P E Z O L C F T D

On Sunday, at the eye exam, the doctor had me look at the board while she flipped the lenses back. She'd speak quietly before each one.

"One? Or two..."
"One? Or two..."
"One? Or..."
And then I'd add, "One."

"Okay, now which one is sharper. Three? Or four?" Pause. "Three? Or..."

Anyway, she started from my old prescription and did the aforementioned flipping of different lenses. Why was this so remarkable? Because as she was doing my right eye, she laughed when I said that #4 was sharper because it was actually 3 steps WEAKER than my present prescription. My right eye is getter better and stronger. Weird, right? Like I'm special. Benjamin Button special, not short yellow bus special.

The Magical Properties of The Sun, in anecdote form

Yesterday Leni took Max and I to get our eyes checked. I know that sounds funnier than it actually was. Neither of us had been to an Eye Doctor in quite some time, and while the worst I had to suffer was the occasional “squint” at a movie or while driving, Max has been bumping into stuff. And not just like furniture. Like, walls. Literally bumping into walls. Like if she had to wear a helmet, the helmet would bury his head in his hands, take out an additional life insurance policy, and make damn sure he said his goodbyes to his helmet wife and family before letting Max put it on. I’m embellishing, but you get the point. This would not be a good day for the helmet.

Since the place we went to was in the East Village (which, over time, is more like Greenwich Village now, which, now that I think about it, is more like Hoboken now…). Let’s lose the parentheses for a moment. Basically, in terms of Culture and Demographic, everything moved East. Hoboken took over Greenwich Village, the Village took over the East Village, the East Village took over the Lower East Side and parts of Williamsburg. And Williamsburg still sucks. Because really Williamsburg should be filled with homeless and junkies (filthy all the same) but now it's just Hipsters. Sideburn wearing, try too hard, rats nest of a head Hipsters. They should have the Red Cross fly helicopters over all of those hipsters and drop crates of soap on them. Actually, they should really just aim soapy water cannons at the whole neighborhood like the do when they wash an elephant. Bye Bye Dirty Hipsters. I don’t know how you justify appearing as if you live in a dirty laundry hamper, but Soap and Razors are a good thing. And I’m talking to you, too, ladies.

I had to get a new earring so we stopped at one of the piercing places on St. Marks. Max caught a glimpse of some of the piercing displays (cast from real people, I imagine) that indicate where some of their finest surgical steel products go. Even I didn’t know what some of them were for, but it was clearly enough to persuade Max to never ever ever get a piercing ANYWHERE, no sir. Which was good, but not the point of the story. I got distracted.

Fast forward to a bit later, before we went home, but after we picked up our glasses. We were waiting in the parking lot for our car when this very nice couple (also, waiting for their car) smiled at Max. The wife seemed young and hip, and complimented Max on the blue tips of her hair.

“Wow, that is hot. I like your hair,” she said.

Max smiled and said “thank you.” Leni then explained how we had preferred Max with her Pink tips, but we appreciated the compliment.

“What’d you have to do, just color the tips or did you have to bleach it first?”

An honest question. Leni said, “No, we did have to bleach it a little before coloring it…” And then I added, “Unless you’re child services, in which case the sun bleached it.”

Her and her husband starting laughing hysterically until she said: I AM child services!

We burst out laughing as well. Their car arrived and they hopped in, still laughing. As a goodbye, I yelled out “I didn’t know you were on the clock!”

“Oh, she’s always on the clock,” he yelled back. "She is always on the clock." And they drove off with a smile.

End Scene.

P.S. I don't know what that canoe in the picture has to do with saving kids. Unless its some riddle like the one where you have to take the fox and the rice first and then leave the fox and come back for the kid but then you'll have to take the kid and the chicken back, and you can't leave either of them with the fox...give me a minute. I'll figure it out.

F**k You Stupid Science Project

4 hours. 4 freaking hours to get this freaking thing even CLOSE to being done. If you’re a control freak as a parent, you’re screwed.

