Man. Dog. Cone.

Out of Time

My watch stopped Saturday at 9:30 a.m. I know this because, well, that's when my watch stopped. I panicked a bit. This wasn't a repair I could do by myself. I own a Swiss Military-brand watch, and not even a Swiss Army knife could pry open the back. And I haven't had a lot of luck in the timepiece department.

Let's wind back the hands a little: It started with my first "grown-up" watch, an Omega that had belonged to my grandpa Jack. (Prior to this I favored cheap Armitron digital watches. I still get a warm feeling seeing that company's name at Yankee Stadium, though it now adorns an analog model.) My uncle had passed the Omega down to me. I was tremendously fond of that watch, even though I had to wind it every day. As time wore on, though, the winding wouldn't last a full 24 hours. Something was awry. But an old man in an old shop on Spring Street in Manhattan (Ennio, if I'm recalling correctly) did a nice job cleaning out the gears, and the old boy was soon happily ticking again.

I employed this gentleman's services on a few more occasions, until alas, his shop closed. And it was only a question of time before the Omega broke down again. Luckily, a store called... um... A Question of Time had opened on nearby MacDougal Street. An Eastern European couple ran the place, and also did nice work. Yet, despite doubling as Rosenberg's Jewelers which blew up in Men in Black, A Question of Time also went out of business.

By now I had given up on the ancient Omega. It was an emotional decision, but the frequency of repairs had gotten just too great. So I moved on to the aforementioned Swiss Military watch. Now I was in the modern world. No more winding. A cool-looking black face. Glow-in-the-dark hands. Day-of-the-week, day-of-the-month displays. Waterproof to 100 meters (for Swiss Navy SEALs?).

But no winding mechanism meant a battery that would die at some point. Which it did. So I took it to the nearby Swiss Army store on Prince Street. No, no, the Aryan woman behind the counter sniffed at me, that is a Swiss Military watch, and this is a Swiss Army store. I was about to draw her a Venn diagram when she produced a form which I could fill out and mail in with my watch, and shooed me out of the store. (Their website confusingly explains, "Victorinox Swiss Army Watch SA does not make the Swiss Military watches, a company called Wenger does. However, since summer 2005, Wenger is now part of the Victorinox family.")

I was not going to mail away my watch. I like looking at my wrist and knowing what time it is. And I don't realize how often I do that until I'm not wearing a watch. My fill-in watches, a Timex Ironman and a chintzy knockoff Clinton/Gore inauguration model, were not cutting it. My life was off-kilter. I needed to bring the Swiss Military watch back to life immediately.

Joon Lee Gifts on Hoboken's main drag saved the day. And all remained calm until 9:30 a.m. last Saturday. Which I knew was, coincidentally, the shop's last day in business. On a previous visit to purchase a calculator battery (I'm a dork, OK?), the proprietor had explained that the rents had gotten too high, so he was retiring. Or was he just too polite to mention… the Silbert Watch-Repair Curse? At any rate, I rushed to the store, as I didn't know what time he was closing. Nor what time it was.

I was too late. They had packed up the batteries. He kindly told me somewhere else to go, but his accent was too thick, so I just nodded and thanked him.

Great, now I had to find another watch-repair shop. I did some Googling that night and set out the next day. A new jewelry shop, advertising watch repair, had opened in downtown Hoboken. I walked over, but they were closed on Sunday. So I walked to another jewelry store in midtown Hoboken. A handwritten note on the door said that "Vicki" was at their uptown location that day. I schlepped up there… and it was also closed. So I high-tailed it back downtown to a weird combination jewelry/comic-book shop. They were open on Sundays… but closed at 4 p.m. It was now 4:15, according to my phone. Had I really become one of those animals who check the time on their phones?!?

The next morning, on my way to work, I tried the new jewelry store again. The door was locked. A woman inside mimed to me that they'd be open in one hour. And how was I supposed to calculate that? Follow the sun's passage across the sky? So I crossed into Manhattan. And there, on Hudson Street, was a place I had probably passed 100 times but never noticed:



Shoes and watches. Normally that might have given me pause for thought, but, when you've seen jewelry and comic books intermingling, everything's fair game. I stepped inside. It looked like they'd been there a while. In the back, an older fellow worked steadily at what I have to imagine was some sort of shoe-repairing machine. A wide assortment of shoes, belts, and handbags lined sagging plastic shelves. An old glass case held a variety of polishes. In the front of the shop, on the right side, sat a younger bearded fellow sporting a yarmulke. He was surrounded by watches and clocks—cuckoos, "Drink Pepsi," you name it.

I handed him my wounded watch. He asked if I wanted to wait…or come back later. The anxiety of being without my watch for even another moment began to rise, but I calmly inquired how long the wait would be. "Eh, five minutes," he shrugged. Now, I know New York City has a reputation for being fast-paced, but are there really people out there who wouldn't wait five minutes?

"The band is very worn, would you like me to replace it?" he asked. Oh, here it comes: the upsell. I didn't want to get suckered into some fancy-pants New York wristband. "How much would that cost?" I replied. "Twelve dollars," he said, which seemed totally reasonable. But before I could even say yes, he added, "I could let you have it for ten." Were we now haggling, or was I just receiving the "Tribe" discount? (And I hadn't even expressed interest in joining the mincha minyan advertised on the front door.)

I casually mentioned that I needed a 20-millimeter band. (It was that same impulse where, at the auto mechanic, you reassert your threatened manhood by referring to any car parts you know the name of.) Then, to while away the five minutes, I turned to my left, where I finally noticed a large display of bright, whimsically patterned plates, bowls, and cups. I was getting accustomed to the shoes and watches—they're both vaguely in the "accessories" family, and they both dig leather—but this threw me for a loop. There were PETA signs, photos of Moby; it all felt very… goyish. But as it turns out, David's Shoe & Watch Repair shares storefront space with Rose & Daisy's. And why not? Tight real estate makes for strange bedfellows. I love this crazy city.

Five minutes later, I knew I was exactly 18 minutes late for work. And all was right in the world.

The Track List

1. Noah & The Whale - Five Years Time
2. Go! Team - Bottle Rocket
3. The Owls - Air
4. Apples in Stereo - Same Old Drag
5. Texas Governor - Faith, Hope, Love & Jesus
6. American Analog Set - The Postman
7. Rose Melberg - Cast Away the Clouds
8. Kissing Book - Selfish
9. Tullycraft - Twee
10. Zero 7 - In the Waiting Line
11. Rachels - Last Things Last
12. Sufjan Stevens - Chicago
13. Postal Service - DC Sleeps Alone Tonight
14. Pants Yell! - The City Life
15. Some Girls - Necessito
16. Magnetic Fields - Stray With Me
17. OK Go - This Will Be Our Year
18. Yo La Tengo - Black Flowers
19. A.C. Newman - On the Table
20. The Clean - Stars
21. Happy Bullets - The Disquieting Letter
22. Sisterhood of Convoluted Thinkers - Better Days Coming Now
23. Britta Phillips & Dean Wareham - Ginger Snaps
24. Aislers Set - Fire Engines
25. Peter, Bjorn and John - Young Folks
26. New Pornographers - The Laws Have Changed
27. Regina Spektor - Us
28. Shumai - The Lonely Passion of Joey Heatherton
29. Tom Waits - Hoist That Rag
30. Coconut Records - West Coast
31. Boy Crazy - Bad Things
32. Radio Dept. - Pulling Our Weight
33. Death Cab For Cutie - Transatlanticism
34. Mountain Goats - Dance Music
35. Yann Tiersen - La Valse d'Amelie
36. We Are Jeneric - Sir Charles the II
37. Eels - Bus Stop Boxer
38. Telegraph Melts - Septembrist
39. Edwin Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros - Home
40. Ted Leo & the Pharmacists - Under the Hedge

An About Face(book)

All right, all right, I've heard all the arguments, but it was finally the power of advertising that convinced me to join Facebook.

Right now my sole friend is Clorox.

Open Letter to Dr. Marc Schneider

Hi Doctor Schneider!

