bliz: The Kids May or May Not Be Alright . . . I'm not really sure.
My subway ride up to Columbia University today got me thinking about kids.
Apparently I happened upon the train right when school was letting out for the day, because at the 50th Street stop on the 1/9 line, what seemed like a million middle-school-aged children noisily rolled up and boarded the subway car in which I was riding. There were clearly individuals in the crew, but the group moved together like a pureed wave consisting of Rocawear denim, headphones, and oversized, gold-hoop earrings. Some of the bodies attached to the aforementioned items were louder or pudgier than the others, but they all melded together in order to form a big bundle of noise. And, by the time they crossed the precipice where platform transforms into train floor, the kids and everyone else in the subway car were packed tightly together like a can of sardines that saw the fish positioned vertically rather than horizontally.
As they pushed at and made fun of one another, I couldn't help but think of the stock response I use when my girlfriend's mother, a public school teacher, tells me horror stories about the children in her class fighting, cursing, kicking, and doing everything else imaginable:
"Bad ass kids!" I say, in a mechanical fashion. "Bad ass kids."
It turns out that the gray-haired, walrus-looking fellow smushed in the seat next to me on the subway found out firsthand just how true my cynical stereotype rang in reference to the teens who piled on our train. As a tall girl with braids swung at a tubby boy wearing a sideways baseball cap and popped him on the top of his head, the momentum from the blow drove the boy backwards such that his bookbag slammed right into the walrus guy's face.
"Whoa," he proclaimed, half surprised and half nervous.
Neither the bookbag boy nor the female smacker paid the guy any mind. They just went back to talking trash and hitting each other.
Meantime, another little girl suggestively hugged up on a tall, skinny, all-black-wearing, Latin kid with curly hair and what appeared to be some sort of mustache derivative, while a girl with five gold earrings in each ear went on and on about a condom that she was holding.
"It's out of the package," she proclaimed. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?"
"That's old," some kid yelled back from a few yards down. "That's sick. Throw that away."
"I have the wrapper right here," the girl screamed back. "But it's already opened up and taken out. What's the point?"
Eventually the kids decided to throw the condom out of the train--"It's no use, anyway"--so as to be able to focus more of their attention on yelling, hitting each other, and cursing like they were rappers.
The chunky kid's bookbag collided with the walrus a few more times after that, but the second and third times around the guy was ready with what amounted to a professional-wrestling-type arm-block. After the third time, the boy finally apologized. But it was just for show.
"See what you made me do," he said to the girl who was playfully pummeling him. "You made me bump into this nice man here. I'm sorry sir, I'm sorry. She's really getting out of control here. I apologize."
The guy replied that it was "OK," but it really wasn't, and that kid couldn't have cared less about his now numerous invasions of the walrus guy's space.
"Bad ass kids!" I thought.
By the time we reached 86th street, the crowd of children had dwindled by about half, and the guy next to me finally received a reprieve. At around that same time, a pair of even younger kids entered the train and took two seats directly beside me. Both of these children were Black, and, If I had to guess, I'd say they were probably nine or 10 years old. The were sans grown-ups, and their mannerisms gave me the impression that they were brothers. They seemed to have an unspoken "always stick together on the train" thing going on, and I got the feeling that they were mature beyond their years. They sat silently next to me, gazed straight ahead, and looked like two 30 year olds stuck in the bodies of little kids. One of the children had tight braids in his hair and some huge headphones attached to his head, which he bobbed up and down ever so gently as his compatriot fiddled with some papers and similarly nondescript items. Eventually, the smaller of the two boys--the one without the headphones who was sitting closer to me--put away the papers and settled on admiring a certain CD. I glanced over to notice that the CD in question was not of the store-bought variety. Rather, it appeared to be something more unique and personalized. It's title, "HOMEmade TAPE Favorite TUPAC songs," was written in blue ink across the front of the blank, white, construction paper CD cover and led me to suspect that the little boy currently holding the CD may have been the one who created it. When I noticed that the phrase "DO NOT touch!!!" appeared three times below and to the right of the CD's title, little doubt remained on the matter.
The kid held that CD as if it was a fragile, egg-shell skulled, newborn kitten. He admired it, and seemed to read the HOMEmade track listing again and again.
Although I'm repulsed by Tupac's after-death journey to popular culture sainthood, and nearly become ill every time people who should know better (ahem . . . are you listening Nikki Giovanni?) speak of him as "our fallen angel" or "an inspiration to our youth," I found myself able to put aside my misgivings about the man whose voice predominated the CD the kid was clasping and realize that there was something absolutely adorable about the CD itself.
The whole cover--the title, track listing, warnings about what not to do with the CD . . . everything--was written in classic little kid style. The capitals were misplaced, the letter size fluctuated greatly, and everything was penned in that crooked method that kids use so as to result in all of their sentences trailing off toward the bottom right of the page.
I can't stand Tupac, but that shit was cute as hell. And it made me smile.
Unfortunately, my smile was quickly interrupted by another crazy episode caused by the remaining middle schoolers.
One of the girls, whose racial makeup was absolutely undeterminable, was going around to the others and offering them hand cream in a manner that struck me as quite motherly.
"Take some hand cream," she'd say while dolling out drops of the stuff to the kids around her. "Rub it in now. It's good for your skin."
"Why does it come out the side of the bottle instead of the top?" one member of the crew asked, loudly.
"Because it's ghetto hand cream," was her response, and it was good enough to halt all questions on the matter.
"That's cool," the other's said.
Eventually, the whole hand cream thing got a bit noisy, as the kids were all laughing and cursing and joking around about silly things. The motherly one who was distributing the stuff was, in actuality, the loudest of the bunch. Every other word she spoke was "fuck," and her persona was akin to what I'd imagine Lil' Kim's to have been at the age of 14. Still, she was takin' care of folks amidst all her yammering.
"Take a little more," she'd say. "It's gonna get cold soon."
When two girls standing right above me took some of the cream, the purveyor of the moisturizer glanced in my direction and seemed to notice that they were all gathered directly in front of me and that I probably heard about the cream.
What happened after that was quite unexpected.
She looked at me for a second and then said, "would you like some hand cream?" in a noticeably non-attitudy way while looking off into the distance. It was as though she was embarrassed for not asking me sooner, and her communication stuck me as nothing like that phoney apology that the pudgy kid gave walrus guy.
