Now is the Winter of my Discontent

It’s the winter in New York. It’s bound to be cold, wouldn’t you suspect? Most mornings I put on my coat, grab a scarf and my messenger bag and head off to work.

My wife does the same thing, as I’m sure countless women do, again, considering it’s winter. In New York.

What amazes me is that women refuse to close their jackets properly. They’ll just stand there outside, holding their jacket together, refusing to either button it up or zipper it up. And then they bitch that they are cold. Well, ladies, I love you, but you’re retarded. It’s cold … because it’s WINTER IN NEW YORK! Quit shivering over there on the street corner and either button the coat or your mouth! Either way I'll become infinitely happier.

Random Thoughts: Volume VI

1) I love Target. And I especially love the Target dollar bin. I’ve bought notepads in there, Elmo books for my nieces/nephews, doggie bowls for the shelter I volunteer at, bungee cords for my car—just tons of odds and ends. But I think it’s so strange that there’s food in the dollar bin. Crunch ’n Munch and boxes of Pepperidge Farm cookies were in there for $1 this past weekend. I know both are filled with tons of nitrates and preservatives, and can probably sit unopened and edible for decades, but how OLD must that food be to be found in the dollar bin? How long could it possibly have sat on Target’s regular shelves with its regular merchandise? Thanks, but I’ll skip that bargain like I’d skip any place that offers “discount sushi.”

2) Does every bag nowadays—no matter the size—need wheels and a handle? If it’s a backpack … PUT IT ON YOUR BACK!!! It can’t really get any easier than that. Do you really need to wheel something the size of a bag of potato chips through the subways and up the escalators? I think not. Carry the damn thing like it was meant to be carried and call it a day.

3) Wasn’t it a revelation when VHS gave way to DVD? It wasn’t just the picture quality; with DVDs you didn’t have to stand at the machine for 15 minutes fast-forwarding through endless previews and commercials. But the effing DVD manufacturers are again leaving us stuck watching the endless crap we don’t care about. You can’t hit ‘Menu’ until it says so anymore, you can’t chapter skip anymore, you can’t even fast-forward through the previews unless the disc permits you. Maybe this is why DVD sales have fallen off a cliff the last few years.

4) Admitting this probably makes me seem strange, or gay, or both, but I like ‘products.’ My wife has 162 bottles of stuff in the shower that G-D knows what she does with all of ’em—and I’ll try every last one of ’em. If there’s an exfoliator in there, I’m on it; a moisturizer, sure, I’ll give it a try; some new shampoo that smells like avocado and bubble gum? Heck, sign me up. Not everybody is like this, I get that. But some of these products marketed to guys just aren’t helping to sway me. Hair, Face and Body Wash all rolled into one bottle (that conveniently looks like motor oil)? C’mon! Let’s call that product what it really is: Lazy Man’s Shower. You mean to tell me the same product you use to wash your ass is appropriate to wash your face with? Please.

5) It’s a benefit to be a smoker. Sure, you WILL get lung cancer and die a horrible death, but in the short run it’s tits, bro. I’ve been observing the smokers in my office. I’d say they take, on average, five smoking breaks a day (not including lunch). And each lasts about 10 minutes or so. That is 50 minutes of break-time. Nearly an hour out of their working day. And they get paid for it! How’s that not some bullshit?! What if I said to my boss, “I need several breaks a day to go outside and pick my nose.” I don’t think that would fly. What if I needed four breaks of 15 minutes each to eat Mr. Softee ice cream? No go. I think smoking is where it’s at. Not only can you be absent from work for about an hour a day, but you can be wholly unproductive when you get back, just jonesing until that next break.

It Must Be a Quest-ion of Desperation

As I’ve said before, I love having the latest gizmo—Kindle, iPad, whatever. Technology brings us together, opens up our lives, makes communication a breeze (but also steals our privacy). Heck, the tech boom made millionaires out of millions of people in the ’90s. Innovation is good.

