Some days I have profound thoughts, like the day I realized that Mel Gibson is not my real father, as my mother insists, because he couldn't possibly be Jewish -- what Jew ever had an Australian accent, come on! But today is not a day I'm having any profound thoughts, which has led me to write about something that anyone who has ever had email finds annoying: spam. And not the kind that's tasty to eat with eggs, jam and toast, but the kind that pours into my email inbox at every hour of the day. Spam for Vioxx, for Viagra for estranged generals looking to use my bank account to make me a multi-bazillionaire. I hate spam like tall men hate airplane seats, like construction workers hate powerful winds, like my skin hates the rest of my skin when I'm watching Oprah Winfrey on television.
First off, who the hell likes spam? I have trouble conjuring an image of someone pathetic enough to happily open any email that hits his Inbox: I picture a large, shaggy man with no pants and grizzlybear back-hair sitting in a ragged trailer set down in the middle of the desert with a cable running from his computer to the nearest city (probably Nevada). I believe it was The Beatles who wondered where all the lonely people come from. I don't know that they ever got an answer to that question, but I do know this: those folks aren't lonely anymore, they have THOUSANDS of new friends who write them every day.
It might be presumptious of me to assume that anyone likes spam, but I'm giving the spammers the benefit of several doubts. Why would they keep spamming if it didn't work? Either they're crazy (well, they are crazy), or they're drumming up business this way. So lets assume there is a segment of the population of the earth who like nothing more than receiving email ads for things that they absolutely must have. And how would they know they needed those things if they didn't get emails announcing their existence? How stupid am I? Or, as Grandpa Schlomo would say, "You're a schmuck, now pass the pork chops and the magic markers."
I read somewhere, probably in the New York Times during a dream, that the number of spam emails is greater than the number of real emails sent by real people. Which begs at least one metaphysical question: which are the "real" real emails? Huh? Ponder that! No, don't. Spam is not real email and quantity is only better than quality when it comes to champagne, ice cream and Zsa Zsa Gabor. But it does make me wonder about the quality of email in the first place. Remember a time way, way back, when people wrote carefully crafted letters? Those days are gone -- suggest writing a letter to someone and you'll be crushed by their manic laugh and soul-crushing punch to your solar plexus. Folks don't have time to write anything of substance anymore. In fact, most folks (especially lazy bloggers) don't even have the time to even think anything of substance anymore. They're too busy watching shows with words like "ghost," "spirit," "telepathy," and "Jay Leno" on the television. And lord knows we have to be fed constant stimulation: in my office building they recently put up ridiculous TV screens in all the elevators that shout out useless statistics and news all day. Who cares what Brad and Angelina are doing, besides their press agent and 2.4 billion people?!
Oh wait, I was talking about spam. Err, spam. So what to do about it. I have several suggestions. First, make it illegal. I know, that probably treads on at least one amendment to the Constitution, but I wonder if the founding fathers or the various amenders ever envisioned their lofty ideals being used principally to sell erectile dysfunction medication (though Happy Stan points out that those guys NEVER smile in paintings, so who knows...). Do democratic principles necessarily even go with capitlist ones? An unoriginal thought to be sure, but worth pondering next time some spam hits your Inbox. Like now. And now. Now. Another thought to stop spammers: track 'em all down, put them in a city that no one is using anyway (Phoenix?), build really high fences and then force feed them all the medication they've been selling. Then film it. Now that's some television that'd be worth seeing. Now I'm getting hungry -- yup, for spam and eggs.
8/03/2006
7/05/2006
Elevator Buttons
I was recently visiting the home of my arch-nemesis Dr. H -- there to plant destructive ideas -- and as I was leaving I noticed the elevator in his building had a display telling me exactly what floor each elevator was on. So while it was still moderately annoying having to wait for the elevator, I found my blood pressure remained fixed and dilated because I at least knew when the next elevator would be stopping on my floor. Yes, if this suggests to you that I'm a controlling freak, I'd say you're right about at least one thing: you do hate yourself.
