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Sleepy

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Not sure if it’s the multi-colored Christmas lights I’m rocking in my bedroom… and leaving on all night, but I have been having trouble sleeping lately. Insomnia is a small price to pay for the Christmas spirit. The dry air doesn’t help. My morning routine has involved quite a bit of time expectorating blood the past few days. The temperature fluctuations really don’t help either. I go to bed freezing under all the covers and wake up in the middle of the night sweating like a fat man.

Last night I fell asleep WHILE I was setting my alarm. Now that’s tired. 19 more days until Santa. I can do this.

Old School

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I recently had to travel for work and unfortunately had to take a Sunday night red-eye home to New York. My company took pity on me and sprung for a car service from Newark Airport to my apartment in Williamsburg. This enabled me to avoid navigating Monday morning public transportation in a red-eye daze. I had been up for about 23 hours at that point and was not in the proper state of mind to deal with such a scene. The rain only complicated the matter.

So all was good. I could fall asleep (or at least zone out) in the car for the ride home and not have to worry about a thing. What I was not prepared for was the driver. An old school cat as miserable as they come. I believe he said his name was Bud, but I’m not entirely sure. Bud was sporting bright white hair, a giant bulbous nose and thick New York accent. He used local idioms like, “I’m just breaking shoes.”

Things got off to a bad start when my cell phone rang as I was cruising through the terminal. It was Bud, who asked me to meet him outside in the rain, instead of coming in and writing my name on a little sign. Once I found the car, he immediately began to complain that he was not used to driving all the way from Newark to Brooklyn and that we were absolutely going to hit rush hour traffic. Fair enough. For some reason I was compelled to apologize to the guy we were paying nearly $150 for. Even offered alternate routes that might make the ride a little smoother.

He decided to try a route that we were both unfamiliar with, relying on the GPS to illuminate the way. Within a minute we were in the seedy industrial complex of the Newark Airport area. Taking hard lefts and rights, trying to keep up with a GPS that must have been smoking at this point. Only one or two other cars in sight, we were dodging delivery trucks like they were Pacman ghosts. Bud coloring the car with a rush of language that would make Fiorello La Guardia blush.

Not wanting to enflame the situation any more, I treaded lightly. Opting for a joke…

“Well that got sketchy real fast.”

“Fucking Jesus Christ, these GPSs will take you everywhere but where you want to go.”

Down one more side street, in another moment we were back on the highway. Stuck in traffic.

He let out a giant gasp and said, “I’m gonna try to get over to the Verrazano.”

“No this is fine. Stick with the Holland please.” That stopped him in his tracks.

Along the way we passed not one, but three accidents. Cars were readily bumping into each other on this cold and rainy Monday morning. Each time, Bud would make a comment that people don’t know how to drive in rain. At one point there was a break in the monotony and we had some room to accelerate. To a fault I chose to mumble something under my breath, which caused Bud to turn around and ask what I had said. Of course at this very moment, I could see that more traffic was fast approaching and Bud was not slowing down.

“Look out!” I literally screamed “Look out!” Bud slammed on the brakes and we avoided being number four. My knuckles were blood red.

Traffic near the tunnel was abominable and Bud decided to get into an open lane that was heading off into Hoboken. Once he realized he was in the wrong lane, he attempted to merge back into a crowd of cars stymied by the bottleneck of the tunnel. They had just watched him pass them by and were not very forthcoming in letting us back in. Down aways was a traffic cop that was glaring up at us. Bud started preaching that this mother fucker better not give him a ticket.

We got in and passed the cop without incident. Bud looked at him through a closed window and said thank you, then muttered under his breath “Fuck you, hahaha” and after a brief condemnation of the merging habits of motorists, we were in the Holland Tunnel.

Getting across Manhattan was fairly easy as I was directing him the entire way. Though we did seem to hit every red light, which Bud surprisingly pointed out. When we got to the Williamsburg bridge, the left lane was closed and Bud made my favorite comment of the morning…

“They’ve been working on this road since the beginning of time.” I’d never noticed it, but maybe they have. It perfectly summed up my morning.

