That Doesn't Make It a Hairline

On my way home from work the other evening, I saw a most curious fella. He seemed like a day-laboring sorta guy, at least in terms of his wardrobe. Work boots. Nothing he wore was hip or fashiony. His backpack was pretty dirty.

At the same time, he seemed to have some concern about his appearance. For example, I'd be very surprised if his eyebrows weren't waxed. They were perfect in that way that most men's eyebrows just aren't.

Curiouser than that, however, was his hairline. From what I could tell, this African American fella wasn't at all bald. He kept his hair cropped short, but it was there. And again, he didn't seem to have any sort of issues around male pattern baldness. (I only had a front view, so I couldn't see if he had a bald spot in back, but he wasn't receding.)

About an inch below his real hairline was a fake hairline. A black tattoo masquerading as hair.

At first I thought maybe it was one of those dark birthmarks you sometimes see, but no. It was a perfectly drawn hairline (even with angles coming down in front of his ears), filled in solid black. The solidity of the tattoo ink went back into the area where he had hair, and I couldn't see if it continued over his whole scalp, or if it faded away part of the way back.

I used to work with a Latino woman who was very big on lip liner. She said that she had friends who had actually tattooed liner onto their lips.

This hairline felt like taking the lip liner tattoo to an extreme. And it's not something a white person could get away with. What the hell color could I tattoo my head that would come close to matching my hair color? Even if/when this man goes gray, he'll just be all salt and pepper.

And I can't even say that it looked particularly bad. It definitely looked odd, but not really that bad.

I wonder if tattooed scalps will be something we'll be seeing more of in years to come, sort of like tattoo-covered college basketball players and government-mandated private insurance.

Hey, Manhattan! Your St. Patrick's Day Parade Can Suck It!

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, which is a pretty big deal amongst the drinking set. No other holiday lives up to the stereotype quite like St. Patrick's Day. Well done, Irish people.

Most New Yorkers already know that the main St. Patrick's Day parade - the one in Manhattan that goes right by St. Patrick's Cathedral - doesn't allow any gay people to march. A court ruling upheld the prejudice a few years ago on the grounds that the parade is run by a private entity and therefore had the right to do whatever it wanted.

Beginning 11 years ago, my neighborhood, which has a large Irish community, started hosting the St. Pat's For All parade, usually a couple of weeks before the big, bigoted one on the holiday itself. I went to one of the first St. Pat's For All parades back in the early aughts, but hadn't been for quite some time.

Oh, yes, B&E readers... It really is "for all." And it really is a good time, as the photos will demonstrate.

Lest you think it's just another gay pride parade, let's kick things off with a photo of the bagpipes. Bagpipes! Never mind that bagpipes are Scottish; they feature prominently at any good St. Patrick's Day parade, even the ones that include the gays. And why not? The pipers are men in skirts!


There were probably a good half dozen or more LGBTQ, etc. groups marching in the parade, but this one had the best banner:


God may have made this dude queer, but being a pirate is a choice.

In case you didn't notice, that's a live parrot on his head. I've actually seen this particular pirate outside of Mets games. He is not easily forrrrrrrrrrrrrrgotten.

Perhaps the single biggest thrill of the day was when NY1's very own Roger Clark came to a stop right in front of us. The missus and I complimented him until he was appropriately embarrassed. He may have also felt a little threatened by our zeal. But look, B&E readers! Roger Clark is happy to see me!


These African American and Latino Irish dancers from P.S. 59 in the Bronx have gotten some national recognition. But only because they're fucking awesome.


The Rude Mechanical Orchestra made some fun music as they strode by. They were, as you might expect, heavy on the trombone.


The Central Brooklyn Independent Democrats really stress the "independent" in their name.



The biggest hit of the St. Pat's For All parade every year is SUDS, the Sunnyside United Dog Society. It's true. They are united.



Except this poor bastard who lagged behind just a bit. I think he was drunk.


Those of you planning a trip to Sunnyside should make sure your visit coincides with the St. Pat's For All parade. I didn't even see any barfing, and I'm guessing that's not something Manhattan's prejudiced St. Patrick's Day parade will be able say. They'll be heavy on the barfing and light on the queers. What the hell kind of parade are they running in there?

