Enigmatic author J.D. Salinger died today at 91.
I first read “The Catcher in the Rye” in high school at a turbulent time in my life. The book’s dull maroon cover and yellow colored title made it appear like a bland paperback, something trivial and dull. When I read the book, I thought Salinger’s use of language, his frankness and Holden Caulfield’s anger, tapped into my own adolescent crisis. Between those pages lurked my own flustered teenage id in the sad tale of a runaway prep school brat.
Caulfield represented a jaded, bitter American youth who railed against the phonies and authority in society. His own tortured trip into the city plays out like a frustrating travelogue of angst and self-loathing. He was the lone wolf growling at what he perceives as an adult world suffocating itself with convention. However, as a lone wolf, Caulfield doesn’t have much of a bite.
Caulfield is a pretentious whiner, a drama queen so immature he chooses not to confront responsibility but wallow in a pitiful gulag of his own making. If Caulfield wasn’t a spoiled prep school douchebag, he’d be a serial killer living in the Midwest.
I’m sure at the time of its publication “The Catcher in the Rye” was a sensation, but now it appears a bit dated and unbelievable. Caulfield’s flaw is not that he doesn’t change; it’s that he just doesn’t give a shit about changing. He’s the master cynic, a petty snob casting a jaundiced eye at everything.
The book sells 250,000 copies each year and is required reading for many high school literature classes. It’s also one of the most banned books in schools.
Salinger led a nearly hermit-like existence, living in solitude in his Cornish, N.H. home after the attention he received from “The Catcher in the Rye.” Though he published short stories and other works, “Catcher” stands out as his magnum opus.
Who was J.D. Salinger? Was he an eccentric recluse blinded by his own success, a misanthrope dwelling in a crumbled house of cards or a titanic genius whiling his life away in peace?
Did he create a book that defined the anger and resentment of youth, an adolescent hatefest borne by his own flawed personality?
Some of the greatest minds are insane geniuses toiling in total darkness, occasionally letting the light filter through the curtains. Birthing this literary juggernaut of the 20th century wasn’t easy. Coping with its success and criticism requires an iron fortitude.
Salinger coped by running away, cloistering himself from society, the one-time literary celebrity who lived in seclusion.
Whether you like “Catcher” or loathe it, you’ve got to give props to Salinger for creating a unique novel for its time.
Many writers (like me) long for such inspiration, when the clouds part and the words all tumble out onto the page arranged in perfect order. When the story comes together and everything fits so perfectly. When words on a page convey powerfully gut-wrenching emotion. When this happens, you know you’ve written something marvelous.
Every new rejection letter from a publisher has me doubtful if I’ll ever hit that lucky stride and write anything worth reading. Yet I can’t give up. I’ve spent decades writing, bumping the stories from my head onto the page. I’m not going to be a shrinking pessimist like Caulfield.
I’m still looking for my “Catcher.”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
In My Parent's Basement
As a teenager, I spent countless hours in my parent's basement, a refuge for geeks, nerds and the socially inept since the advent of subterranean habitation began millions of years ago. My parent's house had a roomy, bright basement that was cool in the summer and warm in the winter and afforded me the creature comforts I needed: bookcases, sofas and a computer.
Down in the basement, away from the distractions of the outside world, I could think. I internalized my situation at school and bathed in peace and quiet as I wrote whatever I wanted.
Years later I understand what that antisocial space of my parent's basement really was: a laboratory for the person I'd become.
In the early 1980s, the personal computer loomed large as wondrous technology. If you had a computer, you were very fortunate. For entertainment, the computer was in its infancy. Arcade games still dominated the video game market, along with home consoles like Atari, Television and Colecovision. Personal computers were really nerd tools because the only people who understood them were MIT grads with pocket protectors and an encyclopedic knowledge of old Star Trek episodes.
One of the best computers on the market at the time was the Commodore 64, often referred to as the "breadbox" because of its bulky shape. I had a Commodore 64 and played games on it, although they weren't as sophisticated as the coin operated monstrosities that inhabited the arcades.
I played games by a Cambridge, Mass.-based software company called Infocom, which produced a line if text adventures. Instead of graphically depicting the action on the screen and having the player use a joystick, the game consisted of written text. You'd read the story and at the prompt, you'd type in a command for what you wanted to do next. The game responded by describing the consequences of your actions and in that way, you moved the story forward. Think of it as the computer age equivalent of those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books.
I can't fathom playing today's console games as text adventures. Grand Theft Auto would be a totally different experience. It would be monotonous to continually type commands like STEAL CAR, DRIVE FAST, and KILL HOOKER.
Infocom's product catalog featured a variety of different text adventures, from their most popular title, Zork, to the science fiction-themed Planetfall, to mysteries like Deadline and The Witness. There was even a text adventure for Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and a ribald space opera adventure called Leather Goddesses of Phobos.
Playing these games wasn't only a fun way to pass the time during the paranoid-infused Cold War Reagan years. It also gave me a set of skills that I use today in my professional career. You might say that I'm the person I am today because I stayed in my parent's basement and scoured the Great Underground Empire of Zork, trying to solve multiple puzzles while staring at a blinking cursor.
Infocom's text adventures gave me a love for reading and the power of the written word to entertain. The games improved my typing skill tremendously. By forcing the user to type commands on a keyboard rather than use controllers suited for hand-eye coordination and motor skill, the text adventures made you familiar with a keyboard's basic orientation. With that familiarity, you just typed faster.
The enduring quality of Infocom games was that they allowed you to use your imagination, something akin to the paper and pencil RPGs that exist today. Imagination is a powerful and unique thing, making each game a different experience for every player.
Zork, Planetfall and the rest were training manuals that set the stage for me as a writer. For the first time, I saw writing used a different way, one that was interactive instead of static. My new hero was Steve Meretzky, who wrote the Infocom titles Planetfall, Sorcerer, Leather Goddesses of Phobos and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the Spellcasting series for Legend Entertainment. I also admired Al Lowe, the creative mind behind the Leisure Suit Larry games for his bizarre sense of humor.
As the years went by, I played more adventure games, both text and graphical. Adventure games were more challenging and intellectually rewarding than simple shoot 'em ups. You weren't just watching blips on a screen; you were steering the course of a character's destiny in a game world filled with puzzles and dangerous obstacles.
Though I liked playing, I wanted to actually write my own adventure games. I got my chance with a program called Adventure Writer that allowed users to program their own text adventures. This was like Prometheus bringing fire down from Olympus! For me, this divine present meant I could write the adventures I wanted to play on the C-64. I wasn't only a player; I'd be a game designer!
I read the 110-page manual, installed the software and began typing. I wrote the locations, the objects and thought out clever puzzles for players to struggle with. I developed my own game world, a distinct place populated by my unique brand of teenage humor. The final product was a horror game called "Night of the Undead Used Car Salesmen."