Which brings me to the point at hand: why can't all public modes of transportation deliver information that will keep my blood pressure from shooting through my eyelids? The monorail at Newark Airport tells me down to the second when the next train will arrive! If you miss a bus or train in New York City, you have several choices: 1) patiently wait for the next to arrive; 2) write a screenplay; 3) pace back and forth until you can't take it any more and punch the nearest wall as an expression of your rage; 4) invent a time machine, build it and then transport yourself forward in time to the moment the next train arrives; 5) leap on to the train tracks and await your demise (but bring a novel and something to eat); 6) perfect the cello.
I remember reading in a New Yorker article a year or so ago that the man who "saved" the New York City subways in the 80s was going to London to help them with their mess. I can't believe that man got another job! Saved? The tracks are perpetually under construction, there is little rhyme or reason to the work (the G line tracks have been under construction for the entire 16 years I've lived in Greenpoint) and clearly no one cares about the passengers. There are many, many other problems with the subway and bus systems, but a neon sign declaring the innumerable delays would at least allow passengers to attempt to make productive plans during delays, like walking to work or having a picnic.
Uncle Abe was visiting my apartment last week to use the toilet and when I mentioned all this to him he said, "Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish." And even though it appears John Quincy Adams stole this notion from my Uncle I have to admit: they're both right. But who cares about being right. I want to live in a world as pristine as the one inside my head, where I never have to wait for anything, except pop culture references. I like it when elevators and trains talk to me, and I have too much time on my hands for my own obsessions anyway -- I have a tendency to carry on conversations with my imaginary selves, and most of them have ill tempers, bad manners and terrible posture. So I could really, really use someone else to talk to while I wait. If nothing is done, I'm afraid my own tenuous psyche will split into several irreparable pieces. And we don't want that, do we?
Which brings me to the point at hand: why can't all public modes of transportation deliver information that will keep my blood pressure from shooting through my eyelids? The monorail at Newark Airport tells me down to the second when the next train will arrive! If you miss a bus or train in New York City, you have several choices: 1) patiently wait for the next to arrive; 2) write a screenplay; 3) pace back and forth until you can't take it any more and punch the nearest wall as an expression of your rage; 4) invent a time machine, build it and then transport yourself forward in time to the moment the next train arrives; 5) leap on to the train tracks and await your demise (but bring a novel and something to eat); 6) perfect the cello.
I remember reading in a New Yorker article a year or so ago that the man who "saved" the New York City subways in the 80s was going to London to help them with their mess. I can't believe that man got another job! Saved? The tracks are perpetually under construction, there is little rhyme or reason to the work (the G line tracks have been under construction for the entire 16 years I've lived in Greenpoint) and clearly no one cares about the passengers. There are many, many other problems with the subway and bus systems, but a neon sign declaring the innumerable delays would at least allow passengers to attempt to make productive plans during delays, like walking to work or having a picnic.
Uncle Abe was visiting my apartment last week to use the toilet and when I mentioned all this to him he said, "Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish." And even though it appears John Quincy Adams stole this notion from my Uncle I have to admit: they're both right. But who cares about being right. I want to live in a world as pristine as the one inside my head, where I never have to wait for anything, except pop culture references. I like it when elevators and trains talk to me, and I have too much time on my hands for my own obsessions anyway -- I have a tendency to carry on conversations with my imaginary selves, and most of them have ill tempers, bad manners and terrible posture. So I could really, really use someone else to talk to while I wait. If nothing is done, I'm afraid my own tenuous psyche will split into several irreparable pieces. And we don't want that, do we?
6/30/2006
Rain and my brain
I love the rain. Only, I love it when I'm inside, snuggled up with my sweetheart, eating marshmallows out of the bag and exchanging occasional smooches. And since I don't have a sweetheart (though my own heart is scrumptious) this is currently a state of affairs virtually impossible to achieve (I'll leave open the potential for time travel, because humans are really clever at figuring out this kind of stuff). Which makes it even more exasperating that I was caught three times this week in a deluge, and although I had my umbrella with me during all three outbursts I still got soaked -- serious rain. I don't remember it raining this much in June in NYC. Is this being caused by a) Global warming; b) A vengeful god almighty; c) chance; or d) clouds. I'm betting it's some combination of a, c and d. I don't believe in a vengeful god, or of a deity of any sort, alas, though I spend much time damaging my own psyche by blaming him (definitely a guy) for all things that go wrong, proving at least one thing: I hate to take responsibility for my own failures. My favorite thing to blame Him for is losing at computer Hearts. I feel I'm entitled to win every game, so when I don't win, I blame Him. But I blame Him for lots of things. Here's a list of some of those:
1) Failure to achieve a career in writing;
2) Humidity;
3) Pimples;
4) When I trip on the sidewalk and nearly fall, I usually scowl. Damn Him!
