Story from 2004

WRITTEN IN 2004, I found this tripe sitting on my hard drive. Instead of burning it, I present it to you, unedited and vomitlicious.

Roland T. Humberdunger was a modest man. When he had success, he could only think of it's failure; his kugel-based passover dinner was tastier then a nubile young sephardic beauty showing off her brand-new gold plated menorah, yet he told people it was "too sweet". His penis was over 14 inches long, yet he told everyone he was a eunuch. He was a man who didn't like attention.

One day, coming home from an honest day's work at the Chabad "Beard-o-thon", he ran into his ex-wife, Sherida, a classic sadomasochist; sometimes she cried, sometimes she masturbated and sometimes she cried while masturbating. Needless to say, their relationship was doomed from the start, or at least when they both got a good look at each other naked.

When Roland ran in to her, he said the thing that was immediately on his mind:

'I thought you were dead'

'why's that?' she queried.

'well, your family told me. Also, that funeral of yours was a dead giveaway'

She pardoned his unintentional pun.

'Well, I just didn't know how to break up with people, Roland. I'm not very good at separating, I would have just ended up not breaking up with you, and neither of us wanted that'

'sure, right. So, you staged the whole thing, your mom was in on it, all our friends? Everyone knows you're alive but me?'

'I've got to make some phone calls' and with that, she ran away.

Roland didn't know what to do, and nor did he care. So his wife staged her own death rather then spend another moment in their deadening relationship. So she left their bed one night while he slept and replaced herself with the mutilated corpse of an unidentified young woman. So he was put on trial for her murder and served 10 years in prison until he was let off on a processing technicality

He didn't care.

He was modest with everything else, maybe it would be time to develop an imaginary wonderful girlfriend that he would tell his friends was studying in Canada somewhere. That way he would never have to worry about being in a relationship again.

Thus was borne Rachel, the imaginary Canadian botanist.

'She's studying a rare plant in Edmonton, so you'll probably never meet her' he would tell people at parties.

'wow, he's full of horseshit' people would whisper to each other when he turned away.

Sometimes Roland would write himself e-mails from Rachel; talking about love, life and certain brands of sugar-free cereal. He would joyously show these to his friends and they would swiftly notice that they came from his other email account. They smiled and ran quickly away from him to attend parties he wasn't invited to.

Roland, however, didn't notice. He was beginning to fall in love with Rachel. All of her emails seemed to really connect with him. She began to remind him of someone. At first, he couldn't think of who it could be, but it dawned on him:

It was himself! He was finally, truly and madly in love with someone, and it was him!

He was the perfect soul mate for himself and he decided he would ask Rachel to move in with him. The very next week, Roland moved a big mirror with "Rachel" written on it in sharpie into his bedroom.

But, alas, like all passionate romances, they drifted apart. Roland couldn't stand being around himself and the mirror was annoyed that it was constantly foggy.

The relationship ended one day when Roland caught the mirror in bed with reflective glass. Roland stormed in and broke the glass, and wound up being arrested for glassicide, which is a crime that doesn't actually exist. Neither did the policeman that arrested Roland.

Roland died in the New York City Mental Ward 60 years later.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Please watch this viral spot I did for Twitter and Zappos. You might have to be a Twitter person to get it, but try to enjoy anyway!

I Tweet Myself Music Video Starring iJustine.

Dear Garfield

Dear Garfield,

What the fuck is so wrong with Mondays?

You don't have a job, so it's obviously not the start of the work week that bothers you. Is it that your owner Jon is down on Mondays and it rubs off on you? Well, let me tell you something about Jon: He's a anti-social loner who borders on paranoid schizophrenia. He is down 7 days a week and I'm frankly surprised he hasn't put a gun to his pathetic, unloved head and blown his non-existent brains out.

So what could it be, Garfield? You are so hilarious the other 6 days a week (what, with your pithy observations about being lazy, obsessive eating and being lazy while obsessively eating), so what's with Mondays?

I understand that occasionally a big pie will fly in your face on a Monday, causing you to exclaim "I hate Mondays!"; but I have a question for you. WHO THE FUCK IS THROWING PIES AT YOU? You shouldn't hate Mondays, you should hate the filthy motherfucking bandit that breaks into your house every week to THROW A PIE square in a cat's face. That fucker obviously has a kick for animal cruelty, but you can't blame Monday. No, Monday is the innocent bystander in this deviously perverse pie game.

I suggest you seek counseling, because Monday isn't the cause of the problem. There's obviously something deep and pathologically wrong with you. Blaming Mondays for your faults? Does George Bush wake up, look in the mirror and say "Fucking Wednesdays" when his approval rating is at 23%? No! Firstly, he doesn't read a newspaper, and secondly he knows better then to blame a day. He blames the Jews, like most Christians. He's still climbing that mountain to heaven, and as you know, the Lord Alps those that Alps themselves.

So Garfield, it's time to take a hard look at yourself and try to understand WHY you hate Mondays so much. Perhaps if you look deep enough, you'll find that you're morbidly depressed because you've been recycling the same jokes for thirty years and the idea of spending another week doing it tears apart the space in your chest that used to contain a heart. That, and you're queer for Odie. Just a guess.

Pieces of unwritten blogs

1) She was packing her bags. "I need to leave", she said. "Our relationship is over", she said. "You smell like fish", she said. I guess I shouldn't have been wearing my salmon hat.


2) Race Hate Haikus:

when i look above
i see the sky and stars of love
the jews own them all

pluto is upset
it's no longer a planet
mexicans stole it


3) So, being that I haven't mastered any languages, how do I compete in today's fast-paced, take-no-prisoners, International House of Pancakes world?

Babelfish.

No, not that little fish you stick in your ear and it eats your brains...I'm talking about the website. I think it's fool-proof! For example, let's use my introduction to every lady I meet:


Hello, I am Matt Manson and I would like to ask you to have sex with me. Afterwards, we can eat ice cream, watch Science Fiction and talk about our mutual dissatisfaction with our place in life.

See! That's a golden line that will work on any hot piece of tail. But say you're in Kyoto and the girl sitting next to you only speaks four words of English: "SUPER HAPPY FUN TIME". Solution: Babelfish.

Let's translate that into Japanese:


こんにちは、私はマットMansonであり、私が付いている性を有するように頼むことを望む。 その後、私達はアイスクリームを食べ、空想科学小説を見、生命の私達の場所との私達の相互不満述べてもいい。

Easy as that! All I have to do is repeat that to any little Miko that comes into my periphery and SLAM! It's sushi time! Now, what did I just say? Let's translate it back from Japanese into English:


Today, as for me it is mat Manson, in order to possess the characteristic where I have been attached, the fact that you ask is desired. After that, we eat the ice-cream, look at the fantasy scientific novel, our mutual dissatisfaction of our places of life are possible to express.

Wow! It actually made me sound even better! "in order to possess the characteristic where I have been attached, the fact that you ask is desired"? That's fucking Shakespeare! Sure, a drunken, retarded Shakespeare, that's maybe not William, but at least a 3rd cousin.

Thank you Babelfish, thank you technology. You've made me an international Don Juan.

The Do-It-Yourself Guide To Social Interaction

As all of you know; I receive a lot of fan mail. Most of it is from a nice man named Dr. Clement Okon from Nigeria who REQUESTS AN URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP. I sent him a money order and pretty soon I'll have 25,000,000 (DOLLARS U.S.)!