The game began with your intrepid hero waking up after a raucous party. You befriend an attractive but obtuse bimbo (as in most horror movies) and you both search for your missing neighbor who was abducted by zombie car salesmen who are holding his captive in an abandoned car lot overflowing with rusted Edsels, Yugos and Model Ts. Your hero has to break into the lot, rescue your neighbor and destroy the zombies.
Weird premise, but it was the first game I designed. I still have the old floppies somewhere but without a C-64 to run it on the game is like a fly frozen in amber, a world trapped on a disc.
My professional career path led me to a career in journalism, a far cry from writing about zombie car salesmen. My love for gaming still remains, however. I traded my C-64 for newer, faster computers and game consoles and I regularly play paper and pencil RPGs. This marriage of writing and gaming led to my creation of an RPG called Ravaged Earth, which was published in 2008.
Ravaged Earth was a crowning personal achievement. I've played many RPGs, but the chance to create my own and have a game company publish it was an amazing opportunity and fulfillment of a dream.
All those years in my parent's basement geeking out with rapture to adventure games and frivolous video-induced entertainment paid off. You never know where life is going to take you. Along the way, you're shaped by the most trivial and inconspicuous things. Mine just happened to be a basement, text adventures and a limitless imagination.
Down in the basement, away from the distractions of the outside world, I could think. I internalized my situation at school and bathed in peace and quiet as I wrote whatever I wanted.
Years later I understand what that antisocial space of my parent's basement really was: a laboratory for the person I'd become.
In the early 1980s, the personal computer loomed large as wondrous technology. If you had a computer, you were very fortunate. For entertainment, the computer was in its infancy. Arcade games still dominated the video game market, along with home consoles like Atari, Television and Colecovision. Personal computers were really nerd tools because the only people who understood them were MIT grads with pocket protectors and an encyclopedic knowledge of old Star Trek episodes.
One of the best computers on the market at the time was the Commodore 64, often referred to as the "breadbox" because of its bulky shape. I had a Commodore 64 and played games on it, although they weren't as sophisticated as the coin operated monstrosities that inhabited the arcades.
I played games by a Cambridge, Mass.-based software company called Infocom, which produced a line if text adventures. Instead of graphically depicting the action on the screen and having the player use a joystick, the game consisted of written text. You'd read the story and at the prompt, you'd type in a command for what you wanted to do next. The game responded by describing the consequences of your actions and in that way, you moved the story forward. Think of it as the computer age equivalent of those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books.
I can't fathom playing today's console games as text adventures. Grand Theft Auto would be a totally different experience. It would be monotonous to continually type commands like STEAL CAR, DRIVE FAST, and KILL HOOKER.
Infocom's product catalog featured a variety of different text adventures, from their most popular title, Zork, to the science fiction-themed Planetfall, to mysteries like Deadline and The Witness. There was even a text adventure for Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and a ribald space opera adventure called Leather Goddesses of Phobos.
Playing these games wasn't only a fun way to pass the time during the paranoid-infused Cold War Reagan years. It also gave me a set of skills that I use today in my professional career. You might say that I'm the person I am today because I stayed in my parent's basement and scoured the Great Underground Empire of Zork, trying to solve multiple puzzles while staring at a blinking cursor.
Infocom's text adventures gave me a love for reading and the power of the written word to entertain. The games improved my typing skill tremendously. By forcing the user to type commands on a keyboard rather than use controllers suited for hand-eye coordination and motor skill, the text adventures made you familiar with a keyboard's basic orientation. With that familiarity, you just typed faster.
The enduring quality of Infocom games was that they allowed you to use your imagination, something akin to the paper and pencil RPGs that exist today. Imagination is a powerful and unique thing, making each game a different experience for every player.
Zork, Planetfall and the rest were training manuals that set the stage for me as a writer. For the first time, I saw writing used a different way, one that was interactive instead of static. My new hero was Steve Meretzky, who wrote the Infocom titles Planetfall, Sorcerer, Leather Goddesses of Phobos and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the Spellcasting series for Legend Entertainment. I also admired Al Lowe, the creative mind behind the Leisure Suit Larry games for his bizarre sense of humor.
As the years went by, I played more adventure games, both text and graphical. Adventure games were more challenging and intellectually rewarding than simple shoot 'em ups. You weren't just watching blips on a screen; you were steering the course of a character's destiny in a game world filled with puzzles and dangerous obstacles.
Though I liked playing, I wanted to actually write my own adventure games. I got my chance with a program called Adventure Writer that allowed users to program their own text adventures. This was like Prometheus bringing fire down from Olympus! For me, this divine present meant I could write the adventures I wanted to play on the C-64. I wasn't only a player; I'd be a game designer!
I read the 110-page manual, installed the software and began typing. I wrote the locations, the objects and thought out clever puzzles for players to struggle with. I developed my own game world, a distinct place populated by my unique brand of teenage humor. The final product was a horror game called "Night of the Undead Used Car Salesmen."
The game began with your intrepid hero waking up after a raucous party. You befriend an attractive but obtuse bimbo (as in most horror movies) and you both search for your missing neighbor who was abducted by zombie car salesmen who are holding his captive in an abandoned car lot overflowing with rusted Edsels, Yugos and Model Ts. Your hero has to break into the lot, rescue your neighbor and destroy the zombies.
Weird premise, but it was the first game I designed. I still have the old floppies somewhere but without a C-64 to run it on the game is like a fly frozen in amber, a world trapped on a disc.
My professional career path led me to a career in journalism, a far cry from writing about zombie car salesmen. My love for gaming still remains, however. I traded my C-64 for newer, faster computers and game consoles and I regularly play paper and pencil RPGs. This marriage of writing and gaming led to my creation of an RPG called Ravaged Earth, which was published in 2008.
Ravaged Earth was a crowning personal achievement. I've played many RPGs, but the chance to create my own and have a game company publish it was an amazing opportunity and fulfillment of a dream.
All those years in my parent's basement geeking out with rapture to adventure games and frivolous video-induced entertainment paid off. You never know where life is going to take you. Along the way, you're shaped by the most trivial and inconspicuous things. Mine just happened to be a basement, text adventures and a limitless imagination.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Riding A Gigantic Angry Wave
The voters of Massachusetts have spoken, electing Republican Scott Brown to fill the late Teddy Kennedy’s U.S. Senate seat. Brown upset the Democratic challenger, Martha Coakley by winning 52 percent to 47 percent. The win gives the GOP 41 Senate seats, enough to block the health care legislation and to prevent Democrats from blocking their filibusters
Brown’s victory was a series of Republican wins in a nation driven crazy by the perceived jackbooted tactics of President Obama’s Administration, which began with thunderous approval and ovation a year ago.
Now, 12 months later, the country’s political landscape is fractured and festering amid renewed promises by the minions of a certain couscous-munching mastermind who wants Americans to be blown out of the skies and an economy struggling to jumpstart itself.
What a difference a year makes.
