Sissy, nooooo

For almost my entire life, my sister and I have shared a room. There is something really special about sharing a room with a family member because its not like college when you have a bad roommate and you say, “This person is a freak,” it’s like when they’re a family-member and you have no choice. Let me just pause and say that I am also a nightmare. When I was little I refused to go to sleep unless I had my Dorothy figurine by my bed. Why? Who knows? How fucking weird is that. And I had to have a cup of “bubble water” by my bed, and it had to be filled up to a certain point, and it had to be in the clown cup, and sometimes in the middle of the night I would yell “fresh” because it would go flat and what is the point of bubble water without the bubbles.

I usually have a tough time falling asleep: the room needs to be perfectly dark and NYC quiet (so sirens and construction is just fine). My sister is the opposite. When we were younger, she had to listen to Harry Potter tapes in order to fall asleep. I would lie in bed eyes fucking open, open, open, and Harry and Hermione would be off on an adventure. Now it wasn’t like the tapes moved from the beginning to end, they were all over the place. Tape 6, side A would play and like Ron and Harry would be drinking butterbeer and then BAM the tape would finish and the machine would switch to the other cassette which was OBVIOUSLY not tape 7 but instead tape 4 side B of The Prisoner of Azkaban and no longer The Chamber of Secrets. Sometimes, when the machine started to make the sound that indicated it was getting ready to switch to the second cassette (obviously this machine was not fucking around), I would get out of bed and turn it off. My sister would then magically wake up and say, “Sissy nooooo” and fucking Hogwarts would be back on.

So there aren’t tapes anymore but now, instead, she has a fan on because the sound is critical to falling asleep. I have sort of gotten used to this except that, compounded with the fact that my house is “cross-breezed” like an open-air market, I’m like really cold. Whenever my mother goes somewhere she insists there is “really no air in here” so she opens the window “just a crack.” Ok, let me tell you something, when it’s like 10 degrees outside and the window is opened a crack in her room, and in the living room, and in the bathroom, there is enough air. I promise. And you know what? If there isn’t enough air, luckily I have this fan by the foot of bed that just might do the trick.

Part III: Hey, happy "HOLIDAYS" even though the only holiday on the calendar right now is Christmas bc Hanukah is over

Another great thing about Christmas is the Christmas or WAIT "Happy Holidays We Won't Exclude Anyone from Enjoying This Card Because Even People That Don't Celebrate Christmas Are Celebrating Other Holidays And Not Only Do We Not Want To Offend Them But We Want To Wish Them An Ambiguous Season's Greetings" cards. So here is a picture. You may notice a sort of "tree" or "shrubbery" in the background but its just for decoration.

Part II: On my drum

Here is the highly anticipated Part II of the Christmas special. Maybe you could even call it a Christmas retrospect at this point; things could get very exciting. Christmas is mostly about the anticipation, wondering what is in the presents beneath the tree: is it a Barbie? I hope so, I hope its not one of those craft kits. Do you remember those? There was time during the birthday party era when that’s all anybody ever got; or rather, you knew that if so and so was coming to your party you would probably get a Make-Your-Own-Perfume kit—something like that. Right after thanksgiving, New York starts getting itself ready for Christmas like a woman in a Tresemme commercial who doesn’t realize she can get the same hair treatment without going to the salon; Christmas trees go up on Park Avenue, chopped up Christmas trees are lined up in really inconvenient places like right by the subway or other normally crowded areas, shops start putting the color red in their windows, and really obnoxious Christmas carols come on the radio. I cannot fucking stand it. I don’t mean the Christmas atmosphere; I mean the pop carols. It’s out of control: NSYNC Christmas and I don’t even know what else. I was in a shop and this

R&B remix of the drummer boy came on but it started to sound super dirty. I don’t remember what the actual main guy was singing but then in the background you just hear “ooon my drum, ooon my drum.” On your drum? WHAT is that a metaphor for? What exactly going on “on your drum”? I thought the little drummer boy was just hitting up the stable without anything to show for it but now suddenly something else is happening here.

Speaking of the stable and manager and things like that, I actually went to church on Christmas Eve. I was listening to the sermon given by our priest who has a Bigus Dickus speech impediment, if you know what I mean, and, as it turns out, she views this as a challenge. Instead of avoiding words with the letter “s”—as she fucking should—she uses as many as possible. MOVING ON, obviously this isn’t reeeaally important, she starts talking about how everyone in the congregation is like everyone who was visiting little baby jesus that night. Here’s one comparison that—you know what I let it speak for itself first. She goes, “I’m sure some of you were inn keepers this year and the inn was full and you had to turn people away when you fired them from their jobs.” Ok, so let me get this right: when you fire someone, it’s like turning away Christ. “I’m sorry you can’t work here anymore and also I hate Jesus.”

