Out Crazying The Crazy

A while back, I'd wanted to draw my six readers' attention to a creative counter protest in San Francisco in response to perennial protester Fred Phelps. But then time went by, and you know how these things work.

But hey now! It's relevant again! So here I go!

For those who may not remember Fred Phelps and the Phelps Family Singers, they're the "God Hates Fags" people, recently in the news because a dead Marine's father was ordered by a judge to pay the Phelps' family legal costs, because the Marine's father sued the Phelps for protesting at his son's funeral. Bill O'Reilly ended up stepping in on behalf of the Marine's father and paying the legal costs.

This is but one example of the Phelps Horror Show.

Anyway, San Francisco! So you might be surprised to hear that there are some freaks out there. And freaks are funny. So the freaks made some crazy-ass signs to out crazy the Phelps' crazy-ass signs. I'm partial to the one that just says, "ME!" but there are a couple of real gems in there.

Also, you can play around with your own crazy signs here. I made this one:


So how is it suddenly relevant again? Well, a fella called Jason Levin received his inspiration from the wackiness of the sign makers in San Francisco and, in the tradition of the Yes Men, has come up with an idea that's part performance art, part activism, and part sheer lunacy.

The short of it is that Jason hopes to destroy the Tea Party movement by infiltrating and pushing it further away from the mainstream, so that Everyman looks at them and says, "Well, that's too fucking crazy for me."

His people may or may not be the people saying the craziest of the crazy shit you hear coming from the Tea Parties. So if members of the Tea Party start claiming that Obama performs deviant sexual acts, a member of Jason's group might say, "Yeah, and the president also fucks goats!" The best part is that the Tea Party won't know who's legitimately crazy and who's just fucking with them. Maybe a real Tea Bagger thinks that the president fucks goats. Just maybe. Who can tell?

Go, Jason.

Won't You Take Me To... SEPIATOWN??

Those of my six readers who also click on the links to the right (so, then, none of you) may be wondering why Virgil's been so quiet these past couple of years. It turns out there's a simple explanation for why he's been denying so many of us bite-sized nibbles of his that nubile mind of his.

It's called SepiaTown, and it's been a massive undertaking that he launched this past weekend.

Its scope is limited primarily to a few cities right now, but the idea is that eventually, anyone can see what their current location looked like in the days of yore. "Gee, I'm standing at the corner of East 9th Street and Broadway. I wonder what it looked like in 1910." Well, it looked like this.

SepiaTown is a "wiki," B&E readers, which means it relies on user-generated content. If you have old photos, go put them in there. If you know people with access to old photos, tell them to put them in there. The more people that get involved, the cooler the site becomes.

As one buddy said, Virgil has gone and "built a goddamned time machine."

The Crowds Should Fall Into Disrepair

The missus and I finally got to the High Line this weekend. For those of you who don't know, the High Line is an elevated rail track that runs from the meatpacking district in the West Village to about 34th Street in West Midtown. The history is pretty interesting, and you should read about it on their website.

So now it's a park. Or a kind of park. It's a walk way with benches, native grasses, and lovely architectural details.

The railroad used to go right into that building!

They've done a tremendous job with it. The plant life is beautiful and the design of the whole thing is very tastefully done. There's even a seating area, if you want to watch the traffic fly up 10th Avenue!

It really does feel like an urban oasis.

Only one problem: people. I accept some responsibility for choosing to go to the High Line on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. But I'm not even talking about the massive throngs of people, so much as the type of person.

It was scene-y. People were there to look good and be seen. The obvious money on these people was palpable. It was kind of a turnoff. And it reminded me why I so love Queens and so don't love Manhattan.

I wonder if it's a top-down problem. The High Line recently had some "Are you fucking kidding me?" type of press, when word got out that the Executive Director of the Friends of the High Line gets paid a quarter of a million dollars. That's really a lot for a nonprofit job.

Obviously, an investment in talent can be a good investment for nonprofits, so I'm not going to bad-mouth the High Line on his salary alone. But you better believe that small donors don't necessarily want to think that their $25 is just going to pay some rich bastard his salary. I need that $25 worse than the High Line's E.D.

Anyway, I wonder if there's a connection between the outlandish salary of the High Line E.D. and the hipster, monied crowd of the High Line itself.

But there were some funny people, too. I enjoyed watching this woman direct her husband on taking photos of the details of this particular bench.


So yeah... Great urban park... Too bad about the fashionistas.

Forty Years

It was 40 years ago that people first walked on the moon.

