Sure the Iowa caucuses happened a few weeks ago, and thus I may be a bit behind the times with this post, but you just have to check out www.deangoesnuts.com. Following Dean's bizarre concession speech in Iowa on the night of the caucuses, someone decided to create a website full of DJ mixes that combine Dean's rant with popular musical selections. Sometimes the results can be a bit lame, but, I assure you, the remixes of Outkast's "Hey Ya!" (which now becomes "Hey YEAAAHHHHH") and Cypress Hill's "Insane in the Membrane" ("Deansane in the Brain") are top-notch and not to be missed. The Outkast mix is part of a group posted on January 29 and the Cypress Hill one is under the January 23 entry, so you'll have to scroll down a bit. But it's worth it, trust me. Plus the site allows you to download an audio version of Dean's speech, and, more importantly, offers the option of just downloading the ultra-crazy part where he goes "Yaaaaarrrrrgggh!" If you're like me, you'll now be able set up your computer so that Doctor Dean screams at you every time you strike an improper key, or make a spelling error, or whatnot. While I am normally not fond of finding humor in the missteps of another, and really did hesitate a bit before posting this today since I've been a tad rough on Dean lately, those songs are just too funny to let slip by.
posted by mjxm at 12:08 PM |
Monday, January 26, 2004
LIL' ZOGGIE: GO PONTIFF . . . IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!
So it turns out that the Pope is a fan of breakdancing.
Um . . . duh. I called that one back in '84. And, Nyps, you owe me $20.
Moving on . . . though it is indeed true that I always figured the Pope for a B-boy, now that my suspicions have been confirmed I find myself, strangely, at a loss for words. Perhaps it's for the best, actually, because none of my sophomoric banter could do justice to the pictures themselves--which, in my book, stand on their own merit as instant classics.
I guess all that I have to say is: Welcome aboard, bro.
Link to prove that I'm not making this up: RUN J.P.2.
As kids, my younger brother Dan and I didn't have all that many recreational outlets.
Realizing this now, and knowing what I do about where we grew up, the notion seems completely out of whack. Dan and I were raised in a town called South Park--which, similar to its brethren North Park, is supposed to serve as a draw for people from all over the Metro-Pittsburgh area who are looking to partake in some form of outdoor activity.
Our town boasted a roller skating rink, a wave pool, an outdoor running track, a public golf course, myriad tennis and basketball courts, a two-mile-long walking path, numerous children's playgrounds, an ice skating rink, lots of groves for picnicking, a game preserve equipped with buffalo and other assorted animals, a BMX bike track, and, I'm sure, a bunch of other fun things that I'm forgetting.
In retrospect, if you were looking for something to do on a Saturday afternoon in Western Pennsylvania during the 80s, you probably couldn't have done much better than to plop yourself down in the exact place where I was raised. That is, of course, if you owned a car or had access to some other motorized, non-bicycle mode of transportation.
And, for my brother and I, therein lied the rub.
Growing up, the two of us were basically trapped in the eye of a tornado of fun, unable to enjoy all the cool stuff that resided just beyond where our little feet could take us. That is, all the cool stuff mentioned above--the wave pool, the BMX track, the buffalo--was too far away for little kids to walk to when Dan and I were young, and both of our parents worked full-time. So, for the most part, we had no legitimate way of accessing the rinks or trails or whatever during our summers home from school or those few precious hours during the school year between when the bus dropped us off and the sun went down.
When Dan was a little kid, and I was too young to watch him by myself, he spent his after-school time and summer days at a daycare center called Kindercare that was not too far from our house. Once he got a bit older, I'd look after him during these times, and our number one priority was always finding something fun to do. To some extent we'd, individually or as a pair, hang out with one or another of the Strazisar kids--Anthony, Theresa, Brian, or Michael--next door, or the Pape boys who lived across the street. But, for the most part, Dan and I spent our time together . . . trying desperately to find something that would allow us to avoid being bored out of our minds.
Under such circumstances, we did what any kids would do . . . we improvised.
Our house was of the cookie cutter, model home variety popularized during the early 70s suburban expansion boom that took much of the Northeast by storm. It wasn't an inherently fun place or one especially amenable to creative, time-passing endeavors. And while it's true that our house did come with a fairly substantial (1/2 acre, I believe) backyard, said area was overrun with trees and semi-steep undulations that made efforts at running around or, god forbid, a respectable game of wiffle ball, quite challenging. To top it off, our driveway was, as far as I know, the only one on the street that was not fully paved. So our family never splurged for a basketball hoop, as attempting to dribble on an assortment of small, oddly-shaped rocks and dirt would've resulted in absolute chaos. In retrospect, it's a wonder that I'm even semi-competent at the sport of basketball and can, on a good day, drop eight or nine free throws in a row--for this, all credit is due to the seemingly never-ending kindness of the Strazisar Clan, who let me practice at their hoop all the time, and, if memory serves me correctly, at one point maintained two hoops on one small driveway that featured spray painted three-point lines for each such that one could grab a rebound at the base of one hoop, turn, and immediately chuck up a 20-foot three-point shot at the other hoop.
Anyway, to make a long story short, our driveway, backyard, and property in general offered very little in the way of fun.
