The Formosa Volta

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Is There A Comedian In The House!?

If you’re like me, you always hope you’ll get seated next to a cute girl on the airplane. Well, watch what you wish for.

Ava is adorable. She’s sitting between me and some other guy, talking our ears off. But for such a petite girl, she’s all elbows. Ava is a precocious six-year-old who didn’t get a seat next to her mother, so now I’m listening to her tell stories while she knits a potholder. She asks how old I am.

“Guess,” I say.

“Ummm… eighty?” She replies.

She thinks I’m eighty years old.

I am ancient.

Ava’s talking about things that happened to her 3 years ago and I remind her that is half her life.

She’s unfazed. An old soul.

Lucky for me, the pretty brunette in the row on front of mine is sitting next to Ava’s mother and she’s just saved the day by offering to switch seats with the girl. Now I have company my own age.

***

Suddenly, a voice is saying: “Ladies & Gentleman, if there is a doctor on the plane, please inform a flight attendant – we have a medical emergency,” and a number of people are all rushing down the aisle towards the front of the plane. Heads pop up over the seats to see what’s going on; everyone is interested in the man who seems to be dying at 30,000 feet.

The pretty brunette next to me, Dina, just applied to Med school. She has a wicked, dark sense of humor and I like it. She’s a true heart-breaker; Dina cuts the hearts out of lab rats for a living –  in the name of science, of course.

“So you drink a lot?” I ask.

“What?”

“To silence the nightmares, I mean.”

She laughs.

I ask her if doctors live for this moment, for those words: “Is there a doctor in the house!?”

The chance to literally play hero.

She said she’d do it.

I believe her.

I’ve heard that doctors aren’t supposed to answer such a call because if they treat someone improperly outside of the hospital, they’re liable if anything goes wrong. But I guess any profession has its conflicts. What do you do: follow your Hippocratic oath or risk being sued?

They say laughter is the best medicine. I’m contemplating hitting the “call” button to inform the flight attendants that comedian, Patrice O’Neal, is on the plane. I had spotted him wandering around the airport terminal in a crushed velvet blazer and matching black fedora. His attire caught my eye amidst the travelers at Newark airport; he looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember from where. Then I saw him lounging in first class when I boarded and it hit me — I had seen him on that VH1 show, Best Week Ever.

I couldn’t help but wonder if he had a joke up his sleeve for just such an occasion, like a doctor who travels with his medical kit. If laughter really is the best medicine, it seemed entirely plausible that he might be able to save the day. But should I put him on the spot like that? What would the panicking flight attendant say when she came over to answer my call?

“Um, excuse me miss,” I’d say, “I think I know someone who can help.”

“Are you a doctor!?” She’d ask.

“No ma’am, but laughter is the best medicine and Patrice O’Neal is in first class.”

“Who!?”

“He’s a comedian.”

I can just imagine the look on her face.

It would have to be a damn good joke.

They get the man oxygen and the paramedics come to take a look at him when we land. I see the man walking off the plane on his own, which is a good sign.

Dina and I exchange numbers and I’m excited to hang out with her in Seattle, but soon everything goes wrong.

At the baggage claim, only one of my two bags shows up. The other is gone. It contained the majority of my clothing. The next morning I do what any savvy traveler does when he’s lost the majority of his clothing: I turned my boxers inside-out.

Of course, it’s common knowledge that you can only pull the “boxer flip” once. After that, you’re just a dirt bag. I am in Seattle, the city where Grunge was born, but Cobain himself said “Grunge is dead,” so I leave my contact information and hope for the best. I need some fresh drawers.

To make matters worse, I’m unable to meet up with Dina a few days later. She’s busy with her friend. Only in town till Monday. Schedules conflict. It doesn’t work out. These things happen. But I can’t help but feel the dull sadness that comes to weary travelers who will never meet again. Life is unfair in that way — so many interesting people to meet, so little time. It’s heartbreaking, really. All these people you want to know, with hectic lives of their own running parallel to yours for such a brief time.

