loyal readers

I haven't posted here in over 3 months, but it seems that there are a few loyal readers who come back almost everyday. That seems a little weird. If you want to know about my most recent adventures, you can call me or email me and I will share.

Thanks

true commitment

I saw something today that shocked me, even by new york standards.

in the elevator at the sports club this morning there was this yuppie looking couple, they were probably about 27. He had a european style haircut, she had on vintage style workout clothes. (because its important to be fashionable at all times.)

What struck was their matching neck tattoos. they both had these elaborate tattoos of something in calligraphy across the whole left side of their neck. not a tiny carebear or gang-sign or something, we are talking ultra-conspicuous here.




(not actual sports club yuppie)


I think theyre probably the early-adopters on the leading edge of a cultural shift in our country. forget about wedding bands, you can take those off. plus they can get lost down the drain which could lead to serious garbage-disposal related injuries to the digits (a particular phobia of mine, dont even get me started on that).

matching visible tattoos are definitely the true sign of matrimonial love and commitment.

The funny thing is that at first I thought that those people must really love each other to want to declare their commitment with such permanence.

Then, I realized that there is a much more obvious explanation: that got nearly identical tattoos before ever meeting each other and the whole thing just happened by coincidence.

coincidences like that are crazy, you know?

confessions of infidelity and scandal

you want drama? I got drama. almost too much drama, in fact.

a certain affair that I have been a party to took a turn today and I was forced to own up to the one who I had once been unquestionably loyal to.

this one really is against my better judgment, but there is no turning back now.

let me start from the beginning...

so I was getting off of the 2,3 at wall st today, feeling better than average (but not too much better). I read an excellent article on cholera in the new yorker on the subway, so that was a real heart-warmer.

I emerge from my usual stop, reach in to my pocket for a dollar bill, pop out my right earbud, look up, and I found myself staring them in the face. even after months of no contact, I was recognized instantly.

I didn't know what to say, I was speechless, but they were smiling. I guess that's a good sign.

'Ahhhh, its the early bird' he said. I mustered up my confidence and said, 'Croissant please.' Smiling and laughing ensued. They knew exactly what I wanted and they knew how I wanted it, they knew all to well. They had given me so many in the past.

For that brief moment in time, it felt like the honeymoon all over. He snapped the brown paper bag open, gave me his biggest and moistest and we engaged in the standard mutual exchange.

I suppose they understand though. I mean, somehow after the months we shared we had just grown apart, and eventually I moved away. Even when I was in the neighborhood I consciously or subconsciously avoided them, intentionally going to the coffeedonut cart a half block down.

As I stood on pier 11 at the end of wall street afterwards, I couldn't help but reminicse. I suppose some day I'll go back again, to rekindle the old flame once again.

I keep telling myself, 'forget wall st, you sentimental bastard.'

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

urban maneuvers 201

class is now in session. you in back, close your laptop--what do you think this is, law school? no.

this is the first and last session of intermediate urban maneuvers. I am operating under the assumption that everyone here has learned and mastered all techniques covered in the basic introductory course, including, but not limited to, aggressive street crossing and walking through tourist photos.

we are not going to waste any time.


first lesson: the crowded subway train

Its 8am and your standing on the platform with a thousand other working stiffs waiting for the 4,5 uptown. train pulls up and its completely and absolutely packed. the people around you hesitate, they take a step back. they have chosen to surrender, they are going to wait for the next train. not you. not only are you bold and fearless, but you know the next train will be even more packed.

only the weak wait for the next train. suck in your gut and push your way onto that train. even if you dont have a gut, suck it in--it is going to be tight.

until the first stop you will have poor positioning. strategically, the worst position on the train is the circular area far enough away from the pole to reach it but close enough to the pole that you are not adjacent to anything else. being in the center of the door directly against it is also a weak position, but it is somewhat more tenable.

once you hit the first stop, get ready to move. just like they taught us about boxing-out to rebound in city-league basketball, these next few moments require nothing more than tactical foresight and a stiff upper lip. your goal is to work your way into the one of the corners where the door meets a bench. forget about sitting down, what you would gain in momentary comfort you would lose in exit mobility.