Despite the fact that we did indeed spend hours upon hours attempting to engage in derivative versions of well-known sports in our front yard or in the street--one game involved my putting our boombox on the windowsill in my room so that it would blast music from Toni, Tony, Tone or Prince tapes into the front yard as I hit ground balls to Dan, with him attempting to stop 10 in a row in order to earn a point . . . another was premised upon using the curbs of the street as out-of-bounds markers for a game where we each attempted to keep two feet in-bounds while grasping for throws intentionally directed toward the "sideline"--we eventually realized that if we were going to happen upon any fun during our respective childhoods we were going to have to be creative, or, at the very least, non-traditional, in our attempts to entertain ourselves.
For a while there, wrestling was our ticket. We both watched pro wrestling--WWF first, and then NWA--religiously, and by the time Dan was four or five he could mimic the Iron Shiek's Camel Clutch to perfection. He was also a master at administering the "Iron Claw" maneuver made famous by many wrestlers of the era. I was more of a figure four leglock man, always admiring the technique with which Greg "The Hammer" Valentine and Ric Flair drove opponents into submission with the move.
On the whole, I'd say that from the time when Dan was five to the time when he was seven--thus putting me between the ages of 12 and 14, as we are seven years apart in age--about 75% percent of our time spent together involved head-to-head wrestling matches. I, of course, held the overwhelming advantage in these matches because of the obvious age disparity, but most of the moves were fake and--despite the fact that we pretended that they did--didn't hurt anyway. During this era, we each mastered the famous painful grimace face, the "no more, please" beg for mercy schtick, and the "both-hands-held-abve-the-head-with-back-turned-to-the opponent-gloat-that-allows-the-other-guy-to-attack-you-from-behind" move. In short, we scripted matches that were at least as entertaining as the ones we saw on TV, and we had a blast. Sometimes we got hurt--mostly when I was stubborn in relenting on the figure four grip or Dan got a bit crazy with his signature, and to this day painful as hell, chin to the small of the back maneuver--but not often. Dan had this elongated teddy bear that was about his size that he used to practice moves on before getting in the ring with me . . . if anyone had a right to complain about the extent of received beatings it was that poor bear.
We wrestled in living rooms mostly, but sometimes preferred to use a bed for a ring because that would allow for soft landings on pile drivers or suplexes.
Our blood of choice: ketchup.
But you can only spill so much ketchup, so at some point along the way our indoor wrestling craze transitioned into an indoor basketball phenomenon. We'd spend hours playing one-on-one games with only a miniature, orange foam ball and one of those little basketball rims that can be hung on the back of a door.
Here again, we took things pretty seriously. We required that the player with possession of the ball had to mimic the dribbling of a basketball while approaching the hoop or risk being penalized for traveling. We also called fouls, shot foul shots, and enforced strict out of bounds rules. I was much taller than Dan, so in most games I was barred from dunking. Ironically, he was not in any way inhibited by our rules from using the dunk as part of his offensive arsenal . . . but was simply too short to take advantage of this reality.
One Christmas we received a miniaturized version of an actual hoop that had it's own post and backboard and could be set up for indoor play.
We loved that fucking thing, foremost because it provided us with the opportunity for some killer dunk contests that involved run-ups from atop our mom's bed. After a few months of our contests and myriad overly-agressive bank shots, the hoop gave out and we were forced to deposit it into the dumpster. While its lifespan was indeed short, that hoop's heroic and steadfast service to our efforts at entertainment was the stuff of legends.
After putting the hoop to rest, we came up with a football game whereby Dan would run into the living room, pitch me the ball, and then sprint through the kitchen only to reapper in the adjacent family room, it was hoped, at the same time as a blindly-thrown timing pass tossed by me from back in the living room would arrive. I'd throw the ball through the tiny hallway that connected up the living room with the family room, and basically just try my best to time things up right. Thereafter, Dan would catch the pass--or scoop up the incompletion--and sprint back into the living room to start the whole cycle again.
We'd do this pitch and catch thing for hours on end. Unfortunately for us, the likelihood of the football hitting and breaking something in the family room meant that we could only partake in the game when our parents weren't around. But when they were gone, this stupid, simple little endeavor became one of my favorite things in the world to do, and to this day it remains as one of the fondest memories that I have of time spent with my younger brother. Although he was probably too young to even remember such pursuits, I loved playing that game with him. And, I can attest, he loved it too.
We had a whole little set-up that we'd create for our pitch and catch pastime that involved placing a bunch of throw pillows on and around the brick fireplace that resided in our family room. We did this to guard against injury in the event that Dan slipped in attempting to catch a pass or was forced to dive for a ball. And that boy wasn't afraid to dive in order to make catches every now and again.
Perhaps the coolest thing about the indoor football game was that Dan and I took it so seriously. We had fun, and laughed the whole time of course, but beneath all that we really did want to master the art of indoor pitch and catch. We worked tirelessly to become more proficient at the game, and we'd try so hard to get our timing right on those passes. More than anything else, we wanted to be able to make that perfect connection that resulted when I could throw the football without even seeing where my brother was--because he was motoring through the kitchen and separated from me by a wall--and then have it land, securely in his outstretched arms just as he slid into the family room.
When we hit that pass perfectly, in stride, the result was pure joy . . . mutually enjoyed.
