Sunday, June 22, 2008

ALL I NEED IS ONE GODDAMN NICKEL

All I need is one lousy goddamn nickel to complete the purchase of this soy latte. If I don't find one in the next five to ten seconds I will be forced to break a dollar, leaving me with a pocketful of heavy change. Please God. Please present me with a nickel, and in turn I'll remember to bring more change with me each morning.

I feel the pressure of the person behind me, his bated breath on the back of my neck as I dig deeply into my left jean pocket (it's the third time I've done so without result.) This is part of a strategy that's worked well in the past: stall until the clerk gives me a break. But I've had this one before, and he's a tough nut to crack. Last time it took close to five minutes, and he looks particularly obstinate today.

Shit! All I need is one nickel! Ok fine I'll break the damn dollar, if you're nickel is so important to your profit margi- wait a minute, what's this? The clerk stepped away for a second, and there's a nickel just sitting in this tip jar.

Done and done. Everyone's happy, especially the guy behind me.

Friday, June 20, 2008

IF I COULD REMEMBER TO, I WOULD SMOKE A LOT MORE POT

My pot habit is being compromised by my increasing inability to remember to smoke it. This is a troubling development, one which I will stem immediately.

It began last month, or thereabouts. Actually, it was six months ago. No wait, three and half weeks because it was my sister’s birthday – although now I’m not totally sure. Anyway it was between one and six months ago, hanging out in my apartment playing guitar (I know three songs, and play them over and over instead of learning new ones.) When the session ended I was shocked to realize that I hadn’t taken a bong hit before playing, or even during. In my forty years on this earth, I’ve never neglected to smoke when playing “Sweet Baby James”, “Light My Fire” or “Ripple”.

The bad habit of forgetting to smoke pot seems to be infecting my friends as well. A few weekends ago, Andy came over to watch the new Firefox director’s cut (we are doing a Roy Schneider moviethon in honor of his recent death). When I asked him if he brought any pot, he looked at me in shock – he completely forgot, and it was the 3rd time he’d done so that week. Let me tell you, Firefox isn’t that good when you’re not high.

Measures have been taken. Thank god for yellow Post-It notes, which I’ve stuck in places obvious and not-so obvious around my apartment. On each I’ve drawn a pot leaf, and you can be sure I didn’t forget to smoke before this artistic endeavor. I’m proud to say I’ve not forgotten to smoke grass once this week, and only twice last week. I think.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

I CAN’T UNDERSTAND MY BRITISH FRIEND DAVE

I can’t understand my British friend Dave, and it’s beginning to affect our friendship in an adverse way. His accent is way too thick, which is particularly annoying since he’s been in America for five years. He should work on it, just as a person with a lisp works on his speech impediment.

It is grating and, at times, inconvenient. Mostly it’s just a lot of me saying, “huh”? in the course of conversation. I probably average 20 – 30 “huhs?” per communication, depending on length. After about the fifth one, he looks at me like I’m an idiot. This is ironic, since Dave’s the idiot for having such a thick accent.

One time I was getting directions to the museum. What sounded like "walk to 82nd street" was really 22nd street, so I walked from 14th to 82nd, all for nothing, all because of him. I was furious. Another time, when we were drunk, he said in his thick, English accent, “I love you man”. I thought he said “I love your mother”, so I punched him in the nose. He was furious.

I see trouble down the road if Dave doesn’t fix this problem. I confronted him about it a few times, but he always has the same response: “It’s YOU who has the accent, mate.” Yeah, right Dave.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

MY INFANT SON IS 100% CERTIFIED ORGANIC

Last month my wife gave birth to world's first certified organic “green” baby. Not in the sense that he's an innocent, natural infant unblemished by sin or moral corruption, but literally his blood is certified organic by the FDA. We have documentation.

How did we do it, and how can you do it? Pretty easy. First, at the time of consumption, my wife and I had been eating only organic food for a little over 8 years. According to the FDA website, you need to be eating organic for a minimum of five years, so we were all set. Also, we consummated on a bed with 100% organic sheets - another requirement (that particular session ended on the floor, which luckily is made from non compressed, untreated organic wood from Guatemala, so it's totally additive free. Yay!) My wife has always used organic tampons and we both wipe with organic toilet paper (we bring rolls to work), and the pot I occasionally smoke is totally organic.

The logic, according to the FDA, goes like this: if everything that’s touched your body (inside and out) for the past five years is certified organic, then your sperm or eggs are organic, and therefore so is your offspring.

The certification process was simple. The easy to use Are You Organic? Self Test Kit from Whole Foods tells you instantly – like a pregnancy test, the color on the paper determines your level of organicness. If you’re in the red, don’t go trying for an organic baby; wait until it’s green.

