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.

We're a Nation of Snow Pussies

I've been a little under the weather this week (See how I took the snow theme and turned it? That's just the sort of quality writing you've come to expect here at B&E!), so I've been working from home.

This morning I woke up feeling a bit better, but because last night the local news outlets were freaking out about the Blizzard of 2010, I opted to work from home again today, as did many of my fine colleagues.

I finally got a chance for a quick walk right around 5:00 PM.

Don't get me wrong: it was a good snow. It was not, however, a blizzard. Why the hell do we get so fucking crazy about a little snow? Was it seriously that big a deal?

Anyway, the city looks nice during a snow.


I love a Smart Car! Look at the Smart Car in the snow! I have to admit that it looks less Smart!


If you need to rest, take a load off on this snow sofa!


And our neighbors made a snowman! Right outside one of my favorite facades in Sunnyside!


Anyway, it was a fun snow.

It's a Giant Toy Train Set! Made of Plants!

The missus and I took a trip to the New York Botanical Garden last weekend. Somehow we'd never been. I've been wanting to go see the annual Holiday Train Show for years, and we finally got our act together and got tickets for the final weekend.

There are a lot of families at the Botanical Garden. Especially unhappy ones, it seems. On a tram tour of the garden, we were joined in our row by a man with an empty stroller. He spent a whole lot of time yelling at his wife and kids, who were in another tram car. He was ordering them to sit down, commanding his wife to get control. He was a seriously miserable bastard. But that's okay because he was making up for it by causing misery in the whole family.

Even so, it was worth the crowds and the misery to check out the cityscape and toy trains. The cityscape is made completely of vegetation. It's wacky. And awesome.

And I bet you know what that means for you, B&E readers! That's right: PHOTOS!

This is a real train! In Queens!

Pretty, right?

This is a toy train! In the Bronx!

Cute, right?

Here are some skyscrapers! Based on the ones in midtown!

Cool, right?

This is a mini Yankee Stadium! Like the one in the Bronx!

Where the fuck are the Mets, right?

This is the Brooklyn Bridge! Brooklyn Bridge! Brooklyn Bridge!

Brooklyn Bridge, right?

This is the Guggenheim! From Men in Black! And The International!

Frank Lloyd, Wright?

Gosh, it was all very impressive! We may even go back again next year! Good idea, right?

Bottle It Up and Be "Happy"!

Please allow me to draw your attention to Barbara Ehrenreich's fine essay, which is extracted from her book that lays into "positive thinking." Barbara relays her specific experience going through breast cancer treatment and how much the culture of positive thinking (i.e. "cancer is a blessing!") surrounded every step along the way. What she really wanted and needed was an outlet for her anger. Anyway, it's a good essay, and I encourage you to read it.

I have an amiable presence in general, so I think it comes as a surprise to many people, including good friends, that I have a pretty gloomy outlook on life. I don't always expect the best results or see the positive side of things. I find it difficult to visualize an ideal scenario, and when I do, that scenario seems totally out of the realm of reality. So yeah, I guess I'm a bit bleak that way.

That's not to say I don't set goals, make plans, or do any of those other things that people do to improve their lives. I have a Protestant work ethic. And I hope that I'm not so negative to be closed off to the opportunities that present themselves to me. But I tend to think that positive thinking is bullshit.

So I hope (and work) for the best and expect the worst. Truth be told, this approach has served me pretty well. I have a terrific wife and a happy marriage. I've been at a job for more than three years, and I actually still like it, something I've never been able to say before. I enjoy creative pursuits. I'm able to go on vacations and trips with the missus. I find genuine pleasure in good food and the company of good friends, even though I don't drink alcohol.

In other words, I'm happy. I don't want to be anyone else or have another life. My inability to think positively has not seemed to hinder me. And in fact I think that not forcing myself to be positive all the time gives me a full experience. I call it "life."

Steal This New Year's Resolution

Hey, B&E readers! Do you remember how at the end of the aughts (aka the Jack Bauer years, aka the 9/11 years, aka the fuck-the-public years, aka etc.) the United States government totally gave like billions of dollars to the very institutions that caused the financial crisis and then those institutions went right back to behaving exactly how they wanted? Yeah, that was a good time.

In general I'm not the biggest fan of New Year's as a holiday. I think I've said before that my birthday always feels like more of a well-defined marker for looking back on the year and setting some goals and doing all that other reflective stuff (yay, reflectors!) people do when they want to assess the general state of their lives.

So yeah... New Year's resolutions... I don't really make 'em. And although the Huffington Post is touting this as a New Year's resolution, I just think it's a Very Good Thing To Do.

It's called Move Your Money. And it makes a lot of sense to me. Read the essay and watch the movie (Look! It's a Wonderful Life!). The moral argument is pretty clear.

The missus and I are putting our money into a credit union. The missus has kept the minimum amount of money in there for a bunch of years, just so that she wouldn't lose her standing as a member. She never really knew why, but it just didn't seem like a good idea to give it up. How fortuitous!

When I first moved to Sunnyside, I put my money in Greenpoint Bank. I did it mostly because it was on the corner. Greenpoint was a large-ish community bank. It got eaten by a larger community/regional bank, North Fork, which had barely changed the signs before it got gobbled up by Capital One. Capital One isn't exactly the beast that Wells Fargo, Citigroup, Bank of America, and JP Morgan/Chase all are, but it's close, and I certainly can no longer call it a community bank.

My biggest concern about moving into the credit union was convenience. Do they have online banking services, cash cards, etc? Yes. They do. And yes, a community bank or credit union is insured by the FDIC, which means if the bank or credit union fails, the government still guarantees your deposits up to $250,000.

The only thing that will change in our everyday lives is that our credit union's ATMs are somewhat less ubiquitous. And most of their ATMs are located within McDonald's restaurants. I haven't been inside a McDonald's in New York for more than a decade, I would guess. So that'll be weird.

It'll probably be a month-long process to change everything over. I'll need to fill out a new direct deposit slip at my job; we'll need to reorganize all the bills that come out automatically, etc., etc., but a little bit of footwork (particularly footwork largely being done by the missus) seems worth it.

The fact is, our tiny amount of money doesn't make much difference to a bank that doles out millions of dollars in bonuses to the employees that screw us hardest. But it could make a difference if large amounts of people get involved. I mean, those monsters will always have the big corporate accounts, but then they'll be taking all those risks with corporate money instead of our meager savings.

Plus, those big banks wouldn't spend so much time and money advertising for our business if they didn't need a whole lot of us.

But meanwhile, our meager savings can actually make a real difference at a community bank or a credit union that, say, serves your neighbors.

Best of all, I feel like it's the most satisfying way to give the finger to the financial institutions that have fucked us right in the ear. The finger in exchange for getting fucked in the ear isn't much, but it's a start.

The HuffPo article doesn't (yet) discuss credit unions. Credit unions have different rules regarding disclosure that I admit I don't completely understand. But you can read more about them here. And I think we can invite a few locals to ours, if you're not already qualified to join it.

I need to give credit (unions) where credit (unions) is due. It was the missus who fully engaged with the idea and explored options. I sat by, shouted out a few concerns, which she mostly shouted down, while taking care of the logistics.

Thanks and Happy New Year, missus. You are, as always, tremendous.

And Happy New Year to my six faithful readers. You are the best readers in the world.

Happy New Year, B&E Readers

I hope that all six of you have a happy and healthy 2010. On this side of things, I hope to get back into updating the B&E site with more frequency - more like the beginning of 2009 than the end of it. We shall see how that goes.

In the meantime, I'm offering you this link from the New York Times. See those two bald people in the photo? Neither of them are me.

I Think I Have B&E Fatigue

As I'm sure my six regular readers have noticed, I've been a bit off of late. Not only have the posts been fewer and farther between, but they've also been of a much lower quality. I'm aware of it, but I'm not sure why I've got such a lack of inspiration for things B&E related.

