The Wrestler is America

The Wrestler is the archetype of the dying warrior, the falling, not yet fallen, hero. The Wrestler is beaten, bruised, scarred and scared--but he's proud to be standing on two feet. The Wrestler has a pure heart, but a body that won't cooperate. The Wrestler wants to do right by his family and friends, but is too set in his ways. He is intelligent, but uneducated. The Wrestler shoots steroids into his muscles, snorts powder up his nose, and worships the unholiest of deities--himself. The Wrestler is nourished by the love and respect he receives from his ragtag and loyal fans. The Wrestler will never quit--what would he do? He could never hold down a job. The Wrestler will die in the ring and his fans will cheer him on when he does it.

It's Fun To Smoke Marijuana

Remember when you could play records backwards? Those were the days. The world, to quote a former student of mine, was practically my oyster back then. I played "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen backwards and it sure sounded an awful lot like they were saying "It's fun to smoke marijuana." Only it was kind of trippy sounding, as if the words themselves had been smoking marijuana. I enjoyed doing that. Speaking of Queen, remember when "Bohemian Rhapsody" didn't make you change the station? I must have listened to that song a hundred times the first day I heard it. I didn't know music could sound like that, simultaneously operatic and hard-rocking. For a while I tried playing most of my record albums backwards, but nothing much happened, except on the aforementioned Queen, some later-mid-period Beatles stuff, and of course, one of the tunes off Pink Floyd's "The Wall"--but I can't remember which one.

Things Get A Little Weird Around Here On Sunday

Things get a little weird around here on Sunday. The usual places are closed, and we are forced to go to the smaller places, but the smaller places don't really act as though they want us there. (If they don't want us there, they shouldn't stay open.) The way the man looked at me yesterday made me think that perhaps something untoward was happening, perhaps in back. Then he slapped the change into my palm as if to say "no need to come back here next week. We know you only come around here on Sundays anyway and we're none too impressed." Things get a little weird around here on Sunday.

I Think I Pinned It Down

I think I pinned it down. I was wondering what was making me so depressed and I think I pinned it down. It wasn't a chemical imbalance and it certainly wasn't the weather. It wasn't work or lack of it. It wasn't drink or drug. It wasn't interpersonal relationship related. But I finally pinned it down: I was reading "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy and it was making me depressed. But in a good way.

Dennis Hopper Did It In "Apocalypse Now"

Dennis Hopper did it in "Apocalypse Now." Then Brad Pitt did it in "12 Monkeys." Jeremy Davies did it in Soderbergh's remake of "Solaris." James Franco will do it in "Pineapple Express." And I am going to do it in my job interview tomorrow morning.

Cleanliness Is (Nothing) Next To Godliness

In New York City, the street cleaners don't operate on religious holidays. Same-side parking rules are suspended during any remotely recognizable day of religious observance.

I Had So Much Coffee Today I Feel Like Ray Liotta's Character At The End Of "Good Fellas"

I had so much coffee today I feel like Ray Liotta's character at the end of "Good Fellas." When he thinks the helicopters are chasing him and he nearly crashes the car. I got up early, so I made an extra strong batch. I call them batches, not pots. Then this afternoon I made another batch when Phillip came over. That was what put me over the edge. I feel like Ray Liotta at the end of "Good Fellas."

It's A Good Thing Pelicans Aren't Aggressive

It's a good thing pelicans aren't aggressive. Imagine, my Florida vacation foreshortened by a midnight run to the emergency room, my friend's two-year-old son's eye needing to be replaced by a glass marble after an attack by what amounts to an oversized magpie with a sheath bill. It's a good thing pelicans aren't aggressive.

Sometimes I Can't Tell If You're Joking Or Not

Sometimes I can't tell if you're joking or not. When you say something, and you make that face, I really can't tell if you're joking for the life of me. It's weird because I usually get sarcasm--I'm quite sarcastic myself. I'm actually sort of known for it. But there's something about your sense of humor that I can't quite put my finger on. When you said that thing about the environment, were you joking? At first I thought you were serious, then after a few seconds I realized you were joking, but now, looking back on it, I'm not really sure.

Your Endless Questions Toward Getting Me To Qualify What I Assumed Was A Simple Order Does Not Good Customer Service Make

Your endless questions toward getting me to qualify what I assumed was a simple order does not good customer service make. Don't ask me anything after I place my order. I don't want to join the member rewards club. I don't even belong to the gym or have a library card, why would I join your club? The one pass I'll give you is size. That's a valid question and if I skipped it during ordering, I apologize, but I don't think I skipped it. Anyway, I for sure don't want anything else to eat besides what I ordered. No need to even ask. If I wanted it to go I would have said so. The reason I mentioned that I don't need a bag is that I didn't want a bag. Seriously, no bag. Thank you.

