Where Are They Now? An Interview with Gargamel

Gargamel circa 1985

Gargamel present day

In our ongoing attempt to bring original content to our readers, we've tracked down a very special guest for this week's post. He's a man/wizard that really needs no introduction (but I'll give him one anyway). He's everyone's favorite bad guy from the 80's cartoon "The Smurfs". And now we have him for an exclusive, unplugged one on one interview with Gaining Weight Editor, Brad Kaplan.


Brad Kaplan: Gargamel, How are you, my friend?


Gargamel: I've been unsuccessfully hunting Smurfs for decades, my show was cancelled back when you were Bar Mitzvahed, I'm bald, my clothes are ratty and my cat died. How well do you think I am?


BK: Fair enough, fair enough. So what have you been doing since the show was cancelled?


G: To be honest, it's been a tough run. It's one thing trying to bring down The Smurfs when I was getting a fat paycheck every week. Once the money stopped rolling in it seemed somewhat silly. I went down to Jamaica for about 6 months and opened up a parasailing business. The customers just didn't respond to me. Plus, I'm bald. And pasty. Needless to say it wasn't a great climate for a guy like me. I was spending more on sunscreen per day than I was on weed and prostitutes. When I came back, I had been evicted from my castle--although I've still managed to squat there for the last 20 plus years.


BK: Wow, that's tough. But with all due respect, I know you and if you approached me on the beach in a bathing suit, I'd probably quickly retreat in the other direction. So what did you do when you got back?


G: A little of this and a little of that. My desire to kidnap, torture and eat Smurfs really never waned and hasn't to this day quite honestly. But I found other things to do. I sold insurance for awhile. I found I had quite a knack for telemarketing. And threatening to put spells on prospective customers was a decent technique. Sometimes fear is an effective tool in sales. I still have my license if you want me to work up some numbers for you. At your weight, life insurance or disability might make some sense. Why don't......

BK: I think we're getting off topic, Gargs. And I'm pretty well covered. Why don't you tell me about the final days of the TV show?


G: You know, I felt it deserved another year. To the average viewer I know I came off as a bumbling idiot. But I was close to catching a Smurf, maybe all of the Smurfs. They are smaller and more deceptive than they appeared on TV. Damn it all. Just one more season. I would have had my breakthrough. I butted heads with the producers about this. They even considered bringing in what they felt would have been a more competent villain, but the focus group results really supported me. I even offered to take a pay cut. One more season and I would have had my glory (maniacal laughing)!!!! I just know it! I even told them if I did capture and eat a Smurf on Saturday morning children's television, they could do a three episode arc with me on trial. It would have been captivating television. I would have taken any type of punishment for the pleasure of consuming one loathsome Smurf--public flogging, guillotine, any type of humiliation. I just wanted to eat a Smurf. I still do.


BK: You know Gargamel, I'm not a judgmental guy, but some might say that's a pretty weird fetish.


G: How dare you, Kaplan! You're really going to mess with me. You cowardly, stocky Jewish bastard. You've never been in a fight in your entire life and all of a sudden you're going street on Gargamel. Do you know who the %@!@ I am? I can turn you into a hamster, I can give you small pox, maybe a bad paper cut. All with the snap of my fingers!!!!


BK: Actually, I watched your work for almost a decade and came away largely unimpressed. No disrespect though.


G: Who are you to say eating Smurfs is a fetish? I've been to Shaw's Crab House with you and have seen you consume dozens of oysters. It's like you're making love to them. How is that better?


BK: Kind of a weird gray area we've entered, as I do love oysters and have admittedly eaten some weird, exotic stuff in my day. But I've never seen a Smurf on a restaurant menu. We should probably move on. I've always wondered about your name. Gargamel. Is that a first name or last name?

G: Wow, you're really getting personal. OK, I'll give you my story. I was born Arthur Goldberg. I was raised in a middle class Jewish home. I was a frail, whiny, self loathing tween. My father couldn't stand me or my heavyset, overbearing mother and ran off with his secretary. I didn't have a father figure and I was a wussyish boy. Wussier than the other wussy Jewish kids that used to pick on me in Hebrew school, beat me with a shofar and steal my hamentashen. Wussy--that's a good word. Anyhow, I used to vow revenge on them--I'm a big revenge guy, but I was too spineless to actually do anything. I was kind of a loner as you might imagine. I did a lot of science fiction type reading and was interested in wizards. I knew The Hobbit by memory. I also masturbated many times a day, but I suppose that's not relevant. I wasn't much of a student, but I managed to get into University of Michigan, which I believe to be a poor school, despite it's critical acclaim. I flunked out within a year. I was working the grill at a local fast food restaurant and reading Mad Magazine in my spare time. At one point, I saw an advertisement for Wizard school and the rest is history. I went every Tuesday night and was moderately competent at wizardry. I knew that my destiny was to become a middling wizard at that point. Arthur Goldberg wasn't a great mediocre wizard's name so I came up with Gargamel. I was a fan of Art Garfunkel so it was kind of a tribute to him. Paul Simon sucks by the way.

BK: So just Gargamel?

G: My formal name change was to Gargamel Cornelius Jackson, but I haven't used either Cornelius or Jackson since 1977. At the time I was trying to create a potion to turn me into a bad ass mofo. I figured if I ever became an African American Hoops Star or got cast in a hard hitting action movie, I'd go by G. Cornelius Jackson. Didn't pan out though. So it's Gargamel. Just Gargamel.

BK: So how'd you go from night wizard school to living in a run down castle in the middle of nowhere obsessed with capturing Smurfs?

G: I never had much self confidence to begin with. When I reached my late 20's I started balding and that didn't really help my sense of self image. They didn't have Propecia or transplants or anything like that back then. Imagine, had there been Propecia 3 decades ago my whole life could have been different. I became more and more isolated from society during those years. And I got a kitten as most viewers know. That type of housing and setting just seemed conducive to my lifestyle.

BK: Yet it wasn't happily ever after for you?

G: Ha! Obviously not. Happiness is a mythical thing. Just like eating a Smurf probably is a mythical thing. But it could have been a peaceful existence were it not for those reprehensible Smurfs. Damn those blue bastards!!!! Their ridiculous way of life, their enthusiasm, their silly names and that despicable Papa Smurf!!! If you're not a man that knows how to hide the matzah, do me a favor, don't call yourself "Papa"!! I know you're with me on that, Kaplan! The way they use "smurf" as a noun, verb and adjective--get over your freaking selves!!!!! MOTHER @^@^@&@ SMURFS!!!!! @#%^&$#*$@#$%^&%#$$#@!&&@!@#$!^^!! (unrecognizable swearing)!!!!!!

Wow. I need to calm myself down. Deep breaths. OK. OK. I was always a bit eccentric, but living so close to their Utopian society really drove me mad. The fact that the public responded to them so much, made me even more insane. And violent. I was never a violent guy. But they way these goofy blue creatures were showered with attention--somebody needed to put an end to it. And the fact that I was made to play the fool at their expense....well, Gargamel just didn't want to go out like that.

BK: Well, Gargamel, I appreciate the time that you've spent. It's still somewhat early--you want to hit up Shaw's for some oysters and beer? My treat...

G: Are you going to buy that insurance from me?

BK: Uhhh, no.

G: Go @^#% yourself, Kaplan.

BK: Fair enough.

Michael Phelps: No Swimming for Three Months. No Weed Either.

So what is the downside to enjoying getting high as a motherfucker?

My favorite part of the Michael Phelps story is his punishment. "USA Swimming suspends Michael Phelps for 3 months." It's clear that based on the suspension Phelps will be unable to swim for 3 months. It's unclear whether the suspension prohibits him from being photographed while taking bong hits.


Outside of that, here is my major issue/question regarding this "suspension". The last time I checked the Olympics are once every 4 years. Since we just polished off an Olympics this past summer, by my estimation we don't have another one scheduled for 3 and a half years. This previous summer's events being somewhat of an exception, no one really cares about the Olympics. I certainly don't. If NBC can barely get people interested in watching swimming DURING THE ACTUAL OLYMPICS, how does it make a bit of difference if a SWIMMER gets suspended THREE AND A HALF YEARS prior to his next event that anyone even moderately cares about. Seriously, what does a 3 month suspension starting in February 2009 even mean?