But hey! Maybe I'll write a post on B&E about it! Isn't that what bloggers do? Me me me me me me me me me me me me me.

When I kicked this sucker off a few years ago, it was largely because I was absolutely disgusted by Republican rule, and I needed a place to vent. Like so many, I feared that a new administration would stifle my desire to continue the regular posting, but I forged onward, undaunted.

There's been plenty to complain about or comment upon during the still-less-than-one-year that we've had a slightly more palatable president and administration.

I never really drank the Obama Kool-Aid the way so many other lefties did. Don't get me wrong: I supported him and voted for him. I liked the soaring rhetoric and decided that it would be refreshing and amazing to have a leader who could actually fucking inspire.

And of course there was the sheer historical value of the moment.

But I also listened to what he had to say, and I always wanted him to be farther to the left than how he actually portrayed himself. I think a lot of progressives thought he was saying what he needed to say to get elected and that his true colors would be revealed upon getting into office.

I think he was being pretty honest, actually. He always said he'd fight the "good war" in Afghanistan. He never pretended (during the election, anyway) that he was going to totally overhaul health care. He was always a "within the system" sort of guy, who spoke all pretty and let everyone project whatever they wanted onto him.

So I don't feel particularly betrayed or shocked by his thoughtful approach, his determination to compromise, his desire to be overly careful, or his differing opinions in whatever the best policy is for any given scenario.

I also think he's a lot smarter than I am. A lot. But hey, I can disagree with people who could wonk me under the table. I just might lose an argument. Not that I've had a conversation with President Obama.

When I find myself disagreeing with his decisions or being disappointed in his lack of fire or willingness to fight, other (also smarter) people than me do a perfectly fine job of expressing my feelings and thoughts on the matter, before I even have a chance to process something. Nothing takes the wind out of the sails of a rant more than the realization: "Gosh, that smart person really just summed up how I feel."

Back in 2008, when all of the various congressional fundraising committees were inundating me with appeals for my money, they were talking about how awesome it would be to have a SUPERMAJORITY! WE'LL BE ABLE TO DO WHATEVER WE WANT TO DO! IT'LL BE THE BEST WAY TO GET SHIT DONE!

Boy, and how.

And now there's progressive infighting over this health care debacle. Some (like Howard Dean and activist bloggers) say fuck it: kill the bill. It's just too damned destructive now. Others (like policy wonk bloggers such as Nate Silver) say killing the bill would be a Pyrrhic victory: many people would still be helped by this bill, as shitty as it may be and killing the bill hurts many of the people the left purports to be fighting for.

I don't actually know where I stand on this issue. My hunch is to say pass this sucker no matter how crappy it is. And then progressives should never compromise again. "That's it. We did nothing but bend over for you to pass health care. Now you have to come to us for everything else." In other words, pass this fucker and then be the biggest pain in the ass possible to anything that comes close to going against progressive values.

Progressives in the House always get ignored. Progressives in the Senate are pretty much limited to Bernie Sanders and Russ Feingold. What little influence they have should be wielded as brutally as humanly possible. After all, the Democrats need Russ and Bernie just as badly as they need Joe Lieberman and Ben Nelson. So fuck 'em.

And that's why I'm not a politician. Politics is nothing but compromise.

Unless you're a Republican. They never fucking compromise about anything. They're playing a different game, it's about ideology over governing, and it's very destructive.

When unified ideology goes head-to-head with weenied fecklessness, the result is very ugly indeed.

So it's been a time of blahs here in B&E country. I feel pretty hopeless about it all. Even though I didn't have the same level of optimism as most Obama supporters when he won the election, my cynicism has still managed to deepen in the past year. If I get any more cynical, it'll be downright nihilistic, and I like the missus too much to wish that upon her.

All this is to say that I don't feel like writing about this shit. It bums me out. I don't see the humor in it (although I still appreciate some of the humor in it when Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert chew it up and masticate). I don't feel the hope of progress.

And who wants to spend time writing about that kind of crap?

That Wacky Frank Lloyd Wright

I've now been back from my Wisconsin sabbatical for three weeks, and today's post is one that I've been meaning to write for, oh, three-plus weeks.

Less than a half hour from my cabin-with-the-geese was Frank Lloyd Wright's home, office, and school - Taliesin. That's Welsh for "eyebrow" or something, because you see, he built on the "brow" of a hill, not the top of one. Of course, as it expanded, it pretty much spread over the top of the hill.

It's an interesting, crazy-looking place, that's for sure.

I knew little about Frank Lloyd Wright before the trip, which is a little embarrassing when you consider that I'm still paying off my undergraduate degree. Seems like I should have had an opportunity or two to study his importance in the architecture field. Or hell, through my study of drama, it seems I should have known about the grisly mass murder that took place at Taliesin. Alas... that was news to me.

Anyway, Taliesin was Frank's place to experiment. He had no client to satisfy but himself, so he just kept adding to it. Frank wasn't also much of an engineer, so he didn't give much thought to how adding to the place affected such trifling matters as the foundation and support beams. And Taliesin, like many of Frank's homes, communes with nature, and nature, you see, likes to take over.

So Taliesin is falling apart and is sort of a shithole.

Here's a buttress holding up a support wall:

Peeling paint and cracks in the walls are totally common.

I guess one sacrifices a certain amount of practicality for beauty.

Frank Lloyd Wright is like the Manolo Blahnik of architects.

The biggest surprise is that from the outside, it looks like a big house. The inside, however, is nearly claustrophobia-inducing. He created cramped spaces to keep people moving into the areas where he wanted people. Maybe it was that we were a part of a tour group, but the big spaces didn't seem all that big either, actually. Maybe it's that Frank was a wee man.

Visitors aren't allowed to take photos of the inside, so this is all you get. We put booties on our shoes in the foyer, which had a ceiling so low, I could have jumped up and bumped my head. I didn't, though.

Aren't the booties cute?

I realize that it sounds like I'm complaining about the whole Taliesin experience, but the truth is it's a fascinating place and worth checking out, should you ever find yourself in this particular part of rural Wisconsin.

The walkway was built so that Frank's third wife could commune with the birdies.

The grounds are just beautiful, with the rolling hills, and occasional farmed patches.

We really wanted to wander the grounds, but das ist verboten. Our $47 only granted us access to the house itself.

At nearly $50 a ticket, you'd think there'd be plenty of money to do the restoration needed. I think the problem might be that it's an incredibly high-maintenance building, i.e. it's in a state of constant restoration.

A few "senior fellows" still live at Taliesin. These are people who studied with Frank himself and went on to some level of achievement within the community. Definitions for what that means stayed vague. But it's a program that will die out soon. The last of the senior fellows are in their 80s and 90s. We did actually see one them. He was really fucking old. It doesn't actually seem like a good place for an old person to live. The house is drafty as hell, and the uneven terrain would be a bitch to get around, particularly in winter. But hey, I'm not a senior fellow, so what do I know about what they want out of the experience.

All in all, a crazy, fascinating time. My sister actually treated me to the price because I was on an austerity budget while living in the middle of nowhere with no income, and a $47 admission price doesn't quite fit into the category of "austere." So thanks, big sis. It was a grand thing to do with you.

About the Critters, Part II

It's hard out there for a critter.

Once a day I would trek over to the main house to check my email and connect with the outside world a bit. It was baseball playoffs season, so I limited my media intake to baseball stories.

One day, while I was sitting at the table in the living room, that sweet cat (from the immediately previous post) pounced on my power cord, right near my feet. I looked down to find out what she was up to, but the gray cat I saw down there was tiny. Like a gray paw. That's because it was a gray mouse. And the gray cat was having its way with the little guy. She was playing with it, batting it around. I didn't see the actual kill.

But earlier in my time, I'd seen the same gray cat stalking something in the high grass. When I saw her next, she had a baby snake in her mouth, proud as could be.

