Out of my g-ddamned way!

There are three kinds of people I hate dealing with on New York-New Jersey mass transit:

1. People with open, festering sores and lesions,

2. People who take the whole situation personally, and

3. The gays.

I happened to run into a lady this evening just outside the C train at 34th Street who was cursing and making faces at the crowd like they just ran off with her puppy. I normally try to stay well clear of situations that might bring me in contact with such people. But when she ended up behind me, and I heard her cursing me as if I were lightly sautéing said puppy in extra virgin olive oil with capers and some pressed garlic, that's when I had to take exception.

So I deliberately started walking slowly and kind of side-to-side, because if there's one thing I like doing, it's goading angry, elderly women into fights with me. Suddenly, she's all, "oh now look at this Jew with his six feet of hair, goddamn little bastard. Hurry the hell up, Jew, this isn't the line for the camps!"

(Side note: I'm not Jewish. I just have dark, curly hair is all, which makes misidentifying me an easy mistake in New York where everyone is a total racist. Or maybe it's that I'm circumcised.)

Anyway, I wheeled around on this broad like my feet were on wheels, and I said, "how friggin' rude can you get, lady? You think I'm getting in your way on purpose?"

"Baaaaah," she said angrily, "I think everyone is getting in my way on purpose! All the time!"

"That's a total wad of baby crap," I said. "You're just paranoid is all."

"Baaaaaaaaah, that's what you all think!"

I had had enough by then. "Look, lady," I said, "no one is doing this to you personally, okay? They're doing it to me personally." Which, by the way, is so true.

She left with a chorus of epithets and sheep noises trailing behind her like toilet paper stuck to a person's heel, and I watched, revolted, as she headed for the stairs toward Penn Station and Madison Square Garden, the lesbian bitch. I really hate those gays.

Lollipop translations

Translations of the epic poem, Lollipop, The Bear, with the original Anglo-Saxon included.

Hwæt. We Garbeara in geardagum,
Lo, praise of the prowess of bear-kings

þearodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,
of spear-armed Bears, in days long sped,

hu ða Chicago Cubþelingas ellen fremedon.
we have heard, and what honor the Chicago Cubs won!

Oft Sonneschen Gebeare sceaþena/ þreatum,
Oft Sunshine the Bear, from squadroned foes,

monegum Don Imus, meodosetla ofteah,
from many a Don Imus, the mead-bench tore,

egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð/
awing the earls. Since erst he lay

Vespascuterceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad,
Without a Vespa scooter, a foundling, fate repaid him:

weox under wolcnum, stici swit orðmyndum þah,
for he waxed under welkin, in a pot of honey he throve,

oðþæt him æghierflude ond Ostritcjen þara ymbsittendra
till before him the fireflies and ostritches, both far and near,

ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,

gomban gyldan ond fellatiæ. þæt wæs god cyning.
gave him gifts and blow-jobs: a good king he!

ðæm gebeareafera wæs æfter cenned,
To him a bear-heir was afterward born,

geong in geardum, þone god sende
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent

folce to frofre; fyrenðearfe ongeat
to favor the folk, feeling their woe

ond ulso fyrenð; fyr Helle ovit
and also feeling, just for the hell of it,

þe clavensticiswiten ðearfe pincitowen/
the sticky-sweet claw of their pinky toes, coated in honey

þe hie ær drugon aldorlease/
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader

lange hwile. Lollipop þæs liffrea,
so long a while; the Lord endowed Lollipop,

wuldres wealdend, woroldare forgeaf,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.

ond Rennebyw gemboydernd, lyewingdly gebepectoralis;
and a rainbow, lovingly embroidered on his chest.

Lollipop wæs breme blæd wide sprang/,
Famed was this Lollipop: far flew the boast of him,

Sonneschynes eafera Scedelandum in.
son of Sunshine, in the Scandian lands.

Swa sceal geong/ guma/ gode gewyrcean,
So becomes it a youth to quit him well

fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme/,
with his father's bear-friends, by fee and gift,

ond Vespascuterfromum, geblasend
and with his Vespa Scooter, emblazoned with

pinc scylwig ond pinc bonem allcræssen,
a skull and crossbones, the color of a summer-tulip,

þæt hine on ylde eft gewunigen
that to aid him, aged, in after days,

wilgesiþas, þonne Don Imus cume.
come warriors willing, should Don Imus draw nigh.

Him ða Sonneschyn gewat to gescæphwile
Forth he fared at the fated moment,

felahror feran on frean wære Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
sturdy Sunshine to the shelter of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Hi hyne þa ætbæron to brimes faroðe,
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,

swæse gesiþas, swa he selfa bæd,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,

þenden wordum weold wine Sonnescheninga;
while wielded words the winsome Sunshine,

leof landfruma lange ahte.
the leader beloved who long had ruled....

þær æt hyðe stod hringedstefna,
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,

isig ond utfus, Chicago Cubþelinges fær.
ice-flecked, outbound, Chicago Cub’s barge:

Aledon þa leofne þeoden-beare,
there laid they down their darling teddy bear

beaga bryttan, on bearm scipes,
on the teat of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,

mærne be mæste. þær wæs madma Vespascuter
with his genitalia firm and full. Many a Vespa Scooter

of feorwegum, frætwa, gelæded;
fetched from far was freighted with him.

ne hyrde ic cymlicor ceol gegyrwan
No ship have I known so nobly dight

hildewæpnum ond heaðowædum,
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,

billum ond byrnum; him on bearme læg,
with front-clasping bra and blade: on his bosom lay,

ond fytme potso stici swit,
and pots of honey on both of his feet,

madma mænigo, þa him mid scoldon
a heaped hoard that hence should go

on flodes æht feor gewitan.
far o'er the flood with him floating away.

