Category Archives: Humor

Can You See Me Now?

Posted on
6

By Judy Berman

Ever been in this situation? You’re having a quiet cup of coffee or other liquid refreshment, and the guy sitting next to you is asking questions. To be polite, you respond.

But he’s not answering any of your comments.

You talking to me? Turns out, he wasn’t. He was on his cell phone. Embarrassing. This happened to me, and I just felt invisible. If only.

But, suppose you could actually crawl into a black hole and be unobserved in the background? REALLY blend. That’d be a handy feature whether you’re trying to slink away to avoid a confrontation or to duck a creditor.

Cloaking devices could help. That’s not just the stuff of science fiction such as in “Star Trek” or “Star Wars,” or the invisibility cloak that Harry Potter used to skulk around Hogwarts.

An invisibility cloak might be in use within 10 years.Cornell University scientists have created a “time cloak” that masks an entire event, according to Seth Borenstein of the Associated Press.

Would this give criminals the edge in committing a crime? Would they be able to walk into an art museum like Pierce Brosnan’s character in “The Thomas Crown Affair” and steal a painting in broad daylight? Even if the museum is swarming with police?

That’d be a ways off yet. Right now, the time cloak lasts maybe less than a nanosecond – which is one billionth of a second, according to a study in the journal “Nature.”

Researchers at Duke University and elsewhere also are at work  to develop this technology.

It would be an asset for the military and police. They could use this to camouflage their soldiers and police officers, and tanks and planes from the enemy or track those engaged in illicit activities.

“There are practical applications … This is a way of adding a packet of information to high-speed data unseen without interrupting the flow of information,” Borenstein wrote.

The downside for us mere mortals is that same technology also could be used to spread computer viruses.

Personally, I’m just hoping it becomes available for everyday use.

A little smoke and mirrors could come in handy. Just slip the cloak on, like Harry Potter, and become invisible. Say, you’ve left the boss’s office after requesting a raise and you hear maniacal laughter. If you were to return undetected, you might discover just what people are saying when they think you’re not in the room.

Then, again … sometimes, the lack of transparency isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Photo Credit: A dragon-shaped cloud of dust seems to fly out from a bright explosion in this infrared light image (top) from the Spitzer Space Telescope, a creature that is entirely cloaked in shadow when viewed in visible part of the spectrum (bottom).

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Star_Formation_Revealed_around_M17.jpg

Movie references and science info (ABC News)

http://abcnews.go.com/video/playerIndex?id=5560679

Military use and science info (Discovery.com)

http://science.discovery.com/videos/popscis-future-of-invisibility-cloak.html

BUELLER? BUELLER?

Posted on
6

By Judy Berman

Playing hooky. Taking a mental health day off from work. Did you ever wish you played it like Ferris Bueller? Breaking all the rules. Cool, charming and utterly over-the-top outrageous. That escapism appeals to me.

What would that innocent-looking scamp be up to today? Maybe he’d kick it up a notch when he ditches work.

A short clip of an ad that will run during the Super Bowl on Feb. 5th is already teasing the audience about the prospects of a grown-up Bueller. Matthew Broderick, who played Ferris in John Hughes’ 1986 film, will be 50 in March. (The complete ad was released Monday, Jan. 30th, after I wrote this. Its link has been added below.)

Broderick is at it again. Just like Bueller did in the opening of the movie, Broderick opens the curtains and looks directly at the camera. He confides to the audience, “How can I handle work on a day like today?”

I skipped work once when I was about 21 at my first job. Like Bueller, I also headed downtown. No, I didn’t jump on a parade float as Ferris did and serenade the crowd with Wayne Newton’s “Danke Schoen” or The Beatles’ version of “Twist and Shout.”

But there was a crowd. It was lunchtime, and among those milling about the shoppers was my boss – an older gent.

We briefly exchanged glances. I had on shades and a white winter parka. I continued walking with my friends, hoping – no, fervently praying – that he’d think he must be mistaken.

When I returned to work the next day, my boss never quizzed me about my absence. We never talked about this. But I didn’t repeat that escapade ever again in ANY of my jobs.

