Early Sesame Street specialized in melancholy.
Seven years before The Muppet Show even aired, Kermit The Frog’s muted acceptance of “Bein’ Green” appeared in Sesame Street‘s very first season in 1969 and appeared on the show’s first album, The Sesame Street Book & Record.
Once upon a time, I recapped the weekly insanity that is Hawaii Five-O for this esteemed site. There is something so refreshing about a show with literally no rules and no laws. And by no rules and no laws, I mean domestic and international law. I also mean rules of storytelling and laws of physics. Continue reading
A recent chance encounter with an old friend led to nostalgic gossiping, as it often does. This included remembering an affair among former mutual colleagues, which prompted reflection. Not so much about the well-worn themes of “Why People Cheat?” – I’ve watched enough of that to think I get the various motivations. More specifically we wondered about the role of the third party, and how he or she fits in. How she or he thinks, and how she or he is viewed by others involved.
I want to separate out some of the common themes that come up when thinking about affairs. So I’d ask you to assume (or at least trust me about) three things:
So in this situation, what motivates the third party to be involved in such a scenario? If this were a friend, we would tend to tell them that this is simply not a good idea, wouldn’t we? Haven’t most of us had this conversation? Or, let’s be honest, listened to someone else have it with us? Certainly the individual could just be interested in short-term sex, but does that ever really work? (Have romantic comedies taught us nothing?) Are they holding out irrational hope for a future? In a short life, are they not worried that they are spending limited time and emotional capital on an ultimately unavailable partner? Is that the point?
The third party that I knew, I knew well, but not that well. He knew that this was a mistake but couldn’t pull himself out of it. He ignored other possible relationships because they might interfere with his availability. Ultimately, his motivations were not that different from any motivations for a relationship: he enjoyed the human contact, comfort, and energy that came from this woman. The long-term was too vague to interfere with the short-term glow that he had. And, don’t we all understand, the downsides were easily rationalized away. The highs of the roller coaster imprinting much more clearly than the lows.
And this leads to what is particularly interesting to me. Given the above, how does this person having the affair rationalize it? Not rationalize what she or he is doing to the spouse, but what she or he is doing to the third party? In theory, this is someone that the first party has developed a strong emotional and physical bond with. A friend, a colleague, a lover. And yet, unlike the close friend who is saying “run away” this person does everything possible to pull the third party in closer. To actively limit the third party’s ability to grow and develop long-term meaningful relationships. I think of this in terms of spouses left behind during war as well. The spouse at home is lonely and needs support, but they must know that ultimately, even if the other spouse returns and never finds out, that in exchange for months of love and support, the paramour will receive nothing more than emotional pain. (If you just realized that this is the second time I’ve made a point that can be illustrated by a Natalie Portman film, bonus points to you.)
It is no new interpretation to say the story of Dracula is ultimately a story about sex. An old man’s thirst for the young that is so overpowering that it literally drains the life out of her. And it is true that there is a Vampiric quality to so many affairs. (And this is also why the apparently mostly-sexless Vampire-lead of Twilight is so stupid.) Perhaps the first party’s needs simply require fundamentally ignoring the life of the third party. Blocking it out. Having just finished Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad Love Story – which, like all of his books, I do not recommend – the main (unmarried) character’s internal need to provide provide oral sex for his much younger girlfriend was viscerally representative. It is not alone.
But people are not all vampires; are not all narcissists. It can’t be that everyone in an affair simply lives this disjointed life, psychologically ignoring yet attempting to satisfy the third party. How does the first party explain away the incredibly difficult and untenable position they are placing this other person in, someone they care about, often deeply? Is this why, in fact, so few affairs are true “love affairs” and why so many involve other benefits for the third party?
The old, profoundly lame, joke is that men don’t sleep with prostitutes for the sex, but to get them to leave. I wonder if there isn’t something slightly deeper occurring here. Perhaps, the going away actually stands for limiting emotional connection in a way that helps the man rationalize his ultimate lack of availability to the third party. The first party feels that affection is being shown in the only ways possible.
We see this in mistress or cicisbeo culture as well. Or in terms of “sleeping ones way to the top.” Or so many celebrity affairs that are so well-publicized. The married individual can not provide the standard promises of a relationship, so other forms of benefit are substituted. Benefits that the first party can rationalize as a potentially fair substitute for a real relationship, either explicitly or implicitly. And in these cases, the third party can also sleep a little more soundly (on those nights when he or she is alone), knowing that the benefits are either a signal of promise or at least something that makes it all explainable, worth it.
