Okay, this one is obvious, so I'm not going to spend a lot of time on it. Spending a lot of time on this subject would only make my stomach hurt and my head begin to come apart at the seams. The inside of CrankyPants' head, as those who have glimpsed it can attest, is not a pretty place full of flowers and scented candles -- lets all hope what's inside stays there.
Guns should not be legal. It's that obvious. And what makes it even more obvious is what happened on the campus of Virginia Tech this week: a deranged psycho bought two guns (the process took about 1 minute), then later went on a killing rampage. There are going to be sick people who're going to want to blame the parents of Cho Seung-Hui, and some, even worse, who will point the finger at the school or the poor crisis center workers who failed to recognize the ticking time bomb when they saw it. I hope no one sues that Center, by the way, because there are thousands of kids as or almost as crazy as Cho and no one is locking them up either. And besides, there's no way to be sure if the solemn, over-serious person sitting in front of you is more likely to go on a killing rampage or simply turn into a sad-sack screenwriter -- it's a tough, thankless job. No, they're not responsible. Cho Seung-Hui is responsible for killing those kids. He is, along with the gun companies and their lobbys. My psychologist friend, Dr. Cindy, had this to say about the whole thing: "The only way to stop this from happening again is to make guns illegal. You can't lock up the crazies, because that would be a third of the population."
Of course, the gun lobby is one of the most powerful forces in D.C. so guns are going to stay legal. Our country, for those who have been on vacation in Bermuda the last century, is actually being run, and lead by corporate interests. And so, the guns will stay. But what burns my buttons as much as actual gun lovers are the big media moguls. In fact, they're more disgusting than the gun companies: Smith & Wesson sells the ability to maim and kill, and rather cheaply. CNN sells, and at an exorbitant rate, the endless exploitation of that maiming and killing. They sell blood and gore because they know audiences will lap it up, and after all, who cares about ethics, all that matters is making money, right? Why did CBS have to play Cho's rambling, psychotic video? Why do newspapers run articles about how oppressed he was? He wasn't oppressed, he was crazy -- he needed medication and years and years of treatment. Oh right -- rambling video's sell lawn mowers. If gun's were illegal, gun manufacturer's would be out of business, but things would also be awfully slow on CNN and ABC. What would they cover? Plane crashes are infrequent and the Iraq war has actually gotten Americans killed, so that's not so fun anymore. Maybe they'd actually have to cover the news. But there's no money in that.
Doctor Cindy said that if the government promises to make guns illegal she'll buy lollipops and balloons for every congressman in D.C. Wouldn't that, plus saving the lives of thousands of people and stemming the cult of violence in our country, make it worth it?
4/19/2007
3/31/2007
Chocolate Jesus
This week in New York an exhibition of a nude, anatomically correct chocolate sculpture of Jesus was canceled after Cardinal Edward Egan and some other pissed off Catholics complained. This raises the hairs on the back of the hairs on the back of my neck. Catholics -- okay, Christians... okay, religious people of every race, nation and disposition toward chocolate, have to be able to take it if they want to dish it out. It has to be okay for athiests, scientists and other rational people to point out the superstitious, irrational nature of religion. But somehow it's become taboo to point out what seems to me and Grandpa Schlomo to be glaringly obvious: religious stories are made up stories, the same way Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland are made up. It's easy to laugh at the beliefs of scientologists (and I do laugh), but are their beliefs any more absurd than those of Jews, Christians, Muslims, Mormons or tax attorneys? Jesus came back to life? There's a god up in heaven who is keeping a scoresheet he'll later use to decide if you belong in heaven or hell? Heaven? Hell? Come on!
But that's besides the point this week: even if you want to "believe," if you put faith above rationality and science, you have to be able to stand criticism of your beliefs. The Christian right seems to have declared a war on science and evolutionary theory; meanwhile it's not okay to point out the absurdity of a church on every block in my neighborhood with a sculpture of a guy staked to a cross? Err...
In the case of chocolate Jesus, I'm not even sure what they're pissed off about. I mean -- it's a chocolate Jesus! I could understand if they disagreed with the aestetics of sculptor Cosimo Cavallaro. I mean, why milk chocolate? Wouldn't a dark chocolate Jesus say more about Jesus' decision to die for our sins? What would white chocolate have said? Is Cavallaro, by sculpting a milk chocolate Jesus, trying to steal the big guy away from the white folks. Are there really white folks afraid that Jesus is getting away from them? Maybe milk chocolate -- made up of black looking chocolate and white milk -- is a perfect blend. Why can't we all get along? That's what Jesus would have wanted, right?
So I just don't get this. I consulted my neighbor, Peter Skillsberrysonburg, who happens to be an expert on everything, and he told me to get off his front stoop because I was blocking his view of Amanda Silkyskin who lives across the street. But when pressed, Peter did concede that he didn't understand what the fuss could possibly be about, and added, "I'd have sculpted Jesus out of JuJu Bes -- that would have taught them all a lesson!" He's right -- "JuJu" has the word "Jew" right in there. Twice!
One reason I don't understand what all the fuss is about is because I don't understand what all the fuss is about. It's a chocolate Jesus! I don't know what statement Cavallaro was trying to make in the first place, so how can anyone be upset by it. Was he saying: "Jesus is tasty and delicious!" Okay, maybe, but so what? Or maybe he was saying: "Jesus melts in your mouth, not in your hands!" Okay, I'm not sure I'd agree with that, but JC's body has been decaying a very long time, so who knows. Or maybe: "Jesus died for your sins, and that makes him sweet and loving. Like Chocolate!" Or maybe the sculptor, who actually is renown for sculpting things out of food, just didn't put much thought into it at all. Maybe he's another mindless twit artiste who just makes things to make them. If so, then he's as bad as all the religious folks who have thrown meaning and thought out the window in favor of beanstalks and other bedtime stories.
Cardinal Egan described the sculpture as a "a sickening display." Eating that much chocolate would certainly give the Cardinal a tummy ache, so we'd better keep him away from the Hershey theme park in Pennsylvania. Bill Donohue, head of the watchdog Catholic League, said it was "one of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities ever." Okay, I couldn't help laughing out loud over that one. One of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities? Ever? I think Donahue is either insane, or I really don't have a very clear idea of what Christian sensibilities are. Hitler wasn't worse? Chocolate Jesus is worse than Hitler? Or are they in the same category? What about all the Christians Stalin killed? Or heck, what about the Romans? Didn't they staple Jesus to a cross? But I guess these offenses don't assault Christian sensibilities, only Christians.
Apparently the gallery was overrun with angry phone calls and e-mails. Cavallaro received several death threats. I guess he really did assault Christian sensibilities, because a bunch of Christians were willing to break a commandment to prove it.
Look, I have nothing against people deluding themselves, as long as it doesn't infringe on my rights. But lately it seems as though it does more or more, and now religious zealots have infringed on Cavallaro's right to sculpt something stupid. I may not like his sculpture, but I absolutely believe he has a right to sculpt whatever he wants out of milk chocolate. So my sensibilities have been assaulted by this whole inane affair, and until yesterday I didn't think I had sensibilities, just a persistent ringing in my ear and an endless headache. If you can't take a little criticism of your beliefs (and chocolate Jesus wasn't even that!), then you're beliefs can't be worth much, can they? Doesn't all this cry baby crap remind you of a child who throws a hissy fit when someone tries to tell him there's no such thing as the Easter Bunny? Thank Jesus no one has had the audacity to make an Easter Bunny out of chocolate! Imagine the outrage!
But that's besides the point this week: even if you want to "believe," if you put faith above rationality and science, you have to be able to stand criticism of your beliefs. The Christian right seems to have declared a war on science and evolutionary theory; meanwhile it's not okay to point out the absurdity of a church on every block in my neighborhood with a sculpture of a guy staked to a cross? Err...
In the case of chocolate Jesus, I'm not even sure what they're pissed off about. I mean -- it's a chocolate Jesus! I could understand if they disagreed with the aestetics of sculptor Cosimo Cavallaro. I mean, why milk chocolate? Wouldn't a dark chocolate Jesus say more about Jesus' decision to die for our sins? What would white chocolate have said? Is Cavallaro, by sculpting a milk chocolate Jesus, trying to steal the big guy away from the white folks. Are there really white folks afraid that Jesus is getting away from them? Maybe milk chocolate -- made up of black looking chocolate and white milk -- is a perfect blend. Why can't we all get along? That's what Jesus would have wanted, right?
So I just don't get this. I consulted my neighbor, Peter Skillsberrysonburg, who happens to be an expert on everything, and he told me to get off his front stoop because I was blocking his view of Amanda Silkyskin who lives across the street. But when pressed, Peter did concede that he didn't understand what the fuss could possibly be about, and added, "I'd have sculpted Jesus out of JuJu Bes -- that would have taught them all a lesson!" He's right -- "JuJu" has the word "Jew" right in there. Twice!
One reason I don't understand what all the fuss is about is because I don't understand what all the fuss is about. It's a chocolate Jesus! I don't know what statement Cavallaro was trying to make in the first place, so how can anyone be upset by it. Was he saying: "Jesus is tasty and delicious!" Okay, maybe, but so what? Or maybe he was saying: "Jesus melts in your mouth, not in your hands!" Okay, I'm not sure I'd agree with that, but JC's body has been decaying a very long time, so who knows. Or maybe: "Jesus died for your sins, and that makes him sweet and loving. Like Chocolate!" Or maybe the sculptor, who actually is renown for sculpting things out of food, just didn't put much thought into it at all. Maybe he's another mindless twit artiste who just makes things to make them. If so, then he's as bad as all the religious folks who have thrown meaning and thought out the window in favor of beanstalks and other bedtime stories.
Cardinal Egan described the sculpture as a "a sickening display." Eating that much chocolate would certainly give the Cardinal a tummy ache, so we'd better keep him away from the Hershey theme park in Pennsylvania. Bill Donohue, head of the watchdog Catholic League, said it was "one of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities ever." Okay, I couldn't help laughing out loud over that one. One of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities? Ever? I think Donahue is either insane, or I really don't have a very clear idea of what Christian sensibilities are. Hitler wasn't worse? Chocolate Jesus is worse than Hitler? Or are they in the same category? What about all the Christians Stalin killed? Or heck, what about the Romans? Didn't they staple Jesus to a cross? But I guess these offenses don't assault Christian sensibilities, only Christians.
Apparently the gallery was overrun with angry phone calls and e-mails. Cavallaro received several death threats. I guess he really did assault Christian sensibilities, because a bunch of Christians were willing to break a commandment to prove it.
Look, I have nothing against people deluding themselves, as long as it doesn't infringe on my rights. But lately it seems as though it does more or more, and now religious zealots have infringed on Cavallaro's right to sculpt something stupid. I may not like his sculpture, but I absolutely believe he has a right to sculpt whatever he wants out of milk chocolate. So my sensibilities have been assaulted by this whole inane affair, and until yesterday I didn't think I had sensibilities, just a persistent ringing in my ear and an endless headache. If you can't take a little criticism of your beliefs (and chocolate Jesus wasn't even that!), then you're beliefs can't be worth much, can they? Doesn't all this cry baby crap remind you of a child who throws a hissy fit when someone tries to tell him there's no such thing as the Easter Bunny? Thank Jesus no one has had the audacity to make an Easter Bunny out of chocolate! Imagine the outrage!
1/30/2007
Blog Tag
I've been tagged. For those of you who don't know what this means, click here: http://pulverblog.pulver.com/archives/006087.html. CrankyPants doesn't like being tagged any more than he likes being run over by an 18-wheeler barreling down the highway at near the speed of light, but that's because CrankyPants doesn't like to be told what to do. CrankyPants also hates it when CrankyPants refers to himself in the the third person, but that's a topic for another day. So my friend, let's call him Alan Shepperd (http://philipshane.com/), tagged me. Alan is the sort of uncranky sort who loves the site of beautiful vistas in the morning, who gets off climbing mountains and walking in the desert, who can't bear the clusterfuck atmosphere of New York City so has to escape, tail between legs, to Los Angeles (with his lovely and talented wife) where everyone drives like a human being and people smile and say hello and wave to you from their cars if you wave at them, and where the temperature is 70 degrees and sunny on the worst days of winter and where the Mexican food tastes like Mexican food and where fruits and vegetables taste like fruits and vegetables. You call that living?
I was going to write a nasty letter to Alan and to the CIA (and, just for spite, to Steve Jobs), but I had a large bowl of bran cereal this morning so I'm feeling unusually mellow. Still, I wasn't going to be coerced into a tag response until I talked the matter over with my Grandpa Schlomo who said, "Oy, my blog is so bad in the morning sometimes I have to squeeze my own juice, if you know what I mean." I didn't, but that made me realize that life is short and I shouldn't waste it sitting at my computer reading thought-provoking essays and the New York Times when I could, instead, be joining the mass of self-important blogophiles. So without further ado (and sadly, no accompaniment), here are FIVE THINGS YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT ME:
1) I hate blogs. It's a paradox, I know, but why didn't you know this about me? Haven't you been paying attention? Blogs are another of those cultural memes that have come to represent "everything that's wrong about us." It's all about "me, me, me, so shut up and pay attention to me." Alas, CrankyPants is many things: an elite cultural critic, a gourmet chef, the former star of the television show "Emergency," and a victim of the very culturalness that he so haughtily critiques. That is, I'm split into two crankypanted people, the one who loves and embraces all things new and American and wasteful, and the one who'd rather watch a Patrick Swayze film marathon while sitting next to Dick Cheney than read another self-indulgent blog. That's right, the truth is out, and the Culture Lovin' CrankyPants has finally to confess this: if I could be any Star Trek character in the world, it'd be Captain Kirk, fighting lizard-like aliens and making love to sweet, green alien ladies, and NOT that CrankyPanted vulcan, Spock! Bonus: I also hate that my blogger spellcheck flags the word "blog."
2) I like sports. Many of you do know this about me, but I'm always amazed that people who first meet me (and don't go running off to Los Angeles) are stunned to learn I follow several sports teams and captain a softball team. Sure, sports culture around the world is a disturbing example of the worst aspects of humanity, such as our intransigent desire to be part of a tribe, to identify with something bigger, cooler and better looking than ourselves (because we're afraid to confront our own "I-ness"). Sports fandomness is surely a sign of an immature mind, but I'm CrankyPants. Did you think I was Albert Schweister or Elvis Presley or something? Here's hoping the Colts fall on their faces in the SuperBowl!
3) I used to be short. That's right, I'm a strapping lad of six foot, one inch now, but I grew very, very slowly, so when I was a freshman in high school I was one of the shortest kids in my class. Ditto my sophomore year, but then I started eating fruits, vegetables and Mexican food and something amazing happened. I kept growing, and growing and by my senior year, I was taller than all of my friends. Very satisfying at the time, but alas, the dye was cast before I sprouted: deep down, I still think and act like a short guy who can't get attention unless he jumps up on a hotel bed, strips off his clothes and sings his favorite musical numbers. Oh yeah, I did that once in a hotel room in front of my friends and my sister when I was eleven years old.
4) My favorite word is weltschmerz. \VELT-shmairts\ noun, often capitalized: "a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state." It's my favorite because I think there should be an English word for this, and because I think Weltschmerz is the source of all the suffering and misunderstanding in the world, and on soap operas. I know it's the biggest problem I have, because I'm always comparing reality to an idealized state and thinking, "damn, if only they didn't call that one penalty on Troy Brown in the first half of the game, the Patriots would have beaten the Colts," or "if only I'd spoken to that woman on the subway platform I'd be married now with two smart kids and living in a warm, happy place like Los Angeles instead of living here, in this institution where they insist daily I shake my pesky valium habit..." Bonus: I also really like the word katzenjammer. \KAT-zun-jam-er\ noun "1 : hangover 2 : distress 3 : a discordant clamor." As in, "I'd get a lot more done in the morning if I didn't drink all night and wake with this blinding katzenjammer."
5) I love living things. Sure, I enjoy the mountains, the cliffs, the streams and the desert as much as Alan Sheppard, but I'm always more fascinated by living creatures. When I go to the desert I want to see a lizard or a cactus tree or an eagle. I even love bugs (except cockroaches) and I'm amazed by Sequoia trees. Standing before them always fills me with incredible awe, thinking they were alive and unbending way before blackberrys, Apple IPhones, Pontiac LeMans', George Burns and the "discovery" of America. If only they could talk, we'd all be better off. Weltschmerz!
I was going to write a nasty letter to Alan and to the CIA (and, just for spite, to Steve Jobs), but I had a large bowl of bran cereal this morning so I'm feeling unusually mellow. Still, I wasn't going to be coerced into a tag response until I talked the matter over with my Grandpa Schlomo who said, "Oy, my blog is so bad in the morning sometimes I have to squeeze my own juice, if you know what I mean." I didn't, but that made me realize that life is short and I shouldn't waste it sitting at my computer reading thought-provoking essays and the New York Times when I could, instead, be joining the mass of self-important blogophiles. So without further ado (and sadly, no accompaniment), here are FIVE THINGS YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT ME:
1) I hate blogs. It's a paradox, I know, but why didn't you know this about me? Haven't you been paying attention? Blogs are another of those cultural memes that have come to represent "everything that's wrong about us." It's all about "me, me, me, so shut up and pay attention to me." Alas, CrankyPants is many things: an elite cultural critic, a gourmet chef, the former star of the television show "Emergency," and a victim of the very culturalness that he so haughtily critiques. That is, I'm split into two crankypanted people, the one who loves and embraces all things new and American and wasteful, and the one who'd rather watch a Patrick Swayze film marathon while sitting next to Dick Cheney than read another self-indulgent blog. That's right, the truth is out, and the Culture Lovin' CrankyPants has finally to confess this: if I could be any Star Trek character in the world, it'd be Captain Kirk, fighting lizard-like aliens and making love to sweet, green alien ladies, and NOT that CrankyPanted vulcan, Spock! Bonus: I also hate that my blogger spellcheck flags the word "blog."
2) I like sports. Many of you do know this about me, but I'm always amazed that people who first meet me (and don't go running off to Los Angeles) are stunned to learn I follow several sports teams and captain a softball team. Sure, sports culture around the world is a disturbing example of the worst aspects of humanity, such as our intransigent desire to be part of a tribe, to identify with something bigger, cooler and better looking than ourselves (because we're afraid to confront our own "I-ness"). Sports fandomness is surely a sign of an immature mind, but I'm CrankyPants. Did you think I was Albert Schweister or Elvis Presley or something? Here's hoping the Colts fall on their faces in the SuperBowl!