ða wæs on burgum Lollipop Sonnescheninga,
Now Lollipop bode in the burg of the Sunshinelings,

leof leodcyning, longe þrage
leader beloved, and long he ruled

folcum gefræge gefæder ellor Vespascuter,
in fame with all folk, riding his Vespa Scooter

geflærde fromme scylwig ond pinc bonem allcræssen,
beflowered with skull and crossbones

gebearen Chicago Cubþelingen fær scylde,
and shouting at his bear subjects,

ond all cubbengebearen om Wyrlde/
and at all little bearcubs everywhere

þæt wæs foremærost fær modderfycker
that he was the foremost motherfucker

þa ðe Mycsingunceattas Ay-cay fyrtysevyn
whosoever had toted a machine gun

allen londen Scedelandum in
in all the lands of Scandia

þær he folc ahte glæde Sonnescheningas
or ruled o’er the glad Sunshinelings

ironfæstad, geblodegod wearð stici swit...
with an iron fist, covered in honey…

Post-Fawkesian bloggeristic malaise, what else is new?

Sorry, everyone. I have nothing to write about today. The Fawkes party went a lot later than I thought it would, and in addition to being extremely hung over and covered in severe powder burns, I'm also still in a little bit of a funk because I still haven't gotten over this whole Robert Goulet thing. My own father (in the spiritual sense), dead (in the very corporeal sense). Oh, the horror.

I've spent most of my day exercising my God-given, constitutionally sanctioned right to read and translate olde English folk tales, just like Guy Fawkes would have wanted. As soon as I find a good one, I'll share it with you. Right now I'm just finishing up the story of Grethelwald the Butcher, who murdered his brothers in a bloodlust brought on by their abduction of his most cherished sheep, and who roamed the countryside pursued by the phantom sounds of their cursed and tormented wailing, which would often wake him up in the middle of a foggy English night and urge him ever closer to the brink of madness. Next up is the tale of Lollipop the Bear, who is, according to legend, the "baddest motherfucker ever to be born with a rainbow lovingly embroidered into the fabric of his chest."

Stay tuned!

Holy Fawkes!

Let me go on record as saying that I have been a fan of this whole Daylight Savings Time invention ever since I was a kid. It's such a consummate bit of Ben Franklin brilliance - set the clocks forward an hour every spring in order to preserve an hour of farming time, to conserve lamp oil and candle wax, and to provide even vaster expanses of time for teenagers to hang out in shopping malls. So inspired! As if I didn't have enough reasons to have a vaguely gay, vaguely necrophiliac crush on Ben Franklin already.

I may a little bit sore in the brain and body from the weekend's extra-hour-induced bacchanalia, to say nothing of lugging around my commemorative, 34-pound, cast iron clock necklace (with the double strand of exceedingly pinchy chain - ouch!). But nothing - and I mean nothing - could possibly derail my planned celebration of Guy Fawkes, the man who attempted to assassinate King James I in November 1605 because there was no daylight savings time. Is this year's timing a coincidence? I think not!

Accordingly, I put my extra hour yesterday to good use, repairing some of the stitching on my Bill Blass brand Guy Fawkes lace collar, dusting off those spilled packets of Splenda from my Guy Fawkes style tri-corner hat, and restoring my miniature replica of the British Parliament so that I can blow it up again in this year's celebratory hypothetical reenactment of the Gunpowder Plot, which I learned about during my childhood schooling in Northern Ireland, and not this morning from wikipedia.

Of course, in the real sequence of events, it's said that the torch was removed from Fawkes's hand just as he was about to light the fuse on almost a tonne of explosives. In my celebratory hypothetical reenactment, the plot to assassinate King James is actually successful, Daylight Savings Time is invented almost 200 years early, and Parliament is reduced to smithereens - smithereens which are a real pain in the ass to reassemble every year. Thank Ben Franklin himself that I had that extra hour the day before!

This year's reenactment will be held at Bryant Park at sunset (roughly 2:18 PM). We'll be simulating the torture of Fawkes and his conspirators with live volunteers, so stop by and bring the kids. And dust off your Guy Fawkes songbooks too! Here's a little chestnut for the uninitiated.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
When the afternoon sun is a dying ember,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Or the glories of Daylight Savings season
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up King and Parliament,
That's how his extra hour was spent.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow
Once Daylight Savings Time did go;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match,
And a calendar too with today's date scratch'd.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Holloa boys, no more daylight saving!

The Deciding Vote Has Been Cast

During breaks in the Canning Operations department at the Dole Fruit Company, my existentialist friends and I sometimes like to sit and debate mankind's finest achievements. I should warn you, this debate is not for the faint of heart. It's a catty little clique of about fourteen of us, and I am easily the least existentialist among us, even though I rate something like a 1540 on the Briggs-Goering Scale of existentialism. Silvestre was out slashing tires in the parking lot with a Bowie knife three months ago after Ronny Balboa (yes, that's really his name) gave him fourteen reasons why Leo da Vinci's Aerial Screw wasn't even in the top five, but why the League of Nations was.

