Universal Donor

2009-03-17T09:20:00.003-05:00

In a triumphant return to the review page, I explain why I hate Scrabble.
"But UD," you protest, "don't you love games -- and crosswords? You should love Scrabble!"
A common mistake, my child, I assure you. It is precisely because I love games and crosswords that I hate Scrabble so much: it's a shitty game that has nothing in common with crosswords.

It's like saying to a World War II buff, "Hey, you like war, right? You probably love the Iraq war, right?!"

2009-03-02T17:40:00.001-05:00

RESURGENCE
So remember when I was blogging for a bit about having surgery back in October 2008? Like 4 months ago? Well, after a resurgence of my presurgical symptoms (including acid surging into my esophagus) I had some tests which revealed that my Nissen Fundoplication had "slipped" -- a kind of surgical relapse. Not a full-blown, stitches-ripped undoing, but enough slippage to require... A DO-OVER! I tried my best to console my surgeon.

SURGEON: Supposedly this happens about 7% of the time after this procedure, but I feel terrible....
UD: It's okay, man. It happens to a lot of surgeons.
SURGEON: (sniffling) Not to me, man. Not to ME.
UD: Shh... It's okay.
SURGEON: Sniff!
UD: Buck up, guy! Hey. Hey! Look at me, do I seem upset? Huh?
SURGEON: No....
UD: We can go again in 20 minutes, okay?

But really, it'll happen later in March. Still covered by my insurance!

THIS NEXT BIT IS DIRTY, SO IF THERE ARE ANY TEENAGERS READING, MAKE SURE YOUR PARENTS LEAVE THE ROOM.
When I was a teenager just starting to mess around with sex, I was typically eager, nervous, and clueless. I assumed that, even though I was interested in advancing quickly to more mature sexual activities, most girls were not. Why I thought this is not wholly clear, but I blame society [shakes fist at society]. I have come to find that this was not necessarily true, but I couldn't have known that at the time without engaging in open discussion, which I viewed as a grave violation of etiquette, as well as totally uncool. Sexual beings always know what they are doing without talking about stuff. Right?
Remembering my first experiments fooling around with girls, I blush. They usually happened at big sleepovery parties with a bunch of teens strewn around the living room floor. (I think parents thought "well they can't get into too much trouble that way" -- and they were kinda right.) The fumbly hookups usually went something like this:

Lie near girl for a long time, both of us pretending to sleep.
Inch closer and closer to girl until touching.
Eight hours later, begin kissing.
After seven hours of kissing, attempt to touch girl's body.
Slowly move locus of touching towards chest.
ADVANCED ONLY: attempt to move locus of touching towards pubis.

After 85 consecutive hours of making out without achieving climax, I was in the throes of the very real affliction called Blue Balls (Ha! I love you, Wikipedia!). I now think I dealt with this situation poorly. My standard procedure was as follows:

Excuse myself.
Go to the bathroom.
Bring myself to climax by breathing towards or even staring sternly at my throbbing adolescent wang.
Spend ten minutes cleaning imperial quart of ejaculate from plumbing, walls, light fixtures.
Return to living room floor and fall asleep with no explanation.

Very smooth, right? I can reconstruct my motivations: I didn't want to make a mess; I didn't want to surprise the girl; I did not EVER want to assume her interest in participating, and in fact I assumed she would be revolted by the process. I thought I was being thoughtful. But I now understand that I was being an inconsiderate ogre. AN OGRE!
I doubt I've gotten a whole lot smoother since then, but I am much more comfortable with transparency and open discussion. In hindsight, I think I should have said something like this: "So listen. After fooling around with you for the last 97 hours, I am about to ejaculate powerfully. Would you like to be involved in that experience? If not, I understand completely. If so, let's sneak to the bathroom and see if we can make some magic happen. Maybe we'll learn a thing or two. But at the very least it will be an ADVENTURE!"

Better?

2009-01-23T13:55:00.003-05:00

Q. IS THIS WHAT YOU'VE BEEN REDUCED TO?
After watching Intervention for a while, I got a little obsessed with The Dog Whisperer. After talking incessantly about Cesar Millan, someone told me to watch Supernanny.
     All three of these shows are great, and they're all kind of the same. In each, some person or group of people (a family, parents, dog owners) calls a TV show because they are having trouble with dogs, children, or some kind of addict. In almost every case, the people who make the call think that the TV is going to roll on down and fix the mess by addressing the dog(s), kid(s), or addict. And in each case, they are totally wrong.
     The Supernanny teaches the parents how to provide discipline and structure for their kids -- and unruly behavior seems to melt away. The Interventionist explains to the addict's family and friends that the addict won't seek help as long as the family keeps providing material or emotional support -- in other words, until they change their behavior. And in my favorite of the three, The Dog Whisperer teaches the onwer(s) that they have been totally fucking with their dog's heads.
     You've really got to watch The Dog Whisperer to understand how awesome he is, and to see how many ways he has of helping the dogs by correcting their neurotic owners. But the entire gist of his program is that owners must establish themselves as the pack leader in the eyes of their dog(s), and they way to do that is to project a calm assertive energy, and to reward calm submissive behavior in their dogs. Dogs detect and will not follow a dog -- or a human -- who projects nervous, angry, unstable, or neurotic energy.

Q. SO YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH TV SHOW ABOUT DOGS. WHO CARES? DO YOU EVEN OWN A DOG?
You're right, I don't own a dog, and I've never wanted to -- until I started watching TDW. I walked my neighbors' overly energetic dog last weekend, and applied some of Cesar's techniques to great effect. I also hurt my shoulder. But since I am now obsessed with projecting a calm assertive energy around dogs, I am noticing again (as I do whenever I re-read Keith Johnstone's seminal, must-read, life-changing 1979 book Impro) the status-determining behaviors of humans.
     So here's my theory: In the age of television, Americans elect the presidential candidate who BEST projects calm assertive energy. Just like a pack of fucking dogs looking to be led. The adjective "presidential" is synonymous with "calm assertive."
     I made a stupid table to demonstrate this. Now that I look at it, it doesn't seem like very profound or new information. But, man, watching Obama at the inauguration, he was like a statue -- never moved his head unnecessarily. Very strong. No wonder he won. Policy can suck it.

2008-12-23T11:35:00.004-05:00

WIPING YOUR ASS WITH BABY WIPES IS THE NEW BLACK
A long time ago, a friend of mine came back from India extolling the merits of two poop-related features of that wondrous nation. First of all, she was mad for squat-johns (you should really go look at the wikipedia page right now. I'll wait here). Which I gotta say I'm pretty persuaded by a lot of the pro-squat arguments, but I can't see them getting installed in a lot of American households anytime soon. How fucking precious would those early-adopters be? I picture a Maude Lebowski-type giving a tour of her pied-�-terre:
     "And here's my bathroom, nothing unusual here," flicking on the light and lingering long enough for the guest to get an eyeful.
     "Whoa. Is that a bidet on your floor?"
     "Oh, what? Oh! No, silly! Don't tell me you haven't seen a squat-john before? Oh they're just too too superior! American are such poop-phobic Puritans. I can't believe you've never even seen one! Sigh!"

But anyway. The second thing my friend loved about pooping in India was the lack of toilet paper. She described with approval (but not too much detail) how she washed her dirty bits with water from a bucket provided near the squatty poop-hole (which I'm pretty sure makes it a "rinse," not a "wash," but whatever).
     I don't know what look was on my face when I heard this, but it was probably the look you have when you are trying to calculate the volume of rubbing alcohol you would have to employ to ever feel clean again after putting your hand in a communal butt-water bucket in a pestilent third-world petri dish of a country. (Sorry India!)
     Seeing the paralytic doubt clouding my face, she went on to justify the use of water vs. toilet paper by saying "if you had sticky mud on your leg, you wouldn't use a dry clump of paper to get it off, right? You'd use water." And you know what? I had to agree. Furthermore, I had to admit that if I got actual shit on my leg, I would be much more likely to use water to remove it than toilet paper.
     That was when I truly understood that toilet paper is: retarded. Totally retarded. Wasteful, ineffective, abrasive, indefensible. I don't want to use a butt-water-bucket, but now I don't want to use toilet paper either. What to do?
     Enter the flushable baby wipe. Faithful readers might recall that I've blogged about Kandoo before, and with typical disdain. But after hearing some outdoorsy types talk about the advantages of damp wipery -- and after seeing very macho soldier types using wipes in Generation Kill -- I now believe that Baby Wipes are about to tip.
     All that's needed are some high-profile adherents to provide social proof for the behavior (I'm looking at you, Brangelina), and a better product (a lot of baby wipes are not flushable. WTF? Who wants poopy cloths in their garbage cans?), marketed to adults. I think this is about to explode.
     I don't think toilet paper will ever fully disappear, but within a decade, it will seem, at best, a poor compromise for when baby wipes are unavailable or impractical.

