I Hate My Guts

I'm trying to update this blog on a regular basis; posting something every Monday. Unfortunately this regimenting adds "writing in my blog" to the list of things I am obligated to do but loathe doing simply because I am obligated (waking up, driving with my eyes open, wearing a shirt, etc.) So instead of sitting down at my anvil of prose and hammering out some forged literary steel like the wordsmith that I am, I spent my afternoon sending harassing youtube comments to a Christian rock band[1]. Because of this, I will now plagiarize myself and lift an article I wrote for a punk-oriented music website. Just writing the words “punk-oriented music website” gave me more pain than what I am about to describe below.

If you have made it through any of the other postings here you realize that I used to play in a band. In case you haven’t; I used to play in a band. We used to tour like it was our job, which we convinced ourselves it was, although it paid very poorly and forced us into other menial jobs. It isn’t often you take a job to support your job, but the dead-end rock and roller does not see that as a problem. As a dead-end rock and roller I can tell you there are much bigger problems to contend with.

Bands age quickly, and my band, which was once an uppity foul mouth adolescent, was thinking about getting one of those mechanical chairs that takes you up and down the stairs so you don’t starve to death at the bottom of the staircase after you’ve fallen down and shattered your hip[2]. But, before we put ourselves in a home, we decided to have one last hurrah on that wild, Taco Bell lined, open road.      

Now, there are a series of preparations and routine checks before heading out on any tour. Working van? Check. Back up guitars? Check. Absurd amount of t-shirts? Check. Directions to the shows? Check[3]. Non-inflamed Appendix? Eh... 

Usually a finicky or totally non-functioning van sounds the death knell for a tour, not a tiny little organ no one even needs in the first place. But, on the way to the first show in New York, I was reminded that there are some things you just can't plan for, and sometimes they have to be surgically removed from your body. 

Two days before we began the tour I started getting shooting stomach pains. I chalked it up to eating some bad food and a cramp I got the day before riding my bike. The pain was with me bright and early on Saturday morning and I decided that the food was really bad and the pain would make its exit once the food did. I tried to ignore it as best as I could. Sometimes it was fine, other times it felt like there was a boxcutter fight going on in my intestines, which is something hard to ignore especially when it's something you would want to watch. 

Finally, on the way down to the show on Monday I did something that I inexplicably had not yet done; I tried to locate the pain by pressing on my stomach. This is when I brought a serious anatomical question to everyone else in the band: "Is this where my appendix is?" The spot where my hand was at the time was indeed where my rotten appendix was. It was also the spot that seemed to be where all the pain was coming from. Being the medical super sleuth that I am I started to put a few things together. The bass player called his mom, who works in a doctor's office, and she confirmed that I had the symptoms of having an appendicitis. I thought about brining a malpractice suit against WebMD because appendicitis was nowhere on the list of ailments it listed for me based on my symptoms, which included the Vapors, Whooping Cough, and GRID[4]. 

The band deliberated, "Maybe we should still go to New York, I bet there are good hospitals in New York." “Are you sure it isn’t gas?” "Maybe we should turn around and go home." "What does he do in the band again?" "Maybe it's gas? It could be gas." The bass player got online using his phone and found a nearby hospital. This was like living in some sort of futuristic wonderland, I wasn’t sure why the phone just couldn’t perform the operation on me, it was clearly the most intelligent thing, person or otherwise in our van.

My initial and lasting feeling, outside the shooting pain, was complete annoyance, which was just barely able to differentiate from my general malaise. It was obvious to me that my appendix was trying to secede from the union, and it could not have picked a worse time. We made it to the hospital after a seemingly endless eight mile drive. We contemplated saving time and money by stopping at the Veterinary Hospital a few miles before our actual destination. While sitting in a parking lot across from the hospital, somehow we missed the actual parking lot; the guys prepped me for going inside: "You're not wearing your bullet belt right?" "You're not wearing a sketchy shirt are you?" These would prove to be worthwhile precautions as we were assumed to be urine swapping junkies once inside the Emergency Room. 

I hobbled up to the front desk and gave the receptionist my name, something I would do about fifteen more times before I could sit down, and told her I was pretty sure my appendix was going out, Bonnie and Clyde style. She gave me a sealed plastic bag containing a plastic jar for me to pee in. "They'll want that" she said as she handed it to me. Of course they would, who wouldn't? We sat, waited, leafed through gardening magazines and pamphlets about ovarian cancer, and then I was called in to see a nurse. She took my blood pressure, temperature, I reeled off my symptoms for her and gave her the coveted plastic jar, now full. She called me buddy and sent me back to the waiting room. 

When I had gone into the bathroom to dish out the goods, the tech-wizard bass player waited outside so he could give me a few reassuring words upon my return. Looking like the suspicious ruffians that we were, some voyeuristic staff member saw him outside the bathroom and assumed that he came in with me. I can only imagine that this misinformation was given to my nurse in some Emergency Room pass-it-along game. The nurse came out into the waiting room holding my sample in its sealed bag and looking at the four of us angrily. "I'm throwing this out." She declared to us. Maybe she was just sick of her job. I would have thrown it out too, I mean, it was piss. "Whose is this?" She asked indignantly "Who was in there with you?" She was holding the bag by its corner between her thumb and index finger like an angry mother who just found a joint or a stained JUGS magazine in her child's room, too furious to really touch it. I could picture her saying "I did not raise you to smoke marijuana cigarettes, read JUGS magazine, and swap your urine!" 