you should be fine now until you get to your destination. congratulations. turn up your ipod loud enough so that others can enjoy it too.

you will be exiting the train at a busy stop. it will be like the floodgates opened and a rush of people has been unleashed onto the platform. do not fight the flow, let it carry you. more importantly, do not cross your streams (you saw what happened in ghostbusters).

one more important bottleneck: the turnstyles. this is where it can get ugly.

real life case in point: this morning at the chambers street station. I am rolling hard with the rest of the recently detrained passengers through the turnstyles when some jackass tries to swipe through coming the other way--on my turnstyle, nonetheless.

not only did he swipe through, but when he saw the pinstripe freight-train coming through he backed down. worst decision he made all morning. not only did he get pimped by yours truly, but he lost his swipe. his only recourse was to run after me and throw up a middle finger in my face, but the damage was done and my upper lip was stiff. he lost, I won. all thanks to urban maneuvering.

this may sound harsh and unforgiving to those who have not experienced it, but I assure you that these are simply the facts of life. kill or be killed.

you too can emerge victorious from your everday encounters by following this course of study.

to be continued... next lesson: bar tactics

harlem kickball

taking a break from my main objective today, I looked outside the window of my prestigious harlem brownstone. I'm kidding, you know, central park north is just about as prestigious as the bronx is. it doesnt really have quite the same cache that central park west does, but unless you live in ny, you probably dont really know the difference, so thats ok.

anyways, looking out the 5th floor window of my prestigious central park north dwelling, I caught a lucky glimpse of something excellent - elementary school recess.

probably about 3rd grade, with a 95% confidence interval of 1 year. but probably 3rd grade. I really have kind of a sick natural ability at estimating anything like ages and times and numbers of objects and that kind of thing. Im almost like rainman or something. I can do it like it was my job. (the funny thing is that it actually really is my job.)

so there are these 3rd graders, and theyre playing old-school full-contact harlem kickball. harlem kickball is not like the kickball I played in school, not like it was for me back in the day. where I grew up, it was considered a big deal if a kids yarmulke (ya-mi-ka) fell off. (ok, ok, I'm not Jewish at all and I didnt even know how to spell that until 5 minutes ago and I hardly ever saw a yarmulke until I moved to ny and what I just said was slightly-to-very offensive, but we're all friends here).

plus, as far as I know there is only about 1 Jewish person who could possibly be reading this and they are probably laughing out loud right now. if they arent laughing I ask them to please leave a hate-comment and I will revise the post accordingly.

so anyways, back to before my yarmulke fell off. full-contact hard-core spit-in-your-face third grade harlem kickball. and I had a front row seat in the nose bleed section.

first of all, everyone knows that you can tell the social status of a third grader by how far he can whale the kickball. that's what its called too, whaling it. the guys who can really whale it are the true studs in elem school. they get all the biggest custom-made valentines (the kind that don't even fit in your valentine box).

second of all, pegging is definitely allowed in spit-in-your-face harlem kickball. pegging is, of course, where you directly throw the ball at a baserunner in order to get them out. I witnessed one particularly vicious pegging today in which a collision occurred on the baseline and the fielder stood over the fallen baserunner and slammed the ball down onto the kid from over his head. I guess that kind of thing goes in harlem kickball.

third of all, you get about 40 extra style points if you slide into a base. keep in mind we are playing on blacktop here. you also get extra points if you do a series of rolls and somersaults after the slide and then pull up your pantleg to expose a skinned knee. (but of course, there's no crying in kickball. its out of the question.)

It should also be noted that a particulary good pegging or skinned knee can also go towards the stud factor too, which could mean that your custom-valentine may come with the particulary suggestive sweetheart candy hearts (kiss me, be mine, etc.). not all sweetheart candies are of equal valentine value.

at the end of the game, a girl who was sitting on a bench stood up to run back over with everyone else and spilled her crayolas all over the place, it was a real mess. to make matters worse for her, nobody stayed behind to help her pick them up. to make matters even worse, one of the kids rolled a kickball over at her and it kind of spread out her crayolas even more.

