Dailies

Longtime reader Scott F. in California has sent me a YouTube clip of Cindy Adams’ recent appearance on TV. Do not watch if you have just eaten or are about to eat:

As someone who reads the Post every day, I recognize almost everything she says from her columns (though the fact that she [allegedly] wrote it herself doesn’t seem to help her deliver it competently). But it made me realize that I have never searched for any video clips of her before. So I looked on YouTube and found this:

It isn’t really a video, true, but it did introduce me to this:

Notice the part at the bottom: “The hilarious adventures of Mr. and Mrs.” Nice typesetting, MGM!

In case any of you were wondering what to get me for Christmas 2012, I really, really want Cindy Adams to die.

We were swamped at work and I didn’t get a chance to catch my breath until well into the afternoon. Even if I hadn’t forgotten my lunch at home, I wouldn’t have been able to eat until 4:00 at the earliest. But by then I had gone beyond hunger. Ever been there? When you wait so long to eat that you no longer feel like eating? It’s like your hunger fed on itself until it disappeared.

So I decided that I wouldn’t run out and get something awful in the area (the deli around the corner makes a semi-competent egg sandwich; the owner of the deli two doors down is still mad at me because I refused to comp him a doctor’s appointment; the Chinese buffet next door makes Panda Express look like Shun Lee; the Burger King next door is a Burger King). Instead, I’d wait until we closed at 9:00, hightail it to Zito’s Sandwich Shoppe on 7th Avenue (in Brooklyn, not Manhattan) and get my new most favoritest sandwich ever: The 8-Hour Slow-Cooked Pork Bracciole.

It’s a butterflied loin of pork (from Faicco’s!) stuffed with provolone, garlic, parsley and a pinch of bread crumbs, covered in their deceptively simple tomato sauce, and sprinkled with parmigianno reggiano — all served on a perfect hero (from Brooklyn’s own Il Fornaretto Bakery!). It’s absolutely amazing.

Zito’s closes at 10:00, but I called them at around 8:00 and asked when they stopped taking orders. “10:00 p.m.” Perfect. If I left work at 9:00, I’d be between the Carroll Street station and the 4th Avenue and Ninth Street station (which is an area that gets great cell reception as it isn’t in a tunnel) by 9:45. I’d call in my order and arrive at Zito’s by 10:00 at the absolute latest.

I wasn’t hungry until around 8:30, but from the moment I devised my plan I could only think of that sandwich and how good it would taste when I ate it with my face.

A patient arrived at 8:15, so I started tidying and closing down what I could. He was on his way by 8:50 and I considered calling in my order and telling them that I’d be there in an hour. “Nah,” I thought. “No need. My plan is foolproof.”

Cut to 9:30, when we actually locked up.

I calmly walked to the R train, frantically doing math problems in my head (what if I get off the train just before 10 and call in the order and then get back on the train — would that work?). I didn’t see myself getting a sandwich. So I started considering the places near Zito’s that would still be open. Mediocre pizza, horrendous Mexican, Dunkin’ Donuts, Rite Aid… nothing really tickled my fancy. Then I heard the R train coming. I raced down the stairs and then raced up the other stairs (I hate you, Cortland Street station) and made it onto the Brooklyn-bound R. I looked at my watch phone. It was 9:35.

“Hmmm… I could get to Jay Street by 9:48… if there’s an F train there by 9:53, my plan will still work!”

I maneuvered through the train so that I was standing exactly where the entrance to the escalator at Jay Street would soon be. When we arrived at the station, I hurriedly climbed the escalator (it’s like walking fast on an airport treadmill except not fun and it makes me wheeze). In all the time I’ve made this commute, there has never been an F train waiting for me at Jay Street. Tonight, there was. At the doors closed as soon as I started down the steps toward it. A crazy person was loudly trying to seduce a morbidly obese station agent as she pretended to sweep the floor. It offered me no succor. I would arrive home sandwichless.

An F came about 10 minutes later. When we were finally out of the tunnel, I called Zito’s. It was 10:02.

“Zito’s, how can I help you?”

“He wants to help me!” I thought. “A place that wasn’t taking orders wouldn’t offer me assistance!” I tried to hide my giddyness from the dead-in-the-eyes commuters surrounding me. “Are you still taking orders?” I asked.

“Sorry, no. We’re no longer taking delivery orders. We stop at 10. Have a good night.”

***

But… but… what of his offer of help? What did he expect me to ask for that he would have been able to aid me with? “Would it be possible for me to not order a sandwich?” I was gutted. But then I had another thought. They aren’t taking delivery orders, but what of pick-ups? What of pick-ups? We were back underground, but I started to feverishly imagine various scenarios wherein I exit the subway and call and ask to make a pick-up order and am told, “Sure thing!” or that I arrive just as they’re about to throw away a pile of unclaimed but perfectly OK sandwiches or that I appeal to the kindness of Zito and he smiles and nods and hands me the sandwich that he had been saving for me all along.

