Soodhalter’s Informagoriam

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Happy Holidays Everybody

Well, that’s it. I am calling this one. At 9:55 PM Eastern Standard Time I am projecting that I ate too many French Fries from Five Guys Burgers and Fries and will have an extremely uncomfortable sleep. Why must they dump SO MANY FRIES in the bag? Also, there’s something about Obama on TV…

I am not sure what is going on, but there is a big commotion outside on Broad Street, where I live in South Philly. It may be some sort of riot. Everybody seems cheerful, but that is how these things always start. I took some pictures and videos just to confirm that this commotion was taking place. People in Philadelphia just seem to constantly want to make a ruckus for no good reason. Here are the pics and video. I will document this phenomenon further and discover its cause:

Unexplained Commotion of Broad on the 29th of October 2008

Here’s a little tidbit of information I picked up today from a reliable source. Apparently, there are some odd statutes governing chicken ownership in Seattle, WA. Apparently, one can own no more than 37 chickens in West Seattle. If one lives in the eastern part of the city, he or she can own up to 54 without a permit. With a a permit in the eastern part of the city, one can own up to 146 chickens.

The laws governing chicken ownership in Seattle are quite outdated. The original legal codes were laid out by Seattle’s two founders, Borden Calwood and Jeremiah Fancybottom. Apparently, a rift developed between them over their differing interpretations of a line of scripture regarding chicken ownership. As a result, the settled land was split in two. Calwood took the west, and Fancybottom took the east. Thus, chicken ownership laws have developed differently on each side of the city, and each governs residents’ ability to keep chickens in their homes in its own way.

What I find even more fascinating is how much of Seatle’s municipal politics is still colored by the disagreements of its two founders. City politicians generally do not align with either of the major national parties. Locally, however, most politicians identify as either as Calwoodians or Fancybottomites. The Calwoodians believe that city government should be able to strictly limit the number of chickens a city resident might own while Fancybottomites believe the government should be slightly less strict in its chicken ownership statutes.

What is interesting to me is that most citizens who self-identify as Fancybottomites do not own 146 (or even 54) chickens. Most own no more than one or two chickens, if they own any at all. They neither have the means nor the time to properly care for so many poultry animals. Most self-identifying Fancybottomites simply want to allow for the possibility that they may one day have the means to own 146 chickens. They do not want the city government to be slightly more restrictive of their theoretical rights to chicken ownership.

My conclusion after learning this information is that I do not think I could live in Seattle. I would get too caught up in city politics. I have firm views on the powers of government as it relates to poultry, and the political environment would be toxic for someone like me.

My site laid mostly dormant for a couple of months as I prepared for and took some exams. The good news is, I have no more exams. That is a relief because I just do not think I can spend any more time studying for such things. Since then, I have been working hard, with little time to take care of this business. However, it is time I take control. I have many observations to unload onto the internet. Here are some things I have observed as I walk around this wonderful city.

Xanax for Nerve Problems

During the summer, I paid a visit to my neighborhood bank. I needed forty-two nickels, and the bank is the most logical place to get such change. Afterward, I asked the teller if the bank happened to sell stamps. I needed a stamp to mail the nickels to Obama; he is the change candidate. The bank did not sell stamps, but the teller pointed me to a small pharmacy across the street, explaining that the pharmacist sells stamps. It is a family owned establishment, something one doesn’t see that often any more. I crossed the street and as I stepped onto the sidewalk, a man on a Vespa almost mowed me down as he rode up on the sidewalk. He stopped abruptly and appeared to be in a big hurry. Still, he took the time to lock up his Vespa as I walked into the pharmacy. The pharmacy is owned by a Vietnamese man, the pharmacist. His daughter also works behind the counter. She was the one who helped me. I asked for a stamp and at first she said the pharmacy does not sell stamps, but her father corrected her. At the same time, the Vespa rider entered and got the attention of the pharmacist. I was just trying to get rung up for my stamp so I could mail my change, but I could not help but overhear their conversation. The Vespa rider was pleading with the pharmacist for some Xanax (a common anti-anxiety medication). The man was clearly not a regular customer of the pharmacy. He just was popping in to make an unusual request. Of course, the pharmacist rebuffed him immediately. However, the Vespa rider had a plan. He explained to the pharmacist that he had sustained a deep gash on his left leg. This gash was quite painful, the Vespa rider explained. I think the pharmacist was bemused at this point. The gash in the leg did not warrant distribution of Xanax. The Vespa rider was also talking quite fast and English was not the pharmacist’s first language, so I think this also made the conversation more difficult. The Vespa rider would not be deterred. In his mind, the pharmacist simply did not believe that there was a leg gash. So, the Vespa rider came around to where I was standing at the register and lifted his pant leg to show the nasty gash. He explained it was quite painful. The pharmacist responded, “but, Xanax for your nerve!” The Vespa rider responded, “but the nerves in my leg are why the gash is painful!” At that point my transaction was completed, and I left before the situation could escalate further.