So can someone explain to me why the HELL there are so many commercials for those Quest chat lines? I mean a call-in, chat-line dating service? In 2010? Are you kidding me? Using one of those is like going into Best Buy and asking for Avatar on VHS. It’s like getting a Discman for Christmas. You mean to tell me between Facebook, Twitter, Foresquare, email, texting and cell phones you Questers can’t find a better portal to hit on women? I know there are tons of losers out there; I’m sure there are plenty in utter-desperation mode. But using a chat line is like thinking your 1987 IROC is gonna get you laid—now.


I love the commercials; they make me laugh every single time. It’s usually an attractive-enough blonde who struggles to read her lines. The acting is terrible. It’s like Channing Tatum put on a wig and said, “Call now, hot girls like me are standing by ready for a GREAT time!” Uh huh.

Roll with the Punches, I Guess

Move over Al Gore, Savior and Protector of Planet Earth for All Mankind.

When Jimmy Carter was elected president in 1977 one of the first things he did was install solar panels in the White House. How ahead of the curve is that? Thirty years ago he was doing what he felt was best for the future of our planet. Of course Ronald Reagan, as soon as he took office, immediately removed them, saying Americans will never have to sacrifice in our consumption of natural resources. I find that stunning. (Don’t believe me? Watch this interview Bill Maher conducted with Pres. Carter.)

So fast-forward 30-plus years. I understand, as I’m sure you do, that this is the age of ‘green.’ That we all must be willing to be a bit more environmentally conscious in order to protect this earth for our grandkids’ grandkids. In fact, I just saw a commercial the other day for “tube-free toilet tissue.” (Don’t you love that pc-sounding name? Toilet Tissue … not toilet paper. Ha!) Scott is responsible for this invention. Of course, in a cruel twist of irony, it’s only available at Walmart—the killer of small business across the whole world.

Tell me, why is this such an incredible innovation? And another thing: Why the heck haven’t we all been using tube-free toilet tissue this entire time? Seems like the simplest thing ever. And we’d’ve never known the difference. How many countless tons of trees were cut down? How many countless rolls of toilet-tissue waste did we produce in all these years? This is one of those things where you say, Why didn’t I think of that? Some asshole invented those Silly Stringz, and now he’s a bajillionaire. Why didn’t someone come up with tubeless concept sooner? Or did Reagan threaten to kick someone’s ass for being ahead of the curve?

Random Thoughts: Volume V

1) We are all fat Americans. I know this better than most, as I have been permanently retaining my ‘holiday weight’ for, oh, about five years now. But have you ever noticed that portions everywhere have been getting bigger and bigger, and even less and less expensive? That helps. Just witness all those commercials on TV for Friday’s, Chili’s, Applebee’s, etc. Come on down to Bennigan’s for a SEVEN-COURSE MEAL for TWO, for only $9.99! Everywhere, that is, except the movies. I’m sorry but my box of Junior Mints, which includes a grand total of 12, is now like $5! True, a medium soda is like 44-ounces, but it’s also like $6! From now on I’m skipping the Milk Duds and bringing in a bucket of KFC; with a coupon I can get a 12-piece for $4.99. Say it loud, I’m fat and I’m proud!

1a) And you know what? Thanks for putting those calorie counts on menus now. Yea, they’re a deterrent. I appreciate the reminder that I’m a fat ass when I go to Ranch-1. You know what? Sometimes you just want some friggin Ranch-1!!!

2) Do convenience stores really need signs on them that say, “We Sell Beer,” “We Sell Cigarettes.” Really? You don’t say?! It’s not like I went in there for some alfalfa sprouts and nice guest towels.

3) This has irked me for years now: I absolutely CANNOT STAND the tourists that come to New York City, go down to Ground Zero, and stand in front of that pit, smile arm-in-arm, and take a picture. I’m sorry, but this ain’t Six Flags motherfucker! You ain’t standing in front of the churro stand! It’s like the Vatican. Go down there, take a look, soak it all in, and leave with your memories. You don’t need a picture for posterity of Uncle Bob standing in front of that fuzzy green fence with a crane in the background. Have some respect!

