misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

Mexi Cast

2009-01-05T19:57:17Z

On the flight back from London I had the pleasure of watching Bottle Shock, the inspirational story behind the legendary bottle of Chardonnay from Napa that defeated five French entries to win top honors at a blind Paris tasting in 1976. The bottle, from Chateau Montelena, essentially put Napa Valley on the map, and mortally punctured the centuries-old myth regarding the superiority of French wines. Of course, back then Napa was in its infancy, a place you could taste pure wines from eager vintners for free, without today's parade of tour buses, rich Atherton families, and gondolas. The movie was standard Hollywood fair, complete with a father-son rift, hot blonde twenty-two year-old "intern" who picked grapes in jean shorts and boots, spoiled rich kid who was humbled by the complexity of a grape, and hardworking Mexican immigrant whose immense talent was held back by racism and money. The movie also features Amanda's dad, aka Miguel Sandoval: in the film, Miguel Sandoval represents a TCM (Type Cast Mexican), a roll he has played infinite times in the past twenty years. I'm not sure if Mexico has only ever exported a single actor, or if Miguel Sandoval has compromising pictures of every casting agent in Hollywood, but anytime the roll calls for "middle-aged Mexican man", Miguel Sandoval is the only man called. Sometimes, if the casting description calls for "tough middle-aged Mexican man", they turn the roll over to Danny Trejo: But this is as much diversity as you will get. TC actors are a tradition in Hollywood. Rather than analyze a roll and open it up to emerging actors, casting agents simply thumb through their rolodex and call the first Mexican or Russian or Dog they see listed. Usually, they only have one entry for each. I'm guessing scripts are written with these very people in mind, since none of us have ever seen a different Mexican on the screen other than Miguel Sandoval or Danny Trejo (with all due respect to Edward James Olmos). Here are a few of my other favorite TCs: Here, we have TCI (Type Cast Indian), or, if you are a sensitive, a TCNA (Type Cast Native American). If any movie in the past twenty-five years has been set in the wild west or pre-constitutional America, this is your man. Say hello to the incomparable Wes Studi: I'd now like to introduce Peter Dinklage, Hollywood's greatest TCSD (Type Cast Sarcastic Dwarf): Next, we have Ellen Albertini Dow, the TCZOC (Type Cast Zany Old Chick): With an honorable mention to Zelda Rubenstein, the TCFOC (Type Cast Freaky Old Chick): That a raw sampling. Due to a lack of available photos, I've left out the following Type Casts: * Long-Blonde-Haired German Terrorist * Santa Elves * Nice Glass House (Anytime they need to establish a couple is successful and in love, they always show them arriving at the same high-tech glass house up in the Hollywood Hills) * Pretty Persian Mother Who's Actually not a Terrorist * Small Town Incompetent Sheriff If you can locate any photos of these, I'd be much obliged. After all, I'm a TCBBW (Type Cast Bad Blog Writer).

Printed, Sealed, Delivered

2009-01-04T02:52:25Z

I returned from London today to find a pile of unopened Christmas cards in my mailbox. After un-enveloping them all, including them with the cards already on the mantle, I was able to tally the final numbers: FOURTEEN holiday cards SEVEN signed SEVEN unsigned My count was generous. If there was even one stroke of ink I included it the "signed" pile. In most instances, the ink came in the form of my name or the sender's name. And I easily could have eliminated two signed cards from the count, as one was from Jillian's mom, and one from her grandma, neither of whom are fully capable of utilizing a computer to print out a Christmas card, and thus may have signed the card simply out of necessity. Of the fourteen cards, only two had any genuine writing on it, and both of those were notes about our engagement. Maybe it is that I like to write .. Or that I love people so much .. But if you aren't going to put ink to paper, next year save yourself on the postage and send your card as an email attachment. I'll print it out, trim off the edges, and put it on my mantle. We're both winners.

