Please stop making things. Not at ten in the morning or two or eight do I ever want to see what you've done again. Please stop reminding me of the things I haven't done, don't have, and want to find. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Mama
5.26.2007
5.24.2007
Today: A Man Actually Attempts to Bring Snakes On A Plane
...in his carry on. People officially will do anything. And I can't even categorize the "anything", like: "anything you put in a movie" or "anything to get attention" or "anything to be different". People will just do anything period. Like that Sangina kid's hair, and naming your kid Rayon, and going out clubbing without underpants when you know your drunk ass is going to flash everyone in West Hollywood, and alerting the paparazzi of where you'll be so they can find you, and putting actual snakes in your actual carry on and ATUALLY believing you might board a plane. UNbelievable.
In other news...
My pillows and amazing blankets and surprises from my mom came in the mail! All of which I schlepped onto the subway at 1 in the morning after work like a true middle aged hobo. But still! They came!
I think I found the dog I want to adopt. He's amazing. I would post a picture of him here, but I'm afraid that by the time I am able to apply to adopt him, he will have been adopted. The organization has a very quick adoption rate and I won't be ready for at least the next week. Fingers are crossed. That little man is like a dream.
Fast Forward____To Tonight. Er, This Morning. I Mean, I Just Got Home From Work and It's 5:30. It's not Snakes On a Plane Guy Day Anymore. But here are some arbitrary things...
This dog, this soul-mate-dream-boat of a dog, will wait for me. He has to, right? I can't get to nowhere New Jersey for at least a week to meet him, but of God exists and knocking on wood counts, he'll be un-adopted until I get there. His name is Serge, by the way.
I realized as I was in the kitchen with a giant knife that I will always always cut apart the plastic rings from six packs. No sea turtles are going to get strangled on my watch.
Who is Murphy, from Murphy's Law fame? Either that guy had the shittiest life ever, or he bestowed shittiness onto all those who surrounded him. I do know that Murphys Law is always pretty much true, and as I examined tonight while at my hanging-on-by-a-thread job that it has always been the case that in jobs, when I screw up, the only person around who really sees it, is my boss. And no matter how many times I say "I've never done that before" it never sounds like the truth. Murphy, we've got beef.
A drunk man tonight in a festive Hawaiian shirt sat with me for a long time at the bar. And though he didn't tip me well, and spoke pretty undiscernable english by the end of the night, he said something that I wished could have been commemorated on some kind of mug or giant button. He pulled me close to him, and grabbed my arm very firmly, and said "You are the prettiest bartender in all the land". Now, let me clarify. I was not so blown away by the
"prettiest" part, because I know that's a blatant lie, or hollow attempt at flattery (if anyone can look simultaneously like a 12 year old boy, a cabbage-headed lesbian, and a drag queen, it's me) but it was the "in the land" part that catapulted me onto a higher plane of good-feelingness. "IN the land"? Seriously? It's amazing, it's like there are still princesses in pointy caps running around, and jousts at the end of the night on fancy steeds, and rolling moores that midgets and hobbits live in. Yes! I am the most something In-All-The-Land. What a majestic categorization. Hey, kind of large drunk guy, I think you just evolved the whole compliment system tonight. So thank you. (or I am too easily impressed which may or may not be the case considering the crowd at my bar).
I got home tonight and there were a couple of presumably drunk boys throwing debunked paper airplanes off of the roof. They threw one at me and shouted "come make paper airplanes with us!" And I thought, "You know what drunk boys? I think I will."
My roomates are amazing. I got home and one of them showered me with beer. The other one was sprawled out like an X on our still communal bed. They were both half naked (the heat, not the anything else). And they both like happiness, and sharing music, and hugging, and watching our out-of-control tv< and making movies, and having adventures. Though this space might still look somewhat like a crack den, at least the people in it are the kind of awesome gentlemen you can call at 4 in the morning to bail you out of jail in New Mexico, and you know they'll fly out and do it, with a slew of jokes, a case of beer, and some pictures of puppies. They're the kind of guys who, acumuatively, kind of make other boys you want to date look like lardos with 1,000s of dollars in Blockbuster fines. I don't know, maybe not that, but they're something else, that's for sure.
Hillary Duff is inspirational.
My mom is coming on Wednesday. Five days until the launch of the happiest hug of the past six months. She is the biggest little wonder that ever lived.
Now, onto paper airlanes, and pretending my friday night still has a hour or two left in it.
In other news...
My pillows and amazing blankets and surprises from my mom came in the mail! All of which I schlepped onto the subway at 1 in the morning after work like a true middle aged hobo. But still! They came!
