Sunday mornings are not for this. Sunday mornings are for staying in bed even when the sun is shining through your curtains and dancing on your eyelids. Sunday mornings are for poached eggs, hangovers, and animated discussions about Saturday nights. They are for strong coffee followed by painful shits that put dimples in your rectum. They are for awkward send offs to one night stands and, sometimes, a surprise blow job from your girlfriend. But perhaps most importantly, Sunday mornings are that beautiful, fleeting period of decompression before the wrecking ball of the work week reminds you just how long you have until next weekend. The Velvet Underground knew this and the NFL definitely knows this, and for the last seven years Max Greenwald was under the distinct impression that his girlfriend sincerely understood the sanctity of Sunday mornings.
Now at 8:48 am on an uncharacteristically sunny March morning, Max was walking to Whole Foods to spend over a hundred dollars on the week’s groceries. Laura had been stomping around their one bedroom apartment since quarter of seven, making loud cell phone calls and rifling through her closet. Her parents were coming and that meant that his Sunday morning would be spent exclusively preparing for Sunday evening. She sent Max to Whole Foods with a grocery list, a time frame, and stern instructions.
A young girl with long brown hair brushed passed Max on the sidewalk. She smelled like a mixture of tropical fruit, vodka, and wet dog. Max turned and glanced quickly at her ass. She was wearing faded, high-waisted jeans. Her ass sunk and bulged in the denim which reminded Max of pulling the lever and filling those thin plastic bags at Whole Foods with cashews and almonds.
He stared up the street and saw a group of three guys walking toward him. All three seemed slightly pudgy, with fitted J. Crew shirts, tapered jeans and virtually every possible facial hair arrangement. They were talking loudly and aggressively stabbing at the air with their fingers. Max was forced to tightrope walk that sliver of cobblestones that hugs the street. His anger seemed to grow with every step.
The 11th street Whole Foods occupies the entire city block between Wadsworth and Clarkson Street. It’s a mammoth structure complete with a sit down café and underground parking garage. The sliding doors at the entrance are in perpetual motion as patrons continuously shuffle in an out of the store. During his first visit, Max realized that he had to move through the aisles quickly and purposefully if he was to have any hope of fulfilling his grocery list. There was an indefinable yet undeniable force at work inside the 11th street Whole foods. A simple chili recipe could easily morph into a terrifying soul searching journey inevitably ending in organic soaps and unpronounceable root vegetables.
Fortunately, Max did have a purpose for visiting Whole Foods on this Sunday morning. In seven short hours, Laura’s mother and step father would be pacing around their one bedroom apartment, making hollow comments about every stick of furniture and every design choice. He would anxiously stumble through conversations letting Laura’s step dad equate his life to the definition of mediocrity.
“So your group keeps convicted criminals from going to jail? I say lock ‘em up and throw away the key!”
“I heard the City is running a $5.2 million deficit, you guys nervous about funding?”
“When you say non-profit does that mean you get a paycheck?”
As he walked through the sliding glass doors, Max unfolded the canary yellow piece of line paper from his back pocket and reviewed the ten item list. Though Max was the first to admit that Laura had a noticeable talent in the kitchen, she only seemed to enjoy cooking on special occasions. Whenever an old college friend came to visit or a family member was in town, Laura would scour cooking blogs to find a trendy, seasonal recipe. She would then tear up the kitchen for three or four hours, using every pot, pan, and utensil in their apartment. Inevitably, she would forget some minor ingredient or overcook the garnish, blame Max for the mistake and profusely apologize to the guests declaring the meal a complete disaster. The steak and heirloom tomato salad with Israeli couscous seemed simple and straightforward. If he could stay focused and navigate the Sunday morning crowd, he would be slipping into some football commentary within an hour.
The vegetable section appeared to be completely clogged by post workout twenty-somethings, so Max headed for the meat counter. Before he reached the red meat section, he had to pass the refrigerated glass cases full of seafood. He stopped and stared at the bright oranges and pinks sitting softly on top of mounds of crushed ice. Brown lobsters face menacingly toward shoppers and whole silvery fish were neatly organized into rows. He was instantly transported to the Caribbean. Max and Laura had taken a trip to Puerto Rico several Christmases ago. It was the first time the two had traveled on an airplane together. He remembered how absolutely decadent he felt eating shrimp, lobster, and crab for breakfast on white sand beach. He also remembered Laura being energetic and playful. She was always touching his shoulder and getting down his hair. He felt a warmth move over his entire body and the frenetic energy of the Sunday morning Whole Foods seemed to fade a bit.
He motioned to the man in the white lab coat behind the counter and told him he was preparing a seafood feast. Max nodded as the man discussed the migration habits of Alaskan salmon and the prodigious impact of shifting tide patterns on the world’s shrimp population. He sampled a raw oyster and smiled as the mucusy piece slimed down his esophagus. After fifteen minutes of buzzy chatter and handshakes, Max walked away confidently with four plastic bags full of fish, crustaceans, and crushed ice. He circled back to the produce section which was not mostly empty. He filled a plastic bag with bulgy heirloom tomatoes and pushed his cart to the c
Monday, June 08, 2015
Monday, July 28, 2014
New Year's Day
We didn’t walk over to Second Street until two o’clock in the afternoon. The day before, I had watched men in coveralls set up the barriers. A long line of silver metal stretched from Washington all the way down to Oregon Avenue, separating the street from the sidewalk. I was expecting the wood barriers I had seen at Memorial Day parades back in Connecticut. The type that fit together like Lincoln Logs and always seem to linger days after the parade. According to Don, my cubicle mate, the City had made a decision three years ago to phase out the wood barriers in favor of metal ones. Apparently young children were slipping under the wood planks and joining parades. Don had even witnessed his nine year old niece disappear behind a float two blocks from City Hall. He said it ruined his New Year’s.
I spent the previous New Year’s at my girlfriend’s house in Burlington, Vermont. By “her house” I am referring to the house of her childhood, where her parents still reside. Her mother, Nan, cooked a thick puttanesca sauce, and talked incessantly about her students at the University of Vermont. Her dad drank a large glass of Scotch and fell asleep in his leather La-Z-Boy. Charlene and I were able to sneak away around eleven and watch the fireworks over the lake. We kissed at midnight and shared some cheap champagne. When we returned to the house, all the lights were off but the dinner dishes were still sitting on the table. We fooled around quietly in her twin bed and then talked a bit about moving to Philadelphia. I remember going to sleep smiling into my pillow.
By the end of January we had signed a lease for a one bedroom apartment on Federal Street. Moving had always seemed like a dirty and sticky experience, so I was happy Charlene and I had found a place during the winter. Unfortunately, the Sunday we decided to move was cold and rainy. At some point I dropped Charlene’s oil painting in a puddle. She had made the painting for her senior project. I thought the damage was minimal; however, the event initiated an hour of silence where I dubiously placed books and dishes in the new apartment, only to have her move them within seconds of me leaving the room. When she finally addressed me, she characterized my fumble as a larger issue stemming from my anxiety with the move and my inability to commit to any woman other than my mother. Once everything was unloaded and the UHaul returned, we passed out on the bare mattress, fully clothed.
We didn’t have a housewarming party until late spring, when Charlene was finally satisfied with the artwork on the walls and the layout of the kitchen. I think it was my friend Tim who suggested we have a New Year’s Day party. “You guys have the perfect location,” he said, almost as if he had been planning the party since he heard about the apartment. “Bloody Mary’s, Mummers, drunk girls.” He smiled and patted me on the back. It seemed like a great idea. It would be “our” thing, and maybe even turn into one of those traditions like shore house weekends or Sunday dinners. Charlene was on board.
So we planned and promoted our little party. When the mid-August humidity was turning our one bedroom apartment into a middle school locker room, we pictured the party. We thought about stumbling onto Second Street with a drink in a plastic cup.
On New Year’s Eve day, I gathered all the supplies. Ever since we first discussed the party, I had envisioned a lavish spread full of deli meats and pickled products. I stocked the bar and made sure we had plenty of Bloody Mary mix. Charlene complained that I had overspent on the party. “We just don’t have that many friends,” she said and feared most of the food would go to waste.