***

The next evening I saw Colin Meloy perform at the Showbox near Pike Place Market. I was lonely so I got drunk and tried to enjoy the show. I was used to going to concerts with my friends and always running into people I know there. But looking around the club that night, I realized I could wander all over the city and not bump into a single familiar soul. And I’m going so much further than Seattle in a few day’s time.

For my last American meal I went to the Olive Garden with my family. We ordered a bottle of Nero d’avola with our pasta. Nero d’avola will always remind me of Sicily and other lives that might not cross paths again. It’s bitter sweet.

Everyone knows “goodbyes” suck. But for now I set my eyes on new horizons. My boxers are clean, un-flipped, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

Godspeed.

- Justin

The Great UMass Art Heist

On April 18th a collection of paintings on loan to the University of Massachusetts from Caelum Gallery in New York City were returned, sans one piece.

 

 Hiroshi Anzai’s “The Japanese Railroad Crossing.”

 

UMass Chief of Police, Barbara O’Connor sent out a campus-wide email alerting the community of the painting’s disappearance today.

Thirteen days later.

The cops presumably tried to conduct their own investigation and came up short. Out of leads, they turned to the public for help. I’d be curious to know how often this works, but I can’t blame them for trying. The loss of an original piece of art is always a shame, especially when it’s not yours to lose.

Adding insult to injury, I can just imagine Anzai’s painting hanging askew in the thief’s dorm room, pinned to the cement wall with blue poster putty right above a bikini-clad girl hawking cheap beer.

There are only two real reasons to steal art: money or taste.

Art theft for taste, because you like the piece, is inherently greedy because you’re denying the public a chance to enjoy the painting in a museum by keeping it private. This is the case in some private collections where masterpieces have been purchased legally. But if you love it and have to steal a painting, it’s likely you won’t be able to show it off in your living room, which is important to keep in mind. But there are non-moral reasons to avoid an art heist.

Art theft for profit has its own problems; as someone who has given a lot of thought to various hypothetical heists, I can say with confidence that, art, like diamonds, is very difficult to get rid of if it’s the money you’re after. Like a diamond heist, an art heist isn’t worth the trouble unless you have a private buyer set up before you pull the job. (See Reservoir Dogs for reference).

Who knows the motive behind the Great Art Heist of ‘08? Knowing UMass, it could just be a college prank. Of course, the perpetrators are probably shitting themselves now that no one is laughing. I think they call that joke Grand Larceny in law enforcement circles and the punchline is five-to-ten.

The painting is said to only be worth $1000, which, in weighing the scales of risk-versus-profit, it seems likely the heist was one of taste, or ill conceived. Maybe an impulse steal? Hard to say. Sure, it’s kind of a cool painting, but not cool enough to steal in my opinion, and certainly not worth enough.

Here are a few paintings I might consider pulling a heist for based solely on taste (although, they’re probably worth a lot, too):

 

Van Gogh’s “Starlight Over The River Rhone.”

Everyone loves “The Starry Night,” but I prefer this one from Van Gogh’s night work.

***

 

Van Gogh’s “Wheat Field With Crows.”

Widely regarded as the last painting before his suicide, this piece is damn haunting in that context. Even if it wasn’t his final work, the color contrast stands out to me.

***

 

John Singer Sargent’s “Capri Girl.”

I saw the original at the Seattle Art Museum last winter and stared at it for 45 minutes. I looked for a print in the gift shop, but they didn’t have any. Sargent has a lot of good work from the island of Capri.

***

 

John Singer Sargent’s “Spanish Dancer.”

Capturing motion in paint is tough. I dig this piece. 

 

 What would you steal?

The Hotel Belligerént

( Pronounced: Bell-la-gier-an. I think it’s probably French. )

***

Saturday Afternoon.

Just as train’s doors are about to close, a six-fingered panhandler slides onto our car and begins to preach.

We’re in the front pew. He has a captive audience as the train rolls out of the station, En Route to Manhattan.

His first order of business is pointing out the hand; his left hand is a mangled ball with one digit protruding. If I had to guess I’d say a pointer or middle. It seems to me a middle finger might be more useful in New York City.

Wrapping up his brief biography, which consists of past drug abuse, counseling youth and coaching basketball, he insists that if we don’t have any change, he’ll gladly take a smile.

