10.29
03:14pm: A man who can truly make it to the top is a man who works extremely hard at finding means of not doing any work at all. My life experience has convinced me of this, gentle reader. In every single job I've ever held, my lowly positions have slowly accrued duties that should have fallen to others, or were created by another employee's abrupt departure and management's refusal to hire a replacement. We do not respect the hard workers, the Boxers of this world. Rather, we admire the man who with the corner office, who IMs his buddies all day and takes three-hour lunches. He is the man who has it made. The toiler is just a schmuck--and I should know, for I was a born toiler. Idle time eats away at my conscience. I've been very bad about working on my fiction lately, and a large part of me thinks this puts me in the Pol Pot category of human monsters.
But I know, deep down, that Americans no longer respect hard workers, if they ever did. I first realized this in junior high, which I believe is the American equivalent of James Joyce's "smithy of the soul." (Look, I'm smart.) No person leaves junior high unscathed. It is a reaper of humanity--the wheat and the chaff are mercilessly separated. Over the years of 7th, 8th, and 9th grades*, I could see some kids just completely lose faith in reality. Their eyes glazed over with the kind of hopelessness you see in prison camps. On any given day, you could feel a few dozen universes being crushed, usually by nothing more but a gesture or offhand comment. Some kids disappeared completely, others muddled through, and others still reemerged in high school completely transformed--either fully adjusted by a Nietzchean approach to pain and suffering, or driven batshit insane.
My junior high was a particularly bad spot--not for violence or intimidation, but for pure atmosphere. The bulk of it was built in the early part of the 20th century--at one time, it was the only school for K-12 in the town I grew up in. The hallways were nothing short of unholy--they had ancient lightbulbs that, somehow, in defiance of all physics, made the corridors darker when lit. And with old rattling metal lockers, with built in combo locks, every hallway had the feel of a prison boiler room. So imagine a place built with gnarled, mottled wood, barely lit, lined with Depression-era milkglass, and fill it with young teenagers, raging with hormones, held for seven hours a day, nine months a year in a place practically designed to induce a prolonged state of seasonal depression.
To further drive down serotonin levels, the cafeteria was housed in the basement. Not one window to be seen anywhere. Nothing to tantalize the eye but badly drawn murals invoking school spirit or community pride, painted years before any of us were born, adorned in spots by Bic-penned obscenities. A few dangerous brick columns held the roof up. If a fight ever broke out during lunch (not common but not rare either), there was always a danger of one grappler splitting his head open on these things.
The day I first began to suspect the Horatio Alger myth, I was sitting at lunch with a varied group of Actual Friends, and Kids Who Could Stand to Be Seen With Us. We were probably reenacting skits from Saturday Night Live or Kids in the Hall, or recalling the idiocy of someone even lower on the social totem pole than us. There were about two minutes to go before lunch ended. Kids were getting antsy to leave, standing up from their seats, lining up at the exits, hocking spitballs left and right. (The fact that kids were anxious to leave the cafeteria and go to class should give you an idea of how pleasant the place was.)
Suddenly, our conversation was broken up by the shrill bleating of one of the lunch monitors. Much like the playground monitors of my earlier youth, the only prerequisites for being a lunch monitor owning feathered hair and a Bronx accent that would make George Costanza's mother sound like Marion Anderson. She asked us the meaning of something, as authority figures are wont to do, and pointed to the corpse of a blue slushee dumped on the floor near our table. None of us claimed responsibility--none of us had even had a slushee that day, and produced our non-Smurf-colored tongues to prove it.
But the lunch monitor, deeply offended that someone would sully this hellhole in such a fashion, would not budge. She decided we were responsible--or rather, decided that it was in the best interests of her health not to blame the table full of thugs seated behind us, the more likely suspects. So she devised a ruse worthy of Solomon himself. She insisted that no one could leave the cafeteria until one of us owned up to the deed and cleaned up the mess. And when she meant no one, she meant not just our table, but the entire cafeteria.
Within nanoseconds, the whole room knew that the fate of their afternoon rested in the hands of our table. They screamed at us to cave in, but we were a principled group. None of us had done it, so none of us moved a muscle. The lunch monitor stood just as firm, holding a mop in her left hand, waiting for one of us to give in. The bell rang, but the doors stayed shut. The screaming of my fellow students grew angrier. Paper projectiles streamed our way. The seconds ticked off like small eternities. Someone screamed I'M GONNA BE LATE TO CLASS! in a pathetic falsetto.
I decided to take one for the team. I told the lunch monitor I didn't do the deed, but if it would get everyone out of the room, I would clean up the mess. She handed me the mop and I went to work, slopping up someone else's act of culinary vandalism. Briefly, a ripple of applause broke through the crowd. For a moment, I actually thought I would be cheered for my sacrifice. But martyrs are rarely celebrated until they're dead. So this brief interlude of praise was quickly supplanted by a chant that was unique to my jr. high, as near as I've been able to determine. In unison, all the other kids in the room yelled DIIIIIICK, over and over. I can't quite capture it in prose--those extra I's indicate that, when saying this, you start low and hit the hard 'K' high, a lot like a car alarm. This was trotted out at least four or five times each lunch hour, whenever someone tripped or dropped an ice cream cone on the floor. It was a perfectly synchronized chorus of adolescent hate, one I had engaged in many times. Now, I was the recipient, all thanks to my willingness to do a job that was rightfully someone else's toil.
Whoever dropped that blue slushee, knowing full well I or someone like me would clean it up for him, I am sure he is already a junior executive in a law firm or brokerage house. He was born to make messes other people mop up. And I was born, dear reader, to eat shit and call it pie.
*That's not a typo. My school district had three elementary schools, but only one jr. high and one tiny high school. So elem went K-6, jr. high 7-9, and high school 10-12. That is, until I moved up to high school. By that time, additions were complete on the high school building, and so they reapportioned the grades to be in line with the rest of the civilized nation. So one small bit of luck I had in my academic career was that I was never a true freshman.
10.28
05:40pm: I have been silent for most of the baseball playoffs. I've devoted too much of this space all summer to discussing the Great American Pastime. This past week, I wrote and wrote and rewrote an article on the game's twin, dichotomous obsessions--stats and curses--that was killed by one outlet and rejected by another. Perhaps if I can not find a place for it, I will post it here in some form. In the meantime, however, let me just reflect on a coupla things.
* Everyone's talking about the Cardinals today like they're a bunch of preschooler stroke victims. I'll remind the general populace that they didn't win 105 games this season, and they didn't defeat a an extremely hot Houston team, by 'tarding around the diamond. Granted, beside Game 1, they played like refried shite all Series (the one major disappointment of Sox victory: it was too damn easy). And I know it's ultimately how you play in the postseason that counts. But I hate it when people consider making it to the Big Show and losing is a huge shame. Have you ever made it to the World Series? No? Then don't talk smack on a team that did.
* The Yankees can lay the blame for their loss squarely on the shoulders of Alex "Karate Kid" Rodriguez. The Red Sox wins in games 4 and 5 could have just been extra-inning flukes, aided by hometown mojo. Schilling pitched great in game 6, but once he was removed, Francona brought in Bronson Arroyo, who didn't look all that great. Once Derek Jeter reached base, you could feel the momentum start to tip in the Yankees' favor. I thought for sure that they would pull off a come-from-behind win. Had A-Rod not tried to Van Damme his way on to first, Jeter would have been at least been at second with two outs, with a dangerous Garry Sheffield coming up next. Instead, the ensuing controversy--and especially the scary presence of riot cops--sapped all of the momentum out of the Yankees, and they never recovered. The Yankees, see, are not the kind of emotionally fragile team that wilts when things don't go their way. But somehow they folded like cheap suits after the botched hack by A-Rod, which was what really surprised me. It was they I knew that it was all over for them. See what 12 million bucks buys ya, Steinbrenner?
