I admit it. I've been preoccupied. Preoccupied with the New York City Marathon, preoccupied with dating (and not making much progress after that), preoccupied with my job, preoccupied with Barack Obama, and, yes, preoccupied with my job. Wait... Did I say that already?
But, there's one other thing that hasn't received enough of my attention. California's proposed ban on same-sex marriage.
I don't really believe in popular voting on ballot initiatives in the first place, but that really misses the point. We are currently in the middle of a broad political battle that describes EXACTLY how our system of government is supposed to work. To continue to sit on the sidelines would be evading my responsibility.
A little history: California passed a gay-marriage ban. In fact, in 2001, 61% of California voters approved a ballot measure, Proposition 22, that said "only marriage between a man and a woman is valid and recognized in California." In 2008, the California Supreme Court, in a broadly-worded decision, said, "Um...no." In fact, it said quite a bit more: The majority opinion, by Chief Justice Ronald M. George, declared that any law that discriminates on the basis of sexual orientation will from this point on be constitutionally suspect in California in the same way as laws that discriminate by race or gender, making the state's high court the first in the nation to adopt such a stringent standard. "Our state now recognizes that an individual's capacity to establish a loving and long-term committed relationship with another person and responsibly to care for and raise children does not depend upon the individual's sexual orientation," George wrote for the majority. "An individual's sexual orientation -- like a person's race or gender -- does not constitute a legitimate basis upon which to deny or withhold legal rights." Now, there's another initiative to amend the Constitution to overturn that ruling and enshrine heterosexual marriage in California.
Let's put aside our view on same-sex marriage. Here, we have a battle between the voters and the courts, between political processes and judicial processes. In a system of checks and balances, one is not necessarily more powerful than the other. But, more importantly, it is not at all clear why a law so passed by a majority of the people is not subject to interpretation by the courts. To suggest that the passage of Prop 22 some seven years ago ended the debate over same-sex marriage in California misreads the political landscape of our system of government.
The people pass a law.
The law (allegedly) violates a constitution.
The highest court agrees.
The people try to amend a constitution.
Apparently, "the people" are always on one side, and the courts on the other. That, in and of itself, does not mean a court is being "activist" or stepping outside its bounds. It is, in fact, doing its job: interpreting the document it knows best to check the excess of the people (which, unfortunately, are all too pronounced in a state that actually allows the people to vote on ballot initiatives).
Now, bring back our views on same-sex marriage. If you believe in it, this is your fight; if you don't believe in it, this is also your fight. If you want to be part of "the people" that win, you dont blame or, for that matter, rely on the courts to fix what's wrong. Sooner or later, the courts will have no room to interpret a document that has been amended to say something very specific.
Get up. Donate. Make a difference. This is how it's supposed to work.
https://secure.ga4.org/01/equalityforall
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
7th in Line
Like every good workout, every Barney's Warehouse Sale has a purpose. BWS Version S.06 (Summer 06) was for suits; Version W.07 was for casual pants and dress trousers. Today, which marked the opening of Version S.08 was ABS, anything but suits. And it was WILDLY successful.
I arrived at 17th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues at approximately 6:50 and took my place as 7th in line behind two loud yarmulke-wearing Jews, who were screaming behind an expected assortment of women, gay men, and European visitors. One of the latter asked me if "dis iz de line far bahneys." When I assured him he was in the right place, he thanked me profusely, and blurted out that he makes a special trip from Romania once a year to come to one of the Warehouse sales. He returns to Europe tomorrow, with stops in Milan and Sofia before winding up home, where he runs some kind of company that uses a lot of fiberglass. I know this because his post BWS destination, he strangely offered without prodding, is a fiberglass wholesaler.
In any event, I was seventh in line. Fox News interviewed the gentleman fifth in line and the local ABC affiliate did a report directly in front of me, but declined to interview any of the BWS fans. As I waited for one hour and ten minutes, the line grew and grew until it not only reached all the way back to 7th Avenue, but up the street to 19th Street. Strange-looking poor people passed us with incredulous looks, wide-eyed young gays exclaimed "oh my god!" at the line's length, and veteran shoppers realized, as my neighbor noted, "it was twice as long by this time last year." I suppose no one is safe from the economic downturn.
As the fourth man in line, entry was easy, but the sub-basement was freezing, despite the warm-hearted workers who offered me applications for the Barney's Card, tailoring services, and large plastic bags to carry the items I grabbed. I checked out the suits, but declined to dive in, then toured the casual couture, shoes, bags, outerwear, trousers, shirts and sweaters, and anything else the high-end retailer had to offer. I dropped trou in front of the mob, as shoppers are inclined to do (there are no fitting rooms) and stripped off my shirt when necessary. I ogled another's black suede shoes, only to find the exact same pair in my size. I found some Moncler in red, but found it too ostentatious. Rag & Bone, John Varvatos, Prada, Gucci, and Dior Homme found its way into my pile, as did three beautiful dress shirts from Zegna.
My tally: 2 hours, 10 items, $920 dollars. Pretty darn good. I now have a casual Prada winter jacket, a fitted Rag & Bone fall jacket, three Zegna dress shirts, Salvatore Ferragamo suede shoes, navy casual pants from YSL, John Varvatos jeans, a John Varvatos purple sweater, pin-striped dress trousers from Barney's, and a pair of Barney's brand cufflinks. A successful Version S.08, indeed!
