We Have Nothing to Fear but Fear Itself.. and These Several Other Things.

For a large part of my life, I was deathly afraid of roller coasters... in fact, I was deathly afraid of most amusement park rides. Indeed, one of my favorite things is the tears that well in my grandmother's eyes as she nearly dies laughing while recalling that one day at Disney World that I fell on the floor crying, begging her not to bring me into the Haunted Mansion. In fact, it wasn't until college that I actually developed a taste for roller coasters - though generally the more tame of the bunch. I in fact love the Coney Island Cyclone in all its bone rattling, arthritis-inducing glory that is so indicative of the wild ride the Nation was experiencing during its 1927 construction. Still, when I ventured to New Jersey for Fright Fest at Six Flags, I looked up in disgust and horror at an abominable steel cathedral of death: Kingda Ka.

Fig. 1: THIS IS NOT ENTERTAINMENT

I still consider this fear conquered to a certain degree, as I have ridden Nitro in near total darkness and El Toro, a wooden coaster that rides like its steel cousins.
So what do I still fear? Watching Jeopardy! tonight, I was reminded of a cold, terrible, dormant fear that grips the depths of my mind. What else could I do but compile them into a list that my enemies may exploit to my detriment.

THE FIVE THINGS I FEAR BESIDES FEAR ITSELF

No. 5.) Scientology.
It burns, I know. If you have a lazy Sunday that needs whittling away, might I suggest reading this eye-opening piece about Scientology. It pays more respect to the details of the religion than I do in this short, hilarious, self-serving blog of mine - and makes many of my observations seem childlike and ignorant. Needless to say, that article is an example of journalism, and this is an attempt at comedy.
Yes, I love the Constitution of the United States - and yes I realize that the very first amendment to it guarantees religious freedom to anyone within the borders of this great nation... in so many words. I don't begrudge people their religion, except to those apostates who defect from the Episcopal Church because of our tendency to elect female and openly homosexual bishops. I do, however, find the "Church" of Scientology to be a horse of a different color, something that needs be scrutinized in league with the likes of snake oil salesman and Vince the Sham-Wow guy. Okay, I get it, Xenu is an evil overlord who imprisoned the souls in paleolithic humans or something... and the only way we can clear ourselves is to give L. Ron Hubbard our fortunes to become Level 8 Thetans.

Trapped in the Closet
Tags: SOUTH
PARKmore...

Fig. 2: An Inconvenient Truth

See, doesn't that sound like something from a video game? I have always been wary about this religion because of its origins in the mind of a really bad science fiction pulp writer. Then someone I knew personally - someone I liked and respected, became a Scientologist.
One bizarre evening, he came back from California after several months auditing with the Church, or whatever it is they do. By this time, I had experimented with Red Bull for the first time with disastrous results - namely that I went on an all-night bike ride the previous night and had suffered more than 48 hours of jittery wakefulness. Our Scientologist friend had invited us to Starbucks. Accompanying him was his fiancée - a cold, enigmatic Asian woman who spoke almost no English. What I remember of the event was that my friend showed us a series of cards about depression, confusion and "clearing" yourself. It shook me. Here was a friend of mine behaving like one of those people who offered "stress tests" in the Times Square subway station.
Scientology shares way too many things in common with the medieval concept of buying indulgences, which goes something like this:

It is the Middle Ages. Lord Chestermoreton wishes to do ungodly things and get away with it. He brings with him an enormous chest full of precious gold, diamonds and rubies stolen from the Holy Land. He approaches Pope Charlie XII who is seated upon the Throne of St. Peter.

Lord Chestermoreton: Your Holiness, I wish to divorce my wife. Her cooking is an atrocity against humanity. There is little difference between her stew and the contents of my chamberpot after choking down the said stew.

Pope Charlie XII: I see, my son. Well, you know full well the church's view on divorce. Marriage is, after all, a holy sacrament.

Lord Chestermoreton: What if I were to offer you this ring? It was stolen from the finger that blasted Mohamadan, Suleiman the Impeccably Dressed, after my forces ransacked Jerusalem.

Lord Chestermoreton offers the Holy Father an immense golden ring with an emerald the size of a peach pit. Pope Charlie XII leans over, examines the magnificent jewel. He strokes his chin, and says...

Pope Charlie XII: For this my son, you can put that lousy cook to death with my blessings.

Lord Chestermoreton: Splendid! Now that we've settled that, I'd like to marry my prize horse, Broomhilda.

Pope Charlie XII: Now just a moment my son! The Bible clearly states in Leviticus that --

Lord Chestermoreton's kicks open his chest of precious things. It sparkles and radiates with the priceless contents within. Pope Charlie XII leans over, examines the contents of the chest and whistles.

Pope Charlie XII: So... when's the wedding?

Fin.

The only way you can advance to higher levels in the Church of Scientology is to pay - OUT THE NOSE. Mr. Hubbard recognized that he could profit from his new religion, and thus actively sought out wealthy celebrities and offered them higher status in the church the more money they gave. Our friend gave an awful lot of money to the Church in his own time there.
It scares me that intelligent people can fall for something like this. And what did our friend get out of Scientology? Well, to give you an idea, the last time I saw him was at a bar. He took out his keys out of his pocket to retrieve his wallet. I noticed a plain golden ring holding all his keys together. "Is that what I think it is," I asked him. Sure enough, it was his wedding band. "Yeah... at least it's good for something at this point," he responded.
Sham marriages. Practical slavery. Buying indulgences. Xenu capturing human souls. A failed sci-fi writer. This is some scary shit, people.

No. 4.) The Zombie Apocalypse.
Good grief. I hear about this stuff all the time. Apparently everyone in the sci-fi community is convinced that we will all perish when some mutated virus from space or from some secret defunct Soviet-era laboratory or from monkeys. And not only will we perish, we will then walk the earth with glazed over eyes and puckered, rotting flesh with an insatiable hunger for brains. Even Robert Frost hypothesized the world would end with the Walking Dead when he wrote his famous short poem, Fire and Zombies.