* I not-so-secretly rooted for the Sox all series, just to humble Yankees fans. As they say, be careful what you wish for. The day after Game 7, there was hardly anybody in the subways. I swear, the collapse demoralized a huge chunk of the city, so much so that I would guess a good 30% sicked out that day. The air of depression in the streets was so thick that you could cut chunks of it out of the atmosphere and spread it on bread. This did for me what I always thought was impossible: it made me pity the Yanks.
* I realized, after witnessing this, that I don't really hate the Yankees at all. Other than A-Rod, there's no one I dislike on the team at all. They have too many great players and too many ex-Mets (Olerud, Tony Clark) to truly hate. I simply hate a certain kind of Yankees fan: the sore winner. There is a type of Yankees fan who will never, ever be happy, even when they win, unless he can find a fan of the rival team AND SCREAM IN THEIR FACE ABOUT IT. And while you're pelted with obscenities and Miller Lite breath, you have to take it, cuz they're the fucking Yankees. What the hell do you say? Being a Yankees fan means you can sublimate any feelings of inadequacy into being a devotee of the greatest team ever. You could eat diarrhea for a living, but if you're a Yankees fan, you get to scream at people you've never met in bars about how much their team sucks, because no matter who they are, no matter who they root for, yeah, in comparison, their team sucks. The only people who can hold a candle are teams in sports that Americans don't give a shit about, like Man U, or the New Zealand All Blacks (both of which probably sound like the names of gay college teams to the average Yanks fan).
* Next year, the Mets will suck decidedly less than they did this year. And David Wright will be a fucking superstar in this town, like Darryl Strawberry or Derek Jeter in their rookie years. Like, a panty-throwing superstar. Mark my words.
10.27
01:41pm: I missed Holy Goddamn! last night, thanks to work-related bullshit--I didn't leave my office until 8 pm. So, in this space, I shall run over what I wished to talk about on my show last night, as briefly as I can manage.
On Monday, I waited on line dutifully to pick up my pre-ordered copy of the GTA: San Andreas from GameStop on 6th and 44th ("Where Your IT Guy Goes on His Lunch Break!"). My lady was nice enough to wait with me, and I was surprised to see that there were at least two other Patient Girlfriends in attendance. The only other females were obviously moms, which was kinda cute until I remembered that they were buying their kids a game with drive-bys and copious amounts of weed smoking. But hey, whatever brings the fam together. There were also quite a few thugs in attendance. I couldn't tell if they were just kids dressed all thugged out, or if they were the real deal. Considering the game's subject matter, I have feeling GameStop pulled a lot of cash transactions that night, if you acquire my drift.
Because I was cheap and only put five bucks down on the game, I had to wait on the Red-Headed Stepchild line, to the store's left, while the High Rollers got to wait on the right. The other line was admitted five at a time, while only one Cheap Bastard could enter for each quintet until all of the Chosen were admitted and had picked up their games. Had I known there would have been such a separating of the sheep and the goats, I definitely would have paid in full, but who could foresee such a thing? Once I got to the front of the line, I had to prove I had preordered the game--not just with my receipt, but by showing ID as well, which was recorded and logged. And I underwent the same procedure once allowed inside. GameStop had better security than JFK. I thought they were gonna ask me to take off my shoes.
Is it completely ridiculous that a grown man would wait on a line for an hour to purchase a video game (as the lady asserted, several vocal times)? Of course it is. My tolerance for such shit wanes with each passing year. In the case of GTA, the only reason I went through such an ordeal is that that I'm almost positive the game will be sold out everywhere from now until three weeks after Xmas. Truth be told, I'm surprised the lines were as short as they were--I expected Soviet-length queues. When people came by to ask what we were waiting for, the lady and I contemplated such responses as "gubment cheese" and "Cabbage Patch Kids."
But listen: There are things you would wait on line for to see/purchase/listen to. And if you don't have anything like that, you are either a robot, or an extremely boring person. Obsessions are what make us ridiculously human. Animals really don't have obsessions--they eat and fuck, instinctually. Only humans fill up a whole room with comic books, or first editions of books, or little toy robots, or old 45s.
My devotion to pixels runs deep. I have a very vivid memory of going to my cousin's house before a funeral--just after he had gotten The Legend of Zelda. We played it a little bit before we left, and he dragged the instruction book, with all of its descriptions and illustrations of Tektites and Peahats, to the funeral home. We had that tantalizing map, too, the one with various uncharted squares. We pored over these texts the whole time at the funeral parlor, ignoring the voluble grief of everyone else in attendance. What're you talking about, death--look, here's Oktoroks! Just one of the many, many reasons that I'm going straight to hell.
10.18
03:56pm: How do you know you're a hopeless dork? Since I am possessed of amazing self awareness (or self absorption, who lives right next door), I have no illusions about this at all. Had I any delusions otherwise, however, they would have been shattered by the voice mail I got on Friday.
I check my cel phone voice mail frequently throughout the day. Since I have about eighty bajillion works of mine in the sweaty slush piles of various magazines, I'm constantly expecting THE BIG CALL. THE BIG CALL is when a cigar-chomping executive rings you up, says "I like your style, kiddo!" and promises you a trunk full of jewels and dancing girls if you'll sign on the dotted line. I know that there is no such thing as a Standard Rich and Famous Contract, despite what the Muppets (and Orson Welles) told me. I know that the days of the boozy, chain-smoking editor are long gone, that most publishing industry honchos are wispy wraiths who wear ponchos and eat nothing but watercress and broccoli rabe. But please, let me have my Jazz Age fantasy (vo-doh-de-oh-doh).
So every time I actually have a voice mail to listen to, while at work, it sends me into a paroxysm of sweaty anticipation. This is it! Hello big time! I thought no less when the digitzed automaton told me, Friday afternoon, "You have...ONE...new...message." My heart raced as I waited to hear my invitation to greatness. A sweat broke out on my forehead as a voice chirped forth, "Hi, this is Karen..." I don't know anyone named Karen--surely this is someone's assistant, inquiring of my lunch plans for next week, so that I may discuss My Future with The Powers That Be! Phone calls from strangers used to scare me beyond all reckoning, because when I was unemployed, strangers calling me were invariably bill collectors, or the unemployment office. Now, however, I have the insane faith of Blanche Dubois, hoping to be save by people I don't already know.
Since I am not typing this from an ivory, gold-studded G5, you may guess that the voice mail was less than eventful. "Karen" was no more real than the voice that hands over my messages. "Karen" was calling to tell me how I could join the "GTA: San Andreas" Club at GameStop. 'Bout two months ago, in a pique of dorkitude, I preordered this game, anticipating that otherwise I'd have no chance of playing it until well after the holiday season. My nerdly impatience apparently entitles me to be jerked around by disembodied female voices.
Let this be a lesson to you: Never believe in anything.
