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The Morning Muse

Sun, 19 May 2013 15:05:00 -0400

The clock reads 7:27am, three mere minutes from the time when my first alarm will go off.

Of all the superhuman powers I could possibly have, I get stuck with this? This psychokinetic connection to my alarm clock?

The alarm goes off at 7:30, as expected. I immediately hit snooze and fall back on my pillow. I doze in and out of sleep but I am mostly awake. Every five minutes the alarm chirps back up, and again I hit the snooze. This tango will continue for the next half hour.

The sounds of the neighborhood waft through my open window. The grinding of the gate at the furniture factory across the street, the garbage truck clanking and groaning, the taxicab gliding over the cobblestones. Brooklyn unbuttons for the day.

I’m up, god damnit. I’m up.

It’s 7:55.

Let’s make it 8, I decide. I lay there enveloped in that hazy lazy morning comfort thinking of all the other fantastical superpowers I could possess. I could read minds, like Jean Grey; or control the weather, like Storm! Hell, I’d even settle for the useless fireworks of Jubilee. The list is short. I can only recall female heroines from the X-Men. Still, I find myself lost in the glamour of it all, longing for abilities I will never possess.

The next time I check the time, it’s 8:06. There’s something about that number that doesn’t sit right with me. One minute shy of a clean break. Do people wake up at 8:06? What kind of sense does that make?

8:10 it is! It’s a nice even number. I justify the logic in my head. It’s sound. I dive back into the soft pillow to enjoy a few more moments of bliss.

By the time my bare feet hit the cold, hardwood floor, it’s 8:14.

8:14. Nearly half an hour past the appropriate time for me to wake up.

I’ll probably be late for work. Nonetheless, I continue down the path of poor logic and baseless optimism. Maybe the F train *won’t* pull her usual shenanigans this morning. Why couldn’t my superpower be teleportation? I could surely thwart her with the power of teleportation, never having to sink to her level, far below the murky bottom of the East River. The F Train. My nemesis.

I drowsily fetch a towel from the closet and hop in the shower to begin my day.

Every weekday morning…

And so it goes.

On Being an Uncle

Sun, 12 May 2013 12:13:00 -0400

I sat in my apartment, eagerly awaiting a photo of my newborn nephew.

“Such a cute little peanut,” My relatives all said, using a variety of other food-related descriptors. “A darling biscuit, I just wanna eat’im up!”

I’ll believe it when I see it, I thought to myself.

Like an adult after a head injury who has to relearn human emotion by watching reruns of Touched by an Angel, I often struggle with responding appropriately after being shown pictures of newborns. They all look the same to me—shriveled, miniature goblins. Still, I was genuinely happy for my sister and didn’t want to ruin her moment with my emotional incompetence. I hoped for some of that blind, unconditional love—the kind that prompts excited new parents to solicit the names of baby modeling agencies, thinking their child is the portrait of perfection (the next Gerber Baby) rather than one of those middle-earth creatures from Lord of the Rings, which is often more realistic.

“Oh, god,” I said out loud, massaging my forehead. “I am the worst.” I started crafting a canned response that was appropriate if not authentic.

“He looks nice!” I would say.

Nice?! What the hell is that? Why am I so socially stunted? Will she just send a picture already? Let’s get this over with. And what the hell was she doing anyhow? Just laying around? I kept refreshing my facebook news feed, maniacally.

My iPhone lit up on the table next to me with a picture message. A tanned little peanut in a green and white striped onesie. And he was cute! Honestly and genuinely cute. Maybe it was the blood-relative lack of objectivity, but I didn’t care. I was drawn to this little tiny creature.

“Did you take him to the tanner?” I asked her. “Did you pop him out and immediately take him over to The Cooked Look?”

I balked after putting that out there. Maybe that wasn’t the right approach. I mean, it was better than saying ‘Oh, he looks nice, right?’ My sister tends to err on the side of emotional tempest, and she did just shit out a child. Not unlike a wounded zoo animal, she’s normally enchanting and lovely but has the potential to lash out unexpectedly under duress. This is one of her many charms.

“I think it’s because he’s next to my albino arm,” she said. “Also, he’s a little jaundiced.”

Annnnd, I just need to keep my mouth shut…

“But don’t worry,” she continued, “I scheduled a tanning appointment for him next week.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Awkward social crisis averted. All that worry and stress over nothing. Of course she was going to have a sense of humor about this—that was how we dealt with things.

At the end of the day, maybe that’s my role in all this, right? The oddball uncle on the periphery, there to crack jokes and offer quirky insight into important life lessons:

Watch Mary Poppins often, and never ever—under any circumstance—work for a bank.
Crystal meth? Get it together, Jethro. Go have a beer instead.
Profanity is magical, so let there be F-bombs aplenty.
And—perhaps most important of all—staying inside the lines is for squares and uptight douchebags, so color away, beautiful nephew, color away.

Cursory

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 19:08:00 -0500

As usual, the F train set out to inflict its misery upon an otherwise fantastic evening in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

“No Manhattan-bound F trains at this location,” the sign read.

I hardly batted an eye. The F train has beaten me into compliance with its inefficiency. Slowly wearing me down after months of living in Brooklyn, it wants me to know my place. I am its bitch, and it will come when it wants to come, motherfucker.

I was toasted, and in no mood for this. I just wanted to be home.

