from 12/23/08

You're Not Majoring In Rocket Science, Are You?

Abby, that’s so funny, you ended your set with being Jewish on Christmas, that’s what I’m starting my set with! No, seriously, I’m just gonna touch on a few of these things cause I got other stuff to talk about, but as a Jew on Christmas, I can tell you about the mild undercurrent of Anti-Semetism found in the movie A Christmas Story. Yes, we all remember Schwartz, snotty little rat kid, you know, they didn’t even give him a first name for fuck’s sake! And they gave him the most Jewish sounding name possible. When Ralphie says the word “fuck,” it might has well have been like, “Where did you hear that word?”

“JEW!”

I can also tell you about the mental instability of the doll from Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. That’s right. Everybody asks why the doll is a misfit toy, she seems like a perfectly normal doll, well, she has mental problems. My personal theory is she’s a cutter. Because she fits the cutter profile: young, female, depressed.

Here’s what fits the Holiday Fear theme: Bill O’Reilly’s attempt to exclude all non-Christians from the holiday season by saying that the phrase “Happy Holidays” is an attempt by the political left-wing to destroy the great “American” tradition of Christmas. I wish I was kidding. Never mind that it originates in the Middle East, celebrates the birth of someone who’s Jewish and is essentially the co-opting of the pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice. Fucking asshole, I fucking hate him.

Now, what I also want to talk about is, one of my favorite shows ended last week: Celebrity Rehab. As a writer, reality TV offends me, but I love Celebrity Rehab. When it started this year there were a few people addicted to painkillers. Now, I work for a pharmaceutical advertising agency, and one of the drugs I work on is Opana, which is a painkiller. An Opiate painkiller, like Vicodin and Oxycodon, very addictive. Unfortunately, none of the cast members were addicted to Opana, so we missed out on that chance for free advertising.

My favorite person on the show is Amber Smith. She a model, very beautiful, and an actress, and I use the term loosely, she basically just sits there and smiles, although, I gotta give her mad props because she was in LA Confidential and that’s one of my favorite movies. She was the hooker cut to look like Rita Hayworth. Anyway, it turned out, on the show, she said that she’d prostituted herself, and as soon as I heard that, I went running for the cash machine. I mean, I probably couldn’t afford a whole session, but I should be able to scrape together fifty dollars, that ought to get me thirty seconds, that’s all I need. Twenty seconds even! Just in, bam, boom, out, there you go. Aw, doesn’t matter, if you have dvr you can freeze frame and take care of business for free. It’s good too, it’s also a good idea to get all your porn online, without magazines you’re saving paper. It’s masturbation gone green. So when you forget to throw out a can and someone hassles you, you can tell them you’re doing your part every day. Sometimes twice, it depends on the person.

Anyway, one of the other people is Gary Busy, because apparently he has nothing better to do than star in anti-American movies from Turkey about the Iraq war. Yeah, he played a Jewish doctor who vivisects Iraqi prisoners to sell their organs to people in New York.

(pause)

I realize that’s not a very happy story, so moving on, one of the things they did on the show was, they thought it would be nice for him to have a screening of The Buddy Holly Story. His defining role, his high point as an actor, Oscar nominated role. So Rod Stewart’s son, who as far as I know has never done anything except be in another reality show about being Rod Stewart’s son, says, “What’s it about?” As if the word, “Story” didn’t tip him off. It’s about dinosaurs. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK IT’S ABOUT?! So they told him it’s about Buddy Holly, and he goes, “Who’s Buddy Holly?” And Gary just stands there staring at him like he’s gonna stab him in the head, like he’s gonna punch him in the throat. Then he says,

“BUDDY HOLLY IS ONE OF THE FOREFATHERS OF ROCK AND ROLL.”

Which he is, Buddy Holly’s awesome. How much time do I have left?

“One minute, three seconds.”

Ok, that means I have time to sing a little Buddy Holly. This is my favorite song of his. I had to look up the lyrics on my phone.


(singing)
Dun dun dun dune
Be ne ne, be ne ne, BE NE NE

Blue days, black nights,
Blue tears keep on fallin' for you dear,
Now you're gone

Blue days, black nights,
My heart keeps on callin' for you dear,
And you alone

Memories of you make me sorry
I gave you reason to doubt me

But now you're gone
And I am left here all alone
With blue memories, I think of you

Thanks.

Namaste.

Author's Note:

I realize this rehashes some material from the previous post, but it seemed appropriate, timing wise. The person referred to in the beginning was the previous performer. I know it seems esoteric out of context but I like to transcribe the sets as accurately as memory allows.

from various Decembers over the past five years

Drop The BB Gun And Step Away From The Synagogue, Ralphie:

Answers To Various Christmas Special FAQ's

Q: How do you know so much about Christmas specials when you're Jewish?

