Posts tagged ‘commute’
When I was younger, some of the lessons I learned from my father still stick with me today. Here are some of them, in no particular order:
-Avoid touching anything with your hands in a public bathroom. If for some stupid reason you have to poop in a public toilet, use your foot to flush. If you’re at a urinal, use your elbow, or just leave the damn thing unflushed and walk away quickly;
-There is absolutely no reason to talk with a stranger while at a public urinal. In fact, there’s no reason to talk with anyone in a public restroom or to make eye contact with anyone. Get in and get the fuck out as quickly as possible;
-You should always look both ways when crossing the street, even when you’re in the crosswalk. In an argument with a car, you will always lose. No point being right if you’re dead;
-If a woman tells you you’re “mysterious looking,” it means that she either thinks you’re good-looking or she’s just trying to tell you you’re ugly in a polite way. And there’s no way to tell the difference, even if she’s smiling;
-Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, look into a woman’s purse without her express permission. And even then, avoid it at all costs. It’s a trap.
‘A couple nights ago I met up with Lenny at Mark’s Diner. He’s an old friend from high school, and I hadn’t seen him since then. That was over twenty years ago, like when Pearl Jam came out with Ten.
He had called me out of the blue. I don’t know how he got my cellphone but nowadays everything is online. He said something like, “Hey man, I saw you were in town. You want to meet up for dinner and catch up?”
So we’re at the diner and he’s eating the bi bim bop with his hands. There’s beef juice and egg yolk running down his hands and onto his forearms. He says that’s how they really do it in Korea. I’ve never been to Korea so I say, “Is that so?” And then he talks about how he went to Korea after high school, started teaching English, and then married a “nice Korean woman with good values.”
“How does she like the U.S.?” I ask.
“She hates it,” he says.
There’s an awkward silence, and I stab at my udon soup with my wooden chopsticks. I wonder how long it would take for the chopstick to absorb some of the broth.’
The Dog Man Journals by GM Drogba
“Every man needs his own chair. His chair is not connected to any other chair, and has armrests and a retractable footrest, either electronic or manual. A man’s chair needs to be separated by at least eight feet of space from all sides. No one other than the man, except for the dog or the cat, can sit in the man’s chair. This rule applies even when the man is not in the room. The man’s chair is not required to match with the other furniture as a precondition for its existence. . .”
Hon. Craig Litbee, during the opening submission of the Progression of Situations Act of the Umb Congress of the Republic West. 1973.
There are different kinds of scary. And if I had to choose what kind of scary I like to be, it would definitely be raccoon scary. I know some of you might think that if I had to be scary, why would I waste it on raccoon scary as opposed to something more popular, like zombie scary or rabid bear scary or mountain lion scary. Don’t get me wrong, I did think about those possibilities. But I felt that aiming for raccoon scary was a little more attainable, with the right attitude and frame of mind of course.
It was a lot easier to be raccoon scary than I was led to believe. I show up in other people’s kitchens after midnight and ruffle through all their shit. I love going through canned goods, searching for crisp apples in the refrigerator, and it’s always a treat to find those rare, sweet figs that are like nine dollars each at the food co-op. The other day I went into a kitchen and broke open the flour and threw rice and dry pasta all over the ground. I don’t know why I did it. It varies from night to night.
The one thing that does give me a hang up from time to time is if I’m confronted and questioned about my presence in “their” kitchen. It doesn’t often end well. I give my, “This is my place!” speech but that often fails. I’m asked to leave, I’m yelled at, I approach slowly, they threaten to call the police, and then I jump at them out of nowhere and ruffle my hands through their hair and clothes while they flail and scream. That’s the part I could do without.
When I was in high school, getting a car of my own was like a temporary pass to adulthood. As long as I was in the car, I was free of the nagging and all the other host of real and imagined teenage obligations and expectations. But as I got older, the car was a means to an end, a necessary bill so that I could get groceries from Costco, avoid the rain and snow on the walk to the metro, or to avoid Delta Airlines so that I could drive eight hours to see family. But sometimes all that noise goes to the wayside when I’m not driving, just sitting in the back, looking out the window, with neither obligation or duty to talk to anyone. That’s my temporary pass to childhood.
You want to go to law school?
I went to a third-tier law school and I still owe over $100,000. And I’ve been paying it since 2001. I’m also trying to pay extra each month to bring the principal down. But the Access Group keeps fucking with the numbers, and applies all the extra payments to interest.
I also have trouble maintaining normal conversations with lay people.
My life revolves around watching The Walking Dead on AMC on Sunday nights. There are no more shows until February.
I should have went to SUNY Buffalo.