As someone with ADHD, or maybe just as a human living in these times, I have to be cajoled to read the news. Some weekends, my teen son kindly reads me summaries from the NY Times, and an article or two that piques my interest. Though I am not yet a senior citizen and can still read the newspaper myself, this is invaluable to me. (Note this is a classic example of an ADHD tool called“body doubling,” that is, doing something that is not fun alongside someone else to make it more bearable.)

Other than read bad news with good people at my side, I’ve enjoyed having inane, entirely inconsequential arguments with friends and family that do not end in tears, heartache or anger. My best example of this delightful type of argument comes from my personal archives.

My college friend Jenny* and I, both longtime New Yorkers, had one such ongoing argument that lasted from 1992 when we met as freshman at Carleton College in Minnesota to sometime in the mid 2000s when the two of us had settled back in NYC as full fledged adults. Long before we could rely on Google or A.I. to settle any factual disputes and before the flurry of documentaries about Woody Allen and Mia Farrow, we argued in good fun about which Manhattan building the actress Mia Farrow lived.

I, perhaps confused by the actress’s role in Rosemary’s Baby, a film shot in NYC’s iconic and yes, spooky Dakota building on Central Park West, stridently believed Ms. Farrow lived in the Dakota. Jenny insisted that Ms. Farrow lived in a different building near the Dakota but similarly had no evidence to support her argument.

My only evidence was that I had been friends with one of Mia Farrow’s sons in elementary school; though, I had to admit I’d never been invited to his home, so this wasn’t dispositive. (In truth, we were only school friends, bonded by our mutual shyness. He was the most delicate, pale creature with longish curly blonde hair that he tucked behind his ears. That boy rarely spoke above a whisper!) Other proof: I recalled sometimes seeing Ms. Farrow escort a flock of her children, including my shy friend, down Central Park West in the morning to take them to school. Since I hadn’t seen them leave their building, this proved nothing.

Indeed, Mia Farrow’s ghostly pale visage, her loopy persona and somewhat tortured, storied romantic life perfectly fit the Dakota’s gothic vibe. A quick mental scan of the more mundane buildings surrounding the Dakota on West 72nd, made it obvious to me where the actress lived. There was no way this iconic figure—the ultimate Daisy Buchanan—resided in some lifeless, generic Glenwood management building (or its co-op equivalent!) (Note: maybe a much needed re-reading of the Great Gatsby, a book not read since high school, would reveal that’s exactly the type of luxe pad that Daisy’d do.)

Eventually (probably near 20 years after our initial debate), Jenny and I found the answer—no doubt by reading something like this article. As it turns out, Mia Farrow’s residence was, as my friend had argued all along, not at the Dakota but another a building next to the Dakota. (Bullocks!) It shouldn’t have surprised me that my friend had been right. At Carleton College where we’d been roommates, our French teacher who had us in the same 8:30 am class, once told me that she enjoyed looking out the front window of her classroom each morning to see Jenny strolling casually down the path to the Language Arts building exactly on time, and then see me tearing down the same path fifteen minutes later—my backpack slipping off one shoulder and my long hair so wind-whipped that madame marveled that I could see.

Looking back, I’m amused that Jenny and I revisited this silly argument for so long without the infusion of new evidence to keep things fresh. Quite geriatric of us! What was behind our silly argument? Perhaps we wanted to wear the crown for most authentic New Yorker and felt that being right about this minutiae, could lead to coronation! As there is debate (very appropro of this post) regarding what makes someone a true New Yorker, it’s unclear which one of us would be the victor. (If sheer number of years residing in NYC matters, she would likely win because she was born and raised in the city and I was born in South Korea and brought to NYC when I was around three years old. Plus she’s probably lived in New York for more of our post college years.) I’m not sure knowing obscure New York celebrity trivia, e.g., where Mia Farrow lives, makes one a New Yorker, but I think that’s a funny measure that I would surely include in any quiz evaluating one’s New York-ness.

That said, these days it’s harder to have similar, long standing squabbles that aren’t easily resolved by an online search. Where’s the fun and mystery in that?

