Pedro v. Sox

Ahh, Pedro. It's sappy but I don't care. Jerry Remy said it best, "I don't care if he [Pedro] is throwing 20 miles per hour. I still want him on my team."

Note: Jerry Remy went to the Mets booth to be interviewed by the Mets announcers and Remy started commenting on the Mets v. Sox game. Remy is an announcer among announcers.

Bluefish Canoe Goes Shopping

As part of the pre-pre-ceremony for the wedding we’re having a second engagement party this Monday (in fact it so precedes the event it’s happening over a year prior). I set out four days ago to buy a new suit for the occasion to bring my total number of suits to a sum that allows me to refer to them as suits as opposed to the sole suit I know own. I am 5 feet 8 inches tall and 140 pounds. I’m not a large man by any means, but I felt, after taking a quick survey of men on the street this afternoon, that I’m not freakishly small either. I like to think of myself as comfortably resting on the western, leftward slope of the height bell curve with most of my fellow Euro-Americans east/right of me, but plenty of our newest Americans from regions of the world fraught with malnutrition to keep me company on the western slope. Yet a thorough search of men’s clothing stores north of canal street turned up not one suit under $1,000 that would fit me, and not one suit that I would pay more than $10 to own. Every single coat-pant combo that I could buy was too big. Evidentially, if you’re my size you have to have suits made for you driving the price into quadruple digits. I started off going to small cheap chains like H&M or Banana Republic and they had nothing. I moved up to Macy’s, Brooks Brothers, and Bloomingdale’s, stores with several floors of men’s formal wear, and they had not one suit I could buy.

I believe this suit-less-ness could be no clearer indication that the Corporate Bastard is not just trying to homogenize us in look and thought but also in body shape. If you’re not 6 feet tall then you have to try and get married in jeans resulting in a jilting at the alter for your slovenliness so your lady can go procreate with someone who can produce kids that fit into mass produced clothing. Friends suggested that it was probably a supply and demand thing with the actual cause having to do with the prevalence of 6 foot men with money and the effect being the big suits, until I relayed this exchange: I go into Barney’s and ask the suit guy if he has any 36-short sized suits. He asked what I’d like to spend. I say $400 (a little bit of an overestimation). He tells me they have nothing in the store at that price. They have literally 2 floors of suits. I grab the first price tag I see and it reads: SALE $348. I bring this to the suit guy’s attention and he says, “well, I meant, we have nothing in your price range in your size”. I ask why not, and he says, “we simply don’t carry clothing that small, maybe you could go to the gym and bulk up a little.” Judging by the tenor of his voice, I estimate he was 20 percent joking and 80 percent giving sincere advice. That translates to 80 percent of his head so lost in exploring the cavernous folds of his own arse that it seems reasonable to him to suggest that I might alter my entire body shape to buy his clothing.

In the end I found a shop near where I work. It’s the last store going south on Broadway far past where most people look. Every shopper there other than myself was a Latino man over the age of 70. And I bought a funky, pimpin’, cigar smoking, salsa drumming, badass suit. Price = not $400.

The Seeger Sessions

I am now listening to the new Bruce Springsteen folk album called “We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions” despite the overwhelming sense that I’m becoming less cool by the second. The album is actually very good as is the flip side DVD. The thing about iconic musicians who become characters in their own story and then infuse that character into their music—you know the Springteens, the Johnny Cashes, the Shane Macgowans—is that they’re all about authenticity… or at least the convincing appearance of it.

World Cup

One thing I like about the World Cup is that often underdog teams represent countries that are also underdogs of sorts making their improbable victories all the more fun to support. How can you not cheer for Costa Rica against Germany, Togo against Switzerland, Ecuador against Germany, or really anyone against Germany? So far Ecuador is the only one of these teams with any wins (against teams where Ecuador was not an underdog), but Togo still has a chance to upset France on Friday. Go Togo, where ever you are!

On Moderation

Everything in moderation. Even moderation. I took the spirit of this saying to a night of boozing with my bro last weekend. I spent the next day with the odd sense that gravity had become somehow stronger.

Out in the Woods

A gay male couple, P&D, moved to a farmhouse near my uncle in Maine. As this is a country fishing town, there was some apprehension as to how the gay couple would get along with the natives—the gay couple standing out for two reason: 1) their lifestyle, rare though not unheard of in the area, and 2) because of their status as “from away” (i.e. hailing from any town other than this town).

I am pleased to report this experimentation in modern, tolerant living in rural America has gone well. For example, recently hounds were harassing P&D’s sheep. P was cooking a crème brulèe and D, a chicken marsala. D was so enraged by the hound’s insolence (but unfortunately sans shotgun) that he charged out of the kitchen to confront the dogs. Finding the chicken marsala still in his hand, he flung the marsala at the K-9 rapscallions. Finely cooked fowl may not be the fiercest of weapons, but the hounds devoured it, distracting the dogs from the sheep and sparing the sheep further distress.

Long waited blog

A friend of mine, JH, is Israeli and his brother is gay. The brother, also a JH, is working on a gay Israeli porn called Suspicious Package. My friend will be making the sequel, a straight porn based on the Abu Ghraib scandal called Dishonorable Discharge.

Tavarez

Has anyone ever seen Julian Tavarez pitch well? In his stint with the Sox, I've never witnessed it. Has it ever happened?

The Maine Kids

I just got back from visiting my cousin and uncle in Maine. My cous, a 15 year old young woman, and I went for a drive in the rental with her at the wheel. It was a moral victory if nothing else.

My cousin and her boyfriend are so cool I tend to forget the 12 year age difference between them and myself. However, the age gap did appear at odd times. Stevie Ray Vaughn came on the radio and the boyfriend didn’t know he was died, the kids didn’t know the rules to the board game, Clue, and while the boyfriend and I were discussing the merits of moderate drinking, the boyfriend announced that two drinks were the ideal quantify--he thought. I asked for clarification: did he mean in the morning or evening? He meant two drinks per 24 hr period! For no particular reason, I was livening up a glass of OJ with tequila at the time. I poured a little extra booze to make it up to the gods of booze.

B-Day

For my entire life I’ve celebrated June 7th as my birthday (Happy birthday me!!!). However, recent primary source evidence has brought this fundamental belief into question. The Smoked Salmon and I were looking at some baby pictures with my parents to grab photos for a wall of baby pics/shame my soon-to-be mother in law is constructing for the wedding. My parents retrieved the old shoe box of pictures from the basement and the Smoked Salmon dug in (with me watching worriedly from the peripheries). The first shot was of a parent and a baby, no writing on the front, nothing on the back. I asked my father if this was a picture of me or my bro. He looked at it, unprepared for the scrutiny, and announced, “ehh… this is me holding you as a baby.” An odd conjecture given the only identity that was clear in the picture was that of my mother holding a baby. We moved to the next picture.

This picture showed a giant close up of a newborn’s wrinkled head (or possibly a very, very old person). The writing on the back of this picture says:

Bluefish Canoe, 2 days old 6/7/1978

So if I was 2 days old on June 7th, that would make my birthday June 5th, right? My parents hated this idea feeling in someway losing track of a child’s birthday might represent parental flakiness they had failed to cover-up. I loved it. Anything, that can bring any mystery into an otherwise totally ordinary existence, I welcome wholeheartedly.

After it all settled in a bit, my mother thanked the All Mighty that I wasn’t born on June 6. Thus she avoided having a child on 6-6-78, who on 6-6-06 would obviously proclaim his true identity as Satan. Again, I disagree. If and when Satan does decide to return to earth—if he is not already here—wouldn’t being the woman who brought him into the world be a pretty sweet gig compared to the rest of us dancing away on fire and brimstone? I know if I turn out to be Satan, I’ll go easier on dear old mom than I will on the rest of you swine. My mom admitted she was wrong, agreed with my reasoning, and went silent; I believe she began to mentally compose a list of enemies (mainly other Worcester Public school teachers) that she might use her new authority against as mother of the Dark One. My father’s cat rushed out of the room sensing she might be among the first to be smote.