3) I used to be short. That's right, I'm a strapping lad of six foot, one inch now, but I grew very, very slowly, so when I was a freshman in high school I was one of the shortest kids in my class. Ditto my sophomore year, but then I started eating fruits, vegetables and Mexican food and something amazing happened. I kept growing, and growing and by my senior year, I was taller than all of my friends. Very satisfying at the time, but alas, the dye was cast before I sprouted: deep down, I still think and act like a short guy who can't get attention unless he jumps up on a hotel bed, strips off his clothes and sings his favorite musical numbers. Oh yeah, I did that once in a hotel room in front of my friends and my sister when I was eleven years old.
4) My favorite word is weltschmerz. \VELT-shmairts\ noun, often capitalized: "a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state." It's my favorite because I think there should be an English word for this, and because I think Weltschmerz is the source of all the suffering and misunderstanding in the world, and on soap operas. I know it's the biggest problem I have, because I'm always comparing reality to an idealized state and thinking, "damn, if only they didn't call that one penalty on Troy Brown in the first half of the game, the Patriots would have beaten the Colts," or "if only I'd spoken to that woman on the subway platform I'd be married now with two smart kids and living in a warm, happy place like Los Angeles instead of living here, in this institution where they insist daily I shake my pesky valium habit..." Bonus: I also really like the word katzenjammer. \KAT-zun-jam-er\ noun "1 : hangover 2 : distress 3 : a discordant clamor." As in, "I'd get a lot more done in the morning if I didn't drink all night and wake with this blinding katzenjammer."
5) I love living things. Sure, I enjoy the mountains, the cliffs, the streams and the desert as much as Alan Sheppard, but I'm always more fascinated by living creatures. When I go to the desert I want to see a lizard or a cactus tree or an eagle. I even love bugs (except cockroaches) and I'm amazed by Sequoia trees. Standing before them always fills me with incredible awe, thinking they were alive and unbending way before blackberrys, Apple IPhones, Pontiac LeMans', George Burns and the "discovery" of America. If only they could talk, we'd all be better off. Weltschmerz!
11/21/2006
Dream Seats II (or How I Met Rupert Murdoch)
The day after Rupert Murdoch, that evil, slime-mongering dicator of sleaze, pulled plans to publish OJ Simpson's "controversial" book, If I wink wink Did It, I hightailed it down to a hip east village bar to celebrate the fact that I'd survived another day at work without decapitating anyone, and to hear some music. Perhaps, I naively thought, there really was good in the world, even though even Happy Stan knows Murdoch and his band of merry Bill O'Reilly's yanked the OJ slimebomb off the shelves because the evil empire was going to lose more from lost ads and stonings than the book was going to bring in. But I was out of work and music always brings me closer to what I imagine others would call "happiness."
I got to the bar -- a tiny, hip dive on Avenue C -- and met my friends about 45 minutes before the concert was scheduled to begin, which meant we got seats -- okay, barstools -- in the back, about fifteen feet from the podium. Great seats, great bar and if my heart weren't made of lead, I would have been excited. I even thought for a moment: life is... Then eight girls entered the bar and took the remaining seats to my right. At first I thought little of them, because after all I'm a man of the people and I've learned to embrace humans from all walks of life, even twenty-somethings. They chatted and giggled loudly, but I glanced their way on occasion only to see if any of them might be my potential future wife. No such luck. In fact, given a choice between marriage to one of them and death by over exposure to Donald Rumsfeld, I would have chosen the latter. And it wasn't because they weren't cute and pert (which they weren't). It was because they were everything wrong with America. They were evil. They were people who would have stood in line to buy OJ's book. They were Rupert Murdoch! Would I marry Rupert Murdoch? Sure I would, I'm a writer, I'm not stupid. But Rupert's loaded -- come to papa, sugar-daddy. These girls were loaded in a very different sense.
People continued to stream into the bar as the temperature in the room rose above 250 degrees, but my compatriot -- call her ''The Tolerant Friend" (or "TTF") -- swore the music would make it all worthwhile. And I believed her because she's TTF and she's never lied to me, except for when it's been for my own good, which is every day. There were people all around me, people pushing past me, people reaching over me to get their drinks at the bar, but as I mentioned, I'm a man of the people and I was willing to endure their transgressions because, deep down, I love mankind as much as I love that funny feeling I get when I swallow my gum. So great: the music begins, it's a mix of bluegrass, country and soul and I feel my blood pressure begin to release, which it does when I listen to music or look at pictures of teddy bears. But the girls wouldn't stop talking. In fact, they raised their voices: after all, they couldn't hear each other and how else could they carry on a conversation during a performance? Speak up, Ashley, there's a band playing and if we talk loud enough, you know, scream, we can hear each other. Others stared at them. One brave soul leaned over and asked them to quiet down. The "girl" he addressed smiled. At him. And continued her conversation. I thought to say something to one of these people, but I hate confrontation and I also knew that these girls were built in a land (a home) of self-entitlement. They were grown babies and would look upon any effort to bring them to order, to show respect, as an encroachment on their inalienable rights to being bitches. They're of the sort who say "thank-you" in that little sing-song that really means, "You're so beneath me, I'm not thanking you, I don't thank anyone, I don't respect anything, except money and a punch in the face, and you're not man enough to do bring home either, motherfucker." To make matters worse, two friends of the evil eight arrived after the performance had begun. They stood to my left -- there was no room to pass in this packed bar -- and started signaling and chatting with their friends on the other side of me. My earlier theory about the girls was confirmed when TTF politely leaned over to the two new girls and asked them to be quiet while the band played. One of the girls actually said, "Well, you don't have to be so rude." TTF was rude. That's what she was saying. The girl was screaming to her friends during a concert, ignoring glares and "quiet please's" and TTF was rude.
Here are some things I wish could have happened:
1) I gather myself during a break and for once I'm articulate in a moment of rage and I say, "Will you fucking bitches shut the hell up? What? I'm rude? You're everything that's wrong with America. You're the result of parents who don't know how to create boundaries, to truly love their kids, to help them form proper attachments, to teach them that other people exist and that yes, they should respect those other people. And I hope that in five or ten years you'll be able to look back on how you are now and think, god, what a bitch I was, that guy was right, but I know that's not going to happen, because you're never going to grow up, you're going to be stuck in that miserable, self-indulgent body until you die, and you'll die miserably and alone because you know what, you're both of those already. Now why don't you take your so-called friends outside and do us all a big favor and get run over by a very large, disease-ridden bus."
