of cabbages and kings

As tradition dictates, like annual return of the Flatback sea turtle to her natal beach to lay her eggs, or the cutting of your wrists when you hear Dashboard whine on the radio, I sit here, blogging away with a nice imported Brazilian beer condensing onto my credenza (note: I don't actually own a credenza, nor do I really even know what a credenza is. I just really like how that word reads. It makes me sound all sophisticated. Like I might also own a leather bound copy of Don Quixote and have a smoking parlor somewhere in my house...). And, like the migratory patterns of the Semipalmated Sandpiper, my journeys this weekend have been long, and have taken me to the figurative topics of this great creation aptly entitled "life."

I have basically decided that the copy machine in my office is one of the greatest pieces of machinery to handle paper ever invented. Save fabricating you little origami cranes or making those stupid paper chains of a deformed child (because you know they always came out with tiny little legs and one arm that was huge like he was trying to high five a Woolly Mammoth or something) It does anything you want, from stapling to collating to hole punching to printing on both sides in various methods of page turning. It even prints on A4 paper. No one this side of Greenwich Mean uses A4 paper. And if you hit the right sequence of buttons, I'm pretty sure it'll even make you one of those fortune tellers that was all the rage in 4th grade. Your future's looking better already.

The whole point of this rambling description of technology is that, as expected, a mechanized wonder as complex as this has a tendency to get bogged down when dealing with the puny pieces of paper it does. I mean, this thing could photocopy a bear if you were so inclined. It's basically a low grade cloning machine. Anyway, when this thing breaks, repairing it (usually a matter of removing the offending pieces of paper) is like fixing the Hubble Space Telescope. You have to open a hatch, turn a handle, slide out what essentially amount to the machines organs, and then pull open like six different compartments to figure out what exactly has gone wrong. Fixing it reminded me of when they disconnected the Hal9000 in 2001. I half expect the machine to start trying to convince me to stop. And don't even get me started on putting toner into this beast. Yesterday, the black cartridge ran out and replacing it was like loading torpedoes into the tubes of the USS Omaha. Open a flap, flip a lever, put in your new cartridge and then lock it up tight. I felt like the Russians had just launched a few birds at Washington and we were striking back like in those simulations at the end of WarGames. Missiles be flying everyone, son! Up periscope!

Moving away from the fascinations of the utterly mundane in my office (it's been slow for a while and I'm really stretching thin to entertain myself), found myself once again obliterated this past Friday. There are a few good moments that ultimately string together to form a hilarious night's tale, but there are a few standouts.

First, I hopped the turnstyle to the PATH trains into Jersey, not because I didn't have any money (although I'm pretty sure at that point I didn't because moments after getting of the train I used my credit card to buy a single cheeseburger at McDonald's, I just hadn't realized it yet), and not out of a disdain for everything related to Jersey (which is also true and reason enough never even to go there, let alone pay to go there). My reasoning was simple, yet elegantly fabricated. I had already paid for an unlimited monthly Metro card, so either I'm going to use that to pay for my ride to Jersey, which I can use as many times as I want, so pulling a fast one on the system doesn't save or loose anyone money. Or, if I can't use my Metro card (which I don't think I can for the PATH trains), I'm just not paying for it. And while that sounds unnecessarily rebellions at my age when you read it at first, like Jackson Pollock, let me paint you a picture of the disorder that was going on at he time. I couldn't even make my way down the stairs to the station without falling, let alone hold the mental capacity to find a kiosk, buy a ticket, and use it in the properly designed manner. Basically it worked out better for all parties involved (myself and the turnstyle).

Secondly, while at the aforementioned McDonald's, Luke, one of my friends from Cornell who was down in the city for the weekend, stumbled drunkenly up to the intercom (I guess at 3am you aren't allowed inside the McDonald's establishments in Jersey and have to order through an intercom like you're in the future ordering a large number 4 from mankind's deep space outpost). He then proceeds not only to apologize to the poor woman working there at 3am for being so boisterously intoxicated, but then proceeds to ask the two people around us how to say "I'm sorry I'm drunk" in Spanish... assuming, based on life experience of course, that everyone who works in a McDonald's speaks Spanish. A natural conclusion to come to in America frankly. I guess you sort of had to be there to find this as hilarious as I did.

