Apparently it's time for another dog-and-pony-show election season in this country, I can tell because every square inch of the media is filled with biased analysis, wishful punditry, and the continuing acquiescence to political consultants that turn each of these contests into a robust spinning and disinformation competition.
For our part here in NY, we have the gubernatorial race to keep us marginally entertained until they approve the proposed Death Race league. This one is a tale as as old as time, a crazy man (Carl Paladino) versus a politically entitled man (Andrew Cuomo).
Background, for those that need it: Andrew is the son of former Governor Mario Cuomo, has a good head of hair, is the State Attorney General and only betrays his fear of failure in his father's eyes with a half-creepy smile.
Carl is a lunatic business owner from upstate with virtually no political experience. He shows little concern for social mores when it comes to making personal threats, forwarding racially and sexually offensive emails, and having children outside the bonds of marriage. How is this formerly marginal figure even showing up on the radar, you may ask? Silly rabbit, he did it by seizing on the extremely constructive, helpful environment of vitriol and blind rage among the constituency. It's now the easiest way into the political sphere these days.
I'm trying to remember another fringe figure that tried to capture power this way,
Madolph Mitler.....Badolph Kilter....nah that ain't it...
Anyway, the man promises 'blood on the floor' in Albany, capturing the frustration that voters have felt towards the unfettered corruption that has defined the state capitol for years. It's a nice sentiment, and I would like to take it literally, but me, I'm sick. However, it really is just an empty promise from a man with aspirations above his station. Believe me, I know what those sound like.
Andrew, for his part, had a great strategy. Columnists said he was too quiet and complacent and needed to respond to Carl's insane accusations and bellicose shenanigans. Andrew just sat back and let the nutjob talk himself into a corner. I employ this strategy at work as well as in the subway.
Carl's comments that Andrew should never have taken his kids to a gay pride parade because of "they wear these little speedos and grind against each other." That's pretty much all it took. However you may feel about kids watching dudes touch on other dudes in the middle of the street, Carl is dead in the water now. The only people that will back him up publicly on these comments are ultra-conservative Orthodox rabbis. And these guys aren't even going to vote for him, they know you can't rely on a kook, not for your plumbing, not for the state of New York.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
When smoking is outlawed, we can only bum smokes from outlaws
I have been a regular smoker since I was 15. I have never once portrayed this as the smartest move I could have made. It has wrought a lot of physical and cumulative financial damage. It has made my clothes smell like tobacco, which is worse than the mothball and circus performer sweat smell that would usually permeate my wardrobe. I am at risk for any number of diseases and any personal insurance I buy would be way more expensive than some prissy non-smoker.
But guess what? It's my right to be this stupid. We are in America.
I've been reading about how NYC Mayor Generalissimo Bloomberg wants to ban smoking in public parks. I don't know how often you use the public parks in NYC, but the biggest problem with them probably isn't cigarette smoke.
People on methadone passing out? Weirds out the tourists.
Hippies that think they are musical geniuses? Ruined a nice day or two.
But cigarettes? Is this how far we are going to take this nanny-state crapola??
Apparently, yes. People love the idea. Non-smoking people, of course, but they're the ones whose rights matter, just because they are breeding and voting and not hacking up phlegm at the newsstand every morning.
Erosion of personal liberties means nothing to these people because they want to feel safe, and that illusion of safety can be granted by a megalomaniacal self-made billionaire that managed to get a city council shit-scared enough to let him run for a third term. Also he eats kittens. In front of children. In a cabin he has in Vermont specifically set aside for these kinds of activities.
Who's to blame? We are. We let it happen. We are apathetic and bored with politics. The NY state primary on the 14th had a turnout of about 10% of registered voters, which means about 5% of the voting-age population actually bothered. They are mostly retirees, because the rest of us are too involved in our Twitters, iPads, and facebookings.
(shakes fist, mixes self a Harvey Wallbanger.)
But guess what? It's my right to be this stupid. We are in America.
I've been reading about how NYC Mayor Generalissimo Bloomberg wants to ban smoking in public parks. I don't know how often you use the public parks in NYC, but the biggest problem with them probably isn't cigarette smoke.
People on methadone passing out? Weirds out the tourists.
Hippies that think they are musical geniuses? Ruined a nice day or two.
But cigarettes? Is this how far we are going to take this nanny-state crapola??
Apparently, yes. People love the idea. Non-smoking people, of course, but they're the ones whose rights matter, just because they are breeding and voting and not hacking up phlegm at the newsstand every morning.
Erosion of personal liberties means nothing to these people because they want to feel safe, and that illusion of safety can be granted by a megalomaniacal self-made billionaire that managed to get a city council shit-scared enough to let him run for a third term. Also he eats kittens. In front of children. In a cabin he has in Vermont specifically set aside for these kinds of activities.