5) Mayonaise, but only when it has that funny taste that makes me want to vomit;
6) Lack of girlfriend- ness;
7) Shitty job;
8) NYC subways;
9) That feeling you get when you pass a graveyard;
10) Bad teeth.
11) My negativity;
12) Spilling beets on my pants;
13) Graying and thinning hair (it'll be a race to see which wins);
14) the Yankees;
15) Bureaucracy
Happy Stan says that I should start appreciating the good things in life and stop focusing on the negative, but since HS isn't real I told him to go to hell. When he is out of the room, though, I secretly wonder if he isn't for once making some sense; but when I try to feel happy that my couch is really comfortable and that I have a good apartment, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it means I'm happy, I think, but maybe it means I shouldn't have eaten that tuna sandwich with the bad mayo. The point is: my own brain is often my worst enemy, and it's tough to fight a brain because it knows what you're thinking before you do and it's pretty well insulated inside your skull. Like the rain, it oftens pours on my parade. Perhaps I need to find a mental umbrella? Such as, good work and good people? Hmm, meaning I might have to find more than three people I can stand to be around. Oops, I have to run, Happy Stan is calling. He says the Argentina-Germany soccer match is getting good. I hope it doesn't rain...
1) Failure to achieve a career in writing;
2) Humidity;
3) Pimples;
4) When I trip on the sidewalk and nearly fall, I usually scowl. Damn Him!
5) Mayonaise, but only when it has that funny taste that makes me want to vomit;
6) Lack of girlfriend- ness;
7) Shitty job;
8) NYC subways;
9) That feeling you get when you pass a graveyard;
10) Bad teeth.
11) My negativity;
12) Spilling beets on my pants;
13) Graying and thinning hair (it'll be a race to see which wins);
14) the Yankees;
15) Bureaucracy
Happy Stan says that I should start appreciating the good things in life and stop focusing on the negative, but since HS isn't real I told him to go to hell. When he is out of the room, though, I secretly wonder if he isn't for once making some sense; but when I try to feel happy that my couch is really comfortable and that I have a good apartment, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it means I'm happy, I think, but maybe it means I shouldn't have eaten that tuna sandwich with the bad mayo. The point is: my own brain is often my worst enemy, and it's tough to fight a brain because it knows what you're thinking before you do and it's pretty well insulated inside your skull. Like the rain, it oftens pours on my parade. Perhaps I need to find a mental umbrella? Such as, good work and good people? Hmm, meaning I might have to find more than three people I can stand to be around. Oops, I have to run, Happy Stan is calling. He says the Argentina-Germany soccer match is getting good. I hope it doesn't rain...
6/14/2006
Religion and the Da Vinci Code
I was reading over the shoulder of a fellow subway traveler this week when I caught a letter to the editor in one of the local rags. The editorialist was wondering what all the hype was about concerning the Da Vinci code movie -- why are people threatened, he wondered, by something that is clearly fiction. The movie and the book it's based on, after all, are all made up, so why's everyone getting their panties in a sticky bunch? The problem with this argument and others like it, constructed by same-minded children, is that it implies that religious stories are not ALSO fiction, that religion is not, in every instance, a bunch of made-up mythology designed to get folks, for the benefit of civilization (however good or bad), to behave one way or another (mostly another). Want to avoid disease? Tell em: Sex is bad. And so on... So I think it's right that folks have their underwear pinched tighter than a lobster's claw on this one, because isn't it about time human beings let go of this ancient crutch? Isn't the truth, as revealed by science, even more wondrous? I mentioned these thoughts to my Uncle Abe and he said, in between slurps of his Cinammon Raisin oatmeal, "At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols." Once again I looked up U.A.'s thoughts on the web and found that someone else -- in this case Aldous Huxley -- had spoken them first, which only proves that there are really no new ideas.
