The Beijing Olympics. Is the Visibility at Least the Length of a Ping Pong Table?

Canoeing. Table Tennis. Beach Volleyball. Handball. Synchronized Swimming.

You might think this is simply a list of the most exciting and competitive professional sports in the world.

You’d be wrong. It’s actually a list of the top Olympic sports – as judged by me. And I didn’t even include other fan favorites like Track ‘n Field, Swimming, or Log Rolling.

That’s why the Summer Olympics are all the rage right about now. There’s something for everyone. And with the Women’s Shooting 10-meter Air Rifle finals tomorrow, this international athletic extravaganza really starts out with a bang.

Sorry. That was a stupid pun – but unavoidable, I’m afraid. After all, the Olympics – whether summer or winter – is always a time of media super-saturation, inevitably loaded with bad puns and forced overly-nationalistic enthusiasm.

And this time around, we’ll have a new media obsession to deal with – Beijing’s infamous air pollution.

A clear summer day on a lovely and quaint Beijing back road.

It sounds real nasty, for sure. And I can’t imagine competing in the 10-kilometer Race Walk, or the Men’s Fencing – Individual Epee events in that particulate-permeated pea soup they call “the atmosphere” over in Beijing.

To me, the Earth’s atmosphere is mostly transparent. But that’s just what I’m used to in the West.

Just because we can see the buildings on either side of the street, doesn’t mean the air in New York is better or more healthful than in Beijing.

For example, the air in Beijing, due to its substantial thickness and mass, actually provides a good amount of calories and nutrition to those who breathe it. Go ahead and take a big gulp of Beijing air. You’ll immediately feel full and satisfied.

Mmmmm. Looks like lunch.

Now try the same thing in New York. The most significant sensation you’ll feel is a headache.

So even though many competitors are concerned about their health – and their performance - during these Olympic Games, I wouldn’t be too surprised to see the strength and speed athletes perform better than ever before.

As an ancient Chinese proverb posits, “Breathe the exhaust of a thousand coal-fired power plants. Inhale the fumes of 10,000 petroleum refineries. Consume the emissions of 5 million diesel engines. You will have the power to move mountains, and to run six consecutive sub-4 minute miles.”

On a particularly smoggy day, this athlete would barely be able to see the ball in her hand - thus leading to numerous double faults and unforced errors.

The point is, don’t knock it until you try it, Olympic athletes. You may do better than you think.

Now go bring home the gold for us couch potatoes, while we comfortably watch our televisions and breathe our mostly odorless, tasteless, colorless air back in the USA.

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80's Toys Revisited - Volume 1 - Manglord and Manglor Mountain

Anyone else remember this crazy shit?

In 1983, the Ideal Toy Company revolutionized the slime-based toy playset with the introduction of Manglord and Manglor Mountain – “Made of the Strangest Stuff on Earth.”

You can say that again.

At the same time, the company traumatized a generation of youngsters by producing a toy figure whose arms, legs, and head could be torn from its body and reattached anywhere a child could imagine.

That’s right. Manglord was the first – and last – toy whose head could be attached to his crotch. Or whose leg could be attached to his ass.

Brilliant.

Not only that, but this ultra-realistic action figure was sold with a plastic sarcophagus/holding cell filled with translucent and (presumably) non-toxic, non-teratogenic slime.

The slime kept Manglord young, or some shit like that.

Ignoring the mythology of Manglord’s origin, it was a pretty fucked up toy. My brother got it for Hanukkah one year, and we tore it limb from limb like it was going out of style.

As it turned out, it was already out of style by the time the box was opened. The toy was only on store shelves for a short time, and was generally considered a failure. Nowadays, you can only find it on sale through eBay. And apparently, only from Italy.

Still, Manglord and his Manglor mountain will haunt me until the day I die. I don’t even know if he was a hero or a villain. And I’m not even entirely sure whether Manglord was male – the figure was NOT anatomically correct, unfortunately.

If I had to guess, I’d say Manglord was born from the sulfurous lava of Mordor, or the raging fires of Hades.

I’m probably way off. I think the packaging says “Made in Thailand.”

Who needs absinthe or LSD, when you could probably smoke whatever the hell it is that Manglord's made from?

