TMI

Some nights, every now and again, I get a little of my own urine, just a singular drop, on my bare foot. It stops me for a second and I look down at it like I lost a child or I was witness to a bird flying into a living room window.

I'm too susceptible to thought past 2:00 AM.

To Those with Ears

I'm dreadfully sorry for noise and what scientists call noise pollution.

My Polish roommate, Wyckzirkerski (again, pronounced "Andy"), is the proud owner of a drum set. He likes to drink at various establishments and drum his little heart out on the drums. He likes to drum at all hours. He'd carry around a set of drums if they weren't so heavy. He might have "Zildjian" tattooed on his chest. I'm not quite sure.

I don't mind the headaches. I don't mind sleeping with iPod headphones, trying to tune him out. I don't even mind the constant traffic of friends that see the drum set and go "Hey! Drums! Sweet!" and then attempt to play better than the drummer of Def Leppard, who has one arm.

I just fear for my neighbors. Sometimes I come outside and they glare as if it was me on percussion. How dare you, they must think and cast telepathically in my direction.

It makes me want to sell all my own musical instruments - my two guitars and amplifier that's half my height - out of respect to those that I might have annoyed when I was younger. Sorry, I wasn't being considerate then. I'm trying to become a better person, honestly.

Mr. Samuel Morse...

I really need to learn Morse code, it seems. I've noticed recently that it plays a pivotal role in nine out of ten action movies. Mostly Michael Bay the-bigger-the-explosions-the-better movies, but I am starting to feel like not knowing Morse code, could kill me.

There is always this guy, within a submarine, a command center, anywhere, facing a computer, with headphones on. He never sleeps. He is always listening. He hears the urgent Morse code and goes "Sir! Morse code! The Russians have invaded part of NORAD's base in Colorado!"

The most important thing, is that (I've seen this in movies, which never lie. Ever.) the people listening to the Morse code or watching its signal immediately translate it. How handy is that?

I saw Transformers and it all finally clicked that I really need to learn Morse. And I also need to learn who the closest Morse translator/listener guy is. That might be important too. The best example of Morse code saving the day is from Executive Decision. It's a good movie. Steven Seagal dies within the first 10 minutes. Very good.

Anyway, a jet pilot sees two flickers of Morse code from the hijacked airplane's tail lights and goes something like "Abort! Abort! The rescue team is on board and going to do their best to thwart the hijackers." How pleasant.

Thank you, Mr. Morse.

Welcome to the Post Office

"How can I help you today, Sir?"

I'm a sir there - who would have thought? I'm not that old, even. And no, the guy on the right looks like a good mailman, but he is nowhere to be found at my post office. He might have gotten fired.

There's one gentleman at the Main Street post office, named Silvio, as his tag suggests, that is just wonderful. He comes up to you in line and grabs packages from the back of the store for you. He will walk up from behind and say: "You, packages in back, yes?" He looks like a middle-aged Super Mario brother, or what Josef Stalin would have looked like had he retired in Italy and found a love for rigatoni. His hair is a dashing gray that matches his work shirt.

He goes to help a woman ship a package and he says: "Prin [sic] your name, number, telephone number, yes, telephone, and then mhmm I will get this go for you, yes."

I couldn't help staring at the dimpled rubber floor and listening to whatever he said to customers. I shall learn from you, oh Silvio.

Self Improvement: Barrel-Chested Cheetah

When I was six, my teacher asked me to fill out a little thing called a Myself Book that tells all about me. It's a fill in the blank questionnaire for my teacher, Mrs. Garriga, to get to know me better.

An excerpt:"These three words are the ones I'd like people to think of wen they think of me. [I wrote] fast, smart, cute."

Now, I don't want to be a total liar. One of those three has to be true, so I have chosen to work on my speed. Why I chose to be "fast" when I was six, I have no idea, but I must improve.

THINGS NEEDED TO BECOME FAST:

1. Proper sneakers. They can be purchased at Wal-Mart. They should cost no more than $15. The more expensive the shoe, I'm sure, the slower you will run due to expensive materials creating a heavier shoe.

2. Athletic shorts. Preferably the green ones that are one of two items proving you did in fact play on the high school baseball team. Yes, you were the one player that didn't get a hat, but let's not gripe. Let's get fast. (Note: Pale thighs and leg hair not necessary to achieve maximum land speed.)

3. Finally, being fast requires a fierce shirt. A good choice would be the black Marine Corps shirt that says "Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body" on the back. If someone asks you where you got it from, you say you won it doing 100 pull ups or serving in the Persian Gulf. DO NOT explain that your sister flirted with a recruiter and got the shirt for you. Also, to decrease wind resistance, cut the shirt so that it ends inches above your navel.

