Thursday, September 23, 2004
In A Large Apartment Building
Day One: I’ve found it uncomfortable to be in the elevators with some of the older, more affluent residents. They see me in my sweat-stained Knicks t-shirt, holding a plastic bag of groceries, and I believe they think I’m a delivery boy. Boy, would my grandfather be upset if he knew I moved to the city and paid $1500 a month to have people think I was a delivery boy.
Day Twelve: I think the neighbors upstairs are playing Shinobi. I’m not sure, because I can’t really remember what the sound effects in that game were like (I didn’t even have a Sega) but I keep hearing faint electronic bloops and beeps and every once in a while, a man and woman will shout something that sounds like SHIN OHHH BEEEE!
Day Eighteen: I peed down the trash chute last night. I was real drunk.
Day Thirty-Seven: I’ve found it uncomfortable to properly air guitar in the elevators around some of the older, more affluent residents. Today I had a rough day at work, and as I was busting out the fat crunching solo of an Engine Down song playing on my iPod, a few of them looked at me as if I was an indie rock guitarist. Boy, would my mailman be miffed if he knew I moved into this huge luxury high rise only to have people think I was some ax man who toured around in a van.
Day Forty: Today I was riding in Hutchinson’s car with his sister, on our way back from this terrible wedding upstate (the groom wore a bulletproof vest). I was taking a shine to his sister and we had a rather pleasant, slightly flirtatious conversation for most of the ride. That is, until we crested the Throgs Neck Bridge and I casually pointed out my apartment building, whose rooftop was visible on the horizon. Later I asked a bunch of doctors, and they said they couldn’t believe the mere sight of a building could cause someone to vomit. I agreed, until Dr. Arenstein happened to ask which building I was referring to anyway, and I told him, and he spewed all over my loafers. I was then faced with asking doctors how the mere mention of a building could make one physically ill.
Day Sixty: It’s definitely Shinobi they’re playing up there. I found a throwing star in the laundry room this morning. They may be obsessed.
Day Sixty-One: I peed on the Edelsteins’ Cocker Spaniel last night. I was real drunk. Note to self: buy the Edelsteins a gift basket from Zabar’s.
Day Seventy-Nine: It’s been more than two weeks since I peed on the dog in a drunken rage, and while it was bad (I mean, I really let it all hang out on that dog; I was blasting pee all over its snout) it was a silly mistake, and totally not on purpose. Which is all the more frustrating that someone spray-painted “HUNGRY DAWG” across my door. I’m not convinced that one of the Edelsteins did this; the can control is too good for a bunch of old Jews. Hell, I’m not even sure what it even means. Maybe a Jewish thing?
Day Eighty-Six: I ventured up to the building’s rooftop sun deck today to catch some rays. It was nice until I had an unpleasant experience with some birds. I asked around to some ornithologists, and they all told me that it is possible for migratory geese to break from formation en masse and communally defecate on one person. I was not aware.
Day Ninety-Four: I’ve found that some of the older, more prissy residents of the building don’t appreciate my self-appointed status of “Supreme Ornithologist.” I find this distressing. I didn’t even know what the word meant until the incident on the roof deck with the geese, and since then I’ve read up a lot on birds! Some people just don’t like Beak Talk much, I guess. Their loss.
Day One Hundred: Tonight I just couldn’t take it anymore. They were getting so damned loud with their Shinobi playing that I started banging on the ceiling with a broom handle and shouting “haven’t you people ever heard of love making?” Later that evening, there was a knock at my door, but when I went to answer it, all I found was a shrink-wrapped copy of “Tenchu: Stealth Assassin” for the PlayStation. Very strange.
Day One Hundred and One: I’m beginning to think this place isn’t for me. I have begun perusing the classified ads.
Day One Hundred and Forty Six: I finally let my roommate out of the closet. I figured he’d been punished long enough for using my ice cube tray. Didn’t take the handcuffs off, though. He’ll stay chained to the radiator until he learns to also respect my can opener.
Day One Hundred and Fifty Two: I peed into a dolphin’s blowhole last night, but it wasn’t in my building. I’m on vacation at Sea World. I got a little too drunk on “Mermaid Margaritas,” I guess.
Day One Hundred and Fifty Seven: I saw the Shinobi couple in the laundry room. I pulled out the throwing star I found and tossed it at the wife, saying “next time why don’t you leave your luscious panties in the machine instead?” in a real sarcastic way, too, so she knew I didn’t appreciate their filthy obsession intruding on the lives of the other tenants.
Day One Hundred and Sixty: I’m beginning to think none of the residents appreciate it when I parade up and down the halls of the building wearing the bloodied, skinned carcass of a dolphin, loudly humming the theme song to Shinobi. Bunch of hypocrites. They think they’re so high and mighty because they’ve lived in luxury for the past decades, and I’ve barely been here half a year. They think they can cast judgment just because I have a thoroughly disgusting habit of peeing in completely inappropriate places when drunk? They rub it in my face that they can forgo sex for mutual appreciation of early 90s 16-bit video games? Well, I’ll show all of them. I’ll get my revenge in the best way. I’ll become one of them. I’ll quit drinking, I’ll play Sega Genesis until my balls fall off, and I’ll buy a small froofy dog and NOT pee on it. Ever. They’ll see I’m just like them, and it’ll drive them mad that they don’t have little old new guy to push around anymore. I’m just as good as them, they’ll see.
Day One Hundred and Sixty One: I said ‘fuck it’ and just set the building on fire. I think the Shinobi couple might have died of smoke inhalation. Either way, my roommate died. I made sure to bludgeon him with my garlic press. That’ll teach him to use it with the wrong grip.
Day One: I’ve found it uncomfortable to be in the elevators with some of the older, more affluent residents. They see me in my sweat-stained Knicks t-shirt, holding a plastic bag of groceries, and I believe they think I’m a delivery boy. Boy, would my grandfather be upset if he knew I moved to the city and paid $1500 a month to have people think I was a delivery boy.
Day Twelve: I think the neighbors upstairs are playing Shinobi. I’m not sure, because I can’t really remember what the sound effects in that game were like (I didn’t even have a Sega) but I keep hearing faint electronic bloops and beeps and every once in a while, a man and woman will shout something that sounds like SHIN OHHH BEEEE!
Day Eighteen: I peed down the trash chute last night. I was real drunk.
Day Thirty-Seven: I’ve found it uncomfortable to properly air guitar in the elevators around some of the older, more affluent residents. Today I had a rough day at work, and as I was busting out the fat crunching solo of an Engine Down song playing on my iPod, a few of them looked at me as if I was an indie rock guitarist. Boy, would my mailman be miffed if he knew I moved into this huge luxury high rise only to have people think I was some ax man who toured around in a van.
Day Forty: Today I was riding in Hutchinson’s car with his sister, on our way back from this terrible wedding upstate (the groom wore a bulletproof vest). I was taking a shine to his sister and we had a rather pleasant, slightly flirtatious conversation for most of the ride. That is, until we crested the Throgs Neck Bridge and I casually pointed out my apartment building, whose rooftop was visible on the horizon. Later I asked a bunch of doctors, and they said they couldn’t believe the mere sight of a building could cause someone to vomit. I agreed, until Dr. Arenstein happened to ask which building I was referring to anyway, and I told him, and he spewed all over my loafers. I was then faced with asking doctors how the mere mention of a building could make one physically ill.
Day Sixty: It’s definitely Shinobi they’re playing up there. I found a throwing star in the laundry room this morning. They may be obsessed.
Day Sixty-One: I peed on the Edelsteins’ Cocker Spaniel last night. I was real drunk. Note to self: buy the Edelsteins a gift basket from Zabar’s.
Day Seventy-Nine: It’s been more than two weeks since I peed on the dog in a drunken rage, and while it was bad (I mean, I really let it all hang out on that dog; I was blasting pee all over its snout) it was a silly mistake, and totally not on purpose. Which is all the more frustrating that someone spray-painted “HUNGRY DAWG” across my door. I’m not convinced that one of the Edelsteins did this; the can control is too good for a bunch of old Jews. Hell, I’m not even sure what it even means. Maybe a Jewish thing?
Day Eighty-Six: I ventured up to the building’s rooftop sun deck today to catch some rays. It was nice until I had an unpleasant experience with some birds. I asked around to some ornithologists, and they all told me that it is possible for migratory geese to break from formation en masse and communally defecate on one person. I was not aware.
Day Ninety-Four: I’ve found that some of the older, more prissy residents of the building don’t appreciate my self-appointed status of “Supreme Ornithologist.” I find this distressing. I didn’t even know what the word meant until the incident on the roof deck with the geese, and since then I’ve read up a lot on birds! Some people just don’t like Beak Talk much, I guess. Their loss.
Day One Hundred: Tonight I just couldn’t take it anymore. They were getting so damned loud with their Shinobi playing that I started banging on the ceiling with a broom handle and shouting “haven’t you people ever heard of love making?” Later that evening, there was a knock at my door, but when I went to answer it, all I found was a shrink-wrapped copy of “Tenchu: Stealth Assassin” for the PlayStation. Very strange.
