December 31, 2005
For the last two years, I’ve helped Caroline of Caroline’s Comedy Club write her holiday card. The card reads “May the New Year Bring…” and then lists a bunch of desirable items or developments. Below, I’ve listed my contributions to this year’s card in addition to some new wishes I've come up with since. It’s my semi-repurposed way of wishing you a very Happy New Year.
MAY THE NEW YEAR BRING…
A Sarah Silverman Family Christmas Special
An Exit Strategy
The un-brainwashing of Katie Holmes.
Arnold Schwarzenegger’s prompt return to acting.
More Intelligent Discussion, Less Intelligent Design.
Cooperation at Ground Zero
The rediscovery of talking as the coolest wireless communication
Countries that still like us
“The Aristocrats” DVD (The Uncensored Version)
Meals-on-Wheels for underfed Celebutants
A copy of Scooter Libby’s Adult Novel
Chappel Show: Season 3.
Stephen Colbert replacing Ted Koppel
Savings of 15% or more on your car Insurance
A Copy of Larry David’s “The Joy of Living.”
A new Racial and Gender Classification for Michael Jackson
An ecstasy tablet for Bill O’Reilly
A muzzle for T.O.
A Lars Von Trier romantic comedy.
Signs of intelligence in the intelligence community.
A Democratic Candidate who knows what he or she stands for.
The re-separation of church and state.
A Knicks team worth watching.
A Snoop Dog/Barbara Bush rap album
A moratorium on celebrity relationships.
A minor aphasia that leaves Tucker Carlson unable to tie a bowtie.
The capture of the fifty-second Al Qaeda operative described as second in command.
A Dick Cheney-Al Franken Celebrity Death Match (with snipers on hand in case Cheney is winning.)
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December 30, 2005
HOLIDAY-RELATED MAXIM OF THE DAY
There is no element with a shorter half-life than the element known as the New Year’s Resolution.
A BRIEF REFLECTION ON SOCIETY AND ACCOUNTABILITY. OR: MOMENT OF ADMIRATION-TINGED OUTRAGE OF THE DAY
Jeff Reardon, the ex major league pitcher was arrested yesterday for robbery. His defense: It wasn’t me. It was the antidepressants.
http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&cid=1896&ncid=1896&e=1&u=/nm/20051227/us_nm/baseball_robbery_dc
Now, this kind of unaccountability is nothing new. We have had obese people blame the restaurant for their girth. We have had corporate leaders claim they were not guilty because they had no idea what was going on under their watch. We have had our national leaders tell us “It wasn’t our fault. It was the bad intelligence.” Indeed, unaccountability is nothing new. It’s arguably, a defining trait in our recent cultural DNA. But there is one instance of this bad faith buck passing, that takes the cake…or at least the pie. I speak of the Canadian (yes, they’re learning from us) gentleman who,accused of rape, claimed that he was sleep walking at the time and hence, not responsible for his actions. And he got off! (In court).
http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/LegalCenter/story?id=1369010
Again, not admirable (indeed, despicable), but at least impressive. This is the innovative, resourceful, rugged individualistic can-do spirit at work in an era of shameless self-indulgence. Or at least it’s the final, logical extension of Canadian passive-aggressiveness. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I rape you? I had NO idea!”
TROUBLING DEVELOPMENT OF THE DAY.
As I ate my chicken cutlet on a roll with lettuce and light mayo, I found myself absolutely riveted by the Senior Golf Driving Championship on ESPN at 2 p.m. I saw some Calloway wielding geezers driving the ball upwards of 200 yards. I have to check the DSM-III, but I’m pretty sure watching this kind of thing in one of the warning signs of clinical depression. What’s next? Vegas, transfixed by the The Super Senior World’s Strongest Man contest—featuring the grueling 60 second bladder holding competition?
GLOBAL CRISIS IN A NUTSHELL OF THE DAY.
I’ve been reading “Snow”, by the Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk. The novel, a political love story that takes place in the Turkish border town of Kars during a 3-day snow storm, explores the the conflict (and stunted, tone deaf dialogue) between Islamic fundamentalism and the West. Anyhow, I was in the middle of this novel, when I stumbled upon an article about Osama Bin Laden’s hot niece posing for a racy photo shoot for GQ--a development that seemed to put this global conflict in a nutshell:
(http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/wireStory?id=1437862)
In the article, the aspiring sex object claims, “I have nothing to do with that man. (Uncle Osama). I just want to be accepted as an American.” In the eyes of fundamental Islam of course, this claim and the associated provocative pix are confirmation of everything they think. She seems to be saying that to be accepted as an American you have to act like a slut. This is precisely the kind of thing that locks us into the Manichean, binary view that either women are covered up in burkas or they’re showing us their tits. It’s also the sort of thing, of course, that sells magazines. Indeed, I wonder how many western readers are erotically charged by the idea of fucking the female Osama, of screwing him by association. Here she is, his bodacious blood-relation, captured by the camera in all her sudsiness and sultriness--defiantly choosing, as she suggestively fondles a flute of champagne in her bubble bath, to appeal to our gaze instead of his. Who’s your uncle? Yeah, baby. Who’s your uncle?? The semiotics of the whole gesture are rich and fascinating and deserve more time and thought than I can summon at the moment…having just depleting myself by jerking off over her. J Just kidding, Osama. Just kidding.