Based on a quick glance, it was a 48 pack, but two of them stayed in the box.

cost of lifestyle

green is the new pink. (actually green is the old new pink, it is not the new pink anymore.) If gap had their way, red would be the new pink. Another thing that gap would do if they had their way would be to make black the old black (like the audrey black).

If you don't quite follow, either you have not been subjected to the gap's two big ad campaigns right now or you are just not a fashion afficiando like myself (ha!).

Green is also the Color of Money.

The Color of Money is also an old Paul Newman/Tom Cruise movie. This is back when TC was a boyish stud instead of a raving scientology lunatic. He played a young pool shark who learns how to pool hustle from the original pool hustler, Paul Newman, a hardened veteran.

Anyways, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, money.

bling bling.

people in the midwest love to say bling bling. my most vivid recollection of this is once when I was in line for airport security and the screener asked a black woman to take off her sandals because they 'looked like they had some bling bling on them'. they actually had a few little beads on them, but you could tell that the screener really loved saying 'bling bling'. I think it literally made her day.

anyways, money.

I have a habit of picking up little phrases that have no base in fact and saying them randomly in casual conversation.


"green is the new pink"

"80% of 'just kidding' is actually the truth"

"$200,000 is the new $100,000"


I just found out today that there is a grain of truth in the third one.

If you are a new yorker, you might want to shade your eyes, because this next picture hurts.

quick translation: that is the amount of money it takes to equal a normal 100k income in each of the cities listed above.

all of the sudden I feel like I should be on welfare or prozac or something. well not really, but either of those sounds pretty dramatic, and it's fun to sound dramatic.

So I noodled this one over for a few seconds, and I can up with a pretty decent explanation for this. People always use the term 'cost of living'. I don't think this term is appropriate, because it makes it sound like living in any specific place is just as good as living in any other place, that's why you have to adjust the money to make it equal.

But really, who ever said that living in two places was equal?

Obviously, this all depends on preference, but living in two completely different places is clearly not equal.

For this reason, I propose that this terminology be changed to 'cost of lifestyle', because really, thats what it is. People are paying more to experience a certain lifestyle, because they value that experience for some reason.

Of course, if they don't value that experience for some reason, then they are pretty much just wasting money like crazy.

[PS- for the record, I am very aware that the above is basically just a way of me rationalizing the fact that I pay out the nose to live here (except for the part about bling bling, that actually happened).]

like a pedicure for men

you want to know what feels surprisingly good? getting a shoe shine. if you have ever gotten a proper shoe shin, you know what I mean. if you haven't, hear me out. women, you can listen to. in fact, I encourage you to.

so imagine this. you're dappered out in your best suit, trying to look sharp. probably because you have to meet some big-shot for the first time. you know you look pretty sharp too (or at least significantly better than you usually do). cleaning up a bit and getting decked out makes a regular guy look like clark kent and homlier type guys look at least above average. trust me, I check guys out all the time.

so you're looking sharp, and that feels pretty good to begin with. you might even see a woman or two turn her head if you are of the clark kent type. that never hurt anyone's self esteem. except for maybe clark kent himself.

you step into mina's shoe shine at 65 wall st. its a little place with all dark wood and pictures of famous people who have been there and stuff on the wall. one of the shiners signals for you to have a seat in one of the shine-chairs, which makes you feel a little bit important. the fact that they have these special seats for you and its designed like a throne.

then, you sit there for 5 minutes while the shiner does his thing. this is a really unique experience. it is like a 5 minute ticket into an old boy's club. you sit there and the shiners and shoe guys banter and bs about some random topic of conversation. usually at mina's they do it in spanish, so that only adds to the effect. it is one of those moments that really reminds you that you have Y chromosome--sort of like coming in all sweaty after a day of hard work and cracking a beer.

so after you sit there and listen to these guys yell back and forth at eachother for 5 minutes while they go nuts on your shoes, he gives them one last swish and your done. You pay three or four dollars to the cashier, throw a few bucks at the shiner, and your off.