Occasionally, I get questions as well. Here is one of those:

Dear Matt:

I have a hard time communicating with my fellow man. I can’t handle greetings and salutations. Today some girl waved to me and I smiled and waved back. It turns out she was waving to her boyfriend, who saw me waving to her, and promptly beat me about the head with his thick, muscular forearms, as the girl pelted me with rocks and shards of broken glass.

I woke up the next day in a puddle of my own blood covered with chocolate pudding and a yellow post-it note that simply read “this is a yellow post-it note”. How do I prevent this from happening again?

Thanks,

Mr. Ezra Stein (deceased)

Well Ezra, if there is one thing that’s plagued human beings from the beginning of time, it’s their inability to carry on simple day-to-day conversations with other people. Inane banter is fine in sitcoms and any movie with the word “Extreme” in the title; but in real life, it’s very, very hard. The best advice I can give you is avoid unnecessary social interaction of any kind.

Here’s a little multiple-choice test you can give yourself:

OK, you’ve seen this guy in the hall three times today. First time you smiled and said, “Hey, how’s it goin’?”, second time you gave him the old closed-lip grin and wave and the third time you gave him the acknowledging eyebrow raise and head jerk.

He’s coming down the hall again…what do you do?

1. Turn around and avoid walking into him with the “I forgot something” snap of the fingers.

2. Start violently coughing and pretend you don’t see him.

3. Pick up your cell phone and call your mother, start an argument with her about why you don’t have a girlfriend.

4. Cry, cry and cry some more.

5. Stop, Drop and Roll

Personally, I prefer to mix it up; turn around, being coughing violently, then cry. But enough about my sex life.

Another good way to avoid having to carry on a conversation is to completely ignore what other people are saying and respond in a distant, perplexed deer-in-the-headlights manner. My mom is great at this.

Read and learn:

Mom: (stuffing food down my throat) Why don’t you eat, put some meat on those bones, you're walking around looking like your thin cousin Herbert. Do you want to look like Herbert? You'll never get a girl looking like him.

Me: Herbert's gay, Mom.

Mom: Your uncle Albert would have a heart attack if he heard you talking like that!

Me: Albert had a heart attack last week. Remember? I was talking to him about his gay son Herbert.

What can we learn from my mother? Marriage is a huge mistake, according to my father. What else?

Don’t pay attention to what anyone says to you. Look confused when someone asks you a question, get angry when someone disagrees with you, whether you are right or wrong, and if the pressure’s on, offer them some food. That way you can seek out the kitchen window while they're eating your kasha varnishkes.

Some of us can handle the pressures of social interaction. I call these people “gentiles”. Here’s a little chart I’ll “chart” out for you so that can tell you what kind of person you really are:

Potential Social Situation:	Jew:	Gentile:
A Pretty Member of the opposite sex walks up to you and asks you for the time.	As your asthma starts to act up, you make an awkward joke about the metaphysical relativity of time.	You say, “I’ve got the time baby…in my pants”. You are married and driving an SUV in no time.
Someone engages you in an inane conversation about a local sports team in the elevator.	You smile and nod at your elevator man and pretend to know what he’s talking about. Leave him an extra large Christmas bonus because you are afraid he thinks you don’t like Puerto-Ricans.	Sign his autograph and tell him the knee injury is day-to-day and you’ll be back on the court in no time.
Your accountant asks you out to dinner to discuss financial matters.	Give him that secret “Brotherhood of the Jews” handshake, eat Matzo, make fun of Christ.	Tell him you’re busy. Slam down the phone, complain to the wife about how the Jews are “ripping us off; fucking hebes”.
Someone at the Supermarket tries to talk to you about the Middle East.	Try to convince him Israel isn’t the cause of all the world’s problems, and that if the Palestinians wanted, they could have peace and their own land. Feel really, really guilty for absolutely no reason at all.	Agree to bomb Iraq, Pakistan, and any "Mooslum" countries. Reaffix 9-11 Soaring Eagle "Freedom Isn't Free" bumper sticker.

Are you a Jew or Gentile? Note: there's no such thing as a Jewtile.

There you have it. They keys to conversation. Use wisely.

To obtain a copy of this transcript, simply send 20 dollars and a SASE to MattyM c/o The Internet. If you don’t have an envelope, just send yourself and Matt will stamp you.

Letter to My Mother: 6/29/91

Wow, a famous poet picked up on my last blog entry and put it up on his blog. Kudos to him for realizing great genius, and negative kudos to the giant cabal of hipsters who threaten me with their fancy shoes and highly questionable taste in literature.

In any case; going through old letters and pictures I am reminded that I've grown up a lot since I was a child, yet I haven't really changed at all.

Case in point:

Letter written to my Mother on 6/29/91.

Dear Mom,

Last night I got 2:45 of sleep. I don't feel well, in fact I feel horable, it's not pscosymatck. also, I'am very incomfble. tell me went you're home so i call call you! Oh, I forgot I cryed softly last night no one heard me! I HATE camp! The working part is easy so I won't lose wight.

Love Matt,

As we grow up, we become retarded, idiotic emotionally stunted versions of who we were. We forget all the idealism and eager passions that made us children, but keep all the quirks and neuroses.

It's like life is a canvass; childhood is the outline and adulthood is filling in that outline, except some areas get a cursory broad stroke and some are filled in too much. You can spend your life trying to even it out, but in the end you get a really, really shitty painting.

I came across this little "ditty" while going through an old notebook. Written in 2005, it's probably as relevant as ever:

So you wants to be a hipster!

But do you have what it takes? Sure, you’ve moved from the mid-west to New York; OK, you’ve made inroads in the Lower East Side music scene, and yes, you shower no more then once a week. But does that really make you a hipster? An emphatic no! Sir or Madam; an emphatic no.

To understand what a hipster is, we must first look at the origins of the word: “Hipster” comes from the Latin “Hypsterdoophus”, meaning a group of slightly different potatoes, or potato salads. It has, in recent times, come to define a culture of young, mostly unemployed (or unemployable), layabouts whose main talent is sleeping, being ironic about irony, and sleeping some more.

Let us dissect these creatures.

When moving to New York City from Generic Small Town, the true hipster knows that appearance is everything.

First, adorn your body with several tattoos. Who would know you were into Asian lettering or stars on your elbow without pumping ink your frail, pasty arm?

Next, you must find decent clothing. Go to designer stores that sell vintage shirts for a 4000% mark-up. Tee-shirts are a must: Sleeveless, preferably, to show-off aforementioned tattoos. They should have pun-filled sayings poking fun of irony, like, “Tee Shirts are So Yesterday”, or “Ithaca is Gorges”. To be post-modern is no more! Post-Post modern is the way to go: remember it makes a delicious paradox. And so do you, sexy hipster, so do you.

The shirts should be tight enough that nipples show: whether they be erect or not. Make sure the shirt is so ridiculously tight that it forces your posture into a sloping hunch. This way, pensively gazing at your shoes isn’t such a chore!

If you’re really feeling brave, a form-fitting blazer is a plus. Remember nothing says, “I’m sort of sophisticated, in an ‘I dropped out of college to spend more time writing my blog’ sort of way” like a blazer that you found in a salvation army “rejected by the homeless” pile.

For pants, the lower the cut, the better. Even for men, show it all: Shaving your pubic hair isn’t just for the criminally insane and people riddled with STDs anymore!

