The New York Times recently published an article by Alice Randall, who is an educator at Vandervilt, claiming that “four out of five black women are seriously overweight” because, among other reasons, it’s “a part of black culture” to be fat. It’s a conscious choice they make. She claims that many black men worry that their women’s weight will drop below 200 pounds.

They’re also making a political statement. A “…fat black woman can be a rounded opposite of the fit black slave.” Their fatness is “an explicit political statement and active political resistance.”

To her credit, she goes on to say that the black community is in crisis and that weight reduction needs to be made a priority. But I am aghast at this foolish intellectualization of the problem. Only an academic would come up with this kind of dizzy, misguided logic. I’m going to take a walk down to the Fulton Mall in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, and ask the fattest black woman I can find if she’s worried that losing weight will remind her of slavery.

The quasi-liberal in me is squirming at my keyboard. I’ve been conditioned to feel that any criticism of the black community equates to racism. Here in New York, you can be the most ardent supporter of Israel (Which I am. It’s the only true Democracy in the middle east) but if you hazard to suggest that, perhaps, the West Bank land grab isn’t in anyone’s best interest, you’re made to feel like an anti-Semite. Pretty clever.

The EXACT SAME DAY, the Times printed an article about Katherine Ziegler, who is a Wantologist. Do you know what Wantology is? Wantology is a new psychological practice that therapists and life coaches apply to help their patients figure out what they want in life. Through this miracle of science, “Dr.” Ziegler was able to help one of her clients figure out that she wanted a bigger house.

The whole idea of a life coach has always made me kind of snicker, and this Wantology scam is the cherry on top. Do you know who has the disposable income and free time to employ life coaches and Wantologists? Wealthy, white, navel-gazers on the upper east side who have it so soft and easy that they can afford the luxury of introspection. Can you imagine things going so well that you got the blues because you couldn’t figure out what you wanted in life? Personally, I’m too busy trying to insure that the mortgage gets paid on time. Once again, the Times distinguishes itself.

This canine has stolen my daughters away from me. I still don’t have any warm feelings towards her, but I’m trying.

When it’s nice outside, I like to spend my lunch hour in Central Park. It can provide an instant and miraculous change of attitude after a stressful morning. It’s peaceful. It really is!

There are a few specific benches I like to occupy. One is by the pond near 59th Street. Another is in a bit deeper near Wollman Rink. I’ll read a book or text/chat with friends. It’s the quickest hour of my day.

I also like to sit near the 6th Avenue entrance and watch the tourists. They congregate there to rent bicycles or hire a Pedicab. They’re such a happy bunch! And why not? They’re on vacation.

You can also hire a handsome carriage, which is the quintessential Central Park experience. From my bench, I watch the plumed horses parade by and I catch snippets of the driver’s rehearsed Central Park history lesson. Why is a driver with an Irish accent more compelling to listen to that the others?

But what do we have here? Surrounded by friends and riding through Central Park on a beautiful, perfect, blue afternoon, he would rather BURY HIS FACE IN HIS iPAD than soak it all in.

I couldn’t believe it. I watched as they slowly passed by with my big stupid mouth agape. He wasn’t taking photos. He never looked up once. Why would you even bring the damn thing with you?! And those carriage rides aren’t cheap. They’ll set you back about $80 bucks. He might just as well have stayed in his hotel room alone with his iPad. Or home. This isn’t even the worst case. Yesterday, I saw a father and his young son in a carriage and Dear Old Dad never once looked up from his cell phone. It’s what gave me the idea for this post. Seriously, earthlings, if we don’t change our ways, we’re doomed.

I recently finished re-reading Nabokov’s Lolita. I read it many years ago when I was in my 20s and remember it being not only astonishingly well written but also unexpectedly funny. Now that I have a 10-year old daughter, I didn’t think it was so goddamn funny. I was still impressed with how well it’s written. Some of the sentences are so perfectly constructed that I had to read them a few times before moving on.

The problem is the book’s reputation. A friend sent me an article about how difficult it is to design cover artwork that accurately reflects the story. Many of the jackets, and also the Stanley Kubrick movie from 1962, depict Lolita as a little sexpot. That is not the case at all. The story is much more horrible than that. She’s a 12-year old child who is held captive and repeatedly raped. It’s pretty rough stuff. “…and her sobs in the night—every night, every night—the moment I feigned sleep.” What the hell was I thinking when I first read it? How did I ever get the impression it was funny?

This is the lead from a story on the front page of the real estate section of the Sunday New York Times:

Charlene and Jon Simonian were longtime renters, occasionally looking for a place to buy. They got serious, but everything in Manhattan seemed too expensive. Until they found a three-bedroom condo at 1280 Fifth avenue. They bought it for $1,525,000, and moved in last spring.

Is it the Simonian’s textbook narcissism that I’m so annoyed at? [The article included a photo of them holding cups of tea and another of them on their balcony overlooking Central Park.] Their need to tell their tale in a public forum of a struggle against almost insurmountable odds? Their triumph over adversity? Thank heavens they found something within their meager budget. Good for you, Charlene and Jon! We all celebrate your success!

Or is it the New York Times itself, who likes to fancy itself as a populist publication and a champion for the common good, but then prints tripe like this?

Or is it my own insecurity? The fact that I will never have the wherewithal to plant my clan in a $1.5 million home?

I suspect it might be a combination of the three. I can tell you one thing for certain; it doesn’t go well with coffee and a Hostess Ho-Ho on a Sunday morning.

I promise this is the last time I’ll prattle on about Las Vegas. It was three weeks ago and I need to move on. I know. You don’t have to say anything. But there was magic at my fingertips. I keep looking back in my mind’s eye and I can still see it all so clearly. The focus is still sharp. It hasn’t begun to blur yet. This isn’t how I get to live all the time. I’m just regular.

I spent hours lounging on my balcony, day and night, and became lost in thought. This is extraordinary when you consider the fact that crap tables were only an elevator ride away and I am a borderline addict. I memorized the view. They had a nice chair and end table set that made it comfortable and hard to leave. I was entertainingly appalled by the gruesome lights and architecture, the fake Eiffel Tower and the dancing waters.

On my last night in town, I requested a wake-up call for 4:45 a.m. to catch a 7:30 flight. But I couldn’t tear myself away and stayed out there just drifting until 3:30 a.m. It was a new sensation and I was afraid that if I stood up, opened the sliding door, went to bed and closed my eyes, it would all disappear like vapor. But I have this bright memory. I’m not convinced it’s ever going to go away.

Which is funnier? A man walking out of Port Authority onto 8th Avenue with a long pennant of toilet paper attached to his heel?

Or a grown man walking through a New Jersey mall parking lot who should ask his mommy for help picking out clothes to wear? Ouch! My eyes! Or is this some daring, new fashion statement I’m unaware of? Am I the clueless one? It wouldn’t be the first time.

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I took the do-dads I purchased from the Art-O-Mat and hung them on my desk wall and because I have absolutely NOTHING new to say, I thought I’d post that. I have a flock of paper cranes, the do-dads, an angry bird next to a marble Buddha (a statement on my constant inner conflict) and a backstage pass from a Springsteen concert. Without the splashes of color, it’s just federal penitentiary tan.

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It’s made of colored, angled, aluminum panels and rods. If you stand on the other side of the atrium and look at it in its totality, it’s pretty good stuff.

Approximately 400 artists have been commissioned to create works of art that fit into small white boxes the same size as a pack of cigarettes.

This is Barcode Oprah Winfrey by Scott Blake. It’s a flip book. It starts with Oprah’s big, stupid face and as it gets closer, you see that it’s made entirely of ISBN barcodes. The barcodes are taken from the books that have been recommended by Oprah’s Book Club (the titles of which are listed on the verso pages.) $5 bucks, people! More barcode art here.

Art-O-Mat! Look for one near you.

Me + a wizard