False Promises, and The Ins and Outs of Coincidence

I work on stolen WiFi at home, and was just finishing up a post for a friend's blog that basically distills the wisdom I've attained from many years of watching internet porn, and the lessons said wisdom can teach women. A wireless signal I've never seen before popped into my Area Networks window: Free Gay Porn. Like every other signal around here except good-old semi-reliable Krock, it was password-protected.

Latin Kings

Yesterday I attended the New York unveiling of Burger King's new menu, which is based on some recently developed broiler technology. A couple of things:

1) There's nothing more empowering than being picked up by a Town Car and chauffeured to the 34th Street Burger King.*
2) Except for maybe bypassing the velvet rope even as a random non-invitee is denied access. To Burger King. Hearing "I'm sorry, sir, this is a private event" will plague that guy for the rest of his life.
3) This new menu is a game-changer. The Steakhouse XT might be the best fast-food burger I've ever tasted. Thick, juicy, delicious. This new broiler technology is The Future.
4) They also served shockingly good s'mores made in the same broiler; they're not certain they'll offer them regularly, but hopefully they'll be part of The Future too.
*Even if the Town Car is late, and you have to wait in the rain

Oddly for a grab-and-go, the walls at 34th Street are decorated with smallish rock & roll prints, including the one above, tagged with "all I can do is be me, whoever that is", which I guessed was Dylan's dickishly enigmatic response to a perfectly standard question about his thoughts on Vietnam, or toothpaste, or whether or not fast food was fascist, or whatever.

Later last night, I went out with a friend of Spanish, Dominican, and English heritage, who tried to put Latin passion in context: her grandfather actually met her grandmother when he was five and she a newborn -- the story is, he was sent to deliver food to the proud parents, and stubbornly stood outside the door for five hours until they let him hold the baby. Both of their families fled Trujillo and landed in New York, where they re-met and fell instantly in love. They've apparently stayed that way, since the grandfather swears that if his wife dies first, he'll end his life right after. Meanwhile, the grandmother's sister became so ecstatically grateful over a flatscreen her nephew gave her to watch her telenovelas on, she swore she could die happily then and there.

"When your whole family's that dramatic -- your parents and their parents and their parents' sisters -- you can't help but be that way." As for her own far calmer nature, she attributes that to the English part. Some people are what they are, and know exactly who that is. And even if they're more of an enigma than they let on, they won't let you quote them on it. It's a private event.

The Intoxication of Fame

They say in New York City mixologists are rock stars. At last night's 42 Below World Cocktail Championship regional round at the Cooper Square Hotel, this Death and Co bartender proved They right: by having the pull to get David Cross show up as his mascot, wearing a disturbingly revealing old-timey strongman's outfit. Do not look into his eyes, or his gaze will follow you for eternity.

Heavenly?

This guy claimed that "only angels can take my picture. Angels!" Judging by the picture I got, it's pretty clear that I'm not one. However, the angry older woman above (no, not that one, the other angry woman) was muttering fairly loudly that this man was actually misquoting Jesus, and would be going to Hell for his sins at some point in the near future. So maybe I'll still get my wings.

War and Warriors

Walked through the dragon's-tail end of Chinese New Year yesterday with a friend up from Dallas. Partly because he was legitimately curious about Chinatown, partly because after the last night of drinking, we needed to earn the next one. Good thing justification isn't expensive.

We were talking about divorce and mowing down infestations of javelina with helicopter-mounted M16s (both activities recently engaged in by various friends back home) when we ran across Warren, above bottom, an international conflict photographer in town teaching a few weeks before heading back to Afghanistan. I offered him my Coolpix for his imposing rig. He declined, but did tell us some stories from the front. Just a few of the events his camera clicked continuously through:

