Down in the Bowery

     I think we can agree that the new wave of social activists is half excellent and half AWFUL. Both groups feel the need to try new things they wouldn't normally have in their culture. However, the first group exhibits its tolerance by loving all cultures equally, while the other wears its "hip activities" like badges. The less familiar their vocabulary is to others, the smarter and better they think they are. They're the exact opposite of ethnocentric. They actually embrace all other cultures more than their own. But they still believe that they're making a change for the better by liking feminist Facebook pages and growing beards. (The beards are actually pretty great most of the time, but I digress.)

     These hipstery douche canoes are indeed making a change. But is it really for the better? Do we really need another subculture that demands to be seen as "better" because of their differences? The word "tolerance" seems to have lost its meaning to them even though they think they're fighting for it.
    

Ahhhhhh. Just needed a breather real quick.

     I went down to the Bowery to see a great band recently and ran directly into this sort of person. First, when going to concerts, I tend to wear almost the same thing every time. With the expectation that there will be at least 2 beers, several ounces of weed, and gallons of sweat crashing into me by the end of the night, I never wear anything good. A t-shirt, old jeans, and a sweatshirt are good enough for me. Nothing else needs to enter the depths of the concert pit for there is no limit to the number of spin cycles those clothes will have to go through before they emerge anywhere near the way they started.

     The only mistake I made was wearing my college sweatshirt. Right out of Penn Station I got the classic "GO SEAWOLVES" from a Stony Brook alumnus. Not a surprise since about half of the world seems to go there. But that was the last bit of kindness good ol' SB would get that night. We took a subway that plopped us right next to the Bowery Ballroom and waltzed right on in. We were looking forward to meeting exciting chaps like ourselves, but we were unhappily surprised. Not a single mellow fellow to be found. Only snarky hipster folk dressed to the nines. Possibly even the tens. There were dress shoes, slacks, ties, vests, and millions of shades of lipstick. Yet the only two jeans were worn by yours truly and her best friend, Chris. Feeling awfully out of place we sank into a corner and just observed for a while. What we found ourselves looking at was this exact scene of gargling dweebs from the TV show Louie.

The squawking is all perfectly accurate. Throw in

a vest and tuck in a few shirts and you could say

that you saw San Fermin too.

     The concert started and we weasled our way to the front thinking the party people must be waiting for us there. Wrong again. The sea of awfuls stretched all the way from the stage to the back of the crowd. Not a single fun-loving being would be joining us. A cloak of pessimism started to fall and stuck to our clothes like the smell of an old fire. Then, few people started noticing my Stony Brook garb. They immediately started to hoot and holler. (Not laugh. I mean hoot like owls and holler like monkeys.) Apparently we were too young to know the struggles of adult life (arguable) and not worth the space we occupy (just wrong). Hey, I may not know where I'll be when I'm their age, but I'll certainly have better things to talk about. So laugh it up funny man because at least we know how to have a good time.

     Finally, the beautiful brass section of San Fermin bellowed through the joint. A head bob or two ensued, but that was about all the movement they were willing to bother with. It was of course a spectacular show, but I definitely didn't want anything to do with that crowd of shmoes. Afterwards, instead of mingling with the shmoe foe, we did a bit of gabbing with the band. I mean... we did a bit of gabbing with THE BAND! How cool! The other fans weren't so interested in the band which definitely seemed a little odd. It was probably cause they were dressed down like we were. Either way, more fun for us!

Dear Modern Day Technology

      I think we can agree that you,  modern day technology, are an enormous pile of hippo feces.  Every day whenever anything happens, you assist a child shunning the people in their presence by watching strangers twerk on Vine or something.  Any and every conversation these days is made up of two major components: the person trying to make conversation and the person idly scrolling through their news feed.  The person on their phone might as well just say this.                         


     I will never see the purpose in this.  As a child, when I wasn't killing henchman in GoldenEye or watching SpongeBob, I was outside playing games.  I was acting like a child.  At times, I may have been too childish.

   

     Children these days occasionally go outside.  Most times, they locate a shady area so as not to have glares on their $1,000 IPads.  Why, World?  Why must we ignore our surroundings to feel comforted.  You are the equivalent of cans being dragged along as a "Just Married" car drives by.  At first, all is happy until that terrible scraping sound occurs.  You know what I think of you, technology?

Tutelage in Tootilage

*My apologies for a double dose of poot-palooza.

     I think we can agree, fart jokes DO NOT get old. Plenty of people deem themselves "too old" for that sort of humor, but in fact they are just too lame to handle a good time.

     So for those with an open mind for tooting humor, I would suggest reading this lovely craigslist post. I was tempted to edit a little and fix some of the misspellings, but like a fine work of art, it must maintain it's "integrity." I think we can all learn something from our friend here:

I farted on every single one of my employees. All 37 of them.

So, I just need to tell the world because I am so happy that I have finally accomplished something that has been 3 months in the making.

 I farted on every single one of my 37 employees. The initial fart began on January 21st, 2008 while I was expediting at my somewhat famous restaurant in the meatpacking district. Lets just say, I am a chef, I dont know if I would call myself world famous, but I am definitely known in and around NYC. I have had several specials on foodnetwork. You probably know me if you like food and eating in manhattan.

That said, lets get back to the first fart, the maiden fart, the perfect fart.

It was hot as hell in the kitchen that night, sometimes I like to turn off the air conditioning to give my staff a bit of a stir, it makes their blood flow, their tempers flash, but for some reason, their discomfort turns out better quality food.

So with all the air off, there is no air flow in our downstairs kitchen, and its small and cramped and really really fucking hot, even in january.

We have our plates in the warmer under our pass, so i was helping my hot apps guy plate a new fungi misti when it happened.

He had the pan in his right hand, and we both reached to bend over to get the hot plate, i got there first, so he inhaled the entire hot air load that i let roar out of my pants.

It was bold, loud, and completely unapologetic.

I was louder though, laughing so fucking hard at his coughing and gagging that i almost lost the granddaddy, the origin of the fart, the poop.

This actually did happen on fart employee #19, but we will get back to that.

So with this began my mission.

I had to fart on everyone that works for me, and write it all in a log book so that I can keep track.

Some people I couldn't just directly fart on, like my accountant, shes a sweet girl, and I think she might feel that I have accosted her or something, department of labor could be called, etc.., so much care has to be taken with these types of cases.

1. The only rules I had were this: I had to fart on everyone, I mean including my bread guy, my pasta guy, all our dishwashers, my sous chef, etc...

2. They had to either hear, smell or be somehow aware that I have farted on them. This is where it gets tricky.

3. I have to do it in order of name, alphabetically, and I cant skip people and come back.

4. At least 80% had to make a comment or some type of revolting behavior afterward, and if they didnt, I had to do them again and again, the same person, until they finally surrendered to the demon that is my fart.

This was easy with the line cooks and basic kitchen staff, as they are used to this kind of shit, the front of the house however, are like a bunch of fucking statues scared to move.

My farts on them where secretly my most favorite, because I think it took them out of whatever musical they thought they were living in, and made them alive, made them smell, made them want to throw up for a valid reason.

I think all farts should have a color assigned to them, because you know when that one fart comes out and lingers in the air and wont leave, I mean its obvious that is a green fart. Everyone should know this by now, its even documented in cartoons.

A red fart is a spicy one, probably incurred by some type of spicy ethnic food with a great amount of chilis and onions.

A yellow fart, well these are worse on the farter, than they are on the fartee.

These are sick farts, the ones that are on the verge of being sharts. Just imagine the fart that comes after downing like gallon of vodka, eating like 5 gyros on st. marks, then bagging a hooker named natasha, who acts like she is from russia, but you know just know she fucking grew up in Hackensack.

This is never good, especially in the kitchen, so if I think I have a yellow in tow, I clamp my hole shut and run to the nearest bathroom to unleash the fury.