I was just getting my notes together on two potential entrants into the discussion (the massive orgy of wealth and mind control of organized religion, and rolled toilet paper) when I came across this little nugget from People Magazine:


Any non-existentialists out there may have to read that twice to pick up on the piece of incontrovertible truth upon which Peepsmag has seemingly stumbled. "Zac Efron has perfected the popular shaggy do."

Hallelujah, mankind. We fucking did it. I am so psyched to go to work tomorrow.

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? Or Perhaps a Tin of Fancy Feast Gourmet Cat Food?

Once upon a time, in a faraway land known as Central New Jersey, there lived a handsome, young, aspiring writer with a head full of ideas and a pocket full of dreams covered with little bits of lint because they were kept in a pocket, after all. The young writer toiled away as a part-time waiter/restaurant manager, struggling to eke out a decent existence on nothing more than charm, chutzpah, and cash tips so that he could go on indulging his passion and his artistry, and go on writing his as-yet-unfinished first novel.

Then one day, along came a beguiling sorceress, fair of face, sweet of voice, and not short on cleavage either. In short order, the sorceress had used her wiles to convince the young writer to cohabitate with her in her magical lair. First, he gave up his weekends to paint the walls of the lair the color of cinnamon, then he gave up his free time to pick up extra shifts at work so that they could afford to decorate the lair with expensive and flimsy furniture from Pier 1 and Ikea, then he spent all his writing time cooking and cleaning for her because the sorceress was, in addition to beguiling, kind of a slob.

Unbeknownst to our hero, the sorceress had a little black cat to which our young and overburdened writer was deathly allergic. The sorceress kept the black cat hidden and secret until one day when, with the help of her suburbanite parents, the cat was imported to the second-floor lair with its cinnamon-painted walls and very poor heat retention. The gallant writer accepted the cat because he was, at heart, a generous person and a really nice guy.

The writer and the cat were bitter enemies at first, constantly hissing and spitting, attempting to claw the skin off of each other's hands and shoulders, and deliberately peeing in each other's litter boxes. But eventually, the dashing writer grew to care for the cat, despite the sneezing and the perpetual sinus infection that went along with it, and despite the fact that the cat was slightly neurotic about being handled for more than a few seconds at a time. They grew to develop a mutual trust and even affection, the kind characterized by curling up on laps during cold weather and gentle purring while the tops of noses get scratched. It was love, just like in the storybooks, if the storybooks had been written about man-cat love that definitely never involved sex, I swear to God.

But time proved treacherous to our poor protagonist, and within the space of just two years, the sorceress had grown weary of her cinnamon-walled enclosure. She wanted to branch out, explore the world, and bestow her wealth of cleavage on other unsuspecting and unfortunate souls in the Route 1-Route 130 corridor. She abandoned the young writer, the enchanting black cat, and the second-floor lair at $1195 a month to move on to a life where she would never again know love, and her breasts would be free to sag all the way to her belly button.

The still-handsome-but-not-so-young-anymore writer spent the better part of the last year reassembling his life and his self-esteem, and pulling his now severely lint-covered dreams out of the pockets of the pants he used to wear back when he was a carefree scamp with a 30-inch waist. But the real loser has been the cat, who now finds herself removed from her home and unwelcome almost everywhere she goes. The sorceress and her suburbanite parents refuse to return phone calls, and our poor writer is now faced with the impossible task of giving up an animal that was more than an animal for a while; she was a friend.

Would you like to give that friend a home?

Wal-Mart Changes Name to Wal-Smart And Then On the Next Line You Can Totally Tell Why in Parentheses

This picture was sent to me by Karyn, a devoted reader of and leaver of anonymous comments on YATOPNRTB. It's a picture of a cake delivered by a Wal-Mart in Minnesota for a going away party for a woman named Suzanne. I know how hard it is to generate any compassion about bad things happening to people who order cakes from Wal-Mart and live in states where they elected Jesse "The Body" Ventura governor and then followed him up with a Republican (I'm talking to you, Tim Pawlenty, you bow-legged hack!). But in this case, it's the stupidity of the Wal-Mart bakery employee that takes the cake. Pun intended.


Later, that same week...

[A phone rings.]
Wal-Mart Employee: Oh hi! Thank you for calling The Wall-Marts.

Perfectly Gruntled Minnesotan: Yes, I'd like to order a cake.

Wal-Mart Employee: What that is?

Still Gruntled Minnesotan: A cake? Like... what you serve at birthdays and going-away parties?

Wal-Mart Employee: Does you mean a balloon?

Slightly Less Gruntled Minnesotan: Um... sure.

Wal-Mart Employee: Oh, sorry, The Wall-Marts no does sell balloons. I has to go now. [Drools audibly.]

Minnesotan Hanging On To That Last Little Morsel of Gruntle: Are you drooling audibly? [Beat.] Hello?


[A phone rings.]

Another Wal-Mart Employee: Oh hi! This is The Wall-Marts!

Minnesotan: Um... uh... can I... do you have a bakery department?

Another Wal-Mart Employee: A baking green apartment? Hi! This is The Wall-Marts!

Minnesotan: Right, I know. Is there a bakery department in Wal-Mart?

Another Wal-Mart Employee: Um... you hangs on ok? [Muffled:] Does we has a baking green apartment at The Wall-Marts? [Falls down.]

Minnesotan: This is ridiculous. I'll just check on the website. [Hangs up, begins to seriously lose gruntle.]


[A phone rings.]

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Hi! You are calling The Wall-Marts Baking Green Apartment!

Disgruntled, But Still Naive and Trusting Minnesotan: Hi, yes, I'd like to order a cake for a going away party.

