I go through phases in life when I have trouble sleeping. I am in one of those right now. I fall asleep and then, an hour later I wake up with a start, and the rest of the night, I am wandering the apartment, like Jacob Marley’s ghost, shifting back-and-forth between the unconscious and the conscious. Which, if you follow me on Twitter, probably explains a whole lot.

Consequently, during the day, I am usually bone tired and filled to the brim with caffeine. Back when I was able to turn piles out of tootsie rolls and rows of corduroy blazers into an honest day’s work, my level of exhaustion wasn’t an issue. The part of my brain that needed to keep a high level of whimsy going actually seemed to work better when I was sleep-deprived. These days, that is no longer the case, as I have been working on something that takes every bit of my concentration and energy.  These days, I burn of every bit of rest my body has stored up like rocket fuel. By the time I get home at night, I am spent. Beyond spent, occasionally.

A few months ago, I went to a doctor that diagnosed me as having a mild case of sleep apnea, which means that, even on my best days, I wake up dozens of times a night. He told me to get this sleep contraption and that it would help me. In fact, he told me that it would, change my life “immeasurably for the better”. My best friend has one and he says as much.

Unfortunately, the apparatus resembles an elephant’s truck mated with a Stormtrooper helmet. I took one look and imagined my wife rolling over and  having to see the vision (and I use that term so very loosely) of my body with the head of a manatee Transformer and quickly told him, “No thanks.” And I haven’t really slept well since. (I know, I’m a real rocket scientist.)

The sad fact is, I think I would look silly wearing it. Beyond silly. Foolish even. Perhaps ridiculous. Bordering on ludicrous. And even during those wee small hours of the morning, I do care about such things.

(Fill in your punchline here while I close my eyes for a few minutes.)

On the 12^th day of Christmas, the dude from Williamsburg who used to walk my dog gave to me:

12  pair of Pointers with

11 parents paying

10  dollars credit on

9  Virgin cellphones

8   friends a’crying after

7  Pabst Blue Ribbons

6  drummers sexting to

5…fashion…interns

4  on the L train but

3 without money

2 much free time and

Only 1 friend with a real job

When I heard the news that some disaffected youth was arrested in a plot to detonate an explosive device at a tree lighting ceremony in Portland, I just shook my head.

Because here we are, another attempted attack in another enclave of clear-headed thinking, an increasing rarity in the United States. The teenager was hoping to deliver a message to the very people who are vainly trying to convince an increasingly radicalized U.S. population not to hate all Muslims simply because of the actions of a few.  I can’t imagine how such an action could make any less sense.

As someone who has spent a fair bit of time in Portland, I’ve always thought of the Rain City as the country’s absent-minded professor: really smart, sensitive and tolerant, yet always vainly searching for a pair of eyeglasses, even as they sit perched atop its head. Like, brainy-cool. Portlanders are the kinds of folks to whom great conversations begin with a great bottle of red and end with people actually falling asleep at the table.

I can’t say that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of culture that has emerged from the town. But I’ve always thought that it matters. And I’ve had faith that, amid all of the craziness that has happened over the past couple of years, that Portland would keep a level head, just like New York has.

And then something senseless happens and I hold my breath, because all it takes is one yahoo to firebomb a mosque and then who knows where it goes from there.

Someone once explained to me that terrorism isn’t the act itself, it’s the threat of the act. That what is happening now in airports, with the TSA getting to third base with travelers, is a terrorist victory in and of itself.

With logic failing, I go back to the beginning and wonder why this didn’t happen in one of those states that just elected xenophobes to the House or Senate. Perhaps, then, the true evil of the message would hit home: that no one is safe.

But then I remember: this is a misguided kid, not part of some grand conspiracy. He has probably been watching people continually chip away at the president—calling into question his patriotism, courage and his heart—and thought, at worst, he’d be some sort of folk hero.

It appears that this is what opposition means in this country: no longer is there room for civil discourse or debate. It’s who can yell the loudest and write the craziest, most unsubstantiated nonsense in the blogosphere that eventually makes it to the dinner table, which is a little more sparsely laid because of the economy. And then it goes back out through the keyboard to the world through chat rooms, blogs, Twitter and Facebook.

