For the land of the free, and the home of the Russians?

Living in Brooklyn, aka little Russia, has its perks but after a while I question whether it’s the best place for me to inhabit. Kings Highway is one of the “few” predominantly Russian neighborhoods and it’s where I decided to plant my roots. I’m sure many wonderful things can be said about this place but I won’t because it’s not in my nature. Instead I will dispel any positive myths you may have had in your delusional mind.

I came to this country when I was just a pre-teen. I’ve blended in fairly well, for the most part, except for my eastern European looks and a tinge of an accent which I can’t shake off. I used to watch A LOT of Russian television and read Russian books to make sure that I don’t lose my language skills (who are we kidding, I just wanted to keep up with their [pop] culture). I’ve finally managed to wean myself off this addiction and place all my energy into the language and culture of the county I reside in. So what happens when a sudden wave of nostalgia rolls over me? Do I have to cross the Atlantic to catch a glimpse of Russians scurrying around to satisfy my thirst for their latest developments? The answer is no. I just have to knock on my neighbor’s door; or any door on my floor; or any door in my building; or any door inside the building within the five mile radius. Convenient or disturbing? You be the judge.

Kings Highway is a fairly stretchable street. All along its path you got an array of Russian food and clothing stores only to be diversified by an occasional Rite Aid or Sushi restaurant. Meanwhile, there are plenty of Russian pharmacies on every corner that offer much stronger solutions to your everyday ailments. I don’t even want to talk about the popular Russian food store Domino where every Russian family does their shopping. I now know better. Apparently Domino buys their food from other Russian stores and keeps it out in the sun for a few weeks until it’s nice and rotten before placing it out on their shelves to vend. If I ever struggle with constipation my surefire laxative is anything from their deli section; two hours later the contents of my bowels will be on their way to the nearest river. This is better then any “master cleanse”. Now, on to the “clothing boutiques”. When I first moved into the ‘hood I needed a place to shop so I gave those stores a shot. What do you know? The $300 shirt is not as “sturdy” as I thought it should be for that price. I’m better off shopping at Rainbow. Same outcome, cheaper price.

Herein lies the problem. My long-lost previous culture, as it turns out, is neither long nor lost. It is alive and well, relaxing in my backyard. Now, instead of seeking out any Russian-related information I seek solace from it. Where can I go? There is only so much time that a person can dedicate to hanging out at Rite Aid reading magazines. Off to the sushi restaurant then. Of course, the only thing that’s Japanese about the sushi places is the employees. The consumption of sushi by the Russians has no rivals. I have a friend who single-handedly supports the business of at least ten sushi restaurants by ordering “all you can eat” on an hourly basis.

There is nowhere to run or hide. I guess it’s back to New Jersey for me then. I better make it quick since the Russians are slowly but surely seeping into to the most remote crevices of that state as well.

Yodelayheehoo

I visited Switzerland in 2005 and remember it fondly. While on tour I learned that the Swiss pretty much like to keep to themselves by staying out of wars and not accepting new citizens. They are everybody’s friends and they have no friends. Somebody had a problem with this lifestyle and said “lets detain Roman Polanski now!” Their impatience finally kicked in. Right away the uncontroversial country is getting more hits than Iran. Everybody’s shocked. Oh shit, are they not selling enough chocolate? Are they sick of having the ‘Geneva conventions’ and not participating in any of them? The rest of the world should’ve been suspicious from the start. It’s always the “quiet” ones that end up making the ruckus. The loud ones, like Muammar al-Gaddafi, end up looking like, well the way Gaddafi looked during his UN speech (in his defense it was his first and he was probably nervous). Meanwhile the Swiss have been sitting all quiet, pretending not to give two craps when in reality they’ve been planning something “big” for a while now (32 years), in an attempt to become a dominant European power. Either that or they just got bored. It is a very boring country. Too many cliffs, not enough suicides. Too many farms, too much yodeling. Not enough worries.

Too bad for Polanski that he happened to be a pawn in this scheme of theirs. Come back to the U.S. Polanski, we’ll treat you much better then the Swiss.