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Ok grate! I is happy to insist you! What is cakefur?

Minnesotan With Adjectives Listed Above: It's for a going away party.

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Um, ok grate!

That Same Minnesotan: And can you write on it, "good luck, Marie," and then an exclamation point, and then on the line below that, "we wish you all the best," no wait, just "we wish you the best" is fine?

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: [Long pause.] Um... ok grate? Does you has pick up cake on next week?

Minnesotan Heading For, Like, Three Separate Disappointments: What? Next week? No, I need it by Friday.

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Friday. Ok grate! [Shits self.]

Minnesotan Who Obviously Voted for Jesse Ventura and Therefore Has A Sad and Misplaced Trust in Things Working the Way They're Supposed To: Okay. Thanks. Um... bye. [Hangs up.]

My blog is going as a blog that you ARE reading today!

This morning at 5:30 am, I woke up to the sounds of a 6-year-old boy amped up on candy anticipation, screaming his way through the suburban home in the suburbs from which my desire to escape is growing more desperate by the day. I sleep in his room, after all. Massive posters of Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera keep vigil over my slumber, and just last night I noticed a seam in Mariano Rivera's ass. That's when you know you've been somewhere too long.

The suburban home in the suburbs was teeming with activity beyond just my nephew this morning. My mother recently added a fourth dog to the pile of animals that sleep with her and my stepfather, as part of what I am convinced is an attempt to inspire me to write a hokey folk song that I will one day perform on the Muppet Show. There are now as many dogs in the house as there are calling birds on the fourth day of Christmas. And worse still, this fourth dog seems to have imbalanced the delicate chemistry among the other five of my mother's pets. Whereas before there were occasional, beautiful stretches of protracted bark-free silence for sometimes as much as seven minutes at a time, nowadays, the air crackles almost visibly while the throaty ruffs and woofs and moos and oinks carom off the hallway walls nonstop.

It's the moos and oinks that make me feel a little bit unwelcome. The barking is at least traceable to the dogs, and occasionally to the cats. But the moos and oinks are evidence that my mom might also share the sentiment about my having been there too long. I wonder if she's seen the seam in Mariano Rivera's ass too?

Escape was not the first thing on my mind this morning, however. Oddly enough, the first thing on my mind was that it was Michael Jordan's birthday which, as we all know, is February 17th. (It really is. I have no idea why on earth I know that.) Then, I thought, no, it's October 31st. My nephew is going to dress up as a blue Power Ranger to trick-or-treat. And I'm going to to kill him.

On the downside, killing my nephew would ruin the blue Power Ranger costume idea. But on the plus side, he could go as a very realistic zombie. Also, it would punch my ticket out of the suburban home in the suburbs pretty much for good. But hard time in the clink ain't exactly the ride outta town I'm lookin' for, Skippy. That's right, I called you Skippy. What.

What I am looking for, plain and simple, is some quality me time, some time with el muchacho que lleva el número uno, y que sabe como oprimir el botón SAP en su televisor para oir a los Yankees en español. Some ex-scape time, if you will. And what better day to ex-scape from oneself than Martin Luther Ween day, also known as not Michael Jordan's birthday, also known (much more conventionally) as Hallowe'en?

With the sounds of barking in my ear and a song in my heart, I set about getting myself dressed this morning, not as me, but as me in some far-flung future where I no longer live in the suburban home in the suburbs, and where the suburban home in the suburbs is probably still standing in a peaceful manner belying the veritable intestinal chaos going on inside it thanks to six, seven, maybe even twelve dogs at that point. (There is no stopping this woman!) My costume was more of an internal transformation, I admit that. But I was glad to see that NYC got right into the spirit with me. Take a look:

Penn Station, dressed up as Grand Central Station. Totally fooled you, didn't it. You totally thought it was Grand Central, right? Well you were wrong.

These angry commuters who would just as soon step on your face as look at you are dressed up as commuters who are only mildly angry, and would at least take the time to briefly consider what to have for breakfast before stepping on your face or looking at you. The blurry woman in the foreground is actually standing perfectly still, it was just a REALLY GOOD COSTUME.

This was how I knew New York was dressed up for the holidays. I think the entire city went as Boston or something, because otherwise, this has to be the biggest group of New Yorkers ever assembled without at least one yarmulke. Maybe all the Jewish gentlemen dressed up as lawyers and bankers for Hallowe'en. Who knows?

As for me, in addition to my costume as me several months from now, I have also spent some time in costume as a legal assistant who gets paid $8.00 less per year than I get paid, a legal assistant who gets paid $1.50 more per year than I get paid (that was hard to pull off), a legal assistant who actually knows something about the law, and an African-Indian princess.

Andrew Meyer's Letter to the Independent Florida Alligator

From the New York Times:

All Scores Settled in ‘Don’t Tase Me, Bro’ Affair

The Andrew Meyer seen in YouTube clips does not apologize. He rants at Senator John Kerry, struggles with police officers trying to escort him out of the room, implores them to “don’t tase me, bro,” and, quite disturbingly, wails in pain as they do it anyway.

But his lawyer, Robert Griscti, told the University of Florida campus newspaper that Mr. Meyer began drafting apologies immediately after his release on Sept. 18. Indeed, Mr. Meyer penned three separate apologies (available here) as part of a deal to avoid criminal charges, The Gaineseville Sun reports.

