A Life In White Balance

The Widening Gap

2004-11-08T13:02:00.000-05:00

I'm usually a zombie while riding the subway but something odd happened yesterday and it made me remember something that used to bug me a great deal - before I became an apathist.

Yesterday I'm getting onto a partially full subway car and spot an empty seat. I decide to sit down, because, well, I'm lazy sometimes. The kid next to me, couldn't have been more than 15 (looked about 12 except for the sprouts of facial hair and his height - 6 ft probably), had his knee pressed into my knee. He didn't move it when I sat down - just stared vacantly (obviously stoned or high or something like that - I'd know since I'm usually that way myself).

Anyway, he must have had nads the size of grapefruit, because he couldn't close his legs. It was sad, really. This kid took up two seats so that he could air out his boys. I figure he either needed a salve or surgery. That's just not right. So while I used to get annoyed with inconsiderate young men who think it's more important to show their world to the car full of strangers, I now believe that most are afflicted with jock itch or elephantiasis.

More to come...

I've got it!

2004-11-05T19:05:00.000-05:00

A new reality show idea!

Let's elect our next president by putting 20 candidates in a mansion together and have them duke it out with contests requiring wisdom, diplomacy, keeping cool under fire, and a really good golf game!

At the end of each episode, America can go online and vote one of them off the property!

Last man standing gets the big white house!

That sounds about the right speed for this Wal Mart shopping, SUV driving, McDonalds eating, Survivor watching populace.

More to come...

Why is everyone so depressed?

2004-11-04T18:51:00.000-05:00

Walking down the street in NYC the past couple days and you'd think everyone's dog had died. Or that the Yankees had lost ingloriously in the playoffs. Or that Dubya had been re-elected? Okay, so I'm sure someone somewhere has had all three of these tragedies occur in the past month, but for most of us, we've only got to contend with two. Big deal, I say.

Some people are running around as if the sky is falling. Others are considering the best way to commit seppuku. Others yet are looking into immigration laws in European democracies or even Canada (not even I could stoop that low).

The truth is, at least as I see it, nothing's changed. We still have the same president. We still have the same government. Politicians are all losers anyway, so who really cares? I mean, I'd much rather spend my evenings watching Lost than the debates anyway. And really, would even "I have a mandate" Dubya dare cancel Lost? I figured in 4 more years the country will be so sick of the Bush family they won't elect another one for president for at least 4 to 8 years. After that we'll have to wait for one of the Bush daughters to get over her coke habit and become born again and run out on her Air National Guard service before we have to deal with another Bush in the big white house.

To tell the truth, I think this is where politics needs to be more like professional sports. It seems to me that Karl Rove is the Michael Jordan of political strategists, so I think the Democrats should sign him as a free agent or maybe trade Hillary for him. That way he can dig up dirt on Republicans for a change. I'm sure he's not in this politics thing because he believes in his party's causes. I mean, for him to be passionate about something, he'd need a heart or a soul or something, right? So sign him up and win in 2008 by suggesting that the Republican candidate is a closet fag or something. It's possible, right? Look at the governor of Jersey.

More to come...

Another Tie?

2004-11-03T10:55:00.000-05:00

American presidential politics is turning more and more into a soccer match.

I am proud of the American people though, they actually got off their asses, missed an episode of Oprah, and went to the polls.

More to come...

Vote Early! Vote Often!

2004-11-02T10:24:00.000-05:00

Does anyone actually believe that elections in this country are run fairly anymore? Perhaps I need to go back to my strict policy of never reading the newspaper or watching the news on TV, but I've heard more stories leading up to this election that make me believe that shenanigans are rampant among both parties throughout the country. It's a debacle of the highest order. I think we'll have lawsuits going until 2006 and Ralph Nader will ultimately come out on top.

An Aside: Did he even qualify for the ballot in enough states to gain a majority of the electoral votes if he won every state he qualified? Did that question make any sense?

This also got me to thinking. A new political party organized completely through blogs could be a powerful force in this country. Or not. I mean, we'd have to all agree on our platform and I think that'd suck.

More to come...

Happy Halloween!

2004-10-31T08:49:00.000-05:00

Today is one of the best days of the year for guys like me. I take my camera down to the Halloween Parade here in NYC and sell the footage to one of the news starved news programs. It's always the same...

"In other news, the Halloween Parade was filled with more ghosts and goblins than ever this year. Here's some footage we've acquired. See all the weirdos? Oh, look at that, isn't he cute? What is that? Is that Michael Jackson giving a piggy back ride to an 8 year old?"

Anyway, I'll make some coin for the tape I'll make and I'l probably get laid. Chicks dig the guy with the camera on a day when everyone's dressed like freaks.

More to come...

Lo Siento, I've been away

2004-10-29T08:44:00.000-04:00

I know I've been a good little blogger for a while now, but then took quite a break between entries. I'd like to apologize to all of my faithful readers, most of whom have probably abandoned me for more frequent writers. I felt like I'd built up so much momentum. I had up to 6 people a day reading this blog! It feels so nice to be able to give something back to people you don't know.

Anyway, the first season of Without a Drought finished taping and then Barry asked me to edit the footage. Well, I've done some editing, but never for a prime time reality TV show. Needless to say that took a lot of my time.

And then about a week ago I got a letter from the IRS enquiring about my lack of tax payment for the past, oh, 20 years. Six days in Mexico took care of that - new identity, new hair color, and a whole new wardrobe. They'll never recognize me as a mariachi with a movie camera in my guitar case.

More to come...

Bedlam & Violence

2004-10-14T17:29:00.000-04:00

Apparently there is some big baseball series going on. The Yankees are playing the Red Sox or something? Don't they do that every year? What's the big deal?

Anyway, I was down in the village last night (don't ask which village - if you don't know, you're not cool enough to hang out there) and the game had just let out. I guess the Yankees won, because all the guys in "NY" hats were urinating on the guys in "B" hats. I'm all for a little pee fun now and again, but I had to draw the line when a guy in an "NY" hat took a "B" hat off the head of a little kid and threw it into traffic. I mean, what kind of parent lets their kid wear a "B" hat in NYC after dark? Doesn't he know we're dangerous!

What happened to the Devil Rays? did they lose?

More to come...

The Worst Marketing Job in the World

2004-10-13T13:32:00.000-04:00

So something occurred to me recently. At Barry's office, he still gets direct fax marketing through his fax machine. I didn't even know this stuff existed, but he asked me to get something that someone had faxed to him... I guess he asked me instead of his secretary since she was out to lunch and I was sitting next to the fax machine at the time... anyway, there were like 45 pages of new faxes. He had:

17 offers for $99 cruises

12 offers for $99 "Disney vactions"

8 offers to get in on a new IPO - does that have something to do with stocks?

7 offers for time shares in "lovely tropical settings" such as the Bahamas, Haiti, and Hoboken NJ.

And 1 fax from the guy he wanted a fax from.

44 wasted pages of paper that nobody would have even looked at except I have a morbid curiousity for really bad marketing campaigns.

I mean, in the world of email and pop-up ads, don't you think there are cheaper and more efficient forms of mass marketing than wasting hundreds or thousands of sheets of paper at businesses around the country? That's just bad business.

Do you think there's some guy sitting at a fax machine typing in each fax number in turn? Do you think somebody actually makes a living off direct fax marketing? If someone does, I'm guessing they aren't living in a nice house or driving a new car.

Oh, almost all the faxes had numbers at the bottom where you could call to unsubscribe. I tried a few of them. Most of them went to a guy's answering machine so I called a buddy at the phone company. Sure enough, most of these fax numbers are paid for by a guy in West Virginia. Turns out his phone bill is way overdue.

More to come...

I just got an email saying...

2004-10-12T08:29:00.000-04:00

the security of my Citibank account has been violated by an online villian.

I doubt that's true, because...

I don't have a Citibank account.

These spammers and identity theft criminals should really get better marketing data before sending these things out.

I have a craving...

2004-10-11T19:23:00.000-04:00

for frickles.

That's right, fried pickles.

Anyone know a good fried pickle joint in NYC? I'm tired of making my own.

Maybe I'll google it...

Looks like I have two choices.

The Hog Pit on 9th Ave @ 13th St or Rare at Lex & 37th St.

More to come (after I go eat)...

Little League Baseball

2004-10-10T17:16:00.000-04:00

When I was younger I always thought I wanted to play Little League. I'd see those kids on TV in the "world championship" game, invariably some podunk town in Indiana versus Taiwan (like the entire country!) and the Taiwanese kids would win like 15-2. The announcers would always make it clear that the U.S. team would win if it were the entire country! However, I guess in a fit of pride in the fact that we created the game and Taiwanese people are shorter than us upon reaching adulthood, we made a single American town play against entire countries. I think it's still that way, but now we dress up 14 year-olds from the Caribbean as 11 year-olds from the Bronx.

So I decided I was going to try out for my local Little League team. Only it was a stickball team. Have you ever tried to hit a tennis ball with a broom stick when you've never tried to hit any ball with any stick before? I was abysmal. I was worse than abysmal. I was horrific. The kids laughed, I cried. They laughed some more.

But I got my revenge. I've never committed a stickball game to film. That'll teach 'em.

More to come...

Cheese Doodles

2004-10-09T21:15:00.000-04:00

Are low in carbs, right?

There are no WMDs in Iraq

2004-10-08T09:17:00.000-04:00

No shit, sherlock. How long did it take the president to figure this out?

We impeach Clinton for lying about oral sex, but our new commander in chief can invade a country and kill thousands of its inhabitants based on a lie and nobody seems to care... he and Herman Munster are even in the polls.

Sorry, I think I said no more politics, but this annoys me.

More to come (but not politics)...

The End is Near

2004-10-07T23:38:00.000-04:00

We're nearly finished with filming Without a Drought and I'm beginning to think this kid might just do it. He's got several prospects for bumping uglies and one of them seems downright slutty. And interested in him!

More to come...

beep-beep!

2004-10-06T13:04:00.000-04:00

You'd think after years, even decades of living in NYC, I'd grow immune to the sound of automobile horns assaulting my auditory sense. For the most part, it's true. I rarely even hear the horns anymore except when I hear some tourist in Times Square say, "Why does everybody honk all the time?"

But every so often I'll be walking down the sidewalk, minding my own business, when a particularly loud horn right next to me will startle me out of my zombie-like trance. Almost invariably this horn is applied continuously in order to display annoyance with the current state of traffic on the street or avenue that the sidewalk I'm occupying abuts.

Looking up, I expect to see a single selfish driver blocking several lanes of traffic for no good reason. Instead, I see tens or hundreds of cars all at a standstill due to congestion at a location not even visible from my point of view (or that of the offending driver).

This is even more amusing (and annoying) when it is done in plain site of one of those comical signs - No Honking - Fine $350. This is comical, because a) there is almost never a cop around to enforce the law, and b) I've seen this entire scenario play out right in front of an otherwise unoccupied member of the NYPD who completely ignores the violation of the city statutue prohibiting unnecessary noise pollution.

Now I'll go back to my zombie-like trance and not mention honking horns again for a while. Honest.

More to come...

Current Events?

2004-10-05T10:59:00.000-04:00

Reading this today's TV guide I realized two things.

First, tonight is the vice presidential debate. I know I promised not to talk about politics anymore so I'll just say, doesn't Dick Cheney look old enough to be John Edwards father? I wonder if this debate will seem like an episode of Married with Children when Al (Cheney) takes the car keys away from Bud (Edwards), because Kelly needs to get her nails done before her job interview at the men's club. Or if it'll be like an episode of That 70s Show when Eric convinces Red that the smoke isn't from a bong, but from burnt popcorn.

