May 1st, 2008
|09:17 am - CHEESE CLUB: BEST CLUB 2007, 2008!|
Thank you to all the good clubs, organizations, services, and executives who again voted CHEESE CLUB for the OUTSTANDING CLUB award. I'll have to edit my resume soon!
TONIGHT at 10 p.m. in the food co-op is the LAST meeting of Cheese Club for this semester! Come be part of the magic and see as Owen, SLZ, and more take the wash rind torch for the 2008-9 school year.
Current Location: G34
Current Mood: grateful
Current Music: The Dodos -- Undeclared
October 19th, 2007
|12:07 am - PLEASE BE ADVISED|
For those of you Highly interested in seeing Voxtrot tomorrow, they are most likely going on at 10 p.m. Apparently one of their members is DJing later in the big city so they need to play earlier than I had originally planned.
After they play will be Professor Murder, Les Nubians, and White Williams [in that order].
But show up early so you can catch:
Cathode Terror Secretion and then Deer Tick and then Ecstatic Sunshine and then the Deathset and then Mika Miko and then Castanets and then High Places!!
Current Location: PSGA
Current Mood: refreshed
Current Music: Teddybears -- Magic Kraut
September 5th, 2007
|02:20 pm - A TOTALLY TIGHT WEDNESDAY|
Current Location: G34
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Dark Meat -- Three Eyes Open
August 3rd, 2007
|10:16 pm - AUGUST 13 BEST MONDAY EVER|
Aa aka BIG A little a
SNAKES SAY HISSS!
DJ NICK GAZIN [country club: midnight 'til death!]
at DON PEDRO'S
90 Manhattan Ave
btw McKibbon and Boreum
L train to Montrose, J/M train to Lorimer
doors at 8 p.m.
full bar! all ages!
for an easy $7
Current Location: West Hollywood
Current Mood: excited
Current Music: BARR -- This Song Is The Single
July 30th, 2007
|01:12 pm - My Safety [concerning Mike Vilensky's concern]|
I went to a party in Bushwick that had a rooftop BBQ with a great view [of Long Island City] and a few holes of put-put that all the punks were using as a bathroom. The girl who lived in the apartment had an obvious eating disorder and penchant for bar anthems and, for the love of sexual attention, had collected roommates of dudes that she had dated and then cheated on. Peri Chee told me earlier in the evening that the girl had inherited a pet bunny, at which point she decided she didn't want to feed it and after a few weeks of starvation it expired. And that the girl is 18. So throughout the night, when she would stand on chairs and rub her tits while yelling out some terrible rock, I'd squirm in discomfort. One of her exboyfriend roommates had invited his friend Justin to the party, who was very skinny and covered in little tattoos and, to the crazy girl's dismay, quite sweet on Peri.
The crazy girl took her exboyfriend roommate aside and growled, "Does he want to fuck her, huh?" and then began making sex-moan sounds.
"No, no," her exboyfriend roommate said of Justin, "he's just walking her home. It's really late."
Channing was with us and had come into a popped bag of popcorn that she was eating at the apartment's kitchen table, which was centered by a tall cylindrical vase filled with wrapped condoms. The crazy girl, in response to Justin's preference of Peri, first grabbed the vase and poured its contents out of a large window.
That was really just a terrible idea, I thought.
"I want to go get something else to eat," Channing said, hoping to initiate an exit before things got weird. It was too late for that, though, as the crazy girl grabbed the popcorn bag and flung it across the room, hurling microwavable shrapnel onto everyone's feet.
"We should get going," Peri said quickly.
"Good idea!" Channing cheered.
"I'll walk you guys home," Justin reiterated.
I looked down at the kitchen table. Now that there wasn't any food on it and no vase I could see there was a set of brass knuckles. I grabbed them and zipped them into my fanniepack and ran down the stairs.
I showed them to Lil Jenny the next day and she was impressed, understandably. They're not engraved but they just gleam [no scratches] and they're dense but not too heavy to string on a necklace.
"I think I'm just going to wear them around every day."
"Ha. Noooooo," she laughed. "It's like, an illegal weapon." I had forgotten all about gang warfare. Back in the fanniepack they went.
I was on the train [alone] a few days later. I was seated next to a semi-stylish, older woman when the train stopped at 34th St. Penn Station and on came two women in the same age group with short, fried blond hair, four-pregnancies stomachs, and ugly manicures. They sat to my left and began talking about Times Square and I'm pretty sure that the lady on my right was watching me watch them in light-hearted disgust. Breaking concentration, I opened my fanniepack to find a piece of paper with an address, but the woman to my right was still watching me as I shuffled around my brass knuckles. Then I zipped up quickly, for fear that the woman would recognize my concealed weapon; I was worried she'd If You See Something Say Something me.
Current Location: West Hollywood
Current Mood: lazy
Current Music: Bishop Allen -- Empire City
April 1st, 2007
|11:04 pm - My Life With Todd|
"I smoke, like, once a day, Alaina," Beaves said in defense. "Five times a day is too much. Three times a day is too much. Just once, so I can play video games and go to sleep. I'm not doing coke all the time like you and Dad and Mia think."