October 25,2007
The University of Florida Community
C/O The Independent Florida Alligator

To all my non-tased bros in the UF community and the non-tased members of Gator Nation the world over,

Because of my conduct and the resultant tasing, this last month has been a public trial for every bro who represents the University of Florida. For that, I want to sincerely apologize. I never wished to cast a negative light upon our fair University. I merely wished not to be tased, bro, as is evident from my repeated screams in the viral YouTube clips that started all of this.

At the John Kerry forum, I stepped out of line. There were rules in place to ensure that the forum was run in an orderly fashion, and I did not follow them. I think we all know what came next. I mean, that clip is everywhere.

In society, as in life, there are consequences (i.e. tasing me, bro) for not following the rules. In this instance, not following the rules, and the tasing of me that resulted from it, has imposed consequences for many more people than just myself, people who have seen this school, and perhaps their degree, tarnished in the eyes of others through no fault of their own. Granted, it's not as if they, or their "tarnished" degrees got tased, like I did, but that is very much beside the point.

For that again, I am truly sorry. As all of you who attend here know, The University of Florida is a fabulous institution, a place where many of the finest young minds in Florida come to be educated, grow as people, get tased, and ultimately begin to look forward towards their own careers.

No, okay, sorry, that was a joke. They don't really come here to get tased. I just wanted to see if I could slip that in there without getting tased. Please don't tase me for saying it. Or for using the word fabulous. I swear, I'm not gay. Don't tase me, bro.

Despite what the media has portrayed, I can not imagine a better environment for honest and open discourse, and the way that the UF community responded and really came together throughout the firestorm, without a single other incident involving student-tasing, proves that.

Student Government, which has provided thought-provoking and taser-inducing speakers throughout my time at UF, responded to the incident in the best fashion possible—they provided an open-mic platform on the Plaza of the Americas, complete with fake "taser detectors" at all the entrances as a goof on me. During a heated public debate, SG showed that they are committed to the students of the University of Florida. Yay for heated public debate where no one gets manhandled by the cops, right?

I would also like to personally thank all of the students of this great university. Your interest in this matter, whatever your position, is indicative of the true spirit of this university. UF is a free and loving and caring place, and your awareness and involvement has made me prouder than ever to be a Florida Gator, although if I breathe in too deeply to yell at football games, it still hurts a little. And speaking of football games, I'd like to single out Tim Tebow and thank him just for being the fabulous guy he is.

There is one last person and entity that deserves my utmost praise. To President Bernie Machen, and all of the UF Administration that has had to react to this situation, I thank you for your calm and just leadership during this time. I thank you both for allowing me to return to class, and for not tasing me, bro. Not tasing me, bro, proved once and for all that UF cares about the direction it is going in, and wants students to be a part of the decision making process.

And finally, I have one last apology to make. To everyone who came to see John Kerry speak, and to all concerned Americans who enter forums of public discourse in the hopes of perhaps getting tased and becoming a YouTubrity like me, I’m so sorry that I lost my cool in that auditorium and stole your opportunity from you. I went there to ask an important question; the question of voter disenfranchisement in America cuts to the heart of our democracy, and my failure to act calmly resulted in this important town forum ending without the discourse intended. It also, as you well know, resulted in several hundred volts coursing through my nervous system. I'm no biologicalist or anything, but that's probably not good for you. And for that, I am truly sorry.

Andrew "Quit Calling Me Taser Boy, Bro" Meyer

Me and A-Rod: Two Peas in an A-Pod.

It's painfully obvious to the world when a bloggerist (a title which I just made up) such as myself takes off for several months at a time, because bloggerism is at heart a results-oriented machine of commerce, business, and rampant insecurity. Less obvious, though, is when a Major League Baseball player such as Alex Rodriguez takes off for several months at a time. Especially when said Major League Baseball player (hereinafter referred to as "A-Rod", a title which I also just made up) is piling up season statistics like season statistics are slippery, fleeting, eel-like things that might get away from him if he doesn't pile them up like slippery, fleeting eels.

I hope that makes sense to you, my dear, sweet readers. And speaking of my dear, sweet readers, how are you all doing? All both of you? I feel like I spend so much time on this blog focusing on me, which has become a little bit cumbersome lately. Which is very much the bringing of me to my point here, which is about the whole taking months off at a time thingy.

Moving right along.

Baseball, unlike bloggerism, is not a results oriented game, and here's how you can tell the difference: While I was languishing for months on end without a fresh idea, it was obvious to me that Mr. Rod was in a similar emotional fetal position about how his summer was going. But he still managed to whallop 54 home runs, while I used my emotional fetal position as a model for the real-life fetal position in which I spent my summer and, so far, my fall.

It has less to do with the Red Sux winning the Whirled Series yesterday, and more to do with Britney Spears losing custody of her boys. No kidding, it has really upset me. And to a lesser extent, it has REALLY upset A-Rod too.

I think he made the right decision in opting out of his Yankee contract, because these last four years in the Bronx have been really tumultuous for both him and Britney. Remember that whole head-shaving thing, and the unwitting glimpses she gave the media of her hoo-ha? Is there any further need to wonder why A-Rod slumped to a sub-.300 average and only 36 home runs last year? I think these last couple of spins around the sun have been trying for all of us.

So even though he's walking out of New York with two MVP awards, and a season's worth of Yankee fans taunting him with chants of "M-V-P," and "We Love A-Rod," and "in A-Rod we trust," and "hey, Alex, show us your tits," I think maybe we all owe him the benefit of the doubt. It's been a rough four years. Don't let the eye-popping statistics fool you. Britney has managed to secure visitation rights to the boys, so we can probably all move safely on with our lives. But I think a change of scenery is in order.