And yet many other questions remain:

First off, why create a toy like this?

What psychoses were present in the diseased mind of the toy’s original designer? Did he die of insanity? Did he receive a handsome bonus for creating this freakish plaything?

And perhaps most importantly, why did my parents buy it for my brother?

I’m still having nightmares 25 years later.

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Traveling From Brooklyn to China - 20 Minutes in my Mazda

I get most of my news and information from The New York Times, and as a result, I view the world through a liberally-tinted lens.

Ain't nothing wrong with that. And besides, along with news and opinion, I also discover great places to eat and drink in and around the city of New York – places that I wouldn’t have known about otherwise.

For example, this past week’s NYTimes article about authentic Chinese food in Flushing, Queens piqued my curiosity. So, Jaimi and I decided to venture forth from the generally non-Asian confines of DUMBO, Brooklyn for a taste of China.

Queens Chinatown is the real deal. If you knew zero English, and only how to speak Chinese, you’d get around perfectly fine. Also, if you’re a vegetarian (as Jaimi is) and you want to make sure you’re not getting any pork in that so-called "shrimp-vegetable taste" dumpling, you need some help.

So I enlisted the assistance of two fine, young, ethnically Chinese gentlemen from work – Dennis and Jimmy.

Dennis, as he put it, is about as Chinese as I am. But he still knows his way around the neighborhood rather well.

Dennis enjoys good food, Coca-Cola, and risking his life by wearing a Red Sox hat in New York.

Jimmy, on the other hand, is a flowing fountain of Chinese culinary, cultural, historical, and political knowledge. Not only that, but he grew up in Flushing. He’ll point you to the best place for bubble tea, or the best meat on a stick.

He could probably be the mayor of Chinatown if he had any interest in local politics.

Anyway, our first stop was the Flushing Mall. Not much of a shopping destination by any account – a Verizon stand, a wedding photo studio, and a plant shop seem to be the anchor stores. But the basement level food court is where we planned to spend our hard-earned Washingtons - and maybe a few Lincolns.

The food court consists of 8 or 10 vendors of varying menu sizes. Some specialize in just a few items, whereas others serve everything from soup, to dumplings, to steak, to chicken hearts on a stick.

Jimmy led us on a quick walkthrough, and as we gazed at the menus and open kitchens, he added historical context and sociopolitical commentary wherever appropriate.

It was as informative as a course at the University of Phoenix Online. And as you’ll soon see, even more delicious.

We decided to start with some traditional Taiwanese cuisine from the Ay-Chung stand. Ordering things that Jaimi could share with me (no land or air meat, but seafood is okay) we got a bowl of squid thick noodle soup, and a shrimp pancake.

First the soup. I found the menu’s designer to be disingenuous at worst, and ambiguous at best. The broth was indeed thick, but the noodles were not – they were the thin cellophane kind.

Squid thick noodle soup. Thick soup, yes. Noodles? Skinny as Kate Moss.

Still, the soup was steaming hot, savory, and filling. For $5.50 you get a giant-ass bowl of soup – enough for two people to share.

The shrimp pancake was even better – and its description wasn’t misleading at all. Loads of shrimp mixed with eggs and bok choy, formed into a pancake shape. This was topped with sauce, and a chewy, glutenous rice dough of some sort.

Forkful of savory shrimp pancake. Very tasty. Too slippery to use chopsticks - at least for this amateur.

Very tasty. Fo shizzle.

Jimmy had a pork dry noodle dish, that he described as "Chinese pork Sloppy Joe over fettucine."

Jimmy, master of all that is Chinese, enjoys his Sloppy Chinese Joe Noodles.

Indeed, it was tasty and a little sloppy.

Dennis ordered a hearty-looking pork chop platter. This guy can eat like a cowboy, and let's leave it at that.

A steaming plate of pork chop, noodles, and veggies.

Our next stop was the second level of the mall, to a little, out of the way Shandong dumpling shop. The crowd gathered around a counter, behind which stood four little ladies busily assembling dumplings by hand, and dropping them into pots of boiling water. Their kitchen looked like your grandmother's house - out of date all-white appliances and all - except with 4 industrial-sized sinks off to one side.

We ordered a plate of pork/shrimp/chive dumplings with a side of kimchi.

Dumpling glamour shot.

The flavor was fresh and savory. The dumplings were juicy and satisfying. The dipping sauce was like crack - I couldn't get enough, and it was only 50 cents for another serving.

I couldn't get enough of that sauce. They had to restrain me from eating the chopsticks.

Our after-lunch activities included bubble tea from the Ten Ren tea shop and meat on a stick from an old street vendor - honey green tea flavor, with fun, chewy, slightly sweet tapioca balls, and spicy beef, respectively. Although I probably would try spicy beef bubble tea if they offered it.

Thanks again to Dennis and Jimmy for steering us in all the right directions. We'll definitely be headed back to Flushing - maybe even on our own next time.

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The Future of the Alarm Clock

So, here’s an alarm clock. It has a digital display, shows you if it’s AM or PM, and runs on standard 120V AC current from your wall outlet.




Oh, and also it cooks bacon - thus the piggy shape, and the bacon tray. How clever.

That’s right. Instead of waking up to an eardrum-shattering electronic wail, you can wake up to a soft sizzling sound, and the smoky, savory smell of freshly cooked bacon.

To tell the truth, I think this thing would just evoke dreams involving bacon. Let’s say I dream about racing from the cops in a brand-new Porsche, maybe somewhere in Hawaii. Abe Lincoln rides shotgun, and 5 puppies are seated in the tiny rear seats.

I hammer the accelerator, and shift into 6th gear – we’re going 155, and the streetlights flash like strobes as we fly down the open road.

The police lights shrink to pinpoints in the rearview mirror. We’re home free.

Then, back in the real world, the bacon alarm goes off. But I don’t wake up. Instead, the gear shift turns into a strip of bacon. Lincoln eats it in one bite, gives a big shit-eating Lincoln grin, opens the passenger’s door and leaps out, landing a perfect commando roll – wearing his stovepipe hat the entire time. With no gearshift, the car’s practically useless, and the cops catch up.

They confiscate the puppies and impound the Porsche.

In other words, the wondrous dream quickly turned into a nightmare.

Maybe the smell of bacon is not the best sensory stimulation for your morning wake-up. I hate being jarred awake by a blaring radio, or the alarm-clock equivalent of an air raid siren.

But the bacon alarm, I fear, is simply too mild-mannered to actually wake you up without fail. Simply refer back to my dream turned to nightmare scenario above.

It got me to thinking.

What else could we use for a morning alarm? What other sounds, smells, or sensations would work well, but not scare you awake like the standard buzzing, beeping, screaming audible alarm – and could be easily integrated into a bedside alarm clock?

1) A gentle punch to the back, front, or side of the head: Clock with an integrated boxing glove/mechanical arm combo. Simple and elegant, it just gently wails away on you until you move.

2) The smell of a house fire: Should be enough to get you out of bed on all but the worst mornings. Clock could burn tiny bits of wood, paint, fiberglass insulation, and carpeting.

3) The sounds of a category 5 hurricane: Wind and rain can be soothing and actually sleep-inducing. But with 200 mph winds and debris flying everywhere, your subconscious will drag you out of dreamland.

4) The smell of gasoline: You’ll want to know who’s spilling the precious liquid, and whether you can scoop it up into an old milk carton before it evaporates. The clock would release a fine mist of gasoline over your bed. Don’t leave any candles burning before going to bed.

5) The sensation of having a fake mustache drawn on your face: Classic, old-school super-embarassing prank. At this point, we’ve adapted via evolution to avoid it. So any hint of permanent marker on upper lip will initiate the fight or flight response. Robotic arm (see #1) holds ink-free stylus, while electronic eye directs robot arm to appropriate area of face.

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Whole Foods - A Fantasy Food Land

Whole Foods - a true marvel of modern American society. The birthplace of the organic grocery movement, and the home of the sixty-dollar single grocery bag purchase.

I recently visited the SoHo store, at Houston and Bowery, for maybe the tenth time. But it was the first time that I was able to locate the Whole Foods beer store.

It’s an entire wing dedicated to so many of the finest beers in the world. The selection is dizzying. Hundreds upon hundreds of beers you’ve never heard if, and never tried before.

This is, like, 1% of the overall beer selection at Whole Foods. It's ricockulous.

I was like a kid in a beer store.

Plus, you can get yourself a growler, and fill it up with the fresh draft beer of your choice. They usually have 5 or 6 taps to choose from.

Sweet beer flowing from six sparkling, splendid fountains, amidst a microbrewed garden of luminously labeled brown bottles. Simply amazing.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then I assumed I had died and gone to heaven. Finally, when the total came to $38 - for a six-pack and a growler - I knew I was in New York City.

But still, I can’t get enough of this place. And not just for the beer, although that’s definitely a highlight.

The cheese. The prepared foods. The deli. The fruits and vegetables. The seafood. The incredible selection of fresh birds’ eggs - ostrich, quail, duck, pheasant, squirrel, etc.

The floor is cleaner than your face after a spa beauty treatment.

Quite simply, there’s no other place like it. And the advertisements don’t do it justice. They don’t convey the true Whole Foods message.

So here’s my attempt to rectify that advertising shortfall.

- The Mill’s Top 5 Whole Foods Slogans of 2008 -

Whole Foods: “The epitome of conspicuous consumption.”

Whole Foods: “Sticking it in the eye of second and third-world nations.”

“One pound kobe beef filet - $87.95. Ostrich egg and white truffles - $95.50. Breast of California Condor - $175.99. Being able to buy all of this overtly decadent food in one fabulous store – priceless.”

Whole Foods: “If you don’t know the definitions of “free-range,” “organic,” and “line-caught,” don’t even bother.”

Whole Foods: “We got more gourmet cheeses than the Bible’s got psalms.”

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Moving Out - The Final Chapter, Really

I’ve been moving out of my old apartment for 4 months now.

I’d love to say that this was by design, but unfortunately, I don’t have nearly that much foresight. I can hardly plan what I’m going to have for lunch today. Soup sounds good.

I had sublet my old bedroom when I moved to Brooklyn with Jaimi. My roommate at the time – a good friend from back in the hood; a true Philly-smooth ladies’ man, Dr. Dan – would stay behind, guard the fort, and make sure our place wasn’t trashed by the college co-ed subletter.

As it turned out, she was very well behaved. So that’s the end of that story, unfortunately.

The real story is the two-fisted shit storm we were expecting upon final preparation for move-out day. This included removing a heavily constructed “temporary” wall that brought our bedroom count up to two during our time in this apartment.

As we began to plan the demolition, it crossed our minds that it would have been better for Dr. Dan and The Mill to have slept in bunk beds rather than go the arguably illicit route of installing a semi-permanent temporary wall. If that had been the case, it would have been smooth sailing right about now. And it would have been kinda like sleepover camp every night.

Apparently, there are a few companies that will install (at a premium price) an easily removable partition called a “pressure wall” - using no hot glue, plaster, chicken wire, nails, screws, or peanut butter. We were pretty sure that our Craigslist-sourced handymen used at least 4 out of the 6 when they put up our wall.

Thankfully, we had some help tearing the thing down.

A friend from college and his wife (Rich and Liz) are both architects now. And not only do they love erecting buildings, but they also love ripping shit down. They recently bought and renovated an 1880’s-era house full of asbestos and shag carpeting – so they’re still in tear-down mode.

I had imagined taking a sledgehammer to the wall for a few hours and calling it a day. Of course, that was only a dream – as of this writing, I have yet to use a sledgehammer to destroy anything during my lifetime.

But we did get to use a power saw and a crowbar. So that was pretty cool.

And in the end, with the help of two destructive architects, we were able to get the wall out of there in less than 2 hours - with barely a trace. Sure, there was a bit of damage to the apartment walls where the “temporary” wall had been attached with foot-long nails. But nothing a little spackle couldn’t fix. Or a lot of spackle. A whole lot of spackle. After 60 years of tenants repairing various holes before moving out, I bet the entire apartment building is about 75% spackle.

We still needed to repaint the place, which Jaimi and I took care of yesterday – not much of a story there.

And finally, there’s cleanup and removal of a bunch of old shit. Not sure exactly what we’re going to do with all the unwanted – and half-broken – furniture, kitchenware, and electronics.

I wish the police allowed for bonfires in the middle of New York City.

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Why Do We Do What We Do When We Drive?

"Gaper Block"

"Rubbernecker"

"Gazing Gridlock"

"Bunch of Asshole Drivers Slowing Down to Stare at Someone Who Has a Flat Tire on the Side of the Road"

Whatever you call it, it’s one of the most frustratingly idiotic phenomena of the civilized world.

If you’ve ever been stuck in traffic, then with little doubt, you’ve experienced this frustration. Unless, of course, you’re the first dickhead to slow down and gawk at the slightly damaged fender of a car that was gently sideswiped by a U-Haul.

Why do so many drivers slow down to a crawl with the slightest flicker of police lights up ahead?

Is this an evolutionary thing? Is it natural, pre-programmed, unavoidable behavior?

If so, then I’ve lost a great deal of respect for the human race - and lost an even greater amount of hope for our future.

Sometimes, when I’m in the midst of one of these jams, I feel an overwhelming urge to grab each driver ahead of me and give them a vigorous shake - as if they were Magic 8-balls, and the question was “Why do you find an overheated station wagon so goddamn intriguing?”

"Reply hazy, try again."

This massive traffic jam was caused by a man who pulled over to let his dog urinate by the side of the road. Fascinating spectacle!!

Guess what jerks? Everyone’s fine. There’s not a drop of blood to be seen. So why must you slow down and gape at that overwhelmingly uninteresting scene on the side of the road?

It’s not as if the Swedish Bikini Team’s RV just slammed into a tanker truck full of tanning oil.

It’s not like you’re driving by the Yankees team bus, split in half, engulfed in flames, with Jeter and A-Rod trapped in the now exposed lavatory – frozen in a nude embrace.

And it’s not like the Highway Patrol just pulled over Bin Laden and they’ve let loose 3 K-9 units to chase him down along the shoulder.

No. Simply put, it’s raining and some asshole skidded into some poor idiot, and one of their bumpers is now dented. They’re both on their cell phones – one with his wife, and the other with his parole officer.

That’s it.

Now please maintain your normal highway speed so I can get home.

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Spiderman - Italian Style

May be offensive to some native Italians, but the 3 minute video is still safe for work, because it's all in Italian. Also, pretty funny even if you don't know a lick of Italian.

I think this has been around youtube for a while, but special thanks to David and Dan from PINK Vodka - the only super-premium vodka flawlessly infused with caffeine and guarana (and probably filtered about 1,000 times through diamond dust because it's so darn smooth) - for bringing Italian Spiderman into my life.

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Battlestar Galactica, aka, The Source of My Current Paranoia

Battlestar Galactica – the new one starring Edward James Olmos, and not the late 70’s Lorne Greene/Dirk Benedict vehicle – is pretty much my favorite show right now. I’ve been catching up on the first few seasons via Netflix, and have found myself thoroughly entranced.

It’s one of the only shows in history to feature all 5 of The Mill’s Pillars of Perfect Television: explosions, sex, politics, robots, and Greek mythology.

The writing and plotlines ain’t half bad either.

Still, I hesitate to call it the best show of all time. In fact, no matter what happens over the 4th and final season (we already know the show ends this year) I’ll never call it the best.

How can I be so sure?

Because Battlestar Galactica makes me paranoid.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the show’s basic premise, it goes something like this:

1) Another race of Humans on a far-off planet created the Cylons.
2) The Cylons started out as helpful robots, but then began to evolve on their own.
3) They started to fight back, further evolving until they look just like humans.
4) They also feel like humans – are essentially indistinguishable from us.
5) They launch a major attack, and are trying to wipe out the human race.
6) About 50,000 humans survive the attack and are now in search of Earth – the mythical home of a lost tribe of humans (us).
7) Or something like that.

Anyway, the main point is that the evil robot Cylons look just like us. They can easily infiltrate our society. Even they themselves don’t know they’re Cylons until activated by software buried deep within their Cylon brains.

So why does this bother me so damn much?

Well, what if Barack Obama is a Cylon?

Bear with me here.

Cylons are attractive, intelligent, and mysterious.

Sound familiar?

Cylon Family Tree?

Ever notice how Obama’s speeches have a sort of mechanical efficiency to them? How, compared to our current President, it’s as if his words have been machined from a solid piece of titanium? He’s too perfect. Especially when compared to Bush.

Ever suspect how Obama himself might be machined from a solid piece of titanium? How frackin’ frightening would that be? A killer robot President?

Further evidence: During one of Obama’s basketball playing photo-ops, when he dove for a loose ball and skinned his elbow, I could swear I spied the glint of metal where a tiny patch of flesh used to be. It was quickly bandaged by one of his minions.

Obama a Cylon? Ludicrous accusation? Only time will tell. But as we approach Election Day, at the very least, I’ve given you something to ponder.

As for McCain, I’m not too worried about him. He’s way too old-looking to be a Cylon. There’s just no way a highly-intelligent, advanced species of sentient robots would produce a McCain model.

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A Perfect Storm - Brooklyn, Soccer, Tacos, and Senator Chuck Schumer

I loves me some Latin American cuisine.

So when I heard that the best Latin American street food in all of New York City can be found at the Red Hook ballfields in Brooklyn, I had to taste for myself.

Apparently, this was their opening weekend for the summer – some New York City Dept. of Health red tape kept them from opening earlier.

This past Saturday was, like, hotter than Venus, so we waited until Sunday to head out to Red Hook. It was still supposed to be hot - the forecast called for molten lava to rain from the sky – but with somewhat lower humidity than Saturday.

After a two-hour “side trip” to the new Brooklyn Ikea megaplex, Jaimi and I found our way to the ballfields – a short jaunt from the Swedish furniture funhouse.

And when we arrived?

Pure, unadulterated Madness. Notice how I used a capital “M.”

Near the rear of the longest line in Latin American cuisine history.

Hundreds and hundreds of people waiting in line – in the summer heat – for a taste of Colombian, Peruvian, and Mexican delicacies. There were 6 food trucks, and when it seemed as though a line for one of these trucks couldn’t possibly get any longer than the last, the next one trumped it by 30 people.

After an hour or so, I had made it about 20 feet. I'm in the middle of this photo in the sunglasses, and I'm hungry enough to eat those glasses.

So we went to the one with the longest line of them all.

We waited.

And waited some more.

And then Senator Chuck Schumer showed up.

Schumer - ready to ruin everything.

Now, you’re probably assuming all these people were here to see Senator Schumer - the food trucks sort of happened to be there so they all got in line while waiting for Schumer to appear - that all anyone really wanted was to bask in the U.S. Senator’s ample liberal glow.

He was there to give a little speech and try some food – the bastard cut right to the head of our line for a photo-op and a taco - but no one took more than a moment to care. They were too focused on dreams of quesadillas, pupusas, and huaraches.

Senator Schumer using his prodigious political power to get a taco ahead of 300 of his hungriest constituents.

Eventually, after about 1.5 hours, our dream came true. We ordered huaraches from the Longest Line Ever Truck, and sat down at a picnic table to enjoy them.

At long last - the front of the line is within visual range!!

If you’re not familiar with an huarache, it’s like a massive, giant-ass taco – hand-made, soft corn tortilla loaded with steak, cheese, lettuce, salsa, sour cream, beans, and spicy sauce.

Jaimi had the vegetarian version, which consisted of the above, minus the mammal meat.

No longer starving, a little delirious, and still angry at Schumer, I enjoy my hard-earned huarache.

All in all, this was not the ideal way to spend a Sunday. We were dehydrated, tired, hungry, and combative before we were even halfway to the front of the line. Chuck Schumer’s barging ahead of everyone was like a jalapeno right in the eye – while at the same time, a soccer ball to the groin. I certainly could have done without one or the other.

This dog confided in me that he feared being eaten by the hungry, large man in the purple shirt. The man was subdued after drizzling hot sauce on the dog's leg.

Still. I’d go back. Legend has it that the Red Hook ballfields aren’t usually so insanely crowded. But combine opening weekend for the food stands, extra-hot weather (thousands were cooling off at the nearby public pool) and Schumer, and you’ve got yourself a living nightmare - but at least the food was pretty good.

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