I still aspire to be Ferris, to have his savoir faire in dealing with a snooty waiter at an exclusive restaurant. Or in putting one over on the school dean as Ferris did to his, Edward R. Rooney, played by Jeffrey Jones. Rooney is bound and determined to catch Ferris and end the teen’s deception once and for all.

Ferris wasn’t the only one in the film milking an opportunity. He convinced his best friend, Cameron (Alan Ruck), to let him borrow his Dad’s prized convertible, a 1961 Ferrari GT California. (“The insert shots of the Ferrari were of the real 250 GT California,” Hughes explains in a DVD commentary, according to Wikipedia. “The cars we used in the wide shots were obviously reproductions. There were only 100 of these cars, so it was way too expensive to destroy.”)

Someone as devious as Ferris couldn’t wait to get his hands on that hot convertible’s steering wheel. The teens – Ferris, Cameron and Ferris’ girlfriend, Sloane Peterson (played by Mia Sara) – dropped the car off at a parking garage. Then, a scheme worthy of Ferris quickly unfolded. Ferris and friends barely had their backs turned when the garage attendants peeled out of the garage and took the rare car for a joy ride. As they did, Yello’s “Oh, Yeah” blared thru the streets.

An enviable heist. It was returned unharmed. But the garage attendants had racked up several hundred miles on the odometer.

Ferris, whatever you might be up to, I hope it’s another glorious romp. If it is, I’d love to be along for the ride.

Photo: of Matthew Broderick as Ferris Bueller

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferris_Bueller

Snippet of Super Bowl ad – Ferris plans to take a day off from work:

http://tv.msn.com/tv/article.aspx?news=698851

Yello’s “Oh, Yeah” music video:

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=Yello+Oh+Yeah+Ferris+Bueller+video&mid=EAB5AA7D103A829F7731EAB5AA7D103A829F7731&view=detail&FORM=VIRE1

The full ad was revealed Monday, Jan. 30th. (This is in no way an endorsement of any product. The reveal is just to show you what will be on Super Bowl on Sunday that was the subject of my original blog.)

http://tv.msn.com/tv/article.aspx?news=699644

Dining in the Dark

Posted on
16

By Judy Berman

First, let’s put this right out on the table: I am not an adventurous eater. When I go to a restaurant, I can be counted on to order the same thing every time. It only varies depending on the type of place we’re dining at.

Boring. I know. So the idea of dining in the dark – first permanently opened in 2004 under the name of Dans Le Noir (French for “In the Dark”) in Paris and recently opened in New York – was surprisingly intriguing. Still, given a rather disastrous experience in a restaurant I’ll call “Murphy’s Law” – whose motto is “anything that can go wrong will” – I’d have some hesitation about making a reservation.

The Dans Le Noir restaurants in New York, Paris, London, Barcelona and Saint Petersburg, Russia, as well as elsewhere across the globe, are staffed by blind waiters who guide you to your table. Then you have a “surprise” menu that offers one for meat-eaters, one for fish and seafood diners, one for vegetarians and a fourth that is truly a surprise.

“Guests can choose only among a limited choice of surprise menus. The idea is that each guest should not know exactly what he or she will be eating…just the general category. It’s all about the flavors, the textures and the seasonings. It is an old principle often used in the industry, called ‘blind tasting,’ ” according to the Dans Le Noir website.

That’s where my experience eating at “Murphy’s Law” rushes in. “Are you sure? Something new?” Concern is deeply etched on its face.

What happened? Well, the night was an aberration, to be sure. We’d dined there before – no problems. This night was – to put it kindly – an off night.

First, my daughter, Danielle, ordered a steak. She asked if it could be sent back to the kitchen, as it was very rare. The waitress informed her that the heavy abundance of red juices she saw on her plate “was just the lighting.” Believe me, the meat was so rare it was practically galloping off the table ready to return to pasture. (She is now a vegetarian. I’m sure this experience had nothing to do with her change in eating habits.)