It’s a curious phenomenon, questioning a president’s patriotism. As if that’s helpful when we are fighting two wars. As if that message—the president doesn’t actually care about the soldiers—is one that brings comfort to our men and women fighting in some cold, hard places. How about this: keep your bars of soap and magazines and your candy, and stop telling the soldiers that the president doesn’t respect them. Because he does, and you should be ashamed of yourselves to spread such lies because you are angry.

While you’re at it, you should probably begin to take responsibility every time some kid sitting in his bedroom thinks that there are at least a few Americans who will be happy with his or her actions, designed to undermine the present administration. But I digress.

So how is this going to play out in Portland? How it already has, to some extent. Another cretin crawls out of a hole and tries to incite some kind of backlash. But then Portland is tamping that down and turning the other cheek, which is the prudent thing to do and sends a powerful message to potential copycats.

I’ve always been impressed by the grace of that city’s citizenry, in the face of a growing street kid problem and 600 rainy days a month. But today, as I am reading about how Portland is dealing with the aftermath of the attempted attack, I’m marveling at its resolve and I’m proud of its spine.

And New Yorkers know from spine.

So, I’m reading nytimes.com the other day—the web site of record, y’all—and I happened upon me a story that stopped me in my tracks. It was about a lizard-like creature from New Zealand called a tuatara, and how people have begun to look at them as some sort of “super-lizard” which is a bit of a turn of events since tuatara were thought to be nearly extinct, just a few short years ago. (Scientists are dumb, huh?) Here’s the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/23/science/23angier.html

And I thought, “That sounds very familiar…” Unable to leave well enough alone (ever) I went through my archives, from a couple of regular columns ago, and found a story I wrote on the very same creature, a sad, deranged little something. Here it is, unedited (which is my way of saying, “Here it is, I’m mental”). First is the actual AP report that I lifted, verbatim. And next is my take on the story. PS. The Bindi Irwin joke at the end, was much funnier and more topical two years ago, trust me.

8/12/2008

THE FOLLOWING IS A TRUE STORY:

WELLINGTON, NZ (AP) August 6th, 2008: Henry the tuatara, a lizard-like creature of prehistoric origin, had grown fat and lazy after arriving at Southland Museum in the remote South Island city of Invercargill in 1970, staff said. But Henry has now mated with Mildred, his 80-year-old companion, and 11 of her eggs are expected to hatch in six months. “He wasn’t interested in sex until a cancerous tumour was removed from his bottom,” curator Lindsay Hazley told AFP.
 “He bit the tail off his previous female companion twice. But since the operation his hormones have been raging.” 
Tuatara are found only in New Zealand and are the only existing members of the Order Sphenodontia, which was represented by many species during the age of the dinosaurs some 200 million years ago, according to a government website.
 All species apart from the tuatara declined and eventually became extinct about 60 million years ago. Henry, a 1.2 kilogram (2.6 pound), 600 mm (23 inch) long representative of his kind, is now enjoying the company of three females in his enclosure, with the next breeding season due in eight months.
 “He’s definitely up for it, he’s become a real Jack the Lad since he lost his virginity,” Hazley said.

THE FOLLOWING ISN’T A TRUE STORY

“Henry?”

“Yeah, who wants to know?”

“Umm…Henry, my name is Tony. I’m calling from New York and I…”

“Whu…huh? Let me ask you question. Tony, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so Terry: do you think I care that you are from New York?”

“Well…I guess not. I was just making conversation.”

“Whatever, sorry, I’m a little testy. That’s a sex joke that kills by the water bowl, let me tell you. But…see…it’s just that I’ve been trapped in this cage since ’70 and only get to read the papers sporadically. Is Crocodile Dundee still president? I heard that.”

“Where on Earth did you…?”

“Anyway, so I hear there are a lot of hot chicks in New York. Is that right, Terry?”

“It’s Tony, and yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“’Cause ever since these idiots that have been holding me took care of that tumor on my bottom, I’m feeling a little frisky. You catch my drift?”

“Ummm…kind of.”

“Kind of? Kind of what? Are you slow or something? Jesus, I’m a fucking lizard and I know what I’m talking about. My brain’s the size of a filbert and I can follow the narrative. Pay attention, Terry!

