The Trouble With Public Transit

Regardless of your political affiliation, stance on global warming, or whether you're a social butterfly or hermit, I think there is something we can all agree on—public transportation is a good idea—but we never want to have to use it. In my eyes, the reason is very simple: public transportation is open to the public.

Years of working retail and food service have taught me to distrust and fear people. I think most teenagers and 20-somethings resort to working in these professions at some point before finding their niche, and the result is always the same: you discover that people suck. As a person, I am allowed to make this claim. I suck too. However, The difference between peoples who suck can be vast. Those who learn a modicum of social grace and how to behave in public at least don't give the outward appearance of sucking. It is the other narcissistic few, oblivious to the suffering of those around them, who really wreck havoc on public transit and make it near unbearable. Not to mention the crazies and the homeless who simply don't care if they make you uncomfortable or not. We encounter these people all the time, but being trapped on a train or a bus with them is undoubtedly the worst way to start your morning commute.

The man with mangled hands is one of the most memorable characters I've encountered on public transit. Every morning on the R-train from Astoria into Manhattan, I would see this poor man. In his 50's, a former high school basketball coach, toothless, homeless, and out-of-work, the man with mangled hands would walk up and down the subway cars announcing his trouble and asking for spare change. I heard his life story every morning, but the one thing I never heard about was what happened to his hands. Now that is a tale I'd be willing to pay for.

Because of his physical handicap, he couldn't work a normal job so he turned to panhandling. But because of his condition, panhandling was possibly the worst career move he could have made. He would approach strangers on the train, saying "If you can't spare some change, spare a smile." Then hold out his grotesque, 3 fingered lobster claw of a hand for people to put change into. It was so swollen, lumpy, and deformed that any coins or bills you placed into it would roll off onto the floor. Then you would feel even worse for making this poor man work for his money—trying to trap a quarter between what's left of a thumb and a pinky finger off the moving train's floor. The one time I did try to give him change, I held out my hand with coins in my palm. He tried plucking them off one by one and it seemed to take forever. The whole time I was staring at his puffy, swollen, twisted hands. I know it's wrong, but I couldn't look away. Then I started to see pus oozing out from behind a cracked fingernail. I threw up in my mouth instantly. I tried to cover my mouth with my free hand and make it seem like I was yawning, but he could tell my chipmunk cheeks were full of vomit. I then had to ride the rest of the way to work with a mouthful of vomit—I refused to swallow it or get off the train—silent tears rolling down my cheeks the whole way.

The Woman on Crack.  Taking different forms, but always behaving the same, the Woman on Crack is both amusing and terrifying. I've seen this woman on the train in broad daylight and at midnight. She knows not what time it is, nor does she care. She is typically younger-middle-aged but looks older for her facial scarring, missing teeth, and clothing meant for teenagers. Most train passengers will be reading a book, newspaper, or bobbing their heads along with an ipod. At first glance the Woman on Crack might appear normal, if slightly "enthusiastic" about the music she's listening to. Then, upon further inspection, you'll notice there are no earbuds or headphones, just the music from within her crazed little head. What was previously an over-exuberant head-bobbing and lip-syncing quickly becomes a full-on rave. Erupting into a chorus, the Woman on Crack will belt out the imaginary tune bouncing around in her empty head and dance explosively to the phantom music. You'll hear lyrics like:

"There's a PAHHHHTY going on over heahhhhhhhh...you bettah bring some fuckin' caaaaaaake. I ain't kiddin' Chris, bring some goddamn caaaaaaake...don't be bringin' that stupid girlfriend of yours neitheeeeeer...she fuuuuucked up in the heaaaaad...Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtleeeeeees...those fucks are greeeeen!"

The last Woman on Crack I saw then proceeded to grab onto a subway pole and spin around it, dancing and laughing to her own private joke. Once that got old, she started preaching to the passengers around her:

"I ain't got no job!"

*CLAP*

"I ain't got no money!"

*CLAP*

"Nobody cares about me!"

*CLAP*

Lady, all I care about is getting off this train without you spazzing out and sticking me with a shiv.

The Muttering Man. A common sight on public transit, the muttering man is clearly crazy, hasn't bathed in weeks, and is incredibly suspicious of you. To him, you are the crazy one. The last Muttering Man I saw was counting empty bottles of Tab and Dr. Pepper and arranging them just-so on the train platform. I was completely fascinated by this OCD behavior. He was spinning and twirling each 2-liter bottle around so that it matched up perfectly with the bottle behind it, label-to-label. It was like watching a lava lamp. I was mesmerized and staring at him unabashedly. That is, I stared at him until he snapped his head around, locked predatory eyes on me like some horror movie creature, and lept off the bench at me in a dead run, shrieking "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!"

"Nothing!" I cried, and ran out of the train station, walking to work that day.

The Bag Lady. While typically docile and nothing to be feared, the common Bag Lady keeps to herself and her bags. She carries at least five sackfuls of miscellaneous items—clothing, soda cans, shoes, bird food—sensible things. However, the last Bag Lady I encountered was anything but typical of her species. Past midnight on the subway train, I was riding home from a late night of restaurant work. I was the only person on my car and it was luxurious. Enter: Bag Lady.

Scuttling onto the train like a beetle, I could see her gray hair leaking out of her wrapped shawl, but it covered most of her face. Smelling the crazy from a mile away, I buried my face in my book and avoided eye-contact. It didn't help. She scurried over and took the seat right next to me—her puffy coat touching my arm. She then spread out her dozen paper bags on the floor in front of her. I could see labels printed on them like Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale's, Sak's Fifth Avenue—places Bag Ladies never go but always end up with their memorabilia.

I should have moved away—taken one of the hundreds of other empty seats—but I was scared and stupid. I sat there hiding behind my book as she leaned down and started rummaging through her various department store bags. They were clanking and banging and ruffling—God only knows what gets stuffed into a Bag Lady's bag.

Unable to find what it is she's looking for, Bag Lady starts getting frantic. Knocking her bags over onto the floor, one-by-one, she rummages through the spilled contents. I peer over my book to see her rabidly searching for something. I see piles of random crap spilling out of toppled bags—Pez dispensers, Yo-yo's, kite string, pieces of Lego, fishing lures, soda cans, glass bottles, makeup kits, a sun-catcher, loose pages torn from books, kitty litter, bits of Barbie doll, a box of Farina, silverware, a dog collar, CDs, a broken tape recorder, a mangled cassette tape, 2 cans of Silly String, Rotten apples, an empty jar of peanut butter, and several candles. Suddenly she stops her frenzied search. She's found what she's been looking for. She cradles it in her hands and peers around suspiciously, making sure nobody is looking at her precious.

I'm certain something dreadful is about to happen. There's more crazy in the air than oxygen. My hands get clammy. I drop my book on the floor.

She whips around in her seat towards me,

I see something black and shiny in her hand.

I scream—certain it's a knife and that my life is going to end on the subway at the hands of a Bag Lady—I recoil in terror.

Something flashes. I'm temporarily blind.

The subway car stops, I hear the ding as the doors open, and I hear the Bag Lady jump out of her seat and scurry out the doors. As she's leaving I hear the distinctive whirring sound of her advancing the film on a disposable camera.

