My attention was averted from the book I was reading by the menacing voice of Crazy Guy…
Crazy Guy was middle aged with a graying mini-afro. He was wearing a brown wrinkled suit that had seen better days. There were small holes starting to form around his knees. On his feet were what appeared to be a relatively new pair of bowling shoes.
He wasn’t quite yelling, but he was speaking louder than appropriate to the man sitting in front of him. He was missing most of his teeth.
Despite the volume behind his words I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. The train was making too much noise, plus I was seated about three rows too far from the action.
Everyone around him looked uncomfortable; their eyes fixed straight ahead trying to avoid the possibility of any accidental eye contact.
I could tell he was angry about something but I got the impression that his anger wasn't directed towards anyone in particular- he was just angry in general.
At the next stop a couple of passengers, including the man sitting in front of Crazy Guy, decided they had heard enough and got off the train.
When the train started to move again he turned around and continued his rant to the man seated behind him… He was now waving a folded up newspaper in his hand. At first I thought the paper just happened to be in his hand but then he started pointing to a picture on the front page and I knew it was actually a visual aid for his "lecture."
The man behind him just kept nodding in agreement with whatever ‘crazy guy’ was saying. I could tell he was afraid. He probably wished he had gotten off at the previous stop as well. I think the picture may have been of a football player, but Crazy Guy never stopped waving his hands around long enough for me to be sure.
It will have to remain a mystery however, because at the next stop ‘crazy guy’ got off the train. All the passengers started exchanging looks that seemed to convey the same message: “Wow that guy was fucking crazy!”
They were all glad to be rid of them. You could feel the passengers let out a collective sigh of relief. Everyone was now happy… except me that is... I love hearing Crazy Guy rants.
A couple years ago I was walking down the street behind a different Crazy Guy with long gray dreadlocks. He was sporting a camouflage army surplus type of outfit and yelling about a conspiracy he had uncovered.
Everyone on the sidewalk -- and we’re talking about a busy sidewalk -- quickly dispersed. Most crossed to the other side of the street, some just made abrupt turns… I decided to speed up and get closer! I took off my headphones. As a rule, when a crazy homeless guy with long gray dreadlocks starts making a speech, I make sure I give him my undivided attention.
Amazingly enough, his conspiracy somehow managed to involve Connie Chung, Strom Thurmond, and former DC Mayor Sharon Pratt Kelly. He never really explained what the conspiracy entailed, just that these people were out to get him… but one thing was for sure, he wasn't going to let them run his life anymore!
As we continued our journey it became apparent that the man thought he was giving a guided tour. Every half-block or so he would turn around and do that walk backwards thing that tour guides always do… I got the impression that in his mind he had a large group walking with him, even though I was the only member of his little “tour”.
At one point I had to make the decision to either continue following him or make a turn to get to my original destination… I kept following, and I’m glad I did. We only went a couple more blocks when he abruptly stopped at Stanton Park, just a few blocks east of Union Station. “...and this is where all the SHIT... GOES... DOWN!!!!” he yelled for everyone to hear.
I thought he was going to say something else or perhaps continue to the next stop of the tour- but he didn’t... Instead he looked directly at me as if to say, “What do you think?”
I replied with the only thing I could think of, “FUCK Connie Chung!”
The man nodded his head in affirmation, gave me a fist pound, and then proceeded to walk back down Capitol Hill. The show was over. It was a a performance worthy of a standing ovation, but sadly, I was the only one to hear it.
I thought of all the people that had crossed the street to get away. They didn’t want to hear what he had to say… Most people want to put guys like that in a hospital and shoot them full of drugs, but you know what I think???
I think that if the Smithsonian people had any balls what-so-ever they would track that guy down and hire him- cause he was the best damn tour guide I've ever seen!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Condoms, Journals, and Heavy Breathing
I left my journal at work on Friday afternoon... At various points throughout my weekend I worried that one of my co-workers might see the book on my desk and take a peek. I thought about the various potentially embarrassing things I have written in it. One entry in particular entitled "I Hate My Penis" immediately came to mind... That would be a difficult one to explain.
The other consequence of leaving the book meant that I had nothing to write in for my morning metro ride... And of course I saw a half dozen things I wanted to write about.
I watched jealously as other commuters piled onto the train and took out their books and cross word puzzles.
I'm "in between" books right now, so I had nothing to read.
I reached into my pocket for my Mp3 player only to realize that "oh yeah" my Mp3 player isn't working... This made for a boring ride to work.
When the train finally reached my stop I was confronted with a broken the escalator leading up to the street. I'm not usually one to complain about something so trivial, but we're talking about the equivalent of 4 flights of stairs. It was about 5:30 AM and my body was just not prepared for that kind of walk... When I finally got to the top of the stairs I was glad to see that I was not the only one looking a little winded.
I took a deep breath and felt sharp pain. The air was thin and very cold. Nothing like a lung full of freezing air to start the morning. I zipped up my jacket and started the walk to my office. By the time I got there my body was warm but my face was freezing.
Luckily, I found my journal untouched and sitting right where I left it. That means nobody read about my penis or why I hated it for a brief moment on October 16th. That's a relief.
I'll have it ready --the journal not the penis-- if anything of interest happens on my way home... Of course that means that nothing will happen. Come to think of it, carrying around a journal is a lot like carrying around a condom in your wallet; You never get the chance to use it when you're prepared, but the first time you forget it- you're sure to need it...
The main difference being that they don't sell journals in gas station bathrooms.
The other consequence of leaving the book meant that I had nothing to write in for my morning metro ride... And of course I saw a half dozen things I wanted to write about.
I watched jealously as other commuters piled onto the train and took out their books and cross word puzzles.
I'm "in between" books right now, so I had nothing to read.
I reached into my pocket for my Mp3 player only to realize that "oh yeah" my Mp3 player isn't working... This made for a boring ride to work.
When the train finally reached my stop I was confronted with a broken the escalator leading up to the street. I'm not usually one to complain about something so trivial, but we're talking about the equivalent of 4 flights of stairs. It was about 5:30 AM and my body was just not prepared for that kind of walk... When I finally got to the top of the stairs I was glad to see that I was not the only one looking a little winded.
I took a deep breath and felt sharp pain. The air was thin and very cold. Nothing like a lung full of freezing air to start the morning. I zipped up my jacket and started the walk to my office. By the time I got there my body was warm but my face was freezing.
Luckily, I found my journal untouched and sitting right where I left it. That means nobody read about my penis or why I hated it for a brief moment on October 16th. That's a relief.
I'll have it ready --the journal not the penis-- if anything of interest happens on my way home... Of course that means that nothing will happen. Come to think of it, carrying around a journal is a lot like carrying around a condom in your wallet; You never get the chance to use it when you're prepared, but the first time you forget it- you're sure to need it...
The main difference being that they don't sell journals in gas station bathrooms.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Inner Peace
So last night I made dinner… That’s actually not a big deal at all. I cook dinner probably 4 or 5 times a week and truth be told- my dinners are always way better than my wife’s.
But don’t let my role as family chef fool you… I still refuse to wash dishes, do the laundry, vacuum the carpet, or make tortillas. Those are all jobs for women… [I do partake in the occasional dusting in the living room, but it’s because I have allergies damn it!]
In case you’re wondering, I whipped up a very tasty (but wildly unhealthy) batch of my famous lemon chicken strips with a side order of beer batter shrimp. With the left over batter I make these little cakes sprinkled with brown sugar as desert… On a scale of 1 to 10 I would grade this meal as a solid 13.
Anyway… After stuffing my face with my restaurant quality meal, I laid on the couch planning to settle in for a night of TV watching. Predictably, I nodded off to sleep.
When I woke up I was watching some Discovery Channel travel documentary… The host was Jeremy Piven and he was on some sort of spiritual journey through India. He was dressed in Hindu robes and participating in some sort of night time ritual where people were pushing little boats full of candles down a river.
The candles were supposed to represent the negative things in your life that you wanted to get rid of. Or maybe the candles were supposed to represent your hopes and dreams. I can’t really remember. But I do know that it was supposed to represent some deep meaningful shit.
Piven was describing the scene through narration as surreal and added that it was “…the closest he had ever come to having an out of body experience.”
I was still pretty drowsy and confused… plus I had downed a couple of beers while putting together my beer batter shrimp (for tasting purposes only I assure you). And so I had to concur with Jeremy, it was also the closest I had ever come to an out of body experience as well…
I drifted back to sleep during the commercial break and the next time I awoke Piven was talking to some sort of guru with long black hair. It was beautiful thick hair and it was peppered with a couple of brilliant gray streaks. They (Piven and the Guru) seemed so relaxed and at peace with the world around them... It was then that I decided I would become a Hindu… or a Buddhist… or whatever the fuck Jeremy Piven and this Indian guy were.
At some point I managed to stumble my way into the bedroom where my wife was already asleep. Before diving into the covers I set the alarm for an hour earlier than I would normally wake up. My plan was to get up early and practice some form of meditation to kick off my first day as a Hindu (or Buddhist).
When the alarm starting going off a few hours later things didn’t quite go as I had planned. I hit the snooze four or five times before forcing myself out of bed. I walked out of the bedroom with the intention of meditating in the living room but it never happened. I totally forgot what I was going to do once I got to there… So I decided to make a bagel instead. (poppy seed bagel, toasted lightly, extra cream cheese).
So far my life as a Hindu (or Buddhist) is not off to a good start. But that bagel was really good!
But don’t let my role as family chef fool you… I still refuse to wash dishes, do the laundry, vacuum the carpet, or make tortillas. Those are all jobs for women… [I do partake in the occasional dusting in the living room, but it’s because I have allergies damn it!]
In case you’re wondering, I whipped up a very tasty (but wildly unhealthy) batch of my famous lemon chicken strips with a side order of beer batter shrimp. With the left over batter I make these little cakes sprinkled with brown sugar as desert… On a scale of 1 to 10 I would grade this meal as a solid 13.
Anyway… After stuffing my face with my restaurant quality meal, I laid on the couch planning to settle in for a night of TV watching. Predictably, I nodded off to sleep.
When I woke up I was watching some Discovery Channel travel documentary… The host was Jeremy Piven and he was on some sort of spiritual journey through India. He was dressed in Hindu robes and participating in some sort of night time ritual where people were pushing little boats full of candles down a river.The candles were supposed to represent the negative things in your life that you wanted to get rid of. Or maybe the candles were supposed to represent your hopes and dreams. I can’t really remember. But I do know that it was supposed to represent some deep meaningful shit.
Piven was describing the scene through narration as surreal and added that it was “…the closest he had ever come to having an out of body experience.”
I was still pretty drowsy and confused… plus I had downed a couple of beers while putting together my beer batter shrimp (for tasting purposes only I assure you). And so I had to concur with Jeremy, it was also the closest I had ever come to an out of body experience as well…
I drifted back to sleep during the commercial break and the next time I awoke Piven was talking to some sort of guru with long black hair. It was beautiful thick hair and it was peppered with a couple of brilliant gray streaks. They (Piven and the Guru) seemed so relaxed and at peace with the world around them... It was then that I decided I would become a Hindu… or a Buddhist… or whatever the fuck Jeremy Piven and this Indian guy were.
At some point I managed to stumble my way into the bedroom where my wife was already asleep. Before diving into the covers I set the alarm for an hour earlier than I would normally wake up. My plan was to get up early and practice some form of meditation to kick off my first day as a Hindu (or Buddhist).
When the alarm starting going off a few hours later things didn’t quite go as I had planned. I hit the snooze four or five times before forcing myself out of bed. I walked out of the bedroom with the intention of meditating in the living room but it never happened. I totally forgot what I was going to do once I got to there… So I decided to make a bagel instead. (poppy seed bagel, toasted lightly, extra cream cheese).
So far my life as a Hindu (or Buddhist) is not off to a good start. But that bagel was really good!
Monday, October 22, 2007
Taking Aim at Monday
Well it’s Monday morning and I’m not at all happy about it.
Normally Monday’s don’t bother me nearly as much as they seem to bother the average person. I like my job enough that I don’t dread coming to work. In fact, sometimes during the week when coworkers are gleefully counting down the days until the weekend, I forget what day it is completely.
Three weeks ago I was actually convinced that it was Wednesday when it was in fact Friday… I made a comment to someone about how the office had cleared out “as if it were Friday.” He gave me a confused look before finally explaining to me that it was in fact Friday and that we were only an hour away from the weekend. It took him about 5 minutes to convince me… I was sure it was Wednesday.
So anyway, the week goes by pretty fast for me and while I do look forward to the weekend, I don’t harbor any ill will towards Monday.
But today is different… I’m sore… I’m tired… I’m sick…
For some reason I couldn’t get to sleep last night… I was too hot… I was too cold… I was thirsty… I needed another pillow… I had too many pillows... My throat was itchy... I just couldn’t get comfortable.
When I woke up this morning I was tired and that itchy throat had now advanced into a full blown cold.
Perhaps worst of all, I’ve got about a dozen welts spread across my body… Moe Greene convinced me to go play Paint Ball on Saturday- he failed to mention that I would be playing the role of “slow moving target”.
I’d never played paintball before, but apparently everyone else on the opposing team had not only played before, but they brought their own high priced equipment! So as we fired at them with our inaccurate rental guns, they were able to sit back and pick us off one by one like Barry Pepper in Saving Private Ryan.
I had a couple of other factors working against me… [1] I’m fat and [2] I was wearing an old burgundy Redskins jersey. I think I would have been okay being fat with a dark shirt, or thin with a burgundy shirt… but the being fat AND wearing a burgundy shirt was a little too much for me to over come.
I spent most of the day running frightened through the woods trying to see through a fogged up mask… Sometimes I’d see someone from the other team before they saw me and I’d let off a couple harmless and wildly inaccurate shots. This of course would give my position away and allow them to spray a dozen or so shots in my direction.
If I was lucky the shots would hit me in the mask and it wouldn’t hurt that bad- just confuse me. But more often than not I would take the shots on my body, which is where the welts came from.
I took one shot directly on my calf -you know- where I had no clothing to help soften the blow. That’s the pretty welt because it’s got Christmas colors!
But despite all that it was a pretty decent way to spend a Saturday... But it’s just not helping me on Monday.
Normally Monday’s don’t bother me nearly as much as they seem to bother the average person. I like my job enough that I don’t dread coming to work. In fact, sometimes during the week when coworkers are gleefully counting down the days until the weekend, I forget what day it is completely.
Three weeks ago I was actually convinced that it was Wednesday when it was in fact Friday… I made a comment to someone about how the office had cleared out “as if it were Friday.” He gave me a confused look before finally explaining to me that it was in fact Friday and that we were only an hour away from the weekend. It took him about 5 minutes to convince me… I was sure it was Wednesday.
So anyway, the week goes by pretty fast for me and while I do look forward to the weekend, I don’t harbor any ill will towards Monday.
But today is different… I’m sore… I’m tired… I’m sick…
For some reason I couldn’t get to sleep last night… I was too hot… I was too cold… I was thirsty… I needed another pillow… I had too many pillows... My throat was itchy... I just couldn’t get comfortable.
When I woke up this morning I was tired and that itchy throat had now advanced into a full blown cold.
Perhaps worst of all, I’ve got about a dozen welts spread across my body… Moe Greene convinced me to go play Paint Ball on Saturday- he failed to mention that I would be playing the role of “slow moving target”.
I’d never played paintball before, but apparently everyone else on the opposing team had not only played before, but they brought their own high priced equipment! So as we fired at them with our inaccurate rental guns, they were able to sit back and pick us off one by one like Barry Pepper in Saving Private Ryan.
I had a couple of other factors working against me… [1] I’m fat and [2] I was wearing an old burgundy Redskins jersey. I think I would have been okay being fat with a dark shirt, or thin with a burgundy shirt… but the being fat AND wearing a burgundy shirt was a little too much for me to over come.
I spent most of the day running frightened through the woods trying to see through a fogged up mask… Sometimes I’d see someone from the other team before they saw me and I’d let off a couple harmless and wildly inaccurate shots. This of course would give my position away and allow them to spray a dozen or so shots in my direction.
If I was lucky the shots would hit me in the mask and it wouldn’t hurt that bad- just confuse me. But more often than not I would take the shots on my body, which is where the welts came from.
I took one shot directly on my calf -you know- where I had no clothing to help soften the blow. That’s the pretty welt because it’s got Christmas colors!
But despite all that it was a pretty decent way to spend a Saturday... But it’s just not helping me on Monday.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Twenty-Two Cents
Yesterday when I was waiting in line at the McDonalds drive through a crack head asked me for money… I almost never give money to pan handlers, but for some reason I decided I’d help this guy out. He didn’t look any more sympathetic or deserving than any other pan handler I’ve seen lately, but for what ever reason I found myself reaching into my pockets.
Unfortunately I didn’t have any money on me. I was actually planning on using my debit card for the food. I looked down into the console of my car- all I could find was two dimes and two pennies… It wasn’t much, but how does that saying go? “Beggars can’t be choosers”… Certainly that applied to this situation. Or so I thought.
I gave the guy my change and he gave me a frustrated look. “Can’t you help me out with a dollar?” he asked.
I explained that it was all the money I had and he walked away without saying thank you.
He then proceeded to pace back and forth across the parking lot mumbling to the twenty two cents he still held in his hand... He saw me staring out the corner of his eye. “You could have given me a fuckin’ dollar!” he shouted at me.
“I gave you what I had!” I replied.
He threw my change to the ground and started walking away.
This reminded me of that Urban Legend about giving a panhandler money only to see him getting into a Mercedes later that day. That’s the type of story I often hear people tell to justify their belief that the homeless are lazy and/or ungrateful people.
I looked around and I saw that 3 or 4 other cars in line had seen what happened. The lady behind me shook her head disapprovingly at the man.
“That’s why I don’t give them change,” she yelled to me.
That was exactly the kind reaction I was afraid of. This ass hole just justified this lady’s policy against never giving change to the homeless.
I wanted to yell something to the crack head about how his actions could one day impact the willingness of someone to give money or help to people who have a legitimate need… but how could I convey that to him? He was already halfway across the parking lot.
I suppose could have yelled to him, “Excuse me Mr. Crack Head, but did you know that your actions are perpetuating a dangerous stereotype?”, but I would have sounded like an idiot...
So instead I just pulled up to the menu and ordered my food.
[A Sweet Tea and two McChicken Sandwiches in case you were wondering…]
Unfortunately I didn’t have any money on me. I was actually planning on using my debit card for the food. I looked down into the console of my car- all I could find was two dimes and two pennies… It wasn’t much, but how does that saying go? “Beggars can’t be choosers”… Certainly that applied to this situation. Or so I thought.
I gave the guy my change and he gave me a frustrated look. “Can’t you help me out with a dollar?” he asked.
I explained that it was all the money I had and he walked away without saying thank you.
He then proceeded to pace back and forth across the parking lot mumbling to the twenty two cents he still held in his hand... He saw me staring out the corner of his eye. “You could have given me a fuckin’ dollar!” he shouted at me.
“I gave you what I had!” I replied.
He threw my change to the ground and started walking away.
This reminded me of that Urban Legend about giving a panhandler money only to see him getting into a Mercedes later that day. That’s the type of story I often hear people tell to justify their belief that the homeless are lazy and/or ungrateful people.
I looked around and I saw that 3 or 4 other cars in line had seen what happened. The lady behind me shook her head disapprovingly at the man.
“That’s why I don’t give them change,” she yelled to me.
That was exactly the kind reaction I was afraid of. This ass hole just justified this lady’s policy against never giving change to the homeless.
I wanted to yell something to the crack head about how his actions could one day impact the willingness of someone to give money or help to people who have a legitimate need… but how could I convey that to him? He was already halfway across the parking lot.
I suppose could have yelled to him, “Excuse me Mr. Crack Head, but did you know that your actions are perpetuating a dangerous stereotype?”, but I would have sounded like an idiot...
So instead I just pulled up to the menu and ordered my food.
[A Sweet Tea and two McChicken Sandwiches in case you were wondering…]
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Manly... Man?
Last week as I was riding the long Capitol South escalator down to the subway, a yuppie couple in front of me caught my eye... The first thing I noticed was that the man was carrying his wife's teal jacket. Then I realized that he was standing to the left of his wife, blocking anyone else on the escalator from walking past them.
As some of you may know....this has long been a major pet peeve of mine-- people that don't know to stay to the right on escalators.
As if the escalator ignorance and the jacket carrying alone wasn't enough to deserve the scorn of any man, the situation got worse... with a line of hurried people quickly approaching the man continued to block the path. I thought once he heard the parade of commuters approaching, he would get the hint. But he didn't!
I don't know if it was malicious, but at the very least it was negligent to the point that it made me (and the line of people he was blocking) want to hurl curse words at him.
Finally, his wife had to physically reach out, grab him by his hips, and then pull him in front of her to allow enough space for people to get by.
Next, she then proceeded to wrap her arms around this disgrace of a man's waist and cradle him in her arms! She even gave him a quick kiss on the back of his neck!
This is a position you often see in reverse-- a man standing behind his wife or girlfriend, arms wrapped around their waist. I'm not against this kind of embrace behind closed doors, but in public, it's a fairly disgusting display of public affection.
After much thought, I've determined that this guy was the least manly man I've ever seen in my life... He was carrying his wife's jacket, he didn't know to move to the right, his wife had to physically move him (by the hips!), and then he let her basically announce to anyone standing by that he was in fact- her bitch!
What would a guy like that have to do to redeem his manhood? Win an arm wrestling competition? Kill a bear with a pocket knife? Pick a fight with a PCP crazed biker gang? Perform a self amputation of his thumb? Is there anything this guy could ever do to reestablish himself as a man?
As some of you may know....this has long been a major pet peeve of mine-- people that don't know to stay to the right on escalators.
As if the escalator ignorance and the jacket carrying alone wasn't enough to deserve the scorn of any man, the situation got worse... with a line of hurried people quickly approaching the man continued to block the path. I thought once he heard the parade of commuters approaching, he would get the hint. But he didn't!
I don't know if it was malicious, but at the very least it was negligent to the point that it made me (and the line of people he was blocking) want to hurl curse words at him.
Finally, his wife had to physically reach out, grab him by his hips, and then pull him in front of her to allow enough space for people to get by.
Next, she then proceeded to wrap her arms around this disgrace of a man's waist and cradle him in her arms! She even gave him a quick kiss on the back of his neck!
This is a position you often see in reverse-- a man standing behind his wife or girlfriend, arms wrapped around their waist. I'm not against this kind of embrace behind closed doors, but in public, it's a fairly disgusting display of public affection.
After much thought, I've determined that this guy was the least manly man I've ever seen in my life... He was carrying his wife's jacket, he didn't know to move to the right, his wife had to physically move him (by the hips!), and then he let her basically announce to anyone standing by that he was in fact- her bitch!
What would a guy like that have to do to redeem his manhood? Win an arm wrestling competition? Kill a bear with a pocket knife? Pick a fight with a PCP crazed biker gang? Perform a self amputation of his thumb? Is there anything this guy could ever do to reestablish himself as a man?
Monday, October 15, 2007
Así Es -- A Strip Club Guide
I took two of my nephews to the DC United game on Saturday night. Even though the game ended with a 0-0 draw it turned out to be as eventful as a goalless soccer match could ever hope to be… One of the nephews plays soccer for his high school and has been a soccer fan his entire life but the other, who is visiting from Los Angeles, has never been a fan. He's going home soon, so I was hoping to convert him. I had the feeling that the DC United game atmosphere might do the trick.
We had seats in the section right behind La Barra Brava and they were of course singing, jumping, and letting off smoke bombs through out the game… We got to chant curse words at Cuauhtémoc Blanco… We saw a pretty decent fight at half time… We laughed as the PA announcer butchered the pronunciation of Pollo Campero [it came out as Polo Comp-air-lo]... We even got to see two hot girls make out for a full minute towards the end of the game... It should go without saying (but I'll say it anyway) my nephew will be going back to LA as not only a soccer fan, but a DC United fan.
The kissing girls also reminded me of a post I've been meaning to write for the past year and half- a guide or set of rules for the strip club... I know the connection between kissing girls at a soccer game and a guide to strip clubs may not be immediately apparent, but be patient.
Anyway, here’s what I’ve got so far. Feel free to add anything you feel I’ve missed, or berate me for being a shallow pig of a man:
[1] Pasties… These are the stickers over the nipples. Avoid any place where girls are wearing them… Seriously, why bother?
[2] Remember who you are… This could arguably be the number one rule. There is nothing worse than the guy at the strip club who actually thinks the strippers are really into him… Unless you’re name is Tom Brady or Alex Rodriguez you’re not going home with one of these girls... Let me make this clear, she doesn't really like you... She doesn't even respect you... Just be happy her life has spiraled out of control to the point that she's willing to let you see her naked.
A good friend of mine once got drunk enough to believe there was something special brewing between him and a stripper. Apparently “Sierra” had made the mistake of giving him a little too much eye contact during their lap dance, and now all of a sudden he was sure they had some sort of connection. He went so far as to actually give her his phone number… I was embarrassed just to be sitting with the guy. And now he will NEVER live this moment down! EVER! I bring it up every time we even talk about going to a strip club again. Trust me, you don’t want to be that guy.
[3] Don’t be part of the crowd… You never want to spend your night in an over crowded strip club. It's a bad idea. You end up sitting behind a rowdy bachelor party with an obstructed view of the stage. Not fun.
As a result you spend half the night talking with your friends, you could have done that at home... Not to mention you're paying $5 a drink on top of your $15 cover charge. Plus every two minutes you get a ‘B’ List dancer come by and try to talk you into a regrettable lap dance. There's a reason they don't let her dance on the stage.
It’s actually a good rule of thumb to just avoid all of the bigger, more popular places anyway [Scores, etc]... Yes, they have better looking dancers but the drinks are too expensive, the atmosphere is cold, and in general, they’re just too... polished.
I don’t want my strip club to feel like an organized place of business… I don’t want to feel safe… I don’t want to feel sterile or clean… A strip club should feel like everything was just thrown together at the last second. Some of the tables and chairs should be mismatched... The DJ should fuck up the play list every few songs... The girls should look like they have a past- not like beauty pageant contestants... The bathrooms should creep you out a little... But mostly, you should always feel like things are on the cusp of anarchy… you can’t get that feeling from the bigger places catering to business men.
[4] Check things out… When you first get in don’t go directly to the stage. Gather your friends at a table or booth and have a couple of drinks first. Get a feel for the place. Get yourself mentally prepared. Is the place too crowded? Is it too empty? Are people having a good time or do they look bored? Do the dancers seem friendly? Which one of your friends is going to break rule #2? Who might drink to much and try to fight a bouncer? Where would you hide when/if a shooting breaks out? And of course, watch a few dancers go before you approach the stage. Is the music okay, or are they playing 15 year old Guns 'n Roses songs?
[5] Don’t go during the day… I’ve been to strip clubs during the day several times... There, I've said it. I’m not proud. It's always a bad idea and I now understand that… Usually you’ll be entertained by a group of “veteran” dancers who have 3 kids and have decided to make stripping a career. It’s actually a more personal atmosphere… but that's not necessarily a good thing.
I don’t want to feel personal at a strip club. I don’t want them to know my name. I don’t want to know their real names. I don’t want to know about their life. I don't want them to ask me if I'm married. I don't want them to ask what I do for a living. I don't want to have a talk at the bar with Lenny the alcoholic regular... and I certainly don't want someone to mistake me for a regular!
Here is a true story about the last time I ever went to a strip club during the day:
I had to run an errand in a small town where one of my favorite strip clubs was located… As I was leaving town I passed the club and thought “well, I don’t have anything to do the rest of the day, why not?”
At first I was able to forget it was the afternoon. The place was dark and busier than I would have expected... I had a couple drinks at the bar and then I decided to go sit up at the stage… A couple of guys started to leave as I was sitting down and before I realized what was happening I was alone at the stage… I WAS ALONE AT THE STAGE... I WAS THE ONLY ONE AT THE STAGE... ALERT ALERT... I WAS ALONE AT THE STAGE... YOU SHOULD NEVER BE ALONE AT THE STAGE... The dancer came out and had to dance in front of me for the entire song… It was the most awkward 3 minutes of my life.
When the music stopped there was an old man at the bar clapping his approval. I could hear a vacuum running somewhere in the background and I caught a scent of Windex. They were still cleaning up from the night before apparently.
Then the front door opened and sun light poured in for a split second… That’s when it hit me, “I’m at a strip club on a Saturday afternoon...” I suddenly had the urge to take a long hot shower. I won’t say it was the low point of my life, but it felt pretty shitty.
[6] Never use a credit card… this should be a no brainier but believe it or not you still see guys do it from time to time. Not only do you have to worry about how it appears on your bill, but I’ve heard some horror stories about guys being billed outrageous amounts of money and then having to try and dispute the charges.
Nothing should frighten a married man more than having to try and explain to his wife that the bank account has been frozen because he got charged two grand for a lap dance with “Destiny”.
[7] Be prepared to wait… The first time I went to a strip club was a month after I turned 18... My birthday was in January but I didn't have the courage to go alone. Luckily I had a friend who had his 18th in February. So I waited until he was legal and we went together. I'm pretty sure we were the first guys in our high schools to ever go to a strip club.
Predictably, we spent almost all our money in about 10 minutes. And of course we each became enamored with our own strippers. We were convinced that if we got the private dance that something more than just a dance would happen… anyway, we went up to the door guy and paid for our private dances [they were called 'hot seats' in this club, it still cracks me up to picture an 18 year me going up the door guy and saying "I'd like to buy a hot seat with "Summer""].
Anyway, the door guy assured us that it would only be a 20 minute wait—two hours later they finally got our dances… They delay the private dance because they know you're leaving right when you get done, but if you're waiting you'll keep spending money. Which we did… And of course we found out the hard way that the dance (while being a good time) was nothing more than a lap dance with a little bit of a knee job thrown in.
[8] They’re lying… She’s not really in law school. Seriously, she's not.
[9] Don’t be cheap… Look, if any mildly attractive girl came up to you on the street and offered to take off her clothes and dance in front of you with her most personal area roughly 6 inches from you face for 15 to 20 seconds, how much would you offer to pay her?? A lot more than $1 I suspect…
But at a strip club most guys expect to get that same treatment and pay only that one dollar. Or worse yet, they’ll sit close as they can to the stage without actually being at the stage and won't pay anything. That should be illegal. Pay these girls… True, as established in the previous rule, they aren’t really paying for tuition, but they do often have crazy phone bills, outrageous credit card debt, shoe fetishes, and maybe even a coke habit— these girls need your help and you just can’t stretch a dollar like you used to. So reach a little deeper into your pocket and pull out a couple more $1's!
[10] The Bi-Friend… I CAN NOT stress this rule enough... If you have a crazy female friend that likes to get liquored up and kiss girls, you NEED to bring her along. Seriously, don't plan your night without her. When you leave the house and head for the strip club make sure you have a pocket full of $1 bills, breath mints, and a borderline alcoholic-bisexual-female friend.
If I had to sit down and come up with a “Top 5 Night’s in a Strip Club” list, 4 of my top 5 nights would probably involve a bi-curious friend I used to hit the clubs with. God bless her wherever she is today.
For whatever reason strippers are willing to relax the rules [or sometimes even throw them out completely!] when it comes to females… That’s why the DC United game on Saturday reminded me that I needed to finally write this “Guide to a Strip Club” post… Girls kissing!
The only time I’ve ever had a stripper buy me a drink, relax the rules, or give me the kind of private show I've always really wanted- was because I brought my wild bi-curious friend. It’s like having a law degree in prison or a speed boat in Cuba. Suddenly, you’re the most popular guy around.
If there is such a thing a reincarnation, I want nothing more than to come back to life as a hot lesbian girl… And I would spend every weekend of my entire life in a strip club… You’d never pay for a drink, you’d get a 110% effort on every lap dance, and you’d be able to completely throw out rule # 2!
We had seats in the section right behind La Barra Brava and they were of course singing, jumping, and letting off smoke bombs through out the game… We got to chant curse words at Cuauhtémoc Blanco… We saw a pretty decent fight at half time… We laughed as the PA announcer butchered the pronunciation of Pollo Campero [it came out as Polo Comp-air-lo]... We even got to see two hot girls make out for a full minute towards the end of the game... It should go without saying (but I'll say it anyway) my nephew will be going back to LA as not only a soccer fan, but a DC United fan.
The kissing girls also reminded me of a post I've been meaning to write for the past year and half- a guide or set of rules for the strip club... I know the connection between kissing girls at a soccer game and a guide to strip clubs may not be immediately apparent, but be patient.
Anyway, here’s what I’ve got so far. Feel free to add anything you feel I’ve missed, or berate me for being a shallow pig of a man:
[1] Pasties… These are the stickers over the nipples. Avoid any place where girls are wearing them… Seriously, why bother?
[2] Remember who you are… This could arguably be the number one rule. There is nothing worse than the guy at the strip club who actually thinks the strippers are really into him… Unless you’re name is Tom Brady or Alex Rodriguez you’re not going home with one of these girls... Let me make this clear, she doesn't really like you... She doesn't even respect you... Just be happy her life has spiraled out of control to the point that she's willing to let you see her naked.
A good friend of mine once got drunk enough to believe there was something special brewing between him and a stripper. Apparently “Sierra” had made the mistake of giving him a little too much eye contact during their lap dance, and now all of a sudden he was sure they had some sort of connection. He went so far as to actually give her his phone number… I was embarrassed just to be sitting with the guy. And now he will NEVER live this moment down! EVER! I bring it up every time we even talk about going to a strip club again. Trust me, you don’t want to be that guy.
[3] Don’t be part of the crowd… You never want to spend your night in an over crowded strip club. It's a bad idea. You end up sitting behind a rowdy bachelor party with an obstructed view of the stage. Not fun.
As a result you spend half the night talking with your friends, you could have done that at home... Not to mention you're paying $5 a drink on top of your $15 cover charge. Plus every two minutes you get a ‘B’ List dancer come by and try to talk you into a regrettable lap dance. There's a reason they don't let her dance on the stage.
It’s actually a good rule of thumb to just avoid all of the bigger, more popular places anyway [Scores, etc]... Yes, they have better looking dancers but the drinks are too expensive, the atmosphere is cold, and in general, they’re just too... polished.
I don’t want my strip club to feel like an organized place of business… I don’t want to feel safe… I don’t want to feel sterile or clean… A strip club should feel like everything was just thrown together at the last second. Some of the tables and chairs should be mismatched... The DJ should fuck up the play list every few songs... The girls should look like they have a past- not like beauty pageant contestants... The bathrooms should creep you out a little... But mostly, you should always feel like things are on the cusp of anarchy… you can’t get that feeling from the bigger places catering to business men.
[4] Check things out… When you first get in don’t go directly to the stage. Gather your friends at a table or booth and have a couple of drinks first. Get a feel for the place. Get yourself mentally prepared. Is the place too crowded? Is it too empty? Are people having a good time or do they look bored? Do the dancers seem friendly? Which one of your friends is going to break rule #2? Who might drink to much and try to fight a bouncer? Where would you hide when/if a shooting breaks out? And of course, watch a few dancers go before you approach the stage. Is the music okay, or are they playing 15 year old Guns 'n Roses songs?
[5] Don’t go during the day… I’ve been to strip clubs during the day several times... There, I've said it. I’m not proud. It's always a bad idea and I now understand that… Usually you’ll be entertained by a group of “veteran” dancers who have 3 kids and have decided to make stripping a career. It’s actually a more personal atmosphere… but that's not necessarily a good thing.
I don’t want to feel personal at a strip club. I don’t want them to know my name. I don’t want to know their real names. I don’t want to know about their life. I don't want them to ask me if I'm married. I don't want them to ask what I do for a living. I don't want to have a talk at the bar with Lenny the alcoholic regular... and I certainly don't want someone to mistake me for a regular!
Here is a true story about the last time I ever went to a strip club during the day:
I had to run an errand in a small town where one of my favorite strip clubs was located… As I was leaving town I passed the club and thought “well, I don’t have anything to do the rest of the day, why not?”
At first I was able to forget it was the afternoon. The place was dark and busier than I would have expected... I had a couple drinks at the bar and then I decided to go sit up at the stage… A couple of guys started to leave as I was sitting down and before I realized what was happening I was alone at the stage… I WAS ALONE AT THE STAGE... I WAS THE ONLY ONE AT THE STAGE... ALERT ALERT... I WAS ALONE AT THE STAGE... YOU SHOULD NEVER BE ALONE AT THE STAGE... The dancer came out and had to dance in front of me for the entire song… It was the most awkward 3 minutes of my life.
When the music stopped there was an old man at the bar clapping his approval. I could hear a vacuum running somewhere in the background and I caught a scent of Windex. They were still cleaning up from the night before apparently.
Then the front door opened and sun light poured in for a split second… That’s when it hit me, “I’m at a strip club on a Saturday afternoon...” I suddenly had the urge to take a long hot shower. I won’t say it was the low point of my life, but it felt pretty shitty.
[6] Never use a credit card… this should be a no brainier but believe it or not you still see guys do it from time to time. Not only do you have to worry about how it appears on your bill, but I’ve heard some horror stories about guys being billed outrageous amounts of money and then having to try and dispute the charges.
Nothing should frighten a married man more than having to try and explain to his wife that the bank account has been frozen because he got charged two grand for a lap dance with “Destiny”.
[7] Be prepared to wait… The first time I went to a strip club was a month after I turned 18... My birthday was in January but I didn't have the courage to go alone. Luckily I had a friend who had his 18th in February. So I waited until he was legal and we went together. I'm pretty sure we were the first guys in our high schools to ever go to a strip club.
Predictably, we spent almost all our money in about 10 minutes. And of course we each became enamored with our own strippers. We were convinced that if we got the private dance that something more than just a dance would happen… anyway, we went up to the door guy and paid for our private dances [they were called 'hot seats' in this club, it still cracks me up to picture an 18 year me going up the door guy and saying "I'd like to buy a hot seat with "Summer""].
Anyway, the door guy assured us that it would only be a 20 minute wait—two hours later they finally got our dances… They delay the private dance because they know you're leaving right when you get done, but if you're waiting you'll keep spending money. Which we did… And of course we found out the hard way that the dance (while being a good time) was nothing more than a lap dance with a little bit of a knee job thrown in.
[8] They’re lying… She’s not really in law school. Seriously, she's not.
[9] Don’t be cheap… Look, if any mildly attractive girl came up to you on the street and offered to take off her clothes and dance in front of you with her most personal area roughly 6 inches from you face for 15 to 20 seconds, how much would you offer to pay her?? A lot more than $1 I suspect…
But at a strip club most guys expect to get that same treatment and pay only that one dollar. Or worse yet, they’ll sit close as they can to the stage without actually being at the stage and won't pay anything. That should be illegal. Pay these girls… True, as established in the previous rule, they aren’t really paying for tuition, but they do often have crazy phone bills, outrageous credit card debt, shoe fetishes, and maybe even a coke habit— these girls need your help and you just can’t stretch a dollar like you used to. So reach a little deeper into your pocket and pull out a couple more $1's!
[10] The Bi-Friend… I CAN NOT stress this rule enough... If you have a crazy female friend that likes to get liquored up and kiss girls, you NEED to bring her along. Seriously, don't plan your night without her. When you leave the house and head for the strip club make sure you have a pocket full of $1 bills, breath mints, and a borderline alcoholic-bisexual-female friend.
If I had to sit down and come up with a “Top 5 Night’s in a Strip Club” list, 4 of my top 5 nights would probably involve a bi-curious friend I used to hit the clubs with. God bless her wherever she is today.
For whatever reason strippers are willing to relax the rules [or sometimes even throw them out completely!] when it comes to females… That’s why the DC United game on Saturday reminded me that I needed to finally write this “Guide to a Strip Club” post… Girls kissing!
The only time I’ve ever had a stripper buy me a drink, relax the rules, or give me the kind of private show I've always really wanted- was because I brought my wild bi-curious friend. It’s like having a law degree in prison or a speed boat in Cuba. Suddenly, you’re the most popular guy around.
If there is such a thing a reincarnation, I want nothing more than to come back to life as a hot lesbian girl… And I would spend every weekend of my entire life in a strip club… You’d never pay for a drink, you’d get a 110% effort on every lap dance, and you’d be able to completely throw out rule # 2!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Public Service Depressant
There is a PSA poster I sometimes see in the Metro... It's a picture of a fat Hispanic kid sitting on the couch playing video games. He has a two liter bottle of soda in his lap and a half empty bag of potato chips at his feet... The ad has a message in Spanish urging parents to give their kids healthier snack alternatives, and talks about the benefits of exercise, and blah blah blah...
Two thoughts always occur to me when I see this poster:
[1] My ideal way to end my days is also to sit on my couch playing video games while chugging soda and eating chips.
and [2] How bad must it suck to be the kid they used in the ad? I just picture a photographer approaching a fat kid in the mall and saying something like: "Hey kid, we're looking to put a face on fat adolescent Latin America... You know, someone who's so fat and pathetic looking that it will scare mothers across the DC area into feeding healthy food to their kids... Anyway, we think you'd be perfect!"
Now obviously the actual talk probably was a little more subtle than that, but at some point the thought must have occurred to the kid that "hey wait a minute, they picked me for a reason!"
I wonder if he has seen the ad? Or maybe they never told him how or what they were going to use his picture for... Maybe he thought he was doing an ad for a video game?
This ad made me so depressed I had no choice but to go home and play 4 straight hours of John Madden Football... My healthy snack alternative was Doritos.
Two thoughts always occur to me when I see this poster:
[1] My ideal way to end my days is also to sit on my couch playing video games while chugging soda and eating chips.
and [2] How bad must it suck to be the kid they used in the ad? I just picture a photographer approaching a fat kid in the mall and saying something like: "Hey kid, we're looking to put a face on fat adolescent Latin America... You know, someone who's so fat and pathetic looking that it will scare mothers across the DC area into feeding healthy food to their kids... Anyway, we think you'd be perfect!"
Now obviously the actual talk probably was a little more subtle than that, but at some point the thought must have occurred to the kid that "hey wait a minute, they picked me for a reason!"
I wonder if he has seen the ad? Or maybe they never told him how or what they were going to use his picture for... Maybe he thought he was doing an ad for a video game?
This ad made me so depressed I had no choice but to go home and play 4 straight hours of John Madden Football... My healthy snack alternative was Doritos.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
The Moleskine
Well I've finally settled on a journal and as these things often come to pass, it's not at all how I'd imagined it to be, but at the same time it's everything I was looking for.
I bought what is known as a Moleskine (pronounced mo-leh-skeen-eh if you're a pompous hipster who wants to sound like a sophisticated European, or mole-skin if you're a normal human being)... They're apparently quite the popular notebook and with good reason. Not only are they sturdy, rugged, and practical, but they have just a pinch of style thrown in as well.
They come in several sizes and many different options. I went with a "large" with lined paper (although blank and square paper are also available)... It fits snugly into my back pocket sticking out the top a bit but not enough to be bothersome.
Much like breaking in a new hat properly, I've read that sitting on them for a couple of hours a day will give them the proper worn effect that I'm looking for... Okay I didn't read that- I made it up. But I suspect it may be true.
Anyway, I bought it mainly to use on my metro rides as not only a journal but as a writing tool. I've written before about the train game I often play in my mind where I pick a person that catches my eye and give them a back story... I hope to use the journal (from here on to be referred to as my 'moleskine') as a way to put that game into writing.
In theory this will make me better at describing the smaller details of people in my writing- which is something I'm not always good at doing... If it helps me blog a little more often then that will be a bonus as well.
I don't think I'll put up very many "word for word" posts of what I write into my moleskine but I figured I would give you an unedited peek at my first entry:
For now all I can be sure of is that the "subject" is shapely with a pretty face and dyed blond hair. She appears to be worried about something. I'd like to tell her that everything will alright but all the optimism I had been saving for this morning got sweat out onto my bed sheets last night.
*this record temperature thing may or may not be true but when I read this entry back years from now it will have become a fact regardless of it's accuracy!
I bought what is known as a Moleskine (pronounced mo-leh-skeen-eh if you're a pompous hipster who wants to sound like a sophisticated European, or mole-skin if you're a normal human being)... They're apparently quite the popular notebook and with good reason. Not only are they sturdy, rugged, and practical, but they have just a pinch of style thrown in as well.
They come in several sizes and many different options. I went with a "large" with lined paper (although blank and square paper are also available)... It fits snugly into my back pocket sticking out the top a bit but not enough to be bothersome.
Much like breaking in a new hat properly, I've read that sitting on them for a couple of hours a day will give them the proper worn effect that I'm looking for... Okay I didn't read that- I made it up. But I suspect it may be true.
Anyway, I bought it mainly to use on my metro rides as not only a journal but as a writing tool. I've written before about the train game I often play in my mind where I pick a person that catches my eye and give them a back story... I hope to use the journal (from here on to be referred to as my 'moleskine') as a way to put that game into writing.
In theory this will make me better at describing the smaller details of people in my writing- which is something I'm not always good at doing... If it helps me blog a little more often then that will be a bonus as well.
I don't think I'll put up very many "word for word" posts of what I write into my moleskine but I figured I would give you an unedited peek at my first entry:
Tuesday, October 9th, 2007. Five a.m., Red Line.
This first entry proves to be bitter sweet. The moleskine, this moleskine, arrived in the mail on Saturday afternoon and I've been itching to scribble down my first notes ever since.
I bought this moleskine to write down my thoughts on the metro and perhaps "hone" my writing skills. Now I find myself on the metro but I'm not sure I'm in the proper mood... I just endured the longest, hottest, most unbearable night of my life last night. The A/C went out in our apartment building and we set record temperatures in DC* yesterday. I was not permitted even a wink of sleep. I spent the whole night tossing and turning in the heat.
I'm not sure how writing on actual pen and paper will blend with my "style". I tend to do all my writing at a keyboard and have been known to rewrite a sentence a dozen times before I'm satisfied. I do this for better or worse and it remains to be seen how this strange "new" way of writing may effect my habits.
I'm also writing without benefit of spell check. I imagine one day that someone will find this journal and diagnose the writer with dyslexia.
Anyway, I find no especially interesting people sharing this metro ride with me. I do spot a woman on the other end of this car that I would like to get a closer look at in an improper way, but a large grumpy gentleman with a starring problem is blocking my view.
For now all I can be sure of is that the "subject" is shapely with a pretty face and dyed blond hair. She appears to be worried about something. I'd like to tell her that everything will alright but all the optimism I had been saving for this morning got sweat out onto my bed sheets last night.
*this record temperature thing may or may not be true but when I read this entry back years from now it will have become a fact regardless of it's accuracy!
(here's what a well used moleskin looks like)
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Journal
So I've decided what my life is really missing is some kind of journal or notebook that I could carry around with me at all times.
In my mind it would look very distinguished with out being at all pretentious... It should have a well worn brown leather cover with thick pages inside... It would have lots of loose papers hanging out the side and falling out the bottom... To counter this I have some kind of string or ribbon holding the whole book together... maybe gold ribbon?
People would admire it in the way they admire an old truck, or a fat old English bulldog... "it's a little rough around the edges but it's got lots of character," they would think to themselves.
I'll take it on the subway with me to jot down lots of really insightful and clever comments about the people around me.
I'll take it to my secret park where I'll make lots of really great sketches of mothers pushing their kids on the swing sets, or college girls with moist luscious lips sipping a frappuccino from a straw.
I'll take the journal to big fancy libraries with endless shelves of books and marble floors. I'll bury my face in really important books on philosophy and write introspective notes with deep personal meaning. When I read it back months later it will give me wisdom.
People will see me and say, "oh that's the guy who's always carrying around that journal."
They'll ponder it's contents but they won't dare look inside. Some might have the courage to ask me... Maybe one day it will be a sexy Russian girl with a cute accent and dark wavy hair. She'll be wearing low cut jeans with holes in the knees and a tight black V-neck sweater. She'll have on really sensual perfume and I won't be able to resist her dangerous inquiry. I'll read her some of the wisdom I've jotted down over the years and she'll of course fall hopelessly in love with me.
She'll want me to write about her in the journal. And of course... I will.
Does anyone know where I could find such a journal?
Like I said, I'm looking for distinguished but not pretentious... I think I want it to be brown leather, but probably not black.
It needs to have really cool looking paper. Thick paper... but I would also prefer it to be loose paper so I don't have to tear any out where I practiced my signature over and over, or drew a really obscene cartoon, or wrote down the Russian girl's phone number.
And oh yeah, I'm working on a limited budget too. I don't want to pay more than $40 for the whole package... Any suggestions?
In my mind it would look very distinguished with out being at all pretentious... It should have a well worn brown leather cover with thick pages inside... It would have lots of loose papers hanging out the side and falling out the bottom... To counter this I have some kind of string or ribbon holding the whole book together... maybe gold ribbon?
People would admire it in the way they admire an old truck, or a fat old English bulldog... "it's a little rough around the edges but it's got lots of character," they would think to themselves.
I'll take it on the subway with me to jot down lots of really insightful and clever comments about the people around me.
I'll take it to my secret park where I'll make lots of really great sketches of mothers pushing their kids on the swing sets, or college girls with moist luscious lips sipping a frappuccino from a straw.
I'll take the journal to big fancy libraries with endless shelves of books and marble floors. I'll bury my face in really important books on philosophy and write introspective notes with deep personal meaning. When I read it back months later it will give me wisdom.
People will see me and say, "oh that's the guy who's always carrying around that journal."
They'll ponder it's contents but they won't dare look inside. Some might have the courage to ask me... Maybe one day it will be a sexy Russian girl with a cute accent and dark wavy hair. She'll be wearing low cut jeans with holes in the knees and a tight black V-neck sweater. She'll have on really sensual perfume and I won't be able to resist her dangerous inquiry. I'll read her some of the wisdom I've jotted down over the years and she'll of course fall hopelessly in love with me.
She'll want me to write about her in the journal. And of course... I will.
Does anyone know where I could find such a journal?
Like I said, I'm looking for distinguished but not pretentious... I think I want it to be brown leather, but probably not black.
It needs to have really cool looking paper. Thick paper... but I would also prefer it to be loose paper so I don't have to tear any out where I practiced my signature over and over, or drew a really obscene cartoon, or wrote down the Russian girl's phone number.
And oh yeah, I'm working on a limited budget too. I don't want to pay more than $40 for the whole package... Any suggestions?
Monday, October 01, 2007
Asleep on the Train
I fell in love with another girl on the subway this morning... it's happened once before. Actually it's happened dozens of times before, but I only wrote about it that one time.
Before getting onto the train I checked the balance on my fare card. Only $2.40 left. I fed some cash into the machine and swiped my card across the reader.
"I hope this will last the whole week..." I tried to do the math in my head. It's was 5 a.m. My brain comes to a screeching halt.
"I can't do math this early in the morning."
The train is leaving in two minutes.
Two weeks ago someone snatched the fare card from my hand and hopped on a train just before it closed it's doors and pulled away. It had $14 on it.
I was robbed for a $14 fare card that can only be used on buses and subways. It was at an incredibly daring, incredibly desperate, and incredibly stupid criminal act. It was the only crime I've ever been witness to on the subway... and of course I was the victim. Does that make me more or less likely to be the victim of future subway crime?
The train is mostly empty. It's the first train of the morning. I sit down and pull my back pack close to my side. I pull out a book I've been reading. The book is called, The Glass Castle. My mom recommended it and I just started it yesterday. It's the memoir of a rich white lady in New York who has homeless parents. The James Frey alarm in the back of my head is ringing loudly but I'm going to stick with the book anyway.
The train starts moving.
The Glass Castle lady is taking me, the reader, through her childhood. Right now her family is living in a car in the Nevada desert.
I put the book down for a second. I don't know how many stops we've made. There is a new person sitting across from me. She's asleep. She looks kind of like a bustier version of my wife... only, if my wife was black. She has big frizzy hair. Trendy glasses. She looks like an artist. Lip gloss. She has on white eye liner. I think that's what it's called anyway... It's that thin line girls pencil on their eyelids just above the lashes. Girls have way too many color combinations and accessories to worry about. No wonder they spend so much time in the bathroom getting ready. Too many options. Regardless this girl is looking sophisticated, sexy, and earthy all at once.
I just watched this short documentary called REVOLUC!ON that profiled 5 Cuban photographers... I decide that this girl is a photographer... She's dressed well but not "on my way to work" well. She doesn't look like she's been out clubbing all night either.
Maybe she's been out taking pictures of DC for her portfolio. That's it... I'm positive. She got shots of 14th street alive and dancing late into Sunday night. Students from Howard, Georgetown, and GW out enjoying the dying hours of what could be the last warm weekend before the chill of Autumn arrives.
But being the earthly and in touch young woman she is she decided to stick around a few more hours to catch the residents of Columbia Heights wake up and start their work week... Immigrant women carrying sleepy eyed toddlers to the bus stop. House painters sipping coffee and waiting for their rides. Insomniac pan handlers setting up shop. Hookers jockeying for position to catch the morning wave of construction workers headed into the city. I bet she captured it all and nobody even noticed she was there. Except me of course.
She opens her eyes for a second. I quickly look away. [pause] A look back to see if she caught me... Our eyes meet again, "damn that's awkward."
Thankfully she closes her eyes to drift back off to sleep.
You must be a very trusting person to fall asleep on the train... I doubt she's ever been robbed of her fare card. Maybe she's seen some kind of optimism tonight through the lens of her camera that allows her to sleep amidst strangers... or maybe she's just really fucking tired.
It's my stop. I get one last glimpse of her as the train starts to pull away... She's still asleep... She's still beautiful... Sigh... Now it's off to work.
Before getting onto the train I checked the balance on my fare card. Only $2.40 left. I fed some cash into the machine and swiped my card across the reader.
"I hope this will last the whole week..." I tried to do the math in my head. It's was 5 a.m. My brain comes to a screeching halt.
"I can't do math this early in the morning."
The train is leaving in two minutes.
Two weeks ago someone snatched the fare card from my hand and hopped on a train just before it closed it's doors and pulled away. It had $14 on it.
I was robbed for a $14 fare card that can only be used on buses and subways. It was at an incredibly daring, incredibly desperate, and incredibly stupid criminal act. It was the only crime I've ever been witness to on the subway... and of course I was the victim. Does that make me more or less likely to be the victim of future subway crime?
The train is mostly empty. It's the first train of the morning. I sit down and pull my back pack close to my side. I pull out a book I've been reading. The book is called, The Glass Castle. My mom recommended it and I just started it yesterday. It's the memoir of a rich white lady in New York who has homeless parents. The James Frey alarm in the back of my head is ringing loudly but I'm going to stick with the book anyway.
The train starts moving.
The Glass Castle lady is taking me, the reader, through her childhood. Right now her family is living in a car in the Nevada desert.
I put the book down for a second. I don't know how many stops we've made. There is a new person sitting across from me. She's asleep. She looks kind of like a bustier version of my wife... only, if my wife was black. She has big frizzy hair. Trendy glasses. She looks like an artist. Lip gloss. She has on white eye liner. I think that's what it's called anyway... It's that thin line girls pencil on their eyelids just above the lashes. Girls have way too many color combinations and accessories to worry about. No wonder they spend so much time in the bathroom getting ready. Too many options. Regardless this girl is looking sophisticated, sexy, and earthy all at once.
I just watched this short documentary called REVOLUC!ON that profiled 5 Cuban photographers... I decide that this girl is a photographer... She's dressed well but not "on my way to work" well. She doesn't look like she's been out clubbing all night either.
Maybe she's been out taking pictures of DC for her portfolio. That's it... I'm positive. She got shots of 14th street alive and dancing late into Sunday night. Students from Howard, Georgetown, and GW out enjoying the dying hours of what could be the last warm weekend before the chill of Autumn arrives.
But being the earthly and in touch young woman she is she decided to stick around a few more hours to catch the residents of Columbia Heights wake up and start their work week... Immigrant women carrying sleepy eyed toddlers to the bus stop. House painters sipping coffee and waiting for their rides. Insomniac pan handlers setting up shop. Hookers jockeying for position to catch the morning wave of construction workers headed into the city. I bet she captured it all and nobody even noticed she was there. Except me of course.
She opens her eyes for a second. I quickly look away. [pause] A look back to see if she caught me... Our eyes meet again, "damn that's awkward."
Thankfully she closes her eyes to drift back off to sleep.
You must be a very trusting person to fall asleep on the train... I doubt she's ever been robbed of her fare card. Maybe she's seen some kind of optimism tonight through the lens of her camera that allows her to sleep amidst strangers... or maybe she's just really fucking tired.
It's my stop. I get one last glimpse of her as the train starts to pull away... She's still asleep... She's still beautiful... Sigh... Now it's off to work.
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