VD

I used to love it when people in my high school and college would get all hissy over Valentine’s Day and, quite deliberately, wear all black instead of a hot-pink jumpsuit with appliqué hearts all over it. (i wish i still fit into that jumpsuit. that settles it – i’m switching to snackwells. as if!!) It was all so tragic and unnecessary. Even now, in NYC, I think more people are having Anti-Valentine’s Day parties than genuine Love-Ins. Maybe the rising tide of personal ad services and dating programming will make those anti-parties go away, and I can have my jumpsuit let out. But for now, I guess it’s Goth pancake makeup, black cloaks and vampire teeth.

Here’s something that isn’t intended to bring you down. It’s more of a warning. I woke up this morning with a very bad head concerning one very important romantic mess-up. It’s weird, because it was something I was really philosophical about for a long time, but now that’s given way to aches and pains and other things. It’s also given way to song lyrics. I think my favorite song released last year was “Promising Light” by Iron & Wine. The entire album on which this song appears is soft and beautiful, but this song in particular has been under my skin for months. It’s one of those “love in hindsight” songs, fraught with regret, and it breaks my heart every time I hear it. Here is a line from the chorus, which is sort of indicative of the rest of the song: “Now I see love, dragged on the floor where you walked outside / Now I see love, looking for you in another girl’s eyes.” In real life there are no do-overs so just be nice, OK?

p.s. I’m not soliciting funereal wreaths. I hope I didn’t sound self-martyred here and if I did, it’s only because sometimes I lack eloquence.

DEAR SIR

President Bush? Can you hear me? Oh wait – ALLAH IS AWESOME. Now I know you’re listening.

Hi. I saw your picture today, on CNN. You looked really happy, in your honorary military flight jacket, rallying the troops at Mayport Naval Air Station. Man, are you ever ready for a fight. That jacket looks neat on you – just like Top Gun. Remember how great that movie was? Didn’t it make you want to join the Air Force? Yeah, me too.

Anyway, I was just thinking. You’ve been going to town lately, calling France and Germany huge pussies. And then today you insinuated that the UN’s lack of support behind the war – your war – rendered the peace-keeping organization “irrelevant,” an “instutition for debating.” I know action = war and I think that’s just GREAT.

But here’s the thing: could you ease up just a little? I mean, I know it’s important that people keep hearing about weird jeeps or mysterious rooftops or an audio tape which just surfaced and inconclusively links Osama Bin Laden to Iraq (but not iraq to osama). But I think you need to see it from my perspective, as challenging as that may be for you. It’s very easy for you to tell the UN they have no backbone, or to purse your lips and bully nations like France and Germany and Iraq and Korea (oh, and Russia and maybe even Afghanistan still). And do you want to know why? You have military helicopters on the roof of your house, and missiles in your backyard, pointed up at the threatening skies. Me? I’ve got some duct tape and a couple of extra cans of Sir Chomps-a-Lot pasta shapes. And that’s pretty much the same situation most Americans are in right now, I’m afraid.

I’ll bet you wish you’d known it was going to be like this from the very beginning, didn’t you? (you didn’t know, did you? tell me.) That way you could have used those $300 checks you gave us to buy little missiles for every American home. Then you could shoot your mouth off without worrying about your approval rating dropping slightly below Hitler’s in 1944.

Thanks!

EXPERIMENT IN POOR TASTE

OK. So what if I had this terrible idea? An idea so insidious that any sane man, any marginally responsible citizen, would lock it away in the darkest recesses of his psyche and pray to God every single night that, upon waking the next day, the idea would have vanished forever? And what if I didn’t really care what “sane” men thought?

I know images elicit very specific emotional responses in the viewer. And I realized recently that one could adjust the context of an image easily, without necessarily even making broad strokes, and yet still completely manipulate the intended response. You can push buttons in the viewer and, by getting inside his head with certain shorthand signifiers, ultimately making him liable for his new reaction.

I will shut up now. Instead, allow me to introduce the first-ever Tremble.com Experiment in Poor Taste and Guilty Conscience. Allow me to apologize ahead of time.

