Miss Davis, would you go to prom with me?

Ok, CNN made it official today. I definitely did not have as good a time in high school as I think I should have.

Get ripped or die trying?

I don't think I'd be asking too much to say I want to be as jacked as the guy described in this article today.

The drama unfolded with a bizarre confrontation between the gunman and his 28-year-old target. The victim was standing silent when the shooter accused him of having a tough-guy attitude, cops said.

"The guy was egging him on, [saying] 'Hey, you think you're a big guy?'" said one police source. "It was over the guy's physique ... like a stare-down."

I mean come on, to be so imposing that crazies have to blaze away with the deuce-deuce in their boot just on looking at you, that means you're doing something right in the gym. I walked out of work into the aftermath at the Wall St. station with the police there, but if it was 50 Cent on that train, he was long gone by that time...

The INS is on Line 2...

First, it was 13 Mexican family friends staying in my house for a couple days to see a graduation ceremony in Boston 2 weeks ago. Then, the Rhode Island friend admits his Mexican girlfriend will be living with him for the month of July, a long enough timespan to force him to shed all the veils on his true personality he was able to maintain while the relationship was long-distance. Extremely long-distance. Most recently (2:30am last night) a Mexican acquaintance of mine and her friend arrived on the Fung Wah for a few days of NYC summer tourism, and will be crashing in my living room all week. This includes the Thursday move-out of the undead couple in my second bedroom; do guests usually mind sleeping in an apartment piled waist-high with cardboard boxes? Then again, if the LA Times article today on my former expat home city is any indicator, maybe this influx of international visitors isn't so hard to explain after all...

I Live with the Dead

Horrible work day. At 5:20, I get asked to find stuff that doesn't exist; not finding it takes me 3 hours. The torrential downpour awaiting my commute home placed me in a rather... raw... mod. Arriving in my apartment, I find my two languid roommates (well my roommate and his live-in girlfriend) splayed across my couch visiting beaches vicariously through others on the travel channel, with two pizza boxes in front of them. I clean up after them, afterwards saying "Thanks for getting pizza, It's nasty out. What do I owe?" Being a communal food arrangement, this was not an unreasonable assumption to make. However, girlfriend perks up, and slurs

Oh, there's no pizza left. He had one and I had one.

Now, please understand, I'm always one to appreciate a girl who can chow down. Just... not at my expense, unless I'm sleeping with her. And even then it's contentious. So I feel my reaction was quite justified, in pausing for a moment of shock, then exclaiming

You hulking fatasses!!! He, I already call a fatass all the time... but it's officially BOTH of you!

Now, girlfriend takes a bit of offense to this, raising lazily up on elbows and extolling herself as being not, in fact, a fatass, because even though it wasn't a small, it was a 'thin-crust pizza.' Roommate is oblivious to the conversation, being too absorbed in a Geiko auto insurance ad. Aware of the opportunity to test my roommates for a pulse, I decide to press hideously on for shock value to see what reactions I can get, partly because it's raining and partly because I'm bored.

Dinner was fucked up last night too. What's up, are you on the rag?
Ewww that's so inappropriate!!! Hit him...! Get up, go hit him!

Roommate glances at girlfriend kicking his arm, says 'oh boy,' and settles back into being entralled by the shapes of the craftsmatic adjustable bed, with a free 25" television if he calls now. And this couple is moving out on July 1st to cohabitate alone? I hope the neighbors don't mind the stink of decomposing flesh.
postscript: When I ask why they are watching such Travel Channel garbage, she replies "Ian is picking out our honeymoon spot." Later, I'll clean up the vomit over where I was standing at the time. Right now I have to blog or I'll end up slapping him in the face until his eyes lose the glassy stupor.

Paging Dr. Uvlov...

Came back from lunch to work and I had a message waiting. Listened to it. Rolled jaw back up. I Attempted to forward the message to myself for future playback, but I can't from my office phone system. I even attempted to put receiver of the cell phone to the ear of my work phone; but this came out garbled. So I will transcribe it directly to my blog and reread later.