For your amusement hopefully, I share the following silly arguments that you can discuss with loved ones. As someone who has been more than once told I sound funny when I curse, (which is, if true, problematic because I curse with abandon), I reeled to learn that President Biden once told a friend that Barak Obama didn’t know how to say “fuck you” properly, which meant he didn’t use “the right elongation of vowels and the necessary hardness of his consonants.” Is Biden right? Is there a right way to say fuck you? Pray tell! (I’m tempted to include an audio clip of me cursing so you can tell me what I’m doing wrong!)

For the word nerds out there, I ask you to consider the record cover for Weird Al Yankovich’s Straight Outta Linwood album—an album that I realize may have reasonably slipped under your radar. Should Outta have been lowercase? (Dropping my glasses to the tip of my nose, I’ll remind you that prepositions are usually not capitalized in titles). I personally like the capitalization. I argue that since Outta is a less classic preposition than out, we can chuck our grammar rules. Whoot!

Next, please consider this truly hot-button question: if a dog wears pants, how should the pants be worn? Though I am no authority on dogs, I believe that all four of a dog’s limbs are indeed legs (two of them are in no way arms), which means that the first image below is the proper way for a dog to wear pants. My one caveat: the pants need to be stretchy and comfy if they are to be worn on all four legs. Therefore, a dog should probably not wear the cute boot cut Celine jeans that Kendrick Lamar wore at the Super Bowl Half Time show on all four legs. That’d be madness as a dog needs to ambulate and jeans, even luxe Celine ones, are likely too stiff. (See my silly drawing above of the dogs wearing Lamar’s jeans in two different ways). If the dog wants the swagger of Celine jeans (as is his prerogative), I concede they belong on his hind legs only!

It should be noted that according to a survey where 25,243 people voted, 81.1% unequivocally voted pants on the hind legs was the right way. What rot! In the words of one commenter Matt Popovich below, “how can so many people be so wrong? You wear PANTs on your LEGS, no matter how many of them you have. period.” Matt for President!

My nine-year-old daughter’s favorite silly debate that began on Twitter years ago by a a comedian named Dave, is my favorite too. If a French baguette could walk, how would it walk? According to the very imaginative Dave, the realm of possibility include the following: 1. worming, 2. galloping, 3. robot rotating and 4. caterpillaring. Dave’s poll results confirmed the obvious choice: robot rotating is the only right answer. This is a ridiculous debate! A baguette is hard and unyielding like a rock so it would tumble like a boulder down a mountain—-it’s firmness intact. Duh. Everyone knows you must consider the very essence of an object to get this kind of question right! A baguette would lose its crusty essence if it wormed, caterpillared or galloped!

Most of us have some brash, unique opinions that we defend, which allows us some pleasing levity in a world gone mad. As a fan of Instagram’s SubwayTakes, in which an affable comedian interviews passengers on the NYC subway about their hot takes, I was recently happy to hear one young female passenger explain that correcting others’ grammar was elitist and should be avoided. With some delight, I plan to tell loved ones they’re being elitist when they insist I’m flouting the rules of grammar (or pronunciation). I highly recommend this tactic because we need more conflict these days.

As I tried to compile my own hot takes, my husband and teen son informed me that hot takes are supposed to be original and at least slightly controversial. The ones I found online, are probably too widely believed/discussed to be true hot takes. You know the type of popular online controversies, e.g., can you eat non meat or even pepperoni pizza after it’s been out for many hours? (Me:yes of course. Husband: not unless you want to projectile vomit); how toasted should your toast be? (Me: a light brown shade mostly in the center. Husband: much darker, near burnt); Does the person who gets the middle seat on an airplane/train get both armrests? (Me: (seated like a queen on the thrown with both arms on both armrests): abso-fucking-lutely! It’s the one benefit of the dreaded middle seat. Husband: argghhhh!). See the below screenshot–someone’s poll about middle armrests confirms that we’re a sharply divided people. On the brink of a civil war!

I’m racking my brain and these are the best hot takes I have and they aren’t much.