And perhaps this is why so many affairs involve situations where both couples are married or equally unattainable. Or why our shared anecdotes reference uncommon yet re-occurring events – reunions, conferences, etc. In these situations, life frames the expectations so narrowly that no one can have them. Or at least have fewer of them. Both parties are in both roles or the time-frame is so limited that the impact on the other’s emotional life is inherently limited. It’s a vacation from life instead of a part of one’s life.
In the story of my colleagues, the third party ultimately moved to another job across the country. The practical distance gave him the emotional distance he needed. He started a new life, a new emotional life. He is married now. Happily, last I heard.
New Yorkers always insist that the city is not an anonymous machine but actually just a series of small neighborhoods. We insist that we know our dry cleaner, our coffee shop guy, our grocery store cashier just as well as you all know yours.
Actually, that’s not true, we always insist that we know them even better.
Actually, that’s not true either. We New Yorkers are a narcissistic bunch. We insist that they know us even better. Trust me, your local dry cleaner does not care about you the same way my dry cleaner cares about me.
In any event, when I have lived in other places, one of the reasons you knew the “kid who bags your groceries” is because of some long generational history. The gossip you discuss as you head back to your car is along the lines of “Oh you know, that’s Johnny’s nephew. His momma went to school with…” Etc. Well no, we don’t have as much of that in Manhattan (although it is more common in the other boroughs). Our stories are a little bit different.
And I think it’s only fair that those of you who are not from a big city filled with people from all over the world be introduced to what some of our neighborhood knowledge looks like, and the center of it all is the local bodega.*
The Turtle Era was the best era. Turtle was the Day Manager when I first moved into my neighborhood. His first language was Spanish, and he spoke perfect English. He insisted that I only use Spanish and that he only use English. Because, you know, that’s how you improve. But he had also learned Korean, the language of the store’s owners, and Portuguese, because there was small Brazilian community in the neighborhood. The store was always perfectly kept while he was in charge. Well-stocked, clean. And the coffee. Dear god the coffee he made was perfect. He was funny, charming, handsome, confident, told a great story. I really wanted to drink with Turtle. All the time. The owner’s wife was confused about his name and called him Tut. Which stuck. About half of the customers called him Turtle, and about half called him Tut.
Turtle’s assistant was named Nick. Nick was quiet but polite. He was never completely happy with the questionable wage and hour policies of the owners, but you wouldn’t have known it. One of the nicest men I’ve ever known, with a genuine smile and a kick-ass mustache.
The night shift during The Turtle Era was run by a quirky older guy from rural somewhere. I don’t know where he was from, or what language he spoke, but he was differently from the country of some country. (You know how you can sometimes tell a rural accent even if you don’t know the language?) I was never sure what we were talking about when I went in, but I think we were talking about something. I don’t know what his name was. I’m not even sure how I could have asked. His assistant was a quiet guy from the pacific coast of Mexico. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say more than two words. In fact, sometimes I didn’t even know he was there and then “POOF!” he’d be standing right behind you. Basically a not-very-haunting ghost of a man. You will not hear about him again because that is all I know, even though he is still there.
Turtle was lucky. He married for immigration status, or so it was implied, but he fell in love. They had an adorable little girl. His wife, a midtown professional, got a promotion that took her to New Jersey. He went with her, and they bought a big house for the family. Last I heard he was managing a restaurant out there and going crazy because he had never needed to drive before, and he didn’t have his driver’s license yet. But he was happy.
Poor Nick. When he took over for Turtle, they didn’t hire a new assistant. So Nick had to do everything. And I don’t think they gave him a raise, not at first. But we gave him a quick primer on New York labor laws and how they did, in fact, apply to everybody. And then they did. He was so politely sad about it all. He would politely ask me what it was like to have a good job. He would listen to traditional music and count the hours until he could go home and rest and have a beer. He was sending money home to his wife, where she ran a farm. Each paycheck went to building up the livestock, building a fence, fixing a barn. Nick spoke a little English, and I speak a little Spanish. Between the two of us, we could figure it all out. Nick also had taken steps to learn how to make coffee from Turtle before he left. God I miss Turtle’s coffee.
