Below are the 15 most recent journal entries.
Monday, October 20th, 2008 at 6:04pm
( This better be worth four dollars.Collapse )
Thursday, October 9th, 2008 at 9:39am
This is why I'm not in charge.
( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )
Friday, March 7th, 2008 at 1:04pm
your brain on booze
I had a weird thought last night at 80's night at the Drink Ultra lounge while we were dancing to ABBA. I imagined myself as some sort of time traveling ambassador, going to the late seventies to inform people that we were still dancing to the songs that they all knew and loved, so they wouldn't have to worry about feeling out of place when time caught up to them.
As I thought about this more, I realized what a serious error in judgment it would be to travel back in time and tell people from the seventies and eighties we were still dancing to ABBA. Aside from the obvious danger of accidentally doing or saying something that would disrupt the timeline, I also realized that if I were someone from the late seventies and a representative from the future told me that people that weren't even born yet would be dancing to the same ABBA songs that I was dancing to, I'd be kind of pissed off.
Think about it. 2008 probably seemed like a hundred years in the future back in 1977. People were probably thinking the 2000s were going to be all about moon colonies, tinfoil clothing and a helicopter in every garage. And now your telling me we're still going to be dancing to the same songs? That we'll still be listening to music and not be plugged into weird music tubes that actually turn you into some sort of free-flowing non-corporal entity so you can merge with the song itself? What happened to all your fancy futuristic technology? Are there at the very least robots involved with the dancing? NO!? Fuck you future man. Fuck you.
Then, after thinking about this, I wondered if our children would have their own retro night and be dancing to Flo-Rida and Fat Joe. This idea of people who weren't even being born yet dancing to this style of music provoked an image of a large group of fetuses doing the Soulja Boy. The odd thing about that thought is that I pictured myself among them, but I was the same size as the average fetus there. So the burning question: was I tiny, dancing in a tiny, fetus-sized club, or was I dancing with gigantic, monstrously oversized fetuses?
Friday, November 9th, 2007 at 1:43pm
There's this gentleman I've been obsessed about for the last month and a half or so. He's a street-musician, with the label "musician" being used in the most loose and generous form of the word. Basically this guy's instrument of choice is the bongo and he plays it with the stylings that most accurately could be described as how a six-year-old boy opens Super-Nintendo-box shaped presents on Christmas morning. My theory is that this man found these bongos behind the dumpster, and because he's crazy, thinks the devil is in them and it's his duty to beat the shit out of the devil. If only he could beat through these bongos!
Anyway. I thought this guy was pretty amusing and have been somewhat obsessed with him (I believe Katy at one point used the word "autistic" to describe my behavior in the last couple of weeks) and I have been wishing to run across him again at some point. I haven't held up much hope because we were on a subway car when we first encountered him. Who knows where he'd be next? I had basically given up on ever seeing him again and had taken the necessary steps in beginning the long process of mourning (stopped listening to music featuring heavy bongo play, stopped staring in hope at homeless men on the street and subway, stopped offering bongos to said homeless men on the street and subway, etc) when to my surprise and extreme delight, I saw him on the way home from work last Monday.
I've seen him every night this week actually—it seems that he has taken a permanent post in the subway station that I use to get home after work. This spot was previously occupied by a crazy college-studenty looking dude who would sing cheesy love-ballads off-key as an automated Casio dutifully banged out electronic beats and bass lines. I at first feared this guy would be gone, as I liked him too (I guess in order to be a good street musician in my book, you must be at first a terrible one) but two days ago, I was very pleased to see that they have actually joined forces to form some sort of crazyman subway band. They don't appear to talk to each other, but it's clear they don't need to—they communicate through the music.
Except they don't really. They each do their own separate thing, as if the other wasn't there. They just happen to be right next to each other; it doesn't matter that their respective percussions and time signatures do not synch and are turning everything into a head-turning mess—honestly, I can't even tell if they notice how weird it is. It's just how they are.
When I first moved here, and even still now to a degree, I was really irritated by the over-romantic attitude that the New York City Subway commands. I think sometime between the fifth and tenth subway ride one takes, the subway ceases to be a novelty and starts becoming what it is—a vehicle to get you where you are going that occasionally smells like pee.
But there are some good things about the subway, like the aforementioned (non-threatening) crazies. It's also a real good setting for mind-wandering as you generally have a lot of free time to spend inside your own head. It's really easy to make up stories for strangers on the train and to imagine where they are going and where they are coming from.
It's always funny to see people sprinting for a train in the middle of the day at places like Times Square because trains literally come every two minutes. So when you see someone sprinting, you can tell they are on an every-second-counts timetable, as if they have a kidney sitting in room temperature inside their briefcase or something and it's for a senator (don't ask me why I came up with that example; I told you that I have a lot of time on my hands on the train).
In truth, I always like the (more pleasant) idea that they are rushing to Grand Central station to tell their best friend that they have been secretly in love with them all along and for them not to not get on that train! It's easy to imagine this when you see the looks of blind urgency some of these people sport on their faces as they miss another train. "Fuck!" they'll shout, as they stare at their watches desperately. I wish I had the balls to do my part in keeping this fantasy alive by shouting things as they run by like "You go get her boy!" and "Hurry, boy, you still have time to tell her how you feel!"
I think yelling things like this in theory would be pretty safe because if they aren't running towards someone that they have been secretly in love with, well, then you're just a crazy guy on the subway platform which isn't exactly unheard of (see above), but on the off chance you are right—well, just imagine the confidence boost that would be! "Thanks complete stranger!" He might even stop and say something like "How did you know? How did you know I'm about to tell Theresa that I love her?" And I could just smile slightly, my eyes portraying a certain sadness of a man who's been there.
I'd say, "It doesn't matter. None of this matters. The only thing that matters is that you have ten minutes before the love of your life heads out on the nine-oh-five. Now go, boy! Shoo!" And he'd turn around and start running, running fast, bumping into strangers and squeezing through the shifting hairline cracks that form between people on the move. Newspapers would fly in the air as he would run into an older gentleman, but he'd just mutter a brief apology and keep on running, running as fast as he could go. And I'd stand there and smile before shaking my head slowly and chuckling to myself. Fools in love. Damn fools. At that point I'd turn on my heel and walk slowly away as the band strikes up one last song. "One, make your dreams come true, twoooooo, just wanna be—DOONKA-DA-DOONKATA-DOONKA—with youuuuuu, three, girl it's plain to seeee—DOOKATA-DA-DA-DOONKATA—that you're the only one for me and—DOONK-DOONK DOONK!"
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007 at 12:14am
This is quite possibly the most disgusting commercial I have ever seen. And this vid is missing the first minute of it, most likely because, like myself, the filmer didn't realize how weird it was until about thirty seconds in and couldn't get to his or her video camera in time. Anyone know where I can find the whole one?
Thursday, September 20th, 2007 at 8:06pm
LIST OF BAD IDEAS FOR SHAMPOO SMELLS AND VARIETIES
1. Cigarette Smoke
2. Piss (or really, come to think of it, any sort of bodily excretion)
5. Bleach (or would this one actually be pleasant? I kind of like the smell of bleach. You’d smell like an indoor pool!)
6. Sweat (does this fall under excretions?)
7. Buttermilk Ranch
8. Warm Day Old Beer (Thanks Dan!)
9. The Bar (thanks Chris!)
10. Dewberry: Dew Your Hair a Favor (Mildew Scented Shampoo) (Thanks Lindsey!)
11. Cat Litter (Extra Clumpy for thick hair) (Thanks Katy!)
12. Hot Dog Water (Thanks Liz!)
13. Grocery Store Bottle Return Area (Thanks Katie!)
14. Cock (Thanks Tom!)
Feel free to add your own in the comments below. I’ll update the list accordingly. The criteria:
If it is a smell, it can’t just be a bad smell. That’s too obvious. If it’s generally considered a bad smell, it must be a smell that somehow a human head reasonably could (unfortunately) find itself emitting in some way or another. A smell that normal shampoo is designed to get rid of, if you will. For example, you could have went to the bar the night prior and had the smell of cigarette smoke saturate your hair. You could have had someone pee on you because well, you’re into that sort of thing. That’s great for you (whatever floats your boat pervert), but in my opinion, I think a shampoo that is designed to smell like urine is by its very nature the opposite to what most people who are in the market for a good shampoo desire.
Chum, for example, really doesn’t belong on this list because only the tiniest fragment of the human population will even come into contact with the substance in their lifetime, not to mention even those who do (whalers, shark hunters and the like) are most likely extremely careful to not let any chum get anywhere near the vicinity of their head (or any exposed body parts for that matter). I only included it as a bad example and well, because I think it’s a funny word. Chum.
Another good example would be a smell that is not universally accepted in society as a bad smell but would make a terrible shampoo. Buttermilk Ranch being the prime example here.
An additional challenge! I’d like to see some names of these shampoos that would actually make them sound somewhat appealing. Think “Golden River” or “Grey Lady”, that sort of thing.
Thursday, September 20th, 2007 at 8:03pm
( I am afraid of high school kids.Collapse )
Thursday, August 23rd, 2007 at 10:56am
I’ve recently developed the terrible habit of forgetting to press the “desired floor” button whenever I enter an elevator. I’ve forgotten to do this four times in the last two weeks. Each occasion is pretty awkward and embarrassing.
I mean, there’s one step involved in elevator transportation. One step. It’s not like it’s a huge complicated process or anything. You push the button and the elevator goes there. I guess if you are feeling generous you could count the process of getting on and getting off as steps as well, but that still only leaves three (very simple) things you have to do in order to ensure a successful trip on the elevator.
I can understand why a certain type of person would have difficulty getting the whole elevator thing down. I mean, say, if you were a person from the late 1700s and you suddenly found yourself ripped through a time vortex into our modern era, I’d like to think that society would give you a little slack when it came to elevators. The general concept of elevators and why we would need them would probably seem strange to you at first as it was, much less the actual operation thereof. And in any case, you’d probably have more pressing concerns anyway. You were, after all, torn away from everything that was familiar to you and deposited far into the future in a completely alien and foreign society. So yeah, take your time on the whole elevator thing. We’d understand. But still, if you were still messing up after the tenth elevator trip or so I’d bet people would start getting annoyed. Time traveler or not.
Regardless, the point is I have no excuse. I’ve grown up in the age of the elevator and I live in New York City, where I think the average citizen comes across oh, eighteen elevators a day or so. I get plenty of opportunities to practice.
I want to emphasize that I’m not talking about forgetting to push the number right away and having to have someone push it for me or something as the lift fills up. This is full-on me traveling up several floors and realizing that I had forgotten to push it thirty seconds or so prior, back when everybody else had made their selection. This realization is invariably accompanied with me emitting some sort of startled gasp, causing the other people in the elevator to look at me with these sideways glances while they quietly determine if I’m having a heart attack or otherwise require medical attention. Not really the best way to make a good first impression.
However, sadly enough, that’s the best that it gets. Because from here, there’s only a couple of ways this scenario can play out, and none of them involve me looking smart.
If I’m lucky, god forbid, the elevator hasn’t already passed my floor and I can simply push past everyone and request a floor while the elevator is in transit (it should be noted that this situation NEVER happens when I am alone in the goddamn elevator. The elevator must always be packed and the people must be grumpy). This merely points out that I am idiot to the other people in the elevator and I can deal with that—generally I only have to share my life with them for thirty more seconds from this point forward anyway.
But nine times out of ten I don’t realize my error until I am well past the floor I intended to get off on.
This means one of two things: (1) I can, in a panic, get off as soon as the opportunity presents itself and really spotlight my idiocy (not to mention perhaps freaking out my fellow riders) or (2) smoothly act like nothing is wrong and get off when a large group of people does, hoping that I’m lost in the shuffle.
This second method has the advantage of that in theory no one will notice the fact that I am not walking down the hallway but rather I’m hanging back, hitting the down button. That’s in theory—I don’t think this has ever worked out according to plan.
Here in New York, everyone walks on the streets wrapped up in their own world. Sometimes it can be hard to break through each other’s walls and make a real connection with someone here. That’s why whenever you actually have a real conversation with a fellow New Yorker, it’s cause for excitement if only for the novelty factor alone.
I found that elevator idiocy generally breaks New Yorkers out of their shell. True, they only pop out of their shells to make fun of you, but still, well, I’m trying to look on the bright side of things lately. Every single time that I’ve tried to sneak my inability to follow elevator floor-picking procedure past people I get pretty much laughed at. People turn around and say things like, “Hey, wrong floor, eh?” and “Yeah, that’ll getcha!” I look like an elevator tourist. Next time I should ask someone for directions before the lift starts. “How do you get to uh, five? I’ve been trying for awhile now and I’m just hopelessly lost.”
The worst thing is when you go up too high on some of these buildings. A month or so ago I was delivering packages for my temp agency and forgot to press the button for my floor. I got out at the first possible opportunity. However, to my horror, the elevator opened directly into an office. I, of course, again didn’t realize this until it was too late (I swear my brain runs fifteen seconds behind my body or something). It was so embarrassing. I was sweaty because it was ninety degrees out and I had just spent four hours delivering boxes on foot in Manhattan. There was this really well put-together girl there glaring at me behind some reception desk as I tried to explain the situation, how I must have forgotten to press the “twenty-five” button.
“I’m sure this sort of thing happens all the time, right?” I asked.
I coughed. “Well, looks like I’ll just press the ol’ down-a-roo button now.”
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. I resumed sweating and smelling bad. “Wow. What floor is this? Sure is takin’ the elevator a long time, eh?”
She informed me coolly that it was the sixty-fifth floor. “Oh…well. Huh.”
Next time I’m taking the stairs.
Friday, July 13th, 2007 at 1:42pm
now to begin the birthday sacrifice rituals
This is the cake I made for Katy for her birthday. It was my first attempt at making and decorating a cake. I wanted to have this sort of cute idea of the cake reading "Happy 2 th", and say I didn't have enough money to afford the second candle. Like it would come off as endearing or something.
Instead I think it kind of says "In my excitement to murder you, I forgot the second candle."
It also didn't taste very good. Failure. Oh well. Happy birthday Katy!
Tuesday, May 22nd, 2007 at 11:54am
My job is boring.
Ever wonder at what point a baby surpasses the intelligence of a dog? I mean, for a while, the dog is smarter right? It can do tricks and stuff and go to the bathroom outside. Babies don’t do anything for awhile.
Monday, April 2nd, 2007 at 11:46pm
see cut text for subject
( Stupid thoughts about temping at a gigantic monolithic corporation.Collapse )
Wednesday, March 28th, 2007 at 1:49am
sorry Wisconsin, i'm a terrible cartographer
Today at work, the subject of Michigan came up (undoubtedly because some millionaire from Michigan filed his taxes with the gigantic, faceless corporation I temp for). Why it came up is unimportant. The reason behind this post is that when I started talking about Michigan it became extremely clear that my fellow employee did not know where Michigan was.
Now, okay, I know that Grand Rapids isn't the largest city in the country (actually, I think it is the 93rd largest if I remember correctly) and that not everyone in the world thinks it's a pretty interesting place, worth mentioning outside of the state and probably most people don't even know where exactly it's at—but Michigan? Michigan? One of only two states clearly visible from space, uncaring of man's political boundaries?*
At first, I have to admit, I kind of thought a little less of my co-worker there. But I shouldn't have because it didn't end there. She wasn't the only person who was confused geographically concerning Michigan's whearabouts.
I kind of unwittingly gave my other co-worker a "Whattdaya kiddin' me!?" look and it turned out that he didn't know where Michigan exactly was either! And neither did the third guy in the room. "What, isn't it on like, the other side of Wisconsin or something?" I informed them that was Minnesota. "Yeah, the Great Lake state!"
I eventually drew them a map. I outlined the United States and drew arrows to the Upper and the Lower Peninsulas. "Wait. Isn't that Minnesota?"
I drew another map, a regional one this time.
Alex: You know where Pennsylvania is, right?
Alex: Alright. So Ohio is on the other side of Pennsylvania.
Alex: And Indiana is on the other side of Ohio.
KPMGers: Of course.
Alex: Michigan is on top of Ohio and Indiana.
I kind of felt like an asshole explaining it to them. But come on! Michigan!
Some other oddities about the encounter
1. Everyone thought the Great Lakes were saltwater.
2. One person thought that Michigan was "near Maine"
3. My co-workers thought that Michigan wasn't as "backwater hy-yuckers" as other midwest states. "More East Coast." Maybe they were trying to flatter me.
I think KPMG is going to be harder to get used to than New York City itself.
*Alaska and Hawaii don't count.
Saturday, November 18th, 2006 at 11:46pm
more for me than for you, but here you go
( Pseudo thoughts.Collapse )
Mood: don't know why i'm posting
Friday, November 3rd, 2006 at 2:35am
"you've been cheatin'/caught you creepin'/to the window, to the wall, skeet-skeetin'"
( It's been a strange couple of days.Collapse )
Monday, October 23rd, 2006 at 3:22pm
A couple of days ago at Little Bohemia my co-worker Ash commented on the tee-shirt I was wearing. It was this shirt from FCUK that read something like "It's all for sale, so get it while you can." I bought it because I liked its bright colors and the typeface. He said he liked the shirt and I told him that I liked it as well and was about to mention something about how the shirt didn't make much sense and looked cool when he interrupted me.
"Nice shirt, man. It's funny!" Funny? How was it funny? I didn't want to ask him about it because the conversation was stilted and awkward already and, well, I just figured that he was wrong. I love Ash and all, but he's got a totally different perspective than that of myself. And in any case, what do Brits know about humor anyway?
Two minutes later, a customer laughed at my tee-shirt. Ash poked this guy in the side and said something to the effect of "I know, it's a laugh, right?" This left me completely mystified the entire rest of the day. How is this shirt funny? I kept looking at this shirt in the mirror and wondering what party I was missing out on here. Was it because I was wearing a shirt said "It's all on sale" while working at a retail store? That couldn't be it. That's a coincidence, not a joke. It's not even a funny coincidence at that. I thought maybe they were just laughing at me in general, but why the shirt pretense? Was it an in-joke between Ash and the customer? Maybe there is just this vast conspiracy to make Alexander confused and paranoid? If so, I want in.
Thursday I finally gave up my old Pumas and traded them in for these:
My coworkers threw away my old pair in a ceremonial fashion. If anybody was familiar with my old kicks they know that it was definitely time for retirement. And these shoes look pretty sharp. They even have red laces which as captain of RED TEAM in capture the flag appealed to me. However, in addition to looking sharp, the left shoe apparently is very sharp on the inside and over the course of the last three days has managed to dig a divot right into the top of my foot. When I walk, I look like I have a club foot as I have to rotate my left foot in such a way to avoid aggravating the wound even further. This makes me look like a relative of Igor. God forbid I'm running (well, "hobbling at a fast pace" might be a more appropriate choice of words) after the bus or something. I think the bus driver seeing me shambling and yelling in his or her rear view mirror would probably just bolt in fear or something. "There's a monster who wants on the bus!" Kind of like Treehouse of Horror or something.
Tsubo, the brand of these terrible shoes, means "comfort" in whatever language it is in (Japanese, I believe). If that's comfort, I'd hate to experience what these guys think is "horrible horrible pain."
Mood: boring you