I Remember My Year in New York

I remember how Kessler and I first became friends. When she randomly G-chatted me, "tell me something weird about yourself."

I remember when Mendenhall disappeared. We had fun coming up with theories of what she was up to, though I hated that she had a secret life.

I remember when I went to Cancun the second time. I hadn't seen my family in several months and I remember being so shocked that my youngest sister had boobs. She hated that I couldn't stop talking about them.

I remember when Smeekens came to visit. We all bought I <3 NY shirts in midtown.

I remember when Katherine came to visit. I remember drinking too much free wine at the Chinese restaurant and almost missing the Ingrid Michaelson show.

I remember that I couldn't remember the Of Montreal show. Only that the singer came out naked on a white horse at some point and that Carolyn cried when they covered Smells Like Teen Spirit.


I remember the terribly long trips to Coney Island. I was always hungover and the subway rides were unbearable. But once we got there it proved to be worth it: the stick game in the sand, the hotdog eating contest, the Broken Social Scene show.

I remember the Suitcase Lady.

I remember being terribly, terribly broke.

I remember when Reens and Neens came to visit. They fought of course and one of them locked herself in the bathroom while the other kicked a hole in the door. Several months later I got drunk and tried to fix the hole with a can of Spackle while drinking a beer. I felt like a man.

I remember living with drug dealers.

I remember our trips to Vermont, Maine, New Hampshire, Atlantic City.

I remember when we went to New Orleans. I was so hungover the day that we left. I tripped over nothing as we stood in line at the airport. Just fell on my ass as everyone looked on and laughed. And then the man sitting next me on the flight home tried to save me. I was too sick and tired for Jesus.

I remember happy hour. Lots and lots of happy hours.

I remember how much I hated the winter and how much Mendenhall loved it.

I remember throwing wine and cheese parties. Having friends over for dinner.

I remember awkward sleepovers and nights I could barely remember.

I remember when Wendy Jones came to visit. We fought rats off in the kitchen forcing them to jump out the window.

I remember smoking weed at the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park with a Yugoslavian rickshaw driver at midnight.

I remember being lonely and depressed. I remember deciding that I just couldn't live there anymore, but worrying that I had made the wrong decision.

Me and Naked Jesus

When I first began my internship at St. John’s Regional Medical Center I was excited to report for my shift each week, eager to learn and observe all that the hospital had to offer. I didn’t even mind the 45 minute drive from the UC Santa Barbara campus to the facility in Oxnard. It was a scenic drive along the 101 freeway with the vast Pacific Ocean oscillating just outside my passenger window. College was all about seizing opportunities, gaining experience, and making contacts that would lead to a successful career, and I was sure that this internship was just what I needed to get an edge on the competition when it came time to apply to med school. Unfortunately this period of optimism didn’t last very long. I soon became disenchanted and grew to dread my time at the hospital, seeking out excuses to skip my shift any chance I got—homework, illness, beer. It wasn’t the subject itself that turned me off—I still find medical science incredibly interesting—but the tired, frustrated staff (doctors and nurses alike) who advised me not to go into medicine, and most significantly, the onerous, demanding, and just plain crazy patients who I was forced to contend with each week. Perhaps the biggest problem was that I was more interested in the patients’ illnesses than in the patients themselves. I’d find myself saying things like “you have multi-resistant staphylococcus, awesome!” which is not really an appropriate comment to make to an anxious patient. I lacked what you would call “a good bedside manner”. As a result, I often found myself in terribly awkward situations that I didn’t know how to respond to.

            On one of those early days of idealism and enthusiasm I made way to the medical-surgical unit on the third floor and checked in with the head nurse. She greeted me gratefully and informed me that there was a patient on the unit requiring a sitter. I made my way to his room convinced that I was in for a relatively easy, unexciting 4 hour shift. Time on the med-surge unit was often filled with undesirable tasks such as changing the diapers of bed-ridden patients, sponge-bathing a morbidly obese man, or feeding elderly invalids who lacked the motor ability to lift a fork to their mouths. Being a sitter usually just involved sitting in the room with a sleeping patient making sure that she didn’t stop breathing and reminding her of who and where she was when she woke up disoriented. The white board across from the bed displayed a name and condition and you simply had to repeat it: your name is Mrs. Jones, you’re at St. John’s Hospital, you’re recovering from surgery.

That was the sort of thing I was expecting my day to consist of, so imagine my surprise when I entered the room that I was sent to and saw that the patient was wide awake, sitting up on his bed with his legs hanging over the side, the way you would sit when hanging out in a friend’s bedroom. He was an extremely thin man probably somewhere in his fifties (I’m really bad at determining age), dressed in green hospital scrub pants and a white t-shirt. He had shaggy brown hair with a full beard; he looked like Jesus. I introduced myself and took a seat in the chair opposite his bed. I had never sat for such an alert patient before (eyes open, sitting up) and wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. In attempt to break the ice I asked, “So how are you doing today?” Which is really a terrible question to ask someone confined to a hospital room, but where else could I start? The man made no acknowledgement that he had heard me, just continued staring down at his bed. I looked to the white board hanging above me for some indication of who he was and what he was in for but it provided no such information, just a greenish blur left behind after a half-assed erasure. And so we sat in a cloud of silence for several long minutes. Shortly thereafter he began grabbing at his bed sheets and mumbling incoherently. I rose from my chair to see if I could assist him in some way. Once I reached him I realized that he was attempting to pick the design, some sort of diamond or flower or other typical hospital linen pattern, off of the sheet. Apparently this man wasn’t as “there” as I had originally believed. At a loss I stood watching him as he put his thumb and index finger to the shape and squeezed them together just above it lifting an empty hand to his face, then repeating the process trying desperately to grab hold of the impression. I felt bad for the guy and wished that there was something I could do for him, but I didn’t know what that was.

            Eventually he got bored doing this and his next move shocked me beyond all else. He stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and proceeded to pull down his pants. Horrified I grabbed his hands as they approached the tops of his thighs, just before he revealed his genitals, and began to pull his pants back up again.

“No, what are you doing? Don’t do that!” I demanded.

There was a brief struggle, me trying desperately to keep his pants up and he fighting against me to pull them down. He was surprisingly strong for being so frail looking, but lacked endurance and soon gave up releasing his grip on the pants and allowing me to return them to their original position. I was relieved, but it turned out that he actually hadn’t given up quite so easily. As I returned the top of his pants to the top of his waist he lifted his shirt over his head and cast it onto the bed. Frustrated I picked up his shirt and began to force it back over his head. While I did this he dropped his pants to his ankles so that once his shirt was on he was completely naked from the waist down. Then I pulled his pants back up as he pulled his shirt back off.

            Why was this man undressing before me? I was nervous, I was confused, I was uncomfortable. I tried to talk to him, to instruct him that he needed to stay clothed but he seemed unable to comprehend my speech and was angry that I wouldn’t allow him to get naked. He was intent on removing his clothing and I was baffled by his actions. I was also scared that a nurse or doctor would walk in to find me standing in the room with a disoriented, bare-skinned patient. Such a situation would definitely raise some eyebrows and I didn’t want anyone accusing me of taking advantage of the patient or acting inappropriate or any of the other things you might think upon entering a room to find an exposed incoherent person in the care of a competent other. Once again I quickly pulled his pants back up so that he was fully dressed. I rushed out into the hallway to seek help as he began to remove his shirt yet again. A nurse was passing by as I exited the room and must have noticed the anguish on my face because right away she asked, “Is everything alright?”

            “No, this man keeps trying to take his clothes off!” I informed her.

            “Oh yeah, he does that,” she answered matter-of-factly, “He likes to get naked and then wander into other patients’ rooms. That’s why he needs a sitter.” She chuckled, “just make sure he doesn’t leave the room like that.” Then she walked off down the hall to tend to her other charges offering no further explanation or advice.

            I headed back into the chamber, annoyance now added to the panic and discomfort I had heretofore been experiencing. I would have liked to have had some sort of forewarning so that I could have prepared myself for this man’s nudity. Perhaps I would have handled the situation better had I not been so startled by his propensity to undress.