DON'T CALL YOUR EX BEFORE NEW YEAR'S
Many of you will get lonely around New Year's because of the pressure to kiss the nearest person at the stroke of midnight. You may feel strongly tempted to reach out to an ex (or a less significant intimate acquaintance) as a bulwark against a crushing sense of solitude. They weren't that bad, right? Maybe you broke up with them in haste, or in a moment of anger. Maybe they deserve a second chance?
     DON'T DO IT. It's not worth it. Why start the new year by reestablishing a connection that you will just have to sever, full of remorse, when you return to your senses?
     And if the ex has already reached out to you? Same thing. Don't. Play Pictionary with your uncle or something -- the loneliness will pass before you know it. Or, if you can't stomach the deprivation of someone else's saliva, make out with a random person on the street -- a gutter punk or something -- and just walk away.

2008-11-18T12:20:00.004-05:00

AIRLINE TRAVELERS
So on one of my flights back from the Caribbean, I witnessed a bizarre exchange between two passengers. I must have missed the moment that touched off the conflict, but when I tuned in, this French Architect-Looking Guy was placing something into the overhead compartment above the Tweedy Businessman, who looked like a skinnier version of Donald Rumsfeld:

BUSINESSMAN: [unintelligible, but aggressive.]
FRENCH ARCHITECT-LOOKING GUY: I am zorry -- what did I do wrong?
BIZ: It's just courtesy.
FRENCH: I don't understan'.
BIZ: I'm not trying to engage you. Just sit down and behave yourself.
FRENCH: (Momentarily stunned.) I waz be'aving myself.
BIZ: I'm not engaging you. You're engaging me, now.
FRENCH: (Totally baffled, sits down next to his girlfriend, two rows ahead.)

The only logical explanation for what I saw was that Frenchy had, like, touched BizMan's property, up there in the bin. BizMan's stuffy, matter-of-fact rudeness, combined with his totally bizarre verbiage -- "engage"? -- made me want to hurt him. But because hurting people physically is wrong, I felt a seldom-used part of my brain spin up: the part that crafts triumphant, withering monologues that leave foes limp and cause spontaneous applause from onlookers.
I used this skill very often in my teens, mentally lacerating all manner of tormentors. I have never actually spoken one of my mental paragraphs aloud, ever. But for your amusement, here are my two imagined drafts, which were to be given to the Rude Businessman, to punish him for his poor ambassadorship:

THE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE BUDDHIST VERSION

UD: You are a sad man, with sickness in your soul; a slave to your pride, your possessions, your ego, and your anachronistic, haute-bourgeois notions of courtesy. No matter how you try to convince yourself that you are happy, at some level you know what I say is true. Your soul-sickness poisons everything you touch, and this makes you a very unpleasant person. I could never wish harm on the sick and enslaved, and there is a chance that one day you may awaken from your sleep. Until then, I wish you peace, joy, and freedom from suffering."

THE SPOOK VERSION

UD: (matching BizMan's pace and walking next to him, looking forward.) Hey. I saw you speak to that man on the plane. Now, I can't be sure where you learned to talk that way. But if you learned it where I think you did, you should know better than to speak that way in front of civilians.
BIZMAN: Excuse me?
UD: You will not be warned about this again.
BIZMAN: I don't understand what you're talking about!
UD: (Pauses for three seconds.) This conversation never happened. (Walks away immediately, preferably through a door marked "Restricted Access")

2008-11-14T11:26:00.002-05:00

RAIN IS DUMB
Rain is good for crops, rain is good for the desert, rain is good for Manhattan sidewalks drenched with horrid midsummer dumpster effluvia. Rain is not good for when I'm sitting on a beach with only a towel, a cell phone, and a very big book. Cruel rain, why did you choose this beach to drench? I can see that in your cumulonimbus caprice you spared the neighboring strand. Fie. I could not have run to shelter, for when I run I look common.
I am wet. And worst of all, I will receive no sympathy from my temperate continental readership. "Oh what's that? Did Little Lord Fauntleroy get some wawa on his silken pantaloons? Pray, instruct his governess to fetch a stout rod with which to thrash him, and the jar for collecting his tears."

MILLIONAIRES ARE DUMB
According to this article, a chap named "Baby" (or "Birdman"), who runs the Cash Money record label, gave profitable artist Li'l Wayne a briefcase full of cash for his birthday. $1,000,000 cash, to be specific.
Hey -- Baby Bird Guy? You are a thoughtful and generous person, there can be no doubt. But you know who could really use $1,000,000? How about almost anyone in the world other than Li'l Wayne. Seriously. Pick someone at random from a list of the world's population. The odds you will pick an existing millionaire are lower than your odds of hitting the actual lottery.
This makes me almost exactly as ill as people who rend their garments and empty their piggy-banks over the mistreatment of various animals -- be they livestock or test-subjects -- while seemingly unconcerned about the vicious mistreatment of HUMAN BEINGS in (e.g.) the nearest penitentiary.

HUH?
Was that a weird transition for you too?

INTERVENTION
If you haven't seen the episode of Intervention starring Allison the all-day aerosol-huffer (see some blog I found for a recap), you have not fully bathed in the fecund pool of contemporary reality television. So many shows ensnare feckless B-list celebrities in situations that force them to consider which is more important: 1) a fleeting table-scrap of fame, or 2) whatever threads remain of their shredded dignity. Their decision is obvious from their presence on the airwaves, as I'm sure there is a clause in celebretard reality-show contracts specifically prohibiting dignity, under penalty of law.
A&E's Intervention shows people in the grip of addictions so dehumanizing that dignity is like a long-forgotten gewgaw at the back of the drawer in an attic, and fame a total abstraction. But the moeny-shot is that it often (though I've heard not always) shows an unlikely -- but real -- happy-ending-style return to dignity. Unlike Dancing with the Stars, which always ends like a burst hemorrhoid. Just watch the humanity: YouTube parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

A RETAIL STORE IS A BAD PLACE TO RETAIN THE CAPACITY FOR LOVE
Recently, at more than one big-box retail shithole, a bored, atonal cashier has called me for my turn to consume by saying "May I help the following customer?"
My immediate thought was: who? Shouldn't a name follow that statement? As in "may I help the following customer: Bob Carver" or, for another example, "hobos will be fellated by the following person: Ann Coulter"? The statement should not be succeeded by silence or slack-jawed eye-rolling until I approach.
May I suggest a substitute for "may I help the following customer?"? It's a word with much to recommend it: it's succinct, easily understood, and proven effective over the course of many decades: "next". Try it. Until you do, I'm gonna start shouting it in response to your long-winded nonsense. I will change the world with my curmudgeonly vigilantism.

2008-10-09T14:01:00.006-05:00

THE HISTORY OF THE PAIN
Longtime readers might know that since my early 20s I've suffered from terrible, if intermittent, heartburn. I've used many appealing analogies over the years to communicate the sensation, e.g.:

It feels like I'm being esophageally jabbed with knives of cayenne.
It feels like elves are ice skating in my gut, going around and around like a circus motorcyclist in one of those metal spheres, except the sphere is my stomach.

Here is a picture of the bottom of my esophagus, taken by endoscopy when I was 20: (I warn you: this picture is kinda gross). It depicts proof of Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease (GERD), which just means acid squirting into your esophagus. See, in the picture -- those angry red streaks mean it's working!
     So for years and years and years I either (when I was smart) took a prescription stomach-acid reducer like Prilosec or (when I was dumber) gobbled handfuls of Tums to manage the immediate flare-ups of glass-shard agony. But over the years the problem got worse, and led to a problem called Barrett's Esophagus, which means (to quote Dr. Lexus) my shit's all retarded. Esophageally speaking.

THE UNDERLYING PROBLEM
But that's only part of it! The GERD and Barrett's are both symptoms of a hiatal hernia, which is not quite as gross as it sounds. See, at some point in my life -- we're not sure when -- my stomach attempted to defect from the region of the torso in which it had long resided. It moved upward in a desperate break for freedom, but, as it was attached from below by the pylorus and duodenum and so on, it could not get far, and got wedged in the hole in my diaphragm like a fat man trying to leave by the bathroom window. It petulantly refused to go back where it belongs, and though one time this massage dude stuck his hand under my ribcage and pulled it back into place, it slipped back up after a few days.
     Barrett's (cellular changes to esophageal cells) can lead to esophageal cancer if your cells continue bathing in flamboyant acid fountains for too many years. Surgery is usually indicated to fix the hiatal hernia, and it usually works, too.

