Christmas Toys

Someone in my building got a new TV for Christmas. And by the sound of it, it's a nice one. I can tell because horrifying sounds of death, horror and destruction sound like they are coming at me simultaneously from below and above and behind me. I bet the DVD is new, too. It's very generous for my neighbors to share their gift with all of us in this way. Johnny Mathis and Andy Williams and Barbra Streisand are having a devil of a time competing.

Goode Grief!

It's always great when lunatics on the Right demonstrate their ineptitude and blatant xenophobia as clearly as Virgil Goode, a Republican representative from Virginia. It justifies so many of my liberal convictions.

He objects to the decision of Keith Ellison, a recently elected Democratic U.S. representative from Minnesota, to use the Koran when he is sworn in next month. Apparently some voters in Virginia wrote to complain to Goode — who knows what for, except perhaps to put ignorance, idiocy and irrelevance to paper. Goode rewarded them with a heart-warming personal response in which he incongruously rails against illegal immigration and advocates severe restrictions on legal immigration. According to the Times, some intern somewhere must have screwed up, because the good Congressman's mailing list accidentally included a guy from the Sierra Club — who had written the Congressman about an environmental issue in Virginia, not a representative from Minnesota. This is apparently the guy who made the letter public.

Goode says Ellison's decision to make his oath on the Koran is unamerican. I guess what he's saying is that America is not the land of the free and the home of the brave, but rather the land of the Christian and the home of the white man.

"I fear that in the next century we will have many more Muslims in the United States if we do not adopt the strict immigration policies that I believe are necessary to preserve the values and beliefs traditional to the United States of America and to prevent our resources from being swamped," he wrote.

Not that we should make it our business to specifically screen Muslims out of immigration proceedings, but Goode seems to have completely missed the mark here anyway. Keith Ellison is from Detroit. And while that may seem like a foreign country to many people (trust me, I grew up nearby), he can trace his family history in the United States back to the 18th century.

He also wrote that "if American citizens don't wake up and adopt the Virgil Goode position on immigration there will likely be many more Muslims elected to office and demanding the use of the Koran."

Heaven forbid.

It may have escaped his notice that the Constitution allows for people of all religious stripes to run for Congress. Further, their swearing in does not include the use of a religious text. It's only at the public ceremony that a book is used.

And why should we care if it's the Koran or The Lord of the Flies? The Hebrew Bible and Mormon texts have been used in the past.

Goode's attempt to conflate wrong-headed anti-Muslim sentiment, fueled by anti-terrorism rhetoric, with immigration issues is little more than an admission of his gross ignorance and incompetence.

So, bravo! to the intelligent voters of Virginia's 5th district for electing this loser to Congress. I hope he gets them everything they deserve.

Virginia Democrats, don't despair: There are some decent folks in Minnesota who are willing to vote in a competent person to represent their interests to the U.S. Congress. You may want to move up north and cast your lot with them.

(Mind you, Minnesotans are also responsible for the election of Michelle Bachman. There may be no hope anywhere in this country.)

Hwy 55 Goes Digital

Waka waka waka. Someone in Minnesota has Pac Man fever.

Being from the Midwest, I've spent a lot of time on highways. Mesmerized by the dots and dashes racing toward me and passing under my car, I have often imagined what Pac-Man might feel like.

Someone with a lot of yellow paint has made this daydream into a two-dimensional reality in Minnesota. The Star Tribune reports that someone has painted a large Pac-Man on Highway 55. Ironically, this act of whimsical vandalism may actually aid the highway patrol in slowing down lead-foot Minnesota drivers — at least for that short stretch of road.

Please, God, Don't Let Me Die Before July 4, 2007

(Actually, please let me live past July 13, when Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is released. But, especially don't let me miss this movie.)



Sadly, my childhood heroes look very little like they did when they came packed in styrofoam blocks slipped into cardboard boxes. "Robots in disguise," indeed. What happened to the Megatron I know and love? Where's my Starscream? Where's my Mirage? My Hound? Jazz? Prowl? Red Alert?

For God's sake, where's my Bumblebee?

OK, I know... so Bumblebee sucked.

But what have they done to Optimus Prime's paint job?

I don't need this movie to look like a survey of the futuristic prototypes at the North American International Auto Show! I just want my old boys back!

Still, I can barely wait for this movie.

(Thanks to Justin for the tip.)

Toilet Humor

	He's a real stand-up guy! [www.bippity boppitybaby.com]

A friend of mine once confessed that he uses odd words intentionally in emails so he can see what keyword-triggered ads Google calls up in the Gmail sidebar. I don't know what words I was using earlier today, but I couldn't escape noticing the words "Peter Potty" and a link to this site.

Apparently this is truly a remarkable device. The Web site declares that Peter Potty is "the world's only flushable urinal." I don't know about that, but it does provide some excellent bonding opportunities, I suppose. "Little girls need to sit, but with the Peter Potty, little boys can stand like daddy," boasts the site. Look at this kid. He sure is happy to pee standing up. He's nearly hugging that thing.

