Bring on the Funny

My thesis, which is about the spoken and unspoken experiences that I inherited from my paternal side, uses humor to explore the horrible things that happened to my grandparents and father during and after World War II. The humor is integral because my grandfather relied on jokes to deflect topics that he didn't want to deal with and as a coping mechanism for his enormous losses. I think that this reliance on humor is something that I inherited from him.

Anyway, today I spent some time reading Jewish humor books. Partly it is for research, partly to procrastinate because I have no ideas at the moment. I thought I'd share one:

Sadie says to her husband, "Moshe, I'm fed up with frozen chicken. Please buy for me a live chicken for a change. Then I can make for us a lovely meal."

So Moshe goes to the market and buys the chicken. On his way back, he sees that Funny Girl is showing at the movies. He calls Sadie on a pay phone. "Sadie," he says, "They're showing Funny Girl at the movies. I think I'll see it before I come home."

"OK," replies Sadie, "but what about the chicken?"

"I'll take it inside with me," Moshe answers.

Moshe stuffs the chicken down his trousers and goes in to see the film. Unfortunately, part way through the movie, the chicken pokes its head out. Two women are sitting next to Moshe and one turns to the other and whispers, "There's a man next to me with his shmeckle hanging out of his pants."

Her friend says, "Why be shocked? If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Just watch the movie."

"But this one's different. It's eating my popcorn."

OK, this joke totally cracked me up because it is so weird and random. I can almost hear my grandfather telling it. (He really liked dirty jokes, just like I do.)

Heads Up!

For a nanosecond, I wanted to scream when I stepped onto the subway on Tuesday morning. In a seat between two disinterested women lay a disembodied head, face down. Its black hair stood up at odd angles, and its brown neck was evenly sawed off from a torso.

I quickly realized that the reason that the women were so nonchalant about this horror was that it was a severed mannequin's head. Further inspection lead me to notice that the mannequin's little bud nose rested on a cosmetology magazine. The head seemed to belong to the woman on its right, who thoughtfully gave it its own seat so that actual humans had to stand.

At 42nd Street, the woman gathered her shopping bags, scooped up the head and magazine, and exited the train. I sat down in the seat formerly occupied by the lifeless head. I love living in New York City.

Heaping Piles of Seething Rage of Steaming Anger

Two years ago, my friend Sara and I were interviewed for documentary on abortion. I even put on make up and shit so that I would not look like a fetus-eating zombie on film, hence making the pro-choice side of what we were assured was a "balanced" look at the abortion debate look bad. Nope. I wanted to represent!

I never heard back from the motherfuckers. Not even, "Thanks Suzanne. It was nice of you to take time out to help us make a shitty documentary that no one will see." So when I discovered that the filmmakers actually did come up with something - and it is a scripted "dramamentary" about abortion in which the pretty blond white girl is treated like shit by nasty nurses in an abortion clinic and thus of course have her baby and all is good and - deep breath; this is an angry run on sentence/rant, sorry - the black girl who is raped and comes to NYC to have her abortion is saved by the nice white woman who hosts her through the Haven Coalition (which I was, at the time I was interviewed, the co-head of), I was mad fucking pissed. These douches could at least have had the courtesy to email me and let me know their shitty "unbiased" film (featuring a really cuddly 22 week old fetus in utero) that I helped them with was coming out. Or at least a "Lifetime"-esque trailer that befits a solid piece of filmmaking such as this was online for my viewing pleasure.

Oh. And I did I mention that this "balanced" film is executive produced by the guy who made that other even-keeled movie, Passion of the Christ, and the awesome Ben Stein movie about how "science" teachers who want to teach that evolution is all a lie are persecuted by baby- and Christ-killing Jews like me? Right. (CORRECTION: "The Passion of the Christ" guy is the one marketing this balanced film, although the exec producer is a right winger, too - "Hollywood's Most Powerful Christian," according to Christianity Today magazine. My bad.)

Of course, some of the documentary footage that these tools shot is in the film. (Hence the "-umentary" part.) The pro-choice people, according to the "LA Times," all get to say things like how fetuses are nothing more than parasites (which, sorta, is true, but unlike digestive parasites which make women thin, fetus ones make them fat - ewwwwww). I'm assuming (hoping and praying) that I didn't make the cut, but since this doesn't appear to be available to pro-choice audiences, I may never know. I think it's unlikely that I'm in it, since I said that people who supposedly are "pro-life" have killed a lot of actual people, and that they really scare me. Seems like something that a "balanced" film would not want to highlight.

The Tipping Point

One of my former bosses told me that she always knows who has had restaurant experience when she goes out with a group of people based on how much they tip. She said that people who've never worked in the food service industry generally give tips of up to 15%, but people who have worked tables give closer to 20%. I am fortunate enough to have been able to go through life thus far without waitressing (I guarantee that I would be awful*), but I tip 20% unless service was utterly abysmal (i.e. - the staff was actually rude to me). My ex-boss said I am an exception.

I find that in NYC, most people are calculate tips in one of two ways: they double the tax (which is 8.75%) or they give 20% of the subtotal. Either way seems right to me. The minimum wage in the restaurant industry in NYS is $4.60. In theory, if staff do not earn enough tips to average them out to $7.15 an hour, the restaurant must cough up the extra dough. But how likely is that? Not very.

I rant about this now because I have gone out with some people a few times who consistently refuse to acknowledge that they have to pay tax and tip. It is so bad that I've actually pulled out a calculator to show how their $15 entree is really over $19 when you add tax ($1.31) and tip ($3), so putting in $20 is fair. Even after this, people have argued with me that they overpaid.

Not everyone is good at math. I understand that. I'm no math genius myself. But when I fucking run through the numbers and explain them, and my co-diner still doesn't want to pay his fair share, I am going to be very angry. Because I'm not going to short restaurant staff because my companion is too fucking cheap to pay what he owes, I get stuck paying for it. And it adds up over time. Eventually I just focus on how the person is going to screw me or someone at the end of the meal, and I don't enjoy myself. It makes me not inclined to dine out with certain individuals any more.

*Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, would never be able to keep up with all the orders and I'd always forget to bring people drinks or who ordered what and all that.

15 Years is Very Good, But Expensive

If Husband and I had saved ten cents for every day we've been together, it would have paid for our ridiculous blow out celebration. Fortunately, the amount of change that Husband stashed away in his parking meter bank more than covered it. (Incidentally, now that he's got everything counted and sorted in wrappers for the bank, the bag he plans to transport the coins in weighs more than 60 pounds!)

We kicked off our anniversary date by signing our wills, power of attorney documents, and health care proxies. It was very romantic. Yeah.

After the business of love was done, we went to the cozy Bookmarks Lounge on the top of the Library Hotel for a drink. I threw all caution to the wind and ordered an insanely expensive hot apple toddy, which I quickly realized that I could barely drink because it was more alcohol than cider. But the sips I had warmed me up on a rainy night, and I tried not to feel guilty about wasting money, so all was well. Husband enjoyed his overpriced glass of Chardonnay.

We took the bus up to Daniel. A few of my friends have celebrated anniversaries there, so I thought it might be nice for us. We left with extremely full bellies and an empty wallet. When I made the reservation, I mentioned that it was our anniversary, so they printed us little copies of the the menu that said happy anniversary as souvenirs. This is good, as I could not understand our French waiter, so I had no idea what we ate. Plus there was a lot of it, so I doubt I'd remember it all anyway. We did the eight course chef's tasting menu. Here's what we indulged in:

Course One
Mosaic of capon, foie gras, and celery root with pickled daikon, Satur Farms mache, and pear confit

Duo of duck foie gras terrine with figs, raisin chutney, spinach, and daikon salad

Course Two
Meyer lemon royale with sea urchin, North Star caviar, Barron Point oyster, finger lime and tapioca vinaigrette

Vodka-beet cured hamachi loin with walnuts and lettuce wrapped tartare with North Star caviar

Course Three
Duo of Florida frog legs and fricasse with kamut berries and black garlic, and "lollipop" with spinach, mushrooms, crispy shallots

Katafi crusted Maine lobster with broccoli mousseline, ricotta salata, lemon-pine nute gremolata, and sweet harissa sauce

Course Four
Bacon Wrapped montail fish with Maine lobster, green lentil ragout, tahoon cress

Slow baked striped bass with creamy endive, black truffle arancini, and perigueux sauce

Course Five
Roasted Liberty Farms duck breast with watermelon radish, spinach subric, cara cara orange, sauce "Bigarrade"

Course Six
Duo of dry aged black Angus beef - red wine braised short rib with porcini marmalade and seared rib eye with chestnut-potato gnocchi and swiss chard

Elysian Fields Farm lamb loin with braised radicchio tardivo, confit fennel, crispy polenta, and Sicilian olives

Courses Seven and Eight, but really more like Seven through Eleven
Desserts were little things made from fruits and chocolate (an apple tart, a spiced pear thing on semolina cake under a chocolate flake with warm chocolate sauce, peanut butter chocolate cake) with small blobs of ice cream (including smoked vanilla, which was repulsive), followed by a special plate of dessert for our anniversary, followed by warm mini Madelines, followed by four types of little chocolate truffles. We also had tea and coffee. In addition to the menus, we got a box of warm Madelines to take home for breakfast.

So, it was amazing overall. For the most part, I behaved myself. (I considered stashing the left over Madelines in a sandwich bag that I had left over from lunch, but restrained myself.) I will say that I do not like frog legs - the consistency made me gag, but I did not spit them out. I just smiled and switched plates with Husband. I also killed a moth while we were there, and spilled all sorts of things on the table. The service was crazy attentive. Every time I made a mess, a guy came over with a napkin and covered it up, which was sort of embarrassing. The bread guy also came five times, and I consumed four pieces of raisin walnut bread, which was the best bread I have ever tasted, along with the most delicious creamy butter on the planet. Today, I am still a little full...

5,479 Days, But Who's Counting?

A little over 15 years ago, I rang Husband at his dorm room. I told him that I had something that I wanted to ask him. Before I got to my question, we spoke for two hours.* Then I said that I hoped to see a film over the weekend, and was wondering if he would like to join me. He said yes.

So, on Feb. 23, 1995, I met Husband in the lobby of his dorm and we walked to the East Village Cinemas to see "Pulp Fiction." I wore a pair of rainbow striped stockings, a turquoise skirt, and a black tunic-y thing with orange embroidery at the neck and sleeves. And blue Doc Martens. I was nervous that Husband didn't know that I meant to ask him out on a date, but when he paid for the tickets, I thought he knew.

After the movie, we went to a cafe and drank the worst hot chocolate I've ever had foisted upon me. It was like the staff dropped a Hals into it and let it dissolve. We laughed about how nasty it was. When we left, I forgot my ear muffs. Husband asked if I wanted to go back and look for them, but I said, "No, they are diarrhea brown. I'll just get a new pair." He thought this was hilarious.

He walked me back to my dorm, and we stood in a light drizzle for another two hours, talking. When we finally parted around 4 am, he hugged me good night. I've been on cloud nine ever since.

*And how my roommates, who were trying to sleep in our one room dorm cell, did not punch me in the face (as I deserved) is beyond me. I sat right next to one of my roommate's beds as I obliviously chatted away.

What's the Frequency Kenneth?

Last Wednesday, I took a closer look at the nail on my big left toe. It had been a bit yellowed for a few weeks, but I thought nothing of it. I hate feet. They are gross even under the best of circumstances, so my toes aren't exactly shining pedicured beauties and the slight discoloration didn't really register.

It turned out that my nail was sort of in the process of falling off. "Hmmm," I though. "I should probably do something about this." I considered ripping it off myself, but wasn't sure how much blood that would entail and how I might, without a toe nail, eventually stop it. So I put a bandage over it and called a podiatrist the next day. They gave me a Friday morning appointment.

The doctor looked at my toe and asked me when I traumatized it. "Huh?" I said. He said that I must have stubbed it at some point, causing the break, which was then allowed a fungus to get in. I wracked my brain. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, amped up. We came up blank. I'd think that something that would cause my toe nail to crack open would be something I might remember, but I guess not. The story of my life these days...

--------------------------

On a side note, changes are coming to CUSS! I have an awesome person helping me deal with the technical issues that Blogger threw at me a few weeks ago (I can't use their publishing service after March 26 for a variety of reasons), and she's going to be moving CUSS to a WordPress format. CUSS readers (all two or so of you, who I love dearly) will still find the blog at the same URL, cussandotherrants.com, and I think the feeds won't be affected. It'll just be a shiny new look (eventually) and a different way to leave comments.

Anyway, given all the blogs out there and the limited amount of time people have in which to read them, I just want to thank you for reading CUSS. It means a lot to me.

When Worlds Collide

When I moved to New York City from the 'burbs of Chicago 15 years ago, one of the biggest adjustments I had to make was the lack of Walgreen's. NYC had plenty of pharmacies/drug store chains to choose from - Duane Reade (as ubiquitous in NYC as Walgreen's is in Chicago), CVS, Rite Aid, the one that was on 8th Street between Broadway and University whose name I am blanking on but that no longer exists, etc. - but I thought Walgreen's had a better variety of random products than any of them. Whenever I went out to Long Island, I rejoiced in the Walgreen's near the train station that served Husband's parents' town.

Over time, however, I adjusted. Duane Reade, still annoying in general, spruced itself up a bit as it expanded its presence. (At one point, it seemed like the only commercial space left in the City would be bank branches, Starbuckses, and Duane Reades.) I adapted to its overpriced merchandise, surly cashiers, and long lines. They introduced a card in which you got points for every dollar you spent, and they rounded up, which made me feel a bit better about paying $2 for a Diet Coke that the corner bodega might sell for between $1.25 (if I'm lucky) and $1.75. Once you get a $100, you get $5 off your next purchase. I love bribes.

So, when I got Husband's email this morning that informed me that Walgreen's acquired Duane Reade, I was shocked. Even more shocked than by the fact that the New York Times finally posted what was rumored to be such a scandalous story about Gov. Patterson that he'd immediately be forced to resign and it turned out to be boring. I mean, Walgreen's taking over Duane Reade? This is craziness! I can't decide if I am excited or horrified.

For now, Walgreen's is keeping the Duane Reade name, but it will be really weird if they replace it and there's no more Duane Reade in NYC. I wonder if this is revenge for Macy's buying Marshall Field's and then changing the name, an affront to the civic pride and identities of Chicagoans everywhere. Huh. Maybe I've uncovered a diabolical plot. Now that Duane Reade is threatened, I feel very defensive of it, even though I fucking hate that store (other than the bribes). Interesting.

Jews Love Money

If every stereotype emerges from the tiniest kernel of truth, Husband gives the anti-Semitic crazies a good basis for their rants. Before I left to visit my sister in Iowa for the weekend, he gleefully announced that he would spend the weekend counting money. It was a moment for which he'd waited about five years.

Husband hates carrying change. He'd empty out his pockets at the end of the day, save up the change, then count it out and take it to the bank. He counts it because the counting machines at the bank notoriously undercount. Plus, I think it allows him to slip some old coins replaced by Euros into the rolls, but that's just my suspicion.

Anyway, I gave him a plastic parking meter bank for Hanukkah abut five years ago, and he's been patiently feeding it change since then. I guess the manufacturers thought whatever kid would use it would be too impatient to fill it, as it collapsed from the weight of the coins about six months ago. Since then, it lay on the floor as Husband faithfully inserted his change.




All told, he said there were over 3,000 pennies alone. The total was slightly
more than $600. I can only imagine what would happen if someone broke into our apartment and tried to steal Husband's bounty. It would be a loud and very slow get away.

The Cats Say It's Time to Go

My bubbe dislikes cats. She says that they are "false, and hypnotize
you." Dana's cats, though, are pretty honest. They are sending clear
signals to my allergies that it is time for me to go.

I had a great time. The monster truck rally rocked. I ate lots of junk food. I went to a mall. I had brunch with Maren. Dana and I watched home movies of us as
kids that I just had transferred from 8 mm film on to DVD. One of the films turned out to be of my mom's 30th birthday and another was of Dana's 1st birthday, which was cool because Dana's 30th birthday is today. (Happy birthday, chooch!) Most important, I spent lots of time with Marcus, who is a little thief. Yes, he stole my heart. (Cue the cheesy music.)