I had taken two subways, two commuter trains, and a cab to his girlfriend's house to pick Beaves up and bring him to the Verizon store. Somewhere between Los Angeles on winter break and New York, I had lost the battery to the phone I was hand-delivering him. The Verizon store didn't have the battery we needed and offered to order it. We walked to IHOP, but when he took my phone to profusely call and harass Terry, I threw $40 on the table and ran out, sprinting down Northern Blvd. toward Roslyn. He followed after me, shouting, "Where are you going? " He threatened to throw my phone and I didn't turn around. When he caught up, he was saying, "Where are we going?"
His lifestyle, he explained, as a regularly-housed homeless teen, required that he smoked pot. People he understood to not be "real friends" would pick him up if he was paying for his spot in the car, which would be driven somewhere remote. In there, kids who lived with their parents would have a place to smoke. It is a situation with all of the bearings of when he and three friends were arrested a year and a half ago. The addition was that now he would regularly need to ask his auto-mates if they wanted to have a sleepover. Still, I was begging him to change his habits.
He used my phone until he found a party and a person to pick him up, and we parted on you're-my-sibling-and-I-love-you terms. I met up with the Russian Nesting Doll and we went into Manhattan. I very much needed a drink.
Around 1 a.m., Russian Nesting Doll and I left the Johnson's and started heading toward our respective commuter rails. It was then that I got a call from a Long Island number. I suspected that there was a level of infamy involved, but regardless, Beaves was unable to find a place to sleep. He blamed it on me, as I had taken him from his girlfriend's house hours earlier, where he probably would have been able to sleep.
HIs girlfriend's parents set a rule a while ago, sometime after Beaves was fired from a job he had with his girlfriend's dad, that he was not allowed to sleep there. They said it was because he sleeps too late everyday. I went to Penn Station and waited for him. We met up at 2:20 a.m. and took a black cab up to Purchase [$100].
The next day, I had a class at 2:30 p.m. I ran errands in the morning, and when I got back to my Purchase apartment in the early afternoon, he was still sleeping on the floor. We got lunch together and a lot of people saw us. [Recently I've noticed an influx of Bape worn on campus and I wholly attribute it to him.] I left my class early on some lie and later-broken promise, and we left for Manhattan together. I was going to see Clipse and I offered to buy him a ticket. He graciously declined. I haven't seen him since.
"Why is your show competing with Josh's show?" Todd P asked Joe the intern.
"It's not. Mine's a last-minute surprise party for some girl."
Josh the intern put together a show with The Fugue and So So Modern at SIlent Barn for last Friday. Joe the intern was, as usual, curating a bill headlined by Le Rug. Todd P had not organized a show because Saturday night was his enourmous Lightning Bolt with Barr and Ecstatic Sunshine show at 3rd Ward. On his night off, he was helping the interns pick out the right amount of booze to sell at their intern-tended, collapsable-table bars.
"Todd made me lay in the trunk," shouted Josh the intern from a short distance, his unibrow and mis-angled front teeth visible, "and I was sitting on a can of anti-freeze, and it was spraying up the car. And he barely cracked the windows--TODD, WHY WERE YOU TRYING TO SUFFICATE ME?"
In Todd P's defense, he had opened the windows. In Josh the intern's, Todd P started playing Neil Young really loudly to torture him.
The car was parked in front of Monster Island, Todd P's Williamsburg building of practice spaces, and I got into the trunk to hand off thirty-racks of PBR. When everyone had turned around to bring alcohol inside or carry speakers out, I tried to step out of the car. My Bean boots got caught on some rubber overhang of the trunk and I fell to the street. It hurt terribly and it's embarassing to fall out of a car but nobody saw it happen, so when they returned I had to pretend nothing had changed.
I worked at Josh the intern's show, collecting money and stamping wrists. Todd P drove me to it and stayed for the evening. He received a call from Joe the intern; cops had broken up his birthday show.
"I feel a little less irresponsible, though," Joe the intern told us the next day in front of 3rd Ward, "because apparently there was a six year old's birthday party in that neighborhood last week and the cops broke that up, too."
That afternoon I had woken up on Patty the non-intern's couch in Bushwick to six voicemails and three kinds of hangover. Everyone but her docile pet rabbit was still asleep [the kid-friendly bunny was making weird sounds sucking water] so I went outside to call Aelfie. There were four or five hours until I had to be at 3rd Ward. My hair was wash-now greasy so I asked if it would be O.K. to use her shower in a little bit.
"You can borrow clothes, too."
"Really? Oh, I probably don't need to."
"I can lend you a pair of underwear..."
"Now you're talkin'."
I went back inside and slept for another hour or two. Patty the non-intern, her boyfriend, and her friend from Emerson woke me up and we got really excellent Mexican food at a place that charged $3 for quesadillas whether they had steak, chicken and avacados, or nothing but cheese in them. After that, I walked to Aelfie's apartment.
When I got there, she didn't pick up her phone. I would've rang the bell but the bell doesn't work. I would've gone into Asian Taco and asked to use their backyard to sneak in but I only speak English. I would have showered in Patty the non-intern's bathroom but I don't know her that well and was already extremely gracious for the couch and blanket. I had an hour and a half to go and I wasn't looking any cleaner. I walked to a dollar store and bought a travel size bottle of Head & Shoulders, a box of moist naps, and a liquid eyeliner [$3]. I went nextdoor to McDonald's and bought an m&m McFlurry [$2.35] and asked the girl at the register to unlock the Customers Only restroom. I waited 5 mintues before she opened it for me, but I assured her that apologies were unnecessary. The one-person bathroom had a sink and a mirror and there wasn't very much water on the floor, so I put my head under the faucet and washed my hair. I ran out as soon as I finished, still dripping.