4) I’ve mentioned this before, but style just irks me. You gotta wear what’s flattering on you, not what’s hot at the moment. Slim Fit pants for overweight women? Are you kidding me? No one would want to see my ass dressed like Russell Brand, trust me. If your size reaches double digits--if you're shopping in Lane Bryant--that should be a clue that Slim Fit just ain't for ya, honey. I’m not saying the bigger ladies gotta cover themselves in mumus (actually I secretly am), but be real. Slim fit ain’t for you, honey, just like the media spotlight ain’t for Christine O’Donnell.

5) These ads for pharmaceuticals have passed the point of sanity. I don’t need 90 seconds of information on Vagisil. The last 30 seconds alone on the side effects are enough to make me stop eating my dinner. And how about that name—Vagisil? Vagisil? Who came up with that? Let’s just call it what it really is: Vagina Fungus Fixer. What the hell kinda woman is gonna go to her doctor and be like, “Yea my cooter is itching sooo bad. Gotta get me some Vagisil!” Couldn’t they have named it like Comfortex or some neutral shit like that? I mean if simple red nail polish can be called “Day at the Beach” then someone coulda come up with a better name for Vagisil. Fire that marketer immediately.

6) Isn’t Country Fried Chicken Salad the biggest oxymoron on a menu? Get a salad if you’re in a light mood, fried chicken if you want crap. It’s like ordering a Big Mac with a Diet Coke. Like going to a baseball game but just staying at the bar. Makes no sense.

7) Wanna witness one of the most unique places on earth? Spend some time in a vet’s waiting room. Wow! Interesting people, petowners. There’s the single guy with the overweight Pug, who surprisingly look alike. There’s the crazy cat lady who reads The New York Times to Bootsie. There’s the guy who is 5’3” with the two enormous, killer pit bulls (obviously compensating for something). There’s the old lady, probably widowed, who dresses her Maltese in a Burberry sweater—that matches her’s. Yet they can all wax poetic on the daily routines of their animals. Highly recommended people-watching destination, trust me.

8) What the heck is a ‘whole grain?’ It is on the packaging of EVERY consumer product now. Does anybody have any idea what it is? Are there half grains? I’m supposed to think Chocolate Frosted Cookie Crisp is good for kids because they have 2 grams of whole grains? Kiss my ass. It’s cookie cereal! It ain’t Shredded Wheat. How could it possibly be for good you? Here, try my chocolate-caramel-M&M-covered rice cake. Your kids’ll love it. Half the calories of a pint of Ben and Jerry’s! And with 4 grams of whole grain! Yea, and Lindsay Lohan was sober the whole time.

9) It is official that subway riding sucks. It’s as comfortable as watching a sex scene in a movie with your parents. But you try to get off a crowded subway carefully. You try not to push anybody or step on anyone’s feet. You say excuse me repeatedly. Nobody moves. Fuckin’ iPods. Fuckin’ Kindles. Nobody hears you, no one even sees you! From now on I’m shoving ass and taking toes!

UNbelievable

Why.

Why, why, why! Why did somebody decide to put the United Nations right smack in the middle of midtown Manhattan!?

This had to have been the worst idea since the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. New York is one of the most heavily populated, most densely trafficked cities on earth. And it’s certainly the busiest modern city around. Whose brilliant idea was it to put the world’s headquarters for all international matters, from climate change, to human rights, to nuclear proliferation, right here?

How do we support all the foreign dignitaries and their staffs? How do we handle the traffic from all those limos with the flags on them? Do we have enough hotel rooms? And, for that matter, how does the delegation from Gabon even afford a hotel room here in New York? ($100 to the person who knows where the hell that is without cheating!)

You mean to tell me there wasn’t a nice tract of farmland out in the boonies of New Jersey to put a massive complex? Where security could have been handled more easily. There are more hiding spots New York than there are in Sesame Place. There are more weirdos running around here then there are in Creedmore. What about considering where much of the evil has happened in the 20th century? I’m sure the Allies could have found a nice spot in Germany for the UN. Not like they could have argued against it anyway! Even so, somewhere in Europe would have made more sense geographically because it would have been about equidistant between the North American continent and Asia.

