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March 8th, 2006
05:01 pm - Kraut and About
I walked up the rickety winding staircase to see a dozen boisterous Germans sprawled out in my space.
“Krauts,” I rasped, as if they ruined my café experience regularly. Maybe not but today, they totally invaded and occupied my land like it was 1940s France.
Funny, this SOHO cafe is French cottage-themed, and is popular among European and Asian travelers as well as the locals. This is where I like to plant myself for a few hours to write. Today, I was ghetto-ized, forced into a corner where smoke from the panini-presser rises directly to soak into my clothing.
Here I am, a grown man reduced to a wilting daffodil hunched over a cheap laptop, smelling like sopressata panini.
10 minute update:
The Krauts just got up and left. Their tables look like a Darfur refugee camp. Garbage is strewn every where, turning my home-away-from-home into a landfill. This cafe has counter service only. My understanding has always been that with counter services, you dispose of your own garbage. Yes? No? I talk crazy talk?
These tall, beefy, well-dressed, incredibly pink Teutons are wealthy enough to travel abroad. They should know to clean up after themselves. Maybe it's a German cultural thing. Maybe they just saw Van Wilder on DVD. I'd prefer to think they were just drunk. And that they carry potent beer in a ram's horn wrapped in goat skin that they keep at their waist just in case they begin to sober up.
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12:16 am
Dear You Know Who You Are,
Look YOU. This is about that night we went to Columbia for the Jeffrey Sachs speaking engagement (no one else will know what the hell we're talking about). Yes, I was chatting with Economist Girl on the 1 Train and 'no' I wasn't hitting on her. I wasn't even going to write about it, not until you cyber-taunted me. Now I have no choice but to address your cynicism. Besides, I had nothing else to write about.
I know what you're thinking: two strangers on the Subway talk about sustainable economic development in Africa--this must be the prelude to a hot, anonymous sexual encounter! The kind where at least five of Ten Commandments are broken. C'mon, I thought you knew me better than that--she wasn't even my type!
While that girl is fairly standard according to American body norms, she was way too tall and large for me (We can both agree that I'm built, literally, like Olive Oil). If Econ Girl embraced me it would be a ribcage shattering bear crush. Here's an illustration. You're imagining the encounter to be, say, a classic scene from The Lover (left). I'm imagining something else (right). Remember when Hugo the Abominable Snowman throttled Bugs Bunny with Yeti love?
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"and I will hug him and squeeze him and pat him and pet him, and I will name him George."
No, no, no, no, no, that was just a friendly chat with a fellow Economist groupie. You know what I realized? The online You is sooooo much more cynical than the offline You.
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March 1st, 2006
05:52 pm - Am I Blue?
I just got off the phone with some call center girl, who provides customer service for a product I ordered. I'd rather not specify what product it is (but here's a hint: it is a giant dildo). Anyway, she had some unusual Midwestern accent which fascinated to me. I asked her where she was from and she said Iowa.
I couldn't understand why it was so captivating. Does that voice resonate with the life that could have been? The one I could never have? White picket fences, diabetic wife, matching outfits from Dress Barn, candle-lit dinners at Long John Silvers? I want none of these things, yet her voice promised them and so much more.
The closest 'famous person' reference point I can think of is Holly Hunter and the way she famously mangles her words. (go watch The Piano)
Basically, I really fell for this woman's voice. I think I have serious Red State/Blue State bi-curious-cultural issues to deal with. How can I love someone so red when I am so blue?
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February 28th, 2006
03:57 pm - The Curious Incident of My Encounter with Smart People
Walking around Columbia University campus, I was acutely aware of the massive computational power emanating--like radiation--from the student body around me. You see, I went to NYU during the ghetto years, when it ranked in collegiate prestige somewhere between refrigerator repair school and dog obedience training.
This day, I was wandering around looking for the International Affairs building to attend a lecture that was open to the public. Yes maam, I would like to be educated by this world-class institution on the finer points of economic development networks of immigrant communities! It sounded so much better online.
I arrived via the 1 Train with the expectation of being dazzled by brilliant, supple minds--the kind brain you want to take with both hands and squeeze like a roll of Charmin.
I was not disappointed. When I asked a security guard for directions, he first looked up at the stars, triangulating our position with the skill of a Viking longboat navigator; he took out a scientific calculator to compute some basic regression analysis; a protractor and math compass helped him extrapolate distances (he adjusted for curvature of the earth in his head!)
Finally, the guard pointed west. Why couldn’t they just hire the dumb ones that point at a map?
