Thursday, December 25, 2008
overheard at a holiday party
"Not to be crass, but if someone's got to fuck my daughter, it might as well be this guy."
Thursday, December 11, 2008
in memory of Mr. Handsome
He was not a well-behaved dog.He ate all he could, as well as many things he couldn't.
He was flatulent.
And like a certain ex-girlfriend, who shall here remain nameless, he required a lot of pills -- demanded not just "high maintenance," but constant vigilance.
And yet Korby was an important member of my family, a witness to and participant in almost every major event in my brother's life. My brother's happy engagement and even happier marriage -- his move from the "starter" house to the "settled" house -- the birth of my nephew -- our family's still-unfinished grieving after the death of my father -- "What about the dog," Korby's grandfather used to sing: "What about the dog, he saw it all!"
I take some comfort in the knowledge that Korby was a very lucky dog. It isn't just that he died from what he lived for -- overeating. It's that my brother and my sister-in-law rescued him from a shelter, from where few older dogs are ever adopted -- rescued him and then wrapped him in love for the rest of his life.
Though it is unlikely that my nephew will remember his first canine brother, he will grow up in the happy home that Korby helped to create. For that, Mr. Handsome, I thank you.
Monday, November 10, 2008
pizza to pizza
Yesterday some friends and I ate at the most famous pizza place in Manhattan. Then we ran to the most famous pizza place in Brooklyn, and we ate more pizza there. We're calling it Pizza to Pizza, and we hope you'll join us next time.
These days America needs hard facts, so take note:
These days America needs hard facts, so take note:
- Total running time: 17 minutes
- Number of runners: four
- Group consumption: one small pizza with anchovies, one large pizza with anchovies, one large calzone with mushrooms, six beers, one hot tea
America also needs hard questions, so:
- Is Pizza to Pizza the only run of world-historical importance which can actually cause you to gain weight?
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Singles
I don't know if everyone is this way, but I always get a kick out of recognizing an an actor who has a real career now playing a bit part in an older movie. I watched a few minutes of Singles (1992) this morning and the guy who plays Mr. Pryzbylewski in The Wire (Jim True-Frost) has a forgettable but not tiny role, and Victor Garber, who was the Titanic's architect who went down with the ship in Titanic and was Jennifer Garner's father in Alias (why do I know that?), had a non speaking momentary role - with a mustache.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
A few thoughts
Looking back, it's comforting to see how successful Hulk Hogan was even though he was seriously balding from the beginning.
There are a lot of ways people can screw you over. For example, the guy who replaced my watch battery could have put in a dud so I'd have to go back in 6 months. On the other hand, people frequently turn out to be upstanding and then some. I think the guy probably gave me a good battery.
As for shmooze or menucha, I think it was more like the shvitz.
There are a lot of ways people can screw you over. For example, the guy who replaced my watch battery could have put in a dud so I'd have to go back in 6 months. On the other hand, people frequently turn out to be upstanding and then some. I think the guy probably gave me a good battery.
As for shmooze or menucha, I think it was more like the shvitz.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Schmooze or menucha?
Was Howl's wedding more like schmooze or menucha? I am still having trouble separating these two central analytic categories in my mind. If it was menucha, then how come we didn't write any letters or take naps? If it was schmooze, then how come we weren't allowed to head down to the waterfront? It is all so confusing
Did you know?
I sat in the front row at Shaarey Zedek yestarday to celebrate the first day of Rosh Hashanah. Here are a few tidbits you may not know:
1. The conservative Jewish movement is dying. Conservative Judaism will probably not exist in 20 years.
2. D. Wagner no longer wears a hat
3. The cantor's daughter does not like it when her dad grabs her butt on the bimmah
4. D. Wallace is the President of the Synagogue
5. S.P. received an aleyah and read the torah yestarday
6. They brought the bimmah down to be at the same elevation level as the congregation
1. The conservative Jewish movement is dying. Conservative Judaism will probably not exist in 20 years.
2. D. Wagner no longer wears a hat
3. The cantor's daughter does not like it when her dad grabs her butt on the bimmah
4. D. Wallace is the President of the Synagogue
5. S.P. received an aleyah and read the torah yestarday
6. They brought the bimmah down to be at the same elevation level as the congregation
Monday, September 29, 2008
Hello? Earth to Kibbitzers???
I agreed to change my blogging name to generate goodwill with a certain kibbitzer and to encourage more kibbitzing activity. I have been unsuccessful. I will soon resort to posting NC-17 material.
Friday, September 12, 2008
time don't mean that much to me
Did Sam Cooke, along with Ray Charles, really "invent" soul music? Maybe.
Did he write and perform two amazing songs that before last week I had never heard, or had sometime heard and unforgivably forgotten? Yes he did.
"That's Where It's At" and "Good Times," both of which Colin Meloy performs on his rare but worthwhile EP of Sam Cooke songs, are wonderful examples of Sam's ability to compose songs conveying mixed feelings, feelings we hardly have words for--a quality which, I like to say, marks all great art.
Listen and tell me what you think!
Did he write and perform two amazing songs that before last week I had never heard, or had sometime heard and unforgivably forgotten? Yes he did.
"That's Where It's At" and "Good Times," both of which Colin Meloy performs on his rare but worthwhile EP of Sam Cooke songs, are wonderful examples of Sam's ability to compose songs conveying mixed feelings, feelings we hardly have words for--a quality which, I like to say, marks all great art.
Listen and tell me what you think!
Monday, September 8, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Famous Friends
My labor day was pleasantly capped off when I saw a close childhood friend interviewed on MSNBC. He was at the New Orleans airport waiting to catch a flight to Detroit.
The reporter was asking him a question about Gustav and what it was like to live in New Orleans with all the hurricane activity. His answer was something like this...
"Everytime there is a hurricane, you ask yourself...is it worth it to live in this city... (New Orleans)"
With his wife and recent newborn in the background, it was a real tear jerker.
When I spoke with him on the phone later that night, he said he was feeding them total bullshit.
The reporter was asking him a question about Gustav and what it was like to live in New Orleans with all the hurricane activity. His answer was something like this...
"Everytime there is a hurricane, you ask yourself...is it worth it to live in this city... (New Orleans)"
With his wife and recent newborn in the background, it was a real tear jerker.
When I spoke with him on the phone later that night, he said he was feeding them total bullshit.
Monday, September 1, 2008
withdraw with honor; connections
Some kibbitzers and readers have complained about The Brothers Karamazov, have admitted to feelings of boredom and frustration.
Hear ye, hear ye: Unless you are a student and need a good grade on your Karamazov midterm, unless you are a lover trying to woo a professor of Russian Literature, there is no good reason to slog through this novel.
When you reach the end of Book Three/Part I (pg 160), pause for a moment and reflect. You've given the Brothers a fair shot and have read a representative sample; the sophistry will rarely get cleverer than "Disputation" (1.3.7); the soap opera will never be cattier than "The Two Together" (1.3.10); the psychology will never penetrate deeper than Dmitri's "Confessions" (1.3.3-5); and you've seen your share of violence (1.3.9), and taken your share of spiritual punishment (too many passages to cite).
If you've reached this point and are not engaged, close the book and never open it again--no one will fault you for it. The Brothers Karamazov is not for everyone; the wonder is that anyone could find it appealing.
And yet I do find it appealing, despite all I wrote in my last post, which you must have guessed was largely a posture, which was, in fact, a weak attempt at a pastiche. For me one of the book's strengths lies here, in Dostoevsky's habit of championing arguments he does not believe, and giving them to his favorite characters; and of perverting ideas he does believe in, and giving them to his villains.
Balaam's Ass just gave us two wonderful examples of this: first, Papa Karamazov's delirious rant on the hooks and iron and forges of hell; and second, Smerdykov's absurd syllogism on the power of faith. In both cases, Dostoevsky raises legitimate questions about the tension between religious belief and modern logic, questions central both to his thinking in general and to this novel in particular; but in both cases, he raises them through fools and deviants--the characters you would least expect to voice them.
What is the purpose of this technique; or, perhaps safer to ask, what is the effect?
In part it is what separates The Brothers Karamazov from a philosophical treatise, what makes it a novel--albeit an unusual one, albeit one nearly unique in the canon: the technique humanizes the philosophy, it connects the aspirations of the intellect and the soul, with the dirt and the stink of this wretched earth. And such connections are what this book aims to demonstrate and even, in its own small way, helps to create: they are the links between 1879 and 2008--between czarist Russia and the democratic United States, between dead Dostoevsky and the living reader; and they are the links between you and me, and perhaps also between the two of us and Something Great and Beyond.
Hear ye, hear ye: Unless you are a student and need a good grade on your Karamazov midterm, unless you are a lover trying to woo a professor of Russian Literature, there is no good reason to slog through this novel.
When you reach the end of Book Three/Part I (pg 160), pause for a moment and reflect. You've given the Brothers a fair shot and have read a representative sample; the sophistry will rarely get cleverer than "Disputation" (1.3.7); the soap opera will never be cattier than "The Two Together" (1.3.10); the psychology will never penetrate deeper than Dmitri's "Confessions" (1.3.3-5); and you've seen your share of violence (1.3.9), and taken your share of spiritual punishment (too many passages to cite).
If you've reached this point and are not engaged, close the book and never open it again--no one will fault you for it. The Brothers Karamazov is not for everyone; the wonder is that anyone could find it appealing.