Or is it Doctor "Shneider"? Your email address in my in-box indicated the former, but your message steers me toward the latter:

Did you receive the e-mail which I sent to you recently (copied here-below)?
Please confirm since I have had problems lately with emails intercepted by spam-filters set too high.
Cordially,
Marc Shneider, Ph.D.

Maybe you should see what name is printed on your Ph.D. diploma! : )

Anyway, THANK YOU for writing again, for your original correspondence did end up in my spam filter, and I cannot fathom why. So I apologize for my delay in getting back to you. In your initial note, you said:

I am Dr. Marc Schneider and I work for Multilingual Search Engine Optimization Inc. in Washington DC ( Tel: 1 202 250-3645) - I would like to speak with the person in charge of your international clientele. Who is my contact? Who should I speak to??

In fact, after visiting http://www.saltinwound.com , I have noticed that your website cannot be found on foreign search engines (I tested it on Hispanic search engines, German search engines, Asian search engines, etc.) Our company is specialized in multilingual search engine promotions in 28 languages . From the Japanese Google to the German Yahoo, from the AOL in Spanish to the MSN in Chinese, we can show you how to develop a true international online presence by promoting your website on foreign search engines.

You goof! You went back to the "Schneider" spelling! Well, I just wanted to sincerely thank you for visiting Salt in Wound. I hope you were entertained, enlightened, inspired—or all three!—by our humble musings. And I am so grateful for your concern about our worldwide search results. But see, that's all part of the plan! Search engines are for squares, brother! We're like that über-hip bar in your town that doesn't have a sign out front. It's all word-of-mouth among the truly clued-in.

But don't worry, Marc! That doesn't mean we're not internationally known. Quite the contrary! "Salties," as they've lovingly dubbed themselves, routinely send fan mail from the four corners of the Earth: Schoolchildren in Uganda, adventurers in Estonia, and the Denny's staff in Guam are just a few of the "silent majority" who hang on our every post.

And they love that we keep 'em guessing! Are there 12 members of the Collective—or just 3? Is it based in Topanga—or Albany? We're irascible scamps, like that Pirate Radio movie! And the Salties wouldn't have it any other way.

So, Marc, thanks again for your generous offer to give SiW "the true international exposure which it deserves to have with foreign native online users!!" But the truth is, we're already there. Wherever you can look. Wherever there’s a fight so hungry people can eat, Salt in Wound is there. Wherever there’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, Salt in Wound is there. We're in the way guys yell when they’re mad. We're in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when the people are eatin’ the stuff they raise, and livin’ in the houses they build—we're there, too. Especially if there's a traffic cone out front.

Jami Attenberg's new book out Now!!

http://www.amazon.com/Melting-Season-Jami-Attenberg/dp/1594488967/

It's already received great press from Marie Claire and Glamour, amongst other publications.  You can find out about all of that and more on my newly launched website, jamiattenberg.com .  And here's a fun little interview on the Huffington Post:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/teddy-wayne/interview-with-jami-atten_b_419396.html

I'll be reading all over the country in the coming months, from Boston to Chicago to San Francisco to Austin, and many points in the middle - 24 readings! - and I'll be sure to let you know about that soon.  But in the short term, I'd like to invite you to my two New York launches, one in Manhattan, all fancy-like, and one in Brooklyn, because that is where my heart is.

January 21, 7:30 PM - Barnes and Noble Tribeca, 97 Warren Street
After party: Puffy's, 81 Hudson Street

January 28, 7:30 PM - Word Bookstore in Greenpoint, BK 126 Franklin St
After party: Diamond Bar, 43 Franklin Street

I thank you all for your continued support over these past five years I've been putting out books.  It has meant the world to me.  You don't even know.  Seriously.

xoxo
Jami

On with the countdown!

#20 to 1

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Oh, How I Wish the Economy Would Improve

So the apartment across the hall from me would sell.
And the guy living in it now, a buddy of the seller, would have to leave.
Because every time I am sitting at the computer,
he is on the other side of the wall,
talking on the phone,
SO VERY LOUD.
Every single time.
How is that even possible?

Who is he talking to?
What are they talking about?
I am trying trying trying not to focus on the actual words for that might drive me insane.
But did I just hear a reference to Timberwolves center Al Jefferson?

