VersionCity

2006-10-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

Hangin' Wit Ma Pepys

Are any of you at all familiar with Samuel Pepys' Diary? It's fantastic. For those of you who aren't familiar with him, Pepys (pronouced, "Peeps") was an English civil servant, naval secretary to the Admirality, and Member of Parliament in 17th Century London. He is best remembered for the diary that he kept from 1660 - 1669 in which he describes, first-hand, such historical events as the Second Anglo-Dutch War, the Great Plague, and The Great Fire of London. It makes for fascinating reading, and is a long-standing favorite of insufferable bookstore nerds like me, who have no girlfriends and no prospect of getting laid in the near future; who actually enjoyed Moby Dick and Walden and most likely talk to their cats. Anyhow, I was leafing through my illustrated Penguin edition of The Diary tonight while watching the Mets game, and I happened upon a passage that I felt moved to share with all of you.

7 October, 1663

They wrought in the morning and I did keep my bed; and my pain continued on me mightily, that I keeped within all day in great pain, and could break no wind nor have any stool after my physic had done working. So in the evening I took a coach to Mr. Hollyards, but he was not at home, and so home again. And whether the coach did me good or no I know not, but having a good fire in my chamber, I began to break six or seven small and great farts; and so to bed and lay in good ease all night, and pissed pretty well in the morning.

Now at this point it should be noted that Pepys had been out merrilee a-partying the night previous with one Mr. Deane and one Mr. Llewellyn, and was no doubt paying for his indulgences with a roaring hangover. He was also suffering from terrible sinus and nasal congestion, the result of "...a cold, which God Almighty in justice did give me while I sat lewdly sporting with Mrs. Lane the other day with the broken window at my neck." (27 September, 1663) It's a comfort to know, however, that a brisk evening carriage ride and a roaring fire are a practicable cure for beer gas, if somewhat outmoded and provincal.

2006-06-12T21:10:00.000-07:00

HYPOCRICY?

Why is it that I loathe "urban fashion" with a passion usually reserved for child molesters, neo-conservatives, and the Yankees, and yet when a Japanese girl steps out of the house looking like this I'm so attracted to her that I feel like I just rediscovered that girls don't have cooties?

Look at her! I realize I'm about ten years too late, but can I take you to the prom?

2006-03-28T21:08:00.000-08:00

Back From Sabbatical
-or-
Dear Me, Has It Been a Month?

A thousand pardons for the lack of posts over the past month. It's been quite a rollercoaster. As I'm sure many of you already know, I have recently started a new job back at the dear old Alma Mater, NYU, and am pleased to report that, aside from the addition of several new buildings, a handful of administrative restructurings, and one or two departmental re-namings, life at NYU remains the merry old humdrum of casual sporting, swilling Sherry and smoking cheroots with the Dons, singing madrigals, and lazilly punting on the East River that I remember so fondly. I am even informed that out men's basetball team finished a respectable 23rd in NCAA Division 16 this year; a figure sure to make the underclassmen at bold little upstarts like GMU quake and rattle in their Reeboks. Grim Grey Pallisades, indeed, George Mason. Beware the Violet storm...

At any rate, the whole experience has been rather consuming, as any new appointment is wont to be, and I've neglected this humble little patch of cyberspace for some time as a result. Well, as Douglas MacArthur once growled through a cloud of pipe tobacco smoke, "I have returned." Or something to that effect.

I just finished watching Oliver Hirschbiegel's "Downfall" (or "Der Untergang," to you German speakers out there). For anyone who doesn't use the "Best Foreign Film" segment of the Academy Awards as a chance to fire up a bag of microwave Kettle Corn, it was a nominee this past year along with "Tsotsi" and a few others. Although I wouldn't immediately recommend a film about the last weeks of WWII in Hitler's bunker as bedtime viewing (as I have just done...thanks Netflix), I can't say enough about the film itself. Really, realy excellent, and a bold departure for a German film industry that has historically shied away from Hitler portrayals for fear of any number of criticisms or reprisals.

