The Moose in the Closet

On Sunday night I posted a link to this article on Twitter and let the world know the woman in the article (Doreen Quinn Guiliano) was my cousin. I didn’t think much of it, but within an hour I received reply tweets, emails, instant messages, and phone calls. Being an opportunist, I figured I’d dedicate an entire blog post to this distant relationship.

Yeah, that’s right – distant. Doreen is my mother’s second cousin, so I guess that makes her my third cousin? Fourth cousin? I probably met her at one of our family reunions but, honestly, can’t say I remember it. In fact, before the murder trial I only knew Doreen as the woman with the haunted house.

The Haunted House. Legend has it a pediatrician was murdered in the house Doreen lives in and, as a result, the souls of dead children now haunt the joint. I don’t know what the connection was between the children and the pediatrician and I admit that the legend is a particularly weak legend and seems like the kind of story an old aunt made up after sipping a little too much sambuca. Regardless, my mom swears that the house is haunted.

Story goes: my mom and my cousin Dawn were over Doreen’s house for a Tupperware party when the door flies open and slams against the wall. No-one enters. Anyway, a little while later Dawn goes to the bathroom and while she’s sitting on the toilet she feels something brush by her. She gets so freaked out that (according to my mom) she runs out the bathroom before she’s done…if you know what I mean.

Anyway all the stories come out: the child-like laughing, the sounds of little feet running around, and the constant brushing-by of little invisible children. Apparently Doreen’s little kids all had cereal in the mornings despite the fact the boxes were in the highest pantries, well out of reach. And one day Doreen’s daughter’s feeding tube was turned on and no-one knows how it happened.

I’m not making this shit up. Maybe someone else is, but I’m certainly not.

So that’s really all I knew of Doreen. That and the fact that her devotion and level of care she gave to her daughter Mallory (who would be my sister’s age today) is what allowed the girl to live as long as she did. The doctors certainly didn’t give her four years. So, all-in-all, Doreen sounds like the kind of mom that raises the bar when it comes to “doing anything for your kids.” I have to respect that, at least.

As far as the murder trial – like I said, my mom kept me updated. She actually went to the courtroom once but that’s not my story to tell. To be honest, I heard the details of the case, saw the other defendant was named Russo, and figured my distant cousin was guilty, as well. The Russo name just carries that sort of weight in my old neighborhood.

If the trial was indeed unfair I hope he gets a fair shake. If he was indeed guilty I hope he’s found guilty again. If he’s innocent – well – what a fucking story, huh?

I will say one more thing - seeing these newspapers talk about the Ghetto Mafia and initiations and possibly being a offshoot of the Crips - it's kind of like H.S.T.'s recollections of newspaper reporting on the Hell's Angels. Look, I was in a "gang" as a kid. There are gangs and there are "gangs." Even if the Ghetto Mafia is a gang, the newspapers saying they're an offshoot of the Crips makes them a "gang." It's hard to take anything that was said at that trial seriously if the Crips were even mentioned once. Right now someone from the Crips is reading that story and saying, "Who the fuck are these white boys?"

I mean, seriously. If you read the link in that last paragraph I talk about how I was a member of the 4-Deuce Bishop Crips. Someone moved to my neighborhood from OKC, claimed to be a Crip, and started our little gang. Me. This guy:

Here was my crew:

Yeah, I was a fucking Crip. Not saying my distant cousin is innocent, but I think the media and trial folks need to take a step back and reassess that particular aspect of the story and maybe stop sensationalizing the gang angle.

Labels: mitc

Seven Years Later

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I got to work early on September 11, 2001. At the time I was working out in Reston, Virginia. I went to the deli downstairs with my friend Max for some breakfast when the news that the first tower was hit came over the television. We laughed about it. I know that sounds like a horrible thing but the idea of plane hitting one of the Twin Towers was just so absurd when we first heard it. It didn’t seem real at all – the potential loss of life wasn’t even considered at first. We thought it was a little prop plane that went up against the mighty skyscraper and lost. Being native New Yorkers ourselves, we knew about the time a B-25 bomber crashed into the Empire State Building. That B-25 bomber drove right into the upper floors, killing only 14 people. What kind of damage could a little plane possibly make to the Towers?

Then the TV said it was a commercial airliner. Then the TV said a second plane crashed into the second tower. And it wasn’t funny anymore. I think Max said “terrorism” first, a word that will dominate every conversation for months to come. We went back to the office to call our friends and family in New York and try to get an idea of what’s going on over there. By the time we got upstairs there were already TVs and radios in every office reporting the crashes. I kept trying to call my mom, my dad, my friend Gennaro – all circuits were busy. Someone came into my office and told me a plane crashed into the Pentagon and I didn’t even think twice: I call Robin.

At the time we were living across the river from the Pentagon. I knew Robin went to work already, but she worked in DC and she was too close to whatever was happening. I called and called and called and got nothing but busy signals and “all circuits are busy” messages. I went into our main conference room to watch the news on TV, attempting to call everyone I knew from NYC and DC to make sure they’re safe.

Robin’s mom called me. She wanted to know if Robin was alright. I told her I was trying to get in touch with her and I’d let her know as soon as possible. I finally get in touch with my mom – she’s hysterical. My parents live in Red Hook, Brooklyn, directly across the river from the towers. My father was actually in Brooklyn Heights that morning which is basically as close as you can get to the towers from the Brooklyn side. He was heading out to my sister’s High School to pick her up. I calmed my mom down and finally got in touch with Robin.

At this point the news organizations were losing their minds. There were reports of truck bombs at the State Building, attacks against the White House (which was later reported as an attempted attack on the White House by Flight 93), mysterious gases and smells all over downtown DC. I told her to sit tight because her job seemed to be a lot safer than our apartment at the moment.

The towers fell – I watched it live. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was another selfish moment where I didn’t even consider the loss of life – I thought about the skyline I enjoyed from the roof of my parents’ apartment and how it would never be the same again. But that’s what happens when a symbol is attacked, lives become secondary.

Phone calls started trickling in from friends and family members. Everyone seemed to be alright and I considered myself lucky for that.

Once the frenzy settled down Max and I made our way back into DC. All of the major roadways were a mess so we took back roads into the district. Chain Bridge to Embassy Row – there were big guards with big guns stationed in front of every building, eyeing us as we drove by. Robin was home before me – she took the metro home despite my concerns. Turns out there was one death in our family on that day – Robin’s Grandfather died but it wasn’t tied to the events of September 11th. In fact, her family kept quiet, not wanting a WWII veteran to know what was happening to his country on what seemed to be his last day alive.

I made the first of many mistakes by suggesting we didn’t take the trip to Framingham for the funeral. We didn’t have a car at the time, airlines were grounded, and Amtrak was pegged with people stranded in NYC, DC, and Boston. Those were the practical reasons for staying put – the underlying reason was the fear. What comes next? An assault on the rail system? That seemed to make the most sense.

That fear guided a lot of decisions over the next couple of weeks and months. Overthrow the Taliban? Hell, I was for that before 9/11 and I’m certainly for it now. Overthrow Saddam? Did you see Powell’s briefing? Do it and do it now. We also bought the “Go out and shop” line. We bought a car. We bought some new clothes and cell phones and some new furniture. We bought a lot of stuff – mainly bullshit – but I’m over that now.

I would constantly hit refresh on CNN.com – I don’t think I got any work done for months. We moved out of DC once our lease was up, moved into Arlington because it was safer. Lee Highway and Glebe Road, a little pocket of nothing. We stayed in that apartment for three years before moving to Rosslyn, within walking distance of Georgetown. At that point we just learned to love Arlington. I also changed careers. I moved out of acoustics and into chemical and biological defense planning, scenario development, and crisis management. Remember bird flu? My analysis of avian influenza was briefed to the President (by someone else, of course). Sorry it got blown out of proportion (a year later, admittedly, and probably having nothing to do with my analysis). You know that guy that probably mailed the anthrax letters? My group worked with him in the past, before my time, admittedly. My new job does good work and we plan for the unthinkable. Believe me; I’m glad it’s only used for sensationalized scenarios and the occasional dog wagging. I’d hate to have it used for anything else.

But my new career did help me deal with the fear. It gives me an understanding of what’s possible, how bad it would be, and how we should deal with it. Understanding the situation, despite how horrible, allows you to cope with it and move on. I still have nightmares, don’t get me wrong. Horrible, horrible nightmares. Nuclear explosions, burning flesh, hijacked planes, chemical caches – I dream about them almost every night.

And that brings me to today, seven years later. Nightmares, asymmetrical warfare planning, and all. And comic books! I can’t forget comic books, My childhood escapism turned into adult escapism. I have to admit, it burns me up to see images of the towers and the pentagon play at the RNC while the speakers take shots at the “elitist East.” To see folks from the corn and bible-belts chanting USA, ragging on us liberals that lived through September 11th, whose lives were drastically changed and still live with a touch of fear on a day-to-day basis, yet using the tragedy as a war cry.

It’s funny – in 2000 I was a McCain supporter. A registered Independent, social liberal, and fiscal conservative. Over the past seven years my love for this country (and the people in it) has grown significantly. I’ve traveled all over the US with my job, met all kinds of people from all types of backgrounds. We have a wonderfully diverse country with hundreds of millions of interesting stories. And yet we’re being torn apart by divisive politics and lies. I fall into it too, sometimes, more often than I should. It’s hard to keep a clear head when both sides grind you down. I do believe this country stands at a cross-road, however. There are too many problems facing us that we’ve been ignoring for far too long. I do believe we’re going to need someone who isn’t afraid to think completely outside the box, who can unify this country, and who can finally move us beyond a Tuesday in September seven years ago and look towards the future.

Hopefully on September 11th, 2009 I can come back to this blog and talk about our recovering economy, baby boomers retiring and having money to live on, new jobs as a result of energy advancements, and promising new medications and treatments that result from our government getting out of the way of science. Hopefully I can talk about America taking a leadership roll in the world again and our improving position in the global economy. Hopefully we can begin to make amends as a country, find common ground, and stop sacrificing our future for tabloid-style politics.

Hopefully.

Labels: editorial, mitc

The Moose In The Closet

Monday, August 18, 2008

Jay Dee Kay's Favorite Dance Moves

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Greatest Surgery Ever

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Well – the pain is bearable, the drugs are working, and I can position the laptop in a “comfortable enough” position. Let’s talk about my hernia operation. Believe me when I say this story is worth sticking around for. It gets really good.

I had an umbilical hernia. This is something babies usually get. I got it from lifting. I looked down one day and noticed I had an outie bellybutton all of a sudden and it popped out far enough to irritate me whenever I wasn’t wearing overly-loose clothing. So – I needed to get it worked on. I pushed it off about two months so it didn’t interfere with book launch stuff too much.

I had to go to the hospital at 6AM this morning. I went out last night – had a good dinner and some drinks, reminded Robin and my parents that, if anything were to happen, do not sign anything without a lawyer seeing it first, and got to bed at around 10:30PM. Woke up nice and fresh, showered, tried to do a number-2, and had Robin drive me to the hospital.

Originally she was going to drop me off and then come back later. But she saw I was nervous and opted to hang out at the hospital with me – be a supportive girlfriend and all of that stuff. So, I went through the registration process, answered all of their questions, signed their paperwork. I got put into the prep room where I stripped down and donned the gown. A nice nurse took my vitals and explained the process to me. Robin came in and gave me a kiss before I was carted off to the anesthesiologist.

I met another nurse, the anesthesiologist’s assistant, and the anesthesiologist herself. They all noted that I was nervous – this was my first real surgery – and told me that they were going to give me a sedative after I talked to my surgeon.

I got to talk to my surgeon, he forcefully thrust his finger into my bellybutton, causing me to wince a bit, and told everyone to get me to the OR. The anesthesiologist’s assistant put the sedative in my IV line and they started wheeling me to the ER. The LAST thing I remember was feeling tipsy and telling the assistant, “Wow, this stuff works fast.”

And then I woke up.

There was a nurse by my side, asking me if I felt nauseous or in pain. My answer was, “I feel fucking fine.” Except I said it slurred, like I was drunk. I don’t quite remember what I said after that, but I do remember the nurse asking me, politely, if I could stop cursing because there were other people around. That sort of snapped me out of the dream-like state I was in.

We chatted for a bit – some of it is still a blur – and then she wheeled me to the recovery room and showed me how to use the TV. I watched Ninja Warrior while eating graham crackers and drinking apple juice. The nurse asked me if I’d like Robin to come in. I said, “Yeah, I think she’ll like that.”

And Robin comes in…

She kisses me. We talk for a couple of minutes. I tell her that I don’t remember anything past the sedation and that I was reprimanded for cursing too much but I was in La-La Land at the time. While talking to Robin, she glances over at the IV in my hand, sits down while rubbing her face, and says, “I hate these places.”

And then she passes the fuck out.

Falls off the chair and hits her head on the floor. I honest-to-God thought she was trying too hard to make a joke. But she wasn’t moving so I said, “Uhhh…doctor?”

I shit you not, every doctor and nurse in that hospital flooded into our tiny room. They unplugged everything but my IV and pushed me out of the room on the stretcher into a vacant room across the hall. There were a million things running through my head but the one thing that I kept coming back to was how everyone I spoke to asked me if I had a “responsible adult” that would be able to drive me home and take care of me for the next 24 hours. I did…and now she’s getting prepped for the ER.

Yeah. The ER. The put her on a stretcher and rushed her down to the ER, put her on an IV and resuscitated her. Then they gave her a full lunch (I didn’t even get lunch) and watched her to make sure she was doing alright.

I know this may sound horrible to some of you but, honestly, I can’t stop laughing. I was freaked out at first, sure, but a nurse told me she was coming around and asked if I knew of a “responsible adult” that can take the two of us home and that was the end of it. Even the nurse was laughing.

I called Robin’s parents to tell them what happened – this was when I was still in the worried phase. I got their answering machine. Called back when I found out she was alright and Robin’s mom and sister were on the phone. I told them what happened and they just started cracking up. Robin’s sister says, “You would have been better off taking the bus home.” I had to hang up on them because laughing hurts so bad. Apparently, while Robin was still in the ER, her sister was leaving voice messages and saying, “Hey Robin, I just called to…oh, I’m fainting,” and then hanging up.

As I was getting wheeled to the waiting room to meet up with Robin (not surprisingly, she didn’t go into the recovery room a second time) the orderly told me that “all he knew” was that there was a “code 5” and everyone was running to my room.

A Code 5.

I know she’s embarrassed but this story is just too rich. I was so worried about the procedure and the pain and all this stuff – I remember nothing, woke up fine, and had mild discomfort but no hardcore pain since.

Robin passes out.

Well now I know, in the future, Robin stays in the waiting room and I’ll need to have a contingency plan in place.

Anyway – what could have been a horrible day turned into a story that I will cherish forever. I feel bad that it’s at Robin’s expense but she took one for the team – I know in my heart that if this happened to me, she’ll be telling everyone who’d listen as well.

Anyway – I’m fine and Robin’s fine. She’s doing a fantastic job taking care of me. I really can’t stand on my own, just yet, and lying down is damn near impossible (I just have to let myself go dead and Robin lowers me onto the bed). Once I’m up I’m ok. I’m really slow and I can’t bend over or turn around, but ok otherwise. She got me sushi for lunch and picked up my pain meds and some stool softeners (the reason I wanted to number-2 this morning was because it will hurt so bad to do it now).

So – that’s my day. I’m reading TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD for the first time since JHS. It’s weird – I’m finding there are some parts I appreciate more (like Scout, I guess, I was too young to understand the “adult stuff”) but there are some parts that I’m just not feeling that I liked more as a kid. I think my court-drama entertainment is seriously warped these days. I’m going to read WRITTEN ON THE BODY, next – looking forward to that one.

I’ll be in touch. By the way…have you been keeping up with POSTCARDS stuff? USA Today, Daily Candy, Publisher's Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, LA Times, Washington Post, etc, etc, etc.

Labels: dc, mitc

Greatest Hits

Thursday, July 05, 2007

I just got a final copy of POSTCARDS – fresh from the printer. Robin brought it to my job today – we went to Panera and cracked it open. Seeing my name on the spine, flipping through all of the beautiful pages - I think this makes today an official Greatest Hit.

It got me wondering what my other Greatest Hits are. It’s tough – there are moments of relief, like when you find out a family member made it through a complicated surgery or something you were worrying about, something that could really ruin your life, turned out ok. But those can’t really be greatest hits – there’s just too much sadness and stress wrapped up with them. Greatest Hits have to be the kinds of memories that would bring about the same feeling of euphoria regardless of the situation you’re in – regardless of what’s going on in your life at the moment. A Greatest Hit is something that gets you to the peak of your happiness – the upper limit – that feeling that you only get several times in a lifetime and you don’t think you’ll ever reach it again.

So, some of my Greatest Hits, in no particular order…

1) Since it’s the most recent one, I have to go with Robin and me getting engaged. Honestly, though, it wasn’t the actual proposal that falls under Greatest Hits. I was too nervous, I messed it up some, and I just wasn’t in the zone – I was bumbling, if you will. No, the Greatest Hit came afterwards, when Robin and I were sitting at the base of the Rialto Bridge, drinking carafe-after-carafe of wine, calling our relatives, kissing like mad, and she was listening to me tell her the stories. How I got the ring. How I asked her father if I can marry her. How I, essentially, told everyone I know that I was going to propose. That was a great moment – one of the happiest moments of my life.

2) Finding out I was going to be a big-brother is easily another one. I wanted a sibling for my first eleven years on this planet and I’ll never forget when my parents told me I was going to have one. I was at my Grandma’s house in Red Hook. My cousins and I were playing in one of those plastic kid pools in the backyard. My parents call me into Grandma’s hallway and tell me my mom is having a baby. I run back into the yard and tell all my cousins and we all look into the window and see my aunts and uncles hugging my mom and dad – everyone crying. It was such a great moment – one of my best childhood memories.

3) My parents have always done so much for me. Too much, at times. And it seems like my college graduation dinner was the culmination of it all – the last hurrah. I wasn’t a kid anymore; I was on my own after this one dinner. I moved to DC less than a week after that dinner following a couple of uneventful days back in New York. But that dinner…

My whole family was there. All my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and Robin’s parents. It was a great little Italian place in the North End. Everyone was eating the food and drinking the wine. We had so much fun. The bill came out and my father went to pay for it and came back five minutes later with an apron on and started cleaning up the table. It was, without a doubt, the perfect joke. But it also symbolized something more, in a way – the sacrifice my parents made for me throughout the years. Whenever I think about the scene, I get a bit choked up. It was such an innocent gesture from my dad – there was likely no subtext there – to him, it was just funny. But, to me…it was the last moment before being sent out into the world.

4) Walking into Random House’s lobby for the first time – God, what a thrill. You walk into this lobby and you have two bookcases on each side of you reaching to the ceiling. Books like Catcher in the Rye and Ulysses. I had to take a minute to compose myself before checking in at the desk – it was, without a doubt, the culmination of every childhood dream I ever had. Getting my offer, signing the contract, getting the galleys, my first good review…those experiences didn’t even measure up to the feeling I got when I walked into that building.

I’m sure there are more; it’s just difficult for me to put them up there with the one’s I already talked about.

Labels: mitc

Italy pt. 2: A Little Bit of Roma

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Last time I talked about all the steps we took just to get to Italy. Today I pick up where I left off.

At Fumicino we made our way to the baggage claim, picked up our bags, and went through customs. We walked towards the Leonardo Express, the train that’ll take us into Rome. Proving my street savvy, I almost fell for the gypsy that claimed I had to buy train tickets off of him. Luckily Robin was there to smack me on the back of the head and we made our way to the real ticket counter where we purchased out tickets.

