When Victor's mother died, I offered to drive him home, since I knew he didn't have a car or the necessary funds to purchase the Greyhound ticket to get back down to the southernmost reaches of Mexico. Plus, I was sick of my job, and after he left, I would be the only one left of the original crew, and all the new people just didn't get it.
Although the extent to which we had spoken over the previous 9 months included only the phrases, "Listo!", "All todo?", and "No bueno!", the look he shot me after our manager Manuel translated my offer into Spanish conveyed an understanding not recognized by either of us during that time. He smiled, said, "Si," and that was that.
I picked him up from a house he shared with three other distant members of his family the following morning at 5 a.m., and we headed west on I-20, towards El Paso.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
Mushpit.
Many of you have written me emails asking about my inclination to urinate on the floors and walls of establishments such as Starbucks. “Why would you do that?” “Is that true, hahaha? Seriously, it’s not, is it?” Friends, it is. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t go out of my way to patronize such establishments, of which Starbucks is but one place in a long list of such businesses, but, should I find myself placed, however unsatisfactorily, in said establishment, I do admit that I indulge myself in this unsavory practice- an at least funny, if not wholly ineffectual form of protest against the shiny floor, soft-lit culture we’ve created for ourselves.
“What about the workers making 6 bucks an hour that have to clean it up? They’re not the ‘corporation’ you’re ‘raging’ against, man.” Fuck ‘em. They chose that job, and so, in my mind, they are that corporation. Ipso Facto. Fuck ‘em. This is the sort of dumb, unproductive ideology that so many attribute to punk rock, but don’t misunderstand me here. Although I have embraced and adopted whatever stereotypical image “that lifestyle” conjures up in any given mind, and in fact even wrote a song about this very subject called “Vote with Your Piss” in an old band of mine, I will not have this process, which is an amalgamation of years of dissatisfaction, disgust and apathy towards our terrible habits as human beings honed down to one hot, 45 second spray of steam and waste, tainted by being pigeonholed into the by now near meaningless term “punk.” Nope, punk or not, this one’s all mine. I take full credit.
Now, for the majority of you, I’m sure this still isn’t the answer you were looking for. You’re looking for some form of understanding, some way to relate. Perhaps you’re curious- maybe it is the case that you just simply want to feel the way that I feel. After all, that is the only way to truly understand someone’s thoughts. The human condition.
And with that in mind, I can only offer an example. I’m resigned to the notion that this is an all or nothing stance. You’ll either get it or you won’t. You’ll either understand or be even more baffled than you were previously. You’ll either be fer me or agin’ me. There shall be no grey area. And I’m okay with that.
The following interaction took place today at an establishment called Potbelly Sandwich Works, a place whose name I hate to even say, for reasons not clearly defined in my own head, but I think it has something to do with the fact that it highlights and casts a warm, friendly corporate overtone to the absolute gluttony of American consumption patterns. They make sandwiches, shakes, soups and chili that are just on the verge of being overpriced. Many would argue this point, which is why the prices are on the verge. Save your comparative sandwich shop pricing for a time when you’re looking to cater a bar mitzvah or something. I don’t care.
The setting: Aforementioned sandwich shop. 2 p.m. Enter Jonathan and Rebecca.
“Hey guys! And how we doing today?!” Another reason to hate this place is that corporate policy dictates that employees must not only feign happiness, but moreover, act like they give a shit about the customer’s daily lives.
“Fine.”
“Great! What can I get for you guys today?”
“I’ll have the pizza with no mushrooms,” Rebecca said.
“Will that be on white or wheat, ma’am?”
“White, please.”
“Got it. Pizza on white, no mush,” the overbearingly friendly man rattled back. “And you, sir?”
“Uh, I’ll have the pizza, too. On wheat, though. And no mushrooms, either.”
“Pizza on wheat, no mush?”
“Yeah, no mushrooms,” I said, the bile creeping its way up the back of my throat.
The overbearingly friendly man puffed his chest out just a little, and I caught a flash of his fraternity days coming back to him for just a moment. He caught my gaze, looked at me in a way that one might call severe, and sternly says, “Pizza on wheat, No MUSH.”
Sighing, I replied, “Yup.”
Rebecca and I shuffled down the line, and I muttered to her, “If he says ‘no mush’ one more goddamn ti-“
“TWO PIZZAS NO MUSH COMING THROUGH!”
“What about the workers making 6 bucks an hour that have to clean it up? They’re not the ‘corporation’ you’re ‘raging’ against, man.” Fuck ‘em. They chose that job, and so, in my mind, they are that corporation. Ipso Facto. Fuck ‘em. This is the sort of dumb, unproductive ideology that so many attribute to punk rock, but don’t misunderstand me here. Although I have embraced and adopted whatever stereotypical image “that lifestyle” conjures up in any given mind, and in fact even wrote a song about this very subject called “Vote with Your Piss” in an old band of mine, I will not have this process, which is an amalgamation of years of dissatisfaction, disgust and apathy towards our terrible habits as human beings honed down to one hot, 45 second spray of steam and waste, tainted by being pigeonholed into the by now near meaningless term “punk.” Nope, punk or not, this one’s all mine. I take full credit.
Now, for the majority of you, I’m sure this still isn’t the answer you were looking for. You’re looking for some form of understanding, some way to relate. Perhaps you’re curious- maybe it is the case that you just simply want to feel the way that I feel. After all, that is the only way to truly understand someone’s thoughts. The human condition.