One rainy day, as I was returning to the cabin from my weekly shop, I was greeted by the friendly dog (also from the immediately previous post). He didn't generally venture over to the cabin, but I gave him a little pat on the head (he smelled a bit like wet dog, mostly because he was a wet dog). And then he went back to the grass, pointing at something there. He's clearly a hunter.

Then he chomped down. Another gray mouse was lying there, breathing in the grass. He chomped down again. It was no longer breathing. Then he walked up to me, wagging his tail, seeking approval. He was a bit of a licker, and I sure as hell didn't want him licking my hand after chomping down on a mouse, so I gave him a friendly pat on the head, and he ran off.

The farm's winter caretaker later told me another story. He'd seen a raccoon, and raccoons can create some havoc where chickens, ducks, and geese are concerned. He'd just gotten his first gun lesson, so he collected his rifle and went a'stalking. What he came upon was not just the raccoon, but the friendly dog chomping down on the raccoon's neck until it was dead.

The dog is a badass.

Apparently, the dog has also killed a couple of the fowl on the farm, and the caretaker had been told to chase him off if he saw the dog. But after this incident that protected the fowl, the farm is reconsidering its relationship with the dog.

Finally, remember my trouble with that gray bastard of a gander? Well, I learned a technique for dealing with an aggressive goose. Fortunately for that gray bastard of a gander I never had to try it out. But hoo-doggy! it would've been fun to give it a whirl.

First, a reminder. Here are the geese.

I'm pretty sure that the gray bastard of a gander that charged me is the one third from the right, looking off in a different direction than the others.

Shortly after that gray bastard of a gander charged me, I asked the caretaker if he'd had any trouble with the geese yet. He hadn't, but he said he knew how to deal with them if they charged. He shared his knowledge with me.

First of all, stand your ground. If you show a goose weakness, they become emboldened. So by standing my ground and saying, "Hey!" I had garnered the gander's respect.

If that gray bastard of a gander had kept charging, my next move would also be the final move. Go after a goose's most vulnerable area: his neck. Just grab it by the throat and give him a light throttle. He will fuck with you no more.

And if that fails, it's time to send that gray bastard of a gander to the Fowl Killing Fields.

And for your enjoyment, here's a slightly more detailed photo of the Fowl Killing Fields:

That gray bastard of a gander better watch his fucking back.

About the Critters

My October cabin was located on a Wisconsin farm. On warm and sunny days, the ladybugs, box elder bugs, flies, and hornets took over. I was lucky that it was mostly cool and cloudy then. In fact, there were snow flurries on October 10th. That seems early to me.

I often heard other critters at night. Mostly mice, I would guess, although there must've been some squirrels mixed in, too. I'm pretty sure the squirrels never made it inside, but there was obvious evidence that the mice did.

One morning I woke up with two acorns in my left shoe. I had not put them there.

Another morning, a deer outside the kitchen window was staring at the wall between him and the cabin's gas heater. Jumpy bastards, deer. In her defense, it was deer-hunting season.

It's a little blurry because the sun was just rising, and I was shooting out a window.

I've mentioned the geese already, especially that gray bastard of a gander, but there was a lot of other fowl in resident as well. I grew particularly fond of this light brown fella with the blond afro:

And get a load of this gorgeous cock!

There was also a handful of domesticated animals around. This dog sometimes accompanied me on my walk to the mailbox (which was about a third of a mile down a dirt path).

He belonged to a neighbor farm, but he hung around quite a lot. He was a very sweet boy. To humans.

And my gracious hosts also had a number of cats. One was particularly friendly, and one evening while enjoying a sunset, she decided to climb up my pant leg. When I finally paid attention to her, she got all cute.

She was a very sweet girl. To humans.

Some sort of critter tried to make it back to Queens with me. When the missus went to fill our car with some coolant, she found a nest under the hood. How I managed to miss the nest when filling the car with oil I'm not sure. No critters inside, though.

Stay tuned for more about critters, particularly in terms of death and murder!

I've Been Confused

The transition back to real life hasn't been easy, I don't mind admitting, B&E readers. For nearly a month, I spent my time doing whatever I wanted to be doing, writing when I felt like writing, reading when I felt like reading, eating when I felt like eating, and sleeping when I felt like sleeping. So being back on the regular other-people's-schedule has been a challenge.

But as the work week came to its close, my first full work week back in real life, I began settling in again. So no worries: I know you were all concerned.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what needs sharing from the month October. There is an odd thing about a sabbatical like the one I took. Without the drama of media, commutes, and the rest, there's remarkably little worth writing about.

Don't get me wrong: there's plenty I could share. But bliss can sound remarkably dull.

The Milwaukese Know a Thing or Two About Bratwurst

While passing through Milwaukee, my gracious hosts were kind enough to take me on a pilgrimage to Usinger's. Usinger's is all about sausage, Germans, and elves. Mostly sausage, but the German elves are awfully prominent.

Here they are, from the murals in the store, pulling a pig to its ultimate demise. They're very happy about it.


Those murals, by the way, go all the way around the store and feature this poem:

Schinken, Wurst, und Schwartenmagen
Jedern Deutschen wohl behagen

Doch auch Yankee und Frazosen
Lieben diese deutschen Chosen.

Nehme Fleisch von einem Schwein
Fulls in gewaschine Därme ein

Bind sie zu und lass sie kochen
Und die Wurst wird fertig sein.

Gebt Fleisch & Wurst dem Verderben nicht preiss
Kühlt sie in Nordpol's Berge von eis.

Dieses Bild dir klar verkündt
Dass du Freundlich wirst heir bedien't
Mit Wurst, Schinken, Speck und allen
Was vom Schwin dir mag gefallen.

Nur gesundes Fleisch vom Ochs, Kalb, oder Schwein
Nehm't mir in die Wurst hinein;
Auch praeg'ich Euch ernstlich ein:
Ihr könnt mir nie zu reinlich sein.

Und Onkel Sam der gute Mann
Bringt nur das beste Vieh heran.

Eine schöne Wirklichkeit.

Zum Schluss der Wurst ein kräftig Hoch!
Mög sie lang'uns schmecken noch.

Ein schöner Traum.

Ein schöner Traum, indeed, B&E readers. Ein schöner Traum, indeed.

I'll translate my favorite part for you. And by "I'll translate" I mean that I'll type out the translation Usinger's gave me in the store:

Only wholesome meat from steer, calf, or pig
Do we put in the sausage;
And we ardently impress upon you:
One cannot be too sanitary.

And Uncle Sam the good man
Brings us only the best livestock.

Oh, I bought some bratwurst, B&E readers. You know I did.

The kind woman who helped me at the store packed it on ice and helped it survive my drive home. I ate a couple tonight. They really were ein schöner Traum.

The Pabst Blue Ribbon in this photo, by the way, is made of meat.

Thank You for Your Patience

Oh, B&E readers, I do not take you (all seven of you) for granted. I know I have been terribly lax during my time in the wilderness, especially in the past couple of weeks. But I have been thinking of you.

And as I return to the land of the urban, I shall regale you with stories. Oh, yes, I shall.

For example, I now know how to take down a goose. Not that I've had to. But I could. So if, on my way off the farm, that gray bastard of a gander comes my way, I'm fucking ready for him. In or out of my car.

I Totally Found the Piggly Wiggly

Good news, B&E readers! I didn't need to shop at Walmart yesterday! Behold! The Piggly Wiggly!

Perhaps the Bunny Will Satisfy Your Needs

Sorry I haven't been writing, B&E readers. I've been too busy writing! So for now, I offer this pleasantry. Enjoy.

You Know What, Gray? Blow Me.

I first began to suspect that I was losing my hair when I was about 20. I had a long mane at the time, and the amount of hair that would end up in my hands during any given shower seemed a bit extreme, even though women with lots of hair assured me that they ended up with handfuls in their showers too.

