Sans Tact

South Carolina

2012-02-15T09:01:00.000-08:00

The first time I went to South Carolina was at age 14. I went with my parents and my older brother Brett, who applied to the University of South Carolina.

Brett wanted to visit the campus before making his final undergraduate decision. Of course, the only reason he applied to USC in the first place was because that's where his online girlfriend—whom he'd never met—resided.

Okay.

I didn't want to go, but I wasn't trusted to stay home by myself for 5 days.

Okay.

We weren't exactly flush with cash for 4 plane tickets to Columbia, so we planned to drive the 950 miles from Massachusetts to South Carolina.

Okay.

We were going to do it in the most reliable car we owned—a 1987, 2-door Chevy Cavalier with 125,000 miles on it—still with the original clutch.

Okay.

My father opened up a 16-panel map of the United States and plotted a course. It included an overnight stay at what he believed was a good midway point—Richmond, VA.

Okay.

A month later it was time for our trip. It was Saturday morning. Brett's tour and orientation of the campus was on Monday. My mother packed a cooler of drinks, ice, and snacks and put it in the backseat between me and Brett. She had a stack of trashy romance novels at the ready to read while my father drove. My brother had a stash of science fiction books. I had a book of Mad Libs, some comics, and a Gameboy with back-up batteries. My father had several books on tape so he wouldn't feel left out. We were perfectly content ignoring each other until we got to Southern Connecticut.

I-95 is a fickle beast. It's the most direct route between the Northeast and Southeast but is guaranteed to make you cry at any given time. Just outside of New Haven, CT we were at a stand still.

"Dad. Can you put the air conditioning on? It's June and we're parked on the highway. Windows down ain't cutting it." I pleaded.

"Do you know what running the air conditioner in traffic does to your miles per gallon? Just drink some water. You'll be fine."

"But I already have to pee. I can't drink any more water!"

"There's nothing I can do right now. We're not moving. Just wait until we get into New York." He said as calmly as he could, but I could see him gripping the wheel in frustration.

"Josh, just go in one of the empty water bottles if you have to." My mother said into her book.

"I'm not peeing infront of my family in the backseat of a Chevy on I-95!" I wailed.

"You better not fucking pee back here." Brett barked at me.

"Alright. Shut up both of you. Just go back to reading and get your minds off traffic and piss." My Mother ordered.

Three hours passed before we crossed the border into New York. I think my father realized the gravity of the urine situation when I was tapping my feet so hard against his seat that he was getting sea sick. He took the next exit we could crawl to and stopped at the first gas station. He fueled up, and we all fueled down. Rather than getting back on the highway, Dad decided it would be faster if we took back roads following the highway and got back on it later. When we ended up in the Bronx Housing Projects, he thought better of it and got back onto the I-95 parking lot.

By the time we got into New Jersey, it was already midnight. We were easily 5 hours behind schedule and everyone wanted to stop for the night. My father took the next exit off the highway intending to find a reasonable motel. The sign read "Welcome to Passaic, New Jersey" but it should have read "Welcome to Thieving Crackwhoreville."

The first motel we spotted had no vacancy, which is just as well since there appeared to be a body floating in the pool. At the second motel, my father was greeted by a man jerking off to a porn flick at the reception desk. At the third motel, we got the keys to our room and kindly stepped over the passed out, drunken hooker slumped across the doorway. My mother slid her across the walkway, then shut and bolted the door behind us. The room was awful. It smelled like cigarettes, sex, and urine.

"This costs a hundred bucks a night?" My father asked incredulously.

"We're all exhausted and there's no more hotels. Let's just deal with it tonight and get the hell out of--" My mother started to say as she pulled back the comforter on one of the beds.

It was clear the sheets used to be white, but had faded into a dingy, egg yoke yellow. Complementing that were the dotted blood stains throughout. My mother backed away from the bed and herded us towards the door.

"Come on. We're not staying here. There's bedbugs and God only knows what else in this room."

We stepped back over the passed-out prostitute and got back into the car. My mother took the driver's seat this time as my dad was just too tired to keep going. Brett and I tried to get some sleep in the backseat, but my mother didn't know how to drive the stick-shift Chevy, so we would be jerked awake by cars honking at us as we lurched forward and stalled out. Then my mother's cascade of cursing would follow.

When we crossed over the state line into Virginia, it was 5:00 a.m. and my mother couldn't drive anymore. She took the next exit and found the first hotel. We shambled into the lobby of a Super 8 Motel and asked for a room. The night clerk informed us that check-out was in five hours and were we sure we wanted to stay? My mother assured him that yes, we did want to stay, and that if we were woken up before noon, he would regret being born.

We woke up too late for any sort of breakfast and too early for any sort of lunch, so we just got in the car and drove the rest of the way stopping once at a Dairy Queen to make sure everyone had indigestion for the rest of the trip. Accomplishing that, we arrived in Columbia, SC at our Howard Johnson's hotel at 10 pm. Again, it was too late for dinner anywhere except at the local Bojangle's Chicken Shack—always a great idea to eat heavy right before bed and when you have to get up early and tour a large campus. We all slept miserably and raced for the toilet as soon as we got up. I've never been so close to leaving a deuce in the corner of a hotel room.

When we piled back into the car and headed towards the campus, I asked if my parents would drop me off at a mall or something. I really didn't want to walk around a campus I didn't care about and I didn't want to be far from a toilet. They said they would drop me off somewhere on the way if it looked safe.

As luck would have it, we pulled up to a red light and there on the corner was a video arcade! "Family Fun Amusement Center" it was called, and featured purple stripes and clown faces all along the exterior.

"Just leave me there." I pointed.

My father pulled into the parking lot and fished out some quarters from the cupholder.

"Here ya go. It's all we have."

"Thanks Dad! I'll see you guys when you're done."

I skipped up to the front doors and ignored all of the warning signs—the tinted glass doors, the cigarette smoke eminating from within, the fact that there was not a single window on the exterior of the building, and the only cars in the parking lot were pickup trucks and big rigs.

I swung the door open with my handful of quarters and screeched to a halt. Inside were a line of men hunched over on stools, looking at strip shows on arcade screens. Most had a a cigarette in one hand and an exposed crotch in the other. I must have made a squealing sound because they all stopped fondling themselves and leered at me. I stammered something, dropped all my change on the dirty carpet, and fled from the building.

Running across the parking lot, I saw my parents' car pulling out of the parking lot.

"STOOOOOOP!" I screamed, waving my arms with frantic abandon. "DON'T LEAVE MEEEEEEE!"

They pulled across the intersection and down the highway.

I sat down on the curb, looking back at the "Family Fun Amusement Center" and grimaced. The South Carolina sun was scorching my pasty skin already. I wandered across the street to the only other building I could see—Hank's Pawn Shop.

Spending the day with Hank wasn't so bad. He taught me how to tell the difference between silver and nickel just by biting it, how to tell if a gun was loaded without checking the chamber, what the difference between a stogie and a cigar is, and a few pointers on how to tell if boobs were real or fake. He kept me entertained with stories of his first ex-wife, Maggie, who left him for a Jewish vacuum cleaner salesman. It was pretty sad. He got stuck with a house he couldn't afford on his own, while she took their two kids and left him with a bill for four vacuums.

"Who the fuck buys four vacuums anyways?" Hank asked me.

"Bitches." I replied.

"You're all right kid. Promise me you won't ever marry."

"I won't."

"Good. You're better off being a fag."

"Thanks Hank."

Around dinner time I saw my parents pull into the lot across the street looking for me. I thanked Hank for his hospitality and went to meet them. They seemed surprised to see me coming from the opposite direction.

"How was the arcade?" My mom asked.

"Not what I expected." I replied. "How was the campus?" I asked, seeing my brother in the backseat sulking.

"Not what we expected." She answered. "But it wasn't a total loss. We got you a little something."

She handed me a silver necklace with a giant cock on it—the USC Fighting Gamecocks mascot. I stuck it in my mouth and bit down hard.

"It's not real silver." I said.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Let's go home."

The Bloomin' Onion

2011-07-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

Anyone who's had the Bloomin' Onion from the Outback Steakhouse knows well its fried clarion call.

If it weren't for this, Outback Steakhouse would be nothing. A nonentity. The steak is crap. The food all has the same salty-peppery seasoning. The drinks are watered down. The waitstaff is overly-friendly and annoying. It is my belief that the Bloomin' Onion is single-handedly keeping the place afloat. If they were to close down their entire operation and instead have a Bloomin' Onion kiosk, they would do just as well, if not better. But, I digress.

The Bloomin' Onion is solely responsible for my very first date experience. The date that set the bar so low, that all dates after it were a smashing success. I first met Steve online via gay.com. I was 16 years old. He was 20 and in community college. I didn't even have a car or license yet, so like a gentleman he picked me up at my parent's house (they loved that, by the way). He asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. I replied with the response I gave my parents whenever they asked me—Outback Steakhouse. We drove 30 minutes to the nearest Outback. On the way I was incredibly nervous, so I did what I always do when nervous—tell wildly inappropriate jokes and stories, then laugh so hard I snort. The first time I exploded in cackle-snorts I thought he was going to drive off the road. I could see the shock and horror written on his face, but couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut. I kept filling the silence with bawdy, unflattering stories. Each one was received with more terror than the last. To Steve's credit, he did have the courtesy to fake a smile.

When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse in Tyngsboro, MA there was a 30 minute wait.

"Do you mind waiting a little bit for a table?" He asked me.

"I'm starving. Let's just sit at the bar." I urged.

"Oh... okay... are you sure you don't want to wait for a private table?" He coaxed.

"Nah. Let's just sit at the bar. I see some empty stools next to that old couple." I pointed.

"Umm... it's a little loud over there. Are you sure you don't want to wait?" He practically begged to deaf ears.

"I don't mind a little noise. Let's go eat!" I led him over to the crowded bar area and perched happily on a stool.

We were greeted cheerfully by the bartender who took our drink order.

"Have you boys been here before?" A waitress asked, siddling up next to us and handing us menus.

"I've never been--" Steve started to reply.

"Oh my god, yes! My parents and I come here all the time. In fact, I don't even need a menu." I interrupted loudly, pushing the menu back at her.

"Well that's great. Welcome back." She smiled at me, then turned to Steve apologetically, "I'll just give you a few minutes to look over the menu then."

"Wow... you really like this place huh?" Steve asked.

"Not really. There's just one thing I like here." I chirped while sucking down my soda.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"The Bloomin' Onion. Oh my god it's so good. It's like this onion the size of a coconut, all cut up into slivers and deep fried and it comes with this spicy, tangy sauce thing in the middle. It's amazing." I said with lots of hand gesturing.

"That does sound pretty good." He said looking at the menu. "Oh, it's an appetizer? Shall we split it then?"

"Oh no." I replied wide-eyed. "I get it as my meal. You can get your own though... if you want."

"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his face and voice, but it went unnoticed.

After we placed our orders, we sat mostly in silence—me not knowing what to say—he probably not wanting to say anything. We picked at the free loaf of bread speared with a steak knife at the table.

Ten years later, the waitress returned with our meals. He ordered something sensible like steak and potatoes. It looked tough, overcooked, and over-salted. My Bloomin' Onion was emitting steam and each onion petal was perfectly fried golden and looked like something from a magazine. I could see the lust in his eyes.

"That does look really good." He said.

"Yeah. It's amazing." I slurred through a mouthful of fried heaven.

"Would you like to try any of mine?" He asked, sawing at his steak. "I'd gladly trade some steak for some onion."

"No thanks." I gurgled. "I don't really like the steak here."

"Some mashed potato?"

"No thanks. I'm happy with mine."

"That's really all you're going to eat? No meat? No vegetables?" He asked skeptical and incredulous.

"I'll see how I feel afterwards. Maybe dessert."

Concentrating solely on our food at this point, we finished in ten minutes. The waitress came over to clear our empty plates.

"Did we save room for any desse--" She turned to me and stopped, her mouth hanging open.

"What? Do I have onion on my face?" I started touching where my cheek should have been. It was about 3 inches out from where it ought to be.

"Something's wrong with your face..." Steve and the waitress said in unison.

I got up from the table and went immediately to the bathroom. There was a man washing his hands at the sink in front of the mirror. He looked up into the reflection, saw my bulbous face, looked immediately away, and made an exceptionally fast exit. I bolted over to the mirror and examined my freakish face. My cheeks looked like I was hiding golf balls in them. My lips were bigger than Angelina Jolie's. It looked like I had a severe sunburn from my eyes down to my adam's apple. My tongue hurt, so I stuck it out for inspection. It was much larger than normal and was throbbing. It literally felt heavy and clunky. I stuffed it back in my mouth with my fingers and returned to the table, hiding my face behind hands.

"I think I have to go to the hothpital." I slurred. "It hurth."

Seeing his opportunity for an early date escape, Steve offered to drive me to the nearest hospital. We left cash without getting the check and rushed out to the car. As he drove, I pulled down the visor and looked at my swollen face in the mirror and cringed.

"It's not so bad." He comforted. "I'm sure you just have an allergy and need some benadryl."

I tried not to cry, but some tears escaped down my puffy face.

"Does it hurt much?" He asked.

"Not weawy. Ith not tho bad." I managed, "But I weawy wanted detthert."

I was kidding of course, but I'm pretty sure he was appalled anyways.

He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance and told me to go inside while he found parking. When I got to the emergency front desk, the nurses were very accommodating and ushered me back to a triage room. A doctor entered the room a couple minutes later and inspected my face and mouth.

"You're having an allergic reaction. A pretty strong one. I'm giving you a cortisone injection that should relieve the swelling. What did you eat that could be causing this?"

"I think ith the bwoomin' onion" I said.

"How much of this onion did you eat?" He inquired, taking my pulse.

"Aww of it." I croaked.

"How big is it? How much onion?" He pressed.

"Wike a coconut thize."

"Oh my... with that much in your system we need to get it out of you. I'm going to give you a solution that will induce vomiting. You need to expel as much of it as you can."

I spent the next 20 minutes hurling spicy fried onion into a hospital basin. As good is it was going down, it was reversely bad coming up. A nurse made me drink a gallon of water when I was done, before I was allowed to be discharged.

When I got back out to the waiting room, there was no Steve. I asked a nurse at the front desk if she had seen anyone fitting his description. She said no. I sighed, dreading what was to come. Reluctantly, I asked her if I could use their phone. I dialed home.

"Hello?" My Mom asked sweetly.

"Hi mum. Ith Joth. I'm at the hothpital and--"

"YOU'RE WHAT?" She shouted.

"I thaid I'm at the hothpital and I need a ri--"

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"

"I'm had an awwergic--"

"ARE YOU HURT? DID HE HURT YOU? WERE YOU RAPED?"

"Jethuth chritht mom! I'm fine. I need a wide home. I'll expwain in da caw."

If being ding dong ditched at a hospital emergency room wasn't evidence enough that it was not a successful date, my mother driving me home while crying was a pretty good indication. Because I was 16, a typical idiot teenager, and full of misdirected rage, I started yelling at my mother.

"Thith ith all yaw faulth!" I burst at her.

"I know. I never should have let you date."

"No! Ith that you never taw me how to date! I wath a jerk to him!"

"He left you at the hospital alone and without a ride home! He is a pig. You're sweet and too young and men are pricks. You won't be dating anymore!"

"YAW NOT THE BOTTHH OF ME!" I shrieked.

"You're right! You can date all you want! As long as they're women!"

We rode home in an angry silence. We didn't speak the rest of the night and we went to bed angry with each other. In the morning, we both apologized.

"Your face looks all better. How's your tongue?" She asked, giving me a hug.

"It feels pretty normal again."

"Why don't we go out to lunch and spend the day together?" She smiled.

"Sure." I acquiesced.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Outback Steakhou--"

"Shut the fuck up Josh!"

I love my mom.

Mystic Tan

2011-07-18T13:35:00.000-07:00

It is about this time of year, every year, when I'm reminded of how painfully Albino-like I am. My choices are either white or red skin. I choose the less painful white. But there was one summer when I was orange.

My mother is very interested in my physical appearance.

"Those jeans make you look fat." She'd say out of the blue.

"You need a haircut. You look like a Beatle." She'd inform me, unprovoked.

"Josh. You're so pale...I can't even look at you. How are you going to get a date like that?" She'd shudder.

My parents live in South Carolina and have fabulous tans. I live in Boston where there's about 340 days of clouds, rain, or snow and about 20 days of pesky interruption by the sun. When I fly home to visit they always seem to forget this. I'll make my way out of the airport gate and they will be waiting for me at baggage claim.

"I could see you coming a mile away! You're a big, pale beacon!" Mom would greet me squinting.

One summer I flew down to visit them with my friend Leanne for a week. We mentioned how we wanted to go to the beach the next day. My mom looked suddenly horrified.

"You can't go to the beach like that!"

"Like what?" I asked.

"That PALE!" She groaned. "Everyone will think you're a yankee.

"I AM a yankee."

"Not in this house. We need you to blend in. What would the neighbors think if they saw you leaving here like that?"

"That you keep me locked in the attic?" I retorted.

"Probably!" She moaned. "You need to get a tan before you can go to a public beach."

"That's kind of the point of going to a beach in the first place."

"Absolutely not. You're getting a tan first."

"How?!" I shouted.

"I'm making a tanning appointment for both of you tomorrow. No buts." She declared.

I thought that laying in a tanning bed for 30 minutes wouldn't be so bad, so I didn't think much of her demand. If it would allow me to go to the beach unmolested, so be it.

In the morning she drove us over to a nearby stripmall. The sign out front said "Mystic Tan" and again, I didn't think anything of it. Inside I expected to see a bunch of coffin-like tanning beds and not much else. Instead, there was a grand, spa-looking lobby with curtains shrouding the back. Above the reception desk was a list of services.

Mystic Tans:
Level 1: $30
Level 2: $40
Level 3: $50

My mom informed the receptionist that we would be needing a Level 3 immediately. She looked at us and nodded agreement.

"Have y'all ever been here befo'?" She asked.

We shook our heads no.

"Have y'all ever had a Mystic Tan befo'?"

We shook our heads no.

"Ummkay, well follow me and I'll show y'all what to do."

She led us back behind a series of curtains into a private sitting area. Surrounding the area were a series of black shower stalls with a curtain leading into each one.

"Inside these two stalls is where your tanning experience will begin." She pointed to two designated Level 3 stalls. "You will remove your clothing out here first, and then proceed into these here stalls when ready. Once inside, there will be a display monitor with instructions and an audio recording will guide you through the process. It's quick, painless, and more efficient than traditional tanning beds. You've come to the right place to get a beautiful, instant tan without the tanlines. Do y'all have any questions?"

Leanne and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

"Good. Y'all will do just fahn. Relax and enjoy yo'selves. I'll see y'all back out front when you're dried off and got yo'selves dressed again." She walked through the curtains to the front desk area.

We didn't waste any time stripping down to nothing and tossing our clothes on the floor. We both wanted to be done quickly and get to the beach. When naked, we walked over to our designated stalls and peeked through the black curtains inside.

"Mine's pitch black..." I said

"Mine too." She said with an echo—her head poking through the curtain.

"You go first." I whined.

"No. You." She said.

"Together." We said in unison.

We pulled our curtains of our gas chambers aside, stepped upward and inward, then closed the curtain behind us. Small floor lights lit up after entering, like you'd see on an airplane. A 6 inch monitor on the wall infront of me flicked on and started playing a prerecorded welcome message. The woman's voice indicated that I should listen carefully to ensure the best possible tan.

"Please stand on the indicated footprints on the floor, and hold your arms out straight to the sides as indicated." (It showed a picture of a woman with her arms level to her shoulders and held out.) "Tanning spray will be released from the nozzles directly in front of you, and will cover the front of your body with tanning solution. Please do not move from this position until asked to turn around to ensure even spray on your front and backside. In just a moment, your mystic tanning experience will begin."

"It's about to start!" I shouted over to Leanne.

"Yup. It's kind of exciting!" She shouted back.

We waited anxiously for our "tanning experience" to begin.

A minute or two went by and nothing was happening in my stall. My arms were getting tired.

"Is anything happening in your stall?" I yelled.

"No! Is yours doing anything?" She yelled back.

"No!" I shouted, "Maybe we should go—" A hard blast of tanning solution erupted into my mouth with a hiss.

"KAHK...WHORK...GAH..." I choked and coughed, doubled over and dropped to my knees.

"YEEEEEEP!" I heard Leanne shriek, followed by loud bangs as she smashed into the walls.

Above me, I could hear the spray jets blasting over my head and hitting the curtain behind. My mouth was on fire from my open-mouthed blast of Mystic Hellfire. My eyes were burning from Satan's spray and I was completely blind. I couldn't see that the spray nozzles were actually descending on the opposite wall, and were nearing me. I was hacking up Mystic Sewage and rubbing furiously at my eyes when it started pelting me in the head. The unexpected force of it sent me reeling backwards and I went sailing out of the stall, taking the curtain with me. I hit the lower ground of the sitting area with a sloppy, wet thwack. Mystic Tan was continuing to spray out of the stall and directly onto the lobby floor now.

Leanne was still screaming as she burst through her stall curtain, slid on the wet floor with a SKREEE sound, and crashed down next to me in a heap. She was flailing and gagging as I flopped around on the cold, wet floor like a displaced goldfish. Tangled in the curtain and blind, I was making very little headway on getting up.

As suddenly as the spray jets started, they stopped. The only sounds in the lobby were our coughs and a gentle dripping sound from inside the stalls.

"Phase one completed," chimed the automated voice. "Please turn around 180 degrees and keep your arms raised. Tanning of your backside will begin momentarily."

We both groaned, knowing that we had to get up and get back in there or else our fronts would be bronze and our backs completely white. Shakily, we managed to get back on our feet and feel our way back to our stalls. My mouth, nose, eyes, and throat were burning as I climbed back inside and turned around with my arms out wide, this time bracing them against the stall walls. I was not going to be bested by this Mystic Bitch.

The cold liquid blasted against the back of my head and shoulders, sending goosebumps down my body. I shivered and shook, but held my footing despite the slippery, wet floor. I could hear Leanne screaming again and heard a thud as she fell down a second time. Panicking, I took a step forward to exit the stall and make sure she was okay. I lost my footing and the continuous blast of Mystic Shit sent me over the edge, crashing onto the lobby floor yet again, and skittering several across the slick tiles with a SQUEEE! I opened my eyes to see Leanne crawling out of her stall on hand and knees, Mystic Napalm firing over her head.

"UGH!" She was sobbing through closed eyes, clawing her way over to my twisted body.

"IT HURTS and BURNS!" I wailed.

The front desk receptionist must have heard our cries from the war zone and burst through the curtain to see us in a heap—Mystic Death squirting unabated from the stalls and further slicking the floors.

"Oh mah lord!" She screamed. "What in the hell happened to y'all?"

"Make it stop!" I begged.

"Full body tanning complete. Please exit the stall and proceed to the air drying station." Chimed the Mystic Whore from the stall.

"I am NOT going to the 'air drying station!' You can't make me!" I yelled at the receptionist standing over our nakedness.

After we dried off, inspected our wounds, and pulled our clothes back on, we returned to the front desk area where my mother was sitting and reading Southern Living. She looked up at us and her mouth dropped open.

"What the hell happened to you?" She exclaimed, getting up from her chair to inspect us.

"Mystic Tan happened to us!" I barked at her, furious for making us go through this, just to go to the beach.

"You're both orange! And spotted! It's awful!" We looked down at ourselves and confirmed that she was correct. We were indeed bright orange in splotches and white in others—like a creamsicle that's been unevenly licked.

"You have to go back!" She yelled at us, then turned to the receptionist, "You have to do it again! You have to fix them!"

"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't allow that. It's a mess back there. I need to spend my lunch break cleaning up. I've never seen anything like it." She tisked at us, "I've seen children get Mystic Tans with less fuss."

"Let's go." My mother commanded, grabbing us and hauling us out to the car.

As soon as the car doors closed, the tirade began. "I can't believe the two of you. I send you in to get a simple spray-on tan and you come out looking like you have leprosy. Not only was that a waste of money and time, but now I can't show my face in there again. 'Aren't you that Albino's mother? You know, the one that turned orange and flopped around on the floor like a retarded sea bass?' We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight and you look like you're dying of sepsis." She continued clucking and grumbling the rest of the way home.

When we got in the door, my father was making coffee in the kitchen.

"Holy hell!" He said wide-eyed when he saw us. "What happened? Was there an explosion?"

"Add Mystic Tan to the places we're not allowed back to." My mother spat.

We didn't go to the beach that day, nor did we go out to dinner. We ordered take out and rented a movie. While we all sat in the living room watching it, my parents sat behind Leanne and I, peeling flecks of orange off our backs while we peeled it off our legs and arms. We looked like a family of apes cleaning each other, but it did work.

After a few hours of peeling and scraping, we were back to pale and there was a pile of orange paint chips on the floor that the family dog was very interested in. In their defense, it was a very Mystic Pile.

Dear Phil

2011-04-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Phil,

How are you doing, you old so-and-so? It's been a while! Since September 22nd of 2004 to be exact. That was the day I moved out of your house while you were at work.

It was a pretty awful day, but thinking about it now kinda makes me laugh. I mean—what must you have thought when you came home that day and all my stuff was gone? All that I left behind was a note, house key, and several scratches on your walls from moving furniture down the narrow staircase and hallway. The scratches were, for the most part, unintentional. The note, however, I thought you'd really enjoy. You seemed to really like leaving me notes. All sorts of notes. Sometimes I'd walk into the den and there would be a note on the TV.

"Josh—You left the TV on sleep mode again. I'd really appreciate it if you'd turn the TV all the way off. It saves electricity and prolongs the life of the TV."

Well, Phil, as much as I appreciate your concern over the longevity of my television set—the one that's been alive and well since 1995—I'd appreciate it even more if you'd mind your own fucking business. It's especially interesting as to why you're so concerned about the electric bill—the electric bill that I pay for. I also don't see the difference between me leaving the TV slightly on and you keeping your laptop on and plugged in 24/7. I'd also appreciate it if your plane crashed on a remote archipelago filled with cannibals and wasps.

I also really enjoyed the note you left on the washing machine for me.

"Josh—I noticed the last time you did laundry that the size of your loads were too big for the washer and dryer. Can you please stop putting so much in at once? It's going to damage the machines."

Well, Phil, I'm glad you're taking such a keen interest in my laundry practices. I'll tell you what. When there's "damage" to your washer and dryer from my filling them up with a reasonable amount of clothing, I'll be happy to pay for your grievances. Until then, drown in a fire.

Or the notes on the refrigerator.

"Josh—I'd really appreciate it if you would pay more attention to the food you buy at the grocery store. You know I'm on the Atkins diet and hardly any of the food you bought is appropriate for me to eat. Do you want me to fail? Do you want me to be fat so you feel more secure about yourself?"

Well, Phil, that's an interesting point you raise. The funny thing about the Atkins diet is that it basically consists of eating meat and broccoli. Did you by any chance peek in the freezer? The one full of meat and broccoli? The one that even has low-carb ice cream for you? If that's no good, you could always—oh, I don't know—do your own fucking food shopping. It may even do you good to step foot in a grocery store with the rest of us peasants. The common folk who don't have someone else doing their food shopping for them like an indentured servant. It may also do you some good to fall on a pitchfork.

And then there was the very last note. More of a letter really. This one was particularly noteworthy (pun intended) because you actually handed this one to me. And then, smiling, you asked me to read it in front of you. Because of this, I thought it was a good letter. I thought maybe it was a letter of apology. A peace offering in our tumultuous relationship. An olive branch extended because of how inhumanely passive aggressive and rude you had been since the day I moved in with you. After you asked me to move in because you hated how far away I was from you. Because you wanted the chance to get to know me better and spend more time with me. Because you said it was stupid of me to pay a landlord money when you had two empty rooms. Because you knew I had nowhere to go right after college graduation and a limited budget until I found my first real job.

However, it was about as far from these things as a letter could be. Do you remember? I still have it.

Dear Josh,

I hope you don't mind me writing all of this down instead of talking to you. I am just too emotional to have this conversation with you. I'm not trying to be passive aggressive or to surprise you, I just want you to know my feelings clearly without me stumbling through them verbally and incoherently.

The last few months of living with you have been a living nightmare. I was hoping that we could be adult enough to be roommates while we continue to date, but I can see you are not mature enough to handle such a complex situation. Ever since you have moved in, you have disrespected me, my property, and our relationship. Whenever I have tried to bring something to your attention that bothers me with a thoughtful note, you laugh it off dismissively or get angry with me for not discussing it with you in person. Unlike you, I don't enjoy confrontation. To me, it seems more civil and respectful to leave a note. Instead of responding in kind, you insist on having a nasty dialogue about everything. What kind of a future does this relationship have if we can't communicate?

I don't want to break up, but I think you have to be a better communicator if this is going to work out. I hope that you will make more of an effort to address my concerns, and in the meantime I will try and be patient with you. I look forward to knowing you better and progressing our relationship in a more healthy environment.

