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.

Did You Notice How Smart I Am By My Literary References Question ?

I was at an author’s book reading last night and it dawned on me that I had completely forgotten how annoying people can be at lectures and things. So, I’ve arrived at the 92st. Y to hear this reading and immediately I am devastated that other people have showed up. They’re all pushing to get in and casually dropping the author’s name in conversation as they do so just to prove to the other people, which are touching them because it is so crowded, that yes, they know what’s up when it comes to Orhan Pamuk and they are seriously legit in general and they are also seriously legit about listening carefully to the reading. Also everyone either look a) like a literal manifestation of “intellectual”, b) Jewish or c) both. (OK! Listen, they did look Jewish. Plus, I’m half Jewish so I can say things like this and also David Foster Wallace does it. [I actually think this a really interesting quotation as an aside]. In A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, he writes about his experience on a cruise ship. While he is waiting to board he notices “A lot of the people waiting—Caribbeanish clothing notwithstanding—look Jewish to me, and I’m ashamed to catch myself thinking that I can determine Jewishness from people’s appearances.” Then he footnotes this: “For me, public places on the U.S. East coast are full of these nasty little moments of racist observation and then internal P.C. backlash.” He is right and I am also right with my description so let’s all move on).

ANYWAY so all of these people are bumping and jostling and we finally get to our seats and the thing begins. Here is the first incredibly annoying thing: People nod their heads when they are listening because they want you to fucking know they know. They know what he is talking about and they can’t help but agree. Not only do they agree but luckily there is a question and answer session so they can beyond agree; they can show how much more than know, and this can apply to any question/answer session where the person speaking appears moderately important to the audience. There are two types of questions here and I’ll break them up because I’m rambling:

1. The Fucking Stupid Question. For example, last night someone asked the novelist, who had just come out with a five hundred page novel, is the novel dead? Yes, yes it is dead, but I am doing my utmost to revive it. That’s why I wrote this one million page square shaped thing. I’m thinking, now correct me if I’m wrong, that we could possibly use it as some sort of digging device to try and find the novel, which has been encased in tomb and thrown into an abyss. And I say “abyss” because I’m a novelist and also because I can tell, from you intelligent question, that you understand vocab words like that.

2. The Did You Notice How Smart I Am By My Literary References Question: For example, “When you wrote about X in your new book were you alluding to Dante’s inferno? If so, how do you feel about incorporating Western literature, perhaps even ideologies, in your work? Do you feel this compromises the integrity of your novel’s message? Like, I don’t even know what the fuck I just wrote. I don’t even know if it makes sense. And you know what? People who ask that type of thing, they don’t know either. And if they do know, then there is no point to them asking the question. Honestly, what do they think is going to happen afterwards. Pamuk will come down from the podium and be like, "You, you are fucking brilliant. Do you have your PhD? I am so glad you told me. Let's hang out. What's your skype? Do you skype?"

When he said "sup" do you think he like really meant it?

I remember when we got our first computer. I was sitting in my room and I heard these video game noises and I was pretty stoked because I thought I would finally get to play video games. I was wrong. It was AOL version like 1.0 going crazy as it connected to the internet. This was when screen names started to become big. My first email address was otterpaw@hotmail.com No joke. I fucking loved otters and that was going to be my special email code name. Otterpaw. I think otterlover was probably taken, or my dad was worried that was a bit too freaky for the web. I guess the second you put “lover” things can get weird.

Then I moved to AOL because it was cooler and because not only did I have an email, but then I would have instant messaging too. Otterpaw was taken. Ok, what the fuck? Who the fuck was like “Otterpaw—that is the name for me” unless they were also a member of The Friends of the Sea Otter Club and carried around their club card like they were going to get into Costco later. I sort of want to email otterpaw now and ask them what was up with that? Do they know the kind of trauma the name change caused me? If so, how the fuck do they know about my personal life?

My new email address/ AIM on AOL was Antis, which people called me before I went to boarding school. I didn’t even need any numbers because this shit was so new. I used to come back from school sign in and stare at my buddy list for like three hours wondering if all my crushes would sign on soon so that I could wait the appropriate time and then says “sup” because I certainly wasn’t going to type a full sentence and/ or use punctuation. Then when they did sign on and I’d waited (maybe just a little longer than normal because like maybe I should wait for them to IM me first so I can tell them my that nm is what’s up but I’m obviously kind of busy and engaged in other sup/nm exchanges with various other people) I would IM them. Sometimes I would have six on my screen at once. And we used to copy and past different shit we said in IM. It would be like OMG soccerstar14 look what 6thgrade crush said-copy-paste-wait for analytics. For example, when he said "sup" does that mean is he like generally curious how I am? I cannot believe he Immed, yeah, I know, and it was like almost right after he signed on too!

This post isn’t really going anywhere except that I think it’s amusing that all screen names, and email names, and all of that shit is now just literally your actual name. The creativity has been lost because no one wants to put livingwithmyparentsiscoolbutitwouldbegreatifyouhiredmeandicouldmoveout@gmail.com on their resume.

NOT a Nalgene--bring one of those special ones from Switzerland

I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing in a while. I’ll be honest: it stemmed from insecurities. I’ve started to say shit like, “In my blog,” and to think about “blogging” as one of my hobbies and I sound like a fucking douche bag, but now that I’ve accepted that I’m ready to move on.

I wanted to feel bad about myself Sunday morning so I went and watched the marathon. (Note: do not do this with a hangover. The “cheer zone” is not an ironic zone) So I’m watching people run by and there are some couples running together and some of these people are couples and some of them are matching couples. I was watching at the end of the race so this meant that all of these couples had been running together for like 26 miles. They must be really, really in love. I know this not because they have just shared this physically challenging moment but because I was reading Cosmo and they said that when you begin to match with your partner it means you are totes in love. FACT: Once my roommate, who doesn’t read this so its fine, went on a couples run and was so rightfully ashamed that she LIED and said she was going for a run on her own. Ok, but seriously, I could never ever do that. I feel like the only time you should be sweating with your boyfriend is when your fucking him. Thoughts? Because not only is my really super hot boyfriend not big on matching outfits but it is also I don’t want to be around anyone when I’m running.

To begin with, I’m not big on running or exercising with people in general. Like when people say things like “Hey want to go for a run?” No, no I don’t because, as I’m running, I’m slowly going to start thinking about how fast we’re going, or how fast you’re going, and then I might get a little competitive. In fact, you can probably notice because I am breathing loudly; I’m a “loud breather” when I run and, when I’m thinking about whether or not I feel like pushing myself, my breath gets really fast because I just want to beat you—even though we are OBVI friends—but I’m not really suited in the lung department.

I thought about doing hot yoga once. It seemed like a really good idea until I thought about all the other people. Why did something think like this seem a fun scenario: Hey! Let’s all get into a room and sweat together. And I don’t mean a little perspiration or “glow” I mean let's fucking sweat! Yeah! Let’s be really disgusting! And you, you look like you're about 300 pounds—Ya! You come too! No it’s not a sauna because we’re going to sweat on these special little mats that have been designed just for us. And when we’re done with all this you can carry your special mat in a special case and swing it over your shoulder so everyone fucking knows you do yoga! Also, if you want, bring a special waterbottle (NOT a Naglene bring one of those special ones from Switzerland) and carry this with your mat--or clip it onto your backpack!

I mean there's another problem for me: water. I want mine in a bottle, fucking untouched by human hands, and in a square shape or with special groves for my fingers that will facilitate my grip because sometimes I walk quickly and things slide.