Then, we noted that the sweet potatoes were undercooked as well. So they also were dutifully returned to the kitchen and then back to our table. But the waitress at Murphy’s Law got the orders mixed up and gave mine to my husband.

How do I know? Mine had fork marks in it from where I taste-tested it. Thank goodness we’re all family. It could have been worse.

As a gag, I’m sure, we saw someone lick one of the rolls and return it to the basket at their table. By New York state law, restaurants are supposed to throw out unused bread. Apparently, that was not the case at Murphy’s. We learned later from a family friend who worked there that leftover rolls from one table are frequently recycled to other tables.

Yikes! How unsanitary. We never returned.

So, should one disastrous experience influence all of my dining decisions? Absolutely not. Time to stop being skittish. It’s comforting to have all five senses engaged when dining. But how deliciously decadent to savor your meal sans lighting. Already Dans Le Noir has drawn more than 1 million people to its restaurants.

To them, I say, “Bon appetit!” (“Enjoy your meal!”) Go for the gusto. Someday, I might be there at a table near you.

To learn more about Dans Le Noir in New York and to book a reservation, click on this link:

http://newyork.danslenoir.com/

Photo credit: filet mignon (http://commons.wikimedia.org/)

D’oh, A Simpsons Marathon Challenge

Posted on
6

By Judy Berman

Irreverent underachiever Bart Simpson and his Duff-beer guzzling Dad, Homer, would love this: a contest to watch The Simpsons’ shows and break an old Guinness World Record.

It’s a call this couch potato finds hard to resist. A chance to win $10,500. Starting Feb. 8th, in Los Angeles, contestants in The Simpsons Ultimate Fan Marathon Challenge will watch up to 500 continuous episodes of The Simpsons in an attempt to break the current record of 86 hours, 6 minutes and 41 seconds.

The 500th episode, “At Long Last Leave,” will air Sunday, Feb. 19th (8  to 8:30 p.m. ET/PT) on Fox. In this show, “the Simpsons are evicted from Springfield and join an off-the-grid community outside of town. But when Homer and Marge try to sneak back into town,” they are met with hostility.

The scrapes and shenanigans that The Simpsons get into are legendary. In the 23 years it’s been on the air, they’ve skewered the classics of Edgar Allan Poe’s, “The Raven,” (in “Treehouse of Horror“) and parodied “Goodfellas” (in “Bart the Murderer”) and “Citizen Kane” (in “Rosebud”).

But some of their finest hours were when they were just being themselves. Bart, in a role that Ferris Bueller would have loved, slips away from a class field trip and sneaks into the television show where “The Krusty the Clown Show” is taped. This is where, in “Bart Gets Famous,” he makes the catchphrase, “I didn’t do it,” said after he trips over a prop and nearly causes a disaster. The audience went wild, and Bart became an instant celebrity.

My youngest daughter, Jenn, swears she never had a social life in the early 1990s when The Simpsons’ shows ran on Thursdays. Her duty? She had to stay home and tape the shows for me. As Bart would say, “Don’t have a cow, man!”

I was hooked from the beginning of the show. That’s when Bart’s chalkboard punishment was on display (“The Boys’ room is not a waterpark”). Then, he’d jump on his skateboard, survive several close calls and make it home before Dad. After the family all jumped on the couch, the real fun began.

What keeps viewers returning? The show’s never boring. In a parody of “Dallas’ Who Shot J.R.,” a cliffhanger in May 1995 arranged a similar fate for the despicable CEO of the town’s nuclear power plant. “Who Shot Mr. Burns?” kept viewers in suspense until the show returned in September. The infamous chalkboard read: “I will not complain about the solution when I hear it.”

So, let me check. Just how long do I have to watch to win? More than 86 hours? Ay, caramba! Not even for Bart.

Photos: Who Shot Mr. Burns? (May and September 1995)

For more information on the contest, go to The Simpsons’ official Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/thesimpsons or visit http://www.thesimpsons.com/ to receive news updates, including the exact date and time for open registration.

Shopping with Ms. Warmth

Posted on
2


By Judy Berman

Did you ever feel that life was a series of one-act plays, and your role was that of the buffoon?