I think I found the dog I want to adopt. He's amazing. I would post a picture of him here, but I'm afraid that by the time I am able to apply to adopt him, he will have been adopted. The organization has a very quick adoption rate and I won't be ready for at least the next week. Fingers are crossed. That little man is like a dream.
Fast Forward____To Tonight. Er, This Morning. I Mean, I Just Got Home From Work and It's 5:30. It's not Snakes On a Plane Guy Day Anymore. But here are some arbitrary things...
This dog, this soul-mate-dream-boat of a dog, will wait for me. He has to, right? I can't get to nowhere New Jersey for at least a week to meet him, but of God exists and knocking on wood counts, he'll be un-adopted until I get there. His name is Serge, by the way.
I realized as I was in the kitchen with a giant knife that I will always always cut apart the plastic rings from six packs. No sea turtles are going to get strangled on my watch.
Who is Murphy, from Murphy's Law fame? Either that guy had the shittiest life ever, or he bestowed shittiness onto all those who surrounded him. I do know that Murphys Law is always pretty much true, and as I examined tonight while at my hanging-on-by-a-thread job that it has always been the case that in jobs, when I screw up, the only person around who really sees it, is my boss. And no matter how many times I say "I've never done that before" it never sounds like the truth. Murphy, we've got beef.
A drunk man tonight in a festive Hawaiian shirt sat with me for a long time at the bar. And though he didn't tip me well, and spoke pretty undiscernable english by the end of the night, he said something that I wished could have been commemorated on some kind of mug or giant button. He pulled me close to him, and grabbed my arm very firmly, and said "You are the prettiest bartender in all the land". Now, let me clarify. I was not so blown away by the
"prettiest" part, because I know that's a blatant lie, or hollow attempt at flattery (if anyone can look simultaneously like a 12 year old boy, a cabbage-headed lesbian, and a drag queen, it's me) but it was the "in the land" part that catapulted me onto a higher plane of good-feelingness. "IN the land"? Seriously? It's amazing, it's like there are still princesses in pointy caps running around, and jousts at the end of the night on fancy steeds, and rolling moores that midgets and hobbits live in. Yes! I am the most something In-All-The-Land. What a majestic categorization. Hey, kind of large drunk guy, I think you just evolved the whole compliment system tonight. So thank you. (or I am too easily impressed which may or may not be the case considering the crowd at my bar).
I got home tonight and there were a couple of presumably drunk boys throwing debunked paper airplanes off of the roof. They threw one at me and shouted "come make paper airplanes with us!" And I thought, "You know what drunk boys? I think I will."
My roomates are amazing. I got home and one of them showered me with beer. The other one was sprawled out like an X on our still communal bed. They were both half naked (the heat, not the anything else). And they both like happiness, and sharing music, and hugging, and watching our out-of-control tv< and making movies, and having adventures. Though this space might still look somewhat like a crack den, at least the people in it are the kind of awesome gentlemen you can call at 4 in the morning to bail you out of jail in New Mexico, and you know they'll fly out and do it, with a slew of jokes, a case of beer, and some pictures of puppies. They're the kind of guys who, acumuatively, kind of make other boys you want to date look like lardos with 1,000s of dollars in Blockbuster fines. I don't know, maybe not that, but they're something else, that's for sure.
Hillary Duff is inspirational.
My mom is coming on Wednesday. Five days until the launch of the happiest hug of the past six months. She is the biggest little wonder that ever lived.
Now, onto paper airlanes, and pretending my friday night still has a hour or two left in it.
5.20.2007
A Conversation.
Stop looking at your phone. Stop looking at the time on your phone. What are you waiting for? Nothing. You're not waiting for anything. You're waiting for not nothing. Something. You might be waiting for something. You might be waiting for something, but it could be a secret or maybe you're not certain you're waiting for something, so either way you couldn't say exactly. You're also very aware of the fact that anticipation often ends up being one of the more exciting parts of journeys, and that being the case, you really should revel in it now. Yet you can't forget the want for the something to happen, or present itself, or make itself available so that you can get on with things. Though you still see yourself three months from now sitting on a train alone reviewing the subject and thinking "THIS is what I was waiting for?" But maybe you are too skeptical. Or maybe you are a realist. Or maybe you don't believe in humans. Or you don't believe in kharma. Or you don't believe in god. Or you believe in too many things and you are embarassed about it so you pretend to believe in nothing. You could keep a log of how much time you spend waiting for something to happen, and of how much time you spend enjoying that thing when it does happen. That might be productive. Or scary. Does anyone really enjoy something for as long as they spend waiting for it to happen? Stop biting your hangnails. Stop biting your nails. Stop biting. If you conducted a study of how long people wait for the enjoyment of the act versus how long they enjoy the act itself, the results might be depressing, and therefore should be left untouched. You waited to get a big new bass amp for a year and a half, very intesnsely for several months. Once you got it you were overjoyed, for a few weeks, then you put it in your room, and now it's in storage on the west coast. Maybe that is because you're ungreateful. Or maybe it's because your band broke up. Or maybe because you moved and can't ship it. Maybe the time you spent enjoying it has actually surpassed how long you waited and you just don't know because you're too preoccupied with the worry that things might be bad. You should stop thinking about it. You should enjoy your night off. And stop using the word "enjoy" so "frequently".
You should stop looking at the phone. The foreign man said there is a lighthouse somewhere in the middle of the sea. Swim, swim, swim.
You should stop looking at the phone. The foreign man said there is a lighthouse somewhere in the middle of the sea. Swim, swim, swim.
5.09.2007
Two Things for People That Want Three
Hair: Here's what I find odd. Everyone always talks about how, as you get older, you begin to lose your hair. Presumably from all parts of your body (this is true right? I think I zoned out during this part of biology class, big surprise). But what no one really addresses, which seems to be happening across the board is that, from your teenage years to presumably your 40's, you accquire hair. Everywhere. It's like your body is trying to build a nice winter coat incase you ever decide to go live with the polar bears. It's not just something that happens when you're in middle school (and for some of us much later) and boys and girls get grown up hair. It seems that as we get older, girls' bikini lines drop further down their thighs, and boys' beards slip further down their necks (and backs, but I can't go there, sorry hairy dudes). What is this mostrosity? Why does it happen? Girls say "Well, you know, the more you wax, the more grows back" and boys say "Yeah, I have a beard down to my nipples because my hair grows funny". But I don't think that's true. I think something is happening here. And while I understand that we are living in a culture that is obsessed with selective hairlessness (internet porn community, I'm looking at you) I can't find the will to rage against it. Yes, hairiness is alright and all, but the unexplainable she-staches and male shoulder hair have got to be explained somehow. Hormones, ok. Sure. But hormones, riddle me this: why can't you just stretch yourselves out over a lifetime, instead of trying to cram everything in to a couple of decades? Women who once had to wear surf shorts to the beach will one day be patchy and bald, and that will be confusing for them. No one wants to take a bald lady on a classy date. So let's start talking about this. I mean, let's put this issue out there on the table; get the dialogue going. Am I alone on this or not? And surely, if I am, now I just sound like a pervert.
Memory Beer: Don't buy memory beer. I tried to today. In my defense I have only slept about five hours in the past two days, and been working consistently, so perhaps my judgement is skewed. But instead of taking a nap this evening (those "naps" only turn into sleepless nights later) I walked myself down to my corner market to buy a snack and an evening drink. I thought it would be such a nice thing to sit at home alone for a while and drink a cold beer and browse my ever-slowing stolen internet. Good idea, right. So as I am scanning the cases of beer in the bodega where I also buy tea and cigarettes and razors and talk with my friend the counter guy who for some reason lives in Bay Ridge, my indecisiveness kicks in, and like always, I can't choose. So, just like someone comes across an old vinyl they bought when they were 14, or a t-shirt with a No Fear phrase on it, I found at the bottom of a case, a six pack of Elephant Beer. Elephant beer! How amazing! There you are! The sight of that stoic elephant with his giant ears parading proudly across the green bottle immediately made me think of my step-father, and how he used to smoke his tobacco from pipes, and listen to old Italian Polka records, and talk to the seagulls, and pet the dogs while trying to teach me about the mold that grows on french cheeses. He drank this beer. It is familiar and comforting just by association. It's like drinking Frank Sinatra's favorite drink because you know he was a classy man. My step-father most certainly is. So I picked up the beer and a lonely can of soup and came home. I'm not gonna lie, I was excited to drink it. As I get older I find myself revelling in doing the things that my parents enjoyed, and finally understanding why. But the moral of buying Memory beer, and why you shouldn't do it (if you're me I guess), is that once I was home I victoriously pulled a bottle from the cardboard satchel, excited to read the label that this great man must have read so many times, only to discover that I had just bought a bunch of malt liquor. What? Malt. Liquor. Sure, it's "imported from Copenhagen", but what are the Danish doing making malt liquor in the first place? Aren't they above that? I mean it's malt liquor for chrissake--the stuff you drink when you're too young or drunk to care. Stoic elephant or no, it's not even real beer. And I don't know if there is some kind of legitimate elephant beer out there that I just didn't find, but I will tell you that this cannot be the beer that my step-father drank. The man who fights with swords and plays the accordion. Classy people don't buy malt liquor. That's like saying that tap dancers also masturbate to the Wall Street Journal. It just doesn't happen. So while I might be drinking this "beer" anyway, and wondering why, I still don't reccomend that anyone haplessly walk through a bodega and snatch up the first drink that sparks their happy memories. Because obviously you wind up with something that is grain and water, and too boozy to be sold in bars.
So I have started to build an intricate web of lies, which will hopefully lead to making money and doing a thing I might be good at. But the lies make me nervous and sweaty. There's a rooftop party somewhere close by and I want to see it, there's a window and I want to open it, there's a hand and I want to shake it--or talk to it and see how much I want to shake it. There's a lot of sleep I want to have without sleeping.
Memory Beer: Don't buy memory beer. I tried to today. In my defense I have only slept about five hours in the past two days, and been working consistently, so perhaps my judgement is skewed. But instead of taking a nap this evening (those "naps" only turn into sleepless nights later) I walked myself down to my corner market to buy a snack and an evening drink. I thought it would be such a nice thing to sit at home alone for a while and drink a cold beer and browse my ever-slowing stolen internet. Good idea, right. So as I am scanning the cases of beer in the bodega where I also buy tea and cigarettes and razors and talk with my friend the counter guy who for some reason lives in Bay Ridge, my indecisiveness kicks in, and like always, I can't choose. So, just like someone comes across an old vinyl they bought when they were 14, or a t-shirt with a No Fear phrase on it, I found at the bottom of a case, a six pack of Elephant Beer. Elephant beer! How amazing! There you are! The sight of that stoic elephant with his giant ears parading proudly across the green bottle immediately made me think of my step-father, and how he used to smoke his tobacco from pipes, and listen to old Italian Polka records, and talk to the seagulls, and pet the dogs while trying to teach me about the mold that grows on french cheeses. He drank this beer. It is familiar and comforting just by association. It's like drinking Frank Sinatra's favorite drink because you know he was a classy man. My step-father most certainly is. So I picked up the beer and a lonely can of soup and came home. I'm not gonna lie, I was excited to drink it. As I get older I find myself revelling in doing the things that my parents enjoyed, and finally understanding why. But the moral of buying Memory beer, and why you shouldn't do it (if you're me I guess), is that once I was home I victoriously pulled a bottle from the cardboard satchel, excited to read the label that this great man must have read so many times, only to discover that I had just bought a bunch of malt liquor. What? Malt. Liquor. Sure, it's "imported from Copenhagen", but what are the Danish doing making malt liquor in the first place? Aren't they above that? I mean it's malt liquor for chrissake--the stuff you drink when you're too young or drunk to care. Stoic elephant or no, it's not even real beer. And I don't know if there is some kind of legitimate elephant beer out there that I just didn't find, but I will tell you that this cannot be the beer that my step-father drank. The man who fights with swords and plays the accordion. Classy people don't buy malt liquor. That's like saying that tap dancers also masturbate to the Wall Street Journal. It just doesn't happen. So while I might be drinking this "beer" anyway, and wondering why, I still don't reccomend that anyone haplessly walk through a bodega and snatch up the first drink that sparks their happy memories. Because obviously you wind up with something that is grain and water, and too boozy to be sold in bars.
So I have started to build an intricate web of lies, which will hopefully lead to making money and doing a thing I might be good at. But the lies make me nervous and sweaty. There's a rooftop party somewhere close by and I want to see it, there's a window and I want to open it, there's a hand and I want to shake it--or talk to it and see how much I want to shake it. There's a lot of sleep I want to have without sleeping.
5.04.2007
Dear Thank You For The Little Things That Could Be Big
Everything has changed.
You know what could make spring better? This. This that I just discovered.
The windows will be open, the boots will be on.
When it was revealed I ran around the house that is being built jumping and laughing and thinking of what I could do next.
Hey Friday, tell me what to do next. This is like a pile of dogs on my doorstep. This is like getting an unbroken foot again. This is like finding a music box you could sleep inside of. This is like a dozen beaches with aggets my great grandmother would want for the jars on her window sill.
Hey Friday, thank you. Hello spring.
You know what could make spring better? This. This that I just discovered.
The windows will be open, the boots will be on.