But I have to say, she is infidelicious.
Then, moments later, I read about all these non-Arab European women converting to Islam at the same time as Osama’s niece is baring her boobs to join the west.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/csm/20051227/ts_csm/oconverts_1
It’s a dazzlingly complex global story. A global battle between the skins and the shirts, the burka wearing and the boob baring, and it bears keeping an eye on. All joking aside, pretty amazing stuff, sure to inflame passions in all kinds of unproductive ways.
FROM THE “IT’S A RICH AND BOUNTIFUL WORLD” FILE
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/12/27/nyregion/27suitcase.html
MOVIE-RELATED OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
The other day, I saw “The New World,” Terrence Mallick’s filmic meditation on the relationship between Pocohantas and John Smith and, by implication, the displacement and destruction of the native Americans by the European settlers.
I was struck by the in-cinema ads leading into “The New World,” particularly a Coke ad in which polar bears make friends with penguins rather than eat them, suggesting just how dishonest our understanding of nature is relative to that of the the people we killed (I mean shared Coke with ) in order to settle this land. Actually it perfectly reflects the big white lie we tell ourselves about how we made friends with the nice people who lived here rather than murdered them. It’s the big white corporate creation myth: Genocide goes better with Coke.
I'm sorry. That was harsh. I meant: Manifest Destiny: It's the Real Thing.
REFLECTIONS ON SHOPPING AND MORTALITY
I go out in this blessed interval between X-mas and New Years to attend to some necessary year end errands. I revisit the Time Warner AOL Temple of Consumerism where, accompanied by my 48 pack of Toilet Paper (which, by the way is down to a svelte 46 rolls now), I had a happy consumer epiphany a few weeks back. This experience found me in less gratitude struck spirits. First, I go to J Crew--an institution I’ve never stepped inside of in my life but which I have to enter in order to redeem a gift certificate bought by someone who doesn’t know my shopping habits terribly well. Once there, I am shadowed--virtually stalked--by an overattentive sales assistant and feel pressured (both by his passive aggressive ministrations and by the need to rid myself of the gift credit) into buying an ill fitting P coat. (Thank you to my father’s wife for the gift certificate and apologies for my appearance of ingratitude.) Then I brave the sale-happy gift-returning hordes and buy a few things down at Whole Foods. Again, without the transformative mega-prop of my toilet paper (and the spirit enhancing preparatory tonic of a trip to a bookstore), I find the place somewhat less enchanting than I had the week before. In fact, having purchased 4 humble items for $46.34, I see it less as an institution exquisitely responsive to my human needs than as a rather transparent instrument of social Darwinism, making sure that only the rich shall eat non-contaminated, organic foods and pop out non-mutant progeny. I also understand why my friend refers to Whole Foods only half jokingly as Whole Paycheck. But, hey, to be fair and balanced, the tandoori chicken and chana masala were quite good. And, hey, if someone’s kids are going to be born deformed, I sure don’t want it to be mine.
But overall, I feel oppressed by the lifeless, generically moneyed physical surroundings. Cole Hahn. Coach. Hugo Boss. Etc. All the perfect objects of our society on display in their elegant showcases of marble and glass. The pure expression (and lifeless reduction) of our energies and ambitions. I felt like I was a non believer in a medieval chuch. But where the wealth of the culture had been devoted to lavish offerings to the divine, it was here invested in an opulent showcase for its coveted and collectible communion wafers. In another state of mind, I could see myself genuflecting before (and proffering the plastic for) a pair of Kenneth Cole shoes or a Joseph Abboud jacket or a Williams-Sonoma cappuccino maker but in this instance, I couldn’t wait to get out of there and experience something outside of the suffocating cult of the product world. It just felt like a dazzling, dizzying emptiness, divorced from any kind of reality or true life. Indeed, it was precisely the feeling of absolute insulation from anything real, that gave me intimations of something terribly real happening. Something—perish the thought—like a holiday season terrorist attack. As mentioned above, I had just seen “The New World:” by Terrence Mallick—a poetic reflection on the love between Pocohantas and John Smith and an implicit meditation on the birth and fate of our nation. I couldn’t help but think that temple of consumerism was the the inevitable natural extension of Pocahantas’s betrayal of her people and her alignment with the European settlers. I reflected –without simple nostalgia—on the fact that where little but maize and tobacco once grew from our soils, the magnificent mall is what now rises up from the land most proudly. In truth, I have no nostalgia for tending to the crops. I am better suited to shopping than farming. (Although I suspect I am better suited to reading and writing and watching than either of those alternatives). But it was interesting to think about all this as I exited the edifice in my slightly ill-fitting, insufficiently warm J Crew P Coat and inhaled –with gratitude—the exhaust-filled air of the cold December night.