1. Umbrellas are a scam. Nothing makes you look less competent and/or less fearsome than holding an umbrella. It looks particular goofy the larger and taller you are so if that’s you, wear a damn slicker with a hood and call it a day! If I may elaborate: it’s a stick with a little bit of nylon, which is easily blown away. Our feet, legs and back of body get totally drenched when we hold it up. The slightest gust of wind and rain soaks our face. It’s a reminder we are only a hair separated from cave people and their stick and stone tools. I’m ashamed to be human when I carry one of these doozies around.
2. Crayons suck, and like pennies and paper straws, should be banned. They draw and write really crappily. Sharpening them is messy and pointless. Though apparently, my daughter disagrees with me. Many years ago, the director of a private preschool gifted my daughter and all the other kids who endured an hour-long evaluative play date as part of a ridiculous admissions process, a ribbon-ed bunch of jumbo crayons. Seeing the delight on the director’s face when my daughter accepted the bundle, held it up to the light and declared, “BEST GIFT EVER!”, I was convinced she was a shoo-in. (She got wait listed).
3. This is probably too serious a topic for a hot take but I’ll throw it out. Autistic people should be allowed to flap and stim freely. Walking on toes (absent real physical problems that could bring) is kind of adorable. Plus I had a friend who was a model in high school who used to walk on her toes off the runway and no one bothered her. It’s cruelty to tell them to stop and make them conform to neurotypical ways. (Note: Neurotypicals aren’t doing so great these days.) Consider all the coworkers who shake their leg, twirl their hair, crack their knuckles, pick their cuticles or worse in boring meetings and we don’t dare reproach them. Let people be.
4. Two truisms: Elon Musk is a bad guy and he is autistic. But he is not bad because he is autistic. I’ve heard/read folks say that his autism explains his cold, rational disregard for humans that has been evident in his decision making to date. But this is a disservice to autistic people. I know from being a parent of an autistic teenager and knowing many autistic people through him that it is a myth that autistic people lack empathy. Many of them do. (Elon is a rotten outlier.)Side note: Tesla Cybertrucks and the creepy Tesla Bots that were seen carrying Kim Kardashian’s shopping bags are grotesque. I love a good robot but why do these have to look so much like Storm Troopers? (That combined with Musk’s Nazi salute are deeply unsettling). I’m not the only hater. The other day an old, fedora-clad man on Central Park West and I bonded over our mutual distaste for a parked Cybertruck. His words as he watched me give the car the stink eye in passing, “An absolute atrocity, right?“ Indeed. If I had spray paint and I was a less timid person, it would have been fun to draw Keith Haring-style cartoon phalluses on that stark death mobile.
5. Ice skating is the worst sport to do. The cold. The sore ankles. The feel of ice seeping into your gloves after you fall. Worst yet, is the the potential treachery to your fingers when you fall down on the ice and a wild teenage boy inevitably tears across the rink—-his blades inches from your outstretched fingers. Those dreadful lines and how the labor involved with lacing your skates does not mean you will experience an iota of physical comfort. Your feet are in perpetual revolt as they balance unnaturally on a thin blade and get numb from cold. Unless you are a pro skater, skating doesn’t offer the euphoric rush that skiing does and there’s usually no cozy lodge to escape to. Stop the madness! Gut Wollman, Bryant Park and Rockerfeller rinks and turn them into affordable housing, novel green spaces and art galleries for undocumented and/or trans artists who particularly need to be heard these days.
6. Don’t get me started on roller skating. (Okay, get me started.) Years ago before having kids, I found myself in a ratty little Florida town with my in-laws and husband—itching for something fun to do. The vision of a roller rink off a bleak stretch of highway got me thinking of my teen years when I enjoyed skating. Minutes later—my husband and I laced up—I announced that we were going to have a couples skate. How sweet. To my horror, the minute my husband hit the floor with his tightly laced skates, he fell in such an inopportune way that he broke his leg in four places and required six months of recovery and two surgeries to set him right. He is now part metal!Seeing him being lifted off the rink floor by two kind, burly security guys as he stoically and rather miraculously bore the pain in silence, gave me real insight to my lifelong partner. Nary a grimace crossed this soldier’s face! Apparently, his injuries were of the sort that should have produced a searing, mind-altering pain that would reduce any sentient human to a sobbing baby. But he was so stoic that when he went to the nearby emergency room, the professionals there almost released him without taking one x-ray! So don’t do this over the age of 30 friends unless you are super athletic and your bones are naturally bouncy. That roller skate is a an unexpected bear trap —one wrong twist in that tight, high contraption and you are doomed.

What are your hot takes? I’m dying to know.

xoxo CMCA