Friday, September 2, 2016
#FBF
I first noticed my imminent adulthood in an abandoned hospital bathroom. I had a cousin who contracted spinal meningitis as a toddler and my parents funded the majority of his recovery. During this time I spent most of my weekends with my grandmother at the children's hospital while my parents were away. I stayed bored and often found myself exploring places I probably shouldn't have been. One day I took what was left of my amputated kin along for the ride. I pushed his wheelchair into a wing of the hospital that had been closed for years. The walls were a sickly green, decorated with mosaics haphazardly glued by special needs children years ago. The halls smelled of stale sickness, and every step I took brought a tinny echo back to me. Our voices seemed like screams in the vacant halls. And even though it would be a while before I saw a place like this in the movies, I still felt a fear that something wicked could jump from any shadow. I realized I had to use the bathroom and just left him and his wheelchair outside of the avocado green bathroom door. It was there that I looked down and saw the most vile thing that could've ever happened in that wing. There they were, two, maybe three of them--course and black against the pale baby skin of my pubic bone. I couldn't stop looking at them. I knew what it meant but didn't know what it meant next. I didn't want to touch them for fear they would fall out, and I couldn't tell anyone because--well, because. I know I stood in that old bathroom for 20 minutes while my invalid cousin sat outside the door--legless, probably terrified or in excruciating pain. When I finally got myself together and came out, I told him I was shitting. He giggled all the way back to his room. When we were asked what we were doing for so long, he looked at me and said we had gone to the fountain outside. He thought he was keeping a grown up secret--that I had cursed, or maybe that I had shit. But what he didn't know is that he was helping me hold on to my childhood.
Friday, August 26, 2016
40 Things About Adam
1. he smoked Marlboro Lights
2. he drank Coors Light and Wild Turkey
3. he was a winker
4. and a biter
5. he kissed me every single time someone pointed a camera at us
6. he had the blackest hair
7. and the bluest eyes
8. he has a 17 year old son
9. he had no shame in living at home with this mother
10. sometimes he shaved letters into his body hair just to get a reaction
11. he was rarely ever angry
12. he had one tattoo
13. he was an inventor
14. he had horrible taste in music
15. and sang badly at karaoke
16. but loved good books
17. he had a lifeguard's body, and sometimes wore those orange shorts in public
18. he wore a watch every day--even when the battery died and it took him weeks to replace it
19. he grew up in a house full of women
20. he would do a line and want to mow the lawn at four in the morning
21. he'd make fun of me for the way I could do a line, eat a sandwich, and go to sleep
22. but he'd always bring me hangover food in bed
23. I gave a woman a permanent scar over him
24. he was much smarter than almost everyone gave him credit for
25. he once took me out in sweats after I'd gotten home from sleeping in a van for two weeks and hadn't showered in as many days
26. and then he called me the most beautiful girl in the room in front of everyone there
27. he'd say "let's go make dumb girls jealous" and take me dancing
28. he wore vintage jackets and leopard print flip flops because he gave no fucks
29. he had blonde fuzz on his earlobes
30. he thought hpnotiq was ridiculous, but would eat cherry bombs till he couldn't see
31. women (and a lot of men) practically dropped their pants at the sight of him
32. he always pretended not to notice the attention
33. he never judged. anyone. ever.
34. he loved kids, and taught them to swim
35. he talked to everyone, whether they wanted him to or not
36. he was just a little bit aimless
37. he was a gentleman
38. he was a jackass
39. one night in July 2003 he was out with a crowd I didn't want to be with. and I told him so. but he wanted to hug and kiss and nuzzle my neck. I looked him in the eye and said "fuck you Adam". And turned. And walked away. And left him where he stood.
40. he died five hours later.