Finally, the number of follicles couldn't sustain the length and off it came. I was 23.

Considering how much I had enjoyed having long hair, losing it wasn't something that bothered me all that much. And I've always rather enjoyed the feel of a shaved head.

As is true for many bald men, growing a beard comes pretty easily for me. And if I have an excuse not to keep my face trimmed I'll let it go. Long-time readers might even remember my short-lived dream and aborted attempt at competing in the World Beard and Mustache Competition.

Well, a month away from people in the rural upper midwest seemed as good a time as any to let the facial hair grow.

B&E readers, I have gray whiskers on my chin. This hardly seems fair. So I wrote the following letter:

Dear Aging Gods,

Hi. How are you? I'm fine.

Well, am I fine? I'm a bald man. I've accepted and embraced this as my lot in the aging process. I also accept (if not embrace) the squirrelly hairs that appear in areas where they shouldn't. (I've got the missus on the lookout for the ones I expect will appear in my ears.)

Additionally, I have bad knees, and occasionally, I tweak my back all out of joint.

Please excuse me from going gray. It really isn't too much to ask.

Thank you for your consideration,
Dan

So that should work.

I Wear My Orange Fleece Everywhere

Hunting is a big sport in these here parts. And just yesterday, the winter caretaker of the farm warned me that today is the start of deer hunting season in the immediate area.

The missus and I were discussing hunting and my getting shot a few days ago, and she was of the opinion that my fear of wandering into the woods only to get shot by a hunter was ridiculous.

When I reminded her that hunting accidents happen all the time, that indeed our former Vice President once shot a fellow hunter (and friend) in the face, she thought me no less ridiculous. I think she didn't believe that the example I cited was actually an accident.

Either way, there's a lot of hunting happening in rural Wisconsin at the moment. I picked up a little guide to the area at a local Chamber of Commerce (if I take their free stuff, am I supporting their stance against health care reform?), and according to the hunting pages (!), here are the options for hunters and trappers during the month of October:

- Black bear
- Bowwhite quail
- Cottontail rabbit
- Coyote (trapping is OK right now, hunting with a gun is OK all year)
- Crow
- Deer (bow)
- Hungarian partridge (quite far from home in its Hungarian pear tree!)
- Jackrabbit
- Pheasant (how pleasant!)
- Raccoon
- Red and gray fox (so THAT's how Red Foxx died)
- Ruffed grouse
- Squirrel
- Snowshoe hare
- Wild turkey
- Woodcock (heh, heh)
- Writers (wait, what??)

And I shit you not: I actually just heard gunfire echoing through the hills.

Not to worry, B&E readers. I spend the majority of time inside a cabin. And cabin season isn't until February.

That Gander Wants to Fucking Kill Me

At this particular farm on which the cabin resides, there is a lot of fowl. Chicks and ducks and geese, just like the song in Oklahoma!, but of course, this is Wisconsin!, and I don't have a surrey, with or without a fringe on top. I have a Saturn.

Upon arrival, after introducing myself to my generous hosts, I returned to my car to find the largest of the geese, a gray bastard who well might be a gander, pecking the shit out of one of my front tires. I chalked it up to my running over a few grains he didn't want wasted. But now I'm not so sure.

I take a regular walk past the bird coops, and every time I do, this same gray bastard of a gander gives me the stink eye. He stands stock still, and uses the full length of his neck to keep his head pointed right at me. Sometimes he gives a loud honk to warn me away. Or perhaps he's just saying, "Up yours, city boy." I wouldn't know. I don't speak goose. But I was pretty sure he just doesn't like me.

Today cemented it. I was returning from my walk, heading right through the gaggle of geese, the paddle of ducks, and the murder of chickens (well, it's a murder of crows, and I don't know the group name for chickens). I was sort of in my own world, as I will sometimes be during a nice walk.

Suddenly, HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK! And that bastard of a gray gander was actually running at me from some distance. The fowl in general tend to get close but not too close to humans (since they're fed by humans), but I hadn't seen this behavior before.

The bastard of a gray gander was slinked down low like a cat, his neck parallel to the ground, pointing at me like an arrow, his beak heading right for my shins.

It was all too quick - and yet simultaneously in slow motion - for me to be seriously alarmed. When I stopped in my tracks and turned my head toward that gray bastard of a gander, he stopped running, pointed his neck and head upward and let out his loudest HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK! yet.

I was probably six feet from my Carhartts taking a serious pecking from this gray bastard of a gander. But I stood my ground, B&E readers.

To you, gray bastard of a gander, I tell you this: I got my eye on you, and the missus comes from a country in which goose is served for special occasions. Don't make me create a special occasion for you, punk.

Someone Saved My Life Tonight - Addendum

Dude, I totally found the cabin's coffee maker this morning. Still, I think I'm gonna use the percolator.

Someone Saved My Life Tonight

While I was packing for my retreat, the missus had a bit of a fortuitous afterthought.

The revised plan for my month-long sabbatical included the requirement that I prepare and pay for my own meals. The preparation didn't seem like a big deal, but suddenly paying for meals was going to take an unexpected bite out of our already tight budget. So I also packed a few food staples. I took some vegetables from our CSA that the missus was less interested in (what's wrong with beets, baby?), stocked up from our giant canister of olive oil, grabbed a few spices, etc.

I even thought ahead, figuring that I'd cook larger quantities than I could eat in one sitting. So I packed some storage containers.

The cabin here has a stocked kitchen of pots, pans, wooden spoons, so I knew I wouldn't need any of those things.

The morning I was to leave, the missus said, "You know, you might want to pack our little espresso percolator, just in case the cabin doesn't have a coffee maker."

When I arrived, it was chilly in the cabin, and I thought it'd be nice to have a cup of coffee to warm up. Which would've been impossible without our little percolator.

Disaster averted, B&E readers. Good thinkin', missus.

(Special assist goes to my fellow bald man (formerly) of Sunnyside for providing the percolator as a housewarming gift when I moved to the 'hood.)

I Didn't Find the Piggly-Wiggly

Today I ventured into town. That's about a half hour from the cabin in which I'm staying. While I was at the Walgreen's, I asked for directions to the nearest grocery store. The cashier gave me directions and said, "Your other alternative is the Walmart right there, but the Piggly-Wiggly is probably better." I agreed with her and drove to the Piggly-Wiggly.

I'm pretty sure I followed the directions she gave me, and I even retraced my path once, but alas, I didn't find the Piggly-Wiggly. So I got my groceries at Walmart.

As a city shopper, I'm not used to bulk quantities, and I know that when it comes to BULK quantities Walmart offers Sam's Club. But let me tell you: these were bulk quantities. I wanted to buy a roll of toilet paper (which I forgot to get at Walgreen's). Single rolls of toilet paper are common in New York City. But my only option was to buy enough toilet paper for an army barracks full of diarrhea sufferers. I held off, figuring that what I have will last at least until my next trip into town.

I'd also been very pleased with my first purchase of Wisconsin cheddar cheese that I picked up in Madison en route, and I hoped to find some more. It wasn't easy to find local products (I very nearly bought some Vermont cheddar, which would've been like buying Finger Lakes wine in the South of France), but I finally found some Bucky Badger cheese. I'm assuming that the badger in question is referring to the University of Wisconsin mascot. If I end up eating badger cheese, someone will pay. After I do, of course.

I don't know, B&E readers. I admit that Walmart is actually a pretty foreign concept to me. We don't have 'em in NYC, and until today, the only reason I'd been in one was to get a gas cap replaced. (It's very hard to get a gas cap replaced.) I've read enough anti-Walmart press to know why, politically, I shouldn't like them or support them.

But I think the experience would've bummed me out without my knowledge of the corporation and its destruction of small town America. It was the experience itself that bummed me out. With all those giant mounds of inexpensive goods there was very little I found appetizing. I don't know that I actually got the food I need for the week.

Damn that elusive Piggly-Wiggly.

Ignorance Really Is Bliss

Oh, B&E readers, I love you. But alas, for the time being, I've got limited access to the World Wide Web of information superhighways. This means fewer regular updates, I'm afraid.

There's a byproduct of limiting one's online access (as well as one's access to television, radio, and other media), and it is this: happiness.

I haven't heard reports of wacko extremists fantasizing about violently overthrowing our current president's administration; I haven't read about how our health care reform is bought and paid for by the very corporations causing the problems; I haven't heard or read the names Michelle Bachman, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, or the other Dickheads of the Right.

Indeed, I wake up when the sun pours into my cabin; I stoke a wood fire if it's cold; I make myself eggs laid by the chickens right over there; I write whatever I feel like writing (script, letters, journal); I read whatever I feel like reading; I eat when I feel like eating; I sleep when I feel like sleeping. This is what we call a retreat, B&E readers.

So maybe it's not just the lack of media that's bringing some serious happy. But as I realized I hadn't looked at any of my lefty propaganda sites recently, it also occurred to me that I had no desire to. The world can go right to hell in a hand basket, and I would have absolutely no idea. And something about that feels awfully good.

The only thing lacking is my regular dose of the missus. If we could somehow figure out a way to add her to this equation, it really would be an ideal life.

A life of denial, perhaps, but denial can be powerfully seductive.

Can I Get an "Oy!"?

The past few days have been upheavalous, a word I just made up.

As I've stated on numerous occasions, I don't much care for the overly personal here on the B&E. I'd much rather discuss baseball (the Mets are terrible!), punctuation holidays (dog's cock!), and politics (yes, the right-wing is racist!).

But alas, sometimes the personal creeps into my blogging life. It is, after all, what goes on inside this bald, effective head of mine.

Back in February, I'd gotten the OK from my boss to take a sabbatical, and since it's so very difficult to balance everyday life with creative output (the output suffers), I figured I'd apply to some of those residency programs like the one I used to work for in Vermont. In May, I got accepted to one. In October, I was spending the month there.

It's a small program in the hills of Kentucky, and it really did seem like the ideal place to figure out this new project I'm mulling over. It had nature, solitude, a small community of artists, and no cost. I was going to start driving on Thursday, see a cousin, his family, and a high school friend en route, and arrive on Saturday for a month of writing and creative rejuvenation.

On Friday, I got an email that they're dealing with a health emergency and have had to suspend their residency program for the rest of the year.

Meanwhile, I'm ready to go. But where? So I've got feelers out, scrambling for new options, and I must say, the outpouring of support from the people in my life has been pretty amazing.

My worst-case scenarios are pretty good, actually. Empty houses and cabins in idyllic locations. And there are some long-shot possibilities at other residency programs. So I'll end up somewhere.

But I'm pretty bummed to be missing out on this place in Kentucky. It was everything I was looking for.

And it was only a few hours from the Louisville Slugger Factory and Museum!

A Day in Bed!

I'm spending most of today in bed, B&E readers, for sicky, not sexy, reasons. I've got those symptoms. I'm really pulling for swine flu, but I suspect it's just a cold. Anyway, I hope to write more again soon. I've been a bit lax on the B&E front. I prostrate myself before you and beg forgiveness. Just be glad I haven't prostated myself before you.

Heh. Heh, heh. Heh heh heh...

I sure hope all of the Jewish B&E readers are having a happy and healthy new year.

The Condescension of Soundbites

Some of you may have heard that the President gave a speech to Congress and that a major Dickhead shouted, "You LIE!" in the middle of it. Yeah, I heard that, too.

But I didn't see it because I was at a play that people in the New York City area should go see. It's called Aftermath by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, and it's running at the New York Theater Workshop. [Full disclosure (as if I have enough readers to warrant "full disclosure"): I know the playwrights.]

Aftermath features the stories of Iraqi refugees living in Jordan - and what happened to them after the United States invaded. Jessica and Erik traveled there, and interviewed about 35 refugees, and selected seven people on which to focus. So the words are theirs (translated into English, usually).

What's nice about the play is that the characters aren't ideologues, and the authors' own politics (about as left-leaning as I am), at least where the Iraq War is concerned, were complicated by the experience of the interviews. This is a messy war that had many complex issues surrounding the lead-up and aftermath.

Nothing is ever as simple as either side wants it, is it? And when we make it simple we do a real disservice to the discourse, not to mention the handling of something as important as, say, a war.

Anyway, there was a discussion after the performance I saw, and at one point it actually got a little contentious. A guy whose politics I would say I probably agree with said, "It's time for the Iraqi people to stand up and take charge of their own country."

This is a sentiment I've heard quite a lot. Many people on the left say that as rationale for getting our troops home. It's especially used amongst Democratic Party members. It must have been tested in a focus group at some point.

And sure, I guess I agree with that. But when this fella said it, he was speaking to an Iraqi. And it sounded condescending. The fact is we invaded a country that was fucked up, and we fucked it up in an entirely new way. Surely, we have some responsibility for that. Isn't it our duty to support the Iraqis as they "stand up and take charge of their own country"?

Of course, even as I type that last paragraph, I find myself horrified by how it sounds like an argument for an open-ended commitment to be occupiers, and that freaks me out.

So even in my simplified thinking of these complex issues, it gets really complicated, and there are nuances and cultural challenges I know absolutely nothing about.

I guess all I'm really saying is that all major issues are exceedingly complex, and the older I get, the less tolerance I have for the soundbites.

And hell, man, soundbites are essentially what I do for a living. I boil down, I distill, I simplify. As I think about it, I realize maybe that's why I get so irritated by the soundbites. Maybe it's not so much that the soundbites simplify. Maybe it's how they get simplified.

Simplifying to help people understand is one thing. Simplifying to win an argument is something altogether different. And both sides do it.

Naturally I think the right-wing does it a lot more dishonestly and destructively. But I certainly felt the same yucky feeling as that left-leaning dude shouted down the Iraqi with his over-simplified regurgitation of a Democratic Party talking point.

I Love My Writing Group

Yesterday was the memorial for my friend. I'm not going to write about it, though. Then, in the evening, was the wedding of another friend. I'm not going to write about that either. But it was a strange doubleheader indeed.

What I will write, however, is that both ceremonies were in honor of people in my writing group, which meant that there were a handful of us who did both activities.

I couldn't have chosen a better bunch of people to share such a long, sad, celebratory, strange, and beautiful day with. Thanks, writers.

Ouchie Wouchie

Big news today. Senator Ted Kennedy died. So I'm going to say a few words about the Mets.

When the Mets began the 2009 season, this was their opening day lineup:

Jose Reyes, SS
Daniel Murphy, LF
David Wright, 3B
Carlos Delgado, 1B
Carlos Beltran, CF
Ryan Church, RF
Brian Schneider, C
Luis Castillo, 2B
Johan Santana, P

In last night's game, the starting lineup looked like this:

Angel Pagan, CF
Luis Castillo, 2B
Gary Sheffield, LF
Jeff Francoeur, RF
Fernando Tatis, 3B
Daniel Murphy, 1B
Omir Santos, C
Anderson Hernandez, SS
Nelson Figueroa, P

Two players from that original lineup continue to play: Daniel Murphy (who's been switched to first base) and Luis Castillo (the only player still in his original position). If I'd have predicted someone who would be out for the season at this point, I would've picked Luis Castillo. Go figure.

Church was traded. Schneider platoons with Santos. Reyes, Wright, Delgado, Beltran, and Santana are all on the disabled list. That's one disabled list for five all-star players.

Johan Santana is just the latest to join the injured crew. Since the season is a bust anyway, he's having bone spurs removed from his elbow now, so that he's got plenty of time to recover for next season.

See? Everyone related to the Mets - management, players, and fans - have moved onto next year.

Even the players who play every day now are mostly auditioning or practicing for next year. Murphy is honing his skills at first. Sheffield is hoping to prove himself indispensable enough to warrant a new contract. Francoeur, if he gets a new contract, will be an everyday player. Pagan is hoping to be an everyday man next year as well. Tatis is... well, he's probably hoping to be a bench man again next year. Santos has been a bright spot this year and could well take over as starting catcher for Schneider. Anderson Hernandez should be the starting second baseman instead of Luis Castillo, if he could just learn to hit. I've called him Batman on B&E in the past because of his amazing fielding. He made the single greatest catch I've ever seen in person.

What's my point? I'm sad about Ted, about health care reform, about our criminal justice system, about the feckless Democratic Party, about the destructive Republican Party, about my friend who passed away, and about so much more...

And I can't even fucking turn to baseball. Fuck me, B&E readers. Fuck. Me.

Where'd All the Hotties Come From?

Yesterday, the AC at my office blew out, so today I worked from home. The AC was fixed by 9:30 AM. I didn't see that coming.

But because I was working from home, I did what people who work from home are rumored to do: I worked from Starbucks for a little while.

Yes, Sunnyside has a Starbucks, and for what might be the first time ever, I chose it over the Grind, which continues its relatively hapless ways (under new management). Last time I went into the Grind (maybe two weeks ago), they didn't have AC, and I was hot.

I took no chances today. And Starbucks, that predictably well-run bastard, was cold. But really, that's not my point.

A few short years ago, when I rejoined the throngs of the Sunnyside commuters after a spate of freelancing from my sofa, I noticed a distinct uptick in hipsters on the rush-hour subway platform.

Today's Starbucks experience was something different. Almost everyone who walked in - male and female - was sorta hot.

Sunnyside is along the MTA's famed #7 train. The #7, as we all know, is the ugly train (except during the US Open). People who live in Sunnyside ride the #7 train, i.e. Sunnysiders ride the ugly train, i.e. Sunnysiders are ugly people.

These Sunnysiders were not ugly. They were hot. Many appeared to be on their way to the beach. Or perhaps they were just scantily clad because it's hotter than the opposite of a well digger's ass.

Today is Tuesday. What were these people doing during prime working hours on a Tuesday strolling through Starbucks in Sunnyside looking so damned hot? Do they think this is Manhattan or something? Manhattan is where the leisure classes go to look good while strolling around while the rest of us work.

I tell you what, B&E readers... This experience shook me. It shook me to my core. Time was that I was above average looking in Sunnyside. If these Sunnysiders are any indication, bald schlubbiness doesn't cut it anymore for looking good along the #7 train line.

This isn't change I can believe in.

Here's My Reason

I tend to keep the overly personal writings away from B&E. But seeing as the lines between private and public continue to blur, and since this is something dominating my thoughts at the moment and also might just explain my recent absence from B&E, I’m going to say a few words about my good friend Michael.

I met Michael in college. We were in a play together. He was two years older, and a 20-year-old seems wise to an 18-year-old. While we were still in school, he decided I was funny. He was a very funny fella, so it felt like an honor that he thought I was funny, too.

Shortly after I graduated, Michael tracked me down and asked me to provide as many voices as possible for some radio plays he’d been writing. I’d pretty much given up on the acting thing by this point, but Michael was a hell of a writer, and I (wisely) decided that this would be a Very Fun Thing To Do.

I was not wrong. The room was filled with extremely talented and funny people. Most were connected to Michael’s roommate Jordan. They had a vocabulary for humor that gets defined within tight groups over time, and it was everything I had to keep up.

Michael was collaborating on these particular radio plays, and I was really just starting to get into this thing some of us call writing. Watching him work was very educational. We’d read something that was very funny, but “not quite there yet,” and when we came back to read it again the following week, it was completely changed and funnier.

He was the first writer I’d ever seen be so ruthless with his own writing. He had the maturity and confidence to cut good material. This was eye opening to me. And it’s something I still struggle with. It’s very hard to “kill your babies,” as we often say in my writing group.

At some point, during this time, I asked him to read something I’d written. It was my first play, and it was an immature piece of writing. (I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but it really was.) He was honest about its failings but also supportive, kind, and encouraging.

We recorded the radio plays, had a blast, and then that was it.

At that time, Michael would do these union electrician jobs that paid quite well (for what we were all making during those days in the mid-nineties), and then he’d find himself with a chunk of time off.

A few months after the radio plays, I got another call. “I built a puppet theater, and I’ve adapted Faust to be a comedy for puppets!” Later I would do his puppet adaptations of Beauty and the Beast, called The Devil’s Pants (“I’m not the devil but I wear the devil’s pants”) and Sartre’s No Exit, called Hell is Other Puppets.

He went to film school, and I happily participated in a few of his short films.

When he finished film school, he joined my writing group (which I only joined in the first place because of a friend I met through Michael). He always had insightful things to say, and his output (in terms of pages) energized the group.

He was someone I assumed would always be in my life creatively. I was wrong. As I’m sure you probably already gathered by now, Michael passed away. It happened exactly a week ago. He was on vacation with his wife and her family. He went off snorkeling on his own and, somehow, drowned.

My relationship with Michael was unlike the others in my life. Michael and I were close—we could talk about our lives for hours and have fun socializing. He was always the best of company.

But it was creativity that brought us together again and again. I wonder if, without it, Michael and I would’ve wandered in and out of each other’s lives. As it was, our writing kept us coming back for more.

There is a creative hole in my life now, and I feel it keenly.

A few years back, Michael’s old roommate and best friend Jordan died of cancer. It had been a painful time—Michael was there at the final moments and had watched Jordan’s declining health over a long period of time.

After Jordan’s funeral, I was riding back to NYC with Michael, his wife, and two other friends I didn’t know well. Michael was driving, and I was in the passenger seat. Jordan’s wife had become close to the hospital priest, and someone in the car asked if Jordan, who was not Catholic, had been read last rites. I don’t remember who, but someone said they were pretty sure he hadn’t.

Michael, in a quiet voice only I could hear, muttered, “Great. So he’s in hell, too.”

I burst out laughing. And Michael started laughing. The back seat hadn’t heard what he said, and they were confused and concerned. We couldn’t stop laughing for some time.

I’m craving a moment like that now, but the person most likely to deliver it is, of course, Michael. I’m going to miss him like hell.

The Most Miserable Couple in the World

As I've mentioned before, I look at the faces I pass on the Brooklyn Bridge during my morning commute, sometimes with surprising results.

Two people I see with some regularity are a couple. Or at least I assume they're a couple since they so often walk together. They also often walk separately. No matter how they're walking - together or separate - they look miserable.

The guy looks about as defeated by life as someone can look. The hair on the top of his head is blonder than the rest, and those of us who begin fair and lose the hair know that it's just a matter of time before it stops growing altogether. He's clearly very disappointed by this problem - and what are clearly his other major problems.

The gal looks angry. She's probably pissed off that her partner is so goddamned depressed all the time. It can be difficult being with someone who's always such a downer. I suspect she's really quite hard on Defeated Guy.

When they're walking together, they sometimes argue. Or maybe because Defeated Guy looks so defeated and Angry Gal looks so angry, they just look like they're arguing.

When they walk separately, Defeated Guy looks no less defeated, and Angry Gal looks no less angry. Usually they're separated by a large portion of the Brooklyn Bridge. One morning, though, they were maybe ten yards apart. It was as if they had a fight mid-Bridge and Angry Gal walked ahead and Defeated Guy just let her.

I'd like to give them an award. Perhaps The Most Miserable Couple in the World Award. But then it might cheer them up, and they'd have to give the award back.

But every time I see them, a piece of me becomes just a little more miserable.

Oh, My Aching Back

I've largely stayed clear of commenting on the current health care debate for a couple of reasons: 1) The bill changes too rapidly to keep up, and I would go crazy tracking the details; 2) I'm a believer in a single-payer system, which has never been taken seriously as a solution by our corporate-owned political parties.