HOW TO CONTAIN YOUR ANGER

A New York judge denied United Peace & Justice a permit to march in protest of a potential U.S. invasion of Iraq. This sort of saves me some of the intense conflict I was experiencing at the prospect of marching. I absolutely believe in the cause and think, particularly in New York, it’s an important public statement to make. However, I hate chanting. Really hate it. I don’t even like applauding, and I have always resented that first guy to initiate a standing ovation after a performance. It’s often far too generous, but puts others in the awkward place of accomodating a social obligation out of guilt. I usually protest this move, but I do hate to be the one guy who has to defend his honest but preferably silent opinion of a lukewarm (or even good) performance. “I’m sorry I didn’t give ZWAN a standing-O. I just thought their sound engineer could have worked a little harder. The bass was mixed too low. There! I said it!! The show’s up there, everyone.”

That’s how I feel about protests. I come for the same reasons everyone else does, but that doesn’t mean I’m just like everyone else. If you don’t chant at a protest, sometimes you’re regarded as an interloper. I don’t interlope. I swear, even if it seems the contrary is true.

But this has very little to do with the NY Times article I just read. The story mentioned the city’s proposed alternative to a march on the UN. Here is a section of that counter-proposal:

The city’s counteroffer included the rally at Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, 47th Street and First Avenue, which is within view of the United Nations. An overflow crowd of any size could be accommodated in pens on First Avenue, the police said.

Pens! Just like freedom, only more organized. It’s like the city is constructing ready-made holding cells for the protestors. I’d hate to have to go back to the group with that proposal.

[AND THIS IS WHERE WE ENTER ‘FANTASTI-VISION’. LET’S GO!!!!]

“OK, here’s the deal. We can still protest, which is great. Let’s not forget how great that is. We won’t quite be able to march on the UN building, though. Please. Please just give me a second. We can’t march on the UN, true, but we can march a few blocks away, where some of you, if you crane your necks hard enough, will be able to see bits of the UN building. It is recommended that these people describe what they see to the others who cannot see the building. That way we will all be apprised of which direction to face while yelling from the safe confinement of our chain-link and razor wire ‘protest pens.’

“Alternately, to avoid confusion we have been granted persmission to construct a fake UN building at 3/5 scale, using 100% recyclable materials. Remember, that is a time-permitting item and, provided our view of the UN building from 47th street is decent, the model construction will become priority level ‘tan.’

“Oh, and technically we can’t march. This isn’t such a big deal because it would be difficult to march inside our protest pens, anyway. But before you get upset, our lawyers are working very hard right now to grant us a “walking in place” permit which would enable us to simulate a march on the UN building. I’ve already recruited several volunteers who are willing to drag the 3/5th scale UN model -should its construction be required – behind their pickup trucks to give the appearance of being ‘marched upon’ by our 10,000 protestors.

“What’s that? No, that wasn’t a mistake. I said ‘10,000.’ It seems the city is only able to guarantee the protection and safety of 1/10th of our projected masses for this anti-war march-in-place near the United Nations building. But let’s make the best of it. The government is about to feel our mighty roar of protest, and clearly it is already listening! Get ready to march in place!! Oh, one more thing: no chanting. The residents of Tudor City have said they’d call the police if it’s too noisy. FOR PEACE!!!”

“THE DIVORCE”

As your grandparents have already informed you, Augusto Monterrosso, the Guatemalen author of the world’s shortest story, has passed on. I only learned of his story “The Dinosaur” posthumously, but it’s very beautiful. Here it is, reprinted in its entirety:

Upon waking, the dinosaur was still there.

I don’t claim his facility for economy of language, as evidenced by most of the material on this site, but I found that exercise so clean that I’ve decided to honor his life’s work on this site. For the rest of the year, every Tuesday will be Very Short Story Day on tremble.com. (i will surely forget in three weeks, so please remind me. cutest reminder gets a bartlett pear.) My inaugural entry is titled, “The Divorce.”

“Do you – ” she asked.
“I did.”

NEW TAG LINE

I’m thinking of changing the tag line of this site from “SEMPER LAZY” to “SEE HOW NICELY I’VE HIDDEN ALL THE GOOD CONTENT” Or maybe I’ll just use my original choice – “MY STONE FISTS ARE MAKING YOUR FACE DEADED!” Good bye forever.

