tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38168660630598286612024-03-12T18:57:45.251-07:00Think FinkFinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-8516908874331632162015-01-19T12:18:00.003-08:002015-01-19T12:39:04.913-08:00A Moment of Reflection in NYC<div class="MsoNormal">
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Somewhere Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is looking down and smiling upon the realization that on the date that honors his legacy, people of all races, colors and creeds, the old and the young, Jews and gentiles, are all gathered together; following the same path, undertaking the same journey, while waiting online outside Momofuku- eagerly awaiting their overpriced brunch.<br />
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We may not have reached the mountain top yet, but we are on our way.<br />
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-34397259776168214592013-10-11T14:17:00.000-07:002014-03-28T10:51:43.291-07:00Corey Feldman Ascends the Millennium and Blows my Cranium.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6 Ridiculously
Bizarre Things about the Most Ridiculous Video of the Summer:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you think Miley Cyrus’ recent work is insulting to your
sense of taste then you probably haven’t seen the video Corey Feldman released
this summer that left me feeling like my brain had been twerked by a dancer in
the Baby Got Back video.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Corey Feldman releasing a pop song in 2013 makes as much
sense as Marty Feldman posing for a spread in Playgirl in 1973. "Ascension Millennium" makes
David Hasselhoff’s “Looking For Freedom” sound like “Let it Be” in comparison.
It will probably end up being used by the military to force terrorists and
ousted dictators out of their compounds; or be embraced as a work of genius by
the French. But, the song is the least memorable thing about the video. It’s
the video that is so bizarrely ridiculous that it forces you to watch it for a
second and third time like a child who can’t stop touching an electrical
socket. In no particular order, here are six ridiculously bizarre things about
Ascension Millennium (otherwise known as A Day in the Life of Ivan
Hasbeenovich.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. Corey’s pool is
sponsored by an energy drink. <o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Feldman’s pool area is sponsored by the energy drink Neon.
In the world of the video, Corey is enjoying a typical day in Feldmandia, in
which the camera follows him throughout his home after he wakes up next to a
sexy woman in lingerie and struts his way along an existential journey of self
discovery that takes him all the way to the pool area and back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are branded tents set up all over the pool scene with
the Neon logo on it as if the brand is sponsoring Coachella and not Corey
Feldman’s pool party. Signage at Corey’s pool during this video is probably a
great way to reach the all-important Corey Feldman fan/ energy drink drinking
demographic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. The Title:
Ascension Millennium. <o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is possible that Ascension Millennium is an allegory
representing man’s evolution into “Feld-man.”
It is possible that Feldman thinks it is 1999 and the millennium is a
current topic but as evidence of his raiding Michael Jackson’s closet, it
doesn’t seem likely. It’s more likely
that he just liked how the words Millennium and Ascension sort of rhyme when
sung repeatedly and creepily, throughout the video. It could be that he wrote this song thirteen
years ago and had the foresight to realize that it wouldn’t be properly
received until YouTube was created. Society probably has not ascended enough
since the millennium to truly appreciate Ascension Millennium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. Corey’s Angels. <o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The video begins with Corey waking up next to Scantily Clad
Hot Babe #1, who is in lingerie and we are to assume he just shared a sweet,
sweet night of spooning with. After he
puts on a robe, ala Heff, she opens the shade to let in the light, exposing the
fabulous playboy life of Corey Feldman. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Corey then takes a quick shower to freshen up for his day of
preening and prancing around his home and is escorted down the stairs by Scantily
Clad Hot Babe #2 (I wonder if their agent told them they were doing a pilot for The
Girls Next Door 2: The New Batch.) The two women have become angels but it’s unsure if they are
stripper angels or angel strippers. The whole sequence in the video comes off
more like a sweet dream from the Suite Life of Zach and Cody as opposed to a
morning at Mick Jagger’s house.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. The Michael Jackson video dance sequence. <o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hopefully, this video was intended to be a goofy homage to Michael
Jackson’s 1980's videos but the perpetual scowl on Corey Feldman’s face
throughout the video is confusing, it appears that he might be taking it
seriously. The actors hired to join an impromptu dance with Feldman move like
they got the job by picking tabs off a flier in a Laundromat and no one seems
to be in synch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Feldman has obviously spent years awkwardly mimicking
Michael Jackson’s moves from the Bad video and his dancing in Millennium
Ascension is reminiscent of the “Josh Fenderman” dance from the classic sketch
series Mr. Show with Bob and David. That sketch was a parody of a Corey
Feldmanesque child star that appeared in such classic films as The Goober
Patrol.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6fez3AHUzQ<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Corey Feldman’s appearance makes you
want to shout Jamon.<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In this video, Feldman looks like an If they Made it/
genetic clone of Michael Jackson and Crispin Glover (in the movie, A River’s
Edge.) Actually, he looks more like a
cross between Blanket Jackson and Crispin Glover. He also has a constant intense, almost
constipated look on his face that brings to mind one of the Gremlins. Although, When Feldman puts on that black
hat and starts dancing, you are momentarily brought back to a time when it was
ok for a skinny, pasty faced man to be dancing in a studded black jacket,
wearing a white t-shirt and black leather pants. Unfortunately, that time was
around 1987 and you had to actually be Michael Jackson to pull it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. Celebrity cameo by
Sean Astin. <o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes Goonies fans, Sean Astin was somehow convinced to make
an appearance in Millennium Ascension. Mr. Astin probably had some time off
from living a normal life and made a special appearance in this video in which
he seems to have dropped by the house for a visit. The fact that he hands
Feldman a rolled up piece of paper that is supposed to be Chester Copperpot’s
treasure map is definitely a WTF moment.
If you’re going to have a mini Goonies reunion, why not go all out and
hire Jeff Cohen, the man who played Chunk as a boy, to put on a flowered shirt and
do the Truffle Shuffle?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There was one cute moment in the video when Feldman
tosses an inhaler over his shoulder to Astin.
Sean Astin comes off as the only down-to-Earth guy in Feldman’s heavenly
soft-core B-movie/rock star fantasy. You will have a hard time just watching
Ascension Millennium one time as it is bizarrely entertaining at first but you might
need an inhaler or an oxygen tank, or some medicinal marijuana to jump start
your brain after multiple views as you temporary descend into delirium. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If only Corey Feldman’s creepy visage in Ascension
Millennium could be melted from my mind as easily as Gremlins were destroyed by
water. There is a reason I only wrote six ridiculous things about this
video because coming up with a more appropriate 44 more things would have meant
watching it a few more times. I felt
like the guy sitting next to Ted Striker in Airplane, soaked in gasoline and
holding a match, after compulsively watching it over and over like I had accidentally
come across a porn tape of my 8<sup>th</sup> grade principal and Kris Jenner dressed up in furry costumes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Listening to Ascension Millennium repeatedly again and again over
a two or three-hour period dissolved an all-important musical taste bud away from my Gene Simmons’ length </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">rock-loving</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> tongue. The portion of my mind that appreciates music was temporarily fried like a car with an overheated radiator and It took some
time before I could differentiate between Van Morrison and Rick Astley. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only ascension I want to be doing in the near future is getting ahead of the millennial girls on the line at my local bagel store making their complicated flagel orders. That's a typical beginning to a typical day in my life that I gladly embrace and that oddly enough doesn't involve high-fiving a12-year old Michael Jackson look-alike hanging out by the conveniently placed energy drink signage in my pool area. (Unfortunately, I don't even have a pool, much less a pool area. Living in Manhattan, I'd be happy with just the area.) I will now gladly move on to my next story and enjoy every aspect of getting back to life, back to reality.</span><br />
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-12947363211737459662013-05-17T14:07:00.003-07:002014-02-24T12:07:27.009-08:00Funny Makes the World Go Round<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the past hour at Starbucks I have been unintentionally sitting in on a meeting between two girls
at a table next to me talking about a project they are excitedly working on (and
by girls I mean that they were roughly between the ages of 21- 23.) They seem to
believe that their creation is a work of genius that deserves to be applauded,
which for men over 40 is a feeling only expressed when one leaves behind a
perfectly oblong football shaped BM in the bowl- laces included- and we feel a tinge of
sadness that no one is there to confirm its majesty.<br />
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They seem to be writing something on women in comedy but
they are terribly over-analyzing the sociological aspects of women in society
and getting excited over the all the points they are hitting; such as
expounding on the biology of the female body and its effect on women performing
on stage; all in compiling their numerous theories on what goes into making
female comedians funny. I feel like they not only don't understand funny
but they might not understand women either.</div>
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Funny is funny. You can debate whether women are funnier
than men (they probably are- between shooting a human out of their birth canal
and having to deal with the fumbling and pedestrian male body sexually, I’m
amazed that every woman doesn’t think exactly like Tina Fey or Sarah
Silverman); or whether female comedians have it harder than male comedians in terms of audience perception and less opportunities in a historically male dominated profession. What these girls
don’t understand is that funny is funny.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Funny isn’t something that needs to be analyzed and put into
a dissertation as if you were in a Women’s Studies course, which is what I hope
they are working on. Sure, being funny is a muscle that needs to be
exercised and you don’t become as successful as Louis CK or Kristin Wig without
the proper experience, just like Bruce Jenner didn’t win the decathlon without
spending years running and training on the track. (He also didn’t hold
onto what’s remaining of his sanity this long without spending years on his
couch tuning out his wife and family.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s no mystery to unravel in why women, or men are funny
and I would think looking at things from an analytical perspective doesn’t make
for an entertaining read. Comparing and contrasting Janine Garafalo’s
stand-up-mannerisms with that of Ellen or Zach Galifianakis is not going to
leave you with a mathematical equation solution to what makes women funny. E
does not Equal Funny Squared, unless E is MC Hammer dancing, while on ‘e,’ in
square pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I feel like women get this and most<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><i>girls</i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span>do
too, funny or otherwise. It is just bothering me that these particular girls
are so gung ho over all their Sociology 201 type theories. I really want to
chime in and it’s not because one of them looks like she should be an intern at
a fashion magazine. For one thing, I feel like I’m sitting in on their creative brainstorming session, which is always one of the weirdest things about being in a Starbucks,
as they have become conference rooms-on-the-go for people. Another thing is
they don’t sound like they’re funny people, much less comedy nerds. They were researching
the names of comedians that someone writing about comedy should know. <br />
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I remember the first time I saw George Carlin’s Carlin on Campus as a kid and it
was like a light shown down on me sitting on the edge of my Formica coffee
table in my family’s den, offering me another way to look at words and making
me appreciate my dad’s sarcastic nature even more. I must have worn out
that homemade VHS tape like a broken cassette of Billy Joel’s Glass Houses that
could be found in every home in 1982.<br />
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Unlike Billy Joel’s music, I
never got sick of George Carlin’s comedy and I have thought of Carlin's brilliant use of language during
everyday moments throughout my life (like when I googled synonyms for "shit" for this post which reminds me of Carlin's brilliantly hilarious point that "You don't take a shit, you leave a shit.") So, the more I listen to these girls talk
about comedy in an unfunny way, the more it’s beginning to bother me.
After an hour of listening to their theories notes and data compilation, I feel like Bea
Arthur’s Dorothy in the Golden Girls after listening to one too many of Rose’s
stories about St. Olaf. I wish I had “You’re killin’ me” tattooed on one palm
and “Smalls” tattooed on the other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I want to hone my inner Robin Williams in Dead Poets
Society and ask them to step on their desks and rip out their Pritchard
handbook to measuring comedic reasoning. I want to ask them to close
their eyes and imagine them waking up next to a strange guy in Brooklyn (whose
hairy back is only surpassed by his hairy front) after a night of drinking and
tell them how to quickly describe the scenario of finding their bra that’s
disappeared into the abyss of the mess that is this guy’s bedroom; without
waking him or his roommates up. <br />
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As they slowly describe a madcap walk of
shame dash to find a cab, they begin to see the light and even ask me to pull
their finger. To my surprise, this releases an End Of Days level air biscuit
that rips across the Starbucks like a Tsunami knocking down the male barista
with the goatee and no chin, sending his lip ring flying across the floor, like he was Naomi
Watts on an Indonesian vacation.<br />
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If I hear one of them say they are getting paid for
their work and that this is going to end up in Teen Vogue or Time Out New
York or even Time Out West New York, I'm going to smash my underpaid hand on my
desk, spilling my drink all over my crotch while whimpering like a frustrated
child before running out of the Starbucks with my arms flailing in pure spastic
(Phoebe from friends) style only to get sprayed by a puddle of water from a
passing bus that has Lena Dunham and the cast of Girls staring back at me in an ad on its side as it pulls
away from my “New Girl in the City” momentary breakdown. Now, that would
be funny.</div>
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-90656220491613760752013-05-14T13:21:00.004-07:002014-03-18T10:57:40.267-07:00More Tales From the Dark Coffee Side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Oh coffee, my coffee. <span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span>I
have forsaken my local Starbucks and taken the bean less traveled and that has
made all the difference.<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span>I’m sitting at the
new Coffee Bean that opened close to my apt. which has unshackled me from my
local Starbucks' magnet like hold on my looking-for-work-week/freelance soul
and offered me a more comfortable, less cramped but similar outlet to plug
into. I am currently watching the steam rise up from a cup of tea that a
girl has asked me to watch while she attends to whatever business she has been
attending to for the past few minutes.</div>
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It has been ten minutes now and the steam in her cup has
fluttered away along with my attention to my own work as I lift my head to notice
the apple beacon facing me from her laptop and seemingly looking down on my Netbook
with a brightness and an air of superiority that seems to have Ironman
qualities to it. Although quite handy in
size, my Netbook is a little dandy in terms of its tech capabilities and in
terms of its super hero coolness factor, it probably rates somewhere between Aquaman
and the guy who sells Silver Surfer his Mr. Zog’s sex wax. </div>
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Actually, this Netbook is an upgrade over my old Netbook
which I had spilled Chai tea latte on, which forced me to lug a wireless
keyboard around with me just to use it, which made me look like a writer who is
serious enough about his craft to carry a separate keyboard with him wherever
he goes. This makes me even more approachable and the kind of guy who you might
ask to watch your expensive personal belongings, which at a coffee shop is
pretty much whoever is next to you. </div>
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There are a few people who you probably wouldn’t trust to
follow the unwritten code of laptop users and coffee drinkers. I’m referring to
those who are so "out there," they stand out among the many who hang out at
Starbucks and seem disconnected while connecting online. Such as, the non
subtle types who blurt out brief nonsensical conversations with themselves that
gives people a glimpse into their universe, before returning to a silent,
glossy-eyed gaze out the window for the next half hour. For example: “Ohhh. Yarlsburg cheese. I love Yarlsberg.” (Followed
immediately by) “Ahhh. What! Swiss!
Swiss! Come on!” </div>
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Ok, It has been another ten minutes and this pony tailed
girl in the yoga pants, red hoodie and aviator sunglasses is nowhere to be found.
Is it possible that she’s just moved to
another table with friends and she has just blended in with all the other cute
girls wearing yoga pants, hoodies and aviator glasses that make up the Murray
Hill matrix? Alas, that is not the case. As I nonchalantly look around the
room, I do not see the distinguishable red hoodie and her laptop is still
there, open no less, naked and inviting if you will, for anyone walking by to
sit down for a minute and calmly walk away with it. Not to mention a full cup
of lukewarm tea.</div>
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It’s not like I was taking my responsibility of guarding her
tea and laptop seriously. I believe that if someone asks you to watch
their laptop while they go to a bathroom in a coffee shop, they have
also bestowed upon you the right to check/delete their emails and change
their screen saver to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>puppies
humping kittens.<br />
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Her disappearance has awoken my curiosity and senses more
than the iced coffee I’m drinking. Just like Mr. Wolf in Pulp Fiction, I like
my coffee Iight and sweet, but unlike Mr. Wolf, It would surely take me a hell
of a lot longer than a half hour at 8 a.m. to organize the cleaning of
brain and blood from the inside of a Chevy Nova. It takes me about a half hour at that time just
for my cell phone alarm’s horrifying combination of car screeching sounds, old fax machine dialing noises and early morning pigeon
wails that create the right cacophony of irritating noises that pierces my
subconscious’ dream du jour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This may pry me out of one of my old standby dreams in which
I’m floating over my old high school as the young Christina Appelgate (by
young, I mean cute Christina with bangs from “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s
Dead,” as opposed to the sexy mallrat/burnout late ‘80s look she
personified in Married With Children)
waits for me wearing a prom dress and a look of nervous anticipation before my doppelganger pulls up in a Clown Dog
car and drives her away towards the beach as I grasp out and shout “Nohhhh.