Letter from 2009 Mark to 2008 Mark

2009-01-02T02:28:37Z

Congrats. You managed to put together a somewhat successful year. With your samurai senses, you were once again able to prevent your greatest fear: getting raped and eaten by a grizzly bear/great white shark super clone engineered at that secret experimental government lab deep inside Area 51. You managed to go over five days without a drink of alcohol in July (I will ignore the fact you were sick during that time). You immediately celebrated this accomplishment by drinking for six days straight. You were able to scrape off enough emotional courage to propose to your girlfriend, ensuring that 2010 Mark will be exceedingly more responsible and selfless than your current incarnation. You avoided injuring your penis with oyster sauce or beer caps. However, you did gravelier damage to your knee that was already gravely damaged. In 2009, I'll trade your hoop dreams for banjo dreams. You played poker twelve times. You won once. A high percentage of your diet was comprised of french fries, potato chips, and other crispy potato products. You did so while refusing to have your cholesterol measured as per your doctor's request. 2009 Mark will now have to deal with the repercussions of this potato indulgence. You worked a lot. But you managed to throw in several vacations along the way, ensuring a healthy stress level. Applause, applause. You had well too many hangovers. To avoid this in 2009, I will now have to learn how to cure hangovers, or how to avoid drinking past my limits. This year, I'll focus on the former. Great job getting Obama elected. Your passionate posts on political blogs convinced at least two voters to change their minds. And your periodical $25 donations helped him by 1/7908th of a commercial in Omaha. You read some good non-fiction books, filling the blanks with knowledge of World War I, Cholera, and Dick Cheney. You didn't ruin any friendships. Instead you gained two more. Thanks to your efforts, if I manage to lose a friend this year, I'll still be ahead by one. You didn't fall in love with a small horse, like 2007 Mark, which I'm pleased about. You almost finished The Wire. I said almost, cause now I'll have to finish what your lazy ass was unable to. I also have already written more blogs within a day of my reign than you were able to during all of yours. Good Riddance. Best, 2009 Mark

On the Origin of Farts

2008-12-30T13:47:40Z

Yesterday's tour of the British Library was a walk through the progression of human consciousness and creativity, a reminder that every thing you know and do now is directly because someone before you took time away from TiVo and video games to think a lot about something, like politics or wine. Before you could get to movies, someone needed to think their way to a lens. Before they could get to a lens, someone had to think about glass. Each person was a rung in a ladder that rises directly to our life now. I am not one of these people. One thousand years ago, I would have sat around, drank ale, talked about an idea I had about a dragon, woke up hungover, drank more ale, all the while letting someone else write Beowulf. The only thing I would have contributed to human advancement would have been a drunken cave drawing. Thankfully, other past humans had more discipline and focus, and took time away from their recreation to record their thoughts. A bunch of barons sat around one weekend with King John to write the original Magna Carta charter, eventually leading to the idea of democracy. Someone hopped on a wooden boat to sail down the newly discovered American coastline, sketching a map as they did. Gutenberg arranged some metal casts together to print a Bible, Handel drew notes on some sheet music, Sylvia Plath wrote a letter to her publisher, Paul McCartney wrote lyrics on the back of an envelope. Granted, they did this at a time when there were fewer distractions - I wonder if Handel would have gotten into music if Facebook existed when he was first starting out. It was also more important. Without mp3s, live music was the only way to take something in. If you wanted to know what Africa looked like, all you had was someone's illustration. There was less content, so the content that existed had more value. But this is just to make me feel better about my laziness. Suffice to say, if time travel is ever created, and we wanted to catch a man from the past up to where humanity stands at the present, he need only go to the British Library. As I stood in awe in front of these artifacts, I became cognizant of a pressure inside of me. Not a metaphorical pressure, but a physical one: a sulfurous gas surged inside my belly, quickly roaring through my colon like a car racing towards an exit. I was standing alone at the time, but to prepare for the forthcoming release, I turned my body around, so that my ass was facing a display case that could muffle the sound of the fart, rather than sending it forth into the center of the room, where the mass of people lay and might hear. As the air pushed forth, happy with its newfound freedom, penetrating the glass case in front of it, I breathed a sigh of relief. Close call, but I emerged unscathed. I waited a beat, then turned back around to the display case to continue my tour. It was only then I realized that I had just farted on the original 1859 release of Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species. I degraded one of the greatest creations of human thought with my bodily releases, in one act confirming that man is, in fact, related to animals. Surrounded by the greatest collection of human thought in the world, the best my body can do in appreciation is fart, like a chimpanzee who just got down eating a load of cabbage. I'd like to offer a sincere apology to Charles Darwin and Lewis Carroll, whose Alice in Wonderland first draft was nearby. Do not take my fart to be in any way representative of my appreciation of your contributions. I am glad that, unlike me, you are capable of adding more to human progress than farts and boogers.

