You Don't Get to Pick The Damn Slice, Bitch!

Despite finding myself crankier and more short-tempered as I get older and often wishing for a more peaceful quiet existence far from the maddening crowds of New York City, I can't seem to leave.

Sometimes I even think about moving to the 'burbs, or even worse - the South!  Yikes!  But the flavor - nasty as it is sometimes - keeps me here.

Case in point:  on a particularly hot and nasty July afternoon I was making my way from one thankless underpaying shift at a job I was too good for, to another slightly-less gratifying gig.  As I tended to do at that time, due to the abject poverty that working these two wonderful jobs subjected me to, I stopped at 2 Bros. Pizza on Broadway in Midtown to get "lunch".

This particular branch of the 2 Bros. chain was in the midst of a price war with King Pizza - a considerably more grungy establishment next door to it.  While the other 2 Bros. branches were charging the usual $2.75 for 2 slices of pizza and a can of soda, this branch had the super sizzlin' summer deal of $2.25 to counter King's undercutting price of $2.50.

As a person not in a position to afford food fit for human consumption, of course I was deeply drawn to this establishment every single day of that very hot July.  Despite lines that stretched to the corner, inside-the-store temperatures that made in unnecessary to heat the pizza ovens, and less-than-warm service from the minimum-wage counter servers, I was getting some much needed nutrition - or at least I was stopping my belly from rumbling while I worked the room at EC English.

I was on one of those extra-long lines in there one day when I decided that life couldn't possibly suck more.  Here I was, a well-educated pseudo-intellectual writer/teacher/would-be entrepreneur, scurrying through a sweat maze of grease and homeless diners in the greatest city in the world. I was just another rat in the race.  Sad.  I had to get out of this place!

But then, something happened.  I saw "Shaquilana".  I have no idea what her name was, but I like to think of her as a Shaquilana.  Anyway, Shaquilana was standing about 3 people in front of me on line just as I was getting within the 15-minute-wait zone.  She was radient.  She wasn't sweating at all and seemed totally at peace with her environment.  It was like she didn't even smell the overflowing garbage cans or the homeless diners who hadn't changed their adult diapers in days.  She stood there, filing her long bedazzling polychromatic nails while casually eying the pizza slices behind the plexiglass counter.  She did this with such an air of ease that it made me wonder, "what's going to happen when she gets to the cashier?"

You see, the 20-something cashier - let's call her "Yolanda" - though, again, I never knew her actual name - was what laymen would call a big ol' bag-o-bitch.  As a veteran line waiter-oner of this establishment, however, I preferred to think of her as a person with a difficult thankless job who just happened to have a very unpleasant personality.

I, personally, never made direct eye contact with Yolanda.  She projected a very angry tone whenever she announced the tally: "Two-twenny-fai, NEXT!", and so I was sort of terrified of asking her any questions or speaking or even...looking at her.

At this point in time, Yolanda and I had a well-established relationship and despite never speaking to her, I felt I knew her well - and I knew that she was not going to like Shaquilana.

I stood for the next 12 minutes or so, entranced by my musings about what interaction was to come. I sensed that there would be a slight dislike between the two women and possibly a rude remark or two, but it turned out to be much better.

When Shaquelana got the point where she was facing Yolanda, she should already have spoken to one of the Mexican pizza-oven attendants who slapped the undercooked slices of pizza onto a flimsy paper plate at the customer's request.  But Shaquelana was new here.  She simply didn't know. However, it wasn't just the fact that Shaquelana's didn't order properly that caused Yolanda to stare deeply into Shaquelana's ear, it was also the fact that Shaquelana was not making face-to-face contact with Yolanda.  Shaquelana was looking at her smart phone - conveying the sense that she was too busy to look at Yolanda.

Shaquelana gestured toward the pizza with her free hand and said, "just one".

At that moment, I think every man on the line who had been eating here for more than a couple of days, became very still and silent.

"One what?" - Yolanda patiently inquired.

"One slice.  You sell something else?"