Who's to blame? We are. We let it happen. We are apathetic and bored with politics. The NY state primary on the 14th had a turnout of about 10% of registered voters, which means about 5% of the voting-age population actually bothered. They are mostly retirees, because the rest of us are too involved in our Twitters, iPads, and facebookings.
(shakes fist, mixes self a Harvey Wallbanger.)
Friday, August 27, 2010
Fight the Power! (company)
I was on the train this morning, doing my usual routine of reading over people's shoulders and eyeing attractive women in the creepiest manner possible, when I saw some smarmy ads placed courtesy of the local NY energy concern, Consolidated Edison (ConEd for those without a moment to spare). There were multiple choice questions regarding energy conservation, with three goofy answers and one obvious one. 'Cause that makes learning fun! This example is from memory so bear with me:
Brooklyn residents can save the most energy by:
A) staying in bed when hungover
B) eating their neighbors' garbage instead of cooking
C) keeping the AC on a low setting
D) braining a cheating spouse with a tire iron, instead of a plugged-in appliance such a curling iron
Now, even if you don't live in NYC, I think you probably have experience at some point in your life with a public utility that is run like a gangland racket. ConEd is just such a utility. These people have a serious set of onions hanging on them to be this pedantic towards their customers. They are constantly raising rates, dragging their feet on updating the grid, and generally stretching their middle finger to the fullest at all the people that hand them money month in and month out.
A few years ago, I was living in Sunnyside, on the western side of Queens, where the Reggaeton is loud and so are the women. Along with several other neighborhoods, we were with little or no power for about two weeks. My neighbors thought I was a rich man when I told them one of my outlets was working.
It was summer, naturally, and hotter than Satan's chili. Businesses struggled, a few failed. ConEd showed up with.....an ice truck. Know when an ice-truck was a helpful thing in NY? The Depression. That's where they sent us back to. Crises such as these can bring people together, though. Once the power went on, there was a meeting of the neighborhood elders. I was invited, since my working outlet had made me quite the local luminary. The agreement was made to never discuss the details of our survival with any outsiders. The houses we chopped up for cooking fuel, the fair-skinned individuals selected for sacrifice to Ba'al, the heftier community members that were eaten, all of this will be taken to my grave.
There were also incidents around that time of people being electrocuted simply by standing on metal plates ConEd had placed over work sites, and also managed to run current through. A lady died. Did anyone lose their job? Get a pay reduction? A stern talking to?
Course not, public service and accountability are mutually exclusive in New York, as in many populous places in America. The people at the top are still raking in ridiculous salaries for doing nothing. Thomas Edison, for whom the utility is named, would be turning over in his grave, if not for the fact that he also liked ripping people off and is also not in a grave but shambling about Menlo Park, NJ in a unspeakable state of living death (there have been sightings).
AAAH! 'DEYS ALL CROOKS!!
(shakes Grandpa fist, goes back to VHS tape of Sonny Liston fight)
Brooklyn residents can save the most energy by:
A) staying in bed when hungover
B) eating their neighbors' garbage instead of cooking
C) keeping the AC on a low setting
D) braining a cheating spouse with a tire iron, instead of a plugged-in appliance such a curling iron
Now, even if you don't live in NYC, I think you probably have experience at some point in your life with a public utility that is run like a gangland racket. ConEd is just such a utility. These people have a serious set of onions hanging on them to be this pedantic towards their customers. They are constantly raising rates, dragging their feet on updating the grid, and generally stretching their middle finger to the fullest at all the people that hand them money month in and month out.
A few years ago, I was living in Sunnyside, on the western side of Queens, where the Reggaeton is loud and so are the women. Along with several other neighborhoods, we were with little or no power for about two weeks. My neighbors thought I was a rich man when I told them one of my outlets was working.
It was summer, naturally, and hotter than Satan's chili. Businesses struggled, a few failed. ConEd showed up with.....an ice truck. Know when an ice-truck was a helpful thing in NY? The Depression. That's where they sent us back to. Crises such as these can bring people together, though. Once the power went on, there was a meeting of the neighborhood elders. I was invited, since my working outlet had made me quite the local luminary. The agreement was made to never discuss the details of our survival with any outsiders. The houses we chopped up for cooking fuel, the fair-skinned individuals selected for sacrifice to Ba'al, the heftier community members that were eaten, all of this will be taken to my grave.
There were also incidents around that time of people being electrocuted simply by standing on metal plates ConEd had placed over work sites, and also managed to run current through. A lady died. Did anyone lose their job? Get a pay reduction? A stern talking to?
Course not, public service and accountability are mutually exclusive in New York, as in many populous places in America. The people at the top are still raking in ridiculous salaries for doing nothing. Thomas Edison, for whom the utility is named, would be turning over in his grave, if not for the fact that he also liked ripping people off and is also not in a grave but shambling about Menlo Park, NJ in a unspeakable state of living death (there have been sightings).