The man was standing exactly where I had left him but was now completely naked. I picked his pants up off of the floor and instructed him to lift his feet and step back into them. Astonishingly, he obeyed allowing me to cover up his bottom half. However, when I grabbed the shirt and made to put it over his head, he once again removed his pants. And so it continued for the next 3 hours, he undressing himself and me frantically trying to redress him—hoping to avoid full-scale nudity for as long as possible. I did consider giving up my effort all together as it was futile, but I felt it would have been more awkward to sit idly in a room with a completely nude man than to at least try to keep him covered as much as I could. Plus it gave me something to do—sitting in a chair staring at a strange naked man would have been quite boring.

I'm on Tumblr!

Because I have difficulty getting rid of things I have decided to keep this blog strictly for posting stories. However, I will also be posting those stories and other random things on tumblr. So for (hopefully) more frequent and eclectic posts go here: http://rockstonic-juicemagic.tumblr.com/

Moving

Just a heads up to anyone (emphasis on the one) who follows this blog, I'm in the process of moving to tumblr. I currently have 3 blogs and rarely update any of them so I thought perhaps I'd be a bit better about that sort of thing if I combined them into one megablog. Tumblr seemed best suited for such a thing. I'll post the url once its all put together.

Where My Mad Rappers At?

Sometimes I like to pretend that I can spit sick rhymes:

Biochem 

(written during a particularly boring biochem lecture)

You talk too fast

I can't understand

trying to keep up just hurts my hand

so I stare confused

at these molecules

and I don't really care

which enzymes act where

this class is lame, I think I'll take a nap

and after lecture go to Gio's for some beer on tap

Blumpkin 

(written in LA traffic after my cousin defined "blumpkin" for me)

I was sittin on the toilet takin a dump

when this bitch started sucking all over my junk

I said "hey there, whatcha doin pumpkin?"

She said "don't you know? they call it a blumpkin!"

Flaunt It 

(written while drunk in a pool)

I'm so damn cool chillin in the pool

there's a bee on me

tryina get in this everyone wants to hit it cause I'm a sick bitch

sippin on gin and tonics and rocking Manolo Blahniks this is how I flaunt it.

A Hoodie Is A Goodie

My favorite item of clothing is definitely my hooded sweatshirt. I actually own a few and favor a different one each week; but in general, I can’t go wrong with a hoodie. I wear it in every season, in every situation. Whether its 9 degrees or 90 degrees, whether I’m out in the world or sitting alone in my room, whether at a social gathering or even at work, I prefer to have my head covered. I just feel so exposed and vulnerable when forced to reveal my cranium. My hoodie is my sanctuary, my comfort zone, my invisibility cloak. Yes, I realize that people can still see me when I’ve got my hood on, but it makes me feel so inconspicuous. Though in all honesty, it actually seems to have the opposite effect. My beloved hooded sweatshirt sadly makes others uncomfortable; apparently it gives me an air of mystery and stirs up feelings of foreboding in those around me. My sisters often scold me for looking inappropriate. My boss calls me “The Unabomber” and claims that I scare her. Shopkeepers eye me suspiciously when I enter their establishment. Pedestrians move to the other side of the road when they see me approaching. But I assure you, I have no desire to bomb, kill, or rob anyone. I am not a thief, or murderer, or drug dealer. I’m simply a nervous sociophobe; and sometimes my head is just cold or I'm having a bad hair day. So the next time you see someone roaming the streets hiding beneath a hoodie, judge not. The object of your fear may very well not be a degenerate, but a harmless neurotic.

This Is My Gene Pool (or why I don't plan on having kids)

My older sister’s favorite lament is that we inherited the worst traits from each of our parents. While she tends to be a bit dramatic in most regards, here is an assertion on which I whole-heartedly agree with her. Don’t get me wrong, both my mother and father possess plenty of advantages attributes; however, Genetics, bitch that she is, bestowed upon me only those most defective of idiosyncrasies. As the physical characteristics are most noticeable, I shall begin there. I have my father’s eyes: deep-set sockets housing round, frog-like, popping out eyeballs; framed by dark circles and heavy eyelids and oh so many wrinkles. My mother kept her large, fully-lashed, almond eyes for my pretty sisters. In addition to his eyes, I also inherited my father’s body-type: a chicken’s legs and a football player’s back. I wouldn’t call my father a handsome man (sorry Freud) but he does have really nice skin. I look much more like my father than my mother, however, when it comes to skin cells, mine are molded from my mother’s large pores and oily, break-out prone epidermis. Personality inheritance pattern takes a little longer to realize, but it follows the set paradigm. I get my neurotic anxiety from my mother. She herself is quite calm and friendly; her father however, is “easily perturbed” and “doesn’t like crowds.” I’ve also inherited her passive, submissive nature and reserve. My father kindly passed on his financial ineptitude (spend it before you lose it), and terrible sense of direction (I get lost in my hometown while using a navigation system). Thus, being a long-time admirer of Darwin, I feel it my duty to affirm myself in favor of the eradication of these ghastly nucleic acids.

In The Heights

My decision to stay in New York following the end of my term of service wasn’t finalized until the beginning of November; coincidentally the last month of our apartment lease.  At this time I knew that one of my roommates had already made plans to move to another apartment upon the expiration of our lease.  I was under the impression that my other roommate would be renewing the lease, and so I planned to remain there with him.  However, a couple weeks later he informed me that he too had decided to seek residence elsewhere.   Still, I had nearly a month to figure something out.  This was plenty of time.  Too much time apparently, as I did nothing about it.

Finally, on the 30^th of November, the night before my lease ended, I decided to get my shit together and began scouring Craigslist for shelter.  I set up a couple of appointments to look at rooms the next day, the day by which I was supposed to be out of the apartment. 

I had one day and four possibilities and was feeling pretty optimistic as I headed out for my 10am appointment.  It was also in Washington Heights, just a couple of blocks away from my current apartment, but on the “good” side of Broadway.  I walked up to the fourth floor and hesitantly knocked on the door of apartment 4. It was ornamented with stickers announcing the resident’s love for Jesus and proudly proclaiming that “This is a Catholic Home.”  A grandmotherly Hispanic woman opened the door and greeted me happily in Spanish.  I apologetically informed her that despite my Mexican heritage I am quite ignorant on the language of my people and followed her into the apartment.  She walked me through a tour of the place emphasizing her affinity for cleanliness as we entered each room. 

“This is the bathroom. I like to keep it clean.” She announced as she opened the first door on the left.  “See, wipe the sink when you’re finished with it” she grabbed a nearby towel and demonstrated. We continued down the hall to the next doorway. “This is the kitchen. I like to keep it clean. You can eat at that table, but you can’t cook in here.” I was astounded and probably looked it, because she went on to explain, “It’s too messy. You can use the microwave if you need to, but that’s all.”

Finally we reached my possible room.  “See how clean it is?” She asked. “There’s not a closet, but see the dresser, to keep your clothes neatly put away.” I nodded. “And there’s no eating allowed in here. It’s dirty and attracts bugs and mice.” She further instructed.

We exited back into the perfectly kept living room. “What do you think?” She asked me.

“Well, it’s a good size room. And the apartment is nice and clean.”

“Good.” She gave a satisfied smile. “If you decide to live here, I have only three rules. No cooking in the kitchen, and no eating in the bedroom,” she reminded me. Then continued to the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard, “Also, there’s no drinking.  You don’t drink right?”  She peered at me threateningly. 

I had been working at a wine shop in Midtown, and drinking was about all I did. “Uh…well…s-s-sometimes I li-li-like to drink wine…?” I stammered. 

“Well, that’s your business!” she retorted “but there’s no drinking here!” 

“Okay. Thanks for showing me the place. I’ve got a couple more rooms to look at, but I’ll call you and let you know.” We shook hands and I hurried out of the apartment as quickly as I could, all the while having no intention of speaking with her again.

The next apartment that I looked at was perfect and I fell in love with it quickly.  It was also in the Heights and on the right side of Broadway; across the street from a swanky park nonetheless.  This place also had a decent size bedroom. In addition there was a closet. And rather than an overbearing, germ-phobic, grandma for a roommate, this one came with a nerdy Columbia grad student, who I was sure wouldn’t be much of a bother.  Despite its perfect location, size, and personnel, I had to pass on this apartment also. The rent he was asking was a little pricey, and due to an accounting error on my part, my bank account was in worse condition than I had thought. Sufficiently worse condition. 