I'm almost positive that she was just trying to be nice. I could be wrong, but I can usually tell when people are not being genuine with me, or are mocking me or whatnot.
"No thanks, I'm good," I responded.
"OK," she said in response.
"It smells really good," another girl chimed in. "You should take some. It will help keep your hands moisturized, too."
"I believe you," I replied. "But I'm OK . . . . Thanks though. That's really nice of you."
"No problem," they said.
And that was the end of that.
The three girls promptly joined in a rousing conversation about whether one of the other girls was "slutty" because she grabbed onto a lot of guys, and I got off the train at 116th Street. -------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) Jason Nypaver: 283 (none) 2) John Gnodtke: 271 (none) 3) Evelyn Segura: 234 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 175 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 121 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 84 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 52 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 50 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 15 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Nada Payne 3 (none) 12) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 13) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
A more partisan critic would surely preface the forthcoming blizog entry with a statement along the lines of, let's see . . . "Once again showing that only convicts and those of otherwise ill repute root for Ohio State . . . " or, if you prefer, "An Ohio State grad recently jailed for signing various documents that enabled him to illegally pose as a Michigan grad found respite this week in a court of law."
But since I'm foremost a Pittsburgh Panthers fan when it comes to college football, and view Michigan's team as merely a distant second in the race for my support, I'll just preface the story I'm about to relay to you with the following question:
Are you kidding me?
According to an Associated Press wire piece circulated yesterday under the heading "Inmate Makes Deal to Watch Football Game," the world of big-time college sports rivalry has permeated our nation's judicial system in a completely zany fashion. The situation of which I speak occurred when Jeff Renne, who was arrested in Ohio's capital city of Columbus for allegedly forging documents, was in the midst of striking a plea deal with the state and realized something fairly important.
The Ohio State/Michigan football game is this Saturday.
Renne, in addition to being a repeat offender, is a huge Ohio State Buckeye's fan. And his past pokey experience provided him with the knowledge that the administrative center where folks like him must wait around prior to being transported to one or another of Ohio's prisons was sans television.
As such, were he to agree to the plea that was proposed to him, Renne would've risked being moved during this weekend's battle for the Big Ten title and would've likely missed the game.
His response to this confluence of realities was at once completely simple and incredibly outrageous.
"I told my attorney if they would table my transfer for a week, I would take the deal," Renne informed the Associated Press. The local jail where he was being held, you see, has a TV. And, I guess it's a safe bet that said TV will be tuned to ABC at noon on Saturday for the matchup in Ann Arbor.
So, simply put, Renne made a demand.
And, get this, the judge responsible for accepting the kickoff-qualified plea caved.
Now, amazingly, some dolt from Columbus, Ohio who forged documents and will soon be going away for two years will have the chance to watch his squad play this Saturday before going to jail without the trial that he had a right to . . . but traded away . . . in exchange for the ability to watch a damn football game.
"If they win," Renne told the Associated Press, "I will be on cloud nine for a few months that I'm incarcerated."
Hmm.
I can't help but chime in for a second here.
First off, I'd say Ohio State's chances of winning the game in question are at best--we're talkin' at best here, people--35% or 40%. And I'm not just saying that because I root for Michigan. The game will be played in Ann Arbor in front of more than 115,000 screaming maize and blue backers. Ohio State's best player, Maurice Clarett, has been forced to sit out the entire season due to some ill-gotten throwback jerseys and a bit of insurance fraud--which, by the way, is in the same family as forgery when it comes to categorizing crimes for legal purposes. And the team's offense has been little more than anemic all year long. While it is indeed true that Michigan's been fairly sucky at times this year too, they're currently on a roll and Ohio State's group presents them with no real matchup problems to speak of.
All this adds up to the very real potential that Mr. Renne will not "be on cloud nine" anytime soon.
Second, let's just say that irony can be defined as the decision to cop a plea after your forgery arrest based on the condition that you would be allowed to remain in a jail where there is a television so that you could watch a certain football game . . . and then having a guy much bigger than you let it be known that he "don't think so" and that the TV will be tuned to "Buggs Bunny" reruns on TBS or "Soul Train" on channel 9 at noon . . . "end of story."
And finally, what kind of loopy judge lets a repeat-offender-type qualify his plea to include gridiron-related guidelines? I can't imagine that I'm the only one wondering about this judge's decision. And when he tried to justify it to the press, his answer only produced more questions in my mind.
"It's Michigan week and it's Columbus, Ohio," Judge Richard Sheward of Franklin County Common Pleas Court told the AP. "And I thought I should do my part for the Ohio State Buckeyes."
How Sheward's decision amounts to doing his "part for the Ohio State Buckeyes" is something that greater minds than myself are going to have to figure out. Unless Renne has some telekinetic power to control football games that he watches on television, and Judge Richard Sheward knew about that superpower, the judge's move doesn't seem to be capable of helping the Buckeyes in any conceivable way this coming Saturday.
Nonetheless, Renne's wish has been granted, and he will not be moved to a penitentiary until after Saturday's Big Ten football matchup. I'll be thinking about him as I watch the game.