Zen and the art of urinating

2008-12-28T12:40:36Z

The difference between New York and London first dripped into my consciousness while hovering over the bathroom urinal in a four-hundred-year old Pub, emptying my bladder of the unusable elements of an imperial pint of Fuller's London Pride. A quick glance revealed the presence of three total urinals in the meticulous bathroom, each with a drain connecting to a larger, single pipe disappearing into the ground. It was bathroom space, maximized. One drain, three urinals, and nobody waiting. Most bars in New York, with tiny bathrooms sized for a youthful fairy, possess a single toilet, to accommodate urine and all else. As a result, bathroom lines are common in New York. Like most things In London, regulation, planning, and common sense has solved the problem. In larger terms, the difference is one of pure comfort. Continuing the pub as a microcosm: Why three urinals instead of one? Because waiting in line is uncomfortable. Why do pubs have more seats than patrons? Because standing while you drink is uncomfortable. Why do pubs close at 11 PM instead of 4 AM? Because waking up hungover is uncomfortable. Why do they play music at low volumes? Because yelling across the table at someone is uncomfortable. It is the perfect town for old, lazy, impatient people, of which I count myself. New York is organized chaos. London is just organized. Organization comes at a cost: You always know what to expect. When you order a vodka soda, you get exactly 250 milliliters of vodka, as measured by their dispenser. The tube stops running exactly at 11 PM. BBC runs like a clock. Londoners I know now living in New York point to this predictability as a reason for leaving. Every city has the sites you must see. Thus far, I've seen most of London's version of these things: Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster, Trafalgar Square, St. Paul's, Buckingham Palace. The sheer age and historical relevance of the buildings is indeed epic, particularly because they are essentially all right next to each other and play host to a near infinite crowd of impressive names who have shaped life as we know it. That said, the true heart of London unveils itself when walking down the side streets. It is here that history literally spills into the street like garbage. There is the brown-and-white 15th century house where Prince Henry wrote by candle. There is the two-story office where Samuel Johnson inked the first ever dictionary. There is the pub where Voltaire, Dickens, and Twain would stumble around drunk. There is the church where the first Londoners to emigrate to the New World made their wedding vows. Dragonhair and I being Dragonhair and I, we picked the coldest day of the year when most things are closed, Boxing day, to conduct our primary tour London with one hat and no gloves between us. But when you are traveling with Dragonhair, you won't be going into any of the the sites anyway, so all the better that they are closed. Any thought that London is more expensive than New York fails to take into account two facts: a beneficial exchange rate and lack of tipping. This last fact in particular makes all the difference. When you remove 20% tipping costs from dinner and bar tabs, you are saving money. As a result, beers and food have been cheaper here than in New York. Public transportation is generally more expensive, but not by much. These are all things you would know if Dragonhair had posted blogs in the last year of living here, but as he hasn't, I saw fit to share these things with you.

Christmas 2008

2008-12-26T01:13:11Z

I'm about to close the curtain on December 25th, 2008, after this blog and a quick reunion game of James Bond on Dragonhair's piecemealed PS2. We spent the day at a local Chiswick pub eating a proper six-course British Christmas feast, complete with smoked salmon, crawfish, turkey roast, bacon sausages, custard, Christmas pudding, rum cake, beers, wine, fireplaces, and drunk Englishmen. I can only hope your holiday was equally enjoyable. To all of you who sent me Christmas cards, I'd like to say thank you. I'd also like to ask you to actually sign your card in ink next year (Taj). Printing out a card with your family picture and a printed message reading "Wishing you the best this holiday season" is actually less personal than the Christmas card the New York Blood Bank sent me, which at least had my first name on it. While I can appreciate the efficiency of mass-printed cards, if the New York Blood Bank can place my name on my card, so can you. And Slaven, if your comment is truthful, I'd like to offer you both my congratulations and my apologies. Congratulations to you and Lejla on the upcoming addition to your family. My apologies for thinking you were actually gay all these years.