I usually make it a point to say something to the shiner too. something like "thanks for your help" or "I appreciate it". as far as Im concerned, we're just 2 working stiffs, and he just did me a favor by doing a good job.

really though. this has to be the same kind of feeling that a woman gets after the pedicure.

I only know one guy who gets his nails done, but thats a different story.

guts

the topic of the day is guts-spilling. not like horror movie gross-out style, more like share your deepest darkest inner secret. I can tell I've got everyone hooked now. maybe if you stay hooked I will share a deep dark secret with the group. and don't just skim to the bottom either, I might put it in the middle just to prevent cheating.

ok, where were we. ah yes, baring innermost feelings.

this whole phenomenon is particulary intriguing to me. in a way, it is sort of like physical affection. what I mean by this is that in a certain way, we all want to do it really bad. I think. we all just want to go and tell someone every thing that we ever thought just so that it stops crashing around in our head. in the same way that everyone wants to have some kind of physical contact with another person. even if its just a handshake or something--it makes you feel much more human and connected.

so if every single person in manhattan or new york or the world wants to do something, why don't we all just do it with each other. I am talking about guts-spilling, not hand-shaking. in fact, lets stop the analogy to physical contact now, because it is starting to get a little distracting. feel free to take a break and be distracted on your own for a few minutes if you like. dont be too distracted though, I need you as my captive audience.

On rare occasions, we probably all experience this type of situation, where true thoughts and maybe even feelings are fully exchanged. this type of real conversation should not be mistaken for the usual day to day bs such as the following:

guy: how are you?
girl: Im ok, I am having a bad day.
guy: do you need a (friend to talk to)/(drink)/(backrub)?
girl: no, thats ok, I need to get going. maybe another time. (thinks: creep)

or even the following:

girl 1: me and tommy got in a fight last night.
girl 2: tommy is such an ass! you deserve better!
girl 1: yeah, you're right, I do.
girl 2: can we go out tonight? I need to relax. (thinks: I need to get drunk)

I am getting off track here, but you get the idea.

Everyone once in a while, a rare opportunity comes along where you actually get to tell somebody what you really think. or maybe they tell you. ideally both.

I think that this is a little bit too scary of a proposition for most people. it involves not only acknowledging to yourself who you really are, but letting someone else in on this secret too. Its generally much safer and easier to talk about the last episode of family guy or how your job sucks. these seem to be two of people's favorite things to talk about.

this baring-of-innermost-feelings becomes especially complicated when the other persons feelings become tangled up in your feeling (ie you are in a serious relationship). in this situation, it seems there is a paradox in that the people you are closest to are sometimes the hardest to tell everything to. these things are usually easier with people you know but dont really know.

I hope that there are a few nodding heads in the audience here, otherwise I am starting to feel like an idiot.

so, in my experience, it seems like these kinds of special exchanges often come up at random times with people you dont really expect them to. especially when there is alcohol involved. but thats ok, a couple/few/dozen drinks probably never killed anyone.

when these conversation do occur, they are some of the most redeeming and fulfilling moments of human interaction. I think.

am I crazy?

yeah, you're probably right.

hotels part duex

after sharing a bedroom with Elvis I figured I might as well do my second best hotel story. this one is good enough that it inevitably comes up in casual conversation eventually, so I might as well get it out of the way too.

moving across the country to nyc is a formidable task. especially when you dont really have any contacts or family or anything here. the market for apartments here is crazy because there is so much turnover and everything is so expensive that it takes a significant amount of expertise, planning, and luck.

if you dont know anything you better do your homework or get lucky or else you are going to have problems. that is the situation we were in. we being me and my fellow adventurer g.

there are many reasons why it is a difficult process, but one of which is that if you don't live close and you don't know people here, you pretty much have to take a short trip out here a month before your move in date and hope that you can find something liketysplit. (liketysplit = fast)

it is exciting, just a few days will make a big difference in at least a year of your life.