We heard brass instruments and string bands early in the morning, but the parade didn’t snake back to Second Street until the afternoon. Face painted Mummers dressed in sequined, flowing costumes invaded South Philadelphia. Some of them danced and locked arms. Others staggered down the middle of the street yelling to people behind the guard rails. Box trucks blasting bass heavy dance music coasted in front of each brigade. An old man in a feather cowboy hat was selling boiled hot dogs. I was drunk and the scene was starting to swirl like an ocean. I grabbed Charlene and we ran back to the apartment. All our guests were outside. We mixed two drinks and stared at the mounds of thinly cut turkey and corned beef. It was our first New Year’s in Philadelphia.
I spent the previous New Year’s at my girlfriend’s house in Burlington, Vermont. By “her house” I am referring to the house of her childhood, where her parents still reside. Her mother, Nan, cooked a thick puttanesca sauce, and talked incessantly about her students at the University of Vermont. Her dad drank a large glass of Scotch and fell asleep in his leather La-Z-Boy. Charlene and I were able to sneak away around eleven and watch the fireworks over the lake. We kissed at midnight and shared some cheap champagne. When we returned to the house, all the lights were off but the dinner dishes were still sitting on the table. We fooled around quietly in her twin bed and then talked a bit about moving to Philadelphia. I remember going to sleep smiling into my pillow.
By the end of January we had signed a lease for a one bedroom apartment on Federal Street. Moving had always seemed like a dirty and sticky experience, so I was happy Charlene and I had found a place during the winter. Unfortunately, the Sunday we decided to move was cold and rainy. At some point I dropped Charlene’s oil painting in a puddle. She had made the painting for her senior project. I thought the damage was minimal; however, the event initiated an hour of silence where I dubiously placed books and dishes in the new apartment, only to have her move them within seconds of me leaving the room. When she finally addressed me, she characterized my fumble as a larger issue stemming from my anxiety with the move and my inability to commit to any woman other than my mother. Once everything was unloaded and the UHaul returned, we passed out on the bare mattress, fully clothed.
We didn’t have a housewarming party until late spring, when Charlene was finally satisfied with the artwork on the walls and the layout of the kitchen. I think it was my friend Tim who suggested we have a New Year’s Day party. “You guys have the perfect location,” he said, almost as if he had been planning the party since he heard about the apartment. “Bloody Mary’s, Mummers, drunk girls.” He smiled and patted me on the back. It seemed like a great idea. It would be “our” thing, and maybe even turn into one of those traditions like shore house weekends or Sunday dinners. Charlene was on board.
So we planned and promoted our little party. When the mid-August humidity was turning our one bedroom apartment into a middle school locker room, we pictured the party. We thought about stumbling onto Second Street with a drink in a plastic cup.
On New Year’s Eve day, I gathered all the supplies. Ever since we first discussed the party, I had envisioned a lavish spread full of deli meats and pickled products. I stocked the bar and made sure we had plenty of Bloody Mary mix. Charlene complained that I had overspent on the party. “We just don’t have that many friends,” she said and feared most of the food would go to waste.
We heard brass instruments and string bands early in the morning, but the parade didn’t snake back to Second Street until the afternoon. Face painted Mummers dressed in sequined, flowing costumes invaded South Philadelphia. Some of them danced and locked arms. Others staggered down the middle of the street yelling to people behind the guard rails. Box trucks blasting bass heavy dance music coasted in front of each brigade. An old man in a feather cowboy hat was selling boiled hot dogs. I was drunk and the scene was starting to swirl like an ocean. I grabbed Charlene and we ran back to the apartment. All our guests were outside. We mixed two drinks and stared at the mounds of thinly cut turkey and corned beef. It was our first New Year’s in Philadelphia.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Sully's Offer
My grandfather loved to tell old jokes. The types of jokes that don’t have owners, just tellers. They just sort of waft through the steamy air of men’s locker rooms and Passover tables. Always getting passed down and retold.
A guy gets off work and decides to have a drink at the bar across the street from his office. Within a few minutes he is approached by a drop dead gorgeous blonde with a plump, tear drop ass. She’s wearing a sequined dress cut so low you’d think she was on her way to feed a nursery full of hungry babies. The blonde dips her glossy lips inches from the man’s ear and says, “Baby, I know what you like,” and drops that plump teardrop on the stool next to him. The man just spent twelve hours at the office, getting chewed out by his boss for last month’s sales numbers. He is not amused by the blonde’s proposition and tells her he’s not interested. “C’mon Daddy,” she says, “one hundred bucks and you got all of this.” The man is unfazed and keeps his eyes on his drink. The blonde leans in again and says, “Daddy, I’ll do anything you want.” She slaps her tongue against the bottom of her mouth to accentuate the “T.” The man loosens his tie, shifts his weight and stares into her green eyes. He leans in closer to her and says, “You’ll do anything, I want?” Sensing a new customer, she moves in again and in that soft staccato that only a lady of the night could master, she says, “A-ny-thing.” The man leans back in the stool and drains the rest of his drink. He digs in his pocket and comes up with five crisp twenties which he puts under his empty glass. He leans back towards the blonde and says, “Paint my house.”
The joke always got laughs. Even my grandmother who hated dirty jokes liked that one. It works because the buildup is so carefully crafted, and the punch is so unexpected. It’s not a deep belly laughing sort of joke, but one of those long sustained laughs that makes the teller look like the smartest guy in the room. Anyways it always stuck with me.
My phone started ringing just as I merged onto Hoover Drive. Hoover was by far the most scenic route home but was a virtual parking lot between four and six. Sully was calling. He probably wanted me to pick up something at the store. I let it ring four times then answered.
“Wow four rings, eh? What’d you want to finish up your post work pump up before talking to me?
“Fuck you, what do you want?”
“All right, all right don’t let the elastic waistband of your greasy sweats snap back on your tiny dick.”
“Sully, I had long day. What the fuck do you want?” Sully and I had known each other since freshman year of college. My university assigned roommate had expressed suicidal urges in the first week of class, and the Eagle Scout RA named Todd had him shipped back to Long Neck before rush. Todd was eventually accused of sexual harassment by two eighteen year old freshman boys. Last I heard he had a burgeoning sports betting business in the suburbs. Sully and I did not meet until October. He had managed to sleep with both his roommates’ girlfriends and Todd gently asked to him to move in with me before midterms. We stayed in touch throughout college and when we both found jobs in the City after college, we decided to once again be roommates. The thing is, Sully is a real piece of shit. He’s not one of those charismatic assholes from a John Hughes films that waits till the eleventh hour to conjure up that respectability that had been masked for years by fag jokes. Sully was not that guy. At his best, Sully was a duplicitous snake, who would betray his mother for his own good. At his worst, he was the bottom feeding sewer rat that somehow got promoted to the human race. I did not trust one word that spewed from his filthy mouth and was counting the days until I could move out of the apartment. If Sully was drowning in a sea of medical waste, I would not so much as through him a pool noodle. Fuck him.
“Listen I got good news, I got an offer.” I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and looked to my left. A middle-aged woman was driving an SUV. A boy, most likely her son, was sitting next to her playing a video game. That’s what normal, respectable people do, get jobs, meet their mate and make a family. They move up the social ladder, buy a house and surround themselves with people who support them. Why can’t I do that? Why must I always fuck life in the ass rather than slip it in gently? I stared at the cars that expanded in front of me.
“Ok Sully, don’t do anything without me. I’ll be home in a half hour with some beer.”
A guy gets off work and decides to have a drink at the bar across the street from his office. Within a few minutes he is approached by a drop dead gorgeous blonde with a plump, tear drop ass. She’s wearing a sequined dress cut so low you’d think she was on her way to feed a nursery full of hungry babies. The blonde dips her glossy lips inches from the man’s ear and says, “Baby, I know what you like,” and drops that plump teardrop on the stool next to him. The man just spent twelve hours at the office, getting chewed out by his boss for last month’s sales numbers. He is not amused by the blonde’s proposition and tells her he’s not interested. “C’mon Daddy,” she says, “one hundred bucks and you got all of this.” The man is unfazed and keeps his eyes on his drink. The blonde leans in again and says, “Daddy, I’ll do anything you want.” She slaps her tongue against the bottom of her mouth to accentuate the “T.” The man loosens his tie, shifts his weight and stares into her green eyes. He leans in closer to her and says, “You’ll do anything, I want?” Sensing a new customer, she moves in again and in that soft staccato that only a lady of the night could master, she says, “A-ny-thing.” The man leans back in the stool and drains the rest of his drink. He digs in his pocket and comes up with five crisp twenties which he puts under his empty glass. He leans back towards the blonde and says, “Paint my house.”
