The following was written at 3:25 in the morning on Sunday, May 30th 2010. The "story," if you can even call it that, took place in 10 seconds. It felt good, which is why I'm sharing it with all of you.
As a journalism major, I assure you, everything is accurate to the best of my knowledge. Details, as far as I know, are not exaggerated. Enjoy.
Forward: I had just spent about 2 hours and 50 bucks on drinks at St. Jerome's in the lower east side, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite bars. I met up with Sam, Spencer, Manuel, Louise, Nick, and Nick's friend for many bottles of Budweiser (my wallet is now just starting to feel the massive weight loss). I worked a whole day at a shoot to promote, of all things, a Japanese coffee shop where, in true poser fashion, I had to stand around SoHo with my skateboard. Total herb status, but there's not much I wouldn't do for a hundred bucks. I felt like I deserved a $4.00 beer or ten.
Anyway, my best friends had to go back to their apartment in Harlem for the evening, leaving me to the rest of the wolves in the LES. Keep in mind, I'm nothing but a Jersey City bunny rabbit. Shortly thereafter, I received a text from a Turkish cutie with whom I tried to meet up saying she's tired from working all day and blah blah blah.
Woe. Is. Me. At least I got one free drink just for wearing a Slayer tee shirt my mommy got me when I was four. (Thanks mom!)
Downing my last beer I can consume without committing theft, I walked out into the balmy Spring night. By the time I got to Houston, all I wanted was to be in my shaky JC bed. I have the Exploding Hearts on my iPod as I cut west to the Port Authority Trans Hudson when a still-lit cigarette butt skids right towards my tattered, dirty, Sperry Top Siders. Like a baby bird following mama bird, another cigarette flies over my left shoulder landing just to the left of my leg.
I removed my headphones only to hear the cackling of a crowd in their late twenties. I swivel my neck and their are seven people wearing their bestest Hoboken/Financial district Saturday evening leisure wear (Four dudes and three chicks: Isn't it always the case that this group has a heftier dead weight tag-along?) Without batting an eye, I turn around as one gentlemen in a painted-on black tee shirt assures me, "I was just joking around, bro. It was just a joke."
To which I said, "Oh, you were just joking around?" And then I wound up...
And spit right in his face.
The last thing I saw before I turned around and proceeded to my train was something like a 12 year old victim on Slime Time Live or Super Sloppy Family Double Dare. Eyes closed and brows raised, miserable, but knowing that an audience of many had just witnessed his defeat. Worst still, the audience was a group of his friends saying, in unison, "Ohhhhhhhh..."
Knowing he wouldn't and couldn't do anything, I walked back to my train listening to one of my favorite records, Shattered.
My legs moved sans pause on that train, and all I wished was that my local dive's last call was at 4 and not 3.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
100 Things That Are Ugly/Things That I Don't Like
I wrote this because I feel like there's something therapeutic about telling people a bunch of crap that I hate. Maybe I can better myself eventually and learn to let it go. Don't worry, I wrote the opposite list as well. I'll put it up later this week. Until then, here's this:
1. My brother's car. It's a great car, but it's ugly. Least it's black.
2. The phlegm I hack up every morning.
3. Lady Gaga.
4. My feet.
5. The taste of drugs.
6. Baruch College's Vertical Campus.
7. The bugs that live in mom's shower.
8. Christian Rock.
9. While we're at it, organized religion.
10. Self-inflicted cigarette burns.
11. The foam at the bottom of my bottle.
12. My crooked right wrist.
13. The Osiris D3.
14. My dad's bald spot and what it's going to mean for me.
15. The bar downstairs from me that vibrates my bed with its house music.
16. My mishapen, discolored left big toe.
17. Moms who think they're cool.
18. My bleeding gums.
19. Vicious dogs.
20. Back-stabbers.
21. Cops.
22. Sunburns, which I always get.
23. Safety equipment.
24. Sunday morning anxiety.
25. Eye boogers.
26. The cracking noise my ankles make with every step.
27. Swelbows.
28. The time I got chlamydia was pretty ugly.
29. UFO pants.
30. Every girl I ever loved one year later.
31. Decaf coffee. What gives?
32. My English professor.
33. The sandpaper texture on my thumbs.
34. Cockroaches.
35. 80 cent margarine purchased at...
36. ...C-Town grocery stores.