I darted back out to the street. Under normal circumstances I would have hiked home, bitter and militant, cursing at children and muttering nonsense to myself—behaving not unlike the vast majority of homeless New Yorkers. Instead, I stuck out my arm and hailed a cab. It was 25 degrees and windy, and while I started to feel better at the prospect of swearing at children, a toasty apartment and a freshly laundered pair of track pants sounded infinitely more appealing.

Two cabs on the corner, both with their turn signals on ready to duke it out over my affection once the light turned green. Having the initial disadvantage, the cab in the middle lane floored it and managed to plop himself in front of me on the corner of 4th Avenue and 9th Street. I always root for the underdog so I was pleased by this.

This may not be so bad after all, I thought.

That was my first mistake.

“I’m headed to DUMBO,” I cheerfully announced.

He responded with an incoherent, confused mumble that is commonplace for cab drivers who want to pretend they don’t know where they are going.

“The bridges? The Brooklyn Bridge? The Manhattan Bridge?” I reply.

“Eh?”

You would have thought I said ‘Take me to Johannesburg!’

“Just drive up toward Flatbush,” I said instead.

“Flatbush backed up,” he said in broken English.

“That’s fine,” I said, explaining to him how to take the back way to avoid traffic. “Just keep going straight.”

“No. No. I know the way,” he replied. Ignoring my directions, he suddenly knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand. Right. Left. Left. Right. A. B. B. A. A. Start. It was like the blood code for Mortal Kombat on the Super Nintendo, and it was a harbinger of things to come.

It took me a second to regain my bearings before I realized we were on Flatbush, stuck in traffic. I thought maybe he had a master plan, but a few minutes went by and we had moved a total of five feet. I watched the meter tick upward. He was clearly taking me for a ride to jack up the fare.

“Why did you turn here?” I asked him in a manner that was part drunken slur, part childish whine.

“This what’chu want.”

And that’s when it happened. I swore at a New York City cab driver.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

“YOU SAY! Don’t speck to me like ‘et. Geddout, you bum. Geddout!”

The meter read $10.89 (for a ride that should have been, at most, $6). I flicked a ten dollar bill at him. “Keep the change, you sonofabitch.” I slammed the door behind me and started the cold trek home. Maybe this was a badge of honor? Maybe this is one of the fraternal hazing rituals involved in becoming a true New Yorker? I didn’t care about any of it. I was cold and angry and wanted to be home.

The appeal of a warm apartment and track pants had evaporated. I got home, stripped down, and spent the remainder of the evening watching internet videos of puppies and kittens, certain to regain the Midwestern nice I had so clearly lost…

Green

Fri, 15 Feb 2013 21:48:00 -0500

I noticed the woman’s expression over the pages of my book. Different from the curmudgeonly, disinterested expressions of everyone else on the 6 Train, she looked worried.

“Dumped,” I thought. I eased back on the door and continued reading.

She inched closer, her gaze intensified.

Again, I looked up from my book. She moved right in front of me. Her delicate porcelain features morphed into an unsettling shade of green. Her cheeks puffed out before each pained exhalation. I knew this look. This look was straight out of the playbook entitled ‘Greg Chopp: A Night of Exorbitant Drinking.’

I let the reality of the moment sink in.

She was going to ralph all over me.

Rather than showing concern for her well being, I immediately looked down at my Steve Maddens. I had just bought them a month ago. And this outfit? 80% Dry Clean Only.

There was only one alternative, and as a self-centered irreligious man, I really didn’t want to go there. But in the end, frugality won out over heathenism and I prayed to the MTA gods.

“Joe Lhota? Mike Bloomberg? Ginger Lesbian? Are you there? It’s me, Greg. The Steves and I are in desperate need of your help…”

Her shoulders started to twitch, and she began to lurch forward.

“Shit— Dear whoever…” I quickly finished my prayer. “May you steer her away from visions of curdled milk, cat pee, and elderly women chomping down on slugs with their toothless gums.

“Amen”

The voice of an angel bellowed overhead — an immediate response! Maybe there’s something to this religious shit after all.

“This is… (followed by the brief, synthetic pause of the computerized announcement system) Bleecker Street.”

Then, another voice. That of god himself.

“Transfer is available to the B, D, and F trains.”

I thrust my husky frame through the subway doors with the same wispy prowess as Paper Mario, and ran down the stairs to the next platform. While chunky, I can make shit happen.

I glanced down at the Steves as I walked down the F Train platform, a slight smile spreading across my face.

“We made it this time, friends…”

I was calm. I was happy. I was zen. It was the first time I waited for a Brooklyn-bound F Train in a state of mind other than exasperated irritation.

Today is a good day.

The Golden Rule

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 20:30:00 -0500

It started with a cryptic status update on Facebook between two good friends.

“I attempted that ‘thing’ we discussed earlier,” said Friend One. “I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” The update concluded with the emoticon to denote sad uncertainty.

:-/

Friend Two was unsure what he meant. “Something warm?” she asked.

The suspense was killing me. A warm activity that was so bad it needed to be followed up with the sad, uncertain emoticon?

Burning a cross on a lawn? Drug trade in the Congo? Sautéing a kitten for dinner? WHAT?! Because I haven’t yet ditched that nosy Midwestern curiosity, I had to know.

Immediately, I fired off a message to Friend One. “Explain,” I demanded. It was a one-word call to action—succinct, to create a sense of urgency. No sooner had I sent the message than the red notification lit up my screen—the beacon of truth. I eagerly opened it.