2. he drank Coors Light and Wild Turkey
3. he was a winker
4. and a biter
5. he kissed me every single time someone pointed a camera at us
6. he had the blackest hair
7. and the bluest eyes
8. he has a 17 year old son
9. he had no shame in living at home with this mother
10. sometimes he shaved letters into his body hair just to get a reaction
11. he was rarely ever angry
12. he had one tattoo
13. he was an inventor
14. he had horrible taste in music
15. and sang badly at karaoke
16. but loved good books
17. he had a lifeguard's body, and sometimes wore those orange shorts in public
18. he wore a watch every day--even when the battery died and it took him weeks to replace it
19. he grew up in a house full of women
20. he would do a line and want to mow the lawn at four in the morning
21. he'd make fun of me for the way I could do a line, eat a sandwich, and go to sleep
22. but he'd always bring me hangover food in bed
23. I gave a woman a permanent scar over him
24. he was much smarter than almost everyone gave him credit for
25. he once took me out in sweats after I'd gotten home from sleeping in a van for two weeks and hadn't showered in as many days
26. and then he called me the most beautiful girl in the room in front of everyone there
27. he'd say "let's go make dumb girls jealous" and take me dancing
28. he wore vintage jackets and leopard print flip flops because he gave no fucks
29. he had blonde fuzz on his earlobes
30. he thought hpnotiq was ridiculous, but would eat cherry bombs till he couldn't see
31. women (and a lot of men) practically dropped their pants at the sight of him
32. he always pretended not to notice the attention
33. he never judged. anyone. ever.
34. he loved kids, and taught them to swim
35. he talked to everyone, whether they wanted him to or not
36. he was just a little bit aimless
37. he was a gentleman
38. he was a jackass
39. one night in July 2003 he was out with a crowd I didn't want to be with. and I told him so. but he wanted to hug and kiss and nuzzle my neck. I looked him in the eye and said "fuck you Adam". And turned. And walked away. And left him where he stood.
40. he died five hours later.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
I've been told it's beautiful to see this time of year...
2016 Road Trip. Part Trois.
I woke up alone in Brooklyn on a twin bed under Minions sheets. I took a sticky, unairconditioned shower in a window facing the street. I drank strong coffee and ate a gigantic egg bagel--which I never forgo up north, no matter in whose company I find myself or the amount of lye involved. And then it was time to crawl over the bridge and out of the city into New England.
Some highway construction and GPS confusion sent me into New Haven, so I took the opportunity to explore Yale's campus and the people milling about it. Floppy-haired boys with belts, blonde girls in day dresses. Lining up outside of popular pizza places on tree lined streets. I wondered what my life would've been like if I'd gone to the Ivy League school I was meant for-or even finished school on time-and met a nice boy there who wanted to take care of me. I almost wondered it out loud but remembered my wife was there too. Scrolling through facebook in the passenger seat. So I found my way back to the highway. Through redirected lanes and construction zones, Rhode Island, Boston, some slum--it was on to the next destination, Salem, MA.
Which at night was everything I wanted it to be. Foggy, too quiet, leering statues at unexpected turns, a proper Irish pub-but by day a little less romantic. Vaccination clinics and law offices sprinkled among the tourist shops, each one the same as the next and all manned by bookish emo fatties. And in the light of day a little disappointing that the whole witch hunt affair was just the out of control cattiness of a gaggle of Mean Girls. Though I of course found the one place I could buy a coyote jaw (and maybe even a Mogwai or something) and was given a tarot card, which I would later learn was because I have practically the same face as a young woman put on trial for witchcraft.
But there is obviously some real history here, and plenty of kitsch. Jon Bon Jovi served me breakfast. There's a healthy appreciation for Bewitched. And the wax museums give every bit of 1989 low budget realness-and thankfully, air conditioning. All that said, Samantha and those Mean Girls aside--I still believe in witches.
I woke up alone in Brooklyn on a twin bed under Minions sheets. I took a sticky, unairconditioned shower in a window facing the street. I drank strong coffee and ate a gigantic egg bagel--which I never forgo up north, no matter in whose company I find myself or the amount of lye involved. And then it was time to crawl over the bridge and out of the city into New England.