So I'm announcing here, today, right now, on this blog that you are the only person not reading, that I am opting out of my contract with Dole Fruit, and relocating to Mackinac Island, Michigan. See you all on bicycles.

A big, fat thank you to Jacoby Ellsbury

Wow, can you believe how worked up we all got way back during the 2007 World Series when Taco Bell announced that free taco giveaway thing if someone stole a base, and then Jacoby Ellsbury stole a base in game 2? Remember how all those streets and middle schools got renamed, and the mayors of all towns everywhere signed declarations praising Taco Bell and its parent corporation, Yum Brands, Inc.? And then how it all went bad and there were those taco riots, and people were stealing other people's free tacos at knifepoint by like 3:30 in the afternoon on Taco Tuesday, and how big tacos were burned in effigy while children cried in their mothers' arms? Remember all that footage of those crying children and those burning taco effigies on the news? And remember how some of us were pissed that they weren't giving away something better, like a bucket of KFC chicken or free copies of Adobe Photoshop, and how we lobbied Congress and got that resolution passed condemning Taco Bell and Major League Baseball (and those assholes from Yum Brands, Inc. too) for having such a rotten idea in the first place?

Me neither.

In other news, free tacos!

The biggest sand trap in Ocean City, Maryland (also known as "the state of Delaware")

What does it mean when a beachful of rednecks from the Delaware-Maryland border have the common sense to use SUVs with air let out of the tires for driving on the sandy roads, while two young gentlemen educated at a major northeastern university take a Honda Civic and end up spending an hour digging a two-foot-deep pit with the front-wheel drive until they're rescued by another redneck - this one armed with a truck-mounted winch - to pull them 50 feet to safety for the bargain price of $100.00?

I'll tell you what it means. It means I spent last weekend golfing in Ocean City, where such things are par for the course. Pun intended.

It also means that in the midst of 36 holes in which we managed to successfully steer clear of every on-course sand trap, my friend Laszlo and I got marooned in more than our fair share of beach on Saturday morning, which coincides oddly with the fact that, between the two of us, we had only one sand wedge. Perhaps it was the golfing gods themselves exacting revenge on us for such an act of hubris. "One sand wedge between two people? Blasphemy! Strand them on a beach access road in the hot midday sun in metrosexual clothing! Let them put those history and communication degrees to good use!"

The golf gods can be so cruel.

Basically, what happened was this: we golfed Friday and Sunday. Saturday was an off-day for half of the group, so Laszlo and I decided to drive up to Rehoboth Beach and check out the outlet stores at 11:30 in the morning. After a lively discussion about the distance from Ocean City to Rehoboth Beach, I yanked my iPhone (whose name is Knickers, by the way) out of my pocket and started doing some Google Maps work, made more complicated by the lack of included GPS.

I'm talking to you, Steve Jobs. If that is your real name.

I heard Laszlo say, "ooh, let's turn off here while you're looking." But, thanks to the painfully slow Edge network, I still had my eyes trained on Knickers when I heard him add, "this sand looks pretty soft. We should probably turn around."

I pulled my head out of my Knickers, but it was too late. Like a horny walrus errantly chasing after a PT Cruiser driving along a coast road during ebb tide, we were beached.

Here are some pictures:

This is after we had been digging for 45 minutes.

This is Laszlo operating the jack, while Knickers and I stand idly by, documenting the process for posterity. Before you go thinking I'm some sort of heartless jerk, though, take a look at the two men standing in the background. What you probably can't see from this resolution is that both of them are frowning, which is only because their facial muscles were so exhausted from laughing at us already.

This is the tow truck that came to rescue us. Laszlo claims he pulled us 20 feet, although it was really more like 50. 50 feet at $100 equals $2 per foot towed. I'm no mathematician, but that seems like a lot compared to, say AAA, which offers three miles of free towing for its initial membership fee of $59.95 annually.

This is a picture of Abe Vigoda.

$100.00 for 50 feet. And the friendly state parks official who didn't lift a finger of his sculpted muscularity to help us also informed us that we were lucky not to have gotten a ticket, which would have cost us $45 or $50. He said, "$45 or $50," which sounded an awful lot to me like he was just going to pull an amount out of thin air. In fact, a lot of the characters in the episode seemed extemporaneous and smug about getting us out, like the no-toothed gentleman in the teal GMC truck who showed up with a tow rope just after the hapless park ranger had committed us to using the towing service. The timing could not have been less sincere.

Incidentally, I spoke to Sarah after the show was over. Sarah is my new girlfriend, who just happens to be from Maryland. Her advice? "You could try letting some air out of the tires." So brilliant. So timely. I almost wonder if she wasn't in on the whole thing...

Update (10/25/07, 9:16PM)

Sarah wasn't involved. I retract that statement. See, there's no need to go calling your park police friends in Delaware, okay, sweetie?

Return of the Banantelope News (But for how long?...)

I don't often bother publicizing it when I remember to update YATOPNRTB's sister site, Now Is The Time For All Good Antelopes to Come to the Aid of Their Banana, but it's just been so rare lately that I pretty much figure people have stopped reading. What, like none of those people have ever run a website for four years with only sporadic posts, then taken four months off for no good reason and re-emerged with a three-paragraph fake news story? Is that really a reason to give up on me?

Okay, fine, it is. But since I updated NITTFAGATCTTAOTB, I think maybe you should swing by.

