6/13/07
6/9/07
those muggers from Jersey
Dad and Dado left already. Man, geezers are early risers. Dad came knocking on my door at 7am and they both seemed ready to go. I'm worried that Dad won't put food in front of Dado as much as I did. Dado will say he's not hungry, but then eat the banana, yogurt and cereal bar I put in front of him.
I got on itunes and made a Dean Martin/Bobby Darin CD for him for last night. I can't believe a few days ago I asked if he liked Elton John, Johnny Cash or Frank Sinatra. (That's the oldest music I know!) Thursday night I bought a 1940's CD on itunes and threw in some Gene Autry. We listened to that a couple times yesterday. A few times a song would come up and he'd say "Oh, remember this?" I told him, "Dado, that was 30 years before I was born. That's like someone asking you if you remember a song from 1890." He laughed at that thought.
He's never been mugged. He's lived in New York City his whole life, carries several hundred dollars with him all the time, and has never been mugged. He said the muggers are all from out of town; like Jersey probably. They go to the Broadway district and hit up people who are out on the town. Makes sense I guess.
He was my age in 1952. He talked about how there weren't many cars in New York City at all until the 80's. Then he starts complaining about Puerto Ricans.
Dado gave me this jar of coins for tolls. I love this jar– he told me he's had it over 50 years. Besides regular coins(mostly quarters), it has 2 late-1800's silver dollars and three 2-dollar bills. The jar itself was for $1.09 Hadden House imported coctail baby corn. It smells and looks like his apartment did.
I got on itunes and made a Dean Martin/Bobby Darin CD for him for last night. I can't believe a few days ago I asked if he liked Elton John, Johnny Cash or Frank Sinatra. (That's the oldest music I know!) Thursday night I bought a 1940's CD on itunes and threw in some Gene Autry. We listened to that a couple times yesterday. A few times a song would come up and he'd say "Oh, remember this?" I told him, "Dado, that was 30 years before I was born. That's like someone asking you if you remember a song from 1890." He laughed at that thought.
He's never been mugged. He's lived in New York City his whole life, carries several hundred dollars with him all the time, and has never been mugged. He said the muggers are all from out of town; like Jersey probably. They go to the Broadway district and hit up people who are out on the town. Makes sense I guess.
He was my age in 1952. He talked about how there weren't many cars in New York City at all until the 80's. Then he starts complaining about Puerto Ricans.
Dado gave me this jar of coins for tolls. I love this jar– he told me he's had it over 50 years. Besides regular coins(mostly quarters), it has 2 late-1800's silver dollars and three 2-dollar bills. The jar itself was for $1.09 Hadden House imported coctail baby corn. It smells and looks like his apartment did.
6/8/07
Everything you wanted to know about brakelights...
but didn't want to ask the cab driver.
I got to explain how the brakelights light up automatically when someone steps on the brake. He didn't know if it was something they did on purpose or not. We saw truck start to change lanes on some car without looking, then snap back into his lane. Dado asked about how hard it is to change lanes and what's involved.
This is the longest– and really only– road trip he's ever taken. When he was 16 or 17 was sent to Nevada by train to work in the CCC, Civilian Conservation Corps. According to Wikipedia, it was FDR's work relief program designed to combat poverty & unemployment from the Depression. Groups of 200 guys worked outdoors doing construction and buidling roads. Dado said you got a dollar a day– $30 a month. $22 of it went back home to your parents and you had $8 a month to live on.
In WWII he was in the Merchant Marines. That's when he lost contact with his brothers and sisters. Back in NYC in 1945, I went to work at his uncle Connie's bar, Hurley's, the only establishment in Rockefeller Center to not be owned by Rockefeller. Rockefeller offered them $1 million to buy it and they refused. Dado said Walter Winchell wrote in his column about how those Hurley's could turn down $1 million for a bar.
Dado worked there 1045 to 1950, serving Joe DiMaggio, Tuesday Weld and Perry Como. Perry Como always drank a beer from Pennsylvania, as he was from Pennsylvania. They got a lot of business from guys working in radio and TV who wanted a drink, without crossing 6th Ave. One time, a guy came in and ordered a "pinch and soda". Dado turned around, made the drink, turned back around and the guy had dropped dead. Heart attack. Last words on earth were "pinch and soda." (A pinch, apparently, is a Hague & Hague.)
Back then everyone drank coctails: daiquiris, stingers, sidecars, brandy alexanders, gin alexanders, slow gin fizzes, orange blossoms. In the 70's it all switched to "punches", as Dado called them. After Hurley's he went and worked in various bars on Wall Street for 30 years, right across from the World Trade Center. He retired in 1982.
I picked him up from his apartment Thursday. It reminded me of the apartment Tom Hanks' character in Big stayed at when he had to go to the city and get an adult job. Small, sparse, smelled like 30 years of cigarete smoke. Everything felt brownish-yellow.
I'd always been under the assumption he was reclusive. Non social. But on this trip he's been talking as comfortably and often as anyone I know. From all I can gather, he's been ready for this trip for awhile.
We met Dad here at the hotel in Knoxville at around 7. They're staying in the room right next to mine. Dad seems preoccupied and a little tense. He'll probably be that way till they make it back to Waco and Dado's settled in.
I got to explain how the brakelights light up automatically when someone steps on the brake. He didn't know if it was something they did on purpose or not. We saw truck start to change lanes on some car without looking, then snap back into his lane. Dado asked about how hard it is to change lanes and what's involved.
This is the longest– and really only– road trip he's ever taken. When he was 16 or 17 was sent to Nevada by train to work in the CCC, Civilian Conservation Corps. According to Wikipedia, it was FDR's work relief program designed to combat poverty & unemployment from the Depression. Groups of 200 guys worked outdoors doing construction and buidling roads. Dado said you got a dollar a day– $30 a month. $22 of it went back home to your parents and you had $8 a month to live on.
In WWII he was in the Merchant Marines. That's when he lost contact with his brothers and sisters. Back in NYC in 1945, I went to work at his uncle Connie's bar, Hurley's, the only establishment in Rockefeller Center to not be owned by Rockefeller. Rockefeller offered them $1 million to buy it and they refused. Dado said Walter Winchell wrote in his column about how those Hurley's could turn down $1 million for a bar.
Dado worked there 1045 to 1950, serving Joe DiMaggio, Tuesday Weld and Perry Como. Perry Como always drank a beer from Pennsylvania, as he was from Pennsylvania. They got a lot of business from guys working in radio and TV who wanted a drink, without crossing 6th Ave. One time, a guy came in and ordered a "pinch and soda". Dado turned around, made the drink, turned back around and the guy had dropped dead. Heart attack. Last words on earth were "pinch and soda." (A pinch, apparently, is a Hague & Hague.)
Back then everyone drank coctails: daiquiris, stingers, sidecars, brandy alexanders, gin alexanders, slow gin fizzes, orange blossoms. In the 70's it all switched to "punches", as Dado called them. After Hurley's he went and worked in various bars on Wall Street for 30 years, right across from the World Trade Center. He retired in 1982.
I picked him up from his apartment Thursday. It reminded me of the apartment Tom Hanks' character in Big stayed at when he had to go to the city and get an adult job. Small, sparse, smelled like 30 years of cigarete smoke. Everything felt brownish-yellow.
I'd always been under the assumption he was reclusive. Non social. But on this trip he's been talking as comfortably and often as anyone I know. From all I can gather, he's been ready for this trip for awhile.
We met Dad here at the hotel in Knoxville at around 7. They're staying in the room right next to mine. Dad seems preoccupied and a little tense. He'll probably be that way till they make it back to Waco and Dado's settled in.