Some highway construction and GPS confusion sent me into New Haven, so I took the opportunity to explore Yale's campus and the people milling about it. Floppy-haired boys with belts, blonde girls in day dresses. Lining up outside of popular pizza places on tree lined streets. I wondered what my life would've been like if I'd gone to the Ivy League school I was meant for-or even finished school on time-and met a nice boy there who wanted to take care of me. I almost wondered it out loud but remembered my wife was there too. Scrolling through facebook in the passenger seat. So I found my way back to the highway. Through redirected lanes and construction zones, Rhode Island, Boston, some slum--it was on to the next destination, Salem, MA.
Which at night was everything I wanted it to be. Foggy, too quiet, leering statues at unexpected turns, a proper Irish pub-but by day a little less romantic. Vaccination clinics and law offices sprinkled among the tourist shops, each one the same as the next and all manned by bookish emo fatties. And in the light of day a little disappointing that the whole witch hunt affair was just the out of control cattiness of a gaggle of Mean Girls. Though I of course found the one place I could buy a coyote jaw (and maybe even a Mogwai or something) and was given a tarot card, which I would later learn was because I have practically the same face as a young woman put on trial for witchcraft.
But there is obviously some real history here, and plenty of kitsch. Jon Bon Jovi served me breakfast. There's a healthy appreciation for Bewitched. And the wax museums give every bit of 1989 low budget realness-and thankfully, air conditioning. All that said, Samantha and those Mean Girls aside--I still believe in witches.
 |
| Patrick Dougherty-StickWork |
 |
| Thompkins H. Matteson, 1853 |
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
We'll go to Coney and eat bologna on a roll...
2016 Road Trip. Part Deux.
Having survived Lexington Market it was time to make my way to the always ass-numbing Jersey Turnpike. Smooth sailing other than Mickey and Mallory Knox from North Carolina in the car ahead at the toll booth heading out of Baltimore. Mickey drove shirtless and clearly unshowered, giving the finger to every northbound horn honker who refused to let him into the cash only lane--Mallory beside him, alternately leaning into the shattered windshield and out of the passenger window to take pictures of anything and everything. Including the toll both worker. The old Celica held together with bungee cords. I'm sure neither of them were wearing shoes, but they probably got some slippers at whatever county jail they ended up in.
But $6200 in tolls and four hours later, I made it to Surf Ave.-Brooklyn. My intent was to spend a couple hours at Coney Island then surprise some friends in Greenpoint--but what have we learned about what really happens when WGW wants to do something? Of course when I suggested this I may as well have been swallowing a sword. So instead I sat drinking Kentucky moonshine in New York while my wife and her friend talked about all the people in West Virginia that I don't know. Then the rain set in.
This is how I like my amusement parks. A little ominous--like an eighties child's cartoon with the villain drawn to appeal to the parents. With a staff whose very last priority is you having a good time. I want to give a pretty Middle Eastern boy in an alley $30.00 to park my car--and watch the nausea come over my travel companions as they debate whether or not we'll ever see him again. I want to watch people take wedding photos, then see them berated by knock-off Hello Kitty for not tipping her. I want to drink beer and eat knish at a boardwalk Go Go dance party (and you all know how I feel about Go Go).
I want to know there's still a good kind of wrong place in the world. Where the word freak isn't dirty. Where family friendly clashes with burlesque--cotton candy with dumpster dust. Where I can see the ocean from a cage in the sky.
Having survived Lexington Market it was time to make my way to the always ass-numbing Jersey Turnpike. Smooth sailing other than Mickey and Mallory Knox from North Carolina in the car ahead at the toll booth heading out of Baltimore. Mickey drove shirtless and clearly unshowered, giving the finger to every northbound horn honker who refused to let him into the cash only lane--Mallory beside him, alternately leaning into the shattered windshield and out of the passenger window to take pictures of anything and everything. Including the toll both worker. The old Celica held together with bungee cords. I'm sure neither of them were wearing shoes, but they probably got some slippers at whatever county jail they ended up in.