A LITTLE ANGST ABOUT CONSUMERISM AND A MOMENTARY FEAR OF A TERRORIST ATTACK DOESN'T QUALIFY AS A REFLECTION ON MORTALITY. WHAT ELSE YOU GOT, YOU SHAMELESS MISTITLER?
Anyhow, I then went to the more friendly confines of Tower records. More friendly because books or cds are, for me, some of the few objects you can buy that explicitly address the mind and spirit. They are addressed to more than mere material need and are never –with the exception of the occasional coffee table book and the showcase editions of Joyce or Shakespeare that the purchaser intends to display rather than read--merely tokens of status or wealth. Anyhow, over the years of going to record stores, I have grown used to the idea of seeing my generation (David Bowie, Joni Mitchell, Elton John, The Velvet Underground, The Talking Heads, the Jackson Five, etc.) marginalized and remaindered –set out in the bargain bins at $7.99. a disc. But it it still somewhat mortifying to see a second intervening generation so treated (Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins etc.). Interestingly, while I consider myself a fairly savvy guy, I am perpetually bamboozled by the endless repackaging and rebundling of recording artists’ material. “Wow a new collection of Cat Steven’s greatest hits!” I know I probably have a lot of these songs on other cds or on my iPod through iTunes. But I don’t have them in this form. And I don’t have them at this price!” I invariably get the damn thing, then come home and discover that the new purchase is 99% redundant with my existing archive. I am a music idiot. A marketer’s daydream. I have, for example, about 7 different Velvet Underground discs containing “Pale Blue Eyes.” Six Jackson Five albums with “Stop the Love You Save.” And 6 copies of Elton John’s “Candle in The Wind” purchased at 6 different prices.
HOW ELSE DID VEGAS GET AN INTIMATION OF MORTALITY TODAY?
Well, upon returning from my consumerly rounds, I walked up the stairs of my building to my fifth floor apartment. This is my little exercise routine, particularly when we are in hiatus from my weekly basketball game. I usually walk up with my head down or looking straight ahead of me and sense what floor I am on by the degree of fatigue and breathlessness that I feel. Today, shamefully winded, I looked up in full expectation of seeing the number 5 and saw, to my chagrin, the number 4. And thus walking up the stairs of life, we slowly decline. Or maybe I should cut the fatalistic crap and get my sedentary ass into a gym.
CONFESSION OF THE DAY:
OK, I guess the foregoing doesn't really establish a satisfying connection between shopping and mortality. I guess I just liked the heading and sort of went with it.
APPEAL OF THE DAY
I have this problem. I’ve been writing 2 blogs simultaneously. Riding two textual horses with one behind. Aside from this blog, I ‘ve been writing one that’s primarily sports-related. My sports readers tend not to have much interest in the non sports stuff. And the readers of this blog tend to have little interest in the sports stuff. I am starting to feel like Tiresias caught between two blogs, two audiences, two sets of friends, two versions of myself. Anyhow the point being, that I’m going to have to find a way to merge the two blogs into the idiosyncratic (and arguably untenable) amalgam that is moi. So basically this is just an appeal to bear with me if you find a little more sports (conveniently sectioned off and skippable) than you’d like. I’ll make the reverse appeal to the readers of the sports blog. Vegas gots to be merging. Gots to be converging.
I guess I should redo the old Reese’s ad: Hey you got sports in my non-sports blog! Hey, you got non-sports in my sports blog! It’s two, two great tastes in YUCK!!!! This is terrible.
HOLIDAY REFLECTION OF THE DAY:
(With apologies for the redundancy with my aforementioned sports blog).
In this holiday season, I have been doing some thinking about our conventions of gift giving. Now, etiquette dictates that we conceal how much money we’ve spent on a gift. Even when we buy something like a CD whose price is universally known, we ask the cashier to put a sticker over the price tag and include a coded gift receipt that doesn’t say how much it cost. And yet, when we buy a gift certificate for someone, we come right out and tell them exactly how much we spent. In fact, that’s the main feature of the gift: It’s monetary worth. Doesn’t etiquette dictate that we should conceal the value of the gift certificate as we do with other gifts? Shouldn’t we say, “Hey here’s a gift certificate. I’ve crossed out the amount it’s for but, trust me, it’s a decent amount.” And what about when we give cash? Shouldn’t we cross out the denomination and the iconic American’s face? Shouldn’t we say “Here’s some money. I didn’t want you to know how much I spent on it, but why don’t you go out and try to buy yourself something nice. See if they'll take it.“
RANDOM CHARACTER DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY
The only problem he had with darts was the accuracy. He was good at the score keeping and the drinking.
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Posted on 12/30/2005
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December 23, 2005
UNREASSURING HEADLINE OF THE DAY:
“FDA Moves to Decrease Lead in Candy.”
