Archive for the 'People We Don't Like' Category

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09
Mar
07

I’m Not a Hypocrite. I Just Play One on TV.

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: People We Don't Like and Politics
Tags: , ,

From the Associated Press story that appeared in today’s New York Times.

    Newt Gingrich
I’ll pull your leg if you pull my finger.
[newsweek.com]

Former House Speaker Newt Gingrich acknowledged he was having an extramarital affair even as he led the charge against President Clinton over the Monica Lewinsky affair, he acknowledged in an interview with a conservative Christian group.

…

Gingrich argued in the interview, however, that he should not be viewed as a hypocrite for pursuing Clinton’s infidelity.

“The president of the United States got in trouble for committing a felony in front of a sitting federal judge,” the former Georgia congressman said of Clinton’s 1998 House impeachment on perjury and obstruction of justice charges. “I drew a line in my mind that said, ‘Even though I run the risk of being deeply embarrassed, and even though at a purely personal level I am not rendering judgment on another human being, as a leader of the government trying to uphold the rule of law, I have no choice except to move forward and say that you cannot accept … perjury in your highest officials.’ “
[more]

Translation: The president can’t lie, but the Speaker of the House can. One might even extrapolate: If I were the president and not the speaker, I would not have lied. (Or, I only lied because I was the speaker.)

However you parse it, if this sort of reasoning idiocy brings Newt any comfort, I think it’s pretty clear that Republicans have no business nominating him to run for president. Unless they prefer that the president be someone who can’t be trusted to tell the truth.

22
Feb
07

The Power of the Pen?

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Art, New York, Other People's Stories and People We Don't Like
Tags: ,

    Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting
Does this mean anything to you?

I volunteered to help at the will call for the 19th Annual Art Show preview gala last night. We get some rich folks who are annoyed by waiting in line, no matter how short, for anything. Spending thousands for a pair of tickets buys you some privileges, no doubt, but it does not raise you above the laws of physics or supply and demand. Happily, most people are willing to understand that quick and simple procedures for ticket pick-up are meant to prevent chaos and that everyone needs a ticket, whether they buy it or it is given to them.

One gentleman last night with two tickets needed a third. He was dressed rather well, and he spoke perfectly good English, but he was hard to understand because his voice was raspy, like a harsh whisper. (I’m guessing he spent many of the last 60 years smoking prodigious amounts of tobacco.) So we were having a hard time understanding what exactly he wanted to do. His last name starts with C, so he went to my line, “A-L,” first. I explained that if he bought two tickets, and if he had both of them in his possession, he would need to buy the third. I directed him to another line where he could do so.

This isn’t what he wanted to hear, but he was disinclined to explain further. He stepped away and came back moments later, this time to another will call agent, saying evidently that a gallery owner had left a ticket for him. She had nothing under his name and directed him to the event organizers, also seated at the will call table, who had a record of every ticket.

Minutes later he was back, complaining to my companion that the organizers had been no help to him. Evidently he had visited the coat check, as well, because he had in his hands a dog-eared letter, which he unfolded and placed on the table in front of us.

“Maybe this will give you some insight into my character,” he said, proudly but not arrogantly.

The letter, printed on White House stationery and comprising two, maybe three very short paragraphs, was nearly falling apart. He had used it before.

“Sir, I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have any tickets for you.”

“Do you know whose name is on that letter? See?”

“Sir, I—”

“Look: Who signed that letter?”

I sneaked a glance and saw a squiggle that I can see might have signified “George W. Bush.” Mr. C was getting indignant. Whatever anger he could muster came out as a stage whisper. Was he insulted that we weren’t bending to his will?

“Sir, I see that it’s the president,” she calmly explained. “But this has nothing to do with this event. I don’t have any tickets for you.”

“Well, I— What’s your name. I want your name,” he demanded.

“My name is printed on the card pinned to my chest,” she said, unperturbed. Was he going to report her? Have her fired from a volunteer job? You’re not allowed to volunteer here — ever again! Oh the shame of it! Be my guest.

She directed him back to the event organizers, and he angrily shoved off.

Who knows what that letter even said. I didn’t read it. I didn’t care. All it really proves is that he knows who the president of the United States is. I do too. And that’s not going to get you a ticket, no matter how rich you are.

21
Dec
06

Goode Grief!

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Minneapolis, People We Don't Like and Politics
Tags: ,

It’s always great when lunatics on the Right demonstrate their ineptitude and blatant xenophobia as clearly as Virgil Goode, a Republican representative from Virginia. It justifies so many of my liberal convictions.

