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Monthly Archives: November 2008

Hey, regular readers (all four of you)! Guess what post comes after this one (I’ll give you a hint: 99+1 d.n.e. 991). In order to celebrate this momentous event, I’ve been working on this 991st post for the better part of three days now. So let’s just say it’s going to be big. I’m hoping it’s funny too, but I’m also hoping this hint is enough to satisfy you until I post it in like four or five days: Musicians and songwriters are my poets. They can all help me define my reality as well as escape from it. It might even be safe to say, if I lost my hearing, I’d be dead in a year. Nothing gives me the audacity to hope for change like a tasty lick. So, stay strong you four readers and catch you on the flipside.

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I started my day feeling great, which should always be a bad sign. I matched my sweater with my favorite pair of sneakers, my shirt with my tie, my briefcase with my pants, my book with my eyeballs, my iPod with my ears, etc, etc, etc. Just straight feeling amazing, listening to awesome music, goin’ to work. I get into work, get a couple complements, see the boss, realize she’s not doing so well (probably because the CEO kinda wrecked her yesterday). I’m not going to let it get to me this morning because, as usual, I’ve done what was required. I’ve met deadlines, I’ve always conducted my research as specified before she changed her mind and got angry at me. In fact, I’m fairly sure I did very well in the meeting; I remembered information off the top of my head, made jokes and so on.

I sat down at my desk and started doing what I do 50% of the time I’m at work: gchat. A friend of mine was talking about how she fucked up by getting a plane ticket wrong for her boss. She was even scared that she might get fired. I was like, I don’t know, your boss got the ticket fixed, showed up on time and won’t be back in town for a while. I think you’re set. I’ve also heard a rumor that humans, by nature, make mistakes. I even heard some rumor about some dude dying about 2000 years ago so we could make mistakes, even though I’m not sure I subscribe to it.

So then I went to get a better idea of what one of my coworkers needed from me. Then my boss came in and reminded us that we couldn’t wear sneakers. I was all like, “Say what? I remember making jokes with the HR person about how the rules only specify that you have to wear socks.” And then my boss was all like, “Well, that may be the case but you can’t wear sneakers.” So I agreed and said it wouldn’t happen again.

Later I was walking to get a TPS Report or a printout and I saw one of the HR ladies. I was like, “Hey, does the dress code have stuff about sneakers on it?” She was nice at this point and said, “Yeah, you can’t wear sneakers and you have to wear business attire appropriate shoes.” When I said, “Right, but I don’t remember seeing anything on the dress code I signed about shoes, so I’ll be up later to look at the stuff I’ve signed.” I guess she heard, “Hey, I’m a fucking retard,” because she rolls her eyes and goes, “No, you can’t wear sneakers.” Of course I was like, “Yeah, no, I understand, I was just hoping to see my paperwork when I’m done for the day.” So we parted ways and I tried to figure out why she looked like I’d chopped up dead fish and left them on her desk (i.e., why she looked so disgusted). I guess she heard “Hey pretty lady, I’mma come harass you in a sexual manner later because I’m looking for a way out of this shit job where I’m constantly fighting my boss about whether or not I get to wear sneakers.”

Next thing I know, my boss is calling me into her office because the Head HR lady wants to have a meeting. I mean, I’m sure you understand what happened–blah blah blah can’t wear blah blah blah won’t happen again blah blah blah oh yeah, you did say business shoes blah blah blah…etc–but the thing that, in retrospect, shocked me the most was that my boss made a point to specifically disassociate herself from me. The HR lady was even like, “Ok, I have to go now” and my boss still took time to scold me again and shift any possible blame that could land on her onto me.