We validated them as our eyes darted around from one group of people to the next. We were warned of the gypsies in Italy and we were dead set on making it through this whole trip without anything being stolen. We were vigilant, watching each others back constantly and making sure that our backpacks were never susceptible to little gypsy hands.

It was thirty minutes on the Leonardo Express, taking in the country side which was

covered in graffiti and shanty towns – it was like being back in New York. Robin and I went through our phrase book and studied the map of Termini and its surrounding neighborhood. We charted a course to our hotel so we can simply plow through with our bags, protecting us from, you know, gypsies.

We got off at Termini and were overwhelmed with the size of the station and the amount of people in it. As we exited the station, we started walking in the direction we thought the hotel was in, looking for street signs but finding none. We didn’t slow down, however; we didn’t stop. We kept moving, suitcase dragged behind us, map in hand, screaming, “Where’re the street signs? Where are the fucking street signs!”

Ok, I’m exaggerating. There was no screaming. But it certainly took us a couple of blocks to realize that the street signs were integrated into the buildings. We got our bearing straight and realized we were only several blocks from the hotel.

The Hotel Diocleziano - our first stop. Friendly concierge, gorgeous little lobby, a

bar off to the side. The concierge spoke English (as most service people do in the big cities), and the bellhop showed us to our room. I honesty thought they made a mistake. This hotel was the second cheapest of the four we were staying at. I didn’t understand why we had a spacious,

gorgeous room with a fancy, fancy shower that seconded as a Jacuzzi, and a private patio that was about twice as big as our hotel room. We apparently got all of this because I paid a couple of extra bucks for the deluxe room combined with a little bit of luck as far as the large patio went.

At any rate, our trip was off to a great start.

We showered and rested for a little while, trying to decide where to go and how to get there. We decided to walk towards the Spanish Steps, get lost a little bit, and had to stop and get some dinner on the way.

We were amazed, while walking around, how much Rome was built on food. Restaurants and cafes everywhere and everyone wanted you to have a seat. We finally picked a restaurant with a name I forget in an area that I wasn’t familiar with. We sat outside, got our menus, and picked out what we wanted. The waitress came over and asked, “Antipasti?” I ordered the mozzarella in carrozza. She turned to Robin and said, “And for you?”

Robin ordered something off of the prima patti menu causing the waitress to ask, “And?” Robin told her that was all and I ordered off of the secondi patti menu. We each ordered a side. The waitress, a little annoyed now, asked us what we wanted for dessert. We were confused and said, “Nothing yet.” We ordered some wine (by the glass) and the waitress was off. Later on, we learned how you’re supposed to order at a restaurante.

Ideally, you’re each supposed to order an antipasti, prima patti, secondi patti, sides, and dessert. Now, no-one will get mad at you if you don’t order every course (which is good because, if you do, you’ll end up spending close to 70 euros per person). But each person should at least order 3 of the five courses. At any rate we got our food and enjoyed our meals and toasted Italy with every new glass of wine. With all of the wine we bought, it would have made more sense for each of us to purchase our own bottle. We enjoyed our first meal and we set off to get lost again…

We walked around Piazza di Spagna. Sat on the Spanish Steps. Ate some gelato. Window

shopped. Held hands, kissed, took pictures – we were falling in love with the city. We were also getting tired, the only sleep we had was on the plane to London. So we eventually started walking in the direction of the hotel. We decided to stop for another drink at this American bar.

Sat down, realized there was a table fee (along with the fact that we were in, you know, and American Bar), and left before ordering a drink. We made our way to a wine bar near the hotel, had a half-carafe each, and talked about how beautiful the city was.

We headed back to our hotel and feel asleep…eventually.

The second day was more than just food and wine. We got up kind of early, got on a

bus, and went out to the Vatican. We weren’t sure where to buy our bus tickets and every time we asked someone they tried to sell us tickets to the tourist buses like the Christian Bus – a double-decker decorated with bright colors and images of Jesus. I heard rumors that

they hand out t-shirts on that bus that say, “Please rip me off,” but I doubt it – that would be overkill. We eventually discovered that you buy your bus tickets at the newsstands – we bought a day pass and were on our way.

The Vatican was overwhelming. You walk into St. Peter’s square and you instantly

appreciate how much history happened here, good or bad. The fountain, the statues lining the perimeter and, of course, the cathedral itself. Robin and I spent a half-hour just staring and taking pictures before heading into the cathedral. We walked through the tombs of the old

popes, first, saw the tomb of St. Peter and Pope John Paul II – he had a handful of mourners kneeling in front of his tomb, praying and crying.

Then we did the actual cathedral. The architecture and artwork were remarkable. An early Michelangelo piece, the tombs and statues of certain popes – the altars off to the side of the main altar where priests were going about their everyday business –

holding mass, baptizing babies, keeping confession. I asked Robin if she wanted to make confession at the Vatican and we both decided it was a very bad idea – we’d likely spend the rest of our vacation undergoing penance. We did stop off at a side alter to pray and reflect for a little

while, however, and we touched the feet of St. Peter like every good lapsed Catholic making a pilgrimage to the Holiest of Holies.

We hopped outside for some water and a slice of pizza before going to the Pope’s

blessing. I purchased some rosary beads for my mom so I can have them on me when the Pope does his blessing – that’s the kind of gift me mom would love. The Pope came out, said something in Latin, and then addressed the crowd in Italian, English, Spanish, German, Russian, and French. Every time he switched up his language the crowd went wild. He was calling out

parishes that were visiting from distant countries and the people attending would cheer and hoist their banners into the air – it was quite a sight. It’s just amazing how there can be so many people there, adoring this man that they’ve never met. I have to give it to the Pope, he was charming and funny. I can see how folks would get behind him.

After the blessing Robin and I walked to the Vatican Museum only to find that it’s closed on Sundays. At least I got to buy some sunglasses on the way up there. The guys selling illegal items in Italy are a trip. They have these cases that transform into tables – they can set up in seconds and leave just as quick. You see one guy running down the street, away from the police, and everyone picks up their gear and starts huffing after him. If you happen to be trying something on at the time, it’ll likely be yours, free of charge.

Robin and I quickly realized that it’s best to avoid eye contact when we hear one of the three pitches: “You want to know how much?” “Good price,” and, “On sale.” My absolute favorite moment was when Robin said she wanted a fake Coach bag. I walked up to the guy selling it, and he asked, “You want to know how much?”

I say, “How much?”

And he says, “Good price. On sale.” It’s like these guys are programmed to bring Americans to them. We did the barter thing. “Twenty.”

“Twenty? I can get a real one for thirty.”

“No…no. Twenty.”

“Ten – all I got.”

“No...twenty.”

I open my wallet. There’s ten euros in there. “Look – ten. All I got.”

He says 15, I walk away, and he calls me back and gives it to me for ten. I wish the

guys knew more English. I’d love to be able to call them out. “Is 20 the sale price or the retail price? Because if it’s the sale price I’d like to know what the retail price is. Or is there not a sale? Were you lying to me?”

We walked to Castel St. Angelo a medieval castle that used to be connected to the

Vatican via a series of underground tunnels. Admission was a bit steep but it was worth it for the view of the city and the statue of Michael the Archangel on top.

After the castle, we walked across the river and wound up near the alleys the surround Campo de Fiori. We walked around and got lost, ended up at a restaurant in a back alley because they had some musicians playing music out front. We were seated after ten minutes – fifteen minutes later no-one even asked us what kind of wine we

wanted and one of the waiters shooed away the musicians so we snuck out. We ended up finding a fabulous pizza shop with cheap Peroni and we had a seat outside, enjoyed the nice weather, and ate pizza and drank beer.

We went back to the hotel afterwards. Robin napped as I sat on the patio with a bottle of Chianti, reading Rick Veitch’s Maximortal. I didn’t really get into it, sadly.

That evening Robin and I went to the Pantheon and Piazza Navona – we got off the bus near these excavated ruins that have been turned into a cat sanctuary – that was

instantly added to our site-seeing agenda for the next day. We walked up to the Pantheon, got dinner at this nice little place with a view. Cheaper food than the night before and nice, big portions. Seafood, too, and it was real good. Half-liter of wine for me and a liter of Peroni for Robin.

We just sat and ate and drank and talked – two people in love, watching the people

walk by. We went to a famous

gelati place afterwards; we each got a three scoop, and then took side streets to Piazza Navona where we found an American bar with a table outside. We were both amazed by the waiter’s flawless English – he claimed to be born and raised in Italy. Some of the people at the bar

seemed to know him, and their conversations led us to believe that the waiter was, indeed, Italian, and that he just happened to learn accent-less English somehow.

A flower guy came around, like they always do, and I tried to convince him that I can’t buy a flower because Robin’s allergic. And, yes, I tried to do that in Italian. We got into a conversation with some other Americans afterwards about the best way to chase off flower guys. Afterwards we hailed a cab and got RIPPED OFF like mad. I don’t know what that guy was doing but we certainly paid way too much.

Went to bed…eventually. We tried out the jacuzzi, first.

I’ll continue with Rome and start up Venice next time.

Labels: italy, mitc, travel

Italy Part 1: Getting There

Monday, June 04, 2007

I never really did a comprehensive travel report of our recent trip to Italy. Since this site is supposed to be a storytelling blog, and I kind of want to record the details of the trip so I have them when I’m all senile and what not, I figure this is as good a time as any to start jotting it all down. This will be in multiple parts, with pictures when possible. Today will just be about everything that went down before we actually got to Italy.

I’ve wanted to go to Italy for a long, long time. It’s been my dream vacation for as long as I can remember. Robin and I talked about doing it for some time but we never really had the money for it. Last year, however, I got a hefty bonus, one that was enough to cover airfare, hotels, and rail passes for close to two weeks in Italy for Robin and I, and instead of doing what I always do and put it into savings, I booked us a trip.

We booked our airfare before we even knew where in Italy we’d be going. Ten nights, roundtrip from Dulles to Rome, that’s all we knew. We tried to get discounted tickets but all of the flights had impossible stopovers – either less than one hour (in Heathrow – impossible) or greater than eight hours. We decided we were adults, now, approaching 30 with money in the bank – let’s get the flight we wanted. So we booked roundtrip on British Airway for a little but more than the discounted fares we were seeing. Of course, the week after we booked it British Airway had a sale to Rome that would have saved us around $200 per ticket. And, no, they wouldn’t give it to us retroactively. And thus begins the circumstances behind our decision to never use British Airways again. The rest will unfold along with the story and, of course, “never” means “never…unless there’s a great sale.”

We had to pick our cities. Our initial idea was Rome, Venice, and Naples. Robin wanted to spend some time on the beach and I was willing to lie out in the sun as long as Peroni would be present. Whenever we told anyone our plan, however, they’d always say, “Naples? Naples is a dump.” On the recommendation of several friends we decided to go with Florence. Good wine and cheese – that’s why I wanted to go to Italy in the first place.

So we booked hotels for the three cities – three nights in Rome at a hotel near the train terminal, two nights in Venice right on St. Mark’s Square, three nights in Florence at a hotel near Ponte Vecchio, and two final nights in Rome at a hotel near the Pantheon.

Plane booked. Hotels booked. I purchased first class train fare for Robin and me, so we can go from city to city. We weren’t being stingy with this trip at all. It was a once-in-a-lifetime trip as far as we were concerned and we wanted to make sure it had the potential to be as fantastic as it could possibly be.

Everything was ready to go. I scheduled my vacation time at my job, we got the pet-sitting taken care off (Robin’s friend watched Becky while we were away and the cats had a sitter). I made sure James Powell knew what was coming up and what needed to be done for Postcards while I was away.

We bought our DK guidebooks. One for Italy and one for each city we were going to be in. We bought a new suitcase since we only had one medium sized bag and neither of us wanted to carry our large suitcase around. We looked into renting a car while were in Florence so we can get out to Chianti on our own schedule but realized we needed to start planning for that particular aspect quite some time ago – special licenses or something to that extent. We got the vacuum sealed clothing bags, an extra SD card for the camera, some new clothes that fit comfortably, and new walking shoes so we don’t spend the evenings complaining about our feet hurting. We researched the mass transit and cab situation in all of the cities we were going to, we picked out some good restaurants and sites that we absolutely had to see, and we researched the local wines so we knew what we had to get and what we had to bring home with us (answer: Chianti).

We were ready to go – we had everything we needed. Almost.

About two months before we were about to go to Italy I decided to propose to Robin. We’ve been together for eight years and, honestly, I’ve run out of excuses. She definitely wanted to get married – she no longer answered that question with, “Eventually.” Eventually has come. It was time.

So I started asking around. I looked at local jewelry shops, saw what they had. I knew Robin wanted something that looked or was antique. She wanted platinum, too. And that’s basically all I had to go with. There weren’t a lot of great options in DC. One dealer, however, pointed me towards several jewelers that make rings like the ones I was looking for. Two of these places had online storefronts and friendly customer service people and I found a ring I liked at each of them. One of them was out of my price range and one of them was not.

Now…I had a book coming out. I had an advance coming to me which, truthfully, was essentially already spent between creators, designers, editors, agents, and marketing. But…technically…I could scrape a little bit out of my company’s share of the money and that would, in essence, get the other ring, the nicer one, into my price range. So I decided to wait…

And wait…

Advances, well, they can get delayed at times. And that’s exactly what happened with my advance. Two weeks to go before the trip and I still didn’t have the ring. I wanted to take advantage of this trip so I ordered the smaller one. It was still a gorgeous ring. Edwardian inspired platinum, a nice rock in the middle with little diamonds on the side. I had to pay for express sizing and express delivery but it was worth it – I wanted to propose.

I had a plan. For some reason, I thought Venice had a Faberge egg thing. So I bought a ring box that looked like a Faberge egg. I was going to pretend I picked it up from a cart or something, open it up, surprise! I planted it! Imagine my surprise and frustration when I found out Venice had nothing to do with Faberge eggs. At least it was a nice ring box, I guess…

Literally the next day Robin and I are at our favorite Italian restaurant in Georgetown for my birthday. During dinner Robin drops a subtle hint. She says, “You know, I think it would be romantic to get engaged in Venice.”

Now – I was rip shit. RIP. SHIT. Who says something like that two weeks before the trip? If you wanted to hint at it, there are much more subtle ways of doing it without risking completely ruining the surprise if it was, indeed, going to happen. So, I lied. I lied hard and took advantage of the fact that she can’t get mad at me on my birthday. I told her I don’t think I want to get married, yet. That I thought we still have some issues we need to work out before making that commitment. That with the book coming out I can’t divert my attention or money to a wedding. I laid it on. And she bought it. And I might have paid for it during the weeks leading up to the trip but at least I had my surprise.

The ring took a while to get to me. I called the jeweler a week after ordering it to make sure it was shipped to me. The jeweler took this very condescending attitude and told me that they realize they need to get it to me before I leave on my trip and that if there’s anything wrong they’ll call me. On the Wednesday before my trip (we were to leave on Friday) I still have not received my shipping notification or my ring. I called the jeweler up to see what was going on and got the same snooty customer relations woman. She said, “Like I told you, Mr. Rodriguez, if there’s a problem we’ll call you.”

I told her that I was leaving in two days and I’d like to have verification that the ring has at least shipped. She reluctantly put me through to shipping. I gave shipping my information and they put me on hold. Five minutes later they get back on the phone, apologized their asses off, and promise me that they are shipping it over night right now. I wanted to get the customer relations lady back on and give her a piece of my mind but I figured it wasn’t worth getting upset over – at least I’ll have the ring.

The ring didn’t come to my job until 4PM Wednesday afternoon – I was getting nervous. But the receptionist brought it into my boss’s office while I was meeting there with another coworker. They made me open the ring right there, I showed it to everyone and they were all pretty excited. I left work shortly afterwards and went home – ready to finish packing and get moving.

I reserved a town car to take us to the airport the next day. The guy picked us up and headed out to Dulles – the two of us were so ready to go. We checked in, checked our bags, and had dinner at the Gordon Biersch in the airport. I excused myself and said I had to go to the bathroom. I went to call Robin’s father to ask for his permission to marry his daughter and, of course, get the answering machine. I needed to get his cell phone, so I text messaged Robin’s brother to get it. He, of course, gave me the wrong number. I texted him to give me the right one and went back to dinner so Robin wouldn’t get suspicious. Her brother sent me the right number and I called her father up and, of course, got his voicemail. I went back to the table.

Five minutes later Robin’s father called me. I excused myself again and told Robin it was Josh Fialkov on the phone – we were finishing up a pitch that he had to get out while I was gone. I answered the phone, Robin’s dad asked what’s up, and I asked for his permission to marry his daughter…

Silence.

After ten seconds or so I asked “So…is it ok?”

He gave me an enthusiastic “yes” and said how happy he was and told us to have a good vacation etc, etc. I apologized for asking so late, but I didn’t want Robin’s mom to find out because she can’t keep a secret. He understood. Recharged and ready to get engaged, I go back to the dinner table. Five minutes later, Robin’s mom called me. I excuse myself, again, saying it was Josh, again, and answered the phone. Robin’s mom asked if everything is alright because I left a message. I told her not to worry about it, I wanted to talk to John, and I’ll talk to her later. She said ok, likely knowing what was going on, and wished us a good trip.

We boarded the plane and took off. We drank some wine, ate some snacks, watched some movies, and slept for a while. When we woke up we were close to London. The plane landed and we made our way through the nightmare that is Heathrow. Brushed our teeth, got some coffee, and walked around the airport a bit – sampling shots of scotch and watching the flight board for any updates.

On the plane to Rome I went through the guidebook a bit and practice my Italian. It was a nice, short flight to Fiumicino airport. We could hardly contain ourselves as we lined up to get off of our plane. Several minutes later we were in the airport – ready for our trip.

And that continues next time.

Labels: mitc, travel

Firsts

Monday, May 07, 2007

Well – I got into my first car accident today. I’ve been hit once before but it was just a bit of a tap, no damage, no information exchanged. But yesterday I was at a stop sign coming off 395-S and getting on to George Washington Parkway when some guy rammed me from behind – knocked me into traffic but luckily no-one else hit me. Back bumper was smashed, trunk won’t close all the way, taillights destroyed – but I walked away with a little stiffness and nothing else, thankfully.

It just sucks all around. I planned on trading the car in this week and getting a new Matrix. Now I need to wait a couple of weeks, most likely. Also, I was coming back from the driving range and I was hitting the fuck out of the ball – out of 102 balls I probably hit about 70/80 of them real solid, which is great for me. So I was in a real good mood on the way home.

I decided that there is, indeed, a first time for everything and that sometimes first times can totally suck. First car accident: Sucks. There are plenty of other firsts that suck, as well.

First time getting stitches: Sucks. Christmastime – I was probably around five years old. We had those old-style radiators in the apartment. You may have never seen these but for some reason they had these metal blunted-spike looking things poking out of one end of them. I was apparently really excited that one of our neighbors had their Christmas decorations up and ran to the window to see them. Slipped, fell, and the blunted-spike thing went through my cheek. One of my earliest memories is the doctor putting this white-cloth square over my face during the operation. I guess it was before they put me under, or whatever they did.

First time getting punched in the face: Sucks. Nothing in the world prepares you for that feeling. Playing handball in Junior High when some kids tried to take my San Antonio Spurs Starter hat (that was when the Spurs got their new logo – everyone was wearing Spurs’ gear). One kid grabbed it; we played a bit of tug-of-war until the other kid pops me in the face. I drop the hat, fall on my ass, and clutch my face as blood flows from my nose.