I guess I'd be excited too. I do remember thinkning about this sitting/standing dichotomy when I was little.

Amused, I typed up an email to send the link to some friends of mine. And as I was doing so, I noticed another hilarious site, P-mate, advertised with something like: "Ladies, pee standing up!"

"Why 'hold it in' until you get home?" the site asks.

Visitors are invited to "discreetly enjoy hygienic freedom" by using the P-Mate™ "portable urinating device." Finally women are allowed to "urinate standing up wherever and whenever they need to, without losing their dignity or risking unhygienic and unpleasant public restrooms."

A professor in college once told my class a story about the surprise and intense pride he felt for his daughter when she won a pissing contest against a bunch of boys. She was four, five, something like that. And these little boys were all taking turns peeing to see who could shoot furthest. The little girl, not to be outdone, did something with her index and middle fingers, forming a sort of curved V and holding it against her vagina — the professor demonstrated the gesture for us — which apparently allowed her to shape the organ into a something that squirted outward. We are told she also had considerable control of the direction of the stream, too. She beat the boys soundly. You go, gurl! (You go standing up, girl!)

She's much older now. I wonder if she wins bets at bars with that trick.

I can see a need for something like the P-Mate. A guy can whip it out and pee nearly anywhere. For a woman, things are slightly more difficult. Unless you're my professor's daughter. I'm not sure how exactly a pissed-upon plastic chute can be used to promote good hygiene, but I'm comfortable with that level of ignorance.

You want to see something funny, look at the pictures on the P-Mate site. (You have to. How does one use this thing?) It looks like the perfect size for a Christmas stocking. I think I know what I'm getting my sister now!

I Hate MySpace.

I just love entering my username and password, clicking Log In, and being greeted with a screen cheerfully exclaiming "You must be logged in to do that!" (Uhhh... OK.) I imagine a Nell Carter-like nanny standing before me, wide-eyed, one fist on her ample hip and the other hand wagging a manicured finger at me.

At least it's not offering me some sort of lame, undefined error and inviting me to try again later — for the 87th time.

And how many more friend requests from buxom 16-year old girls (i.e., fronts to tempt me into various degrees of heterosexual pornography) must I endure? Natasya wants to to be my friend! Oh, goodie. I love her lacy panty and size-too-small push-up bra. I have the same set myself at home.

Lidia wants to be my friend! Cool. I really admire how she carries herself while stepping out of that yellow cab in her 6-inch spike heels, just avoiding the beaver shot under her three-inch mini skirt and spilling out of her loose, furry halter top.

Leonora wants to be my friend! Whoa — it's my lucky day. I wonder how long it takes her to scrape her bleached hair into that greasy ponytail, pluck every single eyebrow hair out of her face and draw on those ridiculous brown arches, and smudge on the Oompa Loompa orange foundation, beige eyeshadow, white eyeliner and glossy pearlescent lipstick. I bet she looks picturesque when the construction worker next door creams on her face in volume 3 of Bronx Butt Sluts.

Not that I have anything against porn, you must understand...

God is Dead

Take thy beak from out my heart!

I have lost my faith in everything.

Under the Influence of Giants

	You too can be cool enough to buy this album.

I have it on good authority (in other words, a well-spoken bar friend on his 6th vodka and tonic) that both the new Dixie Chicks album and the new John Mayer album will change your life. This may be true. But I'd like to point you toward something else entirely, a band called Under the Influence of Giants.

Being a public radio nerd, I eschew mainstream radio, especially Top 40 schlock. One of my more reliable sources of good music is Pandora.com. Just by having that site running in the background at work I've learned about a lot of stuff I wouldn't normally hear otherwise. Check it out; it's great.

One day I heard something that sounded like an incongruous mish-mash of The Killers, Michael Jackson and Led Zeppelin, filtered through an '80s-tinted lens. The song, "In the Clouds," was relentlessly driving, arresting, beautiful. I had no idea what it was about, but it sounded damn good to me.

That night I downloaded their entire album from iTunes and listened to it over and over for a week.

James Christopher Monger of All Music Guide once described a Jill Sobule song, "Cinnamon Park," as "ludicrously catchy." Take a listen and I think you might agree. It's either catchy, or ludicrously annoying. And there is a fine line between the two, I think.

Anyway, "In the Clouds" is definitely in the "ludicrously catchy" category, and the rest of the album is just as gorgeous.

I don't know enough about music or musical influences to write anything coherent or useful about these guys. For starters, they are nothing like Jill Sobule. So, let's leave descriptions of their sound to the music journalists. Mainly, I want people to know about them and support them and buy this album. I am never ever on the edge of anything. Other people are always telling me about good new music, because I am so not plugged in. But I'm beginning to see these guys in magazines and they have 58,839 MySpace friends. Probably, I'm still behand the curve and you already know about these guys. Regardless, there's a very selfish music-snob influence inside me that wants to have some satisfaction that I can actually make a good music recommendation for once.

