It seems that every time I make a full commitment to getting healthy and becoming one of those thriving hearty types I despise, God and/or CNN conspires against me.

I quit smoking…again. This time for real…again. Last time I did this I lasted two whole years before I started to wane and then fall full into habit (I blame 9/11; Karl Rove and Dick CHeney. I take no personal responsibility.) After an outrageously indulgent Labor Day weekend – fudge for breakfast anyone – I put down the matches and picked up the sugar-free popsicles. I stupidly decided to look at the ingredients on the box and noticed that my frozen treat had actually more chemicals than my cigarettes, but without the added nicotine deliciousness. Ironic huh? But that’s not my point.

My point is, after a solid week of being smoke free and certifiably crazy I came across an article on CNN that stated: “Showerheads may deliver blast of bacteria.” Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but what the fuck?

Here’s where it got really confusing, First they stated: “If you are healthy and your immune system is functioning properly, you should not worry about the germs in your showerhead.” Great. Fine. But the next sentence says: “Mycobacterium avium, found in 20 percent of study samples, can cause lung infections in both healthy people and those with weakened immune systems, particularly smokers, alcoholics, people with chronic lung disease, and others with conditions that make it difficult to fight off infection. Symptoms include fatigue, a chronic dry cough, and shortness of breath.” Later they state “”[The study] is nothing to freak out about because most germs don’t hurt you,” Then why the fuck did you do the study and why do you still have a job!

Okay, fine I quit smoking, but a shower may or may not kill my lungs anyway, and I’m doomed to die on a street corner because Obama is a Marxist, Socialist, Red Lovin’, Foreigner and there’s no way in hell, aka South Carolina, that a health care plan is going to get passed. And although I’m doing my best to not eat my way through withdrawal, a few extra pounds are beginning to appear which certainly won’t help with being a 42 year old single women. Oh sure beauty is on the inside, but there’s nothing like a few pints of ice cream to make that beauty really, really hard to find.

Let’s review:
Smoking: curbs your appetite, help keep you thin, is delicious and all the cool kids do it
Qutting Smoking: makes you insane, spurs your appetite, and doesn’t guarantee you won’t get run over by a bus and die tomorrow anyway
Showering: Will get you clean, but may or may not kill you.

In that name of all that is holy, if there is an afterlife, it better be in a cigarette factory with only cheesecake to eat and not a shower in sight, that’s the only thing that’s going to make up for this new healthy lifestyle that’s clearly making me miserable.

So, David Mamet has been hired by Disney to pen a new movie version of “The Diary of Anne Frank.”

Let me repeat.
Disney. Mamet. Anne Frank.

Ext. Holland. Day.
Close up on a perfect blood red tulip. Camera slowly pulls back to reveal the tulip is one of thousands in this field. The wind has them bending in unison. As we pull back even further the tulips become so obscured they have transformed to a sea of blood.

SFX: CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP

We move back in on the field. Big black boots step into screen. They crush the tulips. It is finally revealed, the boots are laced onto the feet of Nazis. Holland is under siege.

Ext. The Hideout. Establishing.
A nice Dutch house.

Int. The Hideout-Attic
It is this tiny alcove of a space that we meet ANNE FRANK. A willowly, underfed but beautiful girl of 15 Anne, is not “Jewish looking” in the typical sense. Her blue eyes are set off by her blonde hair (think a young Nicole Kidman). We will learn in a flashback that as a form of rebellion, Anne traded one week of rations for hair dye.

Anne writes in her diary.

Anne (voice over): Dear Diary, this place sucks. My roots are coming in and mother will kill me if I sell meat again.

MALE VOICE (off screen): Anne? Anne? What are you doing?

ANNE: Nothing.

MALE: Huh?

ANNE: What?

MALE: Whatever you’re doing you need to stop.

ANNE: Why?

MALE: Why what?

ANNE: Why do I have to stop?

MALE: Because the fucking Nazi’s are coming,

ANNE: Fucking Nazis.

Anne relunctantly puts her diary away and crawls under the bed to hide. She looks up and notices the window is open a crack.

ANNE: Shit. Shit. Shit.

Just then, two animated bluebirds fly in the window. They chirp a happy tune.

ANNE: Why? Who are you?

BLUEBIRDS; Chirp chirp chirp!

MALE VOICE: What the fuck is that fucking chirping?

The bluebirds know when it’s time to leave. The give Anne a wink fly back out the window, shutting it when they leave.

ANNE: (to the male voice) Are they gone?

MALE VOICE: Would I be screaming if they weren’t?

ANNE: What?

MALE VOICE: What?

ANNE; (voice over) Dear Diary, it’s very nice of these people to let us live in their attic, but why do they have to be such assholes about it. It’s not like I asked to be Jewish and have everyone hate me. You try living in attic and having your period for a week and we’ll see how you do.

Gunshots are heard outside teh window.

ANNE: Fucking bluebirds can shut a window, but can’t even poke one Nazi eye out. This place sucks.

The world’s first Beer Summit. I’m more than a little shocked this took so long. Forget the G8 and the world economic forums, let’s everyone sit down over a frosty brew and talk like men. Pass the pretzels-oops sorry none for you George W.

Let’s take a close investigative look at the world’s first Beer Summit.

First of all the President said he wasn’t taking sides. Let’s see. Beer was first invented in ancient Egypt and Mesopatamia, and who lived there? Black people. So immediately one could say by his choice of beverage, Obama was siding with Gates. BUT, by choosing to drink Bud LIght, the President was making a nod to the Teuton heritage of Officer Crowley. Clearly the President thought this through, and by this alone,, I can say with impunity, President Obama was indeed impartial.

Lesson 1, neutrality is possible at a Beer Summit.

For all his talk about organics and Dijon mustard, we learned Lesson #2: Obama has no taste. Yes he had to drink an American beer, but really, do you think you can bring about world peace with a light beer? Good god man, you go to the gym, you’re the leader of the free world, have a real beer. No wonder his poll numbers are dropping.

I want to get invited to a Beer Summit for no other reason then to lay the ground rules for a Beer Summit and hang out with Michelle. All I need to do is figure out how to get myself involved in some type of racial imbrogolio that will inspire Obama to make an off-the-cuff comment he’ll, come to reget. If I get myself arrested for say, j-walking, do you think I could use racial profiling? That the cop picked me because he thinks that Canadians are taking all the good comedy jobs in this country and that there are too many Canadian news anchors using the American airwaves to spread their propaganda? Ooh, and then if I throw in Quasi-Jew as well I can get him for anti-semite and then Rahm Emanuel will have to join the Summit and introduce me to his brother, Ezekiel the Oxford/Harvard trained oncologist. Then Ezekiel and I will marry and he’ll introduce me to his brother Ari, the Hollywood agent, and I’ll finallly sell a movie. Oh my god, who knew racial profiling could have so many benefits!

Time to go out and get myself arrested!

Just when I think I’ve seen it all in New York…

My summer softball team practices on a field in Red Hook, Brooklyn. It’s adjacent to some low-income projects and what is generally a low-income mixed immigrant neighborhood. Although genetrification is rapidly changing that. There are four softball diamonds on this field. Usually there are kids playing at another diamond and sometimes they come over and play with us, which is very fun.

Last Sunday I biked to the fields for practice. I pedaled by one corner of the field, where across the street latin/salsa music was blaring. Under a giant tent about 150 Puerto Rican families had gathered for father’s day. The grills were going. Fun was being had. THe salsa music was blaring. Down the street on the kitty corner across from the field, was the black family father’s day celebration. Rap music thumping, grills going. Good times were being had. In between this, on the field were 10 men out in the field with one guy up to bat. They were in black dress pants, white button down shirts, black dress or running shoes, yalmukahs and tallis’ hanging out their shirts. A group of orthodox men playing softball. I had moment of “only in New York.” Orthodox. Puerto Ricans. Blacks. Grills. Softballs. Salsa. All within five minutes of each other.

I sat and watch the men play for a bit. First thing I noticed was how bad they were and how it would behoove them to let those women out. Second I realized how convenient it was for them to have ready-made uniforms. Then of course, I thought who are they praciticing to play? And I realized I needed to form the world religious league!

Please imagine each team in traditional religious garb for the full experience. Think mitres and dishdashes, turbans, and robes…and sandals.