Yes, I remember it well... My mother was pregnant with my older sister, and it was a world of infinite possibility.

Not at All Bald, but Very Effective

This particular business card presentation came up at the job yesterday, after a couple of us got back from a quick tour at a local printer. I love this guy...

What's Wrong with Sweden?

My online silence the past few days has been due to having guests in town, some lovely Swedes.

About seven years ago, the couple adopted a child, and in Sweden, the new parent of one's choosing gets thirteen months off at 80% of their salary to care for the child. The thirteen months can be taken in increments of the family's desire, any time during the first eight years of the child's life. The father needs to use up his parental leave soon, so they took a vacation.

Workers in Sweden get five weeks of paid vacation, guaranteed by federal law. Once the worker turns 40, they have to fill out a form to request a guaranteed sixth week of vacation every year. Sick days and sick leave is additional.

Health care in Sweden is, of course, free. The banks there are deeply regulated (not quite fully national). According to the couple, about 30% of their salaries go to pay taxes. Although they've seen the Swedish kroner drop in value just a little bit, they're one of the few countries in the world not in any sort of fiscal crisis. The government has money, and unemployment hasn't risen too much.

This year, the Swedish couple and their son will be traveling to New York, Florida, Scotland, and Greece. They went to Vietnam last year. The father is a school teacher who's planned their curriculum in such a way that the teachers in this tiny school district outside of Stockholm work four days a week. The mother works two days a week. They rent a tiny apartment in Stockholm and own a lovely house on an idyllic piece of property on the Baltic Sea. (They very kindly put us up during our vacation a couple years ago.)

Of course, they also said that because of the long, dark winters, the Swedes desperately need vacations. There are some problems with depression and drinking, but that whole thing about Sweden having the highest suicide rate in the world is a myth. And what, we don't have problems with depression and drinking in this country?

Unless I'm doing the math in my head wrong, I'm paying more than 30% of my salary to federal, state, and city taxes, and I'm not getting any free health care.

What the hell are they doing right in Sweden? And when people speak disdainfully about "Europe!", "socialism!", and "government health care!", I swear to Jesus Christ who died for me on the cross at Golgotha (the place of the skull), I'm just not seeing the problem with the Swedish system.

Humanity, equality, family, and quality of life are all good things. Come on, America! We've already embraced IKEA; let's embrace some Swedish values!

One Hundred. You Heard Me: One Hundred.

So at my job back in August, one colleague said something about her boyfriend doing the hundred push-ups challenge. Six weeks to a hundred push-ups.

We appreciate quick opportunities to blow off steam at my job, and it's a genial atmosphere full of hard work and laughter. It's a pretty good job. So most of us decided we'd try out this six-week workout.

You begin with a test. Do as many as you can. I've never had much upper body strength, and the fact is I am, as the Scots might say, a big girl's blouse. I also haven't done much working out of any sort over the past few years, and I sit at my desk all day writing (and we're not on manual typewriters or anything, so even my fingers are pretty weak). I had pretty low expectations.

Eight, OK? I could do eight.

So we worked our way through the thing. There were six of us participating. A couple tried it out. A couple others never bothered. But on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, beginning at the end of August, we did push-ups as a group. Camaraderie, B&E readers! 5:00 pm rolls around and someone shouts: "Push-ups, people!"

Six-week workout, my ass. I'd say it was just us effete white collar dweebs, but one of my colleagues very nearly made the women's Olympic field hockey team. That woman is strong, and that woman can do push-ups. So it's not just that I'm, as the Scots might say, a total Jessie. Six-week workout, my ass.

Still, we were making progress, and we forged onward. If we couldn't complete a week's workout, we worked our way through anyway, and then repeated the week. A couple of people gave up, and dropped out. But most of us stuck it out.

Ten or twelve weeks into the workout, we all ended up taking a couple of weeks off around the holidays, which set us way back. But we came back and picked up where we left off. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. 5:00 pm.

About three weeks ago, our field hockey player did 105 push-ups, finishing the challenge. The rest of us forged on.

I did one hundred push-ups today. The last three were a little feeble, but I did them. From eight to 100 push-ups in six... months!

This big girl's blouse of a Jessie did 100 push-ups.

The Obvious Solution

We really have been hearing a lot in the past week or so about Obama's graying hair. He appears to be going grayer rather quickly.

Well, Michael Tomasky at the UK's Guardian newspaper presents three potential outcomes for Obama and offers an effective recommendation. And I must say that I agree wholeheartedly. (Watch to the end for the solution.)