We were all completely baffled for a moment, but I spoke up letting her know that the juice was 100% mine and that I would have "signed off on it." Once it was all cleared up that I wasn't on so many drugs that I would swap my urine in a paranoid bout to avoid being caught with a dirty stream, they took my piss and we resumed waiting. 

After a little while I was brought inside the ER. I abandoned my clothes for a very revealing johnny and started making friends with the staff. One of the most enthusiastic people I have ever met came in just as I was getting situated. Her enthusiasm was only matched by her desire to find out whether or not I had insurance. I had my suspicions that had I been uninsured she wouldn't have been the bouncing ray of sunshine that she was, but who can say really. After this, the folks from the ER showed me a thing or two about who was and wasn't on drugs by pumping me full of so many painkillers that too this day I am not allowed to operate heavy machinery. I could feel my arm going numb right where the IV needle entered my vein and the feeling traveled up to my brain rendering me completely useless to all the people who had to harvest information out of me about my symptoms, health history, and allergies. In a drug induced stupor I thought the drummer of my band came to tell me that his cat had won a prize and would be featured on a $1 scratch ticket called Cat Scratch Fever. This turned out to have actually happened; amazing. 

After this I spoke to a doctor. What I learned from him was that I needed to have a CAT scan and that he was going to google my band and see if his blink182 loving son was into us; I assuredly told him "He probably is." After the CAT can, which confirmed my suspicions of my defecting appendix, I sent out text messages to everyone I could letting them know that we wouldn't be coming to New York. Being someone who constantly makes shit up no one believed me, but the truth was my appendix had failed me and it was time to go under the knife. My bandmates came in and wished me the best; that is what my fogged mind could ascertain anyway, they could have all quit the band but I was so doped up I was fairly sure I was in a hot tub in Heaven and was waiting for God to get back with a hoagie. 

On my way to get gutted the people from the OR told me how the people from the ER are always stealing their gurneys. Jerks. One of my last thoughts was the scene from the Simpsons episode "Boy-Scoutz 'N the Hood" where Dr. Hibbert takes out a guy's appendix on the street after proclaiming "this man's appendix is about to burst" then hucks it off camera where it explodes like a grenade[5]. It was a good thing I had such a solid understanding of what was going on grounded in stark reality. I was laid on the operating table, given anesthesia and the next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed. I no longer had an appendix. 

I did have ten staples and more IVs which I took as a fair trade. Everything that happened afterwards was pretty boring unless you think the chronicles of someone doped on morphine watching VH1 all day and struggling to pee in some thermos-looking container are interesting, and if you do I'm confident that there is a website out there offering videos and photos of that very thing. I am not going to find it for you though. 

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[1] I know it’s juvenile but watch the video and tell me they don’t deserve it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnnnlkIiqsM&feature=related Also, look at that guy’s socks. THERE IS NO GOD

[2] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy--coXgNWE&feature=related You just know the chair eventually goes all 2001: Space Odyssey on those poor old people.  

[3] This was before the ubiquity of GPS. On the first tour I went on we had an atlas, an atlas! We went around Cape Horn like three times before we got to the first show. We brought back many spices from the Orient.

[4] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay-related_immune_deficiency Oh scientific medicine, you silly bigot you.

[5] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYRAVw8Op8Q This is pretty much exactly how my operation went.

I Have a Telephone Pole

In the summer of my 21^st year, I found myself gallivanting around Europe with three friends. We were there under the pretense of playing music, which occupied a very small portion of each day. The rest of time we were free to absorb as much culture as we could possibly retain. Of all the places we visited, Germany really sits atop the culture pile. For example, in Bonn, the birthplace of Beethoven, I was able to get a soft pretzel the size of my head called “Der Amerikaner.” I did not see the place where Beethoven was born, but I did see the bakery where Der Amerikaners were made.

Germany also has a thriving night life. You know the scenes in all those action movies where the protagonist is looking for someone in an impossibly loud, crowded, and futuristically neon club?[1] Those places exist all over Germany; during the day they are tech schools. At night people gather at these clubs to share ideas, substances, and bodily fluids. They are culture central.

When an expansive warehouse full of Tesla Coils can’t be found, the Germans show their resilience and tenacity. They will stuff a DJ and a soundsystem anywhere. The particular anywhere I found myself was the basement of a concert hall somewhere in Berlin. Lest no space go without techno music, a glorified wine cellar had been outfitted to be its own tiny club. Of my three friends, two were in tow, in addition to the German who had been tasked with carting us around all over Europe.

One of my friends, J, is somewhat of a renaissance man. He liked to learn as much as he could about every country we went to. He would always try to learn a bit of the language as well. When in Italy, he learned how to say “how much.” Now, “quanto questo” means how much is that item; fruit, car, etc. “Quanto questi” means how much is that person, to have sex with? He learned the latter version, and proceeded to hang half his body out of the window of our van and shout it at everyone we drove by, waving his hand emphatically with his fingertips pursed with his thumb; true italanio.

While in this German sub-club he wasted no time extracting some serious knowledge from the locals. A group of female twenty somethings taught him how to say “Ich haber ein schtender” (sic). Roughly translated this means “I have a telephone pole”, which roughly translated means “I have a boner.” The delight on J’s face upon mastering this phrase would outshine that of any child on Christmas morning. I don’t care if Santa came down the chimney on a hoverboard with a thousand ponies made of cupcakes in his bag, children know not the joy of learning how to say “I have a boner” in a foreign language.[2]

Saying it to the delight of the German girls who taught it to him was one thing. Once we got outside, they would realize that teaching him to say “Ich haber ein schtender” was like running electricity through Frankenstein’s monster. He burst into the Berlin night letting everyone within a really healthy earshot know that he had a boner.

