The Granola-Ebola Connection

I saw an flyer for Homeboy Sandman on the subway.

He's a hip-hop musician, I believe, though I haven't heard his music yet. In black lettering on a light blue 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper, Homeboy (Mr. Sandman?) advertised that he could get "your friend who interns at the record company promoted."

It was his clever way of saying that he is hip-hop juggernaut just wanting to be discovered. A bold statement with some subway swagger. Grabbed my attention. for sure. His other sign, just feet away and covering an ad for Fox 5 News, showcased his lyrical wares:

"I got more bars than granola promoters, I caught Ebola and didn't notice."

Though I admire the word play, there are several layers of confusion for me here.

First, I don't know what a granola promoter is. I would guess he/she makes less money than a boxing promoter and is more likely to have a beard. Maybe he was referring to Johnny Granola-Seed. But when referencing granola promotion, I think you have to be more specific.

Second, I don't know what 'bars' he's referring to. I don't think it's granola bars, that's too literal for Homeboy. Thirst parlors? Gold bars seem a likely candidate, as something of value that would be worth bragging about.

Third, I don't know why he would boast in a song that he caught Ebola. From all accounts, it's an awful thing to catch. A day-ruiner.

Fourth, on top of advertising the contraction of said disease, I can't fathom why you would broadcast your ignorance of it. Does being asymptomatic contribute to street cred? Or maybe he's saying he's so tough that debilitating viruses don't affect him? Is oblivious the new enlightened?

In the end, I have to throw up my hands, because I have no idea what Homeboy Sandman is talking about. But here's the thing: he got me thinking, specifically about granola and ebola. And that hasn't happened in a long time.

nefarious notary

I’ve been to a notary before many times. But never like this.

I arrived at a door that said “Knock. HARD.” When I did knock, I heard someone—it sounded like a combination of grandma and bulldog—emit a guttural “What?!!” I didn’t answer. I’m sure it was fear that made me silent.

With some audible grumbling, she arrived at the door. A lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
“Just here for the notary service.”

“Let me see the document.” Her accent was light Eastern European. I showed her the document with one foot splayed behind me so that I could make a quick escape, not knowing why I was afraid of a five-foot tall notary. She had a rounded shape, blue sweater and huge glasses, with grey hair wrapped up in a bun high on her head.

She made her way back to her desk, a wobble to her walk. I immediately felt like I was in the den of a witch, for whom service as a notary public had become a practical side job. There was a sneering witch figurine staring down from one of her file cabinets, which cemented my assumption.

Her office—in all of its 9' x 9' windowless glory—smelled faintly of something I could not define. Newts, maybe. Or boiling monkey livers. Something not often smelled, in any case. A political talk show played on her ancient radio, along side a typewriter—which was likely sold to her around the same time I had my braces removed.

The walls were obscured by enormous piles of beige accordion folders with cryptic messages scrawled all over them in black marker. Everywhere they climbed, like bulbous beanstalks, up at least 7 feet. Towers of them, taunting the very laws of physics in what seemed elephantine games of Jenga. Comic strips, yellowed by the years, were taped randomly on their edges. On my left, Hagar the Horrible jovially drank, unaware of his wife's rage just two panes away. On my right, Cathy was lamenting yet another swimsuit season.

I really did not want to be here anymore.

Her voice a stern rumble, she excoriated me for already having signed the document, and I apologized and swore I wouldn’t do it in the future. I thought I heard rustling in the stacks. The walls seemed a little closer than before.

She typed on my document, stamped it. After concluding our business, she seemed to warm up to me. “Did you hear about me from the computer?” Spoken as if it were a member of the community, like the barber or the mailman, who had praised her as an exemplary officer of authentication.

I took this brief warmth as an opening. Walking out the door, I turned and asked her: “So, what else do you do besides notarize?” A harmless question, friendly.

“Yes, yes.” Click. Door closed in my face.

Clearly, this woman is a Hagar-loving, liver-boiling witch. But she was fine as a notary.

happy 2nd b-day, jack

My nephew Jack just turned two. To him, I say:

Keep running.

Keep exploring.

Keep working hard.

Keep on keeping it real with the ladies.