Second, the baseball playoffs start today and the 184 million dollar bullies from NYC play the 53 million dollar weaklings from Minnesota. It's a regular David and Goliath.

I think I'll read a book.

More to come...

Sleep Walking

2004-10-04T13:16:00.000-04:00

Dex is a sleepwalker. I suspected as much the moment I met him, but he proved it last night. I was up late cleaning Gretchen, my Canon XL1 (nice DV cam if you can afford it) and there's a knock at the door. I popped a tape in the camera just in case it was a home invasion... imagine how much I could sell that tape to the networks for. If, of course, I survived and they didn't steal the camera.

Anyway, it was Dex. He was holding his boom mic in one hand and a bag of BBQ pork rinds in the other. I thought he wanted to party, but it turns out he had no idea where he was. He thought he was dreaming.

Imagine this conversation, if you will...

MVR: Want a beer to go with your rinds?

Dex: My uncle wears rubber underpants.

MVR: Dex, you okay?

Dex: Me? I'm fine. Where's the fire?

MVR: What fire? Are you stoned?

Dex: I like lapis.

MVR waves his hands in front of Dex's eyes. No response.

MVR: Are you awake?

Dex: Are you asleep?

MVR: No, I'm awake. You're asleep.

Dex: I must be dreaming.

MVR: Sleep-walking is more like it.

Dex: Isn't it cool when you dream that you know that you're dreaming?

MVR: It's called lucid dreaming, Dex. Now wake up.

Dex: You wake. I want to keep dreaming.

MVR: Lie down on the couch.

Dex: You lie down on the couch. I want to sit on the window sill.

MVR pulls Dex from the window and pushes him down on the couch. Dex hits his head on the end table.

Dex: WTF, dude?

MVR: Good morning, sunshine.

Dex is a weird guy, but he's got a kick ass collection of concert bootlegs.

More to come...

Nobody likes a quitter.

2004-10-03T13:08:00.000-04:00

I'm not an anti-smoking guy or whatever. I'm not a smoker either. Now and again I'll light up when I need to relieve some stress or impress a chick who smokes, but I'm not dependent on those little things.

Nevertheless, I've always loved the reply hardcore smokers give when told they should try quitting...

Nobody likes a quitter.

It's a nice little twist of the old "never give up" mantra. Kudos to whichever smoker came up with that gem.

Well, the health community has finally found a way to react to this cleverism. I've seen these ads in the NYC subway lately...

Parents love quitters.
Wives love quitters.
Kids love quitters.

Brought to you by some anti-smoking campaign or another.

My guess is that it'll have a 0% influence on smoking, but at least it made me smile. That's probably worth the tens of thousands of dollars they spent on the campaign.

More to come...

I quit again!

2004-10-02T18:06:00.000-04:00

I've lost 12 pounds in 3 days as a vegan. At this pace I'll be dead in 6 weeks.

Sorry, Laura. I just can't do it. Back to meat. Lots and lots of meat.

More to come...

The Solution to Gum Pollution

2004-10-01T09:14:00.000-04:00

I think I chew about 3 pieces of gum a year.

Usually I'm out with friends or enemies and we've been eating spicy food or a garlic laden meal or we're out for a night of heavy drinking. And then someone pops out a pack of gum and next thing I know I'm chewing away. About 5 minutes later I'm ready to spit it out, but I usually wait until the next street corner for the trash can or I stick it on my plate (if we're still at dinner) or I stick it under the bar (if we're still drinking). I never swallow it. I believe that 7 year thing.

So did you know that there are people in NYC who make a living cleaning gum off of sidewalks? Gumbusters claims to be "The Solution to Gum Pollution". Gum Pollution. That's a good one.

So I guess my question is who the hell is covering sidewalks in gum so frivolously that it creates pollution and must be power washed away? I'm guessing it's the same people who toss out their cigarette butts without extinguishing them... like we need that extra pollution burning needlessly in this dirty metropolis. Sure, it's a drop in the bucket, but it's about a million drops in the bucket every single day all year round.

I especially like it when someone flicks their lit butt in a sidewalk trash can, bringing Ladder 49 roaring down my street at 3 a.m. And people wonder why smokers have a bad rep.

The difference between gum and a butt is that the gum sticks and the butt gets swept up or washed away. So businesses call Gumbusters to clean their sidewalks and a month or two later they have to come back, because more rude chewers can't dispose of their gum like good citizens.

Is gum vegan? I'll have to ask Laura.

More to come...

Show Status

2004-09-30T09:36:00.000-04:00

I don't think this guy has a chance in hell of getting laid in the next two weeks.

I quit!

2004-09-29T20:04:00.000-04:00

Our segment producer, Laura, a nice girl even if she makes me visit parks, had convinced me of the evils of meat and dairy so I've "quit" all animal products. I'm now a vegan. For me, the best part about this new diet is that whenever I fly, which is infrequently due to my fears of heights, water, clouds, women in uniform, and metal cylinders with wings, I now get to order a special diet meal at no extra cost.

I also suspect it will impress the ladies down at the tattoo parlor.

More to come...

Earthquakes, Floods, Fires, & Britney's Wedding

2004-09-28T14:03:00.000-04:00

Several disasters have taken place lately besides the seemingly weekly hurricanes.

This morning there was a 5.9 earthquake out in California. A welcome change from the alphabet soup passing as a storm season in the Caribbean. Hopefully nobody was hurt. I've never experienced an earthquake myself - one of my only life regrets. Maybe I should move to California... I hear they make movies out there.

Indirectly attributed to the hurricane residue, NYC and other Eastern seaboard areas have experienced flooding. Flooding in NYC is always fun, because it shuts down the subways and tunnels. Glad I don't have much of a commute and I can walk to work if I must. Galoshes are a man's best friend.

Speaking of tunnels... a fire in a Long Island Railroad tunnel caused a big ol' commuterjam in Penn Station yesterday afternoon. I stolled over just to shoot some footage of angry Long Islanders trying to get home. Not much more fun than suburbanites trapped in the city. Barry was pissed since I was supposed to be shooting some makeover footage for the show. Screw him, I sold my commuterjam footage to a local news agency for a cool $500. Just don't tell the IRS, okay?

And finally, what the hell was Britney Spears thinking? If nothing else can convince us that she's really a dumbass piece of white trash tail, this "wedding" would be incontrovertible proof of her simple mind. Chicken fingers and fries? A surprise wedding at the rehearsal dinner? A last second pre-nup that she didn't even want? Taking her backup singer away from his children? The kid's worth $45 million and acts like a cosmotology school drop-out. I can't wait to hear about her baby shower bash at Chucky Cheese. Mark my words, she'll be on the cover of Playboy within 5 years and a guest on Maury Povich within 10.

More to come...

A Frank & Beans Revolt

2004-09-26T20:15:00.000-04:00

Here it is Sunday night. I'm home calming down after a horrible park shoot. I can't believe Barry threatened to break my camera if I didn't show for this thing. I dressed all up in protective clothing and OFF. I made sure Dex was properly equipped as well, though he doesn't see the dangers of public parks. Personally, I think they're a menace and I don't mind telling anyone who will listen. I think Central Park should be razed and high rent condos should go up in that den of iniquity. Hey wait, I like iniquity. Maybe I'll have to find a new phobia.

Anyway, I'm back from the park, but Dex was very nearly beaten senseless by an old lady with a country ham. You should have seen how she handled her meat. I swear to god if I hadn't pushed her down those steps, she would have crowned Dex with that ham and we would have been advertising for a new sound guy.

So when I got home from the shoot I was so wiped out I decided to eat in. For those of you familiar with NYC life, you'll know that eating in is a rare event. So rare, in fact, that I had a hard time putting a meal together. My choices were leftover pizza delived on August 14th, frozen hot dogs best if used by 02/02, and a can of VanCamp's beans. I opted for mixing a hot dog in with the beans and praying that whatever made the hot dogs best used by two and a half years ago... hey, these hot dogs were best eaten around the last time our contestant had sex! Anyway, I'm hoping the best used thing is offset by the mixing with beans.

Well, let me tell you, this meal isn't going well. The beans taste like beans, but the franks taste like ass (don't ask me how I know).

I'm going out to eat.

More to come...

Cheese, Please.

2004-09-25T14:03:00.000-04:00

I'm on a cheese binge. I'm not sure why, but I've discovered bleu cheese (like the haute spelling of blue?) for the first time since childhood. When I was a kid, I couldn't get enough blue cheese (that's how I spelled it then). I'd eat blue cheese dressing on every salad (even fruit salad). Mama (my aunt), used to make me grilled blue cheese sandwiches and a great blue cheese cake. No wonder I was a fat kid.

So when I reached high school and learned that the blue in blue cheese was mold, I went cold turkey. I didn't touch blue cheese for a good 15 years. The sight of blue cheese turned me green. On those rare occassions I'd go to the doctor, I'd be convinced that the blue cheese mold had taken over my colon and I'd be dying of some rare mold poisoning. Nice knowing you, MVR3!

Boy was I relieved to find out that the mold in bleu cheese is completely harmless to humans. Except for those with mold intolerance. They're screwed if they eat bleu cheese - sorry suckers. This still wasn't enough to get me to eat it again, but at least I didn't have death dreams after seeing some in the grocery store.

Then I was at a burger joint with Spruce a few months ago. He ordered a hamburger with a side of bleu cheese dressing. He slathered that burger in bleu cheese dressing and then dipped it before each bite. I know Spruce well enough to know when he's having a gastrorgasm. Sure enough, he had one right there in the restaurant. It was a little embarassing. I felt like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. Only Spruce's orgasm was real.

Ever since then I've been eating bleu cheese dressing on everything. And I mean everything. Mama would be so proud.

More to come... (burp)

I'm Paper Free!

2004-09-24T18:05:00.000-04:00

In my long-running attempt to improve the environment, I no longer use any paper. I'm completely invisible to junk mail services, because my address appears to go to a crippled, blind 87 year-old spinster on welfare. All of my bills are paid electronically with electronic statements going directly to my email account (even the welfare statements, which go to blindoldlady@poorasdirt.com). I read the New York Post online, canceling my decades long daily subscription after realizing that the newspaper was not only environmentally unfriendly, but also only a marginally better source of information than Weekly World News. I no longer get my groceries in paper or plastic, instead I stuff my pockets full of sundries. I never ask for, nor accept receipts for my purchases.

Okay, I take it all back. I am not paper free. I won't give up my Charmin.

More to come...

Flex those muscles

2004-09-23T11:38:00.000-04:00

You often hear people complaining that female models make normal chicks feel inadequate. I'd like to posit that the same is true for guys. You see these flat bellied, ripped, handsome men with great tans, great teeth, wavy hair, and linen clothes and you realize that you're just a fat bellied, tubby, relatively good looking, farmer's tanned, average toothed, wavy haired, cotton wearing everyman. It makes you wonder how you can ever compete for the hot chicks with these guys stealing all of them.

Then I remember something. I'm not after the supermodels. They're all spacy, neurotic, toothpicks who are bad in bed - trust me, I know. "Oh, Marty, right there. Do it that way. No, I won't open my eyes. I'm imagining that you're Martin Sheen. Okay, fine. I'll open them. Alright, the moment's gone, you loser. Now get dressed and leave. All I wanted you for was the photo session anyway!"

I'm after the tall, tattoed women who aren't looking for the cut, lantern jawed Adonis' that grace the covers of Cosmo-for-men magazines. So everything's cool. Get back to work. Just needed a reality check after actually seeing one of those guys walk past me on the sidewalk. I know my place in the world and it is good - very good.

Much, much, more Marty to come...

What causes colonergic reactions?

2004-09-22T19:31:00.000-04:00

Just because they aren't listed in medical text books doesn't mean they don't exist.