I haven't seen the Da Vinci Code and I haven't read the book, though I've read through several reviews of both and have discovered that intelligent people (assuming reviewers are intelligent, which is a dangerous presumption on par with the assumption that politicians are honest)... but I digress. Intelligent people seem to think the book and the movie kinda suck ass, and not in a good way. So I could understand those who would simply dismiss it as drivel and move on with their lives spent surfing things, like the web and the Pacific Ocean. But to them, I say: don't you see that's the point? What's the point? they would ask, exasperated by my inarticulateness. The point is: people are actually attracted to this kind of stupidity and it scares me more than hairless cats do. Yes, humans have always leaned rather heavily on superstitious claptrap to explain the universe and our seemingly super-important role in it, but that's because humans have always been scared, frightened, too-smart-for-their-own-good monkeys. So now, in the fabulous 21st Century, haven't we grown up enough to face that? Judging by events around the globe, clearly we haven't, but imagine what we could achieve if we did -- we've already walked on the moon, cured innumerable diseases, invented cool things like Ipods and pencil sharpeners. And we're just getting started, humans have only been around for a very short time -- dinosaurs were around for something like 200 million years and not one of them even invented a stapler!
Are you still imagining? Okay, stop, because you're drooling.
Hey, are the ethics provided by religion really all that great, necessarily? Aren't they kind of repressive? And don't they encourage blind obedience, rather than thought? I was discussing this with the now deceased poet, Anais Nin, during a seance last night and she said, "When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow." Yes, Anais, yes! And no, I didn't sleep with her.
I know I'm not exactly cutting any edges by condemning religion and superstition (wasn't that what the Enlightment was all about?), and I know there are probably good arguments on the side of religion and metaphysics generally that point to the disasterously bloody results of peoples abandoning morality (the French Revolution, anyone?). But geez, isn't there a place for a world devoid of god and make-pretend that also includes a well-constructed ethics? I suppose you could argue back and forth like this, with good arguments on both sides, about the question of how much good vs. evil religion does. Is it a force of good or evil, primarily? But the bottom line is: it's a fantasy, it's make-pretend, and ultimately we do harm to ourselves when we believe in such dreams.
Now, maybe someone has to step up and educate the masses, let 'em know that it's okay to let go of their belief in god, and an afterlife and ESP, although I think we're all capable of doing this for ourselves. Did you really need your mom to tell you Santa was a hoax? Didn't you begin to realize on your own? Of course, there was a period in there where you allowed yourself to believe anyway, maybe for one last winter or two, but you finally told yourself it was all just a hoax and you went on to obsessing about other things, like that cute girl in your gym class, was her name Lisa Hernandez (call me!)? People allow themselves to believe in religion for far too long. I'm guessing most people know it's a game, but they choose to play anyway: anything to avoid dealing with reality.
Maybe it's something deeper, a need to belong to something, a need to imagine a power beyond us. Look in the mirror one day and think the world begins and ends with choices, however, and you'll see a different world when you walk out the door. Now excuse me, but I have to catch a nap before the hockey game tonight. Those Oilers are gods, man...
I haven't seen the Da Vinci Code and I haven't read the book, though I've read through several reviews of both and have discovered that intelligent people (assuming reviewers are intelligent, which is a dangerous presumption on par with the assumption that politicians are honest)... but I digress. Intelligent people seem to think the book and the movie kinda suck ass, and not in a good way. So I could understand those who would simply dismiss it as drivel and move on with their lives spent surfing things, like the web and the Pacific Ocean. But to them, I say: don't you see that's the point? What's the point? they would ask, exasperated by my inarticulateness. The point is: people are actually attracted to this kind of stupidity and it scares me more than hairless cats do. Yes, humans have always leaned rather heavily on superstitious claptrap to explain the universe and our seemingly super-important role in it, but that's because humans have always been scared, frightened, too-smart-for-their-own-good monkeys. So now, in the fabulous 21st Century, haven't we grown up enough to face that? Judging by events around the globe, clearly we haven't, but imagine what we could achieve if we did -- we've already walked on the moon, cured innumerable diseases, invented cool things like Ipods and pencil sharpeners. And we're just getting started, humans have only been around for a very short time -- dinosaurs were around for something like 200 million years and not one of them even invented a stapler!
