I do not understand the logic behind celebratory riots. Many riots you hear about are celebrations of a joyous occasion, like your stupid local sports team winning a championship. The thought process (though I doubt there's much thinking involved) seems to go something like this: "After a long, arduous season filled with ups and downs culminating in a nail-biting final game in which our team manages to pull through against all odds and win, bringing hope and boundless joy to our city, I think I'll express my utter glee by destroying shit. Nothing says 'this is the happiest moment of my life' like a nice bottle to a cop's head, or maybe a structure fire if I'm really feeling bubbly. I love my city! Now let's burn this city down!'"
I can understand rioting if you're pissed off. Hell, I got caught in the middle of a riot in Barcelona that started in protest of a law that banned drinking in the streets (by 'caught in the middle' I mean I eagerly planted myself smack dab in the middle of the last stronghold of rioters. I immediately regretted that decision). You cops won't let us drink a bottle of vodka in the street among friends? How about I fill said bottle with gasoline, stuff an oily rag in the top, light the rag, and throw the fiery concoction at you? I knew I was in the wrong party when they started serving Molotov cocktails. Not to be outdone, the uniformed hosts then started playing a perennial party favorite: firing crowd control bean bags from shotguns indiscriminately at the crowd.
As stupid as that riot was (almost all riots are stupid), at least it was out of anger. If I won the lottery, I'm almost certain my reaction wouldn't be to punch the nearest person in the mouth. That makes about as much sense as rioting in celebration.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
I want to be a wine connoisseur, I really do. When I choose a bottle, I want to be able to recite the family history of the charming old Italian family that's run that specific vineyard for centuries. I want to cork the bottle with a grace that comes from years of opening bottles and enjoying them in good company. When I expertly pour the first glass, I want to place the lip of the glass just beneath my sensitive nostrils and, before daring to whet my lips, take a deep whiff of the aromatic nectar that brings me back to the autumn afternoon in Tuscany when I first tasted that grape. When I press my lips to the glass, eyes closed, and let the mahogany-colored liquid glide onto my tongue, I want to be inundated with the rich flavors and intricate subtleties of the grape; with each subsequent sip, I want to be able to better identify the type of wood the wine was cased in and say things like, "ah yes, the palette is graced with hints of tobacco and pepper, the bouquet haunted by the lingering memory of autumn peaches."
Wait a second, I hate those people! Why the fuck would I want to drink something that tastes like tobacco and pepper? "Hey, have you tried the new Dr. TobaccoPepper Lite? Same great tobacco and pepper taste with half the calories!" And how can wine taste like tobacco? You're full of shit. There is probably a handful of people in the world whose senses of taste and smell are so freakishly refined that they can actually dissect a wine and determine its individual flavors. But I thought wine is just made from grapes. How the hell did peaches get in there? In my mind, bouquets are over-priced bundles of flowers and tissue paper that are useless after a few days when the flowers die.
So I guess I'm a bit conflicted over my wine desires. On the one hand, I'd like to look sophisticated and mature in front on a nice date or in the company of adults. On the other hand, I don't want to have to punch myself in the face for being a pretentious prick. So until I sort out these conflicting emotions, when I'm on a date it'll be the usual, which is the second-cheapest bottle on the menu. That shows the girl you're a shrewd shopper, but you still have some class. And in the company of adults, I'll stick to saying I love the wine they serve me even when I hate it, and trying to stop myself from knocking back three glasses when I do like it. It's worked for me so far.
Wait a second, I hate those people! Why the fuck would I want to drink something that tastes like tobacco and pepper? "Hey, have you tried the new Dr. TobaccoPepper Lite? Same great tobacco and pepper taste with half the calories!" And how can wine taste like tobacco? You're full of shit. There is probably a handful of people in the world whose senses of taste and smell are so freakishly refined that they can actually dissect a wine and determine its individual flavors. But I thought wine is just made from grapes. How the hell did peaches get in there? In my mind, bouquets are over-priced bundles of flowers and tissue paper that are useless after a few days when the flowers die.
So I guess I'm a bit conflicted over my wine desires. On the one hand, I'd like to look sophisticated and mature in front on a nice date or in the company of adults. On the other hand, I don't want to have to punch myself in the face for being a pretentious prick. So until I sort out these conflicting emotions, when I'm on a date it'll be the usual, which is the second-cheapest bottle on the menu. That shows the girl you're a shrewd shopper, but you still have some class. And in the company of adults, I'll stick to saying I love the wine they serve me even when I hate it, and trying to stop myself from knocking back three glasses when I do like it. It's worked for me so far.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Lack of Lactose
It's all about the milk, I tell ya'. And by 'it' I mean athleticism and muscles. You see, it's a known fact that Jews don't exactly excel in athletics on a large scale. When you see a big, beefy linebacker coming off a high school football field, chances are he isn't a Schwartz. And chances are he drinks milk with dinner.
Growing up, I would never have milk with dinner. I would drink it after as a healthy frosty dessert beverage, and indeed I really did and do love the stuff. I just never drank that much of it. I've asked my Jewish friends about their milk-drinking habits growing up, and they too did not report drinking milk with dinner.
However, when I would eat dinner at a non-Jewish friend's house, there would be a tall glass of milk in front of my plate. In college, my gentile friends would wash down their tray of refried garbage at the dining hall with a glass of 2%. I wouldn't think anything of this if it weren't for the blaring difference in physical size and athleticism between us Jews and them non-Jews. I would have sprained my ankle just stepping foot onto a high school football field. My Jewish friends in high school were on the same level of fragility. I'd watch in amazement as my Christian counterparts lifted heavy weights, got big and strong, and competed in intense physical competitions. I, on the other hand, pulled a muscle bowling for the bowling team. That was my only varsity letter. Bowling was also the only high school sport in which you could smoke cigarettes and eat cheese fries during an athletic competition.
But back to milk. I really think Jewish parents are turning their children into fragile weaklings by depriving them of their needed calcium and other nutrients. Could it be that they want to keep their precious little babies off the dangerous football field and in their rooms doing homework? Perhaps. But I think we deserve an equal chance at excelling in athletics, a field we've been falling short in ever since basketball players stopped shooting foul shots underhand. (Dad, I know shooting foul shots underhand is actually an accurate method once you learn how to do it, and that these overpaid players who can't make foul shots could improve their free throw percentage drastically by learning to do it underhand. But it's just lame. Really lame. And it makes us look bad.)
Growing up, I would never have milk with dinner. I would drink it after as a healthy frosty dessert beverage, and indeed I really did and do love the stuff. I just never drank that much of it. I've asked my Jewish friends about their milk-drinking habits growing up, and they too did not report drinking milk with dinner.