“So, I see this was a bad idea, Henry, and I’m gonna…”

“No no no no no, don’t go…So anyway…I’m just wondering how much trouble a 96-year old lizard could get into in New York.”

“I thought you were 111.”

“Look, in 1970 I was…so that makes me….oh whatever, dude. I’m old. But chicks dig older guys. That’s what my lady Mildred told me.”

“How’s her tail?”

“Her tail’s great. Watch yourself. I have sharp nails. So, Terry, are you gay?”

“It’s Tony. No, uh, I’m married.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“What? No, Henry, I’m not gay. But I have a lot of friends who are.”

“Whatever, Terry. I’m cool with all kinds of lifestyles. I just don’t want to cramp your style with a bunch of co-eds hanging around your-slash-our apartment. I’m what you would call an evolved tuatara. Ironic, right?”

“Okay…”

“Okay….Jesus, what’s wrong with you, man? I’m trying to see if you want some company over in New York. Just for a few weeks.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The zoo says….”

“WHO CARES WHAT THE ZOO SAYS?!?!?!?!? Do you want me to visit you or what? Look dude, I can sleep in your bathtub. I’m mad small. I have a pair of pants and everything, bro. I’m like, the insurance lizard, except for the adult diaper I need to wear until I the scab fully heals. It’s so no problem, but I’ll need some salve applied. Not a lot and only when you see some chafing. But chicks…love…lizards, trust me on that one. I got three right now. Unless, of course, you’re hiding something….”

“I don’t think so, Henry. As a matter of fact, this whole phone call was a bad idea. I’m hanging up now…”

“Calm down Terry, I’m playin’ with you, dog. I don’t even go both ways. That’s the kimodo dragon. I get with ladies and that’s it. And that pile of cotton they threw in here that one time. That was off-the-hook. Anyways, if I was going to travel it would be to Rome or Prague. I hear the ladies there are less…particular. Know what I mean, Ter’?”

“Actually, no I do not.”

“Well, we’re all pink on the side, you follow me? Terry?

”
“Look, Henry, I’m getting a little sveeved out and I  have to go. Best of luck to you and your soon-to-be family.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your kids. Mildred’s pregnant.”

“WHAT?!?!?!?!”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Oh man…they told me I was fixed. Those bastards! They lied to me! Mothereffer! The last thing I want is another kid.”

“You already have one? I thought you’ve been laying around since 1970.”

“Well, there was this one time, back in ’98. They had me on tour. It was late. There was tequila involved. I…I…”

“What Henry?”

“Well, would you do me a favor. Terry?”

“Tony.””

“Tony. Sorry. Would you please tell my daughter Bindi not to be a stranger.”

Yesterday, I was in a meeting with a dozen of the most casually intelligent folks that I’ve ever been around. And they were kicking around different writers’ names, big time people, to discuss which ones would fit which kinds of stories. I was mostly silent, as I was trying to absorb. Plus, I may have blurted, “Duh.” Or something to that effect.

In any case, I was going to throw Douglas Rushkoff’s name into the hat—not just because he’s an accomplished writer and smart guy, but far more personal reasons: because, plain and simple, I owe Douglas Rushkoff a lot.

It’s like this: about half way through high school I somehow came into the possession of his New York State driver’s license. Rushkoff’s five years older than me. Do the math. I honestly don’t remember where I got it exactly—I assumed he’d lost his wallet and someone found it—but I believe that I obtained it from a classmate’s older brother who was troubled rich kid. My town of Armonk was filled with such people.

I think I gave the guy $50 bucks for it—money I made bagging potting soil at Stone Age Potting Soil, owned by this crazy Swedish guy named Nils Stone. My two co-baggers were named Bone, because he smoked angel dust (naturally) and Fairy Gary, which I think probably gives an accurate depiction of why I needed the ID in the first place. I wanted liquor, man.

And then, for all intents and purposes, I became Douglas Rushkoff, to anyone who sold booze in my rough-and-tumble hamlet. I never abused the privilege. I wasn’t the idiot to bring it to a party, or to buy some for other people, like chicka chicka yeah McLovin.

