Archive for February, 2010

Home is where the Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate is

February 25, 2010

Members of an online expatriate group recently heaped a midden of praise on Martha’s Backyard, a local importer of American crap. The store, according to its Website, features ”genuine US brands at reasonable prices AND AMERICAN FOOD ITEMS.” (Martha’s emphasis).

Judging by comments left on the expat group forum, Martha has tapped into quite a niche market. For instance:

(Martha’s) is a fantastic place. Prices are a little high but you have to remember, she’s shipping it over from the US. Can of Manwich sauce is $5, box of Cheerios is $8, bag of Goldfish is $6. She also has…great seasonal stuff…I got pumpkin cans and made some pumpkin pie!…I wouldn’t be surprised if she had Peeps for Easter! She has an email list so that you can get updates when new stuff arrives, and there’s also a special email list for when Twinkies come in (apparently they sell out in a day or so).

Something about this effusiveness bothers me. I understand that most of the items mentioned are technically considered food in that they can pass through the digestive system without causing too much permanent damage, at least in the short run. But I find it hard to imagine an adult working up an appetite for this shit, let alone shelling out extra dollars for it.

It’s not that I oppose to eating junk food completely. We’ve all been through bouts of desperation. I myself have had my moments with Cheerios from time to time, I ain’t ashamed to admit, but I swear I didn’t like it. And I’d be a liar if I said I never paid $6 for a bag of Goldfish out of a vending machine when I was working one of my night shifts at the New York Post. And though I’m not familiar with the product, I gather from context clues that “Manwich sauce” is not a euphemism for a residue that must be refrigerated at a fertility clinic soon after its client “pops his can.”

So while I’m generally familiar with the sophisticated refinement embodied by these quintessential American products, I still can’t understand why an adult would go out of his or her way to consume any of it. Surely there are quicker, easier ways to kill yourself. I mean, Twinkies a best-seller? Twinkies are the reason why I left America. I’ve applied for refugee status in New Zealand because of what Twinkies did to my family.

It seems too obvious to state, but homesickness and sentimentality are the essential motivating factors at work here. If it were simply a desire for something engineered to exploit our  innate cravings for fat, salt and sugar, Martha’s would be out of business. There are already plenty of disgusting foods to choose from at the supermarket, including some American brands and other American products packaged for the New Zealand market.

The wrapping is the key to Martha’s success because what really matters to the homesick American is not the junk food, but the familiarity of the package it came in, the ”genuine US brands” where genuine is taken to mean “the same exact shit you grew obese up with.”

Last Night’s Sunset

February 12, 2010

I Ain’t Missing You at All

February 6, 2010

Today marks the second year of my life without cigarettes.  It hasn’t been difficult adjusting. Not at all.

It doesn’t feel like a decade since the last time I smoked. It doesn’t feel like a century or even a millennium.

An epoch sounds about right.

Only kidding. Who wants to smoke cigarettes in this day and age? To whom does it occur every painful millisecond of their waking life that whatever else they’re doing they could also be enjoying the smooth, rich flavor of a premium blend cigarette? Not me.

Extinguish the thought. I don’t need cigarettes for the ritual, the inclusion or the distorted sense of rebellion against conventional wisdom infused in every puff of the finest Turkish or Virginian tobacco.

That’s because cigarettes are a part of my life that’s behind me. It’s all water under the bridge. And I’m standing on the bridge, looking down at the water. And in the water I see a reflection of myself. Smoking.

No, that’s not true. Smoking really is water under the bridge. (In Marlboro Country.)

Ah, cigarettes. We didn’t get along in college. It wasn’t until we were in Madrid together a couple years later that we started getting really serious.

We happened to be staying in the same pensione for budget travelers. Everyone there smoked.

There was an American that some of us befriended because women seemed to collect around him. And because he spoke fluent Spanish. But mainly because of the women. They thought he looked like Keanu Reeves. Like these two nurses from Barcelona who were  sharing their holiday. They were both named Esther. The two Esthers had grown up in the same neighborhood and they worked in the same hospital and they had the same taste in…cigarettes. Lucky Strikes.

The 24 of us were inseparable: me, Keanu, the two Esthers and our everlasting pack of Luckies.

We went to the Puerto del Sol and stood at the plaque marking Kilometro Cero.

I asked for a smoke, to be like Keanu. I was overcome by dizziness and arrhythmia and a sharp pain up and down my left arm. Oh, to be 24 again, enjoying that first inhalation. The four of us smoked standing over the plaque from which all roads in Spain were traditionally measured. Then when we finished, we put out our cigarettes on the plaque, not just because we were a quartet of flippantly contemptuous dipshits, but more because it was what nicotine wanted.

It’s hard to say no to nicotine once you’ve said yes.

Returning to the states, I lost contact with Keanu and the two Esthers, but cigarettes and I grew closer and closer. We moved in together. We worked together. We were practically joined at the lip.

It was a long stretch from that first cigarette at Kilometro Cero to the bittersweet goodbye: 94,965.

But who’s counting? And what does it matter? I never think about Cigarettes anyway.

But, God do I miss them.

(May they all burn in hell.)

Signs and Wonders

February 5, 2010

SIGNS

Auckland has its tiny share of businesses named for parts of New York City.

The Brooklyn Bar and Lounge on Queen Street in the Downtown Business District.

The Bronx on High Street in the DBD.

Harlem, also on High Street.

WONDERS

A recent sunset.

Chester at 11 weeks. (Photo by Jacquie)

Learning my AC/DC’s

February 5, 2010
Last night I went to the Horse and Trap to hang out with 40 people I don’t know. We’re all good friends, I’m guessing. I can’t figure why else we would meet once a month to have discussions that are entirely over my head. (Unless it has something to do with beer.)

Yesterday, for instance, we talked about neuroplasticity, which generally refers to the brain’s inclination to develop, reinforce or lose neural pathways over time. The status of those 100 trillion synaptic connections in the average brain depends on environmental and other factors ranging from the salubrious effects of continuous learning to the euphoric effects of continuously sniffing magic markers. Which just goes to show how unfair life can be.

Anyway, I found the discussion fascinating.

“Whoa!” I shouted. “One hundred trillion neural connections? You have got to be joshing me. A trillion isn’t even a real number. You must mean a ‘gazillion.’”

Some of my friends at this point gently corrected my mistake. They invited me to the front of the room where they shaved my head and trepanned me with a corkscrew in order to see what a net loss of neural connections actually looked like in a living specimen.

Then they gave me a cookie.

“Now give me a chicken kebab,” I said.

Instead of giving me a chicken kebab, my friends lifted me by the elbows and carried me off until I found myself face-to-face with the street.

They had totally missed the point I was trying to make. I wanted a chicken kebab. And I wanted one even more after they kicked me out of the pub because, like so many millions of other people, nothing whets my appetite for middle eastern food quite like the taste of asphalt.

So I ran to Kebab Stop Takeaways at the corner of Mount Eden and Valley Roads, a middle eastern joint that in all seriousness makes the best chicken kebab on a pita that I’ve had in a long time.

“Gimme one,” I said.

“We’re closed, sir,” the Kebab Stop Takeaways man said.

“But it’s 9:30 in the evening.”

New Zealand's operating hours are from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., Monday through Friday. Please leave all off-hour deliveries with Australia.

“Yes, and I was supposed to close a half-hour ago.”

I suddenly had an unfamiliar experience. My brain was getting bigger.

“Hey,” I said. “Either my hat is on too tight or I must be learning something.”

“I don’t care,” the Kebab Stop Takeaways man said. Then he pulled down his shutter.

But it was true. My brain was getting bigger and all because I learned something new: New Zealand keeps business hours.

In thinking over the ramifications of my new insight, I suddenly felt sorry for travelers who landed at Auckland International Airport on a Saturday morning only to be asked by immigration officials to come back the following Monday during regular business hours.

But then I also felt a little confused because while the Kebab shop and all the other places on Mount Eden Road had closed up for the night, I could hear a foul voice on the wind.

“What is that awful sound?” I said.

Then my brain got even bigger yet as I remembered that AC/DC was scheduled to give a concert in Western Springs at that time. At last, after 30-something years and 20 albums, this rock-n-roll combo had finally found New Zealand on Google maps and decided to bring its special brand of entertainment to give Auckland’s pensioners a sound to snap their fingers to. It puzzled me why AC/DC was playing on one  random Thursday in February, but then I figured it must have been Neil Finn’s night off.

Well, exhausted after the cookie rush faded and tuckered out by the rapid expansion of my neocortex due to all my figuring things out, I went home. I crawled into bed. But that dreadful noise continued.

So I lifted my window and threw down a shoe, knocking Brian Johnson’s famous scally off his head.

“Hey, you septuagenarians, knock it off,” I screamed. “New Zealand is closed.”

The band instantly began playing an acoustic version of Highway to Hell which pretty much ended the show.

I was finally able to fall asleep. I felt a little bad when I woke up this morning for showing off my new knowledge the way I did. But when you’re as smart as I am, do you ever really have a choice in the matter?

Please Stand By

February 2, 2010

Hello, friends. I am planning to post something here very soon. I’ve been busy with other things and we just had a three-day holiday weekend so I wasn’t on the computer very much. But, for those who care, there will be something in the next few days. In the meantime, here are some more pictures of Chester, named after Parkchester, the housing development and neighborhood near where I grew up in the Bronx.

See you real soon.


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