The burden of being an adult prodigy

Why is it that only children get to be prodigies? What if you’re an adult prodigy? I wish people would stop giving all their oohs and aahs away to all the four year olds who don’t appreciate it anyway. All they’re thinking about is poop while they’re playing the piano with their left toe. They probably feel special but would rather be watching Teletubbies. Children don’t make the conscious decision to be a prodigy. They just are or aren’t but as an adult it is possible to wake up one morning and decide that today is the day that you’re switching careers to become a prodigy. Any adult can do this. Child prodigies use their innate gifts but adults can use the experience they’ve accumulated over the years. Through the process of trial and error you will eventually find your niche. I will vouch for you. There should be no age discrimination when it comes to being a prodigy. If you feel like being a middle-aged or even an eighty-five year old prodigy more power to you. This way you can tell your children that you’re an adult prodigy and they can look forward to becoming one even if they missed their chance of being the child or teen prodigy. Maybe this discovery will make you forget you have Alzheimer’s, just in time to forget that you were about to become an ancient prodigy. Who said that the brain deteriorates after a certain age? Even if that’s true maybe the deterioration can lead to the discovery of your prodigious self. You can’t shut people out just because they discovered their talents at a later stage in life.

Of course you are the only one responsible for realizing and proclaiming yourself a prodigy because others aren’t exactly on the lookout for you special skills. They are too busy examining children. Adults watch their kids so closely that the poor child’s every move is scrutinized. “Look honey, our son just placed his left leg behind his right one, oh my God, do you know what this means? He is destined to be a great gymnast or ballet dancer or maybe even architect! We need to send him to ballet, gymnastics and engineering classes ASAP. It’s not like he has anything better to do”. Maybe instead of examining their children people should start examining themselves. For instance, if you did a little dance on your way to work this morning then make a B-line straight for the dance studio to improve your skills. Call your boss and let him know you’ve just discovered you may possibly be an adult prodigy and he’ll understand because secretly he’s been watching himself hoping for the same. The only negative side of this is that soon there may be too many adult prodigies walking around and people will start eyeing each other suspiciously to see who else is about to surface. The hot topics in the lunch room will be “Have you seen Bruce today? He was pouring coffee with one hand while reading the newspaper with the other! Who does he think he is? The new multi-tasking prodigy?” That’s going to be the end of poor Bruce. Multi-tasking is going to take on a whole new meaning on your resume. This guy can multitask! Lets not hire him then; we’ve got enough prodigies loose in this office. This will progress until everyone sitting at the meeting will be a self-proclaimed prodigy of something or other. Instead of names people will use their skills to identify each other. “Hey computer software prodigy have you watched any good movies lately? No, coffee-making prodigy, why don’t you go ask movie-critic prodigy?”

Life is not fair so lets even it out a bit at least with this whole ‘who gets to be a prodigy’ thing.

Persuasion

Persuasion

Why am I so easily persuaded?

When I step outside my house, which I usually do only to get to and from work, I have the option of walking either in the direction of Kings Highway or Avenue U (the latter ruled by Asians, the former by Russians).

Avenue U
One day I’ve decided to give Avenue U a shot, having preferred the other alternative until now. While strolling along Avenue U, I came upon a fish pet store under the pseudonym of “Mini Aquarium”, where visitors are encouraged to “come in and observe the fish”. I haven’t really looked at fish in quite some time so I entered hoping to be blown away by some beautiful and rare species. What I found instead were about fifteen tanks, filled with regular goldfish and some bowls with Betta fish, all displaying signs of “do not pound on the tank as fish are sensitive”-forcing me to hide my bat which I brought with me for this exact purpose. I’m positive that had I come in with a large group of spectators, we’d have been left in peace “to observe”, but since I was the only visitor, the lady at the register felt obliged to start convincing me to purchase my very own Japanese fighting fish (Betta)-possibly propelled by intuition of my lack of human contact. I tried to tell her that I am a loner who hates to be bothered and do not want any responsibilities but she wouldn’t listen. “Oh fish-a goo’ fo’ you, tayka, tayka”. So I tooka.