The crazy bitch took my picture. I imagine it looks something like this:

She left behind all of her bags as a memento. Anyone need some kitty litter and a kite string?

New York City Apartment

We all know that New York City is the most populated city in America, but let me clarify exactly what that means.

In the year 2010, New York City is currently estimated to house 8.3 million people. The entire population of the United States is currently estimated at 307 million. That means roughly 2.7% of the United States' population is in New York City alone. Did you know that Manhattan in its entirety is 23 square miles? And that it holds 1.6+ million people? That's 66,490 people per square mile. The population density of the entire United States is approximately 76 people per square mile.

So what do all these numbers translate to in real life? Basically it means that New York City is an overcrowded, loud, filthy cesspool where dreams go to die. Sure, some of you starving artists might make a name for yourselves in the Big Apple, but most of you will be on the next Fung Wah bus home. Even if only 1% of the population in NYC is aspiring to realize the same dream as you, that means you have 83,000 competitors. Are you really a better actor, writer, singer, dancer, artist, or stock broker than 83,000 neighbors? I thought not. I tell you these things not to crush your spirit, I simply want to save you from a non-refundable security deposit, first, and last month's rent, and probably a realtor/finder's fee—a combined price tag averaging $4,950 for a one-bedroom in the city limits.

If I haven't successfully scared you off this notion of moving to New York City to follow your dreams, let me tell you one of my many personal tales of woe when moving there.

Doe-eyed and innocent, my friend Leanne and I hopped into my car the weekend before we were supposed to move to NYC. Our mission was to drive into Manhattan, secure a cheap apartment, and move in the following week. A week's time might not seem like enough to get an apartment and move, but we were assured by many people, realtors included, to wait until the last minute to find a place. The turnover rate for rentals in the city is so high that nobody lists apartments more than a month ahead of time—and if they do, there is something horribly wrong with it.

We scraped together our pennies, printed out some craigslist ads, and went in search of the perfect 2-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Our first stop: the East Village. We arrived an hour late because of traffic and taking the wrong bridge that instead led us directly into a Chinatown fish market. The smell was unbearable and it was impossible to get around when all the roads were either blocked off by police or by giant dragon floats. We instead parked the car as soon as we could and walked to our first appointment.

We knocked on the door of the seemingly nice building but got no response. We rang the bell. Nothing. We knocked a little louder. Nothing. We called the contact number listed. Nothing. Frustrated, we turned to walk away when the door banged open. A middle-aged woman in an over-sized t-shirt with no bra was standing there squinting at us.

"Yeahhh?" She asked with a New Jersey accent.

"Hi, we're here to see the apartment...sorry we're late. Are you the person we spoke to over email?"

"Naw. I'm here with my boyfriend from Jersey. We just stayed the night...partied a little too hard and just woke up. My cousin couldn't be here. You wanna come in and see the place?"

"Sure."

We went inside and had to shuffle sideways down the extremely narrow (and obviously illegal) hallway to the first bedroom. Asleep in a sleeping bag surrounded by cigarette butts and empty cans of Miller Light was the boyfriend. The room couldn't have been bigger than 10' x 10' and being on the first floor with a window right onto 1st avenue, it was extremely loud. We were then ushered into the "second bedroom" which actually had us giggling. We had to take turns going in and out of the room because it wouldn't fit more than 2 people at a time. It housed no bed, only a small secretary desk against one wall, and that's all it would allow. With one doorway into the other bedroom and another doorway into the kitchen, it was more like a nexus than a room—it had no windows, no closet, and no floor—just subflooring.

Continuing into the kitchen we encountered an ungodly smell accompanied with a sink full of month-old dishes and grime. There was a fully-formed spiderweb complete with eggsacs on one of the faux-wood cabinets, and in place of a pull-out drawer underneath the countertop was a layer of duct tape.

Jersey ushered us into our final stop in the morning's tour—the bathroom. Leanne went in first and immediately about-faced and exited, covering her mouth. I peered in to see a giant dump in the toilet peeking it's head over the bowl and slowly oozing down onto the broken-tile floor. We exited the apartment immediately.

Sitting in a park right outside the building after having seen the horrors within, we collected ourselves and began to scour over the city's newspaper for apartment listings—the Village Voice. Finding nothing else in Manhattan within even $500 of our price range, we decided it might be best to try extending our search into the burroughs. We'd both heard good things about Queens so we called a few places in an up and coming neighborhood called Astoria. All but one were already rented so we agreed to go see it.

As I was hanging up the phone with Lucas—our future landlord, a fight was breaking out between two homeless men on a bench across from us. It went a little something like this:

"Hey fuck-face, where's my fucking Metrocards?" (Metrocards are what you use to access NYC's subway system.)

"I dunno. I ain't seen 'em"

"Don't fuckin' lie to me Roger, I know you been looking at 'em."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Go home." (To the shelter, I assume).

"I ain't goin' home without my fuckin' metrocards. They were hidden in my shoe, what did you do with 'em?"

"Your shoes? I threw them away."

"What the FUCK is wrong with you man? You threw my shoes away?"

"Yep."

"Where the fuck are they?"

"Gone."

Throwing up his hands and walking away, the angry man said matter of factly "You're gonna get shot." And left to retrieve his gun.

It was at this point that we covered our faces with the newspaper and started running down Avenue A towards Chinatown and the parked car.

When we got to the car it had been keyed and there was a $75 parking ticket on the windshield. Furious and terrified we set out to see the apartment in Astoria, Queens. 45 Minutes later when we still hadn't arrived in Astoria, we called the landlord to ask for directions.

"What do you see around you? Any landmark buildings?" He asked us.

"Nothing," I replied, "Just highway and hills."

"You must be in New Jersey. You went the wrong way on the tunnel, you gotta turn around, go back through Manhattan, and out the other side to Queens."

On the verge of tears, we turned around. 2 Hours after our expected arrival, we pulled up in front of the apartment building. It was nondescript and the apartment was on the first floor, which made me nervous in the city. We were let inside and were happy to find that both bedrooms were a decent size, along with a small but reasonable living room, kitchen, and bathroom. It all had nice woodwork, hardwood floors. and was freshly painted white. Wanting to be done with the search already after having only seen 2 apartments, we took it.

At $1,600 a month, we shelled out $4,800 for first, last, and security deposit. I'd never written a check for that much before. The instant his sausage fingers closed around it, I regretted the entire operation. We drove home, trying to be excited that we found an apartment and convince ourselves that we hadn't made a huge mistake.

The following week we packed up our meager belongings and drove our U-Haul to New York City during a snowstorm. With help from friends and family, it didn't take too long to get everything inside. They left right after the last box was in, trying to get home before the snow got worse and roads started to close. Leanne and I wandered around the apartment in a daze, stumbling around boxes and half-assembled furniture. It felt entirely like a dream. We'd try and look out the windows to confirm that we were in fact in our new home in the middle of New York City, but all we could see was white.

That evening, trying to focus on unpacking and getting settled, we started to see all the flaws in the apartment. My room faced a busy street and people could peer inside easily. Paranoid, I threw a blanket across the windows and unpacked in the dark because there was no overhead light or lightswitch. I rummaged through my boxes and pulled out a desk lamp for some light. I hunted around, tripping over boxes, searching the walls for an outlet—there was only one. One solitary outlet in my entire room. Walking out into the living room, I searched the walls—one outlet. The kitchen—one outlet. I walked into Leanne's room where she sat on the floor, crying quietly into a balled-up sweater.

