Dr. Coolsex -- "Dropped My Phone in the Toilet" (2011)

Is water damage

Covered by AppleCare?

A old friend of mine named Carol often posts to Facebook about her daughter, Elle.  Here's one example:

Elle and I were driving home from her ballet class tonight and she said to me, "Ugh. I can't wait to get home, lay on the couch, and take off my bra." . . . Sometimes I forget she's only 9. 

(Sounds like nine going on 19 . . . or maybe 29.)

Carol posted recently about Elle's latest misadventure, which took place in the women's restroom in the Macy's at a New Jersey mall:

Elle just dropped her brand new phone into the toilet at Macy's.  I need a drink.

Later, Carol shared more details about Elle's mishap: 

I did try and scoop it out with a plastic cup, but then I thought of what I was doing and how disgusting it was. I mean, really, what was I going to do with the phone once I fished it out of the toilet? Put it in a bag of rice and then try and use it again? I wouldn't let that thing touch my skin let alone hold it up to my ear!!!

Tracy, one of Carol's friends, then chimed in with her two cents' worth:

You are too funny! Reminds me of a friend who throws shoes away if they step in dog poo!

Carol demurred:

Tracy, I would clean off the dog poo.  I skeeve public toilets to begin with.  I won't touch a door handle let alone a phone that's been submerged in dirty toilet water.  Imagine the germs in that toilet bowl!!!!  YUCK!  Even if the phone worked after all of this, I would not feel right seeing Elle hold it in her hand and up to her face knowing where its been.

Kim, another are Carol's friends, offered a suggestion from her husband:

Jerry said you could have sold it for parts. LOL. I agree I would have trouble putting that to my face.

Once again, Carol demurred:

Kim, I wouldn't even touch it to sell it for parts either.  BLAH!

I shared this exchange with several of my female Facebook friends, asking them what they thought about all this.  One of them offered this observation:

I on the other hand would fish out that sucker, take it apart, put it in rice, and tell my daughter to be more careful next time!!  However, I get the dog poo thing . . . to me that's a MUST toss in trash moment!

Another of my lovely lady friends had a very different point of view.  (This friend works for a pet-supply company and is unusually knowledgeable about dog poop, so I am inclined to defer to her expertise.)

Good grief!  Why aren't most people aware that there are more "germs" in our mouths than what is in any given toilet bowl?!!  And, yes, there are more on the surfaces of the doors in and leading to a restroom and around the wash basin area.  While I would probably also abandon that cell phone and not use it anymore, I do find that scenario to be rather humorous.  And, the dog poo thing is funny too, but keep in mind that dogs do it on the floor of all the stores I work in each week!!!  Many people's shoes inadvertently are carrying out samples of all kinds of dog poo when they leave a PetSmart or Petco because the owners usually do a "shitty" job of just wiping the area and do not clean the area very well.

And just when you thought Carol's saga was over, she posted this note to Facebook:

What could be worse than Elle dropping her cellphone into the toilet at Macy's and us leaving it there?  Someone trying to call me from it.  Are you kidding me?

Do NOT try this at home -- or at Macy's!

Carol's friend Susan replied with these words of wisdom:

OMG!  They touched it!  OK, I'd say they earned the right to have it.  Ewww!

Carol's friend Kristine expressed an even stronger sentiment than Susan, and wasted no words doing so:

EWWWWW!

I sent the following message to Carol, expressing my heartfelt regrets for Elle's misfortune:

Carol, I'm sorry Elle dropped her phone in the toilet.  But the exchange you had with your friends after it happened may be the funniest thing in the history of the universe.

Here's her answer to my expression of sincere condolence:

I can't believe they expected me to fish it out of the toilet!  If it were in my own toilet, different story . . . but the toilet at Macy's!?  YUCK!!!  

A sign that all Parisians ignore

Here's the last sentence of Carol's response:

So glad I can keep you amused. 

Me too, Carol!

It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and Carol's ill wind gave me plenty of fodder for a very entertaining (and sorely needed) 2 or 3 lines post.  As I told her:

This is comedy gold! I will use this in an upcoming "2 or 3 lines" but will keep your name out of it.