The Abraham Division
The Orthodox Ocelots
The Catholic Cougars
The Muslim Mustangs

The Dalai Lama Division
The Hindu Hurricanes
The Buddhist Bobcats
The Sikh Silver Streaks

The Tom Cruise Division
The Wiccan Warriors
The Scientology Sabres
The Pagan Panthers

Each teamplays over the course of the summer and ultimately they play the Religion World Series. And I when I say the world series I mean it. Each year, the winner would determine what religion the entire world would follow until the next season. Now that’s a sports a tournament that would matter. I’m sure there’d be such a following they have to move out of Red Hook. It would be quite a summer series. The Halal guys could swap recipes with the Kosher guys. The Wiccans could trade make-up tips with the Pagans. And in the end, the great American Pastime would bring peace to the world, and I wouldn’t have to hear anymore about Michael Jackson.

We all know the end of the world is nigh. If the Terrorists don’t kill us, the pigs will, if the pigs don’t, the ecoli bacteria will, if the Ebola bacteria doesn’t, global warming will, and the list goes on. But there is a crisis that has emerged that is more horrifying than all the above. It might not kill us outright, but it will so damage our way of life that a mass suicide is imminent. The baguette has become less crusty. Sacre Bleu!

Steven Kaplan (an American!) is the world’s greatest living authority on French bread. ” This is a significant and catastrophic trend,” said Mr. Kaplan. Yes, according to Kaplan, bakers are cutting cooking time which softens the crust – a response to the growing belief that food should melt in the mouth. Mr. Kaplan is having none of it: “The question is: do the French care any more, do they care about taste? When you eat their tomatoes, their carrots and their merlotised wine, you start to wonder. Are they not collaborating in their own cultural demise?”

Although I have been a victim of a crust-cut more than once…you know, when that crust is so damn hard it rips the roof of your mouth open, this new trend is unacceptable! When I say let’s break bread together, I want my bread to break! What will happen to that iconic image of happy French people riding their bicyclettes with a baguette sticking out the basket? No one wants to see a cyclist with a saggy loaf. How else can we pass off stale bread as fresh if all loaves are now as soft as Wonder bread? Egad, how will the French citizens defend themselves against burglars? They’ll have to get guns. It is truly the end of civilized culture as we know it.

Perhaps a letter writing campaign is in order. Or a UN Resolution. Mandatory dentures. Something. Anything. This is the issue I can and will get behind. If we don’t stop it now, what’s next? Creme Non-Brulee? Eggless quiches? A French President without a mistress?

World peace depends on this people. Act now or I promise you, the repercussions will be felt for generations to come.

I have had it with the damn pirates. Oh sure they are a nasty nasty bunch and I want to feel angry at the situation that led them to piracy as well as their despicable actions at sea, but I can’t. Why? Because they are called PIRATES. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! International Talk Like A Pirate Day! Arg Matey, nice peg leg! Dread Pirate Roberts from The Princess Bride. That’s right, every time I read or hear about the pirates, I laugh. Yes, I laugh at a completely unfunny situation. Just like when I meet a Chinese guy named Dong. Or someone says KaKa. It’s infantile, but I can’t help myself.

And you know what? All the Somali women waiting on the beach for the men to return so they can hopefully nab a husband isn’t helping. In fact it’s now giving the Pirates (teehee) a certain cache of cool and hotness that makes it the situation seem even more ridiculous. Of course it’s the poverly, civil war and lawlessness that has led to the piracy and the babes who want to share in the spoils of the pillaging, but in the name of all that is holy can we not re-brand these people?

Because the pirates (tee hee) need money, they are stealing. It’s that simple. But they are also killing people, which is you know, bad. But imagine a global awareness campaign for their cause -A George Clooney /Darfur type thing. Playing on white-liberal-guilt might be able to curb the the criminal behaviour. Start with the name, I’m thinking Aqua-Terrorists or The Poverty Armada of Somalia (PAS-a good, serious acronym). Obama is a good guy and all, but he should step aside and just let a Madison Ave., American PR firm lead negotiations. The PAS already has a ton of dough, they should just give 20% over to a serious marketing and advertising budget. (See, by using the acronym PAS, already you took the issue more seriously, didn’t you?) I’m telling you, dropping the word pirates will get a lot more global attention which will mean more pressure on the government (or PR firm) to take speedier action in protecting the cargo ships, which would mean the end to Aqua Terrorism as we know it.

It’s just like the word Hooligans. “There was a brawl at the football match in Manchester last evening, forty people taken to hospital, over twenty hooligans are in custody for starting uprising.” Hooligans? Sounds to me like Alfafa, Buckwheat and Spanky got in some trouble and someone better make sure Darla’s okay!