It read, rather bluntly, “We were talking about peeing in the shower. I had never done it before, but both Friend Two and Friend Three were like ‘Why not? Everyone does it.’”

I stopped Ally McBeal and took a moment. I read it again.

“WHAT?!” I shrieked out loud to my computer screen. Realizing this means of communication did not translate, I collected myself and began typing my response. “No. Everyone does not do it. I do not do it. I was under the impression that most people do not do it.”

Friend One chimed back, “I was too. They painted a pretty convincing argument though. Bandwagon theory.”

“So you tried it?” I asked with morbid curiosity.

“Well…”

“YOU DID!” I said. “Oh my god…”

“If it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” he said in an effort to defend himself. “I tried. It, just… It was a very shy pee. It didn’t want to happen.”

“Because your dick knows better than that! I can’t believe this is a thing,” I said. “I am mortified.”

“I can tell,” said Friend One. “Rest assured, I did not go through with it.”

I kept thinking of questions. Normally I embrace my curious nature. In this instance, however, it did nothing but torpedo this revelation into the depths of a pee and soap-scum lined hell.

“Do you think houseguests pee in the shower?” I asked Friend One.

“I don’t know,” he said.

The questions kept flowing, not unlike the inevitable streams of urine soon to hit my shower floor. “How would you even broach that subject?” I asked. “Casually?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I guess, like, ‘Well here’s your towel. Help yourself to the shampoo. Don’t pee in the shower. There’s toothpaste in the cabinet. So glad you’re here!’”

I continued on. “Or would a more direct approach be better? A serious glance over the spectacles? ‘We don’t pee in the shower here.’ And then continue poaching eggs for breakfast?”

“Had I known you’d act this way, I never would have told you,” said Friend One.

I ignored his reprimand. “Are we the minority? Us non-pee’ers?” I asked. “Is it appropriate to take this to the streets? Does facebook still have that dumbass survey thing?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” said Friend One. “I have to make dinner. If you’re really struggling with this, just write about it.”

“Do you think it’s appropriate to post on my blog?” I asked.

“Just do it,” he said. “Haven’t your last few posts been about farting and etiquette in public restrooms anyway?”

“You’re right…”

——-

Editorial Note: Deliberate ambiguity was used to protect the ~~innocent~~ ones I love.

Stricken

Wed, 05 Dec 2012 00:57:00 -0500

9:45 a.m. — I struggled for fifteen minutes to schedule a meeting in Outlook. This is an activity I have done upwards of seven times before, but I withered in despair after discovering there were four entries for a, one, Juan Lopez. I just couldn’t do this…

Juan was needed in a meeting, but I didn’t need all four. I didn’t even know them!

So I wept.

This unexpected and uncommon bout of incompetence sparked the template for the rest of my day—a day filled with expired Metrocards, lost keys, and zero capacity to navigate even the most simple social interactions.

Such fuckery continued until precisely 11:58 p.m., where it ended with the strike of a match.

In an attempt to rush the nightly ritual of getting to bed, I decided to multitask—something that has never been my strong suit. I swished the Listerine back and forth and wondered how I could hurry this process along. Journal? No, too time intensive. Picking up my underwear from the floor? I was just not interested. Instead, after deliberate thought, I decided to light some candles. That usually took about three minutes, which was the perfect amount of time for a refreshing rinse.

I struck the match and started lighting the candles. There is a game I play which involves lighting all three candles on the same match before it burns out.

This was a hearty match. I was pleased.

I took my time lighting the first two—slow, graceful execution, so as not to extinguish the flame. By the time I got to the third tealight, the flame started making its way down the matchstick.

“The flicker of candlelight is so magical,” I thought to myself as I leaned forward to blow out the flame. Something stopped me.

Shit. The mouthwash.

Meanwhile the flame encroached on my fingers.

Frantic, I waved the match around and danced like a madman. When this tactic failed, I considered dribbling some of my mouthwash onto it.

“Mouthwash has alcohol in it, you stupid fuck,” my angry lesbian conscience chided. “And it’s Listerine, too. Go on, blow the whole place up why don’t you?”

The flame nipped at my fingers. I winced. I yelped. I dropped the match on the floor and leapt back with the grace of a ballerina. It was over.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, I marched to the bathroom and spat the mouthwash in the sink. I made the ‘L’ symbol for loser with my left hand, held it up to my forehead and looked in the mirror. I was going to find humor in this moment…

I gazed into the face of failure. The ‘L’ was backward. My arm went limp and fell to my side.

I went to bed.

The Muse of Workplace Detachment

Sat, 04 Aug 2012 21:45:00 -0400

I settled into the toilet seat and positioned myself for the long haul… It was one of those mornings.

I exhaled with eager anticipation. I was excited for this for a few different reasons—most of which would be inappropriate to discuss here— but suffice it to say that it’s my opportunity to disengage from the world for a few minutes, not to mention the fact that I do some of my best thinking on the loo.

I begin to ponder some of the great questions of life—the vastness of the universe and my small place in it… Some pretty deep shit. Eventually, I find myself heading down the path to relaxed bliss.

Rather suddenly, the meditative silence was broken with a resounding fart.

It boomed. It echoed. It reverberated off the walls like nothing I had ever heard. This was the kind of fart that causes you to think philosophically about the wonder of the human body. Its longevity was remarkable. It was Taps in the bathroom. A call to attention. A funeral commemorating the death of workplace tact. While part of me was certainly curious, the toilet seat philosopher in me (who had just sat through an hour long meeting about screen savers) wondered, “Is it so much to ask to do this in peace? Five fucking minutes of detachment is all I want.”