We’re supposed to watch the grunion run. That was my idea.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my voice fades into nothingness, I struggle to get out
the words- ”Damnit, I’m right on top of her Rose…” I disappear into the clouds above,
before emerging in my room, wiping the crust out of the corner of my sleep-weary
eyes and rolling over on to the cell for another ten minutes of subconscious
misadventures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another similarity to myself and the Mr. Wolf character is the
fact that I do look pretty sharp in a tux and would love to wear it casually a
few days a year, like when riding the subway with a messenger bag strapped
across my cumber bun or when spending time on my laptop in the coffee shop my
body currently resides in as my mind drifts.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had hoped the iced coffee would spark my brain cells to construct
more than my usual early morning thoughts, which mostly consist of me noticing
that the sky is once again blue or bastardizing the lyrics to the Brian Adams
medley in the shower that has been in my head since 1985. I have been mashing
“Cuts Like a Knife” with “I need Somebody” with “Summer of ‘69” with the theme
song to St. Elmo’s Fire and Steve Perry’s “Oh Sherry” since before my voice had
changed and I had grown my still countable, chest hair patch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I sit<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>staring at the now-dimmed apple logo
facing me from the laptop of the girl whom I have affectionately named Amelia
Earhart, I catch myself bopping my head and whisper-singing to Howard Jones'
"What is love?" The song is playing at the Coffee Bean at the exact same
time as a college girl sitting at the table alongside me asked her friend
"Why do they choose this music?" It’s a moment that causes a brief
feeling of youthful embarrassment combined with a realization that I am indeed
older than anyone in here who doesn’t look old. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do agree that choosing a playlist in a coffee shop in 2013
that is just '80s, '70s or ‘90s music is a lazy option that will not go over
well after the first two cringe worthy songs are played and/ or the Verve Pipe
song “Freshman” begins its depressing chorus. But, that 1985 Howard
Jones album was underrated at the time. His hair might have been as poofy as
The Romantics and the Kajagoogoos of his New Wave ‘80s era but that Dream Into
Action album was more than simple synth pop-forgettable fluff.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those songs blend in very well with the more recent
indie/new-new wave songs in my spotify playlist. You don’t need to have seen
the comedy classic “Better Off Dead” to have the song “I’d like to get know you well” in
your brain’s playlist ready to force you to click play whenever you hear it on
the radio.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
35 minutes into my watchdog duties and this girl is nowhere
to be found. I’m seriously contemplating taking her laptop and leaving mine in
its place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Heard it from a friend who… heard it from a friend who…
heard it from a friend you were messing around...” Damn you REO Speedwagon? Why must you force
me t o sing along to your hauntingly sad lyrics? Damn you.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m now in full blown observer mode and I notice a
stunningly attractive girl with short hair come in to meet her friend, which normally
would not register with me, except for the fact that they're both wearing page
boy hats. That just seems like there was some sort of preparation involved, as
if they texted in the morning to see if they both were wearing their identically uncommon hat that will enable them to uniquely stand out in the exact same way.<br />
<br />
A vintage page boy hat seems like it would
be a very specific article of clothing to wear when meeting up during a weekday in the most suburban part of the city. I guess it’s possible they both were
grabbing a coffee before beginning their shift handing out newspapers to passersby
and shouting “Get ya paper. Paper Mista. Read all about it. Al Jolsen to star
in talkie.” Since we were not backstage at the musical Newsies or living in the
1930s, I have to assume that they face-timed in the morning before putting
together their retro chic, hipster ensemble.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After my interest started waning in the very specific wardrobe
choice of the two friends, I see a woman walk in with a take-out pizza box and
begin to eat a greasy pepperoni slice. One of the baristas approaches her to
inform her that she couldn’t eat non-kosher food there because they are a kosher
establishment. Leading with the kosher thing seemed odd in her confrontational
approach, as opposed to just saying, "Hey, you can't bring in outside
food,” which wouldn’t prompt the "Seriously? Kosher Coffee?” response. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In true New York City fashion, the girl eating the pizza gets
quickly enraged for no reason, as if she and her whole family were just
insulted and actually gives the employee the finger for good effect before
walking out in a huff. I’m surprisingly surprised and amused by her angered
response. She obviously bought the pizza at one of the numerous pizza places in
a 3 block radius of the Bean. Why would
she bring pizza to a coffee shop? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doesn't even have a laptop, so why
wouldn't she just eat it at the pizza place and then come here. Not to mention the fact that
pizza and coffee aren’t exactly two great tastes that taste great together. Of
course the other oddity of the situation is the whole kosher establishment
rule. Not only is all their pre-packaged salads and assorted muffins blessed by
a rabbi but you can't eat non-kosher food of any kind, which now explains why I
see so many orthodox Jews here. It's got the Schlomo seal of approval. This
might also explain the two women with page boy hats and I briefly wonder if
they’re the world’s only cool Hasidic women and if they party with
Matisyahu after attending Shule.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time after Time is playing now and Cindy Lauper’s voice
brings my thoughts back to Amelia and to what Lost island of bizarre,
interconnected existential happenings
she was taken into while being sucked down the toilet bowl in the Bean's bathroom. She couldn’t possibly be in the bathroom for
this long unless she was one of those teen moms who didn’t know she was
pregnant and is giving birth on to her hoodie while hovering over the bowl. But,
I had already seen people coming out of the bathroom, so I knew she wasn’t in
there. It’s possible she went across the street to grab something and had to
perform CPR on an old woman collapsing in front of her and was waiting for the
EMT workers to arrive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is also possible she had to mail a letter and bumped into
her old college boyfriend, (who she didn’t think lived in the city) on his way
to work and the two of them sparked up a conversation that rekindled the
passion they’ve always had for each other; as they impulsively rushed up to her
place to rip each other’s clothes off and knock her headboard loose, all while
keeping their current relationships a secret from each other that will ensure
that they end up as two ships passing on 2<sup>nd</sup> avenue in the early
morning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, life is not a Nicholas Sparks book and this Amelia Earhart of
Kips Bay is just as likely to be Wonder Woman who forgot where she parked her
invisible plane or even more likely just someone who obliviously thinks the
world revolves around her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as I was actually beginning to get angry at her
disappearance, as if it had tethered me to the chair I was in any more than my
own desire to get out of my apartment and people watch had; she nonchalantly walks
back in, sits back down, takes off her aviators and smiles at me. It was such a
carefree, friendly smile that I completely forgot about the fact that I had
just been obsessing over her whereabouts. I returned the smile instinctively
and we exchanged a knowing nod. A song begins to play through the speakers
overhead and I found myself singing “Do-do-do, do-do-do-doo. Do-do-do, do-do-do-doo...” under my breath. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time I wasn’t alone as the girl formerly known as
Amelia Earhart began quietly singing and bopping her head at the same time as I
did. I looked over at her and noticed for the first time she had a little gray
and white dog that must have been in her bag and was now resting comfortably at
her feet while its collar was being held in place under the chair’s leg. As we both sang to ourselves and together I
felt a wave of familiarity and kinship with the girl and her fluffy companion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We got louder and more animated as we belted
out “The sky it was gold, it was rose, I was taking sips of it through my nose
and I wish I could get back there someplace back there” and after both stumbling
through the next line as the tempo picked up again we stopped, laughed and went
about our business.<br />
<br />
“Do-do-do, do-do-do-doo. Do-do-do, do-do-do-doo...”</div>
Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-51563026886629582352013-04-22T14:16:00.000-07:002013-05-21T18:23:18.463-07:00This Post Is No Longer Trending<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EPZxz-w15Rk/UXWzDKFzLII/AAAAAAAAAI4/bcLPLze5Vfc/s1600/Bitter+Beer+Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EPZxz-w15Rk/UXWzDKFzLII/AAAAAAAAAI4/bcLPLze5Vfc/s320/Bitter+Beer+Face.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
The following post was conceived while the sports-watching
nation winced simultaneously as Kevin Ware broke his leg awkwardly and
painfully during the NCAA Tournament. I never quite got back into my initial
thoughts for my story in the aftermath of the incident that at the time was
analyzed like the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination; as I’m easily
distracted by life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s only been a
few weeks but I barely remember the Final Four and after this past week’s focus
on the chaos in and around Boston delving into the ramifications of one basketball
player’s broken leg seems pointless. I am
in no way intending to make a grand statement on the fragility of an athlete’s
career or to delve deeply into the comparison of the media’s focus on one athlete’s
broken leg with the loss of limbs and life sustained in Boston. In fact I can assure you this is the last time I use the word delve
in this story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I get back to the normality of my random pop culture
thoughts I realize Kevin Ware’s injury is now as topical as Psy appearing in commercials
running in March promoting his love of eating pistachios “gangam style.”
Watching that ad about three months after his 15 minutes of “trending” viral
fame had reached its crescendo, made him seem as relevant pop culturally as the
Macarena guys, Dana Carvey’s George Bush Sr. impersonation or “The Noid.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I personally spent a good portion of high school not going
out on dates on Saturday nights, with the only benefit socially in college
being an expertly honed ability to mimic all of Dana Carvey's impersonations. It’s
a shame that I rarely find the opportunity now to break a lull in a
conversation with a well timed- “Not gonnnnna doittttt. Not gonnnnna doitttt. I
don’t think I’ll have another Keystone Light <i>at this juncture</i>. Bitter beer face is badddd. It’s badddd.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have spent the past 20 years or so making sure that I live
a “Noid” free existence and this might have cost me a possible relationship or
two along the way but it was well worth it. For those of you under 35, who have
no idea what I’m talking about, the Noid was a demented claymation character in
late’80s Dominos Pizza ads that for some reason was hell bent on ruining the inherent goodness of Dominos pizzas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know how associating your brand of food with an
annoying bug-like creature could possibly have been thought of as a great idea for an ad campaign; even if you’re
thwarting the Noid's nefarious intentions and delivering Dominos pizzas to your target
audience of overworked, single parent/ divorced households in Phoenix and anyone
enrolled in college saving money for beer.
For one, the Noid resembled some sort of Ritalin addicted
combination of the the Heat Meiser & Cold Meiser, with rabbit ears, except it only spoke in high-pitched mumbles (as opposed to catchy song and dance numbers.) He also wore a red costume
and a mask for some reason as if the Noid was hiding his secret identity as Mark
Mannix, mild mannered Metropolis food inspector. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kevin Ware’s broken
leg is probably only still being discussed this week in barber shops in
Louisville in which Kevin Ware happens to be waiting in, but it is still more relevant than the story I
have been thinking about since the early ‘80s and will eventually devote the
proper time and energy into. The working title is “Nellie Olson. TV’s First
C**t.” But, that is a subject for
another day and now back to our regularly scheduled programming.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since my school had already been eliminated in the Sweet 16,
as Arizona is historically prone to do and I did not fill out a bracket sheet
with the other random assortment of freelancers/ med students/ 23-year- old
girls having informational interviews with former sorority sisters,
schizophrenics, women knitting the hat
current resting on their head, and Jews for Jesus members hanging out at
Starbucks- I was not watching the
Louisville-Duke game when Kevin Ware suffered the gruesome bone break that was
heard ‘round the world and unfortunately around the court. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I read about it on Facebook and started noticing the shocked
comments building in rapid succession comparing it to when a rampaging Lawrence
Taylor accidentally snapped Joe Theisman’s leg. The way Ware's leg twisted in almost cartoonish fashion as he landed awkwardly after jumping to attempt a block made him look like a G.I.
Joe doll that was tossed against a wall by a hyper 8-year old. It seemed the entire sports watching world was
having a collective moment of shock and a guttural, physical repulsion that
reminded me of Tone Loc wiping his tongue dry after noticing Ace Venture reveal
Lt. Einhorn’s ‘winky.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am in no way trying to make light of the pain that a young
basketball player suffered. I understand the physically and emotionally taxing
road he has ahead of him in rehab and I hope he makes it back to the court.
It’s the collective, seemingly primal reaction that everyone who saw it seemed
to experience at once that made me take notice. I was watching a replay with my girlfriend who
has had her share of ankle sprains from a childhood spent dancing and she hid
from the replay on the news like there was a mouse about to leap off the top of the TV.<br />
<br />
I feel like
anyone who has ever experienced any sort of sprain or broken bone in their life
felt a psychological twinge of residual pain, like when a twin who lives across
the country gets hit by lightening or stubs a toe really hard and the other
twin feels a slight shiver down their spine while calmly washing dishes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how the psychic twin phenomenon was presented to us in
old sci fi movies and TV shows and what I’d like to believe is true but if extreme pain
caused a slight shiver, wouldn’t an incredible, leg shaking orgasm of a woman in
California illicit a goofy grin or a raised eyebrow from her twin drinking coffee in Seattle. I’m not
saying she should all of a sudden grab the hair of the guy serving her a frothy
latte and hold on while she shakes the cup as coffee spills onto the table and
her hand. But, if there was anything to this twin psychic mind meld, you’d see a
lot more women and men smirking and saying “Hey now” for no apparent reason and
this supposed phenomenon would have been proven a scientific fact long ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does it make me a desensitized-to-violence, inhuman cyborg
that I can watch footage of someone breaking their leg like Sea Biscuit and not
want to immediately switch the channel to anything less abhorrent to the senses, such as a
rerun of the show Yes Dear or a live E! News Special Report from Kim Kardashian's uterus? Besides muttering
"Holy crap, that's fucked,” I still felt the need to watch it over-and-over
again on YouTube to see just how awkward his landing was to cause that severe a
break. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does that make me as analytically cold and removed as Dexter
dissecting a corpse or Sheldon trying to dissect a human feeling on The Big
Bang Theory? Am I doomed to wander the barren emotional wasteland of the NY
dating scene again as my girlfriend re-evaluates her decision to share a bed
with someone who purposely looks up footage of a man injuring himself that
caused her to cringe in residual pain and hide under the covers? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Possibly my curiosity stemmed from the fact that I have
never broken a bone or even sprained an ankle, so even though I can imagine what
it must feel like it prompted more of a curiosity than a repulsion. I have been
lucky in that my athletic prowess lies in my ability to play air hockey, which outside
of a few bars in Edmonton, is a pretty much a non-contact sport.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are many questions about the amazing power and frailty
of the human body and mind that I will never answer. As for myself, my pain-filled curiosity was short-lived and my attention switched to other trending topics of the day that resonated with me for as long as it takes to read a few hash-tagged comments.<br />
<br />
I may have the occasional mildly sinful
thought at inopportune times and in random places (like waiting on a line at CVS) but I’m a good person who
loves his friends and family. One of the secrets to sanity surely has to be surrounding
yourself with people who you don't find annoying. Even though we can’t always avoid pain and suffering
in life, isn’t it somewhat comforting to know that we can always avoid the Noid? I think so.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wahZVK7zkj8/UXWy6wN73nI/AAAAAAAAAIs/UTj-4rBY6cE/s1600/Noid.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wahZVK7zkj8/UXWy6wN73nI/AAAAAAAAAIs/UTj-4rBY6cE/s1600/Noid.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-48220047640602312032013-04-18T11:43:00.002-07:002013-05-20T12:58:06.759-07:00Lighten Up Francis<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few hours after Monday's bombing at the Boston Marathon had occurred and enough time had passed for it to resonate with those tuned into social media or watching the news, I read
someone's purposefully rude response to a friend’s post on facebook. She made a comment on the stupidity of facebook’s
always changing ways, like anyone on facebook is wont to do on a seemingly
daily basis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a day not marred by a senseless tragedy it would’ve garnered a
few likes. But, this guy seemed like he was incensed at her for having the gall
to change the subject from sorrow to the mundane and talk about anything besides
the tragedy in Boston. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was after the simple outpouring of thoughts and
prayers with the people of Boston had begun to blend in with the creative memes
posted online, like ones using quotes from Mr. Rogers, or photos of a red sock
bleeding onto a red apple. (I didn’t see that one but the copywriter in me
thinks it would’ve made a stark image.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The memes and quotes posted were designed to sum up our
collective urge to scratch our heads at humanity or a lack thereof, in visually
creative ways and the sharing of which is somewhat of a slight bonding
mechanism for people. We live in a society that has now connected people who
may or may not know each other well or at all and can read each other’s random,
spur-of-the-moment thoughts, which should for the most part be taken with a
grain of salt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has always annoyed me when someone goes out of their way
to point out the so-called social faux pas that others make, which is much douchier
than the actual breaking of a social norm. Several years ago I was stuck in my thoughts
waiting for an elevator door to open. (This seems a more appropriate description
than the term ‘riding’ in an elevator. The act of riding in or
on anything seems like it should require some anticipation of enjoyment, like riding a roller
coaster, or riding on the back of an ATV as your 8<sup>th</sup> grade friend who had an iguana and got the Showtime channel in the early ‘80s drives it
over the creek in his backyard.) As the door to the elevator is about to open the woman in front of me, who had her back to me, sneezed.<br />
<br />
She turned around and said “Bless
you” while over-enunciating and dragging out the <i>youuuuuu</i>. Her cartoonish and childish response and "put off" reaction to my ambivalence brought to mind Francis, Pee Wee Herman’s arch-nemesis in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. The sour puss expression on her face reminded me of my 7th grade Math teacher and like her, I think it's not too far off of a presumption to say she might have been going home to an old cat named Mr. Squiggles and an angry looking vibrator named Mr. Tickles.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She acted as if I had just lifted up my shirt and picked a piece of lint out of my navel before asking if she wanted it as a memento of our ten-floor trip together, when I was just clearly following New York
City protocol of not letting things strangers do register with me. It seemed
such a misplaced reaction that I was caught off guard and had no immediate response
to her bitchiness.<br />
<br />
I was too stunned to reply back with a response like “Oh, I’m
sorry. Did I fail to acknowledge that you blew germs out of your mouth into the
air hovering above the enclosed space we unfortunately are forced to ride in
together during flu season, your royal highness? I’m such a fool. Take my 1950s
era handkerchief that I keep folded in the pocket of my hoodie sweatshirt,
please. (In my anger I would assume I wouldn’t have had the time or the desire
to go into why “ride” is not the best word to describe travelling in elevators.)
But, alas my mouth was stuck in a half-smile/half amazed grin as she left the
building in a huff. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was another occasion of public ridiculousness that I
encountered that I will surely not soon forget. I was walking past a bar in my
area that was as "Jersey Shore" as you can get on a weekend night in Manhattan and
I saw a girl doing something that left me in a state of pause.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I graduated from the University of Arizona and live in Murray Hill, so I have come across the occasional drunk, young guy urinating in the street. Most guys pee facing a wall, usually with one
of their friends as a lookout. This inebriated young lady who I happened to
come upon, was holding up her skirt as she relieved herself into the avenue
while squatting with surprising dexterity and leaning against a wall next to the bar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stopped in my tracks with my mouth open once again, at first disgusted
by the act itself, but then I became kind of awed by the fact that she was
nonchalantly propelling this high-arcing stream that seemed to want to touch
the sky. I felt like a tourist standing in
front of the Fountain at the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas. I was transfixed for a longer-than-expected
moment and didn't know whether I should toss a coin at her feet and make a wish
or take a photo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided against the
photo, since she didn't need me pointing out her social faux pas and making a
spectacle of her abilities best utilized at a Tijuana bachelor party. My
favorite part of stumbling upon this public showing of a private act was the
fact that she had two friends that were flanking her on both sides; as if it
was possible to camouflage the fact that she was blissfully spraying the length of the sidewalk
like she was Larry Bird floating up a continuous array of old-school
three-pointers out of her urethra.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d rather think about this random act of craziness than the crazy act of horror like the senseless bombing on Monday in Boston. The fact is there are people out there who
seem to want to disrupt our Facebook obsessed, Game of Thrones watching, Target
shopping society. An act as despicable as
this will unfortunately stay in the back of our minds but we can’t dwell all
the time on fear and chaos or the crazies win in the end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reason Israelis don't wake up every day and play Russian
roulette while drinking fizzy bubbly/crystal meth cocktails (otherwise known as
a Very Dark and Stormy) is that they don't let fear control their daily lives.
