Good Grief, Harry

I think I picked up this link from Huffington Post, but this little tidbit from yesterday really pushed my buttons (and not in a good way).

With Al Franken's seating in the Senate, the Democratic Party has 60 seats, that magical "filibuster-proof" majority. During last year's election, this is what the Democratic Party was fundraising on: With a filibuster-proof majority we will be able to move the Obama agenda forward without obstacle.

Now that they've got those 60 seats, of course, Senate Majority leader Harry Reid is tempering expectations, talking about how they're all individuals with diverse political ideas and philosophies.

Meanwhile, RNC leader/kook Michael Steele (and other Republican leaders) are now saying, "Well, that's it. The government is yours now. You own whatever happens." Obviously, they are assuming that what happens will either be nothing or failure or both.

The point that Greg Sargent (a former blogger for Talking Points Memo) makes is, "Own it, Democrats. Anything you accomplish belongs to you." And fair enough.

But I think Greg is forgetting that they're Democrats. It's probably been 35 years or so since the Democratic Party hasn't been a bunch of feckless weenies. I predict that very little will be accomplished, even with this giant majority.

And Harry's already shown us part, if not most, of the problem. The Democratic leadership refuses to be bold.

Go out there and inspire some Hope. Make some Change, dammit. You're the fucking Senate Majority Leader. Sure, acknowledge that it'll be hard work. But for Christ's sake, you talk like a fucking loser.

The Democrats are led by Charlie Brown. And I think we all remember how good his baseball team was.

Give Me Choice, or... God Knows I'll Live With It

When Hillary Clinton was named Secretary of State, we had an open Senate seat here in New York. The people of New York had been feeling pretty good about our new-ish Governor Paterson up until this point, but many of us were turned off by how he handled naming her successor.

We ended up with Kirsten Gillibrand, a Congresswoman from upstate, who had the reputation being relatively conservative. I still don't know much about her, except that she's shifted a little to the left in some of her positions since becoming Senator from a state that trends a little more liberal than her district in Congress.

Still, she was appointed not elected, and those of us who are fans of democracy bristle at this simple fact.

Because law requires Gillibrand to run for election in the next cycle (in this case 2010), a few New York politicos were considering a run against her in the primary. But the White House talked all of them out of it.

Except Carolyn Maloney. And the Democratic Party machine isn't terribly happy with her.

Long-time readers might recall that I've had some questions about who actually represents my apartment in Congress. I've only ever voted for Joseph Crowley, but I get mail from Carolyn Maloney, and most Political Action Committees seem to think that my zip code+4 puts me in her district.

Maloney is a pretty reliable liberal. I'm a fan. I still know very little about Kirsten Gillibrand.

But if not for the New York State law giving the authority to fill an empty seat to the governor instead of the people, we'd have had a robust Democratic primary to fill Hillary's seat. I want a robust primary.

It's a democracy, man. Run, Maloney! Run!

Stay Classy, Staten Island

We had a bit of a work outing last night, taking in a game at the Ballpark at St. George on Staten Island. The Yankees' independent single-A affiliate, cleverly called the Staten Island Yankees, play there. And I do love a minor league baseball game.

Local news (NY1!) has occasional reports of the rising obesity problem in New York City. I think maybe those studies are all taking place at the Ballpark at St. George. But that's not really what I want to share with you, my dear B&E readers.

These Single-A players are pursuing a dream. It's possible, but unlikely, that one of the players we saw last night will work his way through the minor league system and make it the pros. These guys have a long way to go, and the odds are stacked against them.

At this level, I root for individuals. I have absolutely no loyalty to the Staten Island Yankees or the Aberdeen Ironbirds. But I'm pulling for these players. So when an Aberdeen Ironbird player smacked the ball into the corner and sped his way to a triple, I just said, "Nice!"

The father in the family sitting in front of us gave me a pretty good glare. He had some long hairs coming out of the tip of his nose.

He'd already sort of annoyed the colleague sitting next to me by sticking his elbow in her beer, and after I got the glare, she told me that she was reading his text messages over his shoulder earlier in the game. One said:

FUCK U COCKSUCKER U GAY MOTHERFUCKER

I didn't see the message, so I'm not sure if it actually used the texting vernacular or caps or punctuation, but that's what I imagined when she shared that with me.

The gay slur is still ubiquitous, isn't it?

But this one just doesn't make sense. I mean, if Hairy Nose is fucking his mother, he's not gay. He's got issues, but he's not gay.

Now, if the mother in the family had gotten that text message, it'd be closer to accurate, I suppose, although the cocksucker part would perhaps imply that she's not gay.

I just don't think that text message was very well thought out.

Self-Fulfilling or Inevitable?

I wrote that last post before the Yankees swept the Mets in their weekend Subway Series. In fact, I wrote it before the Mets had even lost one game.

It becomes easy to project on a team that's losing. "Their heart's not in it," is a phrase often heard about losing teams, and I'm certainly hearing it about the Mets. Maybe it's true. I'm not in the clubhouse. Maybe it's obvious that the Mets players really don't care at all.

I tend to think that's a crock of shit. The truth of the matter is that the Yankees' stars are healthy and on fire right now. The Mets stars are mostly injured or ice cold. The Yankees are almost half of the All-Star team. The Mets are mostly a Triple-A team. Their lead-off hitter was Daniel Murphy, and their biggest hit came from Fernando Martinez. Who the hell are these guys next to the likes of Mark Teixeira and Alex Rodriguez?

You can't tell me that Murphy and Martinez don't care. They're just nowhere near their prime yet. I'm sure the whole team hated the way they played against the Yankees. They were sloppy and weak. Who the hell wants to play that way?

We are the Mets. We care. Yes, we do. This weekend, however, the Yankees were better. And gosh, that's really too bad.

But, you know, often Microsoft wins.

Of Death and Mets

Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson died this week. (As if you hadn't heard.) Those are three major icons, and I suppose I have thoughts about all three.

My strongest feelings are certainly around Michael Jackson, but the coverage has been so overwhelming, I'm not going to bother to enter the fray. But yes, I've been listening to Thriller and Off The Wall for the past couple of days.

I think I was just a year or two too young to go through a major Farrah phase. It was Farrah's replacement Cheryl Ladd that I thought was the real looker, and that they thought they could replace her with Shelley Hack... well, that's just insulting.

Ed McMahon... I mean, he's Ed McMahon. It's a little weird to me that two of the three announcers in those New York Lottery commercials are now dead. Look out Jeopardy guy, if these things do in fact happen in threes.

I was avoiding thinking about these three dead icons this morning and instead put my focus on this weekend's Subway Series. And as I put on my Mets cap, I got to thinking (again) about why I'm a Mets fan. I very much had a choice in the matter. I didn't grow up rooting for the Mets.

As I've mentioned before, I was a massive baseball fan in grade school, got distracted by girls and theater in high school, decided I was too cool for sports in college, and realized that I missed the hell out of baseball once I was an independent adult.

I was in a city with two teams. The Yankees were about to go on a run of four World Series Championships in five years. The Yanks were experiencing a renaissance. The Mets were not. Their best player was Todd Hundley, for crying out loud. It was a hard time to be a Mets fan. And the Mets broke my 1986 heart, when they unexpectedly beat my beloved Houston Astros. The cards were stacked against the Mets.

Visits to both stadiums really should've put the Yankees over the top. Yankee Stadium (the old one - haven't yet seen the new one) was a stellar place for baseball. You were close to the action; you could eat the history.

Shea was Shea. Holy crap that was a fucking terrible stadium in which to see a baseball game. You were far from the action; you felt like you were sitting in a giant mistake.

But at Yankee Stadium, I always felt surrounded by entitlement. Wall Street pricks got jacked up on coke and came to the game to take that edge off with several dozen beers. The combination was lethal. They suffered from massively inflated egos, and were aggressive to everyone around them, even their friends.

On the other hand, my god, Shea felt like home. Mets fans felt like a family, actually. They were lovable losers. These were my lovable losers. I too was a lovable loser. However long we'd been alive, we'd taken a drubbing for the duration. We woke up every day and had to live with ourselves, in a world where we worked too fucking hard for too fucking little pay.

Obviously, that is a simplification beyond simplification. I've come across some massively dickheaded Mets fans. And clearly not every Yankees fan fits the Wall Street stereotype. Most of the guys who work at the bagel store near my office are Yankees fans, and a nicer bunch of baseball fans you won't meet.

But instead of celebrity death this is what I was thinking about on the subway this morning, as I took the 7 train (this weekend's subway line in the Subway Series) on my way to work.

And there he was: the purest embodiment of the Mets fan. A portly, somewhat disheveled fellow wearing a Mets cap and t-shirt. His mouth hung open just a bit. The AC in the train car dripped every so often. It was landing on his thigh and sometimes on the hand he rested on his thigh.

Did he move? No. Did he wipe the water off his hand? No. He sat there and took it. It was everything he deserved. Just like that team from Queens. It's all he deserves. The meltdowns. The heartbreak. The leaky air-conditioning.

We take it. We were born to take it. We love these guys some call the Mets.

Re: Governor Mark Sanford

At least now we know why the good governor felt he didn't need any stimulus money.

Zang! Zzp-POW! Wocka-wocka-wocka!

Ah, nuts. I'm telling this joke about 36 hours too late.

Our Stupid Senate

I kinda want to just ignore these stupid New York Senators, but they're behaving so stupidly that I need to call them stupid.

Governor Paterson is making them come into the stupid chamber by calling special (and stupid) sessions, which require their stupid presence.

Yesterday, the stupid Democratic Senators sneaked through a back door and locked themselves in the chamber. They weren't even stupidly creating a stupid metaphor to vote on the gay marriage bill. The stupid Republican Senators couldn't get in for a while, and once they did, the stupid parties held dueling sessions, neither of which weren't stupid.

So then today, the stupids stupided the stupidheads and stupidly stupided the stupids. As if that weren't stupid enough, they stupided the stupid stupids. And before long, stupid was as stupid does, and the stupids left the stupid, having stupidly stupided stupid. All for the sake of stupid.

Fucking stupid.

Turning the Frown Upside-Down

Oh, Fred Phelps... Your hatred knows no bounds. Well, maybe some bounds. Most of the bounds seem to be gays and Jews.

Yes, I've written about dear Fred before, he of the God Hates Fags movement. Well, recently, Fred and the Westboro Baptist Church (a.k.a. the Phelps Family Singers) have recently been saving some of their vitriol for the Jews as well.

Why the Jews are suddenly in the Phelps' cross-hairs, I don't really know. I suppose I could read about it on their website, but I can say with some confidence that any rationale wouldn't actually make sense. I'm sure it's hateful, stupid, and dangerous, like all of their other spewings.

So this past weekend, the Phelps' came to New York, where we have lots of Jews and lots of gays, sometimes in the same place. One of their protest locations was Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, a synagogue founded by a group of gay Jews in the 70s. I suppose you could call them the gay temple in town, although they're certainly more than just that.

Well, the gay Jews didn't take it lying down [insert offensive gay joke here!]. In fact, they asked for pledges: donate per minute of the Phelps' protest.

Fred and the Phelps Family Singers raised $10,000 for CBST over 50 minutes.

Thanks, Fred! Your protests really bring people together, buddy.

My Footprints in the Sand

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Most of the time there were two sets of footprints.


During the low periods of my life,
when I was sad or lonely or debauched,
and during the eight years of the Bush administration,
there was only one set of footprints.


And I was all,
"Yo, Lord, what's up with that?
Where your stinky feet at?
How come I'm all alone when I totally needed you most?
That ain't cool, yo."

The Lord replied,
"I always thought you were a total bitch.
You know what I'm talking about.
All whiny and self-righteous and pantsless.
Damn right I wasn't hanging with you.
I have a reputation to think about."

And that was when the Lord and I rumbled.


Holy crap, can that dude fight.
He smote the shit out of me.

My Late Spring Vacation - Better Food

In fairness to Scotland, I shouldn't let my last food post be the only real statement about the culinary arts in the country. We did eat some delicious food, too. I mean, come on, look at this gorgeous classic of British cuisine...

Not just fish & chips, but fish, chips, & peas!

And let's face some facts, B&E readers. The British invented the proper breakfast.

This is the Scottish breakfast at the Glengorm Castle hotel. Soak it in, readers. That's an egg, some mushrooms, a tomato, and three kinds of meat: bacon, sausage, and black pudding. It's made with blood. Mm... breakfast blood...

Here's the Scottish breakfast at the Bellacroy Hotel on the Isle of Mull. I got it without the black pudding, because it also included baked beans. Baked beans!

That's also a little thing they call a potato scone. Delicious!

Desserts are another particular specialty of the Scottish people.

That's sticky toffee pudding from the Caledonian Hotel in Fort Augustus (located on Loch Ness). If you have this option on the menu at any Scottish restaurant, get it. Just get it. Don't ask questions. Get it. Even at mediocre restaurants, it tends to be good. At good restaurants, it like God Himself dancing in your mouth.

The Caledonian also served up this delicious concoction, called a pavlova, which is a sort of meringue type of thing with strawberries and kiwi.

Tasty!

Not to be outdone, the missus' family prepared a delicious meal that ended with the best of all puddings.

That's stewed rhubarb, strawberries, ice cream, and the toffee sauce (one of the missus' cousins works at the Caledonian Hotel and knows how to make it proper).

Then here are a few other delicious treats...

That's salmon with smoked salmon on top. Those green things are actually fried and colored salmon tentacles. No, really. Seriously. I would never lie to you.

This is a smoked venison and melon appetizer.

I love smoked venison.

Those last two are both also from the Caledonian Hotel (where I also got the haggis).

We came upon this window display while walking in Edinburgh...

I still can't believe we didn't actually go back there to eat. Next time, B&E readers. Next time.

My Late Spring Vacation - Nasty Food

I've already shown some of the masterpieces of our culinary experience in Scotland, specifically the haggis and the Taste of Mull Platter for Two.

What's generally terrific about the food in Scotland is that it's legendarily crappy. So when you have a good meal (or even more rarely a healthy meal), it's a genuine surprise, and your experience is all the more pleasant for the hey-didn't-expect-that factor.

Typically, the food comes out looking something like this...

It's hard to fuck up a sausage roll and chips, although the ketchup (or "tomahto sauce" as they like to call it) was sorta blah.

The other food came out looking even worse...

That's "prawn Marie Rose" on top, and I have no idea why they call it that, or indeed what it even is. I also have no idea what inspired the missus to order it.

Her dad ordered the "tuna mayonnaise" version of the potato that the missus ordered. He was equally disappointed.

That's tuna salad on a baked potato. Some might call it a tattie. I call it nasty.

The restaurant was appropriately named...

I guess we really should've had low expectations.

Puffin Personals - Walter

Lonely single male seeking female. Or anyone, really.

About me
I'm desperately alone.

About you
I really don't care at all, as long as you help me get out from under the weight of this crushing loneliness.

Send messages to Box Walter6431 c/o B&E comments below.

My Late Spring Vacation - Bruise the Willow

The missus and I actually planned this trip to Scotland to coincide with the missus' mother's 70th birthday. We (mostly she and her brother) planned a surprise party, complete with food, drink, a ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) band, dancing, and sordid people from her dark, dark past.

We rented a hall...

Put together some decorations...

And had tables and tables of food and drink...

It was really a lot of food.

A ceilidh is a Scottish dance party. The band consisted of three members: a guitarist, a fiddler, and a piper (mostly Irish pipes in this case, although he did break out the bagpipes toward the end).

The sign was made by my sister-in-law, by the way, and is the name of the missus' mother, not the name of the band.

Most ceilidh bands have a caller, in this case the fiddler, who talks you through the dance steps for the particular dance ahead of time. Most dances are actually pretty simple and repetitive, so even if you struggle in the beginning, by the end you feel like an expert.

Most dances are also joyful and celebratory, and therefore exhausting. After a particularly rousing number called The Flying Scotsman I had pretty well soaked my shirt completely through and was about three minutes from a stroke. We feel fairly certain the band made up this particular dance as a means of seeing up the skirts of many ladies as they spun around in the air.

Strip the Willow is a popular Scottish dance, and the band ended our ceilidh with a rousing version that worked in everyone in attendance. Men and women line up across from one another down the length of the entire hall. Like so...


Then you (in American group dancing vernacular) swing-your-partner-round-and-round, swing away from your partner to the next person in line (of the opposite gender), swing them round-and-round, come back to your partner and swing round-and-round, and then down the line accordingly. When the whole party is in on the action, it's a long line and a whole lotta swinging of your partners round and round.

Some people get rather into the swinging round-and-round, and Strip the Willow is not without its dangers.

Um... This is the missus' arm, four full days after the party, still not recovered from the overzealous Strip the Willow dancers.

But if that's not a sign of fun dancing, I don't know what is!

Why I'm Up at Stupid O'Clock

This morning, around 4:30 AM, in my half-asleep stupor while lying in bed, my mind started racing.

I was thinking about how Democrats have been saying for years now that if they just had control of the White House, the Senate, and the House of Representatives, they could pass real reform.

I was thinking about how maybe their idea of reform is different than mine.

I was thinking about how our country can't seem to stop fighting wars, even though the US Congress hasn't seemed to actually declare any wars.

I was thinking about how the US Congress is probably the least relevant branch of government, and it's no one's fault but the US Congress's.

I was thinking about how Mayor Michael Bloomberg is spending a gazillion dollars of his own money on his re-election, which only makes me want to vote for him less.

I was thinking about how few New Yorkers even know who's running against Mayor Mike. (It's City Comptroller Bill Thompson, not that anyone cares either.)

I was thinking about how not only has money from the health industry corrupted the debate on health care, but also how the personal investments our Senators and Representatives have in insurance and pharmaceuticals will make any real changes to the current system impossible, since they've got careers and personal fortunes on the line.

I was thinking about what an asshole Tom Daschle is for recommending to President Obama that he take a public health care option off the table when three-quarters of Americans support a public health care option.

I was thinking about what a relief it is that Tom Daschle isn't Secretary for Health and Human Services.

I was thinking about how the man who's probably more responsible for saving the Democratic Party than anyone, Governor-Doctor Howard Dean, has been marginalized by the party he put back in power.

I was thinking about how the New York Mets haven't lived up to their potential since 2000.

I was thinking about how I still don't really understand what exactly is going on in Iran.

I was thinking about how I really need to buy some pants that fit me.

I was thinking about how little money we have right now for me to invest in pants.

I was thinking about how I should really just get up and make myself some goddamned coffee, because now that I'm thinking about all these things, I'm not going back to sleep.

At a Farmer's Market?

I'm a big fan of the Sunnyside Farmer's Market. It's easy to mock because it's all of about a half-dozen stalls along a sidewalk outside one of our beautiful, caged, paved parks.

But I tell you what: the produce is terrific ("These sprouts take like green!"), the fish is fresh ("You caught this yesterday?"), and the offerings are growing ("Long Island has good wines?").

Last year, there was a sometimes meat vendor, who had organic goodness from local animals who were treated nicely until the moment they were slaughtered for the benefit of my belly. When he was there, we'd stock up on the ground beef, and once he had summer sausage, a treat I hadn't had since I was a kid munching on the cheese and sausage gift baskets my dad received from parishioners at Christmas time. (I much preferred those baskets to the hams.) The meat vendor hasn't been in attendance yet this year, and I hope he's not giving the Sunnyside Farmer's Market a miss. That'd really be too bad.

Last week, though, I was pleased to see a dairy vendor - mostly cheeses, cured meats, and some baked goods. The smoked cheddar is delicious. I also sampled and purchased some hot meat sticks (which aren't nearly as dirty as they sound). They're delicious. Think Slim Jim, only better.

When I got home and finally bothered to look at the ingredients as I gnawed away on my hot meat stick, I discovered that it had corn syrup, mono-sodium glutamate (that's MSG, by the way), and a couple of nitrites.

Now, I know there's no law forbidding local farmers (even the ones who participate in farmer's markets) from using crappy ingredients, but it sure does seem to go against the spirit of a farmer's market. Yes, yes, I know that the point is to support local farmers more than it is to eat organically, but still, I'm especially disappointed that the hot meat sticks have corn syrup and MSG. (I hear it's good to avoid nitrites, but hell if I know why.)

Oh, Farmer, you looked so innocent and Amish with your no-mustachioed-bearded face and brimmed hat.

Don't get me wrong: I'll finish the package. They're delicious hot meat sticks, after all. But I won't buy them again. I can get food that kills me at any old market. I think I'll stick to the unprocessed foods at the Farmer's Market from now on.

And I'll stop trusting people who look Amish.

I Think We Need That Dog Whisperer

We still don't have a functional Senate in New York (we don't have one in the federal government either, but for totally different reasons - zang! zzp-POW! wocka-wocka-wocka!) because a judge refused to a) condone the Republican takeover, or b) reject the Republican takeover.

Instead, he was all, "Yo, jackasses. Go across the fucking street, stop being little bitches, and work this shit out."

While I can understand the sentiment (and perhaps if I had any knowledge of the law I could also understand the legal argument), I'm not sure that the Honorable Thomas J. McNamara quite understands what we're dealing with here. This is, after all, the most corrupt bunch of power hungry fucking idiots this world has ever seen.

Or perhaps the judge understands completely and realizes that getting in the middle of the wrestling match with this bunch of clowns will only end with His Honor getting a massive a pie in the face. (Thanks again to Titivil for inspiring the clown imagery w/r/t our State Senate.)

Either way, New York still has no Senate. The Republicans show up in the chamber with their 31 seats, one seat shy of a quorum, i.e. no business can get done. The Democrats stay home with their 31 seats, celebrating individual quorums in their living rooms while watching reruns of The King of Queens and wonder how it is that Kevin James keeps getting himself into such wacky pickles. (Is that what happens on that show? I can't say I've ever seen an entire episode.)

And yet, life goes on as normal for the rest of us in NYC. I realize of course that eventually no Senate will have real repercussions (City budgets won't get approved, Bloomberg can't be named school czar, gays can't continue to be considered second-class citizens).

But for now, to put into new words a sentiment my dad used to express quite often, these utter Dickheads totally deserve each other.