The joke always got laughs. Even my grandmother who hated dirty jokes liked that one. It works because the buildup is so carefully crafted, and the punch is so unexpected. It’s not a deep belly laughing sort of joke, but one of those long sustained laughs that makes the teller look like the smartest guy in the room. Anyways it always stuck with me.
My phone started ringing just as I merged onto Hoover Drive. Hoover was by far the most scenic route home but was a virtual parking lot between four and six. Sully was calling. He probably wanted me to pick up something at the store. I let it ring four times then answered.
“Wow four rings, eh? What’d you want to finish up your post work pump up before talking to me?
“Fuck you, what do you want?”
“All right, all right don’t let the elastic waistband of your greasy sweats snap back on your tiny dick.”
“Sully, I had long day. What the fuck do you want?” Sully and I had known each other since freshman year of college. My university assigned roommate had expressed suicidal urges in the first week of class, and the Eagle Scout RA named Todd had him shipped back to Long Neck before rush. Todd was eventually accused of sexual harassment by two eighteen year old freshman boys. Last I heard he had a burgeoning sports betting business in the suburbs. Sully and I did not meet until October. He had managed to sleep with both his roommates’ girlfriends and Todd gently asked to him to move in with me before midterms. We stayed in touch throughout college and when we both found jobs in the City after college, we decided to once again be roommates. The thing is, Sully is a real piece of shit. He’s not one of those charismatic assholes from a John Hughes films that waits till the eleventh hour to conjure up that respectability that had been masked for years by fag jokes. Sully was not that guy. At his best, Sully was a duplicitous snake, who would betray his mother for his own good. At his worst, he was the bottom feeding sewer rat that somehow got promoted to the human race. I did not trust one word that spewed from his filthy mouth and was counting the days until I could move out of the apartment. If Sully was drowning in a sea of medical waste, I would not so much as through him a pool noodle. Fuck him.
“Listen I got good news, I got an offer.” I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and looked to my left. A middle-aged woman was driving an SUV. A boy, most likely her son, was sitting next to her playing a video game. That’s what normal, respectable people do, get jobs, meet their mate and make a family. They move up the social ladder, buy a house and surround themselves with people who support them. Why can’t I do that? Why must I always fuck life in the ass rather than slip it in gently? I stared at the cars that expanded in front of me.
“Ok Sully, don’t do anything without me. I’ll be home in a half hour with some beer.”
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Hmm...
Since its inception over five years ago, the Chronicles has tackled a variety issues ranging from full frontal male nudity tothe magic forces of Janet Reno's neck skin. We work hard to provide a viable alternative to main stream media's hollow rhetoric as well as a dedication to topics that play important roles in our daily lives. We get a lot of criticism for our opinions but you know what they say, "You can't make an omelet without sleeping with a vegetarian." Nonetheless, there are certain times when we have to take a stand on larger, even poplular subjects. Let me reiterate that the Chronicles is apolitical and only concernced with the personal opinions of our writers.
That being said, our Philadelphia office has been flooded with phone calls, letters, and even pop-ins by people expessing their feelings about the Eagles' acquisition of acclaimed mobile quarterback and PETA enemy (sorta like getting dissed by members of The View, not too serious) Michael Vick. In the weeks leading up to preseason, they were completely consumed by the news. People even went so far as to abandon the team they had loved all their lives and toss out their Eagles apparel with the weekly trash. Dog lovers criticized the franchise and local businesses advertised anti-Eagles stickers in their windows. In the last two weeks of August, it seemed that every asshole at the bar wanted to talk about Michael Vick and argue about animal rights. Heat makes people crazy, and Michael Vick's presence sure wasn't helping.
All the yelling and screaming got me thinking about what was really going on. Loud-mouthed bozos are about as hard to find as double chins at a Boy Scout Jamborees so I wasn't really concerned with these slobbering hacks. The ones that really got me thinking were these uptight activists that really seemed to get pissed about the issue. The ones that lectured me about the need for compassion in our greed driven culture and the sanctity of animal life. But what I was truly struck by was the hysteria surrounding the issue. Every media outlet had a segment on Vick and the Eagles and every keg party was buzzing with conversation. There are few things in this world as satisfying as watching people getting pissed off and arguing until people around them actually feel awkward. I tried to find example of other people in our society that had garnered as much notoriety as Mr. Vick. Why do people condemn some celebrities for their personal lives while easily forgive others.
Just when the Vick pandamonium died down I was hit with some startling news: acclaimed director Roman Polanski was arrested in Switzerland. Roman motherfucking-Chinatown Polanski. Didn't that dude make a bunch of classic movies like thirty years ago? Wait, why haven't I heard about him lately? Oh yea, that little sex scandal business. For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Polanski's indescretions, we're not talking about some hazy case where a desperate fan was trying to get money by falsifying a few facts. Actually, in 1977 when Polanski was 44, he invited a 13 year old girl over for a private photo shoot. No he was not creating a middle school yearbook or even writing an article about a field hockey team, he was being straight up creepy. Polanski then fed the young girl champagne and quaaludes and forced himself upon her against her will. After Polanski was charged, he fled to Europe so he could avoid jail time.
In 2002, Polanski released The Pianist and was hurled back into the limelight. The film was so successful, that Polanski won an Academy Award for Best Director and received a standing ovation at the ceremony. Was Polanski at the Academy Awards? No because if he set foot in the U.S. he would have been arrested. Hmmmm........
So let's recap. Michael Vick gets arrested for killing dogs, serves jail time, is publicly humiliated, takes a huge pay cut, makes public apologies, does charity work for animals, and will always be labelled as a degenerate, heartless murderer. That's fine, I don't really give a shit about Michael Vick nor do I enjoy or endorse the killing of dogs. Oh yeah, he killed dogs didn't he. Don't we keep dogs as pets? Don't dogs eat their own shit and chase after balls? Aren't hundreds of dogs "put to sleep" because people don't want them. Don't we cut of dogs' nuts off so they won't hump our legs, and don't we make dogs sleep with dogs that don't even look like them just so we can have a funny looking animal?
Now let's look at Mr. Polanski. He drugged and raped a thirteen year-old girl. Rather than face the consequences, like Vick, he went to another country and continued doing his job. Further, he has been rewarded and complimented for his artistic achievements since he fled.
Obviously these two people don't really have much in common. Further, there is over thirty years between the two arrests and time definitely promotes forgiveness. Maybe Michael Vick will better accepted and receive awards thirty years from now. We are not really equating their crimes or discrediting any of Mr. Polanski's work. We just find the two cases interesting.
Friday, September 18, 2009
I have recently begun research on a new project that examines the relationship between food and dreams. Every night before I fall asleep I eat or drink a unique substance. In the morning I record my dreams. Here are some preliminary findings:
Glass of milk: Standard erotic fantasy but for some reason there is always wall to wall carpeting.
Pickle: Life threatening situation where I wake up the second before fatal disaster.
Pickle dipped in glass of milk: ?
Glass of milk: Standard erotic fantasy but for some reason there is always wall to wall carpeting.
Pickle: Life threatening situation where I wake up the second before fatal disaster.
Pickle dipped in glass of milk: ?
Monday, August 24, 2009
Crazy from the Meat
Thinly sliced corn beef piled high on top of rye bread, spicy mustard dripping through the folds. A pickle bar beckons and a cushy Jewish ass flows over the side of a vinyl booth. Morty and Saul are stuffing themselves with coleslaw while Shoshanah teases a matzah ball...
Nowadays young men hardly have any positive role models. Brando's dead, Bukowski's dead, James Brown's dead, Swayze's ill, Steve-O's sober, Bowie's a recluse, Burt's retired, and Mick Jaggers' beans and toast are just a dusty fixture on eight grade health videos. It seems like all our champions of testosterone have flickered away, their tales of excess safely confined to family dinner tables and Vh1 specials. The swinging dicks of yesteryear have been replaced by low fat ranch dressing, pilates, and the Jonas Brothers. Who will be there to save a whole generation of thirteen year old Jewish boys from the tentacles of metrosexuality? Do you really think jort wearing hipsters will revitalize this economy?
Have no fear boys there is still one man out there. He can sing. He can dance. And you bet your ass he can still kick his leg far above his head. His voice is like a crescendo of female climaxes, and his spandex clad figure served as the blueprint for 80's sexuality. I'm talking about Van Halen's only lead singer, David Lee Roth.
Several unsuccessful Van Halen reunion efforts coupled with his '93 drug arrest, have pushed Mr. Roth off the glistening podium he so rightfully deserves. But trust me, this country's Jewish population has still got it, "bad, soooooooo bad," for David Lee Roth.