That is all.

Matt Reads Nude at Kettle of Fish! Pictures Included!

I'm not above using an attention-grabbing headline, even if it means resorting to the tactic of blatantly lying. It's true that I read at Kettle of Fish last night, but the nude part and the included pictures are lies. If it helps, however, here are some pictures of kittens to ease your anguish - nude kittens.



Aww... Sick, isn't it?

So yes, the first chapter of The Brass Ring has now been read, and a firestorm of publicity has been unleashed upon the island of Manhattan - that glorious jewel of the eastern seaboard - as has rarely been seen there in lo these many years. The 22 people in attendance must have been talking, because I was absolutely inundated with phone calls and emails today, all seeking autographed copies future readings, and all offering me copious sums in exchange for just minutes of my time. No fewer than sixteen prominent literary agents are now beating down my door. And the women... my god, the women. They just won't leave me alone.

And the volcanoes... my god, the volcanoes. They just won't leave me alone either.

And the giraffes... Okay, the giraffes are leaving me alone.

And did I say sixteen literary agents? I meant 60!

So it looks like sayonara, suckers. I'm off to claim my fame and fortune and become a writer like you read about. Only... no, none of that is true. Except for the part about the giraffes leaving me alone. Those dudes are totally frosting me, and I'm not even sure why. I mean, it's not like I didn't share my birthday cupcakes with them.

Okay, the real story.

What really happened was simply that I read chapter one of my book in front of the aforementioned 22 people. To any of you that happen to leaf through these pages (or whatever the web equivalent of leafing through a page is called... browsing, maybe?), again, my sincere thanks to you for being there. You are definitely getting moved to the front of the line for an autograph if and when this book ever gets published. I won't even pretend that I don't know you.

Okay, I probably will.

I had an absolute blast last night, with just one tiny exception. I followed the inimitable Perry Moore, executive producer of the Chronicles of Narnia movie and author of a New York Times best seller along with a new Young Adult novel called Hero. Perry had clearly stood in front of an audience once or twice before. He led off by giving us some of the poignant and well defined social commentary underlying his most recent work, then he cracked the spine on one of the complimentary copies and crapped out a chapter onto us in his smooth, slow, quasi-Southern drawl.

It's not that I disliked him or what he read, mind you. I guess I found his mannerism a little bit affected is all. I mean, it was smooth to the point of being smarmy, as if maybe this basement, with unlit Christmas lights arranged in the shape of a snowman in a corner of the ceiling, a Yankee game on the widescreen television in the corner, and attention-hungry roaches creeping steadily toward the spotlight and the microphone, were somehow beneath him. I doubt very much that Perry was grateful for the opportunity to share his work, and I'm taking as evidence the fact that he couldn't be bothered to spare an extra half hour from his day to hear the other two readers who shared the bill with him.

Sorry if that offends you, Perry. But thanks for reading. Trust me when I tell you that the chapter I read last night was a hell of a lot more compelling than this.

Anyway, to those of you who came, my thanks. To those of you who didn't come, I'm sure it hurts you more than it hurts me. But feel free to send bribes in the hopes that I might once again receive you into my good graces. You never know; you might get lucky.

All Dressed Up, Nowhere to Go

Something close to fifteen people gathered in Greenwich Village last night to witness the historic unveiling - at long last - of the first chapter of my (eventually) forthcoming book, The Brass Ring, as part of an event that ultimately did not take place. Which begs the question, if a man spends almost five years working on a novel, and no one gets to hear a word of it, does that novel really exist?

Damned if I know.

For those that showed up despite my last minute attempts to divert them, I tried to be unreservedly apologetic while taking my lumps from them. Certainly, I can only imagine the postmortem discussion/make-fun-of-Matt session that must have gone on at Pennyfeathers, just a short distance down 7th Avenue from where I was attempting to wash away the taste of my ignominious humiliation with pomegranate beer, which is a lot tastier, and not nearly as pomegranate-y as it sounds.

For the record, what happened was that, after last minute cancellations from the other, higher profile readers scheduled to speak last night, the agent at Writers House who runs the Kettle of Fish reading series was forced to pull the plug. And I suppose since I was the low man on the totem pole, he figured that giving me an hour and a half's notice was adequate, which it most certainly was not. So to those who came, I am horribly sorry, and thanks very much for your support.

It was suggested that I should offer to read the piece in various states of undress, or at least to make personal appearances at the homes or offices of my prospective attendees. And while these are all good suggestions, to be sure, would anyone feel remotely assuaged by simply seeing the first chapter and reading it themselves? It is part of a book, after all...

The Move-Out, Part III: The Change

I've been keeping my loose change in a drawer in my nephew's bedroom in my mom's house, in a dresser that backs up against a navy blue wall with a larger-than-life-sized picture of Mariano Rivera with his teeth gritted and his right arm behind him, poised to uncork a devastating 90+-mile-an-hour cut fastball at some unlucky hitter. I was keeping my change right out on top of the dresser for a while. But my mother has cleaning people who come to the house every week, and I started to feel vulnerable about letting it sit where it could literally be nickled and dimed away from me, even though the cleaning people - from what I'm told - are very well paid.

So now my change is vigilantly guarded by a shut drawer and the legendary Yankees closer.