In January of 2009, the National Mall in Washington overflowed as millions cheered Obama on his momentous, history-making inaugural. Now, the atmosphere in Washington is buzzing with a new mantra, one where giddy Republicans who a year ago were about to commit political seppuku, rose phoenix-like from the ashes of a bungled health care reform and an America that reminds one not of the shining city on the hill, but of the childlike dystopia from Logan’s Run.
It began with a fierce partisanship not seen in years, when good people recalcitrant to accept a change of political ideology, boiled with rage at it, and even conspired to defeat it. At its core, the sunshine patriots, the Biblical zealots, the nomads and hermits seething with rage in their subterranean Montana bunkers at a president who seemed so out of touch with their values. But rapidly, the movement gained momentum and others came aboard for the ride: the Teaparty Republicans (or Teabaggers as they’re called in some circles), the Dittoheads, Birthers, the Ma and Pa Businesspeople forced to close shop, the Palinites, the moralists and anyone else who fears a large government branded as “socialistic.”
While the GOP started the torch and pitchfork party, they didn't finish it. The independent voters, pissed off at Beltway stagnation and special interests, joined in the backlash and voted Republican.
It only takes a little spark to grow a conflagration.
With the election of Republican governors in Virginia and New Jersey, the GOP touted its message and took it as a sign from providence that the Democrats were on the losing side of history. Robert Creigh Deeds, Jon Corzine and now Coakley were sacrificed on the pyre of Vox Populi, driven from office by a horde of unsatisfied voters. Democrats really have to screw up to lose Massachusetts, a state that's is so liberal, the state flower is cannabis.
Now all the liberals and social progressives and self-righteous Ivy League douchebags who sniggered at Republicans for being gun-toting Neanderthals are crying in their granola. Teddy Kennedy's corpse is doing cartwheels in the grave and the Democratic Party is like a one-armed juggler: sad to watch but morbidly entertaining.
Barack Obama had become the new Macbeth, driven by ambition without realizing his scheme will backfire into a bloody mess of political casualties as one loss after another his party disintegrates before him.
Unlike France in the 1790s, this revolution won’t have guillotines. Yet heads will roll in the corridors of Washington and around the country. The unwashed masses have spoken and sent a mandate to Obama.
For a while, it looked like the Democrats had turned a corner. It appeared the party of nebbish intellectuals who were too smart for NASCAR and too remote from Main Street had caught the imagination of the American voters with Obama. No more would the party field weak candidates like Al Gore or John Kerry. Obama was a different animal, a creature comfortable with his destiny and determined to live out his Horatio Alger rags-to-riches destiny on the American stage.
Yet that didn’t happen. Something got lost in translation. So focused to prove his might, he spent all of his political capital on healthcare instead of working to repair the economy, not with gimmicks like Cash For Clunkers or the bloated American Recovery and Reinvestment Act, but with incentives for businesses that grow private sector jobs.
In wanting to be the dashing Paladins that would save America, the Obama Administration became the jesters pilloried and pelted to death by public distrust and scorn. Their enemies mustered enough resentment that drowned every good intention Obama meekly tried putting forward. Americans, tired of being lectured and scolded like they were to blame, rode that gigantic angry wave to the polls and spanked the Democrats.
Obama, in trying to be a Superman President and international wunderkind, became the catalyst for his own party’s undoing, accompanied by House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid and a liberal wing of the Democratic Party that cared more about pushing their own agenda than about bipartisan concessions.
This isn’t to say Obama’s critics should be canonized. Most of them are hired guns pushing their own agendas, distorting records and playing on the public’s fears of liberals as the 21st century bogeymen.
The tragic irony of recent politics is the tone set a year ago is like a cocaine high, one where the adrenaline-pumping rush pushes you to a dazzling state of euphoria. America thought it had found the answer in Barack Obama. They thought that prejudice and bigotry were antiquated concepts and that he’d lead the country into a new era of prosperity.
They’d bitterly discover that behind the fawning media coverage and idolization, Obama was only human, susceptible to mistakes and miscalculations. Instead of sweeping change, we got the same Congressional leaders. We got the same politics of acrimony and spite. We got pandering, pettiness and an egotistical party that made the worst dungeon-crawling nightmares that inhabited Dick Cheney’s inner circle seem like a high school glee club by comparison.
Now the pendulum is swinging the other way, and the Democrats, who showed so much promise a year ago, are fleeting like rats on the Titanic, shuddering at their recent misfortunes at the polls.
Is America better off for it? Only time will tell. Maybe a changing of the guard is a hard slap across the face and a cold shower for them. Perhaps the underdog’s seat is where they’re most comfortable. You can’t crow about standing up for the little guy if you control all the seats.
Brown’s victory was a series of Republican wins in a nation driven crazy by the perceived jackbooted tactics of President Obama’s Administration, which began with thunderous approval and ovation a year ago.
Now, 12 months later, the country’s political landscape is fractured and festering amid renewed promises by the minions of a certain couscous-munching mastermind who wants Americans to be blown out of the skies and an economy struggling to jumpstart itself.
What a difference a year makes.
In January of 2009, the National Mall in Washington overflowed as millions cheered Obama on his momentous, history-making inaugural. Now, the atmosphere in Washington is buzzing with a new mantra, one where giddy Republicans who a year ago were about to commit political seppuku, rose phoenix-like from the ashes of a bungled health care reform and an America that reminds one not of the shining city on the hill, but of the childlike dystopia from Logan’s Run.
It began with a fierce partisanship not seen in years, when good people recalcitrant to accept a change of political ideology, boiled with rage at it, and even conspired to defeat it. At its core, the sunshine patriots, the Biblical zealots, the nomads and hermits seething with rage in their subterranean Montana bunkers at a president who seemed so out of touch with their values. But rapidly, the movement gained momentum and others came aboard for the ride: the Teaparty Republicans (or Teabaggers as they’re called in some circles), the Dittoheads, Birthers, the Ma and Pa Businesspeople forced to close shop, the Palinites, the moralists and anyone else who fears a large government branded as “socialistic.”
While the GOP started the torch and pitchfork party, they didn't finish it. The independent voters, pissed off at Beltway stagnation and special interests, joined in the backlash and voted Republican.
It only takes a little spark to grow a conflagration.
With the election of Republican governors in Virginia and New Jersey, the GOP touted its message and took it as a sign from providence that the Democrats were on the losing side of history. Robert Creigh Deeds, Jon Corzine and now Coakley were sacrificed on the pyre of Vox Populi, driven from office by a horde of unsatisfied voters. Democrats really have to screw up to lose Massachusetts, a state that's is so liberal, the state flower is cannabis.
Now all the liberals and social progressives and self-righteous Ivy League douchebags who sniggered at Republicans for being gun-toting Neanderthals are crying in their granola. Teddy Kennedy's corpse is doing cartwheels in the grave and the Democratic Party is like a one-armed juggler: sad to watch but morbidly entertaining.
Barack Obama had become the new Macbeth, driven by ambition without realizing his scheme will backfire into a bloody mess of political casualties as one loss after another his party disintegrates before him.