Carol cheerfully gave the requested go-ahead for my quoting her Facebook posts:

Feel free!  Always happy if I can make someone laugh off of my trials and tribulations.  

(What a sweetheart -- always thinking of others!)

I don't know about you, but I've learned two things from all this:

1.  Women have widely varying opinions as to the appropriate response to one's child dropping her smart phone in a public toilet -- not to mention stepping in dog poop.

2.  Women are crazy.

I'll be interested to hear how Carol's husband (and Elle's father) views the situation.  I have a feeling that I would say one of the following two things, depending on whether the phone still works or not, if I were in his position.

If the phone works: "I DON'T CARE IF IT'S YUCKY AND YOU DON'T WANT TO TOUCH IT!  I'M NOT BUYING A NEW PHONE FOR YOU JUST BEFORE YOU WERE TEXTING YOUR FRIEND EMMA WHILE YOU WERE DOING NUMBER ONE AT MACY'S AND SOMEHOW DROPPED THE PHONE INTO THE TOILET!"

If the phone doesn't work:  "HELL NO, I'M NOT BUYING YOU A NEW PHONE.  MAYBE THAT WILL TEACH YOU NOT TO BE TEXTING EMMA WHILE YOU ARE DOING NUMBER ONE AT MACY'S!"

However, if Elle is even half as adorable as my twin daughters were when they were nine, I might have said this instead: "Honey, don't cry!  Of course Daddy will buy you a new cell phone to replace the one you dropped in the toilet at Macy's while you were doing number one and texting Emma.  Come here and sit on my lap and eat your bowl of ice cream while I read The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe to you."

Here's "Dropped My Phone in the Toilet," by Dr. Coolsex.  (And no, I don't know if AppleCare covers it when you drop your new iPhone into the toilet.  I'm a Blackberry guy, so I don't particularly care.)

Click below to buy the song from Amazon:

Foo Fighters -- "My Hero" (1998)

There goes my hero
Watch him as he goes

I like to think I'm a good neighbor, and someone who cares about his fellow man.  But a hero?

I would never call myself a hero.  But if you choose to call me one after you read today's 2 or 3 lines, I won't argue with you.  (How the hell could I stop you?  Why in the world would I try?)

The day after Thanksgiving dawned mostly clear but very, very cold at 2 or 3 lines headquarters in Rockville, MD:

For years now, I've been riding my bike to work on the day after Thanksgiving.  The distance from my home to my office is about the same as the distance that marathon runners cover -- which is 26 miles and 385 yards.  

I cover the distance in a little over two hours, which is roughly the same time that is takes an Olympic-class marathoner to run it.  In other words, I go at the same speed as an gold-medal-winning Olympian.  (Pretty impressive, n'est-ce pas?)

I admit that I have a slight advantage over Olympic marathoners, who aren't allowed to take a break for a nice breakfast at McDonald's.

"I lift my lamp beside the Golden Arches"

My arrival at McDonald's was delayed until it was too late to get breakfast because I had to perform what I would modestly describe as a small feat of heroism en route.  (I'd like to think that the operative word here isn't "small," but rather "heroism.")  Let me tell you the dramatic tale, and you can judge for yourself.

I was about six miles into my ride, listening to Tru Fax & the Insaniacs -- which is fabulous music (I especially love their chick singer) -- when I saw a male lying flat on his back on the trail, like a corpse laid out in a coffin.  My first thought was that he was dead.

The man was lying on an icy stretch of the trail.  I had seen several icy patches already:

I dismounted from my bike, and approached the body.  I spoke to the man -- "Sir, sir!  Can you hear me?  All you all right?" -- but he didn't respond.  However, I could see he was breathing.  

I called 911, but the call didn't go all that well.  The dispatcher insisted upon me giving him an address.  Bike trails that go through public parks don't have addresses, but the dispatcher seemed incapable of understanding that.