First time getting your finger caught in a car door: Sucks. Thankfully this one only happened once. It was my thumb. I was probably around ten or so – I remember it being my dad’s monster of a car – this big, dark-red Chevy he used to drive. We called it Betsy. It had those big heavy-ass doors and one of them slammed nicely on my thumb. Man – I screamed. I had no idea what to do. My dad opened the door after realizing what was going on and I was in tons of pain. My fingernail turned purple and fell off – freaked me out every time I looked at it.

First time someone catches you masturbating: Sucks. Actually, I can’t think of a single time getting caught hasn’t sucked. Unfortunately I don’t live that life where some girl or girls catch me masturbating and decides to help me out. Usually she calls the cops. Having said that, who knows when I was first caught. We lived in a small apartment and, as an adult, I’ve learned that we’re never as subtle as we think we are. Unfortunately that still hasn’t curbed my masturbating. Just the other day I kissed Robin goodnight and told her I was going to check my email. She told me to put the blinds back up when I was done. Sucks.

First time you blow your entire post-college paycheck in one weekend: Sucks. Man – my first check seemed like the biggest fucking thing in the world. It was like infinite money. I went from about 7k a year in college to 50k. A 700-plus percent raise! In one weekend I bought drinks for a lot of people, bought dinner for the lady, bought new clothes – I bought a lot of stuff. Then Monday came along and I quickly learned that 50k a year, 960 dollar a week, isn’t even close to infinite money. Hell, it doesn’t even cover rent after taxes.

First time you spend a night in Aberdeen, Maryland: Sucks. There is nothing in Aberdeen except for Aberdeen Proving Grounds, a Days Inn, and a Grand Corral. At least that’s all I saw during the week I stayed there for work. I was walking through the woods, setting up microphones and directing army guys as they fired mortars and cannons. Whereas that part was pretty cool, the coming home to do a tick inspection before going out for all-you-can-eat shitty steak and getting drunk in your hotel room by yourself was not a good time at all. In fact, I imagine it’s what hell is like.

First time buying fake Cubans in a Mexican border town: Sucks. I don’t even remember the name of the fucking town. It was south of Yuma. I thought I was the master negotiator after I talked the guy down to $20 for a box of Cuban cigars. The ones in the box he were showing me looked and smelled just fine. They weren’t dry, they burned well – even if they weren’t Cubans they were good cigars. And then I opened my box to find twenty novelty cigars. I don’t even think they had tobacco in them.

(I’d also include the first time you accidentally drive your rental car into Mexico because you took a wrong turn as a big-time Suck. This time I was in Mexicali – luckily I got the car out of there.)

First time Best Buy pushes you into their extended warranty plan: Sucks. Second and third time sucks, as well.

First time you try to fix something covered by Best Buy’s extended warranty plan: Sucks. We brought a laptop in three times before we just said, “Fuck it,” and bought a new one.

First time you accidentally throw away a receipt for the shirt your girlfriend wanted to exchange: Sucks. The worst part? Every time she loses a receipt from that point on it will be because you threw it out. Even if you weren’t home, if you’re away on business, she’ll wait until you get home and blame you for it. The same thing happens the first time you accidentally throw away her mail and the first time you accidentally eat her box of Girl Scout cookies. Fuck, I have to do a story on the food situation in my house. Next time.

Anyway – I could keep going, mainly because I decided to lie down and do nothing all day to ensure my back is fine tomorrow – but I’ll stop. Robin’s in the office and I think I can pop a quick one without her finding out.

Labels: mitc

The Gambler

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

I’ve often talked about my love for gambling but I never really talked about my experiences inside a casino. So, you know, why not? Some manly storytelling to follow-up last weeks talk of fuzzy animals.

My first experience gambling came when I was eleven. It was at my sister’s christening part at the Knights of Columbus in Red Hook. They used to have this slot machine in the back. Technically the kids weren’t allowed back there but this was a party, right? Our parents were giving us quarters and we were screaming out, “Come on, lucky 7!”

Well, I hit the three sevens. $250 bucks which, for an eleven year old, is a small fortune. I had to pay the bartender a 20% tip, according to my dad, so my prize money quickly dwindled to $175. But even after my first experience with greasing palms I still had enough to purchase the one thing I wanted to purchase: a new skateboard.

Early in life I learned that gambling = stuff I couldn’t afford. And I was hooked.

I bought a two-tailed Vallely. Decked it out with all new trucks and wheels – hooked it up nice. Couldn’t skate for shit but that didn’t matter – what mattered is how much I paid for this board. Absolutely nothing.

There were opportunities to risk my money after that, as well. I had a friend in junior high that would actually run a gambling operation in for some local guy. Football scores. I was twelve years old and betting a dollar a game, learning about spreads and over-under. I never bet more than I had (thankfully, I was a kid, but I still don’t bet more than I had) but I handed in my picks every week.

We started playing poker in junior high, too. In the lunch room – nickel, dime, quarter style. Poker became my game early on. I played through high school and as often as I could in college.

It was really the only gambling I did in college. No car, no money – my friends and I could sit around a table for hours, drink beer, and play poker. So, it shouldn’t be a surprise that, despite my love for gambling, I didn’t play at a casino until I was 22 and out of school.

I went to Atlantic City with Robin and two friends, Max and Brooks. We stayed at this dirty motel off the strip. Robin went straight for the slots. She loves the slots. That girl actually bought a book on winning slot strategies. Since I have a diploma in mathematics, this absolutely freaked me out. I was like an evangelist that just found a Marilyn Manson CD and a bag of pot in my daughter’s room. But, you know, whatever passes the time…

Max and Brooks went to play blackjack. Me? I went to play Let it Ride.

Do you play Let it Ride? Because if you do, you’re playing the game with the worst odds. The one that non-gamblers play. I know this now. I spent the entire night at that table, up-and-down, until I eventually lost close to $200. It was a fun night, not a huge loss, no complaints.

As we were leaving I had my last ten dollar chip. Not wanting to cash it in, I went to the roulette table and put it on 14, my sister’s birthday. 14 came out – I won $350 bucks. I never played Let it Ride again. Of course, I also played the middle with a color someone else was playing. The guy was nice enough to tell the dealer that it was, indeed, my win and the dealer lectured me on proper roulette etiquette. I took my $350, bought lunch for everyone, and went home.

I started teaching myself blackjack.

My boss at my old job loved blackjack. After talking with him one day, we decided that I should learn to count cards. I have that math knack, after all, and I can catalog in my head pretty easily. So, I learned to count cards. By the time I was good at it I was already out of the old job and I never really had an opportunity to hit up Atlantic City with my old boss (you need at least two people to run a successful counting operation).

So, instead of using my new talents to get super-rich, I just used my new talents to burn my money really slowly. Bet a little higher when the deck’s hot, nothing noticeable, and a little lower when it’s cold. If the deck is cold, I’ll bet my win streaks like this:

1 – Minimum
2 – Minimum x 2
3 – Minimum
4 – Minimum x 2
5 – Minimum x 3

Repeat until I lose. If I lose, go back to 1. If the deck’s hot, I bet like this:

1 – Minimum
2 – Minimum x 2
3 – Minimum x 3
4 – Minimum x 4

Back to 2. If I lose, I go back to 1. It’s enough to sustain me for the night. I usually walk away a little ahead.

I’d still play roulette, too. I learned the secret to roulette, for me, is to play carefully. I was a casino in Gulfport, Mississippi playing roulette once. I’d put dollar chips down on five inside numbers. If I hit, a 7.6% chance, I get $35. If I’m ahead early, I get the fuck out of there, because everyone loses in roulette eventually.

Anyway, this one time in Gulfport, I hit the number 7 out of my first 10 spins. $16 dollars in, $245 out. I bought my coworker steak that night. Spent the rest of the evening breaking even at blackjack.

Blackjack is my real love. It’s that rush. One time I was at a casino with Robin’s brother playing blackjack. We were both at least a hundred up, I decided to call it in. He has $250 and he decided to play down to $200 so he goes $50 in. Two kings against the dealer’s three, what do you do? He splits them up - $100 in – and doubles down ON EACH. $200 in. He wins on one and loses on the other – breaks even on his bet. He figures, fuck it, and puts his fifty back in.

GETS THE SAME HAND.

Ends up $200 in again and wins on both, this time. We drink a lot.

And that’s a goddamn rush, right there. I play blackjack 90% of the time at casinos now. When Robin and I went on our cruise, we’d party and drink all night and then after I cuddled her ass to sleep, I’d go to the casino and play blackjack for two hours. I’m just lucky I don’t live closer to a betting establishment.

Robin’s into poker now, too. She comes out with me to my poker matches whenever she’s invited. She even won a local tournament and was invited to participate in the regional tournament but she couldn’t make it. We’re just a gambling family, I guess.

When our genes mix, our kids are going to be fucked.

Labels: brooklyn, dc, gambling, mitc

The Rest of the Family

Monday, March 26, 2007

When you come to this site, you read stories about Hooker Hands and pants shitting and you likely say to yourself, when does he get to the stories about cute kittens and purse-sized dogs? Well, today’s the day, ladies and gentlemen, when I introduce you to the kids.

That’s right, the kids. Because I’m cheese for my pets.

I’ve talked about the pets I’ve had before Robin. A cat as a child that tortured me. A bird that I named after my adopted Grandma Fran that died almost instantly. The goldfish that we couldn’t kill. The beagle that was killed by his vet. And then LJ, who’s still alive – good ole, dumb as a sack of rocks, LJ.

Robin had some pets back in the day, too. A cat called Mittens. Usually, when you call a cat Mittens, it means they’re cute. This guy was an outdoor cat, though, that would drag dead mice and birds into Robin’s room as a kid. She had a dog, as well, but I forget his name. One year for his birthday (a late birthday – shortly before he died) they let him sit on a dining room chair and eat cake. From that day on, whenever the family would sit for dinner, the dog would take a chair and growl at anyone who tried to move him. Robin also had a rat named Sidney but we’ll get to him.

By my count, that’s seven pets total. In the eight years that Robin and I have been together, we’ve owned ten pets. So, let’s go…

The Bird

We lived in Southwest DC for six months. I picked out the apartment, Robin hated it. We’d often travel into neighborhoods we’d rather live in and one day we found ourselves in a pet shop in Bethesda. In this pet shop there was this well-groomed, well-mannered Quaker Parrot up for adoption. We asked the employees about the bird and they told us that the owners haven’t been home much and haven’t had time to dedicate to the bird. He’s eight years old, and Quakers usually live to around 25.

We liked the guy, we took him out and he sat on our fingers and our shoulder. His name was Quaky and we really couldn’t change it because the only thing he knew how to say was, “I’m Quaky.” It’d be awkward if we changed his name to Julius or something. So, we decided to adopt Quaky.

He was great. He’d fly around the house, land on our finger, say, “I’m Quakey,” in case we forgot. We really liked the guy. And then he turned on me, took a chunk of my finger off, and I stopped liking him almost instantly.

Apparently, Quaker Parrots tend to bond to one person and one person only, and usually a female. He viewed Robin as his mate and I was his competition. Because of this, he attacked me whenever he had the chance. We ended up clipping his wings, obviously.

Robin still loved him until he started biting her, too. He doesn’t attack her – doesn’t fly at her face like he does to mine – but he sure as hell doesn’t let her hold him. We decided that he’s just a mean bird. That’s why his previous owners really gave him up.

We tried to soften him up a bit but nothing worked. There are currently two trains of thought in the house. Mine is that we failed, and someone else will do better. Robin’s is that someone else will put him to sleep. As with all things in our household, Robin’s logic wins, and we still have Quaky. On the bright side, he only has ten years left.

Only. Ten. Years.

The Rats

Once we realized that the bird hates us we decided to get a pet that’ll love us. This was while we were still in Southwest and we weren’t allowed cats or dogs. So we got rats (Robin’s idea). Robin’s first rat, Sidney, was a cute little guy – she had him when we first started dating. I wasn’t really down with the “rat thing” but I would let her crawl on me and I’d pet her because, honestly, I wanted to get laid (not by the rat).

So, Robin goes to a breeder and gets us two rats. Macy and Cole. Macy is the lovable, lick-your-fingers type and Cole was likely a butch lesbian. She ran on the wheel all day and would, occasionally, mount the other rats and hump them. Vigorously. We didn’t stop there – Robin hooked up with a breeder that had a dumbo rat (big ears) named Dilly and a blue-haired rex (bluish hair that looked permed) named Penny.

It was fine, they all had their own personalities and they were low-cost pets. I even took an affinity towards Penny – she’d sit at my desk while I was trying to make comics and I’d feed her treats.

The problem is, rats get sick. Real sick. Especially females. Dilly was the first to get sick. One day we see her jumping around her cage and gasping for air. We take her to the vet. Now, we’re new at this. We don’t know about prices or any of that stuff. We take this rat to the vet at night. They take her in, put her on a ventilator, and observe her. The following day they’re giving her meds, back on the ventilator, etc, etc, etc, and they put her down. It was sad – Robin was crying. I was a little choked up, mainly because Robin was so sad. But I started crying when I saw that bill – it was a touch over a thousand dollars.

For a rat. That cost us fifteen bucks. Even Robin, the animal lover, thought we might have gone a bit too far with the treatments. So, we made a pact – every rat gets one chance. Unless their chance involves ventilators, then we say goodbye.

Macy and Cole got tumors; those were reasonably priced to remove and counted as their one chance (we had a better vet now, too). Macy had a respiratory infection that we gave her medicine for until she died. We put her to sleep. Cole ended up dying the exact same way. When there was only Penny left we adopted a fifth rat, Dipper. The only male of the crew – he was a cool dude but Penny got a tumor shortly after we adopted him, which we removed, and the respiratory illness to follow. She died while we were taking her to the vet.

That left Dipper. When we adopted him, he was about two years old. He lived for a year and died peacefully, never a problem. We decided that if we ever get another rat it’ll be a boy. We never got another rat, though, and I think that was a good decision. They were just way too expensive.

The Cats

We were only supposed to get one cat. We adopted her from the shelter. Her name was Crystal but we weren’t having any of that so we just call her Kitty. Some cat-lady croaked and twenty-some-odd cats were dropped off at the shelter – Kitty was the last one. She was nine when we adopted her, she was friendly as all hell, and she’s been in this non no-kill shelter for several months. The way we saw it, we had to adopt her, because no-one else was going to. She has a mullet, she sleeps in bed with us, and she’s clumsy as all hell. A good cat.

Robin was volunteering at the same shelter when she met our second cat, Rogue. Rogue was around seven. Lovable and petite. We took her home; she took a couple of months to get integrated, Kitty would kick her ass constantly. She meows a lot, she wakes us up as soon as the alarm goes off or one of us opens our eyes, and she keeps the other cats in line. All good.

We decided to stop at two cats.

Our third cat, Frisky, was two years old when we got her. She was my Grandma Fran’s cat. Her son got it for her to keep her company/keep her busy; Grandma Fran had Alzheimer’s. When Grandma Fran died, her son said he was going to put the cat to sleep. Robin and I wouldn’t have that so we took the cat. Frisky was hiding in the walls of my Grandma Fran’s apartment and we managed to flush her out. My father drove her down to DC. She got along fine with Rogue but Kitty gave her a hard time. She jumps around a lot, she’s afraid of everything, and I’ve never seen her bat back at any of the other cats. With a cat like that, three doesn’t seem so bad.

Our fourth cat was a foster that we decided to keep. Ashes. She’s a terror but she keeps things interesting. She’s a three-year-old punk, she attacks everybody, and whereas her ass is occasionally handed to her by Rogue, she keeps Kitty and Frisky on their toes. We kept her solely for the entertainment value. We’ve learned how to keep her in line if we need to – when the Nerf gun comes out she knows she went too far. But she’s always the first to greet us, she likes to play rough, and she doesn’t upset the status quo too much.

Four cats. No intention of getting a fifth. Robin’s not allowed at shelters anymore.

The Dog

And then there’s Becky. Robin manages the largest pet sitting service in DC. One of her clients died and left behind a nine-year-old rat terrier. Six pounds, she’s smaller than all of our cats. Her name’s Becky – Robin brought her home to see if I liked her.

I don’t like small dogs unless their beagles or bulldogs. A dog should be at least twenty pounds, that’s how I see it. This dog had large, beady eyes and ears that poked up. Hardly any fur and bad breath. She had a burn on her back - when she was spayed they kept a heat lamp on her for too long. She was just a beat-up, mangy looking dog.

But she loves to play fetch. Seriously, fetch for hours. One day we were having a barbeque and everyone there kept throwing the ball for Becky. She kept fetching that ball UNTIL SHE PASSED OUT. We had to take her upstairs and put her into a tub of cold water to revive her. She fetched until her body shut down.

I was a big fan of the fetching, so I let Robin adopt her. The integration was tough, because I wasn’t too down with some Becky-things, but Robin was patient me. For instance – Becky won’t go outside if it’s cold. Especially not if it’s snowing or raining. You just end up dragging her around. She won’t go to the bathroom. So we had to get her sweaters and booties.

Well, I wasn’t going to walk around with a dog wearing a sweater and booties. I refused to, actually. The first time she pissed on the rug changed my mind about that one, however. So, now I walk her with a sweater and booties.

But, like I said, it’s all about the fetching. On a hot summer day I sit on the lawn in a beach chair with a 32 of Delirium and a good book. I put some water out there for Becky and every five minutes I give the ball a toss. We stay out there like that for hours. Sometimes I’ll use the whiffle-ball bat to get the ball going nice and far. I get to practice my hitting and Becky gets to stretch her legs. It’s the perfect partnership.

She loves cheese, she loves barbeque, and she demands the attention of pretty girls. She’s a good dog.

And that’s the extended family. We currently have five animals – the cats, the bird, and the dog. No plans to get any more.

And I definitely think we’re done with the rats.

Labels: dc, mitc, pets

This is the End

Monday, March 19, 2007

The whole purpose of this blog, when I first started it, was to tell stories about growing up in Brooklyn and going to school in Boston. January 2006 I extended that mission to include stories about moving to DC/starting a life with Robin. The year before January 2006, I wrote 260 stories. A new story every Monday through Friday. The year since, I wrote about thirty. I admit – this blog became a tenth priority, at best.

But I want to kick it up a bit more. With the first year, I had a definitive ending in sight. I graduated BU – I moved out of Boston. The End. I always felt that, by including DC stories, I really never had anywhere to go with them.

Well, now I do. And I’m going to start at the ending and tell you all about my recent engagement to Robin.

Robin and I have been together for almost eight full years. This June, by our calculation, will mark the start of our ninth year together. And we just got engaged two weeks ago. It’s not like I never considered getting engaged before. Robin and I were both resistant to marriage at different times. A collection of reasons. We’re too young, our commitment to each other without legal obligations says more than anything else, we don’t want to have kids yet, anyway – we always had excuses on hand.

Not like the excuses ever really satisfied anyone. My parents would occasionally rib us a little – Robin’s mom would occasionally have too many drinks and flat out ask me when I was going to propose. This was usually funny, unless she did it in front of Robin’s father. Then it became uncomfortable.

Internally, I kept setting deadlines for myself. The first one was: “I’ll propose once we get out of debt.” Well, we got out of debt. Robin and I were having some issues incorporating our families into our lives and I said to myself, “Well, after we get the family stuff ironed out.” Well, we all get along fine now. It became a joke; I’d laughingly tell my friends, “We’ll get married after I get my first helicopter.”

The final deadline I set for myself was, “We’ll get married after I sell my first book.” As someone who wanted to write his whole life, I knew the odds of me ever selling a book were slim-to-none. And then I sell Postcards to Random House, biggest publisher in America, a literal dream-come-true.

And I said to myself, “Fuck, maybe I should propose.”