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051222/ap_on_he_me/lead_candy
First off, I had no idea there was lead in candy. (If I’d had any idea, I’d have given a lot more to certain sweet-toothed but not necessarily sweet-natured individuals I know.) Second, they’re moving to decrease it, rather than eliminate it??? What’s next, FDA moves to reduce radium in baby food? Arsenic in apple sauce? Anthrax in aspirin? I can’t stand these headlines that unsettle you with their unspoken implications. “Senate Seeks To Limit Covert Wiretaps of Americans.” “Congress Seeks Stricter Limits on Torture.” “Donald Trump Jr. To Assume Bigger role in Trump Empire”—which offers, among other associative unpleasantnesses, the profoundly disturbing reminder that Donald Trump must have once had sex.
“YA THINK?” HEADLINE OF THE DAY:
“Judge Rules Caging of Ohio Children was Abuse.”
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051222/ap_on_re_us/caged_children
The laugh whore in me wants to write: Wow, it’d be nice if someone had told my parents that. (Just kidding Mom. I’ve forgiven you :)). The moralist in me wants to write: Now the fact that this even has to be put in question and ruled on by a court suggests a truly disturbing failing in our society. When kids are found locked in cages like animals, the parents should be instantly locked in cages like animals and neutered so as not to be able to spawn in captivity. Thin the herd. Stop those genes from polluting the gene pool. And the realist in me wants to write: I’m surprised. I thought the FDA would just seek to limit the amount of time parents are allowed to keep Junior and Sissy behind bars.
QUESTION OF THE DAY:
Is Giant's all-pro lineman Osi Umenyiora the only player in professional sports to have all 5 vowels in his last name?
VISION OF PARADISE DU JOUR:
Blissful vacuousness, punctuated by the random, communicable apercu.
More specifically: Sitting in the shade after a good night’s sleep, watching other people get all hot in the sun and wet in the pool while I, dry and warm, sip coffee, smoke a Cohiba, peruse a book, and, magically connected by the great wireless umbilicus, check stock prices, read that the NYC transit shutdown will have lasted precisely the duration of my vacation and post the occasional quip, reflection or observation.
VISION OF PURGATORY DU JOUR:
Experiencing the above then noticing that my laptop battery is about to run out and my charger is already packed and inaccessible.
SUGGESTED BAND NAME OF THE DAY:
The Irreplaceable Cog.
STATISTICAL ODDITY OF THE DAY:
Mr. Vegas getting 2 split aces at the blackjack table once with the dealer showing a 5 and once with the dealer showing a 3 and losing on all 4 bets.
DINING-RELATED MISFORTUNE OF THE DAY:
Having to overhear a honey-voiced gay (not that there's anything wrong with it) couple at the next table angle endlessly and passive aggressively for a free dessert. “You know, I love hearts of palm which is why I ordered the salad I did--you know, the hearts of palm and artichoke heart salad--but I kept looking for them and I didn’t see any. It’s no big deal, I mean the salad was deliciously dressed, but I was just wondering if I’d missed something. Because I really really love hearts of palm and it was just funny cause I looked and l looked and I looked and I just didn’t see any in there. No biggie. It was just funny that’s all." This complaint masquerading as query was repeated with slight variations until the poor waitress finally brought out some complimentary champagne and (I trust, saliva-drizzled) strawberries--an offering that was greeted with equally insufferable ohhs and ahhs of feigned surprise and delight. The indignity of having to overhear this was compounded by their next topic of discussion: Mattress sizes. "I'm really enjoying the King size bed. So roomy and comfortable. Now we have a twin bed at home right? And when we sleep together we're, what, about a foot or two apart?" Then they--or rather, he--continued with tedious appetite-inhibiting earnestness. "Now your parents have always slept on a queen bed, haven't they? And they always have, right? I think a queen and a full are almost the same size. The queen is just a little bit larger. I've had queens and fulls. And, I think a twin. But never a king. This is really a different sleeping experience. Have your parents ever slept on a king?" To make it vaguely more tolerable, I was imaging them integrating a discussion of bed-related activities into this mind-numbing exchange. "Well, when you enter my rectum at night on the twin, you have, what, a foot or so to work with on either side of me for lumbar support? But now when your father enters your mother from behind, he has a little more room to work I would think with because they have the queen, right?"
COMPOSITIONAL CONFESSION OF THE DAY:
I used to turn my nose up at recourse to a thesaurus. I suppose I had a certain contempt for the reductive assumption of semantic equivalence that governs the notion of that compositional aid and had a defiant, quasi-poetic belief in context-specific linguistic invention. However, either out of advancing age (as I have fewer operative brain cells) or advancing laziness (as I have fewer operative power cells), I am less loathe to outsource some menial intellectual labor to Monsieur Roget and his kind. I realize that this evolution or devolution of my writerly idiosyncrasies (tastes, predilections, preferences,…) may be of absolutely no interest to anyone else and may, upon reflection, be of no interest to me either. But there it is. Chalk it up to expressive incontinence or blogger Tourettes or too much rum.
