Jan 24, 2007

Juan Valdez+Donkey: Update On The American Dream

Remember Juan Valdez? We were first introduced to him in that Folgers commercial. As the v/o talked about flavor crystals (are those "coffee" flavored crystals, btw? I thought the coffee taste came from, the coffee?), cut to hard-working Juan Valdez.

Simple burlap clothes matched the sacks of coffee carried atop his loyal burro, as Juan's smile to the camera warmed our hearts like a fresh cup of shade grown Columbian.

Ever wonder what happened to Juan and the donkey? Ever just stop and think to yourself "Hey, Juan Valdez. I wonder what he's up to these days?".

I'll tell you. Juan and Donkey have taken on Corporate coffee. No way? Way. I just had coffee with him at 42nd st. Well, not exactly with our humble day-laborer but with 12 of his closest friends and employees who were pumping out hot java faster than the Olsen twins can split a raisin for lunch.

Where you say? Oh, how about at Juan Valdez's Cafe Times Square. A humble little 4500 square foot shop with leather banquettes, track lighting and nine varieties of shade grown coffee. Place makes Starbucks look like a slum.

Yup. Juan Valdez is living the dream my friends and has his own chain to prove it. Guess Juan got tired of lugging those bean sacks up the hill. Or, those bean sacks contained something Columbian other than coffee. I mean, you gotta wonder how a guy Juan's age can lug beans+sacks+donkey up and down Columbian mountains all day. Hey, I've had Folgers--it ain't that strong.

Juan was what, 40 yrs old 20 years ago? Unless he was like, one of those kids who have a full facial hair before they hit 12. Went to school with a kid like that. 10 years old, four feet tall, mustache. Name was Fuad Furag. Arabic, I think. Every kid he met, asked "Where eees your sister!". Didn't matter if you had a sister or not, kid would hump a fruit basket.

So old/young Juan, backed by the National Federation of Coffee Growers of Colombia loaded up the truck and he moved to Bev-er-ly. Hills, that is--swimming pools, movie stars. Okay, there was no jingle that worked with "Midtown Manhattan".

So there I am. Watching a couple ladies sip their mango nevados, one of six frozen specialty drinks on the menu, thinking "Juan Valdez?! The American Dream? Where's my dream? I'm a good guy. Sure I don't have a donkey but I've carried bags of stuff up sharp inclines, too!".

Now I'm thinking where's my chain? And more importantly, is there even really a Juan Valdez? His silhouette decorates the interior, but I didn't see any old guy in a serape feeding his donkey $2.95 a pop brownie scraps reminiscing about the old days when he "...hand carry the bean up hill, but I do it for love, not money senior".

I mean, would the real Juan Valdez please stand up? Or is the American Dream, mainly...dream? Is it only so much froth, easily stuck to the side of one's lip while the over-heated content's of life's reality cup scalds us back to the truth that there is no "American Dream?".

Actually, what I was really thinking was "Goddamn, that's a good brownie. Not too moist, good balance of chocolate flavor underscored by the walnuts pieces...". But I meant to think, "Yeah what about the real backbone of this country?

Is there truly opportunity for those who are willing to work hard, do the right thing and live with just enough wealth to donate to charity and buy a Lexus while staying in a friendly tax bracket?".

I don't know, I just don't know. I hung around a while longer. Good coffee, btw. Didn't see any traces of Juan V or his trusted pack animal. On the way out I thought I heard a woman say "Did you hear? Donkey's getting his own reality show--he's in development with NBC".

That was all I needed to hear. Six months from now Donkey'll be on the Today show, sucking up to Matt Lauer. "Eee or, eeeor, eeeeoooor". Haha, Donkey you are one funny beast of burden and proof that hey, the American Dream can be hand-picked by anyone". Al, how's our weather today?".

Me, I'm headed back to Starbucks. Giant, soul-sucking dream crushing corporate black hole that it is. At least I know where they stand--world domination by 2010. Give or take a few cups.

Jan 21, 2007

Attacked By Vicious Rottweilers…

…okay, they weren’t exactly Rottweilers. And they didn’t attack me personally, but other than those minor details the rest of the story is true. Mostly.

So my wife and daughter and I are chilling out Sunday morning. Buzzer rings and its our best friend, Liz (by request her name has been changed to protect her true identity and preserver her anonymity. Her real name is, Liz) from across the street. She comes up, loyal Pug Carlos in tow.

Carlos doesn’t care if I use his real name or not. Carlos is a dog. Dogs aren’t subject to self-reflection like humans. Maybe it’s the humility-inducing act of sponging off other animals butts with their tongues, but dogs rarely have thoughts like “Does this leash look my ass look big?”.

Anyway, turns out Liz’s neighbor, was taken out on a stretcher by EMT’s. Problem is, neighbor’s a little old lady with four Jack Russel Terriers. Or, for those of you who’ve ever been yapped and nipped at by a “Jack”, you know they’re more appropriately termed “Jack Russel Terrorists”.

Next to a Hezbollah hit squad, they’re pretty devoted to creating their own rein of confusion and intimidation through the “Bark and Bite” tactic.

And it turns out, Liz has been on the receiving end of their strong-jaw antics, having taken a nip to the thigh years earlier. And now there’s one or more of these crazed, bloodthirsty, menacing demon-hounds prowling her hallway.

Oh, like if I’d written “…there was a small non-descript dog the size of a toaster cowering in the hallway waiting for its owner to return…”, you’d still be reading? Thank you.

Now, the urban legends surrounding these vicious hounds are legendary. Renowned cage-fighting dog expert Johnny “Mutt” Vasquez says “Jacks” were originally bred by wealthy Upper East Siders intent on stemming an influx of knock-off designer footwear above 71st street.

But after a few generations of in-breeding, it appears the dogs lost their taste for cheap mules and sling backs from Nine West. Soon, faux designer eye-ware, handbags and even those cute little jewel cases for cell phones were targeted.

By the mid-90’s, the dogs were prevalent well up to E. 87th and as far west as 79th and Broadway. Soon we were a city of denizens living in fear, toting gnarled fake handbags. I hear to this day the Chinese won’t let a Jack Russel below Houston St.

So when Liz (her real name) told us through broken, rasps of breath she’d been cornered by the beasts my wife and I knew she needed help. Now, bear in mind my wife and I don’t get out much. Okay, maybe since the baby we don’t get out—ever.

And when Sunday morning finally kicks one lazy foot out of bed and you realize your otherwise fabulous weekend plans were reduced to a. dusting b. re-organizing 2000 Thomas The Engine books, well a mild case of “Gang Attack By Hell-Hounds” dawns like a new day, a rebirth of the adventure-filled life you once lived but is now so very far in life’s rear view mirror you can’t ever recognize it.

I also wanted my little girl to grow up in a city of true diversity and cultural acceptance where she could freely choose to wear a nice little French sole Cha Cha from Prada even if it did cost dad the electric bill. As a down payment.

Barring that I figured I’d at least score some kind of civic award for bravery. Bloomberg would hold a press conference, I’d say something like “We all have a hero inside us, just waiting for the moment to do some good…”, then there’d be a tasteful little brunch, some snap shots and I’d have my rent stabilized forever. So yeah, it was worth a shot to the sack by some angry dog.

Anyway, Liz is no slouch when it comes to adventure having successfully raised the Upper West Side’s most glamorous, energetic and personality-filled 2 year old since Shirley Temple. Aka, Rosie, aka Roesita aka whirlwind Rosie. Liz and my wife decided it would take a well-planned sneak in to Liz’s building aided by a treat to detour the rampaging canines.

Armed with a baggie full of 8-grain bread, Liz and I carefully opened the door to her building. I could hear the dogs snarling somewhere near, but so far they didn’t appear to hear us re-enter the building. Liz and Carlos stayed at the front door, keeping it propped open for me if I had to retreat for my life.

I crept up the stairs, nutritious bread in hand when it dawned on me instead of whole wheat goodness, I should’ve been carrying a little dress flat casual from Payless. I could hear the dogs in their apartment, gnawing their latest victim probably, but probably otherwise uninterested that the last time Liz or I saw any real designer foot up close it was on QVC.

By the time we’d scampered to safety inside Liz’s, little Rosie was there to greet me with a freshly excavated “Boogie”, her way of saying “Thanks for making retail shopping safe again, man”.