And yet I do find it appealing, despite all I wrote in my last post, which you must have guessed was largely a posture, which was, in fact, a weak attempt at a pastiche. For me one of the book's strengths lies here, in Dostoevsky's habit of championing arguments he does not believe, and giving them to his favorite characters; and of perverting ideas he does believe in, and giving them to his villains.
Balaam's Ass just gave us two wonderful examples of this: first, Papa Karamazov's delirious rant on the hooks and iron and forges of hell; and second, Smerdykov's absurd syllogism on the power of faith. In both cases, Dostoevsky raises legitimate questions about the tension between religious belief and modern logic, questions central both to his thinking in general and to this novel in particular; but in both cases, he raises them through fools and deviants--the characters you would least expect to voice them.
What is the purpose of this technique; or, perhaps safer to ask, what is the effect?
In part it is what separates The Brothers Karamazov from a philosophical treatise, what makes it a novel--albeit an unusual one, albeit one nearly unique in the canon: the technique humanizes the philosophy, it connects the aspirations of the intellect and the soul, with the dirt and the stink of this wretched earth. And such connections are what this book aims to demonstrate and even, in its own small way, helps to create: they are the links between 1879 and 2008--between czarist Russia and the democratic United States, between dead Dostoevsky and the living reader; and they are the links between you and me, and perhaps also between the two of us and Something Great and Beyond.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The Art of the Train Wreck Metaphor
[Spoiler Alert: This post covers Book Three and the Sept 8 post will cover Book Four. So "compulsively readable" is this novel (Donald Fanger), that we can't help but overrun our deadlines! -- Howl]
"It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds. How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages," wrote my colleague, Howl. But what Howl doesn't understand is that Mister Dostoevsky's greatest achievement was realizing that losing control was actually a pretty effective Literary Device. "What? What!" you may say, "Stop rambling, chum!" But follow me.
On page: 24, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov mutters my favorite lines from The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far screaming at his son the monk: "I think, that the devils will forget to drag me down to their place with their hooks when I die. And then I think: hooks? Where do they get them? What are they made of? Iron? Where do they forge them? Have they got some kind of factory down there?"
I could go on, quoting his gorgeous, rambling speech about the length and the depths of Hell, figuring out the theological problems of the Drunken Atheist. But instead of trying to figure out the traditional Sunday-School cutesy theological problem: "How many angels can fit on the head of pin?" No, good old Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, this mixed-up father figure who fathered so many mixed-up sons, he doesn't screw around with sappy metaphorical problems, he's trying to figure out a whole different kind of metaphysical riddle: How many demons it will take to peel off my skin in Hell?
That's my favorite part about The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far—that we have characters so blasphemous, on the one hand, and so poetic, on the other hand, that even the Damned Father Figure is wrestling with religious conundrums so thick that there is no Literary Device to describe what the Author has achieved. So I am inventing a Literary Device to describe it. When the crazy Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov rambles poetically about the ceilings and the hooks of Hell, Mister Fydor Dostoevsky is utilizing the Literary Device: The Train Wreck Metaphor.
Ah yes, The Train Wreck Metaphor. It's as if traditional religious and philosophical and literary rhetoric had a drunken orgy with surrealism; it's a metaphor that jumps the tracks and goes flying through the air spitting steam and gears, spiraling out of the writer's control; it's a mad mad metaphor and there's nothing you can do about it. If I take any lesson away from The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far, it is that Dostoevsky loved Train Wreck Metaphors, when the sentence careened off into some new place. If you pay attention to these strange passages, it seems as if Dostoevsky had fathered an Illegitimate Book within this Classic Novel, a book that he wouldn't even acknowledge, just like the birth of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's possibly illegitimate son in the garden on page 99—nobody knew how the boy's mother ended up in Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's garden, but there she was, giving birth to a son who will later challenge everything the father took for granted about his bourgeoisie lifestyle.
And so then, that particular Train Wreck Metaphor grows up and becomes Pavel Fyodorovich Smerdyakov, the servant in his drunken father's house who ends up delivering some of the most devastating atheist theology of The Whole Book Thus far, this line, this out of control Train Wreck Metaphor that literally makes his father proud on page 130: "in the Scriptures it is said that if you have faith even as little as the smallest seed and then say unto this mountain that it should go down into the sea, it would go, without the slightest delay, at your first order....if I'm an unbeliever, and you are such a believer that you're even constantly scolding me, then you, sir, try telling this mountain to go down, not into the sea (because it's far from here to the sea, sir) but even just into our stinking stream, the one beyond our garden, and you'll see for yourself right then that nothing will go down, sir"
The kid talks just like his alleged father. So much so, that Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov calls him "Balaam's ass." Balaam's Ass—the faithful donkey that tried to warn the misguided prophet Balaam about the giant angel blocking the road. Balaam couldn't see the angel that was about to kill him, but Balaam's Ass could—what a fabulous Train Wreck Metaphor for a hateful man to call his possible son. Let us jumble our metaphors henceforth, following the terrible example of a wicked father. Henceforth, celebrate the Train Wreck Metaphor. Write, write, write like you are knocking down a mountain or being speared by devils in Hell; write as if there is an angel in the road, prepared to smote you, an angel that nobody else can see except for you.
Henceforth, for all these aforementioned reasons, call me Balaam's Ass. Utilizing the authority of my new office, I recommend the next poster posts something before September 8...
"It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds. How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages," wrote my colleague, Howl. But what Howl doesn't understand is that Mister Dostoevsky's greatest achievement was realizing that losing control was actually a pretty effective Literary Device. "What? What!" you may say, "Stop rambling, chum!" But follow me.
On page: 24, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov mutters my favorite lines from The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far screaming at his son the monk: "I think, that the devils will forget to drag me down to their place with their hooks when I die. And then I think: hooks? Where do they get them? What are they made of? Iron? Where do they forge them? Have they got some kind of factory down there?"
I could go on, quoting his gorgeous, rambling speech about the length and the depths of Hell, figuring out the theological problems of the Drunken Atheist. But instead of trying to figure out the traditional Sunday-School cutesy theological problem: "How many angels can fit on the head of pin?" No, good old Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, this mixed-up father figure who fathered so many mixed-up sons, he doesn't screw around with sappy metaphorical problems, he's trying to figure out a whole different kind of metaphysical riddle: How many demons it will take to peel off my skin in Hell?
That's my favorite part about The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far—that we have characters so blasphemous, on the one hand, and so poetic, on the other hand, that even the Damned Father Figure is wrestling with religious conundrums so thick that there is no Literary Device to describe what the Author has achieved. So I am inventing a Literary Device to describe it. When the crazy Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov rambles poetically about the ceilings and the hooks of Hell, Mister Fydor Dostoevsky is utilizing the Literary Device: The Train Wreck Metaphor.
Ah yes, The Train Wreck Metaphor. It's as if traditional religious and philosophical and literary rhetoric had a drunken orgy with surrealism; it's a metaphor that jumps the tracks and goes flying through the air spitting steam and gears, spiraling out of the writer's control; it's a mad mad metaphor and there's nothing you can do about it. If I take any lesson away from The Brothers Karamazov Thus Far, it is that Dostoevsky loved Train Wreck Metaphors, when the sentence careened off into some new place. If you pay attention to these strange passages, it seems as if Dostoevsky had fathered an Illegitimate Book within this Classic Novel, a book that he wouldn't even acknowledge, just like the birth of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's possibly illegitimate son in the garden on page 99—nobody knew how the boy's mother ended up in Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's garden, but there she was, giving birth to a son who will later challenge everything the father took for granted about his bourgeoisie lifestyle.
And so then, that particular Train Wreck Metaphor grows up and becomes Pavel Fyodorovich Smerdyakov, the servant in his drunken father's house who ends up delivering some of the most devastating atheist theology of The Whole Book Thus far, this line, this out of control Train Wreck Metaphor that literally makes his father proud on page 130: "in the Scriptures it is said that if you have faith even as little as the smallest seed and then say unto this mountain that it should go down into the sea, it would go, without the slightest delay, at your first order....if I'm an unbeliever, and you are such a believer that you're even constantly scolding me, then you, sir, try telling this mountain to go down, not into the sea (because it's far from here to the sea, sir) but even just into our stinking stream, the one beyond our garden, and you'll see for yourself right then that nothing will go down, sir"
The kid talks just like his alleged father. So much so, that Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov calls him "Balaam's ass." Balaam's Ass—the faithful donkey that tried to warn the misguided prophet Balaam about the giant angel blocking the road. Balaam couldn't see the angel that was about to kill him, but Balaam's Ass could—what a fabulous Train Wreck Metaphor for a hateful man to call his possible son. Let us jumble our metaphors henceforth, following the terrible example of a wicked father. Henceforth, celebrate the Train Wreck Metaphor. Write, write, write like you are knocking down a mountain or being speared by devils in Hell; write as if there is an angel in the road, prepared to smote you, an angel that nobody else can see except for you.
Henceforth, for all these aforementioned reasons, call me Balaam's Ass. Utilizing the authority of my new office, I recommend the next poster posts something before September 8...
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Why Is Such a Book Printed!
The story starts strong. The introduction is perfectly crazy, and then the opening chapters have everything you could want in a novel: drunkenness, orgies, a suicide attempt, family warfare, hints of murder, a cast of misfits ... By the end of the third chapter, I lost count of the deaths.
Then comes "Elders." The narrator states, "I ought to say a few words [...] about what, generally, the elders in our monasteries are"; and my response is, you ought not to have wasted our time.
