Jazz the Glass

Our local newspaper has a weekly, locally-written do-it-yourself home repair column. Authored by a single woman in her 30s, it has a breezy, sit-com feel, more about her travails than about offering any practical knowledge. I took little notice until recently, when the name Cabaret Voltaire registered in my peripheral vision. It was in a column about reconnecting with an old friend whose tastes in home decorating and personal adornment were still hopelessly stuck in a late-adolescent mode.

Something didn't quite ring true. It was the name-drop: Cabaret Voltaire is way too specific and inside of a reference to use as a generic signifier, certainly for a small-city newspaper. A sharp editor might have substituted Depeche Mode, but still, what does that have to do with soffit and fascia? Several possibilities came to mind: 1) The author was tired of fixing up her house 2) The author was tired of writing this column 3) The author was really the secret goth she seemingly disdained.

Yesterday my suspicions were confirmed. Abandoning all caution, and perhaps even long-term employment prospects, her column detailed her current home decor. Here is but a partial listing:

• Things that are draped (fabric, broken necklaces) over other things, like lampshades
• Vintage clothing that I cannot or will not wear, just hanging around on the walls, or suspended from curtain rods
• Sconces in places they shouldn't be
• Spiderwebs (real and fake)
• A signed Edward Gorey print
• Goblets

Soon I expect a column about how home repair is not only expensive but detracts from that sought-after spookiness.

How do you bowl a 37?

I took Isa bowling when we were in Lake Tahoe. I strongly suggested that she not use the bumpers. She was amenable to the idea--she was five hundred miles from home, there were no peers around and the stakes were low. She bowled a 44, and we celebrated wildly. But I expect more from someone who wants to be President.

Things They Don't Show You on "The Bachelor"

I don't cook. Sure, earlier in my post-collegiate life, finances and a shorter commute (and perhaps youthful enthusiasm) had me attempting to prepare simple dinners: pasta, boneless chicken breasts, frozen hamburger patties, etc.

That's all fallen by the wayside. These days I eat out, or take-out, or order-in.

But once or twice a year, it occurs to me—I should have a fallback plan. For those nights I get home after my regular places are closed. Or I'm stuck inside due to illness or snowstorm. (This ain't Topanga.) And I shouldn't be eating out every night. It's expensive. It's not healthy.

And that's when I buy a box of Cheerios.

Milk, you need milk with Cheerios, right? I'm trying to be health-conscious here, so I like to buy the no-fat variety. Now, we all mocked the first George Bush when he appeared to be in awe of a supermarket price scanner. But I have to sympathize with the guy, because I don't spend a hell of a lot of time grocery shopping, either. So, I have to spend a few minutes looking at the different milk cartons available: sizes, brands, fat content, etc.

I spied what appeared to be magic milk. It was organic, 0% fat, and made by the fine people at Stonyfield Farm (who I have a soft spot for, as they once sponsored a music event I emceed). Most importantly: IT DIDN'T EXPIRE FOR TWO MONTHS. Perfect for my "ramblin' man" lifestyle!

I brought it home and had two bowls of Cheerios. I could feel my cholesterol plummeting as I sat there in front of the TV, with a chair as a table. The meal was such a success, I repeated the experiment the following night.

However, my on-the-go, never-a-dull-moment existence prevented me from returning to the Cheerios (stored in the refrigerator, to discourage insects and rodents) for a solid week and a half. On that evening, I arranged a place setting on my favorite chair, and poured a full bowl. I then fetched the milk and unscrewed the high-tech spout. And though I'm no epicure, I do recognize the stench of spoiled milk.

How could this be? I looked once again at the date stamped on the container. Sure enough, I still had 6+ weeks left. What gives? I read all the text on the packaging until I found these two damning sentences:
This wholesome fat free milk is ultra-pasteurized so it will last longer unopened. Once opened, consume within seven days.

They had me dead to rights. I sadly poured the entire half-gallon (minus four bowls' worth) down the drain of my kitchen sink. With my hands as a crude funnel, I emptied the bowl of Cheerios back into its box, ignoring the debunking of the Five-Second Rule for the many O's which landed on the floor.

And I ordered a pizza.

I'm Just Like J.D. Salinger!

The Los Angeles Times tackles the mystery of what happened to 80s icon John Hughes. He made some pretty good commercial films that evidently inspired some pretty good present-day commercial filmmakers before disappearing somewhere north of Chicago sometime around 1990. He is missed.