Hopefully, cowardice bombings won't ever become a common occurrence in this
country that we have to get used to, but there's nothing wrong with talking
about other things that happen in our lives during times of distress, and especially
after an unimaginable act of evil. </div>
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The use of humorous, well timed sarcasm as
well as complaining about the day-to-day stuff that bothers us provide a
necessary release from thinking about things that can weigh us down
emotionally. I’m not saying not to acknowledge that the world can be a fucked up, hate-filled place, because it obviously can. But, it’s also the world that gives you
beautiful little everyday treasures, like the smell of a fresh pot of coffee percolating in the morning, Buttermilk
Eggo waffles with syrup on top toasting in the kitchen, and waking up with a morning erection, next to a beautiful woman who has just percolated your coffee and buttered your waffles. And
that’s just the amazing treats we enjoy before leaving our homes and noticing
the budding cherry blossom flowers on our streets and the clear blue spring sky.</div>
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The subtle art of complaining about life’s little
annoyances, affectionately known as kvetching, has gotten my ancestors through
thousands of years of nomadic craziness and persecution, not to mention Brooklyn
in the 1940's. I believe it was the immortal words of Alfred E. Newman, who once
said “What, me worry?” I also believe that it was the slightly less memorable
words of my Great Aunt Silvia who might have said on more than one occasion during
The Great Depression- “10 cents for a loaf of bread? What am I made of money?”</div>
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-75026906294640284162013-04-08T14:47:00.002-07:002013-05-02T12:16:21.316-07:00 Siskel & Ebert Give Think Fink Two Shrugged Shoulders Up.<br />
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I don’t want to eulogize Roger Ebert here because I don’t
know anything about Roger Ebert, the man. His passing has gotten me reflecting
on his career as Roger Ebert, the critic and how his movie reviews influenced
my views on movies for almost as long as I have been watching them. </div>
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Roger Ebert, along with his former partner in crime, Gene
Siskel, brought the film critic out from behind the cloak of a newspaper byline
and on to the Sony Trinitron TV resting on the trunk in my family’s den. Being part of the first cable
generation, I devoured movies on TV, like other kids consumed Pepsi, Sprees and
Cool Ranch Doritos, which is a perfect combination to suit the discerning palate
of any 12-year-old foodie in the ‘80s. </div>
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As an aside, the reason foodies are more annoying than
hipsters, although one can easily be both, is because most people have never opened
a conversation after sitting down at a restaurant on a first date like this-”You
know I read about this place in New York Magazine and I have been dying to try
it. I hope you don’t mind that it’s a bit expensive but the chef supposedly
once worked in the kitchen at Babbo. Have you ever been to Babbo? I love Babbo.
I’m kind of on a truffle oil kick right
now. You know, I have to admit, I’m kind of a <i>foodie</i>.”<br />
<br />
If you offer up that you’re <i>kind of</i> an anything to show off your knowledge of something in the
first two minutes of meeting someone, you’re usually kind of an ass. </div>
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My digression into a rant on food snobs has nothing to do
with Roger Ebert except for the fact that he was a master at pointing out
things in movies that annoyed him. I
started watching Siskel & Ebert: At The Movies around the same time that
video stores began popping up in every suburban strip mall. If you got a 'Thumbs
Up' by both Siskel & Ebert your movie was most likely going to do well. </div>
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Their entertaining bickering, Laurel and Hardyish appearance
(or Spade and Farleyish appearance for those too young enough to remember black
and white comedies on TV) and opposing
viewpoints on whether a movie was worth a “Thumbs Up,” lead to a perfectly
natural on-screen chemistry. They not only engaged you into thinking about why
you should or should not see a movie but they also introduced you to what was
playing at the theaters in a time before Google. I’m pretty sure Ebert would
have hated the film “A Time Before Google” for its predictable ending and
wooden acting performances but Siskel might have given it a reluctant thumbs up
for its surprisingly satirical script and tight dialogue.<br />
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Ebert’s review of the movie North is remembered for breaking
the record for the amount of times the word hate has been used in a review of
anything that a human has ever had to endure. His quote from his review for
Freddie Got Fingered is equally as classic. "This movie doesn't scrape the
bottom of the barrel. This movie isn't the bottom of the barrel. This movie
isn't below the bottom of the barrel. This movie doesn't deserve to be
mentioned in the same sentence as barrels."<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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If Siskel and Ebert were to review my blog, I’m sure it
would go something like this:<br />
<br />
Siskel: “The next blog we’re going to review is
Think Fink. It is filled with a random collection of fictional stories and
observations from a man who clearly has too much time on his hands. At the
same time, he doesn't post often enough for the viewer to get sucked in to his
haphazard, yet whimsical observations. There is
something here though and even though he tends to put himself in the center of
his mostly fictionalized tales that often go off on major tangents in the middle of
thought processes, I liked where he was taking me. I found myself laughing out loud on more than a few occasions and I give it a reluctant but surprising 'shrugged shoulders up'."<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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Ebert: “Gene, I agree with you in the fact that the voice
behind Think Fink seems to get as distracted in his own thoughts as a child
trying to recite lines in a school play while fireworks suddenly go off outside
the window. But, that's kind of what this new ‘blog’ medium is all about. The writer
is no longer limited by the narrative rules of a screen play or novel. His sensibility seems to have grown out of a steady diet of John Hughes movies and Pop Rocks and you get the feeling there is a bad ‘80s sit-com
constantly going on inside his head but I found myself rooting for his ‘Fink’
character. I even thought about it afterwards. albeit briefly."<br />
<br />
"There is a romantic, hopeful side that is pervasive throughout his sarcastic
pop culture references. In the story about climbing out of barrel full of
monkeys, you want this likable dreamer to get out of that figurative barrel
and get ‘the girl in the dorm room next door.’ Normally, I would have stopped
reading at his Greatest American Hero song parody on experiencing a "fridgid finkie" which on the
surface seems as infantile as a porn title, but what can I say, it sucked me
in. This writer might not be ‘the greatest’ or even a hero but I found
myself enjoying the view from his world and I give “Think Fink” a less
reluctant ‘shrugged shoulders’ up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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In short, Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel helped me learn to
articulate why I like movies, why I hate movies and why I love to hate movies
that other people like and for that I'm grateful. I'm not sure if Roger Ebert would phrase it quite this way but you know, I have to admit,
I’m kind of a<span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></i></span><i>goonie.</i></div>
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-43829112158037155532013-03-27T13:22:00.003-07:002013-03-28T21:11:53.015-07:00Green Schmeen; Go Red or a Writing Sample I Did a While back for a Job Application I Never Heard Back From and Wanted to Post to Break my Ridiculously Long Posting Slump and signify that I'm Back in the Habit like Lauryn Hill. (Actually, The Miseducation of Jyff Finkle might have been a good title but I'll save that for another post)<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Green
Schmeen: Go Red: 5 Red Fruits That Will Keep You in the Pink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Roses are
red and violets are blue and if you eat red and colorful fruits, your body will
thank you. Now that’s a cheesy way to begin a blog post but it’s better than
showing a photo of Regis Philbin or my dad wearing a tank top, eating an apple and showing off their old,
yet surprisingly soft skin. Whether you’re just out of college and experiencing
the ‘real world’ with two friends in a railroad apartment in Hoboken, or you
are single and still young enough to be excited about the return of <i>Boy Meets World</i>, you’re probably not
going to be cooking too many healthy, well-balanced meals (or any meals that
can’t be prepared in a microwave at the 7-11, for that matter.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fruits with
reddish hues have pigments called carotenoids, which might sound like an ugly
wart you’re going to have to get frozen off but carotenoids, like lycopene and
beta-carotene, act as antioxidants in the body. Antioxidants are not just
diametrically opposed to everything oxidants stand for they are also great for
the skin and can help reduce the risk of many cancers, including prostate
cancer. Here are five fruits to think
about eating on a regular basis that can help you live long and look young,
just like Marisa Tomei.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Berries: Whether it’s a cranberry, a strawberry, a
blueberry or a schnozzberry, berries are the little fruit that packs a big
punch of antioxidants and will give your skin a healthy glow that you can’t get
from a tanning bed. Studies also show
that eating berries can prevent age-related memory loss. So, if you don’t want to end up forgetting
the intro to the “pull my finger” joke like your grandfather, you should start
popping berries into your mouth before you have to start popping pills.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Red
grapes: There’s always room for red grapes (and Jell-O) and even a Kardashian
can master the preparation of holding red grapes under water for three seconds
before eating them. Red grapes are abundant in polyphenols, which have been
shown to protect against certain cancers as well as heart disease in
women. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Msm8ercY_mw/UVNY0b3ZgwI/AAAAAAAAAIc/RMA9PnjPhaA/s1600/Peach+lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Msm8ercY_mw/UVNY0b3ZgwI/AAAAAAAAAIc/RMA9PnjPhaA/s1600/Peach+lady.jpg" /></a></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Peaches:
“Millions of peaches, peaches for me.” Songs by the Presidents of the United
States of America are probably not downloaded too often but the love of peaches
that they sung about is still shared by people everywhere. Peaches are low in fat but filled with sweet
goodness. By replacing chips or cookies with a peach or two each day, you can
get your sugar naturally and you’ll feel the energy it provides like a jolt,
without feeling sluggish afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Watermelon:
Summertime without watermelon is like wintertime without hot chocolate but
watermelon is a lot better for you and just as refreshing. Watermelon juice provides nutrients to the
skin that act as a natural moisturizing cream to your face. Like the banana, the watermelon is also high
in potassium, but watermelon with seeds provides the opportunity to spit
without being rude and that’s just more fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tomato:
No matter how you pronounce it, the tomato is a wonderful ball of nutrients and
provides numerous health benefits. A salad without tomato slices is like the
‘70s band Kiss without makeup. It’s just not right. Tomatoes are high in antioxidants
like Vitamin C and A that can help ward off diabetes and regular consumption of
tomatoes can greatly reduce the onset of heart disease in women. The beauty of
tomatoes is that they are just as good for you cooked as raw. The lycopene
found in tomatoes that help ward off cancers are absorbed better in the body
after it is cooked. Unlike cake, when it comes to long term health, you can
have your pizza and eat it too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-53780750099438968472012-12-27T18:52:00.002-08:002013-01-04T08:29:52.338-08:00The Fragments of My Mind are a Terrible Thing to Waste<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I'd like to congratulate my kid sister (who now has a child,
which kind of makes me feel like the kid brother) for actually making the world a slightly
smarter place with her charity that helps keep financially-strapped students in
college. She helps deserving students who are already receiving Financial Aid and teetering on the brink of dropping out, stay in school. While she keeps people on their feet, I tend to become fixated on the guy walking past me wearing a winter coat and flip flops.<br />
<br />
I occasionally try to point out the ridiculousness of life to those
bored in cubicles. I'd like to imagine them enjoying my blog around 3:30ish,
before they're IMing their coworkers about the stupidity of their clients, taking their
5 hour energy shots and/or posting on Facebook that they have gotten coffee for
the umpteenth time that day (I believe the umpteenth amount of repeating any
activity falls at a number between 3 and right before needing to switch from
whiskey to Adderall and whiskey) before heading to
Starbucks for a break (while I’m inside with my laptop wishing I could have a
cubicle break from Starbucks.) And exhale… (Time to limit my daily coffee type beverage intake
to 1ish)</div>
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This gives them the chance to one day have a job they
actually like and are good at, and in turn get paid accordingly, which will enable them to build a life in which their children will not be financially
disadvantaged. Thus breaking a vicious circle (is there any other kind of circle
that warrants breaking?) and the proverbial glass ceiling to a better
life. A college education hopefully prevents them from getting stuck in dead
end jobs (or worse being out of work hoping to land dead end jobs) that suck the
marrow from their soul with each punch of the time clock. </div>
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Now these future happy, fulfilled
Americans may no longer feel the need to devour as much Coors Light and Taco Bell as well as celebrity gossip and
fantasy football stats. They may be too busy being
productive members of society and shopping for duvet covers and loofas in Bed, Bath & Beyond to take time out to read my random thoughts strewn
together haphazardly like a toddler trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle of
an actual jigsaw. Oh well, there’s always room for jell-o, a day dream
involving young Phoebe Cates stepping out of a swimming pool in slow-motion and a
little Think Fink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-71272565392125338592012-05-29T18:43:00.008-07:002023-11-06T10:24:28.778-08:00Brotherly Shove or Meet, Cute, Coffee, Date<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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“This is my life. My life, my life,” sang the Starbucks
employee in a calm tone as he carried a box into the back room. In the current
economy, Starbucks might be the only place in New York City where the people
being served feel the same as the people doing the serving.</div>
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It’s Monday and I find myself in Starbucks, writing about
being in Starbucks which if I were to dwell on it is even more depressing than
spending an afternoon in Starbucks looking online for jobs. It’s one of those days where the
conversations I hear and the people watching I’m addicted to much more than caffeine,
seep into my thoughts and spew out as observations about the world inside
Starbucks as opposed to the world inside my own head or the world outside. </div>
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If I tried to write a short story right now it would
probably be an updated version of the classic tale “The Lottery.” It's the only short story from junior high anyone remembers reading as adults. You might not recall your 6th grade English teacher's name who assigned it to you, but the story is embedded inside your imaginative 12-year old brain in the same way that Hubba Bubba gum might have stuck to your braces.<br />
<br />
The Lottery has always been an
eye-opening, sly introduction to the wonderful world of allegories and
one of
the first things you read that gets you thinking about
life, as
opposed to your own everyday life in the wonderfully awkward
world that revolves around your school, and extends as far as your bike
can ride, or your mom can drive.</div>
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My version of The Lottery would revolve around a
town where every year the residents meet outside the local Starbucks, while the group of chosen elders play the part of baristas and write
everyone’s name down on cups. The people
hang around outside the store with their families and lounge around on a
warm summer day as if they’re having a picnic in a park. They talk about the
light winter they had and how it’s a beautiful day for the lottery before an
elderly man named Leopold Millstone, with bifocals, white hair and whose holding
a cane, says to a woman and her child in a voice that resembles the guy from the
old “Pepperidge Farm Remembers” commercials- “Lottery in June, jobs be coming
soon.” </div>
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A man, let’s call him Jeff, pulls up to the parking lot with
a half eaten bagel in his hand. Jeff has short, slightly messed up
brown hair that gives off his casual nature without looking like he spends time
creating a casual look. He walks over to his family and gives a nod to
his relatives and neighbors milling about next to them. “What was there a line
at the bagel store? Every person in town
is here by noon. How are you late on Lottery Day?” says his brother, Brad,
while wiping the frames of his designer glasses (that put the cherry on top of
his anal-retentive lawyer persona) and fixing his striped tie.</div>
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“You have some cream
cheese on your cheek,” his mother Ruth says as she wipes it off with a napkin
from her bag. You look good though.”
“Lottery in June, get here by noon,” sings a cute seven year-old girl,
while smiling at Jeff and shaking her head.
(She is with the family standing next to Jeff’s.) “I’m only ten minutes
late. How about a donut, young, but wise Kate?” Jeff sings to her before
grabbing a donut from his bag. “Thanks
Jeff. You may be a dork who’s late, but donuts are always great,” Kate says,
while biting a huge chunk of glazed goodness and laughing.</div>
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“And why may I ask are you wearing a suit my brother?,” Jeff
asks Brad as he leans into him while smiling at Mrs. Johnson as she’s
methodically wiping the crumbs off of Kate’s cherub-like face and trying to no
avail to get her to stand still as she giggles, squirms and dances. “People haven’t had to wear suits on Lottery
Day for twenty years, ever since blue shirts and khaki pants became an option.
You know, 'Lottery Casual<i>'. </i>Look around,” says Jeff.” “Look, Brad whispers, you ask me this every year. The
lottery is as old as the hills. It’s been around in one form or another since
the first settlers reached our state. There’s been a Lottery since before our
family ever came to this country. The tradition may have been slightly relaxed
but I have a hard time relaxing,” </div>
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“No shit Cameron. Let my people go,” Jeff sings in a deep
voice. “Look at most of these people,” Brad says quietly while gazing out at
the crowd. “They’re slobs. They wear Lottery Casual because they can’t pull off
this look or any look for that matter. “And
you, you’re wearing a Ramones t-shirt under your button-down short-sleeve
shirt. What do you think people can’t
see that? They’re already chattering on
about you showing up 15 minutes late, which is 30 minutes late for most and an
hour late for the elders. And, why were you late again? How does one get stuck
in traffic when you’re the only dumbass on the road?” Brad says while smiling
as Mrs. Johnson looks back at them with a wide, gum commercial like grin
affixed to her face.” </div>
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“Hey, let’s just say I had a good night last night and
knocked my cell phone off the bed after the first couple of snoozes, said
Jeff.” Brad looks at him with a quizzical look. “Who would hook up with you the
night before The Lottery? Where is this mystery woman if the entire town was
already here before you?" “Actually, Jeff replies, while leaning in to Brad’s
ear, I don’t know. I met her last night at the bar. She just moved to town and I think she said
she was staying with her sister. When I woke up all I found was a scribbled
note that took me a while to decipher.
It said, “Lottery at noon. Gotta run. Last night was fun.”</div>
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“What does this say, Donna or Dora?” Jeff shows Brad the note,
prompting Brad to laugh out loud before lowering his head and coughing as his
mother and Mrs. Johnson turned their heads towards him. “Dora? Brad mutters out
of the corner of his mouth to Jeff. Hey, can you
say Cunnilingus, boys and girls? C-u-n-n-i-l-i-n-g-u-s, Brad repeats slowly before
shaking his head, sticking out his tongue and cackling to himself. Jeff stares
at Brad’s hair weave that borders the line of actually merging with his
eyebrows, giving the 30-year old the hairline of a 15-year old. </div>
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“Can you say a-s-s-h-o-l-e?” Jeff replies while smirking. “Hey, didn’t you used to have curly hair?”
“Didn’t you used to have a job?” Brad retorts without missing a beat. “Hey, I have a job now. Sure, they don’t give
me benefits and I’m technically considered an independent contractor which
makes me sound a lot more professional then what I actually do,” Jeff said. “You
mean using your graphic design school skills to put dog faces over celebrity’s
bodies for a Web site that will probably be made obsolete by a Facebook app, noted Brad.” “Exactly, Jeff mumbles out of the side of his
mouth. They smile while gazing around at their former neighbors having their
own conversations with friends and mini family reunions of their own taking
place in anticipation of the Lottery. </div>
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“Hey, it takes a true artist to re-imagine “The Last Supper”
with the Kardashians, especially if they have Shih Tzu bodies. The hard part was
picking a Jesus.” “Who did you choose? Brad asked.” “Oh, Bruce Jenner; with the 70s do which blends into Shih Tzu hair nicely. You’d be surprised at how many people waste
precious seconds of their day looking at Surreality.com,” Jeff says as he reaches into his
pocket. <br />
<br />
“Oh Shit Tzu.
Jeff says as he smiles while pulling out a small white sock and holding it up to his blue eyes.
This sock belongs to the cutest foot I’ve ever seen, which just happens to be
connected to the cutest leg I have ever seen, which leads to up to the cutest hazel eyes I have ever seen.” “That’s not all it leads to,” Brad said, while raising
his eyebrows. </div>
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“Hey, you’re talking about possibly the future Mrs. Burke.
This wasn’t just me winning the hook-up lottery and smiling at the right drunk
girl who’s had the right amount of tequila shots and vodka and cranberry juice, and has spent the right amount of months without getting laid. Thus, enabling
me to separate her from her friends at the bar, and almost separate her from her
clothes as she ends up grinding her not quite-naked body against my jeans for
an hour before she falls asleep diagonally on my bed; and I lay teetering on the
edge like a horizontal tight rope walker for two hours, before I’m forced to
wake her up, tell her I forgot I have to go into work early on Sunday, and call
her a cab before she sobers up. No, this was different. We clicked from the second our eyes met.