Actually, to be more precise, I'll be thinking about him as I flip back and forth between the game and "Soul Train" on channel 9, and I'll be hoping against hope that Renne is in his Columbus jail witnessing the same Don-Cornelius-presented booty shaking as I am . . . but that a really big guy sitting next to him has the remote control and never really liked football. -------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) Jason Nypaver: 283 (14 points for missing question mark after moderator's question, should have read ". . . would give Jordan during his heyday after he dropped 55 on the Knicks, academic, Heisman Trophy, Bad News Bears, Trivial Pursuit should have been capitalized, "So you'll do it then" is missing a question mark, missing single quote mark after the "E" in "'L,' 'Y,' 'M,' 'E,'" missing question mark in in the quote that reads, "'Yeah,' he asked," College Bowl should be capitalized (five times), and two points for being the first to reply with errors.) 2) John Gnodtke: 271 (academic, Bad News Bears) 3) Evelyn Segura: 218 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 115 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 82 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 68 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 52 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 50 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 15 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Nada Payne 3 (none) 12) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 13) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
errors recognized:
1) missing question mark after moderator's question 2) text should have read ". . . would give Jordan during his heyday after he dropped 55 on the Knicks 3) academic 4) Heisman Trophy 5) Bad News Bears 6) Trivial Pursuit should have been capitalized 7) "So you'll do it then" is missing a question mark 8) missing single quote mark after the "E" in "'L,' 'Y,' 'M,' 'E,'" 9) missing question mark in in the quote that reads, "'Yeah,' he asked." 10) College Bowl should be capitalized (five times)
This past weekend, I attended the wedding of a good friend here in Manhattan. By all accounts, the event was a smashing success. But the story here is not about the ties that bind husband and wife. Rather, it's about the ties that go around my neck when I get all dressed up for meetings, interviews, or, in this case, a wedding. It's not often that I am made to don formal or semi-formal attire, but each time that I am, I'm reminded that I have absolutely no idea how to tie a damn necktie. I simply cannot do it, and this has been the case throughout my entire life. I can hit a baseball 330 feet, solve crossword puzzles, fold a dollar bill in such a way that Washington's powder-wigged head flips upside-down, and flat-out house the average person in NBA Live. Hell, I even solved the rubix cube once as a kid. But I cannot for the life of me tie a necktie. If you ever see me wearing a tie, it's either a clip-on or somebody else tied it. Such is my reality when it comes to haberdashery. So, a nail in my closet is littered with already- and perpetually-tied ties. The knots in those babies are never removed, and they just hang there on that nail waiting to be plucked, placed above my head, and tightened. Aside from the fact that my collection of pre-tied ties brands me as a bit of a fashion outcast, the whole phenomenon wouldn't seem to be all that noteworthy. But there's a twist here that makes things at least a bit more interesting. That is, all of the ties in my collection have been expertly--or, depending on the situation, not-so-expertly--tied by former girlfriends. I didn't plan it out that way or anything. That's just how it's gone down over the years, and at this point there appears to be no turning back. Ties that I've owned since high school were tied by my high school girlfriend. Those purchased during my college years--which turned out to be a boon for my neckwear collection--were tied by one or another of my college girlfriends, and so on, and so on. Now, don't get me wrong here. I haven't had all that many girlfriends, and I'm sure that I don't own more than 10 or 12 ties. But if you were to pull one off that nail in my closet at random and ask me who tied it for me . . . I'd have a name for you in an instant. Things like the shape of the knot and the tightness of the tie are dead giveaways. One look is all I need, and I won't need any more than one guess. I do realize that the whole thing has moved way beyond ridiculous at this point, and that I should just grow up and friggin' learn how to tie a tie already. But, for whatever reason, I just refuse to unknot those old ties.
posted by mjxm at 5:56 PM |
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
bliz: LYME
"The Downtown Athletic Club"
That was the answer to the very first question asked during a first-round college bowl matchup one year when I participated in the event.
The answer--given by me on behalf of my four-person team after I hit some sort of buzzer--was in response to a question along the lines of: "What Manhattan-based organization holds a meeting each year in order to award the coveted Heisman Trophy."
I was all over that damn question. In fact, I don't even think that the moderator guy even had a chance to finish the question prior to hearing from my buzzer.
I answered confidently, matter-of-factly, and then I looked at my three teammates . . . each of whom sported wide, toothy smiles and facial expressions that seemed to hint at a smidgen of adulation. These were the types of looks that, for instance, Luc Longley or Horace Grant would give Jordan after he dropped 55 on the Knicks during his heyday to all but ensure a playoff victory.
They were "You're the man!" looks.
To me, such reactions were a bit odd. After all, I never even knew what the college bowl was until some kid from my dorm named Lyle found out that I had a pretty hefty GPA and was sitting on a waitlist for admission to Harvard Law.
Lyle was an interesting fellow. He was of average build, maintained nondescript features and ordinary brown hair, wore thick, metal-framed glasses, and was never seen in public without his purple and aqua Anaheim Mighty Ducks baseball cap. He played the role of Hardy to the Laurel of this kid called Brett. The two of them were always together, and when they weren't Lyle would drive nearly everyone around him batty by repeating the phrase, "Where's Brett?" over and over again.
Anyway, I have no idea how Lyle got that acedemic information about me, but once he did, he was relentless in recruiting me for his team of brainy trivia types. "This is our year," Lyle told me. "We just need that final piece to the puzzle. We've got three great players. Now we just need that fourth person, and we think that person should be you."
My response to these consistent overtures was usually something along the lines of "Whatever," or "We'll see." I never really felt strongly one way or another about participating.
Lyle refused to relent, though, and would hound me with questions like, "What type of things do you know a lot about?" and "Would you play if we let you name the team?"
After a while, Lyle wore me down.
"I know a good deal about politics, sports, history, and popular culture," I told him. "For science and math, you guys are on your own. I will be a liability in those fields, and you guys have to realize that before taking me on. I am not good with that stuff."
That was fine, Lyle said. Two of the other team members were well versed in the fields of mathematics and science, and would need no help in those departments.
"So you'll do it, then," he asked me, after my disclaimer about not being able to do long division.
"Yeah, I guess," I replied. "But I make no guarantees. I promise to show up on time, be fairly well groomed, and try my best to answer the questions that are asked. Beyond that . . ."
He interrupted me at this point.
"Yeah, that's fine," Lyle said. "That's all we ask. We're winning it all now. You are our secret weapon. Those other teams don't stand a chance."
After hurriedly excusing himself from the conversation in order to "go tell the others the good news," and getting about four paces away from me, Lyle stopped and came back.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "Our team name is going to be lime."
"What the fuck is that?" I asked.
"You know . . . lime," he repeated. "'L' 'Y' 'M' 'E," for Lyle, Yuval, Matthew, and Eric. Get it?"
I laughed at this notion, and couldn't help but question the name choice.
"Jesus, Lyle . . . you can't be serious. That's the corniest thing I've ever heard."
'We've been thinking about it for a while now," Lyle said. "And that's what we came up with. It's clever."
After noting such, he once again took off in a hurry. And, thereafter, once again, he returned almost immediately.
"Lyle," I yelled. "Come back here."
"Yeah," he asked.
"Wasn't I supposed to be able to name the team?"
"Well, we talked about that," he informed me. "And we came to the conclusion that you never took us up on that offer when it was made. So, it eventually fell off the table. We're going with LYME."
"That's not right," I implored. "I never knew the offer had a time limit. What if I decommit and change my mind about playing as a result of all this. I don't think it's really fair."
