Doling

I was walking down West 4th the other day, engaged in conversation with someone, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted the green shimmer fluttering in the wind.

I cut my friend off - "money, money, money, money" - I pointed with conviction, and yet at the same time, relatively composed. I didn't want to be all tacky and just leap at it, but I was definitely spying it as we approached, quickly determining that it was a $5 bill. Not fantastic, when you consider I've found $100s before, and sometimes $20s, but also definitely worth picking up.

She hands it to me - "here you go, you saw it." I feel a little silly because, yes, I did see it, but you picked it up so really, if you want it, you can keep it. I guess there's really not much conversation about that, and since it's a hard argument to make, it folded it neatly and prepared to add it to my collection of "luck" bills - i.e. money I've found that I do not spend because it is deemed "lucky" by virtue of the fact that it was found (you get it).

But she introduces an interesting concept I haven't considered before - since it was found, rather than earned, you can probably live without it, and so you should give it away as charity.

Yes! Great idea. Still, if we're being totally honest, there has to be a cut-off for the whole charity thing. I mean, if you did find a $20, I'm thinking you would keep it, no? What about a $10? I think I would give the $10 away.

And then there's also the new questions that come up:

1. Do we split it up or keep it intact as a single donation? Splitting means five people are $1 richer. But not splitting it...well...have you ever given one person $5? I opt for the not splitting because I've never handed off that much cash on the street, and I figure there must be some greater sense of worth you feel when you give away a larger sum versus effect more people. Maybe this is a little selfish, but I'm allowed, considering I've made the decision to give away the $5 I have every right to keep, so give me a break.

2. Do I give it to the first homeless person I see or do I wait for a "really good" homeless person. Everyone does it if they're used to giving out cash on the street - they'll judge. If there's some b bumbling drunk holding out a dirty coffee cup, I kind of don't want to give him anything. If it's some mom with a kid sitting on the sidewalk with a sign, I feel like crap. I almost always give to musicians, who aren't really homeless, but I still get that warm fuzzy feeling that I'm supporting the arts. My favorite recipients? Those Mexican guys that play the banjo and the accordion on the train. Maybe I shouldn't be encouraging them but it's my one indulgence.

Anyway, yes, this whole idea of judging the homeless person. I kind of want to do it because this is a one-time $5 donation we're talking about, this is a big deal, and I don't want to see it go to waste. But at the same time it just feels wrong knowing that I'm being really honest with myself about the fact that I'm going to be judging the level of homelessness and deservability of the people I pass. We do this anyway, but it's more after the fact. We see the drunk, we pass by annoyed, and then we're like "hmmm, maybe I should have given him something." But we don't turn back because that's bad form and we'd be breaking that whole NY covenant of being stiff and cool amidst the real stench of humanity. Like when the dude who hasn't showered in weeks gets on the train with his bag of crap and everyone shifts down a few seats because he reeks. That's incredibly disconcerting, the idea that in this day and age there should be someone walking around in the middle of rich Manhattan, smelling like that. And yet we're pretty good at minding our own business. I don't blame anyone, including myself, for doing it, but man, if there was some way...

So with the parameters set, with Mr. Lincoln pressed up against my thigh, I go about my business. After eating way too much pizza to welcome the end of Passover and attending a kick-ass espresso-making class that let me man a $15,000 machine, I see this guy standing outside a deli. As I approach I realize that I'm disappointed that this is who I'm gonna give the money to. He's rather uninteresting, annoying even, just standing around with a plastic cup, turning in either direction to extend it, his knees slightly bent, a half-smile on his face.

I have every right to change the rules, but I don't. I pull out the $5 and unfold it. I let it flap a little before I extend it towards the cup, sticking out neatly from between my index and middle fingers. I want him to notice that it's a five, that I'm giving him probably more than anyone else has given him the entire day. I want that added bonus "thank you," the one filled with deep appreciation. I want to be made to feel like I'm ridiculously generous.

But all I get is him peeking into the cup and flipping me a "thanks," of the kind I would have gotten had I dropped a few Lincolns in another form. Then I start thinking about all the homeless people I see and give money to on a regular basis, and how I would have rather given them this $5. Like, for instance, that guy on Waverly who looks like Santa Claus and all he says is "spare a dime." I like that guy.

It's totally ridiculous to go back and say "oh, whoops, I accidentally gave you a $5. What I meant to give you was this crisp $1." Yeah I guess that wouldn't work.

When I pass him again about 45 minutes later, the $5 is already gone from the cup. I look at him with the hope that maybe now that he's had time to process that I was the one who gave him the money he'll say something more. But no. He's acting like he never got that $5. He pulled it out and hid it or spent it and now his cup is empty again, just some loose change, and it looks like he really needs someone else to stick some paper in there. It feels like a sham, and it makes me regret that I didn't go by the whole "judgment" thing.