Hell, our eyes had a whole first date before we ever started talking.”</div>
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“Whoa.” Brad snaps at Jeff under his breath. Don’t even joke about a hook-up lottery where
you end up chafed with ruined jeans, right before The Lottery is about to
start. Show some respect for the
institution of The Lottery. If Dad heard you talking like this, he’d shit, Brad said
while shaking his head.” “First of all, I wasn’t disrespecting The Lottery and
second of all, Dad isn’t nearly as uptight as you. It sucks that he and Julie aren’t here for
the Lottery but I’m sure they’re enjoying themselves with their friends at the
Lottery in Springfield. Remember when we were little kids and Dad would wake us
up on Lottery Day and he’d hold us up over the bed and he’d say “Lottery Day,
what do you say?”</div>
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“Oh yeah, and then we’d shout “Burke family all the way,”
and he’d have a pillow fight with us.” As Brad recalled his early childhood
memory fondly standing next to his brother he lifts his head and unknowingly
scratches his left eyebrow with his index finger while simultaneously
scratching the dangling thick, black bang of hair weave with his pinky. “Yep,” Jeff says while watching Brad and
smiling goofily. “Jeez. It must suck being single, man, Brad says while putting
his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Having to bullshit with chicks at bars or worse,
scour through dating profiles from crazy bitches on online dating sites. I’m
glad I don’t have to deal with that.”</div>
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“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jeff says while
looking around to make sure his mother or anyone else isn’t listening to him.
“In what way does boning a married partner in your law firm put you “in a
relationship?” Jeff makes air quotes while emphasizing his point and looking at
his brother incredulously. “I hate to break this to you brother but if your
partner has a partner, and a home, and a child, and a dog that she shares with
that partner, you’re still single.”</div>
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“Hey, you know what.” Brad says out of the corner of his
mouth while smiling and waving at his mother and Mrs. Johnson. “We do have a
relationship. We see each other every day. We spend quality time together. We fuck routinely at the end of a work week.
We take away each others stress and occasionally we even comfort each other. I
call that a relationship.” “Yeah, I get it,” replies Jeff. “It’s demented and
sad but social.” “What can I say, Jeffie? Life is complicated. The Lottery
isn’t.” </div>
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“You know what? I don’t even care that you called me that
because today is a beautiful day, Donna is here somewhere and I’m going to find
her before the elders start the Lottery. Life isn’t always so complicated. It’s random as hell, that’s for sure. Last
night, I get three drinks spilled on my arm simultaneously as I’m leaning
against the bar. As I turn around to see who did it, I see a group of girls in short skirts and heels that look like they were raised on Cosmos and Sex and the City episodes. They were like clones of each
other and were oblivious to the fact they had all spilled their drinks, one
after the other, on my arm.”</div>
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My buddy Jack of course saw this as a perfect in to approach
them and demand they buy me a drink before accepting their apology on my behalf
and grabbing me to join the conversation. But, as I was about to reluctantly
join him, I heard laughing coming from a girl sitting to my left. I turn around
and see this girl with dirty blonde, wildly wavy hair who looked like she was
born to rock a Blondie t-shirt, laughing at me. She offered me a handful of napkins and
as I wiped my arm and grinned, I remember our eyes locked and I said something like
“The sad thing is I came with those girls. Then she replied back with “well,
you just don’t have much luck with women, now do you? When I volleyed back with
“not yet”, she came back with “you’re lucky I have a thing for semi-cute, slacker nerds.” I said,
"I’ll take that as a compliment" and she hit me back with “You should.”</div>
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We both smiled and I
sensed the sweetness in her mischievous eyes that I figured she doesn’t reveal
often. When "Jane Says” came on the jukebox, our eyes lit up and we both started air steel drumming at the same time. When I told her it was my favorite song she hit me back with “Oh yeah, I once kissed
a girl in college while Jane Says was playing because she told me her name was Jane. I volleyed back with “Hi, my name is Jane.” She laughed in this adorably
uncontrollable way that prompted her beer to spill on my other arm. She had me
at her laugh and her “aww” face which lead to our
night of flirting and fooling around.</div>
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“I hope that wasn’t the only “ing” you were doing to warrant
you oversleeping for The Lottery,” Brad said while shaking his head and gazing
out among the crowd of townspeople, wondering where his partner in more ways
than one and her family were standing. “Oh and I’m amazed at your ability to
retell your flirtation from the night before so precisely and yet not remember
your future wife’s first name.” Yeah, I have always been bad at that, Jeff said.
“I once dated a girl for two months before finding out her last name wasn’t “From Pink Berry.” </div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jeff’s pants then begin to vibrate and he checks his cell to
see a message that reads “Late to the Lottery. What am I going to do with you?”
He turns around to see Donna nodding to him from about ten feet away looking
surprisingly refreshed on two hours of sleep. Jeff pulls her sock out of
his pocket and holds it up over his head, and receives another text that reads “Thanks.
Don’t expect me to call you Prince Charming.” As their eyes connect again from
a distance and have a brief interlude, Brad begins to tell Jeff to put his
phone away when the bell goes off and the selected five elders step up to the
platform in front of the Starbucks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The eldest of the elders, Leopold Millstone welcomes the
townspeople to The Lottery and expresses his joy at seeing all his friends and
neighbors coming together to share in the festivities on such a beautiful day.
After the second eldest elder bangs a ceremonial drum, the third eldest elder
reaches his hand into a barrel filled with coffee cups and hands it to the
fourth eldest elder who looks at the cup and hands it to the fifth eldest elder
who gives it to Leopold Millstone.<br />
<br />
This act is repeated five times until Mr. Millstone has five cups on a table with the names facing his body. Leopold stands up straight, taps his cane against
the table before placing it on the floor, and takes a
drink of water before loudly clearing his throat. He begins to hold up the first cup as the crowd silently awaits his pursed lips to separate. He begins
to bellow each name and turn the cup around to show the crowd. Barry Most. Hank
Schweitzer. Mary Huggins. Jamie McElroy. Geoff Burke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crowd stays silent as each Lottery winner is escorted by
their immediate family and friends to the front door of the Starbucks. As Brad Burke, Ruth Burke and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson take hold of Jeff’s arms, the word “wait”
struggles to emerge from his mouth. “Wait," he shouts. "Geoff with a G. Do
I look like a talking giraffe? I’m Jeff with a J. Are you kidding
me? There’s been a mistake." “Hey bro, the Lottery is as old as the hills, there
are no mistakes. Suck it up.” Brad says while dragging his brother, by the arm as
a few large men nearby take hold of his other arm and force him towards the
front door of the Starbucks. Young Kate is skipping and holding on to Jeff’s
shirt. “Jeff Burke is a stupid jerk. Jeff Burke is a stupid jerk." She sings gleefully.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the other winners are brought into the Starbucks before
him, a song begins to play and Jeff can hear the music as his family forces
him through the doors like a shy kid being pushed on the bus for the first day of sleep-away camp by his parents or a shy white collar criminal being dropped off at federal prison by his parents.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"> “ I Ain’t got no home. Ain't got no home. A-no place to
roam. Ain't got no home. A-no place to roam. I'm a lonely boy. I ain't got a
home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Clarence “Frogmen”
Henry’s voice is heard, high tech collars are put on the necks of each
of the five winners as instructions by the eldest elder is given to them. (On each collar, there is a black and white image that appears to be a mermaid with wavy, long hair.)
They are told that they can’t walk more than five feet out of the Starbucks without
high voltage shocks being inflicted on them and that they are to sit in these
assigned seats and sleep in cots provided in the back section near the
bathrooms. Leopold Millstone tells them that they will be given a Netbook PC
laptop to use and Jeff moans “Oh man” under his breath.<br />
<br />
“You will fulfill your duty for
one year’s time, from this date, June 5<sup>th</sup> 2012, to June 5<sup>th</sup>
2013.”Then Mr. Millstone smiles and says, “Lottery in June, jobs be coming soon. Just, not
for you, yet.”<br />
<br />
“I ain't got a home. Ooo-ooo
ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo. Ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo-ooo ooo.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of the town slowly starts to mingle in and wait on
line as reality sets in for Jeff and his fellow winners as they repeatedly
attempt to get the att wi-fi to connect.”Oooh, it’s caramel macchiato happy
hour,” Mrs. Johnson says to her husband while fixing the hair of her daughter
Kate, whose bouncing up and down on the line next to her. Brad and Ruth Burke walk up to Jeff and Ruth lovingly kisses him on
the cheek. “Mocha Frappuccino. Right. I’ll get this one, Brad says, before
motioning his fingers like a gun at Jeff and making a clicking sound out of the side of his mouth. As the
color begins to slowly return to his face, Jeff notices the sweat build up on
the bangs of Brad’s weave and Jeff raises his eyebrows and cradles his own chin with his hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Donna taps Jeff’s shoulder as he’s gazing out the window at
the perfectly clear sky and takes out a pen from her bag. She begins to write her email address on his forearm. “Hey
G-e-o-f-f,” Donna whispers in his ear. “You can reach me here,” as she points
to his newly decorated arm. “If you’re good and lucky, in a year, you can reach me here. She
leans further into him, and quickly flashes her belly ring and somewhat see-through black bra. She smiles at Jeff and life comes back to his eyes.<br />
<br />
Donna turns around
and waits with the rest of the townspeople for her morning iced coffee. Jeff sighs and wipes the burgeoning moisture
from his eyes. Next to him, Jeff overhears another winner, Barry Most; calmly say
to himself, “This is my life, my life, my life.” The blue and white glow of
Facebook lights up his screen and Jeff Burke awaits the present. He can’t yet
think about the future.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shooby Doo Wop ba baa (hey hey. ) Shooby Doo Wop ba baa
(hey hey). Shooby Doo Wop ba baa (hey hey.) My heart is cryin',cryin'. Lonely
teardrops. My pillows never dry of, lonely teardrops.”<br />
<br />
As Jackie Wilson’s sweet
voice fills the Starbucks, Jeff Burke can’t help but bop his head and now heavier neck in a Pavlovian response and hum
along to the lyrics. “Just say you will, say you will.”<br />
<br />
Brad sits down next to Jeff and hands him his Mocha Frappuccino and the two stare at each other in awkward silence as Donna walks by holding her cup. She turns her head and sticks her tongue out and the two brothers smile. As she leaves the store, she points at Jeff and kisses the glass. They both watch her walk away into the sunlight, until Jeff nudges Brad to stop watching.<br />
<br />
"Half a mile from the county fair.<br />
And the rain came pourin' down.<br />
Me and Billy standin' there<br />
With a silver half a crown.<br />
Hands are full of a fishin' rod<br />
And the tackle on our backs<br />
We just stood there gettin' wet<br />
With our backs against the fence<br />
<br />
Oh, the water<br />
Oh, the water<br />
Oh, the water<br />
Hope it don't rain all day." </div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-26994310827961897322012-05-24T16:05:00.002-07:002012-07-08T00:55:59.034-07:00The Fly Who Mugged Me<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 3 a.m. and I’m being held captive in my own bedroom by
these B-movie villain mosquitoes that are attacking me with laser
like precision. I feel like I'm sleeping in a hornets nest and that’s only a
slight neurotic exaggeration. Why are there mosquitoes in my bedroom harassing
me like I’m a beautiful Dominican girl with an amazing, gravity defying Puerto Rican ass in too-tight sweats that say Juicy on the back and a low-hanging
U-neck t-shirt, walking through an entire city of construction workers? (I
wonder if Puerto Rican men ever say “Damn, that girl’s got a fine Jewish ass. I
mean there are plenty of Jewish women that I can personally attest to having
gawker worthy booties but I don’t think Jewish women’s asses have ever been
used as an adjective. I’m also not sure if there is a proper plural form of
booty. I don’t have the Sir-Mix-A-lot-to English dictionary with me, but I
digress.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no reason
for my exposed arms to be tortured like I'm a character on Breaking Bad and I
have threatened to destroy the meth lab. I grew up in the suburbs, with a front
and back lawn and trees and bluebirds and fresh air and I never got bit up by mosquitoes.
I’m currently cowering under my covers in the fifth floor of my apartment that
is facing the brick wall of the Verizon building. I don't live in a bunk on top
of a hill off the lake at a Jewish sleep-away camp where British counselors
take out their indentured servitude frustrations by giving kids wedgies; and
boys eagerly discover their boners for the first time under the soft caress of
the peaceful moonlight; before waking up in their stiffly made, hospital
cornered bed and being forced to jump in a cold lake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I live in New York City where the only wildlife consists of
drunken guys on the prowl in plaid shirts chasing lionesses in short skirts and
heels. (I think it was some time in 2011 when Mayor Bloomberg instituted the
men of a certain young age must wear plaid shirts rule, but I digress again to
take my mind off the merciless attack that is underway.) What the hell is going
on and why is the dog lying peacefully next to me not suffering the same slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune as I? Hath he not skin? Hath he not blood? If
you bite him, hath he not swell up? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do everything for
this so-called man’s best friend and the one time I need him, he’s literally
curled up in a ball looking at me with the same heavy eyes I once had while
listening to a professor lecture me about geology at an 8 a.m. class. This is actually worse than
water boarding. I feel like I should have Sally Struthers next to my bed
filming an infomercial as I lay twitching and flinching awaiting the next
attack on my exposed skin, as Sarah McLaughlin’s haunting music is
playing. These predatory mosquitoes, or
what seems like one tiny super mosquito, are acting like my own private shark
from Jaws. Except I’m not at the beach
where I can just take one step backwards, I'm floating in the water trying to
sleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After turning on the lights to type, I realize it’s just
biding its time, hovering high above me in my room. It’s gazing down at my CD
collection that has gathered dust over the past few years and is probably
judging me for purchasing the 80s Time Life Collection. It’s just waiting for
me to turn off the lights again and try and sleep so it can make a dive bomb
for my arms like a World War 2 Kamikaze pilot with a nagging wife at home,
student loans, a defaulted mortgage and a VHS copy of the film Gung Ho (with
the prescient knowledge that the VHS won’t be invented for another 40 years but
still angered by the depiction on the box.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow, if I can lift my swollen arms, I’m going to have
to go on Craigslist and put an ad out for a crotchety, old mosquito killer who
spent time in Africa and was probably a consultant on the Harrison Ford film,
The Mosquito Coast. I assume he’ll show
up and scratch his nails on my wall to announce his seeking the
reward. He’ll probably kill a bug and
dissect it only to find out it’s not the mosquito we are searching for. As we
reluctantly begin to bond while camped out on my comforter, he’ll show me the
bite scars that have ravaged his knees and turned him away from society to seek
solace in the bottle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4YBywdeFAJU/T77GWT5XZsI/AAAAAAAAAHc/yuzhB7TnAXg/s1600/Mosquito.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4YBywdeFAJU/T77GWT5XZsI/AAAAAAAAAHc/yuzhB7TnAXg/s1600/Mosquito.jpg" /></a></div>
As my unlikely bond develops with this hate-filled, crusty, world weary, swamp
shanty singing wackadoodle, he will
eventually and unintentionally, force me to face my fears and ultimately become the man I was meant to be. (Either that or he'll want me to step on his nuts or flog him while he wears a Catholic school girl skirt. I mean I did meet him on Craigslist.) If I survive tonight, I’m sure he would want
me to stock up on netting, traps and some explosives; or at least a can of Off.