THE TESTS THEY DID
Two tests I had were interesting enough to mention briefly because they sound kinda sci-fi:
     1. The Momentary Cyborg Test. They implanted a monitoring capsule into the lining of my esophagus during an esophagoscopy. The capsule measured the amount of acid squirting out of my stomach and transmitted a pH reading to a phone-sized device I wore on my belt. For two days, I had a constant readout of how acidic I was, right there on my belt for all to see. 7! 6.3! 3.5! 2.1 oh my god ouch! Eventually, the capsule just detached and went on its disposable merry way. I gave the receiver to the MD, who was like: oh, look, you have acid squirting into your esophagus in great quantities. UMM YES I KNOW DUDE IT BURNS ME LIKE ANGRY BEES. But thank you for making me a cyborg temporarily, because that was cool.
     1. The Radioactive Breakfast. To check if my stomach processed food at a normal pace, the Medical Establishment fed me RADIOACTIVE EGGS and then had me lean against a gigantic glorified Geiger counter for two hours. The thing looked positively Soviet, as did the technician, whose name was Igor, for real.

THE SURGERY I'M GETTING
So the tests said I'm a go for the surgery, which is laparoscopic (which means done through tiny holes, not giant slashings). Before you click the next link, I will warn you that it's not only gross, it's weird.The procedure I'm getting is called a fundoplication. The weirdly wrapped part of my stomach will keep the whole mess from sliding back up into the Northern part of my torso, and hopefully the gushing pain-fountain will be stilled evermore.

AFTERMATH
The surgery is next Thursday, the 16th of October. I'll be kept overnight to ensure that I don't start hemorrhaging or whatever, and then I'll be released into the arms of a non-sedated adult. I'll be drinking only fluids for two weeks, and then only soft foods for another two. There is a chance I will never be able to swallow gigantic, poorly-masticated hunks of gristly flesh again, but if I puree, finely chop, or just chew my damn food I should be okay.
     Also, there is a chance I may never burp or vomit again. And that's the unkindest cut of all.
     Wish me luck!

POST SURGERY UPDATE:
Here is a picture of my incisions. They made five holes.

2008-09-16T09:15:00.007-05:00

I am always disappointed by my reaction when people die. Even when it's somebody I knew fairly well, I don't usually cry and I don't usually lose sleep. Of my relatives, I've really only experienced the deaths of two grandparents, and those each happened during the callowest of my teenage years. In adulthood, I haven't yet lost anyone close enough to make me cry about it -- at least not until I got swept up in the emotional manipulation of the memorial services: nothing makes me cry more than seeing other people cry. So I worry sometimes that I'm cold, heartless, selfish, uncaring, even though I don't feel that way.
     Usually, when someone dies, I think: "Yes. This is how it is supposed to be." When I think of all the ways it's possible to die, and the effort so many of my friends have put into self-destructive acts, I find it pretty miraculous that any one of us made it past 30. But most of the people I've known since high school are still alive. (I can think of one suicide, one car crash, and one overdose. But I'm probably forgetting some, right?) Still, I hear of death and think: "yes, this happens." Sometimes I even react to news of impending death, whether of the gravely diseased or the self-destructive, with a similar stoicism: "yes, they will die, as will we all." Am I sick, spiritually advanced, or in staggering denial of my own feelings?
     I read David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest for the first time back in 1998, starting about week before I graduated from college. The first time I read it, I thought it was one of the funniest books I had ever read. The second time I read it, about a year later, I thought it was one of the saddest. I was right both times. I loved IJ from page one, and I read everything Wallace wrote thereafter. A lot of my writing style was cribbed directly from DFW, and I was so open about my love of his work that many of my friends wrote me notes of condolence on hearing of his death. I was reading Infinite Jest, again, on the day he killed himself.
     My friends knew how upset I'd be before I really began to feel it. But I feel it now. As is probably obvious, I'm not spending too much time crafting this half-assed eulogy, and over time I'll probably understand my grief more. But here's what I think I know so far: I love Wallace's writing style because it mimics with terrifying accuracy the way my own personal mind works. The wild, obsessive digressions, the panicked self-questioning, the endless speculative fantasy-spinning, and the total fascination with the inner walls of my skull. I didn't ape his style because I thought it was cool -- it was more like he showed me 1) it was okay that my mind worked the way it did, 2) it was acceptable to transcribe it a little more faithfully, and 3) here's how you can do it.
     Like many Americans, I feel selfishly, ridiculously entitled to be entertained (this is one of Infinite Jest's major themes), and therefore I feel cheated of his future work in the same way I feel cheated by the untimely deaths of Elliott Smith and Heath Ledger. But this death hits me harder. Even though I'm sure we would have found each other insufferable in person, I feel like I lost a great spiritual teacher and friend. And in keeping with the other great theme of Infinite Jest, I feel the impossibility of communicating how I really feel. It feels like a wad of newspaper in my gut.
     Most writers intuitively understand and accept this impossibility like fish accept water; it's so obvious and all-encompassing that it is unremarkable. And while Wallace understood the fact too, he couldn't keep from flailing against it like those Asian carp that keep jumping into people's boats. I could have watched him flail for years. But now I will just have to try on my own to ensnare the world I see with an endless ribbon of mixed metaphors, braiding sentences around the cotton-candy maypole of life.

2008-08-28T09:56:00.003-05:00

OPERATION KABUKI FACE
Eating my spicy soup at a restaurant on Bedford Ave, I had that old familiar feeling that I got from growing up in Soho: hatred of the bridge and tunnel crowd. In this case, it was a stockbrokery type with his sorority-type girlfriend. He was touching her face a lot -- apparently attracted, moth-like, by the shiny whore-polish she had liberally applied. He was also doing that back of the neck-clamping I-own-this-woman thing that makes me want to learn to castrate someone through telekinesis.
     On good days, I try to sit with my intolerance, to understand its origins deep within my flawed self.
     On other days, I just grimace like a Kabuki or Noh actor, or someone grossly afflicted with a facial tic. Usually, if I make the face, I have the decency or self-control to look away from the person who caused it.
     But now I am thinking that it could be used as a form of social control, to keep the people I don't like from my neighborhood. Obviously, if I do it alone, I will just look like a crazy person, so the participation of like-minded people is essential. When you see a rampaging fucktard in the hood, make a kabuki face.
     I expect this to be more successful than the machete-attacking strategy allegedly employed against bike-riding hipsters by certain residents of the South side of Williamsburg. This is because the hipster population, being mostly composed of spoiled white folk with overblown feelings of entitlement (like me, like me), will respond to physical attacks like Londoners during the Blitz, going about their hip little biz and whistling all the while.

2008-07-21T09:59:00.006-05:00

DISPATCH FROM OUR CORRESPONDENT IN CHINA
(July 20, Qingdao, China)

The Chinese government has declared martial law in Qingdao. But don't worry, it's only for one day: the day of the Olympic torch relay. This is why we have a pregnant Australian woman sleeping on our sofa. Let's call her Yinky, since that's what her parents apparently christened her, although I still have trouble pronouncing it. She'll probably call her own child Numbat or something. Anyway, she is not allowed to return to her hotel, which is in the Relay Zone, until after the relay is finished. It seems they mistook her for some sort of terrorist.
Her husband is in the Zone, but he is not allowed to leave. Fortunately our apartment is just outside the Zone, so we are still free to shelter terrorists. From the window we have a magnificent view of the Sea Wall protecting the Olympic Marina from algae terrorists. In fact, we can see the algae building up outside the Wall -- but like our Australian friend Yinky, it is unable to enter the Zone. The system works.

