Inner Monologues VII: Scary Stories

Below you will find the piece I performed at last night's spoken word event, Inner Monologues. I want to thank everyone for showing up, particularly, Mike, Joe, Jen, Gideon, Leslie and Nira. I personally think last night was my overall best performance and was extremely happy with the way the piece turned out despite completing it the day of. The performances were the most varied to date and I personally beared witness to one of the strangest, though uniquely entertaining, when Jessy Delfino performed with her band, Haunted Pussy. It was also one of the funniest all around shows and everyone's piece had plenty of laugh out loud jokes and humorous stories. I'm not sure when the next one is scheduled for, but I will undoubtedly keep everyone posted. Here is the piece I read last night:

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“Count backwards from 100,” he said. "Nobody has ever made it past 93," he snidely remarked. And so I began counting. 100... 99... 98... 97... all the while thinking I know this isn’t that risky of a surgery but who wants their last thought to possibly be of failure? All I wanted to do was yell, “Hey jackass if no one gets past 93 why not try having people countdown from 7 and see how good an anesthesiologist you really are, asshole.” Drugs are drugs, prescription or otherwise. Was it possible to have a bad trip while under the care of an anesthesiologist? I have had some scary shit happen before and those were in small doses and even than I could probably count backwards to at least... 89. All I know was that I was less scared for actual surgery than the thoughts that clouded my brain during surgery.

At around hour five I realized the swirling colors going around me weren’t doctors but cars. NASCAR danced before me above my hospital bed. Fuck, I was watching a Nascar race and enjoying it. I understand the sport is the most popular in the country, but Bush also won the popular vote, so I don’t put much weight on popularity. I consider enjoying a NASCAR race to fall under the category of “bad trip”. Conversely a "good trip" would probably involve myself imaging I was married to Jennifer Aniston for a couple of years and then eventually getting bored with her and moving onto Angelina Jolie all in the span of five hours.

By this point I’m sure the anesthesiologist had done his job and knocked me the fuck out for what I was told would be around 5 hours while I was in surgery and that I wouldn’t remember anything that happened during those five hours. It took an anesthesiologist and thousands of dollars in medical bills to not remember 5 hours of my life. I have friends who drink a six pack for $10 and can’t remember an entire fucking night. Completely doped up now, random thoughts continued to pop into my head.

Because now, I was on Jeapordy! Now entering the studio were our contestants. Matthew Berman, a student from Old Bethpage, Susan Berman from Old Bethpage, a mother of two and homemaker, and Robert Berman from Old Bethpage, a pot smoking hippie salesman with two kids.

And here is your host Alex Trebeck.

I knew it. Even an anesthesiologist couldn’t ensure a “good trip.” How does my brain mix up Angelina Jolie with Alex Trebeck. I shoot for number 1 on my top 100 list of celebrities I’d like to fuck and end up with number 93. Just kidding. I’d long stopped watching Jeopardy aside from when Ken Jennings won, like, 71 consecutive times.

During this particularly funky memory of Jeapordy when I heard that someone found the Daily Double, it brought me back to the longest 30 minutes of my life. Thirty minutes that really, really aged me. It’s those 30 minutes that I have to thank for making me look 21. Yeah I know the real answer is I look 18, fine 17, but this is my bad flashback so the least I can do is say I look older than I do.

So this is the flashback I got to relive: As we always did my parents and I sat down for dinner while watching Jeopardy. My brother was usually at the table but he was just too young still to possibly get a question right. Regardless my brother was at a play date. Remember those? I wonder if they are still called play dates or if they are now called play hookups. No adult uses the word date. We all now just hook up. Wonder if that’s trickled down to the prepubescent set. Parents run into each other at a PTA meeting, oh your so and so’s mom. My son talks about your son all the time. They seem like such good friends we should arrange for them to hook up after school one day.

Play date, play hook up, doesn’t really matter. Prior to Jeopardy starting my brother called saying he needed to be picked up, could my dad come get him. His friend only lived a half mile away and would in all likelihood take my dad ten minutes to pick him up and come back. For whatever reason a half hour had passed and they had yet to return. We surmised that my dad went in and was talking sports or the kids were just finishing up a game and then my dad took him to get food. Jeopardy had started already by now, with less than half the questions still on the board a contestant chose Potpourri for $400. Simultaneously, we heard that dumb ass noise announcing the contestant found the Daily Double and the front door opening.

Usually my brother came through the door first after my dad unlocked it, but something was different this time. My dad came through first and then well… my brother didn’t. So naturally I looked down the stairs from the kitchen to where my dad stood in the entry foyer and asked, “Where’s Matthew?” Either the TV was too loud or this was the precursor for my dad’s diminished hearing because he looked up tears clearly having just been shed and said, “He’s DEAD.”

Those words required no comprehension. The knife had forcefully penetrated my heart and I cried. My mother was crying by now too. My mind began to race about all the times I had gotten mad at him for hanging around my friends, the times I chose television over playing with him, missing a soccer game because I was tired and now he was dead. There were times I couldn’t stand to be around him and wished I hadn’t asked my parents for a sibling. Well it appeared my selfishness won out. I’d never have those feelings again. I’d also never have the opportunity to have the big brother talks or buy him alcohol while he was still underage or hear about his first hook up. I likely also lost the future best man at my wedding and my overall best friend.

Yet, with all these thoughts and emotions racing through my mind, something with the entire situation was off. My father had ceased crying and was regaining his composure. Was he just trying to put up a tough exterior to comfort my mother and I or was there more to the story? Sobbing, I asked, “How’d Matthew die?” His jaw dropped, just plummeted. He looked over and said, “Matthew isn’t dead. He should be home with you.” Sniffle, Sniffle, “but you said he’s, he's dead.” I insisted. “You said it.”

As if in a bad Nancy Drew novel, yeah young boys read those too. In fact I still have a crush on Amelia Bedilia--the facts of what really happened began to piece themselves together: My dad assured us that Matthew was not dead. He gathered himself and I got another long sleeve shirt to which I could wipe my tears and runny nose on. I’ll be damned if I was going to worry about using a tissue at this point. So my dad started from the beginning.

He arrived at my brother’s friend Joe’s house and the boys were outside kicking a soccer ball around with Joe’s dog, Muffin. Realizing it was getting late and Matthew was hungry my dad said it was time to go and they would arrange for the kids to hook up again after school another day soon. My dad put the car in reverse and began to slowly back out. Then out of nowhere, (a shriek was barely audible), my dad could tell he had hit something. He pulled forward to find not a squirrel like he had hoped but, Muffin, my brother’s best friend’s dog. My dad and brother hopped out of the car to find the dog convulsing and shrieking. It was still alive, but being a toy poodle mutt, there wasn’t much time till Muffin became road kill. My brother’s friend Joe was now hysterical crying along with his mother over the impending loss of the family pet. My dad reverted back to his life guard duties and wrapped the dog in a blanket from the trunk and rushed it to the veterinary emergency room. Matthew stayed with Joe, whose father planned to drive Matt home and then meet my father at the emergency room. Joe was so distraught and hungry that Pat decided to take the boys to McDonald’s for Happy Meals.

Muffin was dead by the time my dad got to the emergency room. Thankfully, it wasn’t breakfast otherwise they may literally have been eating an Egg McMuffin. It’s morbid but so is the quality of meat at McDonald’s.

My dad, blissfully unaware that Matt wasn’t already home and having already told us the events that had transpired, had walked in assuming we were waiting to hear the fate of the dog. Thus his tearful announcement that, “He’s Dead.” Yeah, some may ask why he said “he” instead of “she” because one would assume Muffin was a female dog’s name. Well, at least Muffin who was a he was put out of his misery. A male dog named Muffin is roughly the equivalent of naming a boy baby Barbara.

Five minutes later, my brother, Happy Meal in hand walked through the front door. Completely unaware of the emotional turmoil we had all just gone through. He walked up the stairs and I gave him a big hug. At that point in my life I had yet to really experience true loss. None of my immediate family members had passed away so I wasn’t sure how I’d react, god forbid, to news of a parent or my only sibling dying. We know we love the people in our lives so very much, but until that person is gone you never know if that love was real or just something you know you should feel. I know the emotions were real which in a perverse way validated that my feelings were real. The crying, the sweating, the images racing through mind were real. Thankfully, the trigger for those emotions weren’t.

At this point we had all calmed down, but now the guilt had set in for my dad. "How am I ever going to look this kid in the eye knowing I ran over his dog and heard its screeching and bones snapping," he pondered?

I can joke about it now, especially since that night happened to be my father’s birthday and the night he plays poker with his buddies. Naturally no one spoke of the incident the whole night. They presented him with one present about an hour into playing. He unwrapped it to find a headless ceramic dog. That’s the thing about great friends they really know how to stick it to you when your down. From what I hear my dad wept like a little baby as the rest of the grown men took a perverse pleasure in making the screeching noises the dog made.

(pause, because you’re going back to “the action” and not the “flashback”.)

When I came to in recovery, my parents were there waiting for me. They said everything had gone well and I would be OK. From what I’m told I mumbled something about meeting Alex Trebeck and still unsure whether it was the highness from the morphine but in a most pathetic way I began to laugh. It hurt so much to laugh that I kept hitting the button to release more morphine. My parents perplexed as to why I would be laughing asked what’s so funny. I looked at them from behind my glazed eyes, and mumbled stupidly, “you killed Muffin.”

Karma?

"Do I believe in karma," N. asked me? It is was an interesting question, posed at an even more interesting time. Truth be told I'm not really sure why she asked the question in the first place. At that moment we were only strolling together on the sidewalk, I hadn't told someone off in at least 4 hours or made a tasteless joke at someone's expense or ignored someone for being stupid. Yet it was asked.

I never know to what to answer to a spiritual or religious question. For starters I'm not sure that's anyone's business just like whether I plan on voting for Bloomberg or the other guy. Well that's a bad example since I can't even tell you the other guy's name. I have long abandoned organized religion and the belief in higher power, which some may call God. While I am not alone in either of those sentiments I think people aren't ready to hear that from another individual, especially one you are just getting to know. The reason being is many people associate a lack of belief in religion and god in an overall lack of belief. Personally, I don't think a belief in a god or a religion is synonomous with not believing in anything, but how does one convey that sentiment in what simply is a yes or no answer. So I was on the spot. Did I believe in karma? For the sake of getting onto another topic quickly, like why we couldn't find one pint of gelato on the entire Upper East Side, I said, "Yes."

What person wants to hear someone has no faith? That's dating suicide. If he doesn't believe in so and so, how will he ever have faith in our relationship. There's no answer to that question other than I guess one just has to have faith in people. While I answered the question quite quickly and convincingly, I jolted back to a conversation I had only had the other day.

If you read this blog and I know I have been devoting less and less attention to it, you will know that I got a new job. I couldn't be happier. When I called to tell my parents the fantastic news from a conference room my father answered the phone. I told him all about it and it was evident to him that I could have lit up a cave hundreds of feet underground from the tone in my voice. After going through some of the finer points of the offer he asked if I remembered a conversation we had months if not years ago. It was one of the rare times I'd seen my father openly weep. To paraphrase he said, "I may not have been the greatest dad and at times couldn't deal with everything you were going through, but deep down I know you are going to make it. If I could cut off my arm, do anything for that matter just so you can get a break in life, I'd gladly give me life to see you achieve everything you were meant to. Son, you got dealt a bad hand, but one day you'll overcome the odds and be dealt a winner. " I quickly told him of course I remembered, fighting back tears much like I have been doing for the last 15 minutes while writing this paragraph.

Tuesday, I was dealt that winner. For month's I have mentioned how wonderful my life has been, aside from not being employed in a job that could ultimately become a career. Though never spoken I had often given myself till the age of 25 to get my life in order. This included a job I enjoyed and where I felt my talents could best be served, living independently and all around becoming an adult who was self sufficient. Well things are coming together. I have recently begun redecorating my apartment away from Ikea chic to plain chic. I have surrounded myself with a group of friends and family that I couldn't imagine not being in my life. The corners to the puzzle are all together and most of the pieces are in the proper place. Just one's missing, someone to put the puzzle together with.

So do I believe in karma? If karma also goes by Jarrad, than yes, because when the chips are down, there is no one I believe in more than myself.

Breaking News

As my friend put it so eloquently, "the doughboy is leaving." As of yesterday, I have given my two weeks notice and will be leaving my current law firm, Pillsbury Winthrop, the legal industry, having to wear to dress slacks and button downs for a life of jeans, Odwalla stocked fridges, and the fun frenetically paced environment of an Internet company. I will be joining WhenU.com as an Account Manager of Distribution on October 10th. I could not be happier as this is a fantastic promotion and career move for myself. More to follow in the next day or two.

SAVE THE DATE

Monday October 17, 2005 -- Inner Monologues VII: Scary Stories

If you missed V or VI read them by following these links: I.M. V: Travel and I.M. VI: Before the Fall...

Before the Fall...

It’s a sound that halts all movement. People just stop, turn and gasp. Usually that’s followed by “Oh Man that sucks!” It’s the sound of a glass or plate or vase dropping. In this case it was a glass filled not quite completely nor was it half empty. It was a $10 cocktail. Also known as the cheapest Vodka possible with a “Red Bull” (make quote signs) alternative. Normally a glass dropping at a bar is not a big deal but this particular glass breaking was fraught with underlying meaning. In order to understand how I ended up at this bar, in the company of these people requires an understanding of the months before the fall.

I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but I would have noticed that sheen from a mile away. It’s the light reflecting off the lapels of a burgundy velvet dinner jacket. Was I at a fund raiser or the Playboy Mansion? Sure I’d seen velvet dinner jackets before in a couple of places, usually on display, some blinged out rapper wearing one at the VMAs and then naturally, ON SALE. Intrigued I went towards the light where the wearer was standing at the bar. He ordered a Johnny Walker Blue on the rocks. His drink order made a statement, I’m a man’s man. His attire made another statement, I like to be the center of attention. He was assuredly at Type A, B.S.D. (PAUSE).
That’s short for big swinging dick. I probably could have had the ensuing conversation in my mind. Briefly he was a trader/investment banker who dabbles in real estate. For New York that’s nothing new, but aside from the cockiness of I-Bankers, they weren’t flashy people fashion wise. This guy most certainly was. We continued talking for a while and introducing each other to some of the people we knew in attendance.

We had formally introduced ourselves but in our heightened states of inebriation I couldn’t remember his name. Of course when that happens there are 2 courses of action. First we can say, “not to be rude but I totally forgot what your name was” this is of course not the desirable route as it makes one look like an asshole. The (Make Quote Motions) “less is more” obvious route is to it to wait for someone else to introduce themselves so the person says their name again.

Thankfully, Hayley, whom I initially met a few weeks ago and had since traded the occasional email, walked by and provided an excuse for me to introduce another person to him. Hayley said, “hello.” Always on, he replied, “Sam Goldstein damn glad to meet ya,” extending his hand in the process. Twenty minutes of small talk later, we collectively decided that we should continue this party at a suitably swank lounge where we wouldn’t look too out of place.

Hayley who’d serve as the requisite T&A and wingwoman joined us. For those unfamiliar with the wingwoman she serves the same function as a traditional wingman, only better. Other women open up to the wingwoman and allow men to breach the girlfriend huddle that groups of women have mastered. She served her purpose allowing entree into various groups of women at the bar, but since being introduced Hayley seemed almost seduced by Sam’s nonchalance. He calculatingly flirted here and there with some of the women at the bar while almost simultaneously maintaining eye contact with Hayley. It was borderline artful. Made me wonder if Hugh Hefner’s real name wasn’t Howard Goldstein, who fathered a child named Sam. After the lounge we all went back to Sam’s place where it became obvious three is a crowd. On my way out Sam and I made tentative plans to hit up the local bagel store around 1.

Figuring there was no way Sam wouldn’t still be passed out, I strolled over to the bagel store around 1:15 and found Sam waiting on the absurdly long line. I may not be able to pull off a velvet blazer, but I had pull with the real people that mattered, the counter guys at the bagel store. We sat down and there was complete silence. Not an awkward silence, it was just our mouths were filled with bagels which had a debilitating effect on Sam’s ability to share graphic details about his evening activities with Hayley. I think Sam was grateful that it was only a temporary paralysis of speech, because no pun intended (ok maybe a little), I got a mouthful. Missionary to reverse cow girl to doggie to him on top again. At some point I lost my appetite. All I asked was what he did this morning. Referring to the few hours preceding lunch, yet it was as if I returned to my high school locker room.

He spoke of having one of his lowest D.P.L.s to date. Unfamiliar with the term I asked him to explain. He looked surprised as though I asked what RBI stood for. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what a low DPL was. Using the previous night as an example he explained that he bought Hayley one alcoholic beverage for $10 and had sex twice. Doing the math that worked out to a DPL of $5. Either my brain hadn’t turned on yet or I was still caught up with what came first, reverse cow girl or doggie. Noticing the confused look, he said, D. P. L., Dollars per Lay. (SAY VERY SLOWLY) Not bad I figured. I quickly went through my mind wondering how good a feat that actually was. The lowest I could remember was in the high teens and some were as high as, (PAUSE) well infinity. Historically, closing had always been a weakness of mine. I now had a new goal and yet another statistic to keep track of in an Excel spreadsheet.

If there is someone who updates phrases, similar to people who add new lexicon to the dictionary, they should probably update “another notch to the bed post” with “another row to the Excel spreadsheet.” Just kidding I don’t have an Excel spreadsheet.

A couple of nights later, Sam picked me up in his Audi convertible to go play golf. I was looking forward to the outing. Sam had mentioned he played golf in high school and had a fantastic handicap. Ironically, better golfers have a handicap and the shittier golfers like myself don’t. We got to the course and Sam took out 2 Taylor Made wedges and the Odyssey putter. Ladies, that’s the equivalent of True Religion and Balenciaga. Fuck I thought, I’m going to get embarrassed out here. We made the turn to the back nine at Even. We were tied and I was scratching my head. Maybe he was off, but would make adjustments on the back nine. That or I am a lot better than I give myself credit for, but that was less likely since I’ve played golf for a while now and know I’m really not that good. Seeing as I was outperforming my own expectations and his, I thought I’d trash talk. Can’t wait to get you on a tennis court. That’s my strong sport. Did you say you have a low handicap or you are handicapped? I had taken a 4 shot lead by the 16th hole. As I prepared to tee off at 17 his phone rang. It was Cynthia. Some very, very hot Asian girl that Amy Sacco had introduced him to a couple of nights ago at Bungalow 8 or so I was told. We finished up and went to pick her up. I moved to the back to make way for Cynthia. This was setting up for a DPL of zero. A perfectly executed booty call.