That's Two Down...

Carlos Beltran is already missing the beginning of the Mets season, having had surgery on his knee a short while ago. Now it appears that Jose Reyes will also miss the beginning of the season.

I've been keeping an eye on the Mets during spring training, as any B&E reader would probably expect, and there's been some real hope. Some of these youngsters can play. Last year, all you heard was that the farm system was depleted. Now, some of those so-called depleted players are showing off some real skills.

No one has heard of Chris Carter, but he's got a good sports name. Vince Carter is a hell of a basketball player. Joe Carter was a decent baseball player. Gary Carter is a Hall-of-Famer. And don't forget Jimmy Carter. That guy can throw the hell out of a peanut. But anyway, Chris Carter! Three home runs in three at-bats. Nice work.

Twenty-year-old Jenrry Mejia is suddenly in the running to be the Mets setup man, when he was expected to begin the year in Double-A. He's had a hell of a spring, and Jerry Manuel can't hide his excitement.

And it's just a matter of time before Josh Thole takes over as the everyday catcher. The Mets have a plethora of catchers at spring training, and they're mentoring the hell out of that kid.

But this news about Jose Reyes, and his elevated thyroid levels, is turning the 2010 Comeback Mets (or however it is that they're marketing this team in their desperation to sell tickets) back into the Familiar Mets of 2009.

Screw you, Mets, for getting my hopes up with the youngsters.

By Ironic You Mean...

I can't say I'm all that surprised to hear that Governor-for-a-Short-Time Palin used to head across the border to Canada to get her grubby paws on some free health care.

She said in the interview, "I think now, isn't that ironic?"

Um, no. It's not ironic. It's outrageous, perhaps. Hypocritical, obviously. Exploitative, certainly. But nothing about it is ironic.

Jesus Christ.

Did My Eyes Deceive Me?

New Yorkers know well that the subway system hosts a whole lot of panhandlers. I'm not talking about people from, say, the panhandle of Florida. I'm talking about the people who sell, perform, or otherwise ask for cash on the trains.

When you do same commute every day (in my case, it's two different commutes, depending on circumstances), you get to see a lot of the same panhandlers. There's a dapper little violinist who, despite his playing ten hours a day, really doesn't know how to play the violin. There's a saxophonist I try to avoid on the F train. There are several mariachi combos on the 7 train. There are the kids who sell their candy, "not for basketball uniforms, but to earn a little money and keep me off the streets." There's often a blind dude at the 7 to F transfer.

During my evening commute this week, while walking down the steps to the 7 train, I noticed a dude who looked a bit down on his luck. The train was pulling into the station, and he scurried to the back car. I wandered into the second-to-last car and didn't give him another thought.

Until a seriously disabled panhandler staggered into our car. He was shaking from head-to-toe and could barely walk. He was hunched over and held tightly to the various handrails available for support. It was the same dude I saw walking down the stairs, except that this version of him would never had made it up or down the stairs.

He announced that he was going to take up the next ten or fifteen minutes of our time. This is unheard of. Most panhandlers do their thing and move on quickly.

I was listening to music, so I didn't catch everything the man said as he staggered up and down the car, very slowly, but he talked about injuries, mentioned something about 9/11, and offered to help anyone else in the car who might be hungry.

But it was the physicality that was truly remarkable. People get on and off the trains, of course, and over ten or fifteen minutes, you pull through approximately five to eight stops. One woman, wanting to catch the transfer across the platform, reached out to give him a dollar, couldn't get her money in his little bag (which he'd placed on the floor next to a handrail), and laid the bill next to it so she wouldn't miss her train. He worked desperately to bend, holding the rail for dear life, trying to get the bill until another rider grabbed the bill and put it in his bag for him.

This fella was so convincing in his physical performance that I began to question if he was really the same man I saw walking down the stairs at the station. Even now, thinking back, I don't feel so sure. His performance was that good, B&E readers.

He was doing pretty well for himself money-wise in my car, and he was still going on when I got off the train at my stop.

It was downright spooky. And impressive. Cirque du Soleil should totally hire him.

Lady? Check. Baseball? Check. Knuckler?! Check!

What's not to like about this little tidbit, B&E readers? First of all, it's about a woman. I like women. Secondly, it's about baseball. Gosh, I do like baseball. Thirdly, it's about a knuckleball pitcher. I do love a good knuckleball.

When you roll those things into one, you get Eri Yoshida, an 18-year-old knuckleballer in Japan, who might just become the first female professional baseball player. Watch the video. Like all videos in Japanese it's genuinely confusing and oddly compelling.

Man, I'm glad spring training is here.

Even though the Mets star centerfielder and shortstop are being interviewed by investigators about a doctor who allegedly gave out steroids (or something akin to it), and the star closer is out with pink eye.

Really? Pink eye? Jesus, guys, get it together.

Then There's the Real Reason

Harold Ford isn't running for the U.S. Senate against Kirsten Gillibrand. He explains why in an op-ed piece in the New York Times, which has already given him a lot of press in recent weeks.

I've said before that I've got little opinion about our appointed Senator Gillibrand. She's moved to the left since being appointed by our Governor (who also isn't running - Jesus, I go out of town for a few days and return to Paterson in full meltdown mode), which I like, but truth be told, I just don't know that much about her.

Other people flirted with running against Kirsten. Carolyn Maloney, who represents me according to just about every online advocacy group even if I've never had the option of voting for her at the actual polls, was considering a primary challenge. I do like Rep. Maloney. She's usually a reliably progressive vote. I would've happily voted for her in a primary to Gillibrand.

Harold Ford lumps himself together with Carolyn Maloney in discussing the enormous pressure he received to not run from the party machine. And the lack of party support is one thing he cites in his op-ed about why he won't run.

What he doesn't mention, of course, is that he began campaigning in earnest before he made the official decision to run. And there's one striking absence from his list of reasons for not getting involved in the race.

New Yorkers, particularly potential Democratic primary voters, think he's an enormous asshole. Assholes have won plenty of elections, so assholery is not an inherent deal breaker. But he came off as an incompetent, petty, utterly uninteresting, non-resident asshole.

If we New Yorkers didn't hate Harold Ford, he'd totally run. And he is lying by omission in his op-ed.

That Wasn't What I Expected

The missus and I went to a most excellent wedding this past weekend. It's really such a pleasure to see two (or more!) people you love getting hitched.

The couple in question really did it right. It was a destination wedding. Northwest Ohio is, after all, a destination. And there's no better time to visit northwest Ohio than February. It snowed at least a little bit every single day!

But seriously, B&E readers, if I may be sincere for a moment, I couldn't be happier for this couple, and the missus and I were thrilled to be a part of it all. Nice friends, nice family, one near run-in over a table between a hormonal pregnant friend and some angry OSU graduates, delicious Greek food, some kickass processional/recessional music from the missus, lots of laughter, and no serious drama. I'm telling you, B&E readers... it was a great wedding.

So how about that winter road trip? Some of you may have heard that New York was slammed by a pretty decent snowstorm this past weekend. Thursday, in fact. We were supposed to leave on Thursday, and I won the "genius award" from the missus for convincing her to leave on Wednesday late instead. Yes, it was an extra evening in a hotel, but the idea was to get out before the storm hit.

We drove about two-and-a-half hours into Pennsylvania. When we woke up on Thursday morning, I was pretty convinced I'd been a total idiot (again), what with the several inches of snow and near white-out conditions.

But once we got a half-hour or so west of the hotel, it was smooth sailing, and we made it to our destination.

Naturally, it was a road trip. Road trips mean road eating. When you just want to get to your destination, you're limited to what you see when you stop.

Put more succinctly, we ate at fucking McDonald's.

It's been years since we've done that. Or maybe since whenever our last road trip was. But we really don't do the fast food thing. In the past year and a half or so I've largely given up sugar consumption (apart from fruit), and I've been watching the salt intake for some time now.

So when I ordered that Southern Chicken Sandwich, I was expecting a sodium explosion. It didn't disappoint, but salt was the second flavor I noticed.

When I took my first bite, I actually thought something was wrong with my order. It tasted almost like cake to me. It was just wrong. Once I took the second bite, my taste buds had adjusted, and it was all about the salt again.

But Judas Priest, B&E readers: I couldn't believe that first bite. It was really disconcerting. Naturally, I ate the whole goddamn thing because that's what people do when they go to McDonald's (or anywhere else, really). But I was spooked.

I looked up the nutrition information about a Southern Style Crispy Chicken sandwich at McDonald's, and it looks like there are 6 grams of sugar in there. That's actually less than half the sugar there is in other chicken sandwiches.

Still... That first bite was really sweet. And fucked up. I think I can't eat at McDonald's ever again, even on a road trip. There are other fucked up choices on the road, and those fucked up places will get my business.

I sincerely hope that they will not freak me out with their deliciousness.

Binder & Binder Comments

Comments on the old posts continue. Over a year ago, I had some issues with the cowboy hat worn by a lawyer in a shitty commercial that airs on NY1. Follow the link to the old post if you're interested in reading all of the comments (including one from a former employee! Look out!).

But allow me to draw your attention to one in particular. This week, I received a comment from a fella called Greg, who offered a link to his investigative report on Mr. Binder, Esq. He has conveniently embedded the ad in question, so that you can enjoy the cowboy hat in all its glory. Greg's mom emailed Binder & Binder (awesome), and received a reply to her inquiry about the hat, among other things.

Enjoy the hell out of it, B&E readers, and nice work, Greg, for actually pursuing the information.

And according to Greg, Charles "Cowboy Hat" Binder is bald under that sucker. Nice.

Won't You Take Me To... SEPIATOWN??

Those of my six readers who also click on the links to the right (so, then, none of you) may be wondering why Virgil's been so quiet these past couple of years. It turns out there's a simple explanation for why he's been denying so many of us bite-sized nibbles of his that nubile mind of his.

It's called SepiaTown, and it's been a massive undertaking that he launched this past weekend.

Its scope is limited primarily to a few cities right now, but the idea is that eventually, anyone can see what their current location looked like in the days of yore. "Gee, I'm standing at the corner of East 9th Street and Broadway. I wonder what it looked like in 1910." Well, it looked like this.

SepiaTown is a "wiki," B&E readers, which means it relies on user-generated content. If you have old photos, go put them in there. If you know people with access to old photos, tell them to put them in there. The more people that get involved, the cooler the site becomes.

As one buddy said, Virgil has gone and "built a goddamned time machine."

You Left Out Your Biggest Enemy

Steve King, Dickhead of the House from Iowa, says a lot of crazy, and occasionally gets called out on the crazy.

Steve King recently spoke at CPAC, the annual conference brought to you by the ever-reasonable American Conservative Union, which in spite of its obvious anti-union leanings has "union" in its name (branding issues!).

Anyway, Representative Steve King addressed the crowd and defined our enemies. He mentioned, of course, al-Qaeda and the Taliban. And by "al-Qaeda and the Taliban" I mean, "anyone who disagrees with Representative Steve King."

I want to define that enemy. They are: liberals; they are progressives; they are Che Guevareans, they are Castroites, they're socialists. More enemies on this list: Gramsciites -- ring anybody's bell? -- Trotskyites, Maoists, Stalinists, Leninists, Marxists. They're all our enemies.

Yes, well done. Half of America is your enemy, Steve King.

I could go on about how stupid Steve King is, but hell, I'm his enemy, so any cogent argument is easily dismissed by him and his supporters.

But photographs don't lie, Steve King. That comb-over isn't fooling anyone. I hate to break it to you: you're bald. And everyone knows it.

When it comes right down to it, you're just a bald Dickhead. And your enemy is testosterone.

Tiger's Leaked Statement!

Well, B&E readers, if you're anything like me, you're pretty excited for Tiger Woods' first public statement later today. Have I got a treat for you! It's a leaked version of his statement! Who leaked it? I leaked it! How did I get my hands on it? It was never in my hands! It went right from my head to B&E!

So without further ado, here it is, Tiger Woods' leaked statement!

Hi. I'm Tiger Woods. I'm the best golfer of all-time. Arnold Palmer is a pussy. Tom Watson is a total fruitcake. And what is Lee Trevino, anyway? A Latino or Italian? Whatever. And don't even get me started on Phil Mickelson, that left-handed prick. Those guys can't golf. I golf. I'm a golfer. Those guys are just divots in the fairway of my life.