6/7/07
banks like IDs
7.5 hours to go according to mapquest. we're at a hampton inn in frederick, md & dado is passed out. we finally rolled in here at 10:30– i think he usually goes to bed at 9.
i didn't get out of boston till 10:30, due to me being a dumbass and renting a car from a place at logan– which actually isn't remotely near logan. whatever. damn airport.
after the requisite getting turned around, i made it to dado's 'hood by 3. he really has no belongings, so i really didn't need to park at the public garage 2 blocks away. buh-bye $20. after i threw is 2.5 bags into the cavernous trunk, we dropped by his hsbc bank to close his accounts and all that. which was impossible.
the whole reason we're having to drive him to texas, rather than take a plane like all the other miserable airline passengers, is that he has no photo ID. to get a photo ID when you've never had one before, you need SIX forms of identification. dado has like, 4. and since his birth certificate wasn't exactly done correctly in 1920 ("Baby Hurley" instead of "John Hurley") it doesn't exactly count as ID. he's gone through the application process for a corrected birth certificate, but the best they could do is "Boy Hurley" which friggin doesn't help a thing, unless by "help" you mean "irritate".
so he's never going to have a photo ID. this is clear. and apparently didn't matter until the past 2 decades. but this presents a problem at the bank when you want to close the accounts with your life savings in them. (no hsbc's in texas, btw.)
but after an hour we worked it out.
we drove about 6 hours after that. some random stuff i picked up:
he doesn't like sinatra, cash, elton john or any of that modern music. just 1940's and a little 1950's. in a few minutes, i'm going to check itunes for 1940's hits & try and make a cd.
his two parents were both born around 1892 & came over to the US in 1919. His dad was from Cork county and his mom was from Galway.
he doesn't feel sentimental about nyc (he says) because all his boys he used to talk sports with have died. excpt "george". and george is just 60-something; he was the youngest of the guys.
i think he never wore a seatbelt till today. it seems his interest in them has more to do with the possible fine than with anything safety-related. i also got to explain the correlation between a driver hitting his brakes and the taillights lighting up. :)
i didn't get out of boston till 10:30, due to me being a dumbass and renting a car from a place at logan– which actually isn't remotely near logan. whatever. damn airport.
after the requisite getting turned around, i made it to dado's 'hood by 3. he really has no belongings, so i really didn't need to park at the public garage 2 blocks away. buh-bye $20. after i threw is 2.5 bags into the cavernous trunk, we dropped by his hsbc bank to close his accounts and all that. which was impossible.
the whole reason we're having to drive him to texas, rather than take a plane like all the other miserable airline passengers, is that he has no photo ID. to get a photo ID when you've never had one before, you need SIX forms of identification. dado has like, 4. and since his birth certificate wasn't exactly done correctly in 1920 ("Baby Hurley" instead of "John Hurley") it doesn't exactly count as ID. he's gone through the application process for a corrected birth certificate, but the best they could do is "Boy Hurley" which friggin doesn't help a thing, unless by "help" you mean "irritate".
so he's never going to have a photo ID. this is clear. and apparently didn't matter until the past 2 decades. but this presents a problem at the bank when you want to close the accounts with your life savings in them. (no hsbc's in texas, btw.)
but after an hour we worked it out.
we drove about 6 hours after that. some random stuff i picked up:
he doesn't like sinatra, cash, elton john or any of that modern music. just 1940's and a little 1950's. in a few minutes, i'm going to check itunes for 1940's hits & try and make a cd.
his two parents were both born around 1892 & came over to the US in 1919. His dad was from Cork county and his mom was from Galway.
he doesn't feel sentimental about nyc (he says) because all his boys he used to talk sports with have died. excpt "george". and george is just 60-something; he was the youngest of the guys.
i think he never wore a seatbelt till today. it seems his interest in them has more to do with the possible fine than with anything safety-related. i also got to explain the correlation between a driver hitting his brakes and the taillights lighting up. :)
6/6/07
after 86 years, it's time for waco
I'm helping my grandfather move tomorrow, from NYC where he's lived his whole life, to Waco, TX, where my parents live.
Two years ago, when he was 84, my parents suggested he come live with them & he wasn't into it. But now, 2 years later, he's doing it. (Not sure what changed.)
