You will pardon the interruption. Today's entry will not be about Oscar the Grouch: Time Lord, but instead is inspired by true events. The next entry will be MUCH more entertaining (read: silly). (This was posted to quell any comments Derek may make.)
Times are tough. Even life for we self-proclaimed mayors is not without its inevitable snares. Today, I had to write a pointed letter to the Metropolitan Transit Authority.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing regarding a very serious issue that occurred this morning. At around 8:00 am, I arrived at the Franklin Ave. 4, 5 and Shuttle stop. Finding that my 30-Day Unlimited Ride Metrocard had expired, I approached a ticket vending machine, only to find that every single machine was not accepting credit or debit cards. I asked the station agent at the token booth who said there was nothing she could do for me and that I'd have to use cash, an extraordinarily inconvenient bit of news. As such, I had to leave the station and walk to a nearby bank to withdraw $100 in twenty-dollar bills, as I had no cash on my person at the time. When again I approached the machine to purchase an $89 30-Day Unlimited Metrocard, I was informed that it would only dispense a maximum of $6 in change. I again approached the station agent who very kindly made the change for me. Nonetheless, the entire ordeal caused me to be 20 minutes late for work. Given the current times, this is unacceptable. I expect and deserve a sincere written apology (not an automated reply) and a solemn promise that such a fiasco will never be allowed to happen again.
Sincerely,
William Olsen-Hoek
I neglected to throw in my multitudinous titles for fear that they would be overwhelmed by my perceived importance. Let us hope that His Excellency Emperor Bloomberg, Defender of the Boroughs sees fit to improve this obviously flawed system. Now... if only we had a mayor with real ideas - say... A MONORAIL.
But for real, next time! OSCAR THE GROUCH: TIME LORD!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
How Postseason Baseball Destroyed Baseball: A Nocturne of Too Many Commercials, Too Many Pitching Changes, and the Inane Ramblings of Incompetent Men
...Named Tim McCarver.
(Edit: Since this is a Nocturne, I suggest that all readers listen to Chopin Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 whilst reading along...)
I'm sorry, but the entirety of my thesis did not fit in the title box on Blogger. BLAST YOU GOOGLE INC.!
Baseball is the most important sport in history. As I allow that hyperbole to settle in, let me prove it. Baseball currently ranks second in the most popular team sports worldwide, topped only by football (the European flavor, that is). Baseball, however, is a much better and more important game, due entirely to the superior uniforms and the fact that it was invented in the United States rather than Great Britain. That its roots trace to bat and ball games played during the American Revolutionary War (wherein the United States annihilated the most powerful Empire on Planet Earth by hiding in trees and wearing subdued colors while their opponents marched in single file as gentlemen wearing lobster-red coats and powdered wigs) bears testament to its superiority to anything produced by a tea-obsessed monarchy.
Baseball traces its roots to the similar, but decidedly more English, sport of cricket - except that cricket is played on an oval rather than a diamond, participants have "tea" rather than a seventh inning stretch, players are given the ridiculously named field positions of "silly mid-off," bowlers (not pitchers) are allowed to bean the batsman to try and injure him, and it is not uncommon for a test cricket match to last three days... although it does seem that the current trend will see baseball games lasting three whole days in just a few years.
Why, you may ask? The answer: MERCHANDISING!
In the 1990s, baseball suffered from one of its worst decades of popularity. I attribute this to three main factors:
1.) Players became exceptionally greedy and demanded more money.
2.) Owners became exceptionally greedy.
3.) Canadian teams dominated the 1992, 1993 and the shortened 1994 season.
This third observation seems an exercise in xenophobia (which I here deny, being that I am a firm supporter of the Sovereign Dominion of Canada), but when you examine the facts (the Toronto Blue Jays winning the World Series in '92 and '93 and the 1994 Montréal Expos proclaiming that they were "Meilleure Équipe du Baseball" due entirely to their having the best record before the cursed strike) maybe we need to (dare I say) BLAME CANADA! Speaking of the Strike: World War II did not stop the World Series from being played, but money sure did in 1994. It would not be until the steroid-soaked home run hitting monsters of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa squared off in a battle royale to challenge Roger Maris's single season home run record that baseball would lick its '90s wounds. The resurgence in popularity also coincided with the steroid-fueled Yankees winning a million World Series and the completely forgotten Atlanta Braves (aptly named the Team of the '90s, though they only won the 1995 World Series) owning the National League (pennants in '91, '92, '95, '96 and '99; division titles in every year of the decade but '90 and '94). But at what price did this popularity come?
Specialization has ruined the pace of baseball. Game 5 of the 1969 World Series ended when Davey Johnson (ironically future skipper of the champion '86 Mets) popped up to Cleon Jones, just 2 hours and 14 minutes after the first pitch. Anyone who's attended a ballgame with me knows how much I LOVE short games. They usually indicate pitching duels and just enough scoring to keep the game flowing. In stark contrast, the most recent (miserable) World Series saw Yankees crowned again after a THREE HOUR AND FIFTY TWO MINUTE struggle. I've walked out of shorter operas (Tchaikovsky's Mazeppa)! Why? Take a good look at the pitching statistics for these games:
Game 5 of the 1969 World Series
Game 6 of the 2009 World Series
The Orioles and Mets combined sent three pitchers to the mound 40 years ago.
The Phillies and Yankees offered TEN.
It has gotten to a point where managers put a single pitcher in to face a single batter based on what hand he throws with. Pitching changes are an opportunity for networks to show MORE COMMERCIALS! Is it any wonder that the baseball postseason now ends in November? The '69 season ended some 2 weeks sooner than did the 2009. A whole extra month of slow-paced games featuring only 8 teams? That's a recipe for disgruntlement. Postseason games are also strategically spaced to air the games at prime time (often meaning games will not end until past 11:00 pm), whereas World Series games were often played in the daytime just a few decades ago. You had the entire rest of the afternoon and evening to celebrate your team's victory - a moment well described in Thomas Oliphant's Praying for Gil Hodges, when an entire borough celebrated together. There's something Amazin' about watching the last out of the '69 Series in the daytime. The sun adds to the joy of the moment.
