The Other One

For those of you who knew me back in high school (or before), you will be amazed to know that my cat Blackie, a.k.a. "The Other One," is still alive and well, at age 19 1/2 (above picture taken last week in Florida). Blackie is living proof that the key to extraordinary feline longevity is little or no veterinary care, combined with a steady diet of discount cat food.

Blackie isn't even a black cat, so the name is sort of absurd. She's what my grandmother called a "brindle cat," which is pretty much your standard brown-striped alley cat. Her name was originally Ginger Snap (I used to name all my cats after foods, for reasons that now escape me), but somehow the name never stuck. Blackie's always been sort of the Cinderella of the family, only without the glass slipper or the prince. She was a stray kitten my dad found in a parking lot when she was about 4 months old, half-starved and streaked with white paint. The day she came home, her breath smelled like pizza, because some construction workers had fed her some of their lunch. Their intentions were good, but she had all sorts of digestive troubles as a result. Let's just say it's no coincidence that there aren't any pizza-flavored cat foods.

My mom was rather irritated that dad had brought home a cat, and one with diareaha at that, without her permission. Even more annoyed by this turn of events was Coconut, a.k.a. Whitey, our huge, dazzling half-persian (we think) with bright green eyes. For the next 18 years, poor Ginger Snap would be the poor step-sister to Whitey, a long-haired white cat who at one point weighed 30 pounds and pretty much demanded the attention of all humans in his wake. Poor Blackie. It was like being Ashley Simpson, only without the nose job, or the awful lip-synching.

Anyway, when my grandmother was visiting when I was in 9th grade or so, she started calling Coconut "Whitey," because he was white, and the name sort of stuck. Ginger Snap, who at that point was primarily known as "The Other One," became known as Blackie. We might as well've called her "non-Whitey." It's pretty sad.

My late grandparents, for all they doted on their animals, never gave pets anything but the most painfully obvious names, usually reflecting their gender and/or species. For instance, my grandfather Kennedy had an old beagle named Boy. As far as anyone could tell, Paw-paw loved Boy more than any of his own children, and certainly more than all of his grandchildren, creatures he didn't really see the point of, considering none of us could be bothered to fish a dead duck out of a pond.

Boy, as you might have guessed, was a male dog (good thing it wasn't a female dog ...). They also had a chiuhauaha (sp?) that barked constantly, and was thus named Arfy. There was a cockateel called Lady Bird (both gender and species) and an orange Tom cat named ... Tom. All things considered, it's amazing my grandfather didn't name his kids "Hey You," or maybe "Stop That!"

In an unrelated tanget, my grandfather's own father actually named himself. True story, or so he swore. His father was the youngest of 15 kids, born somewhere in the hills of rural Alabama. The Civil War was going on, or had just ended, so maybe his parents couldn't afford a new name, or maybe their mind was just elsewhere. They called the youngest one, simply, "Babe," until a man from the Census Bureau came around, and asked the names of all the residents of their farm. He said that Babe wasn't a given name, so asked my great-grandfather, age 5, to run around the yard and think of what he'd like his Offical Name to be for the purposes of the Federal Government.

He came back and said that he was to be called John William Harrison Kennedy, unwittingly naming himself after not one, but two U.S. presidents. If I'd been asked to pick my own name at that age, you would know me as "Wonder Woman Sparkle Pony," or possibly Princess Leia. Maybe my 5-year-old great-grandfather was an ardent supporter of the Whig party, of which William "Tippecanoe" Harrison was the last member to hold the Executive Branch.

Anyway, the point being, Blackie is (amazingly) alive and well, as is Hugo, my cat from college who now lives with my folks. Yesterday, they got a new kitten, who they rescued from a neighbor who was about to send her to the pound. They're calling her "Lucky."

And this concludes another chapter of, Aren't My Cats Fascinating? Tune in next time when I tell you about how Francis did that cute thing he does ....

In Search of Lost Thyme

"Young married 'ooman een dis day she nebbuh sattify wid ole time dish; dey allways want fuh mek some kine ob new mixture."

The guests arrive at cocktail time.
On tempting trays, my board displays
Delectable varieties
Of canapés. I yearn for praise
But none comes forth. My busy guests
They talk and laubh and gaily quaff
And stretch unseeing hands to take
My handicraft as though 'twere chaff!

- From Charleston Receipts, published by the Junior Leauge of Charleston, 1950.

