Mickey's Last Gasp

Hugging the mylar up to my body, smoothing the air out, it's like therapy. Extinguishing the final gasp of life from the symbol of all that is holy to a three-year old, amazed you still have the damned thing after two full months. New Years seems the perfect time to say goodbye.

She hasn't seen it in weeks, it's all my doing. But as I stand here still trying to figure out how long I'll keep it once its flattened, I realize how crazy I would look were my wife to walk in on me in my underwear, holding Mickey's head (outward I'd thought, but of course he's got a head and that damned tongue on either end, two-face bastard.

That worry dissipates soon, though, and I sit back to type, wondering if there is any more funny voice left in that helium. Knowing everyone is asleep, I threaten to wake them all. I figure, why the hell not?

So there you have it. Time to see, time to be free.





I truly can't believe that I inhaled the helium. More to the point, I can't believe that it worked. Sorry about the mictastrophe, I'm just figuring out how to use that thing -- HOT MIC! HOT MIC!

Anyway, next time will be better. For now, I leave you to ponder the fact that this, mind you, this isn't my first MM-related (OK, obsessed) post. Check this out from back in June, which never saw the light of day until now.

NOTE: As TMBG clearly hasn't worked out rights issues to make sure imeem users can post full songs to their blog, enjoy this legally cleared track in its entirety back at the main page.

There must have been some magic

Are you kidding me?  Amazing weekend, beautiful snowfall, time with the family, weekend before Christmas, good even for a Jew.  Opening night of Chanukah, 

My beautiful girl understands the power of video already.  Look at her improving her on-camera style, and ready to go in the blink of an eye.

Just days before, she was in the Lily Pond winter show, phenomenal performance, but clearly just a warm up for today.  Genius.  Pure Genius.

Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with ESPN.  Why do they currently have the Giants record at 11-3-1?  IDIOTS!!!  They are in the middle of Eli's presser talking about having just won the game, and an incredible game it was.  Homefield advantage throughout the playoffs.  I'm just glad it gave me something to be angry at, as I can often misdirect my anger.

Watch the second video above.  Scroll to about 0:15 in, and you'll see an idiot father forget that there are about thirty kids' parents behind him.  But I digress.

The pancho, for those of you familiar, is back!  And so am I.

 

Mind the Gap

So I've changed the title of my blog. It's still credited to Freehold Arts, but if you look closely you'll see that the name is now oficially "Mind the Gap."


Mind the Gap

It's a saying that's really rarely used anymore, more often "Watch" the gap, but more often "please use caution while exiting the train." Are you kidding me? Where's the beauty in that?

A Commuter's Guide to the Daily Grind

I wonder how long it will take me to be figured out. How long before someone on the 6:10 AM out of Woodcliff Lake understands why that weird skinny bald guy is hammering away at his keyboard. "He's the 'Mind the Gap' guy" they'll prod and poke.

Right.

I recently relocated to the East Coast from LA for reasons which, at the moment, escape me.

I'm angling down a hill in Woodcliff Lake, NJ bracing myself from the wind, truly frightened a misstep may cause me to bite it. I arrive at the station ten minutes early.

There's really nowhere to stand, so I pitch my umbrella up against a wall and stare numbly out at the sheets of rain. For the first time in a week I smile. I managed to make it all the way down the hill without wetting myself too badly.

My house, as you can tell, is a stone's throw form the Woodcliff Lake trian station. I can hear the whistle from my bedroom. This makes me, now, for better or worse, a commuter.

I don't like it. It takes me well over an hour every day to get to and from work. It's inhumane. Godless.

My father called me tonight and noted, "Days like this, I wonder how I did it." Then he laughed. "When you're young you do it because you have to."

It's that same crazy talk that guides these automatons through their stultifying days.

If I told you the horrors I see on these trains you'd never believe me.

But I'm going to try. & I'll do it in the first person of me.

A three word phrase of caution getting onto and off the train. I hear it, or some variation thereof, four times every single day

You see the beauty of Bergen County, is there is no direct line to NYC.

Who lives like this?

Like I said, me.

And this guy. Cock of the walk. No idea who he is, but he knows everything.

New train schedule before it comes out. Who's driving the train today? Who all the people at the stop are.

If anyone is going to out me to NJT, ultimately it's going to be this clod.

For now I lay low.

Half asleep with my paper and Treo, checking e-mail and scores.

Praying I go unnoticed. Noticing all the while.

Must go now. 5am wake-up call to do it all again.

Waitlisted on Facebook

Let me ask you something...