Because here’s your choice:

A) Let your kid do it all themselves, and, well, we all know how that will turn out.

B) You do it, but then the teachers looks at it and has to decide whether to give YOU the A+, give both of you the B, or penalize your kid for not really doing much on it and give them a C-

C) Do some parts, and try to Kid-ish it by letting large parts of the acreage go to them and even though YOU’D never put that crap there it probably makes the project look more age appropriate.

I chose mostly B, with a little bit of C to detract from the glaringly exact obsessive compulsive German model maker who obviously cut everything out.

If I get a C, we’re going to have problems. C-? Possible homicide.

Incoherent Mess Friday

Today was my official last day on Sorcerer’s Apprentice. I was hoping to take a few days off to spend time with Leni before the baby comes, and as Leni has yet to give birth, it looks like I’ll have my summer vacation after all. I’m not going to work just Monday, or Monday and Tuesday, or (you can guess the rest). So I spent the day cutting tar paper for a rooftop and came on home to relax. And by “relax” I mean work on my science project. And by “my science project” I mean “Max’s science project.”

Apparently, it’s crunch time and I didn’t know it. Max has a big math test Tuesday and a drum rehearsal, and a science project due Thursday, and another drum rehearsal Friday, and then a concert on Saturday, and then at some point we might be squeezing in giving birth to our daughter. (“Squeezing out” probably would have been more appropriate). Sprinkle a little food shopping and some laundry, hanging some lights, cleaning the kitchen, writing a script for a project I’m working on by Sunday, and sheeeeee-oooot, I might as well go back to work. It would be more relaxing.

For those who don’t know, Sorcerer’s is based on the little vignette in Fantasia starring Mickey Mouse and a broom. Don’t you remember how cute the young Nicholas Cage looked (only animated)? In this film he’s a, you guessed it, sorcerer looking for an apprentice. I liked it better when it was called Harry Potter. Like if they took National Treasure (same director) and hijacked the Money Train to Hogwarts. Kids will love this movie. Me? I’m still having a hard time getting the stench off my clothes. I’m still washing my jacket from “Meet Dave”…just kidding, we didn’t get even a thank you. But we did get to see Eddie Murphy’s stand-in act in all of his scenes (Eddie was too busy, I guess, to come to set…EVER).

Total Non-sequitor:

I invented a tasteless Iphone application but I’m saving it for after the baby comes because I’m superstitious. Is that silly? Like I feel if I make light or fun of anything even mildly off-color God might punish me, or my unborn daughter. It’s like when we didn’t believe the head of obstetrics at St. Luke’s that we were having a girl because all of these people had told Leni she must be carrying a boy because of the way her stomach looked and her greek-ness. Part of me wants to disprove my silly fear by firebombing tonight’s blog entry with a bunch of really offensive jokes. But the other part, the common-sense-driven-even-though-I-know-I’m-being-ridiculous-part, thinks: Better safe then sorry…
Good God. Niiiiice God. Niiiiiiice merciful handsome God. Yes you are. Yessss you are!

And now for something completely different...

A few pregnancy haikus:


It is 9 PM
And she wants frozen yogurt
I just want to sleep


Cold, rain, wipers sweep
One hundred snacks tucked at home
What's wrong with pudding?


Crib, bottle, car seat
Doula, dilate, monitor
And still no baby

Step Right Up and Ride The Terror Flume!

Top 5 Rejected Titles for Today’s Blog Entry:

1. There is a light at the end of the tunnel…literally
2. Now open wide and say “ahhhhh”
3. One Centimeter is better than No Centimeter
4. “Echo…echo…echo…echo”
5. Okay, I’ve got a meatball parm, and…who here ordered the effaced cervix?