Merry Bloody Christmas

2008-12-24T11:07:21Z

I've arrived in London for the annual SF Ninja reunion, where i'm currently residing on an exotic piece of Japanese furniture Dragonhair tells me is called a futon. He was also kind enough to provide me the warmth of a worn blanket he's owned since college. Dragonhair may have moved to London, but this apartment is from San Francisco. Same Chinese stone gargoyle guarding the door, same framed French print of a black cat hanging on the wall, same rigged PS2 playing downloaded movies. Dragonhair is the only thirty-three year old I know of still living in a college apartment. The day Dragonhair buys a proper piece of new furniture from somewhere other than Craigslist is the day Craigslist goes out of business. The airport wasn't as chaotic as i've grown to expect from holiday travel, which seems to be one positive aspect of our economic crisis, though I did have to deal with several of those fuckers who insist on checking in fourteen pieces of luggage for their two-day trip to Chicago. These people all have the same things in common: large and shitty black suitcases held together with twine or packing tape covered with stains from their past twenty years of travel to jungle islands, poorly combed hair, and t-shirts with prints of some reunion concert from the '70s. I'd ask these people what they have in these bags if I thought the answer might be interesting. But it wouldn't be. You see them wheeling their life's possessions around on the luggage carts, the luggage stacked perilously high, ready to tip over at any moment, and know that inside the bags is nothing other than shit, junk, and crap. Think of anything shitty: old hair dryers with stickers on them, socks with holes, dead mice ... that's what is in there. Just a step above the people on the subways who carry around the twelve bags they kept from a trip they took from Macy's six years ago. I was able to overcome these frustrations to make it to Dragonhair's futon in Chiswick, which is essentially the Park Slope of London. I've enjoyed a few proper pints from a local pub (which was well-lit, full of seats, and quiet, the anti-Manhattan bar) and watched British TV. Tonight, a Christmas party. Tomorrow, Christmas at a pub. Perhaps at some point i'll get around to seeing London itself, though at this point I consider that non-prioritie.

BREAKING NEWS

2008-12-23T13:19:56Z

Mark Anderson, co-owner of The Brotherhood, has officially announced his resignation from the group he helped found over ten years ago, due to Friday's announced engagement to Jillian Cordes. The Brotherhood was created in the early months of 1998 as a refuge for the Santa Clara Five. It was intended to provide support for the single male lifestyle while threatening punishment for acting like a pansy. If a member was caught in violation of such Brotherhood rules as carrying on a phone conversation with a female beneath bed covers, not knowing who was in first place in the NFC East, or the ultimate violation, canceling plans with a Brotherhood member to meet with a female, he would be forced to attend a three-day re-education camp at TGIF. Membership in The Brotherhood reached a high in 1999, at 11 members, but was never able to recover from the Poly Esters Scandal of 2000, when two female Sisterhood agents infiltrated top management, resulting in the loss of two key members. Membership reached its current low with upon the marriage of co-founder Kentaro Amemiya in 2003. With declining membership fees, and the rejection of request of bailout funds from the United States Treasury, The Brotherhood ceased existing as a viable entity. It is unknown if The Brotherhood will survive upon the retirement of Mark Anderson as CRO (Chief Rock Officer). However, rumors have already started swirling about the creation of a new group The Marriagehood involving yearly golf and gamble outings among former members of The Brotherhood. Pre-determined members should be expecting an application process via email in the coming months.

December June

2008-12-07T20:44:05Z

The question. Inevitably, in every orientation, training, or informational meeting I've ever attended, whether at school or work, someone asks the question. The useless, self-centered, pretentious question that draws attention to the asker, and provides no value to the group as a whole. In yesterday's case, the question involved interior design, and the location was the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. I'm certain across the world millions of similar questions were being asked, but this simply happened to be the one I was part of. I was at the Pratt Institute to attend an informational session about their graduate program in interior design. Rather, Jillian was attending the session, and I was accompanying her. There were roughly thirty people in the session listening to the dean of the department and a professor describe the specifics of the program. The stone walls were high, white, and unadorned, and sound traveled with impunity, making me fear a spontaneous fart, particularly considering the early time of morning when my muscle control is at its weakest. After an hour, the dean opened up the session for questions, which instinctively made me cringe, as at this point I was hungrier for food than I was for more information. The first four questions were your standard fare, questions involving tuition costs, course load, and internships. Honest, useful, questions that provided valuable information to the assembled members. Then, the young asian woman, flanked by her parents, was called upon. In retrospect, I should have been prepared, as she had the eager-asian student thing going: "Hi, my name is June Lin. My question involves sustainable design, which was once a popular fad, but now is clearly a social responsibility. How is your curriculum influenced by the necessity of and for sustainability, and if I wanted to make that a focus, which classes in particular could I take to compliment my studies and could those courses replace credit requirements in other fields?" Well, first, June Lin, thank you for your question. Secondly, if you could come over to my chair so I could offer you a gummy bear from my pocket, I would appreciate it. Thirdly, after you are done enjoying12 p[ the gummy bear, I could I trouble you to answer exactly what you trying to accomplish with your question. Was it to reveal your knowledge of sustainability, or your academic prowess in managing a more complex course load, or your sense of environmental concern? If you were a peacock would you constantly strut around with your feathers fanned for all other peacocks to envy? If you were a rose would you only bloom when someone was looking? Can you do me a favor June? Can you hold your personalized questions until after the fucking group has dispersed? Because the fucking group does not fucking care about your fucking course load. Thanks, June. Follow this advice and there just might be another gummy bear in it for you.