Just because Dana Martucci tries to friend me on Facebook, does that mean I owe her some kind of response? I don't want to erase or ignore the request, because I don't really do that, especially not to people I do know. That said, I really don't want this girl, whose profile picture is a question mark, in with my group of people.


It's kind of exactly how I felt about Dana Martucci when I was in grade school. Younger sister of a best friend who ultimately became known as the "guy who shit himself" and I was good enough to lend my sweatpants.


We remained somewhat in contact until I reached a high school age where I became vicious, and tough to be around. Well, at least to Neil. But his little sister? I mean Jesus, I barely knew her then. I really have no interest in catching up.

I'm really not sure I'd accept a friend request from Neil. I don't really look people up on there that often, to be honest. I'm more reactive. What's the feature, friend finder? Whatever the hell that feature is called in there. Not that I even have his e-mail address.


I'll save my further Facebook rants for a later post. Till then, Dana will be waitlisted on Facebook. The Jonathan Club, it ain't easy getting in.

Upsets

Isn't it funny, as we head deeply into this second week of Olympic fever, the impact of an upset can be so parochial as to not even be recognizable from country to country. Can you imagine what things must be like in Greece and Spain, countries where they upset the best in the world at their own game.

We have certainly romanticized the power of the 1980 Men's Hockey team to the point where it is no longer possible to simply reflect on that team without referencing the symbolic overthrow of the Soviet Union.

Do you think the average Russian today remembers that moment? Is it possible that just as the majority of our own countrymen couldn't tell you who beat the latest Dream Team, and why that might be important historically. They just know we lost and its time to take back what's ours. Pretty much like how Russia did with hockey, even once their country shrunk in size more than 50%.

Maybe to the Soviets, losing that hockey game was simply that. Not a powerful shot across the bow at at Communism, but just a game. Other things happen, basketball dynasties fall, but pretty much the world stays the same.

If only I could get one of those Georgian guys, thinks the Russian swim coach, our olympic prospects become that much stronger. And you see, that's just it. We focus on accumulation, not just historic upsets. As Team USA dances to the medal round you can be sure that the world's biggest audience ever will be on hand.

At least that's what NBC tells me.

Only time will tell, but for now I think people are a bit nuts.

End of an Era

I learned recently that one of my favorite places closed. To us, it was a beautiful gift. To others, a horror show.

We all knew it would never last but enjoyed it while we could. I mean, who could have doubted the challenges keeping a place called Premium Events under wraps. From the first time we heard of it, we knew with each private lap dance on the beds others only whispered of dreamed that it could never last.

Before Hot Lap Dance Clup, was revealed to us, it was impossible to imagine a world without beefy headed bouncers banging on the door of the tiny booth you and a stripper huddled away in for 3 or 4 songs. Totalling in the hundreds of dollars. Madness.

Here, at the loft (as we grew to call it). there was none of this nonsense. Yes, you paid a hefty fee at the front door. $50 dollars for members, $60 at the door your first time or any time you forgot your card thereafter. Luckily, the guy had a pretty good memory and given we were there quite often, and always with a party of six or more, we got treated as a bachelor party and never had to pay full price.

But lord we always would have. It was if magic when you walked in, carrying your own alcohol. Beautiful girls careening all over the place, but never any pressure. I nearly got hand release from a six foot brunette publisher. She had a pretty high-powered job and was truly interested in my writing. I actually ended up spending about $80 just to get her off.

That's right. Eighty dollars. For an unlimited (practically) time frame. Nobody checking in, no inhibitions. But-- A BROTHEL??? Why I would never use such harsh terms. It's not quite as black and white as that, and I don't appreciate the implications.

You didn't walk into the loft and meet up with crusty old Darlene, answering the door through a glass cage and taking $300 on the way in. The lining up the bunny's, disgusting and foreign, in hopes that a man or two will sign on for an extra long "party."

No, these girls were just beautiful strippers, and as my friend Ryan liked to attest -- American. There is something different about not having a Russian, Serb or Pacific Islander approach you. As if you are somehow part of an international stripper cartel, bringing poverty to the nation-state left behind.

When the girl went to Spence, you don't have any of that guilt. Some of these girls were porn stars, others were just smoking hot, and treated you with respect, despite the fact that it was undeniable that you were a lowlife.


Italian buffet, crazy amount of couches both in the private area and outside. No poles like you're used to. This place, as I noted, was different, special. Symbian shows and lesbian shows were done about two or three times each night, but the focus was always on camraderie, a little baited time alone before heading back for what must be the greatest private room experience I've ever had, and likely among the best availabe, if not in the entire United States, surely the East Coast and at least New York.

