I was drinking in Williamsburg, always a masochistic move for anyone that is tired of the way hipsters have consumed certain parts of Brooklyn. I know that it is EXTREMELY tired to complain about hipsters. They are a part of life in this city, like train delays and urine on the sidewalk. It shouldn't be a problem if some art school dropout wants to dress like a moron, my personal fashion history isn't exactly above reproach, but what always gets me is how their numbers seem to double each summer, like some kind of vermin that doesn't have a natural predator. (Potential natural predators for hipsters will be discussed in a later blog entry. Please send ideas for things we can introduce into the ecosystem)
In any case, I grew weary of the place I was drinking in, its suffocating crowd of effete, bearded jagoffs and girls with a limited understanding of their own potential to create body odor. I decided to head home.
I stopped for a pack of cigarettes and ran up the stairway to the entrance of the Marcy Ave J station, only to find that I had no fare on my metrocard. The train was pulling in and there was no way to buy a fare at this entrance, and it was a full-sized turnstyle (unhop-able).
People unfamiliar with NY transit may not know that there is an emergency door at every subway exit now. Someone from each arriving train invariably uses it to get out because they are carrying things or turnstyles are too pedestrian for them. This sets off an alarm that I am certain the MTA designed to make token booth clerks retire and avoid the fights with the union over laying them off.
Anyhow, I was pissed at missing the train so I decided to balance the universe out by waiting until someone used that emergency door, and going in behind them.
Now...I used to live by this stop. Well, my sister did and I lived on her couch, but that's another tale for another day. Point is, I knew there was a transit cop booth right there by that entrance. At least I knew that on every day that I DIDN'T try to beat a fare.
Three chubby, white cops amble out of it, the booth is so small they would have had to really like each other to all hang out in there, but cops making out isn't as funny as I think it is.
"hey buddy, hold up" the first says.
"ok, you got me" I know when I am got. I could outrun cops in my prime, but never did cause I was just as big a puss then as now.
They do the casual surrounding bit, in case I change my mind. I hand over my license.
"why'd you do that?" one asks, finding my well planned out crime hilarious.
I explained my bitterness over not having a fare. Because I like to sound mature and responsible for my actions.
I explained that my license was from NJ because I lived there for a bit and changed it over to take the police exam, which is true. One asked "why not NYPD?" I explained that I have no college credits, a requirement in NYC but not Jersey City.
Maybe this would get them to feel bad for me. I am a man too ignorant for the NYPD.
Then the radio check comes back. Apparently a man with my name has attempted murder warrants in NJ. For a few seconds, my heart stops and I see all the ways in which my life is about to change. I try to think what qualities I would appreciate in a man who would own me until one of us dies or pays our debt to society.
Then it's determined that man is of a different race. They then get a call of someone menacing passengers on a train farther down the J line. I am let go and half-heartedly admonished to buy a fare next time. They didn't even make me go abck out and buy a metrocard. Basically I rode for free and got a free background check.
Had I been a brother, this would have gone down about nine kinds of different. But I took advantage anyway, didn't I? Makes me feel dirty. Well, dirtier
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Please be kidding, news media
This is the end, I say, the END of childhood as any of us know it. This article speaks for itself, but I will rant about it anyway.
http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/innovation/06/11/video.playdate/index.html
Video play dates. Really. Because we aren't raising ENOUGH of a generation of technology obsessed, sunlight deprived, carpal tunnel-having little moppets.
I am not actually raising any of them, but since it takes a village, I feel like I should be able to opine on how the rest of you are rearing your little pork-pot pie shaped children.
The end result of this crap, besides the cell phone tumors and burned cornea's from too much screen gazing, is that we will have children unaware of human interaction, children that fear the outdoors and shun physical activity.
What with the preceding generations lighting the way towards sedentary, corpulent lifestyles, Max Brooks' allegory comparing us to cattle is increasingly apt, both species being "Fat, listless, and ready to be eaten"
Now, that could be by Zombies, as the illustious Mr. Brooks has warned us in his books, or the Canadians, as they migrate south as their own food sources dry up, or more in a figurative sense by the Red Chinese.
Either way, we done.
http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/innovation/06/11/video.playdate/index.html
Video play dates. Really. Because we aren't raising ENOUGH of a generation of technology obsessed, sunlight deprived, carpal tunnel-having little moppets.
I am not actually raising any of them, but since it takes a village, I feel like I should be able to opine on how the rest of you are rearing your little pork-pot pie shaped children.
The end result of this crap, besides the cell phone tumors and burned cornea's from too much screen gazing, is that we will have children unaware of human interaction, children that fear the outdoors and shun physical activity.
What with the preceding generations lighting the way towards sedentary, corpulent lifestyles, Max Brooks' allegory comparing us to cattle is increasingly apt, both species being "Fat, listless, and ready to be eaten"
Now, that could be by Zombies, as the illustious Mr. Brooks has warned us in his books, or the Canadians, as they migrate south as their own food sources dry up, or more in a figurative sense by the Red Chinese.