He objects to the decision of Keith Ellison, a recently elected Democratic U.S. representative from Minnesota, to use the Koran when he is sworn in next month. Apparently some voters in Virginia wrote to complain to Goode — who knows what for, except perhaps to put ignorance, idiocy and irrelevance to paper. Goode rewarded them with a heart-warming personal response in which he incongruously rails against illegal immigration and advocates severe restrictions on legal immigration. According to the Times, some intern somewhere must have screwed up, because the good Congressman’s mailing list accidentally included a guy from the Sierra Club — who had written the Congressman about an environmental issue in Virginia, not a representative from Minnesota. This is apparently the guy who made the letter public.

Goode says Ellison’s decision to make his oath on the Koran is unamerican. I guess what he’s saying is that America is not the land of the free and the home of the brave, but rather the land of the Christian and the home of the white man.

“I fear that in the next century we will have many more Muslims in the United States if we do not adopt the strict immigration policies that I believe are necessary to preserve the values and beliefs traditional to the United States of America and to prevent our resources from being swamped,” he wrote.

Not that we should make it our business to specifically screen Muslims out of immigration proceedings, but Goode seems to have completely missed the mark here anyway. Keith Ellison is from Detroit. And while that may seem like a foreign country to many people (trust me, I grew up nearby), he can trace his family history in the United States back to the 18th century.

He also wrote that “if American citizens don’t wake up and adopt the Virgil Goode position on immigration there will likely be many more Muslims elected to office and demanding the use of the Koran.”

Heaven forbid.

It may have escaped his notice that the Constitution allows for people of all religious stripes to run for Congress. Further, their swearing in does not include the use of a religious text. It’s only at the public ceremony that a book is used.

And why should we care if it’s the Koran or The Lord of the Flies? The Hebrew Bible and Mormon texts have been used in the past.

Goode’s attempt to conflate wrong-headed anti-Muslim sentiment, fueled by anti-terrorism rhetoric, with immigration issues is little more than an admission of his gross ignorance and incompetence.

So, bravo! to the intelligent voters of Virginia’s 5th district for electing this loser to Congress. I hope he gets them everything they deserve.

Virginia Democrats, don’t despair: There are some decent folks in Minnesota who are willing to vote in a competent person to represent their interests to the U.S. Congress. You may want to move up north and cast your lot with them.

(Mind you, Minnesotans are also responsible for the election of Michelle Bachman. There may be no hope anywhere in this country.)

14
Dec
06

I Hate MySpace.

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: People We Don't Like and Technology
Tags: ,

I just love entering my username and password, clicking Log In, and being greeted with a screen cheerfully exclaiming “You must be logged in to do that!” (Uhhh… OK.) I imagine a Nell Carter-like nanny standing before me, wide-eyed, one fist on her ample hip and the other hand wagging a manicured finger at me.

At least it’s not offering me some sort of lame, undefined error and inviting me to try again later — for the 87th time.

And how many more friend requests from buxom 16-year old girls (i.e., fronts to tempt me into various degrees of heterosexual pornography) must I endure? Natasya wants to to be my friend! Oh, goodie. I love her lacy panty and size-too-small push-up bra. I have the same set myself at home.

Lidia wants to be my friend! Cool. I really admire how she carries herself while stepping out of that yellow cab in her 6-inch spike heels, just avoiding the beaver shot under her three-inch mini skirt and spilling out of her loose, furry halter top.

Leonora wants to be my friend! Whoa — it’s my lucky day. I wonder how long it takes her to scrape her bleached hair into that greasy ponytail, pluck every single eyebrow hair out of her face and draw on those ridiculous brown arches, and smudge on the Oompa Loompa orange foundation, beige eyeshadow, white eyeliner and glossy pearlescent lipstick. I bet she looks picturesque when the construction worker next door creams on her face in volume 3 of Bronx Butt Sluts.

Not that I have anything against porn, you must understand…

02
Dec
06

Hi, my name is Chip, and I’ll be on your shoulder this evening.

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Bar Stories, Dumb, Gay, New York and People We Don't Like
Tags: ,

Last night at the bar, a friend and I were distracted by a beautiful man taking off his shirt. He was standing with his back against the bar, facing us. A small cadre of piranhas had gathered around him. The guy who had asked him to disrobe — let’s call him Chip — draped the shirt briefly and inexplicably across my friend’s shoulder. Pleased to be included in the proceedings, we continued watching. How could we not?

Seconds later, the heavenly creature was persuaded to drop his pants to his ankles. We all cooed in approval. He was hairless, except for a trail of fuzz that ran south from his tight navel and dashed seductively under the waistband of his powder-blue briefs. Chip then grabbed the waistband and unceremoniously yanked the shorts down hard.