Yolanda puffed away the dark hair from her brow and her Mexican cohort handed her a grease-soaked paper plate with a particularly gnarly looking slice on it.

"Wait, hold up.  Na-na-na-no!  Not that one."
--Shaquilana started tapping one of her shiny multi-colored nails on the plexiglass in front of the pies.
"I want that one.  Yeah.  Gimme that one on the lef".

"It's a DOLLA!" shouted Yolanda.

With that, Shaquilana unrolled a dollar bill and slapped it on Yolanda's hand and Yolanda handed her the same greasy slice she had before.

This is when I finally saw Shaquilana lose her cool.  She dropped the slice back on the counter and told Yolanda what time it was.

"I just told you I don't want this nasty ass slice.  I want that one o'er there.  I am a payin' customer and I want that one! That one!".

--"This shit's a dollar, OK? So you don't get to pick the damn slice, bitch!  You can't pick and choose whatever you want and you take what we give you!  That's how this works. (Yoanda held on to the S in 'works' just long enough to make her point.) If you don't like it you can take your damn dollar and stick it up your ass and get off my damn line."

Shaquilana was briefly silent and eerily still.

"Why are you talkin' to me like that?  You think you can talk to me like that because I'm black?  Is that what you think?"

--"Yes, I am talking to you like that because you're black.  You are a reggala Sherlock."

Apparently, that remark got Shaquilana her slice for free - the better one too.

I could have used a free slice but I didn't think I wanted to anger Yolanda twice in one day, so I let it go and enjoyed the nasty slice Shaquilana didn't take. It was fine. It's a dollar slice. I get it.

Anyway, that's why I need to be here in New York sometimes. We keep it real here.

Where's That Smell Coming From?

As a native New Yorker, I have built up a significant tolerance to foul smells. 

While visitors and the uninitiated walk through the streets of Chinatown and Midtown pinching their noses, I suck in the "freshness" of the New York air without much pause.  But even I have a low tolerance for scat odors.  I mean, this is one of the most sophisticated cities in the world.  Why do I need to smell anyone else's poo?  Especially in public.

Well, no matter how much I think it should happen, people do crap the subway car from time to time...or at least their pants while in the subway.  It tends to be homeless and/or people who are severely mentally ill.

If a subway rider (or sleeper) has soiled himself publicly (it's usually a he), in the afternoon when there is no rush-hour congestion in the subway, most olfactory-enabled riders simply move to another car and it's all goodish.  But when this kind of offense occurs during rush hour, people are forced to just sit or stand there and deal with it.  Ooh.  That can be hard to do.

The other day, I was in this unfortunate circumstance.  It was 8:15 AM and the subway was packed.  I was lucky to find a sliver of space to squeeze into on the 8:15 train and wasn't about to let some poo make me late for work. 

The smell hit me right smack in the face, almost dividing my nose directly down the middle - it was that awful.  Of course I did my due diligence and scoffed and hissed aloud, looking around at my neighbors with a combination of disdain for their potential participation in the offensive odor, sympathy for their co-suffering at the hands of the maniac who made this stink, and horror to make it clear I was not involved in the smell.

I had only made it about seven inches through the door when I entered the subway on 96th Street.  As I stood, squished between an uncountable mass of coat-wearing, brief-case holding 9-to-5ers, I decided that I had to move across the subway car somehow, to further investigate where this smell was coming from and possibly see if the air were a few whiffs lighter on the other side of the car.

I managed to find a 1-foot clearing where I could actually stand upright and find a piece of poll to wrap a finger or two around.  Bliss.

Unfortunately, when I stood upright, I actually found myself in an even more pungent whiffing spot. Lucky me.  Life in New York just doesn't get better.

Anyway, by this time, the subway had pulled into the 86th Street station where a few passengers exited and a few got on - one of whom was a middle-aged lawyerly-looking matron who found herself at my side just as she seemed to notice the odor that was already such a significant part of everyone else's day.

Our eyes met as her accusing stare rested upon my face.  In my periphery I saw her raised nose pointing at my head as she casually walked back to the door she had entered through.