Are you still imagining? Okay, stop, because you're drooling.
Hey, are the ethics provided by religion really all that great, necessarily? Aren't they kind of repressive? And don't they encourage blind obedience, rather than thought? I was discussing this with the now deceased poet, Anais Nin, during a seance last night and she said, "When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow." Yes, Anais, yes! And no, I didn't sleep with her.
I know I'm not exactly cutting any edges by condemning religion and superstition (wasn't that what the Enlightment was all about?), and I know there are probably good arguments on the side of religion and metaphysics generally that point to the disasterously bloody results of peoples abandoning morality (the French Revolution, anyone?). But geez, isn't there a place for a world devoid of god and make-pretend that also includes a well-constructed ethics? I suppose you could argue back and forth like this, with good arguments on both sides, about the question of how much good vs. evil religion does. Is it a force of good or evil, primarily? But the bottom line is: it's a fantasy, it's make-pretend, and ultimately we do harm to ourselves when we believe in such dreams.
Now, maybe someone has to step up and educate the masses, let 'em know that it's okay to let go of their belief in god, and an afterlife and ESP, although I think we're all capable of doing this for ourselves. Did you really need your mom to tell you Santa was a hoax? Didn't you begin to realize on your own? Of course, there was a period in there where you allowed yourself to believe anyway, maybe for one last winter or two, but you finally told yourself it was all just a hoax and you went on to obsessing about other things, like that cute girl in your gym class, was her name Lisa Hernandez (call me!)? People allow themselves to believe in religion for far too long. I'm guessing most people know it's a game, but they choose to play anyway: anything to avoid dealing with reality.
Maybe it's something deeper, a need to belong to something, a need to imagine a power beyond us. Look in the mirror one day and think the world begins and ends with choices, however, and you'll see a different world when you walk out the door. Now excuse me, but I have to catch a nap before the hockey game tonight. Those Oilers are gods, man...
6/03/2006
Free Throws
In the very near future I'm sure to write about some topic with grave repercussions, like the escalating war in Iraq, or the escalating price of gas in the U.S of A. or the escalating temperatures of our hapless planet, but today is not the near future, today is today, and so instead I'm writing about professional basketball. More specifically, I'm writing about free throw shooting, and the frequency with which said shots are missed in the National Basketball Association. I watched a game earlier this year and one team made UNDER 50% of their free throws, while the other made just over 50%. In a recent playoff game, the Miami Heat shot just over 25%. I mean, just over 25%! Imagine if baseball players caught only 50% of routine popups or if politicians only took bribes when they really needed the money (they're kids need new helicopters, just like yours, after all). That would be unacceptable, wouldn't it? Happy Stan, who isn't much of a basketball fan, because he's too busy with his knitting club, says that these players are trying their best, so why not give them a break. It's just free throw shooting, right, and you're thinking along with HP, who really cares, it's just a game, why don't I find something more useful to crank about, like pizza and it's tendency to scald the roof of my mouth? Because, I say to you and HP and all your Dominoes consuming constituents, poor free throw shooting is symbolic of the decline in our culture of integrity, hard work and a willingness to learn the fundamental components of a sport or discipline or board game in order to master it. We're a culture of needy, self-entitled jerks, and no one wants to spend the time to learn to do something right in the first freakin' place -- that's why we end up writing blogs instead of well-thought out essays, for example.