By this time, I was just messing with him and not-so-subtly mocking the level of seriousness that Lyle and his cadre of quiz cats placed upon even the most minute details surrounding the whole college bowl thing.
And Lyle realized what was going on.
"If you changed your mind, we'd be LYE, and the judges would never believe answers from a team called LYE," he informed me.
"Did you guys agree that this is what you'd say if I raised the team name issue?" I asked. "You'd say this clever little LYE thing, and everything'd be cool?"
"Yeah," he confessed. "We did. Get it 'L,' 'Y,' 'E,' . . . 'LIE.' You have to admit that's pretty funny."
"I'll see you on Saturday, Lyle," I responded as we parted ways for the third and final time.
And, when Saturday rolled around, Lyle and the two other guys were ready to dominate. They were totally pumped up about winning the day's rounds and moving on to the next set of competitions on the way to the championship. Lyle, for one, wore some sweatshirt with the word "Levi's" or "Lugz" or something that started with an "L" on it just to make sure that the whole LYME thing was even more clear . . . and he was pretty nervous prior to the first match.
When I noticed that he seemed to be a bit frazzled, I asked Lyle if he was alright, and he assured me that he was doing just fine.
"This happens every year," he said. "I just get a bit of butterflies. We just have to win this year, that's all. There's just no excuses this time. I mean we got you on the team, and we're seniors and whatever . . ."
"Everything is going to work out swimmingly," I assured him.
And, unlike Lyle, I had absolutely no doubt that this would be the case. I rocked at trivial pursuit, and this college bowl thing was just a bigger version of the board game, sans those annoying little pie pieces that always get lost. If those other three guys were at least adequate in the trivia department, I told myself, we were going to be unstoppable.
The next question after the Hiesman Trophy one was about the French Revolution, and I didn't know the answer.
Someone on my team, I think the "E" guy, buzzed in. But he got it wrong. It wasn't a big deal, though, as no one on the opposing squad knew the answer either.
The next question inquired about something that had to do with the body's muscular system . . .
I didn't know that one either.
Nor did I know the answer to subsequent questions about ragtime music, prime numbers, species of butterflies, or World War I.
When the buzzer sounded to mark the end of our first 45-minute match, I had correctly answered . . . one question:
"The Downtown Athletic Club."
The final score was brutal. LYME went down hard, thanks largely to my abysmal performance.
There would be no second-round matchup for our squad, and the other members were crushed about this reality.
"What happened in there," Lyle asked me after we exited the trivia room, heads hanging low. "All you got was that football one."
In response, I could do little more than shrug my shoulders and apologize. I, it turned out, was Luc Longley . . . not MJ. And our team wasn't the '90 Chicago Bulls by any stretch of the imagination. We were more like the Badnews Bears of trivia . . . and I was the worst of the bunch.
"They were hard questions, man," I said. "I don't know nothin' about Denmark or the exoskeleton of this or that animal."
From what I remember, Lyle didn't say anything after that. He just shook his head and walked toward his car.
Thereafter, and for the remainder of our undergraduate careers, LYE harbored some pretty serious resentment toward the "M." In retrospect, I probably deserved such treatment, and I always felt kind of bad for Lyle after the whole thing went down.
He just wanted it so damn bad.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, but if I were to venture a guess I'd have to say that it's got something to do with either: a) not allowing one's hopes to get too high, or b) not getting too caught up in something that may not deserve such a high priority.
On a more personal note, my massive and spectacular failure at the college bowl reminds me foremost that there's really no mystery as to why I never made it off that waiting list for Harvard Law. --------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 269 (none) 2) Jason Nypaver: 267 (7 points for Kleenex, PowerBook, key chains, key chain, "again on the keychain" should have been "on the key chain again," Stanley Cup, and Dialated Peoples, and 2 points for being the first to respond with errors) 3) Evelyn Segura: 218 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 86 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 82 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 68 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 52 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 50 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 15 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Nada Payne 3 (none) 12) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 13) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
errors recognized:
1) Kleenex 2) PowerBook 3) key chains 4) key chain 5) "again on the keychain" should have been "on the key chain again" 6) Stanley Cup 7) Dialated Peoples
posted by mjxm at 7:25 PM |
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
bliz: on growing up
Upon arriving home tonight and looking around for a second, I realized that I've yet to grow up.
I don't know whether it's good or bad, but it's clear to me that I'm pretty much just a little kid who went to school and is now doing grown-up things. I guess I've always sorta known this to be the case, but after taking a good, close look at my room this evening there was absolutely no remaining doubt in my mind on the issue.
While most people who've been out of school for four years maintain living spaces filled with stuff from West Elm, Pottery Barn, and Ikea, I've got a bunch of posters and silly little pop-culture items up the wazoo.
Here's a sneak, insider's peak into the casa de mjxm:
First off, the Cartoon Network is on the television I'm staring at. That's a portent, people, trust me.
On the table at the foot of my bed, along with normal people's stuff like kleenex and pens, is an amalgamation of silly little items. First and foremost, there's the Hamburger Helper "Happy Hand" mascot alarm clock that I sent away for as a kid and continue to treasure. Beside it is another alarm clock in the form of a plastic, dragon-like, plumber cartoon character that screams instructions to wake up in Korean when the alarm goes off. Behind the clocks, and to the right of some candles, there's a strange board game that my mother got me for Christmas a few years ago. The game is kind of like a fusion of chess and Chinese Checkers. It calls for players to move these giant marble-like objects from one circle to another as the game progresses. But, as I haven't played the game in quite a while, I've filled the empty circles with Simpson's pogs--my personal favorites are Mayor "Diamond Joe" Quimby and Pepi "the alarmingly adorable waif"--that I got upstate at some novelty story for 5 cents each.
A little further into the room is a coffee table of sorts that my grandmother gave me. On that coffee table is my Powerbook. That's not so childish.
But the odd, fatigue-outfitted, plush Master P doll hanging upside down by the foot from the skylight directly above that coffee table most certainly is. Squeeze Master P and he will say: "Make 'em say ugh . . . na na na." But I'm in the process of figuring out how to override his message so that I can program P to say "Stop squeezing me and get me down, fool! Don't you see I'm stuck up here by my damn foot?"
The mini-microphone key chain that P is holding did not come with the doll. It was given to me by a friend back home. It's one of those keychains that allows you to record a brief statement into the mic by holding down the red button. Then, when you press the button again on the keychain, it plays the recorded message.