"Whats wrong?" I asked, leaning down to hug her.

"There's no outlets. There's no closet. There's no stairs on the fire escape outside my window. This place is ridiculous. There's a window in the living room that faces a brick wall, and below there is just a pit. A dark, scary bottomless pit."

Things never really improved in the apartment. We had a fly infestation, a moth infestation, a roach infestation, an Asian Long-Horned beetle infestation, mice in our walls, and a sketchy-as-hell landlord who lived upstairs and would disappear for months at a time—sending thugs to bang on our door and collect our rent checks. We also figured out that there was a gaggle of 20-somethings living in the unfinished basement. It was unclear if they were squatting or if they were illegally renting the space, but they would come and go without speaking to either of us. The only way we'd even know if they were home is when we'd smell pot smoke wafting through our floor vents.

Through the Summer months, our apartment was so hot that we would stay locked in our bedrooms with our window air conditioners on—plugged into our solitary outlet—and sit in the dark. It was near impossible to sleep with the deafening city sounds after growing up in the country. Outside of Leanne's window facing away from the street, she had to put up with the constant barking of a pit bull, the shrill fighting of an unhappy couple, and the blasting latin music from a neighbor's boombox. At the front of the house, I got to hear the drunk people walking by my window and shouting, car horns, car alarms, ambulances, and sirens. Most of these nights we would stumble out of our rooms and into the living room, looking exhausted, sweaty, naked, and generally defeated. There we would sit on the couch together, watching reruns and late-night infomercials on basic cable from the television plugged into our single living room outlet.

When our lease was up, we moved into a different apartment in Long Island City, Queens. Our address was easy to remember—2548 44th st, 3R. Simple, right? This time not only did we get suckered into first and last month's rent plus security deposit, but we also had to pay a realtor's fee, making it a more expensive apartment than our last one even though the rent was a mere $1450/month. Again, the place seemed great at the time. 2 nice bedrooms, huge living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Because it was so full of the current tenant's junk when we looked at it, we didnt get to do a thorough inspection. It wasn't until we moved in that we went around counting electrical outlets—one in each bedroom again. None in the kitchen except what the fridge and stove were already plugged into. None in the bathroom.

Our first week there we heard the all too familiar sound of scratching between our bedroom walls, complete with wood shavings and mouse droppings everywhere. The apartment was on the 3rd floor of a 4-story walk-up, and the heat during the summer was unrelenting. If you left milk on the counter, it soured in minutes. We had a bag of potatoes in the cabinet that went bad within a week. Leanne reached up, pulled the top of the plastic bag off the shelf, and the bag swung downwards and back upwards at her face, spraying a trail of rotten potato juice all over her clothes and face. It was the color of bile. She vomited on the floor.

Some other highlights from this apartment include it being a 20-minute, agonizing walk to the nearest train or bus station, the landlord spoke no English, it was near a police station so we could hear every siren wailing as a police car raced by, and also near the La Guardia airport so we could hear every low-flying plane break the sound barrier. We broke our lease and moved back home after six months at the second apartment. We had both gone through about 10-15 jobs each, all of our cash, and all of our patience.

If you value any shred of solitude, quiet, savings, cleanliness, or courtesy from your fellow man, then this is not the city for you to live in. By all means, visit, but for the love of Pete, don't stay! And to those of you 8.3 million people from New York City, I'd tell you to go to hell, but you're already there.

Arena Registration

Every school has their own methods of signing up students for classes. Many are now conducted purely online from the comfort of your own home or dorm room—just point and click and you're all signed up for your next semester. A thing of beauty. In my days at Franklin Pierce College they opted for a different system: Arena Registration.

Arena Registration can best be described as an intellectual Holocaust. A hellish, maddening, senseless rite of passage that all students must endure each year. Hazing is forbidden at Franklin Pierce, yet Arena Registration is worse than any amount of fraternity punishment.

It starts out simple. You receive a package in your mailbox containing a letter that says when you're supposed to show up to the 'arena' (a gymnasium), and a booklet containing all the courses, numbers, professors, and schedules for the next semester's classes. All you need to do is show up, sign up, and you're done. A cake walk. 5, maybe 10 minutes and you'll be cruising out of there to enjoy your afternoon, class schedule in-hand. Hah! Dream on Freshman. The only way you leave Arena Registration is in a body bag or a straight jacket.

When you show up to your first Arena Registration at 8 a.m. you'll find a line snaking out of the building and circling the parking lot. You see sleeping bags, pillows, and coffee canisters littering the scene. Students who have already experienced this tragedy have learned to camp outside of the gym and be first in line come the morning. By 4 a.m. the line is already hundreds long. You will proceed to stand in this line for several hours without it moving. Only 200 students are allowed inside at a time, like some sort of exclusive, red-velvet rope nightclub. By noon you might actually make it to the entrance. An admissions officer with a clipboard will peruse the list for your name, give you a nametag, some papers, and a pencil. Now, you will finally be ushered inside.

On first glance, the scene before you can best be described as Ground Zero or the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Students are lined up at only 4 computer stations containing the class rosters. Other students are in line to mandatorily speak with a Financial Aid Officer. In another corner is a heap of students, sitting down, weeping and defeated. Tear-stained faces, shredded papers, trash, backpacks, and sleeping bags all blending together so it looks like an internment camp. Off to the side is a long table where many professors sit—their sole job to console students who can't get into their classes, or if they're lucky enough, to sign a permission slip and join an already full class. They are all drinking Irish coffee and mimosas. The sound of 20-year olds weeping, screaming, and running from line to line is defeaning as it echoes off the gym walls and floor. It sounds like you're in a front row mosh pit at a concert of misery.

Before you can begin sign ups, you must be cleared by the Bursar's Office and receive a stamp on your class sign-up sheet. No stamp, no classes. Period. So you will wait in this line just to be berated by the financial aid staff for not ponying up enough tuition. If you are seriously behind payment schedule, you will be sent out of Arena Registration to go wait in a separate line at the actual Financial Aid building. One in every 3 students leaves this line sobbing to trudge down to see the Bursar himself. We will never see these students again.

If you are lucky enough to get the financial stamp of approval on your sign-up sheet, you will move onto a fresh hell. Now you have to wait in line at one of the computers to check the availability of the classes you want to sign up for. Panic will start to rise as you see student after student in front of you leave the computer station in a rage, fists clenched, knuckles white, and sign-up sheets blank or smudged after being erased several times. You'll want to call out to them "What is it?! What's going on?! What can I expect when I get up there?! Please! Tell me something!" But they are dead men walking.

When you sit down at the computer station, you will start typing in all of the class titles that you want or need to take. You'll start with the general education classes first—the ones required to graduate. Your first searches look incredibly grim:

Environmental Science

FULL

College Writing I

FULL

Science of Society I

FULL

Data and Statistics

FULL

Okay, clearly all the general education classes you wanted to take are full. You'll move onto the classes that fall within your major. In my case it would look something like this:

Graphic Design I

FULL

Color Theory

FULL

Typography I

FULL

Periodical Publication

FULL

Designing for the Web

FULL

At this point you'll start to sweat. How can this be? Every class?

