Something To Keep You Up At Night

Thanks to the wonders of modern nuclear physicists and Google Maps, HYDESim provides us with the opportunity to simulate the destruction zone of a nuclear bomb explosion.

As if New Yorkers didn't have enough to be paranoid about.

Before I dashed underneath my sheets and began whimpering like a maimed puppy dog, I had enough energy to simulate the destruction radius of a 50 kiloton bomb detonating in Times Square. For those keeping track, our ancient Hiroshima nuke was 22 kilotons. By default, the website loads a 100 KT bomb, with a central blast located somewhere in mid-SoHo. I thought 50 KT was a reasonable modern-day, modern-made bomb.

Call me curious. Call me stupid. Call me masochistic.

The bad news is that most of the New York City we know and love (namely Manhattan) would suffer immediate and complete destruction. Even if many of the large buildings absorbed fractions of the blast, all of Midtown and almost all of Downtown and Uptown would suffer moderate to severe damage. Even Hoboken would feel the effects. The good news is that I would probably die so quickly that my brain couldn't process what was happening.

And thanks to a 2002 New York Times Magazine article by now-executive editor Bill Keller (p.22), I know that even if the pressure of the blast didn't kill me and destroy my home, anyone exposed to the quarter-mile fireball "would die a gruesome death from radiation sickness within a day -- anyone, that is, who survived the third-degree burns." So I've got that going for me, which is nice. But get this: Keller's hypothetical explosion only discusses a one-kiloton explosion! The wimp!

Granted, the likelihood of any of scenarios coming to fruition is quite slim. But I still can't help but feel a knot in the pit of my stomach when I hear the deep rumble of a subway passing under the street at night, and I wonder if that's just the noise of successive buildings collapsing, getting nearer, and nearer, and nearer...

****************************************

My prediction is that I will continue to grow up within a peer group who remain perpetually in an elevated state of alert. Historians will begin to refer to us as the Code Orange Generation. We were a generation of kids who didn't have the historic significance of our parents. We didn't have moon landings or Woodstocks. We didn't have Kennedy assassinations or Vietnams or Koreas. Until September 11th, 2001, we were a complacent, sheltered generation who watched a televised war the way we watched a Spielberg or Coppola movie, only with less emotional connection. We didn't have a massively significant event to call our historical milestone. We lacked definition.

19 men with 4 airplanes changed that in a matter of minutes.

Now sociologists will have something to write about. We are the first group of modern voters whose first presidential vote could have hinged solely on the need to feel safe at home. This is a veritable party of Linuses who just need their security blanket. These are children who allow this search for safety to trump all other beliefs, even if that means voting for the other party's candidate. But just looking at 2004 or 2008 is too myopic to be conclusive. Only time will tell.

Ultimately, the source of our fear can be summed up quite well by the cover of that NYT Magazine from 2002: The worst reason why we won't suffer a nuclear attack in a major U.S. city is because it hasn't happened yet.

Scared yet? Shouldn't we be?

A Brave New World of Recreation

I am officially scared.

We have just spiralled head-first into the future. I'm talking Back to the Future Part II (2015) [1.21 gigawatts!!], Blade Runner (2019), Total Recall (2084), and even 12 Monkeys. Well, not 12 Monkeys because that takes place in a much less tech-savvy future that looks too much like the present day. So let's go with...Minority Report. Yep, that works better, and that takes place in 2054 which should be a good year.

So where was I?

Oh right: I am completely freaked out.

Interactive Productline has invented a game where people are on opposite ends of a court, and each end of the court has a goal. The purpose of the game is to roll the ball into the opponent's goal, think foosball without the spinning poles. Only here's the kicker:

You roll the ball using your mind.

There is no way you have misinterpretted what I have just written. There's no trick and no catch:

Mindball® is an experience product, a game where two players control a ball with their brain waves. The player being most relaxed wins the game. The brain waves are detected by sensors attached to the headbands...

It is beyond me why this game hasn't received more press. But this is a clear sign that 2006 will inevitably bring with it flying cars, meals in a pill, and a harvesting field full of unconscious embryos linked to a collective virtual reality controlled by machines.

Right?

