| An emotional embrace |
[Aug. 8th, 2009|08:53 pm] |
I believe that every object has a spirit. So when it comes time to get rid of an iconic possession in my life, I like to make my peace with it. Today it was time to do so with the first video camera I ever used. My mother graciously joined in the ceremony.
Me- Thank you for inspiring a passion. You've been a wonderful direct influence on my life, and indirectly on the lives of others as well. Brett, for example, has gone on to pursue a career in film and now makes a living doing so.
Mom- Brett told me recently that he thought of us as second parents. Which was touching, because I had no idea. I knew Josh felt that way, but Brett's the least expressive of your bunch.
Me- Yeah, Brett tends to keep to himself by default; he'll talk if prompted, but doesn't seem to need to talk things out.
Mom- So it was a surprise. My contribution there was just saying "Sure, you can have your friends over." Tori Cooper told me I had been a parental figure to her, a big part of her childhood. I wasn't a parent who disciplined, more a parent who hugged and let her explore. But it's hard to see that you're making a difference, because a three-year-old never tells you that.
Me- Yeah, kids don't really say "You're helping me grow in a wholesome way."
Mom- Right.
Me- Anyway, sorry for getting distracted.
Mom- Oh no, I certainly helped.
Me- Thank you for breaking down when you did. If you hadn't stopped working, we would have never gotten the digital camera. And then our kung fu movie would have suffered significantly. And I don't blame you for it- you're a product of your times- but I think Brett even said back in the day, "We wouldn't still be making this movie if we were still using the old camera."
Mom- Well, we saw you guys were serious about making movies. Most toys you buy for a kid cost a buck or two, with an occasional fifty-dollar video game. But we knew this would be a worthwhile venture.
Me- So what I'm saying is, thank you for sacrificing yourself for the greater good.
Mom- You're very welcome.
Me- I'M TALKING TO THE CAMERA!
*Volley of embarrassed laughter* |
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| A lasting impression |
[Apr. 19th, 2009|09:34 pm] |
Brett Payton, one of the five people I stayed in touch with after high school, spent a year of his college education in Japan. He returned bearing gifts; among them, a bag of dry seasoning to sprinkle over rice. There was no English on the package other than the word "shiso," but he claimed I would be able to find it in Asian grocery stores. Nonetheless, I used it sparingly, fearing I would never see another package of it.
On a warm September day, I stuffed the preserved empty bag into my pocket to show to potentially confused shopkeepers, and Lisa and I boarded the El-train toward Chinatown. We sat on the sideways row of seats- the one place on a Chicago train where there are seats that face each other- and I met eyes with a young man sporting a messenger bag and a hipstery hat that evoked memories of Fidel Castro, though he was clean shaven except for a pair of wicked sideburns.
I thought he was trying to get my attention, and shot him an inquisitive glance. He responded deferentially, and I dropped pursuit. But suddenly I was seized with a bizarre inspiration and continued this cycle three or four times, making a wordless game out of an endless loop. Having a little too much fun, I escalated things too quickly and bellowed a "WHAT?" A fearful look filled his face, and he stammered "Nothing."
From that point on, we avoided eye contact. However, as there was nothing else happening, there was no alternative place to look, no event to distract us from what had just occurred. Our focus would inevitably turn back to one another, and then we would realize we had been caught looking at the other guy and sheepishly turn away.
I turned to Lisa and began to give a play-by-play analysis of the aforementioned events, ending with "That was funny at first, but then when I raised my voice I became That Guy." But I wasn't really talking to Lisa, or at least not for her sake; I was whispering at a volume loud enough for the startled stranger to hear, so that he would know that I felt as awkward about the situation as he did. This was the only way I could communicate with him, since I could not even look him in the eye with any degree of confidence.
Suddenly, the tension was cut. A woman walked between us, lost her balance as the train jolted, and fell forward. When she landed six feet away, her belongins scattered everywhere. As the surrounding passengers helped her up, she loudly exclaimed, "I tripped! Oh my god, I can't believe I tripped!" He and I smiled at each other, sharing the moment we had just seen. I wasn't That Guy anymore.
But she didn't have the crown for very long either. At the next stop, three ten-ish-year-old boys entered the train. They each produced sets of drumsticks, which they used to strike empty seats as well as the poles that people would be using for support were the train more crowded. One of them started yelling something unintelligble; I suppose it could have been some sort of African language, but I'm pretty sure it was gibberish. As the train slowed, they approached passengers with a flier which they briefly held in front of our faces before snatching back, presumably because they only had one copy. Then they exited at the next stop and skipped away, hollering and producing their rhythms on an unfortunate railing.
At this point the stranger looked at me and said, "Now I kind of want to follow you guys around, just to see if this kind of thing always happens wherever you go." It turned out he too was headed for Chinatown, and like us he was searching for something of tenuous detail- an unnamed restaurant at a nonexistent intersection- so we travelled together briefly before parting ways.
