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11/26/05: The Week in Reverse 11/28/05: A nineteen year-old girl who acts twenty-five, a matchbook, a deeply gratifying lapse in judgment
Today was a good Sunday, not too much working man's Monday angst. Nice temperature outside. Ate some delicious food, read the paper. I'll be honest: I don't read the paper every day. But I used to read it every Sunday, and I think I will begin doing so again. Coffee, Donut, New York Times. BJL and I once had like a three-week email going back and forth, with each response just listing three items like that. The idea was to find three things (usually physical objects but often states of being) that together gently or not-so-gently hinted at a night of debauchery, or at least an afternoon of noble desperation. Then the reader could put the three things together and create the scene in their own head. At least I think that was the idea. The starting point was, of course, Crack, Whisky, Whore. I wish we still had that email somewhere. Oh BJL, righteous God of the Internets, please find it and forward it to me. Don't post the whole thing in the comments, please. I imagine it needs some editing before it can be made public. Nestle Crunch, $5 porno tape, creaky twin bed. Play along! It's fun! They say that if you are ever able to clearly photograph a Stuytown squirrel, the squirrel will eat your soul. If I had more energy and creativity tonight, I might compose a list of facts about Stuytown squirrels, a la the Chuck Norris, Vin Diesel, and Mr. T fact generators. But I will leave that to you instead. Five points for every Stuytown Squirrel Fact that you create and submit. Maximum two submissions per person. Played hoops this Saturday. It was good. I actually made what felt like a nice move* on the fast break (the old "fake the pass and go in for the layup") for the first time in maybe 9 years. The guy totally bought my lame fake. Basketball gives me great joy. D. Lee was going on for about five years about how the Knicks needed to dump some salaries and rebuild through the draft, as painful as it might be at the start. I kind of thought, nah, rebuilding's a pain in the ass, and there are no guarantees. Teams can go decades rebuilding. He was like, No, I would gladly watch a bunch of young guys with energy win 20 games than watch a bunch of overpaid guys win 35-40 games every year with no hope of improving. I think this year's Knick team is as close as we'll get for a while to fulfilling D. Lee's wishes. 3 good rookies full of youthful vigor, complete with fuckups, tantrums and occasional brilliance. To be honest I haven't watched much of this year's edition, but if Saturday's game is any indication I will start tuning in. From the highlights that looked like a thriller. Say you hail a cab for you, your wife, and your baby at 60th and 2nd. You ask him to go to 20th between 1st and C. He looks at you with confusion and asks you to repeat the destination, which you do, even saying "Two-Zero" to clarify that you don't want 28th. He nods, and begins speeding down 2nd avenue with attitude, snaking his way through narrow gaps in traffic. Fine. Then he cranks his Bob Marley CD up about four volume notches in the back seat. You ask him to lower it becasue your baby is sleeping, and he complies. A few moments later, he seems to turn the volume back up again, but you're not entirely sure. When you get to 27th street, he suddenly makes an erroneous right turn. You shout to him that he's making a mistake, and he slams on the brakes, but it's too late, he can't get back onto 2nd avenue. He keeps heading West, and you reiterate the address about three times, expecting him to make a right on 3rd and circle back. Instead, he goes straight through to Lex, again making this decision over your protests. 20th street...between 1st Avenue and Avenue C, you repeat at least two more times, even adding that he will now need to go East again. At Lexington, he makes a left and starts heading downtown, so you assume he's gotten the point, will hang a left at some point, and you'll be on your way. Knowing that Gramercy Park marks the end of Lexington Avenue at 21st street, you implore him to turn left on 22nd street and head East, but he's going too fast and he misses the turn. Now you'll be forced to wrap around Gramercy Park, son of a bitch. He makes a right and starts heading West on 21st street, again going too fast. As you approach the West side of the park, you shout, "Turn left!" but unbelievably he blows through this left hand turn and goes over to Park Avenue South. At this point, you lean up past the partition and shout to him, over the music, "YOU NEED TO MAKE A LEFT HERE AND THEN GO BACK EAST ACROSS 20th STREET!!!" He makes the left on Park and is almost ready to zoom past 20th when you shout, again, that he needs to make a left on 20th. He makes the left and you start what should be a straight shot home. But at each avenue you pass, he puts on his turn signal. GO STRAIGHT HERE, you say each time. He does as you say, but clearly has no idea what's going on. As you get to 20th between 2nd and 1st, you inform him that there are speed bumps on this block**, so please be careful. He then drives that entire block at around 4mph, no exaggeration. You finally get to 1st avenue and remind him that he needs to KEEP GOING STRAIGHT, which he does. After two more attempts to turn prematurely, he gets you home. At no time is there open hostility in the cab -- he seems to have made an honest, if intergalactically incompetent, attempt to get you where you need to go. Language barrier or not, you're pretty sure he is on drugs. As you finally pull over, the meter reads $9.30. How much do you give him? Just wondering. No more Whiteydat challenges. cW gets one point for locating Mr. T***, nobody got either of the previous two questions right and only two people responded at all, so we're moving on. For the record, #55 stole my sneaks and #38 stole my tape. Both as pranks, I think. The next four to six weeks are going to be a major grind. If I come out on the other end without messing things up too badly, my life could improve. If I screw up, it could get measurably worse. For my part I plan on bringing my game up as high as I can at work. No more wiseass remarks. Higher levels of concentration and commitment. Nicer outfits. Three shaves a week. Less checking of my favorite websites during biz hours. Basically, no more fucking around. Time to grow up a bit. How long do you think this newfound sense of energy and dedication, most likely triggered by four days of rest, will last? For five genius points, what temperature should all beer be served at?
* However, if I ever actually saw this move on tape, it would be so slow and
clumsy that I might just cry. |
The previous post was long and bunky. I could have skipped it, but then all that
bad brainial fluid would still be swishing around in my head. Sometimes you just
gotta get it out, ya know? It's like that with anything that's inside you and
wants to come out, be it physiological or intellectual. If you let it sit in
there too long, it starts to rot. So it's better to just get it out and move on.