Women Running Awkwardly

In the cruel annals of ancient prehistory, Darwin's social maxim of only the strong survive held sway over the lesser barbaric social code we've adopted since the advent of Locke's social contract.

In the streets of New York City I often see young women running to catch the bus or for some other unknown reason, and sometimes I turn to watch them from behind; this is how I determine whether or not the caveman version of myself would choose to date them.

Before you come to your own conclusion about what it is I'm looking at, I'll put your mind to rest by telling you that I judge women by the way they run.

If the caveman version of myself, Alkhar, had to run from a saber-tooth cat or an amphicyonid, I would want my cavewoman wife, Tregnak, to be able to keep in step with me. If she runs like a sloth, I'm not going to feel very good about the chances of my strong genes being passed on to progeny.

Consequently, because we live in Locke's world where humans with weaker physical attributes can pass on their equally weak genes, we end up with what I keep witnessing on a daily basis out on the street.

To all awkward running women:

I'm not saying you deserve to be devoured by Carnotaurus, but if I discover that my future girlfriend runs like a lurch I'm probably going to feel secretly insecure.

And now... some examples of both good and bad running...



Good Runner:


Nice form! Not pigeon-toed or bow-legged. Quick to flight!




Bad Runners:


Flimsy flamingo legs. Maybe stork-like. Easy-to-catch prey. Tyrannosaurus-Rex sees them and he's like, "Awesome..."




Bad Runner #3:



Maybe it just looks awkward because she's posing for this picture template and not actually running.

Sex and McDonald's

Every once in a while I'll pass a McDonald's somewhere on the street. The sweet smell of deep fried french-cut potatoes and ultra-processed meat products mesmerizes the otherwise unsuspecting sensory nodules in my nostrils.

This briefly renders me incapacitated, and an 18th-century House of Commons within my cranium debates the virtues of asceticism, and the mutually exclusive wonders of answering your celestial desires.

After wisely deciding not to eat any of that crap, I came up with a pretty clever analogy.

Eating McDonald's is like having sex.

The best part is the anticipation. The smell and/or other sensory stimulation occurring directly before eating McDonald's/having sex is always much better than the act itself.

Then when everything's over you lie down and try to comprehend what you just put your body through. Very soon you get drowsy, and in the next few minutes you probably nod off like a little lamb in a Spring meadow full of yellow tulips.

Bullcrap Statistics

On the back cover of the January 26th issue of The New Yorker, There is an Allstate advertisement which features a mock Parent-Teen Driving Contract. Within this contract Allstate employs statistical evidence that is meant to tie teenage drivers to automobile accidents.

A statistical comparison is given, and the teen and his/her parent is supposed to fill out some sort of consensual agreement. In my absolute hatred of meaningless, malleable statistical information, I've offered agreements for a few of the comparisons that teen drivers can make with their parents.

1. In 2005, speed related crashes accounted for 44% of fatalities among 15-20 year olds.

Agreement: I will only speed 66% of the time.

2. Half the teens that died in car crashes in 2005 were killed between 3 PM and midnight. Check your local teen driving curfews.

Agreement: I won't come home until after midnight, maybe 2 AM.

3. According to a recent study, the presence of just one more male teen in a car doubles the chance of a fatal crash.

Agreement for boys: I will have as many girls as possible in my car at all times.
Agreement for girls: I will become a lesbian.

4. Talking on a cell phone while driving gives you the reaction time of a 70 year old.

Agreement: If I ever see anyone driving who looks older than 70, I will alert the authorities immediately.

World's First Time Traveler

Usually when I take the Fung Wah bus from NYC to Boston it takes an agonizingly long 4.5 traffic-filled hours. I went to visit some friends this past weekend in Boston, and when the Bikram Yoga session I was attending ended promptly at 4:30, I hopped over to South Station to take the 5 PM bus back to the city.

In short, I slept during the ride, but when I woke up at 8:00 sharp I could spot both the Chrysler and the Empire State Building amongst the smaller buildings of Manhattan's breathtakingly expansive skyline. This was an unprecedented first in my seasoned experience of Fung Wah excursions.

My conclusion was that we had entered some sort of time warp while I was asleep. For the remainder of the ride I listened to everyone outdo each other with expressions of amazement such as "dang!!" or "dag!!" or my personal favorite, "holy sh**!!"

We arrived at the Chinatown drop-off point at 8:30 PM. Now I can check off the row for "travel through time" on my list of things to do before I die. The next one I plan to knock off the list: "convince people to stop putting please before the phrase R.S.V.P."



(Because of the mysterious disappearance of my camera, I've taken to amateurishly cropping images on top of one another using Microsoft Paint)

Christmas in Trinidad

After much unnecessary flight complications, I found myself basking in the warm glow of Trinidadian sunbeams while sipping mostly on concoctions made from rum and coke, and consuming scrumptious morsels of roti and curry chicken with potatoes.

The one memory I retained from my last visit to Trinidad some 12 years before was the dog to people ratio. Just as it was then, stray dogs still outnumbered humans by some ridiculous margin that I don't care to compute.

I don't have the patience to provide a detailed account of the trip, so I will just post a bunch of photos taken by my sister the fledgling daguerreotype enthusiast.



The original residence of Ancilla Williams, my mother. The street has recently been renamed Williams since a majority of family members reside or own property.


A cousin whose name I've already forgotten.


Reviewing some notes I took while looking pensive; I'm also pretending to be unaware that my photo is being taken.


My sister Silvia and I reflecting on the capricious nature of life while at the top of 'Lookout Point.'


A few shanties built into the side of this mountain. These people are all one landslide away from being shelter-less.


A Parang band that played in Aunt Dulcie's gallery for Christmas. They brought an extra guitar when cousin Caroll told them I could play.


Me trying my hand at the mandolin.


Uncle Jango (foreground), or as I call him, Uncle Jango Fett playing some sort of bass instrument. After meeting him I know understand where most of my musical talent comes from. Uncle Jango Fett also had many anecdotes to share about intentionally peeing on himself in public places.