AAAH! 'DEYS ALL CROOKS!!
(shakes Grandpa fist, goes back to VHS tape of Sonny Liston fight)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Coincidence? Bah!
A dear friend emailed me this link earlier today.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/ct-talk-eng-slaughter-column-20100826,0,225489.story
It was a really odd coincidence, since I had gone to sleep last night thinking of Clarice Starling's titular childhood experience in "The Silence of the Lambs". No, I had no good reason thinking about this at bedtime. The mind takes us to odd, dark places in the wee small hours.
I was thinking about all the pain we cause in order to serve ourselves young, tender meat. I ain't no hippie tree-hugger, I hate patchouli and white people dreads and I understand that we eat animals in order to keep them from eating us. All the same, the idea of all the many thousands of tiny lambs bleating as they are slaughtered in the most painful way possible (at least in the kosher tradition) gave me pause.
Getting rid of the factory farms and the methods in which the meat industry operates is next to impossible. They got the juice and are integral to our economy as well as the average diet. It's not really a secret that their products can be hazardous, (this USDA report from last April ain't great news http://www.usda.gov/oig/webdocs/24601-08-KC.pdf )but very little is ever done to curb their practices or tighten their oversight, mainly because they give a free side of beef to every FDA and FSIS inspector.
I'm not going to get in to how the cow farts have contributed to ozone depletion. We all know about it, and it's a little too predictable that we would bring about such a vulgar apocalypse.
Alls I'm saying is, we've made progress on the veal front, no one likes what goes on there. Maybe we can work on all the other animal children we eat, just let them get to adulthood before we slaughter them, like college interns or graduates that join Teach for America
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/ct-talk-eng-slaughter-column-20100826,0,225489.story
It was a really odd coincidence, since I had gone to sleep last night thinking of Clarice Starling's titular childhood experience in "The Silence of the Lambs". No, I had no good reason thinking about this at bedtime. The mind takes us to odd, dark places in the wee small hours.
I was thinking about all the pain we cause in order to serve ourselves young, tender meat. I ain't no hippie tree-hugger, I hate patchouli and white people dreads and I understand that we eat animals in order to keep them from eating us. All the same, the idea of all the many thousands of tiny lambs bleating as they are slaughtered in the most painful way possible (at least in the kosher tradition) gave me pause.
Getting rid of the factory farms and the methods in which the meat industry operates is next to impossible. They got the juice and are integral to our economy as well as the average diet. It's not really a secret that their products can be hazardous, (this USDA report from last April ain't great news http://www.usda.gov/oig/webdocs/24601-08-KC.pdf )but very little is ever done to curb their practices or tighten their oversight, mainly because they give a free side of beef to every FDA and FSIS inspector.
I'm not going to get in to how the cow farts have contributed to ozone depletion. We all know about it, and it's a little too predictable that we would bring about such a vulgar apocalypse.
Alls I'm saying is, we've made progress on the veal front, no one likes what goes on there. Maybe we can work on all the other animal children we eat, just let them get to adulthood before we slaughter them, like college interns or graduates that join Teach for America
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Oh, tell me more, racist idiot!
In popular media over the past few years,there has been a dramatic paradigm shift. No, this is not going to be an entry about how there are now vampires in everything from Garfield comics to toaster oven instruction manuals. We're all tired of it, but complaining about it has obviously proved useless. I'm talking about our old friend prejudice. The subject was taboo for so long that now it's 'ok' to make fun of ethnicity and creed again. The racist comedians (I'm looking at you, Carlos Mencia and Larry the Cable Guy) excuse themselves with the rationale that they are saying what everyone is thinking. I think about setting cars on fire and finding ways to disrupt the power grid. I also think about starting a terrible improv group and murdering people that work for lobbying firms. I would never think a comedian making jokes about these things is ok, just because I think them. Personal bias, much like the constant dogfight of voices in my head, is not something to be proud of, it's something that needs to be healed so our kids are slightly less terrible than ourselves.
The problem is not new, I know. I have just noticed it creeping into normal interpersonal interactions more than they used to. At the risk of being labeled a knee-jerk, PC, whiner, let's look at some examples:
The "I have lots of black friends" guy:
Yeah, and I'm sure none of them would have an issue with you dropping N-bombs in public. Even if they don't, I do. How far does this justification reach, anyway? If a Klan member or Mel Gibson had black friends, does that make their activities ok?
The "A Mexican took my job" guy:
If a guy that just got here, probably with a limited command of the language, took your job, then I think you probably should have stepped up your game. You may also need to examine the possibility that your old boss just took the opportunity to get rid of a jackass who can't take responsibility for his own life.
The "I am well educated, so all of my theories about other races are actually facts." guy:
You can make all the circular, self-serving, and overly verbose arguments you want, it all comes out like "I don't want to pay for all the blacks on welfare!" There were people like you once, they thought they had science behind them. Our science beat their science because it was centered around the principle of killing self-important fascists.