We smile and he shuffles down the car, collecting a few donations here and there.

“Welcome to New York,” a voice says.

“Wait. He coaches basketball?”

*** 

Saturday Morning.

I wake up groggy and sore after a night of mild drinking. My hips feel like an old dog’s hind legs trying to stand up after sleeping on the broken futon, but my spirits are high. I’m looking forward to the city.

Someone is vomiting in the shower.

Dan wakes up and we decide, after much deliberation, to go to Dunkin’ Donuts. Jared has to get his oil changed before we can depart to New York, so we have time to kill. We run into trouble on the way to Dunkin’ Donuts when Dan almost plows into a pick-up. The low-impact collision is narrowly avoided, but it gives me bad vibes so early in the morning.

But it’s nothing a bacon, egg & cheese bagel and a coffee can’t fix.

We eventually get going and Dan’s GPS guides us to Queens with little trouble. We take showers and head to Astoria to meet Chris.

***

Saturday Night.

“Anyone can play the right notes!” The frontman howls from beneath what looks to be an inked-on pencil mustache. He’s playing an awful guitar solo consisting of intentionally wrong notes.

The whole band resembles the cast of a Broadway version of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest; the frontman has a shaved head except a weird little part in the front, and with his pencil moustache and vaudeville three-piece suit, he looks fit for the asylum. The Percussionist has wide eyes, painted lips and a Louise Brooks wig. She’s banging on a drum and doing accents into a microphone. I think she’s on coke. The keyboardist, dressed in a lab coat and coke bottle glasses, is brushing his teeth into a microphone while a man in another lab coat seems too busy playing the Tuba to be any weirder. The drummer is keeping an epileptic beat, more or less.

We stumble past a thick velvet curtain, into the back of a bar where all this is taking place. The avant-garde weirdness is a welcome change from where we just came from, a place called, The Dark Room. True to name, The Dark Room is just that — a very dark, hot, grinding dance club.

Sitting in the very back of the club across the street from The Dark Room, we’re watching this band of misfits bang out a song. They wander from talented to sheer madness in a matter of minutes, but I’m enjoying the show. When it comes to an end, the frontman doesn’t bother to tell the crowd the name of their band, he says, “If you really care, you’ll find out.”

I have no clue who they are, but I liked their style.

***

Sunday Morning.

“Hey man, you ever have someone get strangled in the back of your cab?” I slur to the cabbie, reaching for Max’s neck. I can’t recall why, but he needs to be choked. I also want one of his dreadlocks as a souvenir.

The Indian driver is encased in a plastic box like the pope; he is impervious to our drunkeness. He doesn’t say a word the whole ride or answer my question. Dan is in the passenger’s seat watching the fare exceed the $40 mark. It’s a long ride to Queens.

It’s dark out. I think it’s around two or three a.m.

“Max, you almost got in that unmarked car!” Heather laughs. I remember why I was trying to strangle him — before hopping in this cab, Max went up to a random black car. The guy rolled the window down and told him to get in.

“I’m not getting into an unmarked black car,” I told him as he reached for the handle.

“I’ll take you there,” the driver said. “Get in the car!”

Dan stepped off the curb and grabbed Max, reeling him back onto the sidewalk. We hopped in the yellow cab that pulled up behind the black car, in which we were currently racking up a heinous fare.

“Dude, you probably would’ve gotten in there and the back doors would lock form the outside like a cop car! Death Cab For Dready,” I say, tugging on his dreadlock. It smells like beer.

The silent cab driver is now chuckling at Max’s insistence on hitching a ride in the death cab, or maybe he saw the meter cross the $50 mark.

The fare is getting higher as we cross the bridge from Manhattan to Queens and we’re all beginning to regret the plan.

We’ve all checked into the Hotel Belligerént before even reaching the HoJo in Queens. Tensions are suddenly running high.

The fare is $56 and Dan gives the man everything we have. We just barely cover the ride and go to our rooms.

We are broke and drunk and need to get out of New York City.

The End.

( A very special thanks to my friends! I will miss you! )