I also found this passage today in Volume 7 of The Flasman Papers (I've touched on these before, with much praise), and it only goes to strengthen my belief that no one quite gets it like George MacDonald Fraser...

"You see, it's been the great illusion of our civilization that when the poor heathen saw our steamships and elections and drains and bottled beer, he'd realise what a benighted ass he'd been and come into the fold. But he don't. Oh, he'll take what he fancies, and can use (cheap booze and rifles, for example), but not on that account will he think we're better. He knows different." (Flashman and the Redskins, 1982)

Any writer who can get that idea across through a drunken, cowardly, womanising scoundrel of a protagonist (and for twelve volumes... and set in the mid 19th Century... and HUMOROUSLY) has got to be some kind of genius. And a timely genius, at that. I was pleased to see, last month, that Christopher Hitchens felt the same way.

2006-02-28T16:04:00.000-08:00

Europe's Day of Reckoning

"Oh my goodness! There's a rather sizeable group of smartly-dressed, angry muslims in Picadilly! And they've brought signs! And they are chanting frightful slogans! And they are beckoning the downfall of Western culture! And they are threatening another 9... wait... what's that? Wha... 'YOUR 3/11 IS ON IT'S WAY?' Aaaahh hahahahahahahahahaha. Ha ha. Ha. Ha. Ahhhhhh hahahhahaha. Silly extremists. 3/11 is just TAX season. In America."

Keep laughing, Europe. When a highly organized sleeper cell of terrorists actually DOES unleash the relentless fury of 311's frat-friendly, Neraska rap-rock in your cities, we'll see who's laughing.

Remeber, you were warned.

2006-02-25T14:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Ladies:

In my several years of book retail experience, I have become well aware of the near-rock star status afforded to those who, in the face of low wages, lack of social mobility, and absence of health insurance, bravely man the cluttered, Post-It littered counters of independent book outlets across America, driven by the belief that literature is a social, democratic animal and a conviction that the workplace is still an appropriate setting for playing old Spencer Davis Group records. It is a status that I am comfortable with, and one that, to a greater or lesser extent, I have exploited throughout the years, as the mood fits. Only egomaniacal creeps, the self-obsessed, and Vincent Gallo self-apply the "sex symbol" identity. However, if one happens to find themselves wearing those shoes as a vocational write-in, well, best to simply run with it, and enjoy fortnue's rewards gratefully. Especially if, as is the case with my store, the degree of regular female attentions is heightened to Jimmy Page-like proprtions by virtue of the fact that there are only two males on the entire staff. However...

I must state outright (and my co-worker Mike agrees with me here) that it is wholly unnecessary to deposit your frilly, crotchless negliges before our counter as a calling card before leaving the store. This is not the Copacabana, we are not in Las Vegas, and I am not Julio Iglesias (and, in spite of his dashing, Latin-American visage and exotic whiskers, nor is Mike). I understand that our presence can at times be intimidating, for it isn't every day that one finds themselves in the company of a real, honest-to-god bookstore clerk, but I would like to take this opportunity to shed the larger-than-life mythology for a moment and assure you that, behind the horn-rim glasses, Chuck Taylor All-Stars, and Sick Of It All pins, we are, in fact, an affable pair of honest Joes who enjoy a cold beer and an exchange of phone numbers as much as the next guy.

Not that we aren't flattered, of course.

2006-02-11T15:50:00.000-08:00

To Arms, Men of Conscience!

Like all cynics, I am occasionally given to spontaneous episodes of optimism and cheeriness, cracking a grin and simply radiating my good natured bonhomie upon the populace, thank-you-very-much-and-same-to-you-sir. Sometimes they last a little while; the duration of cup of coffee, a chat with a pretty girl, a nice walk to the train, catching "Over The Top" on TBS, what have you. It's pleasant, really, and that's why I'm always so put-off when something DASHES that private little euphioric morsel of contentedness into flotsam like a foundering East Indiaman off the Tierra Del Fuego.