Why don't they just text like normal people?

Maybe I will pool my resources and buy the place myself.
Rent it only to mutes or those who have taken a vow of silence.

Maybe I'll just store my CDs in there.
Another bookshelf or two wouldn't hurt either.

Last month I found two Christmas cards in the lobby with this street address, but not addressed to a name I recognized. I left them outside the door across from me with a note reading "For you?"

The cards, the note--he didn't touch them. Not a "Sorry, not me." Nothing.
WHat sort of social etiquette is that?
Or does he never leave?

(I tried to Google the name on the envelopes. Checked the Jersey City phonebook for the name on the return address. No dice. Finally wrote "Not at this address" and left them for the mail carrier. I feel like I let somebody down.)

The guy before--now he was quiet.
Kept to himself, but so what?
Never figured out what he did for a living.
Had theorized road crew or chef.
His dad sells carpet.
Couple of times we (me and the guy, not me and the dad) mentioned getting a drink, but, it never happened.

What's he building in there?

It's quiet now.
But it won't be for long.
I just know it.

"Why is that a-hole always tippety-tippety-tapping on his keyboard?" he's probably thinking right now.

My top 40 songs of the decade (with commentary)

Inspired by my friend Dave, who preceded me as music director at our college radio station in the 1980s and who just published a list of his top 300 songs of the decade (!), I assembled a more modest top 40.

These are songs, not artists (indeed, there are a few artists here for whom I only own one song), but I did decide not to repeat any artists.

My original thought was to do this as an old-fashioned mix tape (except on cd) - but with 20 recipients at 3 cds each that was going to be a lot of postage and plastic (I couldn't get it down to two cds - somewhere along the way I started liking a lot of 6 minute songs) . So then I thought podcast, but after a few hours I felt like I had less understanding of the concept than when I started. So here are two formats I was able to figure out: a single big audio file you can download or stream.

Songs 40 to 21:
download (about 75 MB)
stream

Check back in a few days for 20 to 1.

My Highly Subjective List of the Best Movies of 2009

I like going to the movies. I'm like Binx Bolling, but without the charming New Orleans accent. So as 2009 reaches the end of its reel, or, uh, one last delicious digitally-projected byte—oh shut up for god's sake—I thought I'd run down the films I liked best.

Now, as I've aged, I've become more suspicious of criticism in general. There are several reasons for this, among them:

• I used to hold professional adults in greater esteem. Then I became a professional adult, and realized that we're just older versions of the same dopes from the schoolyard. So, with rare exceptions, who really cares what a critic thinks? (As pseudo-science goes, I am interested in cumulative analysis such as Rotten Tomatoes and the more nuanced Metacritic.)

• Our reactions to everything are highly subjective. Your personal history greatly affects how you respond, or don't respond, to a film. It's the rare critic who is on that very similar life path as you. I can love a movie and you can hate it, and we're both right. (Well, unless you were a real dope on the schoolyard.)

• And beyond that, your mood on any particular day will affect how you see a movie. Feeling good? Distraught? Had a fight that morning? The best art can pull us out of our daily woes (and joys), but of course it's still there, and it's still a factor. I'd like to see more reviews start with "Now let it be said that I was in a shitty mood when I sat down in the multiplex...."

I guess what I'm saying is, please disregard this list. Oh yeah, I also didn't rate two movies in which I knew the filmmakers. Objectivity, you elusive temptress!

OK, OK, enough yapping:

10) Up in the Air George Clooney is the patron saint of us aging bachelors, and basically plays himself here. The movie flirts with clichés—my god, a character in love is running through an airport—but director Jason Reitman subverts them at every turn. The result is a smart, funny movie in touch with the times.

9) Brüno In a year where America too often showed its true colors in terms of prejudice and discrimination against gays, Sacha Baron Cohen bravely held a mirror up to it. And it's funny as hell.

8) The Informant! Steven Soderbergh takes on a wonky but ultimately fascinating true story and turns it into a highly entertaining film. Matt Damon's performance gets stronger and stronger as the many layers of his character are revealed. Bonus points for the exclamation point in the title.