He kept this up while we walked to the train, on the platform for the train, and then on the train itself. Now, this was somewhere around 2:00 or 3:00am, at the earliest. As he sat on the train shouting out that he had a schtender, there was a couple by the door who were going about their business as if a schetender was very much involved. But, J’s declarations of boner-having were so loud, so convincing, and so frequent that I bet any Berliner polled would have picked him over the dry-humping couple when asked to select the most offensive and inappropriate thing happening on the train.

Imagine riding whatever public transportation you usually ride and having some German dude shouting “I haff das boe-nahhh! I haff DAS BOE-NAHHHHH!” again and again, while a group of Americans fail at trying to silence him. This is what would happen if one was to Americanize the situation.

Now, whenever I see or hear someone parody the Kennedy “Ich bein ein Berliner” thing, I always laugh to myself. Not because parodying the “Ich bein ein Berliner” thing is funny, it is probably the opposite of funny, but because I immediately hear “Ich habe ein schtender” in my head. And in my heart. And probably in J’s pants somewhere.  

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[1] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfLHkXiMkMI

[2] That is, until they learn how to say it in their native tongue.

A PhD in PhD Studies

Last weekend I had the good fortune to attend the prestigious Brown University’s graduation ceremony. My fortune wasn’t so good that I was in a cap and gown, but none the less, I was there and got a decent amount of free Ivy League foodstuffs.

Of all the things to take in, one stood out to me in particular. It wasn’t the pomp, or the impressive amount of circumstance, it wasn’t a transcendent feeling standing in such storied halls of academia, and it wasn’t the fact that everyone who goes to Brown is Asian. It was that of all the titles of PhD dissertations, 99% of them seemed like complete made up gibberish.

Now, I understand that in the science, math, and engineering fields there is going to have to be a certain level of specificity that will exclude most lay persons from being able to glean anything from the title. And I’m not about to call bullshit on the people who make bridges and airplanes. As far as I know bridges are held up by innumerable gyroscopes, each smaller than the last, and a plane’s engine is just an elaborate Rube Goldberg machine[1]. So science types, do what you have got to do, name your doctoral dissertations whatever you see fit; I like driving over water and flying over it too, so do your thing.

The lifetime liberal arters don’t get the same kind of pass. Doing your dissertation on the “Helioscoptic properties of Y molecules in sub-space” is totally fine if you’re getting your science on. It may mean nothing (and in fact it does, I made it up) but I’m in no place to judge. Doing your dissertation on bluegrass message boards (yes that’s a real dissertation), that is just shameful. A thesis on bluegrass message boards should look something like this:

Abstract: This is total horseshit.

Body: Bluegrass doesn’t matter, messageboards don’t matter.[2] Two things that don’t matter combine to make one thing that absolutely does not matter.

Conclusion: Slide-whistle sound.

Annotated Bibliography: Nope.

Now, I may not have earned my PhD (which I believe to stand for Puffy hat & Diploma after seeing this combination in full swing all over Brown) but I know the liberal art con when I see it. As an undergrad, I was a Philosophy and Women’s Studies dual major. I know what it means to talk, write, and carry-on in general about things so far out of the bounds of what any decent person would deem worthwhile. I have convinced myself that the only thing on this planet that isn’t a social construct is the necessity for someone to give me a job.

But I digress, what’s the big deal with a dissertation on bluegrass? If someone wants to take five years to write fifty some odd pages on people writing about bluegrass on the internet, what’s the harm? People are advancing knowledge of some sort right? Wrong. I contend that not only does knowing about bluegrass message boards make you stupider, but this kind of academic puffery will result in all Americans working in Chinese sugar mines in the next 25 years.[3]

If you are in China and you try to get your PhD studying Pacman, or fiddle strings, or the ethical import of AOL dial-up internet, they will kick you out on your mortarboard. It’s a PhD, it’s not one of those claw games where you play until you get something. Just because you spent five to seven to twenty years doesn’t mean what you’re writing about is important in any way whatsoever. If I really put my mind to it (mind being used in the loosest sense) I could produce fifty plus well “researched” pages arguing for Derrida’s politicization of Levinas’ concept of hospitality as it pertains to foreign development and micro-credit. I could also draw two little eyes on the side of my hand and move my thumb to make it look like a face talking. I make might it say “howwa youuuuu doin’?” or “fuhgediboutit.” The value of these two things comes out to be roughly the same.

When you let people have PhDs for writing about bluegrass or the lindy hop as the prolegomena to HIV-conscious modern dance, it’s like saying “I love you” to every person you go on a date with, it just makes it less special. And we need PhDs to be special. I need them to be special, because I plan to write that Derrida paper, and I can’t have anyone know the horrible truth. So let’s start tightening the reins on what passes for PhD worthy material, but only after I get my degree.

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[1] http://www.hussman.net/wmc/wmc100322b.jpg

[2] I’m not saying that Bluegrass doesn’t matter in general, but in an Academic sense. I am also saying it doesn’t matter in general.

[3] I am going to be attending Brown to work on my Phd on this very subject, stay tuned.

Every Night, Every Night it's Just the Same

In an effort to save money on gas, and as an extra bullet in the chamber when I find myself in a sustainability smugness-showdown, I try to take the train as often as I can. It has its upsides; all of which I just listed. And it has its downsides, which an infinite number of monkeys typing for an infinite number of years wouldn’t even get half way through.

Of the downsides, there are some real stand outs. The first being people who treat the train like it is their car. Now, I don’t mean that they adorn the back of the train with fake testicles or plaster it with stickers of tribal butterflies and Calvins peeing on anything you can imagine[1]. I mean that the train’s most frequent passengers assume that, because it is their main mode of transportation, it has the same sphere of solitude that is provided by a car. Everyone knows that your car serves as a mobile kitchen, bathroom, and open mic amalgam. You are free to sing, fart, eat, brush your teeth, shave, get dressed or undressed, and talk on the phone, often all at the same time. This works because you are alone in your car, and everyone else is too busy doing the same things in their car to notice how ridiculous you look eating a breakfast burrito, buttoning your shirt, and calling in to win tickets to a concert that you don’t even want to attend.

This doesn’t work on the train. You aren’t alone, there are no doors around you, and other passengers have absolutely nothing better to do than observe you making a fool out of yourself. But this doesn’t stop people from having extremely private conversations, “Well the tests came back positive, and it’s either you or Tony, or Pete, or Tiny, or Doug, or Mike, or Theo, or Baby Chico or…”, eating a four course meal comprised completely of Subway subs, or flossing[2]. I am all about oral hygiene, but when you take a loose piece of floss out of the pocket of your jeans, I think you may be doing more harm than good.

But that all pales in comparison to the living ipecac that is people who treat the train like a singles bar. I should qualify ‘people’ because it is a very particular type of person. Crappy old guys. No one else seems to think that some benevolent force in the universe crafted a dating service on wheels for the deservedly lonely.

When an 18 year old girl is reading a book and listening to her iPod that is her way of preemptively saying no to any manner of conversation. If conversation was a car, the book and iPod combo isn’t just a stop sign, it is a train crossing, it is a drawbridge on fire; do not proceed. But these public transit romantics know no bounds and are willing to go out on a limb for love. Or, their ability to pick up on even the most obvious of social clues has been washed away from years of getting drunk of mouthwash and cough syrup.

I was sitting next to some human leather and overheard him ask the girl sitting across from us if it was her boyfriend that she just got off the phone with. She shook her head and looked like someone had just puked in her mouth. I glanced over at the Wal-Mart Don Juan. He was totally unphased. When the girl got off the train and another girl, sporting book and iPod armor, sat down, he got right back on the mechanical bull.

  

What I would like to know is how these guys envision these conversations playing out. For every hundred girls who respond by looking like they are digesting barb wire, is it expected that one conversation to go their way?

“Hey missy, was that your boyfriend on the phone?”

“No, would you please be? I have a thing for weathered men of indeterminable ages with first generation walk men hanging from their jorts.”

“No it isn’t. But I must admit, I noticed your yellowed Big Dogs t-shirt from across the train. I was hoping you could come and sit next to me despite there being several other empty seats.”

“I’ve always been into guys older than my dad who look and smell like the Crypt Keeper.”

“Your skin looks like KFC original recipe friend chicken. Have sex with me right now Colonel.”

Since I have zero desire to ever enter into a conversation with any of these locomotive Lotharios, I’ll never know what is going their heads. Maybe it is a Zen thing where these guys are striving to be the living embodiment of kōans; I’ll hear a thousand trees fall in forests I’m not in before these guys ever make the smallest amount of headway. Maybe it’s a Kierkegaardian leap of faith. If anything will prove definitively that there is a god, it is one of these interactions ending in anything other than a complete strike-out. It will also prove that god is evil and vengeful, and I will start building my ark immediately. Realistically, it is the same compulsion that makes people play the lottery, and I have witnessed quite of few of these types stockpiling scratch tickets while I wait in line at a gas station to buy a Coke.

So, is it this population of grizzled gamblers who funds our public education system through their lottery purchases and then teaches anyone who uses public transit to always have a cell phone, whistle, pepper spray, taser, or pit bull on hand? Yes. Yes, it is. We could consider them our nation’s great educators. But we shouldn’t; they are just skeazy old guys.  

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[1] The most inspired version I have ever seen was a Calvin/smirking boy peeing on the words “ex-wife.” It appeared to be a custom job and it should go without saying that it was on a truck with truck nuts. Now available in both “flesh” and “camo” colors.

[2] I have seen this twice. Twice.  

Osama Bin Hidin'

I strive for timeless humor. Airline food, guys who leave the toilet seat up, the Lindbergh Baby, anything Dave Coulier ever said while hosting America’s Funniest Home Videos; timeless. Topical humor is just that. It usually doesn’t age well. Next time you leave your fly down, or your shirt is unbuttoned announce that you had a “wardrobe malfunction” ala Janet Jackson. No one will know what the hell you are talking about. So, it is with great hesitation that I broach the subject of Mariah Carey’s twins who were recently buried at sea[1]. In all actuality, nothing funny happened to me over the last week and I figure I may as well jump on the Osama bandwagon while it’s rolling.

When I heard that Osama bin Laden was killed I didn’t hear the flapping of a golden eagle’s wings, I didn’t see fireworks exploding behind the flag, or have visions of George Washington riding a flaming jet-ski across the Delaware. The first thing that came to my mind was the pink computer paper signs plastered around the tiny backwater town where I grew up that read: WHERE’S OSAMA?

I remember the first time I saw them. I was driving to work when I noticed something pink zip by outside. I slowed down as I noticed little pink rectangles on the telephone poles that lined the road. In what looked like 72pt Impact font it leaped out at me. WHERE’S OSAMA? I was able to ponder this question for nearly all of my fifteen minute commute to work as the signs were featured on every telephone pole along the road.

Aside from being the main pathway to and from dead-end go-nowhere jobs, this road also featured the town’s gardening and nursery store, a veritable hot-bed for terrorist tracking, and a gun and ammo shop that actually probably fancied itself as a hot-bed for terrorist tracking. Between these two hubs of culture there was a blinking yellow light. This light was a big player in local town politics; it had a lot of clout.  

It is important to note that these signs came up years after 9/11. I liked to imagine the creator of the signs sitting in front of his television and being driven to the point of activism by the lack of results from operation Iraqi Freedom, or Breaking Dawn, or Resident Evil, or whatever was going on at the time. He crushed a Miller Light can in his hand, shouted “No more!” and took action. He got up, stormed over to his computer, played a furious game of Mine Sweeper, and then printed WHERE’S OSAMA signs until he ran out of ink. In his fury he did not notice that his daughter had put in pink computer paper for the birthday party invitations she had printed the day before. It didn’t matter. It was time for the world to start looking, starting with a small town in New Hampshire that would probably vote for a Perot/Ruxbin ticket in 2012.

What I want to know is, who was this guy’s audience? The kids I went to high school with who would get high on Dust-Off? The shiftless Wal-Mart employs who sold the high school kids Dust-Off knowing all too well that they didn’t have any keyboards to clean? Did he expect them to see these signs and then drive their parents’ cars to Afghanistan?  Did he think that the President’s motorcade would be putting down the road, when the President would see the sign and exclaim “Hold the phone boys! We’ve got to find the Osama fella!”

I might be reading it all wrong too. He may have just been an incredibly curious guy. I don’t even know for sure it was a guy. It could be considered slightly sexist that I am assuming it was a man who made these signs, but ladies do not take offense. I think men, and men alone, are capable of the concentrated idiocy it takes to put even an iota of time into something as ineffectual as those signs.

Either way, whoever the mastermind was behind those signs, he or she can now breathe easy. And we can all go back to obsessing about the Royal Wedding.

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[1] You think this in unfunny now? Give it a year. 

I'll Gladly Transfer Money From an Unconfirmed Account Tuesday For a Hamburger Today

I recently decided to sell a bike. I wasn’t hurting for money; I just wasn’t using the bike and was planning to replace it in the fall. Because of this lack of urgency I posted it on the stained digital men’s room wall that is Craigslist. Listing something on Ebay is almost always better, unless you like haggling with local derelicts, or having people try to trade you several erotic water color paintings of horses for whatever it is you are selling. But I was feeling lazy and wanted to avoid shipping the bike if I could. Within a few hours of the posting showing up on Craigslist, I received an email.

“Hello, do you still have this? When can I come check it out? Shoot me an email back as soon as possible

Sophia......”   

It should be noted that the name that appeared with the email address was “Nick.” The email address itself was callananjudith@yahoo.com[1]. So it looks like for whatever reason Nick set up an email “callananjudith” and he shares it with a Sophia. Hopefully Judith doesn’t know, or she is into this kind of thing; it is Craigslist after all.

Now, I have been using the internet for more than two days so I realize what is going on here. Remember all of those deposed kings from Nigeria who asked you to accept a thousand gold doubloons into your bank account while they sorted out their kingly business? That racket went bust and now they respond to every single Craigslist posting. Sophia, Nick, Judith, and King Ugato of The People’s Republic of Internet Cafes are all some 16 year in Southeast Asia. If this is new information to you please throw your computer away, you are endangering yourself and those around you.

I respect the hustle, but really, the Craigslist scammers need to step their game up a little bit. I responded to Sophia that I still had the item, and mornings were the best time for her to come and check the item out. After a couple of days I get another email.

“Hi, thanks for writing back but I'm sorry I won't be able to come see it anymore, embarking on a 3 month business trip to Maryland tomorrow morning, I was gonna be coming to your town, that got changed. I still want it anyway, getting it for my cousin for her upcoming birthday. If you could sell it to me when I get to Maryland I will mail you a bank official check to cover the cost and also add funds to cover the shipping to where it will be needed.
I'll arrange for a shipper/mover to handle the pick up and delivery so it doesn't stress you. I really need this, quite important and urgent. I will be more than glad if it can be sold to me. Email me back with a name, address and your phone number for the check, write back soon. Thank you

Sophia......”   

A few things worth mentioning. If your job is sending you on a business trip to Maryland for three months, they are firing you. It is the human equivalent of driving a dog out to a field, throwing a ball, and then speeding off when it goes to chase it. The bike I am selling is a professional level (whatever that means) cyclocross bike. There might be one girl who would want this for her birthday and I’m pretty sure I know her already.

So, of course this is a scam. In addition to not having a dent in my head, Craigslist is plastered with warnings about these kinds of transactions. Also, “bank official check.” No one in the history of speaking, or writing, has ever put together this phrase, in any language. I’m almost convinced that the only way to generate this combination of words is to pour a coffee on a Commodore 64 computer[2]. Now, either because I have too much time on my hands, or because I am kind of a jerk[3], I decided to reply.

Please read this in a slow draw like a Southern Gentleman.

“Dear Madam,

I understand, I totally understand. Getting a used cyclocross bike off of Craigslist for your cousin must be a top priority. I can sympathize completely with business concerns removing one away from home. I served several tours of duty in the great wars. But I now boast many great pieces of German art in my study and the ears of many savages. But I digress, I always look for important gifts for relatives on out of state craigslist listings so I will be more than happy to sell the bicycle to you although you are in Maryland. But you must know that I take cycling very seriously; very seriously indeed. I do not want to sell this item to you for your cousin if it will not fit her properly. 

You should know that this particular bicycle was designed for a man. This means that the bike is designed to be ridden by a strong individual of sound mind who can own property. The saddle is intended to cup and cradle a man's virility. If your cousin is large of carriage she may run the risk of not giving proper air passage to her loins. This overheating will almost certainly render any future progeny female and I cannot imagine her father would be pleased in the increased dowry he will have to pay as a result of this. But, if she is planning to use this pro-level cyclocross racing bike for trips to the market for milk, bread, and make-up, than I think things will work out just fine. I must add one final caveat, and this is reflected in the user manual, do not, I repeat do not let your cousin operate this during her monthly cycle as her judgment will be impaired and failure to operate a bicycle properly can result in injury or death. Calling more blood to her legs from her already depleted brain could render her a simpleton.

I appreciate your offer to arrange shipment as to avoid my consternation. I am saddened to admit that after several tours of duty I easily succumb to bouts of the vapors when I am weighed upon by anxiety. And you can take comfort in the fact that I have field certified phrenologist tools to gauge the mental aptitude of the gentleman (I hope I am not wrong in assuming it is a gentleman) you will be sending to tend to the shipment of this goods. 

Yours in Christ,

Aloysius Montgomery Farnsworth IV”

While several things about myself can be drawn from this email (I think “olde timey” things, e.g. the vapors, phrenology, sexism are funny) that isn’t the point. Sophia never emailed me back! It seems obvious that he/she/the Commodore 64 wouldn’t email me back, because what I said was a very drawn out and unnecessary middle finger. But what I don’t understand is how does someone who picks up on sarcasm and condescension so well still write something like “bank official check” and expect that a tired Craigslist scam will actually fly? I was really hoping for at least a few more email volleys, but I think I came on too strong too soon.

Sophia, if you’re out there, I’m willing to meet you halfway, and I’ll take horse water colors too.

---

[1] I don’t feel bad for one second for posting this person’s email. A pox upon his or her inbox.

[2] You’re too young.

[3] As much as it is the former, it is really the latter.

I Blame Art

I went to Tucson, Arizona yesterday. It wasn’t the first time, and sadly, it probably won’t be the last. The city isn’t without a certain charm, but whatever that charm may be, it is trodden under hoof by the burgeoning population of crazy people that hang about Tucson like a fog. On any given street corner you can find a guy who looks Jamiroquai in the Virtual Insanity music video if he had been living beyond Thunderdome for the last decade. I don’t care what museums a city has, how good its coffee is, or what its national or historic significance may be. Having Methraham Lincoln and his Dreadlock Jug Band on every corner ruins it all.

   

To be clear, and to prevent myself from coming across as a total monster, there is a big difference between crazy people, and insane people. The city I live in is full of insane people; they are falling off the vine. From the vine most of them appear to go directly on the train or, if they still need a little ripening, the bus. Insane people don’t talk to you. If anything, they talk to themselves. And they don’t wear t-shirts that advertise this quality about themselves, half the time they don’t wear shirts. This is because they are insane; their world is not the same world as everyone else. This is not the case for crazy people. Just because someone wants to be an anime character, or a vampire, or an anime vampire, it doesn’t mean that they have a mental health problem. Even if an insane person believed he was an anime vampire, I doubt he would have the presence of mind to dress the part. But crazy people, they appear to devote all of their mental wherewithal to this task.

The hunter gatherer with a cat-in-the-hat hat look is pretty universal among crazy people. You can see variations of it in Austin, Texas; Athens, Georgia; Burlington, Vermont; and Portland, Oregon[1]. But if a crazy person is a Christmas tree, this look is just the Douglas-fir, it’s not truly festive (read: crazy) until you put up the lights. Some of the most common crazy garnishes are:

Canes. Canes are usually accompanied by dozens and dozens of rings. This gives the person a certain “quiet dignity” and by quiet dignity I mean the look of a Spencer’s Gifts pimp Halloween costume that crawled out of a toilet.

Whacky pets. Ferrets, parrots, snakes, a cat dressed as Emily Dickenson? If it can be transported on one’s shoulder or a baby carriage, it is crazy companion material. Behavior regarding these faux-pets will fall into one of two schools. There is the person who is desperately bringing your attention to the ferret on his shoulder that has the same stove-top hat and monocle combination as its owner, and the person who is deeply and truly annoyed that a man in a snakeskin vest and leather pants can’t take the bus with a snake coiled around his body and not suffer the stares of wage-slaves.   

Little braids. If Korn’s music manifested into a material item it would be tiny little blonde braids poking through the Kangol visor on the head of an urban man-child asking you for cigarettes. It should go without saying that the sides of his head are shaved.

Piercings. Now, before you think that your grandfather is writing this. Hear me out. I know that nose-rings are given out to every girl who gets into a state university now; generally all facial piercings are pretty white bread; except for the eyebrow ring[2]. I am saddened to admit that I have known more people than I can count on one hand who have had eyebrow rings. But, after very brief periods of time they took them out, either because they looked in the mirror, or someone who cared deeply for them told them they looked like a total idiot. 

  

All of these things voltron together for the worst activity in the world; busking for attention. Admittedly, I’m not too keen on regular busking. But, everyone’s got to eat, and I can appreciate someone banging on a bucket or playing jazz on a B.C. Rich Warlock[3] while standing on a milk crate. What I appreciate most about these things is that I can walk around or away from them.

   

Now, back to Tucson. I was drinking coffee outside and a person who was everything described above rolled up in a shame-tortilla of human flesh came up to me. Important fact, he was on stilts. He started dancing, or walking in place, or whatever the verb associated with being on stilts is (stilting? sucking? being completely awful?). The entire time he acted like he wasn’t on stilts; like he wasn’t easily five feet taller than I was, or on the verge of falling through a storefront window at any given moment. I brought them to his attention and he replied with a surprised “oh these?” The coffee now tasted like it came from a bilge pump and I contemplated biting through my own tongue to escape the living menagerie of “look-at-me.”