Pirates and hooligans land in the category of “words that really don’t help a situation and do, in fact, cause more harm.” If the media is talking about thugs and hostage takers, should they not use words that do the situations justice? Yes they should! Stop the madness. Get a thesaurus. Change the world, one synonym at a time.

Now where did I put my eye patch…

March 8, was International Women’s Day and l’Osservatore Romano, the semi-official Vatican newspaper, marked it by posing this question:
“What in the 20th century did more to liberate Western women?” And the answer…

“The debate is still open. Some say it was the pill, others the liberalisation of abortion, or being able to work outside the home. Others go even further: the washing machine.” The title of the piece was “The Washing Machine and the Liberation of Women – Put in the Detergent, Close the Lid and Relax.”

Strictly speaking the Osservatore did not actually say home washing machines, but I feel it’s implied and that explains why I have not been fully liberated. I don’t have a washing machine in my apartment and I’m not allowed to have one, so in effect my landlord is willfully keeping me in bondage. How can I expect to achieve anything in this world when I have to walk down three flights of stairs and across a busy main street, all while schlepping an unwieldy laundry bag. Sure, going to the coin laundry is better than a washboard and a bucket of lye, but how can I dream of freedom when my washing hours are dictated by the owner of the Slope Washing Center?

Although I am inclined to believe washing machines are the savior of women in general, there are a few things that are leading me to doubt (egad), the validity of the argurment.

First of all, the paper itself. “semi-official”. Does that mean there is no consensus among the guys with big hats on what is the official paper? Perhaps four bishops, two cardinals and three deacons are behind the Osservatore, and six Bishops, three cardinals, and four virgins produce a different paper? But what paper is that? It seems to me, you are either official, or not. Hey, if you can’t be semi-pregnant, then you can’t be semi-official.

Which brings me to the other kernel of my doubt. I have learned The Osservatore Romano stated the pill was responsible for polluting the environment and contributing to male infertility. Okay, I can go with pollution. Have you seen those little plastic packs? First of all they come in ridiculous colours. PURPLE! PINK! i.e. FEMALE PRODUCT. And they are made of a really hard, tough plastic, so when they fall out of your bag they make a nice “doink” sound, announcing to anyone in range “I’M ON THE PILL, THANKS FOR NOTICING. DO YOU LIKE THE COLOUR OF MY PILL PACK?” You gotta figure these little plastic cases are making more than a few rainbow landfills.

But I do take pause with the male infertility issue. Sure it’s possible, we know a lot of things cause male infertility..Mountain Dew, Hot Tubs, Under Armour athletic wear…but the pill? Well that may a leap too far. My guess is that the wife of the editor of Osservarore Romano was secretly on the pill and when the editor found out (because of the tell-tale doink!) he deduced he was infertile because his mistress never got pregnant either and his wife’s contraception must have been the cause. (What he didn’t know was his mistress was transgendered, but that’s a whole other story).

This has been a very enlightening week for me. I’ve decided to do the only thing that I can do is cast my doubt aside, find an apartment that has a washing machine and truly liberate myself. And what is the first thing I’m going to do with my new found freedom? Why, apply for a staff position at l’Osservatore Romano, of course.

I was on the 2/3 train on a Tuesday night at around 9 pm when somewhere between 14th & Wall St. three very boisterous guys got on the train. I looked up and could immediately tell by their garb they were Orthodox Jews. Orthodox Jews are not generally a group one associates with rambunctious subway behaviour. I immediately assumed they were teenagers. After all my years travelling on the various subway lines going into Brooklyn I have come to my own scientific conclusion that loud, obnoxious, teenage behaviour transcends race, gender, class or religion. Anyway, on closer inspection of their faces I knew they weren’t youngsters, they were in fact in their late twenties to early thirties.

The three of them huddled around a pole. One of them had the large black hat, plus three large H&M shopping bags, the second also a black hat and the third a yalmuka. I was struck by something with the one with the yalmuka. His pants were just a little shinier than I’d expect for an Orthodox Jew, and they just didn’t seem right, and that’s when I noticed it, they were a skinny jean cut! Five pockets, tapered leg and super snug. And the fringe from his tallis (they prayer shawl worn under the clothes) was not the regular white cottony fringe, it was almost silky and colorful. And then I noticed the pants on the one without the H&M bags…they were a really nice brown corduroy, and fashionably rolled up at the bottom, revealing not the regular flat black leather shoe, but a black suede desert boot with a slight square toe..think mod. Who were these guys?