7) District 9 For most of it, it felt like no movie I'd seen before. Very cool, raw sci-fi tempered by humor. But the parallels to apartheid-era South Africa really made this harrowing.

6) Moon Like a really, really good episode of The Twilight Zone. Director Duncan "Yes, I'm Bowie's son" Jones's effort fills his debut with explorations of solitude, corporate malfeasance, and larger issues of identity. He's helped greatly by Sam Rockwell's performance. And I had to keep reminding myself it wasn't filmed on the moon.

5) Fantastic Mr. Fox In the battle of indie directors making movies for kids, Wes Anderson trumped Spike Jonze. This is technically brilliant, but more importantly, positively joyful. With this, Men Who Stare at Goats, and Up in the Air, you get to see Clooney dance in three consecutive films.

4) Wendy and Lucy Oh my god this is bleak. If you didn't like director Kelly Reichardt's Old Joy, you will hate this second effort. Michelle Williams is fantastic as down-on-her-luck, not-thoroughly-likable indie girl Wendy. It's another snapshot of our troubled times, and it feels mighty real.

3) A Serious Man The Coen Brothers dare to ask the big questions, and don't provide answers, because there are no answers. If we're good, do good things happen? If we're bad, do bad things happen? Who knows? Michael "I'm nobody" Stuhlbarg is terrific as the lead sad sack. And there are many, many laughs. You don't have to be Jewish to enjoy this movie, but eh, couldn't hoit!

2) The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus The unfairness of life? That slick, overcooked, ultimately empty Avatar is a blockbuster, and this movie can barely get released. Terry Gilliam gives you everything he's got in this timeless tale of good versus evil. It's a total outpouring of Python-esque creativity, a fitting farewell to Heath Ledger, and in many regards the best movie of the year.

1) Adventureland No movie this year came remotely close to affecting me emotionally like this one did. It rattled me to my core. Yes, I was the ideal demographic: Late 80s, music-obsessed, Pittsburgh-based, amusement-park employee. But Adventureland has so much heart and so much insight into what it is to be fresh out of school, lovestruck, and absolutely no idea what direction to take as you teeter on adulthood. The sweet pain of it all is captured here beautifully, with an air of melancholy hovering over the proceedings.

Honorable mention: Whatever Works, Star Trek, Coraline, The Great Buck Howard, Crazy Heart

Worst movie: Funny People
Honorable mention: Year One

Current releases I saw in the theater this year: 38

Eight Reasons You Haven't Spotted Me On the Citizen's Band

1. The indispensability of C.B. radio is greatly overblown. Off the top of my head, I know that my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents don't have handles, and neither does anyone at school (the kid who calls himself the Purple Turtle is such a liar). To reach any of these people, I just have to dial the phone, as long I keep the calls to just a couple of minutes, unless it's a weekend. None of these people seem to be unduly suffering as a result.

2. My social networks fit into fairly distinct compartments. There are close family, not-so-close family, soccer friends, choir friends, beer can collecting friends, neighbors. Replacing them with a anonymous group of truck drivers would be completely incoherent. (If there are ways to use different frequencies so that what you say is audible to some kinds of friends and not others, then this may not be an issue. But I have not heard any reference to this feature).

3. The thought of being contacted by someone who did time for coke possession in the 1960s holds no appeal whatsoever.

4. 95% of the conversations are just about traffic tickets.

5. People are saying that pretty soon everyone will be a C.B.er, and that it is the greatest technological innovation of our time. But with so little bandwidth, how can this be?

6. A friend of my parents was telling me about her C.B. radio experience - how she connected with an old college friend who broadcasts frequent and detailed updates of, among other things, her 20, but how it would be rude to 10-7 her.

7. It may seem otherwise right now, but Breaker! Breaker!, Convoy, and Citizen's Band will never be regarded as cinematic classics.

8. My school day entails fair amounts of talking, laughing, shouting, and bickering. When I get home, I seek out - even crave - activities that do not involve the use of my vocal cords.

