Should I go to the gym before work or sit in Central Park, have a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin and read a few blogs?
Should I go to the gym before work or sit in Central Park, have a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin and read a few blogs?
Should I go to the gym before work or sit in Central Park, have a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin and read a few blogs?
The sound of one hand clapping.
About four months ago I submitted my blog to be critiqued by an outfit called Ask and Ye Shall Receive. They are a group of bloggers who will give you an honest assessment of what’s right and what’s wrong with your blog.
They are brutally honest and, as you know, brutal honesty can sting. They try to warn you ahead of time. The URL is “I will fucking tear you apart dot com.” In the submission guidelines you are warned that in reviewing your blog, there’s a chance that they’re “going to rip you a new hole to shit through.”
However, within those barbs are some very useful suggestions on how to make your blog better. And God knows I need as much help as I can get. Your friends won’t tell you your blog is a train wreck, but they will. And they’ll tell you how to fix it.
I made the mistake of dropping my blog into the review queue before actually reading any of their reviews. I’m impulsive like that. So I’ve been waiting in a state of semi-dread since April. I like my blog and these guys can be pretty viscous but I wanted to hear what they had to say.
Last week I did a post about a mass corruption sting operation here in New Jersey that netted 44 people, including three New Jersey mayors, two state assemblyman and five rabbis who are charged with money laundering. This all came about courtesy of an FBI informant, a rabbi who was head of a sect of ultra-Orthadox Syrian Jews. The good rabbi was arrested by the FBI on bank fraud charges and elected to act as an informant in exchange for leniency.
This past week, the informant rabbi’s father spoke emotionally to the congregation about the case. I would have thought the speech to be a meditation on how even men who have devoted themselves to God can fall and a reflection on the corrupting influence money has on society.
Don’t bet on it. The Asbury Park Press reported:
“In what sources describe as an extremely emotional speech at Deal Synagogue July 25, Dwek’s father, Rabbi Isaac Dwek, strongly denounced the act of a Jew informing on other Jews, without specifically mentioning his son.”
Speaking on a Jewish radio program, Sam Hirsch, a lawyer and Former state assemblyman said Dwek “should have been killed” after informing on other Jews.
Apparently, not a word was spoken about the indictments or the crimes committed. As Mrs. Wife astutely noted, “They’re just like the Mob.”
It seems the deeper a person delves into religion and separates themselves from secular society, the more wacked out of their minds they become. They all tell everyone else how to live but they’re above the law. And please, spare me your comments about me being an anti-Semite because I assure you I am equally nauseated by the Christian and Muslim lunatic fringe.
The Catholic church committed sins against its parishioners for which they still haven’t atoned for. The only reason they started to address the problem was because enough victims were hauling their asses into court and successfully suing them. Otherwise, it’d still be going on. And we here in New York are all too familiar with what Muslim extremism can lead to.
Religion. Feh. Go with God.
One of the great pleasures in my life is the Sunday New York Times. I don’t know what the hell happened to me. I use to drive drunk, have unprotected sex and smoke a ton of weed. Now, all I need is a sunny Sunday morning in my back yard, a cup of coffee, a Hostess Suzy Q and the Sunday Times and I’m a happy man. I’m sure I’m a big disappointment to my pals back in Cleveland.
The best, best part of the Sunday Times is the Arts & Leisure section (aka Farts & Seizures). I just love it. But in August, the entertainment community is away on holiday and there isn’t much to write about. Things are so dead right now that the big front page feature article in today’s Arts & Leisure section is a long tome on the resurrection of Tom Arnold’s stand-up career. I’m not kidding. Also, you’ll find long captivating articles on the new Chris Kattan TV series and a feature on the “First Ladies of Screwball Comedy.”
Holy shit, man. Who cares about any of that?
Come to think of it, it makes for a pretty goddamn boring blog post, as well. Sorry, folks. Go back to what you were doing.
* * *
Actually, as long as I’m being judgmental tonight…Why am I so happy that this movie bombed?
I’ve got nothing against romantic comedies. Who doesn’t like Groundhog Day? Mrs. Wife and I watch Love Actually every Christmas and I usually get kinda choked up during Colin Firth’s restaurant proposal.
But this ad has a stench coming off of it.
“Oh, look at me! I holding up a red cardboard heart! I’m looking for love! love! love! You can tell by my red cardboard heart!”
“And I have a red cardboard heart covering my penis! Tee-hee! I just want to get laid but I’ll learn a valuable lesson about relationships and feelings!”
Sitting through this would be like swallowing your own vomit.
The first time I saw this ad I thought that the movie was probably going to be pretty awful and sure enough, the reviews came out and everyone said it was junk. Maybe if the reviewers keep labeling junk like this junk, Hollywood would stop producing cynical junk like this.
Maybe not. Now, that’s the ugly truth.
I was navigating my way across a crowded 42nd Street and through the beautiful madness of Grand Central Station and my iPod shuffle, freak show that it is, selected Five O’Clock World by The Vogues. Do you know this song? It’s a great example of 60’s American pop and exactly what you’d want to hear on your way to work. The iPod shuffle scares me a little bit.
Up every morning just to keep a job
I gotta fight my way through the hustling mob
Sounds of the city pounding in my brain
While another day goes down the drain
But its a five o’clock world when the whistle blows
No one owns a piece of my time
And there’s a five o’clock me inside my clothes
Thinking that the world looks fine, yeah
Exile on Pain Street 