The Storm That Was What It Was

 After a full day and a half of experiencing Nature’s wintry frenzy, what some people had been touting as the Storm of the Century is now ended.  Much of the East Coast is covered in thick billowing blankets of snow, and as I look out my window I’m seeing almost as much white as when I looked over the recently announced Academy Award nominations.

But despite the stranded motorists, cities brought to a standstill, and the 24/7 news coverage, was this really the Storm of the Century?  Who determines whether it was the Storm of the Century or just the Storm of the Fiscal Quarter?  Is it a panel of highly qualified meteorologists or just some over eager intern with a barometer and a love of hyperbole?

Clearly it was premature to call anything falling from the sky here in year 2016 the Storm of the Century. We’ve got 84 years to disprove the assertion! In a couple dozen years we might be having storms that make this one look like little more than a malfunction in your frost free freezer.  Perhaps we’ll be having regular Sharknados by then.

You won’t even be able to sled in them!

I also understand that people names are now bestowed upon snowstorms just like they are on hurricanes, and this past storm was named Jonas. But does anyone go to the trouble to coordinate the personal name of a snowstorm with its title? Otherwise we may well wind up with a Storm of the Century named Floyd or a poopy little snow squall called Angelique.

“OMG, look!  Here comes the Storm of the …. oh, it’s just Herbert. Chill, everyone.”

Before some misbegotten and misguided meteorological panel bungles the title of the next highly touted storm, here’s a few better suggestions for the one just past:

·        The Storm of the Century Thus Far

·        The Storm of January 1, 2000 to January 23, 2016 and Counting

·        The Storm That Was What It Was

·        Jonas’ Big Adventure

Well, it’s time to go shovel now.  Look at those mounds of snow every bit as massive as Chris Christie’s old body! And it’s so cold out here, almost as frigid as Martha Stewart caught off guard.  

I can’t even see my car, it’s totally buried. By the time I dig it out it will be time to trade it in. Oh, my back!  My front!  My in–between!

I have to take a break. It’s too tough out there.

Why, this has got to be the Storm of the Century!

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You're Such a Lovely Audience

Thank you, Everyone! 

Your applause is wonderful!  Let's bring out that terrific cast again ... Meryl .... Meryl .... my sensational co-star, Meryl Klepperstein, take an extra bow!

Y'know, folks, it's great to be back in my home town of New York starring in Broadway's latest smash hit,  Kinky Boobs! You were all fantastic tonight, a truly phenomenal audience! You're such a lovely audience I'd like to take you home with me, I'd love to take you home!

In fact, I will take you home!

I've had 14 buses dispatched directly outside the Helen Hunt Theater to transport all of you to my condo at 87th street.   Ladies, rest assured there are bathrooms on each bus with much shorter wait times than at the Ladies Room here in the Helen Hunt Theater so you won't  all be dancing around like Native Americans preparing for war by the time you get to my home.

We have ordered trays of food from the Plotkin Deli including corned beef, swiss cheese, roast beef, cole slaw, white fish, herring, chopped liver, baklava, cheese cake, and many other delicatessen delicacies guaranteed to give you reflux for the next week. Our Jewish audience members are going to feel like they're at a shiva but with the added bonus that no one's dead.

Now please all file out by section into the buses.  Orchestra seats go first, then the mezzanine, next the balcony, and lastly the abysmal seats slammed against the rear wall of the theater and sorry, folks, but your seats on the bus will be slammed against the rear of the bus as well.

When we get to the condo, feel free to throw your coats on my bed.   Remember that many coats look alike, so when you leave and you're parsing through 600 coats on the bed be careful to take yours and not one of the other audience members or you'll be going through life as a 34 short London Fog from Woodbridge New Jersey when you're actually a 38 long Burberry  from Greenwich Connecticut.  

I want you to feel totally at home in my home. Traipse through each and every room, admire the artwork - especially my paint-by-numbers --- and peruse my photo albums. You'll notice that my first wife was exceedingly hot but about as stable as the lower half of the periodic table, and my second wife had a great ass but the personality of the love child of Martha Stewart and Martha Stewart if Martha Stewart could mate with Martha Stewart. And I know Martha Stewart!

I'm looking forward to meeting all of you and spending quality time.  I want to hear about children, grandchildren, new jobs, retirements, divorces, operations, accidents, and existential angst and/or weltschmerz that may have you close to pondering ending it all. If necessary, I'll hug you through the night after the others have left.

Remember I don't give autographs.   

Why am I inviting an audience into my home after all my years in show business?

Frankly,  this is something I've wanted to do for a long time, but I had to wait for a truly responsive, enthusiastic,  and appreciative  audience --- a lovely audience. Tonight, folks, you were at long last that lovely audience!  

