Horoscopes and Hand Grenades

It's not exact. The future is unmapped and beyond description, but maybe not. Maybe there's a pattern, a thread throughout that can be traced. Maybe time is like that.

Life repeats itself, surely. Wars are fought over and over again. The same wars, for the same reasons, with the same destruction, just different years. The same women and men cheat on spouses, the same high school sweethearts fall in love, the same people tear themselves down, make sacrifices, raise themselves up, the same birds chirp in the morning, the same winds blow through trees and streets. So, maybe those pretending to read portents are just basing their predictions on high probability. Either way, my friend at work read me my horoscope the other day and I'll be damned if it's not starting to come true.

For starters, I'm a Capricorn. On a side note, in the Chinese calendar, I was also born in the Year of the Goat. So I've got double goat action going on. You can't disregard something like that. Not to belabor the point, but my law school's mascot was also the goat and we had a large goat statue in one of the student lounges. In conclusion, there are a lot of goats in my life.

I've never paid much attention to signs and horoscopes or fortune-tellers, but I know a couple people who like to dabble in those areas and I've learned that I am a dyed-in-the-wool Capricorn. I gathered from one of the office court clerks that I'm a Capricorn because I'm clean cut and easy to talk and joke around with. From my father's girlfriend, I've gathered that I'm a Capricorn because I don't like being cornered or pestered with incessant questions and because I'm generally thoughtful. I've never done any research to review their assessments, but I'll assume they're correct.

The first thing I learned, and this was integral, is that Pluto is about to enter my, I don't know, space, orbit, house, something, on November 27. Coincidentally, most people will live their whole lives without ever having the benefit of Pluto visiting their space, orbit, house, galaxy, studio apartment because Pluto is slow-moving. This is momentous. The entrance of Pluto brings great tidings, revolutionizing the structure of my life from the inside out. It will increase my determination and rebound ability.

In addition to Pluto, I have Jupiter too, which makes me the "Golden One" until January 5th. Being the Golden One sounds awesome. Like being the Golden Child from the Eddie Murphy movie, which wasn't that bad of a movie.

The world is my oyster this month. This month is very important for my career because Mars entered my "career zone." A whole new chapter is rapidly opening for me. I'm also going to meet with someone who will further my aims. The "buzz" about me is very positive and I need to take full advantage. Still, I need to be a little cautious sorting out my options from September 24th to October 15th. With predictions this sound, I'm surprised I was skeptical.

I'm sure there was more to the horoscope, but I stopped listening. It turns out, I should have listened further.

My friend, Ramsey, and I are trying to put a potential business plan together and the past few days have been very interesting. First, Ramsey moved back to New York after clerking in Miami for a year. He was the originator of the idea and no matter how often we talked about moving forward with it, nothing got off the ground while he was away. Our attempt at trademarking the name of the business was rejected and neither he nor I could summon the cognitive creativity to build a logical argument to appeal to the US Patent & Trademark Office. As a result, our name laid dormant, even though I'm convinced that when it comes to using the name we'll be fine because the only reason why we weren't able to use it was because it was someone's last name, but he's dead. In other words, we should be fine.

Second, I got in touch with someone who was providing us with industry information and they referred someone who might be interested in investing in the idea. I emailed him today and he got back to me. I even Googled him so when I talk to him on the phone, I'll appear knowledgeable. I found an article about his business and some of the innovations his company introduced and I felt, from reading the article, that here was someone who would be able to grasp our idea and could untap its potential. I even forwarded the article to my dad, who's been paying attention to our progress, and, coincidentally, he knew the guy and worked with him on a commercial project over 10 years ago. When I call him up, now I can say, "my dad knows you, etc." Name-dropping is everything.

This horoscope has been close so far, like a dart thrower inching closer and closer to bulls eye. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Horoscopes too. I'm not saying I'm a believer. For all I know, hearing my horoscope motivated me to be proactive, and it has been that initiative, which produced these results. Either way, thanks Pluto, Jupiter, Mars, and any other planet, moon, or comet that I'm neglecting.

Jared

Couch Pototo

I hate buying things. Too often do I spend my money on unnecessary things. Drinks. Snacks. Shirts that don't fit me well. Books that aren't that good. Extra sets of sheets. Pot holders. Things. They just accumulate. When I moved to Sunnyside, I attempted to clear my life of clutter. If I had not worn an article of clothes in over a year, I tossed it, even if I'd barely worn it. Books were sold back to used book stores. Games and clothes, extra towels and picture frames, pots and pans, were all piled into garbage bags and dropped off at the Salvation Army. I like having certain material items, but I dislike the feeling that I'm beholden to my possessions. If something provides value, great, use it, but don't let those possessions dictate your lifestyle.

That overriding concept is what has prevented me from going ahead and buying a new television, computer, DVD player, toaster, underwear, etc. For example, I rationalized that if my current DVD player worked (constant skipping included) then why should I spend money on another one. Sure, I've had the same DVD player since 1992. Sure, it's the size of a refrigerator. Sure, it constantly skips. Still, it works. It plays (most) movies (most of the time). It serves its purpose.

Moving, however, has persuaded me to upgrade my lifestyle, while still downgrading other aspects. I already have a new TV. I'm laptop shopping. The DVD player is staying until Blu-ray players drop under $1,000,000. Most importantly, I just got a new couch.

I sold my chocolate-brown, leather pull-out couch, matching chair, and bedroom furniture, consisting of a bed, two nightstands, and a 6-drawer dresser with mirror to the tenant moving in after me. I sold this furniture for a few reasons:

1. I bought it all 4 years ago.
2. I was getting bored with it.
3. I didn't want to pay for movers and I wasn't enthusiastic about moving more than I had to.
4. The new guy paid me.

My move, of course, was simple. Just some boxes and bookshelves. My friend Chris helped out and it took one hour to load the truck and one hour to unload. Unfortunately, I've been couchless for the past 6 weeks. You never realize how difficult it is to entertain guests until you don't have a couch. You also fail to realize that people enjoy sitting. More so, they enjoy sitting on something plush, cushiony, something to really sink into, which massages and supports your back and butt, neck and shoulders. A flat, low, end table doubling as a stool lacks every sought for item and that is all I have to offer. In fact, I have two of them. They match. Neither one screams comfortable.

As a result, I have not scheduled my housewarming party. I want to put forth a favorable impression of my new apartment and nothing creates a more favorable impression than sufficient and comfortable seating. I've known this for years, but only now has it affected my life.

When I set out to purchase a couch I had two criteria. One, it had to be less than 70 inches wide so as to not block the French doors from fully opening. Two, it had to be cheap so I wouldn't feel buyer's remorse considering I just got rid of a perfectly fine leather couch. My first stop was Ikea.

My first stop lasted under 30 minutes, which was sufficient time to realize that I would not be purchasing my couch at Ikea. I actually had an Ikea couch in law school, which worked out well, but when I graduated I promised myself that I wouldn't buy Ikea furniture again. I was big-time.