1) No Pool Parties--Poor Michael is going to have to sit in a chaise lounge and stare longingly at his friends as they splash and frolic around in the pool. They're going to be whooping it up playing pool volleyball, seeing who can hold their breath the longest, diving for nickels in the deep end, doing cannonballs off the side and seeing who can create the biggest splash with their belly flops. USA Swimming is like the mean parent that won't let their kid go in right after eating.

2) No Marco Polo for 3 months--How dare they? For all of Michael's Olympic achievements, he is most proud of his Marco Polo skills. Michael barely has to call out the requisite "Marco" to find his prey. By the time the other participants respond with "Polo", you better believe a pursuing Phelps is already there to make a quick tag. And he's even better when he's on the "Polo" side of things. He once participated in a celebrity Marco Polo game and Mark Spitz was the "Marco" guy to Phelps' "Polo". Spitz tried to hunt down Phelps for almost 4 hours with no success. Though Spitz denies it, rumor has it that he actually opened his eyes a little bit before finally catching Phelps, a huge "No-No" when playing this game.

3) He's supposed to go to Florida to visit his grandparents in March--What's he possibly going to do every day? All the other grandkids are going to be out at the pool and poor Michael is going to be stuck in the condo watching General Hospital. His grandma did say they could go to the flea market one day, so I guess that will be pretty good. And they always go to Jai Alai one night which should be fun. There are supposedly some sales going on at Town Center Mall that he'll probably check out. And they do have a Tony Roma's pretty close to where his Nonny and Poppy live, so that will be a treat. Still, not being able to swim is disappointing.

4) He can shower, but no bathing--USA Swimming is really trying to send a message with this one. As part of Phelps' punishment, he is not allowed to take baths during his three month suspension. They've even installed cameras in the bathrooms at his house, his girlfriends apartment and his mom's place to better enforce this ruling. He was given 48 hours to turn in all of his rubber duckies and any other bath toys in his possession. I heard Phelps just purchased a new box of Mr. Bubble within the last few weeks which will completely go to waste. He IS allowed to shower once a day, but only for the sole purpose of cleaning. Washing his face and brushing his teeth are also permissible activities. He is allowed to drink water. Gargling is on the banned list for reasons that are unclear at the time of this reporting.


So all of you kids out there reading, take this as your cue to learn a valuable lesson from this important role model. If you like bubble baths, if you like playing basketball on one of those novelty swimming pool hoops, if you like jumping off the high dive (no pun intended), if you like swimming at your grandma's pool until your hands get all "pruney"--I advise you, I implore you--SAY NO TO DRUGS!!!

Say No to Snugs

Since I have exhausted my DVR and memorized every episode of Barefoot Contessa; (I officially know how to make a gratin out of everything from zucchini to Captain Crunch), I have discovered that even though we are almost to 2009 and at a height of technology, we are still being exposed to infomercials. I don't really get it. We have the Internet. You can shop online for anything you want. Our country is in a recession. Who is still calling a number to order excessive crap being sold over the television? It's always the same thing. The product is a value of $129.99, yet you're only paying $19.99. There's always the fine print below that the shipping and handling is more than the actual product. If you call RIGHT NOW, you will receive an additional product; only if you call within the next 37 seconds. I've seen countless European hair removers, knives that can cut cans, pancake puffers and magic stain erasers, but nothing and I mean nothing, tops The Snuggie. About a month ago was when it first surfaced. I was aimlessly surfing the Internet when an overenthusiastic male senior citizen caught my attention. The Snuggie is a blanket with sleeves. I'd go on to describe it more meticulously, but there is really nothing else to say. It is a blanket with sleeves. My initial reaction was, is this one of those Saturday Night Live spoof clips? What channel am I watching? Some idiot really woke up one morning and said, "I've got it! A blanket with sleeves!" Sure, I've had my share of invention ideas that I kept solely in my brain up until right now. The bathtub full of tiny holes so you press one button to fill it up faster, marker wipes for children that instantly remove marker stains. Don't even think about patenting these, they're mine dammit! Even more of an idiot is the "Snuggie Model" in the infomercial. This idiot is the idiot that demonstrates what you can do in a Snuggie that you could not possibly do with a regular blanket. "Talking on the phone, holding the TV remote and using your laptop are a breeze!" Are there seriously people out there that find it difficult to hold a remote control and keep a blanket over them at the same time? I mean those that are physically intact? I witnessed my three-year-old niece perform this very task two days ago. She must be a prodigy. Then there's the two adults playing backgammon in their Snuggies. Model #1 and her daughter reading a book. Model #1 pouring herself a cup of tea. As my brother so impeccably pointed out, "Have these people not heard of a sweatshirt?"

15 Snuggie Alternatives and Other Practical Ways to Save on Heat

1. Electrocute yourself

2. Stand in front of the dishwasher during the dry cycle

3. Fart in tight pants

4. Fill a spray bottle with boiling water and mist

5. Set yourself on fire

6. Arrange a group hug with your neighbors

7. Eat a hot dish

8. Cut a regular blanket into the shape of a robe

9. Borrow an electric blanket from your bubbe (if you know what a bubbe is)

10. Make a headband out of aluminum foil and lay under a halogen lamp

11. Purchase a used windbreaker

12. Do the running man

13. Warm yourself with a hairdryer

14. Grow a beard

15. Gain 20 pounds

An Ode to Gentiles

Another Winter in Chicago is once again upon us. And by us, I mean me. So what does this winter season mean for ME? Well, it means the inevitable blustery weather, a four month runny nose/cold/flu and the ability to eat soup at every meal. Oh, and I just finished off yet another Christmas. Below are some random notes from this year's yuletide (note: I have no idea what yuletide means or whether or not I just used it correctly).....


I'm slowly being phased out of my building. Nothing concrete has happened, but the general feeling is palpable. During the holidays, the lobby of our building historically housed a standard Christmas tree in the sitting area and a battery operated Menorah on the doorman's desk. For the record, I am not a big Hanukkah guy and I don't think it should ever be compared to Christmas (I'll expound on this in more detail momentarily). When living in a nondenominational building though, the menorah in the lobby is the bone that is thrown to the resident Jews every year. Its unspoken message is, "there you go, now allow us to shamelessly celebrate our holiday in your face for the next 3 weeks." I never felt I was the guy that needed this bone--my feeling always was "have your holiday, I'm cool with Christmas."


Some changes did occur in the building over the course of the last year though. New management was brought in late summer/early fall. The old manager, was a finicky, fussy, crotchety, 40ish Jew that bore resemblance to Harvey Fierstein. While I could easily poke fun at him, the bottom line was the man looked out for my interests. And whether I cared or not, I knew that he was getting new Duracell's for that Menorah the first week of December every year. Now that he was off to some Kibbutz in Israel, where did this leave me? Did his move to the desert equal the demise of my Jewish way of life?


Predictably, yes. The new manager is a perfectly lovely, gentile woman (I've never actually seen or spoken to her). Her disposition is a cross between Martha Stewart and Mrs. Claus (I have no idea if this is true or not). What changes did she have in store for our building "at the most, wonderful time.......of the yearrrrrrr?" (Thanks to ESPN bowl coverage, I can't get that song out of my head). Well, for starters, there wasn't a Menorah to be seen (again, not complaining). The Christmas Tree was overwhelmingly large (which actually proved to be a good thing as it was less noticeable when my daughter predictably stole an ornament every time we walked through the lobby). There was gaudy tinsel and decorations EVERYWHERE (not a big deal, but it did hurt my eyes a little bit, frankly). There was a hired Santa in the lobby every Saturday and Sunday from 12-5 (a charming enough gentleman, but they probably could have found a better use for my assessment dollars). She also put in an Egg Nog machine near the elevators (not really my taste, I prefer my eggs with lox and onions).