Glasses are requisite, whether you have eye sight problems or not. Remember, glasses make you seem pensive and emotionally troubled. Plain old thick black frames went out with mesh caps like 6 months ago! Nowadays it’s all about REALLY thick black frames. Remember to obscure your ugly, acne scarred face.

As for hair cuts, there’s an easy equation you can remember:

Today’s Style=Hair Style of musicians 20 years ago

Does anyone remember when long, dirty hippie hair was popular in the late ‘80s? Or when people spiked their hair punkishly in the late ‘90s? Well, the same can be applied today. It’s that simple! Beat everyone to the punch: Flock Of Seagulls is making a comeback.

Now that you’re dressing like a hipster, it’s time to live like one. Living within your means is out, living within your father’s means is in. Here’s a little guide to help you choose where to situate:

POTENTIAL LIVING SITUATION	HIPSTER QUOTIENT
300 sq foot “2 bedroom” 6th floor walk-up in alphabet city. Potential price $2500	Pretty darn good. You’re near some bars that serve Pabst Blue Ribbon and of course, drug dealers. Plus some points if you sleep on only a mattress, no bedframe, or a futon you found on the street.
Huge loft in Willamsburg. Preferably near Bedford Ave. $3000	Great. You’re near some more bars that sell Pabst Blue Ribbon and of course, even more drug dealers. Williamsburg is an artist community, which means that no one is actually employed: you’ll fit in well.
Reasonably priced and sized 2 bedroom in Astoria, Queens. $1200.	Horrible. You can’t find Pabst anywhere, and don’t even ask about the drug dealers. Astoria is like 20 MINUTES outside the Manhattan. No, if your parents can’t afford to pay for you to live in Manhattan or Brooklyn, you don’t deserve to be a hipster. Go find a job or something, loser.

Next, you must find music to talk about. This forms the basis of every conversation and social event that you will have for the rest of your mid-20s. Sure, you may “enjoy” the Beatles or REM, but these are bands you listen to-not talk about.

Seek out bands that have two word titles, where the first word is “the”. This is generally the way to go. If you can’t think of any bands, just make up one: “The Somethings” or “The Fake” are just as believable as any other band name out there. Tell people they have an EP out. They’ll believe it, and some will even claim to have heard them before, or even own the album. Also, remember to sneer at people who don’t like your music. They don’t understand you, or your movement.

It’s also important to KNOW people in a band. Even if they only know you as “the guy who stands next to us at the bar all the time”. Constantly say to people, “I’ve got to go, my friend’s playing a gig”, or “hey, you should come with me to see my friend’s gig”. Sure, that “gig” is in someone’s basement or a Mexican restaurant, but who cares? You KNOW someone in a BAND!

If you really want some hipster cache, start a band. What’s that? You don’t know how to play an instrument? Who cares. It’s all about the look, which you have already. Anyway, if you're able to pick up a ukulele and strum tunelessly, you're 90% towards "having a jam session in my friend's living room. He's got Vinyl; Bring some pot!"

That way, when people ask you what you do, instead of saying “Drink alone while crying” or “throw rocks out the window to watch people bleed”, you can say “I’m in a band”, which will invariably lead to you getting sexy-hot action, or at least a venereal disease.

As for other forms of music: you’re allowed to like rap, but only for it’s irony value. Remember to use the word "crunk" a lot. Call your ghostly pale friends “niggas” and adorn your neck with gold-plated chains. Continue to cross the street at night when you see black people approaching.

Speaking of booty shakin’- how do hipsters get some arse? It’s hard, because it’s so yesterday to be honest with someone and tell them you want to buy them a drink. It’s just…unironic.

Solution: The INTERNET! Yes, the internet, once thought of as merely a device to acquire music and illicit underage pornography, it is now home to a growing community of dating sites that masquerade as places where “friends can connect”.

Putting up a singles profile is not as easy as you think. The specifics are key. Never say you are actually interested in sex or a relationship. Make it seem like someone put you up to it, or that you’re doing it for a laugh.

Say things like “Reading books is sexy, bathing myself in mayonnaise is sexier”. Make sure to play down the deadening loneliness that eats you from within, and say something like “Celebrity I resemble most: "HAL 9000 from 2001.” Always make sure that your personal ad is a long, winding parody of other personal ads. You don’t actually want to be with someone, do you? Nah, that would be pathetic.

Remember, you’re just doing this for fun, and after no one responds to the first 100 emails you send out, you’re just doing it between the time you cry and the time you masturbate.

Well, you’re dressed to the hilt, you listen to the right music, you live in a cool neighborhood and you cry daily. Congratulations: You’re a hipster. Join us next week when we examine “Genital Warts: Acne’s Wacky Cousin!”.

For more on hipsters, check out my hipster count!

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Frenchies

Something oddly appealing about French synth pop at 5am - Don't you think?

Journals: The Blogs of Yesteryear

In New York City for Thanksgiving, the only thing I can give thanks for is that Thanksgiving happens only once a year.

Don't get me wrong: I "love" seeing my family, and even though this holiday is ostensibly about how Pilgrims were saved from a wintery death by the Native Americans hospitality, only to brutally murder them and steal their land, I still enjoy it.

But, I hate the process; I endlessly end up with a burdening task; either mundane, painful or laborious. This time it's all three; as I have to spend the next three days going through my old stuff to prepare it for the lonely life of storage locker.

In any case, I did come across an old journal of mine (from about 2000-2005); and actually, I think in many ways I was a better writer; more poetic, more thoughtful, more literate. Going through it now, the most compelling parts are probably stuff I can't post online (too personal), but I'll pick one that I don't really understand. If you can explain it to me, I'll give you a shiny penny.

Broken up for readability:


If you squint and think of all the mistakes you never made but wish you had anyway, and all the people you meet and forget, you realize that it's not worth it to care about nothing when nothing can be something in the blinding stare of hindsight

and blindness can sometimes show the light that switches off in the night when people say goodnight but your eyes are the light that keeps you awake when the dreams are so far away.

My guess? It's a plea for Carpe diem. "Seize the day!" Go make mistakes because people you make them with will only drift out of your life after a short while anyway. Don't regret...

It seems to get more and more true as I get older, although sadly there's less and less opportunities for me to make mistakes...

Ode to 90% of My Editors (freeform)

I hired you out of a hundred (100)
not because you're the best
but because you were the least worst

when you email me your c/u/t
it reminds me of a dirty soot
darkened, the product
of pollution that's stuck (upsidedown, blinded and unmind)

i don't understand
it wasn't hard
it's all in the script
are you a retard?

you call yourself an editor
but for a name, i have one better
"bane of my existence"
not because you make my life tough
but because you've made me contemplate
my career's enough

please, please, look at the script (with eyes)
give me a timely cut (for you, I despise)
not a messy, puzzle-like enigmatic cryptic
piece of regurgitated vomit mouse shit

soon i will die
you've cut 60 years off my life
but there's one thing i can't deny
life without you is a lovely
peaceful sigh

so if you have a heart
hopefully better then your cutting skills
please kill me now
so i can remember a life without you still

i can't believe you're making
$1500 a week.

Beauty is a...?

I remember reading a few months ago about a scientific study about beauty. I thought I might bring this up, as I have absoutely nothing interesting to say.

Scientists monitored brain waves as people looked at "attractive" things and "ugly" things. The results showed that the "attractive" things required less cognitive power than did the "ugly" things. The findings were thus:

Beauty can be defined as something uncomplicated to look at. The more we have to process what we see, the less attractive it becomes: the more deviations from the norm, the more we have to think about it; ergo, the less attractive it is to us.