Dude, Is That Your Genetic Substance On The Wall?

dna 11 has come up with one of the great additions to modern home decoration. Their art is to genetic aesthetics what the Chia Pet was to grass-covered ceramics-- it defines a new, untapped, and unknown market to the masses.

Now all I need is $490 and a Q-tip to swab my cheek...

By the way, this image is NOT what dna 11's product looks like...

Slipping My Camera Some Roofies

I took my new camera up to the roof, and stole its virginity.

You're The Apple Store Of My Eye

Did I really shower, dress, and do my hair just to go shopping at the Apple Store in SoHo?

As turns out, there wasn't anyone even remotely appealing there tonight, just a bunch of normal people inevitably picking up last minute presents.

I suppose I just came on a bad night:

SoHo Apple Store As Single's Scene

Babes In Toyland

Sarcasm, Nightly News-Style

Brian Williams: #1 in news, #1 in sarcastic political banter --

Williams: And how is [your father, Bush 41]?
President Bush: Still married to mom.
Williams: That's good. Glad to hear it, because we were worried that it wouldn't work out.

Link

Highlights:

1. When asked if Bush thought he was incorrect to assume that U.S. troops would be welcomed as liberators in Iraq, Bush's reply began, "I think we are welcomed. But it was not a peaceful welcome." WHAT?! Does he hear himself speak?? Do you think he even buys what he's selling? President Bush, philosopher king you are not.
2. Count the number of times Bush begins a sentence with "I think..." and catches himself, quickly re-phrasing to "I know...". Has he been coached to display unwavering confidence in EVERY spoken word?

More Gangsta Than You Think

Actually, less. Significantly less gangsta than you think. Exponentially less gangsta. I can't even say the word "gangsta" with any credibility, or "cred" as it were.

So in spite of that, the Gangsta Name Generator delivers fun for all ages and gangster levels, from just a little shorty up to what Ja Rule thinks he is but isn't.

I gotta say, I'm pretty proud of my result:

How'd they know my childhood nickname?

Arite, time to peace.

Sincerely yours,
SDTJ

The End of the Affair

Dear Dell,

After over a decade-long, faithful relationship, how dare you betray me like this?

In the summer of 2004 I spent way too much money to buy a new computer. A computer that would be blazing fast; a computer whose obscolescence should be measured in light years; a computer that could blow someone's clothes off from 30 feet away.

And I succeeded. That computer became my powerhouse. I managed my life through that machine. I kept all of my finances, archived letters, Photoshopped like crazy, made a few short movies, maintained my 60GB MP3 collection, and constructed a family tree more than 300 people deep.

Then, upon returning from a January weekend in Vegas, tragedy struck: my hard drive crashed. All 320GB of it. Dell told me that, while this is an anomaly, the best they can do is replace the drives. That's it. That's. It. No thanks for being a loyal and lucrative customer for over a decade. No appreciation that we've spoon-fed them referrals more times than they deserve. Nothing.

Needless to say, Dell was on the receiving end of a catharsis that encompassed a whole lot more frustration and fury than this single incident could have caused. Those people were suffering as a result of anyone who had ever upset me. They were paying for more than a hard drive crash. They were paying for all of it. J the bully in middle school, the rock that L kicked at my head in camp, D getting me in trouble with his parents, for W. ruining my country.

All of it.

I think I made one service associate cry, and I came close to verbally raping a rep in Bangalore through the phone. Lucky for him:

1. I'm too cheap to pay for a flight to India.
2. I'm not huge on that whole "rape" thing.
3. I might have still been on the phone with an automated message.

"For sales, press 1. For service, press 2. To make empty threats towards an innocent party, press 3, or stay on the line and someone will instigate you until you snap."

After about 6 weeks, I had recovered enough of my past through random backups, email attachments, hacking my iPod, and a timely synchronization with my PDA, that I had a semblance of what I lost. By summer, it was a non-issue. What I lost was gone, and a great majority was back as it was. I didn't give it another thought.

Okay, I did fortunately give it ONE thought. And that thought manifested itself as a 300GB external backup drive to make sure I was never dealt this kind of loss again. Plus, Dell guaranteed that this almost never happens to anyone, ever, so lighting couldn't possibly strike twice.

