Great Mob Nicknames, Part 2

I suppose beyond "Buttons," another appropriate mob nickname for me would be Knuckles, though it seems a bit shopworn. However, I happen to have a proclivity for cutting, scraping or otherwise injuring my knuckles. (And it goes without saying that I am not a classic knuckle-scraper as most mobsters are portrayed in cliche movies, books and other media.)

At one given time, I nearly had a scrape on every single knuckle of my hands. Three were from hitting a heavy bag without proper protection. I had wrapped them (that's only to protect the wrists). There were no gloves around and I foolhardily believed that the wraps would be sufficient protection for my delicate little hands. Unfortunately, I was proved wrong in a glaring, conspicuous way. I had scraped off enough layers of skin to produce blood.

Shortly after my bad decision to hit a heavy bag without gloves, I was thrown from my bike thanks to a neglectful driver who opened his door on me while I was traveling at a relatively high rate of speed. Said driver did not look but flung the door open, causing me to crash into his open car door and flinging me hard, crashing down to the street, taking a pair of handlebars into my chest plate like a small but powerful fist. (I went to the emergency room later to ensure that I had not fractured my sternum or broken a rib.) (Another side note here--I hit his car door so hard, he was unable to close it, forcing him to be towed. Instant justice, folks.) Initially, I thought I had broken my right ring finger. I was indeed fortunate, for I had only slammed it into the door, causing some bleeding and a temporary loss of its use.

That's four knuckles down. Shortly after the bike accident, I cut another knuckle slicing cucumbers and whipped some blood from yet another while attempting to change a guitar string. The thing just flew off the fret and sliced hard into my thumb, taking a bite of the dermis in the process.

The lesson? It's a dangerous world. Protect your hands.

Great Mob Nicknames, Part 1

If I were a member of the Mob--and I assure you Uncle Moe is not (and even if he were, he wouldn't tell you)--I think my nickname would be "Pockets." I utilize every pocket I have. I believe this is why the sport coat was invented. It's for the gentleman with ... a lot of stuff to carry. The older I get, it seems the more pockets I need.

Here's a list of the things I had tucked into my pockets today (and the various pockets used), just to meet a friend for lunch:

• Eyeglasses (outside upper jacket pocket--up until now rarely if ever used)
• Wallet (inner jacket pocket)
• Mobile phone (inner jacket pocket)
• One broken pair of sunglasses (shirt pocket)*
• Receipt for broken sunglasses (inner jacket pocket)*
• Checkbook (to pay for return of broken glasses--don't ask--inner jacket pocket)*
• Keys (front pants pocket)
• Lip balm (front pants pocket)
• Pen (front pants pocket)
• iPod (jacket hip pocket)
• Journal (jacket hip pocket)

I still had three pockets free, including the Levi's extra mini-pocket tucked into the right pocket of my jeans.

Some have argued that I need a "man bag." And I admit to occasionally sporting a small knapsack or courier bag to carry all my extra stuff. The truth is I don't really like carrying all this stuff around but I just like to be prepared.


* Typically not part of my daily schlep, and I didn't make it to the Post Office to return them after all.

Ads!

If you are a regular follower of this blog, then you have certainly noticed some recent changes (a new look among them). Perhaps most conspicuous of these changes are the ads. Some may argue that I've sold out. Some may say that I'm simply a practitioner of the times--merely following my entrepreneurial spirit to make some lucre from my hard work and limited time. But they are missing the forest for the trees. In what may be some calculated, cruel joke, it appears that Google saved its best ads for me. Where else can you find links to the best remedies for foot odor and feminine hygiene products? Clearly, they know my audience, my demographics and my content. No ads would be more appropriate.

A New Look

It's a sure sign that I have little in the way of fodder for a fresh post when I spend more time redesigning the look of my blog than actually writing it. All the same, here it is in all its splendor--the brand new look for The Art of Jaywalking.

Rest assured fan(s) that we have not lost any of the solid, entertaining, informative content to which you have become accustomed. Quite the contrary. I believe you'll find the new look rather lends itself to our easy, folksy and ingenious style of prose.

And so welcome back dear friends (and a fresh welcome to new ones). Please take some time to peruse older posts. I think you'll agree they take on a fresh perspective and new light under our new redesign. They might even make more sense or seem to carry an air of resonance and import.