If you were raised in the South, chances are you’re familiar with the ubiquitious spiral-bound fundraiser cookbooks. My parents have entire bookshelves filled with these things. You can tell the ones that are from Mom’s side of the family, because they’re mostly published by one the South Carolina Junior Leauges, organizations that raise money for such charitable purposes as producing spiral-bound cookbooks. The Junior Leauge cookbooks are entertaining, but it's hard to imagine ever actually making most of the recipes. These books harken to the age when everyone had cooks. The recipes "reflect the pleasant living of past generations." [Subtext: Ah, slavery! Doncha miss it?]

Dad’s cookbooks, on the other hand, come from the sleepy Alabama towns of his childhood; places where it’s perfectly reasonable to start a recipe, "Get about half a grown goat. Skin and half him. While skinning, don’t get any hair on him." (pg. 243 of Sumpthin’ Yummy, pub. Monroeville, AL, year unknown).

In all fairness, this quote (yes, a direct quote) is from the "Game and Outdoor Cooking" section, right next to other "For Men Only!" recipes. Now, I’m as much of a feminist as the next gal, but I’m happy to forego equality when it comes to any activites involving a knife, a fiery pit, and a mature billy goat. Or any other cloven-hooved animal. Personally, I like my recipes to be a bit less… Old Testament. But that's just my own hang-ups talking.

Still, the Alabama books have the best recipes, in that they’re ones you could actually make without the help of a butler and/or a full-time kitchen staff, although they do require the occasional wild boar.

I bring the subject of spiral-bound Southern cookbooks because I’m in Jacksonville visiting the folks. And because I haven’t been taking my ADD medicine. As a result, I can spend hours on end just looking through old cookbooks/Encylcopedia Brittanicas/newspaper circulars for medical supply companies, etc.

But cookbooks are my favorite waste of time. It’s not like I’m going to actually make anything from the cookbooks. This would involve a multi-step process that far exceeds my gerbil-like attention span. Still, they’re good reading.

I feel about cookbooks the way Proust felt about train schedules, which he famously loved to read before going to bed. (Maybe the pharmaceutical industry should look into this. Do you have Insomnia? Ask your doctor if Train Schedules™ are right for you. Ditto for the collected works of David Foster Wallace.)

It is 99.99(the last 9 has a little line over it, suggesting infinity)% certain that I will never, ever actually make Mrs. Samuel G. Stoney’s "Back River Paté," an "old French Huguenot dish" shared by Mrs. William S. Popham (Louisa Stoney). Nor am I likely to be the kind of gracious hostess who will bring out onto the porch, on a monagramed silver platter, the Cheese Balls described by Mrs. Harold Petitt (Corine Neely).

Still, I love to flip through and find recipes with exotic ("Faber's Pilau") or familiar (7-Layer Salad) titles. Then, I read the recipe slowly and carefully, mentally going through the whole process. It’s strangely thrilling to imagine how those Cheese Balls would taste, and how delighted my fictional guests would be to have such a crispy and delicious treat.
It's fun to plan whole menus for specialty parties. For instance, the Cheese Balls would go nicely with the Rum Punch described by Mrs. Ralph Hanson (Elenor Rutledge). It involves 1 gallon brandy, ½ gallon heavy or light rum, 1 pint peach brandy, 2 qt. Black tea, lemons, and sugar. Mrs. Hanson notes that "this was the punch my father made for all the debutante parties of my generation." Which explains why 9 months later, all the young ladies were going off to "visit Aunt Susie" in New York.

In reality, my guests are lucky to have a clean glass of water and some stale potato chips, served "en croute" (French for "in the bag"). If my mother knew this, she would cry. And she would take back the silver service I got for my 10th birthday (what every 10-year-old dreams of), but which my parents wouldn’t let me bring to New York until after I got married. I guesss they didn’t want to have any illegitamite serving forks running around.

In 1986, the Junior League of Charleston published, "Charleston Receipts Repeats," a revised version of the 1950 text, which had been through at least 25 re-printings. The new tome retains the basic format of the original, including the quaint/deeply horrifying practice of married ladies being listed as Mrs. John Q. Husband (Jane Insignificant Wife). Also, the 80’s version edits out the politically incorrect parts, like the Gullah dialect quotations (as above) from the hired help, who, let’s face it, were probably doing 99.9 (again, with a little line over it)% of the actual work.

However, I’ve decided that I want to learn how to make a casserole. And a Co’Cola Salad. And Cheese Balls. People in my generation don’t know how to make these things we grew up eating, like collard greens and cornbread, and Domino’s Pizza.

So, that’s my new gimmick, I mean, uh, "installation project.". I’m going to start making Southern dishes from my family cookbooks. It’ll be all retro.

I draw the line, however, at chasing down a half-grown goat.

Last week, while Paul was in California, I sat around the house a lot. This gave me some time to do some deep soul searching and yogic meditation, which to the outside observer might look a lot like watching episodes of Family Guy on DVD.

Fortunately, there were no outside observers.

However, as a result of careful reflection on the current state of my life, I have come to a very important conclusion. I've finally realized what's been missing all this time.

Yes, there comes a time in every young (shut up) woman's life when she must find a gimmick.

It seems like it's the only way to go. I'm sure you've all heard about Kyle MacDonald, the guy who "traded one red paper clip for a house." This is great, and you have to admire his tenacity and what-not, but the way people are going on about it you'd think he was some hybrid of Jesus, Gandhi and Death Cab for Cutie.

Besides, there was a bit of a deus ex machina in the form of the town of Kipling Saskatchewan, in Canada. The town traded him a house (caveat: it's in Kipling Saskatchewan) for a role in a Corbin Bernsen movie called Donna on Demand.

Let's hope this movie isn't what it sounds like, or else the Town of Kipling might have to get a Brazilian bikini wax for the part.

From the Mayor's letter to Kyle MacDonald, offering the house: The day we make the trade will be decreed One Red Paperclip Day by our Town Council and everyone will be encouraged to wear a red paperclip in honor of your achievements.

That, and the town is going to build "the world's largest red paperclip" in his honor. (Good thing he didn't start the whole trading thing with one blow job ...)

Again - Kyle seems like a great guy and all, but you'd think he single-handedly saved the world from an extra-terrestrial invasion, like in one of those movies they play at 3:00 every Saturday afternoon on TNT.

And good thing he didn't, because the "world's largest red paperclip" thing would be pretty hard to explain to someone from another planet.

From a marketing perspective, the whole thing is brilliant. Not only did some random guy with a blog get on 20/20, but , more remarkably he got Corbin Bernsen on 20/20, something I don't see happening any other way at this point, unless he were speeding down the freeway in a white Bronco. More specifically, the words "Corbin Bernsen Movie" were said repeatedly and with a straight face on national television.

Another site/project that recently ended was this one, where a woman in Seattle wore the same home-made brown dress every day for a year to protest consumerism. Or something. The point is, she kept it up it every day for a year. I gotta give her credit. I've never done anything that wasn't an involuntary bodily function every single day for a whole year.

But it's getting to the point where, as a cultre, we are so lacking in tenacity that we're willing to reward anyone who sticks with anything - no matter how bizarre, useless, or even detrimental it may be.

In order to really run with a gimmick, you have to have an attention span that's longer than 8 seconds. Which is where the plan starts to unravel for me personally. I've had a few almost-gimmicks, but none of them ever really took off.

Some years back, I decided to move to Berlin and subsist on little-or-no money. This wasn't to protest consumerism, or to make a statement about the hegemony of Germany's central banking system in European market futures. It wasn't even to protest the Rise of Wal-Mart uber Alles (Die Priese bleiben unten. Immer!), although in retrospect, maybe it should have been. The whole point of living on little-or-no money was because ... that was all I had.

And because a talking Volkswagen in a dream told me to move to Berlin (yes, seriously). Good thing it wasn't a talking Trans Am.

Instead of going to the trouble to make a web site or blog, I just spammed unsuspecting friends and aquaintences with tales of hanging out in Berlin, "not doing any good for anybody," as Paul likes to say about my Paris years. I called the whole thing, "Berlin on $2.56 a Day," but I might have spent as much as $4.76 a day. Except for when my parents came to visit and offered an undisclosed sum for me to return to the U.S., which I refused in a huff. But then I got bored and came back the next month anyway, when the offer had unfortunately expired.

However, the only profit I made off of the whole thing was when my friend Matt sent me $50, undoubtedly because he felt sorry for me, but for which I will always be grateful. I still remember the dozen eggs I bought with the money that very same day.

But, alas, nobody made a giant statue of $2.56 in my honor.

Anyway, I'm now officially in the market for a gimmick. Any ideas?

NYC Welcome Wagon

"The first thing I saw back in New York was a pidgeon eating some vomit."

Paul got back from L.A. on the red eye, at about 6 AM. I was still asleep, but managed to ask about his trip back. The above was his response.

It was one of those, "why exactly do we live in this city?" moments that occur as a result of visiting the more scenic parts of California and Florida, where we're respectively from. Paul's from the Central Coast of California, which has mountains and oceans and vineyards and very few pidgeons eating vomit.

The only problem is, wherever we ultimately end up, the other person's family will be horrified that we aren't close to them, because our families live on opposite sides of the country. The only solution is to move to one of those box-shaped states where they grow a lot of corn or something, and everyone will be equally misearble.

Movers and (Wiener Dog Salt & Pepper) Shakers

Today, I tried to buy a telephone. Not a cell phone, or even a cordless telephone. Not a phone/fax/copier/toaster. Just a plain old, regular phone. Somehow, this turned into an all-day affair.

You see, cordless phones, much like cell phones, don’t seem to work in our apartment.

“If you live in an old building, it’s probably the bricks,” explained the Team Member at Sprint, when I tried to explain why I should be able to return or exchange my phone. “The thing is,” the she explained, “cell phones aren’t supposed to be used indoors.”

This explanation came with a knowing look, as if I’d been violating the laws of God and nature by using cell phone indoors, undoubtedly for some unspeakable purpose involving a ball gag and a pair of assless chaps.

There are several problems with Sprint’s “it’s Karmic punishment for making the phone feel dirty by using it indoors” assessment of why we get no reception. First – the bricks? I’ve managed to get crystal-clear cell phone reception on a Boeing 777, in mid-air, sitting in the row next to the thrust engine. But here at home, I guess the bricks are made of some sort of cell-phone Kryptonite. The same thing happened with the cordless phone, even though it was supposedly one of those “up to 500 foot range!” types. Go in the other room (behind the magic bricks), and you loose the signal.

Besides, the idea that a cell phone “isn’t supposed to be used indoors” is just ridiculous. That’s like saying the Internet isn’t supposed to be used for porn.

At any rate, we were left with no choice but to buy a regular, old-fashioned, non-cordless (cordfull?) phone.

“Can you please get a phone shaped like a duck, or maybe Darth Vader’s head?” Paul asked.

He was calling from a vineyard somewhere outside of Santa Barbara, where he was visiting his friend Steve. Ironically, Paul was calling on his cell phone; the same one that doesn’t work in our apartment.

"Maybe get one that rings like Darth Vader's breathing?" Paul suggests.

Why can’t you find novelty telephones any more? When I was younger (but not young enough for the story not to be embarrassing), I had a phone that was shaped like Garfield, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. In my bedroom in Jacksonville, there is still, to this day, a phone that’s shaped like a mallard decoy (my parents are WASPs; this is the sort of thing Our People do…). We’ve had “The Duck” since the mid-80’s; for some reason, none of us can bring ourselves to throw it away. Instead of ringing, it quacks. The only problem is, it somehow picks up a Lite FM radio station whenever you make a call.

On the Upper East Side, hard to find anything so pedestrian as a working telephone. However, if you’re in the market for a Louis XIV toothpick holder, that, you can find 24/7.

Since we moved into the neighborhood last year, not one but two local hardware stores have bit the dust. I guess they just can’t pay the $10,000 a month rent selling spackle and nails. The closest thing we have is a place called Feldman’s, is supposedly a hardware store, assuming by “hardware” you mean overpriced European tchatchkes, like a this tape dispenser shaped like a frog, or a stapler with a striped bass on it (I mean, uh, "desk art").

I love Feldman’s, though. I went in to look for a no-frills phone, and came out with these (for real):

(Shown ACTUAL SIZE)

I looked in four different places in the neighborhood, but no telephones. If I were in the market for something more reasonable, such as an ancient Buddhist artifact (irony not withstanding), a 100% cashmere baby blanket, or a tin of Iranian caviar, there would be no problem.

As a matter of fact, I took an impromptu survey of the ridiculous merchandise for sale in this neighborhood. Below is an extremely short list of what I found.