Then my boss and I had a big meeting where I had to explain why I decided to ask HR about HR things. (I guess she thought I went over her head to make her look bad, even though I just really wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten any other rules, maybe something like “Employees must wear underwear. Going commando is strictly–STRICTLY–prohibited.”) Also, she revealed that the main HR lady had initially come down to “release” me. Because I guess when you work freelance, they can “release” you at their will. I mean, I may not help sell words for a living, but “release” is really only helping the conscience of the person doing the firing. Then Victoria’s Secret prevented an aneurysm by forcing the meeting to end so I could finish my work for the day and so I could leave the office. I took particular pleasure in relaxing while folding panties to reflect and I’d like to share some valuable lessons I learned with you:

When I run the magazine industry, I will:
1. Stand up for the people who make me look good–even and especially when they fuck up. We know they fucked up. They know they fucked up. Shit has to go on, otherwise we’re going to fuck up more.
2. Will hire as few freelancers as possible. Because when you’re a freelancer, you can get fired for messing up just one time. So freelancers are supposed to be robots. And I don’t like robots (because perfection is not human). Unless they’re Daft Punk.
3. Double-check the work of my subordinates, but still respect them.
4. Repeat myself as little as possible because I know how annoying it is not to be trusted by your boss.
5. Organize everything. Everything.
6. Allow sweet fucking sneakers at work.

I bet that’s a little weird, right? The two Mensa meetings I’ve been to are the “Smart Bar Hopping” ones. And every time I go, I go before i eat dinner. Four delicious beers and no food is always a bad decision. Theoretically.

Perhaps even more strange is meeting another member and hearing that none of the other meetings (actual words–“other parties”) are this much fun. Truly makes a man want to not got to any other Greater New York Mensa meetings except the ones where people seem to be only kind of comfortable around each other (Good work, alcohol, or, as some people know it, liquid courage).

I will admit though, I was again the youngest person there and that loud music seems to have the same effect on all nerds that it does on me: conversation dies unless you’re sitting right next to someone. I definitely started mouthing the lyrics to songs I knew and loved (yes, I’m that guy who ruins your subway ride by looking like I’m whispering sweet nothings to you) and zoned the fuck out. The two guys who weren’t older than 30 (besides me) left before 8 while everyone else could only stay until 9–because they work tomorrow. (Seriously? That’s why coffee was invented.)

But–attempting to reach the metaphysical–the proportions remain terrible (and I say this only because I’ve recently learned that hanging out with girls is far more insightful and fun than kickin’ it with dudes): it was three girls and five dudes. I’ve read the statistics; girls are gettin’ into college more than guys. Girls can stay focused while dudes stare at girls (Guilty). It’s a fairly simple equation: Girls don’t need dudes, guys can’t live without girls and,  thus, girls’ grades are higher. And yet…they all get their drinks for free (because some dumbass buys the drinks for them. Haaaiiii…I’m that dumbass.) and don’t have to show up at Mensa meetings.

Sigh…see you on sickening thirds (there’s no such thing, but see you there).

I’ve never had a reason to talk about this, but subtly with this sort of thing usually isn’t best: One of my roommates has testicular cancer. Actually, he had it until he got his left nut chopped off. So, he now has the ability to claim surviving cancer on one front as well as battling it on another. That is to say, he started chemo today because the doctors at Sloan Kettering think the cancer might have moved into his lymph nodes. So in three months he’s going to come back home and chances are, he might even still have his eyebrows. But the point is, cancer changed this man’s life; no matter what happens after he gets through this, Fuck it. He survived cancer.

He showed up on Friday with a very lengthy text message detailing his plans and his intentions for the entire weekend: “I’m coming in.” We proceeded to get shitfaced and discuss politics, cancer and optimism. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that he was depressed before cancer, but oddly enough, cancer seems to be a very good thing for his outlook. At one point during our discussion he turns to me and goes, “I’ve got to be like The Hold Steady. You know, Stay Positive. The sack’s half full.” At which point, I applauded him for his brilliance, integrity, and taste in music. He’s got a 98% chance of survival and the only thing that won’t go back to normal is the rubber superball he has as placeholder. He’s reducing his toxin intake on all fronts and gaining a clinically-prescribed case of agoraphobia. He’s kind of got to give up the horizontal handshake–his ex has made that rather easy–and now he’s even afraid of shootin’ rubber bullets. But I mean, he’ll be up and running in due time and you know what? By the time he’s good to go, He’ll have survived cancer. Fuck it. (Wait a minute…that’s incredibly graphic.)

