They keep pulling me back in

I’ve been inspired to write lately, for no reason in particular. This is a good thing, because, as someone who considers himself a writer, I haven’t written in months. Unless you count my blog entries on net neutrality and electronic waste for computer science class. Or my illuminating economics papers on the minimum wage and pot. These are two separate papers. Not an autobiography.

Such is the life of an undergraduate. My days are spent in the classroom and at work, my nights in front of a monitor not blinking for hours at a time. This would be enjoyable were I to be surfing Web sites other than www.shit_anotheressayaskingmetoeschewcreativity.com.)

Soon this life will end. I graduate in May.

Glad the job market is good. I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels to be graduating from college at such an exciting and prosperous time. I anticipate so many job offers I should be able to share with friends. Especially with my degree. God, it’s useful. Education and English — without the teaching certification.

I made dean’s list this past semester. Being that I work in the office that mails the letters from our esteemed dean, I imagine mine should be arriving some time in 2014. By then, hopefully, I will be employed.

The newspaper today said Philadelphia’s unemployment rate exceeds that of the national average. Bah! Who trusts newspapers anyway? So many are moving to an online-only presence, so why not start there? Philadelphia, according to www.damnweare_soeffinscrewed.uhoh.org, is actually well below the national unemployment rate of Myanmar. Good to know. I could use a vacation.

My last real trip was to Orlando. I was 14 and with my parents. We stayed in a giant hotel and I met a girl with large breasts, both of which I followed around the swimming pool for seven days. I think we were in Disney World, and I might have went on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride a few times.

I hate Johnny Depp movies — transitions, people! — minus Donnie Brasco, of course. But that’s a Pacino film. And I’m rambling. Which is an illustration of my lack of writing in recent months. A good writer rambles coherently. I’m drunk with adjectives, spitting sentences like a bad rapper hoping to rhyme “hungry.”

The good writer knows that’s just not possible.

I’ll take “Condescending D-Bags with Jobs” for $400, Alex

I don’t remember exactly when Alex Trebek became television’s resident douchebag, but, undoubtedly, the title is his. Each night at 7 p.m., I tune in to watch Jeopardy, the only game show I’ve ever enjoyed, in what has become a forum for Mr. Trebek to flaunt his vast knowledge of how to read. At that, he excels. But do we know at what else? Trebek comes off like Jeopardy is a show of common knowledge, that each and every response is but a flicker of light in his exceptionally large brain.

The Trebek of my childhood was an amiable fellow, a gentleman who said “right” and “yes” and, on occasions when a contestant delivered an incorrect response, “no.” The Trebek of recent years, however, is a know-it-all, the kid who raises his hand to answer every question posed by the teacher just to illustrate exactly much useless information he or she has crammed into their ten percent. But at least that kid knows. Trebek reads. He might be smart, but all he proves each night that it is possible to out-smug yourself.

Consider the following account of a Jeopardy episode that aired no more than two weeks ago:

Contestant Jamie: “I’ll take Famous Puppet Quotes for $600, Alex.”

Trebek (reading question): “It ain’t easy being green.”

Contestant Jamie: “Who is Kermit?”

Trebek (being a douche): “Umm, I’m not sure we can accept that. Judges? … No, I’m sorry.”

… 5 seconds pass

Trebek (elevating his level of smug): “I’m sorry, Jamie, we were looking for, ‘Who is Kermit the Frog … the frog.’”

OK, I understand the need for specificity, especially in a game show. But Kermit? The Frog? Who else could Jamie have meant? Kermit, the former surgeon general? Kermit, the hero of Greek tragedy, thou who saved Miss Piggy from the clutches of Athenian rule? Kermit the dog? Why must you be such an asshole, Trebek? The category is Famous Puppet Quotes. How many puppets are named Kermit?

And it’s not just his reluctance to accept Jamie’s response. It is his response — his tone — that is most douchey. His face suggests a host disappointed, his posture that of parent about to lecture a child, the timbre of his voice rude and condescending, all of which combines to reflect his inner monologue: “Duh.”

I’d love to see Trebek on the other side of the answers. See how easy it easy to remember the seventh president of Zimbabwe when his name isn’t printed in front of you. What? You only want to risk $1,200 on a Double Jeopardy question, Alex? Such a tiny wager. Perhaps this isn’t your best category.

