On Wasser-White House Relations

At this point when someone mentions Obama, unless I‘m a few drinks in, I stay uncharacteristically quiet. I find that those who don’t support him usually have the wrong reasons why a la “that SOB with his stupid mosque”, and those that do support him? Put best by my friend Jamie to calm me after being cut off by some schmuck in a Pontiac Vibe touting ‘yes we can’; “if they’re stupid enough to buy American and vote for a socialist, they don’t need you to confirm they’re a moron” – and so, with the option of either way arguing with an idiot, I stay silent to be thought a fool, rather than to speak and remove all doubt. When it comes to Wasser-White House relations, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place of wanting to support the leader of the country, paired with the fact that I don’t believe he could lead a bedbug to a mattress; unless of course that bedbug wanted to contribute nothing to the journey in which case, I’m sure Obama could find some way to lend a helping hand and preferably a top tax bracket home who could assumedly afford the extermination spray. (And so, my elephant is out of the bag).

This past week however, my frustration went from a place that was shared with the populous, to a place that was felt by me alone. My grandma found out she needed an arterial stent, basically a small tube placed in clogged arteries to keep both her Carotid artery, and Long Island steak houses near her home, open and in working order. Peter Lugers: 1. Hedda Wasser, also a winner. This is until she went to her cardiologist and was told that her insurance that she had paid thousands of premium health care dollars into since the last ‘great depression’ will not cover so much as the Hospital’s jello or static soft-core porn because she is (un-admittedly) over 75 years of age.

While I usually try to block out statements of ignorance such as ‘Obama is trying to kill the old people’; it does seem as if geriatrics are finally about to remember what it feels like to be fucked. And so I turned to Facebook, where apparently there are people with far more time on their hands than I have. Who knew that ‘The White House’ a. has a Facebook page, b. has less fans than Kim Kardashian (about 800,000 to Kim’s 3 mil) and c. would be the cheapest form of entertainment available now that The World Weekly News is out of print. As such, I’m sharing the highlights of today's posting:

The White House: Photo of the Day: Carved pumpkins depicting President Barack Obama, Abraham Lincoln, and the White House sit on a stone wall next door to where the President was attending a dinner reception in Providence, Rhode Island, Oct. 25, 2010.

Sami B: How much of taxpayer's money did you waste for that?

Lisa B: @Sami.... don't be stupid. John Reckner carved them. Idiot.

Sami B: I'm pretty sure the money for this could have bought someone a tooth filling. Just lookin' out for  you ungrateful rednecks!

Jim W: @sami. it said nothing about who made them. how do you know an artist didn't hear Obama coming in and then carve this beauty. Great Photo

Timothy S: The pumpkins... which WERE THE POINT OF THIS POST are stunning. Y'all need to take your bickering somewhere else.

Mary M: (with the burning question on my mind): Why is Obama always putting himself beside Pres. Lincoln?

Mike A: How can anyone like this lier that has no idea what the hell he is doing and has the nerve to blame someone that had nothing to do with the economic down turn and loss of jobs AS SOON AS THE DEMACRATS TOOK MAJORITY OF CONGRESS IN JAN 2007 IS WHEN GOVERNMENT TOOK A LONG DOWNHILL SLIDE AND YOU HAVE BARRY HUSSEIN COMPLAINING ABOUT BUSH,GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT JAGOFF

Nanda: Very cool, 'cept Obama looks pissed off. Perhaps he's thinking about how he keeps getting cock blocked on the hill.