PPP

I’ve switched so many careers since graduating college that I’ve been dubbed a “professional professions pursuer" (PPP). A word about what that entails (this will be short because it doesn’t entail much). Basically a person who is constantly switching ‘professions’ and ‘pursuing’ something new, accumulating sufficient experience in the process, becomes a ‘professional’. Pretty impressive if you ask me, especially since I don’t discard any old professions when I start practicing the new ones. If I play my cards right I might accumulate a staggering amount of careers by retirement age; good enough to be in Guinness. I will have a new nickname by then, something like: (Re)tired of searching. This is almost the same as being a professional student who is constantly studying a different major to be able to utilize on the job market. I simply skip that step and go straight for the new venture. Might as well since I am full of vitality and youth and in need of monetary gain- considering that only one of my professions is bringing home the bacon, the others are sleeper cells. They will wake up eventually when food becomes scarce.

I am mulling over the idea of opening up a school to instruct others how to do this. I will play the role of a teacher/motivational speaker and enlist my friends as instructors, giving them the evening classes with all the immigrants (they will probably end up teaching ESL). In the end it doesn’t matter so long as something gets taught. This is what happens when you’re bursting with ideas. Pure brilliance.

Thank you

  I am starting to experience my first dose of fame. My blog is even more popular than I’d hoped, soliciting a whopping number of four faithful followers-three of which are my parents and brother and one of which is my best friend (this sentence will be edited as the list expands). Oh and my co-worker might also be secretly following. It seems as though no matter what I do people are always searching for me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my blog is public and so is every other website I register for. See? My paranoia is not senseless. I just can’t get away from anybody. I am also grateful and would like to take a moment to thank my readers/fans for their support. Thank you for reading my incredibly awe-inducing material without having to pay for it, thank you for having enough time on your hands to do so, and thank you for the inspiration you throw my way just by being yourselves.

P.S. I know you’re only reading this to make sure I don’t mention your real names.

Music and me

No one is aware of the fact that I have always secretly thought of myself as a musical genius. I know this but conceal it from the world. Instead this little genius is forced to live inside me and stay silenced along with the beautiful thin woman who is hidden behind my chubby persona. I hope the two of them are friends. In my own mind I have already accumulated all kinds of awards over the years. I am currently in possession of at least ten Grammys, four Tonys and two Oscars for best original music score. I imagine rejecting phone calls from Paul McCartney eager to purchase the rights to my music catalogue to get back at Michael Jackson for purchasing the rights to his. The sad part is that I have the sinking feeling that all these awards were stolen from me by Britney Spears, who broke into my apartment while I was asleep, took my Grammys and is currently holding them hostage somewhere in her ten million dollar mansion. I am letting her enjoy them for now mainly because there’s nothing I can do about it.

In reality it is too late to finally break onto the scene at the tender age of twenty eight. It’s difficult to imagine my little genius jumping on stage, taking my body with him and regurgitating the materials he’s been safeguarding since birth.

All this time instead of sharing my gift I masked it under an array of strange professions. I don’t really know where my great talent comes from since both of my parents are computer programmers. Ok that’s not entirely true. In actuality my mother and father are almost as talented as I am but also chose to cover this up  under the pretense of being programmers. It runs in the family. In fact my brother does it so well that no one is 100% sure that his talent exists but who cares because he is now a stock trader. Apparently being musically gifted is on the same level as being a spy. No one can know the truth. Either that or it’s some sort of embarrassment for our clan. When my parents met they probably said: “So you got it?" "Me too. It’s ok we’ll learn to live with it”. Now everyone assumes that we all got it and we keep it on the down low. It’s a genetic predisposition which is there but can never be allowed to fully flourish.