When it was revealed I ran around the house that is being built jumping and laughing and thinking of what I could do next.
Hey Friday, tell me what to do next. This is like a pile of dogs on my doorstep. This is like getting an unbroken foot again. This is like finding a music box you could sleep inside of. This is like a dozen beaches with aggets my great grandmother would want for the jars on her window sill.
Hey Friday, thank you. Hello spring.
5.01.2007
I Thought Of College Part One
I'm not saying I came up with every thing that's been done, but that one thing, I'm pretty sure I did that first.
Tonight it rained and rained and there was lightening, and I thought it was beautiful and I wasn't scared because I knew I had so many things to anchor me down, and I wondered if anyone ever gets struck in the city--you only hear about that in places with large open fields, which is anywhere but here, little in-between places with storm cellars and buck fifty gas pumps and women named Cherlene and one black person for thirty miles. I thought the storm was nice. And I didn't complain when I was walking home beneath it. A nice storm in April...
If you can ever realize that you're in something great while you're in it, even if it's only or five minutes, I suggest you take it in for all it's worth, because too many things are complained about and then missed after the fact. Too many people complain about college while they're there, but the secret is, you'll never be able to be so reckless again. Unless you're a millionaire, in which case, please, by all means, complain about everything. You can pay people to listen. We think college lasts for about a half a second, but I'm starting to think that it's our entire lives that happen in half a second...
I slept for almost 14 hours today. I woke up on my day off and thought I had wasted the entire thing, and then I remembered all the years I spent never sleeping much at all, and realized maybe my body was getting its payback. I owe it a lot of hours.
Some place nice to go would be Illinois or Nebraska or Montana. Something nice to do would be watch my friends play music or go ride a horse so hard like it was about to die. Something nice to see would be my room, and my apartment in completetion. Something nice to have would be some money to see my friends, and my sister and my future dog. Something nice to touch would be my future dog, and a pair of bare arms, and cold sheets, and the water in a swimming pool or a lake with a dock. Some nice things to taste would be a warm mouth, and a hot burrito, and a cool glass of wine, and an endless pillow, and a movie moment, and cheap food from a rest stop on the way to something scenic. Something nice to feel would be achievement and completion and acceptance and anticiaption and promise and possiblity and bravery and valdation and high-fives and high elevation and adrenaline and chance and summer breaks and lucky breaks and the sea and hugs from family. Something nice to know you're making it.
Goodnight little world.
Goodnight little memories.
Goodnight little happenings.
Goodnight little dreams.
Goodnight little everythings.
Tonight it rained and rained and there was lightening, and I thought it was beautiful and I wasn't scared because I knew I had so many things to anchor me down, and I wondered if anyone ever gets struck in the city--you only hear about that in places with large open fields, which is anywhere but here, little in-between places with storm cellars and buck fifty gas pumps and women named Cherlene and one black person for thirty miles. I thought the storm was nice. And I didn't complain when I was walking home beneath it. A nice storm in April...
If you can ever realize that you're in something great while you're in it, even if it's only or five minutes, I suggest you take it in for all it's worth, because too many things are complained about and then missed after the fact. Too many people complain about college while they're there, but the secret is, you'll never be able to be so reckless again. Unless you're a millionaire, in which case, please, by all means, complain about everything. You can pay people to listen. We think college lasts for about a half a second, but I'm starting to think that it's our entire lives that happen in half a second...
I slept for almost 14 hours today. I woke up on my day off and thought I had wasted the entire thing, and then I remembered all the years I spent never sleeping much at all, and realized maybe my body was getting its payback. I owe it a lot of hours.
Some place nice to go would be Illinois or Nebraska or Montana. Something nice to do would be watch my friends play music or go ride a horse so hard like it was about to die. Something nice to see would be my room, and my apartment in completetion. Something nice to have would be some money to see my friends, and my sister and my future dog. Something nice to touch would be my future dog, and a pair of bare arms, and cold sheets, and the water in a swimming pool or a lake with a dock. Some nice things to taste would be a warm mouth, and a hot burrito, and a cool glass of wine, and an endless pillow, and a movie moment, and cheap food from a rest stop on the way to something scenic. Something nice to feel would be achievement and completion and acceptance and anticiaption and promise and possiblity and bravery and valdation and high-fives and high elevation and adrenaline and chance and summer breaks and lucky breaks and the sea and hugs from family. Something nice to know you're making it.
Goodnight little world.
Goodnight little memories.
Goodnight little happenings.
Goodnight little dreams.
Goodnight little everythings.
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