I also still needed to change my clothes. I checked out a store called "Da Closet," that Owen and I had always made fun of. I bought a LRG shirt [$50] in XXL that had a series of animals from the African plains lining the bottom and a slogan, "live a wild life."
I walked to 3rd Ward from there. Having gone out with wet hair in the semi-cold, I was beginning to lose feeling in most of my fingers. Todd P's car drove by with a honk and Josh the intern yelled a misfitting slur out the window. I met them at the loading dock and helped them pull large speakers from the back of his car. Between heavy lifts, I put my near-dead fingers on the hair-heated portion of my neck.
"Alaina, are you O.K.?" asked Todd P.
"I have frosbite!"
"Oh, it's not frosbite."
"Look! My hands are turning yellow. And the nails are purple."
He enveloped my icy digits with his hands to gage how much I was overreacting.
["Can't you see that I'm in love with you!" I yelled, retelling the moment to friends. "How can you tease me like that!"]
A truck delivering juice bottles showed up when we hadn't finished unpacking our car, and we had to move out of the way. The car wasn't blocking anything, but it became necessary that the boys bring everything we had taken out to 3rd Ward's third floor.
"Alaina, guard the car."
I made phone calls while they were gone. When they came back, Todd P told Joe the intern and Josh the intern to jump on his car to frighten me. I could see them approaching in the rear-view mirror, so I ended the call I was in, thinking that I had to return to work. The crash Joe the intern and Josh the intern made when they charged the car lead me to think something terrible had happened; and I was almost right. When Josh the intern, who wears a XXXL, landed on the bumper, it fell right off. An empty rat's nest fell to the ground.
"You know, whenever people say things like, oh that car's a piece of shit, it's gonna break down, it's gonna blow up, it doesn't have a bumper," Todd P said, "I say, Fuck you! It made it to Texas!"
The Lightning Bolt show was crazy. The temperature and humidity of the space rose significantly and quickly. The interns and non-interns serving as Crowd Control found themselves in the headlocks of crazed fans. In the middle of their set, two firetrucks and the police showed up. We all ripped off our newly-spray painted TODD P STAFF t-shirts and put huge wads of sweaty $10 into our back pockets, frantically looking for Todd P. The 3rd Ward bar hid every semblence of having sold anything, too. Fully costumed officers of safety and the law stalked around, looking at every lit cigarette and full trash can.
"O.K.," Todd P began when he found me, "I'm going to give you back some of this [money] to hold for a minute. Are you ready?"
Just as he reached into his pocket, a fire marshall turned the corner. He quickly stepped behind me and then asked for a cigarette.
And Lightning Bolt kept playing. People were beginning to stampede out but Bolt did a full, filthy set.
When they were finished, Security aggressively kicked people out. Two kids tried to ask us for refunds and we told them the truth.
"Alright then, can we like, have a t-shirt or something?"
One of them took me aside and started telling me that cops had bothered him twice earlier in the evening for drinking 40's outside. After a minute and a half of this seesaw, in light of our collective heat exhaustion, Phil the non-intern had them escorted out. Josh the intern found a box of mostly-intact cupcakes in the vein of Buttercup and Magnolia and Sugar Sweet Sunshine, and we found it appropriate to eat them. After not very long, I fell asleep on the couch I was eating them on. When I woke up, I called Aelfie. She had showed up to the show with an Ecstatic Sunshine fan, and I got them in for free. I asked her if I would be able to sleep at her house. It became apparent that she had gone in her house.
[Female] Dylan the ex-intern offered a sleepover to me. We left 3rd Ward after getting paid and found a diner that sold cigarettes. She locked her bicycle outside of it and as we came outside to retrieve it, Black Label, a gang of cyclists known for jousting, showed up. They started locking their bikes around Dylan the ex-intern's.
"Now you have to come to our party," bellowed a big, gruff, leather-plated, tattooed, pierced, aggressively facial-haired, and all-around muscular guy who had a dainty name like Clarence or Sylvester. His wobbling-drunk friend turned to me and started telling me about jousting.
"The thing is, you can't do it when you're totally wasted. If you have trouble walking, don't get on the bike. It's not gonna end well."
He didn't actually explain what bicycle jousting entailed but I assumed that two punks rode at each other with broomsticks. I reasoned, "Well, you should probably be at least a little drunk, right?"
"Last time I did it I was sober!"
"Oh, then, did you win?"
"Shit, no! I got my ass beat. Screwed up my shoulder for six months."
He probably should've been at least a little drunk.
Dylan the ex-intern and I followed the Black Label gang into the party apartment, shrugging. The flooring was uneven and there was a pipe stuck high between two walls of a hallway. The punks used it for acrobatics but, as we quickly understood, the pipe wasn't firmly attached, and everyone who tried a trick landed on his or her back. A girl in a polka dotted dress sauntered up to me with a cup of what looked like cloudy tequilla. It tasted like it, too.
"What is this?" I asked, after drinking half of it.
The party was BYOB and no stores were open in the neighborhood. Clancey gave Dylan the ex-intern a Yeungling tall boy that she shared with me, but he gave me bike-over-your-face scowls when I was drinking from it. The only boy I found attractive was so drunk that he had pissed himself and didn't have the self-control to take himself home.
We woke up in the mid-afternoon to a phone call Dylan the ex-intern got. She was meeting Patty the non-intern to do some gardening, but I awkwardly insisted to take the train back up to Purchase. I called Lil Jenny and found out that a boy I had kissed when I was boozed past the point of decision-making had turned up in Mary and Katie's apartment when she and Gregdog were sleeping in the living room. He put his head right up to her face and woke her with a start, and then proceded to wander into Katie's room and take his pants off. I would've been more embarassed but I had next-morning resolved to end our acquaintance. He had probably turned up there, although probably accidentally, because he doesn't have a legitimate residence on-campus.
I undressed to finally take a shower. I hadn't taken my pants off for three days and when I did I saw that I was covered in large bruises. Now in LA, only in shorts, everyone can see that I fell out of a car.
Last night at 9:05 [which is just past midnight on the eastern seaboard], I texted Beaves' girlfriend. I wrote, "Tell alex i say happy birthday."
He wrote back from her phone: "Thank you alainbow." Alainbow is an old family nickname.
"Tell him to call me tomorrow," I sent with automated smiley faces. He hasn't called yet.
Current Location: West Hollywood
Current Mood: homeless
Current Music: Langhorne Slim -- By The Time The Sun's Gone Down
March 31st, 2007
|03:19 pm - ALAINA AND AELFIE'S JOINT 21st BIRTHDAY PARTY|
Current Location: West Hollywood
Current Mood: excited
Current Music: Murs -- Bad Man
March 20th, 2007
|12:40 pm - Public Displays Of Fashion|
I wore my gold pants on Sunday. The train I took from White Plains arrived in Grand Central around 11:30 a.m., and as I stepped from the track's hallway to the main terminal I heard a boy say, "Yo what is she wearing?"
I turned around and I was wearing sunglasses. I guess I could have been scary or funny or cooler, as they were definitely younger-than-I-am, Westchester hoodrats, but I gave the boy who was speaking a smile that really only meant, "Hey man, I heard you."
And it wasn't enough. When I looked ahead again he said, "I can't believe she just looked. How's she gonna catch me like that?" So it became a time for action. He was still talking about me when I turned around and did the quick action of puffing out my chest and beckoning him with two, flattened hands. His friends laughed and he said, "Yeah, she's all right."
I guess it was a victory but I didn't know why they were talking about me, anyway. I wasn't even wearing my pipe necklace.
The L.L. "Bean boots" I wear were bought in Maine but despite their weather-proof practicality, I wore them every day in Los Angeles. My hunting jacket is Real Tree Hardwoods, the authentic venison-for-dinner brand, but I've never held a gun and my archery aim is quite humbling. And I'm a vegetarian. I recently spent an hour online so I could read about, find the vending of, and order a super-street Galaxy tall tee, which I'll wear as a dress. Truth be told, here and now, I'm not known to be super-street. Past promotional gear from places I haven't been to and used work tags with strange names on them, past irony altogether, for the past few years my point of fashion has been to be a poser.
"Look at you! You're so hip!" Apollo Braun yelled in a German, gay accent. It was our first time in his store and he asked Owen to model for him. "Hear my CD, hear my CD, buy my book!"
We had steered into his store on Tamara's recommendation. "Oh, I've already heard your CD, Apollo Braun." Bought from him for three dollars, Tamara's copy was a collection of generic techno songs. Two songs had an identical tune and beat: one song's lyrics were, "you can look but you can't touch"; its matching song went, "you can touch but you can't fuck." When Tamara enters his store, Apollo cheers, "Jews!" Then he promises that he loves Jews.
"The book is $35. Come on, buy it!"
"Oh, I don't have $35 on me."
"I take debit!" He pulled a red, paperback book titled "America My Whore" and proceeded to autograph it for me. "Is this how you spell it?" He had writted, "Dear Aliina."
"'Aleeeeeena?' Love it! Love you!"
I wandered away from him and picked up a gold-painted fanniepack.
"Isn't that beautiful?" I had adamantly avoided wearing a fanniepack until this moment. "It's fifty. If you buy my book, which I AUTOGRAPHED!, you can have it for $35."
This was an offer I could not refuse, which felt strange because I had spent so much time being amicably yelled at that I hadn't looked at any items. "One second," I asked of him, and jogged across the store to look at other things I could get discounted. I found a piece beyond my wildest.
"That is very important," he told me as I walked to him holding a bended piece of gold pipe strung on a gold military chain. "It's $75. The best I can do for you is sixty. O.K. $50! But really, I can't go lower than that."
It was too gorgeous for me to heckle. I signed off on my debit card.
In LAX airport, after the bar had closed but before my red-eye was boarding, people were staring at me. I was wearing a peppermint-striped coat, red and purple bicycling pants, a t-shirt with cacti printed on it, and royal blue shoes. Two fat girls walked away from me rubber-necking, smiling in a really ugly way. I didn't mind though because, poetic justice, McDonald's had just closed, too. A guy near my age, dressed as a hippie, tried to smile at me, having judged that we have several ideaologies in common. I began to think I had really done something inappropriate when a boy with Down syndrome grabbed his mother's arm and whispered in her ear with a pinky pointed to me.
On my Metro-North way to Todd P's apartment, I took the window of an old man who was reading the in aisle seat. I took my coat off and opened my book. I had the pipe on.