I'm still a corporate lawyer, but, for some reason, I want to live small-time. So I dragged the girl that I'm dating [Let's just call her "Girl," this whole "girl that I'm dating" euphemism is neither catchy nor quick to type] for "speed Ikea." I think we ran through there faster than anyone in the past year or so. All of Ikea's furniture appeared cheaply constructed. The beds were rickety, the couches were unsupported, the light fixtures were flimsy. If it looked like metal, it was plastic. If it looked like plastic, it was the cheapest plastic ever. If it looked like cheap plastic, it was glossy construction paper. If it looked like wood, you were elsewhere.

In the end, I bought a $7 flower stand, which is currently being used as a towel stand. For accuracy's sake, I bought a $7 towel stand at Ikea.

My next stop was the internet. I devoured the content and, in the process, learned more about the couch offerings and styles at every furniture store in the tri-state area than any other 28 year old guy who doesn't do interior design for a living. I know about micro-fibers, micro-suedes, suedes, leather, upholstered pieces, slipcovers, square arms, rounded arms, tapered legs, chaise lounges, sectionals, stain repellant sprays, custom orders, love seats, high backs, low backs, accent pillows, sleepers, reclining seats, enough to stage design an entire apartment building. Nothing was perfect.

Then I went to Jennifer convertible, where still nothing was perfect, but it was pretty close. I quickly found two couches that could work. They were both narrow enough and cheap enough and both came with a sleeper. The only problem was that one was a lot cheaper. So, of course, everyone who saw the two couches liked the other one more.

I tortured myself for weeks, arguing over the points. Should I go for cost savings or better construction? Convenience or comfort? Serviceable or stylish? New underwear or what I've been wearing for the past 8 years.

I broke down last week. I came to a decision, pressured by the reality that any housewarming party demanded a couch and the desire to not sit on an end table while trying to watch a movie with Girl. I went with the nicer, cleaner, cooler, costlier couch. Do I regret my decision? Of course. Will I love that couch? Yes. Will I revel in its sumptuousness every time I recline into its folds? Undoubtedly. Will I get new underwear, ever? I sure hope so.

Jared

P.S. I'd like to thank my sister for going to Jennifer to pick up the couch for me while I've been shackled at work all week, all weekend, and for the foreseeable future. It's a long story (not really) and I'm not getting into it.

Mr. Ames, I Presume

I never read for pleasure as a child. It's true. Except for comic books, the New York Newsday sports section, and an occasional magazine, reading was not my cup of tea. This was true throughout high school. If I read anything "literary," it was mandatory for class. Reading was work. Comic books were fun. Why would I want to read Crime and Punishment when I could read The Punisher. Then comic books fell by the wayside because they got too expensive and I wanted girls to like me. I still had magazines. Then there was the internet, full of useless, time-consuming material. That kept me busy. Crossword puzzles were always good for a train ride, too. Then I met my friend Phil.

Phil was an avid reader and his enthusiasm for fiction swept me up like a riptide. He recommended a few classics, which I read, and I was hooked. Ever since, I've been a reader. I've even been in a book club for over 2 years, although I haven't shown up in about four months and haven't read a book we picked in three months. I blame them [I mean I blame myself].

Last year, one of my book clubbers, a girl named Claire, recommended that I pick up a book by Jonathan Ames because she knew that I loved Charles Bukowski, an author/alcoholic/gambler/womanizer. Bukowski wrote so simply, so directly, so without remorse that he grabbed me. What did it was, he made me laugh. If you read a book and laugh out loud, you've found someone to keep reading. His subject matter, his sarcasm, his perspective, his disregard for his health, his spare language adding no excess. Where other authors [probably myself included] add words to create an illusion of substance, he served substance with no side-orders. Just the burger, no fries. When you read Bukowski, you think about how easy it would be for you to write. If he could do it, drunk half the time, with his kindergarten-like sentences, what's stopping you? But using big words and having lofty themes won't make you a better writer, unless your audience believes you and trusts you and wishes to join you on your journey. I joined Bukowski.

Claire also knew that I was a guy and, for some reason, every guy she knew who read Ames, loved Ames. So I went and read Ames and I laughed out loud and I loved Ames and I read more Ames and I laughed more and I told my friends who read books to read Ames and I lent my Ames books to my friends so they could read Ames and they loved Ames, but I wrote down in my little black Moleskine book who borrowed what so when I got tired of waiting for them to return my Ames I could confront them with the exact title they possessed and shame them into returning it. Then one day, I emailed Ames.

I did this for a couple reasons. The first, you need to read Ames to understand. He's just like you and me or, rather, he's just like you see yourself sometimes. Self-deprecating, to a fault. Questioning his crazy life, the awful situations he's in, the poor decisions he makes, the success he never seems to achieve, the love he never seems to obtain, the edge he constantly seems to teeter on, the malaise that sets in, the disgust for the stupidity around him, the fondness for the little bits of human understanding and camaraderie, the moments of confidence, the naked, raw, frightful honesty. He doesn't shy away from any of it; life. He hates it one second, but loves it non-stop throughout. Laughing along. The freaks that he uses and use him, simultaneously. Dark desires. Transvestites. Pessimism. Solitary moments of creation. He shares it all.

Two, in his non-fiction works, he sometimes runs into authors on the street and he wishes he could come up with something interesting to say to them. Why not myself? If I could run into a "celebrity," I think Ames would be a good choice. He'd have a beer with you and tell you some wild stories.

So I went to his website and sent an email, saying, more or less: I just read your book, I really enjoyed its honesty and frankness, now I'm a fan, I'm looking forward to reading more of your work, take care. I sent it off hoping for a response, but never received one. Then the other day, more than one year after my email, I received a response:

Jonathanames3@aol.com to me

show details 5:29 PM (8 hours ago)

Reply

sorry it's taken me so long to write back . . . i'm rather disorganized AND overwhelmed . . .

but thank you for your kind words!

'what's not to love?' and 'i love you more than you know' are also somewhat in the tradition of bukowski, should you want to try some other books of mine, and i have a new book coming out in a few weeks, 'the alcholic' . . .

thanks for your note and for taking the time to write!

all the best,

jonathan ames

When I saw the email, I thought it was funny. To think, here was this author writing back a stranger, one year later. I had already forgotten that I even sent the email. That's dedication.

I had already read the books he mentioned, and they were great. I'm also looking forward to The Alcoholic. Personally, I think he should have sent me a free copy. I mean, I wrote him a year ago! It'll probably be, for me, what The Stranger by Albert Camus was for weird, French people. If you come across an Ames book, pick it up, read a few pages, and enter a world you know, but keep to yourself, and if it goes well, send him an email. Tell him Jared sent you.

Jared

Traitor Rater

As your humble Haiku Reviewer, I bring you Traitor. The Don Cheadle movie that makes you wonder why so many decent movies are, unfortunately, stuck with such poor, cringe-inducing titles that you can see the ticket sales dwindling. Traitor? Really, that's the best title you could come up with? The Middle Man would've been a better title. It even fits, a bit.