Finally, speaking of assumptions you make in America, while doing my business at the urinal in The Patriot bar in the financial district, a gentlemen of questionable mental facilities, most likely severely depleted by 6 dollar pitchers, starts telling me how much he, a Puerto Rican, loves America, shaking my hand more than a few times during our exchange of inebriated camaraderie, a hand which had, moments before, been clutching his whizzing wiener. After he finished espousing the merits of this great country of ours, while still evacuating his waste, he humbly mentioned that there were a few things that he didn't like about America, more specifically, things he didn't like about New York City, mainly, black people. I'm absolutely dying as he's telling me all this, and thank God I was standing in front of a piss receptacle because if I wasn't, I probably would have soiled myself twice over. It was one of those "I can't believe this just happened to me" exchanges that I hope will make it into print somewhere in the world, just so that when the entire electronic information infrastructure of this planet is inevitably razed, this story will survive that horrible catastrophe that will undoubtedly plunge us into a period of turmoil and tragedy that will be a dark age of mythic grandeur. It will become part of the paltry legacy we, as a species, will still hold true and will be an educational tool of the histories, not only for us, but for whatever beings discover our planet on interstellar archaeological expeditions. Over dramatic, I know, but seriously, it's entirely possible.

Alright, the obscurity of the late night is calling my name, and, since I have to make yet another consulate run for more visas, waiting with, what I can only hope to be the members of of some kind of mass Biblical exodus of all the Chinese people in America, I must depart. But remember, just because the sign says you shouldn't do it, doesn't mean it won't still be funny to see you do it. Au Reviour, mes enfants.

the 1982 Eurovision Song Contest...

all creatures great and small

Is it a problem that I'm boarderline too lazy/tired to eat? I really don't want to cook anything because I'm so tired from working a 10.5 hour day today, and the pajama pants that I sport so devilishly can't really be removed at this point to venture outside to pick something up. Plus, I just cracked open a Sam Adams Honey Brown, which can't be carried in toe as I scavenge for victuals. Unfortunately, because that would make my quests in life all that more interesting. Is it also wrong that I seem to always be drinking beer when I post? So many of life's questions must remain unanswered.

As I have no real "holy shit!" stories to tell tonight, nor have I gotten drunk since the weekend (always brimming with hilarity), I have to take this time to talk about side-quests I have experienced in the Final Fantasy style of life I have begun to lead (for those keeping score, I just reached level 16, defeated Ekinox in a dice game and acquired his fragment of the Canibite Stone... I keep my game ghetto...). Like the 7 collectible KFC chicken buckets sponsored by NASCAR (available for a limited time only), alone these anecdotes are pretty impressive. But together, they paint a true picture of who you are inside. In the case of the chicken buckets, probably an overweight Republican who probably also owns a "Big Mouth Billy Bass"... sitting regally above the aforementioned buckets, displayed with pride aloft the fireplace mantle. Presented in semi-chronological order...

Pray: Shortly after I moved into my room, I noted that around sunset, I could hear some noise wafting in through the window from the neighborhood around me. At first, I had no idea what it was and, originally, chalked it up to the large amount of drugs I've done in my day or, maybe, one of the voices I hear decided to go Broadway on me. But, as I listened closer, I realized that there must be a mosque nearby, because it was the Islamic call to prayer, signaling that the daily ritual had begun. It might not seem really significant to most, but for some reason, I actually think this is one of the coolest things that I've ever heard. I mean, I've been privy to a bevy of the religious wonders of other cultures (most notably Tibet, an experience I will never be able to describe), but I've never really been a part of something like this. Sure, I'm not Muslim, nor would I ever even begin to claim an understanding of their unique spiritual privileges. But, just by being privileged in my own right to hear something like this, it translates into a surreal sense of global unity, that all around the world, uncountable masses hear this call and find in themselves the same sense of awe inspiring simplicity of routine that I, too, find here, even as I, myself, am not a practitioner of the faith. Maybe this song resonates so powerfully at this moment because it is not happening in a realm outside my own. I was so in awe of the sights, sounds, and smells that I experienced in Tibet as a tourist wandering through the opaque surroundings of Buddhism. But this is something happening right outside my own door. It's more tangible simply by proximity. Or it might be that I haven't eaten anything yet tonight and I'm on beer number three as I write this.