For me, a colonergic reaction is when you eat or drink something and within a short period of time, say one hour, you've got explosive diarrhea or at least really bad shits. It's not like whatever you ate is already coming out. Everyone knows (at least I do) that it takes 12 to 24 hours for food to pass from esophogus to stomach to large intestine to small intestine to colon to anus to toilet. So what makes this happen?

For some people it's coffee.

For others it's gin.

For still others it's bleach.

For me it's pretzels. They get me every single time.

I'm swearing off pretzels. I swear.

Hurricanes, Hurricanes, Hurricanes!

2004-09-21T13:27:00.000-04:00

As much as I hate to admit it as an avid storm watcher, I'm getting tired of all these hurricanes. Can't mother nature mix it up a little bit with something like a tornado or earthquake or volcano or Nor'easter or monsoon or tsunami or mudslide? All I've seen on The Weather Channel for the past month has been hurricane after hurricane after hurricane. I mean, I love storms, but these storms are killing people. That's not nice.

More to come...

I hate parks

2004-09-20T15:11:00.000-04:00

Last night I found out that Laura, the segment producer on Without a Drought, has some shots planned in the park this weekend. I may have to quit. I haven't been in a park since the day I was born. I'd rather not talk about it. Basically, I was a birch baby and my mother died while having me in a park in Bucharest. That's all I'm going to say about it. I've got a fear of parks.

More to come?

Coinage & Paper Money

2004-09-19T14:09:00.000-04:00

Now I know you're thinking this is some sort of Libertarian Gold Standard rant. Well, it's not. I just want to give some credit to our paper money and coins. There seems to be a new effort on the part of the US Mint to make it cool.

New and improved Pictures Of Jackson,Hamilton, Franklin, and Lincolin.... Hey, isn't it time to fix up the real George Dubya on the 1? And how about that pink stuff on the new $20? I hold on to them longer and use the old ones first. Come on, who else does that? Fess up.

And they are trying with coins too! The 50 state Quarters that come out 5 a year since 1999 are cool... Except for Texas this year... no imagination at all. The fake George Dubya must have insisted on approving that one. And how about a shout out to the gold dollar coin? I love a pocketful of Sacagaweas.

New nickels will be out soon with a buffalo on the back and new $50s too. Not that I'll see many of those, but I can't wait. Now if they can just do something about pennies....Copper is so 1800s, Perhaps something in a lime green.

More to come...

Who hires a dating counselor?

2004-09-18T00:31:00.000-04:00

So tonight I'm working on Without a Drought when Barry introduces me to the show's dating counselor. I didn't know there was such a thing, but apparently this guy makes his living teaching guys how to date. Not only does he get losers to pay him to teach them how to approach women, he will now appear on television program so he'll get a national reputation. Is that insane or what?

My first question is what kind of person grows up and decides he wants to be a dating counselor?

I could guess, but I'm guessing my guess would be wrong. I guess you could get a degree in psychology or counseling or something and decide to focus on interpersonal relationship initiation or something. But I asked this guy - he majored in auto repair. He seems borderline mental. Example - he gets his hair cut all the time. Like several times a week. And he wears sandals. And we all know about men who show their feet in public, don't we?

My second question is what kind of person thinks they need a dating counselor?

I'm going to cut our contestant, lets still call him Chuck since that's not his name, some slack and assume that the only reason he's using the dating counselor is because one was provided by the show. Otherwise, I'd lose more respect for this undersexed guy than I've already lost by his not having sex since before I moved back to NYC. But I mean really, who hires a dating counselor? My guess is that there are two primary types that hire these people. Guys who can't get first dates (and no counselor is going to help) and chicks who can't get second dates. For those women, here's a little advice. Stop being such a high maintenance drama queen psycho-bitch! There, I just saved you $200 in fees. Now buy me lunch. In a busy public place near a police station.

So tonight we filmed a segment where this dating counselor guy teaches Chuck what he called "Ice Breakers". lines that are supposed to grease the skids when a guy approaches a chick in a bar or restroom or wherever. These lines made me cringe. I lost $10 to Dex because even as lame as these lines were, Chuck didn't get slapped once. These broads must have been really drunk or stoned or deaf. I don't understand how else Chuck escaped without losing teeth.

Anyway, so not only does this guy make a living as a dating counselor and is appearing on a reality TV show, but he's also really really really bad at his job! All I can hope for Chuck's sake is that some nugget of truth seeps through all the manure and he finds something to use from this guy's "program". Somehow I doubt it. I think Chuck's doomed. Should make for great television. Maybe I should pull him aside and give him some advice. I wonder if he knows the 3 T's?

More to come...

Somewhere Someone Loses a Shoe

2004-09-17T18:20:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been walking down the street or driving down the highway or biking down a trail or swimming in the ocean or sleeping in the park when you've come across a single shoe that looks like it just came off someone's foot?

Do you wonder where that shoe came from?

Do you wonder if someone is looking for it?

If they're okay?

If they're still wearing just one shoe?

Perhaps the most disturbing and the most amusing all at once is the single child's shoe in the middle of the road. My very first reaction is that some kid just got creamed by a cab. An instant later when I notice that there aren't any crowds gathered, no sirens wailing (well, they might be but not about this), and no screaming parent, I smile. Some kid, no doubt in a car seat with the window rolled down, managed to take off his shoe on the foot that itched and tossed the shoe out the window. His mother will get to the destination and find that her kid only has one shoe. She'll be embarassed about what people will think, frustrated that she has to buy another pair, and curious about what could have possibly happened to that shoe. She'll probably pull a muscle in her back trying to reach under the front passenger seat looking for the lost shoe. No luck. It's at 23rd and Park Ave. And now she's going to the chiropractor.

Well, I mention all of this to say that I found a single high top sneaker on the sidewalk today. Men's size 8 1/2.

Is it yours?

More to come....

Chunk White Meat Tuna

2004-09-16T13:18:00.000-04:00

I don't think there is a better canned meat. If there is, someone needs to turn me on to it.

I'm sitting here on my lunch break and this tuna sandwich is exactly what I needed. Low fat, low carb, high taste. It's like a beer commercial on a bun.

With the right blend of mayo and spices your tuna will transform into Cajun, Mexican, Asian, or plain ol' Continental or American cuisine. How many other canned meats are that flexible?

The solitary drawback I see is that it tends to give you tuna breath, which can present problems with the ladies. That's why I carry a travel size Scope Cinnamon in my camera bag. Which reminds me ... we're going clubbing tonight!

Let's dance!

2004-09-15T23:51:00.000-04:00

Today I learned to Flamenco. Dex was my partner. I think we made up.

My Favorite Sandwich

2004-09-14T11:06:00.000-04:00

One summer morning when I was a kid, Harold (remember, he became Spruce later) and I were looking to make an extra buck. We knocked on doors down our street asking if anyone had any chores they needed done. This was back before people thought about things like child abduction or work avoidance.

A couple people gave us nickels for taking out the trash or promising not to knock on their doors anymore. At the end of the block there was this eccentric old lady whose decrepit house was complimented by a decrepit lawn. Well, what passes for a lawn in NYC. It's really the grass growing up between the cracks in the sidewalk.

We weren't even sure we wanted to approach her house, but Harold bet me his nickel that I wouldn't knock on her door. Here I was with an opportunity to double my money by doing what we'd been doing all morning. I knocked. She answered. I cringed. She smiled! I rushed through my pitch and she bit! No, not me, but the idea of paying us to clean up. She let us into her foyer and asked us to wait.

We marveled at how clean the inside of her house was and that her furniture wasn't falling apart. The contrast with the ramshackle exterior is something I remember vividly even today. This dilapidated old house with cracked paint, dirty windows, and a decaying roof filled with beautifully polished hardwood floors, antique furniture, and not a speck of dust in the entire house. Go figure. Maybe she didn't have a couple healthy boys eager for a buck to keep up the outside.

She came back with a pair of hedge trimmers and a trowel. She told us we could be her gardeners. We'd never been gardeners before, but we were game since she was so nice and offered us a quarter a piece if we did good work. She showed us a small patch of dirt up against the stoop where she wanted to plant flowers. She gave us an envelope of seeds and a watering can. We went to work. Digging the grass and weeds out of the sidewalk took most of the morning. We barely wasted any time at all playing in the hydrant down the street. We finished it off by planting the seeds. We were both more than a little proud of ourselves and we were curious about what kind of seeds we'd planted.

Sweaty, dirty, and tired, we knocked on the door again. She answered with two glasses of Cool-aid, handed each of us a quarter, and asked what we'd like for lunch. I ordered a hamburger and Harold wanted peanut butter and jelly. She sat us down in her miraculously clean kitchen and went to work. She chattered away about her children now grown and gone and how her son was just as hard-working as us. He was an accountant or something. I bet he wasn't a gardener. I kind of tuned her out as I drank my Cool-aid. I don't know if it ever tasted so good. The frying of the hamburger smelled great - I was really hungry. This would be a chronic problem of mine leading to my ever expanding waistline. Now I've got it under control. My pediatrician always said I was short for my weight - what does he know? He's used to measuring kids who never finished their dinner.

She set our sandwiches down in front of us, taking care to put potato chips and pickle slices on each plate. She didn't prepare anything for herself, but appeared content with watching us eat... Just like old times I guess.With the first bite of my sandwich I had the most peculiar sensation. I was eating a hamburger, but I wasn't. I lifted my bread to check. Sure enough there was a hamburger patty, but it was slathered in grape jelly. I looked at Harold. He had peanut butter and ketchup on his chin. The old lady asked if anything was wrong. I assured her I was just fine. Harold showed her his sandwich - peanut butter, lettuce, tomato, and ketchup. I definitely got the better half of this deal. I've been eating grape jelly hamburgers ever since. I know what I'm having for lunch.

More to come...

Bowling for Chicks

2004-09-13T23:53:00.000-04:00

Tonight was our first night out with the contestant for Without a Drought. Basically, we spend the next 30 days taking this kid out on the town hoping some chick is dumb enough to sleep with his sorry ass. I'm not sure why, but our segment producer, a really cute girl named Laura, insisted that tonight we take him bowling.

I don't know about you, but in my opinion bowling alleys aren't necessarily the best place to pick up chicks unless you're looking for a diner waitress working nights or a street walker come in out of the rain. Fortunately for our shlub, this is NYC and diner waitresses make good money and street walkers don't hang out too much around Union Square. We went to Bowlmor Lanes. You gotta love a bowling alley that advertises Bar Mitzvah party accomodations on its website. Where else but NYC?

Tonight was Night Strike - the latest in bowling among NYC club-loving hipsters. The place was packed, neon bowling balls were rollilng under blacklight and the DJ was kickin' it (isn't that what kids say these days?). Our guy, lets call him Chuck since that's not his name, seemed to have a really hard time on two fronts. First, he couldn't bowl for shit. Second, he couldn't tell the girls from the boys. I don't think this was entirely his fault since it was really dark in there and the music was so loud you couldn't hear a word anyone was saying. I knew the music was concert venue loud when Dex put away his boom mic and started bootlegging the dance vibe pulsing from the speakers.

Frankly, tonight was a total loss. Dex gave up on sound, my footage looks like an early 80s video game with pink, green, blue, aqua, purple, yellow, and orange spheres racing in a straight line across the screen, and Chuck had luck with the ladies rivaling Dick Nixon on acid. We'll chalk this one up to a learning experience, but I don't blame Laura, because she's super cute.

More to come...

Are You Ready For Some FOOTBALL?

2004-09-12T10:55:00.000-04:00

I'm not.