However, when I would eat dinner at a non-Jewish friend's house, there would be a tall glass of milk in front of my plate. In college, my gentile friends would wash down their tray of refried garbage at the dining hall with a glass of 2%. I wouldn't think anything of this if it weren't for the blaring difference in physical size and athleticism between us Jews and them non-Jews. I would have sprained my ankle just stepping foot onto a high school football field. My Jewish friends in high school were on the same level of fragility. I'd watch in amazement as my Christian counterparts lifted heavy weights, got big and strong, and competed in intense physical competitions. I, on the other hand, pulled a muscle bowling for the bowling team. That was my only varsity letter. Bowling was also the only high school sport in which you could smoke cigarettes and eat cheese fries during an athletic competition.
But back to milk. I really think Jewish parents are turning their children into fragile weaklings by depriving them of their needed calcium and other nutrients. Could it be that they want to keep their precious little babies off the dangerous football field and in their rooms doing homework? Perhaps. But I think we deserve an equal chance at excelling in athletics, a field we've been falling short in ever since basketball players stopped shooting foul shots underhand. (Dad, I know shooting foul shots underhand is actually an accurate method once you learn how to do it, and that these overpaid players who can't make foul shots could improve their free throw percentage drastically by learning to do it underhand. But it's just lame. Really lame. And it makes us look bad.)
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Allow Me to Explain Myself...
I apologize for the rash of poetry posts. And no, I did not write all of those last night. I lack the drugs, depression, and/or insane talent to spew out 6 poems in a few minutes. All except for the one with the gnarly gramps were written by me a couple of years ago in Sophomore Poetry Workshop, a class at Syracuse that was certainly sophomoric. Any child who talks constantly when the teacher is talking is absolutely absurd, especially when the child is a 20-year-old college student. I was in more functional classrooms back in elementary school.
But even bigger than the class was the system it was in. What kind of well-regarded, heinously expensive liberal arts school offers but one single poetry workshop, AND ONLY FOR SOPHOMORES?! What!? Obviously my schedule both semesters sophomore year didn't allow me to take the goddamn class. Then the next year as a junior, it would only be natural that I had to get a petition filled out which bestowed upon me, a weird junior outsider who had no natural-born right to enroll in the only poetry workshop available, the honor of being ALLOWED to take the shitty class. You could cut the tension with a knife the day I came clean to the sophomores about my true grade level.
To be fair, the class wasn't all terrible, considering it got me to actually start writing poetry again. I posted some of those very poems last night because the mood just struck me to dig up some writing from the past. I hope you enjoyed.
But even bigger than the class was the system it was in. What kind of well-regarded, heinously expensive liberal arts school offers but one single poetry workshop, AND ONLY FOR SOPHOMORES?! What!? Obviously my schedule both semesters sophomore year didn't allow me to take the goddamn class. Then the next year as a junior, it would only be natural that I had to get a petition filled out which bestowed upon me, a weird junior outsider who had no natural-born right to enroll in the only poetry workshop available, the honor of being ALLOWED to take the shitty class. You could cut the tension with a knife the day I came clean to the sophomores about my true grade level.
To be fair, the class wasn't all terrible, considering it got me to actually start writing poetry again. I posted some of those very poems last night because the mood just struck me to dig up some writing from the past. I hope you enjoyed.
Your Hands Will Grow
(Photo: 'Generations' by photographer Steven L. Miller. slmblackandwhitephotography.com/)
Your hands will grow.
Calluses will cake your steady palms
and gain character with every touch.
Your nose will grow,
Broad and strong and pointed straight into the future.
Your pudgy cheeks will stretch with time
And sprout prickly hairs that will tickle
Your children’s faces, and they will laugh.
Your small frame will grow wide and full,
Sturdy yet unassuming in silent masculinity.
Yes, you will grow, my boy,
Into the life of a man who now walks
Just over the horizon.
But your eyes, those eyes that even now
Know my soul and look on
In unabashed wonder,
Your eyes will never change.
A Case of the Mondays
Sunday sets in like a creeping suspicion,
Restless unease, a hint of a hangover.
Procrastination festers like a tumor;
So much to do and too much time to do it
So just waste away the day, regret the night
That soothes with a quick fix of television,
Empty Internet surfing and idle dreams
That shatter like bones from the piercing alarm.
Maybe this time my alarm will not go off
And I will fly in blissful slumber somewhere,
Anywhere, away from work and time and life,
Where there is no such thing as Monday morning.
Restless unease, a hint of a hangover.
Procrastination festers like a tumor;
So much to do and too much time to do it
So just waste away the day, regret the night
That soothes with a quick fix of television,
Empty Internet surfing and idle dreams
That shatter like bones from the piercing alarm.
Maybe this time my alarm will not go off
And I will fly in blissful slumber somewhere,
Anywhere, away from work and time and life,
Where there is no such thing as Monday morning.
Family Reunion
The day she told me, I saw the end in her eyes.
I saw the months of anguish, grueling nights
crawling into endless days of radiation
and nausea and despair. I saw her sitting,
her strength oozing away from her as slowly
as the drops from her intravenous bag dripped
silently into her tired veins. I felt my chest
tighten while I dropped the final rose onto her casket,
tears falling from the troubled sky as a boy
buried his mother. But on good days,
those precious times when hope abounded
and that knowing twinkle returned to her eye,
a mother held her child in her soothing arms
and death was a distant cousin to them.
I saw the months of anguish, grueling nights
crawling into endless days of radiation
and nausea and despair. I saw her sitting,
her strength oozing away from her as slowly
as the drops from her intravenous bag dripped
silently into her tired veins. I felt my chest
tighten while I dropped the final rose onto her casket,
tears falling from the troubled sky as a boy
buried his mother. But on good days,
those precious times when hope abounded
and that knowing twinkle returned to her eye,
a mother held her child in her soothing arms
and death was a distant cousin to them.
Going Home
The men stand in silence in the trench,
Smoke lingering like death’s opium,
Morbid serenity and souls gone numb;
They pay no heed to the vile stench.
Their rifles are sticks in their hands,
Useless ornaments for little boys’ wars
Yet they check and inspect them; menial chores
To steady themselves for the fight at hand.
The whistle blows and they ascend,
Charging up and out with primordial screams.
The machine guns howl and rip apart flesh
Yet their souls have no fear for bullets nor bombs.
Cigarettes and dreams are all that is left
When the ghosts among men go wandering home.
Smoke lingering like death’s opium,
Morbid serenity and souls gone numb;
They pay no heed to the vile stench.
Their rifles are sticks in their hands,
Useless ornaments for little boys’ wars
Yet they check and inspect them; menial chores
To steady themselves for the fight at hand.
The whistle blows and they ascend,
Charging up and out with primordial screams.
The machine guns howl and rip apart flesh
Yet their souls have no fear for bullets nor bombs.
Cigarettes and dreams are all that is left
When the ghosts among men go wandering home.
The Past
Let go of the dying past
that grips us all in its final breath.
Have no sympathy for its passing;
peaceful closure comes in death.
An infant’s cry is a final breath,
its first words like its last;
peaceful closure comes in death
as the boundless soul becomes the night.
Words, if true, will last forever
while falsities come and go with the wind.
Boundless is the soul transcending the body,
no earthly form to call it by.
Falsities disappear in the wind
like a thought, a dream, a grain of sand.
All from this earth must grow to die
for reasons unknown by the minds of men.
Thoughts are grains of sand in our dreams
that, like our souls, are wide and vast.
Live the life you wish to lead;
let go of the lifeless past.
that grips us all in its final breath.
Have no sympathy for its passing;
peaceful closure comes in death.
An infant’s cry is a final breath,
its first words like its last;
peaceful closure comes in death
as the boundless soul becomes the night.
Words, if true, will last forever
while falsities come and go with the wind.
Boundless is the soul transcending the body,
no earthly form to call it by.
Falsities disappear in the wind
like a thought, a dream, a grain of sand.
All from this earth must grow to die
for reasons unknown by the minds of men.
Thoughts are grains of sand in our dreams
that, like our souls, are wide and vast.
Live the life you wish to lead;
let go of the lifeless past.
The Wind Lets Go of Everything it Touches
(inspired by “A Lover’s Quarrel” by Sam Hamill)
The wind lets go of everything it touches,
The songs it whispers, tragic and true;
The quivering trees murmur in unison:
We walk on the faces of forgotten dead.
The wind lets go of everything it touches;
Things once blown settle down to die
As thoughts once spoken drift away in silent
Contempt for their brethren that went unsaid.
The wind lets go of everything it touches
As a Saint dies a little with each soul saved;
Permanence and time, eternity and God
Are transient words in our shallow heads.
The wind lets go of everything it touches
Skin and dust and water and stone;
The world is in reference to all worlds past
As we tiptoe on the faces of forgotten dead.
The wind lets go of everything it touches,
The songs it whispers, tragic and true;
The quivering trees murmur in unison:
We walk on the faces of forgotten dead.
The wind lets go of everything it touches;
Things once blown settle down to die
As thoughts once spoken drift away in silent
Contempt for their brethren that went unsaid.
The wind lets go of everything it touches
As a Saint dies a little with each soul saved;
Permanence and time, eternity and God
Are transient words in our shallow heads.
The wind lets go of everything it touches
Skin and dust and water and stone;
The world is in reference to all worlds past
As we tiptoe on the faces of forgotten dead.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Going to the Movies: A Fine American Tradition
I went to see the new Wes Anderson movie, 'Darjeeling Limited,' at one of the only independent movie theaters in the greater Boston area. I'm still not sure what I think of the movie, but the act of going to the movies brought up a lot of thoughts about just that, going to the movies.
The first part of going to the movies is picking the movie, a process that is often easier said than done. When there's a group of four friends going, usually three out of the four agree on a particular movie. But that fourth prick of a friend always has to make things complicated by saying something like, 'actually I read bad reviews.' No you didn't. If anything, you googled the movie, went to the first second-rate movie website you found, read the first unenlightened opinion by an over-critical hack, and took that as the word of God handed down to us mortals to warn us of the 90 minutes of hell that await us should we be so foolish as to see the particular movie.
Anyways, so that fourth 'friend' will pout and make a fuss about why the review he read is more valid than the reviews and opinions the other four friends have heard. He'll say something passive-aggressive like 'fine, I'll see it, but don't say I didn't warn you if it's bad.' What that really means is, 'if it's great I'll say it was okay, if it's okay I'll say it was bad, and if it's bad, I'll rub it in your faces like the self-righteous asshole I am.' Happens every time. Sometimes I'm even that prick. Everyone is once in a while.
But alright, let's assume you make it past the selection process. The friend who assumed the role of driver for the movie event will then be delayed by at least ten minutes every time without fail. You'll get a nice variety of excuses, like "my parents insisted at that moment on having a heart-to-heart talk with me that couldn't wait another minute," or "I had to wait for my sister to come back with the car." But the truth is usually something more along the lines of, "there was a sick shark special on Discovery Channel and a seal was getting tossed around like a bloody rag doll and I lost track of time." Those specials are highly hypnotic and can entrance even the most well-meaning driver, even when he's already fifteen minutes late in picking up his friends.
Now you've arrived at the theater and spent ten minutes finding parking. After all four of you instantaneously expelling from your brains all information relating to the location of the car in the enormous parking lot, you walk into the theater, the aroma of old popcorn grease wafting into your nostrils. You check the screen that shows the movie times and yell at the friend who told you all the wrong time. Hopefully he erred on the better side and you still have a little time before the movie. Hopefully the movie is also not sold out. I challenge you to tell me anything more disappointing than finding out the movie you got off the couch and got dressed to go see is sold out.
When it comes time to buy tickets, most people revert to their inner sheep and scuttle into the long line that snakes back and forth before the ticket counter. It seems the general population has seen the credit/debit card ticket machines over to the side, considered the time it would save them to buy tickets that way, and decided to go with their initial instinct to wait on the long line unnecessarily. "Yeah, I heard 'bout them machines where ya touch the screen and buy yer tickets with a credit card, 'n it saves ya a bunch a time. But that's just not me, ya know? This is how ma daddy bought movie tickets, and his daddy before him. I figure, why change now?"
After you get your tickets, there is the inevitable purchasing of snacks. I've gotten so accustomed to the major movie theater chains that when I get to the front of the snack line, I'm almost offended if they don't offer a family-size bucket o' popcorn. Even if I just ate a full meal, I must get at least a slightly-unnecessarily-large bag of popcorn. Lately I've been trying to limit the degree of nausea and self-loathing I feel during the movie snacking experience by buying a bottle of water instead of the usual gallon of sugardrink. The bottle of water is too big also, but having to pee really bad is better than getting diabetes in two hours.
With my $15 snack and drink in hand, it's time to find the specific theater my movie is playing in. Just like with the location of the parking spot, we all immediately forget which theater the movie's in after the miserable ticket-tearer teeny bopper looks at our tickets and tells us. My friends and I will wander around like lost puppies, forgoing the conventional wisdom of looking at our damn ticket stubs and instead hoping to just stumble upon the correct theater. After a few unnecessary minutes of searching, we enter the theater.
First you must walk to the center aisle and stand there like a jackass while your eyes adjust to the darkness. During this time, you feel like everyone in the theater is staring at you and judging you silently from the shadows. That's because they are. Finally someone from your group spots four empty seats nestled conveniently in the exact middle of the row. Hopefully the movie has already started, making your fellow movie patrons extra cheery as they are forced to stand up to let your late asses sidestep apologetically past them, spilling popcorn on them and brushing your butt against their crotches. Once you sit down, you must fumble to find the cup holder, then struggle for five minutes to take your coat off and put it comfortably behind you without knocking over your or your neighbors' drinks or elbowing them in the face. I usually give up and just keep my coat on my lap, regretting every second of it for the entire duration of the film.
Watching the movie is the only easy part of the process. Except for the occasional friend who is not familiar with any common film conventions that are used to move along the plot and foreshadow what's to come and thus must ask you for an in-depth explanation of every scene, I love watching movies.