DANGLING CLAUSE OF THE DAY:
With all the implied threat of a X-mas card from your doorman.
SIGN-OFF OF THE DAY:
Ok, the battery charge and the sun are both way way down. And speaking of way way down, it's time for Senor Vegas to head over to the black jack tables to let Senora Fortuna bitch slap him one last time.
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Posted on 12/23/2005
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December 21, 2005
I’ve gotta post that!
OBSERVATION OF THE DAY RELEVANT TO AND PERHAPS LAMENTABLY REDUNDANT WITH THE FOREGOING:
Happiness and sunshine are conducive to gratitude but not to interesting thought. Thought is a disturbance in the placid pond of being.
POLITICAL OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
I read--poolside, during the brief period of unsunny weather-- that the Sunnis have contested the election in Iraq, claiming the results are fraudulent and demanding a recount or revote. Finally, evidence that they are indeed experiencing true democracy.
FELIZ NAVIDAD IRONY OF THE NIGHT:
Black jack dealers in Santa Hats that might as well have been Grinch hats for all the money they took from Mr. Vegas.
COGNITIVE DISSONANCE OF THE DAY:
Reading that Dick Cheney has bought an iPod and that Johnny Damon is a Yankee. Maybe it’s time to put in a sell order for my Apple stock and become a Yankee fan. Certainly the moment Dick Cheney buys an iPod is the moment the iPod ceases to have any claim to being cool and counter-cultural. And the moment Johnny Damon joins the Evil Empire is the moment the evilness of that empire should be put into question. In any sane, stable order of things Dick Cheney would be joining the Yankees and Johnny Damon would be buying an iPod.
MTA-RELATED THOUGHT OF THE DAY:
With the Yankees' acquisition of Damon and the Mets' off season buying spree, I just hope they get the subway strike resolved in time for the 2006 Subway series.
WEB LINK OF THE DAY:
www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=banish
A vicious and sometimes very funny rant against bloggers. So good I just had to create a link to it in my blog in hopes that this scathing diatribe against blogging becomes the rage of the blogosphere.
TRANSCENDENT POETIC QUOTATION OF THE DAY--MOTIVATED BY A LATE AFTERNOON REFLECTION UPON THE AFOREMENTIONED STATE OF SUN-INDUCED COGNITIVE VACUITY BENEATH THE PALMY FRONDS.
""Of Mere Being" By Wallace Stevens
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
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December 19, 2005
Mr. Vegas is on hiatus in Puerto Rico. He will resume his semi-regular postings in a few days time unless, of course, something irresistably blog worthy pops into his head between Cohibas.
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Posted on 12/19/2005
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December 14, 2005
IMAGE OF THE DAY:
(Related to me by a friend rather than experienced directly). A stampeding herd of fully costumed Santas running through the Subway station at 34th St. Most of them are jovial but one malcontent St. Nick taunts the people he's inconveniencing: "Made you miss your train!! Ho Ho. Ho. Made you miss your train!!"
BOB DYLAN-RELATED THOUGHT OF THE DAY:
I see here that Bob Dylan will be hosting a weekly music show on XM Satellite radio. My first thought was “Wow. Pretty cool.” My next thought: I wonder if you have to pay extra to get a descrambler. It seems like a bold (read: questionable) step to take for a new medium that has not yet established the clarity of its transmissions.
SINGLE PARAGRAPH PROUSTIANLY-PUNCTUATED PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He was a man in search of an identity. Each new tried-on gesture, random as it might be, became, in his ongoing quest for selfhood, the cornerstone of an entirely new (if entirely temporary) personality.
PAGE SIX META-COMMENTARY OF THE DAY:
I read on the NY Post’s reliable Page Six, that Bruce Willis has been busy trying to court Petra Nemcova. Funny to have the loss-deepened Hollywood action hero pursuing the loss-deepened Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, her tragic association with the Tsunami disaster presumably lending an aura of gravitas and dignity to his womanizing ways. Already a breathtaking beauty, she has been ennobled by her tragedy. It has elevated her value in the market place of desire, offering as it does an implied association with that rarest of treasures: something as powerful and all consuming as a Hollywood star’s ego. Bruce and Petra. The deeper, more realized celebrity couple. Their souls bound together by the common experience of loss. She has lost her lover, her future, her innocence, her dreams. And he has lost his hair. It feels like the kind of thing that would have happened in a Bruce Wagner novel had it not happened in reality first.
SPORTS OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Speaking of courtship rituals, I read that the Yankees are trying to acquire Nomar Garciappara and convince him to play first base. If they get him, it would make an infield for the ages. A-Rod. Jeter. Nomar. It’s like a hall of fame for light skinned non-Caucasians.
GREAT CONCEPT OF THE DAY (Doing double-duty as Web-link of the day):
Love the idea of Matthew Haughey’s “My Childhood, seen by Google maps.” www.flickr.com/photos/mathowie/8496262/ When I saw the Google satellite shot of the house I grew up in, I was struck by the bizarre incongruity between these primal personal events of my life and this totally impersonal representation of the stage on which they took place. Cool to see that someone actually did something to express that collision between the personal imaginary and the impersonal symbolic and did it in an elegant and affecting way. (FYI: Mr. Haughey’s project is referenced in last Sunday’s Year In Ideas issue of the NYT Magazine section under the heading “Do-It-Yourself Cartography.)