But now it is time to go. My eyes itch. My nose is stuffed. My ass is frozen. Sadness. Fortunately, Marcus's 1st birthday is just around the corner, so I'll see everyone again in April or early May in Chicago to celebrate the little bugger. Yay!

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Monster Trucks!

My sister's 30th birthday is Monday. Back before I remembered how bad winter is in the midwest, I decided that I would visit her over the holiday weekend and join her celebration. Living in New York has spoiled me. Sure, it gets cold here and snows, but this is kid stuff compared to what I grew up with in the Chicago area. I have become soft.

I expressed my fears to Dana. She told me to wear layers. I laughed. "It's 25 degrees here and I am already wearing a hat, scarf, down coat, lined mittens, tights, knee socks, leather boots up to my knees, jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweater (and, of course, undies). I am still cold." She laughed. "Damn, you're a wuss."

And speaking of wusses, when she told me a few days ago that she would like to celebrate her birthday at a monster truck rally, I hesitated. Part of me was really, really, really excited. The other part feared the Confederate flag waving, pick up truck riding majority of the audience. I assumed that I had enough sense of self-preservation not to get into a fight with anyone, but who knows? I challenged a fucked up Jamie Kennedy at his own documentary. (Not that he was a threat, but it shows that when I feel insulted, I don't think before I open my mouth.)

However, excitement got the better of me, and I cannot wait! Not only does the show feature truck stars Killer Bee, Rislone Defender, Bar’s Leaks Eliminator, Storm Damage, "the ever so popular monster truck 'The General,'" but - but! - if we arrive early enough, we can take a family ride on a monster truck known as Bone Crusher. Fuck, this will be amazing. Bring on the monster trucks!

Now, if only my flight gets there OK, given all the snow, and equally importantly, gets me back on Monday...

Snowstorm, Revisited

I took this picture on March 2, 2009, but today is a similar day in terms of weather, and I love it so much that I can't help but re-post.



Wherever you are, I hope your day is filled with lovable mini snowfolk.

The Jamie Kennedy Experience

This story was told to me by Husband and Brother-in-Law. Although I have never done illegal drugs, nor have I ever even been drunk, I do not remember this incident at all.

In 2007, Husband, Brother-in-Law, and I went to see a documentary at the Tribeca Film Festival about stand up comedy. The film was done by the comic and actor Jamie Kennedy, who wanted to know why people don't find certain brands of humor funny. The first half of Heckler included many famous comedians talking about hecklers. The second part of the movie, however, focused on why critics hated Kennedy's movie, Malibu's Most Wanted. He hunted down critics and badgered them, insisting that they just didn't get it. (Husband said it was the worst movie he's ever seen at the Tribeca Film Festival, and I'm sure I hated it, but of course, I don't remember.)

Usually screenings at the Festival are packed. This one had only about ten people. Still, Jamie Kennedy came out after the movie to talk about it. Once Husband mentioned this part to me, I did recall that Kennedy was wasted on something. He heckled the audience. At one point, he asked us a question about what we find funny and why, and I made the mistake of raising my hand to answer it.

He did not like my response, whatever it was, and yelled at me. I yelled back at him. Apparently, we argued loudly for some time. Husband and Brother-in-Law found this hilarious.

I wish I could remember when I got into a verbal slam down with Jamie Kennedy.

I Married a Lunatic, Part 79

At lights out, I wished Husband a good night.

"I am concentrating now so I can dream about walruses," he replied.

"What? Really?"

"Yes, I want to know more about walruses, and the best way to understand large animals is to study them closely in your dreams."

A few nights before this, he explained to me that some unicorns are ugly. The public just doesn't know about them.

Freudian Slip

Before I went to my peer advisory writing group this evening, I attended a going away party for a friend at work. There were many inappropriate discussions about snatch, viewing porn on a BlackBerry, and women ogling other women. (Oh, how I adore my colleagues!)

The latest draft of my thesis, which is about how I inherited my Jewish identity and outlook on life through what was both spoken and unsaid by my grandparents' and father's Holocaust legacies, includes this line about a nighttime asthma attack I had when I was seven:

"I could almost taste the blackness as though an octopus has replaced the night air with its inky discharge."

