American Fez

Are Facts Important?

If it is true, as George somebody-or-other claimed, that those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it, we should not be surprised to find ourselves living in this world of perpetual déjà vu. Another person (whose name I can't quite recall right now - J. P Farley or something like that?) once likened the past to a foreign country where people do things differently. And so for him, perhaps, we do not merely repeat the past, we completely relive again in Hungarian national costume. I know I do.
Last week, for instance, I became engaged in a heated argument with my spirit-guide, Atahualpa, about global warming. He said the temperature was always the same where he was. Fetch me the shade of Albert Einstein, I commanded, we need to study the science on this. But Atahualpa just groaned and said that we'd already summoned Einstein from his eternal rest on the previous Tuesday. Apparently I had forgotten all about channeling that funny little wisp of ectoplasm with Van der Graaf generator hair. I guess the science isn't really that important, Atahualpa said, if you retain zero recollection of it. And will you change out of that ridiculous Díszmagyar, for heaven's sake, he added.

The Consumer Economy

While out shopping this weekend, I was sorely tempted to take advantage of Bargain Bin's "Buy One, Get One Free" offer. But if I bought one, I realized, I wouldn't need another one because the first one comes with a lifetime guarantee. There was no point in owning a second one as far as I could see. Where would I put it, anyway? And besides, I didn't think that I could carry two home. So I asked a clerk if I could buy one and then get another one of something else of equal value, but he told me that the offer only applied to those ones. However, he suggested, I could always buy one and keep if for myself, and then give the other one away as a gift at Christmas. This seemed like a good idea to me. I hadn't thought of that. There was still the transport issue, of course, if I was going to leave with a pair of them, but the clerk said it wasn't a problem because the store provided home delivery. In that case, I said, what the hell, perhaps I should buy four and get four free, then I'd have the one for myself that I needed and would also have seven to give away. I'd get all my Christmas shopping done in one fell swoop. I'd have to buy a lot more wrapping paper than usual, obviously, but that was no big deal. Ah, said the clerk, unfortunately the offer is limited to one per customer. Look, I explained, I won't buy one, but I will buy four: you do the math. The sales total is the same whether I'm four different customers or just me. He said that he could do the math and that it made sense to him, but he still didn't have the authority to authorize selling more than one per customer. What if, I postulated, I called up my friend and had him come over and we split the cost of one between us so that we could take two and consequently get one each. The clerk replied that he guessed that such a plan would be okay. And we could split the cost for the one on two credit cards? It would probably be easier, the clerk replied, if he charged only one credit card and then whoever hadn't paid could give the other guy a check for half the amount. I said that I would have to think about it and thanked him for his time. He advised me to think quickly, as I turned around to leave, since he didn't think that stocks would last that long. Before they are sent back to the warehouse, I wondered, or before further reductions are made.

Shit, Wipe, Leave: One Man's Quest for Spirituality

I have no time for Christianity, the faith of my forefathers; I have even less time for Islam, the religion of the man who used to overcharge for Junior Mints in his grocery store at Gidding's Corner; I have about thirty-five minutes, give or take, for Japanese fox spirits and other varieties of Shinto anthropomorphism; and, when I was in college, I spent an entire lunchtime in a local Hare Krishna temple, but that was only because the orange-robed baldies were forking over free salad, and even then I wouldn't have gone had I known beforehand that they only offer a very unimaginative selection of dressings. Look, you can say what you like about Buddhism, but I won't listen. I would rather search for a needle in a crop circle than festoon an elephant-headed icon with foul-smelling sticks of incense. Actually, having said that, I possibly could be persuaded to participate if the icon were Cheshire Cat-headed, but they never are.