EPIPHANY OF THE DAY:
After work, I go to Barnes and Nobles to test drive a few books I’m considering buying for my upcoming trip to Puerto Rico. As I’m reading in the library-like atmosphere of the store, I notice that two deaf people at the table next to me are carrying on a vigorous conversation with their hands. The Larry David within me (or at least the laugh whore) recognizes the comedic potential of walking over to them and reproachfully gesturing “Shhhh!” But the rest of me just marvels at how, in certain circumstances, handicaps can be advantages. And vice versa. In this environment, I am the one who can’t carry on a robust discussion without incurring the wrath of my peers. I am the one who is challenged. I’m not sure in what circumstance a quadriplegic has the competitive advantage, but discretion suggests it’s best not to venture down that road of speculation. (Related tangential thoughts associated with deaf people: 1) Can they hear themselves think? And 2) Are there deaf stutterers who actually manifest their hesitancy by repeating the same partially enacted signs?)
ABSURDITY OF THE DAY:
After I leave Barnes and Nobles, minor epiphany but no books in hand (although I have a few candidates including “Kafka on the Shore” by Murakami , “Snow: by Orhan Pamuk and “Seven Types of Ambiguity” by Eliot Perlman), I go in search of some oil to lubricate my beard trimmer. The manager at Duane Reade says they don’t have any and suggests I try the Home Depot. I wander into this emporium of domestic paraphernalia, It is huge. Vast. And, at this hour, almost entirely empty. I walk at least 2 football fields without seeing another customer. I finally find a small container of 3-in-1 oil.. But it seems like too little to show for my visit to this gargantuan temple of stuff. What else do I need? Hmm. Drills? No. Garbage cans? No. Linoleum? No. Toilets? No. But, hey, I do need a roll of toilet paper. Well, guess what. They don’t have a roll of toilet paper. They only have 24 rolls of toilet paper or 48 rolls of toilet paper. So, in tribute to the immensity of my environs, I end up getting the gigantic 48 roll cube. That’s 47 rolls more than I’ve ever bought before. I try to explain to my friend, later, that it’s not that I’ve suddenly gotten all domestic or that I have any idea where I’m gonna put the stuff,. It’s just that there was something in the size and scale and majesty of the place that made me feel that this was the thing to do. So there is Vegas on the bus, hauling this giant cube of soft absorbance on his shoulder like Atlas. Or an anally fixated Santa. Actually, despite my desire to confer some mythic dignity upon the scene, I suspect I looked a lot more like an ant toting a big white crumb. Anyhow, I have no idea where I’ll store the haul once I get back to my small apartment. I’m thinking maybe I can use it as a chair.
I tote my TP on the bus. (Needing the handicapped seat to accommodate the booty). At 57th and 8th I switcfh to catch the M10 uptown, But I suddenly see the Time Warner AOL building and have a yen for Whole Foods. I decide to make a pit stop for a little dinner down in the cafeteria section there. I take my 48 rolls down, fill up a bowl of Chana Masala and rice from the Indian food buffet and stand on the check out line. I think I’m the thing that’s getting checked out. Not for my stellar looks or my distinguished beard. But for the absurd spectacle of a guy holding nothing but a little plate of food and 48 rolls of toilet paper.
MEDITATION OF THE DAY:
Anyhow, I enjoy a surprisingly dignified little repast down there across from my absorbant mega-prop. As I stared at my inanimate (but not unpleasant) dinner companion, I reflected on how I’d experienced a wonderfully satisfying consumer trifecta; Barnes and Noble, Home Depot and Whole Foods; A rare sense of wholesome participation in the institutions of our society, a rare and wondrous sense that they are truly reflecting my needs and desires. For once I am not critical and detached. I feel grateful to be an adventurer in experience, enjoying the bounty of what our empire has to offer.
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Posted on 12/14/2005
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December 12, 2005
Some random observations, descriptions, reflections and reviews to keep my spirit (and, I hope yours) from being crushed by the recurrence of the work week.
CONTEXT-FREE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"I so almost had that!"
SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He liked to paraphrase what had just been said, albeit in a less concise and less compelling fashion.
REPRESENTATIVE ANECDOTE OF THE DAY:
I drove by my old neighborhood in the Upper West Side where I lived about 20 years ago. I saw that in the place where Endicott Book Sellers (a vital, intellectually-oriented independent bookseller) once stood, there was now a Starbucks and a fancy establishment called Sotheby's Real Estate. I felt that the history of a neighborhood (and, indeed, a culture) was eloquently distilled in that little transformation.
