August 31st, 2006


The Severed Foot is the Ultimate Stocking Stuffer

The one thing I enjoy more than anything else about not having a television: you have to get REAL creative to decide what to do with the time you would've spent watching "Yes Dear" or "30 Minute Meals with Rachael Ray". Today, I found out what my beard would look like all puffed-out Amish-Style, I read about the next Timothy Leary in this month's Rolling Stone, and I flushed out three or four potentially good characters for the novel I'm going to write next month.

The idea is simple: Write a 175-page novel in 30 days, or about 6 pages a day. It's not a contest so much as a state of mind. The website condoning such behavior says it's about Quantity, not Quality. I have the characters I want more or less ready, in the can, good to go; now I just need a reason for these characters to exist and something for them to do (any good story has a main character who's lacking something and, over the course of the story, shows this main character going after this thing he lacks until he either acquires it or fails miserably). That's for tomorrow as I wait for my fucking UPS boxes to arrive.

Christ in Hell, so Super Shawn blasted through our apartment, checking out to ensure that his suspicions were correct: The Leaking Has STOPPED! (My Business is FINISHED!!!) That's a fine fucking How Doya Do? when I'm here on this undersized little fold-out couch (with my 30-long legs braced against the wall here) trying to sleep after being up until the crack of 2 last night fiddling with more I-Pod business! Thanks to that annoying interruption, I figured I deserved another hour and twenty minutes of reprieve via re-setting the alarm on my cell phone. Then, twenty minutes before I was to be roused by the alarm, I was savaged in my attempt at sleep by a phone call from my roommate Emily (which, in turn, yanked me out of a fine dream I was having about a lovely lady - yet another reason why I almost NEVER sleep with my ringer on). This got me up at 10:20am and, by noon, I made it out the door and back INTO the city.

So far, I'm familiar with three things about my neighborhood: Where the Laundromat is, where the Food Bazaar is, and where the Subway Stop is. Granted, there's a lot of bullshit I know about too: like the nasty-looking Chinese corner take-out restaurant next door and the Quik-E-Mart across the street where there's never any less than four evil-looking hoodlums standing about in a suspicious manner, and the nearest Exxon Station with the $3.15 price on the "cheap" gas. Regardless, I'm not about to venture around here - day or night - until we lose about 30 degrees on the ol' Mercury Scale (figuring the crazies will most likely run off to hibernate as the winter months come upon us).

Manhattan, well that's a different story. I'll gladly take that on in the afternoon - but don't you try to put that evil on me when the sun goes down! I tried to replicate the route I took on Monday - because there's a bookstore I wanted to check up on and a coffee shop that actually takes credit cards - but no dice. I could've left a trail of pig's blood and there would STILL be no re-tracing those wandering steps. Ergo, I had to pay cash for my first cup of Iced Tea as well as cash for the two slices of Pepperoni I bought at Village Pizza (this final straw thrust me into a Starbucks for my second cup of Iced Tea and a vow to be more choosy in the near future).

By the way, I received a free copy of the New York Daily News as I got off the subway at Union Station. What a PIECE of SHIT rag this thing is! It's the fucking Star Magazine of newspapers! Same format, same gigantic pictures of celebrities, same outlandish headlines and trivial subject matter. Decent comics section (with an interesting combination of a Crossword Puzzle and a Jumble), but by GAR, I cannot HANDLE this fucking Sports Section! Do you realize I know more about Carl Pavano and Tiki Barber than I know about my own parents at this point??? It's REDICULOUS! Screw the Yankees, screw the Giants, screw the God-Damned New York Sports Teams!!! On Monday, since the Mariners just commenced sweeping the Red Sox, and since the Red Sox are the Yankees' number 1 rival, I got to read a verbatim Associated Press article I read the night before on Swell. Is it possible for me to get a Tacoma News Tribune subscription sent over here same-day? I'm gonna want those colored comics when I'm eating unhealthy New York Style pizza!

Anyway, Christ, where was I? Nope, not done yet . . .

So, I'm just gonna come right out and say it: I'm not smart enough to read the New York Times. And the Wall Street Journal might as well be printed in gibberish! My only other option (that I'm even slightly aware of) is the New York Post, which I hear is almost as bad as the Daily News. I don't know if I can handle it, man. Can't we get a happy medium somewhere? So far we've got Dummy Rag, Dummy Rag, Genius Paper, SuperGenius Paper. Fuck me, I NEED something tangible to read when I'm eating! I can't take my laptop EVERYWHERE!

OK, now, moving on. After my lunch and my retreat to a Starbucks, I took a look in Jenny's trusty "Not For Tourists Guide to New York City" and I checked out what I had in the area. There was Chelsea, Midtown, and Tribeca around me: Boooooring! I mean, I hear they're OK areas and all that, but I AM - for all intents and purposes - a tourist at the moment. Looking south, we have the Village again . . . and then we have the Financial District. OK, all right, I'll check out Wall Street and all that.

But first, I guess I had to check out the World Trade Center area. I dunno what the great majestic fuss is all about, just looks like a couple holes in the ground to me. They've got a bunch of blown-up (ooo, poor word choice THERE) photos of the aftermath and all that. I saw a bunch of rubes silently reading from the list of people who died (which is hanging along with the blown-up photos) like by their reading of the names, those people won't have died for some bullshit cause. Like it all actually means something. Like they'll actually remember Edith McFuckstick from Jerry von Asswipe when push comes to shove and they have to decide between CBS or ABC tonight at 8pm. Who cares! A name on a wall! Means nothing! (well, that is, unless you happen to know them, then you can think, "Aww, that's nice. The Government cares" . . . all BULLSHIT! Remember that!)

Yes, you're getting firsthand opinions from someone who has absolutely no tact whatsoever.

So, I was thoroughly bored with that spectacle (but at least I can say I SAWR it!), which led to the distinct possibility of my being further bored (perhaps into utter submission) by the sights and sounds of Wall Street. This was all, of course, after I walked through Washington Square and was approached by a skinny, homeless-looking black man who said, "Hey, I remember you from yesterday!" To which I said, "Sorry, I wasn't here yesterday." To which he replied, "Oh, so you don't want any weed?" I had to think about it (I DID have three twenties in my wallet . . .), but in the end it didn't seem TOO shady to be buying illegal substances from someone I'd just met in a city I'd just moved to in the middle of a public park in the middle of the day. But hey, if you're ever in town and need a fix, now you know where to go. Then, I had to traverse the crowded sidewalks of Broadway on down to Lower Manhattan. The entire way I was cursing myself for getting the second giant slice of pizza, rendering myself overfull for all those delicious hotdogs packed in vendors parked on every corner along the journey. After the WTC detour, I was back, headed towards Wall Street, when I saw signs directing me towards the Statue of Liberty.

Now, I know what you're thinking, "Dammit, that thing's on an Island! You can't walk there!" But, I figured there might be a viewpoint, and even the CHANCE of not seeing the Statue of Liberty was worth more than the Sure Thing that was "Tall Buildings On Wall Street." So, there was a viewpoint - albeit from the bitch's left side angle - and it was about the size of my thumb nail (from about a foot away from my face), and it was STILL cooler than what I missed on Wall Street. I finally caught up with Andres on the telephone (I seem to do much better staggering these phone calls to friends throughout the week, rather than trying to get back to everyone all at once; but the 3-hour time difference is still a pain in my balls as I get home and completely lose track of time until it's fucking 12:16 in the morning and it feels like I just had dinner three hours ago) while walking through Battery Park; then I got the hell outta there because it was nearing 4:30 and I was far from home, Toto. The cool thing about the L train that I take, though, is that it runs through Union Station . . . as do about 15 other trains. I hopped on the F train next to the tall building and rode that thing to FREEDOM!

Came back to Brooklyn, went to a 99-cent (and Up) store - where the Asian proprietors thought I was about to hijack a bunch of their modestly-priced wares - bought two pitchers with which to make Iced Tea, my very own Iced Tea glass (I've been using one of Emily's mugs ever since I got here, just refilling it with water over and over again), some laundry detergent, and a belt to replace my other, rattier belt. Tonight, we ate white rice, vegetable stir fry, vegetarian pot stickers (Emily loves to cook, but doesn't eat meat; I hate to cook, so I eat what's in front of me . . . nevertheless it was damn tasty) and a raspberry tort from Trader Joe's.

Tomorrow I wait on packages. Oh the fucking Joy! If I get them early enough, I might venture back out and steal me another Daily News. Fucking Pavano.
  • Current Music
    Mitch Hedberg - Gambling