A couple days ago I was experiencing one of these quick bursts of emotional lunch & recess. I had run out to grab a bite to eat and, returning to my store, saw that my friend Rebecca had holiday-themed the center of our window, making little hearts out of corrugated cardboard and wrapping paper and tacking them all over a collection of sensual massage primers and tantric sex guides. Aw. Thoughtful, somewhat irreverent (for the Battery), and subtly subversive, I loved it. I had already made up my mind to not become one of those emotional midgets who, finding themselves single in February, stamp and brood and rail against the entire institution of love and emotional exclusivity. They're a miserable lot, hardly worth talking to, really. At any rate, I sat down to enjoy my soup and leaf through this week's Time Out NY, and within ten minutes I had made it to page 18, where I discovered this little nugget of proof positive that there is, in fact, a Lucifer, and he is hard at work...

Objectivist Dating Service

As if it's not already sufficiently horriying that Ayn Rand devotees have etched out a little corner of the electronic public square for themselves (assuming that such developmentally stunted rascals are capable of maintaining a functionally social existence), they now have an open strategy for proliferation. It's enough to give me the shakes. Honestly, if you are at all in the mood to indulge in a bit of emotional sado-masochism in the near future, I highly recommend creating a login for this site and thumbing through this laundry list of winners. I couldn't help but think, "This isn't a dating service...it's a government watch list that hasn't yet realized itself!"

Turns out there's a lot of this stuff out there, so I investigated. For a somewhat less unsettling chuckle, check out some of the Rhodes Scholars on Conservative Match. "Sweethearts, Not Bleeding Hearts." Incredible. What American Dream could possibly complete without a Chechen war bride? Why none, thanks to Chance For Love. A personal favorite of mine was Adult Discreet, an online resource for those married adults looking to explore adultry. Rotten with leprosy? Never fear, my oozing, ulcerous friend! Medical Love Connection has got you covered. You can't make this stuff up.

Regrettably, none of these intriguing websites provided me the Heloise to my winsome Abelard, and thus I will most likely be spending my Valentine's Day at the Palace, participating in warm Budweiser toasts and air guitarring to Slayer songs. Not so bad, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things at least.

2006-02-06T20:15:00.000-08:00

Telling It Like It Is

This morning Murph texted me, "Do you hate 'telling it like it is?'" in response to a post-Superbowl barroom chat we had last night. I responded, yes, because more often than not, I don't agree that that is, in fact, how it is. Almost universally. Now, of course, some things are irrefutably "like it is." The sun rises in the East. That's just how it is. Johnny Damon has signed with the Yankees. That's just how it is. I am underpaid and undervalued at my dead-end job. That's just how it is. Usually, though, folks who invoke the "like it is" clause are apt to be qualifying one of their paranoid, uninformed conjectures that usually features some degree of bigotry and, often as not, outright violence. You know who I mean.

"No no, I mean, it's just a fact that Hollywood is controlled by gays, man. And they're trying to make your kids gay, as well. I mean, don't...hey man, I mean, I'm just telling it like it is."

"Man, seriously, I mean the whole Iraq thing, it's just... Seriously? We should just NUKE 'em, you know? Just nuke 'em. 'Cause they're never gonna...what? Oh come on, I mean, hey, I'm just telling it like it is."

Thank you. For that. Why you are not making six figures in a beltway think tank is beyond me, because you could really be an asset; an as-yet untapped reserve of decisive, Machiavellian straight shooting that our current political discourse is sorely lacking. And such colorful language, too!

"Telling it like it is" is also the cancer du jour of comedy right now, and I think that's a damn shame. It used to be props. Then giant sledgehammers. Now it's "tellin' it like it is," and what a loss. The moment a comedian defends his or her own work as "just telling it like it is" they cease to be a comedian. Period. End of story. The creative choice to not apologize, not pander, and not qualify what one says is the thin red line between performance and punditry (long may it hold fast). Richard Pryor was a great comedian. Lenny Bruce was a great comedian. Two of the most unapologetic performers to ever take the stage, and that made them visionary. Hell, Rodney Dangerfield MADE A CAREER of telling it like it is, but, in his simple brilliance, never needed to EXPLAIN that to his audience. He just smoked weed and made Caddyshack.