As I lay here sweating in sweats with the sheet pulled over my head I can make out the feint sound of buzzing beginning
to build up again and my eyes dart frantically across the battlefield that has become my room trying to locate it. This flying thing, this perfect stinging machine, simply
refuses to die, or at least fly into the hall for fucks sake. Looks like I'm
gonna need a bigger bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-30354960924723827112012-03-08T19:46:00.013-08:002014-06-02T15:07:06.915-07:00Oy God!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NrYEZ3v3yf8/T1mAHBMFXDI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fql0YXXUEsM/s1600/Burns%2Band%2BDenver.jpeg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NrYEZ3v3yf8/T1mAHBMFXDI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fql0YXXUEsM/s320/Burns%2Band%2BDenver.jpeg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717742059990113330" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. I vow to no longer long for yesterday. From now on, I will long for today, or at least today, tomorrow, since it's already 4:30 p.m. today and there's not much of the day left to long for. Besides, yesterday wasn't so great. It was raining outside as well as inside my apartment, which is only acceptable if you shout “Oh my God” and George Burns appears as my super and says “Oh my me,” before making the leak in the ceiling disappear.<br />
<br />
The most amazing thing about the movie Oh God! that came out in the late 1970's, was not the concept of God taking the form of an elderly Borscht Belt comedian in George Burns, or speaking to a man in his shower; or even the fact that the one man God chose to speak to had a milk toast personality like John Denver. The most unbelievable part of the film Oh God! is that John Denver's character, an assistant produce manager at a supermarket, had a wife that was a stay-at-home mom and was able to buy a house on his salary and raise two kids in the suburbs. Today an assistant produce manager at a super market would only live that classic middle class lifestyle if his wife stayed at home and pleasured herself with pickles on a Web site called Porn Grub.<br />
<br />
Part of Denver’s likeability was that his image was that of a flesh and blood Kermit the Frog, except John Denver swore less and lacked Kermit’s innate sexual magnetism. Both Debbie Harry and Kylie Minogue once overtly felt up Kermit’s felt while singing the Rainbow Connection with him. The closest John Denver ever got to having sexual chemistry with a female performer on stage was when he asked Dolly Parton if she had ever seen the Rocky Mountains up close and she said “Every time I look in the mirror.”<br />
<br />
After watching the movie Oh God! the night the storm caused the leak in my ceiling, I had what could be considered a vision or to the less romantically inclined, it could be perceived as just a day dream. God appeared to me in my apartment in the form of George Burns, except he was wearing a hard hat and holding a plunger. My super wears a hard hat 24/7, which makes me wonder if he knows something about my walk-up apartment building that I don’t know, like should I be looking up at the ceiling while walking up it. <br />
<br />
I offered him a glass of water since he sort of resembled my 90-year old neighbor. This man spends ten minutes walking up the steps every day and reminds me that I don’t want to become the old guy who lives in the walk-up building who reminds everyone that this can be the best city to be young in and the worst to be old in.<br />
<br />
He asked me if I had any Sanka and then told me how he used to love Sanka and that he did not understand the rise of Starbucks. “Why would so many people spend hours sitting in a coffee shop staring at laptops? I wouldn't leave those things on your lap too long. It can’t be good for you. You might need your lap one day to make little Finkles,” said God.<br />
<br />
“Wait a minute, do these things lead to tumors, “I said frantically. What about cell phones? I knew it! I knew it!” I say as I bopped my head back and forth and gave an unintentional Seinfeld “Newman” face. “Smart phones my ass. “ Oh shit, sorry God. Oh sorry. Shit.”<br />
<br />
“Tumors, I don’t know from” God said, while chuckling.” Relax. I think you’ll be alright. I was joking. You more than anyone should know not to take things so seriously all the time. It’s one of your best qualities. That’s why I’m here.” “Thanks God,” I replied in my best Leave it to Beaver voice, smiling like the boy in Animal House as the scantily clad woman landed through his window. “Look, he said with a serene grin, I created the world and everything that lives on it. I’m God, not Steve Jobs; he quipped in a Bob Hope cadence.” <br />
<br />
“Of course” I said, still smiling. “So, how’s he doing anyway?” A cigar appeared in his hand and he took a puff, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke that quickly dissipated and said “He’s a little frustrated. You see there’s no “i” in Heaven.” But, I can’t really get into the whole afterlife thing. Your brain can’t comprehend it.” “Gotcha,” I said. So, we’re not supposed to dwell on life after death.” “That’s right. The afterlife and algebra are two things you don’t need to worry about in life, said God with perfect timing.“<br />
<br />
“You know God, unfortunately, I’m one of those poor schlubs staring at a screen at coffee shops. I go there to get out of the apartment and write. Of course this is In between looking for writing jobs, reading articles on sports and posting my random observations on Facebook to people I have randomly known throughout my life.” I fidgeted nervously as I talked and sounded like I was doing a bad Woody Allen impression. <br />
<br />
“Facebook,” God said, while tisking like my grandmother used to. If you’re going to waste time during the day, at least do it outside. People need to take their face, grab a book and check out some of the beautiful land left in the world. I believe you call them parks. I gave you the Earth in all of its splendor as a blank canvas. Then you built cities, buildings, homes, strip malls, cemeteries and golf courses and left some of the land as parks. Fine, that’s you developing your civilization. I get that. At least get out of the cities every once in a while and walk barefoot on a beach or gaze up at a mountain. How often do you go to Central Park?” God asked me. “Not ah, not often enough,” I responded while shrugging my shoulders and looking down. I mean I live in the East 30's and you know I have to take the 6 train up and I try and avoid the subway on the weekends.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know if you know this, but it’s sort of centrally located in Manhattan, hence the name.” That’s why I gave you feet instead of an extra set of hands attached to your legs. You should branch out of your comfort zone once in a while. Don’t be such a putz. Moses had to wander the desert for forty years you know,” God said casually while making a cup of Sanka appear. <br />
<br />
He then sat in one of my Chinese restaurant chairs in the living room as it turned into a comfy looking old-fashioned chair closely resembling the one Archie Bunker used to sit in. My apartment suddenly had this familiar childhood smell that I quickly recognized as the hallway on the floor of my grandparent’s old apartment in Fort Lee. This put me more at ease with the fact that this holy creator, this mensch of an all-mighty, just called me a schmuck.<br />
<br />
“True. But, Moses never had to deal with being crammed into a subway car filled with stressed-out looking people. And then there are the guys who occasionally sing out random lyrics from songs because they think wearing ear buds gives them the right to share their musical taste with the general public while riding beneath the surface of the city. It’s like, I can hear your iPhone, you don’t have to sing out loud. You’re not in the shower buddy. We’re riding in the subway after a long day of talking to, emailing and collaborating with people who are for the most part idiots. And don’t get me started on the senior citizens arguing with the driver on the bus because they don’t like or understand the new express buses even though they were instituted like a year ago. This actually might be the best thing that ever happened to this city. I never understood why a bus would have to stop every other street, when a subway doesn’t. I mean people can walk a few blocks to their office or apartment if a bus goes ten blocks without a stop. It saves so much time, and ooh you know what I do like; when I see people who are talented singers singing in the subway platform because it’s usually something mellow like Motown and it always puts a smile on my face. And I’m totally rambling and you’re God and I should stop talking now because I sound like a moron and I’m using words like totally when talking to you as if I’m a teenager in the 80's.”<br />
<br />
God laughed, which I noticed had an amazing, soothing effect on me. “You see, that is exactly what I’m talking about and this is why I chose you. Not because you’re a politician or a talk show host or are running a social networking site, waiting for it to go public.” “So, you think there should be more express buses and guys singing 70's soul music in subway platforms?, I said.” “No, I like how you get excited over little things. I’m not asking you to cure the sick or home the homeless, that’s for men much smarter than you, God quipped.” “Thanks,” I say while chuckling. “You know, I kind of like that you’re messing with me.” <br />
<br />
“Well, only a little bit. Look, humans need humor in the world to deal with the pain and the disappointments that happens in between all the joy. I just want people to take in the beauty of life more. Not just the serenity of a forest or the ocean, or the sublime calm in the middle of the storm of the city, that is Central Park. But, the little things in life; like the way the right song at the right time of day can fit your mood perfectly and work like humor to make you forgot whatever it was you were stressing about at that moment."<br />
<br />
"I gave you senses for a reason and some respond more to the taste of chocolate cake; for others it’s the feeling after an exercise workout that gives them pleasure. For you, I’d say it’s the sight of the curve of a woman’s hip as she’s lying in bed that has made you thank me more than anything else,” God said. <br />
“That’s some of your best work, by the way, I said while grinning (I want to high five him but wisely decide not to. You don’t want to be left hanging by God.)<br />
<br />
“I know, the hip bone was a thing of beauty, God boasted. It’s subtle, yet sublime. Men really seem to love it. It’s one of the main reasons why there’s so many of you. And I highly recommend the sight of seeing your child learn something, anything for the first time. Between me and you, it’s the only thing that can give you a minuscule glimpse of what it is like to be me.” All of these things can be appreciated more but let’s start with appreciating nature. I want you to write about that in your blog.”<br />
<br />
“See that’s the thing. I’m not a parent. I’m not even in a relationship with someone. I’m forty (long pause) one and I’m currently a freelance writer, which really means I’m not employed full time anywhere. My guy friends are all married and I live with a cool lesbian and a dog and it’s her dog by the way. I have woken up more mornings in bed lying next to that dog than I ever have with a woman. And my blog, I have nine followers, three of which are the same friend of mine using different names and four of which are people who stumbled upon it because they thought it was a Jews-for-Jesus site. These are not the things that appeal to the average Jewish woman in today’s society.”(I paused to catch my breath.) What’s the deal with the Jews-for-Jesus people anyway?”<br />
<br />
“I have no clue. They’re much more off-track in life than you, but that’s a whole other conversation. Look, I’m God; I’m not your therapist. So, you've taken the long way to get where you want to be and your journey obviously isn't over. Your present doesn't have to be your future. You have the face of a kid for My sake and you’re in great shape. Stop worrying and keep doing what you do best. And I got your "Some Kind of Wonderful” movie reference by the way and I agree that it was better than “Pretty in Pink.” So, to put it in a way that you can relate to, if you write it, they will come.” <br />
<br />
As he says this all of a sudden God morphed into a Jamaican man of indeterminate age with a mustache and a hard hat on and the Archie Bunker chair turned back into my old Chinese restaurant chair. “Jeff, Hello. Hello. I said, I’m going to come back tomorrow morning and fix the ceiling, so someone has to be here to let me in.” “Ok God,” I mutter.” “What, it’s Ahmad. Lay off the crack buddy," he says before laughing.<br />
<br />
Ahmad, the super, got up to leave and as he walked out the door I noticed him bending down to pick up a bottle someone in the building had left on a step. The sight of him scratching his own crack made me hold in a laugh that I let out as soon as I closed the door. We can find humor in the ugliest places and sometimes you can find God inside your own head. My God happens to enjoy pointing out how much room there is in there but that’s because he doesn't want mine getting bigger than his. What can I say, he’s a funny guy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ooEUF7BnyVU/T1l_a1pKKhI/AAAAAAAAAHA/egPB7qerVGg/s1600/OhGod%2BGeorge%2BBurns.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ooEUF7BnyVU/T1l_a1pKKhI/AAAAAAAAAHA/egPB7qerVGg/s320/OhGod%2BGeorge%2BBurns.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717741300976593426" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 276px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-60878955687149829402012-02-16T23:24:00.001-08:002014-03-18T11:00:24.074-07:00When The Kid was the Champ<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ArzR-v3cdCY/Tz4MKOUyjGI/AAAAAAAAAGw/lvnO5Rb4W_A/s1600/Gary%2BCarter%2BGame%2B6.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ArzR-v3cdCY/Tz4MKOUyjGI/AAAAAAAAAGw/lvnO5Rb4W_A/s320/Gary%2BCarter%2BGame%2B6.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710014747335887970" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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They called Gary Carter the "Kid" for the enthusiasm that he brought to every game, that was as apparent as his curly hair and his movie star smile. But really, he was “The Man.” When he arrived in 1985, he was the final piece to a future championship team filled with shall we say a group of immensely talented, rambunctious young ballplayers (and a few assorted nut balls, delinquents and future convicts.)<br />
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He fit the team and New York like a catcher’s mitt fit his hand and his arrival gave the team a needed jolt like when the Big Man joined the band. I remember when Carter hit a home run during the first game he played for the Mets and will never forget the single he got that ignited the comeback in Game 6. This had me running up and down the steps in my house shouting “Oh My God,” "Holy Shit" and other nonsensical words repeatedly with unhinged exuberance, as the ball rolled slowly past Buckner and into history. It was a feeling that should never be condensed into an OMG text.<br />
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I also remember during that time back in the mid ‘80s, The Right Stuff had come out a few years earlier and it pitted John Glenn’s “Mr. Clean Marine” character against Alan Shepard and the other astronauts. I remember thinking that Gary Carter seemed to be the John Glenn of the Mets and Alan Shepard was akin to Keith Hernandez(although I'm pretty sure I never used the word akin in junior high, it was probably more "he's totally like Shepard.")<br />
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Even though Glenn didn’t approve of the extracurricular fun the other guys were having with the local Cape Canaveral space groupies, they knew when to pull together in order to achieve their mission of beating the Russians (and a chimp) into space. (1) That Met team pulled together in similar fashion to dominate the National League, before winning thrilling playoff victories over the Astros, the Red Sox and the mighty Joe Piscopo.<br />
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Carter’s swing was a compact force that propelled line drives to left field. He seemed to rely only on the strength of his arms, which made him appear imposing at the plate. That was during an era when ballplayers looked like regular guys and not muscle bound giants. I wouldn't trade being a Mets fan during the '80s as a teenager(even though they won just once) for all the Yankee championships that took place when I was a man in my 20s. <br />
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I should probably now resent the fact that I chose the Mets way back in 1984. Let's just say, I have gotten mad at women I have dated but I never shouted at them for wasting my F'in time the way I do while watching Mets games in recent years. But, the fact is the Mets weren't just good back then, they were fun and there's one thing you can always say about the Mets, when they win, it’s never routine, it’s always amazing. Billy Joel once sang “Only the Good Die Young” (2) but Gary Carter made sure that the bad guys won. <br />
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1) The Soviets did beat the Mercury astronauts into space but "Ham" the chimp beat both Shepard and the Soviet astronauts. Glenn, Shepard and the other Mercury astronauts came together like a team. They turned their capsule into a ship they could pilot instead of just ride in and Glenn did become the first human to orbit the Earth.<br />
Of course, neither John Glenn nor Alan Shepherd ever had to deal with Mike Scott’s scuffed split-fingered balls (that sounds disgusting.) I’m not positive, but I’m also pretty sure that Scott Carpenter never almost blew Gus Grissom’s head off with a shotgun (Google Kevin Mitchell and crazy.)<br />
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I didn’t analyze the Mercury 7/ Mets comparison further and compare the more obscure astronauts in the film like Wally Schirra and Deke Slayton to Danny Heep and Tim Teufel. I mean, I was 14 and the only deep analysis I was doing was comparing Heather Locklear to Heather Thomas and Fast Times at Ridgemont High to Valley Girl (whole other post.)<br />
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2) <br />
Of course, this was before Billy Joel slept with Christie Brinkley and lost his morose, darkly poetic, yet pop sensibility. After getting himself “in deep” in her swimming pool of beauty, he went from writing songs like "Capt. Jack" and "Pressure" to “Tell Her About it” and “Uptown Girl," which can only be listened to by 13 years olds, drunk 23 year olds and anyone drooling under heavy Novacaine in the dentist's office.Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-46903680468564085912011-11-15T06:26:00.000-08:002013-06-28T16:00:43.211-07:00An Ode to Mediocrity<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFKrpK13SQ4/TsJ9zhF_WMI/AAAAAAAAAEM/UNjOL7XgK2I/s1600/coleman-Nets.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675236804450539714" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFKrpK13SQ4/TsJ9zhF_WMI/AAAAAAAAAEM/UNjOL7XgK2I/s320/coleman-Nets.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 246px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yLJ15BjCf4s/TsJ8XmzbInI/AAAAAAAAAD0/J4H2bAjBIXc/s1600/nba_g_richardson_195.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675235225435316850" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yLJ15BjCf4s/TsJ8XmzbInI/AAAAAAAAAD0/J4H2bAjBIXc/s320/nba_g_richardson_195.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 262px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 195px;" /></a><br />
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And so it goes for the cursed New Jersey Nets that the last game played in Jersey gets no pomp and no circumstance. No ABA banners lowered, no cigars lit by Joey Pants.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ff9xbibx5bE/TsJ-mPDPGHI/AAAAAAAAAEw/JJK-4sWwCN8/s1600/jason-kidd.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675237675780479090" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ff9xbibx5bE/TsJ-mPDPGHI/AAAAAAAAAEw/JJK-4sWwCN8/s320/jason-kidd.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 264px;" /></a><br />
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No goodbye swamp song by Bon Jovi followed by a hello canal song by Jay Z. No graceful wave to the fans by Buck, just sorry faithful, you’re shit out of luck.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Acqur8eOshI/TsJ_bVe3LOI/AAAAAAAAAE8/DheaPPU0wiU/s1600/williams-buck-1988.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675238588040031458" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Acqur8eOshI/TsJ_bVe3LOI/AAAAAAAAAE8/DheaPPU0wiU/s320/williams-buck-1988.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
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No final salute to Drazen Petrovic’s passion. Just a promise of Rocawear fashion. No recollection of what could have been with Michael Ray. Just a glimmer of the future along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y0GNdHh3jIY/TsJ-EuoLv_I/AAAAAAAAAEY/iHjYIj8PADA/s1600/Dr.J%2BNets.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675237100141395954" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y0GNdHh3jIY/TsJ-EuoLv_I/AAAAAAAAAEY/iHjYIj8PADA/s320/Dr.J%2BNets.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 257px;" /></a><br />
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No video highlights of Jason Kidd’s no-look passes. Just moving trucks driving past Fairleigh Dickinson classes. No nod to the men who grew up cheering for Chocolate Thunder. Just the flashy new billboards we’ll soon be walking under. <br />
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No standing ovation for the gravity defying leaps of Dr. J. Just Brook scraping Park Slope’s sky and waiting to say hey. No final complaint about the wasteland once known as Brendan Byrne. Just an architectural wonder that shouts it’s our turn. <br />
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No laughing at Derrick Coleman and Whoop De Damn Doo. Just Prokhorov swooping in and ending the zoo. No honest emotion from the voice of Ian Eagle. Just celebrity row with Rosie Perez and quite possibly, Jason Segal. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xve5EvAcKM0/TsKAAzpdIrI/AAAAAAAAAFI/tDm_nW3-QNo/s1600/drazen-petrovic.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675239231792685746" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xve5EvAcKM0/TsKAAzpdIrI/AAAAAAAAAFI/tDm_nW3-QNo/s320/drazen-petrovic.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 219px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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No Bill Raftery call of one more kiss off the glass. Just faded memories whizzing by of childhood’s past.<br />
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No final season at all and to all fans it’s good night. Just hope along the horizon that Dwight Howard just might.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fFZHGtwcJFs/TsJ-eGeV2VI/AAAAAAAAAEk/F3ftPkuNIOk/s1600/darryl-dawkins-1986-star-lifebuoy-card.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675237536039295314" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fFZHGtwcJFs/TsJ-eGeV2VI/AAAAAAAAAEk/F3ftPkuNIOk/s320/darryl-dawkins-1986-star-lifebuoy-card.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 230px;" /></a>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-81713669240297366852011-08-12T00:24:00.000-07:002015-04-13T14:11:06.052-07:00I Took the Bait, Man.This is my reply to a party invitation that I recently got on Facebook from people that I keep in touch with mostly because of Facebook.
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August 19th.
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Hmm, let me check my upcoming schedule for that week.
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August 13th- I'll be attending a Jason Bateman look-alike-contest. This will be located somewhere near the Williamsburg Bridge on the Manhattan side that will make me feel old after I complain to a girl in an appropriately tight “Ithaca is Gorges” t-shirt that there’s a line to get into a bar that’s above a Burger King. This prompts a blank nod from her, which in turn piques my Bateman in “The Sweetest Thing” attempt at flirting with the line, “I think I once saw Grimace do a Jell-O shot at the Lansky Lounge.” She then will turn around and let out a wispy “cool,” while the kid behind me in a t-shirt and shorts who is eating a Bacon Double Cheeseburger asks me “What’s the Lansky Lounge?”
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I’ll soon be pondering the fact that not only am I surrounded by 24 year olds who don’t remember a popular 90's bar that I went to in the early 2000's but I will have a realization that my participation in this whole Bateman Bonanza was an attempt to act like a spontaneous youth while dressing up like someone who is actually my age and would never be waiting on line to get into a dive bar with a rooftop view that only two people and Kate Moss can access at one time.
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A cute 20-something girl with short brown hair and a small hoop earring in the middle of her lobe that levitates parallel to the ground like a halo will glance at me at the bar and flash me an Alicia Silverstone smile. “Alright, Hogan Family,” she'll say to me and we'll begin to chat for a while about things I won’t remember later as our eyes and smiles connect. We’ll start talking about music and she’ll tell me that Kings of Leon are better than U2 and I’ll laugh and say “I'm not sure that they're as cool as Arcade Fire but neither band could compare to U2 or the Police.” “The Police, huh. My dad used to sing Roxanne to me when I was a kid,” she’ll say while she pokes me in the chest and laughs in a mocking, yet adorable way that will make me want to make out with her more.
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“Really, your dad sounds pretty cool. Is he Eddie Murphy?,” I’ll say as I inch closer to her and gently rub circles into her lower back before she closes her eyes and grabs my hand. “Who’s Eddie Murphy?” she asks with a quizzical look on her face.” “Wait, really. You know the Hogan Family but you don’t know who Eddie Murphy is,” I’ll say while shaking my head. She’ll then smile and say “Of course I know who Eddie Murphy is. My older brother had “Raw” on DVD and we used to get Hogan Family reruns on channel 5 where I grew up. It’s no Family Ties but I did have a brief crush on Jason Bateman as a girl. You know before my Pacey phase.” We both laugh and I’ll say “Alright, we can go on.”