Recently he briefly resurfaced as the source of the original story for Drillbit Taylor. But other than that he is a total recluse. Could a maverick such as Hughes even survive in the business today? Would it be at all recognizable to him? It's impossible to know because he's impossible to talk to. If you really need him, you can call Tom Jacobson.

THIS JUST IN:

While I haven't spotted John Hughes personally, I have managed to confirm several sightings since the creative heights of Planes, Trains & Automobiles. It seems that John Hughes, a formerly somewhat gifted filmmaker who at least made a good faith effort with each outing, gleefully sold out and became a family friendly factory, shitting out a string of movies including Home Alone, Beethoven, Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, Dennis the Menace, Beethoven's 2nd, Baby's Day Out, Miracle on 34th Street, 101 Dalmations, Flubber, Home Alone 3, Beethoven's 3rd, Beethoven's 4th, Home Alone 4, and Beethoven's 5th.

It's a wonder he even has time to be a hermit.

Oh the Cruel, Cruel Tease....

…of the "SiW Birthday List."

Tony La Russa is a passive aggressive fuck

Anthony Reyes is not a great pitcher. But he has the potential to be a decent starter. If only his manager and pitching coach would stop clucking like a couple of hens.

Yesterday, Reyes pitched six shutout innings in his latest audition for the St. Louis Cardinal rotation. But there were dark intimations the wind might have helped him.

First his pitching coach, Dave Duncan, damned him with faint praise:

"I always say the bottom line is what you look at," Duncan said. "It's not how you get it but if you get it. In Anthony's case, the bottom line is there today."

But the manager must have been afraid his henchman hadn't driven the point home:

"He made a lot of good pitches," La Russa said. "Whatever the wind was doing he made some good pitches. He was helped a little by the wind. He may have been hurt by the wind. Mostly, he helped himself."

At which point Duncan came to life and piled on:

"For me, it was a real difficult game to evaluate the performances of the pitchers," Duncan said.

The subtleties of the wind clouded their judgment. And yet these are the same guys who, when it was in their interest, managed to miss that Mark McGwire was juiced beyond belief.

If I were Anthony Reyes, I wouldn't feel like I was being set up for success.

UWink

A while ago, John took Isa and I to a new restaurant, UWink, in a Woodland Hills mall. It had touch screens at each table, for ordering food and playing games. Some were pong-like, others were those trivia games seen in bars.
I wasn't that impressed; pong-games aren't going to do it for me anymore, and ordering food on a touch-screen is like being my own waitress. Plus, the trivia questions were just god-awful-- as well as repeating over and over again. I wondered to myself what kind of random number generator were they really using to dish out these horrible questions?
Isa, on the other hand, was wild-eyed. She begged us to order more drinks so she could hit the now-greasy touch screen. I was surprised at her obsession with the restaurant.
When Isa brought it up again for the umpteenth time the other day, I decided to google UWink. The wikipedia entry included "The company was founded in 2000 by Nolan Bushnell, the co-founder and former CEO of both Atari and Chuck E. Cheese."

Well, that explained the pong and the crappy food.

I'm somewhat disappointed in Mr. Bushnell. I'd have much rather had a joystick and played Adventure than field that touchscreen menu. Perhaps he's onto something-- creating a nostalgia for Isa's generation to buy into. I suppose there's nothing wrong with playing Tank and eating a burger, is there?


UPDATE:
This appeared on a Uwink investment board:



Another Brief uWink Blog Review


http://www.saltinwound.com/2008/03/uwink.html


A very good example of the "polarizing" nature of uWink (a good thing!). You've got some people that come in and find a negative in everything (like the blogger). BUT he's got a friend (READ: female) that is obsessed with the place.

In the end, who wins (this is hypothetical)?

1.The introverted guy who just doesn't want to have fun and complains about it to the "world" on his blog:

"I wasn't that impressed; pong-games aren't going to do it for me anymore, and ordering food on a touch-screen is like being my own waitress. Plus, the trivia questions were just god-awful-- as well as repeating over and over again. I wondered to myself what kind of random number generator were they really using to dish out these horrible questions?"