The guy put on a good show of being embarrassed and tugged them half-heartedly back up his thighs, but Chip was pretty insistent about leaving him exposed.

My friend and I looked at each other. “That’s not something you see every day at this bar,” I said, loud enough for everyone around me to hear. Like the red-blooded American homosexual males we are, we continued to react loudly and enthusiastically to the gentleman’s sudden and unexpected nudity.

Chip turned half-way to us and said something we couldn’t understand. Something about chocolate.

What?

He repeated himself louder, or said something similar, but it still wasn’t making sense to us. It was something like: “You can stop talking about chocolate now. I know you don’t like the chocolate boys.”

My friend and I were incredulous. Who said anything about chocolate? Was he talking about black boys?

Whatever it was, Chip continued laying into us. It seemed that he was accusing us of being racist. Chip is African American. But we had said nothing about him. We had said nothing to him. We weren’t even looking at him. We were too distracted — and rightfully so — by the gloriously indecent exposure before us.

“Dude,” my friend said, “We don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“We’re not talking about you, if that’s what you think,” I added. “We were talking about the naked guy.”

Chip was clearly agitated, and he continued his tirade. The more he said, the more worked up he got. There was something menacing and cold in his voice. It was all so sad and stupid. A moment that was so frivolous and harmless and fun had been sucked dry in just a few seconds by this guy, and all because of assumptions he was making about us. Who’s the racist here?

I wanted to try to figure out what he thought he’d heard us say so we could defuse the situation and move away without any trouble. I imagined we might laugh uneasily at the silly misunderstanding — uh heh heh heh… — and assume stations at opposite ends of the bar without any fuss. And I might have tried to play the peasemaker if he hadn’t then turned to my friend directly and said, “And by the way, I’m better-looking then you are, too.”

My friend sort of recoiled, wide-eyed and incredulous. It was making less and less sense. Chip then let loose on several aspects of my friend’s appearance. Chip evidently did not approve of certain things. What the hell was going on? He was fighting back with personal insults when we never even attacked him (or addressed him, for that matter) in the first place?

“Whoa… wait a minute. Where did that come from?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Hey, fuck you!” my friend shouted back.

At this point, I grabbed my friend’s bag and pushed it into his hand. “This is crazy. Let’s just go,” I said, not wanting to see who might get hurt if the situation escalated (it was less likely to be my friend).

Neither of us knew what Chip had heard or what he was going on about. “Bravo,” I said to him. “Have a lovely night.”

“Yeah, you too,” he said coldly.

“You bet,” I said. “Of course.”

I tugged at my friend and we headed toward the door. “Yeah, fuck you, you little asshole,” he yelled to Chip.

And when I got outside, I realized that I was in such a hurry to get away from the danger that I had forgotten to say good-byr to any of the peopel we were with. A complete stranger’s idiocy had just completely scared me out onto the sidewalk.

26
Apr
06

Keep It Under Your Hat … or Not

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Music, People We Don't Like and Technology
Tags:

I’ll never understand why people wearing headphones sing out loud.

Sure, there are the crazy — or extremely motivated — folks who burst into song in public places without the aid of electronics. They are making their own kind of music, singing their own special song. Even when nobody else sings along…

But these people, the ones who are ostensibly wearing headphones for a portable, personal and, most of all, private musical experience … what are they up to? Why the pretense of headphones? Just carry a boom box like those other crazy people. Just turn off the music and sing by yourself. (Maybe you’ll get some loose change out of it from exasperated commuters.)

There was a woman on the subway (where else?) who exemplified all that is wrong with this behavior.

1.) Her Discman was jacked up so loud, I could hear the beats from the other end of the car.

2.) She shattered the peaceful din of the gently rocking train with her sudden alarming outburst, doing her damnedest to immitate the R&B in her ears. Her voice came out of nowhere. I thought it was an argument at first, but then I noticed it was someone singing, or something very much like it. I was not the only one looking at her.

3.) She clearly did not know all the words. She only got about every few lines and skipped a few words or a whole line at a time. Strange, I thought, because, despite her butchering, I recognized the song and knew it to be a rather old one. And even these brief snatches of song were sung badly, out of tune, American Idol-style.

Some people are content to adamantly bob their heads around, or do a little dance or series of hand gestures, or close their eyes, silently mouth the words and perform some expressive theater of the face. These people are annoying, but one can ignore them. This woman, on the other hand, was apparently so moved by Mary J. Blige’s “No More Drama” that she simply couldn’t help but spread the Word to us as well. Was this a Pentacostal moment for her? Is she a prism of pop music, splitting concentrated beams of R&B into auditory rainbows before us?

These people… Are they temporarily losing it or is it a deeper problem?