REFLECTION OF THE DAY::
Someone where I work was just talking about how the Goth movement is back, but in a more mainstream, less radical form. They're calling it "Goth Light." How light? Well, this light: Ralph Lauren is designing little tweener jeans with skulls and crossbows on them. And a skull and crossbow beret thing with a pink bowtie on it. Goth Light, it's the newest rage. Soon to be followed by the new more user-friendly "Bloods Light" and "Crips Light."
Actually, hearing about the return of Goth, I couldn't help but wonder if the periodicity of the cycles of fashion is getting shorter and shorter or if it just appears that way cause we're getting older. It certainly seems that where it used to take the better part of a generation for something to make a comeback, now everything is rediscovered (with a rage of consumer enthusiasm) within a few years.
Also got me thinking about time and generation and so forth and I realized that in about 15 years when the baby boomers begin to shuffle off their mortal coils, they're not going to be listening to Perry Como in those Assisted Living communities, but The Stones and Hendrix and Led Zep. I don't mean to be age-ist, but isn't that a bit unseemly? Who wants to see (or be!) some ole fart air-drumming while they empty out his cholostemy bag?
OBSERVATION OF THE DAY: THE GENIUS OF EBAY
Ebay allows people to say "I won a ____" instead of "I bought a _____." An elaborate self-deception that allows people to to remain in denial about the basic economic truth of the experience: Namely, that they spent money. I guess the basic insight is that it’s a lot more glamorous to think of yourself a winner rather than a mere consumer.
DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY:
The private equity world. Thanks in large part to the tireless efforts of this administration, enormous wealth has been concentrated into the hands of a very few individuals. Like 180 of them. The world of Private Equity Services is essentially a group of highly educated people engaged in an elaborate, technically impressive, dazzlinglingly polysyllabic effort to isolate, contact and virtually fellate those 180 people.
REVIEW OF THE DAY:
Far too often these days, movies are just the longer, more boring versions of their trailers.
Happily "Syriana" was not one of these movies. In fact, it was that rarest of things: An American movie (in fact, an American movie about, among other things, American Intelligence) that actually respects the intelligence of the American audience. So, if you happen to be in one of those moods where you want your intelligence respected, check it out. Otherwise, just listen to a White House press release.
NOTE: The inclusion of the phrase "of the day" in the above descriptors is a bit arbitrary and in no way suggests these are or will be daily occurences. If just sort of sounded good.
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Posted on 12/12/2005
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December 09, 2005
While I am certainly no stranger to the 7 Deadly Vices, I do not consider myself greedy by nature. For example, I don’t particularly covet or aspire to great wealth. As a result, I have never had any particular interest in the lottery. But recently, where I work, they had this office pool for Mega-millions. I guess I hadn’t checked my e-mail during the day to read about it. But at the very last minute, I found out not only that it was happening, but that I was the only person in the office who had not chosen to participate and that it was too late to join. I suddenly felt this desperate, irrational desire not to be left out. I could not imagine anything worse than showing up at work the next day and finding out that everyone had won a big, solid gold “get out of work free” card except for me. I could see them all celebrating, unable to contain their glee while I stared on blankly like a baseball player watching the visiting team celebrate a World Series victory on my home field. Haunted by images of this intolerable (and, of course, now suddenly inevitable) eventuality, I tried to negotiate with my office mates/friends to let me in. But they, having already calculated—and theoretically spent-- their anticipated portion of the winnings, were curiously wary about having another person entering the deal. Sure, by contributing my ticket to the collective pool, I would slightly increase their chances of winning. But, their share of the winnings would suddenly be slightly smaller. And since in their irrational lottery-addled minds they’d already won the damn thing, the slightly increased probability of winning was far less compelling to them than the slightly diminished per person take away. I was finally able to convince them to let me buy the ticket and sign a paper swearing that, if my ticket won, I would contribute the winnings to the group pool. And thus I was able to sleep soundly that night. Anyhow, what I found fascinating about the whole experience (beside the the each-man-for-himself “Treasures of the Sierra Madres” overtones; the sudden glimpse into the selfish and mistrustful beast within us all) was the fact that I had no real interest in winning. I simply didn’t want to be left out. I had in effect, not bought a lottery ticket, but a $5 insurance policy against that happening. And it was money well spent. I’m not sure what it says about my psyche, but there it is.
Oh, and by the way, we won.
Just kidding.
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Posted on 12/9/2005
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December 08, 2005
This weekend I went up to rural Connecticut to help my technophobe mother set up a Mac computer I’d encouraged her to buy. It took many hours and many calls to Bangalore, but in the end, the deed was done. As I started to show her all the amazing things you could do on the computer and assured her how much she was going to love it, she said to me, “You know. I really don’t want to love my computer. I want it to do the few things I need it to do quickly so I can get away from it and do the important things in my life.” I was tempted to say “Real Life. How quaint and old school.” But I could see she had a point. In fact, I realized that the reason I was so excited when I had finally succeeded in connecting the computer to the internet was only partially out of a sense of having prevailed over obstacles. The main reason was that I could now access my beloved sports scores, websites and e-mail and effectively turn the snowy winter wonderland of Connecticut into a place just like everywhere else.