Bad Mexican

2004-09-11T14:29:00.000-04:00

A side effect of living in so many countries and visiting so many more is that I've developed an ability to eat just about anything. I've had cuisine from more countries than I can remember and most more than once. NYC helps with this since it's the only place I've seen Argentinian, Burmese, Eritrean, Fijian, Filipino, Guatemalan, Hungarian, Indonesian, Lebanese, Luxemgorgean, Malaysian, Paraguayan, Persian, Peruvian, Polish, Qataran, Scottish, Tibetan, Tunisian, Ukranian, Venezualan, Zimbabwean, and Zuid Afrikan restaurants.

This is somewhat ironic to me since most New Yorkers shy away from spices more intense than salt and pepper. When I mention things like jalapenos, Korean red pepper pace, curry, or "real" Buffalo wing sauce to my friends, they shake their heads and mop their brows as if their mouths are already aflame. I say shake my head and question their masculinity.

Here's an example. There's a Tex-Mex place famed for their spicy pork burrito. In fact, Zagat warns readers about how spicy it was. I knew I had to try it. When I ordered the burrito, my sissy friends shook their heads and the waiter suggested I order something less spicy. I assured him that if it was too spicy for me, I'd order something else and pay for both (that might have been time for a dine-n-dash). He seemed somewhat relieved. A while later, the bus boy brought my meal. He looked at me as if I were a dead man walking - he was Mexican. I dug in with gusto.

Nothing.

Another bite.

Nothing.

The waiter came to check on me with a glass of water and a fire hose. We then had this exchange...

Me: Is this the right burrito?

Him: (inspecting said food item) Yes, sir.

Me: It's not hot enough.

Him: (walking away)

My friends still tell this story whenever they do something crazy like add sharp cheddar to their hamburgers.

But none of this is really the point of today's entry. The point is that last night I had bad Mexican.

So how do they import Montezumas Revenge anyway?

Diagonal Walkers

2004-09-10T13:31:00.000-04:00

Not sure why, but I've been doing a lot of complaining lately. Maybe it's time for a vacation or something. As much as I love NYC, it can wear on you if you have non-stop NYC sensory input. You'd think my weekend in Connecticut would have cured me at least short term, but apparently it didn't... all it did was remind me that it'll be a while before I get to take an actual vacation. After all, this guy has 30 days to get horizontal with a broad and there's no way in Ted Kaczynski's mailbox that he'll do it in less time. So I'm basically stuck in the city for the month of September and half of October.

So here is today's complaint. There is one thing that New Yorkers do more than anyone else in the country. No, not honk horns (though that might be true). We walk. New Yorkers walk everywhere. I know people who live in the suburbs and think that walking a couple blocks is a long way. Two NYC street blocks is 1/5th of a mile. Suddenly doesn't seem so long, does it? Well, New Yorkers walk a lot.

I know one guy who walks 50 blocks to work. That's 2 1/2 miles and he does it every single workday of the year unless there is a torrential downpour or he's on vacation. He also walks 50 blocks home. So his daily commute is 5 miles round trip and he does it all on foot. If he walks to work 200 days a year (I'm sure he does), he walks 1,000 miles just in his commute. This doesn't include the walking he does around his apartment, near his apartment, on the weekends, at the office, on his lunch break. This guy is a walking machine. Many New Yorkers are.

So if we all walk so much why are so many of us so bad at it? There is a sidewalk etiquette that is essential to harmonious walking in NYC. Let's see if I can pick out the highlights.

1. If you're not walking down the sidewalk, get out of the way. If you're on your cell phone, waiting on your dog to pinch a loaf, talking to a buddy, smoking a butt outside a bar, chalking the sidewalk, panhandling (why do I mention this as if the bums in NYC have internet access?), or hacking up a lung, please stand to the street side near the meters or on the building side. That gives the rest of us a nice clear lane to go on our merry way without having to step around your inconsiderate ass.

2. When in a party of 3 or more, do not walk more than 2 abreast. There's nothing more frustrating as a pedestrian than to come up on a slow moving pack of tourists with matching "I love Iowa" t-shirts or a family on their way home from cousin Cheedle's barmitzvah bash. If you try to split the middle, they may reform and entrap you within their mass. If you try to go around streetside you run the risk of being hit by a bus. If you try to go building side you may just get mowed down by a pizza delivery illegal barreling out of a building. Meanwhile, people are attempting to dodge them coming from the opposite direction and we're stuck with a sidewalk equivalent of the Holland Tunnel funnel. Please just buddy up and walk in an orderly fashion.

3. Diagonal Walkers. This is my #1 pet peeve with people who walk in the city. We've been walking in this city for decades, our families have walked this city for centuries, yet more than half this city can't walk in a straight line! You know the type. You're coming up on slow moving traffic and they start to drift into your lane. You switch tacks, back to the other side, their drift follows as if you're in a NASCAR race and they won't let you get by on the last lap. These diagonal walkers can be young people unskilled in geometry, old people with deteriorating motor skills, or people in between who simply lack the ability to so something as simple as walk and talk on a cell phone at the same time. Many times they'll be guys checking out chicks, chicks checking out guys, guys checking out guys, chicks checking out chicks, or any variation on those themes. What, I got all of them? Anyway, these people make me do something I would never do otherwise. As I pass them with growing irritation, I mumble under my breath. Now they think I'm the crazy New Yorker who talks to himself as he walks down the street.

Hmmmm.... maybe I am?

More to come...

An Ode to Apathy

2004-09-09T17:12:00.000-04:00

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for my political ravings yesterday. I'm not sure what came over me. A sudden case of caring? Who knows.

Suffice to say I will try to refrain from speaking my mind about something that I find utterly worthless - like politics. Or religion. Or that cotton ball they put in the top of aspirin bottles.

I really am apathetic about this stuff. I'm sure there are good causes out there, but they get cluttered up with people marching about the dumbest stuff imaginable.

I once saw a march here in NYC where people were protesting the use of yellow paint on traffic signal poles. These people really made a difference. Most of the traffic signal poles are now silver thanks to the efforts of these concerned citizens. This might be a good thing, because the elderly and infirm may not see the silver poles on cloudy days or near sunrise or sunset and their catastrophic pole injuries should open up more housing in the city, lowering rents and making it possible for me to get that penthouse loft I've always dreamed about.

Now that I think about it, I might just become an advocate for inane causes. Tell you what, if you've got a really stupid issue that you want some publicity for, shoot me an email and I'll write about it on my blog. I'll become the guy who writes about the stuff everyone else ignores - like the color of lamp posts or the acceptable number of sugar scoops put in to-go cups of coffee at the corner bodega. That way I won't feel like I'm a complete apathist, but an apathist with a cause.

Okay, enough politics.

Yesterday I saw Dex for the first time since the dog abduction. We were professional, yet distant. I think he'll come around. We did discuss his dog. He's planning to use his earnings from the show to take a trip to Australia for a visit. He seemed really insistent has he talked about the possibility of seeing Muffin again. I wonder if I should warn the current owners that they may have a stalker situation on their hands...

More to come...

Political Encephalatics

2004-09-08T15:46:00.000-04:00

Are politicians complete morons? Is that part of the job description? Or do they just become simple when an election is at stake?

George W. Bush - I certainly don't need to make my case about our current president. He's proven his intelligence more than enough times for all of us. I think it's too easy to pick on the guy, so I'm just going to say that he's probably a hell of a lot smarter than most people think he is... and that's the truly frightening thought.

Dick Cheney - Yesterday our vice-president, the man who apparently single-handedly devised Operation Halliburton in order to invade Iraq, told America that electing John Kerrey would put us at risk of another terror attack. What? Are you serious? The terrorists care who is president of The Great Satan? I hate to break it to you Dick, but unless the next president's name is Mohammed, those guys are still going to have a beef with the US of A. Hell, my guess is we'd be safer with Kerrey as president since he's not the asshole who invaded a sovereign muslim nation in search of cheap fossil fuels and fictional wumds. Nice logic, dumbass.

John Kerry - Speaking of John Kerrey. "W is for Wrong." Is this an elementary school playground or a national election? Didn't I see this on Sesame Street about 20 years ago? "Today's show is brought to you by the letter W. W is for wrong. What is W? (kids shout WRONG!)" Way to stick to the issues and convince America based on your merits there, bub. Can we get a do-over on this whole primary thing?

John Edwards - I'd love to rip a new one for John Edwards, too, but all I can say about him is that he may be the one guy worth liking in this whole mess. Afterall, he's only been an idiot for about 6 years. That's not nearly long enough for it to become a permanent affliction, is it?

I'm sure many of you now feel a bee buzzing in your boxers as you're fuming about my treatment of your preferred pinstripe suit. You could post a comment or write me a nasty email or light my cat on fire, but it won't change how I feel. Afterall, I'm a Social Apathist. I contribute every year by spending election day at a bar making bets on such hotly contested races as "honorable gentleman from South Dakota", "mayor of Duluth", and "ombudsman of Hoboken."

I'm almost compelled to register to vote.

More to come...

184 Million Dollar Bully

2004-09-07T18:12:00.000-04:00

I don't watch sports. I hardly noticed the 2004 Olympics as they flashed by. But I'm a weather junkie. I can't tell you how much time I spend watching the Weather Channel and surfing weather.com. Well, I could, but you'd think I was a bigger loser than I already am. Why does that sound odd? Oh well.

The point is that I'm never in my element more than when a Nor'easter threatens the Atlantic coast or a tropical storm grows up into a hurricane. And then there's nothing quite so thrilling as a weather map with a hurricane the size of Texas threatening the Florida peninsula. I'm not one of these crazy storm chasers. I'd prefer to watch the unstoppable power of mother nature from the comfort of my couch. Come to think of it, I could probably make a lot of money filming storms. Maybe I'll give them a call when Without a Drought is finished.

As I scrolled the usual weather sites for info on Hurricane Frances I caught an interesting headline. The New York Yankees, my home town (sort of) team, asked Major League Baseball to make the Tampa Bay Devil Rays forfeit a game, because the Devil Rays didn't make it to the Bronx in time for their game yesterday. I don't know about you, but if I played baseball and my home and family were being threatened by a hurricane, I'd fly them all the hell out of there. But the Devil Rays did something equally heroic, if less intelligent. They stayed in Florida and rode out the storm. Now this isn't all that heroic since the storm hit the east coast of Florida and Tampa is on the west coast of the state, but they still got some flooding and high winds in Tampa and I'm sure more than one Devil Ray lost some terracota tiles from their million dollar roofs.

What baffles me is that a team that claims to be the best in the history of sports - with more championships than anyone in the world, would ask a team I'd never even heard of before to forfeit a game. That's like Tiger Woods enforcing a penalty just because I threw my ball out of the pond. Or Bobby Fischer beating me in chess on a technicality. While we're on that topic, does anyone else think that the U.S. should just leave that bitter old racist alone and let him live out his days in an society that looks down on westerners?

Anyway, a quick web search showed me that the Yankees payroll is $184,193,950. That's $154,637,283 MORE than the Devil Rays. Those numbers are just absurd. In fact, that is more than the second highest paid team in baseball - the Boston Red Sox (I'm supposed to hate them, right?). Anyway, I think the Yankees are being school yard bullies with no sense of fair play or common human decency. They should beat the Devil Rays fair and square on the field. They beat them easily enough last night and I'm sure they'll kill them again tonight.

So all I've got to say after all of that is... have you heard about Hurricane Ivan? And GO DEVIL RAYS!

More to come...

Happy Labor Day!

2004-09-06T22:02:00.000-04:00

Today we celebrate work! I hate to work. So I took today off. Actually, everybody did. Weird day - let's take a day off work to celebrate work!

Barry gave us the weekend off. He had to visit his family on Staten Island. Who the hell grows up on Staten Island? And why would a guy from SI make a show called Queens is Cool? Wait, that's easy - because Queens is cooler than SI.