In other words, ideologically, I support reform. Real reform. Not bullshit reform. If whatever plan they end up passing (or not) doesn't include a robust (and I mean fucking robust) public option, it's bullshit reform.

This week, my ideological support for reform turned practical. I have what is generally considered to be "good insurance." My employer contributes toward my insurance costs (job perk!), but (especially since my wife is also covered) I pay for the majority of it myself (taken out pre-tax! Thanks, Republicans or Clinton (I assume)!)

It's got relatively low deductibles, the co-pay to see my primary doctor (whom I like quite a bit) is not outrageous, and I'm covered (I think) should something terrible happen, such as a stabbing on the subway or a massive coronary.

When I yanked my lower back last weekend, I went to see a chiropractor, also known by my insurance company as a "specialist." Well, the co-pay for a specialist is a hell of a lot higher than my co-pay for my "primary care physician." If you have to see a specialist once, say, to get a mole removed (as I have before), it's no big deal.

But when you need to see a "specialist" with some regularity... Dude, the shit adds up. I mentioned having some concern about being able to shell out this kind of money, and the chiropractor said, "Ah, I see you have [evil insurance company]. Your co-pay pretty much covers the cost of the session. We get another four or five bucks from them for you."

So I put in my several hundred dollars a freakin' month, and when I really hurt myself, [evil insurance company] covers four or five bucks. [Evil insurance company] is making a shitload of money off of me and the missus. I'd like to meet the person who gets my insurance contribution as a bonus. And I'd like to poke them in the fucking eye.

This, B&E readers, is the way things are with "good insurance." People opposed to single-payer or health reform are afraid that the government will stand between them and their doctors.

Well, people... Perhaps you haven't had the experience yet, but insurance companies stand between you and your doctor. And their motive is profit.

It is not the government's job to protect the market for health insurance. But so far, I have yet to see them do anything else.

This Part of Aging Can Blow Me

I threw out my back on Sunday.

The missus and I are working toward clearing out a storage unit to save the monthly fee. Naturally, it's filled mostly with boxes of books. It was all going just fine until I loaded the final box into our car.

I don't consider myself someone with back problems, although I might have to shift my thinking on that one. After all, I've had some random back pains in the past - including stress-related muscle tension under the shoulder blades, and twice I've had back spasms that completely immobilized me.

But this one feels like an injury. I've never had a back injury before. It's pretty goddamned unpleasant.

It was a little better yesterday than Sunday, but I'm not feeling a lot of further improvement this morning.

I knew books would be my downfall. I'm sticking to TV from now on. And I won't try to move it.

We Poor, Oppressed White People

Because I'm a straight, white man, there are things I can say to my fellow straight, white men that, for example, a lesbian Latina can't. From people outside my ethnic and sexual identity majority, it would be condescending and inappropriate. So please, allow me to speak frankly to the other straight, white men out there.

Dudes... We are not oppressed.

In fact, because we are white and straight and male, we have just about every advantage that birth can offer. Yes, some of us have seen hardship. Class boundaries, too, are real, and upward mobility is a challenge that runs across ethnic, gender, and sexual identity lines.

But seriously, dudes... We are not oppressed.

Allow me to use a baseball metaphor (since we are straight, white men). When we are born, it's like our lives have a guy on third base with nobody out. Being male puts a runner on first; being white lets that runner steal second standing up; and being straight causes the pitcher to stop paying attention, allowing the runner to sneak into third.

The odds of our success are therefore much higher. If I get a hit, that runner scores a point for my life. Hell, I can fly out, and the chances are pretty good that the runner scores. Jesus, there's even a chance that I can ground out, and if the infield is playing back, the runner scores. And get this: If the pitcher throws me a nasty split-fingered fastball in the dirt, it's possible that I will strike out, and yet that ball will scurry away from the catcher, allowing that runner to score. I call that "the George W. Bush run."

It's possible that I'll fucking blow it. It happens. If you're a Mets fan, you know. You see that guy on third and know the chances are pretty good he won't score. But if I'm the one batting, it's on me. Only if I were a real bitch would I blame the crowd or the umpire or the opposing players for my own personal failings.

So get it together, dudes. We are not oppressed.

I mean, racism? Really? Racism is an institutional problem in this country stemming from hundreds of years of historical oppression. I reject by definition that members of minority groups are racist. Your group has to be in power to be racist. I accept that there are bigots within ethnic minority groups. But until one of those ethnic minority groups becomes a majority that institutionally oppresses white people because they're white people, I will not call them racist.

In other words, "reverse racism" is a concept that doesn't exist in reality.

So come on, dudes. We are not oppressed. Seriously, fellow straight, white men: there is oppressed, and there is us. Oppressed is not us.

And to all of you straight, white men in positions of power currently making the argument that you are oppressed... It just doesn't quite hold water, seeing as you're senators, representatives, talk-show hosts, TV personalities, etc., etc.

Honkies, please...

Yuck. Oh, and Yuck.

Hey, B&E readers! You know what's disconcerting? I'll tell you what's disconcerting. Having someone else's shower come up through your bathroom drain: that's what's disconcerting. And when someone else's shower is coming up through your bathroom drain, and suddenly you hear a neighbor flush, causing your toilet to start regurgitating: well, that's really disconcerting.

I think maybe my bathroom was 20 minutes from full meltdown/overflow when the super made the executive decision to shut the building's water off. The water sitting in my tub and toilet was full of a sediment, the color of which I've never seen. Peanut butter that's been soaking in the sink too long might be similar.

It didn't stink or anything, so I'm pretty sure no actual raw sewage found its way into my tub. Still, watching brownish, cloudy water coming up from the drain in the bathtub is mighty disconcerting.

The super called the plumber, who came and took care of business by the early afternoon, but I tell you what B&E readers...

Waking up to see your neighbor's shower coming up through your bathroom drain... Well, it's pretty fucking disconcerting.

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.

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.

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.

Please Be Patient With Me

Ho, there, B&E readers. I'm going through a generally uninspired patch at the moment, and when you couple that with the general busy-ness that happens after returning from a lengthy vacation, well, it means All Quiet on the B&E Front, I'm afraid.

Bear with me, and I'll soon be returning to regularly scheduled programming.

My Late Spring Vacation

Hello, B&E readers. The missus and I have returned from our trip to Scotland, and now comes all of those posts you're all such immense fans of. It's like a slide show, only blog style.

You lucky, lucky bastards.

Anyway, I'm working on it. Stay tuned. Did I mention yet that you're lucky, lucky bastards? Well, you are.

Required Posting

In the last couple of days I was really hoping to write a little bit about Xe, the mercenary army formerly known as Blackwater. That's pronounced "zee." They retooled their website, and amazingly enough, the "history" section says nothing about the founder or the former name. Yea, rebranding!

But Xe's already getting its own bad name (just like the bad name you gave love, according to Bon Jovi). Four Xe contractors opened fire on a civilian vehicle, wounding two Afghans. That might be a problem in and of itself, but the contractors were also off-duty, drunk, and not allowed to be carrying weapons at the time.

[Web redesign story via TPM, and Xe mercenary shootings via HuffPo.]

Anyway, this is that posting I put up on B&E at least once (and sometimes twice) a year, in which I give you advance warning of an absence. I didn't take the time to line up any prearranged postings or anything, and unless my day today goes a lot differently than I imagine it will, I won't.

Yes, that's right: I'm going to be out of town, and although I'll probably have some semi-regular internet connection, come on people, it's a freakin' vacation. I'm vacating, for crying out loud.

Oh, and burglars? We have a really large person house-sitting for us, so don't get any ideas. We've given the large person permission to check our mail and kick your fucking ass. He's from Xe, the mercenary outfit formerly known as Blackwater.

I Got My Eyes Checked Today

Spring is in the air, B&E readers. It is May, after all.