When you see the title, Traitor, you're already thinking why didn't this movie go straight to DVD? Or maybe you're wondering whether it's the sequel to Shooter starring Mark Wahlberg. It's not. Shooter, now there's a poor film. Sunshine, was another solid film unnecessarily weighed down by a title without substance. I doubt many people, other than myself, saw it in theaters because who wants to see a movie called Sunshine. It's probably a documentary about global warming (depressing) or an empowering children's film about kids who are allergic to the sun (boring, unless you're also allergic to the sun). Sunshine, in fact, is a science-fiction film with a compelling premise. In the future, our sun is dying, and a team of scientists are sent to send a nuclear explosion into the sun to rekindle its life for many more years, but the closer the team gets to the sun, the more they are plagued with obstacles. It's like the low-budget, better, futuristic, more plausible Armageddon, even though the end strays from what was working and gets a tad ridiculous.

Titles, they can be motors propelling films forward or anchors dragging the the ship to a standstill. The rest of the time, titles are just floating around like buoys, marking their location and taking nothing from the table. Traitor is an anchor. Don Cheadle deserved better.

Terrorists are bad,
but who are the terrorists?
Ask Cheadle, he knows.

If you want to watch a thriller with modern-day relevance, give it a shot.

Jared

Long Day at Long Beach

As is usually the case, it's late at night and I'm sitting in my collapsible, blue canvas chair that is the kind normally reserved for tailgating, especially since my chair (originally my sister's, but she didn't want something this tacky anymore) comes equipped with two, expandable cup-holders sewed into the armrests. It's quite the conversation piece [That's the actual chair, to the right]. I'm still waiting for my couch to arrive. Actually buying a couch would help with the waiting time, considerably. I haven't done that yet, but will soon.

I'm recapping my day. One that really wasn't that long. Coincidentally, the titles for these pieces are arbitrary and the product of whatever creativity I can muster in under 15 seconds that, perhaps, in some way relates to the main thrust of said piece. "Long Day at Long Beach" seemed to make sense. It seemed well-balanced. The word long appears twice. "Short Day at Long Beach" would have been more apropos. In fact, now that I'm looking at the words on my screen, letting it sink in, it seems balanced, funny, ironic, a real winner. Damn. It's too late, though. You're stuck, long day it is.

In fact, it wasn't a long or short day, but medium. The girl I'm dating wanted to go to the beach. She wanted to go Sunday. I had Fantasy Football drafts to attend to. She wanted to go Monday. I had nothing else to use as a shield. It was beach time.

Her desire to go to the beach stemmed from two things: she really likes the beach and it was Labor Day weekend. It's my opinion that whenever you have a federal holiday providing additional days off from work, it's your duty as an American citizen to take full advantage and cut loose. The plan was to go to Greenport, Long Island where my friends' family lives and take in the sea air, drink a bunch of beer, eat exceptionally fresh seafood, play some cards, tell stories, and revel in the three-day weekend. Plan A was destroyed because of a Fantasy Football draft at 10 a.m. Sunday morning that seemed harmless enough months ago when the date was set. A week ago, however, when I finally pulled my head out of the sand, it became apparent that this draft was going to sever my holiday weekend in half, eliminating any opportunity to travel to Greenport and still have time to enjoy myself.

Welcome to Plan B: Staycation.

Staycation. I had never heard the term before, then I saw it once in an online magazine and now I'm bombarded with people using the term. When did this word become ubiquitous? I demand to know. Apparently, it popped up in the New York Times last year, or so I was told. Now it's everywhere, like Pinkberry. A few months ago, I'd never heard of Pinkberry, and if I had, I'd have assumed that it was either a clothing store for girls age 9-14, a knock-off Hello Kitty competitor, or something to do with pink berries. Now I can't walk three blocks without walking past one. In addition, staycation has infiltrated common diction so thoroughly that now I, the guy who didn't get the memo, am using it incessantly. How could I not? It rhymes with vacation, but means the exact opposite. It's very clever.

My staycation involved the following: sleeping in, making pancakes and scrambed eggs for breakfast at noon, seeing the movie Traitor starring Don Cheadle (Haiku Review coming next), not one, but two Fantasy Football drafts (I'm such a dork, that I completely forgot about a fourth league I was in until the day before the draft, which was at 9 a.m. Sunday morning, who is up that early on a Sunday? Thanks guys), napping in Central Park, napping at the beach, napping at home, napping in my sister's guest bedroom, eating fried chicken in a Korean restaurant of all places (actually good), cooking Lentil Soup (I had lentils, you tell me what you would've done with them), eating hot dogs at my sister's, driving around the city looking at buildings with my dad, throwing frisbee at the beach, and, for the first time, under duress, sharing a medium cup of yogurt, fruit, and yogurt chips at Pinkberry with the girl I'm dating.

In other words, staycations are the work of the devil.

Here's where the beach came into play. Labor Day. The quasi-Summer death knell was ringing. No more white pants. Time to soak up the last remnants of vitamin D while we still could. She wanted the beach, she needed the beach, and I was powerless to resist. Let's Long Beach.

The train heading out at 2:15 p.m. was packed, which answers the question, how many people are as lazy as me and willing to arrive at a beach at 3 p.m.? A lot. Two girls sitting across from us were in deep conversation with a late 30s, married couple. One of the girls, probably my age, either made the train ride or ruined it depending on whether you enjoy listening to someone who's completely full of herself for 45 minutes straight. Some snippets:

"I'm in a movie. In a supporting role. The film is great and it's getting great buzz. The director is fantastic, he's experimental, you should see it."

"I'm also a musician. I do rock music. I'm putting out my second CD soon."
"Are you in a band?"
"No, that's not what I'm trying to achieve. A band wouldn't work."
"What type of music?"
"Well, rock, I mean I got in a fight with my agent and he was so mean to me. I wrote a song about that. You can see it on youtube. It'll be on my new album."

"I'm going to move to L.A. Now that I'm not acting anymore, I just want to focus on my music."

I wish I had a voice recorder. Everything she did was amazing, everything someone said was amazing, everyone she worked with was amazing. In her world, no one's average. What a place to live.

Finally, we arrived. The weather was perfect, which was strange knowing that at the same time down in the Gulf Coast, Hurricane Gustav was pounding the shore raising sea level by more than 10 feet. Still, we soaked in the sun. When it got hot, we walked into the chilly water. When we acclimated to the water, we splashed each other with water, chilling us again. When we stood around long enough, I grabbed my frisbee and we played. When she threw the frisbee and hit a girl full in the back, I said, "Sorry, she's not that good." But she was good, that throw was just awful. As was her next one, which almost decapitated an older couple causing the woman to storm off in fright and anger. In her defense, it was windy. When we tired of frisbee, we jumped back in the water, inched out towards deeper water, thick waves rolling over, smacking our skin with salty surges, sinking into our pores, saturating us. When we were wet enough, we laid out again, dried off, nodded off, listened to people talk in foreign languages behind us, waves cresting in front of us.

We left just before sunset. The day which started late, ended late. Maybe it was a long day.

Jared

The Name Game

Your name says a lot about you. It shapes who you are. This used to be a theory of mine, but it's well-documented, so I'd say it's a fact. The public will treat you differently if your name is Edgar, than if your name is Cooper. Cooper gets to be cool. Edgar gets to be Edgar. Not to mention the years of anguish associated with the constant Edgar Allan Poe references, specifically:

1. He was not particularly handsome,
2. He married his 13 year old first cousin (her age was falsified on the marriage certificate).