This is why I implore David Lee Roth to open a traditional Jewish deli called, "Crazy from the Meat." The restaurant would combine the gluttonous portions of 2nd avenue deli with the refined sophistication of Katz's. The walls would be adorned with pictures of Roth's countless admirers and loyal patrons. Basically, the eatery would combine the visceral pleasure of consuming salted meats with the raw sexual power of David Lee Roth. It would be a place to bring your wife, your girlfriend, or that olive skinned beauty from your Hebrew school class. Further the restaurant would implicitly promote Jewish proliferation by bringing together sexually charged Jewish youngsters in the most lascivious environment: a Jewish Deli.
David Lee Roth has already inspired a generation of Jewish men. Now I call on you, Mr. Roth, the tribe needs you now more than ever.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Step Into My World, Inc.
...He's got psoriasis, male pattern baldness, and halitosis. He has an unhealthy obsession with celebrity gossip and an underactive sex drive. He subscribes to two bimonthly political magazines but usually only uses the free samples of cologne. He is shorter than average, fatter than healthy, and smells frequently liked lunch meats. He fantasizes about his neighbors, but has only had verbal exchanges with two of them. He listens to commercial radio and compulsively reads the escort advertisements in the back of free newspapers. His skin has that unmistakable tint of an overused porcelin toilet b0wl but the dubious texture of a kindergarten carpet, worn in and fuzzy. He has back hair, chest hair, and stringy pubic hair. He rarely wipes his ass to hygienic satisfaction. He enjoys adding -holic to the ends of words especially in self-descriptions (see: chocoholic, sportsaholic, cataholic, etc.). He lies on occasion but does far better with exaggeration. A cursory glance of his apperance would easily place him in the 18-35 age group but exact age classification would be much more difficult. He avoids vegetables at most costs and is mezmerized by the cereal aisles at large supermarkets. He memorizes astrological signs but has difficulty following an ethos. He is our perfect customer...
...The executives bobbed slowly in their black leather chairs and adjusted their neckties. Tim felt the sweat slide down his back as the sea of pleats and double breasted jackets absorbed his presentation. Finally, the fat man at the end of the table rose to his feet and used his left palm to steady himself on the marble table. With a mature, syrupy rumble, the man cleared his throat and looked Tim straight in the eyes, "I for one, love it. Get ready to make some fuckin' money." The sea of black bubbled and popped and the fat man shook Tim's hand the way his father used to.
...The executives bobbed slowly in their black leather chairs and adjusted their neckties. Tim felt the sweat slide down his back as the sea of pleats and double breasted jackets absorbed his presentation. Finally, the fat man at the end of the table rose to his feet and used his left palm to steady himself on the marble table. With a mature, syrupy rumble, the man cleared his throat and looked Tim straight in the eyes, "I for one, love it. Get ready to make some fuckin' money." The sea of black bubbled and popped and the fat man shook Tim's hand the way his father used to.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Mena Cohen
When I was little I distinctly remember going to department stores with my mother. She would always plan these trips and not really check with me to see if they conflicted with my schedule. Of course, when you're a little kid, you never really plan anything yourself. Initially I would never protest these trips and, in fact, looked forward to getting lost in the men's fashion department, or diving head first into a rack of hound's tooth coats. Everything is a playground when you are under five feet and don't have pubic hair. It's like a magical world that conforms to your fantasies.
At some point in our adventure, I would always see someone with a strange and different physical characteristic, someone who obviously looked diffent than anyone I had ever seen in my entire life. One time I saw a bald guy who, rather than resign himself to a hairless life, opted to insert plugs into his shiny head. I distinctly remember this man because the gleam from his waxy skin was abruptly interrupted by a stiff line of hair stubs. My mind was filled with questions. Did the hair come from another part of his body or from another person? Why didn't they just put really long pieces of hair in his head to make it look less obvious? Does his hair cutter cut the stubble, or just kinda pretend it's not there?
Another time I saw a woman with no ear on the left side of her head. Her right ear was perfectly intact, and actually quite appropriately sized and shaped. However, on the left side of her head, she had like a bubbly wad of flesh that looked calcified silly putty. The fleshy mound was positioned around a hole which I could only assume would lead to the ear canal. As she carelessly ruffled through pocketbooks, I stared at the wilted flesh and crafted my own questions. Did the unusually shaped ear make her hear differently, like at baseball games when the announcer's voice rings around the stadium? Does the ear throw off her balance and, as a result, does she need to wear weights in her pockets to overcorrect the discrepency? Are these medically developed weights or simply regular everyday weights?
When my mother caught me looking at these people she would always say, "Don't stare, it's not polite." Since when is staring not polite? Am I unconsciously delivering offensive remarks through my eyes and destroying these deformed peoples' self-esteem? Of course not. If anything, I am so intrigued by these uniquely sculpted bodies and body parts that I am affording them the respect the only way I know how, to stare. If they made cards congratulating people on shotty hair translplants or mangled limbs I would be the first one to buy them: signed, sealed, and delivered.
Now, as I got older, my voyeuristic tendencies developed with my changing interests. Suddenly, women dominated my visual landscapes. My stares fell on pudgy, tan thighs and saggy side tits. I stared till my eyes hurt at the asses stuffed into stiff school chairs. When the weather got warm I could gaze for hours at bare shoulders and moist lips. My eyes were like cameras recording the beautiful scenes to play in my head.
My teenage years started out great. Everyday I would play movies in my head, starring my female classmates. I could envision scenes and never even use electricity. Well all that was great until the spring of my seventh grade year. Our science teacher had rearranged the desks into rows and sat Mena Cohen in front of me. Now Mena was one of those girls that had seemed to bypass that whole journey through puberty. Imagine if Drew Barrymore had made E.T., went on vacation for a week, and then came out with Poison Ivy. I mean Mena was that perfect physical, seventh grade speciman, and I was like three feet from her ginger hair for five hours a week. One day in late spring, Mena sat down in front of me, and I noticed something new. I had never seen anything like this, and really have not been the same since. Peeking out from her capris were two, very thin, flesh-colored straps. The straps rested just below her pelvic bones, ran along her back and seemd to converge right above her ass crack before plunging back into her pants. I had just had the rare and very special opportunity to see a thong, the most scandalous and provacative female undergarment for a recently bar-mitzvahed, thirteen year-old boy. My luck was finally turning, and I knew I could not fuck up this situation. I eased up in my chair and just stared at the glorious piece of fabric. It was if those capris had looked at my tortured brown eyes and said, "kid, today is your day." Then they just reached out over the waistline and entered my line of sight, truly a middle school miracle. I stared and stared and just let myself get hypnotized by Mena's undapants.
Well, friends that moment proved to be short-lived. Mesmerized by my discovery, I seemed to detach from the world around me and slipped into my frenetic thoughts. I didn't even notice when our teacher passed out the day's worksheet and instructed those in the front row to pass it back. As Mena turned around to give me the paper, her eyes met full force with my curly mop. She then craned her neck and followed my eyes directly to the object of their obsession. Oh she knew alright and smacked my head with the papers. I was jolted from my fantasy and slipped up in my chair. My body stretched back into the real world and suddenly I was painfully aware of my surroundings. Mena was pissed and never really talked to me for the rest of the year, and I began making my staring less obvious.
But see here's the thing. I don't think I have ever caught someone staring at me. I mean I'm no Justin Timberlake but it would be nice to be in him for like a moment (no homo). I can't ever recall a time when I was upset that someone was staring at me. It's the not staring that kills me, it's the not staring. Fuck it, I'm tired of hiding my beautiful brown eyes from unsuspecting females. You're out there, lookin' fine, and be ready to get stared at.
At some point in our adventure, I would always see someone with a strange and different physical characteristic, someone who obviously looked diffent than anyone I had ever seen in my entire life. One time I saw a bald guy who, rather than resign himself to a hairless life, opted to insert plugs into his shiny head. I distinctly remember this man because the gleam from his waxy skin was abruptly interrupted by a stiff line of hair stubs. My mind was filled with questions. Did the hair come from another part of his body or from another person? Why didn't they just put really long pieces of hair in his head to make it look less obvious? Does his hair cutter cut the stubble, or just kinda pretend it's not there?