Trebek says stuff like that. With a smile. Contestants, for the most part, take it in stride. Enough pressure in clicking a buzzer in time to oust two opponents in a matter of a couple seconds without having to worry about a guy whose life’s work is reading answers to questions. Here’s an answer, Trebek: The arrogant host of a popular television quiz show; he should receive a beating of Goliathian proportions. Answer: Don’t look down for your answer sheet, Alex. Look up. Into a mirror.

Oy, NKOTB

Forgive me, Rabbi. It’s been a while since I last wrote. And lord knows when I last read something meaningful. Life has me so confused the New York Times is a chore. Last night, after failing at yet another sudoku, I searched the comics for meaning and then read the horoscopes. Today, I’m supposed to rely on someone. Thanks, Jacqueline Bigar. Yesterday you said trust yourself. Which is it?

Not to sound like an oversize ball of Matzah, Rabbi, but my girlfriend is, arguably, the sweetest person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met presidents. Of universities. And rotary clubs. Trust me, the girl is candy coated, like an M & M with exquisite curves and a laugh that could disarm North Korea. No, Rabbi, she isn’t Jewish. It gets worse. Her last name ends in “ham.” I know, I know, but I took your advice. Follow my heart, you said. Listen to the words inscribed on your pillow when you wake up from your last chapter of dreaming. So I did.

And what about New Kids on the Block, Rabbi? When I was twelve, I went to their concert with the girl I liked and our moms. You said no one would care, that none of the other boys would poke fun at me for singing along to “Hangin’ Tough.” So I did. And you were wrong. The boys did make fun. At the bus stop, they tripped me and called me a fag. Since when does bad music taste translate into sexual preference? Seriously, Rabbi, because of you — to spite you — I bought the New Kids Christmas album. Gave it to the girl for Hanukkah.

Forgive me, Rabbi. I’ve been to church. And a mosque. Actually, the only time I’ve ever been to synagogue is for Bar Mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. I don’t pray. Observant Jews intimidate me. Yarmulkes frighten me. You once  told me prayer would make me stronger. Instead, I did push-ups.

If I could, Rabbi, I would ride a bicycle to heaven. There, I would institute a new alphabet, where capital letters are never used for pronouns, where hyphens are outlawed and every sentence is required to have, at minimum, thirteen verbs and, if we’re lucky, a dangling modifier.

Sorry, Rabbi. I know you hate that. But, honestly, we both know I never was good at listening. Or caring about anything other than what’s for dinner. It certainly isn’t pork. Unless you count bacon. But who does? The other day — I’m not making this up — my mother asked, “Are you sure?” when told pepperoni came from pig. And she was raised kosher. So I ask you this, Rabbi: If a woman raised kosher doesn’t get it, how or why should I? And, seriously, Rabbi, have you had bacon. It’s crack for breakfast.

It’s funny, Rabbi. I could talk to you for hours. But listening to you, even for a half-minute, makes me yearn for Gigli. Have you seen that one, Rabbi? You probably haven’t. It stars Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck, and also features Al Pacino, none of whom are Jewish, all of whom should be sentenced to death by multiple viewings of Ishtar for subjecting moviegoers to that steaming pile of gefilte. Honestly, Rabbi, perhaps you’re right. The only true form of entertainment is Raffi. You mentioned Cher, too, but I think that was the manischewitz talking.

Really, you must me forgive me, Rabbi. I sometimes speak without thinking and I always think without speaking. But, per the constraints of the Internet, combined with the demand of my ever-diversifying stable of quasi-devoted readers, I never, ever blog in Hebrew. Too much spittle.

Innie or outie: Where is he?

Have you seen my belly button? I seem to have lost it somewhere between my morning shower and the seventh-inning stretch of last night’s Phillies-Marlins game. That’s nearly fourteen hours.

I checked its usual haunts, starting with its favorite: at the center of my belly, shrouded in the tufts of hair that surround it, obscured by a cloak of pubescent mystery. Not there. Also looked at the local bar, where, apparently, it’s been spotted drinking Miller Lite and hitting on trashy women. Seriously, belly button — Miller Lite?

I can’t be exactly sure when or where I lost him. I called the police to report him missing, but they were no help. “Is your belly button over eighteen, sir?” the dispatcher asked. “Well, then, there’s really nothing we can do. Hopefully, he’ll show up.”

What kind of world do we live in? A person’s belly button can just go missing and that’s OK? What’s next: legalized marijuana?

