So Archie and I wandered out to Central Park a few Sundays ago (for a walk and a cigar respectively) and we found ourselves in the midst of a political rally. Or rather, in between two political rallies.

The first and larger group was an anti-war rally. The second was a smaller (yet louder) pro-war (and decidedly anti anti-war protester) rally.

A few notes from the rainy sidelines:

• The anti-war protest was much more organized — they reserved and paid to use a field in the park; they set up small knee high stage set up for speakers; they had numerous small but identical signs amongst the protesters.
• The pro-war protest was really just to protest the anti-war rally. They had more flags and were certainly louder, but were consistently told (and escorted) by the police to move away from the anti-war rally.
• A nice story from an old women on the anti-war side: She was on the subway heading to the protest and was sitting with her sign. It read, “Arrest Cheney” in white letters on a black background. A person on the subway read the sign and yelled out, “What about Bush?” to which she merely flipped the sign over which read, “Arrest Bush,” on the other side. The subway erupted in laughter and cheers.
• The pro-war protesters had lots of chants which we’re loud but mostly just strange:
  • “Casey was a hero, Cindy is a zero!” (bashing the mother of a dead soldier seems like a bad strategy if you’re pro-war)
  • “War freed the slaves, war saved the Jews, anti-war racists go home!” (comparing peace activists with racists also seems like a bad strategy — especially given the history of the Republican Party and the Southern Strategy)

It was about this time that the rhetoric, the nicotine and the rain became too much for us and we took off.

Is it any wonder that we’re divided?

What do you call a slutty, abrasive, drunk, overweight person?

This is the question my wife and I found ourselves with one evening recently.

After a night of bar fun — watching the crowd with the grateful glow of love — we were greeted by an untimely sight.

I came up with the term: Hippoho.

My wife topped me with the term: Hipposlutami.

Mean? Yes.

Going to hell? Yes.

True? Yes.

I’m not the one who got gussied up in a outfit too small for me, got hammered at a bar and paraded around making an ass of myself.

Nope not me.

Stupid humans don’t seem to understand that if I don’t get a solid 16 hours of sleep every day, I’m an absolute wreck.

How can I be expected to maintain my good looks with a measly 12 hours of sleep? Not to mention all the ball chasing.

It’s preposterous.

–Archer

Walking down the street yesterday and someone behind me kicks, steps or trips over Archie.

First Sign of Stupidity: Don’t bump into stuff in front of you.

Then this person weaves around me to my left (Archie was walking on my right) — big butt, tight jeans, big 80’s hair, loud pattern shirt, talking on the cell phone.

And that’s when I overheard her say into the phone:

“Oh my God! You’re, like, Paris Hilton with a ring!”

Second, Third and Fourth Signs of Stupidity: “OMG” “like” “Paris Hilton”

I responded by saying, rather loudly, “Stupid fucking whore,” but to no avail.

Oblivious wins again.

PS: Archie was not injured in the incident. He may be short, but he’s like a cement block.

Sometimes good design is the product of true inspiration.

Sometimes good design is a matter of trial and error.

I’ve recently become acquainted with a product that I think expresses both of these in a single package of form and function.

It looks absolutely beautiful and yet still manages to function with precision.

It’s beauty was instantly apparent when I first used it. It’s function slowly revealed itself over time as time after time it worked perfectly.

It’s a Tiffany’s crystal decanter.

From the first time I filled it with a fine single malt, the reflected light from the decrative cuts and the amber liquid even impressed my wife — although like many women, she expected nothing less from a Tiffany’s product.

And as I filled, the first part of the functionality became evident. The decanter holds exactly one entire 1.75ml bottle of booze.

The function brought to my mind a sense of history as I imagined scores of well-heeled people using the decanter. The rim of the decanter, along with cradling the stopper, serves to catch the last drop of liquid and gently guide it back into the decanter. Genius — and for those of us drinkers on a budget, practical.

That little detail, that little piece of functionality won me over completely. (Sipping fine scotch while admiring it and contemplating it’s functionality didn’t hurt either.)

And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the lovely young couple who gave us this fine Tiffany’s decanter as a wedding present, the eminent Dr. and Mrs. Robert Epstein. Thanks guys!

Seen and noted this morning: An old man wearing a ratty Mets t-shirt. Not unusual.

A white shirt reading, “Let’s Go Mets!” in orange across the top.

The Mets round logo centered beneath the text.

The interesting detail: A line of orange Hebrew text beneath the logo.

I have no idea what it said, but that’s what I call faith.

In the not too distant future, (such as today), there will be three kinds of homo sapiens: humans, zombies and cyborgs.

And for the convenience of you dear reader, I will define each of them now:

Human: Basic off the shelf model. Probably has never broken a bone. Less likely to have a tattoo. Any piercings are strictly limited to the ear lobes and singular in quantity.

Zombie: Basic model upgraded with new parts from a cadaver (i.e., the dead). Bones, organs, blood, whatever works better. Parts can be upgraded due to injury or sheer vanity.

Cyborg: Basic model upgraded with synthetic materials. Rods, pins, screws, patches, plates, anything manufactured. Again, parts can be upgraded due to injury or sheer vanity.

Now of course, overlap will occur. You will find cases of Zombie Cyborgs. And Cyborg Zombies.

Me? I’m a zombie. I walk with the dead. In some sense, I am the walking dead. That’s right, step off mofo or I’ll kill you for your dead ass parts. I’ve been trying to get early admission to the transplant list for a while now. No luck.

Seriously, become an organ donor. Someone you love may need them.

(Or it just may be me.)