Anyway, I'm Tiger Fucking Woods. And not only do I golf, but I also make a lot of money. A lot. Tons of cash. Seriously. It's a lot of money. Dude, I have a deal with Chevron. It's a fucking oil company. They've got a lot of money too, and some of their money is going right to me. People say that Chevron pollutes and supports military dictatorships in Burma, but fuck those hippies. They're just jealous.

And they're not just jealous because I'm almost as rich as that chick who wrote those weird wizard books.

They're also jealous because I get women. Lots of women. One of them was my wife. I totally got her. Knocked her up too. She's Swedish. Which is hot. I mean, the country is cold but the chicks are hot.

But I didn't stop with her, just because I'm married. Oh, no. There are a lot of really hot women out there. A lot! And because I'm famous and gifted and richer than Dick Cheney, tons of those women totally throw themselves at me. And look, I don't want to be rude. If these chicks want to bang me, it's only right to give them the ride of their lives.

Oh, hell, you all know I'm not just banging these broads because I don't want to be rude. I like women. I really like women. Lots of women.

And I like watching other dudes with women. Especially that guy from Bones. I'd really like to see that guy with some women. Mm... Bones...

Anyway, I got caught. Boy, did I get caught. I was totally nailed. And not in the same way that I was nailing all those broads. That would've been a lot cooler, let me tell you. But no, that's not what I mean at all. I was totally busted.

What can I say? I'm the best golfer ever, rich as Nazis, and can get pretty much any woman I want. Who wouldn't take advantage of that?

So back off, media. Give me some goddamned privacy. Let me get on with my life - and get off with that hot chick over there.

I'm Tiger Fucking Woods.

It's a bold statement from Tiger Woods. He's got real moxie, this guy. Go get 'em, Tiger.

That Shit Was Already Expensive

So this New York councilman has been indicted on corruption charges, and one little detail is getting a lot of attention.

Bronx councilman Larry Seabrook apparently doctored a receipt for a bagel and soda, so that instead of the original $7, it cost $177.

I've bought my share of bagels over the years, and I tell you what: I'm just as shocked by the $7 receipt as I am by the $177 doctoring of the receipt.

Even if he got a fancy shmear, that bagel shouldn't have been more than $3 (and indeed should have been closer to $2). And let's assume that he ran up the bill with a two-liter bottle of soda, rather than the 12 oz. can or 20 oz. bottle that most unhealthy people drink. Being really liberal with prices, the whole thing shouldn't have been even $6.

Councilman, you need to find yourself a better bagelry. You're being overcharged.

She Looks Good

And nothing makes Kirsten Gillibrand look better to me than the continued horseshit coming from Harold Ford. Seriously, that guy is loathsome. Go fuck off, Harold, preferably in a state where you've paid taxes.

Mordant Has an Awesome Name

It's that time again, B&E readers. I have recently received some terrific comments from some terrific readers, and I'm now sharing one of them with you.

Some of you may recall that when the missus and I visited Sweden a few years back, I had a few thoughts about the many Swedes with their many dreadlocks. Well, a fellow called Mordant, if that is indeed his name, took umbrage:

I don't usually post on blogs either and I live in Sweden and what you are talking is utter rubbish..You are a closeminded moron btw. And furthermore I have dreads and a doctorate, I don't see your point! What have you done lately to improve your society. You should go out and do some social work rather than write utter drivel on blog sites!

Well, Mordant, if that is indeed your name it is the most awesome name in the world. Oh, wait, excuse me, Mordant. You said you have a doctorate, so I should be calling you Dr. Mordant. Dr. Mordant, I apologize to you and your dreadlocks. I'm sorry to have insulted you, your dazzling intellect, and your style sense. Please forgive me my trespasses against your person, your higher degree, and your locks aplenty. And seriously, Dr. Mordant, I wish I had your name. It is awesome.

And as a point of clarification, Dr. Mordant. I don't write utter drivel on blog sites. I write utter drivel on MY blog site. Technically, you are the guest here. But hey, since you have the post-college degree and the tangled, matted hair, you can be as rude as you wish to be. On my blog. Please visit any time, Dr. Mordant.

Your name is awesome.