Normal is hot, and unique is not.

Personally, it frightens me that the more we have to think about something, the more our brain rejects it. This would explain the last 8 years of foreign policy, however.

I'm all for hotties, biotches, the sexy, man-whores, etc; but I've never found "attractive" attractive. I like women who are beautiful, for sure, but I prefer those that look unlike anyone else.

For example, I would most likely vomit on Pam Anderson's flea-ridden underthings, while bowing mercifully at the dainty feat of Lisa Bonet circa 1986.
But that's just me.

Quoteth Frank Zappa:

Beauty is a bikini wax 'n waitin' for yer nails to dry
Beauty is a colored pencil, scribbled all around yer eye
Beauty is a pair of shoes that makes you wanna die
Beauty is a Beauty is a Beauty is a Lie

Basically; "beauty" is really boring.

Beautiful Race Hate

I just finished a blog posting entitled "Astrological Race Hate Hiakus"

A taste?

nothing can escape
from a black whole; except beer
the irish are drunks

But, I shant post the rest, dear reader. Why? Because I'm afraid of retribution from:

Russians
Blacks
Jews
Hitler
Indians
Indian-Indians
Midgets
Poor People
Mexicans
Mexican'ts

Race hate always SEEMS like a good idea to begin with; but just like Swedes, I choose to remain neutral and watch depressingly morbid films.

As I speak of race hate, I am reminded of all the people that have dissed me throughout my life because I am of the Jew-nosh persuasion. There was:

1) The hip-hop kid who said "fuck you Jew!" and spit on me when I was 12. Now, keep in mind, this was the Upper East Side, which is also known as "Jewburg Central". It was my first memory of someone hating me because I was so devilishly handsome and Jewish. Big nose? More like Awesome Nose!

2) The roommate at North Carolina School of The Arts. I believe his name was Dave, and I caught him staring at me one evening. It was a weird stare, because it wasn't a "you've got something in-between your teeth" stare, and it wasn't a "I want to gay fuck you" stare, it was a "there's something not quite right" stare. He said:

"So, are you I-tailian?"
"No.", I responded, understanding what he was leading to, but not willing to progress the convo to that point.
"Well, what are yuh then?"
"Well, I'm not anything, but I guess you mean...I'm Jewish".
"A Jew? But you don't have horns. My mom said ya'll have horns".

Now Dave was a poor soul who grew up in Charlotte, but even then; he was 16 and literally thought Jews had horns. I mean, duh, we do, but we don't show it in polite company.

3) Freshman year of college; Now here's a weird one. I'm walking with this Irish girl (which is maybe why I let the above haiku slide) and out of the blue she says:

"What's the difference between a Jew and a pizza?"
"Uhhh...what?"
"A pizza doesn't scream when you put it into the oven".

I looked at her in the eyes. I'm all for comedy, and even Jewish jokes, and yes, I'll even tolerate a holocaust joke, even though I find them beneath contempt, but the joke was said in such a way that it was obviously a "shhh!" joke between two gentiles.

"I'm Jewish"
"Oh, man, I'm sorry; I'm just not used to being around Jews".

Now the clincher for me was that we weren't talking about Jews and this basically just came up out of the blue. I'm not used to being around Sudanese, but I'm not about to make Darfur jokes (though it might be potentially hilarious). This chick was from upstate New York, which just goes to show you ignorance is everywhere.

I could go on and detail every little anti-Semitic line I've ever heard, but I believe I'd be falling straight into a neurotic Jewish stereotype. In fact, thinking that listing anti-Semitic lines would make me a neurotic stereotype is in fact a neurotic Jewish stereotype.

As Woody Allen said in 1997:

Hey, I may hate myself, but not because I'm Jewish.

And Larry David, 2001:

Let me tell you something; I do hate myself, but it has nothing to do with being Jewish.

Sense a theme here? My thought; most Jews hate themselves, but are pretty happy that they're Jewish.

Bare Bear

Plotsky sat down at the summit of the dense, but radiant ivory foothills that scatter the suburbs of Berkeley.

He thought limply to himself, "I'm handsome, strapping, intelligent, creative and motivated. Why am I sitting alone at the summit of the dense, but radiant ivory foothills that scatter the suburbs of Berkeley?"

Then it occurred to him.

"I need a hair transplant! That, along with strategically sucked breath mints, will solve every problem I have!"

You see, Plotsky was not a religious man, but when it came to male pattern baldness, he prayed to every conceivable deity; Jesus, Adonai, Ganesh, George Hamilton: "Please, your most merciful lordship, bless me with the blessing of blessed hair".

He didn't believe in God; but when it came to praying for a solution to baldness, he was a Hairsidic Jew.

Plotsky had tried everything; Rogaine, Propecia, jerking off while strangling himself, but nothing seemed to work.

Worse, his hair seemed to be migrating south; until recently, he was unaware that cheek hair was a distinct probability. Never mind leg hair, inner-ass hair was where it was at!

Why, prey-tell, he wondered, couldn't the ass hair just grow on his head? He thought briefly of cutting off his butt cheeks and gluing them on his scalp, but stopped when he realized there were no fedoras that were "ass head sized", which was also an unrelated problem for Zac Efron.

So, all that was left was the hair transplant, yeah, that would make things much easier and better and more delicious for him.

It was when he raised himself up off those lovely ivory foothills and picked up his cell phone to call the "Bosley Medical Center", when he saw the bear.

This was a bear like Plotsky had never seen before. A rare bear, one might say.

For this bear had male pattern baldness.

Plotsky was taken aback, then he was taken a back. He dropped the back he was handed and walked over to the bear.

"Excuse me", he whispered in his whisper-like whisper voice. "Can you speak English?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I can! It's your lucky day, for I am the only bear in existence that can speak and understand English. I also have a degree in communications from Ithaca college".

"I'm more impressed with your ability to speak".

"Yeah, I should really stop bringing up the fact that I went to Ithaca, no one is ever impressed; anyway, I wanted to ask you about your hair, or lack thereof. Does it bother you?"

"You know it used to; I felt like I was losing respect in the animal kingdom; deer fawns stopped running away in horror, other bears made fun of me, like: 'hey, it's too bad you can't paws your baldness' and 'that transient you just ate had more hair stuffed in his bindle then you do on your head'. I guess you could say I couldn't 'bear' losing my hair".

"Then what happened?"

"Well, I realized that I was a freak of nature; I might look like the Steinfield: The Hairiest Jew In Astoria, Queens; but you know what? I'm happy I'm not like the other bears. Sure they have hair, but maybe it's nice to stick out once in a while, be a unique sort-of bear! There's nothing wrong with being a bare bear."

Emotions flooded Plotsky's heart; maybe this bear was right; maybe he was taking this too seriously. It's time to buck up, set myself straight and be OK! with losing my hair.

That's when the bear spoke up: "Of course, this is a completely irrelevant comparison to a human".

"What?"

"Yeah, because you've got a ton of bald dudes. You aren't unique like me. If I was human and bald, I'd be ashamed, probably cry alone into a mirror every night and slowly cut my wrists in order to remember what it was like when I still had the ability to feel pain".

That's when Plotsky came up with a solution to all of his problems.

He took out a shotgun and killed the bear. He wore his "bear-skin" wig for the rest of his life, which, sadly, ended three days later after he killed himself when his manager told him his "30 Rock" Spec script didn't cut muster.