The "What do you think you're doing in my neighborhood, white boy?" guy:
Hey fuck you buddy, I live here too!
The "Chingy-chong chang, this is how Asians talk." guy.
Seriously, if I have to tell you what's wrong with making that kind of hacky-ass joke, you need to stop watching old Mickey Rooney clips. It was already old when he did it, and that was about fifty years ago. Stick to knock-knock jokes and your Jeff Foxworthy fan club.
I could go on and on, but let's leave it here for now. Suffice it to say, you want to speak like trash? Fine, go sit in a garbage can. I don't need to hear it, I've heard enough.
The problem is not new, I know. I have just noticed it creeping into normal interpersonal interactions more than they used to. At the risk of being labeled a knee-jerk, PC, whiner, let's look at some examples:
The "I have lots of black friends" guy:
Yeah, and I'm sure none of them would have an issue with you dropping N-bombs in public. Even if they don't, I do. How far does this justification reach, anyway? If a Klan member or Mel Gibson had black friends, does that make their activities ok?
The "A Mexican took my job" guy:
If a guy that just got here, probably with a limited command of the language, took your job, then I think you probably should have stepped up your game. You may also need to examine the possibility that your old boss just took the opportunity to get rid of a jackass who can't take responsibility for his own life.
The "I am well educated, so all of my theories about other races are actually facts." guy:
You can make all the circular, self-serving, and overly verbose arguments you want, it all comes out like "I don't want to pay for all the blacks on welfare!" There were people like you once, they thought they had science behind them. Our science beat their science because it was centered around the principle of killing self-important fascists.
The "What do you think you're doing in my neighborhood, white boy?" guy:
Hey fuck you buddy, I live here too!
The "Chingy-chong chang, this is how Asians talk." guy.
Seriously, if I have to tell you what's wrong with making that kind of hacky-ass joke, you need to stop watching old Mickey Rooney clips. It was already old when he did it, and that was about fifty years ago. Stick to knock-knock jokes and your Jeff Foxworthy fan club.
I could go on and on, but let's leave it here for now. Suffice it to say, you want to speak like trash? Fine, go sit in a garbage can. I don't need to hear it, I've heard enough.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Stand beside her....and guide her.....(away from 8th avenue)
It was July 3rd,a very important day for our nation. It marks the day our land prepared to push itself out of the womb that was our founding fathers collective desire to not pay taxes and have a country that is so rich, everyone is as fat as they were. (They always depict John Hancock as fat, but maybe this is to make him seem jolly, like our nation was founded by Santa Claus) I was strolling down a Manhattan street in the blistering sun with some Canadians, refraining from chiding them for all the ways they are not like America. This may have been more due to the fact I had slept two hours after a night of drinking pure, undiluted foolishness, and less to do with diplomacy, but I guess I like to fantasize about having the ability to keep my mouth shut.
Had I been more alert, it's doubtful we would have been strolling down 8th avenue in Hell's Kitchen (now called 'Clinton' by people that like cities to have zero character). My first job in NY was on 8th ave. I know the area well. I'm not going to tell you what I did there, because it isn't relevant. However, I'd like you to believe me when I tell you that it had nothing to do with crack, selling myself, or selling myself crack.
A large, dirty man with chewed food coming out of his face approached the male Canadian, most likely because he thought dispatching him would grant the large dirty man control of the pride.
He got close enough to kiss him.
"Man, I'm homeless please don't act like I'm just-oh no, I'm going to throw up!"
It didn't matter that it sounded rehearsed, panic ensued. Trying to talk reason to this man would have yielded nothing but pieces of food on our clothes. Punching this man would have resulted in an explosion of said food pieces, as his cheeks were stuffed with chewed up hot-dog, making him appear like an awful chipmunk the good lord had forsaken.
Simply put, flight looked better than fight.
We scattered on the sidewalk, hoping he'd give up, but this man had little else to do that day. He followed us as we jogged down the avenue away from him, repeating his catchphrase:
"Man, I'm homeless please don't act like I'm just-oh no, I'm going to throw up!"
I raised my fists once or twice, knowing this was an empty threat. He knew as well as I that I didn't want his saliva or his hot dog.
"Man you spit any more food on my friend, and I swear to God...." and I couldn't finish the sentence.
The man laughed derisively as he turned away. He knew I wouldn't hit his face, and had other groups of people to terrorize.
His smile told me everything. He was not a crazy homeless. He was pulling a revolting, and in retrospect, hilarious, prank. He was probably on his day off from managing a Citibank branch.
This is going to be the next awesome way to harass tourists this summer. What's everybody doing on Saturday?
Had I been more alert, it's doubtful we would have been strolling down 8th avenue in Hell's Kitchen (now called 'Clinton' by people that like cities to have zero character). My first job in NY was on 8th ave. I know the area well. I'm not going to tell you what I did there, because it isn't relevant. However, I'd like you to believe me when I tell you that it had nothing to do with crack, selling myself, or selling myself crack.
