Green Mountain G

Just last weekend, I drove out into the woods of central Vermont. Some friends and I all got a house in Waitsfield, near Sugarbush ski resort. We sat around, listened to music, drank irresponsibly, rode sleds down slick winter roads, had bug-scooting races (yes, races-it requires some explantion), ate big meals, laughed. If you haven't done it lately, I recommend it highly. All of it.

It was good to get on the road again, too. Living without a car, I haven't made enough escapes from the manic Manhattan maelstrom. And driving alone in a car gives you something don't always have - time to think, or not think at all. Time to be steadfastly aloof, in all the best ways.

So, I'm driving along the rolling, pastoral by-ways of Vermont (getting lost at least once of course) and am looking for something decent to listen to on the radio. I am guessing there will be country stations--and there are. But eventually I land on something I didn't expect-- hip-hop. I guess I just didn't think the mountains of Vermont would have a significant hip-hop loving population. I am glad I was wrong.

I listened to the song that was on. It's at the top of the charts, by a man named Flo Rida. And it featured someone else named T-Pain. The lyrics went:

Shawty had them Apple Bottom Jeans [Jeans]
Boots with the fur [With the fur]
The whole club was lookin at her
She hit the flo [She hit the flo]
Next thing you know
Shawty got low low low low low low low low

Wow, I thought. She got very low on the dance flo. Good dancer. Very limber.... she's probably be great in a limbo contest.

The song continued:

Them baggy sweat pants
And the Reeboks with the straps [With the straps]
She turned around and gave that big booty a smack [Ayy]
She hit the flo [She hit the flo]
Next thing you know
Shawty got low low low low low low low low


I think the bracketed parts are where T-Pain comes in. T-Pain says Ayy. I enjoyed the song, but I couldn't help but think about how different Flo Rida and I are. For example, I could never use the word "Shawty". From my limited knowledge on the subject, I am pretty sure it is affectionate term for a woman. But I don't think I could pull it off.

At work:

"Do you know where shawty put the toner for the printer?"

In the subway:

"Excuse me, shawty, but can you tell me if the B train is still running?"

When playing trivia games:

"No, I think the answer is Marie Curie. She discovered polonium. Shawty won a Nobel, but shawty also ended up radioactive. Poor shawty died for Science."

These are the things I think about on long rides through the New England countryside. The universal appeal of music, evolutions in etymology, and just how low Shawty's gonna go on the dance flo. Ayy.

Virgilio, we hardly bilked thee.

Since I don’t have cable, ridiculous news stories have become a larger slice of my entertainment pie chart. In addition to the one about the boy and the bear, there is this one – set in Hell’s Kitchen, only a few scant blocks where I used to call home.

This is the story.

Part Weekend-at-Bernie’s homage, part brazen fraud – two guys wheeled their dead roommate in an office chair to cash his Social Security check.

What’s great about their diabolical scheme is that it didn’t require any real thought. They didn’t bother with troublesome weighing of the risks and rewards involved.

They had a check made out to their friend. They had their friend, however unanimated. In their minds, it seems… all the pieces were in place for the perfect crime. “Okay, do we have everything? Government Check. Cadaver. Rolling conveyance. You got your keys? Okay… let’s do this.”

I don’t know what the thought was here. Once they tried to cash the check, how would they explain why he couldn’t cash his own check? He was too drunk, maybe? Maybe they would just point and pray for the best. “That’s the guy… see, the lifeless lump in the ergonomic chair? I’m getting his money for him. What? Nah, he’s just tired. Or anemic, maybe?”

This, of course, doesn’t even take into account that Hell’s Kitchen is overrun with people. And Ninth Avenue is one of the busiest streets in Manhattan. I think it’s safe to say that anywhere in Midtown, going incognito with a rolling corpse is on the lower end of the probability scale. The undercover cop that caught them said he ‘thought it was a joke’.

It does sound like a joke. But it’s not.

So, seriously: rest in peace, Virgilio Cintron. As you shed this mortal coil, may your roommates in Heaven be better than the ones you had in Hell’s Kitchen.

Holidays in the city

The holidays in New York City. The reputation here is well deserved--lights everywhere, giant trees, over-the-top shop windows. And of course, about one thousand people per square of sidewalk.

For me this year, it's been about the saxophones. Somehow, when I was hearing a lone busker with his saxophone play "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" (also known as the Christmas Song) right in the middle of a sidewalk, it really brought the season home. It happened again in Central Park.... just a guy on his own, on a quiet day in the park, playing Christmas tunes with his sax case as a coffer. It's a great holiday soundtrack.

There are a lot of ways for you to get that warm, yule-y feeling of the season. You can go to Rockefeller Center, when you look at the hordes of people scrambling to get the perfect picture. And you watch and listen to Saks Fifth Avenue do their Snowflake show to "Ode to Joy". You can go to Rolf's--a German restaurant that is decorated from floor-to-ceiling in festive balls, ribbons and lights (it is unreal). And you walk around one of the Christmas villages set up in Union Square or Columbus Circle. It's truly an experience, if only because so many other people are sharing it.



Because, of course, you're still in NYC--and the voluminous humanity is a double-edged sword. Not only are the usual millions of people here, but there are more visitors than ever. And while the infectious spirit makes this a great place to spend the season, it isn't some winter wonderland of goodwill toward men. To start off my lone shopping day of the season (I don't like shopping very much), I decided to enjoy a Guinness at a bar in my neighborhood. As I sat there, someone wished me happy holidays on their way out the door. I smiled and responded in kind. They offered the same salutations to another woman, who in turn asked them to "drop dead."

Later, I put on Dean Martin on my iPod singing "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, it's Christmas time in the City." He sounded drunk. I understood.

Five-year old kills bear.

Humanity, on occasion, lobs us a softball. Something that reminds us of how ridiculous things really are.


This story features pins-and-needles intrigue, bad grammar, dead bears, armed toddlers and doubts cast upon an American icon.

I don't know what else to say.



http://msn.foxsports.com/other/story/7552180?MSNHPHCP&GT1=10734