The train jerked. H&M Bag and Brown Corduroy sat down. Skinny Jean then jokingly sat down on the lap of Brown Corduroy. What is going on? I thought to myself. I’ve certainly never seen pious Jews or any member of an extreme religious sect behave like this. Were they drunk? Did I time travel to Halloween? Were they part of a  new sect of  Jovial Orthodox Jews? The boys laughed, then Skinny Jean removed himself from Brown Corduroy’s lap and sat between him and H&M Bags. He then pulled out his iPhone and the three played a game. My eyes glanced downward and caught a glimpse of SKinny Jeans’ shoes…they were black runners…they had a label on them…they were Emporio Armani! I attempted to avert my eyes and not gawk (they were a few seats down from me) but I was drawn back in when Skinny Jeans put his arm around Brown Corduroy. Sweet, I thought, they’re pals.

But then…then….Skinny Jeans started playing with Brown Corduroy’s ear! Oh. My. God. They’re gay! And out. Well, out on the 2/3 at least. Now the 2/3 goes right into the heart of Crown Heights a very Orthodox neighborhood so I have no doubt they were not playing dress up, or heading somewhere where they could be free to touch each other’s ears in public without fear of retribution. But here they were, laughing it up like they were on Fire Island.

Seemingly bored with the game, H&M bag dug into said bags and pulled out a lovely white shirt upon which he held up a gray sweater vest, Skinny Jeans and Brown Corduroy nodded approvingly. They also admired his gray v-neck sweater, then resumed to game playing and ear caressing. During this time I tried to catch their conversation. But they way they were huddled over so I couldn’t hear.  It definitely wasn’t English, maybe Hebrew. I couldn’t tell. As we pulled into Bergen St. Station I thought about staying on and following them, but I just couldn’t do it. I made sure to walk by them as I went to the door. I heard the language, it was french. And once again, just when I think there’s nothing else that can shock me, I’m faced with Gay Euro Trash Orthodox Jews.

Looks like it’s time to demote His Saviorship President Elect Obama to just President Obama. With his choices of Tom Daschle and shall we not forgot Bill Richardson for cabinet positions it has been proved Obama is only human after all. How depressing. And now this stimulus bill. Despite his mortal tendencies I think Obama would have an easier time parting the Red Sea than bridging the gap between Dems and Reps to come to an agreement. Alas. Here’s what I don’t understand.

Iraq is costing us $12 billion a month, Afghanistan $5 billion and we have enough to spare $800 billion on a stimulus package? Don’t get me wrong, stimulate away, but where is this money coming from? Bernie Madoff? Goldman Sachs? Angelina Jolie? I don’t pretend to understand the global economic situation, but I do know that money does not grow on trees. Only Jell-O does. (A little joke for the Canadians). As far as I can tell this country is going to end up trillions of dollars in debt.

At first I thought that would be disastrous. But not so anymore. Let’s say China loaned us some dough, how are they going to collect? Go to door to door and break every citizen’s legs? Threaten to foreclose on the White House? Start charging a delivery fee for my General Tso’s chicken? And Japan, what are they going to do? Recall every Hello Kitty doll? Fine. And exactly how exactly would a global economic collapse manifest itself? It’s not like we’ve had one before.

If no one has any money, and no one has any jobs it seems to me be we’d go back to the bartering system and perhaps a better way of life all together. I’ll sell you that car for three beads, two ottomans and some black eyed peas. I’ll trade you my velvet elvis, three apple pies and a ukulele for an airline ticket to France (it’s always about me getting to France). Those with arable land and manual skills would be kings and queens among us. Blackberries would be useless as no one can afford an internet connection, and the Pony Express would reemerge in full force. Artists would rule supreme as everyone recognizes that music/dance/literature and the visual arts are the only things that truly feed the soul, exemplify our humanity and inspire hope when all else is loss. So bring on the collapse!

In the meantime. I’m requesting my own stimulus package that includes a hot date, literary agent and a new spring wardrobe. Priorities people, it’s all about priorities.

When I walked into Chez Oskar for a date with a librarian I was expecting an interesting evening that may or may not go somewhere. I have often been told my expectations are too high.