The Great Mouse Detective: Sunday afternoon I was coming home on the train after a night of heavy substance consumption. As I was waiting for my train to arrive, I noticed a rat, foraging for food among the tracks. Granted, I was kind of stoned from my wake-n-bake session that morning (side note: a lot of my stories and revelations come when I'm under the influence... problem?). At that point I began, with lack of anything else to do, to ponder the life of a subway rat, and the adventures that he must have, and if he is even aware that his life is so out of the norm from most other sectors of life (save the other sewer rats he cavorts with). He ducked between ties, hopped one rail and squeezed underneath another. His paws felt out a path through the festering moisture of the track floor, stopped to ponder, and perhaps partake, of the perception of a particularly edible looking morsel of, what we would deem, detritus. After a few sniffs, he scampered off. Up. Under. And then he was gone... disappearing underneath the platform... off on another caper.

On the Train: I was on the train to work the other day, and, as routine dictated, we stopped at Jay Street, a change-over station to get onto the A line. Before I delve firmly into this story, I must preface with a disclaimer, or rather, question: have you ever experienced an event that was so confusing you not only had to query whether or not it actually happened, but it might have just changed your perception of reality itself? Well, that is this kind of moment in life. As far as I can recall (now, this may be inaccurate to the true happenings as this story should confuse you too) we pulled up to the station, slowed, stopped, and the doors opened. After a few souls departed, they closed. They then proceeded to open again and, like the heard of wildebeest stampeding away from the hyenas in The Lion King, a whole throng of people suddenly lurched out of the car and scampered across the platform to a waiting A train. It was as if either someone had let out a putrid fart inside the train, or someone had just announced there were free dime bags of fresh Colombian white on the corner, but I have never seen a mass of people transition from static into full flight as fast. Nor was there any apparent cause for them to suddenly tear from their stationary state. It was confusion.

Good Boy: Relaxing on the train today, leaning suavely against the door connects one car to another. You know, the one that proclaims you must not traverse through, really only serving to tempt you, knowing there is a way to unexpectedly saunter into the other car, but refusing to heed to your inner desires. A middle aged man of non-descript description got onto the train, carrying with him one of those mesh pet bags designed so you can carry your dog around like an over sized lunch box (regrettably, with no matching Ninja Turtles thermos). He placed it between his feet, paying it no more heed as he stole a few moments to catch up on the printings in the day's newspaper. However, as I watched, a silent observer mildly wrapped up in the distractions of my iPod, the beast inside awakened and began nosing around his confinements. Eventually, he sleuthed out the precise location of the egress to his imprisonment. After a few moments of gentle nuzzling and then frantic pawing, he shot his head out of the bag and began barking in wily proclamation of his calamitously devious success. It was only at this moment that others took notice of the pertinacious pooch and his owner coaxed his head back in the back and securely zipped up the offending flap. I found it hilarious that with such tenacity a dog found a simple joy in liberating himself against seemingly insurmountable misfortune.

So there you have it. Four stories that I hoped entertained. Moreover, I hope served as fine examples for why you should leer that extra few minutes at the seemingly innocuous in your life. The good stuff is happening all around you. Keep your game tight, folks.

do the freak spank...

super brooklyn

My first full weekend in The City was essentially a series of happy surprises, like finding one of those freak two-in-one McNuggets in your combo meal, thus netting you 11 delicious, fried, all white meat chicken bitelets instead of the expected 10. And anyone who knows anything knows that unexpectedly free food is the greatest victories man can achieve over society next to letting out a silent but deadly in a crowded area and getting someone else blamed for it. A petty, but no less important, success story in life.