Other than that, if you're an Edgar, you're living large.

My friend and colleague, Alex Bodgan, is en route to having his third child. His first two, a boy also named Alex, and a girl named Emma, should be fine. No obvious, harmful nicknames. Today at lunch, I decided to help my friend along with choosing a name for his yet-to-be-born son or daughter. Here are some of my stylings with some new ones I, amazingly, just came up with:

For a boy:

1. Chester Bogdan (runs into potential "molester" jokes)
2. Andre Bogdan (sounds like a football player, maybe a strong safety or an outside linebacker)
3. William "Billy" Bogdan (gets to be called, Billy the Kid, always clutch)
4. Bilbo Bogdan (for all the Lord of the Rings fans out there)
5. Jared Bogdan (it's worked well enough for me)
6. Brian Bogdan (Alex wasn't fond of the "an" sound, since it appears again in his last name)
7. Jason Bogdan (ditto, but it's similar to Jason Bourne, which is cool and could outweigh any opposition)
8. Nick Bogdan (not bad)
9. Greg Bogdan (too many "g"s)
10. Cooper Bogdan (surprisingly, doesn't work)
11. Montgomery Bogdan (umm, nah)
12. Bruce Bogdan (Incredible Hulk parallels?)
13. Hippocrates Bogdan (can't go wrong with old school)
14. Geronimo Bogdan (or native American)
15. Pedro Bogdan (Vote for Pedro!)
16. Giuseppe Bogdan (too ethnic?)
17. Brandon, Sebastian, Goran, Aaron (see 6 and 7)
18. Carl Bogdan (sounds like he's not making a difference in the world, Hippocrates Bogdan, now that kid is curing AIDs, Carl Bogdan is curing meats in a butcher shop)
19. Virag Bogdan (it's a Hungarian name and Alex likes to tell people that he's Hungarian, although I think he's about as Hungarian as Wesley Snipes)
20. Tommy Bogdan (Tommy Boy! I like this one, and you could always start with Thomas if you want to pretend he'll graduate high school)
21. Moses Bogdan (take it to the Old Testament!)
22. Jack Bogdan (Jack is just a solid, strong man's name, can't go wrong with it)
23. Romeo Bogdan (wherefore art thou Romeo?)

Or, he could be having another daughter:

1. Jennifer Bogdan (I guess)
2. Paris Bogdan (just kidding)
3. Michaela Bogdan (allegedly, one of the most popular girl's names for the past few years, but I can't believe that)
4. Victoria Bogdan (sounds like someone who wouldn't date me)
5. Jacquelyn Bogdan (same)
6. Virginia Bogdan (ditto)
7. Natasha Bogdan (I'm seeing a trend here)
8. Diane Bogdan (classy and likes gorillas)
9. Charlotte Bogdan (not that I know anything about Sex and the City, I promise, I don't, but I do know that she was the only one worth looking at)
10. Jane Bogdan (Jane and Charlotte, if one Bronte sister doesn't work, choose the other)
11. Margaret Bogdan (playing with fire, considering likely "Marge" nickname)
12. Stella Bogdan (I like it, but falls in the 4 through 7 category, to which I'm inherently opposed)
13. Lauren Bogdan (the "an" sound ruins girl name possibilities too)
14. Carmen, Allison, Karen (ditto)
15. Heidi Bogdan (probably hot)
16. Heather Bogdan (ditto)
17. Hope Bogdan (probably sweet)
18. Abby Bogdan (ditto, plus can't you just see little Emma and Abby playing dress up together? I know I can...that sounds weird, sorry Alex)
19. Carol Bogdan (sounds old)
20. Florence Bogdan (ditto)
21. Olivia Bogdan (hmm, has potential)
22. Esmeralda Bogdan (finally, a name with character)
23. Borbála Bodgan (might as well end with another Hungarian name)

I think Alex has some winners here. At the very least, the next five to six months should be worry free, I've done all the legwork for him.

Jared

Catching a Draft

Last night I had my first of what will be three fantasy football drafts. For the past week, I have been researching and getting up to speed on who to draft, who not to draft, who to draft only if it's late enough in the draft, and who to draft when everyone I wanted to draft has already been drafted. This takes a lot more effort than you would suspect.

First, you have last year's stats to work with. Second, you have this year's projected stats based on last year's stats plus a little extra for expanded roles or added experience (i.e. Adrian Peterson) or a little less for injuries or no longer being relevant (i.e., Shaun Alexander). Third, you have internet articles on draft strategy and trends. Fourth, you have mock drafts, which are the equivalent of practice exams in college. It's always better to take a look at the types of questions you'll have to answer before it counts. Mock drafts are useful, either drafts where you're involved or expert mock drafts conducted by, well, experts. However, every draft is different. Certain positions start being called off the board in torrential fashion forcing you to get on the train or go completely against the grain. All of these tools are helpful, but, in the end, you have to trust yourself.

But the draft is the thing. I love drafting more than following my team during the season. It holds so much promise. Your players are all healthy (usually), your team name is clever and ironic, you're ready to go on auto-pilot until the championship game when you'll, undoubtedly, be scooping up a large amount of cash for dominating the league; the potential is limitless. No rain clouds today, just pure sunshine.

Then the games start. You realize that waiting until the 5th and 6th rounds to take your first running backs was not a good strategy, even though you knew that two weeks ago when you reviewed drafting strategy, which specifically stated, "make sure you get two running backs within the first 4 rounds." You try to rationalize your decision to pick three wide receivers and a tight end (in fact, the first tight end taken), citing the early run on running backs, but everyone listening assumes you're an amateur. Once the scores count, however, you see that your rationalizing won't win fantasy football games, but at least you have a top tight end, which counts for something, but not really.

Drafting is fun because that's where you get to "play." That's where you make the big decisions. Once the games start, the players take over. Accumulate stats, points, by then it's out of your hands. Sure, you make roster decisions, pick up this player, drop that one, start this one, bench that one, but the draft is when you're the conductor and the orchestra is playing flawlessly. No excuses needed.

For a few days of dreaming of championships and picking the correct long shots, the deep sleepers, from right under another owner's eyes, it's worth it. In the end, we all just want to be proven right, smarter than someone else, with better judgment. Undeniably better. Fantasy football is just like anything else, another stomping ground to prove your quality. Two more drafts to go. At this rate, I might just catch a cold.

Jared

The Garden of Beerden

The bathroom looked like a concentration camp gas chamber. I should have seen that coming since I was eating Kielbasa and fries and drinking pints of Spaten beer at the Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden in Astoria, Queens [It's about time I hung out in my borough]. No offense to the German delegation. Maybe it wasn't reminiscent of a death box, but, still, the bathroom was strange. It was a separate building made of brick with long, length-wise windows that allowed guests to peer in and witness the lines forming to use the facilities, but the the windows were the kind that couldn't open, which created an eerie police investigation room feel. In fact, I was so disturbed I held in any urge and waited until I returned home to use the bathroom.