I don’t know who to blame for this. Society? The Parents? Public Schools? In keeping with the “I’m a grouchy conservative old man who hates everything” tone of this piece I’m going to say art. All the cities I mentioned before, which are veritable hatcheries for crazy people, have large and vibrant art scenes; galleries, murals, art in restaurants, art in the bathrooms of restaurants, and on and on. When there is so much creativity in a place no one is going to tell nu-metal Marcel Marceau to take it down a notch. So I blame art.

Would I rather live in a world with no art at all than ever have someone with a braided beard tight-rope walking and playing the violin; a world with no Mona Lisa just so that I’m never annoyed again? Totally. Most art is pretty crappy anyway.  

---

[1] Especially Portland.

[2] Although this is a trapping of crazy people, it comes pretty close to legitimately insane behavior. Someone has to be pretty out of sorts to think an eyebrow ring looks acceptable, let alone good.

[3] http://tinyurl.com/4xvcu5x the jazz man’s choice.

For Richer for Poorer, In Sickness and in the Ballroom

As I head unwillingly into my late 20s, the number of friends and acquaintances I have who are married seems to grow exponentially. I know a few people who are working on their second or third marriage and are just barely into their third decade. Marriage has always been ubiquitous, sitcom marriage episodes are always a hit and I can think of several kindergarten peers who eloped on the playground, but it is now storming down my door. I have come to accept this; I have resigned to the fact that any relationship that makes its way past the sixth month mark is fair game for marriage. There are definite plusses to this. Weddings. Weddings are fantastic, but like so many other things, their fantasticality is contingent on their budget. Seeing two dear friends who are deeply in love have a vine tied around their hands in the middle of the woods capped with a dandylion wine toast? Murder me. Watching two people who you know will cheat on each other get married in a palatial hotel ballroom with an open bar? The only thing that would make it better is if their inevitable divorce was an equally lavish affair. That’s where the plusses end. The minuses? They go on and on. Having your friends talk needlessly about married life, having to listen about the emotional rollercoaster that is buying appliances, and receiving plenty of unsolicited information about their sex life. ‘Starting a family’ is code for having unprotected sex. I don’t go around telling people that I partook in some serious family prevention on Friday night do I? Either way, marriage is very hard to escape, and I narrowly did.

When I was 21 or so I began dating a girl I met at a show. At the time we met she had a boyfriend, she lived with this boyfriend a few states and a no-bathroom-break five hour drive from me. Knowing all this, I decided it would be a good idea to pursue her. After a surprise visit and some grand romantic gestures, her boyfriend moved with his x-box and a sleeping bag to the attic where he would plot his revenge[1].

Around the time the newly titled ex-boyfriend was sharpening his knives I was in the midst of some serious family prevention. Afterwards, in what I thought was innocuous pillow talk, my lady friend asked if I would ever take ballroom dancing lessons with her. In my post coital fog I would have agreed to anything. I would have agreed to mastermind a jewel heist and author a book arguing that the earth is only 6,000 years old. I would have been so much safer had she requested either of these things from me. I gathered all my strength to open one eye and sigh out “sure.” She responded “Good. Because I couldn’t marry someone who wouldn’t take ballroom dancing lessons with me.” All of the blood in my body that had migrated south for the holiday booked a redeye back to my brain. I had walked into a bear trap. It had not yet snapped my leg in half, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it out. After some quick thinking, I did what I would most likely do if I was caught in an actual bear trap; tried to sleep it off.

She had left for class by the time I woke up and after a quick scan of the room, there were no save-the-dates that I could see. I relaxed. I thought that maybe the whole thing was a terrible dream.

A day later we went out to dinner. It was very casual. If I remember correctly, some of her friends tagged along. It was a diner style place; warped silverware wrapped in paper napkins. The meal went by without incident. As I polished off another tap water she asked me if I wanted to split some desert with her. I answered “sure.” As she put down the menu she responded “Good. Because I couldn’t marry someone who wouldn’t split desert with me.” What? Split desert? There was no way that was an actual qualifier for marriage. I was blindsided by the absurdity before I was sideswiped with reality; the bear trap had sunken deeper into my leg. I sat wooden faced and waited for the dessert to arrive. A slice of pie was between us. I imagined it officiating our wedding; a wedding predicated on ballroom dancing and pastry sharing. I took a bite of the pie and it turned to ash on my tongue.

I now had the fear. What could I do? I did not want to get married, I did not want to talk about getting married, but I did not want to stop seeing her without clothes. She was incredibly good looking, she had a good sense of humor too[2]. I could go on about her other wonderful qualities but I fear that I have already betrayed my deep and sensitive nature. But from that point on the fear was my constant companion. Did I want to go to the movies? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t want to go the movies. Did I want Mike n Ikes? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t want Mike n Ikes. Did I want to go for the jumbo size for just fifty cents more? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t and the guy behind the counter was pushing for the upsell pretty hard.

While I don’t doubt that she liked me, I don’t think she loved me, or even wanted to marry me. She loved marriage. I happened to be marriable by her estimation. I have known plenty of people who feel this way; they love marriage. Often they love it so much they are willing to marry someone they don’t really love. I can sympathize with this, to an extent. I love Thai food. I will eat Thai food with basically anyone. I’ve gone to get Thai food with some real questionable characters. It doesn’t make the food any worse. Unfortunately, with marriage, the experience depends entirely on the person you are doing the whole marriage thing with. Also, it typically lasts much longer than most Thai food outings.  