I decided to do it in Italy. Of course, I wrestled with my decision for several months. I kept finding reasons why Robin and I will never work in the long term. Important stuff like “she doesn’t like comics” and “we can never share a bottle of wine because she doesn’t like reds.” I fought through all of these issues and picked out the perfect ring…

…and the ring was well into the five-figures. And just like that I had another excuse – I needed to be able to afford this ring. Cash. I convinced myself that this was the only ring for Robin, the only one she deserved. I was being a good boyfriend. There was another, more affordable, ring I liked but I would not settle for second best.

For my birthday Robin took me out to this wonderful Italian restaurant in Georgetown. After several glasses of wine (I was drinking Chianti, she was drinking chardonnay, of course) Robin says, “You know – I heard Venice is a great city to get engaged in.”

It’s funny how one sentence can get you to instantly stop playing games. For the first time in our eight years together, Robin and I jibed. We both wanted to get married at the same time. I got real serious, real fast – so serious that I got angry at her for “ruining my plans” – and I managed to convince her that I feel we’re simply not ready for marriage yet. I laid out some issues we still need to work through. And, since it was my birthday, she couldn’t get mad about them.

It was perfect – and she left that restaurant convinced that I had no intentions of proposing.

I ordered the ring that night. It was from a jeweler in Florida specializing in antiques and replications that a broker found for me. It was a replica 1910 Edwardian inspired platinum ring. A good rock in the middle and a crown of smaller diamonds clasping it into place. The crown was an important feature, one that I was specifically looking for. Robin’s my princess, she knows it, and she always tells me to buy her a tiara one day. I made sure that her engagement ring had a tiara embedded into it.

Getting the ring was a bit of a nightmare. I wanted it fast because, if it sucked, I could return it and get a new one. I paid extra for rush-resizing (I sized it by using one of her existing rings) and rush-delivery. That was on a Wednesday. I should have received shipping notification, at least, by that Friday. I was in New York that weekend and decided to call the jeweler. I got some lady on the line that was telling me to calm down and if there was a problem, they’d call me. I reiterated that I needed the ring by next Thursday at the latest and she said she understands that.

Now it’s the following Wednesday. I leave for Italy on Friday. I still don’t have a ring. I still don’t have a tracking number. So I call the jeweler again and get the same chick on the line. She “remembers me” and tells me, once again, that if there’s a problem they’ll call me. I ask to speak to shipping. She transfers me, I’m on hold for five minutes, and then a guy gets on the line, probably not from shipping, and says, “Mr. Rodriguez, we’re so sorry. We’re sending the ring overnight right now.”

I got the ring at my office the next day.

I also ordered this crystal/Faberge Egg looking ring box. For some reason, I got it in my head that Venice was known for their Faberge Eggs. The plan was to go to some market, put this ring box amongst a sea of Faberge Eggs, and say, “Hey, we should get one while we’re here – how about this one?” She grabs it, opens it up – surprise! Engagement ring!

Imagine my surprise when I get to Venice and I don’t see a solitary Faberge Egg.

My improvised plan was essentially, “Fuck it – we’re in Venice.” Because, honestly, being in Venice, in-and-of-itself, makes for a great engagement story.

We went to dinner at a place called Trattoria alla Madonna. It was off the beaten path a bit. Nothing flashy – the place where the gondoliers went to eat after getting off of their shift. There was an American there, Mike. He asked us how we knew about this place and I told him it came highly recommended. Mike comes to Italy twice a year and he proceeded to give us recommendations for restaurants in Florence while helping us with the food choices on our menu.

I played football in high school; I realize when someone’s throwing a block. As Robin’s back is turned towards Mike I pull the Faberge Egg out of the pocket and put it on the table. Robin turns back around, sees the egg, and asks, “What’s this?” She opens it up, sees the engagement ring, and asks, “What’s this?” I ask her to marry me. She says, “Really?” I say, “Yes.” She says, “Are you sure?” I say, “You know, you’re freaking me out a bit.” She starts to cry and says yes, I put the ring on her.

I apparently convinced her that I was never going to propose to her. Also, she thought the Faberge Egg had sugar packets in it.

The ring doesn’t fit. I resized it at least a size too big, I gather. She has to wear it on her middle finger.

After dinner we walked over the Rialto Bridge to a wine bar situated right at the base and called our parents and siblings. Everyone was excited. Everyone probably knew about it, too.

My family certainly knew. I had to call Robin’s brother to get her father’s cell phone number so I can ask permission, so Robin’s family probably knew. I also told a lot of my family and friends as well as a bunch of coworkers at my day job and in comics that I was going to propose. So, it probably wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone.

At any rate – we’re engaged. I want to get married next Spring, Robin wants to finish school first before she even starts planning the wedding so she’s thinking the following Spring. At any rate, it’s going to be one hell of a party.

Labels: dc, engagement, italy, mitc, robin

Making the Most

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

This is a Tuesday story. I posted a Monday story as well. Real quick, though, I'm interviewed at Scryptic. Go, read it. But, more importantly, the complete Elk's Run is available in Previews. I edit this book, I love this book - the print rights were purchased by Villard (a division of Random House) and the book comes out in March. Go tell your comic shop. Now.
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This coming Saturday is my company Christmas party. In the movies (and on TV), company Christmas parties tend to look like a good time. Young(er) people getting drunk, photocopying asses, and making out in the storage closet. When you work in defense, your parties aren’t like that at all. You usually end up going to same hotel and eating the same food and listening to the same DJ and making fun of the same people.

So you have to make the most of it.

December 2000 I went to my first holiday party. Robin even came in from Boston to go accompany me. This was shortly after I got my first big win at TAO so I was a little bit of a big shot; 22-year-old kid brings in a mid-six-figure contract four months into his time at the company. A lot of the folks at the party knew of me and wanted to meet me – it was exciting (and Robin was impressed as well).

The food was good, the drinks were free for the first two hours (but Robin and I crashed the wedding next door where the drinks were free all night), and as the old folks started to trickle out the young(er) folks danced a bit. Mainly Robin and I. At the time the next youngest person in the whole company was mid-thirties (and that’s including administrative staff).

I worked for an OLD company.

But we had fun and come December 2001 we were ready for another good time. Robin’s company party was at her office – it was fine but, you know. Meh. Mine was at the same hotel again. Same menu. Same attendees. Same DJ. Same music. My boy Mike was at TAO now as well – Robin and I thought we had someone young to hang with until he ate some ravioli made with some pesto (after the waiter told him there were not nuts) and Mike had to get rushed to the hospital.

Robin and I got liquored up and danced by ourselves again.

December 2002 was the same thing. Again. Except this time Mike didn’t almost die.

December 2003 was the supposed to be the same thing. But, having enough of the blahs, I got up on the dance floor and sang James Brown’s, “I Feel Good.” I was shaking my hips and doing spits – making suggestive eyes to my old-ass coworkers’ wives and getting them to giggle. Most of the people at the part apparently hated it but, whatever, I felt good. I knew that I would.

December 2004 and I was no longer at TAO. After a 6-month stint at one or the largest defense contractors in the world I found myself at an employee-owned company making good money. Our party was at a cramped restaurant, I was only working at the company for two weeks so my interaction with folks was low – I didn’t really know anybody except for the two folks I came over to the new place with.

But it was a new atmosphere, new food options, and new conversations. No dancing, however, and after the party a bunch of my coworkers made their way to the bar but I didn’t go over there with them – Robin and I just headed home.

The company realized that we’re getting too big for a restaurant thing so Christmas 2005 we were on a dinner cruise. We sailed the Potomac while eating food and dancing. The car was open all night and the younger folks (and my current company is MUCH younger) got wasted. After the cruise we went to a bar in Alexandria and drank some more. Good times for all.

However, a bunch of the older folks at the company didn’t like the fact that they were trapped on a boat for four hours so this year we’re not on a cruise.

We’re in a hotel.

The same hotel my Christmas parties at TAO were in.

And I’m sure the parties will be there from now on until I retire.

Labels: dc, mitc

Where’s the snow?

Monday, December 04, 2006

Today’s the first day I brought my winter jacket out of the closet and it was mainly for stylish reasons – I could have easily gotten away with a sweatshirt. Where’s the snow? The sub-zero weather? We’re digging into December now and I’m still biking around with a fleece on.

Didn’t it seem to get colder earlier when we were kids? I remember going sleighing in December with my pops. Prospect Park – we’d pack up a thermos of hot chocolate and bring the wooden sled as well as the red, round sleds; the ones that spun out of control all the way down the hill.

My dad would always bundle me up until I was sweating. We’d be with my cousin Luis and start with the smaller hill – the baby hill. Two of us would sleigh down the hill while the other watched over the hot chocolate thermos. We’d try to be goofy about it – sleighing down the hill on my dad’s shoulders or something similar. I remember that there was this creek that was quite a few tens-of-yards out from the bottom of the slope – it was nearly impossible to get enough momentum going to get close to that creek yet every time I went down that hill I was afraid I was going to fall in.

We’d always warm-up on the baby hill a bit, gearing up for the real reason we went to Prospect Park when it snowed – Suicide Hill.

Suicide Fucking Hill. I’d come running out of my bedroom the Saturday morning after it snowed BEGGING my dad to take me to Suicide Hill. That hill was monstrous as a kid – the fact that you had to walk up a staircase to get to the top of it was mind-boggling. There’d be a line of kids walking up that staircase, each of us taking a step at a time, watching kids fly down that hill packed so densely that collisions were routine.

Suicide Fucking Hill. You’d get to the top of the hill, get a good running start, and take off with that sled beneath you. There was nothing worse than a bad takeoff on Suicide Hill – the kind where you tumble off of your sled and roll down the hill for a while. You try to regain your footing but kids are aiming for you, taking out your legs and getting you to flip on your as. If you fell of your sled going down Suicide Hill you’d end up at the bottom ten minutes later with open wounds, bruises, and a mild concussion.

Suicide Fucking Hill. Going down face first on a wooden sled was the best – snow kicking up and making your face freeze. You couldn’t see a thing like that; between the chunks of eyes depositing in your eyes and your face being stretched back from the colossal speeds you flew blind all the way down, taking out kids as they scramble for their misplaced sled.

The funny thing about Suicide Hill is the fact that, come spring time, it looks like a baby hill. Seriously – I remember looking at Suicide Hill without snow on it and being so disappointed, you could hardly get a good roll going down the hill when it was grassy. For some reason snow made that damn hill a Black Diamond. The place to be in Brooklyn after a snowstorm.

Suicide Fucking Hill.

Labels: dc, mitc

I Said Daily, I Meant Daily

Friday, December 01, 2006

Christina Aguilera Need to Learn About Meddling Kids, Hoola-Hoops, and Onion Rings

Thursday, November 30, 2006

My mom called me last night to remind me to watch the tree lighting ceremony on TV. I started watching it a bit late, I caught Sara McLachlan’s rendition of Happy Christmas (War Is Over) which went right into Christina Aguilera singing a song from her new album. The song was called Hurt and, as far as I can tell, it’s about a girl that chases away her boyfriend and the boyfriend could possibly be dead now. Not sure.

And while she was singing this song, Sasha Cohen was figure skating.

And then they lit the tree.

And I watched this, mouth agape, and wondered, “What the fuck does this have to do with Christmas.”

It was a depressing song. I mean, seriously:

There's nothing I wouldn't do
To have just one more chance
To look into your eyes
And see you looking back

Does that say “Christmas” to anyone? Only depressed people and they’re the ones killing themselves on Christmas – they’re probably not even watching the tree lighting ceremony. Would it have really hurt Christina Aguilera to sing, I don’t know, Jingle Bells? Oh Christmas Tree would have been a nice lead-in to the lighting of the tree.

It drove me nuts. But it also inspired me to bump back the story I had planned today and focus a bit on Christmas Music.

There are three Christmas albums I remember from my childhood. I used to get them out in December and play them on my little Fisher Price record player. Sitting under the tree, hot chocolate, cookies, and a Star Wars sleeping bag.

A Scooby Doo Christmas is one of the albums I remember. There weren’t any songs on it; it was a radio play of sorts where some ghost was scaring kids at an orphanage for some reason. Scooby Doo and pals get called in to solve the case and it turns out the ghost was some old man who would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for the meddling kids. I kind of remember Santa showing up in the end although I don’t know why. And I remember one of the clues being footprints in the snow.

A Chipmunk Christmas was another one. My parents hated that goddamn record, mainly because I kept playing Christmas Time Is Near over and over again. It would drive me mad, too, if all I heard was a high-pitched voice singing “Christmas, Christmas, time is near; Time for joy and time for cheer,” ever couple of seconds. I liked the song because one of the Chipmunks sang something like, “Me, I want a hooollllaaa-hoooooppp.” I loved that line. And then all the Chipmunks started fighting and Alvin got punished in the end – classic!

A Disney Christmas is the last album I remember and I still love that record to this day. The entire Disney family singing The 12 Days of Christmas was one of my favorite childhood memories. The song got more chaotic with every verse and towards the end Goofy belts out my favorite line, “Fiiivvveeee Onion Ringsssss.” God that cracked me up as a kid (I was easily amused).

For our first Christmas together Robin got me a working Fisher Price record player. Well, “working.” It plaid the records but the sound was modulating like mad. I got the old records from my parents and we sat in front of our little fake tree and listened to The 12 Days of Christmas while exchanging presents. The record kept sticking; I think we got up to the fourth day of Christmas before we gave up. But it was a nice little callback to Christmas morning as a kid.

We played the Chipmunk album next and it took about two seconds for me to get a headache. How did we tolerate that shit as kids?

Labels: dc, mitc

‘Tis Better to Give…

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

I know yesterday I talked all about Santa and how much I love to get presents and what not but I’ve always been a giver. When I was a kid (I’m talking four or five years old, here) I’d go rummaging through the bottom of my parent’s closets and find Christmas gifts for them – wrap them up and bring them out Christmas morning. I distinctly remember this one year I wrapped up some shoes and a purse that I found in my mom’s closet.

When I hit elementary school it was all about the crafts. Making little ornaments for mom out of clothespins and balls of cotton; begging my teacher to let me pull the trigger on the glue gun. Going to the gymnasium armed with the five bucks my mom gave me and buying her some fake diamond earrings for two bucks; using the remaining three dollars to buy a hand-made wallet for my dad and some cupcakes.

I remember making the stuff for the craft sale – the teachers put us kids to work for a day. About a month beforehand we all go through this craft catalog and pick out the items we feel we should sell. Goofy pencil toppers, Chinese finger traps, picture frames – some items required assembly and some were ready to go. When the crafts shipment came in we had to sort everything out before forming teams – each team was responsible for assembling something. Putting googly eyes on a pom-pom or putting glitter on a Popsicle stick. We were all cogs in the craft sale machine, making the items we’d end up buying for our parents for Christmas and the PTA keeps the profit.

I don’t do craft sales anymore, obviously. I have a job. I make money. And with that money comes better, more thoughtful gifts. For instance, my mom’s favorite toy as a kid was her Barbie Dream House. This was like 1963, I believe. It was destroyed when my mom’s house burnt down and she wanted one ever since. So, I got her a 1963 Barbie Dream House for Christmas one year.

I started doing right by my sister, as well. A good keyboard one year, a computer the next. Robin got spoiled, as well. Fashions, movies, musics, tickets – whatever she wanted plus some surprises every year.

But, like I said, I’m a giver. And a giver gives to those that need before he gives to those that want.

Every year since graduating college Robin and I have adopted a family in DC that couldn’t afford their own presents. We’d get everything on their kids’ lists plus some extra clothes. We’d even get some extra luxury items for the mother and gift certificates for whatever grocery store is close by.

We’d deliver the presents ourselves. One year there were two kids, the daughter was out with her father but the son was home. The boy had a ratty Playstation and he wanted a wrestling game for it. He knew we got it for him and while we sat down and talked to his mother he kept begging her to let him open it. She finally caved and me and the boy went into the kitchen to play video games together (he kicked my ass).

The mother shared with me some letters she was trying to get published by The Washington Post. Pieces she wrote about what goes on in her neighborhood every night and how nobody cares. Letters about the idiot kids that live on her block and make her son’s life hell. We’re not talking high school bullshit, we’re talking guns fired through a window as a prank and severe beatings on the way home from school. About how the cops treat her like a criminal when she calls to file a complaint. How they never followed-up with her and were never able to find her report when she called back.

I don’t know exactly why but I saw my mom. The environment was different, sure. My dad was around and he was as much a part of my life as my mom was. As far as I know, my parents never asked anyone for help – my father worked two jobs and my mom took a job when they needed the extra cash. Our neighborhood, whereas not the nicest neighborhood in Brooklyn, was tight – we had great community. But there’s something about the struggle to be a mother, I guess. Single mom, two kids, scraping to get by – writing letters to the papers because the cops don’t take her serious when she’s trying to protect her son.

Struggling. Asking complete strangers for help. Not money. Gifts. For her son. So that he can have a good Christmas. So that he can play a wrestling game on a used Playstation his absentee father bought him.

That’s a mom, you know? You put my mom in the same situation and that’d be her.

Robin and I stayed for a while. Playing video games, talking – the mother insisted we had some cake and coffee, neither of which were good but we swallowed it all down. She cried when we gave her the grocery store gift card – she thanked us nonstop as we were getting ready to go. We drove away and left them on their doorstep, the two of them smiling and waving at us.

And just like that their Christmas is over.

I’m not going to be the guy who just sits here and says that all my sins are cleansed from one evening of charity work. I’m not going to pretend that two-hundred bucks to spend at Safeway, some clothes, and a Playstation game is going to leave any sort of lasting impact on anybody. But that’s also not going to stop me from doing it every year.

I guess this is part story, part plea. I set you up by starting all warm and fuzzy. I apologize. Yes, this is a trap. But the truth is, there are families that need a break for one day. There are families with lives that are worst than yours will ever be. There are mothers out there who just want their kids to have one great fucking day but they can’t afford to give it to them and it kills them.

There’s plenty of time till Christmas. You can still adopt a family. This year we’re adopting two families. One through the Northern Virginia AIDS Ministry and one through the Arlington-Alexandria Coalition for the Homeless. I’m sure there are plenty in your own communities. See what you can do.

‘Tis better to give, after all.

Labels: dc, mitc

Making a List

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Ah, Amazon. Fucking Amazon. It’s so easy to make a wish list and email it to all of your friends and family. Here’s mine, in case anyone wanted to buy me a present. You click the link, find something that’s under ten-bucks, enter your password, and commit to the purchase. You don’t even need to know my address. It’s that fucking easy.

Every December I get the emails from Amazon telling me my sister or Robin or one of my boys have updated their wish lists. And every year I go and measure-up how much this person’s worth to me, and I buy them something. It’s a Christmas List broadcast to everyone in the world…

Except for Santa.

What the fuck happened to Santa? At what point was he cut out of this gift giving process?

“But Jason, Santa doesn’t exist.”

Bullshit. I tell you what – it isn’t common sense that convinced me to buy a Coach bag for Robin last year despite the fact that it wasn’t on her wish list. It was some portly mother fucker with a red nose whispering shit in my ear. That son of a bitch spends my Christmas bonus every year. Santa exists, ladies and gentlemen. He’s planted in our heads at a young age and he lives there until we die. He’s your guilt, your need to be loved and accepted. So when you’re making your wish list this year, before you click “send”, look north, tell Santa you’ve been a good boy or girl, and ask him to get you everything you want.

I don’t kid around when it comes to Santa. I never did. I don’t care how your opinion towards me is changing right now but the day someone told me Santa didn’t exist was the first day I said, “bullshit.” My parents, my scraping-to-get-by-working-two-jobs parents, didn’t buy a complete series of Star Wars figures and put the time and effort into tying them all to a string that I pulled on Christmas morning, causing the figures to erupt from the side of the couch in a ball of wondrous goodness. That shit was Santa, and nobody’s ever going to convince me otherwise.