[Thanks to the missus for sending this one to me.]

Anti-Dickhead of This Moment - Tim DeChristopher

I haven't given out an Anti-Dickhead award for quite some time, as the Dickhead/Anti-Dickhead feature has gone mostly the way of the archives here at B&E. But I still like to keep my ears and eyes open for total Dickhead moves (with Blagojevich and Madoff getting recent shout-outs), with the occasional Anti-Dickhead move thrown in (anyone out there remember my frequent expressions of love for Russell "Oh, So" Feingold?)

Anyway, over in Utah, there's been a little last-minute Bush Administration oil industry gift happening in the form of an auction hosted by the Bureau of Land Management. Who wants oil drilling rights to wilderness land? Come and get it!

But then Tim DeChristopher, a student at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, finished his final exam and went to the protest outside the auction. Except that Tim didn't join the protesters. Instead, he walked inside and joined the bidding.

You see, because this whole thing has been put together so quickly by the Bush Administration, no one had time to do any bidder vetting. And boy, did Tim bid. By the time people figured out he was a fraud, he'd purchased more than 22,000 acres of wilderness and driven up the prices on thousands more.

Tim has brilliantly thrown the whole thing into chaos. The US Attorney is figuring out what to charge him with. Fraud? Maybe, but if he comes up with the $45,000 for the first payment, he hasn't actually committed fraud. He'll be showing that he meant to buy it.

But he's also confused the proceedings enough that the auction can't be reorganized for another month or so. Perhaps the Bureau of Land Management can have the auction then, but here's the kicker...

In a month, we'll have a new president. John Podesta, who heads up the transition team, has spoken out against the land sale. An Obama Administration may stop it altogether, if they can.

It's really amazing what this University student has done by simply raising a bidding paddle. No destruction of property, no violence, and no standing on the sidelines yelling about it. Instead he perpetrated a perfect little act of civil disobedience. And although he'd really prefer not to go to prison, he's willing to, if it comes to that.

That makes Tim DeChristopher my Anti-Dickhead of This Moment.

[Thanks to Democracy Now! for reporting on the story, even if I'm way late on it (lost in the holiday fun) and didn't hear about it until more than a week after it aired.]

A Case I Wish I'd Sat On

It was probably more than ten years ago that I served jury duty in Manhattan's criminal courts. The case featured an alleged drug dealer and quantities of cocaine we weren't able to hear about yet. I got as far as sitting in the jury box, answering the list of questions for the prosecution and defense attorneys.

I was eventually dismissed for what I assumed was one of two reasons:

1) The defense attorney didn't like me because I had an uncle who headed up a SWAT team.

2) The prosecutor didn't like me because I went to an exceptionally liberal, soft-on-crime sort of college.

The judge in the case was a fella by the name of Edwin Torres. He spent the Q&A portion of jury selection pacing behind his desk. I liked him a lot. He was no nonsense, funny, and totally badass.

When the lawyers attempted to ask us questions that spoke in circles around some delicate issues, they were tartly translated by Judge Torres.

Regarding the prosecutor's question: "What he's asking in his roundabout way is whether or not you hate cops. Correct?"

Regarding the defense attorney's question: "He wants to know if you're racist. Is that right?"

Both lawyers meekly responded, "Yes, thank you, your honor."

After I was dismissed from the jury box, I learned that Judge Torres was also the author of Carlito's Way. Busy judge. And again, total badass.

So it was with pleasure that I saw this little feature in the New York Times, discussing now-retired Judge Torres's latest screenplay.

Man, I really wish I'd sat on that jury. That guy is amazing.

The Angry Side of Funny

My early friends (and family) didn't have much of an edge, so my comedy upbringing was fairly limited. Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor didn't get much play among my people. We got a little Bill Cosby from time to time and a touch of Robert Klein.

And somehow George Carlin sneaked in there. He had the silly stuff that I liked (I remember him talking about drowning Rice Krispies with whole peaches) and the political commentary that my parents appreciated (and that I appreciated later).

One of his albums (and I can't even tell you which one) was on constant play in my college social circle, and it got funnier with every play somehow. His social commentary was razor-sharp. And he was angry, which helped him keep an edge. He stopped talking to my parents and spoke to me.

My dad lamented that Carlin got "too angry" and therefore wasn't funny. But for me his comedy was a welcome coping mechanism for all of the social ills that seemed (and seem) so fucking unfair. And Carlin, the self-described "disappointed idealist," turned that unfairness into biting humor. It was very funny. My dad, for all of his wonderful qualities, didn't handle anger (even funny anger) very well.

