Special Christmas Edition
Christmas morning 2005:
Kali: Sweet. Starbucks!
Me: How come I didn't get a Starbucks gift card?
Kali: Hehe, loser.
Mom: Oh, I don't know. I guess I wasn't sure that you have them up there.
Me: Mom. I live in New York City. I'm pretty sure there's a Starbucks in my bathroom.
Mom: Well, I didn't know that. You know, it makes sense though. Every time I see a picture of those Olsen girls in People, they have a Starbucks cup in their hand.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
Awkward...
I didn't write a lot of notes in high school, or very much bad poetry in middle school, but it's always fun to come across what I've saved from that time. The notes are good for nostalgia purposes, and the poetry, while horrible, was never made public, so it doesn't really bother me. There was, however, this one time in elementary school...
This is a case in which the writing itself is unimportant, because what really mattered was the subject matter. This isn't some pathetic poetry that I put into a notebook and never showed to anyone or a painful love-letter, it's something I thought was so amazing that I needed to share it with the entire 5th grade at Cool Spring Elementary.
I moved around a lot when I was little. I went to 9 elementary schools by the time my parents divorced when I was in the third grade. The combination of constantly being the new kid and my parents seeing no need to actually put me around children my own age basically made me into a social retard. I couldn't identify with other kids and was painfully shy.
I discovered early on that reading was a great way to stay busy and not talk to people (not to mention that it looked like you didn't care that they weren't talking to you). My parents loved the fact that I read a lot because it kept me out of their hair. I had no problem getting money to buy more books.
One day, in the 5th grade, I'm at a bar with my dad and I ask him for book money. He orders another beer and gives me a ten. I go around the corner to the drug store and buy a book. I go back to the bar, sit back on my stool and start reading. The book is really good.
Around the same time, we have a project in school. We have to pick a book and write a short play based on it. This was elementary school, so the "play" was only supposed to be a page or two long. My friend Steve did his on Freckle Juice.
Well, the book I was reading was so amazing that I had to use it. I started writing. And I couldn't stop. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I held casting sessions with confused-looking classmates during recess. I made copies of what turned into an 11-page epic and gave them their scripts. Then it was performance day.
We performed our scenes in front of not only our class, but the neighboring 5th grade class as well. I was excited. My play was amazing and I knew everyone would love it.
We started the play. The main character was Missy, a pretty, popular high schooler. She had a dreamy boyfriend and great friends with whom she had giggly sleepover parties. Then Missy was murdered.
My attention to detail in my writing meant that one of my 11-year-old classmates enacted putting a log onto another of my classmates to ensure that she would drown in five inches of water. Steve Chose a Judy Blume book. I chose Missy's Murder, a true crime book about a girl who was beaten and drowned by her best friend.
I remember looking around and seeing the uneasy, fearful looks on my teacher's and classmates faces. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that I had been so caught up in my own head that I had completely misjudged the situation. This was clearly not my time to shine.
This is a case in which the writing itself is unimportant, because what really mattered was the subject matter. This isn't some pathetic poetry that I put into a notebook and never showed to anyone or a painful love-letter, it's something I thought was so amazing that I needed to share it with the entire 5th grade at Cool Spring Elementary.
I moved around a lot when I was little. I went to 9 elementary schools by the time my parents divorced when I was in the third grade. The combination of constantly being the new kid and my parents seeing no need to actually put me around children my own age basically made me into a social retard. I couldn't identify with other kids and was painfully shy.
I discovered early on that reading was a great way to stay busy and not talk to people (not to mention that it looked like you didn't care that they weren't talking to you). My parents loved the fact that I read a lot because it kept me out of their hair. I had no problem getting money to buy more books.
One day, in the 5th grade, I'm at a bar with my dad and I ask him for book money. He orders another beer and gives me a ten. I go around the corner to the drug store and buy a book. I go back to the bar, sit back on my stool and start reading. The book is really good.
Around the same time, we have a project in school. We have to pick a book and write a short play based on it. This was elementary school, so the "play" was only supposed to be a page or two long. My friend Steve did his on Freckle Juice.
Well, the book I was reading was so amazing that I had to use it. I started writing. And I couldn't stop. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I held casting sessions with confused-looking classmates during recess. I made copies of what turned into an 11-page epic and gave them their scripts. Then it was performance day.
We performed our scenes in front of not only our class, but the neighboring 5th grade class as well. I was excited. My play was amazing and I knew everyone would love it.
We started the play. The main character was Missy, a pretty, popular high schooler. She had a dreamy boyfriend and great friends with whom she had giggly sleepover parties. Then Missy was murdered.