It will be missed, no matter what the cops say

Slipping a Mickey

My little girl is obsessed.

I can't blame her, it's practically in the water, so what do I do? Exploit it!

Need to get work done? -- slip her a Mickey

Need to shower? -- slip her a Mickey

Hung over? -- slip her a Mickey

Call it lazy parenting, turn me in, I don't care. That half-hour is pure bliss for her. She's got every line memorized, can do a great Donald Duck voice, and, when I do sit down with her, we both have a nice time together.

Can Mickey really be all that bad? If anything, he's introducing They Might be Giants into her life, which can never be a bad thing.

Try it. Tell me you don't love it.

UPDATE: This playlist sucks so bad, because of all the :30 spots, for those who do read all the way to the bottom... the ultimate treat.

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Theme - They Might Be Giants

iMeem, therefore I am

More exciting than Twitter, because it's got shit I actually enjoy on there from other people, not just their idiotic 140 character musings. iMeem has real potential, I think.

We'll see.

Or, for now, we'll listen.

US Open Widget -- love it

Prequels

Sitting through this season of "Lost" I'm reminded of my distaste for prequels, which originated during the debut of the "Star Wars" Episodes 1-3, and I'm not just talking about Jar Jar Binks. I'm referring to the complete absence of suspense that arises from near-death experiences befalling characters you know survive.

It's similar to the feeling you get when you see Jack suffer terribly after his impromptu appendectomy, knowing he's one of the Oceanic Six.





What might be worse is how it's almost a foregone conclusion that the characters who did not make it into the sequels invariably will die. Making it that much more difficult to invest in that character.


Natalie Portman, we hardly knew ye.

Bilbo Baggins may be able to break this trend, for me personally. The legacy of work, the fact that most know "The Hobbit" well before they've ever feasted their Eye on Sauron.

Nevertheless, original work may still win out. The brilliance of movies like Step Brother and Wanted ensure that the pap smear of work that calls itself Hollywood will continue in perpetuity. Long after Funny or Die has unfunnily died.

Los Lakers or "Don't airline pilots know we have TiVo?"

I'll admit it, I'm swept up in Lakers fever. It's happened to me before. 2001, before the flood of annoying habits, sniping and egos. This young team is likable, and as a married father of one, I find myself more time at home in front of the game in years past, when I might have been more likely to watch it at a bar. I've also got my beautiful 50-inch DLP Samsung HDTV, thank you Jose!

And thank you Sasha Vujacic, beautiful shot. I'm less than enthused about the game tonight, as I watch the second half on TiVo after spending the day up with YouTube in San Bruno and catching the first half at SFO.

Over the course I've my career I've often found myself traveling during major sporting events. A Super Bowl in the late nineties, the one Tampa Bay won I think, returning from a conference in Florida. Listening through fleeting radio reception as the Yankees squander a series lead and the goodwill of a bruised nation losing to Randy Johnson and the Arizona Diamondbacks in 2001. Mariano Rivera giving up a bloop single (I later found out) to Luis Gonzalez, Schilling pitching a gem, Johnson getting the win in relief.

I relive these moments now through jaded eyes. Were I to find out over the P.A. that the Lakers won the NBA Finals I'd be pissed, as the captain should know I would have TiVo'd that, or more accurately DirecTV DVR'd it. Granted, this was only game three, Los Lakers down 2-0, but when he came on and said smugly, "for all you Lakers fans good news, they're up by seven," I couldn't help but be annoyed. He didn't say whether they won or not, but it was late enough that it took some suspense out of the game.

I find myself equally annoyed by prequels... I'll expand on that next post.

Big Brown

Is it me or has advertising in sports gone to the absurd? Watching Big Brown make his way around the Belmont track, walked along by a "fat guy in a little coat" emblazoned with UPS, I nearly threw up. You just had to laugh, though, when Big Brown came in tenth, just in front of Pony Express.

How do I explain to my 2-year old that ponies aren't always sponsored, and that horse-racing used to be pure. Well, as pure as a sport that is based on beautiful animals racing around a track for their master humans' (and my) entertainment and (not this time) financial gain.

Don't you think all the hype around the triple crown may have had something to do with the amount of dollars being funneled to those more knowledgeable bettors whose winners came in?

I do.

Now I lay me down to sleep

Blog number one. Just testing it out and seeing how it rocks.

I considered calling this "after the jump" as if I already had advertising, but thought that might be too aggressive.