Love,
Phil

The entire time I was reading your letter, my mouth was hanging open. I couldn't believe a 40-year old man had to write down his feelings for me. When I looked up, trembling with rage, I saw you still smiling sheepishly. Like you were expecting me to give you a big hug and apologize for being so immature. I was speechless.

"So... what do you think?" You finally asked.

I continued sitting there, staring at you. And then I exploded.

"A LIVING NIGHTMARE?" I shrieked.

"NOT MATURE ENOUGH?" I bellowed.

"MORE CIVIL AND RESPECTFUL TO LEAVE A NOTE?" I screamed.

"YOU'LL TRY AND BE PATIENT WITH ME?" I boomed.

I got up from the couch, threw down your letter, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" You asked of me as I opened the front door.

"I'LL SEND YOU A LETTER!" I screeched, slamming the door behind me.

The next morning, while you were at work, my friend and I moved all of my meager belongings out of your house. The first two times we scratched the paint off your wall with my dresser it was an accident. The third, fourth, and fifth times it was on purpose.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this sooner. I thought it would be more civil to leave you a little note.

Modeling Days

2011-04-22T12:15:00.000-07:00

Yep. You read the title correctly. Once upon a star, I was a fashion model. Allow me to explain.

I was recruited in college at the age of 20 by our yearbook photographer. She was blinding me slowly by testing her flash setting as I held up a light meter for her.

"What's your name hun?" She asked, fiddling with an aperture setting on a camera so massively clunky that it was making the tripod creak and groan.

"Joshua." I replied looking into the camera—unsure if I should be—then trying to look anywhere but.

"That's a beautiful name. Joshua. I think if I ever had a son, I'd name him that." She shook her head, "But I won't. I had a hysterectomy after a really messy abortion." She said, nonchalantly snapping a photo of my suddenly horror-struck face.

"I'm really sorry to hear that..." I trailed off.

"It's okay. I think everything happens for a reason. Jesus didn't want me to have kids I guess. Maybe they would have grown up to be murderers or something. Even normal people like us can have kids that kill."

"Anything's possible I guess..." I was so uncomfortable that my back was bolt upright in the chair, as if we were in a plane that was going down, and my eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"You have excellent posture." She said, snapping a few more photos.

"Thanks. I think I'm just nervous. Usually I shamble around like Igor on a bender."

"You also have an exceptionally symmetrical face. And your eyes are gorgeous. What color would you say those are?"

"My ex called them baby-poop green. The description kinda stuck."

She shook her head. "You don't give yourself enough credit. The camera loves you. If you want to make some extra money, give me a call. I always need models for the talent gigs I shoot." She handed me her business card.

Weeks went by before I called. It took my credit card being declined at the school bookstore when I tried to buy a used copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At first she didn't remember who I was. She didn't even remember coming to my school.

"Who?" She asked irritated, as if I were a telemarketer.

"Baby-poop eyes." I said.

"Oh yeah. That guy. Come down to my studio and we'll take some portfolio shots."

And so I did. She photographed me in jackets, polos, t-shirts, sweaters, khakis, jeans, swim trunks, and lastly, underwear. After 2 hours of costume changes and photography, she showed me some digital proofs. I didn't see whatever it was she saw that made her so confident in my ability to shut up and look pretty, but I wasn't about to argue with free money. She invited me to a function she was going to the following weekend to meet the organizers of a talent agency—ProScout.

ProScout apparently was a big deal. Had I known this, I wouldn't have eaten 2 helpings of spaghetti and meatballs at the school cafeteria before arriving in my fat jeans and Frankenberry t-shirt. I was introduced to Sean and Rebecca who gave me a run-down of the event.

"Today is a big day. Hopefuls from all over New England are here to audition to become runway models." Sean said, clapping his hands together and practically skipping with delight.

"Sean and I are the judges. We pick who stays to work with us, and who goes home." Rebecca said flipping her hair and checking her Blackberry .

"That's great!" I said with all the feigned enthusiasm I could muster. "But what does this have to do with me? Mary, the photographer, said I should come and help you guys out today?"

"Mary has worked with us for 15 years. We trust her implicitly. Normally, we'd have you try out with the rest of the talent, but we want you to sit with us at the judge's table, observe, learn how a runway works, and tell us who YOU think would make good models. We want a fresh eye." Sean whispered to me while holding my shoulder.

"I'll certainly try my best, but I don't really know what to look for." I replied.

"Oh. You'll know it when you see it. Just look for star quality. Mary sees it in you, so maybe you can see it in others." Sean said in the manner of a life coach or camp counselor.

"I don't really follow that logic, but okay. I'm happy to help."

"Good." He took my hand and led me over to a curtained-off area behind a large stage.

I was handed over to a team of production assistants who, without saying a single word to me, took my clothes off, measured my torso, inseam, waist, chest, and neck, and then dressed me in a pair of tan capri pants, sandals, and a military shirt. They tussled my hair into a jumbled mess and threw in a pair of sunglasses to keep the nest together. I was then led over to a make-up artist who sprayed my face with something that burned, tweezed my eyebrows, and put on enough foundation to build a condo.

I tried speaking to the staff and offering protestations, but it didn't seem to matter. I was told I needed to look the part, not to struggle, and that I required a lot of work. Gee thanks.

After about an hour of prep time, the lights were dimmed in the giant conference area which had a makeshift runway set up and big curtains at it's start. Parallel to the stage on the left-hand side was a judge's table. To the stage's right were hundreds of seated people—parents of the talent—all come to watch their children be "discovered." The show was ready to begin. An announcer introduced Sean and Rebecca as the judges, and I followed them out to join them at the table. We were all set up with sparkling water, notepads, pens, and an alphabetical roster of the evening's talent. Next to each hopeful's name were 5 columns: Age, Height, Weight, Nationality, and a large blank box for Notes.

As the announcer was psyching up the crowd and the lighting was going wild, Sean leaned over to me and whispered "Just pay close attention to how they walk, how comfortable they feel in the spotlights, and then write 'yes' or 'no' in the notes column. We'll compare all our notes after the show and the talent with two or more yes's will be given contract opportunities. Sound easy enough?"

"Yes, actually. That sounds pretty easy." I replied, starting to think that this may actually be kinda fun.

All the lights except those directed on the stage were cut off. Music you'd expect to be playing at a rave started blaring, fog machines erupted—spilling mist onto the stage, and the first girl strutted out onto the runway. She was stunning. I'll never forget how confident she looked, strutting her stuff and looking like she owned the whole building even though she must have been terrified going first. I looked down at my alphabetized roster to the first name: Libby Abraham, 19, 5'10", 125 lb, English American. I picked up my pen and started to write "yes" in the notes column at the same time as Sean wrote "no" in his. I looked down the table and saw Rebecca write "fuck NO" on hers. I was at a loss for what to do. I looked back up at the stage and Libby had begun her retreat towards the curtain. The next girl was already center stage. A third girl had begun her stage entrance.

I hadn't written a single thing down yet. I panicked and began writing "maybe" for the first three names because I'd already missed the majority of their walks. By the time I looked up again there were three entirely different girls on the stage. The one walking back towards the curtain had leopard print leggings on so I wrote "no" next to her name—at least the name I thought would be hers. The girl center stage at the tip of the runway looked like a bitch so I wrote "no" for her too, and the one barreling down the runway with wild arms and elbows looked more like a freight train than a model, so I wrote "no" again. I thought I was caught up at this point and I leaned over to Sean and whispered "That was the sixth girl on the list, right?"

"Seventh." He replied while writing feverishly but never even looking down at his roster to do so.

"Fuck." I said, and started crossing off all that I'd written down and writing arrows indicating that it should be for the name one line down instead.

"The girl with the leopard pants—Jessie Adams?" I asked, thinking I'd had it all sorted out now.

"Melanie Aclent." Sean whispered back.

"Shit." I started drawing more arrows branching off of the previous ones.

"What number are we on now?" I whispered down to Rebecca, tired of interrupting Sean.

"Fourteen." She said, never looking away from the stage.

"Jesus Christ!" I snarled, and started writing yes's and no's furiously and at random to catch up.

I whipped my head around and got the attention of the nearest staff member. "I need a fucking pencil! Fuck this pen shit!" I hissed louder and angrier than I'd meant to. I think a girl on stage heard me and stumbled.

The production assistant returned with a pencil for me and I started scribbling feverishly with it. So feverishly in fact, that the tip broke after about ten minutes.

"F-U-U-U-C-K" I mouthed to nobody in particular, but Rebecca and Sean both saw me struggling and sniggered. Sean gave my shoulder a squeeze while Rebecca snapped her fingers at a crew member and a few moments later he returned with several pencils, a pencil sharpener, and a little nip of vodka which he handed to me. Not being of legal drinking age, I wasn't sure what to do, but Rebecca gave me a nod. I looked down at the list and saw that we were only up to the letter C so I chugged it down and kept writing.

It took about three hours before we reached the end of the list. The nips of vodka kept coming the entire time, so I was feeling pretty good by then. Sean and Rebecca weren't far behind me either. After Amy Zuranakis finished her walk, the lights came back on.

"Thank GAWD!" I crowed at them, standing and giving them both a high five. "It's over! We earned our paychecks today, eh kids? I am getting paid for this right? That wasn't really discussed."

And then the announcer boomed overhead "We'll take a twenty minute intermission and begin the Men's Competition!"

I fell back into my chair. I was crushed. Despondent. Defeated. My fellow judges saw me on the verge and offered their condolences.

"Don't worry, it's almost over. The Men's Competition is much shorter."

Needless to say, it was one of the longest days of my life. But, when it was over and I was thoroughly shitfaced, I had a check for $1,000 in hand as well as a modeling contract from ProScout. Sean and Rebecca thought I was not only funny, but "totally adorable." I disagreed entirely but for money like that, I was going to do whatever was required of me.

My first few gigs were as a "promotional model," which is a nice way of saying "meat puppet." Basically, you are hired to attend high brow events, looking your absolute best, and attempt to draw more people into attendance out of sheer fabulousness. One event was the opening of a Mercedes dealership. Another was the unveiling of a new line of perfumes and colognes at Neiman Marcus.

I can't possibly explain how bad I was at these jobs. Not only did I look incredibly out of place amongst my model brethren, but our personalities clashed like the cymbals at an elementary school band. Every event was composed of the same ratio of models—three or four tall, thin, beautiful women between the ages of 18 and 30, three or four incredibly buff, gym-obsessed men between the ages of 23 and 35, and myself. I was told that I was the epitome of the "boy next door." Just attractive enough to fit in with the other models, but not so attractive as to appear unobtainable or make people uncomfortable. I took this to mean that I was basically hired to be the fat girl who is kept around by her skinny friends to make them seem even thinner and prettier. Nevertheless, I was incredibly flattered. It's sort of like being told that you're upper-middle class. I was deigned upper-middle pretty.

It wasn't until after several years of working with the same agency that I transitioned into fashion modeling. In 2007, I was offered a spot in a Fall Fashion Show in New York City. I was asked to model an upcoming line of Kenneth Cole clothing and accessories to bigwig retail distributors who would hopefully like the line and carry it in their stores. My agent, Kim, was the one who told me about the offer.

"It's potentially a career highlight." She squealed excitedly over the phone. "There will only be about 20 models total. They've been hand-picked by Kenneth's own people!"

"A career highlight? I have a career—and it's not modeling. This is just to get by. And why me? I've never done fashion before. Let alone runway. I don't know what I'm doing." I fretted.

"Because with the bad economy, high fashion is changing to accommodate the masses. You represent the masses. You're the boy next door."

"Ugh! Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because it's true. You have a very likable face and you're tall and thin—but not too thin as to look like an addict—so stuff looks good on you. Plus, pale is very 'in' right now. People aren't spending money on tanning anymore."

"Gee. Thanks Kim."

"Now, let me go over the details of the contract with you. There's some things you should be aware of first."

"Such as?" I sensed her nervousness at telling me everything.

"Well... for starters the show is in less than 2 months."

"Okay... so what?"

"That gives you only a month before your fitting—before which you need to drop about 12 pounds." She said solemnly.

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah. They want you at 150 lb or less."

"You just said I was thin but not too thin! What happened to that?"

"Don't take it personal. It's just business. There's more."

"What else?" I snapped.

"You can't cut your hair between now and the show."

"Okay."

"You can't bite your nails."

"Okay."

"You can't shave for at least two weeks before the show."

"Okay."

"They will be sending you a skin care package. You have to use everything in the package prior to the show."

"Okay."

"If you go outside between now and then, you have to wear SPF 50 or higher. You can't be tanned."

"Okay."

"You have to go to New York one month before the show for a fitting."

"Okay"

"You have to attend an after party following the show wearing a designated outfit from the line and mingle with the retailers."

"Okay"

"At the after party, there will be an open bar and h'orderves. You cannot eat or drink while in attendance."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Is that ALL?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom.

"Yes. That appears to be everything."

"You can tell Kenneth Cole to FUCK HIMSELF!" I screeched.

"It pays $5,000 and you get to keep the clothes." She chirped.

"Sold."

For the next month I was a hermit. I didn't leave the house except to go to work and back—for fear of the sun. I didn't cut my hair. I didn't shave towards the end of the month. I spent hours putting on all the lotions and creams and vials that were shipped to me. And, I was a raging bitch to everyone around me because of my soup-only diet. I was miserable. I would step on the scale every morning and fly into a frenzy when it wasn't going down fast enough. I would burst into tears at the drop of a hat. I became hated and feared by friends and coworkers alike. They all wanted to hear specifics about the show and thought it was all very exciting—which in hindsight is true—but in my current state I would just complain sourly.

Three days before my fitting in New York City I was having a tantrum in my tiny bathroom in Somerville, Massachusetts. I had stepped on the scale again—156 pounds. I had only lost 6 pounds during my diet and was expected to lose another 6 in three days. I had never felt fat or ugly in my life before then. Strange how being selected for something that was supposed to be an honor—a testament to your looks—only made me feel hideous and ashamed. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself with scraggly, long hair, beard stubble, and a sunken, paler-than-usual face. It was then that I decided this would be my last modeling venture. It simply wasn't worth it.

In the meantime, I was determined to see my contract through. I had come this far and wasn't going back. Plus, the money had already been spent. I stopped eating altogether and was only drinking water until my fitting. Occasionally I would switch it up by drinking a diet soda or lemonade. It was a wretched experience but I made it down to 152 pounds by my fitting. I figured that was close enough.

The drive to New York City from Boston was riddled with traffic so I was an hour late for my fitting. When I arrived, there was a squad of stylists and irritated tailors at the ready.

