I hate terror and death. They just stopped shooting in Mumbai and I’m still slicing turkey - that’s how much I don’t want to think about it. I could have been one of those people taking advantage of a special rate at the Taj, tooling around old Bombay having the time of my life. That’s what they come to take.
They sow fear. Sowing fear in America is like announcing a sale at WallMart, where everything is already half-off, including firearms. They trampled a store employee to death yesterday, on Black Friday, where people go crazy shopping. The police are looking for suspects. Where would you like to die? India or Underwear? It’s Black Friday all over, though shopping is the only thing they talk about on TV. That's what Bush told us to do after 9/11: Go shopping. I wonder what they're saying in Mumbai?
I’m out of Mayo. In fact, we’re closing early. My wife insists on seeing Slum Dog Millionaire, about a peasant in Mumbai who wins money on a game show but is tortured by the authorities because they think he was lying about where he got the answers. They say it’s good. I think it has a happy ending.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Turkey Hero
Some people think I have time on my hands, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m doing more than one thing. Did you see what I have going on out back? There’s 50 kids slicing meat and running around on bikes. You don’t want to be here when I open that door and start shouting. I just like to keep it quiet out front, so I can wait on my old customers.
I try to be like my cousin, who works all the time. But the minute you need him, he's there. Plus, he’s a funny guy who laughs at all your jokes. I’d give him my last dime, but he needs nothing from me. He’s the one with hot rolls. He’s got people driving down from Connecticut and up from Baltimore and he tells them all the same thing: Don’t park in front of the store. My cousin parks around the corner. He drives a different car every day. Three are new, the rest are vintage. He says he collects nothing but gold, of which he has an enormous amount, and French Impressionists, a collection of which he knows nothing but names, like horses, a few of which he also owns. He says that the only thing he’s serious about is bread. He’s got bakeries all over New Jersey, plus an oven in Pennsauken for the restaurants, but no matter what they say, we all know they make the real bread on Mole St. Just don’t park there.
My cousin makes money no matter what. The less money people have, the more they want baked goods. There’s a lot of people who would give my cousin their last dime, and for a good reason. And it’s all in cash, at least around the corner, which is not to say my cousin doesn’t pay taxes. He’s proud to pay taxes, which he supplements with countless rolls distributed at no charge to the local citizenry, often one at a time.
I don’t use my cousin’s bread. Don’t get me wrong. It’s what we eat at home. My cousin would be offended. Besides, we don’t pay. But over here, I’m making a lot of sandwiches, and I don’t want that shit from Pennsauken. I’d bake my own, but then my cousin would be really offended, so I have to buy rolls from some other guy. My cousin loves the idea that I buy my bread from this other guy. This way, he doesn’t have to imagine that he can make a better sandwich, he keeps an eye on this other guy, and I don’t presume to bake bread. It makes the whole picture cozy, everybody with a slice. The way he sees it, between us we feed the whole city. And everybody has to eat. Even today. Look at this. What amazes me is that half the people still want turkey.
I try to be like my cousin, who works all the time. But the minute you need him, he's there. Plus, he’s a funny guy who laughs at all your jokes. I’d give him my last dime, but he needs nothing from me. He’s the one with hot rolls. He’s got people driving down from Connecticut and up from Baltimore and he tells them all the same thing: Don’t park in front of the store. My cousin parks around the corner. He drives a different car every day. Three are new, the rest are vintage. He says he collects nothing but gold, of which he has an enormous amount, and French Impressionists, a collection of which he knows nothing but names, like horses, a few of which he also owns. He says that the only thing he’s serious about is bread. He’s got bakeries all over New Jersey, plus an oven in Pennsauken for the restaurants, but no matter what they say, we all know they make the real bread on Mole St. Just don’t park there.
My cousin makes money no matter what. The less money people have, the more they want baked goods. There’s a lot of people who would give my cousin their last dime, and for a good reason. And it’s all in cash, at least around the corner, which is not to say my cousin doesn’t pay taxes. He’s proud to pay taxes, which he supplements with countless rolls distributed at no charge to the local citizenry, often one at a time.