A large, dirty man with chewed food coming out of his face approached the male Canadian, most likely because he thought dispatching him would grant the large dirty man control of the pride.
He got close enough to kiss him.
"Man, I'm homeless please don't act like I'm just-oh no, I'm going to throw up!"
It didn't matter that it sounded rehearsed, panic ensued. Trying to talk reason to this man would have yielded nothing but pieces of food on our clothes. Punching this man would have resulted in an explosion of said food pieces, as his cheeks were stuffed with chewed up hot-dog, making him appear like an awful chipmunk the good lord had forsaken.
Simply put, flight looked better than fight.
We scattered on the sidewalk, hoping he'd give up, but this man had little else to do that day. He followed us as we jogged down the avenue away from him, repeating his catchphrase:
"Man, I'm homeless please don't act like I'm just-oh no, I'm going to throw up!"
I raised my fists once or twice, knowing this was an empty threat. He knew as well as I that I didn't want his saliva or his hot dog.
"Man you spit any more food on my friend, and I swear to God...." and I couldn't finish the sentence.
The man laughed derisively as he turned away. He knew I wouldn't hit his face, and had other groups of people to terrorize.
His smile told me everything. He was not a crazy homeless. He was pulling a revolting, and in retrospect, hilarious, prank. He was probably on his day off from managing a Citibank branch.
This is going to be the next awesome way to harass tourists this summer. What's everybody doing on Saturday?
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Cops like me now
I was drinking in Williamsburg, always a masochistic move for anyone that is tired of the way hipsters have consumed certain parts of Brooklyn. I know that it is EXTREMELY tired to complain about hipsters. They are a part of life in this city, like train delays and urine on the sidewalk. It shouldn't be a problem if some art school dropout wants to dress like a moron, my personal fashion history isn't exactly above reproach, but what always gets me is how their numbers seem to double each summer, like some kind of vermin that doesn't have a natural predator. (Potential natural predators for hipsters will be discussed in a later blog entry. Please send ideas for things we can introduce into the ecosystem)
In any case, I grew weary of the place I was drinking in, its suffocating crowd of effete, bearded jagoffs and girls with a limited understanding of their own potential to create body odor. I decided to head home.
I stopped for a pack of cigarettes and ran up the stairway to the entrance of the Marcy Ave J station, only to find that I had no fare on my metrocard. The train was pulling in and there was no way to buy a fare at this entrance, and it was a full-sized turnstyle (unhop-able).
People unfamiliar with NY transit may not know that there is an emergency door at every subway exit now. Someone from each arriving train invariably uses it to get out because they are carrying things or turnstyles are too pedestrian for them. This sets off an alarm that I am certain the MTA designed to make token booth clerks retire and avoid the fights with the union over laying them off.
Anyhow, I was pissed at missing the train so I decided to balance the universe out by waiting until someone used that emergency door, and going in behind them.
Now...I used to live by this stop. Well, my sister did and I lived on her couch, but that's another tale for another day. Point is, I knew there was a transit cop booth right there by that entrance. At least I knew that on every day that I DIDN'T try to beat a fare.
Three chubby, white cops amble out of it, the booth is so small they would have had to really like each other to all hang out in there, but cops making out isn't as funny as I think it is.
"hey buddy, hold up" the first says.
"ok, you got me" I know when I am got. I could outrun cops in my prime, but never did cause I was just as big a puss then as now.
They do the casual surrounding bit, in case I change my mind. I hand over my license.
"why'd you do that?" one asks, finding my well planned out crime hilarious.
I explained my bitterness over not having a fare. Because I like to sound mature and responsible for my actions.
I explained that my license was from NJ because I lived there for a bit and changed it over to take the police exam, which is true. One asked "why not NYPD?" I explained that I have no college credits, a requirement in NYC but not Jersey City.
Maybe this would get them to feel bad for me. I am a man too ignorant for the NYPD.
Then the radio check comes back. Apparently a man with my name has attempted murder warrants in NJ. For a few seconds, my heart stops and I see all the ways in which my life is about to change. I try to think what qualities I would appreciate in a man who would own me until one of us dies or pays our debt to society.
Then it's determined that man is of a different race. They then get a call of someone menacing passengers on a train farther down the J line. I am let go and half-heartedly admonished to buy a fare next time. They didn't even make me go abck out and buy a metrocard. Basically I rode for free and got a free background check.
Had I been a brother, this would have gone down about nine kinds of different. But I took advantage anyway, didn't I? Makes me feel dirty. Well, dirtier
In any case, I grew weary of the place I was drinking in, its suffocating crowd of effete, bearded jagoffs and girls with a limited understanding of their own potential to create body odor. I decided to head home.