Desperate, you'll write down your original schedule and run over to the table of Professors to ask their permission to join their already full classes.

"Is there a Professor Rosebush here?" You'll announce to the table.

"I'm Professor Rosebush. Can I help you?" One of the tired, sad faces will reply.

"Can I join your full Typography class?"

"I'm afraid I've already signed up 2 additional students already. I don't have room for more. How about my papier-mâché class instead? There's plenty of room there."

"uhhh...no thanks. Is there a Professor Justice here?"

"No sorry, Justice left early."

"Can someone else here sign me into his Graphic Design class?"

"No, sorry. Only the course professor can do that."

WTF.

"Is there a Professor Cadence here?" You'll bark, trepidation taking over.

"I'm here" a tiny voice will reply from down the table.

"Can I join your Color Theory class? It's full and it's a required class for my major."

"Certainly. The more the merrier."

Finally. A ray of hope. Thank you Cadence. Thank you.

"Oh...wait...have you taken 'Graphic Design I' yet?" The Professor asks.

"No. I wanted to sign up for it, but, big surprise, it's full. The professor isn't here to sign me in."

"I'm afraid I can't sign you into my class either then. Graphic Design I is a prerequisite for this course."

oh....my...god...

Now is about the time you'll go join the heap of disheveled, disheartened students weeping in the corner. You'll try to regroup and come up with an alternative course schedule only to go back to the computer station and find them all full.

Rinse. Repeat. Weep.

Around 6 pm when they are about to close their doors, you will pull together some semblance of a schedule and leave—sweaty, battered, and angry. You will look over your schedule for the next year of your life and weep all the way back to your tiny dorm—your own little Trail of Tears.

Semester 1:
Papier-mâché
Intermediate Algebra I
Integrated Earth Science I
Reason and Romanticism
Remedial English Lit. II

Semester 2:
Basketweaving
Stained Glass
The History of History
German I
Women's Studies

Next year you will be one of the beggars camped outside the 'arena.' Until then, anytime a newcomer asks you when they should show up to Arena Registration, you will tell them it only takes a few minutes and to go around lunch time.

Welcome to hell.

To the Oblivious Bitch Across the Street

Dear Oblivious Bitch,

If your complete and utter obliviousness to those around you didn't cause me to lose sleep, it would actually be kind of funny.

This morning your dog woke me up at 6 a.m. with its shrill barking. I closed my window, turned on a loud fan, and tried to go back to sleep, desperate for more zzz's before the alarm was set to go off at 8. I got none. Your dog continued to bark incessantly for the next 2 hours. At 8 a.m., wide awake, I smashed my alarm off, ripped off my comforter, stomped out of bed and over to the window to see where this little hellhound was yapping from. Then I saw you on your front steps.

Sitting there, a cell phone in one hand and a leash connected to a min pin (miniature pinscher) in the other. What the hell is wrong with you?! You've been sitting on your apartment building steps for 2 hours talking on the phone while your shit-for-brains dog is barking into space? Who could you possibly be talking to for two hours at 6 a.m. outside? How can you possibly hear them over the banshee cries of your mutt? How can the person on the other line possibly hear you and tolerate it? Are they sitting on their stoop with a leashed up, rabid dog, infuriating all of their neighbors too? What a delightful little club you've started—the Stupid, Oblivious Bitches with Barking Bitches Club.

A middle-aged black woman, you are clearly old enough to grasp the concept of what you're doing. At any point in the past 2 hours you could have made your dog quiet down. I never once heard you yell at it. At any point you could have taken it inside and locked it up, put it in the dryer on high. At any point you yourself could have gone inside to finish your important conversation and taken your mutant offspring with you. At any point you could have gotten up and walked it down the street to the park not 2 blocks away—you know, the one not surrounded by sleeping people? You didn't. You took no action except sit there gabbing away, oblivious to anyone around you—including your dog. No better than a stupid teenager at the mall.

You left me no choice. I leashed up my own dog—an adopted 55 lb chow chow mix with a deep hatred for people of color (after a history of abuse), and headed out the door. We marched right over to your stoop and stood in front of it. Once your little yap-fiend saw my dog coming, he quieted right down. I stood above you, my dog tightly leashed at my side, but already starting to bark and snarl—as I myself would like to have done. Giving me a dirty look, you said your lengthy goodbyes to your friend and hung up the phone.

"You're a very rude boy," You said glaring at me. "I have every right to talk on the phone on my property. What's your problem? You don't know me. Get your dog away from me. He's mean."

"Hold on a second." I said flatly, and took out my cell phone.

I pretended to make a phone call while my dog continued his menacing barking and gutteral growls at you. You continued spewing nasty comments my way, but I just kept loosening my hold on the leash. My dog was slowly edging closer to you.

"Stop it right now!" You hollered, getting up and backing up a step. I slackened the leash. Closer he got.

"I mean it! Stop it right now before I call the cops!"

Closer.

"Get the hell away from me!"

Closer.

"Asshole!"

Closer

"Fuck you and your dog! You don't scare me!"

I let go of the leash.

"Ahhhh!" You cried and ran inside with Precious, slamming the door behind you.

With my foot on top of my dog's leash, he was secured the whole time. Next time, it won't be.

Volunteer Fire Fighters

What I remember most about my college experience at Franklin Pierce College is not the classes, friendships, professors, or graduation. It is the campus Volunteer Fire Fighters Club. What could possibly be the reason for this? I'm glad you asked. Two vivid memories stick out among the many.

When I was a sophomore I got screwed and was forced into the Freshman dorms. Not only are they co-ed, small (12' x 10' for 2 people), old, dirty, and dilapidated, but they also had the added bonus of housing the campus fire truck in the basement. At any given time of day or night, a fire truck engine could be heard roaring to life and a siren start to wail directly beneath the dorm. It was utterly deafening. The sound would reverberate though the hallways and creep into our tiny rooms and echo so loudly that we all but had to evacuate until the fire truck pulled out of the basement garage.

If it all possible, the fire truck was in even worse shape than the dormitory that housed it. Circa 1930—it had original parts. Boxy, clunky, and faded red, a replacement step ladder strapped to the top, old hoses, rusty brass and nickle handle bars for riding on the side, and gold lettering that used to read FIRE DEPARTMENT before mostly succumbing to old age—now all that remains is FIR MENT. I used to marvel at this antiquity when in the basement doing my laundry right next to this behemoth. Dodging its falling down parts and sharp bits sticking out—like some twisted coral reef. It even has a distinct smell. Something akin to mustard and diesel fuel. If there was ever a fire emergency you didn't even need the siren of the fire truck to announce its immenent arrival, you could simply smell the noxious exhaust fumes pouring out of its economy sized tailpipe or see the black cloud that followed it.

Franklin Pierce is a small school, housing roughly 1,500 students total. How could there possibly be enough fires to merit a Volunteer Fire Department on campus? Simple. Most of the fire emergencies were caused by the Fire Department.