And finally, one man has single-handedly destroyed postseason baseball.
October 16, 1941. One of the most mediocre baseball personalities was born. James Timothy McCarver was selected as an All-Star twice and twice won the World Series with the St. Louis Cardinals. His boring curriculum vitae and overall baseball ineptitude meant that he could never manage a team... perhaps also due to his disgusting Southern drawl. Listening to Tim McCarver call a baseball game is almost as bad as sitting in a family style restaurant in Lancaster, Pennsylvania having an old man take 8 minutes to spit out the question, "Son, is Long Island part of Fire Island?" His obnoxious burbling only worsens his atrociously nonsensical observations on the game of baseball. A colleague said he is someone who, "when you ask him the time, will tell you how a watch works." His subpar baseball calling and confusion of rules leaves one wondering - why the FUCK do networks insist on having him call postseason baseball games? Perhaps as a Mets fan I am spoiled. My booth is filled with two Ivy League graduates and two former Mets whose combined curricula amount to 6 All-Star selections, 12 Gold Glove Awards, and 2 Silver Slugger Awards. Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling and Gary Cohen amount to the most talented and entertaining team of baseball analysts in baseball today. It makes one wonder how a hack like Tim McCarver gets such a job. Enjoy a wikipedia entry on the various criticisms of McCarver.
So how do we fix the postseason? I offer the following recipe:
An enormous thank you to Greg for his outstanding work in imagining what baseballs will look like under my Commissionership.
Next Time! Oscar the Grouch: TIME LORD.
(Edit: Since this is a Nocturne, I suggest that all readers listen to Chopin Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 whilst reading along...)
I'm sorry, but the entirety of my thesis did not fit in the title box on Blogger. BLAST YOU GOOGLE INC.!
Baseball is the most important sport in history. As I allow that hyperbole to settle in, let me prove it. Baseball currently ranks second in the most popular team sports worldwide, topped only by football (the European flavor, that is). Baseball, however, is a much better and more important game, due entirely to the superior uniforms and the fact that it was invented in the United States rather than Great Britain. That its roots trace to bat and ball games played during the American Revolutionary War (wherein the United States annihilated the most powerful Empire on Planet Earth by hiding in trees and wearing subdued colors while their opponents marched in single file as gentlemen wearing lobster-red coats and powdered wigs) bears testament to its superiority to anything produced by a tea-obsessed monarchy.
Baseball traces its roots to the similar, but decidedly more English, sport of cricket - except that cricket is played on an oval rather than a diamond, participants have "tea" rather than a seventh inning stretch, players are given the ridiculously named field positions of "silly mid-off," bowlers (not pitchers) are allowed to bean the batsman to try and injure him, and it is not uncommon for a test cricket match to last three days... although it does seem that the current trend will see baseball games lasting three whole days in just a few years.
Why, you may ask? The answer: MERCHANDISING!
In the 1990s, baseball suffered from one of its worst decades of popularity. I attribute this to three main factors:
1.) Players became exceptionally greedy and demanded more money.
2.) Owners became exceptionally greedy.
3.) Canadian teams dominated the 1992, 1993 and the shortened 1994 season.
This third observation seems an exercise in xenophobia (which I here deny, being that I am a firm supporter of the Sovereign Dominion of Canada), but when you examine the facts (the Toronto Blue Jays winning the World Series in '92 and '93 and the 1994 Montréal Expos proclaiming that they were "Meilleure Équipe du Baseball" due entirely to their having the best record before the cursed strike) maybe we need to (dare I say) BLAME CANADA! Speaking of the Strike: World War II did not stop the World Series from being played, but money sure did in 1994. It would not be until the steroid-soaked home run hitting monsters of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa squared off in a battle royale to challenge Roger Maris's single season home run record that baseball would lick its '90s wounds. The resurgence in popularity also coincided with the steroid-fueled Yankees winning a million World Series and the completely forgotten Atlanta Braves (aptly named the Team of the '90s, though they only won the 1995 World Series) owning the National League (pennants in '91, '92, '95, '96 and '99; division titles in every year of the decade but '90 and '94). But at what price did this popularity come?
Specialization has ruined the pace of baseball. Game 5 of the 1969 World Series ended when Davey Johnson (ironically future skipper of the champion '86 Mets) popped up to Cleon Jones, just 2 hours and 14 minutes after the first pitch. Anyone who's attended a ballgame with me knows how much I LOVE short games. They usually indicate pitching duels and just enough scoring to keep the game flowing. In stark contrast, the most recent (miserable) World Series saw Yankees crowned again after a THREE HOUR AND FIFTY TWO MINUTE struggle. I've walked out of shorter operas (Tchaikovsky's Mazeppa)! Why? Take a good look at the pitching statistics for these games:
Game 5 of the 1969 World Series
Game 6 of the 2009 World Series
The Orioles and Mets combined sent three pitchers to the mound 40 years ago.
The Phillies and Yankees offered TEN.
It has gotten to a point where managers put a single pitcher in to face a single batter based on what hand he throws with. Pitching changes are an opportunity for networks to show MORE COMMERCIALS! Is it any wonder that the baseball postseason now ends in November? The '69 season ended some 2 weeks sooner than did the 2009. A whole extra month of slow-paced games featuring only 8 teams? That's a recipe for disgruntlement. Postseason games are also strategically spaced to air the games at prime time (often meaning games will not end until past 11:00 pm), whereas World Series games were often played in the daytime just a few decades ago. You had the entire rest of the afternoon and evening to celebrate your team's victory - a moment well described in Thomas Oliphant's Praying for Gil Hodges, when an entire borough celebrated together. There's something Amazin' about watching the last out of the '69 Series in the daytime. The sun adds to the joy of the moment.