I arrived at 17th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues at approximately 6:50 and took my place as 7th in line behind two loud yarmulke-wearing Jews, who were screaming behind an expected assortment of women, gay men, and European visitors. One of the latter asked me if "dis iz de line far bahneys." When I assured him he was in the right place, he thanked me profusely, and blurted out that he makes a special trip from Romania once a year to come to one of the Warehouse sales. He returns to Europe tomorrow, with stops in Milan and Sofia before winding up home, where he runs some kind of company that uses a lot of fiberglass. I know this because his post BWS destination, he strangely offered without prodding, is a fiberglass wholesaler.
In any event, I was seventh in line. Fox News interviewed the gentleman fifth in line and the local ABC affiliate did a report directly in front of me, but declined to interview any of the BWS fans. As I waited for one hour and ten minutes, the line grew and grew until it not only reached all the way back to 7th Avenue, but up the street to 19th Street. Strange-looking poor people passed us with incredulous looks, wide-eyed young gays exclaimed "oh my god!" at the line's length, and veteran shoppers realized, as my neighbor noted, "it was twice as long by this time last year." I suppose no one is safe from the economic downturn.
As the fourth man in line, entry was easy, but the sub-basement was freezing, despite the warm-hearted workers who offered me applications for the Barney's Card, tailoring services, and large plastic bags to carry the items I grabbed. I checked out the suits, but declined to dive in, then toured the casual couture, shoes, bags, outerwear, trousers, shirts and sweaters, and anything else the high-end retailer had to offer. I dropped trou in front of the mob, as shoppers are inclined to do (there are no fitting rooms) and stripped off my shirt when necessary. I ogled another's black suede shoes, only to find the exact same pair in my size. I found some Moncler in red, but found it too ostentatious. Rag & Bone, John Varvatos, Prada, Gucci, and Dior Homme found its way into my pile, as did three beautiful dress shirts from Zegna.
My tally: 2 hours, 10 items, $920 dollars. Pretty darn good. I now have a casual Prada winter jacket, a fitted Rag & Bone fall jacket, three Zegna dress shirts, Salvatore Ferragamo suede shoes, navy casual pants from YSL, John Varvatos jeans, a John Varvatos purple sweater, pin-striped dress trousers from Barney's, and a pair of Barney's brand cufflinks. A successful Version S.08, indeed!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Creepy comrades, classy commercials, and (insert a c-word here) cartoons
My appearance is almost entirely new due to my near-annual summer buzz cut. My Jew-fro is usually curly, long, and sometimes out of control, but with an upcoming move and a few road races in the offing, I thought I would make a clean break with the past and avoid sweaty hair flopping in my face during a run. I've found that women generally prefer the curly hair and men prefer the buzz cut, a trend that likely means I look cuter with curly hair, but tougher without it. While I appreciate all the compliments, there has been one creepy side effect: All these guys who I don't know -- never spoken to them -- have come up to me at the gym and said the following:
"Your new haircut looks great."
"That haircut is really sexy."
"I love the haircut, stud."
Um...thanks. But who are you? Where do you come from? Whom do you serve? And if you have been staring at me this past year at the gym, why not actually introduce yourself. Creepy.
So, that workout started creepy and seemed to get worse. A camera crew shuttled around the gym taking video of people, including me, working out. This seemed either a flagrant violation of privacy or an awesome way to start a new gay porn film. Then, the "director" -- I use the term liberally -- approached me.
"Would you mind if we filmed your legs while you workout?"
"My legs?"
"Yeah, just your legs."
"Is that an insult to the rest of me."
"More of a compliment about your legs, and a recognition that anything more would violate the contract you sign with Results."
I couldn't argue with that.
"Sure, go ahead."
Apparently, I have "fantastic legs," and, as such, they will have a starring role in a new commercial for Results the Gym here in Washington, DC. Have you ever seen a gym commercial before? They mostly consist of one or two second clips of seemingly detached muscle groups doing some sort of athletic activity. So, count my legs as one of those disembodied muscles helping to recruit the weak to Results!
PS. In the "Family Guy" episode where Chris's valuptuous new teacher, voiced by Drew Barrymore, first asks Chris to murder her husband, but then does it herself, Stewie fools a police officer by doing his own impression of Andrew McCarthy and Jonathan Silverman of "Weekend at Bernie's." He remarks that the cop's cousin -- "a good middle management type, never really wowed anybody" -- is his colleague at "First Fidelity Insurance over on Waybosset Street." I just realized that this could be yet another reference to Stewie's burgeoning homosexuality. Waybosset Street (rivaled only by Wickendon Street, less than a mile away) is one of Providence, Rhode Island's gayest promenade. Consider the newly reopened uber-gay DownCity restaurant (50 Weybosset St.; 401-331-9217), which serves up treats like Portuguese sweetbread French toast amid the funky splendor of chandeliers, orange walls, and groovy tunes. The street also boasts some gay-popular shopping at the 1828 Greek Revival Arcade (65 Weybosset St.; 401-598-1199). Inside, oft-cute student chefs from Johnson & Wales University’s culinary arts program whip up concoctions like crème de menthe chocolate cake at Johansson’s Bakery Café (401-598-2253).
"Your new haircut looks great."
"That haircut is really sexy."
"I love the haircut, stud."