At those moments, the connection between the two of us was as solid as could be.
These days, many years later, that sense of connection between Dan and I has all but disappeared--thanks foremost to a father who unilaterally decided to split the two of us up when Dan was just 11 by sending me to live with my mother, who had divorced him a few years prior--and I can assure you that this reality is the one thing that I lament more than anything else in life. Even during the times when I am most happy or joyous, that looming disconnect--with all its vast and still-not-fully-played-out ramifications--remains, tugging away at me, and sapping me of something I don't even know how to describe.
Amidst that whole mess, fond memories continue to be my salvation.
So, in a way, I suppose I should be grateful for the fact that Dan and I grew up in a situation where all the fun outdoor activities that South Park had to offer remained just out of our reach. But for this reality, our wrestling matches, low-flying dunk contests, and circular football games would've likely never occurred.
And at this point, when it comes to the relationship between my brother and I, thoughts of those good times are pretty much all I've got to hold on to.
posted by mjxm at 12:02 PM |
Thursday, January 22, 2004
LIL' ZOGGIE: LIL' HELP
OK, I've been doing this blog thing for a while now, and it's been a wonderful experience for me. But just this morning I realized that I have absolutely no idea whether it's been a good experience for those folks who visit the site--or, for that matter, who in the world actually does read my stuff. I've received a few very cool, encouraging emails from random readers over the past seven months, but beyond that I've simply been writing on the assumption that somebody out there must be checking in to see what I have to say. I'm pretty sure that people are reading because that little counter at the bottom of the site continues to increase on a daily basis. But that's about all I know in terms of my readership, and I have no clue when it comes to my readers' interests or preferences. So, in an effort to improve the blizog, get some sense of who my readers are, and, hopefully, cater at least somewhat to the interests and views of these folks, I've decided to create a very brief reader survey that I hope you will complete (even if you are a first-time reader, or simply happened upon this site by mistake). The survey will only take a minute or so of your time and will really help me to get a sense of who my audience is. All you have to do is cut and paste the questions below into an email and send it to mxjm@yahoo.com. Or you can simply use the "contact mjxm" button that appears to the left of this text. Feel free to leave your name off the email if you're worried about me stalking you or something along those lines, but I can assure you that I have no such intent. I'd just like to know who reads my stuff, whether they enjoy it, whether visitors have any suggestions for improving what they take in at mjxm.com, and how far my blizog reaches in terms of geography and readership. So, please, take a second and drop me an email with your survey responses. I'd really appreciate it, and I urge you to submit the survey even if you're . . . say . . . my mom, or my girlfriend or whatever, because I'm going to be drawing at least some conclusions based on the number of these things that I receive. So, please don't do one of these, "he knows I read his blog, so there's no need for me to submit the form" things. I want to hear from each and every person who visits the site, bar none. And please be completely honest with your responses. Thanks, mjxm. ----------------- 2004 mjxm.com Reader Survey
(Cut and paste into an email and send to mjxm@yahoo.com)
1) Where do you live: 2) How did you come across my site: 3) How long have you been reading: 4) How often do you check in and read something I've posted? 5) Do you have my site bookmarked on your computer? 6) Have you ever read anything from my archives section? 7) What do you think about the site design? Any suggestions? 8) True or False: mjxm, your stories are just too damn long. 9) Multiple Choice: My favorite mjxm.com entries are: a) the ones that are the funniest b) the more serious ones c) the ones on current events d) the ones that are the shortest e) other (please explain) 10) If you had to pick one thing that you like best about mjxm.com what would it be? 11) If you had to pick one thing that most needs to be improved upon at mjxm.com what would it be? 12) Pick one: The Eagles, A Tribe Called Quest, Queen, Shakira, Johnny Cash, Jay-Z, Matchbox 20, Boston, Mary J. Blige, Metallica, Springsteen, Madonna 13) Misc. Comments or Advice:
Thanks so much for participating.
posted by mjxm at 12:11 PM |
Monday, January 19, 2004
LIL' ZOGGIE: VOTE CLARK 2004
Anyone who knows me well knows that politics--and especially presidential politics--is something that I take a great deal of interest in. For me, the Democratic primaries and the election year as a whole are akin to a 10-month-long Christmas morning. I love this stuff--always have and always will--and look forward to these times with even more zeal when the endgame involves efforts at unseating a Republican president. At this point in the 2004 election year, things are just getting started. But it's already been a fascinating ride. The run-up to the Iowa caucuses has been incredibly interesting, and the result--which saw co-comeback-kids John Kerry and John Edwards finish ahead of the supposedly organization superior Howard Dean and Richard Gephardt--was one that I have to admit took me a bit by surprise. Overall, I have to give props to Kerry for ensuring that Dean's two-week-long downward slide continues for at least a bit longer. Although Dean's picked up some pretty impressive endorsements and a great deal of "this is the guy"-type press, I am not a fan of the diminutive doctor and hope not to see a Dean v. Bush matchup for all the marbles. Re the hopefully-ebbing Dean, here's all you need to know: Howard Dean cannot beat G-Dubb. End of story. It's a bit more complicated than this . . . but the former governor of a tiny, northeastern state who has absolutely no foreign policy experience is not going to be America's choice in an era when everyday people are more concerned than usual about personal safety and issues of international import. Trust me, Karl Rove would tear this guy a new one in a general election and the result will not be pretty for the Dems. Just as importantly, and regardless of how many college kids wear his buttons or how much his campaign staff knows about using the internet to build a base, Dean is not a progressive, and, for that matter, not even one who could be deemed a liberal on issues that have traditionally been important to those who identify with the Democratic Party. Dean's a supporter of the death penalty, got an "A" ranking from the bastards who run the National Rifle Association, and has made some pretty egregious NIBY-related environmental justice gaffes. So, I don't care how cool he's supposed to be . . . I refuse to back him. The fact of the matter is that Dean and I don't see eye-to-eye on many of the most important issues of the day and he would be eaten alive by Bush's cadre of campaign gurus. That's why I'm rolling with Wes Clark this year. Clark's smart, has the military experience to take Bush to task on the war and foreign policy issues, is respectful of civil rights and the environment, has the important, electorally-relevant advantage of hailing from the South . . . . I could go on, but rather than simply rehash my views on General Clark, I'll just point you to the September 9 blizog entry that I wrote. It's available by clicking on the "archives" button to the left. For the reasons set forth above and in my earler blog, and for others too numerous to mention, I'm outwardly supporting Wes Clark for the presidency of the United States. I hope that you'll do the same.
posted by mjxm at 11:38 PM |
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
bliz: Laundry Matt
Doing my laundry in Manhattan has always been a bit of an ordeal.
My apartment, like most in the city, has no washer or dryer. So I must resort to the dreaded laundromat option. Actually, it's not the laundromat option itself that's all that "dreaded," but rather the entire rigmarole that is a trip to the laundry. For the longest time, my clothes-washing experience has been marked by two distinct things: 1) walking, and 2) waiting.
As most readers know by now, I live on 28th Street between Sixth Avenue and Seventh Avenue. My laundromat, though, has always been all the way down on 20th Street--nearly 3/4 of a mile from where I'm now writing. Don't ask me how this came to be so. Manhattan has myriad laundromats, and in most sections of the city these establishments seem to pop up on every corner. Yet, in my neighborhood, one of the busiest in NYC, the nearest laundry has always been like 10 football fields away.
Now, in isolation, I suppose the long-ass walk to the laundromat wouldn't be such a big deal. But when you add the fact that I only do my laundry when I completely run out of clothing--hey, if you had to walk a mile to wash your clothes, you'd be the same way . . . trust me--and, as such, must haul huge, heavy bags overflowing with clothes all that way and then wait for hours as my oversized loads are washed and dried, you can begin to see why my trips to the laundry have historically been such a hassle.
As a frame of reference, during my last trip to the washery I confirmed that I own nearly 60 pairs of boxers (for those keeping track, they're all GAP brand, size large). That's two full month's worth, and I keep buying more . . . just so I can go a bit longer without doing the laundry. I learned a long time ago--I believe it was at some point during my first year at Syracuse--that when it comes to strategizing for how to put off doing laundry as long as possible, the importance of how many shirts and pairs of pants that one owns pales in comparison to the importance of securing as many pairs of boxers and socks as possible. This is the case because I haven't grown any taller since high school, my clothing sizes have remained consistent, and I am careful to wear my stuff in a manner that does not result in any rips, stains, or additional damage. As such, I've accumulated enough pants and shirts (and I'm not talking crummy stuff or out-of-style remnants here . . . I'm referring to completely acceptable, and, for the most part, stylish or at least non-offensive options--J. Crew, GAP, Banana Republic, blah, blah, blah) to go without washing anything for about three months . . . minimum.
Once I realized that the boxers and socks (I have more than 40 pairs of these at my disposal) were the key cog in laundry avoidance, I proceeded to acquire those items at an alarming rate. And now, thanks to years of hitting up the GAP during its $1.99 boxer sales, I pretty much have it down so that I only need to do laundry six or seven times each year.
Still, like I said earlier, it's no fun hauling two bags that likely combine to weigh more than you do down eight long blocks in Manhattan. And that's why Evelyn's recent discovery of a spanking new laundromat on the corner of 26th Street and 7th Avenue has been a wonderful boon for me. Since I no longer have to walk such a great distance, I've started to make the laundry trek way more often--prior, even, to the time when my dirty clothes pile reaches the ceiling and necessitates my creating a second pile. Plus, the proximity of this new place to mine means that I no longer have to wait around for hours in the laundromat amidst old ladies fighting over dryer priority and partially-fuzzy Maury Povich reruns. I can just walk down the street, drop off my stuff, and then return home while my clothing washes and/or dries--thus waiting for the laundry in the cable TV, Powerbook, Playstation 2 comfort of my own home.
And that's exactly what I did today.
The simplicity and ease inherent in this new way of doing my laundry was quite evident this afternoon, and I couldn't help but think about how fantastic the whole experience was in comparison to my old method.
I couldn't help think such thoughts, that is, up until the point when I noticed that the owner of the 26th Street laundry and a woman who I can only assume is his wife seemed to be having a rather animated discussion in some language that struck me as a derivative of Russian.
The owner guy, a rotund but neat middle-aged man, wore a Subway's baseball cap just above the wire-rimmed glasses that appeared to rest way too far up the bridge of his nose. He seemed pretty worked up about something and was barking out instructions to the woman who made my $5 bill and $1 Sacagawea coin turn into 24 quarters. She took no backseat to him in the conversation and held her own during the back-and-forth. Her barked instructions were more like yelps, but other than that I noticed little if any difference in what they each seemed to be saying or the passion with which they said it.
After the man started pointing at me, I realized that the exchange was more than just one of those common laundry owner's trifles about lint-catchers or melted bubble gum in the dryer.
They, it turned out, were talking about me the whole time. And now they knew that I knew this to be the case, so the man walked slowly over to where I was sitting.
"Are those your pants?" he asked me, after coming to a stop about three feet to my left.
"Huh?" I said.
"Those pants . . . you have on. Are yours, yes?" He repeated, in what was clearly his second or third language.
"Yes, of course they are. Why do you ask?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm very sure," I said again, looking down at an old pair of army green Abercrombie & Fitch pants strewn with orange marks at the bottoms of both legs which serve as battle scars--a constant reminder of the day a few years back when I undressed and dropped the pants on the bathroom floor of my apartment . . . right after the cleaning lady had bleached it.
"I don't know," he said, shaking his head.
I had no clue what he was getting at, but, with the next words spoken, my confusion would be cleared up.
"You didn't take them . . . steal?" he asked.
"Take them from who?" I replied. "They're my pants."
Although it's true that I do indeed love the eternally comfy pants I was wearing, I couldn't imagine anyone either wanting them or claiming that they belonged to someone else . . . who for some reason had decided not to throw them out. My own mother has harassed me on numerous occasions about what she refers to as the "stupid pants." She still makes fun of them every time she sees me wearing them, and, to this day, she can't understand why I have yet to trash them.
"You see, a customer reported having a load of his laundry stolen from machines . . . yesterday," the man said. "Those were his pants, I think."
"No they're not," I responded. "And plus, how do you know what this guy's pants looked like? Did you see the person steal his clothes? There's no way you could say these pants were what was stolen."
Upon my finishing this assertion, a sly smile came across the man's face as he again shook his head to and fro disapprovingly. He then beckoned me to follow him to the counter.
"See," he said. "Right here. It's right here. Read."
And with that he handed me a notecard that had the word "LOST" written in all capitals on the front. He told me to flip the card over, and when I did I noticed that it contained a list:
2 gray running sweat shirts (Polo) 6 or 7 T-shirts (blue red navy) 1 green pants with marks on sides Socks 3 buttondown black shirts 1 jeans (Levi 36/36) Socks
"It's right there," the guy said. "It says 'green pants with mark on side.'"
"Listen," I replied. "I'm telling you the truth. These are my pants. These are not 'marks' on here. These are orange stains from bleach. And they're not on the sides, they're on the bottoms."
In response, all he seemed to be able to say was "I don't know. You're his build." In retrospect, I probably should've just left the place at that point. But I still had clothes in the dryers, and, plus, I didn't take that stupid patron's clothes. Leaving would've just branded me with the mark of assumed guilt, and my capacity to use this remarkably proximate laundry establishment would've been all but nullified.
"Let me call him," the owner eventually said. "Let me call him, first."
"First? Call him First? What does that mean?" I replied. "Before what? This is crazy."
After again stating how ridiculous the whole thing was, I relented and said, essentially "bring him on."
While the owner guy was placing the call I looked at him, looked down at my pants, and stated the obvious.
"Look at these pants," I said. "Who would want these pants? Why would I steal such crummy pants?"
To this, he responded only with an index-finger-extended hand gesture that roughly translates to "hold on . . . it's ringing."
It turned out the guy was actually home, lived six blocks away, and said that he'd be able to come by the laundry in about a half an hour to inspect my tacky trousers.
"You know," I told the owner, "this person wrote 'Socks' on this list twice."
"I know," he said. "We were talking about that yesterday. I said it means he lost two pair. She said it was probably just a mistake and he wrote twice not on purpose."
Good grief.
Anyway, the man asked me if my name was written anywhere on the pants (who does that?) and when I answered that it was not his wife turned to me and said, "do not leave from here."
I could do little but shake my head in response.
For the next 40 or so minutes, the pants didn't come up. I proceeded to wait for my clothes to dry and then folded those whose level of dryness had reached a point that was satisfactory to me. At the same time, the owners continued about their business of changing dollar bills and watching "People's Court."
With about 11 minutes remaining on my final dryer, I decided to grab a Snapple from the market down the block on Seventh Avenue.
I was approximately 20 paces outside the door to the laundry when I noticed a fit of screaming that seemed to be emanating from over my left shoulder.
"Get back here. Get back here!"
I had completely forgotten that I was under what amounted to laundry arrest.
"Didn't I tell you don't leave?" the laundry lady said, after sprinting to catch up with me.
Head hung low, I ambled back to the scene of the crime--that I had nothing to do with--Snappleless.
When the guy whose clothes were taken finally showed up, almost an hour had passed since the phone call and all of my items had long since dried.
"He's here," the owner of the laundry shouted in my direction.
As I walked over to the counter to greet the man who'd just walked in the door, I quickly realized two things: 1) he was not the "same size" as me, but rather about four inches taller than I am, and; 2) the man was already shaking his head in a show of disapproval.
"Those pants?" the goateed, drummer-from-Radiohead-looking gent rhetorically asked the laundry guy. "They're not even close."
"See . . . why would I lie," I said to the owner almost immediately after the customer spoke. "I told you all along these are my pants. Look how tall he his, man? Come on."
The owner scratched his head, but said nothing.
"My pants have marks on the side, not orange stains," the customer stated while re-buttoning his jacket for the second half of what had turned out to be a wasted trip.
I wanted to again say something along the lines of: "See, I told you so." But instead I simply faux smiled at the laundry owner's wife--who was trying to pretend she was busy folding shirts.
After acquiring a half-assed apology from the guy behind the counter, I went to the task of retrieving my clean clothes on the assumption that this crazy episode was finally over. But it wasn't.
Just as the disappointed customer reached the door to the establishment, he stopped abruptly, turned in my direction, and spoke.
"Hey, you know what?" the man said to me. "I really like those pants. Maybe I should've said that they were the ones. I'd much rather have those than the ones that are missing."
We both had a laugh, and then he slid out the door into the cold, gray afternoon.
At that point, it hit me, and I quickly realized that the whole ordeal had just been transformed into something that was well worth every bit of inconvenience that I experienced.
After all, if it wasn't for the mistaken pants misunderstanding there's no way that I would've been able to call up my mother tonight, relate the above story to her, and deliver the following punchline:
"So, whose pants are stupid now, mom?"
posted by mjxm at 7:42 PM |
Monday, January 12, 2004
LIL' ZOGGIE: A REAL MYSTERY
Sometimes, things just cannot be explained. And I suppose I can accept that in most instances. But there's this one conundrum that has been bothering me for a while now, and I really would like to find an answer. That is: Why on Earth do I like "Murder She Wrote" as much as I do? In actuality, the word "like" may be a bit of an understatement in reference to my feelings toward this program--which features Jessica Fletcher, a retired schoolteacher turned mystery writer, getting to the proverbial bottom of murders both in her hometown of Cabot Cove and at other destinations worldwide. Some form of the words "adoration" or "reverence" are undoubtedly more apt under the circumstances. I'll watch this program at any time, regardless of whether I've already seen the relevant episode and whether or not I was already in the middle of viewing something else. I watch the show so frequently that I've even got hooked on "City Confidential"--the program that immediately follows Jessica on A&E at 5 p.m. To me, Mrs. Fletcher is nothing short of a goddess in spectacles and ascot-adorned ruffled blouses. Her cunning and wit are second to none. Still, there's no reason for me to be so enamored with this 90s-era CBS pseudo-drama. It really is a mystery befitting the likes of my beloved Jessica, and I have no clue where the immense attraction stems from. I mean, I don't find her to be attractive in any way, so that's out as an explanation. And it's not like the show's acting is top-notch--in fact, it's quite the contrary, to be honest. The best I can come up with is that my love of "Murder She Wrote" is somehow related to my childhood infatuation with the "Scooby Doo" mystery cartoon. As far as I can tell, the two programs are nearly identical in nature aside from the fact that one is animated, one goes on for a half hour longer than the other, and one involves human criminals rather than faux monster cartoon vilains. In both shows, you will remember, the basic premise entails the main character/s happening upon one or another mystery regardless of where they travel or what the situation is. Both Mrs. Fletcher and the Mystery Machine crew of sleuths were a police force's worst nightmare, in that wherever they showed up, a crime of some sort was bound to follow. So, it's quite clear to me now that the two shows are very, very similar. Other than this reality, I've got nothing. The "Scooby Doo Analogy Theory," alone, by itself, is the whole of my hypothesis as to why I so love "Murder She Wrote." If you can do better, drop me a line.
posted by mjxm at 4:12 PM |
Thursday, January 08, 2004
bliz: "Gilligan's Creek" or, if you prefer, "Virgo Cancer"
At first glance, it appears that but for the existence of 42 Pa. Cons. Stat. section 5524(2), Mr. Gilligan would be fucked.
Gilligan was the phys. ed. instructor for each of the elementary schools in South Park Township when I was growing up. He was an amiable fellow--trim, fit, cool, engaging, even-tempered--akin to what you'd get if you could somehow combine Aurthur Fonzarelli, Randy Savage, and your favorite uncle into a single being. He taught me and my pint-sized compatriots the fine art of dodge ball, instructed us on winning strategies for Capture the Flag, and had a slew of parachutes that he would bring out and allow us all to unfurl and shake vigorously for killer games of wiffleball popcorn. By all accounts, he was the most popular teacher at our school.
Mr. Gilligan and I parted ways after fourth grade--when he was replaced by Mr. Engott--but reconnected during my freshman year of high school due to his service as the head coach of the junior varsity baseball team. Although I never thought him to be all that capable in this capacity, any deficiencies that Gilligan had as a skipper paled in comparison to the damage that he may or may not have done back when I was a student at Morgan Elementary.
Now, before you start thinking things that you should not, let me state at the outset that I am not alluding to any sort of fondling or otherwise lewd conduct. As far as I can tell, Gilligan was a stand-up guy, a good man, and a person who really enjoyed what he did for a living. I couldn't imagine him harming one of his students, and never even saw the guy get angry or handle a situation with anything but absolute aplomb.
Yet, while Mr. Gilligan seemed to do no wrong when it came to his intended actions, the gripe that I now have with the guy--all these years later--has to do with the potentially disastrous unintended consequences stemming from a well-meaning action of his that perhaps was not all that well thought out.
In short, I have a bone to pick with Gilligan's "Creek Hike"--which, despite the fact that title is seemingly devoid of any pronunciation complexities, is properly spoken as "Crick Hike."
Each year during my four-year matriculation at Morgan, our lovable gym teacher would divide up his students into manageable packs and then proceed to lead a guided fun tour of sorts through a small stream that crept through the woods adjacent to the school. This event would last a few hours, and entailed things like sliding down mud hills into the creek, splash contests, and creek races. As a kid in elementary school during the early 80s in a suburb south of Pittsburgh, nothing--not even that yearly assembly where a couple of marginal Steelers (Robin Cole and Craig Colquitt come to mind) would show up to lead a discussion on one or another inspirational topic--was paramount to the Creek Hike. It was, rest assured, the highlight of each and every school year for nearly everyone I knew.
To this day, I still remember presenting what I can only imagine to be an ill-fashioned, inarticulate, fill-in-the-blanks-style permission slip ditto to my parents with the utmost joy in my heart.
"Sign it, Sign it," I would tell my mom. "I want to turn it in tomorrow."
In addition to the permission slip, students received a second ditto from Mr. Gilligan that laid out the appropriate attire for the hike, set the ground rules for when a trip would and would not be cancelled due to rain or unusually cold weather, and advised us that participating in the event presented dangers that were not normally associated with school activities.
What neither the permission slip nor the guidelines ditto told us was that the "creeks" in and around South Park were/are basically receptacles for all sorts of toxic materials and potentially harmful chemicals. The forms never said anything about the fact that state and federal environmental regulation of point source pollution into streams like the ones that pervaded our small, suburban township were, to put it mildly, not so great during the Reagan 80s. I never read anything about what exactly that bright orange foam was that settled at the top of the water in the calmer portions of the stream and didn't see anything about the nature of the emissions from all those pipes feeding into the water, or why it may not be a good idea to splash Deena Shinksy with it so that she'll chase after you.
As a kid, I wouldn't have traded those Creek Hike days for anything. If you'd offered me $100, or a brand new Atari game system, or an autographed Dan Marino Pitt jersey to stay home on my scheduled hike day, I would've looked you square in the eye and politely stated "no thank you." But as an environmental law geek who's spent the last few years of his life reading environmental regulations and trying to help out people who have experienced some awfully severe health problems due to exposure to toxic chemicals and pollutants, I see the Gilligan Creek Hike as pretty damn scary.
If I've learned one thing during my four years of environmental law practice it's that orange foam and funny-smelling water emanating from strange pipes are not meant to be frolicked in.
Of course Gilligan didn't know what he was getting--or, better yet, putting--us into during these hikes. But this will be of little import if 35% of the Morgan Elementary Class of '84 dies abnormally early due to cancer-related maladies . . . and that reality brings us back to good old 42 Pa. Cons. Stat. section 5524(2). It reads:
The following actions and proceedings must be commenced within two years:
2) An action for assault, battery, false imprisonment, false arrest, malicious prosecution or malicious abuse of process. An action to recover damages for injuries to the person or for the death of an individual caused by the wrongful act or neglect or unlawful violence or negligence of another.
Essentially, what you have here is the statue of limitations--or the amount of time an allegedly harmed party has to file a lawsuit against the offending party--for negligence tort claims in the state of Pennsylvania. So, for instance, if you slip and fall at the Eat 'n Park and break your leg, you've got two years to sue their smiley-cookie asses for not maintaining a dry floor at the salad bar, or whatever.
By now, you should be able to see where I'm going with all this.
That is, it appears to be quite a turn of good fortune for Gilligan that the Creek Hike era of which I've written occurred a lot more than two years ago, thus seemingly exempting him from any lawsuit resulting from those now-horrid hikes.
But not so fast.
Cases dealing with injuries suffered as a result of exposure to poisons or otherwise dangerous chemicals as a result of someone else's negligence--a category of legal claims known as "toxic torts"--are a bit trickier than the simple Eat 'n Park salad bar SNAFU example and present interesting statute of limitations issues due largely to the fact that the harm resulting from one's exposure to toxic materials may not be apparent for several years after that exposure. The most widely-recognized example of this is the asbestos worker scenario where a guy works for 20 years in a warehouse that, unbeknownst to him, is insulated to the gills with asbestos, and 10 years after retirement is diagnosed with cancer.
That example shows that sometimes a strict two-year limiting statute on negligence lawsuits doesn't make all that much sense--as it would be unfair to bar people who don't find out about their sickness until more than two years after being exposed to something bad from suing the bastards responsible for the whole mess.
