Pardon My Zinger…

I’m not a creep. I’m most certainly not a pervert. But the other day, I somehow convinced a total stranger on the PATH train that I was both.

The morning started off terribly, which is always a good sign that something is going to happen that will have you wanting to wish for a quick and painless death by the end of the day. At least, that’s how it goes for me. Firstly, I was late getting to the main train that takes me into Hoboken everyday. I was only a minute late, but in train time that’s unforgivable. I arrived at the platform as the train was pulling up, but I still needed to pay off my parking spot. There was no feasible way I could pay for the spot on those cracker jack machines they have and get on the train too. There wasn’t nearly enough time. This inconvenience left me frozen. Why didn’t I just not pay for the spot you ask? Because, you see, the police that enforce that parking lot are borderline Nazis, and if I left a car in a spot without paying for it, they will either slap you with a ridiculous fine or remove your reproductive organs (I believe that’s the standard penalty). So, with about just enough time to scratch my balls, I began to walk away, defeated. Just then, a train attendant called out to me. Alas! They were going to wait for me! A train, wait for muah? How could this be possible? Seizing this rare opportunity, I hurried to the first parking ticket machine; “out of order”. I ran to the second one; “coins only”. You see, the only thing the parking Nazis work harder at more than giving out tickets, is making it impossible for you not to get a ticket. So, I gave up and ran onto the train. I found an empty seat and spent the whole rest of the ride saying goodbye to my nuts.

For some reason, however, I put my car keys in my front pants pocket. Usually I just toss them into my bag seeing as how I have no need for them all day. Another reason I choose to put them in my bag (and probably the more paranoid of the two) is because I’m always afraid I will stab myself where it counts. It’s not too likely, but when it comes to sharp objects and my privates, if there’s even a one percent chance of incident, they are going to be separated.

I arrived in Hoboken and quickly bolted down to the PATH train. I got on and miraculously found a seat (almost impossible on the PATH at 830am). Now, when it comes to subway passengers, very rarely do I find gorgeous women to stare at. I wish and hope and pray that there will be one positioned right in front of me, but there never is. They always somehow find the seats that are far away from me. Instead I’m always next to (or across from) the smelly, schizophrenic, malnourished, balding weirdos. I’m talking real X-Men mutant status. So imagine my surprise when an attractive girl actually sat in my vicinity that morning. She was very cute, in that wholesome, quirky way (I hate that word quirky, but I’m too fried to think of a better adjective). She was on the shorter side with nice, dark, flowing hair. I took an immediate liking to her.

The train began to move and over the course of the train ride we continued to catch each other’s glances. It seemed relatively innocent, but I started to wonder that maybe, just maybe, she was thinking the same things about me. Maybe she was actually trying to get my attention. I tend not to entertain these thoughts because it’s usually a guaranteed path to emotional distress, but I continued to cross eye sites with her. It was at this point that I noticed her glancing down at my crotch. She could have just been looking at my feet, but I was pretty sure it was right on the money. There is no way that just happened, I thought. Were my most perverted fantasies of an early morning, anonymous sexual dalliance about to come true? But then she countered that initial glance with a facial expression that seemed to be a combination of fear and concern. Confused, I looked down to see my car keys, poking into my jeans and forming a forged erection. My key chain is kind of bunched together so it appeared as one solid object. I realized the horrible illusion, and I tried to reach into my pocket and flatten the keys. It was too late, she had already stood up to walk out of the train at her stop. I wanted so desperately to stop her and explain, but it never happened. I was pretty embarrassed, but I felt even worse when I began to think about the size of the phony phallic symbol. In the words of George Costanza, “If she thinks that that was me, she is under a complete misapprehension. That was not me, Jerry, that was not me.” It was a weird moment in my life and I wish I could find that girl and apologize. Maybe I should do what this guy did.

Earlier that morning I was awarded something that comes along only once in a lifetime when it comes to public transportation: a second chance. That train attendant, for whatever reason, decided that I was a person that deserved to be given that second chance. That, perhaps, my catching that train would help better our society. And all I was able to do with that opportunity was freak a girl out with a fake boner.

Bored, So Here’s A Video (11/13)…

This is an old video from 1984.  It’s from a British television show and it features The Smiths miming “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” (sort of a music video I guess).  It’s one of my favorite Smiths songs and so I figured, what the hell, I’ll put it up.

Don’t be distracted by the flowers sticking out of Morrissey’s pants…I don’t think even he knew what it meant.