The Secret Lives of Contractors

I like to ride my bike around the city. As bikeable as the city is, I always have to watch for careless drivers who pass quite close to me so I do not get clipped by a rear view mirror. The other day, I was on eleventh street heading south when a couple of contractor-types buzzed past me in order to get to the red traffic light before I did. I was upset, but their windows were open, and they seemed to be the types who might respond to my vitriolic complaints by getting out of the truck and distributing beatings about my body. So, I kept quiet and pulled up to the side of the bed of their truck. Since their windows were open, I could hear their conversation. This is what I heard:

Driver: Hey man. I’ve been wonderin’. Do fleas fly?
Passenger: No man. Fleas don’t fly; they jump.
Driver: Oh okay. What flies then?
Passenger: Horseflies fly.
Driver: Thanks. I’ve been wonderin’ about that for a while now.

I guess his gears were turning; they just were not that productive. It was worth almost getting hit by that truck just to hear the snippet of conversation .

DVDs DVDs DVDs

I moved to South Philly a couple of months ago, and I am loving it. Not only is rent cheaper, but the area is just teeming with interesting characters. Every day, when I walk on Broad Street, I pass a Dunkin’ Donuts. The front of the store seems to have become a hangout for local ne’er-do-wells. They stand around or sit on their requisitioned milk crates. Always present is a dirty, disheveled, bald man selling bootleg DVDs that he keeps in a satchel. Now, I don’t know how the bootleg DVD market operates. I did see that episode of Seinfeld, though. I imagine that in New York City, it is out in the open. This Dunkin’ Donuts DVD man, however, is running a covert operation. He paces around, somewhat erratically, on the sidewalk mumbling, “DVDs DVDs DVDs.” He always trails off by the third one so as not to draw attention to himself. It is almost as if he is working for somebody in a thankless job and does not really care if anyone hears him because he gets paid even if he does not sell anything. Once, I stopped in the Dunkin Donuts, and while I was waiting in line, the DVD man came in for some coffee. I noticed that as he waited in line, he kept mumbling his advertisement for DVDs, almost as if it was some sort of tic. Another time, I actually got to see him roping in a customer. He opened his satchel to display his library. For a bag full of bootleg DVDs, his selection was atrocious. I have never heard of any of his movies. I saw one called Fist and another called Flagrant Fowl: The True Story of Big Bird…(Okay, I made that second movie up, but I hope one day it does exist). This guy is doing a half-assed job of selling second tier bootleg DVDs. I do not foresee him ever moving his way up in the organization.

Stay tuned for more…

An Amazing Wedding With Fashionable Eyeglasses

I have been busy studying for and taking exams, but my brain could only take so much algebra in one sitting. So I took various breaks and spent time catching up on recapping the events of this summer. This installment will describe to you in horrifyingly exquisite detail the events surrounding the marriage of my cousin Zaid to Denise, a girl he met somewhere. Actually, she should be described as a lady. She is really cool, and I am glad to add her to my pantheon of cousins.

I arrived in Houston on July 2. The air was already thick with anticipation. I arrived in the late evening, so we went straight home for sleep. There was plenty of family business packed into the run up to the wedding. This was not small business, either. It was the merger of two large, multinational corporations, Zaid-Tec and Allied Denise Inc. They had been in merger talks for a while, and there had been rampant speculation on the internet (originating from me mostly) as to the particulars of this momentous occasion. Eventually, invitations arrived and the day of reckoning rapidly approached.

On July 3, I had only two missions in my life. First, I needed to study for my exams. Second, I needed to make sure I had a complete outfit. Never in my life have I consciously or willingly put an outfit together for anything. However, this event was of such huge import that I set aside the no outfit policy. One month prior, I had purchased a suit and left it to be altered by a local tailor. It now perfectly conforms to all of my delicate curves. After deciding on the best color shirt and tie, I left the house on a quest to find these things. I visited all the major clothing retailers in the area (Steinmart, Kohls, J.C. Penney, Montgomery Ward, Woolworths, Sears, K-Mart, Walmart, Target, Palais Royal, etc) before finally settling on a shirt at Macy’s. I purchased the shirt from a matronly woman named Rhonda who was pressuring me to sign up for a Macy’s credit card. I borrowed a tie from my father.

Since I had studied all morning, by the time I had acquired the shirt, it was time to go home and cook dinner. Mother was slated to head out to the boonies to attend one of those engagement shower parties with high levels of lady-business occurring. I would be hanging out with my father. Dinner was low key, and we watched a Lifetime made-for-TV movie about a woman who is victimized by all the men in her life until some other women help her and then everything turns out okay except that men are evil.

On July 4, I was suddenly informed that I would be attending an evening of tasty desserts and Iraqi tea at my Aunt and Uncle’s house. This would be in celebration of the actual wedding ceremony, which had taken place earlier in the day in a high security, ultra private affair in a clandestine location. Just like any corporate merger, the actual signing of the documents is attended only by the top officers from both companies. I was completely unaware of this tasty dessert party, and I had not packed any proper dessert tasting pants or any of my formal dessert bibs. Again, I spent much of the day studying; but at some point, I had to make an unscheduled trip to a clothing store on the birthday of our hugely awesome nation taking advantage of discounts while also stimulating the economy. It was the most patriotic thing I have done since eating that cake with American flag frosting three years ago.