I stopped for a pack of cigarettes and ran up the stairway to the entrance of the Marcy Ave J station, only to find that I had no fare on my metrocard. The train was pulling in and there was no way to buy a fare at this entrance, and it was a full-sized turnstyle (unhop-able).
People unfamiliar with NY transit may not know that there is an emergency door at every subway exit now. Someone from each arriving train invariably uses it to get out because they are carrying things or turnstyles are too pedestrian for them. This sets off an alarm that I am certain the MTA designed to make token booth clerks retire and avoid the fights with the union over laying them off.
Anyhow, I was pissed at missing the train so I decided to balance the universe out by waiting until someone used that emergency door, and going in behind them.
Now...I used to live by this stop. Well, my sister did and I lived on her couch, but that's another tale for another day. Point is, I knew there was a transit cop booth right there by that entrance. At least I knew that on every day that I DIDN'T try to beat a fare.
Three chubby, white cops amble out of it, the booth is so small they would have had to really like each other to all hang out in there, but cops making out isn't as funny as I think it is.
"hey buddy, hold up" the first says.
"ok, you got me" I know when I am got. I could outrun cops in my prime, but never did cause I was just as big a puss then as now.
They do the casual surrounding bit, in case I change my mind. I hand over my license.
"why'd you do that?" one asks, finding my well planned out crime hilarious.
I explained my bitterness over not having a fare. Because I like to sound mature and responsible for my actions.
I explained that my license was from NJ because I lived there for a bit and changed it over to take the police exam, which is true. One asked "why not NYPD?" I explained that I have no college credits, a requirement in NYC but not Jersey City.
Maybe this would get them to feel bad for me. I am a man too ignorant for the NYPD.
Then the radio check comes back. Apparently a man with my name has attempted murder warrants in NJ. For a few seconds, my heart stops and I see all the ways in which my life is about to change. I try to think what qualities I would appreciate in a man who would own me until one of us dies or pays our debt to society.
Then it's determined that man is of a different race. They then get a call of someone menacing passengers on a train farther down the J line. I am let go and half-heartedly admonished to buy a fare next time. They didn't even make me go abck out and buy a metrocard. Basically I rode for free and got a free background check.
Had I been a brother, this would have gone down about nine kinds of different. But I took advantage anyway, didn't I? Makes me feel dirty. Well, dirtier
Friday, June 11, 2010
Please be kidding, news media
This is the end, I say, the END of childhood as any of us know it. This article speaks for itself, but I will rant about it anyway.
http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/innovation/06/11/video.playdate/index.html
Video play dates. Really. Because we aren't raising ENOUGH of a generation of technology obsessed, sunlight deprived, carpal tunnel-having little moppets.
I am not actually raising any of them, but since it takes a village, I feel like I should be able to opine on how the rest of you are rearing your little pork-pot pie shaped children.
The end result of this crap, besides the cell phone tumors and burned cornea's from too much screen gazing, is that we will have children unaware of human interaction, children that fear the outdoors and shun physical activity.
What with the preceding generations lighting the way towards sedentary, corpulent lifestyles, Max Brooks' allegory comparing us to cattle is increasingly apt, both species being "Fat, listless, and ready to be eaten"
Now, that could be by Zombies, as the illustious Mr. Brooks has warned us in his books, or the Canadians, as they migrate south as their own food sources dry up, or more in a figurative sense by the Red Chinese.
Either way, we done.
http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/innovation/06/11/video.playdate/index.html
Video play dates. Really. Because we aren't raising ENOUGH of a generation of technology obsessed, sunlight deprived, carpal tunnel-having little moppets.
I am not actually raising any of them, but since it takes a village, I feel like I should be able to opine on how the rest of you are rearing your little pork-pot pie shaped children.
The end result of this crap, besides the cell phone tumors and burned cornea's from too much screen gazing, is that we will have children unaware of human interaction, children that fear the outdoors and shun physical activity.
What with the preceding generations lighting the way towards sedentary, corpulent lifestyles, Max Brooks' allegory comparing us to cattle is increasingly apt, both species being "Fat, listless, and ready to be eaten"
Now, that could be by Zombies, as the illustious Mr. Brooks has warned us in his books, or the Canadians, as they migrate south as their own food sources dry up, or more in a figurative sense by the Red Chinese.
Either way, we done.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Psychoneuroendocrinology
This isn't exactly a word. It's the word given to the collaborative efforts that the various kinds of brain doctors (Neuroscientists, psychiatrists, phrenolgists) engage in so that we can better understand the giant pile of gray gunk that is making you want to alternately eat sugar, kill your husband, or TiVo programs you will never watch.
The term seems to have been coined specifically for the use of the International Society of Psychoneuroendocrinology, previously known as the Syllable Fan Club.
This is their journal http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/homepage.cws_home
The site is so damn science-y I had to watch an episode of Beakman's World twice just to bring shit back down to my level.
