Monthly Archives: October 2012

Mario Kart: Q & A

I found this link online of a little animation. It’s from Mario Kart. Specifically, it’s of a Koopa Trooper about to get hit by a blue shell, but right at the last second he uses a mushroom and barely escapes the detonation. I kept watching it over and over again. Which was actually easy, because it’s a gif, and it was only like five seconds long, so it just plays over and over and over again.

Q: What’s a blue shell?

A: Blue shells are really rare weapons in Mario Kart. They look like a blue turtle shell with spikes and wings coming out of it.

Q: What’s Mario Kart?

A: Mario Kart is a series of Nintendo games. All of the Nintendo characters drive around in cars and you … you know, you race and stuff. But it’s not just a racing game. I mean, it is, because the whole goal is to cross the finish line first. But there are little floating question mark boxes all around the courses that, when you crash into them, you get items, like shells or …

Q: You crash into the floating question marks? Isn’t crashing bad in racing games?

A: Yeah, but the boxes are translucent. And floating. So maybe crash wasn’t the best word. Or maybe it was. When you drive through one, the box crashes open. Well, it dissolves really, and then …

Q: So you can get these blue shells just by crashing into them? I thought you said they were really rare.

A: Well, you can get any shell really, blue, red, green. When you drive through a question mark box, a little box pops up on the screen and all of the items start blinking. After a second or two you are given an item somewhat randomly.

Q: I’m confused. Is this new box the same box as the question mark box that, how did you describe it, dissolved?

A: No, that was an actual box, like part of the course. These boxes that pop up aren’t part of anything, they’re just for the viewer to see, like to see what item you get. There are a lot of things on the screen that aren’t part of the course. There’s a speedometer. There’s a map, like a little map with little characters that show where you are on the …

Q: What’s the difference between a green shell and a blue shell?

A: The question should really be, “What’s the difference between a green shell and a red shell,” because, like I was trying to say, the blue shells are super rare. Well, they used to be even rarer when Mario Kart 64 came out sixteen years ago. Some of the newer games just give out blue shells to whoever happens to be in last place. Basically, a green shell fires in a linear direction, either straight ahead or behind. A red shell is more like a homing missile, knocking out whoever happens to be closest.

Q: Maybe I should play the game. You’re not doing a great job of describing it.

A: First of all, who hasn’t played Mario Kart? What are you Amish? Secondly, that was a perfectly descriptive description. Green shells, straight. Red shells, homing missiles.

Q: Yeah but you started off talking about blue shells, you still haven’t told me what they do, and I’m watching that little graphic and I don’t get why you think you’d write a whole blog post based off of a weird little video game joke.

A: All right, listen, when I allowed some Q & A, I expected maybe some actual questions. That wasn’t a question, it was just you stating that you don’t get it, and then making a very thinly veiled criticism about my whole writing process.

Q: Thinly veiled? What was thin about it? I think it was a bad decision for you to base a whole essay based on a blue shell.

A: It’s not just about the blue shell, I was trying to explain …

Q: How about a question? Why are you spending so much time on the Internet looking at stupid little video game cartoons? Shouldn’t you be writing more?

A: Yeah, well, I am writing, I was just blowing off some steam and I …

Q: And what are all of these open tabs on your browser? What’s a Super Mario wiki?

A: Listen, you know how the Internet is. One click leads to another. The Super Mario wiki is like Wikipedia but only dedicated to Mario. It’s like …

Q: You see what I mean? What’s this tab here? Who’s Tatanga?

A: Tatanga. He’s the bad guy from the Super Mario Land, you remember, that original Game Boy game?

Q: You know what? You lost me. I’m done.

A: Come on, you never played Game Boy? You don’t know what Mario Kart is? How did you get to this blog in the first place? Hello? Hello?

Making amends with Andre

Andre sent me a text last week saying how he felt bad about things had ended and that he wanted to meet up and maybe restart the friendship and let bygones be bygones. That son of a bitch. Now he’s going to go around to everyone and show off the text message and people will say stuff like, “Wow Andre, you’re a really big person, you know that?” And he’ll kind of just look at them, not saying anything out loud, maybe he’ll give a really fake shrug, a nonverbal response that says without saying it, “Yeah, I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

And I’m such an idiot. I just ignored the message without remembering that on the iPhone it shows up on the text message screen as saying, “delivered,” or, “read.” So he’s probably going around to everyone, and while he’s showing everyone that he’s trying to make amends, he’ll also be letting them know that I’m ignoring him, that I purposefully saw, read, and then didn’t respond to his message.

And let me tell you, this is all such bullshit. Everybody knows that I’m the bigger person. And whatever, if you don’t think I’m the biggest person, I mean, that’s a different argument. I think we can all agree that I’m definitely a bigger person than Andre. I never responded to his text because I knew he was full of it. I could just tell. I’d text something like, “Sure man, no hard feelings,” and then he would probably respond with something like, “So yeah, I’m thinking about hosting a picnic this Saturday and I was hoping you could swing by. Any chance you could be in charge of picking up some potato salad on the way there?”

Again, this might seem like a harmless request, but we have such a loaded history. One time I hosted my own picnic and Andre sabotaged it. And it worked. I’m still so pissed off about that picnic. It was going to be so much fun. I had to get rid of like ten friends that day. I just can’t let him get any closer.

But at the same time, the idea of him walking around telling people that I carry grudges, or that I’m standoffish, or that I should consider going to a therapist, that it’s done wonders for him, that he could refer me to his guy, that it doesn’t matter if I don’t have insurance, that the guy will work with me on my budget. Fucking Andre, I can’t, I just can’t give him that satisfaction.

But I couldn’t think of what to do or how to get out of this. A couple more days passed before I thought of the perfect solution. I texted Andre back from my number saying, “Sorry, wrong number.” And he texted back, “Rob?” and I wrote, “No man, wrong number.” And then he wrote back something like, “OK, sorry.” Fucking Andre. That guy always has to have the last word. Every single time. So I wrote back, “NP.” You know, for “no problem.” And then he wrote, “NP?” Jesus Christ, everybody knows what NP means, he just has to have the last word.

I went to the AT&T store and told them I wanted a whole new account, new number, everything. Right before the clerk activated the switch, I sent Andre one last text message, “No problem,” and then told the clerk “Now! Switch it!” and the clerk was like, “Well, I mean, it’s not instantaneous. But it should only take a second. Let’s see …”

Incompetent clerks. Only a second. It was like five minutes. And of course Andre texted back, “Oh, OK.” Why does he always have to respond? At what point are you just like, fine, I don’t care about having the last word. And he thinks he’s the bigger person? What kind of a bigger person just keeps texting, just for the sake of always responding last?

Anyway, I got my new phone number and waited a couple of days and then I sent Andre a text message, “Hey Andre. It’s been a while. Anyway, I just feel like I don’t like how we left things, and maybe we should just bury the hatchet and start fresh.” And he texted back, “Who is this?” I wrote, “It’s Rob G. Some guy stole my phone a while back and I had to get a new number.” And he wrote. “NP. That’s big of you. Yeah, apology accepted. We’re cool.”

I’m just like, thinking to myself, did I apologize? I didn’t apologize. I didn’t say sorry. And who is he to tell me that my text was big. Is he the dispenser of bigness? Like he’s bigger than me and can somehow award me with a little bit of his infinite supply of big? And what, now this guy’s going to go around and show everybody that text message and tell everyone that I apologized? What do I have to be sorry about? That manipulative jerk. It was an olive branch if anything. And besides, he messaged me first. I should have responded, “apology accepted.” That way I could have been the bigger person while at the same time putting him in his place. And what’s with that NP business? Did he just start using NP when I told him about from my other phone? Or did he somehow catch on to my plan? What a psycho. Seriously, like doesn’t this guy have anything better to do? And now what, we’re friends again? I can’t believe I got played like that. Fucking Andre.

President Obama: Worst President in History

President Obama is, in my opinion, the worst President in the history of the United States. Scratch that, in the history of the world. In the history of history. The President of Egypt is a better president. The President of the East Coast Star Trek Fan Club is a better president. Obviously, that President doesn’t have as many responsibilities, but the responsibilities that he does have, he executes flawlessly. And so even though it might not be that important of a presidency, I’d argue that he’s still the better President.

One time President Obama came to my hometown on a bus tour. I was so excited to maybe get a chance to meet the President, I waited inside this twenty-four hour diner for two whole days, because I knew that he’d be stopping by. It was kind of an ordeal. When I got there two days earlier, I asked for a table for two. I sat down and when the waiter came by, I said that somebody’s coming to join me and that I’d like to wait until he arrives.

I wasn’t lying. I was waiting for Obama. As soon as he walked in, I’d direct him to my table, because surely the place is going to be packed, standing room only. So I’d have the only open seat in the whole restaurant. He’d have to sit with me, right? So the waiter asked me if I’d like something to drink while I wait, and I said sure, I’ll have a glass of water.

And then the waiter said, “Listen, if you think you’re going to sit here for two days to wait for you-know-who, you’re out of your mind. It’s not going to happen.” So I ordered a Coke. That bought me maybe another fifteen minutes. When the waiter came back, insisting that I order something or leave, I asked him if they had free refills. He walked away and I assumed he went to get me another Coke.

But a manager came by and told me, “All right buddy, let’s go. Out.” So this wasn’t working out like I thought it would. I had to think, quick. So I said, “Finally, somebody to take my order. I’ve been waiting here for like half an hour. Can I get a cheeseburger? Deluxe? Waffle fries?” And the manager kind of turned around and gave that waiter a really nasty look and started to walk away. But I called out, “Wait a second!” and he stopped. I took a giant sip out of my Coke, all the way to the end, so the straw was making a really loud obnoxious slurping noise, and I held out the glass and shook the ice and said, “Can you have that waiter bring me another Coke?”

But again, this only bought me maybe an hour. I ate really slow. Like I cut up the waffle fries, cut them into individual shoestring sized fries, and then I asked for them to be reheated. Finally I had no choice but to finish everything. All of that stalling actually built up a pretty big appetite. And then the waiter came over with the check. And I said, “Wait a second, no dessert?” And I had to order a piece of pie. But I still had over a day and a half left until the President showed up.

Now the manager came back again and told me to take a hike. I told him that I wanted another cheeseburger. He looked at me and said, “OK buddy, you want to play it like that? Fine. You keep ordering, you get to stay.” I asked him if they took credit cards. He said cash only.

So finally the big moment came. The secret service guys entered first, did a huge sweep. I thought they were going to ask me a bunch of questions, but they kind of just looked here and there and then positioned themselves around the periphery of the restaurant. Next came the reporters, photographers, all lining up alongside the entrance. When their cameras started flashing, I knew this was it, the President.

And he took one step in and I knew something was wrong, because I saw his hand first, and it was white, like a white guy’s hand. So I immediately knew it wasn’t the President. But there was still a huge commotion, tons of people swarming, trying to get a closer look, and I couldn’t see the guy’s face.

The manager came back over and told me he needed my table. I explained to him the extra seat but this time he wouldn’t even listen, he just grabbed by the back of the neck and picked me up. He wasn’t taller than me, but he was a big guy, and he’d obviously done this before. So now I’m standing in the crowd with everyone else and the guy sits down and it’s definitely not the President. It’s the Vice-President. It’s Joe Biden. And he’s sitting with some secret service agent.

And I look around at the flyers on the wall and the banners draped across the ceiling and it says everywhere, “Welcome Mr. Vice-President!” How could I have missed that? I couldn’t have. Obama had to have known I was waiting there for him, to give him a piece of my mind, and so he must have made Biden go, and he must have made the owners change all of the signs and banners while I wasn’t looking.

Biden ordered an egg-salad sandwich and the secret service guy ordered a bacon cheeseburger. The secret service agent must have been paying more attention to the crowd than to the VP, because when he went to use the salt shaker, the cap fell off and his burger got covered in a whole pile of salt. Biden screamed out, “Ha! Classic Biden!” Everyone kind of laughed, and even the agent chuckled a little bit.

But then things got weird. When the agent called over the waiter to ask for a new burger, Biden got pissed, like furious, bright red faced. He stood up and started screaming at the agent, accusing him of not taking him seriously, about how he’s the Vice-President of the United States. He demanded that the agent eat that burger as is, with the salt and everything. Everybody in the diner got really quiet and finally the agent picked up his burger and took a big bite. You could tell just by the expression on this guy’s face that it must have been awful, just way too much salt.

And then Biden yelled out, “Ha! That’s the best part of the joke! It’s not just that the salt goes on the burger, but that he keeps eating it, like an idiot! Ha!” Then he pointed at the agent and screamed, “Laugh!” And the agent started a really forced laugh, and Biden continued, “Don’t stop eating! Laugh and eat at the same time! Now!” and the agent tried to do it as best as he could, but he must have gotten some food or salt down his windpipe and he started coughing. He reached for his glass of water but Biden grabbed it first and started chugging the whole thing. But Biden started laughing before he finished the whole glass and so he started choking a little himself. And the agent was still laughing like he was told to. So Biden stood up, furious, pointed at the agent and said, “Don’t you laugh at me! I’m the Vice-President of the United States of America! Who the hell do you think you are? You’re nobody!”

And I was just so tired at this point. I’d eaten like twelve burgers and hadn’t slept at all in two days. Just to see Obama. That coward. What a failure. A complete, abject failure. If there were a society of Worst Presidents in the History of All Presidencies, Obama would be President of that group. And all of the other worst Presidents would impeach him, they’d say, “Man, Obama is the worst President that this organization has ever had. Ever.”

We’re losing America everybody

Do you know how important this year is? Do you know what’s at stake? America’s at stake. We’re at risk of losing America. Like actually losing it. Sometimes I feel like it’s already been lost, like we’ve already lost America. But then I always wind up finding it right at the last second, usually somewhere I’ve already looked like five times. Sometimes you just stare at the same spot for hours and you can’t find it, but then all of the sudden it’s like right there, like how could you not be seeing it right away?

But how much longer can we be almost losing America? I feel like it’s getting harder and harder to find every time. And once America’s lost, I mean, that’s it. We’ll have to come up with something else. And everybody will be standing around, complaining, protesting, “We still have time to find America!” and I’ll be like, “It’s been ten years already since we lost America. We’re never going to find it again. We need something else.”

And someone’s going to come along years later and make an outrageous claim, like “I found it! I found America!” and everyone will know that this guy is full of shit, but people will be so desperate, having had lost America so long ago, they’ll be like, “Well, I kind of believe him. Maybe he did find America. I’m on his side now.”

And everyone else will be like, “Well, if you found America, why don’t you show us? Why don’t you show everybody where it is? We’ve all been looking for so long. Show us America! Show us America!” That last part will be chanting. Like every time people start questioning this guy, it’s always going to wind up attracting a huge crowd, and everybody will get so bent out of shape that, at first, everyone will just be screaming, so nobody will hear anything specifically, it’ll just be a lot of crowd noise. But then one person will start the chant, “Show us America!” and it’ll just snowball.

So then the person who claims to have found America will say something like, “Well I found America, but I don’t want to show you, not just anybody, not everybody, only those people who have already sided with me. I’m afraid that if I show you where America is, you’ll just lose it again, just like you all did the first time.

And then that’s guy’s followers will start their own angry crowd, and all of that explosive energy will eventually coalesce into its own chant, something like, “You lost America! You lost America!” emphasis on the “you.”

And obviously this won’t go over well with the other side. Because honestly, who really lost America? Nobody really remembers. Nobody can even really agree on the last time it was actually spotted. There will be some back and forth for a couple of months, maybe, the whole “Show us America” vs. “You lost America” chants going on in unison, in an alternating pattern. But then the first side, or was it the second side? The side not claiming to have found America in the first place, they’ll try a new strategy, the whole “Show us America” thing being slightly little too aggressive.

So somebody, maybe me, maybe somebody else, let’s just say me, for argument’s sake, just so I can write “me” instead of “maybe me, maybe somebody else.” So I’ll come up and I’ll claim that I’ve found America. Yup, I’ve found it. I have it. And that’ll mean that the other side never really found it at all. We can’t both have found it. One of us is lying and the other one is telling the truth.

That’s going to be the story anyway. The truth is, unfortunately, that neither of us will have found it. I’m telling you, once America is lost, once we lose America, well, I’m afraid that’s that. That’s why this year is so crucial. In all of my years of being around and having America, this is definitely the closest that I’ve ever felt like we are to actually losing America.

You all might think I’m crazy, but one day, depending on how this year turns out, we’re going to wake up and it’s going to be like, “Poof!” lost. America. We lost America. How are we even going to know? Where are we all going to be? My guess is Canada. Canada is unloseable. Canadians have been trying to lose Canada for generations but it’s always right there. Nobody’s ever said, “Canada’s at stake! We’re at risk of losing Canada!” Because if somebody actually said that, the sheer amount of laughter produced would cripple the entire country. Like people would die. And so there’s a strict “No Lost Canada” rule in Canada. It’s hard for us Americans to understand, seeing as how a potentially lost America is a very serious issue that we’re all constantly grappling with.

In closing, I’d like to make some remarks, about America. The power of right now is happening this very second. The losing of America is much closer than you think. Wait a second, I think it just happened. I think it’s gone. Yup. I don’t see it anywhere. Well never mind then, everybody go about your business, it’s too late. America has officially been … wait. Nope, false alarm. Wait. No, that’s. Wait a second. Yeah OK, I found it. That was close. I don’t know how much longer we can all keep this up. It’s an important year. America’s at stake everybody. I don’t want to be part of the generation that lost America. Do you? Is that what you’re all about? Do you want to lose America? Because I don’t. America.

I’m always down for a snack

The other day I was running an errand in a different part of the city and I passed by this tiny little deli, a really nondescript store, one of those countless little sandwich, soda, cigarette places littered across the city. I’d usually say it’s a bodega, but this definitely wasn’t a bodega, because, and I had to do a double take here, there was a picture of a falafel sandwich on the door. I’ve been really into falafel lately, and I find that all of the sudden it’s everywhere. Or maybe it’s not all of the sudden, maybe it’s just one of those things where as soon as I’m aware of something, I see it everywhere. Anyway, I’m always down for a snack, so I go inside.

I could tell the guy behind the counter was the owner just by the way he said hello. Like he really meant it, hello, welcome to my store, please spend money here. Hourly workers don’t really give a shit if you’re there or not. And most of the time at stores like this you’re only in to buy a drink or a scratch-off. If I were behind the counter I’d be so zoned out into space I wouldn’t have any reaction even if a gang of armed robbers stormed in. I’d just open the register and step aside.

So with the pleasantries out of the way, I asked for a falafel. The guy’s face lit up. “Falafel, eh?” I looked up at the board. Like any deli in the city, there were like a hundred things listed on the menu. Literally every single dish or sandwich that ever existed was written somewhere up there. And this place was maybe five by ten feet. Like really tiny.

He started scooping the falafel into balls while the oil heated up. He started questioning me, slowly.

“So, you like falafel?”

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Where do you live? Where do you buy your falafel?”

“I live in Queens. There’s a truck on Broadway that I go to.”

“How much do you pay for your falafel?”

“Three dollars for a pita sandwich, six for a platter with rice.”

And then things took a turn.

“Falafel and rice? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Really? Huh.”

“You eat your falafel with rice? I’ve never in my life eaten falafel with rice. Not even once.”

“Huh. Yeah they sell it with basmati rice and salad and …”

“Salad. Yes. But rice? I cannot even conceive of falafel and rice. It makes absolutely no sense to me.”

At this point I was getting a little uncomfortable. My falafel cart in Queens always has a line down the block. They have a trophy that they display, the Vendy, and they’ve won it every year for the past five years. I’m not sure how competitive this Vendy qualification process is, but whatever, I’m not an authority, and the trophy looks legit.

But this guy’s now staring at me, right in the eye, and he’s moving closer. Falafel and rice, never, really? Am I ordering this wrong? Have I been ordering this the wrong way all of this time? Do the guys at the falafel truck think the same thing about me when I order falafel and rice from them? This guy keeps asking the same question, over and over again, about falafel and rice, and I’m getting anxious, so I expertly change topics.

“You know, one time I tried to make falafel, but I didn’t use a food processor. I just tried to chop it up really finely and …”

“No. Always use food processor. I grind my falafel three times. No less than three times.”

OK, he took the bait. He was off of the falafel and rice business. He started talking about oil temperatures and how to test it by cooking a piece of onion first. He offered to sell me his raw falafel mix, and then I could make it at home, but I was really more concerned about this falafel sandwich, the one that I ordered, the one that was taking so long for him to even get in his deep fryer.

Meanwhile, whereas I was the only customer at first, now there were like five other people behind me, all with just bottles of water or soda, looking to get in and out, quick. One guy started complaining, could he just leave the dollar and go?

“No. I am making a falafel sandwich for this person.”

The guy on line looked at me and I just kind of smiled and shrugged. Sorry brah. Finally the owner finished my sandwich. Before he handed it over he kind of hesitated, looked me one more time in the eye and said, “Falafel and rice,” and then his eyes got real squinty, a real sinister kind of look flashed across his face, and he said, “I bet you anything this falafel truck is owned by an Egyptian.”

And I’m just like, what the hell? I have no idea who’s from what country. Basically every single nation that’s even close to the Mediterranean Sea claims falafel as their own dish. But again, I’m an expert at getting out of weird situations like this, so I match his suspicious glance and I say, “You know what? He’s definitely an Egyptian.” The owner nodded in approval. I had no idea who I was offending or insulting or even where this guy was from. I just wanted out.

He handed me my sandwich, charged me six bucks, definitely more than my Egyptian falafel back home, and he tells me, “Eat my falafel. If you like it, you’ll come back and eat more.” Not a thank you come again, this was more like a prophecy.

I left thinking, yeah right, no way pal. But I ripped open the foil and took a few bites. It was amazing. Delicious. Maybe I’d have to come back after all.