Why there are no ugly babies

"OOOOOOO-h, he's adorrrrrrr-able!"

You've probably heard that there are no ugly babies.

Here's why: babies are showroom fresh and therefore don't exhibit any of the unsightly signs of age; no wrinkles, no ear hair, no gray hair, no liver spots, no receding hairlines.

Age is the ultimate cosmetic buzzkill, and is irreversible to boot. Babies haven't fallen prey to that buzzkill. This is why we are surprised when we see an ugly baby (and amazed when we see a decent looking older person).

As we age, we start accumulating the hallmarks of decay. So in a way, all of our efforts to counteract them are a way of remaining baby-like.

And once we realize there is nothing we can do to hold off this decay, we have a baby ourselves, which is as close as we can come to starting over.



There are no ugly tweets on my feed: https://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne

Renter's Remorse II: The Move

I finally found an apartment. Thanks for asking.

An apartment I had viewed and declined in December was posted again on Craigslist. In light of the toll my apartment hunt was taking on my wellbeing, the reservations I had when I first viewed said apartment suddenly seemed nano-sized. The apartment was also listed by an individual owner, not a property company, allowing me to escape the cabal of vile secretaries and boil-covered middlemen you normally encounter at property “management” firms.

The downside to this new apartment; it was in Midtown Manhattan, which is like Jersey Shore for 90-year-olds. Midtown is a place where the residents are prehistoric, short of breath, and dressed like they’re gonna party like it’s 1929. Where plastic surgery has found a way to create cheeks that are saggy and dog-like, yet wrinkle-free. Where the women wear enough granny perfume to destroy three ozone layers. Where Casual Friday means you don’t wear mink underwear.

Oh well, I was happy to have the apartment hunt behind me. And although some fellow comedians (Jhoel Walkowski, Mick Diflo, Kip Potharas, and Dan Goodman) offered to help me move, I decided to book a professional mover off Craigslist.

I didn’t have much to transport; a TV, an office chair, 6 boxes and 3 suitcases…no big deal. As is always the case the night before a move, I was unable to sleep a wink.

The next morning the movers show up (almost on time!). I go downstairs to greet them. It is warm and sunny; a perfect day for a move. Out of nowhere the super of the building appears…

“No no no…this isn’t happening today!”

He tells me that in order to move out, I have to get permission from the property manager. The mover has to fax their info. to the building’s management company, it takes at least 3 days to get approval, and you have to pay a $500 security deposit in case something happens to the building.

I explain that I’m not even moving real furniture. We’re talking about a TV, an office chair, 6 boxes and 3 suitcases…no mattresses, no china cabinets, no Arks of the Covenant. Simple move; in and out in 10 minutes.

He again tells me it’s not going to happen and gives me the building company’s number. Of course they don’t answer.

Now I’m standing with the movers as they look on in disbelief. The clock is running.

I try pleading with the super. He shakes his head like a cartoon sheriff: “This ain’t happening today.”

I couldn’t believe it. In three years I had never had an issue with this super. I also never asked him for anything. I'm the guy who when he talks to supers takes this tone: “Can you just make it so the raw sewage only comes out of the cold side of the faucet?”

Now I can’t move out, I have taken a day off work for nothing, I’m looking at a three-day waiting period to move out (who knew it was easier to buy a handgun than to transport a coffeemaker?), and I have to pay the movers who moved nothing a $60 traveling fee.

Serenity now!

That afternoon I get my landlady on the phone. She freaks out about the obstruction and says that she is going to move me herself. My landlady is probably less than 100 lbs. I ask if she thinks she can physically do it. She insists she can. I tell her the super is going to catch us again and cause problems. She says we’ll do it early before he starts work.

Morning comes. My landlady is running late. The super catches her entering the building and a standoff ensues. Had it been the Old West, they might have drawn pistols…

My super examines my sparse belongings and agrees to let me move out, but insists on going by the moving-out gospel. He puts down cardboard in the hall (so that the suitcase wheels wouldn’t damage the floors?). He makes us go through the basement and up some tricky stone steps. He makes my landlady write him a $500 security check in case of damage (the only way we could have done damage to the stone steps was if I had been moving a jackhammer with no off switch).

My landlady is in such a rage she develops superhuman strength and insists on moving most of the stuff herself! And she did. With ease. And her last name isn’t even Ver Magnússon!

We get the stuff onto the sidewalk. My landlady gets her check back. At least something has gone right.

Now we have to find two cabs to take us to the new building. We wait out in the bleak, blustery morning air. Cabs are seeing us and quickly zipping past. They usually don’t care for moving furniture.

I finally get one minivan cab to stop. We load half my stuff and proceed to the new building. My new building has a long list of rules about moving that now have me quivering with fear. What if I get to the new place and they have some rule about no moving via cab?

I nervously call my new super to let him know I’m on my way and that I'm doing a cab-move. His response: “I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

WOW...didn't see that coming.