Anything For Money

I photographed a real werewolf last night. A nightmarish creature from Hell with gaping jaws and blazing eyes. But unfortunately I had the "red-eye reduction" feature enabled on my camera, and so the demonic beast just looks like a normal family dog in the picture. It fact, it more or less resembled a Puggle - the unholy result of crossbreeding a pug and a beagle - so you can at least get some sort of idea of how truly terrifying my encounter really was.
Anyway, I am hoping to barter this monstrous experience for a slot on that new, vampire-based reality show called Staked. The premise is very simple: contestants are locked inside a gloomy castle for thirteen weeks and must search the family crypt looking for a coffin bearing their name. Each week the contestant who hasn't found their coffin is voted off the show by having a sharp, wooden stake plunged into their beating heart. The eventual winner is then given the chance to turn into a bat and fly away. It's not much of a prize, admittedly, but the future merchandising options are huge.

Islamofasters and Radical Hummus

I was interested to learn that plans for the proposed Three-Blocks-Over-And-Around-The-Corner-From-Ground-Zero-Mosque in New York City include space for a restaurant. Considering the large number of religious holidays when Muslims are supposed to be fasting, I can only imagine that employment at this establishment will be of the kind regarded as 'seasonal.'

Yet I also believe the restaurant will be a great success, just as long as the investors go with my refreshingly modern take on traditional Alhambraic decor, with whimsical hints of Abduction From The Seraglio and a touch of Ali Baba for the kids. I have even suggested a few specialty dishes for the menu. Aladdinners, as I call them: Pan Seared Mullet ala Mullah, for example, or Breakfast Imamalade on Toast. Waldorf Saladin. Feisal Fries and Chicken Cordoba. Mmm, please, sir, can I have some Moor?

I'm not against Islamic-funded construction projects in Manhattan, but I do object to boring "Community Centers" of any type, so let us hope that the restaurant is a good one.

"Because It's There"

I have failed in my heroic attempt to conquer the infamous typeface of the New Yorker, that cold, unforgiving mass of impenetrable tedium. Base camp was comfortably established at "Talk of the Town," and I even managed to abseil across a nearby cartoon, but my first ascent eventually stalled after ten pages of treacherous, inch-by-inch negotiation of one of the larger articles. A punishing trek through fifteen glacial paragraphs of Hendrik Hertzberg took its inevitable toll and I simply couldn't go on any further. But I feel no sense of defeat nor blow to my ego. Many great readers have tried and failed to conquer the New Yorker before me; notably everybody else in the dentist's waiting room.

The Twelve Caesar Salads

According to Suetonius, the emperor Augustus claimed that he found Rome a city of brick and left it a city of marble. Similarly, I can say that found Randy's Diner a cheap, neighborhood greasy spoon with threadbare gingham tablecloths and tomato sauce dispensers shaped liked huge tomatoes, and I made it a gleaming Carlo's Panini Pavilion franchise featuring Carlotta's Gelato Annex.

Some local residents bemoaned the bulldozing of Randy's, calling Carlo's "the Starbucks of Italian-style toasted sandwiches." Apparently they thought that paying fifteen bucks for a Tuscan Turkey Melt with romaine lettuce, sun-dried tomato, honey mustard and your choice of three cheese toppings on ciabatta was an insanely outrageous expense. Well, an old-fashioned, four buck club sandwich from Randy's might fill people's stomachs, but could it fill a full-color center-spread in Happenin' Around Town with a starred review and arty lomo photographs? No, because a trendy magazine like Happenin' Around Town wouldn't bother going to a dreary dump like Randy's in the first place.

Fortunately such stick-in-the-mud, blue-collar whiners have all been forced to move out of the area because their new property tax rates are so high, and they have been replaced by single, thirty-something professional hipsters with progressive eating habits who live in that new Cannery Suites condominium development across the street, next to where those Banana Republic and Apple stores are going to be built.

Let's look at the facts: before Carlo's Panini Pavilion replaced Randy's Diner, this neighborhood considered avocados to be a foreign food. The bar around the corner used to have a neon shamrock in the window, now they have hanging gardens and decorative ironwork. The only stores were a discount liquor mart, Bert's Furniture, and an all-night druggist who also cut hair, now there is a Phat Guy Superstore and a Norwegian Imports Outlet. And the old guy in the tattoo parlor used to be fat and bald, now she is supermodel skinny and sports pink hair. Yes, this was a one mustard town town when I arrived, these days we have at least fifteen different types, including our new, zesty, habanero mustard. Try it today. It's all good.