I didn't find any shiso that day. Brett lives in Philadelphia, where the Chinatown has a presence of other Asian influences. Chicago's Chinatown, on the other hand, is far more strictly Chinese, so I received a great deal of confused and slightly offended looks when I asked shopkeepers about an herb with a Japanese name that they had never heard of. However, a few days later Lisa found shiso at a Japanese market two blocks from my apartment, which I had never entered because I thought it was a clothing and art shop.
A few weeks later, I received a call from an unknown number. It turned out Lisa had given him my number, though she had neglected to ask for his. We caught an improv show together, and as we were socializing afterwards, I caught him trying to get away with increasingly nerdier references.
Finally having somebody to argue with about whether or not Halo redefined video games and hum Super Nintendo songs together, Swan and I have been hanging out ever since. You could chalk it up to chemistry, but I think we both just wanted to say we're hanging out with a guy we met on an El-Train to Chinatown. |
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| The Champeenship! |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|02:17 am] |
On Monday, I went to bed at 4.
On Tuesday, I went to bed at 2.
On Wednesday, I went to bed at 1.
On Thursday, I made and refrigerated a batch of steel-cut oatmeal and tempeh. I have never been enthusiastic about tempeh, but I was led to believe it is packed with B vitamins, which I'm further told are a way to boost one's energy. I also burned a CD to wake up to, so that I wouldn't ignore my current rising theme, of which I am well past bored. I located a bottle of my emergency medicine; my heart's been tachycardia-free since February 2008, but if it tried anything funny I would be ready for it. Then I cleaned my work shoes for the first time in 1.5 years, and went to bed at midnight.
On Friday, I talked Dave & Buster's into letting me out of the party at 10:00. When I arrived at 7:00, it turned out they had goofed and the party did not start until 9:30. They sent me home, after buying me a disappointing meal. I took this as a sign that I was on the right path. I declined several social invitations, then went to bed at 10:30. At 11:00, my roommate began to watch a movie outside my bedroom, and I braved the awkwardness of being that guy who asks everybody to keep it down at 11:00 on a Friday night. Nothing would come between me and my eight hours.
On Saturday, my alarm sounded at 7 AM. I hit the ground stretching, and was fully awake by the end of the song. I shaved, showered, ate my pre-made breakfast, opened and de-pinned a brand new white button-down shirt, donned my nicest jeans and a pair of shoes now free of hamburger taint, and marched out the door.
When I saw that the Clark Street bus was not coming, I trekked southward to where Broadway Street sheds its independence and merges with Clark for a few miles. Along the way, my eyes were opened to the fact that I was awake at 7 in the morning, and for once I didn't hate the world because of it. I marvelled at the gorgeous sunny day, as I watched trucks unload their cargo and newspapers filling their dispensers. Life was beginning, and I was a part of it.
At last, I arrived at my strategic bus stop. Now I was putting my faith not in one bus, but two. And sure enough, the Broadway bus came and filled the shoes that the Clark bus had left empty. And that, friends, is how I made it to The Perennial fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
Finding the door locked, I wandered around the side of the building and strolled into an unmarked door to find myself in the kitchen. I stated my business, was greeted by a manager, and introduced to a server who would take responsibility for my growth. I hung my jacket in the locker room, and was handed a stack of soft fabric napkins to carry upstairs and begin rolling into neatly-bundled silverware sets.
...at which point the manager took me aside and told me the position had already been filled.
I left without a word. They'll never know how hard I trained for this. The only memory they have of my passing is seven silverware rolls of questionable craftsmanship. |
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| Conflict Resolution |
[Feb. 12th, 2009|01:03 am] |
For my birthday, Lisa purchased me these guys.
Meet the MacGregor twins (Zeebs on the left hand, Murray on the right). In addition to being generally awesome, they have the added bonus of making me look like less of a criminal as I walk down the street in a ski mask.
Lisa also happens to own these guys:
Meet the Muttons. And while you're at it, meet some kind of fucking bunny pig hat. I guess she knows what she likes.
One night we found ourselves in an argument on the subway. As it intensified, we agreed to lighten the mood by letting the MacGregors and the Muttons argue on our behalf. Which was a well-conceived plan, because it's difficult to be mad when you look down and see this:
To paint a clearer picture, I should elaborate on the argument. Lisa had promised to make me "seitan with potatoes and curry." But when she delivered, I was surprised to find that she was simply referring to curry powder. I contended that the dish, though delicious, could not be called "curry" because of a single ingredient. We've never actually resolved the debate, despite coming to terms with each other's positions.
We can, however, agree on one thing: on that train we were "that guy" together. As Lisa fondly recalls: "Every guy on that train was looking at us like he wanted to strangle us. And there were no women around." |
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| Bursting at the seams |
[Nov. 7th, 2008|11:57 pm] |
Whenever my mother turned on the radio, it was to listen to the news. As a result, I grew up listening to none of the music you did (aside from Weird Al Yankovic). My brother had an exquisite taste in hip hop, some of which he passed on to me, but for the most part I was forced to discover my musical tastes in college.
