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August 29, 2003
New Words
Phrases concocted over the last few weeks:
‘Cher’well- a farewell that never actually stops
‘Releasing the black anaconda back into the swamp’- pooping.
‘Meeky chunkey’- the opposite of a cheeky monkey
Posted by G at 11:54 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Great moment in Rehoboth
Posted by G at 11:52 AM | TrackBack
Tripping
That silly gypsy woman keeps haunting me. Running over gypsies is wrong, I know that. I thought she simply whispered ‘balder’ but I guess she also gave me an electricity jinx. First there were the power outages in NYC, then the curse began to follow me across the country. I was beginning to look like Kurt Russell in Escape from NY, as I followed the advice of the bubblehead at Continental’s phone system’s advice by going out to LaGuardia on Friday. She said my flight to Houston was still on schedule. Silly, silly bubblehead. Apparently she couldn’t read the alert at the bottom of the screen that said that LaGuardia Airport was on final descent to one of the circles of hell.
Texas Chris drove me out to the area, but the exit ramps from the BQE were blocked. I had to get out of the car and haul my suitcases across the exit ramp and down two terminals, only two find the Continental Swamp. This newly created swamp featured hundreds of stranded passengers strewn about like shrapnel from some kind of people grenade, flight attendants with humidity-straightened hair and glazed gazes, overflowing toilets, and NO electricity. Flights were able to land, but there were no flights leaving due to the inability to screen luggage. I felt sorry for the ladies behind the counter, as they were forced to wear outfits clearly not designed for one hundred percent humidity while being screamed at by furious customers. I encouraged them not to kill anyone, and then had to take a taxi back to Brooklyn, as cell phones still didn’t work.
Back on the phone at home with Continental, the next charming lady tried to tell me that I should try to get back to LaGuardia. I explained the situation calmly to her, and she belatedly apologized for the airline’s gross incompetence, citing mass hypnosis. I was able to get another flight on Sunday out of Newark, which delayed my arrival by two more days, but enabled me to eat tainted pasta from my thawed fridge. Forward to Newark and the next step in the gypsy curse. I’m finally on the plane, getting ready to fall asleep to the 2000 songs on my iPod. The woman next to me has already laughed with me about our harrowing escape from the dark city, when suddenly the pilot tells us that the entire radar system for the area has crashed. We’re unable to depart. Damn the gypsy curse. In order to appease the gypsy curse, I impregnate the woman next to me with a gypsy baby and successfully deliver it, thus temporarily lifting the curse and enabling us to depart.
It was very strange returning to Texas. It felt like embracing an ex-lover. Intimate, familiar, and awkward, as I had to introduce it to the new love of my life. Old habits conflicted with new habits, made evident in startling flashes. My brief agoraphobia in a giant parking lot in Houston, my awkwardness behind the wheel of a car, driving along a deserted stretch of four lane highway with the stars traversing a separate highway above me, each one isolated like me, yet not really alone. More blog entries tonight, I think.
Posted by G at 11:45 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 27, 2003
On a lighter note
Funniest movie trailer in the world
My favorite actor, Bruce Campbell. Courtesy of my super cool sister, from whom all schwag flows.
Posted by G at 09:14 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Thoughts from the road
The dread I feel regarding the impending school year is weighing on me. Part of me knows this year will be better. Part of me knows that it will be better, but that it still isn’t going to be good. Do I have the batteries recharged enough to make it through another year? Some days I feel I’m just beating my head against a rock, other days I’m certain I can be an effective teacher to kids who really need it. I would really like to have a job where I’m happy, where I help other people, and where I can be good. I will make it through this year and then decide. Life is too short to be miserable, and I have too many other skills that I could use to earn a living.
Posted by G at 09:07 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Futurama
I’ve wanted to have my palms read for ages. I don’t have any feeling that it tells my future, but I could find it shocking if it had any relationship to my actual life. In my preconceived notion of a palm reading, a mysterious woman who smells faintly of sandalwood takes my hand and slowly traces the lines along my palm. She looks up in amazement and tells me that she has no idea what my fortune is. The webs of my life crisscross erratically, my lifeline stops and starts in fits of pique, and fortune meanders randomly in minute oxbows and rivulets, overflowing their banks into my skin.
I just want someone to confirm how I’m feeling right now. Sometimes my future seems written in the stars, sometimes it seems my future is unwritten, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, terrified of dying and not affecting anything.
On the other hand, my Onion horoscope offers some comfort
:
Libra: (Sept. 23—Oct. 23)
You'll discover a great new diet that lets you eat whatever you want while ballooning up to 450 sexy, sexy pounds.
