Like a prayer

When my mother lost her glasses in the house a few years ago, my brothers and I started fretting. "I'm worried about Mom," my youngest brother said. "I know," I said, "she keeps forgetting things, and now this."

A day later Mom called to tell me that St. Anthony had answered her prayers. She'd found her glasses. She had looked on her dresser and they weren't there, and then she prayed to St. Anthony, and suddenly they turned up on her dresser. Was there a patron saint of practical jokes, who took them from her until she forced St. Anthony to intercede? Guess I'll never know.

I've been skeptical of the faithful's devotion to dead people, but lately I'm having a conversion of sorts. I'm convinced that my late grandmother, who died 20 years ago and to whom I was particularly close, watches over me. It's not anything I can articulate, but I feel her presence often. My cousin Denise, who is slightly younger than I, feels the same way.

Now with the sale of our home once again on shaky ground, I'm considering going to the local botanica this weekend (there are at least three withing walking distance of my house) to buy a statue of St. Joseph. After all, Santería and Catholicism are basically variations on the same theme. I haven't partaken of religious rituals in quite some time, and I was pleasantly surprised a few weeks ago when I attended my nephew's First Holy Communion and survived without being struck by a lightning bolt from on high. Despite not having been to Mass in about 20 years, I could still, in my head, recite the entire liturgy, down to the Nicene Creed.

People pray to St. Joseph to sell their homes. It seems there's a ritual to this. You take a statue of St. Joseph, bury it upside down in your front yard, pray for nine days, do the Hokey Pokey, and turn yourself around--that's what it's all about. Your home sells, and then you dig up the statue and take it with you to the next home. A colleague claims that she had a house on the market in Florida for a year, and when she buried St. Joseph in her yard and said her prayers, the house not only sold but closed within a month. That's quite a testimonial. Problem is, I don't have a front yard, just a tree pit in front of the building.

I just hope it's not St. Joseph's busy season. But if he is on vacation or not taking any more calls, I can always try to summon St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations.

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Hair as a weapon

From an NBC News site:

"They all pose a clear and present dander to the United States and should be considered armed and dangerous," Ashcroft said, adding that if Americans recognize any of them they should contact local authorities.

I will be on the lookout for suspicious-looking people resembling Hagar the Horrible, Ted Nugent, Roseanne Roseanna Danna, and Cousin Itt.

The scary thing is I can't tell if it's a typo or if Ashcroft actually said that.

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Got to be real

I'm a little bit confused...and a little bit apprehensive.

When Survivor, the first popular reality show (or "unscripted drama," as series creator Mark Burnett prefers to call it), aired, I pooh-poohed it as the Giselle of television. After the show's success, and that of Big Brother, and then Fear Factor, and my avoidance of all of them, I thought I had found the perfect excuse to wean myself from network television for good--except for Friends and Everybody Loves Raymond.

Last year, some friends wanted to watch The Restaurant, which chronicled the opening of a Rocco DiSpirito eatery in Manhattan. I went along. I didn't buy the dramatics of the wait staff. Afterwards, I felt guilt pangs, similar to those I feel after downing a jar of Nutella in a single sitting. I hated it, and it justified my contempt for the unscripted drama.

But last year I happened to catch the third or fourth episode of Donald Trump's The Apprentice. I thought it would be awful, but I was wrong. I got hooked on it, which is exactly what I had been afraid of all along. For the rest of the season I was riveted to the set, hoping to see Omarosa get hit by a bus or Sam get taken away in a straitjacket. It was thrilling all the way to the end. But it was something I could relate to: the people on that show were like people I knew in real life.

When American Idol debuted two years ago, I sneered. I peeked at it a few times, but I could never get past Clay Aiken's hair, or Simon Cowell's sadistic remarks, or Paula Abdul's...well, Paula Abdul. I was vaguely familiar with the contestants, but frankly, I didn't want to know. It seemed so cheesy, especially the song selections.

When I visit the men's room, or "library," as many men call it, I usually bring reading material along. Someone usually leaves the Life section of USA Today in the stall, and I can't resist reading it. It's either that or edit the graffiti etched into the walls, such as changing "I Love Pussy" to "I Love Debussy." Every time I picked up USA Today, people speculated about who was going to win this year's American Idol. Everyone kept buzzing about Fantasia Barrino, a 19-year-old from High Point, NC. Fury erupted when the audience put Fantasia at the bottom of the heap several weeks ago, prompting a call for voting reform as if Idol were a banana republic. Aside from the obvious flaw of allowing the same person to vote a limitless number of times, Idol encouraged people of all stripes, from the tone-deaf to the taste-free, to dial in for their favorite, maybe just because she wore the right shoes.

I resisted. I turned to the channel, then looked away. But then, a few weeks before the season finale, I looked again. And there was Fantasia, singing "The Greatest Love Of All." Not my favorite song, especially as performed by crackhead Whitney Houston. But as Fantasia was belting out those notes, I felt it. Her delivery was flawless. Her connection to the audience was genuine. She wasn't just singing--she was performing. I felt the tears running down my cheeks. Oh my God! I got sucked in!

I watched the two other final contestants, Hawaiian Jasmin Trias, singing the morose "All By Myself" with a big smile (clueless that the song is about loneliness), and Diana DeGarmo, channeling Taylor Dayne rather than Melissa Manchester in her rendition of "Don't Cry Out Loud." It should have been called "Don't Sing So Loud."

But Fantasia busted out and kicked ass in her oh-no-she-didn't rendition of "Chain of Fools." How could she compete with Aretha? Well, she didn't. She did her own thing. The others were too committed to the notes. Fantasia owned me.

Last week Hawaiians must not have hit redial fast enough, as their pet, Jasmine, was voted off. That left Fantasia and Diana as the final two. So, of course, last night I watched again, as Fantasia sublimely performed "All My Life," "Summertime," and "I Believe," the last with a gospel choir. Without irony, it was like watching a singer of the caliber of Aretha, Diana Ross, or Shirley Bassey.

So, last night I did something I have never done. The minute the phone lines opened, I hit redial over and over again until I heard Fantasia's voice: "Thanks for voting for me." I got through once. My colleague Clarice managed to hit 35 times.

I'm a little scared now, especially with new seasons of The Apprentice and American Idol looming. And two new boxing reality shows will be airing in the next year. Now that Friends is over, I may have to submit to the cult of the unscripted drama...or try to find a way to make my life into one.

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Overheard in an elevator: "We all have to find our own glitch in life."

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Color me boring

I am a fashion fuddy-duddy. I had this thought at Diesel at Woodbury Common yesterday with my friends Eric and Sheri. Eric wanted me to try on a pair of boot-cut, ultrahip Diesel jeans, and I just wasn't getting it. The guy who was helping us, Mike, looked extra hot in his Diesel jeans, with his biceps bulging and tattoos creeping out from under his shirt sleeves. Mike was probably 27. When I tried the jeans on, I did not look 27; I looked like a 41-year-old who's trying too hard to be 27. I've always worn Levi 501s--you know, ever since I got the toaster oven. I just didn't understand the already faded, hanging-off-the-hips look. I felt like my parents. I felt so old. Eric tried to convince me that they looked great on me, but I thought he was trying to project his own unique style of fashion sense on me.