Little Brown Bunny

I have no misconceptions; I am fully aware of the huge gap between "the way things are" and "the way things should be". This is the reason communism doesn't work.

But it still doesn't allay my frustrations, especially when my rabbit died tonight.

I went to the animal hospital when I noticed that my rabbit was in a catatonic trance. I was hoping that it was something the "Fancy Pants Animal Hospital" could take care of. But that hope was pretty much stuffed down the shitter once I got there.

I dropped Sholmo off at the front desk, and it should have set off a sign when one of the first things the receptionist said was "don't worry; rabbits aren't too expensive" - not, "don't worry, we've got some really good people on call", but "don't worry, this morose routine won't cost you an arm and a leg...maybe just half an arm".

Little Shlomo was brought into the back and after a few minutes a "doctor" came out to ask a few questions. It should be noted that prior to this I had filled out a laborious chart answering questions about his sex, age, medical history, etc. When the doctor came out, with a large billing chart in hand, she asked about his sex, age, medical history, etc. Really instills a lot of confidence here.

She said "well, I haven't looked at what you filled out, but we have a few options", and she pulled out the large billing chart. This was before she asked more than 2-3 questions. She began to list prices; how much each decision might cost. I tried to steer the question back to the actual rabbit, and asked what might be able to help and what the cause might be, she said "listen, I don't know much about 'exotic animals'; my job is to stabilize the animal enough so that they can be moved to a specialty hospital in the morning".

OK, I'm aware that a rabbit isn't an 'ordinary' animal like a dog or cat, and I'm aware that what she said is perfectly reasonable; but there wasn't even the slightest bit of a hint of comfort in her voice; she was saying "I'm here to keep this animal alive and offer you no sympathy whatsoever. I'm not open to discussing ways to make this animal better, but I am here to discuss costs; because there is a limit to how much you want to spend before just giving up and putting the animal to sleep".

After taking his temperature, she came out with the price sheet again, and ostensibly said "things look bad, and it's going to cost a lot to keep this animal alive", again I asked about what symptoms the animal was displaying, but she didn't answer more than "temperature is low and he doesn't look well". After I consented to a $150 catheter of fluids to be injected in his arm, she left.

She returned, though, a few minutes later and basically said, "listen, this is going to cost a lot of money; do you want to just put him down?". My pessimistic thought was that she was concerned that she was going to put another hour of work into it and then present me with expensive options that I would eventually turn down; to her, I had reached that precious point where the amount of money I was willing to spend met the amount of money she felt it was worth keeping him alive. She didn't want to put in more time, because she wasn't going to be able to milk any more money out of me.

I consented to putting my little friendly bunny (who loved to get pet, sit in your lap and be carried around) to sleep. Final cost? $400 bucks. For what? 15 minutes of a doctor's time. Just showing up was $300...(sadly lucky that I made the decision to put him down before they put the catheter in him.)

I am highly critical of the medical profession in general. Because it's a "profession", the doctors and staff are out to make money, and for so many of them out there, treating people is just that fine balance:

Money That Can Be Made = Equals Money That It Costs To Keep You Alive + 1

Maybe George Bush had it right:

We've got an issue in America. Too many good docs are getting out of business. Too many Ob-Gyns aren't able to practice their love with women all across this country.

Personally, I just miss my rabbit. I know it sounds extremely silly, but I dare you to live with another animal for almost two years and not feel miserable when it's lost.

I had two rabbits that were happy just licking each others' foreheads all day. If I was home during the day, I would look over and see them in sinful rabbit embrace. They weren't married, and maybe some people in southern states would look down at them; but they were in love.

Now the other rabbit is frantically hopping around looking for something; ducking her head into corners, standing on her hind legs; contorting her body around, and sniffing everywhere. Hard to feel sorry for a rabbit, but I do.

Retardeous

I've always had a strong sense of societal fairness. I can't stand when people cut in line, talk loudly on their cell phones or text message during films. We're all trying to live together and we should all take each other into consideration. I follow the rules; why can't you?

Anyway, when someone violates these little unsaid edicts I begin to stew; my heart pounds, my anger rises; and I try to remedy the situation, not only for myself, but for the community. I'm kind of a fucking superhero.

This brings me to an autumn day towards the end of 2004.

After finishing up an edit of my short film, I hopped on a packed 6 Train at 23rd and Lexington.

There was a middle-aged Hispanic man sitting next to me dressed in a slightly-better-than-shabby suit. He was playing a loud game on his cell phone which was not only beeping with game noises, but also playing some sort of 8-bit style soundtrack.

I felt like saying something, but I held back. Everyone else on the train was annoyed. It was prime rush hour traffic and when you're in New York, there's pretty much nothing worse then a crowded subway train with unnecessary hullabaloos annoying you.

Finally, a 60-something year old woman spoke up:

"Excuse me, sir, can you please turn that off?"

The man looked up at her with an unreasonable amount of scorn in his angry face. He did a childish, high-pitched imitation of her:

"Excuse me, sir, can you please turn that off?", and he looked back down at his game.

Now this bullshit pissed me off; I spoke up:

"Hey, you wanna turn that off? We're trying to have a civilization here."

He looked up at me, made a "fuck you" face, and looked back down.

My blood started to boil. Seriously, we are trying to have a civilization and in a civilization civilized people attempt to follow civilized rules. I believe in self-governing.

"Hey, seriously, turn that off."
"Fuck you!"

Well, that was the last straw. Sure, I could have chosen to ignore him or switched cars, but what the fuck. I slapped the phone out of his hand. Seriously, it felt better then an orgasm.

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

Well, I didn't really know how to respond to that, so I went the Groucho Marx, "fuck the fucker" route.


"You get so cute when you're angry, do you know that?"
"Are you a fucking faggot?"
"Are you flirting with me? Because I'm not that kind of guy."
"You're a fucking faggot. I'm going to kill you!"
"At least take me out to dinner first, buy me a nice wine..."

Anyway, it was around this point I began to notice the people on the subway thinking I was the weird one; which is probably true, but at least I was amusing myself.

Things quieted down for a few stops, with the exception of an occasional "I'm going to kill you" to me and a "fuck you, old lady" to the 60-something who initially told him to be quiet.

He began to play the game again, mostly while staring at me (so I guess he wasn't actually playing, more idly touching buttons while gazing angrily at me).

I was sorta stuck, because my stop was coming up and I could tell he was waiting to follow me. Instead of doing something exciting and getting off, then leaping back on the last second before the doors closed (which might have happened if I was a character in a cop drama), I simply decided to get off at my stop on 86th street.

When I got up, he got up too. I turned to some of the other passengers:

"This guy's going to try to kill me", I said glibly.

A Middle Aged Woman spoke up: "You deserve it".

Really? I thought I was the good guy.

Anyway, I exited and he followed about two steps behind. I noticed a large, friendly looking black guy (I think he worked for the MTA) and told him I was being followed and if he could help me walk out.

As soon as the Cell Phone guy saw the Black Guy, he disappeared. Slowly coming to the realization that this gentleman might have actually been serious with his threat, I hopped in a cab and went straight to my mother's house.

I still think I was pretty righteous, but maybe I was just retarded. Or both? Retardeous?

Matt "Retardeous" Manson has a ring to it, no?

The iPhone: "It's like a nerd dildo for geeks".

I love how 90% of the traffic to this blog comes from people searching for "Jewish Cocks".