I found myself the target of his routine once. He was railing against white dudes who shave their heads. Guilty as charged. I disagreed, of course, but it was still funny.

So no, I didn't much care for waking up this morning to the news that George Carlin died. He was bald (even with a ponytail). And he was very effective.

New Yorkers Are Fat

A couple of weeks ago, a court upheld a law that required chain restaurants to display their calorie counts in New York City stores. Apparently, half of New Yorkers are fat. So now when we go to McDonald's we can order the low-calorie item, whatever it may be. I don't know... Diet Coke?

Obviously, most of these restaurants are against posting such information on their displays, and they have until June 3 to comply before the fines start coming.

Chipotle and Starbucks have already posted their calorie counts. I tend to walk a couple of extra blocks for my afternoon coffee, rather than go to the Starbucks immediately across from my office. But today was a rainy, shitty day, and I was in a hurry to get back to the office for a meeting. (If I need another excuse, I'm sure I can come up with one.)

Anyway, it was the first time I saw the calorie postings. I tell you: that shit is effective. I mean, I wasn't going to get a snack anyway, but when I saw that their Crispy Rice Square (the Starbucks' equivalent to the Rice Krispy Treat) was 450 calories, it really made me not want to eat it even more.

I felt a lot thinner today having not eaten the Starbucks food. Then I had a crumpet with peanut butter and maple syrup for dessert tonight. Delicious.

Yeah, It's a Problem

We've got this terrific coffeeshop (a.k.a. greasy spoon, diner, etc.) here in Sunnyside called the New Post. There was a murder inside a couple years ago, but other than that minor hiccup, the New Post has reliably (and safely) served me omelets, French toast, tuna melts, and fries for the past eight years.

These coffeeshops, like old school dive bars, are becoming rarer and rarer across New York City as development rips down the old and puts up the new. Plus, a breakfast that costs $3.50 struggles to cover rising rent costs as readily as a brunch that costs $15.00.

Fortunately, it appears that the New Post is still going strong, even with the new Pete's Grill down the block. Pete's has a classic Greek diner feel to it, which probably only means something to people who frequent diners in NYC. The New Post is a counter-and-booth affair. Pete's is fine (and a couple bucks more expensive), but my heart belongs to the New Post.

Except for one thing: the New Post currently employs the Worst Waitress Ever. I know a couple that will actually say they're not ready yet when she comes to take their order and wait for the other waitress. The Worst Waitress Ever is a little dirty (I've seen her wiping her nose with her hand), and she always - ALWAYS - gets something wrong. When ordering you can tell she's not paying attention. She asks you to repeat things, and she still gets it wrong. It's seriously troubling.

This weekend, the New Post had a third waitress in there. She seemed to be in training, or maybe she was just standing around. Two waitresses would really be plenty if not for the Worst Waitress Ever.

The missus whispered to me, "I think it's her daughter!" Sure enough. When the New Girl came to fill up our coffee, I could see a distinct physical resemblance. When she filled up our cups too high to add milk, it was clear: The New Girl's a chip off the old block.

The New Post is a well-oiled machine. The short order cook might be a genius, and everything happening behind the counter and in the kitchen is a picture of efficiency. In fact, the Worst Waitress Ever forgot to bring us our food, and one of the guys behind the counter brought it out for us. Those guys (I think a lot of them are brothers) work their asses off and make the whole experience very pleasant.

Then there's the Worst Waitress Ever. And now her daughter. They scare me.

I'm Surprised by Some of Obama's Posters

Barack Obama should perhaps begin exploring a broader range of visuals, but I don't mind telling you that I'm rather tickled his messaging is so B&E focused. And yet each poster speaks to the qualities that makes a good president.

This one, for example, keeps it simple, but I appreciate the respect. See? He's not bigoted!


My, oh, my, Obama. Truer words were never said. See? He's got impeccable taste!


And even while on the campaign trail, Barack has had a chance to keep up with recent postings. See? He can multi-task!


I'm still reeling from last year's spectacular Mets meltdown, but Obama gives me hope for the upcoming season. See? Optimism!


Those little hedgehogs in the UK have clearly made an impression on Barack. See? He's got heart and cares about the environment!


If Obama wins the election, I'm hoping we'll see a little less from the Dickheads. See? He can stand his ground when he has to!


Yes, sir. Yes. Sir. See? Yessir.