The man lying on the bike path started to stir while I was on the phone with the 911 dispatcher, and eventually managed to push himself up into a sitting position.  This was obviously good news, but also somewhat disappointing, because I had planned to get a dramatic photo of the man stretched out corpse-like on the trail.  (I'm always thinking of my loyal readers.)

Instead I got only this much less dramatic photo of him sitting up:

I went over and spoke again to the man, who did respond.  I got him to his feet and helped him negotiate his way off the ice-covered part of the trail.  We exchanged a few words -- he lived in the neighborhood, and I'm guessing was out for his morning constitutional when he slipped on the ice and went *ss over teakettle and banged the back of his head on the paved trail, knocking himself unconscious -- for how long, I have no idea.  

He was a little confused and a little wobbly as we walked down the trail, but seemed basically fine.

Which is what I told the EMTs when they arrived a couple of minutes later: 

At this point, it was clear my work was done.  I left my charge in the hands of the experts, and went on my merry way, speeding down the trail in the hope of reaching my destination in time to have a Sausage McMuffin.

Alas, that effort was in vain.  But no worries, mon.  I got a double cheeseburger off the "Dollar Menu" instead.  (By the way, that double cheeseburger cost $1.49.  So maybe it should have been listed on the "Dollar Forty-Nine Menu.")

It was a small price to pay for saving a man's life -- don't you agree?  (I thought you would.)

If you've never saved a life, I highly recommend it.  No matter how many times I do it, it never gets old -- it's always a deeply satisfying experience.

It's always a classy touch to end a post like this one with a little poetry.  So permit me to quote John Donne, who famously said, "No man is an island/Entire of itself';

Any man's death diminishes me

Because I am involved in mankind

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

I hope you're not waiting for a punch line, because there isn't one.

Here's "My Hero," which was the third single from the Foo Fighters' 1998 album, The Colour and the Shape:

Click below to buy the song from Amazon:

Tech N9ne -- "Hiccup" (2013)

Just when you get to thinking

Nobody can touch you

Here come a hiccup in your plan

Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday -- don't you agree?  

Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?  I hope you did.

I had a very nice Thanksgiving.  We hosted 18 at our house -- children, nieces and nephews, in-laws, even a fiancé.  I took some photos, thinking I might use them in a Thanksgiving-related 2 or 3 lines but THEN I SAW THIS MUSIC VIDEO AND EVERYTHING CHANGED!!!

Here it is.  If you have a defibrillator in your home, bring it in to the room and plug it in before you hit "play" on the video.  (If you don't have a defibrillator, I'd run right out to Defibrillators "R" Us and get yourself one right now.)

(I'm glad I don't have to pick up the tab for these guys' energy drinks.)

I can't think of a time when I decided within ten seconds of hearing a song for the first time that it had to be on 2 or 3 lines.  But hearing the first few lines of "Hiccup" is like having a prostate exam -- love it or hate it, it's impossible to ignore. 

Here's my suggestion to any neuroscientists out there who are trying to figure out which part of the brain is most responsible for aggressive behavior.  Just stick a bunch of electrodes on a guy's cabeza, hit him with "Hiccup" -- the louder the better -- and see whether it's the hypothalamus, or amygdala, or something else that starts firing the hardest.  

Tech N9ne's real name is Aaron Dontez Yates.  He was born in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1971, and still lives there.  (About 20 seconds from the end of the video, there's a brief shot of a Kansas City Royals poster.)

Aaron Yates (d/b/a/ Tech N9ne)

According to a  2010 Ink magazine story about him, he did not have an easy time of it when he was young:

He was just Aaron Yates back then.  A kid who remembered how to spell his name by rapping it: “Capital A, little A, R-O-N.”

His mom, Maudie Yates, took him to church every day in Kansas City.

He didn’t always want to go. . . . But most often, Tech did what his mom said. He wanted to make her happy, because there was so much making her sad.

Tech’s dad wasn’t around, so he was the man of the house — even when he was in elementary school.  One of his most vivid memories from childhood was walking into the kitchen to find his mom convulsing on the floor.  He ran outside in his underwear, pounding on neighbors’ doors, screaming himself hoarse for help.