But no, us New Yorkers are stuck with it right here, fucking all our commutes up! The subways, which are usually a goddamn catastrophe on a normal day, have been as crowded as downtown La Paz. The East Side is entirely shut down for traffic, making most streets a wall of cars. (At least the traffic cops can actually, you know, DIRECT traffic, instead of just writing asinine tickets!) Throw in the fact that President Obama is coming to town and I might as well hire my first rickshaw to take me to work.

*Followup: See, I told you!*

Mr. Sinister is ‘friend’-ly

Friend
–noun
1. a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
2. a person who gives assistance; patron; supporter: friends of the Boston Symphony.
3. a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile: Who goes there? Friend or foe?
4. a member of the same nation, party, etc.

I joke that I met my wife on the Internet. I call her my very own Polish mail-order bride. Oh, she hates it, but when anyone asks us how we meet, I say, "Over the Internet," and that usually creates a whole funny conversation and even funnier looks.

Truth is, I literally married the girl down the block. We rode the school bus together as kids. I am two years older than her, and we were always at the very least acquaintances, but once I left for college I did not see her for eight years … until Friendster came along.

I graduated college in 2001 and recently after a friend persuaded me to join Friendster, which was kind of like the grandfather of social media sites. Right idea, maybe the wrong time, hence it’s relative death. I reluctantly joined, and although it didn’t have much value for me, it paid dividends in its ability to link me up with old friends and those that lived far away. Turns out, my neighbor across the street from me was then and still is my now wife’s best friend. So I bumped into my neighbor and we got to talking, and my wife’s name came up. So after a neighbor’s re-introduction, I used Friendster to open lines of communication with the woman who would become my wife.

So given that this was now around Christmastime 2004, I used Friendster communication, to quickly graduate to IM communication, and then the old standard: phone communication (crazy, I know, a dude calling a girl nowadays). Which obviously led to dating, and then one drunken night a few years later she ruffied me and got me to propose (just kidding). So we are a social media success story!

Now, I also happen to be an early adopter of technology; MP3 player, LCD television, Blu-ray player—all bought when they were still fucking expensive. So it may come as a shock to you all that I just joined Facebook yesterday*. That’s right, yesterday! (BTW, Hook, Line & Sinister Fan Page coming soon. Facebook is fighting me on the title.)

I did not want to join Facebook for a number of reasons: 1) I was out of full-time work for over a year and did not want any prospective employers Googling me and finding my page which would inevitably include some ‘tagged’ picture of me from college with a 412-lb. bucktoothed stripper and my famous sidecar bubbler 2) it’s an enormous distraction; and 3) I really don’t need to know that Steve, who I went to middle school with and haven’t seen since I was 12, had twins. I mean good for him, but that is more useless information to me than what US Weekly charges $3.99 for each week.

But honestly, it’s gotten just too big not to be a part of. Five hundred million users worldwide is nothing to scoff at. It’s not just a fad. It’s here to stay. I needed to join.

Fast forward to my first Facebook experience—boy is that a clusterfuck of a site! I’m amazed that something so poorly laid out is so damn popular. I know there’s a learning curve, but what the fuck am I looking at? A News feed? Please. Wow, the Yankees won … Look, there’s a cat up for adoption; aren’t there a bajillion of those? … A new Tosh.O episode is airing … Move over Edward R. Murrow!

This whole ‘wall’ thing took some getting used to. You’re posting on my wall, I’m posting on your wall. If it’s so popular to write on walls, then why the hell was my dry erase board ripped down within a day in college? I want my $2.49 back!

‘Liking’ something has gotten out of hand. I like watches; I like meatball heroes. Now you know. But I didn’t know that my friend can ‘like’ the fact that I like meatball heroes. I mean that’s crazy. We should call this thing Wastebook from now on.

