It had to be me

[Alternate titles: "I'm just wild about Harry (Connick Jr.)" and "It was the best of nights, it was the worst of nights."]

First, let me, in the words of Bing Crosby and Harry Connick Jr., accentuate the positive. Thanks to "Sleepover Night" at our daughter's day camp, the spouse and I found ourselves with the night off Thursday. And somehow we found ourselves in New York City drinking Champagne (or in the spouse's case, beer) and eating delicious French fare at one of our favorite little restaurants, Brasserie Cognac, on Broadway and 55th Street...






















then sitting in the eighth row of the orchestra section at Harry Connick Jr.: In Concert on Broadway at the Neil Simon Theater.

















To say that Harry Connick Jr: In Concert on Broadway was good would be a gross understatement. It was... amazing. And that is still selling it short. I wish I could have videotaped the concert (I had my camera and thought about it several times but the rather large usher hovering five feet away from me dissuaded me). Then I could have watched it again and again.

Not only was/is Harry Connick Jr. an incredible singer, he is an incredible musician and performer -- and also a really funny guy. And I doubt I was the only one in the audience who was disappointed when the concert finally ended around 10:30 p.m.

But all good things must eventually come to end. And in this case les bons temps stopped rouler-ing seconds after we walked out of the theater when I looked up and saw THIS:






















[Conjure image of Stephen Colbert shaking his fist in indignation:] DECKER!

It's like Brooklyn Decker is stalking me. Everywhere I look, there she and her breasts are (even on vacation, when we were flipping channels and happened to catch the ESPYs, there they were).

But Brooklyn Decker's double Ds were the least of my woes last night. For just as the spouse and I were drifting off to sleep, around 12:20 a.m., the phone rang. And I don't know about all of you but I have never had a good phone call at 12:20 a.m.

Sure enough, it was camp calling to inform us that J-THREE-O had sprained her ankle (trying to escape the embrace of a boy -- at midnight, on wet grass) and needed to be picked up. Now. So the spouse (as I can no longer carry our daughter) dutifully got dressed and drove over to the camp at 12:30 a.m.... literally picked up our daughter... drove her back home... and carried her up the stairs to the spare bedroom, which has a futon on the floor, whereupon I cleaned her feet and gave her some naproxen sodium and a kiss -- and stayed awake the rest of the night/morning, unable to sleep, only to discover upon (physically) getting up this morning that... we had no water. None. Not a drop.

So at 8:45 I packed up my toiletry kit and a couple of towels and a washcloth and drove to a neighbor's, so I could brush my teeth and take a shower and shave. (I LOVE YOU, G.! YOU ROCK!)

Fast forward eight or so hours... Still no water, but we have two nice new big holes in our backyard, and just found out we have to replace our water pump and all the wiring. All I can say is, glad we saw the concert last night, cause it's going to be a loooong time 'til we splurge like that again. But at least we should have our water back in the next hour or so... so I can do the laundry and the dishes and the cleaning. Yay!

As for J-THREE-O (aka Sarah Heartburn), she has a mildly sprained ankle (which is now in an air cast) and has been enjoying ordering her father around all day.

I will now end this blog post on a positive note, with this clip of (a much younger and thinner) Harry Connick Jr. singing "It Had to Be You," from When Harry Met Sally (one of my favorite movies):



Btw, Harry Connick Jr: In Concert on Broadway is being filmed for TV (and DVD) tonight, and when it airs/comes out, I'll be watching -- and you should, too.

Mets-och-ism (Or how to tell if you are a Metsochist)

Do you have season tickets to Mets games at Citi Field?

Do you watch Mets games beyond the ninth inning, even when you have to get up for work at 6 a.m. the next morning?

Despite being of otherwise sane mind and fully cognizant of the Mets record and history, do you still watch every game and not-so-secretly hope they will win, even when Johan Santana gives up six runs in the first inning?

Then you, my friend, are a Metsochist -- and suffer from Metsochism.

Mets·och·ism (noun):
1 : a sports-related perversion characterized by pleasure in being subjected to pain or humiliation on a nightly (or daily) basis by one's baseball team
2 : pleasure in being abused or dominated : a taste for suffering

— Mets·och·ist (noun): one who takes part in Metsochism

— Mets·och·is·tic (adjective)

— Mets·och·is·ti·cal·ly (adverb)

Sadly, as far as I know, there is no cure.

Go Mets!

That's the way (uh-huh uh-huh) I like it (uh-huh uh-huh)

I don't know about you all, but every time I hear Enrique Iglesias's new song, "I Like It" (featuring Pitbull), which, considering my car radio is tuned to, like, every Top 40/Pop station in the NYC-Tri-State area, is a lot...



I cannot help but think of that other "I Like It" song. I am, of course, referring to KC & The Sunshine Band's timeless classic, "That's the Way (I Like It)"...



the chorus to which, in case you forgot, went

Oh, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.
That's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

At the time, my mother referred to "That's the Way (I Like It)" as "the stupidest [or was it 'dumbest'?] song ever," which I think may have been a bit harsh -- and inaccurate. (Consider the Comments your opportunity to list the dumbest pop song or songs you have ever heard.)

In any case, I'm not so sure the chorus to Enrique Iglesias's "I Like It" is any deeper or more profound...

