Notes from the Under...stimulated

Open Letters To People Who Are Unlikely To Respond (or: another gimmick i blatantly stole from McSweeneys).
this was triggered by one of the comments to a post below, which alluded to my problem with bike riding

Crazy Guy
Crazy Park
Boston, MA 02215

Dear Mr. Crazy Homeless Man,

You probably don't remember me, but I owe you a long lost apology, and a gracious thank you. The year was 1999, and I was still in college. I believe you were enrolled in “The School of Hard Knocks” at the time (maybe you have tenure there by now?). As usual, I had more work to do than there were hours in the day to do it, and I hadn’t yet figured out that I could just stand by the printers in the computer center and my homework would shoot out, done for me (by someone else. Who would then chase me down the hall. But I digress.) It was late, and I had to return to campus for an all-nighter of programming, debugging, cursing Java, my professors, God above, and most of all my stupidity. Introduction to Programming for Engineers my ass. That wasn't no introduction and I’m no engineer. But anyway. The point is, I was going to rollerblade across the windy bridge, but my roommate thought a better idea was for me to borrow her bike: safer, faster, easier. Or so she thought.

I don't know if in your craze-haze you know adages (or maybe that's all you know?) but the one about the Not Forgetting and the How to Ride a Bicycle? Let me tell you: less an adage and more of a complete untruth. Granted, I could blame coming of bike-riding-age in NYC, but that would be a crutch, and a bad one at that. I definitely once knew how to ride a bike, and come 1999, I still wasn't disabused of the notion that once you knew how, you're set for life. So I accepted my roommate’s generous offer and haltingly pedaled into the night.

The ride over to campus was tough. I was swerving all over the sidewalk, swerving like I had stolen your beloved 40oz and shotgunned it. The fact that we were in the middle of lacrosse season and I was in shape didn't seem to make the huffing-puffing yet FLAT ride any easier. I couldn't seem to figure out how to break, as my thumbs weren't even reaching the break on the handlebars. I had to resort to jamming my feet into the sidewalk. At the time, I just thought, "Damn! Bike riding's not all it's cracked up to be!" and with advanced cognitive leaps like that, it's no wonder it took me all night and into next morning to finish my problem set. At which point, I groggily got on the bike to pedal back home, to my bed. The return journey was no easier, in fact, it was worse, way worse. In my fatigue I swerved even more violently, I still couldn’t break, and at one point mid-bridge my pant leg caught on the gear and ripped. I was then *very* close to tears borne of frustration and lack of sleep (I do not deal well sans shut-eye). I just wanted to be home, lying down, in my bed. I continued pumping away covering twice the ground because of the serpentining (Serpentine!) back and forth and back and forth. Finally, I get over the bridge, pant leg flapping in the early morning wind, my arms contorted in an attempt to get my hands underneath to use the breaks, my thighs bumping into the handle bar with every pedal.

Just then, I swerved right, under the overpass, and past your park. My brownstone was in sight; the journey had almost come to its long awaited end. Just then, you rose from your stupor and sat up, wiping the sleep from your eyes, and the pigeon poop from your natty beard. I hardly noticed you at first, you’re pretty much an institution and we had grown used to your presence. All of a sudden, echoing off the overpass I heard your gravely voice, except instead of the usual barrage of obscenities, you yelled, "IT'D BE SO MUCH EASIER IF YOU TURNED THE HANDLE BARS AROUND THE RIGHT WAY!"

And that, Mr. Crazy Homeless Man, is when I died a little inside. Right at the exact moment you had your one witness-able moment of lucidity. Your lack of insanity triggered something inside me - one of us had to be crazy for equilibrium to be maintained - and I had to accept that role by default. So in response I yelled "NO IT WOULDN'T!" (I left off your trademark “COCKSUCKER!” because I didn’t want to pay you royalties) as a jerked away. I definitely didn't fix the handlebar situation; the only salvageable sliver of dignity I had left wouldn’t let me capitulate. I had come that far, I wasn't going to do it the "conventional way" now. So Mr. Crazy Homeless man, Thank You. Thank you for clearing the cobwebs for that brief moment. I was too embarrassed at the time to adequately show my appreciation, and for that, I apologize. I would like you to know, Mr. CHM, that you have affected my life: I have only been on a non-stationary bike once since, and under duress (for a bike tour in Munich. It involved beer AND parks, I’m sure you would have liked it!). Hopefully you’re still living in Crazy Park (named after you, an honor) and this letter finds you well and as nutty as ever. Say hi to your friend who had Tourettes for me, and remember, try not to urinate while people are walking by, it’s uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Best,
LG