Anyway, the rest of the day was mind-numbingly dull, so I had a chance to mull this idea over in my head, and after a quick coffee run to Dunkin Donuts, gears began to mesh, and the distinction between "like it is" and "I am full of shit" began to come into focus. "But Jeremy!" you may say, "doesn't the suggestion that a 26 year old, single, insecure, underemployed poltroon like yourself knows how it is betray a certain degree of underlying hypocrisy?" Absolutely. But it's my damn blog. What are you, from The Smoking Gun? Here goes...

Like It Is

Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, and Rodney Dangerfield: all dead.
Old man winter has returned to New York City. Brrr.
Il Divo, Jaime Foxx, and POD are all on the Billboard Top 10. *shudder*

Maybe Like It Is

The Pittsburg Steelers have won the Superbowl 21-10. Sure, a well played game, but I still don't think Roethlisberger got the ball into the endzone, and there were a couple of erroneous holding calls on Seattle that sour the whole thing.
The Pogues will not have killed eachother or drank themselves to death before I go see them on March 18th. Dooooon't stop... belieeeeeeeving...!
I am considered "cool" by my peers.

Definitely Not Like It Is

Hollywood is controlled by a cabal of homosexuals, Jews, and communists who conspire with Al Qaeda to undermine your family values, strain your moral fibers, take away your Hummer, and make you watch Brokeback Mountain.
She's totally going to call me back.
Funny:

2006-01-30T16:15:00.000-08:00

Downtown Cuckoo's Nest

Man, have you ever been exposed to a conversation between two crazy people and, after a certain amount of time (sliding scale dependent on degree of craziness, but generally not very long at all) you begin to feel yourself entertaining crazy thoughts yourself? It happens, I'm telling you. They say that hiccups, yawning, laughter, et. al are contagious. Bullshit. CRAZY is contagious. I was in Duane Reade today (bad enough) and while waiting in line to buy a bottle of water and some snacks for my staff, happened upon a conversation between a possibly medicated religious fanatic and a short, squirrelly potential schizophrenic obsessed with floor polish. It was incredible. While the former, a middle-aged woman with a Stepford wife smile and eyes that NEVER blinked (no joke) droned on and on about the merits of Joel Osteen and her unflagging devotion to his weekly televangelical broadcasts, the latter glanced about nervously, stroked and prodded his bottle of Pine Sol, and replied to her occasional queries with quick sound bites about floor cleaning. Something like this...

Woman: "I just...I just think he's wonderful! So charismatic! Don't you think so?"
Man: "Mmmf. Hmmm. This...this one...it's not intended for use on no-wax floors."
Woman: "I KNOW! And handsome too!"

I was captivated. And they just kept going and going and going, neither actually successfully communicating a single idea to the other. Well, it was too late. I found myself glancing about, eyeing various products, and before long it struck as downright unjust that Peeps are not available for purchase in late January. I then trained my eyes on a copy of 1991 celluloid masterpiece Drop Dead Fred in the $9.99 DVD bin, and, after weighing the film's pros (Phoebe Cates is hot) and cons (it sucks), decided it would nevertheless be a reasonable purchase. Thankfully, before I had a chance to forfeit my place in line (a precious commodity in a downtown Duane Reade) for the DVD bin, I was summoned to the register with only my Evian, some deposit envelopes, and a bag of York Peppermint Patties in hand. Entirely reasonably purchases, especially given that, with my $5 Club Card coupon in hand, I paid a mere $0.37 for the whole kettle 'o fish. Dodged the bullet.

On the other hand, today also brought to my attention this morsel of absolute expressive genius...