Are they having a bad day? Maybe they’re pissed off and they just want some attention or to make some noise — “I’m gonna sing, dammit!” Less destructive than throwing dishes across the kitchen, I suppose, or overturning a table full of framed photographs, but only just — and not much less cacophonous.

Maybe American Idol is part of Miss No More Drama’s problem. Everyone thinks she can be a star. Even on the F train. Whether she knows the words or not. Maybe she thinks she is talented and she is treating us to her Gift.

Maybe she thought she was gently humming but couldn’t tell she was so loud because her music was turned up so loud.

I saw a headphones-wearing woman at my gym last week who, while I was lifting weights above my head not five feet away from her, treated everyone within earshot to a series of concentration-breaking intervals of “melody.” She, too, did not know all the words and sang only the few she knew. Badly. In fact, I think she was actually just speaking the words. It was hard to tell.

When I glared at her, she looked normal to me. You never know when these people will reveal themselves. They look just like you and me. It’s like when Wednesday Addams dressed up as herself for Halloween. “Why aren’t you wearing a costume?” someone asked.

“I am,” she replied. “I’m dressed as a serial killer. They look just like everyone else.”

29
Nov
05

Girls, Girls, Girls

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Minute, People We Don't Like and Strangers Observed
Tags:

Anyone who knows teenage girls knows that one of them may, at times, be a challenge. A group of 30, however, is an unstoppable force of nature.

The F train starts out so crowded in Queens that, by the time we hit midtown, I’m grateful for a chance to sit down and stretch out and read as the train deposits its cargo of workers along its southward path. But all that ended abruptly this morning when what I assume was a school group entered at 34th or 23rd Street. Before the doors opened, I could hear a loud roar out in the echoing subway platform. The doors slid open, and a deluge of sound and teenage girls burst forth into the train, filling it instantly.

An amalgam of scented hair product vapors was released into the air, their mild toxins mixing invisibly but undeniably. And I was suddenly scrunched up again, making myself as small as possible and sitting bolt upright — but not against business suits and khakis anymore. This time I was avoiding contact — at all costs — with body-hugging velour track suits (They can wear those things at school?), small-waisted jean jackets, steering-wheel sized hoop earrings, rhinestone-studded belts and teased, crimped hair.

It was an assault on every human sensation, most notably the ears. Together, as if it were a personal goal, they achieved a tremendous volume. Each of their voices augmented the other, and the train car was an impenetrable cacophony.

With each balance-throwing rock of the train carraige, there was a sudden shift of teenage bodies and a rush of giggles. There was a conversation about a boy here, someone’s outfit there, and bursts of laughter all around. Some of them clicked their long fingernails against their cellphone keypads and bleeped.

And they never stopped moving. It was like being trapped in an animated diagram of what happens to mashed potato molecules when microwaves hit them.

I had no choice but to sit and stare and observe. I began to see them as creatures acting as a collective. The actions of a single ant don’t amount to much, but the actions of a colony are really count. It seemed to be these girls’ primary function to make noise (Were they making words or just noise?) and to raise the temperature of the car with their constant motion.

There were two young women in front of me, both in head-to-toe velour; one in pink, one in beige. All curves were revealed. I had no idea girls their age were shaped that way. It was impossible not to look. No matter where my eyes landed on them, I felt dirty. I felt as if I should explain to them: I’m really not interested; you’re just standing so close…

When a woman escaped at West 4th Street, a seat opened up next to me, and the velour twins became human once again. One sat down in the empty seat and, taking her friend’s hand, she drew her near and pulled her down so she was sitting on her lap. It seemed the most unremarkable thing to them. They continued their conversation without interruption. No where else to go, so why not sit on my lap, eh? They were 14. They were friends. They were, simply, girls. And I was no longer annoyed.

You’d never catch teenage boys doing this. Not the straight ones, anyway. And not on the F train. I wondered which one was heavier. Is this one always on top, or do they switch sometimes? Are they sisters? girlfriends? Then I realized that each probably weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, and it was probably much like holding a large purse or backpack on one’s lap.

We hit Broadway/Lafayette, and the doors parted, and I swear we all had to catch our breath from the vacuum created by the mass exit. The squawking did not stop so much as simply shift from one space to another. The doors closed, and again I heard the high rumble of the girls’ voices. Dust settled. The eddies of swirling newspapers and empty coffee cups died down. The train lurched forward. And we were soon in relative silence.

The other passengers were left dazed and bewildered. There were maybe a dozen people left on the train — all happy, I’m sure, to be left with a place to sit and room to breathe. We resumed staring forward. The sudden quietude was eerie. Lonely. Cold.

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the untallied hours