What I hate more than any aspect of going to the movies is those assholes who feel the need to let an inanimate screen know just how much they loved the movie by applauding when the credits start to roll. Hey dumbasses, in case you're not familiar with how this goes, those actors (whose cellulite you've bought magazines to see) at some point in the past got together with a director, a producer, and a bunch of other people and they created a film. This film was then edited, and a series of watered-down, Wonderbread trailers were shown to the public to get the robotic masses to go see it. What you just saw here in this theater was that film. The actors are not here to hear and appreciate your applause. They are across the country, and have already made two equally terrible movies since they finished this one. So by applauding after the movie, the only people with which you are sharing your feelings about this movie are your fellow movie-watchers. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that I don't give a crap what you thought of the movie. Especially when we just finished watching Epic Movie (Yoni and I sadly waited five minutes before walking out of that Oscar-winner. A part of me died during those few minutes).
After spitting on the faces of everyone who worked on the movie by deciding to leave as soon as the credits start, it's time to revert back to a five-year-old and leave all your trash on the floor as you walk out of the theater. It's amazing how many of us do this, people who wouldn't do that anywhere else. I guess the movies just bring out the best of us. We spend too much money, stuff our fat faces with grease-laden junk food washed down with a gallon of liquid candy, sit on our fat asses for two hours amazed by flashing lights and loud noises, then leave a sticky mess of cardboard and crumbs behind us for some absolutely miserable janitor to come clean up. It's almost as American as Nascar.
The first part of going to the movies is picking the movie, a process that is often easier said than done. When there's a group of four friends going, usually three out of the four agree on a particular movie. But that fourth prick of a friend always has to make things complicated by saying something like, 'actually I read bad reviews.' No you didn't. If anything, you googled the movie, went to the first second-rate movie website you found, read the first unenlightened opinion by an over-critical hack, and took that as the word of God handed down to us mortals to warn us of the 90 minutes of hell that await us should we be so foolish as to see the particular movie.
Anyways, so that fourth 'friend' will pout and make a fuss about why the review he read is more valid than the reviews and opinions the other four friends have heard. He'll say something passive-aggressive like 'fine, I'll see it, but don't say I didn't warn you if it's bad.' What that really means is, 'if it's great I'll say it was okay, if it's okay I'll say it was bad, and if it's bad, I'll rub it in your faces like the self-righteous asshole I am.' Happens every time. Sometimes I'm even that prick. Everyone is once in a while.
But alright, let's assume you make it past the selection process. The friend who assumed the role of driver for the movie event will then be delayed by at least ten minutes every time without fail. You'll get a nice variety of excuses, like "my parents insisted at that moment on having a heart-to-heart talk with me that couldn't wait another minute," or "I had to wait for my sister to come back with the car." But the truth is usually something more along the lines of, "there was a sick shark special on Discovery Channel and a seal was getting tossed around like a bloody rag doll and I lost track of time." Those specials are highly hypnotic and can entrance even the most well-meaning driver, even when he's already fifteen minutes late in picking up his friends.
Now you've arrived at the theater and spent ten minutes finding parking. After all four of you instantaneously expelling from your brains all information relating to the location of the car in the enormous parking lot, you walk into the theater, the aroma of old popcorn grease wafting into your nostrils. You check the screen that shows the movie times and yell at the friend who told you all the wrong time. Hopefully he erred on the better side and you still have a little time before the movie. Hopefully the movie is also not sold out. I challenge you to tell me anything more disappointing than finding out the movie you got off the couch and got dressed to go see is sold out.
When it comes time to buy tickets, most people revert to their inner sheep and scuttle into the long line that snakes back and forth before the ticket counter. It seems the general population has seen the credit/debit card ticket machines over to the side, considered the time it would save them to buy tickets that way, and decided to go with their initial instinct to wait on the long line unnecessarily. "Yeah, I heard 'bout them machines where ya touch the screen and buy yer tickets with a credit card, 'n it saves ya a bunch a time. But that's just not me, ya know? This is how ma daddy bought movie tickets, and his daddy before him. I figure, why change now?"
After you get your tickets, there is the inevitable purchasing of snacks. I've gotten so accustomed to the major movie theater chains that when I get to the front of the snack line, I'm almost offended if they don't offer a family-size bucket o' popcorn. Even if I just ate a full meal, I must get at least a slightly-unnecessarily-large bag of popcorn. Lately I've been trying to limit the degree of nausea and self-loathing I feel during the movie snacking experience by buying a bottle of water instead of the usual gallon of sugardrink. The bottle of water is too big also, but having to pee really bad is better than getting diabetes in two hours.
With my $15 snack and drink in hand, it's time to find the specific theater my movie is playing in. Just like with the location of the parking spot, we all immediately forget which theater the movie's in after the miserable ticket-tearer teeny bopper looks at our tickets and tells us. My friends and I will wander around like lost puppies, forgoing the conventional wisdom of looking at our damn ticket stubs and instead hoping to just stumble upon the correct theater. After a few unnecessary minutes of searching, we enter the theater.
First you must walk to the center aisle and stand there like a jackass while your eyes adjust to the darkness. During this time, you feel like everyone in the theater is staring at you and judging you silently from the shadows. That's because they are. Finally someone from your group spots four empty seats nestled conveniently in the exact middle of the row. Hopefully the movie has already started, making your fellow movie patrons extra cheery as they are forced to stand up to let your late asses sidestep apologetically past them, spilling popcorn on them and brushing your butt against their crotches. Once you sit down, you must fumble to find the cup holder, then struggle for five minutes to take your coat off and put it comfortably behind you without knocking over your or your neighbors' drinks or elbowing them in the face. I usually give up and just keep my coat on my lap, regretting every second of it for the entire duration of the film.
Watching the movie is the only easy part of the process. Except for the occasional friend who is not familiar with any common film conventions that are used to move along the plot and foreshadow what's to come and thus must ask you for an in-depth explanation of every scene, I love watching movies.
What I hate more than any aspect of going to the movies is those assholes who feel the need to let an inanimate screen know just how much they loved the movie by applauding when the credits start to roll. Hey dumbasses, in case you're not familiar with how this goes, those actors (whose cellulite you've bought magazines to see) at some point in the past got together with a director, a producer, and a bunch of other people and they created a film. This film was then edited, and a series of watered-down, Wonderbread trailers were shown to the public to get the robotic masses to go see it. What you just saw here in this theater was that film. The actors are not here to hear and appreciate your applause. They are across the country, and have already made two equally terrible movies since they finished this one. So by applauding after the movie, the only people with which you are sharing your feelings about this movie are your fellow movie-watchers. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that I don't give a crap what you thought of the movie. Especially when we just finished watching Epic Movie (Yoni and I sadly waited five minutes before walking out of that Oscar-winner. A part of me died during those few minutes).
