All I can say is, thank God. Because I was planning on going to a friend’s apartment tonight and if the doorman wasn’t there how would I get in?
Although part of me was hoping the strike would take place. The only thing more ludicrous than watching doormen picket outside . . . well wherever a doorman would picket, is the scene I have in my mind of elderly people crowded outside Park Avenue apartment buildings pawing at the door trying to figure out how to get it open, while vagrants and prostitutes, using their street smarts to open the doors, lounge comfortably in the unprotected lobbies.
This story really hit close to home. Not because I’m a member of the Falun Gong, or I know anyone who is, or because I particularly sympathize with the plight of the Falun Gong, but because with the resurgence of warm weather in Manhattan also comes the return of the Falun Gong street protests.
I’m not good with adjectives, so I can’t property describe the unbelievably absurd scenes these protests create, but basically there about eight to ten Asian people, half of whom are handing out flyers describing the torture and abuse the Falun Gong have been victims of at the hands of the oppressive Chinese government, while the other half ACTS OUT THE TORTURE AND ABUSE. I’m talking elaborate displays of people chained together and huddled on the ground with dirty faces and torn rags for clothes. I promise I will include pictures in the future, although I may need to buy a high powered telephoto lens because as dedicated as I am to entertaining you, the thought of standing five feet from someone tethered to the inside of a small cage covered in fake blood and snapping away just seems a little . . . tacky?
Actually, if anyone could get me a press pass and an Asian mask (like this) that would be a great help.
• At first I didn’t think it was legitimate when someone claiming to be J.P. Kincaid commented on my post about the Flesch-Kincaid Index. The comment was polite, saying that the scale was never meant to be taken as seriously as it has been, even going so far as to play along with the joke that a painting by Picasso actually depicted the likeness of Kincaid. Pretty amazing considering if someone knocked one of my blog posts, which took probably 99% less time and effort than it did to come up with the world famous textual rating index, I would publicly skewer them and then make every effort to show up at their front door with a flame thrower.
But then comes a second comment, this time by John F. Kincaid, MD – none other than the son of J.P. Kincaid – saying, in effect, blow me. This reaction seems to make a little more sense, seeing as how if someone said an ill word concerning my father I would eat them.
But I can’t help being a little curious as to how this all came to pass. My best guess is that J.P. Kincaid Googled himself and saw, to his horror, that the third entry on the list was entitled “The Daily Dump.” Years and years of hard work, and this is what it comes down to? The Daily Dump? Then, over the holiday weekend with the families gathered for dinner, Kincaid mentions to his son the unfortunate circumstance he finds himself in, leading the son to comment as well – my point being this: I’ve written about Sarah Silverman, Pania Rose, Katie Holmes, etc. But I only get responses from the Kincaid family? What am I doing wrong? Actually, even as I write it I realize how stupid the questions is. I mean, there’s mention of my girlfriend all over this blog. And from what I understand, professional women are very intimidated by a man in love.
• I’ve been meaning to say this for a while, but anyone who wants to be linked here just send me an email and let me know. I’m going to reformat some of the sidebar stuff and I figure a really long blogroll is exactly what a man needs to feel like a man. Also, any suggestions people might have on good blogs would be much appreciated. It seems everyone (myself included) has been in a bit of a blogging lull lately and I could use a few more good places to steal material from. Thanks.
• Lastly, it pains me to say that I won’t be able to go to TequilaCon on Saturday. Back when I said I could attend I had forgotten that I was going to Boston this weekend to celebrate The Girlfriend’s sister’s birthday, even though only moments prior to replying to Brando’s email saying I would be there I had booked the hotel and the rental car and had an extensive conversation with The Girlfriend about what we should buy for a present. Such is the life of Alzheimer patients, children who live near electromagnetic power lines, and me, whose only excuse for such profound short-term memory loss is that genius can’t be slowed down by the details of other peoples’ lives.
To everyone who is going, have a blast – and if you’re feeling particularly distraught over my absence, you can play The Daily Dump drinking game, where everyone does a shot every time someone goes to the bathroom. With 60 plus people there, you should be over me in no time. Nothing alleviates heartache like having your stomach pumped. Nothing . . .