Cynthia was pretty hot, but I was expecting more. Sam seemed to have a different woman for each night of the week. Not all as attractive as Cynthia. Tuesday Night who was born Jessica something had a FUPA. Another term. Yes, I was thinking FUPA, fat upper pussy area, I knew that one. A real let down Sam told me. That’s the problem with some summer dresses, they mask the FUPA, especially if they have a great pair, he continued. Judging by looks of understanding from the men and bewildered or annoyed looks on the women’s faces clearly most people are familiar with the FUPA. Blame it on the birth control ladies. Men stopping nodding, the girl sitting right next to you knows what you’re looking at.

Sam and I continued hanging out. We both had a great appreciation for the 24 hour bagel store down the block from my apartment. Many nights would end with a stop there, where we’d recount that evening’s events. Sam’s always revolved around some knock out he met while partying at Marquee (pause) or Cain (pause) or any other place Page Six name dropped in the past day or two. I mentioned that I would be going to a concert in the park this week with some friends and he should come along. When we got to the park it wasn’t long before Sam locked eyes with a Brazilian girl. Lo and behold Sam spoke Portuguese having vacationed there on numerous occasions as well as having business dealings in Rio. Who would have known. It was unbelievable. I had no idea he was nearly fluent in Portuguese. What else didn’t I know about Sam despite hanging out with him at least 3 nights a week.

I had continued to be friends with Hayley after that initial night. Apparently Sam and Hayley had also kept in touch in the weeks since. One night while I was out partying with Hayley and friends, Sam text messaged her to pick him up at Marquee. So we diverted the cab in order to pick Sam up. However, when we got there, Sam refused to get in the cab and insisted on staying with some blonde. It was by all means a dick move. I was annoyed but overlooked it figuring he was drunk and stupid. He booty called and in the interim another option appeared. Not to be vulgar, but new pussy is better than old pussy. The problem was he was my friend and so was Hayley. It’s a tough line to walk, when one friend hurts another friend. I sympathized with Hayley, but I wasn’t going to condemn his actions beyond vocalizing my opinion that it was dick move. As the weeks went on Hayley began talking shit about Sam and Sam about her. The situation was growing uncomfortable for me. Especially since I was starting to develop a crush on Hayley and Sam would often comment on his belief that I had been sleeping with Hayley. His shit talking increased and I imagine that was only because he knew it was something likely to provoke me into lowering myself to his childish antics. I couldn’t understand why Sam and Hayley couldn’t just leave a one night stand in the past and be mature.

My phone rang and it was my friend of mine, Jeff. He asked how old Sam was. Sam’s 25 I replied. Why, I asked? But before I could finish Jeff had already started with I think he’s lying. He’s 23. A friend of mine recognized him on your Friendster page and told me he was her age. In fact they graduated in the same class in high school. Interesting. May explain some of his more immature behavior, but not really. I filed it away and really made nothing of it. So what if he’s 2 years younger than he said he was. I often said I was 25 when in reality I was still 24. I brushed it off, making excuses why he may have inflated his age by 2 years as opposed to my 2 months.

I got another phone call that day. It was Sam who just got back from a long weekend in Vegas. I transferred the call to a conference room where I’d have four walls and a door to close, compared with the 3 and a half walls that barely extended six feet in the air surrounding my desk, but who was I to complain I had my own printer. His Vegas weekend evoked a feeling of déjà vu that I couldn’t place, until I watched an episode of Entourage again. In what sounded like a whirlwind, he had partied at the some trendy bar at the Hard Rock with Britney Gastineua, an old friend he said, alongside Mandy Moore, Nicole Ritchie and one of the Hiltons. Played some blackjack and Texas Hold’em. Said Spidey wasn’t that good at either. Spidey, I replied. Yeah Tobey MacGuire. Didn’t know you had pet names for each other. Twenty minutes later he was done and I felt exhausted just listening to his weekend. I mentioned I was having some people over before hitting up a local bar in the area this weekend, if he wanted to join myself and anyone else planning on getting fucked up. He had some tentative things happening, but he’d come out or stop by if he was around. By “things” I knew he was referring to one of the myriad of girl’s he had the potential to sleep with. No way would I be seeing him, I thought. And that was fine with me. I still hadn’t told many people and now I was relieved that I could safely invite Hayley and her friends without this turning into a steel cage match.

She wouldn’t be able to make it for the pregame, but said they’d likely meet us out at the bar. Perfect, I thought, if Sam was to stop by it would surely be prior to going out before continuing on to Marquee. A group of us polished off some booze at my place and then headed to the bar. From here on my recollection what happened next is a bit fuzzy. I was trashed and pretty focused on talking to the new girl I was just meeting for the first time. I vaguely remember getting a text that Hayley and friends were on their way, but I wasn’t able to truly confirm that’s how I found out until I reviewed my text messages the next day. Thank g-d phones keep track shit like that. It provides a nice list of people I may need to call and apologize to for anything inappropriate I may have wrote. She arrived with friends and we exchanged hellos before I had to use the restroom. As I started back towards the vicinity of where my friends were I saw Sam come through the front door of the bar.

(Say like I would think in my Head)
Oh shit, please let them be civil, no drama.

They maintained a safe buffer from one another, until it was time to get more drinks. Sam approached the bar to the right of some Random guy and Hayley had her back turned, to the left of Random. From what I observed, which seemed to be occurring at slow motion,

(Read Slowly and Annunciate)
Sam ordered a drink, Random stepped away from the bar, Hayley began to rotate clockwise towards the bar continuing to turn when her clutch swiftly hit Sam’s drink sending it off the bar into a free fall before crashing to the ground.

After the fall, Hayley apologized and offered to buy him a new drink, but Sam was too intoxicated not to let this opportunity for a fight to pass. He didn’t say no, but it was implied from his retort of, “dumb bitch.”

A glass shattered and along with it a friendship. I haven’t spoken to Sam since that night and more amazingly I haven’t seen him in the neighborhood or the bagel place. As for Hayley, my initial crush has waned a bit and I never acted on it, preferring to remain friends. When we last spoke this afternoon she said she would be in the audience.

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That was the piece I wrote for last night's spoken word event Inner Monologues VI: Before the Fall... Thanks to everyone in attendance and those who helped revise, edit and improve the piece. All of the other performers were fantastic. Many of you expressed an interest in Alexis (who runs the reading series) and Jessy Delfino (the comedic folk singer) and as such I have provided links to their sites by clicking on their names. Look out for Inner Monologues VII: Scary Stories coming in October.

P.O.T.

Painfully Obvious Tag that is. Apparently people have too much free time at work, thus allowing them to play updated versions of games that were passe when tag actually meant getting exercise. Well nonetheless, I'm "it" so here are my six favorite songs as of right now.

1. Ghetto by Akon (featuring Notorious BIG)
2. Trapped in the Closet (Chapter 1) by R. Kelly - has my favorite "he looked under bed, I pulled out my Beretta"
3. Galang (Radio Edit) by M.I.A.
4. Let Me Love You (Remix) by Mario (feautring T.I. and Jadakiss)
5. Girlfight by Brooke Valentine (featuring Big Boi and Lil' Jon)
6. Sunday Afternoon by Lucky Boys Confusion

Also of note, AristocraCity was featured on Fleshbot which is part of blog conglomerate, Gawker Media, which deserves praise for their ability to have hundreds of stories written about them by actual reporters with credentials but totally lacking in any hard facts about the important business aspects, such as does Denton have an audition couch, is Coen sleeping with a) Maer Roshan b) Arianna Huffington c) Drudge d) a "gay vague" band member, how do I get a guest editor gig, how much libel and slander insurance does Gawker Media have, and are you looking for legal representation.

9 2 5

or in my case 10:30 to 6:30, but that really doesn't matter. What does, is that I have been working for 3 days and have already started my fourth. Naturally some funny things have happened. Here is a list:

1. UPDATED as of 2:22 pm: So I was just in the restroom post lunch, when I'm reading an article from the Times. As I go to put the page I just finished at the end I drop in and it obviously slid to the stall next to me which was occupied as well at the time. Not sure what the proper etiquette is on sharing reading material be it voluntarily or involuntarily I could do nothing but laugh at how upsurd it was. Shortly after my laughing and mumbling out the word "Sorry" the mysterious shitter next door returned the page but definitely not before he had the opportunity to read the headline: Gay or Straight? Hard to Tell.
2. On my second day I was wearing a peachy/orange (correctly known as the color salmon) tie and a Partner I have never met was talking about me when I came around the corner. I hear, "Speaking of the Peach here he comes." Not sure if that's asexual harassment but I wrote it down.
3. I have introduced myself to multiple people and then my stomach did. Nothing awkward about meeting someone for the first time and in the initial silence after the introduction my stomach growls extremely heavily causing me to rotely say, "Guess I must be hungry."
4. I always open the main door the wrong way. Pushing instead of pulling. I am so stupid I haven't yet learned after 40 plus times how to do it right. Show a mouse how to get to cheese in a maze and the second time, perfect. Ironically, clients pay upwards of $150-$185 for my services per hour.
5. I still can't work a printer or copier correctly and I'm considered tech savvy.
6. My cube neighbor thinks I'm reserved and shy. She was way off. Either she is the worst judge of character or I make one hell of a docile first impression.
7. I have been abnormally polite. I have said "Good Morning" more than is healthy, mentioned what a "Beautiful Day" it is in the elevator countless times, held the door open for someone more than 5 feet away and haven't really made fun of anyone at all yet.
8. Again people have no idea how old am I or why I am working here? Hopefully someone will come up with answer to the second question and email me with it.
9. I have gone out every night thus far prior to work the next morning. Interestingly, I have not consumed one Red Bull yet.
10. I'm getting a VIP car service card so I don't have to inconvenience myself with a voucher. I'm also getting a BlackBerry. I have already researched how to remove the footer, "Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld."
11. I really missed speakerphone. If you call me at work you will be on speaker. Deal with it.