After spitting on the faces of everyone who worked on the movie by deciding to leave as soon as the credits start, it's time to revert back to a five-year-old and leave all your trash on the floor as you walk out of the theater. It's amazing how many of us do this, people who wouldn't do that anywhere else. I guess the movies just bring out the best of us. We spend too much money, stuff our fat faces with grease-laden junk food washed down with a gallon of liquid candy, sit on our fat asses for two hours amazed by flashing lights and loud noises, then leave a sticky mess of cardboard and crumbs behind us for some absolutely miserable janitor to come clean up. It's almost as American as Nascar.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I'm a Soul Man
This whole Judaism thing, I'm really in it for the food and the comedy. So for me, going home for the holidays is amazing because, well, it's going home, meaning there will be a feast for the eyes and the mouth. In fact, the only way I distinguish one holiday from the next is when there's an additional item at the table (i.e. melt-in-your-mouth latkes), or when the whole meal is all kinds of screwed up (i.e. the spectacle that is the seder plate). But whatever the holiday may be, it's an excuse to trek from near or far back to Aunt Sue's dinner table for some Jewish soul food.
If you haven't tried noodle kugel, you're wrong. There's really no excuse, unless you're not Jewish and do not have any Jewish friends, which I guess is actually a rather sizable portion of the population. But you're wrong anyway. And not just any crude kugel will do. This 'aint amateur hour. I'm talking slightly crisped and crunchy on the top, warm and gooey on the bottom kugel. The kind where the sweet chunks of apple and raisins compliment the soft cottage cheese (I think?) that melts on your tongue and forces your plate back into the center of the table for thirds and fourths. Yeah, that kind of kugel.
Or what about my Nanny's (that's grandma to you) brisket? Succulent slices of beef that taste like the cow was raised in a rich gravy marinade for its entire tragic but delicious life? What do you know about homemade gravy seasoned with the grease of a hard day's work in the kitchen? Come bathe some brisket in the good stuff at our dinner table, then come talk to me. Nothing maddens me more than generic, store-bought gravy.
Except store-bought blintzes. No other frozen food product has so consistently disappointed like those little sacks of artificial cheese or fruit. Please. My Grandma Claire spends all day peeling and pounding pounds of raw potatoes before even beginning to put her blintzes together. Want cheese blintzes? Don't go to her table unless you want them the right way, with a blend of farmer's and other sweet cheeses that perfectly compliments the fried exterior. And don't go to her table if you plan on putting ketchup on your blintzes; she has ejected many an unwise patron for less. Be smart, add a hearty dollop of sour cream to a plate full of cheese and potato blintzes and you'll swear your taste buds are lying to you 'cause anything that good can't be legal.
As for the other incentive to join the clan, the comedy: Larry David, Jackie Mason, Mel Brooks, sarcasm, Jerry Seinfeld, Jason Alexander, John Stewart, kvetching, late night show writers, Jewish grandmothers. That was not a complete sentence, nor was it a complete list of funny aspects and people that make me laugh when I think of my conspicuously-Jewish last name. But that's a whole different topic for a different day when it's not 12:30 AM and I don't have to wake up earlier than I'd like to.
If you haven't tried noodle kugel, you're wrong. There's really no excuse, unless you're not Jewish and do not have any Jewish friends, which I guess is actually a rather sizable portion of the population. But you're wrong anyway. And not just any crude kugel will do. This 'aint amateur hour. I'm talking slightly crisped and crunchy on the top, warm and gooey on the bottom kugel. The kind where the sweet chunks of apple and raisins compliment the soft cottage cheese (I think?) that melts on your tongue and forces your plate back into the center of the table for thirds and fourths. Yeah, that kind of kugel.
Or what about my Nanny's (that's grandma to you) brisket? Succulent slices of beef that taste like the cow was raised in a rich gravy marinade for its entire tragic but delicious life? What do you know about homemade gravy seasoned with the grease of a hard day's work in the kitchen? Come bathe some brisket in the good stuff at our dinner table, then come talk to me. Nothing maddens me more than generic, store-bought gravy.
Except store-bought blintzes. No other frozen food product has so consistently disappointed like those little sacks of artificial cheese or fruit. Please. My Grandma Claire spends all day peeling and pounding pounds of raw potatoes before even beginning to put her blintzes together. Want cheese blintzes? Don't go to her table unless you want them the right way, with a blend of farmer's and other sweet cheeses that perfectly compliments the fried exterior. And don't go to her table if you plan on putting ketchup on your blintzes; she has ejected many an unwise patron for less. Be smart, add a hearty dollop of sour cream to a plate full of cheese and potato blintzes and you'll swear your taste buds are lying to you 'cause anything that good can't be legal.
As for the other incentive to join the clan, the comedy: Larry David, Jackie Mason, Mel Brooks, sarcasm, Jerry Seinfeld, Jason Alexander, John Stewart, kvetching, late night show writers, Jewish grandmothers. That was not a complete sentence, nor was it a complete list of funny aspects and people that make me laugh when I think of my conspicuously-Jewish last name. But that's a whole different topic for a different day when it's not 12:30 AM and I don't have to wake up earlier than I'd like to.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Relinquished Lust
Alas, my lust for lox was satisfied this weekend by a platter of fresh lox still on the wax paper. Said lox was generously nestled in a bed of Philadelphia creaminess atop a well-done everything bagel, and upon the glistening fish I placed juicy chunks of fresh tomatoes wrapped in red onions. A cold tall glass of Tropicana extra pulp, the good stuff. Repeat the whole process again. Add two parts delicious homemade fruit tart (without the gelatinous goo that ruins store-bought tarts). That was how I broke my four-hour fast. It was a struggle, but I managed to make it from brunch to dinner without eating. I'm also going to heaven for sure.
Insurance, anyone?
Heaven is passing both tests by 9:30AM (I started at 8) and strolling into work in jeans with two certificates and a shit-eating grin.
Somehow I'm now legally allowed to sell property and casualty insurance (i.e. homeowners, auto, commercial, sailboats greater than 26 feet in length with outboard motors not to exceed 50 Hp, etc). I don't feel any more prepared than before I took the test, but a fancy piece of paper is a fancy piece of paper... I'm not asking questions.
Somehow I'm now legally allowed to sell property and casualty insurance (i.e. homeowners, auto, commercial, sailboats greater than 26 feet in length with outboard motors not to exceed 50 Hp, etc). I don't feel any more prepared than before I took the test, but a fancy piece of paper is a fancy piece of paper... I'm not asking questions.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Good Times
Hell is a 500-page Property and Casualty Licensing study book. I'm almost halfway done and I still have no idea what property and casualty mean. I thought I was just going to have to learn about auto insurance, but that would be too easy and would make too much sense, now wouldn't it? Instead, I've spent the last ten hours trying to cram my tired brain with volumes of absolutely useless information about fire damage, homeowners insurance, and boatowners insurance. That's right. Instead of jamming with my musician housemates (who have been rocking out all day and into the night in our basement), or getting drunk, or both (like I truly should be doing), I've been struggling to digest the driest minutia about the insurance you need to get for small watercraft and sailboats of up to 26 feet in length.
