Christmas for thought

While I was at home for Christmas I read this review of books about Rene Descartes in an old borrowed New Yorker. Descartes was the philosopher best known for his "I think, therefore I am," saying. According to the article, the philosophical slogan was mistakenly believed to reflect an argument against the existence of God, and Descartes' belief in subjectivism. But this is what Descartes had to say:

"When I consider the fact that I have doubts, or that I am a thing that is incomplete and dependent, then there arises in me a clear and distinct idea of a being who is independent and complete, that is, an idea of God. And from the mere fact that there is such an idea within me, or that I who possess this idea exist, I clearly infer that God also exists, and that every single moment of my entire existence depends on him. ...And now, from this contemplation of the true God, in whom all the treasures of wisdom and the sciences lie hidden, I think I can see a way forward to the knowledge of other things."

Merry Christmas everyone.

The meat tonight is fresh. I mean, REALLY fresh

This experience is sure to make the RCNY Hall of Fame for me.

So it seems strange things happen to me when I'm in and around Washington Square Park, especially when I am with Al & An. My prior strange Wash Sq Pk w/ Al & An experience was meeting Leatherface, who later was found dead hanging from a post in full S&M gear.

So this time, we were coming out of Blue Hill, a restaurant on Washington Place known for serving organic food from the Hudson Valley, our bellies full of Berkshire Pork and bread pudding and wine and chicken and other foods that you pat yourself on the back for eating because they are organic, even though you're not entirely sure what that entails. Al went back into the restaurant to get a gift certificate, while An and I waited out front. I noticed a minivan parked on the street that had nobody in it, but its side door was open halfway. I was a bit concerned that some poor guy's car had been broken into, though there were no visible signs of forced entry.

I peered into the van from a few feet away to see if I could tell whether it had in fact been broken into. I noticed a couple things; some dry cleaning hanging behind the back seat; a Bed, Bath & Beyond plastic bag on the floor, and something big strewn across a black plastic bag on the back seat, like maybe a big crumpled blanket or sweater. I peered in the darkness of the van a couple of times, while chatting with An as we waited for Al, who took a while to get his certificate. But on maybe my third peer-in, I noticed the light bouncing off something shiny and black on the blanket.

Now, I am not one who screams aloud unless I am with someone else who screams first, but if I were one who screamed aloud, I surely would have. I had that sudden feeling in the pit of your stomach that you get when something scares the bejeezus out of you. The glistening black thing was an eyeball on the "blanket" strewn across the back seat, which was not in fact a blanket at all, but appeared to be a dead baby deer. Initially I thought it was a dead dog, but the legs were too spindly and the snout was longer, like a horse's. I could see it's glassy eye staring up at me, and I felt like that guy in the Godfather who finds the bloody horse's head in his bed.

An and I freaked out and tried to think of where this deer could possibly have come from. An noticed that the car had a NYC parks department sticker. But where on earth would you find a dead deer in NYC? I highly doubt deer from Jersey or upstate would be able to accidentally cross highways and bridges and toll roads to wander into Central Park. And why was the door open? To keep the car fresh from the smell of a rotting animal corpse? Or was it a sign for car thieves to keep away (as in, you try to jack this car, you end up dead, like this deer)? I immediate concocted a crazy revenge scenario: Some parks dept. bureaucrat with a gambling problem who owed money to a loan shark was dining at Blue Hill, and the loan shark's thugs put the dead deer in his soccer-mom minivan as a warning.

At any rate, the other strange thing was just how nonchalantly the deer was strewn across the back seat, decidedly NOT placed INSIDE the plastic bag it was lying on. Maybe the parks employee decided it was OK to leave the car door open, because why on earth would a dead deer in a car freak people out? Al wondered what the driver's to-do list for the day looked like: 1) Pick up dry cleaning. 2) Get duvet cover at Bed, Bath & Beyond. 3) Pick up dead deer. 4) Make reservations for Blue Hill--must hurry to get good parking!

Anyway, the other curious thing was that on Blue Hill's tasting menu that night--which was being strongly recommended by our waitress--was VENISON. Coincidence???? I think not.

Which gym a-hole are you?

Okay, maybe I’m feeling particularly pet-peevish lately, but this blog post made me think of all the different types of a-holes I see at the gym.

