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 10-4-02 Walking Down Canal Street, Going Door to Door
Wow. Busy, busy. I have a lot to say, so it's going in list form. I apologize for my laziness. First, a few open requests:
1. To the plumbers who so thoughtfully occupy my bathroom between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. every day: Listen, I leave myself exactly eight minutes to get ready in the morning. That does not allow for me to run around frantically looking for spare mirrors and alternate places to brush my teeth. If you could disappear from 10:32 to 10:40, I will gladly compensate you with home-cooked takeout, or alcohol. Not money, though. I don't have any.
2. To the garbage in the kitchen: Do you have any idea how far I have to carry you to get you to the dumpster around the block? Of course you don't, so I'm not angry with you, but kindly stop smelling so bad. Thanks.
3. To stairs: Go away. All of you.
4. To the people in the apartment above me: As I'm sure you're aware, you rearrange your furniture every night at four in the morning. It doesn't keep me awake or anything, but ... why??
5. To my friend Joey: In the future, call me back. I realize you're high for 90% of your life, but when it takes you two weeks to return messages, it makes me nervous. Cut it out.
6. To my landlord: You're weird. Could we make some sort of compromise wherein our friendly interactions do not exceed 20 lines or 2 minutes, whichever comes first?
7. To women everywhere: Please, please, please stop cockblocking me. I have enough trouble with this crap as it is without you jumping all over my careful selection, as it were. And more specifically to The Girl In The Back Row Who Likes to Attract Attention To Herself (And Consequently Away From Me) By Yelling Out Intimate Details Of Her Masturbation Habits: I hate you.
That's all the requests. Here's some overdue thank you notes, which are of no interest except to those involved. Feel free to skip.
1. To Josh and Jessie: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Despite the catastrophe caused by Girl In The Back Row, that was the best weekend of my life.
2. To Anus and Mary: I love you guys. That was one hell of a pep talk. Now if only it wasn't for Girl In The Back Row ...
3. To The Ex: I just realized I never thanked you for breaking up with me. You had the balls to do something I couldn't, and I admire you for that. You still suck though.
4. To Steph: Thanks in advance for taking out the garbage. (hint, hint)
Phew.
Before I start, I'd just like to say that I know how corny this is, okay? I know that. But I had kind of a moment today, like a really good high, and I'm still coming down. So here goes.
Have you ever woken up in the morning, rolled over in your bed, looked at your alarm clock, and thought, "There is absolutely no reason for me to get up today." You know you have things to do, but they just don't seem important enough to merit the slight discomfort it would cause to get out of bed and get dressed. I had a day like that today. But I knew that with the plumbers hard at work (yes, they came back), I wouldn't be able to sleep any longer anyway. So I dragged my ass out to the subway and went to class, and as I sort of went through the motions of a typical Wednesday, I just felt a little off. Something was bothering me, and I didn't know what it was, but I had a nagging feeling that I wasn't going to be able to hack it here. I'm five hours away from a city I love. I've met some new friends, but obviously after three weeks I'm not terribly close with any of them yet. The workload seems insurmountable. One of my roommates has already bailed, and the other might do the same in December. And I sat in the back of a lecture hall, and I thought, Am I insane for giving this an honest try?
Then, late this afternoon, my visual arts class was meeting at the Fogg Museum in Cambridge. So I hopped on the T and stepped off in Harvard Square. I walked out of the station into a tiny little corner with a few coffee shops and bookstores, a couple of benches set up, and right in the middle was a pair of street musicians. They were two older men, one playing guitar, the other singing into a mic. About twenty feet away, there was another guy sitting on the curb, playing guitar and humming to himself, and around the corner, there was another. In Harvard Square, that's not at all unusual, but there was something about the three of them playing together that made me stop. They weren't together, they were all playing different songs, but for some inexplicable reason, it all fit, and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
I started to leave for the museum, and I literally couldn't do it. As soon as the musicians were out of earshot, I turned around and walked right back. I sat down in the middle of the square for about two hours and just listened. I didn't smoke, I didn't pull out a book and start reading. I just listened. And the weird part is, I was actually on the verge of tears -- okay, I was in tears -- which is something that hasn't happened to me in maybe five years, and which would have been extraordinarily embarrassing if it hadn't been mostly dark out. So after a couple of hours, I got up, threw a twenty in the guitar case, and came home.
I guess the point of this story is, I feel different now. Yes, it's stupid, but I really do, and I know I can do this, and I know I can enjoy it too. I promise I'll be back tomorrow with some rant or other, but for now, I'm just ... good.