so the point of this story is the hotel we stayed in during our 3 days of whirlwind apartment search.

g and I were still poor college students at the time, so we were looking to do this thing on the cheap. I did my internet hotel search for the long weekend and hit 'sort by price'. the cheapest hotel on the list was Hotel Carter at $89. Now you would expect lodging at this price to have a less than desirable location, but I was pleased to find that Hotel Carter was actually located smack in times square (AKA the center of the universe, as some would say).

note that calling times square the center of the universe is not something any self-respecting new yorker would say, unless they are trying to wow some kind of tourist or something. in other words, if you are here, dont go walking up to someone in a bar and start saying that kind of nonsense. in fact, dont even say 'new york city' when you are here. 'new york' or 'the city' will suffice.

so anyways, I am seriously digressing.

hotel carter is a times square hotel that rents rooms for $89, which seems way too low to be true. whats the catch? theres a big one.

HOTEL CARTER IS THE WORST HOTEL KNOWN TO (WO)MAN.

that is probably a slight exaggeration, but thats ok.

if you remember the movie Big with Tom Hanks, you will remember when he checked in a ridiculously crappy hotel. That is what hotel carter is like.

you walk into this lounge that looks and feels like a dilapitated mexican casino. neon lighting all around the walls, ornate carpeting, lots of old furniture that doesn't match. the front desk workers sit behind dirty bullet-proof glass and they operate with a hardened efficiency and curtness that makes it clear that they deal with a ridiculous amount of bs on a daily basis.

everything is extremely old. you walk into the hotel rooms and they are lit by hanging light bulbs where you pull the string. the shelving in the closet is cracked and sort of hanging there on the wall. you can tell that the sheets were washed, but they definitely do not look clean--too much smeared makeup and sweat and other things that you dont want to think about.

there is a tv but it is the old-school style that has the knob that you turn hard and it loudly clicks through the stations (there is reception on about 1.5 channels). no soap or shampoos or anything in the bathroom, and the fixtures in there are probably too old to be in an antique store.

the view is good though, if you like looking at the air conditioning units on top of the theatre next door.

yes, we are talking about 1 star lodging at its finest here, my friends. they even advertise 'heated rooms' on the billboard outside... what an awesome amenity.

I bet if I would have looked under the matress I would have found something scary, but I decided against that. (if you ever saw the movie 4 rooms, then you know what I mean, which is, by the way, the closest thing to pulp fiction of tarantino's other movies, in my opinion).

anyways, let just say that the room was bad enough that it makes you wonder if it was worth the price you paid.

next time you are in new york, I dare you to stay there.

sleeping with the king

hows that for the title of a story.

ok. my travels took me to madison, wisconsin this week where I innocently enough used the corporate travel service to book a local hotel. my usual first pick was full due to campus festivities but I was able to get a room in the nearby edgewater hotel. (see exhibit 3f)

exhibit 3f

in my travel preferences I have king-sized bed listed.

they gave me a room with a rate of $159/night. nothing unusual there.

checking into room #507 late in the pm, I was blown away. it seems that I had been booked in a palatial high-rollers suite of madison wisconsin. quite literally, this suite had 2 bedrooms, a full kitchen, a full living room, 2 full bathrooms, and even a little powder room for me to put my makeup on in. not to mention that two of the rooms had full length windows looking directly out onto lake mendota.

I was about to call and complain, but then I decided that I really didn't mind being treated like the prince of burma.

so I lived like a king in this sick hotel room for 3 days. I used one bathroom for showering and the other to get ready in. I slept in one bedroom and kept all my cloths in the other bedroom. I put a sandwich that I had in the fridge in the kitchen.

so this isnt even the good part yet.

when I departed, I was talking to the driver of the hotel shuttle who gave me a priceless tidbit of knowledge. apparently, when elvis presley and his roadies used to travel through the midwest, they always stayed at the Edgewater. Elvis always checked out the entire 4th and 5th floors on these occaisions.

you know what I'm going to say next right?

