Sometimes you gotta make a scene at a grocery store. Its all about the coin. If the US Gubment won’t 86 them, perhaps the Coinstar machines will.
Archive for November, 2007
This video from The Onion had me laughing painfully, because in my fatter, younger years I was this kid. In fact, I had special “swimming shirts,” in my wardrobe, that I only used for the pool or the ocean. These shirts, and the one that immediately comes to mind is the “History of Art” teeshirt that my aunt bought for me in Provincetown, were all uniformly black, unlike the boy in the video. I chose black as the color of my swimming shirts because it did not become at all transparent with wetness; the wet black shirt became like an opaque seal skin that securely concealed my boy-tits and blubbery boy belly.
The longterm consequence of keeping “swimming shirts” in constant wardrobe rotation is the unstoppable decay of both the color and fabric of the shirt. Eventually, chlorine washed all the black out of these shirts, turning them brown, on the way to tan. Sea salt exposure made them coarse as leather, and uncomfortable on my sensitive and supple, never-sees-the-sun torso. Black was my favorite color in and out of the water, and because some of my favorite shirts had to be thrown away due to the inevitable decay, I grew to dislike the sacrificial nature of designating fine black XL teeshirts as swimming shirts. The summer before my bout of anorexia, I did away with them.
And that, ironically, was the same summer I got called out, to my shock and embarrassment, as the first my group of friends to sprout underarm hair.
My aunt Judy has made my sister and I very proud by working out with a personal trainer regularly, and I wanted to celebrate her achievements with a before and after shot. In the first picture, on the wall you can see there is a life-size poster of my rock-climbing sister posing muscularly in a sports bra.
Sometimes I wish I could write about the anecdotes and details of the day that I find most funny at that exact moment, but I know complex human beings that I care for are involved. Holding fire, for now…
Here is a happy Sunday story: I ate the smoked duck tortilla at brunch today, for the first time ever, and I admit its in my top five of most delicious. After work, in the afternoon, I went to my office next door where Liz had the Sunday NYT prepared for me. I asked for a drink that would compliment my big meal, and she disappeared for some time. When she came back, she had, in a martini glass, a perfect banana split martini, complete with banana, hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. I needed a spoon to enjoy it.
Liz is the best in the entire universe, and I’m sorry we smoked butts in her room while watching the Pats game tonight. Earlier, a bald man at brunch broke out into an Eagles chant, and I took that as a sign that they would win. He looked kinda like a bald eagle. I lost five dollars on the principle that having a stake on an NFL game would help me become more knowledgeable about, and engaged in, the sport of American football. Thank you kindly again, Hunter Thompson… I’m already educated on the sport of hunting American Eagle models… E-A-G-L-E-S. Nevertheless, they lost to New England. Here’s my sweet dessert:
Anita Thompson was on CSPAN Book TV late last night, talking about her deceased husband, Hunter S. Thompson, and her new book, The Gonzo Way, as well as her blog Owl Farm. I was feeling restless, unable to sleep, and so I watched the entire interview session, presumably held in a Borders Book Store somewhere in America. The reason for my insomnia was the intense moonlight, shining down on the yard with a queer, disturbing intensity. Gazing through the window to the milky, illuminated yard I knew would soon give me horrible hallucinations, and so I turned on CSPAN to contend with the fear.
My first impression, watching Anita talk, was that the 35 year age difference between her and the man I’d grown up reading must be too great. Without hearing a word she spoke I saw her blond hair, and good looks, and thought to myself, she’s a shark catcher. But once my moonlight fear subsided somewhat, and I began to comprehend the gentleness with which she talked about Hunter, the deference to his legacy being his own and her getting that, I got her. Anita talked about Hunter friend Keith Richards not with the rapture of the starstruck, but as an almost annoying character to her who she nonetheless supported because of his tight friendship to the good doctor.
I juxtaposed her transposed Hunter wisdom with the gems that were dug up in my viewing of “The Future Is Unwritten,” a biopic/documentary about Joe Strummer’s life. Joe Strummer, a comprehensive artist, talked in his movie about the creative process being one-off, one and done. Instant creation was his craft, and he believed that only in that moment of birth could the conception reach full flower. Anita remembered to the audience Hunter’s nickname as Doctor Chop; he was his own best editor and often cut thousands of pages in minutes. I wonder if he then conducted further editing, as that seemed to be the role of assistants who would also copy and paste his typewritten hard copies onto the internet for ESPN.
His typical day, as recounted by Anita, was a routine that he repeated over and over again. A freaking huge breakfast, with orange juice, grapefruit juice, strong coffee and Chivas on the rocks while reading over all the day’s papers and magazines, beginning with the New York Times. For the next ten to twelve hours, phone calls, and THATS IT. Finally, ten at night, he would TRY to start writing, which really wouldn’t get serious until two in the morning, when it would carry on until four or six. I like the way he works, and hopefully will keep similar hours in the future.
The final straw that broke my hair camel’s back was watching the UCONN women’s basketball team (ranked two) play against the team ranked four in the nation, the Stanford Cardinal. One of my favorite players, who I have not seen, on TV or in real life, since last season, Charde Houston, had shaved her head. I lay like a slug in front of the gas fireplace, gazing at her magnificent head. Notice I just said “head,” period, not head of hair. That woman’s got a beaut of a noggin. It was then that I knew that I could no longer live as a human being with long hair.
I didn’t write much about it, but there are so many negatives to having long hair. For starters, and its a doozy of a starter, kind of like an appetizer that mentions the poundage in the description; everyone tells you to cut it all the time. How annoying is that? Even customers that I am waiting on, essentially in a professional dialogue, see perfectly fit to rudely interrupt my delicious food descriptions to tell me to cut it. They can cut that out now that I cut it. Secondly, long hair strikes fear and that leads to rage in the pig heart. I have been pulled over 200% more since having long hair, probably because the arresting officers thought I was high and drinking a white Russian while listening to Creedence, ON THE HIGHWAY. DUDE.
With short hair, law enforcement will probably take a huge chill pill, because they will assume I am a completely normal, socially well-adjusted fellow just returned home from bloody and chaotic intercity warfare overseas, in either Iraq or Afghanistan. And that makes sense in the brain cavity located just above their breathing snouts. I love cops, I really do, and we need more good ones. If I were commissioner I would fast-track new hires with long hair, because like Al Pacino’s cop Serpico in the movie Serpico, long hair really means you’re on the side of the average people. Serpico even had a sheep dog, for Christ sake; a dog with long hair.
The final, strongest, yet perhaps least obvious reason that I cut my hair and swept it all into a paper sack that I will keep hidden in the darkness under my bed, is that my body does not retain enough hydration to forever sustain such an endeavor. Like the mound builders in pre-Columbus America, or the early Mesopotamian civilization, erecting such a monument demands an intense supply of water. Hair is all water, in case you didn’t know, and even Charles Worthington “Moisture Seal” shampoo and conditioner does not really “seal it in.” Its all false advertising. I was drinking up to seventeen Diet Cokes a day, with an early morning glass of ice water tambien, and thats just too much hydrating. With my new short hair I will be back to seventeen Diet Cokes, MINUS that pesky water. Perhaps I’ll replace it with a solitary Coke regular.
My hair was an adventure, I’ve said that from the start. An adventure is a journey, usually away from home, and thats what my hair adventure was, with my “home” being my residual self image. The “me” that my sleeping brain “saw,” the inner, mini, “me.” I must admit, its good to be back. My grandmother has the classic quote to end this diatribe: “I never really liked your buzzcut, but long hair is much less flattering on you.”
Since no one guessed yesterday that I’d cut my hair, I will retain the VHS copy of “Arthur,” starring Dudley Moore.
Well, its over and I hope everyone enjoyed it, because I certainly did. Thanksgiving, the day of gorging on the wildest of turkeys, has come and passed. Personally, I binged on the bird, rode the edge of the electric knife, into the carcass, eventually cutting myself in the process. Something significant has happened. I will leave you in suspense. If anyone guesses what happen? correctly in a comment before tomorrow they will receive as reward a VHS copy of the film, “Arthur,” starring Dudley Moore.
Silk Nat Nast shirt, paneled colors, pork shank with mashed potatoes. Funniest thing happened tonight: A couple was getting into some heavy petting at the bar, with their hands all over each other. Then they tried to take the action to the single use Women’s Room. The manager, Mark, followed them back there and got his foot in the door and told them that they had to use the bathroom one at a time…
My friend Ken, who tattooed my lady lemur onto my heart, has opened his own parlor in Boston. Its right off Commonwealth Avenue, on the BU campus, and its called Americana Pop Tattoo Company. At the opening party tonight, me and Liz tag teamed his cheeks with our lips. Ken then controlled my head and poured a shot of warm sake down my mouth. Man, that stuff tastes bad. I still tasted it hours after. The new lemur is drawn, and Americana Pop is where I am going to get it done!
The girl Raisin got fired at work, which is unfortunate for her. Its also too bad for me, because now in addition to working five straight server shifts I have to pick up some host shifts as well. By next week with Thanksgiving and the days I have off in a row I should be in good shape, but what upsets me right now is that I don’t even have time to buy new clothes for my host shift. I am not talking fancy fancy, but maybe just a new blouse from Marshall’s or such.
Thankfully, my roommate Adam has come to the rescue and is offering to let me borrow his Nat Nast silk shirt. He has not even worn it yet because his mom, who commented on my Fore Street post chastising my lack of cheese cracker knowledge, just recently gave it to him when he went home to Maryland for a few days. I thank him, and her, for letting me borrow the shirt to lift me out of the too much work blues. Nat Nast is the exclusive brand of shirt that Charlie Sheen wears on television. Let me offer you a sneak peak: