Arvind Mahankali was crowned America's best speller yesterday. The New York high schooler took top honors in the Scripps National Spelling Bee by correctly spelling "knaidel," which is the Yiddish word for a matzo ball. Mahankali is the first boy to win the Bee since 2008.Take that, logophiliac bitches!
"The good news is, at least with the people that I’ve seen, not a lot of people, when the healing takes place those areas of the brain that were showing the homosexuality show heterosexuality. I have had several people who when I looked at them I couldn’t tell the difference between a heterosexual who never was homosexual and them, which means the brain is able to go back and fire the way it is supposed to be, which is an argument against the whole idea of someone was born that way." -- Ex-gay activist Dr. Jerry Mungadze, who claims to be able to rewire gay brains."Next up?" asks the brain genius. "Epilepsy!"
I don't know why I didn't piece these two little facts together before Emma left. I guess I was just excited by the prospect of pet-sitting a fluffy little cat, even if it was just for one night. I didn't realize that, at sixteen, Audrey was the feline equivalent of Skeletor, and that if anything happened to her I'd have to find a new apartment to avoid the seething bile of her parent, my neighbor, for the rest of my natural life.
I pet-sit for lots of animals in my building, but prefer cats for one simple reason: they stay in their own home. Their parents don't drop them by my place with tiny luggage, saying, "I'm sure you'll have a lovely time!" They just toss me a copy of their keys and say I should stop by a couple times a day. Leave out some food, remind the cat there are humans around, and let it resume its usual life of sleeping 28 hours a day.
Emma had one further requirement: since the cat was old, it needed to be prodded into both mental and physical activity. Maybe after feeding the cat I could play with it for a few minutes, Emma suggested as she handed over her keys. I focused on the cool facts (she was visiting friends in New Jersey, they were all going mountain biking, she was actually going to take a cab) and ignored the sticklers (Audrey was sixteen, Emma had gotten her as a kitten, in terms of durability Audrey made Austrian porcelain look like Jackie Chan). I was fixated on a night of feline fun when she said she keeps a man's razor in her medicine chest so she won't have to scrape away at her wrists with a Venus razor after little Audrey passes away.
I assured her it'd be no problem, until the door closed behind Emma and I realized it was. Audrey, it seems, is nothing but fur. This is not the body of a healthy cat, I realized as my hands ran over the lightly-covered bones. The evolutionary difference between this thing and an iguana was about thirty pounds of fur. She might look fluffy and soft and pretty, but spritz her with half a teaspoon of water and I'm pretty sure she morphs into a Giacometti with big blue eyes.
As I watched Emma's taxi drive away, it hit me: I was neck-deep in a nightmare. Audrey and I would probably have a nice night -- but what if Audrey died? There was no doubt in my mind that Emma would come after me with a Zippo lighter and napalm. I liked my apartment, but its charms would lessen substantially if my neighbor spent most of her days starting fires on my welcome mat.
Six hours later, when I let myself back in, I spent twenty minutes turning the doorknob. I cracked the door open half an inch. I don't think it's bragging to say I'm exciting enough to give an old cat a heart attack, even without removing my clothes. I did everything in my power to ramp down my natural charisma to the level of a Republican. "Audrey," I said in Jeff Bridges' voice, "I'm somebody really boring who's come to check on you. My pockets are full of mud and silt rather than dead birds or sardines."
She lifted her oversized head off the little cat-bed and gazed blankly at me. So far so good. I walked like Lurch to the refrigerator, suppressing the urge to say, "Where's my little kittie-cat?" or "What did snookie-ookums do today?" Before I pulled out the tub of cat food, I figured I should slowly get the critter up to speed. "Audrey," I said, "food will be appearing shortly. There may be lots of it, and it may be dolloped into a hand-thrown bowl. It might be salmon-flavored and it might actually contain chunks of garden-fresh vegetables." After I said that I felt particularly stupid, because even vegetarians don't have heart attacks at the impending arrival of, say, squash. Audrey shot me a look that confirmed I was somewhere between clog-dancing and frozen taquitos on the Excitement Scale, and I nearly high-fived myself.
Emma had told me to play with Audrey, so I'd bought a toy mouse from the local dollar store. "Audrey," I said as she lapped up dinner, "in a minute I will be bringing out a small toy. I have to warn you: it will look like a mouse. It will look like a mouse because it's a small rubber mouse, but it isn't actually a mouse. There's nothing interesting inside it except a squeaker and the name of a Chinese factory. It doesn't move of its own accord, so at any time -- should you become winded from your primitive 'play' -- you decide to stop, you will know that the mouse will remain exactly where you dropped it. You are under no obligation to kill, maim or otherwise injure this mouse, because it poses no threat to anyone. Okay?"
She looked at me like I was an idiot, which I learned from my last boyfriend means "I am totally fine with that." I extracted the rubber mouse from my pocket and set it in front of Audrey.
She didn't look remotely interested, and I gave myself another gold star. "Let's play fetch," I said in Ben Stein's monotone. "That would be really fun." I picked up the mouse, which I'd put near her right paw, and moved it toward her left paw. I might have seen just a flicker of happiness dart across her face, but it was gone almost before it appeared. In human terms it was roughly equivalent to hearing Al Roker is going to be on David Letterman. If I could have heard her thoughts, it would have been less of a "OHMIGOD IT'S A MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE!!!" and more like, "Oh, like that's one motherfuckin' whee."
Audrey didn't actually touch the mouse, which was fine with me. I mean, at ABC 99 I'd just about peed my pants when I realized it squeaked. She left it up to me to move the mouse around. Sure, maybe it wasn't exactly kitty aerobics, but you have to dampen your expectations when someone or something reaches this kind of age. If you've ever seen a senior dance class they don't exactly smack you in the thighs if you jitterbug too slow.
As her attention faded I sighed with relief, realizing my job was done. As a reward, I lifted Audrey up onto her owner's bed so she could have a restful night. Right before I closed the door I felt the mouse in my pocket, and I thought, "Oh, what the hell." I mean sure, the cat had barely touched it, but even I'm not cheap enough to return something to the dollar store. Before I could stop myself I tossed the mouse onto the floor, and in slow motion I watched Audrey's eyes engage -- first the rheumy yellow, then the glossy white. As I closed the door I heard what sounded like a porcelain tea service meeting its demise, and I made a mental note to stock up on welcome mats.
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I'm pretty sure putting asterisks around a word means you have to purse your lips and stick your pinkie out when you say it.
And in the 39th minute, 1,400 people will get off the ginormous ferris wheel, look around and say, "Wait -- we're still in Staten Island."
“Honestly,” says Marilyn Friedman, the former head of outreach at DreamWorks, who visited B.Y.U. frequently, “the first few times I went to Provo, I was like: What am I doing here? I’m a little Jewish girl from back East. But I was just amazed by how absolutely lovely those kids are. They couldn’t be nicer, humbler, more respectful. It’s a pleasure. And when they come [to work at DreamWorks], they stay that way.”
It's not that I don't like Disneyland, I thought as an oversized mouse wearing a sombrero greeted me at the entrance. It's their relentless, over-the-top marketing. They don't just advertise: it's like they've bought off every journalist in the universe. When, for instance, the New York Times prints an article about Walmart's sweatshop problems, they mysteriously find a way to bring up Epcot. When ESPN anchors mention Michael Vick's dog conviction they somehow manage to tie in Lady and the Tramp.
The mouse presented me with a "magic rose" that I'd tap against an iPad specifying everything I wanted to do. But all the glitz and glitter shrouded a distasteful media cynicism, I thought as my boat quietly glided through Ariel's undersea grotto at Disney World's New Fantasyland. They don't just blur the line between advertising and reality -- they totally decimate it!
Every time I pick up a magazine or newspaper they just happen to have a "totally unbiased" critic gushing about how fabulous the place is. Really, Conde Nast Traveller: don't you sense even a small disconnect to put a twelve-page photo spread of Orlando, Florida in between Louis Vuitton ads? And c'mon, Vogue: I don't think Pocahontas would ever wear Prada, though I can think of more than a few excuses for that "Fuck the world!" look on her face.
Even Dopey would realize that Disney owns ABC within three minutes of tuning in. America's Funniest Home Videos mentions a Disney park every four minutes -- when they're not actually filming there. Modern Family has dropped by. I'm surprised Saturday Night Football hasn't decided to use animated seahorses in place of goal posts.
It's not just annoying -- it's offensive! I nearly gave Ariel the finger when she waved at me from her clamshell. The raves are so ubiquitous I actually asked Goofy about it over lunch.
"Gawrsh," he said, "I haven't noticed. A'course, I cain't read!"
Was he just playing stupid, I asked myself, or were those giant shoes for real? The whole exchange left a bitter taste in my mouth, though that could have been the warm arugula salad that Chip N' Dale brought for my entree.
Still, as I rode the pumpkin carriage toward Tomorrowland, I thought it'd be sour grapes not to try to enjoy the place. "I think I'll go on Space Mountain," I said to Goofy. "Or do you think the line will be too long?"
"Duh," he said, "I'm pretty durned stupid but even I noticed that you're the only dude here!"
The place really was deserted, I noticed, so I decided to take advantage of it and have an old-fashioned blast. I even enjoyed a ride I usually detest -- "It's A Small World" -- though maybe it's because I never noticed the signs saying, "Welcome, Roman!" in forty-two languages.
Maybe it was exhaustion speaking, but by the end of the day they won me over. After going on twenty or thirty rides and gorging myself on every food known to man, I realized there was a reason journalists were unanimous in their praise. I was heading for the exit with tears in my eyes when Gaston appeared out of nowhere with a hoagie sandwich and an orchid corsage.
I usually don't let men kiss me but I make concessions when Italian cheese is involved. Despite the fact his beard stubble could clean lasagna pans, a familiar worry reappeared. "Disney doesn't give journalists special treatment in exchange for free publicity?" I asked.
"Absolutely not," he replied. "I ask everyone to go with me on a moonlight swim, even if they aren't incredibly handsome."
By the time we reached the white sand beach at Mark Twain Island, I was exhausted, though he was the one who'd swum across the lake with me hanging onto his back. We collapsed on the sand and watched the stars twinkle in the sky. "Isn't this romantic?" he asked, shaking the water from his silky locks and moving in close. "Just the two of us, and the sun setting behind the authentic New Orleans large-capacity paddle-wheel riverboat."
I watched water droplets run in rivulets down his firm pecs and in between his abs. "You mesmerize me, you enchant me, you bewitch me," he continued, cupping my chin and looking deep into my eyes. "You've even made me forget that chick. That girl. That -- what's her name."
"Belle," I replied.
"Don't remind me," he said, "though it's difficult to forget a film that's grossed over $810 million worldwide."
A meerkat bearing champagne appeared out of nowhere and Gaston popped the cork. "To us!" he said as we clinked glasses. "You drive me wild, like the recently-renovated Cars attraction in the refurbished Adventureland."
With bubbles breaking on our lips he kissed me. His lips felt like the pillows that singing flamingos had carried over to prop us up. "I can't believe you treat every visitor like this," I whispered.
"Every single one," he confirmed, flipping me over for a back massage. "We do not treat you any better because 17 people read World Class Stupid every day."
I sighed and decided for the first time in my life that I'd been a total idiot. Fireworks burst over our heads while Gaston slid down his underwear, and as he said "Get ready for Dumbo!" I thought, wait.
Sure, they let the residents see out. But they let other people see in.
Cissy Margolis loved her new apartment. On the third floor of a new super-luxury development in Tribeca, she could see all the way to New Jersey from her Roche Bobois chaise. She could watch planes take off at JFK from her sunken Ligne Roset tub. But then one day she spotted something she'd never have expected in her wildest dream.
Somebody was standing outside her apartment, looking in -- at her.
"I was flabbergasted," she said. "I knew I'd get to look at everybody walking by and maybe criticize their clothes. Instead, they're standing outside and laughing at me! Sure, I bought a glass apartment, but I had no idea I'd be living in a fishbowl."
Mandy Lebrun echoes her neighbor's comments, but she accepts some of the guilt. "I don't know what I was thinking," she says, trying to ignore a dozen homeless people watching her speak to a reporter while practicing her Downward Dog. "I guess I assumed New York glass was smart enough not to let everybody use it. I actually get furious at what I have to put up with. I feel like I've spent all this money on my dream home and somehow poor people are allowed to enjoy it too."
Luckily the hyper-rich have a powerful ally: Mayor Bloomberg. The tiny billionaire doesn't hesitate to leap to their defense. "When I changed the zoning laws to allow replacement of any existing building in New York with a 500-story tower hand-blown from Baccarat crystal, I assumed poor New Yorkers were smart enough to know that actually looking at one of these towers was an invasion of privacy. These homeowners have spent a small fortune to be able to see Central Park from their oversized pony-shaped toilets. They don't need the envious unemployed bringing them down."
Mr. Bloomberg resisted a reporter's idea that these homeowners are idiots. "You don't get rich by being stupid," he snapped. "Clearly there's a misunderstanding about glass. You don't need a dozen Peruvian cleaning ladies to make it crystal clear: LOOKING AT RICH PEOPLE IS NOT OKAY."
In his search for a solution, the Mayor has allocated $200 million of the city's budget to devise a solution to glass's transparency. "At this very moment my staff is looking into a whole slew of possibilities," he says, "from automated blinkers for poor people to RFID sunglasses that enable or disable transparency based on your 401K. The rich have always had more vision, so it makes sense that New York City would spearhead a system that would literally allow them to see more."
The mayor says he won't hesitate to use the law if technology doesn't work. He's instructed the Attorney General to write up a bill that will make it illegal to look into glass, while protecting the right to look out. Unfortunately, a problematic first draft would have saddled someone with twenty years at Rikers simply for walking past a Ferrari dealership. Until the details of such a law are ironed out, the Mayor is appealing to poor people's sense of morality. "I would like to reiterate: glass is not a two-way street."
Emboldened by the city's inaction, the trend has sparked a hobby of questionable legality. Rather than standing outside the transparent apartments of celebrities, many New Yorkers have actually mounted tiny videocameras to record everything that happens inside.
"It's hysterical," says Dino Blickner, a Williamsburg resident who's admitted to owning a dozen or so cameras that gaze at everyone from Giselle Bündchen to Calvin Klein. "When you watch the film at thirty or forty times normal Gwyneth Paltrow looks nearly human."
In fact, the fad has proven so popular that some underground clubs now show these subversive videos. On Tuesday nights at the Village Armory, for instance, eight large-screen TVs show twenty-four hours of Martha Stewart's life sped up into ten minutes. The overflow crowd laughs and maybe feels a smidgen of guilt, but mostly wonders why she has an assistant whose sole task is to make origami elk and six drawers in her bedroom armoire that contain nothing but spatulas.
Ms. Margolis, for her part, is organizing other tenants into a class-action suit against the building's developer. "I am convinced they knew that people can look through glass," says the ex-model who's currently designing a line of jewelry made out of precious gems and gold-plated rabbit skulls. "There's no other word to describe it than just plain old stupidity."
"It's unbelievable," sniffed J. Walter Dibner, a hedge fund analyst who recently moved into a split-level loft in NoHoBo. "They just stand there and stare at me. It's like they're watching Downton Abbey."
The fourteen people outside weren't sympathic. "Nowhere near," corrected Miguel Apolito. "Downton Abbey never had any douche bags doing blow with $800 hookers."
Since discretion is of utmost importance, we've given you a selection of wigs so you won't attract attention.
Yuri Fyodorov is in his sixties, and he might trust you more if he thinks you are close in age. We've furnished you with a professionally-styled "Anderson Cooper" hairpiece.
Sergei Yuditsky is long-time bureaucrat who appears unwilling or unable to get promoted. He might be more willing to trust you if also look like a failed bureaucrat, so we recommend a style like the "Michael Scott."
Ivan Yanukovich sympathizes with the class struggles of immigrants and ethnic minorities, so for him we propose the "Movin' On Up."
Anatoly Kasyanenko is an ex-Gestapo agent and a real hard-liner. For its hint of instability and menace we recommend the "Pulp Fiction" model.
The "Monkees" wig might give you an edge with Anatoly Kasyanenko. His kids are named Davy, Micky, Michael and Peter but it could just be a coincidence.
Additionally, these sunglasses might come in handy, but we recommend not pairing them with the "Pulp Fiction" wig if one truly wishes to avoid drawing attention.
We've also provided you with a stack of 500-euro notes to encourage these men to aid us. If for some reason you can't find them, we've printed up a bunch of letters you can slide under their doors asking if they'd like to be spies.
Your mission, Ryan, should you decide to accept it, is to win these men's trust and convince them to sell you top-secret information. As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape won't self-destruct, because we've just given you a ton of evidence so what difference is one more thing going to make? Good luck, Ryan.
Ordinarily, America is built on a system of supply and demand. If corporations really need workers, they'd pay whatever the market demands to get those workers.
However, corporations maintain that they're suffering because of the deficit of workers, and they can't find workers at the price they're willing to pay. It's hampering their ability to function in America today.
So, in the face of impending catastrophe, they've complained to Congress. Congress has agreed to intervene, because if corporations can't afford the workers they need, everybody suffers. And why should they? Undocumented workers will do the job just as well as lawful ones, and at far less of a price.
Many politicians have decided that we should open our borders to undocumented workers, since they're an inexpensive alternative that's readily available. China, for example, has many millions of undocumented workers that they'd love to send to America. Additionally, Senators Charles Schumer and John McCain are drafting legislation that will feature a path to legitimacy for some 11 million undocumented workers, hopefully freeing them from the stigma that comes with being branded as second-class.
Some argue that, in the face of increased competition, documented workers will find themselves drastically devalued, if not tossed onto be the trash heap. But the government maintains that these new undocumented workers will simply fill a void that would never have been filled by the documented ones. As a result, everybody wins.
Now, replace "corporations" with "people," and "workers" with "Louis Vuitton handbags."
Ordinarily, America is built on a system of supply and demand. If people really need Louis Vuitton handbags, they'd pay whatever the market demands to get those Louis Vuitton handbags.
However, people maintain that they're suffering because of the deficit of Louis Vuitton handbags, and they can't find Louis Vuitton handbags at the price they're willing to pay. It's hampering their ability to function in America today.
So, in the face of impending catastrophe, they've complained to Congress. Congress has agreed to intervene, because if people can't afford the Louis Vuitton handbags they need, everybody suffers. And why should they? Undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags will do the job just as well as lawful ones, and at far less of a price.
Many politicians have decided that we should open our borders to undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags, since they're an inexpensive alternative that's readily available. China, for example, has many millions of undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags that they'd love to send to America. Additionally, Senators Charles Schumer and John McCain are drafting legislation that will feature a path to legitimacy for some 11 million undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags, hopefully freeing them from the stigma that comes with being branded as second-class.
Some argue that, in the face of increased competition, documented Louis Vuitton handbags will find themselves drastically devalued, if not tossed onto be the trash heap. But the government maintains that these new undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags will simply fill a void that would never have been filled by the documented ones. As a result, everybody wins.
Some of the differences between the two genders are apparent in the songs they sing. For instance, there's a huge gap between the desires they express in songs that start with "If I." When Pete Seeger sang "If I Had a Hammer," for instance, he spoke for the average male. This gruff dude wanted something simple (a hand tool) for an altruistic reason (to hammer out injustice).
Sure, it's not very exciting for a boyfriend, but if you've got a nail it helps.
Following close behind the hammer is Mr. Seeger's desire for a bell. He's not going to do anything weird with it: he just wants to ring it in the morning and ring it in the evening. I don't know about you, but if my husband harbored a secret innermost desire, I'd be pretty relieved if it was just a brass thing with a clanger. There are far worse things than hubby taking you aside and saying, "Sweetie, I don't know how to break this to you, but I'd really, really like a bell."
Sure, maybe these yearnings don't make a lot of sense. Any woman fighting off injustice would have the sense to wish for a lawyer, or pepper spray. When the Klan is storming down your street with torches lit and you're throwing all your valuables into a pillowcase, it's not going to help things when your man yells out, "Honey, have you seen my bell?" Still, it's a male thing that's endearing nonetheless.
A decade later Johnny Cash is similarly gruff and simple with "If I Were A Carpenter." Women never express desires like this: no, according to TV they just want their families to use less toilet paper, and some Activia. But if Johnny can imagine any crazy scenario in the entire world, he ends up with a chisel in his hand.
If the PC police are around, the second line is a bit problematic:
If I were a carpenterBut this is the way dudes are, right? They don't know what they're saying until it's out of their mouths. "I'm imagining a totally unreal, sci-fi scenario," he's telling his squeeze. "Instead of being a singer, I work with my hands. And you, you're a classy female."
and you were a lady....
Still, I think the theme is there. Men aren't complicated: they just want to make things. They want to help out.
Now, let's bring the ladies into the picture. A couple of decades later, Gladys Knight drew a picture of the world's most perfect relationship in "If I Were Your Woman." The song is cool for roughly six seconds before she drops the rabbit into the boiling water:
If I were your womanGot that? That's a typical woman talking. Doesn't that make you yearn for the simplicity of that bell? What Gladys wants is for you to change. "Now that I'm your woman," she snaps, "why do you act the way you do? That's not gonna fly around here, nosirree." Fifteen words out of her mouth and we're in an argument. We're yelling, "Well, Gladys, if you were my woman, you'd have to lay off the french fries. Got that? You think little palm trees on your fingernails will make me forget you got cankles? Not a chance."
and you were my man
you'd have no other woman....
Beyoncé offers a similarly bizarre vision and a ditto:
If I were a boy even just for a day,If this isn't going to scare you gay I don't know what will. Girls, evidently, can't roll out of bed. Or throw on what they wanted. This surprised me, because I never really pictured Beyoncé screaming, "NO! I WON'T WEAR IT! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" five minutes before TMZ shows her in a skin-tight, sequined tube-top. But Ms. Carter totally gets the male demimonde. She'd fit right in at the old watering hole: "I would like a beer, because I'm a boy!" The only place that's gonna work is on Jerry Sandusky's lap.
I'd roll out of bed in the morning
and throw on what I wanted
and go drink beer with the guys.
If I were a boy,What's that? Yup, eight lines into the song, thirty years after Gladys, women are still whining. "If I could be a man," she sings, "I'd be better than any goddamn men!" See, you can't do that. You can't say, "If I were an owl, I'd be a flamingo." It doesn't make sense. Maybe she wouldn't have sold as many records, but Ms. Carter would have been closer to grammatical correctness singing, "If I were a chick with a dick."
I think I could understand
how it feels to love a girl --
I swear I'd be a better man.
Anyway, I think the lines are drawn. You don't need to be a college graduate to see the obvious, to see who belongs with who. I'm picturing our ladies at some posh wine bar:
GLADYS: "If I were your woman, you wouldn't cheat on me." BEYONCÉ: "Girlfriend, if I were your man I would never disrespect you like that."
What do Pete and Johnny think about it? Who gives a fuck? Isn't this a great bell?
January Jones’ makeup artist, Rachel Goodwin, says that she embellished Jones’ shockingly dark Chanel eye makeup “by adding jet crystals on top. I wanted January’s makeup to have an element of danger to it, which was what the punk movement was all about.”