I am now aware that Evites went out the door; everyone just uses Facebook invites; Calendars and datebooks are gone, because everyone’s on Facebook all damn day that they don’t need or have the time to click on any other application. And when you’re bored you can play Scrabble or Bejeweled. (Note: Remind me never to employ anybody ever again.) I see the value in posting pictures there for everyone to view. Granted there are dozens of other sites you can do this on, but fine. If anyone posts—or ‘tags’—that picture of 22-year-old Joe Schmuckler with hookers and coke from back in college, he can be damn sure he won’t be president in his lifetime.

Then there’s chat, a ubiquitous function. But I was talking to my friend Randi—literally 20 seconds after I joined—and asked her why it’s so important we talk in this way. I pointed out that I have AIM, GChat, e-mail, text messaging, and a phone—none of which she uses to communicate with me—yet she ignored all those portals and is chatting with me now—on Facebook. Curious.

It took me some time to realize that Facebook suggests people I may want to be friends with. This is different from an actual friend request. I realized that when I’m checking the several dozen or so of those I’d get at a time, that I have to scroll down to the bottom of the list to actually see the people that requested that I make them a friend, and not the other way around. Tricky, tricky. This can sucker me into a conversation with the goth girl that had a crush on me in high school. Who the hell wants that?!

I was thrown for a loop by a girl who sent me a friend request who I went to school with from probably middle school on, who I went to Hebrew school with, who has a twin brother who I hated (they were both dorks), who my friend used for a bit when we were 15, and who I was really never ever friends with, only cordial to in certain situations. It took me a good few minutes to figure out who the hell she was. First off, her profile picture was her baby. Did that help me out? Shoot, her REAL FACE didn’t help me at all. (Why the HELL do people put a picture up of their little rugrats instead of themselves; it’s THEIR profile!) Secondly, she was obviously listed under her married name. Lastly, even the pictures she posted of herself didn’t help. I stared at one closeup and looked at her profile for several minutes before I realized who it was. My god, I’ll never get that time back. This nigga owes me four minutes of my life! I shouldn’t have accepted her, but I clicked the wrong damn button and now I am ‘friends’ with some chick I do not know now, and rarely knew before.

People say Facebook is great for communication. Yea, with who? The nerd on your 4th grade soccer team? I'm sold. But see, first my phone stopped ringing, then chatting got old, then my inbox just wasn't filling up anymore and now texting is few and far between. And now I’m sucked in to Facebook like Kyle Broflovski.

And yet I still don’t know what a 'poke' is.

What it boils down to is Facebook is a high school hallway. It’s a way for the nerdy kids, parents, etc. (don’t kid yourself, I’d say the average user is either a 15-year-old boy or a 38-year-old woman) to stay up with the gossip they never could before of the cool people. To this day everything’s a popularity contest, except it moved from parking lots, and diners, and football fields to a virtual world of clicks and pics. It’s the anonymous girl in the orchestra talking about the relationship between the cute guy and his pretty cheerleader girlfriend. It’s the loser trying to figure out how to make fun at the jock who embarrassed him in gym class. Facebook is a dumping ground for gossip and information and so that you feel informed. Informed about crap you really shouldn’t even be informed of anyway. And it is an enormous waste of time. It basically allows us to know an inordinate amount of information about someone on a personal level that you never ever talk to or see, and generally don’t really care much about. And you have to be a virtual stalker to do it. If I were in the mall, would I shout out, “Hey, look everybody! I’m trying on a pair of shorts at the Gap!” No, of course not. You’d all look at me as the crazy dude in the mall. So why the hell would I go out of my way to discuss every minute detail of my daily life with friends and strangers alike online? Think of what the real-world interpretation of a ‘wall’ would be? What if I walked around with a sign on my neck saying, “I just ate meatloaf for dinner. Boy am I stuffed!” Insane. It’s just making us all mind-numbingly boring—yet unbelievably uninhibited—at the very same time. And nothing else.

Being a friend is an investment. It takes effort. And it’s worth it. I believe we have all lost sight of that.

So for now, update that profile and stay clear of cows!


*Yesterday was actually Sunday; I’ve been writing this post all week.