Kings Highway

After purchasing my very own pet, I loaded the same bag, the nice lady at the “aquarium” gave me, with groceries and continued walking aimlessly with a feeling similar to the one fathers of unwanted pregnancies have. One day the Betta will have to thank my Medical Issues teacher who forced me to debate on the pro-life team. All of a sudden, a man on the street shoved an ad in my hand, taking me out of my reverie. I looked around and realized that I am now on Kings Highway (long time no see). I always throw out all such things into the nearest garbage (not bothering to see if enough distance was covered between the ad giver and the garbage can), but something prompted me to read this violently pink, neatly-folded piece of fate-changing material. The first words I saw were eyelash and eyebrow coloring. I ran back to the guy to point me in the right direction, and being the toothless gentleman that he was, he walked me there himself. A homely-looking woman practically shoved me into “the chair”, already mixing color before I even opened my mouth. She did my eyelashes first, reassuring me that even though it may “tingle” a bit it’s not harmful at all, nor will it cause blindness. I was supposed to wait fifteen minutes, but the horrific burning sensation forced me to jump out three minutes into the procedure, and blindly bang my body against everything until I found a sink. After I was done, the torturer sat me down and proceeded to compliment the tint of my lashes completely ignoring the fact that my eyes were now bloodshot red with a hint of purple. I had to suppress the desire to grab the nearby nail polish and pour it on her neatly coiffed hairdo. The torment, however, didn’t end there. The lady won me over by all the compliments aka nicely worded insults such as: your skin is silky smooth, if it wasn’t for all the blemishes, or, your hair is so nice, if you give me a chance to do it for you. (All I could think of was: my eyes were so green before you poured peroxide into them and turned me into a Werewolf). After I sat back down into “the chair” she said that the only thing that will make me more beautiful is if my eyebrows matched my eyelashes. I warned her that pale skin + black eyebrows is not a good look for me (or anybody) and this type of make up is usually used in movies where the character spends most of their time institutionalized. “Nonsense!”, she exclaimed, “how will you ever know unless you try?”, followed by the old but always effective, “Trust me, I’ve been doing this for twenty years” argument. I acquiesced, staring at her intensely with my new-colored eyes to instill fear, warning her to only keep the color on my brows for two minutes. Once she put the pitch-black concoction (which should’ve been brown) on my face, I saw a Japanese Geisha in the mirror staring back at me (which made sense since I now was the proud mother of a Japanese fish). In a panic, I rushed to the sink furiously scrubbing my face only to realize that the “semi-permanent” color was, in fact, permanent and it liked me so much that it refused to budge. I said “look lady, I now resemble Leonid Brezhnev who’s gone mad, are you happy?”, to which she calmly replied “No, you look great, please come again when the color wears off”.

“How will you ever know unless you try” will be forever engraved in my memory. For the record: every fool knows that even if you never try, you still have an inkling and it’s usually right. I knew that if I enter the mini aquarium I’d leave with a new responsibility, and I also knew that if I enter this particular salon I’d leave scaring all the people walking by me on the street.

Alarmed robbery

What is the best way to safeguard the three most precious items you own: your broken flat screen TV, your expired driver’s license, and your CD clock radio? Get an alarm aka home security system!
An unknown intruder enters the apartment. The alarm goes off. There is no panic in the building because you set it off every three or so days yourself. The obligatory phone call follows, presumably to inquire whether the burglar finds his stay comfortable and to get a list of all the items he’s planning to carry outside of the premises so there's no misunderstanding later. More often than not, the cops do not come at all. If they do, it is five hours after the fact, most likely to give the thief extra time for self-reflection and then finish off the subject apartment, along with the rest of the “poor” block. You get home and are left to wander the barren site pondering why your mom’s necklace was stolen but the earrings your husband gave you for your anniversary were left behind (you always suspected they were ugly). If you think about it, the alarm really acts as a welcoming committee for the brave soul who dared to take the plunge into unknown territory; oh and take some shit.

Meanwhile at burglar training camp:
Lecture 7

Enter the shabbiest, most run down and decrepit building you can find because it’s just a front for the cheap Jews who keep all their money in the mattress. Proceed to the apartment with the WELCOME mat by the door (they’ve been expecting you of all people). Use a screwdriver to pick the lock and make sure to smile openly at all the eyes gazing at you through the adjacent peepholes. Once inside, take only the most valuable items like Hanes underwear for her (she will appreciate it believe me). Be meticulous but quick! Remember you only have five hours before the cops arrive so you have to work fast. Don’t get bogged down or distracted by all the Disney DVDs. Try to go to the gym a day before in case you’re forced to use the fire escape and climb two floors down before making the deadly three-foot jump to safety. In the event that the cops do show up, try your best to convince them of your legitimate residency, even if you are African American in an all-white neighborhood. You'll sound even more plausible if some items have already been moved and everything’s at a disarray, in which case you are free to introduce yourself as the mover. As soon as they leave, continue to stuff your bag. You may take a photo or two as a keepsake (after all you probably won’t be coming back here until next month, when the place is restocked). If the residents appear, slap them with an eviction notice (a copy of which has been distributed at a prior lecture) and tell them you’re the new resident (even if you’re African American in an all-white neighborhood). Point to the rented U-Haul truck downstairs with all your stuff (technically now it is since you stole it). If they suspect foul play warn them that you are repossessing everything since they failed to pay rent the last few months. This usually applies to almost everybody. As soon as they leave, unpack your stuff and move in to your apartment. Install a new alarm system. If, perchance, they happen to be the only ones paying rent on a timely basis, apologize for the inconvenience and leave. They ain’t got no money left anyway.