I found the building and wandered around looking for the correct lecture hall. When I realized the hall was on the 4th floor, I leapt into the crowded elevator just as the doors closed.
But when I pressed ‘4’ the doors parted. I pressed again -- same result. This is embarrassing. Is the elevator broken?
I can feel the warm heat of nerd scrutiny burning into my skin. Is this a test? Think fast, Lam.
Albert Einstein is credited with saying that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
This is true for all my failed relationships with women.
This is true for when I swallow whole chicken bones on a dare.
This is true when I try to drain fluid from my knees with a hammer and railroad spike.
This is true also for stupidity. So in front of these people, I pressed ‘4’ again, and again, and again, and once again. Each time the elevator doors flew open.
Finally the least patient genius in the room tapped my shoulder and said, “Hey guy, this IS the 4th floor.”
Look, I know you’re probably smarter than me, but the ground floor isn’t the fourth floor. I learned that at NYU (plus how to remove Freon safely from the fridge unit and how to roll over and beg for Milk Bones(TM)).
Sure enough, the embossed elevator floor plaque said [4]. I’m beginning to suspect the building’s the designer was not nearly as smart as the people who now occupy his creation.
Well the building was built on a hill. It’s possible the floors descend deep down into the hill, making the bottom floor the first. Could the first floor be a deep, recessed bunker housing the likes of Dick Cheney? He’s wearing a bandolier, hunting vest, and combat boots, just waiting to shoot the first person he sees right in the face.
As I pondered the myriad possibilities, a young lady with a particularly large cranium--using only the power of her mind--levitated my body out of the elevator cab Jean Grey-style and deposited me on the tiles.
Then the doors closed. What an awful beginning.
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February 20th, 2006
01:07 am
Words you will always regret using during a job interview:
"KKK"
"Projectile Vomit"
"Satan"
"Strap-on"
"Backne"
"Tits"
"Gorgonzola"
(the cheese; just trust me on this one)
"Dungeons & Dragons"
"George Michael"
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January 12th, 2006
11:40 pm - The Shoot
Several months ago, I was hired by a photographer to take part of a stock photography shoot for Getty as an "everyday" model. It finally came together recently.
Everyday model.
Surely that is a synonym for "ugly people," right? Ugly people doing stuff in pictures. Insulting perhaps, but if you're giving me a lot of money for basically doing nothing, I'll be that guy.
This is me being that guy:
My Horse Whisperer pose: tender, but secure
Right from the start, I knew I was entering an odd world. The first clue was that they paid me FIRST, before I had to do anything.
Imagine you go to the office and your boss says Put that mouse down, Tom/Dick/Harry, I haven’t paid you yet. And don't forget to try the grassfed flank steak at the complimentary craft services table. It's dee-LISH.
After netting my money, which was enough to start a shiekdom--with harem--in a small oil-rich Middle Eastern nation, I met the other models. None of them were supermodels, but let's just say if Noah had to let hot people on the Ark to repopulate the world instead of using animals, they'd have a shot at getting past the velvet ropes.
Speaking of which, you have to wonder if Noah hired bouncers during the flood to keep the reject loser animals out of the Ark. After all, Noah was like the hottest party promoter in town. And teenybopper animals can be overheard saying, "If I don't get into this party, I'll just DIE." And boy they were right...
For the shoot, we all had to bring props related to our professions. I typically think of myself as an angry, disgruntled New Yorker preparing for the inevitable:
dirty bomb -> anarchy -> resource-hogging free-for-all -> subsequent race war -> cannibalism-marred future hellscape.
But [21st century refugee] is not a recognized profession. I went the more established category of [writer] and brought my laptop.
There was a lot of downtime, so we all chitchatted on the side. And because we were all everyday models, not real models, the conversations were actually interesting.
One person divulged how she was born without wisdom teeth, which are apparently vestiges, just like our appendices. She kept saying that her lacking wisdom teeth was the sign of a 'revolution.' Could that be true? The American Revolution, Tiananmen Square, and Matrix: Revolutions were all set in motion by dental issues? And I thought I knew how this world worked (I read the Economist).
We finally established that she meant having no wisdom teeth was a sign of 'evolution,' as in The Origin of the Species by Darwin. Or the X-Men by Joss Whedon – depending on one's reading level.
Well I told her f*cking evolution ripped her off. Cyclops shoots lasers out of his eyes, Wolverine could heal virtually any wound, Dr. Xavier can read minds, but YOU...you never have to get wisdom teeth taken out. Intelligent Design vs. Evolution? Puh-lease, after this, I'm going with God.
At the end of the day, we models walked out together. We discussed our brief intersection with the world of glamour and contemplated the privileged lives of those genetically gifted ones who actually get to do this for a living.
As we gabbed, we passed by a homeless man who was squatting against the side of the building, apparently defecating and peeing at the same time. Without missing a conversational beat, we strode over a bolt of zigzagging yellow.
To me, his creek of mercurial urine was a rite of passage. Before crossing the urine, we were everyday models. After the urine, we reclaimed our banal lives and we all went home.
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January 10th, 2006
12:35 am - Hey Buddy, It's Yahweh or the Highway
At a Jewish wedding I attended, one guest offered his blessing, Third Reich-style. This is inappropriate.
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October 25th, 2005
07:20 pm
I found a small, very dead bird outside the front door of my building. Last night's storm was biblical, so it's no surprise.
Among people who know me, my profound species hatred for birds is well documented. Could a heart-rending sight of a baby bird succumbing to the elements transform my cold, black heart? After all just inches away I sat in my warm, safe apartment swathed in Superman Underoos and my Winnie The Pooh-style nightcap, drinking a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Might this terrible tragedy kindle the fire of compassion that is the hallmark of our better humanity?
I was disgusted, in fact. When I walked out, I couldn't even bring myself to look the bird eye-to-eye. But this might be because--subject to rot and decay--it had no eyes left to look into.
I took out an old broom that I never plan to use again. And in the manner of public speakers staring at a far corner of the room to avoid the gaze of the audience, I looked past the bird and onto the cement. I gripped the broom firmly and I tee'd off a'la Tiger Woods. The baby bird took flight, one last time, to a destination unknown. Chirp.
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August 18th, 2005
12:19 am
I recently enjoyed a SOHO brunch with a couple of friends at a low-key Japanese fusion restaurant on Thompson. The kind of space that serves concoctions like curry hamburger and roe-topped spaghetti--not quite the cosmically divine union that, say, chocolate and peanut butter became. But the alarming aspect of the brunch was not the food, but the fact that my friends detected that I had lost a significant amount of weight.
Have I really shriveled into a gaunt husk of skin and wiry tendon? I don’t think I’m qualified to make a judgment because I spend so much time with me; it’s easy to lose sight of what a freak show abomination I may have become over the years.
While I won’t post personal photos, I will post photo realistic portraits that I drew myself (i've been referred to by many as the "the Michaelangelo of the Queens Borough").
So, does this look unhealthy? Please scroll down.
Yeah, thought so. They were way overreacting.
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August 12th, 2005
07:50 pm
So the 2 or 3 people that read this blog might have noticed that I've been making silly little updates about news instead of silly updates about myself. I'm moving the news to its own site because, frankly, it's stealing my thunder. If you like the news, you can get it at the new location.
This page will strictly offer the personal information about me that I deem appropriate to spread on the Internet.
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August 6th, 2005
01:29 pm - You've Come a Long Way, Star Baby
I've been watching a lot of CNN lately and something deeply troubles me. By now, we’ve all heard the details about the Space Shuttle’s structural flaw which endangered its re-entry. The International Herald Tribute reported the repair a success after astronaut “Robinson easily removed two gap-filler cloths that had protruded [from] the shuttle's underbelly."
I'm no rocket scientist, but maybe your problems began when you bought your Space Shuttle filler cloth at THE GAP. NASA is severely under-budgeted, yes, but let’s be real about this. You don't need a fashion design degree from FIT to know that if you build a spaceship out of GAP products, people will die.
That's not the only disturbing Shuttle problem. There was also something else lodged in the shuttle’s skin that had to be removed. Michael Jackson’s baby.
We don’t have pictures of that repair job, because paparazzi couldn’t successfully enter geosynchronous orbit to document it, though many--heroically--died trying.
However, the problem was clearly visible at take-off:
Again? Again with the baby? Oh Michael, why?
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August 5th, 2005
05:40 pm
My doctor recently told me I had to watch my cholesterol. Apparently, my arteries are thickening like the walls of the Holland Tunnel. Since then, I've been assiduously reading labels and researching -- all of which keeps my mind off of the lard-fried bacon that I oh-so crave.
What I've found is this: the FDA recommends an intake of less than 300 milligrams of dietary cholesterol a day.
So what does that mean? If I don't eat cholesterol-rich foods throughout the day, I can eat a 3/4 pint of Haagan-Daaz ice cream every day for the rest of my life.
This strikes me as...odd. Either someone at the FDA really f*cked up or my research is off.