The “green baby” process, as its called, was ineffably fulfilling, and I urge aspiring parents to pursue it. And yes. I'm seriously considering getting him a tattoo of the organic logo.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

I CAN'T DECIDE WHETHER TO BUTTON THE SECOND BUTTON ON MY OXFORD SHIRT, OR LEAVE IT OPEN

This morning started innocently enough, until I encountered a dilemma that is still with me at this moment: I can't decide whether to button the second button on my oxford shirt , or leave it open. There are good arguments on both sides. Buttoning one's second button gives him a look of control, wealth and power. This is a good look, especially for attracting certain members of the opposite sex. They will think, "hey, this guy really has it together - he would be a solid provider for my children." The fact that I am unemployed and have been for two years is of no consequence, because I will look like money, and can just lie about the job thing (as usual).

Leaving the second button open presents a new world altogether. This is the weekend guy, or the work is over and I'm ready for happy hour guy, or the I'm making so much money I don't need to wear a tie nor do I have to button my top button guy, or the I'm not Latin but white guys also need to let loose from time to time guy, or the I'm going to order a 30 dollar bottle of Pinot Noir because I don't give a fuck guy. I will be one or, perhaps, a culmination of all of these guys, with my second button unbuttoned.

The critical moment is upon me, and, like Hamlet, I cannot make a decision. Both options are so fecund and rich with potential. They also have their pitfalls, which I will not go into now as I choose to focus on the positive.

There. It's done. I walk outside into the day, the bright sunshine splashes my navy blue polo. Yes, I chose not to make a decision, and am a stronger man for it.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

MY CAR IS A VISUAL HISTORY OF ROAD SNACKS

Within my car, you will find a comprehensive history of my accumulated road snacks. From Animal Crackers to Swedish Fish, crunchy KFC skin to spongy Magnolia cupcake bits, there is evidence of virtually everything I've ever eaten on the road, all of which I can trace to a precise date. That white blotch with black chunklets embedded in the floor mat? Choco-chip ice cream, August 12, 2001. It was 95 degrees out so I got an extra large. It was too much, so put it on the passenger side seat. Of course it melted in about two seconds, and when the car came to a stop it spilled to the floor mat. Oops!

Don't limit yourself when inspecting my road snack museum on wheels, for the deeper you dig the more treasures you will find. There is an area of every vehicle that, for lack of a better term, I call the seat-taint. It's the area between when the seat is either all the way forward or all the way back, and you cannot clean it. A brief glimpse at my left seat-taint reveals the only questionable snack in my collection. It is this black goop that must have been soft at one point but now is hard as a rock and permanently adhered, so it's basically a miniature sculpture that kind of resembles a tree with arms. I'm sure you have some such fun surprise on your seat-taints.

It is important to remember the past, and checking out your road snack history is a good way to do it. Great car memories are triggered by little things like Cheese-Its wedged deep into the passenger seat, or a sticky wheel thanks to those damn Cracker Jacks.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

WHEN I SNEEZE, PLEASE SAY 'BLESS YOU'. EVERY TIME.

Is it too much to ask to expect a simple "bless you" after a sneeze? Allergy season always exposes rudeness, and it drives me bananas.

For instance, this morning I sneezed at work - and it wasn't a small, womanly sneeze either. It was a gigantic one from the belly, and it seemed to shake the entire room. A full five seconds went by before Christine (whom I suspect has the hots for me) said "bless you." Glaring at my other cubemates, I thanked her. Then came the second sneeze. And the third. And fourth, which included a large projectile snot that adhered itself to my computer screen. Not ONE SINGLE bless you!

Did everyone think that Christine's initial "bless you" counted for all five of the sneezes? I mean, where do these people come from? It's common knowledge that a "bless you" can actually stop someone from sneezing. It serves a purpose, and that's why you say it. If someone's having a sneezing fit, don't wait until the end to say it - make yourself useful and bless them after every one.

To protest the lack of bless you's, I'm not going to cover my mouth when sneezing. If you can't extend me this basic courtesy, you will inherit my germs. Also, I'm not going to flush the toilet.

I WILL SHOW THOSE METER MAIDS

I'll show those meter maids, who just gave me parking ticket for the amount of $115.00. Sweet revenge will be mine when I rip that ticket off my car windshield and run, not walk, to my computer. I will go online to the website detailed on the back on the ticket, and, right away, I will pay the full amount.

I hope to God that my payment goes through before the ticket is even entered into the system, because it will be like a nullification - my way of saying, yeah you gave me a ticket, fuck you here's my money! If I could give the meter maids cash right when they gave me the ticket, I sure would. I tried, and the guy looked at me like I was nuts. He's never seen anything like that before.

I also hope they try and hit me with late fees for not paying the ticket. If anything, I should be charged an "early fee" for paying it so quickly. If they did, I'd pay that equally as fast. They wouldn't know what to do with me, beating them to the punch not once but twice.

There, it's done - got my confirmation number and everything. They will think twice about giving me a big fat ticket in the future, because they know that every dollar they charge me will be exacted upon them right away.