But $6200 in tolls and four hours later, I made it to Surf Ave.-Brooklyn. My intent was to spend a couple hours at Coney Island then surprise some friends in Greenpoint--but what have we learned about what really happens when WGW wants to do something? Of course when I suggested this I may as well have been swallowing a sword. So instead I sat drinking Kentucky moonshine in New York while my wife and her friend talked about all the people in West Virginia that I don't know. Then the rain set in.
This is how I like my amusement parks. A little ominous--like an eighties child's cartoon with the villain drawn to appeal to the parents. With a staff whose very last priority is you having a good time. I want to give a pretty Middle Eastern boy in an alley $30.00 to park my car--and watch the nausea come over my travel companions as they debate whether or not we'll ever see him again. I want to watch people take wedding photos, then see them berated by knock-off Hello Kitty for not tipping her. I want to drink beer and eat knish at a boardwalk Go Go dance party (and you all know how I feel about Go Go).
I want to know there's still a good kind of wrong place in the world. Where the word freak isn't dirty. Where family friendly clashes with burlesque--cotton candy with dumpster dust. Where I can see the ocean from a cage in the sky.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
What is my fate, am I supposed to pray...
2016 Road Trip. Part Un.
How long should it take to get it together after what is supposed to be the rest and relaxation of vacation? Being that I don't really rest on vacation, I'm still having some struggles. I always have these visions of myself looking flowy and relaxed and breeze blown on a boardwalk somewhere-a stuffed animal some romantic show off won for me under my arm. But that never happens. I always somehow end up in the places travel brochures like to pretend don't exist.
I started this journey with my mind set on Captain Crunch french toast and bloody marys in Baltimore, but due to a late in the game suggestion and no real plan I ended up at Lexington Market. Just like any other "major" city, navigating Baltimore takes some savvy and charm. One minute you're at Camden Yards, the next you're in a scene from The Wire. To be fair Lexington Market isn't some hole in the wall--it's definitely on the radar. Though touted as a historic farmers' market, this place is obviously not for tourists. And the locals will know you are one.
Bustling but not vibrant, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday this is where the elderly and mentally ill go to shuffle along and buy their weekly supply of rabbit parts and block cheese and grey pickles. Maybe a lottery ticket and counterfeit cell phone cover. (And if planning a party, one baker even offers Hannah Montana cakes for all those 2008 pre-teens.) This is the kind of farmers' market where the merchants are suspicious of cameras and nothing for sale actually comes from a local farm--I mean there is produce, but you just have to trust me on this. You won't find anything artisanal here. But what you will find is Chinese food and carnival style sausage and peppers for breakfast. And the people watching doesn't get better. In fact I watched one of those people leave the restroom without washing her hands and go back to serving up turkey sandwiches.
But all in all, breakfast in Baltimore was a success-- I only had to say "what motherfucker!" once (which terrified my wife because she has 0 sense of adventure and -4 street smarts) and I ended up going with the chicken and waffles. With powdered sugar-because, duh.
How long should it take to get it together after what is supposed to be the rest and relaxation of vacation? Being that I don't really rest on vacation, I'm still having some struggles. I always have these visions of myself looking flowy and relaxed and breeze blown on a boardwalk somewhere-a stuffed animal some romantic show off won for me under my arm. But that never happens. I always somehow end up in the places travel brochures like to pretend don't exist.
I started this journey with my mind set on Captain Crunch french toast and bloody marys in Baltimore, but due to a late in the game suggestion and no real plan I ended up at Lexington Market. Just like any other "major" city, navigating Baltimore takes some savvy and charm. One minute you're at Camden Yards, the next you're in a scene from The Wire. To be fair Lexington Market isn't some hole in the wall--it's definitely on the radar. Though touted as a historic farmers' market, this place is obviously not for tourists. And the locals will know you are one.