For starters, I have to point out that I have suffered from a case of gym a-holishness myself. I only really started working out in my mid-to-late 20s once I realized that my metabolism was no longer my friend. It started out with about 20 minutes on an elliptical at level 2, then after a few years, for a brief period, I became a gym a-hole and would take two classes in a row and go like four or five times a week. But now I think I’ve leveled off at about three times a week, taking my favorite classes, doing some treadmill or elliptical work here and there, and getting in some free-weight time.

Even though the gym is a regular part of my routine now, I’d like to think that I don’t fall into any of the below categories of Gym A-holes:

1. The “Smell? What Smell?” A-hole: This is the A-hole who farts on the treadmill next to you or in yoga or in some other class where people are in close quarters. Sad how we usually assume it’s the nastiest guy in the room, but the truth is the skinny bitch next to you whose insides are all shot due to her eating disorder is just as likely to be the culprit. Most people in class where gas was passed are mature enough to ignore the odor and wait for it to waft away. But as soon as I get a whiff I, of course, have to scan the room to see who has the guiltiest look on their face.

2. The “Two Percent Body Fat” A-hole: This is the A-hole who believes s/he is doing a public service by working out in just enough clothing to disqualify him/her from indecent exposure, so all of us flabbies can check out his/her six pack. This is the girl in micro bike shorts and jog bra doing the Chinese splits behind her three-riser step to “warm up” for step class. This is the guy who always wears a tight wife beater and lifts it up to wipe the sweat off his face while flexing his abs.

3. The “Twenty Percent Body Fat” A-hole: This is the A-hole who isn’t necessarily out of shape, but somehow manages to pick gym clothes that make them appear flabbier than they are. Unfortunately, this A-hole is usually female, and she’s the one who probably wears the same outfit as the “Two Percent Body Fat” A-hole, but instead of exposing a six-pack, she exposes rolls and a muffin top. I acknowledge that society has instilled an unnatural standard of female beauty in me, but that still doesn’t mean I want to see your pooch. (Props to S for pointing out this A-hole.)

4. The “You Done Wit’ Dat?” A-hole: This is the A-hole who hovers around you while you’re on the machine and asks how many more sets you’re doing during your first rep while swinging his arms to stretch in preparation for his turn. He also asks if he can get a “few reps in” while you’re taking your ten second break between sets.

5. The “Just Five More Miles—I Mean Minutes” A-hole: This is the A-hole treadmiller or ellipticaller who knows it’s high-traffic time and is only supposed to be on the machines for 30 minutes, but has clearly been on longer judging by the fact that his white shirt is translucent due to an hour’s worth of sweat. This A-hole tends to cover the time on the dashboard with his towel so none of the annoyed waiting patrons can see how long he’s actually been on.

6. The “Trainer’s Pet” A-hole: This is the A-hole that basically acts as a class instructor’s groupie, following the instructor from gym location to gym location like an obsessive fan, very obviously making personal conversation with celebrity instructor before and after class, putting his/her equipment away for him—everything short of sopping up the instructor’s sweat with her own tongue.

7. The “Monica Seles” A-hole: This is the A-Hole who grunts louder than tennis pro Monica while benchpressing some insane amount of weight while simultaneously checking himself out in the mirror. Nearby gym attendees are forced to turn up their iPods to avoid that discomfort you feel when the person next to you sounds like they are taking a dump or getting laid.

8. The “Cell Phone” A-hole: This is self-explanatory. This is the A-hole who gabs away on her cell phone, out of breath, while running or doing the elliptical, clearly ignoring the “cell phone use in designated areas only” sign. This A-hole typically talks louder than normal to be heard over the sound of the machines and the grunts coming from Monica Seles A-hole.

9. The “Meat Marketer” A-hole: This is the A-hole who is always looking around the room for the “Two Percent Body Fat” A-hole so he can chat her up.

10. The “Do As I Say, Not as I Look” Trainer A-hole: This A-hole is the trainer who teaches an abs class without a six pack, or who teaches an aerobics class by barking out instructions but not doing any moves, or teaches a dance class with no rhythm (and yes, I’ve experienced all three of these trainer A-holes). You have no clue how these people became instructors, or how the gym manager managed to overlook the potbelly when he hired him. They may as well be teaching class while sitting in La-Z-Boy eating a donut. For some mysterious reason, these Trainer A-holes also tend to wear 80s workout gear, like pantyhose underneath leotards or Le Coq Sportif track suits.

Evite etiquette, anxiety and acrimony

So this NYT article really hit the nail on the head when it comes to the insanity that has become responding to an Evite. S and I are always commenting on how people get on our nerves when it comes to their Evite etiquette (or lack thereof).

In the early days of Evite, people simply responded a simple “yes,” “no,” or a “maybe” with a simple explanation of why they may or may not be able to make it. Now, as the article points out, RSVPing has evolved into an arduous effort to create clever one-sided repartee.

I think we need to return to simplicity because all this Evite nonsense is crazy. Here are my top Evite peeves:

LAME RESPONSES. One can tell when you’ve tried too hard to write your response—and people will call you out on it, or at least talk shit about you behind your back and tell everyone else at the party that so-and-so’s response was LAME—especially if the Evite host has crafted a particularly witty invite. I’ve had firsthand experience with this. (Not with generating a trying-too-hard response, but with people saying that they didn’t see why so-and-so respondent even attempted to match my Evite witticisms. Not to toot my own horn or anything.)

“TMI” RESPONSES. You don’t know 50 percent of the people on the Evite, so they don’t care if you have 12 other parties to go to that night. If anything, they’ll think that you are so insecure you need to announce to the world that you have a social life. A simple: “Have to run to another event that night. Will try to make it!” is good enough, you social climber.

PERPETUAL “MAYBE” MEN. These are the people who NEVER say they are coming to an event with 100 percent certainty. No wonder you sleep alone, you emotionally dead commitment phobe! I much prefer Yes Men or Naysayers.

HIDE-AND-PEEKERS. The host can tell when you’ve looked at the Evite, which means we can tell that you are choosing not to respond until you’re certain the people coming are worthy of your time. I’ve seen people check an evite every few days until the event, without giving any response. In the words of scorned women everywhere: “You can’t do better than me!”

SECOND-DEGREE RESPONDERS I know that sometimes in Evites hosts encourage you to invite friends, but eviting 20 friends, and having those friends evite their friends, instills this unnatural feeling of extreme annoyance in me. I mean, not just when people forward the evite info to their friends, but actually ADD them to the evite. And then those people respond as if they were first-degree guests! Admittedly, this is a nitpick pet peeve, but it still gets my grill. Stop crashing my party, fools!

Now that I’ve revealed my Evite pet peeves, I’m sure to undergo scrutiny whenever I craft a response or my next evite. Whatever, it had to be said.

In other news: But can they listen to your problems while looking hot?

Ay, Dios mio!

There’s nothing quite like Spanish-language television. As I write this I am currently glued to the TV set watching a Univision show, Muevete, in which two female stars dressed in leopard print lingerie and sporting corn chip nail tips play a precarious game of Jenga, as an audience, the band, the hosts, cameramen, and a chorus of bikini-clad show extras look on. The 30-story high Jenga tower finally gets knocked over because during the turn of one of the stars (the older one with the bigger boob job), the table gets mysteriously bumped and shakes the tower down after said celebrity manages to expertly remove the Jenga piece. I think her D-cups created some sort of shockwave that traveled through the air as they swept pass the tower. That’s the only explanation I can think of because she didn’t seem to touch the table otherwise.

Anyway, I know a lot of people who went to Italy this year, which has been making me itchin’ to go to Europe sometime soon. But I’ve always wanted to visit Barcelona to see the architecture and eat a lot of paella. The signs are everywhere telling me to go: I keep seeing random travel articles on Barcelona, and America’s Next Top Model was filmed there. I ate at a Spanish-inspired restaurant called Barca 18 a few months back, and this weekend I ate shrimp, which is an ingredient in paella. I think God’s trying to tell me something.

Which brings me to the real point of this post: How I could fund such travel. The only problem with my Barcelona trip is that I have no money to get there. Or to Africa. Or to the Caribbean. Or to Miami. Or to Canada. (All places that I have enough reason to go to, but not enough funds.) Sigh. So lately I’ve been thinking about getting a part-time job, but at what age are you too old to get a part time job? I mean, like the kind where you’re folding khakis at the Gap or scooping ice cream at Baskin-Robbins? The lazy part of me is totally unmotivated to do work outside of my ten-to-six. The other part of me looks at my bills and panics.

So I’ve been brainstorming ways to come up with some extra cash. Waitress? Dog walker? Babysitter (which I do from time to time already)? Evite-writing consultant? Subway performer? Life coach (like with athletic coaches, life coaches just have to know how to dispense advice, but not take it, right)?

Someone give me suggestions. I’m willing to consider any and all reasonable ideas.