I'm temping this week at a reception desk. A woman just leaned over my desk to look at something on my computer and in the process unwittingly put her hair in my coffee. She didn't notice and I didn't say anything just to spite her for putting her hair in my coffee. I assume she has coffee dribbling down her shirt right now.
I'm still gonna drink the coffee.
Look, this situation is largely speaking for itself, so there's not a lot that a random jackass in Brooklyn can really add to the dialogue. So it's a good thing no one actually reads this, I guess. But I probably won't be able to post anything else until I talk about this, so here it is.
This is the first time in my life that the candidate I voted for was elected to the top position in the country. That, and the history of the occasion, are overwhelming, but I'm having a hard time really enjoying it. I guess the biggest feeling is just relief, but I'm already worried about 2012 because anyone would need at least two terms to turn things around here. It's still disheartening how divided our country is, that a "mandate" comes as a result of a 53-46 win. And I'm just putting my head through hard surfaces over the bigoted measures that got passed in Arizona, Arkansas, California, and Florida. I'm aggravated at "the news" for not having the sack to call a bigot a bigot and point out the blatant contradiction of electing Obama while telling homosexuals that they just don't matter as much as the rest of us.
But those are all negatives. I can't imagine how I would feel right now if McCain/Palin were lining up their cabinet. I suppose I see this election as a beginning that was inevitable to me, because it's my generation that put Obama up there. I'm so excited that kids growing up will see a black man in the White House, because that does more in the name of equality and civil rights than any bill our Congress could pass. There's no soapbox high enough to rival that statement. Historians will look at politics in two sections: before Obama was elected President, and after. And I get to see it all.
Someone, someday, will get to see the distinction between gay and straight marriage eliminated. This is truth, simple and undeniable. I know this like I know my name, which is exactly why I am so frustrated at the situation. The "liberal" cause has always prevailed. It was a liberal idea to free the slaves, give them the vote, give women the vote, even to form our country. Why can't people see this, and get out of the way of the human race? And those are just the principles behind the idea, not the law itself. On what basis can we possibly deny such a basic right to any law-abiding citizen, after all we've been through, after all that's been fulfilled with this election?
Congratulations President Obama. Thank you. And good luck.
Somewhere in my lower GI tract now reside the remains of no less than seven different animals. I have reason to believe they will still be with me on Election Day. The last 18 hours have been quite a rollercoaster of endurance. Allow me to explain.
Yesterday I helped a friend move, and in return I was treated to an excellent dinner with him and his parents. We went to Churrascaria Plataforma. This was a new experience for me, and one that I ultimately enjoyed, but for a price. If you haven't been to a churrascaria before, I'll explain the system.
We started off at a salad/appetizer bar. This bar had a greater variety of food than I've eaten in the last month. Green salad, chickpea salad, mixed vegetables, cheeses, shrimp, sushi, calamari, beets, etc. I was told to pace myself here, so I did my best. Upon finishing these plates, they were whisked away, and the real fun began.
Each of us had a small disk, one side red, one side green. As long as your disk was green-side-up, waiters would routinely come by offering meat. Meat fresh from the fire. On a sword. They would announce the meat (our first was sirloin), begin cutting a section with an amazingly sharp knife, and you'd take it with the supplied tongs as he finished the cut. This continues with a wide variety of cuts from as wide a variety of animals as you could expect, until you surrender and turn your disk to red. The cuisine and service is a Brazilian import; the disk system, a truly American addition. The whole thing is for a fixed price. It's a lot like Shoney's, without the fat rednecks and dirty children.
At first I kept pace with the service. I would make a good dent in the previous cut before the next was offered. The waiters saw my plan and doubled their efforts. Meat began piling on my plate. I would forget what animal I was about to eat before another was carved fresh for the table. I had sirloin, tenderloin, pork loin, chicken, pork sausage, tenderloin wrapped in bacon, turkey wrapped in bacon, lamb, more sirloin. There was ribeye, flank steak. I lost track. Side dishes were brought to the table, but I barely touched them.
As we turned our disks to red one by one, we were chided by a man whose sole purpose seems to be to goad people into eating as much meat as they can physically fit into their bodies. This is counterintuitive to everything I know about the restaurant industry, yet here the man was, in a well-tailored suit and conservative glasses, mocking us for our inability to continue.
Fifteen or twenty minutes into the meal, I became lightheaded. The Meat Euphoria was upon me. A few minutes later I lost the capacity for speech. As waiters continued to bring meat, I could only nod or shake my head at their offers. My thought process slowed, so that one waiter was left staring at me, politely waiting for me to take the meat with my tongs. My vision blurred. When the dessert cart came around, I somehow raised a finger at what might have been a chocolate cappuccino fudge cake (or was it a hallucination?), but I certainly can't imagine that I fed myself.
We parted ways outside the restaurant, and I stumbled to the subway. On the platform, the Meat Euphoria began to subside. I could see more clearly, and was amazed that I'd made it to the correct train. While waiting, the next stage hit me: the Meat Sweats. By the time the train finally arrived, I was drenched, and everyone on the car gave me a wide berth. I can only assume they all thought I worked in some twisted butcher sweatshop, and that I was going home after a grueling sixteen-hour shift of hacking away at carcasses. If they only knew. The Sweats turned out to be the longest phase. I got home and managed to slip into bed without waking Amy, and dozed fitfully. I woke in the middle of the night, cold pork fat oozing from my pores. Amy rolled over, semi-conscious, and asked what I was cooking. I told her to sleep and spread a blanket on the floor. I rode out the worst of the Meat Sweats there. I'm going to have to burn the blanket.
When I got up this afternoon, the Sweats had subsided, replaced now by the Meat Shakes. I cooked a little bacon with my breakfast, trying the old "hair of the dog," or pig in this case. It was just a temporary fix. By now the worst of the Meat Shakes seems to have passed. I'm only experiencing a few tremors now and then. I believe the last phase is finished.
The only conclusion I can draw from my experience is that the churrascaria is a Brazilian invention wrought to bring about the end of American influence in the western hemisphere. No country could willingly subject its own people to such an orgy of delights and terrors. The chiding man at the restaurant must be some sort of government liaison. I will now travel to Brazil to find the answer to this problem. If I can't find a churrascaria down there, then we know. If I do, well, may God have mercy on me.
I've seen the face of Death my friends. It's made of meat.
Look, I'm an actor, so I make no claims to understanding economics. By and large, performers are exempt from trends in the market and unemployment, because we're always broke and our job market always sucks. In a way, it's sort of freeing. It gives me a lot more time to focus on more important things, like comic books. But in the latest downward trend, I've started to notice some things that really concern me.
Everyone keeps talking about "confidence." Consumer confidence, market confidence, whatever. If people's confidence level in our country's economy sinks, then the economy sinks. Since when has our savings been at the mercy of an intangible set of ideas with the temperament of a pregnant woman in her third trimester? "The economy" gets depressed about its fat ankles, Lehman Brothers collapses and we as a nation have to spend the next year convincing the economy that it does not actually resemble a Macy's parade float.
The economy is man-made, yet we are completely at its mercy. In the few hundred years of capitalism, we have yet to figure out the nuances. This thing that we have put on a pedestal as one of the engines of man's progress is completely dependent on the trust of literally the most irrational creature in the known universe. It is dependent on a species with members who will not travel because that specific day has a number assigned to it that they don't like, who won't pick up a coin because it's laying on the wrong side, who throw a crystallization of sodium and chlorine over their shoulder because they spilled some on the table. Because of this very same sort of behavior, people are losing their houses, they can't finish college, they're getting rid of their pets because they can't afford them.
Why have we put ourselves in this position?
The Ultimate Fighter is a reality show on Spike TV (is it officially Spike!? I refuse to type that) sponsored by the Ultimate Fighting Championship, the first and leading mixed martial arts organization in America. For anyone that's dumb, mixed martial arts (MMA) is a competitive sport like boxing in which two contestants fight it out in The Octagon (tm), an octagonal (hey-o) fenced-in ring. Fights usually consist of three five-minute rounds, and you can win by a knockout, tapout, ref stoppage, or decision. The rules were initially very loose (such as fish hooking being "frowned upon"), but after almost being shut down by Congress they cleaned up their act. The best fighters are good at both striking and grappling (usually jiu-jitsu based), but almost always specialize in one area.
