Where In Your House Is Carmen Sandiego?

        Being the artistic virtuoso that I am, I often get invited to black tie affairs and other gala gatherings in people’s homes. Sure I’m a bit eccentric and maybe a little reclusive but I think those are the qualities that bespeak of a quiet kind of genius. I like to think of myself as the Daniel Day-Lewis of writing, without the feminized, hyphenated last name. I don’t write about just anything, and the rare topic I choose to pontificate on becomes a glorious essay of Pulitzer potential. Back on point, breaking into so many of your homes and rummaging through your sock drawers at night has led me to a startling realization...people everywhere are really shitty decorators. Is there some obscure federal law that I’m not aware of mandating at least two rooms in every house be themed in some sort of emulation of a vague global locale?

        The best way to break this down seems to be on a room by room, cliche by cliche basis. So let’s walk right into the first room most people see when they enter your abode, the living room. Holy shit, a second ago I was outside on the streets of Connecticut and now I’m somewhere in Arizona. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, is your front door some kind of inter-dimensional portal? Could you possibly shove anymore knock-off American Indian knick-knacks in here? Is that really a traditional Navajo blanket on your Bob’s Discount Furniture couch or did you get it from the gift shop at the Cracker Barrel? Listen up everybody, no more fucking southwest inspired living rooms or I’m going to beat you to death with a goddamn cactus.

        The next stop on our travel itinerary is a little slice of New England I like to call the Nantucket bathroom. Feels so much like the beach I think I’m pissing in the Atlantic Ocean instead of your sink. Well you’ve really outdone yourself with this one Martha Stewart, or should I say Martha’s Vineyard? Ocean spray blue paint, lighthouse wallpaper border, seascape shower curtain; the whole bathroom feels like it’s swaying while I’m wiping my nose on your decorative sand dollar embroidered towel. Oh and let’s not forget that pièce de résistance, the basket of shells on top of the toilet tank. Have you been in any New England gift shops lately? There’s an entire industry built around idiots showcasing buckets of mother natures litter on their fucking toilets.

       Last stop on our whirlwind trip around your house, an eight hour flight to Italy, or an eight step flight of stairs up to your Italian inspired bedroom. Nothing says relaxation like heavily lacquered, black, over-sized furniture from Bayonne. Here's hoping you wake up in bed with a horse head so you can get the full effect of your decorating masterpiece. From where I'm standing it would be an improvement from what you normally wake up next too anyway, a horses head is better than a horses ass. Do me a favor, if you need to have something Italian in your house, get a glass jar shaped like a fish and stuff it with olives and peppers like the rest of us.

        I was originally going to prattle on about country style kitchens but I have no idea what they are supposed to be reminiscent of. My guess is they are a nostalgic and whimsical interpretation of life on a pastoral turn of the century American farm, replete with rooster statues and apple pie scented luminaries from Yankee Candle. Just kidding, obviously they are some form of suburban midlife housewife crisis manifestations, full of latent sexual symbolism like cocks and warm apple pies. So do us all a favor when you’re buying a new house or decorating an old one, keep your decorating passport in the sock drawer and the shells in the ocean. With all of those wonderful and exotic places nestled so snugly in your bungalow, where in your house is Carmen Sandiego?

The Best of the Rest Part I

     Since I’ve started writing, I’ve been keeping a notepad around me so I can jot down thoughts and observations in the moment, lest whatever pocket of my brain the idea occurs in becomes flooded with scotch and the spark extinguished. I’ve been a little frustrated at times because I think a lot of my random brain droppings are “blog worthy” but I can’t always formulate them into enough material to satisfy my demanding readership. Truthfully, I can barely get my family to read this cornucopia of crap and they claim to love me so I have no idea why the rest of you bother at all. Anyway, without further ado I present The Best of the Rest, which is a collection of thoughts that’s been sitting on a shelf in my basement gathering dust, like my college degree in Criminal Justice.

     Doesn’t it seem completely arbitrary that we eat tuna fish willingly but we’re absolutely appalled by the idea that a dolphin may have died in the process of killing the tuna? Why are we so concerned with the welfare of one animal and not with the other? Does dolphin taste like complete ass or are we just that narrow-minded? We need to stop anthropomorphizing what we eat and start making rational choices. I’m not an expert on porpoise populations but it seems to me there are plenty of them around and watching them swimming alongside ships like the lovable, trusting idiots we’ve turned them into, I can't help but think it would be a piece of cake clubbing them by the dozen like baby seals. No need for long-lining or any of those other nasty fishing practices you tree-huggers have your panties tied in knots about. For the sake of saving the tuna, which I consider a beautiful and majestic animal, I’d opt for the tuna safe tin of dolphin next time I’m in Whole Foods, thank you very much.