Ten Reasons You Won't See Me Using the Wheel

by Ogg

1. The indispensability of the wheel is greatly overblown. My club, my loincloth, cro-magnon woman—I can reach them all from where I'm crouching, in a pile of my own feces. So why would I possibly want to go over there?

2. If I did want to go over there—and to reiterate: I do not—hello! Look at the bottom of my legs! What do you see there? Feet! They work perfectly well. I am reminded of the old saying: "We don't need to reinvent the feet."

3. It is the same shape as hot yellow thing and also not-hot white thing. By creating wheel you are mocking Great Sky Demon and basically just asking to be attacked and destroyed.

4. Have you ever seen one of those things on a steep hill? Uh, thank you but no thank you!

5. Remember "fire"? And everyone saying that was going to "change everything" and "make everything better"? But what did it end up doing? If you don't remember I will remind you. Things that were normal it turned brown and sometimes even black. And all breaky-aparty.

6. Why don't you have a conversation about where is the beginning of the wheel and where is the end of it. Menawhile i will count hot yellow thing, non-hot white thing, hot yellow thing again, you get the idea, and meanwhile hit things with club and drag woman by hair and get a whole lot done. And oh, you are still trying to find the beginning, aren't you?

7. Wheel works OK on skinny part. But on fat part—it does not work at all! That is stupid.

8. What's next, two wheels? You see what I'm getting at. It will escalate and just get silly. Three wheels. Four wheels! EIGHTEEN wheels!! Ha ha I am just joking but again, you see where I'm going.

9. They say there are no more dinosaurs but do you really want to take wheel way over there and—whoops—find out there are still dinosaurs? I know I don't.

10. Has anyone thought that maybe with a flat edge it wouldn't roll around so much? That, maybe I would use.

Ten Reasons You Haven't Spotted Me On Facebook

1. The indispensability of Facebook is greatly overblown. Off the top of my head, I know that my brother, sister-in-law, son, mother-in-law, father-in-law, next-door neighbor and work supervisor don't have accounts and none are likely to anytime soon. To reach any of these people, I either have to take a very short walk or pick up the phone. None of these people seem to be unduly suffering as a result.

2. My social networks fit into fairly distinct compartments. There are close family, not-so-close family, music friends, orienteering friends, work friends, college friends, grad school friends, faculty friends, neighbors. Mixing them all together would be completely incoherent. (If there are ways to create different access levels so that content is visible to some kinds of friends and not others, then this may not be an issue. But I have not heard any reference to this feature).

3. The thought of being contacted by someone who sat two seats over from me in geometry class in the 1980s holds no appeal whatsoever.

4. I am already easy to locate on the web. Having a unique name helps. Pleasantly, this has not resulted in my being contacted by anyone from my geometry class, and I think it's because of the slight extra effort required to do so.

5. Facebook fosters an annoying bit of innumeracy, namely: as the number of accounts approaches the size of the population, the entire population must therefore belong. Instead, it seems to me that most new accounts are for products, businesses, events, and multiple accounts maintained by the same person, perhaps as a way of dealing with #2 above.

6. My band did have a MySpace page, but having my content surrounded by blinking ads for weight-loss products was so depressing I soon stopped logging in. Maybe Facebook doesn't have any blinking ads, but how could it not?

7. I'm optimistic that eventually, never having been on Facebook will make me an object of envy.

8. A friend of mine was telling me about her Facebook experience - how she connected with an old college friend who broadcasts frequent and detailed updates of, among other things, everything she eats, but how it would be rude to "unfriend" her.

9. The Dear Prudence advice column (to cite but one example) is filled with stories of people who have decided to mess up their lives and their families' lives by deciding to try and reconnect with their prom dates.

10. My job entails fair amounts of data-crunching, database programming, writing scientific articles, and communicating with co-workers by email. All of these things involve typing while looking at a lit screen. When I get home, I seek out - even crave - activities that do not involving typing while looking at a lit screen.

Coneyard by Marriott

Jersey Boys (State)

In my life, I've been generally well-regarded.

With the distinct exception of one week in the summer of 1986.