Next time I find $5, maybe I'll just buy myself a venti hazelnut soy latte. That would be the ultimate revenge.

Timing

I approached my friend's apartment the other night and found two drunk dudes standing right in front of the buzzer. Great, now I have to put up with this shit. One is smoking a cigarette and the other is holding a Bud Light, the drink of sophisticates (I know that sounds pretentious, but I'm going for the effect of what holding a can of Bud Light on a Manhattan street can be seen to indicate). Both are dressed in that uniform of the disaffected low-level executive - light-colored pants wit a white-button down, no tie. I get near and say "excuse me," indicating the buzzer which they are obstructing. The guy with the cigarette stumbles out of my way, but el-tougho with the BL doesn't move. As I step-forward he's close enough that the fabrics of our shirts create a wisp of friction. I had the feeling that he had momentarily been tempted to jut out his shoulder a bit more, edge me with his side.

I'm already a bit uncomfortable because this street, just off of Park Avenue in midtown, is not really well-lit at all, and for the most part, abandoned. It's odd how, as you head West from Park in the 30s, there's total silence, trash and shadiness where, moments earlier there was the yelping of jacket-less girls in high heels and dudes with gelled hair trying to keep them from crying. So of course, as I look for the correct buzzer, I'm drawing a blank, unable to find the right number/letter combo amongst the otherwise organized buttons.

"Can I help you?" asks the guy with the beer, accentuating the "help" in a way that says "I'm a douchebag whose so dissatisfied with my own life that I'm going to get wasted at 10pm on Thursday and then try to pick fights with strangers who politely ask me to move."

I look at him. "No, I think I'm OK." Turning back to the switchboard, I finally find the button I'm looking for. That period of time between pressing it and waiting for the answering buzz, the one that opens the door in front of me and lets me get away from these morons, feels like it's taking forever. Behind me I can sense them staring at me, looking at each other in silence as I wait to go inside. To break the tension I turn and force this obnoxiously huge smile, the kind that just stretches out the lips and squints your eyes but which simultaneously hides your teeth.

Dude with the beer looks at his friend skeptically, as if seeking an opinion on the meaning of my smile, crunching his face in a way that asks "is this guy fucking with us?"

Behind me the door begins to ring and I pull it open, adding "ah, would you look at that?" as I slip inside, hoping that they're not now coming in after me.

They didn't, and as I got upstairs, met my friend, and got ready to head out for the evening, I added on our way down, "just to warn you, there are some morons outside your building so they might try to agitate us as we leave."

But when we're outside there aren't any morons. There's not even a cigarette butt or an empty beer can as I would expect morons to leave behind. There's no trace of brewing body odor or of smoke. Nothing at all. They just vanished as if they never even existed in the first place.

And this is my long-winded way of saying that everything in life comes down to timing. All that stuff that we call "luck" and "fate," yeah, maybe they involve a bit of the unknown, of chance and circumstance. But on a more "rational" level, it's all about the timing, of being at the right place at the right time with the right people, or not. With these dudes, I happened to come to the apartment in this 5 minute gap of time that they happened to be outside, and that's annoying. Had I come 5 minutes earlier of 5 minutes later, no dudes, no beer and cigs, no antagonism.

Of course that's a small situation that means little for my overall life, but it just got me thinking how timing is so frustratingly out of our hands. It's like that whole "butterfly effect" thing, where one small change, one tiny variation, and everything is changed forever. Think of everyone of the friends you have in your life now, and how you met them. Now wonder whether you'd be friends with them today if things had been changed just a little, if the circumstances that brought you together were altered in even the smallest degree. At least for me, I doubt that I'd be friends with a bunch of these people. Yes, with some, especially my high school friends who I was thrust into class after class with, I'm sure that if I hadn't met one in exactly the same way, that somehow or other we would have managed to become friends anyway. But after high school, when you're not spending all your time with the exact same people over the course of several years, everything is a lot more fragile.

One friend I met randomly during summer orientation because we were both taking a language placement test. There were 5 total orientation sessions that we could have randomly been at. There were over a hundred seats in that class and we might not have sat down next to each other. Who knows? Another friend I met because we were both taking Tae Kwon Do, even while I don't really care all that much about martial arts and only came out on the encouragement of another friend. I have at least 6 friends I met just because I happened to be on the same Israel trips as them. Out of all the Israel trips it was possible to go on, I was on the "right" ones. I'm sure I would have a totally different set of friends now had I been on different trips. And yet another friend I only became close with because of a rather traumatic break-up experience several years ago. Take away the break-up, take away the trauma, take away the randomness of it all, and I probably wouldn't be friends with that person today.