WHY CAN'T I HAVE JUST ONE KISS*

anyway. what i really want to know is why can't i have just one more hour. of sleep. i'm exhausted today. i am exhausted because today's a monday after a weekend full of a house guest and entertaining said houseguest. which was very fun, but i need a weekend of lounging and chilling to recover. and i think i should fast or something. to cleanse. it was a decadent weekend. and i shall enumerate the decadence below.

1. Friday night started with a late dinner and lots of wine. OH. and the nicest apartment i've ever seen. let me tell you, it's possible to walk into someone's new fabulous apartment, someone who's effectively YOUR AGE and be so overcome that you're speechless. an apartment so fabulous you almost want to throttle the person while exclaiming "THIS *throttle* APARTMENT *choke* IS NICER *throttle choke* THAN I EVER COULD HAVE IMAGINED *one last neck wrench* AND THEN SOME."

2. Saturday included lunch at Spice Market. with all the hype and even the controversy over the NYT review (so much so that i even heard a reference to Hesser-gate. that might be over the top, yeah?), i was expecting to be disappointed. i wasn't. it was delicious and exotic, but enough about the food: i had the best blood orange mojito. wait. let me clarify. the best drink ever: a blood orange mojito. mojitos have been bastardised and degraded at almost every restaurant/bar by now. they're yesterday's hip drink and most of the time just a mess of sugar and mint leaves. but this blood orange mojito was magic, MAGIC, i tell you! i had two. before 2pm. on a saturday. and i had to restrain myself from getting a third (and then passing out). morning oj will never be the same...

3. saturday night. i've wasted a lot of time talking about oranges and apartments. so let me keep this brief. saturday night included a ghettotastic limo complete with duct tape on the door and a blasting sound track of mo-town hits. it segued into a euro party on a pier in the hudson with fewer english speakers than at my bank, and that's saying quite a bit. (Italian: "you're americano?" me: "yes. we are in america, remember?"). cue drinking, dancing, conversations where no one understands what the other person is saying but who cares because he bought me a drink, dancing on stage, feet hurting-->more drinking, watching someone stand in the bathroom and ask everyone who came in or out if they had any coke, then say "well, i'm just going to wait here 'til a really skinny person comes in..." and dancing and drinking and losing my friend and realising it's almost 5am and then crashing and sleeping and miraculously NOT feeling hungover! wonders of wonders, miracles of miracles! but, needless to say, i did abstain from joining people at Nobu last night. i think i might have both popped and whithered away at the same time. i needed me some couch and some Sopranos. WHICH DIDN'T DISAPPOINT! WIDE GUY LIKES HIM SOME, ER...MAN LOVIN'! This leads to the most ambiguous flirtation/intimidation scene ever filmed, causing Finn to fear for his life, and Wide Guy to get stood up at Yankee Stadium. On Bat Day.

but: new york in the spring time is pretty unbeatable. at least, i'm too tired to try and beat it. maybe another blood orange mojito would help. GARCON!

*someone mentioned that he's going to a Violent Femmes "gig" tonight and now i can't get their songs out of my head. or, because i wasn't ever all that into their music, by extension that scene in Reality Bites where Ethan Hawke is singing at Winona Ryder and she storms out and their star crossed relationship looks doomed wither away before a happy ending swoops in to save them and our perception of romance.

I Don't Think Spam is Kosher.

so somehow at some point i must have given my email address to Heeb Magazine (mainly i think because they have this HILARIOUS Streits Matzoh ad that has a black man holding a piece of matzoh saying "DAMN! That's one big ass cracker!" heh. makes me laugh. every. single. time. anyway). so, they had my email address and sporadically i'd been getting emails from them (like 4x a year) saying when a new issue of the mag was coming out. except last time, they forgot to Bcc: the email addresses, so now everyone on the list has access to everyone's email, and the spam's been flying. in the last 24 hours alone, i've gotten

-an offer for "Great Software Gifts for Passover!" (really? computer games for passover? i knew this night was different from all other nights, but i didn't know they meant w/r/t to your gaming experience. also: i've never gotten a gift on passover - unless you consider Maneshevitz a gift, which i do, yummy sickly sweet wine! - am i missing out on another eight day-gift giving jewish holiday? AM I THE STUPID CHILD?)

- a 2000 word essay entitled "My Yiddish" on the lost art of speaking yiddish. Oy vey.

- an email from with the subject "Nice Jewish Girls Gone Bad Week 3". i know a lot of nice jewish girls. while we can get crazy, we rarely go bad. and DEFINITELY NOT for three weeks in a row. sell your jewesses somewhere else, we've got enough here.

ANOTHER BREACH OF PRIVACY THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH EMAIL OR JUDAISM: yesterday? at the gym? i was there, on the machines, when all of a sudden a flash went off. a homeless man walked in, took a picture of everyone working-out, and left. the NYSC staff didn't even blink an eye. next thing you know, i'm going to be getting spammed pictures of me and all the other jappy girls working out in their juicy attire with their pearl earings and their eye make-up (we're at the gym people!) and the header will read "Nice Jewish Girls Gone Exersizing DAY 3" (so i lied about the no email and no jews. sorry.)

Potty Talk

Lady 1: Oh my. This commode [hee! commode! and in all seriousness!] just threw up water all over me.
Lady 2: Oh. Yeah.
Lady 1: OH YEAH? and i'm not talking like a little.
Lady 2: You're talking like a lot?
Lady 1: Like a shit load!
Lady 2: A SHIT LOAD?
Lady 1: Like a lot. Of water. I need a towel. (she shuffles out of the stall with her pants DOWN! HA! at this point i run out for fear of laughing in this poor drenched woman's face. the truth is? that toilet does have an "eruption" problem. too bad people from out of town don't know about it. or like, too bad that it'll never get fixed.)

Let's Take a Squiz, Or Remembering this Made Me Giggle

sometime this past september i went on a three city tour-de-force road trip with my old boss. we hit baltimore, charlotte and ft. lauderdale. in baltimore we consumed so much beer and super sonic* that the hangover the next day was an I Feel Like Death, Both From Poisoning Myself And Regret (Because I Have No Self-Control). I drunk dialed almost everyone I knew, he sang INXS, and we actually asked a really scary man in the parking lot to give us a ride home to our freeway-stranded Sheraton in his beat up minivan. after much cajoling (why didn't we just call a cab??? why did we drink so much???) this guy did in fact drive, nay speed, us home, all the while taking the creepiest backroads ever. if i hadn't been so inebriated, i would have been deathly afraid. i managed to stagger upstairs, but apparently my boss wandered across the highway to a Wendy's for some late-night grubbin', and then staggered back and PASSED OUT ON THE BED THEY HAD IN THE LOBBY! it was a display bed, up on a platform, advertising the super-duper mattresses they use in Sheratons across the country. the next morning, at 7am, when we had to give a presentation, we were slightly worse for wear. and the back sweat of the other guy who was presenting [who is a Scottish Dr. Hibbert from the Simpsons and whose response to everything is really more of a Ms. Krappable type "HA!" - and whose back sweat had nothing to do with alcohol, so there's really no excuse] almost made me puke in the middle of his tirade about whether the Hong Kong Dollar would revalue or devalue or whatever ("Honkie Dollar RE-VALUE? UH, NO. HA!").

The drive to the airport was a horror and i was in the backseat and i couldn't open the windows and the alcohol related fumes that were escaping my pores were being refermented by the excruciatingly hot rays of sun streaming in through the windows. at the airport my boss and i decided to Take Some Time Apart, and i think i must have passed out with my eyes open, and then it took me 1.5hrs to get through security where i had to basically get undressed completely to prove i wasn't a threat. Then i had to run to the gate because i was so late, so i didn't have time to put my belt back on, and i was running and dragging my little wheely suitcase and belt in one hand and trying to hold up my totally fally-downy-without-a-belt pants in the other, and the entire Baltimore airport saw my still-drunken-ass. and, contrary to what usually happens, i.e., you run but catch your plane and talk about how you were THIS || CLOSE to missing it, i got there and the lady at the gate was all "i'm sorry, we've finished boarding." and i thought i was going to die and hot salty tears ALMOST rolled down my cheeks but i was too tired to care.

i'll skip past charlotte and the hurricane that everyone talked about but that didn't really arrive, except for in baltimore, a city i thank god i had left. i don't think i ever want to go to baltimore again, and definitely not during a hurricane. next we went on to ft. lauderdale and by now our welsh co-worker who is the smuttiest man-child i know had met up with us. and we decided to have a drink at the rotating bar on top of our hotel (i had seltzer, i was still of the mind that i was actually Never Drinking Again) and after a few rotations, we tired of the Ft. Lauderdale skyline and decided to retire. (here's the part that made me giggle. from the title. remember?) so we load into this elevator and it's the three of us and then at the last second, this lady who's just So Florida slides in. she's about 55-60 and is wearing a long skirt and a sweater with embroidered cats on it, and other little patches of cats ironed on, and one big cat right front and center on her chest. and it was kind of a long elevator ride down, and we were all just standing there, minding our own business, listening to the electronic elevator beeps and the muzak, and just as we're about to hit the ground floor, my boss turns to her and drawls in his Australian accent "Nice Pussy, Luv."

remember when work used to be mortifyingly fun? at least remember when it wasn't snowing?

*gin and tonic

Without Winter, Spring Wouldn't Be So Sweet. Or Warm.

J: what's the weather like there?
Me: Wintry mix. Cold and slushy.
J: it's 82 here.
Me: You asked just so you could tell me that, didn't you?
J: No I asked so I could gloat to myself. Needed affirmation that moving here has benefits. Telling you was an added bonus.
Me: well. a search for "Fresno Sucks" on google landed someone on this page yesterday. google leads them to the truth, even if the truth is 82 degrees and sunny.

sometimes i need to lie to myself and say i enjoy being cold and wet.

HIPPO!
for a long time "hippo" used to be workspeak for "hungry." i kind of imagined that hippos made a noise like "BRANNNNNAAGGHHHHH!" before they gobbled down some marbles. all the hippo talk gradually degenerated into conversations like:

ME: Hippo already.
Dodong: Moo Hippo!
ME: BRANAGGGH!

and that is why this picture and description of a toy from Japan on Vice cracked me up.

KABA KICK (Tokyo)
New American parents are the worst. They pack a Zip-Loc bag of washed grapes everywhere they go, wear matching hats, have those big baby knapsacks with plastic things on it that can snap on to the baby seat, and they spend hundreds of dollars on educational toys. We need to be more like the nips and give our kids toys like this Russian roulette game, where instead of literally blowing your head off, a hippo comes out and bonks you.

there's also this, which needs no comment (except: DWARFS, and HIPPOS, AND EATING, OH MY!):

Eat This, People.

all you hipster comic folk out there who try soooo haaaaarrrrd to get a spot on Eating It at Luna Lounge on Mondays, i dunno what's your problem. getting a spot's easy peasy lemon squeasy, and i'm not even a comic OR a performer. so last night, i was going to go home and go to the gym (work off some of that bad mood i had been cultivating all day. ASIDE: today, this lady came in and was all "how are you today? BETTER THAN YESTERDAY, I HOPE." and laz was all grumble grumble "she better be *grumble* bitchy bitch bitch *grumble*") and go to bed. instead i ended up being in a skit at luna. definitely a stop-gap measure (too many parts, not enough cast), NOT becuase of my superior acting abilities. apparently, all you need to get on stage is to know someone, be handed a script, and to be able to read, at least haltingly.

let's just say i had to utter the lines "i just had an idea, my dad's rich! let's sue!" and "i'm not a lesbian or a homophobe!" and NO. i wasn't playing Jaime Gleicher.

so. in one night i had my debut and my finale. at least i don't also have to nurture fledging hopes of being a starlette. that's one less dream to be squashed, and that's fantastic!

and if the story above wasn't enough for you: SOMEONE JUST TOLD ME ABOUT A TURKISH GUY HE KNEW WHO SHOT SOMEONE FOR RAPING HIS DONKEY! happy tuesday morning to you.

(the obligatory "Ides of March" Post)

The "I'ds" of March.