Either way, we done.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Psychoneuroendocrinology
This isn't exactly a word. It's the word given to the collaborative efforts that the various kinds of brain doctors (Neuroscientists, psychiatrists, phrenolgists) engage in so that we can better understand the giant pile of gray gunk that is making you want to alternately eat sugar, kill your husband, or TiVo programs you will never watch.
The term seems to have been coined specifically for the use of the International Society of Psychoneuroendocrinology, previously known as the Syllable Fan Club.
This is their journal http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/homepage.cws_home
The site is so damn science-y I had to watch an episode of Beakman's World twice just to bring shit back down to my level.
The term seems to have been coined specifically for the use of the International Society of Psychoneuroendocrinology, previously known as the Syllable Fan Club.
This is their journal http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/homepage.cws_home
The site is so damn science-y I had to watch an episode of Beakman's World twice just to bring shit back down to my level.
Caffeine: the convenient alliance
Woke up today before my alarm. I lay there til the thing went off and filled my modest home with depression-era jazz, as played by Columbia's radio station. (they play a great variety of music, and of course, no commercials, check 'em out http://www.studentaffairs.columbia.edu/wkcr/) I felt like I had a great night's sleep.
I got up and made myself egg whites, whole wheat toast and turkey bacon. Face got washed, eye gunk was removed. I lit a candle and left three droplets of blood on my shrine to Kali, who's indulgence allows me to continue my work, per the agreement we made which I am not at liberty to discuss.
I packed a bag (watching my cousin's place in the city for the next four days) and promised myself a great morning.
Was not out the door four seconds before I was dizzy and sleepy. I could have made a bed on the pile of breadcrumbs my neighbor leaves for the pigeons, perhaps knocking out one of the flying disease rats and using him for my pillow. I soldiered on, but this raised a disconcerting thought.
Am I just inherently lazy? Is it not just my attitude, but even my physical disposition to seek rest when I have had plenty? Is it genetic? There were people that had already bicycled fifty miles or wrestled a lightly sedated alligator by the time I shuffled out the door, yet I almost can't be bothered.
I haven't drank caffeinated beverages regularly for months. Long story.
Fell off the wagon today. I am finishing a large iced coffee as I write this, and I can here the strains of Lou Reeds 'Heroin' as I sink into the gentle lull before blasting into the fifth dimension. In a moment, I will be able to see time and touch sound.
Way to get old, body. Way to need chemicals.
I got up and made myself egg whites, whole wheat toast and turkey bacon. Face got washed, eye gunk was removed. I lit a candle and left three droplets of blood on my shrine to Kali, who's indulgence allows me to continue my work, per the agreement we made which I am not at liberty to discuss.
I packed a bag (watching my cousin's place in the city for the next four days) and promised myself a great morning.
Was not out the door four seconds before I was dizzy and sleepy. I could have made a bed on the pile of breadcrumbs my neighbor leaves for the pigeons, perhaps knocking out one of the flying disease rats and using him for my pillow. I soldiered on, but this raised a disconcerting thought.
Am I just inherently lazy? Is it not just my attitude, but even my physical disposition to seek rest when I have had plenty? Is it genetic? There were people that had already bicycled fifty miles or wrestled a lightly sedated alligator by the time I shuffled out the door, yet I almost can't be bothered.
I haven't drank caffeinated beverages regularly for months. Long story.
Fell off the wagon today. I am finishing a large iced coffee as I write this, and I can here the strains of Lou Reeds 'Heroin' as I sink into the gentle lull before blasting into the fifth dimension. In a moment, I will be able to see time and touch sound.
Way to get old, body. Way to need chemicals.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Arctic RUSH!
Ah, Antiperspirant. When I was just entering the early stages of being a man that could smell bad, I remember reading with bemusement the label on the back of my Speed Stick. "If you experience a rash or allergic reaction, discontinue use."
I imagined the man who was allergic to deodorant. His choice was between being repellent and being dead and some days, it had to be a close call. He would have at least intermittent stank issues until the end of his days. Or he would have just become a hippie.
I wasn't laughing after this Arctic Rush Right Guard entered my life. It's a 'sport' antiperspirant, you see. I go to the gym now. I'm working up a bodanky sweat on the regular. I think I have some kind of athletic body, until I am standing naked, next to an athlete (that happens a lot now, thanks to this stupid gym thing) So of course I needed the accessory, the anti-perspirant that shoves lesser products onto the pavement on the way to the cafeteria. Only it burns now, my armpits are looking like I wipe them with low-grade sandpaper.
I was using the one in my gym bag for weeks, so I think it's only the stick in my bathroom. It's tainted. I bought it at the sketchy Walgreens in my neighborhood. The kids working there are fifteen and know just how little they are making, and wll cuss you out accordingly. There is a security guard that carries a 9mm. Someone is always arguing with the cashier that the bank just told them their debit card had enough for a pack of cigarettes. This is where I am buying my toiletries. These are the places, among the hapless and marginalized, that conspiracies happen. Someone wants to see what happens when poisonous Right Guard is introduced to the masses.
Or maybe its the aluminum. These things have aluminum right? Do I remember that they debunked the connection of aluminum to Alzheimer's, or am I making it up because I have Alzheimer's?
It would explain why I thought this would be a good thing to write about.
I imagined the man who was allergic to deodorant. His choice was between being repellent and being dead and some days, it had to be a close call. He would have at least intermittent stank issues until the end of his days. Or he would have just become a hippie.
I wasn't laughing after this Arctic Rush Right Guard entered my life. It's a 'sport' antiperspirant, you see. I go to the gym now. I'm working up a bodanky sweat on the regular. I think I have some kind of athletic body, until I am standing naked, next to an athlete (that happens a lot now, thanks to this stupid gym thing) So of course I needed the accessory, the anti-perspirant that shoves lesser products onto the pavement on the way to the cafeteria. Only it burns now, my armpits are looking like I wipe them with low-grade sandpaper.
I was using the one in my gym bag for weeks, so I think it's only the stick in my bathroom. It's tainted. I bought it at the sketchy Walgreens in my neighborhood. The kids working there are fifteen and know just how little they are making, and wll cuss you out accordingly. There is a security guard that carries a 9mm. Someone is always arguing with the cashier that the bank just told them their debit card had enough for a pack of cigarettes. This is where I am buying my toiletries. These are the places, among the hapless and marginalized, that conspiracies happen. Someone wants to see what happens when poisonous Right Guard is introduced to the masses.
Or maybe its the aluminum. These things have aluminum right? Do I remember that they debunked the connection of aluminum to Alzheimer's, or am I making it up because I have Alzheimer's?
It would explain why I thought this would be a good thing to write about.
Et tu, Baconator?
Why do they make it delicious? Why would a young girl with innocent red pigtails use her freckled mug to sell something so delicious, so addictive, and so effectively lethal?
It is a Wendy's on Fulton St. and Nassau in the Financial District. I stop there sometimes after work if I am feeling low, ostensibly to cheer myself up if the workday didn't go so well. This is a lie that I tell myself. Nothing here could cheer anyone up, aside from the occasional drunk that has had to pee for three days and managed to sneak into the rest room (I use that term because people do, in fact, rest there. Sometimes for extended periods).
The local crackheads make it their business to keep at least two guys on duty there on six hour shifts, occasionally asking diners for change but mostly just sitting there ensuring that the whole place smells like human waste.
There are six tables for me to choose from. The downstairs and upstairs dining room are always roped off. I believe it is to lend these areas a air of exclusivity, like there will eventually be a man with a filthy suit on, only letting in the vagrants that have the right connections . My first instinct was that it's a device to keep these room from needing regular cleaning, but that kind of thing isn't really emphasized here.
I can't get it 'to go' because I don't want to be holding food on a crowded J train, with a white a paper bag advertise my puerile eating habits. Also, I got the Baconator, the double Baconator.... because I obviously came here to kill myself, and I should at least have the pleasure of consuming the agent of my demise while it is still warm and gooey rather than soggy and congealed.
As per usual, I made it about halfway through the delicious, repulsive, greasy ball of death before reflecting that I have made a grave error, and that these are not the actions of a man with reasons to live, nor of a man with loved ones. I have both, Ghost of Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy's and community activist! What wicked group of chemicals did you synthesize that cause me to forget how lucky I've been???
Anyway, I finished the meal without school kids picking a fight with me, and took the train the whole way without my body punishing me for my terrible meal choice. It was kind enough to wait until I was home.
Pray for me, as I may not have long.
Teach your children to love green beans.
It is a Wendy's on Fulton St. and Nassau in the Financial District. I stop there sometimes after work if I am feeling low, ostensibly to cheer myself up if the workday didn't go so well. This is a lie that I tell myself. Nothing here could cheer anyone up, aside from the occasional drunk that has had to pee for three days and managed to sneak into the rest room (I use that term because people do, in fact, rest there. Sometimes for extended periods).
The local crackheads make it their business to keep at least two guys on duty there on six hour shifts, occasionally asking diners for change but mostly just sitting there ensuring that the whole place smells like human waste.
There are six tables for me to choose from. The downstairs and upstairs dining room are always roped off. I believe it is to lend these areas a air of exclusivity, like there will eventually be a man with a filthy suit on, only letting in the vagrants that have the right connections . My first instinct was that it's a device to keep these room from needing regular cleaning, but that kind of thing isn't really emphasized here.
I can't get it 'to go' because I don't want to be holding food on a crowded J train, with a white a paper bag advertise my puerile eating habits. Also, I got the Baconator, the double Baconator.... because I obviously came here to kill myself, and I should at least have the pleasure of consuming the agent of my demise while it is still warm and gooey rather than soggy and congealed.
As per usual, I made it about halfway through the delicious, repulsive, greasy ball of death before reflecting that I have made a grave error, and that these are not the actions of a man with reasons to live, nor of a man with loved ones. I have both, Ghost of Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy's and community activist! What wicked group of chemicals did you synthesize that cause me to forget how lucky I've been???
Anyway, I finished the meal without school kids picking a fight with me, and took the train the whole way without my body punishing me for my terrible meal choice. It was kind enough to wait until I was home.
Pray for me, as I may not have long.
Teach your children to love green beans.
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