10.14
05:30pm: Glorious day! The smart, handsome people at Warner Bros. are releasing another Looney Tunes DVD collection. That would be cause enough for rejoicing, but harken, children, and I shall impart to you glorious news. One of the DVD extras shall be a true classic in search of a cult: The Looney Tunes 50th Anniversary Special, aired but once in the holiday season of 1985. This special, produced by Lorne Michaels' Broadway Video, consists of cartoon clips, stitched together with the bizarre commentary of celebrities--all of whom speak of the Looney Tunes characters as if they were real actors with real Hollywood careers*. That may sound old hat, but I would posit that all the mockumentaries to adopt this pose have stolen it from this special. Admittedly, the show is not laugh-out-loud funny (except for the cartoon excerpts), but it is so unabashedly, willfully strange that I can barely believe it was ever made. Bill Murray is god damn brilliant; forget Lost in Translation, he shoulda won an Oscar for this special, in which he expounds on the superstitions of Yosemite Sam, and which Looney Tunes characters he has respect for as artists.
How do I know of this long-lost gem? I must give thanks to my grandfather, and his extremely indulgent VCR.
For Christmas 1984, my Large Extended Family (c) bought my grandfather his very first VCR. I don't know how much a VCR set you back 20 years ago, but it had to be a considerable chunk of change, since my family was/is in the habit of buying my grandparents one Expensive Thing every holiday season. This VCR weighed a good 25 pounds, which I know because I had to lug it from one TV to another more than once. It was encased in a burnished silver housing (silver was the electronics zeitgeist of the era, eventually supplanted by the Black Phase of Home Entertainment, and recently overtaken by a Silver Revival). The sound produced by its operation would be considered deafening by today's standards, but to me it had a curiously hypnotic rhythm. I won't attempt to capture it here, but the sound of it starting up after the 'Play' button was pressed was a mini-concerto of dynamo hum and R2D2-like digitized baby talk. These wondrous tones were accompanied by a deep black screen, as the input switched from the antenna to the tape being played--an operation that takes no time at all to perform by today's machinery, but which back then comprised a whole three seconds.
The arrival of the VCR was a banner day in my youth. My own Smaller Nuclear Family (c) was still years away from being able to afford such a thing. And since my grandparents lived right next door to me, this entitled me (so I thought) to beg them to tape anything I wanted preserved for posterity. Mostly, I longed to capture Special Cartoons--not the Saturday Morning variety, but the kind that aired for specific holidays. I guess it was because these shows, which aired no more than once a year, were much more ephemeral--who knew if the Peanuts Arbor Day Special would ever run again! It was, I suppose, the embryonic stages of my lifelong obsession with obsessions, and my fierce desire to gather up all the things I love and tuck them away so that I can keep them forever.
In all the years that I ruthlessly exploited my grandfather for this service, I did not once see him use the VCR himself. For birthdays, aunts and uncles gave him tapes of old movies, or a documentary on Frank Sinatra. Many of them still sit on his shelf, unopened. For the first 5 years of the VCR's life, it was used almost exclusively at my whim. Nine times out of ten, my demands won out over his--even when my desire to come over and watch "A Disney Christmas Carol" interfered with his desire to watch Jack Nicklaus or Mark Gastineau. There was never a doubt in my mind that, when I went to his house, I would be able to plop in front of the TV for hours if I wanted to--a testament as much to my grandfather's easy-going nature as it is to the boundless self-absorption of youth.
Despite the fact that he had little interest in what he recorded for me, my grandfather made logs of each tape he had. He noted where each program stopped and started according to the VCR's mysterious counter, which didn't measure time elapsed, but merely ticked away inscrutable units of its own divination. His jottings were as meticulous as the little notepad he kept in his car to mark down the mileage between fill-ups. The notes were even cross-referenced; each tape had a number written on it, which corresponded to a list with that number, in case someone accidentally coupled the wrong list with the wrong tape. My grandfather was a bookkeeper for JP Morgan for 30 years, so I don't know if this detailed database was a vestigial remnant of his work years, or perhaps the reflection of a deeper desire to keep Everything in its Place. Does the Work find the Man, or does the Man find the Work?
I didn't truly appreciate his labor until I was a teenager, when, in a fit of nostalgia and masochism, I rediscovered the tapes he had made for me ("rediscovered" = "remembered they were in a box under the TV"). They made for some curious viewing, indeed. My childhood fixation with cartoons, particularly the Charlie Brown series, was understandable, but other things I asked my grandfather to tape for me did not hold up so well. F'rinstance: a movie called Poison Ivy (not the Drew Barrymore flick), which starred Michael J. Fox, Nancy McKeon, and Robert Klein (*rubbing eyeballs in amazement*) in an amalgam of every crappy camp movie you've ever seen. After the remove of ten years, the tapes were more relic than entertainment. For some reason, though, I found the commercials unbelievably fascinating. I would watch them, remembering the toys I lusted after, the permutations of corporate slogans, and above all, the pure feel of what was on TV back then. Watching one episode of an old TV show is one thing, but watching a whole two-hour block of TV from any given night in the past is even better than finding a fly caught in amber--it's as if you were able to glimpse that fly, alive, soaring, biting. This block of airtime was meant to be as disposable as a tissue, and now exists solely due to my psychotic childhood desire to capture every animated show crafted by the hand of man.**
I unearthed the Looney Tunes 50th Anniversary special this way, which was truly a find for the ages. However, looking at the other shows through a (near) adult's eyes, I could finally see how lame most of it was. Or rather, I could see how lame it would appear to an adult not enamored of shiny, sparkly things meant to distract children. And I thought of my grandfather, who gladly gave up part of his evenings so he could tape this dreck for me (back then, see, it was nigh impossible to tape one channel and watch another, or at least it was nigh impossible for us to figure out how to do so). I never heard one word of complaint from him, nor did he ever refuse even one of my requests.
This makes me believe that, one day, I will make a terrible father, because I can not shut off the adult mind I have acquired to see what a child sees in a plastic hunk of crap molded into a Fighting Man. I would never take my kid to see the Yu-Gi-Oh movie, or buy him Pokemon cards, even though the dumb shit I watched/played with as a kid was really no better or worse than the childish things of today.
But I suppose that is one of the most fundamental definitions of love: the willingness to suffer so that someone else can be happy.
*Curiously, the only people who don't treat the characters like real people are Friz Freleng and Chuck Jones, two former Looney Tunes directors. Baudrillard would spin in his grave, if only he were dead.
** I have taken audio samples of many of these commercials and have placed them in my weekly radio show. They're obviously meant to be visual, but disembodied, they fascinate me even more.
10.05
01:45pm: I wrote a long-ish screed on how I haven't been writing much lately. It has been deleted because it committed the dual sin of being both self-pitying and not interesting to read. While you ponder that, you should remember to listen to Holy Goddamn tonight from 7-8. I promise it will be over in time for you to watch the Twins beat the Yankees.
Gawker Media, the giant media conglomco headed by Nick "Dicky" Denton just debuted a troika of phallocentric blogs. Finally, something on the Internet for men! Denton's other, more established blogs--Gawker and Wonkette, f'rinstance--are definitely girly, in that "cool bitchy chicks in the corner of the cafeteria making fun of the popular girls while secretly wishing they were them" sorta way (if you ignore Wonkette's preoccupation with anal sex). Of the three new Lad Blogs (Llogs?), I think Kotaku (games) and Screenhead (funny shit) have the most potential. Guys like games (raising my free, non-joystick-holding hand) and guys like funny shit. In fact, I'm pretty sure 90% of corporate internet bandwidth is spent trying to find Metal Gear cheat codes and/or download that Will Ferrell/George Bush video. As the French say, 'nuff said. We are a simple folk, no matter what the Cosmo quizzes say. Thanks to the media-funded infantilizing of adulthood, and the rush of men to live out their fantasies and worst stereotypes, I see a bold new future dawning, wherein men are reduced to large, mewling babies, fed through an IV full of burgers and beer, clutching a joystick in one hand and their dicks in the other.
