Yo Ho Ho…

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…

Freedom and the Rinse Cycle

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.

A New Sect

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.

I’ll Trade You…

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.

One Sad Turtle

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.

I take full responsibility for the evening. I met him on Craig’s List, where I swear, from now on I will only shop for sofas and kitchen appliances, not men. In our email exchanges he was smart, funny, literate, all the good stuff. He lives in Bed Stuy and I in Park Slope, so we decided to meet in Fort Greene which is somewhere in between. He asked me to pick the place, which was fine. He said it needed to be “quiet, no tv, and completely un-trendy.” I thought he was being a bit tongue-in-cheek. I was wrong. We agreed to meet at the bar, and whoever got there first was to call the other.

When I arrived, about 3 minutes late, I got to the bar and there was no single man in the 6′2 region with brown hair sitting at the bar. So I called him. “Turn around” He said, into the phone. So I turned around. There he was, already seated at a table. I collected my things and sat down. He had taken the banquette, so I sat with my coat folded over my chair, getting knocked by the wait staff all night.

“Sorry. I thought we said the bar.”

“Oh.”

With his head jutting forward 90 degrees from his shoulders, he looked like a seated turtle. The resemblance was enhanced by his green knit sweater with shirt collars poking out. I wondered if he had a neck, for I couldn’t see one, or if he was a medical miracle.  I decided to overlook his amphibian-likeness as well as the fact that he didn’t wait until I arrived  to take a table and have myself a lovely evening. In order to do so, I also chose to overlook the bags under his eyes so large they could each hold a week’s worth of groceries;  the  gray skin tone that seems to have never been exposed to anything other than flurescent lighting and recycled air; and the dreaded tuft of hair on top of the head but grown to an unconscionable length in the back. I would over look this. I was going to find out who this guy was.

When the waiter arrived to take our drink order, I was about to say “Cabernet” but after a quick look at The Turtle the words “Beefeater Martini Straight Up” came tumbling from my lips.  He ordered a beer.

Some small talk about the weather, the parking, and other scintillating  topics passed the time until the drinks arrived. His beer was set down first and while the waiter went to retrieve my martini The Turtle started drinking away. Okay, some kind of “cheers” is not mandatory but it’s customary and polite.

Mainly because he didn’t ask me a single question of substance throughout the entire night, did I learn what a fascinating and meticulous person he was. I had learned via email that he didn’t have a passport. He’s 44.o

“You really should renew it. You never know when a travel opportunity is going to arise.”

“I’ve never had one.”

“Ever?”

“Nope.

“So you’ve never been out of North America.”

“I”ve travelled all over Canada and the States. I feel by living in New York I experience most cultures. I don’t have a big need  to see the world. My idea of a vacation is sleeping and watching movies.”

Trying to be gracious, I added.

“I love New York vacations, going to the galleries during the day. Seeing matinees. Doing all the things you never have time to.”

“No, I just generally sleep and watch movies.

That was the end of that conversation.

We ordered our meals and I will always be grateful for the slightly rushed service. I looked around the restaurant which was a really sweet neighborhood bistro, if I lived closer I’d be a regular. I’m not sure it was wholly untrendy, but it certainly wasn’t hipster and there was no t.v.

“Cute joint, huh? I offered.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not loud.”

“It’s a little loud.”

That was the end of that conversation.  From then on we mostly stuck to movies. Which he knew everything about.

“Except for Schindler’s list Spielberg is crap.”

“Color Purple?”

“Won’t see anything with Oprah in it.”

“Jaws?”

“That was his early stuff.”

“Amistad?”

“Never saw. I have to be in the right mood for a period piece.”

“Catch Me if you Can?”

“That was okay.”

“Raiders!”

“I didn’t believe a minute of it. Completely unrealistic.”

“It’s supposed to be!”

In high school The Turtle was in awe of a few really creative bright guys who went on to big careers. One of them made some really important documentaries, but now he’s “churning out Hollywood crap.” The Turtle is very disappointed in him. Just so you know His Girl Friday is zippy. It Happened One Night is slow.