37. When tattoos fade from black to green.
38. Scars on my legs.
39. The bus I wrote this list in.
40. Times when I lack a spine.
41. Losing scratch off tickets collecting on my sidewalk.
42. Young cynicism (mine).
43. Rejection.
44. Crack addicts' teeth.
45. Port Authority Trans Hudson: everything about it.
46. Hard-boiled eggs.
47. My best friend's Leukemia.
48. Mel Gibson's bigotry.
49. High Fives don't look cool.
50. My 360 flips.
51. The Dept. of Motor Vehicles.
52. Green, NYC cocktail puddles.
53. Muscle magazines.
54. When Ambien doesn't work.
55. Ronson Lambert's style.
56. The fact that I genuinely care about this.
57. Caldors department stores. Glad they're dead.
58. Pushing mongo, which I used to do for the first 2-3 years of skating.
59. The time Mike dropped a telephone on my eye and it swelled up black.
60. My complete indifference to the homeless.
61. The way some men treat their women.
62. The way some women treat their men.
63. Having a continent of separation between you and the ones that matter.
64. Pot-induced anxiety attacks.
65. Post-ecstasy fevers.
66. John Rocker. Remember that dude?
67. The day when Christmas and birthdays become just another day on the calender.
68. Nazis.
69. Zombies.
70. Politics.
71. The mole on my neck.
72. My obvious vanity.
73. My starvation for affection.
74. Wet socks/wet shoes.
75. Hands free cell phone conversations.
76. The smell of uncooked bacon at Paradise Deli. Fuck those guys.
77. Knowing that the people making my sandwich in Subway are making fun of my in Indian and not being able to do anything about it.
78. People who don't tip the shampoo boy.
79. MTVs Teen Mom.
80. Pornography models from 1990-the present.
81. Blood stains in my bed sheets.
82. The scum-stache I have at this time of writing.
83. The shoes my mom bought me and insists that I should love.
84. Kanye West sunglasses.
85. My yellow teeth and bright white legs.
86. The arrogant prick in my Black Studies class.
87. Summer roadkill.
88. Waking up alone. Fearing I'll die alone.
89. Wine hangovers.
90. The penis that some kid at Culture Shock drew on my leather jacket.
91. The Dave Matthews Band and the Counting Crows. Burn in hell.
92. Hot Topic and mall skate shops.
93. White people with dreadlocks.
94. Black people with blonde hair (except Rodman).
95. Women in baseball caps.
96. My old neighbor, Mrs. Biederman, who threatened to call the cops at every band practice. Her entire family is a joke.
97. Turtleneck sweaters.
98. Turkeys.
99. Watching all my friends leave school weeks before I even have finals.
100. Walking outside the subway station with 200 sleepy zombies every morning.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Future Man I Wish Not To Be
"The Future Man I Wish Not to Be"
The future man I wish not to be
Has carved real estate in my present sanity
He has long retired his jackets of denim and leather
And wears low thread count suits (regardless of weather).
Charisma gone to nought he lives uninspired
With a stuffed wallet of fast food coupons long gone expired
Gone are the days when he commanded the stages
And the various affairs with women of varying ages.
And the lines 'round his brow jest as if to say:
Mom said to quit smoking, you should have obeyed.
But he bows to his coffee and the breath of nicotine
Another swirl in a screw
In a cog
In a rod
Of a spoke
In a wheel
In a chamber of wheels
In a chamber
Of chambers...
But he enters the workplace, lowers his head with a nod
Collects his directions, his first words: Yes, boss.
And when the data's collected and the numbers are crunched
He sits down in the cafe for his tuna fish lunch
Observing the girls kiss cheeks, lower their coffees and say "Ciao!"
He thinks, "She looked like her, too. Wonder where she is now."
Then it's back up the stairs to finish his work
Boss says: Tomorrow, bright and early.
His second words: Yes, sir.
And he lurches to get to his cluttered studio
Five floors up and seven more to go
And looking out the dusty and caged hall window
Thinks how inviting the pavement looks down below.
He unlocks the door, the magazines litter the floor
With the torn lottery tickets he bought at the store
Next to the refrigerator, his tiny mattress stretches for miles
And he lays down at six thirty and closes his eyes.
But now me in my present, I shake off the thought
And rehearse my lyrics on the train that I've caught
Because I've a show downtown and I'll see you in the crowd
And when done, rush to you like the smog to the clouds.
And we'll hug and we'll kiss and try to hold on to the night
And I'll whisper,
"Thanks for coming, darling. Now please pass me a light."
Monday, May 10, 2010
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