I do see a few flaws in Gawker's plan, however: Kotaku (which derives from a Japanese word meaning 'unhealthily obsessed') professes to "not play many sports games." I understand this--as a kid, I was strictly a Mario/Mega Man/Sonic kinda gamer. And then a place called EA helped me to see the light. Considering that these games have the most obsessive users and comprise the bulk of developers' output, it's probably to at least give sports games nominal coverage. Sports games have much easier points of entries than action games: you either like football or you don't, versus you caring about an imaginary ninja's desire for revenge.
The third site, Jalopnik, I see as troubled. It is a car-related blog. Cars are, of course, a major male obsession, but I don't know that Blog Reading Guys and Car Guys have a very large Venn intersection*. Based on my own survey of car media (magazines, web sites, etc.), I believe that there are basically two kinds of Car Guys (your results may vary):
JD Power: Knows the specs of every new model. Changes his own oil. Can speak with confidence about carburetors. Has at least three volumes of the Chilton manual for each vehicle he owns. Records gas purchases in a small notebook so he can measure mpg. Secretly lusts after a classic GTO, which he hopes to buy on the sly when the wife ain't looking. Drags his kids to diner parking lots 200 miles away so he can gawk at T-Birds.
Fast N. Furious: Built his car up, Frankenstein-like, from the chassis. Adorns his vehicle with at least one set of Chinese pictograms that he can not translate. Has a trunk lined with at least five extra batteries. Owns a stereo that requires shotgun earmuffs to withstand safely. Has been to at least one Staind concert.
Neither of these guys sounds like a blog reader to me. But since companies test-market and research the living ass out of New Ventures(c), I have to assume that Gawker Media is trying to tap into a market I don't see but they have recognized. Perhaps it's because I'm a New Yorker, and therefore stereotype along the lines of blog readers = New Yorkers, who only care about cars when standing on a corner, trying to hail a cab. Will Jalopnik be Chicken McNuggets, or merely a McDLT? Can they keep the hot side hot and cold side cold? Stay tuned.
*This marks my one thousandth invocation of the Venn diagram. I would like to thank my high school sociology textbook.
09.27
03:22pm: As one gets older ("one" = "me"), one notices things he/she likes slowly gathering in the Venn intersection of "my faves" and "the mainstream". For instance, that a band that you once played with on a shitty bill at the Charleston winds up in a Nike commercial. Or, an author you used to think was totally crazy and underground gets his own Dewar's profile. My theory on why this happens is as follows: It's not necessarily true that a person gets lamer as he/she gets older (though certainly not out of the realm of possibility). Rather, one's generation reaches the point at which its members become the Tastemakers. This is how a band like Franz Ferdinand can have a song in Madden 2005: because they are band enjoyed mostly by people in my age bracket, and Madden is played by a large number of people in my age bracket, and people in my age bracket are the employees of EA Sports who do marketing, cross promotion, and so on. People my age have the shitty jobs that are not entry level but one step up, advising older, presumably less hip people on What is Hip (c).
But I have to say that the most mind-blowing evidence to date that my generation are the Tastemakers is, by far, today's announcement that Conan O'Brien will take over for Jay Leno in 2009. Because I can't imagine anyone liking Jay Leno or The Tonight Show in its current form--it's the absolute epitome of middle of the road. But since Leno wins his timeslot every week, I have to assume that the average American disagrees with me on that.
Conversely, I can't understand how anyone couldn't like Conan. Late Night is a complete distillation of the comedic sensibilities of my generation. Conan (and his writers) do not go for easy Leno-eque jokes about Viagra and whichever celebrity pissed himself that day. The humor is very pop-culture-reference oriented, which is definitely an obsession of my generation (see: VH1). It is also very loser-oriented--Conan loves to portray himself as a complete dork. Leno is too much The King of Late Night to mock himself the way Conan does, and Letterman's style is too insider to ever be an outsider. It's also telling that many of Conan's writers and performers come from the world of improv (Second City, UCB), because the show is very loose, much less regimented than his 11:30 counterparts. Whenever I've come across someone indifferent or dismissive of Conan, it is almost invariably someone at least 15 years older than me. NBC has obviously realized that, in 5 years, Conan's audience (ie, my generation) will be in the middle of their careers, earning larger salaries, having babies, etc. In other words, we will be Middle America, or on our way there.
I just hope Conan survives the switch to 11:30. Letterman did not. He's still with us, of course. But watch an old Letterman show from the 1980s--he's really funny, and weirdly so. (I just got one thing to say: Lotion in a Drawer. 'Nuff said.) Then watch recent show--it's so unbelievably lifeless and stale, dumbed down for the earlier slot, that the only thing to discern him from Leno is the gap in his teeth. You could never imagine anything like the Andy Kaufman/Jerry Lawler "fight" happening on his show now. He'd be too busy fawning over the guests to let any aggression poke through.
So while you may celebrate the promotion of Conan, as will I, also know that it's the beginning of the end. The thing you loved late, late at night will soon be thing you turn off as you drift off the sleep. And in his place may arise something you don't understand at all--but your kids will.
09.23
03:30pm: Earlier this week, I won the office football pool by correctly guessing 14 out of 16 NFL matchups. I was very impressed by myself, especially considering that, unlike last year's pool, this year's rules actually utilize spreads. Never mind that three weeks ago, I hadn't the slightest idea what a spread was, or how to bet for/against it. This was not really beginner's luck, per se; I didn't just put the games on a wall and throw a dart to determine a winner. No, my picks were, more or less, reasoned choices based on week 1 performance (as opposed to last year, when I basically picked the teams I wanted to win, and only in rare instances did I betray my favored squads by choosing a likely winner). Now, guys in the office are asking me to proof their picks before they submit them, as if I'm suddenly a genius, or as if I can transmit good mojo by my mere presence.
This has brought on a terrible case of performance anxiety. If I fall flat on my face this week and go 3-for-15, I'll never hear the end of it. I'll have sales guys riding my ass for weeks 4 to 16. This week's picks are tough, too, because some genius decided to make the spreads really wide. F'rinstance, the Falcons have a 10.5 point spread over the Cardinals. Yes, it is the Cardinals, but even the Cardinals can lose by less than 10.5 points (although they didn't last week, when somehow, battling the defending Super Bowl champs, their spread was "only" 8.5 points). The comparably suck-full Houston Texans have an 8.5 spread against Kansas City, despite the fact that both teams are 0-2 (the implication being, I suppose, that KC is a gutsy winless team, while Houston is a pitiful one).
Gambling is the most attractive addiction, because it's the only one that you can truly be good at. If you succeed at being a colossal drunk, the only rewards you reap are liver damage and burst capillaries. A fantastic drug addict can only get hepatitis or a deviated septum. But a really good gambler can actually get rich, and also revel in the satisfaction of being a winner. A hopeless gambling addict can get comped to hell and back at casinos, while a drunk can't even get credit at a liquor store. When a drunk hits rock bottom, he's got no one to blame but himself. If a gambler bottoms out, he can blame it on bad luck--the right card didn't come up, or a team blew a big lead. Gambling is also one of the few addictions that's personality based, rather than chemical or genetic. I seriously doubt there's any kind of Black Jack Chromosome in the human genome. That doesn't give them the same "out" as other addicts, but it also implies that it's an easier addiction to shake off.