I'm very much the pop-culture fan, and they're awesome, plus they virtually define the television experience in December. And there aren't too many Hanukkah specials, except for the Rugrats one. But most importantly, I grew up with Italian relatives. By marriage, my uncle, like a like of Jewish boys from Brooklyn, married an Italian girl, one Marie D'Natalie. We used to go to their house every year on Christmas Day. Then, when I was fifteen, they got divorced, and that was the end of my Christmas celebrations. I think I've been overcompensating ever since.

Q: What's your beef with A Christmas Story?

A Christmas Story is a great movie, and, this is in spite of its mild undercurrent of Anti-Semetism. Yeah I said it. Oh no? When Ralphie says the word "fuck," and his mother asks where he heard it, instead of admitting it's his father, who does he blame? SCHWARTZ. Ralphie blames the jew. And Schwartz, you'll remember, is also best known in that movie as the kid who got Flick to put his tongue on the flagpole so it'd get frozen. They made him a snotty little ratboy, the conniving cheater who jumped from the double-dog dare to the triple-dog dare. And not only him, his parents are so wicked and evil that without proof, they beat him so mercilessly that his screams are audible through the phone. And does Ralphie have any regrets? No, he lies in his bed that night and says that across town, Shwartz was, "getting his," despite the fact that in this instance, he didn't do anything. But he makes the jew the scapegoat. You know who else did that? Hitler. So, am I comparing the film's author Jean Shepherd to Hitler? Yes I am.

And if you want to talk subtle, they fucking named him Schwartz. They don't overtly say he's Jewish, but they not only gave him the most Jewish sounding name possible, they didn't even give him a fucking first name. They would have been more subtle if they'd just named him Christ-killer.

Still, great movie. Directed by Bob Clark, who also directed . . . anyone?

"Porky's."

That's right. Ralphie was played by Peter Billingsly, who's a producer now. He still acts occasionaly, most recently in "Elf." If you're thinking of seeing that, don't bother, it fucking sucks. The kid who played Scott Farkas still acts, he played the brother on Titus and has been in movies like Resident Evil: Apocolypse and Transformers. And Scotty Shwartz, we all know what happened to him.

"From child star to porn star."

That's right. Glad to see things worked out for him too.

Q: What were the Snowmeiser helpers?

I don't know, but those things freaked me the fuck out. They're mini-Snowmeisers or something, but when I was a kid, they gave me nightmares. I had this fucking dream that, not them, but this little creature like them, tiny little things moving around in that freaky stop-motion manner, had grabbed me and immobilized my arms and legs. Snowmeiser was cool but those little ones just looked fucking evil. I think that nightmare is the reason I didn't remember that special with the Heatmeiser and Snowmeiser, "Year Without A Santa Claus," I must have blocked it out of my memory. I didn't see it again until I was in college and when I saw those fucking things dancing with their hats and canes, my fucking jaw dropped.

Snowmeiser was played by Dick Shawn and the cool thing about him is that he died on stage. Not just on stage, he had a heart attack and nobody helped him because they thought it was part of the act. That is punk as fuck.

Q: In Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer, is the elf's name Hermy or Herbie?

This is probably the most asked question, and there's a definite answer. It's Hermy. It sounds like the elf nazi taskmaster calls him Herbie at one point, there's a theory that the name was changed mid-production.

Q: On the Island of Misfit Toys, what's wrong with the doll?

This is the biggest mystery of Christmas special lore. The dolly for Sue. Why is she a misfit? She looks like a perfectly fine doll, what exactly is wrong with her? Well, there's an official and an unofficial explanation. The official explanation is that, for whatever reason, she was cast off by her owner and is a misfit by virtue of being a reject.

The unofficial explanation is that she has mental problems. She could be bipolar because she obviously suffers from depression, and it's triggered pretty easily; one minute she's joyously singing, the next she's crying. My personal theory, I think she's a cutter. Because she fits the cutter profile: young, female, depressed. If she was constantly cutting herself and always needing to be stitched up, that'd be a pretty sensible reason to throw something out. Hopefully the child Santa found for her has access to psychiatric medication like Seroquel. That's the stuff Brittney Spears takes and you can see how well it worked for her. Maybe some Ambien too, at one point she says she doesn't have any dreams left. As long as she doesn't start doing any crazy shit in her sleep like climbing into Barbie's car, driving down the fucking stairs and crashing into the basement, she should have a happy existence until the kid grows up. Then she'll get her ass kicked out again and probably feel even worse, but hey, no one ever said sanity wasn't fleeting.

from 10/14/08

Why Don't You Forget The Moose For A Moment

Fear.

Republicans scare me, because they look just like people. The next and final presidential debate is tomorrow. I won't be watching, because they just infuriate me. I think the reason I get so filled with rage when I hear these motherfuckers talk is because I know there are people out there who believe their bullshit. Now, Obama has a lead right now but it's important that we stay on this course, because, there's still this cadre out there of undecided voters.

