Mark L. Feinsod

If you were in New York this past weekend, then you know how perfect the weather was.  And we were far enough away from Washington, D.C., that we could sneer derisively at Glenn Beck’s Remembering Stalin rally without being worried it was in our backyard.  I suppose the whole event was proof that you can turn anything into anything without it having to have anything to do with the original thing in question.  If you just say something has something to do with something, then it automatically does.

In most places, this is referred to as psychosis.  But to Beck and Sarah Palin, it’s just another day at the podium.

Although the best thing to come out of the weekend was probably the headline of Charles M. Blow’s New York Times piece on the march, entitled I Had a Nightmare.

Priceless.

But enough of politics.  They’re boring and stupid, and they make you late for work when you have to vote and it takes forever to get to the voting booth because the election workers are those weird shut-in types who make you feel sorry for their cats.

Go listen to our podcast.  It’s the aural equivalent of sunny summer weather.

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In this week’s episode, we discuss a charity event that we hosted a month or so ago.  My favorite part of the whole evening was the onion rings at the diner we went to after we left the event.

You can stream the show here and at SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.  As always, please spread the word and let your friends, coworkers and relatives know about the show.

If our audience becomes big enough, perhaps we’ll eventually hold an inspiring rally at a fast food restaurant on I-95.  We can always use the parking lot if they won’t let us inside.

It’s amazing how unexpected things can trigger childhood memories. Earlier today, I read in the New York Times  that Bobby Thomson, who hit the world famous Shot Heard ‘Round the World in 1951 while playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers, passed away last week.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why are you writing about sports? You don’t like sports. You don’t play sports. The sight of a sporting event on television fills you with a feeling of uncontrollable dread and terror mixed with boredom.

Well, no. You’re getting that mixed up with my reaction to Justin Timberlake’s music.

You may not know this, and you will be fascinated to learn it, but as a boy I was really interested in baseball. This has long since faded and the most interesting part of going to a baseball game now for me is seeing what kinds of new junk food have been dreamed up for people to gorge on while at the stadium. Last time I went to a Mets game, I had this weird ice cream thing that looked like dirt. And it came in a very small container. And it had some bad punny name like Bitz or Dotz or You Just Wasted a Lot of Money on This Garbage. I also had a pulled-pork sandwich at the Blue Smoke stand, which I suppose is healthier than a hot dog, but if you’re going to serve gourmet food at a baseball game, why not have something more interesting, like a spinach omelet or toast?

Also, there is nowhere to buy gum at baseball games. This is annoying.

But it’s amazing to me that, like almost everything else in America, baseball has become so corporate. This is not really news, but I’ve always had a hard time accepting it. I’ve always thought that was football’s realm. Baseball was to football like the old musty boutique in your hometown where your grandmother went to buy slacks was to K-Mart.

Whereas people once rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers or the New York Giants or the New York Yankees and heralded amazing feats of athletic achievement and mused over baseball’s ability to transcend racial and economic boundaries, now they just go to eat overpriced ice cream out of a little tub and have a pork sandwich.

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In this week’s installment of the podcast, we discuss massages. You can listen here and at SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.

As always, we appreciate your support. Please tell friends, family and coworkers about the show and urge them to listen.

In this week’s podcast alert, I considered writing the entire missive in capital letters and including some sort of lame urban myth that was disproved in 2003 or so.  I was going to title the message, National Imitate Chain Emails from Your Parents Day.  But then I got worried about copycat behavior.  What if I spawned an entire army of imitators?  Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if thousands of technologically inept elderly people wasted the valuable time of the rest of us by sending out useless information via electronic mail?
 
The mind reels.
 
I don’t mean to disparage elderly people here.  Why, just last night I went to my local gym so I could swim laps for exercise.  The friendly, helpful high school dropouts who serve as lifeguards and work in the administration there had thoughtfully roped off six lanes so that an exercise class could be held.  I thought it was delightful that the rest of us had to swim four to a lane so a bunch of geriatrics could bob up and down gently while some faux instructor encouraged them to keep it up.
 
I was waiting for somebody to wheel in a refreshment cart with chocolate-covered jelly rings and warm ginger ale so that the participants in the class could refresh themselves after their athletic endeavors.
 
But I had to check myself.  Someday, I’ll be old.  And some youngster will be viewing me through the same self-important eyes through which I viewed the exercise class.  But there’s one way that I’ll be different from today’s old people.
 
I plan to control an army of mercenaries so that I can take over the world’s natural resources, and use them for my own nefarious purposes.  Which include enslaving the rest of humanity, and forcing the entire world to do my evil bidding.
 
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In this week’s podcast, Goldy tells a story about a recent encounter he had on the subway with a crazy person.  Since everybody knows that there are no more problems with the mentally ill and the homeless in New York thanks to the deity-like reigns of Mayors Giuliani and Bloomberg, listening to the most recent show is like taking a little step back into time.
 
You can listen here and on SelfAsborbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.  And as always, our most sincere thanks for helping to spread the word about the podcast.
 
See you at the swimming pool.

Right now, it's late and I'm listening to the Beastie Boys song where they keep singing put the roof down, put the roof down.  It seems like a very helpful song, but I'm not entirely sure what the lyrics mean.

Are they worried about a friend of theirs who's driving around in a convertible in the rain?

Perhaps they're concerned about somebody who's a contractor, and is straining his or her back by carrying an actual roof from one place to another?

But that doesn't really make sense.  This whole mystery is quite vexing.

I'll probably sit at my desk and ponder this mystery for a while longer.  Or else I'll just go into the living room and watch City Drive Live.  Have you ever seen that channel?  It's a cable TV station wherein they show different intersections in New York City.  And nothing else happens.  You can just watch the cars go by.  And the traffic lights change.

It would probably be fascinating to watch while tripping on acid, but I wouldn't really know about that.

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In this week's podcast, Mark talks about the difficulties of quitting smoking, while Goldy makes a bold prediction concerning the world of online networking.  You can stream the show here and on SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.

As always, thanks for your support.  And we appreciate your spreading the word by telling loved ones, friends and co-workers about the show.

Now please, put the roof down.

Goldy reads a piece of mail from a long-time listener, and Mark reveals that he’s quit smoking.

You can listen here and on SelfAbsorbed.me, and stream the show in iTunes.

Sorry for the late update, but my good friend Miss Model Behavior had the day off today and so she only put up this week's podcast a little while ago.

Most importantly, this week introduces the Win a Date with Goldy contest.  You should enter.  Get your single female friends to send in entries.

More details are available in the podcast.

And the winner will be invited to be a guest on our show.

This is why we got into this in the first place.  To make a difference in the world.  To help people.  Join us.

You can listen here and on SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.

As always, thank you for spreading the word.  And please write a review and rate us in iTunes.  And feel free to email us your thoughts at podcast@feinsodville.com.

Thank you.  Enjoy the sweltering heat.

As we approach the midway point of summer, please keep in mind one very important thing: nothing works in New York City, and so you will spend your time sweating for no good reason.

Need to get somewhere in Brooklyn?  Sorry, but the G train will not be running during any weekends until the fall.  Why?  The MTA claims it’s for improvements, but the service only seems to get worse and the stations themselves look like set pieces from the Road.

Would you like an MTA employee to help you figure out how to get around?  He’d be happy to give you incorrect information as quickly as he possibly can, so he can go back to chatting with the other MTA employee with the bright orange vest who doesn’t seem to do anything but stand near the turnstiles listening to music.

This actually happened to me this past Friday night.  A friend of mine who lives in Queens and I went down into the Bergen Street subway station, and asked the MTA worker in the booth if the G train was running.  He was chatting with some dude in a bright orange vest.  The token booth worker said the G train was, in fact, running, then turned back to continue chatting.

What he neglected to tell us was that it was only running for a few more stations.  Then we were going to have to take the shuttle bus the rest of the way.

On the bright side, if there’s ever a nuclear apocalypse like in the Road, humanity will probably survive.  Along with cockroaches, the employees of the MTA will mostly likely continue to live on.

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In this week’s episode of the podcast we discuss our favorite Jewish delis in the city.  Yum!

You can stream the show here and at SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.

As always, please spread the word and tell your friends.  And if you could write us a review and rate us in iTunes, we’d be very grateful.

See you on the shuttle bus.

So, the World Cup is now over.  I’m really sad about this, because it impacted so many things in such positive ways.  The common cold is finally cured.  The BP oil spill has now been cleaned up.  The global economy is suddenly booming.  Poverty has been eradicated.  Human trafficking is no longer an issue.  T-Mobile customer service doesn’t completely suck anymore.

But seriously.  A bunch of overpaid twentysomethings with IQs on par with George W. Bush run back and forth for ninety minutes, and the whole world goes nuts.

I was having a couple of slices of Grandma’s Pizza in a place called Maffei Pizza on 22nd Street in Manhattan yesterday during the late afternoon, when some people came in as they joyously sang the ole, ole! song.  I asked them why they were singing Hot, Hot, Hot, and they informed me that, no, actually Spain had just beaten the Netherlands to win the World Cup.  So I did what any self-respecting New Yorker would do.

I text messaged a Dutch friend of mine with the message, Viva España!

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In this week’s installment of the podcast, we read a piece of listener mail from one of our regular listeners, and Goldy talks about one of the first trips he ever took to Brooklyn after her moved to New York.

I’m actually really happy with the sound quality of the podcast this month.  This is mainly because I’ve finally figured out how to use our fancy new podcasting equipment.

You can revel in its auditory glory by listening here and at SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribing in iTunes.

As always, please tell friends to spread the word.  And write reviews and rate us in iTunes.

You’ll be doing your part for world peace.

I hope you had a lovely 4th of July weekend.  Mine was really very nice, but of course it brings up one of the frightening truths about summer: you are wasting your life.  If you are not at the beach every second, if you are not traveling constantly to exotic locations like St. Tropez or the Hamptons, if you are not taking three day weekends every single weekend in July and August, then you are not taking full advantage of the summer.

Every moment spent in your tiny little cubicle looking forward to sneaking out to Starbucks in half-an-hour is a lost opportunity.  And your misery is directly inversely proportional to how much fun everybody else you know is having.

That said, ultimately I’m a person of simple pleasures.  Give me an air-conditioned apartment and a marathon of Half Pint Brawlers on Spike, and I’m a happy man.

And my favorite part of the holiday weekend was my little trip to Henry Public, a Brooklyn Heights bar famous for its turkey leg sandwiches.  These creations are delightful.  They’re comprised of turkey mixed with some kind of gravy, topped with crispy onions between two slices of thick Pullman bread.  My friend and I sat for two hours, eating and drinking as the pretty waitresses constantly refilled our water glasses because we were obviously dehydrated from having been outside.

Because I’m totally OK with wasting my life, as long as there are turkey sandwiches involved.

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In this week’s episode of the podcast, we talk about the difficulties involved in going up to strange women to try to talk them.  I’m not sure if listening will improve your game, but it’ll certainly give you a chuckle.

You can listen at here and at SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.

As always, please help to spread the word.  The number of subscribers we have is growing at an alarming rate, like herpes in a frat house.  And since we do this podcast simply because we enjoy doing it, your support means a lot to us.  It’s like Valtrex for the soul.

Stay cool out there today, folks.

An interesting thing happened to me last week.  I hadn’t had my eyes checked since 2003, and I figured it was time.  When I’d last had them looked at, my doctor had been a gruff old man with the charm of a drill sergeant from the Marines.  This had become problematical when he’d done that test for glaucoma or cataracts, the one wherein they blow air at your eyes from an enormous black machine.  The air came at me so hard that it surprised me, and I quickly pulled my head away.

Don’t be such a little girl, growled Sgt. Bifocals.  In my day, we used hot embers from a burning fire.  If you got out of the way fast enough, we figured your eyes were fine.

So, when I went to a new doctor last week, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a clean office with professional-looking doctors in white coats assisting their patients with a smile.  This also left me confused when a stunningly gorgeous woman in a sleeveless shirt, miniskirt and thigh high boots approached me and grinned flirtatiously.

Follow me, please, she said.  I’m your doctor.

This was new to me and, while it seemed unusual, I decided not to be prejudicial.  This is New York.  People live here because they’re different.  Maybe my new eye doctor liked to make sure people had the right prescription for their near-sightedness before she rushed off to her part-time job at New York Dolls.

The exam went well enough.  It was slightly strange to have this alluring, scantily-clad woman put her face up to mine, tell me to look her in the eye and do nothing as she examined my eyes with various kinds of instruments.  But we chatted, and she even laughed politely at my attempts to be funny.

Then it was time for the machine where they test you for glaucoma or cataracts.  The one where they blow the air into your eyes.

I told the woman of my past experience with this.  I admitted it made me uncomfortable.  I even asked if we could skip the test.

Don’t worry, it’ll be fine, my new doctor said.  The machines are much gentler now.  Just pretend I’m softly kissing each one of your eyes.

I was flattered and puzzled and felt slightly dirty as I tried to make sense of what the doctor had just said.  And by the time I remembered where I was, she smiled at me and reached for some eye drops.  My eyes were fine, and I would just need a slightly adjusted prescription.  And when I got home after staggering blindly through New York City because the eyedrops had rendered everything blurry, I looked up the doctor’s office on Yelp.  And sure enough, the numerous reviews mostly said the same thing.

Good doctors, fine eye care, but what was up with the hot doctor in the skimpy outfit who’s a little too forward with her patients?

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This week on the podcast, we talk about Hollywood movies that we’ve worked on.  We manage to be funny without being insightful, and entertaining without being educational.

You can stream the show here and on SelfAbsorbed.me, and subscribe in iTunes.

And again, please help to spread the word.  It really does help.  We do this podcast as a labor of love for our listeners, and our growing subscriber base makes it totally worthwhile.

And if you could write a review and rate us on iTunes, we’d be very grateful.

Once I get my new glasses and can see properly again, I promise I will smile at you in thanks.  Because I’ll be able to see you.