Day One Hundred and One: I’m beginning to think this place isn’t for me. I have begun perusing the classified ads.
Day One Hundred and Forty Six: I finally let my roommate out of the closet. I figured he’d been punished long enough for using my ice cube tray. Didn’t take the handcuffs off, though. He’ll stay chained to the radiator until he learns to also respect my can opener.
Day One Hundred and Fifty Two: I peed into a dolphin’s blowhole last night, but it wasn’t in my building. I’m on vacation at Sea World. I got a little too drunk on “Mermaid Margaritas,” I guess.
Day One Hundred and Fifty Seven: I saw the Shinobi couple in the laundry room. I pulled out the throwing star I found and tossed it at the wife, saying “next time why don’t you leave your luscious panties in the machine instead?” in a real sarcastic way, too, so she knew I didn’t appreciate their filthy obsession intruding on the lives of the other tenants.
Day One Hundred and Sixty: I’m beginning to think none of the residents appreciate it when I parade up and down the halls of the building wearing the bloodied, skinned carcass of a dolphin, loudly humming the theme song to Shinobi. Bunch of hypocrites. They think they’re so high and mighty because they’ve lived in luxury for the past decades, and I’ve barely been here half a year. They think they can cast judgment just because I have a thoroughly disgusting habit of peeing in completely inappropriate places when drunk? They rub it in my face that they can forgo sex for mutual appreciation of early 90s 16-bit video games? Well, I’ll show all of them. I’ll get my revenge in the best way. I’ll become one of them. I’ll quit drinking, I’ll play Sega Genesis until my balls fall off, and I’ll buy a small froofy dog and NOT pee on it. Ever. They’ll see I’m just like them, and it’ll drive them mad that they don’t have little old new guy to push around anymore. I’m just as good as them, they’ll see.
Day One Hundred and Sixty One: I said ‘fuck it’ and just set the building on fire. I think the Shinobi couple might have died of smoke inhalation. Either way, my roommate died. I made sure to bludgeon him with my garlic press. That’ll teach him to use it with the wrong grip.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
WHAT'S A GUY GOT TO DO?
To get a fucking slab of beef in this bitch? Ask Beth.
To see one sea lion, so that I can show it to my son, so he can take a picture, and maybe we can salvage one measly afternoon of this otherwise terrible trip to Sea World? It’s funny you ask this, sir. Quite recently, I was at my job, and for one reason or another (let’s not split hairs) I was called upon to watch a 30 minute promotional video for Sea World. The video itself was a raw edit and thus did not contain any dialogue or narration—merely natural sound and footage of whales leaping into each other and giggling, satiated rednecks clapping mindlessly whilst hearing Limp Bizkit piped through the cacophonous sound system. After viewing the video, I sat back dazed and found myself realizing that SEA WORLD FUCKING BLOWS AND YOU’D BE BETTER OFF SPENDING A SUMMER AT ARBY’S. HELL, AT LEAST THEN YOU’D PROBABLY GET TO EAT KILLER WHALE, GOD ONLY KNOWS WHAT IT IS THEY PUT IN THOSE GODDAMNED CHICKEN FINGERS, THEY’RE SO DAMNED ADDICTIVE. OH MAN I GOTTA HAVE SOME RIGHT NOW.
To get some mother fucking Arby’s in this city? Good question. I have a feeling there’d be one on Staten Island, but what the hell do I know about Staten Island? I hear there’s a bunch of trombone blowers out that way, if you dig what I am saying to you.
To properly do my laundry without shrinking it? Ah, I was baffled by this for many years. It turns out that it isn’t how you wash the clothes that could shrink them, it’s how you DRY them. My old roommate was shocked that I didn’t know this, but for some reason he wasn’t shocked to find that I don’t have a SOPPY WET VAGINA LEAKING PUTRID PINK POSIES. Because, you know, girls do laundry.
To get you to stop cursing, or WRITING ALL IN CAPS. Not a whole hell of a lot. First, send a SASE to Please Stop Writing In All Caps, 32-63 35th Street, 3rd Floor, Astoria, NY 11106. Include a dollar and I’ll send you a written apology, because I do in fact care. I don’t mean to write in all caps a lot, and yes, I do realized it’s considered “screaming,” but that’s precisely why I use it. I’ve always found that exclamation points and I don’t get along, and that italics are more for emphasis, such as “I took a shit and the turd was like this long, man.” As for the cursing, kindly go fuck yourself, hoss.
To unlock the 15th level in Gaiden World IV, after you defeat the master dragon and you have the Amulet of Arrhythmia, but before you enter Komanji’s Lair and the Cyclops nears and disables your chainswing spell? Gosh, I don’t know. Try fiddling with your choad until I can really, really feel it.