WAG THE DOG

In this late hour, as I deliberately put exactly THREE important things on hold, I can’t stop thinking about Air Bud. A few days ago I was apprised of a new chapter in the Air Bud saga titled, Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch. That’s a great name. A really great name. I might not have been able to imagine that name even if I were paid to do exactly that. I cannot speak for the quality of the Air Bud films although I must say the fact that so many sequels have been produced speaks volumes for the quality all by itself. (not to mention accolades from some of this country’s most respected cineastes.)

But those names! Each one better than the last. Here is what we know about Bud. Bud is an extremely athletic dog. Bud wears athletic jerseys and, on occasion, sneakers. Many people assume Bud’s talents are limited to basketball (ergo “Air Bud”), but that’s the furthest from the truth. In addition to basketball, Bud is a real champ at baseball (the aforementioned Seventh Inning Fetch), as well as soccer (Air Bud: World Pup), and football (Air Bud: Golden Receiver.

But that’s not all! Bud is also champion card player (Air Bud: Dog Playing Poker); a golf pro (Air Bud: In the Ruff); a Soviet nuclear submarine captain (Air Bud: K9 – The Poopie Maker)

THE NEW MEASUREMENT

The flat-surfaced facing benches, commonly found on older subway train cars, such as the Q, 4, 5, and 6 lines, are exactly long enough to accomodate one transient of average size, stretched horizontally to his full-length (minus shoes), plus one additional upright commuter making a tremendous effort to gaze distractedly in every direction with the exception of his direct left – where a grown man in stocking feet just rolled over into a more comfortable sleeping position. It’s true. I measured it today.

I MISS YOU, MISTERPANTS

I realize this is apropos of nothing, but I was doing an image search with the following query – “van damme jew” – and found an excellent assortment of embarrassing images of Jean-Claude Van Damme. Like a photo of a Mexican dog in a dracula cape, these are far too precious to keep to myself. So here:

NEXT STOP MAPLE STREET

I win!

Mass transit commuters understand the variety of pet peeves and irrational fears that emerge from years and years of hurtling through their city’s bowels. (or above them. big ups, chicago. you keep your shit elevated, dunny!) Everything from greasy pole touch to a staunch refusal, no matter how crowded your train, to sit on a bench that has anything on it. Could be a newspaper, or a love note, and it wouldn’t matter, because someone must have taken a shit on or beneath it, surely.

Two pet peeves that bind us all (unless we live in chinatown) are People Who Clip Their Nails On The Subway and People Who Eat Hot Food On The Subway. Because the former gives my spine the chills whenever I discuss it, I’ll focus on the latter. In my seven-plus years here, I’ve seen enough mass transit feedings to make someone move to a safehouse. Fried cod fritters, a full chicken wing dinner (coupled with the diner spitting the denuded bones right on the subway floor), McDonald’s fries. I once saw a man greedily inhale tuna maki. I never understood how that could happen.

But today I really do think I hit the jackpot. Feel free to challenge me, but during the morning rush I saw a guy eating a full pancake breakfast on the uptown 9 train. It was amazing. Fork, knife, styrofoam plate. Beat that. Think you can? Well, you can’t because just when it couldn’t get any better, he whipped out some maple syrup and applied it liberally. Touchdown. I really do hate when people eat proper meals on the subway – I can stomach packaged foods, for reasons so irrational that to offer any explanation would just seem like a foolish attempt to dignify them – but that might have all changed today. If you think it’s OK to have your pancake breakfast on the subway, you deserve to be mayor. That’s the rule.

Then, thinking I’d absorbed all the magic my pores could hold for one day, I was walking down the street, dreaming of high-speed flapjacks and crossed in front of a man delivering a stack of cardboard boxes on a small hand-truck. When I got within six inches of him, a gust of wind ripped the lid from the topmost cardboard box to reveal its contents: LIVE LOBSTERS! One half second later and I would have missed a wonderful glimpse of street lobsters. People expound endlessly on the power of this city, but it’s because they can’t help it. You see, New York can be very difficult. It doesn’t try to help you out when you’re feeling down. More often, it simply exacerbates. But sometimes it sees fit to lift a lid or open a window, and let you see something so perfect that you forigve it all of its regular brutality. It’s just like Ike Turner that way.

Homepage photo: Lindsey Byrnes
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