Anyway, so as not to risk losing the few readers who have continued through this piece despite all the law junk that I just went over, I have purposefully stopped myself from plunging into any comprehensive research on Pennsylvania's toxic tort statutes and the triggering of the two-year time limitation on lawsuits under various scenarios. Nonetheless, after a five-second perusal of the results from an elemental Google search, I did come across a law.com article from this past December describing a statute of limitations challenge to a worker's toxic tort lawsuit alleging exposure to Beryllium at a manufacturing plant. The article states Senior U.S. Circuit Judge Edward R. Becker found that:
"[T]he burden is on the plaintiff to show that she filed suit within two years of when she knew or reasonably should have known that she was injured and that the injury was caused by another party's conduct. Under Pennsylvania law, Becker said, the clock begins to run in latent disease cases 'at the moment at which the plaintiffs possessed sufficient critical facts to put them on notice that a wrong has been committed and that they need investigate to determine whether they were entitled to redress.'"
Like I said, I have no desire to look into the issue any further. But the quotation above appears to at least signal that 42 Pa. Cons. Stat. section 5524(2) may not be enough to save Gilligan--and for that matter, additional potential defendants such as South Park Township, Morgan Elementary's principal during my time there, various polluters of the Creek Hike stream, etc.--from a time-machine, turnbacktheclockesque lawsuit drummed up by a bitter young lawyer who was led to play in foul streams and such.
Still, even if there was some way of getting this thing into a court of law in the Keystone State despite the two-year statute of limitations on negligence tort claims, Gilligan need not breath anything but easy.
You see, in any negligence case the plaintiff must be able to show the existence of four distinct things, each of which first-year law students spend an entire semester parsing through in piecemeal fashion: duty, breach, causation, and harm. In sum, to prevail in these types of cases, a harmed party must be able to show that someone owed him or her some duty (to keep the floor dry at the salad bar at Eat 'n Park, for instance), breached that duty (by not keeping the floor dry at the salad bar, for instance), that said breach caused some impact on the plaintiff (a slip and fall, for instance), and that the result of the impact was harmful or damaging (a broken leg, for instance). There's more to it than that, of course, and tort hypotheticals can get pretty complicated, but the four-pronged test above serves as the core of all negligence law.
And, in actuality, it is this test that--even more than any statue of limitations issue--most expressly cautions against any lawsuit on my behalf against Gilligan, and thus saves his JV-coaching ass.
While it's true that I'd have the duty and breach elements pretty much nailed, and that a discovery of cancer at some point (he writes while knocking on wood) would pretty much seal the deal as far as the harm prong goes, it's the causation factor that does me in.
After 29 years of ingesting all the Zingers, Smarties, Kool-Aid, blue Jell-O, and Chef Boyardee Beefaroni that I could get my hands on; frolicking in myriad other nasty streams during non-Creek-Hike-related jaunts around where I grew up; walking through the car-fume hotbed that is the Armstrong Tunnel every day for an entire semester to reach Duquesne after a big-rig ran into the people-bridge that I formerly used to get to campus after the bus dropped me off; breathing in New York City's innumerable toxins on a daily basis; and doing a host of other things that could potentially saddle me with some not-so-cool illness in the future . . . there's no way that I can point to Mr. Gilligan's Creek Hike as the sure cause of, well, anything bad that ever happens to me.
Still, if I had a dodge ball right now and that guy was standing before me, I promise you he'd get an 84 mile-per-hour red, rubber ball to the dome for not showing a little foresight back in the day.
posted by mjxm at 10:54 PM |
LIL' ZOGGIE: THIS JUST IN
I'm back, baby. Prepare yourselves to read like hell.
posted by mjxm at 8:04 PM |
CONTEST WINNER ANNOUNCEMENT:
Congratulations to Jason Nypaver, winner of the "2003 Correct mjxm's Spelling, Grammar, and Punctuation Contest." As promised, and in recognition of his consistent quibbling, Mr. Nypaver will receive one short story written by me that is about or prominently involving him. Kudos--or props, depending on your generational preference--also go out to runner-up John Gnodtke, who blazed a trail early on in the contest and kept it going strong throughout the fall. Finally, I end the contest era of this blog with an admission that Tim Wells--he of the 84 points--does not, in fact, exist.
FINAL CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) Jason Nypaver: 291 (non-attitudey, phony, "like a can of sardines" should have been "like sardines in a can," 86th Street, improper capitalization of "if," "other's" should have been "others," in "would you like some hand cream . . .", "would" should've been capitalized, "stuck" should have been "struck") 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) Michael Shagalov: 57 (improper capitalization of "if," "The were sans . . ." should have read "They were sans . . .", eggshell, middle-schoolers, and phony, and two points for being the first to reply with errors. 8) Bill Sherman: 52 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 15 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Jon Bradshaw: 3 (email with errors accidentially erased) 12) Nada Payne 3 (none) 13) Eric Garr: 2 (none) 14) Rege Malady: 1 (none)
errors recognized in the last bliz of 2003:
1) non-attitudey 2) phony 3) "like a can of sardines" should have been "like sardines in a can" 4) 86th Street 5) improper capitalization of "if" 6) "other's" should have been "others" 7) in "would you like some hand cream . . .", "would" should've been capitalized 8) "stuck" should have been "struck" 9) "The were sans . . ." should have read "They were sans . . ." 10) eggshell 11) middle-schoolers
posted by mjxm at 7:30 PM |