So I spent part of this weekend at my buddy Scott's house in Connecticut. Took the train up Friday afternoon, he picked me up at the station, and we sat in his house all weekend. It wasn't really all that bad. He's got a big house. Of course, everything's big to a guy living in a 500 square foot apartment. On the plus side he took me to Super Duper Weenie for a gourmet meal.

He and I met in college. Bet you didn't know I went to college, did you? Well, I was taking a shortcut through a campus one day and he asked me for directions. I gave them to him, but I don't think he was really interested in finding his way to the nearest opium den. We hit it off and I still see him every once and a while when I'm bored and he's sober. Or is it when he's bored and I'm sober? I forget.

He's married now. Personally, I don't get it. Don't get me wrong. She's smart, successful, witty, engaging, thoughtful, HOT, and Chinese. Oh, and she's got great feet. What I don't get is what she sees in him. Last time he got off his couch, Clinton lived in Arkansas. He hasn't mowed his lawn in so long, his neighbors advertised their house as "abutting vacant lot. Buy both to assure privacy!" His employer has long since given up on getting anything more out of him than "this week's happy hour is scheduled for Monday through Friday from 4 to 7 in the employee break room" or "this week's poker's game will be at Bob's house" or "this year's company picnic will feature a mechanical bull." His business card now reads, "Company Social Coordinator" and they pay him in beer. He's only got 9 fingers. He lost one trying to repair his riding mower. He's so lazy he refused to remove the cover from the distributor. Just reached up in there and hit the start button. It worked.

I'm convinced she just wanted a green card. Smart girl. Hard worker. Happy Labor Day!

More to come...

The violation I felt as a roadie for The Bangles

2004-09-05T14:14:00.000-04:00

You'd like to think that chick pop icons like The Bangles treated all of their roadies with respect. I'm here to tell you that it' just not the case. I was an impressionable lad who'd been lured into the low wage - long hour world of the pop roadie by the promise of sex, drugs, rock-n-roll, booze, and backstage access for my camera. Let's look at each of these things in turn, but backward.

Backstage Access - It was the summer of 1985. I had my betacam, Benita, and a tripod. I was allowed everywhere - dressing rooms, bathrooms, trailers, tour buses, sound tests... the works. I got some truly amazing footage. I must have shot 10 to 15 hours of 24 hr Bangles. It was great, great stuff. I saw an MTV documentary in my future. Our last show of the tour was in Cleveland. We had just wrapped on a truly amazing performance. In the euphoria of a post-concert high, I lost track of my tape bag. I found it the next day and every single tape was blank. I asked around. Nobody would fess up, but I'm convinced that one of the sound guys set it on a speaker. Any idea how big the magnets are in speakers? Needless to say, we are stuck without the definitive Bangles concert tour film. A moment in history was lost due to the negligence of a guy making $4/hr with a $5/day per diem.

Booze - You might not be surprised to find out that mimosas were the drink of choice in the Bangles tour bus. I'm not sure what possesses anyone to drink mimosas, but the champagne flowed liberally around that band. I stretched my $5/day per diem just enough to buy a bottle of rye each week. I don't know how else I would have survived this tour.

Rock-n-Roll - Perhaps at the time some people mistook the Bangles for a pop-rock quartet on the cutting edge of music. Somehow I doubt it. These vanilla-flavored pop divas didn't have an original musical thought in their gorgeous heads, but they entertained millions on the radio and thousands at their concerts. If I sound bitter, I am. They never cut the song I wrote for them - We're not pop tarts.

Drugs - If getting hopped up on sudafed is your idea of drug use, you'd fit right in. I swear these chicks got more runny noses. I hadn't been around musicians too much in the past, but pot, coke, and other mind altering substances had been the norm. Perhaps Nancy Reagan really got through to them. They said no. All the time. And not just about drugs...

Sex - This obviously gets to the point where I felt violated. Not once, and I mean once, did a single member of The Bangles approach me for some drunken nookie. Do you have any idea how emasculating it is to be on a concert tour and only have sex with yourself? The girls never fraternized with the crew and I couldn't chase skirts of the groupies who stuck around after the show when the mean age was 13. I'm all for younger women, but I don't want to go to prison.

So after that summer I decided that I would never be a roadie for a girl band again. In fact, I decided I'd never be a roadie again. That didn't last long. One of my roadie buddies from the Bangles days ended up as the head roadie for a Toad the Wet Sprocket tour. Now THAT was a concert tour... but I don't think the statute of limitations has run out, so I'll keep my mouth shut. For once.

More to come...

Floozies

2004-09-04T09:18:00.000-04:00

The more I think about it, this TV program idea seems flawed to me. This guy's got to get laid in 30 days or else he loses. Loses what? I don't know - Barry won't tell me. But as a camera man, I speak from personal experience - when you put a woman in front of the camera, given that she's the right (or wrong) kind of woman, she'll do just about anything for the continued attention of said camera.

So I'm worried that our show is going to end early. Yes, I know I said these guys are all losers who couldn't get laid with a hundred dollar bill in a Bangkok whorehouse, but I have this sneaking suspicion that if we put any one of them in front of the camera long enough, some floozy is going to rock his world if only to see herself on TV. I haven't brought this concern up to Barry, but I think he should. Maybe I should unblock his ISP from my blog...

Isn't "floozy" a silly word? I like it so much I looked it up. It means a woman regarded as tawdry or sexually promiscuous. I like the sound of that, but I didn't know what tawdry meant either, so I looked that up, too. It means a) cheap in nature or appearance, b) shameful or indecent. I'm guessing that when it comes to floozies, the second tawdry definition applies, at least to floozies in NYC. I've yet to see an NYC flooster who was cheap - they'll spare no expense on shoes and stuff. Afterall, how else are they going to land the loaded day trader at the end of the bar?

One question. Why does "floozy" only apply to women? In fact, why do women get all of the good epithets when they achieve sexual independence? When was the last time someone came up with a degrading name for a guy who sleeps around? Why am I suddenly so interested in sexual linguistics? Okay, so that was 4 questions.

I can just see it now. We're going to pick this guy who has no business being in the same room as any woman with a pulse and he's going to bed some vixen with a yen for the lens. I'm feeling sick already.

Maybe I should just go document feet.

More to come...

And Then There Were Ten

2004-09-03T14:51:00.000-04:00

We've narrowed it down to 10 contestants from over a hundred applicant videos. We'll have these 10 come into the office for a face to face interview before making our final choice.

I'm in for a long shoot. You should see these guys. Well, you will see at least one of them, but I can't tell you any more than that, because Barry found my blog and threatened to fire me if I gave away any more of the goods on the show. The nerve of that guy, threatening to fire me when I'm giving up prime foot season in the midwest to film his show. Just for that, I'm going to hold out for a bigger contract if this season gets picked up and he wants to do season two - by then the look of the show will be established and it'll be my camera work that fans expect.

I'll just say that when I suggested we bring all 10 on the show and make it an elimination game, Barry threw his stapler at me. My cat-like reflexes allowed me to deflect the stapler and return fire with a desk lamp. It's gonna leave a mark. When he came to, he asked if he could go with me to Lebanese Karate class. I doubt my sensei will take his lazy ass.

So if you want to know what's going to happen on the show, you're going to have to call your favorite cable network and demand that they pick up Without a Drought (was that a natural enough plug, Barry?). The things I'll do for a pay check...

More to come...

Fried Pickles

2004-09-02T22:28:00.000-04:00

One summer Spruce and I decided to make a documentary about the freedom riders down in the Deep South. This was before the internet and we weren't sure how to find these people since we didn't really know any politically or socially active people who might have connections to the braves souls that struggled for civil rights back in the 1960s when Harold (Spruce) and I were more interested in rollerskates and fire hydrants.

So we did the next best thing. A buddy of Spruce's was a SPAM tester. He randomly opened and sampled cans of SPAM looking for under-processed animal parts. Do you have any idea what they put in SPAM? Trust me, ignorance is bliss. Of course, I'm still famous for my SLT sandwich - SPAM, lettuce, and tomatoes. The trick is to fry the SPAM in Canola oil. Trust me on that one.

So this guy played golf with one of the managers who was in a carpool with the marketing director for Hormel Foods, Inc. We're talking a big time ad executive who was looking for a new marketing campaign for their food. We'd seen the overwhelming success of the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile so we suggested the SPAM Bus. He was intrigued.

We offered to serve as the film crew on the bus as it traveled the Southeastern United States so long as we could use any footage not used for the SPAM Bus commercials to make our own documentary about the Freedom Riders. He bought it.

We loaded up several non-essential Hormel employees in the bus, dressed them in 1960s polyester dresses, dark suits, narrow ties, horned rim glasses, and high & tight (guys) and beehive (girls) haircuts and set out on our way. We carefully routed the bus along the same highways used by those brave men and women.

By the time we got back the ad exec had been sacked and all of the non-essential employees had been downsized. But The Freedham Riders was accepted to the North Jersey Jewish Film Festival. The judges couldn't decide if we were a documentary thanks to our historical perspective or a feature due to the Hormel employees dressed up as civil rights activists. We argued that we were a documentary since the employees weren't actors. They ultimately agreed, but we lost when the festival's rabbi accused us of not being Kosher. I still don't know if he was talking about our film or us.

So why is this entry entitled Fried Pickles? Because on that bus ride I discovered the best use yet for a pickled cucumber. Deep frying. And I like you people so much I'm going to give you the recipe.

Marty's Fried Pickles

Ingredients:

1 cup of flour
1/4 cup of cornstarch
1 teaspoon of baking powder
1/4 teaspoon of salt
1 cup of water
1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons of dill pickle brine (the juice)
4 cups of 1/4 inch sliced dill pickles (drained of the brine (juice))
Some Canola oil (for frying)

Preparation (pre-frying):

Stir flour, cornstarch, baking powder, and salt into a bowl big enough to fit it all (and the pickles and fluids except the oil).

Mix the water, egg yolk, and brine (pickle juice) in a smaller bowl.

Dig a hole in the center of the dry mix (in the big bowl) and pour the wet stuff in the hole.

Stir with a whisk to make a smooth, creamy batter.

Cover the bowl with at towel or platic wrap or whatever and put it in the fridge for half an hour.

Heating (frying):

Heat at least 2 inches of oil in deep fryer or big ol' pot or pan to 375º.

Dip each pickle slice in the batter until it's completely coated.

Drop each slice into the oil - letting them fry without making the fryer over crowded - pickles need their space.

Let each pickle cook for about 2 minutes (maybe a little less). You may need a bunch of stop watches depending on how many pickle slices you fry at a time.

Serving instructions:

Drain the slices on a paper towel. Don't use a regular towel - the oil is a bitch to clean out.

Serve with fried chicken (don't use the same oil) or Cajun style mud bugs.

Mmmmmmmmm... my mouth is watering just thinking about it.

Oh, and I stand corrected - tripod and geocities are just as shitty as angelfire.

angelfire loves Kirk Cameron?

2004-09-01T23:13:00.000-04:00

This entry has almost nothing to do with angelfire, but I'm just 10,000% unsure why anyone would bother signing up (or continuing to use) angelfire.com to host websites. Am I the only one who avoids clicking links to angelfire websites after doing a web search?

I was all set to make an entry about my favorite actor - Kirk Cameron, when I decided to do a web search on him before writing up today's post. The very first link was "The Unofficial Kirk Cameron Fan Page". Well, I had several issues with this link.

If it's a "fan page" why is it unofficial? Is there an official Kirk Cameron fan page? If so, it's not showing up with my web search, so you may as well call yours "The Kirk Cameron Fan Page".

