Tuesday, October 09, 2007
The squirrels are getting restless . . .
Thursday, May 27, 2004
"Yes. I'd like the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Happy Meal to go please."
Today at lunch while I'm waiting in line outside to get some grub at a take-out joint, I noticed a particularly unusual car parked in front of the store. It was a grey Porsche Carrera convertible, which in itself is nothing unusual. After all, a car designed to look like a chromed and streamlined vacuum cleaner without the handle just doesn't have much appeal to me. Nonetheless this car's presence was gallingly apparent, for on both side passenger windows was decaled in large letters,"In Memory of
our Fallen Brothers
FDNY"
. . . . ?
Even now, I don't really know what to say. I've always had my suspicions about why people who aren't in the fire or police department still wear clothing with the labels of such organizations *, but even if we assume the best attentions, why exactly is a Porsche a suitable memorial for those who perished in a terrorist attack? After the 9/11 attacks, did some panicked consumer so fraught with sympathy for the fallen really think that buying a 911 expressed solidarity with the victims? I guess so. Perhaps in the lingering shock of our nation's tragedy the messages of "Keep America Shopping" and "Remember 9/11" were conflated in his or her confused head so that they became one slogan:"Remember America, Keep Shopping 911."Obviously then, buying a Porsche in poor taste would be the only appropriate response.
Ekh...
In case this becomes not a lone incident of tactless regard for the dead, I hereby ask that should I perish in any terrible tragedy that no purchases be made in memory of me. If I'm a casualty in terrorist strikes on March 28th, there is no need for a BMW 328 to remember me by. Should an earthquake roil the hills and slam them down upon me while I'm in Hollywood, a Chevrolet Avalanche is not the memorial I'm looking for. If you really feel compelled one day to remember my lost and mortal presence on this Earth, just donate some money to a charity I'd approve of and not to some modern chariot with a few hundred horsepower. Otherwise, you'll leave me with no choice but to come back from the dead and haunt your car's transmission with misfortune for the rest of your life.
* To get laid.
Monday, May 10, 2004
The nice thing about spare change — when you have enough of it — is it will buy you Scotch. About every six months to a year, the change jar will runneth over. The vestibule having become full, I have no choice but to quickly whisk away the jar to a place of counting, lest in my idleness piles of change were to overtake other parts of the apartment. Imagine the terror of every coffee cup and sock flooded by the scourge of countless pennies, nickels and dimes. Why, even the soap dish itself might hurl its delicate porcelain body off the counter and upon the hard floor in an act of certain suicide, rather than face the fate of falling victim to this tyrannous torrent of loose change. Clearly, for the sake of a clear conscience this lebensraum of loose change I can never allow. Thus, in an act of manifest destiny, or perhaps to avoid it, I turned in my coins and thus had a considerable amount of cash in a more convenient form less likely to rip out the bottom of my pockets. The question now was what should I do with this essentially free money?
Honestly, the answer wasn’t too difficult to find, after all it’s quite obvious to nearly any homeless person on the street. My next stop after getting the change counted was to the liquor store. However, I was not inspired enough by the homeless to load up on fortified wine. I know that it is a truly special and unique treat, for how many beverages do you know that advise you with the following label?”WARNING: This is a not a juice cocktail. Serves 6.”While honesty is to be appreciated, sadly my days of varnishing the wood floors in the colors of Cisco are long past, and so it was to the finer and more aromatic spirits that my desires were lead. Yes, single malt Scotch may not offer the familiar taste of “Key Lime Pie” like a fine bottle of MD 20/20 can, but I think it makes up for its failings in other ways. Also, I had no whip cream at home.
Now, seeing as I had more than nearly enough to buy two usual bottles of whisky, I decided what the hell and went up a notch higher than the usual price range. While I could have played it safe and stuck with something I’ve experienced like Macallan or Talisker, perhaps even a Highland Park 18-year, I decided it was best to use my surplus to daringly venture into new territory. I narrowed it down to a few choices, and after much hemming and hawing went with the Lagavulin 16-year. I brought it home, took it out of the box, and of all the Scotch whiskies I’ve ever had it’s…
Uhm..
No clue, I haven’t tasted it yet.
(But when I do I’ll be sure to tell you.)
In the meantime, let me tell you about Caol Ila. I was at my favorite bar, when I decided over dinner to inquire about any Scotch whisky tastings they might have. After all, when they’ve got single cask in stock, it’s obvious I can’t be the only whiskyaddictconnoisseur around. While I was looking at the rather impressive list of good whiskies in their possession — about ten different ones from Cadenhead, Whiskey Galore, and the Whiskey Society alone — and realizing just how much more impoverished I was going to be this summer as a result, the part-owner of the bar, Daniel, came by to chat about our favorite booze. It was a wonderful conversation and this fall if I can spare the time I will
certainly be joining in on some of the Scotch whisky tastings at the restaurant. In addition, he was quite kind in offering a wee dram of Oban to taste, which is a lighter malt than I might normally like except that to my surprise it redeems itself with a very satisfying finish. Most importantly though, before he left he recommended trying the Coal Ila 8-year-old single malt bottled by Cadenhead.
Served at cask strength, it needed a couple drops of spring water to unleash its character, but once done oh my the demon I unleashed. This was not any joe average Scotch whisky we were talking about, but one hell of a peaty punky bitch with an attitude. First off, the moment you take a sip your tongue is sizzling on fire akin to the burn of a good bourbon rye. People may look at your strangely while this happens, but that’s sort of normal when your facial muscles twinge from the uncontrollable toungasms™ this firebrand is bringing on. Once you have… (ahem) recovered your composure, you are rewarded with delicious hints of caramel, iodine, and other exotic flavors as it rolls and rolls on your tongue. When finally you can bring yourself to finish off the sip with a swallow, a perfectly delightful aroma of peatiness pulls right through you in your next immediate inhale.
Sigh, for the next hour I could have cared less about anything going on in the bar while I simply relaxed and enjoyed this tasty fireball. Perhaps others would refrain from relishing this young and brash whisky, preferring instead to stick to only older and more “mature” single malts, but unlike them I quite understand now the allure of such youthful indiscretions. The one sadness though is realizing that until the day comes when I can afford without care to toss my laundry quarters into the change jar, a bottle of Caol Ila in similar quality probably remains quite a ways out of reach.
Friday, February 28, 2003
Berkeley acts to help preserve Amerika.
In a surprise move this week, the Berkeley city council declared the University of California at Berkeley as an endangered species habitat. While the town of Berkeley has always been know as a progressive community with a commitment to the preservation and enhancement of its parks and natural habitats, this marks the first time in the United States that an entire public university has been declared as a environmentally protected area. The reason for this was given in a press release by the city, which stated "by taking this action, we commit ourselves to the preservation and eventual restoration of one of our country's most threatened species, the American Communist."
With a history of fostering communist growth since the 1920’s, it’s not surprising to find that many students and residents alike had taken for granted the health of the communist community. Yet not since era of McCarthyism, with its insensitive disregard for opposing viewpoints, has the communist presence come so close to being completely eradicated.
Over the years, various programs and initiatives have been imposed in order to curb the decline of the communist community. These initiatives range from encouraging the application in education and research of post-modern techniques, which establish the covert tyranny and repression that exists within a so-called liberal democratic society, to establishing a hiring preference for communist-friendly academics. Yet since the global environmental catastrophe of 1989 when millions of communists mysteriously disappeared from Berlin to Vladivostok, the number of Communists in Berkeley has declined at an appalling rate in spite of these efforts.
"We’ve even tried importing Communists from Cuba and North Korea," said a spokesperson for Berkeley’s Parks and Services Department," but once we released them into the influences of the natural environment, we found that they completely lost their distinctive communist nature. That is why establishing this protected habitat is so important. If we don't act now, in a decade or less Noam Chomsky might be our only living American Communist left."
In order to avert such a travesty, the Berkeley city council has imposed certain restrictions within the protected area. Due to the inherently aggressive nature of free speech, any form of expression, regardless of content, within the university will be allowed only by those granted permits by an oversight committee dedicated to the preservation of the Communist habitat. In addition, the teaching of economics, philosophy, and any other subjects utilizing critical reasoning skills will be prohibited as they are considered to be one of the significant factors in the current decline of the communist population. Finally, the building of a twelve-foot high wall to surround the habitat and protect it from the negative consequences of outside intrusion is being seriously considered.