Music Industry Fat Cats Vs. The US…

In the on-going battle that has pitted the listener against music industry executives, a new piece of legislation is about to be passed down that will further enforce stricter limitations of file sharing and “illegal” downloading. They have sharpened their scope this time, however, specifically on college students. The new advancement will be titled the College Opportunity and Affordability Act of 2007, because one of the first words that pops up when I think about laws limiting our options to hear music is opportunity. According to an article on Prefix Magazine’s online site, Representative George Miller, the man proposing this “opportunity”, claims the bill will do the following:

- Direct colleges to inform students and employees about policies and procedures involving illegal downloading and file sharing.
- Require colleges to develop plans for alternatives to online bootlegging to be offered students and plans for exploring technology-based bootlegging deterrents.
- Authorize the Secretary of Education to award grants to institutions of higher learning for developing piracy prevention and education programs.

This, along with the discovery that my favorite torrent downloading site Demonoid has been shut down by the CRIA, put in a bad mood today. What this proposed legislation means is that they will be forcing already broke college students to spend money to download music. College kids, who can’t even afford to wipe their own ass, are being asked, politely I might add, to discover alternative and safer ways to enjoy their music. Translation: “If you don’t pay through your school’s plan, we’ll find you and throw you into a nice comfy jail cell. Because stealing music is wrong, and it not only hurts the artists, but it hurts the music as well!”

Please, spare us. I’m getting tired of hearing that same argument when it comes to this, well, argument. Artists getting fucked is nothing new, in the least. The labels and executives have been doing it to the artists ever since the concept of music as a commodity came into fashion (the ’50s). The difference now is that it isn’t them doing the fucking anymore; it’s the consumer. And man, the industry is pissed and filled with jealousy. Which is to be expected when anyone finds out their sex buddy is in bed with someone else.

The artists usually get less than ten cents of every album sold. The industry standard is around seven cents. That means that even a multi-platinum selling artist really only makes enough to pay off recording costs, video expenses, and distribution charges. Then, they have to use whatever is left after that to pay their managers, producers, tour managers, etc. Since it’s hard to duplicate a platinum album (unless you’re someone like Beyonce), it’s entirely common for an artist to go broke fairly quickly, even after a massively successful hit album or song. That’s because when the industry is done fucking them, they kick them out onto the street. They have to get up early in the morning I guess.

Where an artist really makes their living is through concert sales anyway. Shows are how these bands and songwriters keep their heads afloat, not record sales. And tons of artists have flourished due to online downloading. Online buzz is the best way to get people to come to your shows, and so now the game has a changed quite a bit. Back in the 80s and 70s, “underground” music truly meant underground. You basically had to dig a hole into the middle of an east village street to see some of those bands. “Underground” today is not the same moniker it meant back in those days. Thanks to the Internet, the music scene is now more accessible and more available (therefore, more interesting). You don’t have to suffer through top 40 radio or shitty breakup songs on MTV if you don’t want to. There are thousands of other places to go to find good, new music.

So, given that, the only major difference this whole illegal file sharing fiasco has made is that it is taking the profits away from the labels and the executives. If you were to ask any person that isn’t behind the artists’ back, ready and willing to insert for their monies, they would say screw those greedy assholes. No one cares about Tommy Mottola. Nobody.

And if you still need proof that the top brass who “give” you your music are shady and deceitful, you needn’t look any further than the current Radiohead/EMI debacle. Since Radiohead went on their own to release their new album and dropped EMI Records in the process, EMI took it upon themselves to release all of Radiohead’s past seven albums (that were made with EMI) as one big, overpriced box set to compete with the release of In Rainbows. They also created a false link that stated you could buy the new album as part of the box set, which, of course, it isn’t.

Yeah, and we’re supposed to be on their side.

Bored, So Here’s A Video (11/12)…

Louis CK is, in my opinion, one of the more talented and honest stand-ups out there. He pulls no punches and so this clip I found on Youtube illustrates this perfectly. The jokes on this one are more edgy and ridiculous than usual, which of course makes it ten times better.

Crazy Is A Lifestyle…

The other night I had arranged to meet up with this girl Ellie at the Met. It was freezing out, so I layered a black hoodie underneath my tan, somewhat-thick jacket. It was a bit uncomfortable but it kept me warm enough. There’s this weird enjoyment I get out of wondering Manhattan at night, especially when it’s cold. It’s very serene and intimate despite all the goings on. Like the romantic loner constantly searching for a place to go.