Posted by G at 08:38 PM | TrackBack
Recycling Hell
It is such a nightmare recycling in my neighborhood. I’ve been saving all the recyclable stuff, as I know the sketchy C-Town grocery store a few blocks away has a recycling center. I used to leave them out for the homeless guys to take, but now we can’t do that. How hard can it be for an educated person to take cans, bottles, and plastic down to a center? Sisyphean, actually. Texas Chris helped me carry it all down to the store, where we were accosted by the incoherent and pungent caretaker. He’s yelling things at us, rummaging through our bags, throwing things around. A homeless guy with an equally stout odor wafting from his person also approaches, nodding in approval of this first guy’s obviously professional assault on our recyclables. I think there is some kind of odor hierarchy involved in dealing with these centers, and I just need to leave this kind of thing to the homeless professionals.
Posted by G at 08:21 PM | TrackBack
August 23, 2003
Power Out
The blackout was the strangest night in Manhattan yet. I cut my stay in Rehoboth short in order to hang with Jim and Frank in DC, then cruise to NYC for my trip to Texas. Jim had to get back in order to work, so I was left with Frank. I’m not sure which is zippier- Frank or his pair of scooters. Getting on one makes me feel so young and intrepid. We roared with puny motors around DC, going into neighborhoods, weaving impudently into exclusive neighborhoods. Riding scooters is the equivalent of an insouciant child incorrectly giving you the finger. Bold, impish, and a bit silly, yet always fun. A lot of the fun has to do with playing with Frank, who is arrested at the age of wonder.
Fast forward to the scene around 4:30 on yet another Greyhound bus. The driver announces that something has gone wrong in Manhattan and all the power is out. The Port Authority is closed and we’ll be stopping at one of the magnificent rest stops for more information. Unlike anyone in NYC, we were able to watch CNN. At first, the driver was simply going to leave us near the NJ entrance to the Lincoln tunnel. Fun, but we persuaded the driver to take us along the northern route and through Harlem.
Traveling through the dark city at night was surreal. The bus was a fluorescent island of light in a dark canyon. The people around us seemed two dimensional, and the sight of a dark Times Square was positively creepy. I became friends with my neighboring passengers, and five of us negotiated our ways to various places in Manhattan for the night. One of the ladies on our bus was laughing that a lot of babies would be born on that night, with the help of some wine and some candles. A man quipped that if they were ugly, it would take more wine and fewer candles. I have to say how proud I am to live in this city. I think everyone had a valid reason to be panicky, yet everyone seemed to help each other. I finally made it to James and Barry’s place in Chelsea. We climbed up their stairs to the roof to see the baleful glare of Mars and stars invade the pink sky of Manhattan, then we went for beers.
Posted by G at 02:58 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Flags
What the heck is on the Delaware flag? I kept trying to get close to one of the little flappers, yet could never ascertain what was going on with the silly things. As far as I can tell, it has Ronald McDonald on one side of the triangle, balanced by Wendy. In the middle are the sesame seeds from a burger. Can anyone help me out with this issue?
Posted by G at 02:55 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
August 16, 2003
Hi!
We all got new names while we were in Rehoboth. Michael started it off. Drangea, Biscus, Awatha, and Alea. My name was Tide. Hi! Drangea!, Hi! Biscus! Hi! Awatha!, and Hi! Alea! Great greetings, and I was greeted with Hi! Tide!
It was a great week. No sun really. The sun would appear, we would frantically head towards the beach, but the sun would always hide once our feet hit the sand. The same thing happened in reverse as soon as we left the sand. It was some kind of cruel curse, apparently from the gypsy I accidentally ran over years ago. I thought she only did the gypsy bald curse, but I should have finished the job. Damn my lightweight Geo Metro!
I met quite a few fun sexy guys while I was there, although I was regrettably not a whore. I did go home with one guy, but it was rather disappointing. Vacations should be full of sex, but I'm happy with one that was full of partying and food. Now to lose the weight from all the bad eating.
Posted by G at 03:19 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
Hi!
We all got new names while we were in Rehoboth. Michael started it off. Drangea, Biscus, Awatha, and Alea. My name was Tide. Hi! Drangea!, Hi! Biscus! Hi! Awatha!, and Hi! Alea! Great greetings, and I was greeted with Hi! Tide!