AMAZING, right? I hear people jawing all the time about how a tattoo should be something personal, something that means something to you, and hey, I agree. I have no ink myself, and it has more to do with indecision than anything else. (Hell, I have trouble at salad bars, and a salad is, let's admit, a pretty fleeting experience by comparison). And yet every day I see these hipster wastrels moping about with these faux-vintage, faux-nautical nonsense pieces... you know, the anchors, the "Sailor's Grave," and all that huckapoo. Clearly means NOTHING to these idiots, just something to flaunt at this weekend's MisShapes. But NOT THIS GUY. He went right for what matters, right for something that he likes. That he feels passionately about. That he relates to. And he strolled right into the shop and had a life size slice of lasagna inked right onto his forearm. And then, just to turn the badassed-ness knob all the way up to eleven, he has them add the flames. Immediately, I had a new hero, whoever the hell he is. Can't you just see him the next time he's eating a piece of lasagna with some friends, savoring it's gooey, cheesey goodness, then looking down at his new tattoo, swelling with pride, and then just busting out with a "YeeeEEEAAAAH!" and some furious air guitaring, just totally absorbed in the beauty of what might have been the best decision of his life? Gaaah! I'm tearing up right now.

I salute you, flaming piece of lasagna guy. You are a beacon of originality and balls in an ocean of sheepish, contrived mediocrity.

2006-01-22T20:39:00.000-08:00

Let's Go Seattle

Popular opinion is going to go with Pittsburgh on this one, and fall back on the Tom Brady-esque startup success of Ben Roethlisberger, the sheer bulk and mysterious speed of Jerome Bettis, and the hirsute Polynesian ferocity of Troy Polamalu while drunkenly coughing up Superbowl pool buy-ins in watering holes across the US of A. As for me, I say, when in doubt, put your money on the guy from Massachusetts (insert "Survivor" joke here). And if they can dismantle Carolina like they did tonight and humiliate Jake Delhomme in such a dramatic fashion, I'm throwing my support behind the Seahawks. That and I just can't resist the temptaion to engage in a little righteous Steeler-hating once in a while. Pffft.

On a different note, I'm about fed up with the state of dish towels in America right now. 95% of them are utterly useless. Has anyone noticed? What with their blends of cost-cutting synthetic materials and tight-woven makeup, they are, on the whole, about as absorbent as a piece of aluminum foil. It's an outrage! Hardworking people are spending their hard-earned wages on these items, and the least they should be able to expect from them is some degree of functionality. The fact that there is no general outcry against this backhanded hoax calls into question our national character, and it concerns me. What happened to our spirit of demanding consumerism? Not how much, but how good. Sure, the most reliable cars are Japanese, the sharpest knives are German, and the best shortstops are Puerto Rican. But dish towels, at least, should still represent the vanguard of American, union-made artisinal skill and attention to quality.

Martha Stewart, j'accuse!

Sigh, at any rate, back on the football note, I vow here and now that if Seattle goes all the way I will celebrate by blasting Queensryche's "Jet City Woman" and leap about furiously air guitarring.

2006-01-19T15:19:00.000-08:00

Pitch For A Pilot

Despite my utter lack of enthusiams for the genre, I have a great idea for a new reality show... "Queer Eye For the Pretentious Douchebag Who Fancies Himself Better Than 90% Of His Audience." Now I'm no wheelin' dealin' television executive, nor an expert in Nielsen Ratings or anything, but baby, I think we have a hit on our hands here. And who better to bat leadoff than a man who supplants his 23,304,004 page novel with 2,234 pages of footnotes (just so, y' know, we know where he's coming from, in a narrative sense) and another man who storms off stage after one song if he doesn't like the smell of someone in the audience's gum? And hoooah nelly do these fellows need a hand. I mean, honestly, would you trust either of these men around your kids? Around ANY kids? David Foster Wallace apparently thinks he is Kevin Federline and/or Nelly (seriously, can't you just see the eye-black?), with his homie-thug white schmata with matching white turtleneck, and Ryan Adams here just hasn't been able to hold it together since his sweet Meth hookup was expelled from Hogwarts and he's only managed to master a half-assed conjuring spell for Oregon trucker speed using car batteries and bleach. Now me, I'm no fashion plate myself. My usual look is an Irish-dockworker-cum-grad-student-cum-Clash-fan thing that somehow endears me to bartenders but rarely the opposite sex, so who am I to judge? But if I can say one thing for myself, it's that when I walk down the street, folks don't recoil in horror. SO, that said, I let my pitch stand. Any interested parties can contact my attourney for a press kit and contract guidelines, and we'll get the ball rolling.