As great as it may be for his outlook after treatment, his chemo still wasn’t going to start for another three days. We got to talking about how he was doing and he started to scare the shit out of me. We both spend inordinate amounts of time with our laptop on our lap. He voted for McCain (which I find extremely shit-inducing). I’m reading a book where the narrator takes a piss or thinks about taking a piss every 50 pages because he has prostate cancer. Jumping forward a little in this narrative, I’ve had 7 hours of sleep in the last two days and have been drinking coffee like my heart wouldn’t beat without it. Thus, I too have been pissing or thinking about pissing (according to my conversion tables) every 50 pages as well. Also, since my roommate’s been diagnosed and castrated, I’ve been massaging the crap out of my dangly parts every morning to make sure I don’t have any lumps. Now it just feels like I’ve bruised myself into having cancer. I heard you can’t will yourself into having cancer but I’m not sure that being sympathetic to a dude you see almost as a brother totally prevents such an event. (“Sympathy cancer? Yeah, it feels like I have it in my balls.”)

I think testicular cancer gets to the core of every man (shut the fuck up) on the most fundamental levels: you’re faced with a combination of losing your libido, shrinking dangly parts, hair loss, organ removal and possible death. That is, you run the risk of losing everything that makes you a man: your hair (maybe with the exception of your eyebrows), your dangly parts and your life. And your dangly parts. You go from being a hairy, libidinous, beer-chugging Man to a lethargic, shriveled and bed-ridden person who needs naps, a liquid diet and to stay indoors (an eighty year old). Your only hope, the only reason to keep going and keep fighting is the hope that all this shit goes the fuck away so you can become a man again–and my roommate will. Because, as we all know, He’s already a cancer survivor.

Fuck. It.

For some reason or another, the morning commute on the subway has the ability to make you hate every single person alive.

It probably has to do with how being herded like cattle onto rail cars can in no way be considered the best way to start your day–or a self-esteem boost, for that matter. That’s why I’m always the guy who waits to get on last; it makes me feel like a cowboy. (“Don’t mind if I brand you ma’am. Just doin’ my job. Keep ‘er movin’.” I keep the brands warm with the 600 volts of electricity on that little ‘ol third rail.) Actually, I just like to be near the exit, particularly since rushing onto the train and getting stuck somewhere in the middle means you can’t always find something to lean on or hold on to. Also, I don’t like worrying about getting raped. (“Excuse me sir. Your hand is in my pocket. Yes, it is and no, that’s not your…”)

This morning I couldn’t escape being stuck in the middle of the car because today was some pushy woman’s day to be the cowboy. It was being molested that helped me finally realize why I never bring coffee for the ride like so many other yuppies. (“Excuse me. Miss? You’re drinking my coffee. Also, your hand is in my pocket. No, that’s not your…Well, now what do we do? We can’t spoon. There’s nowhere to go except two inches to your left and that’s not a bed.”) We were actually so packed that I couldn’t read, couldn’t move, couldn’t listen to my own music. I didn’t want to reach up and pretend that palming the ceiling would prevent me from falling over because I knew that doing that would just mean I’d be pushing everyone around so I could touch the ceiling and look more like a yuppie. (“Yeah, I’m so strong I can hold myself in place by attempting to push the roof off while pitting in your face. So…lemme get ya number.”) Also, we were packed enough that there was no way I would ever be able to fall over. (“Pardon me, miss, but your version of ‘I Like the Way You Move’ is a little corrupt. No, that’s not what I meant–no, it’s just that your earbuds are a little loud, your hair’s in my mouth and the snare’s a little scratchy. Big Boi sounds like he’s inhaled three balloons. No, that’s not your pocket…”)

So when I finally got off the subway today, I took like three hundred deep breaths, put my jacket back on (and dropped the blood splattered gloves I’d used in my imagination to kill everyone on the car with me: “No, no, sir. Just measuring your neck for a new shirt. Oh! Where’d this scapel come from?” Dead.) and cursed the whole way to work.

Wasn’t it enough that half your album has been on repeat at the Victoria’s Secret where I work–even before I started working there? No, you wouldn’t be satisfied with constant repeat, you had to go further and have, consistently, the best songs on each of the two CDs that played…all summer.

There may never be something so emasculating as knowing the chorus to “Pumpkin Soup” and thoroughly enjoying singing “I just want your kiss, boy” while being the one guy in the beauty department as well as the only employee in the room. Well, actually going out and acting on those lyrics–that just might be a little more emasculating. But I mean, it’s so damn catchy; I’m just so glad it’s not that catchy.

You have to admit, your producer deserves at least one award or at least 25% of the profit you make off this CD. Something. Because there is no way you were sitting in your room, playing your guitar and all like, “You know what Pumpkin Soup needs? A horn section and spaceship noises!” Furthermore, there’s no way you could have thought of that beat for “Skeleton Song” or that you needed stacatto violins breaking out into a symphony. I mean, if you did, you are like a million times more talented than I thought, but I just see that as a definite part of the producer department.

Woah, let’s slow down. I’m not questioning your integrity or anything. If your lyrics cast you as anything, you definitely seem like an extremely honest–if not blunt–girl. But I’m just saying, this is easily one of the best produced albums I’ve listened to in a long time. And nothing makes me feel gayer than saying that for a multitude of reasons: it implies that I’ve 1) listened to your album enough to identify some kind of staggered keyboard effect during the chorus of “Foundations,” 2) enjoyed “Merry Happy” enough to sing along to it, and 3) purchased the whole album so I could listen to it in its entirety. You bitch! (“Yeah, intelligent input, darling”)

Also, can we address the sheer brilliance of “Shit Song” for a moment? I don’t know if you meant that the production was surprisingly and uncharacteristically “shitty” in the beginning or if you were referring to the lyrics during that part of the song. You basically have the producer record you coughing and cursing and then you start repeating yourself over a Garageband beat loop. Then you go and make the hole song about how your love interest is full of shit? It’s so good. Even on top of that, the whole thing you do with summer time and wine and not making it cliche? Good form, milady. Good form. You bitch! Stop making me like your music!

Mouthwash” is a thoroughly enjoyable song and makes me want to buy mouthwash. I hate you. “Dickhead” is excessively cute: Using people singing for the bass line? Get right out of town. No, seriously, get the fuck out. I hate you, your cuteness, your originality and your producer.

Get out of my head.

The November issue of Esquire went around endorsing things that don’t normally get endorsed. I thought it was a particularly cool idea when I finally started reading it early last week (thanks for nothing, TV and two jobs). One endorsement in particular was excessively and stereotypically Esquire and, perhaps unsurprisingly, simultaneously brilliant. One of the copy editors (i.e. possibly me in the future) decided to endorse becoming a regular somewhere. Didn’t seem to matter what you were doing, what kind of shop, shoppe, store, bar, or locale it was as long as someone started to expect you.

I found that a particularly cool idea and do even more so now after discovering that I’m a regular earlier this afternoon at the place where I get my hair cut.

I was literally walking down the street to the place I’ve been going to since I moved here and I saw the my barber’s face in the window. He smiled and next thing I know, he was gone. I went inside and he was waiting for me down by his chair. I put my stuff down and he didn’t even bother to ask how I wanted my hair cut, he just whipped out an electric razor and started shaving. He double-checked on the sideburn length and made sure that I still didn’t want it “too short on top, yes?” When I affirmed that, indeed, I would not find it pleasurable to have my hair too short on top, he continued with the electric razor, gave me 30 snips (literally 30–I made sure to count so I wouldn’t embellish at a later date) with his scissors on the sides and finished in record time. I gave him a 10 and a 5 and proceeded to walk out since I have always given him a three dollar tip on a twelve dollar haircut. While I put my coat back on, he said, “Thank you, see you in a couple of weeks” while we both flashed overly cliched ear-to-ear grins.

Thus, Esquire remains right about yet another thing. Let me put it this way: If you can become a regular at some place of your own, I can only hope that it gives you as much joy as it gives me and Ben Cake, Associate Copy Editor for Esquire. Deep down inside I think we all wish we had some place where everyone knows your name. Also, Esquire was right about “Rule No. 187: More bocce.”

Whew, I am glad that whole election thing’s over, aren’t you? I’d have to say–in addition to this being the most “historical,” “important” and “divisive” election in years–that it’s easily been the most emotional.

One of my closest friends and I were talking a while ago and he was saying cars with McCain/Palin bumper stickers were getting keyed at his school. He was predicting that America would be split in 25 years. I asked him–since he’s currently attending Wake Forest–if he meant that he was afraid the South would rise again, and he said he was actually much more worried the Red States would secede from the Blue.

