Right now my one hope, my one wish, is to see the Mandarin duck in Central Park. It's all I want in life.
You're likely familiar with the Mandarin duck, even if you don't live in New York. He's received a lot of attention on social media since The New York Times published an article about him on Oct. 31.
The Mandarin duck, native to East Asia, should not be in the middle of Manhattan. And yet, against all odds, he is there. And he is dazzling. https://t.co/UQNY9m0EXb
He is dazzling. I've never been so dazzled by a bird in my life. The only other time I've ever been so in awe of a bird was when I saw an oriole just outside the Baltimore Orioles' ballpark nine years ago. A real-life oriole where the Orioles play! What were the odds? My mind was BLOWN. (Still is.)
I really wanted to check out this duck for myself. As it happened, I was free on the afternoon of Oct. 31, so I walked to the pond in Central Park where the duck was first spotted. No luck finding the duck. I was disappointed.
I didn't have the chance to search for the duck for another week and a half, in part because I don't leave work until after sunset. (Another example of daylight saving time putting the screws to me.)
In the meantime, six friends had posted photos or videos on Facebook of their own sightings of the duck. One of them hadn't even known about the duck until I told him about it; when I saw him the next day he said, "Hey, guess what? I saw that duck." He pulled out his phone and swiped through the 10 beautiful pics he took of the duck. "That's ... great," I said before grabbing the phone from his hand and throwing it out a fifth-floor window.
Fortunately, my Sunday was clear and so, with a renewed sense of purpose, I went back to the pond, this time accompanied by my wife. Almost immediately, I saw three ducks. I went in for a closer look. They were unremarkable in color. I was not dazzled. I took a photo anyway.
"Excuse me, but have you seen a Mandarin duck around here? Blue, purple, orange, and a bunch of other colors?"
I looked further down the pond. I spotted a flock of ducks hanging out together. And there were approximately a dozen people lined up along the walking path with cameras. Could it be? Could one of those ducks be the Mandarin duck? I allowed myself a flicker of hope.
We headed down the path. There were a lot of ducks; around 30, by my count. Not one of them was the Mandarin duck. They were all just ... plain ducks. I can guarantee you none of them had ever been profiled by The New York Times.
I was crestfallen, but I took another photo.
Booooooooorrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnng.
For the second time, I did not see the Mandarin duck in Central Park. I did see something else of note, though: a British comedian. Ricky Gervais, the inspiration for the name of this blog, jogged past my wife and me less than a quarter-mile from the pond.
Ricky Gervais. Creator of "The Office." Four-time Golden Globes host. Owner of the greatest laugh I've ever heard.
I did not take a photo. He may be many things, but he is not a duck.
Update: A week later I returned to the pond and ... I SAW THE DUCK.
I stayed up way past my bedtime last Wednesday. Why did I stay up so late? Well ... here's how I explained it to my wife the next morning:
"I started to listen to one Madonna song on Spotify, and then another, and then the next thing I knew I'd fallen down the Madonna song rabbit hole."
It was the midweek Madonna song rabbit hole. It's only human nature to binge Madonna music late on a Wednesday night.
I was so close to going to bed at 11. I really was. And then for some reason I thought about "4 Minutes," that Madonna-Justin Timberlake song from 10 years ago. I don't think about it often, but I do like it a lot. It's underrated, actually, when you consider it features two of the biggest pop stars of my lifetime.
I haven't the slightest clue what the song is about. I can only recite one line from memory: "We only got 4 minutes to save the world!" And it's not even a Madonna line; Timberlake sings it. For the record, it's now 2018 and Madonna and Justin Timberlake have yet to take meaningful action together toward saving the world. We gave them 10 years when they asked for 4 minutes and, so far, we've received nothing in return.
Anyway, I picked up my phone, opened Spotify, tapped on one of the approximately 22 greatest-hits collections Madonna has released, and played "4 Minutes" for 4 minutes.
And then I figured that since I was listening to Madonna, I might as well fire up my favorite song of hers, "Beautiful Stranger." Not the most obvious choice for a favorite Madonna song, I know, but it is the only one with an "Austin Powers" connection, so there's that.
So now I started getting into the groove — and falling down that rabbit hole, quicker than a ray of light. I shuffled around the tracklist: "Like a Virgin," "Vogue," "La Isla Bonita," moving from one hit to the next spanning her entire career. I was hung up on the Material Girl.
I even listened to "Take a Bow," the rare song that can bring tears to my eyes. I can count on one hand the number of songs that can affect me so deeply: "Take a Bow," Adele's "Someone Like You," the Spice Girls' "2 Become 1." (Maybe not the last one so much.)
By this point it was a little after midnight and I was bracing myself for the possibility that I might cry while listening to "Take a Bow" on my couch. Hey, I'm not afraid to open my heart and express myself — especially in the privacy of my own home, when my wife is asleep and won't see it.
I didn't cry that night. Thankfully, I pulled myself together and I was finished after that song. "Take a Bow," the night was over, I went to bed.
I've since shared this story with not only my wife, but with my Facebook friends, just for laughs. But the secret is now out: I'm a Madonna fan. Not that I've ever needed to justify my love for her.
By my count, I referenced 16 Madonna song titles in this post. Did you spot them all? If so, congrats! That's cause for celebration.
On the afternoon of National Coffee Day, I went to one of my favorite local coffee shops, which had a special offer: pay as you wish. I could have paid any amount for the iced latte I ordered: 50 cents, $1, $2. Whatever amount I wished, "no questions asked."
I'll share with you a little later how much I ended up spending on the iced latte, but, as I'm sure you've gathered by now, I wouldn't be writing this blog entry if I had in fact paid what I wished.
I've never been good at this whole pay-as-you-wish thing. I blame Radiohead. In 2007 the band released "In Rainbows," which was essentially a surprise album at a time when surprise albums really were a surprise. Radiohead said fans could pay whatever they wanted, even if it meant paying nothing at all.
I wasn't sure what to pay. I knew I didn't want to pay what I would normally pay for an album: between $12-$15. But I also didn't want to download the album for free. The band did work hard on it, after all, and deserved to be compensated in some fashion. I felt strongly about that.
I gave Radiohead $2. Well, I didn't say I felt strongly about compensating them well.
I do regret having paid so little for what turned out to be a pretty good album, perhaps my favorite of Radiohead's since "OK Computer." I should've given them at least $5 more. Sorry, Thom.
I saw Radiohead in concert earlier this summer for the first time since the "In Rainbows" era. They played several songs from "In Rainbows" that night, but not my favorite track; they saved it for the following night. I can't help but feel they did that on purpose, as a measure of payback for stiffing them all those years ago.
The pay-as-you-wish model doesn't work well for someone like myself, who has a tendency to overthink things. The Met has pay-as-you-wish admission. What's a fair price for the opportunity to see a van Gogh or a Monet in person, at one of the world's most famous museums? More than the $2 I spent on "In Rainbows," for certain. But $10? $20? $25? I don't know. I'm not an art lover. I love many things more than art. Baseball, for one. Say, shouldn't it be the Mets, and not the Met, who have pay-as-you-wish admission, anyway?
I had pretty much the same pay-as-you-wish debate in my head as I stood in line at the coffee shop on National Coffee Day: What is a fair price for this iced latte?
I settled on $4, including tip (my holiday gift to the barista).
The usual cost of an iced latte at this shop: $4.
Total savings on an iced latte on National Coffee Day: $0.
If only the offer had been advertised as "save as you wish," I might've made a smarter decision.
Here's what I really wish: I wish businesses would stop asking me to pay what I wish. No more pay-as-you-wish offers, no questions asked.
I'm usually not one to put off a household chore. If the dishes are dirty, I will wash them. If the tub has to be scrubbed, I will scrub it.
But there's one chore I do not care for at all. I do not like to shred paper. I really dislike shredding paper.
Until recently, I was depositing all of my paper that needed to be shredded into a large plastic Duane Reade bag. The bag filled up pretty quickly with junk mail, receipts, documents with my address or sensitive information, and so on.
I'd had this bag for 10 years. For 10 years it had been at least half-filled with paper. That's how much I dislike shredding. I chose to hold on to a tattered Duane Reade bag for a decade rather than empty its contents and dispose of it.
My old, reliable Duane Reade bag.