I have.

One memorable experience was at the grocery store. I grabbed a cart and attempted to maintain my normal cruising speed without my usual number of casualties. Then the aisle was blocked by a woman who was leaning on her cart, and she seemed reluctant to alter her position. A cane on her cart explained her lack of mobility, but should not have been an excuse for her rudeness.

The woman turned and asked politely, at first, if I’d get something off the shelf for her. She pointed to a bag of cheese twists and insisted those were the ones she wanted. But, when I went to hand the bag to her, it was like the Spanish Inquisition relived.

“Are those oven-baked?” she snapped impatiently.

They weren’t. I quickly found the ones that were.

Two feet later, she was asking me the difference in price of two brands of cocoa. I gave that to her after I first checked – at her request – whether one could be mixed with water.

Her next task for me? Fetch two six-packs of V-8 juice. She told me to look left. I looked right. I’m not usually this dense, but she was barking orders like a drill sergeant.

At this point, I felt I’d been had. If I cleared the cans off the shelf, would I find some smart aleck who’d say, “Smile. You’re on Candid Camera” or “You’ve been Punk’d.”

One of the clerks, a friend of mine, realized the predicament I was in and paged me to the store’s break room. To get there, I’d have to pass Old Cantankerous.

She stopped me in midflight and asked me to get her four rolls of toilet paper.

“That’s two aisles away, ma’am.”

“I know. Would you get it for me?

My face is usually an accurate barometer of my feelings. By now, a look of exasperation flashed over. I was torn between walking away and running away. I chose to walk.

“All right, run away. Don’t help me,” she shouted.

I slunk into my place of refuge – the break room. So named, because all the guys there are breaking up in hysterical laughter over the situation.

Fear not. The woman was resourceful. She soon collared one of the store’s employees and had the store clerk trotting all over the store for her.

I wasn’t anxious to cross paths with her again. So, when I renewed my shopping, I seized the opportunity to stop and talk to a shopper I knew. Then, I committed the unpardonable sin of inquiring about his health.

The gentleman gave me a blow-by-blow, non-stop narrative of all of his recent operations. His wife chose this time to bolt and finish her shopping.

When he finally paused for air, I bid him a pleasant farewell. Looking back, I prayed I wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Lot’s wife.

Not a problem. He hadn’t even realized I was gone as he was carrying on a heated discussion with some passion fruit.

So, when you’re out shopping. When you see someone frantically whipping up and down the aisles on Rollerblades. Trying to manage an erratic cart. At the same time trying to add up their purchases on a hand-held calculator. I do hope you’ll understand.

Believe me, it’s nothing personal when I whiz by you.

Waking a Sleeping Rhino: When It’s Time to Make a Job Move

Posted on
Reply

 

By Judy Berman

How do you wake a sleeping rhino? That innocent question was posed recently to a zoo staffer.

Well, it got me to thinking. Not of sleep-deprived rhinos, but to the zombie-like state we go thru when we stumble thru a dead-end job. Just how do you know when it’s time to go?

From my experience in radio, I might be able to help. If you consider that many careers in radio are short-circuited every two years – thanks to budget cuts and/or a format switch from country music to All-Talk Radio in Swahili – I’ve been thru this once or twice.

Here are some red flags you might not want to ignore:

  • You’ve suddenly been transferred to an isolated bureau that you had not even been aware existed. And, you would need a passport to get there.
  • Your boss throws a pink paper airplane your way as you exit your cubicle. Then, he beats feet down the hall. From your vantage point, several yards behind, you hear the unmistakable sounds of multiple locks clicking into place right after he slams the door.
  • Or, my personal favorite, he’s just outside the on-air booth. When you step out, he smiles wanly: “Hi. That was your last newscast.”

You had considered leaving. The warning signs were all there. The only voices your boss listened to were those inside his alleged mind.

You viewed the end of each weekend with a face usually reserved for mourners at a funeral. As the alarm rang, you’d smack the snooze alarm – hoping for a reprieve. Even if it only was for 5 minutes more.