At church, he learned that faith in God could fix anything.  But at home, he watched the most faithful person he knew suffer from epilepsy and lupus.  So he began to question God’s existence. . . . He needed answers, and so he went looking for them in strange places.

When he was in his 20s, he crawled into vacant buildings in the West Bottoms with his best friend, Brian Dennis, and wandered around with a camcorder, hoping to capture a ghost on film.

“We’d take a couple girls with us, go act a clown and hope we’d see something,” Tech says.

They never did.  In 2003, Dennis was shot and killed in Overland Park alongside Kimberly Lowe, the mother of his daughter.  They were killed by Lowe’s ex, who then shot and killed himself.

TEC-9

His stage name, which was given to him by fellow rapper Black Walt, is a reference to the TEC-9 semi-automatic handgun (which was featured regularly on the old Miami Vice television show).

Ariel Castro

The lyrics to "Hiccup" are a hot mess.  The most interesting lines relate to Charles Ramsey's discovery on May 6, 2013, that Ariel Castro was holding three kidnapped women against their will in his Cleveland home.

You're kidnapping the women having your way

Threaten to kill 'em all if they don't wanna stay

Got off of work and you thinking you about to play

And Charles Ramsey came and ruined your day

In other words, Charles Ramsey was the "hiccup" in Ariel Castro's plan.

Charles Ramsey

The lyrics also refer to Pussy Riot, pedophile priests, and rappers beefing' on Twitter.  The lyrics do not apparently refer to what is going on in the video, which depicts (in backward chronological order, more or less) the attempted robbery of a convenience store by a young man wearing a motorcycle helmet.  

It's only an attempted robbery because the store cashier pulls a gun and shoots the would-be robber from point-blank range.  

The final moments of the video suggest that the robbery was motivated by the robber's inability to pay his bills and take care of his young daughter.  

If I were you, I'd scroll back up and watch the video again.  And watch it on "full screen."  (If you don't know how to make that happen, just click on the little icon in the lower right-hand corner of the video that looks like the corners of a picture frame.)

Actually, I'd watch it about a bazillion times in a row and I'd sing along, too, which would cause my younger son (who is watching a lot of old "The Office" episodes while he's home from college for the holiday) to slam the door between the family room and the 2 or 3 lines offices very loudly.  (I can't really put into words exactly how he slams the door, but trust me -- he slams it very eloquently indeed.)

"Hiccup" was released less than a week ago.  (2 or 3 lines is on top of sh*t, my brothers.)  It's on the 2013 Therapy EP.

Click below if you'd like to buy the song from Amazon:

Edison Lighthouse -- "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)" (1970)

She's really got a magical spell

And it's working so well

That I can't get away

If you read the previous 2 or 3 lines, you already know Tony Burrows was an English pop singer who had four almost simultaneous top 40 hits under four different band names in 1970 -- "Gimme Dat Ding" (the Pipkins), "My Baby Loves Lovin'" (White Plains), "United We Stand" (Brotherhood of Man), and our featured song, "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes" (Edison Lighthouse).  

And you already know that I recently visited New York City, where I stayed at the Edison Hotel.

And you also already know that Edison Lighthouse was not named for "The Wizard of Menlo Park," Thomas Edison, but for the Eddystone Lighthouse, which stands on the Eddystone Rocks several miles south of Cornwall, the southwestern-most English county.

"Pray tell," you might be saying to yourself, "Is there going to be anything in this post that we don't already know?  Or is this going to be just another phone-it-in 2 or 3 lines full of recycled blabbing, with no original content of any value?"

Hey -- watch it, Mr. Smart Mouth.  I will slap that silly grin off your face, bub!  And here's another clue for all y'all: the 100% original 2 or 3 lines posts rarely have any content of value either, so you're not missing that much when I just cut and paste.  

To paraphrase the Who:

Meet the new 2 or 3 lines!

Same as the old 2 or 3 lines!

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but 2 or 3 lines is not my whole life -- not by a long shot, no siree bob!  I have a lot a balls in the air, and I'm trying to keep them there (rather than letting them drop to the ground and roll away down the street, willy-nilly)!