Interesting note; many of the aforementioned searches originate in the Middle East (Saudi Arabia, Egypt), which just proves my theory; anti-Semitism is really just another word for penis envy.

Meanwhile, in my Batcave, I had the following thought:

I hate people with iPhones.

I guess I'll rephrase that:

I hate what people become when they get an iPhone.

I thought Blackberrys were bad enough. I'll even go one further; I hate the idea of a cell phone. I don't like the expectation that you're supposed to have to talk to someone the second they call you. And if you don't...

Well, then either the person who called gets angry and thinks you're avoiding them, or you have the experience that I had this morning...

My brother called me yesterday, but I wasn't feeling particularly well, so I didn't call him back. Thinking I was either injured or dead, he called my father and told him something happened to me because he hadn't heard from me for "two days"; which is true if you count 8 hours yesterday and the period between 8am-10am this morning.

Needless to say, I awoke to 5 voice messages from people "wondering where I am"...

Now, call me a bluff old sentimentalist, but I miss the days when there was no expectation that you would even call a person back the same day. People had "answering machines" where something called an "audio tape" would gather messages in an analogue format.

Sometimes you'd come home after a long day and you'd have messages from people saying "give me a call back when you get a chance", as opposed to the messages I get now, which are "where are you?", "why aren't you picking up?", or "please stop staring at me with binoculars while touching yourself".

Ridiculous, I say!

Getting back to the iPhone; have you noticed that anyone with one will sit there, next to you, constantly texting, checking their email every ten seconds, and playing lame games that, if on a computer, people wouldn't begin to consider playing. "Pole Position" and "Yar's Revenge" look positively complex compared to some of those games.

People are literally unable to hold a conversation with you because they're too distracted pulling their little toy out every three seconds. It even vibrates! It's like a nerd dildo for geeks.

Yes, my cell phone is from 2005. Yes, it can only call people and send text messages. It doesn't play music or rape children or whatever iPhones do.

I'm trying to resist being a huge douchebag. Maybe I've already failed; but unlike most people, at least I'm fighting it.


UPDATE:

Pole Position is a BIG SELLER on the iPhone. Are you fucking serious? I put that in as a joke: that's a game my older brother played in 1983...that was kinda lame in 1983.

Day Two

I woke up early and exhausted. We had to be in by 8:00am to call the elderly and disabled voters who didn't respond to the other 3 messages we left for them the day before.

I had a suspicion that they wouldn't respond then either. I figure once you've called someone 3 times and they haven't picked up, they aren't going to answer a 4th time. I've learned this through many a-non-second-date.

There was a general sense of "we've already won" among most of the volunteers. My brother, the ever-neurotic, always-conspiratorial type was fairly sure that the evil Republican Vote Stealing Machine was in motion, but he was in the minority.

After making some last minute phone calls to generally enthused old ladies, I spent a few hours canvassing around a bus stop; passing out voting information to "unlikely voters". And boy, were they ever unlikely.

I didn't realize it, but Scranton must have a large grizzled, acne scarred, Meth Addict population. They were about as interested in the national election as Karl Rove is interested in not looking like a life-sized potato and they definitely let me know. "Go Away" "Nah Way Man", etc.

One interesting interaction came between myself, a young African American and Hispanic couple. The Latina, who had her name tattooed on her neck in cursive, spoke up when I asked her if "she had voted today".

"Why do you support Barack Obama?"
"Well, first off, under his tax plan, I would receive $850 more in relief per year..."
"And what about abortion?"
"Well, I believe in a woman's right to choose, and I think that Senator Obama will appoint someone to the Supreme Court that will uphold that right."
"How do you feel about the fact that Obama supports transporting minors across state lines to give them abortions without their parents' consent?"
"I don't think that's true"
"I read it in a flier"
"Well, there are a lot of things you can read in a flier that's not true. They're passing out fliers that say Obama is a Muslim."
That's when the African American kid spoke up:
"Well, I support Obama...but he's not a Muslim?"
The Latina joined in "He isn't?"

After a few hours of this, I began to get dispirited. I really wanted to go back to NYC to vote and I didn't really feel like trying to get people who weren't going to vote...to vote. It was like trying find a piece of hay in an extremely large stack of needles.

I went over to my brother and asked him if we could go back to NYC so I could vote. We had a little bit of a fight, because he was planning on celebrating the win in PA, but he was kind enough to agree, after I through my feces at him and cried like a woman or baby.

I spent the next 4 hours calling a list of potential Democrats reminding them that it was election day. Again, most people were kind; but some were angry, because everyone we called were on about 5-6 different call lists, which means that they were getting AT LEAST 5-6 different calls a day.

If we left them a message, they were put on another list to "call again". I felt bad, and you really have to wonder if it was necessary. At least 2 people told me that were "rethinking" voting for Obama because we called them so much.

Anyway, we left at 5pm (just when everyone else went to the local college to knock on doors and remind people they still had 2 hours to vote), and rushed back to NYC so I could get my vote in.

As I anticipated, Indiana would be too close to call at 7:01, which told me Obama was going to win. I did think Virginia would be called at about 8:00, so that did cause me to pause for a second...but once they called Ohio, it was over.

I was actually surprised that Ohio went for Obama and went so convincingly. It seemed like the kind of state where Palin's BS would fly. BTW, FOXNEWS(!) is reporting that Palin didn't know the countries involved in NAFTA (uhhh "North American Free Trade Agreement"), and didn't know that Africa is a CONTINENT, not a country when McCain chose her as VP. Smeriously?

Anyway, I got back just in time to vote, there was no line and everything ended the right way...except Gays Can't Get Married Or Adopt...so it's two steps forward and one step back, I guess.

Scranton

I awoke bleary eyed around 6am after about 3 hours of sleep. Late the night before I had decided to forgo voting and drive to Scranton, PA the next morning to get out the vote for Obama.

I wasn't really concerned about him losing PA, but you can never underestimate the American electorate's ability to make huge, ignorant mistakes.

I arrived at Obama's Scranton HQ around 10:45. After a quick cup of coffee, I began to call elderly and disabled people to schedule drives for them to polling locations. They were generally nice, affable, and even a few; religious. God Bless Me for helping Obama. That's sweet.

A few hours later I began to call "Probable Obama Supporters" in the area, to: make sure they knew how to vote, knew where to vote, and see if they wanted to volunteer.

Most of them had been called already; some were rude about it, some hung up immediately, some used it as an opportunity to affirm their support of Obama. It was here that I began to see how unorganized things actually were.

A lot of volunteers were "taking the long way 'round". Checking one thing ten times, instead of checking ten things once. Having people on six different lists, making sure that one item is in a packet of five things, instead of counting all five things at once...

That sort of thing.

I'm pretty sure that was made up for by two distinct things:

1) Free Baked Goods: WOW! Everyone's Halloween leftovers were there. Not to mention fresh baked cookies, breads, pastries. Delish! I think the rust belt has the best home-baked goods. I can say this with certainty because I went to high school just a few hours away.

2) The Sheer Joy Of The Volunteers: Everyone was totally nice, sweet and determined. I gotta say, since this was the closest "swing-y state-y small city" close to New York, there were a lot of Jews From NYC hanging about. Those be my favorite sort o' folk. Good fun all around.

Anyway, I'm getting up in another 5 hours and doing it again. It's nice to feel like I'm actually accomplishing something productive, rather than the normal "crying/pornography/crying pornography" routine.

Update Schmupdate

The subtle shriek of Steinberg set the Upper West Side aflutter.

