I wanna Kevin Smith these M*therf*ckers!

You all know me – I’m chubby. I was in good shape in high school (even though I thought I was fat). In a rather unique move, I gained not one but two Freshman 15s in college. After graduation I got back in shape. And now I’ve spent the last five years or so getting back into another shape: round.

Why? Because I like my heroes, I crave pizza and I am eternally on a hunt for the best burger in the world.

But I am still a normal size human being. I have a 36” waist, and my ass fits in a normal size seat, as it should. Shocking this isn't the case for most Americans. Even if you don't live in Mississippi.

Yesterday wasn’t a good day for me at work. I was pretty down so I decided to leave on the early side, right at about 5:30 PM. I got to Port Authority and felt really lucky because there were no lines. At that time I’m usually stuck waiting, but I saw that both of my gates were empty. One bus had pulled away so that left me with only one still at the gate. I figured it was full, but I ran on there and there were two seats left.

Normally I’d just wait for another one because the only seats left at that point are usually way in the back, but I felt karma may have finally been on my side and decided to board.

Mistake.

And the second I got on, the bus pulled away, so I had no chance to get off.

The very last section of the bus is one row of five seats. I took one look back there and saw what I was up against: The Wall of Obesity! I took one look and knew my ride was fucked.

Four people, five seats. No, not really; I take that back. Four people the size of Civics left no seats. They saw me heading right toward them – that ‘Oh, shit’ look in their eyes – and they started to scootch-slide over. But these were real behemoths we’re talking about here, so they left me with literally about six inches of room to sit.

I tried – I tried to sit comfortably. I made one attempt to lean back and squish my shoulders in tight so my back could rest against the seat. Yea, that didn’t happen. So I spent the whole ride with my ass just dangling off the seat’s edge, sitting upright with my legs at a right angle. It was like a wrestling workout.

Luckily for me, even in the pouring rain, the ride was as short as could be. I was off the bus in an hour. The problem was I hurt my back doing some work on my house on Sunday, so sitting scrunched up like that, for that long, made it tighten up again and I’m really hurting from it. Just when I was starting to feel better, the Wall of  Obesity struck, and struck hard.

So today I sit at work – hurt back and hurt pride. My wife did something really sweet for me yesterday and stopped and got me a cheese Danish from the bakery. I love cheese Danish, and never eat them. But I’m putting it down. I’m having Special K with skim milk instead. I cannot – I will not – contribute to the Wall.

Etiquette in the Rearview

I remember this one time in my ‘going out’ days hanging somewhere in the West Village. I drove into the city from Long Island, where I still lived, so I didn’t drink much, if anything at all. This was probably around 2003. So I’m out at some bar (probably for someone’s birthday) and at like 4am I left the place to head home, with a full car of me plus four people. It was pouring sheets of water; an absolutely terrible storm. I remember turning up 6th Avenue to head uptown. Traffic, even at that hour, was typically NYC heavy—you always have to look out for bobbing and weaving cabs and the usual terrible drivers. My concentration was on high-alert. I remember seeing a red light ahead of me, and traffic slowing quickly, so I stop--not short, but probably more abruptly than I’d have liked considering the weather.

There was a cab behind me. Given the conditions—and the way cab drivers pay attention—he just didn’t see the brake lights ahead until it was too late. He tried to stop, he did not skid—but he was too close and slammed right into me. Pretty decent jolt, too.

Rear ended by a cab at 4am. F*ck!

I asked all my friends if they were ok. I think my friend Jen felt a little twinge in her neck, but nothing serious at all; luckily we were all fine. But this part I remember distinctly: there were two young girls in the cab, maybe 19. They looked like they shouldn’t have been out drinking anyway. Within a few seconds of the accident I saw the two girls rushing from the cab, one of them holding her face--nose gushing blood. They ran down the nearest street. It was obvious her face went clear into the plastic divider in the cab. I’ll never forget that.

I’ll also never forget the cab driver’s face. He looked petrified. Did he hurt anyone? Will those girls sue him? Will he be arrested? He must have had a million thoughts rush through his head in that one instant. I’ll never forget his medallion number either: 2Y76A. Those medallions are expensive. These guys come from the Middle East and North Africa to make a living for themselves and their families; many go into debt just to buy those cars. I think of him often, because he did over $3,000 of damage to my rear end, which his insurance paid for. Did that break him? Was he finished? Is he even in the U.S. anymore? Did those girls sue? I just don’t know.

(Cops eventually came, because they happened to drive by; they were useless. Didn’t get out of the cruiser, didn’t ask a single question. Like they couldn’t be bothered. I filled out a report myself at the station the next day, on their suggestion. I remember them specifically saying they didn't have to be there. I was out in the rain that night past 6am, soaked, freezing, before I was able to get home. I think my friends took a cab to Penn Station to catch a train, but that part I don’t remember clearly.)

When you rear-end someone in a car, it is 100% your fault as a driver. I’m reminded of this as I walk every day in NYC. I now work in a very congested area, Times Square, with all its tourists and street vendors and those people selling bus tickets to Woodbury Commons on every corner. When someone is walking in front of me, either looking up at the tall buildings or down at their phones—usually down at their phones--and then they abruptly stop and I crash right it to them, is that really my fault? It absolutely is not!

People need their own rearview mirrors. Or maybe just a better sense of their surroundings. They stop dead in their tracks and you crash right into them; what the heck do you say?! Oh, I’m so sorry! Well, no I’m not. It’s YOUR damn fault. YOU should be the one saying sorry to ME! Who the hell just STOPS WALKING on a busy NYC sidewalk? WTF?!