The one thing that saves me from becoming a degenerate gambler is that I'm cheap. I was raised under austere conditions, and I have been poor for long stretches of my life. So even now that I have a steady income, parting with large sums of money panics me. I buy myself little gadgety things now and then (hello iPod) and have monthly expenses that are not absolute necessities (hello cable modem), but apart from that I'm a monk. I hate spending money on food, for chrissakes, so I'm not gonna drop it on slots. I'm too afraid of rainy days to hand out my umbrellas so freely.
09.20
01:15pm: I painted for the first time this weekend--in a functional capacity, that is, as opposed to art. As per our new living situation, the lady and I are trying to beautify the apartment. Part of this includes painting over the ugly, scuffed, dull white that comprises most of my apartment walls (that's what happens when you squish drywall onto old crumbling brick and throw eggshell paint over it, as our landlord has done countless times--when paint cracks off the moldings, you can see the layers work back through generations like the swirls of a tree trunk). While I'm hardly an expert, the painting process was far less painful than I thought it would be. In fact, our total painting time for two coats in our future bedroom was no more than two hours (minus prep time spent washing away blemishes and removing blue sticky stuff that held up the posters of previous occupants).
The paint we chose for the bedroom is a bright-ish red that Glidden calls Flaming Sword. No, really. I don't know why a home improvement company is giving names to its products that make them sound like they should be activated with 100-sided die. I was quite surprised when the paint dried and I didn't see a Frank Frazetta mural on the wall (obscurity!).
This sudden home expertitude has made me cocky. Yesterday, I thought I could replace a handle on a leaky faucet, but Magic 8 Ball said outcome is doubtful. For one thing, I completely lost my new two-in-one screwdriver somewhere in the kitchen--not surprising, since our kitchen is packed with shit that we can't put anywhere until the rest of the apartment is squared away (it looks like a yard sale sneezed in there right now). No matter, since once I actually read the requirements for replacing a handle, I quickly realized I was completely out of my league. When directions begin shut off water supply, I'm definitely in uncharted territory. Plus, my apartment building is so old that turning off the water supply means shooting the donkey that carts buckets back from the well.
Thanks to our sudden need for home improvement, I have spent a lot of time (and a small fortune) in Home Depot recently. All Mass Shopping Experiences (which I define as any Enormo-Chain Box Store) act like kryptonite on me. When I step inside these places, I immediately feel all my energy drain, my brain slow down, and my will to live fade rapidly. Crowds + box stores = ow to me, especially here in the city, because stores like Best Buy are so new to the five boroughs, and every weekend they're packed to the gills. Yesterday, it took us longer to find parking at Target than it took to shop there. However, the Home Depot has grown on me, in a weird way. Perhaps it touches a deep, near-inactive Man Gene within me that thinks tools are awesome. Perhaps it's because people go to Home Depot more out of necessity than boredom, or the compulsion to spend money, and thus a trip there seems more noble to me than, say, going to Circuit City to buy a 300-foot plasma flatscreen HDTV with built in multi-region DVD player, drink mixer, and orphan killing machine.
For this reason, I must loudly and virulently call bullshit on the new Home Depot on 23rd Street. Its focus is squarely on kitchen fare and bathroom accoutrements, not the weirder, gritter, nastier aspects of home repair. It's just too damn clean, and its target market is clearly people who think a sawhorse is something used to keep back protesters. Granted, most folks in Manhattan have little space and/or use for a table saw. But one of the things I like about other Home Depots is that I can wander down an aisle of plumbing or lighting equipment, and not have the slightest idea what I'm looking at. It's like landing on an alien planet inhabited by little Bob Vilas. When I go to Home Depot, it's usually in Queens or Brooklyn, where the customers are just as likely to be contractors as home improvers--you have to keep an eye out for men in paint-splattered t-shirts pushing dollies loaded with 75 slats of plywood. At the Woodhaven Blvd store, you can buy 2x4s, toilets, fork lifts, and prepackaged day laborers. Also, in the outer boroughs, you can hear husbands get screamed at by their wives in twenty different languages. Melting pot! But in Manhattan, you don't hear anything but CD101.9, and couples discussing curtain rods. I saw one table of circular saws, and that was it as far as heavy machinery was concerned. For shame, Home Depot. One aisle of caulk does not a home improvement store make.
09.13
03:39pm: Just think--if I'd never "caught" a foul ball (see below), I would never have learned the advanced techniques now used to authenticate such things. Here's PSA DNA Authentication Services, a company that uses--I shit you not--DNA to positively identify authentic sports memorabilia. Not the DNA of the players involved (which would not only be unlikely to transmit onto a ball or a jersey, but also, I imagine, difficult to procure a sample of anyway). No, this company has actually engineered its own DNA for just this purpose. They inscribe an object with an invisible DNA-laced ink which can positively identify an artifact as genuine.
For crying out fuck, did you have the slightest idea such a thing was even possible? Based on the statement below, taken from their web site's FAQ, this technology is not only perfected, but has been for quite a while.
The DNA that is used to tag the item is synthetically engineered without human cells. It is chemically synthesized specifically for PSA/DNA by DNA Technologies Inc. The same process will be used as the official security mark for tickets and passes at the 2000 Olympic Games in Sydney, Australia.
This reminded me how a few years back, while researching a piece I was doing for NPR, I found a company that sold human genome strands online. They were supposed to be for serious, ethical research purposes, only to be sold to doctors and scientists. When I attempted to order them, however--to see how easy it was to do such a thing--no effort was made to assess if I was a truly reputable man of science. In fact, only the prohibitive cost stood between me and several million slices of the genetic pie. When I called the company in question, posing as a man of science, once again I was not challenged to prove I was who I said I was. I even spoke in a laughable German accent and made up a ridiculously unreal-sounding laboratory name. (My memory fails to tell me what it was, only that it was something obviously not genuine, like Fakey-Fake Lab for Frauds Co. Inc.) In other words, I dared them to think my query was anything but a joke--and they turned out to be frighteningly credulous. No failsafes were in place at all to assure that I wasn't just prank-ordering DNA for unsuspecting practical joke victims (like the time I called 1-800-Mattress to deliver a queen-size box spring to NYU's Office of Student Activities). Nor did anyone seem to care that I might be a scientist of the mad variety.
Oh brave new world, that has such things in't!
11:42am: I am now officially an American.
Despite being born in the Biblically-named hamlet of Goshen, I have never really felt like an American. First of all, I'm a New Yorker. America hates NY, and NY doesn't know the rest of America exists (and doesn't care to know much about its existence). My father was not born on these shores, and, despite the fact that he's lived here since the age of 12, is still not a citizen. (Every time he leaves the country, which is often, he has to go get his EU passport and greencard stamped at the lovely Irish consulate.) I didn't have a very patriotic upbringing, for reasons too varied and complicated to recount here. I don't like NASCAR or country music (the new, Garth-Brooks kind, anyway). The appeal of SUVs and Wal-Mart alludes me. I don't think this makes me superior in any fashion. In fact, I sometimes lament the fact that, through upbringing and temperament, I find myself unable to enjoy the things that Americans are supposed to enjoy.
After this Sunday, though, I feel like a 100 percent red blooded American, and I was able to feel this way without snapping someone's neck like a pipe cleaner. I did something so quintessentially American it would give Norman Rockwell a boner: I caught a foul ball at a baseball game. Though 'caught' is a not a true expression of how I came to acquire this unique souvenir. Allow me to explain.
I'm at Shea with my cousin Lou and our respective ladies. His girlfriend Katie got some kick-ass field level seats thanks to the company she works for. In the bottom of the fourth, Mike Piazza fouls off a pitch in our general direction. The second it flew off the bat, I knew it was coming for us. It arced sharply in the air, dropping rapidly right over me. Later, I would think of a million ways I could have made a clean catch, like using both hands, or taking off my cap and using it like a basket. But no, I suddenly decide I'm Superman, and try to one hand it, with my left hand no less. The ball comes down with amazing speed and smacks three of the fingers on my left hand, bending them back to cartoonish proportions.
To explain to you what happened next, you have to understand the true nature of our seats. They are the absolute last row of the lower field level. Just behind us is the beginning of the non-box-seat field level, elevated slightly, so that if we're sitting down, the feet of the people behind us are just above our heads. Between our level and the one above us, there is a gap looking down on the concession stands. So after the ball glances off of my hand, it bounces around on some girders, then falls through the gap--and right into a perfectly positioned garbage can. Understand this: I have come within a hair's breadth of catching a future Hall of Famer's foul ball. My hand is throbbing, and will continue to throb until well after the game has ended. The ball now nests in a trashcan below me, where a crowd of gawkers and hopeful ball catchers are quickly gathering, searching for the prize that should be mine. The eyes of box number 221 are all upon me, wondering what my next move will be. If the ball has been hit by anyone less than Mike Piazza, I would've thought better of doing what I was about to do. But I know that if I don't at least try to reclaim my prize, it will be just another regret to add to the pile. So I let my inner child speak forth, say "Fuck it," and run down into the concession area.
When I get there, a man is digging through the trash already, searching for the ball. A small crowd of vendors, ushers, and fellow fans chastise him for his foolish errand. (All the while hoping, of course, that he will give up so they can try.) This man concedes defeat and walks away, so I dive in. I tip the thing on its side, hoping this will help, but it's full of trash, and the can itself is made of some heavy industrial metal, so it's both unwieldy and heavy. The vendors are brutal, telling me I should hold out no hope since the man before me was unsuccessful. I tell them that the other man did not have my resolve, nor the drive to redeem a near-catch and a throbbing left hand. I dig deep into the trash, working my way through abandoned beer cups, half eaten burgers, soggy French fries. A fan passes by on a cel phone, calling back to his buddies in the seats, "There's some crazy guy trying to get a ball in the garbage..." The vendors bet me various hypothetical amounts of many that I will never ever find it, from 50 bucks to a million dollars. "You gonna stick your hand in all that nasty trash, and you ain't gonna come up with nothing but a buncha French fries," says one of them.
I decide that, rather than dig deeper and deeper, getting elbow-deep in filth, it would be a much better idea pull the bottom towards me, since the ball's weight and force must have surely pushed it to the bottom. As I hoist the depths of the plastic closer and closer (breathing through my mouth all the while), I finally spot the glorious sight of two sets of red stitches on white horsehide, nestled between a plastic beer bottle and an empty popcorn box. I grab the ball and hold it aloft like a vanquished foe's decapitated head. All of the onlookers let out collective, unified OH SHIT! My cousin, who had been looking down on my hunt, yells to the field level fans HE'S GOT IT! A tiny part of the crowd goes nuts. I run back to my seat, triumphant. Unsurprisingly, no one offers to give me a high five. I wrap the ball--which is not only covered in grass stains and batting wear and tear, but ketchup as well--in a plastic bag, stick it in a pocket of my cargo shorts, and beam for the rest of the game (which the Mets lose, of course, 4-2 to the Phillies).
It may interest you to know that, beyond the weight of tradition, there are many legal precedents for keeping foul balls and home runs. Many teams have stated policies to this effect (the Mets are one such team). Others imply such policies by printing tiny warnings on each ticket about how you can get your head knocked off by foul balls and errantly tossed Louisville Sluggers. Courts have, in fact, ruled that someone can not sue a player or a team if they're injured by a foul ball, since sitting in a ballpark seat means assuming the risk of such a thing happening. (Although, as a recent ruling in New Jersey says, assumption of risk no longer applies if you're buying a beer at the concession stands.) If you really wanna nerd it up, read this article, an in-depth law journal paper on the legal reasons why fans are under no obligation to give a ball to the batter who hit it, even if it's some variety of milestone--the paper mentions the case of Piazza's 300th homerun, which was a bone of contention between the slugger and the fan who caught it. (Note: this link will download a PDF for ya. You've been warned.)
I am now looking for any means by which I can authenticate this ball as a for-real foul ball hit by the for-real Mike Piazza. Anyone can rough up a baseball, smear some ketchup on it, and tell you the story above. But if I want this thing to be worth something someday (which certainly ran through my mind as I rummaged amidst the spew for it), I have to show, conclusively, that it is what I say it is. Anyone have any thoughts on this? Please forward to the Scratchbomb/Holy Goddamn Legal Department.
09.10
10:48am:A summary of NFL Kickoff Night, as I saw it:
On ABC, a sleeveless Toby Keith plays for a listless crowd in the parking lot of Gillette stadium (Boston = not Toby Keith country). For the whole Pregame Pagan Ritual, the crowd in general looks pretty lifeless. These are, after all, dour New Englanders. The Pats have won two Super Bowls in three years, but the team is still a distant fourth in local love, far behind the Red Sox, Bruins, and even the Celtics. The camera cuts to the audience, and though there are some total face-painting crazies, most everyone else looks mildly amused. I remain convinced, for the balance of this grotesque affair, that the "Wild Crowd" noise heard every time something quote-unquote happens is pumped in by the network. I know a little about audio, and the sound is just too weirdly distant, and too discordant from what I see on the tube, to convince me it's real and sincere.
On HBO, there is a documentary on Chernobyl (Chernobyl Heart), appealing to the history/science dork not too deep within me. I have a hang-up about radiation/nuclear war that dates back to my earliest childhood (thanks Reagan!). When I turn the channel, students are being tested for radiation poisoning. A young man has a suspiciously high level of cesium. The culprit: locally processed berry jam, made from irradiated fruit. A doctor impassively runs off the list of horrifying ailments this young man is in great danger of developing.
On ABC, the owner of the Patriots praises his team in god-like terms. "Nothing is more important than 53 men coming together," he says, and somehow no one cracks any gay jokes. Tom Brady and crew run onto the field to the tune of "Crazy Train," led by an insane grinning Patriot mascot who looks like a cross between The Joker and a hydrocephalic. I miss the older, more representational Pats mascot, who used to do the three point stance on their helmet before they switched to today's more impressionistic logo. Standing beyond the endzone, I see a group of faux-minutemen, standing guard with muskets and buckled shoes. My girlfriend calls me in distress: the bumper music is an instrumental version of Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out," which officially signals to her that this song she once loved is Officially Over. I remind her that we heard it between innings at Shea two weeks ago, though somehow this was more acceptable (it was Irish Day, after all).
On HBO, we see a Children's Mental Institution only a few steps removed from the squalor of Willowbrook. It's unclear if these children really have mental defects or if they're just horrifically diseased and deformed. One nurse says that most of the kids were simply abandoned by freaked-out parents. One poor kid cries as cream is applied to his hands and feet, which are obviously infected beyond all hope. I quietly wrap up and refrigerate the rest of my dinner.