Within a three-block radius on Madison Avenue, I found the following:

1. “Head of Buddha, 2nd-3rd Century” (about 3x2 feet) for sale at Art of the Past gallery
2. Custom-made Japanese silk bow ties and neckties (in the store that sells nothing but)
3. A candle shaped like a hedgehog
4. Framed, original fashion sketches by Bill Blass, circa 1984-1987, at a store called Gerald Bland (no, that’s really the name; couldn’t make that up)
5. A $186 bra

NOTE: all of these items, all within 3 blocks of each other on Madison Avenue, are 100% not made up, and verifiable. And these are not the weirdest things.

This weekend, I almost bought a dachshund puppy from a street vendor. To make a long story short: I didn't. Ditto with the phone.

Happy Bastille Day. At least, it is for me, because we have the day off. We also got the 4th of July, and half a day to watch the sodding World Cup. When is Zambia's national holiday? Maybe we could make a case for taking that one, too. You gotta love working for the French. (Did I mention we work 9 to 4 in the summer?)

I didn't go out to any of the "quatorze juillet" celebrations around town. Instead, I paid hommage to the French Revolution and the Age of Enlightenment in my own way, by staying indoors, watching TV. In English. But I'm humming the Marseillaise as I type.

It's really quiet around here, because Paul's in California for a few days, visiting his folks with his cousin Matt, who was staying with us last week. Matt's a good kid. Oy veh. You know you're getting old when you refer to anyone under 25 as "a kid," even if he's 6'3" and in college.

I'm starting to realize that I've skipped right over the "turning into my mother" phase, by turning directly into my grandmother. "What a nice young gentleman!" I say, talking about Matt in the third person even though he's sitting next to me on the couch, two feet away.

"Now, would you like a Co-Cola, or maybe a caramel, young man?," I ask, inadvertantly channeling a thick Charleston accent. I successfully resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks, however.

I haven't had the place to myself for a whole week in ages. I was hoping to get a lot of stuff accomplished with all the free time and quiet, but so far it hasn't happened. Today, I watched 6 straight hours of the SciFi channel, which was having a "Firefly" marathon. Firefly was easily the best show ever. Sigh. Why was it cancelled, and yet "Family Matters," a.k.a., "You Know, the One With Urkel," endured for what seemed like an eternity. And I'm not just talking about how it felt watching half an episode.

Earlier this year, we finally got cable. Taking a page from the Bush doctorine of blaming journalists for all the problems of the current administrtion, I, too, blame all my lack of accomplishements on "the media." It all started when Paul's parents got us an LCD/HDTV for his birthday. If we ever decide to have a baby, he or she will be profoundly lucky if Paul is even half as jubillant as he was to welcome this TV in our home,thus replacing the old 13-inch set. Very reluctantly (don't tell Paul), I have to admit I kind of ... uh ... agree. Okay, it's really frickin' cool.

Having been raised by educators and such, I've always been rather conflicted on the subject of television. As a kid, I was barely allowed to watch TV, and when I did it was always Masterpiece Theater or Nova or some other - let's just face it - astoundingly boring shit. But to maintain my cred as an "intellectual," (i.e., someone too cheap to pay for cable) I didn't have a TV for 8+ years when I lived alone. I often like to throw this up to Paul.

"Oh, yeah?" Paul says. "And tell me one thing you did during those 8 years?"

There was a pause. The pause got longer. "Okay! This one time? I, uh ... installed a bathroom shelf!"

Paul looked understandably shocked. "When was this?"

"Sometime in ...you know. Clinton was President."

FULL DISCLOSURE: I've never actually installed a shelf. Ever. I've purchased many shelves, and several of them have even been propped up adjacent to the location where, ideally, some magical shelf fairies would have installed it during the night. But never have I personally installed one. Guess I was too busy not watching TV.

Like Blance DuBois, my shining moment was merely an exaggeration; a maudlin play in the amateur community theatre of my own memory.

Nowdays, I really don't know how I lived all those years, especially living alone, without TV. And it's not like I was reading a million books, or out tutoring retarded kids, or even finishing the Celebrity Crossword Puzzle in People magazine. Honestly, I have no idea how I passed the time.

My parents hardly ever watch TV, except for the news. And they fight like rabit wombats. Have been for 37 years, now. It's much harder to argue while watching "Top Model," because higher brain functioning is essentially cut off. My emerging, if controversial new theory, based on almost no actual evidence, is that TV is good for you. Maybe my autobiography will be called, How I Gave Up and Learned to Love "Pimp My Ride."

I would go on, but I might miss Entertainment Tonight.

The (Partial) Rememberance of Things Past

Wow. I just had the exceptionally rare experience of feeling nostalgic for high school.

Okay, not high school per se, as I'm rarely nostalgic for Stanton College Preparatory School. However, I do often think of/miss my friends from high school.

Yesterday, Mollie sent me some pictures of us from back in the day. One of them was of us at a party at my house; one that I'd forgotten entirely until I saw the pictures.



AVOVE: Me with a bad perm, age 17. Back of photo reads "reenacting the death scene from Heart of Darkness." (WTF??) At least the horror! the horror! pretty much sums up my hairdo. Not to mention that shirt. As I said to Mollie, one of the great consolations of getting older is that I will never, ever, have that hairstyle, or make such reckless sartorial choices, ever again.

The invitations, which for some reason were printed on paper doilies, read, "Oh, wow! It's a Luau!" The fact that I mailed them suggests that there was an entire thought process behind this. I said to my self, “I should have a party.” Then, “No! I should have … a luau.” And, somehow, what followed logically was, “where’s them doilies?”

I'm not sure what's more disturbing: that I made and actually sent out invitations to a luau on paper doilies, or the fact that I have no recollection of doing it?

The whole idea would make a lot of sense if I had been high. But alas, at age 17, I had never even smoked a cigarette, much less anything else. The only booze I'd ever had was the occasional half-glass of wine with dinner with my parents, usually only in Europe where they don't frown on people under 21 (or, say, under 12) quaffing a few.

Going through these bits of our past, we all have to become forensic anthropologists. You try to remember the name of the brown-haired guy in that drunken group photo – you didn’t write anything on the back, because you were so sure that it would always be perfectly obvious. Now, all you know is that he was a dude at some party, years ago, and that his name started with an “H” …. ? Definitely an “H.” That, and you dated him for 3 years.

We find notes to ourselves and passionate references in journal entries to someone named “S.” Who exactly was that? It’s like decoding Linear B.


[It's funny. In most photos, I look drunk. Usually, this is at least partially due to the fact that I am. But here's proof that you don't have to be drunk to look drunk. And notice -I'm reading a book. Because that's what cool kids do at parties.]

Now, all these years later, I can only wonder – why a luau? I sincerely hope I meant it ironically, and that the paper pineapples and leis were supposed to be "kitchy," but chances are, I didn't, and they weren't. All of my parties were adult supervised and alcohol-free, which makes the photos that much harder to explain.

At the risk of giving any undue credit to a school that is the source of at least 85% of my billable hours of psychotherapy over the years, I don't think we realized how lucky we were, on some level, to be at a School for Dorks.

Stanton was kind of like the school on "Fame," only nobody could dance. Instead of being a school for the arts, it was designed for the "socially challenged." Okay, techincally it was for kids who wanted to Take Over the World, like The Brain from the Animaniacs (I'm pretty sure I only got in because my parents knew the principal, or maybe because the person in charge of admissions was drunk that day).

In Florida, "gifted" (the quotation marks are key) students are given the same status and rights as all Special Ed. students. Many of us even took a short bus to school, bussed in from whatever public high school we would have been at if not for Stanton. In ninth grade, I took the bus to the local high school before getting onto another bus to go to Stanton. On those bus rides, I got a look into what life might have been like at normal high school. Like most of the kids at the front of the bus, I would have been eaten alive.

It wasn't a bad or dangerous high school or anything. Just your average suburban Florida school. But I don't think acting out scenes from Joseph Conrad novels would have been very endearing.

All the kids at the "normal" high school looked about 30. Some of them had kids. They smoked, and drank beer, and had sex, and did all of the things that we could only wonder about as we discussed the latest Phillip Glass recording with our Gay Best Friend. It was kind of like Sex and the City, only without the sex. Or the City. But the "and the" part - that was SO us.

We read The New Yorker (we lived in Florida - even back when it was a Blue State, everyone thought The New Yorker was the guy who was responsible for all the traffic, not to mention all the litter, on the highway). We listened to The Smiths and The Dead Milkmen and The Cure, but preferred "the old Cure," of course.

Stanton was rather neurosis-inducing, because everyone (except me, that is) was brilliant and ambitious, and most of the girls (except me, that is) could have probably had thriving careers as runway models if not for their burning desire to get several Ph.D.s from Yale and find a cure for cancer (yes, Dagny, if you're reading this - I mean you).