And as I walked home, flush from my near-death encounter (hello, remember there were four dogs in that apartment. Any they could’ve sprung at any moment…) I realized, maybe its not the animal’s fault. I mean, they were just doing what they were trained for. Just like us Manhattanites were trained to look for the big red SALE sign at Banana Republic and Kenneth Coles.

And who knows. With the proper care and re-training, those pesky but loyal little dogs could serve their fellow man, or woman again with distinction and honor. They could rise above their past and serve side by side with humans to contribute in a positive way to society.

LIke, we could train them to bark really, really loud when the Starbucks guys doesn’t put enough foam in your Cappuccino.

Oh, and/or save orphans. Somehow.

Jan 15, 2007

Tito The Fish: Aug 25th, 2006~Jan 13th, 2007

Well, at least this Chinese fighting fish went out battling. He was my two and a half year old daughter's first official pet. Named by her after her favorite member of the Jackson 5, Tito. Well, her favorite band member changes as frequently as her pampers, but when we asked "What do you want to name your fish?", she didn't miss a beat and said "Tito...".

So Tito made it about 25% through his normal life expectancy before being struck down by that unchecked killer of Betta's, "Dropsy". Ironic name. Poor guy. By the end he was looking like fat Elvis. Bloated and gasping for breath. When he took ill, we immediately went on line, hoping to find a cure.

You know, "Go to Petco, buy meds, drop in water, etc". But it turns out "Dropsy" is bad. Chances of a Betta surviving are about the same odds as Tara Reid making a comeback.

By day five or six of his advanced trauma, he was kind of listing to one side like a proud battle ship taking on water. My wife and I discussed how to speak to Ella about it. She seems a bit young for the whole "Grim reaper" thing, not to mention neither one of us wanted to freak her out and in to early toddler-therapy.

My wife took it in stages and one day as Tito was performing his last spinning/kick to the sounds of "I Want You Back", my wife picked Ella up and said "Tito's sick, maybe we should say 'hello". So, they peered in to the tank, and my wife said "Tell Tito, 'feel better Tito". Dutifully, Ella replied "Feel better Tito...". Then, "Bye Tito, hope you get better...". "Bye Tito, hope you get better".

Ella scampered off to play, and my wife got a fresh cup of tea. Five minutes later, Tito had gone to that great Siamese Fighting Fish Temple in the sky.

Nothing looks quite as convincing as a dead fish as well, a dead fish. A few hours later, convinced Tito wasn't going to pull a John Edwards and start channeling messages through the toaster or something, my wife pulled me aside, "I think we better tell her...".

I looked over at Ella, playing so innocently and figured my wife was right. Now, I've been pretty up close and personal with death. I've counseled those in the final stages of life, and shared more than a few last moments with family members and friends.

As I gently picked up my daughter I knew that given her age and sensitivity, there was really only one thing I could say in this special situation. "Ella, your mother has something to tell you...".

Ann held Ella so she could see in the tank. Tito was at the bottom. "Honey, remember how we said Tito was sick?". Ella nodded, "Yes". "And remember how we talked about how flowers live and then they die?". Again, "Yes".

"Well, Tito's dead. So daddy's going to take him to the river and put him in so he can go back to the sea". About this time I was biting the inside of my own lip to keep from crying and all I could see was like the title on one of those Movies Of The Week "Tito~He Swam Away".

"Why's he sick?". Oh uh, I hadn't figured on Ella asking questions, but my wife was there to volley. "Well, everyone gets sick. And sometimes fish die. Just like the flowers. You have them for a little while, then they're gone. That's just life".

Through the mist of my tearing, my wife was beginning to look like that old wise man from Kung Fu. But hotter. And her little grasshopper was slowing absorbing the truth of life, of living and dying. Ella nodded. She looked wise herself, wise beyond her years and I knew she'd realized, in her own way--something special was happening.

Ella looked at Tito. At my wife, then me. Then barely suppressing what looked like a smile but I'm sure was really an instinct to fight back tears she asked "Can I have a Peppermint Patty...tonight?".

And in the time honored traditon of our family, Ella proved that really, the only true way to deal with adversity is to eat candy.

Smart kid.

Jan 10, 2007

Is It Hot In Here...

…or is it just the planet? I live in New York City. It was 68 degrees here four days ago. I walked around in a t-shirt passing guys carrying their golf clubs to the car, giggling like five year olds at a birthday party.

68 degrees. In NYC. In January. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with Global Warming (BROUGHT TO YOU BY EXXON MOBIL). I mean, we’re just dealing with normal, climatological change. Happens all the time. Oh, it hasn’t happened on this particular planet to this degree for roughly 650,000 years (an ice age period), but other than that it happens all the time.

So let’s just relax here people. Turn on your lights and appliances, hell—leave ‘em on all night! Pump some unleaded in to the SUV and take a nice long, meandering drive up to say, oh Maine. Which at this rate of warming will have enough eroded natural forest to qualify as beachfront property.

And while we’re at it, I think its high time we just took a minute and looked at the whack jobs trying to frighten us out of our God-Given Right (PAID FOR BY THE BUSH ADMINISTRATION) to live our American dream.

Our resources our renewable people!. That’s right, the 50% of naturally occurring, virgin forests that are left in the U.S. after decades of unregulated logging, mining and industrialization? That’s right, these will grow back. Someday. Maybe. Okay, the rate of deforestization is too rapid to ensure the replenishment of naturally occurring forests. But you get my point.

C’mon, what about all the paper products manufactured from trees that make our lives so comfy? I say, Squeeze The Charmin! (BROUGHT TO YOU BY KIMBERLY CLARK THE CORPORATE GIANT THAT REFUSES TO IMPLEMENT A POST-CONTENT PAPER RECYCLING PROGRAM).

I know, I know—some of you are saying “but don’t the world’s ancient forests maintain environmental systems essential for life on Earth by controlling rainfall and evaporation of water from soil? And help stabilize the world's climate by storing large amounts of carbon that would otherwise contribute to climate change?. And don’t these forests house around two-thirds of the world's land-based species of plants and animals?.

Well, I think we have to keep our eye on the big picture. I mean, have you ever used post-consumer content toilet paper? Its not even white like “normal” toilet paper. Its…brown. And its scratchy. That’s right people, its paper that’s uncomfortable on my ass.

And besides, why should good people like the CEO of Exxon Mobile have to suffer for his livelihood? I mean the poor guy’s barely scraping along on his 2006 bonus of 2.8 million dollars to supplement his annual salary of $18.5 million (including a 17% salary hike). Poor guy. And this, just as Exxon Mobil reported the second-highest ever corporate profit of $10.5 billion — behind its own 2005 fourth-quarter record. Think of the pressure they were under to match quarterly profits!

C’mon. You wanna mess with Exxon Mobile? Wanna shout “Hey, what about researching other means of dependable and renewable energy sources?”. Well, any consideration of a fuel source other than fossil would mean a profit loss. And remember all the pressure they're under? So lighten up.

Besides, if the government told Exxon it was turning to the already researched and validated means of renewable, non-fossil fuel burning energy sources, why that’d be like telling Hollywood Madame Heidi Fleiss that Charley Sheen was going in to rehab for sex-addition. Bad for business.

I mean, you don’t think that Exxon CEO guy wakes up every morning to see gas prices over $3.00 a gallon and thinks to himself—“Wow, our country’s reliance on fossil fuels has continued to generate emissions that have eroded million year old glacial melts like the Hindu Kush and Himalayan, reliable water sources for China, India and much of Asia and increased melting over several decades would mean some areas of the most populated region on Earth are likely to 'run out of water'".

You’ve gotta feel for the guy! Can’t you just see him now, sitting in his fuel-sucking Jet humming Michael Jackson's “Man In The Mirror”, “…I’m looking at the, man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways”. I can. If I squint. In the dark.

Now before you get all self-righteous and yell “Hey, it’s a world problem—not a U.S. problem!”. We should chat. Apparently, one day in class there was a whole big lecture on how our over-industrialization was destroying the planet, but somehow, the U.S. missed that class.

Where were we? Oh, who knows where the U.S. ever is when it comes to silly buzzwords like “Accountability” and “Ethics”. Probably just bad timing, Maybe the class on Global Warming was the same day Dominos Pizza introduced those damn brownie squares with chocolate dipping sauce.

Or those Cheesy Breadsticks. OMG. I’d like to construct like a suit made from those cheesy breadsticks then have my friends snap off sections of my carbohydrate-body and feed it to me. So yeah, we missed that class.

As it turns out, most of the world is on board with this whole “Act now, save the planet from unnatural catastrophe thing”. Wacky humans! There’s currently a few dozen countries on board and supportive of the Kyoto accord.

There’s countries already setting new standards to limit harmful emissions. The U.S. is not one of them. For example, call me high on cheesy breadsticks, but last I checked the U.S. couldn’t sell their cars in China. And not because U.S. design is forever linked to that creative-abomination known as the “Gremlin”. No, U.S. cars do not meets China’s Safety Emission Standards Act.

China. Same country that used tanks to pave Tianamen Square with the bodies of student protestors. Same country that has more international human rights violations than Dolly Parton has silicone injections. Same country that has systematically destroyed Tibet’s spiritual infrastructure. That China.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot about Chinese culture I respect. Love the food. And their uncanny ability to actually have a delivery man at your door with steaming boxes of Lo Mein before you’ve actually finished placing the order on the phone. “…yeah, and an order of Moo Shoo pork, and one hot and sour, oh excuse me someone’s at the door…”.

And c’mon General Tzao’s chicken!? Apparently, the man was not only a feared war-faring General, but somehow found the time to whip up a mean spicy chicken dish. Can you imagine that guy leading you in to battle? "Our horses will trample them like grass. Our angry swords will separate them from their loved ones. But first, can I just get a show of hands who's having the crispy prawn appetizer with the ginger-wasabi dipping sauce? I want to get started on those before we ride off...".

Anyway, the point is the U.S. is way behind the rest of the world in taking immediate, effective steps to curtail the destructive effects of greenhouse and other industrialized emissions.

And by the “rest of the world” I mean those real, cultural outposts like oh, California. Which has already passed new safety emissions acts and which is now being attacked by Congress to avoid the thoughtless, irrevocable harm its caused by trying to save the planet in favor of U.S. auto-makers cranking out another few dozen million atmosphere-destroying vehicles.

And while we’re at it, may be we should stop blaming the institutions we hold so dear that manage the concerns of our great country to ensure that all people live in a land of opportunity, with “liberty and justice for all”. The corporations. Uh I mean, the government. Yeah, the government which thankfully has the full support of really great, like-minded businesses behind them to make sure we the people, for the people have a form of checks and balances to support us.

I mean, in 2003 along with General Electric, Comcast, Citigroup and many other Fortune 500 companies hired Bush administration officials and former GOP congressional advisers for top lobbying posts. So relax people, we’re in good hands.

So all I’m saying is its hot. Come to your own conclusions. Its your life (well, actually its “our lives” but unfortunately we’re all using the same resources) so live it how you want. And if you don’t want to, you don’t have to do a damn thing. That's what we call "Freedom".

I mean, if you don’t care about the adverse weather conditions, increase in infectious diseases, thaw of the million year old ice deposits and average annual temperature increase you can always move to New York City and just play golf this winter.

The weather’s great.

This message sponsored by www.CorpGov.com, Bringing You The Future Today, Since It Won’t Be Here Tomorrow.

Jan 6, 2007

When Ninjas Attack

Obviously, if I’d known he was Ninja I would’ve stayed home. Or at least dressed in something all-black and while rapidly moving my lips and speaking in broken English, insulted the power of his Cobra Strike Fist.

But he’d somehow intimidated a friend in to misrepresenting him. “Or, go see Dr. Hsu, he’s great!”. So off I trek to Chinatown after work because every few years I manage to get some mystery physical ailment. Few years ago it was “Fire-ribs”. Every time I breathed deeply it felt like I’d swallowed a bag of plastic cocktail swords. Before that, “Tingly-knee”. Weird, tingling sensations in my knee.

Both times I’d get MRI’s, x-rays, acupuncture, massage, nuclear bone scan, physical therapy. Even did psychic healing for the rib thing. Nothing. Everyone confounded. Then a year or two later, presto—mystery ailment gone.

This time its “Lava-wrist”. Wrist feels like there’s an intermittent flow of hot magma scorching through the veins. Have already been to two docs, x-rays, some kind of prescription only anti-inflammatories that were so strong they singed my eyebrows. The works. No tendonitis, no carpel tunnel, no clue.

And the added bonus side effect is the only thing that really causes it to throb and glow red is working out. And the double bonus side effect is since I’m not lifting at the gym, the pain is somehow lessened when I pick up Oreo Cookie Bars. You know, cookie-batter spread in to a pan then cut in to plank-size squares so instead of saying “Jesus, I just ate like four dozen cookies…”, you can say “Hmm, think I’ll just grab an Oreo Bar…” which is topped with like, entire Oreo cookies. Not even sprinkles, no they just like jam the whole cookie in to the batter like “What—you gonna send it back?”.

So yeah, my wrist feels better when I don’t get up at 6:30am to lift groan-producing weights over my head but instead hoist a delicate 9oz, 3400 calorie cookie bar in to my pie-hole. And the wrist somehow also accommodates doing curls with a refreshing little 14oz frozen mochachino. For breakfast. Must be the ice in the drink.

So yeah, now not only am I off the gym, but of course I’m getting oh, how do you say in your language, chunky? And when did the word chunky become even close to being some kind of cute way of saying “Two more Oreo bars away from dating Kirsty Alley?”. Be honest. At best, chunky is the out of shape, ugly cousin of hunky. Ever hear someone say “Oooh, he’s a chunk…I mean, hunk”. I didn’t think so.

Which is why I found myself walking a labyrinth of Chinatown backstreets until after an endless elevator ride I was in doctor Hzu’s (pronounced “Zhu” but they cleverly hide the z behind the capital H to throw you off the trail) office. He spoke basically no English and now that I think back, the only words I barely recognized sounded something like “Confucius say soon you cry like little boy on Ritalin”.

So I’m naked. On this guy’s table. In Chinatown. And he starts in on me. Immediately, I can tell he’s doing deep tissue work, like myfascial release. Which is kinda like a jackhammer inside each nerve fiber trying to eject itself through your skin. Its not uncommon to leave a myfascial session and have bruises and welts appear the next morning.

Twenty minutes in and I’m wiling to pay him to stop. At one point I give an honest to goodness little “squeak” of actual pain. Its like this total admission of surrender—I’m tapping out. And he laughs. Which I take as a sign that he likes me. Applauds my ability to acknoledge the battle I wage over my pain. But probably means, “Oh, you think that hurt…?”.

Two hours later and I’m bathed in sweat and soaked in fear. I feel like I missed a payment to loan sharks and they just baseball batted me senseless. My hands even hurt. He did this thing with his knuckles over the back of my hand that made my fingers twitch involuntarily.

At his desk, I bend down and get a pen in my mouth since my hands no longer function and scribble out a check. The elevator door opens downstairs, I hobble to the front doors of the office building/slaughterhouse and clank. The doors are locked. Really, honest to god this-is-an-office-building-and-its-closed-after-hours locked.

Mild panic. But seated just outside, next to the glass door on a folding metal chair is some old Chinese guy. He’s wearing one of those blue cotton Communist hats that look good on no one, even if they’re made “By every man, for every man”. But seeing it does get me to thinking, if us Americans get all our cheap mass-produced goods manufactured in China, who makes their stuff?

I whack the door and Communist guy turns and looks at me, unsmiling. Thank god. I motion to the door with my ear, the only non-bruised piece of cartilage I have left and shout “The door—its locked!”. He looks at me, shakes his head and returns to his culturally time honored practice of looking across the street. Inside my head I hear something like an elevator announcement ‘Panic level now rising”.

Forget back to Dr. Hsu’s office. I realize now his resting pulse never topped 68 despite the fact he was prepping me like a Sunday buffet dish and its clear he’s some kind of Asian Hannibal Lecter and I refuse to end up in his lo-mein.

I hear something downstairs, and find some guy in his office, the desks of which I kid you not have stacks of paper like, four feet high. Ernest Hemingway didn't generate as much paper as this guy. And he’s wiping down his desk. With an old pair of underwear (TRUE FACT NOT INCLUDED FOR GRATUITOUS FICTIONALIZED EFFECTS). I swear. I can even see that like, bands of red and blue thread in the waistband.

The guy refuses to unlock the door. Starts yelling at me, “Where your from, where you from!?”. Remember, doctor lockjaw upstairs has already squeezed all the blood out of my body so I had to pump my mouth a few times before actual words came out and when they did it sounded like “Doctorwhoimeanzoodoctorwhozoo”.

Underwear-wiper angrily picks up his phone, dials a number that rolls over to a recorded message and starts yelling in Chinese. My passing knowledge of provincial Mandarin serves me well and I make out the sentence, “He is bruised but alive. Come quickly for make eating on him doctor…”.

And I manage to scamper up the stairs, just as some old man (Do Chinese males come in any other version btw? Are they like already 68 years old when they’re born or what?) and I whimper and he pulls out some kind of oversize key ring that has just about every metal key ever produced and the next thing I know I’m limping down the street sucking cool air, looking like one of those trailer park felons from COPS.

By the way what is it with those wacky Floridians you put ‘em in a trailer park and its like BAM they have to run out, knock over the nearest 7-11 then try to outrun the police in a wife-beater and torn shorts. “Bad boys, bad boys, what ‘cha gone do…”.

Its day four after my escape from Ninja-ville. I’m sure doctor Lecter Hzu is happily plying his trade on other unsuspecting clients. The bruises are almost gone. My wife took photos, laughing the whole time, to add to my weird ailments topped by weirder treatments file.

Oh, my wrist hurts like hell still. But in a way, not the same kind of pain. This pain is somehow tolerable. Not different, just hmmm, familiar. Like when you’re in a bad relationship but you know it could be worse and sure, every once in a while you think about leaving them but who knows how much worse it could be and why risk it? And besides, I have almost full range of movement again with my fingers, so why mess with a good thing.

But oddly, every once in awhile the phone rings, and the caller i.d., just reads “unknown caller”. And I have this weird urge to grab the phone shout in to the receiver fru twristed wrips “Wru have insulted Eagle Claw Scrhool and nrow you pay….eiahh!!”.

New Years Resolution

To post at least once a week on the blog.

Why?

Because I respect the craft of writing, the art and beauty of written expression for the imagination and because I believe in a world of diversity and respect...

...oh alright. My wife's friend Randi said if I didn't get serious and feed the blog on a weekly basis then she'd cancel my subscription to Tractor Pull magazine and replace it with like, Teen Us.

If I see one more article about Lindsay Lohan in/not in/in/not in rehab I will slam my head in the freezer door.

Look, Randi is not to be taken lightly. She’s a career woman. She has fabulous fashion sense.

And she just got her hair done and its sassy and there’s no stopping her.

Thus, I post out of fear.

But I will post Randi, I will post.

I leave it to my friends to add comments. Fling the URL around to your friends like beads at Mardi Gras and keep me on the straight and narrow.

Look, if I'm here writing it means I'm not at Starbucks over caffeinated and arguing.

With you.

See how we all win here people?

Jan 5, 2007

Merry Muther$%^$#@ Christmas

Or, "Why Baby Jesus Would Be Proud Of Me For Not Shearing One Of His Flock The Day After His Birthday".

Okay, so for the sake of consistency all my Real Urban Encounters tend to go down in one of two places. A. Starbucks. B. Leaving Starbucks. Does my rash of ongoing conflict-encounters always occur outside a caffeine filling-station because on top of being a self-obsessed, angry, paranoid country we're totally wired to the gills on Evil Bean or is it just a coincidence? Probably a coincidence.

So I'm with my 2.5 yr old daughter at 'Bucks in Greenwich Ct., where the streets are paved with gold and the fine citizens are taken by Rolls Royce to get their daily Frappucinos. Day after baby-Jesus' birthday, so you'd think amidst all the post-birthday of the Savior merriment there'd be a little extra love and light to go around. Think again.

I wait for fifteen minutes in a line that snakes almost out the door. Place is jammed. Fortunately, Ella and I find a table. But we're short one chair. Next to us a group of three people gets up to leave, so I snag one of theirs. Ella and I are chilling nicely, talking about the socio-economic benefits of fair-trade coffee versus commercially exploitive practices of corporate-backed businesses like oh, Starbucks when suddenly this woman walks over, gets in my face and goes "Uh, excuse me sir that's my chair!".

