Breaking news from the Los Angeles Times. What, you wanted to read stuff written by journalists? Christ, grandma, you know we've got electricity and smoothie bars these days. Keep checking back for more fitness band news updates. This is probably a spoiler alert, but tomorrow three guys in Sacramento get erections!
Why don't men empower themselves by showing off their penises?
It seems like just a few years ago both sexes were ashamed of their bodies. They thought flesh was a tool of the devil and a doorway to sin, which subsequent TV movies and Prince records seemed to confirm. But then women took a giant leap forward with the suffragette movement. Thousands of determined young women fought and suffered and went to jail solely for the right to bounce their tatas in our face. They tore open their high-necked crinoline petticoats and shook their Jello pillows and said, "THESE ARE MY BOOBS AND I WILL NOT BE ASHAMED, ESPECIALLY IF YOU STICK DOLLAR BILLS IN BETWEEN THEM!"
Just think -- what a radical notion! It totally transformed the world. That was the heterosexual version of Stonewall, except instead of equal rights now women have dresses held on with double-stick tape. Just imagine what the world would be like without this grass-roots activism! I don't know about you, but my life would have been a hollow shell without the underboob and sideboob trends. Baywatch would have been a show about a has-been German singer with muffin-top.
Men, though, didn't have an equivalent movement. Ironically, it's because they were too busy working! They didn't have time to burn their underwear and chant slogans, or parade back and forth down Main Street with their proud penises straining at cantilevered pants. Their shame remains intact up until today, which explains why despite my fervent emails Jockey still hasn't added bungee cords or jelly pouches to their underwear. While women's red-carpet costumes frequently consist of two post-its and a Dorito, men still hide their best parts in shame, and not just the bent or pencil-dicked ones. They have to console themselves with thoughts like God made them and God doesn't make ugly, or at least they're 94% of the employees at Facebook. Is that just a wrinkle or is Idris Elba happy to see me? I don't even need to see the picture to tell you what the answer is.
Of course, this dark cloud isn't without its silver lining. I speak, of course, of Jon Hamm, who is doing what Rosa Parks would have done if she'd had a huge rod and giant sack. He proudly and unashamedly shows off his genitalia to a chorus of offended catcalls. But let's make this perfectly clear: His penis isn't the problem, though if he's like me there are six-week periods where it is. No, it's the bitter people looking at it. (Though even some on our side quibble that he could take a stronger stand. He seems reluctant to say "I'm proud of my penis!" let alone when he has a drip spot on the front of his pants.)
So while there is a faint hint of sunrise on the horizon, we need to face reality. We men will have to bow to penis shame for many years to come, contenting ourselves by showing off intellect and initiative and drive and determination and other traits you can't fake even if you suck off a plastic surgeon. I personally think there won't be full equality between the sexes until we turn on the VMAs and say, "Holy God, would you please get all of those giant dicks out of my face?" Which sadly won't be happening any time soon.
According to TMZ, Mariah Carrey and Nick Cannon are filing for divorce. They say she's mad that he publicly admitted he had sex with Kim Kardashian, but a little bird tells me the split is over the names they gave their kids. They went with Nick's picks, Moroccan and Monroe, but Mariah never forgave him for ignoring her choices, Yes ... It's the Diva Sharlamayne Marie and Introducing Me I Used To Be A Baby Mm-hmm.
The road was very quiet, like nobody else had found it either. There weren't any signs, or houses, or cars -- just trees on both sides and wide, clean sidewalks. As I continued walking it sloped uphill as it curved and gave me a nice view of the city.
I'd only been walking about ten minutes when I saw a brightly-lit building in a dark clearing. The low wooden forms flanked the grassy hills, and crystal lights sparkled through the full-length windows. The building was surrounded by shiny, expensive cars, and every once in a while attractive people in fashionable clothes would exit to the sound of flirty giggles.
I'd barely set foot inside when a handsome waiter approached. "Good evening, sir," he said. "Can I get you something?" I told him I didn't have any money, and he laughed. "Everything is on the house tonight," he said.
He brought my drink with a smile, happy to serve me, and I wandered around the posh club. Everyone I bumped into either said hello or made small talk or flirted with me, the women all fit and pretty and the men v-shaped and well-groomed. I'd decided that I'd stumbled into heaven when I realized I had to use the bathroom.
I left the flagstone-lined lobby and passed a walk-in fireplace, spotting a bank of wooden phone booths. That's probably where the bathroom is, I thought, but instead there was a single elevator. The doors opened as I approached, so I got in.
"No harm in looking," I thought, so I gave a random button a push.
The doors slid closed and the elevator descended, and when they re-opened the scene had completely changed. Wood and brass gave way to linoleum and plastic. Craftsman lamps became dangling lightbulbs. Framed artwork became ads for stores that were opening in the fall: Pretzel City! Sandy's Sweater Shoppe! Aunt Frannie's Funnel Cakes! Zala 21, designer clothing knock-offs "For when you need attention even more than you need money!"