On a warm, breezy, end of summer August day, this is the place to be(er). Outside, in a half-block long, stone enclosure that looks and feels like a German beer hall even though if you look close enough you realize the walls are not the outer perimeter of a long-gone castle, but simply gray stone walls corralling beer drinkers and sudsy revelers, keeping them hidden from the possibly under-age park goers nearby and the definitely under-age schoolchildren directly next door.

The place was packed. There could have been 1000 people there. It's "How many jelly beans are in this jar?" personified. If I asked my friend Chris, who was with me, to guess, he'd set the over/under in less than 10 seconds and have at least $10 ready to bet either way. I didn't mention it, so instead we each had a cup of beer in our hands, our pitcher sitting on an upright barrel, shared with two other people, while we stared at the throng of people sitting on long benches at long tables and countless others standing around doing what we were doing, but with more friends to do it with: staring, talking to each other, drinking, but mostly surveying.

People-watching is great. No wonder Reality TV is as popular as it is, regardless of whether it's, in fact, real. It's riveting. Looking at people, sizing them up, summing them up in your mind, knowing them as best as you can when you don't know them at all. She's annoying, he's full of himself, she thinks she's really good looking, but she's not, so she's delusional, he's not funny, I can tell by his t-shirt, therefore, I don't like him because he thinks he's funny, etc. At a place like the Beer Garden, everyone is round up in one central location so you have plenty of opportunities to speculate and discuss. It's not all static either, there's a steady stream of stragglers, new fish entering the fray, those swimming towards the bathrooms, others finning it to the food stand for multiple variety of sausage, fries, chicken, anything to soak up all of the beer pouring out of taps relentlessly.

When you go to a beer garden, you know the score: Drink beer. But you have to drink responsibly. Signs when you walk in prohibit drinking games. Wearing "bling" is also prohibited. One guy passed me wearing a long gold chain with a cross. I guess that wasn't "blingy" enough. Must be because of the religious factor.

It's a great place to drink beer when the weather is right. Trees creep over the stone walls like beer head foaming over the top of the glass. The sky is endless above you. Pennants hang from the walls. All around are merrymakers; you keep expecting to turn your head to see people dressed in doublets and frocks, something out of Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Everyone wears normal clothes instead, full of clever, sardonic-sloganed t-shirts. The ground is concrete and gravel, with grass patches and a low wooden deck/stage near the middle, but still off towards the end. That's it. Sure, there's a restaurant and bar inside, but no one came for that, they came for the garden, the beer hall, the open air, the trees, the breeze, the sound of people, the baskets of fries, the kielbasa, the bratwurst, the burgers, the girls in skirts, the guys in polo shirts, the sunglasses, the solidarity, the one way to bring your friends together for a few hours on a weekend so you can all catch up, but without killing your evening, the bathroom troughs, the elementary school next door, they came to give thanks, to remember, to reflect. To drink beer. In t-shirts. Outside. It must have been like this for Adam and Eve, too.

I sure hope so.

Jared

The Dark Dark Knight

Dark. Really dark. It's 2:40 in the morning. I've showered and am watching the U.S. Men's Indoor Volleyball team try to not choke away its semi-final match against the Russian Federation. The Russians just served out of bounds. Maybe they'll choke away their comeback. Either way I'm still wired from watching the latest Batman movie, The Dark Knight, for the second time, this time in IMAX.

This was the first feature-length movie I've seen in IMAX. Normally the only movies I see on an IMAX screen are the nature and dinosaur shorts that they show at history and science museums. After seeing a midnight show of The Dark Knight when it first opened, I told myself that I would see it again on IMAX. I expected good things and I wasn't disappointed. The screen was huge, the shots were vibrant, the Joker was even more demonic.

Most people agree, The Dark Knight is a fantastic movie, easily the best comic book movie ever and a great action movie to boot. Most people also agree that Heath Ledger dominates the movie with his original, organic, searing, scene-strangling performance. The push for Academy Award recognition for his role is well-deserved, posthumous or not. In fact, I'd say it's mandatory. He is the role. Never does he stray from his Frankenstein-esque creation.

There are a few people, however, who have relentlessly probed for faults. There are faults. Nothing is perfect. The most common objections include:

1. Maggie Gyllenhaal is not that attractive.
2. Christian Bale's voice as Batman is overdone.
3. It goes on for too long.
4. There's not enough nudity.

Sorry, number 4 is my objection, not a common one.

Are these warranted objections? Not enough to derail the highest grossest opening weekend movie of all time.

I know I just introduced the Haiku Review with my last post. Maybe it's too soon to produce another one. Maybe another one will dilute the uniqueness and appeal of the review. Maybe it's already played out. Well, so be it. This is a great movie. I'm still awake at 3 in the morning and the U.S. Men's Indoor Volleyball team came through in the clutch and won the fifth and final set, 15-13, in thrilling fashion, so I owe it to give you whatever creative juices I can summon. With no further ado, on to the Haiku Review:

Can't wait for sequel.
Great movie, but it's sad that
Heath Ledger is Dead.

Actually, I don't want to end on such a depressing note, and since this was the second time I've seen The Dark Knight, how about one more haiku to send you on your way:

Reminds me of Heat:
Bank robbery, trucks and guns.
Maggie G., really?

Jared

Pineapple Suckspress

Welcome to something I'm creating. I even came up with a clever name for it. In fact, I'm going to have to get this clever name trademarked for legal protection. As a lawyer, I know that this is the thing to do when you create a clever name. For instance, whoever came up with the slogan "Do the Dew" for Mountain Dew got that shit trademarked. Whoever came up with the slogan "Taste the Rainbow" for Skittles got that shit trademarked. Even Pat Riley got the word "Threepeat" trademarked. Now, whenever a sports team is on the verge of winning back to back to back championships he gets a cut. All the super-smart guys and girls know this. When skimming through ads and commercials look for the trusty R enclosed in a circle. That means the mark is registered with the USPTO. It's legally protected. Often, however, you'll come across the letters TM, also enclosed in a circle. In layman's terms that means, "I'm saying this is a trademark, you're on notice, but it's not registered and my legal protection is iffy." As a non-trademark lawyer, I wouldn't quote me on any of this, but I'm pretty sure that's the breakdown.

So what is my clever name for my new creation and what in the world does it have to do with a stoner-buddy-action movie named Pineapple Express? The name is...wait for it...here it comes:

Haiku Review

Get it. It rhymes. Or better yet, "Haiku Review TM." Now I'm ready for my close-up.

What is a Haiku Review and why should you care? Two good questions. I'll answer them separately. First, a Haiku Review is a movie review told in traditional 5-7-5 Haiku prose. Second, you should care for two reasons. One, it'll reduce the possibility of movie spoilers, which I so detest, but am beginning to be ambivalent about. Two, who wants to read a long review about a movie when all you really want to know is, should I see this movie?
Why should you trust me? Great question. This will take three reasons. One, my credentials speak for themselves. I've always loved movies, but I think I first realized I loved movies when I saw Howard the Duck, in theaters. Long story short, I didn't want to see Howard the Duck. I thought it was a kids movie and at the time, 1986, I was 6 turning 7 and I thought I was ready for more adult fare. Wow, even I'm surprised at my precocity. Anyway, my mom persuaded me to see it [candy was probably involved] and Howard the Duck turned out not to be a kids movie per se, but rather a crazy, awful cult classic of sorts. Needless to say, I was hooked on movies. In the way of actual credentials, I've worked at Blockbuster Video for two years, two movie theaters, namely, the AMC at the Oaks Mall in Gainesville, Florida in concessions, and the Regal Butler Plaza in Gainesville, Florida as an usher and ticket-ripper. I also repeatedly beat all of my friends in two variations of a movie trivia game, only losing occasionally [correction: often] to my good friend Dre. Two, I'm not going to sugarcoat a movie. If a movie is good, I'll say it's good. If it's a piece of crap, but still enjoyable, that's important to know. Every movie isn't an Academy Award nominee and no one expects such, so to grade all movies on the same scale doesn't make sense. In an earlier post, I mentioned that in a prior blog I devised a complex category system to rate movies, but I gave it up because it had too many moving parts and tried to do too much. People are going to see or not see movies if they so choose. The Haiku Review is simply another tool to help you sort through the muck. The third reason, just trust me.

Now to Pineapple Express and my first official Haiku Review [This is painfully exciting]:

It's not that good.
A couple laughs, not much else.
Rosie Perez: underutilized.

Okay, I'll admit, I broke true form. My last line was 9 syllables. Whatever, this is a work in progress. Rome wasn't built in a day. It ain't over till the fat lady sings. Add your own cliche.

Jared

Olympia, WA is Full of Dirty Hippies

I was out of town for a few days. It wasn't a vacation. My friend, Dave, was getting married. Dave lives in Seattle. His fiancee was from Olympia, the state capital. Naturally, the wedding was in Olympia.

I had visited Dave in Seattle once before and I learned the following things:
1. Seattle likes coffee.
2. Seattle doesn't really like Starbucks.
3. Seattle has about 4 things to really check out if you're a tourist, namely: The Space Needle, Pike Place Market, and, did I say 4? I meant 2.
4. There's a mountain, Mt. Rainier, that you almost never get to see because of cloud cover.
5. When you can see Mt. Rainier, the correct phrase to describe this is: "The mountain is out."
6. The mountain was not out when I was there.
7. You can get good beef jerky at Pike Place Market.
8. I like beef jerky.
9. The Sonics used to play there.
10. I just wanted to have a list of 10 things.

This time, however, I was not going to be in Seattle. I was flying in and heading straight to Olympia. I figured Olympia would be like most state capitals: mid-sized, full of government buildings, corporation-filled, easily-accessible from the highway, and easily-bypassed with the same highway. When I think of state capitals, Richmond, Virginia seems the archetype. No matter how often I've driven past while traveling from New York to Florida, or vice versa, I've never felt the urge to stop or learn more about it, but from the road it looks exactly like a mid-size city with a semi-substantial downtown comprising a few city blocks, and that's it. Olympia, as far as I could tell, only had one government building and no real high-rise buildings. It was more residential and small-town than I would've suspected. It was also completely over-run by alternative, tattooed, short-haired, sexually-ambiguous, environmentally-charged youths of an apparent hippie persuasion. Needless to say, it was culture shock.

In my apartment I use some organic home cleaning products (without bleaches or dyes), so most of my friends think I masturbate while watching An Inconvenient Truth and bath once a week to conserve water. I do neither, but I do support alternative energies by using ConEd Solutions to introduce wind power to the NYC power grid, try to recycle paper and plastic, and try to eat local and organic when I can. In New York, that's revolutionary. In Olympia, I'm a dirty capitalist bent on destroying Mother Earth and harming all of her children.

I also learned some things while staying in Olympia, namely:
1. Everyone has compost bins to discard food-based waste such as banana peels, peach pits, and left-over rice that was never eaten.
2. Compost bins attract flies.
3. Some people also have big-ass spiders that hang out in the kitchen to eat some of those flies that are hanging around.
4. Everyone has little vegetable-garden patches in their backyard.
5. Some people also have chickens that hang out in the backyard too.
6. No one has paper towels or tissues.
7. Toilet paper is still welcome.
8. Not flushing the toilet after a #1 is encouraged.
9. Not flushing the toilet after a #2 is optional.
10. I could probably go for 20, but let's just stop here.

My friend Dave is a great guy and I was so glad I could be there to support his marriage. Seeing how happy he was made me feel great to witness the moment. I, however, blame him for the viral infection that consumed my immune system for most of the weekend when he booked for us an Olympia hostel [In fact, the only hostel in Olympia or so their website says] for our stay. Many of the items off the Olympia list were present at said hostel, which masqueraded as a clean, environmentally-friendly place to stay. I, on the other hand, would contend that the hostel was a lock box of germs and disease.

The bedsheets were full of what I hope were crumbs. The couches seemed to have been pulled in off the curb two weeks prior. The spiders in the kitchen were Arachnophobia-sized. The chicken hanging out in the backyard ended up in our bedroom, through a window? Through the door? Who knows. The blonde-children running around half-naked the next day, belonging to friends of the hostel workers, were reminiscent of The Children of the Corn. I felt bad for those kids. They did not look well-occupied.

11. Most women don't shave their legs or arm-pits [I knew I wasn't going to stop at 10].
12. I just don't get that.

Maybe this was only a product of Dave's circle, maybe these traits weren't prevalent throughout Olympia. I'm basing this on what I experienced and most of the time I was with people who would be at the wedding. Still, most of the people hanging around downtown and in the grocery stores seemed the same way. I'll extrapolate and stand by my observation, namely, Olympia, WA is full of dirty hippies.

On the bright side, in the impromptu, two-hand touch football game the day before the wedding I scored 3 out of my team's 4 touchdowns. If there was fantasy two-hand touch football, whoever had me cleaned up. My first has a deep bomb, which went for the length of the field. My next touchdown was Randy Moss style, where I leaped behind the defender and pulled the ball, literally, out of his hands in the end zone, preventing a momentum-shifting, drive-ending interception. My third and final touchdown was a 4th down conversion that guaranteed our non-loss (the game ended up tied). Not to pat myself on the back, but it was a huge day for me, two-hand touch football-y-speaking.

The wedding was non-traditional and casual and a lot of fun. By a lot of fun I mean a lot of fun considering I was completely engulfed by the hostel virus, with moments of nose-bleeding, constant nose-running, head feeling like it was in a vice-grip, no alcohol anywhere in sight, no meat anywhere in sight, etc. Again, on the bright side, since it was casual, I was dressed in khakis and a dress shirt, no suit, no tie, and considering how I was feeling I didn't want any alcohol. I didn't even mind the religious Jewishness of the wedding, which followed the Reconstructionist approach. It was my first real encounter with Reconstructionist Judaism and, objectively, I must say, it had a Pentecostal-chanting feel, which either mystified me or just wasn't my cup of tea. Basically, there was a lot of repetitive singing and dancing around. And if you're thinking what I'm thinking, then you would agree that the whole "No Alcohol" thing really dampened the potential of such singing and dancing. I'm pretty sure if I had a couple vodka sodas in me, I would've danced and sang like a maniac, like a possessed sociopath, basically, like a Olympia, WA resident.