I had my ipod locked and loaded with a play list featuring the Verve, the Smiths, and Radiohead; a trio of melancholy if there ever was one (editor’s note: the Verve’s album A Storm In Heaven is the best night time music I’ve ever heard). I hopped on the 6 train uptown to 86^th and 5th, upon which a man claiming to be an angel boarded. He said, “Yes folks, I am an angel. I was sent here from heaven to collect a debt. So if any of y’all got some money to spare you could really help me out of a jam. Jesus is pissed!”

I was heading towards the Met when Ellie called me to let me know she was going to be late. So, I wandered for a bit looking for a place to eat, but I just wound up getting a slice of pizza and hanging out in a Barnes & Nobles, waiting for Ellie to let me know when she was good to go.

After about an hour of this, she called back to tell me she was tired from work and was just going to go home and sleep. It wasn’t too late but the night was starting to get really frigid so I hopped back onto the 6 to go back downtown to 23^rd street. I stopped off at Madison Square Park by the flat iron building to finish my pizza on a bench. I had my tunes playing through my earbuds, but I could still overhear a man’s voice echoing from a nearby bench a little ways away from me. I put the music on pause and began to eavesdrop. He was clearly homeless, but slightly more organized. He was yelling at a pigeon that was waddling around in front of him. I’ll try to recreate the argument as best as I can remember it…

“How could you take that bread? You know I give you the bread with the seeds!”

Pigeon begins to waddle away.

“Why you doing this to me, baby? Don’t take no more bread from no one else!”

The pigeon stops and looks back.

“C’mon honey, don’t do this. Here, have some seeds. From me this time!”

The man tosses some chunks of bread onto the ground. The pigeon begins to peck away.

“That’s it. Cheatin’ ain’t right, and you know it! Stay with me baby!”

It was at this point that I finished my cheese slice and left the park, because even though I was curious as to how this relationship would unfold, I figured retaining my own sanity was just as important. If I had stayed and continued listening, eventually I would have become obsessed with the man-pigeon bonding and collapsed into a fetal position of confusion on the ground. That’s the problem with a place like New York. You’re constantly bombarded with odd behavior until you become so used to it that you start to think, “why shouldn’t I date a pigeon?”

I made my own way home by midnight and was disappointed that my night with Ellie wasn’t fulfilled, but I didn’t care about missing out on the Met anymore. After all, who needs centuries and centuries of creative expression and timeless pieces of artistic beauty when you have an unlimited supply of crazy New Yorkers to entertain you?

Live From India, It’s Elephant Aid!…

Paris Hilton is starting to use her status to do some good in the world for a change. I know she’s been traveling to god knows where doing god knows what to make up for her jail stint, but I found this quote from her and it has really opened my eyes to an epidemic that isn’t really getting any mainstream media attention these days:

“There would have been more casualties if the villagers hadn’t chased them away. And four elephants died in a similar way three years ago. It is just so sad. The biggest problems are in Assam and Meghalaya. The elephants get drunk all the time. It is becoming really dangerous. We need to stop making alcohol available to them.”

Alcoholic elephants? When did this start? All this time there’s been a drinking problem amongst the elephant population and there hasn’t even been a single news piece alerting us of this problem? I remember that coke outbreak with the squirrels a few years back but this is very different. Paris is right, we have to do something about these lushes. Forget Darfur and the Middle East, it’s time we use our power to accomplish some real change. I bet it’s those lazy liquor store managers. They never ID and now underage elephants are excessively drinking and ruining the villages with spilled martinis and used condoms.

And how much booze must be required to get an elephant shit faced? A lot I’m guessing. That’s a whole lotta alcohol being wasted on these behemoths. Alcohol that could be being used to destroy towns and villages over here in the US instead.

After learning of this startling revelation from Paris, I did some statistical research. As it turns out, elephant fights in India have increased by twenty percent in the past year, while anonymous sex and public urination have increased by nearly thirty percent.

The Good Ol’ Days…

My nephew is about to turn one year old on November 26th and, son of a bitch, does it make me feel old. OK, I know I’m not old old (22 is nothing to complain about), but every week this kid changes and it really makes me think about how fast time goes by these days.

I don’t get to see him all that much (basically every other weekend), so when I do see him, he’s either grown another inch, gained another pound, or learned how to say “hello”. It certainly puts things in perspective…too much, really. (Yeah, I know, Spinal Tap references have been done to death these days.) He was born when I was entering my final year of college, and now here I am a year later, graduated with a job and drinking much, much, much less than I used to.

Enjoy these early days little buddy. Life picks up speed real soon…

It’s The Little Things That Get To Ya…

I’ve apparently forgotten how to chew properly today, again. No matter what I do, I can’t stop biting the inside of my lower lip. And the more I think about not doing it, the more I do it.

I even tried slowing the chewing process to reduce the risk, but I wound up just biting the exact same spot…only slower and more painfully. It was the single stupidest moment of my life. I could actually see myself about to bite down on the sore spot. It was in slow motion. And even though I could see it happening, I just kept slowing biting my lip and moaning in agony. I had to keep explaining to my friends at work what I was doing, and at first they laughed. But after a few more incidents their smiles turned to genuine concern for my well-being.

There’s something very sad about not having the ability to chew gracefully anymore. It actually almost ruined my day. I felt like jumping out of the window immediately after that regretful display, just to end this cruel existence.

If I can’t chew a pizza, how can I expect to live a successful life?

If I Could Only See This After Every Bad Day…

I left work yesterday at 6pm and was walking along Broadway towards Canal Street. I had my headphones in (as I usually do when I’m walking around out there) but had them on low volume so I could still hear well. I also spot a man and a woman arguing a little ways up from me. The guy was black and in his mid 30s (if I had to guess). He was sitting on a light blue Vespa moped. He was dressed in a leather jacket with an over sized black motorcycle helmet and large sunglasses. He had giant brown boots laced up tight around his yellow-stripped vinyl pants. After the woman finished yelling at him, he zipped up his jacket and said, “Bitch, I’d been riding these things since before you was sniffing yo mama’s shit!”

He started the moped up, revved it twice, then floored it straight into the subway’s stairway sign. His boot came flying off and he yelled “My boots, they be flyin’!”

I laughed all the way to Hoboken.

An Office Party That Isn’t Awkward…

My job often functions more like a college party than as an actual job. It’s hard to tell if anyone is doing any valid work whatsoever, and the ones that are actually accomplishing something are usually done in fifteen minutes then go for a two hour long lunch break. It’s really great. I just surf the web endlessly all day and every once in a while do some legitimate work. So it’s no surprise that one of the biggest drunken bashes I’ve ever been to in my life occurred at this place last week.

It was Thursday and the day was dragging on forever. I was dying of heat but if I opened my giant window I would freeze immediately. Heat exhaustion combined with boredom is a recipe for incompetence. Luckily, around four o’clock or so, a co-worker ran into our room (there are about six of us) and started shouting about two kegs that were delivered to the offices upstairs. So without any hesitation, every one on our floor rushed up the only stairway leading up and began to drink exuberantly at exactly 4:15 pm. None of us had eaten since about noon so all of the signs pointed to catastrophe.

The party was pretty normal at first, just a bunch of people drinking and chatting about work they should be doing at the moment. Then, at around the 7pm mark, things changed. Things changed because Matt, my immediate boss, brought weed.

Everyone was clearly belligerent by this point, so naturally the voices got louder and the sexual tension increased dramatically. Two people vomited simultaneously all over our brand new ficus plants. This was followed by Sam (my partner in crime) standing on the balcony of a window flirting with a group of girls in the building directly across from ours. It would have been funny, had the threat of Sam falling eleven stories down onto Broadway not been present.

We’ve had office parties plenty before, so people shouting out the windows at anyone within earshot was not a new form of entertainment to us. This time, however, the ones within earshot didn’t appreciate the humor. So they called the cops. The cops were called to break up an office party!

So we all headed off into the night, with piles of work still accumulating on our desks. Since I don’t live in the city, I was a little confused as to what I should do. Although I was pretty baked so I didn’t care that much. Somehow we made our way to a bar, only I couldn’t tell you which one. It was dark with green bottles lining the walls. That’s about all I can remember. I pretty much talked to Christine the whole time we were there, while Sam and Matt got into a fight with some homeless guy. I’d explain it greater detail, but again, I was shit faced.

So we departed and went to another bar, where for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to buy a screwdriver. Now, I’ve never had LSD. But something happens to me when I mix liquor after I’ve been drinking that much beer, along with weed. And I’d imagine it to be very similar to an LSD trip. I don’t remember anything really beyond the screwdriver, but I can remember sitting on the R train with Christine and Sam for a brief period. Then, I’m told, I passed out. Not like I slowly laid my head down and gently whisked myself into dreamland. I passed out. Eyewitness reports say that I was awake, then my eyes closed and I slammed my head off of the metal seat handle and collapsed onto the subway floor.

I woke up the following morning on Sam’s couch in a haze of debauchery. I couldn’t remember anything from the day before really and I had a giant bandage around my forehead.

I later found out that 12 people had called out of work that morning.