Another time I saw a woman with no ear on the left side of her head. Her right ear was perfectly intact, and actually quite appropriately sized and shaped. However, on the left side of her head, she had like a bubbly wad of flesh that looked calcified silly putty. The fleshy mound was positioned around a hole which I could only assume would lead to the ear canal. As she carelessly ruffled through pocketbooks, I stared at the wilted flesh and crafted my own questions. Did the unusually shaped ear make her hear differently, like at baseball games when the announcer's voice rings around the stadium? Does the ear throw off her balance and, as a result, does she need to wear weights in her pockets to overcorrect the discrepency? Are these medically developed weights or simply regular everyday weights?
When my mother caught me looking at these people she would always say, "Don't stare, it's not polite." Since when is staring not polite? Am I unconsciously delivering offensive remarks through my eyes and destroying these deformed peoples' self-esteem? Of course not. If anything, I am so intrigued by these uniquely sculpted bodies and body parts that I am affording them the respect the only way I know how, to stare. If they made cards congratulating people on shotty hair translplants or mangled limbs I would be the first one to buy them: signed, sealed, and delivered.
Now, as I got older, my voyeuristic tendencies developed with my changing interests. Suddenly, women dominated my visual landscapes. My stares fell on pudgy, tan thighs and saggy side tits. I stared till my eyes hurt at the asses stuffed into stiff school chairs. When the weather got warm I could gaze for hours at bare shoulders and moist lips. My eyes were like cameras recording the beautiful scenes to play in my head.
My teenage years started out great. Everyday I would play movies in my head, starring my female classmates. I could envision scenes and never even use electricity. Well all that was great until the spring of my seventh grade year. Our science teacher had rearranged the desks into rows and sat Mena Cohen in front of me. Now Mena was one of those girls that had seemed to bypass that whole journey through puberty. Imagine if Drew Barrymore had made E.T., went on vacation for a week, and then came out with Poison Ivy. I mean Mena was that perfect physical, seventh grade speciman, and I was like three feet from her ginger hair for five hours a week. One day in late spring, Mena sat down in front of me, and I noticed something new. I had never seen anything like this, and really have not been the same since. Peeking out from her capris were two, very thin, flesh-colored straps. The straps rested just below her pelvic bones, ran along her back and seemd to converge right above her ass crack before plunging back into her pants. I had just had the rare and very special opportunity to see a thong, the most scandalous and provacative female undergarment for a recently bar-mitzvahed, thirteen year-old boy. My luck was finally turning, and I knew I could not fuck up this situation. I eased up in my chair and just stared at the glorious piece of fabric. It was if those capris had looked at my tortured brown eyes and said, "kid, today is your day." Then they just reached out over the waistline and entered my line of sight, truly a middle school miracle. I stared and stared and just let myself get hypnotized by Mena's undapants.
Well, friends that moment proved to be short-lived. Mesmerized by my discovery, I seemed to detach from the world around me and slipped into my frenetic thoughts. I didn't even notice when our teacher passed out the day's worksheet and instructed those in the front row to pass it back. As Mena turned around to give me the paper, her eyes met full force with my curly mop. She then craned her neck and followed my eyes directly to the object of their obsession. Oh she knew alright and smacked my head with the papers. I was jolted from my fantasy and slipped up in my chair. My body stretched back into the real world and suddenly I was painfully aware of my surroundings. Mena was pissed and never really talked to me for the rest of the year, and I began making my staring less obvious.
But see here's the thing. I don't think I have ever caught someone staring at me. I mean I'm no Justin Timberlake but it would be nice to be in him for like a moment (no homo). I can't ever recall a time when I was upset that someone was staring at me. It's the not staring that kills me, it's the not staring. Fuck it, I'm tired of hiding my beautiful brown eyes from unsuspecting females. You're out there, lookin' fine, and be ready to get stared at.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Bleu Cheese Stands Alone
While the Old Testament reveals the beautiful struggle of the Jewish people, overcoming monumental adversity and hardship, many shikzas, gentiles, and goyim easily discard the resilience of the Jewish people. Sadly, in modern times, Jewish people have been most closely associated with big noses, nagging mothers, mediocre atheltic skills, and extreme sexual awkwardness. Of course all these stereotypes are not only hurtful and embarrasssing, but simply untrue. Ask at least half of my lovers and they will quickly admit not only to long nights of passion but an exceptional 37% satisfaction rating. On several occassions I think I may have even taken girls to that magical place; of course any recognition of female pleasure is pretty difficult to detect when you're circumsized member is peaking through a hole in a sheet.
But let's get back to that one Jewish stereotype that has plagued me throughout my life: Jewish people are cheap. The reason I bring up this point is not to dive into a lecture about the merits of wisely budgeting your money, or slip into the role of ruthless Shylock and demand court fees for Dr. Rosenburg's malpractice suit. No, the reason I allude to the thriftiness that has characterized Jewish culture is to illuminate our present economic situation, and more specifically, the buffalo wing crisis that will finally hit home this Sunday.
As a naive college student, I was living in a fantasy world. The party didn't stop on Sunday, but kept going all week long. See weekdays were the time to find the best beer and food deals and blow off some steam from my hectic, hour and fifteen minute classes four days a week. While I have indulged in nearly every bar deal: half priced pizza, thirty-five cent tacos, even reduced appetizers at D.C.'s now defunct Dark Horse, I always believed wings were the best deals. Buffalo wings are quite possibly the greatest permutation of meat to have every slid its way down my welcoming throat. Once I get wings on the mind, the sun just seems a little brighter, asses just a little fuller, and all the douchebags around me just seem a little more tolerable. When you wake up on a Monday or Tuesday or even Thursday morning and know that cheap wings may be in store for that evening, you just have such a positive outlook for the rest of the day. But that's what wings do, just a little deep fried present wrapped up in gooey sauce and flanked by crunchy celery and chunky bleu cheese dressing. For several months in college, I consitently woke up on weekday mornings with orange finger nails, still bearing that delicious evidence of the previous night's indulgence.
Now once I graduated college, my desire for cheap wings did not decrease, if anything, my appetite grew and my economic sensibility became more focused. I sprung for the twenty-five cent wings. I experimented with bbq, honey bbq, and even some weird amalgamation of Old Bay, Jack Daniels, and brown sugar. What I began to notice is that ten cent wing deals were showing up less and less until one day they practically disappeared. Furthermore, the wings were less meaty, drier, and often poorly seasoned. Lately I have even passed some bars with the audacity to advertise second rate chicken wings at an outrageous fifty cents a pop. Am I really supposed to blow my load for that deal? Fuck you bar!!!
Then it finally all fell apart. I get home from work, check my inbox and feel my testicles claw their way back into my body. Apparently, the shitty economy has serreptiously creeped away from the housing market and taken a giant shit on the wing market. Pilgrims Pride, the company responsible for processing a quarter of the chickens we eat has filed for bankruptcy. In addition, the high price of gas and something called "chicken feed" has fucked up the wing industry causing jacked up prices for the consumer. Moderately overweight men with drinking problems between the ages of 21 to 27 have reported a noticeable decrease in sexual activity of all kinds. That demographic is undboutedly the backbone of America and sits on the pulse of change. Well friends, don't complain to this "cheap Jew" when some skinny bitch at your Super Bowl party serves up salad with that bleu cheese dressing. Sometimes being cheap really does pay off.
But let's get back to that one Jewish stereotype that has plagued me throughout my life: Jewish people are cheap. The reason I bring up this point is not to dive into a lecture about the merits of wisely budgeting your money, or slip into the role of ruthless Shylock and demand court fees for Dr. Rosenburg's malpractice suit. No, the reason I allude to the thriftiness that has characterized Jewish culture is to illuminate our present economic situation, and more specifically, the buffalo wing crisis that will finally hit home this Sunday.
As a naive college student, I was living in a fantasy world. The party didn't stop on Sunday, but kept going all week long. See weekdays were the time to find the best beer and food deals and blow off some steam from my hectic, hour and fifteen minute classes four days a week. While I have indulged in nearly every bar deal: half priced pizza, thirty-five cent tacos, even reduced appetizers at D.C.'s now defunct Dark Horse, I always believed wings were the best deals. Buffalo wings are quite possibly the greatest permutation of meat to have every slid its way down my welcoming throat. Once I get wings on the mind, the sun just seems a little brighter, asses just a little fuller, and all the douchebags around me just seem a little more tolerable. When you wake up on a Monday or Tuesday or even Thursday morning and know that cheap wings may be in store for that evening, you just have such a positive outlook for the rest of the day. But that's what wings do, just a little deep fried present wrapped up in gooey sauce and flanked by crunchy celery and chunky bleu cheese dressing. For several months in college, I consitently woke up on weekday mornings with orange finger nails, still bearing that delicious evidence of the previous night's indulgence.