2) The leader of the band stops and throws his guitar across the room and everyone goes silent. Except for the chatting girls, because of course they're oblivious. And everyone in the room stares and stares. And stares and stares. Until finally one of the girls notices and she blushes and points out to her friends that everyone in the bar is staring menancingly at them. Then the girls magically tranform into piles of poo, and the concert continues.
3) The devil, in the form of Rupert Murdoch, appears in the center of the room, hovering like a spector, and begins singing the theme song to The Duke of Hazzard, because, he says, it's his favorite show, and then that hot chick from the movie version of the show appears too and it turns out she's sensitive and smart, and we leave the bar together just as Rupert is singing, "Just good ol' boys..." and we never look back, we keep walking into the sunset.
4) TTF tells me I'm on a reality show called "Hanging with Bitches," and hands me a million dollars for lasting as long as I did. Everyone congratulates me, and then that Dukes of Hazzard thing from above happens.
Of course, there was no quieting down those girls, and so I left before the concert was over. It was cold outside (and, sniff, inside my heart as well), but at least I'd taken what little action I could under the circumstances. The world needs teachers, it seems, to educate people like this (there's only so much one cranky person can do), but in the meantime, it's a shame the rest of us have to put up with Rupert and his land of idiots. Next time I'm bringing my Taser.
I got to the bar -- a tiny, hip dive on Avenue C -- and met my friends about 45 minutes before the concert was scheduled to begin, which meant we got seats -- okay, barstools -- in the back, about fifteen feet from the podium. Great seats, great bar and if my heart weren't made of lead, I would have been excited. I even thought for a moment: life is... Then eight girls entered the bar and took the remaining seats to my right. At first I thought little of them, because after all I'm a man of the people and I've learned to embrace humans from all walks of life, even twenty-somethings. They chatted and giggled loudly, but I glanced their way on occasion only to see if any of them might be my potential future wife. No such luck. In fact, given a choice between marriage to one of them and death by over exposure to Donald Rumsfeld, I would have chosen the latter. And it wasn't because they weren't cute and pert (which they weren't). It was because they were everything wrong with America. They were evil. They were people who would have stood in line to buy OJ's book. They were Rupert Murdoch! Would I marry Rupert Murdoch? Sure I would, I'm a writer, I'm not stupid. But Rupert's loaded -- come to papa, sugar-daddy. These girls were loaded in a very different sense.
People continued to stream into the bar as the temperature in the room rose above 250 degrees, but my compatriot -- call her ''The Tolerant Friend" (or "TTF") -- swore the music would make it all worthwhile. And I believed her because she's TTF and she's never lied to me, except for when it's been for my own good, which is every day. There were people all around me, people pushing past me, people reaching over me to get their drinks at the bar, but as I mentioned, I'm a man of the people and I was willing to endure their transgressions because, deep down, I love mankind as much as I love that funny feeling I get when I swallow my gum. So great: the music begins, it's a mix of bluegrass, country and soul and I feel my blood pressure begin to release, which it does when I listen to music or look at pictures of teddy bears. But the girls wouldn't stop talking. In fact, they raised their voices: after all, they couldn't hear each other and how else could they carry on a conversation during a performance? Speak up, Ashley, there's a band playing and if we talk loud enough, you know, scream, we can hear each other. Others stared at them. One brave soul leaned over and asked them to quiet down. The "girl" he addressed smiled. At him. And continued her conversation. I thought to say something to one of these people, but I hate confrontation and I also knew that these girls were built in a land (a home) of self-entitlement. They were grown babies and would look upon any effort to bring them to order, to show respect, as an encroachment on their inalienable rights to being bitches. They're of the sort who say "thank-you" in that little sing-song that really means, "You're so beneath me, I'm not thanking you, I don't thank anyone, I don't respect anything, except money and a punch in the face, and you're not man enough to do bring home either, motherfucker." To make matters worse, two friends of the evil eight arrived after the performance had begun. They stood to my left -- there was no room to pass in this packed bar -- and started signaling and chatting with their friends on the other side of me. My earlier theory about the girls was confirmed when TTF politely leaned over to the two new girls and asked them to be quiet while the band played. One of the girls actually said, "Well, you don't have to be so rude." TTF was rude. That's what she was saying. The girl was screaming to her friends during a concert, ignoring glares and "quiet please's" and TTF was rude.
Here are some things I wish could have happened:
1) I gather myself during a break and for once I'm articulate in a moment of rage and I say, "Will you fucking bitches shut the hell up? What? I'm rude? You're everything that's wrong with America. You're the result of parents who don't know how to create boundaries, to truly love their kids, to help them form proper attachments, to teach them that other people exist and that yes, they should respect those other people. And I hope that in five or ten years you'll be able to look back on how you are now and think, god, what a bitch I was, that guy was right, but I know that's not going to happen, because you're never going to grow up, you're going to be stuck in that miserable, self-indulgent body until you die, and you'll die miserably and alone because you know what, you're both of those already. Now why don't you take your so-called friends outside and do us all a big favor and get run over by a very large, disease-ridden bus."
2) The leader of the band stops and throws his guitar across the room and everyone goes silent. Except for the chatting girls, because of course they're oblivious. And everyone in the room stares and stares. And stares and stares. Until finally one of the girls notices and she blushes and points out to her friends that everyone in the bar is staring menancingly at them. Then the girls magically tranform into piles of poo, and the concert continues.
3) The devil, in the form of Rupert Murdoch, appears in the center of the room, hovering like a spector, and begins singing the theme song to The Duke of Hazzard, because, he says, it's his favorite show, and then that hot chick from the movie version of the show appears too and it turns out she's sensitive and smart, and we leave the bar together just as Rupert is singing, "Just good ol' boys..." and we never look back, we keep walking into the sunset.
4) TTF tells me I'm on a reality show called "Hanging with Bitches," and hands me a million dollars for lasting as long as I did. Everyone congratulates me, and then that Dukes of Hazzard thing from above happens.
Of course, there was no quieting down those girls, and so I left before the concert was over. It was cold outside (and, sniff, inside my heart as well), but at least I'd taken what little action I could under the circumstances. The world needs teachers, it seems, to educate people like this (there's only so much one cranky person can do), but in the meantime, it's a shame the rest of us have to put up with Rupert and his land of idiots. Next time I'm bringing my Taser.