I graduated at the bottom of the class. Or, as I like to think of it, the "inverse valedictorian." It's kind of like getting one of those ribbons that say "Participant" when you come in last at the Special Olymics. Which seems strangely appropriate, considering we were taking a short bus to school ...

Voice Mail Anxiety Disorder (VMAD)

It seems that I've developped a telephone phobia. Okay, not the telephone, really, so much as a Fear of Voice Mail. You see, I haven't checked my voice mail since mid-April. Seriously.
I've also been avoiding calling anyone who might have left a message for me since that time, because, clearly, that's the most mature way of handling the situation.

I spend at least 37% of my waking hours worrying about this. "Why don't you just check your voice mail?" You ask.

Oh, you simplisitic solution-having types, thinking you know it all ... That's like telling a person in a jail cell to just walk out, assuming the jail cell isn't actually locked.

Okay, so you may have a point. But that's beside the point.

So, the longer I put off checking my voice mail, the more dreadful I imagine it being. I don't know why. It's not like anyone ever even calls me on my cell phone. This could be for many reasons, such as the fact that I have no friends. Which is perhaps in part because I never call anyone back. Although some devoted folks keep trying. They really want that June payment, bless their hearts.

Does anyone else ever do anything like this? Back when I had a therapist, she told me that it was "perfectionism" (there might have been some other, more disconcerting acronymns tossed around in the same context, but let's not focus on that).

I like to blame it all on my parasites. Or maybe that strep infection I had as a child, which caused some sort of permanent brain retardation. OR - in an ironic twist - maybe it's radiation from the cell phones? Or maybe it's because I was marginalized as a child, because I was a middle-class WASP who never experienced any great trauma other than a series of remarkably bad haircuts in the mid-80s? Or, worse yet, what if it's all due to my own poor choices, which I must now "take responsibility" for?

Fortunately, the entire psycho-pharmaceutical industry is betting against that last bit ringing true. I'm pretty sure they make some hot-pink pill for Voice Mail Anxiety Disorter (V-MAD). You didn't know it existed, or that you had it, but you'll be relieved to know you're not alone.

But, seriously - if either of the people who read this blog has left a voice mail for me since early spring, I just wanted you to know: it's not that I don't like you, or don't want to talk to you. I don't (don't don't like you, that is). And I don't don't want to talk to you. I do (don't?). It's just that I'm crazy.

But then again, you probably already knew that.

So France lost.

I don't look forward to going to work tomorrow.

This past Wednesday, they gave a half day to anyone who wanted to go watch France in the World Cup. Of course, I had to go "watch France in the World Cup." Which may look like shopping for a new pair of pink espadrilles, but in spirit, I was definitely watching the World Cup.

I remember the last time the French won, in '98. As I recall, it also fell on Bastille Day. I was still working at the French Embassy at the time, so we all (once again) got a day off during the semi-finals. We all went over to Services Culturelles, where the little Michelangelo (okay, "attributed to" Michelangelo) cherub in the lobby was almost knocked over by the rowdy Frenchmen, excited about "le foot," which is what they affectionately call "football." Which we affectionately call "soccer." That is, when we call it. Which ain't so often, unless it comes before the word "mom" and it's in the context of some massively condescending political advertizement about Incecency in Video Games, which of course the root cause of the rize of construction costs in the housing index. Not to mention the whole war thing.

In the end, when France actually won against Brazil in '98, I've never seen such jubilation in my entire life. It was, I imagine, what it might have been like to be in Normandy the day after the Liberation was announced in 1945. Grown men were crying like little girls, jumping up and down, dancing down the street with the first woman they could find, regardless of her age, attractiveness level, or willingness to participate.

It was like a live-action version of some Gene Kelly musical, which, as it turns out, is even creepier than it looks.

Still, I was hoping to get another day off out of it. Hopefully, they won't make us work late tomorrow to make up for it. But I wouldn't be surprized.

Why They Hate Us

"America needed a hero. America has a hero in Joey Chestnut."

The above is a direct quote from the commentary of this morning's Independence Day Hot Dog Eating Contest in Coney Island, which was featured, in HDTV, on the Competitive Eating Channel, a.k.a., ESPN.

But at the end of the day, Joey Chestunt fell short of the dream of bringing the belt back to the United States.

Say it ain’t so, Joey. Kids all over America look up to you as a God. On this day, of all days, they were hoping to see you prove that WE are the most gluttonous people on earth. If not, the terrorists have already won. Or something.

The theme to Chariots of Fire was playing in the background – at least, in my imagination – as Takeru Kobayashi, the world’s reigning Gurgitator , won the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest for the sixth year in a row.

Kobayashi has been described as “an alchemsit who can transform athletics into poetry, poetry into mathematics, and mathematics into history.” And history into ... well, you know what.

Since 2001, the fake-jewel-encrusted Mustard Belt has resided in the Imperial Palace in Saitama, in Japan, right next to the Pickle Relish Bra. The belt is of “unknown age and value” according to George Shea of the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFCE), an organization I sincerely wish I were making up.




Check out the heraldic crest .. if only the lions (uh... griffins?) also had some jalepeno peppers in their feet (uh ... talons?)





In every person’s life, there is that moment where the universe aligns in such a way that we can see beyond our own limitations. “When I can be more than I thought I could be,” as the Whitney Houston song goes.

For Kobayashi, this day was today. The Michael Jordan of gluttony, the Michelangelo of Competitive Eating, the 27-year-old Japanese man exceeded his own record of eating 54 ½ hot dogs in 12 minutes, by eating 54 ¾.

According to ledgend, the contest was started in 1916 as a bet made by four immigrants who wanted to prove who was the most profoundly drunk, I mean, partiotic. What the eating of weiners has to do with patriotism is not entirely clear, although it is possible that they were drinking heavily. Irish-born Jim Mullen won the contest by eating 13 hot dogs.

The great Kobayashi has taken the sport to new levels. His strategy is to break the hot dog in half, dip it in water, and shove it in his mouth. He calls this “the Solomon method.” No, really.

“What an eater!” Proclaimed the ESPN commentator earlier today, without a trace of irony. “What a MAN!”

Why is it that everything Americans start has to be perfected by the Japanese? They already have the most efficient cars, electronics, and giant, city-destroying lizards.

Why can’t they even leave us our dignity in a sport that, clearly, has none to begin with?

Furthermore, when did eating excessively become a international sport, with its own Federation, instead of just being one of the seven deadly sins? What's next? Competitive Sloth? (If so, sign me up - finally a sport I can excel at.)

The best part is that it’s shown in HDTV. You feel as if you were right there as the competitors shove enormous quantities of food into their mouths, sweat pouring from their brows, mouths open, as the wide-angle lens captures the intricacies of the half-chewed food.

It’s like poetry, with some mustard on it. My eyes well with tears of pride as I watch the slow-mo replay of this, the most American of all sports.

As for Joey Chestnut, there’s always next year. Until then, Americans will just have to wait, and hope.

Happy Fourth of July, everybody.

95% Cotton, 100% Ironic

Okay, it's too hot, and I'm too lazy, and I assume nobody's reading this anyway, so ... The other day, I came across this site, selling ironic right-wing t-shirts. Conservatives trying to be ironic is just so ... ironic.

It's like those photos of dogs in ironic clothing that you sometimes find on the cover of Hallmark cards that are supposed to be funny, with a punch line like "Congratulations, Dog-gone it!"

For instance, here's one of their featured novelty shirts:


There's another version, modeled at the bottom of this page. A goofy looking dude is sporting an exceptionally high-quality cotton shirt that reads "I just neutered the cat. Now he's French!"

This has inspired me to start a t-shirt company of my own. The first one will read:

I just lobotomized the cat. Now he's a Republican.

Or, better yet:

I just lobotomized the cat. Now he thinks your t-shirts are funny.

But that's not all. These shirts also offer the kind of biting, and insightful political commentary that only t-shirts, novelty belt buckles, and Rush Limbaugh's latest arrest report (freebasing cat laxatives "from his housekeeper"?) can offer.

My personal favorite is:


Journalists are the ones to blame for all the problems in this country, after all. Especially all those commie-pinko bastards over at Fox News.

Can we start with Bill O'Reilly?

This t-shirt. Your ass. A shoehorn. SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED.



Ironically, the t-shirt above is featured right by this one:



So ... the Bill of Rights is not negotiable, EXCEPT the whole free speech and freedom of the press thing, which is just for pussies. And the FRENCH.