Warning Rated R. This is a video we made a while back based on a Mike Nice bit, haven’t seen him around, hope he’s good.
I was lucky growing up. I didn’t have any major allergies. I had a hyper-active gag-reflex and couldn’t swallow pills, so every medicine I took had to be liquified, but other than a constrictive esophagus or larynx (which people mispronounce as larnyx, which cracks me up), I didn’t suffer much grief medicinally or dietarily.
My best friend’s mom had a severe nut allergy, which I was aware of, from an early age, but paid very little attention to, and she is still striving and surviving. I don’t remember ever having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich over at their house, but I don’t remember having to be hosed down if I had one at my house and came over to visit. I vaguely remember holiday walnuts, and nut crackers, and being pissed-off after all that work when the walnut tasted like shit.
Maybe I am mis-remembering, like a politician, but I think we just went about our business and she avoided nuts. I have heard from a few teacher friends of mine that nuts are banned from entire campuses. Meaning a ziplock bag full of pistachio’s, in your sack lunch, is banned. This makes sense in pre-school and some grade school, but at a high school?
I’m a jerk who doesn’t know how bad, and how rapid, and how life threatening such an allergy is, so forgive my ignorance and insensitivity, but banning a nut from the entire campus seems like an over-play. Especially when some schools have metal detectors at their entrances.
Allergies are nothing to trifle with and I know things can go bad in a hurry, and I know schools should be safe havens of learning, but the beach is a beautiful place and we have to teach kids to avoid stepping on jellyfish and needles, let’s just be sure that someday we’re teaching them to take care of themselves. Like my friend’s mom, who learned the hard way, once, but managed to keep her life nut free, since.
We are a paranoid people, or at least I am. Maybe it’s justified these days with all the mayhem we see in the news. Maybe it’s a survival instinct.
Mistrust can spread like an airborne disease. Try this next time you’re out at a bar. Watch a sole diner, and say to your companion, “I think that guy is gonna dine and dash.” From that seed of distrust your companion will watch and notice things that aren’t there. The guy is shifty, every time he goes to the bathroom it’s to do drugs, when he exits to smoke your companion will start to stress out, “He’s making his move, holy shit, you were right.” Of course the guy comes back and pays and it was all a silly little experiment.
This stuff happens even with the best of friends. How many times have you had this dialogue, “Can I borrow your weed-wacker?” you ask. Your buddy says, “Yeah, but I’m gonna need it back.”
I’m gonna need it back. Of course, that was implicit in my choice of wording when I said “can I borrow”. Why is my buddy making me feel like I want to gank his weed-wacker? I haven’t stolen from him before, I just want to edge-up my hypothetical lawn, and he wants a deposit.
It is this subtle stomach ache of mistrust that we were raised on. I was always sure the cabdriver would drive off with my new purchase in the trunk, when I lived in New York. What would he want with a monitor for an outdated computer, but you know the feeling.
To be truthful, I still hold a grudge about a book I loaned out a year ago, and I never gave my buddy his Otis Redding CD back, so I guess I’m arguing against my own point, but can we at least leave out that nagging, twerpy, and accusatory phrase, “I’m gonna need it back.”
I left New York less than a month after 9/11 and it was a hard departure. It was too late to abort my plan to move to Los Angeles, but I wanted to stay in New York and was less than sure LA would jibe with a sensibility I had cultivated for as long as I could remember.
My true aim and dream, if I really boiled it down, was to be a New Yorker. It was made more acute by the fact that I grew up 9 miles outside of the city, in New Jersey. My transformation was complete when I heckled a car with Garden State plates, and told them to, “go back to Jersey” when they splashed slush on my boots making a turn in a crosswalk. A Jersey New Yorker is like a reformed smoker, they’re unbearable in their new identity (non-smoking zealot, or former Jersey boy) and have to let everyone know about their transformation.
It was more than knowing the trains, and which car to get on depending on your stop, it was more than a mostly black wardrobe and a messenger bag. It was more than knowing people and places. It was the feeling that living in New York meant your arrival in the world. The feeling of freedom even when you hadn’t driven a car for 3 years. Walking to a movie, complaining about having to visit someone on the Upper East Side. Clubs with ethnically mixed crowds. New York was my start a tab town, Soho owns much of my credit card debt. I’m still paying interest on a roasted duck club sandwich and 3 Brooklyn lagers.
It’s not the smell of falafel, or exhaust from a bus that gets my sense memory going. It’s not even the epic “Empire State of Mind” by Alicia Keys and Jay-Z. A song so good it needs to replace Sinatra at the end of a Yankee game. I know I would need to duck a punch if I had the platform for that sentiment to be heard by more than a few.
It’s a song by a couple of Brits with a Philly pedigree, and it came out just after my western migration. It’s “Say Yes”, by Floetry. It’s a sexy song about getting it on, it doesn’t reference New York, but it feels like the way I want to remember my time there. It’s a cab ride on a wet street on your way to a girl’s place. It’s a snapshot of being able to smoke and drink in a downtown bar doing your best to look interesting, it’s digging in the closet looking for cleats when softball season is close. It’s brunch with the folks. It’s taking off the Jersey plates and putting on the Empire State’s.
Even if doesn’t conjure any of that for you, I think it’s original intent to arouse and be sexy is enough to recommend it. Have a listen.
Walking by the storefront of a mid-market clothes mill that made the $200 dollar pair of khaki’s famous I noticed a new line of clothing and cross-promoted apparel. A line of clothes inspired by the hit show Mad Men. The show has made us long for the days when casual Friday meant you could skip a tie clip, and when 3 martini lunches didn’t raise the problem drinking flag.
When the show first aired you could hear people muttering about how they wished we still had that much style and how you could still call a woman a hussy without reproach. You know, when men were men and women were women, or least both had more clothes to get off before hopping in the sack.
I don’t work in the corporate world so my need for suits is rare. I don’t know anyone who bought the Mad Men clothes, and I’m not sure who would admit it. I also don’t know if it was a successful marketing move or not, but I see a lot of tie clips out there on the streets. And I do see the occasional cigarette case used as a wallet.
I’m all for looking good and having style. I like the way pork-pie hats and fedoras are back in vogue, I don’t like that we wear them with shorts, but it is better than the trucker hat remix.
My problem is with those people who try to dress in a completely retro stye, maybe I’m bitter because my days of wearing a 42 are over and I look like an escape artist trying to get out of a straight jacket when I try clothes on in a vintage store. Throwing on the Mad Men template only makes it worse.
It dawned on me that the people you have most in common with, when you dress vintage, are Civil War Re-Enactors. Yep. I said it. You’re wearing a costume and acting out. You manage a hair extension kiosk at the mall, you have as much in common with Don Draper as you do with Stonewall Jackson. Having skinny lapels or a bugle doesn’t change that.
It’s good to have a hobby, it’s even better if you have an embarrassing hobby and you don’t care what people think. That shows you have heart and a sense of humor, or a need to be away from the house, like a dart club, a golf habit, fly-fishing, or a perpetual game of Risk with a guy in Rochester. Just own it. And remember that if you’re trying to be cool, you look like you’re trying. Says the guy who wore a customized extra large dog tag for 3 years. And wore it over the shirt. So I’m not throwing stones. I’m throwing well placed polished artisanal prayer stones with cute slogans on them.
Conspiracy theorists bother me. Mostly because they are terrible at conversation and the art of the segue. They are champing at the bit to tell you what they “know” so your small talk is hi-jacked like a DC 10 in the seventies. It goes something like this —
You: Hey, how are you?
Them: I’d be better if the truth about the plot to sterilize the population through the water supply —
You: Nice talking to you. (You exit)
Conspiracy theorists are the karaoke enthusiasts of the intellectual set. And that is a bit harsh to the karaoke world, of which I have recently relapsed into . If you are an unrequited storyteller, or a talker and not a writer, or if you have hoarding tendencies you might be attracted to embellishing stories that have occurred in our world, it’s like fan fiction. It’s easier than being original. Karaoke people are unrequited performers and they need an outlet.
Which brings me to the pretzels. I shop late at night to avoid crowds and I noticed that at all night pharmacies and 7/11’s that it’s hard to find pretzels. Now, a pretzel is not a carrot stick, but it is better than most of the chip, cheese curl, and funyons that populate the shelves. Why is the healthier option harder to find and in some cases unavailable?
You probably shouldn’t carbo-load before bed, but a pretzel gives you that salty crunch that helps you unwind. But, THE MAN doesn’t want me to be able to eat — See? See how easy it is to get worked up? Maybe the manager forgot to order the pretzels. Maybe they’re sold out. Maybe we all should get a life.