You applauded loud and long for our very marginal show, laughed at even at the stupidest and most unfunny jokes we padded out the script with, and hummed along with the utterly forgettable score.  If every theatrical audience were as naive and undiscriminating as all of you, Kinky Boobs would run forever and I could extend my waning career at least another 4 or 5 years, at which time I'll be the BIG 7-0, Goddamnit!

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.  Remember to take off your shoes at the door, or I'll never hear the end of it from my third wife!

Hope you like the chopped liver.

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Sayonara, "Senior!"

It’s time for we Baby Boomers to say Sayonara to the word "senior!" 

Unless you happen to be talking about your kid in the last year of high school.

Senior is a name we Boomers don’t like, don’t want, and don’t need. We require no special word to describe us as we not so quietly slip beyond the age we’re currently not so quietly slipping beyond the age of.

Our generation has its own name, bestowed since birth, which defines us at any age and at any stage along the continuous path of life. 

We knew what it meant at 16.  We know what it means at 66.

We’re Boomers!  All other words need not apply.

To be fair, Senior wasn’t always a four letter 6 letter word. It was devised as the politically correct replacement for old, elderly, retired, doddering, decrepit …. please stop me before I begin writing a pilot for Abe Vigota!

And as the late 20th Century stand-in for those words, it has performed admirably. Especially for members of the Greatest Generation, who receive more of their greatly deserved due when regarded as respected seniors, not out-to-pasture elderly.

But if Senior was the new Elderly, <insert your generation here> is the new Senior.

So how do we say Sayonara, "Senior?"

1) Stop Referring to Boomers in a Supposedly Positive Manner as "Active, Energetic, Vigorous, Feisty, or SASSY!"  

Because that means you’re thinking the typical Boomer is not active, energetic, vigorous, feisty or SASSY!  That implies you think the typical Boomer is sedentary, lethargic, comatose, and about as exciting as Martha Stewart on ativan.

Just like anybody else at any age, a Boomer should be presumed active, energetic, vigorous, feisty, or SASSY! until proven sedentary, lethargic, comatose, and about as exciting as Martha Stewart on ativan.

Got that, non-Boomers?  And you, Boomers, among the worst offenders, as well?

You too, Martha?

2)  Don't Ever Order a Senior Special! 

By that, I don't mean you shouldn’t order the special meal at IHOP which for a slightly slimmed down price provides lesser than regular portions of braised beef,  sewer-raised tilapia, or burnt-to-the-ground chicken fingers capped by an uber-chocolatey desert concocted by a Hogwarts Wizard to strikingly resemble something that actually tastes good.

Go ahead, mange, and save yourself the buck fifty.

But on your way out, conspicuously and effusively inform the management that you loved the delectable Boomer Special, you’ll return for it often, and you think it’s wonderful of the place to offer it to members of the Greatest Generation and the generation that came after them and before the Boomers, whatever the hell it is they're called, as well.

And leave a good tip.   Maybe one day they'll get the message.

3) Never Purchase a Magazine with a Name like Seniors Today, SeniorWorld, or SASSY SENIOR!  

Be forewarned: these are not publications to leave lying around the house open to strategic pages if you want to impress the babes.

They don’t sound so bad to you?  Well then, perhaps you'd also consider a lifetime (and therefore brief) subscription to Shlepping Along, Liver Spots Monthly, or the somewhat more trendy We’re Keith Richards' Grandfather! 

Just don't leave any of them lying around my house even if you've got them strategically open to the page that's been Certified by AARP to impress the babes!

So now it’s time to say goodbye to some unwanted company.

Sayonara, "Senior!"  

Have yourself a richly earned, well-deserved, and as-far-away-from-me-as-possible retirement.

And don’t let anyone call ya Senior!

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To learn more about the Sayonara, "Senior" project, please also see What's in a Word?  by Non-Senior Baby Boomer Perry Block, also in this blog. 

Let's see where that link is ... hmmm .... huh!  It was here a minute ago.   Here it is!   

Had myself a Boomer moment there.

The Book of Orman

Broadway Beat

by Nels Noodleman

It has been called a cross between My Fair Lady, Fiddler on the Roof, and The Sound of Music but without the boring slow spots and album filler songs.

“The greatest musical I have ever seen!” New York Times Broadway critic Bentley Benchley has raved. “I laughed, I cried, I totally revamped the portfolio to my 401 (k) plan!” And the score, including the hit song People First, Then Money, Then Things (But Mostly Me!)*, has the nation’s toes tapping like a flamenco dancer on crack!