And then on a larger scale there's the relationship thing. You meet someone fantastic, but maybe it's not the right time for you or it's not the right time for them. You can chalk it up to personalities, that maybe you guys just didn't mesh well, that there's someone "better" for you or for them and you should both go your separate ways. But personality is only a reflection of the time in your life. As we constantly evolve with every new situation and experience, it's very possible to say that had you met this same person 3, 4, or 5 years from now, that perhaps that would be the right time. In the same way, had you met the person a few years earlier, maybe you wouldn't have clicked with them at all.

I can't tell you how much angst this whole "timing" thing has given me. I just can't reconcile how so much in life, most of it actually, comes down to chance, to the intersecting of lines at just the right moment. Change even one variable and the system is disrupted, the lines pass indifferently, separate existences, each going its own way.

There's really not much you can do, and any most attempts to effect timing often just end up confusing you more, increasing the anxiety that's already natural to the way of things. Yeah you can put yourself in the "right" places and you can meet the "right" people, and yes, often, in the same way that ambitious people pave their own destinies, you will likely find yourself careening towards an objective that you've preplanned. But there's always that unknown that underlines it all, that still permeates through every aspect that you, taking for granted, assume you control. But you don't.

One big clock hangs overhead, and it gives off this resounding ticking, this click of gears that sets all things into motion simultaneously. And when it decides that the chimes are ready to sound, that's when everything happens. Or perhaps, in the same way, nothing at all.

How the Brits Get Down

A friend mentioned it to me yesterday, and even now, after having read the "Page Six" article about it, I still don't believe it. Then again, I guess there's pretty good reason not to believe what you read in "Page Six."

So apparently, Richard Quest, perhaps my favorite CNN anchor after the departure of Bill Hemmer, was caught in Central Park with meth, a dildo, and a rope tied between his neck and nut sack. What the deal RQ? For the meth and maybe the dildo I'm ready to look past the situation, but I'm especially intrigued by the rope. I mean, is that arrangement supposed to feel good in some way? Does it like tug as you walk? I'm picturing it, unfortunately, and I'm just not understanding how it could possibly work out so that someone goes "yeah, I wanna cut off circulation to my balls!" Needless to say, I will not be hanging out with Richard Quest anytime soon.

T-Shirts

I'm kind of tempted to buy this t-shirt:


It's one of those pet peevs of mine - the way people walk around with this Commie crap and think that they're upholding some sort of revolutionary idea. Either that or they think they're being trendy. Either one is bullshit. Like when I see people walking around the those USSR shirts...don't get me started. Fine, I've talked about it a bunch of times before, but it just continues to agitate to no end. Have I ever mentioned the time I was at this party and I attacked this one dude for wearing a shirt with Marx, Stalin, and Lenin on it? I put on this Russian accent and told him I was incredibly offended. So as not to leave on a bad note, I ended up forgiving him for his ignorance. Fine, it was kind of a satirical shirt because they were all wearing party hats, but I still found it sort of surreal that people walk around with the face of a mass-murderer on their chests. I don't give a shit if you toss a bonnet and brassiere on Hitler, I just don't want to see him on a clothing item. Same goes for Stalin, perhaps to a slightly lesser degree, but you get the point.

Then kind of on-topic but kind of off-topic too, I saw a 10 year old girl earlier today walking around with an unnecessarily snug t-shirt (she was overweight) that said, get this, "I (Heart) Benjamin." You can probably guess that there was a nice big picture of a $100 bill right underneath the words. Who dresses their children this way? Don't people have any sense of shame? Fine, I know who dresses their children this way, but it's just obscene. Same goes for those psychos who make their little kids into beauty queens, and on the other end of the spectrum, the ones who dress up their 4 year-olds to look like mini gangstas. Really? Like you're toddler needs to be wearing a do-rag, Baby Fubu, and an x-large black leather jacket with excessive embroidery on it?

Site of the Day

Thanks to Ariel I (Jr.) for the link. You have been warned.

Rebel

Saturday evening, shortly after the beginning of Passover, I found myself in Williamsburg, hanging out with a few people. Although I had left home (LI) pretty full, I now found myself slowly getting hungry. But it seemed that there was just nowhere to get food. I must never have been to that part of Williamsburg before because it was pretty freaking abandoned. Long stretches of empty roads, empty buildings, graffiti. None of those lovely 24-hour delis I'm so used to.

When we finally get to this party, I'm starting to get lightheaded. There's something about the quality of matzah carbohydrates that's totally unsatisfying. You can eat all this matzah and it just doesn't fill you up like a nice piece of bread. It's that extra air that must do the trick. At this point I haven't eaten in like 6 hours, and we've been walking, so I'm getting desperate. At this party all they have is cake and corn chips. Technically, I can't have either, but as I see it, the cake is a bit more extreme because it's this fluffy thing that definitely has yeast (shame, shame). The corn chips are a different story because I don't really understand why I can't have them. I guess I just assume there's some rabbinical edict that expanded the prohibition on Tostitos. I would have loved to be at that discussion.

