and oil not only covered the interior vestibule, but seeped out towards the steps as well.

Guess it didn't really fit all that snugly.

Playing it off with more self-deferential cheer than embarrassment, I scrambled to use a newspaper to mop up the surface a bit. An older neighbor with a cane leaned over and offered me a piece of cardboard, so that I could sweep away the dangerous glass. With a full New York Post and ten minutes of diligence, the spill was mopped up sufficiently (the floor had indeed, never shined so) and newsprint laid out to soak any remaining slipperiness. Sighing gratefully, I thanked by neighbors for their help and slung my bag back upon my shoulder...

...casting the bottle of balsamic, as if on cue, out of the webbed pocket and crashing down upon the tiles.

"Oh, no!" seemed to say everyone at once, now aghast at my clear idiocy. A 5 year old watched, mouth utterly agape. I thought I had uttered the perfect line for the situation: "Anyone got any lettuce?" But that seemed to fall upon deaf ears--these folks were too stunned by the lack of common sense exhibited by the young man who was simply carrying too much shit for his own damn good.

I discarded the backpack the next morning. The remainder of my move I completed in a single day, with a borrowed truck, so as to minimize any encounters with the good folks who while away their evenings out on the stoop at 120th & 1st.

To play the fool

Earlier today, the good folks at ug deftly logged the haplessness one experiences when being found to look quite the ass. I not only recognized the situation, but felt I could one-up with a woeful tale of autobio-buttheadness all my own.

When I'd just about finished patting myself on the back, I also took note that the grease mongers had already started this finely aligned year off by lapping me three-fold by EOD, precisely the sort pithy burst expected of writers who, over the course of holiday off-seasons, gather their moss round the on-a-roll, stoney resolution to chip away at the edited edifice with more Riis-ilient persistence.

Chisel of thought raised, I hesitated. True to form, yet wasn't this to be a new year, a fresh blog? Admiring the masthead's totem serenity, I imagined it tilted upon its Roman-Numeral head.

The fool as leitmotif? That the initial imprint upon this fresh server, the keynote missive signaling Jupiter's entrance into Capricorn, assuring an endless, Edenic, idyllic golden season should be so lowly. Disbelief washes over me.

Still, reality strikes back. If I'm sincere in my concern that all literate brethren, as they navigate the shifty e-seas seeking filters for thought, deserve not only utility and enjoyment but also a thesis statement of sorts, I could trust my instinct's provisions. For once.

Leitmotif?

Let it flow.

After all this woe is me...