What a bitch.

In Yo' Face!

The first time I had been back to Estonia after the cold war ended, I was surprised to see how much it had changed.  The old feeling that you were walking around in a black and white movie had been erased by modernity - for the most part.  As Estonians are not Americans - and I, by no means, believe they should be - their old habits and mores continue to prevail, which is nice.  That's one of the things that keeps Estonia interesting.

Since this little charming country is so unknown to most of the uninformed masses of the universe, my sister Mindy and I decided to recruit a few "others" to come back to the old country for a spell.  Mindy had a friend - a teacher of small children, who had a sister - a born-again mother of two, both of whom were looking for a little adventure.  For good measure and so that I wouldn't be drowning in their estrogen, we took along my cousin Jingo, the scientist.  Woo hoo!

Now, in the old country we had lots of fun visiting the sights and eating pork, but one particular day, we visited the house of the son of one of my father's old friends.  It seemed like a perfectly innocent way to get to know some real Estonians and to show our American friends how Estonians socialize.

Boy, did we show 'em.

After some light conversation and a bowl of "vorstid", our host, let's call him Jaan, told us that he wanted to share the Estonian traditional sauna with us, or "sow-nah" as they call it.  This seemingly innocent offer was greeted enthusiastically with a "sure", and "why not" by all...even the Born-again.  Why wouldn't it be, right?  I mean, Americans sometimes don't think about the origins of such things and of how they do things in Rome, if you know what I mean.

"So, are we going to do boys and girls together or just girls and then boys?", asked Jaan with a smirk.

Janet, the teacher friend of my sister, seemed confused.  "Why do we need to go just girls and then boys"?

I chimed in, "well, I just want to make it clear, that Mindy and I do not make a habit of hanging out in the nude together.  I have never seen her naked, nor do I want to and I'm pretty sure that is mutual.  My family doesn't roll like that."

"Ha!  You're funny", Jaan shot back.  "OK, so you girls go in now while I get some more wood for the 'sow-na'.  We have traditional wood 'sow-na' in my house!"

With that, he took off and the girls all got into their bathing suits (except Jaan's wife who skipped the suit and opted to cover her nakedness with a simple white towel) while Jingo and I waited in the dining area and Jaan disappeared to go get wood.

Within a minute, the girls were all in the roomy sauna absorbing the heat while Jaan came back to the dining room stark butt-ass nekid!  (At least the only wood he had was for the sauna heater.) Jingo and I were slightly taken aback as he threw us a couple of towels and marched his naked ass toward the sauna.

"I hope he's not going to go in there like that with Mindy and the girls!", said Jingo.

"I think he already has", I said, fully expecting the girls to come screaming out of the sauna in the next five seconds.

Jingo and I waited for the outpouring.  Five, four, three, two, one....nada.

"What's going on?"

"Mindy must be having a heart attack."  We'd better go in.

Being culturally sensitive, we stripped down, but toweled up and entered the sauna to find:

Jaan, scrunched naked in the corner next to his towel-clad wife while Mindy and Janet sat on the other side grinning.  The Born-again was visibly terrified, shaking in the other corner, looking down.

"It's hot in here", I chimed in, in order to break the awkwardest silence ever.

"Now dat we have made sweat, we should go on the porch and drink some beers!"

The Born-again, seemed relieved when Jaan said that. I think she hoped "things" would get back to normal, or at least back in someone's pants.

Little did she know...what she had just been through was just the glaze on the donut.      

As we all piled outside to enjoy the breeze, Jaan lead the way with us following his behind.  Once we had all sat on the chairs, conveniently pre-arranged in a circle, Jaan strutted up to the Born-again, penis leading the way, to ask her first.  "Would you like beer or some other beverage?"

The Born-again was shivering.  Not from the cold, but from the penis.

"No, I'm good, th-th-thanks."

His junk was no less than 10 inches from her face before he turned away and went to the kitchen to get the beers.