I know this is typical New York crap; we deal with it every day. But it’s gotten worse and worse and it’s really getting to me now. Either no one pays attention, or simply no one gives a shit about the other people around them. I’m starting to feel the latter weighs more prominently. Etiquette, respect … they’re gone.

That cab driver crashed into me; he could have injured me or my friends. And yet, 10 years later, I still think about that person and where he is today because of his one momentary lapse in concentration. Whatever happened to him? I’ll never know…

Do you think, next time some asshole just decides to stop walking in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and I walk right into him, I can just banish him (or her) to Pakistan? Cuz I’d love that. I really would. The punishment would fit the crime.

Fourteen Facebook Faux Pas

Mr. Griffith: I don't know what your generation's fascination is with documenting your every thought ... but I can assure you, they're not all diamonds. "Roman is having an OK day, and bought a Coke Zero at the gas station. Raise the roof." Who gives a rat's ass?!

Olive Pendergast: He got a coke zero again? Oh, that Roman. Incorrigible!

This dialogue from the movie “Easy A” cracked me the hell up. My wife too. We were both rolling, because the truth is, 95.82% of the stuff on Facebook—that’s scientifically proven by yours truly—is absolute crap. It’s part of the reason why I hate Facebook as much as I like it. True, if it had not been for checking my mobile app at nearly 11 p.m. on a Sunday night this past spring, I probably wouldn’t have known the U.S. Navy Seals took out Osama bin Laden. So thank you, Facebook, for that. That is one of the great plusses of social media: overwhelming consumption and documentation by everyone 24/7.

But one of the worst things about social media is the … overwhelming consumption and documentation by everyone 24/7. I joined just shy of a year ago, really to keep up with former co-workers and whatnot, as I found myself jumping around in employment opportunities in this shitty economy. To network, basically, but more informally. And yea it’s good for seeing some pictures and getting random invites to events (though I have yet to accept even one). And sure I like to kibbitz about the odd movie or random event. But mostly I like to tease others for their retarded posting.

And there are mmmaannnyyyy examples of stupid-ass, waste-of-time, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking, who-cares posts. As such, behold, the Fourteen Facebook Faux Pas to avoid in the future:


14) Sports updates. If your team wins a championship, have at it. Go nuts. Share all your thoughts and congratulations to the world. Feel free to shit-talk at length. However, if the Yankees are playing Kansas City in July, I really don’t care if it’s 4-1 in the fourth. That’s what SportsCenter is for!

13) Don’t get fancy or cutesy with upside down writing or writing in other languages. I’m not spending the time deciphering that. Facebook should be quick and easy; I shouldn’t need a cipher key to figure out your postings.

12) Directions for profiles. Look, just because it’s Michael Jackson’s birthday does not mean I have to change my profile pic to the Thriller album cover. I don’t need to put a picture up of my father for Father’s Day. And I certainly do not have to put up a picture up of the Thundercats to celebrate Random Cartoon Day. My picture is my picture.

If putting up a picture of a pink ribbon would get some sponsor to donate X dollars to some charity per person who does this, then fine. Otherwise, mind yo bidness!!

11) Random thoughts and asinine comments need to be curtailed. When someone goes, “I hate traffic,” what are you really trying to prove? Yea, we get it, traffic sucks. Did you really feel the need to share that? If you blurted that out in public you’d just look like a crazy person … so why type it for everyone to see? It’s grounds for de-friending if you keep that shit up. And don’t even think about posing …

10) The not-qute-rhetorical question. Examples include: “What are you up to?” “What you doing?” “Who likes ice cream?”

This also goes for random statements: “I love turquoise.” “Springtime is the best.” “I want to see a movie today.” Thank you for that, Corky. A dur dur...

9) Nutbaggedness. Look, we all know the cardinal rules of conversation, whether at a party or with family or with total strangers: You don’t bring up religion or politics. No one ever agrees. Fifty percent of the time you piss someone off, the other half you are just patting someoene on the back for sounding as smart as you. Leave it all alone. Those “God is Great … I feel blessed today … Jesus lifts me up” crap has gots ta go. No one wants to be preached to. I can just ride a subway for that.

8) Keep your depressing, woe-is-me shit to yourself. If you are having a bad day, I get it, go ahead and vent. But do you really need to write things like, “Oh, life is terrible now, but it’s worth living. I just know it’ll get better soon.” Well fuck you for ruining my day! Go wash down a bottle of vicodin with some Jack and leave me the hell outta this sobfest! I’ll call the ambulance for you in about 45 minutes, but that’s about it. If your boyfriend dumped you, it sucks, but stop whining about how you’ll never get a ring. Look, you probably got fat and stopped giving him head anyway. No wonder he left. Go order Chinese and hook up with your black neighbor. Leave me out of it.

7) Fishing for sympathy. This one is similar to the above, except for the vagueness of the way it comes out. For instance, someone’ll write “Just took her to the doctor. The news isn’t good, but hopefully we caught it in time.” What the hell is that?! Look, you tossed out your line real shallow on that one but I ain’t taking the bait. She could have a friggin hangnail! Maybe your dog has a cold. I can’t tell. If your mom was really sick and needed a kidney or something, just friggin come right out and say it; what do you have to lose? You are posing statements like this because you want the sympathetic and worried comments they will bring on. And because you are asking for attention—which is more about YOU than your sick mother anyway! (Don’t worry about little Fifi. Yea she ate the mascara, but nothing a little diarrhea won’t cure.)