If I have to read one more 'whereby,' 'aforementioned,' or 'Covered losses payable under Coverages A or B will be paid without a deduction for depreciation subject to the following policy language," I'm going to start punching babies. And seeing as I still have more than half of this riveting bestseller left to tackle, I'd recommend you keep your newborns in sight.
Best weekend ever.
If I have to read one more 'whereby,' 'aforementioned,' or 'Covered losses payable under Coverages A or B will be paid without a deduction for depreciation subject to the following policy language," I'm going to start punching babies. And seeing as I still have more than half of this riveting bestseller left to tackle, I'd recommend you keep your newborns in sight.
Best weekend ever.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Sunset Longing
a martini glass sits empty
on a coffee table in Cape Cod
even the olive has been eaten
though he never cared much for olives
he usually garnished his life with useless glam
disguised as rustic beauty, a fully furnished bar
for no one, a coffee table straight out of a Hemmingway novel
that he never will read but nonetheless collects dust
in his library that doubles as the smoking room;
he hates smoke but chews cigars, twirls martini glasses
in the awkward silence of a desperate woman as she
crosses and uncrosses her legs, and this one is a brunette
and this one will be special, and this one stares blankly
out into his country promenade but will never stroll there
and her cosmopolitan is sipped for sipping sake but not drank,
he notices nothing and stares past her breasts, lost in loneliness
and liquor from his third martini of the night and man how he once
could drink a man under the table, but time has left him with nothing
more than a coffee table and an empty martini glass and a woman’s indentation on the couch.
------
That was a random poem I wrote based on that photo years ago that I just stumbled upon. To the photographer whose website I yanked the amazing photo from to fuel my creativity one night, I apologize for not asking your permission or giving you proper credit by name. If I remembered where the hell I got it from, I would have pursued the proper channels. Not that you will ever probably read this. I'm fully aware that this is blog number 1,562,987.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Empathy For the Devil
I'm a nice guy. I try to be friendly to all that I pass on the street. I even go so far as to (usually) be nice to people trying to 'sell' me something. Now, I used quotation marks because I mean sell in the general sense of trying to convince someone to do something (which doesn't always include buying something!). We've all been approached by countless 'sellers' in the streets, from the guy wearing headphones and a big cardboard sign on his front and his back advertising a blowout sale at Filene's Basement, to the bleeding-hearted, well-intentioned-but-really-annoying young people wearing a colored t-shirt with the logo of some environmental/public interest/animal welfare/obscure interest group. I have never been rude to these people; I'll always at least be respectful and give some half-assed blatant lie about why I can't possibly spare three minutes of my time.
Even though I'd always been respectful to these people, I had developed a disliking for them. Who were they to barge into my 'me time' while I'm strolling down the street and push some product or cause that has nothing to do with me? Man, I'd think, these people must be miserable getting rejected all day and having to set aside their shame to talk to anyone who dares pass. Then I had to hand out fliers on the street and try to talk to people for my job. And I discovered that it was indeed as miserable and shameless as I had expected, at least at first.
The first shot at being in a street team had me posted in the financial district of Boston. I figured that the business people there couldn't be as miserable and rushed and rude as they are in New York. I also had once figured that driving in Boston couldn't be worse than the stop-and-go nightmare that driving in New York can be. Apparently I'm wrong from time to time. Despite my shit-eating grin, professional attire, and riveting good looks, suit after miserable suit shot me down rudely. Whether it was being ignored, a cold glare, or a snide remark, the businesspeople of Boston were just not having it. As my colleagues came to me with empty hands, my two-inch thick stack of fliers seemed impossibly large.
It was during that confidence-shattering ordeal that I suddenly developed sympathy, or rather, empathy for all those annoying sellers I had kindly brushed off in the past. It’s fucking hard to do that stuff! I was just doing this as a small part of my job, but I knew there were people out there who did this full-time! How could they fall asleep at night with any amount of self-confidence? How could they wake up every morning to go face the brutal firing squad that is the general public? I couldn’t even begin to think of the answers to those questions.
That is, until I gave it another shot the next day. With the advice of a slightly older, wiser, and much-better-at-talking-to-girls-at-a-bar colleague, I switched to a quicker, less informative tactic. Instead of trying to tell people what I was giving them, I simply said, “Hey, check us out.” Much to my amazement, it actually worked! Gradually more and more people began to take the fliers. And even when people declined, the approach was so much quicker that I would be asking the next person two seconds later, making the whole operation more efficient and minimizing the pain of rejection. Now I actually enjoy handing out fliers, making the instantaneous judgment call in my head about which passers by would be receptive and which are too old, too young, too homeless, too rich, or too foreign to give a shit about what I was offering. Being a critical asshole is fun when no one else knows you’re being one.
So the lesson I learned is this: don’t hate on people trying to sell stuff on the street. If you’re not interested or are busy, it doesn’t take much effort to say no thanks with a smile. I can tell you from experience that those kind souls make the job much easier, and I actually feel good after someone rejects me with a smile, because I know it’s not personal. So street teams of the world, I am your friend.
Just don’t try to get me to donate $50 to save the fucking endangered pigtoe clams* or some other stupid crap. Cure cancer and AIDS, and eradicate poverty and violence, then come talk to me about helping some stupid animal that probably deserves to die anyways. Stupid clams.
* an actual endangered clam species Pleurobema georgianum
Even though I'd always been respectful to these people, I had developed a disliking for them. Who were they to barge into my 'me time' while I'm strolling down the street and push some product or cause that has nothing to do with me? Man, I'd think, these people must be miserable getting rejected all day and having to set aside their shame to talk to anyone who dares pass. Then I had to hand out fliers on the street and try to talk to people for my job. And I discovered that it was indeed as miserable and shameless as I had expected, at least at first.
The first shot at being in a street team had me posted in the financial district of Boston. I figured that the business people there couldn't be as miserable and rushed and rude as they are in New York. I also had once figured that driving in Boston couldn't be worse than the stop-and-go nightmare that driving in New York can be. Apparently I'm wrong from time to time. Despite my shit-eating grin, professional attire, and riveting good looks, suit after miserable suit shot me down rudely. Whether it was being ignored, a cold glare, or a snide remark, the businesspeople of Boston were just not having it. As my colleagues came to me with empty hands, my two-inch thick stack of fliers seemed impossibly large.
It was during that confidence-shattering ordeal that I suddenly developed sympathy, or rather, empathy for all those annoying sellers I had kindly brushed off in the past. It’s fucking hard to do that stuff! I was just doing this as a small part of my job, but I knew there were people out there who did this full-time! How could they fall asleep at night with any amount of self-confidence? How could they wake up every morning to go face the brutal firing squad that is the general public? I couldn’t even begin to think of the answers to those questions.