I wonder how many generations this is going to affect. Will my descendant finally have the courage to stand up and declare “I’m sick of living a lie” and sing an aria at a very important business meeting? I hope so. Currently there are no plans to form the family band and tour around the globe.

psych ward vs nursing home

There is absolutely no difference between a psychiatric facility and a nursing home if you ask me. Just like in the nut house, everybody is unsure of where they are, everybody is evenly split between the silent catatonics and the loud, spotlight-seeking performers, and everybody is highly medicated. The "assisted living" facility patients are way past their prime and they've all fallen off the deep end (and into the toilet [literally]) long ago. There is one woman who is on the john every time I come there, screaming "get me off this thing!" and no one does (hence the euphemism of assisted living). It would be sad if it wasn't so comical. Another woman is like a prehistoric exhibitionist. She walks around with nothing on but a diaper and pauses for visitors. I dread going into that place but my hands are tied. The women who work there are only slightly more stable then the "patients" themselves. They wander the halls like ghosts, occasionally peeping into some room to see who needs to be changed. Sometimes I catch them sneaking into the empty rooms to relax. This used to anger me but now I understand. The only "positive" thing about the experience is that I am subjected to the amorous advances of the security guards who work there. The other day one of them said: "Every time you come you brighten up my day". I should hope so buddy. If I fail to brighten up your day after you've been watching old ladies strip for the past twenty hours then I must've really let myself go.

Health food nut or just plain nutty?

   Hey you , you know who you are. Let me ask you something. Why all this pressure to eat healthy? Isn’t it better to just relax and throw whatever tastes good onto your palate and enjoy yourself? Don’t give me that “healthy eating to prolong life” bullshit. You want to prolong your bad-tasting life go right ahead but let me do what I want to do while I’m still here. It’s bad enough you want to torture yourself but why are you trying to include me in this masochistic behavior? It’s a good thing I’m not easily brainwashed. When it comes to food I like whatever tastes sweet, yummy, and delicious, plain and simple. If it ain’t good it ain’t my kind of food. You can stick your carrots where the sun don’t shine and use them as a colon cleanse for all I care. It is especially irritating if someone has been eating junk all their lives and all of a sudden had an epiphany at a ripe old age of seventy. Jack LaLanne is the only dude who did it all his life and that’s why he’s in great shape. In comparison I also know some out of shape folks who claim to lead a healthy existence which they just started last night while watching infomercials. I am not angry with you. I am slightly annoyed that you are trying to confuse me and are meddling in my happy relationship with my food.

   I am not ashamed to admit that one of these individuals happens to be my own mother. I am ecstatic for her but sorry for myself. Every time she calls I only hear “advice” on the other end of the line. I’ve accumulated more advice than I can crap out. Every time I even look at a slice pf pizza I start hearing voices in my head, mainly this: “Don’t you eat that pizza. You want to be fat like your mother?” She refers to herself in third person as if she’s not really talking about herself but some other mother of mine who used to be fat. No I don’t want to be fat like my mother or any other mother walking around the supermarket picking out cakes and pies for her family. What I do want is that slice of pizza though. I have such a guilty conscience after consuming something I actually like that I’m shocked how I managed not to develop Bulimia so far. It must be because I have so much respect for whatever I’ve just consumed that I want to keep it with me until it’s time for it to exit my system gracefully. Anorexia; however, has never crossed my mind. That’s just pure starvation. Why would I want my own body to start eating itself from the inside out? I’ve got enough problems on my plate. Bottom line: Eat, enjoy, live, and be happy that your stomach is able to digest all the garbage you put into it.

Marriage material

   I just came across an article about a woman in Malaysia , Mrs. Wook Kundor, who is 107 years old wanting to leave her 37 year old husband, Muhammad Noor Che Musad, because she fears he might abandon her for a younger woman. The most impressive part is that at that age she can still remember that she’s a crucial player in a love triangle. They got married four years ago. She said that she has been feeling insecure lately and needs to find out whether he still loves her or not. I quote: "Lately, there is this kind of insecurity in me.” I realize that I am an aged woman. I don't have the body nor am I a young woman who can attract anyone.” Really grandma? You just came to this realization now? Just a measly four years ago you were not aged and had the right kind of body to attract someone. Those last four years must’ve been hard on you to lose your looks like that. Maybe the fact that you had 22 husbands had something to do with it. I can’t fathom having to keep up with all these Mr. Wrongs let alone to find the time to have a marriage and divorce ceremony with each of them. No wonder your looks have withered. Look at Liz Taylor and she only had seven husbands. No worries, you still got it in you to squeeze in a few more. Keep looking. Register on a dating website. Call the village matchmaker. It’s not too late.

    While this woman was just doing what any other hot-blooded 107 year old woman would do if she could, I cannot begin to imagine what this husband’s problem was. He was just 34 when he married this mummy. How hopeless was his situation? Did his parents throw him out of the house? Was he jobless and needed someone to support him? You be the judge. He did say this: “it was God's will that we fell in love”. You mean it wasn’t her body? Is ‘God’s will’ secret code for gerontophilia? Why don’t you tell it like it is buddy, we’ll understand.

    Currently he is in rehab voluntarily seeking treatment for drug addiction. Coincidentally the old woman’s fears surfaced. Obviously she was keeping him locked in the basement on some serious “medication”. She clearly had high self esteem but it certainly helped to slip some concoction she’s been working on since before his parents were born into his cup every now and then to keep their marriage alive (along with herself). Talk about lying about your age. At 107 it’s not even appropriate for this kind of deceitful behavior. Normally people can get away with shaving five or even ten years off their real age but in this case even if you take off thirty you’re not fooling anybody. On their wedding night she said “I have a confession to make I am 103 and not 85 like a told you when we first met.” That’s when he turned to drugs. Now that he’s trying to sober up she’s already looking for lucky victim #23. Find me one too while you’re at it Mrs. Kundor.

I want to write a book

    Both Mackenzie Phillips and Kathy Griffin are coming out with books. Kathy writes about her pedophile brother and her torrid affairs with comedians, while Mackenzie aims straight for the best-seller list with the intriguing topic of incest, revealing she slept with her own father. Alrighty then. I was also astounded by the long list of men both of them claim to have had. Those are some impressive numbers even for attractive girls. These women, however, are one fruit away from the ugly tree. As soon as Mackenzie turned eighteen, Mick Jagger “forcefully” seduced her saying he’s been waiting to do that since she was ten. This seems fairly plausible, considering he was at a shortage for women (models in particular) at the peak of his popularity and she was just that irresistible. All I gotta say is that such a union pretty much guaranteed gorgeous children. Oh and what an underhanded way to mention that Mick was also a pedophile. I’m starting to wonder if there’s anyone who isn’t nowadays. It’s almost becoming chic or something. Mackenzie talks about being high her whole life as well. What is she trying to do, induce sympathy or more revulsion? I was fonder of Valerie Bertinelli on One Day at a Time anyway, even before I heard all this about Phillips.

     Are there no topics left to write about except the sins of the past? Kathy is a comedian for God’s sake; can’t she write a book about something funny? Pedophilia is not funny, especially in this country. No matter how sarcastic you try to make it sound. It’s up there with murder and arson. If an unknown person seeking fame wrote such a book, went on Oprah to discuss it, and then straight to rehab, I’d understand because that’s the claim to fame but she’s already famous so why take this path?

     The wheels in my head have been turning trying to conceive a good idea for my autobiography. I had it pretty good compared to these women so do I need to resort to making stuff up? How far can I take it before somebody realizes that I’ve got to be lying? A realistic title would be something like: Very sheltered. Who would buy that? Therefore I am leaning towards a more provocative version: Potentially mentally unstable druggie with incestuous tendencies and lurid desires for children, all of which have not been acted upon as of yet. Ha! I’ve got them both beat.

No blog is complete without at least one mention of a train commute episode

     While I was on the train trying to focus on both my music and book simultaneously, a portly fellow with a large pinkie ring was yelling into the phone for at least fifteen minutes. It was the kind of language that made even the most foul-mouthed riders uncomfortable. He was either in the process of putting on a hit or fixing someone’s internet connection. Everyone was anxious, feeling that they inadvertently became witnesses to some mob-related activity and all eyes were on the ground (as if a person automatically becomes invisible if his eyes are cast downward). The scene looked worse then when beggars walk around demanding cash and/or food. Even if they come right into your face you just look down as hard as you can and they will assume you’re deaf and move on. I happened to be one of the unfortunate souls in that cart. My eyes probably burned a hole through page 95 of my book. You can imagine my surprise (along with everyone else’s) when the Brando wannabe finally said: “Alright mom, I’ll talk to you later” and hung up.

A "friendly" hookup

A co-worker came into my office today to tell me the awesome news that she's got a man for me. He's attractive and "the coolest guy ever!" He's also divorced with two kids. Ok, I thought, at least there's no pressure to pop anything out anytime soon. She then proceeds to tell me that, like everyone else, he's not perfect and there is one little thing I must overlook. I mean, you already told me he's a balding divorcee with grown potential future step kids of mine. What else you got? “He’s done time”, she says.

After I returned from my blackout (because nothing registers anymore after the words “he’s been to prison” even if followed by “for giving the orphans too much food and money”), I was able to piece together the following circumstances of his manslaughter conviction. This happened when he was in High School and wouldn’t you have it, somebody pulled a knife at him. Obviously he pulled out his own knife and stabbed the fool. I can totally relate to that. When I was in school every time anyone as much as pointed a pencil at me, they’d automatically get shot. The jury in my case was bright enough to see that it was blatant self-defense. What was wrong with the members of his jury is unknown but he definitely got the short end of the stick. This by no means should deter me from dating this guy. The booming threat of a little manslaughter never hurt anyone, has it? Looking back, I should’ve thanked her for such a great referral and the fact that in her opinion I can’t do any better then an old, bald, deadbeat criminal. I've dated law-abiding citizens and where has that gotten me? Time to switch it up a bit. Instead I told her that if I wasn’t currently having conjugal visits with five inmates already, I’d totally take her up on her offer.

My beef with doctors

     Every time I go to a doctor’s office I think why do I bother? I’d leave having recited my whole medical history with nothing but a useless prescription in my pocket. Shouldn’t they at least perform some kind of procedure at least just for show? They’re more like psychiatrists sitting there listening to you speak and prescribing the first thing that comes to mind when they’ve had enough of your incessant chatter about third generation colitis. “That’s nice, don’t worry it can be treated with this -(pulls a fancy name out of his ass).” You think you’re cured and go home after having paid your month’s salary. These charlatans are expert brainwashers. It’s the easiest to take advantage of someone who’s a hypochondriac since they’ll believe anything. I am an example of their worst nightmare. I keep coming back telling them that what they gave me is not working and I got a whole bunch of new problems now in addition to my old ones. That’s like a slap in their face. “What do you mean you’re not cured yet? Have you been doing everything I said? Have you been sitting in a bathtub with chamomile and sticking suppositories in your anus?" No I’ve been bathing in milk like Cleopatra instead. Why do I have to perform the treatment on myself anyway? You’re the quack so do what needs to be done and I can come up with something else to worry about. They’re lazy and uncaring. That’s right I said it. But the worst kind is the DENTISTS. These creatures are willing to drill your perfectly healthy teeth into oblivion just to make a buck. I swear I leave their office with half the amount of teeth I had when I entered. The first thing they do is Xrays because the ones you brought are probably damaged and it’s safe to assume that you’ve developed a whole lot of issues in your mouth since last week. “You got cavities and need root canals everywhere." "Great, as long as you bleach my remaining stubs of nerveless decay”. They won’t quit until all their patients are sporting veneers or dentures. Is it too hard to ask for an honest opinion or do I have to ask them if they’d do this procedure on their daughter? The answer is yes anyway, they probably would do that to their daughter.

This is why our healthcare needs a reform. Not because people can’t afford it but because they aren’t being treated properly even if they shell out the cash.

Preamble

I got a lot of stuff to say but I'm worried about saying it here. It is imperative that everyone who reads this blog has a sense of humor (preferably a dark one), lots of knowledge about various topics, and a little bit of mental instability. If you have all three congratulations you are on my level. You may now pull up a chair, get some good lighting, and enjoy the show.