6) Endless pictures of your kids. It is nice to be able to share pictures of your children growing up with family, especially when family is so spread out such as mine is. But how interesting is it if you see a picture of your nephew coloring—every single day! Seriously, it’s just not.

And another thing: This new app that allows you to make pictures look like vintage photos of the 70’s? Ok, it was cool a few times, but it’s just getting boring. There’s a reason photo technology has progressed from 35mm film—cuz it sucked! Colors were washed out, the ink looked grainy. And that crappy white border was ridiculous. A few landscape shots are nice, a few good ones of little Levi are cute, but I don’t need to see ‘em every day.

And there are to be NO 70’s vintage shots of Levi potty training. Under no circumstances!

5) Random music videos. Who’s really stopping to watch these? Who really cares what you’re listening to at the moment? I’m sorry, but just because you got the urge to Youtube Debbie Gibson’s “Electric Youth,” doesn’t mean I’m going to ride that nostalgia train. Same goes for brand new shit. Look, Katy Perry is ubiquitous; if I wanted to hear her I’d just turn on 20on20 or Z100 or something. You don’t need to post her video to “Last Friday Night.” She has big boobs and no talent, that’s it. If she’s topless, by all means, post it. If she’s singing, I think I’d rather gargle with battery acid. Or force her to.

4) The language of the digital age. Abbreviations and acronyms kill me. LOL. Ok, laugh out loud. So then what does LOLOLOLOL mean? Laugh out loud out loud out loud out loud? I think the caps will suffice for emphasis, thankyouverymuch.

I can’t tell you how long it took me to figure out what the hell SMH meant. I had to ask a college kid. I can see abbreviating long words in the essence of saving characters (especially on Twitter), but on Facebook, just write the damn thing out. Is it too hard to write ‘love’ instead of ‘luv?’ Its ONE MORE LETTER! I’ve seen people write ‘bt’ instead of ‘but.’ No, not for ‘between,’ for ‘but.’ Really?

My children are going to be illiterate, I can feel it. Which hurts me, because I love reading and writing. It would be like if the Lopez/Anthony twins hate singing. Oh, and marry white people.

3) Checking in. Now this has got to stop. It’s just dangerous. Seriously, since when did we want to tell THE ENTIRE WORLD where we were going? For instance, what if I yelled out at work, “I am going to Ranch 1 now, then the ATM, and I may hit up Banana Republic on the way back.” Would anyone care? Nope, they’d be annoyed. Shall I announce that my risotto has a fly in it while at a restaurant? I think not.

If you post for the world to see that you are at Tony’s DiNapoli, then I can only assume you are out with friends or family and you will be gone, stuffing yourself with mediocre family-style Italian food, for a good several hours. Looks like an invitation to rob your ass, if you ask me! If I study your Facebook page long enough, I’d probably know if you had a roommate, live with a dog, and what kind of stuff you like to shop for. That’s Robber Christmas in my book.

If your Breitling goes missing, though, it wasn’t me; it was your Dominican neighbor downstairs, I swear.

2) These games have just got to go. Café World? Mafia Wars? Farmville? What the hell is Farmville?! I couldn’t care less. These games are mostly played by middle-aged fat women who have kids instead of dogs and who don’t like their husbands very much. It’s an excuse to avoid conversation with them completely. Yet it clogs up my friggin’ wall to no end. And as such I have taken to hiding all posts from people who play these sorts of games.

Remember SAT analogies? To me …

Facebook : Games as Fat Loser : Player

1) Potty Training. This is NOT a milestone people care about. It ain’t walking, it ain’t talking. And it certainly ain’t cute. You can CALL the damn grandparents and tell them little Morgan went on the potty. The general public DOES NOT need to know this.

Let alone see the visual evidence! My god! How is that any less disgusting than the Jackass guys shitting in a detached toilet in a Home Depot? It isn’t.
Little Morgan gets three drips in the toilet and 12 all over the People magazine on the floor—and that’s video-worthy? No. It. Is. Not. Keep that shit private, nobody wants to see it.

You Down With OCD? Yea You Know Me!

I thought I was going to die this morning.

I thought I was in jail, about to get shanked.

I’m on the subway standing next to this big, black woman with these huge shades on, covering what I thought was the remnants of a black eye. She was chewing like a cow the entire time, only she kept making this weird clicking noise, like she had a mouth full of thumbtacks. Click-click-click. Clllllllick. I had no idea what it was. But I typed this after I got off the train, so, as you can tell, I am alive and well. I departed the train, and I presume she went on spinning that razor blade in her mouth.

I am also a germophobe. How does that tie into this story? Well, I’ll tell you. It all began when I heard Howard Stern interview Howie Mandel on his radio show, oh, maybe close to 10 years ago. Both are notorious germophobes, and I couldn’t believe the scenarios and stories they were discussing. But shoot, everything I heard them say was absolutely right! And disturbing. How door handles in public bathrooms are disgusting because men never wash their hands. They hold their dicks to pee and then just walk right out!

They discussed their entire public bathroom routine: How they first make sure they have enough paper towels at the ready, which means they dispense the appropriate length before they wash. Then they turn on the faucet and wash their hands with soap and water. Doesn’t matter if the faucets are filled with germs, in their estimation, because they are about to wash those hands that just touched the diseased faucet anyway. But after that they don’t touch a thing. They dry their hands with the paper towel they previously laid out and then use that towel to turn off the sink and open the door to the restroom.

Some people might think this is obsessive. I think it’s genius! Changed my public-bathroom-going life. And I’ve done this routine from that day forward. Shit, I don’t leave the house with out Purell. I shoulda bought stock in Johnson & Johnson!