And I'm not talking about my thriving legal career, and the critically-praised novel I'm currently reading, and other crap like that. 

I'm talking about my busy and glamorous social life -- not to mention my even busier and more glamorous fantasy social life. 

Recently I have had a lot going on -- and when I'm not out and about, hitting the hotspots in this toddling' town we like to call "Your Nation's Capital," I'm planning for my next night out, or talking about my latest exploits with my fellow  exploitees.

You know the old saying, "It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it!"?  What I'm talking about is not a dirty job . . . and I don't really have to do it.  But I think you catch my drift . . . and I've always liked that old saying.  Plus it gets me a few lines closer to the end of this very low-calorie post.

I have had some serious demands on my time recently, which has significantly reduced my ability to crank out new 2 or 3 lines posts.  Consequently, like a British old maid who has been dipping into the principal of her late bachelor uncle's bequest rather than living on the interest, I'm coming very close to running on empty when it comes to the number of ready-for-publication posts in the 2 or 3 lines content vault.

I need to gin up some new posts to deposit in my checking account, ready for immediate withdrawal when they are needed.  (I also need to clean all these unused photos off my Blackberry -- which, by the way, is the Official Cellphone Camera of 2 or 3 Lines™.)

In case you haven't noticed, I do three posts a week, 52 weeks a year.  They don't write themselves, and I don't see you doing diddly-squat to help.  If you're not going to pick up a laboring oar and commence to row, row, row the 2 or 3 lines boat, I really need you to lead, follow, or get out of the way.

And while you're at it, would you please get the eff out of the kitchen so the rest of us can get on with the cooking?  (Please?  Pretty please?  Pretty please with sugar on it?)

Now that I think of it, I do three posts a week 48 weeks a year.  In February, I do a post every day, an act of hubris that would make the ancient Greeks tremble in fear of the wrath of Zeus reigning down upon their heads.  (The wrath of Khan as well.) 

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Big Shot!  (Who do you think you are?)

In closing, watch this space for more news about the non-2 or 3 lines-related goings on in my wild and crazy life.  Which is not to say that there will be any such news.  Maybe yes, maybe no . . . maybe rain, maybe snow.  And don't call us, we'll call you.

(To tell the truth, we won't call you.  We don't even have your number, so how the hell can we call you even if we wanted to?  AND WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU THINK WE DO WANT TO CALL YOU?  JUST EXACTLY WHAT IS SO DAMN SPECIAL ABOUT YOU?)

Whether there is or isn't such news is something you have no control over.  Therefore, there's really no point worrying about it -- you have no control over it, so why worry?

Of course, if it were under your control -- which it's not, as I just made clear (assuming you were listening, which risks making an ass out of u and me) -- then there's really no point worrying about it -- you've got it under control, so why worry?

In other words, there's never any reason to worry, and I hope you take that lesson to heart.  I certainly have -- well, maybe not all the time.  But some of the time.  (Certainly not none of the time -- more of the time than that for sure.)

Yes, I am a man of mystery.  Yes, you desperately want to know more.  (And you desperately want to know why I am posting picture after picture of One Worldwide Plaza, an office building on Eighth Avenue.  That is for me to know and you to find out, mes amis.)  

But what you don't know won't hurt you.  (You may think it will, but it won't.  Trust me on that, boys and girls.)

(Surely that's enough for this post.)

Here's "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)":

Click below to buy the song from Amazon:

Pipkins -- "Gimme Dat Ding" (1970)

How can you ever hope 

To know just where you are?

I know just where I are, even if you don't.

I are sitting in front of the state-of-the-art 2 or 3 lines superdupermegacomputer, putting together another fabulous post for my award-winning (and wildly popular) blog!  (Wow -- that was a mouthful, huh?)

But where I was a couple of weeks ago was in New York City -- specifically, the Edison Hotel, an absolutely divine 1931 art deco hotel (i.e., it's old and kinda crappy):

Hotel Edison

The Edison is located smack in the middle of the theatre district -- just steps from Times Square.  

Directly across 47th Street from the front door of the hotel is the Ethel Barrymore Theatre (c. 1928), currently home to a production of the 1978 Harold Pinter play, Betrayal: 

Ethel Barrymore Theatre

Betrayal is directed by the legendary Mike Nichols, one of the very select group of people who have won an Emmy, a Grammy, and Oscar, and a Tony.  (The twelve members of the "EGOT" club include Richard Rodgers, Helen Hayes, Audrey Hepburn, Marvin Hamlisch, Mel Brooks, and  . . . Whoopi Goldberg?)  It stars Daniel Craig (best known for his James Bond movies) and his real-life wife, Rachel Weisz:

Directly across 46th Street from the back door of the Edison is the Richard Rodgers Theatre (c. 1925), currently home to a production of Romeo and Juliet, starring Condola Rashad (daughter of The Cosby Show star Phylicia Rashad and ex-NFL'er Ahmad Rashad) and pretty boy Orlando Bloom.

Richard Rodgers Theatre

The Edison Hotel's famous "Art Deco Lobby" features several murals.  This one depicts Joe DiMaggio:

This one features the legendary Harlem nightspot, the Cotton Club:

And this one depicts the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline:

The morning after my arrival, I walked into Central Park.  There's a lot to see in Central Park, which covers 840 acres in the heart of Manhattan and even has a skating rink:

My favorite of all the things I saw that morning in the park was the statue of Balto, an Alaskan sled dog:

Balto's statue in Central Park

The residents of Nome, Alaska, were stricken with a horrific diphtheria outbreak in 1925.  (Diphtheria is an upper respiratory tract illness that has essentially disappeared in industrialized nations thanks to childhood vaccination.)  Balto, a husky was one of the lead sled dogs who pulled sleds loaded with antitoxin 674 miles from Anchorage to Nome.

Balto's statue was unveiled later that year, and Balto himself was present for the ceremony:

No doubt you're wondering what the hell "Gimme Dat Ding" has to do with my trip to New York City.  Well, I'll tell you.

Tony Burrows was an English pop singer who had four almost simultaneous top 40 hits under four different band names in 1970 -- "Gimme Dat Ding" (the Pipkins), "My Baby Loves Lovin'" (White Plains), "United We Stand" (Brotherhood of Man), and "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes") (Edison Lighthouse).  

Edison Lighthouse, the Edison Hotel . . . sure, it's a bit of a stretch, but feel free to ask for a full refund if not satisfied.  (And feel free to kiss my big black *ss while you're at it!)  

By the way, Edison Lighthouse was not named for "The Wizard of Menlo Park," Thomas Edison, but for the Eddystone Lighthouse, which stands on the Eddystone Rocks several miles south of Cornwall, the southwestern-most English county.

Eddystone Lighthouse

Here's "Gimme Dat Ding":

Click here to buy the song from Amazon:

10cc -- "Art for Art's Sake" (1976)

Art for art's sake

Money for God's sake

Jeff Koons lives at the intersection of Art Street and Money Avenue -- that's in Manhattan, by the way.

Earlier this month, his "Balloon Dog (Orange)" sold at a Christie's auction for $58.4 million, a record for a work by a living artist sold at auction:

About a year ago, Las Vegas hotel tycoon Steve Wynn bought Koons's "Tulips" for $33.6 million and installed it in the Wynn Hotel.  I stayed at the Wynn in Septemeber, and walked by that sculpture (which is made of stainless steel and weighs more than three tons) -- I had no idea what the price tag was:  

What do critics think of Koons?  According to Wikipedia, 

Critics are sharply divided in their views of Koons.  Some view his work as pioneering and of major art-historical importance.  Others dismiss his work as kitsch: crass and based on cynical self-merchandising.

I have nothing of any value to say about the merits of Koons's work.  (I didn't take an art history class in college -- which was a mistake -- and the bits and pieces of knowledge I've picked up over the years falls far short of allowing me to play art critic.)  Personally, I enjoy it -- it's a little silly, but it's cute and amusing.  What's not to like?

Is it art?  Yes, although I have no clue if it is great art (or if it will be considered great art in 100 years). 