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04:02 pm
Aug 5, 2005
I have never been a fan of Wong Kar Wai's movies, but I cannot stand his fan-critics. Here is NYT hagiographer Manhola Darghis and the ending of her over-baked review of Wong's new 2046:
In "2046," memory isn't just a favorite snapshot, a blast from the past. It is where everyone lives, whether they want to or not, whether giggling in a tawdry Hong Kong hotel in 1967, hurtling through the atmosphere on a train in the future or sitting in a darkened movie theater. Like film itself, memory freezes time. Memory turns finite moments into spaces - a hotel room, say - that we return to again and again. It gives us a glimpse of the eternal and, like art at its most sublime, like this film, a means for transcendence.
When was the last time you read a movie review that summed up a movie this way: "It was good and you really should go see it."
Good grief. It actually makes me pine for Ebert’s thumbs up/thumbs down methodology. Why? Because I'd take those thumbs and shove it up my nostrils so I won't have to smell the pungent aroma emanating from pseudo-intellectual, self-aggandizing reviews such as this.
The entire review can be accessed here
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July 30th, 2005
02:36 pm
Saturday July 30, 2005
My elbows, dry, chalky and chafed, rest on the ledge of a window overlooking a renovated school yard. Yes, this is PS1, the elementary school converted to a gallery space to exhibit the work of talented young artists.
It’s Saturday, at 3:45 and the PS1 “warm-up,” the weekend DJ-fest is swinging. These events have a way of turning into a weekend hajj for hipsters. The schoolyard is packed with dancers moving with a chaotic synchronicity to the thud-thud-thud sledgehammer pounding of the speakers. As I looked down at the dancers, I couldn’t help but ponder if Shiite sectarian killings would abate with the long-awaited Sunni participation in the democratic process.
Why am I standing up here, while everyone is out there? I felt like the kid with asthma watching wistfully from a window, while the other kids on the block played--running, and laughing and just beyond reach.
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July 27th, 2005
01:10 am
Wed July 27, 2005
I admire Feisty Arugula's noble but ultimately misguided attempt to explain away the behavior of this coffee-swiggling nose cannon I encountered yesterday.
"maybe it's a cultural thing.
like the (delicious) noodle/soup slurping gesture."
But if that were true, one sneezes in one's own drink, not a complete stranger's.
No, no, no, no, no, no -- I swear, it was as if she was a crop duster spraying for West Nile. I can assure you that this woman is nothing more than pagan swine loosed upon humanity with the intent to destroy all that is good and virtuous. You know, you really learn things about people when you have intimate contact with them. Like for instance, oh I don't know...when you have EATEN THEIR BOOGERS.
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July 26th, 2005
08:54 am
Tues July 26, 2005
“Can I sit here?”
I motioned at the generously built-out window ledge within the Starbucks on Crosby. The only area I could wedge myself was on this ledge, next to a Japanese girl sitting at a table alone. The place was packed.
“Yes!” She smiled angelically.
Even if she didn’t want me to sit, and if she reviled me, she still would have said “yes” and smiled angelically, because she’s Japanese and so her entire family's honor hinged on her actions at that moment. I got what I wanted.
I flipped open a book.
“Please, use table.”
I looked at my drink, balanced precariously on my lap. It’s sort of a wet crotch joke waiting to happen.
I nodded and rested my drink on the table end opposite to her.
Her phone rang.
“MOISH MOISH!” she howled with delight.
She then SNEEZED -- open-mouthed, that kind of wet cough sneeze you see in virus movies like Outbreak -- right into my Starbucks green iced tea.
As she talked, she kept coughing and sneezing without covering her mouth until I bolted to another table.
And yes, I drank it anyway.
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July 22nd, 2005
11:02 am
Friday July 22, 2005
Memories: SMS exchange with Space Case, a girl I miss a lot. Hanging out with SC was very addictive for a while.
Me: Hey darlin’ ;-) Having dinner. What’s up. How are you for tomorrow?
SC: Depending on weather either picnic with your frinds or dim sum with mine. Still quite instable plus reasonably drunk.
Me: pumpkin, you’re such a tease.
SC: Stop calling of names lam. I an sober again.
Me: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you SOBER, So stop lying!
SC: Whatever.
Me: If you keep texting me it proves you still love me so maybe you should stop. Besides I’m paying these hookers by hour so you’re wasting my $
SC: F you.
Me: Where are you anyway?
SC: My phone rings.
You’ll never believe the dream I had last night. It was terrible. I had a dream that I sexually assaulted a chicken. I think that there’s something wrong with me.
Me: Not if it was consensual.
SC: No listenb. I think I have serious issues concerning my sexuality.