It was a great week. No sun really. The sun would appear, we would frantically head towards the beach, but the sun would always hide once our feet hit the sand. The same thing happened in reverse as soon as we left the sand. It was some kind of cruel curse, apparently from the gypsy I accidentally ran over years ago. I thought she only did the gypsy bald curse, but I should have finished the job. Damn my lightweight Geo Metro!
I met quite a few fun sexy guys while I was there, although I was regrettably not a whore. I did go home with one guy, but it was rather disappointing. Vacations should be full of sex, but I'm happy with one that was full of partying and food. Now to lose the weight from all the bad eating.
Posted by G at 01:20 PM | TrackBack
August 13, 2003
Vacation
I did a bit of a spur of the moment trip to Rehoboth, DE. Just so you know. Pics to follow, as will my butt to DC, then back to NYC, then flying down to Houston. Then I'm over to Austin, then to Clovis, then to Lubbock, then Dallas, then St. Louis, then probably Columbus, then maybe DC. Final destinations not final.
Posted by G at 09:57 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
Tripping
I love how certain things can be misinterpreted with totally new interpretations. I’m sitting on this sketchy Greyhound bus to Rehoboth, DE with new roommate Michael. We’re doing a beach trip for a few days, a journey I’ve been looking forward to for some time. I’m discovering that Michael is as skilled about making inappropriate comments as I am. We’re going through the Lincoln Tunnel while he describes how the air in the tunnel is extremely toxic, and how people commuting on buses usually pass out while all fighting over the same foul limited amount of oxygen. He is telling this to me in the tunnel, on a bus, and I’m suddenly aware of holding my breath. The air seems fetid, and I’m wondering whether I should smother someone to stay alive.
Taking Greyhound is an experience I relish and dread. The mix of strangeness is more extreme than a subway car from Brooklyn, as it also mixes in redneck tourists and strangely sticky cushioned seats. The woman next to us appeared to be ‘Jenna Bush’ing the man next to her, her head face down in his lap. Another gay boy who didn’t make the cut for fashion consultant on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy is wearing a tie and Capri pants with flames on the bottom.
Naturally, our conversation drifted to the topic of white trash desserts. They all contain the same two basic ingredients: refined sugar and Cool Whip topping. His favorite is Ambrosia, which is always pronounced with a heavy drawl on the ‘o.’ Ambroooooozhia is made of sugar, Cool Whip, and instant pudding. This stuff is actually quite tasty, in a trashy way, as evidenced by an old friends advice. “Always use high quality Cool Whip non-dairy topping, as the other brands just ain’t as good.” Yes, Cool Whip is actually a premium brand.
Ever since I was first introduced to Furrs cafeteria, I’ve personally loved Millionaire Pie. Furrs is the trashiest pleasure around, especially on a Sunday senior citizens discount day. Table upon table, row upon row of cranky old folks, loading up on prunes and jello salad. Sheer magic, and I love every dish there. Macaroni and cheese, chicken fried steak, fried okra, and Millionaire Pie. The ingredients are sugar, Cool Whip, butter, some eggs, and pineapple in a piecrust. I’m describing this confection to Michael, and he misheard my description. He thought I said ‘Million Hair Pie.’ Wild pantomimes and theatrics ensued. Needless to say, when rolling around from laughter, do not roll on the floor of a Greyhound bus.
Posted by G at 09:55 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
August 08, 2003
Cravings
I think I'm going to have to take up smoking. I know there are a few minor downsides to the habit. Sure, there’s the fatal cancer thing, the morning lung butter, and the breath of death. Mayor Bloomberg hasn’t really improved the image by forcing them all outside like hoarse beggars. It’s an expensive habit that keeps nasty bodegas open and profitable.
I wouldn’t do it because of peer pressure, market branding in movies, or because I’m rebelling against my parents. The reason is much more twisty. I joined JD for dinner the other night, and one of his friends was wearing this enormous cowboy belt buckle. Back in Texas we called them “redneck logic deflectors.” This friend of JD’s is obviously not a cowboy, so I was totally ready to mock him. I comment on the buckle, ready to open a can of whup because I hate when people wear cowboy hats, etc. without ever being near a horse. I am gasterflabbed when with a snap and a flourish, he detaches a zippo lighter from the center of it. What kind of devilry is this?!?!
I was like a Neanderthal with his first exposure to fire. I basically jumped up on the table, started shaking my arms about, hooting in excitement over this ‘magic.’ The ones in the link are much tackier, if that is possible, yet I’m seriously craving one. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on one of the spiffy electric zippo lighters for some time, as I want to take it apart, but this new idea seals the deal for me.