2. The extroverted gal who is having so much fun that she just keeps bringing new people to the place so that she can have even more fun:

"Isa, on the other hand, was wild-eyed. She begged us to order more drinks so she could hit the now-greasy touch screen. I was surprised at her obsession with the restaurant.
When Isa brought it up again for the umpteenth time the other day, I decided to google UWink."


My Opinion:
Eventually, the guy comes around because he realizes that regardless of how little "fun" he is having, uWink is attracting all the ladies, which will eventually attract him. This thing is going to work :)


BERNIE'S RESPONSE:

Dear Uwink investor, you've got one this nailed on the head. I am certainly a negative blogger, and Isa is definitely a pretty young gal that loves video games like nothing's doing. I will have to take her back there, so you do have us as customers in Woodland Hills.
As far as Atari goes, dear investor, I may have played more Atari than you ever will, and I will never forget that snowy Massachusetts day that I first laid my eyes on Pong. Yes, I was hooked. So yes, Mr. Bushnell is an integral part of my life.

But please, for my sake, get a programmer to update the trivia questions? I can make it last if the questions are decent.

Bernie

Never Too Young for Mail Fraud

We get letters from kids where I work, and reading them is an extremely gratifying part of my job. But it wasn't the contents of a recent letter from a San Diego 6th-grader that caught my attention—it was the envelope itself.

"My, that's an awfully large stamp," I thought to myself. "Hmmm, stamps don't usually have bar codes on them, do they?" And that's when it clicked: It wasn't a stamp at all; it was the self-adhesive label from a booklet of self-adhesive stamps.

Either this kid hasn't been sufficiently schooled in proper postage, or the whippersnapper is getting an early jump on self-adhesively sticking it to The Man.

[Editor's note: Salt in Wound does not condone mail fraud, even if this technique is very clever and sailed right past San Diego's postal professionals.]

NY

Dianna and I spent a quick weekend in New York. We made no plans to look up friends due to lack of time, but we were walking down Broadway just as two of Dianna's friends stepped outside for a cigarette. We'd heard they were paying thirty-thousand a month for their loft, so eagerly accepted their invitation to go upstairs. I'd expected something amazing, but it was merely nice. In New York, thirty-thousand a month will get you a nice place.

Why would a grown man play fantasy baseball?

It hasn't brought me closer to my wife and family. Or to the people I play fantasy baseball with. And yet it's an absolute priority in my life.

I've already gone on record that there was nothing funny about the scene in Knocked Up where they interrupt the fantasy baseball draft, because there's nothing funny about interrupting a fantasy baseball draft. It is the best/worst day of the year, an eight hour (if we're moving swiftly) orgy of sports, strategy, and the brand of nerdy fun I used to experience in junior high with all day games of Blitzkrieg or Diplomacy.

On Sunday, I attempted to draft by phone from a rental house in Lake Tahoe. This house has a blue notebook full of rules we're supposed to follow. Note to vacation rental owners: if you want people to follow all the rules, make five or ten. Making a hundred fifty is really just an invitation to blow them all off.

That's just human nature--something my league commissioner has little understanding of. He is very thorough, with no sense of proportion, quite possibly on the autistic spectrum, but I'm not sure how that diagnosis would help him any more than it would have helped the kids I played war games with in junior high and where the hell else am I supposed to find players? The beach?

Our commissioner was making rules and judgments right up until draft time--it was a real last-minute flurry. I was on a conference call with a few other out of towners, talking to a group of people on a speaker phone in Los Angeles. The reception was terrible, and we had a hard time keeping up. Before I knew it, I had guests arriving, Bernie and Isa were back from skiing, and we hadn't even started the National League yet. The room got louder, the phone reception got worse. I was trying to keep the fire going. I couldn't be sure if I was following all the rules. I still hadn't read the blue notebook. Or the league constitution.

The upshot of all this is I think I made out pretty well. And I've promised my family that, in the future, if I can't make it to the draft in person, I'll do it alone from a hotel room.

Get Lamp

If you know what this documentary-in-progress refers to, your score has just gone up by 10 points.

Jack, Per Your Request...

I'm pretty decent at Photoshop. Enjoy your vision realized. I actually would've paid to see this movie, unlike the original.

Joke for Indie-Rock Geeks Only

Oh sure, as soon as Grant McLennan drops dead, Robert Forster has to totally sell out.