The people I'm with see that I'm hungry. I gather they also know it because I've likely complained at least once or twice about how I'm hungry. But now comes the part where I gotta be like "um, I can't eat that, or that, or even that. Sorry." This of course entails the "discussion" of how I'm a Yid and how, because it's Passover, I don't eat certain things. I have no issue explaining the whole bread/yeast thing, because to me it's a simple act of solidarity, of connecting with ancestors and honoring an event from our collective pasts. As for the corn chips, I toss out that whole "rabbinical edict" explanation, but then as soon as I say, I realize that I have a really hard time adhering to a "rule" based on "well, that's what they said to do." Because I didn't really have a rational or logical explanation for the expansion of the prohibition to include baked corn, I felt kind of foolish. So I grabbed the bag of Tostitos and went to town.

This is the sort of thing I go through on every Passover. I approach it ready to be extreme, perhaps because its one of those holidays that takes discipline, and I'm all about the challenge. On Yom Kippur (that day where you fast for 24-hours, as in no food and no water and no shower (because the water might get in your mouth)), I'm sitting there with cotton mouth, dipping in and out of consciousness. No, it's not painful, it's strangely satisfying, the knowledge that you're linking-up with this tradition that has carried on for hundreds of years. But it's kind of silly to do something that doesn't make sense to you. The no bread thing makes sense to me, and maybe the no corn chips thing will make sense to me one day as well, but for now it doesn't, so I eat. Apparently, you're also not allowed to have hummus because of the chickpeas. I don't really get this either, and damned if someone is going to take my hummus away from me.

Later that night, when we're all half-awake, when it's three o'clock and the idea of another drink (kosher for Passover...maybe...) is up there with bird flu, we head to a diner. I order my dish, we're chatting, having a good time. The food disappears because I'm hungry, again, and the corn chips really only held me over until this moment. It's only after there's nothing left on my plate that I realize the turkey burger I've just eaten, bun and all, is totally and unconditionally prohibited, even in my book. I have this moment of shock, like I just did something horribly wrong. And I have to say, I felt guilty about it. Here I was, gearing up to do the whole Passover thing, and on night one, literally hours after it begins, I'm downing a turkey burger without so much as a thought.

But I think it's good to recognize our shortcomings and try to move past them, so instead of getting bogged down with the details, I press ahead in my no-bread policy. I woke up the next morning and, sans matzah, went straight to the store to get some. I had this moment in the Passover aisle. It's just me and this mom with her daughter, 10am on Sunday morning, looking for Jew-food. The daughter starts yelling "matzah mama, matzah! I love matzah." I look over, smile, and grab a box. That makes two of us kid.

Thinking the incident behind me, I've managed to stay vigilant for the last 36 hours. Except that last night, in the tumult of my sleep, I had a dream, no, a nightmare, where I'm eating a Twinkie and only with one bite remaining, realize that it's Passover. I didn't wake up in a sweat, I didn't scream, but when I opened my eyes I had that momentary confusion of "did that actually happen? Did I actually eat a Twinkie?" No, although I'd love to have one, seeing as how it's been about three years since I last bought a pack. But that will have to wait for Sunday night, when the holiday comes to an end, and after I've eaten that personal pan pizza I'm already thinking about.

More Stories From the Underground

On this glorious Saturday afternoon I take you with me, on a journey, back to the subway.

I know I harp on this subject, but why the heck not? It's such a central place as far as City life goes. The City without the subway would be like a fat kid without cake, like me without a complaint. And it is for that reason that I return to the tube, for a tale of short nerves and testy individualism.

A few days back, as I was just riding downtown, minding my own business, these guys in front of me get into an argument. One is a skinny Asian dude with an iPod in. The other is a construction worker-esque burly white guy. Apparently, little Asian man was sitting with his legs too far apart, taking up too much room, so burly white guy speaks up.

"Excuse me...Excuse me."

"What?"

"Get those damn things out of your ears and have some respect for your elders."

[silent treatment]

"Why do you have to sit like that? You can't keep your legs nice and straight in front of you? Like this" [indicates how straight his legs are] "Why you gotta sprawl them out like a fucking whore?"

At this juncture I start laughing and have to cover my face with my book.

"It's not a big deal. Relax."

"No, I'm not going to fucking relax. I wanna smack you around."

Burly white guy kept mumbling something to himself and staring the little Asian guy down, but it didn't escalate from there.

Then, the very next day, I get into the downtown 6 and watch as an older white guy tries to slip in next to a Jamaican woman and, perhaps, accidentally sits on her hand as she's trying to slide over. Imagine the following exchange with the woman having a Jamaican accent, and the white dude sounding a little effeminate.

"Why you gotta go sitting on my hand? Why you don't give me a chance to move over."

"Oh...I am so sorry. Maybe if you could move over."

"Yeah? Stupid white trailer trash, can smell the whiskey on you breath."

"So now you're getting racial? Look at this, you're getting racial. What right do you have?"