Dante Was Wrong

Hell looks nothing like classical literature and biblical verse have portrayed it. First of all, it is not hot at all. On the contrary, it is quite cold. Not Arctic, freezing cold, which would actually hold hope for winter fun and frolic (there's not a whole lot of sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowman building or ice fishing in Hell). No, it's just cold enough to bother you. And it's constantly raining, Pelting little frozen rain drops that sting your eyes. The wind blows hard enough to skirt under your umbrella (if you're lucky enough to have one) and get your pants and shoes wet. And because it's constantly raining, your clothes never dry out. It kills your good temperament. All you want to do is get out of the rain. But you can't. There isn't even an awning in sight. As a matter of fact, a warm fire would be a welcome sight in Hell. Inferno, indeed.

Napsomnia

If you have trouble sleeping, we have a word for it. But what if you have trouble falling asleep when you're trying to take a nap? Does that still count as insomnia? Naps are a luxury. So if you can't fall asleep when attempting one, it's as if you didn't deserve it in the first place.

I couldn't fall asleep a couple weeks ago when I was trying to take a nap. I chalked it up to bad luck, restlessness and general creeps. But was it insomnia? I suppose if you can't sleep at all and you go, say, four or five days without sleep (or without much, anyway) and you try to take a nap but fail, that could be considered insomnia. But I'm spoiled.

Evidently, as a society, we are severely underslept. Scientists blame continuous light, our work habits and the general 24 hour society we've become. Other scientists predict a stronger race of humans down the evolutionary line that will require far less sleep, if any at all. Possibly, but they'll miss out on all those delicious naps.

An Incomplete List of Movies I Should Really See

In no particular order:

Donnie Darko
The Grand Illusion
The Killing
Fight Club (this one is iffy at best--it's more out of morbid, overhyped curiosity)
Talladega Nights (the whole thing, uncut, without commercials)
All About Eve (the whole thing)
Double Indemnity
It Happened One Night
The Best Years of Our Lives
The Conformist
The Bicycle Thief
8 1/2
The Godfather (No interruptions)
The Godfather 2 (No interruptions)
Satyricon
The Remains of the Day
All the President's Men
Barry Lyndon
To Kill A Mockingbird
The Seventh Seal
La Strada
Mephisto
The Bank Dick
The Ladykillers (The original and the remake)
The Night of the Hunter
Out of the Past
Alphaville
La Jetee
The Day the Earth Stood Still (Original)
Spartacus

Why Aren't You Reading My Blog?

When I first started this profitable venture oh so many years ago, I dreamed of gaining an audience, a readership if you will. I had grandiose dreams of achieving immortality and fortune through the interconnectedness of the electronic marvel we call the Worldwide Web.

Oh, how naive. Friends, I'm going to put it bluntly when I tell you that since I initiated this little undertaking more than two years ago, I have had 1,207 hits. One-thousand-two hundred. And seven. Maybe I should have started a porno site. The saddest part of all? Many of the hits were me just re-reading all my ramblings. The rest were friends and family (and some employer prospects -- oops).

Oh, how I wish the blog had never been invented. Oh, how I wish I'd started a porno site!

Everything I Know About the New Testament I Learned from Jesus Christ Superstar

Who says a rock opera can't teach you anything? As a Jew, I learned very little about that dude with long hair and a beard (and I'm not talking about Michael McDonald). But here's what I did learn about books Matthew through Revelation from countless and repeated listenings to JCS:

• Judas was kind of a jerk.
• Jesus was not without ego.
• Mary Magdalene was a ... well, she wasn't exactly pure.
• Peter denied his lord three times. THREE TIMES! What a sellout.
• Pontious Pilate was kind of effeminate.
• Jesus had a really great falsetto.
• There were 39 lashes. Thirty-nine!
• Judas was torn. He made some tough decisions, let's face it.
• The apostles were lazy drunks (and a little war hungry).
• Judas' last name was Iscariot. Pretty cool sounding name that you don't hear a lot anymore (not wondering why).
• Jesus was really pissed off. Really at the whole situation. (Not saying I blame him).
• Myhr was really expensive.
• King Herod was quite a singer. And a bit of a dandy.
  