This chapter, Mr. Dostoevsky, is almost inexcusable. It is hard enough to read a 130-year-old novel, let alone an 800-page 130-year-old novel, let alone a Russian 800-page 130-year-old novel ... It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds.
How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages about Mount Athos and the Ecumenical Patriarch? How dare you tell us about Paissy Velichkovsky and his disciples, and your favorite "most aged monks," one of them "famous for his great silence and remarkable fasting"? Your charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, depends on this assumption: "I am a canonized novelist, so you must worship everything I write, you must convince yourself that my whims and my editors' neglect are not whims and neglect, but proofs of my genius"; why not drop the charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, and just waterboard us?
For this is obviously what you want: for the reader to suffer, for us maybe to become -- I don't know -- closer to God by suffering. Well thank you, Mr. Dostoevsky, thank you for bringing me to the "true kingdom of Christ. " But I'd thank you still more if you left literature to your friend Count Tolstoy, and spared us the "Ultramontanism" puns. (Could anything be less funny?)
Questions for the readers:
1) How often do Alyosha and the elder make love? ("Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who loved him and allowed him to stay by him [...] of course he also liked it.")
2) What the hell is a hieromonk?
3) Do people really read this book for pleasure, or is it only read for reputation--or by assignment?
Then comes "Elders." The narrator states, "I ought to say a few words [...] about what, generally, the elders in our monasteries are"; and my response is, you ought not to have wasted our time.
This chapter, Mr. Dostoevsky, is almost inexcusable. It is hard enough to read a 130-year-old novel, let alone an 800-page 130-year-old novel, let alone a Russian 800-page 130-year-old novel ... It is hard enough to keep your billion character-oviches separate in our minds.
How dare you, Mr. Dostoevsky, ramble for pages about Mount Athos and the Ecumenical Patriarch? How dare you tell us about Paissy Velichkovsky and his disciples, and your favorite "most aged monks," one of them "famous for his great silence and remarkable fasting"? Your charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, depends on this assumption: "I am a canonized novelist, so you must worship everything I write, you must convince yourself that my whims and my editors' neglect are not whims and neglect, but proofs of my genius"; why not drop the charade, Mr. Dostoevsky, and just waterboard us?
For this is obviously what you want: for the reader to suffer, for us maybe to become -- I don't know -- closer to God by suffering. Well thank you, Mr. Dostoevsky, thank you for bringing me to the "true kingdom of Christ. " But I'd thank you still more if you left literature to your friend Count Tolstoy, and spared us the "Ultramontanism" puns. (Could anything be less funny?)
Questions for the readers:
1) How often do Alyosha and the elder make love? ("Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who loved him and allowed him to stay by him [...] of course he also liked it.")
2) What the hell is a hieromonk?
3) Do people really read this book for pleasure, or is it only read for reputation--or by assignment?
Sunday, August 3, 2008
book club -- first reading
Much as TV series and seasons often start and end with double episodes, The Brothers Karamazov began when its first and second books were published together in the January 1879 issue of The Russian Herald.
Imagine yourself there: a St. Petersburg winter, a nation without elections or free speech or good dentistry, a bottle of vodka on your table and a Georgian prostitute in your filthy bed. Then the mail arrives, and with it your favorite "thick journal," the Herald. You light your third cigar of the morning and pour yourself a fourth vodka. You are fifteen years old.
Turning the pages, you see a piece about the Tsarina, and how lovely she looks in ermine. Then there's another piece, something on France and its political failings -- you skim it, knowing you'll need a bon mot on the topic for Anna Scherer's soiree tonight. Next you see a full-page advertisement from a company that leases charwomen: "Does your divan smell like Dianka? Try our women, who always use soap ... " You turn more pages, passing over an article about the new Mussorgsky opera -- who cares, you hate Mussorgsky, you met him at a restaurant and he stank like a goat -- still more pages turn, and then ... Double Dostoevsky! What a treat.
Members of the book club are now invited to read "From the Author" and Books One and Two ("A Nice Little Family" and "An Inappropriate Gathering"), which together in the Pevear-Volokhonsky translation constitute the book's first 91 pages. (We can skip Pevear's introduction for now.) I'll post something around August 16.
Imagine yourself there: a St. Petersburg winter, a nation without elections or free speech or good dentistry, a bottle of vodka on your table and a Georgian prostitute in your filthy bed. Then the mail arrives, and with it your favorite "thick journal," the Herald. You light your third cigar of the morning and pour yourself a fourth vodka. You are fifteen years old.
Turning the pages, you see a piece about the Tsarina, and how lovely she looks in ermine. Then there's another piece, something on France and its political failings -- you skim it, knowing you'll need a bon mot on the topic for Anna Scherer's soiree tonight. Next you see a full-page advertisement from a company that leases charwomen: "Does your divan smell like Dianka? Try our women, who always use soap ... " You turn more pages, passing over an article about the new Mussorgsky opera -- who cares, you hate Mussorgsky, you met him at a restaurant and he stank like a goat -- still more pages turn, and then ... Double Dostoevsky! What a treat.
Members of the book club are now invited to read "From the Author" and Books One and Two ("A Nice Little Family" and "An Inappropriate Gathering"), which together in the Pevear-Volokhonsky translation constitute the book's first 91 pages. (We can skip Pevear's introduction for now.) I'll post something around August 16.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
t-shirt of the month
Again the winner this month was clear and early:
GOT JUNK
IN YOUR
TRUNK?
I'M YOUR MAN
IN YOUR
TRUNK?
I'M YOUR MAN
Out with the old
I keep things. In the last year I've worn about 5% of the clothes I own. I keep bubble wrap, uniquely shaped envelopes, styrofoam blocks from packaging, the weird wine bottle holder (best guess) that the previous owner left in my condo, and boxes. Lots of boxes.
I kept all my moving boxes from last year, as well as most of the original boxes of things I've bought (shoes, cuisinart, rice cooker...). My reasoning is either that if I ever move it would be easiest to repackage these things in their original boxes, or that I'll have another use for this diversely sized collection of boxes. Yet in the 16 months since I've moved in, I have to say I can't remember ever needing any of these boxes. So this morning I cleaned my storage space of most of these boxes. The big boxes I did keep - I just couldn't help myself - but I at least broke them down (even though by slicing through the tape it meant I would have to waste yet more tape next time around). My storage unit now looks nearly empty.
My storage unit also has spiders. I'm sure they're harmless, but I have an aversion to spiders. I'm open-minded, but I don't think I could ever be friends with a spider. So as part of my cleaning I did have to squash a few spiders. But I left some others unharmed, because they weren't in my way, I didn't feel like getting into more spider muck, and I knew they'd probably just come back. Well, the dead ones probably wouldn't come back, but others like them would. I need some spider traps.
I kept all my moving boxes from last year, as well as most of the original boxes of things I've bought (shoes, cuisinart, rice cooker...). My reasoning is either that if I ever move it would be easiest to repackage these things in their original boxes, or that I'll have another use for this diversely sized collection of boxes. Yet in the 16 months since I've moved in, I have to say I can't remember ever needing any of these boxes. So this morning I cleaned my storage space of most of these boxes. The big boxes I did keep - I just couldn't help myself - but I at least broke them down (even though by slicing through the tape it meant I would have to waste yet more tape next time around). My storage unit now looks nearly empty.
My storage unit also has spiders. I'm sure they're harmless, but I have an aversion to spiders. I'm open-minded, but I don't think I could ever be friends with a spider. So as part of my cleaning I did have to squash a few spiders. But I left some others unharmed, because they weren't in my way, I didn't feel like getting into more spider muck, and I knew they'd probably just come back. Well, the dead ones probably wouldn't come back, but others like them would. I need some spider traps.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Wall-Eye
Everyone on this blog is familiar with the "shark" technique. Some of us have mastered it.
Now that we are more mature in age, I'd like to introduce you all to a more advanced technique: The Wall-eye.
Imagine a nude woman in a closet. Sneak up behind her and follow these directions:
1. Stick your left index finger in her mouth
2. Stick your right index finger in her "hole"
3. Lift and pose for the picture
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Napkins
Napkins are good for liquids, pastes, and smooth spreads. A bit of water on your chin? Some mayo on your cheek? How about some tuna juice on your fingers? A napkin will take care of all that. It'll absorb and hang onto these unwanted leftovers until you dispose or wash that napkin later. A napkin will even do a decent job on that nitty gritty powder leftover from scarfing doritos or cheetos. But what about bread crumbs on your hand after palming a roll? What about salt on your fingers after eating some mixed fancy nuts? What about morsels of KFC extra crispiness stuck to your lip? A napkin's only accomplishment when applied to these tasks is to brush the crumbs from your fingers so they fall to the ground, your lap, or whatever is below your hands at the time. Clean hands, maybe, but not for nothing.
Napkins, it's time to step up your game.
Napkins, it's time to step up your game.
Another Garment Goodbye
In my haste to depart the plane on the first leg of my recent trip, with plugged ears and in a sudafed stupor (let's pretend), I forgot on the plane my blue long sleeved Duofold synthetic shirt that has been my go-to travel garment for years. During the plane ride I remember thinking I should put it in my bag rather than drape it over the arm rest, but as is my custom in these situations, I told myself that there was no need for such precaution since of course I would remember something so simple, especially in this case when they remind you to check for personal belongings before getting off. But as is unfortunately becoming my custom, I did not remember. I have a feeling the shirt was a found item rather than something actually purchased, but I don't actually remember how or when it came into my life. Some would say it's for the best, that one should buy new clothes more than once every ten years. Well, that's a matter of opinion. But the undisputed fact is that shirt was perfect and there will not be another like it.