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"Pictures of You" by the Cure will then start to play in the bar as if my own iPod was being used to facilitate our affection. Her eyes will light up to the song, (which reminds everyone of being a teenager, even if you are still a teen when you first hear it) and we will make out briefly but passionately until she receives a text from a friend in Brooklyn and her attention spans another borough as she apologizes and tells me she has to go.
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Before leaving, she’ll stick her hand in my pocket and grab my license out of my wallet and say “Holy Fuck Hogan Family. I thought you were 30 tops.” “I know. I am 40. I can’t even say 40 yet. I still feel 32ish. Consider me 38 and 24 months. ” “32ish. Aww. That’s cuteish,” she‘ll say while pouting naturally with her lips and eyebrows and rubbing my hand. I will take her number in my phone and then blow her a kiss with my eyes as if I’m saying goodbye to my twenties along with her. Then I will make a pledge to avoid the Lower East Side for a while and realize that she didn't pick up on the fact that I was clearly dressed as if I was in Arrested Development.
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For a moment, I’ll worry if being single at 40 has put me in my own state of arrested development. My youthful appearance can be a passport to blend in to the young, single post-college New York bar scene that I no longer belong to or have the patience to be in (without a couch to sit on.) Then, a few guys in my age range who look like they came out of their mother’s womb with a conservative side part and a pair of khakis will pass me and make me wonder if they even had to try to capture Bateman’s uptight, stick-up-the-ass character in Couples Retreat. I won’t stand a chance in the Jason Bateman contest but will head out the bar and back towards Houston St. while wearing a confident grin as I whistle Peter Bjorn and John’s “Young Folks” and quickly untuck my polo shirt from my pants.
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August 14th- I'll be lamenting my loss at said contest while going about my day but I will stop suddenly while crossing the street to sigh when I see two buses go by that have billboards on them for Bateman’s latest films Horrible Bosses and The Change-Up.
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August 15th- I will be over my poor showing as Jason Bateman and will sit with my laptop at Starbucks and notice that the man sitting in front of me is actually French Director Roman Polanski. Apparently, he too appreciates the sweet goodness of the mocha frappucino, except he will voraciously devour his frosty beverage and try and lick the whipped cream mustache off the corners of his mouth with his tongue, which makes me push my drink to the side in disgust.
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I’ll want to tell the young Asian girl sitting across from him to grab her smoothie and run and I’ll attempt to motion to her as she turns around with not so subtle head jerks to the left. This will prompt her to stare at me and then pick up her drink and leave. She won’t know it but I might have saved her from a painful night of Quaalude-induced anal sex with a creepy old French auteur. I’ll have my Polanski spotting confirmed when I see him using a pay phone on the street (I mean who uses a pay phone anymore besides international fugitives and crazy people who talk to cheese.)
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August 16th- 17th - I'll be depressed due to the rainy weather and the general monotony of life and sleep most of the daylight away before emerging from my apartment cocoon to perform my duties as the dog's chauffer around the block. For dinner. we'll both eat what is left of the slightly soggy Corn Pops I bought on the 12th in anticipation of my victory at the Jason Bateman look-a-like contest.
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August 18th- I'll wake up to a beautiful day and a narrow glimpse of the blue sky through my bathroom window will put a skip in my showering and I’ll sing a medley of Bryan Adams' 80s hits that I have continued to sing on occasion since junior high. I will mangle the lines seamlessly from “It Cuts like a Knife” to “Somebody” to “Summer of ‘69” as my dog pays no attention. I will later compliment random women in the street on their smile or hair style as I walk with a strut to my step. I will bump into a 40-something divorced woman in the hallway of my building who always seems over-stressed but still manages to look good in a sun dress.
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I’ll spontaneously avoid my natural spider sense to not get involved in a neighbor’s life and offer to take her ten year old son (that I nod what’s up to whenever I pass by him) to a movie at the theater across the street sometime. I’ll be surprised when she hands me twenty dollars and shouts his name. We’ll watch Mr. Popper's Penguins in a theater filled with divorced dads and stroller moms where we will laugh together every time the penguins slip away from Jim Carrey's grasp. Then I will take him for ice cream and home to his appreciative mother where she will thank me and smile at me sheepishly.
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She’ll show up at my door an hour later with a bottle of wine and proceed to tell me her whole girl from the Midwest-meets NYC guy who becomes lawyer and proceeds to spend more time with clients than with her as she spends more time as an emergency room nurse with doctors who she hates and patients that she loves- and they both end up screwing other people and fucking up their marriage- life story. Inevitably, we end up finishing the bottle and having sexually frustrated single mom Monster's Ball style sex for the next few hours until we both crash curled up together like a Rubix snake.
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August 19th- I will awake to find a Post-It note stuck to my ass telling me that she had fun and that I’m sweet but it would complicate her life too much right now to see someone who lives in her building. I’ll think she’s right and admire her penmanship before noticing a belly ring on my floor and a hickey on my neck and stomach. I'll then brush my teeth and go back to sleep for the next 6 hours or so before taking a long shower and going to the local diner to get an egg sandwich.
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At this point I’ll be feeling unusually relaxed for a 40 year old man with the neck of a teenager. I'll remember that I have this party to go to and will text my friend that I’ll be there around 9. At home, I’ll turn on the TV and notice that The Sweetest Thing is on, which not only marked the comedic film comeback of Jason Bateman but Christina Applegate as well. “Now she is the sweetest thing,” I will think to myself, as I realize that instead of texting my friend, I texted the girl from the bar. I’m too relaxed to ponder her response and feel a well-deserved nap coming on, so I set my alarm for an hour. As I lean back on my pillow and thank the god of late afternoon weekend naps, I’ll notice Jason Bateman doing a damn fine cover of The Bangles’ Eternal Flame. As the credits begin to roll and my eyelids try to close, I’m as comfortable as I can be.Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-82000190801953790782011-08-04T03:56:00.000-07:002012-07-08T01:04:20.770-07:00Lazy things are afoot at the 7-11Most crack heads love two things, smoking crack and finding more crack to smoke. But I have noticed in my limited travels on my nightly dog walks within a few blocks from my apartment that a crack enthusiast will always take time out from his busy crack scavenger hunts to stop whatever he is doing (i.e. muttering to the woman behind the counter at the bodega while she has her back turned that she should stock up on Dr Pepper and string cheese) and point out to you how cute your dog is with childlike innocence. I guess sometimes crack isn't always whack. <br />
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Sometimes, for a brief moment it can aid in reaffirming your belief in humanity and remind you of the love you have for a pet that gives you unconditional affection. This is the kind of drug that Huey Lewis sang about, the kind that makes a man without a home find momentary solace in the cuteness of a Daschund’s seemingly soulful eyes. <br />
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Of course after such an encounter with a crack head you’ll want to wait at least three minutes after he leaves the store you're in before you exit it, because he'll probably toss a dead pigeon at you and steal your wallet and your cute ass dog so he can trade them for more crack.<br />
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Tonight I ventured into a 7-11 near me and even though there has been 7-11s in Manhattan for around six years or so, I had my first 7-11 suburban/ college town moment. As I waited on line to buy my late night essentials (paper towels, contact lens solution and a Naked Green Machine smoothie) I noticed a college age Asian stoner with long hair and a tie-die shirt (looked like he was an extra in the movie PCU) behind me who offered to give my dog a bite of the half-eaten breaded chicken cutlet that he was holding in his hand. <br />
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He wasn’t on line behind me. He was just standing behind me eating a breaded chicken cutlet with a wrapper nowhere in sight that I could only hope he bought at the store (only a college stoner would bring his own food to a 7-11 just to use their microwave.) After I kindly explained to the dude (if you’re a member of the male gender hanging out in a 7-11 at 3 am eating a chicken cutlet that looks like it came from a vending machine in your dorm, dude is the only term that can be used to describe you; as opposed to man or gentleman or aristocrat) that my dog is on a low protein-high kibble diet. I nodded to the dude and then to the dog and rushed home to satisfy my own smoothie addiction( or as close as you can get to rushing while walking a dog that needs to stop every five feet to check its mental Blackberry to decide if the spot needs to be peed on or not.) <br />
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Now that close encounter of the idiotic kind would never happen at my local bodega, as the Koreans who run the place would not stand for a stoner loitering in their store. I respect that though. Those men work so many hours, I’m sure they sleep standing up at the register. They always recognize me and other regulars in the neighborhood and are nowhere near cold or constantly leery of being robbed like they are portrayed in black gangster movies of the 90s. On the flip side, a homeless crack head would never linger in a 7-11 too long. <br />
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The ridiculously bright florescent lighting that’s about as aesthetically pleasing as the inside of a high school class room bothers their eyes much the same way it would affect a vampire or a magwai (When was the last time you saw a vampire in a movie or a TV show eating beef jerky?) When it comes to awkward interactions with the general public that I can’t avoid while walking the dog, I’ll take a homeless crack head any day of the week over an NYU college stoner. It is dudes like that who give the majority of the civilized, occasional marijuana smoking population a bad name. I can’t think of anything more whack than eating a chicken cutlet out of a 7-11 microwave. For Christ’s sake those microwaves only have one setting. Hot Pocket.<br />
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If you had told me in 1994, that I would one day pay $3.99 for a beverage that contained blended fruit, broccoli, spinach and blue green algae, I would ask you to pack the pipe with more green algae so we could smoke the rest of it. You know you’re over 35, if you’re only addiction in life is a smoothie. To put this in perspective, the only reason I might watch porn more often than I drink these Green Machine smoothies is that porn is free and the Green Machine Smoothies are $3.99 for a 15 ounce bottle. I don’t know what kind of hidden ingredient (probably sugar and caramel) they add to the Green Machine smoothies to make them so good and I don’t care. It’s also an added bonus that they are named after the greatest present I have ever or will ever receive. <br />
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The Green machines were to Big Wheels in the late 70s what BMW’s were to Buicks. Sure they both had a seat that you sat on and two big wheels that you manipulated by peddling, but there was something cooler about the Green Machine. You felt like you knew what it was like to be the Six Million Dollar Man on a Green Machine. On a Big Wheel, you felt like you were Richie Cunningham. <br />
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For most of my childhood and into my adult life I have been more of the Richie Cunningham /Herman’s Head/Chandler/Whiny Doctor on Scrubs who amazingly found the time from working in a hospital, pining over a cute but neurotic doctor and seeking the approval of his boss and cool, black best friend to date beautiful women /Ted from How I Met your Mother type. But when I was on my Green Machine, I was the Steve Austin/Fonzie/Jim Rockford/Burt Reynolds type, even though I was 7 and ran home for dinner whenever my mom shouted my name out the front door. As I made sharp turns with my friends on the cul-de-sac and I gripped the handles, I could imagine myself moving in slow-motion while wearing a red jump suit as Jamie Summers waited for me on my driveway with lemonade and a frozen Charleston Chew. As Archie Bunker used to sing on TV when I was a kid “Those were the days.”Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-60171599052664549152011-08-03T16:49:00.000-07:002013-06-13T14:53:35.269-07:00Mounds has a heap of issues<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sbnEzwZMriY/TjnhvUdHtoI/AAAAAAAAADk/W2Jx6VZFJxo/s1600/Mounds.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636784611691837058" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sbnEzwZMriY/TjnhvUdHtoI/AAAAAAAAADk/W2Jx6VZFJxo/s320/Mounds.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 132px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 176px;" /></a><br />
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Mounds is Almond Joy's red-headed step child. Mounds was never picked to play in any candy bar reindeer games. If Mounds was an elf, it would be the one who wanted to be a dentist. Even the Clark Bar gets more action at a bowling alley candy machine than Mounds. Parents who put Mounds in trick-or-treat bags usually wind up having their house egged. <br />
<br />
Mounds has struggled its entire life to break away from its co-dependent relationship from Almond Joy. Mounds shows up to work with bruises on its ridges and tells a co-worker that it fell down the stairs. Mounds hears Almond Joy coming home drunk late at night angrily fidgeting with the keys at the door and begins to shake. <br />
<br />
Mounds grew its hair long and died it blacker in high school and would lay in bed listening to The Smiths' “How Soon is Now” and shout the line “I am human and I need to be loved” in an overly dramatic way to get attention, even though no one was home. Then it would cut its side very precisely until its inner coconut bled out slightly and it could finally feel like a nut.<br />
<br />
As children, Almond Joy got an indoor car racing track set for Christmas one year and all Mounds got was some Tinker Toys. In gym class, Almond Joy would team up with the Twix twins to run near Mounds and toss the ball as many times as they could to it in “Kill the Carrier.”It even got teased for being too dark by tootsie rolls which prompted Almond Joy to give it the nickname "Dikembe," which stuck through all of 8th grade.<br />
<br />
Almond Joy lost its virginity freshman year of high school to a Blondie in the backseat of her white Volkswagen Cabriolet Convertible after getting her drunk on Bartles and James wine coolers; while Mounds was tricked into playing seven minutes in heaven in a closet with Twizzler black licorice who laughed at it for not knowing how to French kiss.<br />
<br />
Don’t judge Mounds too harshly for its lack of a spine(or hard candy shell). If you were told you would never accomplish anything over and over again for 40 years, you too might wind up in a dead-end job with a girlfriend who is 30 pounds of nougat overweight and takes you for granted while she's cheating on you with a Watchamacallit. When it comes right down to it, Almond Joy's got almonds. What does Mounds got? Mounds got “Don't.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fzt0h5MqJAE/Tjnkb1tmCXI/AAAAAAAAADs/c9D8yzO5pO0/s1600/023_HanniAndAndrew_102209_FV.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636787575556802930" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fzt0h5MqJAE/Tjnkb1tmCXI/AAAAAAAAADs/c9D8yzO5pO0/s320/023_HanniAndAndrew_102209_FV.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 268px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-62087376384036481082011-06-16T00:39:00.000-07:002013-06-17T16:40:21.191-07:00Captain Kirk boldly goes where every man has gone before<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nHxsCasiA4s/Tfm1QSpVK2I/AAAAAAAAADc/6mxXrxsgzuc/s1600/Kirk-Cameron-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618721301609130850" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nHxsCasiA4s/Tfm1QSpVK2I/AAAAAAAAADc/6mxXrxsgzuc/s320/Kirk-Cameron-2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 278px;" /></a><br />
Canadian genius (holds status at all Toronto Apple stores) /actor/producer theologist/ all-around swell guy and former neighbor to a friend he called "Boner," Kirk Cameron, held a press conference on the steps of his palatial estate to refute the statements of quantum physicist (and some my say also a genius) Stephen Hawking. Cameron deemed Heaven to actually, physically exist in the sky. To show what Heaven might look like, he displayed to the lone reporter a diorama that includes a pearly gate made of toothpicks glued on cotton balls placed in front of a Papa Smurf action figure. When asked why he thinks he knows more about the universe than Hawking, Cameron just pointed at his Canadian Oscars on the mantle behind him and smiled. <br />
<br />
Cameron also added that legendary scientist Isaac Newton was addicted to a hallucanagenic chemical found in a rare fig tree and that gravity is indeed “hogwash.” To prove it he plans on dropping his Alan Thicke vinyl albums off the roof of his house at the same time as a stack of Teen Beat magazines with him on the cover. Cameron is sure that God will aid in lowering the music of his friend and former TV father Alan Thicke (legitimate Canadian genius) down to the ground first. “God has already lifted my career up to make it light as air and I’m sure he’ll drop Alan’s music like a stone, or should I say stabone.”Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-7922925387633601982011-05-10T18:02:00.000-07:002012-07-08T01:04:39.198-07:00Cock-A-Doodle-DooA few weeks back I was leaving my apartment on a Saturday night to take the dog for a walk and this young college-age guy approaches me from out of the shadows of the scaffolding next to my building and gets right up in my face. If you have lived in New York City for any period of time, your mind develops a Terminator robot way of immediately assessing all interactions with strangers or more appropriately “the strange.” <br />
<br />
In this city, strange can cover everyone from the always out-of-breath woman in your building that asks you to help her lift her work suitcase every time she sees you on the stairs and whose cats are desperately trying to escape her apartment whenever the door opens a crack (which makes me want to distract her somehow in order to aid in their liberation, combined with this car wreck human desire to fight the urge to glance at the horrors that must exist behind the door as it thankfully slams shut); or of course, the man or woman you happen to be currently dating.<br />
<br />
It was not hard to quickly assess the situation and downgrade it from menacing to amusing. Even though the kid appeared drunk and slightly glossy eyed, he did not exactly strike the fear into me as he was about 5’7" with thick black-rimmed glasses that I find incredibly cute on girls in a sort of a retro 80s Square Pegs look, a messed-up Bieberish flop of hair that hung down to connect to his eyebrows and shouted “I may have some bald friends with shaved heads but I still can’t conceive of male-pattern baldness in my future.”<br />
<br />
What did catch me for a loop is how after appearing out of nowhere and getting right up in my face, he brashly says to me “Hey, where's the cock bar?” (As if it was around the corner) This is Murray Hill where the post college crowd hangs out. There are 5 different frozen yogurt shops but, alas, no gay bars. If there was a gay bar here, it wouldn’t have a blunt and direct name like “Cock Bar.” It would have a cheesy yogurt shop pun name like “16 Handles,” except it would be something akin to “Franks ‘n’ Jeans.”<br />
<br />
The Terminator response part to my brain would normally print out possible answers in my head for me to retort with when approached randomly in the street, starting with the obvious “Fuck you Eishole,” but I was definitely flummoxed. I then noticed that he had two companions who were standing a little behind him; another short but heavier guy and a slightly chubby, but cute girl with the same glasses as the guy that approached me initially. She was wearing a Boston College t-shirt and I could tell they were not from NYC as the girl seemed to be looking at MapQuest on her phone to find directions to the bar. She told me they were in town visiting without lifting her head from the screen as the first kid asks me again to tell him where the cock bar was.<br />
<br />
I had lived in the city long enough that I knew it was somewhere in the east village (bars with neon roosters signs on them tend to stick out,) but the guy was drunk enough that he had no force field up for possible homophobic assholes and seemed to enjoy fucking with me. He started whining “Come on, where is it?” possibly thinking in the back of his boldly soused mind that I'll say "Forget the bar- the cock is right here buddy." I made the face of a man in great ponder as it turned red and I rubbed my chin and gazed upwards trying to recall the exact address. He seemed to take great glee in my embarrassment and actually rubbed my arm for a second as I was trying to think of the right street(quite the cocky move, or should I say "very ballsy" of him.)<br />
<br />