For starters, I'll set the stage that between the hours of 8:00am Friday and 1:30am Sunday morning, I spent a grand total of two hours in my abode in Brooklyn. Yeah, I am that cool and I want you to marvel at it. After a wonderful first week of work (sure, worthwhile tasks have yet to bubble up and break the the barrier formed by the mindless, tediously repetitive tasks I perform that lackadaisically congeal, like the skin that forms on the top of tapioca pudding left uncovered for too long, on the doldrums that was my job last week.) But it's actually not so bad. Somehow I manage to enter a Zen-like state when I'm working, and after I arrive, before I even know it, it's time to get lunch and then only a few more hours until it's time to punch out. I guess when you don't really have anything tangible to focus on at work, you don't focus on anything tangible which would lend itself to regular demarcations of time. But enough about work, because the good tales, lie elsewhere.

So after a few rounds of drinking before the sun went down, the Gods threw me a series of events which could only happen when you start drinking before the sun goes down. Down at The Patriot (Church and Chambers for those curious) I wandered myself outside after a few mugs of $6 pitchers to smoke a cigarette. This absolutely hammered guy wanders out to do the same (I know how everyone says that smoking will kill you, but at the same time, people who don't smoke are missing out on a certain demographic of society that is hilarious to interact with). Anyway, I quickly find out that this guy is Irish, largely because of his accent, which provided a real hurdle in our conversation, as not only was his accent thicker than booty the heart of Harlem, but he was absolutely hammered... and I'm talking European hammered, which is a whole ethos of hammered in and of itself.

In the span of less than 10 minutes (or however long it took me to smoke my cigarette) these are the subjects we covered, largely in chronological order (note: anything in quotes is something he said, which must be read in an gregariously heavy Irish accent out loud in are in a dense public area. If you are not in a dense public area, write these down and save them for later. The goal of this exercise is, hopefully, to offend someone around you): "I like your shirt. You have nice eyes. I'M NOT GAY! Are you gay!?!" Our respective paths in life (he studied to be a veterinarian... been doing it for 20 years... hates his life). Identifying types of cars that drove by. The finer points of Bob Dylan's musical stylings and why rap is the worst noise ever produced (specifically the flow of acclaimed rapper 50 Cent). How a man stands and walks. After finishing my smoke and trying to get inside, he grabs me right after we walk in the door and pulls me up to a table of women sitting just inside. "I don't know these people... which one do you want?" he sloshes out of his mouth, with a gleam of hope that we can tag team this table and come away with some spoils. While his attention was diverted, I managed to slide my way past his fermenting impulses and wish him a good night. Later, I saw him slouched over another table reading palms and buying rounds. It was only at this point I realized the true utility hidden, like the DuckTales toy in a box of Froot Loops, within this man and wished I had stuck through the ramblings of a drunkard. I could have had some free beer at the end of that story.

Prior to that, however, was a moment which will stay with me forever. But not in that touching, "Lifetime: television for women" kinda way, but more in that "voodoo curse the village shaman in Equatorial Guinea hexed you with because you swallowed the snake lungs before Chief Melumbo did" kinda way. And it was not so cool, because it was an unfortunate surprise, and that is just uncalled for. One of the bartenders came over and asked us if we wanted a free shot. Of course we did. What a redundant question. That's like asking "do want to not get strangled today?" Useless. So we make out way to the bar to pick up our shots. But, like soothing song from a Jack-in-the-Box, behind there lurked a creepy clown waiting at the most inopportune time to jump out and scare the crap out of us. As we raise our glasses, the bartender screams out, "Hey, check out these!" and breaks the emergency glass on her bra and reveals to us her chest. Now, I'm sure most of you out there, guys and girls alike will say "DUDE! FREE BOOBS!" (or, if you play Warcraft, "d00d, fr33 b00b5"). But let me just say, in my own defense of how much more horrifying this was than a double feature marathon of "Gigli" and "Glitter" on TBS, this woman must have been at least 40 but was faker than a Gucci in Chinatown. It was nothing worth seeing, although I do wish I could have a split screen view of all of our faces right at the moment she revealed her baby feeders. Because I'm sure our faces were well worth the price of admission, and then some.