"Hi!" I chirped at the sour-looking group. "I'm really sorry I'm late. The traffic was awful and I couldn't find any parking so I had to use a valet. I've never used a valet before in my life. I Don't suppose you guys validate?"

A man in black with a headset and clipboard held up his hand to silence me and grunted "Name?"

"Josh." I said. "Degregorio." I quickly added when he scowled at me.

"Ah yes. Here you are. At the very bottom of the list." He said smugly, and implying that the bottom of the list was somehow fitting.

"So... what do I do now?" I asked.

"Nothing." He replied, turning his back to me and assessing several racks of clothing. "It's what you people are good at."

The man in black—I never did learn his name—was so surly and rude during my entire fitting that at one point I had to excuse myself to the bathroom just to cry in a stall for a while. When I returned, I was greeted with another dig.

"I hope you were throwing up in there. You need to fit into these corduroys."

There were a million insults I wanted to hurl at this odious man, but none of them were worth five-thousand dollars so I kept my mouth shut. I was also paranoid that he would purposely ruin whatever I was supposed to wear and send me down the runway in pajama jeans and a windbreaker.

The man in black and four minions all took my measurements—being extremely careful to call me fat at every opportunity—and then began tailoring whatever I was supposed to wear for the show. After my measurements were taken, my confidence shattered, and the tailors had set to work on altering the clothes, I was sent to the lounge to wait for my fitting. In the lounge there were about fifteen beautiful models relaxing in chairs and on couches, all chatting up a storm. Until I came in.

A hush fell over everybody when I entered the room. I thought I was in trouble when they set their scrutinizing gaze upon me, but it only lasted a few seconds. Then they were all smiles and eager to welcome me into their clan. Apparently, I was deemed "not a threat" to their careers and they could all relax again. My mediocre boy next door looks had put people at ease once more.

The hotel that we were in was kind enough to leave out a tray of finger sandwiches while we waited for our actual fitting. The platter of sandwiches was completely untouched. As was the tray of cookies. The only thing my model kin were consuming was bottled water for the girls and some foul-smelling protein shakes for the guys. I felt terrible that somebody went through the trouble to arrange all this food and it was all being wasted. Not to mention that I hadn't eaten in days. I walked over to the table and picked up a large peanut butter chip cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. There was a collective gasp as I took a bite of it, and stunned silence as I devoured it before their very eyes.

When we were called back into the conference room to try on our freshly tailored outfits, I was excited to see what was laid out for me. I was completely giddy when I saw the tailored jacket, jeans, cardigan, cute suede boots, and messenger bag. The second and third outfits I was to wear were also cute. Relief flooded over me. The Man in Black hadn't screwed me over.

Tailors and seamstresses helped me get dressed and pinned everything in place because it was ridiculously tight. I was warned that I should drop some more weight if I didn't want to look like a summer sausage in the getup. When I asked why they didn't simply tailor the clothes to fit me, I was told, quote:

"We would run out of fabric trying to work around those hips."

I spent the remaining month before the show on the Atkins diet. I managed to drop down to an all-time low of 148 pounds (not bad for someone that's 6 feet, 2 inches). I was determined not to give any of the horrible production crew reason to call me fat or have some sort of "costume malfunction" on the runway and make the local news.

The runway show was to begin at the W Hotel in Times Square at 7 pm. You might think that we had to show up an hour or two before-hand to get changed. In fact, we had to show up at 7 am. Because we had to be on-site so early and I lived far away, they put me up in the hotel the night before. It was beautiful and even though I had to share my room with a frat boy hick from Tennessee, I enjoyed myself. A beautiful breakfast platter was delivered to the room at 5 am. I was so nervous about the day's events that my stomach roiled at the sight of food and I threw up for twenty minutes after the room service man left. I've always wondered why the production staff sent us food knowing that we weren't allowed to eat anything. Was it all pure spite and malice? Was there a hidden camera in the room? I bet the Man in Black got a big kick out of me heaving up peanut butter cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. Emphasis on chunks.

When we all stumbled down to the giant hotel conference room, we were introduced to Trevor and Dee. They were our runway coaches for the day. In the conference room there was a 50-foot long, 6-foot wide runway set up. We were informed that for the next 4 hours we belonged to Trevor and Dee and that we had to get our walks perfect. To do this, we had to make sure the conditions would be identical to how they would be that night.

The curtains were drawn completely closed and we were plunged into darkness. Stage lights were turned on to illuminate the runway. At the beginning of the runway in front of gold curtains, Trevor and Dee appeared suddenly in a plume of smoke. They glided down the stage towards us, like a pack of Nosferatu, reached the end, backed up several steps, turned around sharply, and glided back to the starting point, struck one last pose, and disappeared behind the curtains.

Most of the models clapped and applauded the display. I was dumbstruck. To me, it looked completely ridiculous and I was dreading it.

We broke out into groups for the next few hours. First we were handed over to tailors for final fittings and to put on an outfit we would be wearing this evening. Then we were given to stylists for hair and makeup preparation. And finally, when looking just as we would for the show, we were given over to Trevor and Dee for more private runway lessons.

The morning got progressively worse as I went through these stages of preparation. The final fitting was awful and nothing fit quite right. The tailors lamented and chastised me for losing weight since the last fitting—even though I was told to—because now everything had to be reworked.

When I went to styling, I was informed that my hair was going to be cut shorter. This, I was happy about. Until the stylist started cutting and moussing and gelling and brought out a mirror to show me what remained—a fauxhawk. For those of you that don't know what a fauxhawk is, it's like a mohawk except instead of being shaved on the sides of your head, the hair is gelled flat to your skull while a longer, middle patch of hair is left tussled and un-gelled. It looked awful. Tears started to rise, but I pushed them back down, knowing that I could get it all cut tomorrow when I was rid of this place.

"There. Now you're the boy next door with an edge!" The stylist said, admiring her work.

"I'm a monster." I retorted.

She just chuckled and sent me over to Trevor for runway lessons.

Unlike the majority of the production people, Trevor was a kind and patient teacher. Locked away in the dark conference room, he taught me the best ways to walk on the narrow runway, how to not be blinded by the lighting, how to walk in rhythm to the music that would be playing, and how to be pose more subtly than he had demonstrated earlier. I'd like to point out how difficult it is to walk a straight line in bright lighting, on a runway covered in mist, and keep time to techno music all the while. My cute, but exceedingly large boots didn't help matters and it was a struggle to not make noise stomping around in them. The trickiest part, however, was actually passing the oncoming model as you are entering and exiting the stage. Why they don't make runways wide enough to accommodate two people side by side is a mystery, but they don't. You both have to sort of fold yourselves up and make room so you don't smash into each other in passing. This is when I had my first collision.

I was doing fine until The Man in Black arrived to witness everyone's progress. I knew something insidious was coming when he actually complimented me on my walk.

"It's really coming together Josh. You're doing an excellent job with them Trevor."

Trevor beamed at this.

"Uh... thank you." I stammered from the stage.

"But there's something not quite right here...your messenger bag. It looks flat and lifeless. See how it swings as you walk on the stage? We need to weigh it down a bit. We need it to look full and utilitarian—like you're a student on the way to class."

"Want me to put some books in it?" I asked.

"No...something more weighty but not so big as to make it look like its bursting..." He pondered aloud.

"I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "I'll be back. As you were."

A few minutes later the Man in Black returned with 2 bricks stolen from a construction site down the block.

"Put these in your bag." He handed them to me. "It will calm the bag down without it looking too full."

"Bricks? Really? This seems excessive." I worried aloud.

"It's perfect." The Man in Black was grinning at me.

At the first runway rehearsal with everyone outfitted and walking in order of actual appearance, I slammed into another model with my wrecking ball of a bag and he went tumbling off the stage. Thankfully, he was mostly unharmed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you dude?" He shouted from the ground. "Are you fucking retarded?"

"Well I must be—walking around with a bag full of fucking bricks!" I yelled back.

"Calm down boys. Let's start over." Trevor said from the sidelines, shaking his head.

We did 10 full rehearsals before everyone got it right. Not only is it a combination of everyone walking properly and without conflict on the stage, but it's also a task for the production crew to strip everyone naked as soon as they get back behind the curtains and change them into their second and third outfits without messing up hair and makeup. There was a lot of pushing, shoving, cursing, sweating, and yelling to be heard over the music. If you're ever wondering why the music is so loud at fashion shows—it's so you don't hear the shouting behind the curtains and clomping of heavy shoes on the runway.

The actual show went off without a hitch and was well-received. The clothes were beautifully designed and well-made. A lot of work went into everything, and it showed. There was much applause from the crowd as we were backstage. Trevor was behind the curtains clutching a crucifix necklace and praying silently. Admittedly, I was praying too.

Before the after party began, I had to go up to my room and take a shower because I was drenched in sweat. I don't think I have ever been so nervous in my life. I thought for sure that I was shaking as I was walking the runway, but nobody said anything if I was. I was just so incredibly thankful the show was over that I was actually looking forward to the party. It was supposed to be a chance to relax a bit and give retailers a closer look at the articles of clothing they liked. Relaxing it was not.

Maybe for those people who could eat and drink it was a fun time. For the rest of us, it consisted of being poked and prodded like mannequins. I had several drunk men and women cop a feel with the claim that they wanted to see how the clothes "breathed" in the crotch and ass area. The poor female models had it the worst. Horny old men were blatantly grabbing their breasts and asking how the clothes offered "support."

I had one middle-aged woman with gin on her breath shove a martini in my face and tell me to drink because I "looked like I needed to loosen up." Three polite refusals later, she was still pushing a drink on me and when I pushed it back towards her she spilled it all over herself and stormed off in a huff.

By 10 o'clock the party was still going on and I was getting light-headed with hunger. Watching everyone eat and drink when your stomach is empty is torture. I decided that eating something was crucial to not passing out in the middle of the party—regardless of the rules, I'm sure they wouldn't want that on their hands. When I was sure nobody was looking in my direction, I stole a tray of vegetable tempura with dipping sauce and ran into the bathroom. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and devoured the entire platter, washing it down with the sauce. I left the empty tray in the bathroom, gargled with some tap water so I wouldn't be accused of—dare I say it—eating, and quickly hurried back out to the party.

By midnight, the party was winding down and we were excused to our rooms. I insisted on not spending the night and just wanted to drive home. I was given the remaining clothes I wore in the show and my choice of several other designer items in my size and ran out the door.

Before I started the long ride home on I-95, I stopped at the first restaurant open late—McDonald's—and ordered a 50-piece chicken nugget, 3 Big Macs, 2 large fries, a chocolate shake, large Coke, and 2 apple pies. The cashier didn't even bat an eye as the boy slathered with makeup, a fauxhawk, and wearing Fall clothes in the middle of Summer devoured a meal meant for 5. That's one thing I love about New York City—no matter how crazy you look, people have seen worse.

Several weeks later, I got my $5,000 check in the mail. Along with the check was a 1099 form indicating I had to file the wages on my taxes, as well as a dry cleaning bill for $135 from the old bat who spilled a drink on herself. By this time, none of the cute clothes I'd received from the show even came close to fitting. I gave most of them to Goodwill and was glad to be rid of all remnants of the experience.

Anybody want an autograph from The Boy Next Door? Thought not.

Mistaken For A Prostitute

2011-02-10T09:10:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, on a beautiful Fall morning, I was outside on the corner waiting for my bus. It was on this morning that I was solicited as a prostitute.

The morning started out pretty spectacularly. I love autumn. I love the weather, the changing leaves, the way the air feels so crisp, and I love that it enables the layering of cute clothes without the necessity of a jacket. I woke up, showered, shaved, and picked out what I thought was a snazzy outfit—skinny-fit tan cords with a bright yellow t-shirt and matchingly bright, retro cardigan. I was fortunate enough to be working for a church at the time and there was no corporate dress code—it was come as you are. So, to match my hipster clothes, I had let my hair grow longer than usual so that it came down to my eyes and shoulders.

Before I left the house, I did the standard mirror-check while brushing my snaggle-teeth. Looking good.

I grabbed my messenger bag with requisite ipod and book for the ride into work, and left to go wait at the empty bus stop. Situated on the corner of my fairly busy street and an even busier thoroughfare, there was a lot of street traffic. Occasionally I would glance up from reading my book and look down the road to see if the bus was approaching, but mostly I was engrossed in my sci-fi and indie music. No sign of the bus. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a vehicle pull up to the curb.

I looked up to see a large silver Lexus idling there. The tinted passenger side window started rolling down. I saw a man in his mid-40's or so leaning over the column to get my attention. I thought nothing of this behavior at all. People are always pulling me aside in my neighborhood to ask me for directions—usually how to get the hell out of my neighborhood. I took my earbuds off, closed my book, and approached the car so I could hear the man.

"Hi!" I chirped.

"Hey there." He replied with what I thought was an abnormally large grin.

"...Can I help you?" I asked after a few seconds of quiet.

"Oh yes. I think so." He said in a half-chuckle.

A few more seconds of quiet.

"So... you workin'?" He asked in typical Bostonian.

At this point, any sane person would have stepped away from the car, realizing instantly what was happening—possibly before he even spoke. I, however, stood there, bent over, looking at him with a blank stare.

"I'm sorry?" I stammered.

"Are you workin'?" He repeated.

I didn't understand what was happening. My feeble mind couldn't grasp the very clear scenario. It was full of sweaters and shoes and Project Runway and thousands of miles from the stupid boy being propositioned. It felt like I was standing there, hunched over for hours even though it was only minutes at most. I tried desperately to comprehend what he was asking. Do I work at the bus stop? Like a driver taking a break? Does he think I work for the city? Oh! Maybe he thinks I'm an undercover cop?

The man with the wedding ring, mustache, and Lexus was getting impatient, watching his trick stand there like a deranged banana slug. He let out a very deep sigh and shook his married head.

"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A DATE OR WHAT?" He barked, snapping me out of my ponderings.

Something all of my friends and family know about me is that when I'm nervous, I laugh. I laugh so hard that I start snorting and can't breathe. This poses particular problems in job interviews and being pulled over.

I was very nervous. I started giggling. Realization hit me like a pigeon turd from above—sudden and sloppy. The absurdity of the situation got the better of me and I wasn't even able to reply. I started backing away from the car, shaking my head, and giggling uncontrollably. I started snorting and dropped my book to the sidewalk, doubling over.

Clearly annoyed, the man rolled up his window and sped off through a red light to get away from the crazy laughing hooker. This happened just in time for the bus to arrive.

I got on the bus, paid my fare, and found a seat. I was laughing and crying the whole ride. Fellow riders gave me a very wide berth that morning.