Everything I know About the Korean War I Learned From M*A*S*H

Yes, the 4077 during its 12 season run taught us quite a bit about the Korean Conflict (or "Police Action"). Among the lessons during its extraordinarily long run:

• The 49th parallel is somewhere in Korea (I presume it separates the North from the South).
• A tracheotomy is relatively easy to perform. Even a priest can do it.
• B.J looks like a douche with a mustache.
• You can grow your hair much longer than Army regulations if you're a doctor (or in a M*A*S*H unit or if your show is popular in the 70s and 80s)
• War ages you a lot. Hawkeye looks so much older between the first and last episode.
• The war lasted from 1950 to 1952.
• Never be a regular on a successful series. Look what it did for the careers of Jamie Farr, Loretta Switt, Gary Burghoff, Odessa Cleveland and William Christopher. Do we need to mention that it killed McLean Stevenson and Larry Linville?
• Chinese are tricky little bastards. Frank "Ferret Face" Burns said so himself.
• The Korean War is nothing like Vietnam.
• You get laid a lot if you're a doctor in a war.
  

Match the Rock Star to His Unique Odor

Hey Kids! See if you can match up the rock star to the unique pheromones he produces. It's fun! And easy! Just pick a rock star (numbered) and try to match him up with the smell he's most likely to produce during a gig (lettered, below). Answers tomorrow. Good luck!

1. Billie Joe Armstrong

2. Axl Rose

3. Alice Cooper

4. Eddie Vedder

5. Edgar Winter

6. Jack White

7. Iggy Pop

8. Greg Allman

9. Marilyn Manson

10. Kid Rock

11. Scott Stapp

12. Johnny Winter

13. Anthony Kiedis

14. Bobby Ingram

15. Gene Simmons

a. A very sweaty piece of salami.

b. An old boiled egg left out in the sun atop an aging slice of pepperoni pizza.

c. Just an old sock but a really, really old sock

d. Sulfur and cumin.

e. An octogenarian's anus (prior to the nursing home sponge bath)

f. A fat man’s fart on a humid, windless day.

g. Rat excrement with a dash of rotted garlic

h. A mildewed sponge soaked in bong water

i. The men’s room at Penn Station

j. A dead rose atop a pile of pig intestines baking in the July sun

k. Just plain death

l. Unidentifiable vegetable matter

m. A red onion peeled and left inside a retired basketball player’s shoe

n. A garlic bulb inside a slipper that has long become a dog’s chew toy

o. Feint overtones of white vinegar and bleach trying desperately to mask fresh human fecal matter

Crap! I Got Nothing to Say

Why is it we bloggers think anyone is interested in what we have to say at all? A very intelligent , highly educated friend if mine told me she doesn't read blogs because she barely has time to read her own email. How arrogant of us to assume that people are interested in our thoughts, insights, screeds and diatribes! (by the way, I find some amount of irony in the fact that blogger's spell check highlights the word "blog" itself and all its derivatives, including "blogger," "blogging" and "blogged.")

We are indeed an arrogant and narcissistic bunch to assume that anyone is reading this tripe, much less responding to it. Are we so desperate for attention--to have our pitiful, mournful and high pitched voices heard? Do we have some special insight that the rest of the world does not, some precise, intuitive lien on society and mankind that bears broadcast? Perhaps some of us do, but I suspect most do not.

Is blogging simply the ham radio of the early twenty-first century? Is it some sad and unrequited attempt to be heard among a growing cacophony of multitudinous voices? After all, the more blogs there are to read, the more attenuated the attention span of the reading public becomes.

But stay tuned. I may have something good on here yet.

Uncle Moe's New Years Resolutions

Only chew cigarette tobacco.
Ease up on the sheep molestation.
While I'm at it, ease up on the molestation altogether.
Pants first, then shoes!
Less cough syrup before noon.
Two words: oboe lessons!
No, wait ... bugle lessons! (Maybe bassoon).
Keep coughing fits to five minutes or less.
Work on lint collection and string ball.
Cut staring at floor to only two hours per day.
Download all Sousa marches from iTunes.
Stop sniffing at shoes!
Stop looking at others' shoes in hopes of getting a sniff.
Read all Beetle Bailey comics, compare/contrast with Sad Sack.
No more graffiti quoting Leviticus!
More graffiti quoting Nehemiah and Colossians.
Make New Years resolution list much, much earlier.

Some Signs That You May Actually in Reality Be a Total Creep

You're well over 25 and live with your parents.

You live alone and have more than two cats.

You smell your fingers. A lot.

You still listen to Marylin Manson.

You have a calendar in your place of employ that features partially or fully unclothed ladies.

You wear tinted shades indoors.

You wear tinted shades at all.

Your mustache is of the same approximate volume, size and style as it was in tenth grade.

My First Prostate Exam

Well, children, what can I tell you? Uncle Moe is getting to a certain age and men of a certain age must go through a certain procedure every certain time of year uncertain of what the result might be. Oh, the horror. Oh, the shame.

It started in my GP's office. He told me it was time. I had to put on the paper gown and lie on the examining table on my side, knees pulled to my chest. (Some make you bend over the table). I could hear the latex smacking against his hairy Russian hand. Did I mention that my doctor is Russian? Not that it matters one way or another, but he has a somewhat blunt manner, regardless of his nationality.

So there I am on my side, knees to chest, all exposed back there, bracing for the worst. "The worst" does not quite describe what happened next. Yes, I do exaggerate. But having a pair of thick lubricated Russian fingers up your private privates (where no man has been and won't be again if I can help it) is less than a picnic on the beach with a couple Victoria's Secret models. Yes, I realize I sound incredibly homophobic, sexist and otherwise Field and Stream/Guns & Ammo here, but friends, it was humiliating and painful. So you'll excuse me.

When it was all over, I was sure he left something up there. No, he assured me, anything up there was now completely removed. Then I realized it was the lubricant. He easily left a good four or five ounces of the stuff up there. I swear. Gobs ... OK, you may want to bow out now if you're squeamish. Or it may be too late.

Unfortunately, this was not the end of it. My doctor now announces that I have a nodule that he'd like a urologist to look at. So on top of this, I have to fill out more forms, get a referral and show up at a complete stranger's office to have him perform the same procedure. Bad enough I have a doctor I have known for 15 years get all up in it, but now a complete stranger gets to feel his way around the nether of Moe-land. Needless to say, I could barely wait.

The big day arrived. And, friends, as bad as the fist exam was, I am pleased to tell you that the next went unprecedentedly smoothly. The doctor was punctual, polite and speedy. He was in and out before you could knock me over the head with a 2x4 and call me Johnson. (He favored the bend-over-the-table approach, by the way). He did seem to go a lot deeper and linger a bit longer than my GP but so what? Once he was done, he calmly told me I had nothing to worry about. My prostate, like most men's my age, was beginning to enlarge slightly but there were no concerns.

So, people, the equipment is fine, I am a little more humble ... and the moral? Boys, get your junk checked out. Don't wait till there's a problem.

Boycott Yahoo

All I can say is, based on the news stories I've read, the company is absolutely reprehensible. I'm closing my account today and I will use all my efforts to drive the billion dollar company out of business. I know it's a Herculean (maybe even Sisyphustic) task. But shame on them.

Get the full story here.

Write nasty notes, call your congressman ... do something! Yahoo is scum.

The Dalai Lama is Evil

Yesterday the Dalai Lama was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal. A formal ceremony took place in the Capitol Rotunda where such luminaries as Elie Wiesel, congressmen, senators and President Bush praised the Dalai Lama for his spiritual guidance and his approach to nonviolence.

What these great leaders fail to realize is that the Dalai Lama is pure evil. Yes, he has an agenda (despite his statements to the contrary). His mission? Autonomy for Tibet! Imagine! This little country nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas wants autonomy from its open-minded, kindhearted and beneficent overlord, China. The nerve. The sheer audacity. China, the benevolent mother to 1.3 billion people, only has Tibet's best interests in mind. When its troops gently sauntered--practically danced breezily--into the country in 1959, it was only looking to do good. It's not their fault the Dalai Lama fled over the hills to India like a frightened calf. Some leader.

China has rightly "declared Buddhism 'a disease to be eradicated.'" Why, this populist cult is nothing more than a bunch of hippie peaceniks parading about in saffron robes preaching tolerance and nonviolence. Like there's anything wrong with violence. And tolerance is way overrated. How dare they. If China had any guts, frankly, they'd take the same road as Burma and simply shoot the bums on sight.

I happened to be on the West Lawn of the Capitol yesterday as the Dalai Lama made his departure out of its majestic doors onto the steps f the Capitol building. It was as if Mussolini emerged to cheering throngs of fascists. I was disgusted. This abrasive man who is adored must be put in his place.