Now first of all, when did I become a sir? So I'm dashingly salt 'n pepper haired. Okay, maybe mostly salt. Okay, maybe at a young age Mother Nature just unscrewed the top to the fcuking shaker and coated my head in salt, are you happy now? But still, I'm cool, I think. Its not like I walk around in a cardigan with leather elbow patches smoking a pipe. I listen to Black Eyed Peas for god's sake! None of my clothes have any elbow patches, I swear.

So already I'm insulted. But I figure, be the bigger person. Feel her pain. Now she's like, right in my face. I can feel the hot foam from her $12.95 triple tax-bracket, husband's seven figure income, annual bonus that equals the Gross Domestic Product of a developing nation beginning to scald the side of my face. Plus she called me sir, so in addition to feeling socially claustrophobic by her financially liberated lifestyle, I just plain hate her.

"That's my chair. You took it from that table, my things are there". She articulates this through clenched teeth and a thin bitter smile that makes me think somewhere in her basement illegal Dominicans are chained to an ironing board, forced to perform menial domestic tasks. I make a mental note to free them after I kill her and start a revolution to bring only fair trade coffee to America.

Sure enough, somewhere between the time the original occupants left the table and I sucked down enough coffee to realize I already couldn't afford my daughter’s college tuition someday, this woman had apparently walked out of line, and put her purse on one of the chairs. Which would explain her purse sitting on one of the chairs. The purse had more top grain leather and silver on it than a rodeo saddle. The cost of it would've covered a semester of room and board at Brown.

"I saved it. That's how it works". Now I get it. In my pre-first-sip-of-caffeine lull, maybe I remember seeing this woman, who by the way was like, eight people back in line walk over and put her purse down on the chair. I may have seen that. If you don't have it on video however, talk to my lawyer.

Very quickly, I throw together a tall, double-tolerance, half self-righteous, half-apologetic, no back-down latte. With a shot of faux understanding. Extra hot. "We were in front of you. In line. Sorry...". She cranks the knobs on her hate-machine, and spews up a triple-grande pissed-off, I-will-crush-your-revolution-and-you-will-join-your-friends-in-my-basement-and-iron-my-shirts cappuccino.

It’s on. I notice her eight-year old. He's flatlining on a mobile PS2 and could care less. Still, I know we can take them if it goes down. Not only does Ella possess the strength of an angry Chimpanzee, but she's already managed to scratch her face with her grissini, so I know once she nibbles away the rest of the yogurt coating it'll basically be a non-registered lethal breadstick.

The Mexican standoff ensues, with me playing the part of an actual Hispanic. Standing. Maybe she had to get back to her McMansion and hose down the workers before lunch, but for whatever reason she storms off and takes a table by the window. I don't know. But I give myself credit for not saying another word to her. Even though she shot me a couple of angry stares between sips of her battery-acid.

And for dessert? She actually goes over to the cashier, has a fit then stomps back over to announce to me victoriously, "Uh yeah--I checked with them. That is how it works. You can save your place. Its not who's ahead of who". She walks off and I so want to yell after her, "Its whom...", but I think of the workers, my incarcerated Latin brothers and sisters and bite my lip for fear she'll make them use heated rocks instead of Rowenta irons if I push her any further.

Ella by now had indeed eaten off the outer yogurt coating to reveal the world's hardest bread-stick like substance underneath. Maybe grissini is Italian for "Titanium". And I knew she was ready, pigtails and all to get her daddy's back. Fortunately, the full effects of the sugar-laden yogurt had set in and her eyes lids were beginning to flutter an SOS for naptime.

So I leave you with this. How exactly does that work, the whole "save a chair from in line, even though technically I was an actual paying customer having already purchased my products while she was only a potential customer having not made a purchase and for all I know she could've gotten bored or been paged the workers were out of spray starch and left without having ever made a purchase, in which case she was basically only intending to be a customer which is really, no different from anyone in the entire town of Greenwich (hmmm, Greenwich--Grinch?) walking around at any given point thinking hmmm, Starbucks in which case the next time someone goes to sit down and enjoy their brew you could say to them, excuse me, that seat's taken. At some point. Maybe. By someone who may or may not actually be having a coffee here. Sometime.", Yeah how does that work?

And you may want to consider carrying around an extra grissini, you know tucked away in your purse or something. Hey, you never know.