The New Sins

The Vatican recently announced a new list of “sinful behaviors”. The last time anything this exciting happened was in 1968—close to the end of the sexual revolution—when Pope Paul VI denounced contraception. Catholics previously unfamiliar with the concept were ecstatic to learn they had options and flocked to drug stores and Gynecologists in droves. Catholic populations in developed nations have dropped steadily ever since.

In the old days, keeping track of the rules was much simpler for Catholics. There were only 10, they had a cool name—The Commandments—and they addressed the entire spectrum of sinful behaviors known at the time—murder, theft, false worship, and the like. The original draft of the Commandments included prohibitions against wearing the same pair of socks two days in a row and miming. In the end, both lost out to adultery—which is extremely unfortunate. For a number of reasons.

The 2008 sin list includes drug use, pollution, genetic manipulations and “social and economic injustice”. Admittedly, none of these is terribly outrageous or inappropriate. It is clear, however, that the Vatican is reaching a little—being more generic and arbitrary than they’ve been in the past. This being the case, I submit the following list for their consideration but insist I be given credit—in writing—when the list is published.

- Stepping off an escalator (i.e. top or bottom) and not getting the &* @ out of the way to allow the people behind you to get the &*%@ out of the way of the people behind them.

- Believing that Daylight Savings has any impact on the climate, livestock breeding, the growing season, or the number of daylight hours the planet Earth receives. It doesn’t.

- Panhandling—if you are a smoker, have tattoos or body piercings, own a pet of any genus or species, or are more than 7 ounces overweight.

- Believing “nucular” is a word. Alternately, using said “word” in a sentence.

- Performing the Chicken Dance. Anywhere. At anytime. With anyone.

- Using the words “then” and “than” interchangeably. These are both words. That’s where the similarity ends.

- Saying expresso when you mean espresso. Expresso isn’t a word in any language. I’ve checked.

- Hanging a sign on your establishment claiming it makes “The Best…” pizza, pasta, espresso, cheesecake, deli sandwich, hamburger, hot dog, bagel, breakfast, steak, pad thai, sushi, cosmopolitan, or black and white cookie. Even if your wares are the best in the land—resist the urge.

- Wearing jeans so loose in the waist that either a) your underwear is visible or b) you have to constantly clutch the fabric with one hand keep them from falling to the ground. Belts aren’t expensive. Buying pants that are the right size—even less so.

- Using any form of hip-hop, street or ghetto vernacular (esp. the term “crack ho”) unless you can clearly trace your lineage back to Kunta Kinte.

- Selling fake designer watches, handbags, fragrances, sunglasses or jewelry on the sidewalk in a large urban center.

- Buying fake designer watches, handbags, fragrances, sunglasses or jewelry on the sidewalks in a large urban center.

- Saying you “love sushi” when all you ever order or consume is California Roll.

- Dialing a wrong number, hanging up and immediately hitting the Redial button on your phone.

- New Jersey

Peace be with you.

Fallibility

So I was out to dinner with Beverly on a Saturday a couple of weeks ago. We went to some trendy, overpriced place in mid-town Manhattan. We were celebrating the second anniversary of our third trip to Mexico. How she kept track of such things I’ll never know.

“Remember how I was sick for four days?” she asked.

"Were you sick on that trip?"

The truth was, she got sick every time we went to Mexico. My memories of that country center around my girlfriend—the object of my sexual desires—oozing partially digested food and mucus from every orifice that mattered. For all intents and purposes, I’m now clinically impotent in the country of Mexico.

Bev and I got along well. We had similar senses of humor, tastes in food and best of all she did some really special things in bed--like not sleeping in mine. None of my male friends could believe I managed to pass a "no sleep-over rule" and still hang on to the girl. It really wasn't that tough. However, I had to agree to bring her to trendy, over-priced restaruants in Manhattan for dinner every Saturday night as "compensation". I'm much, much poorer with Bev but I still think I'm getting the better end of the deal.

"So I was thinking next week we'd try Per Se." she said.

Per Se was the most expensive restaurant in Manhattan but it was a special occassion. We were celebrating the sixth time we'd eaten at Per Se. This year. So much poorer.

When the appetizer plates were cleared, I excused myself and made my way to the mensroom. I pushed open the door and was slapped senseless by a stench of Biblical proportions. It smelled like all four horses of the Apocolypse had taken up residence in the mensroom and had been eating nothing but Indian food and asparagus for a month.

As I wiped the tears from my eyes and stumbled towards a urinal, I noticed only one of the stall doors was closed. Looked a little small for four full-grown horses but... Just before the toilet flushed, I heard a voice mumble "Jesus Christ". Thinking nothing of it, I finished my business and made my way to the sink. As I dried my hands, an older, familiar-looking gentlemen came out of the closed stall and walked toward me. I followed him in the mirror trying to place him. Squat face and sharp teeth. I stared a little too long and a little too obviously. The reflection of his eyes met mine.

"What are you staring at asswipe?" he asked.

Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I chose not to respond. My eyes went back to the sink and the clean-up at hand. He passed behind me and left the mensroom. Without stopping. Smelly-Old-Man didn't wash his hands. I'd always been the anal type when it came to mensroom door handles. Always used hand towel to open the door--sometimes balling the towel up and sticking it in my pocket if there was no where to dispose of it discretely.

I was having a moment of full on anal-retentive justification when it came to me. Smelly-Old-Man was Pope Benedict XVI. I hadn't recognized him without his white robe and mitre. It took me a minute or two to regain my composure. I was—after all—raised as a Catholic. Being called an “asswipe” by the Pope wasn’t exactly the type of thing grade school catechism prepared you for. I'd have to check the rulebook when I got home. It was possible I'd just been excommunicated. Still, I couldn’t help but feel slightly amused by the absurdity of the situation. I caught myself wearing a half grin in the mirror as I exited the mensroom.

On my way back to Bev, I scouted the restaurant for His Holiness’s table and found him tucked away in a back corner yucking it up with Boutros Boutros-Ghali and Mayor Bloomberg. Just as I was about to sit down, Diddy arrived at the Pope's table and leaned over to kiss his ring.

Maybe there is a God after all.

A Subliminal Fairy Tale

Long, long ago (1988) in a land far, far away (Hoboken, New Jersey) there lived a Prince (kid whose parents owned a paint factory). The Prince's name was Ohn (stupid name) and his royal family was of Latvian descent (or maybe Nigerian. It was unclear.)

When he was young, the Prince's parents, the King and Queen (Archie and Edith) painted their entire castle (semi-detached 2-story with street parking) with royal paint made in the royal factory (cheap bastards). Throughout the Prince's childhood (the 1960’s), the King and Queen ignored frequent government warnings regarding the dangers of lead paint ingestion (dismissing them as "so much meshugas") and continued to give Ohn's princely crib a fresh coat once a month until he turned twelve.

Shortly after his twelfth birthday, the Prince completed his seventh year of schooling (second grade) and was placed in a program for special needs students (retards) at a boarding school (sanatorium) in Switzerland (actually upstate New York but Ohn wasn’t capable of distinguishing between the two).

As a young adult studying abroad (receiving palliative care for advanced saturnism), Ohn was exposed to literature (Dr. Seuss), art (paint-by-numbers) and architecture (Lego). While the Prince showed little aptitude in these areas (spent most of his time drooling and jonesing for a paint fix), he displayed an overwhelming interest in objects of a royal nature (anything that was either sparkly or twirly). Such royal objects induced great excitement in the Prince (short-circuited his fragile little brain). One day during a trip to a royal fair (strip mall carnival near Syracuse), the Prince watched a jester (street busker stoned on mescaline) spinning silver plates on sticks and fell into a deep sleep (stroke-induced coma) that lasted seven years.

While convalescing, the Prince's condition was monitored closely by the most skilled surgeons in the land (an orderly named Jesus who scraped the sole of Ohn’s foot with a ball point pen every few hours). But alas, Prince Ohn showed no signs of awakening from his sleep. This upset the King and Queen deeply (the obligatory, weekly drive from Hoboken to Syracuse took over 8 hours and gas was expensive) so they sent an announcement throughout the countryside (placed a personal ad in Mercenaries for Hire Monthly) offering a reward ($437 and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon) to anyone who could awaken the Prince from his slumber (or, preferably, make his demise appear to be the result of natural causes).

Within a few days, the King and Queen were visited by the most beautiful maiden in all the land (a she-male named Shirley Manheim and her “friend” Am-bush) who claimed she could awaken the Prince with a single kiss (or if that didn’t work, cover his face with a pillow until he stopped twitching). The King and Queen were so excited, they raced at once (as soon as Everybody Loves Raymond was over) to their royal chariot (a 1982 Dodge Aries wagon with a bad rear suspension) and traveled all night to Switzerland (whatever) where the Prince lay sleeping. The maiden and her chaperone (mack daddy) followed closely behind in their chariot (yellow Vespa).

Upon arriving in Switzerland (enough already), the King, Queen, maiden and her escort raced (stopping only long enough to “spark a rock” in the alley) to the Prince’s chamber where the maiden proceeded to lean over the handsome Prince’s bed (futon on the floor of the boiler room) and give him the most delicate kiss any Prince has ever received (her tongue stopped just shy of his tonsils). Magically, the Prince’s eyes opened and he gasped for air (her breath smelled like Gorgonzola. And dirt.) All four visitors shouted encouragements in unison “More, Ohn. More, Ohn.” (the irony was lost on everyone.)

And they all lived happily ever after (the King and Queen making good on Shirley's reward money but reneging on the beer and the Prince henceforth requiring treatment for both lead poisoning and hepatitis B.)

The End

Risky Business

“Let me get this straight. You never actually buy the tickets?”

“Well, every now and then when I feel a pang of guilt—usually around Christmas time. But, for the most part, no. I don’t buy a single ticket.”

“Jesus Christ, Ken. That’s like playing Russian roulette with your life savings.”

“Trust me, this is nothing like Russian roulette. The odds are way better and the downside is nowhere near as extreme.”

“I don’t believe it. I’d never have the balls to take that kind of risk.”

“Balls has nothing to do with it. The odds of winning the Mega Millions are like one in a hundred and seventy-six million. That makes the odds of losing close to a hundred percent. All I do is bet on people to lose. And so far, they’ve lost. One hundred percent of the time.”

“So every week, your co-workers—people who trust you—give you how much?”

“Pretty close to a hundred bucks a week. Sometimes two-hundred if it’s a big jackpot.”

“And instead of going to the deli and buying tickets, you pocket the money?”

“The first few times, I actually bought tickets. I’d bring them to the trading floor and tape them to my monitor. Guys would flip through the stubs when they walked by but after the first few of weeks, no one ever thought to check. Everyone assumes they're right there in plain view.”

“So you basically pocket somewhere around five grand a year? Tax free?”

“Well… if you include the guys at the health club and the guys from my poker game, it’s closer to twelve.”

“Are you kidding me? You scam three different groups of guys to the tune of twelve grand a year?”

“Hang on now. I don’t scam anyone. These suckers fork over fists full of cash week after week—willingly I might add—to play a game they have virtually no chance of winning. By taking the other side, I have virtually no chance of losing.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“Listen, I take risks for a living. If I could buy a stock that had a ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine, nine, nine percent chance of making money, I’d do that trade all day every day. Why shouldn’t I do the same trade against lottery morons?”

“Morons? These people are your friends aren’t they?”

“Some of them are but that’s irrelevant. Almost all of them work on Wall St. themselves. They should know better. I don’t have one iota of pity for smart people who do stupid things.”

“So what do you do with the money?”

“I give most of it back to them in some form. I order coffee and bagels for the desk on Friday mornings. When we go out for cocktails, I pick up the tab. I pay for pizza and beer on poker night and I bought heart monitors for the guys at the health club for Christmas. Whatever’s left over, I donate to charity.”

“Can I have the tax receipt?”

“Screw you.”

Cured Ham

I watched from behind the glass as they entered the deli that Saturday morning. An attractive thirty-something couple shopping for deli meats. These types of visits were always exciting for me. Prosciutto--after all--is no ordinary cold cut. If a thirty-something couple orders proscuitto, they're not taking me home to make a sandwiches between UFC bouts. No. They're having a dinner party--serving me under the most civilized of conditions, perhaps with melon slices. As an appetizer. The possibility thrilled me.

I was laying there in my usual, prominent spot in the refrigerated showcase-right between the Genoa Salami and the Mortadella. I overheard the woman call her husband Ken. They chatted for a moment and then pointed straight at me. Bingo. I was going to the show.

Harvey was the butcher's assistant. In an older era, he'd have been known as an apprentice-despite never having met Donald Trump. When he was finally able to snap Harvey out of his recurring fantasy day dream-that of working as the mascot for the New York Yankees farm team-Ken stepped up to the counter.

"Twelve slices of proscuitto please."

A reasonable request by any reasonable standards. But neither Harvey nor his standards were known for being reasonable. I knew what was coming next but wouldn't have warned Ken even if I'd been able. It was too much fun watching the situation unfold.

"We don't sell deli meats by the slice." said Harvey.

"How do you sell them?"

"By the ounce."

Ken looked a little puzzled. He turned toward his wife and raised an eyebrow.

"Can you cut twelve slices, weigh them and then charge me by the ounce for what you've cut?" Again, another reasonable request.

"No. I told you--we don't sell it by the slice." Harvey seemed to be getting impatient. Ken sensed he was fighting a losing battle and quickly tried another tack.

"I don't suppose you know how much a slice weighs?"

"Depends. Different meats, different weights." This was Harvey's attempt to sound intelligent. Ironically, it almost did. Ironically, Harvey had no idea why.

"How about prosciutto?" asked Ken

"How thick?"

"Uhm... I dunno... normal prosciutto thickness. How thick do you normally slice it?"

"Normally? I dial in a '3' on the slicer."

"Ok. How much does one '3' slice of prosciutto weigh?"

"Hard to say. Half an ounce. Quarter maybe."

Doing some quick mental math-the type Harvey would need a month of tutoring and a calculator to figure out-Ken replied.

"Ok. Give me eight ounces please."

"Eight ounces prosciutto coming up." Harvey chirped feeling as if he'd triumphed over all of Yuppi-dom.

"Oh and would you let me know when you've cut twelve slices."

"Sure thing."

Harvey proceeded to slice while Ken chatted with his wife-presumably speculating on the exact number of minutes Harvey had been deprived of oxygen during birth. Harvey lifted me onto the slicer, clamped me in place and fired up the rotating blade. Oddly, I never really feared the slicer-this owing at least partially to my lack of a brain stem and related neurological tissue. When the twelfth slice had fallen, Harvey turned to Ken.

"Twelve slices."

"What does that weigh?" Ken asked.

"Six point eight ounces."

"I've changed my mind. I'd like six point eight ounces please."

"So you don't want eight?" Harvey asked incredulously.

"No. Six point eight is exactly what I want."

"Alrighty then."

Harvey placed Ken's twelve slices of me in a bag, sealed it with a price tag sticker and passed it across the counter to Ken.

"Here you go sir."

"Thanks." said Ken. "Have a great day."

R. and Me

Historically, I’d had little luck with relationships—a situation I felt was due in no small part to my lack of conventional femininity. Not that I’m altogether unattractive—on many occasions, I received compliments on my looks from the other girls on my fast-pitch softball team.

A petrologist by training, I’d always had a soft spot for metamorphic boulders. I’d seen a few igneous and sedimentary formations over the years but found them to be shallow and immature. R. and I met during a dig near Penetanguishine in northern Ontario. When I first saw him—propping a door open at a casino on an Indian reservation—I knew right away that I had to possess him. After all, I had doors of my own.

I brought him back to meet my family in West Warwick, RI (i.e. just west of Warwick, RI). My parents admired R.’s ability to withstand extremes of pressure and temperature but were a little concerned that he might be using me to secure a green card. My father—a retired immigration lawyer—made a few phone calls and was much relieved to find that R. would easily qualify for an O-1 visa (i.e. Alien of Extraordinary Ability) given the number of unfilled door stop jobs throughout the U.S.

Admittedly, we made an unlikely couple—I an Episcopalian from Rhode Island, he a Schist from the Precambrian Shield—but we were so taken with one another that our differences in age, background, and capacity for homeostasis seemed inconsequential. Within weeks of meeting, we exchanged silent vows late one night in a quarry under the light of the full moon. I carried him across our threshold and laid him on the floor of our home in North Providence, RI (i.e. just north of Providence, RI.)

Our first few months of cohabitation were blissful. He was always there for me—right on the floor near the entrance. He never allowed the front door to slam shut even during the most wicked of windstorms. His physical stamina was beyond compare—he propped my door open all night, every night. I couldn’t have been happier.

Sadly, things started to change in October of that year. When the weather got cooler and we closed our exterior doors, R. began to look forlorn sitting in the foyer with nothing to prop. I offered him several interior doors as substitutes but could tell he viewed them as charity work. He looked sullen and sat motionless on the floor day in and day out. By the beginning of November, R. appeared to be sinking into a depression. He was completely unable to express his emotions and I feared he might hurt his own or someone else’s door if things didn’t change.

One fateful evening in early December, I returned from work to find our home empty. R. was gone. My heart sank. Tears streamed down my face. I thought of the happy times we’d shared—the warm summer breezes, the doors—oh God, the doors. On the floor in the foyer was a note. It read:

You’re clearly unable to satisfy a Precambrian Schist like R. I’ve taken him to a place where there’s always a door to prop—a place you’ll never find us.

Sincerely,
Carlene St. John
Casino General Manager
RR #17
East Penetanguishine (i.e. just east of Penetanguishine), Ontario
Canada, L0L 2B8
Lat: 44.582643
Long: -79.733276

The Good Doctor

Despite having dispersed sufficient funds on therapy in the past decade to put a gold crown on the Statue of Liberty, I’d never been to a Freudian. This afternoon’s appointment was my last ditch effort to find a cure for my demons. If the Freudian method didn’t work—I comforted myself—the Kevorkian definitely would.

Dr. Shlomo Meshugeneh was known far and wide as the best Freudian in Weehawken, New Jersey. His patient roster reportedly read like a celebrity who’s who and included Gary Coleman from Diff’rent Strokes, teen-idol Leif Garret, and the red-haired kid from the Partridge Family. The waiting room was empty which I naively chose to interpret as a testament to his success rate. His receptionist was a heavy-set woman in her 70’s wearing a telephone headset and squawking to a caller.

“You couldn’t just become an accountant like your brother Nathan. No-oh. You were to smart for that. And then you went and married that shiksa Maureen. We told you from day one that wasn’t going to work. Honestly, there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to express how disappointed your father and I are.”

Without missing a brow-beat, the Freudian-nightmare of a receptionist motioned to me with a crooked finger to proceed into the doctor’s office. She continued her rant as I entered the office and closed the door behind me.

Dr. Meshugeneh lay on his back on a leather couch, one forearm resting on his forehead in apparent exasperation. His other hand held a cell phone to his ear.

“Mother. Mother. I’ve have a patient waiting. I have to go. Can we please discuss this another time? I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.”

He ended the call and sighed.

“Always with the shiksa thing. Like any of her own marriages were perfect. Please, have a seat.”

He motioned to a leather wingback chair that faced the couch on which he was lying. I thought this a little unconventional but sat and crossed my legs. The doctor continued.

“Maureen took me to the cleaners in the divorce settlement. She got the summer home on Staten Island, the Chevy Blazer and Mimi the Shih Tzu. She left me our Jack Russell Benji saying she no longer cared to share a home with ‘anything that had testicles’. When I pointed out that Benji had been neutered, she countered with ‘Like your mother did to you?’ There was no reasoning with that woman.”

“I appreciate you fitting me into your schedule.” I started but the doctor talked over me.

“I have this recurring dream where I’m making love to my mother. We’re both enjoying ourselves and then, out of nowhere, a band of gypsies approaches our booth at the Keg and begins to laugh at me. One of them—a short man with three nostrils—points at the table and asks ‘Are you going to finish that?’ I say ‘No. It’s all yours.’ He summons a waiter, complains that the steak is over-cooked and asks to exchange it for a medium-rare cabbage roll. What do you think this all means?”

“Doctor, I don’t really feel qualified to interpret your dreams. I’d much prefer if we spent this time…” But the doctor interrupted.

“Macaulay Culkin had the same reaction and I’ll tell you exactly what I told him—I can’t help you unless you’re willing to help yourself. Ok, let’s try something different—a little role playing. I’ll play myself and you play my ex-wife Maureen. It won’t be difficult. Just act bitchy and ungrateful for the thousands I spent on liposuction to get you down to a size 9.”

I was starting to have concerns about the effectiveness of Freudian analysis. All the same, I decided I had nothing—besides $200 an hour—to lose by humoring the good doctor. So I played along.

“Shlomo, I think your relationship with your mother is having a negative impact on our sex life. I’m no longer satisfied.”

The doctor’s head snapped in my direction, a look of hurt in his eyes. He leapt from the couch, ran to the door, flung it open and left the room without a word. I waited a minute for him to return. He didn’t.

As I left Meshugeneh’s office that afternoon and saw him sobbing on his mother’s shoulder, muttering something about gypsies and Oedipus, I decided I was cured—of my desire to seek help from a Freudian.