When I got to work and told my coworkers what had happened, they were shocked.

"I can't believe a man was looking for a prostitute at 8 a.m. at a bus stop!" One said.

"I wonder why he thought you were for sale, you look fine to me. Especially if you were reading a book." Another chimed in.

I marched into my boss's office to get his outraged thoughts on the scenario.

"Do I look like a hooker to you?" I asked indignantly.

"I could see that." He replied after not much thought.

"WHAT?!" I shrilled.

"Well, with your long hair and weird clothes, you look like you could be on drugs. Plus you're really pale. I can see the confusion."

And so, my nice Fall morning ended abruptly.

I thought I was totally cute and hipster, but I was really just hooker.

Why I Hate Dating

2011-01-19T13:40:00.000-08:00

There are plenty of reasons to hate dating. It is time-consuming, expensive, and most of the time proves to be fruitless. My biggest fear about dating is the first disappointment—whether it's disappointment in my date or theirs in me—typically it's the latter.

Like most of us, I've had my share of horrendous dates. Few are so scarring that you remember them years after the fact. My worst one started out so good and went downhill so fast that it felt like a bad dream. It was like I was watching some sitcom and the poor schmuck dating is all giddy with hope and then the date says or does something so heinous that it comes crashing to a halt.

I met Noah at a coffee shop while I was waiting for an interview to start. I arrived too early and didn't want to be rude so I decided to kill time with a tea. I walked into a Starbucks and was waiting in a long line when Noah walked in behind me. It began with an off-hand comment about how the lines here are always long. It ended with him buying my tea and sitting at a table with me. He was clearly interested in more and I was completely in shock. I'm not the kind of beauty that often gets hit on in public and certainly not in daylight. Before I had to go to my interview he asked me for my phone number. I wrote it down on a napkin for him, with "Joshua" above it. I don't know why I wrote "Joshua" instead of "Josh". I blame never being asked for my phone number before for not knowing how to handle the situation.

The very next day, Noah called. I almost thought it was a prank. A handsome, gentleman caller was calling ME the DAY AFTER meeting. No 3-day rule or game playing or googling me and finding out that I write a stupid blog and am practically a mental patient. He even wanted to see me again after our phone conversation (I give TERRIBLE phone and am incredibly awkward) which went like this:

Noah: Hi, it's Noah from Starbucks yesterday. How did your interview go?

Me: Is this a prank call? I swear to God if you're one of my asshole friends pretending to be the coffee shop guy I'll hunt you down, slit your throat, and shit down your neck.

Noah: Excuse me?

Me: It's really the coffee shop guy?

Noah: Yes. It's Noah. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner sometime and what your availability—

Me: YES!

Noah: Okay... that's good... and when are you free?

Me: ANYTIME! I mean... I don't have that job yet so my schedule is pretty open. I mean except for Tuesday night because I have to watch the West Wing and Gilmore Girls... but I mean I could always tape it if it was important. I still have a vcr. Tivo is kind of expensive and I hate Comcast so I try to limit their services. Aren't they the worst? I mean my internet always stops working and when you call them they're all like 'We can come next Friday between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.' and I'm all like 'You're damn lucky I don't have a job or I'd be so pissed off right now.'

Noah: Yeah... Comcast is the worst... so what kind of food do you like?

Me: LOBSTER! I'm just kidding. Isn't that what the person getting the free meal is supposed to ask for? I was only kidding. Not that I don't like lobster. It's good. Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't get many phone calls from strangers. Not strangers! I mean like strange guys... guys that ask me out.

Noah: Do you like French cuisine?

Me: I'm not sure. I've never had it. When I was younger there was this bully who used to give me a 'french crépe' which consisted of him wrapping his fist in a plastic bag and trying to get me to eat it at recess. But I'm guessing that doesn't count?

Noah: Do you like French wines?

Me: I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Most of the wine I've drank have been out of a jug that says 'Paisano' or 'Riunite'.

Noah: Ok. Why don't I introduce you to French then? I think you'll like it if you enjoyed that tea yesterday.

Me: You remembered what I was drinking? You're really nice.

Noah: You must know how attractive you are.

Me: I... You're... Thank you.

Noah: So how does tomorrow night sound for dinner? I'll call you beforehand with the address and time once I make a reservation.

Me: That sounds great. Thanks Noah. I'm really glad you called.

Noah: Me too. I'll see you tomorrow cutie.

I was elated the rest of the night and the following day. I called everyone I ever knew and told them all about my upcoming date and how some handsome stranger thought I was a "cutie." Before I'd even had my first date with Noah, my friends and family were sick of him.

Panic set in about 2 hours before the allotted date time. I didn't know what to wear. He'd seen me in my only interview outfit the other day. Anything else I put on just made me look homeless and pale. I settled on my best cardigan with funky houndstooth pants. On my train ride over to the french bistro, I heard another passenger whisper "70's porn star" to her friend while looking at me.

When I arrived Noah was already in the lobby, looking incredibly dapper in a suit jacket with a new haircut and trimmed beard. I gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he took my arm and ushered me to our table. He helped me take off my jacket and even pulled out my chair for me. I thought I might faint. Guys did that in the movies for glamorous women, guys didn't do nice stuff like that for other guys—let alone a disheveled looking ragamuffin.

Noah ordered a bottle of wine for us, helped me translate the fancy menu, and then ordered for us. The waitress returned with a beautiful bottle of wine, poured us both a glass, and we toasted to our chance encounter. We talked for a few minutes and he even seemed to enjoy my stupid sense of humor. In the beautiful restaurant with shimmering candles and a single chandelier providing the only lighting, the scene took on a magical quality. I was completely smitten and swooning when he looked up from his glass and asked:

"So... where do you go to Temple?"

Confused, but not thinking anything of it, I replied "I don't go to any temples."

"Oh." He said, "So you're a bad Jew?"

"No." I replied. "I'm a no Jew."

"You're not Jewish at all?" He asked, incredulous.

"No... Why would you think that?" I asked.

He hesitated, unsure of his words. I knew something awful and insidious was coming but I wasn't prepared for exactly what it was.

"Well... your name for one thing... it's a very Jewish name."

"It's a biblical name." I said non-chalantly. "Not specifically Jewish. My parents aren't religious at all. They just liked the name."

He continued. "And... well... to be honest... with a nose like that, I just assumed..."

"A nose like what?" I said much more shrilly than I'd hoped.

"It's just... it's a very Jewish nose..." He said sheepishly. "Anyways, Judaism plays an important part in my life. I only date Jewish boys... I'm sorry if I've misled you."

"Oh." I said, still in shock. "Well I'm sorry if I've misled YOU with my giant, hideous nose!"

"It's my fault." He said blushing slightly. "I shouldn't have assumed... I can't believe I'm the first person to tell you this though..."

"Well you ARE the first person to tell me this." I huffed.

"Maybe we should call it a night. Can I get you a cab?" He asked.

"No thanks. my nose might not fit in the backseat."

The long train ride home I spent touching my face, feeling around my nose, closing my eyes and pretending to be blind, learning my own face strictly through its contour. It didn't seem particularly big to me, but the more I touched it, the more gargantuan and grotesque it felt on my face. Other passengers started to look at the ill-dressed boy fondling his own face as silent tears trickled down.

When I got home, my roommate asked me what happened and why I was home before eight o'clock. I ignored her and went straight to the bathroom mirror. I stared at my hideous, ruinous, date-crushing, false-heritage nose. I pictured a plastic surgeon cutting into it to remove some cartilage.

"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't have a knife big enough for this job. And we may have to remove the excess cartilage in installments. I've never seen anything like this."

My earlier excitement about my date had completely betrayed me. Before bed I was flooded with phone calls, all wondering how my perfect date had gone and when was the wedding? Several times I had to recount the story of my mammoth nose and how appallingly bad the evening had gone.

To this day, I don't pass a mirror without looking at my nose in profile—a twisted Pinocchio look-alike. I also don't flirt with any strange men without first introducing myself by saying "Hello. My name is Josh. I'm agnostic. Nice to meet you."

The Trouble With Public Transit

2010-11-13T06:02:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-31T09:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-13T10:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-05T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Airline Industry,

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

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.
$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!

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?
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.
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.
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

2010-07-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-01-12T09:11:00.000-08:00

Blog more
Eat less
Exercise more
Talk louder
Mingle more
Hibernate less
Travel more
Make more
Spend less
Finish writing my silly book

Fired again

2009-12-08T11:51:00.000-08:00

I've made a career out of being fired. I make it look easy. People are often amazed by the sheer amount of jobs I've occupied and been asked to vacate immediately. It's difficult to keep track of, so I thought I would compile a list of the firing highlights chronologically:

1) Wicks N Sticks candle store. Nashua NH. Cashier
Reason: My first job ever. I was let go shortly after Christmas being told that I was strictly seasonal help. Working there since June, I was unaware of this entirely.

2) KB Toys Store. Nashua, NH. Cashier.
Reason: Do you know how when you are on vacation you lose all track of the date? The time when you become entirely oblivious as to what time and day of the week it is? Once you stop adhering to a schedule, the concept of time ceases to be. As it was with me in the Spring of 1996 in which I worked at KB Toys. Priding myself on my responsibility, I started working early at the age of 16 as soon as I got my junior operator's driver's license. Over my school's April vacation I continued to work at this job located in a nearby mall. However, when not at work I mostly hibernated in my bed while watching Golden Girls reruns. Because of this, I was completely unaware of the little phenomenon that we archaically celebrate called "Daylight Savings Time." I strolled into work an hour late when I thought I was precisely on time. The manager greeted me with a scowl and asked to see me in the stockroom where she unspooled. I made her an hour late for a lunch appointment because I deigned not to show up for my shift on time and she couldn't leave the register. I was shocked at the accusation and pointed to my calculator watch—1:00 on the nose, what was she talking about?
"Daylight Savings Time was 4 days ago." She spat.
Oh. Why doesn't anyone tell me these things? I suppose I should have figured it out after my Golden Girls lineup seemed all out of wack.
"I'm writing you up." She barked.
"What does that mean?" I inquired
"It means we have something in writing stating that you were tardy and it goes to the corporate office on your permanent record. If you get another write-up you won't be eligible for promotions and after 3 write-ups you can be let go."
"I'm sorry I was late, I really didn't know that it was daylight savings."
"I don't believe you." She replied, scribbling furiously on a form letter. "And even if I did, this is the company's policy."
"I don't really care if you believe me or not. It's the truth. I've worked here for almost a year and never been late. Do you really think I would stroll in an hour late one day just because?"
Ignoring me, she passed the form and pen to me, "You need to sign at the bottom where it says 'reprimanded employee.'"
"I most certainly will not." I replied, refusing to take the pen.
"If you don't sign this, it is grounds for termination." Her voice, full of ice.
"I thought that wasn't until the third write-up." I said smugly.
"Ha ha. Sign it." She urged.
"No."
"You have to." She growled staring into my eyes.
"I don't." Returning her Medusa gaze.
"Then get out!" She shouted suddenly.
"Fine! I hope you NEVER get to eat your lunch!" I shrieked, plowing through the revolving Staff Only door and out into the store.
"Fuck YOU!" She screamed after me, her shout echoing throughout the Pokemon, parent, and child-filled aisles.
It's a shame nobody was there to write her crazy ass up.

3) Sweets From Heaven candy store. Nashua, NH. Cashier.
Reason: The store was taken over by a Pakistani family and they didn't think I was a good fit, so they "hired" their 12-year old boy to cashier instead.

4) Lily's on the Pond Restaurant. Rindge, NH. Waiter.
Reason: Got into it with the bartender/co-owner one night when she was PMSing. We had a very rocky relationship from day one when I came in for my first waitstaff shift and she told me my dinosaur tie was inappropriate for a fine dining restaurant. I told her it was inappropriate to refer to the place as a fine dining restaurant since people wore full body aprons and sneakers. Our relationship continued to decline when I started taking smoke breaks like everybody else did, even though I have never smoked in my life. When I needed a break, I would just step outside and pretend to smoke. I carried a lighter and an empty pack of cigarettes in case anybody needed proof. If they needed a light, I gave them my lighter. If they needed a cigarette, oh sorry, I just smoked the last one. Empty. See? A heavy smoker, we would often cross paths outside and she would watch me like a hawk. I'd pretend to get a phone call or chew gum or anything else to get out of actually smoking a cigarette. Sometimes she would even offer me one and I'd have to come up with an excuse to refuse. One day she caught on and confronted me.

"You really shouldnt pretend to smoke just to take a break. It's not fair to the other employees." She said, taking a drag from her cigarette.
"You really shouldn't smoke when you're trying to have a baby." I replied, knowing she and her husband had been trying for 6 months now and everyday I got to hear about their exploits.
"I'm going to quit before the first trimester." She said defensively. "Besides it's none of your business."
"You make it my business when you tell everyone, including me, all about it."
"Fine. It saves me the chore of having to talk to you." She quipped.

After our chat, we didnt wind up on the schedule for any shifts together for a few months. The next time I saw her was because we were both called in to work a wedding reception. She was starting to show, and moodier than ever. I congratulated her and was met with a stare and silence. Taking the hint, I went about my work. Towards the end of the evening I went to the bar to grab a tray of drinks I had ordered and as I was walking away with the tray, she leaned over the bar and grabbed the back of my shirt, causing my to drop the entire tray onto the floor. Broken glass and wet clothing abound.
"What the hell is your problem?" I yelled.
"You didn't stab your drink slip." She yelled back.
"So?"
"If it doesn't get stabbed, then it just sits there and I accidentally make the order again."
"Then stab it. my hands were full!"
"Your hands aren't full now."
"I'll stab something alright!" I growled, and walked away to wash up.

I was let go promptly after the wedding.

5) NK Graphics, Keene, NH. Design Intern
Reason: A mandatory graphic design internship brought me to this place, and a mandatory internship would be the only thing to get me back there. Dull, drab, and dreary the office felt like a mausoleum, especially during the night shift when I worked because of my class schedule. I stuck out the 280 hours required of me, even after at about hour 200, my 40-something supervisor asked me to dinner in a hushed whisper. Dumb struck, I just stared blankly ahead with my mouth open. He told me not to worry, that even if I had hemorrhoids, they were just pleasurable speed bumps. Enough said.

6) Staples, Inc. Framingham, MA. Graphic Designer
Reason: Was told that personality-wise, I was a great fit, however my creativity was too much for the Staples brand to handle.

7) Whistling Swan Restaurant. Sturbridge, MA. Host
Reason: Asked for a raise up to $10/hour from my $8/hour. Was denied and promptly released from their employ.