Um...thanks. But who are you? Where do you come from? Whom do you serve? And if you have been staring at me this past year at the gym, why not actually introduce yourself. Creepy.
So, that workout started creepy and seemed to get worse. A camera crew shuttled around the gym taking video of people, including me, working out. This seemed either a flagrant violation of privacy or an awesome way to start a new gay porn film. Then, the "director" -- I use the term liberally -- approached me.
"Would you mind if we filmed your legs while you workout?"
"My legs?"
"Yeah, just your legs."
"Is that an insult to the rest of me."
"More of a compliment about your legs, and a recognition that anything more would violate the contract you sign with Results."
I couldn't argue with that.
"Sure, go ahead."
Apparently, I have "fantastic legs," and, as such, they will have a starring role in a new commercial for Results the Gym here in Washington, DC. Have you ever seen a gym commercial before? They mostly consist of one or two second clips of seemingly detached muscle groups doing some sort of athletic activity. So, count my legs as one of those disembodied muscles helping to recruit the weak to Results!
PS. In the "Family Guy" episode where Chris's valuptuous new teacher, voiced by Drew Barrymore, first asks Chris to murder her husband, but then does it herself, Stewie fools a police officer by doing his own impression of Andrew McCarthy and Jonathan Silverman of "Weekend at Bernie's." He remarks that the cop's cousin -- "a good middle management type, never really wowed anybody" -- is his colleague at "First Fidelity Insurance over on Waybosset Street." I just realized that this could be yet another reference to Stewie's burgeoning homosexuality. Waybosset Street (rivaled only by Wickendon Street, less than a mile away) is one of Providence, Rhode Island's gayest promenade. Consider the newly reopened uber-gay DownCity restaurant (50 Weybosset St.; 401-331-9217), which serves up treats like Portuguese sweetbread French toast amid the funky splendor of chandeliers, orange walls, and groovy tunes. The street also boasts some gay-popular shopping at the 1828 Greek Revival Arcade (65 Weybosset St.; 401-598-1199). Inside, oft-cute student chefs from Johnson & Wales University’s culinary arts program whip up concoctions like crème de menthe chocolate cake at Johansson’s Bakery Café (401-598-2253).
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Observations and Extrapolations
The Association of Bricklayers and Allied Craftworkers' building in Washington, DC is made of steel and glass. No brick. Way to take pride in your product, boys. It's like having orange juice made out of peanuts, or Massachusetts made up of Republicans, or vanilla pudding made out of poop.
A "physician" on Manhattan's east side offers "Botox To Go: The Fastest Botox Treatements in the City." Yeah, that's exactly what I want. A pseudo-scientist rushing as he pokes my face with a needle filled with poison. That got me thinking about other things that would be entirely inappropriate to do in haste. Depression therapy, for one. "Beat Your Debilitating Mental Disease in Fifteen Minutes Flat with the Fastest Depression Therapy in the City." I can imagine that session:
"So what's wrong with you?"
"I'm depressed."
"Have you considered not being depressed?"
Foolproof.
A "physician" on Manhattan's east side offers "Botox To Go: The Fastest Botox Treatements in the City." Yeah, that's exactly what I want. A pseudo-scientist rushing as he pokes my face with a needle filled with poison. That got me thinking about other things that would be entirely inappropriate to do in haste. Depression therapy, for one. "Beat Your Debilitating Mental Disease in Fifteen Minutes Flat with the Fastest Depression Therapy in the City." I can imagine that session:
"So what's wrong with you?"
"I'm depressed."
"Have you considered not being depressed?"
Foolproof.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Most Important News Item...Ever
There is breaking news out of Iraq today. According to Colonel William H. Fragger of the United States Army, "the entire American war effort has been worth it. Forget all that shit about weapons of mass destruction, about Saddam's connection to terrorism, about urinal cake uranium, or whatever that shit is called. I'm telling you, man, this entire thing has paid off." Colonel Fragger held an early morning press briefing inside the Green Zone to publicize this startling conclusion: "Yesterday, when Captain Robert Piccollio was killed when the wind blew his Dodge Neon off the road, the contents of his canteen spilled on to the desert sand. The canteen was filled with water. I investigated the scene and inadvertently pressed the fallen canteen into the wet sand. When I removed it, the wet sand kept its shape. This has monumental implications. First, I think it means we can burrow into the sand for protection. Second, I also think it means that if we pack wet sand into a hollow shape and place that shaped wet sand on the sand surface, it should retain that shape. We could build replicas of the world's greatest cities that way. We could even recreate Captain Piccollio's Dodge Neon in wet sand! Imagine the possibilities!"
