An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Thursday, April 16, 2009

I Remember...

I remember when I used to want to be a newspaper columnist.

I thought it would be a great thing to see my name in print each week, to have my sentiments and musings on peoples' lips that day, to have them write me nice letters, and nasty ones, about my column. I thought it would be nice to change my own little corner of the world through writing, because I thought I was reasonably good at it. And while 20 or so editorials and commentaries of mine have made their way into area newspapers, I'm no newspaper columnist.

When I read columns written by people who are newspaper columnists, I can't say I'm especially moved. Or engaged. Or inspired. I can't remember the last time I said to someone, "Hey, did you read the column on bloo-blah by Blah Blahsberg? Wasn't it great?" Most opinion columnists are afraid of losing their plum assignments and their beholden to the advertisers in their papers that nobody reads anymore, and so their once perhaps fiery tongues are definitely doused at best. They write, but they don't say anything.

Not that I could do it any better, mind you. Maybe, but I doubt it. When a paycheck's involved, I can be a pretty big pussy, too.

I remember when I used to want to be a cop.

I used to be arrogant enough to think that I would be a great boon in the effort to combat the consistently negative public image of law enforcement. If my call number was assigned to be dispatched to a scene, citizens would encounter a bookish, well-spoken, Jewish, skinny, bespectacled, dry-humored police officer who would do his best to listen patiently, sort fact from bullshit, and make logical, rational decisions. I thought it would be nice to change my own little corner of the world through competent, compassionate policing.

My decision, at 22, threw my solidly upper-middle-class Jewish family into utter turmoil. My mother was thrown into depression and despair. She pleaded with me not to do it.

"That's not for you," she would say-- the same lingo she used to use when I was seven and I wanted a $150 model car or I wanted to watch "Amadeus."

"Oh, so it's okay for some other mother's son, but not for yours?"

"That's right," she said. "That's exactly right."

My sisters refused to even talk about it, to even acknowledge it was happening, even as I was pounding Boost energy drinks and running at the track every morning in preparation for the academy.

"So you mean, if I become a cop and I want to come over for dinner after work and I'm in my uniform, my sisters will refuse to be there?" I asked my mother one night during a regular fight.

"That's right," she said.

It never came to that: I left the academy after two days. I couldn't lift the weights.

I sure remember that.

I remember when I had friends.

Where the fuck are all my friends?

I remember when I used to wear jeans.

I wore jeans all through high school, I think. I have no idea why. I hate jeans. I think, during summer before ninth grade, my sister and mother took me to the mall to get me "prepared for high school" and I was purchased multiple pairs of jeans. My sister, who was going to be a senior in high school when I was a freshman said she would not be seen in the same school with me if I didn't stop wearing sweatsuits to school. In retrospect, I'm glad I wore jeans in high school and not sweatsuits. Not that it helped my love life. I didn't get my first blowjob until college.

I remember when my extended family used to get together.

Some great-aunt of mine died on Tuesday. I hadn't seen her in approximately ninety-four years, so I didn't really give too much of a shit. That's a nasty thing to say. Maybe I would have felt more attached to her and the other cast of misfits at the funeral if we had all stayed in touch more. I wouldn't know for sure, though, I didn't go to the funeral.

I remember when I enjoyed watching "The Today Show."

Yeah, I'm one of the seven people in America who misses Bryant Gumbel. Then again, I also miss Craig Kilbourn on The Daily Show, and there are only three people who miss him, and only five who knew he ever hosted The Daily Show in the first place. Meredith Viera poisons that show with her disingenuous attitude and her forced, constipated winces that barely pass for smiles. And the Today Show, like other news shows of its ilk, insists on replaying 5 second clips repeatedly just to give viewers something to look at. I mean, seriously, they showed the clip of Captain Courageouspants waiving and thanking his captors seven times in a five minute window. Why? Why do they have to show anything? Do yourselves a favor and turn on the goddamn radio.

I remember when I used to drive like a total fucktard.

I used to own a 1990 Ford Crown Victoria. It was a retired cruiser from the Delaware State Police. Fetishes develop early, don't they? It had rear-wheel drive and a 302 cubic inch V-8. Behind the wheel of this land-yacht, I was absolutely insane. I would drive through closed off construction zones and do figure 8's in gravel parking lots at 50 mph. I would floor the car in reverse for no reason at all. No wonder it fell apart after four months. I loved that car. And I remember it very, very well. Sometimes I dream about it, and those are good nights.

I remember when my wife and I were dating.

God, we were adorable. I love remembering those days and weeks and months. And years. I love remembering our 2am IM conversations. I love remembering our first awkward phone calls. I love remembering all of her hairstyles. I even love remembering the brain surgery.

I remember when my mother and father were younger.

Yeah. I don't think I can talk about that right now. I'll get back to you.

I remember playing in the basement.

I think it's funny that people with too much money spend thousands and thousands of dollars building playrooms and romper rooms and zoo rooms and whateverthefuck rooms for their kids to destroy. My sister and I spent our entire pre-adolescent lives playing in the basement, and we fucking loved it. We were down there a LOT.

God... I hope there was no asbestos on the pipes....

I remember my grandfather.

God, what a totally, legendary imperfect human being.

I also remember his funeral. I was 12, and the rabbi made some comment about how proud Harry would have been had he lived to see his only grandson be Bar Mitzvahed. I felt bad about that. I was standing at the graveside right behind my uncle, who was crying. Everytime he reached into his hip pocked to pull out a tissue, he elbowed me in the face. He did it four times before he realized he was doing it and he whispered a tear-stained apology and he put his arm around me. I haven't spoken to him in over a decade. And it has nothing to do with the bops on the nose.

These are the things that I remember.

What do you remember?


  1. You arent a newspaper columnist but you are a blogger and I refer to you when I talk to my friends.. i have emailed your blog to them too.. on occassion..
    It never came to that: I left the academy after two days. I couldn't lift the weights.
    That CRACKED ME UP. I love when that happens! ha ha

  2. I remember you driving like a total fucktard :)

  3. Well, based on your and your wife are STILL adorable. :)

  4. this is awesome!!!its got me thinking for sure!!


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!