8) Blue Water Grill Restaurant. New York, NY. Host
Reason: After my training was completed, was told I was a good employee and that their sister restaurant, Ocean Grill needed me more then they did.

9) Ocean Grill. New York, NY. Host
Reason: Was fired for not serving alcohol to a minor who happened to be a celebrity. Celebrities are exempt from our silly little laws you see.

10) Serendipity. New York, NY. Host
Reason: Perhaps my favorite firing because it caused the biggest scene. Let me give you some background information about this place. It is run by this wretched old shrew, Xandra. The first shift I shared with Xandra, she told me not to speak unless absolutely necessary because my Boston accent was off-putting. I could have lambasted her for this alone, but I held my tongue. Next shift she told me my pants were too baggy and that I should go home and change. I looked at her wrinkled blouse and windblown gray hair barely contained beneath a faded Yankees hat. "This isn't the East Village. This is Midtown." She said. I replied that I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. She scowled and said I didn't fit in and should go back to New Hampshire. Again, I held my tongue. Our Third shift together, shit got real.

A normal restaurant will number all of their tables. Serendipity thinks giving each of their 117 tables a name is the way to go. Table 11 is not Table 11. Table 11 is Marilyn. Why? Because Marilyn Monroe once sat there. Table 29 is Rose. Why? The owner likes roses. Excellent.

Lunch rush hit. There was a 45-minute wait, and the phone was ringing off the hook. I wasn't allowed to answer it lest my accent be discovered. Xandra flings some menus at me and instructs me to seat the next party of 4 at Steven. I nod, motion mutely for the people to follow me, and lead them to Steven. I come back and lead the next party to Crystal. Then Naomi. Tori. Vincent. No sooner do I seat Vincent when Xandra comes storming up to me in her frumpy skirt, bra-less shirt, sequened sandals, and a Yankees cap.

"Why did you seat a party of 4 at Steven?!" She barks—not even attempting decorum in the middle of the packed restaurant.

"Am I permitted to respond, your highness?" I ask sweetly.

"Steven is reserved for the President of 20th Century Fox! Now we have to seat him somewhere else!"

"You told me to seat the next party of 4 at Steven. That's what I did."

"No I said Kevin!" She yells—turning more and more heads in our direction. "You're not very bright are you? Do you even want to work here?"

"Is that a trick question?" I ask.

"That's it! You're out!" She stomps over to a cash register, thumbs through some twenty dollar bills and throws them at me. "Take your money and leave!"

"I will!" I shout, scrounging around on the floor, picking up my hard-earned sheckles while everyone in the restaurant looks on. A customer leans down and hands me a bill from under his table.

In a Carrie-like blood rage I stomp towards Xandra, and the exit, foaming at the mouth. She sees the fury in my eyes and backs up a step. Not far enough. I reach out, snatch her Yankees hat off her head and throw it down on the floor with extreme prejudice. "YANKEES FUCKING SUCK!!!" I shriek and stomp on it.

"GET OUT! You're BANNED! BANNED!" She screams at my back as I run to the exit.

"You couldn't PAY me to come back to this dump!" I turn around and face everyone seated at their tables, staring open-mouthed. "THEY PICK THE BROWN AND BLACK BITS OFF THEIR SALAD GREENS!" I warn and exit the restaurant forever.

I wonder if there's a job waiting for me at 20th Century Fox.

11) The Big Cup coffee shop. New York, NY. Barista.
Reason: I lasted 3 weeks at Manhattan's gay premeire coffee shop in Chelsea. I was fired for being too slow in making a customer's double-espresso half-caf macchioato-chino. The only real surpise here is that I wasn't fired sooner. Not being a coffee drinker or a particularly good listener, when people ordered extravaggant menu items such as this or maybe a soy chai latte-chino I would usually give them a cup of coffee with a whole milk foam on top.

12) Pink Pages. Boston, MA. Graphic Designer.
Reason: Mary, the beast of a lesbian owner, didn't like me from the start. But her designer quit suddenly and I was the only person who would work for $10/hour. She made it clear that I worked too slowly, dressed too nicely, my hair was too long, and was too friendly with my coworkers.

"Coworkers are a distraction. I'm paying you to work, not pick up tricks." She used to grunt, implying that not only was I not doing my job, but that I was also a whore.

Needless to say, I let my mouth fly back at her at every opportunity and got myself fired after 6 months. We are now currently feuding over my unemployment claim.

Another top 5 List

2009-10-05T12:05:00.000-07:00

Worst 5 People to Walk Behind

Couple in Love—These people really need a punch in the throat. They walk slowly ahead of you, gazing into each others' eyes with shy little smiles while you have just been dumped and spent the last few days watching the Gameshow Network and eating corn chips. Usually holding hands and taking up the entirety of the sidewalk, they are sure to make you late for any engagement. All you want to do is get a running start and crash through their interlocked arms, like the finish line of a race or a childhood game of Red Rover, send "___" right over! The younger couples will have hands in each others' back pant pockets, causing them to sway left and right with each stride as you try in vain to pass them. For maximum irritation they might stop in mid-stride to share a quick kiss. Your laser beam scowl bounces right off their force field of obliviousness. Your deepest hatred cannot penetrate their oasis of love. Helpless, you will follow this couple inevitably to your final destination. While you might veer into an office building for a day of work or a dentist appointment, they will continue onward to a picnic in the park or a couples massage.
Drunk Girl—We all know this girl. We have all walked behind this girl for what seems like miles in the wee hours of the morning when all we want to do is crawl under the covers. Inappropriately dressed, she will stumble slowly infront of you, swaying to and fro, blocking all escape paths. We try to walk very slowly behind her, keeping our distance in case she falls backwards and touches us—or worse—to prevent any passersby on the opposite sidewalk from thinking that we know each other. We want to distance ourselves from Drunk Girl as much as we can. We don't want to actually cross the street and pass her by because this might call attention to us and then maybe she will start spewing drunken obscenities at us. Slow and steady wins the race with Drunk Girl. Inevitably, Drunk Girl will whip a cell phone out of her purse and begin drunk dialing ex-boyfriends. The conversation might be something like this:

Drunk Girl: Heeeeey Keeeevin. Whatcha been up tooOOOoo?

*muffled response*

Foreign Tourists—While these people may only come from overseas, it often seems they come from another planet. A planet where rules of social acceptability do not apply. It seems to them that it is perfectly fine to blockade an entire sidewalk so that they can get a picture of one another infront of God-knows-what striking some inane pose, God-knows-why. Often traveling in flocks and speaking foreign tongues, the herd will never let you pass, never allow for any fun eavesdropping, and after irritating you thoroughly with their antics of stopping, starting, slowing, pointing, etc. They will even spin around and mime for you to take their photo infront of something. Despicable.
School Field Trip—If 50+ twelve-year-olds swarming around you isn't enough to churn your stomach, then you are a stronger man than I. 50 loud, laughing, screaming brats all revelling in prepubescency. 50 pairs of dirty hands high-fiving, pushing, and texting emoticons on their cell phones. 2 exasperated teachers will be trying in vain to control their loose flock, shouting orders over the crowd, like "Jimmy put that away!" "Kayla get that out of your mouth!" and the fruitless "Stay to the side to let people by!" Soon they will give up any thread of control of the herd and turn back to their coffees—irish no doubt. You'll notice people giving this group a wide berth. It's not that we inately fear children. After all, we are bigger, stronger, and can usually intimidate with words without the need for spankings or snapping their tiny necks like a chicken's. However children of today are different. They are teenagers at 10 years old. Moody, disrespectful, and under intense peer pressure to be cool. This means you won't hear any apologies when one bumps into you, no pleases or thank yous, and certainly no moving aside to let you pass. Part of me sympathizes with this ragtag group of adolescents and the trouble they are going to face in the years to come, while the other part of me wants a tractor trailer to tip over and wipe them all out so I can go on my way.
Smelly People—I'm blessed and cursed with a very large and sensitive nose. I have little tolerence for exposure to prolonged odors. This includes (yes I'm a terrible, awful, wicked wretch of a man) the homeless, sweaty joggers/gym enthusiasts, manual laborers, and simply anyone who decides to spray paint their bodies in cologne or perfume instead of dabbing or spritzing it on as intended. Fragrances are meant to be subtle and smelled only by those within arms length. It isnt to make a trail of stench that lingers for hours in your wake. If people follow behind you spraying air freshener, you should take the hint. If you leave a room and people open the window it is not a coincidence. It is these people I most dread walking behind. What is one to do? Hold their breath and hang back to let them get a head start and you become late? Pull your collar over your mouth, put your head down and make a mad, bullish dash past them? Ask them to kindly stop exuding noxious fumes? There is no easy solution but to find an alternative route entirely.

I make this list not because I'm a douchebag. If you've read any of my other posts, you already know this to be fact. I make this list to raise awareness. Be cognizant that if you fall into any of the 5 categories above, you are wrecking havoc on innocent people. Commuters, professionals, and children. Think of the children.

Top 5 List

2009-01-23T16:33:00.000-08:00

I haven't updated in the timely manner that I'd hoped for, and the amount of tactless occurrences have really piled up. To relieve the stress of covering each one in its own post, they will be summarily lumped into one. Drum roll please:

Had a nightmare that the sweet, homeless Chinese man in Boston Common that I see every morning had died. I discovered him in a heap surrounded by the pigeons that he had been so kind to over the years. The next morning on my way to work I saw him throwing out bread crumbs and was so relieved that I ran up to him and gave him a hug. He returned the hug and in doing so spilled a foreign liquid from his canteen down my backside. Upon arrival into work I was greeted with upturned noses and inquiring stares. The smell emanating from me was whiskey. No amount of standing under the hand dryer in the bathroom seemed to help. I sprayed myself down with bathroom air freshener and proceeded about my business.

Proclaiming myself a master of public transit and tempting the will of the Fates, I dared to not hold the handrails of the subway car and elected instead to read from my Tom Robbins novel. A sudden stop caused me to lose my page and also my footing. I was sent sprawling into the crotch of a middle-aged stranger. It smelled like blueberries and I told him so. I don't think he took it as the compliment I had intended.

Got food poisoning at an Indian restaurant during a first date. Feeling the chunks start to rise, I jumped up and fled toward the little boy's room. I didn't make it in time. A stream of curry-colored projectile vomit erupted from me and splattered against the bathroom door before I smashed through it and stumbled into a stall. After heaving several pounds of chicken tikka masala and lamb curry, I cleaned myself up, chewed a stick of gum, and returned to my table. After several minutes of silence, I burst out with "Well, that was a waste of money!" and snorted at my own appalling joke. I can't imagine why I wasn't called upon for a second date.

Exiting the house to walk Cinnamon, I slipped at the top of my icy porch and fell on my rear. Cinnamon then pulled me down the entire flight of stairs where I smacked my rump on each step before landing in a puddle of melted ice, salt, and dog urine at the bottom. My butt had symmetrical bruises on both cheeks, each increasing in latitude. It looked like a level from Super Mario Brothers.

Fainted at my doctor's office after giving blood. Insisting that I was fine 5 minutes later, I stood up to make my retreat and got woozy again. I intended to fall backwards onto an exam table, missed, and fell into a large bin full of soiled hospital gowns. I saw the nurse practitioner write "stubborn" and "weak constitution" on my chart.

Tollbooth Tactics

2009-01-13T12:40:00.001-08:00

Since I moved to Boston from New Hampshire, there is one person that I've found myself missing inexplicably. My arch-rival. My nemesis. The north-bound Hampton tollbooth man.

We met a year ago. I wonder if he remembers that fateful day as well as I do. I had my dog Cinnamon in the passenger seat with me, on my way to visit my boyfriend. Because I am an utter fool, I refuse to get an EasyPass—one of those Jetson-like devices that sticks to your windshield and pays your toll for you via a savings account. I don't trust it. Nor do I have a savings account or any savings to speak of.

As I sat one car back from the tollbooth, waiting for the elderly woman to fish out $1.50 from her purse, I watched the tollbooth man. A handsome, 50-something man with salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard—very New Hampshire. He was all smiles as he held out his hand, graciously accepting the woman's $1.50 like it were a Publisher's Clearing House check. He said "Thank you ma'am," waved goodbye, and she sluggishly pulled away in her green Volvo. I took my dollar down from my sun visor, fished fifty cents from my cupholder, and edged forward to the tollbooth window.

"Morning!" I chirped, happy to be outside in the Spring weather and en route to see my man.

"Hi." He replied flatly, his expression utterly devoid of any cheeriness that I'd just seen directed at the old bat in front of me. In fact, he looked at me and Cinnamon like we had just asked him for spare change. He held his hand out and waggled his fingers, like he were in a real rush. Exactly where are you rushing off to Mister Booth?

Ignoring the thinly veiled hostility, I reached out intending to gracefully plop my tuppence into his paw. Instead, I accidentally managed to hit his hand with my own, launching my money onto the highway. Embarrassed, I apologized and opened my driver door to get out and scrape up the scattered coins. I misjudged the distance between my car and his station. My door flung open and smashed into the side of his booth. The man recoiled in disgust, as if I had done it intentionally and with extreme prejudice. I apologized again, got out of the car, and dropped to the ground, hunting for change. Cars behind me were about as amused as he was. I found my dollar and quarters that had dispersed under the car, stood back up, and held out my money for him to take—hoping to drive away with some dignity.

"Sir, get back in your car please." He said gruffly.

Confused, I got back in my car, shut the door, and extended my hand out the window. This time, he took my money.

"Thanks." I said, still determined not to let this damper a beautiful day.

"Yeah. Thanks a lot buddy." He grunted, looking at his cash register and avoiding my eyes.

His sarcasm wasn't lost on me. Neither were his several slight insults over the course of our 60-second exchange. I decided that I hated this man. The man who had been so courteous to the woman in front of me, and so unwelcoming to myself. He drew a battle line this day, and I intended to cross it. We will meet again.

Next weekend, on my way back up to visit NH, I approached the tollbooth section slowly, stalking my prey. I wanted to be damn sure that if he was working, I pulled up to his booth. Spotting him on the far left, I veered over and gingerly pulled up to his station. Over the course of a day, he must see at least 500 people, but I am fairly confident he recognized me. He did his best to not look at me. No niceties. No greeting. He held out his hand and stared straight ahead at his mini television. Following suit, I stared straight ahead, extended my hand full of quarters vaguely above his, and loosened my grip. The quarters bounced off his palm and rolled down the highway. Not even coming to a complete stop, I just continued through the toll. I was quite pleased with myself. I hope he had to exit his cave and crawl on the pavement, hunting for my change or have it come out of his salary.