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes, free throw shooting. Look, couldn't they practice more? Isn't it that simple? So many games in the NBA come down to 2 or 3 points, so it would make a big difference if you're team hit 90% of its free throws. Last year's champs, the Spurs, were eliminated in this year's playoffs, but they'd probably never lose a game if they could make free throws -- they're terrible at it. They're best player, Tim Duncan, is called the "Big Fundamental" and he shoots around 60%. Yipes, I think we've lowered our standards a tad! If it was you, and you were a talented NBA player, meaning you were 8 feet tall and fast and strong and misogynistic, wouldn't you want to make your free throws? They're free, after all! No one guards you, no one tries to elbow you to the ground, no one mugs you while you shoot. You get to stand calmly and take your shot. If you practiced that as much as you practiced dunking, you'd get good at it. The New York Knick's rookie Nate Robinson, who is only something like 3 feet tall, won the slam-dunk contest at this year's All Star game, though it took him about twenty tries. First of all, you should only get one try! In life, you get one try, so why should a slam dunker get 20? Because we're pussies, that's why. Second of all, he's a shitty free throw shooter. No wonder uber coach Larry Brown nearly had a stroke trying to coach the Knicks this year. These guys are more interested in looking good, then playing good (and even though that's bad English, you know what I mean because you've also been watching too much TV recently).
I guess it's the most obvious thing in the world that most people would rather look good or be famous or be rich, than spend time learning about themselves and the world and how they can truly, and finally be both content and useful. Most settle with mere contentment, and by "content" I mean stupid, angry, depressed, suicidal, crazy, bad-free throw shootingly, and illiterate. It's enough to make me want to quit my job and run for president on a platform of integrity and reason and truth. But then, I don't think I could handle becoming a laughing stock, so I'll leave it to some other sucker, maybe an athlete who makes his free throws? Hey, maybe Steve Nash of the Phoenix Suns should take over for Bush. Oh wait, he's Canadian. D'oh! That figures...
Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes, free throw shooting. Look, couldn't they practice more? Isn't it that simple? So many games in the NBA come down to 2 or 3 points, so it would make a big difference if you're team hit 90% of its free throws. Last year's champs, the Spurs, were eliminated in this year's playoffs, but they'd probably never lose a game if they could make free throws -- they're terrible at it. They're best player, Tim Duncan, is called the "Big Fundamental" and he shoots around 60%. Yipes, I think we've lowered our standards a tad! If it was you, and you were a talented NBA player, meaning you were 8 feet tall and fast and strong and misogynistic, wouldn't you want to make your free throws? They're free, after all! No one guards you, no one tries to elbow you to the ground, no one mugs you while you shoot. You get to stand calmly and take your shot. If you practiced that as much as you practiced dunking, you'd get good at it. The New York Knick's rookie Nate Robinson, who is only something like 3 feet tall, won the slam-dunk contest at this year's All Star game, though it took him about twenty tries. First of all, you should only get one try! In life, you get one try, so why should a slam dunker get 20? Because we're pussies, that's why. Second of all, he's a shitty free throw shooter. No wonder uber coach Larry Brown nearly had a stroke trying to coach the Knicks this year. These guys are more interested in looking good, then playing good (and even though that's bad English, you know what I mean because you've also been watching too much TV recently).
I guess it's the most obvious thing in the world that most people would rather look good or be famous or be rich, than spend time learning about themselves and the world and how they can truly, and finally be both content and useful. Most settle with mere contentment, and by "content" I mean stupid, angry, depressed, suicidal, crazy, bad-free throw shootingly, and illiterate. It's enough to make me want to quit my job and run for president on a platform of integrity and reason and truth. But then, I don't think I could handle becoming a laughing stock, so I'll leave it to some other sucker, maybe an athlete who makes his free throws? Hey, maybe Steve Nash of the Phoenix Suns should take over for Bush. Oh wait, he's Canadian. D'oh! That figures...
5/12/2006
Where's the music?
I went recently with a friend to a late Friday night party at the Guggenheim museum and it was packed with hipsters, wannabes, art lovers and lost-soul bloggers. I thought, beforehand: great, a chance to interact with my fellow sufferers, an opportunity to share ideas, to flirt with art admiring women, a reason to listen to the insufferable intellectual ramblings of posers. Alas, no such luck. The "DJ" there played "music" at a volume that made it impossible to hear this mass of potentially lovable cranksters. We couldn't have been more isolated from one another if we'd been waving from offices that happened to face each other in neighboring skyscrapers. I don't see the point of blasting "music" in this way, unless it's to assure that none of us ever gets to know each other, that we continue to live with some underlying, anxious fear of ideas...