He came back and distributed them, much to the amusement or discomfort of the group members, depending on the person.  Sensing how fragile and uncomfortable the Born-again was, Jaan took the seat directly across from her so she could get the best possible view of his special purpose.

Sometimes I feel slightly ashamed of myself for not defending the poor Born-again, but then I think, "Naa."

The Supreme Court of the United States: Addressing the Really Important Stuff

In reflecting on today's nomination of Elena Kagan to the United States' judicial branch, I can't help but wonder: Why are there no attractive people on the Supreme Court?

Some Republicans were concerned that she could be too wishy-washy and some Democrats that she might be too traditional. Others worry that her lack of judicial experience will hamper her ability to be an effective judge. The fact that she will complete the Harvard-Yale domination of the Supreme Court is also a point of concern for some Obamasnobbery watchers; while still others worry that her ostensible lesbianism could factor into her decisions as a judge in our highest court.

I say, these concerns are boring. Leave them to those with minds for such hoity-toity trepidations. I speak for the common concerns of the people, I believe, when I say that her flagrant unattractiveness is the greatest offense to common sense. She clearly has no sense of hair, which is of course, a staple of womanhood. How can we have this chick making decisions for the whole country when she can't even choose a good hair dresser. Maybe it's a lesbian thing. They often seem to have intentionally bad hairdos. I suppose her face is beyond her control and I can't say anything about her clothes because, I don't think public service pays that well and it would be unfair. I only wish to judge her physically, as that is what's really important.

It's troubling to think that our trio of "Supremes" won't look anything like Diana Ross and those other two, but more like the Three Stooges: Larry, Mo and Curly replaced by Ruth, Sonia & Elena. I think Elena's apparent "female"-pattern baldness would put her in as the "Curly" of the group. Sonia is the "Larry" and Ruth, with her dark sephardicism, is clearly the Mo of the group.

All I ask is: Why can't we have a hot chick on the court? I'd be so much more likely to watch C-Span. I really hope the next president wises up and nominates the way an Italian citizen or a French president might. Those Europeans really seem to know what they're doing. Better still, the South Americans! As the famous Brazilian poet, Vinicius de Moraes, once said, "The ugly ones will forgive me, but beauty is fundamental."

Something to think about, Obama!!!

A List of Ugly People I Look Like

I've been feeling uninspired lately with regard to this blog. Today, however, a clerk at the local Gourmet Garage inspired me - in a bad way - to ponder the list of unattractive celebrities that I've been compared to over the years.

I'm not the only person this happens to, and for that reason, I'd love to hear from anyone else who's got a list like mine.

I used to work as a teacher of ESL - to foreign students who are notoriously skilled insulters. A couple of the dudes on my list are actually comparisons made by ex students. By far the best insult/compliment I have ever heard was, unfortunately, not directed at me but at a female colleague who was told, in quite an upbeat tone, that she looked like Chelsea Clinton. My reaction was to tell the speaker that Chelsea Clinton was widely known to look like a Cabbage Patch doll and that they are generally thought of us pretty fugly.

The same student who accidentally insulted my colleague then went on to add that I looked just like Vincent Gallo.  That confused me since Vincent Gallo has dark hair and, well...looks nothing like me.  When I told this student that Gallo looked like a heroine addict and that I didn't think it was a comparison that he should vocalize, he responded, "but Vincent Gallo is cerebrity", as if simply being famous made it OK to be ugly.

Anyhow, here's my list, starting with the person the Gourmet Garage beeotch told me I looked like today:

1. Conan O'Brien
2. Vincent Gallo
3. Woody Harrelson
4. Doogie Howser, MD (this one came from an old Italian lady who actually wanted my autograph!)
5. Woody Harrelson (I mention him again because I get him the most and also find it to be quite annoying.)

Who is your favorite ugly celebrity look-alike?