Posted by G at 04:39 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
August 06, 2003
Sigh of Relief
Since last Thursday, I’ve just been in an odd semi-vacuous mental state, not to be compared to my normal spacey state. After completing all the horrific Calculus II, geometry, and education classes of the summer, I had absolutely no real desire to write, compute anything mathematical, or even ponder education. I’ve even refused to precisely calculate tips at restaurants.
Beer drinking has been an extremely large focus for the last few days. Most nights I’ve been out with friends, having some amazing nights just laughing and carousing. No drinking during the day, although I was vaguely tempted on Monday. My ceiling finally collapsed from the leaks in the plumbing from the ceiling above our loft, spewing forth all sorts of nasty gunk into our apartment. This happened a few weeks ago, but our landlord is about as generous as the Grinch. It took a threat about calling the health department to finally get the leaks fixed, and we still have a rotted ceiling and floor. When my foot went through the floor that afternoon, I thought a beer might be in order, but I opted instead to figure out a way of making the path safer for when I wasn’t sober.
Normally I’m not a huge meat eater. Since Thursday, almost every meal involved some sort of meat. I had an amazing filet mignon at Soho Steak House, wrapped Peruvian chicken thingies in Williamsburg, bacon at Life, and sausage every damned day for breakfast. Screw oatmeal, I want some fat! I could never give up meat entirely. I haven’t read Fast Food Nation, but I know personally what goes on in the beef industry. I could get on my soapbox about how Americans created the beef industry monster by demanding hamburgers that don’t cost more than 50 cents, but my blogs have been too preachy lately. Too many other bloggers write about politics better, and I enjoy writing about shiny objects.
Back to that super tasty filet mignon. Being from a cattle-owning family and working in a steakhouse, I’m quite judgmental about my steaks. This place did it right, juicy, tender, and flavorful. I like my steaks black and blue, flash grilled, rare-medium rare. If I were vegetarian, this steak would be the focus of my meat dreams. If I stayed vegetarian long enough, the dreams would probably develop into elaborate fantasies of taking down the cow in a lupine way, cutting it up, and having a Flintstone steak that tilts a car. It is probably best that I remain an occasional meat eater, encouraging restaurants to buy ethically slaughtered beef. Also, if I were a vegetarian, I would have to be a closeted bacon junkie. As one of my veg friends said, bacon is the gateway drug. Normally I don’t have it, but if I couldn’t have any meat, I would smell bacon somewhere and go insane. I can usually avoid it currently, as I have healthier substitutes, like Krispy Kreme. Should I mention that I also bought a dozen donuts, missing the July featured donut of the month Key Lime Pie by only a day? They still had the July featured donut posters hanging on the walls, mocking me. When I asked if there was some new featured donut for August, they told me they didn’t have one yet. Get cracking, boys! Papa needs some sugar!
This weekend I might be heading down to Rehoboth for a beach holiday with roommate Michael. He has a friend living there, and we can stay at his place. I’m not sure if the weather will cooperate, but I think I’m willing to take the chance. The last hellish burn has already peeled away, leaving only a dull memory of scorched skin. I want some more naturally synthesized vitamin D, please. If it works out, I will be appropriately protected with some serious sunblock, lounging about all day. I’ll finish trashy novels like One Hundred Years of Solitude, the Kafka stories, and maybe take up making crude sand objects.
Here’s a funny joke- my really cool uncle and aunt just moved to NYC from Houston. When I found out they were moving here, I was quite excited, as they are probably the only relatives I would like to have in relative proximity. That double meaning of ‘relative proximity’ really applies to my family. My uncle’s humor is so subtly dry he makes the Arizona desert look moist, and my aunt has such a caring sincerity that I would love to emulate. They had a request of me. “Would you mind terribly being flown down to Houston and get paid to drive a sweet Mercedes back to NYC? We know how much you hate having an amazing road trip, visiting friends, and exploring America, but would you do this for us?” Of course, I am such a good martyr, so how could I refuse such a terrible onus? My whole family knows how I’ll suffer for love, and nobody was home when I scampered around in circles when I got the e-ticket. I’ll pick up the keys, sigh a lot, and then do some air guitar solo down Lexington Avenue.
I leave the 15th to Houston, then I’ll drive to Austin, then Clovis, then Lubbock, then Dallas, then take the northern route back to NYC. I’m still looking for passengers, so if anyone is interested, email me. Not to brag, but my new iPod holds around 2000 songs, most of them crap. Think of how magical that could be!
Posted by G at 06:24 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack