"The comments section on this question about "tattoo regret" make for interesting reading," writes Alex Balk at The Awl. He adds, "What does my tattoo say about me as a person? It says that I was in my teens during the nineties. And that is my tattoo story. I hope you enjoyed it. Perhaps you have one of your own."
- The Awl, "Your Tattoo and You"http://www.theawl.com/2010/02/your-tattoo-and-you
"If American Jews have a problem with Palin, [Commentary contributor Jennifer] Rubin is right that problem 1 is that they – we – doubt her intellectual capacity for the job. But that’s only the start of the list of problems."Sarah Palin speech before synagogue, New York City, January 8, 2011, partial text:
- FrumForum, David Frum, "Do Jews Hate Palin?"
“Rabbi Horowitz, Rabbi Blaustein, esteemed synagogue, ahh, delegates?... And my fellow citizens here in this magnificent shul, this house of prayer, which is kinda like a church only more... you know, ethnic... but not in a swarthy way… in Alaska we have the Chabad Lubavitch synagogue in Anchorage, been there many times for Shanna Tovah and whatnot, so I am truly honored to be here and honored to be considered a candidate for the nomination for President of the United States! Shabbat Slalom!
Oy, where to begin! How about with this: I accept the challenge of a tough fight in this election… against confident, dare I say… meshugganah opponents … and, I might add, at such a crucial hour for the fatherland.
It wasn't so long ago when all the "experts" in Washington and New York counted me out of the running because of my so-called “Jewish problem.” With their usual certitude, they told us that all was lost – that there was no hope for this candidate who said that she would rather lose an election than see her country lose a war.
Well, let me ask you this: does the yarmulke I’m wearing make me look like I have a “Jewish problem”? Join me in a tip of the kippot to the naysayers. Anyone? Tip of the kippah? No? I’ll just do a quick one for all of us.
You know, from the inside, no family ever seems typical, and that's how it is with us. Our family has the same ups and downs as Jewish families, the same challenges and the same joys. For example, you use what is called a "Menorah," a rudimentary fake candle-like decoration with plastic blue lights, to celebrate the high holy days of Channukkah, or as we prefer to call it, Christmas. We may be divided on some issues, but on the Santa issue, I am proud to say we are united! And I pledge to you that if we're elected, you will have a friend and advocate in the White House to help you keep your holy Santa days.
I've had the privilege of living most of my life in a small town where I was just your average hockey mom. There were not a lot of Jews, but my husband Todd is circumcised. Living in a small town, I know just the kind of people who grow our food and run our factories and fight our wars. They love their country in good times and bad. They may live in the Real America, but make no mistake: they have a need for a good dentist from time to time, an accountant at least once a year, and, occasionally, even a Hollywood agent. You know what they say, the difference between a hockey mom and a Hollywood agent: a Bat Mitzvah. Heh. I don't even know what that means.
And so, to the pundits, I say, look who’s kvetching now! I guess I am... thanks to my agent... on my Fox News television show, Sarah Palin is Kvetching.
Together, I’m proud to say that we are kicking their tukas…es. So let me say thank you all for your gelt and support, and may God bless America… and no one else!”
"It's one of the oldest celebrations in the world and has drawn visitors to Stonehenge for centuries. But 300 pagans were left red-faced yesterday after they arrived at the prehistoric monument a day early for the winter solstice."
- The Daily Mail, "Hundreds of Pagans Turn Up at Stonehenge for Winter Solstice... ON THE WRONG DAY!"
EXT. STONEHENGE, WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND.
A gray day, snow blankets the ground. The camera pans the majestic Stonehenge formation before settling on a large number of people in circle formation waiting expectantly. The crowd suddenly parts on the right as a man in a flowing white robe marches to the center of the circle with head held high. It is Arthur Pendragon (formerly John Rothwell).
ARTHUR PENDRAGON: Eko, Eko, Azarak! Eko, Eko, Zamilak! Eko, Eko, Cernunnos! Eko, Eko, Aradia!
The crowd cheers, Hurrahya!
ARTHUR PENDRAGON: Greeting my fellow pagans and welcome to the Winter Solstice celebration here at Stonehenge. I know many of you are here for handfasting ceremonies, fear not! I will service all. All in good time, each in good measure! But first, a few announcements.
(He unfolds a piece of paper and puts on reading glasses.)
Regarding last Thursday’s Blot ritual held in Melksham, I’m afraid we must repeat the ceremony.
(Crowd groans.)
I know. I know. The Blot is a very time consuming ritual for us all but Gothi Eric... sorry, not Eric… Gaffenum, Gothi Gaffenum... is quite new and it was my fault for scheduling The Blot during the Everton-Birmingham match. We’ll repeat The Blot on Monday a week hence.
Also, it has come to my attention through Gythia Cleternaum that there appears to be some, rather, ahem, some confusion among certain druids, whom I shall not name, concerning the Five Fold Kiss ritual. It should go without saying that the phallus is only one small part of the ritual, and I – stop it! This is serious! Be quiet! Be quiet! Right, then. The proper ritual goes, in order – feet, knees… phallus… just once, mind you… breasts and lips. And again, let me be absolutely clear on this: while you may digitally record the ceremony, you may not upload your recordings to Pornhub. Is this understood? Right, then. Very good.
Finally, an update on Gothi Ken. As many are aware, Ken was assaulted in Trowbridge last Tuesday by three German tourists while on his way to a Tool Blessing Ritual. A terrible attack. His druid robe was stolen and it took surgeons several hours to, ah, retrieve his pentacle, which I am afraid was badly damaged. I’ve visited with Ken and am pleased to report he’s doing much better. He can even move his thumbs. Naturally, Ken is so sorry to miss the Winter Solstice celebration and, were he able to speak, I am certain he would have communicated to me his ardent desire to be here with us all today.
Now, if Sherman will bring me my mead, we can begin.
*This post was adapted from a comment I originally posted on The Awl.
"Death Bear will take things from you that trigger painful memories and stow them away in his cave where they will remain forever allowing you to move on with your life."
Saturday, January 9th, 2010
and Sunday, January 10th, 2010
Serving all Brooklyn only
Text 347-742-2293 for an appointment
Free
- Club Animals
"At about 7:30 Friday morning, a barefoot man wearing a barrel with homemade signs on it and a Santa's hat threw red paint on the front of the “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign and black paint on the back of it, as FOX5 News was broadcasting live." The man, named Joe Pepitone, who was half-naked, other than the barrel of course, said he had lost his job and gambling winnings.
- Fox5Vegas, "Man Wearing Barrel Defaces 'Welcome to Vegas" Sign'"
We didn’t gamble much in the early days; most of the casinos had rules about wearing barrels at the gaming tables. If you was in a show, it was fine, but you couldn’t just walk into the Mirage or Caesar’s off the street wearing nothing but a barrel and expect to gamble. You just couldn’t. And those few times they did let you in, if you won, you’d have the problem of carrying your chips around. Case you haven’t noticed, barrels ain’t got pockets. You drop some chips, try to pick ‘em up, next thing you know you’re rolling ass over tea kettle down the middle of the strip and then you wake up in a fountain somewhere.
Anyway, things loosened up in the late '90s and when the barrel-wearing work started to dry up we really didn’t have no choice but to start gambling more. And waking up in fountains every now and then.
Around 2002 or maybe 2001, Taterknot came up with the barrel pouch. It was just a little pouch that sticks to your barrel, for your chips, you know. Well, it was like the floodgates opened on Niagara. You had barrel-wearers, most of us off Hee Haw and the hobo circuit, just rolling into casinos like they was giving out free shoes. Yeah, it was something.
But there ain’t no future in gambling. I think we wanted it so bad just ’cause we were denied it for so long and then, like anything else, you get it and find out things is different. Now, I wish I’d never seen a casino. But until they bring Hee Haw back I reckon I’ll be right here. Got nowhere else to go.”
- Barrel-Wearer Danny Ciccone, from “All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Roll: An Oral History of Barrel-Wearing in the United States”
*This post was adapted from a comment I originally posted on The Awl.
According to the Danville News, a group calling itself the Danville, VA Tea Party on December 17 hired a plane with a 100-foot banner that said, "OBAMA STOP DESTROYING OUR COUNTRY" in five-foot tall letters, to fly over Washington D.C. The message reportedly cost $1,350 dollars paid to New York-based Arnold Advertising.
EXT. CRYSTAL CITY, VA. MORNING. HYATT REGENCY HOTEL
INT. HOTEL ROOM
From a high floor overlooking the Potomac River, Danville, VA Tea Party Project Coordinator Susan Lee is with a small group of fellow Danville Tea Party members crowded around a window. She has a cell phone pressed to her ear. The group seems giddy with nervous anticipation.
TEABAGGER 1: Shhhh!!! There it is!
SUSAN: Where?
The group presses closer to the window, necks craning.
TEABAGGER 2: I see it too! There on the right!
A small plane appears high in the morning sky, a banner "OBAMA STOP DESTROYING OUR COUNTRY" in tow.
A loud cheer engulfs the room, high-fives and whoops of joy!
SUSAN (speaking into the phone): Oh God, Robert, it’s beautiful! Do you see it yet?
Susan raises her hand and waves it to quieten the teabaggers.
SUSAN (to group): He says he doesn’t see it but he’s looking. (Into the phone) Robert? Anything?
Silence.
SUSAN: Whooooop! He sees it! He sees it!
Another cheer erupts in the hotel room, more high-fives, raucous laughter.
SUSAN: (Into phone) What? (She waves her hand again) Shhhhhhh! (Into phone) What do you mean? Uh huh. Right. (She sags visibly, frowning) Uh huh.
TEABAGGER 1: Susan, what’s the matter?
SUSAN: (Still speaking into phone) Well, can’t they just fly back over?
TEABAGGER 1: Fly back over?
TEABAGGER 2: Susan.
TEABAGGER 3: What’s going on?
SUSAN: (Into phone) Well, I guess we didn’t think of that, did we? No. No. I understand. Thank you, Robert. Goodbye. (She shuts cell phone and tosses it onto the hotel room’s king size bed)
TEABAGGER 1: Susan?
SUSAN: Well, he wasn’t watching.
TEABAGGER 2: What do you mean?
SUSAN: (Testily) I mean, Carl, President Obama – who do you think I mean? — He wasn’t watching.
TEABAGGER 1: Goddamnit!
TEABAGGER 3: Let me get this straight.
TEABAGGER 1: Goddamnit!
TEABAGGER 3: You don’t think he saw the banner?
SUSAN: Robert was standing right across the street from the White House. No one came to the window. No one!
TEABAGGER 2: Not even Biden? Christ almighty.
TEABAGGER 1: Goddamnit!
TEABAGGER 3: What’re we gonna do?
SUSAN: (Looking in purse, she pulls out a wad of bills and starts counting) I have $43, no, $48 dollars and 25, 75, 81, 2, 3, 4 cents.
TEABAGGER 3: I'll get Arnold Advertising on the phone.
*This post was adapted from a comment I originally posted on The Awl.
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We'd been hanging out all night at Van Hoose's drinking beer and doing whiskey shots while some middle-aged country band played half-assed covers. Her name was Tammy. Including us and the band, might have been eight people in the place. This was 1993 or so. I had been kicked out of college earlier in the fall and gone back to Kentucky for work, mostly because I didn't want to hang around Annapolis going to college parties and explaining why I'd been kicked out of school. I found a job as a reporter at a local weekly newspaper called The Bourbon Times. I really liked telling my friends back at school I was a reporter for The Bourbon Times. I thought it sounded cool. Everyone has had bourbon. And everyone has had times. Put them together and that's where I worked. Anyway, so we're hanging out at Van Hoose's getting drunk and before long there's nothing left to do but head across the street to my apartment above the carpet store. I pretended to be interested in putting together some drinks. Tammy pretended to be interested in my books. "Damn, you sure do like to read," she said. Then we pretended to be interested in each other. "How long you lived in Paris?" I asked. "Twenty-four years," she said. "No, twenty-five," she quickly corrected herself. "I forgot. I turned twenty-five in June."
Tammy was way better than me in bed, more experienced, more confident. After I'd made a few clumsy efforts to control things she took over and just told me what to do. It was a relief. She directed me to take her from behind. That was when I realized she had a tattoo above her ass in a purplish script that read, simply, Henry, with a little swirl just below the name. Thank you, Van Hoose's, I thought. My first threesome. Here we are; just me, Tammy and Henry… doggystyle. Henry. Henry. Tammy was getting more energetic, more vocal. Maybe it's because she's not constantly being confronted by
Henry, I thought, who for me was beginning to take on a more dominating presence; faceless, yet real, maybe even more real than me. After all, I didn't have any tattoos. Tammy had Henry. Henry. Henry. Henry. Henry. Goddamn, I thought, I'm really giving it to Henry. Henry. Henry. Tammy was talking dirty now. A lot of "Oh yeah's" and "Harders." Soon, I was talking too. "That's right, gimme that Henry." I knew, even as it was happening, as I was saying this thing, that it was wrong, that it would have repercussions, negative ones, but I couldn't stop. "Gimme that Henry, baby," I said, louder. "Gimme that Henry. Work that Hen- "
She was furious, but said nothing as she got dressed. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't – "
"Asshole," she said evenly, looking at the floor, with far less violence in her voice than the way she had been throwing her clothes on. She left without looking at me once or saying another word.
Seventeen years later and I still don't have any tattoos. I'm not opposed to them, I've just never felt strongly enough about anything to want to get it permanently inked on my body. When I think about Tammy, I realize that's probably the saddest thing in the world that anyone could say about themselves; that they've never felt anything deep enough to want to possess it forever, even in some small, insignificant way. And if I was really a man, I'd go out tonight and get a tattoo on my arm or chest or somewhere that read, simply, Tammy, with a littler swirl just below the name.
***
Note: Joel Johnson imagined what this little story might be like as a piece on This American Life. (RT @joeljohnson What happens when you read The Awl comments like it's a TAL episode: http://www.sendspace.com/file/rvkgzb (Apologies, Kentucky-accented.)). Alternatively, you can download it here via Box.net.