Now, undecided voters are the biggest fucking idiots on the planet. After all this time, how can you still have no opinion? And you probably know an undecided voter, you've talked to them, or you hear them ranting at a bar or something, and they'll say something like, "Well, I DON'T like John McCain, but Obama, I just don't know!"

"So your solution is to vote for McCain?!"

"No, I'm saying I just don't know."

"What the FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

It's obviously difficult to get through to these people, and I'm here to help. Now, if you're trying to sway one of these people, don't try to discuss the issues, because you're only gonna confuse them. Pick a superficial story, one that relates more to the candidate themself. A good example is the Gravina Island Bridge. You probably all know the story by now; in the 2005 Highway Bill 233 million dollars was earmarked to build a bridge to an island where fifty people live. It became a symbol of wasteful pork barrel spending and a national embarrassment, especially after congress wanted to divert part of it to help Katrina victims, and Alaska Senator Ted Stevens stood on the floor of congress shouting, "NO!!!." (pounding fist) You know, Ted Stevens, the one who's in jail now. So after it became embarrassing, they removed the earmark.

Here's what you might not know, "THEY KEPT THE MONEY!!!" Not earmarked for the bridge, but Alaska still kept the funds. Here's what you might not realize; they didn't give a fuck about a bridge. They didn't want a bridge, they wanted to bleed money from the government. And still, Sarah Palin,within a week of her candidacy, said in six or seven of her speeches, "I tooled the kengress, 'thenks, bet noo thenks." And by the way, let me just say, god bless Tina Fey for pointing out that Sarah Palin talks like a fucking reject from the movie Fargo. The press doesn't want to say that, it's not nice. They say it's "folksy." What the fuck is that, "folksy?" Woody Guthrie was folksy. Bob Dylan is folksy. Susan Vega is folksy. Sarah Palin should have been the one in that fucking wood chipper!

Aaaaaand I sense I've gone too far. Morbid sense of humor. Don't judge me.

So anyway, to explain this issue to an undecided voter, you've got to give them a way to relate to the material. So just say,

"Ok, so, Paris Hilton asks her dad for five thousand dollars to buy an iPod. He says ok, and lays five thousand dollars on the table. Then somebody, I don't know, maybe Nicky, says, 'Paris, wait a minute, iPods don't cost that much. Plus you only have two cd's and they're both Maroon 5.' So Paris proudly says she's not buying the iPod to TMZ or Page Six or whoever the fuck it is these people talk to. She KEEPS the money, and spends it on what she really wanted to: shoes, cocaine and crates of condoms."

Now, the Republicans are content to let Sarah Palin settle in this role of mudslinger so McCain can appear to be taking the high road. And the issue she was bringing up last week was Paul Ayers, who was a member of the Weathermen back in the fucking '60s. They're making a big deal over the fact that he and Barack were on the same charity board ten, fifteen years ago, and he threw him a fundraiser or something. So Sarah Palin goes on about Barack pals around with terrorists. This is when her husband, who I assume she pals around with, was part of an Alaskan separatist group. Fucking Alaska. You know, they keep saying she's a former beauty queen. Yeah, in Wasilla, a city with the same population as this fucking block. She wasn't Miss Alaska, she took third. She got Miss Congeniality. If there was ever a time when Sarah Palin was the most congenial woman in Alaska, I say, let it go. Fine, see ya. I don't a fuck about your polar bears, your ice fields, I don't care how much I loved the show Northern Exposure, let Alaska go.

And speaking of that, remember Cynthia Geary? The blonde actress, she played Shelly the dumb waitress. She wasn't really acting. I remember she was on the Arsenio Hall Show back in the day, and she was saying how much she liked living in Seattle, that's where they filmed the show. And she goes, "And there's cool music! You know, Nirvana's from Seattle."

Nirvana's from Seattle? Really? Wow, I never heard that. Like she's making a fucking revelation. I know I sound like I've gone off on an irrelevant tangent, but I said that to tell you this, these are the motherfuckers who vote. So stay the course, ROCK THE VOTE, AND FUCK THE REPUBLICANS!

NAMASTE, MOTHERFUCKERS!

from 4/23/08

Michael Stuart, You Hurt My Feelings

Last summer, I was over at Slainte, with some of our friends, Michele was there, Courtney was there, and a few others, I don't remember. And I started talking to these two girls. I was drunk, yes, but not drooling crazy fall down drunk or anything. We were having a pleasant conversation, they were actually doing most of the talking, so I know I wasn't bothering them. Then out of no where, for no reason at all, the bartender appears and says, "You have to leave."

I was stunned, so I just said, "Excuse me?"

He said, "Yes, you have to go away."

I was too shocked to say anything, and since I was gonna go in a minute anyway, I politely said, "Nice to meet you," and went back to rejoin my friends. After about an hour, everyone left. Before I did, I had some unfinished business, so I went back to the bar, went to the bartender and said, "Hey." He smiled and leaned in, and I said, "You're a fucking asshole."

I turned and walked out, and I'm halfway to the door, he comes up behind me, grabs my belt and collar and pushes me out. And I didn't fall, that was my personal victory. But it was like, ooh, big man, you pushed me out as I was already leaving, you made me . . . leave faster, by creeping up behind me where I couldn't see you, wow, way to go tough guy, you FUCKIN' pussy.

I vowed never to go back there, but hey, it's right next to the fuckin' Bowery (Poetry Club), and after a few months, I popped in to catch the end of the Giants game one night. The asshole wasn't there, so went back a few more times. One night last month, this is about nine months after the big incident, I'm in there with a beer, waiting for some food, and this guy appears, and I think, "Is that the asshole?" I can't really tell, it'd been such a long time, but he sees me and says, "You have to leave. You finish your beer but then you get out of here. I don't want any argument."

Then he grabbed my beer and poured it out, and I said, "I thought you said I could finish my beer."

He said, "No."

Now, I'll add, this is nine months later, I hadn't cut my hair that whole time so it's much longer, and this guy, who'd seen me for a grand total one minute at the most, still recognized me, like he's obsessed with me or something. I guess I emasculated the poor fuck. I got up to leave, and before I go, flash a huge smile, wave, and yell, "GOOD NIGHT!"

So evidently, those four words I said to him have gotten me banned for life. For four words. What a fucking asshole. So I call upon all of you, at your leisure, whenever you have time, go over to Slainte, and look for the tall, thin, slightly spiky brown-haired guy. Have a beer or two. Chat a little. Gain his confidence. Then, before you go, loudly, so that everyone can hear it, say,

"BYE! HOPE YOUR RAPE TRIAL GOES OK!!!"

Namaste.

from 3/26/08

How To Recognize Certain PATH Stations From Quite A Long Way Away

Last October, my friends invited me to go to The Hunt, which is a giant tailgate party that takes place inside a horse track. It's in New Jersey, but I went anyway, and we ate tons of food, drank a lot of beer and had a great old time.

Late in the afternoon, I felt myself sobering up. Not wanting to be hungover before the sun even set, as has been the case on similar occasions I rationalized, I decided I had to get drunk again quickly. I grabbed a bottle of vodka and downed a double shot. It felt smooth going down, so I took another single shot for good measure. Around 4:30, it was time to go, and as we were getting ready, my friend Jason asked me if I wanted them to drive me back to the PATH station in Hoboken. I live in Manhattan and had taken New Jersey Transit out, and as I had no desire to repeat that experience in reverse, said, "I would love that."

That's the last thing I remember from that day.

I woke up in an emergency room, lying on a cot, having no memory of how I got there. The nurse there asked me if I knew where I was. I had overheard someone say it, but only caught the last syllable. I said, "Brooklyn?"

She answered, "Hoboken." I thought, "Well that didn't sound very good," and fell back asleep. I came to again when I received a text message from Jason. "You left your wallet in our car."

I typed back, "Hold on to it, I'll get it back from you monday," and promptly passed out again. It turned out they'd dropped me off, and I'd disappeared into the station when Jason realized my wallet was still there. They waited for me to come back, which obviously I never did, and Jason figured I had the cash on me to get through to the train.

The nurse came in and out repeatedly through the night to check on me, and by the time morning came around, she was my buddy, the welcomed sight that made the experience slightly less disastrous. I woke up around 6am to overhear someone outside cheekily say, "I HATE drunks." At which point the nurse looked at me and said, "Well, there's my friend Michael here," and continued, "Time to go."

I thanked her and asked where the bathroom was. When I got inside and looked at the mirror, the first thing I noticed was the right side of my face was all red. I figured it was sunburn, then I saw the rest. There were cuts and scrapes all around my left eye and a deeper gash below my neck. I had bruises below my left elbow and I realized my entire left arm was sore. I had big bruises below both my knees and a big swollen bump below my right one. And I thought, "What the hell happened to me?" I'd been thinking this whole time that I was there because I was drunk, they never even told me I was hurt. I even found out later that they'd given me a head CT. And they never told me any of this! I'm not a doctor, but if I gave someone a head CT, I'd mention it to him. The best theory I could piece together was that I'd fallen down the stairs, but as I have no memory of the incident, that remains speculation to this day. I firmly believe I was concussed, I've been plenty drunker than I was that day and I've never lost that much memory.

I walked out looking for the nurse, but she wasn't there. I needed to get the hell out of there, so I just left. Now, I didn't have my wallet, so I had no cash to get home, and I was too embarrassed to hit them up at the hospital for it. I don't go to Hoboken very often, or New Jersey at all for that matter, so I don't know it too well. I was hoping maybe there was a bridge with a footpath like the Brooklyn Bridge has nearby so I could walk to the city. I asked the security guard by the entrance if such a thing existed, and he said, "Go outside, make a right, go down three lights, make a left, go down and make a right at the stop sign, then go down . . . "

And I just asked, "Can you write this down? Because I'm never gonna remember this ."