On ABC, the championship banner is unveiled to the tune of Carmina Burana. (note to everyone: STOP USING THIS SONG FOR EVERYTHING THAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE DRAMATIC. IT'S LAZY AND OVERUSED AND FUCKING STUPID.) A large Super Bowl trophy opens up to reveal Lenny Kravitz, who starts playing his latest hit--oh wait, I'm sorry, his hit of seven-eight years ago, "Are You Gonna Go My Way," medleyed into his latest slice of refried Hendrix. He has "backup singers", who open their mouths near microphones even when the b/u vocals are obviously pre-taped Lenny. For this, as in every other act, enthusiastic and very obvious field plants run to the front of the stage like they're all excited (you think they'd let civilians on the field?). The camera cuts away to Jacksonville, site of the next Super Bowl, where Jessica Simpson looks just as vacant as ever. "I love you all!" she screams at the end of her song, and the crowd loves it.
On HBO, a woman from an Irish relief organization visits the children's ward of a hospital. Many of the babies here have fluid gathering in their heads, a condition that would be remedied immediately after birth in any Western hospital. The children have freakishly large heads and distorted facial features as a result. Meanwhile, a crew of American doctors perform a relatively simple heart operation on a girl with 'Chernobyl heart'--a newly ubiquitous condition in which the heart and its surrounding arteries have small holes. This operation has an enormous waiting list, and though cheap and easy by American surgical standards, is prohibitively expensive for the locals. The girl pulls through okay, and her parents profusely thank the doctor. He is livid that something so simple should be looked on as a miracle in this part of the world.
On ABC, John Madden and Al Michaels begin their coverage, praising the ceremony. "It's so great that we have an opening day ceremony now," Madden bellows.
On HBO, a title graphic tells me that 99% of the nation of Belarus is contaminated.
09.09
04:13pm: Some chunks of this week's Holy Goddamn! have been posted to the site. Listen and weep.
I heartily recommend you check out Pilot Season, if'n you are blessed with a cable provider who gives you Trio. It's a mockumentary airing now with Sarah Silverman, David Cross, Andy Dick, and the incomparable Jon Benjamin. Christ a lordy, Mr. Benjamin shoulda gotten a god damn Nobel Peace Prize for his voice portrayal of Coach McGuirk, and he's just as awesome as a real person in Pilot Season, playing an entertainment lawyer who has to defend a client despite never having tried an actual case ("I've seen 'The Practice' a million times; it's just like that, really."). The whole show is quite brilliant and savage, but I just had to give it up for Mr. B. I love him so much that I'm pretty sure if he ate my first born child, I would let him snack on the second (crowd-pleasing cannibal/child death humor!).
Should you wish to amuse yourself before tonight's NFL Kickoff Spectaco-rama, read this article making that most tenuous of connections: the parallel lives of the NFL and Elton John's career. Here's a sample:
1973: "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" -- featuring songs such as the title track, Funeral for a friend, Candle in the wind, Bennie and the Jets, and Saturday Night's All Right for Fighting -- is perhaps the perfect Elton John album... Meanwhile, on Jan. 14, 1973, the Miami Dolphins capped off their perfect season with a 14-7 win over Washington in Super Bowl VIII.
Ah, the beauty of Original Content. Also, watch for Toby Keith tonight and count how many times he (A) says 'kick-ass!' (B) hates on the Dixie Chicks (C) makes a really lame John Kerry joke. Don't use this as the basis of a drinking game, however--you might go blind.
04:03pm: New York is a culinary feast ne plus ultra. Nowhere else (in this nation at least) can one purchase nearly any type of food, day or night. Other cities/regions do certain cuisines better, I will concede, but there is no other locality on the face of God's gray earth where a body can get anything to soothe his/her palate.
So I ask you, why does all the food in my working neighborhood suck so goddamn much? It's not like I'm in some weird part of town--I work around the corner from Grand Central Station, for chrissakes. Is the train station to blame? Has the effort to be all things to all people resulted in cafeteria-food blandness? When I worked on the Upper West Side, I did not feel so slighted. Nor did I lament my food choices in the much more touristy Times Square area. But after a year+ of working in the this neighborhood, the food options remain limited to the following:
* Fast food: No, never. I'm not a food snob, really. In my own kitchen, I have a shameful addiction to terrible prepared foods like frozen pizza, Hot Pockets, mac and cheese, Rice a Roni, etc. And I'd be lying if I said I never ever got the craving for White Castle or Burger King. But aside from the fact that these places sell foil-wrapped heart attacks, I work in Midtown, and every single fast food place here is packed to the proverbial gills from 11:30am to 4pm. I defy you to get a Big Bacon Classic from a Midtown Wendy's at 1 in the afternoon and spend less than 45 minutes on line. You'd think you'd traveled back in time and landed on Ellis Island.
* Greasy, vinegary sandwiches: Many quote-unquote delis operate around here, slathering Boar's Head with Russian dressing and eight pounds of lettuce, squeezing the concoction on a stale, scratchy Kaiser roll. One bite and the entire contents shoot at projectile speeds, spraying pastrami and tomato at anyone within a fifty yard radius.
* Horrible, horrible but very cheap Chinese food: There is one place in particular down the block from me, whose name I can not recall and probably shouldn't invoke anyway (hello libel!). Their definition of "meat" must be expanded widely to include anything that resembles it when covered in garlic sauce. Everything I've gotten from there ranges from palatable to nauseating on sight. And yet, I keep going back because I am a masochist, and cheap. Eating food ordered from there is exciting in the same way that playing Russian roulette must be exciting.
* Faux French soup/salad bistros: Wherein you pay criminal prices for a thimbleful of chowder and a breadcrumb with one sliver of provolone sliced to the width of a quark balanced atop it. More often than not, their food is better looking than the Chinese food, but no better tasting. You can also make your own salad--or rather, order a man in a white hat to place things your salad--at a price per pound roughly equivalent to that platinum.
* Lunch buffets: Many of the larger delis contain long steam tables with vats of gelatinous chicken, dessicated rice, and buttery vegetables. These items all contain an undetectable but extremely powerful amnesia-inducing chemical--or so I assume, since the food is always horrid and I immediately rue my choice, yet find myself back at the same steam trays five or six days later.
There are but two locations within reasonable walking distance of my office that offer any sustenance worth the hike. The first is a Japanese lunchbox-type place called Zaiya, just down the block from the NY Public Library (the big one, with the lions). Its popularity has soared of late, and the throngs that clog it now help the place resemble a for-real Tokyo eatery. They have interesting chicken cutlet sandwiches, covered in ketchup and the kind of mayo glooped onto Belgian fries. They also have lunch entrees like chicken teriyaki and turkey patties, and bento-style lunch bowls. But the most interesting things they offer are made at the pastry counter. There they concoct bizarre lunch items in focaccia-type bread that are pretty much what they sound like: tuna corn, curry pan, frank and bacon. And they're all really really good, though, as when you consume anything Japanese--be it anime or a blocky grilled ham and cheese sandwich--you can't help but feel disoriented and wrong somewhow.
One block away from Zaiya is an ordinary city-type deli that has an occasionally tantalizing Mongolian barbecue. These can be found in a lot of places around town, but this deli is the only local one so blessed. In case you've never seen one, a Mongolian barbecue is basically a huge circular stone heated to about a billion degrees (Fahrenheit). You gather up what ingredients you want (meat, veggies, rice, noodles, and sauce of your choice) and hand them to a Mexican man*, who throws it onto the "grill" and proceeds to beat the shit out of it with a large wooden stick. Then he dumps it in a metal tray and hands it back to you, as if he's just shown you a lesson. It's basically stir fry, but much more In Your Face. I like a meal that's been through hell and back. Its taste, while decent, is probably not enough to justify the per pound fee (unless you are a bird, expect to pay $8+ for your concoction), but every now and then I decide I'm worth it. Then I also buy Pantene shampoo, a Hummer H2, and whatever else the TV says I need.