11/10/2006
GREs
I'm applying to graduate school and never mind asking in what subject, because it's not really your business and it's besides the point. What is the point is that I was required, as part of my application process, to take the Graduate Record Examinations, or GREs as they are affectionately referred to by people, like nuns and actors on TV, who refer to things with affection. The GREs are divided into three helpful sections: verbal, math and analytical, and while this is certainly enough to test my ability to answer difficult word problems and analogies, it doesn't begin to address an even more important subject: how low I'm willing to grovel in order to make these grad schools like me. "Oh please, please like me," Happy Stan recommended I write on page one of my applications, but I have too much integrity for that. But I WAS willing to sit in a tiny room with 20 other go-getter types for four hours and answer questions on a computer screen.
I am not a scientist, but I can spell "science" and without question that gives me the authority to say the following: the GREs test your ability to take the GREs and not much else. Sure, some of the questions are difficult [SEE BELOW FOR SAMPLE QUESTIONS], but there are innumerable classes you can take and books you can study in order to improve your score. The verbal section, replete with analogies, antonyms, sentence completions and reading comprehension questions dense enough to make an elephant choke, don't test in any way how well you'll be able to learn science terms if you're going to be a scientist, or even how well you reason. The tests aren't really useful for testing how you'll do in any particularly subject. And they're annoying.
So what are the GREs really testing? It's this: how hard you might work when you actually enroll in graduate school. Which isn't so bad, I suppose, since grad schools are investing in students as much as students are investing in grad schools (except students are investing their life savings, and grad schools are making millions). But some programs don't even use the scores! My programs require them only because they're required by the larger universities to which I'm applying. So that makes it even more annoying that I lost sleep over the buggers. Lots of sleep. More sleep than I'll ever get back (rest assured, I am not going to grad school to study time travel, so that sleep is long gone). Because I hate tests more than I hate mold season. I get nervous preparing for tests, the tests begin to occupy my every thought, action and taste, I can't sleep, or eat, tests, just, test, Tests, TESTS! So why do they make us take these meaningless, painful, tooth-pulling exams? Because those who don't take them will turn to a life of a crime and give the rest of us something to clean up after.
Here are some sample math and verbal questions:
Math:
1) If Ted has six sisters, three are named Elizabeth and one runs for President of the United States, and x = 13, what is the likelihood that Ted had too many raisinettes when he went to see the latest screening of Borat last night: A) 16! B) 16/x C) 16 D) 1.6 E) All of the above.
2) Which is greater, A or B:
x = 13 orangatuns, y = 4 lemon drops
Quantity A =x - y Quantity B = 11
Quantity A is greater
Quantity B is greater
Quantity A equals Quantity B
Relationship Indeterminate Since Orangatuns are not Crustaceans
3) Using the triangle not given and assuming x = 7, let us know if that guy is bothering you. Yeah, that one over there. Yeah, you. What? What did you say? Are you looking at me, because I'll come over there, man. What? Oh no, you di'nt. Just turn your fat head around and finish your test, because you know you don't want to see me mad. A) 90 degrees B) 45 degrees C) Damn, just turn around! D) 10 degrees E) Damn!
Verbal:
1) Rhinoceros is to GRE as
A) Hippo is to GRE
B) Llama is to GRE
C) Caterpillar is to GRE
D) Wallet is to Empty
E) Elapsed
2) Find the word that is most closely opposite in meaning to the following word: Defibrilator. A ) Trophy B) Sponge C) Boutros Boutros Gali D) Kareem Abdul Jabar E) Defibrilator
3) Answer this question after reading the following text which we have reduced to the size of an electron: if Batman had a gun, could he beat up Superman?
I am not a scientist, but I can spell "science" and without question that gives me the authority to say the following: the GREs test your ability to take the GREs and not much else. Sure, some of the questions are difficult [SEE BELOW FOR SAMPLE QUESTIONS], but there are innumerable classes you can take and books you can study in order to improve your score. The verbal section, replete with analogies, antonyms, sentence completions and reading comprehension questions dense enough to make an elephant choke, don't test in any way how well you'll be able to learn science terms if you're going to be a scientist, or even how well you reason. The tests aren't really useful for testing how you'll do in any particularly subject. And they're annoying.
So what are the GREs really testing? It's this: how hard you might work when you actually enroll in graduate school. Which isn't so bad, I suppose, since grad schools are investing in students as much as students are investing in grad schools (except students are investing their life savings, and grad schools are making millions). But some programs don't even use the scores! My programs require them only because they're required by the larger universities to which I'm applying. So that makes it even more annoying that I lost sleep over the buggers. Lots of sleep. More sleep than I'll ever get back (rest assured, I am not going to grad school to study time travel, so that sleep is long gone). Because I hate tests more than I hate mold season. I get nervous preparing for tests, the tests begin to occupy my every thought, action and taste, I can't sleep, or eat, tests, just, test, Tests, TESTS! So why do they make us take these meaningless, painful, tooth-pulling exams? Because those who don't take them will turn to a life of a crime and give the rest of us something to clean up after.
Here are some sample math and verbal questions:
Math:
1) If Ted has six sisters, three are named Elizabeth and one runs for President of the United States, and x = 13, what is the likelihood that Ted had too many raisinettes when he went to see the latest screening of Borat last night: A) 16! B) 16/x C) 16 D) 1.6 E) All of the above.
2) Which is greater, A or B:
x = 13 orangatuns, y = 4 lemon drops
Quantity A =x - y Quantity B = 11
Quantity A is greater
Quantity B is greater
Quantity A equals Quantity B
Relationship Indeterminate Since Orangatuns are not Crustaceans
3) Using the triangle not given and assuming x = 7, let us know if that guy is bothering you. Yeah, that one over there. Yeah, you. What? What did you say? Are you looking at me, because I'll come over there, man. What? Oh no, you di'nt. Just turn your fat head around and finish your test, because you know you don't want to see me mad. A) 90 degrees B) 45 degrees C) Damn, just turn around! D) 10 degrees E) Damn!
Verbal:
1) Rhinoceros is to GRE as
A) Hippo is to GRE
B) Llama is to GRE
C) Caterpillar is to GRE
D) Wallet is to Empty
E) Elapsed
2) Find the word that is most closely opposite in meaning to the following word: Defibrilator. A ) Trophy B) Sponge C) Boutros Boutros Gali D) Kareem Abdul Jabar E) Defibrilator
3) Answer this question after reading the following text which we have reduced to the size of an electron: if Batman had a gun, could he beat up Superman?