We decided to be fashionably late to the tasty dessert party, and thus arrived there a bit after 8:00PM. The house was already full of people with whom I share sanguineous relationships. As we walked in the door, we were greeted by Zaid and Denise who were both descending the staircase, hand in hand. They seemed quite happy and quite married. I met Zaid at the bottom, and I asked him if he was really married. Zaid did not speak. He let his hand answer in the affirmative for him. On his left ring finger was a band forged from precious metals meant to symbolize the execution of the legally binding wedding agreement. I then turned my attention to my newest cousin, Denise. I congratulated her. Denise then told me that she expected me to write extensively about this marriage on my website. That is what I am doing in this very entry, Denise. As you can see, I am establishing myself as faithful, reliable cousin as I commit this description of your nuptials to text as fast as I can.

After Denise and I had communicated pleasantries to one another, she shockingly busted out with a juicy piece of Zaid-related gossip. She made remarks about Zaid’s clothing accessory choice. I laughed. Zaid quickly broke into our conversation with his classic, “hey now,” that he frequently says when someone points out something unusual about his clothing (such as repeatedly wearing the same shirt to multiple Thanksgivings). He pointed out that she had just told me to report everything on the website. I am a nice guy and quite afraid of Denise’s wrath, so I will avoid passing along the gossip; instead, I will just make up something. Let’s see…the suit Zaid was wearing that evening was made from baby seals, which Zaid hunted himself….with a club. That’s right, you read it here first. Therefore it must be true…

I realized that there were an overwhelming number of relatives with whom to talk: uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, bespectacled and mustachioed individuals purporting to be distant relatives, etc. I wanted to talk with everybody, to exchange information and have frank discussions about the current issues affecting our family. It was quite difficult, though. There were a few highlights. I got to hug Aunt Lisa and Cousin Stephanie. I also made eye contact with Uncle Doug. That was a real growth step for me. I usually cannot look at him in the face because he was so frightening to me as a child. When he was my boss, he was quite a tyrant, too. He’s always been a bit of an ogre, as it relates to our interactions. I got to see Aunt Maggie and hear about her wonderful trip to Greece. She was also excited to hear about my impending trip to Northern Spain. My Cousin Georgia got in on this action, too. Cousin Danny and I talked about his latest housing concerns as well as his newest gigs. I also finally got to commune with my Aunt (and God-Momma) Tina. It was touch and go at first because of some recent trouble I caused here, but all was forgiven. I chatted with Moe and caught up with Yasser about the recent move to Pittsburgh. We have all been living in the same state but have been too busy to actually see one another. I told him that I would tentatively plan to take a train to see them after taking my exams.

I also got to meet Zaid’s best man and closest confidant, Tony. Zaid represented to Tony that I live my life in an unorthodox manner, which is a complete fabrication. Tony and I chatted for a while, during which I somehow misunderstood that he had gone to psychic school before getting hired at an architecture firm, learning the ropes on the job, and rising to become the lead architect. I commented on how unusual that life-job trajectory was, and after about ten minutes, Tony informed me that he was a computer architect with a degree in Psychology. Boy was my face red (from too much makeup). To extricate myself from this uncomfortable situation, I quickly distracted him with something shiny and excused myself to the Iraqi tea station. I love this tea, as much for the taste as for the process by which it is made. Simply marvelous!

After a while, it was time to cut the pre-wedding cake. Zaid and Denise cut the cake together, though I got the impression that most of the cutting was done by Denise. She has great knife handling skills. Zaid seemed to have some trouble, so Denise helped him while making it seem like she was just holding his hand for romantic reasons. After cake had been distributed, I got some more Iraqi tea and retreated to the front sitting room to chat with some San Antonio relatives. Mother and godmother were catching up on the latest health food juice products. Mother was really making the hard sell about this new juice called Xorpatron, which is supposed to clean your blood. After a while, it was time to leave. We bid farewell to the bride and groom.

It was July 5. I was excited. I had heard credible rumors that there would be tender, juicy, sliced roast beef served with horseradish sauce at the reception. This is my absolute favorite wedding food. Every time I eat it, I smile and think to myself, “this must have been what it was like when J.P. Morgan attended a wedding…” Cake would also be plentiful. Of course, the bridal wedding cake was sure to be an architectural feat of engineering since my uncle was trained as an architect in college. The groomiary cake would likely also be wonderful, though more modest, as tradition always dictates. At the appointed hour, we arrived at the galleria area hotel where the reception would take place. A valet took our car. I felt very pompous. We entered the reception room, and oh it was a grand affair. Cocktail hour was being held in a fabulously appointed holding room. At the center was an ice sculpture. I was tempted to touch it, perhaps even chip off a bit, but I remember how everyone seemed upset at the last wedding when I did that. Zaid and Denise were nowhere to be found. It turned out they would be presented to us later in the evening, once we were seated at our eating tables, just prior to the succulent roast beef with horseradish sauce.