Another intruder in my bubble; another loud rip from the opposite corner of the room, as if to remind me that no deep thinking is going to occur today. I sit there, defeated. People come and go and fail to flush the urinal (that’s right, you bitches—noted). Awkward conversation is being had between the stalls about ‘the game.’ That one guy is brushing his teeth and gargling and still singing. It’s all very intrusive and awful.

For five minutes every day I look forward to not being an analyst, or a writer, or a friend, or a brother, or a son. It’s time that is solely reserved for me. Because one man’s Feng Shui zen rock garden is another man’s bathroom stall, right? Why, when I etch out a post-espresso reprieve, does this otherwise barren restroom turn into an uptown 6 train after stopping at Grand Central Station?

Out of politeness I flush the empty toilet and walk out of the restroom with the understanding that, in spite of already being over-caffeinated, today’s detachment will just have to come from a trip to the coffee shop on 52nd Street.

The Anatomy of a Titty Bar

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 23:48:51 -0400

Originally published for slackerology on April 11, 2009

Today, I am a new man.

Yesterday, my titty bar virgin cherry was fully intact. As pure, untouched, and wholesome as the freshly fallen snow…

Today, however, the aforementioned cherry lies fully popped, deflated and (in keeping with the theme) looking not unlike the chest of Pamela Anderson after a breast reduction.

I have to say, though, I absolutely enjoyed myself! However I am far too logical and curious to have enjoyed it in the same fashion as your average Joe. It was the stroking of my quizzical nature rather than the stripper pole attached to my body, where I derived the most joy from the evening.

I popped an Adderall and prepared myself for what was to come. Which was, obviously, a ton of hyperfocused observations. And we’re not talking about the annoyingly condescending kind that most people have when they’re questioning the moral compass of a titty bar or gentleman’s club. For example, I never once wondered if these women were hugged by their daddies when they were children. That question is stale and I just don’t care.

Rather, my questions and observations are as follows. There is not really going to be any type of organized format. My questions are going to swoop on in, like the strippers themselves, on that sweet ass pole where they swing down from an undisclosed location. Like a stripper locker room, or something… Which is to say, I fucking love this.

1. These women move in all kinds of crazy ways to appease those with $1 bills in their hands. While I am not as agile as they are, if I tried to contort my body in a similar fashion I would undoubtedly spasm and who knows where my body parts are going after that. I wonder to myself, “Has anyone ever been kicked in the head by accident? I mean, I can find it in me to appreciate a nice pair of breasts, but this just doesn’t seem safe.” This is what I was thinking as I looked on.

2. Are these boobs even real? I have no experience upon which to base a judgment. I can, however, braggingly state that my very own boobies were a little more luscious than one of the dancers. This is an achievement of which I am exceedingly proud. Seriously, that would have been like motorboating the pectorals of a slightly muscular man, which is the antithesis of why I’m actually here.

3. Let’s transition for a moment, from surgical to economic inflation. $1 boobie dances, I’d imagine, don’t go as far as they once used to. It’s a ripoff, right? She could totally get a 4 piece Chicken McNugget meal at McDonalds for that. Or 100 rides on the mechanical Meijer pony. You’ve got to practice those moves somewhere, and unless there’s some type of stripper gym out there, you have to get creative. Between the long nights at the office and the expenditures at Meijer, is this really profitable? Are those stories of young women putting themselves through college legit? I’m no mathematician, but it just doesn’t add up.

4. What happens if, while gyrating her hips in front of a patron, nature’s own little strip tease escapes and the resulting fart or queef silences the whole room? Spell check is all over it—is that even how you spell queefs? I suspect you can’t exactly check Websters.

5. Do they sanitize those poles? This question was answered shortly after it was posed in my head. The headmistress of multitasking, Paris, danced sexily up on stage, shook her chichis, and rubbed down the pole with a white rag instead of her crotch, like everyone else. We need to talk about this. Is this like new stripper hazing? Is she totally B-team? I mean, not that I am the best judge, but she seemed attractive to me. There must be a backstory here… Some past occurrence in the locker room. I must infiltrate!

At some point after the white rag clarity rang through me, the enchanting effects of Adderall wore off and I was just another drunk, bored shmuck ready to go home and scour the internet for LOLcats like a real gentleman.

The Pizzeria on Front Street

Tue, 17 Jul 2012 20:38:37 -0400

What is there to possibly say about Front Street Pizza? It has every ounce of charm you’d expect from a Brooklyn pizzeria. Behind the counter, balding Italian American men exemplify the stereotype by tossing around expletives, proclaiming their fierce loyalty to their mothers, and saying things like ‘youse guys.’ There is no line; you order when one of them deems it convenient to beckon his meaty hand at you.

The pizza? There’s nothing inherently special about it, but then again, there’s something about being in the middle of this bustling mayhem that feels very quintessentially New York. This is the scene I sought out. This is what I’ve been looking for. Even in the middle of this chaos, these swift restauranteurs manage to remember the names of regulars, and acknowledge your food with a nod and simple “thanks guy!”

This is what makes me happy.

Missing Murray Hill

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 23:17:00 -0400

I find myself laying in bed. The silence of DUMBO, Brooklyn caving in on me with it’s deafening embrace.

Last month at this time I found myself laying in the same bed, in a room overlooking a neglected back alley in Midtown Manhattan. A neighborhood with all the sterile charm you would expect from that perfectly gridded section of the island. My evenings were spent falling asleep to the hum of traffic on Second Avenue, regularly awakened by the divine reverberation of a semi truck’s jake brake, the blaring horn of an irate cabbie, or a tranny hooker brawl on the street below.

But, DUMBO, man; it’s so quiet here. After nine months of constant noise and chaos, I have no idea how to eek out any semblance of sanity in this disgusting tranquility.

Restless, I jaunt up to the rooftop and look out over the city. I gaze uptown, past the Williamsburg Bridge, toward the site of my former life.

Somewhere, nestled behind all those projects, there is a testosterone-driven Bro-brawl happening outside a tavern on Third Avenue. Somewhere, right there on 28th Street, well-groomed and slightly aged former sorority girls are cussing each other out like back alley hookers. Somewhere, over there, an irritable bum is screaming and throwing chicken bones at passersby who ignore his repeated demands for a ‘dolla.’

Somewhere, under the white glow of the Empire State Building, I imagine myself in a past life, falling asleep to the sound of ripped weaves and faded glory.

I miss Murray Hill.

(OK… no I don’t)

Reassured, and finally tired, I conclude my rooftop venture with a sigh of satisfaction.

“DUMBO…” I mutter to myself, “I think I’m here to stay.”

“And now?
To sleep… to dream… perchance to fart.”

Towels & Tribulations

Sun, 27 May 2012 21:56:00 -0400

There I sat, behind a register in the bath department of the JCPenney Home Store, eyeballing a rogue hand towel I had straightened only moments ago. It laid there, crumpled at the top of a pile with the rest its well-groomed squadron stacked perfectly underneath—a veritable accordion of chartreuse linen.

I scanned the aisles in search of the guilty party. This crime bespoke of the wily means of a bored suburban housewife, so it was no surprise when I spotted the heifer looking at a tacky floral shower curtain.

“Does this bitch know how hard it is to fold a goddamn towel?” I thought to myself as I sauntered over to her, noting the proximity of the shower rods and thinking of all the various niches around the store in which I could stuff her mangled corpse. It would rot unnoticed until the first abundant order of holiday merchandise arrived, and by then I could be safely out of the country, sipping a mojito in Cozumel.

I approached her with a lukewarm, minimum-wage greeting.

“Can I help you find something?”

She ignored me, and I wasn’t mad about it. She seemed to have an irritating way about her, but I recognized that I was probably just projecting the sad destiny of my friend, the crumpled hand towel, on this inconsiderate sea-beast.

I walked back to the register, flipping open my Motorola Razr and assessing my next move on Bejeweled.

Ever-so-casually, she meandered back toward the towels. I paused my game and watched her like a hawk, vowing to choke her with the next towel she haphazardly threw down. She knew I knew, and after fondling a set of green Royal Velvet towels, she placed them in her cart.

I was reassured.

Knowing I was only one mere row of purple triangles away from Level 20, I went back to Bejeweled to charge valiantly toward my goal.

This quest was short lived, however, as the heifer made her way to the counter. She plopped the towels down and began stroking them with the same ferocity as a young child who wants so badly to love her new kitten that she strangles it instead—an innocent victim of exuberant love.

“I have an issue with these,” she said, in a huff.

“Ok?”

The molesting continued. “I like them, but the length of the fur on this towel is just… It’s really long. Is that what you call it? The fur?” she asked, as she rubbed her index finger across the overtly plush linen, savagely staring at me.

I replied by squinting my eye and biting my lip—a look of sheer and utter confusion.

“What can be done about this? Can’t you special order them? ” she continued nitpicking.

This cued the stare-off. It was like the Wild West met Martha Stewart in the back alley behind the set of the Jerry Springer Show. Instead of a tumbleweed blowing through the main drag of this dusty old town, a neglected receipt blew around in the entryway, dancing on the exiting draft from a customer who bolted out the door, unable to handle the intensity of this exchange.

The heifer drew arms first. “Well?!” she bellowed.

I saw her draw and verbally pistol whipped her. I was confident I would emerge the victor.

“Lady,” I retorted, “you have an issue with… the towel fur on—”

“Yes!” she belligerently interrupted. Her fervor threw me off for a second.

“I… I… have no idea how to address that” I stated, casting her a sideways glance and raising my left eyebrow. Intimidation seemed as good a tactic as any at this point, so I leaned across the counter, menacingly, hoping she’d go away.

She saw my lean, raised me a stank eye, and played her trump card—a game ending move that is despised by service workers across the globe.

“I need to speak to your manager!”

I hated her.

I didn’t hate her because she went right for the jugular, shooting down this enchanting interaction like a seasoned bitchy pro. It wasn’t even because she pronounced manager as “man-ee-ger.”

I hated her because she was the embodiment of my tormented soul, completely enslaved to retail. And she won.

The Knicks, Unicorns, and Sylvia Plath

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 21:12:00 -0400

I darted toward the closing elevator doors as the kindly stranger held them open for me. I ran in and thanked him. He took my gratitude as an invitation to visit awkward small talk on me.

“What’s new and exciting?!” asked this stranger, with the same zeal as if we were old college friends. Never mind the fact that he was about 30 years my senior. Oh, and also the fact that I had never seen this man before in my life.