Elvis Presley himself always stayed in room #507, the luxury suite.

this story is 100% legit, you can even google it to confirm. word is that there is even a clothes hanger from the room in the rock and roll hall of fame.

yup. these kind of things happen to me.

and it was only $159 a night.

subway kid

today I was on a full subway car, riding downtown from 110st central park north. the 2/3 runs local on weekends right now, so it about doubles the length of the ride. but thats not the point.

I was sitting on the corner chair where there is only two seats, and the girl sitting next to me was reading one of those trashy black romance novels that black women seem to love in nyc. this one was called 'double dose'. I can only imagine what the title was refering to.

at one of the stops, a single asian mother got on the train with her little boy, who looked like he was about 2 years old. just old enough to be able to walk on his own without falling every three seconds.

it just about killed me because the mom and her little guy where standing next to where I was sitting and they both held on to the metal bar coming up from the corner of my seat. the thing that killed me was that the little guy's hand was so small that he could barely get it around the pole.

I have this weird fascination with hands, and little kids hands are the most interesting to me. its seems impossible to me that hands could be so small and still have all of the fingers work and stuff.

so this little kid was standing on his own and holding onto the pole with one hand, and I was right at eye level with him. I got worried that he was going to get knocked down when the train started, because that happens to adults all the time, and their hands can actually fit all around the pole. I got ready to keep him from falling if he lost his balance, and sure enough when the train started, he just about hit the deck--I even reached for him just in case.

he ended up being ok, and I didnt touch him or anything, because he got his balance on his own. his mom seemed pretty cool. then I just sat there looking and me and the little dude had some good eye contact. it was really killing me, you gotta love that stuff.

finally, I realized I should have offered them my seat right away so I go up and let them sit down. the mom tried to get him to say thank you, but that was probably a little advanced for him.

then they read a book about counting pumpkins.

found in translation

warning: the following is about a movie that you may not have seen. thats ok. you should still read it, I think. do what you want though.

you know how sometimes you finish a movie and you are left strangely unfullfilled. like it just didnt fill you with anything. you probably laughed about twice, but it was the forced kind of laugh where you feel like kind of an idiot afterwards. there was no excitement or sexy naked beautiful people or secret endings or 'where they are nows' during the credits. yeah, we all know those movies.

part of me hates these movies and part of me feels strangely validated for having the attention span to endure 2 hours of seemingly nothing redeeming. maybe you know what I mean, but its ok if you dont.

Lost in Translation seems to be a case in point of this type of movie. one paragraph synopsis follows:

bill murray is an old american movie star stuck in hong kong shooting a ridiculous liquor commercial. like for something along the lines of Glenlivet, some kind of liquor that is for the superclassy james bond types (more roger moore than sean connery though).

scarlet johannsen is a young woman traveling in hong kong with her photographer boyfriend who works about 23 hours a day. she is some kind of ivy league liberal arts graduate who is very sophisticated but she knows she is sophisticated and it is slightly annoying. she is uniquely attractive (see exhibit a).

exhibit a

he is away from his wife/family and his real work. she is away from her 23-hour-working boyfriend (except for 1 hour of sleeping) and she is a liberal arts grad, so she doesnt have a real job to begin with (oooooh rip). furthermore, they are both away from all of their normal activities and their culture and everything else that is familiar.

so to cut to the chase, these two people are stuck in hong kong (which is made to look like times square on fast forward) and they are basically stripped naked of everything that usually defines them. stripped naked, yes.

so it seems that they are without anything of the things that they usually define themselves by, and they are left with only themselves, all they have is who they are.

all they have is who they are.

that is a profound thought, now that I see it typed in words, you know. it seems like a pretty legitimately scary idea. I dare you to stop and think about that one for a second. yes, I know, thinking hurts, it hurts for me too.

take that a step further--who is anyone? ok, I will stop now.

ok so these two people are in hong kong and all they have is who they are. they dont fit together, they dont look good together (bill murray is all old and pock-marked and depressed looking), but they are both stuck in this same situation and a few traded glances over a deserted bar lead to a some random experiences in hong kong together.

bill murray wears an orange camo t-shirt turned inside out, which I really like.

so I think the idea is that these two people are forced to find out who they are underneath everything that they usually define themselves by. they are, in fact, found in translation.

boom, thats hardhitting artistic film analysis for you.

if that sounds anticlimactic, its because it is. there is no climax. except for when he chases her down and kisses her, but that is not really a climax, because there is nothing more than that, no allusion to any kind of future association or no profound statements or anything. just the acknowledgement of a shared existensial experience.

that makes me want to have a shared existensial experience. any takers?

enough. I am really killing myself here. go see the movie if you want to know more.

[PS- I just realized that I totally ruined the ending. you should still see it though.]

history lesson

today I have a brief piece of boxing history to share with the group. as you may or may not know, boxing history is one of my 600 or so secret hobbies. ok, so lets cut to the chase here, I am getting bored.

Ivan Drago was a soviet boxing powerhouse during the late years of the cold war era. he was like nothing anyone had ever seen before. there is some uncertainty surrounding his background, but it is well documented that he was part of an elite russian athletics training program that was designed specifically to compete against the americans.

now for those of you who didnt attain a remarkable score of 3 on your AP european tests, the cold war was not really a war, but more of a period of intense underlying conflict between the country formerly known as the USSR and the country currently known as the USA.

I think that there were some bombs on both sides and then we surrounded cuba at some point.

but, I digress, the most dramatic part of the cold war was not the cuban missile crisis or the space race or the stockpiling of nuclear weapons, it took place in the squared circle. the squared circle is the boxing ring, for those of you who are not boxing historians (I apologize to those of you that are).

note: the squared circle is not the same as the octogon. the octogan is where ultimate fighting takes place. there are 3 rules in ultimate fighting.

1)do not talk about ultimate fighting
2)do not talk about ultimate fighting
3)no fish hooks or eye gouging

ok, we got that out of the way. back to the cold drama of the cold war.

Ivan Drago was a soviet boxing powerhouse who was specifically designed to destroy any american who dared to faced him in the squared circle (see, we all know what that means now). Drago was on a strict training regimen of sprinting up treadmills on 179 degree inclines and super high tech nautilus (trademark) machines.

not only did he run 179 degree inclines and have futuristic nautilus machines, but they gave him some kind of secret performance enhancing cocktail, usually via an injection directly into his thigh. he had to get off of the treadmill to take the cocktail injection.

there has been much speculation about what precisely was in his this performance enhancing serum, but the suspicision is that it was an early predecessor to taurine (now found in red bull energy drink). of course, the taurine they had back in the cold war days was not nearly as potent as what the kids drink these days. or so I hear.

one of drago's claims to fame is that there was simply noone who had the genetics to defeat him, much less the bootleg redbull. in fact, if you measured the sheer punching power of drago, it was about 2100 pounds per square inch, which is more than 100 psi more than even I can punch. way more than 100 psi more than even I can punch.

so this one black guy, apollo creed, who was an american boxer tried to fight drago and he actually got killed. drago was unphased by this death, and he is even rumored to have said 'if he dies, he dies'. how cold is that? thats cold!

the black guy who got killed was not mr T (who boxed under the name of clubber lang at the time). there has been some speculation that mr T could have at least not have gotten killed by drago if they ever fought, but this particular bout never occurred.

of course, after apollo creed got killed. a little white dude decided to try and avenge his death, which was ridiculous, because this white guy had little kids and stuff. what is more is that he even let his little kids watch the fight. what is even more ridiculous is that the fight took place in the soviet union. how sick is that, really. it was a suicide mission and his kid was sitting way too close to the tv set.

but the white guy had a plan, he knew that if he did those kind of situps where you hangupside down and if he went jogging in snow that was waist deep he would probably win. he had gotten the idea about the upside down situps from a bowflex commercial. I dont know where he got the idea for the waist deep snow jogging, but he actually probably did that by accident.

so these two unlikely competitors fought in a cold arena behind the iron curtain in cold communist russia. mostly likely in moscow. the huge turning point was when the little white american dude made ivan drago bleed. ivan drago swore on his mother's favorite nesting matorishka doll that the american was made of iron. (his mother's favorite nesting matroishka doll is pictured below)

ok. this is getting way too lengthy. way way too lengthy.

drago lost. the cold war ended. that is the real story of the cold war.

all thanks to 20 minutes a day with bowflex.

[ps: this is the actual transcription of my 2nd essay from my AP Euro exam circa 2000.]

cracked

I awoke briskly this morning, took a cold shower and did the usual routine. briskly may be a slight embellishment, but cold is not.

walk down four flights, stop at central park deli, look at my watch. that was when I got this sinking feeling in the back on my mind. maybe like the cerebellum or something, for you anatomy types. but the point is, this feeling was way back there.

in that instant I realized that there was a full-length crack across the face of my watch. not a scratch, a crack. I wasn't in any gang altercations last night, which is not out of the question in the central park north area, so this was a little troubling.

maybe some background is in order so that you can understand the significance of this.

my chosen timepiece of late is the skagen ultraslimline, pictured below:

this is not a particularly impressive or expensive or trendy or sexy watch, but it is unique. in fact, I have only seen this type of watch twice in my life. there is a significance to this, because I have an unhealthy attention to detail when it comes to noticing these types of things. haircuts, new shoes, fresh disposable contact lenses--for some reason I never miss this kind of stuff. its really kind of messed up.

so I had only seen this watch twice, and I was struck by it on both occasions. one time it was being worn by a priest. so I bought one for myself.

the day after I bought this watch, a effeminately handsome male flight attendant commented to me, "you watch is beautiful, where did you get that?" obviously, this brief encounter fully validated my purchase. it also lead to a pleasant conversation over drinks in the officer club at the airport. (ok, there were no drinks in the officer club, I admit, but the part about the comment on the plane is 100% legit).

so now I have this gaping crack in the face of my skagen ultraslimline. I would like to think that this means something. at the least, its an interesting thought to entertain.

it seems like this is some type of horoscope or fortune cookie event. maybe I can decide what it means and create some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.

wait, did that sounds weird to anyone else, its like I am the master of my own destiny.

whoa. I better stop, this is getting intense.

[PS - if you see me, you will notice that my watch really is cracked.]

Polish power

I am so Polish you dont even know it.

I know, I know, that's a pretty bold statement. maybe its not really a bold statement, but its something. maybe I should explain myself before I go flinging these assertions around like they were girls in poodle skirts.

ok. walking in midtown (manhattan, obviously... but you knew that). past bryant park, where fashion week is finally cleaned up. you can only see so many 88 pound, size 0, 17 year old fashion models until you need a break. right.

past bryant park, 5th avenue is blocked off. not really unusual, but always worth a look. usually its some kind of foreign diplomat or homeland security alert or something. but today it was polish day. or POLSKA day, for those of you from the old country.

polish day is a big deal. it mostly consists of floats and floats of 'polish princesses' and polish clubs and little polish kids and stuff. I decided that I like the polish princesses the most, but the little polish kids are good too. I mean, I like them for different reasons, but I shouldnt really have to say that. but I do.

Polish people are a pretty attractive lot (but of course they are). Generally lean with light skin and sharp features. see examples below. I purposely did not post the best looking examples, because that would be 'almost too much'. I dont want to start a polish craze or anything.

anyways, that doesnt really matter. well it does, but its not really my thesis here.

being at polish day with all of my old country brethern and sisteren made me feel something bigger than myself. it seems that that doesnt happen enough in this world. or maybe it doesnt happen enough to me. maybe everyone else is out there feeling big things all the time. but it doesnt happen to me nearly enough.

what I am saying though is that it was big. it was where I come from. or at least half of where I come from, but by the looks of me I am polish. maybe not the best specimen, but I look polish.

I walked through all the polish people cheering and being together and I was one of them. without saying anything or doing anything I was one of them.