Then someone called in a Housing Violation on his building, and the city discovered his illegal apartment. We offered him a little help to find a new place, but he politely refused. Before they could shut it down he discovered he had cancer. He decided that it would be best if he went back home. If he could get medical help, he could get it safely at home. If he could not, then he wanted to spend his remaining days on the farm with his wife. He knew that either way, once he crossed the southern border, he would likely never come back. No one has heard from Nick since he was getting a ride south from Atlanta with a friend.
The night shift did not change during The Nick Era, but I got to know the Country Man a little better. I still don’t know what we were talking about, but we talked a lot. When the store raised the prices on cigarettes he made a disgruntled face and refused to charge me the new price. He would always round my charges, refusing my fifteen cents here or my seven cents there. Either he was overcharging someone else or the owners just liked him, because he certainly wasn’t paying it out of his paycheck.
Good kid. Friendly, happy, got good grades, played in a soccer league on the weekends. New York Mets fan, but nobody’s perfect. The son had come in on occasion to fill in as necessary, but once Nick left, he took over the day shift. He had recently finished college and was applying to graduate schools. He insisted on calling me by my last name, which freaked me out. No matter how many times I tried to get him to stop, he couldn’t seem to do so. “Are you watching the game today Mr. LeSabre? Should be a great one!” During his tenure they hired a new assistant, a really young kid, Johnny, who spoke only Spanish at first. Johnny practiced his English like crazy. He would step behind the counter as often as possible and come up with the most unnecessarily complicated questions he could. Just to practice. Johnny seemed to believe that my life consisted solely of making a lot of money, going out on wild dates, and drinking as much as possible. He had no evidence for any of this.
Johnny met a girl that lived in another borough, and two weeks later he quit. A cousin of the son was hired to replace him, and he is still there. I think the cousin is confused about his job responsibilities. He seems to think he is a security guard at a bank because all he does is stand about three feet from the counter like a statue. No one seems comfortable telling him otherwise. Much dust has accumulated since the cousin started.
And now we are in the Dad era. The son has gone back to school, and I’m stuck with grumpy under-paying, shitty-coffee-making dad. If you buy cigarettes, he won’t give you matches unless you ask. If you buy coffee, you have to ask for the napkin. God forbid you ask for a sleeve. You’d think you just tried to shake down the ATM machine. And he never smiles. He is a mean old man. (Sometimes he forces a smile, but you know that forced smiles are worse than no smile at all.) But I don’t really mind. We have our routine.
The older son is there on occasion too now. A character and a half. I appreciate that he does not care even a little bit. He would rather sit outside and smoke or rush home to his (admittedly gorgeous) new wife. Since Turtle left, he’s by far the person I’m most inclined to just hang out with for a bit. Because he smokes. And because he will inevitably go on some rant about something in the pop culture news. (He’s like a particularly incensed Crasstalk commenter now that I think about it.)
And recently, Country Man has gone from the night shift. His wife, back in the old country, has become terminally ill. He hasn’t seen her in years and wants to spend her last few months with her. He may come back when she passes away, but maybe not. I hope he does. I miss Country Man. Country Man’s replacement unintentionally sold cigarettes to minors on multiple occasions and got the store shut down for a week. The doors were locked for the first time in thirty years. They didn’t even know where the keys were.
The jarring feeling the next day when I went to buy my morning coffee, when, distracted by my email, I ran straight into a closed door and a big ol’ New York City notice, made me realize just how much a part of my life the little store on the corner is. Good or bad, happy or sad, it’s a part of my life, and a part of what keeps the city from feeling so anonymous. I’m no fool; I don’t pretend we are friends or even colleagues. But I know them, and they know me.
I know you missed my updates from the 50th (and 3rd-Awesomest) state.
I’m sorry! The holidays and whatnot. I’d like to say that you didn’t miss much on Hawaii 5-0, but you did. You missed so much!
But, we can’t go back in time, so we are just going to have to pick up with this week’s lessons about National Security, Fashion, and Shaved Ice. Don’t worry. You don’t have to have seen the episode. This is all about what we can learn about the world around us. 5-0 Style!
Fake pirates kidnap rich kids off of a boat and ask for ransom. 5-0 saves the day!
One of the main things I learned this week? Pirates are everywhere. (It was right there in the header.) Apparently, they are a huge problem in Hawaii. So huge, in fact, that if you want to kidnap somebody, you should totally just pretend to be a pirate. Because then you will just blend in with all the other pirates.
(Note: Apparently it helps if you dump a dead pirate on the deck. This is very convincing.)
Other things we learn later about real Hawaiian pirates:
(Note: These things may only apply to Hawaiian pirates. I make no promises that they will work on other pirates. If you are near Somalia, you are on your own.)
I hate love hate love! obvious examples of Chekhov’s gun. You know the old saying “If there is a Nick Lachey in the scene, somebody is going to get shot by the end of the episode.” Well, at the beginning of this episode:
The only person left on the boat when 5-0 shows up is a super-cute girl that hides in a closet on the main deck. Sorry, do I hear bells ringing in my head?
Her boyfriend who meets her at the dock is Nick Lachey, and they leave together “never to be seen again.” HOLY SHIT THOSE BELLS ARE LOUD!
(Note: If at this point you predict that she will be the one who has to bring the ransom to the head bad guy at the end, who turns out to be…Nick Lachey (WHAT?!), you have seen television before.)
5-0 has a Surface, or whatever those table computers are called that can take an excel spreadsheet and magically turn all the matching squares into neon green blocks with “MATCH!” written in comic sans. It’s like the world’s most powerful “My First Matching Game!” But that wasn’t the cool part.
They also take “biometric” mug shots of your eyeballs so they can match your face to people in ski masks that have eyes that look exactly like NICK LACHEY! But that is not the cool part either.
They also have a button on all police computers that you touch and it “Transfers call to 5-0.” I’m sorry. Did I say computer? I meant computer screen! That was even cooler, but still not the cool part.
McGuffin or McGarble or Tall Guy has an iPhone App that just shows every kind of gun to a witness for identification purposes. I call it “Gunphone.”
“This one? *swipe* This one? *swipe* This one? *swipe* THIS ONE?! IT WAS AN AK-47!”
(Note: She is in on it! Why is she correctly identifying the gun?! Also, why do bad guys always use the same gun? “We matched ballistics to 400 other crimes on that island over there.” Also, couldn’t they have just figured out the type of gun by those exact same ballistics? Also, what does it matter?!)
*****
*****
At some point in the episode they needed information from a guy that runs a pawn shop. I don’t know why. I don’t care. Something to do with a single golden money clip that tied the entire case together. Here is what I do know. Pawn shops are always shady. Always. Is there a not shady pawn shop anywhere in the world? I think that if the guy at the pawn shop won’t help you out you should strap a grenade to the door of his office and then run out the front door. Fortunately for me, McGrudel agrees. BOOM! Maybe you’ll speak to 5-0 now Mr. Shady Pawn Shop Guy.
There is always some unnecessarily “sexy” element to 5-0. This week it was how all the young kidnap victims were being held in a hot cage all half-naked. They looked like a commercial for Skins or something. It was totally inappropriate. Also, hot. Later in the episode they are trapped in a sweaty school bus. That was just creepy.
Armed kidnapping in international waters! Forget the FBI! Fuck the Coast Guard! 5-0 Don’t Care! State Police Task Force in the HOUSE!
Paying ransom to kidnappers like everybody says you are supposed to? No fucking way! 5-0 Don’t Care! We are going in armed and strong. Paying them will just lead to disaster! One kid’s dad ignored 5-0 and paid their family’s share of the ransom anyway. When the kidnappers killed a hostage for only paying part of the ransom, guess who they killed? That’s right punk. Listen to 5-0 next time! Because 5-0 don’t care! Paying = disaster!
After the kid died, 5-0 decided to pay up after all. Changing plans for no reason!? 5-0 Don’t Care!
*****
*****
According to the kidnappers, cute-girl-from-the-closet (remember her?) was the only one who could take the ransom to some dirty, sticky, warehouse or dock or whatever, filled with naked-kidnapped-teenagers, BECAUSE SHE IS IN ON IT! Who else knew that? That’s right 5-0 did! The money was just phone books! Thank goodness we don’t use phone books anymore, so they could just waste them all like that. “What are we going to fill the bags with?” “I don’t know. How about all those phone books over there?”
Anyway, BOOM! POW! Some disco lights go off or something. Nick Lachey runs and jumps into a trolley! McGrawhillber shoots him! Everybody lives except the kid of the punk-ass dude that did not listen to 5-0.
Listen to 5-0! If you don’t, your kid will die! 5-0 don’t care!
Not enough Scott Caan.
I’m putting this up because there isn’t one. And because there isn’t one I don’t have an appropriate place to say “Whatever. I fucking hate life for no good reason sometimes, and I feel lazy, and I wish my wife were here, although if she were I’d be bummed I hadn’t done the cleaning I wanted to do today, because this place is a mess.” And maybe you also wanted to say something like that and wanted an open thread to say it in. Continue reading
So far there seems to be some consensus that all of our glitches are caused by DJ Lance Rock. Our banhammer will be named after our first ban-victim. (Watch out Tony Kaye, your insider status puts you in immediate jeopardy! Plus the irony would be kind of awesome.) There is currently some movement to make the Honey Badger the Official Mascot.
But what about our Anthem?
There have been at least two proposals put forward, but we need more.
1) From slackjawed yoda, the following, which had me tearing up this morning.
2) A worthy counter-proposal, from BaldwinP
Both are appropriately overly-dramatic and ironic while actually capturing exactly how I sincerely feel!
What do you all think?
This is going to be a horribly unpopular post, and I don’t care. You know why I don’t care? Because I’m a smoker. And, from what I hear, all the time, regularly, ad nauseum, by virtue of my being a smoker, I don’t care about myself or anyone else. So, that’s cool. Easier for me.
On to the reviews/memoir.
These were the first cigarettes I smoked. Because that’s what she smoked.
(Surprise, surprise. Yes, I started smoking because of a girl.)
The original blend was really nice. It was a really light cigarette, but with a nice leafy flavor.
Dry without tasting burnt.
Then Winston went “additive-free,” and they started to taste like urine. Figure that one out.
Marlboro Lights. They made me feel nauseous. I didn’t smoke them for very long.
The taste was good, but seriously they were like smoking MSG.
Totally decent cigarette. The Budweiser of Cigarettes. Nothing fancy, but inoffensive.
I went through this phase briefly before I found…
Now this was my brand. The King of Smokes. They say they’re toasted. I believe it. The perfect golden leaf. Flavorful, nice smell, full-bodied, really tobacco-ey. No additive after-taste.
I picked a picture with non-U.S. packaging for a reason. They don’t sell them in the U.S. anymore. Bastards.
Oh, yeah, I went through this phase too. I’m not proud. I was in my mid-20’s and living in New York. I thought it was some kind of City Regulation that I had to smoke them.
They actually aren’t bad.
The flavor is a little thin, but the little air pocket at the end of the filter is pretty cool.
I’ve also tried plenty of others along the way. Menthol I just don’t get. Why cover up the tobacco? Reds and Non-filtered Luckies? Good, but I tend to need my voice the next day.
Nat Shermans and assorted French and Canadian cigarettes? Yummy, but I just feel too much like a prick when I smoke them. (And smoking makes me feel enough like a prick by itself.)
I do love, however, the way Canadian cigarettes pack 25 shorties instead of 20 longer ones.
That’s genius. Because really I rarely want a full cigarette.
Well, I guess it’s genius for me, but probably not for the cigarette companies, because I would have to buy new cigarettes less often.
Here is where I am now. It’s a damned fine cigarette. The taxes in New York make all cigarettes so expensive that they aren’t any more expensive than any of the ones above anymore.
They last longer, really full flavor. No additives. They pack them so tight that you have to loosen the tobacco for an even burn instead of tamping the box to pack the leaf like with other smokes.
So that’s the history of my slow march to lung disease. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have. Although, from what I hear, you probably haven’t.
Sorry kidderoos. I know you’ve been begging us to stop talking about her, but it looks like the world’s most literal famewhore is, once again, making it impossible for us to ignore her.
A true “brags to bitches” story – whether she is getting in fights with her co-stars, sleeping in a coffin, or loosening her corset for every wealthy or influential man around, she does seem to find a way to stay in the news. Although we have to give her some credit on this last point. She doesn’t just “socialize” with the independently wealthy, she’s been known to “move the brush” for a hipster painter or two and serve as a muse for those that are particularly handy with a “pen”. (Things aren’t so Misérables anymore are they?!)
But pretty (and flexible) finally seems to have paid off, slightly less literally, for her. A new strategy! Sleeping with the theatrical purse strings! Which has finally earned her a starring role.
That’s right boys and girls. The child of the slums, the thief’s daughter that has stolen our eyeballs (we wouldn’t keep writing about her if you didn’t keep reading it!) if not our hearts is about to travel the world playing a Queen!
So watch out all you real Queens out there. Your husbands might get confused and bring her home. (At least to find out why they really say she has a “throat like a flute.”)
I, of course, am referring to… Continue reading