I poked my head out, drawn like a gay moth to a Kmart flame. Overweight families stomped by like zombies holding cotton candy and helium balloons. They'd pause at the Couch Potato store to watch a giant-screen Mario Batali braise a porterhouse, then stumble to the food court again.
I turned to go back to the elevator and discovered it wasn't where I thought it was. Had I turned a corner? In its place was an Anthropologie store lined with antique French armoires painted with giraffe spots and 1920s beaded handbags that had been turned into Victorian soap hammocks. I took a couple of steps in the direction I thought I'd come from, but as the scene turned utterly unfamiliar I realized that I was lost.
Three chubby, middle-aged men in oversized shorts and sideways baseball caps were headed straight at me. They clearly knew their way around. "Excuse me," I said to one. "Do you know of a really nice restaurant around here, I think upstairs?"
He screwed up his face in an effort to think. "The people are attractive," I added, trying to jog his memory. "They wore real clothes. Nobody's fat?"
He shook his head and prodded his pals toward the Plastic Container Store, where a sign prompts shoppers to "Ask Us About Polycarbonates!" Feeling increasingly agitated, I ran up to a heavily-rouged woman whose hairstyle looked like she'd propped a monkey on her head and snipped around it with pinking shears. "Where is the elevator?" I asked.
"Elevator?" she repeated. "This mall only has one floor."
"No, it doesn't," I insisted. "There's an upstairs. Where women know how to apply makeup, and hire professionals to cut their hair."
Her eyebrows furrowed and I realized I'd hit a dead end, so I ran over to two girls in crop tops. Each wore tiny velour workout shorts with words spelled out on the butt in Swarovski crystals: one read SLUT, and one read WHORE.
"Excuse me," I said with increasing desperation. "I've got to get upstairs!"
"Upstairs?" one replied after struggling to decipher the odd concept. "What's upstairs?
"It's incredible," I said, with a mix of envy and desperation. "Everybody's stylish. People are intelligent. Nobody's even remotely gross."
They both stared at each other as I realized they probably weren't familiar with the neighborhood. I wandered toward a booth that laser-carved positive affirmations into decorative rocks and realized I'd reached the end of my rope. I spun around but all I saw were chubby legs and the drips of multicolored dipping sauces. "I HAVE TO GET UPSTAIRS!" I yelled. "HOW DO I GET UPSTAIRS?"
A mom-type approached in boob-high jeans, zipping closed a plastic baggie full of Froot Loops. Behind her she dragged three hyperactive kids on the ends of retractable plastic leashes. "What's upstairs?" she asked.
I randomly waved a hand around me. "Cocktail chatter! People with jobs! Kids who aren't going to be on Jerry Springer in about six minutes!" She scowled at me, and suddenly I noticed everyone was headed toward me. Their wide faces were frozen in anger and determination, so I started to run. "IT'S INCREDIBLE!" I yelled. "THERE ARE NO IDIOTS! KIDS ARE ALLOWED TO ROAM FREE! THERE ARE GROWN MEN WHOSE PANTS REACH THEIR SHOES!"
Despite the fact they could barely move their legs, the crowd was gaining on me. Wielding their corn dogs like weapons, they cornered me in the scented bathmat aisle of Pier 1. Just as an oversized Skecher was about to kick me in the ribs, I woke up shaking, drenched in cold sweat. It took me two hours and three cups of tea to calm down, and to stop expecting zitted faces to pop up in every window. In my next dream a theater burned down that was playing Star Wars so at least I woke up with a smile on my face.
Why did I go? A myriad of reasons. I like to travel, I have an inquisitive personality, and in the summer New Yorkers can sublet their apartments on Airbnb for roughly triple the rent they pay. It's ironic: for once in my life I was knee-deep in money, but I wasn't in New York. It's like being able to date anybody you want as long as their last name is Kardashian.
Three days after my first Airbnb guest arrived I got this sweet note from her:
Hi there. This could be something unrelated, but i just wanted to let you know that i have a lot of bug bites on my legs that seems to coincide after sleeping in the bed last night. Have you had any problems before?Isn't that a nice little note? It's so thoughtful that a woman from Montreal would bring BEDBUGS to the attention of a longtime NEW YORKER. It's like Vladimir Putin lecturing Martha Stewart on the many uses of maple syrup.
If you're not from these parts, you should know this is the worst insult you can fling at somebody. Worse than asking a fat person if they're pregnant. Worse than asking your dinner host if they picked up tonight's entrée from White Castle. Worse than asking somebody if they're sleeping with Charlie Sheen, because they won't be dealing with his descendants forty years from now. It's not like bedbugs are constantly on our minds: only the fourteen times a day we see an abandoned couch, chair, pillow or mattress on the sidewalk and we run screaming to the other side of the street.
Of course, my guest thoughtfully doesn't blame me. Those bleeding welts could be "something unrelated." Like, maybe she has a condition that causes tiny insect bites to spontaneously generate on her legs whenever she sleeps at a stranger's home. No blame! The phenomena could just "coincide" with her touching my bedding, like gunshots just happen to accompany P. Diddy on his ventures out to nightclubs.
In my head I composed a similarly-thoughtful reply:
Hmm. This is certainly a quandary. I mean, you say you have bug bites, which causes alarm. But you don't mention the "philosopher" that you met here to shack up with. Are his pasty, pigeon-thin legs similarly bitten? I'm sure you'd have told me if they were. Or do you think my bugs just attack people from Montreal? I wouldn't blame them, but I've tried poutine.Instead, I just sent this simple note:Have I had any problems before? Yes, now that you mention it! The last time I slept there! My legs were dotted like my grandma's bingo cards. I crossed my fingers and hoped they all died, but apparently I should have taken further action. Live and learn!
Did you go up on the roof the night before? New York is rather renowned for its mosquitos in August, which is why all the smart people leave.Your friend in Los Angeles,
RomanHans
“Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spent my entire days sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The devil made me do it.' I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.” -- Neil Gaiman's dialog for Lucifer in Sandman
All agree, though, that the brain is different from other muscles. If you're not using 90% of your quadriceps, for example, you can reverse that by doing squats. That'll throw them all into action. 90% of those cells won't say, "I'm resting! Find some other schmuck to do your dirty work!" 90% of your brain cells, though, will simply refuse to fire up. If we had really tiny microphones and listened in as you tried to divide 8 into 74, we could probably hear 90% of your brain saying, "Why don't you go pull turds out of a duck?"
In Lucy, though, Scarlett Johansson takes some weird drug, and immediately those hibernating cells wake up. With each new group activating, she discovers she can do something new. Here's what Morgan Freeman says:
At 20%, she can manipulate the world around her.Now, if I had my way, the movie would just stop here. Because how great would that be, a woman manipulating the world around her? I'm picturing the first hour just showing Lucy redecorating her apartment, and maybe in the second hour she buys a tiny dog.
At 24%, she can control the cells in her body.Some might feel their disbelief firing up, but it still sounds scientifically accurate to me. Researchers have known for years that you can alter your body through sheer brain power: that's why Stephen J. Hawking is incredibly handsome and has a bangin' six pack.
At 40%, she can control matter.Now, I'm clearly just using 10% of my brain, because I have no clue what Mr. Freeman is saying here. Does this mean Scarlett can point at a lamp and say, "Hey, you, don't go anywhere!"? Wait: does it means she can fly? Einstein was really smart: why we didn't see him flying around? Maybe you get invisibility here too.
At 62%, she can control other people.This is the place where I get a tiny tingle of excitement. The mind boggles at the vast possibilities! Think of how different the world would be if, for instance, women could somehow get dudes to buy them food.
Though some so-called "smart" people will say the whole concept is preposterous, I must respectfully disagree. Not many people know this, but all of our scientific laws have odd dependencies built into them. It's like our traffic laws: they're all incontrovertible, hard and fast rules until a blonde shows up in a convertible. We shouldn't be surprised that, say, Newton's laws of motion can be disabled by a teenager who drank some Red Bull and then did homework. Did you think it was sheer fantasy that if fourteen idiots in a Dallas multiplex clap, Tinkerbell and three ragamuffins can fly?
Pythagoras said that in a right triangle the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides unless the Dutch wins the World Cup. If David Letterman beats Jimmy Fallon in the ratings, Mandelbrot Fractals start looking like a chicken in a compact car. Relativity? You might not know this, but Einstein said E doesn't equal MC squared when Kristin Bell is wearing a crop top.
Though I can vouch for the film's accuracy, I'm not so sure about its entertainment value. It might just be another film about somebody with superpowers. Me, I think they should have gone the other way.
At 8%, you can't find your car keys.
At 6% you choose a favorite sports team.
At 4% you send money to Nigerian princes.
At 2% you get your own show on E!What happens when you get down to zero? I don't know, but I really hope you enjoy my blog.
America's Test Laundry: Instructors from the Ablution Institute of America discuss common stain-removal tips and then investigate their effectivity. In the premiere episode, they use lighter fluid to remove red wine stains from a lady's blouse, then debate whether it's correct to toss water or salt on an out-of-control chiffon fire.
Den Nightmares: An interior decorator with anger control issues travels the country in search of unattractive family rooms that he can transform into welcoming wombs. Watch the cranky creative barely hold himself together upon encountering an odd box seemingly designed to hold remote controls, only to totally lose it when confronted with a singing fish.
Foyer Confidential: Patterned after the book that was nearly a New York Times best seller, this hidden-camera reality program promises to "blow the lid off of what really happens between the welcome mat and the umbrella stand."
Hell's Backyard: Ten people who have never been outside before are tasked with upgrading the landscape behind a San Pedro bungalow. In an episode screened for critics, the two teams must construct an Olympic-sized swimming pool just three hours before some really hot children want to go for a swim.
Cutthroat Powder Room: Four socialites are challenged to complete their usual high-end grooming routine using miniature mascara wands, stucco "deodorant," and toilet paper made from slices of American cheese.
Through frequent stays I've attained Platinum level, and though I never looked into the details I assumed it'd mean amazing surprises when I checked into the Intercontinental Budapest. I couldn't have been more wrong: while the lobby was jammed with Midwestern seniors in fanny packs and floppy hats, and 90% of their rooms overlooked the stunning castle district, my room looked directly into a run-down office building literally fifteen feet away.