By now you've stopped reading this blog because you have something better to do, like watch the episode of "That Girl" you DVR'd and because you have no attention span -- so I'll continue for those few who perhaps can't afford the glorious luxury of Tivo (and for myself). You're wondering why I've put the word music in quotes in the above paragraph. Is it because I'm a pretentious windbag? Yes. Is it because I'm a brainy cultural critic of the first order? No. Is it because the "music" this supposed D.J. was cranking could only be described as "music" by the most generous (read: stupid) listeners. Every "tune" (there were no tunes, no melody, no harmony) was exactly the same: just a driving, techno beat and some hazy, unintelligible lyrics. So I was left wondering: is red meat really that bad for me?
I was wondering that, because I was distracted to the point of convulsive confusion. If you're going to drown our brain cells in a sea of ear-splitting sonic thunderclaps -- I'm talking to you, Mr. DJ! -- then why not at least attempt to fill our leaking brains with music. You remember music, don't you? Notes? Songs? About heartbreak, drugs, sex, heartbreak?
Could it be that the folks at this not-so-culturefest actually preferred this technocrap to music? I hope not, but probably. If so, I'm left questioning what the hell happened to these poor innocent, brainless twits. Has our culture reduced our intelligence to the level of single-celled organisms, responsive only to a thudding, repetitious, clanging beat? Perhaps.
So let me reevaluate. The evening was, after all, a rousing, raving, modern-day success: no thoughts, no possibility of communication, no music, no intelligence, no progress, no growth, no love, no heartbreak. Are we turning into a culture of zombies, incapable of thinking for ourselves? No -- duh! We're CHOOSING to turn into a culture of mindless drones. And that's what's got me drinking three cases of pepto before bed each night. That and the tasty, chalky smell. Mmm, Pepto Bismol.
By now you've stopped reading this blog because you have something better to do, like watch the episode of "That Girl" you DVR'd and because you have no attention span -- so I'll continue for those few who perhaps can't afford the glorious luxury of Tivo (and for myself). You're wondering why I've put the word music in quotes in the above paragraph. Is it because I'm a pretentious windbag? Yes. Is it because I'm a brainy cultural critic of the first order? No. Is it because the "music" this supposed D.J. was cranking could only be described as "music" by the most generous (read: stupid) listeners. Every "tune" (there were no tunes, no melody, no harmony) was exactly the same: just a driving, techno beat and some hazy, unintelligible lyrics. So I was left wondering: is red meat really that bad for me?
I was wondering that, because I was distracted to the point of convulsive confusion. If you're going to drown our brain cells in a sea of ear-splitting sonic thunderclaps -- I'm talking to you, Mr. DJ! -- then why not at least attempt to fill our leaking brains with music. You remember music, don't you? Notes? Songs? About heartbreak, drugs, sex, heartbreak?
Could it be that the folks at this not-so-culturefest actually preferred this technocrap to music? I hope not, but probably. If so, I'm left questioning what the hell happened to these poor innocent, brainless twits. Has our culture reduced our intelligence to the level of single-celled organisms, responsive only to a thudding, repetitious, clanging beat? Perhaps.
So let me reevaluate. The evening was, after all, a rousing, raving, modern-day success: no thoughts, no possibility of communication, no music, no intelligence, no progress, no growth, no love, no heartbreak. Are we turning into a culture of zombies, incapable of thinking for ourselves? No -- duh! We're CHOOSING to turn into a culture of mindless drones. And that's what's got me drinking three cases of pepto before bed each night. That and the tasty, chalky smell. Mmm, Pepto Bismol.