*Note: Please do not read the above invoking of Mexicans as some variety of racism. I merely find it both fascinating and amusing that, in New York, one's ethnicity has little to do with one's ability to prepare another people's indigenous cuisine. For example, how all the burrito places are run by Asians, and all the pizza places by Hispanics. And all the French tips are done by Vietnamese women.
09.07
11:54am: On the subway this morning, all of my fellow commuters had these faces on, like everyone's puppies died at once. I'm sure I had the same kind of face on, too. After all, today is the Day After Labor Day, which ranks up there with Day After Christmas as one of the most depressing days of the year. The Day After Labor Day is one of those rare occasions where everyone thinks the exact same thing at the exact same time: It's all over. It's even worse than Christmas, in fact, because not everyone celebrates Christmas, and others have given up the ghost and no longer invest any emotion in that holiday. But there are few people who don't believe in Labor Day, since there's not a whole lot to believe in but the promise of a Three Day Weekend.
Labor Day sits there on the calendar all summer, teasing you, taunting you, tantalizing you with the prospect of three whole days away from work. When they're weeks or even months away, three days off from work seem like an eternity. Hey, I could repaint the whole house that weekend! Or write a novel! Or complete my research into the Crimean War! Of course, since most of us never have that kind of time to play with, we don't truly know what to do when faced with it. So Tuesday arrives, and all we've done is drink a lot of beer, eaten a lot of hamburgers, and slowly realized that another summer has drawn to a close.
I really don't think we (meaning: adults) should lament the passing of the summer. If you're a kid, obviously, the end of the summer comes in like a death knell. I still get a sick feeling at the close of August, a sense of dread that hangs on as an emotional vestigial tail from my childhood. But as a season, I find the summer to be no good at all. It's too hot. It's too humid. There's a million kids out in the street trying to get hit by my car. To a pasty specimen like myself, the sun is a tireless enemy. The fall is much more enjoyable to me--temps in the 50s-60s are right up my alley. I like apple cider and sweaters. I like football and post-season baseball. I like guessing which new TV shows will be cancelled first. The movies in the theatres stop being so god damn dumb, and any great album released from September forward is just a bonus.
But the biggest reason to shit on summer is this: summer has the great obligation to Do Something. That doesn't mean just reading some good books, or starting a garden. No, Doing Something means going somewhere exotic and expensive. If a summer passes, and you have not gone hiking in the Appalachians, or kayaking in the Rockies, you are officially a Failure at Life Itself. Basically, summer dictates that you must spend a lot of money to reenact a Mountain Dew commercial. The fact you could do lots of things that don't involve bungee cords or parachutes is not considered. This is due in part to the fact this country has completely transformed its economy to be service/tourism/consumerist based. Even the most tight-fisted miser spends money like a drunken sailor when on vacation, thinking, "When's the next time I'm gonna be in _______?"
So I have decided that, in this here, space, I would take stock of what I've done this summer--note that almost all of them were done right here in the Borough of Churches.
Received my MFA
Signed up for an improv class
Started my weekly radio show
Won runner-up in the Bomb Magazine fiction contest
Completed three short stories I will start to send out this fall
Completed a draft and a half of my novel
Pimped out said novel to numerous agents
Was rejected by most of the same
Found out I made the 2004 Best American Non-Required Reading*
Won the Fake World Series two fake years in a row
For the first time I: Went to Minnesota, saw Amish people, ate at a Hooters, and saw the Cure live (not all on the same occasion)
Took some feeble steps back into songwriting
Vicariously gave considerable dough to the Kerry campaign (by attendance at numerous DNC-sponsored shindigs)
Bought and assembled several hundred dollars' worth of furniture
Caught an awesome skin infection in my right hand
Began moving in with my lady
09.01
11:04am: Parts of last night's Holy Goddamn! have been posted to the site, self-basted for maximum succulence.
My notion of time has now been greatly fucked with. For months, my computer's clock has been running at least 20 minutes slow. Although slightly disorienting, administrative settings on my computer prohibit me from changing such things as the time. So I trained my brain to compensate for this (the same way my brain has worked itself around my clever ploy of setting my alarm clock ahead, thus thwarting my feeble attempt to get out of bed earlier).
Yesterday, however, I left work at what I thought was 5:30. But when I got down onto the 7 train tracks, all of the LCD clocks hanging from ceiling flashed 5:09 (except for the stubborn one insisting 6:09). Now, subway display clocks can be relied on about as much as a meth addict, but still, this alarmed me. So I turn on my cel phone (no watch for me) and sure enough, it really is 5:09.
My initial reaction--in this situation as in all others--was unreasoning panic. My computer's gone HAL on me! It's fucking with my head! It deliberately got slower and slower on me until one day, it caused me to nearly leave work early! Then I remembered that out IT guy had installed a new program on my computer earlier in the day, and must have done me the "favor" of repairing the clock settings while he was at it.
When you work in publishing, as I do, you have to get used to the notion of thinking several weeks or months ahead. Today, for instance, I hear many people lamenting the fact that it's September 1st (The Beginning of the End), but in my mind, it's been September for a long time, because everything I'm working on right now prints this month. As a result, I've come to function better when working out things in advance. The speedy clock was just an accidental reflection of my space/time notions. It was also somewhat comforting when I could look up at the clock, see that it said 2:53, and secretly know that it was really 3:15. Now I have to reset my mind to know that, when the clock says 11:01, it's not fucking with me; it really is only 11:01.
I would like to agree with the late, lamented Mr. Zappa, who proclaimed, "Time is an affliction."
10:48am: A little known fact from the wide wide world of sports (initially I typed "spites"--how Freudian). Within a team publication, with very few exceptions, it is completely verboten for an advertiser to mention the name of the team under any circumstances, or even display some sort of logo. In the course of my job, I've spent many an 8pm here in the office because some advertiser decided to emblazon their material with an encouraging war cry, thus necessitating the 11th-hour replacement of files to make press time. Example: Let's say you run a used car lot in Asshat, Iowa and you decide to advertise in the lacrosse program of local school Scumbag College. Because you are a loyal Scumbag Booster, you insert a nifty Quark starburst with the rallying cry, "Up Scumbag!" Naturally, you'd think the team and the school will appreciate your provincial enthusiasm--and you'd be so wrong. The school will come down on you harder than a ton of wet bricks for the crime of mentioning them in their own program. I'm not a hundred percent sure why, but my suspicion is this stems from an overzealous anti-copyright infringement stance, and/or a fear of being associated with an unscrupulous product or corporation (though clearly not a fear of their money).
I suppose you're wondering, "Why doesn't the team keep a better rein on its advertisers and make sure these things don't happen in the first place?" An excellent question, my friend, and one that I haven't the slightest twinkling of an answer for. I am similarly baffled that enormous pro and college sports teams--who employ teams of freelance mercenaries to guard their star athletes and pad their executive salaries with enormous "showing up to work almost on time" bonuses--spare little time or thought for making sure their advertisers don't break their inscrutable rules. I am similarly amazed that Major Ginormous Corporations employ advertisers who don't know how to properly make hi-res PDFs at the right trim size, with sufficient bleed. And I'm not talking about little local companies--I'm talking Fortune 500, No God Damn Excuse For Such Incompetence corporations.
It just proves to me that the closer you get to the inside, the nearer you get to the People Who Run Things, the nearer you also get to the frightening realization that absolutely no one has a true handle on anything. And the higher you get in the executive food chain, the more elaborate and creative the buck passing becomes, primed for maximum credit and minimum blame.
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