While most residents seem broadly in support of the measure, the action has not been met without opposition or concern.
"I just don't think it's alright to turn the university into a protected area for Communists,” commented local activist Manch, “without considering all the groundskeepers, janitors, and other people who work there and still don't have the right to earn a living wage. It just isn’t fair."
In spite of such criticism, the Berkeley city council believes the action will be very beneficial not only in terms of guarding and increasing the number of Communists, but to the local area as well. It is expected to offer an exciting upsurge of tourism from places as far away as Pyongyang and Hanoi. The beleaguered placard and pamphlet publishing industry should also receive a boost, as the provoking temperament of Communists, which increases with their numbers, will strengthen the demand for materials required to express the social activism their presence will encourage. Finally, the city council believes that the best indirect benefit of this effort will be the enhancement of the University’s commitment to creating a safe environment for the proper education of people willing to learn, which the comments of one student fairly demonstrates.
"As a survivor of rape,” said Women’s Studies major Holly Madchen, “ I'm quite aware of the inherit violence imposed by the capitalist patriarchy. I'm excited about this new protected area, as I think it will give me a space in which to grow as a womyn, without the presence of the economic personification of male aggression."
Friday, February 21, 2003
Dealing with Mental Illness? You are not alone!
Each year, millions of Americans experience a debilitating and diagnosable disease. Affecting people of every race, ethnicity, age, socioeconomic status and gender, it can cause serious mental distress and emotional disturbances, which can impair simple daily activities, lead to physical harm, or even cause impotence. It could affect your co-workers, your friends and even someone you love. Are we talking about depression, anxiety, or schizophrenia? No. It is called intellectualism and it can be cured.
Does your spouse enjoy politics? Have you caught your friend listening to public radio? Are there moments where your colleague tries to spark a conversation about foreign films? These are all strong indications that the very person you care about is suffering from the scourge of thought. There are some who would question such a diagnosis and ask whether it is harmful to enjoy reading philosophy, listening to classical music, or spending an afternoon simply appreciating fine works of modern art. It can’t be a crime, they say, if no one gets hurt. Yet nothing could be further from the truth.
Have you ever found how an intellectual becomes withdrawn in the course of pleasant conversation? How they always pretend to a passing interest when people are talking about the coolest new shows on TV? If someone re-enacts a funny commercial, a stretch of a smile is all he or she can muster to pass off as a laugh. The reason for this is that underneath their mask of snobbish elitism, lays men and women who have become absolute vestibules of bitterness, depression, and futility floating in a sea of isolation. So why do they do it?
Like a child who has been taught poor nutrition, the intellectual has from an early age learned to think improperly. Just as that child will grow fat and unhealthy from improper ways of eating, the intellectual has become afflicted with an obesity of the mind. What the intellectual needs most is a diet. Yet even if you replace the intellectual’s collection of Woody Allen films with Adam Sandler’s best or put a big screen TV in the front of his or her library of books, this will not be enough. For the unhealthy love of thought still remains and the intellectual will at the first opportunity binge upon the very things that had been taken away. Abstinence or withdrawal alone cannot cure the problem, as the rehabilitation of an intellectual requires medical attention.
For children and even adults who show the early stages of intellectualism, medication can prove very effective. Drugs such as Welbutrin and Prozac can be administered in proportions significant enough to completely debilitate any attempt at constructive thought. Cases slightly more serious can take advantage of several options like behavioral psychology or shock treatment to achieve a complete recovery.
In the rare event that an intellectual resists all these treatments, one final method does remain. There are those who will protest this approach and claim that it is too barbaric to tamper with the mind of an individual no matter the cause. Yet experience has shown us time and again, when you lobotomize an intellectual it’s just like God smiling down on a flower. It is never an easy decision to agree to such a cure, but for a family and friends who are in suffering, we feel that when they look in their hearts, the decision will be quite clear.
Dealing with intellectualism doesn’t need to be your personal burden. You have to come to understand the nature of the disease and that it need not nor should not go untreated. It wouldn’t be easy and the path to a cure will have its ups and downs, but bringing the person you car about to real happiness will be something they thank you for in the end. Don’t hesitate another day to help the intellectual you care about, without your sympathy and support they will never be able to escape the tyranny of their own mind.