My attention to detail in my writing meant that one of my 11-year-old classmates enacted putting a log onto another of my classmates to ensure that she would drown in five inches of water. Steve Chose a Judy Blume book. I chose Missy's Murder, a true crime book about a girl who was beaten and drowned by her best friend.
I remember looking around and seeing the uneasy, fearful looks on my teacher's and classmates faces. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized that I had been so caught up in my own head that I had completely misjudged the situation. This was clearly not my time to shine.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Random Conversations with Family Members #5
Thanksgiving Edition:
Dad: Happy Thanksgiving!
Me: Happy Thanksgiving to you too.
Dad: So, I'm watching the Thanksgiving day parade on TV. Are you down there?
Me: Oh, hell no.
Dad: No?
Me: I cannot emphasize enough the amount of "hell no" involved in that.
Dad: Yeah, I'm watching those girls with the short skirts and I'm thinking, "are you out of your mind?"
Me: Yeah. It's like two degrees here and rainy and awful. They are not having fun.
Dad: So what are you doing today?
Me: Having dinner with friends.
Dad: Oh, that sounds good. I just talked to Andrea and wished her a happy Thanksgiving.
Me: That's nice.
Dad: Yeah, so I've done my kid duty. You can all go to hell now.
Me: ...You're a terrible parent.
Dad: Happy Thanksgiving!
Me: Happy Thanksgiving to you too.
Dad: So, I'm watching the Thanksgiving day parade on TV. Are you down there?
Me: Oh, hell no.
Dad: No?
Me: I cannot emphasize enough the amount of "hell no" involved in that.
Dad: Yeah, I'm watching those girls with the short skirts and I'm thinking, "are you out of your mind?"
Me: Yeah. It's like two degrees here and rainy and awful. They are not having fun.
Dad: So what are you doing today?
Me: Having dinner with friends.
Dad: Oh, that sounds good. I just talked to Andrea and wished her a happy Thanksgiving.
Me: That's nice.
Dad: Yeah, so I've done my kid duty. You can all go to hell now.
Me: ...You're a terrible parent.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Last Comic Riding
I haven't been sleeping very well lately, so when I got on the train to go to work this morning, I was tired, cranky in general, and pissed specifically at the fact that it's only fucking Tuesday. So when I got on the packed express train at 96th street and I saw a homeless guy pushing his way through the car, I was not pleased.
I was listening to my Ipod, but unlike the Dominican hood rats who insist on turning up the volume of their Now That's a Shitty Excuse for Music: Volume 47 up to "sweet Christ, how can a pair of earbuds at the other end of the car make me feel like Reggaeton lives in my brain?" I could still hear what the bum was saying.
"So, where do you all think you're going? To work? You ain't going to work!"
Fuck. I am not in the mood to hear about the Zionist conspiracies or the perils of sharing a train with a bunch of circumsized people (an actual subway rant from a few weeks ago).
"You ain't going to work. Don't lie to me. I see you here every morning. You just ride back and forth. You ain't goin' nowhere." You're just ridin' the train 'cause you're jealous."
What?
"You're jealous because you pay 18, 19 hundred dollars a month in rent, and your apartment don't go nowhere. I pay two dollars and my apartment goes all over the city."
Wait a second, is he--
"I got everything I need. I got seats, air conditioning, I even got a stove. Third rail, man. That's hot!"
Yep. He sure is. The bum on the train is doing stand up.
"Yeah, I live on the subway. I live on the subway 'cause I'm hidin' from my wife. Oh, you may say that I'm not a man because I ran away from my wife, but you've never met my wife. She is three hundred and eighty-nine pounds, man! She wears size 69 jeans. She unbuttoned her pants for me and nine stomachs fell out. She tells me, 'babe, my stomach hurts.' I say, 'which one? Number 3 or number 9?'"
At this point, we get to the 72nd street station.
"Man, look at all those people out there. They're gonna come in. I bet they won't even knock. They just gonna come in and sit down like they own the place."
After the people from 72nd street get on, he welcomes them into his home and continues his shtick. When this whole thing started, the people on the train reacted the same way I did--which was basically just pretend to ignore him, and dear God, do not make direct eye contact. About halfway to 72nd street, it morphed into about half of us giggling to ourselves, but still trying not to attract attention or look directly at him.
By the time we were approaching the Times Square station, he had most of the car laughing openly and gladly giving him money. As he left us to finish our commutes and fantasize about creative ways in which we can kill our co-workers and still have it look like an accident, he left us with one final request:
"All right, everyone. Be safe out there, and please pick up your papers and your trash when you leave. I got company coming over later."
I was listening to my Ipod, but unlike the Dominican hood rats who insist on turning up the volume of their Now That's a Shitty Excuse for Music: Volume 47 up to "sweet Christ, how can a pair of earbuds at the other end of the car make me feel like Reggaeton lives in my brain?" I could still hear what the bum was saying.
"So, where do you all think you're going? To work? You ain't going to work!"
Fuck. I am not in the mood to hear about the Zionist conspiracies or the perils of sharing a train with a bunch of circumsized people (an actual subway rant from a few weeks ago).
"You ain't going to work. Don't lie to me. I see you here every morning. You just ride back and forth. You ain't goin' nowhere." You're just ridin' the train 'cause you're jealous."
What?
"You're jealous because you pay 18, 19 hundred dollars a month in rent, and your apartment don't go nowhere. I pay two dollars and my apartment goes all over the city."
Wait a second, is he--
"I got everything I need. I got seats, air conditioning, I even got a stove. Third rail, man. That's hot!"
Yep. He sure is. The bum on the train is doing stand up.
"Yeah, I live on the subway. I live on the subway 'cause I'm hidin' from my wife. Oh, you may say that I'm not a man because I ran away from my wife, but you've never met my wife. She is three hundred and eighty-nine pounds, man! She wears size 69 jeans. She unbuttoned her pants for me and nine stomachs fell out. She tells me, 'babe, my stomach hurts.' I say, 'which one? Number 3 or number 9?'"
At this point, we get to the 72nd street station.
"Man, look at all those people out there. They're gonna come in. I bet they won't even knock. They just gonna come in and sit down like they own the place."
After the people from 72nd street get on, he welcomes them into his home and continues his shtick. When this whole thing started, the people on the train reacted the same way I did--which was basically just pretend to ignore him, and dear God, do not make direct eye contact. About halfway to 72nd street, it morphed into about half of us giggling to ourselves, but still trying not to attract attention or look directly at him.
By the time we were approaching the Times Square station, he had most of the car laughing openly and gladly giving him money. As he left us to finish our commutes and fantasize about creative ways in which we can kill our co-workers and still have it look like an accident, he left us with one final request:
"All right, everyone. Be safe out there, and please pick up your papers and your trash when you leave. I got company coming over later."
Monday, November 06, 2006
Random Conversations with Family Members #4
These are their stories: Chung Chung!
Me: There are a lot of gay people who are moving into my neighborhood, but it's still primarily Dominican.
Kali: The Mexicans and the Dominicans don't get along.
Me: ...okay. Well, there aren't really any Mexicans around here, so we haven't really had a problem.
Kali: They rape each other.
Me: What?
Kali: With forgeign objects.
Me: Uh...
Kali: And it punctures their colon.
Me: I...
Kali: And it leaves splinters.
Me: I have no idea---
Kali: Because it's a plunger.
Me: Ohhh.
Kali: And then they bleed out on the floor three hours later. And it's awkward.
Me: Yeah. I saw that one. That was the prison one, right?
Kali: Yeah. Ashley invited some Mexican guys from her work over to my apartment. But they don't speak English very well, so they haven't found the place yet.
Me: That sucks.
Kali: Yeah. Hey--what if you brought Dominicans down with you. That would be crazy.
Me: Kali, I don't think you want people to get raped with foreign objects in your apartment.
Kali: Yeah, that would be weird.
Me: Yes...weird.
Kali: Ooh! But then I'd get to meet Benson and Stabler!
Me: Yeah, I can't talk about this anymore.
Me: There are a lot of gay people who are moving into my neighborhood, but it's still primarily Dominican.
Kali: The Mexicans and the Dominicans don't get along.
Me: ...okay. Well, there aren't really any Mexicans around here, so we haven't really had a problem.
Kali: They rape each other.
Me: What?
Kali: With forgeign objects.
Me: Uh...
Kali: And it punctures their colon.
Me: I...
Kali: And it leaves splinters.
Me: I have no idea---
Kali: Because it's a plunger.
Me: Ohhh.
Kali: And then they bleed out on the floor three hours later. And it's awkward.
Me: Yeah. I saw that one. That was the prison one, right?
Kali: Yeah. Ashley invited some Mexican guys from her work over to my apartment. But they don't speak English very well, so they haven't found the place yet.
Me: That sucks.
Kali: Yeah. Hey--what if you brought Dominicans down with you. That would be crazy.
Me: Kali, I don't think you want people to get raped with foreign objects in your apartment.
Kali: Yeah, that would be weird.
Me: Yes...weird.
Kali: Ooh! But then I'd get to meet Benson and Stabler!
Me: Yeah, I can't talk about this anymore.
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