After all, he was the number 1 regional seller of Bunk and Trundle Beds, and that's not something easily laughed at. In fact, he was quite the minor celebrity on the Upper West Side.

"He was the kindest, gentlest soul you could ever meet! Also, the man knew discount home furnishings", said Sarah Schlongstein of 86th and Broadway.

"Oy, with the beds and the talking; this man...this was a man who could do things and etcetera", said Jewy McJewerson of 69th and Columbus.

So why was he brutally murdered by 12 ACLU lawyers on their lunch break? Why was the murder weapon a week old chicken salad sandwich from Lenny's? To answer that, we must go to the beginning.

Steinberg was born at the age of 12 on a cold night in 1954. Raised by an overbearing Jewish mother and an Alsatian in his late 30's named Floppy; he found himself simultaneously overfed and begging for scraps at the kitchen table.

After not living up to his parents expectations (his mother wanted him to be a Doctor, his father wanted him to pee on fire hydrants more), he decided it was his turn; he would go forth into the high stakes world of bed selling.

It was there he met Matilda, a drunkard/Irish girl who pleased men by pouring authentic Vermont Maple Syrup on their pancakes.

She sauntered into his bed store one day with a saunter that was saunterlicious. When she came up to him, his jaw dropped.

"Hello, I'm looking for a bed"

"AHIRSGAEG AINERGA E?IGRJ AOERJG AEOGRJA" he said, bleeding profusely from the bottomless gape where his jaw used to be.

After some super glue and minor surgery, he returned to her.

"Can I offer you a bed...Mrs?"

SUDDENLY, A newborn baby fell from between her legs; she took a swig of Whiskey to numb the pain.

"It's OK, I'm Irish"

"Oh"

"So, I'm looking for a nice comfortable bed to drink and procreate on"

"Well, we've got the Whore-O-Matic here...automatically contours to vagina size and weight. What's yours like?"

"Meaty"

"Meaty is a little vague, can you give me something more specific; a cut, for instance?"

"Hmmm...let's say fatty pastrami from Cantor's deli"

"Oh, you're an average!"

"Well, I was more of a Roast Beef in college, but you know how you can just let yourself go!"

"Do I?"

They shared an awkward laugh.

That's when 12 ACLU lawyers came in, brandishing a large, stale Chicken Salad Sandwich.

The biggest one spoke up.

"We're here from the American Civil Liberties Union and we think this short story is violating many personal rights of the readers"

The chorus of ACLU cronies spoke up: "YEAH!" "ME ANGRY!!" "WHAT TIME IS THE GIANTS GAME TOMORROW!!"

"Well, that's not fair, I mean, I didn't even write this tripe, right narrator?"

...

"Hello...narrator?!? You aren't getting away with this one, you little sack of..."

The chorus spoke up again: "HE'S STALLING!" "BURN HIM!" "I SMELL LIKE PEE!"

"OK, time's up, Steinberg!"

That's when they threw the moldy Chicken Salad Sandwich on him. He shrieked like crazy as his insides were being burned by scolding hot mayo.

"Oy, this is meshugana!"

THE END

"The end?...fuck you, narrator!"

Stir Crazy

I've been alone in my apartment all day. It's been self-imposed; I'm trying to finish writing this script I've been busy with, and I have a ton of paying work I need to catch up on.

I tells ya, there's certainly nothing like being alone in a somewhat dark, relatively tiny apartment; listening to local Sports Radio and caressing your hips while wishing you were a woman.

Earlier today, I was visited by my super. He walked in, slapped me in the face with a halibut and began to do the mashed potato dance. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me that "I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does". He then took off a face-shaped mask and revealed himself as Morrissey, lead singer of The Smiths. I found this odd, because I'm pretty sure my super is a Cure fan.

Later on, Jesus stopped by and we had some drinks. After about half a bottle of wine, he said "you're drinking my blood!". I was mildly upset, but not as upset as I was 10 seconds later when I thought about the heaping glass of whole milk he brought me.

He called it Jesus Juice. Actually he called it "Jesus Jews", but I didn't catch the pun until after he laughed at it for a few seconds. Forced to pretend I got it immediately, but just wasn't polite enough to laugh, I said "puns! I love puns! They never make me laugh out loud, but you gotta love puns!" Dodged that bullet.

Then I had some Elks over and they brought Elkahol. We got massively drunk and spoke ill of moose and their faggy antlers. I said mooses, but they quickly corrected my grammar...the Elks never looked at me with the same respect again.

After 6 hours of solitaire scrabulous, I got into bed and played another 6 hours of solitaire scrabulous. Then I shaved racing stripes into my cheek hair.

I live a highly fulfilling life.

Polls Find White Obama Pulling Away From Black Obama

With voters’ increased confidence in his ability to serve as commander in chief, as well as a majority who now believe he would do a good job as president, White Barack Obama has opened up his biggest advantage over Black Barack Obama in the latest NBC News/Wall Street Journal poll.

With two weeks to go until Election Day, White Obama now leads his African-American counterpart by 40 points among registered voters, 70 to 30 percent, up from 65 to 35 percent two weeks ago.

The top concerns those polled had about Black Barack Obama were his "Socialist Liberal Agenda" and his "Concerning Ties To Terrorist Organizations".

"I just can't trust that Black Barack Obama," said Marylin Schunk of Columbusville, Ohio. "He's an Arab who pals around with terrorists. I don't want him taxing me and giving my hard earned money to homeless drug dealing gay black Communists. As for White Barack Obama; well, I feel like I know him; he's been on the campaign trail for over two years and he seems like a nice, even-tempered guy who'll cut my taxes. I'd love to grab a beer with him, you know what I mean?"

White Obama supporter Norman Stills of Darkiekill, South Carolina says he is most concerned about the economy: "Black Obama is going to tax me. I only makes 42,000! Now, White Obama, he's out for people like me...because he looks like me."

In the survey, White Obama also holds commanding leads on the issues — especially economic ones. He has a 39-point advantage over Black Obama in handling health care (59 to 20 percent), a 21-point edge on improving the economy (49 to 28). Black Obama still leads in "who I'd want on my basketball team" (65 to 29) and "who can dance better" (74 to 12).

As for the electoral count, White Obama leads in every state, especially in the South, where, for example, he's carrying Alabama by a 93-4. Black Obama still leads in Washington DC, 90-10.

With no clear policy differences, analysts are struggling to determine the cause of the giant spread between the two candidates.

"I guess when that hole in the fabric of space time opened up, White Obama brought some of that good old fashion alternate-universe charm about him. People really get a sense like they know him, as opposed to Black Obama, who they still have many questions about, especially in relation to his dubious, America-Hating associations." Says Dr. Arnold Rimmer of Lancaster, PA.

"Personally, I'm not voting for him because I hate black people".

Just remembering...

Just watching a piece on Obama's grandmother reminds me of my own. Here is a blog post I wrote 7 months ago about my grandmother, who had died the day before. Her absence was underscored in a Bat Mitzvah I went to on Sunday...the first major family function without her.

Below, you'll read a little about my feisty grandmother and jazz celebrity great uncle:

My grandmother passed away yesterday (3/24/08) at the all-too-young age of 98. I say "all-to-young" (with grammatically dubious dashes), because she never seemed like she would die. I remember when I was a child and she was in her early 80s, I assuredly thought she'd still be baking me gooey Apple Pies and scrumptious Chocolate Cakes well into her 120s. Even towards the end; as she was sick, frail and bedridden, her spirit remained strong and I had no doubts that Willard Scott would be announcing her 100th birthday on "The Today Show" in 2009. Her spirit was just THAT strong: she was the definition of a tough old broad and will forever be missed by those that knew her.

