The second best advice I ever got was from a woman who was more than twice my age and, no, it wasn’t to get off of her lawn. Her name was Helen Thayer and we met and had lunch one day in Reno, Nevada, under the shadow of some of the skankiest looking casinos this side of Macau. It was 1990 or 1991. I cannot remember which one.

At the time, I was writing about her for an outdoor magazine. Why? Because she was the first women to trek or ski to the North Pole solo. Meaning no guides, no nothing. Just Helen, at 50, her skis and a bunch of outdoorsy crap—as you can tell I was extraordinarily well-suited for the gig—with no resupplying at the halfway point. None of that pussy stuff. Her cargo also included memories of her deceased husband and a true grit, one that I cannot even fathom, to fuel her.

But anyway, we had a great discussion and one of the reasons I like older folks is because they have lived it. They know life’s potholes, the speedbumps, the detours, etc. So I always ask them for words to live by. And they usually oblige.

Not to digress, but one time, about ten years ago, GG and I were on Martha’s Vineyard for a wedding. And we were at a pre-wedding barbecue at the bride’s parents in that crazy gingerbread house area Oak Bluffs. (The nuttiest-looking place in the U.S., by the way.)

There was an old guy sitting on a folding chair in the corner, nursing a beer. So I sit down and we talk a bit about whatever I was up to and he began to tell me the story about how he landed on Normandy, and was part of the first platoon heading up the hill. Seriously heavy shit. Ninety percent of the soldiers in his platoon died.

He finished his beer, I chugged mine and got us two more. Three hours later we were both drunk and he was crying a little bit (I probably was too, given that I am actually choking up remembering it) and we finished talking about war and peace, honor and sacrifice, friendship and loss. And the gist of what he told me was to protect and care for my friends and family and let everything else sort itself out. It was the best advice I had ever gotten. That has taken on a deeper resonance this past week.

Anyway, back to my story about the estimable Ms. Thayer. So after we finished eating (of course) I asked her if she had any pieces of advice she cared to share.

And good old Helen Thayer gave me two:

1) Never stand when you can sit.

2) Always use a bathroom when one is available.

While those two may seem inconsequential to you, and they did to me at the time, you would be surprised how often they come in handy during the process of caring for my friends and family. I mean, truly.

Good evening to you.

What does it say about me? That is what I want to know. I’ll tell you the story and you can judge for yourself. Okay, so,  I was getting a coffee earlier today, and outside of a place on 11th & Broadway, these white guys were walking out as I was walking in. They weren’t exactly fashion models, but it’s not like they looked like a couple of crackheads either.

Then one of them bumped into the door frame and, lo and behold, a crack pipe tumbled out of his pocket onto the sidewalk. Au contraire, I thought, only in English. He was unaware that this had happened, probably because he was so fucking fucked up, so whacked out of his damn mind, that he didn’t know where he was. And by that I mean, which planet.

So I said, “Excuse me, sir, but I think you dropped your crack pipe.” Now, I had headphones on so I was unable to hear just how crazy this sounded. But it just popped out of me.

He stopped, looking at me all bug-eyed, and I begin to notice signs of a six-day binge: dirt in the creases of his clothing, bad skin, licking his lips like they were Angelina Jolie’s. A friend that looked like PigPen from Charlie Brown. It was gross. And he said, “Hey man, thank you!” Then he picked it up and walked away.

And at that moment I loved NYC even more than I had previously thought possible.

Now, I am sitting here wondering what that says about me. As to why I was so happy, I’ve narrowed it down to three things: 1) I like that I live in a city where white guys still smoke crack; 2) I like that he thought to thank me; and 3) I like that I reflexively addressed him as “sir” even though he was probably filthier than Sarah Silverman’s mouth during drunken sex. Manners are important to me,  too, Mr. Crackhead.

I guess it says about me that I am a well-mannered enabler to a person’s pitiable self-degradation through crack and mochachinos, as long as they are, in turn, polite. And that I’m really a very warped individual.

There is certainly that.

I used to have a blog on a website that almost no one went to. Even me. And I didn’t even want to write it. But it was content and hey, all content is good content, especially in the discriminating world of the web. If I could’ve vomited into my hard drive and made that vomit travel magically to my blog, both readers would’ve been happy. That is so not an exaggeration. Sadly.

I’d also spent so much time badmouthing the very concept, yet when I finally began in earnest—it was on a flight to Beijing—I quickly got hooked. For what purpose it was supposed to serve, it certainly didn’t. I began trying to loosely make it what I thought it needed to be—you know, the new Nike, wah wah wah—but that got so boring that I began to write about personal stuff and whatever. Some of the entries were funny and some of them angry, but it was very therapeutic to write regardless.

Then I changed to another blog, Ruhrizzle, and stared at my navel for a few more months before I decided that I was sick of that one, too. But a longtime reader told me that she was disappointed that I was killing it and that this blog “wasn’t the same thing” because it wasn’t as personal. Another friend told me that I should write more about my crazy, fantastic wife who should have her own TV show. I’ve resisted because, like you people fucking care. Then again, it’s better than regurgitating (awww…)  another “my hatred ‘of pop culture” shtick that even I am tired of.

So here’s a primer: GG’s a fashionista who is constantly asking me questions about the length of her jeans, the proliferation of her jewelry and the opinion that strangers hold of her walking down the street. This usually depends upon what she is wearing. Sometimes it’s, “If you saw me walking down the street, would you think to yourself, ‘look at that fat girl’?” Or you could substitute the word “tramp?” or “mommy?” The question is always ridiculous and the answer is always ‘no’ but I think that she secretly just like to ask.

We’ve been married for nearly twelve years and she’s such a character. Every day she says or does something that make me go “hmmmm.” Like yesterday, for example, when she said she didn’t want to see that Holocaust movie “Defiance” because “everyone dresses the same and it bums me out.”

Indeed they do, GG. Indeed they do.

I’ll be back tomorrow. Brace yourselves.

The other day on Facebook, someone asked what was the greatest live album ever. The usual suspects were represented: Nirvana Unplugged; Cheap Trick’s Budokon; Kiss Alive, etc. and so forth.

My two cents? Mayhem’s brutal, unrelenting masterpiece, “Live in Leipzig.” What makes that album so good? For one, it featured original vocalist Dead, considered by some to be the greatest black metal singer of all time, before he blew his head off. And it also featured Euronymous, the guitar player, and one of the father of Norwegian black metal, before he was stabbed to death (as opposed to Dead) by Varg Virkines, the lead singer of Burzum. For those of you keeping score, Varg also went by the stage name of Count Grishnakh.

And in their free time, these guys and their friends went around burning hundreds of Norway’s churches or encouraging it. (The book “Lords Of Chaos” brilliantly details the whole campaign to rid Norway of, you know, God. Within its pages, you will find out the differences between heathens, pagans, odinists and Satanists. You’re welcome.)

It’s all starting to make sense, isn’t it?

Lest you think these guys were poseurs, Euronymous also wore a necklace made out of Dead’s bones up until the moment that he joined his friend. And the drummer, Hellhammer, was the most aptly named musician I have ever come across. Not exactly livin’ on a prayer up there in Norway.

But, anyway, it was a small gig and they were just about to establish their reps on the scene. From the opening roar to the penultimate scream, the album cements their rep as the house band for hell. Truly scary shit.

And you can hear people in the crowd yelling all sorts of evil stuff. The musicianship was suspect, but you don’t go to see a black metal band to hear Eddie Van Halen. (At least I don’t.) You go there to hear what ultimately sounds like Eddie Van Halen being burned at the stake. You can youtube them. “Mayhem” and “Leipzig” should get you somewhere.

The thing is, there is no video of the gig. Just a few blurry photographs and a soundboard quality audio recording. I think that also adds to the overall creepiness; that you can hear these other worldly vocals and oddly tuned guitars and not see the devil sounds being made by actual humans.

So, as you probably have guessed, I occasionally listen to black metal. But, for the life of me, I don’t know why. The music is dark and indecipherable and it is oftentimes played by gentlemen wearing what they call “corpse paint”. It’s actually kind of goofy and amateurish.  But there is such a level of commitment with some of these guys, especially the ones who buy into the “spawn of Satan” stuff.

When I was younger there was a band called Venom, whose album “At War With Satan” is considered that genre’s “Born to Run” (I just say this shit because it’s funny), but those guys were just playing around. So too, are the newer more industrial black metal bands, like Wolves in the Throne Room, who call themselves “feminists” whatever that means in this context. Because I would imagine that the life of a black metaller is a lonely existence as the list of women who’d have sex with a man dressed like a corpse would be a very small, select group.

What’s funny is that I’m also the guy who takes people to see, Jenny Lewis. Or M.Ward. Stuff like that. You know who I would take to see Mayhem? The pope. Or perhaps Jack Bauer.

That’s pretty much it.

With the exception of hard candy, everything in life, including life itself, has an expiration date. It’s true. I’ve always had friends weave in and out of my life. I have a few lifers, but that list is tough to inventory, because sometimes I put people into that category and they unexpectedly leave it under their own power, But whatever, I am no different than you. I hope.

That’s just the way it has gone. Sometimes friendships burn white hot for a few years, and then some sort of dissipate, not disappear, just backburner themselves; and others completely die off. But like in the movies, sometimes they come back.

I had a couple of very good friends who I kind of lost touch with more than a few years ago (one was totally my fault, the other I am hoping I can pin on both of us.) But anyway, I was thick as thieves with these two. And then I wasn’t. Sometimes life gets in the way, and that is what happened in these cases.

But recently I have reconnected with them both and am back to enjoying catching up. And it is all so much easier now.

In the intervening years, I have made some friendships that will last a lifetime and others that I have begun to fear won’t last the spring. It’s a weird world we are living in. Either way, I am ready.

Because with these two friends back in place, I am playing with house money at this point.

It is fitting that I had just watched the end of movie remake called 10,000 BC , before I happened upon The Jerry Springer Show. Immediately I thought, as any smug New Yorker is wont to think, “Hey, I wonder what America is up to these days?

You know what they are up to? “Angry Women Attack!” I felt as if I had stepped into a time traveling machine and transported back eight years. Back before the moron took the oath of office and we, as a country could afford to be distracted by such triviality.

Jerry never got the message, apparently. It’s pointless to even discuss what transpired beyond saying that I think we have found another job for Sarah Palin. It was depressing and sad. Apparently, there are several rocks in the countryside missing the people who’d been hiding beneath them (trust me, that was funny.)

The myths they propagate are very linear. Men are either pussies or horn dogs. Women have it worse: whores or shrews. Sometimes both.

And they were going berserkers whenever a mutual hair-pull fest broke out. I watched it for a few and went out for a walk in the snow, trying to cleanse my mind’s palate.
When I returned home, Jerry was giving something called, “Final Thought” where he made a statement that I had to rewind twice to make sense of. It was about how “free love never is, free that is.” Thanks, Jerry. What would we do without your keen insight into affairs of the heart? I’ll keep that in mind next time you run an episode of “Wake Up! You’re Going to Slut Bootcamp!”

It’s moments like that when I am so happy not to have kids. Because how on earth do you explain to your son or daughter that these people matter too? And that people shouldn’t judge others without knowing them? Like my wife tells me all the time, “you can’t, that’s how.”

I guess I should mind my own damn business—we’ve already discussed how hard that is for me—and let some folks feel better about their own crappy-ish lives by watching this trainwreck of humanity. If you can believe that. There are actually people lower on the emotional food chain than these sad souls filetting their reputations for $250 plus a hotel room. You know who one of them is?

Jerry Springer. That’s who.

I keep inventory of my bad habits, like one would a list of groceries, and occasionally I try to throw one over the side like a drunken cruise ship vacationer. But, oftentimes, I am unable to. Unlike a drunken cruise ship vacationer. I guess it is the way I am wired.

My latest one is that I am over-protective of friends who fall into two main categories: a) female and b) younger than me. I try not to be, But I am. I worry about them getting home after dinners, parties or going out with guys I am not familiar with (or much worse, straight).

I always tell them that they can crash at our place if there is an emergency and I mean it. On New Year’s Eve, I texted one friend and told her to call me if she needed help. Twice. It’s, like, nuts. (Ironically, it turned out that she may have. And I was in no condition myself to help anyone unless you needed me to fall on someone or rowlf on them. Ruh-rizzle.)

I don’t mean it disrespectfully; because most of the women I am worrying about are small but fierce. (The littlest one may even be lethal.) And I grew up in a household of women who could certainly handle their business. So it’s not that. I mean, my guy friends could be slow dancing with John Wayne Gacy, and I wouldn’t care.

So what is it, then? I’m sure your therapist can tell you in about two minutes flat. Whatever it is, I am sure it is oppressive to them and also a drag to me because it makes me feel old. Like I’m their father. I miss the old days, when I was just the crazy uncle.

But anyway, I will work on it ladies, I promise. All I ask is one small favor. Just three little letters.

G.P.S.

So joking there….

So, there I was at the gym, lifting massive amounts of free weights. Okay, it was a recumbent bike, but I had to climb onto it, which constitutes lifting massive weight. Regardless, the video for a song by TV on the Radio comes on. It is called “Dancing Choose.” I have heard it a million times and liked it pretty much every time. Very catchy.

But anyway, I never really listened to the lyrics of the song. That is, until today, when I heard a word being censored. Then I ran home and googled the line and here it is:

“You need three bumps before you cut.”

Can you guess which word they censored? Wrong. I said “cut” too. It’s actually “bumps.” Now, I don’t really need to tell such an adult audience what a “bump” is, but then again, this is a site for Top .001 % of smart people. (And Top 60% in looks.)

But do the American children, who are the ones being protected by these freaks, really know what a bump is? Your answer is correct on that one: they do now. Because they heard it and they googled it like me. And now they will be probably be looking to do some bumps before their junior high graduation.

Thanks, TV on the Radio. You smug, artsy Brooklyn a-holes.

Just kidding. (Not really.) Anyway, no big sermon. It’s just so stupid that we are still drawing kids’ attention to things that they otherwise wouldn’t learn until their mid-20s in some shady house in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, back before the neighborhood was, you know, nice and everything.

Or maybe that was just me. Literally.

Is is just me or are people having giant babies these days? I just saw a photograph of Jessica Alba in a magazine and her baby Honor looked like she was not a child at all; but that Alba had a giant conjoined twin protruding from her chest. Honor was so big the infant could’ve been carrying her mother in a Baby Bjorn. And she is not alone.

A lot of these new kids are all hopped up on supplements and such so that they can perform at peak conditions just after birth. I saw, on the news the other day, a nine-month old reading a book. His parents began to read to him just after conception (no, not literally) and the baby, who looked like a dwarf Steve Wilkos, was reading along to some children’s book.

For every genetically altered child like Shiloh and Suri that arrive (I am guessing) perfectly formed, there is a [redacted at request of family member], or those J-Lo twins, who could use a little extra time in the oven. (I know, I’m going to hell.)

Not sure what possesses women to treat their wombs like petri dishes, but apparently something. Perhaps it’s the fact that kids are getting prescreened for preschool and the struggle to keep up causes people to do crazy things. Or maybe they just like big effing babies. There is that reason to consider.

Or, if you prefer, not to consider…

‘Night.

I received a $100 Amazon gift card at Christmas and couldn’t wait to spend it. Couldn’t wait to spend it. Like it was burning a hole in my pocket and had begun to singe my flesh. To show you where my mind is at, I purchased four things: 2 bottles of Molton-Brown Rose Granite Handwash ($25/per); one Minnesota Vikings t-shirt ($17.95) and three pounds of Maynard’s Wine Gums ($18.95) The fact that I was unable to come in under the $100 limit and managed to buy…nothing of any consequence, was besides the point. Okay, that’s not entirely true. That was probably the point.

But the purchase also illustrated one of my very few problems: if I like something I am obsessive to the point where I will overdue it and wind up hating it. (Except for that handsoap. There is no way to ever get sick of that.)

Perhaps you skimmed over it but I told you that I purchased three pounds of a candy so bad for you (and yet so remarkably delicious) that they named it after a liquor hobby practiced by adults. Maynards Wine Gums.

A homerun of a foodstuff, certainly. But three pounds? Last time I had ten pieces I dislodged my jaw and it hurt for a week. Pretend I didn’t just say that out loud. Three pounds of candy, which I will grudglingly share with one (certainly, KV, stop staring at me) maybe two people. And I am an adult.

So just to recap, I bought a fifty bucks of handsoap, because I compulsively wash my hands, a Vikings t-shirt, because even though I will tell you that they are losers, I am always waiting for them to win, and three pounds of sugar. From England.

I never realized that a $100 giftcard could turn out to depress me so much.