COLLECTION: The Truth about Cats and Dogs

NOTE: For years I’ve been telling this story, but I wasn’t really sure if it was web-friendly. Then I had a party the other night. Someone found the pictures in one of my many shoeboxes of snaps and, well, the general consensus was, ‘If they did it, fully aware they were being taped for TV and with full knowledge that you were taking pictures… well then, why not?’ Still, I decided to run it by a lawyer first (the somewhat questionable “Full-extension Steve,” so named for the way his body stretches when he bowls, who represented me in a deal with MTV recently that, after a year of negotiations, led to little more that legal bills). Anyway, using the same logic as above, he saw nothing wrong with my putting it up, but felt I shouldn’t use people’s real names—something about them being “performers.” Fair eneugh. So without further ado…




About two years back I went to Jamaica with some friends. It’s hard to explain why, but things got kinda boring. I actually ended up going home early.


But before I did, my friend Derek was like, “Hey, you ever shoot pool water out of your ass when you were young?”
“Um, no.”
…extended silence…
Finally someone asked, “How far a spray are you talking about?”
To which Derek replied, “Yo bro, I could knock that soda can out of your hands from all the way over here. You load up on a pool jet, then...”


Clearly it was on.


Sadly, I missed the actual moment of impact. Let me tell you though, IT WAS FUCKING INCREDIBLE.


Luckily, I wasn’t the only one impressed. Librarian said he wanted to do it too.


Happy times, right? Watch out, we’re loaded. Ready…


…aim…


…fire!


Now here’s where things get even weirder. I’ll spare you the details, but later that day Librarian realized he was going to have to go home (we’d come up with a system so everyone knew when it was their time—this way there’d be no fighting or backstabbing). Somehow he ended up drunk and naked on the roof. First he recreated the pool stunt. Then he gave one of the strangest speeches of all time. Really, it was impassioned. And though it wasn’t a tearjerker per say, I think it’s fair to say there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when he was though.


Why is this picture here at all? No reason really. Except to say this: Though not every second of my time in Jamaica was as incredible as the pool incident, the place sure had some beautiful scenery.

NEWS: My Wallet’s Back (and they said it couldn’t be done)

WARNING—THIS IS A WORDY ONE.




Call #1. 11PM, Monday night. 23 hours after my hold-up.
“Hello, my name is Gladys. I found your wallet outside my door. Everything’s still in it and I’d like to give it back to you. I’ll call you again.”
She left no number. And how did she know what was in my wallet to begin with?
It was pretty curious to say the least. If she hadn’t called my work number, the phone number on my business cards not the one I posted in the doorway, I probably wouldn’t have believed her at all. But I did. I believed her.

Call #2. 11PM, Tuesday night. 47 hours after my hold-up.
“Hello, this is Gladys again. The pastor of my church on the Lower East Side found your wallet in the snow and gave it to me to give back to you. I’ll call again.”
Why wasn’t she leaving a number? And the story had now changed, did’ja catch that… come on, her pastor found it? If you’re the pastor of a church and you find someone’s wallet, filled with credit cards, IDs and phone numbers where they can be reached, why not call yourself? Why hand it off to someone else?

Call #3. 10AM. Wednesday morning. 58 hours after my hold-up. This time I picked up.
“Hello, this is Gladys again, I’m about to run some errands, but I’ve got your wallet with me. Do you want me to drop it off at this 110 Fifth Ave address?”
“Actually I’m working from home today. I live right in your neighborhood—would you mind dropping it off here?”
“No, no problem.”

Call #4. 10:30AM. Wednesday morning. 58 hours and thirty minutes after my hold-up.
“I dropped your wallet off at your work.” What? Why didn’t she want to meet me? What was she hiding? Maybe I’d been watching too much Murder She Wrote, or maybe the short shots I’d been wearing in Europe (pictures to come) had me thinking I was Magnum PI, but I couldn’t help but think this Gladys character was involved. Maybe she was my assailant’s girlfriend. Or mother. I had to know. Luckily I had the number she’d made call #3 from.

Uuugh… this story’s too long.... I’m sorry, I’m starting to bore even myself. Let’s cut it short:
I tracked Gladys, who I now know to be one Gladys T Burgos, down at the soup kitchen where she works on 3rd and B.



Sadly, one look at her proved she had nothing to do with it. The kid who mugged me was about my height and black, this lady was like four feet and Hispanic. And kept praising Jesus. Still, I wasn’t ready to let it go. I felt like maybe my robber was a regular at the soup kitchen. Maybe that’s how she got my wallet in the first place. So after I thanked her I volunteered. That’s right, for the last two days I’ve been serving coffee and lunch at the church below. Staking it out. Studying faces. Waiting. Waiting. Nothing.

Anyway, I guess no harm no foul, really. I got my wallet back. I only lost three dollars. And besides, spending all that time at the soup kitchen, with people less fortunate then myself, taught me a valuable lesson:

I HAVE WAY TOO MUCH FREE TIME.

COLLECTION: What An Ice-Hole

Question: How does a perfectly usable weener become a totally frozen popsicle?

Answer: Through a little known Finnish tradition known as Ice Diving. In actually there’s no diving, and hardly any ice. Tons of icy water though. And therein lies the problem. In fact, the water temp is below freezing, so they drop a pump in the hole to keep it circulating so it can’t freeze over. And that’s when you jump in. Naked. Yup, the artic circle is a crazy place.

Below you’ll find a series of pictures depicting the dive. Essentially what happens is this: You go to a small cabin, strip down, run 50 yards through the snow to yet a another cabin, disrobe (if you wore the robe in the first place that is), climb in, make some funny faces and watch your body first shrivel then freeze (really, not only did my hair freeze solid, my eyelids froze shut as well). Enjoy.



Oh, wait, a special thank-you to wine critic Jordan McKay and magazine editor Darrin Frei for letting me use their pictures. DISCLAIMER: WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE THREE PICTURES ABOVE, NONE OF THE PHOTOS IN THIS POST WERE ACTUALLY TAKEN BY ME. Also, there were some pretty grim pictures at the top of my baloney pony the day after sporting a serious case of frostbite (all better now, thanks), but I decided it was just too much. I'll spare you the agony. Instead, just bear witness as the Fins turn man-bits to boy-bits...






















PS: DON’T FORGET TO BOOKMARK THIS PAGE AS I WILL BE REMOVING THE LINK FROM JAKEBRONSTEIN.COM IN THE NEXT DAY OR THREE.