Unlike France in the 1790s, this revolution won’t have guillotines. Yet heads will roll in the corridors of Washington and around the country. The unwashed masses have spoken and sent a mandate to Obama.
For a while, it looked like the Democrats had turned a corner. It appeared the party of nebbish intellectuals who were too smart for NASCAR and too remote from Main Street had caught the imagination of the American voters with Obama. No more would the party field weak candidates like Al Gore or John Kerry. Obama was a different animal, a creature comfortable with his destiny and determined to live out his Horatio Alger rags-to-riches destiny on the American stage.
Yet that didn’t happen. Something got lost in translation. So focused to prove his might, he spent all of his political capital on healthcare instead of working to repair the economy, not with gimmicks like Cash For Clunkers or the bloated American Recovery and Reinvestment Act, but with incentives for businesses that grow private sector jobs.
In wanting to be the dashing Paladins that would save America, the Obama Administration became the jesters pilloried and pelted to death by public distrust and scorn. Their enemies mustered enough resentment that drowned every good intention Obama meekly tried putting forward. Americans, tired of being lectured and scolded like they were to blame, rode that gigantic angry wave to the polls and spanked the Democrats.
Obama, in trying to be a Superman President and international wunderkind, became the catalyst for his own party’s undoing, accompanied by House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid and a liberal wing of the Democratic Party that cared more about pushing their own agenda than about bipartisan concessions.
This isn’t to say Obama’s critics should be canonized. Most of them are hired guns pushing their own agendas, distorting records and playing on the public’s fears of liberals as the 21st century bogeymen.
The tragic irony of recent politics is the tone set a year ago is like a cocaine high, one where the adrenaline-pumping rush pushes you to a dazzling state of euphoria. America thought it had found the answer in Barack Obama. They thought that prejudice and bigotry were antiquated concepts and that he’d lead the country into a new era of prosperity.
They’d bitterly discover that behind the fawning media coverage and idolization, Obama was only human, susceptible to mistakes and miscalculations. Instead of sweeping change, we got the same Congressional leaders. We got the same politics of acrimony and spite. We got pandering, pettiness and an egotistical party that made the worst dungeon-crawling nightmares that inhabited Dick Cheney’s inner circle seem like a high school glee club by comparison.
Now the pendulum is swinging the other way, and the Democrats, who showed so much promise a year ago, are fleeting like rats on the Titanic, shuddering at their recent misfortunes at the polls.
Is America better off for it? Only time will tell. Maybe a changing of the guard is a hard slap across the face and a cold shower for them. Perhaps the underdog’s seat is where they’re most comfortable. You can’t crow about standing up for the little guy if you control all the seats.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Earthquakes and Evangelists
Haiti suffered a 7.0 magnitude earthquake, its largest in 200 years, with widespread devastation around the capital of Port-au-Prince on Jan. 12.
Officials claim as many as 100,000 are dead, with millions left homeless.
Images of the earthquake zipped around the world, as Internet news sites posted photos from Port-au-Prince. Some of the iconic scenes captured include the domed Presidential Palace as a cracked mountain of rubble; people crying and dazed, their faces covered with blood; and city buildings resembling bombed debris from Iraq or Afghanistan.
But not everything is all piles of rubble and thousands of dead, exposed bodies rotting in the tropical heat.
Televangelist Pat Robertson placed a positive spin on the earthquake in Haiti.
Talking to Bill Horan, president of Operation Blessing, Robertson said, “If all those buildings are down, I understand more are falling than are standing, it may be a blessing in disguise. There might be a massive rebuilding of that country. Is that possible?”
Horan replied, “I don’t know. I would think that would be a pretty optimistic attitude.”
A blessing in disguise?
Are you fucking kidding me? Did Robertson see the photos of the children weeping, the collapsed walls crushing bodies and hundreds of displaced citizens sleeping on the streets?
I guess between hawking imitation prayer napkins and plastic dashboard Jesus statues, he missed the news accounts portraying the earthquake as what it really was: a calamity.
Yet according to Captain Christ, the earthquake was the best thing to happen to Haiti since the Port-au-Prince McDonald’s introduced the McPlantain.
Wait. It gets worse.
Robertson said those Haitian heathens with their voodoo, dreadlocks and godless ways had this coming.
Later in the program, Robertson said, “Something happened a long time ago in Haiti and the people might not want to talk about it. They were under the heel of the French. Napoleon III and whatever. And they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said ‘we will serve you if you’ll get us free from the French.’ True story. And the devil said, ‘Okay, it’s a deal.’ They kicked the French out and the Haitians revolted and got themselves free. Ever since they have been cursed by one thing after the other.”
I’m sure the quake had nothing to do with the American and Caribbean tectonic plates being in close proximity to Haiti, with fault lines running through the island nation. It was that goofy devil theory.
Robertson said the island of Hispaniola is divided down the middle with the Dominican Republic being prosperous and Haiti “is in desperate poverty.”
Again, according to Robertson, politics and culture have nothing to do with one country being prosperous and another being impoverished.
It’s the Faustian pact.
But the earthquake claimed the lives of Archbishop Joseph Serge Milot and relief workers, soldiers and diplomats from other countries. You know: people whose ancestors didn’t turn to Beelzebub to kick the frogs off their island.
It’s hard to take these Elmer Gantry clones seriously when they have the temerity to expound on world issues.
Remember when that asshole Jerry Falwell blamed the September 11 terrorist attacks on everyone but the terrorists? Falwell said “the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternate lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America” were responsible for hijacking airplanes, slamming them into the World Trade Center and killing over 3,000 people.
And I thought the only thing the gays killed was Ted Haggard's career.
According to Robertson, the Haitian earthquake is a bold opportunity to rebuild a Third World shithole and put a Starbucks on every corner. Or a Fatburger. Or a Walmart. Or whatever corporate American retail chain that could pump money into Haiti’s desperate economy.
“Out of this tragedy, I’m optimistic something good may come,” Robertson said.
It’s bad enough that the Haitians have a government that’s about as stable as Somalia, but does Robertson have to add insult to injury by praying for urban renewal at the hands of a cataclysmic natural disaster?
The only good thing to come out of this tragedy is the international aid rushing to assist the Haitian people. The United States sent emergency and rescue workers, military forces and equipment, while the United Nations gave emergency funds. Countries such as Germany, Spain, China, and Sweden are contributing money and manpower, while France, Britain, Iceland, Israel and Taiwan are sending doctors, rescue personnel and engineers.
This is when the world shines, when humanity shows a natural inclination to assist their fellow man through compassion and unity. It’s better than a prophet of doom espousing ignorance and superstition.
Officials claim as many as 100,000 are dead, with millions left homeless.
Images of the earthquake zipped around the world, as Internet news sites posted photos from Port-au-Prince. Some of the iconic scenes captured include the domed Presidential Palace as a cracked mountain of rubble; people crying and dazed, their faces covered with blood; and city buildings resembling bombed debris from Iraq or Afghanistan.