To get you to answer my question? That’s simple. Ask me via e-mail at thisisdepression@hotmail.com . Guys and Girls are both welcome, of course.
To get a fucking slab of beef in this bitch? Ask Beth.
To see one sea lion, so that I can show it to my son, so he can take a picture, and maybe we can salvage one measly afternoon of this otherwise terrible trip to Sea World? It’s funny you ask this, sir. Quite recently, I was at my job, and for one reason or another (let’s not split hairs) I was called upon to watch a 30 minute promotional video for Sea World. The video itself was a raw edit and thus did not contain any dialogue or narration—merely natural sound and footage of whales leaping into each other and giggling, satiated rednecks clapping mindlessly whilst hearing Limp Bizkit piped through the cacophonous sound system. After viewing the video, I sat back dazed and found myself realizing that SEA WORLD FUCKING BLOWS AND YOU’D BE BETTER OFF SPENDING A SUMMER AT ARBY’S. HELL, AT LEAST THEN YOU’D PROBABLY GET TO EAT KILLER WHALE, GOD ONLY KNOWS WHAT IT IS THEY PUT IN THOSE GODDAMNED CHICKEN FINGERS, THEY’RE SO DAMNED ADDICTIVE. OH MAN I GOTTA HAVE SOME RIGHT NOW.
To get some mother fucking Arby’s in this city? Good question. I have a feeling there’d be one on Staten Island, but what the hell do I know about Staten Island? I hear there’s a bunch of trombone blowers out that way, if you dig what I am saying to you.
To properly do my laundry without shrinking it? Ah, I was baffled by this for many years. It turns out that it isn’t how you wash the clothes that could shrink them, it’s how you DRY them. My old roommate was shocked that I didn’t know this, but for some reason he wasn’t shocked to find that I don’t have a SOPPY WET VAGINA LEAKING PUTRID PINK POSIES. Because, you know, girls do laundry.
To get you to stop cursing, or WRITING ALL IN CAPS. Not a whole hell of a lot. First, send a SASE to Please Stop Writing In All Caps, 32-63 35th Street, 3rd Floor, Astoria, NY 11106. Include a dollar and I’ll send you a written apology, because I do in fact care. I don’t mean to write in all caps a lot, and yes, I do realized it’s considered “screaming,” but that’s precisely why I use it. I’ve always found that exclamation points and I don’t get along, and that italics are more for emphasis, such as “I took a shit and the turd was like this long, man.” As for the cursing, kindly go fuck yourself, hoss.
To unlock the 15th level in Gaiden World IV, after you defeat the master dragon and you have the Amulet of Arrhythmia, but before you enter Komanji’s Lair and the Cyclops nears and disables your chainswing spell? Gosh, I don’t know. Try fiddling with your choad until I can really, really feel it.
To get you to answer my question? That’s simple. Ask me via e-mail at thisisdepression@hotmail.com . Guys and Girls are both welcome, of course.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
HIATUS
Just want to thank everyone who continually checks out this website. You are inspiration to keep working.
The site will be down soon for a bit until a little re-design can be accomplished.
New content will be posted, old stuff taken down, for the most part.
Sorry for the lack of updates, life has been quite busy.
Also, a decision has been made to never do print editions of TID again. It worked in Greensboro (sort of) but it just don't work here in New York City. Too many people, not enough money.
If you'd like a back print issue of TID, I have copies of the three that made it out of a xerox machine. The first is full-size 8.5 x 11 and has probably the stupidest shit I've ever written in it. The other two are what they are, I suppose.
E-mail thisisdepression(at)hotmail.com or write me and I'll send you what you want, gratis:
This Is Depression Super-Secret Lair
32-63 35th Street, 3rd Floor
Astoria, NY 11106
USA
Once again, thanks!
Just want to thank everyone who continually checks out this website. You are inspiration to keep working.
The site will be down soon for a bit until a little re-design can be accomplished.
New content will be posted, old stuff taken down, for the most part.
Sorry for the lack of updates, life has been quite busy.
Also, a decision has been made to never do print editions of TID again. It worked in Greensboro (sort of) but it just don't work here in New York City. Too many people, not enough money.
If you'd like a back print issue of TID, I have copies of the three that made it out of a xerox machine. The first is full-size 8.5 x 11 and has probably the stupidest shit I've ever written in it. The other two are what they are, I suppose.
E-mail thisisdepression(at)hotmail.com or write me and I'll send you what you want, gratis:
This Is Depression Super-Secret Lair
32-63 35th Street, 3rd Floor
Astoria, NY 11106
USA
Once again, thanks!