Fire and Zombies
by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in zombies.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of Hate
To say that for destruction, zombies
Are also great and would consume we.

Mr. Frost gave up at the end with so trite and contrived a rhyme. But really, what useful word rhymes with zombies. NONE.

In short: THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE WILL NOT HAPPEN.
But I am relatively sure that The Zombie Apocalypse is the new euphemism for MASS GLOBAL PANDEMICS THAT WILL DETROY US ALL.
Now that's really something to be frightened of. Oh, there's the occasional scare that we get. First we were all going to die from SARS. Then anthrax. Then swine flu. Seriously though, most of these frightful, terrifying diseases are either a.) easily treated or b.) easily preventable. Indeed, these Angels of Death could be fended off with hand sanitizer. THAT IS NOT SCARY. Not even the flu epidemic of the early 1900s is truly, bone-chillingly terrifying, considering that some attribute the mass deaths from the said outbreak to overdoses of the new miracle drug, aspirin.
No, the real rider upon a Pale Horse are culprits like the Ebola virus, which some scientists speculate actually has EXTRATERRESTRIAL ORIGINS.

Fig. 3: I knew he was in with a bad crowd, but it was worse than I imagined. ALIENS!

The very thought of a virus that attacks and kills in a single day and hops onto the next nearest available host, leaving in its path a wake of death and destruction gives me the willies! Those unfortunate victims need not rise from their deaths to begin feasting upon the living. NO WAY. It's scary enough as it is.
Plus, everybody knows that if the zombie apocalypse were to really happen, you need only find a baseball bat and several humorous friends. BOOM - suddenly you're a survivor!

Recap: So, we've covered that I fear Scientology and The Zombie Apocalypse. I will save my top 3 fears for next time.

An Epistle Wrought by a Victim of the Snowpocalypse... FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

Greetings internet colleagues. For those of you not living in the Northeastern United States (being the only part of the said country that really matters), you may or may not be aware of the fact that every soul in the said geographical area has been wiped clean. Alas, it's true. In New York impatient people perished waiting an extra 10 minutes for a bus to arrive. In Boston thousands met their end from the minor inconvenience of having to hop over a slushy puddle. In Philadelphia literally thousands met their doom when they had to send their hideous UGG boots to the dry cleaner to remove rock salt stains. In short, I'm sorry to say, but we are all dead. I met my tragic end when I received an annoying telephone call at 6:15 AM telling me that New York City public schools would be closed that day. The tragedy of having lost $154.97 in daily wages was too much for my heart to bear, and thus, in the darkened, overheated* gloom of my Brooklyn apartment, I withered to dust. Using the latest high-speed necrofiberoptic technology, I was able to download my consciousness into the nearest electronic device with a programmable memory (nothing fancy, mind you - by an unlucky coincidence a coffee maker was the closest object at my time of death) and am thus able to deliver this missive to you, Dear Readers. Let's talk about the economy.

Item 1: Return to the Gold Standard
Now, in my life, I was a titled Baron of the micronation of Sealand - a decrepit World War II remnant currently decaying in the English Channel. Sealand's economy as well as the rusting support beam keeping it from the watery abyss below are, not to put too fine a point on it, rather fragile. In these dark time the middle and lower classes find themselves quickly slipping back into standards of living roughly equal to that of medieval Scottish peasantry. Sealand took a cue from L. Frank Baum's economic treatise The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
I'll explain. In this timeless classic, an uppity little girl, Dorothy Gale, from gloomy Kansas senselessly murders an innocent sorceress by dropping a house on her. After looting the body of a priceless pair of silver slippers, the deceased's sister, a fellow sorceress hailing from the West relentlessly pursues the murderous thief, who quickly allies herself with such questionable company as a straw man, a tin woodsman and a lion. Dorothy evades the sorceress's machinations by following a road built entirely of yellow bricks until she meets the Wizard, who is nothing but a failed politician (and a worse hot air balloonist). Eventually Dorothy and her rag tag crew murder the western sorceress, steal her broomstick, and are given gifts and a way home by the Wizard and a rival sorceress. All this is actually a cleverly conceived allegory for sticking to the gold standard. See, Dorothy was able to complete her barbarous, blood-drenched quest by using "silver" slippers and following a yellow - or GOLD - brick road and by surrounding herself with brainless, cowardly, heartless brutes. That's what we have governments for!
Why did I tell you all this? You see, Sealand, as I said, took a cue from L. Frank Baum's beloved "children's" classic, and made its currency nothing but solid gold and silver. I, a titled Baron, suddenly realized that I had no gold and little silver to back my aristocratic ways. However am I to afford my rusting, cold, salty, wet estate in Sealand? Naturally I needed to buy some gold. I went right to a source that Baum would have applauded: The United States Mint.
A few weeks ago I purchased a 1/10 ounce Gold Eagle coin.

Fig. 1: Only 4 bald eagles and 1 depiction of Lady Liberty? What kind of majesty is that?!

Alas, I should have known that the Mint, with its infamous TIME AGENTS, have thwarted me by creating a TIME PARADOX DIFFERENTIATOR DEVICE. This abominably conceived machine causes quite the temporal anomaly - in that all important dates are made 2 weeks away from the current date. Thus, at the time of purchase, the site said my purchase was back ordered until January 31 of 2011, yet each day, the ship day was a DAY LATER, to the point where I am now told that it will not ship until February 12th of the same year. Oh, the very thought of those TIME AGENTS gives me a headache. How dare they get between me and a keepsake to mark the year of Maria's & my wedding!
Now, if only the United States would follow in the footsteps of the famed economic philosopher L. Frank Baum and the entirely farcical Principality of Sealand, maybe we could dig ourselves out of this mess.

Item 2: How to Feed Yourself in a Harsh Economic Climate
My last meal before perishing in the Snowpocalypse of 2011 happened to be at the famed Delmonico's steakhouse on Beaver Street in New York's Financial District. I have previously written about the curious history of Delmonico's. It was a fine meal of Lobster Newberg, slow braised beef, seared sea scallops, filet mignon and reasonably priced Chilean wine.
I wasn't always able to enjoy such fine feasts. In my youth, my family had very little money to throw around. My mother, ever the spendthrift, invented one of the finest cheap meals ever conceived; a dish that my sister and I retroactively entitled Ghetto Meal. I here share the recipe:

Ghetto Meal

Ingredients:

• 1 package Velveeta Shells & Cheese
• 1 package frozen peas (the cheap kind, mind you - nothing a self-loving locavore would even consider edible)
• 1 package Hillshire Farms Polska Kielbasa

Directions:

1. Slice the kielbasa on a diagonal and brown in a large skillet.
2. Prepare shells & cheese as directed on the box. Make sure you squeeze every last drop of that luscious "cheese" product out of the space-age wrapper. Add to the browned kielbasa
3. When that mixture is nice and warm, add frozen peas and heat through to the desired texture.
4. Get yourself a paper plate and enjoy!

If I am feeling particularly adventurous, I may just chronicle the making of an haute-cuisine version of this recipe for my next entry.
Now, many of my readers would be put off by so low a recipe, but as you can imagine, for my sister and myself, this is the paragon of comfort food. When we bring up this recipe to our mother, she thinks we're making fun of her, but in all honesty, we applaud her for concocting a meal that could feed four hungry people and contain an ingredient from nearly every food group. I also reckon that with 1988 dollars, this meal would come to little over $1 per person, though this is purely conjecture.
The point is, you have to make do with what you have. In the Great Depression and World War II, people learned to grow their own vegetables and settled with eating much cheaper offal instead of Perdue "All-Natural" corn-fed, factory separated skinless boneless chicken breasts. Just ask my grandmother who relishes a nice plate of liver and bacon. To be fair, there is a bit of a pricing problem when a McDonald's Big Mac is $3.75 and a single red bell pepper is around $4 (yes, I paid that much for a bell pepper, and consider it one of the direst errata of my entire life -- along with the time a Japanese store clerk charged me $1.98 for an onion, forcing me to pay with my much-loved $2 bill). Still, there are cheap ways of feeding your entire family out there. That said, I got sort of disgusted when I was at the grocery store last week. A woman in front of me placed on the cashier's conveyor belt a six pack of juice boxes (an expensive variety depicting Sesame Street characters) and a deli counter sandwich with a self-adhesive price tag declaring that it cost $6.25. To my horror, the woman opted to pay with her WIC card. I am perhaps no expert in the area of food stamps and the like, but I am relatively certain that you cannot purchase any prepared foods with federal tax dollars. Every bodega and grocery store has a sign declaring that. Still, the cashier said, "It's okay, my manager says it's all right," and rang up the overpriced juice box and $6.25 sandwich. This is by no means the first time this has happened, as I've seen plenty of people pay for egg sandwiches with EBT and WIC cards. SIX DOLLARS AND TWENTY FIVE CENTS. Let's make better economic sense, shall we? I call this section:

How Not to Pay $6.25 in Taxpayer Dollars on a Sandwich

1. Buy a loaf of bread for $1.99. I've seen it available at that price. The average loaf contains 20 slices of bread. For a single sandwich, you need 2 slices, bringing the total price of the bread used to 20¢.
   
2. Buy a tomato for less than $1. I sliced a tomato and got around 8 slices. Let's say you want 2 slices of tomato on that sandwich. I liberally estimate this to cost between 15¢ and 20¢ - for the sake of this experiment, let's make it 25¢.
   
3. Let's say you splurge on the lettuce. I can't find the price of a head of lettuce (it's $1 in the summer time) in the KeyFood circular, but they do offer expensive, pre-packaged salad blends (containing lettuce) on sale for $2.50. I once again liberally estimate that it will require 10% of this package for the sandwich, meaning the useless, tasteless green stuff on your sandwich will cost 25¢.
4. What luck! Fancy Boar's Head Honey Maple Turkey and American Cheese (white or yellow) are on sale this week. $7.99 for half a pound of each. The recommended serving sizes of turkey and cheese are 2 oz. and 1 oz., respectively. That amounts to 50¢ of turkey and 25¢ of cheese -- and this is the premium brand, too!
5. Hellmann's Mayonnaise is $3.99 for a 30 oz. jar. A serving size is 1 tablespoon, or roughly 1/60th of that jar. All that delicious pure fat that really brings the sandwich together will put you back $0.0665. For the sake of argument, we'll say it costs 7¢.

Conclusion: Make yourself a sandwich. TA-DA! Lunch cost you (and by YOU, I mean the hardworking TAXPAYERS) $1.52.

$6.25
- $1.52

$4.73

By a miracle of spendthriftery, I have saved us all tons of money that we can use to reform health care or visit Mars! You're welcome, America!
I plan on seizing control of the Rent is 2 Damn High Party (yes, that number two became official) and using the Sandwiches Are Too Damn Expensive For Taxpayer Dollars platform to launch my political career. First stop, Daniel Patrick Moynihan's old seat followed by the Oval Office.

In summary, dear friends, we don't need a State of the Union address to tell us the economic shape of things. The United States Empire is in no danger of collapse - even though its entire Northeast and all its occupants, myself included, were destroyed by snow. I'll borrow from our British cousins and leave you with the following:

Fig. 2: Can we replace that crown with an eagle clutching an American flag or something?

Most Honorable Company, Ltd.

Did you know that is it currently January of 2011 and that I haven't written a single thing in this weblog since October of last year? Alex-sensei, blood-drenched samurai Lord of Hitoyoshi Castle knows and he was none too happy with me upon our glad reunion on this New Year's Eve. I know that it's practically a federal crime at this point to deprive the populous with my charming wit and masterful command of the English language; and so before a government SWAT team breaks down my door, I will relate to you, my dearly deprived readers, several developments in my life. Please note, that I am being paid for writing this blog entry. God bless the prep period!

Item 1.) BLOODY BLOODY ANDREW JACKSON.

If you have not seen 2010's greatest Broadway musical, then you really ought to be ashamed of yourself. It closed on January 2nd because of lazy people like you who don't realize that a musical about the life and times of our 7th President is just a goddamned brilliant idea. Hell, it's an entertaining thought just sitting here in a quiet classroom. On a whim, I decided to check the reduced price Broadway tickets folder in the main office of the school where I had been filling in for a maternity leave. Sure enough, there stamped in red on a thin strip of paper was Andrew Jackson's Levis-clad butt, a stars & stripes hanky stuffed in a rear pocket, and a holstered Colt revolver hanging beside. Tagline: History just got all sexypants.

The theater was completely redecorated; taxidermied bear, a hog-tied horse hanging from the ceiling, broken portraits of long-dead Federalists & Antifederalists, abused chandeliers... essentially some bastard child of a log cabin and the Oval Office - a fitting arena for a musical about Andrew Jackson. On our way to the theater, I specifically told Maria that I would be beside myself if there wasn't a number in the production called "Populism: F**K YEAH!" The lights dimmed, Jackson showered us with an innuendo-laden introduction, and the company went on to sing "Populism Yea Yea." I was pleased.

I appreciated their treatment of Andrew "The American Hitler / Hero" Jackson. As a historian myself, I am torn between the legendary story of the first log cabin president, an unpretentious man of the people going on to govern the people, and the brutal and seemingly uncaring executor of the Indian Removal Act that constituted nothing short of genocide of an entire native population. That's America, folks - for better or for worse.

Item 2: MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD.

Every year around the holiday season, Union Square goes from its normal obnoxious, hippie-strewn, hobo-hangout (populated with such choice characters who refer to themselves as "Air" and describe their life philosophy in such wishy-washy, detestable ways as "undecided") to an even more obnoxious bastion of consumerism and overpriced hipster goods - The Christmas Bazaar. Helen, Varun, Maria and I visited the said Christmas Gay (our own rebranding) so that Varun could buy Helen the pillow she'd had her eye on. I found a handmade watch for $300 that was made of hand-hammered copper, but couldn't convince myself that the movement attached to the pretty hand-work was worth it. Naturally the four of us got to thinking about our absolute favorite topic: the differences between Japan and the United States.

We eventually came up with an amazingly brilliant idea to take Japan by storm. Taking a page from the boom in the 1980s of Japanese businessmen, we have decided to form MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD..

At MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD., our motto is "PUT FOOD ON TABLE." We take this to mean, SUCCEED AT ANY COST, EVEN IF THAT COST IS THE ENTIRE NATION OF BELGIUM. Now, all Japanese companies must adopt an adorably inappropriate mascot that has nothing to do with what the company does at all. I remind readers that baseball teams in Japan are not named after the cities where the clubs play, but rather after enormoous companies. Hence the team name Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters. Our mascot is none other than everybody's favorite GOOD EVENING CAT.

Fig. 1: Good Evening Cat (designed by M.N. French)

Having a mascot is all well and good... but even a tophat and a monocle do not a business make. What is a company without its products, and I am here to introduce some of the products and services that MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD. will offer.
1.) The Purchase and Re-Branding of Giga-Pudding. I have seen this commercial twice, and that is two times too many.

Giga-Pudding will become a pharmaceuticals company - the kind that has important ties to various shady government lobbies throughout Washington. The purpose? We want nothing more than to make commercials showing people enjoying themselves on the beach, living life to its fullest, and playing soft, inoffensive music in the background - WHILE WE WARN YOU THAT THIS PRODUCT WILL CAUSE: fever, rash, upset stomach, shock, forgetfulness, irregular heartbeat, nightsweats, swelling of the tongue, inability to produce tears, severe cardiac events, Demonic Possession, violent erotic nightmares, instantaneous death, hallucinations, and an unexplained fear of the color blue.

2.) Pop Chan. Soft drinks are where the real money is made. It took a long and arduous conference meeting (that is, 2-3 minutes on a crowded subway) for our panelists to dream up the name of and invent flavoring for POP CHAN: EXCITING NEW NUMBER ONE GOOD SWEET DRINK! Pop Chan comes in the following flavors:

• cola
• strawberry
• Giga-Pudding
• seaweed shrimp kelp microplankton
• melon

Yummy! But the most exciting part about Pop Chan is its viral commercials.

Pop Chan Commercial : Japanese Businessman

A shady, empty side-street at night. Flickering neon advertisements are reflected on the fresh rain upon the cold cobbled road. A man in thick glasses and a cheap double-breasted suit approaches a vending machine. Only a dog barking and the electric hum of the machine break the silence of the evening. He peruses the choices, and opts to purchase a pair of girls' panties, becaue urban legend has it that you can purchase things like than in vending machines in Japan. He puts the money into the machine and pushes the buttons for his selection. A can of POP CHAN falls from the machine instead.

Businessman:

POP CHAN?!?!

The businessman is beside himself with anger. He composes himself and notices a tab on the can that reads "Pull Here" (however that is written in Japanese). He pulls the label to reveal a pair of girls' panties hidden beneath.

Businessman:

POP CHAN!!!!!!

Stars, rainbows, and flowers explode from the bottom lefthand side of the screen. One of MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD's Presidents (William) pops in. He winks, displays a Churchillian V for Victory.

William:

It's-a numbaa one goooooood!

The POP CHAN logo appears on screen, wreathed in a halo of golden light. For a brief nano-second, the image of GOOD EVENING CAT blinks on screen to the sound of television static.

THE END.

If that doesn't outsell Coca-Cola in a matter of a single fiscal year, then the world is all but lost.

Item 3: Alcoholic Beverages. One of my dreams is to create my own brand of bourbon using only the finest ingredients from God's Chosen State (New York). Honestly, how great would a bourbon distilled from Long Island sweet corn and pure, clean Catskills water taste? Mighty fine, I'd bet. MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD realizes the great value put upon so-called "premium" spirits nowadays. It seems that the larger and more streamlined a product becomes, the more expensive it grows. This is especially so when a hip-hop artist decides to mention a crappy brand of booze in one of his or her songs. And now such standbys as Hennessy and Courvoisier cognacs are nothing but artificially-colored ethanol. Here are some of our questionably named products:

• Fun Drink Rum - you know, for those damned mojitos that 20-something females from Long Island and New Jersey think are delicious because it makes them seem exotic and tropical. Please notice that Fun Drink Rum shares its initials with one of Japan's favorite American presidents.
• For Pete's Sake - GET IT?! Sake - like the fermented rice wine and sake as in, you know... for the sake of all humanity. It... it's a homograph! Ugh... never mind.
• Little Boy Vodka - a flavor explosion in your... oh my god, I went too far. I apologize.

I'm pretty sure we had other ideas for MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD. but they currently elude my memory. Of course we plan on forming our own shady holdings company, namely LEGITIMATE BUSINESS HOLDINGS, INC. which will compete with MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD. in every respect until we artificially inflate our prices to the most insane levels imaginable before sinking LEGITIMATE BUSINESS HOLDINGS, INC. and reaping the profits until INTERPOL issues warrants for our arrest and we are left to liquidating our asset into pure gold bullion and retiring to our own sovereign island nation of Sealand (where I am currently a titled Baron). It's good to have dreams and goals, kids.

I have made a New Year's resolution to post more than once per month. We'll see how long that lasts.

Sincerely,

W. Charles Olsen-Hoek

Co-President and Co-Founder MOST HONORABLE COMPANY, LTD.

The Seersucker Plan - REDUX

It's no secret that for nearly my whole life I have had a weight problem. Right out of my mom's womb, I was pretty much doomed what with having been born to perhaps the greatest home cook ever documented. Seriously, there is nothing like Ms. Olsen's Famously Reheatable All-Week Lasagna. Since a young age, I've been instilled with an almost religious adoration of food. Indeed, some of my fondest memories involve restaurants - K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen in New Orleans owned by this man, for example:

Fig. 1: Paul Prudhomme - who has since traded the depicted cane for a Rascal scooter.

For the record, Paul Prudhomme's recipe for shrimp étoufée calls for an entire pound of butter. It's culinary heroes like him that have doomed me to carrying the equivalent weight of an extra Justin Bieber about my person. Not that it doesn't have it's benefits; I'm notoriously difficult to sink with my surplus buoyancy.
Still... I've yo-yo'ed weight in recent years. When I took to bicycling nearly everywhere I needed to go, I lost over 50 pounds. When I quit drinking soda in college, I magically shed 20 pounds. When I injured my knee and was unable to exercise without excruciating pain, I gained somewhere around 20 pounds. And when the holidays roll around? Well, let's just say that I LOVE eggnog.
It's been a difficult struggle with my weight, but I recently decided to take action to once and for all claim Victory in the Battle of the Bulge - and (HISTORY JOKE WARNING) without the aid of Gen. George S. Patton.

Fig. 2: Not actually George S. Patton - BUT WAY BETTER BECAUSE IT'S GEORGE C. SCOTT!

A couple years back, my dear friend Jon offered me something exceptionally precious - his father's Brook's Brothers seersucker suit.

Fig. 3: Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan sporting a Brooks Brothers seersucker suit, being a testament to the overwhelming awesomeness of the said garment.

His father George veered towards the portly side, and so Jon believed the suit should fit me. As it turned out, it was just a bit too snug on me. And so I swore myself that I would eventually fit into this suit in an elaborate plan called THE SEERSUCKER PLAN. This was essentially a modified version of the plan I concocted in college called THE DON'T EAT SO MANY DAMNED COOKIES DIET, which later became THE DON'T EAT SO MANY DAMNED COOKIES - AND GROW SOME SIDEBURNS WHILE YOU'RE AT IT DIET. I here list the tenets of these diets, which I should probably condense into a novelty sized book for people to impulse purchase while in line at Border's.

1. Don't eat so many damned cookies!
   
2. Ride your bicycle once in a while, will ya?
3. Maybe coming home and microwaving a slice of lasagna at 1 am after a night of drinking isn't such a good idea, tough guy.
4. Sideburns, being an exceptionally fashionable and masculine facial embellishment will surely increase your general wind resistance thus causing you to burn more calories when any form of calisthenics is taken.
5. After a long day of vigorous activity and a fine meal of mutton washed down with Guinness, strip in a room free of drafts and have your servant rub your skin with soft Turkish towels to stimulate the bloodflow and toughen the skin.

Needless to say, the plan failed as I didn't have a servant, and soft Turkish towels come at a high premium nowadays. When I morphed the plan into the first SEERSUCKER PLAN, I only lost about 10 pounds and then lost interest completely.
Now, I recently realized that I am to be married on July 2, 2011. I have already purchased a beautiful platinum ring that Alex-sensei (the blood-drenched samurai lord alluded to in previous entries) claims looks as if it was from outer space. [Please see comments section for an exact quote.] We have settled upon place to hold our reception. The church is squared away. And I have decided that I need to lose EIGHTY (80) POUNDS so that I can rock a three-piece seersucker suit. Why do I need to lose so much weight for a simple suit? The reasons are threefold:

1. Our wedding photos will have two BEAUTIFUL people in them, instead of 1.5 beautiful people!
2. I'll be a whole lot healthier - beneficial to spending the rest of our lives together!
3. I WANT TO LOOK LIKE ATTICUS FINCH

Fig. 4: Atticus Finch - The single sexiest execution of the seersucker suit in recorded history. Soon to be overshadowed circa July 2011...