The first time I had the pleasure of witnessing the utter ineptitude of the Fire Club, was in the dead of Winter in 2002. New Hampshire winters are brutal. One January morning as my roommate and I were sound asleep we were awakened by the building's fire alarm. At first we thought it was the fire truck's siren, but this shrill was coming from the hallway accompanied by flashing lights. In our pajamas we went out into the hallway to see all the groggy, confused Freshmen stumbling out of their rooms. Unsure if it was a prank, we lingered in the hallway in a daze until over a bull-horn we heard one of the student Fire Fighters yell THIS IS NOT A DRILL. EXIT THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. THERE IS A FIRE IN THE BASEMENT. REMAIN CALM.

We all quickly ran down the 4 flights of stairs and out into the courtyard a safe distance from the building. A dark Winter's night with only some dim street lights on, we could just make out thick, dark smoke pouring out of the basement windows from the laundry room.

Several more Fire Fighters arrived on the scene and were conferring on their next steps. RA's were taking roll call for their floors to make sure no students were missing. Everyone was starting to panic about all the stuff they had left in their dorm rooms to burn. I had nothing of value and I was freezing to the bone, so I started walking way from the courtyard and towards the next building, hoping to take warm solace in the lobby.

Halfway to the next building I looked back as I heard one of the firefighters start calling out orders to attach a hose to the fire hydrant in front of the dorm. Under the circumstances I was impressed with how quickly and calmly they were working. I could see a hose being set up and the loud clank of a wrench being used on a rusty hydrant. This is actually kinda cool. I thought. I've never seen a big fire being put out in person. I continued into the lobby of the neighboring building. Warmth flooded over me and I had a fantastic view of the unfolding scene. Off to the side, I could see the smokey building, the fire fighters directly infront of it finishing up the hose attachment, and the sea of Freshmen a safe 20 yards behind them watching intently.

The scene that unfolded will stay with me long into senility. A Fire Fighter holding the nozzle of the hose shouted OPEN IT UP and they let loose the hydrant valve. A tidal wave of unabated water flooded out of the open fire hydrant—directly into the crowd of shivering students. The blast was so strong that it knocked several unsuspecting kids right off their feet. Most were screaming and running away in their soaked pajamas, underwear, and slippers. No water was flowing out of the fire hose. I couldn't help laughing as I watched my building going up in smoke, a sea of half-naked students being sprayed with icy water, and a band of Fire Fighters now starting to argue over what to do next.

Eventually the actual city Fire Department was called in to rescue the scene. It was discovered that there was no fire at all. Somebody had left the old fire truck in the basement running all night and the fumes finally erupted out of a cracked window. The building had to be treated for carbon monoxide disposal and many of the students for hypothermia. It still brings a smile to my face thinking about it.

The other major fire emergency that comes to mind was in my junior year, while living in a much nicer building where all the apartments had 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and 2 bathrooms for 4 students. I lived with other gay boys and metrosexuals so our apartments was kept pretty clean. Across the hall however were some slovenly girls. Whenever their door was opened I could see the beer cans, ashtrays, and trash littering their living room floor as well as their mountain of dishes piled in the sink.

One day the smoke alarm in their kitchen started to go off. I went out into the hallway between our apartments and knocked on their door. A disheveled girl answered and apologized for the alarm—that there was no need to worry, she was just cooking something on the stove top and it was getting smokey. I said it was no problem at all and returned to my apartment.

A couple minutes later I returned and knocked on her door after the alarm was still sounding. She opened it to reveal a small fire erupting from a frying pan on the stove top.

"I don't know whats happening. I was just making stir fry and the pan's on fire!" She shouted over the alarm.

As if hearing her distress call, a volunteer Fire Fighter charged through the hallway looking for the source of the alarm which he had been notified of. He brushed past us into the kitchen, took one look at the situation and began immediate action. First he turned the gas stove top off. Then he removed the flaming, slowly-melting pan from the burner and put it into the sink area. The sink was so totally full of dishes that there was no room for it to actually fit under the faucet. Instead he reach around the dirty dish pile, turned the water on, and grabbed the extendable faucet hose intending to spray down the flames.

At this point I interjected with "I don't think you're supposed to use water on a grease fire!" But I don't think I was heard over the sounding alarm.

He sprayed the pan and the flames exploded upward to ignite the particle board cabinetry above the sink. Quickly it began spreading into a formiddable blaze.

"SHIT!" He screamed and ordered us to evacuate while he called for help on his walkie talkie.

The building was evacuated and we all watched from outside as the girls' apartment went up like tinder. I'm sure all of the booze lying around the kitchen and living room didn't help matters any. Again, the city Fire Department was called in to the rescue. Aside from a blackened kitchen and living room, the apartment was otherwise untouched and nobody was harmed.

The fire extinguisher located in their living room was also unharmed. Thank goodness.

Letter to Dole

Dear Dole,

I must say I am disappointed.

I used to feel nothing but confidence when eating your fruit products. Now, I am racked with doubt. My faith in you has been shaken to its apple core. What's happened to my adoration of you? Don't play dumb, you know what you did. No? Fine, let me explain.

The other morning, I was devouring one of your prepackaged fruit products for breakfast. I love fruit, and I loved Dole. Your products always tasted fresh and sweet—from your bananas down right down to your tiny, adorable cans of pineapple juice. I mean seriously, how cute are those things? Even without the vodka I put in mine, they taste pretty good. I like your bright packaging, your affordability, and even your logo—"Dole" spelled out with a sunburst coming out of the "o". Simple, cute, organic, and best of all—an American company. One of those precious few American companies I can feel good about buying products from. It's not that I feel American products are superior to imports—I simply like to support American businesses, workers, and prevent unnecessary wasted resources in shipping something that can be made locally.

While eating my Dole "Diced Apples in light syrup" I was reading the packaging. To my horror, I discovered the sad truth to your little fly-by-night operation. "APPLES FROM CHINA" caught my eye first. Then "Packed in Thailand." Followed by "Manufactured by Dole Packaged Foods, LLC. Westlake Village, CA."

Let me see if I understand you Dole—it takes 3 countries to produce diced apples in light syrup? Are Chinese apples somehow superior to those found all across America? Do the Thai people have an unrivaled knack for packing Chinese apples? And then what exactly happens in California if the apples have already been picked, packed, and shipped? What does "manufactured" mean? You pour some sugar water into the container and call it "light syrup" then ship it off to grocery stores? I could understand all this shipping rigamarole if we were talking about a tropical fruit not native to the U.S., but we're talking about apples. I live in Massachusetts—birthplace of Johnny Appleseed. He would roll in his grave if he knew you were importing foreign apples. That is, If he has a grave? He may have been cremated...or killed. How DID Johnny Appleseed die? Oh well, it doesn't matter, in any event I'm sure he'd be furious. Now where was I...? Oh, right, your faulty, underhanded business dealings.

I continued to read the product packaging and saw the green text box containing "For more than 100 years, Dole has been committed to our environment, our employees and the communities in which we operate. To learn how, please visit www.dole.com." And so I did.

Far from redeeming yourselves, you maddened me further. The first attempt to visit dole.com crashed my computer after trying to load your site's layers of php, javascript, actionscript, and who knows what else—perhaps a virus? Some spyware? The second time your website opened only to reveal a crazy-looking, irritating, talking woman holding a colander full of strawberries (no doubt  picked from Abu Dhabi, shipped from Turkey, manufactured in southern California, then shipped by airmail to northern California to your studio) and sipping on a strawberry smoothie (courtesy of Australia). I perused the entirety of your website. You certainly give yourselves a big pat on the back for how environmentally friendly and socially responsible you are. Page after page of praising your renewable farming practices, fair treatment of overseas employees, and giving back to your community. Which community are you giving back to exactly? The community that does the picking, the packing, the purchasing, the shipping, or the manufacturing?

Mayhaps you are the world's best company as your website claims—but you've made me a skeptic. How can I possibly eat the fruit of a company I can't trust? A bitter harvest indeed. There are other fish in sea, Dole. I'm sure Del Monte or Chiquita would be glad to have me. How do you like them apples?

Bad Michael

I spent most of my childhood naked.

Not for the typical reasons like those of other children who could just rip off their Sesame Street clothes and run around in the buff simply because they can get away with it—they are young and cute. I, however, was an unfortunate looking child. I was also mostly nude until the age of 4—far past the cute, naked cut-off. It didn't help that I was also awkward, painfully shy, a momma's boy, and was always sporting rainbow stickers, bracelets, and necklaces (my "pretties" I called them.)

My brother Brett, older than me by 2 years, was quite the opposite. Adorable kid, outgoing, confident, and with lots of friends. But, I guess he didn't have quite enough friends to suit him, so he invented one more—Bad Michael. Bad Michael started out fairly innocent. My parents would discover Brett alone in his room with a box of crayons dumped out onto the floor.

"Brett, pick up your mess and wash your hands for dinner," they'd say.

"But it's not my mess...it's Bad Michael's." And so it began.

This new development of my brother's was amusing and only mildly concerning at first. Lots of kids have imaginary friends—his just happened to be evil.

Well, the scapegoating of Bad Michael continued to grow, rather than dissipate as my parents had hoped. We had two geese in an enclosed pond in our backyard—Myra and Ira. I hated them. They scared me with their loud honking and they were very territorial of their little pen. Bad Michael caught wind of my fear and enjoyed locking me in their pen with them. Inside the house my parents couldn't hear my sobs of distress. Myra and Ira didn't like my intrusions and would chase me around the pond, honking at me and goosing my behind. To hurry things along, Bad Michael would have a handful of bread crumbs at the ready, to douse me with and work the geese up into a frenzy. They loved bread and if mauling a small child was the only way to get it—so be it. To further reward them for their attacks, Bad Michael would feed them some more bread by hand after they had sufficiently gored me.

Brett would lead me back inside the house to present to my parents, sniffling and sobbing. "The geese don't like Josh," Brett would say.

"What happened?! How did he get in?!" they'd demand.

"Bad Michael shut him in."

Now, I don't know what it was like to be a busy parent in the early 80's—whether imaginary friends were considered healthy or something to be stopped immediately, but my parents had already had enough nonsense and decided to tell it to my brother straight.

"Bad Michael isn't real," they said gently.

"He IS real! HE'S REAL!" Brett shouted, and proceeded to throw a tantrum the likes of which had never been seen in our house before.

My parents were taken aback. I was usually the cry-baby, not Brett. He hadn't cried much since he was an infant. It was too much to take and so they back-peddled.

"Well...maybe he is real...but maybe he could be Good Michael instead?" they encouraged.

With sobs fading, "I'll ask him about it."

Despite my brother's pleading with him, Bad Michael continued to be bad. Like Picasso's Blue Period, so began my Nude Period. Bad Michael developed a fondness for tearing my clothes off in the most public of places. As soon as my parents' backs were turned, my clothes came off. And as soon as my clothes came off, I'd go running off—primarily to get away from my psychotic brother. I was also a sucker for anything shiny—my brother merely had to point to something with sparkles and off I'd go in hot pursuit. My bare ass was seen running through malls, parking lots, grocery stores, restaurants, nursing homes, and down any given sidewalk of our small town. The locals began to know me as "the naked kid." My parents were, of course, horrified. At pretty much every family outing, an announcement would be heard over the store PA system or intercom, "Would the owner of a naked boy please come to customer service?" My brother would just topple over with laughter every time.

Some of the more embarrassing moments involved the police. On one of my Bad Michael-induced runs down our busy street, a squad car pulled over and apprehended me. Word had gotten around about "the naked kid" by then, and so they knew exactly where to deliver me. The sight of their 3-year old being delivered to their doorstep naked by the police was enough to make my parents snap. They doled out all sorts of punishments to my poor innocent brother as the unsuspecting emissary of Bad Michael. Spankings were administered, toys were taken away, the television was shut off, friends were exiled, and he was locked in his room for hours. I think this only had the adverse effect of giving him more time to plot with his new demonic playmate.

The first family road trip we had since Bad Michael's inception ended in tears all around. I don't even remember the destination, but I know it was supposed to be somewhere fun—like Story Land or Six Flags. This was long before the days of cell phones or GPS devices. We had a giant fold-out map of New England's major roads and that was it. Bless his heart, my father is a terrible driver. He doesn't pay attention to the road, signs, other cars, what lane he's in, or anything else besides NPR on the radio.

Of course halfway through our trip we were lost on the wrong highway and weren't even sure what state we were in. Suspecting something was amiss, my mother ordered my father to pull over so she could look at the map. As we were pulling over into the breakdown lane, Bad Michael snatched the road map from the backseat compartment and tossed it out the open window. Off it fluttered into a swamp. My parents charged out of the car after it, not realizing how wet and muddy the ground on the roadside was. Seizing his opportunity, Bad Michael undid my seatbelt, tore off my clothes, and shoved me outside onto the highway.

Down the highway I ran, not a care in the world. Shiny cars flew by me, swerving around me and honking like the geese I was so familiar with. I'm not sure what honking at a toddler is supposed to accomplish but it did at least alert my parents who turned around to see me jetting down I-95 with no clothes on. Abandoning their pursuit of the map, they chased me down the interstate, screaming and covered in mud. What onlookers of this family affair must have thought, I can't imagine. Probably, thank God that's not us. When we were safely back in the car and my parents caught their breath, the classic threat actually came to life—they did in fact turn the car around and drive home.

Therapy wasn't as mainstream in the mid 80s as it is today. I don't think it occurred to my parents to seek counseling for the Bad Michael dilemma. Time continued to pass and more stress was put on the family. Bad Michael began issuing demands.

"From now on, Bad Michael's not gonna eat anything unless its the right color," Brett declared one morning. "Today he wants everything green and says I can't eat stuff thats not the right color either."

"Fine," countered Mom, "Don't eat."

And he didn't. He didn't eat for three days until my parents caved in. We can't let him starve, and what's the harm in it really? We'll put food coloring in everything. 


So Bad Michael won again. The entire family had to suffer through red eggs, orange oatmeal, purple toast, yellow meatloaf, and pink potatoes. And, we had to wash it all down with blue milk. We went through food coloring like it was Easter year-round. We also went through babysitters at an unusually high rate. Kim, Stephanie, Mrs. Robins, Loise, and Andrea all lasted no longer than a few days each. Eventually our grandmother was the only one who would agree to watch us when my parents needed a break. Remarkably, Bad Michael never introduced himself to her. I think what finally made Bad Michael disappear was Santa Claus.

"You know Brett, Santa doesn't leave toys for bad boys and girls," Grandma would say from her rocking chair.

"I know Gramma, thats why I've been good this year," He'd say sweetly.

"But I hear you are friends with a bad boy—Bad Michael is it? Well I don't think Santa would be very happy to hear that, would you? I would stop playing with anyone who was naughty before I got a lump of coal in my stocking," she would whisper to him.

Bad Michael kept reappearing for the rest of the year, leading me into the woods naked and leaving me there to come home covered in bug bites and poison ivy, feeding nuts and bolts to the geese, riding his bike in the house, and only eating Dr. Seuss-like food.

On Christmas morning that year, when we ran out to the living room at 5:30 a.m. to check under the tree, Brett had nothing on his side, and my side was full of little trinkets and toys. He checked his stocking to find only a single lump of charcoal, where mine was filled with candy and scratch tickets—my favorite.

Bad Michael was gone before New Years. He vanished as quickly as he had appeared. My brother got his Christmas gifts after all, and we went back to our normal fighting—with no help from his imagination. I can't possibly tell you how good it felt to have Brett punch me in the face instead of Bad Michael. Everything was right with the world again.

To this day, Brett denies the existence of Bad Michael, but we know the truth. Of course, it's best not to press the subject too hard—you never know who is lurking behind those hazel eyes.

Dear Airline Industry

Dear Airline Industry,

You've got it all wrong. Let me fix it for you. Please enact my suggestions below:

1. First of all, I understand that Mr. and Mrs. Moniesworthington in first class need to board the plane first and not with the rest of us peasants, but why put them at the front of the plane? First class should be in the back of the plane. It's quieter, and out of the way of everyone else trying to board after them. Then, after Buffy and Muffy have their cosmo-tinis and are settled into their leather recliners with headphones and hot towels, board the rest of the plane from the back to the front. Do you see how that works? So that as people are boarding, there aren't people blocking them in the aisle, struggling to fit their 49.5 lb bags into an oversmall overhead bin because we are all trying to avoid your inane baggage fees, which brings us to point 2.
2. $25 per bag? Really? That's the best you could come up with to offset your Federal Defecit-like budget? $2 for peanuts? $5 for an old, smooshed pb&j sandwich? What spawn of imbreeding came up with your fiscal plan? Here's some pointers on charging fees.
• Sell drugs on the plane. Do you know how uncomfortable it is to fly? Of course you do. Sell us some vicodin for God's sakes. Lace it with percocet and xanax. Children's sizes too. Have us  passed out, mellowed out, and drugged out all the way to L.A. Your flight attendants will thank you for it.
• Sell Sleeping Kits. I would happily give you $5 for a REAL pillow, blanket, and earplugs. When I say real, I mean a blanket that isn't the standard issue  2' x 2' sandpaper tarp handed out at homeless shelters. And when I say real pillow I mean a standard size pillow, stuffed with soft material, not the ipod sized 'pillow' stuffed with mothballs and covered with a hospital gown that you're so fond of doling out. Lastly, non-recycled earplugs to block out little Bethany's tantrum after she drops her juice box and wants the whole plane to know that life isn't fair.
• Show good movies. Wild Hogs? Bridge to Terabithia? Ice Castles? Are you serious? Show something that wasn't made in Disney's sub-basement. Something not cramming family values down our throats. You're wasting your time. Most of us are drunk, high, plotting ways to brutally murder the child kicking our seat behind us, or in the midst of the mile high club to make the flight tolerable. How about something by Mel Brooks? Or something akin to Waiting for Guffman? What's wrong with Saw V? Some quality porn? No need for the kinky stuff since kids are around. Just an assortment of Debbie Does Dallas, Debbie Does Debbie, and Donnie Does Donnie. Personal lubricant anyone? Cha-ching!
3. Why in the name of all that is holy do you overbook for your flights? So that you can overcrowd the gate area with 50 people on standby and make us listen to repeated announcements asking us to give up our seats for a box of Cracker Jacks and some good karma? Get bent. There is nothing you could offer me that will make me stay in your hellish airport any longer than I have to. Maybe if the seats were comfortable, the price of everything wasn't exhorbitant, and there were some stores and restaurants of any interest. Another detriment is lugging suitcases and bags anywhere you go. Do you know how hard it is to use a urinal with a bag over your shoulder and holding onto a suitcase? Or cramming it all into a bathroom stall?
4. Those beeping golf carts full of old people in the airports have got to go. They are a menace. At least give them their own lane instead of plowing through pedestrians like some sick game of Red Rover.
5. There seems to be a problem with ground traffic. Instead of sitting on the runway for 30 minutes, maybe you should think about adding a 2nd runway.
6. What is this "Don't worry folks, despite our late departure we can 'make up time in the air'" business? If you can go faster, just go fast to start with! What could possibly be the reason for going slower in the air? Trying to sell an extra lunch box or two? Do you enjoy torturing your customers? Because that's what air travel is. It's dry, stuffy, cramped, loud, ear-popping, the temperature is never quite right, and it's impossible to sleep. I think that instead of having prisons, we should keep criminals on planes. They'll be out of the way, and constantly punished. There's nothing to do in a plane but think about what you've done. They can't smoke, recline, sleep, use electronic devices, have anything sharp or over 3 fluid ounces, or eat anything that wasn't made by Quaker, Kraft, or Capri-Sun. Prisoner not behaving? Throw them into the cargo bin below the plane. Prisoner wants something to read? Sky Mall Magazine. Prisoner feeling ill? Children's aspirin and a vomit bag. Prison break? Nowhere to go at 30,000 feet—bon voyage!

So, in closing, if you would simply sell prescription drugs on the plane, sleep-aids, adult entertainment, rent your planes to the Incarceration Industry, and improve every facet of your day to day operations, you just might stay in business.

Sincerely,

A recent passenger who managed to get through TSA with a bottle of mace on his keychain but had his snowglobe confiscated.

To the neighbors downstairs

Dear downstairs neighbors,

Did you enjoy my little show? Clearly you did because none of you will let me forget it. Every time I step out onto my porch and one of you is outside, I can see you chuckle. Well, I'd like the opportunity to explain my side of the events that took place that day. Here goes:

That morning before work I noticed several house flies in my kitchen. Harmless enough, they were buzzing around my screen door which opens out onto the porch—the very porch that overlooks your yard. There is a small hole in the screen and they must have flown in pursuing leftovers from last night. I tidied the kitchen up, swatted the flies I could see with a magazine, and went on my way to work.

It was a very hot, humid, July day. Walking home from the train station that evening, I worked up quite a sweat. After I got in the door, I went straight for the refrigerator to get a can of soda. Popping the can, I began to guzzle it down standing right in front of the fridge. Savoring the sweet chemical taste of my diet cherry Pepsi, it wasn't until I was almost finished with the can that I heard it. The sound of...a swarm of bees. A sound you might hear on National Geographic or on a horror film after the hero discovers a basement full of fly-ridden cadavers. Not a sound that should be in my kitchen. Slowly...so slowly...I turned around to face the rest of the room.