"Sitting on my hand, you damn drunk. Can't wait a second for me to move over."

I'm kind of siding with the white guy because, yeah, she kind of just tossed that whole "white trailer trash" thing out of nowhere. Fine, so maybe the guy was a little rambunctious when it came to grabbing a seat, but really? That makes him white trailer trash? Except now he takes it to another level.

"You stupid bitch."

"You crazy drunk."

"You think because you're black you're entitled to everything? Ridiculous."

This goes on for a little bit, until someone yells "hey, there's kids in here." They get silent for a couple of seconds and then the white dude just randomly shakes his head and says "fuck you. Oh go fuck yourself." Jamaican woman gets off at the next stop and then it's all calm again.

What is the deal people? Why are tensions always so high in the subway? I get it when its crowded in the mornings or after work, but it wasn't crowded either of these times. Maybe it's just that it was after work and people are stressed out from the day so they just snap at the littlest of things. I admit, I've had my fair share of swells in the subway, but nothing serious. Usually its someone pushing to get by so they can stand by the door and get out easier. I'm thinking they should wait for the train to stop before deciding its best for them to make me move out of their way. I usually just keep standing where I am, holding onto the bar, look them in the eyes and say "how about you hold on a second and wait for the train to stop moving?" Sometimes they push through anyway, in response to which I stiffen up and make sure it's as hard for them as possible. My hips suddenly become abnormally wide and bony.

Childish? Yeah I guess but I also have this "principle" complex where if I strongly believe that I'm right, particularly in inconsequential situations, then I'll stick it out, be sort of a nuisance. Like if someone cuts me off on the street while I'm walking, sometimes I'll race by them and cut them off in return. It's straight-up street rage. I'm not bashful about it, nor am I proud, but it's the way of life on the high-paced sidewalks. I can't stand those people that like to weave as they walk, suddenly favoring the left side, and then cutting to the right on some whim. Meanwhile I'm behind them and just trying to get by. In that situation, I will often cut in front and then weave erratically in a way that indicates "you are annoying." Other times I'll just stop dead-center, and pretend like I'm looking for something or I need to tie my shoe. It's more of a game than anything else, it's not like I'm out to hurt someone or start a fight, although I guess the later is always a possibility.

No Bread?

With this whole Passover thing approaching, I'm starting to get a little anxious, as I always do, about the prospect of removing practically all worthwhile grains from my diet. Technically, I can still have wheat, but in the unleavened form, which basically means shitty wheat. Yeah, unleavened stuff kind of sucks. I know there's all those people out there who are all about the matzah, who see it and they're like "oh, matzah! It's like a big cracker!" It's not like a big cracker. It's like a hand-delivered gift of constipation, straight from God. I don't see crackers in the same way. Also, people who tend to be psyched about matzah are the ones who don't actually follow the holiday - i.e. eat it for eight days straight.

And even taking the cracker analogy one step further, crackers are bite-size. They are fun because they're so dainty. Think of the best crackers of all time - Ritz, Wheat Thins - they're awesome because they're small and they taste good. Matzah is a gynormous cracker. It is the elephant man of crackers. And that makes it problematic because there's no simple way to enjoy it. It's always cracking in the wrong spots and dropping crumbs all over the place. Just try to make a matzah "sandwich." Go ahead, try it. You start folding the thing in half and it splits along the wrong set of perforations, or maybe it splits down one set, only to change direction suddenly, without rhyme or reason, and then proceed down another set. It's a bowling ball thrown into someone else's lane. Everyone hates that shit. And then even if you manage to actually make this sandwich, then when you eat it the thing just starts falling apart and then you have matzah emission hanging on the edge of your mouth, clinging to the hummus spread you added to "liven" things up.

Ever have Passover cereal? It's like the worst cereal invented by man. Bad cereal is actually really hard to come by. You have to go out of your way to make cereal bad. Someone had to have woken up one day and said "I want to ruin breakfast for Jews everywhere." You remember that story a few months back about how all these Chinese hot buns were being made from ground up cardboard bits with shrimp flavoring? I think the same people are doing this Passover cereal nonsense. I still remember as a kid, being all excited that first time I learned that yes, even during Passover, you can have cereal. By some miracle, geniuses had uncovered how to make it work. And then it seemed like there were so many to choose from - imitation froot loops and frosted flakes and coco pebbles. Awesome. But then you try it and it's just a sad sad day. And that's when the innocence of youth begins to fade away, when you see that the world is filled with cute cartoon animals drawn on boxes that draw you towards sugar-coated lies.

Maybe I am a bit too harsh. I mean, there's kind of some good stuff about Passover, like the macaroons and the gifelte (sp?) fish (as much as non-Jewish people think I'm absolutely demented for enjoying it). And even though you can have those things at any point throughout the year, they just taste a whole hell of a lot better when there's so little else that you can really eat. Seriously, break it down, it's like super-Atkins, and now that that man is dead and his diet has been debunked, shouldn't we be coming to terms with the idea that maybe this isn't the greatest idea? Yes, I want to honor tradition too, but let's think about this - if the Israelites had the opportunity to make real bread, don't you think they would have taken it? Exactly. And then they've also somehow managed to extend this "no bread" business to include everything that's worth eating. Like I can't have corn? Or rice? No pasta? I'm even ready to have like cous cous or something, but no, I can't have that either. Where am I supposed to get my fiber from? Did the Lord put that in the Books of Moses?

I digress. I get worked up. I admit all of this. In actuality there's a bunch of good things about Passover other than the macaroons and the fishy thing I mentioned. There's the opportunity to sit down with people and talk philosophy, see the the family, see friends, remember the past. When I had cable I would watch "The Ten Commandments" religiously. Pun intended. And now with Heston gone, it's all the more poignant. And as much as I hate on the matzah, there are good types of it, like the chocolate-covered matzah, which, although messy as per the description above, is rather tasty. But perhaps the thing I look forward to most is the last day, when the fast ends, because I've always made it a tradition to go out and share a pizza with someone. Like the whole pie, with no guilt. Sometimes I like to get my own pie because I miss bread that much. And really, bread never tastes as good as it does when you haven't had it for eight days. Maybe that's the real meaning of Passover, maybe it's God's way of helping us understand how amazing carbohydrates are, how good we have it. I have seen God, and he has come to me in the form of a dinner roll. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Subway Mayhem

Two recent subway fare occurrences, one narrated to me and one my own.

So first, why hasn't anyone asked questions about this whole "15% back" thing? You put in $10 and you get $11.50 on your card. What a deal! Seems great, right? Well yeah, it totally worked back in the day of $1.50 subway fare, but now that it's $2, it's just a hassle. Do you realize how much money you have to put on your card for it to come out even? My friends, you have to put forty dollars on a card in order to get $6 in "bonus" money. Anything less, and you'll always end up with at least some random change on the card that becomes completely unusable. It's a freaking racket if you ask me. The person who told me of their trouble with that frustrating $1.50 leftover on a $10 purchase also went ahead and wrote to the MTA to try to get that money back. It's the principle of the thing, but then again, I guess you can make a business out of it too - go buy a bunch of $10 cards, use them, and then try to recoup the $1.50 in bonus money they have left over on them. I wonder if the MTA would accept a bulk shipment of cards you've stocked up.

My own troubles came last Friday when, moments after having swiped into the subway with my "unlimited" card (*scoffs at use of that word, you will see why in a second), I realized I forgot something upstairs. This is annoying in and of itself, because it takes like 5-10 minutes roundtrip to come back out of the subway, go back to your building, get what you forgot, and come back down. It's also an old Russian superstition that you don't turn back when you've left for a "trip." But what if you forgot to turn the stove off? Too bad. The Russians are so bad-ass that they would let their house burn down in this situation.

So when I finally get back down to the subway, it's been like a good 9 minutes, but when I try to swipe I get that whole "just used" bullshit popping up in those green letters. That's crap if you ask me. My card costs $76 bucks and I can't use it twice over the course of 9 minutes? I get the whole "you might swipe someone else in" if it just worked consistently, but really, 9 minutes? People would actually swipe their friend in and then wait around 9 minutes to let themselves in, thus cheating the system?

I come up to the subway attendant and I'm all like "hi there, um...hello?" At first she didn't hear me because she's behind a foot of plexiglass, but then when she finally looked up I continued, "yeah so I sort of forgot something upstairs and I used my card already, could you let me in?"

"Swipe please...OK, so you have 7 more minutes."

"Excuse me?"

"It will work again in 7 minutes."

"Can't you just let me in? Through that handicap door thingy that people with luggage go through?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know who used it already."

"But it's my card."

"Yes, but maybe you let someone else in."

Yeah, I was waiting around for all this time to ask about it, that makes a lot of sense. So she wouldn't let me in, and I end up having to pay $2 to buy a single ride. I was so pissed about it. I got this like super card and I need to go off and drop another couple of bucks or wait 7 more minutes to take a train. I'm not cheap, but again, it's the principle behind it, that my card is supposed to be "unlimited," not "mostly unlimited, but sometimes limited." I also found out after the fact that the unlimited work once every 18 minutes. Isn't that a bit much?

As for cramming into subways, we think we have it bad in NY? Well check out the shit that goes on in some Japan. Low-five to Ben P. for the find:

Curses!

You have to be pretty demented to try to "curse" the Yankees by burying a BoSox jersey in their stadium, but that's exactly what one ex-construction worker did. Apparently, some BoSox fan who previously worked on building the new stadium's foundation decided it would be cool to drop an Ortiz jersey into a cement mix and let it be integrated into a piece of the stadium's hallway. The goal? Curse the Yankees. I'm sure this took a certain degree of gumption on this guy's part. I mean, you're working with these burly dudes, most of whom, I would imagine, are die-hard Yankees fans. This dude had to bring a jersey with him to work, and then when no one was looking, drop it into the mix and bury it deep enough that no one would spot it. Thanks to a bunch of anonymous tips from people who had heard the rumor, construction workers found this thing and pulled it out after drilling for five hours through two feet of cement. Talk about devotion.

It's all kind of eerie if you ask me. Sure I wanna be that guy who's like "who the hell cares? Some loser tossed a jersey into a cement mixer and now this thing is in the wall. Leave it alone." But then again, do you really want the jersey of your arch-nemesis floating around in some cement wall in your home stadium? That's sort of like building a housing development over an old cemetery. We all know what that leads to.

You also have to be pretty far gone to want to "curse" a whole team because you don't like them. Like, I can't stand the Devils, the New York Ranger's greatest opponents, but does that mean I wanna curse them? If you ask me, they have enough problems with the fact that their new stadium is in Newark. I just wanna see the Rangers whip them, that's it, and I wanna see it done on equal terms based on skill and heart. That's what makes sports exciting. In fact, I prefer that both teams be 100% healthy, have their best players out there, and just go at it. I'd be kind of disappointed if I thought the Rangers just kept winning because the Devils were somehow "cursed" thanks to my burying the jersey of Mark Messier under the ice.

So much animosity, not enough cow bell.

The Hangers Around

So you're looking for a spot - like at a table, or maybe a locker in the gym, or even to use a piece of gym equipment - and you ask "are you leaving" or "is this free?" Regardless of the answer you get, why do you have to stand around and be all annoying?

Like yesterday at the gym, I just started using the decline bench-press (yeah, I'm getting rejacked like that; as in, I used to be jacked), and I go to grab some water (because I need to stay hydrated, you know how it is). By the time I get back, literally within 10 seconds, there's already some dude hovering around the machine, looking at people, wondering who's using it. I can feel the swell of confrontation begin to well-up inside of me, perhaps exacerbated by the testosterone and adrenaline the workout is pumping through my arteries. I come up beside him and just jump onto the bench, without a word.

"Oh...you using this?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, as I start positioning myself for the lifts.

"How many sets you got?"

"Like 3 or 4."

He turned away kind of annoyed, kind of raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth to express disappointment at the fact he would have to wait several minutes. I'm not a machine hogger, and if he was alone I'd totally let him switch off with me. But he had a friend with him, so no way am I gonna let two dudes do their thing and I have to wait my turn. There's some unwritten gym etiquette code about that.

So I start doing my sets, and these two guys are just standing around the machine. After I finish the first one I feel this immediate sense of anxiety, like they're rushing me to finish. Why can't they go off and do something else? This is gonna take a little while. Isn't there some other muscle group they could focus on?

I try to stay chill about it, so I take my break, I take my sweet time catching by breath, restacking the weight (only a minor increase of 10lbs. for the next set), and then I do a little stretching. Maybe now I'm just being antagonistic to their standing around, but I'm not going to bend to the pressure of having them watching me, counting down the seconds that I leave them to their own benching devices.

After set 3, I decide I want to do a weightless superset, which requires that I take all the weights off the bar. Of course as soon as I start doing this, the two guys shift over to the machine, like they're ready for me to just disappear. I have to look at them and say, "no, no, no. I have another set to go."

Another eye-roll, another sigh. They go back into the nearby corner, leaning on the wall but this time not chatting with one another, just watching me.

Eventually when I do finish and start walking away, there's no "thank you," there's nothing. Just this hushed angst for having to wait for me.

I can't stand stuff like that. And it happens all the time. In coffee shops people are always looking for someone leaving their table - "you leaving?"

"Yeah I'm fucking leaving. How bout you stand at 3+ feet away from me and give me at least 45 seconds to gather my stuff and get to the door."

But no, these people hover. They're hoverers, they're hangers around. They stand there, invading personal space. Sometimes, and oh this is probably the kicker, they put their shit down on your table or your chair before you've totally vacated.

Of course you always find yourself in need of the table or the workout machine, and even if you (i.e. "I") try to act chill and give people their room to do their thing, then you have to contend with the aggressive ones who park themselves in front of you in an effort to cut you off, to grab the table/machine/locker before you, despite the fact you were the first to ask. This is primitive behavior. It reminds me of those jackasses that swing into a parking spot that you've been hanging out for patiently, waiting for the person to pull out, giving them room to drive away without ramming some sweatpants-clad, bleach-blonde hair housewife with a fake tan who is just trying to enjoy a casual day at the mall. It's actually also those same people who tend to be driving the Hummers/Escalades that do the cutting-off.

I want to carry around a can of freaking mace to ward these people off. Or maybe something a little less powerful, like that stuff they spray in cats' faces to make them stop clawing at things. See, I can be considerate.

UPDATE: Weird body-image issues continue in the Indian subcontinent.

It Had as Many Faces as Ganesha

So in sticking to my whole Indian theme I have going since my last post, did you guys hear about this? This baby was born in India with two faces. What's up people? Why are these babies being born there? It was only a few months ago that there was that whole 4-arm/4-leg baby that had that surgery. Reports say that local villagers believe the two-faced baby is a reincarnation of the Hindu God Ganesha. Now I looked into Ganesha and it was reported to have the head of an elephant, so please tell me how two human faces = elephant head? Either way, that baby, as much as I hate to say it, kind of freaks me out. I mean there's one brain in there, so it just sort of controls either side I guess as it sees fit. It kind of reminds me of that video I saw in middle school, "I'm Not a Freak," where they had this Chinese dude who had a malformed siamese twin hidden in his hair. The thing would kinda just smile whenever he smiled, so it was like he had this set of teeth and this hollow cavity in his head. In any case, check out this whole siamese set. Two heads, one body, I don't even know how these girls do it. I mean you gotta respect how "normal" they seem.

Sorry, My Dog Ate My Sari

So I got an invitation today to another wedding reception (yay, the first one in almost a year...seems like that calmed down a bit but this is a friendly reminder that they're still coming). This is for an old high school friend who got married in India last summer. It was kind of a surprise to all of us because it sort of just happened out of the blue. But hey, he seems happy, so more power to him.

Anyway, so it's about damn time they got down to it in the States, particularly because most of his friends and family (i.e. me and a few other inconsequential people) are here. Thing is, on the invitation it says "Indian Attire Recommended." Now I don't want to rain on anyone's parade, but, aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves here? Not that I have any problem with Indian attire, it's just that, I don't really own any. I am not planning on going to a kurta-rental store (what's up with that kid posing in all those clothes in that link?), nor to come looking like this, as fun as it would be.

Now I'm thinking I'll be sticking out at this thing. Everyone will be dressed in these really bright colors and I'm gonna be rocking my Western-style clothing. Will they make fun of me? Maybe I'll wear that suit I bought in China, the one that I can't button because it looks too tight if I do. Maybe that'll make me look more "ethnic" for the occasion.

But why recommend Indian attire? When I had my bar mitzvah, I wasn't all like "yeah, and please, try to come in teffilin and tallit." And I totally provided people with kippas, so that wasn't a problem either. Are they going to provide me with Indian-esque clothing so that I feel less left-out? Maybe they could hand out those funky shoes with the curled back tips. That would be a step in the right direction.

The best I can do, maybe, is wear one of collar-less shirts. I feel like that's got kind of an Indian look to it. The ones that have a huge black button in the middle in place of any sort of tie. That's kind of like a big "fuck you" to Western fashion - "damned if I'm wearing your symbol of enslavement." Maybe I will come in linens and sandals. Then again, I guess that is a bit on the casual side.

Whatever, I'm probably over-analyzing this, as I tend to do. I'm just thinking that I'll be one of 10 white dudes who don't have Indian clothing and then I'll feel weird and the Indian girls won't like me because I'm the guy their fathers told them to stay away from. Then again, there is all that Indian food to look forward to. I'm down with the tandoori, chicken tikka, and naan. Oh that naan. So deliciously chewy and warm. I also learned that the Indian drink of choice is "Black and Coke," as in Johnny Walker Black Label instead of Jack Daniels. How hot is that? I'm so in the zone. This is gonna be one hot shindig. I'm packing my Tums.

Some Thoughts

In no particular order of importance because all are equally important:

1. Rice pudding is delicious, despite what the naysayers say, except when you get a scoop that's just one big chewy chunk of rice. Not pleasant.

2. Although tasty, I refuse to accept this whole notion that there's actually a veggy/soy/vegan burger out there that tastes "as good as" a regular meat-based burger. Sorry Ariel.

3. Downtown NY, near the financial district, has a really nice vibe to it. Although it's still definitely got a "businessy" feel to it, it's just different, in a good way.

4. I've got my AC blasting and it's only April 1st. I'm about ready to jump on this whole "global warming" bandwagon. Next step - join Al Gore's death cult (which will likely involve the drinking of cyanide-laced glacier-water cocktails to welcome the "destructor" in the form of a giant penguin named Merle, awoken as a result of the melting of Antarctica and its replacement with an ostentatious water park funded by oil money and financed by the people who brought you Dubai).

5. There's no such thing as too much fiber.

6. Movies suck until at least May.

7. Lots of people still want me dead.

8. Me and laundry are in a fight. Although I have previously made statements about how "relaxing" it can be, I realize they had a lot to do with the foolishness of my youth. New opinion - laundry sucks and I want it to fold itself.

9. What do you do when 8 is too little but 9 is too much?