This news story courtesy of John McCain, who thinks the time American troops will spend in Iraq is equally as trivial. :)
This news story courtesy of John McCain, who thinks the time American troops will spend in Iraq is equally as trivial. :)
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Man Loses Pants, Refuses to Leave Girlfriend's Apartment
What Bruce Flanker hoped would be a pleasant dinner, followed by great sex, and nothing more, has turned into a standoff between Bruce on the one hand and his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, Andrea Marchelli, and Springfield police on the other. The couple dined on tuna filet and crab rangoon at Roberta's, a local eatery, and retired to Andrea's one-bedroom apartment on Alf Landon Street for some "good times," nearly four days ago. "I thought the sex was great, but then he just wouldn't leave the next morning," Andrea told the police later that day. Detective Marlon "Fritz" Mandrake, who has been conducting daily press briefings at the Alf Landon dog park, deduced that "the couple must have begun disrobing each other shortly after returning home because we found clothes everywhere. The only thing we haven't found are Mr. Flanker's pants." Without those pants, Bruce refuses to take his obligatory walk of shame. "I am not leaving without those pants. They fit great. Plus, I'm not walking across town naked, or in women's pants. Men just don't do that." The police have ruled out theft and insist that if Andrea had kept a cleaner home, the entire ordeal could have been avoided. "Maybe the girl could clean the damn place up. I know I wish my wife did that." Detective Mandrake has declined Andrea's requests to forcibly remove Bruce, preferring to spend no more city money beyond the cost of the continual presence he and his team have maintained since this ordeal began.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Lost Pants of Georgetown
A young man of questionable height but inscrutable Jewishness and sporting a 28-inch waist strolled into an elite clothier in the Georgetown section of Washington, DC in search of dress pants. The store's wares were all manufactured in London, probably at the fantabulous intersection of Saville Row and Gayer Place; yet the store's employees came from the four corners of Patsy's Tatoo Parlor on Avenue A. The Jewish pant-seeker was wary, yet cautiously optimistic that gay Brittons would know what it's like shopping for slim-fit pants in a Fast Food Nation.
He spotted an enticing possibility and reached for them, thus encouraging a tatooed waif of a boy to say, "You're looking for a 30-inch waist?"
Excuse me? "Um, no. 28."
"Just to the right of the one you're holding."
"Ah, thanks. Can I try this on?"
"Oh sure, honey."
The pants fit like the hottest glove the Jew ever put on. Slim-fitting, ass-flattering, well-made. These pants screamed "PURCHASE!" and I listened.
Still, the wonderpants had to be altered. "Oh, we can handle that for you right here in the store," said a diminutive black girl with a banana tatoo on your forearm.
"You do the alterations here? Yourself?"
"Nah. I can measure that stuff, but we'll send it out to a tailor. They give a discount."
"Oh, a discount is good, but is there a way we can actually go to this tailor and have him take the measurements? It's not that I don't trust you, it's just...well, im a little obsessed with my tailoring." That was the kind of understatement for which self-deprecating humor is perfect. Especially, that is, when you want something.
"Sure, we can do that. Rick can take you."
"And you'll call me when it's ready?"
"Of course, sir. The tailor will bring it back here and we'll call you. It shouldn't be more than 3 days."
"Great. Let's go."
The waif named Rick accompanied me down the street to the second-floor shop of a tiny Asian man named Do. Yes, Do...though pronounced like "dough." An even smaller Asian woman -- either the tailor's wife or a six-year-old daughter -- directed me to a small closet, saying, "You try on. I measure. Go."
Ready. Set. Gone.
The pants looked stunning, and Mini Do took the measurements, drew her chalk line, and happily told waif Rick, "Ready by Tuesday, yes?" It was Friday, and I had no problem with that. I was, after all, going on vacation the next day, so I wouldn't be able to retrieve my fantabulous pants for one week.
I took the ticket, which noted that I was saving $20 on the alterations, said farewell to my waif-like friend, and headed off.
Fast forward nine days and the same banana-tatooed black girl is on the other side of my incredulous phone call.
"Hi. My name is Ari and I bought a pair of dress trousers at your store nine days ago. We took them to Do's to be tailored and you told me they would be ready in three days. Well, it's been nine. Any word?"
"Oh yes, I remember you, darling. Let me check. I'll call you right back."
Three hours later, no call. So, I called.
"Hi. My name is Ari and I called about three hours ago looking for my pants. You told me you'd call right back. I can give you my receipt number if you want."
"Yes, I remember you. We're having trouble locating your pants."
"I'm sorry?"
"Yeah, we don't know where your pants are, but we're looking."
"Really?"
"The tailor doesn't have them. In fact, he said he hasn't had pants from us in weeks."
"Well, that's not true. I mean, I have the ticket."
"Oh I know. I remember you. You're adorable. And those pants looked fabulous."
The flattery wasn't helping. They don't know where my pants are.
"So, will you get back to me on this?"
"Yes, sir."
The next day, I receive a call from the assistant manager. He sounded like a chubby African-American homosexual. You know EXACTLY what I mean. "Is this Ari?"
"Yes."
"Well, we still haven't found your pants."
"My pants are missing?"
"It's more like they're lost."
"I see."
"We just have no idea where they are."
"What's the difference between 'lost' and 'missing?'"
"If they were missing, I'd like to think I'd have an idea of where they could be, but I don't. I think they're just lost."
"Lost."
"Lost."
"As in I'm going to be without pants."
"Well, until we get you new ones."
"And when will that be?"
"Well, we don't have any in stock."
"And how does that matter?"
"It wouldn't if your pants weren't missing."
The conversation was already surreal. Now it got annoying.
"Are you telling me that because somehow my pants got lost that I now have to wait until someone sews a new 28-inch waist version?"
"Oh we don't have to wait for that. I'm having one shipping in from Malaysia."
"Malaysia?"
"Yes. Malaysia. It's in Asia. HA. That rhymes."
"Clearly hysterical. But why Asia? I thought they're made in Britain."