Friday, February 14, 2003
As a kid growing up, I was quite religious. It wasn't so much that my family was extremely devout Christians, as much as the organizations I belonged to as a child were nearly always of a religious nature. Each summer I'd spend about a month in upper Wisconsin at a Christian bible camp. In between games of kickball, canoeing, and horseback riding, we would have sessions of bible reading, singing of Christian songs, or making arts and crafts to praise the Lord. You would be amazed with the variety of different ways one can praise Jesus with leather alone. Wouldn't it be charming to have a wallet that said, "Jesus Loves You"? How about a nice belt with the proclamation, "Jesus died for our sins so that we might live forever"? And if leather isn't your thing, how about a manger scene made out of macaroni?
It was a place that gave me a lot of strange memories. Most of them are quite pleasant such as going white-water rafting, catching frogs and crawfish, or going on midnight boat rides to look at the stars in all their unfettered glory. On occasion, it was quite bizarre. One week, someone decided to send their adamantly atheist children to enjoy the fun and games. What these kids experienced before they managed to escape, was sort of like if you had a daughter with a firm belief in abstinence, looked like Denise Richards, and you had sent her to high school in a thong bikini. To put it mildly, it was the greatest gangbang for Jesus I had ever seen. Any moment that wasn't be used for regular activities, at least ten kids or more would swarm around those two and zealously try to convert them with rhetoric.
"Aren't you afraid of going to hell?!"
"But Jesus died for you!"
"If God doesn't exist, who created you?"
I was one of them . . .
Maybe it was the countless prayers before every meal or all those bible verses I had memorized for Twix bars that did me in. Perhaps it was too overwhelming for me to be placed in an environment where faith was treated with such certainty. Or could it have been the influence of eating each morning the Mr. T cereal, which was donated to the camp, was far more powerful than I had ever imagined? I’m just not sure.
When I wasn’t at camp terrorizing atheists, there was the Calvinist Cadet Corps. Dedicated Christian men and boys roughing it in the wilderness, training for survival, waiting for the post-apocalyptic world were faith and savagery clashed in constant violence. Where God’s name was spoken in fear, whenever a Catholic thought himself a Christian, or there was an adamant need for pinewood derby cars, we would be there to fight for the Way and the Truth even if it meant speaking in tongues! Jesus died for our sins and we were ready to die for him!
Actually, it was pretty much like the boy scouts expect with a lot more focus on God, Jesus, and the Bible. We not only had merit badges for woodworking and knot tying, but also for learning scripture, doing volunteer work, or bombing abortion clinics. Honestly though, I can’t remember us spending all that much time on Christianity. I guess once all those fathers had gotten away from their wives for an evening, the last thing they wanted to talk about was the importance of First Corinthians to a bunch of pre-teen boys.
By the time I reached high school, I had completely lost my faith in Christianity. A few years later, I was a die-hard Atheist fighting it out with Born-again Christians who were intent on bringing the Faith to our public school. Somewhere, I still have a copy of one of their prayer lists with my name on it. It still brings me a chuckle each time I happen to find it.
The problem with religion though, is that once you have had it layered onto your brain like spackle, you can never quite chisel the stuff out. One day you can be happy and content, the next you’re a Methodist. Happens to the best of folks. For some the religious urge takes on strange manifestations. A person who scoffs at the idea of prayer would think nothing unusual of her yoga and meditation. Another who considers mass nothing more than silly ritual might not be able to miss a day without checking his horoscope. Then there are the Unitarians, which don’t actually believe in anything, but still like to go to church.
In my case, I’ve come to believe that Satan is the patron saint of elevators. I’m not aware of when this belief gained such conviction, but elevators have always been a little bit spooky to me. Occasionally, the elevator lights flicker never quite on or off, their strange rhythms evoking memories of old horror films as you lean against the back wall and fear that any moment the doors will open to reveal a knife-wielding maniac. Another time, it might be the sounds that you can hear but not see or the snakily embrace of rushing cold wind as you step over threshold of the door that unsettles you. Worst of all, when the elevator through neglect or hate has become a mechanical creature that Pinhead would be glad to call his own. Its quirks becoming manifestations of rage as it opens up the doors nearly a foot below the floor or jams them shut until you pound them free.
