Tuesday, January 8, 2013


The 75-watt lightbulb goes dark. Like a candle in the wind...
– From the Despicable/Lowbrow quadrant of New York Magazine's The Approval Matrix, 1/14/13
My love is true

Two weeks ago, friends served us a wonderful Christmas dinner at their apartment. It was the first time we had seen the place. Pretty huge by Manhattan standards, and, without being showy, had show-stopping views of the 59th St Bridge and Midtown. Our hardworking hosts had earned every glimpse.

So why did the dining room feel cold? Discomforting. Medicinal even. 

It wasn't what was on the table, or who was sitting around it. 

It was what was above and to the left of it. An unremarkable lighting fixture with an infernal CFL bulb hissing its icy blue death-ray over our faces. 

A wee dramatic, Ms. Bergmann, don't you think? I think not. A perfectly jolly evening upended (ok, only in my mind) by this twisted CFL snake. I'm not afraid of live serpents, but a future of nothing but eco-bulbs gives me the vapors.

Incandescent bulb-hording is a thing, and as GE is my witness, I'm giving every spare inch of closet space to bulbage. 

Maybe we shall have "special occasion lighting" alongside the Wedgewood, reserved only for Thanksgiving and funeral nosh. Maybe "she had 60-watters" will be the 2016's party boast. Maybe screwing in a freshie before screwing (of course with rosy silk scarf shade drape, thank you and RIP, Helen Gurley Brown) will be a notable ploy with the OK Cupidocracy. 

I don't know. But I will be glowing until you claw that last paper sleeve from my deservedly blue, dead hands.