China is right to crack down on anyone who is caught so much as carrying a picture of this miscreant. He is nothing short of a power-hungry demagogue. Sure, he wants Tibetan autonomy now. What next? Religious freedom?

Is it Me or is Dane Cook Just Not Funny?

OK -- so I've been avoiding this latest, supposedly greatest comic to come down the pike and I decide to YouTube him. And here's the thing: he ain't funny. I didn't even smile. He's juvenile, insipid, probably has ADD, immature, hyper, repetitive, inarticulate and foul-mouthed.

Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe ADD-challenged, pacing, screaming comics are the thing now. But for my money, give me an entertainer like Mr. Don Rickles, Myron Cohn, Mort Sahl or the great Norm Crosby.

In my day, comics didn't have to use such coarse language to make a point. And they didn't go on and on. They told a joke and that was it. "Two old ladies are on a cruise. One says, 'The food here is terrible.' The other says, 'I know. And such small portions.'"

Now that's a joke. Oy. Mr. Dane Cook could learn a thing or two. Now I need to grab my Maalox and go to bed. Oy.

Xs and Os

It's common knowledge that Xs and Os are bitter mortal enemies. Their history is legend. They've been battling for turf since time began. And no one -- not even the Xs or Os themselves -- can be sure when (or how) it all started. It's one of those chicken and egg knots. Still, the hatred, the bitterness, and the clash exist. And it flares up violently from time to time.

"No one asked them to take the corner area," X leader Malcolm told me in a recent interview. He was speaking about a recent influx of Os into the corner square. "No one invited them."

I pointed out that that area had been legally declared theirs by an international decree. The area -- that small parcel -- was indeed theirs.

Malcolm patiently nodded his head, having heard the argument many times. "They are not entitled to that area at the expense of many Xs. Thousands ... tens of thousands of Xs lost their homes to Os. Tens of thousands became refugees in their own territory. They were forced out."

I spoke to Harry O, the acting leader of that group. "We have suffered for many years," he said. "We have been displaced," he added, shaking his head sadly. "And now we finally have a home. And they want to take that away from us? Is it fair? Is it right? We will fight for our territory as long as we have to."

"They are greedy," Malcolm said. "They take one corner and then they want more. Soon they want the whole game. They want to encroach and take our territory." His voice grows louder as he grows visibly agitated.

"We only want what is ours," Harry said dismissively. We want no more than we're entitled to. And we're entitled to a place where our people can live, work, grow and thrive."

At risk of sounding cynical, this battle is likely to go on through eternity, long after generations and generations of Xs and Os have sacrificed their homes, their lives, perhaps their very souls, to defend what they see as rightfully theirs.

Negotiations have proved fruitless. They bring about a temporary peace. But eventually, the whole skirmish begins again, with different names, different faces, different causes and in a different quadrant. But the cause and result are both the same as they've been for centuries--pure hatred.

Bad Blogger!

Al Franken used to appear on Saturday Night Live as a character named Stuart Smalley. A low grade new age self help guru, Stuart had an access cable show called "Daily Affirmation." On the show, Stuart would often refer to a "shame spiral" he found himself trapped in for one reason or another. A shame spiral (as I understand it) is one of those situations where you, say, put something off and feel guilty about it. So you try to comfort yourself about that and do something that makes you feel even more guilty. To get over that, you commit another guilt-inducing act. And so on. Or you can be so frozen with fear, self-pity and guilt, you do nothing at all.

Well, folks, that's where I find myself today with this blog. This is my first post in nearly four months. Though not quite as far gone as a full blown shame spiral, I must admit I'm pretty embarrassed. When I started this blog, I launched with guns blazing, no shortage of ideas for posts and a certain amount of enthusiasm (in my own unique jaded way). And there have been pauses, to be sure ... but four months is an awfully long time to keep such avid fans waiting. Now I know how Britney feels -- releasing her first album in almost four years. Her fans have suffered enough -- don't you agree?

And so, dear readers, I am pledging here and now to never, ever make you wait so long for a post. Four months is a ludicrous amount of time in our instant gratification culture. If a customer service rep told you an air conditioner repairman couldn't be at your house for four months, you certainly wouldn't accept it, would you? So, readers, I promise that you will wait, oh, let's say no more than THREE months for a post from me at any given time. After all, you've suffered enough.