Now once I graduated college, my desire for cheap wings did not decrease, if anything, my appetite grew and my economic sensibility became more focused. I sprung for the twenty-five cent wings. I experimented with bbq, honey bbq, and even some weird amalgamation of Old Bay, Jack Daniels, and brown sugar. What I began to notice is that ten cent wing deals were showing up less and less until one day they practically disappeared. Furthermore, the wings were less meaty, drier, and often poorly seasoned. Lately I have even passed some bars with the audacity to advertise second rate chicken wings at an outrageous fifty cents a pop. Am I really supposed to blow my load for that deal? Fuck you bar!!!
Then it finally all fell apart. I get home from work, check my inbox and feel my testicles claw their way back into my body. Apparently, the shitty economy has serreptiously creeped away from the housing market and taken a giant shit on the wing market. Pilgrims Pride, the company responsible for processing a quarter of the chickens we eat has filed for bankruptcy. In addition, the high price of gas and something called "chicken feed" has fucked up the wing industry causing jacked up prices for the consumer. Moderately overweight men with drinking problems between the ages of 21 to 27 have reported a noticeable decrease in sexual activity of all kinds. That demographic is undboutedly the backbone of America and sits on the pulse of change. Well friends, don't complain to this "cheap Jew" when some skinny bitch at your Super Bowl party serves up salad with that bleu cheese dressing. Sometimes being cheap really does pay off.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Crybaby
As an adult, I try to operate as much in the "adult world" as possible. My friends are all well into their twenties, decently educated and have similar adult interests. I consume alcohol, drive cars, shop in the "men's" department, and even enjoy the carnal company of a willing female from time to time. While my humor, hygiene, and life goals have really not changed since age thirteen, I am slowly assimilating to adult culture. I have no problem with getting old and hardly ever desire the whimsical endeavours of my more youthful days. I love being able to make my own decisions and take responsibility for my mistakes. I have spent nearly a quarter of a century working hard in school, joining the workforce, and etching out strong relationships that have been vital to my development. That is precisely why I have a an extreme dislike for babies (hate seems like a really cruel word).
Now I know what you're thinking, "Weren't you at one time a baby? Wouldn't it be self-destructive , misanthropic, or even nihilistic to condemn the natural order of life." Of course not. See I don't have any problem with the living, breathing baby. I mean a lot of babies grow up an do extraordinary things. Michael Douglas was a baby. Even James Brown was a baby at some time. I have a problem with the role of babies in our society. See babies can do whatever they want and be completely oblivious to any ramifications. They're like shaved cats that don't know how to clean themselves. I challenge a baby to do any of the things I do on a daily basis. Let's go down the list. They can't feed themselves, they can't wash themselves, they can't walk on two feet, they can't talk, and they don't know how to use toilets. They have no idea how much their parents or guardians have to work to keep them alive. In fact, you probably don't know what pain in the ass a baby is until you have one of your own. To make it worse, everyone seems to gawk and gape at babies like they're some sort of sparkling engagement ring behind foggy glass. Smitten spectators like to squeeze, pinch, hold, and, for some Godforsaken reason, talk in cartoonish voices to babies. All the time the baby stares blankly with fishbowl eyes and creepily squeezes his pudgy fingers. His legs dangle like shrink wrapped bologna at a deli counter and drool cascades from his little mouth. His role has been defined by the adults that surround him.
Of course most of my animosity towards babies stems from severe envy. When I finally entered the adult world, I felt as though I had just gained access into some exclusive club. Now that I have been an adult for some time, I realize that this "club" is shit. Babies really have it down. As an adult, I have to work, acquire food, keep a socially acceptable level of hygiene, pay for my less-than extravagant lifestyle, and not fuck up too bad. On the other hand, babies are on a constant vacation. They get to eat liquidy food (sweet!) and don't have to worry about any bills. Furthermore, they can shit and piss themselves whenever they want and are forced to suck on titties to survive. They shower in a sink and get a little celebration if they talk or walk. Whenever I see babies, I am reminded of all the societal norms that constantly dictate how I live my life. Fuck it, age ain't nothin' but a number. I'm takin' it back. Fuck you babies and your pampered lifestyle. Try living just one day in my world.
Now I know what you're thinking, "Weren't you at one time a baby? Wouldn't it be self-destructive , misanthropic, or even nihilistic to condemn the natural order of life." Of course not. See I don't have any problem with the living, breathing baby. I mean a lot of babies grow up an do extraordinary things. Michael Douglas was a baby. Even James Brown was a baby at some time. I have a problem with the role of babies in our society. See babies can do whatever they want and be completely oblivious to any ramifications. They're like shaved cats that don't know how to clean themselves. I challenge a baby to do any of the things I do on a daily basis. Let's go down the list. They can't feed themselves, they can't wash themselves, they can't walk on two feet, they can't talk, and they don't know how to use toilets. They have no idea how much their parents or guardians have to work to keep them alive. In fact, you probably don't know what pain in the ass a baby is until you have one of your own. To make it worse, everyone seems to gawk and gape at babies like they're some sort of sparkling engagement ring behind foggy glass. Smitten spectators like to squeeze, pinch, hold, and, for some Godforsaken reason, talk in cartoonish voices to babies. All the time the baby stares blankly with fishbowl eyes and creepily squeezes his pudgy fingers. His legs dangle like shrink wrapped bologna at a deli counter and drool cascades from his little mouth. His role has been defined by the adults that surround him.
Of course most of my animosity towards babies stems from severe envy. When I finally entered the adult world, I felt as though I had just gained access into some exclusive club. Now that I have been an adult for some time, I realize that this "club" is shit. Babies really have it down. As an adult, I have to work, acquire food, keep a socially acceptable level of hygiene, pay for my less-than extravagant lifestyle, and not fuck up too bad. On the other hand, babies are on a constant vacation. They get to eat liquidy food (sweet!) and don't have to worry about any bills. Furthermore, they can shit and piss themselves whenever they want and are forced to suck on titties to survive. They shower in a sink and get a little celebration if they talk or walk. Whenever I see babies, I am reminded of all the societal norms that constantly dictate how I live my life. Fuck it, age ain't nothin' but a number. I'm takin' it back. Fuck you babies and your pampered lifestyle. Try living just one day in my world.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Real Reality, part 1
Thread count is important, he thought. Thread count is not just a casual allusion to status in cocktail party discussion but, rather, one of those subtle references to a man's character, his true spirit. Thread count was, in fact, the single factor in determining Fred's living arrangement. He had moved into the basement apartment with his girlfriend Lori, two years ago after a passionate discussion in the "Bedding" department of Linens 'N Things (or maybe it was Bed, Bath, and Beyond).
"Baby, I know it's a little more money but think about the thread count." Lori's blue veins seemed to stretch back her eyebrows as she prepared to defend her position. "Goddamn," is what Fred thought but, "Fuck," is what he said, a strategically placed expletive to conceed his defeat and introduce the obligatory, impotent reply.
"Fuck, I don't even know what thread count means." Truthfully, Fred had heard the both the word "thread" and "count" but never in such a definitive progression. He briefly connected them to a sports term. The veins in Lori's head receded, as if to signify her victory and slide in to collect her winnings. She lectured Fred, elevating thread count as the defining characteristic in blanket shopping. Clearly, the thread count not only exposed the quality and distinctiveness of the brand, but also spoke unequivocally about the deep sense of comfort potentially connected to the particular piece of bedding. Lori examined various fabrics, noting the prestige based on thread count. Fred was not only dazzled by Lori's seamless flow of words on an obscure subject, but her to equip Fred with the tools necessary for future shopping. Fred could not live without her, he thought. Two weeks later, Fred agreed to move into Lori's apartment.
"Baby, I know it's a little more money but think about the thread count." Lori's blue veins seemed to stretch back her eyebrows as she prepared to defend her position. "Goddamn," is what Fred thought but, "Fuck," is what he said, a strategically placed expletive to conceed his defeat and introduce the obligatory, impotent reply.
"Fuck, I don't even know what thread count means." Truthfully, Fred had heard the both the word "thread" and "count" but never in such a definitive progression. He briefly connected them to a sports term. The veins in Lori's head receded, as if to signify her victory and slide in to collect her winnings. She lectured Fred, elevating thread count as the defining characteristic in blanket shopping. Clearly, the thread count not only exposed the quality and distinctiveness of the brand, but also spoke unequivocally about the deep sense of comfort potentially connected to the particular piece of bedding. Lori examined various fabrics, noting the prestige based on thread count. Fred was not only dazzled by Lori's seamless flow of words on an obscure subject, but her to equip Fred with the tools necessary for future shopping. Fred could not live without her, he thought. Two weeks later, Fred agreed to move into Lori's apartment.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Friday, April 22, 2005
Professional Wino
American society embraces the rhythmic flow of social development. Elementary school tempts the appetite with finger painting and nap time, but those dreams are soon crushed with the commencement of middle school. Thirteen is a beacon of awkwardness. Hair spurts in the dark crevasses of your body. There are weird explosions that make the Darth Vader cartoon pictures on your bedsheets look like the marshmallow man. Finally, these changes happen at the precise time that appearance and civility rises to the forefront. In elementary school the teachers asked you to bring a change of clothes in case you soiled yourself during recess. Involuntary bodily functions were a normal occurence and fully embraced. At thirteen, sweat glands suddenly decide to come out and play, and instead of being the guy that gets picked last in kickball, they act like the asshole who yells "penis" during the school production of "The Sound of Music."
Of course the fine folks who crafted the public education institutions decided to throw all these thirteen year olds into an old building, lined with linoleum floors and barbaric lockers. The thirteen year olds spend six hours of their day in these buildings learning things that they will never remeber and slowly discovering that the blond girl in the front row of biology class makes it difficult to stand up when the bell rings. In a few years of middle school all the kids are assumed to have worked their kinks out and realize that deodorant is a necessary daily application. Thus, the young people are sent to the next rung called high school. Here the students learn business by selling drugs and discover the least amount of effort to put forth to get through to the next level. Ironically these important lessons are just a side effect of the institution, unintended yet accomplished. Finally, when a student's time has expired in high school, most students go to more school. College, however, begins the long circle back to childhood. For the first time in awhile choice, and not just the illusion of choice is available for the student. There is a plethora of class choices and even choices for teachers. Most students even move away from their home.
But up until now, this horrible cycle is not really my point of concern. We all go through it, and it is as futile as trying to squeeze a condom over Star Jones' head. Perhaps, it has to do with my age or the effects of psychedelic drugs, but presently I am considering exactly what I want to do post college. The over fifteen years of schooling has taught me that I don't need anymore, and most of the jobs seem horribly unamusing and minimal in their benefits. However, their is one job I believe I am perfectly suited for: professional wino. Wino, as a profession, dates back centuries to ancient Greek society when highest breed of intellectual first decided to make an urn filled with alcohol a necessary accessory for any occassion. Over the years, the position has experienced many permutations, all of which were extremely necessary to the evoltuon of the entire industry. In 1875 in Oklahoma City, Carlyle Duncan made great strides for the wino community when he exposed himself to a statue of Grover Cleveland. He also marked the first chronicled occurrence of public urination. He was a great man.
There is a fragile, symbiotic relationship between the wino and straight society. Both benefit but neither realizes the extent of the others' influence. The man talking frantically to himself about the failures of capitalism is not only a spectacle on the sidewalk, but occupies police officers, obliterates insecurities in paranoid businessmen, and enhances the general ambience of any city. Conversely for the wino, the city provides a canvas for observations, the buildings and parks create places for congregation, and passer-bys even occassionally contribute money to his habit.
So after a few months of horrifying introspection and self-discovery I realize that professional wino is probably the best suited job for me. I really enjoy drinking and consider myself pretty good at drinking. Furthermore, drinking outside and in parks is one of my favorite activities. I have ideas but lack the motivation to actually do anything with them. Therefore, a public forum to voice my opininons would be very fitting. Finally, I hate showers and any type of soap with a passion only matched by my hatred of those miserable hacks at Fisher Price. So keep your eye out in the major cities because Im training to be a professional wino.
Of course the fine folks who crafted the public education institutions decided to throw all these thirteen year olds into an old building, lined with linoleum floors and barbaric lockers. The thirteen year olds spend six hours of their day in these buildings learning things that they will never remeber and slowly discovering that the blond girl in the front row of biology class makes it difficult to stand up when the bell rings. In a few years of middle school all the kids are assumed to have worked their kinks out and realize that deodorant is a necessary daily application. Thus, the young people are sent to the next rung called high school. Here the students learn business by selling drugs and discover the least amount of effort to put forth to get through to the next level. Ironically these important lessons are just a side effect of the institution, unintended yet accomplished. Finally, when a student's time has expired in high school, most students go to more school. College, however, begins the long circle back to childhood. For the first time in awhile choice, and not just the illusion of choice is available for the student. There is a plethora of class choices and even choices for teachers. Most students even move away from their home.
But up until now, this horrible cycle is not really my point of concern. We all go through it, and it is as futile as trying to squeeze a condom over Star Jones' head. Perhaps, it has to do with my age or the effects of psychedelic drugs, but presently I am considering exactly what I want to do post college. The over fifteen years of schooling has taught me that I don't need anymore, and most of the jobs seem horribly unamusing and minimal in their benefits. However, their is one job I believe I am perfectly suited for: professional wino. Wino, as a profession, dates back centuries to ancient Greek society when highest breed of intellectual first decided to make an urn filled with alcohol a necessary accessory for any occassion. Over the years, the position has experienced many permutations, all of which were extremely necessary to the evoltuon of the entire industry. In 1875 in Oklahoma City, Carlyle Duncan made great strides for the wino community when he exposed himself to a statue of Grover Cleveland. He also marked the first chronicled occurrence of public urination. He was a great man.
There is a fragile, symbiotic relationship between the wino and straight society. Both benefit but neither realizes the extent of the others' influence. The man talking frantically to himself about the failures of capitalism is not only a spectacle on the sidewalk, but occupies police officers, obliterates insecurities in paranoid businessmen, and enhances the general ambience of any city. Conversely for the wino, the city provides a canvas for observations, the buildings and parks create places for congregation, and passer-bys even occassionally contribute money to his habit.
So after a few months of horrifying introspection and self-discovery I realize that professional wino is probably the best suited job for me. I really enjoy drinking and consider myself pretty good at drinking. Furthermore, drinking outside and in parks is one of my favorite activities. I have ideas but lack the motivation to actually do anything with them. Therefore, a public forum to voice my opininons would be very fitting. Finally, I hate showers and any type of soap with a passion only matched by my hatred of those miserable hacks at Fisher Price. So keep your eye out in the major cities because Im training to be a professional wino.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Stucco
Now I usually don't consider myself an authority on wall textures, but my friend Steve recently made me painfully aware of the material that covers my surroundings. I have known Steve since I was very young; however, until about two years ago we only spoke infrequently at family gatherings. College served to renew our friendship. Living in the same city, we often met at the bocce courts or the local meat distributor.
After his father's symposium on public health in Estonia, we were cruisin' the sidewalks all hopped up on the fall air when he stopped, suddenly. He immediately buckled over in pain. While I was concerned for his well-being, I could not determine what exactly prompted his pain. Furthermore, there was no visible area of concentration; his whole body seemed to be pulsating in pain.
There was a man selling sno-kones down the street. I figured if anything in the world could help my friend Steve at that particular moment it would have to be a sno-kone. The glorious union of ice and sugar-syrup was enough to brighten up even a bathroom attendant at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. I assessed the situation and decided on sno-kone.
When I returned with the mound of colored ice he was briefly relieved and thanked me repeatedly for the gesture. Then he took the kone and inserted it directly into his rectum. The insertion was done with such force that the syrup at the bottom leaked onto the sidewalk. The paper was severely punctured, and his hands were stained with syrup and ass juice. However, his face immediately fell back to its normal form. His legs stopped twitching, and the color returned to all his appendages. I was pleased he was better and didn't really need an explanation for the outburst, but halfway down the sidewalk he turned to me and said, "Sorry, but I always get hemorrhoids when I pass stucco walls. It's an affliction I inherited from my great uncle."
After his father's symposium on public health in Estonia, we were cruisin' the sidewalks all hopped up on the fall air when he stopped, suddenly. He immediately buckled over in pain. While I was concerned for his well-being, I could not determine what exactly prompted his pain. Furthermore, there was no visible area of concentration; his whole body seemed to be pulsating in pain.