1. I'd like to start a new tradition. Forget New Years resolutions. no one ever keeps them, and not in the least because you have the long dark barrel of winter still staring you in the face. If the promise of spring isn't something that'll help motivate you to change (you and nature and come alive together!), then forget change, my friend. the intertia's just too much for you.

2. (that being said, here're mine) I'd like to not work at my job anymore. or any job, for that matter.

3. I'd really like to quit today, but i may have to wait til July.

4. I'd venture that you should wear shoes at work (while i'm on the subject of work). I'd suggest someone tell that guy who likes to pad around in his socks that it's normally an unspoken rule.

5. I'd say the one above was two, so moving right along.

6. I'd guess i could really be in shape by the summer.

7. I'd be certain that i'm deluding myself, but what the heck.

8. I'd like everyone to know that the third sentence i heard saturday morning was "i dunno. maybe it's just my problem with seeing people's lower extremities mangled or "put-on" wrong. it really makes me nauseous." (thanks K!)

9. I'd hope that sometime this decade another good movie would be made. I'd worry that i'm wrong.

10. I'd be stupid to think that this whole "no caffeine!" detox thing i've started today is going to be easy or fun. and watch out. the bitch is back and she's better than before. hey nah.

11. I'd like to thank god for HBO.

12. I'd say there's a very good reason most lists only have ten entries rather than 15.

13. I'd like to think that I'm better than the generic "et tu?" comment. but no caffiene is brutus. erm. brutal. and i'm not feeling so witty. et tu?

14. i'd like to move to brooklyn (maybe?).

15. i'd love for us all to get along. c'mon people smile on your brother, everybody get together, try and love one another right now. and as an aside, NATO, if you want my advice, send those security guards to Greece and lickity-splitsalikis. let's be PRE-emptive for once!

Dios Mios.
Nowhere is safe. And that is scary. Just yesterday I was taking the subway during rush hour and had a wave of nausea (unrelated to my recent stomach flu) and fear wash over me as i looked around and thought: "THERE ARE JUST SO. MANY. PEOPLE. AND WE'RE ALL PACKED IN HERE LIKE CATTLE." What happened in Madrid is horrible.

--------(line of demarcation b/t serious and grave horror and self-centered, semi-humorous dribble)---------

but. in an attempt to distance myself from thoughts of death and mortality and terror[ism], this morning i was reminded of a much MUCH more trivial affair, namely that of my own stupidity. Laz's eye has been bothering him for months now and his optometrist is a joke. so i said i'd give him the name of my eye doctor. and then i was like "in fact, i know of TWO in the city..." (cue flashback)

(warning, this intro is going to sound gross, but bear with me, it's necessary back story)
so, last may, i had some sort of small, little irritation on my torso, my trunk as the medical reference books like to refer to it. AS A DISCLAIMER: it turned out to be nothing, just that, an irritation. but at the time, i found it worrisome and convinced myself it was something exotic and dangerous and potentially flesh eating and/or cancerous, so decided it was probably best to check it out. i needed a dermotologist, and asked Dodong for her doctor. "julian mackey, SHE'S pretty good" offered Dodong, "But I can't find her number." so i just called 411. i get the number and make an appointment.

On the appointed day, i arrive at 71st between Madison and Park right on time, go in, sit down, and start reading some dog-eared magazine. After a while, they call my name and ask me to fill out a new patient form. So i fill out my name, insurance, etc, and decide to write down what exactly it is that ails me, as i don't want to get stuck there with a general consult where this doctor goes over every freaking birthmark and expounds on the ills of getting a sun tan. so i hand in this form, and the secretary looks at me all funny-like. "you have a rash? on your torso?" "yes." at this point, i'm starting to feel both like a Leper and like something's amiss. "yeah, why, is that really bad???" (i'm starting to get hysterical) "IS SOMETHING GOING AROUND???"
Secretary: well..... this is an ophthalmologist's office.
Me: (mortified, not only because of the situation, but also because i had my hand on my shirt about to flash this lady in an attempt to show her my little irritation) an eye doctor?
Sec'tary: Yes.
ME: oh. (i put my shirt down and push my glasses up on the bridge of my nose)
Sec'tary: good luck with that rash. heh.