In memorial, two pictures: the last picture taken of me and my shirt together, late July, 2008; and the oldest photo of us that I could find among the photos I have with me in DC, probably 2001 (I had to scan it in since I didn't have a digital camera then).
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Namibia and back
My six day trip to Namibia - three days travel, three days there - leaves me with a pile of bitching about travel logistics. But this is the kibbitz, not the bitch, so I'm pre-editing myself and offering only the following highlights:
Delayed flight
Lost bag
Ears clogged like a mofo
No personal TV screens
Hours swallowing and force-yawning to pop ears due to intense paranoia about ear drums exploding.
With that out of the way, one more story: our office has some cars and drivers, and one of the drivers in one of the cars drove me to the airport on Friday. Halfway there he told me he forgot to get the money to pay for the car fee at the airport. We didn't turn around. I figured the fee couldn't be more than a dollar or two so we'd surely be able to cover it. But when we got to the airport, he turned into a blocked lane and told the attendant that I was a diplomat being dropped off. The attendant asked no further questions and let us through. Further on in that lane there was another gate, but another attendant simply lifted the gate for us without question, such was his faith in his colleague's screening process. Ethical or unethical? And should I in the future make more of an effort to dress less diplomatically?
Delayed flight
Lost bag
Ears clogged like a mofo
No personal TV screens
Hours swallowing and force-yawning to pop ears due to intense paranoia about ear drums exploding.
With that out of the way, one more story: our office has some cars and drivers, and one of the drivers in one of the cars drove me to the airport on Friday. Halfway there he told me he forgot to get the money to pay for the car fee at the airport. We didn't turn around. I figured the fee couldn't be more than a dollar or two so we'd surely be able to cover it. But when we got to the airport, he turned into a blocked lane and told the attendant that I was a diplomat being dropped off. The attendant asked no further questions and let us through. Further on in that lane there was another gate, but another attendant simply lifted the gate for us without question, such was his faith in his colleague's screening process. Ethical or unethical? And should I in the future make more of an effort to dress less diplomatically?
Friday, July 25, 2008
invitation to a book club
In the tradition of this blog's phenomenally successful series on Harry Potter, next month we will launch a discussion of another genre-busting line of books, (albeit a line now almost always read as one continuous and enormous volume), the bloody and soulful Brothers Karamazov.
We invite all kibbitzers and readers to join us as we read and comment on Dostoevsky's "longest, richest, and most capacious book" (The Washington Post Book World). We'll even have a guest kibbitzer, and we hope you'll join the fun.
We will be reading it slowly, and we will be reading it (at least in part) as a mystery/crime novel: How does heavy D. measure up to Agatha Christie or Sir Arthur Doyle or Dennis Lehane or Raymond Chandler? Does the story still fascinate, or is it all just philosophical blah blah blah?
Expect our first posts in early August. In the meantime, pick up a copy of the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation.
We invite all kibbitzers and readers to join us as we read and comment on Dostoevsky's "longest, richest, and most capacious book" (The Washington Post Book World). We'll even have a guest kibbitzer, and we hope you'll join the fun.
We will be reading it slowly, and we will be reading it (at least in part) as a mystery/crime novel: How does heavy D. measure up to Agatha Christie or Sir Arthur Doyle or Dennis Lehane or Raymond Chandler? Does the story still fascinate, or is it all just philosophical blah blah blah?
Expect our first posts in early August. In the meantime, pick up a copy of the Pevear and Volokhonsky translation.
mystery cynic
Who is the mystery cynic who wrote the following:
"Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken[.]"
Guess before you cheat with Google. Or click on "comments" for the answer.
"Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken[.]"
Guess before you cheat with Google. Or click on "comments" for the answer.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
"Censored"
I'd like to raise a formal K'etsh about the censorship policy. When referring to other people in posts, I think the kibbitzing blogger has the responsibility to provide enough clues for fellow kibbitzers to know whom they are referring to. Example: Mr. O. I can't think of anyone whose last name starts with an "O". I need a little k'nitch to help me out.
I would also like to note two other recent life changing occurances:
1. I shaved my head
2. I RSVP'd to a foiler's wedding
I would also like to note two other recent life changing occurances:
1. I shaved my head
2. I RSVP'd to a foiler's wedding
Monday, July 14, 2008
Shtupping
An orthadox couple gets married. The wedding ends and it is time to legitimize the wedding in the bedroom. Since the woman has all the experience in the relationship, the gentleman asks her what he is supposed to do.
She says, "First, take off your tsi tsit".
So, the gentleman takes them off and asks, "What next?"
She responds, "Take off the rest of your clothes and stick it in."
So he does all this and then asks, "What now?"
She answers, "Now it's time to daven"
She says, "First, take off your tsi tsit".
So, the gentleman takes them off and asks, "What next?"
She responds, "Take off the rest of your clothes and stick it in."
So he does all this and then asks, "What now?"
She answers, "Now it's time to daven"
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Coke bottles and love stories
in memory of Patty, 1994-2008
In 1994 I went shopping with my friend A. and his father Mr. O. at an expensive camping store. A. and Mr. O. helped me find a Patagonia pullover sweater. "It's recycled material," Mr. O. said: "it's made of old Coke bottles." I was in love.
The sweater was, in fact, a near replica of A.'s own Patagonia. This was to be my year of copycat purchases: at the Army & Navy surplus store I bought the Whale's burgundy wool sweater, and at a tattoo and leather shop I bought my friend J.'s bumper sticker, SAVE THE PLANET - KILL YOURSELF. The sticker was on my car for exactly one day: my friends saw it and called me a follower, and that night I scrapped it off. The burgundy sweater lasted about a year and then got lost somewhere in Kentucky.
A.'s old Patagonia was brown and had a neck zipper; my new one was green and had snaps. The feel was the same, however, and it was the feel that sold the sweater. It was fuzzy and squishy and thick and light. It was warm but cold, I'd been promised: light enough for spring, heavy enough for winter. It was even supposed to keep you alive when icy wet.
For the next 14 years Patty was my close and constant friend. It would be tempting to say that everyone who's ever met me has seen me in my Patty; it is more accurate, but barely so, to presume that my few readers know the exact sweater I am writing about, without my having to post a picture of it.
Patty was with me on my first big road trip out west, and in it I hiked and rafted and canoed and kayaked. It came with me to Israel, where I lost what little God I had left in me, and then to my childhood summer camp, when I returned to it as a counselor; I was wearing Patty on the night when, for the first time in my life, I went stargazing with a girl at her invitation; I was still wearing it when she said she was disappointed in me.
Patty was with me as I fell in and out of love with a hundred wrong girls, and it was with me when I finally found the right one. It went with me to my first and second colleges, and on more hikes, and on more international travels. I'm wearing Patty in the last photograph taken of me together with my Zadie. And I brought it on almost every trip I made to Michigan throughout my father's dying, and I was still wearing it last month when with my mother and I picked out his gravestone.
Patty was practical and Patty was reliable. The second-to-top button broke, the fabric stretched out and flattened somewhat, but otherwise it held itself together. Light enough for spring, heavy enough for winter. In it I had gotten icy wet, but with it I stayed alive.
There comes a time in every decent man's life when he must surrender his will to his wife's. Some men do this knowingly, but most believe that they never gave in: they claim sovereignty to the end, even as their coffin is sealed and encased and lowered and buried over.
Whichever scenario will play out for me, I don't care much about what I'm wearing, so long as it's comfortable, but my wife-to-be does, and Patty did not suit her tastes; and I know, for all my fetishes and anthropomorphisms, that the few memories I have which haven't been reduced to husks and stock stories and punchlines--the real history resides in me, not in recycled Coke bottles.
And so this week I left Patty at Good Will. The sweater meant something to me, but the wife means more.
Monday, July 7, 2008
t-shirt of the month
It is only July 7, but the t-shirt of the month has already been awarded:
LOVIN COUGARS
IS NOT A CRIME
IS NOT A CRIME
Monday, June 30, 2008
South Africa
I'm afraid it would reflect poorly on me if after spending two weeks in South Africa the only thing I blogged about were stupid American cashiers. So let me tell you some essential information about South Africa.
Instead of saying You're Welcome they say Pleasure. I assume the "my" is implied, or else perhaps it is simply a command.
They eat a lot of meat there. A typical menu will simply have a meat section where you can order the type of cut and the sauce. You can have sirloin, filet, rump, etc. And they often have multiple sizes. You can have the 200 gram rump or the 400 gram rump.
They have Appletizer. It is carbonated apple juice, and it is wonderful. It is hard to say it without laughing. There is also Grapetizer, but it is not quite as good.
Coloured is still used there to describe people who are born from one white parent and one black parent.
Instead of saying You're Welcome they say Pleasure. I assume the "my" is implied, or else perhaps it is simply a command.
They eat a lot of meat there. A typical menu will simply have a meat section where you can order the type of cut and the sauce. You can have sirloin, filet, rump, etc. And they often have multiple sizes. You can have the 200 gram rump or the 400 gram rump.
They have Appletizer. It is carbonated apple juice, and it is wonderful. It is hard to say it without laughing. There is also Grapetizer, but it is not quite as good.
Coloured is still used there to describe people who are born from one white parent and one black parent.