Now that's ludicrous.

New York Lesson No. 332: Morse Code, Radiator-Style

I thought it only happened in movies, but as of last night, I am officially a witness to a tenant communicating with the super by banging on the radiator.

Usually on film, the character bang-bang-bangs on the thing with a wooden spoon or wrench or something to create as much ear-splitting racket as possible. This person was relatively conservative, with his economical single, clear, solid clank! every 20 minutes or so.

The correspondence was simple but unmistakable: "Turn on the bloody heat!"

I can't say how effective this method of communication is. It's sort of like sending pulses out into space in the hope that extraterrestrials will receive them and good-naturedly bounce them back to us before they are flummoxed by broadcasts of the Spice Girls or Hitler. I don't know whether the super received the message or not, or whether it induced him to fire up the boiler, but I certainly heard it loud and clear. And so, I suspect, did everyone else in the apartments below me. And though my hooded sweatshirt, warm-up pants and wool socks testified to my agreement with the tenant's position on the matter, I would rather he had clanked on the super's lobby apartment door than send the message via my living room as well. After all, if any one of us on floors one through five had any control over the situation, there would have been no need to bang in the first place.

Hi, my name is Chip, and I'll be on your shoulder this evening.

Last night at the bar, a friend and I were distracted by a beautiful man taking off his shirt. He was standing with his back against the bar, facing us. A small cadre of piranhas had gathered around him. The guy who had asked him to disrobe — let's call him Chip — draped the shirt briefly and inexplicably across my friend's shoulder. Pleased to be included in the proceedings, we continued watching. How could we not?

Seconds later, the heavenly creature was persuaded to drop his pants to his ankles. We all cooed in approval. He was hairless, except for a trail of fuzz that ran south from his tight navel and dashed seductively under the waistband of his powder-blue briefs. Chip then grabbed the waistband and unceremoniously yanked the shorts down hard.

The guy put on a good show of being embarrassed and tugged them half-heartedly back up his thighs, but Chip was pretty insistent about leaving him exposed.

My friend and I looked at each other. "That's not something you see every day at this bar," I said, loud enough for everyone around me to hear. Like the red-blooded American homosexual males we are, we continued to react loudly and enthusiastically to the gentleman's sudden and unexpected nudity.

Chip turned half-way to us and said something we couldn't understand. Something about chocolate.

What?

He repeated himself louder, or said something similar, but it still wasn't making sense to us. It was something like: "You can stop talking about chocolate now. I know you don't like the chocolate boys."

My friend and I were incredulous. Who said anything about chocolate? Was he talking about black boys?

Whatever it was, Chip continued laying into us. It seemed that he was accusing us of being racist. Chip is African American. But we had said nothing about him. We had said nothing to him. We weren't even looking at him. We were too distracted — and rightfully so — by the gloriously indecent exposure before us.

"Dude," my friend said, "We don't even know what you're talking about."

"We're not talking about you, if that's what you think," I added. "We were talking about the naked guy."

Chip was clearly agitated, and he continued his tirade. The more he said, the more worked up he got. There was something menacing and cold in his voice. It was all so sad and stupid. A moment that was so frivolous and harmless and fun had been sucked dry in just a few seconds by this guy, and all because of assumptions he was making about us. Who's the racist here?

I wanted to try to figure out what he thought he'd heard us say so we could defuse the situation and move away without any trouble. I imagined we might laugh uneasily at the silly misunderstanding — uh heh heh heh... — and assume stations at opposite ends of the bar without any fuss. And I might have tried to play the peasemaker if he hadn't then turned to my friend directly and said, "And by the way, I'm better-looking then you are, too."

My friend sort of recoiled, wide-eyed and incredulous. It was making less and less sense. Chip then let loose on several aspects of my friend's appearance. Chip evidently did not approve of certain things. What the hell was going on? He was fighting back with personal insults when we never even attacked him (or addressed him, for that matter) in the first place?

"Whoa... wait a minute. Where did that come from?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Hey, fuck you!" my friend shouted back.

At this point, I grabbed my friend's bag and pushed it into his hand. "This is crazy. Let's just go," I said, not wanting to see who might get hurt if the situation escalated (it was less likely to be my friend).

Neither of us knew what Chip had heard or what he was going on about. "Bravo," I said to him. "Have a lovely night."

"Yeah, you too," he said coldly.

"You bet," I said. "Of course."

I tugged at my friend and we headed toward the door. "Yeah, fuck you, you little asshole," he yelled to Chip.

And when I got outside, I realized that I was in such a hurry to get away from the danger that I had forgotten to say good-byr to any of the peopel we were with. A complete stranger's idiocy had just completely scared me out onto the sidewalk.