And so Mr. Vegas traveled in his blessed virtual bubble, buffered from experience by his Internet Bookmarks, like a pop star by his entourage.
Speaking of the Internet, I am pleased to report that you are reading words written by the proud new owner of the following domain names:
Teddyvegas.com
DigitalNapkins.com
And, drumroll please…
Googlemyassbitch.com
Digital napkins comes from the fact that I scribble all my ideas down on little coasters or napkins that then crumble in my pocket and clutter my life. I have long planned to have a little exhibition entitled “The Collected Napkins of Teddy Vegas.” In fact, I recently stumbled upon a napkin on which I'd written that idea. Digitalnapkin.com was a slightly cooler sounding URL but, to my chagrin, it was taken. As for The googlemyassbitch.com: This was inspired by a comment a friend made last night. I just thought it was a great defiant assertion of social status. I have no idea what if anything I’ll do with the URL. Probably just sell it to my friend for a beer.
What I did find interesting however is my shopping behavior. I am not much of a consumer. I covet very few material things (iPods and Mac computers notwithstanding). In this respect, I am a poor excuse for an American. But for some reason, I like buying nonmaterial things, like names. When I go to the domain name registries, I just start filling up my shopping cart with all kinds of URLs I have no real use for.. It just feels cool to feel you “own” a name. A thing that’s not a thing. An abstract set of coordinates in virtual space.
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Posted on 12/8/2005
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December 05, 2005
I usually hate bio-pics. Hate the feeling of spending $10 and 2 hours in order to have the ultimate assessment: “Wow, that was a reasonable if not entirely persuasive impersonation of the actual (and much more compelling) human being. Nice.” Also, you always get distracted by the acrid whiff of Oscar ambition associated with stupid human trick of adopting a famous person’s speech and mannerisms. But this one was really quite good; A compassionate but devastating portrait of monstrous narcissism. The cinematography was spare and stunning; particularly the shots of the rural Kansas landscape. Beyond the tics and mannerisms, Phillip Seymour Hoffman did a good job of portraying a psyche trapped in the cycles of relentless egotism and self-pity. And the supporting performances were uniformly excellent —particularly the Sheriff (Chris Cooper), Harper Lee (Catherine Keener) and the murderer Perry Smith (Clifton Collins Jr.). There is a striking moment when, after repeatedly misleading Smith about his efforts to find him an appeal’s lawyer, Truman, shamed into an execution day visit, sobs to the condemned man: “I did everything I could. I swear. I did everything I could.” While at face value this is a galling untruth, you get the feeling that the tears are in recognition of the sense it which it was the truth. Given the conflict between his pressing self-interest (for the men to be executed so the book could have an ending) and his desire to keep Smith (a man with whom he had a strange identification) alive, he had done the only thing he, given his literary ambition, could do: Namely, nothing. They are, in short, tears of tragic self-knowledge. Interestingly, as alluded to above, I didn't feel like Capote was being portrayed simply as a monster but rather as an instance (albeit an extreme one) of the ways we're all trapped within our particular limitations and contradictions. The film seemed to be saying "Ecce Homo" (behold mankind, not behind the homo--although he was, indeed, one heck of a homo.).
The one real downside of the movie is extended exposure to Capote’s high pitched wilting lisp. It’s creepily infectious and disturbingly imitable and, upon exiting the cinema, you may find yourself adopting it to the acute dismay of your friends and family. Or at least I did.
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Posted on 12/5/2005
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December 02, 2005
Has anyone else noticed a marked decline in the number of people listening to iPods in the subways? Six months ago, virtually every other person was sporting the signature white earphones. Now it seems only one or two people per car are listening to any kind of digital jukebox. I suppose this could be due to the fact that many people who were not true music lovers, bought one of the svelte little stunners simply because it was the must-have accessory du jour (or du decade) and after a period of trial usage, the novelty has worn off. Part of me thinks it's really just a quesion of cultural ADD: Another instance of a miracle product ultimately failing to fill the chronic and persistent emptiness at the consumer's core. But a less pessimistic side of me thinks it could also be a symptom of something more hopeful: Namely, that when all is said and done, most people like to have an audio-visual connection with their physical environment. If so, that would suggest that the species has some kind of innate resistance to the ever increasing isolation and virtualization of modern experience. In either case, I don’t think it bodes poorly for the sales of iPods as for each market that's saturated, there will be new parts of the country and globe where people have yet to experience the full cycle of novelty, immersion and disenchantment. Of course, there are many true music lovers who do not experience iPod burnout. They're sort of like the 10 per cent of gym members who amortize their membership by actually going to the gym.
Or maybe I'm wrong about all of this and have just been sitting in the lame, non-musical cars on my subways lately.
Or, as a friend speculates, maybe I'm not seeing iPods in the subway anymore because, after spending $300 for a new Nano, their owners can't afford public transportation and have to walk.
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Posted on 12/2/2005
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