Heavy on the Rotation

A Healthy Breakfast Starts with Dennis

The Year of the Sloth

Yep. Five months. I haven't posted a thing in five months. Why? I have no idea. I could say it's because I picked up a slight case of mono back in May that knocked me on my ass for six weeks and I have yet to fully recover. Or I could say it's because I've been working on another project with my girlfriend called Questions for Dracula, and I just haven't had the time to get back to this one. Or I could say that I've simply gone and lost my muse. But really, I've just been super fucking lazy.

Well, no more. I'm back, baby!

P.S. This post in no way guarantees that others will follow. It is purely a dramatic exercise.

Honey, You Got Some Shit in Your Eye

It's nice when friends look out for you. Sometimes they'll let you know you've got a "little something on your face", most likely a dab of mayo from that Turkey & Swiss you had for lunch. Or they'll subtly mimic picking something out of their teeth, in the hopes that you'll take the hint and do the same. But when it comes to that crusty shit in your eye you get after taking a good long nap, brutal honesty is the best policy. 

Besides, what is "sleep" anyway? I decided to look it up.

According to Wendell the Worm on DiscoveryKids.com, there is no official name for it. "It's just the pasty stuff that appears after the Sandman's stopped by." he says. Thanks, Wendell, but that kind of response raises more questions than it answers. Who in the hell is this Sandman character? What's he doing with all this sand? And why is he leaving "little presents" in the corner of my eyes? Disgusting. But, before I go off on some long-winded tangent, let's get back to this "sleep" stuff.

When you go to sleep at night, all sorts of shit accumulates in your eyes—a combination of sweat, oil, and tears. Mostly tears. And you know what tears are made of? Salt, sugar, ammonia, water, citric acid, and urea. Yep, that's right. Urine. So maybe this post should be titled "Honey You Got Some Shit and Piss in Your Eye."Just saying.

Whatever this shit is, it has a lot of different names. Some people call it sleep. Some call it goop. Some call it gunk or sand. And if there's enough of it, some people even refer to it in the plural: crusties. But why don't we just call it what it really is?

Well, for one reason, it's easier to call attention to something kinda gross if you don't have to point it out directly. You can kind of hint around it. This works especially well if the stricken is someone you're attracted to. And it's much gentler than saying : "Hey baby, you got some shit in the corner of your eye."

The other reason is, most of us learned this language from our parents. And parents have a hard time telling their kids the truth. So they came up with all these cutesy little names for human excretions. I can understand that. It's not exactly nice to tell your six-year-old son that Mr. Sandman took a shit in his tear duct. Funny as hell, but not nice.

Which is why I'm a big fan of brutal honesty. You see something in the corner of my eye? Tell me. I won't tear up. I promise. I can't. Not until I get this shit out.

It's About That Time

It's early in the morning, around 8 o'clock. Make that 7:59. Which means my alarm is set to go off sometime in the next sixty seconds. But that's not going to happen. Because today, my friends, I have the pleasure of telling Father Time to go suck it.

I don't know about you, but getting up a minute or two before my morning alarm sounds is a ridiculously satisfying experience. Sometimes I feel a bit like a superhero—one of those guys who can sense things before they actually happen. Except in my case, the only disaster I'm capable of averting is the hassle of having to reach over and hit the snooze button. To be fair, I'm not sure having a vaguely accurate biological clock even qualifies as a super power. But hey, if Aquaman can get into the Justice League, so can I.

[It's been rumored that the Justice League, in a calculated move to appear more environmentally conscious, inducted Aquaman into their ranks despite his tendency to openly gossip about League members with sea cucumbers.]

When I'm not feeling like a superhero, I like to imagine I'm a bomb detonation expert. Kind of like that guy in The Hurt Locker. Only I'm wearing pajamas instead of an explosive ordinance disposal suit. And I'm not really in any immediate danger other than being rudely awakened. Still, the morning is chock full of drama:

The time is 8:14 AM. That leaves me with exactly one minute to grab my cell phone, flip it open, scroll down the Settings menu, select Tools>Alarm Clock>OK, then hit “Off.” Nothing I can't handle.

Okay, 8:15 is in sight. I'm moving into position. 25 seconds...

Scrolling. Scrolling. 15 seconds. Damn, where is that damn alarm clock? Here we go...

No, not the Tip Calculator. Stupid thumbs!

10 seconds. Alarm Clock>OK. Yes.