Yeah, so, uh ... we don't have a bathroom. No bathroom. None.
I can hear you now (especially you, Fitz): "So what? Why are you wasting valuable bandwith to tell me about this?" Well, if that's what you're thinking, I'd like you to go away for a weekend, spend five hours on a bus and another in a cab to come back home, and find that over the past few days your apartment has been ransacked by plumbers. I'd like you to walk into your place of residence and find that they've installed some pretty new walls and floor tiles, but have utterly forgotten such luxuries as a shower, toilet, etc. ... items that were most certainly there when you left. I don't know if these plumbers care that the three of us now have to pee in a paper cup in our bedrooms and pour it down the kitchen sink, but they suck. Suck, suck, suck.
Also they left all of their equipment and a ridiculous amount of sawdust all over our living room, which I can't be upset about because at least it means they intend to come back. Or maybe not. Maybe they were just trying to get rid of some old junk. I don't know. At any rate, they didn't come back today, so it looks like a night at the Best Western for me. I'm pissed off. Fuck.
Have you ever done something so stupid that you found yourself itching to kick your own ass? While it's a little too ... too to describe, I am now secure in the knowledge that I've done the Stupidest Thing Ever!, short of running through Bed-Stuy naked holding a wad of fifties in front of my face. Lord, I piss myself off sometimes.
So, I'm twenty, and that means two things: (1) In seven months and eight days, I'll be able to actually walk into the sports pub across the street that I've been wistfully eyeing, and (2) I'm too old to have fun anymore.
Okay, that's an obnoxiously dramatic overstatement. But I spent this weekend at Skatefest in Worcestor, and I realized that not only am I ridiculously out of touch at this tender age, but I get annoyed by people who aren't. It's sad. You spend your entire adolescence trying to weasel out of your parents' rules (and their house), and then once you do, there's no challenge left and you slowly start to figure out that everything you were trying to do is ... well, it's kind of dumb.
Eh. Whatever.
Anyway, I'm taking a creative writing class, and our first assignment was to sit in a coffee shop or a bar, eavesdrop on conversations, and write down anything interesting. From this experience, I discovered that interesting is hard to come by. I'm not going to put you through the excruciating word-for-word, but here's what I learned:
A lot of young women think their significant others are cheating on them, without having any real basis for it.
Married couples don't have real conversations. "What time is the reception?" "Did you pick up that suit from the cleaners?" "Oh, you know what? We need flour." Lord. And people ask me why marriage scares me.
Girls between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one talk bout the finer points of Buffy the Vampire Slayer way more than is necessary. They also seem to think that their breasts are a topic for lengthy discussion. Why, I will never know.
All attached women think their boyfriends are cheap.
Men like to talk about balls.
I hope this has been educational. It certainly was for me.
Long time, no internet. But I'm back, I'm here, and ... I miss New York. I knew this would happen. Boston, you're a wonderfully unique and vibrant city, but you're not Manhattan. If New York is the city that never sleeps, then Boston is the overly enthusiastic friend who jumps up and down high-fiving everyone saying "Hell yeah, man, let's DO this!" then craps out at around midnight. "Aw shit dude, I just remembered I have to get up early tomorrow. No, I mean, I'd totally hang with you guys but, you know ..."
So, a couple of things about Beantown. First, it's really windy. I mean, holy shit. Second, it's small. You can start walking west from the waterfront and hit the other end in forty-five minutes. That creeps me out. Third, the Irish mafia is quite friendly. And persistent. (Long story. Rather than read a transcription of the whole thing, watch the movie "Monument Ave" and throw me in the mix somewhere.) And finally, subway stations smell like pee no matter where you go. It's a universal truth.
Well, I'm burned out and intoxicated, but I wanted to sign in and let y'all know that I'm back in business. And that the former tenants of my apartment are fucking pigs. (It's one thing to lose a few hairs in the drain. It is quite another to use your hair to destroy the goddamn plumbing.) I'm off to try to fix the dishwasher. Again.
All righty, kidlets, I'll be without the internet for a few days whilst I get my shit in order at the new apartment. I've been rendered temporarily insane between packing, laundry, and friends who don't understand that no, I do not have time to stop at a couple of head shops, but yes, I'll go anyway because I'm an idiot. Stop calling! Save me from myself! AAAAHHHHHHH!!!
So, you're relocating? Leaving everything you know behind and taking off, past the safety zone into the void of the unknown and unfamiliar? Starting fresh, with an uncertain future and a useless past? For the third time? Why the hell would you want to do that?