I tried calling his friends, but no one knew of my belly button’s whereabouts. His girlfriend — my right armpit — said the last time she saw him was Friday night at my tongue’s house. He had a little too much Boone’s, she said, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Boone’s? Really, belly button.

This isn’t the first time he’s done this. A few years back, during a Bob Dylan concert, I reached down to scratch and my belly button was gone. We found him three days later, hitchhiking in Santa Fe, still inebriated from the Dylan show.

We’ve tried interventions. But my belly button is stubborn. “I don’t have a problem,” he says. “So what if I like to have a few drinks? Who are you to judge me?”

I’m really worried. As I said, he’s gone missing before, but the therapist says he’s one step away from something awful. To be perfectly candid, there has been talk of suicide. I once found a noose in my anus. “Not mine,” my belly button said. The best thing I can do is wait by the phone and hope he calls.

If you hear from him, please contact me. I don’t care what time it is. I’ve thought about life without my belly button, and, let me tell you, it is not a pleasant notion.

I really believe he can be helped, that his cause is not lost. I once tried to tell him the story of my left nipple, but he wouldn’t listen. My left nipple, if you’re unaware, was once kidnapped by an unruly gang of Brazilians. They held him hostage for nine days, making all sorts of demands involving thousands of dollars and an SUV. The FBI warned me not to succumb. “If you meet their ransom, left nipples everywhere will be in danger.” Fortunately, my nipple escaped. Something involving a life raft and a bottle of maple syrup. But that’s a whole other story.

It might be more than twenty-four hours that my belly button has been missing, depending on the time I lost him. So if you see him — even someone that vaguely resembles him — please let me know. There is a reward.

Remember the time …

Several posters graced the walls of my childhood bedroom: Julius Erving skying for a slam dunk. Kim Basinger looking all sexy-like as Vicky Vale in Batman. E.T. and his glowing finger scaring the shit out of me. Amid it all, bedecked in tacky rhinestones he somehow made look good, was Michael Jackson on the cover of Thriller. I was a fan.

Today, I’m nonplussed. It was just a few years ago we watched in horror as he dangled his own child over a balcony, grinning like a demented, one-gloved weirdo. Not long after, he showed up in court like a child heading to a sleepover, in pajamas. The accusations of child molestation? Never proven. The admissions of sleeping in bed with young boys because it’s a display of love? Disconcerting and weird, but certainly not lawbreaking. Still, Wacko Jacko, he confirmed.

But a bad man this does not make. A guy you wouldn’t want babysitting your children, perhaps. An individual who often made bad decisions, despite knowledge of the spotlight, undeniably. But a bad man this does not make.

This does. If Michael Jackson wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing, why would he strike a deal with the family for $20 million? There were other accusers, and, in all likelihood, they too were paid to shut up. Jackson defended the settlement, contending that he didn’t want to become like O.J. Simpson, that he wanted to stay out of court. Why? Not enough pajamas?

Nevertheless, upon hearing some of his music, I can’t help it. I sing along. Sometimes I dance. On special occasions I even grab my crotch. Still, something seems wrong about all this posthumous veneration. Mourn his death, OK. Remember his talent and impact on music. But do not forget his extracurricular activities, the Michael Jackson we have come to know and squint at over the past fifteen years. He was a performer of unfathomable talent, but he was also a troubled man who exhibited, and often flaunted, unorthodox and peculiar expressions of love for children other than his own.

Michael Jackson has just passed,  so vilify his exploits we should not. Forget them we should not either.

It’s her birthday (suit)

There’s a certain comfort in sleeping naked, the caress of cool sheets  against skin, the notion that you’re lying there, defenseless, in the same position of which you curled whilst in the uterus. Without question, I’m a proponent of nude slumber with a partner, preferably human, in all likelihood one of  which shares no relation. But by yourself? That’s just filthy.

Tiffany, who shall remain nameless, tells me she sleeps naked during the summer, with or without a companion. To which I reply, “But what if there’s a fire. And amid the scramble to safety there’s no time to snag a robe, much less a full ensemble?” There she’d be, unclothed and unashamed, for, well, she hasn’t a reason to be. In saunters a strapping young firedouche, her hero, a man who not only has saved the day but scores himself a handful of boob in the process. Bastard.