I looked online and found an explanation. It seems IHG has several levels of membership, and mine wasn't particularly close to the top. To save you from similar disappointment on your next IHG stay, I've summarized the perks that come with each level of membership, below:
A boyfriend backstabs Maleficent, turning her bitter while simultaneously making him king. She casts a spell on his daughter: at the age of 16, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel, and only true love can wake her up. The king orders his soldiers to kill Maleficent, but she has magic on her side. She casts another spell that surrounds the moors with a mile-high wall of thorns. Aside from changing Maleficent into a nice but spurned young fairy, Disney has also modified spells. They used to be wordy, like this one in Macbeth:
Fillet of a fenny snake,Crazy, huh? And that's just eight of 38 lines. If I was the intended victim, about halfway through I'd be screaming, "HOLY GOD, JUST SHOOT ME NOW!"
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
By the time Bewitched came around, spells were four lines, max. Here's how Samantha Stevens turned a statue into a man:
Though of marble you are carved,Of course, we've got cellphones and Kardashians now, so we're not going to sit through all that shit. If Maleficent wants to turn a dog into a cow, she just points at it and says, "Into a cow!" Now we're ready for the 21st century, though one hopes Maleficent avoids phrases like, "After lunch I went into a drugstore!" or "Rub some lotion into my feet!"
for a woman you are starved.
So back to flesh and sinew,
the fairest of them all will win you.
To protect Aurora, the king has his soldiers destroy every spinning wheel in the county, and he sends her to live in the forest. It's a little like worrying your kid will join a gang and sending him off to live in East L. A. One day, though, an attractive young man rides by. He doesn't have much going for him, giving off a wimpy vibe. They exchange a couple lines of dialog, but there are no sparks. Maybe this is feminist -- a girl doesn't fall for the first guy she meets -- but maybe this is weird. An audience should not be left thinking a movie would take a drastically different turn if somebody lived in the Bronx.
Of course, all-powerful Maleficent finds the girl, and before she knows it she learns to love her perky innocence. Which is lucky, because aside from that the girl's just got perky feet. Since she can't revoke the curse, she takes Aurora into the moors to protect her. Aurora discovers that Maleficent was the fairy who cursed her, so she runs back to the castle and her father, once again causing audience members to shout, "HEY, WASN'T THERE A FUCKIN' WALL OF THORNS?"
The king puts Aurora in a tower for safekeeping, just until her birthday is over. Unfortunately, though, she stumbles upon that big room where the king has kept all the semi-destroyed spinning wheels. Aurora pricks herself and falls asleep.
It's an incredibly intense two minutes before Maleficent finds Attractive Horse Dude and he's pressing himself up against the comatose stranger. She doesn't wake up, which leaves AHD confused, like it's good news and bad news. Before you can say "unwanted sexual advances," Maleficent kisses Aurora goodbye -- and that wakes Aurora up.
See, Disney has also updated "true love." It doesn't have to be a soulmate now! Which is good news, because between Grindr and autocorrect I'm losing boyfriends after a week or two. Now it can be some old lady who watches you from afar. That curse is a whole lot easier to counteract, though I don't envy the mental checklist that your friends and family members will have to run through: "Well, did he ever say 'Hi!' to the mailman?"
In the end, Aurora is named queen of both the kingdom and the moors, forever to be known as "Sleeping Beauty." Yup. A little weird: I mean, if I'd been nicknamed for something I did for two minutes, right now I'd be saying, "And that's another Movie Review from Mr. Puking Shrimp."
LOWER THAN ATLANTIS
MARK LOWER
LOWER CLASS BRATS
"Lowering The Tone" by THE BRAD PITT LIGHT ORCHESTRA
Okay, I thought. It's an obscure band, and Spotify can't have everything. But just to double-check, I typed in the record name, "Seek Warmer Climes."
ALBUMS: "Seek Warmer Climes" by LOWER
Got that? The band was there. The record was there. Spotify just assumed I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT.
The same thing happens on Google. I type in "band lower" and the top five links are for Low and Lower Dens. Before the band Lower actually turns up, in fact, I'll probably see Flower, the skunk from Bambi, and a line drawing of someone's intestine.
All of a sudden it hits me. The internet thinks I'm dumb.
It's perfectly obvious in retrospect. Websites are ignoring what I type to give me more popular returns. They're thinking, "He typed in the name of an obscure, hip rock band, but he must not mean it. He's probably looking for this popular, lousy one." I don't know why nobody else is complaining about this, because it certainly wouldn't fly in person.
FRIEND: I got so sick from a chigger bite yesterday.ME: That's interesting, but I'm pretty sure you mean a chalupa from Taco Bell.
FRIEND: I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art the other day.ME: That's interesting. However, I know you inside and out, so I'm guessing you went to Mickey D's.