However, despite the fact that the bride and groom would not be presented until later, there were plenty of people whose company I was happy to enjoy. Most of my family was there…

Unfortunately, my grandmother was ill, so she did not make the trip over, which was hugely disappointing. However, I did get to talk with her on the phone, and she seemed like she was going to be on the mend. I reminded her that when all was better we would get to work on our latest restaurant idea, Yiaya’s Papayas: Premium Pizza and Auto Body Repair While You Get Your Nails Done.

It was really great to get a chance to talk to everybody and wear my new outfit. I looked fantastic. Well, maybe that is a strong word. I looked okay…well, decent…okay let’s say not hideous. Since Cousin Daniel is preparing to enter his high school years, and Stephanie just finished the first of hers, I gave them some classic, Kirk-advice on how to stay out of trouble and advance their interests. After distributing a round of opinions to family members, I walked over to talk with my former boss and mentor, who was there with his wife and kids. It was then time to get place cards and see who my company would be for the next few hours.

The doors to the main dining area opened and attendants beckoned us to enter and take our seats. I found myself at a table with Mother, some cousins, Aunt Lisa, and Uncle Doug. Somehow he made it to the table first. When he saw me walking toward our table, he pulled my chair out with a look on his face that said, “You’re mine for the next few hours; prepare for some emotional discomfort.” I knew this night was about to get more interesting. Each table had lavish floral centerpieces which made it difficult to converse with people across the table. It was almost as if Lisa, Doug, Stephanie, and I were in our own little club inside a flower forest. Even though I could see Daniel and almost see Alex, they were not part of the club because of floral overhang. I would later find out that the flowers were awfully potent, almost overwhelmingly so.

A man interjected his presence into our little club to ask if I wanted wine. I told him that I did not and he took a bunch of my stemware away from me. I was displeased. While we waited for the succulent roast beef with horseradish sauce, we snacked on Jordan almonds, which had been strewn about the table. This also provided a distraction for Doug to keep his interaction with me to a minimum. He kept stating his intentions to box my ears before noticing more Jordan almonds on the table and eating them.

Suddenly, the doors swung back open and Cousin Reem walked in carrying a basket of flowers. As she led the way, the newly christened Mr. and Mrs. Zaid and Denise Zeeblemeyer walked through the door. They were glowing with wonderful radiance. Reem parted the masses and enforced the no-touching-the-couple policy. They weaved through the tables throwing out smiles and greetings while exuding a flashy fabulousness not seen in Houston since the seventies. I was able to snap a quick picture of Zaid and Denise as they passed, but they were moving quickly. Both are quite athletic and can move like snakes on a plane. Eventually, they found their way to the dance floor area. A pair of chairs, specially adorned for the occasion, was placed at the edge of the dance floor for Zaid and Denise to sit in to receive well wishers. My understanding is that these seats were traditional “marriage chairs”. The life of a newly minted married couple is not all country roses and golden idols. They are essentially out there on display for the people, and everyone wants to come up and interject their two cents about how wondrous this occasion is. Zaid and Denise sat patiently receiving everybody. At the far end of the room, the tasty roast beef with fresh horseradish sauce sat, beckoning the newly weds and the guests. Zaid had ordered me to take pictures of the reception during the previous evening’s tasty dessert gathering, so I did my duty, snapping pictures all along the way.

I seated myself, taking an opportunity for some respite. Doug had wandered away with Georgia’s recently de-mustachioed husband, John. I talked with Aunt Lisa about the new computers at her job, and I tried to give more mentoring advice to my younger cousins. Then it was time for the first dance. I cannot remember what song they chose, but it was beautiful. Zaid and Denise danced for masses, for the masses demanded it. After the dancing, we were ordered to return to our seats. A disembodied voice from above told us to remain seated and that we would be dismissed by table to get in the roast beef line. Was it a deity? Maybe the atheists were wrong. I was sure the answer was “yes,” but Doug spoiled my belief system by pointing out it was the disc jockey. He loves to put the mental screws to my psyche. At some point before our number was actually announced, people at our table suggested that perhaps we should already have gotten in the roast beef line. That did not seem right at all since none of the tables around us had been dismissed to get their food. However, the call of tender roast beef with horseradish sauce overrode my sense of honor in this situation. Thus, we dismissed ourselves to the food line. People were yelling at us along the way, but we deflected their criticisms and got in line.

I finally got another opportunity to chat with Aunt Tina as we advanced in line. Since we had resolved the controversies between us from the previous day, we were able to have a healthy godmother-godson talk. We exchanged information until we arrived at the food distribution section of the food line. There were various salads and side dishes. I looked to my left and saw the object of my affection, the sliced roast beef with horseradish sauce station. There was man with a long, sharp knife ready to cut some meat for me on command. I made a mental note not to upset the guy lest he begin slicing at me. Aunt Tina informed me about how much she loved this type of roast beef. I nodded and told her I thought it was okay. I did not think it was appropriate to acknowledge my weakness for such a lavish food in front of my godmother. She might have gotten the impression that I have been traipsing around town with the Philadelphia horsy set. I asked for and received a healthy slab of the wonderful meat, and over the top I poured the wonderful horseradish sauce. At that moment, I reached a religious Zen-like state in the church of meat worship.

As I sat down at the table to consume these victuals, noticed that Zaid and Denise were circulating around the banquet hall, talking with people as they ate. It was then that I truly recognized the genius of their plan. They would ply us with sumptuous roast beef with spicy horseradish sauce and then take that opportunity to accept our congratulations. That way no guest would be able to truly talk the bride and groom’s ears off with unnecessarily bloated congratulations. Why talk when there’s meat on the plate to be ate. As I enjoyed the meat, the newlyweds made their way to our table. Zaid asked if I had been taking pictures. We shook hands like men, and Zaid moved on to Doug. Denise then stood over me and smiled. She grabbed my shoulder with surprising strength. She is quite mighty. I won’t lie, it hurt quite a bit. She told me that she had always liked me and thought of me as a good, upstanding individual. She reiterated that she wanted to see me write things about the wedding on the website, but that I better not write anything too outlandish or scandalous. My eyes were watering from the vice nerve pinch she had placed on my shoulder pressure points. After she walked away, someone asked why I was crying. I lied and stated that I had eaten too much horseradish sauce. It was a good cover.

I ate enough food for three Vikings, all the while remaining wary of Doug’s demeanor. There were two wedding guests not of our family at the table (old friends of my aunt and uncle). They clearly saw the fear I had of Doug and inquired as to the nature of our relationship. I tried to put a nice spin on my Doug related interactions, but later I secretly informed them of his scariness. They told me that is was going to be okay and reminded me that since I live in Philadelphia and am now an adult, his reign of terror should finally be over. They were right. He’s not so scary any more.

Suddenly it was time to slice some cake. The masses huddled around the wedding cake station. I elbowed by way to a good position in the front with my camera in hand. The cutting setup was similar to the previous night, except the cake towered over everybody and was much more lavish. Zaid and Denise held the knife together. Of course, as I wrote before, Denise is quite a knife wielder. She was able to steady Zaid’s hand and provide the necessary strength and determination to cut that cake. After the cutting, they dispensed with what I consider one of the most important parts of the reception. Zaid did not force feed cake to Denise. This was highly unorthodox. This tradition is representative of the groom asserting his dominance in the marriage. Instead, Zaid and Denise ate their respective pieces of cake while sipping on fine champagne. Then Denise did something shocking. She forced Zaid to eat cake. It was a total reversal. How could Zaid let this happen? He tried to recover a few minutes later, but it was too late. Denise had asserted her dominance, setting the tone for years of the marriage.

After the cake cutting exercise concluded, attendants began delivering the cake to the tables. It was standard wedding cake fare with light icing. I quite like that kind of cake. Around that time, Zaid’s best man Tony stood on the dance floor with a microphone in hand. It was time for the highly anticipated bestmanular speech. Tony talked about how he and Zaid first met fore making subtle references to various troubles they had created for themselves. For example, they tried to sneak off to New Orleans Mardi Gras, but were foiled at the last minute when a third member of the group (whom we will call Willard) expressed excitement over the impending drive to New Orleans to my uncle Nabil. Thus ended the quest to Mardi Gras, before it ever began. Willard was expelled from Zaid’s friendship organization. Tony concluded his speech and slowly back away from the stage. He was followed by the maid of honor, whose name I never got. She had a red dress. She told everyone that they had to sit down before she would start her speech. Once everyone was seated at the correct table, she began to speak about the closeness she and Denise share, rivaling that of sisters. It was a touching tribute to the friendship.

The maid of honor’s speech was the last structured activity of the evening. It was now time for the freestyle dancing. Zaid and Denise had brought in this singer who would do twenty minute songs where he would continuously sing dance type tunes. He had pipes rivaling Ethel Mermon. In between his performances, popular music would be played by the deejay. We really tore up the dance floor. It was quite a blast. My Great Aunt Maggie got out there and really showed that we have been blessed with excellent genes. Mother was out there as was I. As it got close to midnight, it was time to leave. Soon, our automobile would turn back into a pumpkin, and my glass loafers would disappear. I was not sad to leave, though, because I felt that I had sufficiently cut the rug and showed off my dance skills. Thus we asked the valet to fetch our automobile and left the hotel.

The following morning, a final breakfast was slated to take place at the hotel. I went back on my own since Mother was plum tuckered out from the affair. I enjoyed one more morning with my San Antonio relatives. Barclay and Kristi left with my cousins to visit NASA. Daniel and Alexandra headed back to San Antonio. Lisa left with Stephanie to do whatever it is they felt the need to do. I stayed to watch Wimbledon with Aunt Maggie, Cousin Georgia, and Aunt Tina until it was time to send them off to the airport. In the meantime, Georgia told me that Aunt Madeline had given us permission to take the centerpieces. She suggested I load them into Mother’s car and drive them around to the local family members. In all, I collected about ten centerpieces of various sizes and stashed them in Mother’s car. I bid farewell to everybody, and began driving to Doug and Lisa’s house to deposit a few of the arrangements. It turns out that when one collects large numbers of freshly cut, potent flowers in a small enclosed area, the pheromones really can be overwhelming. As I drove, I began to feel both sick and dizzy yet strangely amorous, and I was not sure why. After a few minutes I realized that the pungent aroma of the flowers while beautiful was also deadly, much like when a beautiful female assassin wears perfume. I opened the windows which dramatically improved the driving conditions in that car. The water in the arrangement vases overflowed onto the cars carpets, but I was able to clean that mess up without Mother really realizing what had happened. As long as she does not read this website, everything should be okay. If she does read this far in the story, she will probably give me a stern talking-to, but I will have deserved it.

Zaid and Denise began their honeymoon in Spain a couple of days later. By complete coincidence, I also went to Spain a few days after that, though we were never in the same place. That is the start of another story.

When I reflect on the theme of this wedding, I keep coming back to that tasty, succulent, tender roast beef and horseradish sauce. I have come to realize that the roast beef with horseradish sauce is a metaphor for Zaid and Denise. Separately, roast beef is just a flavorful cooked meat while horseradish sauce is something I like and frequently drink before bedtime. However, together, they form one of the most wonderful foods known to man. Similarly, Zaid and Denise are fairly cool people. They have good jobs. Denise used to work for Transformers (her boss was Optimus Prime). I had plenty of respect for them. However, together they can now be termed a “super couple,” greater than the sum of their parts. Maybe I am just reading way too much into all of this.

Congratulations Zaid and Denise. I hope you (Denise) realize what you have gotten yourself into by joining our family.

A little more than one year ago, I decided to engage in a year-long social science experiment to test a hypothesis. My friend Johnny Porn is Thai of Chinese descent. I am Jewish with a Greco-Russian background. Questions arose. Could these two people coexist in one apartment for a whole year? Could they increase their cross-cultural understanding? Certainly such questions are not unprecedented. The Jews and Asian immigrants have long found unity in The States. Jewish people frequently eat at Chinese restaurants on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. However, that is just one night’s dinner. Johnny and I decided to up the ante. I hypothesized that we could live together while gaining a better understanding of one another’s cultures, and he was willing to be part of this grand experiment. We planned to apply knowledge gleaned from this study to ease the tensions between Israel and Thailand, which have been engaged in a yearlong cold war over an incident involving some matzo ball soup, some Thai tea, a photo of The King, and a clumsy Rabbi (Finklestein).

Johnny and I moved into an Italian Market apartment last July 15. For more than a year, we went about our business. Coexistence was relatively peaceful, though not without the occasional conflict. Johnny is a mercurial character with a temper that leads him to spew biting remarks and open handed slaps that linger like napalm. He would frequently lose it over trivial stuff, e.g. he does not like is his tooth paste to be used to clean the toilet bowl; he does not like it when my prize rottweiler, Spanky, rolls around in his bed; he does not like it when I write “return to sender” on his mail and hand it back to the postman. Basically, Mr. Porn is a man who has always gotten his way. The moment I started rattling his cage, his temper became much more violent. Aside from this one snag, however, we ran a good, efficient household. It does not appear, though, that we understand each other any more than when we first took possession of the apartment. He could not grasp the concept of the large, Jewish cracker known as the matzo; and that box of Thai stuff, what the hell was that all about? It was just too confusing. Surprisingly, we have remained friends throughout this tumultuous year. Though my hypothesis was proven false, we did show that despite the cultural differences and emotional abuse, peaceful coexistence is possible. This reflects positively on the prospects of the American melting pot.

Celebrating the Departure and Impending Nuptials of Homer and Mary, a.k.a. HoMary

When I first moved to Philadelphia, I really did not know anybody. The one exception to this statement was good ol’ Homer. I grew up with Homer and his brother Granville in Houston, and Homer was up here doing Teach on Behalf of America. He immediately introduced me to his close lady-friend Mary, and we became cordially acquainted. Homer and Mary were always inviting me to things and mingling me with their teacher associates. Mary was always there to poke at my side fat for her own amusement and to constantly remind me that my erstwhile beard was a disgusting abomination to mankind. She also was thoroughly fascinated with my childhood ventriloquist dummy, Mr. Boopie. I have enjoyed our frank exchanges of ideas, and if nothing else comes from my move to Philadelphia, I acquired two close friends. They, along with my cousins, the Barrerases, made my relocation to Philadelphia much easier.

However, there is an old saying in my family (attributed to my Russian ancestor Nerwin Soodhalter) that all pleasant things must get to a point where they can no longer be described in the present tense. These words are quite applicable to the situation involving Homer, Mary, and the fair City of Brotherly Love. Homer took Mary to a mountain area and now they are betrothed to one another. They got jobs in Chicago, and they have now left Philadelphia forever. I just got back from Spain, so I have had little time to even process this information. However, I did make it back in time to attend a party in honor of all this news. Above are the pictures of what occurred. My lens caught no scandal, only happiness. I will look forward to paying them a visit in Chicago. HoMary, thanks for making my first two years in Philadelphia interesting and entertaining.

I just moved to a new apartment in South Philadelphia.  It is about fifteen blocks south of my current location in the Italian Market.  I had heard good things about the businesses in the area, so I decided to take a stroll to see what sort of restaurants and shops are located there.  I saw this clothing shop called Man Magic, or something of that effect.  I walked inside.  After a moment, the manager or owner approached me to ask if I needed help.  He had a heavily South Philly accent.  I asked him what sort of clothes he was selling.  He waved his unnaturally tanned arm to indicate that the following sentence would tell me about 75% of the store’s offerings. He then explained that much of the attire he sells is linen.  It has been so hot lately that I had been thinking of purchasing some linen, so I was initially excited.  The proprietor then leaned toward me and whispered that, “the linen’s for the blacks…”  I was a bit surprised.  I was not sure if that was some sort of common stereotype.  I looked around, and there were many black customers browsing the store.  The owner continued in a slightly derisive tone, “They wear a lot of it at their linen parties, or whatever…”

Honestly, I do not even know what that means.  I politely looked at some of the clothes and left.  I told my old roommate, Johnny Porn, and his fiancée, Ms. Blivion, about this odd encounter, trying to make some sense of this man’s assertion.  What, exactly, is a linen party?  I assume the man was asserting that black people get together, all wearing linen, to talk about linen and linen accessories.  Perhaps there is some sort of large, linen enthusiast organization of which I am not aware.  A linen party might be like a Tupperware party, where an organizer hosts the event to show everyone the latest in linen products.  I wish I could have asked the store owner to elaborate, but there was no good way to ask without bringing attention to the fact that I was questioning his worldview (that black people have parties centered on the fact that attendees are wearing linen).

I had time to think about it on an airplane recently, and I recalled a conversation I had with my friend and cohort, McMillain.  He suggested that when people put forth, or repeat as second hand, stereotypes and rumors, they are substituting lazy acceptance of an idea for critical thinking.  Now, this is probably something true about all sorts of stereotypes and backward ideas, but it is still a good point worth considering.  McMillain and I were discussing the whispering rumor campaign that exists on the internet about Barack Obama, asserting that the presumptive Democratic nominee attended an extremist madrassa in his childhood so that he could grow up to become a secret Muslim, radical black power Christian who is a Harvard educated liberal elitist that is too much of a wimp to fight our terrorist enemies, with whom he sympathizes.  There was an email that was circulated with the picture of Obama in the Kenyan garb, probably made of linen.  I know people who are otherwise intelligent human beings, capable of critical thought, who have bought into these rumors without question.  I wondered aloud to McMillain about how people could buy into these preposterous internet rumors.  My conclusion after our discussion is that, at its core, this phenomenon boils down to intellectual laziness.  In the base of the Barack rumors, I think there are two different undercurrents at play.  There are a few of us who still have a bit of latent racial prejudice in their hearts.  For them, buying into these rumors is an easy way to lend a voice to the exhortations of their inner core without explicitly expressing the racial prejudice.  For the vast majority, though, it is just easier to credulously believe these wild rumors than to exercise any sort of critical thought about Barack Obama’s message or policy opinions.  This is unfortunate, because as much as I like Barack Obama, there are things he says with which I do not agree, and it is rare that media humans actually analyze his ideas in detail.  They prefer to talk about flag pins.

Linen affinity and contradictory political rumors are not the only places I have seen this type of laziness interject itself into the civil discourse.  I was in a dentist’s chair waiting to have my mouth inspected when I picked up a Newsweek magazine.  One of the articles inside was about an alternative search engine.  N’Gai Croal had written about how, since Google judge’s a page’s importance and relevance based on the behavior of the majority, minority searchers have to look toward the fourth or fifth result in a Google result list.  A start up, using old search data, organized searcher interest by geographic location, then overlaid that with racial demographic data to rank pages based on the behavior of folks from predominantly African American areas of the country.

I do not know enough about this technology to know if this is a good idea or even feasible in the long run.  It sounds interesting, and seems to be a challenging problem to solve for a developer.  However, some of the author’s assumptions seem a bit flawed.  At one point he writes:

For example, when users in an area with a large black population, like Atlanta, do a search for “Whitney,” they are more likely to be looking for the singer Whitney Houston or the civil-rights activist Whitney M. Young than for, say, the Whitney Museum, which might be choice No. 1 for users in an area with a large white population, like Boise, Idaho.

Now this is certainly an odd statement.  It is a strange line to draw.  White people like museums; black people like entertainers and civil rights figures.  Of course, since racial populations are strictly homogeneous, the primarily white population of Boise, Idaho is just chock full of museum connoisseurs based on that whiteness.  Atlanta is all about Whitney and her “Crack is Whack” agenda. People from the boonies in Iowa are all over the Smithsonian while our neighbors in Camden, New Jersey are all over - oh, I don’t know - Will Smith.  We could play this game all day.  The fact of the matter is, outside of New York City, few people probably know what the Whitney Museum is.  I barely know.  Most of this country is celebrity and pop culture obsessed.  As far as Idaho goes, Boiseians are not exactly clamoring for information about the Whitney Museum.  If there is a museum they are looking up on Google, it is the National Potato Museum or, perhaps, that museum with the collection of 4,500 potatoes that bear a resemblance to Richard Nixon.  It is sad, but most people in this country would probably be searching for Whitney Houston rather than the Whitney Museum.  We are quite focused on the wacky adventures of wayward celebrities.  In fact, I am thinking about Whitney Houston right now.    I do not have to search for her because I have all my Whitney sites bookmarked.  I often wonder if she will be able to get it together.  I also wonder if she would like it if I change how I comb my hair.  Also, why won’t she respond to my letters and emails herself?  It is always her lawyer yapping about how I should ‘cease and desist.’  If she wants me to cease and desist, she should cease and desist pulling on my heartstrings with her velvety crooning.  Anyhow…

As I write about these lazy assumptions I have encountered, I do not want to appear to be sitting on some moral high horse.  I have spent much of my life understanding the world through the lens my own set of lazy assumptions.  Most of the time, I have gotten away with it, but there have been times when these assumptions have gotten me into a large heap of trouble.

I made a blanket assumption that almost ruined my budding friendship with professional bodybuilder, Deena Barton.  Deena is the reigning United States “most rippling quadriceps” champion.  I met Deena at the Center City Borders book store where she was autographing copies of her newest, New Jersey Questioner Best Selling book, Legs Like Pythons.  I was actually at the store shopping in the self-help section for books on how to deal with the emotional problems associated with having embarrassing foot odor.  I was buying the books for a friend.  I thought I was in the checkout line, but it turned out that I was in a line for getting autographs.  When I got to the front of the line,  I knew who she was immediately from her brilliant commentating during ESPN’s coverage of  AARP Presents: National Geriatric Body Building.  I was surprised when she actually knew my name.  It turns out that she has the same agent as Whitney Houston, and that agent had been talking about me and showing all his clients my picture, for some reason.  We chatted for a minute before she formally introduced herself and extended her hand for shaking.  I refused, stating that I did not want her disgusting body builder grease to get on my expensive shirt.  She was quite offended.  Deena explained that female bodybuilders greasing themselves up every morning to prepare for impromptu super pose down competitions is simply a hurtful stereotype.  They she started crying.  It was odd, because as she cried, her over developed facial and neck muscles were rippling in unison with her sobs.  I did not know what to do.  I don’t handle people crying too well.  So, I started crying.  Then I gave her a hug.  There was no discernible grease, so I felt like a fool.  We ended up having coffee after she was done signing books, and she turned out to be pretty cool.  I still exchange emails with Deena every now and then, though it is difficult because she is busy with her training, competitions, and television commitments while I am toiling in math graduate school and emailing Whitney Houston.

As you can see from my totally true story, lazy assumptions can hurt people.  Even the hyper muscular can be effected.  This is not to say that all lazy assumptions are completely false.  Sometimes we make an assumption based on a personal experience which does not apply to the general situation.

I used to think all Greek girls had mustaches.  I did not come up with this idea out of left field.  It was rooted in a romance I carried on in my slightly younger days.  I stated earlier that I have all Whitney Houston related sites bookmarked.  When I do a Google search for ‘Whitney’, then, for whom am I looking?  It is for Whitney Koulagrasis, a Greek girl I knew from the Greek Community Center.  She had the most amazing lady-mustache.  I could get lost in that thing for hours.  Sometimes, we would be talking as I stared into her hirsute upper lip, and I would realize that a huge chunk of pastitsio was still lodged in its folds.  I would point it out, and she would retrieve the food.  She worked at the local auction house, with her many bearded coworkers.  She was such a lovely young lady.  However, the romance was not meant to last.  I enrolled at Tulane University, and she married a wealthy Mediterranean oil baron.  She never looked back.  This began a pattern in my life which persists to this day.  Every woman I have fancied has left me for an industrial magnate.  Anyhow…

I guess my conclusion through all of this is that we need to examine our lazy assumptions.  First, we should ask how they came to form in our minds.  Was it from a political SPAM email or from a website?  Did it come from an idea we formed in our heads from the ether to explain the harsh, confusing worlds to ourselves as children?  Perhaps the idea came from a particular encounter in the past which was unwisely generalized.  Once such an examination has taken place, we can get past these small minded notions and more accurately understand the world in which we live.  Perhaps that South Philly store owner will realize that anybody can wear linen and enjoy the company of other linen enthusiasts at a linen party.  It has nothing to do with race.

Summer is moving quickly.  June is already over, and much has happened. I have photographed some of these events, and I present them here for the general consumption.  As always, you can navigate to this page to see the pictures posted most recently.

Bouncing Around Philly Looking for Trouble

Iron Chef Morimoto’s Minions Prepare Delectable Delights for Me and My Cohorts

Cousin Alejandra Storms New York for a Post Graduation Victory Jaunt

Cell Phone Pics