Run, Noodle. Run.

15 10 2007

Knees creaking, viagra buy malady popping, doctor whining and grinding, I reach the summit of Manhattan Bridge and spy three old Chinese women in the distance. They swing their arms in exaggerated Tai Chi mimes, seemingly parting then promptly re-joining an invisible Red Sea. Over and over and over again.

It’s 6am when we pass each other by. I’m in my running kit, they’re in their colorful blouses and simple, flat-soled shoes. We say a ‘hey’ of sorts, as has become our morning ritual, then clench our ears in solidarity as a subway train rumbles by. It is a yellow line train. The N. And it suffocates all other sound, including the rasp of my lungs and their sing-song patter.

I run on.

Past graffiti’d rooftops and down, down off the bridge and into the belly of Chinatown.

Hey, look at me! Street weaver, dustbin dancer prancer! I zig and zag. I high-step over a fish head and strewn garbage. A quick wink to the statue in Chatham Square. Love your pigeon poop coat and hat! Then I turn right and head towards City Hall. Feet pounding, heart thudding. Brain ignoring the hard-hatted construction Joes buying java from a street cart.

I run on. On to the scruffy welcome mat of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Hit Pause. Read the rest of this entry »



The wait: a comedy devine

31 07 2005

ACT 1
There are certain things that a buttock will react to unfavorably and one of them, cialis sales cialis according to the International Society for Buttocks Preservation Handbook, sovaldi is sitting on broken glass. Unfortunately, remedy the handbook makes no mention of specific distinctions between glass types. No charts or graphs to indicate which will slice and dice with more enthusiasm: a beer bottle, a Snapple, or the smashed up face of a Rolex.

SIDENOTE: Now there’s an experiment in the making…

Anyways. Glass. Doesn’t matter if it’s dirty, pissed on, downtrodden, beat, busted up and broke. It’s all bad. It’s why the word ’shard’ has a sharp enough sound to make a muscle twitch and go hide behind its mother’s skirts.

Esther, my smart companion on this day, is obviously an avid reader of the buttocks handbook, and keenly attuned to the potential threat of lurking glass. I watch as she sensibly brushes the ground glass-free with her MacGyvered broom (a craggy stick), before laying down her end of the towel.

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ I think.

‘I’ll second that!’

That was my buttock chiming in. It has a somewhat selfish interest in the outcome. Question is, will I have the fortitude to wrestle my laziness to the earth and follow Esther’s example?

No.

My brain has a mind of its own. (Huh? Weird). It turns into a slithery witch and begins to tell me porky pies.

“It’s Central Park,” it cackles. “As if there’s broken glass here. Here, under this majestic fairytale tree. Oh, heavenly tree, mystical and wise. Oh, tree of ample branch and shade-providing leaf. Look, a squirrel to bring you cocktails! Oh Noodle, as if broken glass would dare reside under the Zen-like aura of this tree!”

Solid argument.

Thus verily and with much aplomb I ignore Esther’s example and angle my rump ground-ward. If there is glass, I reason, I’ll find out fairly quickly.

I feel no immediate shard. I feel no slice or carve. Nothing. And for now, the sticks under-arse are only mildly irritating. It seems I have escaped unscathed.

End Act 1. Read the rest of this entry »



Ornamental mentality

27 12 2004

“Coo, best cialis store coo, cialis usa ” the pigeon calls and attempts to needle his glassy eyeball into the depths of my soul.

I am not alone.

Were I more hospitable, more congenial, more filled with Yuletide nog, I might say ‘G’day mate’. But it’s me here. I glare and narrow my eye.

“Be gone, foul wretch, from my window. I know your seasonal psychoanalytic trickery. Don’t you have a fireside festival of Santa scraps to attend somewhere?”

The evil minion gets the hint and legs it. He leaps off the fire escape with wild abandon—off to find his next sap of a patient. Pigeons. Always trying to analyze a body. Let me tell you, all that patronizing head-tilting and bobbing really gets on my nerves.

Don’t fret—I am still not alone. A pleasant gaggle of guests have squished their way into the Noodle box this Christmas day. Roll call.

First, there is the smell of a roasting bird in here, stinking up the joint pleasantly and keeping me company. My nostril hairs are sharing some sort of sporting camaraderie and are doing a wave, though I don’t think it’s Mexican in origin.