Me: You’re overreacting.
SC: I’m going to see a shrink.
Me: I don’t think there’s a shrink qualified to handle this.
SC: So are we still getting together tomorrow? What’s the weather like?
Me: Hold on, lemme check. 61, mostly cloudy.
SC: You’re in front of the computer on a Saturday night? What are you, some kind of loser?
Me: It’s 1:15 AM!
SC: Oh, damn. Ok I take it back. You’re not a loser. Call me tomorrow morning.
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July 19th, 2005
08:10 pm - NY in a Nutshell
Tuesday July 19, 2005
As I passed by a sidewalk café in SOHO, a heavy Dominican accent:
“MONEY. [insert pregnant pause] Money is money.
He looks to her for affirmation.
Know what I’m sayin’?”
Mr. Unexplored-Concept-Man, I have no clue what the hell you are saying, but you rock.
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November 8th, 2004
01:46 am - Six Days Later...
The amusement produced by this anecdote wanes each day. I should have posted it earlier but here goes.
While some states grappled with faulty new election technology, New York was noticeably lacking. I had no idea until I tried to perform my civic duty November 2.
Here’s some context:
In the Queens town where I vote, there is an exclusive stretch of million dollar homes.
They have lawns tended to with attention more lavish than that of my upbringing.
All this nestled within privately owned streets kept so clean that they seem to sweep themselves.
Beyond this haven for the ultra-rich, in the outlying areas where human beings fight for the scraps they heave absent-mindedly into the streets, well that’s where I live. It’s not so bad -- at least I have cable.
The point is that my proximity to a community so infused with money does nothing for me, when the Board of Elections LOSES MY DAMN PROFILE. Normally, because I live in NY, which is not a swing state and thus inconsequential, I usually like to pull the voting lever ten or twenty times. However, my profile is missing so they don't know who I am.
That means I’m forced to cast some provisional ballot -- on paper. That means no booth and no fun lever. It felt like taking the SATs. Folks, voting is suppose to be fun. It's not suppose to feel like a test where your answers affect the future in a potentially adverse way. (Or is it, Middle America? Think.)
See below:
Not only do I fill out a ScanTron sheet with a Number 2 pencil (they let me use a pen), I had to make sure I didn’t draw outside the circle (it sounds more difficult than it is if you haven’t done it for 13 years).
The best part is that bizarre privacy-device they forced me to use (above). It’s a cardboard divider. I imagine it's what the ancient Greeks used to propel their democracy forward and, much later, what I used in first grade Catholic school to prevent cheating.
What I’m getting at -- and I can’t believe I’m saying this -- I envy Ohio and their faulty advanced technology. If you're from Ohio, I apologize if I offend. Just know this: you make me want to be you.
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November 6th, 2004
02:31 am - Misanthropic Tendencies - 2 in 20 Minutes
Episode One
At Gourmet Garage, an affordable upscale grocery in SOHO, today I tried out some Indian simmer sauces from a sampling table. As part of the sales material, there was a poster with this Indian woman’s face on it, the founder. However, the sales person was white. As I passed, she inveigled me to sample the sauces: stirring the creamy sauce, fondling the tofu pieces, it was all very sexual. Needless to say, she had me at “Vindaloo.”
A hipster Asian girl tried them out as well. When the seller asked if I liked them, I said yes they’re delicious, but I’m concerned about the saturated fats. Immediately, they both laughed at me, which was a little startling. It’s not like I’m talking about wearing magnetic bracelets to improve my health. Or reading chicken entrails to tell the future. It’s the twenty-first century, for God sakes.
My instinctive reaction was to wait outside for them and then from behind, punch them each in the kidneys, but then I realized that I’m not twelve years old anymore. So I mumbled something about being old and looking out for my health and I left.
Episode Two
There's this thing I noticed while walking around in New York -- strangers find it uncomfortable to walk side by side. When that happens, someone usually speeds up or slows down to prevent it from happening. It’s just like two men standing at urinals prefer to stand with an empty urinal between them so they won’t have to stand together -- same thing.
Just to test it out, I tried it with two people. I slowed down so that I was walking next to this guy. Sure enough, he sped up to overtake me. But I matched him. So we walked side by side, no one knowing what the other was going to do next. But it made me so uncomfortable that after about five seconds I had to stop. It really was like trying to look directly into the sun. My body involuntarily shut down. But maybe more importantly, I think there is something seriously, seriously wrong with me.
I think the next thing I'm going to try is to get onto a near-empty subway train, find the one person sitting in it, and sit right next to him.
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