But not everything is all piles of rubble and thousands of dead, exposed bodies rotting in the tropical heat.
Televangelist Pat Robertson placed a positive spin on the earthquake in Haiti.
Talking to Bill Horan, president of Operation Blessing, Robertson said, “If all those buildings are down, I understand more are falling than are standing, it may be a blessing in disguise. There might be a massive rebuilding of that country. Is that possible?”
Horan replied, “I don’t know. I would think that would be a pretty optimistic attitude.”
A blessing in disguise?
Are you fucking kidding me? Did Robertson see the photos of the children weeping, the collapsed walls crushing bodies and hundreds of displaced citizens sleeping on the streets?
I guess between hawking imitation prayer napkins and plastic dashboard Jesus statues, he missed the news accounts portraying the earthquake as what it really was: a calamity.
Yet according to Captain Christ, the earthquake was the best thing to happen to Haiti since the Port-au-Prince McDonald’s introduced the McPlantain.
Wait. It gets worse.
Robertson said those Haitian heathens with their voodoo, dreadlocks and godless ways had this coming.
Later in the program, Robertson said, “Something happened a long time ago in Haiti and the people might not want to talk about it. They were under the heel of the French. Napoleon III and whatever. And they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said ‘we will serve you if you’ll get us free from the French.’ True story. And the devil said, ‘Okay, it’s a deal.’ They kicked the French out and the Haitians revolted and got themselves free. Ever since they have been cursed by one thing after the other.”
I’m sure the quake had nothing to do with the American and Caribbean tectonic plates being in close proximity to Haiti, with fault lines running through the island nation. It was that goofy devil theory.
Robertson said the island of Hispaniola is divided down the middle with the Dominican Republic being prosperous and Haiti “is in desperate poverty.”
Again, according to Robertson, politics and culture have nothing to do with one country being prosperous and another being impoverished.
It’s the Faustian pact.
But the earthquake claimed the lives of Archbishop Joseph Serge Milot and relief workers, soldiers and diplomats from other countries. You know: people whose ancestors didn’t turn to Beelzebub to kick the frogs off their island.
It’s hard to take these Elmer Gantry clones seriously when they have the temerity to expound on world issues.
Remember when that asshole Jerry Falwell blamed the September 11 terrorist attacks on everyone but the terrorists? Falwell said “the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternate lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America” were responsible for hijacking airplanes, slamming them into the World Trade Center and killing over 3,000 people.
And I thought the only thing the gays killed was Ted Haggard's career.
According to Robertson, the Haitian earthquake is a bold opportunity to rebuild a Third World shithole and put a Starbucks on every corner. Or a Fatburger. Or a Walmart. Or whatever corporate American retail chain that could pump money into Haiti’s desperate economy.
“Out of this tragedy, I’m optimistic something good may come,” Robertson said.
It’s bad enough that the Haitians have a government that’s about as stable as Somalia, but does Robertson have to add insult to injury by praying for urban renewal at the hands of a cataclysmic natural disaster?
The only good thing to come out of this tragedy is the international aid rushing to assist the Haitian people. The United States sent emergency and rescue workers, military forces and equipment, while the United Nations gave emergency funds. Countries such as Germany, Spain, China, and Sweden are contributing money and manpower, while France, Britain, Iceland, Israel and Taiwan are sending doctors, rescue personnel and engineers.
This is when the world shines, when humanity shows a natural inclination to assist their fellow man through compassion and unity. It’s better than a prophet of doom espousing ignorance and superstition.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
2009 Year in Review
Reflecting back on the past year, I can report without exaggeration and with great humility that 2009 was a really decent year for me.
Since 2008 was marked by physical pain, emotional stress and many unpleasant life changes, I anticipated a better 2009.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Job-wise, I’m still at the newspaper, cranking out stories. This year brought me renewed animosity with the Powers-That-Be, and a feud with the mayor over investigative article I’ve written about pay-to-play violations. On the plus side, I have the coolest and most magnanimous editor in the world. Even though my blog contains salty language and observations that occasionally offend, well, practically everyone, my editor is a regular reader and supports freedom of speech and a writer’s free expression.
I reconnected with dear friends in northern New Jersey and connected with many more through Facebook. I also turned 40, a milestone that doesn’t bother me in the slightest, although I would like to get married again and start a family. I know, I’m under the gun on that one.
The family is healthy and happy and alive. That’s really all that counts. Like my old man says, “A good day is one above ground.” Speaking of my old man, we shared a great Father’s Day moment at Citizens Bank Park watching the Philadelphia Phillies. Even the Orioles shellacked them, it was still great to go to the ballpark with my dad. When the Phillies lost the World Series, I jabbered about the game with dad over the phone.
This year I had the opportunity to meet two authors and hear them discuss their works. In February, I met Jeff Gordinier, a writer for Details magazine whose book “X Saves the World” should be mandatory reading for people in their 30s and 40s. In November I met A.J. Jacobs, an editor for Esquire magazine whose book "The Guinea Pig Diaries" is extremely funny.
Though in 2008 I experienced severe back pain (thanks to a herniated disc), this year my sciatica barely showed up. I did experience the worst back pain in April when I was bedridden. It felt like I was being stabbed in the back with a dagger tipped with salt – a stinging, uncomfortable pain. It was the kind of pain that makes you cry. Fortunately, I became reacquainted with my old buddy Naproxen and the persistent back pain went away.
This year I also became reacquainted with my cat, Smuttynose (or Nosey for short). My ex was looking after him for a while, and in the spring he moved in. A cat is really a joy to have, especially one that follows you around like a dog.
On the publishing front, Ravaged Earth sold strongly despite not being reviewed anywhere. Reality Blurs also published an adventure, “Quest for the Lost Oasis” and two issues of “Relics & Rumors”, supplements for Ravaged Earth. Early sales were especially heavy and now the book is going into its 3rd printing.
Speaking about RPGs and gaming, I attended Gencon in August, the country’s largest gaming convention. There I met several wonderful people, including Sean Preston and Stacy Young from Reality Blurs, Shane Hensley, Simon Lucas and Matthew Cutter from Pinnacle Entertainment among others too numerous to name here. I will mention one more – “Weird Dave” Olson, a talented writer and Ravaged Earth contributor.
As far as conventions go, I also attended Pulp AdventureCon, a smallish convention dedicated to the pulp magazines and entertainment of yesteryear. I purchased a few choice books and magazines and reconnected with this wonderful literary form.
A few weeks after that convention, I attended Philcon, a science fiction convention outside Philadelphia. I spoke on the pulps and characters in gaming and literature. I also attended several panels and met wonderful people at late night parties. This Philcon was different for me because I learned much about publishing and science fiction fandom.
I also returned to standup comedy after two years, performing in of all places, a strip bar. The gig was for a benefit and included comics much more talented than me, but even after a lackluster performance, it still felt great to try out new material in front of a live audience.
