There has been a recent proliferation of events that suggest that the 80s may not quite be over yet. Or enough time has passed that people have forgotten what a colossally bad decade it was. As far as I remember it, the 80s pretty much sucked until some dude with a ridiculously large top hat and the name of a frequently used punctuation mark brought rock n’ roll back from the dead.
Growing up in 1980s Greenlawn, NY, about as far from the San Fernando Valley as is humanly possible, the local girls frequently asked to be gagged with kitchen utensils, they used words like tubular (which coincidentally inspired a musician named Mike Oldfield – later known to the rest of the world as Slash – to compose some ‘tubular’ music I’m sure I’d know if I heard it, and they all wanted to date Nicolas Cage. My point is, for as bad as they were, the fads in the 80s were infectious. Which leads to breaking news in 2007….
“Alpharetta teen takes 2nd at world Rubik's Cube contest.” Or so reported the Atlanta Journal Constitution on October 12. 2007! I can’t fault the newspaper for running this spectacular news, though it has seemingly gotten trapped in a space/time continuum.
For all the ridicule Georgia takes about its level of sophistication, no other state can lay claim to 18-year-old Chattahoochee High School senior Andrew Kang (eat it, Arkansas!). Kang, it was reported, had just returned from the World Rubik's Cube Championship in Budapest, Hungary, where he managed to solve a Rubik’s Cube in 10.88 seconds. In fact, this Apharettan overachiever gets frustrated when it takes him more than 15 seconds to solve the Cube. For reference, I still have an original Rubik’s Cube that was given to me on August 30, 1982. My quickest solve time: 25 years and counting.
About two years into my cube-solving fury, I became enamored of another 80s fad. Everyone within three years of my age wanted to be able to breakdance like Turbo and Ozone in the classically bad movie Breakin’. Well hold onto your backspins, folks: breakdancing is back! A video posted on Newsday’s website documents the grueling 'Breakdancing Battle of the Year' competition held in Braunschweig, Germany this past Saturday night. Not surprisingly, South Korea took the title again with “an athletic display that appeared to defy the laws of gravity.”
I don’t doubt it takes a lot of talent, but shouldn’t this have happened two decades ago? That’s when I was heavily into breakdancing. I was a white, middle-class Long Island kid with no ability whatsoever to dance (though I am still really good at the "White Boy Overbite," a dance move I proudly displayed at a friend’s recent wedding), donning parachute pants and a listening to a cassette tape called Electric Breakdance, which featured such urban rhapsodies as “Jam On It” and “White Lines.”
According to my only black friend at the time, Anthony Burrows, these were the songs with the beats that could get me to move. And because breakdancing required erratic moves, I thought it was right in my wheelhouse. Unfortunately, my moves were considered more eccentric than erratic.
While Greenlawn was no South Bronx, I still managed to do my part in embarrassing myself in front of anyone who would watch. Decked out in my black and gray parachute pants (zippers fully open, drawing attention like a peacock displaying its tail feathers), I invited our paperboy into the house to see me do the world’s fastest backspin after school one day. Using the paperboy as my conduit, I figured word would spread quickly through town once he saw my awesome talent.
I figured that the best way to maximize my spin speed on the hardwood floor was to use a good deck of KEM playing cards… the expensive plastic ones that come in their own hard-shell case. Cards strewn across the living room floor, I proceeded to backspin my way to local stardom, until five seconds later when I began to drift on the surprisingly slick cards and the side of my head slammed into the corner of the coffee table. Danny laughed.
This triumphant injury was trumped only weeks later by my friend Justin Silverstein. While wearing parachute pants and a red-and-black, Michael Jackson "Thriller" leather jacket, he broke his nose while showing the entire neighborhood how well he could do ‘the worm.’
Nevertheless, my plan worked. Danny spread the word about my miracle backspin to everyone. But by the time I was through being grounded for destroying my mom’s good canasta cards, breakdancing was out and big hair was in.