Surprisingly, only a few stories from Friday night have eclipsed the time I have for this post tonight. I'm trying to keep my posts closer to the "party anecdote" side in length rather than a full length performance of Shakespeare's Henry VI. But fret not, my Gobstoppers. I've started a running list of things that, like my signature on that menstruating cunt's divorce papers, I need to get down on paper as fast as possible. But until such a day.

neck face on a brooklyn roof...

gather 'round kids, it's story time

So, as I have some time to kill (read: I'm a little too lazy right now to get myself to the store across the road and buy something for dinner... plus, The Man is keeping me down and won't let me carry my beer in tow as I go shopping), I thought I'd let you know what's been poppin' on the streets down here in NYC, mostly because I know you are dying to find out how I'm doing. I'm just that damn important.

So I started work this week. And I'll let you in on a little secret: the spine-shattering pace of the life of an unpaid intern never ceases to thrill. But rather than tell you, let me show you. I've been in command of the most highly classified, ultra-sensitive tasks that will surely have the NSA kicking in my door before the week's through and telling me to grab a mouthful of floor or risk getting three in the chest.So far, I've filed the business cards recently collected by the Vice President into what could possibly be called the least understood, least efficient way of organizing anything in the history of things that needed to be put in a semblance of order. This thing is less organized that an African democracy. I've made copies, sent faxes, and researching bios for speakers at an event coming up in July. Oh and I've also been put in charge of emailing news articles about China around to the rest of the office every morning. Which is pretty fun actually, because China is guaranteed to provide at least one hysterical "Oh, China... what are you thinking..." article every day. So far it's been the proposed introduction of compulsory waltzing in schools to combat obesity and 5 stolen babies (alive, don't worry) found in the back of a stolen car when it was stopped at a tollbooth. You really couldn't make this kind of stuff up.

Basically, I'm now a practitioner of skills that a trained monkey could probably master... or not even trained. I mean, if he wasn't trained he'd probably throw poo at people in the office between tasks. But, seriously, who says that the office wouldn't benefit from a little fecal matter strewn about here and there. I think it would take, bringing a little whimsy to the place. In all fairness though it's only day three, and it's at least a mildly interesting way to pass the daylight hours. Although if hard pressed, I probably could come up with a few more things that I'd rather be doing... watching the Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel comes to mind immediately. Better yet, staring in the Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel. Me battling the Bering Sea on the hunt for Alaskan King Crab... I'd fish that bitch like there was gold doubloon on that ocean floor and I got to keep it all.

Living in Brooklyn is shaping up pretty nicely so far. Don't have a roommate yet in my double and I don't expect that I ever will, which works out great for me because it means I can walk around naked and do all the things that I secretly want to do but can't when people are around (taking a dump with the door open tops that list). For a little explanation, I'm basically living in what is like a cross between a dorm and a hotel. I can't really explain it. If it helps your mental image, it used to be an old folks home, which explains why there's a fold out seat in my shower and safety rails all over the place. I just thought I had hit the jackpot, because let me tell you, there is no greater satisfaction in life than sitting down when in the shower, or grabbing a hold of something for a little support, moral and physical, while you squeeze out that taco dinner you ate last night. Been cooking for myself, which actually makes me really happy for many reasons. For starters, I love cooking. Secondly, it sort of fully hit me yesterday when I was shopping that I can officially eat whatever I want. If I want cherry pie for dinner, I can go and make myself cherry pie. If I want to substitute dinner for beer, "Go right ahead, boy" cheer the masses in my head. In the short, life is good and I haven't run into any problems yet. I haven't really met anyone else in the building so far, but that doesn't seem like a problem yet. Like the Atlantic "Chain-Link" Moray eel, I will wait in the shadows for my prey to come to me. (Note: I spent way to long researching that joke and anyone who actually follows up on that will realize that it's inaccurate. The Atlantic "Chain-Link" Moray eel doesn't stalk its prey like that. Only the Saw-tooth Moray does.)