Finally, rounding out the year, I had the opportunity to record lines for an audio drama, HG World. I play Thomas, a traumatized 19-year old who has his way with an older woman. The scene was especially well done thanks to superb writing, editing and acting by cast and crew. I’ve done many things this year, but voice acting was a dream of mine, one I was lucky to have fulfilled.
As I write this, I’m relaxing and listening to classical Genesis (“Supper’s Ready” off the “Foxtrot” album) and contemplating how awesome the year was.
Still, I hope 2010 brings continued luck and prosperity not only for me but for my friends and loved ones. On New Year’s Eve I’ll probably be sequestered indoors polishing off a bottle of wine I received at Christmas, marveling at another trip around the sun on a planet brimming with life and hoping never to cease dreaming.
Peace Out.
Eric Avedissian
12/29/2009
Since 2008 was marked by physical pain, emotional stress and many unpleasant life changes, I anticipated a better 2009.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Job-wise, I’m still at the newspaper, cranking out stories. This year brought me renewed animosity with the Powers-That-Be, and a feud with the mayor over investigative article I’ve written about pay-to-play violations. On the plus side, I have the coolest and most magnanimous editor in the world. Even though my blog contains salty language and observations that occasionally offend, well, practically everyone, my editor is a regular reader and supports freedom of speech and a writer’s free expression.
I reconnected with dear friends in northern New Jersey and connected with many more through Facebook. I also turned 40, a milestone that doesn’t bother me in the slightest, although I would like to get married again and start a family. I know, I’m under the gun on that one.
The family is healthy and happy and alive. That’s really all that counts. Like my old man says, “A good day is one above ground.” Speaking of my old man, we shared a great Father’s Day moment at Citizens Bank Park watching the Philadelphia Phillies. Even the Orioles shellacked them, it was still great to go to the ballpark with my dad. When the Phillies lost the World Series, I jabbered about the game with dad over the phone.
This year I had the opportunity to meet two authors and hear them discuss their works. In February, I met Jeff Gordinier, a writer for Details magazine whose book “X Saves the World” should be mandatory reading for people in their 30s and 40s. In November I met A.J. Jacobs, an editor for Esquire magazine whose book "The Guinea Pig Diaries" is extremely funny.
Though in 2008 I experienced severe back pain (thanks to a herniated disc), this year my sciatica barely showed up. I did experience the worst back pain in April when I was bedridden. It felt like I was being stabbed in the back with a dagger tipped with salt – a stinging, uncomfortable pain. It was the kind of pain that makes you cry. Fortunately, I became reacquainted with my old buddy Naproxen and the persistent back pain went away.
This year I also became reacquainted with my cat, Smuttynose (or Nosey for short). My ex was looking after him for a while, and in the spring he moved in. A cat is really a joy to have, especially one that follows you around like a dog.
On the publishing front, Ravaged Earth sold strongly despite not being reviewed anywhere. Reality Blurs also published an adventure, “Quest for the Lost Oasis” and two issues of “Relics & Rumors”, supplements for Ravaged Earth. Early sales were especially heavy and now the book is going into its 3rd printing.
Speaking about RPGs and gaming, I attended Gencon in August, the country’s largest gaming convention. There I met several wonderful people, including Sean Preston and Stacy Young from Reality Blurs, Shane Hensley, Simon Lucas and Matthew Cutter from Pinnacle Entertainment among others too numerous to name here. I will mention one more – “Weird Dave” Olson, a talented writer and Ravaged Earth contributor.
As far as conventions go, I also attended Pulp AdventureCon, a smallish convention dedicated to the pulp magazines and entertainment of yesteryear. I purchased a few choice books and magazines and reconnected with this wonderful literary form.
A few weeks after that convention, I attended Philcon, a science fiction convention outside Philadelphia. I spoke on the pulps and characters in gaming and literature. I also attended several panels and met wonderful people at late night parties. This Philcon was different for me because I learned much about publishing and science fiction fandom.
I also returned to standup comedy after two years, performing in of all places, a strip bar. The gig was for a benefit and included comics much more talented than me, but even after a lackluster performance, it still felt great to try out new material in front of a live audience.
Finally, rounding out the year, I had the opportunity to record lines for an audio drama, HG World. I play Thomas, a traumatized 19-year old who has his way with an older woman. The scene was especially well done thanks to superb writing, editing and acting by cast and crew. I’ve done many things this year, but voice acting was a dream of mine, one I was lucky to have fulfilled.
As I write this, I’m relaxing and listening to classical Genesis (“Supper’s Ready” off the “Foxtrot” album) and contemplating how awesome the year was.
Still, I hope 2010 brings continued luck and prosperity not only for me but for my friends and loved ones. On New Year’s Eve I’ll probably be sequestered indoors polishing off a bottle of wine I received at Christmas, marveling at another trip around the sun on a planet brimming with life and hoping never to cease dreaming.
Peace Out.
Eric Avedissian
12/29/2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Standup in Stripperland
Performing standup comedy in a strip club isn’t as glamorous or exciting as one would think, especially when the audience consists of the extras from the movie Roadhouse.
Yet plunged into a seedy world of humor, beer and grinding women in Lycra g-strings was how I spent Saturday night when a comedian buddy of mine who also hosts his own radio show works part time at this gentleman’s club in Mays Landing. He’s also a former Marine and used the venue for a U.S. Marine’s Toys for Tots holiday toy drive comedy benefit.
The lineup consisted of my buddy as the MC, four other comics and me. I separated myself from the lineup because I haven’t performed onstage since late 2007.
I have a love-hate relationship with standup comedy. When I first began writing jokes and performing, I struggled with my personal life and letting go and actually allowing myself to become comfortable on stage. After a rough series of trainwrecks, I decided instead of performing as myself, I’d instead perform as an alternate persona, a clueless yet goofy comic named Lazlo. I put on a few shows as the Lazlo character and had fun on stage. Yet whenever I’m performing as myself, everything falls apart like Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery. What? Too soon?
So my buddy asks me to perform at his benefit and I agree. It’ll be good to get back on stage and embarrass myself in front of a new group of strangers. They might not heckle me like that fat lady with the hairy chin did last time. In every audience I’ve performed for, there’s always a fat lady with a hairy chin. That’s southern New Jersey for you.
I arrive at the gig and go on first. I figure I’d get this ordeal over with fast. I put my set list on the stage where I can see it and immediately notice my first problem: there’s a pole on the stage. It’s a gentlemen’s club, where glassy-eyed high school dropouts grind their hips and perform lustful acrobatic feats of overtly sexual physical motion, on a pole smack dab in the middle of the stage.
My stage.
For those who know me, I’m a pacer. I move when I’m on stage. I like gesturing wildly and pacing around. I think better when I’m moving, and oddly it helps me relax.
Now I see this pole running from floor to ceiling in the middle of the stage and realize I’m doomed. I might as well pack up my video camera and weave my way through the crowd of bikers, hellraisers and drunk middle aged women and vamoose into the night.
Yet I don’t. I made a promise to my friend to perform at the benefit, pole or no pole.
Besides, it’s all for those snotty little kids, right? Bless those darling angels!
So I begin my assault on the unsuspecting audience by playing up the pole. I go on stage and pretend I’m a stripper, gyrating around the pole, hooking my leg around it and grinding my pelvis about as provocatively as a wombat on Vicodin. To my surprise, a few soused grandmothers applauded. I’d hoped one of them would put a dollar in my pants. Big laughs all around.
It went downhill from there faster than a bullet train to Auschwitz.
I pulled some of my older jokes out of retirement and realized why they were retired. The new material, including Tiger Woods and his hyperactive penis, received mild chuckles from a group of women sitting in front of the stage. I even pulled out the “turtle fucking” bit, a classic that I brought back by request, but since I performed sans microphone stand, I had to hold the mike and it just was awkward.
The set was, upon closer reflection, one of the cleanest I’ve performed. I used to spout more four-letter curse words than a Tourettes sufferer. This time, it was so clean it could have been performed for the 700 Club, except the part about fucking like a tortoise.
Afterwards, my buddy said I was rusty because I hadn’t performed so long, and he was right.
Did I bomb? Not really. I did get laughs, but they were few and far between. In the end, I was about as funny as a child’s autopsy.
However, it didn’t dissuade me from going on stage and subjecting future audiences to my brand of madcap humor.
When the benefit concluded, I drowned my sorrows in a beer and chatted with a lovely woman who sat next to me at the bar.
No sooner had the thong-covered ass hit the bar stool, she introduced herself and asked me my name. Now in the world of high-stakes poker and life as a road comic, one must never begin the opening gambit by revealing your true identity. Instead of replying that I was “Rodrigo Rivera, covert spy and gentleman of the evening,” I told her my real name.
“How about I get you started by taking you in the back room? I’ll get you hot and do you right,” she said with a smile that could eat through a man’s cotton briefs. “I can do things to you.”
“What kinds of things?” I asked, hoping she'd give me a full description of debase and immoral acts for my wicked imagination.
“You know, stuff like foreplay.”
“Foreplay? I prefer fiveplay,” was my witty riposte.
“Fiveplay? What’s that?” she asked, oblivious to wordplay.
“It’s one better than foreplay,” I said, explaining the joke to her.
She held her smile, yet I saw through her heavily coiffed bangs and glittering nosering. Sure, she was in her 20s and half naked, but that’s no excuse for not understanding basic puns.
“Is this going to cost anything?” I asked, knowing such acts aren’t for free unless you buy them a lobster dinner.
“It’s $25,” she replied.
Now $25 for a four-minute couch dance was highway robbery, I don’t care who you are. Catherine Zeta Jones and Angelina Jolie could lick me head to toe but not for $25 for four minutes. That translates to $6.50 per minute, and with today’s economic situation, it amounted to a frivolous luxury. How about a “recession special” couch dance? Airlines have “frequent flier” programs. How about “frequent pervert programs” for strip clubs?
I politely declined her request and she flashed me that smile that told the world cocaine was one of her favorite foods.
“Can you give me dollar?” she pouted, crushed at my rejection of her proposition to rob me blind by sitting on my lap.
Pulling out a dollar from my wallet and thinking about where George Washington would spend the evening, I folded the bill in half and stuck it between her g-string and her toned gluteus maximus.
She then took her leave of me and danced on stage, humping the pole like a chinchilla on Viagra.
“Give me some money, baby,” she cooed, and pulled the front of her g-string out far enough to create a small pouch to throw bills in.
Acting like an insensitive prick who just flopped on stage and didn’t want anyone else on the planet to feel any joy or satisfaction, I informed her that I already gave her a dollar.
“You can give me another dollar. Fives, tens, twenties, hundreds. It don’t matter,” she smiled, as another comedian threw a folded dollar bill at her.
After she contorted her lithe body into a pretzel shape that could give a dead man a hard-on, she slithered off the stage and out of the club.
Strippers are like ex-wives. You know you’re not getting sex from them and all they want is your money.
Performing at a strip club is another career high for me. So far, I’ve performed standup at a bowling alley, a coffee house, an Atlantic City comedy club that’s now closed and an open mic venue.
The way things are going with me, I’ll be performing behind your local Arby’s or Dunkin Donuts. Check this site for showtimes and ticket prices.
Yet plunged into a seedy world of humor, beer and grinding women in Lycra g-strings was how I spent Saturday night when a comedian buddy of mine who also hosts his own radio show works part time at this gentleman’s club in Mays Landing. He’s also a former Marine and used the venue for a U.S. Marine’s Toys for Tots holiday toy drive comedy benefit.
The lineup consisted of my buddy as the MC, four other comics and me. I separated myself from the lineup because I haven’t performed onstage since late 2007.
I have a love-hate relationship with standup comedy. When I first began writing jokes and performing, I struggled with my personal life and letting go and actually allowing myself to become comfortable on stage. After a rough series of trainwrecks, I decided instead of performing as myself, I’d instead perform as an alternate persona, a clueless yet goofy comic named Lazlo. I put on a few shows as the Lazlo character and had fun on stage. Yet whenever I’m performing as myself, everything falls apart like Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery. What? Too soon?
So my buddy asks me to perform at his benefit and I agree. It’ll be good to get back on stage and embarrass myself in front of a new group of strangers. They might not heckle me like that fat lady with the hairy chin did last time. In every audience I’ve performed for, there’s always a fat lady with a hairy chin. That’s southern New Jersey for you.
I arrive at the gig and go on first. I figure I’d get this ordeal over with fast. I put my set list on the stage where I can see it and immediately notice my first problem: there’s a pole on the stage. It’s a gentlemen’s club, where glassy-eyed high school dropouts grind their hips and perform lustful acrobatic feats of overtly sexual physical motion, on a pole smack dab in the middle of the stage.
My stage.
For those who know me, I’m a pacer. I move when I’m on stage. I like gesturing wildly and pacing around. I think better when I’m moving, and oddly it helps me relax.
Now I see this pole running from floor to ceiling in the middle of the stage and realize I’m doomed. I might as well pack up my video camera and weave my way through the crowd of bikers, hellraisers and drunk middle aged women and vamoose into the night.
Yet I don’t. I made a promise to my friend to perform at the benefit, pole or no pole.
Besides, it’s all for those snotty little kids, right? Bless those darling angels!
So I begin my assault on the unsuspecting audience by playing up the pole. I go on stage and pretend I’m a stripper, gyrating around the pole, hooking my leg around it and grinding my pelvis about as provocatively as a wombat on Vicodin. To my surprise, a few soused grandmothers applauded. I’d hoped one of them would put a dollar in my pants. Big laughs all around.
It went downhill from there faster than a bullet train to Auschwitz.