I've only seen him 3 times in my life: Once when I was 19 and had a few hours' layover in Newark, he came and met me at the airport. The second time in '02 when I met him for breakfast with my parents. And this past January, when I took the photo below. We sat there about an hour and he told me about my grandmother who died about 25 years ago.
I'm picking up a rental car in the morning & should be in NYC by 2. He said he has about 4 large garbage bags worth of belongings; mostly clothes probably. I wonder what he thinks about consumerism & the mad purchasing frenzy we Americans stay in. Why doesn't he have things? Is it a Depression mentality, or does he just simply not want anything?
I called him today to let him know we're all set with the rental car. He asked if it had seatbelts. Seatbelts! I said, "Oh yeah, it'll have awesome seatbelts." He said he wanted to make sure, since he's always hearing about seatbelts on the radio. For a split-second I thought he might be joking, but It's highly likely that all his experience with cars comes from the radio. He would never take a cab, and he doesn't really leave his apartment, much less Manhattan. When would he have been in a car in the past 86 years?
Aside from 5-minute phonecalls on birthdays and holidays, I haven't really talked to him much. He and my dad are both brief phone talkers. So I'm interested in what 13 hours in the car with him will be like. (Oh– my dad's meeting us halfway, in Knoxville, to drive him the rest of the way while I drive back to Boston.)
I borrowed a cooler from Brian at work and spent $36 at the store tonight getting water, fruit and snacks. I would have gotten beer, but they don't sell beer at the store! (Ok, maybe I wouldn't have gotten BEER.) I don't even know if he drinks beer. After my whole life of brief phonecalls just to check in & wish happy whatever, I really don't know much about the guy.
This time tomorrow night, we should be in Pennsylvania or some damn thing. Until then!
:)
Two years ago, when he was 84, my parents suggested he come live with them & he wasn't into it. But now, 2 years later, he's doing it. (Not sure what changed.)
I've only seen him 3 times in my life: Once when I was 19 and had a few hours' layover in Newark, he came and met me at the airport. The second time in '02 when I met him for breakfast with my parents. And this past January, when I took the photo below. We sat there about an hour and he told me about my grandmother who died about 25 years ago.
I'm picking up a rental car in the morning & should be in NYC by 2. He said he has about 4 large garbage bags worth of belongings; mostly clothes probably. I wonder what he thinks about consumerism & the mad purchasing frenzy we Americans stay in. Why doesn't he have things? Is it a Depression mentality, or does he just simply not want anything?
I called him today to let him know we're all set with the rental car. He asked if it had seatbelts. Seatbelts! I said, "Oh yeah, it'll have awesome seatbelts." He said he wanted to make sure, since he's always hearing about seatbelts on the radio. For a split-second I thought he might be joking, but It's highly likely that all his experience with cars comes from the radio. He would never take a cab, and he doesn't really leave his apartment, much less Manhattan. When would he have been in a car in the past 86 years?
Aside from 5-minute phonecalls on birthdays and holidays, I haven't really talked to him much. He and my dad are both brief phone talkers. So I'm interested in what 13 hours in the car with him will be like. (Oh– my dad's meeting us halfway, in Knoxville, to drive him the rest of the way while I drive back to Boston.)
I borrowed a cooler from Brian at work and spent $36 at the store tonight getting water, fruit and snacks. I would have gotten beer, but they don't sell beer at the store! (Ok, maybe I wouldn't have gotten BEER.) I don't even know if he drinks beer. After my whole life of brief phonecalls just to check in & wish happy whatever, I really don't know much about the guy.
This time tomorrow night, we should be in Pennsylvania or some damn thing. Until then!
:)
5/31/07
5/24/07
Tom the Cat
i love dogs, but cats are more like people; you've got outgoing ones, bitchy ones, sweet ones, mean ones, off-balance ones. the only reason i'm more partial to cats at this point in my life, is they're more self-sufficient. you can't leave a doggie in an apartment for 3 days the same as you can with a cat.
anyway, here's Tom. he's my favorite little guy from one of the best sites on the 'net: www.stuffonmycat.com
anyway, here's Tom. he's my favorite little guy from one of the best sites on the 'net: www.stuffonmycat.com
5/21/07
the opposite of ordinary
What's the difference between a revered, creative genius and Sam, the stream-of-consciousness homeless guy i pass everyday who wears colorful necklaces and wants to marry me. Brain chemicals? Ability to channel? Upbringing? Is the line between crazy and eccentric dictated by the proclivity to suppress; to blend in? I find myself toning it down a lot. People seem to like me better toned down. I've never known how to feel about this.
What's the opposite of "crazy"?
Mena's character in American Beauty thought ordinary was the worst thing a person could be. She worried about it so much, you wondered if she wasn't fighting it.
Beyond what intelligence level is "ordinary" no longer possible?
I suddenly feel down.
What's the opposite of "crazy"?
Mena's character in American Beauty thought ordinary was the worst thing a person could be. She worried about it so much, you wondered if she wasn't fighting it.
Beyond what intelligence level is "ordinary" no longer possible?
I suddenly feel down.
5/20/07
no bridge for this troll
I don't mean "troll" in an insulting sense, rather a descriptive one.
Old, 4-foot-something, round blob, looks a little like Robert DeNiro. She's not explosive like the mama in Throw Mama From The Train, but walks like her. She's extremely wary of all humans. I guess she's just waiting for the next person to screw her over.
This was supposed to just be a 1-month sublet. From her questions, she clearly thought I'd make huge messes, never clean up, cook up masterpieces that would linger in the apartment fabrics for months, and parade all kinds of rifraff through the place, She was giving me such a hard time at one point, I told her, "Well clearly this isn't going to work out. Sorry I took up your time." That brought on a true one-eighty.
The reasons I moved in were simple: it's in Central Square, on the quiet, secure 9th floor of a concrete building, I've got my own large bedroom & adjoining bathroom, $750 includes all. (And since I split her cable, that's not just wireless anymore.) The only thing I have to deal with is her. How the 1-month sublet became a 1-year deal is not very interesting or surprising. I was busy with a new job and well, she's a pushy thing.
My lord, she's always here. Either perched on her kitchen stool hunched over her computer, or asleep in a chair in the living room. That's right, she sleeps sitting up in a chair. The front door wakes her up, so whether I'm coming or going, I give her a nice wave as I beeline to or from my section of the apartment.
She doesn't want me eating in the bedroom, and it's hard to sneak stuff when she's here. Last night I got Indian takeout and sneaked it back here in a gray Clinique bag they gave at their last bonus time. If I'm starving in the morning, I take my red coffee mug, fill it with milk from the refridgerator, and bring it back to my room. I'm sure she thinks I'm going to sit in my room and drink the milk like a little kid. Ha! Think again, troll. I've got cereal in here. I pour the cereal into the mug and eat it with a plastic spoon. Spoon gets thrown away, mug gets rinsed out. She has no idea.
She has her own bedroom, technically. (Pictured below.) Just don't know how much room there is for her in there. There's so much stuff, it's hard to focus one one thing. And all her stuff is absolute crap. There's a metal orange lamp in the living room that, if it works, might be the only thing of any value in this place. Other than that, it's like a Goodwill donation center. Nothing matches. Old paperback books and spiral notebooks fill the bookshelves, while cardboard boxes and packing materials fill the closets. And this place stinks. Musty old lady smell. Under the sink is a foul smell like a small animal corpse.
I bought a vacuum a few months ago– one of the new Hoover wind tunnel ones that desn't use a bag. The first time I vacuumed the place, the canister became so packed with dirt and fuzz and particles, it dropped into the trash like clumps of housing insulation.
Fifteen more weeks of sneaking food around and old lady smell. Then I move into my new spot in Washington Square with 3 girls MY AGE and two cats.
Living with troll has forced me to address my own packrat tendencies. I've become pretty diligent about getting rid of everything I don't use or love. And I've made a list of all the things I'm not going to move to Washington Square with me, so I have 15 weeks to burn through my stack of New Yorkers and a small pile of books. Read 'em, then get rid of them. At the moment, I'm on "Why Girls Are Weird". It's a fun little novel about a girl living in Austin, TX, who's in denial about being over her last boyfriend. When I'm done with it, I could just leave it on one of the troll's bookshelves. I'm sure she'll be carried out on a stretcher before she ever notices.
Old, 4-foot-something, round blob, looks a little like Robert DeNiro. She's not explosive like the mama in Throw Mama From The Train, but walks like her. She's extremely wary of all humans. I guess she's just waiting for the next person to screw her over.
This was supposed to just be a 1-month sublet. From her questions, she clearly thought I'd make huge messes, never clean up, cook up masterpieces that would linger in the apartment fabrics for months, and parade all kinds of rifraff through the place, She was giving me such a hard time at one point, I told her, "Well clearly this isn't going to work out. Sorry I took up your time." That brought on a true one-eighty.
The reasons I moved in were simple: it's in Central Square, on the quiet, secure 9th floor of a concrete building, I've got my own large bedroom & adjoining bathroom, $750 includes all. (And since I split her cable, that's not just wireless anymore.) The only thing I have to deal with is her. How the 1-month sublet became a 1-year deal is not very interesting or surprising. I was busy with a new job and well, she's a pushy thing.
My lord, she's always here. Either perched on her kitchen stool hunched over her computer, or asleep in a chair in the living room. That's right, she sleeps sitting up in a chair. The front door wakes her up, so whether I'm coming or going, I give her a nice wave as I beeline to or from my section of the apartment.
She doesn't want me eating in the bedroom, and it's hard to sneak stuff when she's here. Last night I got Indian takeout and sneaked it back here in a gray Clinique bag they gave at their last bonus time. If I'm starving in the morning, I take my red coffee mug, fill it with milk from the refridgerator, and bring it back to my room. I'm sure she thinks I'm going to sit in my room and drink the milk like a little kid. Ha! Think again, troll. I've got cereal in here. I pour the cereal into the mug and eat it with a plastic spoon. Spoon gets thrown away, mug gets rinsed out. She has no idea.
She has her own bedroom, technically. (Pictured below.) Just don't know how much room there is for her in there. There's so much stuff, it's hard to focus one one thing. And all her stuff is absolute crap. There's a metal orange lamp in the living room that, if it works, might be the only thing of any value in this place. Other than that, it's like a Goodwill donation center. Nothing matches. Old paperback books and spiral notebooks fill the bookshelves, while cardboard boxes and packing materials fill the closets. And this place stinks. Musty old lady smell. Under the sink is a foul smell like a small animal corpse.
I bought a vacuum a few months ago– one of the new Hoover wind tunnel ones that desn't use a bag. The first time I vacuumed the place, the canister became so packed with dirt and fuzz and particles, it dropped into the trash like clumps of housing insulation.
Fifteen more weeks of sneaking food around and old lady smell. Then I move into my new spot in Washington Square with 3 girls MY AGE and two cats.
Living with troll has forced me to address my own packrat tendencies. I've become pretty diligent about getting rid of everything I don't use or love. And I've made a list of all the things I'm not going to move to Washington Square with me, so I have 15 weeks to burn through my stack of New Yorkers and a small pile of books. Read 'em, then get rid of them. At the moment, I'm on "Why Girls Are Weird". It's a fun little novel about a girl living in Austin, TX, who's in denial about being over her last boyfriend. When I'm done with it, I could just leave it on one of the troll's bookshelves. I'm sure she'll be carried out on a stretcher before she ever notices.
5/19/07
It's Time
I Should Have Written Before Now
It seems so final; the words on the page. Sure, you can go in and edit, but i don't see myself doing that. I'm going to have enough trouble keeping up with the present tense; forget going back to edit the past.
I've procrastinated for years now, busying myself with cleaning, or making nervous lists or most recently, Six Feet Under from Netflix. (yes! welcome me to 2003. it's great to be here...) for YEARS. So what's changed?
Better Now Than Never
I'm just tired of the excuses to myself. And I got a wake-up call this morning.
Literally, the guy woke me up. I'd pranked him– his voicemail really– about a month ago when I randomly found myself in an Uno's bar with his friend, Joe or Bob or Pete or whatever his name was, after he followed me out of a focus group we'd just sat through for two hours. I put up with him as he walked with me down Comm Ave. I wouldn't tell him what I did for work, as i find most people i meet off the street all have the same tiresome thoughts on advertising. And I didn't feel like doing into my "rocks and dirt" thing I usually give people I meet on planes. (People don't know ANYthing about rocks & dirt. It's so great.)
There we were in the bar, when he wanted me to start prank-calling some of his friends. I love pranks. Alas, there were only voicemail pranks that evening. Even though he's called a time or two, I haven't talked to that Pete/Bob guy since. No reason I haven't called him. Just no reason TO call him.
Jeff, one of Joe/Bob's prank-callees, called me this morning, wondering who i was. I told him straight-away, and after that we started talking about diamonds and dogs, and about how unfair it is, that a girl's best friend is an over-valued thief-magnet, while a man's best friend is the most awesome thing you could own. We talked about his buddy Joe/Pete/Bob and how he tucks his shirts in and how it seems he forces his hair to do things it doesn't want to do. I almost want to call him just so I can have a chance with that hair. When he asked about my accent, I congratualted him on being the 3rd person in a 48-hour period to ask me that. I wouldn't mind telling people where I'm from, if it didn't illicit nearly the same reaction in people: the ANNOYING reaction.
Am I alone, in that I hate having the same conversation with different people over and over again??
Actually, Tom Wilson expresses it nicely. Enjoy:
Thanks Jeff, for telling me to write my brain down. We'll see how long I keep this up.
:)
-JH
It seems so final; the words on the page. Sure, you can go in and edit, but i don't see myself doing that. I'm going to have enough trouble keeping up with the present tense; forget going back to edit the past.
I've procrastinated for years now, busying myself with cleaning, or making nervous lists or most recently, Six Feet Under from Netflix. (yes! welcome me to 2003. it's great to be here...) for YEARS. So what's changed?
Better Now Than Never
I'm just tired of the excuses to myself. And I got a wake-up call this morning.
Literally, the guy woke me up. I'd pranked him– his voicemail really– about a month ago when I randomly found myself in an Uno's bar with his friend, Joe or Bob or Pete or whatever his name was, after he followed me out of a focus group we'd just sat through for two hours. I put up with him as he walked with me down Comm Ave. I wouldn't tell him what I did for work, as i find most people i meet off the street all have the same tiresome thoughts on advertising. And I didn't feel like doing into my "rocks and dirt" thing I usually give people I meet on planes. (People don't know ANYthing about rocks & dirt. It's so great.)
There we were in the bar, when he wanted me to start prank-calling some of his friends. I love pranks. Alas, there were only voicemail pranks that evening. Even though he's called a time or two, I haven't talked to that Pete/Bob guy since. No reason I haven't called him. Just no reason TO call him.
Jeff, one of Joe/Bob's prank-callees, called me this morning, wondering who i was. I told him straight-away, and after that we started talking about diamonds and dogs, and about how unfair it is, that a girl's best friend is an over-valued thief-magnet, while a man's best friend is the most awesome thing you could own. We talked about his buddy Joe/Pete/Bob and how he tucks his shirts in and how it seems he forces his hair to do things it doesn't want to do. I almost want to call him just so I can have a chance with that hair. When he asked about my accent, I congratualted him on being the 3rd person in a 48-hour period to ask me that. I wouldn't mind telling people where I'm from, if it didn't illicit nearly the same reaction in people: the ANNOYING reaction.
Am I alone, in that I hate having the same conversation with different people over and over again??
Actually, Tom Wilson expresses it nicely. Enjoy:
Thanks Jeff, for telling me to write my brain down. We'll see how long I keep this up.
:)
-JH
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