Upon discovering my error I came to the conclusion that not only could I not afford this apartment, but I couldn’t afford any apartment.  I still had two places I was scheduled to look at, but I had lost all hope.  Defeated, I sent a rather pathetic email to some friends begging they let me sleep on their couch for a couple weeks while I figured out plans to return to California.  In exchange for their kindness I would cook meals and provide them with booze.  As I awaited their reply, I telephoned my mother to discuss the situation, who convinced me to at least look at the last two apartments.  Both were only a block away from my current location and at least I could say I tried.  So that evening, not expecting much I strolled over to my first appointment. 

I was greeted at the door by a tall middle-aged Asian man. He had a thick accent and spoke with broken English. From what I gathered, there were 2 bedrooms. One was currently being rented, the second I was looking at, and the proprietor of the apartment, the man with whom I was speaking, slept in the living room. He led me to a closet-sized room with chipped white paint. I looked inside from where I stood, just inside the front door, having no desire to enter. From our same spot, he pulled open the dark blue curtain that hung on the opposite wall, revealing his make shift room. Two steps forward, was the bathroom, followed by a door to the second bedroom, which I’m sure was just as small as the first. Across from that was the tiniest of kitchens crammed with a fridge and beat-up old stove. This place was an overpriced piece of shit that I couldn’t afford even if I had liked it. I ran out of there quicker than I had left the first place.

It was now 7 o’clock and I was missing Jeopardy! to view my last prospect.  It was on the corner of my current block.  Yes, a shady neighborhood, but one that I was familiar with.  I was kindly granted access to the building by the drug dealer standing on the stoop. I walked into the dingy, tiled entryway found my way to the correct apartment door and reluctantly knocked. I was greeted by the lady of the house, a thin, white woman in her late-twenties.

“Jessica?”

I nodded.

“Hi! I’m Melissa.” She led me into the hallway and down toward the living room. “Babe, she’s here!”

            A tall, Dominican man of the same age emerged from the room and introduced himself as Victor. Then they proceeded to show me around. The kitchen and living room seemed to be surprisingly large (for a New York City apartment) but the bathroom was absolutely tiny. However, all seemed well kept. There were three bedrooms in the apartment: my prospective room, the couple’s room, and Victor’s mother’s room.  They explained that she lived in the Dominican Republic but came back to visit every once in a while and occasionally Victor’s brother would stay in the room.  I calculated this to mean two and a half roommates. Overall, it seemed like a pretty decent place. And most importantly they were willing to be paid weekly, requiring just $300 to move in the next day.  Out of options and desperate I took it. 

            I returned later that evening to begin moving my things in. Victor and Melissa were in the room painting white over the bright green walls.

            “It looks so much better white huh?” Victor greeted me.

            “Yeah, it looks good. Thanks for painting.”
            “Sure.” They smiled.

            I pulled my check book from the top of the box I had just placed on the floor. “So who should I make the check out to?”

            Victor shifted his eyes to Melissa, then back to me, “uh…a check?”

            “Oh, would you rather have cash?”

            “Yeah. Cash or cashier’s check.” He responded.

“Only because someone doesn’t have a checking account,” his girlfriend gave him a playful glance. 

“Oh, ok I’ll go to the bank tomorrow” I said trying to figure out how or why 28 year-old would be without a checking account.  

That was my first indication that something wasn’t quite right.  When I had first met them Melissa said that she was in fashion in midtown and Victor was “in real estate on Long Island.”  I remember this because I worked at primarily in the evenings and on weekends and was excited that we had opposite schedules.  Being somewhat of an antisocial recluse I refused to leave my room when others were home so this gave me complete freedom to use the kitchen and restroom as I pleased during the day.  However, to my great dismay Victor was always home.  He was supposedly in real estate on Long Island, yet he had no checking account and was home during the day…things weren’t adding up. 

About a week after I had moved in I returned home from doing laundry and saw Victor standing out on the stoop. He was wearing a heavy jacket with the hood on and seemed to just be aimlessly hanging out. This raised my suspicions. It was common knowledge that in Washington Heights drug dealers stood out on various building stoops all day. In addition, it seemed to me that as drug dealers get paid cash they would have no need for a checking account. I became convinced that I was living with drug dealers, perhaps even members of the Dominican Mafia. Now most people would probably be a little put off by the prospect of their roommate being a drug dealer (my friends had urged me to move out ASAP when I informed them of my suspicions) but I had been watching a lot of Weeds at the time and was somewhat intrigued by the idea. I actually considered asking if I could get in on their business, but as this required actually leaving my room and starting a conversation, I never got around to it. Plus, there was the fact that I was a little scared for my life. 

       Aside from lying to me about their occupations on our first meeting, my new roommates had also lied about how many people were dwelling in the apartment.  I still don’t how many people I was living with. They had told me only that there would be occasional visits from a mother and a brother. They failed to mention, the uncle, sister, cousin, friend, second brother, and God knows who else. I ran into so many random people in the hall of that place; each time I left my room (which was rarely) it was a surprise who I would meet next.  Had the couple from whom I was renting been around when I ran into these “guests” that would have been one thing, but the majority of these encounters took place when no one else was home. I met the older brother when I went into the kitchen to grab my Champagne from the fridge before heading out on New Years Eve.  He and a friend were drunk and taking shots of Patron. 

“Hey, I’m Willy,” he introduced himself. “I live upstairs,” he looked at the ceiling, “but I also kinda live here.”

I had no idea what exactly that meant. “Oh, cool. Er…nice to meet you.” I grabbed my bottle from the freezer and turned to go.

“Where you going with that Champagne? You’re just gonna leave us?”

I smiled, unsure how to respond and took a step toward the doorway.

“So none for us then?”

I gave an awkward obligatory laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were gonna be here.” I glanced at my watch, it was just after 11. “I gotta get to my friend’s place before midnight.”

“That’s cool. Take a shot with us before you leave.” He picked up the half-full tequila bottle.

“Oh…uh…”

“Come on, join us for a round,” his friend insisted.

In an attempt to make the situation less awkward I obliged.  We toasted to the New Year, I thanked them for the drink and headed out. To be honest I don’t know if I ever saw them again.

I met the uncle in a similar fashion. One afternoon as I exited my room in pursuit of the bathroom I was startled by the sight of a middle-aged disheveled man in the hall way carrying a bunch of bananas.

“Hola” he greeted me with a huge smile displaying decaying teeth and offered me a piece of fruit.

“Uh…hi…”

“Hablas Espanol?”

“Oh, no, sorry.”

“Me Victor’s uncle,” he explained in broken English. “I stay here.”

“Oh, okay. Nice to meet you.”

He extended his arm and gave me an enthusiastic handshake, then continued down the hall to the living room. I definitely ran into him again, each encounter just as frightening and awkward as the first.

            For three months I lived in fear, of both the possibilities of awkward social interactions and that my roommates would find out that I was on to their little business and would off me at any moment. Finally I could take it anymore; I had to get out of there. I handed Victor my last rent payment, $150 in cash, on Monday morning, told him I’d be moving out by the end of the week and was gone by Friday. Two weeks later my friend sent me a link to a Times article; there had been a major drug-gang bust in Washington Heights between W 170 St. and W 174 St. I’m sure the complex I had been living in on W 171 St. had been involved.

10 Things I Should Have Learned In College, But Didn't

10. How to tap a keg
9. How to chug/shot-gun a beer
8. How to surf
7. How to primp myself for a night out
6. How to get free drinks (probably correlated w/ the above)
5. How to roll a joint
4. How to make a bong out of lab equipment
3. How to calibrate a microscope
2. How to drink copious amounts of coffee without getting cracked out
1. What the hell I wanna do with my life

A Grizzly End

About a dozen years ago, I passed the innocence of my adolescence riding bikes, shooting hoops, and placing bets with the boy who lived across the street. One warm spring afternoon we sat on the steps of his front porch engrossed in a game of five card draw. I glanced at the two fives side by side in my left hand, flanked by a couple of useless red and black numbers and the suicide king. Fingering two quarters in my right hand I stared into the face of the boy who lived across the street trying to determine whether or not his fifty sent raise was based upon a genuinely good hand. The small pile between us was splattered with disks of silver and copper, there had to be over a dollar in there already, what was he playing at? But before I could decide, my attention was diverted by a hysterical scream coming from my house. I stood up and peered over the small wood wall obstructing my view. My parents were standing out on our front lawn; my father had run into the house and dragged my mother calmly out—there was something he needed to tell her in secrecy. Now she was in tears fighting him off as he attempted to quiet her. I immediately ran to them, neighbor boy at my heels. “What’s going on?’ My voice was small and scared. “Get in house!” my dad bellowed. I looked to my mom. “He ran over Grizzly!” she sobbed continuing to punch and scream at my father. “Asshole! You Asshole!” My eyes widened. “I said get in the house!” my father repeated in a more threatening tone. I stood staring at them in confused disbelief when I felt a soft shove on my shoulder. “Come on.” My playmate led me inside. My sisters had all gathered in the living room in a confused panic. They were kneeling on the couch fighting with the blinds and each other to watch the drama unfold through the large front window. “What’s going on?” they asked as I entered. “Did she say he ran over Grizzly? Did he?” “Yeah…uh…don’t know…didn’t see” I pushed between them to get my own spot at the window. Then my parents entered still arguing. “What happened?” we all cried at once. “He ran over Grizzly!” my mother sobbed once more. “What?” “Really?” we all gasped. My father turned to us. “I’m sorry girls. She was lying under my truck. I didn’t see her.” He was noticeably agitated.  He returned his attention to my mom. “You were supposed to keep it quiet! Look, I’m sorry. Calm down. I need to go to work. Take care of this.” He stomped back outside, hopped in his work truck, and drove off. “Asshole!” my mom screamed after him. We turned to her in a panic, “Is she okay? What do we do?” She picked up the phone to call animal control. “There’s a lot of blood. I need towels,” she instructed. We fetched them and attempted to walk outside. “No, stay in here. I don’t want you guys to see her.” Large tears were still falling from my mother’s eyes, slowly sliding down her cheeks and splashing onto the ground. “But I am gonna need some help…” The neighbor boy jumped up to her aid in an attempt of premature masculinity and she accepted. They headed outside and once again my sisters and I jockeyed for position at the front window. Our hearts pounding and eyes streaming we watched our dog, my first and most loved pet, dying. For twenty minutes we stared out that window as the black chow struggled to get up, jerking her head in wild movements forever scaring us with the image of matted black fur and spouts of blood pouring from what were once her eyes. Finally, the animal control truck pulled into our driveway. A uniformed man exited the vehicle and handed my mom a clipboard with a mound of paperwork that needed to be filled out before they could do anything. We had overheard their muffled conversation and were appalled. Finally having someone upon whom to take out all her anger and frustration my sister, one year my junior, burst out the front door. “What’s wrong with you?!” she screamed at the man. “Can’t you see she’s suffering?! Just make it stop! Please! We’ll fill out your paperwork, just please take care of her!” Startled by the hysteria of a grieving 11 year old, the man obliged and loaded the declining animal into his truck as my mother scribbled upon his pages. The rest of us slowly exited the house and we all gathered on the lawn, consoling each other as we watched them drive off into the sunset never to be seen again.

Sky Diving

In college, for some assignment, I interviewed some dude my roommate knew and wrote a brief monologue based on that interview. For some reason I've been thinking about it a lot lately, so I decided to reproduce it here.

How would I describe myself? Hmm...I guess...I guess I'm a little odd. I'm not like everyone else, in that I choose to do things my own way. And the older I got, I found that that's cool, ya know? So now I'm just this weird, kinda fun, happy-going kinda guy, ya know? Also, I had this minor drug problem when I was a kid--and my mom knew it. One day I was lying on the couch in her apartment and she bursts in through the front door and she's like "you're coming with me!" And she took me down to this little airport by the Tijuana border...and she made me go sky diving! And it was like this totally new, incredible high that I had never experienced before. And it was like right then, automatically, I don't do drugs anymore because my mom took me sky diving, ya know?

Excerpts from my atrocious NaNoWriMo attempt

He was waiting in front of the bar when I arrived. We had both shaved; me, my legs and under-arms, he the scattered stubble that had littered his face on our last encounter. We had hung-out countless times before, but somehow we both knew that tonight would be different. We each had plans, or at least were open to them.

“Hey” I smiled, “I finally made it!” He glanced at his watch, ten minutes after our agreed upon hour.

“It’s about time” he joked.

“Parking’s a bitch.”

“LA” he shrugged and opened the door. I led us to the bar counter and ordered two Jack and Cokes. We preferred to put on a thick layer of liquid armor before peeling off one another’s clothes. Four rounds and several cigarettes later we stumbled onto the street arm in arm trying to steady each other from gravity’s sinister pull.

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We finally arrived at the door of his apartment. 32B. He fumbled with the keys. It was cold and I was growing impatient. He located the correct metal sliver and slid it easily into the keyhole. He twisted it to the left. It gave a slight click and he pushed the door in. I walked into the welcoming warmth of his tiny apartment. Tidy as always. In the living room, a small brown couch, one side slightly indented marking Randal’s usual place, was facing a large flat-screen television. Game counsels and a DVD player sat in the shelf of the TV stand that supported this focal point. Just next to it was a case neatly displaying a library of DVDs, video games, and books. Upon entering we both removed our shoes. Randal headed straight for the bathroom while I traipsed to the small kitchenette. I grabbed two beers from fridge and popped them open with my keychain. Though I was quite inebriated I feared that my blood alcohol level had decreased dramatically during our 45 minute travels and I was eager to preserve the buzz as long as possible. I carried the bottles back into the living room where Randal reclined on the couch’s left-most cushion. I handed him a beer.

“Thanks. You wanna watch a movie or something?”

“How about some music?” I suggested.

“Sure. I just gotta grab my computer.” He lifted himself off of the couch and reached the bedroom door in just a few strides. I followed him inside and took a seat on the corner of his neatly made bed. As he was lifting the laptop he turned and saw me “oh…uh…o-okay…” He blushed. Clearly he wasn’t expecting me there. I could tell that the sight of me on his bed filled him with both excitement and anxiety. This delighted me. I took a swig of my beer as he tried to decide upon some suitable tunes. He chose a song and turned to me for approval. I looked back at him invitingly, just long enough for him to notice and then quickly turned my attention back to the smooth, cold bottle in my hands. He took a seat beside me and nervously stared at the small round opening of his bottle, scratching at the label with his thumbnail. I tilted my head back and took a long drawn-out drink. I brought my face level and swallowed. His dull, hopefully eyes were burrowing into my light, unfocused ones. He seemed to be searching for courage or perhaps permission to make a move. I jumped up. “Bathroom” I announced and swept out of the room smiling at the shocked disappointment on his face.

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I enjoyed standing on his pedestal to be admired. The way he looked at me, his intense interest in my most fleeting thought, his eager need to please me; all provided a high I had never before experienced. I became obsessed with his obsession.

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One evening as we sat nestled on his worn brown couch, Randal shouting answers at the glowing television screen, “Who is Richard Nixon!” I posed the question that had been bothering me for a few weeks, “do you think we’re boring?”

“Huh? Hold on, it’s almost a commercial.” I sat sulking as he missed the last few clues before Alex announced the break. “Sorry, whadja say?”

“You didn’t even know them anyway!” I huffed. “I asked, ‘do you think we’re boring?’”

“No. Why? Who said that?” He looked at me curiously. “I’m having fun, aren’t you?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

He looked at me slightly hurt. “Aw, come on, Jeopardy rocks!” His disgustingly textbook smile tried to placate me. I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah Jeopardy’s cool. But I meant in general. All we ever do is sit around your apartment, watch Jeopardy, play you’re stupid video games, drink, drink, drink!” I shouted holding up my nearly empty beer. He paused to watch the unveiling of the Double Jeopardy categories. I took the opportunity to go to the kitchen to grab another beer.

“Okay, so stop drinking so much,” he retorted when I returned.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean? I bore you?”

I gave a nervous smile, “well…yeah…”

“Fuck you Kelsey!” He snarled.

I chuckled, “So sensitive Randy.” I placed a cruel drawn-out emphasis on the last word

“Ugh! I hate to be called that!” I felt a twisted grin on my face.  Frustrated, he continued screaming, “I’m trying to watch something, just let me enjoy my boring life in peace!”

“Fine!” and with that I threw the newly opened bottle at his head and stormed out of the apartment.

He called later that night. I sat at my computer, mid keystroke, when I was startled by the Fruging of my phone. Randal’s name and face appeared on the screen. I answered tentatively, “Yes…?”

He was totally wasted and his voice was cracking. “I’m…so…sorry…babe,” he sobbed. “I shouldn’t…have yelled…an...an...and kicked you…out…like…that.” I listened silently as he took deep gasping breaths between every few words. He paused to gather himself and then continued more fluently. “I was stressed from work, I…I…I didn’t…mean to take it out on you.”

I considered his apology in silence. Listening to his nervous breath, I took my time before responding. He deserved to suffer just a bit longer. “You’re really drunk” I finally spoke.

“I know…but I…I…I I really am sorry.”
“How about we talk it over tomorrow when you’re a little more coherent.”

“Yeah!” he exclaimed eagerly, “Over lunch?”

“Sure. I’ll text you a time and location tomorrow.” I ended the call before he could get another word in.

At 12:30 on Tuesday afternoon he met me at a café near my coffee shop. He had a small red cut just off center on his forehead a few inches above his left eyebrow. There were dark circles under his eyes; the result of tears, too little sleep, and too much alcohol. I was impressed that I could have such a profound effect on a person.

“So yesterday…” he started once our waitress trotted off after placing our plates before us.

“Yeah, let’s talk about yesterday.”

“Uh…I’m sorry. It was really terrible and I shouldn’ta got so upset so easily.” His voice was thick with shame and sincerity.

“No, you shouldn’t have. Though I guess I shouldn’t have provoked you either. But you are way too easily provoked.” I half-apologized.

“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry.” He repeated. “If it helps, you have pretty good aim. That bottle you threw hit me square in the forehead and then totally drenched me in beer.” I tried to not to let slip a satisfied smile as I imagined Randal sitting on his couch in complete shock, his forehead stinging with pain, cold beer running down his face and soaking into his white T-shirt.  “But hey, I think that was our first fight. See we’re mixing things up already! Still bored?” He joked brightly. I laughed. “I am sorry you’re bored though…”

“I’m not bored per se, but, I mean…” I took a second to choose my words carefully, I was feeling slightly bad for upsetting him last night and didn’t want to further injure him, “I feel like we do a lot of the same stuff over and over, and while I do enjoy it, maybe we can add some new activities to our lives.”

“No, I know.” He conceded. “I’m a very routine kinda guy. I tend to get stuck in ruts. But I’m totally willing to try to be a little more adventurous. Just tell me what you wanna do.”

I smirked, “are you giving me complete power?” He looked slightly nervous. “Any crazy thing I suggest you’re totally up for it, guaranteed?”

“Er…” He stammered, a bit worried about what he may be agreeing to. “Well…uh…I don’t know about totally up for, but I’ll definitely give your suggestions serious consideration.”

“I suppose that’s the best I’m gonna get from you” I couldn’t help myself from throwing in just one small insult. I stood, “Well, I gotta get to work. I’ll let you handle the check as part of you apology,” then I strode out of the café.

NYC Subway Review

I wrote this a couple of years ago and recently came upon it. I think its worthy of pitchfork.

New York City Subway

2.5

The New York City subway will get you where you need to go; maybe not on time, but it’ll get you there.  This system has two car types.  The first seems to be going for a retro look with its yellow and orange seats and wood paneling.  It would almost achieve this too, if it weren’t for all those advertisements lining the top.  Though, these ads do have a way of getting in your head.  After a morning ride you’ll find yourself craving Budweiser and ESL classes all day long.  One good thing about this train type is that the seats are clearly defined; this aims to discourage passengers from taking up multiple spaces.  The other train type, with the long blue/gray benches, has a more modern look.  These trains do not have laid out seats, so optimum seating capacity is not ensured as in the aforementioned cars.  This, however, gives more middle space between benches and makes these trains more favorable for dance parties:

Then there are the panhandling performers and bums that frequent the trains.  They are so cliché that it just might be working.  The highlight of these vagabonds is the Suitcase Lady at the 125 St. station on the A line; she may just be the saving grace of this whole system.  While the NYC subway gets praise for being adventurous and endeavoring to provide progressive travel, it may be deserving of little more celebration than its contemporaries and it’s not quite on par with public transportation systems of days past.

 

What Would You Do?

One warm summer evening my sister and I decided it would be nice to take a short bike ride along the local greenway trail. The trail, which was constructed a couple of years ago, replaced some obsolete railroad tracks and a large portion runs along the backyards of houses. After riding just a of couple miles we turned to head back home. As we were riding along immersed in frivolous conversation our attention was corralled by a ruckus just to our right. We turned to find a man crouching in the corner of his backyard swinging his arms wildly and yelling inbetween deep, panting breaths. At first I thought he was engaged in some sort of brawl with a dog. But my mind quickly turned to more atrocious anxieties when I realized what he was yelling. "Are you fucking around on me bitch?!" He screamed incessantly between blows. Upon this realization my sister and I pulled over and looked at each other completely confused and horrified. "What the hell is going on?" "Should we call the police?" we asked each other. Not quite sure of what we had just witnessed, my sister turned to ride back over to confirm that the man was hitting a woman and not an animal as we had first guessed. She returned to report that it was in fact a lady, who had freed herself and was now walking away from the man yelling at him. She seemed ok, wasn't asking for help, and as the incident did occur in a private backyard, we were unsure what to do. So, as I tend to do when at a loss, I called my mom. She told us to ride by again, assess the situation and call her back. If it seemed dangerous or like someone was in harms way we should then inform the police. So we rode by again to see the man and woman standing near the chain-link fence hollering at each other. we continued riding as I began dialing my mom when we heard motorcycles behind us, we turned back wondering why motorcycles were on the bike trail and to our relief we saw two cops approaching us. We pulled over and my sister called out to them, "hey we need your help!" They looked at us nodded and continued passed us. Assuming they had misunderstood her plea, we started jumping, yelling, and waving our hands frantically. The officers turned and looked at us, once again nodded and then just kept on driving forward. We were appalled. Not only did they ignore us twice when we explicitly told them that we were in need of their assistance and tried to flag them down, but they themselves drove right by the very disturbance that had worried us so without doing a thing. This man and woman were standing at the fence, in full view, obviously having a heated argument and these so-called agents of peace and protection didn't even hesitate! Aghast, I surveyed the trail looking for a hidden camera crew that would jump out at us revealing that they had set the whole thing up to see how people would react, but there was none to be found. Still unsure of what the hell was going on, my sister and I rode by one more time and it seemed like the situation was cooling down. The couple was still arguing, but no one seemed in any imminent danger, so we just rode home. I felt like an asshole for not doing anything, but I really didn't know what to do, and when I had tried I was completely ignored. Being on the trail I couldn't see street names or addresses, so if I were to call 911 all I could tell them was that there seemed to be a domestic dispute in one of the homes along the trail between 2 streets. Which I guess would probably have been better than nothing, but alas I did nothing.