Ninja Restaurant

I followed the good example of CC&P and went out to the Ninja Restaurant in Tribeca last night. (It was the 28^th anniversary of my hatching.) At the Ninja Restaurant there are no waiters or bus boys. Instead, ninjas bring out your food and clear your table. Ninja’s also surprise you when you’re going through the Ninja Cave on the way to your table, and ninjas dazzle you with card and coin tricks while you dine. I dressed as a ninja to fit in, but my black shirt and pants, paled in comparison to the real ninja’s headbands and extended wrist bands. Though I did bring my nunchucks.

What is this?

Do you speak French? Can you translate anything on this blog? I've got to know.

Europe, Cali can I feel yu?

So many things have happened over the last week. Firstly, I tore down my loft bed using a hammer, saw, and a screwdriver on the same day. Then I had a few beers. Then I began this blog.

Beyond that I went to a wedding in wine country, Sonoma, California. It seemed that the overriding goal of each winery was to create a drink that was distinct from that of their neighbor winery. Not an unreasonable strategy given the hundreds of wineries in this region, all on top of each other, all trying to scoop up excess LA, SF, and Silicon Valley dollars from the same groups of sun-buzzed and wine drunk yuppies on winery crawl (or rather drive of terror). To this end, I had a citrus(ie) wine that tasted like grapefruit juice and a sweet wine that tasted like a Hershey bar. All totally different, all totally gross. In this way, Californians reminded me of New Yorkers in their tendency towards overstatement and generally overdoing things. As a product of a rounded New England upbringing (schooling: private, public, parochial, painful in all ways), I know that a civilized childhood revolves around pummeling all egotism, self-esteem, confidence, and stability. If childhood doesn’t leave you with tendencies toward masochism and quivering try shoveling snow in April surrounded by people so insular they believe anyone who pronounces “r”s sounds English or “sump-tin.” (But the English don’t use hard “r”s you plead to deaf ears.) Try living near Gloucester MA, a town ruled by a man named Pugga and anyone who can grab a flag after traversing a pole covered in grease. Try talking to people who start all conversations “how’s you motha’,” only to somehow segue to reminiscing over their little league days while swilling 20 or so pitchers. (Note: picture and pitcher = same word). You want class warfare? In my town in Maine, a man once flung his own shit in a paper plate from his fishing boat to a yacht hitting the yachter squarely in his white polo shirt. The poop flinger is now a hero and his poop in a plate marksmanship: the stuff of legend. Enough said.

Several years in New York at Columbia and the Rockefeller University have sensitized me to europhilia so when I saw it without any sense of self-awareness in CA I went into a good old fashion quiver. At the winery people actually marched out to play botchy ball. I’ve never understood europhilia, which in fairness could be attributed to the upbringing mentioned above. But I like many Europeans. They are often very nice, reasonable people. I understand hating America. America pisses me off as much as it pisses off the next guy. But why would Americas get so into Europe? What deep seeded inferiority complex would drive suntanned, 6 foot 7 inch men to bowl without pins in a sandbox? Why not get into some other continent? The first meal I ever had in India was at the cultural equivalent of an Outback Steakhouse and it was the greatest thing I had ever tasted to that point. It beat anything I had in Paris like the Republican Party decimates my hopes. Honestly, I believe Hindu priests outlawed eating beef to prevent their followers from consuming until they exploded. If they had steaks in India, I would have never left that first restaurant much less the country. What else do people want? Historic towns? Go to the Middle East. Ancient culture? Go to China, India, or a local synagogue. You want good music? America. There I said it. American music is the best and America is good at something--music. Don’t tell my old boss I wrote that.