Jared

P.S. All of the people I met, although "dirty hippies," were all wonderful people and I think the planet needs a few more of these environmentally-conscious individuals [They just need to be less, quote-unquote, off-the-reservoir]. Here's to finding a middle-ground for all of us to get behind and reducing the impact we make as people. Check out this link for more info:

http://www.climatecrisis.net/takeaction/

A (Good)Man About Town

Round and round, round we go
I get around
Still clowning with the Underground
When I come around

"I Get Around" by Tupac Shakur

I'm not Tupac Shakur. He's dead [Unfortunately/Maybe]. I am, however, similar to Tupac or 2Pac or Makaveli or any other pseudonym he used when it comes to getting around. His song, "I Get Around," deals with getting lots of girls, to the point that it's almost like running in circles. We are not similar that way. Actually, Tupac and myself are not similar at all except that we both use the words "I get around." As I stated earlier, the phrase, for him, referred to his misogyny. I, on the other hand, use the phrase when I talk about the many Jared Goodmans populating the web. The truth is that I've Googled myself [haven't we all?] and I know that there is no "dirt" on me. I have also discovered, through my searching, that there are more than a few Jared Goodmans running around out there. Just from skimming, I would guarantee there are at least 10. Possibly millions. It's kind of interesting to know that there are people out there with the same name. You begin to wonder how well the name has suited them. Whether they are treated well. Were they taunted with politically-correct nicknames in school, such as Jared Goodperson? Or even more clever, and cruel, Jared Badman? Did kids try to rhyme Jared with Carrot? or Parrot? or that's actually all that rhymes with Jared. Were they complimented on the upstanding-sounding of their last name? When hitting on girls, after saying their name, would they quickly quip, "Don't read too much into my last name"? Snicker. Are they now inundated with modern abbreviations such as J-Good and J-Go and Goody and Redman [No one has ever called me Red or Redman, to my chagrin]? Did they secretly wish that they were related to John Goodman or were heir to the department store Bergdorf-Goodman? Not that I did, still do, dear god why couldn't I be John Goodman's fifth cousin? He was King Ralph!Some Jared Goodmans are cooler than others. One planned some trip for Cornell Business school. Another me is a filmmaker who made a feature-length documentary on aspiring Major League baseball players in the Dominican Republic. Baseball and movies, very cool. Maybe me and that Jared Goodman could swap careers. Others are less cool, like super-Christian Jared Goodman, who unfortunately forgets to spell check: " I am fist[sic] and formost[sic] a child of the living God." C'mon Jared! Don't make us look illiterate. You have multiple Jared Goodmans relying on you to give 110%. We have a reputation to uphold. Jared goes on to tell us that "I am a proud father of a funny five year-old little girl named Nova." Good thing she's funny because nothing about this Jared seems humorous. At least his daughter has a cool, interesting name, but this whole spelling thing needs to get rectified. I didn't finish near the top of my high school class, graduate from the University of Florida with honors, and then head on to a top-ten law school so my doppelgangers could go online, post information about themselves, and misspell "first" and "foremost." Our predecessors died expecting more from us.

Growing up I was the only Jared until high school, where there was one other Jared. It's a biblical name [meaning it's in the bible] and it means "descendant." Descendant from what, I don't know, but you can be sure it was something very cool. I relished in my name's uniqueness and relative normalcy that kept it from seeming too alien like Jameelio or something equally cringe-inducing. Often, people would say, "I like your name." To which I would reply, "It's been working so far." Then, while in junior high, the heartthrob actor Jared Leto shot to fame with his role in the short-lived, teen drama, My So-Called Life, starring not-so heartthrobby Claire Danes, who, personally, isn't that bad. [Sidenote: I thought she was okay/cute in Shopgirl]. After that, being Jared really took off. In college, I ran into more Jareds. Most were good people, except for a few who thought a little too highly of themselves. That was the Golden Age.

Then the bottom fell out.

I'm referring to, probably, the most-popular Jared of our times. No, it's not third-string quarterback for the Indianapolis Colts, who previously was the third-string quarterback for the New York Giants, Jared Lorenzen. Nor is it one of the multitude of Jared Goodmans lurking the web [Shame]. It's none other than Jared from Subway. Yeah, that guy. So he lost some pounds by eating substandard subs at a place coincidentally named Subway where the tuna salad tastes like condensed crap and the hot pastrami tastes like rubber. That guy. He ruined it for us. I've been in shape my whole life. Now everyone assumes I was an overweight slob stuffing chicken fingers down until I crapped barbecue sauce. Before, everyone thought I had a chance with Claire Danes. Now, everyone thinks that at some point in my past I could have killed Claire Danes, if I sat on her.

Sometimes you think you turn a corner, people fail to bring him up, and you go on writing your own ticket. Then it slaps you like a nuclear bomb across the cheek. A woman at the gym yesterday asked me my name and when I told her, Jared, she informed me that she was going to call me "Subway." Thanks lady. You're clever. Apparently, Jared, is too difficult to remember. This probably explains why I neglect to correct people who incorrectly assume my name is Jerry because, if I corrected them, then I'd get clever nicknames like "Subway" and "That's Jared!" Then again, that was my own fault for bringing up Jared: The Gallery of Jewelry. When she acted as if she didn't know the Jared jewelry chain, I even performed parts of the ad, which refreshed her memory. What can I say, if these are my spokespeople, then I have to embrace them. I don't have any others, and may never get others.

I'd like to make a pledge to all the other Jared Goodmans out there to always represent our name with pride and integrity and to grin and bear it whenever I see Jareds failing to live up to our name's high standards or whenever I get called Subway. I hope you'll do the same.








Jared

H to the D

HDTV is the pinnacle of current television technology. It's like DVD compared to VHS. Once you watch a show in HD, then switch back to regular broadcast, you can't believe you watched that steaming pile of blur for the better part of your life. And it's available with cable, something I haven't had for the past 4 years. That was my problem. I had been without cable for almost 14% of my life, not including my toddler years when I couldn't distinguish a television from a relative or those early, not-yet teenage years when cable TV was too expensive for my family to have, so actually if I was calculating this accurately, then I'd have to say I've been without cable for roughly 68% of my life. That is a staggering number, which I'm sure any child growing up now will never have to suffer. Yay Capitalism!

My most recent period without cable began unintentionally. It began on an unremarkable Saturday night in Philadelphia, PA, where I was finishing my third (and final) year of law school. Finals were almost a month away, and the New York State Bar Exam was looming two months after that. For the year and 9 months prior, I had been receiving free cable. I don't know how it happened, but I would venture that the previous tenant never closed his or her account and the cable company never got around to follow up. It was great. I had movie channels, I had Comedy Central, I had The Home Shopping Network. What more could I ask for?

One Saturday night in 2004, however, it was all taken from me. Snowy, black and white static filled the screen of my 1990-something, 27-inch Zenith. Distortion filled my ears. No more movies, no more Roasts, no more buying U.S. Mint coin collections. I was blind-sided. I had no plans that evening other than enjoying a movie on TNT, probably Die Hard or The Fugitive or Overboard. I was even more dumbfounded how my free cable escapade should come to be [correctly] corrected on a Saturday night. Didn't the people at the cable company have lives?