Would I have paid $33.6 million for "Tulips"?  If I had Steve Wynn's bankroll, sure -- why not?  (Hot chicks would like it a lot more than some gloomy Rembrandt painting, right?)

Koons recently collaborated with a famous French manufacturer of Limoges china, Bernardaud, which produced a line of porcelain dinnerware based on his "Banality" sculpture series.  

You might not think a guy like Koons would be into fine china, but he has said that he "was always intrigued by porcelain, by both the economic and the sexual aspect of the material."  (Say what?)

I happened on Bernardaud's Park Avenue store while prowling the streets of midtown Manhattan on a brief trip there a couple of weeks ago.  I don't know about you, but when I see a display of dinner plates featuring the late Michael Jackson and his pet chimpanzee (Bubbles) in gold faux-military uniforms, I've just gotta stop and take a closer look:

Here's the original Koons sculpture:

Here's the plate based on that sculpture:

The "King of Pop"-and-his-monkey dinnerware is pretty pricey.  For one thing, the "Banality" series has six different designs, and to get one 16-cm Jackson bread-and-butter plates you have to buy a set containing all six designs -- which retails for $380.

If you want a single Jackson-and-Bubbles place setting -- a dinner plate, salad plate, bread-and-butter plate, and coffee cup and saucer -- you'll need to shell out a total of $2300.  (Plus tax and tip, of course.)

After telling the Bernardaud folks "Thanks, but no thanks," I crossed the street to do a little window-shopping at the Phillips gallery, which was about to hold an auction of contemporary art.

Once of the pieces that was most prominently displayed was "Laugh Now," a 2002 stencil painting by the wacky British artist known as Banksy, who started out as a graffiti artist.  It features a bunch of identical stenciled chimpanzees, some of which are wearing signboards that read "Laugh now, but one day we'll be in charge":

Here's a closeup of one of the Banksy chimps:

The presale estimate for "Laugh Now" was $300,000 to $400,00, but it eventually sold for $485,000.

I couldn't find any other chimp-related fine art works, so I went back to my hotel.

"Art for Art's Sake" was released on 10cc's 1976 album, How Dare You!, which was the last album featuring the group's original lineup.  I bought that album while I was in law school -- I had a real weakness for the arch, precious songs that 10cc, Sparks, and other bands of that ilk were putting out in the seventies.

The How Dare You! album jacket is pretty interesting.  Here's the front panel:

Here's the back panel:  

Here's the gatefold:

This link takes you to a page that discusses what those photos are all about.  

I'm not sure who sings the bridge of "Art for Art's Sake":

Money talks, so listen to it

Money talks to me

Anyone can understand it

Money can't be beat, oh no!

Maybe Jeff Koons?

Here's "Art for Art's Sake":

Click below to order the song from Amazon:

Lorde -- "Royals" (2013)

Cristal, Maybach, 
Diamonds on your timepiece

Jet planes, islands, 
Tigers on a gold leash

We don't care . . .

And we'll never be royals

When self-proclaimed populist Bill de Blasio walked onstage to deliver his acceptance speech after being elected mayor of New York City earlier this month, this was the song that was playing.

I've visited New York City a number of times, but I'm certainly no expert on the place.  However, I have figured one thing out about life in good ol' NYC -- if you want to be happy there, it helps to have an unlimited supply of money.

I was in New York City recently and spent one morning walking from my Times Square hotel into the heart of Central Park, returning via the poshest shopping streets of midtown Manhattan -- namely, Park, Madison, and Fifth Avenues.

Go to the corner of 58th Street and Fifth Avenue, and you find a couple of famous old New York shopping spots.

There's Bergdorf Goodman -- the luxury-goods store that was featured in movies like How to Marry a Millionaire and That Touch of Mink.  You younger readers may know Bergdorf Goodman as the favorite shopping destination of Sex in the City's Carrie Bradshaw:

Bergdorf Goodman

Just across the street from Bergdorf Goodman is the legendary toy store, FAO Schwarz, which was founded in 1862:

FAO Schwarz

If your shopping interests run to more contemporary brands, there's an Apple store just steps away from FAO Schwarz:

The Fifth Avenue Apple store

I wish Cartier would consolidate their locations so a guy didn't have to go running all over Manhattan to pick up baubles for ses femmes:

Decisions, decisions!