Bathroom Phobias

I've been afraid of the bathroom for as long as I can remember. I'm sure Freudian scholars could trace it back to potty-training trauma--something gone terribly awry during the anal stage. But as far as I'm concerned, it all began when I first heard the legend of Bloody Mary. It was in the early years of elementary school and different versions came from different sources. A friend at school claimed that if you chanted "Bloody Mary" three times as you splashed water on the bathroom mirror the murderous bloody witch would appear to torture and kill you. As my cousin told it, you were to flush the toilet one-hundred times in the dark. My sister's version seemed to be a combination of the chanting and toilet flushing in the dark. I didn't know which one to believe so I believed them all (not believing any of them was not an option because then I would have to find something else to incomprehensibly agonize over). I actually sort of combined them all, but invented my own torturous twists. The one thing all the stories had in common was the eventual-victim's intent--one had to actually summon the spirit in order for her to appear; but I neglected this detail. As far as I was concerned, a blood-soaked woman was likely to materialize in the bathroom at any given moment if she got a hankering for some child-killing fun. This left me on edge anytime I needed to use a restroom. This was only made worse when a girl in my second grade class performed the chanting/water-sprinkling ritual during recess one day and was sent home early, traumatized and claiming she had seen the witch. I tried to avoid the bathroom where the sighting had taken place, but it was a small school with few restrooms. And anyway, my fear was not isolated to that one particular facility. No matter where I urinated--school, home, a friend or family member's home--I honestly believed that Bloody Mary would come for me if I wasn't careful. I would conduct my business, pull up and button/zip my pants, unlock the door, and then flush the toilet and run out of the bathroom as quickly as I could. After waiting a few seconds to ensure that it was safe, I would cautiously walk back in, wash my hands, and then run out again. Then return a third time to quickly turn the lights off. What if someone had flushed the toilet 99 times and my flush was the 100th? Or I accidentally splashed water on the mirror while washing my hands and my mere fearing her was enough to summon the ghastly apparition? I knew it was ridiculous and would laugh at myself as I ran from the room after each flush, but I couldn't help it, I was seriously scared. This was something that plagued me for years, far longer than it should have. But somehow I finally convinced myself to get over it, I was really getting too old for such a silly fear--I mean, I couldn't be running in and out of the bathroom in high school now could I?

This fear of Bloody Mary was quickly replace by another, possibly more absurd bathroom phobia. At least with my childhood fear there was actually something to be afraid of, but now it seems I am afraid of the actual act of of urination...well, when in the vicinity of others. Public bathrooms are hell for me! If I hear footsteps or voices as I'm sitting on the toilet I immediately freeze up. It doesn't matter how badly I have to urinate, or even if I'm incredibly drunk, my bladder simply stops working. Even if I'm using a private restroom I can't go if I know that someone is waiting on the other side. For reasons that I do not understand, girls like to go to the bathroom in packs. When I'm out with friends or even at work and I ask that they excuse me to use the bathroom, by biggest fear is that one or more will respond with, "Oh I have to go to, I'll go with you!" as though they are doing me a favor. So I allow them to accompany me knowing all the while that I will not actually be excreting anything on this trip. It really is an irrational fear and completely inconvenient; as a result I've had countless awkward bathroom experiences, but none so terrible as the drug testing procedure that I was subjected to before starting work at a health center. 

When I moved to New York I couldn't start my job right away--as I very soon came to know, when you work in health care, especially for a non-profit, you face many hurdles. Of all the bullshit bureaucratic red tape I had to go through, the drug screening took the longest and was the most difficult. First, I had to schedule an appointment the day prior to when I wanted to go in. As the center got booked quickly, I was required to call at 8am when they opened each morning. It took nearly a week before I successfully made an appointment. And that ended up being the easy part. Being well aware of my urination issues I wasn't expecting things to go smoothly, but I also knew the measures I would have to take so that it would go as smooth as possible. I had submitted urine for drug screening in the past and provided I drank water for several hours beforehand without visiting the facilities so that my bladder was near the point of explosion, I had no problem filling their cup. So the morning of my appointment I purchased a large water bottle and hopped on the train. I arrived, checked-in (with the receptionist, foursquare did not yet exist), and then waited several minutes until my name was called. All the while enduring the painfully uncomfortable pressure the excess water had placed on my bladder. As I walked into the restroom I was appalled to find that the nurse followed me not only into the restroom, but into the stall. When I asked that she step outside and allow me to close and lock the door she refused, informing me that this was to be a supervised submission. Horrified, I laughed and informed her that I wouldn't be able to complete the task. Confused and embarrassed I quickly exited the health center and, as I tend to do anytime I'm confused or in trouble, I immediately dialed my mom. On the verge of tears I informed her of my dilemma and she calmly told me that I needed to walk back in and pee in the stupid cup. I was not a fan of this answer, so I hung up the phone, pulled out my Ipod (setting it to Bright Eyes) and decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood to collect myself. This was my first time wandering around the South Bronx and I feared for my life, yet a the same time, the melodramatic part of me hope that some crazy gangster would come out of nowhere and blast me to death so that I could avoid this damned drug test. Unfortunately, no such crazy gangsters were patrolling the streets that day and I was forced to walk to the subway station and return to my apartment. When I arrived my head was still reeling and I again called my mom asking that she make arrangements for my return to California--clearly this wasn't gonna work out (as mentioned above, I have the potential to be pretty damned dramatic sometimes). Again my mom told me to suck it up and I resolved to return the next day to give it another go.

After this failed second attempt, I got in touch with our group leader/support woman and informed her of the situation. I assured her that I would have no problem passing the test (though there was a slight concern I'd fail--I was fresh out of college after all), and offered to submit a blood or even hair sample (though I knew I definitely fail if this were the case). She promptly contacted the health center and asked about my options--I had none. Because news travels fast in my family I had been receiving several emails, text messages, and phone calls from my sisters, aunts, and cousins asking if I'd peed yet and offering words of encouragement such as "just freakin pee already you fool!" At this point I decided it would be far more humiliating to return home to their jeers than allow some strange woman to witness me urinate and I set a plan in motion. While the $2,000 Princeton Review MCAT course may not have gotten me a perfect MCAT score, it had efficiently drilled kidney physiology into my brain. Remembering that caffeine was an inhibitor of aldosterone, the enzyme whose action leads to water-retention among other things, I headed to the drug store to pick up some caffeine pills. I also decided it wouldn't hurt to purchase some diuretic pills while I was at it. My new purchases in hand, I headed home to spend the weekend agonizing over how this just had to work.

I awoke bright and early Monday morning and washed down a breakfast of 2 caffeine and 2 diuretic pills with a large glass of water. I then grabbed a 1.5 liter bottle of water and hopped on the train. Before entering the health center I stopped at the nearest food joint and purchased a large coke, because though my bladder was painfully full, I knew I needed all the help I could get. I would even have considered adding alcohol to the equation, had I not been afraid they'd be testing for that as well. When I checked-in at the desk the receptionist greeted me with "aren't you that girl who can't pee?" Jesus, was everyone talking about this?! When I told her that I was indeed that girl who can't pee, she asked what I was doing there. "I thought you couldn't do it?" "Well, It seems I have no choice," I responded, "I have to try one last time." So I sipped on my coke and waited until my name was called. I followed the nurse down the familiar path to the lady's room and squatted over the toilet. Several seconds passed. Then a minute. "Are you gonna go?" She asked. "Yeah...I hope. I just need a minute." That minute passed and still there was nothing. I shifted, closed my eyes and concentrated on the excruciating pain and how soon it would be over if I could just relax. And then, suddenly, the flood gates opened. I filled the cup far higher than they had asked me to, handed it to the nurse and asked that she allow me to finish. That was the longest, most relieving urination of my life! I proudly strutted out of the building and promptly sent out a mass text message to every member of my family, "Success."

Never Forget

When I was sixteen I watched the morning news each day for one reason and one reason only: to hear the weather report so that I could choose an appropriate outfit for the day. Not that I was particularly fashionable. I simply needed to know if it would be a jeans and t-shirt or jeans and sweatshirt sort of day. I didn't actually watch the news, so much as leave it on in the background as I wandered around the house and readied myself. The 5 day forecast was broadcast about every 15 minutes so I'd be sure to return to the room at the appropriate intervals to catch the day's temperature highs and lows. On particularly busy news days some of these abundant, repetitive weather reports were cut, in extreme cases they were all ignored completely. This angered me. So imagine my rage when one fall morning absolutely no mention of the days weather conditions was made whatsoever. Each time I entered the room to check the television all that appeared on screen were images of a smoke-filled sky accompanied by the utterly confused, appalled, devastated commentary of the newscasters, which I couldn't be bothered to listen to. "What the hell!!!" I bitched at the screen. "So a building is on fire somewhere, I don't care. Just tell me if its gonna be hot or cold!" I sat on the floor and stared at the screen in anger. "Just because some sort of "disaster" is going on doesn't mean we all have to stop our lives. We still need to know the weather forecast!" But the smoky footage continued, ignoring my demands. Angry and tardy, I finally just picked out some clothes and scuffed out of the house. When I arrived at school that day the classes and halls were ablaze with chatter. Were they all pissed about the lack of weather reports also? But I soon learned what was really going on. It turns out the newscasters had refused to tell me the day's temperature because they were covering the World Trade Center attacks. All of our scheduled lessons were canceled and instead we watched the news coverage in all my classes, which was on every channel. Apparently this disaster was cause for the halting of our regular daily activities. As he explained the magnitude of what we were bearing witness to, my U.S. History teacher said something that will forever stay with me; "Your parents and grandparents all remember exactly what they were doing when they found out that JFK had been shot. Future generations are going to ask you 'what were you doing when you found out about the September 11 attacks?'" All I could think of was how I would have to tell them that I was a self-centered teenager who was pissed because this massive attack and murder of thousands of people had forced me to miss the weather report. I may not remember what I wore that day or if it was appropriate for the weather conditions, but I will never forget what a total asshole I felt like when I learned the cause of my petty anger.

Unfinished Business

My dad is infamous for not finishing things. One day he decided that our den needed a remodel, so he gutted it completely; had my mom move out all the furniture, pulled up the carpet, and took a hammer to the walls until the inside consisted of a concrete floor and exposed 2x4s. I was in 3rd grade at the time. After my sister and I set the house on fire my sophomore year of college he finally knocked down the unfinished room completely. And that was only one of the countless projects he undertook. Don't even get me started on the kitchen!

Perhaps even worse than his track record of half-finished undertakings is my father's habit of caving to his children's most ridiculous whims...several months after they have forgotten them. When I was 16 I visited a pet store and decided that I wanted a pet bird. I fantasized about it flying around my room and perching itself on my finger, softly serenading me as I awoke each morning. We would be the best of friends my bird and I. But my parents weren't so keen on the idea. They weren't going to pay for it and insisted that I was not responsible enough to care for yet another pet. I reasoned with them (begged) and then sulked for about a week until I got over it.

One Saturday morning, maybe 4 months after I had lost sight of my dream of owning a bird and had moved on to something else equally frivolous, my father arrived at home with a birdcage. He had found it at a yard sale for only $10 and excitedly handed it to me exclaiming that I could now get that bird I wanted. That bird I wanted 4 months ago! When I hesitantly informed him that my desire for a pet bird had long since subsided he broke out in a fit of anger. Immediately he began shaking his finger in my face, screaming about what a "goddamn ungrateful, spoiled brat" I was, as saliva flew every which way from his mouth. After he had gone to all the trouble of happening upon a super cheap birdcage, this is the thanks he got?! He ended his long-winded scolding with an ultimatum: either I go buy myself a goddamn bird, or I reimburse him for the cost of the cage and find something to do with it. I foolishly opted for the first choice. A few days later I went to Petco and picked out a lovely blue parakeet. It turned out nothing like my fantasy - that bird was a bastard! Every time I opened the cage door and gently attempted to coax him onto my finger he would bite me and then retreat to the furthest corner of the cage. He slept all day and then would make a terrible racket fluttering about as I tried to sleep each night. Worst of all were the terrible odor emitting from his cage and the constant whirl of sawdust flying about my room. After just a couple of months I had had it and promptly moved the birdcage outside to hang from a hook on our front porch. This way he could get some sunshine and I could rid my room of that awful bird smell. Now, I'm quite forgetful and irresponsible, and was even more so at the age of 16. By moving it from my room to the communal area of the front porch I felt I had been relinquished of all responsibility for the bird and quickly forgot that I ever owned such a creature. The fact that I did, however, was precipitously brought to my attention one morning by the screams of my mother, who had found the neglected bird lying, cold and hard, on its side in the middle of the cage. Its water bowl was completely dry and its food dish empty. How long had the poor thing been deprived of nourishment? Hadn't I been feeding him?! He was after all, my bird!

***

After returning home from a brief stint in New York I spent the spring broke and unemployed. To entertain myself I took up projects around the house. I single-handedly transformed the concrete swamp in our backyard back into a crystal clear swimming pool in just a few short weeks. In addition, I took to tending the family garden, picking ripe vegetables every so often for my mom to incorporate into our family dinners. The majority of my days were spent sunbathing and enjoying the pool I had worked so hard to transform. Spending so much time outdoors made me yearn for a beautiful, botanic backyard. i decided that a surefire way to get the yard looking more like a garden and less like a lumber yard would be with the addition of a pond. When I informed my parents of my desire to build a pond in our backyard they questioned my sanity. Did I know how much work it is to keep up a pond? And I was gonna build it myself?! No way! I must be crazy! I tried to paint for them the picturesque ambiance it would provide for our backyard picnics and barbecues - which we'd surely adopt once we had a proper setting; but they weren't having it. When I explained that a small lagoon would prove a lovely new home for the water turtles currently trapped in the small aquarium in my sister's room, they countered with the high probability that said turtles would make a lovely meal for local cats and birds. I assured them that I'd find a way to ensure the animals' safety and proceeded to show them the step-by-step pond building instructions I had found on the Internet. I could build it no problem if they'd only buy the materials. They didn't. I moved on.

Long after I'd forgotten my pond-building inclinations, my father randomly brought home a pond shell. I wasn't even living with them anymore! I had come over to visit one day when he called me out to the backyard, he had something to show me. I walked outside to discover my dad holding a large, awkwardly shaped, black plastic basin. Perplexed, I asked, "what the heck is that?" "Its a pond shell!" he explained. "One of my customers was getting rid of it and I remembered that you girls wanted to build a pond, so I took it." He smiled, proud of his gesture. Flabbergasted by this presentation of something that I once again did not remember I had wanted, I responded, "uh...thanks...but that was nearly a year ago..." Once again he was left astonished and angry, and I was lectured. To this day the pond shell remains in the garage, housing the pool cleaning equipment. It sits just next to the birdcage that was once home to the blue parakeet I killed, serving as a reminder of the caprice of both my father and I.

The Suitcase Lady

Following a sub-par Broken Social Scene show at Coney Island, tired and still hung-over from the previous evening's festivities, a friend and I were at the 125th st. subway station waiting to catch the A train home. Having been standing on the platform for a significant period of time and out of conversation topics, I awkwardly gazed across the tracks toward the downtown side of the station when something caught my eye, "wow, that's a really large suitcase" I pointed out feigning interest. Suddenly, a frail woman emerged from the elevator with a second bag of equal proportion, "Oh shit there are two of them!" I exclaimed, actually somewhat intrigued this time. The woman then retreated back to the elevator only to return with a third. My friend and I turned to each other and laughed, inexplicably entertained by the three large bags. Upon returning our attention to the opposite platform we were baffled to see the three suitcases perfectly lined up with no sign of their owner.

"Is this a drug deal? Or maybe they're bombs!" my companion speculated.

"I hope she returns with more" I joked. "How awesome would that be if she has so many that she couldn't fit them all in one trip?"

To our delight this was exactly the case. We watched mesmerized and thoroughly entertained as the woman slowly made trips to and from the elevator with a new bag each time; slowly, methodically, perfectly lining them up along the yellow paint. Final count: 7 large to mid-size suitcases and a few smaller duffel bags. Once these had been nicely placed just outside the elevator, their owner began to move them toward the middle of the platform where the benches were placed; slowly, one-by-one lining them up once again. Grinning in amazement, now alongside other spectators, we watched her process. Finally, she settled on a bench surrounded by her bags and let several trains pass, giving rise to so many questions. Where was she going? How would she get all those suitcases on the train? How the hell did she get them in the subway station to begin with? She must have done this before!

Unfortunately our train arrived shortly thereafter leaving us with only wonder and speculation as we made our way home.

Several months later, that same friend and I, along with others, were on our way to the Apollo for a concert. A pre-show dinner of wine and cheese, followed by a dessert of wine-in-a-water-bottle that was consumed on the train, had left me feeling quite inebriated. As I staggered up the stairs toward the station exit I spotted three suitcases just inside the emergency exit and the same frail woman from before dragging in one more. Shocked, I excitedly turned to my friends and exclaimed, "Its the bag lady!" Not only was I lucky enough to see her again, but this time it was at a different point in her process. Yet, I still had so many questions: what about the bags that she had not yet brought in, were they safe? Was someone watching them? Could this really be a one-man venture? I wanted answers, but we were already running late. I was caught between staying in the station and watching her journey unfold or exiting to be sure I reached the venue in time for Jenny Lewis (and another drink). It was a tough decision, but Jenny (and alcohol) always wins.

It is just one short month later when my friend and I see her again. Due to weekend train schedules and too much alcohol, we had found ourselves at a gathering in Harlem, so we caught the A at 116 st. As I stumble into the car I immediately notice that the entire left corner has been overtaken by a mound of bags. My eyes grow wide with excitement as I realize that this is my third encounter with this woman and her many bags. A huge grin spreads across my face as I giddily make eye-contact with my companion, who, as composed as possible, whispers "just keep going" and leads me to the other side of the car. Speechless, I quickly follow as we search for seats as far away as possible. Upon sitting down we immediately burst out into laughter, once again inexplicably amused by whom we've now grown to refer to as The Suitcase Lady. I want to stay on the train and follow this woman; see where she goes and how she manages. However, it is late and I have to work in the morning. The train glides to a halt at my stop and she and her suitcases are not moving. Defeated, I exit.

Three encounters at three different stages; yet, I still have so many questions. I am intrigued. In fact, she has become a bit of an obsession. As I will be moving back to the west coast soon, I spend my last few days in the city seeking out this woman. I don't know why, but I must know her story, her process, before I leave. I begin to haunt the A line between Harlem and Washington Heights. On a few occasions I even stake out the 125th st. station for as long as I can manage (which if you're familiar with it, or any of New York's subway stations for that matter, you can imagine is not very long). I even consider foregoing a ride to the airport from a friend in hopes that I will run into the Suitcase Lady on my way there, or perhaps out of a strange desire to experience her odyssey myself. Alas, I must accept that some things are not for me to know.

10 Reasons I don't have Asperger's

I recently watched the move Adam with my sister. The title character is a young man afflicted with Asperger Syndrome. After the movie my sister kept calling me Adam. A few days later a couple of my other sisters viewed the movie. Then on separate occasions they each referred to me as Adam. In college two of my roommates took a course on Autism. After one particular lecture they excitedly came home and diagnosed me with Asperger's. In order to help me manage/overcome my disorder they said they would issue me a card and each time I asked a question relevant to a conversation I would get a stamp; once I had filled up my card with stamps I would get a prize. I'm still waiting for my prize. Anyway, for some reason everyone likes diagnosing me with this disorder, so I did some Wikipedia research and found characteristics of the disorder that don't apply to me:

1. Characteristic of Disorder: Failure to develop friendships
   Explanation: okay, so I'm not good at making friends, but failure indicates, well TOTAL FAILURE, as in no friends ever. I have a few, according to facebook I have 150!
2. Characteristic of Disorder: Lack of eye-contact and facial expression
   Explanation: I kick ass at eye-contact! I'm so good at it that I freak people out by over-contacting their eyes. Also I've been told that I have some pretty killer facial expressions. In fact, since I'm not a big fan of verbal exchanges I've developed the ability to carry on ENTIRE conversations with facial expressions alone.
3. Characteristic of Disorder: Awkward, but not withdrawn (will approach others)
   Explanation: Yes I'm awkward, however, I would also consider myself withdrawn -- no way in hell am I gonna randomly approach peeps I don't know and try to start a conversation!
4. Characteristic of Disorder: One-sided, long-winded speech without noticing others' disinterest
   Explanation: So when it comes to some things (i.e. wine and Jenny Lewis) I can talk forever, however, I know that no one else cares, I just talk about it anyway.
5. Characteristic of Disorder: restricted/repetitive routines                                                      Explanation: While I do like routine, I am not totally bound by it. For example, tonight I'm drinking Corona, last night I had hefeweizen, and the night before that I drank wine...would a person with Asperger's be able to handle such diversity? I think not.
6. Characteristic of Disorder: specific/narrow/unusual areas of interest
   Explanation: JL is probably my only unusual area of interest, plus I like other things...I'll let you know when I think of them.
7. Characteristic of Disorder: Atypical use of language/literal interpretations/difficulty with sarcasm
   Explanation: I guess I use language atypically in that I use it correctly, while unfortunately most folks today don't. As far as difficulty with sarcasm, I have difficulty not being sarcastic...I'm pretty sure that's not what they're referring to.
8. Characteristic of Disorder: weakness in irony/humor/teasing                                           Explanation: I like funny
9. Characteristic of Disorder: Marked verbosity
   Explanation: I rarely speak. Unless of course I'm drunk, but that doesn't count.
10. Characteristic of Disorder: Advanced abilities/"gifted" in a certain area
    Explanation: I have little, if any, talent.

Star Struck (Part 3)

Our third and final meeting occurred under different conditions.  This time it was in Washington DC after a Jenny Lewis concert. I was living in New York at the time, and though she was playing there just two days later and I would be attending that show, I couldn't possibly wait that long to see her. So I purchased tickets and forced my roommate to accompany on the four and a half hour bus ride into DC. Some poeple may think it a bit ridiculous to travel 5 hours on a China Town bus just to watch a lady sing for an hour, especially when she will be playing much closer in only a few days. In fact, this sentiment was expressed to me by several people. But this is Jenny Lewis we're talking about, so I grabbed a couple wine-filled water bottles and my reluctant roommate and hopped on the bus.

We arrived in DC around 4pm. The bus station happened to be right next-door to the synagogue where the show would be held so we headed over to see if a line had begun forming. There were no patrons in sight and the box office was not yet opened so we wandered around the city for a bit. My roommate wanted to explore, but I wanted to be sure to get a good seat so didn’t allow us to venture far. We returned to the venue at 4:30 and were informed that will call would not open until 6:45. To kill time we entered a nearby diner where I proceeded to consume one of my bottles of wine. Then we headed back to the venue about 6ish.  This time when we arrived there were the beginnings of a line, so we got in about 10 people back.  While there I consumed another half bottle of wine...a good buzz, feeling alright.  We finally entered the venue at 7, sat in the center of the second row, and enjoyed a FANTASTIC show. Once the band left the stage I fought my way to the front, begged for a set-list, and some how actually got one.

The show ended a little after 11 but our bus tickets back to New York were for the 1:30 bus.  My roommate, who for some reason hadn’t taken work off the next day and wanted to get home sooner rather than later, asked if we could swap our tickets for an earlier bus instead, the company obliged.  I, however, wanted to get my set-list signed so I encouraged my roommate to take the early bus but insisted that I would wait for the later one.  She was reluctant to leave me alone in a strange city, but being such a big fan, not to mention drunkenly stubborn, I eventually convinced her to go ahead without me.  She climbed on the bus while I waited outside the synagogue amongst the other hardcore fans hoping Jenny Lewis would shortly come greet us.

We had been waiting for about 20 minutes when a guy (I'm assuming her manager or something) came out and said, "Just to let you know I've been told that Jenny is not signing things tonight." A couple of people left after this news, but I and a few others decided to wait it out anyway. Sure enough, only 15 minutes later Jenny came out of the bus and walked right up to us.  Still drunkenly effusive I remarked, "that was an amazing show!" To which she graciously responded, "Aw, thanks.  It was fun. Thanks for coming." Then the girl standing next to me asked her to sign her set-list.  After signing it Jenny grabbed my set-list, signed it, and suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, you didn't even ask me to sign this! I just assumed…I'm sorry..." as though she had somehow ruined it. Surprised and amused by her humility, I awkwardly answered, "no, thanks...sorry for not asking...?" then she went on to sign stuff for other people, leaving me intoxicated by our encounter.  Contented, I shuffled into the bus station, where I sat smiling, staring at my signed set-list for the next hour until the bus came to take me back home.