"Hi Andrew, this is (xxxxx) from Dr. (xxxxx)'s office. Um. I don't know... if this is wildly inappropriate, or if you're... ah... ok. If you're offended by this-- don't take offense. I just wanted to... give you my phone number. It's (xxx-xxx-xxxx). Ah, if you... I'm sorry if this is offensive. I just... I don't know. I just wanted to give it to you in case... you wanted to call me? But if not? Then forget this ever happened. Thanksbye. Click."

Background to this? There is none. This is the girl who works in the office of the internal medicine physician who fixed me when I had pneumonia; the first time she met me, I was delirious with a 104 fever and wearing 2 layers of hooded sweatshirts, wet cargo pants, and coughing blood like I was about to keel over with consumption. The next time there 2weeks later, I bounced into the office all healthy she did this sort of doubletake and said "oh my god, you're like a totally different person now!" But that's it, I've only ever scheduled appointments with her. Then this morning I called the office because the doctor referred me to a good dermatologist and I needed a referral form... and 3 hours later I get this message. No flirting, no small talk to forshadow it. Just out of the blue, a cutely awkward and uncomfortable number-give to the voice mail of the contact info in my record, talking very soft so nobody else in her office could hear. Does this even happen?? And do you call back your doctor's receptionist? I mean, I handed this girl a vial of warm pee once!

The Gray Lady made a funny!

oh wait... they snagged a writer from the Daily Show. Figures.

Thou-Shalt-See TV
By ROB KUTNER
Published: June 24, 2004 (NYT)

Inspired by the runaway success of religion-themed novels like the "Left Behind" series and Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ," broadcasters are devoting more of their prime-time schedules to shows dealing with God, faith and the afterlife.
— Reuters, June 15

CSI: HOLY LAND (CBS) Liked "The Passion" but didn't think it dwelled on the forensics enough? The trail to Damascus is still warm for these detectives, investigating unsolved martyrdoms as to whether they qualify the victim for sainthood. Not so much a whodunit as a who-gets-beatified-for-it.

CHASTITY & SLOTH (ABC) One regards the body as a sacred temple of the divine. The other lies idle, reaping not the fruits of human industry. And now they're . . . roommates?

TUCKED BY AN ANGEL (CBS) Combining America's love of both the supernatural and the superficial, this epidermally searing drama follows a mysterious figure who moves from town to town, solving people's appearance problems, then moving on.

GODVILLE (WB) Moses begging Pharaoh to let him use the chariot. Samson being ordered to cut his hair and get a job. Jesus sulking over having to do "another stupid healing." It's all your favorite Biblical figures — back when they were still teens.

AMERICAN DESTROYER OF IDOLS (FOX) Simon Cowell gets religion, a green card — and an AK-47.

SODOMITE EYE FOR THE MAN RIGHTEOUS BEFORE THE LORD (BRAVO) Identical to "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," except that each episode ends with the Fab Five being stoned to death. (Note: working title.)

THE DISCIPLE (NBC) Sixteen of America's most pious compete to satisfy the increasingly personal whims of the great master Sri Chanamasala (né Larry Schwarzbaum of Canarsie). Who will be the one this week to get "deprogrammed"?

YAHWEH SCHMO (SPIKE) In this first-ever "divine reality" show, a group of actors seeks to fool the Omnipotent Lord of Creation (currently being "retooled").

SHARE YOUR ENTHUSIASM (HBO) Larry David becomes a born-again Christian, then goes around annoying people in an entirely new way.


Rob Kutner is a writer for "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart."

The Dude Abides

Finally, a summer event geared especially to my special amalgam of fanatic laziness. According to this article, tickets go on sale July 1 for the first-ever Lewbowski Fest New York, and I want my picture on the wall with the other Achievers, too! Bowling? Sychronized Marty's Dance Quintets? A Malibu Sheriff Mug Toss, for crissakes? This is my calling! Not to mention fellowship with kindred spirits:

"I watched the movie every day before I went to class," says Mara Thomas, the 23-year-old winner of the festival's hotly contested trivia competition. "It was like, `I'm making eggs, I might as well watch The Big Lebowski.' That line of reasoning."