There are three reasons why I don't like shredding. The first reason is that I associate shredding with mice. Years ago, when I lived in a small studio apartment and was single, I used a shredder basket as my primary trash can. Repurpose your old household items! It worked out fine until one day, while lying in bed, I noticed the plastic bag inside of the basket was moving violently. I don't think I needed to check the bag to find out what was happening, but I did anyway. Yes, there was a mouse inside the bag, and yes, I ran to the door, made a swift exit out the building and hid in a nearby Starbucks for the next three hours. Or something like that.
So, shredding is a terrible reminder of a terrible period in my life.
The second reason why I dislike shredding: It's a boring task. So, so boring. I sit on the floor, feed a piece of paper into the shredder, patiently wait for it to be slashed, cross-cut style, and repeat. I can't really entertain myself in other ways while shredding. I can't watch TV; the shredder is too noisy. I can't listen to music for the same reason. I just have to sit there and watch and listen to the shredder. It's not a relaxing noise. The sound of destruction rarely makes me feel relaxed.
A label on the shredder says I can insert eight sheets of paper at a time, but the shredder didn't fully comprehend the condition of the paper in my Duane Reade bag. With few exceptions, the paper was wrinkled or crumpled or both. I could have left it in nice condition, but how often do you leave junk mail in nice condition? It's junk.
At the start of the summer, I told myself that this was it, that I would rid myself of the Duane Reade bag once and for all. By Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer, I still had the Duane Reade bag, and it was still quite full. So I spent two of the three days during the holiday weekend shredding like I'd never shredded before. I didn't go to the beach, I didn't travel, I didn't do any of the things that I saw my friends were doing on Facebook. Instead, I sat and shredded.
It's amazing what one can find in a Duane Reade bag when he hoards paper inside of it for 10 years. There were receipts that were so old that the type had completely vanished. It was as if it had been erased from time. Did I really use my credit card to buy something from Circuit City? Who knows? If I did, I'd lost out on my chance to make a return a long time ago.
I had to take breaks every now and then because the shredder overheats fairly quickly, and when that happens it just quits. I had to wait a while for it to cool off before I could resume. It's kind of annoying. Shredder, you have one job. I didn't pay good money for you to sit around and do nothing.
When it did overheat, I emptied the basket into a paper bag (not from Duane Reade). Here's the third reason why I dislike shredding, and it's easily the most frustrating reason: It is impossible to empty the basket without making a huge mess. The shredder I have is Amazon-branded; as I've written on here, I love my Amazon trash can. But Amazon messed up with this shredder.
I'd assumed when I purchased the shredder that I'd be able to empty the basket by removing the top. Not so —with this shredder, you must remove the basket from the side. Here's what happens when you remove the basket from the side:
"#$%#$%$#%#$%$#%$#@%$#@"
Every. single. time. I've tried and tried and tried to empty the basket into a paper bag without making a mess, and have never come close to getting it right. It can really break a man's spirit when a shredder forces him to stand in a pile of his own receipts. I have to vacuum the tiny pieces of paper on the floor, a number of which somehow manage to stick to my leg or furniture, like sprinkles at the Museum of Ice Cream. Paper is never sticky until it comes face to face with the hose of a vacuum.
Eventually, finally, I shredded all of the paper that was in the Duane Reade bag and tossed it all out. I used to think that sticking out a double major in college and finishing that degree was my finest accomplishment in life, but I may be more proud that I stuck out that Duane Reade bag. I finished the college degree in four years; I finished the Duane Reade bag in 10. There's something to be said for that.
Now I'm taking some well-deserved time off from shredding. I have a new bag, with a new collection of paper to shred. I've promised myself I will shred it all sometime in the next several years.
Here's a sentence you may not have read yet this week: I'm in the mood to watch "Not Without My Daughter."
For those of you who may not remember the film, which was based on a true story, it starred Sally Field as an American woman who, with her young daughter, is held captive by her Persian husband in Iran after they travel there to visit his family.
I didn't see "Not Without My Daughter" when it opened in theaters in early 1991, but I watched it several times on VHS later that year. I was 10 years old at the time. As best as I can remember, the movie had not been marketed to preteens.
But I watched it because I was Persian, and I was desperate for any kind of Persian representation in pop culture. And also because when I rented a VHS tape from Blockbuster, I had it for three days, and it was very important to me that I get my money's worth out of it, even if the story was a bit of a downer.
Before "Not Without My Daughter," I knew of only one Persian character either on TV or in the movies: the Iron Sheik. This was well after he had peaked as WWE champion, and well before he had become the most profane Twitter user ever. He was a villain — though, as you can see below, a villain who inspires.
And then came the husband in "Not Without My Daughter" (portrayed by Alfred Molina, who, it should be noted, does not have an Iranian background). He was a villain, too; he was hot-tempered and abusive. It was not a positive depiction of Iranians at all. He certainly didn't remind me of any Persians I knew.
But in a strange way I was still interested in the character because he sort of/kind of looked like me, we both spoke the same language, and we both had a nice mustache. It's true: I had a mustache years before any other student in my school had one. There are pictures.
Me at the age of 10.
Somehow, "Not Without My Daughter" came up in a recent conversation I had, and it occurred to me that I haven't watched it since I was in school. My seventh-grade social studies teacher decided to show it to the class, but only after he pulled me aside and asked for my permission. It was the first and only time a teacher asked for my approval for anything. It felt good to wield that kind of power.
"Would it be OK with you if we show this movie in class?" he asked.
"HECK YEAH IT WOULD! It would save me the trouble of renting it from Blockbuster again!" I responded. That's a slight exaggeration. I did assure him I was fine with it. At 116 minutes, it would take three classes to watch the whole thing. Sure I was fine with it.
As an aside, I expect that this same conversation is being repeated in schools today between social studies teachers and their Persian students: "Hey, you wouldn't mind if I show 'Argo' to the class, would you? It won the Oscar for best picture, you know."
I'm not sure if many of my classmates had seen "Not Without My Daughter" before my teacher screened it. I'm positive that my crush at the time, who sat two rows away from me, hadn't. There was a disturbed look on her face. She may have let out an "ugh" at one point.
I never asked her out. Of course I never asked her out. You don't ask out a girl after she reacts to a film that depicts your culture with an "ugh." It's Dating 101.
With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I'd spoken up after we watched the movie. I wish I'd taken the time to explain to my classmates that while the film was based on a true story, it shouldn't inform their perception of Iranians as a whole. "Persians are actually kind and decent people, and you know what? I'm Persian and I'm proud to be one." I wish I had said that.
I also wish I hadn't said yes when my social studies teacher asked if he could show "Not Without My Daughter." I wish I'd suggested that he show something more benign. An Iron Sheik match, maybe?
A year and a half ago a new subway station opened three blocks away from my apartment. It was so exciting for my neighbors and me. We'd waited a long time for the station to open. In fact, plans for the subway line had been in the works for a century. A century! If I were a transit official I would've abandoned all hope after a week, if that. It's taken me about a week just to write this blog post, and it requires zero manual labor.
Fortunately, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) is more motivated than I am, and it built a beautiful station. It's bright, it's clean, it has colorful mosaics.
More importantly, from my perspective: I can travel to different neighborhoods much more quickly thanks to this station. I can get to Midtown in 10 minutes. Greenwich Village: 25 minutes. Park Slope: 40 minutes. It's made my life so much easier.
For the most part.
I do have one complaint. Picture this: There are two escalators several hundred feet from the turnstiles that typically move upward toward the entrance during evening rush hour. As you might imagine, the station is very busy during evening rush hour. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of commuters use the escalators during evening rush hour.
Here's the issue: For the past two months, one of the escalators has not been operational during evening rush hour. At all. This leaves hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of commuters with two options: Either wait in a lengthy and chaotic line to use the escalator that is running, or walk up the escalator that isn't running.
Neither option is appealing to me. I wrote a tweet to the MTA, kindly asking for an explanation. I didn't receive a response. Therefore, I'm escalating (see what I did there?) the issue here. I didn't want it to come to this, but I now have no other choice but to air my grievances in an entry on a comedy blog, one that took nearly a week to write.
It may be helpful to you if I describe the problematic escalator in further detail. It is so, so long. Approximately 2 1/2 miles, give or take. It's the closest thing I've ever seen to an actual stairway to heaven.
Still, I'd rather walk up those steps than wait on the line for the running escalator. I'm in the minority; I'd estimate only 10 percent of commuters, likely less, opt for that climb.