And even when I knew Santa wasn’t a physical person that came in through our window because we didn’t have a chimney I still wrote a list for him and handed it off to my parents. Because I knew my parents couldn’t afford a Gameboy but Santa – that evil, conniving, overgrown elf – sure as hell would convince them to do it.

So I made a list. I said, “Dear Santa, I’ve been real good this year. I did good in school and I was good to my mom and dad. I don’t curse at my mom like Tony and I don’t do drugs like Rafael, and I don’t shoot at people on Halloween like that crazy-ass Jamaican Dexter over on Columbia Street. Please bring me a Cobra Terrordrome.” I always made sure I was writing that letter so that it channeled Santa through my parents. Roughly translated it said, “Dear Santa. Please appreciate the fact that I’m not a douchebag like every other kid in this neighborhood. I have a future. I’ll make money. And when you get old, I’ll put you in the retirement home that doesn’t feed you dog food.”

Make a list. Put it in an envelope. Address it to, “Santa Clause; North Pole.” Hand it to my parents. Smile.

Robin’s my primary Santa now – she gets the Amazon wish list. Before I click, “send,” however, I look to the north and say, “Santa – I’ve been a good boy this year. I haven’t cheated, I haven’t taking advantage of you while you were drunk, and I paid for that vacation you loved. Here’s my list.”

I hope you all start doing the same. It’s time to bring Santa back to Christmas.

Labels: dc, mitc

Deck the Halls

Sunday, November 26, 2006

For most normal people, we’re currently at the beginning of the Christmas season. I’m normal nowadays, I think – I’ve purchased a couple of presents online and put some thought into who’s getting what this year. I don’t have a tree yet, I don’t have stockings up. We’ll probably do all of that in two weeks.

When I was a kid, however, I wasn’t at all normal. I was completely queer for Christmas. I’m sure a bunch of you are reading this and thinking, “no shit, what kid wasn’t retarded for Christmas?” But I don’t think you understand how bat-shit insane I was for Christmas.

Let’s start with the decorations, shall we?

Most kids don’t give a shit about Christmas decorations – all they care about is the list for Santa, sitting on his lap to seal the deal, and Christmas morning. That’s it. But for me – the decorations represented what was to come. All of my favorite characters dressed up for the holidays – Superman with a Santa hat, Elmer Fudd hunting in the snow, Spiderman with a sack of presents. It was all of the characters I lived with everyday except they were fighting crime of kiwing wabbits, fuck that, they were getting presents. And, as a kid, that shit was exciting.

Because of this excitement I’d start bothering my father to bring the Christmas decorations up from the basement in September. The start of school was the beginning of the Christmas season for me. My dad would bring them up – they were stored in this Peanuts’ pinball machine box – and I’d go through all of them. I’d see which ones were broken and fix them up after crying for about ten minutes. Our porcelain superman ornament would have a broken body part every year – gluing it back together would become a family event. We had this hollowed out egg with a picture of Santa painted on it; every year I’d take it out of the box and expecting it to be broken. It remained intact for most of my childhood – it finally broke when I was around sixteen; I dropped it.

My favorite decoration was this clay ice skater with my name on it that my Grandma Fran made for me. It was always the first ornament we hung on the tree on the highest branch. That worked out well for the first eleven years, until my sister was born, and she got jealous over all of the pomp and circumstance around my decoration.

So I already had the decorations out. The day after Thanksgiving, for me, was all about getting that tree and I’d harass my pops until he took me to get one.

Another tradition in my family was getting a “Charlie Brown” tree. We (and by “we” I mean me and my mom) purposely looked for the ugliest tree imaginable, the one that no-one would want to buy. Again, this tradition went smoothly until my sister was born. I’ll never forget the year we went Christmas tree shopping and decided on a tree with a big-ass bald spot on the backside. My mother and I fell in love. My sister cried all the way home.

The following year I was off in college when the family went tree shopping. My father and my sister teamed up and purchased a nice, full tree. This time my mom was supposedly crying all the way home.

My father would always set up the tree the night he brought it home. I wasn’t allowed to decorate it, though. According to my father the tree had to have time to “open up” before you were allowed to decorate it. Years later Robin and I would buy our first tree together (keep in mind I was 22 at the time). We took it home and set it up. Robin starts to decorate it and I stop her, telling her we’re supposed to let it “open up” over night. She tells me I’m crazy so I call up my dad to confirm. My dad tells me, “No, I just told you that because I wanted to have a beer and watch some football, instead.”

I then realized that the tree always seemed to “open up” about three hours before Monday Night Football started.

My dad would put on the lights and I’d hang most of the decorations (some were reserved for my mom). I’d put the star on the tree; we actually have a picture of me putting the star on the tree from every year, wearing the same ratty-ass Santa hat. Stockings and other decorations would go up – the Frosty the Snowman candle that I partially ate when I was one, the plastic Rudolf that would go in the window, and, of course, this mechanical minx in a Santa outfit that always went in my room. She wasn’t an elf, she wasn’t Mrs. Clause – she was like Santa’s jailbait niece and I had one hell of a crush on her. The movie Mannequin only made the situation worse. I’d lay in bed and stare at that girl as she shook her little ass and I’d pray to Santa saying, “Santa – listen, I know I said I wanted a gameboy but if you can make that girl come to life I’ll be extra good next year. I promise.” I was 11 at the time, I knew Santa was “in our hearts,” but I’d still pray for that chick to come alive.

Never happened. Probably for the best, it’d make for a great “first time” story but I’d likely be locked up for telling it.

“But it was a Christmas Miracle, dammit! A Christmas Miracleeeeeee!!!!!”

As I got older I started decorating my own room as well. This consisted of throwing lights and fake icicles all over the place. Looked like shit. I continued that tradition in college. Looked like shit and distracted my pot smoking friends when we used my room for our smoking sessions.

“Duuuddee…you know what’d be sweet? If that mechanical chick came to life and totally fucked us!”

“Don’t go near her, dude, she’s mine. She’s been mind since I was, like, nine and shit. You don’t know us; don’t judge us!”

Robin and I just do a tree and stockings now. She tries to put costumes on our pets and they hate us for it. We put our presents out weeks in advance and by the time Christmas rolls around we have a good idea of what’s in every box (except for the year she surprised me with an X-box, that mother fucker was out for weeks and I had no idea what it was). No lights on the windows, no half-eaten candles. The mechanical floozy still stays in the bedroom but I’m not allowed to stare at it while we have sex.

Labels: dc, mitc

Black Friday Gifts

Friday, November 24, 2006

Our First Thanksgiving

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Thanksgiving 2000. I was living in DC and Robin was still up in Boston going to school. We decided to spend Thanksgiving together, as a couple. I really don’t remember whose idea it was but I remember my parents not being happy about the decision – this was my first Thanksgiving away from them and it wasn’t even like I was passing on the feast at Uncle Chris’ house for someone else’s big feast.

I was passing on it for Tofurky.

Ok, let’s back that up. Robin was a vegetarian when we first started dating. I believe she first went veggie back in high school, made it through college, and then tacked on a couple of more years after college as well. She kind of rubbed off on me and the second half of my senior year in college I went veggie as well, lasted about two years. When I started eating chicken and fish again, however, Robin came along with me (she still doesn’t eat any red meats).

Anyway, our first Thanksgiving feast together didn’t even consist of us gathering around a turkey. It was shaped like a turkey. Sort of. A processed turkey. And it had a drumstick with a plastic bone. You baked it in the oven, smothered it with gravy. And if you closed your eyes tight enough, it looked like a turkey.

Sure as fuck didn’t smell or taste like one.

I remember pulling it out of the oven and putting it on a plate alongside mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing, and cranberry sauce and being afraid to eat it. I thought it would taste horrible. I was surprised to learn that it actually didn’t taste horrible. It tasted like nothing. It tasted like the gravy we covered it in. Seriously, you put it in your mouth and it tasted like a chunk of gravy.

A chunk of gravy with the worst imaginable texture. The type of texture that made you gagged. And Robin and I both gagged upon trying to swallow our first bite of tofurky. Chewed it, swallowed it, and chased it down with a beer. We each took a single bite of tofurky before throwing it in the trash. Our Thanksgiving meal consisted of the fixings – we didn’t even have the foresight to buy a pie.

My family called me up to see how our Thanksgiving was going. I told my dad about the tofurky fiasco and he couldn’t help but laugh. They were eating turkey with all the fixings alongside my Grandma’s fantastic Spanish food. Everyone there was laughing and having a good time – dancing like my family always did when they got together. Watching football. Playing darts and dominos.

Robin and I found ourselves spending the evening at the apartment. My friends were out of town (and Robin didn’t actually live in DC yet) so we just had a quiet night of board games and movies.

At the time, it was sweet. Robin and I did the long distance thing for a year and when we got a chance to see each other we tried to spend as much time together as we possibly could. So lying on the futon, playing Uno, and watching Half Baked while drinking beers was a great way to spend Thanksgiving.

At the time.

In retrospect it was the worst Thanksgiving ever. I think Robin would agree.

Labels: dc, mitc

Making Something From Not Much

Monday, November 20, 2006

I’m down in Southern Virginia this week for wineries, postcard shopping, and Bed & Breakfasts. I’m getting some work done as well, have the laptop with me and I’m taking in the brisk air, the smells of fall – the pumpkin cake and cider – and letting the creative juices flow.

I had a memory today and, since Robin’s taking a nap, I decided to turn it into a story. I got a whiff of chlorine today while driving from Williamsburg to Petersburg. Not sure where it came from, there are chemical plants along the way, but the instant I smelled the chlorine I was reminded of this pool we had back in Brooklyn. It wasn’t a large pool by any means. It was rectangular – probably around 12-feet long by 4-feet wide and around 2-and-a-half-feet deep. My family couldn’t afford a big pool but this was really all the pool we ever needed, anyway.

We used to load up this plastic container with chlorine tabs – it would bob around in the pool and, supposedly, clean the water. There wasn’t a filter on the pool so I’m still not sure how this processed worked but all I remember is how strong that water would be after the chlorine tablet dissolved. It would sting our eyes and burn our nostrils but we didn’t care, it was still the only pool on the block.

We treated it like any other pool. We found a way to dive into it – it was more of a head-first slide but it felt nice and smooth. Cannonballs didn’t hurt your tailbone too much, either, so we’d occasionally drop a cannonball in the pool. We actually played Marco Polo in that thing – it still amazes me. It was two-on-one and the polos got to stand and the marco had to stay on his knees. We played a baseball type game where the corners of the pool were the bases. I’m sketchy on how the ball was pitched and hit, I’m pretty sure we did it stoopball style off of the metal bar that went around the top of the pool. We even played that ring toss game except the people looking for the rings at the bottom of the pool were supposed to stay on their bellies and they were supposed to keep their eyes shut.

My parents treated it like a real pool as well. We had a skimmer to pull the bugs and leaves out of the pool. A pH kit to test the water levels. My parents would have the neighbors over and they’d all sit in the pool and have beers. Cleaning the pool was the best. We’d do it every couple of months – we’d start by siphoning the water out with several hoses. Once the water level was low enough we’d lift the pool 90-degrees and rest it on its side; spray the lining with the hose and scrub it down nice. Then we’d fill it back up – we’d sit around and watch the water level rise, anxiously waiting for it to get high enough so that we can take the first dive into the crisp and clean water.

It’s just funny – how kids learn to make the most out of what they have. Is there really any basketball hoop better than a metal garbage can? We can adjust the height of the garbage pail so that we can dunk on it and write the score along the side of the can in chalk. Kids didn’t need tall rims, a net, and a painted court – we just needed something we can throw a ball into, easily, that made a cool sound when we scored.

With a rock you can scratch out a hopscotch court and then used the same rock as your tossing stone. And, yes, the boys played hopscotch mainly so we could beat the girls as a substitute for kissing. If we found a piece of plywood we’d turn it into a skateboard ramp by just resting it on top of a curb. It appeared to give us a bit of lift and provided some fun before the inevitable break that caused someone to take a face-first digger on the sidewalk.

I think the happiest days where those when we found broken or discarded city property. Traffic cones where great for slalom biking or skating; payphones were great for breaking. Every throw a payphone off of a roof? It’s like the Juggernaut vs. Blob argument except the Juggernaut fucking explodes.

Stop signs – oh God I loved stop signs. Someone crashes into a stop sign and knocks the pole clear off and you have a great room decoration and a new grind pole for your skateboard.

I remember one time my friend David and I found a discarded LP deck. A real piece of shit, it hardly worked. We brought it into the house and spent the whole day using it to scratch my old records. “Pump Up the Volume” was no longer playable after that day.

Deserted cars – holy shit. If you were real lucky there were still some unbroken windows left behind – there’s nothing more satisfying than getting that front windshield to shatter. Looking back now, I wonder how many parked cars we smashed because some kid before us broke a window and slashed the tires – we just assumed it was deserted.

We were just all about making the most out of our environment. Good, cheap, wholesome fun.

Labels: brooklyn, mitc

Smart People and Stupid People

Friday, November 17, 2006

I really don’t have the time to do this but I’m going to do it anyway. Once this gets posted, I’m going to receive angry emails from at least five people demanding to know why I don’t have time for their stuff but I have time for this. Honestly, sometimes I just need to write, and that’s what I’m going to do.

I hang around Digital Webbing still. I have nothing against the place, occasionally I find an artist with potential there and, sometimes, I’ll find a writer that deserves a boost. But that’s honestly not the only reason I hang around there. The other reason I hang around there comes from one of the two pieces of advice my first boss gave me the day I left my job at TAO.

I worked at TAO for about four years. I was getting bored with the technical life, I wanted to do more marketing and managing (plus I honestly thought TAO was trying to sell themselves), so I signed on with a headhunter and I let him find me a new place. Within a week he sets me up with an interview with a very, very large government contractor, we’ll call them BFC as in “Big Fucking Company”.

BFC had some good people working there and they saw me in a bit more of a leadership role, sort of the think-tank guy that dispatches ideas and orders to the entry level guys (which is pretty amazing considering I was only 25 at the time and, technically, still entry level). It wasn't exactly what I wanted but it came with a 20k pay raise and, well, money makes decisions a lot easier sometimes.

I put in my resignation with TAO. They asked me how much BFC offered me and I told them, they flat-out told me that they couldn’t match that and wished me luck. I filled out my exit interview with TAO and wrote how I think they’re looking to be bought out. The HR woman told me that wasn’t true – I’m only saying this because 8 months later they were bought out (and my stock in the employee-owned company, which I decided to hold on to, doubled).

Anyway, it was my last day there. Everyone takes me out to lunch – I have a prime rib smothered in horseradish, one of my favorite meals. It was a good last day, no hard feelings – I liked most of the people I worked there with, after all. After lunch was when I went into my bosses office, the VP of TAO, and he tried to impart some of his wisdom onto me. I follow his advice like the bible, in my current job and in comics.

1) Always surround yourself with people who are smarter than you. It sounds like you’re shooting yourself in the foot, right? When he first told me this I sort of smiled, thinking it was a joke. But then he explained it – if your group does well, you do well, and they’re your group and people will recognize that. And, if someone from your group gets promoted above you, that’s someone that you helped out along his or her way to the top. That person deserves to be there, they would have gotten there anyway, and now you now have a friend in a powerful position.

You apply it to comics and you see why I still hang around Digital Webbing looking for the occasional diamond in the rough, why I latched onto Josh Fialkov, and why half of Postcards is filled with writers and artists that I believe in and why I’m pumping those guys up, trying to make them stars. It’s because I surround myself with people who are more talented than I am. And, if I invest in them early, not only will I potentially make a good friend out of it and help comics and all that jazz, I’ll also have someone thanking me down the road and, hopefully, helping me get gigs if I need them.

2) You get great ideas from two sources: Brainstorming with smart people and arguing with stupid people. Brainstorming with smart people is an obvious one, but why arguing with stupid people? Because stupid people have stupid solutions and they can’t understand why they’re stupid. If you argue with them, you usually have to counter every stupid argument they make with a well thought-out, intelligent response. Oftentimes, these responses are better than the position you held earlier. In other words: stupid people make you think better.

There are smart people to brainstorm with on Digital Webbing as well as The Engine. But there are plenty of stupid people to argue with on Digital Webbing as well. Just don’t let them get to you; keep countering their stupid arguments and you’ll keep coming up with better ideas.

I follow that advice in the real-world as well, obviously. After six months at BFC (which I like to refer to as my “Comic Making Internship”, I saw the writing on the wall the day I started working there and decided I won't actually do any work) I left (along with two of my coworkers) for a large, employee owned company that I’ll call GFC, Great Fucking Company. Same salary I had at BFC, more creative work, marketing, proposal writing, and management. And I constantly surround myself with people who are smarter than me and my bonuses are thick because my group does good work. I brainstorm with these smarter people and I seek out the stupid people in the company to argue with them.

And our little group is rapidly growing.

Anyway, I realize that I came here to write a story but ended up laying down the foundation for a future “Making Lemonade” column. I’ll go now. Sorry if I haven’t been responding to your emails/finishing the work I said I’ll finish.

Labels: dc, mitc

The Dirtiest Secret

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Since I haven’t posted a new story in, I believe, two weeks I decided to give you all a special treat and post a story I originally decided I would never tell. It’s just too embarrassing. It’s also really gross so if you don’t like really gross stories, I suggest you don’t read this. Anyway, let’s go. I’m going to regret this, expect a story Tuesday to bump this one off the top spot.

This story actually takes place this past summer. I was in Boston, visiting my boy, Guam. I got to his place early on a Saturday – Robin dropped me off (she was visiting her family in Framingham). We made some turkey chili before meeting up with his friends to play some kickball.

We played two games of kickball. I haven’t played kickball since elementary school despite the fact that Washington DC has a large organized kickball league that all my friends played in for at least a season. I was alright – I did a good job fielding, not so good at kicking.

After kickball we went to a pub for some food and to start the drinking. We put down quite a few beers before going back to Guam’s house to pimp out for our evening of partying.

We went out to Improv Boston. Guam was hosting an improv show out there and I was coming along as the surprise guest host. We went to Bukowski’s first, had some sweet potato fries and beer. Afterwards we went to the supermarket and purchased some more beer that we drank at Improv Boston. The point is, we were drinking a lot and eating a lot of fried foods.

Anyway…

I cohosted the show with Guam. It was a good time. I was so drunk that I made fun of an albino kid by calling him “super-white” and told the audience that cops can, “smell the spic in me.” After the show we finished off the two six packs we purchased and went back to Bukowski’s for some more beers and some more sweet potato fries.

After Bukowski’s we went to another bar where we met up with Guam’s improv peeps. This part of the night was a bit of a blur. I remember wanting to fight one of Guam’s friends because I thought he was ignoring me. I remember comparing my cell phone to some underage Goth chick’s sidekick. She had some weird story about how she was living in a convent. I don’t remember much beyond that, though.

Guam and I left and the Goth girl split a cab with us. I don’t know where she came from, she was 18, I think. We get back to Kenmore (where Guam lives) and the Guam thought either one of us could have had the Goth girl. Again, I have no idea where that hypothesis came from since I don’t remember shit. For all I know she was grabbing my crotch the whole ride home.

We get back to Guam’s place. I have some more chili and stay up talking to Guam while I sober up some. Guam’s working on a paper for his class; he’s not even close to drunk anymore. As soon as I feel good enough to go to bed I lay my ass down on this uncomfortable couch, the kind of couch that forces you to sleep in a fetal position.

So, let’s recap: Drunk, full of chili and fried foods, tired, and in a fetal position. I’ll beat around the bush and just say it: I shat my pants.

I shot out of bed, remembering that the combination of beer and greasy foods is enough to give the strongest stomach diarrhea and that laying in a “relaxed asshole” position probably didn’t give me a fucking chance of catching this one before it blew.

I run into the bathroom. Much to my embarrassment, Guam is still awake. He says nothing. Yet.

I clean up. I start washing my underwear in the tub and it’s the grossest thing imaginable. I shower off – I won’t get into every little detail but it was kind of like the chocolate waterfall in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory except not as sweet and delicious, I’d imagine.

I get out of the shower, dripping wet. I crack the door open and…

“Guam?”

“What’s up?”

“Listen. I need a garbage bag, a towel, and I need you to promise you won’t ask me any questions.”

A minute later Guam hands me a garbage bag and a towel. Much to my relief he asks me no questions. I put my underwear and pajama bottoms in the plastic bag and tie it up tight. Wrap the towel around me and throw the bag away in the hallway. Come back in put some fresh underwear on. All the while I’m avoiding eye-contact with Guam but he’s just following me around like a friend concerned. Straight faced and waiting for me to ask for some help.

I sit back down on the couch; I probably looked fine, because it all comes out at that point.

“Dude. Did you just shit your pants?”

We both start laughing uncontrollably. Between gasps of breaths he manages to get some more cracks out, “Good thing you didn’t bring that Gothic chick back here, she would have fucked the shit out of you,” stuff of that nature. We finally calm down enough for me to ask him if he had a bucket I could borrow, I’m going to try and go to sleep again. He doesn’t have a bucket but he gives me a big pot.

The next morning Guam and I are quiet, like two friends who are embarrassed that we just shared a “pants shitting” moment. While I’m packing up Guam’s straightening up his place. He picks up the pot and says, “I’m glad you didn’t have to use this.” I tell him that I wasn’t really queasy last night to which he says, “No, I mean as a bedpan.”

We both start cracking up again. I make him promise to never tell anyone about what happened that night (and here I am writing about it on a website). I doubt he kept his promise; he came close to telling folks at the barbeque the next day. We’d just look at each other and start laughing and people would say, “What?” and Guam would ask, “C’mon, can I tell them?” I wouldn’t be surprised if all of Boston knows about this by now.

Anyway, there you go. Probably the lowest I’ve ever been. I haven’t been drinking much since then, realizing that I may have a little bit of a problem. Puke is one thing. We all puke – that shit happens. The moment you drink too much and shit your pants is the moment you say, “I can become an alcoholic or I can’t slow down the drinking.”

I decided to slow down the drinking.

Labels: dc, mitc

...

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Within my first year at TAO we moved from our run-down offices in McLean, Virginia to a swankier setup in Reston. Further west, cheaper real estate. I was now taking two trains and a bus to work which was a pain in the ass but we had a much nicer spread and there were better lunch options/happy hour bars nearby. One of the new lunch joints was this Korean deli right in the lobby of our building – I’d go there almost every day for some breakfast and once or twice a week for lunch.

I was in the deli eating a cheese omelet, talking with my boy, Max, when the first plane hit.

The deli always had NPR playing over the radio. I remember the report first stating that a plane crashed into one of the twin towers; that the details weren’t known yet – the reporter was talking about the time a plane crashed into the Empire State Building and saying that that was on a foggy day. Despite the fact that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky on this morning, everyone thought it was an accident. Max and I, both native New Yorkers, listened intently but not overly worried. We both admitted that it was fucked up but in that boyish way – the one where we have a little smile on our face because the whole scenario seemed unreal. Like it wasn’t really happening. We were picturing the monologue Dave Letterman would eventually give once they found out the pilot was drunk – we harkened back to the jokes we whispered as pre-teens when the Challenger blew up.

As of that morning, we still dealt with tragedy by making light of it and thanking God that it wasn’t happening to us.

And then the second plane hit.

We weren’t smiling anymore. We weren’t talking about bullshit prop-jobs flown by millionaire playboys with too many gin and tonics coursing through their veins. I remember Max saying it first, “This isn’t an accident.”

We cleared our trays and went up to the office.

Our coworkers were already setting up TVs and radios in several offices – huddling around them. I ran into an office and saw the images on the TV for the first time – the smoking buildings. Bob, my boss, asked me if I had any family working in the Trade Center. Shit sinks in – my entire family lives in New York. A lot of my friends, too. I run to the phone and begin dialing but no-one is answering; I’m getting “all circuits are busy” messages. Calling my dad’s cell. The home line. Whoever’s phone number I remembered. But nothing was getting through.

So I start shooting out emails and frantically checking to see if anyone responded. Going back and forth between my office (which had a radio) and the office next door (where there was a TV). I didn’t even try to call Robin – she was at work – started her new job in Washington DC about two weeks ago – and the day’s events didn’t really concern her.

But then the plane hit the Pentagon and I couldn’t get in touch with her, either.

We didn’t have cell phones at the time. I was trying to call her office but getting busy signals and error messages. Robin’s parents somehow got in touch with me – got through to my office line – and they were asking me if Robin’s alright. I told them I was trying to call her but I wasn’t having any luck. I told them that she’s probably fine, her office isn’t near the Pentagon or the Capitol – she was in Northwest DC and there’s nothing but apartment buildings up there.

I hear Max scream my name from the office next door.

I go inside to see a cloud a smoke and a message across the bottom of the screen that says one of the towers possibly collapsed. The room was silent.

The second tower collapsed and that’s when I started crying.

I grew up in Red Hook – directly across the water from The Towers – you could see them from almost any block in my neighborhood. I’d bring dates up to the roof of our building and we’d watch the sunset over the Manhattan skyline and the Towers were always right there. Sitting up there with my father on the 4th of July and watching the fireworks reflected off of them.

There has never been anything more real in my life than when those towers collapsed.

I’ve been through a lot of deaths. Those of you who’ve read this site last year know about all of them. My Uncle Alex, my Godfather, died of complications due to AIDS when I was in college. My cousin Steven – not even a teenager – also died as a result of the AIDS virus. My Uncle Michael, my confirmation sponsor, died two days after Christmas when his liver shut down. Nanny and Uncle Joe both died from emphysema.

But there has never been anything more crushing in my life, more shocking, than when those towers collapsed.

I finally get in touch with Robin. The news down here in DC was going ape shit. We’re hearing rumors of truck bombs going off outside the State Department building and snipers on the Washington Monument taking out suicide bombers on the lawn. Everyone is freaking out. Reports are leaking in about a plane crashing in Philadelphia – it turns out that one is true.

I’m calling Robin every thirty minutes while trying to get in touch with my parents. It takes about four hours but I finally talk to them – my mom’s crying and I can hardly get a word out of her. I find out everyone’s alright – my only relative who worked at the Trade Center was still on his way to work when the first plane hit. He was stuck on a bus in the Battery Tunnel – he climbed out of the window and walked to my parent’s house.

All of my relatives who worked in Manhattan were either at my parent’s house or on their way there. We were the only ones within walking distance of Manhattan – if you take the tunnel we’re only several miles from the Trade Center.

My mom was in the neighborhood when the first plane hit. My father was actually in Brooklyn Heights – right at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge – drinking a coffee – he heard and saw the plane hit, you couldn’t get a clearer view of the attack from Brooklyn. He went to pick Elizabeth up at school immediately.

My parents were telling me that there were papers all over the neighborhood from the towers – they drifted across the river and peppered our streets and back yard. They still have a stack of charred documents and post-it notes they picked up. They can’t bring themselves to get rid of it.

I started hearing from my friends, as well. Everyone was ok and walking back to Brooklyn.

The news was settling down. There was no bomb at the State Building. No suicide bombers on the Mall. Robin tells me she’s going to start walking back to the apartment.

There was this guy Ralph from my job – he was a real douchebag. I’m sitting in my office with a coworker, listening to the radio, and he comes in with a work-related question. My coworker just kind of looks at this guy and tries to answer. I wanted to say something, you know – I really despised this guy and I wanted to call him a cunt and remind him that we’re currently under attack – that people are dying and suffering and worrying right now.

But I held my tongue. I knew if I got started I would have knocked him out. Someone would have had to of pulled me off of him. I was too angry to get into a fight with anybody.

At around 3PM Max tells me he’s going to try and drive home. We both live in DC – all of the major bridges are closed off but we take a back way – Chain Bridge down through Embassy Row. It was surreal – every embassy had sentries standing out front – there were police everywhere and checkpoints at major intersections.

Max drops me off at home. Robin’s already there, watching the television. I go straight to my balcony – we were in Southwest at the time and I could see the Pentagon smolder from out there. The streets were empty – dead quite. Everyone was inside, in front of their televisions. I was watching the Pentagon burn and feeling helpless.

Our phone rings. Robin’s grandfather passed away. He’s been sick – Robin’s mother tells her that they wouldn’t let him watch the news – they hid the day’s events from him because they didn’t want him to see what was happening to his country. He was a WWII vet – he lost a brother in the war – and his last days shouldn’t be spent seeing all of this.

Robin wanted to go to Boston the next day – take a train. I agreed at first but as the day went on, I realized it was impossible. The planes were grounded – the trains weren’t even running and when they got back up everyone trapped away from home was going to try and get home. I had to tell Robin this. It was hard – she was saying she’ll go without me – but she eventually comes around and realizes that I’m right. Maybe I was being chicken-shit; part of me still feels like she blames me for missing her grandfather’s funeral. I think I’d blame her if it was the other way around.

Chicken-shit. That’s what I became after September 11th. I was a bleeding heart liberal before the attack. Now all I wanted was blood. I cheered when we bombed Afghanistan. We went out and bought our first car to help support the American economy. We bought cell phones so if we were attacked again; we had a means of communicating with each other. I supported the war with Iraq. I supported the Patriot Act.

On a flight to Florida I saw a man in full Muslim dress make his way to the bathroom. He was in there for a while so I reported him to the flight attendant. The flight attendants knocked on the door until he came out and then searched the bathroom.

Chicken-shit.

It’s really fucked up how easily I was manipulated – how easy a lot of us were manipulated. I had the fear for a long time. I was checking the news non-stop – hitting refresh every ten minutes at work in case something happened. It’s not until I got a hold of myself – until the fear left – that I realized how much I helped fuck things up. There’s no redemption at that point – I can rally against the administration and make fun of Fox News all I want but no matter how much I lash out I know I’m only trying to cover up my own mistakes.

I can look back at September 11th now and see it for it was. The worst attack to ever happen to this country. The most heartbreaking and terrifying morning of my life. An event that made me realize how much I love my friends, family – Robin – and how I can’t stand the thought of losing any of them.

I realize how helpless and insignificant we are – how our lives are controlled and manipulated by people with more power than us, on both sides. And it’s better to love the ones in my life than to spend time wondering when powerful men were going to kill me.

Labels: mitc

Don't Hate. Legislate.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Everyone's doing it, I noticed Fossen doing it first.

In case you have no idea what that's in reference to, read the most read story on the MITC.
__________________________

Here’s a little fact none of you know, I sort-of-kind-of came up with the idea behind Civil War. Yup, it was my second horrible pitch I sent into Epic back when I first decided to make comics.

It was called “The Legislation”. Essentially, all of the superheroes (and some of the villains), began to feel inadequate – everything they were doing to “serve and protect” wasn’t really accomplishing anything. So, one-by-one, they started running for public office in order to serve the greater good. The Legislation kicked off at a time where everyone in the executive, legislative and judicial branches of government had superpowers.

But all they ever did was fight each other. The book opened on Magneto and Havok sitting towards the back of the Capitol (out of costume, of course) while Northstar filibustered some bill. Havok has enough so he stands up and blasts Northstar. Next thing you know a huge battle breaks out and the heroes destroy the Capitol. Again. The first issue ends with the Silver Surfer coming back to earth to enlist the help of the heroes only to discover that he needs to make them remember who they really are first.

It is, without a doubt, the worst idea ever that has ever been pitched to Marvel.

And I got my rejection letter within two weeks (before I got my rejection letter for Ask).

Let me backtrack a bit. What motivated me to submit a superhero story was reading a thread on X-Fan where the then-Epic submissions editor, Stephanie Moore, said that they were more inclined to green-light stories that feature their existing intellectual property. So this is what I came up with. Super Senators.

At least this time I sent the pitch to my boy Guam so he can look it over firs. Guam, I should add, never read or wrote a comic script in his life. He read it and told me he didn’t get it. So I changed a couple of things and sent it in without showing it to anyone else. You know, because there just wasn’t TIME to show anyone. They were getting MILLIONS of submissions a day. MILLIONS! And I need to get mine in ASAP. I was overnighting these submissions, no shit, hoping I’d get the edge over a couple of cats.

I still have the rejection letter at home (I have all my rejection letters). I forgot to include a self-addressed stamped envelope with my submissions (because I was in a rush to get it out) and the folks at Marvel were nice enough to supply their own envelope (with Spider-Man on it) and postage. They wrote “Re: The Legislation” on the envelope. Typical form letter, nothing exciting. Addressed to "Writer”. You can see it for yourself:

It inspired me, though. I pretty much realized after sending this in that it’s really not what they were looking for. What anyone was looking for, really. But the fact that I got rejected for this, first – before Ask - that inspired me. So I set out to write my third and final pitch for Epic – a one-shot called “Turk” about a supporting character in Daredevil. I’d get into it today, but it is way too delicious to tack onto the end of a story. Next week you’ll hear all about Turk, I’ll even post the script.

But let me spend a little time talking about what the home life was like – I thought I was going to be the biggest comic writer of all time. ASK was going to be approved, I knew it. Despite the fact that there were no Marvel characters in it and it was way heavy on captions and I plotted and wrote it in a single day I thought that this was it. My fucking ticket to a dream I held for all of three weeks.

Robin put up with me. “Ok, love. Don’t quit your job yet.” It’s funny what our women put up with – I try to wonder how I’d respond if Robin came to me telling me she wanted to be something along the lines of “comic writer” – how I’d respond. I’m a dick, so I’d probably say, “As long as you spend your own money.”

Anyway, Robin put up with a lot of me and my “comic shit”. Nodding and smiling the whole time. I’m making money in it now, though, so she can say, “I’ve believed in you from the start.” And that’s a good position for her to be in.

She still won’t let me quit my day job, though.

Labels: mitc

Epic Failure

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Since I’m focusing on stories that take place after college (mid-2000 and beyond) I’m going to have to talk all about my decision to get into comics. I’ve floated a couple of stories around over the pass few years but The Moose in the Closet is all about honesty. So you’ll be getting the true story here for the first time and it is FULL of embarrassing fanboy moments, glorified fan-fiction, and hero worship, everything I now preach against.

The story I tell people is how I wrote a script for a sci-fi play called “Ask”, showed it to my boy Guam, and Guam said, “This is a shitty play but it’d make for a great comic book.” I researched comic companies and discovered Marvel was accepting pitches for their relaunched Epic line. I worked long and hard on an issue one script and beat sheets for the next three issues, sent it in, waited a couple of months, and got a rejection letter that was different from any other rejection letters I’ve seen on-line.

The only thing completely true about that story is that I got a rejection letter for a pitch called “Ask”. Everything else is me covering up my embarrassing decisions.

The concept behind “Ask” came from a conversation I had at lunch with my boy Max – we were talking about what superpower we’d like to have, typical lunchtime conversation. I told him that I’d like to be able to answer any question. So, if anyone asks me a question or if I ask myself a question – I’d instantly know the answer.

We got to talking about an idea for a movie that starts with the main character (who has this question-answering ability) deciding he wants to sleep with some Hollywood starlet. He does something like goes out and buys a candy bar. You then follow this chain of events that lead to the gruesome death of the Hollywood starlet’s husband and, at the end of the movie, the guy who started it all is at the right place at the right time and he has sex with the girl of his dreams.

So, he’s essentially the world’s most powerful douche.

It’s a fun concept, I might dig it back up again, and I’m sure if I put some serious energy into it I could make it sing. The version I sent into Epic, however – a twenty-two page script and four beat sheets that I wrote in…

A. Single. Day.

Reread it once. Said, “This is good enough, if they like it they’ll assign me an editor.”

I saw the call for submissions, published sometime ago, and was like, “Fuck – they probably received a MILLION submissions by now!” And I just started typing. Never wrote a comic script in my life. Fuck, never even seen one, honestly. I typed my ass off, printed it out, and mailed that shit in.

I almost instantly realized that I made a TREMENDOUS mistake. I don’t know, maybe that’s what sets me apart from other people – I know when I just did something stupid. I started, you know, learning about comic production and theory at that point. I’ve done stage and editorial writing since college, I knew how to tell a story, but I had no idea how to write a comic book.

Over the next couple of weeks I’m going to focus on the first pitches – pre-Western Tales of Terror. I ended up sending three concepts into Epic and three other sad, sad pitches before finally deciding to go at it another way.

Hopefully we have some fun over these next couple of weeks. I’ll even be posting some of the original pitches – they’re good for a laugh.

Labels: mitc

Business Destinations: Cape Canaveral

Thursday, August 17, 2006

The best part about my first job out of college was all the business traveling. Robin was in Boston for that first year, after all, so it was either stay home, alone, or eat steaks and hang out at strip clubs every night, all on the tax-payers dollar. Some destinations were more fun than others (to this day I have a burning hatred in my soul for Aberdeen, Maryland) and some were supposed to be fun but I never had a chance to go out and play.

Fortunately, Cape Canaveral was one of those cities that were supposed to be fun and we ALWAYS found the time to play. And we went there quite often.

We didn’t stay in Cape Canaveral; we actually stayed in Cocoa Beach. Not the most family friendly beach, due to the fact that it’s kind of nasty and the strip is lined with strip clubs, but a great place for a bunch of dudes on per diem. The hotel we stayed at was a resort hotel where all the cruise lines sent people who had pre-cruise overnights. The government rate, for some reason, was retarded low – it was along the lines of sixty-and-change a night if I’m remembering correctly for a place with a huge pool, Jacuzzi, and pool-side bar for socializing. One of the better hotels I’ve ever stayed at on the company dime, the best one likely being some joint in Boca Raton that had an amazing on-site Cuban restaurant and a pimped out suite where the x-rated videos were actually, you know, rated x and not filled with simulated sex (although simulated blowjobs are really funny to watch when you’re drunk).

As far as the work we did out there – we spent the entire time on a Navy base working on a ship that goes out to sea and records the sounds submarines make when they pass underneath it. We’d do all our work in Virginia, bring it there and test it. Sometimes these tests would only take a couple of hours a day and we’d be free for the rest of the afternoon/evening to go boogie-boarding, eat fish plucked right from the ocean, and get some titties in our faces.

On one trip down there all of our shit got lost in the mail – it was delayed by three days. So we had a little vacation down in Cocoa Beach without any stress from work. We were riding go-carts at noon and lying out on the beach for hours. Hanging out at the pool-side bar and getting bombed.

One time at the pool area some chick joins me and a coworker in the Jacuzzi and starts getting super close to us. She’s in town on business, lonely – just telling us all about herself and making sure we know she’s single. Telling us about her trip to the strip club the night before. It was pretty obvious she wanted one (or both) of us. My coworker could tell I wasn’t down, I’ve never cheated on Robin, and it kind of killed the whole mood in the Jacuzzi. She eventually left and worked the pool-side bar instead. Part of me was like, “Fuck – missed opportunity at a three way” but then the other part of me was like, “Oh – with two dudes, though.” Probably why it was easy to turn her away.

Across from the hotel was a huge adult bookstore. I’d make my way there the first night of every trip and get some porno mags to keep in the bathroom. It was always weird going there, because it’s almost a guarantee you’ll see a coworker there. Fuck, sometimes you go with one, you know? And there’s nothing more awkward than finding out what kind of porn your boss likes, let me tell you. My boss – skinny white dude with glasses – apparently loved black chicks.