Prior to that, respect and acclaim followed me wherever I went. Mr. Skadden, my third-grade teacher at El Monte Elementary in Concord, California, dubbed me "Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy." In fifth grade at Candlewood Elementary in Derwood, Maryland, I was a member of AAA's School Safety Patrol, proudly wearing the badge and fluorescent-orange belt.

At West Windsor-Plainsboro High School in Princeton Junction, New Jersey, I threw my hat into the student-government ring. For junior year, I was elected class vice-president. At the end of the year, I daringly ran against the popular incumbent class president, Erik "E.J." Johnson. He certainly had the advantage in height and Aryan good looks. (Erik would go on to North Carolina's Elon College, then home of the "Fightin' Christians.") But I somehow pulled off the upset victory.

Indeed, it appeared to be the summer of Jack. I had two prestigious sleepaway academic programs lined up. I was one of 39 students statewide selected for the five-week New Jersey Scholars Program. And just prior to that, American Legion Jersey Boys State.

I was one of nine junior boys from WWPHS chosen to attend the one-week program at nearby Rider College.


I'm in the bottom-right; that's E.J. in the "Grunts" t-shirt.

If you've never heard of Boys State or Girls State, they are nationwide youth programs originally developed by the American Legion in response to the pesky Communists' "Young Pioneer Camps." You are divvied up into dorms that are your "cities." (These aren't aligned with your actual hometowns—you are grouped with strangers from across the state.) Through elections, speeches, and meetings, you work your way up from local to county to state government. If ultimately elected governor or lieutenant governor, you advance to Boys Nation. It was famously at Boys Nation in 1963 where 17-year-old Bill Clinton shook hands with President Kennedy.


I figured Boys State would be an absolute cakewalk for me. Sure, it was an ultra-patriotic situation for a guy who basically considered himself a socialist. (My great friend Sean and I—who is above me in the earlier photo—have always been diehard liberals.) But I could play the game. In 8th grade, I'd won a $50 bond from the Plainsboro Lions Club for "scholarship, leadership, and citizenship." From my years in Model United Nations, I was well-versed in Robert's Rules of Order. And of course I was hot off my thrilling election as senior-class president. Among these Jersey Boys, I would walk like a man.

I have never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.

I had approached the experience with my trademark sarcastic humor™, which in retrospect may have been a tactical error. But the place was absurd! Here we were celebrating our individuality as Americans, and yet had to march around every single day in matching Boys State t-shirts and tan pants. And we had to sing a ridiculous song: We're statesmen, we're statesmen, of Boys State USA! We're statesmen, first-rate men, looking forward come what may! .... And with our thumbs up, we'll face a new day, for Boys State USA!

I started small, running for some inconsequential city office, peppering the campaign speech with my usual assortment of zingers. And… I lost. Lost. I was dumbfounded.

A minor setback. There were plenty of municipal elections ahead. I ran again. I lost again. And again, and again, and again. I ran for every possible office, and I lost every freaking time. But something more sinister was also taking place. The humor which had always been my friend was now backfiring on me. In my Boys State city, I was not "well-liked" in the Willy Loman sense. I was becoming a mascot. A laughingstock. The repeated campaign defeats had become a running gag. And had I at some point uttered the words "really big shooooow"? I don't know, but my city-mates incessantly demanded that I "do Ed Sullivan." I don't do impressions. I was being mocked, over and over, and it stung.

E.J., meanwhile, had won the position of flag-carrier for his city. I'd see him proudly leading his troops as they marched across the compound.

Things looked bleak, but I still held out hope. Because John Patton was coming. John had been a year ahead of me in high school. In 10th grade, I played beleaguered head-of-household Mr. Stanley to his irascible Mr. Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. (Fans of the aforementioned Sean will be interested to know that he portrayed Professor Metz.) John Patton always greeted you with a smile and a handshake. John Patton was always happy to see you. I looked up to John Patton.

John had attended Jersey Boys State the previous summer. And, of course, had ascended to Boys Nation. How could he not? He was John Patton! So now, as inspiration to the current crop of Boys State attendees, John would come and speak to us at the end of the week. If I could just make my persecutors understand that I was friends with John Patton, maybe—just maybe—I could be cool by association. I was looking forward, come what may!