Bustling but not vibrant, at 9 a.m. on a Saturday this is where the elderly and mentally ill go to shuffle along and buy their weekly supply of rabbit parts and block cheese and grey pickles. Maybe a lottery ticket and counterfeit cell phone cover. (And if planning a party, one baker even offers Hannah Montana cakes for all those 2008 pre-teens.) This is the kind of farmers' market where the merchants are suspicious of cameras and nothing for sale actually comes from a local farm--I mean there is produce, but you just have to trust me on this. You won't find anything artisanal here. But what you will find is Chinese food and carnival style sausage and peppers for breakfast. And the people watching doesn't get better. In fact I watched one of those people leave the restroom without washing her hands and go back to serving up turkey sandwiches.
But all in all, breakfast in Baltimore was a success-- I only had to say "what motherfucker!" once (which terrified my wife because she has 0 sense of adventure and -4 street smarts) and I ended up going with the chicken and waffles. With powdered sugar-because, duh.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Joseph Stalin Malenkov Nasser and Prokofiev...
What a terrifying time to be alive. The term "in light of recent events" comes to mind. It's one I've never liked. If ever I find myself saying those words out loud, they are usually accompanied by sarcastic air quotes. And adding to the insanity is a heavy funk that settled over me shortly before the media started brainstorming headlines for America's latest bloodbath. I blame the stifling summer heat and the process of recovery. But I'm (mostly) over it now.
And today I talked with a friend I've been getting to know over the past couple of months. If you don't already have one, do yourself a favor and get an elderly friend who is not related to you.-- I can call him whenever I like, because his phone rings right to the watch on his wrist. He is a Croatian Jew-like my grandfather, but younger than he would've been. He introduced himself to me as a world famous artist, which could technically be true--one of his paintings was part of a movie set once. But now he paints on scraps of tin and sells them at the farmer's market on weekends.
He came to the U.S. to escape communism. He already had an aunt here, a doctor either in or for the CIA. I can't quite remember how that story goes. He tells me that because we are Jewish we are good with money, and so he studied economy. He invests in the stock market, and nearly all of our conversations start with how much he has lost or gained that day. He tells me never to buy a house--that as soon as I finish paying for it, I will have to replace the roof. But aside from that vicious cycle of capitalism, he loves America--and even believes the IRS is honest. In 2011 he somehow managed to overpay them without knowing. So they sent him a check for $68.00. Just like that...
I tell him I worry that Americans will ruin Cuba. He tells me he would never live there due to the socialism. He has never come right out and said so, but I get the idea he hates Russians. He often says to me, "Chairman Mao must be very happy with you." He always says this with a chuckle, and I never know what he actually means by it. But it wouldn't be as amusing to either of us if I asked him to explain it.
He jokingly (I think) says he is a proponent of men's rights and laughs at Andrew Jackson for being fired from the $20 bill so they could put a lady there. He says I should listen to what my husband says. He tells me that he knows I will make beautiful babies and wants to know when I will have them and fulfill my American duty to make more tax payers. He says all of this because he currently has to do all of the cooking and cleaning, and laundry and bill paying. And wheel his wife to the toilet when she's not in the hospital.
And knowing that I am sick sometimes he tells me the old Japanese cure for stomach ailments is Mountain Dew. I should drink one glass a week. Scientists actually figured out how to make Mountain Dew in pill form, but the soda company wouldn't allow it for obvious monetary reasons. He also tells me to take acetaminophen while I am young--though he says 'seeveetimen'--otherwise, when I am old my body will pay full price.
Talking with him always puts things in perspective for me. I'm glad I got to chat today. Because this weekend I leave the heavy behind and hit the road for a trip up the coast. And among my stops will be dinner with a NYC police officer and a black man--very likely at the same table.
Maybe all we really need right now is a good Jew and road trip.
And today I talked with a friend I've been getting to know over the past couple of months. If you don't already have one, do yourself a favor and get an elderly friend who is not related to you.-- I can call him whenever I like, because his phone rings right to the watch on his wrist. He is a Croatian Jew-like my grandfather, but younger than he would've been. He introduced himself to me as a world famous artist, which could technically be true--one of his paintings was part of a movie set once. But now he paints on scraps of tin and sells them at the farmer's market on weekends.