And with that in mind, I can only offer an example. I’m resigned to the notion that this is an all or nothing stance. You’ll either get it or you won’t. You’ll either understand or be even more baffled than you were previously. You’ll either be fer me or agin’ me. There shall be no grey area. And I’m okay with that.
The following interaction took place today at an establishment called Potbelly Sandwich Works, a place whose name I hate to even say, for reasons not clearly defined in my own head, but I think it has something to do with the fact that it highlights and casts a warm, friendly corporate overtone to the absolute gluttony of American consumption patterns. They make sandwiches, shakes, soups and chili that are just on the verge of being overpriced. Many would argue this point, which is why the prices are on the verge. Save your comparative sandwich shop pricing for a time when you’re looking to cater a bar mitzvah or something. I don’t care.
The setting: Aforementioned sandwich shop. 2 p.m. Enter Jonathan and Rebecca.
“Hey guys! And how we doing today?!” Another reason to hate this place is that corporate policy dictates that employees must not only feign happiness, but moreover, act like they give a shit about the customer’s daily lives.
“Fine.”
“Great! What can I get for you guys today?”
“I’ll have the pizza with no mushrooms,” Rebecca said.
“Will that be on white or wheat, ma’am?”
“White, please.”
“Got it. Pizza on white, no mush,” the overbearingly friendly man rattled back. “And you, sir?”
“Uh, I’ll have the pizza, too. On wheat, though. And no mushrooms, either.”
“Pizza on wheat, no mush?”
“Yeah, no mushrooms,” I said, the bile creeping its way up the back of my throat.
The overbearingly friendly man puffed his chest out just a little, and I caught a flash of his fraternity days coming back to him for just a moment. He caught my gaze, looked at me in a way that one might call severe, and sternly says, “Pizza on wheat, No MUSH.”
Sighing, I replied, “Yup.”
Rebecca and I shuffled down the line, and I muttered to her, “If he says ‘no mush’ one more goddamn ti-“
“TWO PIZZAS NO MUSH COMING THROUGH!”
Monday, September 11, 2006
"Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both."
The following words were written nearly two years ago, but somehow seem to resonate even more now than they did at the time they were written. To wit:
"Sorry. I'm about as good at keeping committments to myself as I am with keeping in contact with friends and family that aren't directly in my line of sight each day. It has been well over a month since my last entry, and much has happened- many things that are exciting, many things that anger me, hopes for the future, longing for the past, and yet it all adds up to a general sense of anxiety coupled with the gripping weight of desperation and ennui. I hope to summarily and inadequately recount these events in the near future, but I feel a duty to finish my thoughts on my trip to New York, which, although essentially uneventful, seems important to wrap up, since it is the case that I almost never finish any writing project that I set out on."
And so, as history continues to repeat itself, the continuation of a story recounted by countless people on countless occasions, in countless times, cities, countries, lifetimes. Just filling in the ever-expanding gaps, if only until this too dissolves and requires one more recollection in another time, place, to fill space and accrue validation for the seeker. And on and on...
"We eventually found the right train and made our way back to 67th and Colombus. Turning the corner, we saw a huge line of people, and there were two minutes left on the clock. I suppose we made it just in time. Or were we two minutes too late? Regardless, we walked the half block to the end of the line. Two production assistants were checking people in, and promptly asked if I was there to audition. Two other fellows meandered up behind Rebecca and I and waited for their turn to be checked off the list. Just then, the P.A.'s made an announcement to the newcomers that they were all filled up, making me the last person in line. Is this a good twist of fate, or a portent of doom?
I took it as a good sign, especially since I still had forms to fill out for the audition. One of the questions was, 'What would Meredith Viera find most interesting about you?' This was a question I was confounded over. How am I supposed to know? I don't really care about her life, and I just naturally assumed she wouldn't care about mine. So, my response was that the Millionaire line was the longest one I'd ever been in, which turns out not to be true, as I waited in line with my sister and her friends for hours when I was in fourth grade to get New Kids on the Block tickets.
Nonetheless, it wouldn't matter in the long run since I would go on to fail the qualifying exam to get onto the show. The test was thirty questions in ten minutes, and I knew in the first two minutes that I was doomed. It turns out that the central reason for going to New York was the most negligible, inconsequential aspect of the journey. I was happy to get out of there so quickly, actually. The atmosphere in the testing room had the distinct feel of school, and I was instantly out of my element and anxious to leave. Not to mention that Rebecca had left me at the door and was now wandering around the city by herself, which made me inexplicably uncomfortable.
On the way into the testing room, a flamboyantly gay man who cut in front of me in line was proudly strutting with our sheeplike herd, which incidentally was paraded around nearly a whole city block before being admitted into the building, gleefully announcing to the total world of strangers around him and across the street that he was auditioning for Millionaire. I hung my head in shame.
Surrounding me in the testing room was a true melting pot. Every type of person imaginable, save the Brown University dyke type, the anarcho-punk (my personal favorite), and the anarcho-hippie (my least favorite). I was definitely one of the younger ones in the melange. I was seated at a table with all men, who ranged in age from 25-60. Directly across from me was a portly- well, why mince words- a fat, balding man with vibrato to spare. An insecure joker, he tried to lighten an already casual and [the network's idea of a] fun, loose atmosphere- complete with late twentysomething test proctors and various other hip looking P.A.'s. He made 'funny' quips and asides in between every sentence the proctor spoke. He raised his hand and asked one of those 'funny because the answer is obvious' questions.