I have a strong sense of individualism, and this translates to a desire to find songs that nobody else is listening to. If everyone's talking about a particular song, it is a turnoff for me, even if I acknowledge that it is a work of quality.
These pursuits give me an air of pride for making my own way and the pleasure of introducing countless people to a wave of awesome tunes, but they have left me painfully ignorant of the world around me. I have mistaken Smashing Pumpkins for The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I didn't know who Johnny Cash was until a year ago. And I usually can't even tell you anything about my favorite bands, because I find their albums in bargain bins and most of them aren't famous enough to have even a wikipedia page.
I have worked at my current job for a year now. In the game room, there is a machine that blasts a digitized version of an Andean song I enjoy. Take a listen (the version I have is better, but I couldn't find it on the internet):
http://www.imeem.com/timidoprodukktionzz/music/ayRVgjqV/jorge_meza_llorando_se_fue/
When I first heard this, I was thrilled. It would only be a matter of time before I would get a chance to show that I knew this song. Then all the people who had scoffed at my lack of knowledge, who had judged me for confusing The Cure with The White Stripes, would be put in their place.
But for a year, nobody cared. Every activation of the candy machine mocked my ambitions as the melody faded beneath the noise of zombies getting their heads blown off with 12-gauge shotguns, while my coworkers strolled past in blissful disregard of their imminent comeuppance. I bode my time, clinging to my one bit of truth as I lurked in the shadows of obscurity, waiting for the time to come.
A week ago, it came during an unusually slow shift.
Carlos: Do you know the name of the song the candy machine plays?
(My eye twiches)
Me: Which candy machine are you talking about?
Carlos: Um...
Me: Here, come with me.
(Hasty escort to the game room)
Me: This one?
Carlos: I think so...
Me: Well, that's a pretty old song. The melody's been reappropriated by several cultures, but-
Carlos: I just want to hear it.
Me: (Fighting to contain my well of facts)It should be playing on its own...
Carlos: You got a game card?
Me: Yeah, here.
Carlos: This isn't working.
Me: Oh right, the employee cards don't work on anything that gives prizes.
Carlos: Damn. (Walks away)
Me: (Giving chase) Wait! It's called Llorando se-
Carlos: So, make any good tips tonight?
HOLD STILL SO I CAN BE SMARTER THAN YOU, DAMN IT!!!
Later...
Me: You know, I actually have a few different versions of that song on my computer. If you-
Carlos: What song?
Me: Llor- the candy machine song.
Carlos: Oh, that. What about it?
Me: If you give me your email address, I can send it to you.
Carlos: Nah, I don't want to go to all that trouble.
Me: It'll take fifteen seconds! I know exactly where it is on my computer! I would enjoy the privilege of sharing it with a fellow fan!
Carlos: Don't worry about it.
FUCKIN' A!!! SHIT COCK VULVA!!!
I was content to wallow in my despair, and bitch to my girlfriend about this. But today he pulled a finisher on me...
Carlos: Does anyone know what song that machine plays in the game room?
Me: YES! We had this conversation a week ago!!!
Carlos: "Luck be a lady tonight..."
Me: Huh?
Carlos: You know, that machine where you try to launch the coin at the target?
Me: You... you said the candy machine. I specifically led you to it.
Carlos: Which candy machine?
Me: The one that goes (humming Llorando se Fue).
Carlos: What's THAT?
(...)
Me: Nothing. |
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| Taking a rain check |
[Jul. 22nd, 2008|04:41 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | story time | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | Alive... but at what cost? | ] |
It's always been a fantasy of mine to take a shower in a rain storm.
Back in my college days, I devised an Ocean's 11-scale plan to achieve this outside of my dorm. Alas, the opportunity never presented itself, and I graduated with a single regret.
Last night, the sounds of falling droplets were punctuated with a sudden realization: I'm not going to be able to do this in Chicago. The Bachelor Frontier has its own back yard, which is obscured from most of the neighbors by a line of trees. And neither of the two people who could look out a window and see me would be awake at 2 AM. It was time to act; I grabbed my bath robe and a few bottles of cleaning solution, verified that my door was unlocked, and ( stepped out into the raging tempest. ) |
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| Tales from the Pub, Episode 3 |
[Mar. 22nd, 2008|10:04 pm] |
Further Clarification Needed
Zak- I told you not to drink that so fast! The bar closes in an hour.
Me- Oh shit! I need to get home tonight. I should dance it off.
…
Brad- So get up and dance!
Me- To what? This is a slow-dancing song.
Brad- So dance with the guy singing karaoke.
Zak- Hey, I know that guy. He’s a huge douche-bag.
Me- Then I should go up and snowball him.
*Looks of utter revulsion*
Snowball \ˈsnō-ˌbol\
1. n. A high school tradition which begins with one couple slow dancing until prompted to separate by the DJ. Each of them finds a new dance partner, and the dance floor continues to grow, like a snowball rolling down a hill. I wanted to keep dancing with Janeane, but the DJ called "Snowball" too quickly.