Cashier Improvement Zone
I may have to start a new blog called Idiot Cashiers and How They Tick Me Off. Here's the background. There is a window in my shower. It is no secret. And until recently it was not a big deal, because nobody really had an angle to see in, the window would only allow an outsider a waist up view, and I have a big enough ego that anyone spying on me could only be viewed as flattery. But there is yet another new building going up in our backyard (was supposed to be condos, but now may be rentals), giving the constructions workers, and soon the residents, a quite proper view into my shower. So the time has come to somehow obstruct the view, and I went to Urban Outfitters in search of a hip solution.
Now for the idiot cashier of the day. Normally I use my credit card for everything to avoid accumulating change (which accumulates on its own, like dust), but my purchase was 3.17 and it just seemed in appropriate to not use cash. I gave the cashier a 10 dollar bill and a quarter, which most sane and reasonable people in the universe will recognize as a change saving measure. The cashier gave me back 6 bucks and a load of change. I thought she had forgotten about the quarter, so I reminded her "I gave you a quarter." She said "No, you gave me a nickel." Well, that sent me through the roof. I briefly considered whether there was any chance in hell that I had a nickel in my pocket, and the answer was a resounding not in a million fucking years. But I was stuck. I asked her why in the hell I would have given her a nickel. She said she didn't know. Of course she doesn't. You'd think as a cashier she would first of all recognize what kind of currency she is given, and second, that when someone gives her some change that doesn't make a bit of sense, she should say something. Well, she said she'd have to get the manager to open the drawer back up. And despite what you may think after reading this entire post about the most trivial thing in the world, I have graduated from the time in my life when I would have pushed that issue. The new me knows that these daily stresses are best abandoned and forgotten as quickly as possible, so I just glared at her and walked away, and when the greeter wished me a pleasant day I glared at him, too. Then I wrote it all up right here so I would never forget that Urban Outfitters employs a bunch of dweebs.
Now for the idiot cashier of the day. Normally I use my credit card for everything to avoid accumulating change (which accumulates on its own, like dust), but my purchase was 3.17 and it just seemed in appropriate to not use cash. I gave the cashier a 10 dollar bill and a quarter, which most sane and reasonable people in the universe will recognize as a change saving measure. The cashier gave me back 6 bucks and a load of change. I thought she had forgotten about the quarter, so I reminded her "I gave you a quarter." She said "No, you gave me a nickel." Well, that sent me through the roof. I briefly considered whether there was any chance in hell that I had a nickel in my pocket, and the answer was a resounding not in a million fucking years. But I was stuck. I asked her why in the hell I would have given her a nickel. She said she didn't know. Of course she doesn't. You'd think as a cashier she would first of all recognize what kind of currency she is given, and second, that when someone gives her some change that doesn't make a bit of sense, she should say something. Well, she said she'd have to get the manager to open the drawer back up. And despite what you may think after reading this entire post about the most trivial thing in the world, I have graduated from the time in my life when I would have pushed that issue. The new me knows that these daily stresses are best abandoned and forgotten as quickly as possible, so I just glared at her and walked away, and when the greeter wished me a pleasant day I glared at him, too. Then I wrote it all up right here so I would never forget that Urban Outfitters employs a bunch of dweebs.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Der oylam is a goylem
What is wrong with you Tamaveters; using other people's names on this blog! This is not a drunk-tank! Behave accordingly.
On a different note, I refuse to RSVP to the wedding of the 1994 Shaarey Zedek Kiddish Cup Champion until you Alter boks start blogging. I feel like I'm looking for the afikomen all by myself. What's up with that? Maybe we should invite Mazarin and Z to join in the fun.
On a different note, I refuse to RSVP to the wedding of the 1994 Shaarey Zedek Kiddish Cup Champion until you Alter boks start blogging. I feel like I'm looking for the afikomen all by myself. What's up with that? Maybe we should invite Mazarin and Z to join in the fun.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
censorship
Vigilant re-readers of this blog may notice that we've modified some old posts and begun to censor ourselves. No one regrets this more than I.
Thousands of years ago, I was the editor of and sole contributor to a youth group newsletter. My articles centered on the sale and consumption of crack, and on the deviant sexual behaviors of our group members and advisors. One day I wrote a particularly hard-hitting article about a gunshot fetus. It probably deserved a Pulitzer, but my group's president was not ready for the truth--did not believe his constituents were entitled to it--was afraid of what real reportage would do to his reputation and career. He censored me, then, and our friendship never recovered.
We kibbitzers believe that our readers deserve the truth. Please trust that all censorship is done in the interest of maintaining our and our friends' privacy: it is not done from cowardice. Oh, no! Like W.E.B. Du Bois, we kibbitzers cry truths at an ugly and uncomprehending world; and we will call no one "friend" who will not stand and cry with us.
All modified posts include the label "censored."
Thousands of years ago, I was the editor of and sole contributor to a youth group newsletter. My articles centered on the sale and consumption of crack, and on the deviant sexual behaviors of our group members and advisors. One day I wrote a particularly hard-hitting article about a gunshot fetus. It probably deserved a Pulitzer, but my group's president was not ready for the truth--did not believe his constituents were entitled to it--was afraid of what real reportage would do to his reputation and career. He censored me, then, and our friendship never recovered.
We kibbitzers believe that our readers deserve the truth. Please trust that all censorship is done in the interest of maintaining our and our friends' privacy: it is not done from cowardice. Oh, no! Like W.E.B. Du Bois, we kibbitzers cry truths at an ugly and uncomprehending world; and we will call no one "friend" who will not stand and cry with us.
All modified posts include the label "censored."
Friday, June 20, 2008
Gift Ideas for Howl's Wedding
1. a tub of KY Jelly
2. a kiddish cup inscribed with "Baruch"
3. Risk, the board game
4. a tub of chrain
5. a haman purim costume (w/ a grager)
6. A sedur
7. A recording of Yatzi singing the amidah
8. A lock of D. A.'s hair
9. A picture of Matitiyahu
10. A statue of B. D.
2. a kiddish cup inscribed with "Baruch"
3. Risk, the board game
4. a tub of chrain
5. a haman purim costume (w/ a grager)
6. A sedur
7. A recording of Yatzi singing the amidah
8. A lock of D. A.'s hair
9. A picture of Matitiyahu
10. A statue of B. D.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Compassionate Slaughter
I recently finished Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food, which I liked as much as Omnivore's Dilemma. Not surprising since they're almost the same book. For those wanting to find good local food from farms, he made a footnote about eatwild.com so I checked it out. I'd like to test the idea that food from animals raised properly taste better, and would love to buy half a cow from one of these places and have a barbecue.
But as much as I like the site and admire the farmers, I can't help but laugh at one particular blurb from Old Pine Farm in Michigan:
"We support the Humane Farming Association and are very compassionate about our animals, and particularly their slaughter."
Later today I'm going to compassionately kick the shit out of the guy stealing my mail.
But as much as I like the site and admire the farmers, I can't help but laugh at one particular blurb from Old Pine Farm in Michigan:
"We support the Humane Farming Association and are very compassionate about our animals, and particularly their slaughter."
Later today I'm going to compassionately kick the shit out of the guy stealing my mail.
Chabad House of Ann Arbor
I did not know that the Chabad house of Ann Arbor has a community mikvah and that is available for use by the Jewish community. The mikwah employs a filtering pool heating system and is the only such facility between Detroit and Chicago. A nominal donation is asked of occasional users. The women of Mikvah Israel act as shomerot (assistants) for those women desiring to use the mikvah. I am curious if shomerot are available for men who desire to use the mikvah. I wonder if an extra "nominal donation" is suggested if you were to request assistance from a shomerot. Have any of you ever visited a mikvah?
Monday, June 2, 2008
L. Z.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Mathematics Education
(Overheard on the bus)
Woman: When is the next World Cup?
Man: 2010.
W: How often do World Cups occur?
M: Every 4 years.
W: When was the last one?
M: I have no idea.
Friday, May 30, 2008
founding nerds
If you're a nerd, these two questions make for a wonderful game: it is both an exercise in self-discovery, and a conversation starter at your next American Revolution-themed kegger.
Questions
1) Which founding father do you like best?
2) Which founding father do you most resemble? (Dig deep, here.)
My Answers
1) For a while I liked Hamilton best, partly because I wanted to be just like my friend J., a lifelong Hamilton fanatic; partly because Hamilton was the only founding father I knew anything about (I loved Chernow's biography); but mostly because Hamilton has much to recommend him: born from bastardy and in penury, he was self-made, an abolitionist, and a war hero; he established the treasury and, through his vision and policies, put the U.S. on the path to stable prosperity; he cowrote the Federalist Papers and ghosted most of Washington's farewell address; he was brilliant and crazy and hardworking and self-destructive, all qualities that still endear him to me.
And yet now that I'm reading Founding Brothers, my allegiance is crossing over. There is, I believe, something to be said for Last Acts. Benjamin Franklin's was to lend his brains, energy, prestige, and eloquence to a futile but well-meaning attack on slavery. Hamilton's last public act, meanwhile, was to die in an idiotic duel. Whereas Franklin through action atoned (or strove to atone) for being a one-time slave owner, Hamilton--again through action--put his ego before his family and his nation. Hamilton may have been dashing, but in his 50s, 60s, and 70s he did nothing for the U.S.--in those decades he was dead.
2) I am most like Washington, because my comportment is majestic and I look good on a horse. After Washington, though, and I am probably most like the gloomy, vain, whiny, irritable, paranoid, and self-pitying Adams. In fact his description of himself as "obnoxious and disliked" is one I'd gladly apply to myself, if only--{sigh}--someone was around to listen to it.
Answers for the Other Kibbitzers
I won't speculate as to how the other kibbitzers would answer the first question, but I'll peg each of them to a father and let them squirm under their new labels:
Questions
1) Which founding father do you like best?
2) Which founding father do you most resemble? (Dig deep, here.)
My Answers
1) For a while I liked Hamilton best, partly because I wanted to be just like my friend J., a lifelong Hamilton fanatic; partly because Hamilton was the only founding father I knew anything about (I loved Chernow's biography); but mostly because Hamilton has much to recommend him: born from bastardy and in penury, he was self-made, an abolitionist, and a war hero; he established the treasury and, through his vision and policies, put the U.S. on the path to stable prosperity; he cowrote the Federalist Papers and ghosted most of Washington's farewell address; he was brilliant and crazy and hardworking and self-destructive, all qualities that still endear him to me.
And yet now that I'm reading Founding Brothers, my allegiance is crossing over. There is, I believe, something to be said for Last Acts. Benjamin Franklin's was to lend his brains, energy, prestige, and eloquence to a futile but well-meaning attack on slavery. Hamilton's last public act, meanwhile, was to die in an idiotic duel. Whereas Franklin through action atoned (or strove to atone) for being a one-time slave owner, Hamilton--again through action--put his ego before his family and his nation. Hamilton may have been dashing, but in his 50s, 60s, and 70s he did nothing for the U.S.--in those decades he was dead.
2) I am most like Washington, because my comportment is majestic and I look good on a horse. After Washington, though, and I am probably most like the gloomy, vain, whiny, irritable, paranoid, and self-pitying Adams. In fact his description of himself as "obnoxious and disliked" is one I'd gladly apply to myself, if only--{sigh}--someone was around to listen to it.
Answers for the Other Kibbitzers
I won't speculate as to how the other kibbitzers would answer the first question, but I'll peg each of them to a father and let them squirm under their new labels:
- Goat is energetic and impetuous: he is our Hamilton
- The Whale is our purist, our idealist: he can only be Jefferson
- Sweatshirt is as accomplished as he is self-effacing, as talented as he is modest: he mends bridges and must be our Madison.
Monday, May 19, 2008
My father-in-law.....
My wife and I were joking how we could write a book about Michelle's dad and his weird tendencies. Here are a few (no exaggerations!)
I have highlighted some of his best moments:
He wore a Detroit Lions leather hat to church
He planted fake flowers from his daughter's wedding in the backyard
He applied duct tape to fix holes on the screen door
He parks his car on the lawn to kill it so that he won't have to mow it
His lawn exceeds his knees
He has newspapers on his porch that are more than 3 months old
He stabled cardboard boxes over the windows in the living room to enhance television viewing
He cooked hot dogs in the fireplace when the power went out
He bought a fake fireplace and set it inside the real fireplace
He velcrod the remote control for the television set to the table
His floors are so dirty that there are bugs in the dog's food dish
He has weeks old pizza crusts under the seat cushions
Maybe someone else can make a list for, "You know you are a sheggetz when..."
I have highlighted some of his best moments:
He wore a Detroit Lions leather hat to church
He planted fake flowers from his daughter's wedding in the backyard
He applied duct tape to fix holes on the screen door
He parks his car on the lawn to kill it so that he won't have to mow it
His lawn exceeds his knees
He has newspapers on his porch that are more than 3 months old
He stabled cardboard boxes over the windows in the living room to enhance television viewing
He cooked hot dogs in the fireplace when the power went out
He bought a fake fireplace and set it inside the real fireplace
He velcrod the remote control for the television set to the table
His floors are so dirty that there are bugs in the dog's food dish
He has weeks old pizza crusts under the seat cushions
Maybe someone else can make a list for, "You know you are a sheggetz when..."
Monday, May 12, 2008
Overheard at Church on Sunday
During SILENT prayer time:
The gentleman behind me screamed, "Lord, I try to love them...but I hate them!"
The gentleman behind me screamed, "Lord, I try to love them...but I hate them!"
Friday, May 9, 2008
Why is this night different from all other nights?
Because this year, my mom mistakenly thought the gefilte fish were the matzah balls. This was the first Passover that I was able to enjoy Gefilte soup. Not bad. I should the lulov and ate the shank bone afterwards.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
An observation
I frequently go to a particular Korean restaurant. The other day, I went with my friend, who is Korean. My friend ordered my usual for me, in Korean (and he ordered it in a way such that it was unclear whether it was for me or him). It was SUBSTANTIALLY spicier.
So, there you go.
So, there you go.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
That's Entertainment
Human Tetris. Why is Japanese TV so much better than ours, even when I don't understand Japanese? Or maybe it's because I don't understand Japanese?
Monday, April 21, 2008
Earth Day Eve
Earth day is tomorrow. Did you know? Michael Pollan wrote an op-ed called Why Bother? on the subject. It shows, first of all, why I’m writing here and he’s writing books, and it also explores a tough question. It’s hard to see how anything I do is going to have an effect on the world, so where do I get the motivation to do it? In my case, I don’t. The gap between what I profess to care about and what I do about it, or what Pollan, quoting someone else, I think, calls the difference between what we think and what we do, is enormous.
I drive my car more than I need to, I buy conventional lightbulbs and use plastic bags when it’s convenient, I don’t spend the extra cash on organic food – the list of what I don’t do is endless. But the article makes several arguments why we as individuals should still do things we believe in even if there’s no evidence, not even real hope, even, that it will make a difference. Partly so we feel good about ourselves, and even more to be a model for others. None of this is news, and none of it has worked for me so far.Thinking about this today I was reminded of something one of my fellow authors here participated in back in his church days. A small group of individuals who got together to hold each other accountable. Not unlike AA meetings, I guess. Supportive peers help. So why not get a little environment group? If I were in a small group of six or eight people who met every week or two to discuss what we’d each done in our fight to conserve the environment, where we failed, how we’d move forward, I might feel more accountable. I’d know someone was paying attention, and I’d feel a part of something.
Sadly, this is what I think, but I think what I’ll do may be far different.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
overheard in the park
A man on a bicycle, whose arms, hands, chest, and life were all apparently intact: "So every other day, I'm getting crucified."
Friday, April 18, 2008
Oh the mundanity!
Approximately 4-7 days a week I find what I believe are called “circulars” in my mailbox. It is a whopping newspapery packet full of coupons and sales announcements that drop all over the place like postcards in magazines, and I never bother to even look at it before discarding. But in the name of journalism and freedom, and because I have nothing else to do since I already watched my Netflix today (Deliverance – a movie perhaps better left unwatched), I am going to provide running commentary as I leaf through my Washington Post Shopping Guide.
The cover is a furniture ad for the “#1 livingroom value in America!” And if the $299 sofabed wasn’t enough to prove it, there is a picture of a half-smiling, half-attractive woman in the corner, which is either supposed to be a half-satisfied typical customer, or perhaps the kind of woman I can attract if I have a 6 piece living room package.
Inside the front cover the Washington Post is offering me the Sunday paper for 49 cents. I’ve ignored the zillion solicitation letters they’ve sent me, but sneaking it into the circular may just win me over. They’d like to believe that. News is for people who don’t have tremendous blogging responsibilities.
Ooh – my first glossy circular. From Shoppers, which by the looks of it is a grocery land of limitless savings. Yet even though they’ve put 10 Kraft Mac n Cheese’s on sale for $6, which is about as good as it gets in these times of economic hardship, I don’t even know where a Shoppers is.
Verizon is offering cheap wireless. Big whoop.
Safeway must also be suffering from the economic downturn, because its colored newspaper circular is Sunny Delight to Shoppers’ Fresh Squeezed gloss. Is it the Hormel Natural Choice Lunchmeat (2 for $7) or the Lawry’s Marinade (2 for $5) that gets people running to Safeway?
Next up is Giant, which is nearly identical to Safeway, and whose “fine foods for Passover” section includes Fresh Soup Mix, a Tranquil Bouquet of flowers, and California carrots. This circular needs a Jewish editor.
Don’t worry, it’s almost over.
Rite Aid has gone glossy on us, and has Free and Hot Buys! printed prominently in several places, and there’s a huge BOGO on nutritional supplements. Damned if lipo-flavonoid wouldn’t hit the spot right now.
Last up is a Manny & Olga’s Pizza page with coupons, which I guess I’ll stack up with the rest of the menu’s I get in the mail (including a Manny & Olga’s menu) and then never use. Nah. Why bother.
I can't wait to see what else I get in the mail.
The cover is a furniture ad for the “#1 livingroom value in America!” And if the $299 sofabed wasn’t enough to prove it, there is a picture of a half-smiling, half-attractive woman in the corner, which is either supposed to be a half-satisfied typical customer, or perhaps the kind of woman I can attract if I have a 6 piece living room package.
Inside the front cover the Washington Post is offering me the Sunday paper for 49 cents. I’ve ignored the zillion solicitation letters they’ve sent me, but sneaking it into the circular may just win me over. They’d like to believe that. News is for people who don’t have tremendous blogging responsibilities.
Ooh – my first glossy circular. From Shoppers, which by the looks of it is a grocery land of limitless savings. Yet even though they’ve put 10 Kraft Mac n Cheese’s on sale for $6, which is about as good as it gets in these times of economic hardship, I don’t even know where a Shoppers is.
Verizon is offering cheap wireless. Big whoop.
Safeway must also be suffering from the economic downturn, because its colored newspaper circular is Sunny Delight to Shoppers’ Fresh Squeezed gloss. Is it the Hormel Natural Choice Lunchmeat (2 for $7) or the Lawry’s Marinade (2 for $5) that gets people running to Safeway?
Next up is Giant, which is nearly identical to Safeway, and whose “fine foods for Passover” section includes Fresh Soup Mix, a Tranquil Bouquet of flowers, and California carrots. This circular needs a Jewish editor.
Don’t worry, it’s almost over.
Rite Aid has gone glossy on us, and has Free and Hot Buys! printed prominently in several places, and there’s a huge BOGO on nutritional supplements. Damned if lipo-flavonoid wouldn’t hit the spot right now.
Last up is a Manny & Olga’s Pizza page with coupons, which I guess I’ll stack up with the rest of the menu’s I get in the mail (including a Manny & Olga’s menu) and then never use. Nah. Why bother.
I can't wait to see what else I get in the mail.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
So much chrain!?
From the afikomen to the zuzim -- I eagerly anticipate my trip to my ancestral homeland for pesach.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Whale Wisdom
The proper size to cut your food into, as well as the proper amount of food to put on your spoon/fork, is the largest amount of food that will fit into your mouth while allowing you to swallow without gagging.
If you have a choice between larger portions or lower price, you're in the wrong restaurant.
If you have a choice between larger portions or lower price, you're in the wrong restaurant.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Customer Service
Wow. Can you hear the hurrahs bubbling up from all sides, people overcome with the joy brought by 5% off ther monthly bill. For average people like me, 5% is only about 85 cents, but for the big players on the 8 at a time plan, that could be $2.40. Imagine what we'll all do with that money. Who needs economic stimulus packages when you have Netflix to shell out these windfalls.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Netflatixtics
2008 to date: 49 discs = 16/month
2007: 142 discs = 12/month
2006: 144 discs = 12/month
Totals: 335 discs/27 months = 12.4/month = $1.50/DVD
Notes: Count is for individual DVDs. Activity conducted under a 3 at a time plan. Does not include Watch Now movies.
Analysis: Good consistency. Far cheaper than Blockbuster, with comparable selection. Cheaper and better selection than local Lamont Video. More expensive but with far superior selection than RedBox.
Conclusions: I'm a sick fuck.
2007: 142 discs = 12/month
2006: 144 discs = 12/month
Totals: 335 discs/27 months = 12.4/month = $1.50/DVD
Notes: Count is for individual DVDs. Activity conducted under a 3 at a time plan. Does not include Watch Now movies.
Analysis: Good consistency. Far cheaper than Blockbuster, with comparable selection. Cheaper and better selection than local Lamont Video. More expensive but with far superior selection than RedBox.
Conclusions: I'm a sick fuck.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
the Harvard joke
Over the course of my life I have told exactly two kinds of jokes:
- Jokes that shame me years after the telling
- Jokes I have, thank God, managed to forget
Of the first kind, one has haunted me all week. It was maybe five years ago. I was for some reason at a sushi restaurant with three Harvard graduates: two were unemployed and hungover, and the third was a pornographer who was just beginning to get drunk. The conversation turned to an acquaintance of theirs, who apparently had some kind of a father complex.
"Like Mozart," I said.
"Yes," said the pornographer. "Exactly."
Monday, March 17, 2008
PSA - 9 Volt Batteries, Take 1
A gentleman just shy of thirty is sleeping in his bed, all is dark, all is quiet, the clock ticks from 2:34 to 2:35. Then a beep. And a pause. And another short shrill beep. The man stirs and starts and sits up. BEEP. Close up on the smoke detector and a blinking red light. It's low on batteries. The man gets out of bed and rummages through his drawers and closets, tossing AA batteries and BEEP even AAA batteries all over the place, and finally breaking down in the corner of the closet BEEP. Voice over begins: Nothing short of a nuclear bomb will stop that beeping. Nothing, that is, except a replacement 9 volt battery. And since no goddam thing except a smoke detector uses a 9 volt battery, you're not likely to have one around. So take care to get a spare 9 volt battery, because smoke detectors only run out of batteries in the middle of the night, and they don't take American Express.
Friday, March 14, 2008
He Fell Out with the Wife (an incident)
Story by A.P. Chekhov
Translation by Howl
“Damn you! I come home from work hungry, like a dog, but God knows what I’m being fed here! And you can’t criticize! You criticize, and now there’s howling, tears! Better to be thrice anathematized, than the thing you married!”
Having said this, the husband clanged his spoon against the plate, leapt up, and in a frenzy slammed the door. The wife began to sob, pressed a napkin to her face, and also went out. The dinner was over.
The husband went to his study, lay on the couch, and buried his face in a pillow.
—The devil compelled you to marry, he thought. Here is the good “family” life! I just got married, and already I want to shoot myself!
In a quarter hour, light footsteps were heard on the other side of the door.
—Yes, all is in order … She insulted me, she hurt me, but now she’s walking near the door, she wants to make up … Like hell! I’ll hang myself before I make up with her!
The door opened with a small creak and did not shut. Someone entered and with quiet, shy steps approached the couch.
—Okay, beg my forgiveness, implore me, weep, you’ll get nothing! Frozen hell! You won’t get another word from me, even if you die … I am sleeping here and I don’t feel like talking!
The husband buried his head more deeply into his pillow and softly snored. But men are weak things, just like women. They are easily wilted and withered.
Feeling a warm body against his back, the husband stubbornly withdrew to the far edge of the couch and pulled in his leg.
—Yes … Now here we cry, snuggle, grovel … Soon we will begin with kisses on the shoulder, we’ll drop to our knees. I can’t take this pussyfooting! … Nevertheless … it will be necessary to forgive her. For her, in her condition, it’s unhealthy to be upset. I will torture her a moment longer, then I’ll punish and forgive …
Over his ear, a deep sigh softly passed. After it, another, a third … The husband felt the touch of a little hand on his shoulder.
—Well, God bless her! I’ll forgive her for the last time. She’s had plenty of torment, the poor thing! Especially because it’s all my fault! From nonsense I made such a fuss …
“Well, that’s enough, my morsel!”
The husband stretched out his arm and embraced a warm body.
“Blech!!”
Beside him lay his big dog Dianka.
Translation by Howl
“Damn you! I come home from work hungry, like a dog, but God knows what I’m being fed here! And you can’t criticize! You criticize, and now there’s howling, tears! Better to be thrice anathematized, than the thing you married!”
Having said this, the husband clanged his spoon against the plate, leapt up, and in a frenzy slammed the door. The wife began to sob, pressed a napkin to her face, and also went out. The dinner was over.
The husband went to his study, lay on the couch, and buried his face in a pillow.
—The devil compelled you to marry, he thought. Here is the good “family” life! I just got married, and already I want to shoot myself!
In a quarter hour, light footsteps were heard on the other side of the door.
—Yes, all is in order … She insulted me, she hurt me, but now she’s walking near the door, she wants to make up … Like hell! I’ll hang myself before I make up with her!
The door opened with a small creak and did not shut. Someone entered and with quiet, shy steps approached the couch.
—Okay, beg my forgiveness, implore me, weep, you’ll get nothing! Frozen hell! You won’t get another word from me, even if you die … I am sleeping here and I don’t feel like talking!
The husband buried his head more deeply into his pillow and softly snored. But men are weak things, just like women. They are easily wilted and withered.
Feeling a warm body against his back, the husband stubbornly withdrew to the far edge of the couch and pulled in his leg.
—Yes … Now here we cry, snuggle, grovel … Soon we will begin with kisses on the shoulder, we’ll drop to our knees. I can’t take this pussyfooting! … Nevertheless … it will be necessary to forgive her. For her, in her condition, it’s unhealthy to be upset. I will torture her a moment longer, then I’ll punish and forgive …
Over his ear, a deep sigh softly passed. After it, another, a third … The husband felt the touch of a little hand on his shoulder.
—Well, God bless her! I’ll forgive her for the last time. She’s had plenty of torment, the poor thing! Especially because it’s all my fault! From nonsense I made such a fuss …
“Well, that’s enough, my morsel!”
The husband stretched out his arm and embraced a warm body.
“Blech!!”
Beside him lay his big dog Dianka.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Wine Tasting Parties are Overrated
I went to a wine tasting party this Saturday night with Michelle. There were 2 rules:
1. Bring 2 bottles of wine per couple and a hunk of cheese
2. Bring your receipts
The hosts of the party divulged that the receipts would be used that night to play a game. The game entailed tasting each bottle of wine and then guessing which one was the most expensive.
At the end I picked a $2.99 bottle while Michelle picked a $3.99 bottle. The most expensive bottle was $59.99. All the more reason to drink cheap booze. It's all the same.
1. Bring 2 bottles of wine per couple and a hunk of cheese
2. Bring your receipts
The hosts of the party divulged that the receipts would be used that night to play a game. The game entailed tasting each bottle of wine and then guessing which one was the most expensive.
At the end I picked a $2.99 bottle while Michelle picked a $3.99 bottle. The most expensive bottle was $59.99. All the more reason to drink cheap booze. It's all the same.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
stormy Oliver
Here's another song comparison:
1) 1928's "West End Blues," written by King Oliver, here in its most famous Armstrong recording; after the fanfare, listen to the first half of the principal phrase.
2) 1933's "Stormy Weather," music by Harold Arlen, here sung by Ethel Waters; listen to the "Don't know why..."
Only half related, but look at Fats Waller's facial expressions here.
1) 1928's "West End Blues," written by King Oliver, here in its most famous Armstrong recording; after the fanfare, listen to the first half of the principal phrase.
2) 1933's "Stormy Weather," music by Harold Arlen, here sung by Ethel Waters; listen to the "Don't know why..."
Only half related, but look at Fats Waller's facial expressions here.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
A case of the reallys
In a NYT article today regarding Condoleeza Rice's damage control of an alleged raping of a Japanese girl by a US Marine, she is quoted as saying, "Our concern right now is to see that justice is done, to get to the bottom of it, and our concern is for the girl and her family. We really, really deeply regret it.”
The newsworthy point from the NYT perspective is the rape accusation, and I think rape is among the most heinous crimes and should carry the harshest penalties. But what is newsworthy to me about this news item is the reallys. You know where I'm going, but let's play it in slow motion.
Regret. Sincere regret is a nice sentiment to express and clearly indicates the speaker's feelings.
Deep regret. Deep is a meaningful modifier, indicating more than just your everyday regret. What happened must have been pretty awful.
Really deep regret. Well, shit, this regret is more serious than we thought. More than just deep? This person's regret must be interfering with daily life.
Really really deep regret. Goddam. This person can probably barely walk for all the regret they're feeling. I'm starting to feel bad for them!
Condie stopped at 2 reallys, which is a tremendous display of moderation. One more really and we might have had to forgive her for doing that bullshit she's regretting in the first place.
The newsworthy point from the NYT perspective is the rape accusation, and I think rape is among the most heinous crimes and should carry the harshest penalties. But what is newsworthy to me about this news item is the reallys. You know where I'm going, but let's play it in slow motion.
Regret. Sincere regret is a nice sentiment to express and clearly indicates the speaker's feelings.
Deep regret. Deep is a meaningful modifier, indicating more than just your everyday regret. What happened must have been pretty awful.
Really deep regret. Well, shit, this regret is more serious than we thought. More than just deep? This person's regret must be interfering with daily life.
Really really deep regret. Goddam. This person can probably barely walk for all the regret they're feeling. I'm starting to feel bad for them!
Condie stopped at 2 reallys, which is a tremendous display of moderation. One more really and we might have had to forgive her for doing that bullshit she's regretting in the first place.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
La Bamba, Amen
Last Saturday night I went to a synagogue out in Bethesda and paid $10 at the door for the privilege of buying a $4 glass of wine and watching other people (not a lot) dance to what I can only assume is the latest and greatest of Israeli music. Aside from learning that there is a genre of Israeli music called mizrachi (which someone told me is Arab), the redeeming value of this event was the presence of Bamba peanut snacks. When someone mentioned this to me the name rung many pleasant bells in my head associated with my highschool trip to Israel, but I couldn't remember what the hell it was. Then I tore into a pack, and while I still didn't really remember the taste from way back when, the taste is good. Peanut butter, and very delicate. Including the bag I had that night and the bag I took for the road that I ate today, and generously valuing the night of music and dancing at $2, that means I got my Bamba for $4 a pop. It's lovely running into old friends. I would next like to reconnect with Men's Pocky.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Whack it creatively!
Who couldn't benefit right now from a good whack? Let's take a minute to refamiliarize ourselves with a bright mind who has played a pivotal role in some of our pasts, and who is sure to show up in many of our futures. Let me know if you want to go in on a Creative Whack Pack.
Making fun of people
In a group email today the writer of the email mentioned that he needed to "get the download" on such and such a situation. Cracked me up. It reminded me of a site I found a while back with all the mistakes people make. For a long time I said "for all intensive purposes" instead of "intents and purposes," and I also had to make an effort to take up "just as soon" rather than "just assume." I wonder how many phrases I still have wrong. Funny.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Entertainment News
I've been watching The Wire on Netflix. I'm not a cops n robbers kind of guy, but this is more than just a mystery solved every episode. Shows the human side of the criminals, shows the good guys fucking up every now and then, and of course it has a good bit of swearing and a nice sex scene every few episodes. My main complaint is the damn theme song (see the most recent season 5 version here, though I'm only up to season 3). It's a full minute and a fucking half. 90 seconds is too long for a theme song. Even the most engaging theme songs are only half that time, and the Wire's theme is far from engaging. But for clever mofos like myself, I just flip on the 8x fast forward button and we're through that shit in no time.
My other news is a little catch I made going about my daily business of rotting my brain through televisory stimulation. I watched We are Marshall (2006) (again on Netflix) a few weeks ago, about the regrouping of the Marshall football team after nearly the whole squad dies in a plane crash. One of the nice specialty touches was one of the football players is having a bit of trouble, and a teammate advises him to watch his opponents knuckles when in the three point stance on the line. If the knuckles are white, he says, you know the opponent is leaning forward and ready to pounce on you. Nice. Then a few days ago I happen to catch the middle portion of Any Given Sunday (1999) (on TBS or TNT or some shit), and they use the exact same bit about watching the knuckles. Well I might have to rerate We are Marshall for stealing that shit. Finally my excessive TV watching pays off, and these assholes get outed on this highly read blog.
My other news is a little catch I made going about my daily business of rotting my brain through televisory stimulation. I watched We are Marshall (2006) (again on Netflix) a few weeks ago, about the regrouping of the Marshall football team after nearly the whole squad dies in a plane crash. One of the nice specialty touches was one of the football players is having a bit of trouble, and a teammate advises him to watch his opponents knuckles when in the three point stance on the line. If the knuckles are white, he says, you know the opponent is leaning forward and ready to pounce on you. Nice. Then a few days ago I happen to catch the middle portion of Any Given Sunday (1999) (on TBS or TNT or some shit), and they use the exact same bit about watching the knuckles. Well I might have to rerate We are Marshall for stealing that shit. Finally my excessive TV watching pays off, and these assholes get outed on this highly read blog.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
in bed with Howl
Today I am once again ill. Here is what's in or near my sickbed:
- Kleenex
- Tea
- P.G. Wodehouse novel (doesn't matter which one, they're all the same)
- Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.
- Ibuprofen, acetaminophen
- Self-pity
- Thermometer (oral)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Did I do anything wrong? You be the judge
Usually, people get what they deserve. If you perform a mitzvah, it usually comes back to you in some what, shape, or form. If nothing else, you at least feel good about yourself. On the other hand, if you do something wrong, there is usually a penalty or consequence associated with it. You may lose a friend or you may even go to jail. At the absolute least, you may feel bad about yourself. There are situations when people do something wrong and they don't have to pay the consequences. These are the people I wish to expose and talk about.
Often times I feel that it is my responsibility to make sure people are accountable for their actions. Here are two examples:
1. Last year I was running in a local park. As I was running, I saw two women walking side-by-side toward me. It is proper park etiquette to stay on the right side of the trail to avoid collisions with runners/walkers/bikers coming from the opposite direction. However, these women had no regard for etiquette as they took up the entire trail. As I approached, I knew these women were not going to move over. Instead of inconveniencing my run and getting off the trail to let the women pass, I decided justice needed to be served. As I ran by, I clipped one of the women's shoulders with mine. I don't know if I hurt her....but I can only hope she will think twice the next time she sees someone running in her direction.
2. I was on a flight two weeks ago to Washington DC. I had the window seat. As I was watching people coming through the aisle, I was amazed to see the gorilla of a man that was to be my neighbor. He was so obsenely obese that his ass cheeks did not touch the surface of the seat; they rested on the arm rests. What really upset me was that he asked me to move over he was trying to sit down. I thought to myself, "Where the fuck do you want me to go? Out the window?" As he burrowed in, his arms and flab were coming way over the invisible plane that exists in the center of the arm rest. I made it my mission to make this guy's flight as miserable as possible, hoping next time he either decides to drive or go first class. For the entire flight, I didn't budge. Every part of his body that was in my area, I leaned into. I wouldn't concede my space. Why should I? I paid the same amount of money that he paid. He was trying to steel from me!
Those are just two examples. As I tell these stories to my friends, they see me as the bad guy. However, I'm just doing my job. I'm the champion.
Often times I feel that it is my responsibility to make sure people are accountable for their actions. Here are two examples:
1. Last year I was running in a local park. As I was running, I saw two women walking side-by-side toward me. It is proper park etiquette to stay on the right side of the trail to avoid collisions with runners/walkers/bikers coming from the opposite direction. However, these women had no regard for etiquette as they took up the entire trail. As I approached, I knew these women were not going to move over. Instead of inconveniencing my run and getting off the trail to let the women pass, I decided justice needed to be served. As I ran by, I clipped one of the women's shoulders with mine. I don't know if I hurt her....but I can only hope she will think twice the next time she sees someone running in her direction.
2. I was on a flight two weeks ago to Washington DC. I had the window seat. As I was watching people coming through the aisle, I was amazed to see the gorilla of a man that was to be my neighbor. He was so obsenely obese that his ass cheeks did not touch the surface of the seat; they rested on the arm rests. What really upset me was that he asked me to move over he was trying to sit down. I thought to myself, "Where the fuck do you want me to go? Out the window?" As he burrowed in, his arms and flab were coming way over the invisible plane that exists in the center of the arm rest. I made it my mission to make this guy's flight as miserable as possible, hoping next time he either decides to drive or go first class. For the entire flight, I didn't budge. Every part of his body that was in my area, I leaned into. I wouldn't concede my space. Why should I? I paid the same amount of money that he paid. He was trying to steel from me!
Those are just two examples. As I tell these stories to my friends, they see me as the bad guy. However, I'm just doing my job. I'm the champion.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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