He came to the U.S. to escape communism. He already had an aunt here, a doctor either in or for the CIA. I can't quite remember how that story goes. He tells me that because we are Jewish we are good with money, and so he studied economy. He invests in the stock market, and nearly all of our conversations start with how much he has lost or gained that day. He tells me never to buy a house--that as soon as I finish paying for it, I will have to replace the roof. But aside from that vicious cycle of capitalism, he loves America--and even believes the IRS is honest. In 2011 he somehow managed to overpay them without knowing. So they sent him a check for $68.00. Just like that...
I tell him I worry that Americans will ruin Cuba. He tells me he would never live there due to the socialism. He has never come right out and said so, but I get the idea he hates Russians. He often says to me, "Chairman Mao must be very happy with you." He always says this with a chuckle, and I never know what he actually means by it. But it wouldn't be as amusing to either of us if I asked him to explain it.
He jokingly (I think) says he is a proponent of men's rights and laughs at Andrew Jackson for being fired from the $20 bill so they could put a lady there. He says I should listen to what my husband says. He tells me that he knows I will make beautiful babies and wants to know when I will have them and fulfill my American duty to make more tax payers. He says all of this because he currently has to do all of the cooking and cleaning, and laundry and bill paying. And wheel his wife to the toilet when she's not in the hospital.
And knowing that I am sick sometimes he tells me the old Japanese cure for stomach ailments is Mountain Dew. I should drink one glass a week. Scientists actually figured out how to make Mountain Dew in pill form, but the soda company wouldn't allow it for obvious monetary reasons. He also tells me to take acetaminophen while I am young--though he says 'seeveetimen'--otherwise, when I am old my body will pay full price.
Talking with him always puts things in perspective for me. I'm glad I got to chat today. Because this weekend I leave the heavy behind and hit the road for a trip up the coast. And among my stops will be dinner with a NYC police officer and a black man--very likely at the same table.
Maybe all we really need right now is a good Jew and road trip.
Friday, July 1, 2016
40 Acts I Should Be Ashamed Of Myself For Loving
And I Don't Even Care If We Can't be Friends
In no particular order...
1. Matisyahu
2. Anne Murray
3. Diana Ross--the disco records
4. Miley Cyrus
5. Teena Marie
6. They Might Be Giants
7. Marc Anthony
8. Fantasia
9. Kim Wilde
10. DeBarge
11. Something Corporate
12. Ricky Martin
13. T-Rex
14. Suzi Quatro
15. Divinyls
16. Hot Hot Heat
17. Cher Lloyd
18. Sylvia--the singer, not the band
19. The Struts
20. Richard Marx
21. Pantera
22. Plastic Ono Band
23. Muse--This seems like a weird choice for this list, but a lot of self-important music snobs turn their noses up at these guys.
24. Kings of Leon--see above
25. Gerry Rafferty
26. Tyler the Creator
27. Don Johnson--No word of a lie, Don Johnson released a record in 1986. It was called Heartbeat. I was 9, so clearly I had to have it. My Dad (who years later bought me a 2 Live Crew cassette) refused to get it for me out of principle, because it was just too ridiculous. So my grandmother did--she never could say no to a man on a record. Some pretty serious musicians contributed to it, so I stand by my 9 year old music choices.
28. Lady Antebellum
29. The Alan Parsons Project
30. Marilyn Manson
31. Fall Out Boy
32. Poison--'Look What the Cat Dragged In' era. I would make out with every one of those 80s ladies.
33. Rick Astley
34. Charlie XCX
35. Ke$ha--specifically the trashy mess dollar sign version. I can't get behind the grown up.
36. Bob Seger
37. One Direction
38. Glass Animals--This band is actually on the cool kid list, but if you listen closely, they're really just White Town. And that is quite embarrassing.
39. Carly Rae Jepsen
40. KISS
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