Having a Tamil Tiger rifle-butt his eye, then put a foot on his chest and a barrel in his face; wearing such an unruly beard that despite his pale English skin a busload of jittery Egyptians mistook him for a terrorist and texted the police, who led him off the bus at gunpoint; advising an inexcusably inexperienced photojournalist not to touch the rifle at his feet despite entreaties from the Palestinian kid who'd dropped it -- advice that was ignored when the guy kicked the rifle towards the kid, then immediately got his no-longer-neutral head blown “clean off”; taking a picture in Lebanon so existentially miserable it caused a thousands-strong protest back in London, where his own face appeared on some of the banners; taking his lawyer to a meeting with an int'l aid group to discuss the sale of an equally dismaying Darfur photo, an image that required six months of access-gaining preparation, and which he ultimately stashed in a vault despite the aid group's “blank check” offer, because he feared it would cause global race riots if mishandled by the media; spending six weeks on the streets with Norwegian heroin addicts; scary times in Jodhpur; mass Vietnamese mobilization on the Thailand border; in Cambodia, maybe or maybe not physically discouraging “ghosts” (amateurs, like the gun-kicker above, with fine digital cameras and no sense of politics, who shadow the pros and try to shoot what they shoot); more.

After thanking Warren for giving us far more than we'd expected from Chinatown (we'd expected meandering, and bubble tea), we headed north up Mulberry. A hipster-mustached rollerblader in a knit cap and caramel leather jacket aggressively slammed my shoulder as he sliced south through me and an older woman. I told him to fuck off. He bobbed-and-weaved another ten yards, then spun around.

"You got something to say to me, faggot?" he yelled, alarming the 20 tourists between us, plus any NYers learning for the first time that hipsters could be homophobic.

"I just told you to fuck off," I said. What other "something" is there? He lingered spitting epithets for a second, then wheeled off.

"Every time I come up, you almost get into a fight," said my friend (on his last trip, I love-tapped the car of a guy who looked like the wheelchair kid's dad from Malcolm in the Middle -- he was tubby, and I've got no gym membership, so if we'd brawled it would've been quick, and wheezy). As we turned back up the sidewalk, an elderly Chinese woman smiled and said, “New Yorkers. They're so crazy.”

But not really. Acting like you're in the Williamsburg chapter of that dickish rollerskating/overalls-wearing gang from The Warriors? That just makes you smugly eclectic.

The fact that a guy this smugly eclectic -- a mustachioed rollerblading sidewalk assaulter -- can make it through a day without getting hacked to death by a machete, is the reason Warren thankfully spends most of his time overseas. And the reason we can collect stories about almost-fights, and not worry about causing riots when we pull them out of the vault and use them to pay for a night of drinking.

American Standard

The hands at right and the Bud at center belong to my friend Dean, who in the late 90s worked across the parking lot from the Austin building targeted Thursday by some guy smart enough to be able to (at least at one point) afford & pilot a Piper Cherokee, but dumb enough to think that flying it into some local government offices would be a good solution to his tax issues. Right after it happened, my buddy checked in with his old boss, then called his college friend “Fuego”, who used to work nearby, and who he'd meet for lunch at the Dave & Busters or Taco Cabana -- which, if you don't know, is the greatest fast-food franchise in all the world. Fucking dogballs, it is good.

“Holy shit, 10am. If this'd happened while you were still there, you'd have seen it from the 183 overpass,” said Fuego, alluding to the fact that Dean was "notoriously and habitually late", and would've been just then arriving at work.

“Fuck no I wouldn't have,” said Dean. “I'd of gotten there at nine with a massive 40 hangover, then curled up under my desk, listened to Seven Mary Three and missed the whole thing.”

Which is not boozer's braggadocio. He loved alcohol, and Seven Mary Three, still loves the former, and at least maintains a soft spot for the band. Regardless, I've never once heard him apologize for things he once enjoyed (and if not Seven Mary Three, then what?).

As for plane-flying manifesto writers who grow so densely self-absorbed they undergo nuclear-fusion, their brand of unapologetic has become cumbersome.

Losing Hope...

That the company who slapped this on my building's front door will ever respond to my email:

Dear Christian Window Cleaning,

I'm writing to inform you that my windows are very dirty, not only physically, but also spirituality. I'm sorry, I meant to say “spiritually”. (I would simply correct my grammatical mistake – this is the age of word processing after all – but I have mild OCD, and for some reason it is telling me not to.) If I am correct in assuming that your service not only lets in more light, but also more The Light, that would be most appreciated.

