I’ll probably catch a lot of hell for this one but this is *my* sandbox.

I recently read a piece in The New York Times about Bethany Hamilton. She’s a professional surfer who, at 13 years old, had her arm bitten off by a shark while surfing in Hawaii. They made a movie about her.

During the course of the very brief interview, she said the following:

“[The movie] tells of the struggles that me and my family went through after the attack and the passion we have for both surfing and God.”

“I believe in Jesus Christ and I believe he gave me the passion and determination to continue surfing.”

“I…enjoy Bible study and making dinners.”

“[My parents] have encouraged me in my relationship with Jesus Christ and in my passion for surfing.”

10 questions. Four of her answers mentioned Jeebus. When people shoehorn their religious beliefs into every facet of the conversation, they always come off as sounding kind of brainwashed to me. Like they’re stumbling around in a narcotic stupor.

My mother did it the right way. She had a strong bond with the Catholic church but never militantly so. She never berated me for falling away from the church. Never proselytized. And certainly never spewed any of that “Jesus is the only way to heaven” rhetoric. (Somehow, I can’t picture Gandhi in hell.)

If I were Bethany and I had a special relationship with Jesus, I’d ask Him why the hell a shark ate my arm. And, as long as I had his attention, why entire villages were swept out to sea in Japan.

Oh…excuse me…I forgot my place. My catechism classes are long behind me. We are never supposed to ask questions. Keep your head down. Give thanks. I’m a sinner. I believe in the Holy Catholic Church. But don’t ask why.

God gets all the credit, but none of the blame. That’s a pretty sweet deal. How can I swing that at work?

My Bride went to a Ladies Party on Sunday afternoon. A Ladies Party is where someone invites all of her lady friends over and then proceeds to sell them stuff. I think this all started in the 1950s with Tupperware. This time, it was jewelry. Sometimes, it’s clothing or make-up or cleaning products. I take a suspicious view of all this. If I had a bunch of guy friends over for beers and poker and tried to sell them gym memberships, I’d probably get a good swift kick in the nobby-halls.

I gathered The Daughters and escaped into the city. It’s finally starting to become spring-like. I took them to a play in Greenwich Village but before the show we hung out in Washington Square Park for a bit.

I wonder what she was pointing out? I’ll never know.

There’s always a busker or two around. Someone rolled a piano into the park and was played Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue (see pic above). After that we watched a contortionist fold himself into a tiny Plexiglas cube. What a way to make a living! I’ll bet it beats the hell out of sitting at a desk all day. That’s no fun. Take it from me.

I took them to see the sickeningly talented Flying Karamazov Brothers at the Minetta Lane Theater. The Brothers (who aren’t) are world class jugglers and also pretty damn good musicians, dancers and comedians.

I saw their show last fall and had been meaning to take the girls. I read that they’re packing up their flaming torches, pins and tutus and heading off to London, so I got tickets to their last day in New York. As satisfying as ever. UK readers; they’re starting a summer run at the Vaudeville in June. They’ll make you forget all your troubles for :90 minutes, and who couldn’t use that?

Before the show, we were sitting in a booth at a diner on 6th Avenue, me across from the two of them. I sipped my coffee and watched them eat. Two healthy, happy, well behaved, pretty little girls. I looked out the window at a sun-soaked Manhattan. Show tickets in my pocket. A hot meal waiting for us when we got home. Tickets to a top-shelf production of Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors for next week. Can someone tell me where my sanity is?

Why, while possessing all the ingredients for a satisfying life, do I still occasionally want to run someone off the freeway into a bridge abutment if I see them using the cell phone while driving? Why do I allow some people at work to burrow so deep under my skin that I’d like to stick a pencil in their eye? Why do I fret about bull whipping the first person who breaks my daughter’s heart (which, let’s face it, is inevitable)? Is this part of the human condition or is it my singular madness?

New Yorkers constantly moan and complain about the sterilization of Manhattan. But I’m here to tell you that if you want to get that walking-down-a-dark-street-might-get-mugged good ole’ days feeling again, there are still some pretty dark areas. Personally? I’ve had my fill.

Certain sections of 8th Avenue, particularly near the Port Authority bus station, are still kind of spooky and have spooky businesses lining the streets. Porn shops. Fortune tellers. Check cashing services. Lottery merchants. I recently passed this fine establishment on 8th and 38th. It’s one-stop shopping for all your rockin’ Saturday night party needs!

Liquor and chicken, baby. It doesn’t get any better than that. I wonder which came first? Did the liquor store buy a fryer or did the fried chicken shack obtain a liquor license? Either way, it sounds like a real moneymaker to me. Next time I walk by I’ll pick up a couple of thighs, a breast and a bottle of Captain Morgan. I really do love this dirty town.

Here’s the bus driver who took us to the Orlando airport last week. He seemed like a pretty happy, normal dude. Helped us with our luggage. A regular Joe.

But his name isn’t Joe. It’s this:

Fantastic. That’s not a bus driver name. That’s a Bond villain. Or a 1970’s porn star. Or the heartbreaker in a cheap soap opera.

Take a look at the cover of the new issue of Cosmopolitan:

PLEASE tell me that the Gyno News feature blurb is placed there intentionally. Because I don’t want to believe that the editors of Cosmo are so vapid and clueless that they didn’t realize what they were doing. Am I thinking too much?

Speaking of clueless…I love the lead article—50 Ways to Seduce a Man (In a Minute or Less). Don’t make me laugh. Ladies, I will tell you how to seduce a man in two seconds. Walk up to your intended prey and in a soft voice, purr the following:

Presto! Men have a hard time putting up any resistance to a girl who is offering up her goodies. It’s biology!

In 2010, General Electric posted a profit of $14.2 billion. The portion of that profit generated in the United States was $5.1 billion. That’s profit, folks, above operating costs. A pretty damn good year considering there’s a worldwide recession.

Guess how much General Electric paid in taxes on that $5.1 billion?

Not only did they not pay a cent in taxes, they actually claimed a $3.2 billion tax benefit.

They accomplished this through perfectly legal accounting practices. They employ an army of aggressive tax lobbyists in Washington and have a tax department that’s staffed by former officials of the Treasury Department, the I.R.S. and members of Congressional tax-writing committees.

I cannot tell you how angry I get when I read this stuff. I actively try to avoid news of this ilk because it causes me to lay in bed at night, stare at the ceiling and stew in my juices. It’s very difficult for me to un-read something.

Hot Thing
by Prince

Princesses
by Disney

We met many of the Princesses at a special Princess breakfast. You have to make reservations months in advance, as it sells out quickly. During your meal, Princesses decked out in full ball gowns and surprisingly bad wigs flutter from table to table. They stop at each one, sign autograph books and have their pictures taken. I try to get them to break character but they never do. They’re so committed to their roles that it’s almost a bit creepy.

For the kiddies, it’s their first celebrity encounter. It’s like if you were eating in a restaurant that served mediocre food and Robert De Niro or Madonna walked up to your table to chat for a moment. Or if President Obama asked you if you were enjoying your eggs.

It costs a lot of money to hang out with royalty. This was the most expensive breakfast I’d ever purchased. It’s an ordinary American breakfast; scrambled eggs, bacon, juice, potatoes and, for mom and dad, two cups of strong coffee. Breakfast for two adults and two daughters:

This is the mantra that is repeated over and over as you navigate through Disneyworld:

My memories began with that check.