Unless, of course I am at home, then what the hell, I let it rip and see what happens. New underwear are only like 5 feet away, so lets see what happens, life is a journey.

I think I will post the story of every single persons very own and original fart on here every night for 37 nights. Some are really good ones, some are just farts, but I will let you be the judge.

And maybe by the end some of you will know who i am, and if you ever do figure it out, come to my restaurant and tell the bartender this: "Mr. Bojangles and his two sidewinders sent me", he will give you a free drink, and a laugh.

     I have to grab a Kleenex every time... Treasure. That's how it's done. Consider yourself "tuteled" in tootilage.

Hercules the Polar Vortex

     I think we can agree that the phrase "polar vortex" should only be used to describe a catastrophic blizzardy mess. Not a snow storm. Not even a blizzard, but something much greater. It'll lose it's meaning if we throw it around too much.

     Naming these little storms is a little ridiculous too. A week ago we had a storm named Hercules. Really?

The polar vortex, Hercules, rolled in over the land 

and demolished the homes and futures

 of the people who lived in the place we used to call...

...Long Island.

     That sounds pretty cool, right? But in fact, Hercules floated over our island and gently rested a two or three foot layer of fluffy snow upon the ground. Adorable. That's not worthy of a name like Hercules or a phrase like polar vortex.

Now this gentleman knows a true polar vortex when he sees one.

     If we're gonna start calling every snow storm a polar vortex, I might have to call my next sneeze a "nasal vortex." How about an "anal vortex" for farts?

     Or maybe we should instead be naming them. The great Tom Conway suggested his next poot be named Zeus. And if it escaped while in a bath, perchance Neptune. And then if it had a great deal of stank on it, maybe Beelzebubbles. 

But let's not get too carried away.

What IS Good Enough

     Think we can agree, good enough is in fact good enough. Otherwise it wouldn't be called that. And we should all strive for a simple existence. A waltz through mediocrity, if you will.

If the professor says it's good enough, you KNOW it's good enough.
If the parents say it's good enough, it's definitely good enough.
If you think it's good enough, well that's that.

     Is a tiny apartment in the city good enough for a dance party? You bet! Though the cloud of sweat was a little grosso-stinko, and it definitely could have been prevented if we had A/C or a window. But, hey, it made a pretty great story.

     And the thrift shop offers a wonderful array of good enough. I often pick up a full bag or two of good enough. Take this outfit for example. So fetch, so posh. So disturbing, I must admit. But you can't get such quality ridiculousness from anywhere else.

     We did run into a problem though. Who was going to buy them? The hat turned out to have a bit of what seemed like baby food on it. (Really could have been anything.) So we just put that right back where it came from. The vest, however, was in decent condition. It was one of those "I saw it first!" - "But I look better in it!" - "But you're a man!" sort of issues. Probably the biggest dilemma of 2013 looking back on it now. In the end, my darling Chris let me buy the woman's vest that we were fighting so venomously over. I know what you're thinking... How could a friendship survive such a hardship? Bet you'd like to know! I'll never tell.