Brigadier General Anderson, reporting for duty

2008-12-05T19:03:33Z

My recent tour of the Military Academy at West Point held a searing flame to my long-held regret that I should have served in the military. The same strings in my gut are plucked every time i see the opening sequence to Band of Brothers, hear a bugle or drummer boy (a frequent occurrence in Brooklyn), or talk to a veteran (as full disclosure, I begin this blog fully aware that five minutes into actually entering the military I would begin complaining relentlessly about open toilets, overly-loud guns and dip shit recruits from Tennessee, but let a man forget who he really is for awhile). A walk through the West Point visitor center, where portraits of famous graduates line the walls, is a walk through American history: Jefferson Davis, Ulysses Grant, Robert E Lee, John Pershing, Douglas Macarthur, George Patton, Dwight Eisenhower, Buzz Aldrin ... Part of my regret stems from childhood: My father was telling stories of his Navy days, my brother went to the Citadel, I was raised in military-heavy San Diego .. I was raised with idealism to actually believe in vague (and abused) words like honor and duty and sacrifice that are embodied by the myth of the military (and Catholicism, for that matter). As a high school junior, I took a tour of the Air Force Academy (when I found out math, science and engineering were integral parts of their curriculum, I left the tour). As a senior, I attended weekly recruiting sessions at the local Marine Corps office. Along with other scrawny, misplaced high school kids who had an obsessive fascination with Dungeons and Dragons (some even only sophomores or juniors), we learned how to use a compass (which clearly has not stuck with me), properly read a terrain map (ditto), and studied military ranks and unit sizes. My friend, Brian, joined. I stayed undecided. In retrospect, I don't know how close I was to actually doing it. I wanted to fly helicopters, but my goldfish-quality eyesight disqualified me. Other factors came into play: My brother was a Junior at the Citadel (which I had visited twice) and strongly advised me to avoid the military "unless you like small, stupid dickhead getting to tell you what to do simply because they have a higher rank" (which I later learned is a similar problem in the corporate world). Secondly, I was extremely lazy, and literally questioned my ability to wake up every morning at 6 A.M. (i may still be bad at waking up early, but back then, during summers, I rarely could get up before 2 PM). And being in ROTC means I would have lost my summers. So ultimately I just went off to college and stayed lazy. I wonder how I would've changed had I gone. My brother is a decent case study: Before military school, he was a sub-3.0 student. After military school, he graduated second in his class, started his own company and now has too much cash and too little time to write blogs like these analyzing what would have happened had he not entered the military (which i've been working on intermittently for three days since i don't have the discipline I would have had I been in the military).

