Crazy Jesus Man was on campus again this week. The guy usually comes at least once a semester, sometimes with minions, and stands by the fountain while shouting to all the students that they're going to Hell. He's awesome like that.
Usually he angers enough students to start a verbal rumble and we all watch and wonder how people like him reproduce. Someone once told me the whole schpiel is just a psychological experiment and I still wonder about that, because those people always seem a little too crazy-- but then again, Fred Phelps is just a synonym for psychotic so I don't want to downplay the potential of our campus visitors. I'm sure if Jesus had a facebook, he would totally ignore their friend requests.
Anywho, when I saw Crazy this past week I came up with the most amazing idea. Ever. I want to do my own picketing, but in the name of Ceiling Cat, and read passages from the LOLCat Bible. I want to tell students that if they just believe in Ceiling Cat, they too can have bountiful cheezburgers and ride invisible bikes in Heben. And I want to get a group of Ceiling Cat Believers together (and their cats, if applicable) to picket with me. I just have to find out when Crazy Jesus Man will come again so I can tell him that his path is leading him into the paws of Basement Cat.
(Ceiling Cat punishes Adam and Eve for forbidden noms)
Dear Sir,
It's been such a pleasure meeting you and your wife. You seem like a lovely, mismatched middle-aged southern couple. I've enjoyed talking to your wife about the education system and the progression of the women's movement. (She's pretty intelligent, how'd you manage to snag that?) And you have also been enjoyable to talk to-- you apparently have a lot of experience in bullshitting people. I can appreciate that, as well as the relationship advice you tried to give me; sure, I may find it pretty useless, but I can see you're just trying to be nice and that it's not your fault your perception of relationships is so dated and stagnant. Perhaps you'd be interested in the Ashley Madison Agency? Oh, and don't worry, I already know the bartender just wants some tang. Men are like that, right? By the way, sorry to burst your lesbian-porn fantasy bubble-- my friend and I have not engaged sexually. I know, hard to believe. I guess not all girls have sexy pillow fights. And thank you so much for the wine you bought for us. It's not everyday a rotund, married middle-aged man buys a couple of young gals a drink. I do love a good shiraz.
But please, if you don't mind...
Stop. Touching me.
Thank you.
A few times in the past month, I have heard an interesting radio commercial for The Ashley Madison Agency. Of course, we all experience a variety of reactions to the different advertisements out there. Some make you smile, like the mildly cute and quirky Geico Gecko; some are annoying (Lucinda Bassett, I'm looking your way); some make me angry, like the ones for San Giuseppe wine (not only are they annoying, but wine should not need a radio commercial, which is why I refuse to ever try San Giuseppe); some are just too. Damn. Much. (I'm shaking my tiny fist at you, Brandsmart U.S.A!) And then there are ones like this Ashley Madison ad, that make me go wha?
What type of service does Ashley Madison provide?
Affairs.
Mmm-hmm. Affairs for married people who want a secret side dish. Or as the people at Ashley Madison like to call it, "married dating". Like so:
"Ashley Madison is the world's #1 Married Dating service specifically for ATTACHED men and women who are looking to have an Extra-marital Affair."
Or as I like to call it, "volunteer prostitution".
Apparently, it works like a dating service, but the members are mostly married people whose spouses are unaware of their membership. Basically, if it's not enough for you to just have an online affair, or an unexpected incident at your office party because you had too much schnapps, you can actively seek out someone on Ashley Madison to have sex with behind your partner's back. Finally! So long Craigslist!
Hmm. I don't want to judge, but this just strikes me as, eh, kinda dumb. If you want more excitement, go to the Spice of Life store and buy some whips. Rent some Japanese porn for you and your partner (no, really, dont. Please. Not the Japanese porn.) If you want to have sex with others, talk your partner into having an open relationship. (Good luck with that one, by the way.) Join or form a swingers' club! (They were big in the seventies, I don't know what the hell happened.) It's extra-marital sex without the guilt! And you don't have to create a lame-ass profile to try convincing a stranger you're hot enough to have an affair with-- because you just know the only people on this site are those who can't manage an affair in person.
But. If you are going to have an affair behind your spouse's back, be bold and do it the old-fashioned way: pull a stranger into an elevator, make them feel happily violated until the fifteenth floor (but don't look them in the eye!), and walk out while smoking a cigarette.
The end.
Good Plaid, Bad Plaid.
Good Plaid: Wearing a guitar and political frustration with your flannel shirt, like Neil Young. It is also a good idea to find some old boots and not wash your hair for a week. Do not attempt, however, unless you have talent.
Bad Plaid: Wearing a keffiyeh with your flannel shirt because the display looks cool. This makes you look like a pretentious east coast performance artist. Or emo. Especially if your hair covers one eye. Either way, not cool. If you are a pretentious artist, or an emo kid with no taste, proceed with the ensemble.
Good Plaid: Purple plaid pants and a taste for homicide and balloons. Jack Nicholson struts his stuff with a matching purple coat, nifty cane, and some kick-ass one-liners.
Bad Plaid: Yellow plaid pants and no credentials. Really, you better be damn hip to wear these things. Like Prince-hip. He can wear anything.
Good Plaid: Fiery red hair and a plaid skirt, a la Tori Amos. Works best in small, gay/lesbian-saturated music venues, or coffee houses. Also a plus if you've been playing the piano since you were two and a half and take drugs with shamans. (Oh yeah, and she's amazing.)
Bad Plaid: Suspenders and Pepto-Bismol plaid shorts. Who designed these? They look too retarded even for Avril Lavigne. But hey, never underestimate the power of dumb.
Good Plaid: Being a rock icon and symbol of the nineties. Just don't ever move to Kurt Cobain's hometown, Aberdeen, Washington. Let's just say "depressing" is too weak of a word to describe the place.