"Can I ask you," started the old man, "where did you get that necklace? It's really something different."
I smiled at him. "My boyfriend's a plumber."
"Really? How 'bout that!"
"Yeah, Valentine's day." I shook the pipe at him, and then looked back at my book.
Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Casiotone For The Painfully Alone -- It's A Crime
March 17th, 2007
|04:53 pm - The Girl Who Lived|
Out of convenience, and in time for Terry's birthday, I decided to leave for Los Angeles for the weekend from the Westchester airport. The airport is supposedly within walking distance, and a lot of on-campus dates consist of hopping the fence and, very illegally, watching the frequent planes come in for landings. The airport itself is smaller than most shopping malls. I considered the event of my aero-death highly likely and gave Owen explicit instructions to donate all of my belongings to charity.
"I don't want my friends to have anything."
"Not even your bracelets?" asked Lil Jenny when I filled her in.
"Oh, no no. I always fly with my jewelry. They're coming with me to a watery grave." Technically a mountain valley or Great Plains grave.
Packing, I found a black sweatshirt, an item I certainly don't own. I brought it to Malomar and she rejoiced, having spent the past week lifting newspapers, walking to the laundry room, opening her refrigerator, and other acts in an attempt to recover the misplaced. I told her it was good thing I found her, as she would have otherwise had to buy it from Salvation Army.
I took the bus to the Westchester airport [$2] with an hour and a half until my flight. When I arrived, the flight had been delayed 20 minutes. In another 20 minutes, it was delayed an hour and a half. There are no direct flights between Westchester and Los Angeles, and this long delay meant that I would miss my connecting flight in Cincinnati. I was excited because Theresa had told me the Cincinnati airport is a shit hole and that meant it had a smoking room. I waited until take-off time drew near to call Mia.
"So what time is the next flight out of Cincinnati?"
"Oh, I don't know. That's a good question, Mia."
I went to the desk.
"Oh," echoed the woman at the Delta service counter. "There aren't any other flights leaving Cincinnati today." They put me on a flight that would leave the next morning at 7 a.m. and connect to a flight out of Atlanta. I went back to the bus stop, pulling a large, orange suitcase. The bus driver I had traveled with hours earlier was still driving the bus.
"Back so soon?" [$2]
The next morning I arose at what would have been bright and quite early on any other morning, for me and hungover college kids worldwide, but was in fact the departure time of my Atlanta flight. I would have set an alarm but my charger was stolen [I swear, stolen from my living room] and my cell phone had been dead for hours. I missed the next bus and, in nervousness, called a cab from a school phone. Despite its amazing proximity to our school, resulting in all-day-and-all-of-the-night sound pollution, I was charged $20. I went to the Delta service desk with a smile meant to read, "You fucked up yesterday so I took the opportunity to fuck up today."
"Oh," again, "you missed your flight. Well there's a 11:50 plane we can get you on to Atlanta, getting you into Los Angeles at... 7:30."
It was 7:35 a.m. and I was wearing a dress. Terry, Mia, and one of their friends had expensive theater tickets for that night and, with the same credit card she used to secretly fund my flight, Mia had bought me a ticket to the play, too. Universally, curtains rise at 8 p.m. I would never make it in time.
"Oh, no no no. Do you have anything earlier? Maybe going through Cincinnati?"
"Well, there's a 1:50 plane that gets you in at 6:30. But that's only 45 minutes earlier." It's an hour earlier and it's just the amount of time I needed.
"O.K. I'll take that. Yes, that would be perfect."
"Ma'am, we're going to need you to call the airline."
"You want to change your route. You'll need to call the airline to do that."
"But that was my original route. It was ruined yesterday by the delays. And anyway, you are the airline."
"I'm sorry, I can't do anything for you."
"My phone's dead. I can't call the airline."
"It's a toll-free number, ma'am. You can use the payphone."
I walked 15 feet to the payphone and dialed the number. Apparently, all operators were assisting other customers. However, Delta appreciated my patience. I stood my suitcase next to the payphones and sat on it. Girls from Westchester high school sports teams walked in and out of the bathroom. I couldn't think of a crazier way to appear to girls who would have treatedly me badly five years ago than sitting silently at a payphone, listening to Six Pense None The Richer on a loop and getting red in the face. I then realized that no one was going to pick up the phone. This is the earliest time zone in America, after all, and no one works before 9 a.m. I hung up, went back to the desk, and talked to an older Delta representative. In three minutes, she had me on the 1:50 flight to Cincinnati.
I got on the escalator. There were three small establishments: "coffee shop," "restaurant," and "bar." The guy who worked at "restaurant" ran to me as I looked at the menu.
"Lunch for one?"
Lunch? "Hi. Is the restaurant separate from the bar?"
"No, no. We're all connected."
"O.K. then. One for lunch."
Uncounted vodka tonics and a plate of iceberg lettuce later, I paid and went through security. I boarded a small plane, asked the man sitting next to me, "They serving drinks on this flight?" and prompty fell asleep against the window. I woke up an hour and a half later and the plane had not taken off.
An announcement was made: "We will be taking off in one minute so be sure to buckle up!"
Ten minutes passed and the plane began to move. We were next on a runway line. In my airborne youth, seated next to Terry, he would tell me about how fast the plane was going to go before it was going too fast to stay on the ground. As promised, he would tap me when we had hit that speed so I could enjoy going as fast as anything could while still traveling by land. The plane started speeding, hit the take-off MPH, and the nose of the plane began to lift. It was then that the pilot slammed on the breaks, slamming the plane back to the earth. We were close to driving off the landing strip, so he steered the plane to a hard left with a brain-swelling screech. I was very drunk, so although the man next to me and everyone else in every seat was holding anything they could tightly and tearing, I was nodding off and mumbling, "Guess this is it."
The plane slowed to a stop. The pilot told us through the microphone that a mechanic was going to come to the plane. People were yelling that they wanted to get off, but I still attempted to get back to sleep. I thought about how I had missed my connection, again, and then about the minor plane crash. I put on my sunglasses and started to cry. We de-planed and were asked to wait for a Delta representative to come and talk to us about our experiences. I exited and went back to the service desk.
"I don't want to go anymore," I told one of the two women at the Delta service desk.
An announcement was made: "Customers on Flight [number], service to Cincinnati, please proceed to the Delta service desk to reschedule your flight arrangements. Thank you for your understanding."
The entire plane stood in line behind me, at which point the woman I was speaking to wandered off. She took the woman she was working with with her.
"WHERE ARE THEY GOING?" someone yelled. I shrugged and thought about recommending the bar to them. Everyone on the line was lifting their arms and letting them drop. They began chatting about the feeling they had in common.
My Delta representative returned. "Ma'am, you're going to need to call the airline if you wish to cancel your flight."
"BUT YOU ARE THE AIRLINE." I don't yell and I never speak to strangers in a state of fury but airports have a way about them that incites animosity in all of humanity.
"I'm sorry, ma'am." She handed me a pamphlet with a circled toll-free phone number. "Just call this number and explain it to them. There's nothing else I can do for you, ma'am." I thought of all the times I had overheard Terry on the phone with AT&T. They would have charged him twice or put a service into use later than they were supposed to or processed a bill incorrectly, so he would have to call their toll-free number and "handle them." His two main lines to them were: "Don't say sorry, just fix it" and "Stop calling me sir." It was at this time that the latter was fully understood.
I bypassed the payphone and got on the bus [$2] with my suitcase. The bus driver was not the same and everyone on the bus was sleeping. Some were snoring and all of them swayed with the turns. One man had his arms stretched out to the seat in front of him, one was cradling a book too large to be the Bible. I rode the six-wheeled ghost ship back to Purchase.
I called Mia from my roommate's Razr.
"I can get you on a flight tomorrow morning out of JFK." Direct! "It's at 7."
I stayed up all night, first partying, then on whitepages.com. At 5 I was able to reach a cab company that would pick me up. They came 20 minutes later than promised and in an hour [$120] I was at JFK. I would have technically been able to go through security in time to get in my seat, but my suitcase would not have gotten to the plane. I had an hour and 40 minutes until my new flight. I bought airport wireless and hung out on Facebook.
Mia had a detailed plan for how my arrival would be a surprise. First there was the cab [$40] from LAX to our apartment, at which time I was to ask the driver to honk the horn a bit. Mia, having left the windows open, ran downstairs to meet me and brought me up to the third floor. A plumber was in the apartment and Terry was on a business call, so I had to wait in the hallway. The plumber was finished and leaving and needed to return our parking permit.
"It's O.K. I'll bring it back up. Good luck," he cheered.
When Terry had hung up, Mia went back into the apartment and left the door open. I could hear her tell him that a delivery had been made and that he needed to close his eyes. I rolled my suitcase into the apartment, and Mia said, "Now, put out your hand." She was covering half of his face.
I ran and lept into his extended arm and squeezed his stomach.
"See," Mia joked to him, "that's why I kept cleaning everything and yelling at you when you made it messy again."
For the rest of the weekend, he just repeated: "I can't believe you're here."
Current Mood: touched
Current Music: LCD Soundsystem -- New York I Love You
January 27th, 2007
|04:39 pm - I Can Drive|
Through the ages it's always been that to avoid ever having to explain myself as "mad wasted," I make up jokes. When I first started experimenting with intoxication in early high school, I would hit my cheeks and giggle, "I can't feel my face, it's begun!" It doesn't really sound funny but teenage alcoholics have low humor standards.
My current joke is saying, "No, it's cool, I can drive," because, even sober, I'm still not a licensed driver. "Don't worry, I can seat six. What time do you need to be home? Hold on, let me just finish this." I dated a kid who would use the joke when I wasn't around but he knew how to drive so it just sounded like a cause for concern.
On Tuesday night, after four drinks in one bar, Lez Tyler and I went to Penn Station. She was waiting for a train and I was waiting for my younger brother's train so that I could take him up to school with me. Because I had long missed the last train to White Plains, we were required to take a cab. I approached two Penn Station police officers who were leaning on a security golf kart to ask them the best way to travel North. One of them told me to hail a black cab and refuse a fare over $100. The other one saw Lez Tyler trip sideways over of her feet in an attempt to walk to the in-station Starbucks; he joked, "Somebody's wasted."
I didn't see Lez Tyler's action but instantly responded, "No, it's cool, I can drive." The cops laughed a lot [because they're irresponsible].
Current Mood: yo I'm so drunk right now
Current Music: Harlem Shakes -- Carpetbaggers
January 25th, 2007
|11:55 pm - Just A Number|
It's been eight days and I'm having identity issues. I looked at my MySpace and thought, "Well shit, I oughta just change my age on this, too. I'm everything a 21 year old is now."