395, Revisited

We took the 'back way' to Lake Tahoe, the 395. (Yes, in California apparently it's THE 395, but in NY or Jersey we take 78 or 87) I was worried, a storm was coming to Tahoe and we'd be coming in on the 50, from Nevada. I'd been watching the weather reports and although they kept changing, one thing was apparent: it was quite warm in the daytime (40's-50's) and dipping to the 20's at night. Prime icy conditions.
John tried to find a local am station for an updated weather report. "He's obviously a radical muslim and his left wingers are going to support that in his election efforts," we heard and John turned the dial.
"No one wants a woman for president," some man said and John kept searching. We heard that weather and traffic were coming up next. Albuquerque. John turned it some more. All in all, we found Denver, Reno, San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco were represented, as well as one Antelope Valley town that had it's own radio station but it was all ads. No weather.
We talked about the am waves up in these remote Eastern Sierras-- is Denver a few bounces over?
John said Bill Clinton always said he was a Cardinals fan because he got in Saint Louis stations. They had fans everywhere because of the am.

I guess it's obvious we're not interested in satellite radio, but most of the crap we tuned into was Clear Channel. Sad days for radio indeed.

Fame

John went to college with a few very famous people, as we have been learning. At the other extreme, I've been surprised by how few of the people I went to college with are famous. Famous isn't even the right word; I'm not talking about Jodie Foster-style famous. I'm talking about having virtually no presence on the World Wide Web whatsoever. Google them, and all you find are 20-year old bulletin board postings from the old Carnegie Mellon mail server. And I'm not talking about the mild-mannered computer science majors that the university is known for; I'm talking about the people who did things - art installations, creative writing, alternative newspaper publishing, protesting things, working on Dukakis' campaign. The exact sort of people you would expect to have fully embraced the internet as an almost effortless way of keeping one's name out there. Track them down, if you can, and you'll find they are living successful, established, but unassuming lives.

I'm not sure what to make of this.

If I Knew How To Use PhotoShop

...then, what I'd do is, I'd put Eliot Spitzer's head over Matt Dillon's, and Silda's over Kate Hudson's, and Alexandra "Kristen" Dupre's over Owen Wilson's.

Alas, I don't know how to use PhotoShop.

Oh well.

Asian Yellow Dust

There's been a bit in the news about the air quality for the Summer Olympics. All of the articles I've read have been seemingly 'balanced' and 'fair' with a few people (somewhat) fearful about their health, and then others saying that China will of course have this taken care of in time.
I can't see how this is remotely possible; and I'll just bring up one example, this.
I lived in Asia for a number of years, and let me tell you, that yellow dust is a real humdinger. Yes, it is yellow, and not sand-yellow but more of a chromium yellow or some other toxic yellow color. Guaranteed I'd get sick when that was blowing into town. I can't say my days in smog-choked cities in Asia are to blame, but these days I've developed a bit of a wheeze, and I might even get an inhaler.
Would I race in Beijing this summer? Heck no. I think we're going to see people dropping like flies. It actually might make for the first environmentally-aware Olympics ever. Maybe they'll stop relocating millions of farmers or damming rivers to have stadiums built. It could end up being a positive thing.

Spring Fever

From stltoday.com:

When the Cardinals acquired third baseman Troy Glaus he seemed earmarked for the cleanup job, a big bat protecting Albert Pujols. Then La Russa checked the numbers. Glaus is a career .238 hitter at cleanup, hitting .229 there last season. In the No. 5 spot, Glaus hits .259 (.353 last season) and slugs .500 vs. .471 at cleanup.

Only finding another cleanup hitter would keep the Cardinals from putting him in that spot. And La Russa has someone in mind: Rick Ankiel.

Ankiel hit cleanup in both games against Atlanta, and he went two for three there Sunday. He offers a lefthanded buffer between righties Pujols and Glaus. La Russa has said cleanup is a role he doesn't heap on a batter lightly — that it can be "the most difficult spot in the lineup." He thinks it won't faze Ankiel.

"You take what you think is classic human nature and then you make exceptions if you have a guy," La Russa said. "I think Ank is going to take the same at-bat wherever he goes."

BECAUSE NOTHING COULD EVER MESS WITH RICK ANKIEL'S HEAD.