************

307 days.

307 days is the answer to the question, "How long does it take for lighting to strike twice?"

Dell, you miserable, wretched beast.

For the second time in 10 months-- 10 MONTHS!!!-- my whole computer has crashed. Heads are gonna roll. Yes, I realize I'm still able to post-- I still have a work laptop, thank goodness. I swear I either have the worst luck ever, or the gnomes in my closet have punk'd me again. And if it's the gnomes, I'm throwing them out on their asses. They shant punk me thrice.

As for you, Dell -- drop dead. Or send me tons of free crap to keep me quiet. Otherwise, I hate you forever.

Thanks for your time!

Sincerely,
Me

Hey Andy, did you hear about this one?

Tell me, are you locked in the punch?

Wanna have some fun? Visit the new site, Google Moon. I know-- this is where we're at, folks.

So where's the really fun part? Once you've got it up, try to zoom in all the way, and see what you get. Guaranteed fun for seconds.

Perspective from 30,000 Feet

5:30 pm – I think.
We were somewhere over the Atlantic, hours past the UK, but I was still measuring time by Italian standards. I wouldn’t change my watch until we land in New York. Until then, I was operating on Italian time, though we’re landing at 3pm and my watch was already 2½ hours past that marker. I like to think that we were at a chronological sweet spot where time moves forward slow enough as you head west, in reverse through the time zones, that time stood still.

It’s probably 12:30 pm here, and it will be for the next 15 minutes.

I know that it’s 5:30 by Italian time because I had just checked my watch. I checked it not because I wanted to—I was deep into “The Rules of Attraction” by Bret Easton Ellis—but I checked my watch when the Old Lady asked the stewardess (sorry, flight attendant) for the time and the flight attendant didn’t have a watch either so both women looked at me until I stopped reading, forced a smile, and gave them each the time individually at different volumes.

Looking up, I noticed my section of the cabin was cloaked in red. Rose, actually. The sun was shining directly through the rose-tined glasses of the woman sitting behind me, and was consequently casting a rose-tinted glow on everything during a flight that was certainly not rose-tinted at all.

6:00 pm
A man 3 rows ahead of me was reading an Italian newspaper. The only word I could make out in the headline was “Osama”. That is definitely not an Italian word. This was perhaps the last thing I want on my mind during an international flight on an American carrier to New York City. Why couldn’t this guy have just read a magazine?

6:15 pm
I did not order Ginger Ale.

The beverage cart came by and what I actually ordered is inconsequential. The point is that I didn’t order Ginger Ale.

I’m seated next to the Old Lady, a woman with short, dye-dark hair and cataract sunglasses who takes 5 minutes to sit down, refuses to put her large carry-on up in the compartment so obviously it takes up all of the legroom for the both of us, and made me reach over her to show her how to plug in headphones. It was too intimate, and it was unpleasant. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen actually buy duty-free merchandise from the in-flight cart. She had hoarded 4 pillows, 2 blankets, and insisted on keeping her large pocketbook on her lap at all times. But right now, none of that mattered, because the Old Lady just ordered a Ginger Ale.

I had planned on asking for a Ginger Ale too, but I was so hopelessly annoyed that I had to sit next to her—she interrupted me 3 times during "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" to ask questions!!—that I refused to have anything in common with her, and that includes in-flight refreshments. I am unjustifiably spiteful right now.

6:20 pm
Man, that Ginger Ale would have been good. Damn.

6:30 pm
The Newlyweds just stopped by to chat. They interrupted my reading as well, but I’m less irritated partly because they’re young & I like them, and partly because they’re not the Old Lady sitting directly to my left. I met the Newlyweds on my vaporetto to the Venice Airport. It was their non sequitur about New York City rats that caught my attention. 3 hours, 4 croissants, and a melted Twix bar later, we had become friendly enough to eat lunch together in the airport while discussing their wedding, The Aristocrats, and developing infections in foreign countries. By the time they stopped by my seat mid-flight, the Old Lady thought we were all good friends. She also thought I was sixteen years old (wrong), in the military (very wrong), and perhaps an author or literary critic (because I was reading a book), so hey.