So there you have it. My story so far. I also want to let you all know (well, most of you that is... the rest of you know who you are) that I have an empty bed in my room and if anyone ever finds themselves in the BK area, or The City for that matter, let me know, and I can show you the true meaning of the words "Domino's Brooklyn Style Pizza". Anyway, my drink is dry and my stomach is empty, which means that I either have to go grab myself another Warsteiner imported German pilsner, or I have to rustle up some grub for dinner. I'm thinking the former. Take care, kiddies.

unknown number...

everyday is an adventure

So as I sit here in my palatial Brooklyn estate, I have officially decided that New York City provides too many spectacular social sightings that, like a fart after a healthy night of Taco Bell, I just can't seem to hold in. So, heeding to the backhanded request of many of my associates, as I sit here, sipping on some Red Stripe in the short, stubby bottle, eating my gourmet feast of grapes and deli meat for dinner, living the life of a true bachelor, I share with you a few stories from my first days here in what can truly be called, the "City That Never Sleeps." Come into my world, won't you?

I arrived in New York City and one of the first things I saw after getting on the subway after disembarking my train from Boston were two guys throwing down some Electric Boogaloo style break dancing moves. They walked onto the train toting their ghetto-blaster radio, dropping some Afrika Bambaataa and the Zulu Nation, and, in probably the smallest space I have ever seen someone do a one-handed Turtle, turned all the men green with envy and their prowess and made all the ladies wet with desire. Next to David Blaine encasing himself in a block of ice for 3 days, this was one of the greatest spectacles I have ever seen. It was a fitting introduction to the sights and sounds I will undoubtedly run into in this wonderful land I have found myself in.

On Sunday, I found myself wandering around Manhattan, originally trying to find out exactly where I would be working. But, like the call of an all night titty bar, I couldn't resist the temptation to explore what was going on around me... in great detail. So I started walking down 23rd Street, only to find myself smack in the middle of a Filipino street fair. I have never happened upon such an exuberant celebration of national pride since that time I accidentally stumbled upon those Nuremberg Rally tapes in my neighbor's basement. Those German's really knew the meaning of the world "unity". Anyway, this festival was pretty swank, as urban celebrations go. As the rain softly fell on the corner of Madison Avenue and 23rd Street, rappers dropping hot beats made you want to throw one hand up in the air like you were part of the click, grooves from a few dance troops made you want to go Elvis on your pelvis, and guitar licks from rock bands made you want to head-bang like Bevis and Butthead. There are a few things I must say, having set the stage like the Key Grip on a movie set. There is no denying a few simple facts: Firstly, Filipino women are hot. Undoubtedly so. Secondly, Filipino food is delicious. Mmm, mmm good.

However, the greatest moment of this festival was not an obvious "God DAMN!" moment as you would expect, but, rather, one man, who will never know that he provided me with one of the most hilarious candid moments I have ever seen in my life since that time I was in China and saw a baby pooping on the street. During a performance by some rock band, this huge Filipino guy, one would could possibly be mistaken for one of mythical God-creatures painted by a long forgotten indigenous culture on the wall of a cave, starter dancing in the middle of the street in the pouring rain. Maybe if he was C-walking, doing the Harlem Shake, or perhaps the Wop, this story wouldn't be as funny. However, this fool was straight up Sound of Music dancing, twirling around, arms laid out looking like he was trying to hug a tornado. It was magical for everyone involved and it actually made me smile. Kudos to you, big fat Filipino man.

I'm sure there were other stories from my days here so far, but the only other one that sticks out in my mind occurred during lunch today. I ventured out of the office to find myself a nice deli to grab a sandwich in. I walked into this place and ordered myself an egg salad sandwich, lettuce and tomatoes of course. The guy who had ordered himself a sandwich in front of me, after waiting for a while after I walked in goes, "Oh shit! Ima git me a soda!" Some careful scrutiny of the selection later, deciding on a Dr Pepper, says, "Mmm, Dr Pepper. I haven't had this since back in the day." Of course, I respond, "Damn. You're getting the full treatment today." He retorts, "Well, for an O.G. like me, I can't get nothin' less." The long and short of it is, that man is my new goal in life. Some people aspire to be rich. Some aspire to have a loving family and provide a better life for their children. I aspire to be that guy. No frills.

Well, I guess that's all I have for you tonight. I gotta pop outside to have a smoke, cuz my Red Stripe is almost dry and I'll be damned if I'll let The Man keep my party down. Keep on truckin'.

throw your rock signs in the air...