We drove right passed my apartment after I had told Bud it was right there at the light. Upon making a couple of lefts to get back, we found ourselves on a side street stuck behind a garbage truck. With no where to turn, I watched the truck completely annihilate a sofa that was left on the side of the road.

“Well Bud, this works for me. I hope the rest of your day goes a little smoother.” I grabbed my things and walked the block home. Bedtime.

Ironing

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I hate to iron. It is a mindless, numbing activity. And a whole friggin’ to-do. You lug the ironing board out, fill the thing up with water, straighten out the shirt, detect the wrinkles, make sure there are no creases, iron and repeat. Multiple times. I could be spending that time washing dishes. It’s dangerous too! This heavy appliance is inches away from linens and skin with only one purpose… get really, really hot.

Why do we do it? Why can’t I walk around in wrinkled pants? Who says a pressed shirt is stylish or put-together? I’ll tell you who: Big Iron. This entire pro-pressed sentiment is all a racket put forth by the marketeers of Big Iron to sell more irons. I think it stinks, and I don’t like it.

I will make one point. There is a certain purification I get from ironing out those wrinkles. Watching them melt away somehow makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something, however menial. At least as much as I can accomplish while standing in the middle of my apartment in my underwear, listening to REO Speedwagon. (You don’t spin “Keep On Loving You” when YOU’RE ironing?) So I suppose ironing has an oddly cathartic component. Add in the danger and you have something to talk about. I just don’t think the ends justify the means.

Nearly four years ago, on the very first day of work, I was ironing. It was a new me. I was going to press my clothes. In a moment of distraction however, my forearm decided it wanted to get to really know that iron. What my forearm didn’t know is that irons are extremely racist toward skin. Actually, the tip of an iron looks like a Klansman’s hood. A painful, bright purple welt immediately showed up. As an added bonus, because of the confusion from burning myself, I forgot to zip up my fly. So I had a smoldering forearm and an unzipped fly on my first day of work. Awesome! What a disaster. Maybe not- I’m still here. And all my clothes are wrinkled.

http://www.outnext.com/on/2009/04/the-iron-of-the-future.html

Thin Walls

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For months, actually ever since I moved into my apartment, I’ve been conscious of the thin walls in my building. There are six units here and we are all up in each other’s business. I share a wall in the bedroom with my next door neighbor. Judging from the amount of things I can hear coming from his apartment, lord knows what he can hear coming from mine. I try to keep it fairly quiet. For privacy and respect. I don’t really listen to music in the bedroom and spend most of my time in the other room anyway. Other times, I’m too busy to care how loud it gets in here. Oh!

A young couple and their 3 year old son used to live next door. The kid would sing constantly and run from one end of the apartment to the other. This little shit was doing suicides day and night. Possibly training for a marathon. Julian was hyperactive and a nightmare to live next to. They moved away on my birthday and it was the best present anyone could ask for. For the most part, the guy that lives there now is quiet. Not enough to complain about here.

One thing I’m conscious of is my alarm clock. I use an iPhone as an alarm clock and she goes to bed with me. The alarm’s actual volume is not that loud, but after a long night of restless, intermittent sleep, when that thing goes off in the morning it sounds like shoes in a dryer on a runway at Newark International. I’m trying to subtly imply that it’s loud. Especially to someone disoriented from a dream they were just having about benevolent (and helpful!) robots. I’m pretty sure the guy next door goes to work later than me and I always feel slightly bad that I might be waking him up. I wasn’t quite sure he was actually hearing the alarm in the morning… And at the end of the day, I don’t really care. A man’s gotta wake up to make a living. But at least I had a little guilt about it?

Yesterday morning, my alarm went off as usual. I rolled over, blindly searching for my phone to tap the snooze button, but something wasn’t right. It was 6:30 am. My alarm wasn’t going off. Did I just dream my alarm went off? Did a dream alarm just wake me up? If I start having alarm dreams I’m really screwed. Don’t make me call the Dream Police. They live inside of my head.

No dream alarms. It was the guy next door. He apparently uses an iPhone for his alarm as well. And he’s using the exact same alarm tone as me. Well now I know if he can hear mine. I swear I thought my alarm, the one that is in bed with me, was vibrating and playing that dreadful melody I hear every morning. Heard it as clear as monday morning. Apparently it’s time to reconsider what passes for quiet.

Pretty sure we sleep right next to each other. I imagine his pillow is propped right up against the opposite side of the wall. I bet there’s less than six inches of sheet rock between our heads. I’m moving my bed. And I’m changing my alarm tone. I don’t feel comfortable not only being on this guy’s new schedule but sleeping next to a man separated by a decades old, six inch, mold-infested partition.

Thin Walls No Match for Fornicating NYers

It finally happened

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I knew this day would come. I’d been dreading it for years. But today, it finally happened. Today… I misjudged the revolving door in the lobby of my office.

I had stepped out for a hot lunch, some sunlight, and an hour of much needed me time. Getting back to work, a woman was coming the other way as I was re-entering the building. I saw her through the glass, thought I could make it, and went for it. Smash. I got slammed between the partition and the side of the revolving door enclosure. It didn’t hurt, but it sure looked foolish. Like something akin to when the Coyote fails to catch the Roadrunner. Years of living dangerously flashed before my eyes. I’ve had near-misses before, some a little too close. But every time I prevailed. Seamlessly entering the building as someone else was leaving. Kind of pretty actually. A time-tested apparatus of civil engineering. Not today though. The woman who squashed me felt bad too. She apparently did not see the little dilemma that was going on in my head prior to our encounter. The contemplation. Should I attempt this? She smiled and gave me a sincere “I’m so sorry”; muffled from the other side of the glass.

To which I smiled back with a wave and said, “My fault.”

Will this effect my carefree attitude toward revolving doors? Will this make me stop and think twice before attempting a stunt like this again. Highly doubtful. I’ve got places to be man. This is New York City. I can’t wait for people. I just wish this was a metaphorical revolving door we were talking about. But alas it is not. I really got crushed by a door.

Speaking of revolving doors, I’ve been talking about this for years. Put a generator at the top of a rotating door to create energy every time someone walks through it. Seems like a no-brainer to me. Well someone finally did it.

pretty

Attack!

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Today, in Starbucks, a little boy, who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old, attacked me. He saw me walking toward him, lowered his head and rammed me in the crotch with it. It was not a mistake. There was clear intent to cause harm. I wonder his motives. I refuse to believe it was mere child’s play and feel like I was the victim of some sort of organized hooliganism. Has anyone else been attacked in such a manner? Especially in the Times Square area? Agism is a serious problem in this country and to think it may be manifesting itself through violence frightens me. If this is happening under the microscope of New York City, what’s to say pockets of gangs comprised of 4 year old punks aren’t elsewhere.

Luckily, he missed his target. It wasn’t a direct hit. I was not momentarily paralyzed by the aggression. Only the fear that this was somehow premeditated.

I said, “Whoaaaa, there, haha”

I looked down and he looked up at me. Laughing. Taunting. Threatening.

His mother with a smile, “Excuse me.”

And I’m thinking to myself… Ma’am, I’m not sure you’re fully aware of the devil you’re raising.

Am I being tested?

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When I got home last night, there was a $20 bill taped to the front door of my apartment building. No note. Nothing. Is this some sort of social experiment? Are there cameras somewhere? Tape rolling? I felt like I was being watched. I didn’t take it. It felt dirty. Perhaps there was something wrong with the money? All sorts of things going through my mind. Clearly, it wasn’t my money to take, but that shouldn’t have stopped me. Why would someone just tape money to a door in Brooklyn? It’s almost a sin not to take it. Nope, I looked at it for a few seconds, looked around, and went inside. Wondering.

When I was in fourth grade, I rode the school bus home. One afternoon, we had just let some kids out and I happen to be staring out the window. Miraculously, among a pile of leaves, I spotted a crisp bill. I couldn’t make out how much it was, but I got very giddy inside. I made up my mind at that moment. As soon as I got home I was going to hop on my bike and come claim that thing. There were people in the driveway of the house where this bill lay in front of. Had to make haste in order to get the reward. I couldn’t think of anything else the rest of the way home. That money was mine. 10 minutes later I got home, threw down my backpack in the garage and grabbed my BMX. I was pedaling with a purpose. Up and down the hilly back roads of Livingston, NJ. That money was mine. It was a late fall afternoon so there were leaves everywhere. It was cold. The images and smells are still vivid in my mind. Never had I found money before. When I got there, people were still outside. I pretended to have issues with my sneakers. Even then I was scheming. That cash was still there. And it was a $20! I couldn’t believe it. I don’t remember what I did with that money. It was fourth grade and I was just coming into my own. I had my first girlfriend. Sweet Lauren Kepniss. Maybe I went out and bought her some cheap jewelry. I had just started taking drum lessons. I thought Poison was the shit. I may have gone to Sam Goody and bought a Def Leppard tape. I don’t know. But I remember that cash as clear as day.