Every weekend for the next few months we continued this routine. I made damn sure to pull up to his tollbooth. He made damn sure not to ever look at me. Sometimes he would catch my money and sometimes it would fall to the ground like a battle gauntlet.

Our hatred for each other actually seemed to grow. Once when I was pulling up to his booth, he turned the red light on and took his lunch break—exiting through a side door and never looking back. I had to reverse and find another booth. My rebuttal was counting out 30 nickels and giving that to him on my next voyage. I have to give him credit, because despite the pound of change thunking into his hand, he still never looked at me. I would have given him 150 pennies, but that seemed too obvious and planned. I wanted him to think that I hadn't given it a thought. That he was a nonentity to me. In fact, I spent many hours thinking of the awful things I could do to this man. This stranger that—had things worked out differently—maybe we could have been friends. Maybe we could have hung out at a local bar, sharing beer and peanuts. He could tell me about all the assholes he has dealt with on the highway. I could tell him about the awful dresses on Project Runway this season. Instead, because he wanted to play nasty, I was one of the highway assholes that he tells his real friends about. I could hear him now. "Yeah Jim. There's this little piss-ant and his girly-looking dog that always come to my booth and drops money everywhere without looking or slowing down." Imagining him talk about me behind my back to his friends—or maybe his wife if the sonofabitch duped a good woman into his bed—made me all the more vengeful.

Maybe next time I would simply hurl my change out the window and let the chips fall where they may. If I was lucky, one would get him between the eyes or chip a tooth. Or maybe I would coat my quarters with honey or syrup and plop them into his hand, getting him all sticky for the rest of the day. I bet he's not the type to have hand sanitizer in his booth. I bet it would really put a damper on his day. I bet that everytime he reached out to take change from someone else, he would flinch as it dropped into his sweaty palm. Maybe it would inspire him to wear gloves and be nicer to people that aren't old. I mean, really, shouldn't he be wearing gloves anyways? If I worked in a tollbooth, I would. Maybe I could teach Cinnamon an "attack" command and have him leap out the open window, going directly for the jerk's throat. My mind reeled with possibilities to torture this man. Didn't he deserve it after all? He was rude to me, and I'm a nice person—thoughts of torture aside.

Our time together was cut short after my visits to NH came to an end. All of the plots I so cleverly devised never came to fruition. I actually found myself missing my rival. What is a superhero without his villain? A protagonist without an antagonist in a booth? It was sort of like we were dating. We saw each other only on weekends and all too briefly. Each time we met, we did something different. We always learned more about each other after each exchange. Our minute together was worth all the $1.50's in the world. I wonder if he thought about me too. I suppose he was pretty happy to be rid of me and watch his television in peace.

Several months later, I needed to fly out of Manchester Airport in NH. I drove north in a snowstorm to stay over at my friend's house for an early morning flight. It hadn't even dawned on me that I might be seeing my "friend" again as I crossed over the NH border. Sure enough, as I trailblazed through the snowy night in my little, all-wheel-drive, cherry red wagon, I spotted him in a booth. It was hard to see him through the snow, but I could see his stub of a beard and his ridiculous fishing hat he always wore. He was in a different booth than usual. And there was only one other booth open with an attendant that accepted cash. I thought about going quietly into that good night and driving up to the other booth. Perhaps sparing us both a last, painful encounter. I didn't have any tricks up my sleeve anyways. I was tired, cold, and unprepared. And still, my car gravitated over to his booth.

I pulled up slowly, snow crunching under my salty tires. I rolled down my foggy window and started readying change from my cupholder. You can imagine my surprise when I heard him speak to me.

"Haven't seen you in a while. Where ya been?" He asked in a voice that was unexpectedly warm in such cold weather.

I sat mute for a couple seconds, still in shock and totally unsure of how much information to divulge.

"Haven't needed to come to New Hampshire anymore... I was dating someone here but... I don't anymore... I live in Boston." I stumbled.

"Ah." he said, venturing a reticent glance at me, as if he were in trouble at school and I were a principal.

"Yeah..." I trailed off.

The silence on the dark, snowy highway was unsettling. It seems unnatural that a place designed to fit so many people and loud machines simultaneously could be so vacant and dark. The only light was coming from above us—a single bulb with no covering, like an interrogation room.

I stretched out my gloved hand to give him my $1.50 and he reached out to accept. Our hands touched as I gently placed it into his naked hand. There was no malice in our touch, nor anything sexual. It was simply two people connecting as exposed humans do.

"Thank you." He said grinning.

"No, thank you." I said.

"So... be seeing you and that dumb mutt of yours around?" He chuckled into his beard.

"Yeah bitch. You'll be seeing me again." I gave him a wink.

"Watch your mouth. I'm a public servant." He said, feigning shock.

"Yeah. and don't you forget it." I spat.

We waved goodbye and I sloshed back onto the snowy highway. I actually felt sorry for this man who was out working in a cold booth during a snowstorm at 11:00 pm and had to put up with assholes like me. I glanced in my rear-view mirror to see if he was watching me drive away.

He was giving me the finger.

Another Divorce

2008-10-20T15:59:00.000-07:00

Its been a while since my last update. A year to be exact. In the past year I met a wonderful guy who very successfully pulled my heartstrings from another state. After about 7 months of dating I took the plunge and moved in with him. Might seem a bit too early, but a series of events led to it seeming like the best choice—my lease being up, my dog attacking my roommate's boyfriend, wanting a change from the city, etc.

Off I went, bright-eyed and bushy tailed—completely unaware of all the impending problems that arise when 2 people—who until 7 months ago were strangers—mash their lives together. Ignorance really is bliss, and knowledge is quite frightening. When you share a space with someone and see them everyday instead of 2 times a week, you begin to see ALL of them. Not just how they doll themselves up for the weekly visit. The masks come off, the walls go down, and the Emperor has no clothes. The initial relationship magic subsides and gives way to knowing and realization. How do you make love stay? What makes it go away in the first place? I don't think all the couples counseling in the world can answer that.

The human heart is a fickle thing. When we learn something about another that we don't like, we recoil. The first cut is the deepest. After that, we look for other things that are unsavory. We assess whether it is changeable, tolerable, or unwieldy. We have these unsettling feelings that we were wrong in giving our heart to this perfect person who is suddenly flawed. And maybe they think the same about us. What flaws does he see in me? How can I change them for the better, if he won't point them out to me. How dare he tell me that I'm too stubborn and need to compromise. Where does he get off? No. Wait. Its unfair to be angry. He's just sharing his feelings with me. Well what gives him the right to tell me what to do or how to be? He's not perfect himself. When I try to point out something to HIM, HE gets all defensive. Aren't I allowed to do the same. No. Take the high road. Compromise. Relationships are about compromise. But why am I doing all the compromising? Am I the only one who cares? Does he not love me as much as I love him? If he did, then he would listen to me and make an effort to make me happy.

We fight with ourselves long before we fight with our partner. We try to cover every angle. Assure ourselves that it's a battle worth fighting. Think of everything they can/would say in retaliation. It seems to be a battle without a winner. When the losing battles pile up, our feelings change from optimistic caution to frustration and disillusionment. We feel we can do better. Find someone that is a better "fit" for us. Maybe my partner is feeling the same way? I wish they would just tell me. Why do I have to be the villain and start confrontations? Why isn't this a two-way street? I can't believe I gave up my life to be a part of his. I bet he doesn't even want me here. Why stay? Fight or flight?

I chose flight. We had another talk that was supposed to be productive and instead led to disagreement. I couldn't take it anymore and I left that afternoon. To avoid feeling any pain, I set my efforts on stuffing my life into boxes and bags and loading it into a truck. Use anger to avoid the sorrow. Use focus to ignore the loss. It wasn't until unpacking a bag full of underwear into my new, unfamiliar, tiny, shrinking-by-the-second room that everything hit. The past year of effort and love was lost. Why? How? What did I do wrong? Was it a mistake? Does he feel the same? The doubts run rampant and fast like a marquee.

My heart sank and chunks rose in my throat. I'm losing more than a relationship. I'm losing a life and love. I'm losing him and every part of him. His family. His friends. His dogs. His familiar house. The comfort of his hugs and backrubs. His jokes and quirks. His dentist I switched to. His gym I just joined. The upcoming trips we had planned. My date for the wedding. My ride to the airport. My someone to call when something is wrong. My someone to call when something is right. Who do I call now?

This is when we turn to friends. "I'm sorry." "Time heals all wounds." "It'll be okay." I want it to be okay NOW. Make it go away. I would make it go away for you. A friend—far more spiritual than I—actually told me that God doesn't throw things at us that we can't handle. I asked her why people committed suicide then. She didn't have a reply.

I barricaded myself infront of my computer and surfed the internet. For nothing in particular. I stumbled across a few Live Journals and blogs wherein people wrote entries similar to this one. I always hated online diaries. I think that a diary is personal. Private. Not for everyone on Earth to read. But as I read some of these entries—running the gammett from lovesick 15 year olds to 40 year old heart-broken divorcees—I was actually smiling. They were all writing the things that I was feeling. Their streams of consciousness were almost identical to mine. We were all marching in identical, sad, routeless parades. The sameness in me is the sameness in them. It feels good to not be alone. It took strangers to bring me familiarity. I think I understand online journals now. They're not just for us. They're for people like us.

I'm not okay. I don't feel fine. I don't want time to think it over. I want it to BE over. But I know I'm not the only one feeling as I do. I hope if you read this that it brings meaning to your sadness as it did me. Or makes your good mood even better knowing that you are a step above.

I can say with some certainty that my next entry will not be as long in coming as this one. Nor will it be morose. I'll stick to being tactless.

Bathroom Ettiquette

2007-10-23T10:35:00.000-07:00

After single-handedly destroying a good relationship with a decent guy who actually enjoyed my company and thus securing my position in the local convent, it was time to move out of my new home. Ironically, the day after the housewarming party was when everything crumbled into spectacular pieces.

Leanne and I looked at some real shit holes before finding a great apartment in Jamaica Plain. All it took was pretending that we were a young couple in love to convince the elderly landlords that we deserved the place. "We're really just looking for a place to settle down together." We chimed in unison and held each other's hands, cooing.

"You're the cutest couple we ever did see." they replied. Jackpot.

My first morning in the new apartment ended badly. Waking up and stumbling over boxes and bags to get to the bathroom for a shower, I found a towel, some soap, and disrobed. I liked our new bathroom. It was somewhat spacious, clean tiles and tub, and even has a little timer dial on the wall that you turn to the desired length of your shower (i.e. 20 minutes) and an exhaust fan on the ceiling would come on for exactly tweny minutes. Aside from the convenience of the fan, it was also nice to have a little alarm clock. When the fan shuts off, it was time to get out of the comfy, warm shower or risk being late.

I reached out from behind the hideous tropical bird themed shower curtain and turned the dial to 20 minutes. The gentle humming of the fan came on and filled me with peace. Before I could turn the water on, the gentle hum of the fan increased into a loud monotone whirring sound, like a super-powered hand dryer in a public restroom. As the noise increased in intensity and pitch, the shower curtain began swaying to and fro. Slapping against my bare, white thighs and then retreating out of the tub entirely. I could feel the wind generated from the fan sweeping over me like an el niño jetstream. It gave me the chills.

Rather than worry about the curtain or how to fix the fan, I was more concerned with getting warm. I reached down and turned on the hot water. It came pouring out of the tub faucet and felt nice against my feet. I pushed the faucet switch over from "tub" to "shower," prepared to be engulfed in hot water.

I was mistaken.

The entire time, I had never even bothered to look up at the shower head. If I had, I would have noticed that it was missing. It was a pipe protruding from the wall that ended abruptly without any sort of controlling device to stop the flow of water. Like a rider of an unfinished roller coaster, I could see what lay ahead, but was powerless to stop it.

Water came bursting forth from the pipe overhead like it were a fire hydrant. The unexpected force of it shoved me back against the tiled wall. My slick, bare bottom skidded over the tiles as I struggled to maintain balance. I reached forward, trying desperately to grab the handle and turn the water off, but the relentless flood blasted me in the face. Blinded by scalding water and stumbling around like a a dog on ice, I reached out for something--anything--to help me regain my footing.

I latched my meathooks around the shower curtain, trying to pull myself upright against the raging torrent of water. As I put my weight on the curtain, the shower rings began to burst open, one by one i could hear them snapping off, unable to bear my heavy burden. The last few rings burst open with a snap and sealed my fate. I lurched sideways and toppled out of the tub like a mighty oak tree.

Luckily, a box of towels and prescription drugs broke my fall and I was spared a savage concussion on the tiled floor. Without my body in the way to take the brunt of the firehose shower head, the water was now spraying against the back wall and splashing all over the bathroom--wetting the floor, ceiling, boxes, and towels.

I tried getting back on my feet. I thought if I could just turn the water off, the morning could be salvaged. I could eat my Lucky Charms, watch Al Roker give me the weather forecast "in my neck of the woods" and traipse off to work like nothing had gone wrong. I tried desperately to get up, but I was tangled up in the curtain. An otherwordly fog was enveloping the bathroom. I couldn't see my feet to disentangle them from the snare. The shower curtain constricting against me felt like a wet trash bag, making my skin crawl.

Thrashing around on the bathroom floor like a drunken goldfish didn't seem to help. Puddles of hot water were forming on the floor. I started to panic.

"LEANNE!" I screamed. "HELP!"

No response.

"WAKE UP! I'M STUCK!"

My pleas for help were being swallowed by the gurgling sound of the ineffectual fan above. Slithering across the floor and shedding the curtain behind me like snake skin, I reached again for the faucet knob. Adrenaline pumping, sweat and tears mixing with saturated air, I finally grasped a knob through the fog and heaved myself on top of it.

The endless stream from the pipe above stopped. My twenty minutes were up and the fan shut off. The chaos was shattered by sudden silence. The drain gurgled as a few remaining water drops slid down its mouth.

I heaved off the limp, wet shower curtain and threw it into the tub with extreme prejudice. The parrots printed on it seemed to caw with laughter. I looked around the bathroom at the broken, soggy box I had landed on, the puddles on the floor, the fogged up mirror, the shower curtain rungs that had fallen on the floor along with me. It resembled a scene from Titanic.

It took another tweny minutes just to clean up the wreckage. I strolled into work an hour late, disheveled, unshowered, and badly groomed.

"How's the new apartment?" My coworkers asked.

"It's good."

Tactfully Replaced

2007-09-25T10:53:00.000-07:00

We all have our image problems. Girls certainly have more than guys what with the high gloss magazines telling them they're fat, chestless, and alone. But guys have their share as well.

Some of us have no fashion sense, others have bushy caterpillar eyebrows, while others have nipples the size of petri dishes or dinner plates. Thankfully, my nipples are small, my eyebrows tweezed, and my style impeccable. However, i am not without my physical flaws. My nose is enormous and shark-like, I have a droopy eye, my eye lashes are so long that they push sunglasses right off my face, I have a mole on my belly that grows a giant black hair overnight once a month, and I have large, hairy hobbit-feet, small hands, and thin hair.

An ex of mine that I dated when living in Astoria, New York City pounced on every opportunity to point out these flaws. In fact, after a particularly brutal berating from this fiend, I asked him point blank what DID he like about me? His answer was grounds for an immediate separation.

"Well...I like that you're average looking. Cute guys know they're cute and are arrogant. Ugly guys are boring and try to compensate with personality. You're average-looking and you know it. It's refreshing."

I do?

I was pretty much speechless after that. What does one say when your significant other calls you average looking? That your best quality is your average looks? What does that say about the rest of the package? I don't fancy myself an adonis, but I like to at least think I'm mildly attractive. At least in a dimly lit restaurant or a dark bar I look cute.

Needless to say, our relationship crumbled quickly after this little pep talk. Whether I'm attractive or not, I at least want someone who thinks I'm cute. We decided to stay friends and have remained so even after I left New York for Boston. After not hearing from him for months, I decided to give him a call and see how he was doing. Our conversation went like this:

"Hi Joe, it's Josh. Just calling to see how you're doing. It's been a while."

"Hey Josh. Good to hear from you. I'm doing well. Started seeing a great guy."

"That's great! What's he like?"

"Well, he's 28, tall, skinny, Italian, creative, and shy at first but really funny once you know him."

"Sounds like someone else I know." I said jokingly about myself.

"I guess so..." He continued on. "He lives in Astoria and he's a graphic designer for a nonprofit company."

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, why?" He replied oblivious to the similarities between this new man and myself.

"Nothing...keep going."

"He likes Mel Brooks movies, wine, Apple computers, and Chinese buffets."

"Okay now you're just messing with me." I laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nonprofit graphic designer? tall and thin? Spaceballs? Wine? Buffets? Lives in Queens?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Remind you of anyone?"

"What are getting at?"

"You're dating me!" I raised my voice, awed by his unawarement.

"No I'm not. He's really cute." He said nonchalantly.

"What's his name?" I hissed. "Josh?"

"Very funny. His name's Steven."

"What's his sign?" I continued on.

"I don't know. His birthday was in May."

"A taurus?"

"Maybe. Why? What are you?" He asked.

"What do you think? I'm a taurus!" I spat.

"Are you jealous or something? You shouldn't be. You should come meet him. You'd really like him."

"No thanks. I don't like looking in the mirror."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He growled.

"Nothing."

I know it was a silly thing to be mad at him for his new boyfriend. I should have been happy for him. What pissed me off was being replaced by a more attractive version of myself. Isn't there enough competition out there from entirely different people without me having to compete against a prettier me?

I eventually did meet Steven. He's everything that Joe described. He was very nice, and he actually seemed to like me very much. Maybe we're not so alike after all.

Seasonal Tact

2007-09-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

The last three people I've heard talking while on the elevator have all been complaining about the weather. Standing there nonchalantly with my earphones on but my ipod turned off so that I can hear every word they're saying, I listened to them rip Autumn a new one.

"I hate the Fall!" they complain. "It's cold in the morning and hot during the day."

"I never know what to wear."

"I'm sick of wearing brown for 3 months."

"All the trees are dying. Raking them is such a pain."

"There's too many college kids around now that school has started."

Etc. Etc. Etc.

Call me crazy, but I love the Fall. How can anyone not love it?

The air is crisp and clean. It feels like snow is coming, but it isn't yet. The leaves on the tree-lined streets are shedding their cumbersome weight in firework displays of red and gold. The leaves on the ground make the nicest crunching noise as you walk all over them--like biting into a head of lettuce. The ground gets so saturated with suicidal leaves that it looks like a red carpet rolled out before you.

Students go back to school, triggering "Back to School Sales" that everyone can enjoy--student or not. Dorm furniture--ripe for the taking--fills the streets after trying in vain to fit in closet-sized rooms.

Perhaps my favorite part of Fall--the part that makes others cringe while I giggle with delight--is the fashion.

The bright fashions of Summer are boxed away in basements in favor of more sensible earth colors. Browns, golds, and reds appear on mannequins in store windows. Short shorts, hairy legs, and cleavage stand aside to make way for smart, touchable sweaters and khakis. No jackets needed yet, unless it's for style's sake.

My dark hair, pale complexion, and feces-colored eyes are perfectly complemented by Fall colors. Not only that, the cool Fall mornings and warm days require careful clothing planning. Layering is your friend. Layering is a gay man's dream. It allows for a mid-day wardrobe change. Leaving the house in a t-shirt covered by a fuzzy pull-over sweater, I return home with my t-shirt on and my sweater in my man-purse. When the sun peeks out in the afternoon, it's my cue for a costume change. 2 outfits in one day! What's not to like?

My only bad Fall experience was during a dentist appointment. Wearing my infallible t-shirt/sweater combo, I sauntered into my dentist's office only to discover that his heating system was on the fritz. It was my first dentist appointment in three years. I had never met this man...this "Dr. DeSoto" as they call him. Walking into his office was like skating into an igloo. My nipples stood at attention and could be seen through my multiple shirt layers.

Acting like nothing was wrong, he shook my frigid hand and ushered me into his torture chair. I couldn't tell if I was shivering because of the cold or out of fear that he would chastize me for not going to the dentist in three years--that I had mouth-rot, that my teeth were so riddled with cavities they all needed come out immediately, that they don't have any veneers to replace them with and so I'll have to gum my way through life.

"Let's see what we have here." He muttered into his mask and yanked my mouth open.
I could see my icy breath rising from my gaping maw. While he was prying around my mouth with some sort of incendiary device, I got the chills. He tapped on one of my tusks to check for decay and I shivered, biting down on his fingers. It wasn't on purpose--at least I don't think it was--but he was too busy screaming and bleeding to accept my apologies. He ran to the bathroom to wash off.

Sitting there on his operating table, I was getting a case of the cold sweats. My t-shirt was soaked to my skin, my palms were wet, my hair stuck to my face. I leapt up and started pulling my sweater over my head, desperate for some air. It got tangled on my melon head on its way off. Struggling mightily, I couldn't remove it. It got further lodged and twisted.

I heard footsteps approaching from the bathroom but couldn't see anything. Trying to look casual I went to sit back down in the chair but missed and sat on a tray of dental tools instead. Crashing to the floor and taking the tools with me, I flopped around on the ground like a seal, bare-chested and exposed.

"What are you DOING?" I heard the silhouette of DeSoto shout.

"I'm sorry!" I yelled into my shirts. "I was cold! I mean...hot! And nervous!"

I struggled to my feet, crunching on some tools and hitting my head on the overhead lamp causing it to swivel into a cabinet with a crash.

"We're done here! Please leave!" He boomed.

It took me several minutes to find the door, but I did leave and never came back. It took me two more years to go to a new dentist. I had three cavities, gingivitis, and a loose filling. It was still an improvement over my last visit.

Hospital Tact

2007-08-28T07:29:00.000-07:00

My Aunt Cindy was recently admitted to Boston Medical Center. Going in for a headache, she is now staying with diagnosed acute leukemia.

Having extremely little knowledge of what this actually was, I asked around and the consensus is that this is the "bad kind" of leukemia. Instead of its chronic counterpart which happens over time and can be more easily detected in early stages, acute leukemia strikes suddenly, without warning or cause, and can kill in a matter of weeks.

I didn't see how this was possible. Young, fit, long-distance running Cindy is the picture of health. I had to go and see for myself.

Making a quick call to my Mother, who is a nurse, for advice on what to bring with me, I hopped in the car and went to the hospital. I was told not to bring flowers, fresh fruit, or anything dirty as they can't risk Cindy getting any additional illnesses or infections in her weakened state. Flowers and a fruit basket were out of the question. Instead I stopped by the Latin Market down the street and picked up Twinkies, Moon Pies, Zingers, Ho ho's, and honey buns. Thinking she would be there for a while, I grabbed some books of short stories and novels from my bookshelf for her to read.

Arriving at the hospital and checking in with the nurse's station, I was told she was downstairs having some tests done and would I please wait in the lobby. I waited and watched the Red Sox decimate Tampa Bay until Cindy was wheeled by. Following the bed to her room, I saw her get up, stagger a bit, and work to open the door and pull herself inside. I followed her up to the door and, not wanting to startle her, knocked first, and started to enter her room.

"You have to wash your hands and put on a mask." She labored. "Germs."

"Right. Sorry." I said.

I rushed down the hall, found a bathroom, washed my hands, grabbed a surgical mask and gloves from the nurse's station, and went back to the room.

"Where did you go?" She asked me, sitting in a chair by her bed.

"To the bathroom to wash my hands." I replied, confused by the question.

"You just have to use the disinfectant outside the door, next to the masks. And you don't need gloves."

"Oh. Sorry. I haven't really done this before."

"That's okay. Me neither." She said.

There was a strange span of silence then. It was awful. I looked at her, looking sad, scared, frail, in pain, covered in IV's and bandages, and I just wanted it to stop. I stood up to cross the bridge of space between us and give her a hug. Then I stopped myself. I'm not supposed to touch her, I remembered. Feeling silly just standing there, I picked up the bag of items I brought and handed it to her. "These are for you."

Cindy managed a smile as she opened the bag and pulled out the assorted books and trashy novels I brought with me. Then my marathon-running, health-conscious Aunt pulled out the now-smooshed Twinkies and various Little Debbie assortment from the bottom of the bag.

"I know you don't really like junk food...but they said its what's best for you now. They don't want you to lose any weight and you can't have fresh food." I mustered.

She nodded, smiled, and thanked me.

Visiting her, I thought we would have a lot to talk about. But actually being there changed all that. Everything I had meant to tell her suddenly seemed so insignificant in the face of this impending crisis. I didn't want to talk about my new condo when who knows when she'll see hers again. I didn't want to talk about my new job while she was on a leave of absence or the new dog I was planning to get while she looked so alone. Another moment of silence crept into the sterile room. Unable to bare it and unsure of what I could do to possibly comfort her, I blurted out:

"How are you feeling?" She went to the doctor for an earache and was told her odds are 50/50. How do you think she's feeling, dumbass?

"I'm hanging in there."

She went on to tell me about all of the tests they were doing and they would be starting chemotherapy in the morning. She seemed to know everything that was going on around her. I suppose that if you're in a situation like hers--knowledge is your only real weapon.

I listened to her talk about what the nurses and doctors said, what tests have shown, and general leukemia facts. Even though she was tired and nervous, she was starting to sound a little better. I couldn't physically comfort her in any way, but having someone to talk to was making a difference.

While I was visiting Cindy, every member of our family called to check up on her too. She may have felt lonely, but she was far from alone. Knowing that is keeping up her fight. After she beats leukemia and comes home, I can't wait to go out for some chocodiles with her.

Still Intact

2007-08-24T06:34:00.000-07:00

Last night was a much needed fun escape from the horrors of being on a fixed budget after buying my first condo (see right.)

It began with a matinee showing of Super Bad at Loews on Boston Common. Featuring heinous language, violence, toilet humor, and more raunch than a teen's wet dream, it was right up my alley. I give it an A-.

After the show, we shuffled on over to Shanghai Restaurant in the Chinatown/Theatre District area (see right.) If you like your bad service with a side of mausoleum-esque atmosphere then this is the place for you. Featuring 4 tables total, a bar with 4 stools, and 3 silent, mummified employees who eschew eye contact—the place left much to be desired. The only employee who did make eye contact was the gremlin in the kitchen who was periodically taking breaks from cooking the tasteless food to gawk shamelessly at my attractive friend. Stealing the show, however, was my fortune cookie. Managing to best even the rude waitstaff, it contained this gem:

"Today, your mouth might be moving but no one is listening."

Paying our bill we rushed back down the street to the theatre for an 8:05 showing of Stardust. The movie would have been pretty bland if it wasn't for Claire Danes, Bobby D., and Michelle Pfieffer. The story was cute and creative, Deniro's character unexpected, and the special effects good. The problem was the visible striving to be the next Princess Bride or Never Ending Story and falling short. I'll give it a B on merit.

As I was listening to the closing music and watching the credits to see the name of the cute hero actor, I leaned down to grab my bag (man-purse) only to discover its absence. Jumping up with trepidation I looked down the aisle floor searching for my perfect little bag. Dear God, my phone, camera, pills, ipod, and, most important, my journal are in that bag. Abandoning the rest of our group, I Snatched the hand of my friend Leanne and ran back to Shanghai Restaurant to see if a good Samaritan had discovered it and kept it safe.

Being completely ignored by the oblivious employees, it was easy to skulk around the restaurant looking for it on bended knee like it were a lost puppy. Spotting it behind the bar I let out a giant sigh of relief and crawled toward it. Tiny Asian feet inside tiny shoes intercepted my recovery. Looking up at the bartender I told him that I had just eaten here (sadly) and that it was my bag. He didn't seem convinced. I could see where he was coming from since the restaurant was just packed full of people and how could he possibly remember the only table who had just eaten there? I pleaded more in a language he didn't understand and pointed to the bag, making gestures of putting it over my shoulder and walking out the door. Wearing him down with my charades, gibberish, and native tongue, he acquiesced and stood aside.

I grabbed my bag and ran outside with it, rummaging through to see what had been ransacked and what the Gods had deemed necessary for me to keep. Everything was intact. I whipped out my cell phone to call the group I had just abandoned at the theatre to explain my behavior. Perhaps it wasn't the best decision to stop and make a phone call on the corner of a Chinatown street at night. A tall black man in a Red Sox cap tapped me on the shoulder while I was on the phone, asking:

"Hey big dude, when you get off the phone, can I ask you a question?"
First off—never call me "big dude" unless I've known you for 3+ years. Secondly, I know what you want to ask me—can I give you any money? And lastly, you're better dressed than I am with my Filene's Basement Bargain Bin t-shirt and tattered jeans—why ask me for money?

I nodded to the scary stranger, exchanged a scared look with Leanne, and continued my phone conversation while taking baby steps down the sidewalk toward the subway. Taking the hint, the man gave up on waiting for me to finish my call and walked away. I hung up and we walked swiftly to the T-station.

All I could think of the whole way home was that when I start my own Fortune Cookie company, all of my fortunes will be as vicious as the insults in Super Bad.