Also, my landlord: he seems a pleasant enough man, but when he shakes my hand, I can feel that callous disregard for human life so prevalent among many Ukrainians. If you could offer him absolution for the men he might or might not have killed, that might ease the dread I feel mounting every moment my rent check is past due. If you judge him grateful for this opportunity for redemption in the eyes of the Lord, you might also mention that it was my idea, and perhaps he will also adjust my lease to dollar amounts more closely aligned with Christian values.

Thank you,
William Tuttleman

Update: someone peeled the sticker off the window, and my name is no longer William Tuttleman.

Well Traveled

Glee

Fully Loaded, Totally Equipped

Last Spring, I went to the Joel Osteen event at the new Yankee Stadium with some friends from Tragedy: All Metal Tribute to the Bee Gees. They'd gotten addicted to Osteen in England, when they'd listened to his broadcast in their tour van; during a Texas swing, one of them even attended his services at the old Summit Arena (RIP, Hakeem Olajuwan), and also hit the singles-group meeting that followed, though that didn't live up to expectations (hot Christian women willing to ditch Jesus and climb his Summit).

This was the first non-baseball happening at the new stadium, and the rocking gospel pep rally was packed. We spent part of the three or so hours plotting an AC/DC-like Christian hard-rock band whose first single would be titled after Osteen's rally cry, "Fully Loaded, Totally Equipped" (sing it like Bon Scott; then sing it like Brian Johnson -- sweet, right?). The rest of the time, I took pictures. This was my favorite. Let's call it "Redemption". I definitely need some, if not for mockingly attending Christian rallies, then at least for never actually putting together that band.

Bookends

Sitting at the Mayahuel bar last night, one of the bartenders, who'd come to NYC from Mexico City for high school ten years ago, told me about the first time his father had busted him for smoking. He'd told his father he was fairly certain he'd picked up the habit from him, not with a relationship-shattering “I learned it from you dad!”, but his dad did smoke a lot, and it seemed natural that maybe he'd followed in those nearest, dearest footsteps. His father, an autopsy surgeon, explained that he smoked because his profession left him smelling like death, and the only ways he knew to combat the stench were cigarettes and drinking coffee 'til it oozed out his pores – cigarettes were cheaper. After this, the bartender kept smoking, all the way until a few months ago, when he learned his wife was pregnant. He's now thinking about studying forensics; hopefully after that, he'll be snatched up by an employer who provides free Folgers.

***

Being Tuesday, the patrons were also mostly bartenders. One of them had a stroke of maybe-genius and convinced the other working barman (a Miami native) to make everyone blood-red 60-40 shots of Fernet Branca and Mezcal. The shot didn't receive universal praise, but the battle over what to call it was worth it: the inventor wanted “The Ginger Beard”, after another bartender's reddish scruff, which last night wasn't in evidence, as it's apparently an impediment to “ever getting laid again”. Then the formerly ginger-chinned 'tender suggested “Big Bag of Cocks”. Maybe because he's a self-described “great big homo”, maybe because it kind of fits (Mezcal has a worm in it; worm = penis; we'll leave the symbolism of the digestif to the imagination), or maybe because he'd just taken a 60-40 shot of Fernet and Mezcal.

Regardless, the great debate was interrupted when a party of three busted in: an all-eyes-on-me wasted woman wearing a mod red dress + mod red hat, a guy wearing Nile Rodgers' 1980s dreds-with-bangs, and...no recollection of #3, maybe he wasn't even there. Miami informed them that it was past last call, which didn't settle well: “Can we please have a drink?” the woman whined, more expectant than pleading. “My friend here was just nominated for an Oscar”. Miami held firm, and after a few minutes of lingering that made everyone uncomfortable, the trio left, with Nile Rodgers announcing “I guess I'll just have to take my Oscar somewhere else”.

With the only man ever to be nominated for and win an Oscar in the same night gone, everyone was free to talk about whatever we were talking about before, whatever that might have been. I asked Miami about his “In Vino, Veritas” tattoo. Beyond the attraction of the maxim's historical origin (expounded on with the clarification that “vino” once covered any alcohol, and therefore the truth would also come out in a tequila-heavy cocktail bar) he also had a personal motivation: he'd been in love with a woman back home for 11 years before getting drunk at a wedding and telling her how he felt. It worked. Proving that you don't always have to be gunning for an Academy Award – you just have to embrace your dependency issues, and speak the veritas.