(granted, in my case, it was probably more like "instead of going to class", and "I'm making pizza pockets")
Time to gear up my caucasian boozing (it's a perfect summer drink, anyway), polish my balls, and get my DVD back from whoever swiped it off the bookshelf; or better yet, swipe one off the shelf of somebody else I know. Lewbowski Fest is coming!
I'm just going to go find a cash machine...

shhh... Gmail's sleeping

Google Error
502 Server Error
The server encountered a temporary error and could not complete your request.
Please try again in 30 seconds.

Gmail is still very young, and I am happily still telling myself how cool I am to have an account despite being a late blogger. But are email servers supposed to stay offline for longer than a day? I'm grinning pretty sadistically at the thought of people who ebay'ed accounts for $100 and have been trying unsucessfully to log on every 30 seconds for the last 24 hours...

(Thank you to Karolina Cecile, the new daughter of my lovely on-leave manager, for getting her photo sent around the company by press time)

I'll take that in $20s and $50s

I was feeling particularly dumb last night. I stayed at work until 8pm putting together a project requested at 5:15 for the following morning, but only realized after turning off my computer and standing by the elevator that I hadn't billed a free dinner. My initial reaction to the thought of going back, ordering and waiting was "screw that," so I left. But walking to the subway, I thought it would be a good idea to wander the neighborhood stopping in at random restaurants and asking if they accept walk-up orders from people with corporate internet accounts; of course none do, it has to go through the system. But that didn't stop me from walking a big loop of lower Manhattan, checking several places, and far overrunning the amount of time it would have taken to just order and wait while playing on the computer.

So, when I got to the deli near home I decided I owed $5 in stupid tax, and got a ticket for the $150 million lotto drawing for tonight I'd heard the secretaries yapping about. Now, I know I don't live in the most intellectual of areas, but I need to say something about the lotto thing. The deli on my corner must take in more business than an OTB betting parlor. People are INSANE. It's my hood's social scene. All ages and languages line up out the door day after day for scratch tickets and power ball, hollering and whooping like the guys in funny vests trading debentures on the exchange floor. And it got me thinking... How come there has never been a trivia lotto? Game shows and reality shows have started to mix (MTV's 'Boiling Points' is suprisingly watchable; the first MTV production I've enjoyed sitting through since Singled Out's last episode with Jenny McCarthy's breasts), and those people don't even know they're playing. Why not bring to the general public the chance to use arbitrary skills and knowledge to profit? If a chance at lotto winnings increased if you scratched of the correct way to spell "yield" or somesuch, urban dropout rates would plunge like nothing you ever saw. And besides, I never get to California where they have all those game shows... Win Ben Stein's Money was geographically discriminatory!

10 days a week

The streak ended in a supernova this weekend. After 9 straight days of temerarious partying, an all-you-can-drink-wine-and-champagne bachelor party dinner on Saturday night at Cite topped off the bacchanal. Beforehand, two friends from the women's Princeton Training Center squad polished off an afternoon bottle of goldschlager with me, and then it was off the the races. 12 hours of bottomless champagne later, I was suprisingly one of the minority at the table with who did not see his $63.50 filet au poirve twice. (The mess in my bathroom SINK sunday morning proves my roommate cannot say the same.)

Here comes the 5 to the 4 to the 3

Hands in the air if you cats drunk as me...
(you're a poet,j-kwon)

Here is a summary of my week. I haven't had one like this since... well I think the point is I would never remember anyway.