RESULTS:

- I can run pretty darn fast.
- To be all scientific, I can go from one wall in my room to the other in less than half a second, I think (Based on the Mississippi Counting System or known to the Department of Timing as the "MCS").
- I can type over 9o wpm.
- I can completely sanitize both hands in roughly one Happy Birthday Song.

So there you have it, I have worked on my speed, and I think I'm a little bit closer to becoming a good person.

Dad, You Silly Man, You Should Have Been a Photographer, But Thanks For Being an Accountant, Too.

Dear Dad,

You will probably never see this, but you really have talent, Sir. You could have worked for a postcard company:
























Or you could have worked making portraits...












Or you could have just been a brooding artist...












Or you could have been in the pornography business...












Gross.

It's Been Awhile, Insomnia

There comes a point, when you stare at the stucco ceiling long enough, that you realize a few things. You can't whistle at all, tie a shoe the way everyone else in the educated world does, nor swallow a pill without a gag reflex (instead, having to trick yourself with peanut butter or a banana [much like a dog or monkey]). The list goes on, and you could feel bad.

But there is something better you can do:

You can hold onto someone and dance a little and laugh at yourself, because God knows, everyone else is.

The blond hair is gone for good, but if I dig hard enough, I can find that vest, I bet.

Apparently

Today was Harry Potter day at the movies. The first five theaters at Regal were: Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Sicko, Harry Potter, Harry Potter. I was told I should go see the Michael Moore film, so I braved the scant parking and made my way in. There were lines everywhere, but I wasn't wizard enough to wait through them. The children stared at me, a sinner who never read Harry Potter.

I walked in on Sicko alone, to find the theater completely filled with the elderly. I sat next to an old lady who kept rummaging through her purse/handbag/duffel bag. She apparently needed to find Mentos, the freshmaker. The audience gave Michael Moore an applause afterwards, and then went back to their assisted living.

I liked the movie, but my God, I had never been so amazed with the previews. There was not one preview I was not impressed with! The new Richard Gere flick, the movie version of Into the Wild, the Western with Russell Crowe and the Illustrious Mr. Bale, I was breathless throughout. Moving pictures really are something.

Our Love to Admire

I've been job hunting.

I walked into a bookstore today looking for an application. I walked out with four books, $22 missing from my wallet, and no application.

And something about being unemployed told me to go ahead and buy the new Interpol album. It's called Our Love to Admire. I've listened to it while driving, painting, lying on my bed, going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth - I even danced a little to it in my boxers and sang just like Paul himself.

I like it a lot, and I think you would too. And yes, you can take my word for it, because I'm not this guy:

Italian Dinner of Slavs

I cooked dinner for my parents tonight. The cable was out.

The main course would have looked like this if it were in studio lighting.

I made Italian herb chicken with tomatoes and too-zesty cilantro and rice, a caesar salad, fried mozzarella squares, and of course, I warmed some Italian grain bread for the meal. I opened a bottle of Riesling, too. The only thing missing was a Deluxe Pillsbury Premium Funfetti cake, with its Deluxe Pillsbury Premium Funfetti Frosting (the kind with sprinkles), because I really hate it when people make the Deluxe Pillsbury Premium Funfetti cake and forget to use the Deluxe Pillsbury Premium Funfetti Frosting with its joyous sprinkles. It's a waste of fun.

Afterwards, I cleaned up alone and scrubbed the floor. I fell asleep in the tub after finishing the bottle of wine and reading some more of Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies. I didn't really need the cake.

Box O' Goodies

I'm back home, but I don't like calling it that. My parents bought this house by the beach just before I moved off to college, so I threw all my things into the new room and never really settled in. I did arrange my baseball trophies though, because they were deemed essential.

Tonight, I sat on the floor and went through some junk. My parents had kept a box of all the construction paper, glue stick, and Crayola masterpieces I brought home to them growing up. They had kept the first story I ever wrote (it's a thriller, believe me) in the small cardboard box. Maybe I'll post it. It was even illustrated, because I'm apparently very talented.

At the bottom of the box was a psych evaluation I was shuffled into back in the first grade. It's interesting - I had never seen or heard a word about the results. One part reads: "BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS: Gregory presented as a handsome youngster of normal development. He easily separated from an accompanying family member."

I can remember walking into the cold office with my hair still blond, almost all of it parted to the right side of my head. This was handsome.

The next page is better. "His lowest score was shown in seeing essential from nonessential detail."

The test for this, as I can recall exactly, was looking at a picture of blocks in a certain shape, and then arranging blocks on the table in front of me, to match that shape. I didn't want to do it, simply put. Just like I didn't want to be put on a pony for a picture back in Pre-K. Just like I didn't want my dad to change my diapers, as my first words were "Not you!" when it was his turn to do the dirty work. Of course, Mom told me that, and I'm not 100% sure of its validity.

Point being, that evaluation was so true in some ways.

WATER-COOLER
Part Two

Curtain opens to a dark stage. A spotlight focuses on Greg, who is standing alone with a crystal vase in his hands that says "DREAMS" on it.

Greg: Everything will be OK.

Enter Balding Asshole, Esquire, in a pinstripe suit.

Balding Asshole, Esquire: You think so hmm? It is such a slippery slope. [Asshole begins pacing around Greg] Those you care about will move away -

Greg: But -

Balding Asshole, Esquire: The things you cherish will disappear -

Greg: I -

Balding Asshole, Esquire: And your job here [Asshole takes the glass vase in his own arms] will no longer exist.

[Balding Asshole drops vase on the wooden stage, shattering it. He walks away, cackling madly, pretending he's an entrepreneur.]

[Greg lowers to his knees and starts sweeping the pieces of glass with his hand into a small pile. Curtain closes.]

Copytalk Theater Presents...

WATER-COOLER
A Memoirical Musical in One Act

Curtains draws to show a break-room with two moldy couches, coffee machine, vending machine and full water-cooler. Greg is standing facing the vending machine, quizzically staring. Employee #46554 is sitting on moldy couch, stirring cold coffee.

Employee #46554: You know, there are QA openings, Greg.

Greg: Oh yeah? Quality Assurance?

[Greg remains focused on what to buy.]

Employee #46554: Yep, you'd be a good one too.

Greg: I don't know about that, I've got bad ears.

Employee #46554: Me too, but I've been doing it for years now. You should apply.

Greg: You think so?
[Employee #46554 gets up and begins to exit break-room. Greg chooses a Snickers bar from the machine.]

Employee #46554: It's your time, you've worked here long enough.

[Greg faces audience, holding his Snickers with both hands firmly against his chest. Spotlight centers on him as background darkens. He begins to sing in a slow opera-tone, sort of like in Beauty and the Beast.]

Greg: May-be now's my time
May-be it begins
May-be now I'll be a star
As Quality Assurance

[Music picks up pace. Singing becomes energetic. Dancing ensues.]
Greg: I'll wear track suits!
Gold chains and rings!
I'll do half the work
Of those un-der-lings!

I'll take naps on the job!
I'll fix their typing
And soon my ass
They will be wip-ing!

Maybe now
Maybe now
[Greg falls to his knees in finale]
It's my time.

[Greg takes bite of Snickers and curtain closes.]

Something in the Hot, Sticky, Popcorn-Scented Air

Theme parks are full of the same people in crowded airports. The only difference is that at theme parks, they are all wearing workout clothes or bathing suit tops because it really is tiresome to sit down on rides.

Universal Studios was the theme park this round for me. They got rid of King Kong, the ride that taught me all about New York, with its subway-designed wait line that smelled of homelessness and urine. They closed down the Back to the Future ride and I think they're replacing it with something Simpson's related. That's my guess, and the guy dressed as Doc Brown, walking around lost in front of his closed-down ride, was not so helpful.

I found pleasure in counting fanny packs (47-49 depending on mistaken camera cases) and watching the Beetle Juice Rock Spectacular. I don't think that's the full, real name, but it should be. Beetle Juice asked the crowd "What time is it...my Dolly Parton watch is....BUSTED!" I wanted to roll in the aisle. The wolf man was also very good at his rendition of "Jump" by Van Halen.

I think I want to be an amusement park bush, trimmed square daily, that can just squat and be and listen to the things people talk about. Either that, or I'll just have to go back for another visit.

I'm certain...

I'll never be president. I'm not smart enough and I have trouble tying a tie, whether Windsor knot or whatever.

I'll never be an astronaut and I'll never go to Mars. I can drive through Arizona and make believe. If Total Recall paints the most positive picture of the planet Mars, perhaps I don't want to go there.

Look what Mars does to governors. I'm no match, I tell you.

But there is something I'd like to do in the future -

I'm going to call it the "Deliver and Stand." I want to star in a movie where I teach underprivileged high school students to read better and/or do better in math so they can get into college. I will star as myself. (My grandparents said I am as handsome as Clark Gable. I'm not sure how I compare to Edward James Olmos, though). Then, after I win an Oscar, I will go to a run-down high school and do exactly what the movie shows me doing. I'll bring my lunch to school in Tupperware and laugh at Dilbert comics and die of heart disease while teaching differentials, completely gray-headed.

Beats going to Mars, I say.