* * *

At about five past ten Thursday morning, a charming little student named Reginald* -- who I used to teach every Sunday without incident -- attempted to organize a mutiny in my co-worker Don's class. "I'm the teacher now," said Reginald, rising from his seat with real authority, "I'm taking over the crass."
     There was an immediate chorus of "Shut up, Reginald!" from the Siberians. Seeing that he lacked the support of his fellow children, Reginald did the only thing an unsuccessful mutineer could do: he pulled out a life jacket, proceeded to inflate it, and finally put it on, doubling his already ample girth.
     Rendered speechless for a moment, Don finally asked "Reginald, where did you get this?"
     "This? Oh, my palents give to me."
     Apparently Reginald's Mommy and Daddy, protective of their dysfunctional son as only the Chinese can be, had equipped him for literally any eventuality that might befall him at Summer Camp.
     Fortunately, Reginald's very strength is also his greatest weakness. His Attention Deficit Disorder leaves him vulnerable to the paradoxically calming effects of common stimulants like caffeine and amphetamines. Don happened to have a Starbucks Bottled Frappuccino in his pocket.
     "Remember how you like coffee, Reginald?"
     Within minutes he was slumped, barely conscious, on the floor. And since he was still wearing his life jacket, Don was fairly confident no harm would come to the little scamp. The world is safe again -- until tomorrow.
     That is the news from China.

-- Katie Legs, China Bureau Chief and Engrish Teacher

* Some names have been changed to protect our correspondent's cover. But not "Yinky." That shit is for real. -- UD

2008-06-24T11:06:00.008-05:00

BOREDOM HAS MANY PALLIATIVES, BUT NO CURE

PLOY #1: Autodidacticism
...Or as it appears to the cynical: unfocused, yet obsessive, wikipedia surfing. I admit it's not a conscious ploy, it's just how I scroll, baby. To give you a glimpse into my autopedagogical syllabus, here is a list of the wikipedia pages I visited in the span of three attention-deficient months at work: Bear Witness to My Affliction!

PLOY #2: Wikipedia editing
I burned out on this one REAL FAST. Not a great treatment for boredom.

PLOY #3: Deprivation
I am planning to start -- and then abandon halfway through -- a month of systematic abstention from various foods, activities, or behaviors:
     Week 1: no wheat
     Week 2: no meat
     Week 3: no posting to this blog (ha! kidding!)
     Week 3 for real: no more abstention
     Week 3 goddamnit be serious: no... flensing ?
I don't know, man. I guess I really just wanted to stay away from wheat for a week. Why do I hafta make a big honking deal out of everything? BORED BORED BORED.

PLOY #4: Religion
I took the Belief-O-Matic quiz at beliefnet.com, and it told me what religions I am most likely to jibe with:
     1. Theravada Buddhism (100%)
     2. Unitarian Universalism (96%)
     3. Neo-Pagan (83%)
     4. Secular Humanism (81%)
     5. Liberal Quakers (79%)
I will now accept solicitations from these sects, such as they are. That should be fun!

PLOY #5: Pegging
I was reading an article in the Village Voice's Queer Issue about how many straight men are finding that they enjoy getting fucked in the ass. In 2001 Dan Savage had a contest to coin a term for the act of a woman penetrating a man using a strap-on, and "pegging" won. It's a great term, though when someone first asked me if I knew what it meant, I pictured a sex act involving the namesake (and mascot) of my high school.
     I know the Voice hardly counts as mainstream, but my unerring sense of cultural trends (and this) tells me that pegging is about to tip. You're gonna start seeing it mentioned, explored, and deplored everywhere. You heard it here first: 2008 is the Year of the Peg.
     Well! In looking for ways to help accelerate mainstream awareness of this beautiful, loving practice, I considered many options before reaching the eventual solution. Since Lance Armstrong's wonderful LIVESTRONG project has had a really good run, I called them up about transitioning the yellow-rubber-bracelet brand to a new awareness-promoting cause. After having our lawyers work with theirs, it's official. The yellow bracelet has been rebranded. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: PEGSTRONG!

The purpose of the PEGSTRONG bracelet is to promote awareness of Strapped-On Assfucking. People who love to peg or get pegged can share their affinity through prominent public display of a PEGSTRONG (formerly LIVESTRONG) bracelet. It will be clear to all who see it that you live by the PEGSTRONG motto: "Never be shy -- Let the santorum fly!"
     And now for the best news! You don't even have to buy the PEGSTRONG bracelet -- you may already have one! It will take a while for the official new PEGSTRONG bracelets to be manufactured and distributed to quality retail outlets nationwide. However, due to the special nature of our arrangement with LIVESTRONG, all LIVESTRONG bracelets automatically became PEGSTRONG bracelets as of midnight, June 15, 2008.
     (As you can imagine, the intense legal and administrative work leading up to this event kept me from posting to the blog this last month. And as ever, I appreciate your continued patience.)
     So! When you see someone wearing their LIVESTRONG (now PEGSTRONG) bracelet in public, especially if they are male, remember to congratulate them on their bravery. For a large segment of the straight male population, it's still kind of a big deal to say you take it in the ass -- even if "it" is a rubber or plastic toy worn by a woman. Reward that courage! Call out to them and show your support! Raise your fist and shout with pride: "PEGSTRONG!"

2008-05-14T12:36:00.007-05:00

HEALTH BOOKS BY MY STEPMOTHER
• Attention Deficit Disorder: A Fake Disease For Lazy People Who Won't Try
• Depression? Everyone Gets Sad Sometimes, IT'S NORMAL

CHICKS DIG "CLOSURE"

Note: despite the heterosexist example below, this advice applies equally to any couple that involves a female dumpee.

Or so they say. After a breakup, a girl I know wanted closure. She called and called the boy who broke up with her, unsure of their status, until one day, in a public park, he shouted "I DON'T WANT TO BE WITH YOU ANYMORE." Pow! Closure.
     But was it really closure she was seeking? To just about everyone else, the status of their relationship was clear. I've known a lot of people who chase down seemingly irrational strands of hope far beyond the limits of dignity. Do they really not know it's over? I don't think so. I think they're looking to walk away with a moral victory, albeit a kind of pathetic one.
     What could be worse than a partner who breaks up with you using care, tenderness, love, and grace? THAT'S THE PERFECT PARTNER! Don't say goodbye to me, say hello! Keep saying hello forever! Gah!
     Women recover from breakups by having other women tell them that they were too good for the bastard, anyway. No matter how educated, intelligent, or spiritually advanced a woman is, when she is in pain, she wants to hear this. Madeleine Albright wants to hear this.
     So what do you do with a dude who is kind and loving when he leaves you? Your ladies got no fodder! Well, go make it happen! If you can manipulate him into being a jerk -- or doing something even moderately jerky -- you will gain that precious moral superiority, and you can move on knowing that he had that secret seed of jerkiness inside, and you're glad you found out NOW. Then you can pull that comforter around you a little tighter and sip that Sleepytime Tea in your sweats while your bestest galpals cuddle you in shifts.
     Boys, the "perfect" breakup is a myth. You will always fall short because falling short is what is required. If you are not made into some form of monster, it hurts too much. And if you don't step up and provide sympathy fodder, she'll have to make shit up, cobble something together from old suspicions and petty gripes, and her fabrications will forever taint her moral victory! Is that what you want? If you ever loved her, you will do this. You probably don't have to shout humiliating things at her in public, but give her SOMETHING. Break up with her via text message! Fuck her sister! Slash her tires! Your kindness is KILLING her.

2008-04-23T14:41:00.009-05:00

WHY I LOVE MY NEW DENTIST
I've had bad luck finding a great dentist who still takes my bottom-shelf dental insurance. My old one wasn't great, but he didn't even tell me he had stopped taking my insurance until I got hit with big copays.
Well clouds and linings, my friends, because my new dentist is hilarious. She is constantly joking around, but it's a little nervewracking because a) her "jokes" are very dark, b) she always says them while holding a sharp or high-RPM implement in her hand, and c) she's Russian.
I thought my old dentist was unprofessional because he'd always complain about how expensive his equipment was. I had no idea how unprofessional a dentist could be. Feast your eyes on these pearls from my new dentist, culled from only three magical sessions, and remember to imagine all of these quotes in a THICK Russian accent:

"I am so tired today. I just don't want to work. I don't know why I came in."
After I said her new haircut, with bangs, looked nice: "Oh yes?" (pulls mask down) "Do I look younger? Am I stunningly gorgeous or what?"
"I've been reading a lot of self-help books."
"I think I hate being a dentist. Did you know dentists have the highest suicide rate of any profession?" Her hygienist then quipped back, also in Russian accent: "No, I think it is dental hygienists."
"I had a date last night, and it did not go well. I don't know what's wrong with me. My mother says... (words obscured by drilling)... so I will never be happy."
"I am sore today from surgery, so I will do the procedure standing up. Don't freak out just because you're so high up, okay?" I say something non-probing, like "Okay." She says: "Well I had to have something done in my abdomen, and while they were there, I thought: why not? So I had a little other work done." I ask if there's a lot of pain, still. She says: "YES. It is terrible. But I'm on narcotics, so it's not nearly as bad as it could be." (drill spins up)