We discussed the strangeness of the metaphor/image and why it worked even though it shouldn't. Then my friend asked what the plural of octopus is.

"It's octopussies," I said. Then I turned bright red and we laughed until it hurt.

End of an Era

When I wanted to start a blog in 2005, I selected Blogger because it was easy. I didn't need fancy templates or design features. I just wanted a little home on the internet for my rants against shaved snatch.

For the most part, this has worked well. Not long after I started blogging, I decided to get a domain name and host for my work. This was partly because cussandotherrants.blogspot.com was a reallllllly long URL. The transition was not without any pain. The blogspot URL was supposed to link visitors to the new URL, but after a few weeks someone hacked the blogspot URL because it was not quite programmed right. This sucked, but was not awful.

This afternoon, Blogger sent an email to the 0.5% of Blogger users who use FTP to upload their blog to a non-Blogger hosted site. They said that as of the end of March, we can't do that any more. People with custom domains would need to transfer to their custom domain services. This means no more cussandotherrants.com. It also means that Google is my host. I understood their reasons, but I still fell into the fetal position and rocked back and forth.

Once I uncurled myself and got up off the metaphorical floor, I realized that maybe this was OK. I pondered the issue on my walk home from work. Sure, now is the worst timing to have to change CUSS to another platform, but it could use a good overhaul. There's no way I could pull this off myself under even the best of circumstances (i.e. - not working full time and writing a thesis). However, people spend money on their hobbies, and so far, blogging has been a pretty cheap one. It's time to invest in it.

So, anyone know a good web designer? I'm pretty excited to work with someone to take CUSS to a new level.

Things I Do Not Understand, Part 794A

1. The YIVO Institute has the records of American Displaced Persons Camps in Austria, Germany in Italy from 1945-1952. Since my grandparents and father lived in camps in Austria during that time period, I am eager to see what is in the archive. YIVO is conveniently open Monday-Thursday from 9:30 am to 5 pm. However, the reading room is open until 7:30 on Mondays. I called and asked until what time the library was open today and was told 7:30. After work, I rushed down to get as much time as possible with the records.

After passing through the metal detector and sending my bag through the x-ray machine, using the mandatory coat check, and providing photo ID, I took the freezing elevator to the library and reading room on the 3rd floor. The woman at the information desk informed me that since YIVO closed at 5:00, I could not get the records I wanted. I am extremely confused as to why a reading room is open when the records that one is supposed to read in that room are unavailable, but there were people in there using computers and looking over books from somewhere, so what do I know.

2. On the subway home from my failed trip to YIVO, a woman rushed onto the train with a stroller and four or five year old girl in tow. After mowing people down to get the stroller in the middle of the car, she wedged herself in the small space between me and the extremely large man on the other side. She struggled to pull her daughter onto her lap.

"Excuse me," I said. "Would your little girl like to sit down?" I gestured at my seat and moved slightly to get up.

"I HAVE TWO KIDS WITH ME AND I NEED TO SIT," she yelled in my face. That is when I realized that she had earphones on. They were blasting music. Not only could she not hear me, but if her kids needed something, they were shit out of luck.

Resisting the urge to slap her, I tried again. "Yes, I see that you should sit. Would your daughter like to sit also?"

"DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME? I SAID I GOTTA SIT DOWN BECAUSE I GOT TWO KIDS WITH ME!" One of the earphones slid out of her ear slightly when she pulled her daughter up higher.

"Yes, I heard you," I sneered. "But I am asking if your girl would like my seat." At that, I stood up and tried to wiggle around the stroller to get away from this cuntface.

"Oh, naw. She'll just sit on my lap."

Since there was really no standing room, I sat back down. The woman standing in front of me who witnessed the whole scene sighed. "Yeah, no good deed goes unpunished," I said.

"She's probably just used to people being rude," the stranger replied. The woman, of course, could not hear a word anyone was saying. The stranger was very kind, and chatted up the little girl about Valentine's Day. For all the mother knew, she was soliciting the kid. When she got off the train, the little girl kept waving and saying, "Bye bye. Have a good night."

It broke my heart. I know that there are times when parents don't want to hear their kids, but the girl kept trying to talk to her mom, who just nodded, unhearing. So awful.