And finally, one man has single-handedly destroyed postseason baseball.
October 16, 1941. One of the most mediocre baseball personalities was born. James Timothy McCarver was selected as an All-Star twice and twice won the World Series with the St. Louis Cardinals. His boring curriculum vitae and overall baseball ineptitude meant that he could never manage a team... perhaps also due to his disgusting Southern drawl. Listening to Tim McCarver call a baseball game is almost as bad as sitting in a family style restaurant in Lancaster, Pennsylvania having an old man take 8 minutes to spit out the question, "Son, is Long Island part of Fire Island?" His obnoxious burbling only worsens his atrociously nonsensical observations on the game of baseball. A colleague said he is someone who, "when you ask him the time, will tell you how a watch works." His subpar baseball calling and confusion of rules leaves one wondering - why the FUCK do networks insist on having him call postseason baseball games? Perhaps as a Mets fan I am spoiled. My booth is filled with two Ivy League graduates and two former Mets whose combined curricula amount to 6 All-Star selections, 12 Gold Glove Awards, and 2 Silver Slugger Awards. Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling and Gary Cohen amount to the most talented and entertaining team of baseball analysts in baseball today. It makes one wonder how a hack like Tim McCarver gets such a job. Enjoy a wikipedia entry on the various criticisms of McCarver.
So how do we fix the postseason? I offer the following recipe:
- Bring back day games. Some of us have to sleep at night and besides, we all have the means to record it and watch it again later.
- Adhere to strict time limits in warmups and between innings.
- Fewer days between postseason games. At least TRY to confine "October Baseball" to October.
- Always provide a playoff berth for the New York Mets.
- Fire Tim McCarver... or at least ship him off to call cricket games, as his knowledge of baseball's British counterpart probably isn't too far removed from his baseball knowledge.
- Make me, The Rev. Dr. Mayor William C. Olsen-Hoek, Esq. into Commissioner The Rev. Dr. Mayor William C. Olsen-Hoek, Esq.. I imagine my name with full title regalia would look marvelous stamped on all official league baseballs! In fact, let's see what it would look like using sophisticated computer technology!
An enormous thank you to Greg for his outstanding work in imagining what baseballs will look like under my Commissionership.
Next Time! Oscar the Grouch: TIME LORD.
Monday, October 19, 2009
In Which Atticus Finch Gives 12 Racist Men a Faceful of Scowl...
First, read this article. I'll wait.
Malcolm Gladwell is a media whore. I look at him and see a pimply faced weirdo who probably wore trench coats unironically in college and constantly pestered professors with non sequitur questions. He is the author of such abysmal affronts to good science and economics as Blink and The Tipping Point. One of his most dubious downfalls is his almost religious belief that correlation indicates causality. Using very small pools for his social experiments, Gladwell tends to make gross exaggerations verging on hyperbole, assuming that because his data challenges the status quo, that it immediately indicates that he has done something brilliant that deserves praise and adoration. The problem is that this modus operandi actually works for him, as his books tend to spend ridiculous periods of time on the New York Times bestseller list. Not only that, my good old alma mater, Stony Brook, required that I read Gladwell's The Tipping Point in my freshman year. Why? Well, people think that the only way to get uneducated people to talk to one another about something other than reality television requires that they read some trashy book and discuss it at length, praising only what is in the text, and not critically analyzing it. "At least they're talking!" supposes the New York State Board of Regents.
This particular article that I have forced my noble readers to suffer causes me no small measure of consternation. As an adamant admirer of Atticus Finch, the noble lawyer of Maycomb, Alabama in Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, I found this particular article offensive, almost dangerous. I venture to use the word dangerous here because I fear that in the hands of unthinking cretins around this world, such information would downplay the importance of Atticus Finch and thus Mockingbird as an entire piece. He compares Atticus to Jim Folsom, a man well known for seeming to believe that hypocrisy scribbled by Thomas Jefferson saying something about "all men [being] created equal." The parallel is weak. It is true that Atticus worked in a small area of "friends and neighbors" in Maycomb, but Gladwell seems to conveniently ignore the time that Atticus spends at the state capitol. Mockingbird is, at heart, a narrative of the experiences of one young girl growing up in a small town in the Deep South during the most depraved depths of American racism. As such, we never know what Atticus is up to when he is not in Jean-Louise's (a.k.a. Scout's) immediate presence. For all we know, Atticus may have been drafting a Civil Rights Bill in his spare time. While this may sound a stretch, and borders on fan fiction, one cannot discount it. But even based on his language and convictions on equality, one can assume he was not a proponent of Jim Crow.
Gladwell accuses Atticus of being nothing but an inactive character in the civil rights movement, and thus commits the same crime the Maycomb County jury did when they proclaimed Tom Robinson guilty - he ignores facts in favor of his own prejudices. As Tom wouldn't have the money for his own lawyer, the judge appointed Atticus to take the case, knowing that Atticus' belief in universal equality and justice for all would guarantee at least a good fight against the jury's obvious racist slant. Atticus went well beyond his call of duty. Another lawyer in Alabama during Jim Crow wouldn't have bothered to visit Tom's family to make sure they were keeping afloat during these trying times. Atticus did just that. Another lawyer wouldn't DREAM of waiting outside a prison to protect his client from the cruel hands of a lynch mob. Atticus did just that. Another lawyer wouldn't bother going for the appeal process, but Atticus swore to do just that.
We never asked Atticus Finch to be a Civil Rights leader. Stripping him to his essentials, what is he but a loving father, an avid reader, a terrific checkers player, a dead eye with a rifle, and a staunch believer in equality for all people. Gladwell seems to hold the idea that people are inherently different because of the color of their skin; he would favor making laws that protected people whose pigmentation appeared darker than some set scientific standard. It is my belief that Atticus transcended this belief. Rather than championing the single cause of rights for Blacks, Atticus instead challenges humanity to look deeper, seeing that there is no inherent different between people, no matter what color, religion or sex they may identify as. Atticus would fail to see the need of affirmative action, noting that color shouldn't even be a consideration when applying for a job - that giving jobs specifically to minorities is itself racism, as it identifies these people as inherently different and declares them more deserving of something as a result.