You are welcome to think of them as just mechanical breakdowns, but when a building has five elevators and you wait fifteen minutes for just one of them, you just might start thinking that there is a little bit more at work here than meets the eye. In the darkness of the void in which the elevator travels, could a metaphysical presence have come to be? Would it be such a surprise to find a spirit who is sinister, evil, and craving for the bliss of causing agony and frustration upon unsuspecting souls? God is long dead, Nietzsche told us long ago, but Satan still lives I feel, lurking behind two steel doors down the hall. Laugh if you wish, but name any other vehicle that doesn't let you see where you are going.
Of course, I offer him no incense or prayers as I ride within his temples. When the elevator suddenly lurches, no sense of panic comes over me. If he wants my death, my fear would only add to his satisfaction. Each day, we rise and fall by grace of his power, so many unaware that he could plunge them all to sake his own desires. And yet sometimes, a rare gift he will give. An empty elevator just waiting for service will open up as you nearly reach the doors. When that happens, and if no one is around, I can't help but say, "Thanks, Satan."
After all, everyone appreciates a compliment now and then.
Friday, February 07, 2003
Why do people want clones? I don't understand it at all. There hasn't been a day in my life where I've suddenly thought to myself, "Gee. Wouldn't it be great to have a clone?"
Sure, it might be like having a twin, except that no one is ever going to mistake me with someone who is nearly thirty years younger. Perhaps I am one of those strange people who would rather hear from my mother what I was like at age two than experience it first hand for myself. Yet let us just assume for a moment that I decide I really want to clone. For somehow, the thrill of putting up with myself on a daily basis isn't enough, and what I need is even more of ME!!!
Well, if I'm going to go through the trouble of doing it, shouldn't I make myself better? I hardly can see why anyone would resist the temptation of improving on his or her clone. So we'll add a few inches in height, because the girls always say they love a tall man. Of course, girls say a lot of things they never actually do in practice, but in this case I feel they are being honest. The odds of seeing Jews and Arabs swapping wives at a key party are more likely I think than ever hearing a girl say she can’t date a guy because he isn’t short enough. Anyways, I digress.
As I'm always struggling to lose weight, we'll upgrade that metabolism to lean mean carbohydrate burning machine. One day my clone will be in McDonald's eating an order of ultimate size fries while dipping them in mayo without nary a concern, and he'll have me to thank for it. Also, it would be a wonderful thing if I could actually remember more than half a person's name. Who knows how much a changed man he would be if he didn't think that it was Dorothy Garland that starred in the Wizard of Oz or didn't ask what Mike Smith has been up to since he finished Jay and Silent Bob Strikes Back.
The thing is though, after all these changes, would the perfect clone really look like me any more or just a beautiful Adonis who happens to share the same nose? (Actually, the nose would have to go too.) At first, it probably wouldn’t matter. As a child, my clone would need me as a father and I wouldn’t have much time to think about how different he really was. However, as any parent can attest, children grow up like weeds and it wouldn’t be but a blink of an eye before my clone had become a man. Or at least thought he was.
So how could I impart the wisdom of having been me to my teenage clone? Should I talk about the difficulty I had of dating girls? Oh wait, he looks like George Clooney and had a three way with a couple girls who were the spitting image of Britney Spears and Emma Peel in the 8th grade. Hmmm, how about trying to talk to him about dealing with academic failure? Except that he’s already been pre-accepted to Harvard Law in his freshman year. Maybe a heart-to-heart talk about the dangers of drug abuse, if it weren’t for the fact that when he was seven his favorite prank was making methamphetamines that were so powerful they blew a rat’s brain right through its ass. Considering that I’ve never seen a rat in the yard since that day, or even a cat for that matter, I think he knows what they can do.
Thus as the days pass on ever quicker, I’ll get to watch how my clone grows up and is able to do everything I wanted to be but couldn’t achieve, barely looking like me at all, and needing me like a fish needs Gloria Steinem. As for me, I’d still be the same person, a little bit older and far more aware of every flaw. So I ask again, why on earth would anyone want his or her own clone?