"They are. But the nearest 28-inch pair is in Malaysia."
"You're saying that there is not one other 28-inch waist version of these pants in the entire Western Hemisphere?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"Did you try Iceland?"
"You're funny." No, actually I was pissed.
"So, when am I getting these pants?"
"It's hard to say. Malaysia is far away."
"Yes. I hear it's in Asia."
"Again, you're funny."
"Look, man. I paid for these pants. You already took my money and I want the actual pants. Have you ever had something delivered by overnight mail?"
"From Malaysia?"
"That's your problem."
"Well, maybe New York has one."
"WHAT?"
"Who knows?"
"You mean you didn't check to see if the nearest metropolitan area has a pair of pants I need?"
"I must have forgotten."
"OK. Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna hang up with me and call one of your three stores in New York. If they have a 28-inch pair, you're going to have them ship it overnight to you. If they don't, you're going to have some store ship a 28-inch waist pair to you overnight. Is that clear?"
"Yes sir."
The next day, the pants arrived...from New York. I stopped by the store and spoke to the assistant manager, who was, in fact, as fat and as gay and as black as I had expected.
"Now we just have to get them tailored."
Oh dear God!
He spotted an enticing possibility and reached for them, thus encouraging a tatooed waif of a boy to say, "You're looking for a 30-inch waist?"
Excuse me? "Um, no. 28."
"Just to the right of the one you're holding."
"Ah, thanks. Can I try this on?"
"Oh sure, honey."
The pants fit like the hottest glove the Jew ever put on. Slim-fitting, ass-flattering, well-made. These pants screamed "PURCHASE!" and I listened.
Still, the wonderpants had to be altered. "Oh, we can handle that for you right here in the store," said a diminutive black girl with a banana tatoo on your forearm.
"You do the alterations here? Yourself?"
"Nah. I can measure that stuff, but we'll send it out to a tailor. They give a discount."
"Oh, a discount is good, but is there a way we can actually go to this tailor and have him take the measurements? It's not that I don't trust you, it's just...well, im a little obsessed with my tailoring." That was the kind of understatement for which self-deprecating humor is perfect. Especially, that is, when you want something.
"Sure, we can do that. Rick can take you."
"And you'll call me when it's ready?"
"Of course, sir. The tailor will bring it back here and we'll call you. It shouldn't be more than 3 days."
"Great. Let's go."
The waif named Rick accompanied me down the street to the second-floor shop of a tiny Asian man named Do. Yes, Do...though pronounced like "dough." An even smaller Asian woman -- either the tailor's wife or a six-year-old daughter -- directed me to a small closet, saying, "You try on. I measure. Go."
Ready. Set. Gone.
The pants looked stunning, and Mini Do took the measurements, drew her chalk line, and happily told waif Rick, "Ready by Tuesday, yes?" It was Friday, and I had no problem with that. I was, after all, going on vacation the next day, so I wouldn't be able to retrieve my fantabulous pants for one week.
I took the ticket, which noted that I was saving $20 on the alterations, said farewell to my waif-like friend, and headed off.
Fast forward nine days and the same banana-tatooed black girl is on the other side of my incredulous phone call.
"Hi. My name is Ari and I bought a pair of dress trousers at your store nine days ago. We took them to Do's to be tailored and you told me they would be ready in three days. Well, it's been nine. Any word?"
"Oh yes, I remember you, darling. Let me check. I'll call you right back."
Three hours later, no call. So, I called.
"Hi. My name is Ari and I called about three hours ago looking for my pants. You told me you'd call right back. I can give you my receipt number if you want."
"Yes, I remember you. We're having trouble locating your pants."
"I'm sorry?"
"Yeah, we don't know where your pants are, but we're looking."
"Really?"
"The tailor doesn't have them. In fact, he said he hasn't had pants from us in weeks."
"Well, that's not true. I mean, I have the ticket."
"Oh I know. I remember you. You're adorable. And those pants looked fabulous."
The flattery wasn't helping. They don't know where my pants are.
"So, will you get back to me on this?"
"Yes, sir."
The next day, I receive a call from the assistant manager. He sounded like a chubby African-American homosexual. You know EXACTLY what I mean. "Is this Ari?"
"Yes."
"Well, we still haven't found your pants."
"My pants are missing?"
"It's more like they're lost."
"I see."
"We just have no idea where they are."
"What's the difference between 'lost' and 'missing?'"
"If they were missing, I'd like to think I'd have an idea of where they could be, but I don't. I think they're just lost."
"Lost."
"Lost."
"As in I'm going to be without pants."
"Well, until we get you new ones."
"And when will that be?"
"Well, we don't have any in stock."
"And how does that matter?"
"It wouldn't if your pants weren't missing."
The conversation was already surreal. Now it got annoying.
"Are you telling me that because somehow my pants got lost that I now have to wait until someone sews a new 28-inch waist version?"
"Oh we don't have to wait for that. I'm having one shipping in from Malaysia."
"Malaysia?"
"Yes. Malaysia. It's in Asia. HA. That rhymes."
"Clearly hysterical. But why Asia? I thought they're made in Britain."
"They are. But the nearest 28-inch pair is in Malaysia."
"You're saying that there is not one other 28-inch waist version of these pants in the entire Western Hemisphere?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"Did you try Iceland?"
"You're funny." No, actually I was pissed.
"So, when am I getting these pants?"
"It's hard to say. Malaysia is far away."
"Yes. I hear it's in Asia."
"Again, you're funny."
"Look, man. I paid for these pants. You already took my money and I want the actual pants. Have you ever had something delivered by overnight mail?"
"From Malaysia?"
"That's your problem."
"Well, maybe New York has one."
"WHAT?"
"Who knows?"
"You mean you didn't check to see if the nearest metropolitan area has a pair of pants I need?"
"I must have forgotten."
"OK. Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna hang up with me and call one of your three stores in New York. If they have a 28-inch pair, you're going to have them ship it overnight to you. If they don't, you're going to have some store ship a 28-inch waist pair to you overnight. Is that clear?"
"Yes sir."
The next day, the pants arrived...from New York. I stopped by the store and spoke to the assistant manager, who was, in fact, as fat and as gay and as black as I had expected.
"Now we just have to get them tailored."
Oh dear God!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Even I Thought it was Sweet
I share with my generation a common ailment -- hypoawestruckity, which is characterized by an extreme deficient ability to be awe struck by pretty much anything. For most of us, for example, cinematic special effects like those of The Matrix are already so old that they might as well be the dog poop caught on last week's New York Post. We're so scientifically knowledgeable in an era when that knowledge is so easily accessible to anyone with an outlet that we are -- rightfully, I might add -- hard to impress.
My ho-hum-ity extends far beyond science and technology. I'm fairly unmoved by most things. A view from the top of a Maui mountain is definitely beautiful, but I don't get misty-eyed over it; the sight of two individuals holding hands is lovely (for them), but I'm much more inclined to comment critically, glibly, and sarcastically about their ugly pants or oppressive scent than wax poetically about love. I could go on... Hey, why not go on!
But then today's incident on the line at Trader Joe's humbled me. I stood on a long line right behind an adorable young boy -- not more than a few months passed his second birthday -- looking at me and smiling from his wagon seat. I waved and smiled back; he laughed and held up his red Trader Joe's balloon. Apparently, the store gives away balloons for free and, as such, I'm totally decorating my next party with red, green, blue, and yellow Trader Joe's balloons. Anyway, I struck up a conversation with this two-year-old.
"Hey buddy!"
"Hi."
"Aww. That's a super cool balloon, man! Where can I get one?"
"Over there," he said, pointing to the diminutive, stout man blowing up balloons with a oxygen tank so large, he had to reach up on his tip toes to open the spout.
"Oh, wow! Thanks, buddy! Your balloon is sooooo cool. I think I'll get one."
"OK."
"Thanks, man. Gimme five!"
He did, and laughed.
I had no intention of getting a ridiculous balloon. I bike to Trader Joe's every Sunday to get my food for the week and I was wearing my helmet, gym clothes, and a jacket, and was about to load up my bag with $50 worth of food. I had no desire to deal with a blown up balloon flapping around.
Then, when I'm about to check out, the boy and his dad come over to me. The boy -- free from what must be a really uncomfortable wagon seat -- tugged on my shorts and handed me a green balloon.
"I wanted to get you one."
Oh my god!
"You got me a balloon?" I said, stunned, almost laughing. "Oh my! You didn't have to do that," I added, glancing in a sort of embarrassed, bumbling way toward the father. He rescued me.
"Well, we are nice to nice people, right David?"
"Yeah."
"Aww, well, David. Thank you so much!"
"You're welcome."
"I honestly don't know what to say. You're such a nice guy, David. Now, what I can get for you?"
"Ummm..." David didn't know quite what to say.
"How about something your dad won't get you?"
The dad jumped in. "Oh, he wants another balloon, but one is enough, right David."
David went silent.
"Well, David. Where should I put it? How about on my helmet?" I fit the string through the openings in my helmet and tied it down. I now had green Trader Joe's balloon standing right on top of my white and black cycling helmet. I must have looked funny. David, his mom, and dad laughed, pointed, and, apparently, finally got the entire family calm, patiently waiting for the clerk to finish scanning their $100 worth of food. David and his two sisters couldn't get enough of my balloon helmet!
Seriously, how cute is that!? Even I thought that was sweet.
My ho-hum-ity extends far beyond science and technology. I'm fairly unmoved by most things. A view from the top of a Maui mountain is definitely beautiful, but I don't get misty-eyed over it; the sight of two individuals holding hands is lovely (for them), but I'm much more inclined to comment critically, glibly, and sarcastically about their ugly pants or oppressive scent than wax poetically about love. I could go on... Hey, why not go on!
But then today's incident on the line at Trader Joe's humbled me. I stood on a long line right behind an adorable young boy -- not more than a few months passed his second birthday -- looking at me and smiling from his wagon seat. I waved and smiled back; he laughed and held up his red Trader Joe's balloon. Apparently, the store gives away balloons for free and, as such, I'm totally decorating my next party with red, green, blue, and yellow Trader Joe's balloons. Anyway, I struck up a conversation with this two-year-old.
"Hey buddy!"
"Hi."
"Aww. That's a super cool balloon, man! Where can I get one?"
"Over there," he said, pointing to the diminutive, stout man blowing up balloons with a oxygen tank so large, he had to reach up on his tip toes to open the spout.
"Oh, wow! Thanks, buddy! Your balloon is sooooo cool. I think I'll get one."
"OK."
"Thanks, man. Gimme five!"
He did, and laughed.
I had no intention of getting a ridiculous balloon. I bike to Trader Joe's every Sunday to get my food for the week and I was wearing my helmet, gym clothes, and a jacket, and was about to load up my bag with $50 worth of food. I had no desire to deal with a blown up balloon flapping around.
Then, when I'm about to check out, the boy and his dad come over to me. The boy -- free from what must be a really uncomfortable wagon seat -- tugged on my shorts and handed me a green balloon.
"I wanted to get you one."
Oh my god!
"You got me a balloon?" I said, stunned, almost laughing. "Oh my! You didn't have to do that," I added, glancing in a sort of embarrassed, bumbling way toward the father. He rescued me.
"Well, we are nice to nice people, right David?"
"Yeah."
"Aww, well, David. Thank you so much!"
"You're welcome."
"I honestly don't know what to say. You're such a nice guy, David. Now, what I can get for you?"
"Ummm..." David didn't know quite what to say.
"How about something your dad won't get you?"
The dad jumped in. "Oh, he wants another balloon, but one is enough, right David."
David went silent.
"Well, David. Where should I put it? How about on my helmet?" I fit the string through the openings in my helmet and tied it down. I now had green Trader Joe's balloon standing right on top of my white and black cycling helmet. I must have looked funny. David, his mom, and dad laughed, pointed, and, apparently, finally got the entire family calm, patiently waiting for the clerk to finish scanning their $100 worth of food. David and his two sisters couldn't get enough of my balloon helmet!
Seriously, how cute is that!? Even I thought that was sweet.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Everybody in Pants...Except me
They lost my trousers. By "they", I mean Reiss; by "trousers", I mean pants. By "my", I mean "I frakkin paid for them and hence, they belong to me." By "lost", I mean my trousers are nowhere to be found...no one knows where they are. At the tailor? No. In his special Japanese accent, he said, "I have no men pant." At the store? No. According to the very gay and very helpful assistant manager, "We just totally bombed out the stock room and I can't find anything, let alone your trousers." In my closet? No. You might remember me telling you that my pants were lost BEFORE I took possession. In your closet? Maybe. And if so, I will visit such pain upon you, you will wish that you were Rush Limbaugh.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Probably the most striking things about Hawaii, other than the wonders I saw hiking, the underwater beauty I saw snorkling, the rush I felt in a helicopter, the idllyic relaxation I felt sitting by the ocean and pool, and so on, are the fat straight people walking around in bathing suits with impunity.
More later... the humor will spew forth with equal impunity!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
An Ode to Cottage Cheese
An Ode to Cottage Cheese
I stood,
alone,
unsure,
when a young man
of not more than MySpace age
so sighed,
"Which cheese --
cottage --
should we select?"
The query stunned even me.
"Friendship?
Ah, Hood?
Breakstone?"
He studied so
to make a choice worth the price.
But then
he saw
that price.
"Two ninety-nine?
We should buy lobster instead."
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
He's designing a WHAT and WHY are you NOT throwing up?
Though quite busy upholding the individual rights of bad people today, I happened upon this...and quite immediately began projectile vommiting.
Why on Earth would I want THAT -- see above -- designing a fragrance for me? I suppose if you enjoy smelling like a sweaty, couch-on-the-lawn, I-got-gonorrhea-from-a-tractor, no-talent hick, then feel free to lather up with Coty, Inc.'s new scent from Tim McGraw. The prospect of coming across such a character fills me with such a sense of downright uncleanliness that I've prepped a full-body condom, covered with Purell, for any time I spend in public after the release of this violation of natural law.
I'm making it official, I'm adding it to the list of VIOLATIONS:
1. Mayonnaise
2. Jimmy Dean's sausage wrapped in bacon on a stick
3. Celin Dion
4. Tim McGraw's fragrance for men
Any others?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Hawaii
Taking a trip to Hawaii is a dream come true; taking a trip to Hawaii with the entire Waldman clan is the shrunken ball after a dream on steroids. The dream is on steroids because it's a long trip and I've always wanted to go. It's a shrunken ball, though, because instead of going with the gays or with a boy, I'm going with a pale Jewish family from New Jersey who will frighten the natives with their whiteness. Myself included, by the way! I'm not sure Hawaii is the perfect family trip...
Hawaii is meant for skimpy bathing suits and shirtless travels and sex with a partner in the jungles in the middle of a long hike. Hawaii is the beach; my mother might as well be a bottle of SPF 4000. Hawaii is a hiker's paradise; my nephew is two years old and sometimes falls walking up the two steps separating his kitchen and living room. Hawaii is for snorklers; my sister doesn't really know how to swim.
Maybe the Waldmans should go to any of the following destinations:
1. New Zealand, or "Australia's poop"
2. South Dakota, or "What must be Hell on Earth"
3. Los Angeles, or "The City of the Los Angeles Angles of Anaheim"
4. Jeremiah Wright's church, or "What my mom thinks is the scariest place for Jews to go"
Your thoughts on others?
Hawaii is meant for skimpy bathing suits and shirtless travels and sex with a partner in the jungles in the middle of a long hike. Hawaii is the beach; my mother might as well be a bottle of SPF 4000. Hawaii is a hiker's paradise; my nephew is two years old and sometimes falls walking up the two steps separating his kitchen and living room. Hawaii is for snorklers; my sister doesn't really know how to swim.
Maybe the Waldmans should go to any of the following destinations:
1. New Zealand, or "Australia's poop"
2. South Dakota, or "What must be Hell on Earth"
3. Los Angeles, or "The City of the Los Angeles Angles of Anaheim"
4. Jeremiah Wright's church, or "What my mom thinks is the scariest place for Jews to go"
Your thoughts on others?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Elitism
Am I an elitist? An elitist is someone who believes in rule by certain persons or members of certain classes or groups that deserve favored treatment by virtue of their perceived superiority, as in intellect, social status, or financial resources, according to the online Free Dictionary. That definition is weighted, skewed, and unhelpful. I believe our political leaders should be better than me -- smarter, more educated, more experienced -- but I'm not sure they deserve "favored treatment."
Still, this controversy about Barak Obama's "bitter" and "cling" remarks has me angry. Some call his remarks elitist; but the responses are just as arrogant and elitist.
Consider this: “It seems he’s kind of ripping on small towns, and I’m a small town girl,” said Becki Farmer, 32, who lives in Rochester, Pa., another Ohio River town hit hard by the closed steel mills. “That’s where your good morals and good judgment come from, growing up in small towns.”
I can hardly think of anything more arrogant. To suggest that morality and good judgment find their source in small towns "rips" the millions of Americans who grew up in large urban centers. Just because certain parents could afford the luxuries of urban living does not mean their lives are devoid of morality. Suggesting the contrary is just as elitist as suggesting its opposite.
If Obama is an elitist because he allegedly believes provinciality and nativism in our Midwestern small towns stem from job loss, economic hardship, and the perception that government has done and will do little to help them, then Ms. Becki Farmer, 32, is even more of an elitist if she thinks her small town upbringing instilled good morals and judgment where other childhood settings could not. You see, Obama did not place his cosmopolitan background superior to Ms. Farmer's; he never said you could not be "bitter" at job loss, or turn to guns or anti-immigrant sentiment, if you had grown up in a city, or had grown up upper-middle class (which, by the way, he did not). He described what he saw, and did so accurately, if unartfully. It was Ms. Farmer who decided to elevate her upbringing above that of mine. Shame on her!
Still, this controversy about Barak Obama's "bitter" and "cling" remarks has me angry. Some call his remarks elitist; but the responses are just as arrogant and elitist.
Consider this: “It seems he’s kind of ripping on small towns, and I’m a small town girl,” said Becki Farmer, 32, who lives in Rochester, Pa., another Ohio River town hit hard by the closed steel mills. “That’s where your good morals and good judgment come from, growing up in small towns.”
I can hardly think of anything more arrogant. To suggest that morality and good judgment find their source in small towns "rips" the millions of Americans who grew up in large urban centers. Just because certain parents could afford the luxuries of urban living does not mean their lives are devoid of morality. Suggesting the contrary is just as elitist as suggesting its opposite.
If Obama is an elitist because he allegedly believes provinciality and nativism in our Midwestern small towns stem from job loss, economic hardship, and the perception that government has done and will do little to help them, then Ms. Becki Farmer, 32, is even more of an elitist if she thinks her small town upbringing instilled good morals and judgment where other childhood settings could not. You see, Obama did not place his cosmopolitan background superior to Ms. Farmer's; he never said you could not be "bitter" at job loss, or turn to guns or anti-immigrant sentiment, if you had grown up in a city, or had grown up upper-middle class (which, by the way, he did not). He described what he saw, and did so accurately, if unartfully. It was Ms. Farmer who decided to elevate her upbringing above that of mine. Shame on her!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I'll Take a Taxi on Tax Day
This morning, a taxi inexplicably offered me a ride to work. I didn't hail him, I didn't whistle, I didn't beckon. I, in fact, was walking while reading my New Yorker. Then, all of a sudden, I hear a few honks on a horn. A "Diamond Cab" that looked less diamond ring and more onion ring stopped about 20 feet away, allowing its driver to squirm out the window and say, "You want ride, boy?"
Lovely! Not only am I a boy, but a boy that has been given the unique honor and opportunity to pay this immigrant to drive me somewhere I was going anyway. I just joined an exclusive club that included, apparently, anyone.
I walked on, ignoring him and contemplating what just happened. Of all the weird things in life -- I mean, honestly! Last night I was running around the Tidal Basin singing along with my iPod and pumping my fists like some hobbit (thanks m@) having a seizure, but nothing weird happened to me then -- getting stopped by a taxi would not seem high on the list. But when you're walking along on the sidewalk, looking down, minding your own business, you don't expect to be visited by the Yellow Foul Smelling Turd from Pakistan.
Lovely! Not only am I a boy, but a boy that has been given the unique honor and opportunity to pay this immigrant to drive me somewhere I was going anyway. I just joined an exclusive club that included, apparently, anyone.
I walked on, ignoring him and contemplating what just happened. Of all the weird things in life -- I mean, honestly! Last night I was running around the Tidal Basin singing along with my iPod and pumping my fists like some hobbit (thanks m@) having a seizure, but nothing weird happened to me then -- getting stopped by a taxi would not seem high on the list. But when you're walking along on the sidewalk, looking down, minding your own business, you don't expect to be visited by the Yellow Foul Smelling Turd from Pakistan.
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