Baby I like it
The way you move on the floor
Baby I like it
Come on and give me some more
Oh yes I like it
Screaming like never before
Baby I like it
I, I, I like it.

but I like it, too. I, I, I like it.

It was a hot and Storm King day... (art appreciation)

the sun shone in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the maple allées (for it is in the Storm King Art Center that our scene lies), rattling the leaves, and fiercely agitating the enormous sculptures that groaned against the heat....

--With apologies to Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton

On Saturday, the spouse and I were gifted with a day off. (A good friend of J-THREE-O's invited her over for the day.) So we took the opportunity to drive to the Storm King Art Center, an outdoor sculpture park in Mountainville, New York, where temperature in the non-existent shade was 95 degrees Fahrenheit (though that may be a conservative estimate).

Despite the heat, we loved strolling through the sculpture park and gazing up at the enormous works of art.




































































(Apparently outdoor sculptors and yours truly have a thing for red.)

After baking in the heat in the name of art appreciation for nearly an hour and a half (that tram didn't arrive a minute too soon), we drove to Cornwall-on-Hudson, a picturesque town overlooking (wait for it...) the Hudson River, where we had a fabulous lunch at the River Bank Restaurant and then took a stroll, which turned into a drive, along the riverbank -- where I captured this shot of one of the prettiest or most scenic gazebos I have ever seen.
















I (heart) summer.

Seventeen years ago today...

the spouse and I stood hand in hand in a little building in Kenilworth, Illinois, surrounded by friends and family. (Want to know how long 17 years is? Let's put it this way: there was no digital photography, the Internet was in its infancy, the spouse was a beta tester for something called email being rolled out by a little company called AOL, "mobile" phones were only mobile if you had strong arms and didn't mind carrying around a bag that felt like bricks, and people actually RSVP'd, via the mail.)

As I recall, there was a lot of hair (seriously, what was I thinking?!), a lot of music (the spouse and I referred to our wedding as "the benefit concert" because the spouse and nearly all of his friends were musicians at the time and got up on the stage and played for, oh, four hours, which is why there is maybe one picture of me dancing with him at our wedding), a lot of food (almost all of which was vegetarian, which my mother thought we were crazy to do at the time and which I was too busy and anxious to eat*), and a lot of Champagne (much of which sadly went to waste because one of the servers stupidly opened nearly all of it near the end of the reception without realizing the party was nearly over), and, oh yes, something about promising to love and honor each other. (Obey? Puh-lease. We wanted this marriage to work.)

Oh, and did I mention there was really great music?

Speaking of really great music, this would not be it, but it seems extremely appropriate considering that today we are celebrating our 17th Wedding Anniversary** and our fondness for The Flintstones. (Seriously, you describe a situation and the spouse and I can probably quote you something appropriate from a Flintstones episode.)



[H/T to the Spouse.]

Yabba dabba doo! Which means... Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.

*After the party was over, and we had changed, the spouse and I made a beeline to our favorite deli/diner, The Belden, in Chicago. I had a turkey sandwich. Don't recall what the spouse, who was a vegetarian at the time, had. Sadly, The Belden closed many years ago. Thankfully, we are still going strong.

**As far as I know, neither of us bought the other a piece of furniture, the traditional gift for the 17th wedding anniversary -- and apparently we will have to wait until our 20th wedding anniversary to get those new plates we've been thinking about. (We still have the set of Dansk Bistrowear we got for our wedding, even though it's a little chipped and worn down -- like us!)

When a picture is worth a thousand words

Last night the camera (my Nikon D70) and I attended an event with the spouse at the Sunset Terrace at Chelsea Piers.

Now I know why they call it the Sunset Terrace.

Flying pasties, racing snails, and why you should never argue with an ibex

In this week's chapter of News of the Weird, J-TWO-O brings you the latest must-have item for frequent flyers (particularly if they happen to be in the adult film industry, Vegas showgirls, or work for Hooters), flying pasties; the results from the World Snail Racing Championships in England; and why you should never argue with an ibex.

First up, Flying Pasties. But before proceeding, I have to admit I was a bit hesitant to blog about this subject, even though I have blogged about breasts (and things that cover them) on several occasions.

Maybe it's the word pasties, or it could be the voluptuous pastie-only clad model on FlyingPasties.com. But, heck, if that bastion of the Right, the Wall Street Journal, can write about Flying Pasties, gosh darn it, so can I!

In a (coco) nut shell: Flying Pasties are, and I quote, "meant to obscure your private parts when entering a typical airport scanner," thereby protecting your privacy.

You can learn more about these little rubber privacy protectors at FlyingPasties.com -- or via the WSJ article (which I linked to).

Btw, I love the quote from the "Pilots of America" on the site: "Ingenious." (I wonder what the airport scanners union has to say about them....)

Moving right along...

In the lettuce entertain you category: Last week the World Snail Racing Championships took place in England and around 200 snails slugged it out to win the honor of World's Fastest Snail.

Ready... set... escargot!

Snail Bonanza - World Snail Racing Championships from Rii Schroer on Vimeo.

Finally, this gem, courtesy of friend of the blog Larissa, on why you should never argue with an ibex:

Bon appetit and safe travels...