So in the show, whose eighth season started Sept. 17, sixteen guys live in a house together and over the course of several weeks, through challenges and fights, all are eliminated but two, who will fight in a live event to determine the champion. That winner receives a contract to fight professionally in the UFC, but much like American Idol the best fighters usually end up fighting as well.
The show is awesome, and I'll tell you why. Most reality competitions are filled with people hoping to get their face-time in front of America and later launch a movie career and auxiliary perfume line. These guys are fighters, and they're trying to fight. Mostly blue-collar, they've been fighting in gyms, basements, bars and backyards for food and experience. They've come to the show to get coached by two of the best fighters in the organization, and to prove themselves to the president, Dana White, who has taken over hosting duties. There's very little bullshit involved, and the fact that White offers $5000 to the winner of a fight that does not go to decision keeps everyone on the ball.
You watch guys train, get beat up, cut 20 pounds in less than a day for a weigh-in, and inevitably wreak havoc on the house they all share. It's a typical reality house in that there are approximately 38 bedrooms and a steady supply of booze, which few of the cast are stranger to. With that many alpha males things are bound to get hairy (HA), but more often than not it's just entertaining. You'd be surprised at the amount of humor these guys have. But it wouldn't be a reality show without that one guy that spouts a steady stream of smack talk, or picks on guys to alleviate his boredom, or generally tries to take over the show. And this is where the beauty of the setup comes into play: you spend eight weeks hating the guy, then you get to see someone hand him his ass in the ring. How much better would The Apprentice have been if you could have seen someone throw some body blows to Omarosa, then turn her lights out with a good cross to the jaw? I'm certainly not condoning violence towards woman, because she is clearly some sort of mutant horse-human-Satan hybrid.
Teen novels about Carrie Bradshaw to be released.
Carrie and Miranda sat at their usual table in the cafeteria noshing on Wednesday meatloaf and Jello surprise. They were discussing the latest in a series of lackluster dates. Snapping into a carrot, Carrie said, "You would think after dating the top two-thirds of the upperclassmen, we could have found someone that understood us. But no. It's like all they care about are video games and superheroes. I get it. You're a clan leader on Halo 3. When can we talk about something that matters? Like shoes?"
Miranda shook her head in mutual disgust. "I've been trying to get Peter to grow up a little bit. Maybe get some culture in his life. But could he stay awake for the senior production of Our Town? So embarrassing. All he cares about is soccer, like that's going to get him anywhere."
Charlotte sat down with her brown-bag sushi. "What are we talking about today girls?"
Miranda rolled her eyes. "The state of unrest in the Middle East and the Iron Curtain. What do we always talk about? Boys and how they define us. Speaking of which, we're going to Peter's soccer game after school. Wanna come?"
"Oh, I can't. Young Republicans meeting."
"But I need you guys there! I feel so awkward at those things."
"You'll have Carrie right?" Miranda nodded. "Besides, I think Langdon is going to ask me to prom today."
Carrie laughed. "I just don't know what you see in him. He's so straight-laced."
"That's exactly what I see in him! He's such a gentleman! And he's going to be president someday."
Miranda said, "I thought he was already president of the club."
Charlotte shook her head. "Oh no, he's going to be president of America. His dad went to Yale. He made a lot of friends there. Anyway, he's perfect and I don't care what you guys say, he can be very romantic. Where's Samantha? I thought she'd be here by now."
Just then Samantha entered the cafeteria. She made her way to the table in characteristic heels and a miniskirt. As she sat down, Carrie said, "Where've you been?"
"Oh, Mr. Johnson had something to tell me after biology. And let me tell you gals, he definitely knows his anatomy."
Charlotte dropped her chopsticks. "Samantha, he has a wife! And children! And he's a teacher! That is so illegal!"
Samantha grinned slyly. "Calm down dear, we can both keep a secret."
A thought crossed Carrie's mind. "Wait a minute Samantha. You're like 31. Why are you still in high school?"