COMMUNICATE MY WISHES IF I'M TOO LAZY TO MAKE A WILL
RockemStockem: also, I don't want to be buried
RockemStockem: cremate all the way
Universal Donor: yeah, obviously
Universal Donor: me too
Universal Donor: i don't want to rise up and eat brains
Universal Donor: NO THANK YOU
RockemStockem: tots
RockemStockem: also I want my ashes to be divided up and distributed amoungst my friends
RockemStockem: -- NOT spread or scattered --
RockemStockem: and put into small urns made out of hand painted eggshells
RockemStockem: in order to burden as many people as possible
Universal Donor: haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
RockemStockem: can you just imagine? for the rest of your life,
RockemStockem: everytime you move apts or whatever,
RockemStockem: you have to walk this precious thing
RockemStockem: and totally make sure it doesn't break

BIOLOGY CLASS
RockemStockem: so when you're really pregnant, don't you worry that the baby is just gonna fall out of your vagina?
Universal Donor: Um, not unless you are giving birth to a snakebaby
RockemStockem: OMG! Like on V?
Universal Donor: for example.
RockemStockem: what if I thought I was having a human baby, but instead just as I gave birth it was a snake
RockemStockem: and nobody knew,
RockemStockem: and I was pushing and then an evil snake monster just slithered out of my vagina
Universal Donor: you're making me hungry

BUG UPDATE
On my way into the office bathroom, I see a ghostly skittering presence retreat from the opening door, weirdly ghosting around a corner. It looked like a waterbug, but somehow... different. Mammalian, almost. I rounded the corner to confront this nightmare beast and it was clearly a waterbug, but of a color I had never seen before: greyish, glisteny, mottled. I smashed it with my foot and smeared it around a bit. It is also possible that I yelped a bit in uncontrolled limbic dismay.
     My report to the receptionist goes like this.
     Still shaken, I say: "I just killed the weirdest waterbug. It was like albino sort of, grayish. It was awful."
     "Oh my god, another one?"
     "Yeah."
     "Where was it?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.
     "In the men's room."
     "Hmmmmm..." she says.
     "What?"
     "Yesterday there was one in the women's."
     "Gross. Did you kill it?" I ask.
     "Yeah. We sprayed it with white furniture polish."
     "WHAT?" I gasp. "But... but... but THEN what did you do?"
     "It looked dead." She mews.
     "Did you smash it?"
     "You know I don't like going near bugs."
     "So what, you polished it and hoped for the best?"
     "No! Joe flushed it. He picked it up with a flyswatter and flushed it," she says.
     "So you put the wounded WATERbug back into the lifegiving WATER that is its very element?!?!?! Why didn't you smash it?? YOU MUST SMASH WHILE YOU CAN. What are you, a James Bond movie villain? You'd probably try to drown Popeye in a vat of spinach! Fuck. Well. I killed your zombie bug this time. Please don't ever make me do that again. "

I mean come on now!

2008-04-04T11:26:00.004-05:00

All right, I know it's shitty not to write for almost two months. What if I said there were a LiveJournal-style "friends-only" section of the blog to which you weren't invited, and to which I've been posting weekly, and hilariously? Would you feel better? Or worse?
What if I said I was writing a novel, in exactly the same style as this blog? "How could that possibly work?" you might ask. It would be a source of concern among my editors, I assure you. They would also be concerned with the fact that I am implying that ALL of the advance money was gone even though they have yet to see sample chapters, not even one. "UD," they would whine, "we already let you borrow the jet to go to Monte Carlo for 'baccarat research' and instead you flew back and forth five times from LaGuardia to Newark, just to make the poor airports feel better because you always fly out of JFK and wanted to show that you still cared about the other two. Our accountants don't like it, and it's bad for our corporate carbon footprint. Deliver our sample chapters, and stop prank calling Karl Lagerfeld on the company dime. PLEASE."
See? Pathetic. Just a bunch of words. Consider this an enema. The next post will be fresh and clean, and probably appear sometime in July.

NEWS FLASH
I don't trust men in hats, and neither should you.

I DREAMED THEY ADAPTED NINE INCH NAILS'S "CLOSER" FOR USE ON AMERICAN IDOL
I want to love you like an animal
I want to feel you with my whole heart
I want to love you like an animal!
you've got such humongous paws
I want to wrap you in gauze!

AT A LOSS
I am this close to soliciting pictures of your boobs. This close to suggesting that perhaps what this blog needs, to kickstart it out of slumberation, is a collage consisting of dirty pictures of its readership. For the good of blogkind, you understand. A show of good faith, people! A little upload for years of download!

2008-03-04T10:32:00.005-05:00

Well, there really isn't more to the puking in the airport story. I landed, I moaned and sweated for 15 hours, and it was over.

PROMISES I NEVER MADE
I never promised not to eat at Hooters. But, people: it happened. I wanted chicken wings. And they said, there on St. Thomas, they said: "they have wings at Hooters." And suddenly I was eating there, among the tawdry hot-panted awfulness.
     I did not find it necessary to not utter the phrase "I will never eat at Hooters," because frankly, it was never on my radar as even a remote possibility. Here are some other things I have never promised not to do:
     • I never promised not to stab the moon with Excalibur.
     • I never promised I wouldn't go back in time and hire one of Santa's reindeer to assassinate Pol Pot.

THE CONCIERGE WANTS ME TO KNOW THE DETAILS
     The concierge at the reception desk of UD's office building sees UD walking into the building with a cup of coffee from Au Bon Pain.
CONCIERGE: Hey [UD], how ya doin.
UD: Fine thanks, [Concierge]. You?
CONCIERGE: Good. You ever have coffee from McDonald's?
UD: I guess so, but only on road trips.
     UD steps into the elevator. CONCIERGE holds the door, which tries to close repeatedly, and fails.
UD: (thinks to self) Please tell me what you think of McDonald's coffee and also please the exact circumstances -- spatial, temporal and emotional -- under which you reached that opinion.
CONCIERGE: Yeah. It's pretty good, actually. Today on the way to work I got off the train over near Times Square and you know they got that McDonald's over there, and I figured, ahhh, I'd try it, why not? Sometimes the line at the deli across the street here is long, right? And I was already a little late, and I hadn't had any coffee earlier because I stayed at my girlfriend's house last night
     (smiles and nudges UD without slowing down speech at all)
and so I went in and I got a coffee and you know what? It's pretty good! I drank it on the way over here. Have you ever had it? You should try it. Did you hear that Starbucks closed the other day for a bunch of hours, nationwide, every store? Yeah apparently it was some kind of training but who knows? Maybe they're going out of business, or they're in trouble, huh? Nahhh, probably not Starbucks. You gonna see that movie with the Saber-tooth Tigers?
UD: (blinks)

CAR HORNS ARE STUPID AND HERE'S WHY
     1) They're too cheap. Chris Rock has a classic bit about how, if bullets cost $5,000, people wouldn't get shot accidentally; only people who really deserved it would get shot. Well I feel kinda similarly about car horns. If they cost money to use, then people might not be so fucking jolly about toot-tootling their way through my life, reserving their honkings for emergencies -- which, for what it's worth, is what they're for. Obviously, though, a cash-per-honk policy would discriminate against the poor, with possibly fatal consequences -- but that's a great way to get Republicans to vote for it.
     2) They're too low-bandwidth. The only real way to modulate your honk is by controlling the duration and the number of repetitions. Since you can't modulate the volume or the tone or anything else (including, in crowded places, the intended recipient), a single honk could mean any of the following things:
     • "Oh looky! I see a friend of mine on the street! Hello friend!"
     • "The light has changed to green, sir; perhaps you did not notice!"
     • "Move it you fucking fucktard before I bash your nuts with a bat!"
     • "Your car is spraying gasoline everywhere, get out before it explodes!"
     • "Please get out of my way because my wife is having a baby in the backseat!"
So all you are really able to communicate is "hey! I'm trying to communicate with somebody." But you probably assume that when you honk, people know which message you intend. And even more ridiculously, you probably don't believe that you ever misinterpret the honks of others. You always know which honk you're hearing, right? Ah, the fucking curse of low-bandwidth communication rears its ugly, unnecessary head. Go write your emotionally charged text messages and emails. I can't save you.