Currently, the message is: "Show me your boobs!"
Catty-corner to Master P is a bookshelf filled with sports figure bobblehead dolls. The Ichiro bobble is a classic, and the Iverson came equipped with the earrings, tattoos, and cornrows. Also on that bookshelf are a rather large, Stanly-Cup-type trophy commemorating a past league championship in fantasy football, a Pittsburgh Pirates "celebriduck" rubber ducky signed by Manny Sanguillen, and a miniature stuffed monkey that my mom gave to me a while back for no apparent reason.
In addition to housing my Cartoon Central/Nick-at-Nite/TV Land box, my dresser also boasts: two, killer Outkast figures with huge fists and moveable arms; a mini, silly looking replica of Michelangelo's David given to me by a friend who traveled to Rome on vacation; a Playstation 2; a candy cane with the chef from "The Muppet Show" sitting on top of it that Starbucks was selling a few months back; something called "Tiger Punch" that amounts to a fuzzy paw attached to a small box with a button on it such that when you press the button the paw extends outward toward the person it is pointed at while a sound akin to "boing boing" emanates from the device, and; a bottle of vitamins called "Ultra Juice," which claims to contain "twenty-eight whole fruits & vegetables" and appears to be created for those kids, such as myself, who never really grew into liking broccoli and stuff.
By now, I think you catch my drift. But, if not, the walls of my room completely seal the deal. They are adorned with posters advertising hip-hop artists Dialated Peoples, Blackstar, and De La Soul, among others. There's also a giant-sized movie poster for the flick "Magnolia," and a smaller poster featuring the cover of Mos Def's "Black on Both Sides" album--which I, in a fit of frustration over a sneaker commercial that used a remade-to-be-un-politicized version of one of his songs, defaced with a text bubble next to Mos' (or is it "Def's"?) mouth that says "Hi, I've sold my soul to Nike."
There's also a bunch of photos taped up to the wall, along with my birth certificate, which I always seem to lose. "Tape it to the wall," my mother said. "That way, you will always know where it is."
Works for me . . . and I guess the same can be said for my old high school and summer league baseball jerseys, as I stuck them to the wall right next to the door. Across from the jerseys, I've pinned up a crazy intra-office memo that everyone at my former workplace received from the boss just prior to my joining the staff. The memo's subject heading is "Unauthorized Use of [ORGANIZATION NAME HERE] Credit Card," and it reads:
"I have become aware that someone has used the [ORGANIZATION NAME HERE] credit card to make $360 in unauthorized charges to an 'adult entertainment' web site. First of all, this is [sic] act constitutes theft from a non-profit organization and is a felony punishable by law. Secondly, I will fire immediately anyone who dares to use the [COMPANY NAME HERE] credit card for any reason without express approval from me. I trust the staff and do not wish to act as a detective. However, should this ever happen again there will be a full investigation and anyone found to have made unauthorized charges will be fired and prosecuted to the full extent of the law."
Who needs West Elm light fixtures and ceramic tree branches when you have zany, porn-related office memos to tape to the wall, right?
Anyway, after looking around my room with a critical eye, I found that about 99% of what exists there is either silly, purposefully cheesy, or both.
The walls, especially, are a forum for the ridiculous and wacky.
There is one exception, though. Alone on a wall at far end of my room, next to where my bed used to be, there's a shoddily framed printout. It is the last email that a close friend named Keith sent to me before his sudden, unexpected death from lung-related ailments a few years back. In the email, Keith writes fondly about a pulley system that we created during college. The contraption was built from two giant wheels and some twine. It ran from his dorm room to mine on the outside of our building, spanned several floors, and was visible from all over campus. It allowed us to exchange junk food and silly little messages at random, but it was created foremost because we both thought the idea was too hilarious and goofy not to try.
"I am glad that the pulley system is still alive in the hearts of my fellow Americans," his email states. "I'm still wondering what the people in the rooms between ours thought, and I'm still amazed that we were able to develop such a system."
One time, on a dare, Keith gave the bouncer at a bar a 1983 Rick Dempsey Topps baseball card in lieu of his ID upon entrance. When he realized what it was, the bouncer got pissed and threw the card into a puddle. But the gag cracked everyone up.
Keith was one of the nicest, most kindhearted people I've ever met. And, he was funny as hell . . . largely because he was in no hurry to grow up.
I miss him a great deal.
Anyway, I'm quite sure that Keith would've absolutely loved some of the crazy stuff I have strewn about this place.
So, although I was initially taken aback when I realized the extent to which my room looks like a 10-year-old's play palace, I'm thinking that it's really not so bad after all.