sushi no

2008-12-01T04:47:48Z

I think I have social anxiety. Actually, that isn't quite accurate. I have no problem talking to people I know. Loudly. For hours. And hours. And I like people. They don't make me anxious. But walking up to a new person and speaking? Even if that new person's entire job is to answer questions from strangers? I can't do it. It is a problem. And it is becoming more of a problem. When I order pizza for dinner, make reservations at a restaurant, or need to ask the bartender to change the channel to the Chargers game (so I can watch them lose in the final seconds after leaving too much time on the clock for the fifteenth time), I make Jill do it (or, if Jill is not properly handy, the person closest to my right). I'm not sure why. I'm terrified of first impressions. And I don't like asking people something, because if they tell me no, I will look like an idiot. Example: Neal recently asked me to call a very popular restaurant on a Saturday night to see if they had any tables available. I knew ahead of time that they would not have any tables available. It was a popular restaurant. It was a Saturday night. And it was New York. Of course no tables were available. And Neal wanted me to be the douchebag who calls and asks for a table, only to have the hostess snicker and tell me, "Of course we don't have a table, you fucking retard. It is a Saturday night. We've been booked for three weeks. Are you a fucking retard you fucking retard?" Then I'd have to stumble and mutter and say thanks and hang up, feeling exactly like the fucking retard she would accuse me of being. So of course, to avoid this very situation, I didn't call, and made an excuse to Neal so he would call (as he has never had a problem with looking like a fucking retard). So Neal called, and of course they had no tables. Because I am not a fucking retard, unlike Neal, I could figure that out without having to call. The issue is that this anxiety manifests itself in behaviour (proper British spelling in honor of lee) that makes me look like even more of a fucking retard than if I had just done what it was I was supposed to do. And hence this blog. This past Saturday night, Jill and i enjoyed a delicious Japanese dinner at Michelin-rated Sushi spot on Smith street, where we enjoyed such Americanized-pussified rolls like the "Spicy Girl", which included spicy Tuny, Spicy Salmon, avocado, topped with Yellowtail and Tempura flakes (yes, you Sushi arrogants, I am aware that there is no eel or jellyfish in there meaning that I am a sushi pussy). After wrapping up dinner with a few Sapporo beers and hot sakes, we were among the last tables there, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the eight Japanese workers, including our waitress, two other waitresses, one busboy, a host, and three sushi chefs, all of whom were fake-patiently waiting for us to get the fuck out, so they could clean up and begin their night. Upon paying the bill, Jill reminded me we should tip the sushi chefs, as the sushi was good and they were all sitting there looking at us with that "don't be a cheap piece of shit" look and everyone who is experienced in the art of sushi knows you have to tip the sushi chefs. So, with a five dollar bill in hand, I walked up to the sushi bar and proceeded to look for the tip jar. With sixteen pairs of intense Japanese eyes upon me, I confusedly scanned the sushi bar, wondering if the black tin sitting in the middle (with japanese characters scrawled across it), was the tip jar. Seeing that it was closed, I continued to look. At this point, the three sushi chefs are looking at me with a mix of bewilderment and intrigue. What the fuck is this white cracker douchbag going, they were clearly thinking. A normal person, if I were one, would confidently hand the five dollars to the sushi chefs, thank them for their expert preparations, and move on. I, of course, was incapable of this standard procedure, as it would have involved looking like I didn't know what I was doing. And there was no tip jar, which would have removed me from having to interact with these japanese strangers. My plan was totally thrown off, and I was overwhelmed with the necessity to adapt. So instead of handing them the five, I smiled at the sushi chefs, walked a few steps past them as if I was headed to the bathroom, stopped when I realized I had just recently come from the bathroom, then pulled out my cell phone as if I had to text someone, someone important, and right that very second. So i stopped, fake texted someone (i think my fake text was something fake important such as "the deal just went through"), looked at the phone to fake-confirm that the fake-text went through the fake-cell phone tower, and put the cell phone back in my pocket. I turned, looked again at the increasingly confused sushi chefs, smiled again, and raced towards the door, where Jill was waiting with a pissed-off look. "What the fuck were you doing?" she asked. "Did you tip them? Everyone was looking at you." "No." "Why?" "Just keep walking." So why didn't I just tip them? I don't know. Literally. Some fucking insecure six-year-old inside of me took hold, the six-year-old that would hide behind his mom when meeting new people, peering out from behind her legs with a mix of curiosity and dread. No matter how many years pile up, or how many human interactions, or how many beers, that six-year-old is still there, and that six-year-old is asking "what is is sushi? where's the pbj?" and "who are all these japanese people?" and "where is leo the lion?" and running away, palming a sweaty five-dollar-bill, with the eyes of several confused Japanese restaurant workers following me out towards the door, wondering how a six-foot-two man with grey hair can be such a total pussy. And this, my friends, is why I drink.