Second, it's an angelfire site. Whenever I see anything at angelfire.com I know that I'm going to get about a half dozen pop-up windows for stuff I don't want. So this site is angelfire.com/md/moopig (please don't visit the site!) and it's really driving me insane. What in the stars does "moopig" have to do with Kirk Cameron and why would anyone still use angelfire to host anything when angelfire is the web hosting equivalent of K-Mart shopping? I'm an internet website hosting idiot and even I know that there are dozens of other free hosting possibilities that aren't pop-up central.

Does this really reflect the level that Kirk Cameron fans have fallen to? I love the guy. Mike Seaver was the coolest cat on TV for 7 years. Then he grew up and his cute brother became awkward and his older sister turned 30 and was still living at home. A short time later Growing Pains TV movies started popping up. I'm still a big fan. Was there ever a better "Dad" than Alan Thicke? I think not. And I'd still do Tracey Gold (or Joanna Kearns - but don't tell Tracey or Alan). Did you know that Leonardo DiCaprio appeared on Growing Pains? It wasn't even his first film or TV gig even though he was only 17. He appeared in Critters 3: You Are What You Eat. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bagging on Leo for appearing in a horror flick. Even Clint Eastwood got his start in Revenge of the Creature. And Clint may be the only guy in Hollywood to hold a candle to KC.

But the glue that held the family together was definitely Mike Seaver - Kirk Cameron. The guy was a genius. Kirk's transition from Mike Seaver to abortion debater Tucker Muldowney in Talk to Me (the debate movie to end all debate movies) to the star of Left Behind, Buck Williams. That's the kind of range that most TV/film stars can only dream about. And he's only 33 (almost 34) years old.

Did you know Growing Pains II: Home Equity is slated for the November 2004 TV schedule? I can't wait! Growing Pains fan party at Marty's pad!

More to come...

Why I took Dexter's dog to Perth

2004-08-31T21:48:00.000-04:00

Well, it's no surprise. This is what I get for opening my big mouth. Barry wants to hire Dexter, the sound guy. I'm not complaining about the choice. Dex, as he insists on being called despite it's obvious confusion with "decks", is the best sound guy I know. In fact, he's one of the world's premier concert bootleggers.

He's so good at concert bootlegs that bands approach him asking him to bootleg their concerts. He once got five figures from Twisted Sister just for showing up at their Madison Square Garden gig with his audio rig. You think I jest? Bands thrive on live concert footage reaching their rabid fans. They know as well as Dex does that how a band performs live is the best indication of their true talents. And bands also know that if Dex takes the time to bootleg them, they must be amazing, because Dex doesn't bootleg lousy bands. Okay, he used to, but that was just when he was getting started. Now he only bootlegs premium concerts.

So why am I upset about Barry wanting to hire Dex? It's easy, really.

I kidnapped Dex's dog.

It was a silly thing to do in retrospect, but at the time it made perfect sense. Here's what happened.

Dex decided to go to Woodstock II. Why? I'm not sure. Perhaps the Red Hot Chili Peppers offered him a new car. Were they at Woodstock II? If they weren't, they should have been. Anyway, he was afraid that his Pekingese-Chow mix would be mistaken for a pillow with legs, so he asked me to dog-sit Pooches. I reluctantly agreed despite being highly allergic to dog hair and having a canine feces phobia. He assured me that Snookums was hypoallergenic and had been trained to flush the toilet. I bought it.

That afternoon Dex set out for Woodstock with his trusty bootleg kit and a case of Jack Daniels. I knew I wouldn't be seeing Dex again for quite some time. I never expected it to be over 5 years. Well, actually, I still haven't seen him, but it's likely that I will if he accepts Barry's offer of employment on Without a Drought. Knowing Dex, he'll take the job just to spite me.

So the day after Dex left, I got a call from a producer in Australia who had convinced an Aussie TV network to greenlight his own down-under nature show, capitalizing on the popularity of that reptile one. Our show was called Marsupial Hunter. More about that in a minute. I couldn't get ahold of Dex. In 1999 he still hadn't converted to cell phones. He swore that the cellular waves would screw up his perfectly tuned concert ear. I think he changed his mind the first time he heard a cellphone ring that played Smells Like Teen Spirit.

So I took Spot with me. Cost me $580 to get the animal ready for international travel. You'd think Dex would be fine with his dog having an opportunity to see the world, but no. He called me in Perth (our homebase for our shoot) and ranted and raved about "How dare you take Fido to Australia! Don't you know Chi-Chi doesn't like to fly? What kind of parent are you, taking Mumps away from her father!" Fortunately, I've known Dex for a long time and I only had to ask him one question. "So, did you get any good stuff at the concert?"

I got call block and didn't hear from him for the rest of my two year stay in Australia (this is actually continent #4 - I could tell by the silence that you didn't like the idea of me telling the continent stories in order).

The first episode's shoot was perhaps the most challenging of my career. There we were in the Australian Outback hunting (for photographic and entertainment purposes only, of course) the Yellow Footed Rock Wallaby. Sounds made up, doesn't it? Well, it's not - and they're an endangered species thanks to the Wedge Tailed Eagle. Honest.

These Yefrows (for short) live almost exlucively in caves amongst rocky outcroppings. They aren't easy to spot despite their yellow feet and ample, um, pockets. These kangaroo-like creatures are especially well known for being eaten by other predators that are stronger, more agile, and more intelligent than the Yefrows. I had to rappel from a promontory in the middle of the night with an infrared camera (named Ruby) to photograph the Yefrows mating. It was a truly orgasmic experience. For the male Yefrow anyway. The female got fed up, pushed him off, rolled over, and went to sleep.

So while I was on this shoot, I had to leave Fluffy with the producer's girlfriend in Perth. By the time we got back to civilization, she'd run off with Rover's stylist. I never saw either of them again. The producer, who asked that I don't mention him by name in any written materials about my experiences in Perth, assured me that both his ex-girlfiend and Cuddles are doing just fine.

Needless to say, seeing Dex again will be awkward. But I'm a professional.

More to come...

The DMV - a source of reality TV audition tapes?

2004-08-30T18:56:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been in line at the DMV and said to yourself, "Where the hell do these people come from?" You know, the guy with the polyester shirt, clip-on tie, combover, and Playboy Bunny tattoo on his forearm. The 300 lb. chick in spandex. The old guy with his shorts up to his arm-pits and black socks with velcro fastened tennis shoes. The pock-faced teenager with a retainer the size of colander. Guests on Jerry Springer. You know the type.

Well, I now know where some of them live, because most of them sent in audition tapes for our show. I've already told Barry, and I'm telling you, we need more attractive people who haven't done the nasty in 30 or more months. Otherwise, this show is going to be a disaster. If the camera isn't kind, we'll never get the kind of footage that results in a hit TV show. This stuff will end up on public access like Queens is Cool - which was meant for public access.

I'm lobbying Barry hard for a female contestant since the camera is naturally preferential to the feminine form, but he seems to think it'll be too easy for her to win. He has a point. I know if I were drunk, horny, and had the chance to sleep with a woman on TV, I'd probably do it. I'm not so sure that there many chicks that are as easy as I am.

Note: I start a blog entry about our audition tapes and halfway through I realize that I'm a slut. And who says writing isn't cathartic?

We do have a few possible contestants, but honestly, they're either absurdly short, freakishly tall, or bizarre in general. I guess normal people don't wait this long between humps. This could send me off on a tangent about normality, but since I've got a massage appointment in a half hour, I'll resist the urge. At least we can work with the short, tall, and bizarre - afterall, I'm a magician with the camera if I do say so myself. Nevertheless, I do hope we get more entries soon and I'm suspecting this show is going to be a bigger challenge than I thought.

Oh, Barry tasked me with finding a sound guy so if you know anyone, send me his contact info. I know a few sound guys, but they'd all make better contestants than audio personnel. I suppose I could look up my old buddy Dexter, but I'm guessing he's still not speaking to me.

More to come...

Thanks RNC

2004-08-29T20:27:00.000-04:00

I'd like to personally thank the Republican National Committee for bringing their convention to NYC this week. As a result I got my first day off since taking my job on Without a Drought yesterday. I couldn't get to Barry's office, because liberal agitators were marching all over midtown. Not that I'm complaining. I pulled out Belinda and got some great footage of the people jam. I've already sold copies to a couple news networks for their convention coverage. Nothing like a bunch of topless chicks with political statements written on their bodies to demand a premium price with the news stations. If only they'd been tattoos instead of body paint. Then I'd have something for my personal collection.

I'm not much of a political guy in general, but if I adhere to anything it's the philosophy of Noam Chomsky. It goes something like this - you can't trust the government, we need a revolution, and smart nice guys should run the country when the shooting's over. Works for me so long as nobody gets hurt. Of course, good ol' Noam can't even show his face on network TV so I don't know how he's going to get the word out. In the meantime, I'll let my apathy dictate my political involvement - unless there's a buck to made on the video feed.

Oh, the Olympics ended today. Did anyone notice?

More to come...

Flip Flops

2004-08-28T21:41:00.001-04:00

I'm pathologically opposed to men wearing flip flops. That is unless they get those socks with an individual "finger" for the big toe so that the guy can keep from breaking my life rule - never show your feet. However, I'm always impressed with women around NYC wearing these $4 rubber shoes with $200 dresses. There's something sexy-cool about that clash in value.

But today's message is not about flip flops despite the title. Today's message is about my flip-flopping on this job with Barry's television show. He called me early this morning, obviously after a night of heavy drinking, and begged me to come work on his show. If you don't know Barry Golden, you don't know this, but the man never begs. Anyone. And he begged me. I may be accused of flip-flopping more than John Kerry during a budgetary session, but, well, I couldn't resist. Especially after he agreed to double my usual fee. What can I say? I'm a sellout and a hack and I don't deserve to live. But I'll make up for it by filming a PSA. I'm thinking maybe a 60 second spot on the risk of foot fungus contagion in hotel shower stalls. Do you have any idea how many diseases are spread through unprotected hotel showering? Well, neither do most people, but I'm hoping to spread the word.

Barry and I met for lunch today to discuss my role. I did this mainly to make sure that he understood the artistic control I'd expect on the project and because he was treating and I was hungry. I had a mammoth blue cheese burger with french fries and four beers. The show sounds good too. I'm heading over to his office tomorrow to start going through those audition tapes I was hoping to avoid. Oh well - the sacrifices we make for our art.

Our show - I'll call it "our show" now that I'm signed on - is called Without a Drought. The premise, which I guess you can gather from the link, is that a guy who hasn't had any action in at least 30 months has to get some hey nanny nanny in 30 days. This should be fun. I'm just not yet sure how we're going to prove that he hasn't poked a hole in over 800 days or how we're going to prove that he does in the next 30. These are the kinds of creative challenges that I relish.

More to come...

Tin Machine

2004-08-27T10:50:00.000-04:00

Looking at my entry from yesterday, I realized that I had a case of the verbal runs. I'd like to apologize to my faithful readers. Both of you.

Today I'd like to speak briefly about my all-time favorite band - Tin Machine (sorry for the pop-up window though the nose against the glass is a nice touch).

When my single favorite musical artist, David Bowie, put out his first "group" album, I was first in line to buy the CD. Seriously, I was first. Not "I got it the day it came out", but "I was first in line". I camped out in front of a record store in Queens. I've still got the vagrancy citation to prove it.

Throw in Iggy Pop (can you tell I learned to imbed links today?) bassist and drummer brother combo Hunt and Tony Sales and you've got a recipe for magnificence. As an aside, could two brothers have more disparate names? "Tony" is as whitebread as Joe or Tom or Al. "Hunt" is as hip and trendy as Jordan or Spruce or BJ. What were their parents thinking? Okay, I kind of know what their parents were thinking, because their father is Soupy Sales! I mean, why wouldn't the king of the pie joke and a guy named Soupy name one of their sons Hunt and the other Tony. In Tony's defense, his middle name is Fox. Fox Hunt - get it? I do. That Soupy is one crazy cat.

So anyway, one of my big regrets in life is that Tin Machine didn't stick around for a few more albums. I've worn out not one, but two Tin Machine CDs. Do have any idea how hard it is to wear out a CD? That's like denting a Saturn. Do you have any idea how hard it is to wear out TWO CDs? I'd give you an example, but I think my brain would melt.

More to come...

My First Continent

2004-08-26T11:14:00.000-04:00

As you may remember, I've made it a goal in life to spend at least a year on all seven continents. I'll salt my blog with occassional stories about the continents on which I've lived and where I think I'll live in the future. Consider this installment #1. I'm starting at the beginning - boring, I know, but today I feel like reminiscing about my childhood. Forgive me?

As you may also remember, I was born in Bucharest to Austrian parents. However, Europe was not the first continent to qualify for my life goal. That was North America. Not much interesting about that, right? I mean, I live here, right? I'm writing "right" a lot, right? Okay, I'll stop that. It's even annoying me.

What I think makes it interesting is that until I was 9 years old, I'd been in more countries than states. Granted, I was an infant, so I don't really remember the journey, but I spent time in 6 countries in the first three months of my life.

Back in school, this made geography lessons fun. A kid would brag about their summer vacation in Maine and I'd whip out Canada. Another kid would counter that his vacation was in Delaware and I'd lay England on his ass. Some little girl would say she was from Pennsylvania and I'd knock her out with Germany. Spruce, who I met in the 2nd grade, only his hame was Harold then, spent his summers with his grandparents in Florida. For that I had to use Austria. But the coup de grace was always when some fat kid would claim to have been born in California. I'd simply mutter, "Romania" as he'd wilt in humiliation. Of course, now I'm the fat kid and the Californian is probably 6'2", 175 with a Wall Street corner office, Jaguar, Park Avenue apartment, supermodel wife, pure bred dog, house in the Hamptons, and three Stepford children. I pity him. I really do.

Like any kid growing up in NYC, I eventually visited New Jersey. I think I was 5 or 6, but I still remember Atlantic City and how much more I preferred Coney Island if only because I didn't have to spend hours on a bus to get there. NJ was my first state conquered outside of NYC. It was a modest conquest to be sure, but it taught me one thing - NYC will always be my home. Even at 5 I knew.

There's this snob thing people have between NYC and Jersey. I'm not sure I understand it. I just think NYC is cooler, hipper, better, cleaner, more creative, more convenient, less lame, more happening, taller, and more accepting of artists with a penchant for photographing women's feet without police intervention.

The next state I visited was Delaware. My aunt, who I've always called Mama, was gonzo for retail shopping without sales tax. She'd spend $50 in gas, food, lodging, and tolls in order to save the 5% sales tax on her $20 shoes and $10 skirts. I was a smart ass kid so I did the math once and those tax saving trips netted our household -$287 in one year. When I tried to explain this to me she sent me to my room without dinner and took away my abacus. I figured that saved her $3.50.

So there I was in 4th grade with 3 states under my belt. My international experience was beginning to wear thin on my classmates. I just had to see the country. Things broke wide open for me that summer. If you thought my tramp steamer story was good, wait until you hear this one.

First Monday after school let out and made me an official 5th grader, Mama needed to go grocery shopping. Her gout was acting up so she sent me instead. That was her first mistake. I pocketed her list and the $5 (her second mistake) and met up with Spruce (still Harold) and his cousin Clem out at Union Station in NJ. We were skipping stones off the rail cars when I got the bright idea to offer Clem $5 if he'd lick the track while a train was coming. I don't know about you, but a $5 bill to a kid in the mid-1960s was like a $50 today. I'd barely finished waving the bill at his nose when he had bolted through the fence and onto the tracks. Sure enough, the kid licked the track and I gave him $5. This presented me with a problem. I still hadn't bought any groceries.

Clem obviously wasn't the quickest sprinter in the race so I devised an elaborate scheme by which to reacquire my money. I goaded Clem into daring Spruce to lie on the tracks as a train passed over him. Spruce and I knew that he could, because Spruce had done this last summer. Sure, he was bigger, but he must have had a good 3 inches clearance before. He was good for at leat 1 1/2 or 2 inches clearance this year. Kids heads don't grow THAT fast, do they? Well, since you obviously know that Spruce survived, it's not that big a deal - Spruce now had my $5 and all I needed to do was answer whatever dare he threw at me. He threw me a doozie.

He dared me to jump a freight train and ride it to the next stop where I'd catch the next train back. I wasn't yellow and I needed that money bad. It couldn't have been much after noon so I knew I could do it and still be home before my Uncle (Papa to me) got home from work - he drove a cab. Talk about some stories to tell.

Next freight to ride by was my $5 savior. Everything went fine to begin with. I found an open box car presently uninhabited and rode it to Camden, NJ. I figure I was there by mid-afternoon. I jumped ship and grabbed another train. Trouble was it was headed to Pittsburgh. I knew pretty quickly that I wasn't headed in the right direction, but whenever the train slowed enough to jump, I became aware that I'd have to reboard another train going in the other direction and possibly at the same speed. My surival instincts told me to stay put.

Right around dusk I had a couple visitors. Two hobos climbed into my train. I still remember them vividly to this day. They looked right out of the movies. I don't remember their names, but I sure do remember their faces. I think they were as surprised to me as I was to see them. There's a certain compassion that hobos harbor for children I think. They fed me some bread and explained that I was on a steel train. Wouldn't stop until it got to Pittsburgh and then it was headed west to drop the fresh cargo. So now I could add Pennsylvania to my list of states. This exciting accomplishment was tempered by the realization that a) Papa was probably home from work by now, and b) Spruce still had my $5.

By the time we got to Pittsburgh they'd laid out my return trip for me. It wasn't going to be easy, but I could be back in NYC by the next morning. There'd be hell to pay and my summer would probably be spent in solitary confinement, but at least I'd be home.

But something had caught my fancy - the life of a hobo. If I kept going, I'd trump every kid in my class with my "What I did on my summer vacation" story and I'd actually be able to remember the places I'd been unlike my usual tactic of calling out the names of countries I know I'd been but I don't remember being. Given my knowledge of our family's penal codes, I also knew that the longer I stayed gone, the happier Mama and Papa would be see me and the less severe my punishment would become. That was enough for me.

Within the week I'd been to Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska, and Texas. By the time the summer was out I'd been in every state in the lower 48.

And I saw my picture on a milk carton.

More to come...

Buyer’s Remorse… or an ode to feet

2004-08-25T08:55:00.000-04:00

After sleeping on it, I’m not so sure I want to do this TV show. I was supposed to spend the next month working with Spruce and Chime (where do my friends find their names?) on a documentary we’ve been working on for nearly a decade. This summer we were supposed to head out to Illinois to add a state to our footage. We’re documenting women’s feet and the summer is prime sandal walking season in the Midwest.

This is a really fascinating project. We’ve been through several titles, but we’re currently settled on Toes Knows – a little homage to Singin’ in the Rain. The idea is to document both the regional and generational differences in women’s feet – their shape, size, color, hairiness, paint styles, jewelry, tattoos (I prefer to call them "tattoes" when they’re on the feet), and footwear (when we can’t get them to take their shoes off).

Not many people know this, but women’s feet have changed a great deal over the past decade. At least I think so. It used to be that most women treated their feet pretty much the same – with a kind of an over-indulgent neglect. By that I mean that most women worked on their feet, but didn’t do enough. Few women waxed their feet or toes and most gave only a cursory effort at cleaning up hangnails, toe cuticles, or hiding blisters. But these feet were what we might call neat, clean, and unappreciated.

Today there are distinctly two camps of foot hygiene among American women. The first are the willful neglectors. I’ll call these women “crunchy” because Chime calls them granola and I loathe soft granola snacks – that’s like eating a bowl of cereal after your Aunt Hildie called about her corns. So these crunchy women have decided to let nature take its course. They no longer rely on make-up or nail polish or hair products. They rely on feral scents to attract mates. And it seems to work based on the number of these women I see pushing strollers through parks. Back on track, what we’re concerned about are these women’s feet. These women have let their feet go to hell. Their feet are almost mannish with hair, dry skin, calluses, and hemp sandals for adornment. Nail polish or a cuticle trim is sacrilege to these creatures. In an effort to make our documentary fair and balanced, we are covering these feet. Oh, the sacrifices we make for our passions!

But the piece de resistance, the ode that is our film, is to the new breed of foot. To the perfectly coifed toe. To the Botticelli foot. To the perfect appendage. These feet are painstakingly cared for. These women, whose feet are rarely admired, spend hours and hundreds or thousands of dollars at making their feet as beautiful as possible. We must pay tribute! Any woman who waxes her toes, polishes her nails, trims her cuticles, and buffs and moisturizes her soles must be respected for what she is!

An angel alighting on exquisite porcelain platforms.

And the point of today’s note is that I am sure we’ll find some wonderful feet in Illinois this summer and I'm not sure I want to brush aside my art for a paycheck. I could send Spruce and Chime, but I don’t think either of them has my eye with the camera. Besides, they’d have to bring their own equipment, because there is no way I’m letting one of my girls go out of town with another man. And definitely not for a month! AND ABSOLUTELY NOT WITH TWO MEN!

So I think I’ll call Barry and decline his offer to work on his little show. Sorry, Barry, but you can't compete with feet.

More to come...

I got a new job!

2004-08-24T12:06:00.000-04:00

A few years back I worked with a guy on a public access show here in NYC called Queens is Cool. It was meant to help people of that borough feel good about themselves even though their most enduring landmarks are an airport (LaGuardia) and a blue baseball stadium (Shea). Okay, so Men in Black showed us the World’s Fairgrounds even though they looked better in the movie than they do in real life. Nevertheless, the show gave me my first taste of television filming and we won a couple minor awards for our efforts. When I say minor, I’m not overstating – one was from the Queensboro Public Access channel and the other was from a Queens weekly entertainment newspaper. These awards hardly rate in Manhattan and aren’t even on my resume anymore.

Anyway, I worked on QiC with this guy named Barry. He’s a little intense. In fact, I'd call him a Type A personality. I've actually seen him kick a delivery man when the poor guy dropped off chowmein instead of lomein. I mean, come on, Barry, what's the difference? It's all laced with MSG. I also can’t always tell if he’s being honest with me. Not that I've ever caught him in an outright lie, but he's always seemed shady to me. Apparently he won an Emmy as an intern, but I'm not sure for which network, show, or which Emmy. Can you even win an Emmy as an intern? Is that legal? Anyway, he’s turned into an independent producer so I guess that goes with the territory. Have you ever met a TV producer who wasn't blowing a gasket and full of poo?

Last night he called me up out of the blue saying he was looking for a cameraman for a new reality television show he’s producing. He thinks my look would be perfect for the show and asked me if I’d join the team during preproduction. I think this is great for two reasons and not so great for two reasons. Do you want the good or the bad first? Okay, first the good. I don’t currently have anything else lined up for a paying film or TV gig and Barry always has really cute assistants. That’s two things, right? I mean, the pay should be good. If Barry has always done one thing right by me, it was pay me and on time.

The bad is worse, but not insurmountable. First, Barry and I had a falling out a few years ago. He hired me to do a show called La Claustrophobia, which never aired. I’d say it didn’t air because Barry replaced me as the lead camera after Mexican immigration agents detained me at the border. You see, the show was filmed in Mexico and I was wanted for a couple youthful indiscretions. Barry wouldn’t pay the bribe so I was stuck in El Paso for three weeks while the show went in the toilet. Anyway, he’s assured me this new show will take place entirely in NYC and I won’t have to enter any countries where I’m currently wanted. Don’t tell Barry, but I still think the show would have been a hit had he kept me on camera and filmed it in New Mexico or Arizona. We could have told people it was in Mexico – I mean really, who would have known?