"Just make a right out the door, you'll see it."

I ventured out as the sun was just rising, made a right out the door, walked down a few lights and had no idea where the hell I was. I wandered around Hoboken for about forty-five minutes. I asked I guy at a gas station if there was anyway to get to Manhattan, but he said the nearest bridge was about ten miles away. With visions of panhandling in my head, I kept walking until I found a cop car. Trying to play into the policeman's sympathies, I told him I'd been mugged and was trying to get back to Manhattan. He said, "Make a right then the first left and go down two blocks to the PATH station." Much simpler directions than the last ones, so I went and managed to find the Newport/Pavonia Station. More after the fact revelations, this is over a mile from the hospital; not that far on the grand scheme but nearly three times the distance farther than the actual station I was looking for.

It was about a quarter to seven and no one was around, so I hopped the turnstile and sat, waiting for the train, wishing desperately to get out of New Jersey and back to my New York home, which I could have reached ages ago if I was Jesus and could only walk on the water.

The train came and soon I was back in Manhattan, where I walked from the last PATH Station at West 33rd, all the way to my apartment in the east 90s, all the while with a splitting headache and raging nausea. I thanked god I still had my keys, threw myself onto my bed and fell asleep for a long time.

And that, my friends, is how I gave up vodka.

Namaste.

from 8/19/08

Tell Laura I Love Her

Anybody else fucking sick of hearing about Michael Phelps? I'm happy for him, but I really don't give a fuck about swimming, and in about a week and a half, neither will anyone else. I don't care, he wants to impress me, he can pay my rent. I'm glad the U.S. is getting all these gold medals, but they're acting like he's the second coming. You know, Jesus walked on the water, he didn't swim the backstroke through it.

But I don't want to talk about him, I want to talk about my favorite Olympian. I talked about her back in 2004 after the Athens games, any old schoolers remember who she is? No? Good, that means I can tell this story again.

Her name is Laura Wilkinson and she's a diver. For those of you who don't know her story, she was training for the 2000 Sydney Olympics when she took a nasty spill and broke three bones in her foot. She was laid up in bed for six weeks and had to train by visualizing the dives in her head. When she got to the Olympics to compete in the Ten Meter Platform, she had to wear a special shoe just so she climb up the ladder, and do most of her dives starting from a handstand because she couldn't stand on the edge of the platform. With three dives to go in the finals, she was in fifth place and considered to be out of medal contention. Then she nails the last three dives, the Chinese divers mess up theirs, BAM, she wins the gold.

I thought, "What a wonderful story." And I didn't hear it until 2004. I didn't watch too much of the Sydney games because I didn't really care. But I watched the 2004 games in Athens because I was holed up for a week in my parents house, because my grandmother had died. Grandma had taken ill earlier that summer, and for two months she was going back and forth; she'd get better, she'd get worse. Finally, the morning that the opening ceremonies were due to start, I got the call, saying it could be any minute now. So I sat in my room, waiting for my Grandmother to die, for two full days. Finally, I got the call saying Grandma was dead.

As you can probably guess, I didn't take it all that well. She was my last grandparent, and also, my other grandparents all died before I graduated from college, so she was my only grandparent for my adult years. So this one really hurt. Now, in Judaism, we have something called "sitting Shiva," which is a morning period where you're not supposed to leave the house. So I went out to my parents' place in Long Island and spent the week there. The Olympics were going on, and at the time, the Olympics were the last thing that I cared about. But I had no control over the tv, so I was gonna watch it whether I liked it or not. But I became fascinated with Laura Wilkinson's story. I thought, "This girl's a fighter! She's awesome!" And she's really cute, that counts for something.

I became obsessed with following her; I watched her dives and I checked the paper and caught the rounds and followed her progress. Because, it was the only thing that could take my mind off the fact that my grandmother was dead. So by the time the finals came around, I was glued to the tv. And it was like, she wasn't just doing it for her, or for the USA, she was doing it for me, she was doing it for Grandma. Unfortunately, she didn't win, she took fifth place that year. But I still loved her, I still think she's awesome. And I didn't care that she turned out to be a major league bible-thumper. Her favorite movie is Passion Of The Christ, I mean holy fucking shit. She might think I'm a Christ-killer, who knows. But that didn't matter to me.

Then I went and I did something really stupid. I wrote her a fan letter. I never do that, but you can do a lot of dumb things when you're grieving. I told her the whole story, about Grandma, about how I loved her fighting spirit, everything. I just needed to get it out there, in her direction, it was comforting to me. So I did it, and forgot about it.