That is, until I gave it another shot the next day. With the advice of a slightly older, wiser, and much-better-at-talking-to-girls-at-a-bar colleague, I switched to a quicker, less informative tactic. Instead of trying to tell people what I was giving them, I simply said, “Hey, check us out.” Much to my amazement, it actually worked! Gradually more and more people began to take the fliers. And even when people declined, the approach was so much quicker that I would be asking the next person two seconds later, making the whole operation more efficient and minimizing the pain of rejection. Now I actually enjoy handing out fliers, making the instantaneous judgment call in my head about which passers by would be receptive and which are too old, too young, too homeless, too rich, or too foreign to give a shit about what I was offering. Being a critical asshole is fun when no one else knows you’re being one.
So the lesson I learned is this: don’t hate on people trying to sell stuff on the street. If you’re not interested or are busy, it doesn’t take much effort to say no thanks with a smile. I can tell you from experience that those kind souls make the job much easier, and I actually feel good after someone rejects me with a smile, because I know it’s not personal. So street teams of the world, I am your friend.
Just don’t try to get me to donate $50 to save the fucking endangered pigtoe clams* or some other stupid crap. Cure cancer and AIDS, and eradicate poverty and violence, then come talk to me about helping some stupid animal that probably deserves to die anyways. Stupid clams.
* an actual endangered clam species Pleurobema georgianum
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Common Courtesy
Is it just me, or is everybody fucking inconsiderate and oblivious? It seems that when people are at work or in small social settings, they’re pretty tolerable. But as soon as they step out into the public realm, their thin façade of common courtesy vanishes, revealing the thoughtless brutes they truly are.
Escalators are a prime example. Especially during morning and evening rush hours, when escalators in train stations are packed with frantic suits running up and down. Well, I’m one of those suits, and I’m running because I’ve calculated my morning commute precisely in order to maximize sleep while leaving a few precious minutes to grab an ice coffee and a muffin before hitting the workday. So it is with great dismay that I observe, almost daily, some oblivious buffoon parked obnoxiously on the left side of the escalator, a long line of late but too-polite businesspeople crammed behind him (though women are just as guilty), making faces of disgust and theatrically checking their watches. Is it not a well-understood rule of common courtesy—no, common decency—that the right side of an escalator is for lazy loafers, while the left side is for people in a rush? Most people seem to have gotten this routine down pat, but all it takes is one asshole to rebel against the system and clog the whole escalator!
While we’re on the topic of train stations, subways are another breeding ground of good manners. Whereas I’m generally a rusher on escalators and use the appropriate left lane to scamper up, when it comes to getting onto a subway car during rush hour, I’m more reserved. Why? Because the system does not work when everyone immediately bum rushes the doors like a rabid pack of tweens at some shitty MySpace emo band concert. There is a simple but time-tested logic that must be observed when it comes to busy subways. When the train comes to a stop and the doors open, THERE ARE PEOPLE INSIDE THE TRAIN THAT HAVE TO GET OUT BEFORE YOU CAN GET IN! As soon as the first shithead starts getting pushy at the front, everyone behind him starts pushing in too in lemming-like fashion, making it increasingly difficult for the people inside the train to get out and delaying the process for everyone involved. What has the world come to when subway operators actually have to get on the intercom to say, “Let the passengers exit the train before entering”? You’d expect a second grade teacher to tell that to her class of booger-eaters on their first class trip into adult, common sense society. Instead, a miserable train operator has to repeatedly tell that to grown adults. I love people.
Escalators are a prime example. Especially during morning and evening rush hours, when escalators in train stations are packed with frantic suits running up and down. Well, I’m one of those suits, and I’m running because I’ve calculated my morning commute precisely in order to maximize sleep while leaving a few precious minutes to grab an ice coffee and a muffin before hitting the workday. So it is with great dismay that I observe, almost daily, some oblivious buffoon parked obnoxiously on the left side of the escalator, a long line of late but too-polite businesspeople crammed behind him (though women are just as guilty), making faces of disgust and theatrically checking their watches. Is it not a well-understood rule of common courtesy—no, common decency—that the right side of an escalator is for lazy loafers, while the left side is for people in a rush? Most people seem to have gotten this routine down pat, but all it takes is one asshole to rebel against the system and clog the whole escalator!
While we’re on the topic of train stations, subways are another breeding ground of good manners. Whereas I’m generally a rusher on escalators and use the appropriate left lane to scamper up, when it comes to getting onto a subway car during rush hour, I’m more reserved. Why? Because the system does not work when everyone immediately bum rushes the doors like a rabid pack of tweens at some shitty MySpace emo band concert. There is a simple but time-tested logic that must be observed when it comes to busy subways. When the train comes to a stop and the doors open, THERE ARE PEOPLE INSIDE THE TRAIN THAT HAVE TO GET OUT BEFORE YOU CAN GET IN! As soon as the first shithead starts getting pushy at the front, everyone behind him starts pushing in too in lemming-like fashion, making it increasingly difficult for the people inside the train to get out and delaying the process for everyone involved. What has the world come to when subway operators actually have to get on the intercom to say, “Let the passengers exit the train before entering”? You’d expect a second grade teacher to tell that to her class of booger-eaters on their first class trip into adult, common sense society. Instead, a miserable train operator has to repeatedly tell that to grown adults. I love people.
Movin' On Up
As I sit contemplative at the computer, I am serenaded by the soundtrack of the night, the low roar of over-intoxicated, under-worked, horny-as-hell college folk gallivanting around the block and drinking themselves into youthful oblivion… those lucky bastards. I wish I could afford to be so carefree and stupid now. There’s no time for that after college. I’m tired right now. From working in an office all day. In college I’d take naps after I woke up in the afternoon. Now the idea of naptime is like a dirty thought I have to suppress when I’m at work, a forbidden fantasy ne’er to be mentioned in the office. I miss naps.
I also miss completing a ‘major’ assignment and knowing right after that I had literally no work to do for the next few days. That would be like you handing in a major report to your boss, and him saying “ya know what, Josh? I’m gonna’ let you do whatever the hell you want for the next two days. Sure, you should come to work, but relax, maybe wear some pajamas or something.” That’s exactly what if would be like.
But there definitely is something nice about getting dressed up early in the morning and heading off to work. Makes me feel less like a societal leech and more like a productive member of society. When I’m decked out in my dress shirt, slacks, and black dress shoes, people see me and think, “there’s a kid who works at an office gets coffee and filing papers, practically for free. He’s going places.” I must note that that’s not an accurate description of my job. I also answer phones. Check me out.
I also miss completing a ‘major’ assignment and knowing right after that I had literally no work to do for the next few days. That would be like you handing in a major report to your boss, and him saying “ya know what, Josh? I’m gonna’ let you do whatever the hell you want for the next two days. Sure, you should come to work, but relax, maybe wear some pajamas or something.” That’s exactly what if would be like.