Blitzed all last weekend at graduation parties. Booze cruise in Boston Harbor sunday night before the bus home at 2am.
Monday, was half an hour late to work. That night, closed out a free open bar at Pound & Pence on a client tab.
Tuesday, 50 minutes late to work. That night, batted .666 with a homer and 2 runs & rbis at an East River softball game, then drank Pacificos for 5 hours.
Wednesday, an hour late. Spent most the night drinking lagers by the liters at Zum Schneider with the gorilla troop of friends; rounded out the evening with some wasted Weezer karaoke at Plan B with the hardier boys and the UVA women's crew visitors.
Thursday, got into work at 11:15. Went to the top floor, grabbed a box I stored earlier, and walked down the stairs to my floor to use as an "oh I've been here" prop. Unnecessary. Went home, fell asleep, thankful for the rain-out of the open bar rooftop REEB magazine party I'd wanted to go to. Phone call at 10:30 from UVA girl gets me back out though, I have tourists to show around. Underbar-to-Industry barhopping lasts until closing time. Drunkenly install 8400 BTU air conditioner in living room for guests at 4:30am, tripping on the cord walking to the window. Ow, foot hurts.
Friday, wake up at 7:45. Shower. Dress in work clothes. Drink V8. Sit on couch. Sleep. 9:30. Still sleeping. Roommate leaves, wonders how AC installed overnight and how it is about 30 degrees crooked but not falling 5 stories. (Doesn't fix it.) Plan tourist day with visitors, knowing if work cared or noticed I was late, I'd know already. Consider requests to call in sick. Decide against. Arrive at work 11:30. Just go to desk and sit down. No messages, 2 emails. Life is good.
Somebody, please do my laundry while I nap this afternoon? I have a weekend to recover for. from. for.

does he have great SATs? And a smoking jacket?

from the Post:
FISH KID FOILS $1M ROB
June 17, 2004 -- Two dimwitted armored-car drivers took $1 million from their truck yesterday and stashed it in piles in Westchester and Staten Island, planning to pick it up later, police said.
But their heist plan was foiled when a Staten Island teen caught some of the cash while fishing.
The two guards were busted after Princston Ramos, a ninth-grader, went fishing at a Staten Island pond and discovered buried treasure, sources said.

Princston. Naming children after learning institutions is an inherently dangerous venture, but to spell it wrong certainly doesn't bode well for the app. Although at least he's not named after a flight school teacher, like Jason Lee's kid...

new rumor: Jesus was the antichrist

There is a column in today's Wall Street Journal I couldn't put down, because it reaffirmed for me what a psychotic place the world is. It is written by Harvard professor Samuel Huntington, whose book "Clash of Civilizations" was one of my college reads and was very good.
An excerpt of from the stats part of the column:
In a series of 2002-03 polls, 57% to 65% of Americans said religion was very important in their lives, 23% to 27% said fairly important, and 12% to 18% said not very important... Only about 10% of Americans, however, espouse atheism, and most Americans do not approve of it. Although the willingness of Americans to vote for a presidential candidate from a minority group has increased dramatically--over 90% of those polled in 1999 said they would vote for a black, Jewish or female presidential candidate, while 59% were willing to vote for a homosexual--only 49% were willing to vote for an atheist.
I need to sit and process this for a bit before I can clearly respond. I'm just. Speechless.

I <3 U, SJP

From the Providence import, half an hour ago. She so needs to get over that Broderick clown...

Subject: Sarah Jessica Parker
Im eating her lunch right now. She was in line in front of me at the local falafel place [City Pita, 7th ave & 20th], and they mixed up our orders.
Ahhhhh New York.

Subject: RE: Sarah Jessica Parker
Is she super cute in person too?

Subject: RE: Sarah Jessica Parker
Yes, and super small. 5 feet flat. I thought she was skipping school, and then heard her voice, which is unmistakable. I don’t think anyone in there had a clue.

god damn it

I think that this is an excellent letter to the editor...
(New York Times, 6/16/04)
To the Editor:

Re "8 Justices Block Effort to Excise Phrase in Pledge" (front page, June 15):

Because Michael A. Newdow does not have final say over his daughter's education under the terms of a California custody order and the case was tied to his suit on her behalf, the Supreme Court ruled that he does not have sufficient standing to argue as her legal representative.

It seems that we have an easier time separating parent and child than we do separating church and state.

DAVI NAPOLEON
Ann Arbor, Mich., June 15, 2004

sushi-tuesday minutia

* I'm seeing smoke signals on the horizon that I may no longer be the 1 single friend in my social group of coupled-off buddies. Recent whispers place an unnamed founding member of the Player's Alumni Association as on the splits with his special ladyfriend; there are unverified reports that she was out past her bedtime and didn't finish her broccoli, and has been sent to her room.