2. v. ( The author accepts no responsibility for any unwanted knowledge gained by clicking this cut. Also, eww. ) |
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| Tales from the Pub, Episode 2 |
[Mar. 21st, 2008|04:03 am] |
A new perspective
I had a little too much to drink one night, and discretion sent me home to crash on a friend’s couch. When we entered his dwelling, we were greeted by two cats.
I like cats. Cats like me. But, growing up with an allergic father and several birds, I have never owned one. Thus, I have not gotten over the novelty of having one settle upon me as I sleep. It is a wonderful feeling of communing with nature, attuning yourself to the breathing patterns of another living thing. And, lacking a girlfriend, it is nice to have something to hold once in awhile.
That changed.
Never until that night did I realize how inconsiderate and invasive cats are. They jumped on me, licked themselves violently, stepped on my crotch, and purred on my stomach, which vibrated my bladder. Then when I tried to rise for my plumbward journey, they wouldn’t move. I was sitting up at a forty-degree angle, and the damn fuzzbuzzers still held their ground.
I finally shoved them off of me, and stormed into the bathroom. I was glad I shut the door, because I could hear them pawing at it as I worked up a stream. There would be no peace for me in this life; I was their prey.
Dejected and downtrodden, I returned to the sofa. One of them jumped on my chest and settled in a fluffy lump. I stroked its head absent-mindedly, and it purred affectionately. “Well hey,” I thought. “A guy could get used to this.”
( If only life could be so easy. ) |
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| Tales from the Pub, Episode 1 |
[Mar. 20th, 2008|03:36 am] |
Birth of a Cocktail
We all got off work at about 1:30 AM, and decided to rendez-vous at a local bar. I got lost along the way… multiple times… and finally showed up during the last call for alcohol.
I wanted a drink, but I had to think hard and fast. At this stage in my life, the general ideal is not to drink the same thing twice. And in bars, the mission is to drink something I can’t make at home. These stipulations are demanding enough, but tonight there was a third rule: I needed something light because I would be needing to drive home in half an hour. And when you’re leaning against the bar, knowing you’re going to need to answer as soon as the ‘tender notices you, that’s an awful lot of pressure.
Finally, the moment of truth came:
Bartender- What’ll ya have, pal?
Me- Get me a… uh… a Blue Amaretto Sour!
…
Bartender- Huh?
Me- (More confidently) A Blue Amaretto Sour!
I take a sip. Pretty good for something that caught a bartender off guard. As I’m walking back to my posse’s table, I realize this needs a catchier name. As expected, I am put on the spot yet again:
Lori- What are you drinking?
Me- Oh, this? This is... a Blamaretto Sour.
Lori- I’ve never heard of those.
Her reaction was a good sign; I had officially invented a cocktail under pressure!
Me- Oh yeah, they’re great.
Lori- What’s in it?
Victory, that’s what. |
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| My favorite utensil |
[Mar. 12th, 2008|03:12 pm] |
I was walking past the silverware-rolling station, when I saw my co-workers gathered around laughing at something. I asked what was funny, and was shown ( this. )
Taking a closer look, I was heartily amused when I put my finger on the irregularity. But shortly thereafter, a strange sadness overtook me.
Here is a fork that can do its job just as well as any other, but it is constantly judged simply because it does not look “right.” Who is to say what’s right and wrong for a fork? This one can impale a slice of cake with the best of them; what more can you ask?
Oh Awkward Fork, I will give you a home where you will be treated with the same respect given to all of your kind. Nay, I will hold you in higher esteem, because not only are you good at your job, but you make me smile, and for this I thank you.
When it all boils down to buttons, we’re ALL awkward. It can take many forms, but we are all flawed creatures in some way or another. And when I see a hero like Awkward Fork who gets out of its napkin every day and faces the world anyway, it just warms my heart.
Take a note from Awkward Fork and go do what you really want to do. Got no rhythm? Neither do I, but I’ve had countless people tell me my dancing was the highlight of the evening, just because I commit to it. Don’t like your face? Make-up might make you prettier for a day, but no amount of make-up is as sexy as the confidence to show the world what you really look like.
Whenever you start to doubt yourself, repeat this mantra:
“I might not be the fanciest fork in the drawer, but I will get out there and stab some fuckin’ food!” |
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| Hospital III: The Escape |
[Feb. 10th, 2008|01:51 am] |
The nurse came in and told me I would be allowed to walk soon, and that I had a slightly expanded range of movement. The bladderinary urge wasn't terribly strong to begin with, so I let the issue rest until I could access a proper altar to my newfound savior.
Then I noticed the monitoring device clipped to my finger (it's like wearing a yarmulke- eventually you forget it's there). I asked my father, a doctor himself, what it was measuring. He told me it was tracking my hemoglobin, the amount of oxygen in my blood. It rated me at 97%.
Not satisfied with this, I started breathing heavily. 98%.
Then I attached it to his finger and looked expectantly at him, at which point he inhaled deeply. 99%.
Refusing to be outdone, I respirated laboriously. I heaved, I sighed, I sucked the very breath from the winds themselves.