10/08/2006
Dream Seats
If there's one thing in the world I really love, it's going to a spacious theater on a Saturday night, relaxing with a large box of popcorn and a 150 mg Zantac, sitting back to enjoy a movie without annoying disruptions from my phone, my blackberry or other humans. If I had it my way (and I do, but only when I dream), I'd build a giant theater for myself and attend movies daily -- Martin Scorsese style -- and allow only friends and other billionaires into my special cave. But since I'm probably not dreaming, nothing causes my GERD to flare up quite as much as people who arrive at the theater too late to find a good seat, or, even worse, after the movie has begun and ask me to move to accomodate their self-entitled, flabby asses.
I went to see the "Science of Sleep" the other day (a movie apparently made about my entire 20s) and got there early and claimed a cozy seat near the middle-back. Those who filled in the row around me sensed my surlyness and as the theater filled I found myself with empty human-holders on both sides, which was fine with me: more room to stretch my too-long-for-the-movies-or-flying-in-airplanes legs. Happy Stan says I should use the opportunity at the movies to chat with other movie goers, but that's only because HS thinks I secretly like people.
About 17 seconds before the movie began I felt a tap on my shoulder and as I turned to bite off the offender's arm I heard him say, "would you mind moving over one so my girlfriend and I can sit together?" He had an English accent, long stringy hair and a vibe like Keith Richards, only without the rock stardom and years of drug abuse to back it up. In short, he was a lightweight hipster. Dude, where the hell were you when I was taking this sit 35 minutes ago? I didn't show up early to save you a seat. I couldn't help myself, I actually said that. He was flustered and I saw for a moment a flicker of fear: oh no, this guy is crazy. In New York anything is possible and he didn't know if I was about to stand up and cut off his head with a machete. But I moved over one, finally, because -- wait, why did I move? Perhaps because that moment, over a single movie seat, wasn't the best time to make a stand on principle. But then, when is? If we don't stop the bleeding, the decay, soon, if we don't prevent the ones who live in a cloud (and don't have their own blogs), the ones who do not realize other people exist, from destroying what little sense of humanity our culture has, who will? And don't tell me Paris Hilton, because I'll just slap you.
What gets me about these people is that they're oblivious to their own obliviousness. They think it's okay to inconvenience others to compensate for their laziness, tardiness or whatever -ness they're full of. I was waiting in line the other day at the movies with a friend (I have two) and the line stretched around the block. When they finally let us in a middle-aged woman tried to turn the corner and jump into line. Fortunately, a fellow cranky-panter was on the job and stopped her short with, "do you think I was born yesterday, lady?" What's wrong with her? I know what's wrong. She thinks she's more important than everyone else. She has no empathy, no capacity for love: she's all greed and American go-get 'em-ness. Another -ness taken to extremes. Makes me want to drift off, to sleep, to escape into my own moldable reality.
I often dream of being lost in large, empty buildings, of stumbling up dark steps, of winding through cavernous rooms. I'm invariably alone on these treks, slightly out of sorts, but not completely panicked. Is my brain telling me I'm lost? Or that too often my own psyche is unknowable, even to myself?
The movie was very good, as it turned out, and told the sad story of a boy-man who can't deal with the reality of dating, or of any other people, because he lives his entire life in a dream. The irony struck me only later, but then I wondered if I might not be better off disappearing into my own psychosis, like the protagonist of the film. At least I'd get a nice seat in an empty movie theater every time. I'm so close.
I went to see the "Science of Sleep" the other day (a movie apparently made about my entire 20s) and got there early and claimed a cozy seat near the middle-back. Those who filled in the row around me sensed my surlyness and as the theater filled I found myself with empty human-holders on both sides, which was fine with me: more room to stretch my too-long-for-the-movies-or-flying-in-airplanes legs. Happy Stan says I should use the opportunity at the movies to chat with other movie goers, but that's only because HS thinks I secretly like people.
About 17 seconds before the movie began I felt a tap on my shoulder and as I turned to bite off the offender's arm I heard him say, "would you mind moving over one so my girlfriend and I can sit together?" He had an English accent, long stringy hair and a vibe like Keith Richards, only without the rock stardom and years of drug abuse to back it up. In short, he was a lightweight hipster. Dude, where the hell were you when I was taking this sit 35 minutes ago? I didn't show up early to save you a seat. I couldn't help myself, I actually said that. He was flustered and I saw for a moment a flicker of fear: oh no, this guy is crazy. In New York anything is possible and he didn't know if I was about to stand up and cut off his head with a machete. But I moved over one, finally, because -- wait, why did I move? Perhaps because that moment, over a single movie seat, wasn't the best time to make a stand on principle. But then, when is? If we don't stop the bleeding, the decay, soon, if we don't prevent the ones who live in a cloud (and don't have their own blogs), the ones who do not realize other people exist, from destroying what little sense of humanity our culture has, who will? And don't tell me Paris Hilton, because I'll just slap you.
What gets me about these people is that they're oblivious to their own obliviousness. They think it's okay to inconvenience others to compensate for their laziness, tardiness or whatever -ness they're full of. I was waiting in line the other day at the movies with a friend (I have two) and the line stretched around the block. When they finally let us in a middle-aged woman tried to turn the corner and jump into line. Fortunately, a fellow cranky-panter was on the job and stopped her short with, "do you think I was born yesterday, lady?" What's wrong with her? I know what's wrong. She thinks she's more important than everyone else. She has no empathy, no capacity for love: she's all greed and American go-get 'em-ness. Another -ness taken to extremes. Makes me want to drift off, to sleep, to escape into my own moldable reality.
I often dream of being lost in large, empty buildings, of stumbling up dark steps, of winding through cavernous rooms. I'm invariably alone on these treks, slightly out of sorts, but not completely panicked. Is my brain telling me I'm lost? Or that too often my own psyche is unknowable, even to myself?
The movie was very good, as it turned out, and told the sad story of a boy-man who can't deal with the reality of dating, or of any other people, because he lives his entire life in a dream. The irony struck me only later, but then I wondered if I might not be better off disappearing into my own psychosis, like the protagonist of the film. At least I'd get a nice seat in an empty movie theater every time. I'm so close.
