I have great news! This fall on Broadway, not only are they mounting a production of David Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow with Jeremy Piven and Raúl Esparza, but they’ve also just announced a revival of American Buffalo with John Leguizamo and Cedric the Entertainer. With apologies to Mr. Mamet: holy fuckety-fuck! Can you fucking handle that?

I use to have a first edition of Sexual Perversity in Chicago inscribed by Mamet thus: From that foul mouthed chronicler of contemporary America. I sold it for what is now a long-forgotten reason. I have regretted it ever since. I’ve sold many of my rare books for some terrible “need” that I can now no longer recall. But I remember the books, alright. I stopped making that mistake years ago.

6-Year Old Daughter paid a visit to the city last week. She is obsessed with all things Chinese (and this was before the Olympics!) so she and Mrs. Wife had lunch in Chinatown. She brought home a string of small illuminated paper lanterns which I had been promising all week to hang in her bedroom. Sunday morning came rolling around and I still hadn’t gotten around to it, so instead of sitting on my patio with the Sunday New York Times, a cup of coffee and two Hostess Ho-Ho’s (which is what I really wanted to do) I got out my shitty little tool kit and hung her lanterns.

I finished and took a step back to admire my handiwork. It looked pretty good! I started to imagine the look on her face when she crossed the threshold into her bedroom to see it for the first time. I knew how happy it was going to make her and I got a bit choked up. Then I got that familiar reminder that my father never did anything of this ilk for me or my siblings. That guy lived inside of his own head and to this day I’m not entirely convinced he was aware of my existence.

This is not an exercise in self-pity and I’m certainly not looking for any sympathy. We all hang on a cross for something. It’s merely a cautionary tale. If you’re reading this and have a kid or two, for Christ’s sake, pay them some attention. And don’t make them feel guilty about it, either.

Boy, you’re going to carry that weight
A long time.

Fun fact: When I got married, I gave up my last name and took Mrs. Wife’s. There was a span of 22 years that I didn’t see or hear from my father so I felt a bit detached from the name, to say the least. Also, the name was a terrible albatross while growing up. My last name use to be Polack which, as you know, is a derogatory term for someone who is Polish. My uncles Americanized it by changing the spelling to Pollack, making it sound more like the painter Jackson Pollack’s. My father, a proud idiot, decided that we would keep the original pronunciation. We went through elementary, junior high and high school with that moniker. Thanks, Pop.

We are only second generation Americans and I have a theory that when my grandparents immigrated from Poland and passed through Ellis Island, some wiseguy with a rubber stamp said, “Oh, you’re from Poland? You’re name is Polack.” We’ll never know the truth.

Here’s my favorite line from Manohla Dargis’s New York Times review of Woody Allen’s Vicky Christina Barcelona. In regards to Scarlett Johansson’s performance, she writes:

She isn’t much of an actress, but it doesn’t terribly matter in his films: She gives him succulent youth, and he cushions her with enough laughs to distract you from her lack of skill.

Meeeyowww! Women do NOT like Scarlett Johansson! I had a friend who once told me she and her girlfriends use to sit around and take turns saying terrible things about poor Miss J. Call me crazy, but I think she has tremendous appeal. She is the antithesis of Nicole Kidman. Ms. Kidman is a classic beauty who doesn’t project an ounce of sexuality. The Ice Princess. That’s not a good thing if you’re an actress. My Scarlett, on the other hand, has an ordinary look about her but radiates animal magnetism. Yum! Do you know who else use to be like that? Susan Sarandon. Not a great beauty but I’m pretty sure she could rip me limb from limb. In the good way.

Are you following this Olympic nonsense? Adorable 9-year old Lin Miaoke was chosen to sing the Chinese national anthem at the opening ceremony last Friday. Just look at that face!

The trouble is, her father knew right away that it wasn’t her voice everyone was hearing. It turns out that although 7-year old Yang Peiyi was a fine enough singer, the Communist Party didn’t think she was “cute” enough to represent China, so they used her voice but not her face.

“The reason,” they claimed, “was for the national interest.” Holy shit! Wait until poor Yang is in her awkward teenage years and is constantly being reminded by mean girls that billions of people all over the planet were told she wasn’t cute enough and had bad teeth. Apparently, the body-self image dilemma isn’t a purely Western notion. (See previous post.)

Several months ago I noticed a new member at the gym. She was as cute as can be and to my eye she was already in tip-top condition. She had some nice, feminine curves and a softness about her. As far as I could tell she was in perfect health and was there just to maintain her wellbeing.

After about a month, I noticed one of the trainers, a hulking XXL mound of muscle, go up and talk to her every time she was on an elliptical machine. I think it was a combination of flirting and fishing for a new client. Apparently, he must have had a pretty good rap because soon thereafter, she was exercising under his tutelage each morning. The regime looked brutal—far more extensive than what I subject myself to—but that’s what you get when you hire a trainer.

As the months peeled away, I could see a noticeable change in her physiology. The results were dramatic and, to me, tragic. She is now solid and cut—pure muscle—but not in a good way. She lost all of her femininity and the aura that made her so beautiful has vanished. I believe it even changed her face. She’s not—and I know this sounds awful—as pretty as she use to be. Her face now has some angles and a tautness that do not flatter.

There’s a cautionary tale in there somewhere