The term seems to have been coined specifically for the use of the International Society of Psychoneuroendocrinology, previously known as the Syllable Fan Club.
This is their journal http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/homepage.cws_home
The site is so damn science-y I had to watch an episode of Beakman's World twice just to bring shit back down to my level.
Caffeine: the convenient alliance
Woke up today before my alarm. I lay there til the thing went off and filled my modest home with depression-era jazz, as played by Columbia's radio station. (they play a great variety of music, and of course, no commercials, check 'em out http://www.studentaffairs.columbia.edu/wkcr/) I felt like I had a great night's sleep.
I got up and made myself egg whites, whole wheat toast and turkey bacon. Face got washed, eye gunk was removed. I lit a candle and left three droplets of blood on my shrine to Kali, who's indulgence allows me to continue my work, per the agreement we made which I am not at liberty to discuss.
I packed a bag (watching my cousin's place in the city for the next four days) and promised myself a great morning.
Was not out the door four seconds before I was dizzy and sleepy. I could have made a bed on the pile of breadcrumbs my neighbor leaves for the pigeons, perhaps knocking out one of the flying disease rats and using him for my pillow. I soldiered on, but this raised a disconcerting thought.
Am I just inherently lazy? Is it not just my attitude, but even my physical disposition to seek rest when I have had plenty? Is it genetic? There were people that had already bicycled fifty miles or wrestled a lightly sedated alligator by the time I shuffled out the door, yet I almost can't be bothered.
I haven't drank caffeinated beverages regularly for months. Long story.
Fell off the wagon today. I am finishing a large iced coffee as I write this, and I can here the strains of Lou Reeds 'Heroin' as I sink into the gentle lull before blasting into the fifth dimension. In a moment, I will be able to see time and touch sound.
Way to get old, body. Way to need chemicals.
I got up and made myself egg whites, whole wheat toast and turkey bacon. Face got washed, eye gunk was removed. I lit a candle and left three droplets of blood on my shrine to Kali, who's indulgence allows me to continue my work, per the agreement we made which I am not at liberty to discuss.
I packed a bag (watching my cousin's place in the city for the next four days) and promised myself a great morning.
Was not out the door four seconds before I was dizzy and sleepy. I could have made a bed on the pile of breadcrumbs my neighbor leaves for the pigeons, perhaps knocking out one of the flying disease rats and using him for my pillow. I soldiered on, but this raised a disconcerting thought.
Am I just inherently lazy? Is it not just my attitude, but even my physical disposition to seek rest when I have had plenty? Is it genetic? There were people that had already bicycled fifty miles or wrestled a lightly sedated alligator by the time I shuffled out the door, yet I almost can't be bothered.
I haven't drank caffeinated beverages regularly for months. Long story.
Fell off the wagon today. I am finishing a large iced coffee as I write this, and I can here the strains of Lou Reeds 'Heroin' as I sink into the gentle lull before blasting into the fifth dimension. In a moment, I will be able to see time and touch sound.
Way to get old, body. Way to need chemicals.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Arctic RUSH!
Ah, Antiperspirant. When I was just entering the early stages of being a man that could smell bad, I remember reading with bemusement the label on the back of my Speed Stick. "If you experience a rash or allergic reaction, discontinue use."
I imagined the man who was allergic to deodorant. His choice was between being repellent and being dead and some days, it had to be a close call. He would have at least intermittent stank issues until the end of his days. Or he would have just become a hippie.
I wasn't laughing after this Arctic Rush Right Guard entered my life. It's a 'sport' antiperspirant, you see. I go to the gym now. I'm working up a bodanky sweat on the regular. I think I have some kind of athletic body, until I am standing naked, next to an athlete (that happens a lot now, thanks to this stupid gym thing) So of course I needed the accessory, the anti-perspirant that shoves lesser products onto the pavement on the way to the cafeteria. Only it burns now, my armpits are looking like I wipe them with low-grade sandpaper.
I was using the one in my gym bag for weeks, so I think it's only the stick in my bathroom. It's tainted. I bought it at the sketchy Walgreens in my neighborhood. The kids working there are fifteen and know just how little they are making, and wll cuss you out accordingly. There is a security guard that carries a 9mm. Someone is always arguing with the cashier that the bank just told them their debit card had enough for a pack of cigarettes. This is where I am buying my toiletries. These are the places, among the hapless and marginalized, that conspiracies happen. Someone wants to see what happens when poisonous Right Guard is introduced to the masses.
Or maybe its the aluminum. These things have aluminum right? Do I remember that they debunked the connection of aluminum to Alzheimer's, or am I making it up because I have Alzheimer's?
It would explain why I thought this would be a good thing to write about.
I imagined the man who was allergic to deodorant. His choice was between being repellent and being dead and some days, it had to be a close call. He would have at least intermittent stank issues until the end of his days. Or he would have just become a hippie.