Christmas Special

PART I

During the days of my internship I took the downtown 6 train every morning. It was always beyond me the general incompetence of everyone there; as if, just before I got on, everyone got in a group and organized themselves so that they could make the most effective obstacle course before I arrived. “Ok, you over there with the big coat, stand by the door. DO NOT MOVE. Whatever happens, you are a fixed object; think of yourself as the statue of liberty: you are greeting but you are a beacon and not an escort. Great. Then you over there, with the small child, just put her in the stroller, come on. I see that it is one of those special strollers, perhaps you call it a “pram”, but I like the size and let’s work with that.” So everyone starts getting together to work against me but then there are also those individuals who do a good job just on their own. For example, there will probably be at least one guy who takes up about two seats; not because he’s fat, but because his legs are spread so far apart that his dick better be the size of Santa’s bundle of toys, or he’s overdoing it.

Then there’s this awkward half seat in between the guy with the big package and the pole to hold onto and, even if someone gets up so there’s an actual seat where you could sit down if that was what you really needed, some fuck comes and stands in front of the seat. Nope, they won’t sit down because they don’t NEED to sit down; they don’t mind standing because they aren’t lazy and they want you to know that and recognize their strength and perseverance. Not only that, but they have positioned themselves directly in front of this space so that you have to ask them if they want that seat—so they can answer that no, in fact, they are perfectly happy reading their Economist (yes! I always read the economist on the train because not only do I exercise on my way to work but I also educate myself) standing up.

Let’s say you make it on the train, maybe even to the inside to the middle--where you move because you are a considerate passenger. Perhaps you have even got a chance to sit down. So you’re sitting there wondering if you should offer your seat to this middle aged/old person (you can’t properly tell, which is why this deliberation is taking so long, and you don’t want to offend anyone especially someone who is PMSing because they are fucking crazy, and you know this from experience) and then, I fucking promise this will happen, some one comes down the aisle asking for money. It is no longer just the average person asking for money, they are fucking scootering themselves down the aisle because they don’t have legs and you know what? If you don’t give them money you’re an asshole and, as a side point, not only did you ignore them but you also didn’t give up your seat to that woman.

I look very grim. It's because I'm method acting.

So today I paid homage to democracy—I served my civic duty to the utmost. Before I headed over to the court I was pretty excited because I heard that you got paid for serving. I thought, “Holy fuck, am I actually going to make some money?” I am not. On the back of the little slip that we in the courthouse call a “ballot” you have to list employment and, tragically, that is not something I can attest to or, in fact, even supply any sort of information about whatsoever. So, while you are sitting in the juror room scribbling away self-deprecating facts that are not jokes, surrounded by all the attractive people in NYC, this video comes on.

This video is not just any video; it is the fucking HISTORY of jury duty. You will not merely learn about jury duty but they will take you all the way back to The Beginning, because this is ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL information to know. I was expecting some like cursive stuff on the screen or whatever--but no! These fucking rogues in colonial costumes come out of the woods and into a “clearing” and they are charging someone with a crime and deciding if he’s guilty or not by throwing him in the water. The acting is super intense too, people are crying, showing disappointment, reservation, anger, some serious subtlety of expression. Can you imagine if your job was to act out old jurors in a jury video....

No, I’m not really in many films but have you ever done jury duty? Yeah, in New York. Did you watch that video? Yeah! That’s fucking me. No, I don’t get thrown in the water; my friend, she had the better resume, she got that part. But that part, right before the whole drowning bit, that’s me, standing right there. Yeah, in the blue. I look very grim. It’s because I’m method acting; I’m drawing on my past emotions and channeling them to display the feelings of an ancient juror and I’m sure I would feel grim and I wanted to express that on my face.

And what about the people who do reenactments on like the fucking evening news or E True Hollywood Story. Like when they’re telling the story of how some girl got kidnapped and murdered and you are watching it happen on your TV screen, which is pretty crazy because why the fuck didn’t someone stop filming and help out. But THEN these really helpful words come on the screen—“Reenactment”—and that just clears everything up. What if your job was to play the murderer; what if that became you specialty. What if you had a job..What would that feel like.

Names for art exhibits that will never be used:

Georgia O’Keefe: Flowers that look like vaginas

Seurat: OCD and very, very, very small dots

Van Gogh: Things to look at when you’re high

Hopper: People who promise they won’t look at you

Marcel Duchamp: Shit found

And....that's all I have for you right now.