So anyway, I’m on the subway this morning and I didn’t get my customary spot with my back against the side door of the car, the one that leads from train to train. I like that spot best because then I don’t have to touch anything in there; I don’t need to hold on for balance with my back supported. But, unfortunately, I had to stand in the middle and hold onto one of the railings. When I do this I never move my hand, never switch hands, and try very carefully not to touch a thing, not even my Kindle that I hold in the other hand. And you know how the bars are metal and how at first touch they are cool but the longer you hold them they get warmer, because of the heat from your palms? Well, the warmness is gross. Mine is ok, but everyone else’s is just fucking gross. I never move my hand because I never want to touch any other part of the bar that may have been touched by anyone else.

Well, this woman, who may or may not have just come from Rikers, kept infringing on my bar-holding territory. She kept moving her hand in such a way that I was forced to move mine. Over and over! I had no choice but to constantly degrip and regrip the bar, so as to avoid any bodily contact with her. And every single damn time I moved my hand I wound up in her warm spot. (That is NO euphemism for sex, I’m telling you now!). It’s just the grossest thing ever, having to hold onto the same spot someone just vacated. It’s warm, sweaty, probably filled with grease and boogers and sneeze residue. Ugh! I’ve now washed my hands and Purell’d several times at work … and I still feel like there’s an invisible coating of crap on my hand.

I know I’m nuts. No need to remind me.

Let’s Play A Guessing Game!

What am I?

1) Tender strips of steak, green peppers, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes and Cheddar cheese. Served with salsa and hash browns.

2) Bacon, pork sausage, shredded beef, ham, onions, green peppers and Cheddar cheese. Served with salsa.

3) Six strips of crispy bacon, a rich cheese sauce, Jack and Cheddar cheeses and diced tomatoes.

Noticing a theme here? Since when did salsa become an alternative to a serving of vegetables?

How about this: What am I?

1) A sweet cream filling, crowned with your choice of cool strawberry topping, warm blueberry or cinnamon apple compote and whipped topping. Served with two eggs, hash browns, two bacon strips or two pork sausage links.

2) Loaded with creamy, rich cheesecake pieces and crowned with cool strawberries, powdered sugar and whipped topping.

I’ll give you one hint with these last two: They are NOT desserts!

In case you were wondering, the answers are all culled from the IHOP breakfast menu and the first three are all omelettes! That’s right, IHOP fills three eggs with that crap. Unbelievable! The fourth is something called a Stuffed French Toast Combo ... also known as Puke on My Pedals, if I ate that and hit the road. Lastly, the thing with the cheesecake? Yea, that’s something called the New York Cheesecake Pancakes. You gotta be kidding me—those are pancakes?! (Take a look for yourself here.)

Where’s this all coming from? In late fall my wife and I were starving, but we were on a mini road trip and we had no choice but to stop at an IHOP for breakfast.

We sat down, looked over a menu as long as Moby Dick and, with it being breakfast time and all, decided to, you know, order breakfast. My wife ordered strawberry crepes. Who doesn’t like creps? They’re delicious. Sure, this wasn’t the Champs-Élysées but they were fine.

I decided to get one of IHOP’s “specials” (I use that term loosely). I ordered this pecan cinnamon french toast. I thought it sounded delicious, and I generally order what’s new or different on a menu. The waiter came over and took our orders. When I said I’d like the pecan french toast, he said, “And what else would you like with that?” This question puzzled me—isn’t french toast considered breakfast? He said, “Do you want anything on the side with that?” And I’m thinking, maybe some hash browns or something. He said, “No scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, ham, maybe some pancakes?” In my head I’m like, “So lemme get this straight: You’re asking me if I want pancakes on the side of my french toast???” I couldn’t believe it. Clearly in America we need fried bread, a slab of pig, enough fried potatoes to feed a Polish village and maybe even some more dough covered with butter and sugar for a meal to be considered breakfast? Adequate to give you energy for the day?

I said no to everything. I just ordered the french toast. Came with a very nice wedge of orange too, which I ate. How healthy of IHOP!

Turns out I realized where he was coming from once I received my order. My pecan cinnamon french toast amounted to two pieces. Literally one thick piece of bread cut in half. With whipped cream and syrup of course, but still, it was a small order. So in this case, I could have seen getting some scrambled eggs on the side. No matter, I ate it, it was enough, my wife and I moved on.

But that’s not the point is it? My G-d we eat crap in this country. I’m as guilty of it as any. But if I can keep vegetarian in my house for nine months now, and still be 5’9” and weight 215, what hope does does the poor motherfucker in Gulfport, Miss., or Baltimore have? Damn.

I don’t Mean to Piss on Your Parade, But …

We’ve come a long way, baby, since the days of kerosene lamps, milking our own cows and outhouses. We have home water delivery, personal shoppers, and credit cards are so '80s when we can pay for things with our cell phones. It’s a constant array of ever-evolving items and services to make our lives easier.

We have biodegradable potato chip bags*, the increasing lineup of hybrid cars, we’ve thankfully long moved away from the ubiquity of Aqua Net-needing hairstyles that destroy the ozone layer with their CFCs.

Our green-ness struck me around the holidays as I’m walking around this enormous outlet mall called Woodbury Commons in upstate New York. Here I am, carrying my Banana Republic shopping bag and fending off personal-space-invading Asian shoppers (also ubiquitous) when I had to pee.

So I go to the restroom and am pleasantly surprised that they have installed flushless, waterless toilets throughout the shopping center. This is a good thing, right? Saving 1.5L of water per flush, conserving the environment, going green, yay us.

But then I got to thinking: What the hell IS a flushless, waterless toilet anyway? Seriously, isn’t it just a hole in the ground? How’s it different? Where the hell is all that piss going? And what’s more, why the heck did they have to build an enormous porcelain basin for me to piss in in the first place? I assume the creation of said porcelain basis must have produced a waste product in and of itself? What makes this such an advance? I just don’t get it.

To me, it’s the reinvention of the outhouse. We’ve come full circle. We piss in a hole and shit in a compost pile. It’s the friggin’ frontier all over again. I like Mustangs, not a mustang. I’m not going back. From now on I will piss in a Sun Chip bag and hope for the best.

* This is how fucking retarded people are in America. Our fat asses, who consume God-knows-how-many bags of chips a year, finally had a capitalistic corporation do something good! The Frito-Lay Co. developed a biodegradable bag for their Sun Chips in 2007. That way, when your lazy ass leaves it on the ground in the park it will just break down over time and not affect the grass or the soil. So what happened? The stupid, fat, ridiculous American consumer complained so much about the bag being—get this—too loud, that it was pulled from the market in October 2010. People would rather not be bothered while reading their video game magazine in a Subway than put up with a little extra noise in the hope of protecting the Earth. I’m disappointed, but what’s worse, I’m not surprised.

A Picture is Worth 1,000 Bananas?

That ASPCA commercial with Sarah McLaughlin? You know the one I’m talking about, when “Angel” is playing over pictures of all those poor animals in cages or being rescued from horrible situations? Damn that kills me. I have to turn away every time it’s on. I love animals. If I won MegaMillions tomorrow I’d buy a farm for all the doggies and the kitties out there.

And around holiday time you just cannot escape those sad commercials from every charity known to man. They pull at your heartstrings, rightfully so. They need donations, and hey, the holidays are a time for giving, right? The lonely old people for Meals on Wheels, the WWF trying to protect natural habitats, the Christian Children’s Fund …

Damn those starving African kids. You know what I mean: There will be the slow, solemn narration by a guy with a tenor voice while video is running of 11-year-old Chikeze who is caring for his three young siblings because his parents were murdered in some dictatorial coup? One kid has a booger running down his lip, the other has a fly crawling by his eyeball. You can’t watch. Those shits are set up for you to cry. (Seriously though, Africans have been starving for 50 years now; how the hell do they have the energy for sex?!)

Then you see poor Chikeze, holding his 9-month-old, fly-infested little sister, as he’s woefully staring at a picture of his long lost parents. And I’m thinking … How the HELL did those poor motherfuckers get a picture of their damn parents?! You mean to tell me this motherfucker who ain’t got no shoes, lives in a hut, and sleeps on the dirt was able to get a picture of his parents? What is that, a family heirloom? Who the hell is going around taking pictures of poor ass African families? You mean to tell me CCF is taking my 39 cents a day and walking around in the dust taking pictures? Geez, Ezekiel, put down the fucking camera and start handing out bananas! Bring ’em in by the truckload. Like lil Chizeke needs a damn picture?! His parents are dead. What he needs is to be adopted by Madonna. But in absence of that, give him the damn Nikon so he can hock it for a goat. And save Heifer.org the trouble of sending one to his village.

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.

To Live and Die in N.Y.

I love Queens. It's the most ethnically diverse county in the entire world. I hate Queens. It's the most ethnically fucking diverse county in the whole damn world.

Here is the scene as I literally just witnessed it 10 minutes ago ...

I'm at a new grocery store down the block from my apartment. It's really nice, wide aisles, clerks that actually speak English. So I get on line and there is an older Asian woman who has just paid and is trying to give her address to the nice, mid-20s Indian cashier for delivery. The Asian woman is getting belligerent because she doesn't understand that the checkout lady just needs her name and address. She's increasingly raising her voice: Accou Numbah Heah!!! Address One-Oh-Faow Faow-eey Queen Boo-re-vahhhd! The checkout lady is like, Yes I know, I got that part; but what is your name?

ONE-OH-FAOW FAOW-EEY QUEEN BOOOO-RE-VAHHHHHDDDDD!!!

I mean seriously woman. It's a fucking delivery. Name, address, you're friggin done. How hard is that?! Aren't your people usually the ones DOING the delivery? I bet your son is the one on the damn bike with my dumplings. Come on now!

So at this point I try to give up and go to the other cashier (Taylor Swift's shorter, prettier twin, I swear), but here's where it gets interesting ...

An old lady in a wheelchair (probably Jewish) is being pushed by a nice, probably mid-40s Caribbean woman. Since I happen to be in the widest aisle, the Caribbean woman says, Excuse me, so she can get the lady in the wheelchair through and out the door.

Unfortunately Lil Miss Pearl Harbor wouldn't move. The old lady was tapping her and asking her gently to move. (I mean what's the alternative? It was nice of the old lady to ask as it was. Usually old ladies have less patience than Paula Abdul on meth and will just run your feet right over.) But then the Dragon Roll refused to move! She was yelling at the old lady: I not mooo-veen! I busy! You go roun!!! I mean, she was being ruder and bitchier than I thought possible. At this point I finally opened my mouth and was like, Listen lady, can't you friggin move over? Let the lady through already. What's wrong with you? She said, Wai Wai (wait wait, I figured), and still wasn't moving. So the old lady just tried her best to push General Tso out of the way and the Caribbean woman wheeled her by.

Man, I hope she got a piece of Po Flied Lice's damn toe on the way out the door.