tday

2008-11-27T23:09:38Z

Since sitting next to Grandma Anderson for the duration of a Thanksgiving dinner when I was in 7th grade, I've assigned Thanksgiving the lowest ranking of all major holidays (still above St. Patrick's day but well below St. Nicholas day). At the time, Grandma Anderson was entering the period of elderly living where motor skills begin to seriously deteriorate (and old-person shoes go from the more fashionable white to plain black), and as a result she had trouble keeping food in her mouth as she ate. In particular, I remember the mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes would ooze from her mouth like toothpaste and dribble down her chin, until coming to a final rest on her purple blouse, right above her belly fat. (I was unable to finish my meal that day, and was yelled at for asking to go to Jack in the Box no more than three hours after dinner.) That day successfully foreshadowed a lifetime of difficult Thanksgivings. My father had a genuine and strong distaste for holidays, and as such I usually was awoken on Thanksgiving mornings by the sound of my father, thick with impatience, throwing pans from the cupboard while yelling to no one in particular (in other words everyone) that "any normal god-damn house should have a god-damn sauce pan for cooking god-damn thanksgiving dinner god-damnit". My father would then proceed to co-cook Thanksgiving dinner with my moms as if his singular goal in life was to finish the cooking of that particular Thanksgiving dinner as soon as possible so life could go finally go back to god-damn normal. Later in the day, more old people would come over, bringing the types of foods that only old people bring to Thanksgiving, like green-bean casserole with Campbell's canned mushroom soup and chinese noodles (this was the midwest influence shining through upon the Anderson family. Campbell's soup (tomato and mushroom) was the base of most dishes, and if it didn't come in a round glass casserole dish, it wasn't worth serving). We'd pass stuffing and stress around the table, everyone would pat their bellies, and then the holiday would end. Complicating matters was my age. Being the youngest in a family of six didn't make for comfortable Thanksgivings. When I would come home from college, and all I craved after a week of midterms was sleep and relaxation, I'd be forced to sleep on the floor (which is where the youngest kid is always put) and eat at a broken-down card table with all other guests under 21 (as if three-year-olds and nineteen-year-olds could be grouped together that easily). Later, when my family had moved up to Bay Area, we stopped having Thanksgiving at home. We'd drive up to my aunt and uncle's home in Petaluma and celebrate there. Or rather, I'd drive up to my aunt and uncle's home while my family sat in the car and chilled. The drive from Bay Area up the 101 to Petaluma was usually just over an hour and half. But on Thanksgiving, when every other human being was going in the same direction, the drive took four hours. Getting back wasn't much easier. All this, for thirty minutes of actual eating. There were other factors: The necessity to get up early, the inability to watch football without distraction, the way Turkey always tasted the same no matter who cooks it or how it is prepared or what year it is, the arguments over who would go to whose house, the inherent complex issues every family has that made everything more difficult than it needed to be. This fortunately changed in my mid-twenties, when I began constructing Thanksgivings to be the way i wanted them, either by cooking myself, going to a restaurant, or heading to a friends place. While this has ultimately nudged Thanksgiving up a few notches, it still has yet to enter the area of likeability. So, as I close my 1 AM blog, I'd like to wish all of you a happy god-damn Thanksgiving. Enjoy the green-bean casserole.

Kitpea

2008-11-14T21:51:29Z

LESSON #14 OF CAT OWNERSHIP: CLOSE THE DOOR WHEN TAKING A PISS At no point in my life, either through prior conversation with cat owners, watching television, or reading books, was I ever informed of the fascination kittens have with the deep sounds and intense visuals of a penis emptying urine into a toilet (an activity commonly referred to as "pissing"). Whether sleeping or awake, from any corner of the apartment, upon hearing the sound of my urine stream displacing toilet water, Alice (the current name of my kitten) will race into the bathroom, jump upon the trash can and paw at the urine stream, as if it were an endless piece of yellow yarn. In this event, my options are limited. Attempts to dislodge Alice result in a urine shower upon our tiled walls. Not dislodging her, however, means she'll eventually attempt a full-blown jaw attack on my urine stream, which results in a mess you can well imagine (Alice has yet to figure out exactly why she can never quite get a solid handle on the yellow yarn that she finds so tantalizing). You might be asking why I am not closing the bathroom door to prevent these encounters. For lack of a better answer: Habit. I've spent the past twelve years leaving the door cracked when taking a piss. And that habit is hard to break. Particularly in the middle of the night, when it is hard enough finding the bathroom, more or less remembering to close the door. Fortunately, Alice doesn't find the taking of a crap to be as fascinating, as if she did, that would quickly end my foray into cat ownership.

Things you need to play basketball ...