5 seconds. Turn On/Off. Scroll. Set.

4 seconds. Off. Ha-ha!

3 seconds...

Alarm should be set to [Off]?
> Yes
> No

FUCK! A follow up question? This guy is good.

2 seconds...

Not this time old man.

And then...

Silence.

Time is now 8:15. IED diffused. No casualties reported.

Sure, alarm clocks are great. But in a world where every tick and tock is measured with beeps, blips, and buzzes, it's nice to wake up on your own once in while. Besides, I'm getting tired of some old fuck poking me in the shoulder with a scythe every morning. That shit hurts.

An Unfortunate Friday

Some things just go together. Simon and Garfunkel. Peanut butter and jelly. Chinese food and fortune cookies. But last Friday this beautiful pairing of East meets West was wrenched apart by some sinister hand at Sampan, the take-out place down the street.

After looking down into the dark recesses of the brown paper bag and finding nothing but a few extra napkins and a packet of duck sauce, I started to panic. Where in the hell was I going to get my two-bit wisdom now? What was I going to do with this now superfluous “in bed” on the tip of my tongue? It was quite vexing.

To me, the fortune cookie is one of the main draws of ordering Chinese food. Without it, all you've got is a bunch of mediocre chicken covered in red sauce. Then again, Chinese has never really been my thing. But that's where the fortune cookie comes in. It's the great equalizer. No matter how shitty your food is, you can always count on the fortune cookie to balance things out. Except this time.

For years and years, those little folded messages have given me perspective on my life and relationships. Hell, even my career. They also served as an introductory course in Taoism—from the vague poetic musings of Lao Tzu to the sly military strategies of Sun Tzu. But there's more to a fortune cookie than the message inside. Cracking one open after wolfing down a #12 is part of a tradition—a tradition that someone at Sampan forgot to pass on. Why? I'll never know. But I do know this:

"Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you."

Yeah, right. I want my cookie, goddamnit.

The Science of Sleep

I finished my taxes today. It feels good to get that off my shoulders. But I decided not to amend that return. Fuck 'em. If they wanted more people to do the right thing and own up to their fiscal mistakes, they'd make that shit easier to understand. How in the hell can you have a negative income anyway? Ah well, I should be getting my refund soon. Which means I can finally spring for a new bed (no, that wasn't a pun)—something that sleeps two.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mattress. I've had it for about 10 years now and spent nearly a third of that on it. Deep, restful sleep. There's just one problem: it's made for a single guy who doesn't think he's ever gonna get laid. Not that I expect to get laid that frequently, but once or twice a year I'm going to need something that allows two average-sized human beings to occupy the same space without actually being on top of one another.

Just a few weeks ago, on a whim, I walked into my local Sleepy's. They're the mattress professionals, in case you didn't know. Now I'd normally question the credentials of anyone who referred to themselves as a mattress professional, but the salesmen's thick European accent seemed reassuring enough, so I took him on his word. Anyway, he proceeded to tell me that sleeping on a really firm mattress, like I had been doing for the last ten years, isn't a good idea. I needed something softer—one of those weird NASA beds made out of space-age foam. I said, “Okay, you're the mattress pro. Enlighten me with your comfy wisdom.” Next stop: the Sleep to Live machine.

For those of you who aren't hip to new mattress technology, they've got computers now that can help you find something ideal for your unique body type (in my case, thin and bony). Sounds sophisticated, right? All it really means is that buying a mattress has gotten really fucking complicated. Here I was, thinking I'd just walk in with a photo of my old mattress, throw it down on the salesman's desk and say “Give me one of them.” Instead, I felt like I was being fitted for an Avatar. God, can't anything be simple anymore?

Still, you've got to hand it to the mattress professionals. They know their shit. Just like I know that having a reasonably active sex life is next to impossible when your bed is one step up from a race car. So when that refund check comes, you can be damn sure I'll be cashing it. Because the next time I wake up in the morning with a smile on my face, there's gonna be someone there smiling right next to me.

April Nightmares

I fear the IRS. I don't know why, but I do. I don't even make enough money to be on their radar. Still, every year I stress out over my taxes. I guess I think I'm going to make a mistake. You know, one of those mistakes that's serious enough for them to send out the guys in the black suits: the ones who grab you off the street, throw you into the back of a stretch limo, and drive you off to some abandoned warehouse where they ask you really serious questions under bad fluorescent lighting. I know it's ridiculous, but I can't seem to convince myself otherwise. Maybe I've seen too many movies. Maybe I have an irrational fear of authority. Or maybe I'm just completely neurotic. Either way, it makes tax time absolutely miserable.

This year, I've decided to compound my misery by amending a return I filed a few years ago (I made a slight miscalculation and ended up with $78 I probably shouldn't have), a process so ridiculously complicated that I started wondering what would happen if I just let it slide. You know, just this once. I mean, it's not like I made any real money in 2006. Unless you count the $48.72 in interest I earned from my savings account. Then fear kicks in and suddenly I'm on the IRS shit list next to Al Capone. Why am I so scared of these people?

INT. AN ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – EVENING

CHRISTOPHER sits tied to a chair, his arms and legs bound with electrical tape. The room is dark, save for a few fluorescent bulbs. Two large men emerge from behind the open trunk of a stretch limousine. MAN #1 is carrying a small tank of aceteylene gas; MAN #2, a welding torch.

CHRISTOPHER

I tried to make things right. You gotta believe me.

MAN #1 sets the aluminum tank on the ground. He slowly unscrews the gas cap. We hear an audible hiss.

MAN #1

You hear that?

MAN #2

Did you fill out form 8574 Section D, Box 3A?

CHRISTOPHER

I didn't even know there was a form 8574...

MAN #2

(yelling)

Form 8574 Section D, Box 3A! See Tax Table 2!

CHRISTOPHER

There's a Tax Table 2?

MAN #2

(laughs hysterically)

MAN #2 grabs CHRISTOPHER'S tongue with his fingers.

He lights the welding torch.

CHRISTOPHER

Mommy!

FADE TO BLACK

You know, maybe I'll amend that return after all...

Get the Hell Out of My Way!

Well, I hate to be the one to say this, but New Yorkers can't walk worth a damn. And I'm not just ranting and raving. I have a little evidence to support my claim. You see, there's an unspoken rule about navigating our urban roadways. It's goes something like this: Drive on the right. Pass on the left. Sound familiar? That's because you learned it a long time ago in Driver's Ed.

In New York, and Astoria specifically, this rule does not apply. In fact, I don't think there are any rules. It reminds me of what driving must have been like in 1910—a time when there were no road signs, no traffic lights, and no yellow lines on the road. Complete and utter chaos.

I've tried to understand why this is, but so far the only conclusions I can come to are:

1) Queens is considered one of most diverse areas in the United States, with no less than 138 languages being spoken throughout the borough. That's a lot of different driving cultures in one place, all operating independently of one another.

2) Most people in Queens don't own a car. They travel by subway or bus, which means they hardly ever drive. And since they hardly ever drive, they have no understanding of the even the most basic traffic laws.

3) People are just retarded.

As the years go by, I'm starting to latch onto number three. But that doesn't really help anyone. So, after careful observation, I've put together a list of five of the most common offenders. Not only will it make spotting and avoiding their erratic driving habits easier, it's a cathartic experience that allows me vent my frustrations without having to beat the shit out of many otherwise innocent New Yorkers.

The Sidewinders

The shortest distance between A and B is a straight line. Has been for thousands of years. Now if only someone would tell these assholes. They move down the sidewalk like slithering snakes, outwitting your every attempt to pass them by. You go left, they go left. You go right, they go right. Then left again. Getting around these living obstacles requires speed, dexterity, and an acute awareness of your surroundings. Think Richard Gere in First Knight, timing his mad dash through the gauntlet to snag a kiss from that bitch Lady Guinevere. It's not easy, but it can be done.

The Wall Huggers

You can see them coming a mile way, fighting their way through oncoming traffic. With one side of their body pressed up against the wall, they inch their way through the crowd by riding the shoulder. It's a bold move, but a dangerous one. One theory is that many Wall Huggers are from Europe, where driving on the opposite side of the road is normal. I don't know if I buy that. And even if I did, I suggest you get back in the left lane. Unless, of course, you get a kick out of head-on collisions.

[i.e. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crash_(1996_film)]

The Blind Sides

No one rounds a corner better. Actually, it's more of a 90-degree turn—right into your face. It kind of reminds me of the light cycle sequence in Tron, only it's no longer 1982 and no one's wearing glow-in-the-dark pajamas. Still, if I could take these fuckers into The Maze and put them out of their misery, I would. As for avoiding them, my only advice is to give them a wide berth.

The Window Shoppers

Now technically, this next group isn't native to just New York. However, with so many storefronts and sales to distract the eye, it's not surprising to find a huge population here. They're the ones who stop dead in their tracks, right in the middle of the traffic. Meanwhile, the rest of us are dodging and darting to avoid an inevitable eighteen-person pileup. Only after the wreckage has cleared do we notice the cause of the accident—Foot Locker is having a 20 percent off sale on tube socks. Great.

The Reservoir Dogs

Standing five, six, or seven abreast, these groups of cinematic wannabes stretch themselves out across the sidewalk, making it virtually impossible for anyone else to get buy. The effect is only compounded by stay-at-home moms pushing an army of strollers. Hey, I'm a Tarantino fan as much as the next guy, but unless you're dressed to the nines and rocking out to the George Baker Selection, get the hell out of my way.

Happy driving everyone.

Sprinkles and the Very Bad Storm

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a rather cheap umbrella named Sprinkles. Anytime it rained, Sprinkles did his best to keep the people dry. And the people were alway thankful, because even a cheap umbrella is better than no umbrella at all. Especially when it's raining cats and dogs. This made Sprinkles very happy.

Then one day, a terrible storm rolled into the land. Thunder roared in the darkness. Lightning raced across the sky like long, pointed fingers. Rain came down in sheets three-feet thick. The people were scared. No one could go outside in a storm like this! But that didn't stop Sprinkles. He gathered everyone underneath his tiny canopy, stepped onto the street, and braved the elements.

"Is that all you've got?" boasted Sprinkles, taunting the storm.

But as the wind picked up, his frail metal frame started to buckle. The people held tight to his rickety push-button handle, shielding themselves from the rain's piercing drops.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to let you down." assured Sprinkles, turning to those underneath him.

But Sprinkles was a cocky, stupid umbrella who was anything but prepared for a Category 2 hurricane. And so when an errant gust of wind blew in from the north, tearing the vinyl from his soft aluminum bones, he was turned completely inside out.

"Fuck, my spine!" yelled Sprinkles.

The people tried to help him, but the storm was just too strong. And with Sprinkles unable to protect them, the people were getting wetter by the second. And very, very angry.

"You betrayed us!" cursed the people. "You said you would keep us dry, but you didn't. We trusted you!"

"I...I thought I was stronger." whispered Sprinkles, rolling over on his side, near dead.

"Made in Taiwan. I knew it!" shouted the people, vengeance very much on their mind.

So, rather than dick around any longer with a shitty-ass umbrella, the people threw Sprinkle's lifeless body into a nearby trash can and headed back home in the pouring rain, playfully jumping in and and out of puddles as they skipped down the street.

The End.

One Last Cappuccino Blast

Dear Mr. Robbins,

It pains me to write this, but I feel that I am no longer in love with you. Time and again, I've gone back on my word—and my better judgement—to enjoy your coffee-flavored concoctions, hoping to rekindle the spark that once made our relationship special. But the truth is, I think it's time we went our separate ways.

I don't mean to be callous, it's just that I feel we've outgrown each other. The things I used to find so charming about you—the whipped cream, the cinnamon on top, the shot of caffeine-infused adrenaline—are now the very things I despise. Just thinking about them makes my gut wrench.

I don't mean to say that I haven't enjoyed our times together. There were some truly magical moments. Remember Steinway? Still, I can't lie to myself anymore. Despite your good intentions, you always leave me feeling a little nauseous. It's not so much you as it is the lactose. And I know that's not your fault, but let's be honest, it's part of who you are. Without the milk, you're little more than a small collection of dessert toppings and a stack of waffle cones. Hardly the ingredients you need for a healthy relationship. Especially with someone who has digestive problems like I do.

I hope you can forgive me, but it's really for the best.

Sincerely,

Christopher

P.S. Please don't try to contact me by sending me coupons for ice creams cakes. As enticing as they are to redeem, my decision is final. Besides, I have recently been spending lot of time with fruit, and will be unable to accept any formal invitations from the dairy group for some time.

The Perfect Fit

In the 1993 film Being Human, Robin Williams plays four different roles—each one from a different period in history—representing four different incarnations of a single living soul. The movie isn't that great, and to be honest, I don't really remember what the point of it all was. The one thing I do remember was the main character's seemingly endless search for pair of shoes that actually fit. It never happened.

I, for one, think I'm damned to suffer the same fate. Every time I set my sights on picking up a new pair of shoes, whether it's a pair of sneakers, boots, dress shoes or sandals, I'm seemingly plagued at every turn by complete and utter failure. It never fails. Sometimes I'll find a pair I like, but they won't have my size—either because I share the same shoe size (how's that for alliteration?) with millions of other people or I'm not cut out to play college basketball and this is someone's way of letting me know. Other times I'll find a pair of shoes I like ("Yes, they have a size 10!") but realize only seconds later that a 10 isn't really a 10. In this case, a 10 is a 9 1/2. Which means I'm going to need a 10 1/2, which of course is nowhere to be found. And let's not forget the ugly pair of faux snakeskin loafers sitting next to them available in every size from 7 to 13 in 1/16 inch increments. FUCK! Safe to say, it can get pretty frustrating.

Of course, some of these problems could be avoided if I was really into shoe shopping in the first place. However, I tend to arrive after all the people with size 10 feet have ransacked the place, leaving me with little to do but try on the stylish demo models. I also have a feeling that my oddly-shaped feet play an important role in this dilemma. Unlike most people, my feet aren't exactly the same size. One is slightly larger than the other, which makes we question that whole thing about God and symmetry. Someone fucked up. Yeah, I'm talking to you up there.

Perhaps if cobbling were still a lucrative trade, things would be different. I'd have a pair of shoes that fit me and only me. Of course, I'd also be living in the 18th century, have a name like Addison Irving Cooper, and suffer from numerous venereal diseases. Damn it, it's always something...

The Breakfast of Champions

Breakfast might be the most important meal of the day, but damn if I don't look forward to that mid-morning snack. Thank god for vending machines.

In 1888, long before the mysterious filling for Twinkies was brought to earth via a rouge meteor, the Thomas Adams Gum Company introduced the very first vending machines. These diabetes distribution systems were installed on the elevated subway platforms in New York City and sold Tutti-Frutti gum. It wasn't too long after Tutti-Frutti caught on, that New Yorkers everywhere could be found peeling it off the bottom of their shoes while shouting lengthy strings of obscenities.

Luckily, with advancements in technology, we've moved far beyond offering gum. Now you can buy just about anything from these metal monoliths, just so long as it 1) offers absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever and 2) is goddamn delicious. Other than that, the door is wide open, so long as you first move that little flap out of the way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a dollar bill with E1 written all over it (That's short for Peanut M&M's).

A Small Victory

Even as I bask in the thrill of last night's victory, I know the blinking cursor is calling in reinforcements. He'll likely attack when I'm most vulnerable—those hazy hours between 10 and 11 AM—and decimate my confidence and self-esteem before I have any chance to retaliate. But what he doesn't know is that I have a secret weapon, that one thing that even the most defeated writer has at his disposal: the ability to spew forth heaping piles of bullshit.

First discovered thousands of years ago, bullshit is the go-to weapon of choice when dispatching the blank page. No matter what the odds, you can always count on bullshit to clear a path to victory. In the eternal struggle of man vs. words, it is the great equalizer, filling up empty spaces so quickly that you wonder why you didn't think about harnessing its power sooner. But, as Peter Parker's uncle once told him, "With great power comes great responsibility." Which just means that you can't bullshit forever. At some point you have to write something of value, but in a pinch (or when you're writing just to get in the habit of writing), it can be the greatest ally you have.

Hey, what do you know? That's two fucking posts in two days. You can taunt me all you want, but I'm still gonna keep swinging.

God, I Hate Writing

In my continuing efforts to remain creatively viable, I've decided to start blogging again. It's not that I think anyone is actually paying attention, or would even care if they were. It's more about the fact that I'm in the midst of a creative dry spell and need to do something, anything, to get out of it.

So, what to blog about? Who the fuck knows. I've spent so much time over analyzing this very topic, I thought it might be a good idea to write about it. But the truth is, writing can be such a frustrating experience for me that I'm surprised I got this far. I don't know why, but there's something about seeing that blinking cursor that pisses me off. I don't know why, but it's been going on for years. We just don't get along that well. And I don't see us reconciling anytime soon. Which makes me think we ought to call it quits. I'd rather we went our separate ways than spend the rest of our lives making each other miserable.

The moral of the story? Relationships are complicated and sometimes you have to know when to walk away. It doesn't mean I'm done with writing, it just means that my relationship with it isn't working anymore. Good riddance. I should have kicked its ass out a long time ago...