I don’t use my cousin’s bread. Don’t get me wrong. It’s what we eat at home. My cousin would be offended. Besides, we don’t pay. But over here, I’m making a lot of sandwiches, and I don’t want that shit from Pennsauken. I’d bake my own, but then my cousin would be really offended, so I have to buy rolls from some other guy. My cousin loves the idea that I buy my bread from this other guy. This way, he doesn’t have to imagine that he can make a better sandwich, he keeps an eye on this other guy, and I don’t presume to bake bread. It makes the whole picture cozy, everybody with a slice. The way he sees it, between us we feed the whole city. And everybody has to eat. Even today. Look at this. What amazes me is that half the people still want turkey.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Home for the Holidays
Here come the holidays. I hate the fucking holidays. But I’m glad to be home in time for turkey. Sure I have to make it. Who else? My wife doesn’t get the whole turkey thing. She wants to make spaghetti. My son is coming over. The other one is still sleeping. That kid keeps some strange hours. But what can I do? There’s no way to punish him. He’s too big. Besides, his grades aren’t bad.
I get depressed during the holidays. And I have a lot of things to be depressed about. Sure, I have enough to eat. But this is fast food. I want to eat life, and who gets enough of that, especially when the economy is bad? Fuck gas. Have you checked out the price of cigarettes? But they make sure everybody can buy a turkey. I went all the way - free range, organic, kosher. I’m not Jewish, but those extra rules can’t hurt, especially considering where I've just been.
I had a great trip. Everybody over there couldn’t figure out why I left in the middle of the week to go back home and eat turkey. They hate turkey. But you ought to see what they eat when they run home. They’re crazy to get back and worship whatever moon, so they can blame the parents, push each other around, and generally share the love. They eat hairy crabs in Hangzhou.
I’ll spend my last dime on a plane ticket, that’s for sure. I was worried that the airports would be crowded just before the holiday, but they were empty. Over there, there were more security people than people. Over here, it looked like a lot of illegal aliens got jobs and uniforms over at Immigration. That’s the best thing we have going for us on the approach to America. Otherwise, we’re left with the road to NY for a first impression. My friend from Korea asked me if the BQE was the regular road or the back road. He said ‘third world’ and New York in the same sentence. But it didn’t look too bad last night, with all the lights on.
I’m not sure if I can get through today without crying. More than likely, I’ll start yelling. I pity my sons, not to mention my wife. You’d think I could control it. The problem is, I think so too. I start by being in a good mood, full of love and happiness. But the next thing I know, somebody is all fed up. Fuck it. Fuck all of you, I start shouting. And then it’s all my fault, and everybody hates me. I should eat early and take a nap while everybody else is having dinner. There would just be a leg missing and everybody would be happy. Or maybe they’d complain that they were short-changed.
I get depressed during the holidays. And I have a lot of things to be depressed about. Sure, I have enough to eat. But this is fast food. I want to eat life, and who gets enough of that, especially when the economy is bad? Fuck gas. Have you checked out the price of cigarettes? But they make sure everybody can buy a turkey. I went all the way - free range, organic, kosher. I’m not Jewish, but those extra rules can’t hurt, especially considering where I've just been.
I had a great trip. Everybody over there couldn’t figure out why I left in the middle of the week to go back home and eat turkey. They hate turkey. But you ought to see what they eat when they run home. They’re crazy to get back and worship whatever moon, so they can blame the parents, push each other around, and generally share the love. They eat hairy crabs in Hangzhou.
I’ll spend my last dime on a plane ticket, that’s for sure. I was worried that the airports would be crowded just before the holiday, but they were empty. Over there, there were more security people than people. Over here, it looked like a lot of illegal aliens got jobs and uniforms over at Immigration. That’s the best thing we have going for us on the approach to America. Otherwise, we’re left with the road to NY for a first impression. My friend from Korea asked me if the BQE was the regular road or the back road. He said ‘third world’ and New York in the same sentence. But it didn’t look too bad last night, with all the lights on.
I’m not sure if I can get through today without crying. More than likely, I’ll start yelling. I pity my sons, not to mention my wife. You’d think I could control it. The problem is, I think so too. I start by being in a good mood, full of love and happiness. But the next thing I know, somebody is all fed up. Fuck it. Fuck all of you, I start shouting. And then it’s all my fault, and everybody hates me. I should eat early and take a nap while everybody else is having dinner. There would just be a leg missing and everybody would be happy. Or maybe they’d complain that they were short-changed.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The All American
Barack Obama is the American hero. Our blood brother, best friend, south paw, first pick, jump shooting mutt with big ears that stand straight up in the woods is the quintessential American, an archetypical case of a boy wanting to be president - a westward ho-ing, Harvard going Chicagoan whose Mom got lost in the 60’s and brought someone home to dinner (wow) which guy then disappeared, leaving behind a single mother with a black baby, raised by his grandmother in a middle class white family out in the sun belt whose retirement was suddenly interrupted by a devastating and unexpected development - our first begotten, 21st century son: Barack Hussein Obama.
My grandmother always said: be careful what you wish for - which I know Barack’s grandmother told him, which was advice from our common, and much greater grandmother, who is either German or Swedish, from the Italian half of our people in Spain, or so I’m told by the Jewish side, who married into those Greeks, just before they left for America. They settled in Brooklyn and opened the bakery in California on their way from St. Louis. Boy, they made money. After the one son married that Puerto Rican girl, his brother got with those people from Wisconsin, who came from Detroit, Indians I think. They loved those girls, who looked like the mother. They came from Dade County, before they moved to Hawaii, which was lucky for them. But that was the white side, out of Ireland. We didn’t hear much from his father, who went back home to Africa. But we’re all so proud of Barack.
We’re having a reunion during the inauguration. The only reason I go to these things is to see some cousins who like to play cards. We keep in touch, but to have a conversation we gamble. Usually it’s small stakes, unless my cousin from Texas is there. Then, you better have some money. My cousins say that Barack has shit in his hand, which is the way they talk after a few beers. You can bluff or you can draw, they say, but you can’t fold. You just lose. It isn’t poker, I say, it’s more like rummy, or bridge. You just have to be patient and stay in the game. You have to concentrate.
We all agree that Barack can concentrate. He’s intense. He’s like Dr. J, Jack Nicklaus, Willie Mosconi. Michael Jordan. Lance Armstrong. Try Tiger Woods, says my cousin. Barack is a regular machine, I say, but a machine with a brain, a heart, a sense of humor, a team player, a superstar. Barack is in it for the long haul, all 9 innings. Barack only needs one name, like Ali. (That third debate? Rope–A-Dope) But one name isn’t enough for Barack. He needs two. Add Obama. Hey, add Hussein, says my cousin. Yo, I say, Hussein is a holy name. There are plenty of crooks named Jesus, down your way. I say this to offend my other cousin, a deacon in the church, but he never pays any attention to me.
We’re supposed to meet at the airport in Fort Worth, before we go, which makes it easy since nobody is traveling much these days. I got a great deal at the Haytt. My brother is at the Holiday Inn, but I didn’t say anything. My mother may come with my aunt, though she may just stay home. She’s 85, after all. She’s crazy about Barack, but she’s not sure if he’ll actually show up. She imagines Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Clinton. We're all Democrats around here. Check the window.
Lately, she’s never watched so much TV, forgoing Raymond to watch the Phillies win the World Series and Barack get elected. She says she watched the World Series for my Dad, who recently passed away and was buried with an Honor Guard, which made everyone cry all the more. Obama she watched for herself, though she did pay a price over at the Senior Citizen Center, where nobody wanted to talk about Barack. This led my mother into a few confrontations, where she called some fellow seniors, racists. Just vote for the white half, she said. In the last weeks of the campaign, she stayed home. As it turns out, she convinced more than a few elders, ever the activist. Her parting advice was: Let the kids have their own President.
My wife's family back in Europe is also very excited, and many want to come over for the party, but they’re bound to be disappointed. They have this funny idea about America, and usually end up disappointed. But when someone like Barack comes along, a once in a lifetime, only in America miracle - the genuine article, a new invention that could change the world brought to you by the only country in which he could ever exist, they pay attention. Some are even jealous that we’re Americans. Imagine that, in this day and age. I’ll be making some sandwiches, but nothing special. Just some hamburgers and hot dogs. Maybe some corn. If my mother comes, she'll bring a pie.
My grandmother always said: be careful what you wish for - which I know Barack’s grandmother told him, which was advice from our common, and much greater grandmother, who is either German or Swedish, from the Italian half of our people in Spain, or so I’m told by the Jewish side, who married into those Greeks, just before they left for America. They settled in Brooklyn and opened the bakery in California on their way from St. Louis. Boy, they made money. After the one son married that Puerto Rican girl, his brother got with those people from Wisconsin, who came from Detroit, Indians I think. They loved those girls, who looked like the mother. They came from Dade County, before they moved to Hawaii, which was lucky for them. But that was the white side, out of Ireland. We didn’t hear much from his father, who went back home to Africa. But we’re all so proud of Barack.
We’re having a reunion during the inauguration. The only reason I go to these things is to see some cousins who like to play cards. We keep in touch, but to have a conversation we gamble. Usually it’s small stakes, unless my cousin from Texas is there. Then, you better have some money. My cousins say that Barack has shit in his hand, which is the way they talk after a few beers. You can bluff or you can draw, they say, but you can’t fold. You just lose. It isn’t poker, I say, it’s more like rummy, or bridge. You just have to be patient and stay in the game. You have to concentrate.
We all agree that Barack can concentrate. He’s intense. He’s like Dr. J, Jack Nicklaus, Willie Mosconi. Michael Jordan. Lance Armstrong. Try Tiger Woods, says my cousin. Barack is a regular machine, I say, but a machine with a brain, a heart, a sense of humor, a team player, a superstar. Barack is in it for the long haul, all 9 innings. Barack only needs one name, like Ali. (That third debate? Rope–A-Dope) But one name isn’t enough for Barack. He needs two. Add Obama. Hey, add Hussein, says my cousin. Yo, I say, Hussein is a holy name. There are plenty of crooks named Jesus, down your way. I say this to offend my other cousin, a deacon in the church, but he never pays any attention to me.
We’re supposed to meet at the airport in Fort Worth, before we go, which makes it easy since nobody is traveling much these days. I got a great deal at the Haytt. My brother is at the Holiday Inn, but I didn’t say anything. My mother may come with my aunt, though she may just stay home. She’s 85, after all. She’s crazy about Barack, but she’s not sure if he’ll actually show up. She imagines Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Clinton. We're all Democrats around here. Check the window.
Lately, she’s never watched so much TV, forgoing Raymond to watch the Phillies win the World Series and Barack get elected. She says she watched the World Series for my Dad, who recently passed away and was buried with an Honor Guard, which made everyone cry all the more. Obama she watched for herself, though she did pay a price over at the Senior Citizen Center, where nobody wanted to talk about Barack. This led my mother into a few confrontations, where she called some fellow seniors, racists. Just vote for the white half, she said. In the last weeks of the campaign, she stayed home. As it turns out, she convinced more than a few elders, ever the activist. Her parting advice was: Let the kids have their own President.
My wife's family back in Europe is also very excited, and many want to come over for the party, but they’re bound to be disappointed. They have this funny idea about America, and usually end up disappointed. But when someone like Barack comes along, a once in a lifetime, only in America miracle - the genuine article, a new invention that could change the world brought to you by the only country in which he could ever exist, they pay attention. Some are even jealous that we’re Americans. Imagine that, in this day and age. I’ll be making some sandwiches, but nothing special. Just some hamburgers and hot dogs. Maybe some corn. If my mother comes, she'll bring a pie.
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