Eliot Spitzer

The news about my boss's boss's boss's boss's boss's boss's boss wasn't as surprising as it should have been. The reason is a story about Eliot Spitzer taking his family skiing which appeared in our local paper last month - right around the time he was setting up his Washington, DC trip agenda. It was clearly supposed to be a humanizing fluff piece, but there were all these odd, rough edges. Upon arriving at the resort, he asked to be taken to the toughest trail they had - the double black diamond. He then took his family, his security detail, and the reporter down this trail at racing speed, over and over, imperiously daring anyone to keep up with him. This struck me as reckless, somewhat cruel, and in hindsight, maybe a foreshadowing of political suicide. At the time, I convinced myself I was reading way too much into it.

Correction

Because of an editing error, a report in the Comings & Goings column on Feb. 24 about a chain of luxury communities for RVs misstated the number of American households that own an RV. It is about 8.3 million, not 8.3 - The New York Times

He's like a therapist to me sometimes as well

There's a lot to hate about Meghan McCain's take on her father's recent barbecue, even if you can get past the overly cozy relationship between candidate and press. There's the insistence on referring to the house as a "cabin." There's the melanoma ravaged presumptive Republican nominee openly daring the sun. But mostly there's the telling fact that the only examples she could come up with of friends she was excited to have at the party also happened to be employees.

The last time I saw Maya

My friend from college was in the news again today. Maya and I met freshman year at some sort of Jewish community center, even though I wasn't religious and she was Chinese American. She liked Dumbo, she said, unapologetically childlike. Did I like Dumbo?

We grew closer Sophomore year when I fell in love with her friend. Maya did me a big favor when she let me know in no uncertain terms it wasn't going to work out after I'd failed to absorb a semester's worth of escalating hints that I was scaring this timid girl senseless with my unwavering adoration.

At graduation, Maya was sitting next to me when my grandmother was hit in the eye by a flying cap. By then she'd designed the Viet Nam Memorial and was already starting to become a bit of a monster.

By 1989, it was full blown. I'd just moved to New York after writing with a partner in Los Angeles for eight years, although we'd actually been working together since college. I was trying to write something by myself for the first time and wasn't sure if I could do it. Other than that, I had no prospects. I was on my way to buy a word processor because I couldn't afford a computer. I had just turned thirty years old.

Maya was riding high, living in a beautiful loft in Chinatown. She had eagerly begun the process of cannibalizing her earlier work with a series of similar public art projects and I can only assume had bought stock in black granite, water and text.

We met for a quick lunch at a place I think may have been called Moishe's. Maya began to muse, vaguely aware of my presence, complaining that she hadn't yet received a MacArthur Grant. "When do I get my genius grant," she wondered with an innocence that hadn't faded but was now accompanied by an ego run wild. "I want my $150,000."

"That's obnoxious," I said reflexively, "you're twenty-nine years old, there are people who work all their lives, talented people who deserve that grant just as much as you do and they may never be recognized." People like me who hadn't written anything yet but might. I decided to spring for the word processor with five pages of memory instead of one, in case I ever got on a roll.

I hadn't noticed that tears were shooting out of Maya's eyes. "You don't know who you hurt with your words," she said, an exact phrase that's been uttered to me several times since, so, in fact, I know exactly who I hurt with my words.

I didn't apologize. I figured it might be the last time someone tried to talk some sense into her, and it might as well be me. She left the restaurant in a flood of tears. I went to buy my word processor. I arrived home to a message. She started cool and in command:

"John, it's Maya, don't bother to call back, you're the most self-centered person I've ever met in my life, and all you ever care about is yourssseeeLLLLLLPPFFFFPPPPFF..."

Now she was sobbing uncontrollably. That genius grant must have been really important to her. Maybe she thought I was one of the judges? She cried a lot that day considering my life was the one that was in the crapper.

I replayed the message to make sure I'd heard correctly. Yes, there it was: don't bother to call back. We haven't spoken since. What's the etiquette on this?

46645 is all you need

Does everyone know about text messaging GOOGLE for quick information? You can find out almost anything by sending a text message to 46645 (GOOGL) and punching in your request... For example, let's say I need to find the nearest CHASE bank, I type in CHASE 44118 (my zipcode) and up comes the nearest location and phone number. FAST.
If I need to check out our shitty weather in Cleveland, type "W Cleveland" and it tells me we are getting more snow.
How 'bout a football score on Sunday?? I punch in "Score Steelers" and there it is!
Stock quotes, weather, word definitions, currency conversions, flight schedules and even " Who is Jason Statham".
I can't stop!
I heard that Yahoo has it too. (92466) But I haven't tried it out yet.
Here is another, punch in "daylight savings time " - ANSWER: March 9, 2008.
Don't forget to spring forward!

the writers' room

I emerged from my three week course of antibiotics and went to help a friend with a multi-camera comedy pilot he's making for a basic cable channel. It made me realize that I've written more about sitcom scenes I hate to write than I have about how much I hate to write them. I'd like to remedy that right now.