Even though I am 40 and have been properly beaten down by life in the work force I have managed to retain my youthful appearance and no matter where I am in the city, tourists come up to me and ask me for directions. I guess wearing my tight-fitting Express for Men zip down waist-length gray jacket with the black lion logo on the chest, being led on a walk by a dachshund-mix dog with an adorably cute face did not exactly scream “gay basher." <br />
<br />
As a straight man being asked for the Cock Bar, I can't just blurt out the street off the top of my head as if I go there for brunch and blow jobs every Sunday." Oh the Cock Bar, why that's on 1st and 1st. Just look for the rooster sign above the line of guys wearing low hanging v-neck t-shirts and tell Steve the doorman you know me." <br />
<br />
Surprisingly enough, as a single man with a lesbian roommate, I did not know the exact street of the Cock Bar off hand but knew it was near Houston on First Ave. or Second Ave. and was able to point it out to the girl as she held up her cell. At this point the original kid that asked me was finishing up peeing against the wall under the scaffolding and after wishing them well on their quest for drinks and most likely cock, I followed my dog around the corner and wondered why two hot women in matching tank tops never come up to me and ask me to take them to the Clit Club.Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-74120240820386031802011-03-05T00:27:00.000-08:002012-07-08T00:57:31.164-07:00A Chip off the Young BlockMe: Hey, Happy Anniversary. I always forget that you guys got married on January 30th and not New Years Eve.<br />
<br />
Dad: Well, we were rich and stupid then and should have made it a different<br />
night, but we thought it would give people a day to make plans.<br />
<br />
Dad: So, what's new with you? Are you still seeing the hickey girl?<br />
<br />
Me: She faded away. I might have a date with a girl I used to work with.<br />
<br />
Dad: You know after seeing my genes passed on in such a cute way with your sister’s baby, I'd like to see it again some day while I can still see.<br />
<br />
Me: What if I end up with a buck-toothed blonde or a cock-eyed fat girl?<br />
<br />
Dad: Don't worry, the Finkle genes are strong and the family cuteness will shine through.<br />
<br />
(After a few moments of uninteresting talk about me looking for work, I change the subject back to my sister’s baby. In a Jewish family you can be arrested for shoplifting a sex toy but if your sister has a baby that week, it’s all good with new grandparents. Although, the statute of limitations on idiocy or laziness runs out after the bris)<br />
<br />
Me: Do you consider it a Hanukah miracle that one of your offspring was finally able to spring out a baby?<br />
<br />
Dad: I don’t want to consider it a miracle that would make its reccurrence unlikely. <br />
<br />
Me: So, it’s not as impressive as the oil lasting 6 days.<br />
<br />
Dad: It was 8 days and actually a rabbi told me a few years ago that that was all made up.<br />
<br />
Me: I know. You told me already.<br />
<br />
Dad: They didn't come up with the Temple miracle until 800 years later.<br />
Hanukah was originally just a celebration of a battle victory. Even David leaving Israel was because Saul wanted him out.<br />
<br />
Me: Was there even a Goliath?<br />
<br />
Dad: Yes there was a Goliath, but he definitely wasn’t Jewish. You don’t see too many Goliaths walking around now.<br />
<br />
Me: That’s because he lost. If he had beaten David, maybe you would have named my brother Goliath Finkle. <br />
<br />
Dad: That does have a ring to it. There was a Goliath but he wasn’t a giant.<br />
<br />
Me: What was he 5’9’’?<br />
<br />
Dad: More like 5’6.’’<br />
<br />
Me: It’s like when you watch movies from the 40s. Everyone was 5'6’’ back then. <br />
James Cagney was like 5'4.’’<br />
<br />
Dad: I used to be 5'9.’’<br />
<br />
Betsy: (my stepmother can be heard faintly in the background ): When were you 5'9?<br />
<br />
Dad: Ok, 5'8 1/2. Now, I'm 5'8. Grandpa shrunk almost 2 inches. I hope that<br />
doesn't happen to me. See what you have to look forward to when you get old. So,<br />
is this your Happy Anniversary call and your Happy New Years call?<br />
<br />
Me: This is my belated Happy Anniversary call and I'll call you tomorrow<br />
for New Years.<br />
<br />
Dad: Gotcha my boy. I will speak to you later. I can't really talk now. We're at<br />
the gym. Love you.<br />
<br />
Me: OK. I'll speak to you later, bye.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My favorite thing about the conversation is that my Dad ended it with “I can't really talk, we're at the gym" and I only imagine him sweating on a stationary bike while holding the cell phone. He is in his early 70s and he is in much better shape than most people over the age of 35 due to an isometric routine that he has been doing for over 40 years. I started doing his routine ten years ago and I fantasize about doing an infomercial with him, but I’d be the one who would have to get in better shape to do it. <br />
<br />
I do the timed workout routine along to quick rock/punk songs on Pandora and for every The Ramones-to-Rancid -to-Tom Petty song runs, there’s always that fourth Pandora out-of-the-blue song that cuts to Johnny Cash and songs of that tempo for the next few minutes to take me out of my rhythm. <br />
<br />
Nothing against the man in black, as he is the guy you want on the radio when you’re a production assistant on an extremely low budget action movie and you’re being driven back to the city from upstate NY by the cool DP in his car on a summer night and you’re in the back seat next to the laid back prop girl with the sly smile who was born to wear a tank top and jeans (and you’re 95% sure is not a lesbian) while you’re both vaguely stoned but more comfortably tired after a 15-hour shoot; but try doing squat thrusts in your bedroom to “Delia’s Gone.” It’s not ideal.Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-27958060026124002722011-02-17T19:33:00.000-08:002014-02-25T11:48:21.497-08:00Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Blow<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vKHTrtrFvZ8/TV3s5Jq_ReI/AAAAAAAAADQ/90OjkIN_UUc/s1600/IMAG0144.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vKHTrtrFvZ8/TV3s5Jq_ReI/AAAAAAAAADQ/90OjkIN_UUc/s320/IMAG0144.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574872380347467234" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
I was walking Ty the dog through the falling snow late at night last week and when I got halfway through what I assumed to be the sidewalk, I noticed a well made snow angel. I stopped to admire it as it cut an impressive image in the middle of the virgin snow fall. All of a sudden it started to move, which shocked me as I realized there might be a frostbitten homeless man being buried in his own tomb by falling white grave dirt (of course my initial, less eloquent thought was really more like “holy shit”.)<br />
<br />
I started removing the snow that had enveloped him and turned him over. His face was covered in dirty snow and I leaned him up against a nearby mail box. When a huge snow bank begins to dissipate from a Manhattan street, what’s left behind is the remnants of the discarded cigarette butts, random pieces of trash and dog crap bags that were tossed into it as the snow developed and formed various layers of crud between the snow. It’s a New York City version of an uncovered igneous rock formation.<br />
<br />
As I began to wipe the groggy, but surprisingly alive man’s face clean, I lifted up his slumped-over head. I imagined myself on the cover of the Post with a headline: “Hero Stays Cool, Saves Freezing Man,” or better yet “Snow Angel of Life.” My dog was starting to join in on the excitement at the prospect of witnessing the visage of Murray Hill’s mystery man and began to prance back and forth like he was a daschund mixed with horse instead of terrier. Of course it could have been because he was discombobulated due to the lack of scent from any other dogs in the snow and didn’t know where to unleash his paint brush on the pure white canvas.<br />
<br />
The man began to cough or possibly snore as I dried his face with some Kleenex that I always keep in my jacket pocket to prevent the awkward one-hand-over-the-face walk into the grocery store after a sudden sneeze attack that would momentarily reduce any man to Timmy Lupus status. I leaned in to ask him if he could talk and his hair looked like he had tiny brown dreadlocks from the caked-in snow. I noticed he was a white guy, probably in his mid-40s and that he didn’t smell like a homeless person. <br />
<br />
He gave off a distinct odor I had smelled before and tried to pinpoint as I waited for his labored response. And then it hit me, it smelled like the Glade Angel Whispers candle my roommate bought (OK, I bought it, but only because I noticed in the store that it captured the essence of a stripper without the feigned interest and avoidance of eye contact) and then it really hit me. <br />
<br />
This guy reeked of stripper perfume. I mean, it was coming out of his pores and was seeped into what looked like a silk shirt he was wearing under his coat. As I glanced at Ty, I noticed him staring silently at the man with his head turned and what appeared to be a quizzical look on his face. Suddenly, the disheveled, but well dressed man shook his head violently (kind of like what a cartoon character or Pauly Shore in one of his early 90s films might do after being hit in the head with a frying pan) and kicked me in the shin as he opened his eyes wide momentarily and his besotted brain regained semi-consciousness.<br />
<br />
There are a few things an adult can pretty much count on not having to deal with after graduating from the childhood world of purple nurples, noogies and wedgies and getting kicked in the shins is one of them. When your wife finds a condom wrapper in your coat pocket, she doesn’t kick you in the shins; she calls you a scumbag, checks your blackberry for female names she doesn’t recognize, and then whips it at your 42-inch HDTV screen while shouting at you to get the fuck out as you try to explain that someone at work put it there as a joke. That would be one of many expected outcomes to a situation that an adult might get into. Having an inebriated stranger with a likely penchant for women named Amber kick you in the shins, is unexpected.<br />
<br />
Getting kicked in the shins, for those of you who also had forgotten the painful stinging feeling is somewhat akin to when you would get snow under your gloves as a kid while out playing. The sudden rush of pure, unadulterated cold against your wrist would spur that quick hsssssss sound as your mouth closed and grinned simultaneously in pain. Except, I let out a quick high-pitched shriek that was somewhere between Michael Jackson on top of the car at the end of the “Black or White” video and a 10 year old girl bumping into Justin Bieber on her way to homeroom.<br />
<br />
As I clenched my fist and the pain began to subside, I realized that this guy was wearing black Ferragamos that cost more than everything I possessed in the tiny bedroom of my walk-up apartment. I figured he was some banker type who pissed off a stripper he had paid to go home with him and was kicked out of a cab for being too much of an aggressive shitfaced A-hole to waste a night on. I felt like punching the ungrateful bastard but had another image of a Post cover act as my conscience, except this one was titled “Jerk punches drunk.” <br />
<br />
I had wiped most of the snow off his 6 o’clock shadow but it still looked like he had a thin white goatee. He came to life again, this time slower and almost in a cute way like a baby awakening from a nap as he stretched his arms out slowly in front of his face. I watched him lick the white stuff surrounding his lips and he smiled widely, and spoke clearly when he said “Hey man, this sure is pure snow.” That’s when I realized it wasn’t a banker, it was Charlie Sheen. It all made sense now, the smell of stripper, the silk shirt, the $500 shoes; the ability to sleep off a high on a sidewalk as snow blankets your limp body. I guess I didn’t expect to see a celebrity in a snow storm on my block, but hey, this is Manhattan. <br />
<br />
“Having a rough night,” I say. “Oh my head,” he says, while shaking the icicles out of his hair.” Where am I? Where’s Candi,” Charlie mumbled. “I don’t know any Candi. It’s 1 in the morning and I found you passed out in the snow on my street in Murray Hill,” I replied calmly. “Who the fuck are you and who's Murray? What happened to Candi”, he growled while checking his pockets.”<br />
<br />
I clenched Ty’s leash a little tighter and say “I’m Jeff Finkle. I live on this street. We are in the section of mid-town called Murray Hill. I don’t know who Murray is. I’m guessing he doesn’t live here anymore since nobody under the age of 60 is named Murray and no one under 30 lives in Murray Hill. I’m actually 40 and I didn’t move here until I was 32. I’m a writer and I’m kind of a late bloomer but it’s a long story and you probably want to get back to your hotel Mr. Sheen." He then loudly blurts out “Jafinkle” repeatedly as if it was one word for about five seconds and starts to laugh as his saliva parachutes out of the whiskey-stained ashtray that is his mouth and lands onto my jacket sleeve.<br />
<br />
I lift him up and he leans back against the mail box to prevent himself from falling over. I tell him I’m going to hail a cab and to stay where he is and he points at Ty. “He’s got a white line on his chest, just like Candi did.” He was referring to the white stripe of hair on Ty’s chest that stands out like a tie in his surrounding black fur. Ty is still staring at him in silent judgment, except now he tilted his head to the other side. A tear begins to slide down his cheek and he pulls me close. “I really do miss Candi. Get me out of here please,” he whispers in my ear. <br />
<br />
I hold him up with one arm and with the other loosen the leash on Ty (apparently, I can only multi-task in times of need) and walk him to the street. I have my arm raised as snow is falling on my head, Charlie Sheen is leaning on my shoulder like I’m his date and it’s after midnight on New Year’s Eve; and Ty is behind us trying to find a garbage bag under the snow. I see an on-duty cab at the light and wave frantically, even though it is the only vehicle on the road and we are the only people on the street. <br />
<br />
“Thanks a lot kid, Charlie says.” “Actually, you know you’re only about 6 years older than me," I say. He turns his head and grins. “Really. Dude, you don’t look a day over 28. What’s your secret?” “I have been using facial moisturizer since I was 18,” I say with a smile.” “Me too”, he quickly retorts. “And, I’ve never been married,” I say as I open the taxi door and help him inside. “Well, you got me there,” he says with perfect timing. <br />
<br />
As I turn my head to tell the driver to take him to the Plaza hotel, the driver’s eyes light up. He wags his finger at us and says “Two and a Half Men” in an Indian accent, as if he just guessed an answer on a game show. I realize he thinks I’m Jon Cryer and I have a sudden flashback to being called Ducky for a week in high school by an unusually short wrestler on steroids with a Napoleon complex (he forgot about me once he discovered a freshman who had a stronger resemblance to Lucas.) This prompted me to imagine another Post headline. One that read “Sheen and Cryer caught with two and a half ounces.”<br />
<br />
I shook Charlie’s hand and told him to take care. He nodded his head and said “Good night Alan,” before slumping over in the seat. After some pleading, I signed one of the driver’s receipts “To Salil: Stay Safe. Watch out for bumps in the road. Your pal, Jon Cryer.”<br />
<br />
As the cab headed uptown through the winter wonderland that was a perfectly angelic New York City snowfall, I let Ty off the leash and watched him jump through the fresh snow back to our apartment. He enjoyed the soft mounds of white powder like a kid in a candy store.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(Instead of showing you a blitzed photo of Charlie Sheen, I figured I'd end this story with the image of a young Jon Cryer in the forgotten 80s film "Hiding Out." I couldn't grow a beard like that if I stopped shaving for 20 years.)<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/omx7u0ZWUAY?fs=1" width="425"></iframe>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-26640210086688174602011-02-04T01:08:00.001-08:002014-02-25T12:05:05.707-08:0040 is the New 23.Being out of work I can handle. Being out of work at 40 and writing freelance articles about high school bowlers I can handle. Being a freelance writer who rediscovered his talent for writing in his 30s and is trying to break into advertising while simultaneously getting people to read my blog, I can handle. Being 40 without so-called true love in my life or a cute little newborn son who relatives I barely know, say has my ears, I can handle. <br />
<br />
Being a freelance writer and sitting at a coffee shop while a woman sitting behind me asks an acquaintance with an obvious stutter and minor palsy to keep repeating himself while telling a story, I can handle. Being a freelance writer at a coffee shop and being constantly distracted by the barista who looks like a 21 year old college guy and sounds eerily like celebrity Chef Paula Dean while chit chatting with customers about the weather and recommending the yummy Pumpkin Pie Chai tea, I can handle (he was right about the tea.)<br />
<br />
Being 40 while living in a 5th floor walk-up in New York City, I can handle. Being recently laid off with everyone else in my office that was shutdown and realizing that the job had already stopped challenging me and now trying to get work as a freelance writer and having to read on Facebook about people who only post about the good things in life and seem to have jobs that allow them to vacation constantly and do things like go to wine tasting events in the Napa Valley, in March, I can handle.<br />
<br />
But (come on, you knew there would be a but), although I can handle being a recently-laid-off-and-currently-single freelance writer at 40, living in a 5th floor walk-up next to a depressingly old shut-in neighbor whose very existence is like a scary Ghost of Christmas Future, what I could not handle was noticing the dog pee for what seemed like two minutes in the living room as I stood in the kitchen watching my take-out lasagna rotate in the microwave.<br />
<br />
I stood there helpless and too stunned to react as he relieved himself on the floor like an old Jewish man at the movie theater urinal after 3 hours of Schindler’s List and a mini keg of Diet Pepsi. As he was releasing onto my floor, I was filling up with rage. I shouted an incoherent curse word that sounded like “Faaargh” and I felt like Charlie Brown if Lucy had pulled the football away from him and then proceeded to kick him in the balls. As I cleaned up the mess on the floor and the dog rolled around on my bed without a care in the world, I broke a piece of the mop off as the frustration level rose in me like the steam in my bedroom heat pole that keeps my room a Tucson-like 90 degrees and dry in the Winter time. <br />
<br />
I was a moment away from putting a hole in my closet with my foot and muttering to myself for an hour while rocking back and forth on the floor, when I imagined Rob Lowe bursting through my door to calm me down with the story of St. Elmo guiding sailors with flashes of light, before revealing to me that it was a made-up tale to get them through tough times. In order to get the image of the young Rob Lowe in a half shirt, playing the saxophone out of my head, I briefly imagined myself as Kevin (Andrew McCarthy’s character in the film St. Elmo's Fire) finally getting to have sex with Ally Sheedy in the shower. As I pictured myself ravishing Ally Sheedy while trying not to knock her pearl necklace off her neck and down the drain, I began to smell the lasagna from the microwave.<br />
<br />
I had forgotten about the lasagna that I had started re-heating as I watched the dog do his outside business inside. You don’t have high hopes for lasagna at a bagel café. I walked in looking for my usual chicken or baked salmon salad and was intrigued by the lasagna behind the glass counter looking freshly made, as if it was prepared by a guy named Sal, instead of a mensch named Saul. <br />
<br />
The aroma of the lasagna reached my nose as I sat on my bed and I followed it into the kitchen. As I began to devour my comfort food, I noticed that it did just that. All the stresses of being a 40 year old freelance writer, who wasn’t satisfied with his life in its current state, began to melt away. You try not to let the little things in life drive you nuts but it can be hard when the little things seem to blend into one big thing. Sometimes, a little thing like ricotta cheese blending perfectly with meat sauce in layers of ribbon pasta, can pull you back from the edge.<br />
<br />
In the post-post-college coming-of-age film that is my life I know there’s a happier ending than lamenting my lost 30's while mopping up piss on the fifth floor of my walk-up apartment building at age 40, I just haven’t finished the script yet.<br />
<br />
Cue John Parr.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/xGYWU5c2M3o?fs=1" width="425"></iframe><br />
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<br />
Ok,I kind of wish that was me singing. I thought that was kind of awesome. For you John Parr fans, here's the real John Parr in action.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jVf4_WglzWA?fs=1" width="425"></iframe>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-40890517147251936052010-11-06T03:34:00.000-07:002013-05-13T15:51:20.296-07:00Oh Yi of Little Faith or Tally Ho!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7wF66cUX0j8/TNUvq0yOL0I/AAAAAAAAAC4/v-iyPWKmDQc/s1600/Yi+at+premiere.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536383729692192578" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7wF66cUX0j8/TNUvq0yOL0I/AAAAAAAAAC4/v-iyPWKmDQc/s320/Yi+at+premiere.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 190px;" /></a><br />
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I have a friend who is a crazy basketball fan. The kind of fan who would convince his fiancé to plan their wedding so that it would not conflict with the NBA's regular season. He is the world's biggest Nets fan (the guy went to Las Vegas just to see summer league practice.) Let me repeat this statement. He is the world’s biggest New Jersey Nets fan. Being the world’s biggest New Jersey Nets fan historically, would have been like saying you are the world’s best Pachinko player or the world’s most functional crack head. It’s not something you would be boasting about while eating fondue at a party. (I have never been to a party with fondue. I just assume that there are some people who still have fondue parties, where they presumably eat melted cheese with tiny forks, play Jenga and swap wives.)<br />