It's a tough climb. I'm not even sure Sir Edmund Hillary would've attempted it.
For starters, it's been very hot in the station during the summer. The heat wears you down. By the time I'm a quarter of the way up the stairs, I am huffing, I am puffing, I am wiping beads of sweat off my forehead, my sleeves are damp. There's a reason why there's a newsstand that sells water and Gatorade on the train platform. It's to make sure that people like me will stay hydrated during the arduous journey home.
Even more challenging than the heat: the behavior of certain commuters as they're hiking up the escalator. Last week a man attempted to run up the steps with an umbrella in his hand. As he passed me he whacked me on the side of my face with the umbrella. It stung. For a very brief moment, I paused, expecting him to turn around and apologize. He didn't. He kept running. Running for his life up the escalator. Running further and further out of my view, until he disappeared. I don't know if he made it to the top.
And then there was the man in front of me on the escalator yesterday. He didn't run up the steps. On the contrary, he very ... slowly ... put ... one ... foot ... on ... a ... step ... followed ... by ... the ... other ... foot. I can only assume he either was a) enjoying the hike at his leisurely pace, or b) thinking, "What the f--- did I get myself into"?
I sidestepped him and pressed on. I never heard from him again.
I'm kind of glad I waited until now to write this blog entry, because I have some good news: Today the escalator was completely blocked off, with a sign noting that it was under repair. My days of sweaty climbs may finally be over — assuming the plans to fix the escalator don't continue for the next century.
My very first job was at Toys "R" Us, in 1999. I was 18 and had just returned home after completing my freshman year of college. I applied, the store called me back the same week, and I was hired soon afterward as its new ticket writer for the summer.
It was a risky hire on their part. I had no prior experience as a ticket writer. Remember, this was my first job. When the hiring manager requested my resume, I handed her a blank sheet of paper. But she brought me onboard anyway. I will always be grateful that she took a chance on a green Persian teenager from Long Island.
That was nearly 20 years ago, but I've been thinking about it ever since Toys "R" Us closed its stores last week. My experience was a mixed bag — there are some good memories (I really do miss wearing a blue Geoffrey the Giraffe vest to work every day) and there are some bad memories (pretty much every interaction I ever had with a customer).
They're all fresh in my mind at the moment, and they're all pretty entertaining to me in their own way, so I thought I'd jot down a few of my favorites.
"Can you please show me how this stroller works?"
If you'd never been to a Toys "R" Us, you may be wondering what it is, exactly, that a ticket writer did. Well, in my case, it wasn't writing tickets. I didn't write one ticket the entire summer I worked in the store.
I did keep inventory of tickets — tickets that customers would remove from a display and bring to the cashier if they wanted to purchase a larger item. I mainly worked in the baby gear department. That's right — my employer put an 18-year-old in charge of baby gear.
I wouldn't know what to do in a baby gear department now as a 37-year-old. All baby gear is foreign to me. When I watch parents collapse a stroller on a jet bridge before boarding an airplane, I just stand there in awe. They make it look so effortless.
Needless to say, I didn't know how to collapse a stroller in my late teens. Or how to put together a crib. Or do anything that had anything to do with babies. But as luck would have it, Toys "R" Us carried strollers and cribs in the baby gear department.
Several times per week a customer would ask, "Can you please show me how this stroller works?" And several times per week I would answer, "No. I can't. I have no idea how it works."
I could have learned how it worked; I was a ticket writer in that department for three months. But that wasn't part of the managers' plan, apparently. Not once did they offer baby gear training to their 18-year-old baby gear employee. They told me if a customer needed a question answered, I should track one of them down. So that's what I did — many, many times.
It was a teachable moment for me. I learned that summer that I was not cut out to be in the baby gear business. I've been upfront about that in every job interview I've had since. I've looked every HR manager in the eye and said, "You should know that if the responsibilities for this role include collapsing a stroller, I'm probably not the right candidate for you."
"You should try Walmart"
Obviously, I was miscast in the baby gear department. Had Toys "R" Us recognized my strengths, it would have placed me in another department. Like, for example, the action figure department.
I knew action figures. I'd collected action figures my entire life up to that point. Ten years earlier, I'd owned pretty much every He-Man figure ever made, including Stinkor, the only character in action figure history (to the best of my knowledge) whose sole claim to fame was that he stank.