Then about three months later, I get an email. In the "from" line, it just says, "Diver." And I had no idea what it was, I thought it was spam, probably short for muff diver, they're trying to sell me something about cunnilingus, I thought, "I know, push up the hood, look for the little man in the boat and lick the alphabet, I got my technique down already." Then I see the subject line says, "Big Fan," and thought it sounded familiar. I open it, it's from Laura Wilkinson. I know, it could have been an assistant or something, but she's not a rock star, she's just a diver, so I choose to believe it actually came from her. She wrote:

Michael,

(She called me Michael!)

Thank you so much for your email. I completely understand how difficult it can be to lose someone you love. My family has lost several loved ones in recent years. It's wonderful that you were able to stay with your parents during that time.

Sometimes we have to go through difficult times, but they can definitely make you stronger inside.

Well, I will be using that "fighting spirit" as you called it to try to win gold again in the 2008 Olympic Games. I have a long road ahead of me and many battles I'm sure, but I feel like each time I face an obstacle, when I trust Him, God turns it into an opportunity.

Laura


The Preliminaries start tomorrow. So I'd like everybody to join me, let's pray for Laura Wilkinson:

God, I'm sorry about all the times I said, "Fuck you." And you don't like me, that much is clear, and I don't like you. But please, instead of praying for that thing with Marissa Miller and the massage oil, I'm taking a break, and praying for this, please, bring Laura Wilkinson the gold.

Amen.

Thanks.

Namaste.

Author's addendum, 8/21/08
Sadly, troubled by a strained tricep muscle, Laura made the Finals, but failed to medal, finishing in ninth place. She did, however, nail her last dive, capping a worthy and fitting end to an incredible career.

from 8/5/08

Perhaps I've Gone Too Far

. . .
. . .

Do you think Morgan Freeman narrated his own car crash?

Too soon?

This is the morbid sense of humor I was referring too last week. I work at a pharmaceutical advertising agency, and one of the drugs we represent is Ambien. And I came up with what I thought was a pretty good tagline, so I told it to one of the copywriters:

Ambien. So good, Heath Ledger can't stop taking it.

They didn't seem to like it either.

Tonight's theme is milestones, and I haven't really had any recently, the closest I've had is last week when I came back to the open mikes for the first time in nine months. The thing that truly shocked me about that was people actually noticed I was gone.

The only major milestone that even comes to mind is when I turned thirty. I wanted to celebrate by doing something I'd never done before. I didn't know what, but I hoped it would come to me by the end of the night. That night I went to a club with some friends, and after we left, I was walking back to the subway and I really had to take a piss, so I pissed on the sidewalk, and I realized, "I've never done this before. Mission accomplished."

I pissed on a subway platform once. Not my proudest moment, but when you've fallen asleep on the subway and wake up in the south Bronx seventeen stops past yours and it's 4am, you do what you have to.

But I what I really wanted to talk about is my neighborhood. I live in the East 90s, which I consider to be a subset of the Upper East Side. I'm not saying that we're better, it's still the Upper East Side. It's still frat boy hell and yuppieville, but there's a few things that distinguish it. First of all, it's right by the First Avenue Projects, which is First Avenue and around 92nd to 94th Street, and East Harlem, which officially starts at 96th Street. So it's a much more diverse area than your typical whitebred Upper East Side neighborhood.

This is unrelated, but we also have a very impressive population of rats. Not the little ones, I'm talkin' the big nasty Willard rats. And it's not like you hear them scuffle around and every now and them catch a glimpse, you see them running across the sidewalk every night. So if you know any city vampires who don't want to bite people and need to find some form of nocturnal wildlife to feed on, send them up to 93rd street.

Also, because of it's vicinity to East Harlem and the projects, it's the only Upper East Side neighborhood that's regularly patrolled by police. Crime used to be really bad there but it's been cleaned up for a long time. It used to be you didn't go above 86th Street, there were gangs and violence back fifteen, twenty years ago. But then they started developing the neighborhood, which they're still doing. More and more high-rises are going up. Remember that crane that fell about a month and a half ago? That was three blocks from my apartment. Usually when you gentrify an area, it becomes a safer neighborhood. Apparently that's not how we roll up there.

But the one thing that we still have a lot of is homeless people. It's not overrun or anything, but I see more homeless in my neighborhood than I do downtown. And the homeless people up there are, well, I'll just say it, they're assholes. Something about the place, it's like, "You spare some change?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!!!"

It's like they have the same sense of entitlement that the yuppies do. That's why it was so nice when, a couple of weeks ago I was coming home and decided to stop by the bodega for a soda, and there was a homeless guy sitting on a milk crate in front of it. It's his regular spot, and as I walked over, I see him jump up and run around the corner. When I came out of bodega, he's sitting there with a pizza box. I guess someone was gonna throw it out and he asked for it. Anyway, he holds up his cup and shakes it, and says, "God bless you sir." I was feeling generous, so I dropped a few coins in there, and he said, "Hey, are you hungry? They gave me all this pizza."

I laughed and said, "No, that's ok," and realize, that's the first time a homeless person ever offered me food. What a pleasant surprise.

Namaste, motherfuckers.

From 7/29/08

What'd You Do That For George? (Oh, God, He Knows)

George Carlin's posthumous cd It's Bad For Ya came out today, and it made me think about the impact that George has on my life. Not only is he my favorite comedian of all time, he's been a major influence on me; I'm not a comedian but he's influenced me as a writer, both through the love of social criticism and by teaching me to be unafraid to be morbid or sick. I have a very morbid sense of humor. Here's an example: last week, my friend Krista wanted me to go to a happy hour benefit for the Jimmy Fund Cancer Institute. I couldn't go, so Krista tried to convince me by saying, "Come on, it's for a good cause," and I said, "So what? My brother's already dead." Because my brother died of leukemia years ago. I find this funny. Krista didn't seem to think so. I guess she's not a Carlin fan.

But one thing that people who know me know is, I curse a lot. I used to attribute this to being from Long Island. It's a regional trait, like NEVER wanting to "change at Jamaica." Also, you either really love or really hate Billy Joel. I fucking hate Billy Joel, he's not bad but I'm sick to fucking death of him. To make things worse, I went to college in Allentown Pennsylvania, people used to sing that fucking song to me all the time, and I'd think, "Ooooooh, please get a tumor in your eye the size of a basketball."

ANYWAY

Sometimes people are surprised when they hear how much I curse, I guess the angelic face throws them. But the people I work with are used to it. In fact, I've become the benchmark by which cursing is measured. A number of times, I've been told by someone, "I was so mad last night, I was cursing as much as you." It feels good to be so accomplished. One person once told me I had a remarkable ability to string together a sentence with such a high number of uses of "fuck." I myself didn't even remember doing this, but apparently the sentence was something to the effect of, "I swear to fucking god, if I ever fucking find out who took my fucking folder, I am gonna fuckin' kick their fucking ass." Or something like that. Another coworker told me, "You use the word "fuck" more than anyone I've ever met." And she's an editor, she gets paid to notice things about words.

The cursing come out the most when I get mad or when I get caught up in a rant about something. Like when I read what that fuckwad Donald Trump said about gorgeous actress Anne Hathaway when she dumped that loser cumfuck con man asshole boyfriend of hers. She should have stood by him? Is he out of his fucking mind?! He turned out to be a scumbag and so she dumped his ass! So if he kills somebody she's just supposed to fucking hang around?! Smile and nod and talk about we don't know the better side that we don't, the one that doesn't fucking kill people?! And who the fuck asked Trump anyway?! You know who? NOBODY!!! He didn't say this in an interview, he issued a press release. What, is he working for fucking TMZ now? He's gotta open his fucking mouth about celebrities? I hope he dies. I hope he fucking dies, I hope that fucking thing on his head comes to life and fucking eats his brains, that fucking scumbag fuckwad MOTHERFUCKER!!!

And at this point, one of my coworkers will ask me if I've taken my medication, and I'll say, "Sadly, yes I have." This is me with my mood stabilized. Be grateful.

ANYWAY

When George died, I looked back and realized that I've been listening to him since I was five years old. It was 1975 and Class Clown was still popular, so my grandparents used to listen to it all the time. I'd hear it when I visited them and eventually they'd let me borrow it and I'd run it over and over again at home. And amid all the stories about Catholic school, Muhammid Ali and knuckle cracking, was the famous Seven Dirty Words routine. And so, at a young, impressionable age, I was introduced to the idea of profanity as high art. Maybe being from Long Island isn't reason I curse so much, maybe George had more of an impact on my life than I realized.

But one thing I'd like to add, something that really pissed me off when George died; the day after he died, they did a show about him on Larry King Live, and he was interviewing Jerry Seinfeld. I gotta be honest, I could give a fuck what Jerry Seinfeld has to say about George Carlin. Now, I know he's one of the more famous comedians in the world, but they're both comedians in the sense that Adam Sandler and Laurence Olivier are both actors, it's just not the same.

To be honest, I've hated Jerry Seinfeld ever since he hopped on the laptop bashing bandwagon. "These people buy a cup of coffee and they think they're opening a business." No, I don't think I'm opening a business, I just like to get out of the house every once in a fucking while. I live in a studio, I don't live in a mansion-sized apartment, that was bought with money earned, FROM A TV SHOW, THAT SOMEBODY ELSE FUCKING WROTE!!! FUCK JERRY SEINFELD!!!

NAMASTE, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Somewhere Down In Disturbia, It Ain't Right

I watched Disturbia on cable a few weeks ago. It's actually a pretty good movie. I know that detractors will just say it's Rear Window for the Gossip Girl generation, but I think it still weaves a good yarn, and David Morse is effectively big time creep city.

BUT

the love story falls a bit flat. so Shia Labeof (I know I spelled his name wrong, I'd learn the correct spelling but it's just not important to me) is basically an everyman, an average boy. that's fine, but his love interest, Sarah Roemer, is extremely gorgeous. Not just gorgeous, a gorgeous girl who wants him immediately. maybe it's because he's under house arrest which gives him a bad boy thing going, but then her reaction to catching him spying on her is to invite herself into his house like she's in the grips of her mating season.

THEN

when he tries to ruin her party and she confronts him, he goes on to describe all her idiosyncrasies and habits in frighteningly meticulous detail, the kind that in a normal society would be grounds for a restraining order. she responds by KISSING HIM. If I'd known that, I would have set up a telescope in front of Jennifer Love Hewitt's house years ago (you know, when she was hot). This is possibly more "disturbing" than all the bodies they later find under David Morse's basement, unless the whole point is that ultimately, Labeuf's behavior leads to Morse's in the real world.

and the film was a hit, possibly because it gives hope to all the stalkers out there suveillancing the girl of their dreams. it's not usually not the girl next door because not too many of them live next door to supermodels, but the internet has turned our computers into the ultimate pair of binoculers. this is no secret of course, but the parallels become increasingly vivid that further you wander into this vietnam, especially with the self-imposed house arrests of cyber-stalkers who never leave their parents' basements. Disturbia gives them hope that their dreams can come true. until then, cyberstalking will still be the most sincere and anonymous form of flattery.

New Kids On The Block

So New Kids On The Block are getting back together. the obvious question is why, but I suspect that one reason is the economy. not because those guys don't have any money, which they may or may not, but seeing as one of them became a real estate agent, with the real estate market being as bad as it is, he may be having a problem without the cash coming in. therefore, George W. Bush is responsible for New Kids On The Block getting back together, all the more reason to vote democratic this election and for the Hillary motherfuckers to not vote McCain out of spite if (and when) Obama gets the nomination (don't fuck this up like the Nader supporters did).

What happened to Donnie Wahlberg's acting career? After Band Of Brothers, even I had respect for the guy.

This is just what the world needs, a 40 year old boy band. Next we'll see a reunion of the original Menudo line up, they've got to all be 60 by now. Should we call them New Men On The Block? Don't they realize their fans are not eleven anymore?

Forever Your Girl


P: Do you have to take a girl to dinner if you want to make her feel special?

J: I don't think so.

P: Or can you just make her dinner at home?

J: That's even better. A nice intimate dinner.

Me: You know what really makes a girl feel special?

J: What?

Me: Anal.

A Few Thoughts On Spitzer

so our former New York governor was involved in another prostitution ring. first of all, "involved in a prostitution ring" is a bit of a suspect phrase. it makes it sound like he was actually part of the business, which I guess is the grammatical collateral damage of the press' inability or unwillingness to simply say "governor hires prostitutes" or "governor pays for sex." Spitzer's not sitting in Albany with velvet green mack-daddy hat and fat gold chain with a dollar sign.

now, in some respects, this isn't really a big deal. should prostitution be illegal in the first place? maybe not. this is the "free" vs "paid" debate. If a 22 year old fucks the balding, middle-aged governor for free, it's ok, but if he gives her compensation it's illegal? what if there's a grey area as far at the distribution of wealth? say spitzer instead were to take private lessons from the dude from "The Pick-Up Artist." then he sees a hot chick in a bar and feeds her that "excuse me, my friend has a jealous girlfriend..." bullshit, gets her number, takes her out for drinks, shows her the governor's mansion then takes her to the master bedroom and fucks her. he essentially is still paying for sex, but his money is distributed to the girl and her employer it's illegal, but if the guy that made the sex happen is the one who profits, the coitus proxy if you will, then it's ok. so you can pay to have the girl manipulated but you can't let the girl herself benefit from the sacrifice of getting nailed by some old freak. not that spitzer's a freak, but look at him and look at "ashley" or whatever her real name is. maybe she deserves something there.

and look at it this way. is there a difference between a guy paying to fuck a high-end prostitute and a guy getting a lapdance from a megahot stripper and then going home and rubbing one out while she's still fresh on the brain? (it happens) well, for one, the second method is essentially a 2 step procedure for an inferior product. what the governor's done is excise waste by cutting down on procedure, while achieving the same end product: an orgasm without his wife. On the other hand, this is also the costlier option, about $2,000 apparently vs $20 and the two-drink minimum. I guess the choice between cost, quality and project management is for the voter to decide.

I guess the biggest problem is the political pandemic of hypocrisy that this epitomizes. would we think more of spitzer if he hadn't helmed a crusade against prostitution businesses. maybe, maybe not, but when I was 15, I wouldn't have thought much of myself if I criticized someone publicly for running into the bathroom with a copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. then again, god for fucking bid we actually get honesty from a politician.

don't know what I was thinking.