Well, the Indian woman was still trying to get the information she needed from PF Chang after that, so I then headed over to Prettier Taylor Swift and we laughed about it. I said I hate people, but she was sweet; she was like, For every mean person there's always a nice person.

Ah, the young. So oblivious!

Up Shit's Creek Without a Poodle

I saw something dangerous, disgusting and infuriating on my way to work today. As I was walking south on Lexington, just past Bloomingdale’s there was a spread-out pile of fresh dog shit just laying right in the middle of the sloping part of the sidewalk … you know, the part that’s sloped to make it easier to walk on … where EVERYONE steps. I mean, thank G-D I saw it at the last second, because if I stepped in dog shit at 8:30 in the morning I woulda been pissed like Jennifer Aniston at her success with men.

The culprits were either an old man walking two Scotties just a few steps in front of me, or this yuppie couple walking a Shih Tzu about one block ahead. The guy was dressed like a sailor from Love Boat and the girl was dressed in those skin-tight running pants from Lululemon or wherever. I may have been blinded by her ass for a quartermillisecond until I realized I was still steaming about the shit.

Either way, I swear, if I had stepped on it, I would have backtracked, found Mrs. Yuppie, taken my shoe off, and wiped it on her shirt! Hey, shit for shat is what I always say.

Mosquing the Real Problem

In a departure from my usual rants and raves on everyday things I cannot stand, today I write about a serious issue that is bothering me greatly. Thanks for understanding and reading.

About seven or so years ago I was rear-ended by a cab. It was about 4 a.m., torrentially pouring and I was heading home to Long Island in my car filled with four friends (I was the DD). We were heading north on 6th Ave. in the West Village, traffic was slow because the rain was blinding, and the cab slammed into me. The hit was hard enough to jolt us, and it caused about $3,000 worth of body damage, but luckily we were all fine, no one was hurt.

What made the accident happen? Was the driver tail-gaiting? Was he driving too fast, especially considering the conditions? Or was he simply not paying attention? Whatever it was, he hit me. It was all his fault and there was no other way it could be. We went through insurance and I got my money to fix my Jeep. That cab driver couldn’t blame it on the particular piece of pavement, or on my left front tire, or even on the rain. He simply fucked up and rear-ended me. End of story.

I have been terribly disturbed, but mostly disappointed, by all this talk regarding the Mosque that is in development near the Ground Zero site in Lower Manhattan. Let me be clear: I have NO problem with it. And anyone who objects to its right to be erected where it is planned is just wrong. This isn’t a matter of opinion, or of sensitivity. In this case there is only one correct opinion—and that is to support the right to build the Mosque.

This country was built—literally built—around the idea of religious tolerance, religious freedom. Heck, the Pilgrims crossed the ocean to start their lives in the New World on the premise that they would be able to worship without oppression. Our Founding Fathers considered freedom of religion one of the inalienable rights; this coming from brilliant men who strongly felt religion had absolutely ZERO place in matters of the state. (Don’t believe me? I can show you page after page of quotes from Jefferson, Franklin, Washington that prove me right.)

The naysayers we see on TV and on our streets every day are those who claim to be so patriotic, to love this country so much. Yet by protesting, by fighting in such a spiteful matter, they are basically spitting on the colors of our flag, and all it stands for, and all who died for it. Objecting to the building of this house of worship is Un-American.

Since when did we become a country of exclusion? Unless you can trace your ancestors back to Jamestown or to those that rode on the Mayflower, then your roots came from somewhere else. Oh, you’re still a citizen, but your origins lie elsewhere. See, in some ways we are Americans, but in other ways we are all visitors to this country. Think of the issue this way: What if the President was assassinated by a man with the last name of Sorrentino? Should we all boycott eating at pizzerias for the rest of our lives? Why punish all Italians—or, for that matter Italian-Americans—for the sins of one individual … who happened to have Italian roots?

Building this Mosque does not in any way whatsoever insult the memories of those who died on 9/11. In fact, the blatant affront to our Constitution that is this fight against building it is the bigger injustice to those that died. It means the terrorists won in changing the American way of life. Which has always been their sole objective anyway. It's not suffering; it's making us different.

Let me pose this another, more poignant way: If the Klu Klux Klan was to blame for the destruction of the Twin Towers, would we be objecting so vehemently to a Church being built a few blocks from the site? No, of course not. We’d celebrate it. We’d speak of the power of religion being able to overcome such horrors that come to affect man. We’d applaud the construction of a new house of worship. We’d see it as integral to the healing process. We wouldn’t punish the Christian religion as a whole by fighting to keep a Temple of God away from a tract of land where 3,000 people died. It would be considered the right thing to do; it would help us move on.

Why are we doing the same to Muslims? Why is all of Islam taking such blame? It was a few raindrops, not the rain, and more people need to understand that. Look, I’m Jewish, middle-class, educated. I realize that Islam did not hijack two planes to crash into the Towers on Sept. 11—a rogue group of extremists did. They are to blame, not their religion. To hell with them, I hope they are punished for all of eternity. No fucking 72 virgins for you guys! But you know who shouldn’t be blamed? Hakeem Olajuwon. He’s a Muslim. He’s also an American citizen. And he had nothing to do with this. And he certainly does not deserve any dirty looks and unjust thoughts just because he shares a belief system with certain criminals. People are entitled to worship how they want in this country, wherever they want. Lower Manhattan is no different. Islam is no different.

The KKK is to Christianity what Islamic Extremists is to Islam. Remember that.