     Jumping around a bit, the idea of someone who commits murder using an insanity defense really grinds my gears too. Sane people do not murder other people, ergo the act of murder inherently carries with it a degree of insanity. I can’t be the only person who has ever thought that can I? It doesn’t seem like much of a legal stretch to just go ahead and let all the murderers off the hook because they’re fucking crazy. If I’m on your capital murder jury and you’re rolling with the idea of coping an insanity plea, think again cause that ain’t gonna happen. I’m gonna get all Twelve Angry Men on your ass and you're gonna fry.



I saw this family in line at the deli buying tofurkey.



   Is it my imagination or is Trader Joe’s the white trash version of Whole Foods? Until recently Trader Joe’s was our only “boutique” grocery store but we’ve since had a Whole Foods open in the area and anytime we go back to Trader Joe’s now I feel like I’m in Walmart. How long until www.peopleoftraderjoes.com launches? It’s the same way I used to feel when we went into Shop Rite after going to Stop and Shop for so long. Sure the Muzak variety in Shop Rite is better but the average customer looks like a pasty-faced morlock.

     The last random thought I have for this week occurred to me while I was watching an episode of Man Versus Food with Adam Richman. If you’ve seen the show, you know the idea is that he accepts some insane food related challenge in which he needs to eat some ridiculously huge meal, or really spicy food, or some other abnormal gastroentronomical feat. Naturally, I thought some kind of follow-up show like Man Versus Food: The Day After might be entertaining to watch. I'm thinking Charmin and Airwicks would be easy sponsors for that bathroom fiasco. Maybe the network could take it the extra mile and have it hosted by Dr. Oz, with lots of intestinal cadavers and computer simulations of what’s going on in Adam’s digestive system. I’m sure he’s enjoying the fame and the spotlight now but I for one worry about the long term, big picture effects of that type of binge gorging. He’s going to be singing Moon River in his proctologist’s office a little too frequently for my comfort level.

Going Off The Rails On A Crazy Train

            It’s one of my distinct joys in life to take public transportation to work everyday. Nothing pairs quite so well with the tranquility of a spring morning, like sitting on a dirty seat in a rickety Metro North train car with the faint smell of stale urine in the air. Riding alone on the train would be an unpleasant enough experience, but couple the ambiance with the bevy of attention craving gadget whores, bag ladies, drunks, perverts, conversationalists and all around nut-jobs, and you have the makings of a ride Vincent Price would be scared to get on.

            First a few words on the technologists; I want to go easy on this demographic because the idea of having some gadgets to entertain yourself on the train should be pretty easy to understand. Like a lot of things, it’s the handful of people who go overboard who ruin it for the rest of us. Yes, I see you over there Mr. Important Business Man, with your fancy suit and copy of the Wall Street Journal. Just being “that guy” isn’t enough for you though is it? You need to get on a conference call with your super futuristic Bluetooth headset, whilst sending urgent emails from your blackberry. I’ve got news for you hotshot, the train is for guppies not sharks. Don’t forget what pool you’re swimming in. Oh and one last note on cell phones before I move on, can we dispense with the ridiculous ringtones?  Nothing says “Look at me, I’m a giant attention whore!” like the maximum volume ringtone on your fucking iPhone. I get it; you’d blow Steve Jobs to get the newest bullshit Apple product because it will include some fluff functionality that the first edition should have had to begin with. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo, you’re a sheep like all the other sheeple. The train has become a breeding ground for attention mongering gadget whores.

 

            If you manage to somehow avoid the “plugged-in” crowd and find a seat far enough away from some dumbass kid listening to his iPod so loud you can’t hear yourself think, I hope for your sake it’s not in an aisle seat. The aisle seat leaves you particularly vulnerable to the heavy hitters of the tracks, the bag ladies. For the love of Christ ladies, what the hell are you taking to and from work everyday? People traveling with more than one bag should be banned from the fucking train, I’m serious. As soon as the conductor says “next stop, Fairfield”, I curl into the fetal position and start shaking. The typical woman getting on the train has more bags than the typical woman leaving the mall. Purse, change of shoes, change of clothes, lunch, laptop, umbrella, makeup bag, cord of firewood, reserve firewood in case the original cord gets wet, coffee pot, scuba gear and probably another dozen things I’m forgetting. On the way down the aisle to look for a seat that doesn’t exist, they can’t help but slam fifteen bags into you because they have no fucking way to control all that gear, and what happens when the conductor comes around to check tickets? They have no clue where their ticket is because they are lugging more shit than Tenzing Norgay. Ladies, let’s try and pack a little more efficiently, I figure a pack of Chiclets, some Chapstick and a pair of emergency panties ought to do it.

            The way I see it, I’m the only normal person on the train. Outside of the iSheeple and Sherpa fem-bots, everyone else falls into the final category of miscellaneous people you wouldn’t want to see on your grand jury. Approximately 80% of the people you see on the train are plain old bat shit crazy. You’ve got the wannabe intellectuals, grinding away at their Sudoku puzzles, or the real rocket scientists with the book of word searches in their lap, smoke pouring from their ears. You’ve got the “hungries”, who eat full blown meals on the train. It’s such an appetizing environment, who could blame them? Not long ago I rode home on a train car where the bathroom overflowed and there was an inch of toilet water, and I don’t mean eau de toilette, sloshing around. That sure got me hungry. You’ve got the drunks, so unhappy with their life that they need a couple beers “to take the edge off” after work on a typical Tuesday. You’ve got the dickheads that must have just read How to Win Friends and Influence People, who want to make small talk with you the whole ride. You’ve got the perverts; just ask my neighbor Nick about them. He got track-stalked by a nice middle aged man that wanted to play “put the train in the tunnel” games while their train pulled into the Grand Central tunnel. I think the perverts have a special subspecies that gets off on lurking in the train bathrooms, but until Richard Attenborough decides to document them, they’ll have to stay with the other sexual deviants. So you can imagine how I feel, being the most normal person on the train. I’m grateful my straightjacket has a pocket for my monthly pass.

Alles Gute zum Muttertag

            My mom is better than your mom. I’m not bragging, I’m just telling you how it is. Oh I’m sure you think your mom is pretty great too, but let’s be honest, she’s not as great as mine. So I’ve decided to immortalize my mother on the internet, with this special holiday blog.  Due to the profundity of the occasion and in keeping with my mother’s values and high morals, I’m going to try and write this without swearing and with a generally more upbeat tone. (Editors Note: The author will attempt to swear twice as much and be twice as malevolent next week in compensation.)

            My mom wears combat boots. Well, figurative combat boots anyway. Hey, we don’t call her the General for nothing. Nobody is more scarily in charge of a situation than my mom is. She has a calm, cool confidence that only strict Russian military training can evoke. Have you ever seen those commercials where they put athletes in skin tight suits covered in probes, so they can capture their movements for video games? I’m pretty sure they did that with my mom when they were programming the A.I. for the Spetsnaz in Call of Duty. She’s a total badass. Last year at a picnic she was passing me the ketchup and she stood up at the table, grabbed the bottle, tore the cap open with her teeth and yelled “Stun Grenato!”, whilst lobbing the bottle at me with complete nonchalance. Seriously though, my mother takes charge, but she does it in a way that puts everyone around her at ease. My mom is always in control of the situation and it’s one of the many things I love about her.

            My mom learned to cook during the Korean War. She was a chef in the Army with the “Fighting 103^rd”. She was the best cook the Army ever had, until she got overconfident and tried to season and prepare a crate of bad cube steak. After the whole platoon got food poisoning, she swore she’d never cook again.  The truth of the matter is, my mom was not a cook in the Army, but cooking for a family of five on Midwood Road in peacetime was no picnic either. She worked a full time job, came home every day and made sure dinner was on the table by 17:30 hours. The General would not tolerate any deviation from the plan. My mom cooked cuts of meat I don’t think Andrew Zimmern would touch, and managed to make them taste as good as Frank Costanaza in his heyday. Has anyone ever eaten cube steak with peas from a can? By God you’d of thought 17 Midwood was the name of one of Anthony Bourdain’s trendy new restaurants. In fact now that I think about it, cube steak may well be the butchers name for the cow’s anus. Her lack of regimental culinary training aside, my mom put dinner on the table seven days a week to feed a family of five, with three hungry, growing boys and it’s one of the many things I love about her.