9/18/2006
Happy Fitness
I've taken to exercising along with fitness programs on television in an effort to find ways to stay in shape while avoiding paying half my salary to a gym where I have to wait in line ten minutes to tone those hard to reach lats. After watching a bunch, I realized something was off, and it wasn't just my right hip. It was THEM.
I have nothing against the TV exercise instructors, because their crunching their abs to make sure I don't turn into a tubby ball of goo. I respect 'em. But what burns my buns more than Ellen Barrett after an hour long workout is this: they can't stop smiling. It's relentless. It's as if they've been hypnotized by Ms. America, it's like they're auditioning for Valley of the Dolls, it's as if their brains have been sucked out through a straw and replaced by vanilla milkshakes. What's with all the smiling, kids? You're sweating! Just once I'd like to see Ellen lean over her knee, wipe her forehead and exclaim, "fuck, this workout is kicking my ass!"
Wouldn't that make you feel better (and by you, I mean "me")? Because you're not even bending over, wiping your forehead and exclaiming anything, because you stopped about halfway through the workout, walked outside, kicked the neighbor's cat and bought yourself an ice cream Sundae. You're a human being, after all, and wouldn't it be easier to finish one of those workouts if the person you were following was human as well? No, it wouldn't, who are you trying to kid? You're lazy, stop blaming Ellen Barrett.
Wait, I've gotten off track again. Okay, I would marry Ellen. She's perky, in shape and she says things like, "You're doing great," which, lets face it, is something most guys want to hear in as many contexts as possible. But I'd love to see her after the show, clutching her side: "Damn, I've got a cramp, I've got a cramp." That would make her endearing, lovable and more like you, me and everyone else. So what's with all the phony smiling?
I think it's because we're living in a culture where nothing is supposed to be difficult. If it's hard to do, it's not worth doing. My Uncle Abe was over my house the other day to watch football and eat me out of nachos when he said, in between bouts of terrible gas, "There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering." It sounded like something Theodore Roosevelt would say, but my Uncle has a way of exceeding the intelligence of our collective human history. His point is that no one gets anything done unless he applies himself, but marketing people know they can convince you that it's not true. They put a shine, a gloss on everything -- they want you to waste your life, to sit in front of the television and get excited by the Dustbuster, they want you to go to your computer and order a thighmaster, they want you to eat McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken and put enough pressure on your poor heart to turn a coal into a diamond. They want you to pin a numb smile on your face, go through life like a dummy, smiling meaninglessly all the way into the dirt. They want you -- us -- to believe life is SUPPOSED to be easy. Life, lets face it, isn't easy, and in our culture there are too many reasons for giving up, for addicting yourself to Ally McBeal, cocaine or self-love blogging.
The fitness experts know what's going on, they're on the front lines, because that body they have took a shitload of work. Someone, I suspect, is forcing them to do all that smiling. The producers are convinced it's the only way audiences will stick with it: "Make it seem easy, Ellen." The experts need to get their own channel, run by fitness gurus, owned by fitness gurus, where they can whisper to us honestly: "Look, this is going to take a lot of work, you slob. But after a few months, if you stick with me, you might be able to climb down a flight of stairs without losing your breath. You and I are just alike except for one thing. I do 500 crunches a day and you can't lay off those Twinkies. You disgust me!"
Ellen, don't hesitate to say hi!
I have nothing against the TV exercise instructors, because their crunching their abs to make sure I don't turn into a tubby ball of goo. I respect 'em. But what burns my buns more than Ellen Barrett after an hour long workout is this: they can't stop smiling. It's relentless. It's as if they've been hypnotized by Ms. America, it's like they're auditioning for Valley of the Dolls, it's as if their brains have been sucked out through a straw and replaced by vanilla milkshakes. What's with all the smiling, kids? You're sweating! Just once I'd like to see Ellen lean over her knee, wipe her forehead and exclaim, "fuck, this workout is kicking my ass!"
Wouldn't that make you feel better (and by you, I mean "me")? Because you're not even bending over, wiping your forehead and exclaiming anything, because you stopped about halfway through the workout, walked outside, kicked the neighbor's cat and bought yourself an ice cream Sundae. You're a human being, after all, and wouldn't it be easier to finish one of those workouts if the person you were following was human as well? No, it wouldn't, who are you trying to kid? You're lazy, stop blaming Ellen Barrett.
Wait, I've gotten off track again. Okay, I would marry Ellen. She's perky, in shape and she says things like, "You're doing great," which, lets face it, is something most guys want to hear in as many contexts as possible. But I'd love to see her after the show, clutching her side: "Damn, I've got a cramp, I've got a cramp." That would make her endearing, lovable and more like you, me and everyone else. So what's with all the phony smiling?
I think it's because we're living in a culture where nothing is supposed to be difficult. If it's hard to do, it's not worth doing. My Uncle Abe was over my house the other day to watch football and eat me out of nachos when he said, in between bouts of terrible gas, "There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering." It sounded like something Theodore Roosevelt would say, but my Uncle has a way of exceeding the intelligence of our collective human history. His point is that no one gets anything done unless he applies himself, but marketing people know they can convince you that it's not true. They put a shine, a gloss on everything -- they want you to waste your life, to sit in front of the television and get excited by the Dustbuster, they want you to go to your computer and order a thighmaster, they want you to eat McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken and put enough pressure on your poor heart to turn a coal into a diamond. They want you to pin a numb smile on your face, go through life like a dummy, smiling meaninglessly all the way into the dirt. They want you -- us -- to believe life is SUPPOSED to be easy. Life, lets face it, isn't easy, and in our culture there are too many reasons for giving up, for addicting yourself to Ally McBeal, cocaine or self-love blogging.
The fitness experts know what's going on, they're on the front lines, because that body they have took a shitload of work. Someone, I suspect, is forcing them to do all that smiling. The producers are convinced it's the only way audiences will stick with it: "Make it seem easy, Ellen." The experts need to get their own channel, run by fitness gurus, owned by fitness gurus, where they can whisper to us honestly: "Look, this is going to take a lot of work, you slob. But after a few months, if you stick with me, you might be able to climb down a flight of stairs without losing your breath. You and I are just alike except for one thing. I do 500 crunches a day and you can't lay off those Twinkies. You disgust me!"
Ellen, don't hesitate to say hi!
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