Eyeliner Belongs to the Eyes

     I think we can agree that the placement of makeup onto one's face is relatively straight forward.  For instance, lip stick goes on the lips, eye shadow and eye liner go on the eyes.  There are a few tools in the vanity that might be questionable and perhaps even scary, but for the most part makeup is pretty direct.
     Now, the application of makeup is a different story.  To some, the application of makeup is even an art form.
     In my studies, which have been vast and ongoing, I have come across three groups of people.  The first group is the "No Makeup" group.  The people in this group generally do not wear makeup.  They may wear makeup for special occasions, but it is not a part of their everyday routine.  Some people in this group should definitely make it a part of their everyday routine, unless of course they fall into my third group.
     The second group of people I will discuss is the "Makeup Wearers of America" group.  I like to refer to the "Makeup Wearers of America" as "MWA" and so should you.  "MWA" will put on their game face everyday.  Whether it be a full out beauty blitz or a light color touch, the "MWA" prefer to sport a healthy glow.  They cringe if they must leave their house without even a dab of lip gloss.  "MWA" enjoy their cosmetic crusade and they present themselves tastefully.
     My third group of people are the Clowns.  They enjoy their makeup way too much and this results in over application.  The amount of makeup they use daily could just about cover an entire circus troupe.  When they are finished with their glamour regime, they look in the mirror with an appreciative beam.  Clowns think they work wonders with their polished pusses, and I guess they could if they wanted to bring their talents to the tent.
     Everyone has seen a Clown.  And, once spotted, it is hard to take your eyes off of them.  You really can't help but stare.  The situation might not even lend itself to staring, but you are hopelessly trapped.  Church, for example, is not a staring arena.  One can cast a holy or reverent glance around the church.  Perhaps even take a pious peek through the pews.  Stare?  No way!
     So what does a person do when they see a Clown at Mass?  (The older lady, across the aisle.  Those drawn on eyebrows that are about five feet above the natural brow bone.  The ridiculous arch of the eyebrows.  Maybe if she were to use neon yellow eyebrow pencil she could contact McDonald's to be their new walking billboard.)  A person can pray extra hard at Mass, asking the HS for some self control. They will probably have to send one up to the BVM as a reinforcement though.  You can be sure that Old Scratch is sitting pretty watching this scene unfold.
     How about when your boss is a Clown?  (Smart boss.  Knows her stuff.  Hair and clothing in fine order.  Eyeliner worn under the eye like a football player.)  This boss sends a mixed message to her staff.  Her employees are ready to talk spreadsheets and budgets, but are now questioning whether or not to ask about touchdowns and tackles.  Eventually, the staff will become numb to the boss' look, like farmers with horse manure.
     To conclude, let's just be thankful for the fact that the Clown population is only about ten percent.  If it were any greater we would definitely be overcome with VOS, visual overload syndrome and we might be tempted into the carny life.  Amen.
   




   
     

Care - another word I can't stand.

I think we can agree that the word care is very important. To begin with, it is both a noun and a verb. That's big.
 There is even an organization by that name and it stands for something, but, I don't know what it is, so whatever.
The use of the word care begets profundity. It is almost a statement unto itself, except it doesn't really fly as a single word statement. That would make it a command with you understood and would be a little awkward, as in, "Care." How do you tell someone to care? Let's just forget that one, but it is still a power word.
Now how* the word care is used inflates it to even bigger than big, say, large. Observe, "I care a lot." Wow!
 "I can tell you really care." Good for you! Understood.
"He, she or it always cares." They or it deserve recognition?!
When you get free time, try it with We and you plural, etc and see how powerful a word care is.
You can raise yourself above others by declaring you care. You can appear magnanimous by pointing out that another cares. Or on the dark side, you can impugn another by questioning if he, she or it does, in fact, care. Obviously responsibility comes with use of the word care.
What's remarkable about what we've covered so far, is that while nothing at all may have been done by anyone, just the fact that they may care is more than enough. 
You may have noticed that I used an asterisk above. It refers to how the word care is used. I am loath to digress, but it is important to point out reoccurring wrong usage. I could care less. Just stop that.
So, in the spirit of making myself bigger, I committed myself to caring, and when I got free time, I cared. But I found caring is like exercise. Sometimes I forgot. Sometimes I got distracted. Sometimes, I needed help, like a buddy system. They say people perform better in the company of others.
To step it up, I set time aside to care. Once I have it scheduled in I can't miss. So, my designated care time is Tuesday, after work and before dinner. Try not to call then, thank you.
To step it up one again, I designated a place for caring. It used to be called the green chair. Once in a while it is called the Vinyl Viggen. Long story, Short Final. But now it will be called the care chair.

 

 



 You see, I have the time to care and the place to care. I'm all set.
I've been doing this for quite sometime, now. Months actually. So, yes, I am a bigger person. I am a bigger person because I care.



To step it up even further, next month I plan to find something to care about.