Truth be told, I'm actually a big lover of Christmas. And, as mentioned before, I'm not particularly into the Hanukkah hype. I understand the basic plot--the burning oil, the 8 days, the Maccabees, etc.--and I'm simply not buying it. I'm a big three guy--Passover, Rosh and Yom. These are the McHale, Bird and Parish of Jewish holidays. Hanukkah is a secondary event within the Jewish holiday hierarchy. Yet certain Jews try to elevate it to first tier status. Why? Because it's in December? Because there is a gift giving component involved? It's not a competition versus Christmas. If Hanukkah fell in July, it would be a complete afterthought. It would be Sukkot with potato latkes. Our Christian friends aren't trying to use Ash Wednesday to trump Rosh Hashanah. To paraphrase Larry David, "Let them have their holiday!!!"


With the Hanukkah comparisons squashed, I wanted to take a moment to share some of my likes and dislikes of the Christmas Holiday.

MY DISLIKES

1) Those Reprehensible Christmas Sweaters--this comment is not meant to be disparaging towards Christmas, Christians, Christianity or Christ himself. But seriously, I'm pretty confident it doesn't say anything in the Bible about dressing like an idiot.

2) People that wear those Santa Hats--See above. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with you people?

3) Caroling--Let me start by saying that I'm actually a big fan of Christmas songs. But people that go out caroling? I can't even come up with anything funny or scathing to say. We should just move on.....

MY LIKES

1) The Family Component--There is really nothing like traveling great distances, fighting bad weather, and packing into small quarters, to spend time with people that routinely drive you crazy. I am saying this without a hint of sarcasm. I'm a big believer in family and as an outsider looking in that is what Christmas is all about.

2) Roasting Chestnuts--do people do this? I support roasting anything (I'd prefer root vegetables, organic chicken or suckling pig, but chestnuts are serviceable). The open fire concept seems a little bit dangerous and I'm a believer in fire safety, but I assume the proper precautions are being taken.

And since I talk about chestnuts so infrequently (IE: never), here is something that I've always been curious about: Chestnuts versus Water Chestnuts. The weird thing is, I've eaten water chestnuts many times in Chinese restaurants. I don't ever recall eating a regular chestnut (I've had hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, walnuts, etc; but never a chestnut). So why is it that I know precisely what a chestnut is, but am left wondering what the hell a water chestnut is? For an abnormal guy like me, this is indeed one of life's great mysteries.

3) The Music--While I don't like caroling, I am a big fan of Christmas songs. Perhaps having a 3 year old will do that to you. But if you've never appreciated the work of Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald, I suggest downloading some of their Christmas performances. You won't be disappointed.

4) The Food--I'm surprising myself by saying this. I'm a card carrying brisket, gefilte fish, corned beef, matzah ball soup and lox eater through and through. But I have a mild appreciation for one aspect of Christmas cuisine. In fact, I have something major to get off my chest....

I've been having a secret love affair with ham for decades. I'm not supposed to like it and I don't readily admit it. But I love ham. Absolutely love it. For some weird reason, my grandmother would occasionally get Honeybaked Ham on certain holidays. I still don't understand why. To say this concoction is outstanding is an understatement. This is food nirvana. And I loved being in Europe for many reasons--the culture, the history, the nightlife--but my secret reason was the ham. Turkey and Chicken are not big in Europe for some reason. On most days, you'd go somewhere for lunch and there would be no turkey or chicken in sight. Only ham. My friends would always genuinely express protest and I'd fake go along with it and act as if I was outraged that I couldn't get traditional white meat. This was pure acting. Allow me....."FUCK!!!! No turkey again!!! You've gotta be fucking kidding me! There is nothing for me to fucking eat here! What the Fuck? I don't know what to do. Ham is fucking disgusting. I'm so sick of the fucking food on this fucking continent. I don't know what the fuck to do. Well, I've got to eat fucking something. Waiter, two ham sandwiches please....and stack 'em high, baby!!!" Anywhere you go in Europe, you can get ham--in crepes, in salads, on sandwiches, as it's own entree--Europe is a ham lovers paradise.

And so my fellow Jews, when the holidays come around next year, and you wish your non-Jewish co-worker a Merry Christmas and they come back at you with Happy Hanukkah, I implore you not to take this bait. Tell them thanks, but no thanks. Tell them to enjoy their holiday or better yet try to enjoy it with them. Weasel an invitation to their house and indulge in the splendor of Christmas. Roast some chestnuts with your gentile brethren (but try not to burn down their house). Indulge in a succulent piece of ham (even if you have to pretend you don't like it). Afterall, Yom Kippur is only 9 short months away and Adonai is a forgiving fellow.

The "Fat" Man

Fat Albert--Bill Cosby's Big Boned Alter Ego.

Jake and The Fatman--Fatman was the co-star on this moderately successful 80's drama.

Fat Bastard--"Get in my Belly!!"

Minnesota Fats--pool shark played by Jackie Gleason in "The Hustler"

Fats Domino--50's rock and roll legend

Lafayette "Fat" Lever--underrated 1980's Denver Nugget guard who turned out 4 of the best statistical seasons in NBA history from 1986-1990.

Jared "Fats" Shapiro????--could he be the next member in a long line of great "Fat" men?

Given my overly reclusive nature, I've surprisingly had many friends with many nicknames over the years. I've been friends with a Boob, a Buddha, a Rooster, a Q-Dog, a Fixer, a Formanto and even an EG Green. I've enjoyed the use of all of these names, yet there was always a part of me that longed for more. There is a name out there that is the true gold standard of nicknames and any other name really fails to compare. The name I'm referring to is "Fat" or "Fats". Whether you use the singular or plural version this is the nickname by which all other nicknames should be measured. There have been many great "Fats" in history (as illustrated above) and I've sadly never had a relationship with any of them. As I enter my twilight years and continue to associate with less and less people, I've come to the realization that I may never have a "Fats" in my life. Saddened by this truth, I've decided to take matters into my own hands. I went through my rolodex of friends in an attempt to find someone worthy of this billing. This friend would need to embody everything the name "Fats" stood for. He'd have to be able to carry on the legacy of other great "Fat" men that came before him. After much introspection and analysis, I came up with only one friend that I thought may be able to live up to the title. My friend, Jared Shapiro, is a Fat Man. But does he have what it takes to be the "Fat" Man? Before we anoint him "Fats", I thought that out of respect to this great name, that we should take a moment to review his resume.

I. APPEARANCE

Over the years, Jared's appearance has been broken down, scrutinized, made fun of and over analyzed to the point where my friends and I have ultimately exhausted the topic. Yet I'm going to break it down one final time. Consider this the definitive and final work on the subject. When breaking down Jared's appearance it really comes down to two parts--his head and the rest of his body. We'll start with....

A. His Body--Jared once described himself as shaped like a pear.

SIDENOTE: "The Pear" is actually an often used nickname and a pretty good one at that. I actually considered keeping him out of the "Fats" sweepstakes, because he already had a pretty solid nickname. In the end though, I had to give him the opportunity to go for his dream name. It's kind of like Roy Williams leaving Kansas to coach North Carolina. Kansas is a storied program and was certainly a great job, but at the end of the day it just wasn't North Carolina. "The Pear" is a great nickname, but "Fats" might just be his destiny.

So back to my pear shaped friend. For anyone that can't quite visualize what a pear shaped body looks like, I'll give you another illustration. Jared really looks like famous McDonald's character, Grimace. His day to day actions might say "I'm the Hamburglar", but his body SCREAMS, "I'm Grimace". Either way, it's safe to say that he knows his way around a Big Mac. If you're tired of the pear references and can't visualize Grimace, he also bears resemblance to a Weeble Wobble. And if none of these comparisons are working for you, I can tell you that his body is more or less shaped like a Christmas Tree. That is, a Christmas tree with the biggest tree topper star on top in the history of mankind. Which brings us to....

B. His head--Saying Jared's head is big is like saying Blagojevich is a bad Governor. While technically accurate, it's not really telling the entire story. Jared's head gets compared to a melon and rightfully so. Once again, clarification is necessary. The truth is, Jared's head makes a cantaloupe look like a tangerine by comparison. If you want to compare his head to a watermelon however, well, now you're talking (but only if you're talking about one of those humongous watermelons that can easily feed all of the employees at a Fortune 500 company's summer picnic). You'd think a big noggin like this must have a big brain inside. I don't subscribe to this theory. I personally think it carries a regular sized brain that is surrounded by a few dozen pounds of chopped liver, italian meats and thanksgiving stuffing that he's stockpiled over the years.

II. HIS WORK HISTORY

Jared's formative years were spent working as a waiter at Don's (a local diner in the Livingston, NJ area). While Don's was always a very successful establishment, ownership noticed that their profits were down by a staggering amount from 1991-1993 (not surprisingly, the same timeline as Jared's tenure). Long time customers that came in for large portions of comfort food were taken aback by how skimpy the plates had gotten all of a sudden. Common complaints included:

• "I'm used to getting a heaping platter of chicken fingers and fries. Why does this plate only have one and a half chicken fingers and a few streaks of ketchup on it?"

• "Why is my double cheeseburger half eaten?"

• "Waiter, you and I are not on a date, and I didn't ask for 2 straws with my milkshake."

• "Sir, is that my chicken pot pie you're wearing on your shirt and chin?"

Eating off of the customers' plates wasn't the only issue. One night when Jared was a junior in high school, his Mother woke up at 2 in the morning and realized that her son wasn't home. Worried that he had gotten into some type of trouble she quickly called the police. After an exhaustive search of the area, Jared was finally located at Don's. He had fallen asleep in the walk in fridge. He had passed out with nothing but a big spoon and a 50 gallon tub of Rocky Road ice cream that he just about polished off. It took his Mom two days to get the hot fudge out of his hair.

Even after the "Don's incident", Jared still hadn't gotten food service out of his system. He went off to college and quickly ran for the position of Kitchen Steward at our fraternity house. Jared's love of pork constantly came to the forefront and was suffice it to say "controversial" in our all Jewish house. This controversy came to a head at a Sunday night meal when the brothers found the only offerings available to them that evening were ham or salami sandwiches. While Jared tried to defend his position by claiming that these meats were "turkey based" his credibility was shot. He sadly resigned his position in shame later that week.

A year or so later, after his ego had mended, Jared decided to take a waiter position at Damon's Ribs. This experience was almost like coming out of the closet for him. At Damon's, he had nothing to hide and could wear his love of swine proudly. It was a true place of acceptance for Jared and he could really be himself for once. As expected, Jared thrived in this setting. Sure his customers didn't always get their fries, but they loved his enthusiasm just the same. He was a rising star within the Damon's system and if it weren't for an ill timed angioplasty that was a result of eating nothing but baby back ribs for an entire semester, the sky certainly would have been the limit for him there.

III. OTHER MISCELLANEOUS NOTES

-His dream is to someday host a dinner party and serve chopped liver out of his belly button.

-He believes that gefilte fish should be highlighted on the menu at every reputable seafood restaurant.

-On vacation, he initiates the "early dinner rumors" conversation before breakfast is completed.

-He developed a restaurant concept that only features Bar Mitzvah type appetizers. And it would have been successful if it wasn't all you can eat and if he wasn't a customer there.

-He created the concept of the "Guest Carver". This involves having VIP "guests" (usually stocky Dad's or celebrities) getting to do honorary shifts "carving" (prime rib, turkey, roast beef, etc) at medium to large functions. He actually presented this idea to our friends' parents during the planning of our graduation dinner. Although it was a close vote, it was ultimately rejected (damn you, Bill Shane).

-He contemplated trading one of his children for a platter of pigs in a blanket and his own personal make your own sundae bar. He ultimately thought better of it.

-He once tried to convince me to fly to Acapulco for lunch, because he was in the mood for a Kafka Burger (which Jared describes as a "taste explosion in his mouth").

-He authored a well received essay on how to strategically place yourself near the kitchen at weddings in order to maximize the number of passed appetizers you can consume in a 1 hour window.

-He often dreams of carving his own Gyros while shirtless.

-He is notorious for arriving 2 hours in advance for the Forman Super Bowl Party (which is known for both quality and quantity of food) to get a headstart on the eating, even though it is a six hour game.

-He likes Chips Ahoy cookies more than most people.

IV. ACHIEVEMENTS

He once ate a 96 ounce steak that he cooked himself at a restaurant in Madison called Prime Quarter. His picture is still on the wall there.

V. REFERENCES

Pretty much anyone that's ever been at a table with him when onion rings or nachos were served.

So Jared, after careful review and thoughtful analysis, a verdict has been rendered. It is with great pride and pleasure, that I now anoint you the newest "Fats". Whether you choose to go by "Fat Jared" or "Fats Shapiro" is entirely up to you. Just know that I'm proud to call you my "Fat" friend. Wear this crown well (even though it probably won't fit on your gigantic melon). And please try not to get barbeque sauce on it.

The Mindless Thoughts of a Road Tripping Son-in-Law--The Sequel

"On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again,
And I can't wait to get on the road again."
(Lyrics provided by my main man, Willie Nelson)

This just about sums it up for me. Except that I hate the road. My friends are not musical and we've never attempted to make music (on the road or otherwise). And the places I keep I going to I actually have been to many times. And I keep seeing the same stuff (IE. Olive Garden, Super Target, McDonald's Toll Plaza, etc.) I anticipate that much to my dismay, I probably will see them again too. So yeah, I could probably wait to get on the road again. Beyond that, this song was pretty much written about me.

In a previous entry http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2008/07/mindless-thoughts-of-road-tripping-son.html, I wrote about the absurdity of the Super Target store that I witnessed on one of my many Chicago to Toledo jaunts. I never thought anything would top the Super Target phenomenon. However being the devout guy that I am (that's devout as in devoted to providing inane ramblings, not devout in a Jehovah's Witness sort of away), I continue to push the envelope. And lo and behold, on the same stretch of I-90, 6 months removed from the Super Target finding, I had another jaw dropping experience.

I'll set the scene. It's your average gray-skied Indiana Friday afternoon. We get out of Chicago without any hiccups. Alexis (my 3 year old daughter) is in her car seat navigating her DVD player like she invented the technology. Kristyn (my wife) is in the backseat next to her navigating her DVD player like it's 1996 and she's pissed off that she had to give up her VCR for this new device. I'm in the front seat listening to ESPN Radio. (I recognize that listening to ESPN Radio in and of itself is not cool. It gets worse. I'm not just listening to ESPN Radio, I actually downloaded several podcasts to listen to in the car. It gets worse. Most of these podcasts are fantasy football related. I was never the coolest guy to begin with, but whatever "cool" genes I did have clearly went down the drain of my shower sometime between 1999 and 2001. But I digress.) So as I'm listening to a combination of Matthew Berry discussing Terrell Owens' worth sans Tony Romo and Dora The Explorer discussing Tico the Squirrel's worth sans his goofy looking car, all while trying to fight off the urge to fall asleep and barrel into the highway median, I noticed it. At first it looked like any ordinary McDonald's. The red and yellow signage, the golden arches, the notification that they've served 20 trillion and counting (I don't impress easily, Ray Kroc). This wasn't just any McDonald's though. This was MCDONALD'S EXPRESS!?!?

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't McDonald's build it's empire by serving....fast food? In fact, I'm pretty sure the term "fast food" stemmed from McDonald's. So wouldn't the term "Express" be inherently implied? Calling it "McDonald's Express" is like saying "Smart Genius, Rich Billionaire or Tall Giant". The name is redundant. So that being said, I ask myself this question--if they are going to take the liberty of calling it "McDonald's Express" (versus the standard, "McDonald's"), are they implying that this version is somehow faster than the undisputed King of Fast Food?

Before we answer that, let's take a moment to recognize just how fast your average McDonald's is. Let's say I'm a husband and father driving my family from say...Chicago to Toledo. Traffic is awful, weather is bad and to compound things we are hungry. Restaurant choices are limited so we decide to stop at McDonald's (since they strategically have at least one at every highway exit on the planet). We walk in, we don't know what we want and there is a line. Even given these challenging circumstances, we're able to be at our table with our full meal in front of us in less than 4 minutes. We're able to have indigestion in 7 minutes. That's fast, baby! We're talking Carl Lewis fast. These guys are known for inventing "fast food" for a reason and it's clear they've perfected their craft in their 60+ years in business. So again I pose the question, how have they improved their speed so much at this one given location that it warrants the name, "McDonald's Express"?

After much pontification, here are some potential answers that I've come up with:

1) Orders can be placed telepathically. For the last 20+ years, McDonald's has been pouring money into research and development. They've been using this investment to breed highly evolved employees that will redefine the entire food service industry. Not only are these highly evolved beings thrilled to be working at McDonald's Express and making minimum wage, they are each trained to make over 75 Big Mac's per minute and can fry perfect french fries using heat vision (sort of like Superman melting a glacier).

So picture a heavy set truck driver cruising down I90-W from Ohio. It's the middle of the night and he has to get his delivery to Wisconsin by sun up. He is hungry, but doesn't have much time to stop. He sees a McDonald's Express billboard. He thinks to himself, I could go for a large coffee, a couple of Quarter Pounders, some fries, maybe one of those apple pies. As soon as he thinks it our evolved staff begins processing his order. And moments later, as our bleary eyed truck driver opens the door to the restaurant, but before he even steps inside, he's pelted with his order which is shot out of one of those novelty t-shirts guns that they use at NBA games to get souvenirs to fans sitting in the third deck. It would literally be like the last scene of "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid" where Butch and Sundance get shot up by the entire Bolivian Army. If we can ignore the downside of this guy getting scolded by hot coffee that was traveling at an incredibly high speed, this system would undoubtedly put the "Express" in McDonald's Express. And it's not like McDonald's doesn't have experience defending this type of lawsuit.

2) The food comes in pill form. How nice would this be? You go up to the counter, tell the attendant that you'd like a six piece nugget, a McRib sandwich and a medium fry. You give her the money, she hands you 3 pills, you pop them in your mouth, take a slug of Sprite and you're good to go until your next meal. These pills are filling just like consuming a regular meal and you get all the wonderful side effects that you'd get from eating at McDonald's (IE. sluggishness, indigestion, diarrhea, etc.)

3) But what if I don't like swallowing pills? Oh, I've got you covered elementary school reader. McDonald's Express also offers their meals in the form of an injection that is loaded with cholesterol, fat, taste and calories.

4) McDonald's Express is a giant vending machine. As long as you remember your quarters, you can walk in, avoid human interaction, and have a tasty Filet O' Fish sandwich and a large fountain drink within mere seconds.

SIDENOTE (as always I have to go off on at least one idiotic tangent per post): Now a word on Filet O'Fish. I'm not sure this is what it's actually called, but if it's not it should be and if it is, I like it. The name would pass as an Irish Sandwich. Tom O'Brien will have a Filet O'Fish before he heads up to O'Sullivans for a pint of Guiness, some soda bread and a sack of potatoes. (Did I just stereotype the Irish? Those guys can clearly kick my ass and WILL (damn it, I did it again). I just can't help putting my foot in my mouth. I will now subconsciously mention that they're good drinkers (DAMN IT)). I'm sorry Irish readers--that was meant in good fun. Feel free to ask to see my horns or comment on my big nose at our next face to face meeting.

Now a second word on Filet O'Fish. Our babysitter often has my wife or I do McDonald's runs. Her standard order is a large chocolate shake and a double fish sandwich (she's not Irish, apparently). Double fish sandwich might be a menu item at her local McDonald's, but they've never heard of it at the McDonald's by my place. Needless to say, hilarity ensues when I go through the drive through and attempt to order this. First the order taker has to tell me that they don't sell this item. At this point, I ask if they can make it special for me. They tell me, yes, but they'll have to charge me for 2 fish sandwiches. I accept these terms. The next step is to pull around to pay for and receive my food. You should see the look of horror the window girl gives me as I accept my double fish sandwich. I normally compound the problem by attempting to explain to her that the sandwich isn't for me. I always leave with the feeling that I was unconvincing (note to self: the correct move is to just quickly drive away in shame).

Now a third and final word on Filet O'Fish. You're ordering fish? From McDonald's? Really? Really??? Best of luck with that....

5) The chef is a robot. You don't hear as much about robots as you used to. Remember back in the 80's? Is it me, or was public opinion back then that robots would pretty much be running things by the year 2000? But here we are in the year 2008 and you don't hear a damn thing about robots. Maybe McDonald's Express has changed all that and will bring the robot back to prominence and fulfill its destiny.

So to conclude, unless McDonald's Express has executed one of the five theories that I have just laid out, I will continue to question the ridiculous use of this name. While I'm skeptical that they've implemented any of these concepts, who am I to question the immortal Ray Kroc (a fine Irishman, no doubt).

I Love Her (because Chris Harrison instructed me to)

I just saw a promo for the new season of "The Bachelor". This season's schmo (er, bachelor) just went on the record saying that he KNOWS that one of these 25 women is his WIFE. He knows it. He GUARANTEES it. Despite overwhelming evidence from the last 34 seasons (that they've managed to jam into a 3 year time span) with nary a marriage, this jonah thinks he's a LOCK to find his WIFE on THE BACHELOR. In a way, I'm envious. This guy is still a believer in true love (within the context of reality television). I, on the other hand, will continue to be a believer in deli meats (and witchcraft).

Ginger Ale: The Rodney Dangerfield of Beverages

Diet Canada Dry. The mere mention of it makes my mouth water (in a good way). Cold (if refrigerated in advance, otherwise, not cold)*, effervescent, refreshing, light, good with food or as a stand alone beverage, not sweet and yet having just the right amount of sweetness. It is one of the truly perfectly crafted drinks. And did I mention effervescent? Brief pause for my internal conversation.............


(I did. I mentioned effervescent. Roughly 35 words ago. I'm sorry. I can't help it. What can I tell you--it's fun to say effervescent. I may name our next child Effervescent. Effervescent Kaplan. It sounds good for a boy or girl. Good luck selling that to the wife, Brad. Jackass.)

And we're back. What was I talking about again? Ginger Ale, right. Riveting stuff. I'll work on fixing the economy next week. In the meantime, let's tackle why Ginger Ale gets no respect (god, that's hokey).

Here's my problem. You can walk into any restaurant on the planet and get some type of diet cola drink. Yet I don't even have the confidence to ask a server for a diet ginger ale mainly because:

a) I don't want to be the victim of said server's disdain and/or mockery
b) I don't want to be perceived as "difficult" resulting in same said server tampering with my Turkey Club
c) It's a virtual certainty that they're not going to have it anyway

It's "c" that's the crying shame. Who do I blame for my outrage? That's what I need to get to the bottom of. I have 3 possible candidates so please indulge me as I breakdown their respective accountability and how they could (potentially) become less a part of the problem and more a part of the solution.

1) Restaurateurs/Chefs

I don't know that I can blame the restaurateurs entirely. I know of plenty of chefs that would love to highlight pork belly and offal on their menus. Unfortunately, they know that their rube customers would continue to order the same boring, mainstream dishes (IE. roasted chicken, filet, salmon, etc.) leaving the pork belly and offal unsold and unappreciated. It's a bad business move--so why bother trying? The same issues apply to diet ginger ale. It is indeed the calves pancreas (or sweetbreads for those of you scoring at home) of the soft drink world. It might be great, but in the end you have to cater to your customers' wants. You could say that the restaurateurs/chefs are the ones that need to start the grassroots effort to give ginger ale broader appeal. Unfortunately, we're not talking about sushi, foie gras or even sundried tomatoes. The restaurateurs are going to continue to push Diet Coke and my beloved Ginger Ale will have to take another angle to get its due.

2) The General Public (sorry, but that means you, buddy)

Can I blame the general public? It would be easy to take this route considering my overall dislike of the common man (No, I don't mean you, READER. As far as you're concerned, I'm talking about those other READERS. Believe that.) Seriously though, the general public are a bunch of sheep. Through peer pressure and (somewhat) sophisticated advertising, they are programmed on what to like. Society tells them that their beer of choice is Budweiser, their winemaker of choice is Ernest and Julio Gallo and their diet soft drink of choice is Diet Coke. They adhere to this unconditionally. It's stupid, but I can't say it's their fault. How do you bring the type of change that I'm looking for (besides getting Obama to advocate Ginger Ale. Yes He Can!)? Celebrities, baby! The only way to induce change in dumb, follower people is to enlist their even dumber heroes to shill to them. Britney, Paris, Girls from that Hills show--you're on the clock....

3) The Ginger Ale Muckety-Mucks

Here's the real culprit. What the hell have these guys been doing? They're like the old money guys. They created a delicious beverage around 100 years ago, have a nice niche following of loyal drinkers, do ok at the saloons when someone needs a mixer for their whiskey and continue to make a fortune without a whole lot of effort. But the fact remains, these guys haven't gotten off their asses in 50 years. Come on Ginger Ale executives. You're better than this! Get off those yachts and private golf courses and spread the gospel. Your drink should be in every refrigerator in the world. I shouldn't feel embarrassment going into my favorite dining establishment and ordering your delicious potable. I want you to reach into that war chest and recruit an army of salespeople that will recruit a navy of restaurateurs that will recruit an air force of chefs that will recruit a marine core of waiters to help champion this cause (my apologies to the coast guard for leaving them out of that sentence--it was getting too run-on-y). Or at the very least hire Britney (or Obama). Yes We Can!


*I suppose ice would also make a drink cold.

...and I'll need a beer chaser with that

During the week I get a lot of my financial and industry news from the CBS Marketwatch website. Today I noticed that their stock ticker is now sponsored by none other than Jack Daniels. Seemed appropriate given the current state of the economy. I'd expound on this, but sometimes the best joke is the one that goes untold. Drink up, bastards.

Dudley At Large--Volume I: Dudley caught between Moon and New York City

As mentioned in my sister/associate's earlier post from this week, we have received news that Dudley was never confirmed dead and is presently at large (potentially). Sure he'd be roughly 200 years old in dog years. Whatever. I try to remain optimistic that the old pooch is still kicking as I'm never one to underestimate the heart of a champion (to my knowledge Dudley never won anything, I'm just being unctuous). As the shock value of this news begins to dissipate, we are left wondering what our four legged friend has been up to in his travels over the last decade and a half. With our large and loyal following, we have started to slowly receive emails from readers that have either spent time with or have second hand knowledge of Dudley's comings and goings since his mysterious disappearance from his Orchard Lake estate some fifteen years ago. We will periodically post some of the more interesting ones in an ongoing segment titled, "Dudley At Large". This will be a cathartic exercise that will give us all an opportunity to catch up with a dog that we didn't really care all that much about in the first place. If anyone has any past or present information on Dudley, please email our Dudley HotLine at lkaplan44@gmail.com. Thanks. I will leave you with this interesting Dudley email that we received this week. Enjoy--


From: ibuble@solarishs.org (Irene Bublegartner)
Sent: Thursday, October 30, 2008 1:05 AM
To: brad@chicagosunset.com
Subject: Dudley--loyal friend to dying, British comedic legend


Dear Sirs:


I hope this email receives you well. My name is Irene Bublegartner and I am a nurse at Muhlemberg Hospital in Plainfield, New Jersey. I write to you today as I may have information about a nondescript dog named Dudley that you seem to have an unhealthy interest in.


In the winter of 2002, one of my patients was none other than British film and comedy legend, Dudley Moore. He was battling with pneumonia at the time (which he would ultimately succumb to) and was in my care for a couple of months. While in our facility, Moore was weak and despondent most of the time. He really had no interest in visitors and slept for large chunks of the day. I remember one time Liza Minelli showed up with a gorgeous fruit basket and a magnum of Bombay Gin. Moore refused her and her gifts and I was forced to literally throw an irate Minelli to the curb (I'm a husky woman). The only thing that would cheer Moore up during this trying time was the occasional visit from a shaggy, gray haired pooch named in his likeness. I remember Moore telling me one time in a rare lucid moment about how he came to know the other Dudley. He was down in Atlantic City doing a 3 night set at Harrah's in the fall of 2000 and asked his agent to arrange for some female companionship for the evening. At the completion of his set (which received a lukewarm response from the sparsely populated main ballroom crowd), he went back to his dressing room expecting to find his escort for the evening. Instead he found a scraggly, unkempt dog, chirping loudly and jumping on him with reckless abandon. When the dog finally calmed down, Moore checked his tags to find that the loud, drooling dog also went by the name, "Dudley". It was love at first sight.


From that point on, Dudley and Dudley were rarely apart. Moore recognized that this was a talented canine and quickly incorporated him into his act. (Editors note: this runs contrary to my recollection of Dudley. From what I recall, Dudley had no discernible talent whatsoever. Anyway, back to her email. BK) They developed a cult following (by their own estimation, not the public's) on the boardwalk in AC, as Moore, always the shameless huckster, tried to cash in on his Arthur fame, by doing a duet of Christopher Cross' "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)". With Moore singing lead vocals in his smoky British accent and Dog on the piano, the duo captivated literally dozens of Jersey Shore passersby as they clumsily stepped around the duo's equipment in pursuit of salt water taffy.


A couple years later, when Moore became ill and was admitted to our facility, his biggest concern was not his illness, it was the hospital's strict "No Pets" rule. I remember conversing with an inconsolable Moore and listening to him ramble on about how, "Dudley isn't my pet, he's my friend" while intermittently sobbing. I even recall saying under my breath, "Well, the hospital's not going to go for that loophole, "Arthur"". We figured that after a few days passed, that Moore would relent about the dog and start concentrating on his treatment. This was simply not the case. In fact, I was working the midnight shift one night and I went to check on Mr. Moore. When I arrived at his room he was nowhere to be found. Our security guards found him about an hour later. He was in a wheelchair in nothing but a hospital smock making a beeline towards the Jersey Turnpike. It was the middle of January. When he was safely back in his room, I asked him what possibly motivated him to leave the hospital and go out into the freezing cold in the middle of the night. He told me that if the hospital wasn’t going to let him see Dudley, he was going to continue to take matters into his own hands. It was at this point that I caved and told Mr. Moore that I’d help him sneak Dudley into the hospital a couple times a week. All I wanted in return was for him to arrange a lunch date for me with Kirk Cameron, his co-star in “Like Father, Like Son”. After all, Kirk Cameron is dreamy. A deal was consummated.


And so it came to pass that every Tuesday and Friday night at around 1 AM, I’d sneak Dudley in through the hospital loading dock. The two of them certainly lived it up and the boost of energy that Mr. Moore received when he was in the company of Dog was nothing short of miraculous. They’d hoot and holler, smoke cigars, play gin rummy and serenade one another with their beloved Christopher Cross medleys. On some nights, I felt like I was doing two jobs—my normal registered nurse responsibilities and playing cocktail waitress to Dudley and Dudley. I’d bring Moore his standard tumbler of English Gin and Dog a tasty bowl of Alpo. Upon my return, sometimes I’d find Dog tipsy with Gin on his breath, while Moore was finishing off the remains of Dog's late night snack. When pressed for an explanation, Moore explained that Dog grew up on high quality Jewish home cooked meals and scoffed at eating food from a can (dog food or otherwise). Moore on the other hand, grew up in Britain and American dog food was an apparent upgrade to his palate. This story was later confirmed one night when I was on my dinner break. I had brought in some leftover brisket and just the smell of it caused Dog to crash through the nurse’s station, jump on the table and devour my humble dinner right in front of me. I didn’t complain though—after all, I was dating Mike Seaver at the time.


Sadly, Moore’s condition continued to worsen and he finally passed away in February of that year. Dudley was, of course, by his side. Kirk and I attended the funeral together later that week. It was the first and only time I’d ever seen a dog act as a pallbearer. Dudley did NOT give the eulogy, however (that would have been too ironic). Afterwards, at the wake, Dudley was entertaining the crowd on the piano (naturally playing “Arthur’s Theme” over and over again). With all the Hollywood types in attendance, I mentioned to Kirk that Dudley may get a pilot deal out of this. This made Kirk rage with jealousy and, looking back, was probably the beginning of the end of our relationship. I would have been right though were it not for Dudley’s ill timed crap in the living room that made all of the mourner’s evacuate the wake.


That was the last I ever heard from Dudley and I can really only speculate as to his whereabouts. If you get any new information, please pass it along—he still owes me a brisket dinner.


I Remain (see, I’m a blog reader),
Irene Bublegartner, RN

An Analogy for Dudley

On September 7, 1996, Tupac Shakur was the victim of a drive-by shooting on Las Vegas Boulevard. After attending the Mike Tyson/Bruce Seldon boxing match, Shakur was shot five times and taken to a nearby hospital. Although some say that Tupac Shakur was pronounced dead six days after entering the hospital, there have been many speculations that Tupac is still alive. The staggering evidence includes a lack of photographs from the hospital and talk of his own funeral in an album released after his “death”.

Yesterday, I learned that around the same time, give or take five years, Dudley, previously mentioned in http://notinbookershouse.blogspot.com/2006/01/eulogy-for-dudley.html , like Tupac, was never officially pronounced dead. Having not heard from Dudley in ten-odd years, my brother and I made the likely assumption that Dudley had either passed of old age or committed suicide. Not so. New information has surfaced and we learned that in actuality, Dudley ran away from home and was never rescued by his owners. Is Dudley still out there? Has anyone heard from him? Is the poor bastard still puttering around being sullen? Dudley, if you’re reading this, please email me at lkaplan44@gmail.com.

My Sister is a Whore

It is never a good sign when you're calling the person you look up to and whom you hold in the highest regard, a whore. Luckily, even though she's a Catholic school girl, the kind of whore I'm referring to has nothing to do with getting drunk and telling a guy you'd like to see his condo at 4 AM. (This is a relief since she's married to my brother and has a three year old). The kind I'm referring to is strictly limited to the whorish tendencies of Facebook. This is not to be confused with the Facebook stalker category, which I have admittedly fallen in to from time to time.

A few years back, I was at my brother and sister-in-law's house, surfing the Internet and likely Facebook stalking, when Kristyn glanced over my shoulder and said with the underlying tone that I might be a pedafile, "You have a Facebook page?" I replied yes and quickly closed the window, knowing that Facebook was more of a college thing and she probably thought of it as a way to meet creeps online. In actuality, it was an avenue to look at your high school friends at their respective colleges, taking beer bongs and smoking pot bongs.

In the past year or so, Facebook has evolved from a community of college kids to a place where I've become friends with everyone from my former campers to my third grade teacher. And then came Kristyn...the Anti-Christ. A couple of weeks ago I got a Facebook alert that Kristyn Perlman Kaplan had requested me as a friend. Initially, I went through my brain filofax to make sure I didn't know anyone else by that name. When it finally set in, I accepted her and waited for the madness to begin.

Her next move was an album filled with pictures primarily of Alexis, my niece. (Side Bar---When my brother joined Facebook I deleted all pictures I had up of Alexis for fear that he'd yell at me for exposing her online.) Still confused, I rolled with it.

Last night as we discussed our weekend plans on the phone, Kristyn admitted that she was stressed out. Assuming it was something involving work, family or a new purchase from Intermix, I asked her why. She sighed and said she was annoyed because she couldn't figure out how she knew her latest Facebook request and it had taken her all day to figure it out. I laughed, especially when her next thought was to ask me if I had any good pictures she could post on her profile.

I will continue to marinate this new idea of the entire world being on Facebook. If my grandma signs up, I might have to deactivate.

"Fo', Fo', Fo'."

I've been sharing a bed with Moses Malone.

This would make me Kareem Abdul Jabbar. And every night we box out and fight for position like it's Game 4 of the 1983 Finals with about a minute and a half left to play. Our game hinges on one crucial rebound and we scrap and claw and push and cheap shot like our season is on the line. I'm an All Star. A Hall of Famer. One of the greatest rebounders in basketball history. I'm the one with the more storied and celebrated career. The UCLA pedigree. It doesn't matter. I'm going to lose this battle. No matter how hard I try, Moses is going to come down with the ball and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

The Moses I speak of is my 3 year old daughter, Alexis. Over the last week she has developed a distaste for her bedroom. As she seems to have the final word on all matters in our home, we've inherited a third bedmate over the last several nights. On the surface, there is naturally a part of me that enjoys this. She looks great, smells delightful and is quite charming. I feel guilty admitting it, but the novelty wears off a bit around 1 AM when it's time for me to really throw down on some sleep. That's when Moses comes out and starts clearing the glass. Moses weighs in at around 41 lbs and is barely 3 feet tall. So I've got 3 feet and about 150-200 pounds on her (I'm not proud of this by the way). This shouldn't even be a fair fight.

SIDENOTE: I have years of experience playing ball. While my skills are QUITE limited (save when I'm playing on the hoop at Mike Redmond's house), the one thing I could always do was rebound the basketball. I have always had a fleshy stomach, a warehouse back, a sore right elbow, loose ankles, poor eyesight, limited stamina, no hops and an overall crodgetty jewish man's physique. None of that matters--Laimbeer didn't look pretty doing it either. The bottom line is...I can board, baby! Throw me onto the Atlanta Hawks and put me out there in dress clothes for 20 minutes per game. If you don't think I'm getting you six boards a night, you've got another thing coming.

You're probably asking what's with the basketball analogy. Well, the battle for position in our bed is quite synonymous with rebounding. Positioning, blocking out, timing and using your elbows and knees to give you any possible advantage. Always remembering to protect your back, your eyes and your private regions at the same time. My wife, Kristyn, would dispute this, but she typically is allotted around 60% of our king sized bed for her own luxurious sleeping pleasure (We'll call her MJ (or Michael Jordan for you non-basketball readers) for the purpose of this post. Meaning that she's going to get all the whistles and there isn't anything we can do about it.) So it's a foregone conclusion that MJ is going to get her 30 a night, and therefore the left side of the bed is off limits for myself and my adversary, Moses. We are stuck fighting in the paint for that remaining 40% of mattress. There is no gray area. The winner is going to be guaranteed a good night's sleep. The loser is going to be stuck in the guest bedroom at 1:30 AM on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning writing this ridiculous blog as they've lost the ball to their opponent and the corresponding right to a proper night's rest (that's probably too much foreshadowing).

So why can't I beat her? Sure, she's my kid and I love her and everything, but saying that I'm going easy on her would be a cop out. I'm in it to kick ass. It's a dog eat dog fight and I want my 30% of mattress (which is still comparable to a cot, but hey, I'm not greedy). Why can't I use my weight and strength to command my territory? I try. I literally pick her up and wing her three feet to the right (Kareem never tried that). But she's relentless. Within seconds, her foot is once again entrenched in my back. I'm laying on my side completely straight, barely hanging onto my 5% of the bed, defying gravity and logic by not falling off the side. I don't give up easily though. I reach deep down, fighting exhaustion, and hoist her again. I reposition myself to quickly grab this newly created open space laying my body flat now and even leaving some extra room on the edge for myself. I'm feeling invincible. I weigh 2?? pounds for god's sake. She can't move me. Can she? She can. She does. I don't even know how. Her low post moves are otherworldly. She is from a new generation of players. She thrashes and elbows and kicks and pushes. It's symphonic. Within moments I'm back down to 5% of total mattress. Only 25% of my body is even on the bed at this point. The rest of me is somehow floating in mid air. It's a miracle of physics and probably not in a good way. Before I plummet to the floor like a bowling ball out of a plane, I decide to make one last ditch effort. I pick her half angelic/half 83' Finals MVP body up delicately. I gently tiptoe into her room and carefully place her in her bed. She immediately starts crying. Sobbing, in fact. A very un-Moses like move, but I give her points for her relentlessness. I'm defeated. She is ruthless. I quickly rush to her aid and obediently bring her back into our bed. Game. Set. Match.

I am now exiled into the guest bedroom. My season is lost. But I'll be back. Extended workouts, diet--it will be a complete overhaul of my body. Training camp is around the corner. The season is not far off. Moses--you'd better be ready for me.

The Mindless Thoughts of a Road Tripping Son-in-Law

The last few months since my father in law became ill, my wife and I have been driving back and forth from Chicago to Toledo at least a couple times per month. Under normal circumstances I could go months without even seeing the expressway. Now I'm towing the white line like I'm Doyle Brunson circa 1963 (if you don't know what I'm talking about pick up a copy of Super System). Among other things, it has given me the opportunity to take in the splendor of what we affectionately call AMERICA. The Heartland, the Midwest, the Heart of our Coun.....oh, who am I kidding, the drive is brutal. I've actually become a semi-regular at the Elkhart Olive Garden. The waitress there actually recognized me last night. This is not a good thing. However, if you're looking for a below average meal with above average company, you can usually find us there every other Monday night around 7. Mention this blog and I'll even throw in a free appetizer of fried lasagna or whatever other preposterous dish they're serving. Bon Appetito!

So aside from seeing tons of farmland, open space and Indiana cops, the drive also gives me the opportunity to view some of America's finest retail and dining establishments from the comfort of my car. Many of these places we take for granted. Maybe this is unfortunate. Let's take the crazy monstrosity that we know as Target. The breadth of products and services they carry has always been mindblowing to me. Based on my recollection, this is a place where you can buy a cantaloupe, a lawn mower, a plasma television, a fall wardrobe, a pizza and salad lunch, a birthday card, a propecia prescription (not that I'd know anything about that), a sectional couch, a set of 400 thread count egyptian cotton sheets and a Mr. Potato Head all under one roof. It's basically a Publix/Home Depot/Best Buy/Bloomingdales/Pizza Hut/Hallmark/Rite Aid/Crate and Barrel/Bed Bath and Beyond/Toys R Us rolled into one annoying superstore. I hate the insanity of Target and when I see one (and they're difficult to miss) I cringe a little bit. Last night was no exception as I was barreling down I-90W and saw it coming in my peripheral vision. Only this wasn't any Target. This was, in fact (I'm still in a state of disbelief), a....Super Target! It was unmistakable (literally, considering the sign was so large that you could see it from the moon on a clear night). My mind was racing with thoughts--what about this Target could make it "Super" relative to the other Target's? So far, I've come up with 2 possible answers:

1) Maybe it's called Super Target because it has super powers. Does this location wear a cape? Do Super Target customers get to wear capes while shopping? Is the store made of steel? Can it fly? Does Super Target fight crime? Can it swim underwater, communicate with animals, run really fast, jump very high or see in the dark? Does it have super strength? Can it make itself invisible (this is the option I'm secretly hoping for)? Or maybe it's "Super" in that it gives "Super" great value to the citizens of Metropolis (or in this case I think South Bend, Indiana) on their day to day purchases. After much consideration, I'm guessing that it's probably not called Super Target due to it's Superhero qualities. Which lead me to my next theory....

2) Maybe it's called Super Target due to it's super size relative to your regular Target. Seems somewhat logical. Of course, a regular Target is typically about the size of Michigan Stadium. Just how big could this Super Target be? Is Super Target it's own self contained city? Have they recently added a new county in Indiana called Super Target and I just haven't heard about it? Or, maybe it's larger than that. Maybe the government is in talks of adding Super Target as our 51st state? Bigger than that? Maybe the Super Target people have made this Super Target so big that they are planning on seceding from the Union? Are we headed towards another Civil War?

I now started feeling like I was getting closer to getting my answer. But if this Super Target was super due to its super size relative to a regular Target wouldn't their product offerings need to be super by comparison also? I was starting to get a headache. I already detailed the extensive and exhaustive line of products and services that your regular Target carries a couple paragraphs ago. What other things could this Super Target possibly sell you that you can't get in a regular Target. After much thought, here are some possibilities that I've come up with:

-400 single family homes strategically located throughout the store (I've already contacted my realtor friend in Indiana about getting me information on a 4 bedroom near the frozen food section. I like Ice Cream.)

-An 18 hole Jack Nicklaus championship golf course (site of the 2012 Ryder Cup)

-A car dealership

-A full service hospital

-A private school

-A plumbing supply emporium

-A Turkish bath house

-A nuclear waste storage facility

-A pot dealer

-Bookmaking services

-A race track

-An international airport

-A discotheque

-A funeral parlor

-A catering facility

-A church

-A temple

-A mosque

-A cemetery

So, needless to say, as much as I hate regular Target, this Super Target--I need to check this mother f&*%$# out! I will be driving through in the next couple weeks and will pull over and have a look around. I will report back my findings. Or, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll buy land there, become a general in the Super Target Army, and declare war on all of you bastards. As the old saying goes, The South Will Rise Again!

Stockard Channing has a Twin--Look Out!

Last May, I said aloha (in the goodbye sense) to my corporate job and decided to go back to school and take on the oh-so highly coveted position of the nanny; CEO for five-year-olds.

Luckily for me, my best friend Lauren is a nursery school teacher. Her ability to network nanny positions is basically comparable to Donald Trump's ability to network in the real estate world. I had a job before she even put the "Best Friend of Miss Reiswerg" flier on the wall.

My new job was for a family that moved to Chicago from New York a year earlier. Up until this point, I was under the impression that I had grown up pretty lucky. Mind you, I still think that, but this nanny job provided me insight into a whole new world of spoiled.

The children, a four-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl, were very intelligent kids with wonderful potential and solid futures ahead of them. They also individually had at least five times the clothes than any member of my family. Although I have many more examples of why these kids lived in this world I had never known, I don't want to lose sight of what, actually who, I am writing this blog about. The mother.

Her name is Sharon. Honestly, I used to think you had to meet her in order to explain what kind of a person she was. Then I realized I was giving her way too much credit. When Sharon hired me at the end of April, she very adamantly explained that their was one component of my job that was MOST important to her; her annual trip to the Hamptons in August. It was pertinent for me to be there with her, helping out with the children. I wondered how I had never heard of the concept of bringing two babysitters on vacation when there were already four capable adults to watch three children.

Let's just say, the trip to the Hamptons was a paid trip for me to bask in the sun while the kids went to camp from 8-3. I would think an investment banker with a college degree from NYU would be able to crunch numbers a little bit better.

The trip ended with a shit storm, when I learned that Sharon and her family decided not to come back to Chicago, but to stay in New York...ultimately. It was lovely also to receive the news two days before they were supposed to come back to Chicago, from her husband whom I had exchanged about ten words with.

Since then, I have tried to maintain contact with Sharon, simply because I cared about the well being of her children. Often times my attempts to contact her were in response to something she initiated, but her general trend was no response or a response that was followed by a favor she needed of me.

Maybe I'm old fashioned, but when someone spent months with your children and expressed legitimate interest in their lives in a completely non-pedafile way, you would want to maintain contact with them. You would also think that when someone (me) knows that you sleep with your Blackberry taped to your pillow (her), you would respond.

Today I changed my email. I forwarded a message to all of my old contacts, including good old Sharon. Below are an archive of emails between us today. Enjoy!

From: Sharon
To: Me

How are you? Why the change in email?

From: Me
To: Sharon

Hi!

I'm good...how are you? How are the kids and everything in New York? I miss them!! No big reason for the change...just everyone always leaves out the "d" and I'm applying for teaching jobs for the fall so wanted to make it more concise. When are you coming to visit?

From: Sharon
To: Me

Request from sam and ryan

1 - sweet mandee bee cookie And one chocolate cupcake with pink frosting. How can we make it happen?

From: Me
To: Sharon

Yeah so I'm going to be a teacher. I know you must be so excited for me, since you've made it clear how much you care about my well being. It's hard to find someone who is so interested in my life and makes it so obvious that they put everyone else before themselves. You must get that all the time though.

As far as the cupcakes, I would suggest you tell your children, who you have turned into obnoxious spoiled brats, that you live in New York City! Perhaps you should remind them, as you reminded me, that New York is better than Chicago not only in some ways, but in every way. There is nothing good about Chicago, other than the nice people, who stupidly gave you the benefit of the doubt.

I guess that was overdoing it a little bit, I will retract. If you have already falsely promised your children the baked goods, as I'm sure you have because we know you love a bribe, I have an alternate plan for you. Call Sweet Mandy B's---I think you could probably get the number from Google. I'm pretty sure they could overnight you some treats, on yourself, as I don't have money to be spending on your frivilous necessities. They will probably require a minimum amount of goodies, since they are shipping them to you out of state. Seeing that I am pretty familiar with their inventory, mainly from the months I spent parenting your children, I would suggest getting one of their cakes. You may as well make them write something on the cake, just for fun. I've got something perfect.

GO FUCK YOURSELF (and don't forget the exclamation point).