Here's the thing...

The New Sins

2008-05-17T15:00:00.001-04:00

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

2008-05-17T14:59:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-17T14:57:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-17T14:56:00.001-04:00

“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

2008-05-17T14:54:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-17T14:52:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-17T14:50:00.001-04:00

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.

The Co-Op

2008-05-17T14:38:00.001-04:00

The following is a collection of correspondence between 5th Avenue Astorbilt Co-op Board chair Mrs. Gladys Astorbilt and nouveau riche Internet pornography magnate Lance Guildnipple.

======================

Dear Mr. Guildnipple,

On behalf of the Astorbilt Co-op Board, I’d like to thank you for interviewing with us on Thursday. We have given your situation due consideration but regret to inform you that we must reject your application at this time.

The Board weighs many factors when considering a new applicant and while your personal net worth is unquestionably adequate, we feel you might be more comfortable in another property where the sensibilities of the residents are more closely aligned with your own. Best of luck.

Sincerely,
Gladys M. Astorbilt

======================

Dear Mrs. Astorbilt,

Thank you for your exceedingly polite rejection. However, I couldn’t help but notice that your correspondence was postmarked the day before I interviewed with your Board. I was aware that old money families were powerful but the ability to see the future is truly remarkable.

I’ve decided it best not to interpret your note as an out-and-out rejection but rather as incentive to try harder. As such, I’d like you to know that in the past week I’ve made substantial donations to both Mount Sinai and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Your fellow trustees will confirm both contributions.

It’s my sincere hope that these selfless gestures will justify reconsideration of my application by the Astorbilt Board.

Philanthropically,
Lance Guildnipple

======================

Mr. Guildnipple,

While generous in quantum, your recent charitable contributions appear to carry conditions that I find offensive. The Mount Sinai “Guildnipple Center for Breast Enhancement”? And your donation to the Met--a permanent collection of phallic art: the “Guildnipple Endowment to Support Endowment”? Honestly, I’m incredulous as to how you expect either donation to be viewed as selfless or philanthropic.

If you believe that such garish public displays of wealth will in any way impact the Board’s acceptance of your application, you are sadly mistaken. I bid you Good Day.

Regards,
Mrs. Astorbilt

======================

Mrs. Astorbilt,

It’s apparent that you a force to be reckoned with and—in the interest of reckoning—I feel that I must make you aware of certain previously-undisclosed facts.

While you have neglected to mention it in any of our correspondence, I’m confident you’re aware that I’ve earned the bulk of my personal wealth by running Internet businesses of an “adult” nature. However, you should be aware that seed funding for my ventures was provided by none other than your late husband Jacob Cornelius Astorbilt XIII. It seems he had a fetish for older, heavier Caucasian women with lazy eyes and bad hips. We met in a chat room one evening and the rest—as they say—is history.

Armed with this information Mrs. Astorbilt, I’m certain you’ll agree that if your husband were alive today, he’d undoubtedly support my bid to become a member of your exclusive 5th Avenue community. In reconsidering my application, I can only hope that you are as generous with your Board influence as your late husband was with his support of Internet porn.

Sincerely,
Lance

======================

Lance,

The Astorbilt Co-op Board convened a special meeting last evening to review your application and was overwhelmed by your selfless philanthropy and dedication to family values. I'm happy to inform you that your application was unanimously accepted.

Welcome to the Astorbilt!
Gladys

Relationships (Redux)

2008-04-17T22:44:00.004-04:00

If you’re thinking “Hey—here’s another well-researched and poignant essay on that timeless topic we never tire of reading about”, you’d be wrong. This is neither well-researched nor poignant. One might even argue that it’s not much of an essay. But debating that will do none of us any good.

I’m a 40-something, single man and live in Manhattan. It’s my belief that—for a single man of any age—there’s no better place on earth to live. New York is a city with history, architecture, culture, money, opportunity and a subway system that smells like pee. It’s also a city with over 200,000 more single women than single men—the highest male/female imbalance in the entire country. A single man couldn’t possibly ask for better odds.

Before we go any further, let’s level set. I love and respect women. I think they’re remarkable creatures. So soft and smooth and nice-smelling and curvey and fun to drive. No. Wait. That’s the new Bentley coupe. Pardon my confusion—the Bentley’s equally expensive to maintain.

In the past 20 years, I believe I’ve dated a fairly representative cross section of the female population. I’ve dated tall women, short women, thin women, heavy women, large-breasted women, flat-chested women, blondes, brunettes and red-heads. I’ve dated pretty women and… those with other redeeming qualities. I’ve dated women with jobs and those who were unemployed, women who talked far too much and those who said almost nothing at all. I’ve dated women with ex-husbands, women with children, women with dogs, women with cats and women with tattoos—even one with a tattoo of a cat. I’ve dated intelligent woman and… those with other redeeming qualities. I’ve dated women I’ve fallen in love with and those I just barely liked. I’ve dated Christians, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Liberals, Conservatives, Americans, Canadians, Turks, Russians, Romanians, Armenians, Chinese and Guyanese. I even dated a woman from New Jersey. She had no redeeming qualities.

It should suffice to say I’ve dated a lot. And when I use the term dated, I mean capital-D Dated. I mean Dated in the adult sense. So we’re clear, an adult relationship is one in which, after several weeks of getting superficially acquainted, the woman—usually after an expensive dinner and copious amounts of alcohol—finally feels comfortable enough to say “I’m not getting what I want from this relationship.” It’s at that point in an adult relationship that a man either makes a commitment to change everything he thinks, says, does, watches, wears, drives, eats and drinks or resorts to… the C-word.

The etymology of the C-word is interesting. Compromise is derived from the Latin compromissus, the literal translation for which—I’m fairly certain—is “My way or the highway.” During the Age of Enlightenment, the word’s usage changed and the generally generally-accepted definition became “Satisfy a woman’s every whim to the exclusion of your own happiness.” Voltaire, to whom this definition is attributed, reportedly didn’t have much luck with the ladies. It’s hard to convince a woman to go home with you when you introduce yourself as a polemicist. Said one of the many woman Voltaire propositioned over the years, “I don’t know what polemicist means but I’m certain it either doesn’t pay well or is uncomfortable to sit on.”

Fast forward to modern-day North America and the term compromise has evolved to mean “If you’re happy in your relationship, you’re not trying hard enough.” Think of the times you’ve been happiest with your partner—you’re both waking up in a good mood every morning, your jobs are going well, you’re making passionate love every day (sometimes with one another), the in-laws aren’t dropping by unannounced, there’s no writer’s strike in Hollywood. Being together is effortless. And then out of nowhere—BLAM. One of you—the one with the penis—says something in a tone of voice that doesn’t quite sound “sweet” enough. Unhappiness ensues. You’re right back to feeling like you’re in a relationship.

You’re probably thinking “Here’s yet another bitter, sexually-frustrated, single man bent on blaming women for his unhappiness.” Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m neither bitter nor unhappy. And sexual frustration is a myth. At least since the invention of the Internet. I’ve given this a fair amount of thought (read: “enough thought to put 1000 words together on the topic”) and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not women that are the problem. Anyone who thinks women are the problem is… well… a man. I might have just syllogized myself out of existence with that little pearl of wisdom. Then again, for years I thought modus ponens was a part of the female anatomy.

In my opinion, the “problem” is the general lack of compatibility that exists between any two adult human beings. It’s altogether unreasonable to expect to share living space with someone for an extended period and not hit a few bumps along the way. No matter how good-looking, tall, thin, smart, rich or funny your partner might happen to be, at some point they’re going to do something you never dreamed they were capable of. Something so unexpected it shakes your very core. Something like explaining that he couldn’t make it home last night because a co-worker had too much to drink and he had to make sure she got home safely and sleep in her bed because she felt sad and lonely and scared and no, nothing happened and yes, his pants were off but he was lying on top of the covers and we might have smoked a joint together before drifting off to sleep in one another’s arms but it was purely Platonic cuddling and it wasn’t exactly my co-worker but a girlfriend of my co-worker’s teenage daughter and if you could only see your face right now and you really should put down that knife…

In the end you simply have to be as tolerant with your partner as your sensibilities will permit and decide whether or not the good in the relationship outweighs the bad. Choose your partner the way you’d choose a used car—pick one you can afford, one that doesn’t show any obvious signs of wear and tear, and one with a peppy engine. Sometimes that ends up being three completely different vehicles. And that can work too.

Moses - The Untold Story

2007-10-28T16:20:00.000-04:00

Thousands of years ago—long before Christianity was invented—God appeared to a sheppard named Moses at Mount Sinai and asked him to lead His chosen people—the Israelites—out of Egypt where they'd been enslaved by the Pharaoh. While the exact location of Mount Sinai isn’t known with certainty, it’s widely believed to be in the area now known as Manhattan’s Upper East Side—between Fifth and Madison. Moses was presumably chosen because several years prior he displayed great bravery and loyalty by killing an Egyptian guard who was whipping a Hebrew salve. While God clearly had no issue with murder at the time, He later decided it prudent to add a new item to the—then—Nine Commandments.

When He chose Moses to lead this important journey—later to become known as the Exodus—God was apparently unaware that Moses was directionally-challenged and that what should have been a 45 day trek (60 at most) would turn into a 40 year ordeal. This is undisputable proof that God is male. A woman would have replaced Moses as leader after 90 days and never spoken to him again.

According to scripture, God appeared to Moses in the form of a burning bush. Why He chose a burning bush is matter of heated debate in religious circles. Since Moses was the only person to have spoken to God at Mount Sinai that day, many biblical scholars feel Moses was simply shrouding his description of the encounter in symbolism. Shrouding in symbolism was very popular back in those days. In fact, use of symbolism was so common that it was very difficult to get a straight answer out of anyone.

Following God’s wishes, Moses returned to Egypt with his wife and son. Moses’ wife’s name was Zipporah. Moses called her Zippo for short. Thousands of years later, her descendents would settle in Pennsylvania, invent the cigarette lighter and name it in her honor.

Before Moses had a chance to meet with the Pharaoh, God—who was having a particularly bad day—decided to kill him. Zippo, wanting to save Moses’ life, quickly circumcised their son with a sharp stone. Oddly, the mutilation abated God’s wrath and—according to Jewish tradition of seudat brit milah—Moses and Zippo ate smoked salmon and went back to work. Their son took the day off.

Moses met with Pharaoh and did his best to convince the Egyptian leader to free the Israelites. Pharaoh refused and, in retaliation, God inflicted a series of ten plagues on the people of Egypt. The plagues included rivers turning to blood, frogs falling from the sky, fiery hail, locusts and darkness. None of them were very pleasant. Pharaoh stubbornly held his ground until the tenth and final plague—death of firstborn—took the life of a sheep bearing his likeness. Only at that point did Pharaoh capitulate and agree to free the Israelite slaves.

Moses proceeded to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, part the Red Sea and wander the desert aimlessly for forty years. Then one day, God again summoned Moses—presumably in that low, booming God-like voice—to meet him at Mount Sinai. The fact that God liked to conduct his important business on the Upper East Side supports the belief that he was Jewish.

During this second meeting, God gave Moses three engraved stone tablets. Two of these contained the Ten Commandments. The third was a map clearly indicating the way out of the desert. Also, he gave Moses a bicycle. A nice one with a bell. God appreciated Moses' efforts and wanted to make his return down the mountain a little more enjoyable. Also, it was getting close to dinner and God knew Zippo hated it when Moses showed up late without calling first.

As considerate a gift as the bicycle was, it had neither a headlamp nor a basket—accessories that would have been particularly useful to an elderly man carrying three stone tablets downhill in the dark. Add to this the facts that Moses was not exactly athletic and had never ridden a bicycle before. Balancing the tablets on his lap while steering with one hand, Moses rode a mile and a half down the mountain before he careened into a bush. While the bush was thankfully of the non-burning variety, the tablets flew out of his grasp and landed on the ground. Two of them were fine but the one containing the map broke into hundreds of small pieces. Moses yelled “Jesus Christ!” Somewhere in the distance, thunder clapped.

Luckily, Moses was physically unscathed. He gathered the remaining tablets and made his way down the mountain on foot. When he reached base camp, Moses gave a moving speech to the Israelites telling them of his encounter with God, the tablets containing the Ten Commandments and the covenant they represented. He left out the part about the bicycle. When Moses was finished, one of the Israelites—a man named Whyzass who had a reputation as a joker—yelled “Commandments? We’ve been wandering the desert for forty years. You think God would have given you a map.” The Isrealites roared with laughter. Moses faked a smile, under his breath muttered “Whyzass” and retired to his tent with Zippo for dinner and a game of Scrabble.

Hygiene

2007-08-25T12:50:00.000-04:00

It occurred to me recently that everything I know about personal hygiene I learned in the early 1970’s. For well over three decades now, I’ve been doing the same things the same way. Wet. Lather. Rinse.

What concerns me is not my hygiene per se. I feel clean. I smell alright. To the best of my knowledge, I’m doing an acceptable job. What concerns me is that I may not be applying cutting-edge techniques. And that bugs me. I own a plasma television, a BlackBerry and a car with a high-efficiency / ultra-low emission engine—all of which have thirty plus years worth of research and development behind them. And here I am, bathing the same way I did in the 70’s.

As far as instruction went, my parents were simple—yet clean—people. They couldn’t afford to hire tutors or buy instructional manuals. They did the best they could under the circumstances. They’d load the bathtub with two or three of us at a time—there are photos to prove this but I’d prefer they not be shared here… or anywhere—roll up their sleeves, grab a bar of soap and start scrubbing. It wasn't exactly structured learning. There was no “Place the soap in your right hand and move it in a circular motion over your chest until lather forms. Continue this process for 5 to 7 seconds, then…” The learning was much more holistic—gleaned from several years of simply paying attention.

This reminds me, as a kid, my parent’s biggest bathroom safety concern wasn’t Dad’s razor. It wasn’t pills in the medicine cabinet. It wasn’t the toilet seat falling on my head (don’t ask). It was slipping in the bathtub. I could retire today if I had $1,000 (compounded semi-annually at 8.375% for 30 years) for each time I heard my parents tell one of us not to slip in the tub. Don’t misinterpret. It’s not that I don’t appreciate their concern. It’s just that—who were all these kids slipping in the bathtub that it deserved more parental attention in the 1970’s than seatbelts or bicycle helmets? A much greater concern should have been the under-water-breath-holding competitions that took place on those rare occasions Mom entrusted me with the welfare of her progeny while she left the bathroom for a moment. The winner of these contests was invariably the youngest brother in the tub—due in no small part to the ample “assistance” he was given to stay under those extra few seconds.

By the time I was ten—or my parents bought a bathtub safety mat, I forget which came first—I was bathing on my own. The training wheels were off. I was wetting, lathering and rinsing with the pride of a young man on his way to adulthood.

Beginning in my early teens, showers began to take a little longer. My body was changing and, to keep it adequately clean, some parts required a little more attention. A lot more attention if the door was locked. Throughout that period of discovery—which I’m sure will end soon—my technique remained essentially the same. Wet. Lather. Rinse.

Despite having solid technique, I wasn’t what you’d call an efficient bather. In fact, I don’t remember a single shower throughout my teenage years that wasn’t interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door and a voice yelling “Leave some hot water for the rest of us.” It got to the point that I assumed that’s how you knew it was time to finish things up. No knock—keep on scrubbing.

Despite the fact that my technique hasn’t changed in thirty years, I can say confidently that my speed has more than doubled. Today, if I step into the shower at the intro, I can be clean and dry by the start of the second chorus of Meat Loaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Lights. I was unable to make that claim as a teenager.

I'm not sure how to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps I should make it a point to pay more attention to what’s going on in the showers at the health club. Check out the techniques of other adults. Ask questions. Take notes. I’m almost certain guys won’t have a problem with it. Or at very least they’ll have less problem with it than the women did last week. Which reminds me—Note to Self: Find new health club.