* I realized this weekend that the excellent films 'Good Will Hunting' and 'Supertroopers,' while different in most respects, both featured a greatly underappreciated leisure time activity for New England twenty-somethings: Watching 9 year-olds play little league games from the bleachers on lazy saturday afternoons. In between bouts of heckling, my Rhode Island friend put it quite poignantly; "If you think about it, these games are the deciding moments for these kids. Right here, it is all sorted out; respect from peers, levels of self confidence, the love of fathers... fail the physical tests of little league, and you're pretty much fucked for the next two decades."

Fun, or Wah?

There are only two types of trips on my regular chinatown bus from the LES to South Station: very good, and very bad. This weekend, I had both.

Wah: On my return to the city last night on the 10pm (arrives at Canal St. 2:20am), around midnight I came a heartbeat away from waiting for a quiet moment, whipping out my cellphone, poke-dialing my friend Matt and projecting extremely loudly into the receiver "Hey, Matt guess what? You're right about cell phones on buses being annoying. I think that everybody who has an song-jingle ring or talks for too long should be dragged into the back and had their head flushed in the toilet. I'm on a bus about half-full of people who have no idea that everybody else can hear them, and when their "Ode to Joy" ring goes off for the 20th time, the quiet passengers want to stuff them in the luggage compartment down below. Yeah, seriously. They have no idea, it's hilarious. Anyway, see you. Peace." The smattering of applause would have been priceless. I'm not in any way a thin-skinned guy and I know what sort of clientele to expect with a $10 ticket, but were are some basic human courtesy laws being flouted on that run. Like when the hipster band kid next to me left a 5 minute+ message for some guys he tried out with, only to realize at the end of said message that in passing under the Prudential Building tunnel he had lost his signal at some point and then left the same word-for-word message for them all over again? Poor etiquette. Lady sitting behind you taps you awake an hour into the ride to ask if your overhead light is working (hers seems to be broken), apparently not noticing that every single light in the entire capacity-filled bus has mysteriously been off the whole ride? Poor etiquette. When the fat sweaty passenger in the back walked to the front to complain to the driver the AC wasn't turned high enough for him, only in putting his hand on every headrest he passed managed to stick one of his greasy sausage fingers in my sleeping ear? Poor etiquette. It was almost like I was paying for something in karma...

Fun: For the ride up to Boston, I planned on meeting a friend in the line for the Fung Wah directly after work. Being a Wall St. worker bee, I was much closer and arrived first. In line to buy tickets, my attention was naturally drawn to the tall blonde girl alone behind me; a recurring theme is how much of a sucker I am in that department. However, by the time I had run to a cash machine and returned, my friend had arrived and the bald passenger behind her had struck up the Interest in conversation. Friend, who is renowned for a complete lack of social and spatial awareness, proceeds to conversationally recount in his patented volume several weekends' worth of our social group's chicanery, blissfully unaware of my attempts to steer the conversation onto a more tasteful or even intelligent tack. Finally, when I mentioned soreness from the Chase Corporate Challenge 5k I had run earlier, Interest seized upon a moment of silence from her suitor and chimed in mentioning she had run it, as well. A quick trip for a hot dog later, I informed blissful friend that the two behind us were not, as he thought, together, and that I would have her contact info by the end of the ride (blissful friend seemed dubious.) 5 hours and 1 Fung Wah ride later, I rose, stepped back to where Interest was sitting with suitor next to her, engaged in a brief conversation during the shuffle to exit the bus, and left set with a get-together planned at Niagara this week. In the words of blissful friend, suitor looked on the verge of tears, as he appeared "ready to propose marriage when I busted up his game." Right-place-at-the-right-time-to-provide-a-desperately-needed-out luck it may be, but it's stories like this that put the fun in fung wah.

In the immortal words of Clueless...

Amber: Ms. Stoeger, my plastic surgeon doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose.
Dionne: Well, there goes your social life...

A Mass. state appeals court today decided on a lawsuit filed by a woman who said that the injuries she suffered from a foul ball to the face in 1998 were the fault of the Red Sox organization. She claimed their failure inform her of the perils of sitting close to the field entitled her to $486,909 in lost wages and medical expenses. In rejecting her case, the judge cited an earlier court decision which states that, `the duty to warn does not extend to dangers that would be obvious to persons of average intelligence.' (court-talk for "You're an idiot") As a fanatic Sox fan, I need to start gearing up this page for some late-summer and autumn gut-wrenching ballpark drama stories, so I just wanted to get my first Sox entry out there in the win column for the team.