I sifted through my cerebral Rolodex for a response while thinking what an odd way that was to initiate a conversation with someone you didn’t know.

“Uhhhh, new and exciting…” I responded, taken aback and still unsure of where to steer the conversation.

Okay, here we go, I just scheduled a meeting for Wednesday? Or maybe he’d like to know about the report I just ran? Or that I am contemplating a Starbucks run? I mean, I love my job, but I wasn’t sure rattling off my to-do list was interesting enough, even for this trivial sort of banter.

I peered toward the floor counter. 8th floor. God dammit. Always with the awkward fucking elevator conversations, I thought to myself.

The man started to babble hurriedly about something or other. I caught the word Knicks and ball strewn about in a flurry of verbal nonsensicality.

He zeroed in on my confusion, stopping mid-sentence. “Basketball. Do you like basketball?”

“Not really,” I said.

“Ahh, so you’re a football guy…”

“Oh, Jesus. Not at all!” I scoffed, following it up with a good natured laugh—a little levity to cushion the fact that I am some kind of otherworldly sports-hating demon spawn. I can tolerate basketball, but the simple fact is that I would rather choke on a dry turkey bone than sit down to watch even a few minutes of football. I hate it. I don’t understand it and it does not interest me in the slightest. It never has.

It was at this point where the man looked across the elevator as if he were riding it with a unicorn. His kind eyes turned beady, and I could feel his bewildered judgment as he sized me up. Despite the asinine nature of the situation, this isn’t the first time I’ve been around this particular ball park (pun intended). People tend to default to small-talk pertaining to sports and weather. Cold fronts I can handle, but sports-themed conversations always nauseate me.

“How ‘bout them Knicks, Bob?”
“Golly, they sure did rough up those Patriots, there!”
“Whoooooooooooo doggy!”

…I hate it. I couldn’t give less of a shit, and stopped engaging in these types of conversations long ago.

Again, I glanced toward the door—4th floor. Why the fuck was this taking so long?!

Still staring at me like some exotic zoo animal he had never seen before, the stranger broke the uncomfortable silence.

“So… what are you into?”

“Sylvia Plath,” I responded the second he finished his sentence. I was reading The Bell Jar, and this was the first response that came to mind, so I went with it. It was genuine.

The man seemed appalled. He drew back and raised one eyebrow. At this point, he was totally regretting holding the elevator open for me.

Finally, we reached the 1st floor and the accordion-like doors opened. The stranger dashed out of the elevator as though he had been submerged in the oxygen depleted ocean of awkward conversation. He took a deep breath of that sweet, non-tainted air and walked a few brisk paces ahead of me.

After a few moments, he stopped mid-stride and turned around to face me. “The Knicks lost last night…”

I furrowed my brow and muttered a half-hearted reply. “Oh.”

“…that is what I was going to tell you.”

He then turned poignantly around and walked away.

Trypanophobic

Sat, 31 Mar 2012 00:09:00 -0400

The nurse excitedly spouted off a complete listing of the booster shots she was going to give me. She did this with the same routine vigor of someone who’s been in nursing perhaps a bit too long. Someone who, quite likely, sneaks into the rooms of sleeping patients and pulls out their eyelashes, letting their cries of anguish waft over her with a sense of complete and utter satisfaction.

While this assumed vision of my nurse is entirely within the realm of possibility, it’s probably more likely that I am vilifying her. The truth is that I, a hearty and robust 26 year old male, am deathly afraid of getting shots.

…on a level that is exceedingly obnoxious.

Not unlike my fear of spiders, this fear of needles is completely irrational. I recognize this, and it makes not one bit of difference. I understand that shots are a necessary tool in preventing awful and terrible diseases, and that it doesn’t actually hurt all that bad. I realize that the pain from ripping off the bandage will hurt much worse than the shot itself. My brain fully comprehends all of these things.

None of this matters, though, because my mind goes to a completely different place at the mere mention of needles or shots.

“Mr. Chopp, you need blood drawn and an updated TB test,” she casually prattles, going down her list. “Oh, and you’ll contract tetanus just by looking at the rusted tiles on the walls of the subway, so we’ll need to give you an updated version of that shot…”

“And hepatitis, too!” she gleefully added.

A rational person would think to themselves, “Holy crap, I was walking the streets every day in such grave danger…” But I was too preoccupied for that.

My mind had already taken me to that dark place.

No sooner than she said, “Mr. Chopp, you need your blood drawn…” and I’m suddenly in some sort of dungeon with cute medical posters lining the otherwise dank walls. There is a large pit in the middle of the room. Suddenly my sassy nurse is gone and is replaced by this clown-like figure with excessive makeup and crazy white hair poking out haphazardly from under her white cap. She looks not unlike Albert Einstein. In her hand is a giant syringe filled with a large amount of some bubbling brown liquid. She menacingly herds me toward the middle of the room using the same method as a sheepdog, nipping at the heels of her wayward prey.

“Just a little pinch!” she shrieks, which is followed by a shrill and evil laugh. She moves closer.

I back up to the edge of the pit and look down. My shoe knocks over a pebble and I hear the sound of it hitting metal as it lands. I look down to see the entire pit is filled with layers of used, rusty syringes. I imagine what it would be like to fall into this pit, the thousands of small painful needles jabbing into me as I unsuccessfully try to escape. With every strained reach, I would sink deeper and deeper before I am completely enveloped in my own personal hell.

These are the things I actually think about.