I tried to tell him that states change color all the time and that, similarly, generations tend to be remembered only for the extremes. The sixties are remembered for hippies, everyone remembers disco in the seventies and voodoo economics in the eighties. Yet, if you talk to your parents, it’s not always the case. Both my parents neither went to Woodstock nor enjoy marijuana. My Dad almost went but his brother was too high to drive him. No one in any of my parents’ families seems to have enjoyed disco or leg warmers (maybe even just the 80s in general). All I remember of the eighties was my sister being born. Maybe a train set. The minority often comes to represent the majority, but, as America always does, we learn a lesson, we move on and we forget that lesson.

The history books will talk about “Oldest Candidate,” “First Female Vice Presidential candidate,” “First Female Presidential almost nominee,” “First African American President” and some might even mention “First Irish Catholic Vice President” (yeah, bet you guys didn’t know that one), but I don’t think they’ll include a sub-section on “The Beginning of the Heartland Secession.”

People in every state can’t agree on politics and the Electoral College is a surprisingly a poor indicator of US political leanings. I voted Blue–and this may come as a surprise to to the frequent readers of this blog considering my earlier political posts–and absentee in one of the Reddest states ever. Also, consider Georgia: It hasn’t been blue since it went to Clinton in ’91; they went Red in ’95 against the same man.  Furthermore, in the current election, it looks like (at this moment) Obama only has 52% of the popular vote, yet, according to my own personal calculations (McCain gets MO, Obama gets NC), Obama has approximately 67% of the Electoral vote.

So what I mean, at the most basic level, is I’m glad the election has been decided and we no longer have to debate who you like more–a Muslim terrorist or a septuagenarian who wears diapers (you didn’t hear the latter rumor? Well I guess you caught me attempting to spread a divisive rumor at the last minute). That is, I’m glad we’re no longer going to fight about what we believe personally–did any of you actually debate the issues or were your debates characterized completely by “last eight years” and “dead on election day?” One of the best quotes I found from a recent Matt Taibbi article (extremely liberal journalist for Rolling Stone) was actually about Ms. Palin’s nomination but really provided the most insight about the election in general: “The great insight of the Palin VP choice is that large chunks of American voters no longer even demand that their candidates even have positions; they simply consume them as media entertainment, rooting for or against them according to the reflexive prejudices of their demographic, as they would for reality-show contestants or sitcom characters.”

He also asserted that people voted for whoever best represented them: pitbulls, women, old people, black people, etc. But i guess, then, doesn’t it indicate that this has been one of the most relatable elections in years? Finally we have people attempting to listen in and making a decision because it’s not just a bunch of white dudes saying they’re going to lower taxes lower than each other. As great as it may be to have such a high interest level, I’m thoroughly pleased we won’t have to deal with this again for at least four years. I just don’t want to have to piss of my friends by talking about the Economy, Afghanistan, Al-Qaeda, Troop Levels, Abortions, Global Warming, Alternative Fuels or the Great Nation of Texas anymore.

Yeah, so I woke up Saturday morning and I was more dehydrated than I’d ever been after playing a summer game of lacrosse in the South (more to come in this department as we go along). I told some of my co-workers this afternoon that I’d broken my liver.

That’s a) not possible and b) not true because all I had was moonshine in my apartment and a White Russian (insert your own “Why not a Black Russian? Racist.” joke here. My response to all is, “Not Funny. Heard it already.”) at a bar. While we’re talking about that, the bartender was a dude dressed as a girl who danced only when Madonna played, giggled at me for ordering a White Russian, asked for an ID even though you have to present an ID to get into just about any bar in NYC–particularly on a Friday night Halloween–, put a cherry in it and charged me $11 dollars for it. Never before has my favorite cocktail been so gay. To be fair, it was half Kahlua, half vodka and a dash of milk. Well played, man-girl (Madonna?).

Anyway, I think the reason my night was so good was because of how terrible my day was. I was sick, full of coffee, Sudafed and not nearly enough sleep. That was actually the situation that had been compounding for the whole week. The office is incredibly business-oriented, so no one wore a costume except me. My costume was basically my business-attire, so it’s kind of cheating, but I still felt like the odd man out. When I was leaving, I told someone to have a Happy Halloween and she looked at me like I had just threatened to hide ratoncide in the deli-style buns of her ham’n’swiss. It’s a hard way to experience your favorite day of the year.

At my retail job, the dress code is just as strict and the costumes were just as disappointing. When I walked in and asked one of my friends what her costume was, she said, “I’m you.” We laughed a little and I said, “Well, you’ve definitely got to work on your 5 O’Clock shadow, but other than that, it’s pretty good.”

But back to that morning–at one point, I was attempting to remove a staple from a incorrectly-stapled collection of papers and, since I don’t have a staple remover, the staple dug itself into the tip of the pointer finger on my right hand. About 4 hours later while retailing it up, I was sorting through those tags that set off the alarms when you steal everything I’ve been working on for the last two hours, when the pin dug itself under the fingernail on the same finger. The good news is, no arteries appear to have been severed, but the bad news is, I now understand why the Vietnamese used to stick bamboo shoots under fingernails as a form of torture back in the ’70s. Typing, the least difficult exercise known to man, is now very, very difficult. Fuck you, “Y!”

Beyond physical damage, I sustained a fair amount of mental damage while at the office. I finished everything on my “To Do List” (more to come in this department as we go along) and went to update my boss. She told me she was looking forward to it, but that she was busy at the moment. When I asked if I should start some more tasks that could easily be inferred from the indications of the “To Do List,” she told me not to start them. She assured me she’d be ready in 10 minutes and, when she got back to me an hour and a half later, I’d sent an email to my dad detailing how I felt “like a fourth grader; Nap! Now you can’t because you don’t have your mat…but don’t go get it!”

We had a meeting where everyone was pissed off the entire time and our boss basically just scolded us for not listening to her, even though every time she gives us directions, she comes back an hour later to tell us that what we have done is wrong because she’s just changed the directions. She gets pissed we didn’t know these directions would change. So, she basically told us to anticipate that, on every project, she would change her mind and that we should be able to read it. When I got out of the meeting to head off to the world of retail, panties and jokes about regional managers (“She’s a fucking bitch.”), I sent an email to the researcher who was working remotely with a subject line that read, “that meeting.” The body consisted solely of, “was like watching a porn without sex scenes; terrible dialogue and everybody involved already knew where it was leading (in this case, next week, not the bedroom).”

So I left, deposited the check (“Yeah, sure! Can’t wait to see you next week!”) and got on the subway again.

Alright, that about does it, let’s skip all the retail and beyond the third subway trip. Got home, made coffee and ate dinner: Mac’n’Cheese Spirals. Too good. This must be the beginning of a good night, but also a stretch in cognitive abilities in retrospect. It turns out the roommate has gotten a bottle of Moonshine for free at work, but we have ice and no idea what something that tastes like bubblegum could mix with. We christen her, “The Bazooka Joe.” (The recipe’s pretty labor intensive, be careful: 1. Catdaddy, 2. Ice.)

So our mutual friends are in town and I have college friends that are in town, too. We get off the subway, urinate in the Union Square Starbucks–like half of Lower Manhattan–and attempt to find my friends. On the way, my roommate proceeds to get, approximately, 117 compliments on his costume. I, on the other hand, receive no recognition for my Stay-At-Home-Dad costume (more to come in this department as we go along) and I begin to assume that everyone thinks I’m Rene Magritte. Updates with my friends from college reveal that S_____’s in a bar on 23rd (9 blocks north), Co______’s not going to tell me what her plans are because she hasn’t saved my phone number and thus does not know who this is and Ca____’s in a McDonald’s on 6th and 16th with other friends from college. The police won’t let us go North, so we decide to wait for them to head South. They get caught in the parade and head North. We stand on the corner while my roommate gets more compliments and a discussion from a girl in a dress with a picture of Freud around her neck (Freudian Slip).

Discussion over and abandoned on this suddenly large island, we decide to head South to our favorite cheap bar. On our way, the roommate makes a “your kind” joke that is intended as ironic racism, but is interpreted as racism. It’d been ten minutes of healthy, hilarious conversation until this misstep, at which point we part ways with the young lady who took offense. We are both sad but persevere and get to the bar. Once there, I greet a random friend from college, attempt to order beverages but can’t get to the bar because everyone else in Lower Manhattan knows this place is cheap too so we leave. We stand on the street corner and wonder what we will do for the rest of the night.

Then our mutual friend walks by (easily the most crucial “then” in this essay. But, again, that insight only comes from knowing where this night goes way in advance). I grab her by the shirt sleeve and start yelling. Everyone else is right behind her. It’s E____ (front runner), C____, D____ and her boyfriend G___ and, finally, two new girls. S________ and A__ are Peter Pan and something I’ve forgotten, respectively, as well as crazy sexy. I initially think, “Hey, this S_______ is pretty cute and she’s very funny, but that A__ seems to want nothing to do with me. What a shame; she’s rather cute, too.”

But then, for some reason, A__ decides I’m Todd Palin. I think it was because I told her I was a Stay-At-Home-Dad, but really have no idea why. She and I start waltzing to whatever-the-hell-bar-it-was-we-went-to-that-night, the whole while speaking like we’d just tag-teamed a polar bear with CO2 emissions, hanging chads, shotguns and hunting knives. I later realize she looks like Kristen Wiig and come that much closer to never seeing my heart again. If my memory serves, at one point I decided I loved her so much that I bit the side of her face. Like a nibble, not really like a, “Hey, gotcha face, ya bleedin!” bite. The things you’ll do when you’re dancing in the street. Or in a bar.

We left (and waltzed again. If you saw a guy and a girl being totally and obnoxiously metropolitan by waltzing on a street on a Friday, I’m sorry I ruined your night) and had to split ways (Uptown and Brooklyn are surprisingly far apart; also, N.B my dating habits) but while we were talking and waiting for the subway, I met a man who’d been recruited by and played for Butler and later got drafted by the MLL. He confessed that he’d done my weight in blow, probably two times over. I told him that was just another one of the reasons I’d quit, but that didn’t stop him from giving me his phone number so I could play some lax.

We transferred trains to get back home but–surprise!–had to wait for the other train for a while. So we talked and examined my costume. I had the Enchanted DVD in my pocket, a bag of cough drops and some Sudafed (really for me, but also) just in case the kids get sick, two condoms in case the wife gets frisky (she is extremely powerful and does not tolerate mistakes), keys to the Minivan and a Moleskine with a checklist, schedule and notes in it. The writing got increasingly sloppy as you moved your way towards the end, but I have transcribed it for you below:

  • Friday Night Movie Night (not done)
  • Empty trash (check)
  • Clean toilet (nope)
  • Schedule minivan check-up (check)
  • PTA Meeting Agenda (check)
  • Schedule dinner with the wife (nyet)
  • Pick up Tommy 2:30 Sally 2:45 (check)
  • Burp Jimbo at (no): 10AM (check), 2PM (check), 6PM (check), 10PM (negatory)
  • [chicken scratch] Call the mistress, tell her to fuck off (no check)

The schedule said:

10/31: bake a pie
11/13: Minivan to JiffyLube
11/14: 4PM tie pick-up
11/20: get bag of Starbucks wholebean for the wife
11/4: resubscribe to The New York Times

Tommy wear contacts [someone had the audacity to accuse Tommy’s goaltending inabilities on his not wearing his glasses in the goal, so I made a note to tell him later to wear his contacts]

The Soccer Schedule said:
Soccer
10/20: Tommy: The Bandits, 4PM
11/4: Sally: Cowgirls, 3PM
11/5: Tommy: Bandits, 6PM
11/14: Sally: CGs, 4PM
11/17: Tom-boy: Goal for Bandits–defense for the Tigers’ defense pretty strong.

Other notes from that night said:
2. alcohols
In love w/E___’s friends.
[phone number and name for dude who loves coke and lax]

We all agreed that #2 made absolutely no sense and moved on. Then we got on the subway, got off the subway, went our own ways, and I wrote the post below.

Lessons learned: Moonshine is a good reason for Nascar to exist,  but the connection’s not strong enough anymore for me to want to watch left turns. Biting is never a good idea. Showing up at the stock room is oddly reassuring after a day at the office. My pointer finger is a piece of shit right now. I like redheads. Even more so when they want to waltz. I still don’t want to do coke. Halloween remains one of the most hallowed of holidays for me. I like “South” as a direction in general. I still like my friends.

Yeah, so I know I told you I love Halloween, but you have no idea. I LOVE Halloween, even in the face of shitty jobs and news. Details to follow. Tomorrow. Now is time for asleep.

Get excited.