[Full Disclosure: I don't think anyone who works at Zito's is named Zito.]

I started walking towards the shop and saw their sign was still illuminated. “That’s a good sign,” I thought. Then I thought about what a horrible pun that was and winced. I crossed the street and approached their door. As I did, I noticed people sitting and eating. Then, as I was about to reach for the knob (and feign surprise when I found it locked), someone opened it to take out the trash. I saw my opportunity and seized it.

The first employee who saw me wasn’t any of the three guys behind the counter. They all had their backs turned to me and were dealing with various closing duties. No, the one who immediately took notice of me was one of the cooks. He had a slight note of “you’ve got to be kidding me” on his face. I smiled weakly at him and waited by the register. Finally, someone turned around and asked if he could help me.

“Can I get a sandwich to go?”

He looked at the cook, then at his register, then at me — all while wearing a mask of “please notice that I am trying to make it clear that you cannot.”

I would accept a “no,” but he would have to say it to me. I wouldn’t say it to myself. At this point I was getting deliriously hungry.

“…OK,” he surrendered. The cook rolled his eyes. I didn’t care.

I sat down to wait. I could hear various people saying, “I told him not to take out the trash yet” and “lock the damn door” and “we’re supposed to be closed by now” and “what is wrong with him?” I went from fearing that I cost someone their job to wondering if the last remark was directed at me to not caring about anything except bracciole. In fact, I started imaging the man getting killed by his co-workers for unknowingly letting me in and, at his peasant funeral, a rockslide wiping his entire family out. I imagined everyone at Zito’s pointing and laughing at me for being so pathetic that I needed to swindle my way into a meal. None of it mattered to me. I just wanted my dinner.

After what seemed like two minutes (but might have been three), I was handed my sandwich. I profusely thanked the man who handed it to me. Then I profusely thanked the man who unlocked the door to let me out. I almost started to cry.

It took me another 25 minutes to get home, but I didn’t care. As soon as I walked in the front door, I washed my hands, ripped open the foil and paper casing and did unspeakable, inhuman things to my first real meal of the day (the semi-competent egg sandwich I ate at 8:00 a.m. doesn’t count).

You know what? This would be a terrible movie.

We closed early today, so I went to Target to see if I could find Teresa a nice treat. Memo to self: NEVER DO THAT AGAIN (especially on December 24th but also, ever).

So I went down 5th Avenue (in Brooklyn, not Manhattan), got some Chinese take-out and have settled into bed for an old-school Christmas like I used to have when I was single:

(Teresa is at our friend’s Christmas party but the MTA and my job are not conducive to my raging in Williamsburg tonight)

I didn’t make a holiday wage at my not-in-a-Seattle-movie-theater job (which I actually enjoy), but other than that this song feels especially appropriate.

Also, I drank vodka all day and wound up naked in front of the patients.

Happy Holidays!

I am hoping that I will be posting more regularly in the new year. In the meantime, let me wish you all a merry whatever-you-celebrate and a happy it’s-almost-January.

Yea, verily, this made me laugh.

I really like Al Franken.

Please read this.

And, if you have an hour, watch this:

But if you only have a few minutes, play around with this.

The Gary Oldman one will be giving me nightmares for the rest of my life.

G’night!

Read this story from the Chicago Tribune.

It’s about this Web site.

The anonymous blogger behind this site? I know him (or her) and I would like to tell her (or him) that this is a brilliant idea and that I look forward to reading everything it (or that) posts. I might even send in an essay if I ever find time to write again.

Great job, Charna.

One of the only American politicians who doesn’t make me furious.

Al Franken, ladies and gentlemen.

He’s funnier than most, he’s smarter than most, and (doggone it) we need more people like him.

Stop what you are doing and read this right now.

It’s a Truthout article about what has been happening in Iceland over the last few years. Those of you who have seen Inside Job already know much of the story (and those of you who haven’t, shame on you).

The Post hasn’t ever reported on this. But I did learn today that Kourtney Kardashian is pregnant again.

Off to a 3-hour rehearsal. I work tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday.

Pray for me.

Naomi Wolf’s “The shocking truth about the crackdown on Occupy” from The Guardian is well worth your time.

Also from The Guardian is an interview with Alan Moore about the recent popularity of Guy Fawkes masks. I found it fascinating, but I think non-comic book nerds will, too.

In other news, I hope Tony Blair and George W. Bush weren’t planning on going to Malaysia any time soon.

Happy Sunday!