Meanwhile, Nurse Frankenstein is approaching me with her bazooka of a syringe, and I had to quickly contemplate which fate to choose.

The mammoth syringe, or the pit of needles?

I can’t decide…

“Oh, shit, she’s getting close!”

She reaches out and grabs a hold of my arm, extending it out and smacking the inside of my elbow with an intense ferocity. Finally locating a ripe vein, she lets out a screeching cackle that echoes against the walls of this nightmarish medical dungeon.

Determined to avoid getting vaccinated by this savage, I leap into the pit! It seems like it’s taking me forever to reach the bottom—it’s almost as if I’m floating down gracefully, like a bubble…

“A bubble into a pit of rusty needles,” I think to myself. “Nice metaphor, dumb ass.”

I continue to float down.

Closer—

Unable to process the gravity of the situation, I faint. I faint with the metaphorical grace and charm of an antebellum Southern maiden, as Yankee troops bust open the doors of her Georgia plantation, slowly withering to the ground.

Nothing—

I snap back to reality, surprised that my slew of servants weren’t fanning my charming Southern essence. Instead, I looked into the agitated face of my nurse, who was clearly from Long Island rather than Savannah. She finished attaching a cotton ball and bandage to my arm. She eyeballed her work, obviously thinking about ripping it off and trying again, just so she could catch some of my arm hair and relish in my inevitable grimace.

She didn’t.

“Is there anything else you needed?” she asked, somewhat pleasantly.

“No,” I replied.

“Then you’re free to go.”

The Tragedy of a Life Without Bell's

Mon, 26 Mar 2012 19:13:00 -0400

Status updates from acquaintances are starting to trickle in regarding what is known as Oberon Day, and formerly one of my favorite days of the entire year.

Oberon Day marks the release of Bell’s Brewery’s renowned beer, Oberon. The fact that this brew is not available year-round sends beer enthusiasts into a frenzy to be one of the first whose tongues may be blessed with this sweet, sweet nectar.

Sadly noting the use of past tense, I celebrated this revered holiday in many ways, but in the end, no matter the means of celebration, it always culminated the same way—with me cracking open a bottle and enjoying the crisp, citrusy hops dancing an excitable pirouette in my mouth. This happy dance reflected the taste of an impending summer to be spent on the coastline of Lake Michigan, around a bonfire, or drunkenly bantering with friends on the rooftop deck of Harvey’s while being enveloped by the eclectic skyline of Kalamazoo.

The harkening reality is that I am now in Manhattan, the self-proclaimed center of the universe, and there is not a drop of this delightful nectar to be found anywhere near this blasted island.

Nowhere.

How am I supposed to cope? I was able to prepare myself for the inevitable longing for family and friends, but at no point during my move did I think about the devastation this day would bring.

The way I see it, my life will become dark and dejected for the next month. I will sink into a deep depression, huddled and shaking in a syringe-riddled back alley along Avenue C, craving just one drop of that sweet deliciousness with the crazed ferocity rivaling even the most esteemed New York City junkie. I wouldn’t even ask for an orange garnish! Just one taste!

One mere droplet, come on!

In the end, though, my plea becomes this: To my beloved Michigan friends, in the event that you are able to enjoy a pint of this heavenly beverage, before you raise your glass and toast your friends to a well-lived Midwestern life, include those of us displaced souls who can no longer partake in the ringing of this cherished season.

Never again will I take the effervescent beauty of Bell’s Oberon for granted.

Sunlight and Syntax

Sun, 11 Mar 2012 16:07:00 -0400

Sunlight streams through the windows at the New York Public Library, shimmering across the gold-plated ceiling, bathing everything in an encouraging flaxen hue. There could be no better place to spend the afternoon writing, I think to myself…

Moonlight Over Gramercy Park

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 15:40:17 -0500

I thrust open the window and slid into an agreeable corner of the couch, gazing at the twinkling lights of Midtown in the distance. The refreshing spring zephyr danced across my face, washing away the stressful chaos that comes with living in New York City. “Life is good,” I thought to myself, completely satisfied.

…and that’s when I farted.

And we’re not just talking any mundane old toot. This was a sound so shrill that even the old and nearly deaf Jewish bubbys on the Upper East Side cocked their heads and raised their painted eyebrows poignantly, as if to say, “Olé to you, good sir. Olé!”

After which, they resumed flogging the hired help.

I have a knack for ruining even the most picturesque of moments.

Cream with your mocha?

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:24:00 -0500

I walked to Union Square, certain to avoid the pomp and circumstance of the Oscars. Award shows are not my thing. I hate the inescapable hype surrounding it all.

Computer in tow, I entered the Starbucks situated on the northwest corner of the square, determined to ride this out with the help of Tumblr, Missy Elliott, and a few thoughts bobbling around my head that I wanted to get on paper.

“What do you want?” asked the barista. I don’t even balk at discourteous New Yorkers anymore—I just relish every abusive moment of it. These are a people that are truly after my very own heart.

I ordered a white mocha—something sweet to balance out the bitterness I harbored for the Oscars, I thought. Another disinterested barista prepared my beverage and handed it to me. It was pretty hot, and I wanted to ask her for what I now understand to be called a “coffee sleeve,” but the word had escaped me in the moment.

Instead, I communicated my need for this essential instrument with my hands, much in the same way a toddler demands a bottle. The barista peered at me with this odd look of confused indifference.

“What in the hell is wrong with her?” I thought. I looked down at my hands, realizing that I was making the same lewd hand motion reserved for describing how one pleasures himself.

This motion slowed to a halt once I realized why this may be deemed inappropriate. I looked quizzically at the barista, who raised one eyebrow, yet still managed to show not the slightest bit of interest.

Whatever, I thought, even if I were being a perv, that motion would have never been intended for her. I properly wrapped my phallic mocha and sat down near the window overlooking the park, enveloped in my own self-satisfied bouquet of awkwardness.

Wiener

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 18:26:37 -0500

My evening commute home takes me past a pet store in Midtown which hosts ‘Doggy Playtime’ every night around 5. I peer in the window, my eyes invariably darting to the same corner—the naughty corner—where nine times out of ten sits a militant and crabby looking dachshund, sequestered from the group for it’s unruly behavior. Not for one minuscule fragment of a moment has this ever surprised me. I miss the insubordinate Wiener Chopp.

Why I Write: A Preamble

Sat, 18 Feb 2012 18:00:00 -0500

“…and what about you?” snapped David King, band director of the middle school I attended.

I was always caught off guard by his menacing lazy eye, perpetually confused as to whether or not he was addressing me directly. This rarely happened, as I was amongst 60 other matriculating Mozarts—which is to say it was normally easy to blend in with the crowd. Bulbous, bossy, and intimidating, this man piloted the 6th grade band like it was 1941 all over again, in the German town of Stuttgart, and—after a quick scan around the room with his one good eye—he mistook my wayward pre-pubescent unkempt hair as a Jew-fro and honed in for the kill. (Puberty was unconventionally unkind to me. It wasn’t that much of a stretch.) After a manic moment of consideration, I concluded that he was, indeed, addressing me directly.

“…shit.”

“You’re dropping band next year, and I want to know why,” he demanded, his aggressive tone bouncing off the walls of an otherwise silent room.

This man intimidated the hell out of me, and—like most of the girls in my class—my 11 year old wits weren’t fully developed. I mean, Jesus, even dredging up this fossil of a memory intimidates the 26 year old me, and my wits are fully developed and quite voluptuous, I might add. (I should probably hop on a treadmill every once in a while, but that’s a musing we can explore another time.)

The 26 year old me is feeling a little exasperated with this particular moment of this particular recollection, so I’m going to spin you a tale of why the 11 year old me decided to drop band in the first place…

Music was to be taken seriously at Portage Central Middle School—all incoming 6th graders had to take either band, orchestra, or choir. What? You mean I have to choose? My hormones were changing and my voice resembled what you would imagine the assumed progeny of Macy Gray and an Ewok to sound like, so choir was out. Orchestra was a little too prissy, even for me. That left band—not an entirely awful fate, though, as my 11 year old brain raced with thoughts of mastering the saxophone and becoming the next Kenny G (a sophisticated vision, but totally attainable, right?).

Well, if there’s anything to be said about the saxophone, it’s that mere tenderfooted pre-pubescents could NOT be trusted to handle the awesome magnitude of this woodwind. Those who aspired to such great heights were relegated to play the clarinet for half the year and then, “We’ll see how it goes,” King would tauntingly bark…

…he was an asshole.

From August to December I toiled on the clarinet, and I didn’t think I was half bad. This belief was reinforced by my family, who begrudgingly sat through haunting versions Mary Had a Little Lamb, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and cheered me on enthusiastically, even through gritted teeth. Looking back, I now realize that this developed a completely false sense of bravado. An I Love Lucy episode comes to mind—the one where she claims to be a rockin’ saxophone player, but only knows one line to the song Glowworm. If you substitute Joy to the World for Glowworm, and clarinet for saxophone, you get me in 6th grade band—fallacious ego and all.

After months of attempting to master the clarinet, the irrelevant instrument that it was, it was finally time for the revelatory moment. Would this be the defining birth of a world-renowned saxophonist, or would I soon learn the taste of the bitter ash of failure?

Since all formidable stories are born from places of adversity, this one being no exception, it should come as no surprise that I didn’t so much sample the taste of failure as forcibly devour it.

Vivid and dramatic recollections of the past year flowed in and out of my head.

“Well?!” bayed King, snapping me back into the present.

Even in spite of the quick reminiscent recollection I was still ill-prepared for his question. I sifted through my cerebral rolodex and spouted off the first thing that came to mind—some random elective that I had chosen for the following year…

“Journalism!”

“I mean, I’m really interested in writing,” I lied through my teeth, “And it occupies the same period as 7th grade band, and uhh, I feel bad but I had to make a…”

“JOURNALISM?!” King scoffed. “What made you choose something so trivial as journalism?”

What followed was a five minute lecture, riddled with condescension, about the useless and impractical vocation of writing (as opposed to the enterprising spirit that embodies your typical musician).

In the spirit of honesty, it should probably be noted here that, prior to this moment, I never actually had an interest in writing. This was an interest forged through the virtue of being an unruly schlemiel with a yarmulke full of chutzpah (pronounced the Michele Bachmann way).

If this crabby old mule of an instructor was going to tell me I couldn’t do this, well, I’ll be damned if I didn’t at least give it a shot.

The 6

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 19:37:00 -0500

Slinking through Grand Central to catch the 6 after a tedious visit to the bank, I look upon this magnificent space and can’t help but revel in the cheery lunchtime bustle. I crack a smile, for it appears that even in the most flavorless of errands there lies an element of delectable charm.