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Phil Hall is an okapi at the Bronx Zoo.\http://www.myspace.com/philhallsuperstar
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We’re back in 1976 and I am in sixth grade. And much to my initial delight, Miss Rotenberg (the emetic virago assigned to teach the little ones French) is absent (perhaps she fell off her broomstick?). Instead, we have a substitute teacher – a large, lumpy fellow who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Potato Head.
I cannot recall his real name, but it didn’t matter since he had his own special ID for my class. “I’m the Answer Man!” he declared with the enthusiasm one associates with the discovery of gold or a life-saving pill. “Ask me any question you have and I will answer it!”
My class, which was never challenged by Miss Rotenberg’s prattling, suddenly became animated with the glory of being asked to participate in something that was genuinely fun and perhaps a bit daring – it was unusual for an adult to lay down an intellectual challenge to a sixth grade class.
To his credit, the Answer Man kept his word – he did answer the questions. But answering a question and answering a question correctly are not the same thing and it appeared that the Answer Man’s enthusiasm was not equal to his knowledge. Relatively simple questions relating to sports, TV shows and comic book characters (all of prime importance to the sixth graders) eluded the Answer Man and he offered responses that ranged from feeble to surreal.
However, I believed the Answer Man could offer insight on a subject that fascinated me during this time. Little me and my gaggle of sixth grade pals began to notice something that we never took seriously before: girls. Of primary interest to us was a subsection of the subject: breasts. Granted, none of the girls in our class were in league with Dolly Parton, but the whole concept of boobies provided the sixth grade boys with endless fascination – it dominated our conversations, our doodling and our private thoughts.
So when the Answer Man pointed to my upraised hand, I had a question for him: “How much does the average woman’s breast weigh?”
The Answer Man, who was a jolly old St. Nick up to that question, suddenly transformed himself into an utterly shocked moral puritan who was aghast that such blasphemy could be aired. “That’s it! That’s it!” he yelled. “No more talking for the rest of the period! Everyone sit quietly and don’t say a word – and anyone who says something will be thrown out of the class!”
My classmates turned at me with scorn, their faces offering mute disgust at how my question could disrupt their funtime. But I wasn’t apologetic – hey, I had a serious question (or at least I thought it was serious).
We never saw the Answer Man again. And, oddly enough, I never bothered to find out the answer to my question. Oh well, tits ahoy!
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While this is not comedy, per se, it should be noted that some sick humor can be found in the furor in the Islamic world regarding Pope Benny’s decision to publicly repeat comments made by a Byzantine emperor’s notion of the violence inherent to Islam and the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad.
From this joker’s perspective, I would offer the following observations:
1. When freedom of religion and the right for open assemblies of non-Muslim religious gatherings can be commonplace in the Islamic world, then criticism of Pope Benny is justified.
2. When Muslim terrorists stop bombing churches in Iraq and stop harassing Iraqi Christians seeking the free exercise of their faith (particularly women), then criticism of Pope Benny is justified.
3. When the governments of predominantly Islamic nations cease their policies of persecution of non-Muslim faiths (most notably Iran’s campaigns against its Baha’i population and the state-sanctioned violence against Coptic Christians in Egypt), then criticism of Pope Benny is justified.
4. When people in predominantly Muslim countries have the right to change their religions without the risk of being arrested, tried and executed for crimes against the nation, then criticism of Pope Benny is justified.
5. When the governments of predominantly Muslim country outlaw school texts that slander Judaism and Christianity, then criticism of Pope Benny is justified.
6. When Muslims stop killing each other under the pretext of Koranic principles (Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan), then criticism of Pope Benny is justified.
Until such time, all I can say is “More power to Pope Benny!”
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The year is 1976 and I am 11 years old. The place is my old neighborhood in The Bronx (pronounced “Da Bronx”) and it is during a lunchtime break from the torture known as sixth grade. My pal James and I managed to sneak in through a service door to a local high-rise apartment complex with the hope of meeting its most famous tenant, baseball great Willie Mays.
This was not an original idea, as every boy in our school tried to do the same. No one ever got to see Willie in person, but James and I seemed to get closer than most (we made it to the door of his penthouse apartment, but we were informed by a woman on the other side of that door that our intended target was not home).
As luck would have it, a fellow classmate named Philip lived in that same apartment complex. So James and I rode the elevator down to his floor with the hope of catching him at home (and perhaps snagging some goodies from his pantry – it was lunchtime, after all). Admittedly, it was not the most desirable consolation prize (unlike the elusive Willie Mays, we saw Philip every day), but at least it would keep us busy and perhaps well-fed.
Alas, Philip was not home. Dejected, James and I headed to the elevators. But for whatever reason, we opted to take the staircase. And that’s where the trouble began.
I don’t know why (and I still can’t figure it out), but James issued me a challenge at the top of the staircase landing on Philip’s floor: he boasted that he could outdistance me in a urinating contest on the staircase. Clearly, the idea of using a staircase as a toilet never occurred to me – but at the time, it seemed like a brilliant notion. Hell, anyone can take a pee into a porcelain bowl.