But it often seems like life is being plotted out by a sitcom writer. For as we filed into the assembly hall, we learned that John's speech would be preceded by a karate demonstration. You read that correctly: a karate demonstration. And of course, they would need a volunteer. So my clever, clever city-mates, from our row of folding chairs, began chanting "Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!" I envisioned being brought up on stage and—hi-YA!—flipped flat on my back as the whole auditorium erupted in laughter. I would be humiliated not just in front of my "city," and not just in front of the entire Jersey Boys State—but in front of John Patton.

My eyes welled up with tears. I looked over, totally helplessly, at one of my city-mates—a compassionate soul, as it turned out, because he quickly silenced the chanters. I got through the assembly, and the end of the week, without further damage.

Did I pick up any life lessons at Jersey Boys State? I don't know, maybe. Humility. To know your audience—if the jokes aren't working, don't push it. A deeper-than-ever loyalty to the little guy, the weirdo, the ostracized. And one more very important thing: Boys State can go screw itself.

Wal-Mart in Covina

(from the LA Times)
...
Becky Willison, 31, of Covina was one of them, standing watch over a boxed Cabbage Patch Kids doll. She hoped to nab the $9 item for her 15-month-old daughter Mackensie because “it’s smushy,” she said.

The former middle-school English teacher, who was laid off in June, saved $550 of her unemployment checks for Christmas shopping.

“You’ll never know when you go,” she said. “It’s really bad, and just really slow.”

But Willison had been out shopping for hours, starting at 4:30 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day at K-Mart, before detouring home for dinner. She then struck out for the Coach factory outlet in Ontario at 10 p.m., where she picked up a $330 red purse. Next was the line at Toys R Us, which she abandoned at 1:30 a.m. for the Wal-Mart queue.

“No guts, no glory,” explained her partner in crime, mother-in-law Carol Garnett, 57, of Covina.

Man Cave Update

Pretty light sentences, I would say.

I Was Willing To Give Mel Gibson Another Chance

Really, I was. Sure, there had been the anti-semitism and sexism, the homophobia, The Passion of the Christ, that Apocalypto piece of crap, and that crazy beard.

I haven't seen a Mel Gibson movie since Signs in 2002, and I only remember that it was awful, and there were glasses of water all over the house. And before that I have to go back to Ransom in 1996, which I think I enjoyed.

Then, yesterday, I saw a coming attraction for his next film, Edge of Darkness. Sure, the title brought to mind Carson's old soap-opera bit. But it actually looked... pretty good. Car chases. Guns. Vengeance. The director of Casino Royale. And Gibson, former pretty boy, now looked kind of craggy. Maybe it could all work. Might this be Gibson's The Wrestler? The comeback that reminds us why we liked him in the first place. Oh, those Mad Max movies! (Well, the first two, anyway.) Ah, the Lethal Weapon series! (Well, the first two.)

So I sat in the darkened theater, thinking, "hmm, maybe I will see this." But at the very, very end of the trailer, Gibson utters a sentence. And I suddenly had to wonder—is he purposely trying to alienate me? Couldn't he have asked for a quick rewrite, knowing he might stir up some negative associations with a chunk of the potential audience? The sentence in question: "Well, you had better decide whether you're hanging on the cross, or banging in the nails." Aw, come on, Mel!

Cone-tributors

When people stop me on the street, they most often say, "Stop following me or I will call the police." But their second-most frequent utterance is, "Boy, we sure enjoy the whimsical appearances of traffic cones on that Salty Wound blog."

The cone craze continues to spread, and my in-box has been flooded with submissions from fellow cone-oisseurs. I now offer to you just a small sampling.

From Christopher Prescott, I like to call this "Between God and Cone-Tree."



Brian Kantor of the terrific band Higgins spotted this one in the Gowanus Cone-al:



Glenn Martin pulled this cone-flagration off live streaming video in San Francisco.



And from my own collection, a before-and-after. First, I noticed outside my Hoboken apartment building that when city trees are cut down, the stumps turn fluorescent orange…



But lo and behold, under cover of darkness, that stump blossomed into a beautiful baby traffic cone!

Cones on ice.

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Originally uploaded by Bklyneli