the ghost of andy kaufman

Within the last year, a new genre of site has emerged on the internet: the neo-absurdist meme that spreads because it’s either uproariously funny or extremely disturbing, depending on the degree of fictionalization.

The classic case (and one of my perennial favorites) is BonsaiKitten.com, a site “dedicated to preserving the long lost art of body modification in housepets,” and purporting to sell cats stuffed into glass jars. Further exploration makes clear the site is a hoax, but many animal rights activists weren’t amused. Apparently similarly humor-impaired, the FBI launched a full-scale investigation of the site, including serving MIT (the site’s original host) with a grand jury subpoena, before realizing that they were chasing nothing more than a rather clever student prank.

Since then, a slew of similarly ambiguously-fictional sites have followed suit, settling at various locations on the fringes of acceptability and political correctness: an earnest and well produced site about one man’s passion for sex with cars, a corporate advertisement for tools allowing Mexican farm-laborers to telecommute without crossing the border, and everything in between.

Yet all that might still leave the world unprepared for FetaPets.com. A FetaPet, the site explains, “is a pet you will love forever,” provided, it seems, that you’re prepared to love a dog fetus wearing a collar and floating in a jar. Still, the site is uproariously, if not disturbingly, funny (the fan mail especially so), and unlike the easily-debunked Bonsai Kitten, debate is now raging around the Internet about its veracity.

Brecht and Kaufman would be proud.

Special note for those few readers who have not by now back-buttoned in disgust, never again to return, and especially for those who, while viewing FetaPets.com, laughed hard enough to lose bladder control: Tune in tomorrow for a fetal anecdote even funnier than FetaPets.com itself, courtesy of one of my colleagues: the story of Irving the Unnerving.

|   

yes, yes I am

Flipping channels to get to the West Wing (watched weekly with a few college buddies), I happened to pass by Dawson’s Creek and was hit by a memory from a few years back:

In Cincinnatti with a couple of friends, partway through a Hornitos Tequila pub crawl. A shot of tequila at twelve different bars, a stamp from each, and we can return to the first for a free t-shirt. At the fifth or sixth stop, we pull up to the bar and sit down. There are five of us, two girls and three guys. The bartender walks up to our group, looks around, leans over and says quietly: You’re the kids from Dawson’s Creek, aren’t you. Quick glances amongst ourselves. Unison: Yes, yes we are.

I’ve still never seen the show, but I’m a big fan. For the price of one autographed napkin, it got us a couple of rounds of drinks and a really cheap Hornitos Tequila t-shirt.

|  

no water

Years ago, my father shared with me a life lesson that, at the time, I didn’t fully appreciate. He had discovered, he told me, that one’s workload was a bit like the tides. Sometimes it was low tide, sometimes high tide. But he had always been waiting for no water, and he realized that just wasn’t going to happen.

In months like this one, I think about the tides. Too much time on the road, too much time with the flu, too much work piling up and not nearly enough sleep. To-do lists that spill over page after page. In months like this one, I think about the tides, and I think about another lesson he taught me, in regards to the fine art of surfing. Sometimes, he said, you can head out for an afternoon, miss all the good sets, get tossed around by the surf, and barely catch a single wave. And it’s on those days, during the highest tide, when you can best sit back and think how lucky you are just to be out there, going for a paddle.

|  

touche

The words of one of my fellow Palo Alto High School alumni, Jonah King, from Palyalumni.org:

“I have defended the labored bleating of Josh Newman over the last few months as many of my fellow alumni lambasted him as pompous and self-important. I now realize how bitterly remiss I have been. Though this latter-day William F. Buckley sprung from the same wellspring of knowledge, privilege and leisure as you and I, in the interim he has become an unrepentant East Coast apologist who has done George Jefferson one better- moving on up from the haughty snootiness and pseudo-Liberal culture of Palo Alto to the Ubersnootiness of that bastion of classic WASP values and *wink* *wink* superiority, the venerable Ivy League. But moving on up once was not good enough- Josh became a New Yorker- right, just like I’m a Los Angelino. Oh, and Josh, in reference to your assertion that women in and around San Francisco are aesthetically deficient- you are a platitudinous pissant. Back to my rant. Now that Josh deems himself too good for the slings and arrows of outrageous alumni, he has removed the incriminating evidence of his hubris from our collective consciousness. Check out his new website, prophetically named as it is. I write this only as an apology to those whom I doubted these many months. Josh Newman, I hardly knew ye.”

The thing that really hurts, though, is that his lambastment is better written than my postings.

|  

sartorial holocaust

I had kickboxing this morning and, per usual, brought work clothes along in a bag. Also as per usual, I forgot my shoes. Actually, it isn’t always shoes – more often, I’ve left out a tie or belt, or I’m one sock short. The root of the problem, essentially, is that I pack my work clothes earlier the same morning, and I have about five minutes from the buzzer to dress, pack and make it out the door. Sure, I could load up the bag the evening before, or even set my alarm clock five minutes earlier for a more leisurely pace. But the night before each training session, I’m convinced there’s no need; this will be the one where I finally remember everything.

None the less, I therefore was forced to wear sneakers to work. Nike cross-trainers, largely used indoors, and still fairly new. In short, fluorescent. There are few things that look worse than a guy in a suit wearing sneakers, except, perhaps, a guy in a suit wearing brilliantly white sneakers. And, of course, I had picked this very morning to schedule a number of important meetings and a business lunch. Helpful tip: Wearing sneakers with your suit into pricey Japanese restaurants is a surefire way to get hidden away in a back room at the really bad tables.

|  

common sense

Yesterday morning, my first day back home after the trip out West, I reach into my refrigerator and pull out a carton of milk. Sell by February 19. I look at the date for a while, blankly, then try and force my sleeping brain into some calculations. It’s, what, the 25th? So this milk is five, six, or possibly seven days past. (Early in the morning, subtraction is an approximate science.) Almost a week. But that’s okay, right? I mean, you can still drink milk for a week past that date, can’t you? I stare blankly at the date a while longer. Maybe that sell by date is actually the last date to safely drink the milk. Perhaps, by now, the milk is a full week towards yogurt. I consider calling my mom for advice on this, but realize it’s still four in the morning, her time, and decide she won’t be too helpful. I look at the milk a little longer, then finally place it back in the fridge.

Cut to this evening, when I return from a rehearsal with the Center Symphony. I walk to the fridge and pull out the same milk carton. Without the morning fogginess, I rationalize at full tilt: How bad could the milk be? I’ll just take a sip and toss the rest if it tastes strange. I take a sip. It tastes strange. Or maybe not. I can’t really tell if it has an aftertaste or if I’m just producing one psychosomatically. I decide I’m bluffing and chug down the rest of the glass. Carton in one hand, glass in the other, I wait to see if my stomach has a comment on the matter. Apparently not. I put the glass in the sink. I’m pretty sure I should just toss the rest of the carton of milk, but after a few moments of indecision replace it in the fridge. I can always deal with it tomorrow morning.

|  

east / west, redux

Several days ago, I discussed the Bay Area’s tragic flaw: a shortage of hot women. A slew of readers have replied, mainly splitting by gender:

Guys: You’re damn right.

Girls: Yeah, but we have it worse; look at the guys.

Several readers also pointed out a number of other, admittedly more minor, shortcomings of the idyllic greater San Francisco region. In particular, I’d agree with the lack of:

  • Pizza: Where’s the grease?
  • Bagels: In short, Ess-a-Bagel.
  • Deli: Pastrami on rye, and a good knish.
  • The Yankees: You call the A’s a baseball team?
  • Pickles: Sour or half sour. Never sweet.
  • Italian Bakeries: Long live Viniero’s.
  • Subways & Taxis: Getting around SF sucks.

The list goes on, but I’d prefer not to dwell on it, as I do intend to eventually move back to the Bay Area. Besides, if I can find the right woman to bring with me, I can get by without the rest.

|   

the new new math

Or, rather, The New Media Business Math. Perhaps a bit too close to home:

“Problem 5. You are a young, dashing New Media veteran. Out of the ten companies you managed in the last five years, three imploded before their IPO went through, four imploded right after the IPO went through but before you and your board could cash in their stock options, and three were shut down by the FBI as fronts for money laundering for the mob shortly after you left for greener pastures. How many more companies can you head before News.com stops prefacing your name in its reports with ‘wunderkind’ and replaces that preface with ‘pathological liar’ or ‘dog-felching weasel’?”

|  

red hots, get your

The secret to enjoying a hot dog is avoiding over-thinking. You don’t actually know exactly what a hot dog is made of, and you’re probably better off that way. A bit of consideration, and your imagination is running wild: Just what sort of meat is ground up, died pink and stuffed into a little tube, anyway? And what exactly is that “skin?”

Yet, fillers and preservatives aside, the hot dog is genuine Americana: inextricably linked to our national pastime, the centerpiece of any backyard barbeque, not quite as American as apple pie, but a whole hell of a lot better with beer. And, here in Gotham City, the raison d’etre of another fine establishment: the hot dog cart.

For years, I’ve been fascinated by hot dog carts, perhaps owing to childhood impressionability. In fact, over the last few weeks, I’ve even been working on a series of hot dog vendor portraits. So I was particularly thrilled to discover All American Hot Dog Carts, the one stop super-shop for all your hot dog cart needs. These guys really are at the top of their game – they’re authorized distributors for both Sabrett and Hebrew National. Sure, I may not need a new cart at the moment. But if the corporate life ever gets old, I know just where to turn.

|  

college application essay

Looking through my hard drive, I came across this essay, which I wrote for my Yale application. Apparently, it worked. By and large, I still like it, although some of the language grates on me now as obvious pandering to the admissions committee.

(Moment of unapolagetic egotism: the essay also appears in The Best College Admission Essays.)

—

I am an addict. I tell people I could stop anytime, but deep inside, I know I am lying. I need to listen to music, to write music, to play music every day. I can’t go a whole day without, at the very least, humming or whistling the tunes that crowd my head. I sing myself hoarse each morning in the shower, and playing the trumpet leaves a red mouthpiece-shaped badge of courage on my lips all day. I suspect that if someone were to look at my blood under a microscope, they would see, between the platelets and t-cells, little black musical notes coursing through my body.

On many occasions I’ve woken my family (and perhaps the neighborhood) composing on the piano early in the morning. Other times, my mother will admonish, “It’s too late to play the trumpet.” But I can’t understand why people wouldn’t want to hear music any time of the day. Keeping the music bottled up is more than I can bear. “I never worry about you sneaking up on me,” my friend once admitted to me. “I’ve never seen you walking without humming or whistling to yourself.”

For me, playing the trumpet is the opiate of music in its purest form. I love to play in all types of ensembles. I’m not just addicted to one kind of music; I couldn’t imagine limiting myself like that. Choosing just one kind of music would be worse than choosing one food to eat for the rest of my life. Playing orchestral music, for example, I become a sharpshooter. Waiting, I hide behind rows of string players, ready to jump out with a staccato attack that pierces the hearts of the audience. Playing in an orchestra, I can be Atlas, holding the other musicians above my head, or Icarus, flying through a solo in a desperate attempt to reach the heavens.

Completely different, small jazz ensembles are like a conversation with your closest friends. “So,” someone asks, “what do you think about . . . ” We mull it over together, and then each have a say. I build on what the piano proclaimed, or disagree with the saxophone. Playing jazz like this makes me giddy; jazz musicians know that music isn’t little dots on a piece of paper, but a feeling that makes you want to stomp your feet, shout for joy, or grab a partner and swing. Taking a solo, I extend my wings, a baby bird jumping out of my nest for the first time. Flapping madly, I hope that by some act of seeming magic my music will fly on its own.

Not only am I an addict, I am also a pusher. The schools in the neighboring community are unable to afford musical instruction, so each week several other high school musicians and I teach music at East Palo Alto’s Caesar Chavez Elementary School. I work with all of the trumpets for an hour before we join the other instruments to play as a band. Having tutored since freshman year, I’ve seen my students gradually improve. Four years ago, few of them could read music. This year, one of my best students won a scholarship to the Stanford Jazz Workshop. Many students in East Palo Alto never continue on through high school. At our last homecoming game, all of my students came and played with the Paly Pep Band. One student, who had been struggling in school, confided in me that playing with us had made him excited about attending high school for the first time. That afternoon, I saw a new music addiction forming; it was almost better than being hooked myself.

|