I'd forgotten about the crazy high spirits at pilot table reads, the banter so quick between executives dancing up to each other that the words themselves become the beat. They were literally dancing. People at pilots are as manic and raw and optimistic as in a scene from "All That Jazz" I vaguely seem to remember where a new show is being read aloud.

After the read, there's hours of talking, executives and non-writing executive producers going head to head, even though they're all saying the same thing.

Meanwhile the writers gather in "the room."

The writers' room was a romantic place to me when I was first starting out. The remarkable minds pulling jokes out of the air, the funny personal stories, and the food, the wonderful food from the finest midrange restaurants in town, food and coffee that just kept coming, riding into the room on a never-ending wave of bags and foil and cute young production assistants who also had funny stories.

Over time, I realized the jokes weren't coming from the air but from the jizz-stained files of passive aggressive hacks whose funny stories were mainly justifications for things they were still angry about. The production assistants also grew angry over time, at a business that promised riches but dried up before their turn at the trough and whose funny stories were more and more about jobs they were promised and didn't get.

Then the food began to smell. When you could get it. Some writers will never choose a restaurant but veto anyone else's choice. Certain showrunners pretend not to notice when the food has arrived and make everyone join in the charade. And lots of writers throw away their disgusting half-eaten dinners in the very room where you can spend up to seven days a week, sixteen hours a day.

So no I don't like writers' rooms very much. I get claustrophobic. I'm anxious until I've located a bathroom not too near but not too far. I watch the clock. I've made some great friends working for television. But I got into writing to get away from people, not to be locked in a room with them.

Who Are You, Jason Statham?!?

Incredulously, another Jason Statham film is being released. I use the word "incredulous" because I have no idea who Jason Statham is. I mean, I know he's an actor who specializes in action movies. I know this because I go to the movies a lot, so I see a lot of movie posters, and coming attractions, and ads for movies. And a couple of times a year, for the past few years, I see the name Jason Statham associated with these motion pictures.

And yet: I've never seen a Jason Statham film. I don't know anyone who has seen a Jason Statham film. (And I know a lot of people—including myself—who are not high-brow filmgoers. I saw the Deuce Bigelow sequel in the theater. And enjoyed it!) I've never seen a Jason Statham film mentioned in a newspaper, magazine, or Web site article. I've never seen a box-office tally saying anything remotely like "Statham does it again!"

So what I want to know is: Who is making these movies? And why do they keep making them? I'm reminded of Pauly Shore's string of flops in the early 90's. They kept bombing, but they kept getting made. One crucial difference: I had at least heard of Pauly Shore. He had that whole "Hey buuuuuddy. The weeeea-sel!" thing. I have never heard of Jason Statham. Does he have a catch phrase? Has he dated a Spice Girl? Is he a TV star in some faraway land?

Who are you, Jason Statham?!?

Sub Prime Mortgages

A few years back, I was living in Pennsylvania, working at a community college and in the process of buying my first house. The offer process was irritating as hell, the owner wanted to raise the purchase price and pay my closing costs and do a number of shifting balances of things, and I was refusing, and people were getting irritated with me.
Then came the mortgage brokers.
The first one arrived, late, and pulled out a wad of papers, including a credit report. He started by shaking his head.
"Ok, you have some late cell phone bills. I can help you, but we have to clear these things up."
He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands in front of his face and stared at me.
"I don't have a cell phone."
He ignored me and kept talking. He set up his "best plan" and then his "second best plan". The first was an adjustable rate mortgage (so my payments would be so low, he said, 200 dollars a month!) with a second mortgage for ten grand with some cash back feature "for all the repairs you'll obviously need."
The second plan was also and ARM with a second mortgage but this one was zero down! I'd pay a little more in the long run, but probably not, that's so far down the line he was sure, he said, I wouldn't be living in a 'starter home' at that point. I could do this tomorrow! Please just sign here! He handed me a pen and I refused.
I got the guy out of my house and called my brother Frank.
"Classic sub-prime lending," he told me.
"Frank, it's like charging part of the loan on a credit card. That's insane," I told him.
"Well, understandable," he said. But then he added, "For comparison's sake, though, interest rates in the 1980's were higher."
I was determined not to be sub-primed into eternity. The seller was getting irritated, the realtor told me. She wanted my loans to be done. I just needed to get on with this. I could be sued. I needed to find a mortgage.