The one thing that I haven’t seen covered in the news yet is the resurgence of Pig Latin. Here in Atlanta, teenagers have suddenly started speaking Pig Latin at an alarming rate. Whenever I find myself near a group of teenagers, I hear them working hard to obfuscate their words to commoners in a tongue that barely qualifies as non-English. If they want to exclude me, they’d do better to speak Standard English with a Southern drawl.
But since I’m now officially a resident of the greater Atlanta region, I might as well do my best to fit in with the local population. I offer the final paragraph of this column to the local teenage set in a language they can understand.
Ow-nay at-thay e-thay eighties-ay are-ay ack-bay, I-ay ully-fay expect-ay it-ay oo-tay e-bay ont-fray age-pay ews-nay en-whay I-ay olve-say y-may ubik’s-Ray ube-Cay. Once-way I’m-ay inished-fay, I’ll-ay imp-pray y-may eanie-Bay aby-Bay ollection-cay, et-gay a-ay acky-Hay ack-Say and-ay ake-may ure-shay y-may ation-stay agon-way is-ay operly-pray outfitted-ay ith-way a-ay iamond-day aped-shay aby-Bay on-ay oard-Bay ign-say. Y’all.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Secret of Homeowner Debt Explained
I have been a homeowner for about four months now. I intentionally joined the ranks of the literally dozens of other happy homeowners across the United States, but I’m also beginning to understand how a perfectly content homeowner can quickly turn jaded and miserable. We’ve dealt with more than our share of surprises since moving in: the heater blew: $1,000; leaky tub: $650; new springs for the garage door: $275; new caulk for the ashram: what exactly is an ashram, and why does it need caulk?
The first time I saw the house that ultimately became mine I nearly fainted. I attribute this to a combination of the house's natural beauty, the excessively hot temperature outside and the blow dart in my neck. It seems the guy who lives across the street bought some “toys” for his kids on a recent business trip to Namibia. Having traveled for work myself, I made a habit of bringing home local knick knacks for the kids, but I question whether poisonous darts make good gifts. Kids will... use..... theeese..... oibnwarvrl.leaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Sorry - blacked out there. So anyway, after seeing the house, I knew it was “The One.” Real estate agents know when they're taking you to The One. They spend all that time showing you dozens of surprisingly decorated houses that make you wonder whether the current owners are visually impaired, and question their motives where it relates to what qualifies as presentable.
Working closely with the existing owners of The One – all of whom are played by local out of work actors – they make sure that everything is in order, that the house looks perfect and that the colonies of insects living within the walls of the house are properly wrangled and fed.
When my agent brought me to The One, I knew it immediately. As soon as I walked in, I felt at home. The open floor plan was exactly what we had been looking for; the kitchen was fully updated with stainless steel appliances that would sit idle, but would look pretty, until we sell; the huge yard gave me no indication that it would work in concert with my finicky ride-on lawnmower to ultimately become my biggest nemesis. This was definitely it.
The first night in the house was great, assuming you don't mind desert-like heat and a complete lack of furniture. The central air conditioning system, which was invented for the sole purpose of breaking down on oppressively hot days, was unwilling to cooperate with the simplest of commands.
Me: Set temp to 74.
Air conditioner: No.
Me: Set temp and hold at 74.
Air conditioner: No.
Me, getting really agitated: (click, click, click, click) Set temp to 60.
Air conditioner: Listen, dude. You're the new guy here. Why don't you go find a floor to sleep on and leave me alone?
This led to my very first service call as a homeowner… to the air conditioner repairman who kindly only charged me double for coming out for an emergency appointment on a Saturday night. He explained that while he technically knew what was wrong, I would have to pay an additional $1,000 in order to properly fix the unit. That was a relief considering we were just in the process of endangering our own lives by setting all our extra money on fire.
Fast forward two weeks. If you do not yet own a house, take note: The ‘American Dream’ is not a term meant for the actual home owner. If you want a good taste of the American Dream, I encourage you to get a job servicing any of the million things that will go wrong in some new unsuspecting homeowner’s house.
In the two weeks following our closing, I contributed more to the state’s revenue stream, by way of the Georgia contracting community, than the combined value of every Van Gogh painting ever sold at auction. This phenomenon clearly explains why new homeowners typically find themselves in the most debt they will ever be in. It’s like a homeowner hazing ritual designed and perfected by real estate agents, the contracting community and credit card companies.
Worst of all, it’s perfectly legal. As I read back through the hundreds of papers I had to sign at the closing, I found a paper headlined “Ha Ha, You Idiot!” that details a requirement on my part to single-handedly employ at least half the population of the City of Atlanta, including suburbs, for a minimum of 14 months, but not to exceed greater than half the net value of the assets of the electorate, based on the accrual method of accounting. Since nobody has ever taken the time to actually read every single document at a closing, lawyers have a long-running joke about slipping in insane documents like this one that are perfectly legal and binding once you sign them.
We’ve finally worked through the pain of actually becoming homeowners and we’ve accepted that the dozens of contractors we have employed will be part of our lives for the long-term. With every mortgage payment we make, we realize that for every penny we build in equity, some random contractor will earn two, courtesy of the Merritts.
Now we just have to learn to deal with neighbors. Speaking of which, does anyone know of a good antidote for Namibian blow dart poison?
The first time I saw the house that ultimately became mine I nearly fainted. I attribute this to a combination of the house's natural beauty, the excessively hot temperature outside and the blow dart in my neck. It seems the guy who lives across the street bought some “toys” for his kids on a recent business trip to Namibia. Having traveled for work myself, I made a habit of bringing home local knick knacks for the kids, but I question whether poisonous darts make good gifts. Kids will... use..... theeese..... oibnwarvrl.leaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Sorry - blacked out there. So anyway, after seeing the house, I knew it was “The One.” Real estate agents know when they're taking you to The One. They spend all that time showing you dozens of surprisingly decorated houses that make you wonder whether the current owners are visually impaired, and question their motives where it relates to what qualifies as presentable.
Working closely with the existing owners of The One – all of whom are played by local out of work actors – they make sure that everything is in order, that the house looks perfect and that the colonies of insects living within the walls of the house are properly wrangled and fed.
When my agent brought me to The One, I knew it immediately. As soon as I walked in, I felt at home. The open floor plan was exactly what we had been looking for; the kitchen was fully updated with stainless steel appliances that would sit idle, but would look pretty, until we sell; the huge yard gave me no indication that it would work in concert with my finicky ride-on lawnmower to ultimately become my biggest nemesis. This was definitely it.
The first night in the house was great, assuming you don't mind desert-like heat and a complete lack of furniture. The central air conditioning system, which was invented for the sole purpose of breaking down on oppressively hot days, was unwilling to cooperate with the simplest of commands.
Me: Set temp to 74.
Air conditioner: No.
Me: Set temp and hold at 74.
Air conditioner: No.
Me, getting really agitated: (click, click, click, click) Set temp to 60.
Air conditioner: Listen, dude. You're the new guy here. Why don't you go find a floor to sleep on and leave me alone?
This led to my very first service call as a homeowner… to the air conditioner repairman who kindly only charged me double for coming out for an emergency appointment on a Saturday night. He explained that while he technically knew what was wrong, I would have to pay an additional $1,000 in order to properly fix the unit. That was a relief considering we were just in the process of endangering our own lives by setting all our extra money on fire.
Fast forward two weeks. If you do not yet own a house, take note: The ‘American Dream’ is not a term meant for the actual home owner. If you want a good taste of the American Dream, I encourage you to get a job servicing any of the million things that will go wrong in some new unsuspecting homeowner’s house.
In the two weeks following our closing, I contributed more to the state’s revenue stream, by way of the Georgia contracting community, than the combined value of every Van Gogh painting ever sold at auction. This phenomenon clearly explains why new homeowners typically find themselves in the most debt they will ever be in. It’s like a homeowner hazing ritual designed and perfected by real estate agents, the contracting community and credit card companies.
Worst of all, it’s perfectly legal. As I read back through the hundreds of papers I had to sign at the closing, I found a paper headlined “Ha Ha, You Idiot!” that details a requirement on my part to single-handedly employ at least half the population of the City of Atlanta, including suburbs, for a minimum of 14 months, but not to exceed greater than half the net value of the assets of the electorate, based on the accrual method of accounting. Since nobody has ever taken the time to actually read every single document at a closing, lawyers have a long-running joke about slipping in insane documents like this one that are perfectly legal and binding once you sign them.
We’ve finally worked through the pain of actually becoming homeowners and we’ve accepted that the dozens of contractors we have employed will be part of our lives for the long-term. With every mortgage payment we make, we realize that for every penny we build in equity, some random contractor will earn two, courtesy of the Merritts.
Now we just have to learn to deal with neighbors. Speaking of which, does anyone know of a good antidote for Namibian blow dart poison?
Friday, October 5, 2007
Legal White Powder Found in Atlanta
Where I used to live in New York, snow was a welcome addition to the dreariness of winter. For about five minutes. That’s about how long it took for all the frolicking adults to realize it was the start of months of shoveling, skidding across multiple lanes of traffic (note, this particular problem is not limited to snow and ice on Long Island), dodging wayward snowballs, and constantly chasing after smaller kids and trying to explain why they shouldn’t eat yellow snow.
One of the reasons we chose Atlanta as our new home is that it doesn’t really get any snow. Until now. As soon as we arrived, someone came up with the novel idea – an idea so crazy it’s a miracle Ted Turner isn’t involved – of covering a giant hill at Stone Mountain Park (named after native Georgian Civil War General Stone M. Park) with the powdery white stuff. After taking measurements, officials decided using snow would be easier and “slightly more legal.” Thus Coca-Cola’s Snow Mountain was born.
I’m not one to brag about my foresight, considering I haven’t had any since I was a seven days old (shout out to Rabbi Yehoshua Krohn!), but it seems obvious to me that this plan was flawed from the start.
For one, I loosely understand the physics of ground temperature and snowfall (no I don’t), and I’m familiar with what constitutes cold enough weather to sustain snow outdoors (it has to be really, really cold). Okay, I’m not even sure the rules are considered part of physics – they may be calculus or pharmacology, but the point is that according to the most recent Farmer’s Almanac, “Not only does Atlanta get maybe a dusting of snow at a time, if that… the city shuts down like a bathroom after Rosie O’Donnell stops in for a number two when any trace of snow is in the forecast, so everyone can go to Publix to get milk and bread.”
In order to create this winter wonderland in the heat of the Bible Belt, organizers imported a battalion of snow-making machines – the same kind you’d find on a mountain in Vermont or New Hampshire during the ski season, which generally comprises fall, winter, spring and most of summer. They do not use these machines during the two weeks known locally as ‘Quick: we can swim’ when temperatures are likely to reach as high as 62 degrees.
The blowers were fired up on October 2, which happened to be the same day that Georgia Governor Sonny Perdue declared October "Take a Shorter Shower" month due to the current drought. He also suggested not running the water while brushing your teeth, but that one seems to be pretty well covered already here in Georgia. According to statistics, the average person can save between three and seven gallons of water by skipping their legs below the knees while taking a shower. Over the course of a year that amounts to more than 2,000 gallons – which can be used by Pepsi, Coca-Cola’s biggest competitor, to fill 12,810 sport bottles of Aquafina water.
In spite of the drought, the snow machines were firing full-fledged snow, which when mixed with the 80 degree weather that day turned into full-fledged water before hitting the ground at a rate of 38 gallons per minute, in effect creating the world’s most elaborate lawn sprinkler system.
Finally bowing to the public outrage of wasting a total of 1.2 million gallons of water as the community deals with a drought of epic proportions, the park has decided to halt its lawn-watering program. Displaying a profound understanding of the situation, Stone Mountain Park’s public relations manager Christine Parker said, “We've already sold tickets, and we can't just stop. That would be like a water park just deciding to turn off the faucets.” (Humor writing is easy when you have quotes like this to work with.)
After paying the equivalent of the combined annual tourism revenue of the entire Caribbean to promote Snow Mountain, Coca-Cola publicly endorsed the decision to call it off. In related news, Stone Mountain Park is in sponsorship talks with other soft drink companies.
Now disappointed children across the Atlanta region will be forced to wonder what getting snow caked under your shirt collar, head first at a high rate of speed feels like and they’ll never know the joy in getting knocked over by a snow-tuber who has gone astray as they try to climb back up the hillside in the slippery snow, but they will always remember the time when politics got in the way of a good time, thanks to Governor Sonny Perdue – a man who wasn’t chicken to say what he felt. (Come on, how can I let a name like this slip by twice without saying anything?)
One of the reasons we chose Atlanta as our new home is that it doesn’t really get any snow. Until now. As soon as we arrived, someone came up with the novel idea – an idea so crazy it’s a miracle Ted Turner isn’t involved – of covering a giant hill at Stone Mountain Park (named after native Georgian Civil War General Stone M. Park) with the powdery white stuff. After taking measurements, officials decided using snow would be easier and “slightly more legal.” Thus Coca-Cola’s Snow Mountain was born.
I’m not one to brag about my foresight, considering I haven’t had any since I was a seven days old (shout out to Rabbi Yehoshua Krohn!), but it seems obvious to me that this plan was flawed from the start.
For one, I loosely understand the physics of ground temperature and snowfall (no I don’t), and I’m familiar with what constitutes cold enough weather to sustain snow outdoors (it has to be really, really cold). Okay, I’m not even sure the rules are considered part of physics – they may be calculus or pharmacology, but the point is that according to the most recent Farmer’s Almanac, “Not only does Atlanta get maybe a dusting of snow at a time, if that… the city shuts down like a bathroom after Rosie O’Donnell stops in for a number two when any trace of snow is in the forecast, so everyone can go to Publix to get milk and bread.”
In order to create this winter wonderland in the heat of the Bible Belt, organizers imported a battalion of snow-making machines – the same kind you’d find on a mountain in Vermont or New Hampshire during the ski season, which generally comprises fall, winter, spring and most of summer. They do not use these machines during the two weeks known locally as ‘Quick: we can swim’ when temperatures are likely to reach as high as 62 degrees.
The blowers were fired up on October 2, which happened to be the same day that Georgia Governor Sonny Perdue declared October "Take a Shorter Shower" month due to the current drought. He also suggested not running the water while brushing your teeth, but that one seems to be pretty well covered already here in Georgia. According to statistics, the average person can save between three and seven gallons of water by skipping their legs below the knees while taking a shower. Over the course of a year that amounts to more than 2,000 gallons – which can be used by Pepsi, Coca-Cola’s biggest competitor, to fill 12,810 sport bottles of Aquafina water.
In spite of the drought, the snow machines were firing full-fledged snow, which when mixed with the 80 degree weather that day turned into full-fledged water before hitting the ground at a rate of 38 gallons per minute, in effect creating the world’s most elaborate lawn sprinkler system.
Finally bowing to the public outrage of wasting a total of 1.2 million gallons of water as the community deals with a drought of epic proportions, the park has decided to halt its lawn-watering program. Displaying a profound understanding of the situation, Stone Mountain Park’s public relations manager Christine Parker said, “We've already sold tickets, and we can't just stop. That would be like a water park just deciding to turn off the faucets.” (Humor writing is easy when you have quotes like this to work with.)
After paying the equivalent of the combined annual tourism revenue of the entire Caribbean to promote Snow Mountain, Coca-Cola publicly endorsed the decision to call it off. In related news, Stone Mountain Park is in sponsorship talks with other soft drink companies.
Now disappointed children across the Atlanta region will be forced to wonder what getting snow caked under your shirt collar, head first at a high rate of speed feels like and they’ll never know the joy in getting knocked over by a snow-tuber who has gone astray as they try to climb back up the hillside in the slippery snow, but they will always remember the time when politics got in the way of a good time, thanks to Governor Sonny Perdue – a man who wasn’t chicken to say what he felt. (Come on, how can I let a name like this slip by twice without saying anything?)
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