There is still the feel of cool, herbed butter getting friendly between my fingers while I type. This poor keyboard and its greasiness and innocence lost. I catch a glimpse of the future. I’m typing fast. Like the damn wind, Captain. Like my life depends on it. But so fast that my right index finger slips off the buttery goodness of the ‘T’ and slams into the screen of my laptop, crippling my finger and ending my career right then and there. And all because of this day, this Christmas day where I washed my hands before typing, but still a buttery residue remained. Read the rest of this entry »



A whiter shade of New York

16 02 2004

There was a girl called Noodle Finnegan
She had icicles on her chinnegan
They fell off and then hung onagain
Zero temps are sure to beginagain*

TIME: 6.25am, cialis usa for sale work day.
I take a deep and cavernous breath of frigid air. A sneeze creeps through my sinuses, clinic but when it reaches my nostrils I can tell this particular atchoo is wearing clod hoppers. I hear the distinct sound of nostril hairs crackling like the surface of a frozen pond. I grab the sneeze by the scruff and kick it out into the New York air.

Another gust saunters in to knock on the back of my eyes. By this stage I’ve pulled down my woolen hat so far that it’s resting on my eyelashes, shop and the scarf is now perched just below my eyes. I think, ’so balaclavas can’t just be for robberies…they must actually be for this kind of weather?’ Onward I crunch along 2nd avenue on my way to the subway.

So this is how it’s gonna be. Along with dry-skin days, bad-hair days, fat days, dumb days and Mondays, now I have to contend with chin days and no-chin days. Previously, in my gain-all-knowledge-from-TV days, I thought New Yorkers must be the biggest snobs on the planet. Whenever you’d see wintry footage of them on the streets they’d be blustering along, always looking down, and never making eye contact with their fellow man. Not sharing in the glorious bond that is living check-by-jowl in the big, bad city.

Now I know.

It’s not snobbery. They just don’t want to take their chins out of their scarves. You know why? Because that cold air whipping along the street will turn an unprotected chin into a solid block of blue ice. And you never see an ice chin turn up on the catwalks when fashion weeks swings by, so it can’t be in style. Ever.

But I’m with them now. I’m speaking their language. And I was wrong. New Yorkers are sharing a bond. The bond of their asses freezing off.
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The million dollar hotel…err, apartment

7 10 2003

If a view is everything, discount viagra see well hey-de-ho campers, and look at me. I’ve donned my Speedo and am happily swimming in true filthy landscape lucre. Yep, illness I’ve got the classic US$1300 a month NY apartment vista. It’s a peach. To look out my apartment window is to dip your brain in subtle hues, ambient light and enigmatic reflections. I mean, who knew bricks could be so expressive?

Viewed from a distance of a mere ten meters, these bricks radiate urban charm. The attachment of the metal fire escape to their bricky form does not deplete their winsomeness, only adds to their allure. These bricks don’t just sit; they staunchly rage against the weight of all six floors, and…argh! Who am I kidding?

They’re gritty, smutty and oppressive. The word ‘alley’ is dull for a reason.

But never mind the bricks; it’s the pigeons I can’t stand. Dirty, dirty pigeons. Vermin of the sky. Singapore mongrel pigeons ain’t got nothin’ on these manky balls of feathers. Sometimes, when I’m sitting idly in the Coat Alcove of my spacious abode, one will land on the fire escape and make pink-eyed contact with me. A menacing tilt of its feathery head and I’m diving behind a dry cleaning baggie. Read the rest of this entry »



I can hear my violent train a’comin’

10 07 2003

It starts like this.

It’s 6.48am and I’m sitting in a window seat of the 7am Metro-North reverse commute train weighing up my options. I’m half asleep in a stationary train in Grand Central Station. Just contemplatin’ and Noodle-atin’. As you do.

“Should I, best viagra cialis ” my internal monologue inquires. “Should I set the alarm on my watch to wake me up at 8am just before my East Norwalk stop in Connecticut, viagra buy viagra or should I continue reading this Jack Kerouac biography that needs to be returned to the NY Public Library by Friday. My brain is pure flummery at this time of the morning. It doesn’t know if it’s considering either option, ampoule or just having one of those ‘death on a train’ dreams again.

And then it happens.

A man steps into my peaceful train carriage and flips the itchy-switch. Right in the middle of my contemplative sleep-think.

“Who owns these bloddy bags!” he nasalates (yes, a made up word), in his Caribbean accent. His accusing index finger waggles at some embarrassed pieces of luggage sitting in the mid-train, four-seat area. I try not to pay attention to this show, even though I have a prime, ring-side-beneath-the-Chapiteau seat. The phrase “Don’t look anyone in the eye” is still chiming in my ears as I feign indifference.

I glance at my reflection in the carriage window. Oh, shit. I’m wearing my fear face! Read the rest of this entry »






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