6:50 pm
I don’t know what the purpose is of these new flight displays showing our plane’s location on the TVs. It’s a map that comes on when the movies aren’t playing, and besides just showing the location of the plane during the flight, it includes statistics like wind, temperature, and the speed of the plane. How does this help passengers, other than a solution to the annoying few who keep asking the crew, “Are we there yet??”

“Good evening, this is your pilot speaking. Right now, we’re somewhere over the Labrador Sea and heading towards Goose Bay, two places I doubt any of you could find on a map. The temperature outside the plane right now 18 degrees Farenheit. This information is crucial if you plan to hang out 30,000 feet above Goose Bay in October.”

7:20 pm
Old Lady: I need to go to the restroom.
Me: Okay
Old Lady: You know, during some flights, I often spend an hour or more in there.
Me: Um…seriously?
Old Lady: Sure. Sometimes they land the plane and don’t even know I’m in there!
Me: Jeez…that’s…not good.
Old Lady: Did you know take-off and landing were the two most dangerous parts of a flight? Those are the most likely times that something can go wrong
Me: I’m not really sure we should be talking about this while we’re fly—
Old Lady: Did you know those are the most dangerous times?? The times you could crash?
Me: Please don’t say “cras—
Old Lady: Did you know that?
Me: (sigh) Yes.
Old Lady: How did you know?
Me: Huh?
Old Lady: How did you know that about planes crashing?
Me: I’d rather you didn’t say “cras—
Old Lady: Did you read it somewhere?
Me: Read it? No, I don’t think so.
Old Lady: So you were told by someone?
Me: What? No, I think I just knew it.
Old Lady: Why?
Me: I don’t know why, but it would certainly make sense, don’t you think?
Old Lady: (pause) Well, I guess that’s just how men and women think differently.
Me: I’m not sure this has anything do to with gender.
Old Lady: I need to go to the restroom. Do you think they’re landing soon?
Me: Good grief.

7:50 pm
The Old Lady wasn’t kidding. She’s still in the rest room.

8:10 pm
50 minutes later, Old Lady still hasn’t come back. I wonder if she fell asleep in there.

8:12 pm
It just dawned on me: I’m going to be really upset if my brother returns from studying abroad with a British accent.

8:15 pm
Old Lady’s back. I don’t even bother to find out what took her so long. I don’t want to know.

8:25 pm
I don’t care for Kip Pardue. He was in the movie version of The Rules of Attraction. I just…don’t like him.

The drink cart comes around one last time before landing.

“Anything for you, ma’am?”

I look toward the Old Lady. She’s staring out the window. She didn’t hear anything. I had to “accidentally” poke her arm to regain her attention. She smiled politely and said no. While she didn’t tell the flight attendant, the truth was that if we were landing soon, she wanted to be in restroom when it happened. Frankly, I think she just liked to tempt fate by sitting in the lavatory when the flight’s danger-level is at its highest.

“How about you, sir? Can I interest you in a beverage?”

I looked up at the flight attendant, who was prettier than I realized earlier. She didn’t have the worn appearance of a woman who’d been falsely friendly with people for years. For her, the job was still fun, and she was probably excited about this position in the way most women were excited about being a stewardess in the 1960’s. It was glamorous.

She smiled earnestly.

I looked at the Old Lady, who was already starting to pack up her pocketbook for her trip to the back of the plane. I checked my watch and was pleasantly surprised by how soon we’d be home.

“Sir?”

I thought for a moment and, lifting my head back up to face the flight attendant, I smiled.

“Sure. I think I’ll have a Ginger Ale.”

Open Your Eyes

Here's a rule for life I just discovered from a friend:

Sleepwalkers are not allowed to go to bed naked.

...And Gives You Hairy Palms Too

Around the globe, young adolescent boys are petrified because of this.

You Have Died of Dysentery

Firing 20 times, you shot 1256 pounds of game and were able to carry 188 pounds of it back to your wagon. If you continue to hunt in this area, game will become scarce.

Caulk the wagon and float across or ford the river?
(FORD THE RIVER.)

Timmy has typhoid fever.

Timmy has died.

I wish I was 9 again...however I am now old enough to really travel to Walla Walla Washington...

Italian: A Beginner's Guide

As I finish up packing for Italy, I asked Arielle to throw together a few important phrases that she thinks I'll need for my trip. Here's what she came up with, and here's why she's one of my favorite people:

ITALIAN: A BEGINNER'S GUIDE

“If you’re gonna spew, spew in this.” Se pensi di sboccare, sbocca qua.”

“No, I think you look fantastic in Spandex. Really.” No, penso che i pantaloni di lycra ti stanno molto bene. Juro.

“Excuse me, but I think you just dropped this condom.” Mi scusi, ma penso che lei ha perso questo preservativo.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Ti ha fatto male quando sei cascata dal paradiso?

"If it weren't for my horse, I never would have made it through that last year of college": Se non fosse stato per il mio cavallo, non avrei mai finito l'ultimo anno di università.

“You make me feel like a natural woman.” Mi rendi una donna naturale.

“Excuse me, but where do all the high school girls hang out?” Mi scusi, ma dove posso incontrare raggazze del liceo?

“Are there any U2 tickets left? I’d be willing to sell my mother.” Avresti altri biglietti per il concerto dei U2? Sarei disposto a vendere mia mamma.

“Where can I get a shot of tequila for 1 Euro?” Esiste un bar dove posso comprare un tequila per solo un euro?”

“Do you sell midgets?” Vendete nani?

“You are in the situation room.” Sei nella stanza di situazione.

“The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.” Il tetto, il tetto, il tetto è sotto fuoco.

“Could you please put him/her through to my voicemail.” Potresti trasferire la chiamata alla mia segreteria telefonica?

“Personally, I am of the belief that there have been enough bad movie versions of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.” Personalmente, ritengo che ci sono stati abbastanza difettose versioni film di “Orgoglio e Prejudizio” di Jane Austen.

“Good luck with those rape allegations.” Buona fortuna con quelle allegazioni di violenza.

“I’ve had better.” Ho avuto di migliore.

“My dog has severe flatulence. Might you prescribe him some medication?” Il mio cane scoreggia sempre. Potresti darlo delle medicine?

Stone's Throw from Porn

PORNOGRAPHY!!!

Do I have your attention?

According to the October 6-12 issue of Time Out New York, I'm within about 300 feet of two of their eight top-rated neighborhood sex stores in all of New York City. I can only imagine how thrilled my family is about my apartment choice.

Here are a few select excerpts from my local sex shops:
Most succinct title: Big Piss, Volume 1 ($29.99)
Come here if: You're looking for that '70's wood-paneling vibe and you don't mind an odd hint of vinegar in the air.
Most potentially painful item: The Fist Dildo ($24.99)

Mind you, I subscribe to TONY for the restaurant reviews and bar recommendations. Instead I'm told the most disturbing video at Pleasure Video is called "Animal Porn: Eels", and the item with the most versimilitude is the Uncut Foreskin Realistic Cock dildo ($38.99)?? Great, now they just need some vaseline and a dictionary!

And isn't $38.99 a rip off? Personally, I'd wait for that baby to hit the discount rack, and then I imagine those things just sell themselves!

p.s. I feel dirty just writing about this

A Korean Delicacy

Two weeks ago I went with some people from the office to lunch at Kang Suh Korean BBQ in Koreatown. Certainly one of the highlights of the meal was our discovering a particular item on the menu: Gaejang & Doenjang Jigae.

I’m told it’s quite a dish, and for only $15.95, it’s definitely nothing to poo-poo at:

There's a flavor here I just can't put my finger on. Is it...is it nutmeg??

Unfortunately, nobody ordered it, so I don't know what actually ends up on your plate.

My Hands Go Well with Pancakes & Waffles

Why does my left hand smell like maple syrup right now? I haven't had syrup in months. I didn't even eat breakfast this morning.

You think it's funny, but seriously, it smells like i just slapped Aunt Jemima in the face.

Who Wants to Touch Me?

Let me tell you how famous I am.

I recently found out that Jen Garrett, loyal Red Sox fan and Barq's Red Crème Soda drinker, was beginning a quest: to read and discuss a new blog everyday for a month. Now my first reaction was, "I've been right all along, Red Sox fans are crazy."

But then again, Barq's is really good, and decided to read a few posts and see what she had to say. I was impressed with her diverse picks, so on a whim, I dropped her a note telling her about NYDenizen, with the caveat that I'm new at this, and really have no idea how to blog or what to say when I do. Frankly, I don't even speak English-- these posts are directly lifted from my English-Namibian, Namibian-English dictionary and accompanying common phrases.

Needless to say, I was both extremely surprised and quite honored that she chose NYDenizen as her pick for September 10th! Woo-hoo!! Validation!! Or perhaps just evidence that she couldn't find anything about the Red Sox that day. The title of the post was "The One Where She Finally Loses Her Mind", so I can't dismiss my theory that Red Sox fans are, in fact, nuts.

I do however appreciate that she was willing to overlook the divisiveness of our baseball allegiances (have I mentioned I'm a big Yankees fan?), for the sake of...something. I mean, the last blog she discussed before mine was about a guy who came out to his wife at 48! You're telling me I've got to follow that?? This guy is going through gut-wrenching and constant emotional turmoil; I, on the other hand, make fun of Bush and tell stories about my farts. Well done, Jen Garrett, well done.

Karma does work in strange ways though. The day after Jen wrote about NYDenizen and how her Sox beat my Yankees, the Yanks struck back for a big win today, getting us that much closer to the AL East title. This was a nice treat to help get some New Yorkers' minds off the stigma of today's date, though just a small condolence.

In the end, this shout-out definitely made my day. Jen, however, is convinced that she could easily turn me into a Red Sox fan-- in 20 minutes, no less. Jen, I really appreciate your bringing my blog into the limelight and everything, but you'd have a better chance of making that 48-year-old guy dig chicks. You have been enormously helpful though: I finally have proof that Red Sox fans are, in fact, totally fucking wrong.

Home is Where Wings Take Dream

My friend Matt, a staunch Republican, sent me this video today. I think it solidifies the suspicions we have about our President, and his "use" of the English language.

Only 1229 days, 23 hours, and 42 minutes until we are rid of this "intellectual".
(Thank you to The Bush Countdown Clock for this handy bit of info)

Got a Little (hic) Captain In Ya?

Have you seen these commercials for Captain Morgan's Original Spiced Rum? It's the 30-second spot where they show a bunch of average people in average situations, posing just like the Captain Morgan cartoon on the bottle's label: Hand on the waist, chest puffed out, left leg is hoisted up.

It's a weird commercial. But it gets weirder when the slogan appears: "Got a little Captain in ya?"

Is it me, or are they asking if you literally have Captain Morgan's rum in you, like, now? Next time you watch it, keep that in mind. If it helps, say the words "...and I've just been guzzling rum!" every time the commercial presents a new person in a new situation.

• I'm going through an airport security checkpoint...and I've just been guzzling rum!
• I'm cooking in kitchen in the middle of the day...and I've just been guzzling rum!
• I'm getting a check-up at the doctor...and I've just been guzzling rum!

And it keeps on going. One guy is shown fixing the IT in a corporate server room. Another is working in the stacks of a library. Yet another is shown about to start examining some guy's mouth at a dentist's office.

I've gotta ask-- is this a commercial for recreational drinking, or just a promotion for alcoholism? Are any of these situations ones where you think to yourself, "Sure, this is fine, but man I should be DRUNK!"

These are people at their jobs, mainly in the service industry. How does this sell more liquor?

What this commercial teaches me is that, according to Captain Morgan, life would be better if I was tanked by noon. Well thanks, Captain, but I don't need a commercial to learn that. I could have just asked the bum outside my building for his strategy to success.

I think that if C.M. is gonna advocate my bum's lifestyle, then the new C.M. labels should show the Captain lying in the crevice between two buildings, curled up under a bunch of newspapers, in a puddle of his own urine, with a bottle of rum in his hand.

Don't worry-- we'll make sure the bottle is Captain Morgan's brand, just so everyone knows HE has a little Captain in him.