Respect Authority

Dear Woman From The Gym Yesterday,

I just wanted to extend my most sincere apologies, once again, for wasting four seconds of what was clearly your precious time. You’re right, that treadmill was working, and wasn’t out of order, as the people in front of me in line had said, and so I’m forever sorry that none of us did the level of investigatory work it would have taken to verify this. Thank God you were there, really, to check out the situation and then berate us for our lack of thoroughness. Without you, we would have…well, we would have wasted something like three extra minutes waiting for another treadmill to open up. Oh, the horror.

To be honest, when you approached the line of would-be runners, waiting patiently for our next opportunity to jog indoors on an incredibly beautiful 80-degree day, I thought you might say something like “Excuse me, has anyone made sure that treadmill doesn’t work?” But in retrospect, your approach was much better — quicker, more direct. “Are you using that?” left the room for mystery I wouldn’t have thought of on my own — which one of us is ‘you,’ what exactly is ‘that’ — these are questions I would have never had the ability to wonder about had you not been so phenomenally vague. So, needless to say, when 0.04 seconds after you asked, no one had responded, it was, you’re right, completely necessary to go all Billy Crystal in City Slickers on us. “Helllooooo,” and the waving of the hand in front of our faces, like we were blind, well that was just you being thorough yourself — making sure even the sense-impaired would know you were looking for answers.

It’s true, given the impatience factor, I found myself growing curious about your occupation. “Who is this incredibly busy and important woman?” I wondered to myself. “How is it that I have come to be in her illustrious presence? How fortunate am I to work out at the same New York Sports Club as this goddess?” Thankfully, you were quick to answer my thoughts: “I’m a lawyer, I have to get moving.” Oh. Ohhhhhh. Well, that explains it! Had I known you were a lawyer, such a rare and special career acquired by so few of us in our short and pathetic lives, I would have not only invited you to go ahead and use the open treadmill, why I would have machine-gunned down all of the other runners so you could have your pick of them all. I would have rolled out a hand-woven red carpet for you to run on. I would have dropped to my knees on my dusty yoga mat and bowed down to kiss your Avis-clad feet. Considering my lack of reverence in the presence of such greatness, I’m surprised you didn’t spit on me right there.

“Knock yourself out,” I told you. See, you took that to mean “Go ahead, use the treadmill, I’m in no rush,” which, though also true, wasn’t my intended message. I meant, literally, go fucking knock yourself out. Go walk in traffic. Go jump in front of a subway car. Go get laid off. And by all means, go ahead and use the open treadmill because I think that I might survive if I have to wait another three minutes, I think my lowly existence might endure if I don’t hop on an artificial running machine at this very moment. In fact, I think everyone in this line would rather see your whims met than deal with another second of being berated at 7:30 p.m. on a Monday evening because we’re not giving 123% to the monitoring of 30+ treadmills.

And by the way, when I passed you five minutes later, that looked like a really awesome walk you were having. It’s a true shame you couldn’t do that outdoors.

Sincerely,
Kira

P.S. I’ve attached a photo of a shirt I think you might like, that would probably also cut down on incidents like these in the future. I looked for “I’m a really important laywer that makes more money than you and therefore my time is infinitely more valuable,” but apparently no one’s put that on a T-shirt yet. Go figure.

In the interest of transparency, I’m going to tell you all something. This shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, considering the vast majority of my contributions to Respect Authority are in some way related to, or at the very least allude to, television, but I consider it a potentially damaging confession nonetheless. So here goes: I watch a lot of TV. Like, a lot. Like perhaps 20 different shows at any given point in seasonal programming, to say nothing of stalwart time-passers like Law & Order or Cops.

It’s taken me months, nay, years, to come to grips with what one might call a television addiction, but now that I’ve accepted my habit—in part by pairing it with what some close-minded people might also consider another “addiction” (thank you, delivery herb)—I’m ready to talk about it. Not in the “The first step is admitting you have a problem way;” if it were a problem, God wouldn’t have invented DVR. No, I’m ready to let you all into my world – the world of reality contestants and vegetarian vampires and fat people who just can’t find love. So get ready, because here comes the thunder. That’s right, recaps.

In the interest of preserving some semblance of variety (and dignity) on RA, I have heretofore refrained from sharing my near-nightly analysis of various television programs. After all, this is the stuff of professional reviewers, not hapless bloggers with a sweet-ass bong and lots of free time. But if you haven’t noticed, our creative well hath run dry (hey, everyone goes through droughts, California even has water police) so I’m taking this opportunity to fill my lifelong dream: getting paid to write about TV. Except minus the paid part.

Enjoy. And try not to judge. Read More ›

Sometimes, when I’m not watching TV, or reprogramming my faulty DVR for the ninth time, or idly wondering whether mood rings come in “irritable,” I read books. And since this is my blog and I’ll wax intellectual if I want to, I feel it’s high time I start reviewing them. Because trust me, there are a lot (175 unread books in my 330-square-foot apartment, to be exact).

The most important thing you need to know about God Is Not Great—it’s a rather awkward book to read in public. Which isn’t to say that New Yorkers have any specific problem with atheism, or one 20-something semi-hipster predictably reading about it on the subway, but one finds it hard to ignore the looks, which vary from skepticism to accusation (by the way, in a rant for another time, I find the Kindle really hampers my predilection for observing what others are reading on the train). Then again, maybe it’s just some watered-down version of Catholic guilt that has me wanting to reach out to fellow riders; “I’m not an atheist; I mean, maybe, I don’t know. I’m just—the book was on sale.” Read More ›

Every time I start to take YouTube for granted, something comes along that reminds me what an awesome technology we have at our fingertips. Every shitty television show that shouldn’t have even existed in the first place, let alone be saved for all time… every asinine infomercial you’ve gotten lost in at 3:30 in the morning with a drool covered joint hanging loosely from your lips… everything mildly funny or embarrassing to come out of a screen in the past couple decades and then some… all of this immortalized under one tidy domain name.

It is for this, but mostly for this specifically, that I am eternally grateful for YouTube’s very existence:

I mean, I don’t know about you, but until I had stumbled upon this artifact of HBO’s Lifestories: Families in Crisis, many sleepless nights had been spent wondering what exactly Ben Affleck would look like in a full blown ‘roid rage. And the answer is this, but mostly this specifically:

Seriously, though… shit, dude, everybody knows you don’t hide your performance enhancing drugs in the top drawer. Fucking amateurs.

Oh Wall Street Journal.

I’m used to the Times writing nonsensical stories; after all, their motto appears based on how much news they can print, not whether they should. But you, Journal, today you wounded me.

Wednesday’s WSJ included a massive article on, get this, the ever growing length of receipts. Seriously. The Journal devoted two reporters and more than 1,120 words to what amounts to this: retailers are printing long-ass receipts these days, and people? Well people have a lot of things to say about it, things like “It’s as long as my arm” or “What a waste of paper.” Really riveting stuff.

I mean sure, I’ve noticed the change. Last night Walgreen’s handed me a receipt long enough to decorate a Christmas tree with, but you know what I did? I threw it away. I didn’t go home and think to myself “Lordy lordy, is this a trend or something? Should I write 20+ inches on it?”

To be honest, if I were a so-called “man on the street” and a Journal reporter approached me to ask my opinion on receipt lengths, I might pitch a fit. I understand the world at large has long since tired of dire economic news, and banks’ failin’ days seem to be over for the time being, but I still find it hard to believe there’s nothing that merits attention just a little more than whether Duane Reade is doling out foot-long paper coupons, or having trouble keeping receipt paper stocked.

For that matter, the Journal may just be headed downhill? I loved their foray into the wacky world of pogo sticks, and analysis of the recession’s effect on “bling,” but in the last week I’ve seen a pixelated illustration of a man holding a receipt like he’s not sure whether to wipe his ass with it, and an electric razor. Seriously, an electric razor.

Isn’t there a war somewhere to report on?

This is the best e-mail I have ever received at work. Separately, I haven’t yet clicked on the included link since I’m concerned it will either blow my computer up or put me on some sort of government watch list. The terrorism one, not the drugs one, the latter of which I’ve probably been on for some time.

Tel Aviv, Wednesday, 2^nd 2009 01:30 IDT.

Kira,

From what I see from the behaviour of the yield curve and thanks to the heroic behaviour of my troops.

I am at the present moment feeling pretty sure that The Crash on Wall Street will take place tomorrow at 5:10 PM IDT.

My Troops have been given the order to bring the Yield on the 30 Years US Treasury Bonds below 4.150% at the opening of the US financial Markets.

The New Forces of Evil are losing their hold on every single Market: Minerals, Bonds and Stocks.

From The Crash every single financial Market will be closed till they hear the Shoffar in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur: The Beginning.

For Security Precautions Read the Article:

The Crash Puzzle: 911 Crash,
Princess Diana’s Crash, and The Peace.

I am, Kira, yours sincerely,

Shalom P. Hamou