Most people, when told, tell me they've never heard of a beneficially misprinted birthday, resulting in a legal fake I.D. Last Wednesday was my fake birthday. Still in Los Angeles with Mia, she put a dinner table candle in a supermarket cupcake and Malomar took a picture as I, no makeup and greasy hair, blew it out. Plans were made to go to clubs and totally lose my shit in artificial celebration, and occasionally I'd get pangs to birthday-boss people around. I told Malomar to cut her meat with scissors. "I used to do that," she shrugged.
"Why'd you stop?"
Around 4:30 Malomar stopped in the Hollywood Hooters to get a sweatshirt and we wound up staying for a pro-male meal. [They have two more vegetarian items on the menu than Denny's!] She went to the bathroom and was gone for a really long time, which felt extremely short because I passed the time swooning for the waitresses. Our girl Christina, in orange hot pants, sat at our table when she took our order, sweet-voiced and smiling brightly. It really felt like my birthday, but she was so happy to see me that I totally forgot it was my special day until I read a rusty sign on the wall: "No I.D., No Alcohol!"
I had to later call Christina over to nervously ask what Hooters has "on tap." She carded me and held it close to her nose. This is a fairly regular experience because I had always been handing over an I.D. with a picture dissimilar to my actual face [except for the eyebrow color and race], but today she was checking the date. But she's a Hooters waitress so she couldn't tell if it was valid. I leaned forward and whispered, with my hands acting as parenthesis, "It's today."
"Today's your birthday?!" I'm going to say that she was from Atlanta. "How come you didn't say nothin'? I'm tellin'!" That declaration chilled me instantly. It was a slow weekday at Hooters and one of the waitresses had been assigned to hoola-hoop in the doorway. Thankfully, no choreography was done in my honor. We took a picture with Christina while making filthy hand gestures, tipped her $10, and went to Echo Park.
There was a couch blocking a parking spot in the neighborhood. The three cushions had been removed by local drug addicts [homeless or high schoolers] to reveal the change and mostly-eaten burritos of whoever had just asked his girlfriend to move in. We took more pictures. Beside it was a small California map that might have gone down a chimney, so I told Malomar to pick it up. She said no. She would've had to if it was my real birthday.
After 7 Malomar and I went to CVS to buy alcohol because California liquor laws nod to the simultaneous purchase of Pore Perfect strips, US Weekly, and Captain Morgan Tattoo. I took out my I.D. so the cashier could wish me a happy birthday, but instead she muttered, "Well, since you have it out..." and didn't compute the date in her head.
Since then I've been collecting wristbands and giving two-dollar tips. Lez Tyler and I went to Welcome To The Johnson's. The bouncer wished me a happy belated birthday. The bartender with the mullet carded me, too. I had never chatted with him but I think he remembered that he's mixed a lot of drinks for me in the past; he shouted, "Oh! So this is the real one!" He turned to the chick bartender with long black hair and repeated "'86. '86. God, I'm so fucking old." My third vodka tonic was on the house.
The only thing I had ever really wanted to do as a [semi-] legitimate adult was buy beer in The Hub At North. The on-campus eatery, after 8 p.m., became The Pub At North because it sold eight-dollar pints of Coors Light to 21+ students. However, this semester, in timing with my coming of age, The Hub now remains The Hub all night, and beer is no longer sold on campus. Apparently real adults know that bad booze isn't worth that much, and follow the idea that getting loaded with [semi-] legal, sandwich-building immigrants isn't a good time. Well, I'm twenty years old, willing to pay, and think it sounds pretty fucking fun.
Current Mood: optimistic
Current Music: Amy Winehouse feat. Ghost Face Killa -- You Know I'm No Good
January 6th, 2007
|07:15 pm - I Used To Be Really Cool, or: a Madlib with Cheese Names for Answers.|
A Trip to the Art Museum
This brochure for the Mrs. Quicke Museum of Art highlights some of the special pieces in the museum's art collection.
On the ground floor, you can see sculptures that date back 3 pounds years ago. One of the Bartlett Blue treasures here is the 1/2 pound-headed Drunken Goat made by the people of Ascutney Mountain.
The second floor is a themed exhibit. All the artwork here relates to Cave-Aged Gruyere. Make sure you check out the famous painting of Cave-Aged Gruyere by Tomme Crayeuse. And what exhibit about Cave-Aged Gruyere would be complete without a giant sculpture of the Cave-Aged Emmenthaler?
The third floor features work by one of today's most famous artists, Thomas Hoe Stilton. Thomas Hoe Stilton's use of color in paintings of large Prima Donnas has influenced many artists.
At the end of your visit, be sure to stop by the Dubliner shop. Pick up some Hooligans as a souvenir of your trip to the Mrs. Quicke Museum of Art!
Current Mood: groggy
Current Music: The View -- Same Jeans
January 2nd, 2007
|10:11 pm - Thank God For The Beef|
As a child I had a strong loyalty to Viacom's Nickelodeon and, when I turned nine and resolved that I was too old for Nicktoons, MTV. I avoided the Disney channel until I was, in fact, too old, and at 16 became obsessed with the show Even Stevens. It was definitely rooted in a strong sexual attraction to the character Louis Stevens, played by Shia Labouef, but I was still watching the show religiously. I laughed at all of his on-screen jokes the way I would on a date.
Able to recognize the love of my life anywhere, I saw Shia Labouef in a car as we drove by it in Malibu. He was wearing big, black sunglasses but still looked as virginal as ever. I instantly texted Malomar, who responded with, "Thank God for the beef," the translation of his half-Hebrew, half-French name to English.
Malomar, in my absence, has been funneling romantic comedies. I blamed it on the time I left Prime on in my room while I drank heavily but she told me today that isn't right. In fact, she explained, she was angry with that movie for its sullenly-plausible, optimistic-but-not-actually-happy ending, and in turn, refuses to re-watch it. I don't know if I'm a cine-snob or just a weird boy but when she talks about romantic comedies, I involuntarily cringe and quickly cover my mouth.
Today Toe-by Ass and I went on a tour of the Columbia Tri-Star movie studios, which were recently purchased by Sony. On the wall of a large lot was a paper poster that read, "Parking Reserved for Shia Labouef." The tourguide asked if anyone knew who he is and I became flushed and then shrugged like, Yeah I Saw Holes A Few Times. The tourguide then noted that Shia Labouef is starring in the production of a Transformers movie.
"Like the fucking toy!" I yelled to Mia.
"It was a show, too."
"Yeah, you know," she began to move her out-stretched fists up and down, chanting, "Transformers, robots in disguise..."
Thinking back to a group discussion we had had on guilty pleasures in our senior year of high school, I wanted to text Upchuck and Fatty about the movie. However, I soon remembered that they had listed Animorphs as their guilty pleasure, not Transformers.
scoobydrewbie: i do ALSO love the transformers
I recalled stating that the Beach Boys were an embarassing favorite of mine but no one was impressed and most people openly love the Beach Boys.
"O.K., fine," I groaned. "I also really love First Wives Club."
Everyone started laughing, but whatever; they don't own me.
Malomar started groaning when I told her that First Wives Club is my favorite romantic comedy. "I'm sorry. That does not fly with me."
"But it has all of the elements! It's funny and it's sad and there are love interests."
"It can't be a romantic comedy if it's about divorce."
"But Bette Midler and the guy from Clueless almost get back together again! At the end! Plus it's a completely ludacris plot, just like all romantic comedies."
"What-ever. It's not a romantic comedy and you know that."
I left out that there is even a single, unexplained musical number, just like in My Best Friend's Wedding [which was produced by Columbia Tri-Star.]
Current Mood: relaxed
Current Music: Avocadoclub -- The Sidewalk of Days
January 1st, 2007
|10:06 am - It's Kinda Like... [A Glossary of Los Angeles Staples By Way of New York Names]|
Venice Beach: Coney Island of the Pacific.
Griffith Park: Central Park of Southern California, complete with crowded zoo of depressive animals.
Will Rogers State Park: a mountain to be scaled like the steps of the Statue of Liberty (stretching it but I really like Will Rogers).
The Hollywood Bowl: an outdoor Madison Square Garden.
Hollywood Boulevard: Times Square.
Santa Monica Boulevard: 8th Avenue before Giuliani [prostitues! real life lady marmalades!].
West Hollywood: Chelsea.
Fairfax / Melrose: the L.E.S.
Silver Lake: Williamsburg.
Echo Park: Bushwick.
The Echo: Union Pool.
Walt Disney Concert Hall: Town Hall [with Pirates of the Caribbean charm].
Glen Oaks: Long Island.
The Grove: Roosevelt Field Mall.
Sun Valley: SoBronx.
LA Clippers: underdog team to the Lakers generally favored by jobless fanatics, like the Mets.
Il Corral: Glasshouse Gallery or ABC No Rio or Cake Shop without the Liquor License.
The Smell: 3rd Ward or 1080 Metropolitan or anything else touched by Todd P.
LAX: fucking Movida.
Little Joy: west coast Welcome to the Johnsons.
The Snake Pit: Mars Bar.
Mark the Cobra Snake: a 310 party photographer like 212's Bronques of Last Night's Party, only more famous.
Shadow Scene: California's photographic copycat, like Nicky Digital.
Cosmic Pizza ["the alien bar"]: Yaffa Cafe
The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf: God-fearing Starbucks [fair trade, baby].
Pink's: Shake Shack.
In&Out Burger, Astro Burger, Fatburger: Gray's Papaya, Papaya Dog.
Jack In The Box's two tacos for 99 cents: homeless newspaper.
Want to know the equivalent of something unlisted? Want to correct my ass? Add your own!
Current Mood: joining a gym for $20.07
Current Music: Bishop Allen -- Tea For Two
December 30th, 2006
|11:59 am - Finally|
Really Old Broadcaster: George, you named all your sons George. Why... did you do that?
George Foreman: Well, you let Muhammed Ali hit ya and see how many names you can remember.
Current Mood: bored
Current Music: Figurines -- Rivalry
December 28th, 2006
|04:13 pm - The Interest I Am Of|
The elderly, bothersome story was always that if your ears are itching, someone's talking about you when you aren't around. I heard first though, in seventh grade, the version that if your tits itch, a boy is jerking off to you. Unfortunately my breasts are never a source of irritation but I try to scratch my inner ear all the time.
Current Location: West Hollywood
Current Mood: melancholy
Current Music: The Mountain Goats -- The Window Song