Wednesday, June 20, 2007
TELL ME WHERE TO GO
The weather woman on TV the other day made a smug point of letting us all know that Summer doesn’t officially start until Thursday, despite all the recent soaring temperatures and the old familiar stench in the subways and the perspiration that coats you as you trudge up the block to the grocery store. If this isn’t Summer then what would you call it? I can only describe this particular meteorologist as “prissy”.
My co-worker hasn’t shown up to the office for days now. I have some theories:
1) Being slowly and loudly stomped out on a balcony somewhere in Midtown by Busta Rhymes et al. The reason no one hears is because we’re all glued to our iPods, Blackberries, Bluetooth headsets. We’re running out of time.
2) Being showered with gold coins by Persian heart-stoppers on a yacht off the coast of Long Island. Far off the coast. So far you can’t get TV reception should you want to plug an antenna into an old Magnavox down in the cabin and doze off in the afternoon. Think of all that beautiful blue water.
3) Doing a Thriller-type dance with several dozen strangers down the middle of East 20th Street. Or Walking Like An Egyptian with a menagerie of NYC types in tow: ConEd workers, cops, MTA bus drivers, construction workers, secretaries. I just realized that this reference is lost on anyone born after the year 1988. Fuck you.
4) Wearing wrap-around shades with super-jacked black guys in some trendy all-hours New Wave nightspot south of Houston Street, with a fog machine billowing in the background. I am a psychic; I tried whispering to a dog once and the damn thing turned around and bit me on the goddamn face.
Ok, so Summer is technically around the corner, what’s a boy to do? These are quite possibly shaping up to be the most boring years of my life. Someone at my subway stop has started writing things on the walls, phrases such as “smile, it’s a pizza party” and “feminist ringtones”. This person is so similar to me, I would imagine, that I can’t definitively rule out that I’ve been sleepwalking down to the station in the middle of the night. I did, however, leap out of bed last night at 3 a.m. and mumble something to myself about having “set the wrong alarm.” I think we’re living in end times.
Maybe it’s just the weather. This weather has no soul. It’s like some dumb blind kid (I can make fun of the blind on here cuz, you know, how are they gonna find out?) trying to make delicious country bread and he keeps grabbing paprika instead of salt and Gatorade instead of milk. So we’re left with a dish that doesn’t taste right—rain without the cool breeze to accompany it, sunny days that just sort of stifle you with wan light and sky the color of coconut slivers.
I complain too much. So here is a sampling of things I really enjoy:
Peanuts (the comic and the legume), Big Red Gum (about once every 10 years), Corbin Bernsen (I saw him on a rerun of Seinfeld last night), Goblin Bernsen (long lost brother of the aforementioned), “Handsome” Dick Lamborghini, Cole Hamels, Cole Slaw (psych), Precious Cats, the list goes on and on. Life is all about perspective.
The weather woman on TV the other day made a smug point of letting us all know that Summer doesn’t officially start until Thursday, despite all the recent soaring temperatures and the old familiar stench in the subways and the perspiration that coats you as you trudge up the block to the grocery store. If this isn’t Summer then what would you call it? I can only describe this particular meteorologist as “prissy”.My co-worker hasn’t shown up to the office for days now. I have some theories:
1) Being slowly and loudly stomped out on a balcony somewhere in Midtown by Busta Rhymes et al. The reason no one hears is because we’re all glued to our iPods, Blackberries, Bluetooth headsets. We’re running out of time.
2) Being showered with gold coins by Persian heart-stoppers on a yacht off the coast of Long Island. Far off the coast. So far you can’t get TV reception should you want to plug an antenna into an old Magnavox down in the cabin and doze off in the afternoon. Think of all that beautiful blue water.
3) Doing a Thriller-type dance with several dozen strangers down the middle of East 20th Street. Or Walking Like An Egyptian with a menagerie of NYC types in tow: ConEd workers, cops, MTA bus drivers, construction workers, secretaries. I just realized that this reference is lost on anyone born after the year 1988. Fuck you.
4) Wearing wrap-around shades with super-jacked black guys in some trendy all-hours New Wave nightspot south of Houston Street, with a fog machine billowing in the background. I am a psychic; I tried whispering to a dog once and the damn thing turned around and bit me on the goddamn face.
Ok, so Summer is technically around the corner, what’s a boy to do? These are quite possibly shaping up to be the most boring years of my life. Someone at my subway stop has started writing things on the walls, phrases such as “smile, it’s a pizza party” and “feminist ringtones”. This person is so similar to me, I would imagine, that I can’t definitively rule out that I’ve been sleepwalking down to the station in the middle of the night. I did, however, leap out of bed last night at 3 a.m. and mumble something to myself about having “set the wrong alarm.” I think we’re living in end times.
Maybe it’s just the weather. This weather has no soul. It’s like some dumb blind kid (I can make fun of the blind on here cuz, you know, how are they gonna find out?) trying to make delicious country bread and he keeps grabbing paprika instead of salt and Gatorade instead of milk. So we’re left with a dish that doesn’t taste right—rain without the cool breeze to accompany it, sunny days that just sort of stifle you with wan light and sky the color of coconut slivers.
I complain too much. So here is a sampling of things I really enjoy:
Peanuts (the comic and the legume), Big Red Gum (about once every 10 years), Corbin Bernsen (I saw him on a rerun of Seinfeld last night), Goblin Bernsen (long lost brother of the aforementioned), “Handsome” Dick Lamborghini, Cole Hamels, Cole Slaw (psych), Precious Cats, the list goes on and on. Life is all about perspective.