I'm weirdly hung up on this change. $10.00 of it is a roll of quarters from the day before I moved out of New Brunswick. I went to the good people of Commerce Bank (stop by and tell them I sent you - there's money in it for both of us), turned in my blue ceramic pot o' coinage (actually, I poured the coins into a machine called the Penny Arcade; Commerce is tres self-service that way...), and walked out with $20.00 in quarters and another $20.00 in plain old American greenery. I'm talking cash.

The cash is long gone, along with half the quarters. The other half I'm hording like a miser.

It's not generally in the realm of what I consider my style to hang onto money so tenaciously, particularly money made of metal. Change is eminently ignorable. I even met a girl recently who gave all the change she had in her purse to a homeless person while we were walking in the East Village, and in so doing, presented me with an option that I had never before considered, and that felt pretty damned amazing once I tried it on for size. More on the girl in later posts - hopefully a lot more.

My frivolity with less dense forms of currency is well known among my peeps. It's the predominant reason why both of my attempts at early retirement didn't last too long. Ask me about my sunglasses sometime, which do not have prescription lenses and are therefore useless if, along with protection from harmful UV rays, I need to see any of the things I'm looking at. I paid the whopping and irresponsible sum of $375 for them back in 2002. But the kicker is this: I bought them to replace a pair that cost me $275, which had slipped from their perch in the frenulum of my shirt in the parking lot of a country club near Donegal, Ireland and been flattened by a Mercedes sedan registered from Warwickshire. $650 on two pairs of sunglasses, which annuitizes to a little more than $100 a year since the original purchase. This is not, how you say, the emblem of financial responsibility.

And now you don't have to ask me about my sunglasses sometime, since I just told you. In fact, please don't ask. I don't like that story.

In the cosmic scheme of things, money is the most replaceable commodity I know of. I have a job now that directly deposits a paycheck into my bank account every two weeks with postal service reliability. It has an enormously cleansing effect at times, like the night in June when I took several of my coworkers to a margarita bar and bought the entire first round - nineteen margaritas - only to have a replenishing supply of dollars show up in my online balance the very next morning. I kind of wish the post-that-night hangover had been as easy to take care of, but oh well.

So why am I hung up on this change?

The ex, when we left New Brunswick, was into yours truly for two debts. One was half of a $140 utility bill, and the other was the agreed upon sum of $50 for breaking my bed. It's true. The girl dismantled the delicate latticework of the headboard for no good reason, vowed to replace it, and then never even tried.

That bed cost me $300 back in 2002, which annuitizes to right around $75, since I only slept on it through 2006 when the ex and I broke up. I moved from a bed I had bought and owned to a saggy blue couch covered with dust and fabric pills, and I slept on that too narrow, too short piece of... furniture for seven months.

It's not that I care so much about the bed. I had already been considering replacing it before ol' Exey decided to rape the headboard and run away. But in an odd burst of frugality, I had also been considering keeping it in the hopes that having one less piece of furniture to buy might, you know, actually save me some money. And it's not that I particularly care about the $50 either, which is precisely why I only asked for $50 to begin with. "Okay, how about this," I had said, "you're gonna fix it, right? So let's just say if you can't fix it, then you can just give me... I don't know, fifty bucks?" That all sounded perfectly reasonable. Hands were shaken. Deals were made. Enchiladas were served to everyone.

What bugs me is the trail of correspondence concerning the $50 and her half of the utility bill, which add up to the lackluster sum of $120. In her typically passive aggressive fashion, she nodded in a pretend display of blank-eyed capitulation every time I asked her if she was going to be writing me the check any time soon. She disappeared the last four days of our cohabitation, leaving me and her cat behind, and still omitting to pay me what she owed me. After she handed in the keys to the apartment, along with a letter directing the management office how to disburse our security deposit, she sent a text message to tell me everything was done, clean, and handed in. I text messaged her back, "you can mail the check to my PO box. Let me know if you need the address." Then I texted her again to ask if the refrigerator was emptied and cleaned.

Her response: "the refrigerator is clean. Take care Matt"

You may notice, much like I did, that these words do not constitute a cash payment, stock option, or line of credit of any kind.

It was easy enough to get over the loss of the money. I have even come to give the ex a great deal of credit for having toyed so viciously with my expectations. I get surprised by people all the time, but I think it takes a great deal to leave me gaping in slack-jawed wonder, which is what she did. But I'm still clinging to this plastic bag full of change, stowed next to the amazingly comfortable mattress where I've been sleeping every night.

There are two somewhat poetic epilogues to this story. The first one was the paycheck that arrived a few days after I moved out of New Brunswick. My job pays overtime, but because my hours fluctuate slightly, the amount of the overtime is usually hard or impossible to gauge. But I had an idea, a figure around which I had prepared my monthly budget for June. The paycheck exceeded said figure by exactly $121.

The second was concerning the final utility bill at the apartment, which in the most technical sense, was also half of the ex's responsibility. PSE&G, New Jersey's friendly neighborhood utility company, deducts your final payment out of an initial deposit that they force you to give them, then they refund you the balance. I had paid that deposit and forgotten about it until a notice came in the mail that my final bill, in the amount of $141.62, had been paid automatically. I called up PSE&G so they could reassure me about my refund check, and they told me they had just put a check in the mail to me that morning in the amount of $118.38.

I know neither of these are evenly $120, but I still find it pretty remarkable that, with a little bit of change, it ends up panning out perfectly. As for the bag of change in my dresser, maybe it's time to let that go. I'm getting ready to move to New York, which can list among its inventory plenty of homeless people who could use it more than me, as well as the lovely girl who reminded me of that. And anyway, I'm sure I'll get it back when I need it.