Well, Leni got her wish today in the form of a single confirmed centimeter. She’s begun dilating (and redoubling her efforts to try to spur labor on). And while Polo practice is most certainly out of the question, I’ve agreed to help up the Rose Tea and Evening Primrose Oil usage until my daughter decides to start queuing up for the big plunge. Leni’s Mom apparently went around for 4 or 5 days already dilated 3 cm. Leni was completely closed up until she began the long 22 hour labor to deliver Max, so really, it’s anyone’s guess at this point.
I kind of skipped over the confirmation process, which was not something I performed, rest assured. I don’t care what YouTube has on it, this wasn’t something Google was going to help me find on the internet. We went back to the doctor we sort of liked but didn’t really get to speak to last week, and he checked how Leni was doing. As far as my assessment of Leni, I think this new doctor, while not necessarily the person she’d choose as her first choice, is an excellent stand-in. He is kind, knowledgeable, patient and open. His wife, acting as both counterpoint and administrator, seems to be the emotional support Leni wasn’t even close to getting from “Dr. Jason Kanos, Douche MD.” “Kanos” didn’t seem to understand that a birth is not like a toe surgery, unless you have really effed up feet in which case I don’t want to know any more details. The point is, a birth is an emotional as well as physical event: if one of those pillars is unsupported, you put the mother in a position of undeserved additional stress and anxiety. It is vital to know that the doctor bringing this little life into the universe is someone who respects the process, as opposed to viewing it as something he has to whip off before he gets his Speedo wet. I have much more to say about “Dr. Jason Kanos, Douche MD” but I’m not quite sure where Sarcasm and Disdain meet Libel and Hate-Crimes. Plus, that’s not even his real name. It’s an alias. Any connection Douche MD has to any real personage presently practicing at St. Luke’s/Roosevelt Hospital would be a remarkable and unfortunate coincidence, especially if they ever became linked somehow.

For Leni

For the last 9 months I've watched my wife cry, get angry, frustrated. I've watched her clothes systematically betray her, sleep elude her, her health become something ephemeral and maleable, shifting in whatever direction the wind blew. I've watched her skin become green, translucent, then green AND translucent so she looked sickly and exhausted. A rash ravished her in her second trimester for, pretty much,the entire second trimester....the list gets longer, the complaints too numerous, the joys too far and few between. This pregnancy decimated my wife, took her over, compromising everything she believed to be something that could be controlled.

But today, today was something different. I sensed the change on Saturday but today I was certain. At the end of the long road there is peace, there is a respite from the chaos, there is most certainly an end, and more importantly, the miracle.

She is light and smiling. Her eyes are clear and joyful, brilliantly blue and hypnotic. And once again, my wife and my love, is the woman I knew all those months ago, before a little stick with a + sign became a harbinger for perpetual discomfort.

Quite simply, she is home and she is beautiful.

I'll Take Elmer's Glue and Vaseline for $200, Alex...

Yesterday Leni and I had Lobster Rolls with the left over meat we had from my birthday. I had never had one before, because it simply seemed like the most awful way to eat lobster. I guess I'm a purist. Boiled with butter. No mess, no flavors to compete with. Just an exceptional little experience on its own.
But this Lobster Roll recipe has you putting mayonnaise and cucumbers and a little mustard and bla bla bla bla bla. But, whatever, I figured I'd give it a shot. We're not normally a Mayo house anyway. Max hates it, and since it seemed easier to make sandwiches at the same time in the same way, over time I stopped using it too. So I went out to get some at the deli. And this is what I bought:

Real. It says it's "Real" mayonnaise. Other than what? What the hell else would I be buying that says "Mayonnaise" on it that I would bring home and be surprised? Does Hellman's make Motor Oil? Motor Oil and Vinegar Salad Dressing? Shoe Polish only it's white and in the exact same squeeze bottle? Are other companies copying your style, Hellman's? Infringing on this bold path you've forged so that you now have to specify that not only are you making mayonnaise, but that it's "REAL" and not the imaginary sandwich spread we have been using for years on our sandwiches? My god, was this what I've been using?