Furthermore, my sense of adventure was piqued. Could I pee my way down a staircase? To the 11-year-old me, those 10 steps from top to bottom landing seemed like an Olympic ski jump. But I thought I could outdistance James.
So James and I stood at the edge of the staircase landing, unzipped our flies, took out our 11-year-old manhoods, and did the one-two-three-go routine. Initially James got off to a strong start, hitting the fourth step, while I was stuck at the second step. But then I began to catch up by making an arc my urine flow. We tied at the seventh step and went down the stairs in unison until we both hit the bottom landing. Needless to say, the tie was a disappointment since we both wanted to secure bragging rights.
After zipping up, we remembered the elevators (the staircase didn’t seem like the best place to travel, considering what transpired) and we went downstairs and then went back out the service entrance that gave us access. We made it to school in the nick of time.
The next day, our friend Philip confronted us in a decidedly non-friendly manner. It seems the janitor for his apartment complex was making the rounds and came upon that staircase. Oddly, the janitor blamed Philip for the mess and informed his parents. Now why the janitor would blame Philip (since he lived on the floor in an apartment with a working toilet) made no sense, but Philip nonetheless added two and two and came up with the only two goofs he knew who could turn a staircase into a urinating championship forum. Naturally, we denied everything.
Still, I look back in awe at this accomplishment. I’ve never won any sporting trophies, so the knowledge that I could pee like a champ means a great deal to me (even more than meeting Willie Mays).
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It is often said that New York City has everything imaginable, but there is one thing that great metropolis lacks: public toilets. Most people never realize that until nature calls, at which point there is an imaginative scramble to find the nearest (and cleanest...and safest) restroom. In the touristy areas, this is not a problem – the big hotels have restrooms across their lobbies and/or conference room floors and it is too easy to wander in to use the facilities without generating suspicion. But in residential areas, that’s another story. Some time back, I was was walking down a street on New York's Upper East Side (a predominantly residential neighborhood) when nature came calling with a vengeance. I was on my way to meet a friend for dinner, but there was no way I could make it to his apartment without making a stop. As luck would have it, I spied a McDonald’s and tried to make it to their men’s room as fast as I could. Of course, McDonald’s and any eatery makes it clear that the bathrooms are strictly for the patrons. However, this particular urban McDonald’s was a split-level affair and the bathrooms were on the second floor. It was easy enough to slip in and head straight for the toilet without being bothered to place a Big Mac order. So I got to the bathroom and did my duty (or, in this case, my doody). Problem solved, right? And being one who believes in personal hygiene, I naturally soaped up hands at the men’s room sink and hit the faucets to wash myself clean. Except...there was no water coming out of the faucets. Neither hot water nor cold water flowed. So now I am stuck with soap-covered hands and no way to wash them off. I obviously couldn’t complain to the McDonald’s management, since as a non-customer I didn’t belong in their bathroom in the first place. After banging the faucets a few times, perhaps in hope that violent treatment would liberate the water, I left the bathroom and the McDonald’s with a new problem on my hands – literally. How the hell can I get the soap off my hands? And to make matters worse, it was a bright fluorescent pink soap – you couldn’t miss me walking around with pink, foamy extended hands and a very agitated look on my face. Miraculously, I passed a small grocery store with a sidewalk display of bottled water. This display consisted of a large bucket full of ice; the bottled water rested within the bucket, chilling for anyone in need of a drink. I wasn’t thirsty, but the idea of buying water to wash the soap off my hands seemed extreme. But what about the ice in the bucket? Ice is frozen water, after all. With no one from the store looking, I shoved my hands deep into the bucket and swished my soapy fingers and palms across the ice therein. My excuse, if I was challenged, would be that I was looking for a particular bottle of water that must have sank to the bottom of the bucket. Mercifully, no one came out of the store to ask after my weird behavior. After 15 seconds, I felt the soap must have been washed off my hands. In truth, I didn’t feel anything. After all, soaking your hands in a bucket of ice water is not conducive to healthy blood circulation. In fact, I was fairly numb after shaking off the excess ice water from my hands. Thus, I walked away from that bucket with frozen, wet hands. For the rest of my travel, I rambled about with my hands tucked beneath my armpits in a vain attempt to bring back warmth and movement to all points below the wrist. But then again, how many people endure frost-bitten fingers because of a raucous excretory system?
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There are few things more liberating than walking away from a job that you hate. Obviously, being in any dysfunctional environment is ruinous to one’s health and mind – poisonous relationships, miserable friendships, unpleasant homes, it doesn’t matter what is causing the problem. If you cannot fix a problem, walk away from it. Better yet, run! Today is my last day at the horrible job I’ve referred to in previous postings here. Even though I will never come back to this place, knowing that I had to return for one last day ticked off the various aches and pains that have come with this place. And those aches and pains are all stress-induced. I am normally in excellent health, except when I am at the job or thinking about the job. Mercifully, a better company made me an offer and I will be joining them on September 11. Now that’s a weird date to look forward to, no? That company is everything this health-wrecking job is not: friendly, professional, intelligent and sincere. I am genuinely fortunate to have secured that opportunity and I wonder if there was any divine intervention involved (I know my mother has been having some rather intense conversations with St. Joseph lately, so perhaps he thumbed through his rolodex to find a spot for me?). Okay, this isn’t a particularly funny posting. But if anyone should read this, I hope you get this message: there is absolutely nothing funny in being in a job that makes you physically and emotionally ill. Yeah, stupid boss stories are funny for a while, but the daily grind of being mistreated and humiliated is anything but humorous. Now you have to excuse me, because I need to gather my belongings together and skedaddle – Harriet Tubman is waiting for me and I need to get to freedom ASAP!
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I was once told that I am a physically intimidating person, which is perhaps both the strangest thing I’ve ever heard (little me, intimidating?) and the coolest thing I’ve ever heard (a mere glance will convey the message “Outta my way, sucka, or your head will be pulp” – boy, what power!). There might be some truth in that. I found that out recently on a New York City street corner while waiting for friends to show up for dinner. While standing around, looking high and low for my party to arrive, a guy came walking down the dark street and into the glow of the streetlight illuminating my spot on the sidewalk. There was something about this guy that looked very familiar, but I couldn’t place it immediately – and it was weird, because I knew the face but it didn’t seem to fit the guy’s body. Then I realized who it was: Edward Burns, the actor/filmmaker. And when I identified him to myself, I had a double reaction. First, I was appalled to finally come face-to-face with one of the least talented people in today’s independent cinema – if you’ve ever sat through his boring, puerile, verbose flicks, you’d know what I mean. Second, I was surprised that he was considerably smaller and leaner than he appears on screen. I stand six feet tall and I was looking down at him, and he appeared to be on the thin side (I assume he works out at the gym when preparing a film and allows his muscles to deflate when the camera is packed up). In getting a good look at Burns, I stepped slightly in his direction and I involuntarily knitted my eyebrows and peered closer into his gaze – I was clearly trying to make eye contact while sending a message of disapproval at him. Well, I must have been a bit too strong as he looked at me with a jittery expression, then turned his eyes away and hurried in double-time down the street. About half-way down the block, he turned to look back quickly and then resumed his escape. Of course, I am assuming that was Edward Burns who ran away from me. If I happened to scare away someone with the unfortunate luck of resembling him, my apologies – sort of (hey, it is a lot of fun to intimidate people just by looking at them!).
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Last night, I had an Instant Message conversation with my friend Yaroslav. He tole me a joke that I didn't understand. A day later, I still don't get it. Here is the text of our online chat: YAROSLAV: There's an old joke, I want to see if you like it (many people don't)
PHIL: Go ahead.
YAROSLAV: Dialogue:
-Do you speak Idish?
-Yes, I Id.
(Pause for about two minutes)
PHIL
: That's it?
YAROSLAV: Yes.
PHIL: I don't understand it.
YAROSLAV: Never mind.
YAROSLAV: Id = Idish.
PHIL: Are you talking about the psychological concept of the id?
YAROSLAV: No, it's a language thing.
YAROSLAV: People either die laughing on this joke or they don't understand. (Another two minute pause) PHIL: I think it is very funny because I don't understand it.
YAROSLAV: Okay.
YAROSLAV: Forget about it. So, does anyone out there understand this joke? If they do, please fill me in. And if no one understands it – well, you are not alone! Idish???
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I read the news today (oh boy!) that Pluto is no longer an official planet. After years of being one of the planetary gang, followed by additional years of contentious debate by astronomers who seem to have nothing better to do with their time, Pluto was (to paraphrase the slogan of a tiresome reality show) voted off the universe. Honestly, I always loved Pluto as a planet. Being the smallest of the bunch and the furthest from the Sun, Pluto always seemed like the plucky underdog of the heavens. In fact, no one even knew it was there until 1930 – and it took an amateur astronomer to find it, no less (all of the so-called professionals didn’t even know it was there). Plus, it moved to its own drumbeat: rather than run in parallel orbit with the other planets, it had the audacity to cut off Neptune and muscle in on its orbital path. I can also sympathize with Pluto for being told it’s not good enough to belong. Hell, I think everyone’s been in a situation like that at one point or another. But I must say that I love the astrology community. Read this from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s L.A. Johnson: Planet, schmanet. Astrologers are unfazed by news that the world's foremost astronomers yesterday kicked Pluto out of the planet club. (And presumably won't allow Pluto to play in any celestial object games.) "What people call something has very little to do with what it is," said Rob Hand, a leading U.S. astrologer from Reston, Va., who teaches the history of astrology at Kepler College, an online college based near Seattle. "What anybody chooses to call something is irrelevant; it's what sort of effect and use it has." Fortunately, the astrologers refrained from the obvious response to the astronomers: Take your official designation and shove it up Uranus!
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