James H: good lord, after reading the comments some of yall are pathetic, whining about tax payer money on a pumpkin, n being robbed by a president, and what does this have to do with the pumpkin lol..., so ur basing ur pissed offness on assumption, which is kinda like goin to take a dump, and assuming theres toilet paper..... that bein said, it looks bad ass, and its a tribute not just to obama for those whining about him, but to abe as well and what he wanted for us over 100 yrs ago...i couldnt do that well of a carving, could you? so why whine and stress it, its not gonna make yall happy when your on your death bed reflecting back on your life. so why are u waisting your time gettin upset over a pumpkin

And last but not least, the only one with any sense;

Andrew G: some of you people need to learn how to spell


IN CASE YOU WERE WORRIED ABOUT HEDDA: Don’t be. My grandmother is lucky that she has a doctor in the family (were jews) and has saved well; but what if this wasn’t the case. As this out-patient procedure would cost tens of thousands, there are many that would be simply priced out, or would spend their livelihood in securing their health resulting in an end-of-life not worth living. While I often joke that my grandma will be killed by a black man, I always envisioned her demise resulting from a black man, her granddaughter (me), and a sex tape… there goes ‘Hope’.

Stars And Stripes - A July 4th To Forget.

9 times out of ten, I’d swear I acted intelligently. Then, a turn of events takes place as if to say, ‘Wasser – be honest with yourself… you know that number is probably closer to somewhere around three’. As stubborn as I am delusional, I’m convinced it is not me with the problem, but in fact, everybody else. For example, why would an established company like the Long Island Rail Road, a branch of New York City’s MBTA, offer the easy option of WebTickets, if once purchased, said e-ticket will be hard mailed to your house for use in 3-5 business days. The Long Island Railroad is a two and a half hour schlep, with not an inkling of glamour or glitz attached, and bathrooms the homeless wouldn’t use. Who in their right mind plans 3 to 5 days in advance for something they don’t want to do. You don’t plan for last resorts, you suck it up and e-ticket them 30 minutes before port of call; which is exactly what I did. And like most true hellish debacles, that is where this story begins – rock bottom, on the LIRR.

Weeks prior, over chardonnay and cigarettes, my mom came up with a truly wonderful idea. Fourth of July weekend, invite Jamie to the Hamptons. Jamie, my best friend and ex-roommate from college, is one of the only people in the world who truly ‘gets me’. We get each other frankly and when you’re looking at a 6 foot tall, 100 pound gay man in women’s jeans, and an Hermes belt, with a contagious cackle and a 25th birthday plan of ’25 and alive’: pecks, lips, & lipo – you think to yourself, this is one of my souls mates? There’s a small 10% piece of you that just knows you’re screwed; the other overwhelming 90% majority knows however how blessed and lucky you are to have found such a friend.

Invite Jamie to a funeral or Bar Mitzvah in New York, there’s a 50% chance he won’t be coming. Invite Jamie to a Hampton’s weekend, and the hottest weekend at that, before I heard back ‘yes’ or ‘no’, I simply received an email, “my flight gets in at six.” A six pm arrival time leaves us boarding the hell train at either 7:30 or 8:45. 7:30 comes and goes, with 8:45 being our last, and final option. Getting somewhere, and punctually, is not my strong suit and at 8:07, it was decided that no, I wouldn’t have time to masturbate, I have to make peace with whatever I’ve thrown into my bag and also the truth that someone could get to Penn Station faster from Florida (Jamie), than I could from down the block.

Getting into any moving vehicle, and saying “Hi sir, Penn station please – as fast as humanly possible” is the closest thing to a death wish you can do in NYC but after two near life ending experiences, and one small tap fender bender, I find myself hustling into Penn with the grace of pig whose just found out they’ve been hogtied. With all my hands full, and the trains departure closing in on ten minutes, my phone rings;

“Wass, where are you? I’m in Penn Station, but I don’t see Long Island.”
“What do you mean, ‘you don’t see long island’. Jamie there are signs everywhere… follow one”
“I did! I’m telling you this Long Island Railroad is no where to be found”
“Jamie, it takes up half of Penn station”, and then I though of a sign for him to follow that you didn’t need to be literate for, “J, just look for girls with thongs hanging out of the backs of their jeans. That will get you to Long Island every time.”

Proof that the last tip actually worked, from behind a pack of gelled hair, bathroom Blonde, Mandee’s patrons came Jamie, sauntering down the escalator with a Vuitton duffle in tow. That, and the “American Tourister”; a hard suitcase circa 1970 that stopped being cool as soon as people were able to see it for what it was while not tripping on acid.

With 5 minutes to train-time, hellos would have to be postponed. Speedily, we start dodging through the overly crowded waiting area trying to find our track. While the clock is ticking, one of the reasons Jamie and I get on so well is that we always have our priorities in order. Making the train was one thing, making the train enjoyable was another; and as Oprah or any other self help god will tell you – you can always find time for what’s important; 8 mini bottles of Sutter Home chardonnay. Sweat from rushing may be dripping from our brow, but time stops for wine. All necessities in tow, we high tail it to Track 9, to find nothing but standing room and snobbery – at least we knew we were on the right train.

The doors close behind us; both of us here? check. Booze? check. Tickets?... shit. Well, so what – we didn’t sort out this e-issue at the help desk. Thanks to Steve Jobs, I have my emailed receipt clearly on my cell phone and assuming this 3-5 day mailing thing MUST be a mistake, as it really does defeat the purpose of the e-ticket, I’ll explain to the conductor, who must get this all the time. After meeting the conductor, he doesn’t. He also wasn’t interested in letting this slide for a mini-bottle of Chardonnay. What he wanted was the one thing we didn’t have; cash, and $46 dollars of it. Nothing is more embarrassing then creating a scene on the long island rail road, surround by people who think they’re too good to be there, next to the American Tourister, pulling crumpled singles out of your purse that between two people equal seven dollars.

“You’re going to the Hamptons,… with seven dollars?” Joe (we were now on first name terms) asked, in a condescending tone as if he was trying to get his facts straight. Neither of us willing to admit yes, Jamie flings open his wallet to check the nothing in it once again. In the fling, he exposes a photo he carries of his sister, which he, Joe and I discussed and agreed she looks great. Then either because he liked us, or there were 7 other full cars on the train, Joe asks for our ID, has us fill out IOU’s, tells us to bring them to a station, where we can eventually pay. Not only are we on the unfortunate Long Island Rail Road, we were now in debt to them. Handing the forms to Jamie, who hands them to me – “what happened to chivalry” I ask. “I’m gay… we’re exempt” Now Joe chimes in, “ehh a mans still the man, sorry” “Nobody has the gay mans side”, Jamie shrieks – “Someone has your backside though”, I retort – and with that, we’ve now won Joe over. He lets us in on the secret that nothing actually happens if we don’t pay these, which I think he might have only said because after he liked us, he still wasn’t sure if we had more than seven dollars to our name.

We transfer trains to one with more seating, bribe a man in a 2seat row with comedy club tickets to move to another open single seat so we can sit together, and just when we think all is well, the train starts moving, but in the seats we’ve coveted; we’re moving backwards – which in retrospect was foreshadowing what would become the rest of Stars and Stripes weekend… to be continued.

Getting Back To Life

You graduate college in some god awful garb, to stand with 5,000 other burka-esque clad kids you don't know, to culminate your college career by picking up an empty folder, trot across the stage and hope not to trip. What I didn't realize that day, is that as soon as you safely make it back to your seat, post-grad life is very much like graduation - most days still revolve around the thought of not tripping; making the right decisions, furthering a path, pursuing a dream.

It takes a bit to transition to what is referred to as 'real' life'. At first, its exciting, then scary, and then the unthinkable happens; the same way you settled into the last of life's phases, the world you live in eventually becomes home - and then its time to decorate. New jobs, new friends, new experiences.  And while its daunting to know you are standing at the crux of a crossroad, the endless possibilities, in coordination with good balance, at the very least keeps your palms consistantly clammy. 

Wasser World has always been exciting, that much has not changed and instead, has only intensified. What has changed however is that every schmuck seems to have a blog. I am just as schmucky, if not more so... and therefore, the Wide World of Wasser is back, - and bigger then ever.