There was a man selling sno-kones down the street. I figured if anything in the world could help my friend Steve at that particular moment it would have to be a sno-kone. The glorious union of ice and sugar-syrup was enough to brighten up even a bathroom attendant at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. I assessed the situation and decided on sno-kone.
When I returned with the mound of colored ice he was briefly relieved and thanked me repeatedly for the gesture. Then he took the kone and inserted it directly into his rectum. The insertion was done with such force that the syrup at the bottom leaked onto the sidewalk. The paper was severely punctured, and his hands were stained with syrup and ass juice. However, his face immediately fell back to its normal form. His legs stopped twitching, and the color returned to all his appendages. I was pleased he was better and didn't really need an explanation for the outburst, but halfway down the sidewalk he turned to me and said, "Sorry, but I always get hemorrhoids when I pass stucco walls. It's an affliction I inherited from my great uncle."
Monday, December 20, 2004
My Feet Don't Talk, but They Should
When I was nine years old I had a chance encounter with a schizophrenic shoe sales man. He worked at Nickel Cent Shoes on the corner of Thompson and Hill Street. I initially went in for a new pair of thong sandals, the kind that have the flimsy rubber soles and squeek when you walk on linoleum. My foot has an awkward arch that seems to plateau in the middle and jut violently down toward my toes. Usually the inexperienced salesperson assumes I have a high arch and emerges from the backroom with a Dr. Scholl's insole.
However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.
While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.
As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.
However, the sales man at Nickel Cent immediately identified my unusual foot structure. He slowly massaged the arch, letting his pudgy fingers ride the curves of my flesh. Even for a nine year old his touch was quite sensual, and I admired the way his fat Polynesian stomach rolled over his polyester slacks. Of course our mental intimacy was violently interrupted by Bertha, a forty-seven year old retired actress currently auditioning for an informercial. My husky salesman dove headfirst into a speech detailing the three speeds of a vacuum sealer. While the sealer provided a useful accessory in the kitchen, its capabilities were literally endless. I had never even heard of vacuum sealing a dog's leash, but apparently it is one of the most neglected items.
While my knowledge of mental disorders was quite limited at age nine, I did know one thing: the salesman had an obvious knowledge for the contours of the underdeveloped foot. In fact his knowledge was so clear by our brief encounter that I would have easily accepted his suggestions to any of my other appendages. I knew I had to seize the moment.
As soon as Bertha left the scene in favor of a craft services employee I bought the shoes my friend recommended. While I never saw the man again, his memory has become a breathing extension of my soul.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Door to Door Ultimate Fighting
Yesterday, halfway through the an intense fourth round of the men's 400 meter backstairs I heard the doorbell ring. I wasn't planning to answer the door because I believe the doorbell is a primitive device representative of the deep distrust that lies latent in American culture. Not only are they condescending to the visitor, reducing the entirety of his character to several taps on the xylophone, but it also creates an inaccurate measure of status. For some reason most people acquiesce to the notion that the more intricate a doorbell sounds the higher a person sits on the social ladder. This same philosophy has been transferred to cell phone use. Despite my strong convictions, the doorbell ringing was relentless, and I decided to meet this mysterious visitor.
My visitor was a skinny dark-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. His pastel tie did little to distract from the wrinkled white shirt tucked loosely into his faded blue jeans. I noticed that he was gripping a stack of pamphlets, but before I could ask him about the papers he began to speak.
"Hello sir," he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"
Wow, what a question. I mean I never thought that Jesus would be a savior.
"Holy shit man," I answered. "You mean to tell me that the Mexican guy down the street with the funny looking five-year old is my savior?" I could hardly contain my excitement. To think that a guy in my very own town could save me.
The man looked confused. He raked his hand slowly through his dark hair as if to catch something in the soft thicket.
"No sir, I believe you are mistaken. See I am from the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and I would like you to join me in religious devotion." He was speaking quickly, and had I not poured whiskey into my morning coffee his words may not have been so potent. I saw through his pretentious civilities to reveal the true motive. He wanted to rumble, and I sure was ready.
"I see, sir," I said, backing my words with a raw sting of sarcasm. "Well I say my God is the savior." He wasn't shocked by my statements. He wasn't even disgusted. Instead, he smiled and threw the stack of pamphlets to my feet.
The next seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds were probably the most physically draining of my entire life. He began with a quick jab to my lower back. I countered with a kick to his shin, then grabbed him by the shoulders. We rolled on the floor for a few minutes and then began eye gauging and biting. By the end I had a road map of black and blues leading to a cracked incisor. He was equally "tore-up" to the point that he couldn't even think about getting tipsy in the club later.
After the initial fighting was over, we realized the futility in continuing the hand to hand combat. Without any words exchanged we shook hands, made sweet love, and waved goodbye. I watched him drive to the next house still soar from his half-nelson.
My visitor was a skinny dark-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. His pastel tie did little to distract from the wrinkled white shirt tucked loosely into his faded blue jeans. I noticed that he was gripping a stack of pamphlets, but before I could ask him about the papers he began to speak.
"Hello sir," he said, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?"
Wow, what a question. I mean I never thought that Jesus would be a savior.
"Holy shit man," I answered. "You mean to tell me that the Mexican guy down the street with the funny looking five-year old is my savior?" I could hardly contain my excitement. To think that a guy in my very own town could save me.
The man looked confused. He raked his hand slowly through his dark hair as if to catch something in the soft thicket.
"No sir, I believe you are mistaken. See I am from the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and I would like you to join me in religious devotion." He was speaking quickly, and had I not poured whiskey into my morning coffee his words may not have been so potent. I saw through his pretentious civilities to reveal the true motive. He wanted to rumble, and I sure was ready.
"I see, sir," I said, backing my words with a raw sting of sarcasm. "Well I say my God is the savior." He wasn't shocked by my statements. He wasn't even disgusted. Instead, he smiled and threw the stack of pamphlets to my feet.
The next seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds were probably the most physically draining of my entire life. He began with a quick jab to my lower back. I countered with a kick to his shin, then grabbed him by the shoulders. We rolled on the floor for a few minutes and then began eye gauging and biting. By the end I had a road map of black and blues leading to a cracked incisor. He was equally "tore-up" to the point that he couldn't even think about getting tipsy in the club later.
After the initial fighting was over, we realized the futility in continuing the hand to hand combat. Without any words exchanged we shook hands, made sweet love, and waved goodbye. I watched him drive to the next house still soar from his half-nelson.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Conventions=Boobies
With the success of Girls Gone Wild, it was only a matter of time before every sexually frustrated college student with a camcorder and a six beer buzz was making documentaries about the female form. We all remeber the subpar spinoffs such as Girls Gone to McDonald's, which included a strangely erotic scene with a tub of Big Mac Special Sauce. Of course, this voyeuristic artform reached an all time low with the DVD reality series, "Which One is My Sister?" in which unknowing young men were tricked into uncomfortable and socially unacceptable relationships. I do not feel the need to elaborate on this sac of cinematic vomit.
However, it seems the latest offering from our young filmmaking friends is rather promising: Girls Gone to the Conventions. Let's get serious, convention is a fancy word for weeklong alcohol binges in the comfort of like-minded individuals. Would it be unreasonable to assume that at some point during the debauchery there was the occasional congressional titty-slip? Whether it was voluntary or simply the result of a poorly tailored business suit, delegates can easily revert back to drunk college girls when they're in front of the camera lens. With the such high profile names making appearances on the $9.99 DVD, it should be no surprise to see a variety of lawsuits spring up in the next few months. Bill Clinton was even in the house on Monday night.
I am completely in favor of hedonistic, multi-day events to celebrate allegiance to a particular person or organization, and I think it is only necessary and arguably part of one's civic duty to document and capitalize on the exploits of these "political parties."
However, it seems the latest offering from our young filmmaking friends is rather promising: Girls Gone to the Conventions. Let's get serious, convention is a fancy word for weeklong alcohol binges in the comfort of like-minded individuals. Would it be unreasonable to assume that at some point during the debauchery there was the occasional congressional titty-slip? Whether it was voluntary or simply the result of a poorly tailored business suit, delegates can easily revert back to drunk college girls when they're in front of the camera lens. With the such high profile names making appearances on the $9.99 DVD, it should be no surprise to see a variety of lawsuits spring up in the next few months. Bill Clinton was even in the house on Monday night.
I am completely in favor of hedonistic, multi-day events to celebrate allegiance to a particular person or organization, and I think it is only necessary and arguably part of one's civic duty to document and capitalize on the exploits of these "political parties."
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