If you aspire to drink champagne (Cristal or otherwise) but are living on a beer budget, New York has plenty of places offering high-class duds that don't cost any more than schmatte.

I found this neckwear emporium buried in the bowels of Penn Station, which is a veritable 21st-century  Dante's Inferno:

This store was aptly named.  Note the correct use of not une, but deux accents aigu -- this is an establishment that gets the details right:

True bargain hunters may wish to head straight for the Garment District and avoid high prices for chic fashion through do-it-yourself means:

If you haven't heard "Royals," I'm guessing that your car radio is broken -- or maybe it's just frozen on a country-western station.

Lorde -- whose real name is Ella Yelich-O'Connor -- is a singer-songwriter who just turned 17.  She is the first New Zealand solo artist to have a #1 hit in the U.S.

Lorde

A lot of my fellow pop-music blowhards were waxing eloquent about the cultural significance of "Royals" long before de Blasio appropriated it as his theme song.

The song makes a fairly obvious point: there is a huge gulf between the world as it is depicted in pop music -- which often glamorizes conspicuous consumption (in the form of Cristal champagne, Maybach luxury cars, diamond-encrusted watches, etc.) -- and the world that fans of pop music live in.

The singer of "Royals," who grew up in an unglamorous "torn-up town" and has "never seen a diamond in the flesh," isn't at all embarrassed that she and her friends "didn't come from money."  Likewise, mayor-elect de Blasio never misses a chance to distinguish himself from New York City's outgoing mayor, the multibillionaire Michael Bloomberg.  (Bloomberg reportedly has a net worth of $31 billion, making him the 13th-wealthiest person in the whole world.)

By the way, de Blasio was born Warren Wilhelm, Jr.  His parents split up when he young, and his mother and her family -- the de Blasios -- raised him.  So he changed his name to Warren de Blasio-Wilhelm in 1983.  In 2002, he changed his name again -- to Bill de Blasio.  (I get the de Blasio part, but I don't know why he changed Warren to Bill.  Maybe Warren sounded a little too royal for his tastes.)

De Blasio's wife, Chirlane McCray, was three years behind Hillary Clinton at Wellesley College.  After graduation, she became a member of the Combahee River Collective, a black feminist lesbian organization in Boston.  In 1979, she wrote a famous article in Essence magazine titled "I Am a Lesbian."

McCray and de Blasio married in 1994 after meeting when both worked for New York City Mayor David Dinkins.  When she was recently asked about that 1979 essay, Mc Cray said, "In the 1970s, I identified as a lesbian and wrote about it.  In 1991, I met the love of my life and married him."  (McCray once took a job with a giant financial services company, but quit after six months because it was "not a good fit."  She must have decided that being gay wasn't a good fit either.)

The de Blasio family

De Blasio is full of it, of course -- he's a politician, so that goes without saying.  Is Lorde also full of it?

Probably not -- at least not yet.  But Lorde's a 17-year-old girl with a #1 hit single and an album that is doing very well.  (That album, Pure Heroine, debuted at #3 on the Billboard album chart, and sold 280,000 copies in the U.S. in the first month it was released.)  In another couple of years, I'm guessing she'll be either a self-absorbed neurotic (think Alanis Morissette) or a drunken, drugged-up burnout (think Lindsay Lohan).

That's a minority opinion.  Most don't share my skepticism.  The New Yorker reviewer (among others) have lathered her up pretty good:

The exciting thing about Lorde is not merely that . . . "Royals" is perfect (it is), but that a teenager from [New Zealand], with an unnatural gift, has entered the suit-infested ruins of the music business with the confidence of a veteran and the skills of a prodigy.  She is less a flashy new mansion in the suburbs than an architectural gem in a tony neighborhood.

We'll see.  But if I had to bet, I'd bet on one-hit wonder.  

Here's "Royals":

Click below to buy the song from Amazon: