Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Push The Little Pastries And Make'em Come up
I was recently in a Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. Coffee Bean is the 2nd largest Coffee shop chain in Los Angeles. Of course Starbucks is the biggest. Coffee Bean is the runner up to Starbucks much like Sandisk is the 2nd top mp3 player after The Ipod. What’s Sandisk?...Exactly.* But I felt good being in number 2 on this day as the Coffee Bean was directly across from a Starbucks. Shunning a corporate giant for a smaller corporate giant isn’t exactly sticking it to the man but you have to start somewhere. Given the option at least I went with what was closer to Mom and Pop on the Mom and Pop-Evil corporate giant continuum. For the record Coffee Bean has better tea than Starbucks. Starbucks has better food, mainly because Coffee Bean doesn’t serve food. It’s a push on the pastries. QSN: Doesn’t “Push on the Pastries” sound like the name of an Indie rock group? Eventually people would just call them POP and that would be coincidental but we would call it ironic. I guess I’m all about the underdog as long as the underdog is directly across the street. A brilliant strategy when you think about it. Want to open a small independent coffee shop? Well, set up shop near Starbucks. Some traffic will be diverted your way out of pangs of guilt. Why be cliché when you can cross the street and be self righteously cliché? Others will head to get some indie brew to avoid long lines and no place to sit. Either way you’re siphoning off the man and championing small business. Who knows Starbucks may even pay you off and give you more to scram than you would’ve made in business. Sure, that’s the classic definition of selling out but…if a thousand Mom and Pops do this then… Well, I would like to say it would bring Starbucks to its knees but it’s more likely that scones will go up 5 cents. (in Robot voice) …Resistance is futile, Just go to Starbucks sip on your frap and enjoy Norah Jones on the PA system… QSN - Quick Side Note *News story on Sandisk being number 2
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Close Encounters of the Crazy Kind
At this point my brushes with eccentric characters have become much like the “chicken or the egg” conundrum. Do I write about these types because I run into them or do I run into them because I write about them? I don’t think I’m seeking out these encounters but maybe the mere act of writing about them, attracts them.
Cut to me walking into a Ralph’s supermarket to ¬¬¬scoop up some Almond milk. I usually get soy milk from the ninety nine cents store but apparently soy milk has too much of the female hormone, estrogen. I don’t sob while watching Seinfeld reruns and I haven’t told anyone that it’s not what they said, but how they said it. Still, I figure I should take a break from using female hormone milk to mix my very manly protein powder after my very manly workouts. (Resistance bands are manly right?)
I walked past a guy in the parking lot and we had this exchange:
APOCALYPSE DUDE: You going in there?
ME: Yes
APOCALYPSE DUDE: You better hurry! They’re running out of food!
It took everything in me to not ask him some follow-up questions. Was it a certain section that was depleted? Were they also running out of toiletries? How about cashews?
I hope my doomsday soothsayer wasn’t offended that I didn’t speed up after his warning. It’s not that I wasn’t taking heed but no one else was heading toward the mega mart so at least I only had to contend with the mayhem already inside the store and those people already had the drop on me so keeping my leisurely pace seemed to make sense.
Of course Ralph’s was loaded. There were enough provisions to feed a city. To be fair, he didn’t say when they would run out of food. 2025 would be my guess. Almond milk is too thick for my protein powder to fully dissolve. I wish he would’ve warned me about that.
Cut to me walking into a Ralph’s supermarket to ¬¬¬scoop up some Almond milk. I usually get soy milk from the ninety nine cents store but apparently soy milk has too much of the female hormone, estrogen. I don’t sob while watching Seinfeld reruns and I haven’t told anyone that it’s not what they said, but how they said it. Still, I figure I should take a break from using female hormone milk to mix my very manly protein powder after my very manly workouts. (Resistance bands are manly right?)
I walked past a guy in the parking lot and we had this exchange:
APOCALYPSE DUDE: You going in there?
ME: Yes
APOCALYPSE DUDE: You better hurry! They’re running out of food!
It took everything in me to not ask him some follow-up questions. Was it a certain section that was depleted? Were they also running out of toiletries? How about cashews?
I hope my doomsday soothsayer wasn’t offended that I didn’t speed up after his warning. It’s not that I wasn’t taking heed but no one else was heading toward the mega mart so at least I only had to contend with the mayhem already inside the store and those people already had the drop on me so keeping my leisurely pace seemed to make sense.
Of course Ralph’s was loaded. There were enough provisions to feed a city. To be fair, he didn’t say when they would run out of food. 2025 would be my guess. Almond milk is too thick for my protein powder to fully dissolve. I wish he would’ve warned me about that.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Money Where My Mouth Is
My love/love relationship with the 99 cents store is well documented in my blog. If you’re in Los Angeles, call me up and tell me your cross streets, I can tell you where the nearest 99 cents store is*. Yes my mom is very proud of me, in case you were wondering.
My local noventa y nueve store is in a parking lot with a really hip organic market. This market is the real deal. They sell grass fed beef. I’m told that’s much tastier and a lot better for you than beef that’s fed grain. The market is great and relatively inexpensive but at a huge disadvantage being right next to the 99 cents store. The 99 cents store has an extensive grocery section to go along with stuff like, “Hello Smitty” knockoff coloring books. I occasionally wonder into the local organic market when the 99 cent store doesn’t have eggs. I like local market but not enough to shop their exclusively or go there before I poke my head into the 99 cent store. I do however want the organic place to stay in business.
I have decided to go in the market once every other week and purchase one or two offerings to help them stay afloat. Last week it was a 5 dollar bag of Farina. Week before some tasty but “send you to the poor house” prawns. I’ve got my eye on beef with grass between its teeth. Basically, the local market will be where I go to buy my metaphorical sneakers.
I learned a long time ago that you can skimp on your outfit as long as you kill’em with some fly sneaks. I’ll skimp at the 99 cents store but go to the market to make my cupboard seem flyer than it really is.
VISITOR 2MY CUPBOARD: Wow, high end Farina, Prawns…somebody has stepped their game up. By the way…you should probably keep those Prawns in the freezer.
* I can also do this for Starbucks locations and I’m not too shabby on Ross Dress For Less locales as well.
http://figueroaproduce.com/
My local noventa y nueve store is in a parking lot with a really hip organic market. This market is the real deal. They sell grass fed beef. I’m told that’s much tastier and a lot better for you than beef that’s fed grain. The market is great and relatively inexpensive but at a huge disadvantage being right next to the 99 cents store. The 99 cents store has an extensive grocery section to go along with stuff like, “Hello Smitty” knockoff coloring books. I occasionally wonder into the local organic market when the 99 cent store doesn’t have eggs. I like local market but not enough to shop their exclusively or go there before I poke my head into the 99 cent store. I do however want the organic place to stay in business.
I have decided to go in the market once every other week and purchase one or two offerings to help them stay afloat. Last week it was a 5 dollar bag of Farina. Week before some tasty but “send you to the poor house” prawns. I’ve got my eye on beef with grass between its teeth. Basically, the local market will be where I go to buy my metaphorical sneakers.
I learned a long time ago that you can skimp on your outfit as long as you kill’em with some fly sneaks. I’ll skimp at the 99 cents store but go to the market to make my cupboard seem flyer than it really is.
VISITOR 2MY CUPBOARD: Wow, high end Farina, Prawns…somebody has stepped their game up. By the way…you should probably keep those Prawns in the freezer.
* I can also do this for Starbucks locations and I’m not too shabby on Ross Dress For Less locales as well.
http://figueroaproduce.com/
Friday, February 18, 2011
Gotta Idea...That I Wanna Share
A teenager in Mexico City is on a Hunger Strike until she gets an invite to the Royal Wedding. Kinda crazy but I think I now have the perfect plan to get my own show:
See me starve in front of CBS.
And know, that ‘til I get my own show, I vow not to ingest.
Talk show is cool but a sitcom is best.
Is that a Wetzel Pretzel?!
Ahhh...screw it I guess…CRUNCH!
See me starve in front of CBS.
And know, that ‘til I get my own show, I vow not to ingest.
Talk show is cool but a sitcom is best.
Is that a Wetzel Pretzel?!
Ahhh...screw it I guess…CRUNCH!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Overhead Dread
We often hear stories of heroism so selfless that they fill us with hope that maybe just maybe we humans will make it on this planet after all. Someone jumps on a train track to save someone else or shares a kidney with a stranger, or “likes” one of your wall posts.
For me, these stories don’t exactly restore my faith in mankind. For I travel and I believe that until we can share overhead space on an airplane, we can’t really expect any type of peace on earth. How can countries compromise on borders when individuals can’t even team up to ensure no one has to check a bag? When people put itty bitty bags overhead or put their bag in sideways against the constant urgings of the crew and the big instruction label inside the bins, they’re not screwing some stranger out in the ether. No, they are sticking it to someone they’re about to spend 5 hours with. There’s no I in “fellow passenger.”
It’s just amazing that 100 people with enough money to fly on a plane need to get to territorial and petty. I have no qualms about moving someone’s bag or loudly saying, “who’s tiny under the seat bag is here taking up precise luggage space?!” And how lazy and uncaring do you have to be to not turn your bag 90 degrees?! It would be okay if the flight attendants didn’t plea with people to put their bags in wheels first 10-20 times while boarding.
Come on folks. Let’s ensure human existence on this planet. Let’s share overhead space. And after we do, we can work on people who take up two parking spaces.
All this, of course, is contingent upon the machines not taking over.
For me, these stories don’t exactly restore my faith in mankind. For I travel and I believe that until we can share overhead space on an airplane, we can’t really expect any type of peace on earth. How can countries compromise on borders when individuals can’t even team up to ensure no one has to check a bag? When people put itty bitty bags overhead or put their bag in sideways against the constant urgings of the crew and the big instruction label inside the bins, they’re not screwing some stranger out in the ether. No, they are sticking it to someone they’re about to spend 5 hours with. There’s no I in “fellow passenger.”
It’s just amazing that 100 people with enough money to fly on a plane need to get to territorial and petty. I have no qualms about moving someone’s bag or loudly saying, “who’s tiny under the seat bag is here taking up precise luggage space?!” And how lazy and uncaring do you have to be to not turn your bag 90 degrees?! It would be okay if the flight attendants didn’t plea with people to put their bags in wheels first 10-20 times while boarding.
Come on folks. Let’s ensure human existence on this planet. Let’s share overhead space. And after we do, we can work on people who take up two parking spaces.
All this, of course, is contingent upon the machines not taking over.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Icing Like Tyson
For a boxer, being bequeathed a nickname is a sure fire sign that you’ve arrived on the boxing scene. If Mac “The Killer” Jones is fighting Ralph Henderson, “The Killer” has to be the prefight favorite. A sure fire sign that you have completely permeated pop culture is having a dance named after you. Iron Mike Tyson has both.
I was reminded of the reason why today when I watched a bunch of his early knockouts. A barrage of extremely powerful but even more accurate blows turned men into drunken incoherent mice. My amazement shifted from how can he hit that hard to why would anyone let themselves be hit that hard. I derived amusement from Mike’s competitors, dead men walking, realizing only at the moment of first impact, just how hard Tyson punched. There’s something purely entertaining about seeing the exact moment when a person accepts truth. That moment is even more entertaining when it’s accompanied by an uppercut that lifts them off the ground. The truth hurts.
Brutality aside, there was beauty in Tyson’s precision and raw power. Boxing is called the sweet science and Mike Tyson’s practice of the science turned the ring into a revolving lab where grown specimens could visit but not stay longer than a round or two.
I think my buddy and I enjoyed seeing Tyson’s targets drop a little more than we should of. Partly because of an innate desire to witness anything shocking but mainly our laughter was that of the nervous variety, knowing full well that we would have met the exact same fate and probably in half the time.
With fear comes intrigue and Mike Tyson had intrigue to spare. It’s a shame that his quest to legitimately be considered the greatest was derailed by all of his troubles.
Our attraction to beauty and perfection is even greater than our infatuation with shock. When all three are in the same package, it’s unlikely that purity will be left alone to fulfill its promise (see Michael Jackson). There’s also the sadness that most people extremely gifted in one area are necessarily deficient somewhere else. We don’t celebrate balance and consistency. We exalt talent and then feign shock when the other shoe drops.
But now twenty years after he first burst unto the scene, we are still intrigued with Iron Mike; Of course partly because of his antics but always because will be forever indebted to him for blessing us with his talents.
Mike Tyson is from Brooklyn by the way.
I was reminded of the reason why today when I watched a bunch of his early knockouts. A barrage of extremely powerful but even more accurate blows turned men into drunken incoherent mice. My amazement shifted from how can he hit that hard to why would anyone let themselves be hit that hard. I derived amusement from Mike’s competitors, dead men walking, realizing only at the moment of first impact, just how hard Tyson punched. There’s something purely entertaining about seeing the exact moment when a person accepts truth. That moment is even more entertaining when it’s accompanied by an uppercut that lifts them off the ground. The truth hurts.
Brutality aside, there was beauty in Tyson’s precision and raw power. Boxing is called the sweet science and Mike Tyson’s practice of the science turned the ring into a revolving lab where grown specimens could visit but not stay longer than a round or two.
I think my buddy and I enjoyed seeing Tyson’s targets drop a little more than we should of. Partly because of an innate desire to witness anything shocking but mainly our laughter was that of the nervous variety, knowing full well that we would have met the exact same fate and probably in half the time.
With fear comes intrigue and Mike Tyson had intrigue to spare. It’s a shame that his quest to legitimately be considered the greatest was derailed by all of his troubles.
Our attraction to beauty and perfection is even greater than our infatuation with shock. When all three are in the same package, it’s unlikely that purity will be left alone to fulfill its promise (see Michael Jackson). There’s also the sadness that most people extremely gifted in one area are necessarily deficient somewhere else. We don’t celebrate balance and consistency. We exalt talent and then feign shock when the other shoe drops.
But now twenty years after he first burst unto the scene, we are still intrigued with Iron Mike; Of course partly because of his antics but always because will be forever indebted to him for blessing us with his talents.
Mike Tyson is from Brooklyn by the way.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Broke Down Communication
I think there’s some benefit to wearing sunglasses all the time. Sure you’re “that guy” and you lose out on some quality interactions with people who’ll have none of your pretentiousness. On the flip side though, you avoid uncomfortable exchanges.
I don’t wear tinted bifocals, more out of a fear of losing them than a fear of looking like a jerk. I have a practical work around but having your sunglasses hang from your neck like a granny in between crossword puzzles is even too un-cool for me. So as I passed through security at Cleveland International with the windows to my soul exposed, I made eye contact with a friendly airport staffer. This gentleman was African American so there was the obligatory “Keep fighting the good fight” nod that black people often give each other in non-black environments. Also, I had just done 6 sold out shows and already established during my last show that an audience member would be on my flight. So it’s possible that the staffer was at one of the shows is all I’m saying.
All the aforementioned factors led to me nodding and that leading to small talk: Something about me going to a warm place and him wishing he could get away from the cold. So far so straight. Then he asked me if I had had a Cleveland tour guide. “Uh… No” Now I’m thinking Cleveland airport is all about hospitality. Like Cleveland is banding together as a city to make sure visitors leave with a good impression.
Then the airport staffer offered to show me around next time. I still wasn’t sure if he was at the show or making small talk or what. Since I was on my way out of Dodge I said “Sure, thanks…I guess…” I still didn’t know what was happening. Then he said he was on Facebook and I thought “Oh, he is a fan…whew…” Then Mr. Friendly proceeds to write down his Facebook url, number and email. And as I walk away he says “Call me anytime!”
Finally, I knew what was happening. He was a fan alright. Now readers, in my defense, black people can be very informal with each other and I’m constantly trying to make sure I’m not being standoffish like some snobby New Yorker or even worse an aloof Angelino. So I thought this was an example of down home folk being down home folksy.
To each his own but not my own. I’m straight like Indian hair. I suppose women go through this all the time, never knowing if a friendly guy has an ulterior motive. Well that’s easy. Of course he does. But for same sex encounters in non-gay situations how is the straight person supposed to know? It’s not like this guy wore a pink boa and flashed jazz hands. Maybe gay guys need a sign to identify each other. There’s the rainbow but that might lack the subtlety needed by some. Also, Hawaii is still all WTF about their beloved rainbow being co-opted by gay bars. There’s got to be at least one bar with a rainbow outside of it that is really just a straight Hawaiian spot.
Perhaps some odd sequence of words might better serve as the gay sign and something far more intricate than “how’s it going?” Maybe something like “Cream style corn is better served warm” and the response to let the other person know it’s on would be something like “And French Cuff Links shine brightest at dawn.” Now there’s still a chance that a straight person could say the cuff link line without knowing it was a code but in my case there was no exchanges of non sequiturs.
To avoid straight guys with tourette’s getting hit on. The best thing to do would be to have a secret gay handshake. Of course this would have completely shot holes in the otherwise very believable movie, “I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Steve”
I now pronounce myself a sunglass wearer.
I don’t wear tinted bifocals, more out of a fear of losing them than a fear of looking like a jerk. I have a practical work around but having your sunglasses hang from your neck like a granny in between crossword puzzles is even too un-cool for me. So as I passed through security at Cleveland International with the windows to my soul exposed, I made eye contact with a friendly airport staffer. This gentleman was African American so there was the obligatory “Keep fighting the good fight” nod that black people often give each other in non-black environments. Also, I had just done 6 sold out shows and already established during my last show that an audience member would be on my flight. So it’s possible that the staffer was at one of the shows is all I’m saying.
All the aforementioned factors led to me nodding and that leading to small talk: Something about me going to a warm place and him wishing he could get away from the cold. So far so straight. Then he asked me if I had had a Cleveland tour guide. “Uh… No” Now I’m thinking Cleveland airport is all about hospitality. Like Cleveland is banding together as a city to make sure visitors leave with a good impression.
Then the airport staffer offered to show me around next time. I still wasn’t sure if he was at the show or making small talk or what. Since I was on my way out of Dodge I said “Sure, thanks…I guess…” I still didn’t know what was happening. Then he said he was on Facebook and I thought “Oh, he is a fan…whew…” Then Mr. Friendly proceeds to write down his Facebook url, number and email. And as I walk away he says “Call me anytime!”
Finally, I knew what was happening. He was a fan alright. Now readers, in my defense, black people can be very informal with each other and I’m constantly trying to make sure I’m not being standoffish like some snobby New Yorker or even worse an aloof Angelino. So I thought this was an example of down home folk being down home folksy.
To each his own but not my own. I’m straight like Indian hair. I suppose women go through this all the time, never knowing if a friendly guy has an ulterior motive. Well that’s easy. Of course he does. But for same sex encounters in non-gay situations how is the straight person supposed to know? It’s not like this guy wore a pink boa and flashed jazz hands. Maybe gay guys need a sign to identify each other. There’s the rainbow but that might lack the subtlety needed by some. Also, Hawaii is still all WTF about their beloved rainbow being co-opted by gay bars. There’s got to be at least one bar with a rainbow outside of it that is really just a straight Hawaiian spot.
Perhaps some odd sequence of words might better serve as the gay sign and something far more intricate than “how’s it going?” Maybe something like “Cream style corn is better served warm” and the response to let the other person know it’s on would be something like “And French Cuff Links shine brightest at dawn.” Now there’s still a chance that a straight person could say the cuff link line without knowing it was a code but in my case there was no exchanges of non sequiturs.
To avoid straight guys with tourette’s getting hit on. The best thing to do would be to have a secret gay handshake. Of course this would have completely shot holes in the otherwise very believable movie, “I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Steve”
I now pronounce myself a sunglass wearer.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
“Jeopardy” in Jeopardy
I’m told a super computer called Watson will soon be a contestant on Jeopardy. “I’ll take signs the machines are taking over for a thousand, Alex.” Does this feel like the beginning of a Sci-Fi movie with a very unhappy ending to anyone else? I’m sure the Terminator’s back story was that he debuted on a game show before crushing mankind and then traveling back in time to stop the head of the resistance from being born.
QSN: How the man from the future, sent back in time by the Humans to ensure that the rebel leader is born, is the rebel leader’s father is a prime directive nightmare that still bothers me. I hate it when time traveling movies get cute.
Man won’t be happy until he completely makes himself obsolete. The day we say…
US: Look the machines can do all the work…
Is the day the machines say…
MACHINES: Then why do we need you. Human existence does not compute…
Why not let a computer host Jeopardy? Many movies already use computer generated actors. If the computers are doing everything we used to do then what is there for us to do? Spoken not like a technophobe but more a person who loves computers but loves people more.
Wouldn’t it be wonderfully terrifying to find that the most major share holder in the top 100 companies in the world is actually a computer that embezzled a nickel from everyone in the world back in the 80’s and invested it all in corporations. Crazy, but it would explain some things wouldn’t it?
Perhaps the human spirit will continue to reign over machine. Perhaps humans have that indescribable quality that Je ne sais quoi to win the battle against machine. John Henry beat the steam engine and then victoriously dropped dead. I hope we get to enjoy our win.
QSN = Quick Side Note
The Watson Super Computer competing on Jeopardy will air on February 14,15 & 16, 2011.
QSN: How the man from the future, sent back in time by the Humans to ensure that the rebel leader is born, is the rebel leader’s father is a prime directive nightmare that still bothers me. I hate it when time traveling movies get cute.
Man won’t be happy until he completely makes himself obsolete. The day we say…
US: Look the machines can do all the work…
Is the day the machines say…
MACHINES: Then why do we need you. Human existence does not compute…
Why not let a computer host Jeopardy? Many movies already use computer generated actors. If the computers are doing everything we used to do then what is there for us to do? Spoken not like a technophobe but more a person who loves computers but loves people more.
Wouldn’t it be wonderfully terrifying to find that the most major share holder in the top 100 companies in the world is actually a computer that embezzled a nickel from everyone in the world back in the 80’s and invested it all in corporations. Crazy, but it would explain some things wouldn’t it?
Perhaps the human spirit will continue to reign over machine. Perhaps humans have that indescribable quality that Je ne sais quoi to win the battle against machine. John Henry beat the steam engine and then victoriously dropped dead. I hope we get to enjoy our win.
QSN = Quick Side Note
The Watson Super Computer competing on Jeopardy will air on February 14,15 & 16, 2011.
Monday, January 03, 2011
What’s My Queue
If patience is a virtue, nothing offers more opportunity to get your virtue on than standing in line. Be it the post office, airport, bank or butcher*; it just seems like people being serviced at the window judge the quality of the experience by how long they get to stand there. This is very interesting considering they were in line just moments ago when their quality gauge was strictly based on how little time the people being served ahead of them took. Classic case of the oppressed becomes the oppressor.
I’m okay with people needing to perform complex transactions but sometimes there’s over the top self indulgence at the window. Like when you’re in the bank and you catch wind of the conversation a person at the window is having with the teller and he’s asking the teller how inflation works and doing Eany Meany Miny Moe to decide if he should get cats or flowers on his checks…best two out of three.
That time is your time. I’m not telling window person to rush lest they forget something and have to re-enter the queue. I’m just saying don’t forget where you came from…THE LINE. It was you window person just minutes ago sighing loudly and shifting your body weight side to side like a restless six year old. Don’t get to the window and act like it’s a spa.
I apologize to anyone who’s ever been behind me in line at a post office. In my defense, mass mailings take mass postage. In a check in line at Heathrow airport, I timed a guy with one lousy piece of luggage took 5 minutes to check in. That’s an eternity. There’s not 5 minutes worth of things to do at an airport check-in counter. I checked in minutes later. I checked a bag, gave my frequent flyer number and confirmed my aisle seat. The whole thing took just over a minute.
What I taketh from the post office I giveth back at the airport. I tried to tell them, we’re all in this together**
* Butcher? Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention and appeal to any readers who live in places with butchers or any time travelers giving my blog a gander…How about this internet huh?!
**Line from KRS-One song. “I’m still Number One”
I’m okay with people needing to perform complex transactions but sometimes there’s over the top self indulgence at the window. Like when you’re in the bank and you catch wind of the conversation a person at the window is having with the teller and he’s asking the teller how inflation works and doing Eany Meany Miny Moe to decide if he should get cats or flowers on his checks…best two out of three.
That time is your time. I’m not telling window person to rush lest they forget something and have to re-enter the queue. I’m just saying don’t forget where you came from…THE LINE. It was you window person just minutes ago sighing loudly and shifting your body weight side to side like a restless six year old. Don’t get to the window and act like it’s a spa.
I apologize to anyone who’s ever been behind me in line at a post office. In my defense, mass mailings take mass postage. In a check in line at Heathrow airport, I timed a guy with one lousy piece of luggage took 5 minutes to check in. That’s an eternity. There’s not 5 minutes worth of things to do at an airport check-in counter. I checked in minutes later. I checked a bag, gave my frequent flyer number and confirmed my aisle seat. The whole thing took just over a minute.
What I taketh from the post office I giveth back at the airport. I tried to tell them, we’re all in this together**
* Butcher? Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention and appeal to any readers who live in places with butchers or any time travelers giving my blog a gander…How about this internet huh?!
**Line from KRS-One song. “I’m still Number One”
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Pickey Picker
I was recently eating pho soup in LA’s most hip, Vietnamese restaurant. Want proof? The restaurant doesn’t have its name displayed on the outside, just a blank white board where one would expect the name to be.
I’m sure this is a tactical move by the proprietors. Save money and keep the local American Apparel wearing residents happy that they go to a place you “just have to know about.” It also keeps cost adverse people like me coming because after, all how much can they charge you when they look like they opened for business that morning? In reality it’s been there for years and customers in essence pay them to keep the ambiance at “street-cred” level. Pretty genius when you think about it. Imagine convincing a girl that costume jewelry was way cool and real gold and diamonds was for squares. What a beautiful world that would be. It could happen too. Oprah, please send out a memo…please…come on Oprah! Leave men with something good to remember you by. If Jay Z can kill throw back jerseys with on line in a song then Oprah can end trips to Jareds.
The Pho Café’s real selling point, as it should be, is the pho. It’s incredibly tasty and at any point you can look down your row (there’s only on line of tables) and see people chomping and slurping way more than they are talking.
When I finally came up for air one of my friends I was dining with offered me a toothpick…from his wallet…not in plastic! My other homie took the toothpick. I declined and instead got a nicely wrapped toothpick from the café’s toothpick cup. My toothpick wielding friend was a bit put off but I can’t put something in my teeth with direct access to my blood line that was in somebody’s wallet. I appreciate my friend’s consideration and I’m floored by his conscientiousness. It’s like he’s a professional eater or something. I once tried to have toothpicks on the ready but I put them in my front pocket and my upper thigh didn’t appreciate being tenderized as I walked. Nor did my cuticles enjoy being jabbed to the point of drawing blood every time I reached into my pocket. So I decided to leave my space between my teeth clearing at the mercy of my dining establishments or until I get home and floss. Maybe wrapped toothpicks in a wallet are the answer. Guess I have to start carrying a wallet now. Baby steps.
Two Quick Side Notes (QSN):
>It’s pronounced Pha. Trust me, it is. And no, I don’t know why they spell it with an O
>The Pho Café comes up on a Google search. I guess it’s a not so hidden gem.
I’m sure this is a tactical move by the proprietors. Save money and keep the local American Apparel wearing residents happy that they go to a place you “just have to know about.” It also keeps cost adverse people like me coming because after, all how much can they charge you when they look like they opened for business that morning? In reality it’s been there for years and customers in essence pay them to keep the ambiance at “street-cred” level. Pretty genius when you think about it. Imagine convincing a girl that costume jewelry was way cool and real gold and diamonds was for squares. What a beautiful world that would be. It could happen too. Oprah, please send out a memo…please…come on Oprah! Leave men with something good to remember you by. If Jay Z can kill throw back jerseys with on line in a song then Oprah can end trips to Jareds.
The Pho Café’s real selling point, as it should be, is the pho. It’s incredibly tasty and at any point you can look down your row (there’s only on line of tables) and see people chomping and slurping way more than they are talking.
When I finally came up for air one of my friends I was dining with offered me a toothpick…from his wallet…not in plastic! My other homie took the toothpick. I declined and instead got a nicely wrapped toothpick from the café’s toothpick cup. My toothpick wielding friend was a bit put off but I can’t put something in my teeth with direct access to my blood line that was in somebody’s wallet. I appreciate my friend’s consideration and I’m floored by his conscientiousness. It’s like he’s a professional eater or something. I once tried to have toothpicks on the ready but I put them in my front pocket and my upper thigh didn’t appreciate being tenderized as I walked. Nor did my cuticles enjoy being jabbed to the point of drawing blood every time I reached into my pocket. So I decided to leave my space between my teeth clearing at the mercy of my dining establishments or until I get home and floss. Maybe wrapped toothpicks in a wallet are the answer. Guess I have to start carrying a wallet now. Baby steps.
Two Quick Side Notes (QSN):
>It’s pronounced Pha. Trust me, it is. And no, I don’t know why they spell it with an O
>The Pho Café comes up on a Google search. I guess it’s a not so hidden gem.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Still Ballin’
So I’m watching TV in my hotel room in Tel Aviv at 3am. If jet lag is indigestion, staying up past 2am on your 1st night in a time zone 10 hours ahead of yours is like eating a chili dog to fix it. There was no need to exacerbate matters; I was sleepy so I thought I better lay my head on my pillow and just relax so as not to wreck the following day’s productivity. Then a European basketball game came on and I looked up and saw Allen Iverson playing for the Turkish team, Besiktas. What?!...So much for the next day’s things to do list. A.I. on TV in Israel? My hands were tied.
Allen Iverson has a reputation, earned or not, of being a ball hog and not a team player. Maybe age has made AI kinder and gentler but from my vantage point in room 1812 he was a total team player. Some might argue that his apparent team first attitude will either be short lived or is the product of his waning ability. Maybe he has no choice but to defer to teammates because the days of him dominating by himself have passed.
One could go on for days speculating but I think the best indicator of who he is and has become is that he’s in Turkey playing basketball! A former all star, 1st ballot NBA Hall of Famer and arguably the best under 6’2” person to ever play is willing to lace up his sneaks and play in a gymnasium the size our elite High Schools play in.
I don’t know if he needs the money but my guess would be that he simply needs to play. There’s no senior basketball tour like there is in golf. Although, I think watching greats in their 40’s play hoop has to be more entertaining than watching guys in their seventies walk around in plaid pants for 3 hours.
A.I. played hard every game. He often played entire games with no breaks. He often played hurt and he did this against people who were taller and weighed more than him. Sure, he was athletically blessed but he still left everything he had on the floor every night.
I usually side with the entertainer and despite our so called egos I have meet and worked with many greats who have tasted fame, seen it run its course but still lace’em up every night and give the people what they want. Be it a stadium, cruise ship, makeshift stage in a Turks and Caicos resort or an old folks recreation room.
Only time can reveal certain things and I think time has shown that A.I. is the ultimate performer and competitor. His Turkish team won. He had 10 points. I spent the next day yawning and eye rubbing but it was all worth it. And I hope when I’m 70 telling jokes on a local channel at 3am someone will watch me and appreciate it.
Allen Iverson has a reputation, earned or not, of being a ball hog and not a team player. Maybe age has made AI kinder and gentler but from my vantage point in room 1812 he was a total team player. Some might argue that his apparent team first attitude will either be short lived or is the product of his waning ability. Maybe he has no choice but to defer to teammates because the days of him dominating by himself have passed.
One could go on for days speculating but I think the best indicator of who he is and has become is that he’s in Turkey playing basketball! A former all star, 1st ballot NBA Hall of Famer and arguably the best under 6’2” person to ever play is willing to lace up his sneaks and play in a gymnasium the size our elite High Schools play in.
I don’t know if he needs the money but my guess would be that he simply needs to play. There’s no senior basketball tour like there is in golf. Although, I think watching greats in their 40’s play hoop has to be more entertaining than watching guys in their seventies walk around in plaid pants for 3 hours.
A.I. played hard every game. He often played entire games with no breaks. He often played hurt and he did this against people who were taller and weighed more than him. Sure, he was athletically blessed but he still left everything he had on the floor every night.
I usually side with the entertainer and despite our so called egos I have meet and worked with many greats who have tasted fame, seen it run its course but still lace’em up every night and give the people what they want. Be it a stadium, cruise ship, makeshift stage in a Turks and Caicos resort or an old folks recreation room.
Only time can reveal certain things and I think time has shown that A.I. is the ultimate performer and competitor. His Turkish team won. He had 10 points. I spent the next day yawning and eye rubbing but it was all worth it. And I hope when I’m 70 telling jokes on a local channel at 3am someone will watch me and appreciate it.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Hebrew Haha
So I met up with a friend of mine who’s an Israeli Stand-up Comic. I went to check out his all-Hebrew show. Watching Stand-up in a language you don’t understand is a neat experiment, especially as a stand-up. I found myself trying to decipher the jokes by tone and body language. Kind of like how an almost blind person can sometimes see shapes, I could see the shapes of the jokes… The old bait and switch, the act out, the rant, comedian in pain over something menial and mundane and of course the beat boxing comedian was particularly easy to understand. Like love, beat boxing is a universal language.
The rhythm of the show was very similar to a show in the US. Without knowing what was said I could tell the guys in the crowd were laughing at edgy things that were either angry or irreverent. The girls were laughing at things that were familiar, energetic and friendly. The comedian “type” was also easy to figure out. The intellect, the party animal, the angry guy were all on display and easy for this non-Hebrew speaker to point out. Not understanding the words seemed to make some things clearer.
Think laughter isn’t contagious? A few times I found myself laughing with the crowd with absolutely no idea what the joke was. I caught myself each time and dialed myself back to “not a fraud”. It’s one thing to not get the joke and still laugh on cue. It’s quite another to laugh when you haven’t the faintest idea what was said. What if he was talking about flogging black people or eating babies but not ironically eating them? It’s possible. It’s not like other countries are as politically correct as we are. Still, I was captivated by the exchange between performer and audience and it really put into focus how much of the crowd’s perception of the performer is based on how they look as opposed to what they say.
The whole experienced reminded me of a friend who’s grandfather did not speak any English but still loved to watch the show “Sanford and Son” I guess “you big dummy!” transcends language.
I’m writing this blog in my hotel room in Tel Aviv watching a German court show. I have no idea what the trial is about but the woman in the yellow shirt sure looks guilty.
This blog brought me back to the time I translated English to English in a NYC laundry mat.
The rhythm of the show was very similar to a show in the US. Without knowing what was said I could tell the guys in the crowd were laughing at edgy things that were either angry or irreverent. The girls were laughing at things that were familiar, energetic and friendly. The comedian “type” was also easy to figure out. The intellect, the party animal, the angry guy were all on display and easy for this non-Hebrew speaker to point out. Not understanding the words seemed to make some things clearer.
Think laughter isn’t contagious? A few times I found myself laughing with the crowd with absolutely no idea what the joke was. I caught myself each time and dialed myself back to “not a fraud”. It’s one thing to not get the joke and still laugh on cue. It’s quite another to laugh when you haven’t the faintest idea what was said. What if he was talking about flogging black people or eating babies but not ironically eating them? It’s possible. It’s not like other countries are as politically correct as we are. Still, I was captivated by the exchange between performer and audience and it really put into focus how much of the crowd’s perception of the performer is based on how they look as opposed to what they say.
The whole experienced reminded me of a friend who’s grandfather did not speak any English but still loved to watch the show “Sanford and Son” I guess “you big dummy!” transcends language.
I’m writing this blog in my hotel room in Tel Aviv watching a German court show. I have no idea what the trial is about but the woman in the yellow shirt sure looks guilty.
This blog brought me back to the time I translated English to English in a NYC laundry mat.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hey Mate!
I’m always tickled by non-white people with English accents. I get giddy and have to suppress the urge to ask them to repeat what they just said. A part of me wants to believe they’re putting on the accent and can break out of it at anytime.
ME: Look, this Asian guy can make himself sound like a bloke. Cool dude. Okay you can just talk regular now. No seriously cut it out…
I could never condone Dr. Moreau type experimentation but how cool would it be to take a Black child to Russia at birth and teach them perfect English…with a Russian accent. And then when he’s 25 drop him off in Brooklyn. Too cruel? Some challenges for him. Pure enjoyment for everyone he encounters.
ME: Look, homey puts Y’s in the middle of words.*
CWRA**: Styop tyeasing me. Vant a Knyuckle SyandWeach?
I don’t suppose this wildly unsophisticated tendency of mine will change anytime soon. I’ve been hearing non-whites with British accents for ten years and just like seeing someone get a pie to the face, it still amuses me. It’s especially egregious coming from someone who had to hear he sounds “white” most of his life.
*The hilarious and perfect mimic of many accents, Elon Gold. Told me the secret to doing a Russian accent is to put Y’s in the middle of words. Try it at home. (eg. Basket Ball in a Russian accent becomes BeYaskyet Byall) Hours of fun. Okay maybe a half hour of fun.
** Child With Russian Accent
This harps back to a little run in I witnessed on the bus.
ME: Look, this Asian guy can make himself sound like a bloke. Cool dude. Okay you can just talk regular now. No seriously cut it out…
I could never condone Dr. Moreau type experimentation but how cool would it be to take a Black child to Russia at birth and teach them perfect English…with a Russian accent. And then when he’s 25 drop him off in Brooklyn. Too cruel? Some challenges for him. Pure enjoyment for everyone he encounters.
ME: Look, homey puts Y’s in the middle of words.*
CWRA**: Styop tyeasing me. Vant a Knyuckle SyandWeach?
I don’t suppose this wildly unsophisticated tendency of mine will change anytime soon. I’ve been hearing non-whites with British accents for ten years and just like seeing someone get a pie to the face, it still amuses me. It’s especially egregious coming from someone who had to hear he sounds “white” most of his life.
*The hilarious and perfect mimic of many accents, Elon Gold. Told me the secret to doing a Russian accent is to put Y’s in the middle of words. Try it at home. (eg. Basket Ball in a Russian accent becomes BeYaskyet Byall) Hours of fun. Okay maybe a half hour of fun.
** Child With Russian Accent
This harps back to a little run in I witnessed on the bus.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Friends in Cosmic Places
Not to be competitive, but I would wager that, unless you’re in a rock band or are a magician, that I know a smidge more odd characters than you. It just comes with the territory. It’s always fun when an acquaintance or friend does something that catapults them unto the odd list or bumps them up higher in the list if they were already on it.
I recently dropped off a friend after a show who had long since held a solid spot on my list of odd people. A red-headed (but more orange), chain smoking comedy booker with a piercing nasally voice and equally piercing inter-personal skills. Still, we get along just fine. Although I questioned his being of this planet when I saw a long centipede looking bug in his hair a while back. The bug was the same burnt orange color that his hair is. He flicked it off when I brought it to his attention but it just took me back to Men in Black. Plus, I don’t think he was sufficiently freaked out that a long slimy bug was in his hair. So for a long time I held a faint suspicion that my friend was not human and in fact just occupied a human shell to do business and blend in until his mother ship returns.
Over time I loosened my belief that my friend who books one-nighter comedy shows in Orange County is actually an under cover extra terrestrial. Why travel across the vast galaxy to book bar shows? Although that would be a pretty convincing cover. So I dropped my friend off recently and he requested I drop him off at a barely lit Los Angeles street corner at 1am with no signs of people, residences or to put it short…life. The alien theory is back in full effect. I think I dropped him off at his portal back to his ship. I Made a U-turn and old red was no where to be seen.
Of course he may simply not want me to know where he lives or maybe wanted to score some drugs before heading to bed but I’m sticking with the alien theory.
I recently dropped off a friend after a show who had long since held a solid spot on my list of odd people. A red-headed (but more orange), chain smoking comedy booker with a piercing nasally voice and equally piercing inter-personal skills. Still, we get along just fine. Although I questioned his being of this planet when I saw a long centipede looking bug in his hair a while back. The bug was the same burnt orange color that his hair is. He flicked it off when I brought it to his attention but it just took me back to Men in Black. Plus, I don’t think he was sufficiently freaked out that a long slimy bug was in his hair. So for a long time I held a faint suspicion that my friend was not human and in fact just occupied a human shell to do business and blend in until his mother ship returns.
Over time I loosened my belief that my friend who books one-nighter comedy shows in Orange County is actually an under cover extra terrestrial. Why travel across the vast galaxy to book bar shows? Although that would be a pretty convincing cover. So I dropped my friend off recently and he requested I drop him off at a barely lit Los Angeles street corner at 1am with no signs of people, residences or to put it short…life. The alien theory is back in full effect. I think I dropped him off at his portal back to his ship. I Made a U-turn and old red was no where to be seen.
Of course he may simply not want me to know where he lives or maybe wanted to score some drugs before heading to bed but I’m sticking with the alien theory.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Controlled Randomness
I experienced another God Wink. While going to get Pho I drove behind a license plate that said AWESM PHO.
1)who has a pho license plate?!
2)what are the odds of them being in front of me while i'm on my way to get pho.
3) this happened miles away from the Pho place in case you're wondering and...
4) it's pronounced Pha....
Check out the last blog I wrote about God tapping people on the shoulder.
God…Semi Colon, Dash, Closed Parenthesis
1)who has a pho license plate?!
2)what are the odds of them being in front of me while i'm on my way to get pho.
3) this happened miles away from the Pho place in case you're wondering and...
4) it's pronounced Pha....
Check out the last blog I wrote about God tapping people on the shoulder.
God…Semi Colon, Dash, Closed Parenthesis
Friday, September 03, 2010
Leave The World More Slippery Than You Found it.
I find advertisements for general products quite amusing. Ads that don't ask the listener to buy anything from a specific company but rather to remember that the general product exists. The most notable being the cotton, milk and egg campaigns. Not necessarily in that order though. And who could forget the “other white meat.” (Hopefully that will save me from getting an angry letter from the Pork people.)
In reality, many general products have organizations charged with the task of promoting said product. I recently stumbled upon an ad in a magazine promoting synthetic oil. Ah yes synthetic oil has been there for us hasn't it? From babies taking 1st steps to birthday parties to prom nights, synthetic oil was there every step of the way making sure the engine in our cars kept running. It's integral not only to our happiness but dare I say, our existence.
Okay, the ad was for one synthetic oil company but there was no clear push to sell it so it felt like a general synthetic oil shout out. There was just a write up on the guy who “Changed lubrication History.” I think the editors of the Delta Sky magazine give its readers too much credit. Or this reader at least. Why not engine history or machine history? As far as words go “lubrication” is right up there with “moist.” Both take Gandhi like control to hear and not let out an internal chuckle or feel a little grossed out.
I can't imagine many people will see the ad, then run out and buy Amsoil Synthetic oil. They might giggle or write a blog but how many people on a plane need to deplane and haul ass to the synthetic oil store. I guess if the need for it ever does come up, I will call upon the company spawned by the father of synthetic lube, I guess.
In reality, many general products have organizations charged with the task of promoting said product. I recently stumbled upon an ad in a magazine promoting synthetic oil. Ah yes synthetic oil has been there for us hasn't it? From babies taking 1st steps to birthday parties to prom nights, synthetic oil was there every step of the way making sure the engine in our cars kept running. It's integral not only to our happiness but dare I say, our existence.
Okay, the ad was for one synthetic oil company but there was no clear push to sell it so it felt like a general synthetic oil shout out. There was just a write up on the guy who “Changed lubrication History.” I think the editors of the Delta Sky magazine give its readers too much credit. Or this reader at least. Why not engine history or machine history? As far as words go “lubrication” is right up there with “moist.” Both take Gandhi like control to hear and not let out an internal chuckle or feel a little grossed out.
I can't imagine many people will see the ad, then run out and buy Amsoil Synthetic oil. They might giggle or write a blog but how many people on a plane need to deplane and haul ass to the synthetic oil store. I guess if the need for it ever does come up, I will call upon the company spawned by the father of synthetic lube, I guess.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Waiting in Memphis
I recently found myself in Memphis, in front of a cash register in Krystals, waiting to be served. Krystals is basically White Castle south. And much like White Castle, you would have no good reason to go there before 10pm. I was on a late night run with my cousins. We simply needed some sustenance before bedding down for the night. They opted to go to the Mcdonald's on the other side of the parking lot. I wanted those sweet White Castle indulgences they call burgers, but Krystals would have to do.
The vibe was extra ghetto. So much that the lime green Cadillac in the parking lot barely stood out. Separating from my two female cousins, even if though we were only a small parking lot away, seemed like a major risk. And the cop car parked two spots away from the Sprite can Caddy produced from me a smirk but not sigh of relief.
So I wanted to quickly make my tiny burgers run and get back to my kin. There was no line in Krystals but I quickly could tell that getting out of there quickly was unlikely. A woman stood at the register counting money. It was a minute before she looked up. I thought, “okay, she didn't want to lose count but now that that's done...”
The thought was cut off by her barking an order to Keisha somewhere in the back to clock in and man the register. Mind you there were 3 other girls visible and not working. Well, To be accurate one was kind of sweeping but I wouldn't look for her on the 2012 curling team. Fine maybe these other girls aren't train on the register... So another few minutes passed while I waited for Keisha to clock in while me and four idle workers looked at each other like we were all stupid.
Finally Keisha emerges to take my order. The catch? She's wet! I'm serious. Her face and hands are wet. Oh Hell no! Like maybe she came straight from her job at Water World. I've been waiting almost 5 minutes to order, you might as well take an extra 20 seconds and towel off. The health inspection implications are endless.
I know some of you doubted me that the vibe was ghetto. Still doubt me? The burgers were pretty good by the way. Can't let a little condensation and trifling ways come between me and my bite sized pieces of heaven.
The vibe was extra ghetto. So much that the lime green Cadillac in the parking lot barely stood out. Separating from my two female cousins, even if though we were only a small parking lot away, seemed like a major risk. And the cop car parked two spots away from the Sprite can Caddy produced from me a smirk but not sigh of relief.
So I wanted to quickly make my tiny burgers run and get back to my kin. There was no line in Krystals but I quickly could tell that getting out of there quickly was unlikely. A woman stood at the register counting money. It was a minute before she looked up. I thought, “okay, she didn't want to lose count but now that that's done...”
The thought was cut off by her barking an order to Keisha somewhere in the back to clock in and man the register. Mind you there were 3 other girls visible and not working. Well, To be accurate one was kind of sweeping but I wouldn't look for her on the 2012 curling team. Fine maybe these other girls aren't train on the register... So another few minutes passed while I waited for Keisha to clock in while me and four idle workers looked at each other like we were all stupid.
Finally Keisha emerges to take my order. The catch? She's wet! I'm serious. Her face and hands are wet. Oh Hell no! Like maybe she came straight from her job at Water World. I've been waiting almost 5 minutes to order, you might as well take an extra 20 seconds and towel off. The health inspection implications are endless.
I know some of you doubted me that the vibe was ghetto. Still doubt me? The burgers were pretty good by the way. Can't let a little condensation and trifling ways come between me and my bite sized pieces of heaven.
Monday, August 16, 2010
What Up Oprah!
I have long since been through with rappers talking about how they charter planes. Really? And not only do they charter planes it's usually a G4 that your favorite rapper brags about hoping on with the same impunity that you display when you jump on the Manhattan bound R train. (Picadilly Line for my London crew :-) The money talk is a real drag.
But along comes a song about money, so catchy and so campy that you have no choice but to like it. I love the 'billionaire' song so much because it captures people's rich ambitions...but not really. Even when I sing it my mouth defaults to saying millionaire. Wanting to be a billionaire is like wanting to be a superhero. It's okay to dream about but too far fetched to stress about when you absolutely never become one.
The fact that the singer wants to be a billionaire so “freakin” bad suggests the singer knows the whole thing is a little silly. And that's enough for me to give him a pass. It's almost like he's singing about being a gazillionaire. Just a guy with a few free minutes playing the “what-if” game. No harm in that as long as he dusts himself off at some point and goes about his daily chores. Lawns don't cut themselves.
Every time he says “What Up Oprah!”, I giggle. It's pitch perfect irreverence. Imagine being so rich that you can shout out Oprah like she's your local skateboarder. It would be like meeting Jesus and giving him a pound while saying “What you tryin' to get in to Lord?”
The main reason for being cool with it all is the fact that Travis McCoy raps about giving the money away as opposed to making haters nauseous. (Haters must have the weakest stomachs)
I just hope the album version doesn't have “effin bad” instead of “freakin' bad” That would tarnish the whole listening experience.
What would yo do with a billion freakin' dollars?
My friend Hasan has a different opinion of my latest guilty pleasure:
Btw: the greatest hip-hop entertainer of all time flys coach...sort of.