Second, I’m not a big fan of reality TV. In fact, I rarely watch the stuff. I’m a big fan of cinema verite, but I’m afraid that current reality television programming is killing the art of handheld film-making. I’m hoping I can add a bit of creativity to the genre with my camera work on Barry’s new show. He’s promised me some creative control in shot selection and in return I’ve promised him I’ll think inside the box… whatever that means.

He wants me to stop by tomorrow so we can go through some audition tapes for possible contestants. That should be fun – like the time I was in bed for three months with that sleeping sickness parasite thing I picked up in Africa. Well, at least I’ll be able to guide him toward the more photogenic contestants so my camera will have something interesting to look at. Here’s hoping. Maybe I’ll ask him if I can tell people about the show’s concept here in my blog. In fact, maybe I'll tell people about it in my blog without telling him about my blog.

More to come...

Always Name your Camera!

2004-08-23T09:46:00.000-04:00

I’ve been naming my cameras ever since Larry sank near Manila. That first camera was named Amelda before we hit the next port. Amelda still lives with me today, but she’s been forced to share my affections with countless cameras since then. Polaroid, 35mm, 8mm, 16mm, even my new digital video camera - they've all been named.

My cameras have always been ladies – if they were called "cameros", I might have considered them men, but they are most definitely female. This has to do with more than just the feminine form of the word. Consider for a moment how beautiful women look through the lens of a camera. It is no mistake. Cameras are perfectly designed for capturing the female form. The curve of the lens is not unlike the curve of a woman’s hip. The iris is not unlike a woman’s clear blue (or brown or green or hazel) gaze. Every camera has a place you touch that turns her on. Are women any different?

An added benefit to naming your cameras after women is that you can caress and tickle your camera without feeling odd. It’s also nice because you can still make your camera feel special even after you don’t call her for a few days because you need your space. You also don’t feel quite so bad if she sleeps with your best friend because you don’t fulfill her needs… after all she’s just a camera. There are plenty more in the ocean… and at the local photography & film wholesaler.

But you must understand that sometimes cameras can be COLD BITCHES AND TALK ABOUT YOU WITH OTHER CAMERAS BEHIND YOUR BACK AND MAKE YOU FEEL INSIGNIFICANT!

These are the times when I really think perhaps I should consult a psychiatrist.

More to come…

Lebanese Karate

2004-08-22T11:23:00.000-04:00

This little known martial arts form has changed my life. The combination of physical conditioning and mental preparation has given me a new level of enlightenment. I prefer Buddhist philosophies, but the Muslim forms. Don’t tell my sensei (he’s always trying to convert me to the "path"). Not only can I kill someone with one blow, but I can be very peaceful while doing it. I really do think it’s the best of both worlds.

I train in a small dojo on 23rd St. here in NYC. My Lebanese sensei says that I am one of top students he’s ever trained in my weight class. The dietary restrictions are difficult, but I’m learning. Prior to each class I eat a full pound of hummus and a quart of cherry Hi-C. I’m not sure of the connection between the two, but it really does provide me with the stamina necessary to complete my hour lesson. I wonder if something in the Hi-C synergizes with something in the hummus? Someone ought to do a study.

I do worry, though, that the Hi-C on Wednesdays counterbalances my apple juice Thursdays. You see, I am on a mystical diet that allows me to eat anything I want and think anything I want from Friday through Wednesday, but requires a diet of nothing but apple juice and thoughts of nothing but emptiness on Thursdays. So far I’ve gained 12 pounds, but my Tibetan-Zambian monk promises me that once my body achieves nirvana, I’ll lose weight like nobody’s business. I believe him, because he weighs like 98 pounds fully clothed. Don’t ask me how I know this.

More to come…

Life aboard a Tramp Steamer

2004-08-21T20:40:00.000-04:00

What is this? Yes friends, as a teenager I worked on a tramp steamer in the waters around the Philippines and Indonesia. This is where I discovered my true talents as a cameraman.

How did I get there? One day during my junior year in high school during a break from cramming for an algebra exam, I found a newspaper ad looking for cabin boys on a Tramp Steamer! The boat was leaving in two days from Jersey City. I don’t think god himself could have kept me from being on board. Not only would there be a ship loaded with women of loose moral fiber, I wouldn’t have to take my exam!

I got it into my head that a ship loaded with sluts would be just what this sixteen year old walking hormone needed. Boy was I wrong! The only women I saw during my 18 months at sea were dock hookers. I learned to bargain for a quickie in six languages. The good part is that I became sexually enlightened without the entanglements of a relationship (perhaps this explains my views on marriage?). The bad part is that it took quite a bit of penicillin to clear up a couple infections and I get a call from the CDC every time there’s a new gonorrhea outbreak in the Tri-State area. As far as I know, I’m still persona non grata in Macao for passing off Canadian money as American when paying the painted ladies.

Dock time may have been fun time, but at sea I worked my tail off. They made us wear these Ferdinand Marcos type 4 pocket matching shirts made with a polyester blend. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent much time at sea in the South Pacific, but cotton or linen is a much better material for that kind of climate. I prefer those natural fibers myself, because they breathe better and are eco-friendly (I throw away a lot of shirts).

I did have time to make friends aboard ship – two really good ones. Larry, my bunkmate, was a Jewish kid from Long Island who carried a damned 8mm movie camera everywhere he went. He was obsessive about that thing – he claimed to be making a documentary about life aboard a tramp steamer. I think he just liked making movies of the hookers at work. I fell in love with that camera, I truly did.

Lance was my other friend. He was this tall, lanky British guy with this great tattoo of a Jolly Roger draped across his shoulders. He'd been a sailor most of his life. We spent our time together hanging out in his bunk and drinking rum straight from the bottle. Good times. Man, I miss Lance.

Sadly, Larry (the Jewish kid from L.I.) didn’t survive the tour. The captain, a guy with a Napoleon complex the size of Napoleon, would make us swab the deck during rainstorms. These aren’t Midwestern downpours or Long Island drizzles. These are South Pacific monsoons with 30 foot swells. Larry has the good sense to leave his camera tucked under his bunk pillow. He did not have the good sense to use a non-quick release knot on his lifeline. A particularly big swell washed him overboard. When the bosun pulled up his line, he accidentally tripped the quick release knot, sending Larry to Davey Jones’ Locker.

I did what any friend and bunkmate would do - I cried myself to sleep in his pillow and kept his camera as a memento. I still have it, as a matter of fact. I also have an uncut documentary on Pacific Island prostitutes circa 1973. I put that on the old projector every so often to remind myself how far I’ve come with moving images.

A final friend I made was a Filipino kid named Juan. You may not realize this, but Filipinos often have Latino names thanks to the Portuguese explorers. Anyway, Juan eventually became an Ambassador to the UN for his homeland and I became his fashion consultant – I helped him pick out the ideal wardrobe for his station in life. I am proud to say he has not once worn a Marcos 4 pocket shirt during a council meeting.

More to come…

5 Principles

2004-08-20T10:00:00.000-04:00

This blogging is a lot of fun, so for the time being, you're going to get a lot to read. I'm sure I'll eventually forget my password or join a cult or something, but for now, A Life in White Balance will have regular entries.

I live my life based on five principles. Yes, five.

#1. Always drink cold beverages. They are always refreshing and keep their temperature in the winter months unlike hot beverages, which never keep their temperature, not in survivable climates anyway. We all know that the advent of the ice box revolutionized food storage and a natural extension of that was a proliferation in iced beverages. This is evolution people, keep up. If you must drink coffee, make it iced coffee. It works for me. Note: I don't drink coffee, but if I did...

#2. Just because you're overweight does not mean that you're not in shape. Round is a shape. I'm not Somoan, but I'm not thin. I enjoy food. If you've got a problem with my size, perhaps you just have girth envy. I don't have any problem picking up women (see principle #5). What's your excuse?

#3. Never expose your feet. Feet are horribly ugly appendages, especially when they have hair on them and lack nail polish. Women's feet can be absolutely mesmerizing once waxed and painted, but men should never voluntarily expose their feet outside of their own bathroom – and then only when showering.

#4. Always shoot for the middle. If you are at the bottom, people treat you like a cat. That makes it really hard to get invited to parties. If you are at the top, people watch everything you do. That makes it really hard for you to kick cats without anyone noticing. If you're in the middle, nobody notices you – you get invited to some parties even if not the really good ones and you can kick cats without worrying about someone taking a picture and sending it to the Post.

#5. TTT. These three letters represent my criteria for women.

T = tall. I really dig tall chicks. You see, tall chicks often get overlooked (or under?) by short guys who are intimidated by having a girl on their arm that is taller than they are. That's shorty's loss. I'm not overly tall, but many tall women are ultimately receptive to my advances, especially those with apologetic slouches from years of feeling over-heightened. The slouchers are so appreciative of attention - almost as much as single moms.

T = tattooed. There is nothing more appealing to me than body art on a lithe female canvas. Coupled with my serial monogamy, I've had more art in my bedroom than the Met. Some of these tattoo artists are true geniuses. I'll post some photos sooner or later. I myself have no tattoos (except on my feet, but you'll never see those). Some of the best tattoos are on women's necks and shoulders so that when you're spooning you have something interesting to look at. When those tattoos are missing, I'm tempted to connect the dots with her freckles and a Sharpie. Come to think of it, I once lost a tooth doing that.

T = tipsy. There's nothing better than a tall, tattooed girl with a few drinks in her. She's pliable, limber, colorful, and laughs at my jokes. Once you get them laughing, they're as good as yours. I think given my persona, women are often intimidated by me when sober. However, once they lighten up with a few mixed drinks (or better yet, tequila shots), they are much more likely to engage me in conversation.

I hope you'll consider converting to Martinism. These rules will make your life rich and fulfilling and give tall girls something to live for. Do your part.

More to come...

Anybody know Spruce?

2004-08-19T20:56:00.000-04:00

Hi – I'm Martin VonRonleven III. Welcome to my blog. My buddy Spruce turned me on to this whole blog concept and I think it will be a great way for me to keep friends and family updated on my life without sending them pesky birthday cards or using my cell minutes to hear all about Aunt Hildie's goiter. If she wants me to know about her goiter, she can start her own blog. Note: I don't really have an Aunt Hildie, but if I did, I'm sure she'd have a goiter the size of Danny DeVito.

Now a little about me. As you can tell from my name, I'm not originally from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Well, I am, but my family is not. They're from Austria, but I'm not. I was born in a public park in Bucharest, Romania while my parents were vacationing. My mother died in childbirth on a park bench under a birch tree – yes, I was a birch baby. I was sent to New York to live with a great aunt (not the one with the goiter, who doesn't really exist). Back in the old country, we were minor royalty. Here in the new world, we're lower middle class Americans with no title and just a little residual honor– no matter how bad life gets, I still won't kick a dog. A cat maybe, but not a dog.

I've never been married and hopefully I never will (Dad, I'm sorry if this is news to you). There will likely never be a Martin VanRonleven IV. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy female companionship as much as the next American male, but the whole idea of marriage defies the life plan I have for myself. What life plan, you ask? Well, I've got every intention of living at least a year on all seven continents (4 down, 3 to go - more about those adventures later) and I never want to hear a child say about me, "Grandma, why does Grandpa drool in his soup?"

Oh, I make my living as a videographer, camera man, photographer, and wardrobe consultant to the Pilipino ambassador to the United Nations. And I'm allergic to straw.

More to come...