I've wasted too much breath downplaying Gladwell's importance in society. Any person with even a scrap of intelligence can see through his wishy-washy pop-economics. If people still think reciting his bogus claims at parties counts as intelligent conversation, so be it, but he will not be allowed to bash well-established literary heroes - NOT ON MY WATCH!
Stay tuned NEXT TIME for my EPIC deconstruction of our NATIONAL PAST TIME!
My Thesis:
How Postseason Baseball Destroyed Baseball: A Nocturne of Too Many Commercials, Too Many Pitching Changes, and the Inane Ramblings of Incompetent Men Named Tim McCarver.
Malcolm Gladwell is a media whore. I look at him and see a pimply faced weirdo who probably wore trench coats unironically in college and constantly pestered professors with non sequitur questions. He is the author of such abysmal affronts to good science and economics as Blink and The Tipping Point. One of his most dubious downfalls is his almost religious belief that correlation indicates causality. Using very small pools for his social experiments, Gladwell tends to make gross exaggerations verging on hyperbole, assuming that because his data challenges the status quo, that it immediately indicates that he has done something brilliant that deserves praise and adoration. The problem is that this modus operandi actually works for him, as his books tend to spend ridiculous periods of time on the New York Times bestseller list. Not only that, my good old alma mater, Stony Brook, required that I read Gladwell's The Tipping Point in my freshman year. Why? Well, people think that the only way to get uneducated people to talk to one another about something other than reality television requires that they read some trashy book and discuss it at length, praising only what is in the text, and not critically analyzing it. "At least they're talking!" supposes the New York State Board of Regents.
This particular article that I have forced my noble readers to suffer causes me no small measure of consternation. As an adamant admirer of Atticus Finch, the noble lawyer of Maycomb, Alabama in Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, I found this particular article offensive, almost dangerous. I venture to use the word dangerous here because I fear that in the hands of unthinking cretins around this world, such information would downplay the importance of Atticus Finch and thus Mockingbird as an entire piece. He compares Atticus to Jim Folsom, a man well known for seeming to believe that hypocrisy scribbled by Thomas Jefferson saying something about "all men [being] created equal." The parallel is weak. It is true that Atticus worked in a small area of "friends and neighbors" in Maycomb, but Gladwell seems to conveniently ignore the time that Atticus spends at the state capitol. Mockingbird is, at heart, a narrative of the experiences of one young girl growing up in a small town in the Deep South during the most depraved depths of American racism. As such, we never know what Atticus is up to when he is not in Jean-Louise's (a.k.a. Scout's) immediate presence. For all we know, Atticus may have been drafting a Civil Rights Bill in his spare time. While this may sound a stretch, and borders on fan fiction, one cannot discount it. But even based on his language and convictions on equality, one can assume he was not a proponent of Jim Crow.
Gladwell accuses Atticus of being nothing but an inactive character in the civil rights movement, and thus commits the same crime the Maycomb County jury did when they proclaimed Tom Robinson guilty - he ignores facts in favor of his own prejudices. As Tom wouldn't have the money for his own lawyer, the judge appointed Atticus to take the case, knowing that Atticus' belief in universal equality and justice for all would guarantee at least a good fight against the jury's obvious racist slant. Atticus went well beyond his call of duty. Another lawyer in Alabama during Jim Crow wouldn't have bothered to visit Tom's family to make sure they were keeping afloat during these trying times. Atticus did just that. Another lawyer wouldn't DREAM of waiting outside a prison to protect his client from the cruel hands of a lynch mob. Atticus did just that. Another lawyer wouldn't bother going for the appeal process, but Atticus swore to do just that.
We never asked Atticus Finch to be a Civil Rights leader. Stripping him to his essentials, what is he but a loving father, an avid reader, a terrific checkers player, a dead eye with a rifle, and a staunch believer in equality for all people. Gladwell seems to hold the idea that people are inherently different because of the color of their skin; he would favor making laws that protected people whose pigmentation appeared darker than some set scientific standard. It is my belief that Atticus transcended this belief. Rather than championing the single cause of rights for Blacks, Atticus instead challenges humanity to look deeper, seeing that there is no inherent different between people, no matter what color, religion or sex they may identify as. Atticus would fail to see the need of affirmative action, noting that color shouldn't even be a consideration when applying for a job - that giving jobs specifically to minorities is itself racism, as it identifies these people as inherently different and declares them more deserving of something as a result.
I've wasted too much breath downplaying Gladwell's importance in society. Any person with even a scrap of intelligence can see through his wishy-washy pop-economics. If people still think reciting his bogus claims at parties counts as intelligent conversation, so be it, but he will not be allowed to bash well-established literary heroes - NOT ON MY WATCH!
Stay tuned NEXT TIME for my EPIC deconstruction of our NATIONAL PAST TIME!
My Thesis:
How Postseason Baseball Destroyed Baseball: A Nocturne of Too Many Commercials, Too Many Pitching Changes, and the Inane Ramblings of Incompetent Men Named Tim McCarver.
Monday, October 12, 2009
In Which We Dine in the Style of "Diamond" Jim Brady and Brave New England...
Saturday marked Julie's birthday celebration. Being she happens to be a citizen of the rival principality to the Kingdom of Brooklyn's north - the Queendom of Queens - she adhered to the Treaty of Orchard Beach §485.99 which declared that any celebrations requiring the attendance of Subjects of BOTH rival territories shall be had on a neutral THIRD BOROUGH. She chose the famous Delmonico's restaurant in the Financial District of Manhattan.
Those unfamiliar with this establishment's fabled past need LOOK NO FURTHER, for I herein provide and COMPLETE and ACCURATE history of Delmonico's in the fashion of a timeline.