I tried to think of how Doug would play it. Smooth and sophisticated. Very calculating He seemed like a smart guy. Laidback. Check out the guy’s Wikipedia page. He’s done right by himself.  And he seemed to do just fine without that ID for the two years I had it. Ironically, my wallet was stolen at a Metallica concert at L’Amour’s rock club in Brooklyn—anyone?— and his ID probably went to some other underager. That Doug was certainly a giver.

I read somewhere that Mr. Rushkoff teaches at NYU and The New School, both right around the corner from my apartment. I wonder if I ever saw him, would I say anything? Even keep up the good work, or maybe “thanks” for getting a dirt-bagging high school kid through a couple of boring years?

More than likely, I’d probably shake his hand, apologize for “borrowing” his identity, and buy him a half-gallon of Popov vodka. In a plastic bottle, of course.

I was at a bar tonight that doubles as a tattoo parlor during the day. I was there with a friend whose hair is about 600 times cooler than my entire being, I’m man enough to acknowledge.  She’s rad. We were gossiping about all kinds of stuff and then she went to dinner with a faux friend and I moseyed home, listening to my conversational Dutch tape, mostly because I find the translator’s voice funny. And I’m being totally serious.

Then I re-watched the Teen Mom reunion special—undoubtedly, I’ve experienced some misremembered head trauma that informs my viewing habits—all the while yelling at that smug creep Dr. Drew Pinsky; privately berating America’s worst mom, Amber; marveling at the young couple whose names I don’t care to remember (you know, the ones that gave their kid up); and wondering how many college students in Iowa have been trolling the local playgrounds looking for the comely Farrah. Judging from recent tabloid reports, at least one may have found her.

Some (normal, wholly adjusted people) would argue that the show is everything that is wrong, creepy and voyeuristic about American television. And yet? I cannot not watch it whenever I come happen across it (in my DVR.)

The good news is easy: I can’t imagine any youngster watching this and still having unprotected sex. Or holding hands. That Amber “Alert” Portwood looks like she could get pregnant sharing an order of nachos with a cricket. (If they’d had this show when I was in high school, I may have actually fulfilled my toddler-years’ desire to become a Catholic priest.)

Apparently, the show’s a huge hit, which is not surprising because I am probably twice its target age, at the very least, and I watch it. I think its popularity is more because people like to see the teen moms occasionally behaving nobly, rather than struggling. And there is some struggle, let me tell you.

The teen moms have no social lives, they themselves have largely atrocious parents, and they all either date losers or fat losers, except for the couple whose names I don’t remember. At least those two have each other to combat their smitten single parents—her mom and his dad—who have teamed up and morphed into some kind of disastrous, mecha-crummy parent.

It would probably be more voyeuristically pleasing if a viewer were led to believe that the teen moms deserved this lot in life; but that isn’t the case.  No one needs this much of a hitch in his or her development. The teen moms each get around $60 grand per season, which is a lot of money, and will surely buy their kid a few diapers and them a car, maybe. And perhaps, that twin lure may prove incentive enough for some other sad 16 year-old to say, “Screw it, I’m not getting any younger.”

But I would hope not. I really would hope not.

I love magazines, but I hate my local newsstand. To death.

Granted it has many of the foreign crazoid publications that I like to read, or even thumb through, after carefully wiping any residual grease from my fingers. And the kindly Pakistani owner never seems to mind when I ask him if he has the new issue of Karen (the deadpan English quarterly journal and not the snazzy New Zealand monthly fashion tome); or if he’d heard about whether my favorite food magazine from 1996, EatSoup, had made a return to publishing. He just nods, smiles, sells me Swallow and some stale Chewy SweetTarts, and returns to his reading. Sometimes, when I sneak a peek, I swear that his newspaper is upside down and he is just trying to avoid my gaze.

Yet I hate his establishment because while I am in there, bemoaning print’s death spiral, I witness the saddest human pilgrimage this side of  a Vikings playoff game or a Phish concert. It’s a parade of working-class people spending their paychecks to buy scratch-off tickets.

There are all kinds of economic indicators to show how woeful life has become: unemployment is through the roof, the real estate market in lodged somewhere in the pipes beneath the toilet, and actual monkeys were just elected to Congress with the promise to roll up their sleeves to get to work, even though we all know that monkeys don’t actually know how to work. Or have sleeves, for that matter.

To me, however, the surest sign of how far along we are on the road to Apocalypse is line of people, angling to spend their money on what amounts to ten seconds of hope—the time it takes for a coin to obliterate the silver dust that, nearly 100% of the time, obscures failure.

Hope is in such short supply in the world that, even a fleeting glimpse of it seems to be well worth the $5, $10 or even $20 transaction with my wordless Pakistani companion. And that’s why “All you need is $1 and a dream” is so effective. Because folks are so disillusioned that their savings will help keep them from a lifetime fast food dollar menus and bodega fruit punch, that they would rather burn it quickly and admire the flames.

These are the types of people that I never witness buying those tickets: men in suits and women with designer handbags. In other words, people who can afford to waste $20 a week. I don’t see doctors or lawyers or accountants or even writers spending their money on them. They know better how stacked the deck is.

The irony of the state lottery, too, is that its stated goal is to raise money for the less fortunate—the very people that are spending the money to keep it profitable. And it is precisely this the kind of self-financed delusion that I find so tragic and distasteful, but that I am sure the political monkeys are A-OK with.

You know what? Scratch that. I’ll wager that even the monkeys think the tickets are a sucker’s move.

I can hear them on the street outside my apartment, on the night before Halloween. This year, it happens to be a Saturday, a stroke of good fortune not lost on the revelers. No one wants to be the hung-over guy at work on Monday, with glitter in his beard. Trust me on this.

Earlier today, we went out to BK for some pumpkin carving at our friends’ garden apartment. It was a lot of fun; there was Natasha, an adorable child in a duck costume, and lots of snacks and cider. I could’ve moved in, but their TV was only 37 inches and there was a life-size painting of a naked man in the den.

We were careful to leave before 8pm, when the bridges would be amok with traffic; cars filled with slutty nurses, half-hearted Lady Gagas and an odd vampire or football player, were slowly making their way into the city. The plan was clear: descend upon Tony’s neighborhood, and encamp. Yell and scream and parade around like roofied lunatics. Have actual street parties, by blasting car stereos, and dancing. And singing, loudly. Live it up, kids. You deserve it.

The last time I “dressed up” for Halloween was a dozen years ago and under extreme protest. I went to a party as my friend Jay. It was Jay’s party. Coincidentally, he has not had a Halloween party since, or at least one that I know about.

I’ve been to Halloween parties since—which I feel uncomfortable at, by the way—and have always hung by their outskirts, stealthily draining the candy corn bowls, one after another. I feel silly talking to someone in costume, and consider myself a total 100% dick for not wearing one. Some of my very favorite people dress up for Halloween. And I love it when  I see kids rocking the Spider-Man or Dora the Explorer look.

I wish I had that spirit where I felt comfortable dressing for the express purpose of eliciting attention. But I don’t. And when you don’t, you also have no desire to spend quality time with people that do. For the enjoyment of both parties.

The sad truth is, I can barely find actual clothing that fits me. Most of the fashion companies that I want to purchase shirts, pants and jackets from, don’t make them in my size. Thom Browne would stroke out, if he saw photo of me in a suit. And so I know that having a costume built to my specifications could keep a team of Vietnamese children busy for two weeks. And I never seem to make time for the fitting. Plus, they always seem to be busy.

The last party I went to was four years ago at an apartment in the West Village. Attendees included a pretty blue Martian, a fake Agyness Deyn, and a hired palm reader, stationed dramatically in the bedroom by the coat pile. Dressed in a pretty convincing get-up herself, she took one look at me and said, “Hey, you’re miserable.”

All I could think to say in response was, “Remarkable.” And then I grabbed my coat from the bed and headed out.

Hey there.

This letter has been a long time coming. You’re a real little bastard. You know that, right? That’s first off. 
I see you’re still shilling for Pillsbury. Congratulations—don’t they make cigarettes, too, now? Wow, that’s awesome! Nice to see that, in only 50 years, you’ve graduated from dinner rolls to cinnamon rolls. You’re a real American success story. Your parents must be so proud. 
 I’m joking, jackass. Relax.

I never liked you, even when I was a normal, well-adjusted young lad, growing up in a pro-pastry household. Your bullshit outfit and your ridiculous behavior, prancing around stovetops, peeking out from behind mixing bowls, joking and laughing, like anyone gives a crap what a freak like you thinks. No one is laughing with you, Doughboy— they are laughing at you. You’re a stupid rubber mascot created by some aged hacks in a nearly irrelevant advertising agency in Cleveland, Ohio. You’re probably the 50th most recognizable product mascot, somewhere between that deformed Hamburger Helper hand and that dancing tampon, whose brand name escapes me.

Did you ever think this is how it would turn out, way back in the ’50s when you helped “usher in the modern range top technology” (or so you said in that ludicrous autobiography)? That you’d be pigeonholed as a little, past-his-prime spokescreep, hanging on in the way that old weather guy does, on The Today Show because no one wants to say that it’s time to go? A relic from when America was desperate enough for entertainment that they actually paid attention to commercials? Did you? Well, me neither. I didn’t think I could get that lucky.

I feel like you’ve snowed those Pillsbury people, so that they don’t even see the real you. They’re beyond even questioning your position within the company. And so, you just show up every year at their convention in San Diego, work the room, tell a few blue jokes and head back to Matamoros, waiting for the next chance to dance for the Pillsbury people like a trained monkey. Such a star, you are.

On another note, I hear you got a kid in Missouri that you don’t take care of. Oh yeah, I have people who can find out stuff. Like your gambling debts. And that “thing” you got into with Verne Troyer’s sister. Did you think I was lying about how I retired the Hawaiian Punch guy? That makes me mad. I should just tell everybody about that time in ‘04, at that children’s hospital in Pittsburgh. How you were you were caught…psych. I won’t spill those beans just yet.

Make you a deal: you retire this year, just disappear from the face of those overrated (by the way) Pillsbury products and we won’t need to have this conversation again. And people will just assume that you knew when it was time to walk away. Like Brett Favre.

Hope this letter finds you well, otherwise. Oh, and one more thing: Who’s laughing now?
 Heeheehee….

With love,

Tony

Like you, and you and you and even you, I’m occasionally blue, more so in 2010 than in past years. But, for me, it’s not so bad: a navy blue, as opposed to midnight blue. An informal poll of family and friends indicate the same general color scheme, give or take a hue. Even GG, who is usually either a fiery red or an Hermés orange, has flashed a little cyan in recent weeks.

Summer’s sun and heat masked the cause for a time, but as the weather has turned colder and, lately, fouler, blue’s been pushing its way to the forefront in the great Pantone book of emotions. Conditions are perfect. The country is staggered and many of us are having trouble seeing past it, or around it, much like if you were at the movies and I came and sat in front of you.

I’m probably too immersed in the stuff that needs work, rather than the stuff that works great. Lately, my dreams involve me yelling at people or trying to catch fish without a rod, but I’ve also been walking around lately with a fake grin on my face, lest I bump into someone I know. What’s sad is that I often run into people who are doing the exact same thing. I can tell.

I’m girding myself for next Tuesday’s election results, which will be accompanied by bloated gloating from the Fox gang, and so I need to be able to manage my disappointment. I feel like Obama really never got a chance before he was knee-capped and probably, it is not an altogether undeserved development.

While Republicans are incompetent managers for anyone other than their wealthy patrons, the Democrats combine an Ivy League arrogance with an almost willful naivety about how to govern effectively. When their desire to try new approaches meets with the slightest resistance, they knuckle and play Republican ball. Only poorly. And then it gets hung around their necks and they get booted. And we get looted. Circle of life.

But today was crisp and sunny in New York City, a real gem of a day. And, as I sat there smoking a cigar and watching my neighbor Bella attempt to reenact some playgroup subterfuge that she’d noticed but not reported, I decided that whatever happens, I’ll still be tucked into my little corner of the world, where most everyone I know has the same desire: We just want our friends and families to get good, fulfilling jobs, and for everyone to live happily…if not ever after, then at least through the Holidays.

The mere thought of that makes me blush.