Fairy tales decoded

Once upon a time (now), in a faraway place (Brooklyn), there lived a young (pushing 30), beautiful (only with the right lighting and weight), and kind (after 5 shots) princess (regular chick) named Biana. She possessed all the qualities necessary to meet (land) a decent prince (average Joe). Biana was narcissistic (delusional) and picky (fat). All the suitors (25 random dudes in possession of her number) seemed to be wrong (still residing with mom). Like all other princesses before her, Biana always kept her head up (after 5 shots and an occasional yoga class) and sang to birds while frolicking in the meadow (whined to homeless people while on a bench in Central Park). She was forever radiant (oily) and loving (fake). She enjoyed to smile (laugh at and ridicule) and spread the warmth (pee on) upon all creatures (homeless people in Central Park).

All of a sudden an evil witch (a friend with common sense to dispel some delusions) moved into town. The witch poisoned Biana (flat out told her she wasn’t getting any younger) and tried to prick her finger on a spindle (offered to use euthanasia if things don’t get any better). Finally a prince (26th random dude) stepped forward to slay the witch (tell her the four of them will have dinner once he marries Biana). Biana agrees to marry the prince only if he shows enough strength (long-lasting erection) and courage (not being afraid of moderate to severe acne).

In the end, all issues are resolved (nothing is resolved but the marriage takes place anyway since Biana is near-suicidal) and everyone lives happily ever after (abusing drugs and alcohol and telling sweet sounding fibs).

Golf

What can be said about this pathetic excuse for exercise? All I know about this event is that a lot of men get together and swing their clubs until a tiny ball hits someone in the eye, bounces off of a gopher’s head, skips through a pond, and lands in a hole 100 miles away. Sometimes the golfer is lucky enough to stand right next to the hole but then proceed to push the ball way past it. The only player I heard about is Tiger Woods and he’s supposedly the best ball-pusher out there. This sport is so easy and relaxed that, as a blow to the professionals, it’s also a favorite pastime of wealthy, retired grandpas who got nothing better to do and can barely walk. There is no need to locomote anywhere because there are golf carts that take you to your destination while you enjoy the scenery. The only requirements are to own a club, dress like a preppy, and occasionally get in the water to retrieve a lost ball (not sure if the latter is really necessary seeing as to how they’re all rich and can afford a new ball).

If I was forced to be a spectator I would probably volunteer to fetch the ball from the lake and drown myself on purpose. I’m pretty sure that the professional players would rather save the balls than me and the old geezers aren’t the best lifeguards. I played golf only once in my life but not in an open field. Instead I was cooped up in some game room, on a date (since this game, besides pool, is the best way for a guy who barely knows you to rub up on you from behind while pretending to give pointers).

What have we learned from all this? That’s right, that Tiger is a legitimate guy’s name.

P.S. What are the chances of using the pick up line of “Hey there Tiger”, and actually hitting the nail on the head?

Women's tennis

An example of men successfully manipulating women into thinking they’re being taken seriously while wearing the shortest skirts possible and making the loudest, most frightful, giving-birth-like/being stabbed noises. I’m not sure that anyone cares whether or not the ball actually makes it across the net. The real competition here, as everyone knows, is who can let out the sexiest, electrically-charged, feline growl. Admittedly, some unattractive ladies slip through the cracks but the favorites seem to be tall, blond models with mediocre abilities and more endorsement deals than Peyton Manning (for the record I have no idea who this guy is but according to Google he has the most endorsement deals).

Since these sounds really irk me I am not a fan. I prefer ping-pong anyway. It takes serious skill, craftsmanship and precise hand-eye coordination. I am proud to say that I dabble in it a little myself. Who am I kidding? I am a downright pro. If only I learned to howl without feeling stupid I’d definitely promote myself into playing ping-pong professionally. I already have a closet full of short skirts and blond extensions, now bring on the endorsement deals!

Boxing

This sport is the epitome of cool. I’d be a huge fan if I wasn’t such a squeamish humanitarian. Sadly I’ve never attended a match so this information is based solely on what I’ve picked up from Rocky I-V, Million Dollar Baby, and the occasional news bit. Here we go:

The announcer riles up the crowd. There is loud music playing. Everybody is going crazy. Finally a man in a robe (oftentimes silk because you always have to look good no matter where you’re going) enters and starts walking down the aisle towards the ring blindly punching the air and anyone who gets in his way/face. He is either treated like a national hero or a traitor about to be hanged. After he’s safely in the ring and disrobed attention is turned to the second man about to make the same grand entrance. I’m not sure if either one knows beforehand which role he’s about to assume but I imagine the guy who gets all the cheers and applause might be in a slightly better mood than the one who gets booed and hissed at just for showing up. Once they’re both in the ring and half-nude, they proceed to eye each other viciously as if they both got the rotten treatment or hate sharing the spotlight. Fake teeth/dentures (I’m not sure which one) are then inserted into their mouths. As soon as the referee says so the two ‘rams’ start butting heads and dancing around each other in a circle (showing off spectacular quick feet with moves resembling a cha-cha) in preparation of throwing punches or covering their precious face (which is by no means less attractive since all the surgeries). The fellow considered to have the upper hand is the one who manages to corner his opponent against the rope and deliver just enough punches in a row to break all his bones but not enough to kill him and face manslaughter charges (oh those softies). I am well aware that the Russian guy from Rocky did kill all of his adversaries in the ring without any consequences but he was a commie so that’s understandable. He almost killed poor Rocky but in a lucky-for-US turn of events Rocky was able to channel his inner Mike Tyson and put a stop to all the murders. Sometimes the punches fly so hard that the fake teeth/dentures fly out in slow motion accompanied by blood and other gruesomeness and land on the spectators which they can then take home as souvenirs. The ‘champ’ who lost his teeth is escorted to the corner where his posse reassures him that not all is yet lost and places a fresh set into his mouth.

The goal of the fight is to really sock it to somebody until they’re on the ground with no intention of EVER getting up. Once that happens, the ‘winner’ is applauded (even if he was booed in the beginning) and one of his arms (which is about to fall off from all the back and forth punching motion) is yanked high up into the air and held there until the referee feels like letting go. I also learned that at times the rivals bite/nibble on each others ears. This ritual is performed to either (a) intrigue the crowd, (b) as a simple display of affection, or (c) instead of saying “Hey man, sorry for incapacitating you for the next 3-6 months. We cool?”

Speaking of high school gym class

     I can’t speak for every girl out there (certainly not the athletic type with muscular legs) but I am pretty sure that gym is the equivalent of walking the plank for the average teenage girl. Remembering my own experience, I always thought that being forced to execute strenuous physical activity during a time of the day chosen for me by some dean I’ve never met was the worst possible punishment. Sign me up for any chemistry lab instead, where I can carelessly mix flammable elements, and call it a day. At the gym, however some serious scheming was necessary to make sure that the least amount of actual activity was performed while appearing to be the MVP, confuse the instructor and get that passing grade. There were three types of teachers: the women of questionable orientation, the really old men, and (everyone’s favorite) the really hot/young lads. Needless to say that one such young man has managed to raise female attendance by 90%. Miraculously, in his class alone, a large number of women have all of a sudden stopped menstruating. Just to give an idea of how attractive this guy was: both I and my friend got hit in the head with a volleyball more times then necessary. Granted, I’m no Gabrielle Reece, but I was still able to hear people scream ‘incoming!’ How many teammates we pissed off by either getting hit or stepping out of harm’s way and letting the ball bounce on the exact spot where our arms had just been extended a few seconds ago. In my defense, the ball weighed so much that it may as well have been a meteor carrying Clark Kent. The real reason I allowed its brutal contact with my face was because I was too busy daydreaming about the incredibly hot (but dumb for passing me) teacher. After countless hits, we were then sent off to math class by the super smart people handling our schedules so we can perform at our optimal level when solving for X (X=50 hits by ball²). Who can then blame us that when basketball season finally arrived we plotted our precious time sitting out on the bleachers better than any conspirators who ever existed. My girlfriend and I cherished those moments of relaxation because we were able to chat in peace. Don’t underestimate our abilities just yet. Although it was difficult to hold a normal conversation while trying to nail a three-point shot, we still managed to do just that since in my mind at least one of us was Michael Jordan and thereby fully capable of carrying the whole team.

Thinking we were smart, once we attempted to forego the whole gym experience altogether by signing up for aerobics. Finally, when that hateful dictator dean eased up and gave us some freedom of choice we quickly grabbed hold of the chance only to be disappointed later. Aerobics was the worst mistake I could’ve made because there was nowhere to run and/or hide. I had to exercise and I had to like it. There were no bleachers, no hot instructors, no cute crushes, and definitely no chatting; just twenty girls furiously burning off the weight of the world.

Football

Football is my least favorite sport after baseball. While there is not enough action in baseball, there is an overload of it in football. Too bad that none of it makes sense to me. Every year around super bowl time I memorize the rules, only to forget them the second I lose the betting pool we got going at work. This sport is just not up my alley no matter how hard I try and push it. The scoring is too confusing for me, the costumes are atrocious and the overall feeling I get from watching the game can be surmised as restlessness. Who can blame me? I try my best to get into it because it seems like there is so much activity and excitement on the field that it has to be interesting. Sadly my eyes are unable to capture it all. There are way too many people running in different directions, among whom you’re supposed to find the guy holding the ball (which is by no means shaped like a ball) and keep your eyes on him (not to be distracted by all the other runners) until he is brutally pulled down onto the ground, beaten, and a heap of all the other participants (who gathered together in a matter of seconds) forms on top of him. The call is made, everyone gets up and everything repeats all over again. I may as well have pressed rewind and watched the previous play over and over again. Maybe I’m missing something. I desperately wish I understood what it all meant but I don’t.

I do think that football players overexert themselves. If I put all that gear on myself and was still able to stand up straight, I’d definitely wobble around as if intoxicated and eventually topple over. How they manage to run and think while protecting a little ball as if it was a newborn child is beyond me.

I just realized that I don’t have nearly as much to say about football as I did about baseball and it’s strange. How can I possibly have more to say about a sport which can put an insomniac to sleep than about one that resembles a Steven Segal flick? I will ponder this for a bit and then move on to basketball.

Baseball

I’ve been promoted to sports editor. This is an area where I have the least amount of knowledge since I equate any exposure to organized sporting events to exposure to asbestos/lead. I suffer the same symptoms from both: headaches, nausea, vomiting…
Having just said that I full-heartedly accept the challenge. Warning: True fanatics and crazed followers stop reading now as nothing below this sentence will be favorable.

I would like to start with baseball, the biggest snooze fest on the planet. Having had the pleasure of sitting through a full game I can honestly say that I’m surprised I made it. What doesn’t kill you certainly does make you stronger so I’d like to think I gained strength in some part of my body which was lacking. I learned many things as I baked in the sun. First of all there is a lot of hype and fake excitement surrounding the whole spectacle. In reality there isn’t much going on. Right away I inquired when half-time was, only to be laughed at by all the hot dog-eating, beer-drinking persons around me. Apparently there is no half-time. I’ve figured out precisely why. There is absolutely nothing happening throughout the duration of the whole game! You are free to come and go as you please. You may get up and drink/eat yourself into oblivion (which is what 99.9% of people there do) and return when you’re tired of strolling around the stadium. On an off chance that something does occur, the abnormally large screen (presumably for those who failed every eye exam they ever had) will show you what you missed about five times and in slow motion (that is some serious underestimation of my brain power because I got it the first time). Hence, there is NO WAY that you can miss a thing. I must’ve spent more time walking, eating, spraying suntan lotion on myself and others, and taking bathroom breaks than actually sitting and watching whatever madness was ensuing down below. I have to mention that we were so high up that whatever the ants did was of no consequence. Thank God for the large all-knowing screen the size of half the stadium.
So since the game itself is boredom taken to the extreme, the brains behind the operation figured out how to keep even the most uninterested occupied. Every ten minutes or so a motivational song comes on (‘We will we will rock you’ being the all-time favorite) and everyone proceeds to jump, clap and scream as if at a rock concert. I can assure you that Queen was not present; nobody scored a home run; the sun did not go behind the clouds (out of sheer tedium) and save us all from the scorching heat. Basically this is done to ensure that all the sleepyheads out there get their asses up and start cheering and all the fanatics’ eyes bulge even further out of their heads in anticipation of victory (when it doesn’t even smell like their team has a chance in hell). Not wanting to be left behind I jumped and clapped with such ardor that you’d think half-time was approaching. I was singing louder than anyone at the top of my lungs. However, as soon as the music died down I’d shrivel up into a ball and sit in the corner with my cap over my eyes trying to shield myself from all the commotion in the air-coming from the fans of course and certainly not the players. The most entertaining part of all was when the camera captured people at random and their pretzel-stuffed faces appeared on the Almighty Screen. They’d pretend like they have no clue, followed by feigning surprise, and ending Act I with an uncontrollable flailing of the arms (again I stress that this was done for no particular reason other than two seconds of fame by being shown in the most unattractive light imaginable).

The players strolled around the field picking things up, swinging their bats, having bouts of spitting and leisurely resting on the bleachers. Certainly reminded me of high school gym class. Actually it reminded me of any other job. Why should Andy Pettitte work any harder just because he gets paid the big bucks? At the average office, workers do the same thing. They lounge around until someone lights a fire under their bum and then pretend to work for a whole ten minutes when the boss is watching. No difference in baseball. The hot shots do not overstress themselves. They indulge in the activities I’ve described above, until “We Will Rock You” comes on and all eyes are on them, so there is an obligation to hit the damn ball or finally make a catch. Yes, I was miserable but I did buy myself a hat and now I do know that in New York we support the Yankees and sometimes Mets (to switch it up) and there is definitely, unfortunately, and excruciatingly no half-time at a baseball game.

Stalker

I am happy to report that I have a stalker. He is a kind and gentle soul who means no harm but also possesses all the perturbed qualities of a person who spends their time immersed in another’s existence. Sometimes I want to offer him food and shelter but common sense tells me that it’s not wise to befriend the obsessed. First of all you run the risk of losing them as an admirer once they REALLY get to know you. It’s one thing to put on a façade while out and about but a whole other one when you’re letting your hair down and it all hang out. It’s decided then, I will keep him at arm’s length and at bay.

I have composed a love note for him just to keep him going. It goes a little something like this:
Dear John Doe:
For the past few months I’ve noticed you lurking in the shadows mouthing my name. I love the attention and the fact that you care. I’ve taken the liberty of telling the world about you because I can tell that you are a very special person. I believe that you’re a loyal friend and a good listener. You are appreciated. I anxiously await seeing your hunched over body behind the bushes. You make me feel special. You make me feel loved. You make me feel like a natural woman.

Qualities writers should possess

Sticking to extremes
Every writer’s material should be as saccharine as possible or intensely dark and gloomy. Anything in between is just blah. I prefer the dark/cynical style myself because the former makes me gag. The writing style should reflect the writers themselves. They either should be people friendly or loners who sit in their rooms with the shades drawn thinking of all the possible ways everything can go wrong. Guess which one I am?

Open-mindedness
I used to pride myself on this particular trait until a friend of mine accused me of being the complete opposite for reasons unknown to me. Basically I was labeled conservative, critical, and closed-minded. I had no idea! So I decided to adhere to my newfound image. Luckily, this does not stop me from writing.

Creativity
Creativity and inspiration is not one and the same thing. Some people can pull material out of the same hat where rabbits hang out while others suffer from constipation of the mind-you feel that something is definitely lodged up there but it refuses to come out.

A good brain thesaurus
This is self-explanatory. Either you carry the SAT words in your head or buy a heavy book- your choice.

Tolerance for criticism
I definitely lack in this department because all I want to hear is praise. What the heck is constructive criticism anyway? This is euphemism at its best. A very business-savvy person who knew better than to straight-out belittle his employees invented this terminology. He listed all their faults and right before they pounced he screamed the magic word-constructive! He also could’ve said “no offense”. Thankfully he didn’t slip and say destructive thereby sealing his doom.

That's it ladies and gentlemen, the suggestion box is empty.

Bring on the fame and success

I would like to be famous and successful. It really doesn’t matter for what. As long as it gets me on the cover next to Paris Hilton I’ll be ecstatic. Is there a better way to announce my arrival? If I were to shout from the rooftops that I’m famous nobody would believe me but if Paris Hilton is standing by my side happy to be in my company, well then who can doubt it? My plan is to follow her (or any other “famous for nothing” celebrity) around trying to get in the same shot. Hopefully by the time her bodyguards pounce on me I’d have accumulated a decent number of photos to sell to the tabloids along with the following headlines: 'That’s me and Paris eating lunch' (in reality I’m biting a sandwich my mother brought me and Paris just has her mouth open), 'That’s us engaged in a deep conversation about the perils of extreme wealth' (when Paris is yelling for someone to take care of the nuisance that is me), and 'That’s Paris’s bodyguards giving me a friendly hug' (me holding onto one of their enormous shoulders for dear life). Who will know the truth but Paris and myself? She can later try to deny the validity of those rumors but no one ever believes celebrities when they deny something, only when they confirm. I realize that once I’m “in” some people would look up to me and yet others would despise me and talk about how irritating I am. For the record I am not that irritating but my opinion is obviously biased.

So how do I go about achieving this dream when my original plan falls through? I can’t exactly stalk everyone or I’ll become famous for being on America’s Most Wanted. That’s not the kind of fame I’m after. What I need is a good marketing and public relations team who can figure out ways to constantly bombard people’s screens with my image until they have no choice but to accept me as part of our pop culture. I want there to be unblockable pop-ups of me on all sites so that people surfing the web for Angelina Jolie will come across my image. The worst thing that could happen is that they’d think Angie has gained a few pounds. All bases need to be covered. I want to be envied, admired and downright worshipped. It’s not that difficult to achieve. People are fooled fairly easily. If you got a special skill use it; if not make one up. No one will be able to tell. Technological advances + people’s lack of common sense=JACKPOT! (Sorry for getting all mathematical). There is no need to be special, gifted, or privileged; only to be somewhat business savvy and a tad lucky.

BODIES experience

There’s a reason why you don’t always get to do the things you want to do. It is God’s way of looking out for your best interests. For instance, I have been planning to go to the BODIES exhibit for quite some time now and something always got in the way (mainly laziness). I also always wanted to try the virtual ride by Seaport (I assumed it was a roller coaster but was never sure) and finally my curiosity got the best of me. I killed two birds with one stone purely on a whim one day. I attended the exhibit first. My expectations were to get a look inside the human body. I did get a look inside, and outside, and from the side; however, I may as well have been looking at the wax figures from Madam Tussauds. These plastinated dead criminals from China were rearranged in various poses (mostly sports-related), some holding basketballs, others soccer balls, and only one guy holding a conductor’s baton (I guess we were the orchestra). Basically either all these guys were athletes or the only attractive pose a corpse can assume is with a ball of some sort next to its head. Although most of the flesh was stripped for some strange reason the eyeballs were left intact-apparently there weren’t enough balls there already. Needless to say I got bored five minutes into it. There were also separate organs (both healthy and diseased so you can compare and wonder which of those you happen to be carrying around inside). Thankfully next to these inanimate objects there were explanations consisting of “This is your liver” (my liver or the liver of that guy holding the soccer ball?) and “This is your liver with cirrhosis” (I didn’t know I was afflicted but thanks for the warning). I also started examining the other attendees of the exhibit and listening to their conversations. Most of them were looking at what was being displayed without bothering to read anything the poor dead guys had written about themselves. One woman said to her husband: “This is different honey, do you feel like having Chinese afterwards?” What was the dead guy thinking when he heard this I wonder? “Does the sight of my sliced brain remind you of vegetable Lo Mein?”

As creepy as all this was I found it fascinating as well especially when I got to the dissected arteries and veins. There were all kinds of aortas and such floating in liquid. It made me think of armor for some reason; really flimsy armor which needs protection. I also wanted to know where these bodies came from and why weren’t they properly disposed of? I read that these were unclaimed corpses. Is this the fate one has to suffer because one’s relatives were too lazy to come and collect the remains? What kind of cruel relatives are these anyway? They better have a good excuse for letting their loved ones stand on display glaring angrily at the public unable to speak because their tongues were cut out. No one leaves a will with the instructions: “Please do not bury or cremate me, I want my skeleton to be placed in all kinds of awkward positions so people can look at me and get the munchies”.

Then I went inside the virtual ride. What do you know? It happened to be a roller coaster. I wasn’t lucky enough to have the ride all to myself. At the last minute a father got in with his son. As soon as the ride began the son started screaming he’s scared and wants to get off. I offered to press the stop button but the father was too embarrassed to let me. When the ride was over he said: “I hope we didn’t ruin the experience for you”. No you didn’t. You made my already ruined experience even worse. Why don’t you take your son to the BODIES exhibit across the street? I’m sure he’ll love it.

Continuing to spew

   Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert would be lucky to have someone like me as a guest on their show. I’m just sayin’. In my heart of hearts I feel that my presence in the “hot seat” would be interesting. I’m aware that it can go both ways-either hilarious or atrocious-but it’s a win/win situation; both would be appealing to watch. I also wouldn’t mind working “behind the scenes”. I’m sure I’d find ways to spice things up even more than they already are. This is not intended to be a conceited statement but a purely factual one. Shamefully I know very little about politics but given the opportunity I will catch up just enough to be able to make fun of politicians just like I make fun of everyone else. After all politics is no different from the entertainment industry except entertainers are actually expected to entertain and politicians do so by accident. It seems easy enough. Just catch all their mistakes and wrongdoings and use it to your advantage. It might be wrong of us to hold their silly remarks against them but we do it anyway. Why? Because we can, right Obama? We are also willing and able (and bored and angry) and they are in our direct line of sight. How could our President do something wrong? Doesn’t he know people look up to him? He cannot disappoint! But he does, and will continue doing so until his term is up and what he does then will be irrelevant. My advice to him is that he save all the humiliating actions and sayings until he’s comfortably settled on some ranch and then write a book titled “All the stupid things I could’ve said and done but chose not to because of Diana’s advice” (of course I deserve a mention in the title of his upcoming book, did you think otherwise?).

   Who am I to intermingle with the likes of Stewart, Colbert and Obama you ask? My reply is simple. I am a person who’s kept quiet my whole life and finally decided to dispense her advice onto anyone and everyone. From now on I will intervene as much as I can and not because I’m passionate about things but simply to put my thoughts ‘out there’ (for lack of a specific address). Although I’m not a parent myself I will still tell those who are that they’re doing a so-so job. What’s to stop me? If I see you littering and I happen to be feeling particularly environmentally conscious that day then I will ask you to pick up your trash. My intentions are not to interfere in anyone’s business hence I will not stick around to see the outcome. It’s not like I will follow you home unless you do as I say but you WILL hear me out and you WILL do as I say. Whether you’re the most important person on the planet or the village idiot I will make my opinion known to you. I finally figured out that to make people listen while clouding their judgment enough to think you’re right is to just tell them to and sound confident about it. Don’t let your voice betray you by being shaky or faltering. I told Stewart and Colbert to have me on their show and they will. I told Obama to stop fooling around and he will. I will tell everyone else what I think they should or shouldn’t do and they will do it. Those who have conviction hold all the power.

Obama takes another bow

Is it me or is our President fond of some old school type of behavior? In the less civilized societies people used to bow, kiss other men’s hands, and dabble in other ludicrous and demeaning acts. Considering that we now live in a day and age when “change” is occurring, I should hope that means forward progression and not backward.

In my opinion, if one really must pay respects to someone older and presumably wiser, than a simple bow of the head should suffice, followed by a wink and smile. Why the President of the supposedly most powerful country in the world thinks that what he’s doing is correct is beyond me. Either he has some really bad advisors or he had a dream in which he saw that the quickest way to world peace is through complete humiliation symbolized by an act of exercising/yoga (that is halfway down dog I believe). What’s next? I certainly hope that a cure for famine is not achieved by doing head stands; nor is the quickest way to healthcare reform by jumping on the trampoline. No other world leader is doing it so it’s very avant-garde of Obama. Another possibility is that he’s just demonstrating that the number of bows taken is directly proportional to the amount of Nobel Peace Prizes one can accumulate, or that as a laureate, there is a minimum number of bows which must be completed. The possibilities are endless. He might’ve simply admired the Emperor’s wife's sense of style. Those kimonos are no match for a simple black suit. I particularly enjoyed the Emperor’s reaction to the bow. Under his marble expression he was probably thinking: ‘This fellow has totally lost it. Well I’m not getting down like that’. The Saudi King, I would imagine, is very disappointed. In his mind the bows were reserved only for his majesty. What will his reaction be? This new bow may very well cancel out the first bow and then what?

Basically while Obama works out, the whole world watches in amazement and awe. Some people are confused, others are inspired, conservatives are appalled, and I am simply amused.

A crack at being a critic

A while back I read a book called The Other Boleyn Girl. Drama, intrigue, and other excitements during King Henry Tudor’s rule. What’s not to like? I’ve later watched The Tudors and of course thought it matched the book, if not the actual history, perfectly. After that, research on Wikipedia ensued only to be soon forgotten since I, like everybody else, am of fickle nature and Mad Men was my latest prey. Having banished it from memory I recently watched The Tudors, season 2 because I happened to sign up for Netflix recently and was at a loss of what to view. I was instantaneously pulled back in, unexpectedly so since almost everyone was beheaded in season 1 and I had to get used to a whole new set of characters. As soon as I was done I watched the movie version of the above-mentioned book. Had I nothing to compare it to I might’ve liked it but, alas, The [damned] Tudors spoiled everything for me. The lengthy “mini” series told the same story in twenty hours as the movie told in two. The Other Boleyn Girl didn’t stand a chance. It is now known to me as The Other Tudors and Natalie Portman along with Scarlett Johansson did not appear more beautiful than the actresses from The Tudors. I am disappointed as well as overdosed by too much information about King Henry and his liaisons. I wish a book/movie of that nature existed for every boring historical period so that I may actually learn something while watching the main characters fornicate. I heard Albert Einstein was a womanizer. Imagine if we saw his life in the movies? For all we know he came up with the theory of relativity while running around the house naked, chasing some skirt. That would give a whole new meaning to E=MC2 and make it very interesting to watch.