So, how do I plan on going from the festively plump William that everyone has grown to love to the svelt hero of To Kill a Mockingbird in just about 8.5 months? Well, the work has already begun.
Tier 1: Use Wii Fit. I've neglected the obnoxious balance board for a few months now. While the exercises are simple and frankly don't seem to be very effective, the game is a good method to keep records of weight loss and activity levels. I try to use Wii Fit about 3 times a week.
Tier 2: The Couch to 5k running program. Oh, how I dreaded running in gym class. You know, the normal stigma in gym class is being like the fat kid in dodgeball. Let me tell you kids, I was pretty good at dodgeball. But when it came to running? Oh boy - I think I'd prefer walking on coals to jogging a few laps. So Maria clued me into this program which gradually ratchets you up to running 3.1 miles - even after a sedentary life of channel surfing. I am currently working on the Week 5 workout which entails two sessions of running for 8 minutes punctuated by 5 minutes of walking.
Is it working? Well, I'm glad to report, yes. I began THE NEW SEERSUCKER PLAN in early September and have already lost around 15 pounds - ahead of schedule for 8 pounds of weight loss per month. So... barring any unforeseen circumstances, looks like I'll be sporting a three piece better than Gregory Peck. Wish me luck, kids!

From the Glorious Plains of the Fried Chicken Battle...

This is perhaps amazingly coincidental, but Vana White was just praising the health benefits of cast iron skillets at the end of today's episode of Wheel of Fortune. Longtime readers are of course aware of the fact that I count among my choicest possessions an immense cast iron skillet. It's true, these marvels of the cooking world are nearly as old as metallurgy and as useful today as they ever were. When it comes to high-heat cooking, searing, pan-frying, or baking, nothing beats its natural non-stick surface or curious ability to transfer healthy doses of iron into whatever you're cooking.
Now, what is my absolute favorite thing to cook in my prize skillet? Easy - fried chicken. You see, legends have been passed by word of mouth of the secret recipe that was whispered into Abraham Lincoln's ear by the Archangel Gabriel and passed down through bizarre Masonic ceremonies until it made its home in our humble Brooklyn abode. What is so special about this secret recipe once known only to heaven and later bequeathed to heroic presidents? Is it that the floured chicken is left out for 45 minutes before cooking? Is it the Old Bay seasoning? No one knows but I.
But there are Dark Forces at work in the world of fried chicken. And in the cruel depths of Harlem exists a recipe circulated in small circles. Legend has it that Huitzilopotchli, the highest of all the Aztec pantheon swore only to give the secret of his fried chicken recipe to the Last Emperor. And when Cuauhtémoc fell, sure enough, the codex containing the sacred fried chicken recipe fell into the hands of Hernán Cortés de Monroy y Pizarro.

Fig. 1: Huitzilopotchli fryin' up some chicken!

The recipe was lost for centuries until rediscovered - GOD knows how - by none other than my archnemesis, ROBIN.
Last year, Robin had the honor - nay - the privilege to taste my magical fried chicken recipe. To give you an idea of how I felt about what she said about the chicken, I here post some things that have been said or written about my chicken from various reputable sources.
"William's chicken caused me to weep for its resplendent beauty. I lost sleep thinking about his marvelous creation. I fear only that I shall never again know happiness like the first time I bit into that savory delight." -Greg M., Queens
"It puts KFC to shame - also, he is very attractive." -Maria F., Brooklyn
"I am too drunk to taste this chicken, but if I weren't drunk, I am sure that I would gladly sell my firstborn to the man behind this recipe." -Colonel S., Louisville, KY

That said, nothing took me by surprise so much as when Ms. Robin said, "Eh, it's all right. You should try my recipe."
ALL RIGHT?!
At that point I was not yet aware that Ms. Robin's recipe came from an Aztec god. For shame. Clearly we had to engage in an ULTIMATE BATTLE FOR CHICKEN SUPREMACY!
The date: September 18.
The time: When we got around to it.
The place: Ms. Robin's apartment.
The Iron Chefs: Ms. Robin vs. William
And the battle ensued. An eclipse blocked out the sun. The Hudson River ran red with blood. My skillet sizzled with divine majesty. Robin's chicken lay in the oven, waiting , resting, biding its time. Just what is her secret? Bisquick. Yes Bisquick. Those Aztecs were way ahead of their time, having invented Bisquick before they invented government. The cooking subsided. The moon rose in the sky. The waters subsided. And there was peace. The battle was over. The chicken need only be tasted to see who reigned supreme.

Fig. 2: My chicken. Secret ingredient pictured at back.

Robin dressed her chicken in lemon juice and fresh parsley. I dabbed my chicken dry and prepared for the best. And we sat down to the feast.
There was silent contemplation. Both sides seemed puzzled. Indeed, both Gabriel's and Huitzilopotchli's recipes seemed - equally delicious. How could this be? On the glorious fields of battle there must be a victor. But what was this -- ?
You see, earlier in the evening, one Maria, who many may knows as my fiancée, made a mashed potatoes and sour cream recipe. It was to be served as a complement to the fried chicken to be made. The only problem is - THE POTATOES WERE MORE POPULAR THAN ANY OF THE CHICKEN!
From Brooklyn came a Dark Horse riding up.
It was Maria, Napoleon of the Kitchen.
All glory went to Maria's delicious concoction. Robin and I stared at each other for a solid minute and broke down in tears. The heavens had failed us, and a new Queen of the Universe ascended to the throne of Victory.
What had been learned of this battle? Certainly Robin and I learned that both of our fried chickens are wonders of the modern world. But, to paraphrase the great Jedi Warrior Luke Skywalker - our overconfidence was our weakness. And to paraphrase the great Sith Lord Emperor Palpatine - your negligence of side-dishes as well.
Sigh.
Still, I think everybody wins when fried chicken and potatoes are involved.
Stay tuned next week when I reveal the secrets of weight loss and how I plan on losing 70 pounds before July 2, 2011. (Hint: avoid eating too much fried chicken.)