And when the time comes, party like "Poppy." (minus the cigarette, of course.)

Feline Fashion, Digital Dominance

Sometimes the Internet can make me so frustrated.

I was looking for a picture of those regtangular deli napkins online, so that I could post a rant on here about how pathetically feeble napkins are at most delis. You can practically see through them, so wispy and insubstantial are they. After wiping but a small piece of muffin shrapnel from my mouth, they are spent, worthless, already shriveled in ineffectuality. Anyway, I searched on Google Images and.... nothing.

You can imagine my indignation, and its righteousness. Are you telling me that there is NO ONE on this planet who has taken a digital picture of a solitary deli napkin on a dark background so as to provide the proper contrast and posted on the Internet for me to copy and use for my own purposes? Is that what I am being led to believe here?

But I can’t stay mad at the Internet. As I’m roiling in my own acrid ire, I remember something. Oh, that was so long ago. That little rest stop on the superhighway that I didn’t expect. A diamond in the digital rough. Like a stunning sunrise or a clown being kicked in the groin, it still makes me smile.

It is practical: “It is made from bright green felt cloth, and the big eye of a frog is attached.”
It is dramatic: “The cat which became a hood figure is likely to have a broom at any moment...”
It is poetic: “"I am the feeling which became a daughter."


Ladies and Gentleman, it is…..

The Best Site on the Internet.

That is a challenge. If there is a better site anywhere on the World Wide Web, I challenge you find it and send it to me. Godspeed, good reading, and please photo your cat lovelily with much trouble. Thank you.

Wanna feel like a dummy?

Read some of the bios of the management team at Google. MIT, Yale, Harvard, Stanford. Masters, PHDs, post-doctoral degrees…. it almost seems gaudy. Brain hubris.

One guy created the Internet. Seriously. He and his buddy created TCP/IP, which is the standard protocol that birthed the World Wide Web: an mind-numbingly complex network of computer machines that has completely changed the planet. I once made a birdhouse.

Another guy holds a patent in the area of “access to cloud resources.” Which, despite my brief and giddy vision of using a cloud as a trampoline, or throwing a kegger on a cloud, apparently has to do with computers.

It’s good to know that these people are out there… stretching limits, finding new truths, pioneering firmamental fetes, and making it easier for me to, you know... Google stuff.

Smelt: unfortunate name, inescapable fate.

I went fishing this past weekend with my Dad. It was gloomy, chilly and exactly what I crave from an NYC escape--virtually empty. We practically had the lake to ourselves. Plus, it's a beautiful place. Clean water, green mountains, beautiful homes (most charming and old) peppering the shoreline.

It was a great weekend. We caught several fish, and almost every one of them had something in common: they had recently eaten a smelt. I know this because they puked them up upon entering our boat, which while rude and unsightly is reasonable considering their situation.

If you are not familiar with smelt, or are confusing it with its homonymic brethren ("I smelt a smelt while smelting"-- it could happen), a smelt is a very small fish. Tiny, really... they rarely get larger than 15cm. There is very little to say about them, other than this:

It sucks to be a smelt.

These things are so small that they can't defend themselves, and everything in the water wants to eat them. They are surrounded by nothing but natural enemies. In the lake where they live, everyone wants to eat a smelt. It's like the macaroni and cheese of the underwater world.

Sometimes, people catch the smelt. We catch them in nets, pulling them out of this watery cauldron of death they call home.

Then we put hooks in them, and put them back in the water. And then they are eaten.

Or sometimes, we take them out, and then fry them up for the purposes of....? Eating them.

Sometimes, we eat their eggs. Smelt roe is often used as garnish on sushi.

The name itself is a harbinger of misery. Smelt. Just typing it makes me feel languid, unhealthy...smelty.

I don't want to write about smelt anymore. It's making me feel smelty.

Here are some pics from Lake George.... please note my dad's sunglasses. Rock star.

Five cats, one Wilford.

This is a website where you can see 5 cats that look like Wilford Brimley.

I don't know what else to say except: Bravo.

The first one is my favorite. It's the smoldering stare. It's not really anger, so much. More a general disgust.

The cat, I mean. Not Wilford.