The next loan guy pulled up to my apartment in a shiny silver VW Bug and brought in his fancy satchel; we sat down at my kitchen table. He set up a pile of papers and pulled out his orange calculator and set it on the table. I pulled out my trusty TI-83 plus graphing calculator and set it on the table with a thud. He laughed. "What is that?" he said.
"Scientific calculator," I replied.
He started tapping on the calculator. He proudly showed me the number on the screen: 201.40.
"That can be your payment!"
I asked him to show me how he arrived at such a number.
"Why wouldn't you want to pay 200 dollars a month for a home? You pay so much more now for this... this small apartment."
"Because in five years I'd be paying over a thousand a month and I don't want that."
He replied quickly, "But who is to say where you'll be in five years? Certainly you'll be in a better job, making more money! Then you can just sell your house and buy and even better house and guess what? Pay 200 dollars a month for that one! And that one might have a pool! And be fancier!"
I showed him the door.
I'm not in this crisis they are voting on now and and am not sure how I feel about it. Thoughts?

Happy Fake St. Patricks Day

I'm typing quietly, with the lights out, so they don't know I'm in here. Rations are low but must last until tomorrow. Each noise from the outside sends shivers down my spine. I cover my head with a pillow to drown it out, praying it will end.

It is fake St. Patrick's Day in Hoboken.

Oh, sure, there are 16 days until the actual St. Patrick's Day, but don't tell that to any of the corrupt, money-hungry weasels involved in fake St. Patrick's Day. For this is the day of Hoboken's St. Patrick's Day Parade. Why isn't it held on St. Patrick's Day? I've heard it's to avoid conflicts with New York City's and other local parades, who are booking the same marching bands. But it's awful convenient that fake St. Patrick's Day is always on a Saturday, allowing a full day of revelry in a city already swimming in alcohol. And guess what, bar owners: On actual St. Patrick's Day, it all happens again.

Hey, go easy, it's an Irish town. Well, no, it isn't. The Italians arrived after World War I and never left. But in fairness, the Irish did rule the roost here prior to that. Shortly after the Germans, that is.

The fact is, Hoboken doesn't need a reason to celebrate. It's been described as having the most bars per square mile in these United States. (I've also heard that characterization applied to La Crosse, Wisconsin. Can we really trust any statistics gathered by drunks, anyway?) On weekend evenings, the countless taverns along the main drag are teeming with a subset of the justifiably much-maligned Jersey "bridge-and-tunnel" crowd—the subset that is too cheap to pay the toll into Manhattan.

On fake St. Patrick's Day, the madness extends beyond Hoboken's main thoroughfare, to every single establishment with a liquor license within the Mile Square City. And if you have the ability to pour, congratulations, you can obtain a liquor license here. And it's all day long. Granted, that's improved slightly—the bars now open at 11 a.m. rather than at 6 a.m. Nonetheless, the day is still a descent into Frat-Boy Hell. Outside even the most nondescript residential-block watering hole, there is an unruly line of red-faced, green-plastic-hat (or backwards baseball cap, your choice!) and green-T-shirt-over-white-longjohns-top-wearing loud, drunken morons. Oh yes, and the Mardi Gras-style green beads, I can't forget those. They roam in packs from bar to bar to house party to bar, stopping briefly at every street corner to laugh maniacally, call some "dude" on the cell phone, urinate, and/or vomit. You cannot look out a window at any moment during the day or night without glimpsing a drunken idiot (or 2, or 15) weaving down the street. With the occasional punctuation of a police siren.

I've lived here almost 14 years, and it is hands-down my least favorite day in Hoboken all year. Perhaps my least favorite day anywhere. I skip town when I can, and if not—like today—I batten down the hatches, quietly seethe, and wait it out. Like microwave popcorn, eventually the gap increases between each hooting-and-hollering session on the street below. Until there is no more, and it is once again safe.

But that's hours from now.

Many, many hours.

I could really use a drink.