I Spent The Afternoon Typing Code And Finally My Name Appeared In Block Letters

I spent the afternoon typing code and finally my name appeared in block letters. I was ten years old. It was the very early 1980s. My dad had just purchased a TI-99 home computer for our family to share but I was the only one who used it. Ever. It was a bit bigger than a current Mac laptop--not the new tiny one--but it was by no means portable, at least not in any useful way. (A flower pot is portable, but so what?) To run a program or play a game, you inserted a cartridge into a slot similar to that of an eight-track tape machine. In those halcyon days, many programs were not yet available in the slickly packaged cartridge format. These other programs were on cassette. Yes, magnetic tape--the same kind you would pop into the dashboard cassette deck of your mom's Chevette when you wanted to listen to Supertramp. The tape deck for the TI-99 home computer was an external affair, the same kind on which your third grade teacher used to play the audio track for a film strip in class. Advance to the next slide at the sound of the beep. The TI-99 deck was connected to the computer by thick cables. You'd hit play and for several minutes the tape would speak electronic code into the computer's ear. You could turn up the volume on the tape deck and listen to the beeps and crackles of the code. (Fax machines speak this same language. The only other place I've heard the sound is on the other end of what was supposed to have been a phone call.) If you didn't have a tape deck and were tired of the same old cartridges, you could spend the better part of a weekend typing in your own code to varying and less-than-dazzling results. I remember one all-day session when I typed and typed and typed (cut me some slack, I was ten years old, and was copying computer code out of a book--stuff like "IF x, then GOTO y"--if it wasn't like that exactly, at the very least it made for difficult typing). Finally I finished copying the code from the book and typed "RUN" and pressed enter. Up popped my first name in block letters against a gray background. I watched as the text moved slowly around the screen, "bouncing" off the sides, feeling a mixture of pride and relief (which distracted me from the aching in my fingers). The future was there.

Debit Or Credit?

Debit or credit? This unanswerable question is what we've been reduced to. As a culture, as a people. When anthropologists dust off the remains of our civilization some time around the year 2425, they will argue over the cause of our destruction, decimation and demise. Some will argue debit, others credit. The joke's on us--they'll both be right. (Another handful will lobby for the plastic bag. They'll be right too.) I get asked the question several times a week. I never have an answer. The question feels like the diminutive cousin of who's your favorite Beatle? (A person only comes to the correct answer to that question after living a life of wrong choices. Paul belongs to the pre-teen set. John is the choice of the adolescent. The working man chooses Ringo. Who is left for the enlightened, well-insured, semi-retiree?) Debit or credit? There's no similar spiritual life trajectory for this question. It's an either/or with no right answer. Debit or credit and when did you stop beating your wife? Debit or credit and what is the sound of one hand clapping? Let's make a change. Let's stop asking the question and start making answers. Not crebit or dedit, that's silly. Crebedit? It'll be a change we can all benefit from.

I Don't Like It When The Owner Just Hangs Around

I don't like it when the owner just hangs around. Nothing against the owner--he's a nice guy and all--but he shouldn't just hang around. If he has something to do, that's one thing. But clearly: he doesn't have anything to do. He's just hanging around. It makes us all nervous. We don't work as well when he's here hanging around. It puts us on edge. There's irony in this and I wish the owner could see it. He thinks he's protecting his investment by being here but really he's sabotaging it--his loafing presence actually reduces the value of his own business. A simple solution would be reached if he had something to do. (Again, the problem is not so much his being here, but the fact of his merely hanging around.) He has the office in the back but it's small and uncomfortable and he can't see what's going on from back there. There aren't any windows. It's pretty obvious there's not much for him to do back there anyway--he gets the bulk of the office work done at home during non-business hours. So, rather than go home and do nothing, he hangs around here with nothing to do. Why he doesn't work from home during business hours and develop a complex hobby in all his free time is beyond me. Maybe this place is his hobby. Yeah, that must be it, this place is a hobby for him.

Painting by Francis Bacon.

My Sidewalk Is Often Blocked By Heavy Machinery

My sidewalk is often blocked by heavy machinery. I live on a quiet street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States, Earth. Down the street from my building is a small company the business of which is some kind of metal fabrication. Maybe "fabrication" is the wrong word. What is the right word? Manipulation? I don't know. But they sandblast, weld, paint, saw, and bend metal. Long pieces of metal. Maybe they're I-beams. Again, I don't know--I just live down the street. Anyway, most weekdays, their shop spills out onto the sidewalk in front of the place. They sandblast, weld, paint, saw and bend metal right there on the sidewalk. Sometimes they take up a couple of parking spaces with their equipment and tools and materials too. (I'm the last person to complain about lack of parking. Ban automobiles--see if I care. But last time I checked--which, all right, was never--you needed a permit to hog an entire sidewalk and part of a street.) The workers make no apology about the fact that pedestrians have to walk out into an open street in order to pass by. And why should they--I'm sure it's not the workers' policy to take over the world with their steel beams.

It's one of those things I don't really mind, but it gets me to wondering just who is in charge around here.

(Photo: Will Sherman, www.untitledname.com)