100%! I was the victor!
Then, I had a far less productive idea. I challenged my ancestor to a lowest-hemoglobin contest. To my surprise, he accepted.
So I held my breath. But I couldn't get below 98%. My father told me the machine was on a delay. I had a suspicion he was just trying to get me to pass out so he'd have some peace and quiet, but I sealed my lungs like an iron sandwich and sure enough, it dropped to 91% long after I had been reduced to a crumpled gasping heap. Then I was seized by the ludicrosity of what we were doing, and laughed.
Now, I don't know whether you've heard me laugh or not. Chances are you think you have, but you haven't. If I emit a loud hearty bellow, I'm not fully laughing; I'm just acknowledging that whatever you said was funny, and paying my respects as such. No, when you truly get me laughing, it sounds much less dignified. I would even call it goosical. And that laugh, combined with my rapidly dropping hemoglobin, summoned a brigade of concerned nurses to my bedside. They really need to learn the difference between crying wolf and a goose's mating call.
Finally, the nurse told me I was ready to walk. She also told me I was one of her all-time favorite patients. I immediately demanded a gold star, but was informed there were none available. I also asked for her opinion on the claim I made in the censored paragraph two posts ago. In an astonishing display of good sportsmanship, she thought on it and agreed. I guess it takes a lot more than that to surprise a veteran nurse.
Slowly but surely, I rose from my bed. Obviously the toilet was the first stop, but I was told to walk at the pace of grass growing. And it was then that I learned a lesson I will carry with me for the rest of my life: the only dignified way to walk at half a kilometer per hour is to do so with your arms extended like a zombie.
When I finally got to the bathroom, I opened the door so quickly I hit the nurse with it. She understood. Then, on the way back to my bedchamber I noticed something odd.
"Why do you have your hand on my back? I can balance fine."
"The back of your gown is open. I'm making sure you don't moon the entire ward."
"Ah! Well then, carry on."
I returned to my quarters, dressed myself with the utmost of care, and then was told that I would be escorted out in a wheelchair. This time, I maintained my dignity by folding my hands like a criminal mastermind.
As I was approaching the exit, I was stopped by the voice of my nurse. She ran to catch up with us, and gave me ( this: )
Say what you want about me, but let nobody tell you I'm bad at making friends. |
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| Post-surgery adventures |
[Feb. 6th, 2008|02:49 am] |
After my surgery, I was told I had to wait around the hospital for four hours to make sure my newly-bored groin holes didn't start bleeding. I was confined to a bed and told I was not allowed to move anything other than my arms.
Most of all, I was just hungry. I knew my parents had brought food, but every time I asked them what they had, something would happen to divert our attention. This repeated five or six times: the doctor came in and gave us a fifteen-minute breakdown of the results, the nurse showed up to give us something, or they thought of something they wanted to ask me. Again, my thoughts drifted to the sandwich I had been forced to throw away the previous day, and I actually grew surprisingly depressed about it. A noble chicken gave its life to make that sandwich for our personal nourishment, and instead of honoring its sacrifice we called it "defective" and dumped it untouched into a trash can. The world can be a cruel place.
My mood was not helped when my bladder expressed a need. Forbidden from trekking to the restroom, I was given a bottle. Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to urinate laying flat on your back under sheets in a bustling hospital with your dick in an abrasively-rimmed plastic horizontal jar surrounded by delicate bandages which a nurse periodically pops in to inspect, when you're not even allowed to tilt your neck down to look at what you're doing? I bet you do now.
I turned on the TV and tuned it to the hospital's special "Relaxation Channel." Soothing music set to pictures of murky swamps with cat-tails swaying in the wind. Lives up to the name, but it was overkill; it was SO relaxing that it reminded me that I was trying to relax, which defeated the purpose. Not a drop.
Then I flipped over to Comedy Central, which happened to be airing A Daily Show. What luck! Jon Stewart is always great for a laugh, and perhaps I could piss my pants laughing even when I was unpants-ed. Unfortunately, television is less funny when you're watching it with the intention of micturating (thanks, thesaurus!). And when people poke their head in to talk to me when I'm watching something truly enjoyable, it's guaranteed to piss me off.
Luckily, on that day I found religion. Well, someone else's televised religion, at least. I came across a friar, in full monk gear, giving a sermon about a woman walking around town plucking a chicken as penance for her sins. But I was paying more attention to the gratuitous fountain in the background, and attempted to channel its spirit to flow through my tract. Just as I was starting to dribble, the nurse came in to check my bandages. Damn it.
As I was watching a montage of a growing throng of people saying what had to be sixty or seventy Hail Maries, my father entered the alcove. We decided to follow their example and pray together. What followed was a beautiful moment that can never be repeated, but I will approximate the prayer here. We alternated lines with the steadfast rapid-fire Group Mind that one-word stories yearn for.
Holy bladder, keeper of my dam
Let us enjoy your bountiful reservoir
The Lord is my hose
The Lord is my sprinkler
Go forth and cleanse this land with your yellow rain
Forsake us not in our hour of drought
Blessed is the soil fertilized by your grace
Your fruits are a heavenly treasure
Set these plastic fields awash in your love
I once was dry but now am moist
How sweet the flow within us
Let a new dawn flourish
Where all will know your name
Amen
This didn't evoke more than a few dribblies, but I feel a lot closer to my father now.
*TO BE CONTINUED* |
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| The Gritty Details |
[Feb. 5th, 2008|03:39 am] |
It just occurred to me that I never really told the story of the time I got this surgery last year. So I'm going to take prosetic license (props to my dear father for that phrase) and combine both experiences into one story.
First, let's get on the same page about exactly why I was there. Since tenth grade, my heart has possessed an affliction by the name of Supraventricular Tachycardia (or P.A.T.'s for short). My heart would just randomly start beating between 180 and 225 times per minute. There was a sort of logic to when it would happen; usually sudden movements that jarred my system, like a spontaneous change of direction or that time I failed to climb Clawson Hall. It was more annoying than it was dangerous; sort of like my heart was shouting "HEY! HEY! HEY!" every time it beat. That, or kicking me in the ribs, depending on the severity of the episode. Either way, the two most common starting times were during fencing matches and improv warmups, so this had to stop.
This procedure answered to the name of "ablation." They stuck a catheter in each side of my groin (don't worry, they didn't invade the capital), threaded them through my veins, and started sending electricity through me to figure out where these were happening. Then, when they fingered the perp, they burned the irregular pathway. Ice cold.
They told me I couldn't eat or drink anything after midnight last night, I guess because their malpractice insurance didn't cover gremlins. So I showed up at 6 in the morning, hungry and thirsty, less worried about the surgery than I was pissed off that my manager didn't let me eat that sandwich that a customer sent back yesterday. They asked me my date of birth, and I'm pretty sure that instead of saying "December" or "Twelve," I told them "Noon." It was that kind of day.
The very first thing I learned about hospitals was that as soon as a nurse is done with a tool, they just plop it down on your stomach. One of them was just flagrantly dropping stuff on me, and something heavy landed uncomfortably close to my male vulnerability. I don't recall signing a waiver saying "I hereby give my consent to be used as a table." But I guess it was pretty early in the morning, so anything's possible.
( *Paragraph Censored: Too Much Information* )
Then they sedated me. They wanted to keep me awake, though, so that it would be easier to start a PAT. My father recognized the anesthesia they were using, and told me that it had inspired him to say some really weird shit to his proctologist. Unfortunately, I was a rather unremarkable patient, outside of asking one of the (male) nurses to scratch "the bottom edge of my left testicle" during a time when I wasn't allowed to move my arms. Honestly, though, I probably would have done that sober; not like they hadn't been manhandling me all day, right? Alas, he declined to aid me.
They must have started and stopped a hundred PAT's. That wasn't too bad, because PAT's end as suddenly as they begin, with a thump followed by a rush of endorphins. I could have done without the burning, though.
Then, the doctor came and announced the verdict to us. He asserted that the first operation had been a success, but that there had been more than one trouiblesome pathway. And this second passageway was somewhere he had never seen in the thousands of ablations he had done. Somewhere he'd never even read it was possible to have an arrhythmia. I'm probably going to wind up in a medical journal somewhere, because even my medical conditions have to be completely different from everyone else's. Unfortunately, this time he admitted to having no idea whether they'd come back. He explained that they sent electricity through every possible place and couldn't start another PAT, but there was still no guarantee. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of my heart for being a rugged individualist, but for once in my life it would have been nice to conform.
Okay, this one's way too long already, so I'm going to post it now that I've given you the details you were expecting to hear. But trust me, I'm just getting started. |
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| Way of the Tray, Part II: Going the Distance |
[Dec. 14th, 2007|02:38 am] |
I was waiting on a table who told me it was their anniversary, and asked me to sing. I told them I'd see what I could do, but promised nothing.
All throughout their meal, I thought about it. I don't like singing for birthdays; it's the worst kind of performance, one that involves doing exactly what is expected with no surprises, and it makes me feel like I'm grovelling for a tip. Plus, the servers at Dave & Buster's have a code against it, because if we sing for one person we'll have to sing for everyone. But this was different. As far as I know, there isn't an anniversary song, so this was an opportunity to break new ground!
Unfortunately, I didn't have time to write a song, and I can't freestyle without a beat. So I decided to make them a card. I grabbed a to-go box, flattened it, decorated it, and had eight co-workers sign it.
Then I folded it so that when I placed it on the table, they saw ( this... )
...and when they unfolded it, they saw ( this. )
They left me a hefty sum.
Moral of the story: take that extra leap to make your customers happy. But don't do it out of greed, and don't do it to get attention; do it because there's not a feeling in the world quite like knowing you just got paid to ( click the damn cuts already! )
And isn't that what's really important in life? |
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| The Most Sacred Tradition |
[Nov. 27th, 2007|11:26 pm] |
As far as Jewish prayers go, you can't get much higher than the Shema (say it with me: "Shuh-mah"). Since my elementary school days, my father and I have been saying it together every night before bed. To be honest, I've kind of forgotten what it means- something about there being only one God, I think. Which is probably a healthy thing for us Jews to tell ourselves every night, because we have an entire book filled with nothing but thousands of different names to call this one entity. Kind of lends itself to confusion.
The first time we tried to say the Shema together, we ran into a problem: we were supposed to wear yarmulkes during the prayer, but we only had one. So my dad house-ruled that we could use our hands to cover our heads, but not our own heads; I had to cover his, he had to cover mine. Years later, I accidentally stole a yarmulke from a funeral (I thought we were supposed to keep them!), but by then the tradition had an unstoppable momentum.
One night, we decided to mix things up a little by covering our heads with CDs. And this forever changed our nighttime ritual. From then on, we searched for a new set of objects every night. And we didn't cop out on this challenge, either; once we used one pair of Compacted Discotapes, all other Compacted Discotapes were off limits. It had to be an original idea every night, or God would be mad at us.
Over the years, as we exhausted every typical household object, our creativity was pushed to the limits. Needless to say, this ritual now has little if anything to do with religious observance; it's become a father-son bonding experience as we search the house and argue about whether or not we've already used this or that. We then try to balance the objects atop our crania, get through the prayer without laughing or dropping them, and after the "amen" we fling our heads downward and catch our fauxmulkes in our hands in perfect synchronization.
( Gallery ) |
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| Unintended consequences |
[Oct. 17th, 2007|11:20 pm] |
When I absolutely have to drive and can't find a better car to borrow, I entrust my life to a mid-1990's Lincoln Mercury. The radio doesn't work, the air conditioning is broken, the vents blow putrid gusts of evaporated misery, the windows don't open without an epic but awkwardly-positioned struggle, and the automatic locking system goes haywire with every press of the button with no pattern as to what portal is sealed or unsealed (except for one door, which is permanently intruder-friendly). There's also a wasps' nest in the driver-side door; the wasps are gone, but they left it there to remind me that they can get me whenever they want.
Some time ago, I started smelling gasoline on the way home, and noticed a trail of drippies in a neat little line down the driveway. As I was noticing this, my father pulled in with a caravan of his friends, having finished their comradery for the evening and coming back to rendez-vous with their respective cars. They all jumped at the chance to talk about cars (yes, I know I'm androgynous. Shut up), and together they deduced that I had a leaking fuel line.
Much too late at night for a trip to the mechanic, they decided to put some cardboard under the leak for the night to... protect the driveway or something. Anyway, my dad went into the basement and produced the largest slab he could find. Upon, seeing it, I cried out
"But that's my favorite box!!!"
They laughed uproariously, told me I had inherited my father's wit, and that I was now officially welcome to hang out with them anytime I wanted.
I was too busy basking in their admiration to tell them I was serious. |
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| Racial maneuvering |
[Sep. 30th, 2007|11:32 pm] |
I spent last night in Oxford at a friend's apartment. He introduced me to his roommate from India (and no, I couldn't just say "Indian roommate" because that would have been confusing. Thanks for nothing, Christopher Columbus). We got off on the right foot- she had just been arguing with a homophobe, and one of the first things she asked me was
"Are you racist?"
And that's always a tough one, because as a general rule, the harder a person tries not to look racist, the more racist that person inevitably looks (oddly enough, the same is true for convincing people you're straight- a skill I've had to hone for years given my odd taste in fashion and general mannerisms). So I went with this:
"Not that I know of, no. I mean, we've all got expectations we put on people based on appearances, but..."
That was good enough for her. And then I learned an inalienable truth of life: the best way to get along with foreigners is to make fun of your own country. Observe:
Anushree: Americans are so nice.
Me: Yeah, but in a patronizing sort of way. We'll go up to a black girl and say "I love your hair! You are SO articulate!"
To all of the people who put The Boondocks on television... THANK YOU. Honorable mention to These folks. That's called "citing sources," Carlos. And Dane.
Anyway, I needed this head start, because soon enough I was introduced to a pair of gentlemen from Sri Lanka and Pakistan (and I don't just mean heritage- they were all born and raised in their respective countries). My host also being full-blown Sri Lankan, and with a Kenyan fellow on his way, it suddenly hit me:
...I'm the only white guy here.
...I'm the only American here.
...I'M A MINORITY!!!
They realized this too, and wasted no time seizing the opportunity. A little Bombay Sapphire goes a long way, and soon somebody dug out a cowboy hat and put it on my head. This, of course, meant all bets were off.
"YEE-HAW! Let's crack open a Bud and watch cars drive in a circle!"
But of course, I couldn't let them have all the fun:
Agha: Isn't that right, Bob?
Me: Okay, you call me "Bob" more time and your name is Habib for the rest of the night!
A bottle of Malibu later, they started insulting me in their native languages. I had to resort to Yiddish, but they weren't impressed with "shmuck," so the best I could muster was "Schlemiel," which I've always been told is the guy who spills the soup.
And then, the most touching moment of the night:
Agha: (disparaging comment about Americans)
Anushree: Don't say that around him, he's an American! Just kidding, he's a Jew.
Yes, I talk highly of myself here, but trust me, you weren't there for the incredible struggle they underwent teaching me how to pronounce Indian words, or how I had to ask one of the guys to repeat himself EVERY TIME because I just couldn't deal with his accent.
( P.S. Possibly the best meal I've ever eaten ) |
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| Just my luck |
[Aug. 7th, 2007|03:13 am] |
Saturday night, my host was putting up guests other than me. Thus, I was sleeping on the floor in the same room as two other gentlemen.
As the evening's hurrahs died down, I excused myself to do repulsive things to the toilet. When I emerged, however, I found that they were both sound asleep, even though I had not unpacked the devices necessary for my nighttime routine. Thus, I had to play a game of Infiltrate the Bedroom, a nostalgic throwback to the 3.5 years I spent rooming with an Early Girlie (which is like an Early Burly, only less macho) who was always asleep when I got home.
I crept through the darkness, and, finding a way to open my luggage without sending a telltale zipper sound slicing through the calm nighttime air, found a tool I had cleverly packed for just such an occasion- a flashlight the size of a pen, with a red lens (meaning it was duller, less conspicuous, and wouldn't destroy my nightvision). I then grabbed everything I needed to prepare myself for slumber.
Except for my medicine, which I couldn't find for the life of me. It helps me sleep, so skipping it would prove to be a hassle. Thus, I was forced to illuminate the situation. One by one, I dragged my bags into the bathroom and turned the light on (after closing the door, because the light and fan were annoyingly connected to the same switch).
At some point past 2 AM, after at least thirty minutes of searching, I found my bottle, popped a tiny little beauty, and relaxed into my improvised bedding adjacent to two still-soundly-asleep friends, confident in a job well done.
Literally no more than three seconds later, a car screeched to a halt right outside the window and released an extended bellow on its horn. They both shot up out of bed.
I'm sure this story has symbolism out the ass, but it's probably all horribly depressing. |
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| I'm at a loss here... |
[Jun. 5th, 2007|03:11 pm] |
Okay people, I've got something to ask you all. But first, let me set the situation up:
So I found myself taking a bus to Columbus, at a loss for what to read along the way. I don't have much in the way of book income; most of my books have been in my possession for years and been read several times. Mostly because I default to interacting with people (and rarely travel alone), and most of my literary intake comes from websites.
And from what books I had available, I gave consideration to the implications of being seen reading them in public. For example, I ruled out anything pertaining to ninja, because I feel that it would be disrespectful to publically study what was traditionally a secret art.
When it seemed like I was totally at a loss, I remembered something: an essay a professor had given to me, that I never got a chance to read. Interesting, new, scholarly appearance... success! I excitedly anticipated the bus ride.
But what I didn't consider was that the bus station was in Over the Rhine. So the bus was 90% black people, and my selected reading material was called The Black Body as Souvenir in American Lynching.
Yes, that's right. I'm one of two white guys on the whole bus, and I'm reading about how after their ancestors were publicly tortured, humiliated, hung, and burned on bogus charges, MY ancestors would race to be the first to cut off what was left of their dick to keep for a good luck charm.
Mercifully, nobody was sitting next to me. I'll file that under "God, case for the existence of."
Am I the only person in the world who gets into these kinds of situations?
And no, Larry David doesn't count. |
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| Ninjadventure |
[May. 7th, 2007|01:26 am] |
Yesterday I was walking home after graduating (!!!), when I saw an easy way to get on top of a roof. But I was wearing a cap, gown, and fragile pants, had my hands full, and was being watched. So I came back at 2 AM, after righting these wrongs.
The rooftop was mine for the taking! I sat up there for a few minutes. There was a heckuva view- an entire stadium and park spread out for my exploratory pleasure. But I had seen a few graveyard shifters going about their business and didn't want to stay too long. Plus, I was cutting a wicked silhouette up there, so I hopped a railing and lay parallel to some shadows to plot my next move.
Suddenly I heard scraping and impact sounds from around the corner. Someone had followed me! Whoever it was, he or she was certainly not concerned about stealth, which meant this person probably had a better reason for being here than I did.
I pulled out my cell phone and put it on silent- err, "Ninja Mode"- just in case my digits were to gain uncharacteristic popularity at this most inopportune moment, and awaited the appearance of my pursuer.
...
Nothing. I got up to peek.
The movement continued! I hastily returned to my hiding spot.
I must have lain there for twenty minutes, the noises continuing intermittently. Finally, after an extended hush, I devised three possible explanations:
-Someone came to investigate, but left.
-A cop was camped out waiting to get me, in which case I was as good as caught.
-This other person did not want to be found, meaning we'd have no room to criticize one another.
So I cautiously emerged from my cover. Relieved to find nobody, but thoroughly alarmed and ready to head home, on my way out I heard the noise again and saw ( who was making it. ) |
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