I loved neither her, nor marriage, so I did the only thing I could do. I broke up with her over the phone after my ex-girlfriend came onto me pretty hard.          

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[1] This revenge took its form by slashing the tires of my Toyota Corolla, an act which I deserved completely.

[2] It is worth mentioning again how good looking she was.

Partying With a Baby

A friend and I were discussing the logistics of a camping trip yesterday. We decided that our friends who are married with a child would join us in a staggered fashion. Night one, the husband joins us; wife looks after the baby. Night two, the hungover husband looks after the baby, wife joins us. Day three, just the baby.

I forget how old the baby is because he isn’t quite at that point where everyone uses years to describe his age; he is still just a collection of months: 16 months, 18 months, 252 months, who knows. He is older than one, less than two. He can walk, he can say certain things. He is old enough to party. When my friend first suggested that the baby come party on the camping trip I thought it would be pretty fantastic. The baby is a pretty cool guy, not just baby cool, regular cool. He owns a drum set and has this wingback chair that is size appropriate. I know plenty of people in their 20s who don’t even have those things and probably never will. Also, being a baby, he doesn’t get caught up on annoying things, like pretending he knows anything about politics or making Arcade Fire and Bruce Springsteen comparisons.

But as I thought about it more, I began to reconsider. The number one thing that came to mind was a former friend, or rather acquaintance who I hated but spent unlimited amounts of time with, shaken out of his puny mind on mushrooms sobbing uncontrollably underneath a parked van in Las Vegas. The reason I thought of this was because this person looked like a baby. He also looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, who looks like a baby. He had a bottomless appetite for all things: food, general consumer goods, and substances both illicit and licit.

When he was high his attention span flew out the window, like so much pot smoke blown through dryer sheets in an effort to mask the scent from his parents. He could not do anything for more than 3 minutes before becoming momentarily enamored with something else. Some of these things included, Furbies, playing minesweeper, or leaving whatever was going on to take a shower.  

When he was drunk he was obnoxious; he adopted a machismo that thankfully was absent from every other moment of his life. An ability to put away beers was central to this machismo. He pounded them down like a modern day John Henry, waging a war against some invisible steam-powered beer drinking machine. After one night of carousing, in which he varnished a stranger’s porch with his insides, he passed out by a dumpster in a parking lot where he laid his weary head down for the night.

Once, after having inhaled a snowball of uppers he sprinted circles around a VFW hall where some terrible, but undeserving, band was doing the best they could to maintain their composure. He managed to channel every scene in which Daffy Duck acrobatically avoids Elmer Fudd’s gunfire. In this instance the gunfire was dignity. Admittedly, this was funny to watch. Imagine the Pillsbury Doughboy doing his best Baryshnikov in a room full of aghast strangers. It was funny. For the first five minutes. For whatever reason, when on uppers his focus became singular and unbreakable. This newfound steel resolve always honed in on something comparable to whooping and pirouetting.

When he was on halucigens; see blubbering under a van in Las Vegas.

This got me thinking to other people. People who didn't even look like babies or cherubic food spokesthings. Buff shirtless idiots held up by ottomans, telling girls that they just met how they would make good mothers. Once well dressed girls, now drunkenly teetering into Ms. Havisham territory, demanding privileged treatment as a result of their high levels of attractiveness. Anyone talking about Ayn Rand for even half a second. Adults committed all of these offenses when partying. I once left a club with a girl on the basis that we were both Portuguese. I am only half Portuguese. Certainly babies would be a thousand times worse. Or would they?

In the sober light of day, I would never have even gone to the club that I later left due to my half heritage. The man with a sharpshooter’s eye for motherhood; he went to med school. The people who talk about Ayn Rand, well, they usually have the common decency to keep it under their hats. So does partying make people total idiots? Or does it just invert things? There were more than a few people in my periphery who were branded with unwanted nicknames as a result of their inebriated incontinence. My logic is this: Babies + Sobriety = pooping their pants. Adults + Partying = Pooping their pants. Ergo: Babies + Partying = Not pooping their pants. If I remember my sophomore year logic, that is a modus ponens.

This brings me back to my original thought. Partying with a baby. It would be awesome. As my friend imagined it, that baby at hand is “kind of like a Senator.” He would be just like a senator, and not a present day senator. A senator from the 1920s, a consummate sharp dresser who is a bit corrupt, but not in arms dealing or anything, just kickbacks because he has grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. We imagined that he would just sit by the fire, smoking a Cuban, a few fingers of double barrel in some crystal; taking it all in. He could rock a heavy buzz, and it would even him out, he wouldn't need to overcompensate.

By the time anyone gets around to actually to partying, they have been bombarded with depictions of how you are supposed to act. Babies don’t know that when you party you are supposed to act like a complete douchebag. They’ve never seen Jersey Shore, no one’s friend’s brother ever talked about doing body shots during spring break, they’ve never carried someone out of an Applebee's wearing a 21^st birthday tiara. They would get buzzed and think “this is totally awesome.” Babies don’t need a lot. Have you ever seen one open a gift? They don’t even need the gift, just the wrapping paper.   

So, for this upcoming camping trip, it will be me, a few bottles of Johnny Walker Black, and a bunch of infants. Maybe a copy of Gooddnight Moon too.

It’s going to be a good time.

Disclaimer

Most of what will appear here is true, or has some element of truth to it. No names will be included, unless I slip up. This isn't to "protect" the innocent as much as it is to protect myself. Protect myself from having to talk to these people. Most funny stories don't depict people in a flattering light. In the end, the veracity of a story is always secondary to how funny it is.