Billionaire song By Bruno Mars and Travis McCoy
But along comes a song about money, so catchy and so campy that you have no choice but to like it. I love the 'billionaire' song so much because it captures people's rich ambitions...but not really. Even when I sing it my mouth defaults to saying millionaire. Wanting to be a billionaire is like wanting to be a superhero. It's okay to dream about but too far fetched to stress about when you absolutely never become one.
The fact that the singer wants to be a billionaire so “freakin” bad suggests the singer knows the whole thing is a little silly. And that's enough for me to give him a pass. It's almost like he's singing about being a gazillionaire. Just a guy with a few free minutes playing the “what-if” game. No harm in that as long as he dusts himself off at some point and goes about his daily chores. Lawns don't cut themselves.
Every time he says “What Up Oprah!”, I giggle. It's pitch perfect irreverence. Imagine being so rich that you can shout out Oprah like she's your local skateboarder. It would be like meeting Jesus and giving him a pound while saying “What you tryin' to get in to Lord?”
The main reason for being cool with it all is the fact that Travis McCoy raps about giving the money away as opposed to making haters nauseous. (Haters must have the weakest stomachs)
I just hope the album version doesn't have “effin bad” instead of “freakin' bad” That would tarnish the whole listening experience.
What would yo do with a billion freakin' dollars?
My friend Hasan has a different opinion of my latest guilty pleasure:
Btw: the greatest hip-hop entertainer of all time flys coach...sort of.
Billionaire song By Bruno Mars and Travis McCoy
Thursday, August 05, 2010
The 1st Apple
I was on a train from Edinburgh, Scotland to London. We stopped in York, same York whose namesake is my hometown. I was tempted to get off and tour Old York but time and the cost of same day train tickets stopped me from disembarking in the York old.
From the looks of it, from my seat on the train, New York is quite a departure from Old York. The sequel is usually not as good but I think York Part II is a better watch. I think it's fair to say that New York could be called New and Improved York. I wonder if the people of York derive any pride from the fact that they're name spawned, arguably, the best city in the world. Or maybe they're bummed by the fact that New York has taken their name and really really ran with it. I think I would kinda root for a guy named New Dwayne, even if there was no relation. Then again if New Dwayne found the cure for Cancer or something, I could see it getting annoying having people ask me if New Dwayne was named after me.
ME: Yes, New Dwayne was named after me. Yes he cured Cancer. Yes that is amazing...but I write a blog damnit!
New York used to be called New Amsterdam...(down at the new Amsterdam. Staring at this yellow haired girl. Mr Jones Strikes up a conversation..*) A few years ago I found myself in Amsterdam and I was able to go through the original Harlem and the original Brooklyn. I definitely put my mental lighters up.
Perhaps we will discover new planets and build new cities and one of those cities could be named after my city. “Welcome To New New York.” And if we name a city after that city it could be New New New York. Good times. Do people in Mexico have a special place in their hearts for New Mexico?
An argument for York over New York from the York tourist board. How cute. Plus a little New York/York history lesson.
* Lyric from Counting Crows song “Mr Jones”, one of my top 3 pop songs of the nineties.
From the looks of it, from my seat on the train, New York is quite a departure from Old York. The sequel is usually not as good but I think York Part II is a better watch. I think it's fair to say that New York could be called New and Improved York. I wonder if the people of York derive any pride from the fact that they're name spawned, arguably, the best city in the world. Or maybe they're bummed by the fact that New York has taken their name and really really ran with it. I think I would kinda root for a guy named New Dwayne, even if there was no relation. Then again if New Dwayne found the cure for Cancer or something, I could see it getting annoying having people ask me if New Dwayne was named after me.
ME: Yes, New Dwayne was named after me. Yes he cured Cancer. Yes that is amazing...but I write a blog damnit!
New York used to be called New Amsterdam...(down at the new Amsterdam. Staring at this yellow haired girl. Mr Jones Strikes up a conversation..*) A few years ago I found myself in Amsterdam and I was able to go through the original Harlem and the original Brooklyn. I definitely put my mental lighters up.
Perhaps we will discover new planets and build new cities and one of those cities could be named after my city. “Welcome To New New York.” And if we name a city after that city it could be New New New York. Good times. Do people in Mexico have a special place in their hearts for New Mexico?
An argument for York over New York from the York tourist board. How cute. Plus a little New York/York history lesson.
* Lyric from Counting Crows song “Mr Jones”, one of my top 3 pop songs of the nineties.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Can't Spell South Without The "Tea"
I recently wrote a blog about the ubiquitousness of Tea in England. Not that I tested this, but I wouldn't be surprised if one could order a cup of tea at a chicken fight in England. The hard part would be finding the chicken fight. Once found however, no one would blink as you put 20 on the fowl in red and ordered an English Breakfast, heavy on the sugar.
I was initially comparing the acquisition of tea in England to the same conquest in New York or Los Angeles. Tea time in the South though is about as frequent as Haley's Comet sightings. I never knew how good I had it in La La Land. I was in Oklahoma and almost all of my tea requests were met with a confused look. As if I had actually inquired about a chicken fight.
I could not even get tea in Mcdonalds...during breakfast! I found them not carrying tea to be egregious. I found them acting like I was the weird one to expect them to carry tea to be down right silly. You serve coffee so the ability to heat water is in place. Now dip some leaves in that hot water instead of coffee beans. See Mcdonalds in Oklahoma, That wasn't hard now was it?
The profit margin on tea must be astronomical. Up to 2 dollars a cup?! I can buy a garbage bag full of tea bags for a dollar. Every cup they would sell would basically pay for all their tea inventory. I think that math precipitates all food establishments keeping a box of tea around for the occasional non-coffee warm beverage seeker.
After some thought, a more sinister explanation for my tea woes came into focus. Maybe the places carry tea but my servers were either too lazy or judgmental to whip me up a cup. Whatever the case I know I'm not weird or difficult when a country with a currency way stronger than ours chooses tea as their national drink. Cheers mate...sip...sip.
I was initially comparing the acquisition of tea in England to the same conquest in New York or Los Angeles. Tea time in the South though is about as frequent as Haley's Comet sightings. I never knew how good I had it in La La Land. I was in Oklahoma and almost all of my tea requests were met with a confused look. As if I had actually inquired about a chicken fight.
I could not even get tea in Mcdonalds...during breakfast! I found them not carrying tea to be egregious. I found them acting like I was the weird one to expect them to carry tea to be down right silly. You serve coffee so the ability to heat water is in place. Now dip some leaves in that hot water instead of coffee beans. See Mcdonalds in Oklahoma, That wasn't hard now was it?
The profit margin on tea must be astronomical. Up to 2 dollars a cup?! I can buy a garbage bag full of tea bags for a dollar. Every cup they would sell would basically pay for all their tea inventory. I think that math precipitates all food establishments keeping a box of tea around for the occasional non-coffee warm beverage seeker.
After some thought, a more sinister explanation for my tea woes came into focus. Maybe the places carry tea but my servers were either too lazy or judgmental to whip me up a cup. Whatever the case I know I'm not weird or difficult when a country with a currency way stronger than ours chooses tea as their national drink. Cheers mate...sip...sip.
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