As he talked about his neighbors, and movies that I had never heard of I began to understand to see that The Turtle was authority on everything. It also seemed that nothing made him happy. It was as if life was never living up to his expectations but he liked it that way because his misanthropic being could be smug in the knowledge that he was the Authority.

Our food was delivered and before I could pick up my fork, he was already chewing his first bite.  There was a moment where I wondered if it actually mattered whether I was there or not. I prodded him with questions, he answered steadily. I would start conversations, he would end them.  He spent a good deal of time telling me the details of a dinner with his sister the weekend before.

“How’s the risotto?” I asked about his dinner.

“Good. Nothing surprising but still good.”

My duck salad was quite delicious, not that he asked. And good thing I didn’t want any bread, because he devoured the whole basket.  Several things came to my attention during the long pauses of conversation. The first was the young couple in love sitting at the next table about half an inch away from us. They couldn’t help but listen to our conversation. They would lean in and whisper in each other’s ear. We were their entertainment. I looked longingly at their joy wishing I could be watching this miserable date instead of being a party to it. The second noticeable sight was The Turtle’s methodical ingestion of his risotto.

He would take a forkful and either eat it right away, or let it sit on his fork as he waved it around while telling me the Big Lebowski is a great film, but in the fourth viewing  you begin to see the flaws. Once his mouthful was complete, he would pick the napkin up from the table, wipe his mouth, then lay it back down on the table, dirty side up. Then he would take a piece of bread, and wipe the sides of his plate, and re-mound his risotto into a perfect oval. And then start all over again. Finally, after I had finished my martini, salad and a glass of Muscadet, he had one small perfect round mound in the middle of his plate. The poor waiter who asked if The Turtle was finished was met a stern “No!”

Somewhere during this ninety-minute performance art piece I decided I needed to have some fun. After throwing out a few tidbits about where I worked and getting nothing back, I decided to lob the big bombs.

“So what was wild was when I went to Croatia-I think I mentioned my mother had a heart attack, anyway the wildest part was getting off the airplane, stepping outside and looking around and seeing palm trees! I stood there in awe at the palm trees. Never mind the fact that I was in country where I couldn’t speak the language and had to find a hospital and my mother, I was suddenly in a tropical climate.”

“I don’t think Croatia counts as the tropics.”

“Right.”

Finally he finishes his risotto, his plate complete cleaned, and wants to look at the dessert menu.  He no longer drinks coffee or regular tea, just herbal, so I prayed for no herbal tea on the menu.  Nothing grabbed his fancy on the menu, although I noted the ricotta cheese cake was interesting. HIs mother used to make that, and it brings up bad memories. “there’s probably a dessert place somewhere near here”, he suggested.  That’s when I started the engine on my express hand basket to hell.

“I have to figure out what I’m going to do this weekend. A good friend is coming to town to collect the ashes of his deceased sister. He wants to see a play. Theatre was a big part of her life.”

“Do you remember that scene in the Big Lebowski with the ashes on the mountain, and they blow back in John Goodman’s face?”

“Check please!”  Now I don’t expect a guy to pay, but the hypocrite in me does like the offer of payment. This one did neither. The check came, I put down my credit card (I neglected to go to the bank) and he did nothing. Did he expect me to pay? After an eternity he picked it up. Now, I couldn’t read his mind, but I swear to god he was calculating his portion of the bill…he certainly threw in less than half. As soon as I signed that check I stood and put on my coat.

Now, it’s about 10:15 in a pretty good neighborhood, but it’s still 10:15, the subway isn’t that close by (He drove) and we are right next to a park. I say “It was nice to meet you, I think I’m actually going to walk to BAM and see what’s going on.”

“OKay. Good night.”

And he walks away. Now, I wasn’t getting into his car under any circumstances, but um, make the offer!!!  It was as if Moliere had written the greatest misanthrope of all time and stuck me and him in a Sartre play.

I am going to be single for all of time, and that’s just fine. If I need a date for something, I’m going the gigolo route. And so help me in the name of His Saviorship President Elect Obama, if anyone hears me utter the words “Craigs List” again, beat me until I am unconscious.