The Hitchens Post

I read God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens last week.  Let me first say that it is quite the good book, a delightful romp in the sack with good old Hitch.

You see? This is ridiculous, and therefore I win

Sometimes wikipedia really, I mean really, comes through.  It’s honestly all about the caption for this photo, which reads “Kirk Cameron disputes evolution with a photo of a duck with the superimposed head of a crocodile.”

Yup.

This position, unfortunately, confirms the worst criticisms leveled at him

Eloquently put here.

Bikram (thank god, not about CH either)

We ate dinner with some friends tonight who told us all about how great Bikram is.  As I understand it, you strip down to near-denudity, get really sweaty with a bunch of strangers and supposedly feel incredibly healthy afterwards.  At least one of those things makes me a little hesitant.  But I’m still intrigued, and I feel that this is exactly the type of experience I should be seeking out before I turn 30.  Apparently, though, you can’t just up and start holding Bikram classes yourself — each place offering it technically has to be sanctioned by, and offer training only from instructors who themselves studied under, Mr./Dr. Bikram himself in L.A. (upon hearing this detail the practice achieved instant credibility in my estimation).  It’s sort of an apostolic theory of sweaty yoga.  Thankfully, though, there is an ”official” Bikram spot right near us on Flatbush, which I will have to check out very soon.  Can there be any possible downside to this?        

Not about Christopher Hitchens

How easily I’ve forgotten certain things since moving (back) to Brooklyn.  Like how difficult it was to concentrate in Manhattan.  And how the East Village truly is, at least on a Friday night, douche central.  The truth of this was driven home this evening, as I was sitting at a cafe sipping tea before a show and trying to ignore the bland yammerings of the NYU students next to me enough to read my book.   Three douches (their terrible presence is always underlined and unignorable when they are in 3s) barreled loudly down the sidewalk (no small feat on Second Avenue), decked out in their jeans, striped golf shirts and sports jackets (!).  One of them

Fair Warning & Full Disclosure

Inspired by my lunchtime frolics clicking from the middle column of Arts & Letters Daily, I have outlined a post re: doubt, organized religion and Christopher Hitchens.  In tribute to the Man, in fact, I did so while under the influence.  I do feel, however, some obligation to actually read God is Not Great before mining its already-ravaged pages for short-lived blogulary gains.  So maybe I’ll stop by the Strand in the financial district (which I just happed upon last week — did you know there was one down there?) and pick up a used copy tomorrow and try to skim through before adding grammar and sense to my preconceived notions and pressing the “Publish” button. 

Agitprop

 I know this is really old and you’ve all seen it already like six years ago, but it always brings me mirth, to see the fixation.  So many fanTASTIC moments (the Zell Miller and Ah-nold appearances being the most overtly funny), but I think my favorite thing about it has to be the way that Cheney pops in there in the middle of the recitation and, in a chilling Sci-fi voice that makes me shudder even in the midst of this unintentionally hilarious litany, threatens “Deadly Technology.”  That and Rudy’s apparently gleeful morbidity throughout (the last moment is priceless; after all, 9/11 did make him rich).

Tip

A good way to show your stomach who’s boss is to have some leftover pre-cooked mushroom sausages  – that would have to be thrown out if we don’t eat them soon — right out of the package cold the minute you wake up.

cheezy list

Much as I love(d) watching Inside City Hall on NY1, infomercials, Craig Ferguson and/or Conan, the Old Time Gospel Hour on Sunday nights, hippish travel shows on PBS with childish enthusiasm and university educated curiosity that made sure to get all the important names and dates and also promised to tell you where the good pubs are, snippets of umbrage on Democracy Now!, various utter crap on MNN, Becker or poker on the networks if I was up late drinking beer alone, the comforting hum of droning city council testimony or Bloomberg’s nasal press conference monotone on NYCTV, occasional untranslated old Italian movies with a possible glimpse of Sophia Loren (or one of her mimeographs) caught erotically in black-and-white shadows on non-cable television, traffic cams and idiosyncratic-pronunciation-laden-public service announcements from City Sanitation Commissioner John Daugherty on City Drive Live, glints of cattle behind and flies around the poor and shrouded emerging from the fuzzy picture on UNTV, Weather on the 1s, a roll call vote on the motion to reconsider the previous question, unwanted Friends reruns, the clean and trustworthy lisp of that BBC World anchor, Mayor John Lindsay discussing the imminent transit strike with the press on City Classics, Charlie Rose’s assuming charm, and the like, the apartment we are subletting now does not get TV reception. 

 So I end up, like, reading more.        

Cats were fast as lightning

For many years in grade school I had a big poster of Ralph Macchio hanging on the door to the attic space in my bedroom; Ralph was sitting at a maple desk with his hands folded, wearing a red flannel shirt.  This visage gave me a very realistic understanding of what it probably would be like to interview Ralph Macchio for a part-time position teaching shop (”Just give me a chance, Mr. Caruso — I can get through to those kids.  Because I was one of them.”).  Perhaps in long-awaited fulfillment of an aspiration conceived when I first saw The Karate Kid in second grade,