That's all for now, but when "The Man" lightens up the work load I will tell you about my Friday night with 60 of society's most socially inept Jews.

Old Becomes New

So today I said a phrase that has not been uttered by me in over year, "I have work tomorrow." For those of you unaware someone has decided to hire me and pay me. Actually pay me quite well. My highest salary to date and dare I say I'm actually looking forward to work. I will be a Corporate Analyst/Paralegal in the Corporate and Securities practice at Pillsbury Winthrop Shaw Pittman LLP. My new office is on 45th and Broadway so if you know of good restaurants for lunch or are in the area drop me a line.

I'm writing this having just gotten home from playing golf. People were aghast that I would go out the night before I start a new job. To those of you having the same sentiment I got a job. I didn't die. Since my hours are 10:30 am - 6:30 pm, I plan on continuing to party so keep the invites coming.

Looking forward to the paycheck, meeting the new coworkers, the new challenges, and seeing what life has in store for me. All of those things should provide new writing material. Stay tuned first day recap.

I Read (and wrote) This

I want to thank everyone who came out Monday night for my first and definitely not last performance/reading at the Inner Monologues series. Specifically, Jen, Michael, Marissa, Mirra, Mark, Meredith, Josh and Jamie. Kind of off topic and random, but every person who I knew in attendance has a first name beginning with either a J or M. Special thanks also goes out to Marissa, Jen, Michael and Alicia for helping to edit, proofread and enhance the piece I read. Lastly, I'd like to thank Alexis for opportunity to read/perform and for believing so much in the worthiness of the story that she opted to open the night with my piece. Since some people had vaguely valid excuses as to why they couldn't be in attendance here is a copy of the piece I wrote.

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She was yelling at me loudly to eat the banana. Damn, will she shut the fuck up? Eat the banana, eat the banana. I was shaking my head no. I hated being told what to eat, my therapist said I have “food” issues and here she was yelling at me to eat a banana. I didn’t know where that banana had been. It’s sure as shit wasn’t FreshDirect, hell this banana wasn’t even Gristede’s quality.

Only ten minutes before I was fast asleep. Not bothering anyone and now she is harassing me to eat a banana. How did I go from peaceful serenity to an obscene ruckus? I am so not a morning person, in fact not being up before a noon is the perfect start to a day, but it was 11 pm and I wasn’t getting up for breakfast. The woman yelling at me certainly wasn’t my mother, or girlfriend or latest conquest, though I’m sure she is all of that to many, many, many, many, many people. Did I say many enough? Not one to judge based on superficial qualities, OK maybe a little, but she was the ugliest stripper I had ever seen. I was under the impression a requisite of taking ones clothes off for money was looking good naked. So not the case on this side of the Atlantic which is probably why I fell asleep, but now I was staring straight at a vagina with half peeled produce. All I kept thinking was I need a price check on bananas, are bananas in a vagina on special? If these lips could talk I’m sure they’d be saying the same thing as mine, “I don’t want to eat this fucking banana.”

Let this be a lesson don’t fall asleep at an Amsterdam sex show because two shut eyes is their version of raising your hand and saying “pick me, pick me.” Sure as shit didn’t teach me that idiosyncrasy in my International Negotiations class at Lehigh University. Although in hindsight I did get called on a lot and I always had my head down and thumb up. I digress, where was I?

Ah yes, my head in between the legs of a very plus size stripper getting my recommended daily serving of potassium. No one here will ever look at a banana the same way. I’m proud to announce it’s been 4 years, 10 months, 22 days and 3 hours since I had my last banana, but I know any day that could all come to an end, so I take it one day at a time. No wonder I have “Food Issues.”

Most people go to Amsterdam and immediately stuff their face with brownies or McDonald’s. I however, went right to a sex show. That’s when I knew this four day trip to Amsterdam was going to be unlike any other four days in my life. That was a bold statement considering I come to Amsterdam from Prague where I was studying abroad. Being in Prague was amazing; Capitalism at its best. There was already the celebrity touting his own sports bar. Citibank was everywhere except where I needed it most…fucking Bethlehem Pennsylvania, aka the shittiest college town. At least I wouldn’t have to pay an ATM fee thousands of miles from the Citi in question. Competition was the dominant market force. One place charged the equivalent of 75 cents for a beer, so the guy next door charged 50 cents, then the original guy charged a quarter. Finally the supply and demand curve intersected and every establishment except the over priced sports bar resolved to charge a quarter for a pint of beer. After communism who the fuck wanted to prohibit alcohol sales or sales of much of anything; certainly not the Czech. So Absinthe was legal. I’ve seen my share of druggy flicks so I knew when someone lit a spoonful of sugar before lighting the shot of absinthe I knew my boney ass was going to be fucked up in perpetuity. Thankfully, though I was leaving Prague to visit Amsterdman for 4 days… where I couldn’t get into too much trouble just smoking excessive amounts of weed.

How wrong I was. Apparently marijuana isn’t the only drug you can order off the menu. So I ordered a number 5 and supersized it. This was long before Morgan Spurlock of Super Size Me Fame had to go and screw up my ability to consume larger and larger quantities of controlled narcotics called French fries, quarter pounders and caffeinated high fructose corn syrup; with a name like Coke how could it not be good for you. Needless to say the number 5 was a 1/8 of weed grown in the Jamaican style in Jerk seasoned soil, a 1/8 of beginner mushrooms, a slice of pizza and before 4 pm the lunch special came with a choice of a can of soda or cold noodles in peanut sauce. I chose the can of soda obviously. So we had it all planned out. Eat lunch and then go to the Van Gogh museum. Not sure whose bright idea it was to trip and go look at the artwork of a guy who cut off his own ear. Thankfully it wasn’t the Lorena Bobbit museum. So we ate or in my case swallowed whole some mushrooms and pizza and washed it down with a Fanta. Then we went into the museum to look at some art. Only problem was the museum wasn’t that big and it took a little while longer than expected for the mushrooms to perform their duties. So at the tail end of viewing the museum twice they finally began to kick in and it wasn’t as cool as I had hoped. Hype, never lives up. So we decided to go to the park and stare at the clouds and wonder how many would look like Cameron Manheim’s stomach, big, white and poofy. Why her? Because Kirstie Allie still had respect for herself. I kid the Fat Actresses.

With an ear to ear smile on my face it dawned on me that we were leaving early Sunday morning and it was Friday afternoon right now. There was still a major attraction we hadn’t gotten to yet, Anne Frank’s House. With tomorrow being the Sabbath, the House was surely going to be closed and we wouldn’t have time on Sunday. We had to go now. I couldn’t go to Amsterdam and not go to the “House of Frank, where nobody’s first name was actually Frank” without getting yelled at by my mother. I apparently also have “mother” issues. Damn, that Jewish guilt. So we flagged down a taxi and went to Anne Frank’s House. At that point I was still entirely composed, in control of all my mental capacities or so I thought. Clearly I have the mental capacity of 67 year old man with a prostate problem because I thought going to Anne Frank’s house was a good idea. We entered the museum/house. Shortly after entering someone burped and I lost it. I was laughing hysterically; thankfully, someone hadn’t farted because flatulence is even funnier. Unfortunately any laughing no matter how minor is so wrong. This museum is inherently not funny nor are the walls covered in cashmere, yet oddly I had begun petting the walls ever so softly. It was time to climb some stairs up to the attic. At this point I decided to become a mime doing his best impersonation of a rock climber not going anywhere. I pretended to climb the stairs for a whole five minutes while the line began to back up. Once I finally really started climbing the stairs it was like climbing up the side of building that can’t stand up straight. The stairs were on an 85 degree angle with footholds mockingly too small for an Oompa Loompa.

When we got into the attic there were drawings done by children of the Holocaust all over, including drawings by Anne Frank. Now these were the type of drawings that can be mind altering while tripping on mushrooms. Who was I to not marvel in the vivid use of watercolors less the water? The well ran dry in this attic. I was full on stupid by the time I got to the drawings and couldn’t help but continue laughing. A couple of flights to the exit and I was finally out of there. While waiting for a taxi I had time to reflect with my friends about what I had just done. With the video camera focused solely on me I stopped pedestrian traffic so no one ruined the sight lines of me in the video camera. With traffic stopped I declared loudly, “It wasn’t bad enough you assholes were in there shrooming your asses off, but if the Jews believed in a hell, I should probably buy a condo there instead of Boca cause I was surely heading there after I broke my hip rushing to qualify for the early bird at dinner. I mean of the five of us I am the only Jew and I basically just did the equivalent of pissing in the holy water urinal. Fuck me! Lets go watch Nascar, its so cool with all the colors.”

After sleeping for the better part of Saturday there wasn’t much to do but pick up some last minute presents. For my mom I got a t-shirt with a banana that said don’t tell me what to eat. Figured how can I pass up a gift that addresses both my issues. My therapist is going to be proud. I was facing my issues in a passive aggressive overly ironic way, but it was a start. My brother got 4 loose joints and an 1/8 of weed and hash. Yeah I smuggled drugs from Amsterdam to Prague, kept them wrapped for 3 weeks and then smuggled the narcotics back into the United States. That’s just the kind of brother I am, always willing to go the extra mile. My dad was a little trickier he wanted something he could use. (PAUSE)

I bought him a banana.