But you were in a comfort zone, a rut that only got deeper each year. Afraid to go. Loathing to stay!

So, just how do you wake that sleeping rhino? This is what the staffer said they do at the zoo. Clap real loud.

Then, my recommendation would be to run like the dickens for the nearest exit and make a move for a more satisfying goal line.

Crazy Eddie (a political fable)

Posted on
2

 By Judy Berman

White, frosted flakes conspire to merge and converge, blanketing the city. An inch an hour.

Rachael tried not to think about the snow-choked roads and the long, sluggish ride home from work. She cleared just enough snow from the car’s door to reach inside and grab a brush. Then, she tackled the mound of feather-light crystals that bury her car.

The crisp air and the still, starry night don’t improve her humor. The past hour, the Mayor ranted about her story which will hit the streets early in the morning. She was tempted to hang up on the Mayor, known as “Crazy Eddie,” but she let him sputter on.

Instead, the Mayor hung up on her. Rachael called back no less than five times. Each time, Crazy Eddie or one of his henchmen would hang up when she identified herself.

Furious, Rachael told her metro editor, Mike, what happened. He told her to calm down and not to use any loaded words in her story.

She looked up, while still typing, and inquired, “Are obnoxious, overbearing and megalomaniac loaded words?”

Mike just rolls his eyes.

Another reporter pipes up, “Is fruitcake one word or two?”

They’re out of control now. But that dark newsroom humor has eased the tension, and everyone gets back to work.

The banner headline over the story is in a not-so-discreet 96-point type: “’Crazy Eddie’ caught with his pants down.” Rachael shivered. Not from the cold. But at the mental picture of that type of photo package featuring the 67-year-old scrawny, balding wild man. The headline was figurative, of course. The family newspaper she worked for is not about to sacrifice readers’ appetites at breakfast unless it means more sales at the newsstands.

The story details kickbacks to the Mayor and his cronies from contractors anxious for city business. In other words, it’s business as usual. But, this time, the IRS is involved. Rachael’s sources told her the Mayor will be indicted by the feds in the morning.

Communication between City Hall and the paper broke off months ago, when the paper reported that the Mayor’s bookie was on the city payroll as a financial adviser. The appointment to the $137,500-a-year job strained credulity. His business acumen was limited to mugging people outside their bank’s ATM.

Crazy Eddie, furious when the story broke, retaliated by ordering all of the paper’s news boxes removed from city sidewalks. The paper went to court and the boxes were returned to their usual haunts.

The Mayor kept to the letter of the law, but not always the spirit. A couple of the boxes, near City Hall, were spotted tethered to a light post about 6 feet off the ground. Notices were posted outside his office stating that the paper’s reporters and photographers were not allowed access to any part of City Hall.

Given all this, Rachael was surprised to see a city snowplow creep down the street toward the paper. The publisher paid a private contractor to remove snow from the paper’s parking lots and from the streets around the building.

Rachael waits in the lot for the plow to pass. As it rolls by, it dumps more snow at the edge of the driveway. Then, it backs up.

“Surely, it’s going to return to clear the snow,” she thought.

Instead, the plow continues to back down the one-way street across a four-lane road. Then, it turns right on that road.

She leaps out of her car, kicks the wall of snow and swears a streak of blue that will linger over the city for days. The driver leans out of his cab and laughs. Rachael is apoplectic. She’d know that cackle anywhere. It was “Crazy Eddie.”

“This means war, you power-hungry fraud,” Rachael shouts at the retreating plow as she dials the newsroom on her cell phone.

Mike tries to calm her. “Now, just take a deep breath. I’ll be right down.”

He races down two flights of stairs with several editors and reporters not far behind. They arrive in time to see the rogue plow circle the next block. Rachael uses hand gestures they fear will aggravate her carpal tunnel injury.

After they shovel her car out, the same plow circles the next block for the third time. Rachael jumps in her car. So does Nancy, a photographer. She snaps photos from the passenger’s side as Rachael takes off after the plow – the wrong way on a deserted one-way street.

Rachael loses her nerve when the plow stops … on a side street in the seedier part of the city. She spots the driver checking his rear-view mirrors. When they hit a stretch of vacant buildings and empty lots, Rachael puts her car in reverse, whips into a U-turn and races back to the paper.

After all, tomorrow’s another day.

The IRS still has to plod through a number of different accounts to learn where the Mayor diverted the money. Rachael suspected that laboratory test rats didn’t have to go through such a maze. She almost felt sorry for the feds.

Adventures at the House of Naan

Posted on
4

by Judy Berman

It’s hard to argue when our girls moan about the endless strands of flawed DNA that they inherited from me. Any faux pas they make is quickly eclipsed by my own unraveling.

A prime example is what happened at the House of Naan.

Naan is leavened bread, an Indian food that’s simple and tasty. As we savor the naan and herb tea with cloves, I think it’s odd that my husband and I are the only ones at this popular but tiny restaurant.

The caramel-colored waiter has sleek black hair. His mustache and neatly trimmed beard are salt-and-pepper. His crisp white shirt and pressed black slacks are the only concession to his profession.

He smiles, but says little. There’s no, “Hi. I’m Fred and I’ll be your waiter for tonight.” It’s obvious who he is and why we’re there. No fuss, just straight up, two menus, and he lets us ponder our options while he’s off to fill our drink requests.

About an hour later, I’m pushing the vegetables of the Malai Kafta around the plate. But I’m not too full for kheer – a rice pudding flavored with rose water. At last, we decide to leave before they have to roll us out the door.

Dave confides he’ll leave a little extra for a tip because we kept the two men past closing. They shut down for  2½ hours in between lunch and dinner.

“When do they close?” I ask.

“2:30.”

My eyes widen as I look at my watch. It’s now 3:30. Dave, who never wears a watch on the weekend, was unaware we arrived at the restaurant 10 minutes before they normally shut down for the afternoon.

“We’re so sorry,” we both apologize as we back out the door.

The man, who waited on us, smiles and says quietly, “No problem. We weren’t going anywhere.”

I had visions of them slapping up their huge closed sign before we pulled out of their driveway.

I felt: GUILT!

Moments later, I’d feel worse.

When we pull into a parking lot in the village, I remind Dave we have to mail our phone bill before Ma Bell comes to our home and personally yanks out our wires. We’re about to walk to the post office when I look in my purse and realize the bill is not there.

The bill is not in the car or on the ground next to where we parked.

We jump back in the car. Dave nervously scans the side streets which are really just a blur as we whip through the village. He is on the alert for the ever present, always vigilant police cruiser. A mile and a minute later we’re back at the House of Naan.

The closed sign still leans precariously against the window, revealing only the OSED on the red and white sign. The restaurant is dark inside and the front door is locked. I knock, gently at first, on the glass door. No answer. I try again, this time more vigorously. Our waiter comes out of the dining area.

He is in his stocking feet and wears a bathrobe. He’d been sleeping.

Still, he smiles as he unlocks the door. I explain – as fast as I can – which might not be a good idea. I don’t know how intelligible I am at warp speed to someone who’s just been rudely awakened. But the concern on my face is unmistakable.

“Our bill. Our phone bill,” I now falter. “I … I think it fell out of my purse.”

He turns to speak to someone, probably the other waiter, who is now wrapped in a blanket and stretched across the booth where we’d just had lunch. The man fumbles around the booth and floor in search of my bill. I never see his face.

Dave, afraid I’d never leave until I had the bill in hand, enters the restaurant.

“I found the bill. It was in your purse,” Dave announced sheepishly, waving the bill at me.
The waiter laughs, repeating Dave’s comment. I cringe, my face now the color of my bright, red sweater. Again, I apologize and make a hasty retreat. I’m certain I’ve ruined his slim shot at sleep. He’s probably in there snickering about the vegematic who can’t keep track of time or her bills.

Determined to make it up to them, I call our friends, Rob and Lisa. I relay the whole embarrassing episode and ask if they’d like to join Dave and me for dinner at the House of Naan next Saturday.

“Sure,” Lisa piped up. “How ‘bout 3 o’clock?”