At the end of the test, his wit and charm proved no match to his utter inability to pass the test, just like the other 85 out of 100 people that didn't, myself included. On the table were official 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' pencils that we all took the test with. Most everyone around me that failed the test were palming their pencils or putting them in their bags as a small memento of yet another failure in their lives, and I followed suit.
As we shuffled out amidst post-test banter about the Missy Elliot question and who led the Zapatistas, the fat man, however, grabbed every spare pencil from each table he passed. At last glance, he must have had at least twelve of these things, and he stealthily stashed them in his fake designer shoulder bag.
As we exited the building, a woman near me asked simple directions to a nearby street, to which I responded that I wasn't from New York. She said, 'Me neither,' and continued to look at me in earnest. So, I gave her directions that I found out not five minutes later were completely wrong. Oh well. I walked up the street to a Starbucks that Rebecca had gotten coffee at earlier, thinking she may have taken refuge in the only place vaguely familiar to her. Not finding her there, I waited for the restroom to free up so I could crap, which, although I didn't really feel the need to do, I liked the idea of a free restroom in the middle of the city, and the fact that it was Starbucks was the crown jewel in the equation. I made sure to pee on the wall and floor before I sat on the toilet.
_______
I turned the corner and gathered my bearings. I fished a wadded piece of paper out of my pocket and found the nearest pay phone, which turned out to be about a block away, strangely. I had Rebecca's calling card number, and I needed to use it to call her cell phone so we could meet up. I dialed the number, and glancing at the PIN number on the paper, something seemed wrong. Then I remembered- days earlier, as we were traveling, she had at some point rattled off the PIN in the midst of a conversation. I couldn't believe it, but I actually remembered that part of the PIN had four two's in it, and the piece of paper that she had written the number down on for me only contained three.
I marvelled at my remarkable listening and memory skills, and said a quiet, 'Fuck yeah,' as I grinned to myself and dialed Rebecca's cell phone. As the line clicked to connect, I glanced around at my surroundings, y'know, like you do when you're on a payphone. A single moment between daily dealings when one is at rest, when one can take in the world around them and observe the chaos with which they are involved. Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both.
Crazily, fatefully, my eyes instantly fell directly on Rebecca, half a block away and across a major intersection, walking perpendicularly to my line of vision, out of the possible hundreds in my line of sight. An audible gasp hit the back of my throat. I slammed the phone down and raced along the busy sidewalk, y'know, as one sees in the city sometimes and wonders, 'Where the fuck are they going in such a hurry?' or 'What'd he do? What's he running from?'
I thought about this as I zipped around professionals and professional transients. I always thought people ran through the city to get to an important meeting or class or court date, but as I ran through the crosswalk and hurried up behind Rebecca and slipped my hand through her pocketed arm, I realized that nine times out of ten it's probably for a girl. I couldn't believe I found my girlfriend in the middle of Manhattan by sheer sight alone. She kissed me and we walked around the city, past Central Park again, and eventually, we found our way back to the subway where we boarded the train to Jersey and returned to our hotel to clean up.
"Sorry. I'm about as good at keeping committments to myself as I am with keeping in contact with friends and family that aren't directly in my line of sight each day. It has been well over a month since my last entry, and much has happened- many things that are exciting, many things that anger me, hopes for the future, longing for the past, and yet it all adds up to a general sense of anxiety coupled with the gripping weight of desperation and ennui. I hope to summarily and inadequately recount these events in the near future, but I feel a duty to finish my thoughts on my trip to New York, which, although essentially uneventful, seems important to wrap up, since it is the case that I almost never finish any writing project that I set out on."
And so, as history continues to repeat itself, the continuation of a story recounted by countless people on countless occasions, in countless times, cities, countries, lifetimes. Just filling in the ever-expanding gaps, if only until this too dissolves and requires one more recollection in another time, place, to fill space and accrue validation for the seeker. And on and on...
"We eventually found the right train and made our way back to 67th and Colombus. Turning the corner, we saw a huge line of people, and there were two minutes left on the clock. I suppose we made it just in time. Or were we two minutes too late? Regardless, we walked the half block to the end of the line. Two production assistants were checking people in, and promptly asked if I was there to audition. Two other fellows meandered up behind Rebecca and I and waited for their turn to be checked off the list. Just then, the P.A.'s made an announcement to the newcomers that they were all filled up, making me the last person in line. Is this a good twist of fate, or a portent of doom?
I took it as a good sign, especially since I still had forms to fill out for the audition. One of the questions was, 'What would Meredith Viera find most interesting about you?' This was a question I was confounded over. How am I supposed to know? I don't really care about her life, and I just naturally assumed she wouldn't care about mine. So, my response was that the Millionaire line was the longest one I'd ever been in, which turns out not to be true, as I waited in line with my sister and her friends for hours when I was in fourth grade to get New Kids on the Block tickets.
Nonetheless, it wouldn't matter in the long run since I would go on to fail the qualifying exam to get onto the show. The test was thirty questions in ten minutes, and I knew in the first two minutes that I was doomed. It turns out that the central reason for going to New York was the most negligible, inconsequential aspect of the journey. I was happy to get out of there so quickly, actually. The atmosphere in the testing room had the distinct feel of school, and I was instantly out of my element and anxious to leave. Not to mention that Rebecca had left me at the door and was now wandering around the city by herself, which made me inexplicably uncomfortable.
On the way into the testing room, a flamboyantly gay man who cut in front of me in line was proudly strutting with our sheeplike herd, which incidentally was paraded around nearly a whole city block before being admitted into the building, gleefully announcing to the total world of strangers around him and across the street that he was auditioning for Millionaire. I hung my head in shame.
Surrounding me in the testing room was a true melting pot. Every type of person imaginable, save the Brown University dyke type, the anarcho-punk (my personal favorite), and the anarcho-hippie (my least favorite). I was definitely one of the younger ones in the melange. I was seated at a table with all men, who ranged in age from 25-60. Directly across from me was a portly- well, why mince words- a fat, balding man with vibrato to spare. An insecure joker, he tried to lighten an already casual and [the network's idea of a] fun, loose atmosphere- complete with late twentysomething test proctors and various other hip looking P.A.'s. He made 'funny' quips and asides in between every sentence the proctor spoke. He raised his hand and asked one of those 'funny because the answer is obvious' questions.
At the end of the test, his wit and charm proved no match to his utter inability to pass the test, just like the other 85 out of 100 people that didn't, myself included. On the table were official 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' pencils that we all took the test with. Most everyone around me that failed the test were palming their pencils or putting them in their bags as a small memento of yet another failure in their lives, and I followed suit.
As we shuffled out amidst post-test banter about the Missy Elliot question and who led the Zapatistas, the fat man, however, grabbed every spare pencil from each table he passed. At last glance, he must have had at least twelve of these things, and he stealthily stashed them in his fake designer shoulder bag.
As we exited the building, a woman near me asked simple directions to a nearby street, to which I responded that I wasn't from New York. She said, 'Me neither,' and continued to look at me in earnest. So, I gave her directions that I found out not five minutes later were completely wrong. Oh well. I walked up the street to a Starbucks that Rebecca had gotten coffee at earlier, thinking she may have taken refuge in the only place vaguely familiar to her. Not finding her there, I waited for the restroom to free up so I could crap, which, although I didn't really feel the need to do, I liked the idea of a free restroom in the middle of the city, and the fact that it was Starbucks was the crown jewel in the equation. I made sure to pee on the wall and floor before I sat on the toilet.
_______
I turned the corner and gathered my bearings. I fished a wadded piece of paper out of my pocket and found the nearest pay phone, which turned out to be about a block away, strangely. I had Rebecca's calling card number, and I needed to use it to call her cell phone so we could meet up. I dialed the number, and glancing at the PIN number on the paper, something seemed wrong. Then I remembered- days earlier, as we were traveling, she had at some point rattled off the PIN in the midst of a conversation. I couldn't believe it, but I actually remembered that part of the PIN had four two's in it, and the piece of paper that she had written the number down on for me only contained three.
I marvelled at my remarkable listening and memory skills, and said a quiet, 'Fuck yeah,' as I grinned to myself and dialed Rebecca's cell phone. As the line clicked to connect, I glanced around at my surroundings, y'know, like you do when you're on a payphone. A single moment between daily dealings when one is at rest, when one can take in the world around them and observe the chaos with which they are involved. Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both.
Crazily, fatefully, my eyes instantly fell directly on Rebecca, half a block away and across a major intersection, walking perpendicularly to my line of vision, out of the possible hundreds in my line of sight. An audible gasp hit the back of my throat. I slammed the phone down and raced along the busy sidewalk, y'know, as one sees in the city sometimes and wonders, 'Where the fuck are they going in such a hurry?' or 'What'd he do? What's he running from?'
I thought about this as I zipped around professionals and professional transients. I always thought people ran through the city to get to an important meeting or class or court date, but as I ran through the crosswalk and hurried up behind Rebecca and slipped my hand through her pocketed arm, I realized that nine times out of ten it's probably for a girl. I couldn't believe I found my girlfriend in the middle of Manhattan by sheer sight alone. She kissed me and we walked around the city, past Central Park again, and eventually, we found our way back to the subway where we boarded the train to Jersey and returned to our hotel to clean up.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Monday, July 31, 2006
Minor Interruption.
The chronicling of events past will continue with my next installment. I just feel it necessary to update those that may care (the devil may care! See: my attitude) on recent events in my life that are, I don't know, pertinent, or not at all pertinent. At any rate, things that have happened. In my life. Recently. Because this is a blog. And that's what one does. On a blog. Chronicle events. In one's life. Because people give a shit. Because this is a blog.
1) On Saturday, I went to Moore Funeral Home in Arlington, Texas to attend the interrment of my friend Joe Garza, who died last week. Joe was a good friend that played in many bands with me. You can view a biography that I wrote for his website here. It was a Catholic funeral, and I was fine through the whole thing until afterwards when I watched his big brother put his ashes in the little drawer while standing on a ladder. Then his sister played a song of his on a portable CD player- a song Joe recorded right before he died. That's when I lost my shit. If you click on the Joe Garza link, you'll hear the song I'm referring to. Then I came home and watched the series finale of Six Feet Under.
2) Later that afternoon, I got a credit card statement from American Express stating that they had not received my last payment- incurring any number of late charges, finance charges, and holds on my account, as American Express is merciless when it comes to matters of the heart, er, money. I called the company in complaint- I had sent a $100 payment not two weeks before. Of course, they hadn't received said payment.
"Can you cancel the check?"
"I sent a money order," I replied.
"Do you still have your receipt?"
Mere hours later, I found myself rummaging through rancid pizza sauce and unusable dough in the dumpster behind my place of employment searching for one piece of rectangular 65 lb. stock paper. I was searching for the receipt for a money order that I had thrown away not 18 hours earlier in a fit of boredom at work- a receipt that sat on the floorboard of my car for weeks. Why did I decide to rid my vehicle of trash that usually rests there until my girlfriend gathers and throws out in exasperation? Presumably so I could dig through a restaurant's dumpster in 100 degree heat. Of course! I did find the receipt, however, along with a number of other money order receipts I had purchased. Victory! Now to get the $100 refund from Western Union. All I have to do is send in the receipt from the money order (along with a $12 non-refundable service charge) with all sorts of information and conditions, one being, um, that the receipt be whole and intact. No problem. Except for that the one receipt I needed was RIPPED AND MANGLED.
So that was this Saturday.
3) Last Saturday, I skipped attending Joe Garza's memorial service in lieu of attending my grandmother's 80th birthday party/family reunion in Seminole, Texas- a town deeply west, about 30 miles from New Mexico. In fact, I visited New Mexico a number of times while I was there, as Gaines County is dry, and just across the border, in the beautiful deserts of New Mexico, the counties are as wet as you want them to be. And so, alcohol was purchased. And imbibed. The cousins and I had our fair share while playing card games and 'talking story' at the nearby hotel where my grandmother graciously put the young ones up for the weekend. Except for me. I was staying at my grandparent's house along with my father. After the evenings wound down, my cousins and I would retire to the hotel to drink and freak out the Mennonites who apparently let their women swim only at night and under close supervision. Generally, around 4:30 a.m., I would find my way back to my car and swerve back to my grandparent's home to pass out on the fold-out bed. And so it was last Saturday night.
Wait.
At the party earlier that afternoon, my grandfather, after having filled a plate full of barbecued meats and saladed potatoes, slipped and fell onto his hip and shoulder while exiting the back door of the house we were at. I was right in front of him when it happened, after having posed sardonically for a photograph that my aunt was insistent on taking. Luckily, he was okay. No paramedics were called, and the afternoon progressed as planned.
However, when I returned to the house later that evening in a severe state- I had just finished showing my cousin the first five chapters of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet- I found things to be amiss. Why, when I sneakily entered the house in a state of utter sleep, I noticed that the back door was open and the kitchen light was on- an unfamiliar attribute to a house normally quiet and dark after about 10 p.m. No matter- just let me stumble to my bed. Fuck brushing my teeth.
"What are you doing," my grandfather asked, scaring the fuck out of drunk me.
"I'm drunk. Why are you up?! I'm going to bed."
"I just can't sleep," he grimaced. "My shoulder hurts so bad."
"Aw, I'm sorry. That sucks. At least you didn't break it," I laughed.
Wincing, he said, "My hip, too. Gosh."
"Man, that su-ucks."
"Would you look at this and see if I have a bruise?"
"Sure, yeah."
And there went the pants. And underwear.
"Uh, yeah, you definitely have a bruise there. That's gonna be a big one."
"What about on my shoulder?"
At this point, he begins to take off his shirt, only realizing halfway through the process that his arm is in so much pain that he cannot remove his clothing on his own. So, what to do but enlist my help in removing his t-shirt? Directly, I found myself helping my already half-naked grandfather pull the tight, white Hanes shirt off his injured and aging body.
Thinking the worst to be over, I said uncomfortably, "Um, nope. No bruise there. At least not yet, anyway."
"It just hurts so bad, though."
"Well, you should put some ice on it. Or a heating pad or something. Ben-Gay or whatever," I casually mentioned, inching my way towards my bedroom door, praying for a swift end to this nightmare. One bullet's all it would take, I hoped.
"Well, I've got something in the bathroom I could put on it," he replied. "That would probably help."
"Do it!," I encouraged, turning on my heel and walking away.
Just as I reached the door to my bedroom, salvation only six seconds of dizziness and passing out away, I hear, "Hey, will you give me a hand with this?"
"Sure, what do you need?"
"Will you rub this on my hip? I can't reach it 'cause of my shoulder."
"Rub what? That cream? That cream in your hands?"
"Yeah. Ouch," he grimaced.
The world darkened. Shit got real.
"Sure.."
And that is how I found myself rubbing old people salve into my grandfather's heretofore unseen-by-me ASS, knowing all the while that the only reason I was able to maintain any sort of composure in this terrible, terrible situation is that I was completely drunk. And I'm okay with that. Actually, no I'm not. I'm not okay with that at ALL.
Fuck a Saturday.
1) On Saturday, I went to Moore Funeral Home in Arlington, Texas to attend the interrment of my friend Joe Garza, who died last week. Joe was a good friend that played in many bands with me. You can view a biography that I wrote for his website here. It was a Catholic funeral, and I was fine through the whole thing until afterwards when I watched his big brother put his ashes in the little drawer while standing on a ladder. Then his sister played a song of his on a portable CD player- a song Joe recorded right before he died. That's when I lost my shit. If you click on the Joe Garza link, you'll hear the song I'm referring to. Then I came home and watched the series finale of Six Feet Under.
2) Later that afternoon, I got a credit card statement from American Express stating that they had not received my last payment- incurring any number of late charges, finance charges, and holds on my account, as American Express is merciless when it comes to matters of the heart, er, money. I called the company in complaint- I had sent a $100 payment not two weeks before. Of course, they hadn't received said payment.
"Can you cancel the check?"
"I sent a money order," I replied.
"Do you still have your receipt?"
Mere hours later, I found myself rummaging through rancid pizza sauce and unusable dough in the dumpster behind my place of employment searching for one piece of rectangular 65 lb. stock paper. I was searching for the receipt for a money order that I had thrown away not 18 hours earlier in a fit of boredom at work- a receipt that sat on the floorboard of my car for weeks. Why did I decide to rid my vehicle of trash that usually rests there until my girlfriend gathers and throws out in exasperation? Presumably so I could dig through a restaurant's dumpster in 100 degree heat. Of course! I did find the receipt, however, along with a number of other money order receipts I had purchased. Victory! Now to get the $100 refund from Western Union. All I have to do is send in the receipt from the money order (along with a $12 non-refundable service charge) with all sorts of information and conditions, one being, um, that the receipt be whole and intact. No problem. Except for that the one receipt I needed was RIPPED AND MANGLED.
So that was this Saturday.
3) Last Saturday, I skipped attending Joe Garza's memorial service in lieu of attending my grandmother's 80th birthday party/family reunion in Seminole, Texas- a town deeply west, about 30 miles from New Mexico. In fact, I visited New Mexico a number of times while I was there, as Gaines County is dry, and just across the border, in the beautiful deserts of New Mexico, the counties are as wet as you want them to be. And so, alcohol was purchased. And imbibed. The cousins and I had our fair share while playing card games and 'talking story' at the nearby hotel where my grandmother graciously put the young ones up for the weekend. Except for me. I was staying at my grandparent's house along with my father. After the evenings wound down, my cousins and I would retire to the hotel to drink and freak out the Mennonites who apparently let their women swim only at night and under close supervision. Generally, around 4:30 a.m., I would find my way back to my car and swerve back to my grandparent's home to pass out on the fold-out bed. And so it was last Saturday night.
Wait.
At the party earlier that afternoon, my grandfather, after having filled a plate full of barbecued meats and saladed potatoes, slipped and fell onto his hip and shoulder while exiting the back door of the house we were at. I was right in front of him when it happened, after having posed sardonically for a photograph that my aunt was insistent on taking. Luckily, he was okay. No paramedics were called, and the afternoon progressed as planned.
However, when I returned to the house later that evening in a severe state- I had just finished showing my cousin the first five chapters of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet- I found things to be amiss. Why, when I sneakily entered the house in a state of utter sleep, I noticed that the back door was open and the kitchen light was on- an unfamiliar attribute to a house normally quiet and dark after about 10 p.m. No matter- just let me stumble to my bed. Fuck brushing my teeth.
"What are you doing," my grandfather asked, scaring the fuck out of drunk me.
"I'm drunk. Why are you up?! I'm going to bed."
"I just can't sleep," he grimaced. "My shoulder hurts so bad."
"Aw, I'm sorry. That sucks. At least you didn't break it," I laughed.
Wincing, he said, "My hip, too. Gosh."
"Man, that su-ucks."
"Would you look at this and see if I have a bruise?"
"Sure, yeah."
And there went the pants. And underwear.
"Uh, yeah, you definitely have a bruise there. That's gonna be a big one."
"What about on my shoulder?"
At this point, he begins to take off his shirt, only realizing halfway through the process that his arm is in so much pain that he cannot remove his clothing on his own. So, what to do but enlist my help in removing his t-shirt? Directly, I found myself helping my already half-naked grandfather pull the tight, white Hanes shirt off his injured and aging body.
Thinking the worst to be over, I said uncomfortably, "Um, nope. No bruise there. At least not yet, anyway."
"It just hurts so bad, though."
"Well, you should put some ice on it. Or a heating pad or something. Ben-Gay or whatever," I casually mentioned, inching my way towards my bedroom door, praying for a swift end to this nightmare. One bullet's all it would take, I hoped.
"Well, I've got something in the bathroom I could put on it," he replied. "That would probably help."
"Do it!," I encouraged, turning on my heel and walking away.
Just as I reached the door to my bedroom, salvation only six seconds of dizziness and passing out away, I hear, "Hey, will you give me a hand with this?"
"Sure, what do you need?"
"Will you rub this on my hip? I can't reach it 'cause of my shoulder."
"Rub what? That cream? That cream in your hands?"
"Yeah. Ouch," he grimaced.
The world darkened. Shit got real.
"Sure.."
And that is how I found myself rubbing old people salve into my grandfather's heretofore unseen-by-me ASS, knowing all the while that the only reason I was able to maintain any sort of composure in this terrible, terrible situation is that I was completely drunk. And I'm okay with that. Actually, no I'm not. I'm not okay with that at ALL.
Fuck a Saturday.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
"Call it New York Karma if you like."
Then we made our way back to the subway and headed uptown. Downtown? Whatever- towards the financial district. Toward the World Trade Center site. It was hard to find because the buildings weren't there to serve as a beacon. What? Too soon?
We saw a few buildings with giant drapes over them, perhaps to serve as blinders for the employees within, to keep them sane and productive, but I'm sure the official reason was far more utilitarian. There were mounds of construction everywhere, surrounded by streets barricaded, but we weren't sure if we were in the right place or merely among the melee of constant New York renovation. Finally, we spotted thegarish tourist trap memorial- Ground Zero.
We made our way down the stairs which also served as an entrance to the subway to view the rebuilding through wire fences and black drapes similar to the ones that turned nearby highrises into giant shadows, into buildings composed of dark matter. We stared into the black hole of the site, and I, for one, didn't feel much different. It was somewhat impressive to see the scope of it all, how big it was. Although, I never saw the towers in real life, so I suppose much of the awe and indignation was lost on me. Plus, it doesn't help that I'm an insensitive asshole. Meh.
We continually cracked subversive and insensitive jokes and took satirically somber photographs of ourselves ensconsed in serious discussion and gazing pensively and morosely at the site, laughing hysterically for an instant here and a moment there, while simultaneously telling each other that we had to shut up lest we get our asses kicked. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't wear this shirt that day. I don't really own that shirt. Sigh...
After growing weary of being callous jerks, we decided to make our way back to the subway stop we came from as my appointment was drawing near. We had about 45 minutes, and the ride back downtown, uptown, was only about five minutes, so we had plenty of time. Of course, we got lost. I don't know how. I guess I just hadn't paid attention when we walked through Manhattan. I was more interested in walking through Tribeca and saying "Don't mind if I do," continually. I'd been saving that one.
We found plenty of subway stops, but none of them had the corresponding color or letter that we needed to get back to where we needed to be. I tried to walk quickly, but Rebecca's foot had begun to bother her, and the rain was picking up. Call it New York Karma if you like.
We saw a few buildings with giant drapes over them, perhaps to serve as blinders for the employees within, to keep them sane and productive, but I'm sure the official reason was far more utilitarian. There were mounds of construction everywhere, surrounded by streets barricaded, but we weren't sure if we were in the right place or merely among the melee of constant New York renovation. Finally, we spotted the
We made our way down the stairs which also served as an entrance to the subway to view the rebuilding through wire fences and black drapes similar to the ones that turned nearby highrises into giant shadows, into buildings composed of dark matter. We stared into the black hole of the site, and I, for one, didn't feel much different. It was somewhat impressive to see the scope of it all, how big it was. Although, I never saw the towers in real life, so I suppose much of the awe and indignation was lost on me. Plus, it doesn't help that I'm an insensitive asshole. Meh.
We continually cracked subversive and insensitive jokes and took satirically somber photographs of ourselves ensconsed in serious discussion and gazing pensively and morosely at the site, laughing hysterically for an instant here and a moment there, while simultaneously telling each other that we had to shut up lest we get our asses kicked. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't wear this shirt that day. I don't really own that shirt. Sigh...
After growing weary of being callous jerks, we decided to make our way back to the subway stop we came from as my appointment was drawing near. We had about 45 minutes, and the ride back downtown, uptown, was only about five minutes, so we had plenty of time. Of course, we got lost. I don't know how. I guess I just hadn't paid attention when we walked through Manhattan. I was more interested in walking through Tribeca and saying "Don't mind if I do," continually. I'd been saving that one.
We found plenty of subway stops, but none of them had the corresponding color or letter that we needed to get back to where we needed to be. I tried to walk quickly, but Rebecca's foot had begun to bother her, and the rain was picking up. Call it New York Karma if you like.
Monday, July 17, 2006
"I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor."
Day 3 cont'd., cont'd.
____________________
Within ten minutes, we were through the Lincoln Tunnel, explosion free, and pulled into the Port Authority Terminal. The blur of the city began, and we made our way to the subway station, getting deterred for a good five minutes by a guy trying to unload Improv Club tickets on us, a young man who wouldn't take no for an answer, though we managed to decline his incredible offer nonetheless, eventually. Lesson one: Learned. Ignore the comedy guys.
We were approached by no less than ten of these people while in Times Square. My declinations became less and less polite, so much so that the last one I remember encountering was visibly pissed off at whatever it was that I said to him, and stared after us menacingly. I awoke in the hospital.
Not really- but, with any luck, that guy became severely disillusioned with shilling comedy tickets and re-examined (or possibly, just plain examined) his life, and quit a job that would never offer an "in" into the stand-up comedy business, and promptly quit after our encounter. I don't distinctly remember the extent of our repartee, but it was something to the effect of, "Hey guys! Do you like stand-up come-"
"NO!", laughingly, jovially, like him.
In the subway station, Rebecca bought our one day "Funpasses" with her credit card. We were impressed- no- we were perplexed that the machine instructed the purchaser to "dip" the card to pay for the tickets. We searched the machine for some sort of credit card pool or flea bath to drop the card into, but to no avail. The only place to put the card was your average, everyday credit card slot. There was no "dipping" involved. You insert the card, and then quickly remove it. No dip.
A dip, to me, anyway, implies a quick drop and quick removal of an object, and usually the removal finds the dipped object covered in some substance not previously found on said item. We began to refer to everything as a dip, and I told her I was going to dip (excerpt missing here- oops! -ed.). Then, I dipped my hand into my pocket to retrieve my newly acquired subway ticket and we boarded the train and went uptown to see some shit, to wander aimlessly, to find the building my audition was to be at, and aimlessly wander. And look at shit.
We went to 67th and Columbus to find the ABC building that the audition was to be held, and there it was- just like the mystical email foretold. There were still about three hours left before the audition, so we continued down 67th Street to Central Park West and walked into a surprisingly serene and empty Central Park. We attempted to self-photograph some pictures of us in front of the grey, cloudy skyline with little success. Eventually, an old couple strolled by and offered to take the picture for us. I clenched my own bag a bit tighter as I handed the old lady the camera, just in case I had to bludgeon them if they tried to run, er, hobble off with the camera.
As I backed up to the fence to pose with Rebecca, I imagined the old couple as Rebecca and I from the future, coming back in time to help a young us- some sort of strange Auster scenario. After all, we were in his hometown.
We wandered around until we decided to find a place to expell urine. We walked up Central Park West towards 72nd Street, and while Rebecca talked to her mother on her cell phone, I noticed a particularly clever homeless man wearing a yamukah, pushing a shopping cart with a haggard partner. They stopped at a bench where an obviously successful Jewish businessman sat (he also wore a yamukah). I didn't hear their conversation, but it was clear that the homeless man was playing the religion/race card with the businessman, and whether or not the homeless man was Jewish was of little import.
I saw the businessman shoot the homeless man a disapproving, yet guilty look as he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and begrudgingly handed it over, holding onto and looking at the quarter a bit too long. So, I suppose the homeless man had won, but if the stereotypes about Jews and their money are true, the homeless man had seemingly carved a niche for himself that clearly wouldn't be too profitable. I suppose he would occasionally hit the guilt jackpot with some of the more self-loathsome, successful ones, if, in fact, the stereotypes pasted on Jewish culture are true, which I don't necessarily agree with, except that I know Mark is cheap as fuck. And he's one of 'em. Nonetheless, I found the homeless man's angle quite genius and enterprising. Maybe he was genuine after all.
We made our way to a Starbucks back on the corner of 67th and Columbus where I could piss without having to purchase anything. I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor.
____________________
Within ten minutes, we were through the Lincoln Tunnel, explosion free, and pulled into the Port Authority Terminal. The blur of the city began, and we made our way to the subway station, getting deterred for a good five minutes by a guy trying to unload Improv Club tickets on us, a young man who wouldn't take no for an answer, though we managed to decline his incredible offer nonetheless, eventually. Lesson one: Learned. Ignore the comedy guys.
We were approached by no less than ten of these people while in Times Square. My declinations became less and less polite, so much so that the last one I remember encountering was visibly pissed off at whatever it was that I said to him, and stared after us menacingly. I awoke in the hospital.
Not really- but, with any luck, that guy became severely disillusioned with shilling comedy tickets and re-examined (or possibly, just plain examined) his life, and quit a job that would never offer an "in" into the stand-up comedy business, and promptly quit after our encounter. I don't distinctly remember the extent of our repartee, but it was something to the effect of, "Hey guys! Do you like stand-up come-"
"NO!", laughingly, jovially, like him.
In the subway station, Rebecca bought our one day "Funpasses" with her credit card. We were impressed- no- we were perplexed that the machine instructed the purchaser to "dip" the card to pay for the tickets. We searched the machine for some sort of credit card pool or flea bath to drop the card into, but to no avail. The only place to put the card was your average, everyday credit card slot. There was no "dipping" involved. You insert the card, and then quickly remove it. No dip.
A dip, to me, anyway, implies a quick drop and quick removal of an object, and usually the removal finds the dipped object covered in some substance not previously found on said item. We began to refer to everything as a dip, and I told her I was going to dip (excerpt missing here- oops! -ed.). Then, I dipped my hand into my pocket to retrieve my newly acquired subway ticket and we boarded the train and went uptown to see some shit, to wander aimlessly, to find the building my audition was to be at, and aimlessly wander. And look at shit.
We went to 67th and Columbus to find the ABC building that the audition was to be held, and there it was- just like the mystical email foretold. There were still about three hours left before the audition, so we continued down 67th Street to Central Park West and walked into a surprisingly serene and empty Central Park. We attempted to self-photograph some pictures of us in front of the grey, cloudy skyline with little success. Eventually, an old couple strolled by and offered to take the picture for us. I clenched my own bag a bit tighter as I handed the old lady the camera, just in case I had to bludgeon them if they tried to run, er, hobble off with the camera.
As I backed up to the fence to pose with Rebecca, I imagined the old couple as Rebecca and I from the future, coming back in time to help a young us- some sort of strange Auster scenario. After all, we were in his hometown.
We wandered around until we decided to find a place to expell urine. We walked up Central Park West towards 72nd Street, and while Rebecca talked to her mother on her cell phone, I noticed a particularly clever homeless man wearing a yamukah, pushing a shopping cart with a haggard partner. They stopped at a bench where an obviously successful Jewish businessman sat (he also wore a yamukah). I didn't hear their conversation, but it was clear that the homeless man was playing the religion/race card with the businessman, and whether or not the homeless man was Jewish was of little import.
I saw the businessman shoot the homeless man a disapproving, yet guilty look as he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and begrudgingly handed it over, holding onto and looking at the quarter a bit too long. So, I suppose the homeless man had won, but if the stereotypes about Jews and their money are true, the homeless man had seemingly carved a niche for himself that clearly wouldn't be too profitable. I suppose he would occasionally hit the guilt jackpot with some of the more self-loathsome, successful ones, if, in fact, the stereotypes pasted on Jewish culture are true, which I don't necessarily agree with, except that I know Mark is cheap as fuck. And he's one of 'em. Nonetheless, I found the homeless man's angle quite genius and enterprising. Maybe he was genuine after all.
We made our way to a Starbucks back on the corner of 67th and Columbus where I could piss without having to purchase anything. I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor.
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