2008-02-14T10:21:00.003-05:00

It's not fun to have a fever on an airplane. That much is true. But is it less fun than being healthy on an airplane? I'm not entirely sure. Air travel is so different from normal life, but in such a way that it difficult to pinpoint the exact ways it's different. Just like a slowly-brewing fever, or like waiting for hallucinogens which may or may not be bunk to kick in.
     I got nauseous almost as soon as I got into my cab to the airport, but I chalked that up to the fact that I ate a bowl of yogurt and a brownie for breakfast. In the cab, I had the Phildickian experience of finding a counterfeit $10 bill in my wallet, which had clearly come out of the ATM at my local deli (which is the only ATM I know of that dispenses $10 bills: also weird). It was a pretty good fake, I guess, except that I spotted it immediately: two pieces of color laserprint glued back-to-back on cottony paper. I showed it to the cabbie, who was glad I had not tried to pay him with it, and then I tore it up. Subsequently, two people have expressed exasperation with me for destroying the ersatz cash because they wanted to seeeeee it, but I figured a good time to divest yourself of WILDLY ILLEGAL THINGS is right before you get mandatorily searched by agents of a notoriously humorless federal agency. Blerg.
     Wandering through the sad excuse for a terminal that US Airways operates out of LGA, I thought maybe if I threw some more food on top of my nausea it would go away. I opted for an egg & cheese on a roll made by the surliest family of Indian women I had ever seen making airport breakfast food at 7am. It was not a good idea.
     (Side note: I don't know if I've ever mentioned the foibles of the service industry down here on St. Thomas. One of the amusing quirks of the locals is that they have zero interest in serving you. ZERO. But it's hard to be anything but amazed, because they employ that disinterest so heroically that you are forced to posit the existence of TIME-SLOWING or WORK-DESTROYING devices behind the counter. I have seen two employees of a Subway sandwich shop take twenty minutes to prepare a sub. It was the only thing they were doing, and they never visibly stopped doing it. It was not larger, or more complicated, than a normal North American-made Subway sub. But it took twenty minutes. I know this sounds hyperbolic, but you seriously have to see this. Oh! And it is widely reported by non-locals that if you comment on this phenomenon -- or in any way attempt to counteract it, say by mentioning that you are in a hurry -- the service will slow down even further. As a result of all this, there was much jolly consternation in the non-local community down here when it was announced that a branch of Hooters would open on the island. Since business models based on speed, friendliness, efficiency, etc, cannot seem to run on local power, almost all the staff had to be imported from the mainland U.S.)
     Anyway. My first plane ride was only 1.5 hours of tightly cramped nausea, crushed between the curvature of the plane and a 300lb neighbor. I got off the plane for my hourlong layover, and realized that I would have to puke pretty soon. I wondered where to go. Excuse me, ma'am, I'm going to be violently ill in less than five minutes; do you have some sort of vomit accommodations in this terminal, or shall I just use a bathroom stall? Oh and while I'm here, can I have a seat with legroom?
     So I puked in a stall of a crowded bathroom, with the stalls on either side of me occupied with horrified travelers wishing only to void their bowels in peace and keep their loafers free of acidic spatter. Wow, this got gross fast. I'm gonna stop here, and see if there are a lot of votes for continuation of this narrative. If not, I'll just let it fade away like the memory of a headache.

2008-01-28T15:43:00.000-05:00

I was pawing through my gmail account, because sometimes I get a little irked by the parenthetical reminder in the little menu that says Inbox (552) -- which means, I suppose, that I have over 500 unread messages. Well I can't tackle this problem in one afternoon, can I? No. So here's something I found while browsing old email in search of something to read/delete.

AN EMAIL EXCHANGE WITH A FAN, MARCH 2006

To: UD
From: [redacted],

Hi, i read a part in your site about bugs..and it's obvious you have a fear of them lol. But i noticed in it that you said the only way to really kill a bug is to stomp it..but, did you know that most bugs can actually survive being stomped on? lol if it's still alive, it could come back to bite you for trying to kill it...i mean, that's why it's not a good idea to stomp on a bug anyway. You should try it yourself if you have to one day and you'll see. [everything sic]

Dear [redacted]

It's clear that you are just trying to freak me the fuck out with your little "bugs don't die if you stomp on them" gambit, and it was a nice try. But in the end, your scare tactic lacks credibility.

We may have different definitions of the word "stomp." When I say that a good "stomp" will kill a bug, I am describing an action involving my foot and a bug that results in the death of the bug (usually via a 10-fold increase in the area taken up by the bug, and a drastic (90-100%) reduction in its height.)

What I don't do: Put on a silk slipper, gently stroke my foot over the bug's carapace, and run into another room, hoping for the best.

No, a Universal Donor stomp is usually a multistep process, as follows:
(as an example, we'll use an american cockroach, known in New York as a "waterbug": usually 1" - 1.5" in length and tall enough to cast a visible shadow.)

Use heightened senses to detect a bug from over 20 feet away.
If waterbug is flying, run far away, making another person deal with it.
Otherwise, approach bug with caution but also speed.
Attempt to cut off escape routes.
If a spray bottle of soapy water is around, spray bug with soap just to stun it a bit.
Raise leg to waist height, bring down with all due haste and force. Do not miss.
Once it is clear that bug is under shoe, grind bug into ground with a pivoting motion.
Smear bug around with side-to-side motions.
Carefully check the ground/floor around shoe for signs of buggy trauma: smeared guts, detached antennae or limbs.
If step 9 reveals no evidence of dead bug, repeat steps 7-9.
When it is clear bug is dead, stomp is complete.

smooches,
UD

2008-01-07T13:25:00.000-05:00

I'm a little obsessed with TLC's tattoo-shop reality shows (L.A. Ink, London Ink, Miami Ink). My DVR has started bumping off my old, cherished episodes of 30 Rock and Flight of the Conchords because TLC just ran a marathon of the entire first season of L.A. Ink, and I must watch them all.
Now the staff of L.A. Ink are pretty unbelievable artists, and the show would be fantastic if all they did was show the process and the results. But the producers press the tattooees pretty hard to provide some sort of explanation for their new ink, because they sell the dramatic backstory angle to get me emotionally involved (Whatever, dudes: you had me at tattoo). But sometimes people just get tattoos because they look cool. The main result of this tomfoolery is that I get peeved at a TV show, again.

MY PEEVES ABOUT THE TATTOO SHOWS
(all quotes are pastiche, but realistic)

Bogus tattoo "meanings" - If you push people to justify purely aesthetic choices, you will get some fucktarded answers. Seriously, people just make shit up, like:

"I wanted to get cherry blossoms? Because, like, they're alive? And you have to life one day at a time, but you also you have to live life to the fullest? So that's why I want cherry blossoms."

Non-sequitur "dedications" - Some people are just crazy.

"This is in honor of my mother... She had to struggle though hard times to raise me, and make sacrifices? So I'm getting this image of a wolf eating the brains of a zombie prostitute. Because my mom is so strong."

Tattoo as "gift" - Some people seem to need to justify their selfish desire to get a tattoo by claiming that it's "for someone else." Why, people? What's the big deal about getting a tattoo for your ownself? This just seems unnecessarily delusional. Like:

"This giant dragon ass tattoo is a gift for my newborn son, so that whenever he looks at my ass, he'll know that I love him."

Celebrating Identity - I guess I don't have a beef with tattoos celebrating identity so much as I have a problem with identity itself. "I'm getting a tattoo of the flag of Pbbbpt to celebrate my pride in my Pbbbptian heritage." Flarf. Yeah. That and a metrocard will get you on the subway, punk. I just hate this shit. Identity = the enemy. I guess I should create a separate post about this at some point, but here's my basic drift on the ish: celebrating identity is about celebrating the ways we differentiate ourselves from others, and though diversity leads to much great variety, our perceived -- or rather, meticulously constructed and nurtured -- differences are the source of most of the world's suffering.^{[citation needed]} So identity's pro/con calculation results in a net loss for humankind. MORE LATER.

Jenna Jameson, Entrepreneur -- All right, people. This is just totally disingenuous. Porn star Jenna Jameson comes on the show for a tattoo, and the caption calls her an entrepreneur. What's the deal? I don't think there's anything wrong with being a porn star, and I kinda doubt she does either. So why the weird caption-y grab for respectability? Yes, she owns her own multi-million dollar production company. But it's like calling Donald Trump a "TV Personality" -- true, but not exactly the whole story. Or like calling Bono a "blood donor," or George Bush a "breakfast eater." Right?

2007-12-19T10:30:00.001-05:00

Thanks for all your topic suggestions, people! They were, for the most part, completely useless -- scatological, juvenile, pandering, nonsensical, attention-seeky, whatever! I see now that you were trying to teach me a lesson about taking responsibility for, and pride in, my work. Thank you for that. (Boobs, indeed. As if!)

L.A. VOICE
There is a particular kind of gravelly party-girl voice specific to LA that drives me up the fucking wall. I assume it is caused by dry desert conditions and atmospheric pollution in conjunction with smoking-related cell damage and alcohol-related dehydration; add on top of that a regional accent that encourages speaking with the teeth and lips constantly apart, as if the speaker way too fucking cool, high, or chill to close her mouth, and you get L.A Voice, demonstrated ably in this video by Kat von D. (Which, Kat, if you're reading this -- you know I've got no beef with you personally! Make fun of my regional diction anytime!)

THE MOST POTENT ATTACK IN A NEW YORKER'S ARSENAL
Sometimes people piss me off -- yes, even perennially unflappable UD. Usually it's a stranger, usually on the street, and usually they are not worth the time it would take to explain to them why they are worthless space-wasters whose greatest accomplishment will be their decomposition.
     Sometimes, though, you've just got to let the people know that they are human garbage. So when faced with some monstrous pedestrian idiot, shout the following: "Go back to Jersey, you fuck!"
     The potency of this barb is greatly diminished if the target actually is from New Jersey, because they will just ignore you for the bigot you are. That's okay, they're not your real demographic here.
     Similarly, people from all over the world (other than NY and NJ) know to be offended by the remark, even if they don't know exactly why, so you can use this on Germans or Ugandans with equal effectiveness, but that effect is still just mediocre, provoking nothing more than half-hearted ethnic or regional variations of "fuck you too, buddy!"
     But! The effect on New Yorkers -- especially native New Yorkers -- is atomic. Picture the stuttering red-faced apoplexy of a shackled Bill O'Reilly getting a forced lapdance from a naked Magic Johnson, and you're close. In one stroke, you have robbed any New Yorker victims of the one fact that internally proves their moral superiority, regardless of the outerborough scumpond they hail from: the pedigree that gives them license to lord it over the whole fucking world. Now, if they start to protest that they are from Brooklyn, or Hell's Kitchen, they will just sound like whiny sore losers, especially when you say "yeaaaah whatever, Newark breath! Suck my Seacaucus!"

THE GAME OF SHOULD I DATE THIS PERSON?
You may remember The Game of What You Like from a few months ago, one of the most linked-to posts on the blog, which helped you figure out what qualities you ACTUALLY seek out in a partner vs what you THINK you are looking for.
     So here's the new game, to help you figure out if you should pursue a relationship with the person that you are really really hot for.
     So you've got this prospect, right? And they seem really neat, and you're having a hard time finding their faults -- they seem to be too good to be true! Well that's because they are, twitball. Your horny biological programming (id) wants you to fuck that person, and you are getting flooded with positive hormones and neurotransmitters when you're near them, and your ego starts automatically justifying the idea, because that's what it does. You cannot trust your judgment.
     The solution is difficult to put into practice, but theoretically sound:
     1) ask them to describe in detail why their last 5 relationships ended;
     2) contact each of those exes and ask for their version of the story;
     3) compare the explanations.

WRITER'S STRIKE 101
I heard some businessy douchenozzle on CNBC say something about the writer's strike with a smirking implication that the writers were holding up the global economy with their petulant demands. I've heard other people say "they really picked a bad time to strike." A physical therapist once told me, while gooshing his ham-hands into my musculature, "I don't know about unions; they were important at one time, but I think they've really outgrown their usefulness." And it was all I could do to keep from saying "why don't you stick to what you know, you freaking oaf? Because I know you are just parroting a prepackaged sound-bite you heard somewhere on the AM dial, which had been prepared for people just like you who want to sound like the know what they are talking about when they should be FIXING MY SPINE instead of KILLING ME WITH IGNORANCE."
     I was a little angrier back then.
     How do people not understand strikes? The procedure for determining who is right goes like this: 1) look at the two sides in a strike, 2) management is wrong. THAT'S IT. And since I cannot believe that anyone who reads this blog thinks otherwise, I will not belabor the point.

2007-12-12T15:16:00.001-05:00

IT'S OKAY, BABY. IT HAPPENS TO A LOT OF BLOGGERS...
I have officially run out of ideas for blogging. But don't worry! I don't think it's a permanent condition, and I'm not giving up. I'm just asking for help.
Use the comments section of this post to suggest topics for the next post. Use a format like "TOPIC: _______ " and fill in that blank with anything you like.

2007-11-30T02:20:00.000-05:00

I'M MAKING A DOCUMENTARY
I'm making a documentary about informal food-sharing practices in social groups. Are you gonna eat those fries?

DREAM #1
I had some crazy stupid dreams in St. Thomas. The first was a dream that death was not, as we tend to think of it, a condition universally characterized by the same objective measurements of body function. I recently read about how emotions are largely constructed culturally, and cannot just be understood as collections of physical responses; for example, various cultures have words for, and experience, emotions that simply have no correlates in our culture. Weird!
So in my dream it turns out that death, like so many things, must be considered in its cultural context -- that different cultures have different conditions to pronounce someone dead, and that ours is not, as we might like to think, the pinnacle of reason and truth, but simply one way of looking at it. The upshot being that Maori or Mongolian (or whatever) EMTs would have very different vital-sign checklists from ours, involving... who knows what? Could we even understand their death tests?

DREAM #2
I became convinced in my second dream that it is a perfectly normal, natural, and healthy expression of friendship to watch your friends have sex with each other. People are so weird and repressed, it seemed to me! Why don't they ask to watch their friends fuck more often? It wouldn't be awkward. It's so natural and beautiful! You love your friends, right? Why wouldn't you want to see them love each other? So if you asked a couple you knew if you could watch, it's not like you're trying to fuck them (now that could get weird!), you just want to watch. How could it do anything but strengthen your friendship? It couldn't.

NOTES ON SHARING DREAM STORIES IN REAL LIFE
Sometimes, if you tell someone about a dream you had, you will realize that one of two things has happened. You have either:
1. bored your listener with a rambling narrative involving people they don't know; or
2. confused your listener with something vague and un-picturable.
...Or maybe a combination of the two. So here a few ringers to rescue your boring or confusing story by horrifying your listener with something "unintentionally" revealing. Once you realize you have lost your listener's attention, tack one of the following onto the end of your narrative:
MEN: "And then I slaughtered the evil she-monster with my sword made of penises."
WOMEN: "And then I ate 30 hot dogs and had a cup of cock soda."

REDUX
Re: dream #2 above, it occurs to me that that in any group of friends, there is a couple you would be most likely to approach with a voyeuristic overture. Think of who it is in your group of friends. Imagine yourself asking if you could watch them do it. Now jump ahead and imagine them doing it, and you watching. Imagine they are a little nervous, so you have to tell them what to do; direct them a little. Imagine! I Have a dream!

(Geez? How did this get so dirty? I am clearly in some sort of strange zone; enjoy it while it lasts, because it doesn't happen often. I might delete half of this post in the cold light of day.)

2007-11-16T00:53:00.000-05:00

I know this is dumb, because I never post anyway, but I thought that I would once again supply you with a special (and spacial) reason for my continuing nonparticipation in the consensual hallucination of this blog: I am once again going to St. Thomas, this time until the 28th. There are many fine things about STT, but no one there has invented the internet yet, so there is no way for me to share my up-to-the-minute tropical observations about sand, iguanas, non-aerosol sunscreen, and laid-back Caribbean approaches to infrastructure maintenance. Please continue your patient vigilance.

2007-10-17T12:48:00.000-05:00

BED THEORY
Still working on this, but the idea is:

It takes n days to get used to a bed, for your body to experience it as your "Home Bed."
Once a bed reaches Home Bed status, sleep quality for that bed is optimized.
Every bed/person combination has its own optimal sleep quality rating.
The quality of sleep you initially get on any "Away Bed" is 20-50% lower than Home Bed sleep.
This is true regardless of the softness, plushness, fanciness, etc., of the Away Bed.
So obviously 10 hours on an Away Bed may not feel as restful as 6 on your Home Bed.
The presence of another person in your Home Bed is tantamount to sleeping in an Away Bed, and it may take n days to regain optimal Sleep Quality.

HALLOWEEN COSTUME IDEAS
I dressed as a bee for three of the last six Halloweens. One year I was the Unabomber, and one or two I skipped completely. I am not the biggest fan of Halloween, mostly because I'm scared of what I am capable of when I'm wearing a mask. One time I went to a party as Pol Pot and I liquidated all of the intellectuals present. It was messy.

Christopher Columbus - For this costume I would dress as Christopher in the normal way, adding deaths-head facepaint and skellington gloves. Also, I will have washcloths with biohazard symbols on them to represent smallpox blankets, which I will hand out to anyone dressed as a Native American.

Ninja - I won't go to any parties. Then, when people say "why didn't you come to my kickass Halloween party?" I'll say "Oh I was there," and they'll say "but I didn't see you" and I'll say "that's because I was dressed as a ninja. I'm glad my costume worked." If they express doubt I will put a fucking throwing star in their neck.

Slutty Ninja - Same as above, only slutty.

Myself - I will dress in white from head to toe, with a Polaroid camera and extra packs of film, and perhaps a fanny pack. My white t-shirt will have written on it, in Sharpie: "LATER ON I'M GOING TO ASK IF I CAN TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR BOOBS."

Earlicker - I will wear a shirt that says "Earlicker" on it. If anyone asks me what my costume is, I will say "It's a secret. I have to whisper it. Please, come closer...."

2007-09-24T16:35:00.000-05:00

FASHION BLUNDERS OF 2007
Fashion is a really weird phenomenon to me, because it looks like a competition wherein women try to prove (to other women) their a) individuality (by dressing like everyone else), b) hottness (by wearing things that only other women think are flattering), and c) value (by showing how much money they can spend). Maybe because male attention is so easy to get, some women don't get enough validation from it, and are forced to find validation in self-defeating hierarchies of superficiality. I say it's self-defeating because in the end, superficiality will always lead to misery; even if you "win" in fashion, you lose. If you doubt this, ask Anna Wintour, the happiest woman in the world. Gah, you probably don't need me to tell you this. Hell, I don't even want to think about it anymore. I've been trying to write this paragraph for four days -- I must've deleted five judgmental drafty pages by now. If I go on I'll just sound grumpier.
So: I admire hipster fashion in theory because like punk, it stems from a rejection of classic assumptions of attractiveness (like the notion that clothes should be clean, fit you, and not cause seizures in epileptics). But in practice I find it hard to keep my food down, sometimes.
I will ignore the biblical plague of ass-flattening stretch jeans, because I am too baffled to even talk about them. But here are some other looks cluttering Brooklyn lately that make me want to hide indoors so I won't feel the agony that accompanies being so goddamn judgmental:

Swampfoot�
When I see a girl wearing boots in the summer (especially Uggs, or cowboy boots without apparent socks), I can't think anything but "wow, your feet must be a swampy, stanky mess right now." Calf-hugging boots in the winter: sexy. Thigh-high go-go boots in winter: acceptable, though perhaps trying a little hard. Combat boots (with (cotton) socks): always awesome. But you, Swampfoot, look like you can't take care of yourself. I want to treat you to a spa pedicure, during which I will take your boots and hide them until November.
Hipster Greg Allman
I can't find a good image for this abhorrent look, so send a link if you know of one, but I think the name says it all. Imagine Cisco Adler, except dirtier, with skintight pants, no trucker hat, and wearing Mischa's sunglasses. You might be asking "if you were griping above about women's fashion, why is there a dude here?" Simple: Hipster Greg Allman is almost always some hipster chick's accessory. Ten points if you spot one alone in the wild.
Garbage Bag Dresses
Oh, hi! You look like a bag of garbage. And you know how some of your friends tell you that empire waists are flattering, minimizing of big hips or an ample ass? Do not talk to those friends anymore, because they are trying to make you look bad so that they look better in comparison. The problems with garbage bag dresses: a) they actually don't minimize anything, b) they call attention to the fact that you think your parts need minimizing, and c) you look like you're wearing a Hefty Cinch Sak.
Kicky Little Fedoras
You are wearing a fedora. Read that sentence again. Fedora. Fedora. Fedora. If you have to ask what's wrong with that, YOU WILL NEVER KNOW.*
Big Stupid Sunglasses
All right, ladies. I am sorry to tell you this, but: your treasured giant sunglasses make you look cheap, stupid, like a piece of meat. The other day my pal T told me over the phone that she felt like dudes were being particularly gross: "I'm not wearing slutty clothes or anything unusual today, but men are ogling me like crazy. It's nasty." I asked if she was wearing big dark sunglasses, and she awarded me a prize for awesomeness, saying "how the fuck did you know that?"
Simple: when you shield your eyes from other people, they cannot engage in a visual communication with you. Once their brain has ruled you out as a peer, a human being, they will look at your body. The quickest path to feeling like an object is to disqualify yourself as a subject. Does that make sense? I feel like this is going to need clarification.**

* Okay: I know one person who manages to rock a little pinstriped fedora without looking like an abominable tardbag, but she's so adorable that you could wrap her in a tinfoil sweatsuit and you'd still go "awww...."

** I expect comments about "not wanting to engage with gross dudes" or "feeling safe in sunglasses" or whatever. I'm not saying that you should be making soulful eye contact with every dude on the street. Just that your shades objectify you in a way you might not expect, as opposed to like scoop necks or whale tails, with which you expect and encourage the objectification. Take off the shades and you will feel better. Try it. Try it before you say I'm crazy.
OH AND DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT "SHADING YOUR EYES FROM THE SUN" EITHER. BULLSHIT!

2007-09-18T16:11:00.000-05:00

VARIOUS METALS THAT DOCTORS MADE ME INGEST IN THE LAST MONTH
• Iron Sulfate
• Magnesium citrate
• Barium sulfate
• Sodium chloride
• Sodium bicarbonate
• Potassium chloride
You can't make me bionic by making me eat metals -- you're a doctor and you should know that. I don't care if you call them "salts" or "electrolytes" or whatever. I know what you're up to. QUIT IT.

I HAVE STUPID DREAMS
Five of these are real dreams I had in the last two weeks. Find the fake one.

I dreamed that I made a minor edit to a wikipedia page but rebelliously refused to leave an explanation in the "edit summary" field.
I dreamed that I created an online survey to ask my friends to describe any recent gastrointestinal issues they might have had.
I dreamed I was about to have sex with an improbably hot woman but stopped because I did not have a condom, saying "oh well."
I dreamed I found a very rare book about an animal so unusual that it is the sole member of its own phylum.
I dreamed I forgot to lock the door on the way out of my house and I felt bad because I know my roommate hates that.
I dreamed I had a nice warm bowl of pudding.

I CALL BULLSHIT ON "STAYING TOGETHER FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILDREN"
Unhappy parents who postpone divorce "for the sake of the children" are fearful and selfish. Terrible damage is done to children by being raised by loveless, joyless parents. I am not suggesting that divorce is a once-way ticket to bliss -- just that an unhappy marriage is a bleeding wound, and divorce/separation is often the band-aid that lets healing begin. LET HEALING BEGIN PEOPLE.
     I also hate the idea, implicit in the "stay together" philosophy, that children are too daft to apprehend the misery of their parents just because they can't relate in the most literal sense.
     Here's a nice post from a group blog that illustrates my point in such a poignant way that my alter ego left an uncharacteristically breathless comment in response.

AND CARL EVERETT STILL DOESN'T BELIEVE IN DINOSAURS, EITHER
Televised, high-paid ignorance does not surprise me, even in the extreme form in this clip you might've seen from The View. But I can see that it kind of infuriates Whoopi, Joy, and even Barbara that they are forced to sit at a table with such stampeding, unrepentant stupidity. It seems clear that idiocy is tolerated from certain personalties simply because they look nice on TV and are more well-spoken or friendly than your more mainstream yokels. We reflexively give attractive people the benefit of the doubt, and we hesitate to criticize those who seem genuinely nice. But yokels is yokels, folks, whether pretty, educated, or just fucking bonkers. (Sorry for all the links.)

EVIL THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT DO
     1. Walk up to a pair of beautiful, high-maintenance women in a fancy NY nightspot and ask the slightly less attractive of the two: "is it hard for your friendship that you're hotter than your friend here?" Watch their faces as they close ranks against you, offended at the suggestion that there is any hottmess differential between them. But then watch the actual hotter one bristle a bit at your misjudgment. Watch the less hot one notice or ignore that. Back away slowly.
     2. Put puppies in a bag and hit it with a mallet until it stops barking/moving.
     3. Throw an empty condom wrapper (of an odd brand) behind the dresser or under the bed of a happily married couple. It may take weeks or years to be discovered, but when it is... show them this post before they get divorced (for the sake of the children) so they will believe it was you. (Also, actual cheaters who get caught can point to this post as the probable source for the condom wrapper you failed to clean up after your real tryst. You're welcome.)