I mean, Pottery Barn wicker ornaments are cool and all, but they just don't have that special something that's inherent in an upside-down, washed-up hip-hop artist in plush form hanging from the ceiling with a microphone in his hand that says "Show me your boobs." --------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 269 ("Michigan's Law School Dean" should have been "the dean of the law school," "reading the pitch" is missing the "the," "givee" should have been "giver," "12 bottle cases" should have been hypenated, and e-mail (two times), and 2 points for being the first to respond with errors) 2) Jason Nypaver: 258 ("givee" should have been "giver," "keeps" should have been "keep," wolverine should have been capitalized, e-mail (two times)) 3) Evelyn Segura: 218 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 86 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 82 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 68 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 52 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 50 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 15 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Nada Payne 3 (none) 12) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 13) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
errors recognized:
1) "Michigan's Law School Dean" should have been "the dean of the law school" 2) "reading the pitch" is missing the "the" 3) "givee" should have been "giver" 4) "12 bottle cases" should have been hypenated 5) e-mail (two times) 6) "keeps" should have been "keep" 7) wolverine should have been capitalized,
Fantasy football is a fickle mistress. It completely wrecks the notion of Sundays being stress-free days of relaxation, and it messes with participants' minds like nobody's business. For those not acquainted with the sports geek's best friend, fantasy football is what happens when a group of friends get together, select players from various NFL teams to "play" on each of their respective teams, and then place an insane amount of significance on things like the difference between a 9-yard pass and an 11-yard pass in a game between the Lions and the Bears. Following a league draft, each person's "team" squares off against someone else's "team" every week, and winners are determined by whose players had better stats. Touchdowns are worth a certain amount of points, and it's the same thing for rushing yards, receiving yards, field goals, and just about every other football statistic. After Sunday's gridiron matchups, and the Monday night game's last gasp opportunity for points, the stats for each participant's players are added up, winners are declared, and positioning for the upcoming week begins. This week, my team was facing off against that of my buddy George from law school, and the matchup resulted in a roller coaster ride of emotion that just about drove me to hurl the television set out the window like that woman I wrote about a few weeks back. At 8 p.m. on Sunday night, George was 31 points ahead of me in our matchup, and it didn't look good for my squad. I could still amass points from my team's quarterback, Mark Bulger, in the Sunday night game, and from my top running back, Ahman Green, in Monday night's finale. But George's tight end--some no-name player from the Eagles--was also playing on Monday night, which meant that he had the opportunity to score more points as well. Are you all following this? And, more importantly, are you starting to realize how loopy fantasy football makes those who take part in this inherently evil pastime? Anyway, Bulger averages about 18 fantasy points per game (which amounts to around 300 yards passing and one touchdown pass each week) and Ahman Green averages 21 (something like 120 yards rushing, 30 yards receiving, and one touchdown each week). So, assuming George's lame tight end only scored a few points, and both of my players had average weeks, I reasoned, I could still win the matchup. On Sunday night, in one of the worst quarterback performances I've seen in a long time, Mark Bulger put on a putrid display. Deep into the fourth quarter he had only 27 yards passing, zero touchdowns, and, to top it off, two interceptions--which count as negative points in the world of fantasy. I couldn't believe what I was watching and became more frustrated with each passing minute of the Rams outing against the Ravens. When the game ended, Bulger had netted my team exactly zero fantasy points--something that I've never seen happen before, and a total that was 18 points off of his weekly average . . . of 18. I fumed about that performance for most of Monday, as it likely meant that I would lose my matchup with George, see my record drop to .500 overall, and not make our league's playoffs. According to my midday calculations, in order for me to prevail, Ahman Green would have to rush for somewhere around 192 yards, net about 32 yards receiving, and score two touchdowns, one of which would have to be from more than 40 yards out so as to qualify for the two extra fantasy points that go along with such an accomplishment. It was, to say the least, quite improbable. And even if Green could pull off such otherworldly stats, I'd still lose if George's player scored a single point. I had very little confidence that the stars would align for such an outcome, and thus, in protest, refused to watch the Monday night game. So, in essence, a fantasy version of football had resulted in my boycotting the real-life version of the sport. In the middle of the third quarter, I checked on the game for the first time and noticed that Ahman Green had 107 yards rushing and one touchdown . . . big whoop. Then I watched Green break free for a 45-yard touchdown run. On this night, for whatever reason, he was the anti-Mark-Bulger. Green finished with 192 yards rushing, 32 yards receiving, and two touchdowns, one of which was from more than 40 yards out. George's lousy player scored no points, and my team prevailed over his. I've forgotten all about Mark Bulger's zero point outing, my squad will now likely make our league's fantasy playoffs, and, if it wasn't already clear to you, I am officially a huge sports geek.
posted by mjxm at 11:24 AM |
Friday, November 07, 2003
bliz: Hail to the . . . crazies!
Generally, I have very few bad things to say about the University of Michigan. While I was sure I'd made the wrong choice in selecting Michigan over Berkeley during the coldest of days in Ann Arbor, all such thoughts have been vanquished by what I now recognize to be the top-dog legal education I received at U of M. With harsh memories of pretentious Princeton grads and professional ethics bridge week seminars softened by time, I have evolved into a huge proponent of the university. I talk it up every chance I get.
That said, I now have a new gripe to replace all those old ones that have been forgotten.
I am sorry to say that Michigan's Alumni Association is absolutely bonkers--and not in a good way.
I receive something in the mail from or about the university three times a week, at minimum. There are the ubiquitous "your college logo here" credit card offers, the sporting apparel brochures from the "M Den," the letters from Michigan's Law School Dean begging for donations, and so on. All this stuff, though sometimes annoying because it takes up the precious little space that exists in my apartment's miniature mail receptacle, amounts to little more than a minor inconvenience.
In response to this deluge of junk, I've mastered a little move where--in what has been perfected to be one singular motion--I separate the Michigan junk from the real mail at the kitchen table and toss all the Michigan stuff into the garbage can located adjacent to the table. It's really quite slick and ultra-efficient.
But yesterday, during my all-in-one throwaway maneuver, something about the day's materials caught my eye.
The parcel in question was a glossy, 3x5 postcard with the words "The Alumni Association of the University of Michigan" emblazoned in the top left corner. The card is eggshell in color with a navy trim, and in the middle of the postcard there is a graphic featuring a rather large bottle of wine. To the direct right of the bottle, and just above my name and address, are the words "For free corkscrew use Promotion Code: 61A0." I wasn't quite sure what that was all about until I looked below my address and noticed a line of text in big, bold, italicized lettering that prodded me to "Order [my] case in the next 10 days to receive a FREE corkscrew (a $20 value)!"
That's right, it turns out that my alumni association is selling bottles of wine to former students with the hook being that the bottles are adorned with a label that features the Michigan "block M" logo and an artist's rendering of Angell Hall on a fall afternoon. The bottles, in my estimation, look absolutely corny and cheap. But you wouldn't know it from reading pitch to the left of the big graphic on the front of the card. That text states:
"The Alumni Association's alumni wine program is a unique opportunity to incorporate the University of Michigan into your social gatherings, reunions and dinners--or as an addition to your wine cellar. We have partnered with world-renowned wineries to bring you an exclusive label that adds a meaningful, personal touch to any occasion. Don't miss this opportunity to add to your wine portfolio with selections from wineries including Monticello Vineyards, Blackridge Canyon and Mirabelle. The beautiful full-color label depicts a memorable campus scene and is sure to bring back memories. There's no better way to show your Wolverine pride and support your Alumni Association, while sampling premium wines."
First off, "wine portfolio?"
Secondly, is there really a burning desire among people to have the option of showing school pride . . . "while sampling premium wines"? I mean, I've never been in a situation where I've heard anyone say something along the lines of:
"Hey, this Michigan sweater is great, and I love your replica wolverine-head hat . . . but it just seems like there's something missing from our outward showings of school spirit. It's just . . . I don't know. I'm feeling like we should be able to show this same kind of enthusiasm while at the same time sampling premium wines."