            My mom was a driver’s education instructor and consulted on the set of Days of Thunder. Before he met my mother, Tom Cruise thought drafting was dodging the war and smoking pot. Alright, so she wasn’t a driver’s ed. teacher, but she does have this amazingly terrifying driving skill…she uses both feet to operate the gas and brake simultaneously. Hell yeah she does! Super mom is all about doing your own thing. She wasn’t one of those hover-moms, who overachieve on behalf of their slacker kids. I built my own dioramas and passed or failed based on the results. Just like driving with both feet, my mom let me be my own person, make my own mistakes and enjoy my own successes and that’s one of the many things I love about her.

            So a special happy Mother’s Day to my mom and a very special happy first Mother’s Day to my wife too! I think it’s fair to say that I require a lot of special attention and thanks to the efforts of two very amazing women; I haven’t had to get my attention from the “proper authorities” yet.

I Brake for Spandex

What do Lance Armstrong and Al Gore have in common? Nope, it’s not a testicle joke, although it probably could be. They’ve both helped to popularize a means of transportation that I can’t fucking stand. To be fair, it’s not really the vehicles themselves, so much as the jack-offs that ride them. In our image driven society, how you get around says a lot about who you are. So let’s dig a little deeper and find out what it means to Live Strong on a bicycle, or coast in a Prius like Mother Nature’s butt boy, Al Gore.

Let me clear up something straightaway before I launch into my tirade about bicycles and the egomaniacs that ride them. I was a kid, I had a bike. Heck, I can’t wait to get one now so I can attach my son to one of those wagon deals and haul him around town like the Prince of Siam. It’s when riding a bike mutates into cycling, that the inner douche nozzle emerges, like a hot pink spandex caterpillar. The observant reader might have picked up on something in the language I’m using here, specifically the bicycle versus bike references. Naturally, if you’re reading my blog, it’s safe to assume you’re not an observant reader. In fact, I’d say it’s safe to assume you need to walk up from the basement apartment in your parents house and ask your mom what a douche nozzle is. Back on point, bikes are okay. Bikes are the BMXs and Diamondbacks that you spent your childhood afternoons crisscrossing back and forth up steep hills on, like some kind of idiot savant. Bicycles are what I have in my cross-hairs right now. So what makes a bike a bicycle? Well, it’s simple really, just take a gander at the jerk weed riding on top of it and you should know right away. Is said cockwad wearing brightly colored, form fitting, race ready spandex? It’s important to wear spandex to prevent drag. No need to lose a few pounds to pickup speed when you can just wrap it all up in with Lycra. No doubt the bright colors help keep you safe by increasing your visibility. That might not be such a problem if you ballbags would get the fuck out of the middle of the road. Beep-beep asshat, you’re not a car. On the topic of drag and wind resistance, the helmet is another sure giveaway of a bicyclist. Are you out for a ride or are you manning a weapons station on the Death Star? Holy Shit, some of those helmets are giving Rick Moranis a hard-on. I’m not sure where this quote originated from, but I agree with the sentiment, “As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists”. The prosecution rests.

            So what do you drive when you’re not busy training for the Tour de France? You head to the Toyota dealership and buy what all the other carbon offsets are buying. Just like the cyclist, it’s not so much the car I have a problem with, it’s the personality that drives it. Hey, when you buy a Prius, do they come with the Obama bumper sticker already on them or is that just the most common after market accessory available? Here’s the scenario, I’m sure you can relate. You’re 10 minutes late for this weeks check-in with your parole officer. You hop into your gas guzzling, carbon spewing, American made guilt-mobile and as soon as you turn onto Main Street, you’re staring at the back end of that glorious eco-machine, the Toyota Prius. Twenty-five miles per hour of sea foam green fury tearing down the street, with a line of cars stuck behind it, looking for all the world like the hearse in a funeral procession for General Motors. Fortunately for you, you landed in perfect position to pull a little Days of Thunder and draft that bad boy, time to do some reading,. “Make Love Not War”, ‘Give Peas A Chance”, “Change You Can Believe In”, “Impeach Bush”, “You Can’t Hug With Nuclear Arms” and on and on they go. When they bill the Prius as a hybrid, I wonder if they are inferring that it’s part car and part billboard. Or maybe it’s part car, part pussy magnet? When you roll up to the Red Lobster for the early bird special in your Prius, just go ahead and pop some Cialis ahead of time cause you’re getting lucky my friend. I blame Al Gore and Hollywood for this automotive clusterfuck. When are we going to wake up and stop listening to movie stars and politicians? You know what the worst part of being stuck behind that Prius is? Getting passed by some fat white guy in bright yellow spandex, riding a god damn Schwinn.