18 A.D. - Jesus and 312 of his closest friends celebrate his 18th birthday and inadvertently invent the Jägerbomb - a drink recipe still on the menu, still at the low, introductory rate of 30 pieces of silver (FORESHADOWING)!
1890s - Renowned psychic Edgar Cayce visits Delmonico's and slips into a deep, dreamlike state wherein he mumbled "Sewards icebox... Alaska... 49th state... vice president?" amongst fevered ramblings about the lost continent of Atlantis. Chef Bjørn Strangelove immediately invented a meringue encrusted ice cream dessert to prematurely celebrate our penultimate state - Baked Alaska.
1910 - "Diamond" Jim Brady becomes the first customer to ask for a snow shovel with which to heap food into his obese girlfriend's gaping maw. Geologists of the time believed that Jim used the massive heat and supergravitational force that was his lady friend in order to make MORE DIAMONDS! Customers may still request a snow shovel to enjoy their suppers.
October 1929 to ca. 1980's - After thoroughly enjoying a brunch of Eggs Benedict, President Herbert Hoover enlisted the Army Corps of Engineers to design a TIME SHIELD to protect the restaurant. Simultaneously, he had the secret service subtly influence the market, causing a massive panic resulting in the Great Depression to ensure that NO ONE BUT HE could afford such a luxurious dish! It was not until stage magician David Copperfield decided to cause the Statue of Liberty to disappear, accidentally focusing his TIME MAGIC on the financial district, that the restaurant was once again open to the public. When authorities searched the grounds, they found Hoover hunched over a plate by a fireplace shoving entire eggs and English muffins down his throat, quenching his thirst with an oriental vase full of Hollandaise sauce.
Yesterday - Dressed in a double breasted seersucker suit, a foolish young man asked for truffles atop his steak, garnishing a $40 surcharge - thus ensuring he would have a funny story to tell for the rest of his life.
Well, we seriously enjoyed it. It was an historical experience, and atrociously delicious as well. Thanks be to Julie!
Maria and I required respite from the State of New York, and so plotted an escape to that neighbor to the United States' north - Red Sox Nation. Formerly a geographic area known as "New England," so named because of the area's propensity to drink tea and worship a monarchy, the states of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Connecticut incorporated into one obnoxious political unit in 2004 in celebration of the third rate baseball team - the Boston Red Sox - winning a championship for the first time in 89 years. In a stunning blow to Red Sox Nation, their much beloved army (whose actions are mostly confined to football playing) the Patriots were crushed by the New York Football Giants (literally persons who suffer from gigantism) in the 2006 Battle of the Superbowl. But I have digressed.
Red Sox Nation is very beautiful this time of year. October, being my favorite month, is marked by the caramelizing tree leaves and brisk, bright weather. It was really breathtaking driving past gilded birches and scarlet sugar maples. For all of its obnoxious sports fans, Red Sox Nation is far and away the most beautiful part of America in the autumn.
We drove our adorable silver Volkswagen Jetta (courtesy of Zip Car) to the Northampton area of Massachusetts. There we went to Atkin's Farm, a produce market so popular that the parking lot suffers from traffic congestion. There we feasted on a mug of warm apple cider and cider donuts, a product that was pretty much the main reason we made the whole trip. Indeed, if it weren't for Maria salivating at the very thought of these confections, no way would we have driven up there. A little ways away, we went to an apple orchard, where I went apple picking for the first time. It felt a little like we were on a movie set - picking apples amongst autumnal trees, bright blue sky, green, gold, red spotted hills... and I practiced my cricket bowl with the fallen, spoiled apples.
I declare this the finest usage of a three day weekend. I am currently re-reading Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird and scouring it for evidence of Truman Capote's handiwork. Do NOT be surprised if any of my forthcoming entries contain Atticus Finch worship - though that might be an interesting topic: challenging Malcolm Gladwell's essay denouncing Atticus.
Until I decide what to write again...
Adieu.
Those unfamiliar with this establishment's fabled past need LOOK NO FURTHER, for I herein provide and COMPLETE and ACCURATE history of Delmonico's in the fashion of a timeline.
18 A.D. - Jesus and 312 of his closest friends celebrate his 18th birthday and inadvertently invent the Jägerbomb - a drink recipe still on the menu, still at the low, introductory rate of 30 pieces of silver (FORESHADOWING)!
1890s - Renowned psychic Edgar Cayce visits Delmonico's and slips into a deep, dreamlike state wherein he mumbled "Sewards icebox... Alaska... 49th state... vice president?" amongst fevered ramblings about the lost continent of Atlantis. Chef Bjørn Strangelove immediately invented a meringue encrusted ice cream dessert to prematurely celebrate our penultimate state - Baked Alaska.
1910 - "Diamond" Jim Brady becomes the first customer to ask for a snow shovel with which to heap food into his obese girlfriend's gaping maw. Geologists of the time believed that Jim used the massive heat and supergravitational force that was his lady friend in order to make MORE DIAMONDS! Customers may still request a snow shovel to enjoy their suppers.
October 1929 to ca. 1980's - After thoroughly enjoying a brunch of Eggs Benedict, President Herbert Hoover enlisted the Army Corps of Engineers to design a TIME SHIELD to protect the restaurant. Simultaneously, he had the secret service subtly influence the market, causing a massive panic resulting in the Great Depression to ensure that NO ONE BUT HE could afford such a luxurious dish! It was not until stage magician David Copperfield decided to cause the Statue of Liberty to disappear, accidentally focusing his TIME MAGIC on the financial district, that the restaurant was once again open to the public. When authorities searched the grounds, they found Hoover hunched over a plate by a fireplace shoving entire eggs and English muffins down his throat, quenching his thirst with an oriental vase full of Hollandaise sauce.
Yesterday - Dressed in a double breasted seersucker suit, a foolish young man asked for truffles atop his steak, garnishing a $40 surcharge - thus ensuring he would have a funny story to tell for the rest of his life.
Well, we seriously enjoyed it. It was an historical experience, and atrociously delicious as well. Thanks be to Julie!
Maria and I required respite from the State of New York, and so plotted an escape to that neighbor to the United States' north - Red Sox Nation. Formerly a geographic area known as "New England," so named because of the area's propensity to drink tea and worship a monarchy, the states of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Connecticut incorporated into one obnoxious political unit in 2004 in celebration of the third rate baseball team - the Boston Red Sox - winning a championship for the first time in 89 years. In a stunning blow to Red Sox Nation, their much beloved army (whose actions are mostly confined to football playing) the Patriots were crushed by the New York Football Giants (literally persons who suffer from gigantism) in the 2006 Battle of the Superbowl. But I have digressed.
Red Sox Nation is very beautiful this time of year. October, being my favorite month, is marked by the caramelizing tree leaves and brisk, bright weather. It was really breathtaking driving past gilded birches and scarlet sugar maples. For all of its obnoxious sports fans, Red Sox Nation is far and away the most beautiful part of America in the autumn.
We drove our adorable silver Volkswagen Jetta (courtesy of Zip Car) to the Northampton area of Massachusetts. There we went to Atkin's Farm, a produce market so popular that the parking lot suffers from traffic congestion. There we feasted on a mug of warm apple cider and cider donuts, a product that was pretty much the main reason we made the whole trip. Indeed, if it weren't for Maria salivating at the very thought of these confections, no way would we have driven up there. A little ways away, we went to an apple orchard, where I went apple picking for the first time. It felt a little like we were on a movie set - picking apples amongst autumnal trees, bright blue sky, green, gold, red spotted hills... and I practiced my cricket bowl with the fallen, spoiled apples.
I declare this the finest usage of a three day weekend. I am currently re-reading Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird and scouring it for evidence of Truman Capote's handiwork. Do NOT be surprised if any of my forthcoming entries contain Atticus Finch worship - though that might be an interesting topic: challenging Malcolm Gladwell's essay denouncing Atticus.
Until I decide what to write again...
Adieu.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A Tally of My Murderously Delicious Wake...
Some basic math will come up with the following rough tally of the animals that had to die for my meals today:
And now, I set off to write a lesson plan wherein I make my students write a letter to Sen. Schumer suggesting a law that ought to be passed. At ease.
- At least 2 pigs.
- At least 1 cow.
- At least 2 chickens (most likely 3)
- 6 oysters
- 2 clams
- 5 mussels
- 1 lobster
And now, I set off to write a lesson plan wherein I make my students write a letter to Sen. Schumer suggesting a law that ought to be passed. At ease.
Monday, October 5, 2009
In Which We Catch Up...
I have just been informed that I won tickets to see They Might Be Giants perform on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. Does that mean I have to sit through Jimmy Fallon for an hour or more? God help me.
Well, I certainly have been remiss of my updating duties, haven't I? I promised to mention the late Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D-NY) [D-for deceased] in this entry. Well, I've just done that. And when I write my long winded entry about my proposed Mosesesque P-Train, you will certainly hear more about him particularly pertaining to my views on the proposed Moynihan Station across the street from Pennsylvania Station.
Student teaching has been swell. I have an exceptionally smart and informative cooperative teacher, Ms T - a native of Germany whose educational excellence has garnered her a principal's license. I work at The High School of Health Professions and Human Services on 15th Street in Manhattan - the former site of Stuyvesant High School, a fact which original engravings still boast on the 16th Street side of the school. Autobiographer Frank McCourt actually taught English two floor below me just a few decades ago, and to celebrate this fact, I read Teacher Man, his account of working in the New York City educational system courtesy of the G.I. Bill.
I am in charge of two periods of Global History I (JOY!) and three periods of U.S. Government (RAPTURE!). Long story short, I couldn't have chosen better classes with which to whet my teaching skills. I have already incorporated Star Wars and the HBO miniseries John Adams into my lessons. So far: it appears that my professor is happy with my performance - going so far as to suggest that I work towards an administrative position once I've achieved a teaching position.
Problems? I have a few. Certainly learning all of my students' names has been a bit of a challenge, and I estimate that I still don't know about 35% of them. Even so, I believe I am not entirely at fault, as some of these names are entirely new to me: Dazia pronounced as "desire" with a New York accent, Ivyz as "EE-vee," Satabangkot as "Fern," &c.
It is already October, which was officially declared The Finest Month by Scientific Proof Magazine. Two days from now marks Maria's and my second anniversary. Given my current financial situation, it will prove a modest celebration, though certainly a very happy one. I certainly can't believe that the imperious, aristocratic, moody, sanctimonious behemoth with which she resides hasn't driven her away, but I genuinely thank her and owe all of my new-found success to her. Were it not for her selflessness and complete dedication to our relationship, I probably wouldn't be back in Stony Brook and headed towards the goals I should have achieved years ago.
It is worth note that yesterday was the Atlantic Antic Festival along Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. This is far and away the greatest of all street fairs. As proof, I offer the meal I had just while walking around!
My October resolution is to write more observations in this journal - so I trust all six of my beloved readers will press me on the matter and keep me true to this resolution. Until then, as my cooperative teacher's people say:
Auf wiedersehen!
Well, I certainly have been remiss of my updating duties, haven't I? I promised to mention the late Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D-NY) [D-for deceased] in this entry. Well, I've just done that. And when I write my long winded entry about my proposed Mosesesque P-Train, you will certainly hear more about him particularly pertaining to my views on the proposed Moynihan Station across the street from Pennsylvania Station.
Student teaching has been swell. I have an exceptionally smart and informative cooperative teacher, Ms T - a native of Germany whose educational excellence has garnered her a principal's license. I work at The High School of Health Professions and Human Services on 15th Street in Manhattan - the former site of Stuyvesant High School, a fact which original engravings still boast on the 16th Street side of the school. Autobiographer Frank McCourt actually taught English two floor below me just a few decades ago, and to celebrate this fact, I read Teacher Man, his account of working in the New York City educational system courtesy of the G.I. Bill.
I am in charge of two periods of Global History I (JOY!) and three periods of U.S. Government (RAPTURE!). Long story short, I couldn't have chosen better classes with which to whet my teaching skills. I have already incorporated Star Wars and the HBO miniseries John Adams into my lessons. So far: it appears that my professor is happy with my performance - going so far as to suggest that I work towards an administrative position once I've achieved a teaching position.
Problems? I have a few. Certainly learning all of my students' names has been a bit of a challenge, and I estimate that I still don't know about 35% of them. Even so, I believe I am not entirely at fault, as some of these names are entirely new to me: Dazia pronounced as "desire" with a New York accent, Ivyz as "EE-vee," Satabangkot as "Fern," &c.
It is already October, which was officially declared The Finest Month by Scientific Proof Magazine. Two days from now marks Maria's and my second anniversary. Given my current financial situation, it will prove a modest celebration, though certainly a very happy one. I certainly can't believe that the imperious, aristocratic, moody, sanctimonious behemoth with which she resides hasn't driven her away, but I genuinely thank her and owe all of my new-found success to her. Were it not for her selflessness and complete dedication to our relationship, I probably wouldn't be back in Stony Brook and headed towards the goals I should have achieved years ago.
It is worth note that yesterday was the Atlantic Antic Festival along Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. This is far and away the greatest of all street fairs. As proof, I offer the meal I had just while walking around!
- Oysters and clams on the half-shell
- Delicious Six-Point Amber Ale
- Generous handfuls of kettle corn courtesy of Bob
- RED VELVET CAKE
My October resolution is to write more observations in this journal - so I trust all six of my beloved readers will press me on the matter and keep me true to this resolution. Until then, as my cooperative teacher's people say:
Auf wiedersehen!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
In Which I CREATE Such a Thing As a Free Lunch...
Prologue:
Franklin D. Roosevelt, fondly known by contemporaries as Ol' Legs Don't Work, once boldly promised FOUR THINGS to a country ravaged by the despair of a broken economy. Oh, you all went to grade school and saw those atrocious Norman Rockwell affronts to good taste. Let's say them together!
1.) Freedom of speech and expression.
2.) Freedom of religion.
3.) Freedom from want.
4.) Freedom from fear.
Now, these are not such lofty or novel ideas. The first two are, in fact, guaranteed in our own Bill of Rights. The third goal essentially wrapped up his bizarre idea that people should have federally funded potted chickens and garaged cars. PSH! Number 4 requires an interesting historical analysis. New reports seem to suggest that FDR was, in fact, a Time Cop who posed as a crippled Depression-era president in order to learn more on the whereabouts of the infamous Evil Time Pirates called F.E.A.R. - Federation of Errant (time) Argonauts or piRates [it here should be noted that this will be considered a reasonable acronym in the year 802,701 A.D.. We weren't to fear a war in Europe or complete economic collapse. While commonly quoted as, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself," Roosevelt actually wrote, "We have nothing to fear but F.E.A.R. itself." But I digress.
These freedoms are largely the product of a great speech writer editing Roosevelts inane doodlings on a cocktail napkin from the night before - a night filled with booze, cigarettes in tortoiseshell holders, more booze, and a transgendered prostitute known to modern historians as Eleanor Roosevelt-Roosevelt. The original fears, only corrected during a massive, strange Roosevelt hangover (commonly called a Bank Holiday nowadays) were.
1.) Freedom from Japan.
2.) Freedom to give me five bucks so I can pay this painfully attractive transgenduhed hookuh. [Roosevelt wrote in his famous highbrow New York accent when drunk.]
3.) Freedom from F.E.A.R..
4.) Freedom from Lunchlessness.
Body:
Throughout our magnificent history, we human beings have sought the best of "free" things. We pen fancily scribed declarations to mad kings on small faraway islands asking for "freedom." We futilely quest towards harnessing "free" energy from the UNIVERSE. We will knock down fellow human beings when smiling costumed sports mascots fire "free" t-shirts from dangerous pneumatic firearms at us during the 7th inning stretch. FREEDOM is the ULTIMATE GOAL of MANKIND!
There is an old saying supposedly attributed to a science fiction writer back in the 1930s - and we all know that ALL THINGS WRITTEN BY SCIENCE FICTION WRITERS (especially L. Ron Hubbard) ARE TRUE! That saying is "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch."
Free country. Free energy. Free... LUNCH?!
We have our Free Country! And Free Energy is nothing but an idle daydreams best left to Mormons and obese steampunk fans. But free lunch?
I THINK THIS IS A JOB FOR (future) MAYOR OLSEN-HOEK!
And ladies and gentlemen of the scientific world, I here present conclusive evidence that I, WILLIAM C. OLSEN-HOEK, have discovered FREE LUNCH!
It was not so hard as you might think. Whilst sitting in my rocking chair pondering the mysteries of the universe, I thought of the long-term benefits of harnessing FREE LUNCH. Free lunch would mean the end of midday hunger for all humanity forever. The economy would benefit from a workforce required only to produce TWO meals per day. Just think of all the peanut butter and jelly (resources vital to the development of cold fusion as per the December 1987 issue of Scientific Proof Magazine) we could save! And just then I came back to reality - I have to go to a student teaching orientation tomorrow and have no idea what I need to bring.
I wrote to Natalie, my instructor for this semester, asking what I would need to bring. It should here be noted that the meeting will take place at Theodore Roosevelt's Fortified Midtown Bastion-Castle of Learning and Technological Achievement - renamed the American Museum of Natural History by an asthmatic boring middle aged tweed-wearing knucklehead who obviously had no concept of who Theodore Roosevelt was. I received the following email:
"No, I have everything we need...just a pen and some paper for notes. We
will also give you a voucher for lunch in the cafeteria there.
N"
VOUCHER FOR LUNCH?! Just then I threw open the windows and shouted to Mr. Watson insisting I needed him! I decoded the Rosetta Stone and fell backward in my chair yelling EUREKA! I left my excommunication trial and shouted "E pur si muove!" Just a short pondering and I INVENTED FREE LUNCH! Humanity may bow down and praise me! the Nobel committee will be visiting Brooklyn this year! I have yet another accomplishment to add to my campaign! And so world! I have given you free lunch!
Conclusion:
Comrade Derek wrote me today informing me that basketball personality Karl Mallone has a car dealership in Salt Lake City. This brought up a conversation about how the Utah Jazz can retain the name after the team left New Orleans being that Utah had no part in the history of jazz. I said they ought to have changed the name to the Utah Absurd Cultists.
Notes:
This ends my consortium on FREE LUNCH.
STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK - for I will mention the late Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D-NY) in my next entry!
Franklin D. Roosevelt, fondly known by contemporaries as Ol' Legs Don't Work, once boldly promised FOUR THINGS to a country ravaged by the despair of a broken economy. Oh, you all went to grade school and saw those atrocious Norman Rockwell affronts to good taste. Let's say them together!
1.) Freedom of speech and expression.
2.) Freedom of religion.
3.) Freedom from want.
4.) Freedom from fear.
Now, these are not such lofty or novel ideas. The first two are, in fact, guaranteed in our own Bill of Rights. The third goal essentially wrapped up his bizarre idea that people should have federally funded potted chickens and garaged cars. PSH! Number 4 requires an interesting historical analysis. New reports seem to suggest that FDR was, in fact, a Time Cop who posed as a crippled Depression-era president in order to learn more on the whereabouts of the infamous Evil Time Pirates called F.E.A.R. - Federation of Errant (time) Argonauts or piRates [it here should be noted that this will be considered a reasonable acronym in the year 802,701 A.D.. We weren't to fear a war in Europe or complete economic collapse. While commonly quoted as, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself," Roosevelt actually wrote, "We have nothing to fear but F.E.A.R. itself." But I digress.
These freedoms are largely the product of a great speech writer editing Roosevelts inane doodlings on a cocktail napkin from the night before - a night filled with booze, cigarettes in tortoiseshell holders, more booze, and a transgendered prostitute known to modern historians as Eleanor Roosevelt-Roosevelt. The original fears, only corrected during a massive, strange Roosevelt hangover (commonly called a Bank Holiday nowadays) were.
1.) Freedom from Japan.
2.) Freedom to give me five bucks so I can pay this painfully attractive transgenduhed hookuh. [Roosevelt wrote in his famous highbrow New York accent when drunk.]
3.) Freedom from F.E.A.R..
4.) Freedom from Lunchlessness.
Body:
Throughout our magnificent history, we human beings have sought the best of "free" things. We pen fancily scribed declarations to mad kings on small faraway islands asking for "freedom." We futilely quest towards harnessing "free" energy from the UNIVERSE. We will knock down fellow human beings when smiling costumed sports mascots fire "free" t-shirts from dangerous pneumatic firearms at us during the 7th inning stretch. FREEDOM is the ULTIMATE GOAL of MANKIND!
There is an old saying supposedly attributed to a science fiction writer back in the 1930s - and we all know that ALL THINGS WRITTEN BY SCIENCE FICTION WRITERS (especially L. Ron Hubbard) ARE TRUE! That saying is "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch."
Free country. Free energy. Free... LUNCH?!
We have our Free Country! And Free Energy is nothing but an idle daydreams best left to Mormons and obese steampunk fans. But free lunch?
I THINK THIS IS A JOB FOR (future) MAYOR OLSEN-HOEK!
And ladies and gentlemen of the scientific world, I here present conclusive evidence that I, WILLIAM C. OLSEN-HOEK, have discovered FREE LUNCH!
It was not so hard as you might think. Whilst sitting in my rocking chair pondering the mysteries of the universe, I thought of the long-term benefits of harnessing FREE LUNCH. Free lunch would mean the end of midday hunger for all humanity forever. The economy would benefit from a workforce required only to produce TWO meals per day. Just think of all the peanut butter and jelly (resources vital to the development of cold fusion as per the December 1987 issue of Scientific Proof Magazine) we could save! And just then I came back to reality - I have to go to a student teaching orientation tomorrow and have no idea what I need to bring.
I wrote to Natalie, my instructor for this semester, asking what I would need to bring. It should here be noted that the meeting will take place at Theodore Roosevelt's Fortified Midtown Bastion-Castle of Learning and Technological Achievement - renamed the American Museum of Natural History by an asthmatic boring middle aged tweed-wearing knucklehead who obviously had no concept of who Theodore Roosevelt was. I received the following email:
"No, I have everything we need...just a pen and some paper for notes. We
will also give you a voucher for lunch in the cafeteria there.
N"
VOUCHER FOR LUNCH?! Just then I threw open the windows and shouted to Mr. Watson insisting I needed him! I decoded the Rosetta Stone and fell backward in my chair yelling EUREKA! I left my excommunication trial and shouted "E pur si muove!" Just a short pondering and I INVENTED FREE LUNCH! Humanity may bow down and praise me! the Nobel committee will be visiting Brooklyn this year! I have yet another accomplishment to add to my campaign! And so world! I have given you free lunch!
Conclusion:
Comrade Derek wrote me today informing me that basketball personality Karl Mallone has a car dealership in Salt Lake City. This brought up a conversation about how the Utah Jazz can retain the name after the team left New Orleans being that Utah had no part in the history of jazz. I said they ought to have changed the name to the Utah Absurd Cultists.
Notes:
This ends my consortium on FREE LUNCH.
STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK - for I will mention the late Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D-NY) in my next entry!
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