To my complete horror, hundreds of flies were amassed around every light source in the room—the screen door, the window screen, and the overhead light. Swarming, teeming, buzzing, big, fat, hairy house flies had completely taken over my kitchen. I dropped my soda on the floor, ran down the hallway to my room, and slammed the door behind me. In a panic I whipped out my cell phone and made a desperate call to my landlord. Voicemail. I left my Korean landlord who barely speaks english a 5 minute message about the state of my kitchen—comparing it to the Amityville Horror in between stifled sobs and sniffles. I doubted if he would understand one in 10 words.

Trapped in my bedroom, I had to come up with a course of action. I refused to be quarantined. There was still dinner to be had. Alas, I had nothing to kill them with. Running around with a magazine swatting solitary flies simply wouldn't do. What if they gang up and attack me at once? I'd be completely overwhelmed. I pictured a cloud of flies swarming all over me, touching me with their hairy, prickly feet that had no doubt been sitting in dog shit the day before. I'd heard that when a house fly lands on a surface they immediately vomit...something about emptying their stomach contents to discern if something is edible or not. I don't know. Maybe it's true. Maybe its not. All I know is that I was not about to get ralphed on by hundreds of flies. I had to get them out of the house. I had to open the kitchen window and porch door and set them all free. But, I had to do it without them all touching me.

So, I did what any sane person would have done. I donned the comforter off of my bed, wrapped it tightly around myself in the middle of July, put on a pair of slippers and winter gloves, and prepared for battle. Ingenious. Feeling my way back out the bedroom door and down the hallway was easy. As I got closer, the humming got louder. My knees started to wobble, but I would not be deterred. I continued creeping towards the kitchen.

Window first. I steeled myself and edged towards the window sill. Gloved hands felt their way to the window screen. The buzzing and humming was so loud...I can still hear it today. Blindly I searched for the two push buttons that would unlock the screen and allow me to push it upwards. My thick winter gloves were detrimental to my dexterity. For what seemed like hours I fumbled with the screen. Oh God. I can't do this in gloves. Panic started to rise. I'll just have to open the screen door instead. Abandoning the window, I felt my way towards the screen door. Flies continued to dive bomb my head through the blanket. It felt like heavy rain drops. Suddenly my feet felt wet through my slippers. Jesus Christ what's wet? What could possibly be wet? Did flies get through a hole in my slippers? Is it fly guts? Are they vomiting all over my feet? Trepidation took over and I just bolted towards the screen door. All caution was abandoned entirely.

Out the door I burst with a huge bang, spilling out onto the porch wrapped in a disheveled blanket, gloves, and slippers. A horde of flies followed me, some escaping into the sky, some tangled in my blanket alongside me. I could feel them all over, making skin contact, and started shrieking, flailing, and weeping. Struggling for several minutes I threw my gloves off and kicked the fly-ridden blanket to the porch floor. Then I saw it.

Imagine my surprise to see you were having a family cook-out in your backyard. Parents, grandparents, children, and even your little dog Rusty were all staring up at me. Silent. Mouths agape. The only sound was my heavy breathing. The children were the first to laugh. Then you laughed. Then your parents laughed. Rusty seemed to howl with delight.

With quiet calm and dignity I picked up my belongings and retreated back inside. I proceeded to scrub my entire apartment floor to ceiling with bleach, including the spilled soda all over the floor (which was not in fact fly guts or vomit). Sure, all trace of flies would be gone, but the laughter and embarrassment remained.

Late into the night I scrubbed and cleaned. Around 11:00 I flopped into bed, exhausted and hoping that tomorrow this would all seem like a bad dream. At midnight my landlord showed up.

The next morning when I took a cup of tea outside onto my porch and started watering some potted plants, your children ran outside and started playing tag. When they saw me up above they immediately stopped and started wiggling and dancing around in circles, all the while shrieking and laughing. Indignant, I took my tea inside.

Days have gone by and both you and your children continue to mock me. If you were being savaged by flies, I think you would have had the same reaction, no? I just want to use my porch in peace and put this ugliness behind me.

The other day when I had a friend over, we sat outside for a bit. Then your kids came running out playing Captain Hook. Once again, as soon as they spotted me they stopped what they were doing and started flailing around and screaming again.

"What's wrong with them?" Asks my friend.

"Turrets." I reply, and usher him back inside.

So, as you can see, there is a perfectly good explanation why your crazy neighbor was out on his porch in a blanket and winter garb fighting with phantoms in July. If you continue to mock me in my own backyard...well...let's just say I know where you live. Pass the message onto your little darlings.

108 Bus

To the MBTA #108 bus driver,

You did more than simply whizz past me this morning as I was waiting at the bus stop—you started a war.

I could perhaps let it slide if you didn't see me standing there in the sweltering heat, melting on the sidewalk infront of you. But, you did see me. I saw you. I saw you see me. I saw your brain fail and decide to proceed ahead, directly to a red light. You didn't think I'd chase you to the intersection, did you? Hah! These chubby legs can fly when motivated, can't they? I was banging on your door before you could say 'soap' you filthy derelict.

Very clever of you to again pretend not to see me, banging and howling at your bus door. You countered this by donning a pair of headphones. Is that even legal while driving a bus? I don't know, but you damn well better be sure that I'm going to find out! A solid 30-seconds I must have been clawing at your door like a rabid spider monkey. You're damn lucky the light turned green and you were able to escape my fists of fury before I started throwing feces at your precious air-conditioned bus, you malcontent.

But ho! Another unexpected turn of events! A gaggle of elementery schoolers crossing infront of you, accompanied by an elderly, chain-smoking crossing guard! I didn't miss a beat before sprinting down the street after you. A starving greyhound with a porterhouse in sight. I saw you looking in your bulbous side-view mirrors at me. You thought I was coming to huff and puff at your door again, didn't you little pig?! Hah! With the cunning of a dolphin I sailed past your vagrant bus and all of its onlookers. I made it to the next crowded bus stop before you even arrived. Didn't count on that, did you? Stop and pick me up along with 10 other people, or leave us ALL behind. I could see the fear in your eyes as you screeched to a halt at the bus stop and saw me in the crowd.

I climbed aboard, chin held high, staring daggers down at your hateful, defeated face. Drinking in every detail of you, from your thinning hair to the coldsore on your lower lip. I took my sweet time swiping my Charlie Card across the scanner. Just look at you grumbling and shaking your head. My, how the mighty hath fallen. I've stormed your castle, boarded your ship, taken your virgin daughter to the prom, and there's nothing you can do about it. Sure, there may be other people on this bus, but really it's just you and me now. You, the captive, and I, the captor. You have to sit there and drive me all the way to the train station. My private chauffeur. My little pet. How does it feel? I bet you wish you'd stopped at the previously designated bus stop when you saw me standing there—sweating like a fetal pig—don't you? Oh look, you're the one starting to sweat now. I can see it on your untamed brow.

Maybe I won't get off at the train station. Maybe I'll just sit here for a while, right behind you, as you drive the same route all day. Keep you company. Continuously hit the 'Stop Request' button and make sure you stop at every god forsaken stop along your route. But no, that won't be necessary. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other.

Sweet dreams Kevin. I'll see you in the morning. 8:42am sharp.

New Years Resolutions

1. Blog more
2. Eat less
3. Exercise more
4. Talk louder
5. Mingle more
6. Hibernate less
7. Travel more
8. Make more
9. Spend less
10. Finish writing my silly book