I pulled some of my older jokes out of retirement and realized why they were retired. The new material, including Tiger Woods and his hyperactive penis, received mild chuckles from a group of women sitting in front of the stage. I even pulled out the “turtle fucking” bit, a classic that I brought back by request, but since I performed sans microphone stand, I had to hold the mike and it just was awkward.
The set was, upon closer reflection, one of the cleanest I’ve performed. I used to spout more four-letter curse words than a Tourettes sufferer. This time, it was so clean it could have been performed for the 700 Club, except the part about fucking like a tortoise.
Afterwards, my buddy said I was rusty because I hadn’t performed so long, and he was right.
Did I bomb? Not really. I did get laughs, but they were few and far between. In the end, I was about as funny as a child’s autopsy.
However, it didn’t dissuade me from going on stage and subjecting future audiences to my brand of madcap humor.
When the benefit concluded, I drowned my sorrows in a beer and chatted with a lovely woman who sat next to me at the bar.
No sooner had the thong-covered ass hit the bar stool, she introduced herself and asked me my name. Now in the world of high-stakes poker and life as a road comic, one must never begin the opening gambit by revealing your true identity. Instead of replying that I was “Rodrigo Rivera, covert spy and gentleman of the evening,” I told her my real name.
“How about I get you started by taking you in the back room? I’ll get you hot and do you right,” she said with a smile that could eat through a man’s cotton briefs. “I can do things to you.”
“What kinds of things?” I asked, hoping she'd give me a full description of debase and immoral acts for my wicked imagination.
“You know, stuff like foreplay.”
“Foreplay? I prefer fiveplay,” was my witty riposte.
“Fiveplay? What’s that?” she asked, oblivious to wordplay.
“It’s one better than foreplay,” I said, explaining the joke to her.
She held her smile, yet I saw through her heavily coiffed bangs and glittering nosering. Sure, she was in her 20s and half naked, but that’s no excuse for not understanding basic puns.
“Is this going to cost anything?” I asked, knowing such acts aren’t for free unless you buy them a lobster dinner.
“It’s $25,” she replied.
Now $25 for a four-minute couch dance was highway robbery, I don’t care who you are. Catherine Zeta Jones and Angelina Jolie could lick me head to toe but not for $25 for four minutes. That translates to $6.50 per minute, and with today’s economic situation, it amounted to a frivolous luxury. How about a “recession special” couch dance? Airlines have “frequent flier” programs. How about “frequent pervert programs” for strip clubs?
I politely declined her request and she flashed me that smile that told the world cocaine was one of her favorite foods.
“Can you give me dollar?” she pouted, crushed at my rejection of her proposition to rob me blind by sitting on my lap.
Pulling out a dollar from my wallet and thinking about where George Washington would spend the evening, I folded the bill in half and stuck it between her g-string and her toned gluteus maximus.
She then took her leave of me and danced on stage, humping the pole like a chinchilla on Viagra.
“Give me some money, baby,” she cooed, and pulled the front of her g-string out far enough to create a small pouch to throw bills in.
Acting like an insensitive prick who just flopped on stage and didn’t want anyone else on the planet to feel any joy or satisfaction, I informed her that I already gave her a dollar.
“You can give me another dollar. Fives, tens, twenties, hundreds. It don’t matter,” she smiled, as another comedian threw a folded dollar bill at her.
After she contorted her lithe body into a pretzel shape that could give a dead man a hard-on, she slithered off the stage and out of the club.
Strippers are like ex-wives. You know you’re not getting sex from them and all they want is your money.
Performing at a strip club is another career high for me. So far, I’ve performed standup at a bowling alley, a coffee house, an Atlantic City comedy club that’s now closed and an open mic venue.
The way things are going with me, I’ll be performing behind your local Arby’s or Dunkin Donuts. Check this site for showtimes and ticket prices.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Adventures in Absinthe
Absinthe is the most misunderstood of alcoholic drinks, demonized for over a century and blamed for everything from insanity, hallucinations and artistic tendencies. Once banned in the United States, absinthe is back, albeit a tamer, safer version yet one containing wormwood, fennel and other herbs. In France in the 1800s and early 1900s, absinthe was a popular beverage among the bohemians and artsy types. Painters and writers would get together, drink absinthe and do brilliant things, which gave the drink, nicknamed "the Green Fairy" its legendary cult status. Yet the drink was made illegal and thought to contain toxic properties that made those who imbibed it murderers, perverts and lunatics.
So the drink had its forbidden mystique, and was banned from sale in the United States until recently.
A friend bought a Lucid Absinthe Suprieure kit, which contained a bottle of absinthe, two glasses and an absinthe spoon. She brought it to my place and we tried the absinthe. The box's titillating text reads "Let Yourself In", almost daring you to try the strong spirit that made so many 19th century intellectuals inebriated. The black cat on the bottle is reminiscent of the Le Chat Noir (The Black Cat), a 19th century cabaret in Paris' Montmartre district. I knew that once this licorice-flavored drink laced with forbidden wormwood hit my lips, I'd have trippy hallucinations like Hunter S. Thompson on an ether binge. The furniture in my living room would come to life and talk to me like in some disturbing 1930s cartoon when anthropomorphism proved not creepy but entertaining.
Still, I wanted to give absinthe a chance. After all, it was unfairly maligned by the government, the same government that declared marijuana illegal because William Randolph Hurst wanted to kill hemp production for selfish business reasons. Maybe this alluringly sexy libation called absinthe wasn't as bad as the critics made it.
For consumption, absinthe, which has a high alcohol volume of 45 percent to 74 percent, must be diluted with water. Using the glasses that came with the Lucid set, we poured a small portion of absinthe. At first, the stuff had an anise smell, like Greek ouzo. The liquid wasn't bright green, like a St. Patrick's Day green, but a pale yellowish green. A sugar cube is placed on the slotted absinthe spoon, which rests on the glass's rim. Cold water is poured over the sugar cube, which slowly dissolves and drips into the absinthe below. The process, called louching, gives absinthe a milky color, and makes it palpable for drinking, in my opinion.
We then drank the absinthe and, much to our surprise, we didn't experience any hallucinations. We didn't go insane or paint any Impressionist masterpieces. We didn't murder prostitutes in cold blood and then compose poems about it.
Instead, the absinthe, the most forbidden and mysterious of all spirits, tasted pretty bland. It tasted like watered down licorice. We didn't even get buzzed, not even a little. Maybe we needed to add more absinthe or use colder water. Maybe we needed to guzzle the drink down quicker, not sip our glasses out of fear that the wormwood would rot our brains. The experiment into absinthe on our first night was a bust, a grand experiment into pushing boundaries and getting whacked out on thujone-laced liquor and freaking out on a psychoactive binge. We were hoping to wander the alleys at 3 a.m. muttering pig Latin and making lewd comments about Madame Pierre Gautreau. Instead, we found ourselves let down by slick marketing and delusional hopes of absinthe fucking us up.
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