5/04/2006
Restaurant Crowds
Look, I'm not an unreasonable person, as unreasonable people go. I understand that restaurant owners have to make a buck, just like CEOs, oil tycoons and 99 cent store clerks. And so I even understand why they often must, in their desperate grab for the almighty buck, pack as many slobs into their cramped, cockroach infested establishments as they possibly can. But I don't like it -- I like it less than I like it when the hairs on my legs are pulled out one at a time by my annoying friend Elvis. It sucks to enter a restaurant and get seated in a narrow, square table for two (with your arch-nemesis) only to find yourself, in the midst of your attempt to trick your enemy into taking hold of the bag you've sneakily loaded with Kryptonite, surrounded on both sides -- inches away! -- from other desperate, sad New Yorkers begging for a little air or space or anything resembling a sense of humanity. We're cattle when we ride the subway, but there we only pay $2 a ride. We're paying $75 for a bread stick in most restaurants, so shouldn't that at least buy us enough room to kick back and spread our lungs. I think my Grandpa Schlomo put it best when he said, "fuck crowded restaurants -- now shut up and hand me the Motrin."
The problem, of course, isn't limited to a particular type of eatery. There are overcrowded Thai, Chinese, American, Vietnamese, and Japanese restaurants. There are no overcrowded Greek restaurants, but that's another sordid tale (there was the time my friend found a 4 inch hair in his pancake and the cook came out to kill a scampering cockroach with his shoe). What I don't understand is how these restaurants stay in business. Wait, yes I do understand it. They stay in business because they have us over a barrel. It's a conspiracy. It's a conspiracy in the way most things are a conspiracy -- it isn't a conspiracy, but it feels like one because you can count on being treated like a Holstein Cow the second you step through the threshhold of any restaurant in NYC . They stay in business, I'm saying, because they ALL do it. (Okay, the super ritzy places leave you a little elbow room, but you have to consult your stockbroker to see if you can afford those places and you don't even have a stockbroker -- Jesus, what's wrong with you, at least get a job!). And if they all do it, and you're too busy writing pointless, rambling blog entries to cook your own dinner, then they've got you by the short hairs.
There's only one solution: boycott 'em. Start eating pasta every night. Plant a garden in the cracks in the sidewalk. Move to Kansas and live on a farm. Stalk the cute girl next door (this won't help you with the restaurant problem by the way, but you may as well get out now and again and do something productive). Fast for 40 days and 40 nights and then, when you're done, settle for a cracker and a Pepsi and then fast for another sixteen years. Read a book -- it's a different kind of nourishment. Save your money and give it to the needy (like a struggling blogger). Anything -- just dont give it to these hapless, struggling restauranteurs. Force them to space out their tables, to serve you in the way you deserve. Ask yourself, I'm saying, am I man or cow?!!! If the answer is yes to both, then you should probably think about ordering the salad, by the way.
The problem, of course, isn't limited to a particular type of eatery. There are overcrowded Thai, Chinese, American, Vietnamese, and Japanese restaurants. There are no overcrowded Greek restaurants, but that's another sordid tale (there was the time my friend found a 4 inch hair in his pancake and the cook came out to kill a scampering cockroach with his shoe). What I don't understand is how these restaurants stay in business. Wait, yes I do understand it. They stay in business because they have us over a barrel. It's a conspiracy. It's a conspiracy in the way most things are a conspiracy -- it isn't a conspiracy, but it feels like one because you can count on being treated like a Holstein Cow the second you step through the threshhold of any restaurant in NYC . They stay in business, I'm saying, because they ALL do it. (Okay, the super ritzy places leave you a little elbow room, but you have to consult your stockbroker to see if you can afford those places and you don't even have a stockbroker -- Jesus, what's wrong with you, at least get a job!). And if they all do it, and you're too busy writing pointless, rambling blog entries to cook your own dinner, then they've got you by the short hairs.
There's only one solution: boycott 'em. Start eating pasta every night. Plant a garden in the cracks in the sidewalk. Move to Kansas and live on a farm. Stalk the cute girl next door (this won't help you with the restaurant problem by the way, but you may as well get out now and again and do something productive). Fast for 40 days and 40 nights and then, when you're done, settle for a cracker and a Pepsi and then fast for another sixteen years. Read a book -- it's a different kind of nourishment. Save your money and give it to the needy (like a struggling blogger). Anything -- just dont give it to these hapless, struggling restauranteurs. Force them to space out their tables, to serve you in the way you deserve. Ask yourself, I'm saying, am I man or cow?!!! If the answer is yes to both, then you should probably think about ordering the salad, by the way.
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