On a more serious note, I recently found out that my AP US History teacher, Mr. Blanchard, passed away several days ago back in Massachusetts, and it's saddening news to say the least. He was a great teacher, and one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. He was also a great Republican, of the old tradition. Not the awful, Wal-Mart shopping, tobackee-chewin, git-r-done archetype that seems to be so popular these days, but a classy guy who idolized Thomas Jefferson (he kept the bronze bust on his desk to prove it), believed in true Laissez-faire economics, and gave a 17 year old me a run for his money whenever I introduced my reactionary, Joe Strummer politics into classroom discussion. In such situations he was fond of quoting Mark Twain, "If you are not liberal when you are young, you have no heart, and if you are not conservative when you are old, you have no brain." I would huff and puff, as any 17 year old would when backed into an intellectual corner, but I respected him endlessly. He was only 69 years old.

Here's to the teachers.

2006-01-16T21:42:00.000-08:00

The Sporting Life!

What more perfect ending to a leisurely (though not altogether unproductive) long weekend than the UFC's Ultimate Fight Night Live? The evening saw two decisive wins for personal favorites Chris "The Crippler" Leben (left) and Stephan "American Psycho" Bonnar, as well as a hard earned 3-round decision victory for Tim Sylvia in the main event, who will now go on to face Andrei Orlovski for the title. That should be a great match, especially considering Orlovski's recent decision to apparently style himself after Scott Stapp. Well, Scott Stapp if he was 6"2" 220 lb. Belorusian monster who pulled up tree stumps as a hobby. And fought people a lot tougher than the bass player from 311's wife.

I like the UFC a lot. Despite its recent transition from semi-underground cult phenomenon to cable television darling (thanks in no small part to Chris Leben) and Vegas strip hot ticket, it remains an oft-maligned "semi" sport in the minds of a lot of folks I speak with. I think that's a bunch of nonsense. Personally, the UFC suits me just fine. I get the sense that, from a spectator's perspective, it serves a role similar to that of boxing in the late 19th Century, where the polished Victorian upper crust could casually poke their noses into a world distinctly more debauched (read: "sporting") than their own and enjoy themselves, while the sport itself remained one of the people. In its way, it was the perfect combination of genuine skill and apparent danger to appeal to a broad spectrum at that time, and I'd like to see the UFC do that for the early 21st Century. There are some really fantastic athletes involved with the UFC these days, and a lot of young up-and-comers worth watching who could make interdisciplinary competition really, really exciting to watch.

Additionally, the ringside girls are really hot.

2006-01-14T12:38:00.000-08:00

Thank You, Neal Pollack

I can't believe I had forgotten all about this, it's so damned relevant! You're Gonna Frey As I recall, this used to hang in the office of my old store on Lexington Avenue a couple years back. Brilliant!

I can't decide what's funnier:

"Outside, it is Night." or...
"I want a tub of acid as deep as the moon."

Thanks to Rebecca for the reminder. In return, I offer this Crossword Puzzle Generator that I found on some Dutch fellow's site. It's fantastic. The juvenile temptation to fill it with naughty words is almost too much to resist, not unlike the Mad Lib effect. The best part is, it was posted under the headline "Kruiswoordpuzzel Maken." How incredible. I'm so excited that I have learned a little Dutch. One day I may be in Amsterdam, and the EU customs people will say something like "Papers, please" and I will smile, hand them my passport, and say "Kruiswoordpuzzel maken!" And they will assume that I am there for the reefer like every other American. And that is funny, because I don't even smoke reefer, but am probably just looking to rent a bicycle to peddle about on, and maybe see Anne Frank's house.

2006-01-12T20:56:00.000-08:00

Beastly Drunkenness!