I get to the new building and the new super graciously helps me move my stuff from the curb to the freight elevator. Talk about a tale of two supers!

It takes another 30 minutes for my poor landlady to get a cab. This incredible woman used her day off to move my stuff, and had to idle in the freezing cold while being passed by cabs, all because of the absurd obstructions of a city that prides itself on getting things done quickly.

My new super was ultra-helpful getting my junk into my new apartment, and did it all with a smile. And my beleaguered, put-upon landlady uttered not a single complaint. What a stroke of luck that I had them involved.

So anyway, I’m happy to be moved. No so thrilled about where I moved to. Only fossils and folks with the soul of a wet cigar move to Midtown. I’m a little bit fossil, a little bit wet cigar, so I guess I belong.

Renter's Remorse

For weeks I have been in a tizzy trying to find an apartment. Rent in Manhattan is spiking because sales are slow. No buyers means more renters and fewer vacancies and higher broker fees. Some brokers are now trying to charge 15% of the annual rent as a fee!

Naturally, I have done all I can to avoid brokers. I have stood on line at open houses (only to find that the apartment was 12' x 14'. Not a typo.). I have been stood up by owners who were supposed to show me their apartment (leaving me standing helpless in the piercing cold). I have looked at probably 20 apartments. I have filled out applications and unsuccessfully battled to have them reviewed in a timely manner. I have fielded lots of calls from brokers ("Yeah, you called about an apartment." Nope, never made one call). I have sent at least 150 emails. You get the picture.

A slow motion nervous breakdown was setting in. I was about to drop out of life and move back in with my parents. Suddenly I got a call from a broker...

Broker: I have an alcove studio in your neighborhood that just opened up.

Me: What floor is it on?

Broker: Second floor.

Me: Does it laundry?

Broker: Yes.

Me: How big?

Broker: 600 square feet. A real alcove studio. You're going to love it. I can show it tomorrow during the day. Can't wait until evening. It will go fast.

Everyone always says apartments are going to go fast. However, during this apartment search, I have found that to be true. A few apartments I was scheduled to see after work were gone by the time I was supposed to see them.

I agreed to view this promising alcove studio on my lunch break...

I arrived at the agreed upon spot and stood in the vengeful winter wind. When the broker's lackey appeared, he said we had to take a walk to get the key. So much for the "convenience" of hiring an apartment finder.

We walk a few streets, shivering every step of the way. I stress that I'm on my lunch break and don't have much time. This bounces right off Brokerbot. He has his canned questions, and they're going to be sputtered no matter what:

How many apartments have you seen?

When can you move in?

I told him I could move in Feb. 1st. He said immediate move-in was required.

I wait outside while Brokerbot enters a building to get the key. He comes back out and starts confusedly reciting the address over and over. The address that he can't seem to decipher indicates that the address is actually a few streets north of what the broker originally told me (those few streets make a difference). We start hiking north...

We reach the building. It looks like an ogre's mouth. An ogre unconcerned about dental hygiene.

We trudge up the dilapidated, Frankenstein Castle steps to the third floor (not the second like I was told).

We reach the apartment. It is a construction site. Literally. No walls, no doors, nothing. In fact there is a work crew inside gutting and rebuilding the dump from scratch!!!

For the sake of who knows what I asked about laundry. There is no laundry. Another falsehood. It also isn't anywhere near 600 square feet.

Me: I can't do an immediate move-in to an unfinished apartment.

Brokerbot: I've seen them renovate apartments in a day.

After being lied to about every single detail of the apartment, I'm supposed to take Brokerbot's word for it that the apartment will be renovated quickly and presented in acceptable working order. And in the meantime I'm going to be paying rent on this junkyard until the renovation is complete. AND paying a broker's fee for my troubles.

I start storming down the stairs. Brokerbot follows me.

Brokerbot: This is a good price. It will go fast!

I reach the sidewalk. Brokerbot is relentless.

Brokerbot: It will go fast (In fairness, Brokerbot may have just been a wind-up doll programmed to recite three phrases).

Me: I know I didn't speak to you on the phone, but the apartment isn't where I was told it would be. I was told it was on the second floor. It's on the third. I was told there was laundry. There's no laundry. And it's not even finished! You didn't show me an apartment. You showed me a construction site!

Brokerbot: It will go fast.

Maybe it will go fast, but not as fast as a person's faith in humanity when talking to apartment brokers.



To be continued...

Pay it upward

It was a dark and stormy night, back when I lived in Queens...

I heard a knock on the door in the middle of the night. The knockers were the cops. They were offering me a chance to keep my neighbor out of jail...

Apparently, the woman who lived below me had gotten drunk somewhere and had taken a cab home. When the cab pulled in front of the building, for some reason she refused to pay the cab driver. The cab driver wasn't having it. He called the cops.

When the cops knocked on her door, she again refused to pay the cab fare. Instead, she told the cops that the guy upstairs (ME) would pay it for her.

Important detail: I did not know this woman. AT ALL. Didn't even know her name. I have no idea why she thought I would come to her rescue.

The cops said the fare was $25, and that my neighbor absolutely was not going to pay it. They said that I could pay it for her, or else they were going to haul her to jail. Always fun to be awakened in the middle of the night by a bizarre solicitation for charity...

My theory is that when my neighbor asked them to bill it to “the guy upstairs," she was actually referring to GOD. The cops, being very literal-minded, took it to mean "the guy in 3F."

So thanks to this woman's drunken gropes at the divine, I wound up on the hook for $25. Guy Upstairs, why have you forsaken me..

Airing Our Differences

Starting with the Clinton administration, you began to hear widespread criticism of conservative talk radio. Conservative talk radio was called "inflammatory," "irresponsible," and "conspiratorial." [Although it is labeled "conservative talk radio," let's call it REPUBLICAN TALK RADIO, AS NEARLY ALL OF IT IS ABOUT PARTY, NOT PHILOSOPHY].

Perhaps not coincidentally, this dovetailed with the media's general talking point about the "divisive" and "polarized" tone of the "national political conversation." You may have noticed that this talking point has been around ever since.

The inference is that something has changed to make Republican rhetoric more rabid. Maybe something has changed. Or maybe it is merely that Bill Clinton was the first Democratic President to hold office once Republican radio had become dominant.

Remember, Republicans held office for 12 years before Clinton, during which time Republican radio became a nationwide force. When Democrats had last held the White House (Carter), Republican radio as we know it today did not exist.

If it had, JUST IMAGINE how inflammatory Republican radio would have been under Carter. Just imagine what they would have accused him of during the hostage crisis. Just imagine what they would have said about his views on energy. Try to picture the surgical deconstruction of Carter’s personal habits (he wore sweaters!). I think it is fair to say the tenor would have been as “extreme” as the Republican radio that is broadcast today.

So really, the "national political conversation" may not have changed that much. It may just be that a change in medium has turned up the volume of that conversation.




Megaditto my tweets: https://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne

War is good for the economy, except that it isn't

You have probably heard the claim that "war is good for the economy." When considering this claim, ask yourself...if war is good for the economy:

Why do investors run from warzones? Why isn't there an ETF called WAR that focuses solely on areas ravaged by combat? Why don't investors line up to place their seed money between the falling bombs? That would certainly give new meaning to the term "angel investor."

It is because war wrecks the economy. Aside from all the property damage (aren't we always hearing that smooth working infrastructure is one of the keys to growth?), war creates the worst kind of uncertainty.

If you've been awake in the last year, you've heard pundits complain that business is being harmed by all the uncertainty being caused by the federal government. The pundits are't wrong; uncertainty is bad for the economy. And nothing causes more uncertainty that war. Ironically, many of those lamenting all the government-created uncertainty are big-time war hawks.

Stability is what attracts investors. This is why emerging markets like Indonesia produce commercials highlighting that they are "politically stable." Countries don't run ads that say, "Bloody. Crumbling. Conflicted. Invest in regrettable Indonesia."

War isn't good for the economy, unless you're talking about the six feet underground economy.

One of the Worst Comedy Bits Ever

Every comedy bit I do now is a diamond-studded rainbow, so I can confidently reveal bits from my past that were cubic zirconia-scarred rainclouds. Here is a truly bitter lemon from my comedic days of yore:

You're always hearing the term crack whore. How come you never hear about a crack celibate? How do we know crackheads don't practice abstinence? Maybe they save themselves for marriage, we don't know! Because think about it, crack is not exactly a love drug like ecstacy. With ecstacy, you're hugging strangers and giving footrubs. With crack, you're talking to walls and stabbing leprechauns.

If you listen closely, you can hear the logic of this bit collapsing in on itself. This is a prime example of a fake bit; one where the comedian twists a self-explanatory term--EVERYONE KNOWS CRACK WHORES ARE CALLED CRACK WHORES BECAUSE THEY SELL THEIR BODIES FOR CRACK. NOT ONE PERSON IN THE HISTORY OF CRACK HAS EVER TAKEN IT TO MEAN ANYTHING ELSE. YET HERE COMES "COMEDIAN" MIKE TO THROW SOME HACKY SAND INTO THE FACE OF AN OTHERWISE CRYSTAL CLEAR EXPRESSION--so they can contrive a bit based on a clumsy misconstruing of said term. This method of contriving material was huge in the 80s, but it never goes out of style.

Comedy crowds lap up fake bits, which is why the crack whore bit was a solid staple for at least three years. I wrote it during a terrible dry spell, and remember feeling like a proud papa when I brought it to the stage for the first time. As you can see, it was a birth more unfortunate than Rosemary's Baby.