Oy God!

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.“

“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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

“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.”

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.”

“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."

"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.
“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.)

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”

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.

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.

When The Kid was the Champ

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.)

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.

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.")

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.


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.

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.



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.
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.)


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.)


2)
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.

An Ode to Mediocrity

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.


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.



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.



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.


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.

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.



No Bill Raftery call of one more kiss off the glass. Just faded memories whizzing by of childhood’s past.


No final season at all and to all fans it’s good night. Just hope along the horizon that Dwight Howard just might.

I 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.

August 19th.
Hmm, let me check my upcoming schedule for that week.

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?”

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.

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.

“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.”

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lazy things are afoot at the 7-11

Most 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

Mounds has a heap of issues

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

Captain Kirk boldly goes where every man has gone before

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.

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.”