But there definitely is something nice about getting dressed up early in the morning and heading off to work. Makes me feel less like a societal leech and more like a productive member of society. When I’m decked out in my dress shirt, slacks, and black dress shoes, people see me and think, “there’s a kid who works at an office gets coffee and filing papers, practically for free. He’s going places.” I must note that that’s not an accurate description of my job. I also answer phones. Check me out.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Lackluster Lox
How can it be that in a major port city that prides itself increasingly on being forward-thinking and gastronomically advanced, I can't find a goddamn piece of lox or nova that was fresh and sliced before my eyes (I'll get to the local bagels some other time)? Seafood restaurants abound, the ocean is literally right there...it's clearly not a location issue. They're already catching the salmon. Would it kill them to take a few out of the tons of salmon they bring in, smoke them up, and deliver them whole to one of the many Jewish delis in the area? I said a couple of salmon because I could count the number of Jewish delis in Boston on one hand.
One of the best parts of going to the bagel store when I was growing up was watching them take out the huge plate that proudly displayed the whole fish in all it's salty glory, and then gazing on as they prepared the feast. Every stroke of the knife was a daring exercise in hand control that brought me closer to putting the succulent slices of the sea into my salivating mouth. Or you could just rip open a vacuum-sealed pack and slap the over-preserved, rubbery, something's-not-quite-right-here chunks of smoked salmon onto your small, bland bagel. That's cool too.
It absolutely amazes me that everyone in the state puts up with this lackluster lox in a sea of fresh salmon. I don’t care what religion you are. If that religion lets you eat lox on a well done everything bagel with Philadelphia cream cheese, red onion, and a thin slice of tomato, you should try it, and you should like it. I guess it’s just what you get used to if you’re from here. I wonder if I grew up in Boston if I’d know that something was a bit off with my bagel and lox. Man, that’s some deep stuff.
Is it really that there aren’t enough Jews, ex-New-York-area residents, or Jewish ex-New-York-area residents to cause the Boston lox industry to grow ? Cause I can work on that. But I get the feeling that even if there were to be an influx of Manhattanites of the Hebrew persuasion, things would still be slow to change. Like pretty much everything that goes on in this state.
Alright, enough Boston bashing for me for one night. There will be plenty of time for that. But seriously man, get some fresh f*ing lox. You’re a real city.
One of the best parts of going to the bagel store when I was growing up was watching them take out the huge plate that proudly displayed the whole fish in all it's salty glory, and then gazing on as they prepared the feast. Every stroke of the knife was a daring exercise in hand control that brought me closer to putting the succulent slices of the sea into my salivating mouth. Or you could just rip open a vacuum-sealed pack and slap the over-preserved, rubbery, something's-not-quite-right-here chunks of smoked salmon onto your small, bland bagel. That's cool too.
It absolutely amazes me that everyone in the state puts up with this lackluster lox in a sea of fresh salmon. I don’t care what religion you are. If that religion lets you eat lox on a well done everything bagel with Philadelphia cream cheese, red onion, and a thin slice of tomato, you should try it, and you should like it. I guess it’s just what you get used to if you’re from here. I wonder if I grew up in Boston if I’d know that something was a bit off with my bagel and lox. Man, that’s some deep stuff.
Is it really that there aren’t enough Jews, ex-New-York-area residents, or Jewish ex-New-York-area residents to cause the Boston lox industry to grow ? Cause I can work on that. But I get the feeling that even if there were to be an influx of Manhattanites of the Hebrew persuasion, things would still be slow to change. Like pretty much everything that goes on in this state.
Alright, enough Boston bashing for me for one night. There will be plenty of time for that. But seriously man, get some fresh f*ing lox. You’re a real city.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Keep the Balls On the Court
I am not a homophobe. Nor am I a never-nude, that strange group whose intense fear of being naked was finally brought to our attention by the jean short-wearing Tobias. I just think that the male form is not all that pleasing to look at. In fact, sometimes it can be rather unsettling. I speak not of statuesque statues in art museums nor fine-tuned athletes, but of the fine specimens in health club locker rooms everywhere.
In every gym and health club I have been in, there is without fail a bustling locker room complete with steam rooms to relax in, open showers to rinse off in, and long benches on which to prop one leg up while drying off your hairy balls…all while discussing the vigorous handball game with your equally naked companions. It is truly a sight to see.
I simply don’t understand why so many gym-goers are so averse to using the towels provided by the facilities. Most times after I return to the locker room after a good swim or lifting session, I’m greeted by the rippling ass of an octogenarian sauntering obliviously across the locker room with his towel strung over his shoulder as if in some rebellious scoff at the oppressive restraints of towels (the fact that many of these streakers are also barefoot in a public shower facility is a whole different story altogether). This David-esque senior will usually strike up a conversation with another athletic grandfather whose fingertips are not the only body parts to have become shriveled by swimming and being alive most of the last century. Hairy prunes, anyone?
Now, I don’t have anything against nudity in general. When it involves women, I say go for it (although I have heard similar tales of saggy horror about women’s locker rooms too). When it comes to guys, I say do it within reason. In my book, any unsheathing of your sword other than while showering or changing is just gratuitous. And even while changing, a conversation should not stop you from putting on some goddamn underwear. It really seems that some of these guys engrossed in in-depth discussions about their exploits on the basketball court simply forget that their junk is just flopping around for the whole locker room to see.
So guys, especially really really old guys, keep the balls on the court. At least there, it would be funny to watch your gross display of athleticism. There’s nothing funny, however, about an 85-year-old dude’s balls.*
* Actually, an 85-year-old dude’s balls are very funny, but not when you’re confronted with them in person. It’s the idea of them, even the sound of that phrase, that is humorous.
In every gym and health club I have been in, there is without fail a bustling locker room complete with steam rooms to relax in, open showers to rinse off in, and long benches on which to prop one leg up while drying off your hairy balls…all while discussing the vigorous handball game with your equally naked companions. It is truly a sight to see.
I simply don’t understand why so many gym-goers are so averse to using the towels provided by the facilities. Most times after I return to the locker room after a good swim or lifting session, I’m greeted by the rippling ass of an octogenarian sauntering obliviously across the locker room with his towel strung over his shoulder as if in some rebellious scoff at the oppressive restraints of towels (the fact that many of these streakers are also barefoot in a public shower facility is a whole different story altogether). This David-esque senior will usually strike up a conversation with another athletic grandfather whose fingertips are not the only body parts to have become shriveled by swimming and being alive most of the last century. Hairy prunes, anyone?
Now, I don’t have anything against nudity in general. When it involves women, I say go for it (although I have heard similar tales of saggy horror about women’s locker rooms too). When it comes to guys, I say do it within reason. In my book, any unsheathing of your sword other than while showering or changing is just gratuitous. And even while changing, a conversation should not stop you from putting on some goddamn underwear. It really seems that some of these guys engrossed in in-depth discussions about their exploits on the basketball court simply forget that their junk is just flopping around for the whole locker room to see.
So guys, especially really really old guys, keep the balls on the court. At least there, it would be funny to watch your gross display of athleticism. There’s nothing funny, however, about an 85-year-old dude’s balls.*
* Actually, an 85-year-old dude’s balls are very funny, but not when you’re confronted with them in person. It’s the idea of them, even the sound of that phrase, that is humorous.
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