Or, if you flip it around:
"Hey this premium wine that we're sampling is top-notch. It's some of the best premium wine that I have ever sampled. But, you know what would make this incredible moment all the more special? If we could just, you know, somehow be showing our love for our alma mater while sampling this premium wine."
Upon turning the card over, I realized that numerous additional gems awaited my perusal.
"Your friends and guests will be impressed when you serve the Alumni Association of the University of Michigan Collector's Series Wine with its beautiful label depicting Angell Hall," the backside of the card reads. "And they will be even more delighted by the aroma and flavor of wine from some of the nation's leading wineries."
Hmm, I'm not so sure about these contentions. And, in fact, I'm quite certain that any "friends or guests" of mine would laugh at and make fun of me if I served them this Michigan wine. But, I digress. There's more. Under the "Enhance Your Entertaining" subheading there are four bullet point items:
"Perfect for tailgating and picnics Dramatic addition to your dinner table Makes unique party favors Display several on your own bar or wine cellar"
OK, in order, my responses are the following: 1) Who in the hell drinks wine while tailgating? 2) How exactly is this bottle of wine going to result in any form of "drama" at my dinner table, and is that something that I am really looking to gain? 3) Shouldn't it be: "Make unique party favors" or "Makes a unique party favor"? 4) Here again, it seems like this really should say: "Display several on your own bar or in your wine cellar."
Alright, deep breath.
Moving on, under the subheading "The Perfect Gift," we have:
"Give the gift of U-M spirit" and "Wonderful for holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and graduations."
All I can say is that if I ever received this corny "gift of U-M spirit," I would probably clobber the givee over the head with the bottle. Oh, and screw you Michigan Alumni Association for not using the serial comma before the "and." It just plain makes more sense to use it universally, but don't get me started on that one.
Anyway, if anyone out there is interested in taking up U of M on this fabulous offer, 12 bottle cases are available for between $156.00 and $324.00. I'm assuming that the $324.00 brand is a more popular or more widely respected member of "the nation's leading wineries," but I can't say for sure. For those looking to "switch it up," the association also offers various mixed cases with names like The Michigan Collection, The Wolverine Collection, and The Michigan Four Bottle Gift Set.
If you want the contact info, drop me an email and I'll hook it up.
But, I must warn you, according to the postcard:
"WINE MAY BE SOLD AND DELIVERED ONLY TO PERSONS WHO ARE AT LEAST 21 YEARS OLD. IN PLACING YOUR ORDER, YOU REPRESENT TO US YOU ARE AT LEAST 21 YEARS OLD AND THAT THE PERSON TO WHOM YOU ARE DIRECTING DELIVERY IS AT LEAST 21 YEARS OLD. THE PERSON RECEIVING DELIVERY WILL BE REQUIRED TO SHOW IDENTIFICATION PROVING THAT HE/SHE IS AT LEAST 21 YEARS OLD. THIS OFFER IS VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW."
So, unfortunately, I will not be able strike a deal on behalf of that crew of seventh graders in Iowa that keep sending me emails asking if I will write more stuff about seeing Cameron Diaz's underwear.
1) John Gnodtke: 261 (1 point for millimeters, and 2 points for being the first to respond with errors) 2) Jason Nypaver: 253 (millimeters) 3) Evelyn Segura: 218 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 86 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 82 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 68 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 52 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 50 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 15 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Nada Payne 3 (none) 12) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 13) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
This week's been slow from a news perspective, and little of significance or hilarity has happened to me. So, I decided to go out on a limb with this bliz entry and treat it as a freestyle exercise. I decided to type a random word or phrase into the Google search engine, check out what the search netted, and write a piece on the resulting website content.
The phrase of choice, it turns out, was . . . "fondue accident."
Don't ask me why I picked it.
I've never heard of a fondue-related mishap and had never even thought about the possibility of such prior to this morning. But, for whatever reason, those words were the first to pop into my head after deciding on the whole random blog entry idea.
After thinking about the likelihood of such accidents, I assumed that my search would probably result in thousands of websites. After all, whatever it is that people allow to simmer in a fondue pot is really, really hot. Add to that the fact that the devices are intended to be used in a manner that demands people position their ungloved hands within milimeters of the hot stuff of choice, and you've got a recipe for not only chocolate covered bananas, but also disaster.
Strangely, and much to my surprise, the "fondue accident" search--with the quotation marks included--gathered a mere 30 websites. That's nothing. When dealing with Google, almost any amalgamation of two words in a search will get you at least 500 corresponding websites. To wit, the phrase "hamburger hat," in quotations, results in 703 websites. "Toenail opera" pulls in "about 2,300" hits.
So, a 30-website search result is really quite rare. Hell, even the words "President Clintin," with both the obvious misspelling and the quotation marks, result in more websites than "fondue accident."
But despite the dearth of blog fodder, I trudged forward on my mission.
Turning to those precious 30 sites, I found that nearly 75% of them referenced the same, unfortunate occurrence. Back in June of last year, it turns out that Jaret Holmes and Chris Hanson of the Jacksonville Jaguars experienced what some site called PopSyndicate.com referred to as a "severe fondue incident." Now, I don't mean to mock or make light of others' pain, but the incident in question is just too odd not to play up a bit. According to a report on the Jaguar's NFL.com team page, the nasty event went down while the two players and their wives were cooking some cheese concoctions at Hanson's place:
"It happened so fast," Hanson told the Florida Times-Union. He said they were moving the fondue pot when it slipped onto the tile floor in his house. "Then, my wife fell into it," Hanson said. "I know it doesn't sound like much, but it's been quite an ordeal."
I'll say. Hanson suffered first- and second-degree burns on both his hands and his leg. His wife, Kasey, was burned so badly that she required skin grafts to address burns of the second- and third-degree variety.
Are you kidding me? From fondue?
How the news of this fondue fiasco slipped by me last year is something that I do not understand. How 1/2 of Team Fondue, Chris Hanson, could follow up such a weird injury by chopping into his right leg with an ax in the locker room this season borders on unthinkable.
On that issue, I found this nice bit, once again from PopSyndicate.com:
NEXT COME THE LOCUSTS
"So Jacksonville punter Chris Hanson is out for the year after slashing his shin with an ax during a team motivational ritual called "chopping the tree," the brainchild of coach Jack Del Rio. Last year, Hanson missed several games in [the fondue episode]. Not the guy you want to stand next to in a lightning storm. . ."