I eventually moved on to Starting Lineup baseball figures and then wrestling figures. I was still collecting wrestling figures by the time I worked at Toys "R" Us and kept up with the new releases.
Occasionally at Toys "R" Us I would answer customers' phone calls. One time I fielded a call from a young boy who asked if the store had the latest series of wrestling figures in stock. It didn't, and that's what I told him.
I also said, "You should try Walmart down the road. They have it. I was there yesterday. I saw it."
You may be thinking that it was not such a smart move to drive a potential customer to a competitor. I saw it differently at the time. I saw it as building equity with a potential customer, earning his respect for both me and my store by giving him an honest and helpful answer.
But then, Toys "R" Us is now out of business and Walmart is very much still in business, so my theory may have had holes in it.
"Put those lightsabers down and get back to work!"
I began my job at Toys "R" Us about a month after the debut of the first "Star Wars" prequel, "The Phantom Menace." It's fashionable to make fun of that movie now, but it was a very big deal in 1999. My store carried all sorts of "Phantom Menace" merchandise: action figures, costumes, even a Jar Jar Binks bicycle.
I was drawn to the lightsaber. It may have lit up or made sounds, I can't remember. All I know is that it was a lot of fun to hold in my hand, and it opened up a world of possibilities. I was a powerful Jedi who could fight the dark side or slice a stroller in half.
Or stage a duel with a co-worker in the middle of the store. That one actually did happen. It was an impressive battle that drew a crowd of at least seven people. They really enjoyed it and cheered us on. We didn't choreograph any of the moves beforehand, either. It was all spontaneous.
After 30 seconds, I sensed a disturbance in The Force. It was the head manager marching in our direction.
"What are you doing?! Put those lightsabers down and get back to work!" he barked.
I don't use the verb "bark" often when it comes to human beings, but I'm making an exception here. He did bark, and unnecessarily so, in my opinion. I didn't understand why he was so upset. Get back to work? Toys were my work. And customers were paying much more attention to the lightsaber when I was putting on a demonstration than they had when it was sitting on a shelf. I knew what I was doing.
I found his lack of faith disturbing.
"Shane! Shane!"
The managers didn't post the employees' schedules for a given week until the Friday beforehand. I thought it was an odd system, but it usually didn't present a problem for me, at least not for the first several weeks I was there.
It did present a problem in mid-July, when the managers scheduled me to work a 9-to-7 shift on a Saturday. I was supposed to be at the Mets game that day. First pitch: 7:10 p.m.
I realize that, less than a month ago, I wrote a blog post on how much disappointment the Mets have brought me through the years. But 1999 was a rare exception; the team made the playoffs that fall for the first time in over a decade. I had reason to be excited to go to a game that season.
When I told one of the managers I had a conflict that Saturday evening, she didn't budge. She said, "You wrote you were 'flexible' with your availability on your application."
That was true. I was flexible...until it became apparent that the Mets were legitimately good. I already had tickets, and I refused to let a summer job stand in my way of taking myself out to the ball game.
So, at exactly 5 o'clock, I walked out of the store. Actually, that's not quite true. First, I grabbed a wrestling figure I wanted from the shelf and brought it to the cashier to pay for it, using my employee discount.
Why I chose that moment to buy it, I have no idea. It was a brazen move, especially because two managers saw the whole thing. As I began to walk out, figure in hand, one of them called out, "Shane! Shane!" I felt like Alan Ladd at the end of the movie "Shane."
I didn't look back. I walked toward the exit, out the exit and into my car.
I went to the game that night with my dad. I don't even remember if the Mets won. I just remember it was an electric crowd and a great time.
The next morning, I showed up to work at 9 a.m. and clocked in. No one said a word about what happened the afternoon before. It didn't come up once the rest of the summer. I pulled a George Costanza better than George Costanza himself.
I did not make a lasting impression with my managers during my brief time at Toys "R" Us. That was made especially clear to me when, two months into my role, one of them walked up to a co-worker and me and asked, "Which one of you is Shane?" And this was the manager who'd hired me.
Toys "R" Us may have forgotten me, but I will never forget Toys "R" Us. Thanks for the memories, Geoffrey.