By far the best part of this saga is that the critical-injury offending ball wheezed off the bat of none other than limp-wristed Darren Lewis. 8 plates to reconstruct your schnoz because of this featherduster, lady? Maybe next time, you will stop yapping on your cell phone and waving to see if you're on TV and actually watch the game. Not that I'm bitter about you wasting good seats or anything.

And I ran... ran so far away...

So on a lark I signed up a few months ago along with 20,000 or so other New Yorkers for the Chase Corporate Challenge Central Park Run that happened yesterday-- after all, how tough could 3.5 billable miles be. Now, as I sit at my workstation lifting boxes and sorting documents into their proper folders (yes, I'm actually DOING stuff today, first time since I started blogging really) and feeling my rubbery chicken legs rebel against every movement, I am telling myself for the umpteenth time since it started getting nice outside: I need to get my formerly-athletic ass back into shape. I mean really, I have no excuse. I'm leaving every day at 5:30; it's not like I'm an I-Banker, or more specifically this I-Banker, who's email-documented employment torture brightened my physically crestfallen morning.

note to self: check this place out (bring crew)

The Delancey (Delancey & Clinton)

A new watering hole has sprung up in my neck of the woods, and judging by the buzz from their opening last week, they throw one hell of a party.

Nice form, good arm technique and spot-on placement of the left knee. Apparently somebody was paying attention in Bouncer School...
As the story goes, shady Polish management tipped an altercation at their own soiree over some girls sitting in a VIP section without permission. Things escalated (who throws a firecracker in a bar?! I mean really); LES hipster carnage ensued. And what has better draw than carnage? I'll be conducting some on-site investigating as soon as I rally some of my eastern european goon friends for a night on the town.

Sounds Like Ice Cream

Bless this man. The NYPost is negatively reporting today that, under noise code regulations, my former employer Mr. Bloomberg is proposing to ban the Mister Softee jingle. You know, Da-na-na-na, dah-da, dah-da, da-dum-da-dum-dee-dah-dum! That one that plays 50 times in a row at 8am on Sunday morning right outside your window after a night of mainlining vodka tonics. Or worse, the song that plays from 3am-5am somewhere down the street from your old apartment in Harlem, just like Big Worm's truck in Friday only for real. Is everyone at the Post INSANE? Mister Softee is an evil nemesis. This ranks up there with the public smoking ban for "best thing for New York, ever" which, incidentally, the Post also panned. Considering a significant portion of my imagery of hell involved confinement in a putrid, smoke-filled room listening to that jingle for eternity, I think the question needs to be raised; is Rupert Murdoch, in fact, Satan?

A New Caste

As a avid reader of blogs for months, I was finally spurred into an active role one week ago today with trepidation and a little fanfare. However, those months of inactivity on my part did not pass by idly. While I focused "energy" at my new job, more established bloggers were out gaining notoriety and experience in the medium. And now as I paddle about like a fat kid wearing neon swimmies in the shallow end, I gaze out at older, stronger blog swimmers getting all the attention, and can only whine with envy.
My decision to bare heart, soul and boredom for all to see came with careful consideration and then full enthusiasm; if you're going to do something, do it right. However, I found out this morning that "active" bloggers are being selectively offered coveted gmail accounts by google, which has initiated a deluge of faux blogs by the hordes seeking gigabyte mail accounts. Sadly, my own personal foray wallows with these masses; too far below the radar with 0 comment replies (pop my cherry, people!), I am apparently not yet an active blogger and my own personal invitation to a higher plane of blogging existence will remain awaited forthwith...

Thank you, Columbia

It looks like some of that $150,000 or so my parents poured over my brain in higher education actually stuck; kids, the ability to plagarize with proper citation can get you just as much recognition as coming up with something by yourself. A friday piece in New Yorkish piqued my curiosity at a web site called Letters to Celebrities, where they are inviting reader submissions. It being late on a Friday afternoon, my flare-up of ADD was too severe to write anything substantive myself, but I did forward to them Gina's first blog post, along with a letter of accredation. The result? Appreciation from strangers! Yay!
"Agreed: Dr. Laura Does Suck"

They're baa-aack...

This weekend I will be leaving Manhattan to watch large, powerful mammals being urged through speed competition by small people with napoleonic complexes hitching along for a ride-- I just don't yet have a venue picked. Although the possibility of watching Smarty Jones repeat Seattle Slew's 1977 undefeated Triple Crown run at the Belmont Stakes horse race is tempting, I can always catch it on Sportscenter. I will therefore most likely find myself in southern Jersey watching Divison I oarsmen contend for the 101st national title while ESPN focuses its cameras elsewhere upon more deserving athletic contests, like the National Spelling Bee. And if I needed coaxing, the thrill of additional danger accompanies the usual drama of shootings, deli robberies and general unpleasantness associated with a trip to Camden. This year, the place is sure to be overrun by the crusade of cicadas.
You may be blithely unaware of the impending hordes; New York is a fortress Zion against the implacable swarm, a sanctuary where children grow unscarred by their shrill battle cry and the streets are not littered with corpses. But I have been beyond the walls, and have seen the carnage wrought upon the Real World. And while we have no concerted defense against the onslaught, there are some who stand their ground against the terrible menace. My only hope is that I, too, when thrown in the breach, can muster the strength to face the unfaceable for the sake of humanity.

Am I Hot or Not?

Ever since the Gray Lady started printing photographs in color at the end of high school, I've noticed a decisively downward spiral in the class of Dad's Newspaper. But I must admit, I never saw coming a New York Times feature piece on the cultural phenomenon that is 'Hot or Not', let alone its hideous offsrping. Granted they are about 3 years uncool, but I must say, I was more than a little disconcerted at having a stuffy private practice psychiatrist from Philly nail so many of my generations' dementias in such a short quote:

"I see this phenomenon as an extension of the narcissism that has become much more pervasive in our culture," Dr. Aserinsky said. "I see it especially in the under-30 crowd, where there's this insatiable appetite for acknowledgment based largely on patterns in child-rearing that came along about the time of that generation." He calls it the "overappreciated child," whose every accomplishment, no matter how pedestrian, is praised as if extraordinary, if not also bronzed and placed on a pedestal.

At least I'm not overappreciated. Am I?

Out in the yard, wedding.

For me, Memorial Day has always been a time of change. Shifting from school years and crew seasons to lethargic summer vacations, for one. Or heralding the season of vineyard weekends and Central Park suntans, for another. But this Memorial Day marked a new change; as of Saturday, I have passed from having single friends to having married friends, and I cannot turn back. Summer weddings are sprouting far into the horizon, and their roots threaten to choke the life from my precious summer weekends.
I spent my Saturday in Northern Virginia at a quaint Methodist Church, where a pastor told the two wedds to "maintain everlasting love for each other under Fear of God", which seemed through my hangover to be a bit heavy for 10:15am. I was also still recovering from another first; in my life, I had never been reprimanded over footwear on Memorial Day weekend. But upon arriving for the service in my dapper new Brooks Brothers seersucker suit and flipflops, I discovered that the end of spring does not, in fact, mean "shoes optional."
Circa-1993 mulletted DJ aside, the country club reception was salvageable by downing 2 six-packs of vodka tonics and 1 sixer of caucasians from the open bar; and being the only actual single at the entire wedding, I didn't have much competition for the garter throw.

The ride home was uneventful after stripping to my underwear and changing in front of the club, mostly because I slept 5 hours of the way. (And the bladder control I exhibited upon waking in the face of inhuman pain until the next rest stop should be a story for the ages.) The weekend, however, was a washout.
So do the world a favor when it comes to marriage, and time your wedding to pop out in the cold dreariness of winter, when people need excuses to get out and the unexpected life of a dandelion in the sidewalk would be a cheer.

The Beginning of The End

Immortality without religion is all I ask... could blogging be the answer?

Ozymandias of Egypt
I MET a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings.
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley (1818)

Ozymandias
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows: --
"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand." -- The City's gone, --
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder, -- and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragments huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
-Horace Smith (1818)