I wasn't laughing after this Arctic Rush Right Guard entered my life. It's a 'sport' antiperspirant, you see. I go to the gym now. I'm working up a bodanky sweat on the regular. I think I have some kind of athletic body, until I am standing naked, next to an athlete (that happens a lot now, thanks to this stupid gym thing) So of course I needed the accessory, the anti-perspirant that shoves lesser products onto the pavement on the way to the cafeteria. Only it burns now, my armpits are looking like I wipe them with low-grade sandpaper.
I was using the one in my gym bag for weeks, so I think it's only the stick in my bathroom. It's tainted. I bought it at the sketchy Walgreens in my neighborhood. The kids working there are fifteen and know just how little they are making, and wll cuss you out accordingly. There is a security guard that carries a 9mm. Someone is always arguing with the cashier that the bank just told them their debit card had enough for a pack of cigarettes. This is where I am buying my toiletries. These are the places, among the hapless and marginalized, that conspiracies happen. Someone wants to see what happens when poisonous Right Guard is introduced to the masses.
Or maybe its the aluminum. These things have aluminum right? Do I remember that they debunked the connection of aluminum to Alzheimer's, or am I making it up because I have Alzheimer's?
It would explain why I thought this would be a good thing to write about.
Et tu, Baconator?
Why do they make it delicious? Why would a young girl with innocent red pigtails use her freckled mug to sell something so delicious, so addictive, and so effectively lethal?
It is a Wendy's on Fulton St. and Nassau in the Financial District. I stop there sometimes after work if I am feeling low, ostensibly to cheer myself up if the workday didn't go so well. This is a lie that I tell myself. Nothing here could cheer anyone up, aside from the occasional drunk that has had to pee for three days and managed to sneak into the rest room (I use that term because people do, in fact, rest there. Sometimes for extended periods).
The local crackheads make it their business to keep at least two guys on duty there on six hour shifts, occasionally asking diners for change but mostly just sitting there ensuring that the whole place smells like human waste.
There are six tables for me to choose from. The downstairs and upstairs dining room are always roped off. I believe it is to lend these areas a air of exclusivity, like there will eventually be a man with a filthy suit on, only letting in the vagrants that have the right connections . My first instinct was that it's a device to keep these room from needing regular cleaning, but that kind of thing isn't really emphasized here.
I can't get it 'to go' because I don't want to be holding food on a crowded J train, with a white a paper bag advertise my puerile eating habits. Also, I got the Baconator, the double Baconator.... because I obviously came here to kill myself, and I should at least have the pleasure of consuming the agent of my demise while it is still warm and gooey rather than soggy and congealed.
As per usual, I made it about halfway through the delicious, repulsive, greasy ball of death before reflecting that I have made a grave error, and that these are not the actions of a man with reasons to live, nor of a man with loved ones. I have both, Ghost of Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy's and community activist! What wicked group of chemicals did you synthesize that cause me to forget how lucky I've been???
Anyway, I finished the meal without school kids picking a fight with me, and took the train the whole way without my body punishing me for my terrible meal choice. It was kind enough to wait until I was home.
Pray for me, as I may not have long.
Teach your children to love green beans.
It is a Wendy's on Fulton St. and Nassau in the Financial District. I stop there sometimes after work if I am feeling low, ostensibly to cheer myself up if the workday didn't go so well. This is a lie that I tell myself. Nothing here could cheer anyone up, aside from the occasional drunk that has had to pee for three days and managed to sneak into the rest room (I use that term because people do, in fact, rest there. Sometimes for extended periods).
The local crackheads make it their business to keep at least two guys on duty there on six hour shifts, occasionally asking diners for change but mostly just sitting there ensuring that the whole place smells like human waste.
There are six tables for me to choose from. The downstairs and upstairs dining room are always roped off. I believe it is to lend these areas a air of exclusivity, like there will eventually be a man with a filthy suit on, only letting in the vagrants that have the right connections . My first instinct was that it's a device to keep these room from needing regular cleaning, but that kind of thing isn't really emphasized here.
I can't get it 'to go' because I don't want to be holding food on a crowded J train, with a white a paper bag advertise my puerile eating habits. Also, I got the Baconator, the double Baconator.... because I obviously came here to kill myself, and I should at least have the pleasure of consuming the agent of my demise while it is still warm and gooey rather than soggy and congealed.
As per usual, I made it about halfway through the delicious, repulsive, greasy ball of death before reflecting that I have made a grave error, and that these are not the actions of a man with reasons to live, nor of a man with loved ones. I have both, Ghost of Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy's and community activist! What wicked group of chemicals did you synthesize that cause me to forget how lucky I've been???
Anyway, I finished the meal without school kids picking a fight with me, and took the train the whole way without my body punishing me for my terrible meal choice. It was kind enough to wait until I was home.
Pray for me, as I may not have long.
Teach your children to love green beans.
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