If you want to be upset, fine. If you think it’s insensitive, ok. Maybe it is, a little. I'll concede that. But you know what eases my thoughts on the matter? The fact that this Mosque will be the most surveilled building in the whole entire country, outside of the White House. Every level of government, from local law enforcement to the FBI, CIA and Interpol will be monitoring the activities—daily—in that Mosque. You can count on that. Shoot, that thought makes me more comfortable than the enormous run-down house-as-Mosque that my parents live by. Who the hell knows what goes on in there? (But, truth is, it’s probably nothing, and it’s really none of my business.)

Where the money is coming from is another concern. But really, you can never know where exactly the money is coming from when a building goes up. How many skyscrapers did Al Capone bankroll in Chicago? How many thieving, conniving crook investment bankers built stadiums or convention centers around the country? Point is, no matter where the money is coming from for this Mosque, at least we can spy and track what’s being done with it. Building inspectors can harp on the Mosque, making sure it’s up to code. If they want to build the Mosque in a certain way, for safety or privacy concerns, well, then the city reserves the right to review the proposal, and reject it if need be. Either way, alls I’m saying is, I’d feel a lot better about this one building than I would a random apartment in Lackawanna.

Point is, the tires didn’t cause that cab to crash into me, shoddy driving did. Islam didn’t cause the devastation in Lower Manhattan, the actions of a sad few did. I cannot and will not place blame or penalty on an entire group of people for the choices only a few make. It’s not American. It makes us look bad. In fact, it’s disgraceful. We are a country of inclusion, the benchmark of tolerance for all the world to see. “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,” remember? It’s right there, for everyone who enters this country to view the second they step foot on our soil. Nothing will make the Arabic world hate us more than this sorry act we’re in the middle of now. Americans accept. It's what makes us great.

As it stands, we’re Pizarro and we’re slaughtering the Mayans for a City of Gold that does not exist. Even if it did, well, right now we just aren’t showing ourselves worthy of finding it anyway.

Riding off into the Non-Sunset

We’ve come a long way since prehistoric man inventing the wheel. Native Americans learned to hollow out tree trunks to make canoes. Sailing moved from Viking longships to the Spanish Navy to Old Ironsides to German U-Boats to Royal Caribbean hotels-on-water.

Then came the horseless carriage. It was steam-powered until Henry Ford invented what we know to be the modern automobile. Now our cars have Wi-Fi, navigation systems, crumple zones, more cupholders than a movie theater and can even parallel park themselves.

Man had been obsessed with flying for a millennium until the Wright Brothers took off from Kitty Hawk, N.C., in 1903. Only about 20 years later, Charles Lindbergh made a solo transatlantic flight. By World War II FDR made this country into a war factory. He mandated we produce 50,000 aircraft for battle in Europe. We failed. Our plants made 100,000. Fast-forward to modern times and we have planes with Stealth technology, Internet connections and beds! (And if I were a rapper or NBA star I’d probably have my own!)

So tell me, why-oh-why does our rail system stink so badly? Locomotive technology, on tracks as we know them today, came to prominence in the 1820’s—and they haven’t made a lick of progress since! Oh, the trains are pretty now; they have electronic voices and maps and ergonomic seats. But putting our fancy new trains on our old ass tracks is like putting wagon wheels on Ferrari. If there’s a cloud in the sky they are slowed to a halt, like a baseball game.

Name me one instance when it rains or snows that you are not delayed on the LIRR, Metro North, New Jersey Transit, Path or Subway? You can’t. Because they suck! Every … single … time it rains the trains are delayed. In nearly 200 years we have not developed the technology to make our trains capable of running on wet tracks, yet there are disposable underwater cameras? I had a friend who dropped her cell phone in the toilet and it was still working the next day. Sure it smelled like piss, but it made calls!

There are major delays on the LIRR today, as I write this, at 4 p.m. on Monday. What is the cause of such delays? A track fire. That’s right, a fucking track fire. Fire! On the tracks! In the middle of the pouring rain! How the FUCK does that happen?? It’s as baffling to me as the popularity of Justin Bieber. It’s like farting out the smell freshly baked cupcakes. Some things should just not happen.

This is just great, because I know, when I leave work here today, I’ll be stuck on an overcrowded, wet, slippery subway, where someone will inevitably sneeze all over me, and I’ll have a woman’s bag jabbing me in the ribs and I won’t be able to finish my book because I won’t be able to lift my arms. So I will prepare for this by doing two things: A) Putting on my iPod and B) making sure I look really pissed off.

Oh, don't worry, it comes naturally to Mr. Sinister.

Random Thoughts: Volume IV

1) I know the MTA is as broke as MC Hammer, but its service is ridiculous. My MetroCard keeps costing more and more and yet I’m waiting longer and longer for a train. I rode four separate lines this past weekend: the E, F, 2 and 4. I waited on the platform between 15 and 20 minutes for each! I’m sorry, are the cars being pulled by oxen? It is impossible to plan your travel accordingly in New York anymore because you have absolutely zero way of predicting when the hell you’ll be lucky enough to get on a damn train.

2) And who are these people that choose to stand right next to you on an empty subway platform? You have endless empty space in which to stand, yet you choose to stand 3 feet from me? You clearly must have wanted to read that Scott Pilgrim vs. The World movie poster very badly. Either that, or you’re a raving lunatic psychokiller. Move the fuck over!

3) I hate those people who hesitate before going onto an escalator. It’s an escalator, not a fire pit! You’re not stepping over rattlesnakes. Keep the lines moving please. Your 1.5-second hesitation causes me to bump into your sweaty ass and the guy’s briefcase behind me to nail me on the back of the knee. I can only assume you’ve had at least 30 years to master the art of the escalator mount, yet you still fail. Go drown yourself.

4) Street sweepers are useless. They only succeed in widening the surface area of the filth in New York City streets. They just spread the slime around. Have you ever noticed that it usually smells WORSE after they sweep than before? (And for those of you too dense to get that—I’m talking about the trucks, not the nice men and women who clean our streets out there.)

Way Back when I had the Red and Black Lumberjack

Most people dress like assholes. Now, I’m all for personal style, but things are getting too out of hand. It’s one thing to be an ‘individual;’ it’s another thing to try to stand out. Try too hard, that is. Put it this way: If you’re a dude wearing a Hot Dogger, I’m sorry, but you deserve to get mugged. By school children. Carrying mace.

Me? I’m a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy. Throw in some fresh kicks and a cool watch and there’s my flair. If I want to be really fancy I’ll rock a polo shirt—sans alligator logo. I blend in; I wouldn’t cause anyone’s head to turn in amusement, amazement, puzzlement or revulsion.

I’m also Universal Jewish Guy height. I wear Universal Jewish Guy sizes. At the moment I’m slightly over Universal Jewish Guy weight. But if you spend even five minutes walking around Lower Manhattan you’ll find that everyone else is quite the opposite … but not typically in a good way.

Why the hell is everybody trying so hard? What happened to just dressing normal? Is our dependency on video games, social media, mobile devices and the Internet making us not care about our appearance? Or is it making us care about our appearance so much, that we choose to go out of the house looking like anything from Carrie Bradshaw to a character from World of Warcraft? Are magazines and an abundance of cable television making us spend inordinate amounts of time cultivating a certain image, whatever that may be? Look, the dude from “White Collar” is a good-looking guy, and I dig how they style him … but I also know I could NEVER pull off that Rat Pack look. I know this.

Most people fail to realize. Fat women—you should NEVER be in Capri pants. Commit that to memory. Skinny guy—stop dressing like a mid-90’s rapper; you look ridiculous. There’s style and there are trends, but just because it’s trendy doesn’t mean it‘s cut out for you. Hey, white pants ain’t for everybody, though G-D bless the ladies who can pull them off. Skinny jeans may be the most unsightly, awful, ghastly, unflattering pair of pants to pop up since Z Cavaricci's. And I’m just praying for the day that those oversized sunglasses go away. (Except not for ugly girls; you ladies keep wearing ’em. That’s less of you I gotta see in the morning light.)

My personal favorite has always been the person in the city who wears all black. They think everyone in New York City wears all black, so they’re doing what they think is the best job of blending in. (Sephora employees excluded.) Problem with this theory is, all the people wearing all black in NYC aren’t from NYC anyway! They’re just wearing it because they think everyone else in NYC—real New Yorkers—wear all black. It's a domino effect.

Then you got 80’s Person. Gotta love those people. My favorite part about 80’s Person is, most of them were in Osh Kosh B’Gosh in the 80’s, if they were even born in the decade at all. I love seeing bright purple sneakers, bad sunglasses, studded belts, a plethora of zippers and suspenders. No one should ever be in suspenders unless you are attending the Oscars. (You hear me, Larry King?)

Outdoorsy Guy is an interesting one. The dude on the subway with his North Face fleece, moisture-wicking T-shirt, survivalist shorts with 18 pockets and Asolo trail running shoes. He’s the guy eating the Clif Bar with a CamelBak on. I’m sorry, where again did you find that rugged peak within the confines of New York City? Please don’t tell me you’re the guy practicing rock climbing on the biggest boulder in Central Park. It’s only 12-feet high! Getthefuckouttahere!

Prep Superstar can be found in many places. On Fifth Ave. during the day and on the LES at night. He or she wears khakis that are never khaki, rocks Wayfarers, has a grosgrain belt with crabs on it and a gingham shirt. You'd think they exploded out of a JCrew catalog.

Goth Person just scares me. I try not to stare too much at him or her for fear their spikey dragon ring will be driven into my temple.

I love Hoodlum, because as I’ve said many times before, that style went out with Tupac. Anyone still wearing Enyce jeans 8 inches too big for them and Timberlands in the summer should be thrown off Top of the Rock. (No, wait, they don’t know what that is; they should be thrown off Bad Boy headquarters. That’ll resonate.) And don’t you love Hoodlum’s shorts? They usually fall to the bottom of their ankles. These are ‘shorter’ than what, exactly? Your prison jumpsuit?

This style is in stark contrast to Skank Girl. Otherwise known as Ke$ha. Her shorts are basically denim underwear. Normally I wouldn’t care, but I’m 30 now, so staring at a 19-year-old in these makes me look like …

Creepy Guy. Creepy Guy wears pleated khakis, a wrinkled button-down-collar shirt from Eddie Bauer, tube socks and New Balances, worn thin. There is inevitably a stain on at least one of his garments and he is carrying a bag waaaaay too big. Makes you wonder what kind of stalking material that New York Post is covering.

Gotta love The Weirdo, who we all try and avoid. There’s always The Dork in the Firefox T-shirt and jeans from JCPenney. And Techie Dude. He’s easy to spot by his Hellboy hoodie and E3 messenger bag (procured for free of course). Eco Gal’s sandals and exposed feet give new meaning to the phrase “going green.”

My personal favorite are The Blenders. The dude who tries to be Hood but 80’s, like Kanye West. Or Preppy but Ghetto, like Pharrell Williams.

From now on I won’t be so scared off by the guy in flip-flops and a trench coat. I will commend him on his minimalist approach. It is simple, yet refined; it is contemporary yet classic. And if he flashes Skank Girl, well, she had it coming anyway.