A few weeks ago I got that note on the Brooklyn Bridge (you better believe that I revisit that experience any time my ego needs a boost and tell every single person I've ever met), and I think my eye doctor was flirting with me this morning.

Doctor of Optometry Young Lady laughed a little too hard at the things I said (easy there, doc, this isn't even my A-Game) and complimented my consistent test-taking, which she called "remarkable" for a test that's supposed to be subjective.

She also seems very impressed by the hole in my retina, particularly the scar tissue that formed all around the hole, thereby keeping it from growing, detaching completely, and causing me to go blind. That shit is hot.

But it all went a little too far when everyone at the office was putting a lot of pressure on me to get my eyes dilated.

Well, I'm sorry, ladies, I can't let you do that unless my wife is around.

Digital Detox - Round 3 to... Hey! It's Bela Fleck!

Rest of the evenings and mornings were totally fine without the TV and internet. Those guys are a bunch of jerks.

But of course it's Saturday, and I'm blogging, so I guess I just ended my Digital Detox, especially since a few minutes ago I tried in vain to find out when the Mets ticket office opens out at New Shea.

So, where was I?

Right, the rest of the Digital Detox. Well, the missus totally bailed on me. I came home late from work one evening to America's Next Top Model on TV. I tell you what: even three seconds of Tyra Banks is no way to break a Digital Detox!

Anyway, we ate dinner with the TV off, but then the missus wanted to see which of those skinny bitties was getting chucked off the show. So I listened to music in the bedroom and read my book.

Right, so my book... I haven't actually read any fiction in quite some time. I've found it difficult to sit down and get absorbed into fiction. It's like my brain can't focus long enough. Or maybe it's just that when I've been trying I've been reading total crap.

So what do I pick up to read? Underworld by Don DeLillo. This thing is like 12,000 pages long. I'm also loving it. It's great getting lost in fiction again. But I'll be reading that for the next seven or eight years. So that's nice.

But yesterday, via The Nation on Facebook (see, the Digital Detox was really just more digital toxicity while at work), I got the missus and me some free tickets to Throw Down Your Heart, a swell little documentary about Bela Fleck's journey tracing the roots of the banjo back to Africa and playing a whole lot of swell music with amazing musicians there.

The best little bit was that Bela (and his brother the documentary director) did a Q&A after, and then Bela played a live tune for us all. I think this Bela Fleck character knows a thing or two about the banjo.

Those little free things in New York can really remind you why it's awesome here.

Digital Detox - Round 2

Worked late last night. Got home to a dinner-with-a-friend already in progress. Friend left, and we went to bed. Easy.

This morning was less confusing than yesterday. I enjoyed a short story written by a friend and two columns in the Nation over my coffee. Then I came to work.

I know I've got media at work, but life is more civilized without TV and internet at home.

Heh, heh. Blogging a digital detox. I'm a jackass.

Digital Detox - Round 1

Blogging about a digital detox is so very meta. My mind is blown.

Evening was a breeze. Got home, made a nice big salad with the missus. We had just enough time to do some dishes and make some funny faces at each other before going to bed.

Morning was confusing. Routine upended. Woke up a half hour later. Had my coffee without NY1 and web-browsing for potential material. Read my trusty Nation magazine instead. Completely lost track of time and had to rush out of the house.

Feeling discombobulated now.

Digital Detox

So Adbusters has declared this to be Digital Detox Week. No media for a week.

I'm doing it. Granted, it's a slightly modified version. I will be fully connected at work, and I'd be kidding myself if I think I won't be browsing news sites and blogs, checking email, etc. Plus, I'm getting a slightly late start, having already watched NY1 this morning.

But once I leave work, that'll be it. No computer, and no TV.

If this ends up being my last post for a week or so, I hope you'll understand. I tend to blog during my non-work hours. And with a media blackout, that will be somewhat difficult to do.

And if I sneak in an entry or two during work hours, I hope my boss will understand. I promise that it's all happening outside the world of my time sheets!

I've Got a Birthday Coming Up

With all my recent complaints about the name of the new stadium where the Mets play, this comes as a welcome option, you know, in case the missus is looking for birthday presents.

A Rather Satisfying Thing To Do

I like Fruit of the Looms. I've found Hanes to be of a lesser quality, and although I have a few pairs of high-class undergarmenture for special occasions (ask me about Bjorn Borg!), all I really want is a boxer-brief that offers comfort and support. With maybe a dash of fun color.

It's been a while since I've gone through the old underpants drawer, and some of those guys have gotten a little spiritual on me. Get it? They're holey! HA HA HA HAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

So I opted for a complete overhaul.

Fruit of the Looms are surprisingly difficult to find in New York City. The last time I needed to do some Fruit of the Loom replacements, I couldn't find them anywhere, until I broke down and wandered into NYC's only K-Mart, at Astor Place. In general, as you might expect, I try to avoid the big box stores.

But K-Mart has what I need, B&E readers, so I hope you'll forgive me for not supporting an independent underpants seller.

For $30 (and let's assume some exploited Bangladeshi seven-year-old laborers), I got enough Fruit of the Looms to replace my entire underwear drawer. And for the past two mornings, I've looked into that drawer and seen those brand-spanking-new Fruit of the Looms staring up at me, batting their eyelids just begging me to wear them.

It's given me a little too much pleasure. You should do it, too.

I Still Got It, Baby!

I've been at my current job for about two-and-a-half years now. I figured out early on that commuting via the Brooklyn Bridge was a Very Good Thing To Do, even if it took an extra fifteen minutes each way. It's a walk that keeps on giving, B&E readers.

I'm a people-watcher. New York is a great place for the activity. Walking down the streets, I tend to look people in the eye. Very few look back. It's a guarded city that way.

So after two-and-a-half years of walking the Brooklyn Bridge most weekdays, there are dozens of faces I recognize. Most of those people who belong to these faces wouldn't recognize me in a lineup because they walk in their own worlds and block out the world around them. I do it sometimes too, so I get it.

After all this time, then, there are exactly three people I now greet in the mornings. Two I see almost every day. The third I think might be a seasonal walker. Or perhaps she's among the throngs of the laid off, because I haven't seen her in months.

Greetings vary. One gets a smile and a wave. The other gets a simple mouthed "good morning," because why should we bother to actually speak when we're both wearing headphones on a very loud bridge?

A little bit of human and humane interaction adds a warm touch to a cold commute.

Yesterday, Smile & Wave Girl handed me a note. Dude. A note. It's the fifth grade all over again!

It was simple just-wanted-to-introduce-myself fare, but it also said something about hoping she hadn't embarrassed herself. And she included contact information. So it was pretty clear she was fishing - fishing for the bald specimen that is this hunk of effectiveness.

I wrote her from my work email, figuring she'd troll our site and find my bio, which mentions the missus. Even though it was probably safe to be presumptuous, I didn't feel right just saying, "Thanks for the note: I'm married."

She wrote back with an "Oops! Didn't know you were married. Sorry!" She said she'd tried to see if I had a ring during the note hand-off, but I think I was holding my hat in my left hand (the hat is the single most important element in body temperature regulation, B&E readers).

And that's pretty much it. I don't mind telling you, faithful B&E readers, getting a note from a random lady boosts the ego tremendously.

The people with whom I've shared this story admire the cojones on this woman, and I share their admiration. Seriously. Good for her. If I were single, I'd go on at least one date with her because of my deepest respect for her initiative.

The missus, by the way, is being very good about letting me bask in the glory of another woman's fondness. And I'm being appropriately insufferable about it.

Dude! A chick totally hit on me while I was walking by her on the Brooklyn Bridge!

But I'm sorry, ladies. I'm afraid I must inform you that as much as you might like to ride the elevator to the top of B&E Tower, the observatory is the sole property of the missus. You'll just have to enjoy the shiny architectural mastery from a safe distance.

Rowr, B&E readers. Seriously. Rowr...