2008-11-12T22:09:32Z

In no particular order: 1. A basketball 2. A hoop 3. An ACL My four-game stint in the New York Urban Professionals Basketball League, which ended abruptly Monday night as I lay writhing in pain on a dusty gym floor, had initially brought forth fond memories .... Memories of the time I could actually make lay-ups, dribble for more than three seconds, jump higher than a cockroach standing on a flea, and land without my femur and tibia sliding against each other like the Pacific and North American tectonic plates. A reminder for my more forgetful readers (meaning those of you who have forgotten to read my blog the past five years): My right knee lost it's ACL to youth on a concrete basketball court in Hell's Kitchen almost exactly three years ago. I was nearly thirty at the time, lived on the top floor of a five-story walk up, had recently put my dreams of playing in the WNBA to rest, and thus decided to forgo the recommended operation. I knew any activities involving pivots (soccer, basketball, tennis, anaerobic masturbation drills) would have to be forever removed from my non-existent calendar, which I promptly did. Instead, I picked up running, lifting very, very light weights, and beer drinking. Three years of this, with a minimum of knee pain (except for the burn of an ice-cold beer resting atop it), had convinced me that I could once again pick up basketball. If Obama could still play at 46, then shit, I could play at 33. So I agreed to join a co-workers team, bought the cheapest knee brace I could find, and headed to the gym. Reconnecting with the hobbies of your youth is a frustrating experience, as it is an in-your-face reminder of how far you've fallen. I could once dunk. Now, I can barely touch the rim. I could once shoot well. Now, I average four missed lay-ups a game. I could once play defense. Now I stand and hope the ball falls into my hands. And even worse: I'll never reclaim what I once had. It is physically impossible. I will never again be good at basketball. It is why old people pick up new hobbies such as cooking, reading, and golf: These are things specifically tailored to the natural talents of old people (patience, immobility, money). Youth offers no advantage in the art of cooking. In basketball, it does. So Monday night, I was playing basketball without an ACL. Today, I was sitting inside an orthopaedic doctor's office, with a needle in my right knee, removing blood. It looked exactly like this: Tomorrow, the MRI. Then, probably, the surgery I was always supposed to have. The doctor seemed a bit amused by my explanations of why I thought I could tear an ACL, undergo no rehab, wear a cheap knee brace, and continue to play basketball without a problem. He apparently didn't understand my core philosophy: If you don't think something, it's not a problem. Which ultimately proved to be somewhat correct, if misapplied. I didn't think I was getting any older. It took about two seconds for my body to remind me that, in fact, I was.

For Today

2008-11-04T22:10:34Z

Judging by the overwhelming number of comments generated by news of Slaven's marriage, it seems this blog has become as much of a lame duck as George Bush. Not even one comment posted with thoughts or congratulations on the marriage of a long-standing member of the SF Ninja family. It seems I should stick to writing about taking shits in the work bathroom while co-workers brush their teeth. They seem to cause more debate and thought. Today is simply a post to mark history in my blog. I've been at this blog since 2000 and noticed that I never seem to post on days of historical events. You'll find nothing on September 11th, 2001 .. Nothing on November 4th, 2004 .. Nothing on New Years Eves .. Or on my birthdays .. Maybe I prefer speaking for days that nobody speaks for, rather than the days that are already memorialized forever ... Everyone already knows September 11, 2001 .. But what about September 17th, 2001 .. Those are the days that fill out a normal life. During big events, I rarely have anything interesting to add that you haven't already pecked off of the bloated corpse of the blogosphere. But as news of a marriage can't even generate interest, I've decided to stop giving any attention to the concerns of my three readers. I stood in line today to vote for two-and-a-half hours at polling station 107, at the Supreme Court Building at 360 Adams in Brooklyn Heights. I read my current issue of The New Yorker, a copy of The New York Post, and drank a smoothie purchased by Jillian, who was with me. For the first time I can ever remember, I enjoyed standing in a line. There was the feeling of taking in a moment. People were visibly excited. Everyone had the energy people have when they know something different is happening. Something historic. Every day is seemingly the same .. But that day once every few years that are not the same, everyone seems to know. There were reporters, cameramen, police ... This was a day that people wanted to be sure they touched, so in twenty years they could sit around a table in someone's backyard, drink a few beers, and talk about the day. I don't think any of us feel we are just voting for some black dude. That's historic, sure. But we're voting for a different direction. Rejecting the depression of the past eight years. Doing something drastic to change course. But the odd thing in the line was it clearly was not just me who felt excited about him .. He's essentially excited an entire country that needs exciting. I'm guessing most of the people were like me: Long-term cynics who were disappointed by the public one too many times to believe in much, but were coming out of their cynical shells, giving optimism one last chance. If the line was any example, there are a lot of people like that .. Apparently, I haven't been the only pissed-off blogger these past eight years. There's a lot of them. And we all seemed to be standing in the same line. So let me capture this moment, with a few hours left to go before we know if we as a country can start being optimistic again.