Hell-MAMN'S? Was that who I've been entrusting the enjoyment of my sandwiches to back when I was using their product? No? Then why should ANY food product like Ketchup or Milk or Eggs or Mustard have to put "REAL" on their label? What were they selling us BEFORE?!
Regardless, I won't betray my lobster and say the rolls were good. I'll simply say that they weren't terrible, and that I ate both of them...
And half of Leni's.

Two Lobsters Enter, One Lobster Leaves

Last night was Lobster Fight Club in the Sterbenz House. If that seems slightly impossible considering the two creatures you are looking at, you should know that Max named her hamster “Lobster.” Why “Lobster?” I think it was because I kept doing an impression of Eddie Izzard doing his impression of the Heimlich Maneuver. “Hoocha hoocha hooca, lobster.” He pantomimes receiving the Maneuver and then expels said piece of shellfish.
You might think that’s a ridiculous name for a pet, but considering I name most of my pets after bad celebrity puns, I’m in no position to judge someone else’s moniker bestowing process.
My Goldfish: Bruce Gillis
My Turtle: Tom Shelleck
My Fire Shrimp: Prawn Connery
So when notified how we would refer to Lobster from that point on, I didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Before we even began to prepare dinner, I fastened two rocket launcher/Gatling guns to one of the Lobsters, and some Japanese Ninja claws to all four of Lobster’s feet. The fight was to the death, with the loser going straight onto the menu. Putting the Lobster Pot Thunderdome on the floor, we let them battle it out in a war for the ages. In the end, though, Max got to keep her pet, and Leni and I were left taking care not to set the rockets off with the nutcracker (because the claw meat was pretty tasty, although not quite as easy to obtain, I should say).
Yesterday was also my birthday; I turned 36. Being summarily depleted from the emotional rollercoaster of losing our doctor and searching for a new one (of which we have 1 prospect), we chose to take it easy and relax. Max went to her grandmother’s for the weekend, and our nanny Ali had left for the Jersey Shore. So we gorged ourselves on one of the most delicious dinners either of us had ever had. We had Filet Mignon (au poivre), fresh Lobster (the aquatic kind), garlic mashed potatoes, broccoli, and for desert we made bread and butter pudding. It had been quite some time since Leni and I had spent ANY amount of time together alone, and it was really a nice change of pace from running around after Max and Ali all the time. Plus, it was clothing optional.
In addition, I had bought these 2 new mugs from Bed Bath & Beyond that have liquid inside the walls of the glass that you freeze and it keeps your beverage cold for a considerable amount of time. I don’t really drink beer that much any more but Leni had gotten me some exotic beers from Poland and Germany (from the Amish Market, of all places), one of which had this on the label that was supposed to indicate (by glowing red) when the beer had reached the ideal temperature. As my mug was going to overrule ANY attempts by any beverage attempting to be anything other than ice cold, I never got to see the magic happen.



Leni got to see the magic happen. My tolerance is so low now I’m like a little girl at a wedding, drunk on one glass of wine. I’m speaking metaphorically. That almost sounds like I ply little girls at weddings with booze. And I think I made it even worse now that I mentioned that. Let’s just say I can’t hold my liquor, but I was really really funny. 36% funnier, actually. And nude.

Take the Night Off, I Phoned This One In

Leni and I traveled to the A.S.S. end of Brooklyn today to see another OB/GYN her doula had recommended.

Good Sign: He had to leave the appointment to go deliver a baby, which assured us that, because he has a private practice, the odds of him being the one to perform the delivery are good.

Bad Sign: He left about 3 minutes into the appointment, beating "Dr. Jason Kanos" best time of 00:04:12 sec.

So where are we with our search for a doctor? Here's a hint:



Get it? It's a square one. That, my friends, is the height of creativity I reached tonight in my tornado of stress and exhaustion. I wish I could give you these minutes back so you wouldn't have wasted them. Hell, I'd throw a couple in for me as well. But right now the only way to free up some time is to stop writ

Just What The Arrogant Douche Bag Ordered

I had hope. I had hope that Leni’s doctor would leave us in relatively good hands and that his replacement wouldn’t be what he turned out to be. What did he turn out to be?
Let’s play Hangman.



But for the sake of simplicity and his protection, I’ll use an alias, so let’s call him, hmmmm…Let’s call him “Dr. Jason Kanos.”
Barely deigning to answer our questions, “Jason Kanos” tolerated us just long enough (4 minutes was his limit) to Doppler the baby’s heartbeat and tell us he can’t deliver the baby until after Wednesday because he had very important vacation plans. But after that, he could deliver the baby, unless he was unavailable, in which case some other random doctor would do it. Unless we wanted some other doctor at another hospital to do it. And then he left. He didn’t check her blood pressure. Didn’t check if she was dilating. That was that. He was curt, dismissive, and frankly seemed annoyed to have inherited the extra workload these new patients would bring. And this was not something he did the least bit of pretending to hide. In the end, it was obvious we needed to see someone who actually did their job and cared for their patients.
When we got outside, Leni started crying. We’re 2 weeks away from our due date, and our choices (at this moment) are “Dr. Jason Kanos” (see also: Hangman answer), or whatever guy we happened to pass on the street when Leni went into labor. Oh, and the punchline was that Oxford said that if the doctor on call (should we stay with “Dr. Jason Kanos”) wasn’t an Oxford Provider, they wouldn’t cover the birth.
So let me repeat that: We have no doctor, and if Leni goes into labor TOMORROW, there is a strong possibility OUR INSURANCE COMPANY WOULD NOT COVER THE BIRTH.
I went back upstairs into “Dr. Jason Kanos’s” office, to try and reason with the receptionist and explain our situation. I stated that “Dr. Jason Kanos” had been less than kind/helpful/receptive to our needs, and asked for the list of doctors on the “Call Schedule.” This list is the list of people they would call if “Dr. Jason Kanos” wasn’t available. We had seen one of them before, so we tried him first. But as he was going on vacation for 2 weeks starting next Friday, he would essentially put us right back in the same position. So I asked for the other doctors names, which, unfortunately, could only come from “Dr. Jason Kanos” who was with a patient. But when he came out, they could give us the names. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Cut to 1 actual hour later, spent standing at the reception desk, when I decided to have one of these:



One of the administrators came out to try and calm me, explaining that “Dr. Jason Kanos” would be willing to see Leni again, at that moment, and examine her properly. I refused, but when the receptionist started muttering under her breath, I lost it even more, freezing the entire office in their tracks, patients and nurses alike.
“You can mumble under your breath all you want! When you’re 9 months pregnant, tired and uncomfortable, and no one seems to care about how YOU’RE doing or who’s delivering YOUR baby, give me a call, and I’ll give you the same crap attitude you’re giving me. I have been quiet, and patient for more than an hour. Why would I subject her to another visit with ‘Dr. Jason Kanos’ when he didn’t care enough to do it right the first time? He was rude, dismissive, disrespectful and arrogant. Not to mention irresponsible and negligent. So don’t tell me ‘he’s with a patient,’ he stayed with us for 4 minutes…what the hell is he doing for 45 of them with another person? Interrupt him, get the names, and let me get my wife the hell out of this office.”
The biggest problem was that no one was accountable. Leni’s doctor wasn’t accountable because of his “family emergency” (sick father, apparently), “Dr. Jason Kanos” wasn’t accountable because the patients he was seeing weren’t his patients, and Chiffone (real name, I wrote it down) wasn’t accountable because she “wasn’t a doctor.” She was just a receptionist. So it was our problem. Our problem for entrusting St. Luke’s Roosevelt with our care.
So what did all of that suffering and agony get us? What was the extent of the efforts taken to ensure Leni and I received the best possible treatment in our search for another doctor? A list of 5 names, or rather, 5 last names, misspelled (I recognized one of them) and scribbled on an envelope.
So hey, “Dr. Jason Kanos,” Chiffone, Administrator lady, thanks for everything. And if you ever read this, print out that puzzle and fill in the rest. Here’s a hint: start with the letter “K.”

Paging Dr. Waldo, Dr. Waldo, please pick up the white courtesy phone...

Because the specter of Swine Flu wasn’t enough to break our already dejected spirits, Karma and Humility went out for an all-you-can-eat-and-drink Tequila buffet and got to some really creative spitballing. Namely, our OB/GYN has left for a “family emergency,” and won’t be back for 2 weeks. Get a calender. We're due June 4th.

That’s right. Our doctor is gone. That’s what they told Leni. I called to dig a little deeper, even pressing for more details, i.e. by “family emergency” do they mean “2 weeks in Costa Rica with his boyfriend?” “No,” she said emphatically. “It is a real emergency.”

Alright, then how is it you can tell me with certainty he’ll be back on June 10^th. That’s a pretty specific date. What kind of “emergency” can you plan? A Home Invasion? Missing Puppy? Brain Tumor? Is he going to watch someone die? Murder? How can he be sure he’ll have all the loose ends tied up by then? Won't they check the receipt from Home Depot?

Shovel. Rope. Car Battery. Hack Saw. Orbital Sander (it was only $30, what a steal!)

Seriously, how can they know he’s coming back on the 10^th? Something stinks, and I’m going to tell you what I think it is.

I’ll give you a clue. It rhymes with “Rehab” and you will probably have Gary Busey as your roommate. He’s been exhausted (the doctor, not Gary), missing appointments, run down, a little scattershot in terms of his personality (friendly, serious, warm – he was never warm). It wouldn’t surprise me if he A) checked himself in somewhere for “exhaustion”, or B) went somewhere to take care of his little vicodin addiction. He’s a doctor, he has access. They either forced him to take a leave, or it was self imposed. Nothing else makes sense to me. It’s 3 weeks for Christ’s sake.

Wait, how long is that John Mayer cruise?

Anyway, the only good news I got during the day was that a good friend of mine, who had a cancerous tumor removed from his bladder, is cancer-free as of today.

And while having to look for a new OB/GYN is going to suck something enormous (again, not you Mr. Busey), it was good to have some perspective.

Because, quite frankly, things can always be worse (actually, this time I was talking to you, Mr. Busey).

Oink! Oink! Mother F**ker!

Last night Max had trouble sleeping, which means she knocks on our door and has to lay on Leni's side of the bed for a while until she relaxes and finally falls asleep. This is usually accompanied by a headache or her just being overheated. This is also, typically, timed perfectly to correspond with the exact moment Leni and I initiate sex. Things start to heat up and knock knock! But since Leni has been pregnant, we sadly haven't had this "timing" issue.

The point of all this is that today Leni had to pick Max up from school around 10 am because Max had already thrown up twice at that point. Let's do some math:

[(12 Schools in Queens Closed) + (1 Vomiting Child) X (1 Pregnant Wife)] divided by (The Amount of Sleep I've Been Getting) X (Sleep Deprevation Induced Insanity) =

SWINE FLU!!!!

Were we invited to the Senior Pandemic? The Influenza Open? The Super Flu?

Thankfully, no.

Max is feeling better now but there were a couple of hours today where I just could not relax, and could not stop doomsdaying that something might happen to Leni or the baby, especially considering how close we are to the due date, and how awful that would be. And then I thought about the first person that first sick person sneezed on, giving them the now evolved version of the virus. And then wondered what that person did for the rest of the day. He must have gone straight to the airport and touched EVERYTHING. Handrails, doorknobs, suitcases, cans of gingerale, sneezed on the peanuts. My God he must have been busy.

So as of tonight, I think we're in the clear. So here's some information I found on Swine Products. Enjoy!

Mo' Milk™ Feed Mix

For gestating-lactating sows and gilts

	Natural, gentle laxative action.
	No harsh chemical dehydration action.
	Helps stimulate feed intake.
	Easy to use - Either sprinkle Mo' Milk™ Feed Mix at the rate of eight pounds per ton.

To learn more about Mo' Milk Feed Mix click Tech Talk

Countdown to Gemini!

Most people consider Gemini's to be the STD's of Astrological signs. I've often told someone my sign only to have them make a face as if I had just farted or insulted them. We like to think that it's because they know we're cooler than them but really it's because they think we're mentally unstable. And you might be thinking the same thing as I keep writing "we" but I'm really talking about all of us Gemini's.

Anyway, Leni and Max are Greek and stubborn, and seeing that our baby is going to be a girl and Greek, we should just go ahead and accept that she's going to be stubborn too. So I'm pretty much outnumbered 3-1 (or 3-2, depending on how much you believe in Gemini's). So I thought to even the score, it would be great for the baby to come after Friday. Saturday, May 23 is my birthday, and that's basically the first day of Gemini-dom. Leni's been plying herself with all of these homeopathic remedies to go into labor sooner, and I've refused to help with any of them until Friday. No red wine, no acupressure, primrose evening oil or whatever. No heavy lifting. Nothing.

4 days. The baby just has to stay warm for 4 more days.

(Today was also a great day for Leni and I to argue most of our time together. So maybe praying for the baby to stay in longer is like hoping a grenade doesn't go off in your pocket, but rather in your hand...)

Triple the Complaints! Three Times the Annoyance!

Here are the highlights of today, in no particular order:

Harold & Maude: This handsome Mother/Son duo walk up and down our street about 32 times a day. I’m pretty sure they live together because I don’t think I’ve EVER seen them apart in the 2 years we’ve lived here. Whether or not he lives in a basement with a bunch of dead animals and action figures, it’s hard to say. But judging from how creepy they are, I’d say I’m not off the mark. I’d go as far as to say he probably hates that dog, too, from the way she dotes over it. He probably thinks she loves that dog more than him, and for that, I’m also sure, she’ll pay a price some day. They don’t appear to have jobs because all they do is spend the day walking back and forth, although if they are raising money for a Walk-A-Thon, they’ve most definitely hit the $4 million mark. He walks slumped over with that bag, cap brim pulled wayyyyyy down, eyes low. And if they see you coming in their direction, they cross the road so you don’t get too close. Leni warned me not to get caught taking this picture, but I couldn’t resist.

XBOX 360: My Xbox broke, and Microsoft fixed it free of charge. I’ve had it back for a week, but hadn’t had time to set it up until today. Do you know what they did? Put this goddamn “Xbox Experience” b.s. on it. I feel like I’m 5 years old. They ripped off the opening screens from the Nintendo Wii, and made it for children. Avatars, My Games, What’s New, Music…What the Eff?! I just want to kill Nazis, is that so wrong? Nazis, Zombies, and Aliens. I don’t want a little doodad that makes cartoon people, I don’t want my console playing the hottest new tracks from My Chemical Romance. I want to kill things with bigger and badder guns. That’s why I play games. And now, when I complain, Leni comes at me with “that’s because video games ARE for children.” Screw that. I’ve been playing games for 30 years, before these little punks could YouTube each other and play at home all day. I had to go to a bowling alley, carry an ASTEROID machine up 5 flights of stairs with 6 bags of quarters on my back. I WAS THERE AT THE BEGINNING! PLAYING PONG! ON A PONG MACHINE! So stick it!

The Genius Bar: Really, Mac. I’m glad you have a great system in place. It was a snap to make a reservation to have you check out my IPOD. And wow, was I surprised when the filthy hipster douche bag genius used the word “propagate.” “Hey, Leni, they are geniuses!” But really, do you have to be so effing pretentious? Does it really have to be such a scene? And it’s not like it’s just the SoHo store. It’s all of them. They’ve all attracted the same awful people. I don’t want to watch a video on bloops and bleeps and snappers and windows and whatever wackiness you’ve decided to add to your new operating system. Be normal. That’s all. Wearing a t-shirt over your button down doesn’t make you a “genius.” In fact, it would suggest the opposite.

Here endeth the lesson.