I once knew a girl who slept naked with a partner. Her cat. This was even weirder and, I think, outlawed in certain parts of the United States, though certainly not Pennsylvania. “It’s not like it’s sexual or anything,” she told me. “I just like to sleep nude and the cat likes to sleep with me. What’s wrong with that?” Lots. For starters, cats are unpredictable. They pounce at pretty much everything and will claw anything that moves. Men, beware.

Another friend once confided that sleeping naked was as close to god he would ever get. This was confounding. Did god sleep alongside my friend because he went without pants or did my friend sleep without pants because god slept alongside him. Either way: too much information.

Here’s where I stand, and it’s quite simple. Sleep alone or with pet: clothed. Sleep with lover: unclothed. Sleep with the god of your choosing: no nud(e)ity allowed.

Twitter? I’d rather gargle thumb tacks

Dear people who tweet,

Why? Do you really think I care that you just took out the trash or are watching the latest True Blood episode or that your boss is on vacation this week and this is really, really good? I’d much rather read a blog, a few paragraphs of substance rather than nineteen snapshots a day just because. I get it. It’s time for dinner.

Sorry, Matt. You too, Mike. You guys love to tweet on twitter, or is it twit on tweeter? But why? I understand that you just got home from work and it’s raining outside. It’s raining here, too. You don’t see me logging on to tell the world. Status update: Man, I wonder if it will ever stop raining. I really want to grill tonight, but I can’t. Stupid rain.

Tweeting has become the new text message, yet another innovation I could do without. There isn’t a day where I don’t have the following text conversation:

Texter: “HEY!”

Me: “Hi.”

Texter: “What RU up 2?”

Me: “I’m at work. It’s Monday morning. Aren’t you at work?”

Texter: “Yeah, I’m at work. What did you over the weekend?”

Me: “Dude, I hung out at your house. You were there, remember.”

Perhaps he didn’t remember, because I didn’t tweet about it the following day. Status update: Just got back from John’s house. Played video games. Watched TV. BBQ’d chicken. Thankfully, it didn’t rain.

Why I go to work …

A man came into my job at Temple University today, asking for the tire department. I told him it was down the hall, through the blue corridor, past the snack machines and depressed-looking security guard, to the right of the hub cap display. Make sure they’re caps, not rims. There he should make a quick u-turn and stand before a gleaming statue of a Ford Bronco, carved out of the finest graham crackers in Philadelphia. From there, he should descend thirty-four – definitely not the thirty-fifth – steps, and onto the carousel, upon which the fifth horse to the left would leave him off no more than nineteen blocks from the tires. The man left my office, nonplussed yet unwavering in his pursuit. He returned four hours later, a ring of sweat encircling the collar of his pink dress shirt, the Velcro on his left shoe unfastened. “Couldn’t find it,” he said. “Was that a left or right at the carousel?”

One vs. two

Had, what some might consider, a disgusting revelation today. What if someone thought to urinate meant to defecate and to defecate meant to urinate? In other words (if the previous sentence somehow confused you), imagine if someone — perhaps the one you love — confused his bodily functions. Pee would no longer be pee. It’d be poop. And poop would be pee, only followed by an oop, or perhaps, in this case, an oops.

Consider: A man visits his doctor for a routine checkup. The nurse asks the patient for a pee sample, upon which the man returns with a plastic cup full of … oops. An awful scenario, for sure. But a possibility nevertheless. Maybe the man has dyslexia of the bowel or some other reasonable explanation for his actions. Cruel parents perhaps.

Women are lucky. They always sit down. Men — well, most men — stand up to pee, sit down for the other. Not this someone. In stalls, he stands; urinals, he sits. An unsightly splash and overflow he causes, not to mention the janitorial nightmare. Oops.

This occurred to me today, in the shower, between washing under my arms and allowing water to cascade down my narrow back. It was warm and felt good. I didn’t sleep well last night, and had a weird dream in which a Philadelphia sports radio personality inserted himself into a war film, portraying a Vietnam POW, strangely, well.

Not sure what this dream means, if anything. Not sure if any parallel exists between Howard Eskin’s tour of duty “in the shit” and one man’s confusion at how or where to do so.

After my shower, I got dressed for work. Jeans, polo with yellow and blue horizontal stripes, running shoes for my sit-down job, glasses for my eyes that don’t require them. Incongruous. This is why I write, to remember that, at the end of  the day — or before it even begins — I struggle, willingly, to make sense of it all, to blend the cliche with the never spoken and to truly grasp that, sometimes in life, we all have our oops moments. It’s how we clean them up that defines us.