Brown sugar, baby. Brown sugar.

The food was great, too. Fresh fish was all I ate for dinner. For lunch we went to Frankie’s for Buffalo wings – 10 levels of hotness. I was able to comfortably eat level-7. I tried level ten’s sauce once and almost died. For the fish – I was all about the mahi. One time I ordered it and the waitress said they were out. She then looked out the window and said, “Hold on”. Two minutes later I see her outside the window, buying mahi off of the back of some guy’s boat. I get that shit on my plate about a half-hour later.

And then there were the strip clubs. The one we went to always got packed. Every fucking night. And I’d know because we went every fucking night. One time we went with the VP of the company. This was our third night on the trip, some coworkers and I went the previous two nights. Anyway, this fucking guy walks in like he owns the place – telling us he’s going to show us how to party. Two minutes into the excursion and I’m sitting in the corner getting a multi-song lap-dance from two girls at the same time. Taking turns, rubbing up on me and each other, giving that little giggle strippers do to drive mother fuckers NUTS. Eventually the VP, who spent the second half of the night sitting at the stage and wasting dollars, tells us he’s going to go back to the hotel. I have a stripper sitting next to me as I remind him not to be late for work the next day.

Light weight.

The funniest part about the strip club is that locals would troll the floor and try to give lap dances for five bucks. Nasty women, no teeth and bad breath. Some people would even take them up on the offer. What the fuck, for ten bucks more you get that stripper skin and that smell – oh god that smell – I don’t get the folks who’d rather have grandma ride them for five bucks less.

Cape Canaveral was always a good time. It was the model of consistency. And it’s always nice to establish the baseline before spending several weeks on the OTHER places I’ve visited.

Labels: mitc, travel

Spain: Back Home

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

It might not seem possible, but the trip from Spain back to the states was about as horrible as the trip from the states to Spain. I was leaving a day earlier than Robin but we were both scheduled to land in Boston at the same time. Figure that one out.

Robin went with me to the airport. We make our way to the British Airway counter for my flight to Manchester only to find out they canceled my reservation. Since I ended up getting a direct US Air flight to Madrid (as a result of my US-to-Manchester flight being cancelled) and missing my Manchester-to-Madrid British Airway flight, they assumed I booked a round-trip ticket just to take advantage of the fact that it’s cheaper than getting a one-way ticket. And that’s against company policy.

I spent a good ten minutes repeatedly going over my story – about how my plane was cancelled and they put me on a direct flight and yada-yada-yada. British Airways finally decided to reinstate my ticket; I breathed a sigh of relief, kissed Robin goodbye, and made my way to my plane.

I get to Manchester and make preparations for what will become my 10-hour stopover. I purchase some food, a new book (Catch-22), a couple of magazines. I make my way to a bench in the 24-hour section of the airport and just start reading. With about 5-hours to go before my flight I decide to take a nap, tie my duffle bag to my arm and use it as a pillow, fasten my book bag to my legs and tuck it into my crotch – I catch about five hours of sleep on an airport bench.

It was a very, very, very uncomfortable sleep.

I sleep most of the way home, land in Philly. I have one more flight to Boston which is, of course, delayed. A couple of hours later I’m in Boston – hanging out with Robin and her family.

The next day we pack the U-Haul truck. Our new apartment back in DC, which Robin hasn’t seen at this point, is already pretty crowded – I had no idea how we planned on fitting a second moving truck filled with shit in it.

We’re about to get on the road – Robin’s father pulls me aside and tells me that if I mistreat his daughter he’ll kill me. That was fun.

We begin the seven hour drive – stop off in Connecticut to visit my Uncle Chris and Aunt Jacinda – they just had a baby, Jack, and it was our first time seeing him. I didn’t tell Robin that my entire loud-ass Puerto Rican family was there – she was a little pissed that I surprised her with that one, mainly because she wanted to be there for a half-hour and then get back on the road.

Instead we were there for about two hours.

We get back on the highway and have a smooth trip into DC. I drove the truck from Jersey on. I only had my permit at the time (I didn’t get my license until I was 25) and this was my first time driving on the highway although I told Robin I’ve done it a “bunch of times”. I’m a dick; I think we’ve established that already.

By the time we get to the apartment it’s too late to unpack the truck. We go straight upstairs and Robin sees the place for the first time. I put up these “Welcome Home” signs and what not; she seemed to have liked that. There were also dead roaches in the sink; she didn’t like that at all. Overtime we’ll both begin to hate the apartment, but Robin can always claim she hated it the moment she saw it.

The next day we unloaded the truck and started unpacking boxes – ready to get this whole “new life together” thing started. We even bought a mattress – for the past year and a half I had nothing but the futon. New life, new mattress – we took the U-Haul truck to Costco and picked one up. We also picked up a variety of roach killing products, none of which made a difference over the six months we lived in that place.

After unpacking everything Robin decided she wanted to walk around and see the neighborhood. She quickly realized I moved us into the ghetto. About seven blocks north was the Mall, the Air and Space Museum, to be exact. That was cool – Smithsonian trips and classes were a quick walk away. But a block south was government subsidized housing, a ghetto strip mall, and this weird ice-cream truck that only came around late at night, no markings on it, and now kids going up to it.

Luckily we only ended up spending another five months there.

Labels: mitc, travel

Spain: The Rain in Spain…

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Spain was great – I loved Spain despite the horrible trip out there. Madrid is a gorgeous city – I met the people who were putting Robin up for the several months she was out there, shared a hookah with her friends. We shacked up at a hostel right downtown, private room with a balcony – not much for amenities but we had plenty of bars and restaurants around us.

Did the touristy thing – saw the castles and the churches – drank sangria, discovered Spanish calamari is nothing like American calamari. Visited the erotic museum where some perverted old man hung out at the final exhibit which, I believe, was the porno exhibit. Cuban restaurants with sexy Cuban entertainers, drinks that were served out of volcanoes, a late night cafe that served up hot cups of fudge with your churro.

I fell in love with Madrid. I thought it was the greatest city I’ve ever visited (not saying much, considering this is my first real vacation)…until we went to Barcelona.

We flew out to Barcelona – the airport in Madrid was a mad house and when we finally went to get our boarding passes they told us that they were out of seats so they needed to bump one of us to first class. Robin obviously wanted it but I decided to be a bit of a dick, complained about my horrible trip to Madrid to begin with, and got the upgrade. It was an hour flight or so, you know, whatever. She was only pissed for about five minutes.

We get to Barcelona – we’re staying in a hotel right by the water, not at all far from the beach. We check in, change into our bathing suits, and walk right to the waterfront. We purchase some beers from a vendor, pick out a spot, and lay out. When in Rome, as they say – Robin takes off her top and I find it to be a bit of a turn-on. I mean, there are plenty of tits exposed on the beach but Robin’s where nice AND she didn’t have hairy pits – part of me imagined the guys were checking out my lady and that made me feel a bit like The Man.

But that’s what Barcelona was – a bit of freedom for us, a place where no-one knows us, where we’re taking our first vacation, we both finished with college and we have money for the first time in our lives – no worries. And we did whatever the fuck we wanted.

Every night we ended up at the same restaurant, eating mussels and paella and watching the street performers while drinking bottle after bottle of wine. We went to the aquarium – the beach everyday – we even went to a Six Flags park out there. It rained the whole time but we had a blast, rode all the roller coasters, stayed for the fireworks.

I fucked up on the last night, though. Pretty badly.

I was drunk. A lot of you who read this blog have shared drinks with me – most of you have seen Jason the funny drunk, only. The one that cracks-wise, makes fun of people to their faces, and occasionally rips the underwear off of my body without taking my pants off. Some of you, unfortunately, have met the completely irresponsible, violent, and depressed drunken Jason. He’s not a nice guy.

He came out that last night in Barcelona. We called some street performers to our table; they were a guitar/singer combo from California. We bought them wine, shared our food, and exchanged stories. They had some friends come sit with us, girls and guys – we all had a great evening. But it was a weird evening – I think signals were crossed the whole night and at different times different people were expecting different things, the alcohol not helping at all. I don’t know what was supposed to happen but I know what did happen – Robin and I went back to the hotel and she passed out.

And I got angry. Really fucking angry.

I became fixated on the stupidest thing – watching the sunrise. When Robin was in Ibiza she told me that her and her friends danced all night and watched the sunrise. To me that sounded like fun, and for some fucking reason, I wanted that.

I had a bit of a problem back then – I used to equate fun with sex; a fun night is one where you have sex. If you’re having fun it means you’re having sex. If I ended up not having sex, like that last evening in Barcelona, I’d attempt to substitute it with something else, usually the first thing that pops into my head. I don’t really do that anymore, thanks to a couple of therapists, now I associate a lack of fun with not having sex. It might sound like the same thing but for me it makes a huge difference.

Anyway, background aside, I was obsessed with this fucking sunrise. I stayed awake for hours, lying in bed, breathing heavy, until finally I woke Robin up and told her that I wanted to see the sunrise.

She had no idea what was going on but here I was, dragging her ass down to the water.

The sunrises – I don’t know what I was expecting – fucking angels to come down from the heavens or some shit, but it certainly didn’t fill this fun void I was having. So, instead, I started to tell Robin I was having second doubts about her moving to DC with me.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Jason Rodriguez, and I’m the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet.

(Or was the biggest asshole, anyway).

Fuck it, though. If I wasn’t having fun, no-one was having fun.

Robin told me she didn’t feel the same way and somehow maneuvered out of the conversation and got me back to the hotel and into bed, which was probably a good call. I have to hand it to her – she puts up with a lot of my shit. There we were, together for over two years, she’s a week away from moving to a brand fucking new city to live with me, we’re on a vacation, and I’m giving her the break-up prelude. But she knew I was drunk and stupid and just found a way to get me to shut-up and see if I felt the same way in the morning.

I didn’t, obviously.

The next day we were back to Madrid. The last couple of days in Madrid were uneventful – just beer and eating, really – we were beat.

Robin and I – here we are, seven-plus years together – I grew up a lot, thankfully, but I almost threw it all away one morning in Barcelona. Luckily for me, Robin’s too strong of a woman to let that happen.

Labels: mitc, travel

Spain: The Longest Trip

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Spain was my first vacation. I’ve done the family thing before, sure – trips down to Florida to visit my Nanny coupled with a few days in Disney World. But as far as those week-long vacations to destinations we couldn’t drive to in order to do something besides visit family, never really had one of those. Not even in college – never did the spring break thing, I had fun hanging with my boys back in Brooklyn. Occasional weekend road trips but that’s it. I just never had the money for a vacation – my family never had that kind of bread (my parents still haven’t had a honeymoon) and working the grill at the dorm’s dining hall doesn’t really pay all that much.

I went to Spain a year after college – sort of a reward for kicking ass at TAO the first year. I was getting paid well, I wasn’t going out that much, Robin was already in Spain (after finishing her schooling at BU she did several months abroad to get a Spanish minor), and I was more than prepared to kick back and have some fun. There were some complications, of course – delays in getting my passport and the fact that I somehow fucked-up booking my airfare but both problems worked themselves out and I was off to Madrid.

Now, the full plan was to leave for Spain from DC and come back, with Robin (but different flight), to Boston. We were then going to pack a U-Haul and drive down to DC together. In order to do this and stay within budget, my trip wasn’t exactly straight forward. The cheapest airfare I could find on such short notice was from Dulles airport to Manchester, England with a stopover in Philadelphia – that was on US Air. From there, I flew British Airways from Manchester to Madrid, Spain. The time between the two flights was close to 8 hours, so any delays wouldn’t really kill me. On the way back, I had all three flights plus an additional one-way flight from Dulles to Boston.

A lot of room for something to go terribly wrong.

DC to Philly was no problem at all – forty-five minutes up and down. I get to Philly; find my way to my gate and my plane’s on time. I crack open BRAVE NEW WORLD and get to reading.

If I remember correctly, my plane was supposed to leave at around 5PM. I think the first delay was only for an hour. The plan hasn’t arrived yet – a common reason for delay. I decide to go and get a beer – there’s a little Mexican restaurant/bar near the gate. I continue to read my book.

The second delay was much longer – two hours or so. Weather was causing the whole system to fuck-up. I wasn’t worried – this was just eating-in to my 8-hour stopover, I had some more beers and some Mexican food to go along with it. Called Robin, told her I was delayed. She just got back from going out with some friends and was excited to see me the next day (late afternoon, I believe, was when I was supposed to get in).

The plane kept getting delayed. First there was no crew available. Then there was a problem with some part. It was a little passed 11PM when they announced they’ll be boarding us shortly (by then I was drunk and I finished reading Brave New World – a great book to read drunk, by the way) – over six hours delayed – and it was about ten minutes later when they told us they were canceling the flight.

I was devastated. I wanted to call Robin but I realized that I needed to get my ass to the ticketing counter before the hundred or so people who just had their flight canceled.

I fucking ran my ass off.

I was probably third online. I realized that I was going to miss my flight from Manchester to Madrid which was by a different airline – I was fucked and, most likely, the airline wouldn’t care. It was time to act and, as I learned in college, I wasn’t that bad at it.

I get to the counter and I’m not fuming, not yelling – my voice is shaky as I give the following sob story (paraphrasing, of course):

“Hi. Listen. I’m not mad the plane was cancelled – I understand – these things happen. But I was going to Madrid, there was a British Airways’ flight I was connecting with that was going to take me there. I’m going to miss it now. In my bag is an engagement ring – I was planning on proposing to my girlfriend in Spain. I have theater tickets, reservations at a very exclusive and expensive restaurant – everything was perfect. This was all going down Friday night (which would basically mean I’d need to get to get to Madrid no later than 24 hours beyond when I was supposed to get there). I can’t fly to Manchester and get stuck there. I’m begging you, please, get me to Madrid.”

The woman behind the airline is feeling it – who knows why. Maybe she recently lost a loved one, maybe at one point in her life the man of her dreams got away because of fucked-up chance – don’t know what it was, don’t care. But I had a 3PM direct flight to Madrid the next day which was at least double the price of my flight to Manchester when I was booking airfare.

I got the complimentary hotel and two meals, as well – took the shuttle there, checked into my room. Showered off, I was smoky, drunk, and depressed. I called Robin, at this point I was supposed to be in Spain in a couple of hours. Told her the bad news, that I was still in Philly – she starts crying. It’s such a lonely thing – being in a hotel by yourself in a city you don’t want to be in, hours away from seeing the love your life whom you haven’t seen for over two months, only to have her crying on the phone because you won’t be seeing her for about another 20 hours. She was excited – excited to see me, excited for me to meet her friends, they even had dinner plans set, got all her Spain friends together, and we were going to go out dancing afterwards.

I calm her down – tell her I’m coming soon. I ask her not to cry because it’s breaking my heart – she holds it back. I tell her I love her and hang up – go to bed.

The next day I need to check out of the hotel by noon. I spend some time in the pool, eat my comp breakfast, and make my way to the airport with three hours to go. This time everything goes smoothly, the plan takes off on time and I’m off to Madrid. I wanted to sleep on the plane but, unfortunately, I got stuck in the back row. My seat didn’t recline and I had an aisle, deadly combination for wanting to sleep. I instead watched movies the whole way there, read some books, talked to the girl who had the window until she passed out.

By the time I got to Madrid I was beat. But I gathered my bags, went through customs, and got the first stamp on my passport. I jogged through the airport, calling Robin to tell her that I made it and I’ll be outside at any moment. She was waiting outside for me, I guess international flights got filtered out a secure door – she was beaming. Huge fucking smile. She runs, jumps into my arms, starts kissing my neck and my face – all over, really.

Took almost an extra day but I was finally in Madrid, with my baby, ready to take my first vacation.

Oh, yeah, and five years later and I still haven't proposed. Fuck you, US Air.

Labels: mitc, travel

Adult Parties: Woah – This Ain’t 1999 Anymore

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

I've updated this blog on Friday, Monday, and today. It's like the olden days all over again.

By far the weirdest party I’ve ever been to was New Years 2002. It was at a friend of Robin’s house who just happened to live two blocks from us. It was convenient, lots of people were to be there, and we knew a fair share of the attendees – there was no reason not to go to this party.

The host had a fun theme to her party – everyone who comes in pays twenty-dollars and, in return, gets twenty dollars worth of funny money. As the night rolls on, you need to try and convince other party-goers to give you funny money. By the end of the night, whoever has the most funny money gets 75% the pot, the other 25% goes to the house and pays for food and beer.

So, in theory, someone would serenade somebody else in exchange for a “dollar” or someone would attempt a split on the dance floor for two “dollars”.

In theory.

You see, in one corner we had one of Robin’s coworkers. She spent her evenings stripping down in Georgetown. She was a wild one – married at the age of 19, had a girlfriend on the side that she liked a lot more than her husband. Her stripping schedule was going from weekends to every night and her love life/social life was starting to become less glamorous with live-in separations/live-in girlfriends/abuse of certain substances.

In the other corner was some girl whose name I don’t believe anyone knew. She was an escort and one of the guys brought her to the party as a date.

I should probably add, now, that the person with the most funny money was going to be taking home over seven-hundred dollars.

And we had a coked-out stripper and an escort at a party where one of them could walk away with that seven-hundred dollars.

And there were a lot of dudes at the party since two of the housemates were single dudes, themselves.

You see where this is going – right?

It started innocently enough, honestly. The stripper’s husband was pimping his woman out – a lap dance for a buck. Guys were taking him up on the offer and everyone was laughing about it at first. It got a little more uncomfortable when the shirt came off and the lap-dance price went up to five dollars.

The guy with the escort – seeing an opportunity to make some money back from his nights purchased – started pimping his date out as well with the deal that they’ll split the money (or so I heard after the fact, I’m not sure why she’d agree to the split if she’s doing all the work).

Either way she started giving lap dances as well.

A lot of people left the party at that point. I guess adult parties aren’t supposed to have naked strippers and escorts walking around, giving lap dances in exchange for monopoly money. Robin was turned off – she’s not a fan of women whoring themselves, I guess – and spent most of her time outside with some other folks, chain smoking and chugging beer.

I had to be supportive so I went outside as well. However, when the “WOAH”s started we all ran inside to see what was happening next.

Nothing like two girls going at it with a pile of monopoly money around them to turn a party into a sausage fest.

At this point Robin’s friend had enough and told them to stop. Apparently the girl/girl action (and who knows what else) was moved to a roommate’s bedroom – where every guy without a date squeezed in. While the rest of us watched Dick Clark countdown the apple, we tried to ignore the chants and hollers coming from the dudes room (the girls because they found it disgusting, the guys because we wanted to be in there).

The best part? A genius amongst the living room folks realized that there were more of us than the guys inside the bedroom. We decided to give all of our funny money to one person, another coworker of Robin’s who’s a good guy and everyone liked (and who also lived in a shed, essentially, on somebody’s property) so he can get the money.

At the end of the night when the money was tallied the look on the stripper and the escort’s faces were priceless. They got second and third place and to add insult to injury, Robin’s friend gave them “runner-up prizes” which consisted of some goofy items that were lying around the house.

So, many lap-dances and 69s later, all they had to show for it was a bag of candy.

Labels: mitc

Adult Parties: Whig & Velvet

Monday, July 17, 2006

I guess once you graduate college you start going to “adult parties”. I find that adult parties are the same things as college parties except everyone’s trying to size up and see who makes more money than them. My first year out of college I found myself going to the equivalent of frat parties – nothing’s changed, bunch of dudes living together and throwing a party, most people are single.

Which is why I really bombed with my first “adult party”, I think. It was one of Robin’s coworkers, a freelance producer they used on a close-to full-time basis for their shows (Robin’s first job was at a post-production house where they put together various TV shows for Nat Geo, Discovery Health, etc). She was older than us, likely a little over thirty – they just bought a house in Georgetown (which, if you don’t know the area, means they had some serious cake). It was a “Wig & Velvet” party – the invitation said to wear a wig and wear some velvet. Seemed easy enough, right?