The Fateful Lot of a Mets Fan

I first need to thank Gale one JILLION times for her contribution to this blog entry. Her amazing work may be seen below, and I implore you all to suffer this long blog entry to see her brilliance in action. If you don't want to hear about baseball, skip to the end. It pretty much sums up what this is all about!
Well, Maria and I just returned from a very successful trip to Massachusetts. There we visited Northampton, home of Maria's alma mater Smith College with its ivy-covered brick hallways haunted by the screeching ghost of Julia Child. We climbed a few mountains, ate some hippie-baked bread, you know, the typical thing you do in a town founded by and perpetuated by drugged out hippie locavores. Afterwards, we were taken in by our gracious hosts Alex and Dorothy in their quaint little seaside town of Salem. Of course you are familiar with Salem's seedy past; it being the site of Joseph McCarthy's famous trial and execution of several Soviet sorceresses accused of casting mysterious spells upon an unknowing Republican party.
Long story short, Maria and I both needed a vacation. Why? No, not because Maria worked her butt off this whole summer trying to instruct a bunch of ungrateful, immature cretins how to be special needs teachers. No, we needed a vacation from the New York Mets.
In 1958, the Evil Communist Sorceresses used their dark magick to steal New York's only beloved National League teams - the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers. These two teams had religiously dedicated fans who fueled a rivalry that some, including myself, deem legendary. In fact, their rivalry led to one of the most memorable moments in the history of sports: Bobby Thomson's Shot Heard 'Round the World. In 1951, the two teams ended the season in a dead heat, forcing a 3-game playoff. Down by 2 runs in the bottom of the 9th inning with two men on, the Giants sent Bobby Thomson to the plate. Ralph Branca looked in for his signs, and this happened:

In Memory of Bobby Thomson 1923-2010

When I have a functioning time machine, you can be SURE this will be one of my first stops. With all the drama of the beautiful rivalry between two beloved teams, it's difficult to imagine how crestfallen the fans must have been when the two teams were uprooted seemingly overnight and placed on the pathetic West Coast. The same West Coast that whined that is had no professional baseball teams. So... it got what it wanted. Two teams were torn from their native home and transplanted to a wretched state whose shallow, unthinking populous would eventually make The Terminator its governor. Just 3 years later, the Los Angeles Angels were born, and before 1970, California would be the home to FIVE baseball teams (the other two being the Athletics [also stolen from the East Coast's Philadelphia via Kansas City] and the ridiculously named Padres of San Diego).
Now, those familiar with baseball, and even those unfamiliar know of another team lurking in the lurid corners of the of the Bronx. Yeah, those pesky New York Yankees. The Yankees (a team originally from Baltimore and calling themselves the Orioles) have a long history that consists mainly of being hated by literally everyone but Yankees fans and spending ludicrous amounts of money on purchasing World Series trophies. Those die-hard Dodger and Giant fans would rather not follow baseball than root for that impostor New York team. What was a scorned National League baseball faction to do?
Easy: CALL ROBERT MOSES!
Basically whatever Robert Moses wants to happen, happens. You want to clear out an orphanage to build another parkway? Call Robert Moses. So a team of Robert Moses and William Shea worked tirelessly to bring National League baseball back. Shea threatened to form a Continental League to rival the American and National Leagues, and Major League Baseball caved to the pressure. New York would be granted a National League team upon the 1962 expansion of the league. Owners brainstormed names (the Burros, the Meadowlarks, the Jets) before finally settling on the snappy and eloquent Mets, a shortened form of Metropolitans.
The team would wear orange and blue, colors formerly worn by the Dodgers and Giants, and sported an interlocked NY logo previously associated with the erstwhile tenants of the Polo Grounds. The team would be populated with former New York baseball stars, all of that age when knees turn to glass and cleats feel like lead. Long story short, the 1962 Mets set the stage for what would be a long history of misery only occasionally broken by a small star of success. They wheezed into the season's finish line with a paltry record of 40 wins and 120 losses, the worst record since the 1899 Cleveland Spiders' 20-134. No team has gotten close to a record that bad in the modern era.
It's true, the Mets have enjoyed their share of success. Their acquisition of perhaps the greatest pitcher of his era, Tom Seaver, led to their miraculous World Series win in 1969. In 1986 with the leadership of the Magically Mustachioed greatest first baseman in New York History, KEITH HERNANDEZ, the Mets did it again after another miraculous play.
I was two years old when the Mets won the world series. And since then, I have witnessed them whimper away to the Yankees in the 2000 series, and watched Carlos Beltran let a curveball in for a strike to end their 2006 bid for greatness. All subsequent years, the New York Mets have lived up to their New York Post-ish nickname, the New York Mess. Perhaps nothing broke my heart so much as the look on my dad's face as we sat in Shea Stadium watching the Mets lose THE LAST GAME EVER PLAYED THERE to the Florida Marlins. I here replicate this miserable scene for you, my dear audience.
I grew that paper moustache for this occasion. My poor father has been a Mets fan since that bastard team arrived in their adorably dumpy stadium in Queens. FORTY EIGHT YEARS. For the record, that's 2 WONDERFUL years of happiness and sunshine - FORTY SIX YEARS of ANGUISH, TORMENT and PAIN!
Then came this story: Mets reliever Francisco Rodriguez was arrested for beating up his father-in-law following another pitiful Mets loss at the hands of relief pitchers. The Mets barely even slapped him on the wrist, and even expect to have him back next year, even though he injured himself after punching his father-in-law.
It's heart-breaking. There is something very... odd about this team. Every September they break your heart and every April, we fans return to them. We return to them because they are the Amazin's! The Miracle Mets! They're the team whose credo was made famous by Tug McGraw: YA GOTTA BELIEVE! What can I liken it to? I posed this question to Gale, who helped me illustrate my thoughts - LITERALLY AND BRILLIANTLY!
That about sums it up - an abusive relationship. We hate to love our Amazin's. It appears that all we die-hard Mets fans, who ask for Tom Seaver autographed baseballs in lieu of class rings and have tickets to the pathetic last game at Shea proudly displayed in their living rooms, are doomed to follow the cycle forever. Every time I see a little child wearing a Mets hat, I think of the years of pain and anguish every autumn will bring them. I implore you, Mr. Wilpon and Mr. Minaya, if you care at all for the children, do something to deliver our overpaid baseball team from the depths of laughingstock-hood. In the meantime, we'll do our best to anesthetize ourselves to the aura of hopelessness that surrounds Taxpayer - ahem - Citi Field.
Please give us at least one more happy recap that we can put in the books.

Note: There is nothing funny about spousal abuse. It's a metaphor people. A metaphor. At least I didn't compare someone or something to the Nazi party like everyone does nowadays.

Wherein The Author Elaborates on the Gentlemanly Sports of Baseball, Croquet and Baseball

I must thank you all for being exceptionally patient readers. When Mr. Hodgman acknowledged my unbridled brilliance via Twitter, I sort of pledged to update more frequently. Alas, I have not made good on my side of the bargain. Still, it's difficult to choose from the literal thousands of interesting things that happen to me on a daily basis, and more difficult still to describe them in the exquisite prose that issues from my perfect mind. Here's a small smattering of the interesting things I wanted to show you!
ITEM 1: CIVIL WAR BASEBALL
A band of time traveling base-ballers from A.D. 1864 arrived in Sayville during the Wife-to-Be's and my brief time on Long Island. I here provide video evidence from my Android which, much to my dismay, is a smart-phone and in no way a subservient humanoid robot designed to do my bidding and never to develop its own consciousness and decide to kill me...

Fig. 1: An error is charged to the right fielder.

The said base-ball match pitted the Brooklyn Atlantics against the New York Mutuals. This of course brought to mind my absolute favorite Conan O'Brien sketch wherein the red-headed Irish giant came upon his own horde of time traveling base-ballers in Old Bethpage. I assure you it's much funnier than the previous video:

Conan Old Time Baseball

Fig. 2: What is that demonry?!

Oh how I wish I could have donned by best base-ball knickerbockers and show those so-and-so's what for. I'd pepper their porridge, see!

ITEM 2: AN INVITATION TO THE DUCHESS FROM THE QUEEN TO PLAY CROQUET
I attended a Great Gatsby themed party. Now by this point you are all aware that F. Scott Fitzgerald is on written warning from me, and thus Jay Gatsby is also on notice - even though he spends most of his time floating around in the pool these days. There, the gentlemen among us took part in the great American pastime of LAWN CROQUET!

Fig. 3: A typical croquet game. Fancy dress required.

Ah... nothing like a refreshing round of knocking wooden balls through wickets. Is there any game quite as kingly as croquet - a game whose very rulebook provides that players be penalized 2 strokes if they are not in possession of an alcoholic beverage? I (pictured at left in the dark suit) came in a very respectable second after a couple of brilliant shots on my part. I still believe that Mr. Perry is a rotten cheater who isn't worthy of the monocle he wears which he so flagrantly boasts about at any given opportunity.

Fig. 4: This is what second place looks like.

Also worth note is the glorious picture of Maria that came of this party.

Fig. 5: Your jealousy is palpable - both at my good fortune and her good looks.

Item 3: MEDIEVAL TIMES BASEBALL!
A while back I received a Facebook message from the Brooklyn Cyclones baseball club with an offer that could not be refused. The package included:

• A box seat behind home plate at a Brooklyn Cyclones game
• A voucher for a hot dog, fries and a drink at the original Nathan's on Stillwell Ave.
• Complementary Cyclones baseball cap

Little did we know, that the particular night we chose to attend included the following BONUS entertainments!

• A player on the opposing team named Burt Reynolds
• Ike Davis inverted bobblehead night (sold out)
  
• Wonderfully drunk and overzealous Cyclones fans nearly falling over at the prospect of a late-inning rally!
• MEDIEVAL TIMES NIGHT
  

After every 2 innings, several knights hailing from the distant kingdom of Lyndhurst, New Jersey would engage in mortal combat. And not only that, we were repeatedly told by our master of ceremonies that we should stay after the 9th inning! "My lords and ladies! Stay after the 9th inning, for the knights will mount their horses and joust!"
Laugh not, readers, for in attendance that night happened to be my dear sister Jessica. Many years ago on a rainy December evening right before my sister's birthday, our family was slated to make the long, perilous journey to Lyndhurst, New Jersey to visit the nights in their home castle. Alas! Father had forgotten to purchase Lotto tickets, and so bolted out the door into the rain. Seconds later, he returned through the front door and fell on the floor, muddy, wet and writhing in pain. Sure enough, Father had broken his wrist sliding in the mud. Sadly, we had to cancel our journey to the rotten Kingdom of New Jersey, and Jessica never got to experience Medieval Times - THAT IS UNTIL THIS SUMMER!

Fig. 6: Happy belated 9th Birthday, Jessie!

Well... I think we're about caught up. I have something very special for all of you in the forthcoming blog entry to make up for this inexcusable absence on my part. Until then, take care of yourselves, and each other!