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?”