Anyway, I attended the funeral this morning. It was sad, funny and beautiful. I was most effected when my Aunt played Sophie Tucker's "Some Of These Days" on a little portable boom box. Lyrics like:

"And when you leave me you know it's gonna grieve me
Gonna miss your big, fat mamma, your mamma some of these days"

Seem to be written about my big old fat grandma.

While at the funeral I saw my dad's cousin Charlie (or Charlsie! for short). He's a gregarious, funny, amiable fellow that you immediately take a liking to after hearing a single burst of his humongous laugh. His parents were also first cousins, which is neither here nor there.

He told me this amazing story about my great uncle Lee Myles (my grandmother's brother). Lee was a big-band leader who was a contemporary of Irving Berlin and had articles written about him by the likes of Ed Sullivan. He started his own automotive transmission store aptly named "Lee Myles". It's a chain today that's located mostly around the northeast. His store had a big billboard with his name on it, smack in the middle of the Long Island Expressway. It had a big clock, so people who waited in traffic could check the time. Can you imagine people driving around without knowing what time it is?

Charlsie worked for Lee (and later ran one of his stores) and recounted a very funny story to me. Sometime around 1959 or 1960 Lee was contacted by General Motors. They wanted to pay him 7 Million Dollars to buy his stores and another 500 thousand a year to run the place. 7 Million bucks is a lot of money now, I can't even conceive how much that was back then.

Anyway, Lee was excited and was about to make the deal. In the final meeting GM told him and Charlsie what they wanted to do: take Lee's name off the billboard on the expressway and replace it with a GM sign. After all, it would be great advertising; all those motorists checking the time with a huge GM clock. This was a major thing for them.

Lee walked out of the meeting, looked at Charlsie and said "Fuck them!". Charlsie tried to convince Lee that he could maybe negotiate and have the sign say "GM presents Lee Myles", but Lee would hear nothing of it; no damn company was taking HIS name off the L.I.E. He turned the deal down flat and nothing was ever mentioned of it again.

He's my new hero. What a wonderful stubborness! Nanny was special, but obviously she came from a special family: and I'm glad to be a part of it.

Uhh...what was I talking about?

Alas, it's been too long since I've updated. A lot has happened in the past week;

I...uhm...actually I haven't really done jack shit. I am taking a brief respite from blog writing in order to focus on my crying and self pity. That well is almost dry, and I do believe I will have something new and interesting before the week ends.

Why is it that I cannot focus on anything for more than 5 seconds anymore? I pop up a web page and within a few moments, I open up a new tab and am looking at something else. I don't finish articles, postings or even a coherent sentence. I mention this because over the course of the preceding 2 paragraphs I have opened up a new tab at least 5 times. But, I'm stopping myself.

No more! Oh wait...Obama's grandmother is sick. Just gotta check that one out...

bonheur de la mort

NOTE: To give context, this entry was written at 4:30am in a dark, silent room.


Wow. These days are going by fast, no?

Every day I wake up, I blink, and then I'm back where I started; except it's cold and black. I'm pretty sure some stuff happens in between those moments, but I can't for the life of me tell you what it would be.

Of course; since we age, each day becomes a lesser percentage of our life, so we perceive each day exponentially shorter than the last.

Basically, it's like starting your Geo Metro and waiting for it to get up to 60 miles an hour. It might take 85 years, but at least you're heading for a brick wall that will kill you instantly. Ahh, sweet, delicious death. I hope I'm drunk or wearing a tuxedo.

I've often wondered why I'm so obsessed with death. I guess it's the contradiction; It's really the only certain thing in life, but it's also the most mind-bogglingly uncertain. Do I get to meet my childhood dog for that teary eyed game of catch that I miss so dearly; or am I brutally raped by a various consortium of damned souls, fire-breathing monsters and those people who call you up during dinner and ask "are you happy with your current bank?".

Or, does nothing happen? Vast, blank, empty nothing? Eternal nothingness devoid of space, experience and graham crackers? It's like when they used to put you in "time out" during elementary school, except there's a lot less humiliation slash vicious beating when you're dead.

And therein lies the problem. I'll never know and yet I'll spend time worrying about it for the next 60 odd years. What a waste of time life is.

At least I'm not on the Mets.

Here's a good song off an album that hasn't been released yet that you should listen to. It's not as interesting as the complex questions that surround death, but let's just say it "kills" some time. Buh-dump-bump (VOMIT!)

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

Professor Hevana

Professor Hevana liked to smoke Cuban cigars, which is why his students gave him the nickname Professor Hevana. He taught English at a local public school in Los Angeles.

He was 65, acted 25 and complained like he was 85: to him, he was still that 14 year old playing stickball in Brooklyn, but, "oy" did his back hurt, and "what's with that noise? you call that MUSIC?".

One evening, while smoking some pork ribs (he had run out of cigars), he saw the prettiest girl he had never seen in his life. 5'10 with perfect chestnut hair, a statuesque figure and a beauty mark in the shape of France; he knew that he was too old to pass this opportunity up.

But what to say? He had been out of the game so long, he wasn't even sure he knew what "the game" meant. "Fuck it!", he thought. "I'm going to wing it like John McCain is winging his campaign!"

He walked up to her.

"Hello, I'm 65 and scared of death. I teach high school English and have never met a Welsh person. What's your name?"

Sandra was immediately impressed. Not by his honesty, but by the fact he was her teacher 10 years ago and obviously didn't remember her. She'd play along.

"You're mighty forward".

"Well, I come from a long line of forward people. My father was forward; I called him father forward, or was it forward father? Either way, he'd beat me while reading from the bible."

"Are you religious?"

"I go to synagogue, church, and an Atheist meet up weekly. I try to cover my bases."

"But what do you believe?"

"I believe that believing is for suckers. Whatever is going on, we'll never know. I'm not stupid enough to believe in an all powerful deity, but I'm not naive enough to believe in nothing".

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm a pantheist."

"Really? That's noble".

"Let me clarify; I'm a frying pantheist. I believe only cutlery goes to heaven. The rest of us are fucked."

Hevana was in love with that sentence. So in love that he fell in love with the mouth that spoke those words and, by extension, the woman whose mouth spoke those words.

She looked at him.

"You really don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

"Sandra Cosby; class of '98? I had AP English with you. Remember?"

He didn't.

"I don't, but I should, right?"

"Probably. You told me you thought I was one of the best in your class."

"I guess I was lying."

In that single moment she reflected upon her entire life; all the teachers she remembered, all the classmates: They were frozen solid in time; ageless; unchanged despite the years that separated them.

Hevana must have taught another 500 students over the last 10 years; so why on earth should he remember her?

She studied him; a few more gray hairs, a few extra pounds, more pronounced crow's feet. This wasn't her English teacher, this was some 65 year old guy that she'd never met. She wanted to keep her frozen moments intact.

So, she walked away.

"Hey!" he called after. "If I pretend I remember you, will you go out on a date with me?"

She walked away pretentiously: in slow motion, set to a 60's rock song with a pronounced acoustic guitar. She really hated Wes Anderson movies.

FADE OUT.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hevana is misspelled on purpose. If you don't get it, reread the first paragraph.