FRIEND: I'm so excited! I just got a copy of the London Philharmonic playing "Les Sylphides."The last time I looked on my computer, I had 14,357 cookies. They contain everything from my name and email address to my height, weight, and how many dates it'll take for me to go down on a dude. (SPOILER: That cookie only needs to be one bit long.) Why, then, can't I have a cookie that says I'M NOT AN IDIOT? Something that says, "HEY, WHEN THIS DUDE TYPES IN A WORD, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT HE MEANS"? Instead every website thinks, "I'll bet he spilled his Big Gulp on the keyboard. He's probably looking for the Frozen soundtrack."ME: Dude, I've been reading everything you've typed over the last fourteen years. You said syphillis wrong.
It got me to thinking: there are thousands of cookies on our computers, all in the service of various companies. Why doesn't somebody write some GOOD cookies that'll be in service of US?
| COOKIE NAME |
MEANING |
| NO SKIGOLF | User doesn't click on things that assume he has a retirement plan. |
| OWWW | Even twenty seconds of Seth Rogan getting hit in the crotch will not sway user to see one of his films. |
| NO SLIDES | Better put that shit on one page, because user isn't clicking through forty pictures to see Brooklyn's best pies. |
| NO PROACTIV | User spits up a little when he sees Young Adam Levine's faceful of zits. |
| NO PIRATE BOING | User occasionally downloads movies but never clicks on animated gifs of topless meth-heads. |
| NO RUBE | No matter how fast your ad flashes, user will not believe he's the millionth visitor. |
| CMYKNO | User knows the print cartridges are running low and doesn't care if everything is printed in turquoise, for fuck's sake. |
SETTING: Five brownstone stoops, a vintage Cadillac, and lots of linoleum. JOHN enters.
JOHN: Hi. My name's John, and I'm just out of the slammer. Dudes around here know not to fuck with me, as you can tell from the way I barely move my mouth when I talk. Here are some of my friends in the neighborhood: Vinny, Benny, Ginny, Lenny, Minnie and Kenny.
VINNY, BENNY, GINNY, LENNY, MINNIE AND/OR KENNY: Yo, my man! Good to have you back. It's not gonna be easy to forge a new life here, because life in the hood is cheap. We're tough as nails, and we don't take no shit, because it's eat or be eaten. Here to sing about it is a fat white guy with an acoustic guitar.
JOHN: In the slammer I came to a realization. God has a higher calling for all of us, and it does not involve violence! We all have meaning! We all have purpose! Me, I like to draw. Look, here's a picture of a hamster on a pogo stick.
VBGLMK: But John, we're in trouble! The Four-Five Gang says they're gonna kill us all unless we pay them $3,000 a week. We need to start thinking about where we'd get that kind of money, but if that white guy is gonna sing another number, I guess we could dance around the car.
JOHN: Guys, I'd help you out, but I'm not going to back to jail. I'm gonna get a job and make something of myself. What? My paycheck is only fifty dollars? That's it! FUCK THE MAN! I'm not gonna take this kind of abuse, even though he specifically warned me that as a trainee my wages would be low.
VBGLMK'S MOM: We ghetto mothers are a proud and honorable people. Worrying about my children makes me tear my hair out, so it's a good thing he left $2,500 in the mailbox for a new weave.
JOHN: What can I do? I'm being sucked back into ghetto life. Once again I'm in the throes of hopelessless and despair. And once again I feel like it will be best expressed by the fortieth song Tupac wrote about his mama and God.
VBGLMK: Wow! This is gonna be one hell of a rumble. I'm gonna arm myself with a knife, a gun and another knife. They're gonna talk about this forever: The Four-Five Gang versus A Bunch Of Nice People Who Just Happen To Hang Out Together.
JOHN: Though the Man has done me bad, I refuse to debase myself by fighting. What? You too? And you? Wow. I'm so proud of all of you. Now nobody can say we're ripping off West Side Story, because this rumble is gonna be boring as shit.
VBGLMK: Though we dodged death today, we are certain to face it again in the future. But why are we forced to carry guns like this? Are all blacks doomed to be killed by the police, or by rival gangs? Because what kind of sad fate would that -- Oops. Sorry. Well, I guess that settles that!
Yesterday Danny wanted a letter printed, because he's young and popular and has better things to do than make sure there's ink in his printer. Rachel wanted a photo of her cat scanned. It was a second in a series of favors for Anthony: first write up an affidavit saying his marriage to Mai Ling wasn't a citizenship scam, and then get it notarized. I asked if Tiffany, his lawyer/fiance, could do the latter, but he said she's way too busy.
Still, I drop everything when my neighbor David knocks. He announces he's getting a colonoscopy tomorrow, and though he made the appointment months ago, he didn't realize he should have prepared. The only thing he can eat today is Jello, and now he's too weak to go to the store.
You know, I nearly say, I'm weak too. I haven't eaten yet. It's a hundred degrees outside, and it's like walking through fire to get to the closest market. I get home and I'm too exhausted to do anything, so I haven't actually gotten anything done in a week or two. Sure, I'll go pick up Jello, but there's half the day shot because I'll need to spend three hours afterwards drinking water and mopping my head with a cold towel.
"Don't worry," I say. "I'll make you some Jello. I'll drop it off in an hour or so."
New Yorkers don't publicize one of the problems with living in the city: you just can't own a car. Insurance is crazy, parking is a nightmare, and there are literally two gas stations in the whole town. The subway is great for getting us into Manhattan, but since the grocery stores there sell bread for twelve dollars a pop, we confine ourselves to our neighborhood shops. Unfortunately, they're fifteen blocks away, and since we can only buy what we can carry, we end up shopping every other day.
So, I go to the store -- the same store I'll return to later this evening to scrounge something for my dinner. I buy David a box of lemon Jello, and half an hour later I'm only semi-exhausted as I start making it. I dump the powder into a bowl and boil the water. I get out the measuring cup: one cup of boiling water, one cup of cold water. Since David is already weak, I thoughtfully add a tray of ice to a pitcher of water so the Jello will set extra fast.
There's a knock at the door, and it's David again. I've done so much, he says; he can't just sit around idly. He'll finish making the Jello. In a flash fourteen previous afternoons with him deluge my brain: "I can barbecue chicken!" he announces right before turning my chipotle-marinated boneless breasts to charcoal. "I can transplant thyme!" he says as he rips the roots off my year-old plant.
Still, I appreciate his enthusiasm, and like a parent with a child, I cede the counter to him. Isn't it an even bigger favor if he actually learns something? Won't I eventually be left alone if I teach my friends autonomy? I watch as he measures a cup of boiling water and adds it to the Jello powder bowl. "Stir for two minutes," I say, and I set the timer. I head off to my work table to sort papers as I pat myself on the back. That wasn't so bad. I'd done a good deed. And had it really put me out that much? No! Sure, it'd sucked up an hour or so, but it's not even two o'clock and I can still get my stuff done.
I sort and file and notice the kitchen is suspiciously quiet. Just to reassure myself, I circle back and see David stirring a piss-yellow liquid in my eight-gallon punch bowl. "Are you sure that was only a cup of water in the pitcher?" he asks, and I grab my sunglasses and go back to the store.
Is that hysterical? I applaud the filmmakers for doing something so unconventional. I mean, usually Hollywood comedies feature people pooping in their pants, or tossing dogs out of windows, or spreading sperm in their hair. Needless to say I'm thrilled they're finally going to argue whether Gay is Okay.
In fact, I don't think I'm overstating this to say they're creating a whole new genre: Gay Blockbuster Comedies. I mean, this isn't just a straight comedy with the sexes changed: this is a whole new mousetrap. I don't know of any straight comedy where there's been a serious debate of world issues. Characters learn to love, or to share. They learn who their friends are, or they learn that the world is a nice place. I never saw either of the previous "Bride" films, but I'm relatively sure it included things like a French wedding planner whom no one could understand, a florist who delivered Calla lilies instead of roses, and a reception guest who ate tainted shellfish and projectile-vomited while doing the Chicken Dance.
I don't think Steve Martin's character declared that his future son-in-law was an abomination in the face of God who shouldn't be allowed to anally penetrate his daughter.
But Roman, you say, will it really be funny? How could it not be? I reply. I'm sure we've all laughed at smart, attractive people like Martin saying gay sex is repulsive. And who hasn't chortled at the whole "Biblical damnation" thing? I know I'll probably fall out of my seat when George's son announces he's getting married, and George's excitement turning to disgust when his son adds, "... to a man."
As a writer, I'm already making up scenes in my head, and laughing myself silly. I sure hope the real thing includes the title character saying gays always die by the age of 37, and the anus is exit only. And I personally wouldn't mind if this hot new trend spread to straight comedies, and they started tackling serious issues. I mean, just think of how much funnier those classic old comedies would have been if they'd had dialog like this:
"Gosh, Ron, you're a swell anchorman, but I have a hard time dating somebody who thinks Mexicans aren't good for anything but having kids."
"He's not just a 40-year-old virgin. He also thinks blacks and whites shouldn't intermarry."
Harry: You realize of course that we could never be friends.
Sally: Why not?
Harry: You don't have the blood purity I appreciate in the Aryan race.
Hitch: No matter what, no matter who, no matter when, any man has a chance to sweep any woman off her feet. He just needs the right broom and a diamond ring he bought from a Jew.
Reallly, RNC? Trying to sway voters with kittens? I don't think I've ever seen anything so hairball.
I sit bolt upright, as if waiting for a job interview.
I am alert to the smallest detail.
My peripheral vision shows me stories others would miss.
I can smell change coming in the wind.
My clothes are crisp.
My eyes are bright.
My smile is wide, with a nervous edge.
My mind patiently awaits my prompting, ready for any interaction.
I am the opposite of stoned.
Sure, maybe they didn't have the best documentation back then. The Guinness World Record folks weren't around to double-check. And God knows, people weren't particularly smart. They thought earthquakes were caused by armadillos that lived underground. They thought health problems were caused by demons rather than that eight-foot pile of poo standing next to their cutting boards. But the unlikelihood of these things happening was undeniable.
Over the years, though, miracles have been devalued. First, now they take place after the saint has died. Because even if dude is one of God's favorite people, how can you expect him to do something incredible in his life? We've got to add that open-ended infinity thing to give a guy a running chance.
And second, modern-day miracles just aren't as good, mostly consisting of nuns healed of health problems. Sister Bertrille had a stomach ache that vanished after she prayed to some guy. Sister Margaret had a bad cough that went away. Needless to say, these miracles are inherently questionable, because somebody who exists to serve God isn't exactly an unbiased observer. They go into the convent kitchen and see the dishes are washed, and they'll assume St. Matthew of Pecorino did it.
Besides, health-related miracles are the hardest to prove. Some people are hypochondriacs. Sometimes doctors make mistakes. And sometimes people, you know, get well.
It seems to me like the Vatican does it backwards. They don't see somebody who does saintly things and beatify them: no, they decide who they want to beatify and then fire up the old phone bank. They call every nun around and ask if they've ever prayed to the dude and gotten better. It's like an Avon lady going door to door selling cosmetics. Sure, a lot of people are going to turn her down, but eventually somebody will cave. "Oh, what the hell," they'll say. They don't actually want these products: they're just feeling sympathetic for the poor lost soul. "Put me down for -- I dunno -- do you sell hand cream?"
Of course, Catholics aren't alone in this field. I've never been impressed with the Jewish miracle of the oil. I mean, at least with Catholic saints either a doctor made a mistake or a disease went into remission. With the miracle of the oil, it's more like an accounting error. If I was expecting to find two chicken legs in the fridge but I found six, I wouldn't require future generations to recite this story over bad wine for eight days every year.
But mere facts won't stop the Catholics. They even maintain that miracles still occur, like the miracle of St. Januarius. Eighteen times a year his dried blood becomes liquid again, despite the fact it's scientifically impossible. It sounds interesting, but I'll reserve my actual praise for after they've set up a webcam.
Plus, you know, there are tons of possibilities for actual miracles that'd make skeptics like me believe. Somebody could produce another hit record for the Tom Tom Club. Somebody could make the Kardashians go away. Those are the kinds of things that'd get me wearing a medal around my neck. Instead it's always, "Oh, there was a nun with a blister on the sole of her foot, and with prayer and Gold Bond it's almost healed." Even St. Longinus would say, clear as a bell, "Oh, you can go fuck that shit."
"Homosexuals may argue that the specially combined faculties of human nature have extended human sexual activities, in just this way, beyond what instinctively appears to be their natural limits."
Translation: Many millions of years ago, man invented the blowjob.
"Do we forbid people to fly because they were not born with wings? Do we forbid them to travel to the moon because they were not born equipped to withstand the rigors of being in space?"
Translation: But we need to ask ourselves: are we truly ready for blowjobs?
"Among all the various ways of being in the universe of our experience, isn’t this capacity consciously to extend our reach beyond the limits of our original nature the special quality of our human nature?"
Translation: I mean, you don't see animals blowing each other. I have never been on YouTube.
"Isn’t it the one that, above all, distinguishes humanity from the rest?"
Translation: I daresay it'd be difficult to differentiate humans from tree sloths if it wasn't for the mouth-on-dick thing.
"On the whole, homosexual activity epitomizes this dilemma."
Translation: Sure, straight people want to "extend their reach of sex beyond the limits of its original nature," but chicks freak out when you say "anal." Also, I have never understood double entendres.
"We call it sexual activity because it involves bodily organs and feelings associated with the activity for which the different sexes appear to exist."
Translation: We say it's "sex" because there are penises and ejaculation, but that's like saying there's been a "crime" just because you have twelve pairs of ugly jeans in your car and Sears has a broken window.
"Yet, in the strict sense of the term, it is not "sexual" activity at all."
Translation: It's not sex! It's just "shooting on somebody's face," or "cumming in their ass."
"The functional difference that distinguishes one sex from the other quite literally has nothing to do with same-sex activity."
Translation: No vagina, no sex. That's why there's no rape in prison.
"That activity abstracts from the functionally defined difference in order exclusively to focus on bodily feelings and emotions that are important to the individuals involved, but that are of no consequence, concretely, for the species as a whole."
Translation: Lost. But this thing's got more "wholes" than a lesbian wedding.
"As individuals, some human beings may find this activity intensely gratifying. But considered on the whole, in terms of its consequences, it implies the nonexistence of humanity."
Translation: Circle jerks are hot, but every time a man ejaculates outside a vagina, Frederick Nietsche high-fives Satan.
"The homosexual couple is not engaged in the act of human procreation. Their activity is not haunted by the possibility of human offspring."
Translation: Did I say "haunted"? Yes! For it to qualify as "sex," there needs to be a little spectre of a fetus in the man's brain occasionally screaming, "I NEED DIAPERS AND MONEY FOR COLLEGE!!!"
"Because it is, on the whole, of no consequence, homosexual activity involves no natural right – for every claim of natural right arises from respect for the law of nature, which in turn necessarily requires respect for the nature of law."
Translation: If it can't cause permanent damage, you don't deserve to do it. Eating? Only wild mushrooms and blowfish. Dancing? Only with retards. Hunting? Cool! Look, there's a wild tur--
Oops. Hang in there, buddy. Lemme see if I can go get help.
Chastity Bono knew for a long time that something was wrong. Finally she decided that she looked like a girl but she was meant to be a boy. After consulting with doctors and lawyers, she had reassignment surgery and had her -tity taken off.
Since I first heard about the project, my mind reeled at the possibilities that came with first-class writers like Jack Kirby and stars like Paul Rudd. Good news, readers: it is unbelievably suspenseful as well as moving and full of heart. I know the "Powers That Be" will be furious, but I can't resist: here are three of the countless scenes that had me literally glued to my seat.
----------------------------
ANT-MAN is in New York City's Times Square when he hears a frantic cry.
TOURIST: HELP! HELP! AIEEEE!
ANT-MAN's eyes swerve to where the voice originated. There he sees a sad, thin man frantically trying to maneuver past a chubby woman smack-dab in the center of the sidewalk, hands swinging like wrecking balls in an effort to propel herself forward.
ANT-MAN: Don't worry, tourist! ANT-MAN is here to help! [THROUGH MEGAPHONE HANDS] ANTS OF THE WORLD, HEAR ME! I SUMMON YOU WITH POWERS DIVINE: MOVE THIS IRRITATING WOMAN!
Suddenly it's as if the entire world rumbles and shakes. Onlookers run for cover as a stream of ANTS pours out of every crack in the sidewalk.
ANT-MAN (cont'd): BEHOLD THE AWESOME POWER OF ANT-MAN!
Acting as one, nearly a thousand ANTS hoist the chubby woman onto their alitrunks and lift her in unison. She moves a sixteenth of an inch into the air, then as if on a conveyor belt she slides off the curb into the street. Onlookers burst into applause.
TOURIST: Wow. Ants really are strong. Hey, is Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. this way?
----------------------------
After the ants learn of Dr. Pym's awesome powers, they call a meeting to discuss the implications.
ANT #1: Friends, we must leap at this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As we all know, Dr. Pym can communicate with us -- but, more importantly, we can communicate with him. If we hope to share our thoughts on politics, the arts, and climate change with humans, it has to be through him, so we need to do whatever we can to win him over to our side.
ANT #2: Gosh, you're right! [PAUSE] I have an idea. Why don't we build him the biggest, most spectacular house anybody has ever seen? And we'll just give it to him, no strings attached. Surely he'll feel so indebted he'll do whatever we want.
ANT #1: That's a GREAT idea!
The ants gather all of the tribes -- field ants, acrobat ants, even odorous ants -- and numbering in the millions they work twenty-four hours a day. Finally, months later, the house is finished. An ambassadorial group approaches ANT-MAN in his dingy living room.
AMBASSADOR: Ant-Man, the ant community would like to extend a hand in friendship. Toward that end, we've built you a house hitherto unparalleled in splendor that we would like to give to you.
ANT-MAN is shocked speechless. He follows the ants through the city streets while his eyes dart around in search of his fabulous new mansion. Finally the ants stop in front of a hole in the ground.
AMBASSADOR: Here it is! Complete with chandeliers, mandible-hewn marble, balconies, balustrades and billiard rooms. And all of it is yours!
ANT-MAN looks down at the hole. It's literally the size of a quarter.
ANT-MAN: That's really, really kind of you, but I'm not sure I can fit.
AMBASSADOR [shocked]: Really? You can't compact your pliable head and thorax into one-thirtieth of its regular size to squeeze into cramped spaces?
ANT-MAN: No.
AMBASSADOR: Wow. Bummer. [PAUSE] Well, then. Would you like a little bit of cheese?
----------------------------
And, of course, there's the breathtaking finale. I swear, I left the theater covered in goosebumps. If you're planning on seeing the movie, you might not want to read this part.
ANT-MAN and his human family are having a picnic. The sun is out, and the group are sprawled out on a plaid tablecloth under the spidery branches of a dappled chestnut tree.
GRANDMA (setting the table): ANT-MAN, you come here and help yourself. Honey, you've nothing but a skeleton! I made my famous fried chicken, green bean casserole, and a surprise treat just for you: my special potato salad, with little bits of celery and a dash of mustard, just the way you like it.
ANT-MAN's jaw drops open. He stands, holds his hands out to his sides, and points his face to the sky.
ANT-MAN: Ants of the world! Soldier ants, carpenter ants, fire ants. Leafcutter ants, honeypot ants, weaver ants. Fix your compound eyes on me and close your mandibles for one minute. Do NOT touch this potato salad! Do you hear me? Do not TOUCH this potato salad?
The ANTS shrug their scutellums.
ANTS (in unison): Oh, okay.
Really, dudes? Of all the things to be afraid of at Dunkin Donuts, chicken apple sausage is your choice?
You got your english muffin. You've got flat, round egg. You've got the usual pre-sliced "cheese." They slap on a sliced sausage that has a little apple in it and all of a sudden you're freaked out?
Really? That's what does it? Not the fact that --