Similarly, a story on fantasysports.com suggested "keep[ing Hanson] away from bows, arrows, firearms of any type, anything with a sharp pointed end . . . the list is endless."
Aside from the proliferation of Chris-Hanson-spills-hot-cheese-on-himself sites, the remainder of those resulting from the "fondue accident" search are all over the place. Take the story at Fool.com entitled "Know Your Homeowner's Policy." In this legitimate advice column, the author, after discussing the differences between "all risks" and "named perils" policy options, advises readers to "know your liability coverage in the event of an unfortunate fondue accident during your National Cheese Day party."
Huh?
The writer immediately follows that line up by saying, "If you regularly host parties or hire domestic help, consider getting a $1 million umbrella policy." I wonder if Hanson had that, and, as a lawyer, I wonder whether his gathering with the Holmes family would fall under the definition of a "party," and whether the answer to that question would even make a difference considering that the name of the relevant policy has the word "umbrella" in it.
Anyway, after searching through the remaining sites on the list and realizing they either had no fondue-related content or were simply dogging Chris Hanson in a backhanded fashion, I came across the last of the relevant "fondue accident" websites. It was a BBC.com article about what seems to be a well-respected, oft written about British cartoon called "Yoho Ahoy." The show is set on a pirate ship, and the ship's cook, Grog, has hooks for hands. In the midst of a discussion on the cartoon, the writer--who subtitles his piece "A Pseudo-Freudian Reading of Yoho Ahoy" and categorizes the program as "the best show on television since 'Twin Peaks'"--wonders aloud about what's up with Grog's hooks:
"It's historically accurate, in a way, because wounded sailors were often given the job of cook, a la Long John Silver. In this age of robots and cyborgs, children probably won't think much about Grog's funny hooks. They'll just think he's a robot. But older children like me have to ask What happened to his hands?4 Can't we see an episode showing where his hands went? Perhaps "Gangrene with Grog" or "Safe Cooking Habits with Grog."
Aside from noticing that this guy has way too much time on his hands (and, as an aside, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black, people, I don't know what is), you surely noticed that the number four seems to have been plopped haphazardly into the middle of the quoted passage. That four, it turns out, is actually a footnote that connects up to text revealing that, "An article from Animation World magazine claims [Grog] lost both hands in a fondue accident."
Now, I have to admit that I've never seen "Yoho Ahoy," but if it turns out that this Grog character looks anything like Chris Hanson, I'm gonna freak. --------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 258 (get-together, improper use of the word "resides," road-related, Christine's, traveling, palpitating) 2) Jason Nypaver: 252 (7 points for "upon returing home" should have been "while returning home," improper use of the word "resides," road-related, Christine's, traveling, palpitating, and God, and 2 points for being the first to respond with errors) 3) Evelyn Segura: 200 (palpitating) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 6 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 5 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Nada Payne 3 (none) 12) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 13) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
errors recognized:
1) get-together 2) improper use of the word "resides" 3) road-related 4) Christine's 5) traveling 6) palpitating 7) God 8) "upon returing home" should have been "while returning home"
posted by mjxm at 2:25 PM |
LIL' ZOGGIE: DOMINICAN MJXM?
Other than Bob Dole, and perhaps Art Garfunkel, I can't think of anyone who looks less Dominican than I do. Yet, upon arriving at the gym the other day, the guy stationed at the desk in front of the card-swipe machine inquired as to my ethnicity in a manner that I'd never heard before. "Are you Dominican?" the short, goateed, Oscar-de-la-Hoya-lookin' man asked. My response, after the initial confusion subsided, was direct. "No," I said. "I am not." Thereafter, I asked him if he thought I looked Dominican . . . because I certainly didn't. "You're right about that," he replied. "You don't look Dominican at all." Immediately following this statement, the guy grabbed a ringing phone and began answering what I assumed were some questions about the gym's hours of operation. I waited around for a moment in the hopes of getting to the bottom of the whole Dominican thing, but, after 30 seconds or so, I just went about starting my workout. When I left the gym, the front desk guy had been replaced by some other lackey, and I remained utterly confused about things. I had no idea how anyone could mistake me for being Dominican and was clueless as to why he would ask me such a question. A few days later, when some delivery guys in my apartment's elevator tried to talk to me in Spanish, I put everything together. After realizing quite quickly that I didn't understand what they were saying to me, the men put an end to the mystery of the ethnicity inquiry. "I just assumed you spoke Spanish," the shorter of the two fellows said, "because of that keychain there." The keychain he was referring to was in plain view to those in the elevator with me because said elevator will only go to my floor if a key is inserted next to the button you have to push in order to get here. As my keys were hanging from the designated keyhole on the elevator wall, I glanced at the chain that was used to group them together and realized that this keychain had a picture of the Dominican flag on it. I bought it as an homage to the one owned by my girlfriend's father, and, along with my keys, it is home to an exceedingly fancy, miniature New York Sports Club membership card that I use to swipe my way into the gym. Upon making sense of everything, I had but one remaining question for the guys traveling upwards with me in the elevator. "Do I look Dominican to you?" I asked. The two guys looked at each other, then simultaneously looked at me. "A little," the short guy said. "You do, a little bit."
posted by mjxm at 12:53 AM |
Saturday, November 01, 2003
LIL' ZOGGIE: YOU GO GIRLS!
Sometimes you go to the well once too often, and, as a result, you get burnt. Or, as the case may be, sometimes you get your ass beat by a furious crew of Catholic school girls. Take the story of Rudy Susanto told in a Reuters piece released on Friday. Rudy, it seems, had a thing for exposing himself to young girls and was known by the authorities in Philadelphia as a sexual predator. He'd exposed himself in front of the St. Maria Goretti School at least seven times. Attempt number eight, though, did not go as planned for this guy. According to the wire release, after showing his goods on Thursday, Susanto "was chased through the streets of South Philadelphia by an angry crowd of Catholic high school girls, who kicked and punched him." A local resident described the scene as follows: "The girls came and started kicking him and punching him, so I wasn't going to stop them." After the young ladies finished whooping the guy, the cops came and cleaned up the mess. Susanto was charged with 14 criminal counts, including harassment, disorderly conduct, open lewdness, and corrupting the morals of a minor. But, more importantly, he got what he deserved when he was beat down something fierce by those girls. Rock on, ladies.
posted by mjxm at 12:58 PM |