The show is The Book of Orman, Broadway’s smash hit reverential tribute to renowned financial advisor, author, motivational speaker, and kill joy television host Susan "Suze" Orman by legendary South Park satirists, Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

This Broadway beat reporter was privileged to catch up with the show’s two creators for a tangy lunch last week at Olive Garden. The duo told me their boundless admiration for Ms. Orman began several years ago when she denied them an on-air request to add several conservative Republican fourth graders to South Park’s regular ensemble of pint-sized protagonists because they failed to “show her the money!”

“Even Cartman loves Suze!” beamed the oft-beaming Mr. Parker. “We skewer just about every half-assed social trend,  ego-maniacal celebrity, and political debacle on the planet,” added Mr. Stone, “but Suze Orman is sacrosanct. And if you don’t agree, you’re a dick!”

The Book of Orman concerns two Mormon missionaries  who set out to bring faith and hope to poor villagers in Uganda terrorized by a vicious war lord who brutally forces them to remain seated during those portions of religious services when they’re supposed to stand and prohibits them from reading silently while I read aloud!

In two and half hours of groundbreaking theater, with a 15 minute intermission for women in the audience to futilely stand in line for the Ladies Room, the missionaries tunefully learn that it isn’t the message itself that’s liberating, it’s that the message be conveyed by an at best marginally attractive but essentially dumpy looking 60-year-old woman  with an irritating manner of speaking and a dopey blonde Dorothy Hamill haircut.

The Book of Orman has won a record setting 37 Tony Awards including Best Musical Score by a Jewish Gay Man, Best Choreography Involving Feet, and Best Actor in a Musical Who Isn’t Nathan Lane.

This reporter was privileged to see The Book of Orman when it opened, and I believe it is the greatest American theatrical experience since Our American Cousin, which I was also privileged to see when it opened. It sets an extremely high bar for the upcoming Side by Side by Stewart, Stephen Sondheim's musical tribute to the infectious and irrepressible spirit and personality of Martha Stewart.

In the words of the great Suze Orman, I’m telling you this is one marvelous show, girlfriend!  If you miss it, you’re a dick!

From your very own  Broadway Buddy,

Mr. Nels Noodleman

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*The actual song from The Book of Mormon  is You and Me (But Mostly Me!) 

I Unveil The Mantra (or if you prefer, The Womantra) of the Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute

My purpose with this new blog is to rally and inspire the legions of the Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute as we reach the stage in life "when the road ahead seems suddenly all in the rear view mirror."

It’s tough out there for us. Employers don’t want us, the media ignores us, and younger women (or men) find us so unattractive as to actually be “tractive,” and we all know how disgusting that is. Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute is my personal effort to grasp hold of the spirit of our generation at a time when our “grasping hold” capabilities weaken daily to the point where "grasping hold" is practically a blood sport.

It is my hope in this brief mantra to forge in the smithy of our souls the uncreated conscience of our race. (Hmm, that was a pretty cool sentence, but I think I might have lifted it from some obscure writer.... well, tough shit for him!) In so forging, I have sought to capture the true Ethos of the Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute. And once I get finished dealing with Ethos, I’m going to give “what for” to Porthos too. After that, I’m afraid I’ll have to flee from France because Athos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan are sure to be after to me, and I’m not willing to spend the rest of my life as a dish of chopped chicken pate just for some dumb mantra…

As I have busily forged this smithy, I’ve been at somewhat of a disadvantage. Frankly, I have about as much poetry in my soul as Martha Stewart's evil twin. The same, however, cannot be said for my son Brandon, who several years ago won a poetry contest at a gathering at the local library. So thrilled was I with his lyrical achievement that I attempted to relate to and bond with one of the contest judges --- a young female by persuasion --- with an impromptu rendition of one of the lovelier poems I remember from my childhood entitled “The Fellow From Nantucket.”

Again my skills at poetry being what they are, I left the library with a darkened eye and Brandon just barely clinging to third place. Such are my talents at iambic pentameter, onomatopoeia, and shoving together incongruous and discordant words and phrases until they practically scream out in pain!

So, this man’s mantra may need some further manipulation. Frankly I don’t think it’s all that terrific although someone as undiscriminating as you will probably go wild for it and be arrested for attempting to transport it across state lines. However, I do need a little help here, and I invite any member of the Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute to supply it. Send me your suggested revisions, your additions, your deletions, your tired, your poor, but I don’t particularly want your huddled masses, I know you understand.

Even if you are Nouveau Old, Still A Bit Cute, I welcome your submissions, provided you’re at least at the stage of life where you’re fully eligible for the Senior Special at IHOP. But frankly I’d stick with the pancakes.

Oh crap, I almost forgot! The Mantra of the Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute follows in the next post.

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