Gerty Goes Shopping

Gerty, like most women, loves to shop. However, Gerty is no ordinary shopper. You see...she's a compulsive purchaser of things that she can't afford. That in itself is not unusual. This is America and this country thrives on consumer overspending, does it not? Gerty, being a proud American patriot, does her part for her country in this respect, does she not? Yes and no. She does her patriotic overspending duty but part of what makes this ritual work for the US of A is that these thriftless wonders generally pay the bills they accumulate. Gerty don't play 'dat.

Gerty loves to buy very overpriced items - things that are as costly as they are useless - pretty much anything they sell on an infomercial. I once visited Gery's apartment to find that it was impossible to enter due the the volume of exercise equipment that she'd purchased from informercials she'd watched while "working" from home over a period of two months. She's the first to admit she has a bit of a struggle with her weight - especially around the mid section. So why not buy an Abdominizer? When it became clear that the Abdominizer was not as self-acting as the infomercial had depicted it to be, she realized that it would not work for her. I understand and I think we all can. After all, if you pay $500 dollars plus shipping and handling for a machine to melt your abs, the fat should melt off as soon as you turn over your credit card number, right? So when the Abdominizer failed to do what it claimed, she went for the Roller Abs. This promised to be easy. It was billed as not just "low impact" but "NO impact"! Who needs impact when they are trying to lose weight? One of the reasons we got overweight in the first place was because we're lazy and exercise equipment that actually requires movement or impact just doesn't work for people of our ilk. The trouble is...Gerty got this contraption with it's huge moving handles and extended foot pedals and it just was way too bulky. It looked much smaller on the sound stage in the infomercial. What the heck?
Next she decided to go smaller and get a couple of items that were not going to take up as much space: the Z-Abber and the "Ab Wheel". The Z-abber was Gerty's favorite because it required virtually no effort at all to use. Of course, it sent electric shocks through her body at a constant rate of 15 per minute, which may or may not have caused the benign tumor to grow to its current enormity within her tummy area, rendering the whole ab-shaping venture a complete waste of time. The Ab Wheel just hurt her knees, so that was that!

Were Gerty more entrepreneurial, she might have opened an ab studio in her living room, but that was not to happen. Instead, she just put all that crap in an air-conditioned storage unit in Westchester.

Artistic License Revoked

I consider myself to be somewhat of an artist. I know writing is not a performing art but that doesn't mean that I don't want an audience for my "art". Obviously, I want people to read most of what I write; however, I think it goes without saying that I don't want a mass audience to read my private texts or e-mails and I don't want anyone to read my private journal. There are things, like this blog, which are meant to be read by a wide audience. Keeping that in mind, I make an effort to entertain or to educate or at least to philosophize.

Perhaps I've been cursed with a very banal view of art. Maybe I'm dense and I don't understand more complex artistic expression, but I am just now in a state of expressive discombobulation because I just accidentally watched a documentary on one of those pot-smoker's movie channel's like Sundance or IFC...I really don't even know the difference sometimes. Anyway, I saw a documentary about a Japanese "dancer" named, Oguri. Apparently he got a whole film crew, co-dancers (or whatever they're called), and, perhaps most amazingly, an audience to schlep through the desert for several days, to enact some sort of spasmodic poky dance. I think it was edited down to about three minutes in the documentary, as that's all a TV audience could possibly bear - even while high. It seems that Mr. Oguri was interpreting the movement of the desert plant life via dance. Since desert plant life doesn't move very much, neither does he. Since desert plant life is dry and crusty, so is he.

My problem with the whole thing is two-fold. The first being that I am just annoyed that ten or so seemingly healthy human beings who could be out in the world doing some good by, you know, maybe working on a farm or tending to the sick, are plodding through the desert to perform an insipid dance for nearly no one (understandably) and spending at least a few dollars of someone's money to do this. Why? What's the point? The whole thing seems very self-indulgent. My other, perhaps bigger problem with this is that it frustrates me when I think that I've been writing plays and screenplays for years and no one has been willing to spend the money to help bring my work to life. I know it might not be perfect but at least I don't want to bring my audience out to the middle of nowhere and put their lives in danger just to listen and watch.

Maybe I'm just jealous.