I tend to be conservative in my dress. Until I met Luis, I had never entertained the thought of wearing black above the waist. I was a bible-thumping, true believer in the fashion gospel of Ms. Carole Jackson, author of Color For Men. Ms. Jackson believes that each person's hair color, skin tone, and eye color determine which color palettes look best. Every man is a Winter, Spring, Summer, or Autumn. With my auburn hair (hair in the singular, that is), paperwhite skin, and cornflower blue eyes, I qualify as an Autumn. Autumns can generally wear anything with blue undertones in the olive, brown, and tan families, plus periwinkle for extra gay measure. So, in the late 1980s, tired of looking jaundiced and haggard from all the beige and teal I was wearing, I threw out all my parachute pants and Wham! clothes without looking back and embarked on a new fashion life. I took my friend Beverly shopping with me, advising her to tell me whenever I held something up that made my face "pop out." For years, my wardrobe had nothing but olive, brown, and khaki. Never blue, or black, or turquoise, or even red. I took Ms. Jackson very seriously. No white, no yellow, no orange. Purple was OK, but only if it had a blue base.

After Luis and I went through the honeymoon period, about 6 months, he blurted out that I had, well, tragic fashion sense. I was somewhat hurt, since I was a card-carrying Autumn and worshipped in the sartorial cult of Ms. Jackson. I told him that I couldn't wear black, and he laughed. Ms. Jackson said that only Winters could successfully pull off black. I scoffed at the black wool sweater he bought me, but when I tried it on, I had to admit it looked good on me. What was happening to my topsy-turvy fashion world?

Turns out it wasn't so much the colors Luis had a problem with as my choice of styles. I admit it, I looked a little more like my gay sisters than my gay brothers. I wore flannel, batik, hemp--more than any gay man should have. I also never spent a lot of money on clothes. When we took our first trip to Paris together, Luis bought me a shirt from Zara. It was a V-neck, navy blue, with white flecks woven throughout, and made of an extremely unnatural fiber, like viscose or rayon or lycra. Until then, I had worn natural fibers only--cotton, wool, or linen. The only blends I'd ever had were made from coffee. I told Luis I would look horrible--just horrible--in it. I mean, I was in good shape, but lycra? I tried it on. I looked in the mirror. Not only did the color bring out my eyes, it accentuated my arms and pecs and made me look thinner. I was stunned. I felt sexy. It was something I would never have chosen for myself. That's when I realized that while Ms. Jackson's color principles may be sound, her style was very Richard Gere in American Gigolo.

I've since learned what looks good on me and what I'm comfortable wearing. I've also learned that now that I know the rules, I know how to bend them. I'm a reformed, rather than an orthodox, Autumn. I do take chances every now and then, but when I tried on those Diesel jeans today, I prayed for strength to Ms. Jackson, and she did not answer.

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I

I, Pizzicato Five

watashinokoto anatawa mada gokaishiteiru kamoshirenaiwane watashinokoto anatawa ima iyanaonnadatte omotterundesho souyo watashiwa detaramede kimagurede namaikide wagamamade zeitakude kidoriyade usotsukide ayafuyade iikagen dakedowatashiwa yurusarechau sorewa watashiga kawaiikara dakedowatashiwa aisareteru sorewa watashiga kawaiikara

Still, you may misunderstand me, I guess Now, you think that I am a nasty bit of goods, I guess Yes, I am unreliable, capricious, cheeky, willful, luxurious, affected, lying, dubious, and random. but, I am allowed because I am cute. but, I am allowed because I am cute.

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From Little Kieran's Journal (age 14)

Sat., May 21, 1977
Sunny, Hot

Dear Diary,

We got another dog, and is she cute!! We named her Buffy. I really don't care for that name, but nevertheless she's so playful. Getting back, I didn't go to the [church] bazaar last night, but I'm going tonight. I should have fun. I'm going to get a haircut soon. I haven't got much more to say, so "Bye."

Favorite songs: "Da Doo Ron Ron," "Dreams," and "Couldn't Get It Right."

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Bubblin' crude

Most people welcome a respite from their daily routine. Sometimes I do too, but not when I'm trapped at home with a relentless sinus infection. At work the hours fly, and there never seem to be enough of them to get everything done. At home, the seconds tick tauntingly as the muckslingers (sort of a cross between muckrakers and mudslingers) get ready to air. You know what I mean. As early as 7:00 a.m. the day starts with any of the "Hey, it's a great day!" shows (Today, Good Morning America) before it's time to haul out the donut holes and Kool-Aid to watch the endless parade of human debris floating by.

Who doesn't want to start out the day at 9:00 with Montel counseling three rape victims--or with Jerry refereeing fat, toothless hillbilly women fighting over a skinny, dickless hillbilly man? At 10:00 there's a tough choice: follow the criminal "justice" system with Divorce Court, Texas Justice, and Judge Hatchett until 11:30, or watch Maury for an hour at 10:00 as he attempts to determine the paternity of a skinny, toothless hillbilly girl. At least then I have something to do from 11:00 to noon as Jerry referees a fight between a hairy hillbilly and the potbellied father-in-law she slept with. I think the Maury/Jerry combo is the way to go--what would I do from 11:30 to noon? That's wasted time!

Celebrity Justice comes right about noon, followed by Access Hollywood at 12:30. Then it's on to Ricki Lake at 1:00, hopefully to see hot calendar men strut their stuff (though it could just as easily be hot, sexy, octagenarian makeovers). At 2:00 it's a toss-up between another Montel episode and Judge Mathis. Judge Mathis is endearing when scolding a bitter landlord who threatened the life of his wisecracking tenant, and Montel's listening skills are put to the test when family members of drug addicts show home videos of the addicts while they are under the influence. That one's a no-brainer.

Things get really sticky at 3:00 when Dr. Phil, the tough-talking psychologist with a heart of gold, and The People's Court air back to back until 5:00. Hmmm, condescending therapy or petty, bickering neighbors fighting over $2.99? Tough choice. At least the 1-2-3-4 punch of Judge Joe Brown (3:00 and 3:30) and Judge Judy (4:00 and 4:30) can be viewed like bite-size Reese's pieces, with the possibility of a bathroom break or a snack. And at 4:00 I could always opt for Oprah, which is a welcome change before the depressing 5:00 news.

Tomorrow, even if I am in a coma, I plan to go to work. (Next, on Montel, a coma victim tells the inspirational story of how he dragged himself to work while still in a coma....)

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Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

If someone offered you an attractive sum of cash to leave your home in order to build a shiny new sports arena right next door, would you take it and leave? What if the alternative was to stay and face a construction zone for the next 10 years, with your street closed, no light or air, jackhammers blasting, dust and chemicals blowing your way, and traffic piling up at your door? What if the amount of money you were being offered would help you pay off your mortgage and buy something better? What if, when the dust settled, the arena attracted tens of thousands more people, clogging subways and streets around your house? How about if the amount you were offered was in part to buy your silence? What would you do if the neighborhood you bought into several years ago fundamentally changed because of the arena? What if the amount offered was given to you only if you signed a contract agreeing to publicly support the project? What if the person offering the money decided in the end that buying you out just wasn't worth it and you had to stay?

Just some things I've been thinking about lately.

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I read the news today, oh boy!

The same media hacks that plied us with sympathy when the announcement came that our building could be razed to make way for the Nets arena are now, like Hedda Hopper, hot to squeeze only the freshest, juiciest, ripest gossip out of us. Witness the front page headline of yesterday's Daily News: "Bonanza!" which talks about the buyout of units at the Atlantic Art building down the street. The reporters seem to have gone to the Mickey Spillane School of Journalism.

An excerpt from the article reads (my commments are in brackets):

Real estate tycoon Bruce Ratner is showing Brooklyn homeowners the money [now that's original!]. He's turning residents of one building into instant millionaires [giving hope to millons of Lotto players] so they'll go quietly [like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby] - letting him [this is just sheer nerve--even the grass growing in the lot across the street knows this fight is unwinnable] knock down their homes to make way for his controversial $2.5 billion Nets arena and housing complex.

That means people who paid about $600,000 for a swank [I nearly spit out soda when I read that. And they weren't even being ironic!!] three-bedroom, 1,300-foot condo just last year are being offered a cool [what is this, the 60s?] $1.2 million to flee [Run! Run for your lives! Godzilla's on the loose!].

One couple is bolting [I love the action verbs--they're so Starsky and Hutch] to trendy Chelsea [oh, please, Chelsea is so last millennium], where a million bucks can buy a corner loft with 11-foot ceilings and a roof deck [maybe 5 years ago it did], according to real estate Web site Corcoran.com.

Another woman said she hopes to stay in Brooklyn, where the bulging pot of newfound cash [I think the only bulging pot was the newfound hash, rather than the cash, these reporters took] can buy a seven-bedroom "mansionette" on tony [oh, please--the only tony this paper knows is Soprano] Prospect Park West.

A move to Staten Island [There! Now we're hitting the right readership!] could land these residents in a brick colonial estate on ritzy [wealthy, yes; ritzy, no] Todt Hill, down the street from the late mob boss Paul Castellano's [if there had been no Mafia reference I would have written a letter to the editor] storied neo-Federal mansion.

I'm so glad I dropped out of journalism school. Although there are days when Weekly World News lures me...

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Three little words

8:45 am. I'm in the shower, getting ready for the work day ahead. These are the delicious moments of the day: eyes closed, rivulets of soapy hot water slithering down my body, distant waterfalls echoing in my ear, blood simmering in my veins, the mist imbueing my shuttered pores, lying in the shade of cypress trees in Tuscany, a warm wind bristling over my skin, hints of oregano, basil, sage wafting, a handsome Italian man playing guitar in the doorway across the road, whispers of...BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! Jesus! What was that? I hear Luis go to the intercom. My reverie is shattered by three words: "It's your mother."

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La la la la means...I hate you!

This is the song
La la la la
Elmo's song.
La la la la,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.

La la la
La la la la, la
La la la
La la la la, la

He loves to sing,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.
La la la la,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.

He wrote the music.
He wrote the words.
That's Elmo's song.

I may need to have brain surgery to get Elmo's Song out of my head. I used to like Elmo, especially when he was the sidekick of The Frugal Gourmet. But after ingesting too much bad alcohol (Miller Genuine Draft) and sugar (cannoli cake and cupcakes) at my nephew Tytony's 1-year-old (yes, one-year-old) birthday party today, Elmo has joined the ranks of Barney: Die! Die! Die!

The party had all the makings of a good time: a Knights of Columbus hall, Bensonhurst, bottom-shelf liquor, and screaming children. Elmo was just the icing on the cupcake.

But instead of trying to explain why I now hate Elmo, or Helmo, I'll let the pictures do the talking. Experience the magic of Elmo in his many forms, from the placards to the cupcakes to the mylar balloons to the "real live Elmo" (a woman in an Elmo suit who minutes earlier had been performing magic tricks as a clown for a dozen or so shrieking Muppets).

La la la la,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.

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Stand in the place where you were

I read in Time Out this week an interview with Jane Jacobs, who helped chop down the mighty oak called Robert Moses before he turned Manhattan into the set of Blade Runner. Leading a grassroots coalition in the 1960s to stop the building of the Lower Manhattan Expressway, which would have choked off Soho and the West Village from the rest of the island, she fought the law and the...law didn't win.

Jacobs has just written a book called Dark Age Ahead, in which she warns that the high level of complacency in the United States could be a modern-day version of the barbarians at the gate. She's not saying we're already screwed, but she says that in order to effect change, we must be skeptical of the way things are done. Unfortunately for those of us who grew up on the coattails of Vietnam War protests and the Watergate scandal, we eschewed political activism like a Melanie Griffith movie.

I suppose Jacobs's words resonate with me because of my own experience of being pushed out of my current residence under threat of eminent domain. Ever since the news came out last December that billionaire developer Bruce Ratner planned to buy the New Jersey Nets basketball team and move them to a brand-new arena in Brooklyn, which included mowing down my building and all the others on three blocks around us, I've had to assess my own feelings about activism and civic involvement. In the end, I defer to the right of individuals to do what's right for them.

Luis and I happened on our current apartment by accident. A series of coincidental events made us certain we'd chosen the right place. We were scheduled to sign our contract on September 11, 2001, which was postponed to the next day, and after reflection we decided staying and buying was the right thing to do. Closing on the property six months later was very emotional for me, since I was the first person in my immediate family to own a house--ever. And I felt especially proud to have left and returned to my hometown, and found the perfect space to live in a piece of history (the Spalding ball factory).

Now, after a long and painful four months, which coincided with a long and painful winter, we've finally achieved a resolution. We cannot stay. I've come a long way since I attended my first rally at City Hall in December, trying not to fall apart before the media as I joined 75 of my neighbors to protest the potential condemnation of our homes.

Bruce Ratner is from Ohio. He looks at our buildings and sees blight, but he also sees dollar signs. He sees his shiny new arena rising in the midst of the lacuna and his name in lights alongside Frank Gehry's, the site's architect. Now, he will "benevolently" spare my building and others from the wrecking ball, but the effect is the same. He's given us what amounts to a Hobson's choice. The arena will butt up right next to our building, the street will be sealed and demapped, light and air will be shut out, construction may take up to 12 years. I'm not up for that.

Our neighborhood, the one we risked living in and held promise for, has been taken over by the bullies on the playground who've emptied the pockets of the other kids and left smiling about it. We can fight back until there is no arena, but we probably won't win, and we may regret the toll it takes on us.

So, my friends and I try to look at this situation as an opportunity. Brooklyn is a big place--on its own, it would be the fourth-largest city in the United States. Ostensibly we have a lot of neighborhoods to choose from. But the truth is, there aren't that many that have what we're looking for.

I need to accept that the Brooklyn I grew up in is largely gone. Now the future of Brooklyn is being decided by people who have no idea about or respect for its history or memories. They see manure where some of us see fertilizer. And yet, in some ways, I'm sure they feel the same about us.

I suppose there's some comfort in knowing I'm not alone and never have been. In 1935, Thomas Wolfe wrote a New Yorker piece called Only the Dead Know Brooklyn. In it, a real Brooklyn guy muses about how overwhelming and unknowable Brooklyn is: "Maybe he's found out by now dat he'll neveh live long enough to know duh whole of Brooklyn. It'd take a guy a lifetime to know Brooklyn t'roo an' t'roo. An' even den, yuh wouldn't know it all."

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Let's call the whole thing off

I'm editing a report on sanitary measures in Colombia that was translated from Spanish into English. Since I'm fluent in both languages, I'm glad to have the original handy, since sometimes I come across words and terms that make absolutely no sense in English. For instance, I came across the term food inoculation, which to me conjured up images of broccoli, carrots, and zucchini standing in line with their peels rolled up waiting to get their booster shots. Then I looked at the original and the Spanish word was inocuidad, which means innocuousness or, by extension, harmlessness or safety.

When learning a language, as in life, you must always beware of "false friends," words that look like other, similar words in another language but mean something completely different. English speakers of Spanish, for example, quickly learn that embarazada means not embarrassed but pregnant and that sensible doesn't mean sensible but sensitive.

One of my favorite experiences with false friends was during my college visit to Italy with my friend Joe. We were staying with his relatives on a farm outside Milan, and only his cousin Antonella spoke any English. Joe, who is first-generation Italian-American, had a spotty knowledge of Italian and freely translated words into an Itanglish patois that often produced interesting results. While sitting around the dinner table one night with Joe's four cousins and aunt and uncle, one of Joe's cousins was telling us that in Italy, the epicenter of winemaking in the world, wine was available in cans. We thought it a little gross, and Joe asked whether there were preservatives in the can. "Ci sono preservativi?" he asked earnestly. Dead silence. Shifting eyes. Nervous laughs. And then it hit me. "Joe," I said," if the word is the same in Italian as it is in Spanish, you just asked whether there are condoms in the can."

But his cousin Antonella had already figured it out. "Ah," she explained to her family, "lui vuol dire conservativi." Conservativi means preservatives; preservativi means condoms. Those pesky false friends! "Ah!" the rest of the family sighed, and everyone had a good laugh and, of course, more wine.

Recently a colleague gave me a wonderful book that is full of not only false friends but other linguistic head-scratchers. It seems that in 1855 two Portuguese translators, José da Fonseca and Pedro Carolino, wanted to write an English phrasebook for Portuguese students. One little problem: they knew not one word of English. This is evident even from the title: English as She is Spoke.

The preface, written by the authors in English, is a mere foreshadowing of what's to come [verbatim, with all typos in original]:

"The Works which we were conferring for this labour, fond use us for nothing; but those that were publishing to Portugal, or out, they were almost all composed for some foreign, or for some national little acquainted in the spirit of both languages. It was resulting from that corelessness to rest these Works fill of imperfections, and anomalies of style; in spite of the infinite typographical faults which some times, invert the sense of the periods. "

Precisely.

One of my favorite expressions appears in the With a hairdresser section: "Look to not cup me!" I doubt that even my barber, who is from Italy, would figure this one out. The original Portuguese is "Sentído, não mé córte!" In English this should translate as "Listen, don't cut me!"--a useful expression if you're being held up at knifepoint.

The authors clearly went straight to a dictionary to look up these words. But they weren't too thorough: in transcribing cut, they introduced a typo and wrote cup. Anyone who does not know either language well would be mystified by this translation.

I can understand admonishing my barber to not cut me, but some of the examples, whether in English or in Portuguese, tell more about the authors' disposition than their language incompetence. The Familiar phrases section, for instance, has the following example:

Sê élla é fêia, âo mânos é graciósa.
One she is ugly, at-least she is gracious.
Should be: Even though she is ugly, at least she is funny.

I'm not quite sure under what circumstances this would be appropriate to say, unless you were, say, Joan Collins.

I suppose this next line I might say to someone to warn him of a bad dip or something, or maybe if I was really close to him and helping him try to lose weight:

São manjáres dê quê déve abstêr-se.
That are the dishes whose you must be and to abstain.
Or, in real English: Avoid eating those foods.

A picture of those little broccolis, carrots, and zucchini all lined up for their shots pops into my head, and suddenly food inoculation makes perfect sense.

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Shake shake shake

Today it was rainy and I was in the mood for a protein shake to perk me up. I was waiting at my favorite local food cart for my Blue Hawaii shake (blueberries, pineapple, and banana with protein) as a woman came up to the window to order. She was rather large and a little tentative, as if it were the first time she had ever ordered fruit in her life. She ordered a pineapple and strawberry shake. A sign on the cart advertises 8 energy boosters, such as protein, creatine, ginseng, bee pollen, Vitamin C, and spirulina, that you can add to the shake. Each costs 50 cents in addition to the shake, which is $3 or $4 depending on the size. The hefty woman first asked the vendor, an Asian woman who doesn't speak English too well, if she would be able to taste the energy booster or just the fruit. The vendor clearly did not understand what she was asking and kept saying yes, yes. The poor hefty woman was confused and figured she'd order the energy booster because, well, what the heck, it was one of those days when even Type As need energy boosters. She asked the vendor to put in the energy booster.

Sensing disaster, I casually said to the woman that she would have to choose an energy booster or her shake might end up costing her $100. She looked at the sign, and I pointed out that each one was 50 cents. "Oh, whew," she said, "I thought I'd get all of those in the shake!" I could just picture the woman running around for days on end, not knowing when the combined energy booster was going to suddenly run out.

The Asian counter woman finally said, "What energy booster?" The woman confidently replied, "Vitamin C!"

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