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The Nets although a laughingstock last year, are primed for future success due to an influx of new talent, a new coach and a new Russian billionaire owner whose so cool strippers toss money at him. I actually am also a Nets fan and have recently re-connected with my friend over this fact. His name is Wally Ho.<br />
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Wally Ho grew up with me in my suburban NJ town, where he was one of about six Asian kids, but he was not “off-the-boat.” He and his family are Chinese but he was “off-the-cul-de-sac” like the rest of us. <br />
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So, about two years ago, the Nets traded for this 7 ft Chinese basketball player named Yi Jianlian. He is skilled but has not developed his game and plays soft for a “power” forward. Yi was traded to Washington after last season (where you need to be a quick shot on and off the court.) If you think LeBron James is (or was) popular here, Yi's fame not only supercedes sports in China but he's probably the third most well known person in a country of over a billion. In America, Yi blends in with all the other 7ft Asian guys, but in China, Yi is so popular he probably has his face on everything from water bottles to condoms (would give a whole new meaning to the saying “Haven’t I seen your face before?)<br />
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Anyway, Ho knew someone who was connected to the Nets and told him they were looking for an interpreter for Yi. Wally urged him to tell the Nets’ front office people that he speaks fluent Chinese, when he really spoke about as much Chinese as I do Hebrew (Like most Reform Jews my age, I can recite the Hanukkah prayer, but can no longer tell you what it means.) So, Ho got a meeting with executives of the Nets. They met him, saw that he was Chinese and basically said “You’re hired”<br />
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After getting the job of being Yi’s interpreter, which would enable Wally to live out a dream and travel with the Nets, he had two weeks to prepare. He spent that time immersing himself in the language of his ancestors. Ho hired a tutor and studied Chinese phonics tapes. He managed to pull it off too. For four months, he went to press conferences with Yi and acted as the link between him and the media. He basically made up half of Yi’s answers when he spoke to the Nets beat writers and knew enough about basketball that it sounded right to them.<br />
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He was walking a constant tight rope as he didn't want to get too close to Yi or else he'd figure out he barely could speak the language. The guy probably thought he was an idiot after about a week. Wally had to do assistant-type things for him as well, like help him look for an apartment. Yi eventually learned how to speak more fluent English and they didn't need him anymore, plus he was always injured. The beat reporters didn’t need to interview him after games to hear him say "I should be back in two weeks". <br />
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Wally did say one time he had to call up his mother right before meeting reporters to interpret something and his mom told him a mom version of what she would say if she were Yi, like "Well, I really do think the boys played swell tonight and I hope I didn't hurt that boy's arm trying to grab that ball away from him." After he told this to Yi in Chinese, Yi looked at Ho as if he was a four year old scribbling his name in crayon for him to read. <br />
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There is definitely a sit-com or bad buddy film in the Ho-Yi relationship. I imagine Wally helping Yi pick out his jumbo-sized condoms at Rite Aid (without his face on the box of every product, Yi would not be able to buy things as easily as he did in China.) I’d like to think they went to amusement parks where Yi would hold his hand over Wally’s head, wave his long, ET like finger and tell him he was too short. I’d like to believe at one point they rode down a casino elevator in the same suit as “Iko Iko” played over the speaker system. Or, they were at Yi’s home watching Lost, while Wally tried to explain who the smoke monster is in broken Chinese. <br />
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I can see there being a night when Yi insisted that Wally accompany him to see Twilight. Yi whispers to him halfway through that he really associates with Jacob, because he too had to put on a lot of muscle in order to perform on the court and that he also has pined for a girl who he felt invisible to. Wally then admits that he is definitely in Camp Edward and that he knows what it's like to not be able to get too close to someone. He then begins to reveal to Yi that he used to have a crush on a girl named Lynn in high school who broke his heart when he caught her making out with J.T. Liebowitz behind the soccer field in gym class. "I was heart broken. I swore off tall black girls and soccer forever and have not been able to give myself emotionally to a woman since."<br />
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The duo look at each other and Yi says “It's ok, Joe. It's ok.” They give each other a man hug and Wally says "Wait a minute. You know my name is Wally right." Yi says "I call all American guys Joe because you all look alike. Then he pauses, smiles and says "Gotcha." Their friendship is sealed as they both laugh spontaneously.<br />
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At this point a guy with a goatee sitting behind them with a barrel of popcorn in his lap and a date that looks like she was rejected from the Real Housewives of NJ, kicks Wally's seat hard and shouts at them to "shut the hell up." He tells Yi to move his giant head, so he could see the damn screen, and a kernel flies out of his mouth on to Yi's shirt.<br />
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Wally and Yi, give each other a quick nod and then hop over the seat and proceed to give this guy a pummeling the likes of which have not been seen in a Paramus multiplex since a showing of “Booty Call” broke down in the final reel just before its comedic climax was revealed. A riot ensued and the projectionist was pelted with goobers and ju-jubees. (I'm not sure if ju-ju-bees are spelled ju-ju-bees or joo-joobees, but I'm 98% sure they're not spelled jew-jewbees- at least not in New York) <br />
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The new pals then leave behind a few hundred dollars with the guidette girlfriend as she tosses popcorn at her obnoxious boyfriend, to get him to wake up. They proceed to put on sunglasses and strut out of the theater in unison as they exuded coolness as if it was the ending to Pulp Fiction. Young men in the theater looked on in awe as their girlfriends were transfixed on Bella and Edward gazing longingly into each others eyes.<br />
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This story has the makings of a typical Hollywood buddy comedy. Of course in the film, Yi would be played by LeBron James and Wally Ho would be played by Joseph Gordon Leavitt, whose almond-shaped Caucasian eyes are sure to bring in the coveted teen girl Twilight crowd.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7wF66cUX0j8/TNUv3D88F_I/AAAAAAAAADA/3TpcEfxdcp0/s1600/Yi+on+bag.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536383939922106354" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7wF66cUX0j8/TNUv3D88F_I/AAAAAAAAADA/3TpcEfxdcp0/s320/Yi+on+bag.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 240px;" /></a>Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-60644992532379963792010-10-30T22:09:00.001-07:002012-07-08T01:08:21.235-07:00The Bride of Frank N. Stein<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7wF66cUX0j8/TM80daVyr-I/AAAAAAAAACw/I9tHKmYFb80/s1600/kathie+lee.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534700146953203682" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7wF66cUX0j8/TM80daVyr-I/AAAAAAAAACw/I9tHKmYFb80/s320/kathie+lee.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 259px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 194px;" /></a><br />
The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the oblivious. <br />
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I had what can only be described as a close encounter with the yenta kind the other day. It was so bizarre and so scary that I expected to have nightmares where I would frantically mush together matzah ball dough to replicate a mountain in Boca Raton that I had never been to; and that I would have an uncontrollable urge to travel to, in order to meet the alien yenta ship. <br />
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I was on line at my local Murray Hill pizza place waiting to order my usual margherita slices ( I convinced myself it’s less greasy that a regular slice, but who am I kidding, it’s still pizza for lunch.) This woman behind me as I'm paying for my food interrupts me and says “Is that the wallet you use?" I look at my wallet (which is a standard black wallet but a few years old), look back at her and cautiously reply “yes.” She then begins to explain to me how a shabby wallet is representative of a guy who doesn’t have his shit together and how too many guys make the mistakes of not caring about the little things that women notice. <br />
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At this point I realize that this woman is every man’s nightmare. She might possibly be cute, but her mannerisms and her in-your-face, jap-next-door personality make her seem like a 60 year old in the body of a 30 year old. I found her kind of curious at first and responded back to her brash interruption of my lunch by admitting that maybe I should get a new wallet, thinking that would end our interaction. So I sat down ready to read my Post and enjoy my slices at my usual table by the window and she moved from the counter area to stand directly in front of me,ensuring that I was her captive audience.<br />
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She continued her self-indulgent diatribe and started blabbering on a mile a minute. She began to lecture me on men and appearances and at this point (my pizza is getting cold) I begin to get more upset than amused and I ask her if she's single. She tells me she has a lot of male friends and she seems to be the person that guys date before they meet the woman they marry. I made the face that Ferris Bueller made when his sister (Jeannie/Shauna) stuck up for him in front of Principal Rooney, trying to hold back his feelings. Hoping that would imply “well, that should say something to you now, doesn't it” without having to tell her directly that she inadvertently turns men off.)<br />
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I asked her if she was Jewish (knowing she would say yes). She goes on to tell me that she is from NJ, but when I tell her the town I’m from, she went on to say how her town is “real Jersey” in that it is filled with more trashy people and that she grew up with Italian girls that you see at the Shore who have sparkly nail polish (which she then pointed out on her own nails.)<br />
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The whole time she's talking I'm looking at her and I felt like Grammy Hall in the film Annie Hall. I literally pictured her with big, curly hair, an ankle length skirt and an even larger nose than Barbara Streisand, singing songs from “Yentl”( I combined multiple images of Streisand into an uber yenta jap in my head that made me tolerate her clueless yammering.) She reminded me of the way Barbara Streisand talked in the film "What’s Up Doc," except when you watched that movie you definitely wanted to have sex with Barbara Streisand. I have never encountered a relatively attractive single woman in my life that I couldn’t imagine sleeping with. The more she talked the more my penis was crying out “I’m melting, I’m melting” as it protected itself by shrinking as much as it could.<br />
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Now I had grown up with jappy girls in camp, but this was a whole new level. This girl thought she was the millionaire matchmaker and felt the need to point out to a random stranger everything abut herself that she thought made her unique and guys clueless(ironic, considering she was socially clueless.) <br />
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She starts rambling on about how she doesn't listen to music and is stuck in the 80s, so I see an opening for a quick jab and say “Your jean jacket looks like you might have worn it in the 80s but it’s a style that has come back.” She replied "really, I don’t think so. I just bought this the other day at the Gap."<br />
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My attempt at insulting her style to combat her original dig at my hobo-like wallet went over her head like the strong smell of garlic in the air. She continued her self-induced rant on herself, by telling me that most people in this city are morons and that she is an “educated Jew." Again, when I told her that her own statement of being an educated Jew is actually an oxymoron and that all Jewish parents stress education(doesn't mean we don't have dumb asses like any other group, it just means they most likely attended college. Although ASU really shouldn't count,) she doesn't listen. After making the mistake of telling her I'm a writer, she gets even more excited and starts telling me she's a writer too. She has a blog and wants to blog about her organizational business (which depressed me at the thought that more people will probably end up reading her blog for advice on how to live, than might read my stories.)<br />
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Finally, after splattering verbal diarrhea all over my lap for ten minutes, she hands me her card which indeed states that she's a life organizer. All I can think is how could someone who doesn't get basic social norms or realize the boundaries in human interaction,organize other people's lives? I guess if Charlie Sheen can star in his own family sit-com, while enjoying coke-fueled nights with porn stars, anything’s possible. On that subject, you know you're a public menace if you are scaring porn stars. He is real closing to killing a hooker and I know there has to be laws against that, right.<br />
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After she left the restaurant, I looked at the card she gave me and it said her name was Traci with an "i" Tackowitz. To my non-Jewish, non-New York readers, this is about as stereotypical Long Island jappy a name as Sherri Schwartz. It makes my obviously Jewish name look as Waspy as Trevor Stone.<br />
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I looked up to realize that everyone in the pizza place was staring at me. This laid back, slightly older man with a graying, well groomed beard breaks the silence by saying " Now there's someone who is deep in serious therapy. She must be on something. I have never heard anyone talk that fast (obviously, he wasn't Jewish)" I agreed with him about her being in therapy. We developed a brief bond that can occasionally occur when people share an “only in New York” moment. He asked what kind of writing I do. I told him essays and copywriting and he said, "well, there's a character for you."<br />
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I nodded my head, we shared a laugh and I finished my margherita slice. Then I wished him a good day. He said "you too" and I walked out into the warmth of the Fall Day with a smile on my face, knowing that I just had a normal conversation with a fellow New Yorker.Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3816866063059828661.post-88400376639989529202010-10-18T19:12:00.001-07:002013-05-16T09:46:47.275-07:00Late Night ShownanigansThe other night I happened to be watching a few minutes of a George Lopez interview with the young, cute, adorable, bubbly, zaftig, black actress from Glee. I looked on the cable guide to check out the guests for the other shows and it said that Jimmy Kimmel had on Gabourey Sidibe. Gabourey Sidibe. God I love saying her name. I put it right up there with Nikolai Khabibulin, the goaltender for the Edmonton Oilers, as two of my all-time favorite names to say out loud. “Hello sir. I am Nikolai Khabibulin and I am here to escort your lovely daughter to the Ball. Maybe I can be of some assistance Madame, I am Nikolai Khabibulin, and I once delivered a baby in a Moscow Sizzler with some napkins, a wet nap and salad tongues.” I’m telling you the name just rolls off the tongue, like Gabourey Sidibe.<br />
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After I was done pondering the sound of Gabourey Sidibe’s name, I realized she is the young, cute, adorable, bubbly, zaftig black actress from Precious. I could be wrong, but it just doesn’t seem like it’s a coincidence that they would both be on competing talk shows at the same time. It's not like there's 20 young, cute, adorable, bubbly, zaftig, black actresses that are currently famous to choose from. They are the only two.<br />
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I'd like to believe a scenario occurred in which the talent booker for Kimmel found out the girl from Glee (Amber Riley) was on Lopez and shouted to her assistant to get the agent on the phone for another Glee cast member. She pointed to her chart of “Celebrities of Equal Importance” or “C.E.I.” that she made up on Excel to ensure that the other talk shows would never one-up her with a booking. It’s a pretty simple formula. If Leno books one member of an ensemble show than she would book another member of that show or an equivalent show. For example, if Leno booked Mathew Fox from Lost, than she would try and book the actor who played Sawyer from Lost and if they couldn’t get him, they would possibly book Simon Baker from The Mentalist, who has equal sex appeal and TV show status. <br />
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Sometimes, they can go with someone who has an equal audience attraction but to the opposite sex. So, if Letterman had Simon Baker, Leno had Mathew Fox and Kimmel had David Boreanz from Bones, she might go with Jennifer Love Hewitt, who has the same appeal to men that Mathew Fox does to women(and was also his co-star on Party of Five which would add symmetry.) Now, Michael J. Fox would not be considered as a match for Mathew Fox, but he is one of the few matches for Muhammad Ali. It’s a delicate system of checks and balances, not unlike our own United States Congress, she once told her assistant.<br />
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The creation of the C.E.I. chart is what got Amy Fuller, Jimmy Kimmel’s talent booker, her promotion. After paying her dues in the industry; spending six months as the craft service person for Leno, where she had to keep the fridge in his office stocked with Mallomars and root beer and then two years as his assistant talent booker, she had perfected her system before taking the job with Jimmy Kimmel. There was only one famous person in Hollywood who had no C.E.I. match. David Caruso. <br />
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David Caruso's overt belief in his own perceived greatness and his continued insistence on talking like Adam West’s more serious asshole brother in roles, is quite apparent in interviews. Since this persona can not be duplicated by other crime show actors and can only be compared to agents, producers and British oil company CEO’s, he is usually booked against animal trainers and country singers.<br />
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Amy Fuller, the senior talent booker on The Jimmy Kimmel Show looked at her C.E.I. chart and realized that Glee’s Amber Reilly had not been added to it. “Either the gay guy, the dumb jock, the cheerleader, the Asian girl, the Jewish dude in the wheel chair, the Jewish hot guy, the teacher that gets way too involved in his students lives, or Jane Lynch will do”, she told Becky Slater, her protégé/assistant. When Becky told her that the rest of the cast of Glee were busy in rehearsals for “Glee On Ice” Amy thought out loud "Ok, who can we get that will compete with this young, cute, adorable, bubbly, zaftig, black actress. Then they both turned to each other and said “Gabourey Sidibe.” Amy called Gabourey’s agent and booked the appearance on the show. <br />
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They relaxed for a moment and Amy Fuller, a 32 year old woman with Tina Feyish glasses, tells Becky how Harrison Ford talked to her for a half hour before a show the other night thinking she was S.E. Cupp. (1) Becky Slater, a 25 year old dead ringer for every 25 year old blonde girl in LA whose face is prematurely thinned out, pursed her lips and said “weird.” Amy replied “Yeah, that’s the second time this week. My friend who works at Bill Maher says she’s not really the uptight conservative bitch she seems to be. I mean she’s uptight and conservative. She’s just not a bitch.” Well that’s cool, Becky said in between sips of her mocha frappucino. “Plus, guys really want to do her.” When I was 13, I looked like Fiona Apple. You know what it’s like to have 8th grade boys tease you about being a bad, bad girl? It’s no fun having a doppelganger whose bat shit.”<br />
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<br />
I did notice a day later that there were two movies on at the same time that used the Kiss song Beth as a plot point. The first was the appropriately titled “I Love You Beth Cooper,” the other was Role Models (which I consider to be the slightly less funny Paul Rudd vehicle than I Love You Man) I’ll give Kiss some credit. It’s not easy for a rock band to have a romantic ballad sung by a man with cat whiskers painted on his cheeks and still look cool. If you were magically transported to a Kiss concert in 1978 and had never heard of Kiss before and Peter Criss came out from behind his drum kit and sat down and crooned Beth, you’d expect Rum Tum Tigger to dance on to the stage and lick his face. <br />
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<br />
(1) I recently saw S.E. Cupp on Bill Maher and although she is a conservative capitalizing on Republican men who seem to love having sexy, snooty women represent them, I actually was taken aback by her hotness. She reminds me somewhat of what Grammar Girl might look like in real life. I have a huge crush on Grammar Girl, the Web site and her sexy librarian cartoon representation. Mignon Fogarty, the woman who created the Grammar Girl site comes off on her pod cast as not only cute, but genuinely sweet. She would probably approve of my dorkiness but disapprove of my overuse of parenthesis. I can picture her pointing out to me the fact that S.E. Cupp was not actually physically on Bill Maher. At that point, I would probably imagine myself physically getting off of her.Finkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09209458250294089470noreply@blogger.com0