As I left my apartment this morning, the bill was still taped to the front door. This was a chance to inspect it in daylight. The money was fake. It had writing on it that read, “No Jews.”

It was a social experiment whether the fool that posted it knows it or not. I live next to a bodega. I have many neighbors. There were tons of eyeballs on that thing. But that bill stayed there for at least half a day without one person ripping it down. I try to always give people the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes they make me rethink that policy.

So do I take my clothes off?

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I’m the king of socially awkward. Last week I had my yearly physical. Everything checked out fine, but of course, not without incident.

My doctor was late. The 9:30 appointment had been pushed back a half hour before I left the house and I was waiting for another 45 minutes at the office. Waiting for the doctor to actually get there. Once he finally did arrive, there was a mad scramble to see the patients that had piled up in the waiting room. I was called rather quickly and a nurse ushered me to the room. She didn’t say a word and left. The panic begins.

What do I do? I’m here for a physical. Do I take my clothes off? I’m already late for work and Doc is probably running around trying to catch up. Maybe just my shirt? I really don’t know what to do here. I don’t want to be butt naked when the doctor first sees me, but I need to help expedite this thing.

Shoes and button-down. That’s easy. Then the jeans come off. Then they go back on. Maybe I’ll just take my undershirt off? You know, take the pants off as needed. I don’t know. That just doesn’t seem right.

Decide to get down to boxers. Leave the socks on and stay in my undershirt. I figure this is the least awkward (for me anyway) move. It was a game-time decision and I went with it.

After another few minutes, Doc opens the door. And of course his first words are, “Oh. I see you’re all ready for your physical.” In a tone that was easily detected as surprise. I get defensive.

“Well I didn’t know if I should take all my clothes off or wait for you and see what I should do. But thank you for bringing it up.”

“Yeah. You could have left them on. But I’ve walked in on people completely naked, laying down on the table.”

“Good to know. Should I cough now?”

Want to thank that nurse for leaving me… hanging. Doh!

Ágætis byrjun is 10 years old.

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It took me two years to hear it. I was walking through a courtyard on the campus of the University of Colorado when suddenly the most beautiful music came through my headphones. It was Fall 2001. My friend had lent me this CD of this band from Iceland that I couldn’t pronounce. The only comment he had was that this was the music you will hear when you go to Heaven. Who was this band, Sugar Rose?

In 1999, Sigur Rós released Ágætis byrjun, and blew minds everywhere. The music was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Unexplainable. I’ll try- It was spacey, ethereal, heavier than hell, and sung in a kind of high-pitched nonsense. I honestly thought the lead singer was an actual orca until I saw them live.

Half-expecting to see a large aquarium on stage, I did just that. My friends and I went to see Sigur Rós at the Ogden Theatre in Denver on November 16th, 2002. On the way there, we discussed how everyone said the band was incredible live. Rumors were swirling that people were passing out from the beauty and power of it all. The light show. The incredible sound. The music. The orca. I thought that was the lamest thing I’d ever heard. People passing out at a show because of ambiance? Come on people. Don’t be so dramatic.

I wish I could tell you that it was me that passed out because of the majesty of Sigur Rós. But in fact it was one of my friends. And he passed out during the opener. One minute we’re all standing there watching this guy on acoustic guitar, and the next, my buddy is on the ground. But the fact remains, people pass out at Sigur Rós shows.

In the past 10 years I’ve seen Sigur Rós a bunch more times. They always blow my mind. There is not a more powerful band in the world. So here’s to you, Ágætis byrjun, for being 10 years old. And here’s to me, for being an old fart.