Bad Plaid: Being an icon for paper towels. You're not even the original Brawny Man! Grow a beard, you pansy.
"Schnell, Klaus, Schnell!"
The Germans must know that, despite their beer, rosy cheeks and dorky-ass lederhosen, deep down we are afraid of them (you may not realize it, but you are). I caught these two exercising their intimidation on Miami Beach. Klaus here was tossing Gertrude into the air like pfannkuchen, while her expression remained ever-so stiff, and unfeeling, because Germans are really just extraterrestrial superbots. Their jolly culture is merely a parody of humanity, a cover-up until they take over. (The whole Nazi thing? That was actually a mistake. Hitler wasn't even one of them; he came from the "uber-dark side" and fooled the other superbots into following him. Dumb bots.) I was afraid, being about one-eighth their size, that one of them would come and flick me into the ocean, or use me as a hacky sack.
Only once before have I come into contact with a German. On an overnight flight to the Netherlands a few years ago, my seatmate fooled me with his lanky physique and kind, benign aura (a damn clever disguise). I figured him out when he pronounced "school" as "shool" instead of "skool". But I stayed calm, conversing casually and saying, "Ja!" to get him on my side. I think it worked because at 6 a.m., I awoke to him offering me a Sour Patch Kid- "Vould you like a sveetie?" And when a German offers you a "sveetie" ("sweetie" is another word for "candy" in Europe, by the way), you damn well take it. And you like it.
These guys? They left me alone, probably pitying my rabbit-like stature. Were they really even German? Err, I don't know. Maybe Austrian. Still. Scary, scary superbots.
"Wunderbar!"
Pony ride! Every little girl's dream! Weeeee! (Sings My Little Pony song)
(What is it with little girls and ponies anyway? Why not camels or llamas? Or ostriches. Prejudiced little wenches. Anyway.)
...
Wait. What?
Yeah... maybe it's just me (I don't think it is), but that sign doesn't seem quite kosher. I mean, come on. Really... little girls and flimsy boys are the only candidates for this attraction, and that sign is implicitly rated PG-13. Who put that there? Where is the FCC? I could understand if we were at the 99 Kiss Country Chili Cook Off (and rest assured, you wouldn't catch me there on acid). But this was the Asian Culture Festival. And not kinky-Japanese-porn-and-manga Asian culture; we're talking about Buddhism, Thai fruit-carving, origami, folk dancing, bubble tea (I know, bubble tea is awesome). Wholesomely foreign family fun. And some bastard had to go and spoil the pony rides with a suggestive sign. What will the children think now? Their tiny tainted minds...
(sigh) I wish I'd thought of that sign.
Apparently, Wednesdays are Neo-Hippy Days at FIU now. At the root of it, I think, is Obama, with his love for Honest Tea and Whole Foods and hugs. You know he'd grow a 'fro if it were fashionably acceptable in the White House. Even the Man is kept down by the Man. But anyway. I suspect the mini Woodstock is primarily a result of the Organic Farmer's Market being held every Wednesday afternoon, which started this semester. Campus seems pretty average and lame all week (as usual), except for those few hours the market is in business-- it's still lame, but in a peaceful, hempy way. Suddenly, the hippies sprout up everywhere, like magic mushrooms on cow dung. Just look...
Next to the market, playing acoustic music and getting high on love and tie dye...
Out by the lake with their quirky foreign instruments...
Feeding Sun Chips to the turtles...
Sunbathing until they're burnt beyond recognition...
I wonder how long this new age of hippies will last. What speedy drug will take them out of their daze and into some horrible post-modern disco era? Which of their musical heroes will OD and drown in their own vomit? Do they bathe? Obama, look what you've done!
Shlep: (verb) to pull, drag, tug, yank; to move slowly or clumsily.
Shlepper: (noun) a lazy bastard, so to speak.
Besides Cubans and chongas, South Florida is full of Jews. Living here is basically the tropical version of New York, minus cool stuff (like Cash Cab and junkies in the subway). If you go to North Miami Beach on a Saturday, you will see kippahs everywhere. I'm pretty sure most live between North Dade, Broward and Palm Beach Counties. And having grown up in Broward, I feel quite cozy with Jewish culture, though my parents are Catholic. I remember the one good trade-off about church used to be the possibility of eating at a Jewish diner afterward (because with all the crap they've faced throughout history, they make some damn good comfort food. OMG, knishes).
My psychology teacher in high school was an older Jewish lady who smoked too much and had a raspy, New York or Jersey accent. She liked referring to Sigmund Freud as "Ziggy-baby". At the end of class she used to say to us, "Okay, bubeles, pack up your chazeray and go". She would use words like schmatta, schmutz and bopkis. I wanted to know what the hell she was saying, so I started looking up Yiddish words and phrases.
And that's when I discovered Yiddish is the best language ever. There is such an abundance comical phrases and smart-ass insults that I can't keep up. Half the fun is in the mere pronunciation of words like schmekel and feygele. When studying Yiddish, you realize why people like Mel Brooks are so genius. I learned how to say things in Yiddish like "Drop dead", "Go to Hell", and "Kiss my ass". I discovered the wise authority and awkward beauty of all those phlegmy sounds. And I ate a matzoh ball for the first time. Finally, I understood my psychology teacher. I understood The Nanny. But Fiddler on the Roof was just lame. Yeah, I said it.
So shlep on, Shleper of the Boca Juniors, in your Mercedes. I know you're probably totally disconnected from your Yiddishkayt and you eat ham sandwiches. Whatever, I just like your license plate.
(Ceiling Cat punishes Adam and Eve for forbidden noms)