Yet, for some reason, the professional hipster migrants are starting to betray Carlo's gentrifying revolution. They are writing ungrateful letters to Happenin' Around Town protesting the disappearance of local landmarks like Randy's Diner, O'Grouchy's Tap, Booze King and all the other deadbeat businesses: "Neighborhood restaurants with real character are losing out to soulless fast food chains." Of course, none of them would have dreamed of actually eating at Randy's themselves, but I don't suppose that you're required to put your money where your mouth is when you're wearing four-hundred dollar, purple sneakers with a pre-faded t-shirt decorated with the logo of some long-defunct Minnesotan brewery.

The grass is always greener on the other side for some people. I'm sure Augustus once had to deal with recently freed slaves shouting in the Forum about Etruscan huts being better than Roman villas. Ultimately, it means Carlo's will be forced to introduce an "open mic" night and perhaps a DJ or two spinning in the evenings. That should keep the barbarians quiet for a while.

Automatic Out Of Office Reply

I am currently out of the office. Not that I do much when I'm there, obviously, but I thought that you'd want to know why I'm not responding to your email. However, I have, truth be told, given it a cursory glance. Let's face it, I check my email constantly, just like any other insecure egomaniac, and there was a slim chance that your email might be inviting me a BBQ or something like that. But in the end it was just a heads up about serious errors with my quarterly numbers. Ignorance is bliss, so they say, and consequently I'm "out of the office" to you and can completely ignore your tedious message. Things will be different on Monday, unfortunately, when I have to return to my desk and face the music, but until then please contact Deborah Tyrd or Randeev Booring if you have any urgent queries or concerns. Thank you.

Missing Time

"Restrooms for customers only," advised the sign, so we went in and bought two cinnamon nut things and a chocolate dodger. I felt aggrieved about spending the money since I didn't have to go, but I also didn't want to just sit at an empty table, inspecting crumbs and concentric coffee rings, waiting for Cedric to conclude his interminable unloading process. These periods of enforced loitering could easily last as long as twenty minutes, sometimes extending past the half-hour mark. I'd witnessed wheelchair-bound paraplegics rolling themselves in and out of special-needs toilets faster than it took Cedric to merely negotiate lowering his buttocks onto the seat.
These lengthy ablutions left me wondering what the real root of his problem could be: some sort of weird hygiene hang up, perhaps? Or sensory malfunction caused by an acute aversion to bright, fluorescent lighting? Possibly even unconventional undergarment unfastening arrangements? Whatever the cause, I always found myself staring desperately at the locked door, willing my ears to hear the sound of a liberating flush from within, rather like a weary boxer praying for the gong that signals the end of another punishing bout.
Waiting for Cedric was not only incredibly tedious experience, but also an infinitely embarrassing one, usually involving either suspicious staff or irate fellow-patrons also requiring urgent use of the facilities.
"Does he need some help in there?"
"He needs help, but not of the kind he can get in a public restroom, unless there happens to be a Dopamine vending machine hanging on the wall next to the paper towels."
This never failed to produce a scowl: "He's not shooting up is he?"
"Oh absolutely not. Don't worry, he knows your needle exchange program is for customer use only."
And when Cedric finally did emerge, he was as nonchalant as could be, as if he had only been gone a few, brief moments. So eventually, while marooned beside the restroom door of a Starbucks, I decided to roughly calculate how much of my life had been wasted waiting for Cedric to evacuate his bowels. The answer was: at least forty-eight hours. Two whole days of existence crapped away by that inconsiderate oaf.
"Excuse me, er, do you know long is your friend going to be?" the worried Barista asked, a frowning, antsy customer peering over his shoulder.
"I've no idea." I replied. "He might be doing his drugs. I'd call the police if I were you." Then I devoured the last of my chocolate dodger and walked out, vowing never to go anywhere with Cedric ever again.