Not paying for cable, I knew that I was limited in my recourse. I couldn't call the cable company to "fix" the problem. I also didn't want to start paying for cable. I decided, instead, to forego cable for the rest of my stay in Philadelphia. I was beginning to prepare for finals anyway and then I needed to focus on the demanding Bar review schedule. Plus, I still had my DVD player, my DVD collection, and a Hollywood Video rental card when I wanted to catch a New Release not worth paying for in a theater. Once I moved to New York and started working at my firm, I would get cable again. But it didn't turn out that way.

It was hot the day I moved into my apartment in Hell's Kitchen, mid-August. Before I started unpacking I made a call to Con Ed to open a utility account in my name and turned on the air conditioners. No problems. My next call was to Time Warner to set-up my cable. Problems. The last tenant failed to close his or her account, again. This time, however, plugging my TV into the existing line failed to give me more than 15 channels, mostly broadcast, but, strangely, also TBS, Bravo, and C-Span. I pleaded with the representative to just open a new account in my name. He said, nope. Rather, the representative stated a list of things I would have to do to set-up my account, all of which seemed too demanding. So instead, I forewent cable again. Armed with those few channels, my DVD player, Netflix (no Hollywood Video card anymore), and a time-consuming job and life, I felt sufficiently entertained without having to jump through Time Warner's hoops. If they toppled from my boycott, so be it [They didn't].

Four years later, the entire landscaped has been transformed. Tivo and DVR have revolutionized television watching. HD channels have brought superior quality, picture, and sound. Blu-ray and up-converted DVD players have started transplanting traditional DVD players and film. New technology is constantly creeping forward. I stayed static. Dormant. Like an Amish person. Every year my Zenith aged, channels faded in and out, DVDs skipped more often, friends visited and made snide comments regarding the quality of my television and the channel offerings, but I did nothing. Until I moved.

I'm proud to say, I took the plunge. I went out and bought a new 40-inch Samsung LCD, which makes my old Zenith look like the biggest, most-useless, industrial-strength paperweight ever. I also decided to make peace with Time Warner and get cable so I could take full advantage of my new HD capability. But, again, the previous tenant failed to close their account. This must be some kind of epidemic. I mean, honestly? I fear for the fate of our country if former tenants can't follow through and close out old utility and cable accounts. It shouldn't be this difficult.

This time, however, I sucked it up and faxed in all the necessary paperwork and this weekend, Saturday to be exact, I received cable, including HD, DVR, and Roadrunner Hi-Speed On-line access. I immediately turned the channel to the Summer Olympics in HD. It was glorious, clearer, and the colors were more vivid and vibrant because it was mine. I watched a Mets game in HD, I recorded Die Hard and The Fugitive with my DVR simply because I could [Overboard wasn't on this weekend]. Then I sat back in my collapsible canvas and plastic-legged chair because I still don't have a couch and I held my remote for hours, pressed its buttons, switched channels, swam through the guide function fishing for shows that piqued my interest, and I smiled.

Jared

Let The Sun(nyside)shine In

Lettttt the sunshine in
Lettttt the sunshine in
The suuuunnn shiiiiine in

This was the song that ended the show, sent us on our way, the denouement of Absinthe, a burlesque, circus of sorts playing at the Spiegeltent at the South Street Seaport. A show full of feats of strength, balance, and more penis jokes than a junior high schoolyard. In fact, the humor, which filled in between acts, was so lewd that I was surprised that (a) there were so many older people in the audience [over 65], and (b) they didn't get up and leave midway through, which actually happened at my viewing of The Lieutenant of Inishmore, or as I like to call it, The Bloodiest, Most Murder-Filled, Body-Hacking Play I've Ever Seen on Broadway. Also one of the funniest, if you like dark, dark, body parts on stage-type comedy. Apparently, I do.

The show began before the show. Walking out to the end of Pier 17 carried the smell of the river and a light fish scent, permanently steeped into the wood pier and cement buildings from the Seaport's previous incarnation, The Fulton Fish Market, which dated back to 1822, but has since been relocated, most likely, because there are too many upscale stores and restaurants currently inhabiting the Seaport and the clientele surely doesn't care to smell fish while they wine and dine and shop. The Brooklyn Bridge was resplendent in the background, its gleaming cables reminiscent of spiderwebs and its Gothic styling seemingly more ancient than its true age. Underneath the bridge, close to the Brooklyn side, was a free-standing waterfall; a recently commissioned work of art by the well-known physical-visual artist, Olafur Eliasson. The simplicity of the waterfall and its curious placement under the bridge made everything seem slightly skewed. Maybe that is the impression which was intended. It certainly was in line with the evening.

After taking pictures of the waterfall with our cell phones, my date and I, ventured deeper into the Absinthe complex, or rather, as far as the bar, where we ordered two cocktails. Made with absinthe, of course.

"Is that real absinthe?" I asked. I had read about absinthe being served elsewhere in the city, but still doubted whether it was legal to serve actual absinthe, containing the allegedly addictive psychoanalytic drug, Thujone.

The bartender said yes and showed me the bottle, but it was dark and all I could read was the brand name. Not wanting to keep asking questions, which the bartender probably didn't know the answer to anyway, I kept my mouth shut.

The cocktails came in low-ball plastic glasses and were of the signature neon-ish green particular to absinthe. I had never tasted absinthe before and was intrigued about the flavor. It wasn't sweet, but rather had more of a licorice flavor. It was strong, too. One drink felt like two, possibly three. I had to sip it slowly, but the more I drank of it, the smoother it went down. Whether that was due to the ice melting and increasing the water content or the inherent property of drinking alcohol, I'm not sure, but towards the bottom it got better and better.

While we sipped our drinks, we made our way to the entrance line. Having purchased my tickets through American Express, we received VIP preferred seating, allowing us to get on the shorter line that entered first and get really good seats. I guess membership really does have it's privileges.

Inside, the Spiegeltent is something of a revelation. It's an original tent from the early 1900s, or so my date said, full of mirrors, stained glass, booths, lights, smoke machines, all circling around a main stage. It's very debonair [In a carny way] and intimate. We sat close enough to the center stage so that I was able to be fondled by the cabaret singer and slapped with her leather hand whip as well. She also fell in my lap and while singing a song and bent over at the waist and shoved her ass in my face. Like I said before, we had really good seats.

The acts were top-notch. Cirque du Soleil might have more accomplished acrobats, or more skilled strength performers, they certainly have more performers [Absinthe had less than 12], but the atmosphere, the occasional spells of nudity, the titillation, the lewd, provocative, scathing humor targeting old people, kids, gays, straights, gays again, Republicans, everyone, the showmanship, the intimacy of the audience, the interaction with the audience, the beauty of the venue, the "Something Wicked This Way Comes" carnival vibe, the Thujone surging through my veins, the green fairies flying through my mind, the electronic music, thumping, reverberating, well coordinated in time with each performer's gyrations and holds, the contortions, the bawdiness, my date on my right, all proved that this is no Cirque du Soleil, this is more, this is so much more.

Jared