Well, maybe you're like me, and you realized that you haven't really given yourself a substantial opportunity to fuck up your life as of yet. If you're in the same boat, here's a quick outline from an experienced mover as to how to make the situation as smooth and painless as possible. After selecting your new place of residence and assuring that there is no one already living in it, you'll want to allow yourself about a week prior to the moving date to get yourself in order.
Day 1. Make a mental checklist of all the things you'll need to pack. Decide to start with kitchen items today. Realize your best friend Anus is leaving for Tampa tomorrow. Decide to go out for drink with her; you will begin packing upon return. Return at 5:29 a.m. Figure you're probably too tired to start packing now. Get in bed. Toss and turn for four hours. Make sandwich. Take Percoset.
Day 2. Sleep.
Day 3. Glance at calendar -- you now have five days to pack. That's cool. You're cool. You're very cool. You'll start today, but first you need to buy a few toiletries. Make extensive list: soap, shampoo, cigarettes, candy. Remember that you only buy soap from Weleda store in Spring Valley, and that you only buy this soap. Cross soap off of existing list and make second list -- "SOAP" -- for Weleda store only. Put lists in purse. Watch Comedy Central. Look at clock. Okay, Weleda is closed, but CVS is not. But ... if you can't go to Weleda, then why make two trips to get all your shopping done? Decide to shop tomorrow. Realize you need to go to CVS to get cigarettes anyway. Go to CVS, but for some inexplicable reason, only buy the cigarettes. Receive phone invitation to barbecue. Promise self that you will begin packing upon return. Return at 6:10 a.m.
Day 4. Sleep until you have missed the last trace of daylight. Drag self out of bed and swear a lot. Assure self that you stink, and that you'll never get this crap done because, well, you stink. Suddenly realize that landlord doesn't even know what day you're moving in. Panic. Consider calling him. Watch Comedy Central. Look at clock. Oh. Well, you can still pack. Force self to sit in middle of floor and look at all your things. Cry. Day 5. Finally call landlord. Feel proud that you actually accomplished something. Realize that once you move, you'll be without the internet for a while. Wonder if you care. Decide that you probably don't, but that you'll be dangerously behind on Something Positive. Force self to go shopping. Buy everything on both lists, plus a package of unmarked newspaper to wrap dishes in. Receive phone invitation for help packing. Feel incredibly guilty; you should have been done by now, you twat! Decline. Receive alternate invitation to shop for furniture. You hadn't planned on buying furniture until after your move, but hell, it can't hurt to look for something practical, like a lamp. Return at 2:21 a.m. with bonsai tree. Realize you have no fucking idea how to pack it.
Day 6. Cry.
Day 7. Do laundry, pack, and load up car. Was that so hard?
This doesn't have anything to do with apple pies or summer skies. They rhyme, and that's funny. You know, I realized I haven't been pumping you kids up with enough helpful domestic hints. So, uh ... here's one.
Hey, are you a pansy? I know I am. If you can panse with the best of 'em, then you need this drink! It's sweet, it's fruity, it's bright frickin green. It's a Pearl Diver. That name probably contains some sort of sexual innuendo that I'm not picking up because I'm one shot away from Ted Kennedy. But here it is, and damn is it tasty.
In mixing glass, combine with ice:
3/4 oz coconut rum
Top with:
Shake well. Pour into chilled cocktail glass. Add cherry. Drink. Repeat 0 - 14 times as needed.
She's PAID, baby!!
That's right, I'm up-fucking-graded! (And way too excited about it, apparently.) So, no more banners. Plus I can slap as much shit on this little bitty page as I damn well please. Now, who says money doesn't make you happy? Hurrah!
Nothing. Buncha assholes.
I felt obligated to bring this up, even though I have very little, if anything, to say about it. The "freedom of speech" argument has already been driven into the ground. Ditto for the "Catholic church covering for molestors then blowing up over this thus making them hypocrites" discussion. So, in the eloquent words of Ethan and Joel Coen, fuck it.
Was their little event sleazy? Yeah, probably. Then again, so was their entire show. I'm not going to pretend that they were revolutionaries ahead of their time; they're a couple of dudes from Long Island who like pissing people off. But damnit, they had their place. I'll really miss being able to turn my brain off on weekdays from 3:00 - 7:00, but with a little luck, they'll be back soon. So to Opie, Anthony, Norton, Rick, Steve, Stinky, Psycho Mark, and everyone else I can't remember, I give you my finest WOW. Salut! ...
Phew. Oh, in case you were wondering, yes, that is as serious as I get. Sorry.
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All this crap (c) Me, even though it's just meandering, self-serving bullshit.