Have any of you ever read George MacDonald Fraser's Flashman Papers? They were recommended me by a co-worker (and, incidentally, a fellow enthusiast of tales involving, in no particular order, militaria, ribaldry, drunkenness, debasement, cheats, liars, poltroons, and just general English xenophobia) a couple years back. I've finally dug into them, and, now just three books into the ten volume series, I am hopelessly hooked. In fact, I can't recall the last time I had so damn much fun reading fiction. They are, essentially, the "edited" memoirs of Harry Paget Flashman, VC, KCB, KCIE (etc.), a 19th Century English wastrel who, after being expelled from boarding school for "beastly drunkenness," through bribes, blackmail, and back-handed politics, becomes an officer in the British army in 1841, only to become a central figure in the Afghan Wars, the Crimean War, the US Civil War, and others. All the while he remains an indulgent, womanizing coward whose only fame rests on lies and pure luck. What more could one ask from a novel, let alone TEN of them? Some years ago (30+) the NY Times Book Review described Fraser's character as "...the vilest blackguard who ever ran in battle or dishonoured a lady." And my spelling there is accurate; how cute of the NY Times reviewer to fall back on the English spelling of "honour." I hope it didn't colour his reputation for grammatical accuracy.

2006-01-11T20:51:00.000-08:00

Oom Pah Pah!

Damn fine discovery last night (or, well, not discovery, per se, but innaugural experience) in Greenpoint, as I met some friends at The Queen's Rest on Franklin Street for their weekly (Tuesdays, people, remember this) BBQ night. They have an honest-to-god smoker out back, and do very reasonably priced platters of food and sling PBR cans at you for a buck apiece. They also serve up a powdery, nutty sort of confection for dessert that somehow involes Bourbon, which is always a good thing. It's served in a (gasp) shot glass, and, while I was too stuffed to sample one, was assured by my peers that they were delectable and well worth their $1 price tag.

As is, I'm finding, frequently the case with this crowd, the meal quickly switched over to creative bullpen mode, which is enormously satisfying to an insufferable nerd like myself. Before I knew it, the topic of cat-interest magazines was addressed, and I hatched a plan to publish a Jewish-interest cat care magazine called "Katz." I think there's a market. Would've loved to have stayed longer and hatch more fiendish plots, but a 7:30am work time was looming, and it was time to repectfully bow out.

Not an altogether bad day at work, either. Had a nice Dickens conversation with one of my customers, and afterward something occured to me. If memory serves, Carol Reed's 1968 film adaptation "Oliver!" is, to date, the only family musical in which a prostitute is beaten to death by an alcoholic. With the butt of a rifle. Oom Pah Pah, indeed! What's become of your integrity, Hollywood?

2006-01-09T18:54:00.000-08:00

Out of the FREYing Pan and Into the Fire!
Hahahahaha.... OH NO WAIT!
James and the Giant Breach (of confidence)!
Aahahahaha.... OOH OOH OOH WAIT!
A Million Little Fleeces!
AH! Ha...GASP...HAHA...OK.....

A smirk creeps across the collective face of snarky book store clerk America tonight as the folks at The Smoking Gun expose NY Times Bestselling author, Oprah darling, and leading middle-aged housewife tear jerk shaman James Frey as (drum roll please, but a tasteful drum roll) a bit of a phony.
The Scoop
Frey, whose drug/alcohol/christ-only-knows-what rehab memoir A Million Little Pieces received scant attention from reviewers upon publication, received the mother of all boosts in an endorsement by Oprah Winfrey, an appearance on her television show, etc. etc. etc. Since then, its sales have soared up to 1.7 million+ copies, etc. etc. etc. We've all heard the story before.

I hate to kick a guy when he's down, but some of the exposed discrepencies are undeniably hilarious. For instance, while discussing his rough introduction to a new high school, he states, "At first I made an effort to fit in, but I couldn't pretend, and after a few weeks, I stopped trying. I am who I am and they could either like me or hate me. They hated me with a fucking vengeance... I didn't care whether I won or lost, I just wanted to fight. Bring it on, you Motherfuckers, bring everything you've got. I'm ready to go fucking fight." Yet when questioned about this, his neighbor claims he was "a reasonably popular guy in high school" and produces a photo of the tormented author playing soccer in their yearbook. He later goes on to describe the brutality of his first night in prison, replete with thoughts of suicide. However, it turns out that the station at which he was processed (for a standard DUI) did not, in fact, even detain him overnight because a) they had no holding cell to speak of and b) even if they had, they were eager to release him on bail because he had the CHICKEN POX, of all things. Sigh. It just goes on and on.

And this gets me to thinking. Should I really be laughing about this? I mean, it's funny, what with the soccer, and the chicken pox and all. And there's plenty more, believe me. But somehow when I read about all the people actually struggling with terrible addictions citing Frey as a major inspiration (and, as it were, there is apparently a sequel Winfrey episode pending, in which Frey will actually meet with these poor souls and, I don't know, hold a revival or some such thing), the whole thing just darkens over. Fooling the customers in my store is hilarious, I'll admit. But lying to the weak and the helpless, building false hopes, and deceiving the needy all for the sake of a good yarn? I mean, that's something I would do. Why you, James?

OH OH OH and I just have to tag this on the end here. The man actually has this tattooed... On his flesh...

FTBSITTTD (stands for: Fuck The Bullshit It's Time To Throw Down).

Talk about a bad decision! I would just tell people it stood for a favorite line from Wodehouse...

Frankly, The Beaujolais Stinks! I Threw-up TWICE, Terrence! Damn you!

But then, if he's half the beastly drunk he claims to be, I suppose the Beaujolais would be out of the question...

2006-01-08T18:15:00.000-08:00

Infestation

Though the signs may have been there for some time (and, admittedly, they were) this weekend the evidence is simply incotrovertible, and I have had to well up the courage to admit to a serious problem. My building has a hippie.

The problem, I now believe, centers around the apartment directly under mine. A little while ago the quiet, keep-to-herself law student vacated one of the bedrooms (in hindsight, a regrettable loss, though I hardly knew her from Eve). Ever since, little shreds of evidence have been materializing and, in my horror, I think I may have slipped into a state of denial not unlike those that often accompany genocide. ("What? No. I not see. What? Paramilitaries? Groups of Serb soldiers wearing Adidas track pants shoot farmhouses weeth assault rifles? Me? No, I not see. You see, I just seemple farmer.") Denial, however, is no longer an option.

This past week has seen the appearance, in the bedroom window directly beneath mine, of a series of colorful, psychedelic, colorform-like decals, all depicting dancing bears, smiling skulls, psilocybic mushrooms, and the like; the type of nonsense that an 18 year old college freshman from Ohio might festoon the windows of her room in "the Towers" with in order to lend the place a more personalized air for her first year at "State." Later in the year she'll lie back, and, as some Abercrombie-ed human meatball with lingering acne and Natural Light breath paws her with all the grace and sensual dexterity of a sandhog, she'll gaze up at those stickers on the windowpane and think to herself, "My, what a long strange trip it's been..." Ugh.

In addition to this grusome discovery, the past week has also ushered in intermitant spells of jam band bass coming through my floorboards, largely at inconvenient times (today, for instance, when "The Dirty Dozen" was on television and I was having a difficult time hearing some of Charles Bronson's lines). I'm sure you're familiar with this horrid style of bass playing, the type that involves a lot of "theory," music school instruction, and cannabis, and bounces along lightly with a "doop doop a doop a doop dweeeeeee do doop doop do dweeee doodle-eee-doop." This is what happens to music when children are given lacrosse sticks for Christmas and are breastfed until they are 11. Congratulations, Mom. You've created a Jonesy. Now go microwave us a Hot Pocket.

Last night, on my way out the door to head down to the Palace to watch the Pats game (28-3! Thank you, Willie McGinest) with the old gang, the very last of my already unsteady protective layer of denial crumbled and fell. For the first time a whisp of bud smoke drifted out of the door in question, which had recently been adorned with yet ANOTHER sticker (this one some sort of mandala-cum-Care Bears, circle of life type thing). Then, as I hurriedly fumbled for my headphones and ran billy-be-damned for the front door, could not help hearing "Sugar Magnolia, blossoms blooming, head's all empty and I don't care..." drifting out from beneath the doorjam.

2006-01-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

Lying in Wait

Greenpoint, paean to intoxicated excess, bastion of post-Soviet xenophobic drunkenness, last refuge of scoundrels, is suspiciously quiet tonight.