The day of the party Robin and I go to the Salvation Army to see what we can find. I find this velvet-like track suit and figure it would be really funny if I went to the party thug-themed. Robin agreed. I went to this Sally Beauty Supply joint next to the Salvation Army and purchased some braided extensions and a doo-rag; I used the rag to secure the extensions. I looked straight thug.

4 Life.

Robin had a velvet shirt and a silvery wig, if I remember correctly. It doesn’t matter – all that matters is that she wasn’t the one who stood out like a soar thumb.

We get to the party, I know nobody there. Everyone’s older than me, it seems, everyone’s white, and 95% of the people there looked like our founding fathers, wearing white wigs all curled up and velvety (non-lounge) suits. Some of the girls had outfits similar to Robin – everyone had dark colors and looked all dressed up and completely comfortable.

I had a bright blue track suit, braids, a doo-rag, and sneakers. I felt like an idiot. I’m usually the woo-hoo party fuck what everyone thinks type but at this moment, I just wanted to go home. And it got worse.

Everyone thought I was a pirate.

I had to explain what I was and all the white bread at the party had no idea what I was talking about.

“You know – I’m kind of like a thug. Like, how they dress in Compton. Well, it’s not really a stereotype, I mean, it’s how they dress in Compton. No – I’m sure white people dress like this too. Ok, so maybe not just Compton…”

It was excruciating. All these cut-off but compassionate white folks with serious paper all thought I wore the equivalent of a modern-day black-face to this party. Robin was having fun, I was trying to have fun but I instead found myself hiding behind the food table and swallowing cocktail shrimp, occasionally escaping for a cigarette.

One girl shows up to the party – about my age, dressed like Robin’s dressed. We get to talking – she’s trying to get a writing thing going as was I (not comics, at the time) so we hit it off well.

One could say I was flirting.

Robin caught me and instantly shot me a look, I excused myself. Told Robin, “Ok, I was flirting a bit, but she’s the only one talking to me. Can we go?”

Robin tells me to chill out and mingle – she takes me around with her. I end up having a good time, meet some new people. With a couple of beers in their system people become less judgmental. Robin introducing me as Jason Rodriguez gave me more minority cred, too, so my costume didn’t seem as racist to them at that point.

We ended up being the last couple to leave. Thanked everyone for the wonderful party and drove home.

We weren’t invited to another one but that one wasn’t so bad at the end of the day.

Labels: mitc

Baked and Baked

Friday, July 14, 2006

And I’m back. I guess I just didn’t feel like finishing the “Robin away in Spain” story I was working on, I’ll probably return to it when I talk about my own trip to Spain.

Anyway, I was watching Conan O’Brien last night and Paul Reubens was on, promoting the re-release of Pee-Wee’s Playhouse on the Cartoon Network. Reminded me of a story…

I was a fan of the show growing up. I wasn’t the coolest kind in the world but one thing people seemed to get a kick out of was watching me do the Pee-Wee Herman dance. I was like a fat kid with a magic set – able to fend off insults by being so damn cute and entertaining.

Robin was a different kind of fan. The kind that bought the VHS box set in college and would get stoned every night (and Saturday morning) and watch an episode. It was like a religion to her. I’d come over her place and she’ll be sitting with several people – staring at the TV as if Pee-Wee was their God.

At that point I wasn’t really smoking anymore and Pee-Wee’s Playhouse was a novelty from my childhood so I never really got into that aspect of her life. As the year went on she started watching it less and less. By the time she moved out to DC with me she was essentially done with Pee-Wee’s Playhouse and dope.

Until this one evening, a couple of weeks after she returned from Spain. We were putting up Gerry again and they decided to rekindle the past and watch Pee-Wee’s Playhouse baked. I figured I'd join in and invited my boy, Mark, to join us.

Gerry got the dope. No idea where he got it from. He baked it into some brownies and served them up. About ten minutes into eating special brownies we’re all vegetables. No idea how much he put into those things or if the dope was treated or something but we couldn’t fucking move.

At all.

We sat down on that catch and were mesmerized by Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. Every joke was suddenly sexual – every time Pee-Wee winked he was talking about drugs. It was all so obvious to us. I think that night was the closest I’ve ever come to a revelation.

About two hours in Robin goes into the bedroom. I get up and follow her, find her passed out on the bed. I get so angry, I tell her, “What the fuck? We got guests. Don’t be rude.” She gets out of bed and goes back into the living room.

I lay down on the bed and go to sleep.

She falls asleep on the couch. Twenty minutes later Mark wakes her up and asks, “Hey – I can’t drive – so I’m gonna sleep here. Can I have the couch?”

Robin gets kicked off the couch and comes back to the bedroom.

The next morning Mark is passed out on the couch, Gerry’s on the floor watching more Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. He claims he went to sleep and woke back up but the remaining brownies are gone – I still believe he stayed up all night watching them. Robin’s pissed at me for kicking her out of the bed the night before but she gets over it.

I haven’t watched Pee-Wee’s (or eaten dope) since. I’d rather keep my memories of that magical night pure – go out on top, as it where.

Labels: mitc

Man Alone: Apartment Hunting

Thursday, June 29, 2006

The lease for the studio apartment was up and I was tasked to find us an affordable one-bedroom apartment. Robin put a lot of faith in me with this one and I squandered it by going with the first apartment I saw.

It was in Southwest DC. Let me lay out DC for you. You want to live in Northeast DC or certain parts of Southeast DC. The other parts of Southeast DC are the worst parts of the district in terms of crime, Northeast DC is a vast area of nothingness and not-as-bad crime, and Southwest DC is a deceptive son-of-a-bitch with little pockets of nice areas surrounded by low-income housing.

The apartment I went with was on the edge of one of these pockets. 201 I St SW. The management office was in this nice little area, surrounded by brownstones and well-populated by trees. It was close to the Orange and Green lines, primo positioning for commutes and going out at night.

I went to see the apartment – it wasn’t that bad, really. Lots of space, hardwood floors, and a balcony. Kitchen was a bit shabby – aluminum cabinets and a crusty gas stove – but I wasn’t a big cooker at that point, anyway. The residents were typical of an in-the-process-of –being-gentrified neighborhood. Old folks living off social security, couple of low-income types protected by rent control, and a fair share of yuppies looking for a good deal on the place.

It was $900 a month for an almost 1000-square foot apartment with a balcony. I took it without hesitation. Told Robin about it.

“Southwest?”

“Yeah, southwest – it’s fine.”

“Isn’t southwest like southeast?”

“No – it’s fine, it’s right by the Mall. We can go to museums all the time.” (We didn’t.)

“I don’t know.”

“It even has a pool.” (That we never used.)

“Well – it’s a short lease, right?”

“Six months.”

“Ok – I trust you.”

Sucker.

The day before moving day I went to pick up the keys. My boy Max offered to drive me to the management office. I tell him the address but with the Mall fucking up your ability to drive we ended up at 201 I St SE – my first time in the “bad part” of Southeast. Max asks me, “You sure you live here” before I realized we were in the wrong neighborhood. It looked like Compton – straight-up. I’ll never forget this one house that had this disgusting mattress draped over a clothesline in the front yard, some kid sitting next to it smoking.

I realize we’re in Southeast and yell to Max, “No – this is Southeast, turn around.”

Turns out I was only about seven blocks away from there.

Get the keys and go to show Max the apartment. It’s a little darker now. In the dark, the roaches come out. The scamper all over that kitchen like they own the fucking place. But they don’t own the kitchen. The mice do.

Let me tell what Robin’s afraid of. Mice. Bugs. I knew I was in a lot of trouble. But I figured I could get rid of them all before she gets back. We’re not dirty people, they won’t come back. Right.

Max goes on my balcony and lets me know it overlooks the ghetto. I verify his claim – it’s the first time we see the “ice cream truck” that prowls I St at late hours with no song playing. There’re never kids standing near it.

I figure it’s fine – Robin’s a tough chick and worst case scenario is we stay there for six months. Now I just needed to move.

Labels: mitc

Man Alone: Idiot Alone

Monday, June 26, 2006

If you’ve been reading my Live Journal you know that I’m a mess without Robin around. She’s spending three weeks in Malaysia and Singapore and so far I’ve managed to shave my head because I fucked up cutting my own hair, eat nothing by beef, get her car impounded, and watch two seasons of Arrested Development over a five day period.

On this site, however, I’m telling stories about the last time I was left alone for a long period time – over two months while Robin was in Spain. I was even worse then. Probably the biggest fuck up over those two months was my attempt to plan a trip down there to see her.

It all started when I delayed getting my passport – this was my first time out of the country and I thought it’d take a week, tops. Once I found cheap airfare (it was going to be something like $400 to go to Manchester and $100 to go from Manchester to Madrid) I went in to get my passport only to discover that I needed to do the expedited service or else I wouldn’t have it in time.

I also didn’t have my license at that point, nor did I have a permit. I had my work ID, which was useless, and a Massachusetts state ID card that didn’t prove my current address. So it took two trips to the post office to get my passport papers filed – I needed to bring birth certificates, yearbooks, current bills, picture IDs – a wide range of shit, especially considering I already had my top secret clearance at the time.

But I had my airfare and my passport and I was ready to go. Except, you know, that whole “idiot” thing I had going on.

You see – I never bothered to check if I was actually billed for the airfare. Apparently, at some point in the confirmation process, I must have thought I was finished and shut down my browser. The fact that I didn’t receive any emails wasn’t at all strange to me. By the time I figured this out, that $400 flight to Manchester was a $1000 flight and I simply couldn’t afford the flight, hotels, etc at that time of my life.

I called Robin to tell her that I had to bail. She was…upset. Especially since she was already staying in Spain a week and a half beyond her classes.

The irony here, of course, is that I spent the past two months worrying that she’d let me down.

I begged and pleaded with the airline and tried to convince them that they fucked up but they had no record of any activity from me – it was a lost cause. I bitched about it all around the workplace and panicked over the thought that Robin wasn’t going to stick around after this fuck-up.

Until one of my bosses that took a liking to me pulled me into his office, closed the door, and said he wants me to go to Spain. That I deserve to go. And, despite the fact that it was highly illegal, he lent me a thousand-bucks so that I can book my airfare and get out there. Needless to say I was stupid excited.

I booked my airfare and told Robin the good news. Needless to say she was stupid relieved.

Of course, the fact that I’m an idiot looms over everything I do. It took me about a year to pay my boss back – I was pulled into his office every once and a while and reminded that he leant me a thousand bucks. I guess that’s why bosses aren’t supposed to lend coworkers money – it could lead to comlications. I guess we both learned our lessons on that one.

But, fuck it. I was ready to go to Spain. And I’ll get to that nightmare eventually – Man Alone continues for now.

Labels: mitc

Man Alone: La Isla Ibiza

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Robin being away for two+ months that summer went smoothly for the most part. We’d call each other two or three times a week – send letters and care packages. Aside from hearing wonderful stories about all the places she was visiting in Spain the occasional phone sex was also nice.

Then came Ibiza.

Ibiza is a party island off the coast of Spain. Its primary import is 18 year-old college girls and its primary export is venereal diseases. When Robin first told me she was going there with some friends – I started getting a little worried. I know I should have had more faith but, you know, this was before I found the therapist that actually helped me – I was a bit tipped then.

I found some site that had webcams placed all over Ibiza – needless to say those cams were routinely checked while she was there. As if my life was a movie and a) Robin would actually cheat on me and b) she’d happen to do right in front of a webcam and c) I’d actually be able to tell it was her. Despite how illogical the idea was – that page was bookmarked.

Saturday afternoon I get a call from Robin. And she’s obviously upset.

Here I am expecting long distance confessions and declarations that she’s leaving me for someone else (as if that’s how it would have went down) and I instead get the story about how she got slapped.

Hard.

By a guy.

Story goes, she’s online for a club with her friends when a guy cuts in front of them. Robin, being my little princess, mouths off to them. The guy mouths back and gets a little too close so she pushes him off. He slaps her. She punches him right in the fucking face. The guy gets kicked off the line.

In retrospect, it’s a prime example of why Robin kicks so much ass. I wasn’t as cool about it then. I was ready to kill that mother fucker despite the thousands of miles between us. But I couldn’t, of course, and the whole thing left me feeling useless. I told her to call me if she ran into that guy again and he ended up being a dick, as if there was anything I could do.

Maybe my anger towards Robin in Spain didn’t result primarily from the belief that she would cheat on me – maybe it stemmed from a larger issue of feeling like I wasn’t in control of the situation. Oh…foreshadowing…

Anyway, that night I went and met up with some folks at Café Asia in DC. I chugged several beers before telling the story – I was pissed. Went over to Adams Morgan and drank a lot more. I was super sloppy by the end of the night. I walked home from Adam’s Morgan, piss drunk – about at three mile walk, uphill the entire way. The next day Robin called me before flying back to Madrid. Everything went well that night; they partied until the sun came up and passed out.

I was just happy that I was on my way out to Spain in about a month.

With a couple of wrinkles first, of course.

Labels: mitc

Man Alone: My Roommate

Friday, June 16, 2006

Man Alone: Hope for the Worst

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Robin’s away for almost three weeks – she’s taking an international marketing class in Singapore and Malaysia. This is the longest we’ve been apart for quite some time. After that first summer we spent together in DC, Robin had to go back to Boston to finish school. We spent a year apart but even then we’d see each other every three weeks or so. At the end of the year, however, Robin went to study abroad in Spain. I was pretty pissy about it, I was all jazzed up to get our life really started together only to find out there was going to be a two month delay.

Looking back I now realize I was being an idiot. Here we are, seven years together, and those two months in Spain were nothing. I encouraged her to take the class this time around. But man, the couple of months leading up to Spain – that was me at my lowest.

I guess part of the problem was that R, the two year relationship I was in before Robin, went to Europe for a month and promptly broke up with me upon return. I always had suspicions that she cheated, not so much anymore (mainly because I stopped giving a shit many years ago), and I didn’t want the same thing to happen with Robin.

So I’d always talk about things like ETA bombings in Madrid – I even read a book on the Basque and painted them to be these bloodthirsty savages always carrying out attacks, trying to nonchalantly scare her into staying home. I decided that I was going to move into a new apartment while she was in Spain, this way if she wanted any say in where we lived she’d have to stay in the states. I would find vacation deals for the time she was going to be away and do the whole, “Oh – we should go to Italy! They’re having a great deal the week of…oh…you’ll be in Spain.”

At one point I was very forward and just said I really wasn’t too excited about her decision to go. I think this was where my true feelings on the matter started to come out though, and there was certainly a touch of jealousy. You see – I started working the week after I graduated college. No vacation, no time off. Busting my ass five days a week, flying down to Boston when I can and flying her to DC when I was too busy to come to Boston. And I guess the mentality that I’ve adopted was, “Why does she get to go away for two months?”

I’m really good at that, actually. At least I used to be. Really good at feeling entitled.

Anyway – I told Robin that I didn’t think it was fair. I can’t believe she’s still with me. But she knows me, you know, I think a good relationship is one where a woman knows how childish her man can be. She tells me to meet her in Spain for a couple of weeks at the end of her abroad program. It momentarily calmed me down, but I was still a bit paranoid she was going to cheat on me.

The day she lost her passport was the happiest day of my life. It was a couple of weeks before her trip. I thought she was screwed – there was no way she’d replace it in time.

Well, she did.

She was leaving two days after her graduation. The day after her graduation I was supposed to be in Cape Canaveral for a business trip. I actually told her I don’t think I would be able to make it to her graduation, I was so upset that she was going to Spain, but the disappointment in her voice made me change my mind real quick.

I go to her graduation but can’t even make it to the celebration dinner. I’m on an airplane to Atlanta to meet up with a plane that’ll take me to Melbourne Airport. I take a forty minute cab ride to my hotel on the beach. By the time I get in it’s late, I call Robin to wish her a good trip – she thanks me for making it to her graduation.

The she’s off to Spain and I won’t see her for two months.

It’s an interesting two months – filled with loans, fights, houseguests, apartment searching, moving, let-downs, and strippers. It’ll take a couple of months to get through, I’m thinking – especially at the rate I’m updating. I came out of it somewhat changed but still 60% asshole.

Labels: mitc

Long Island: Night in White Satin

Friday, June 02, 2006

Long Island: Night in White Satin

Back-to-Back stories! Aren’t you guys hooked the fuck up?
_________________

After MH’s contract went over budget by 10-million dollars the whole thing sort of fell apart. TAO’s money got ramped down and eventually disappeared – we got the stop-work order from MH and never looked back. They just couldn’t afford to pay us anymore.

So that contract was dead and I moved on to bigger and better things, mainly firing canons and mortars in the desert.

A couple of months after the contract ends Roger from MH contacts me and tells me there’s a marketing opportunity at some company in Rhode Island (who we’ll call RI) and he wants me to go with him to sell our portion of the now dead contract.

I had no desire to go but my boss thought it was a good idea so I make plans to go.

Now, the area we’re going towards isn’t really accessible by anything but cars and I still didn’t have my license. I couldn’t rent a car, in other words. The plan that we came up with had disaster written all over it but it was really the only option available to my non-driving ass.

Roger lived in Connecticut. At the end of his day on Wednesday, he was going to swing by JFK and pick me up. I was going to go with him to his house in Connecticut, spend the night there, and drive to Rhode Island with him early the next morning.

If you think that sounds bad, it gets worse.

Roger and I have nothing in common. He’s easily late-50, big guy – so much ear hair that he could braid it. He’s essentially the stereotypical dad. Our drive to Connecticut is excruciating (and puzzling, he made that commute everyday). We get to his house and it looks like the Cleavers live there it’s so fucking homely. His wife is this older, chipper woman that’s dressed like “Housewife Barbie”.

I get introduced and the three of us sit around the table and drink lemonade – she has these horrendous crocheted coasters for me to put my glass on top of. There are religious pictures and stuffed ducks all over the house. It’s just seriously freaky. Roger’s telling me all about his son who cuts down trees for a living and you almost get this vibe that he’s viewing me as what he wanted his son to be.

Seriously. Fucking. Freaky.

I finish my lemonade and Roger tells me about the festivities we have planned for the night.

Church School!

You see, he teaches a bible class. So I had to sit in on his class. Afterwards, we hung around because members of the church brought various foods to eat. So I got to munch on some sausage and peppers with a bunch of Jesus freaks who insisted on knowing whether or not I’ve accepted Christ as my savior.

I just told them “yes”. I love me the Savior Christ.

So, after the riveting two hours spent in a church basement I went back to Roger’s house. They were watching TV in the living room, the news – it was the only TV in the house. I watch with them for a little bit, they ask me if I’d rather watch something else and I decline repeatedly. With my luck one of the characters on a TV show I put on would say something about sex and Roger and his wife would perform a fucking exorcism on me.

I want to back-track a second and remind you all about something – this guy has been trying to recruit me for over a year. This whole night was likely part of his plan.

I decide to go to bed – it’s like 8:30. They show me to the guest room and…

…that’s right, white satin sheets. I wanted to ask if they had, you know, cotton sheets, but it wasn’t worth it. But seriously – who really uses satin sheets? And who puts them in the guest room? I thought the stuffed ducks were as tacky as you can get, but white satin sheets in the guest room takes the cake.

So I stick to the sheets all night, drive with him to RI the next day – a horribly long drive complete with traffic. We get there, meet some people and sit down for this supposed marketing opportunity.

Well, they spent about three hours marketing their products to us and ten minutes listening to us. It was a fucking joke – a complete waste of time. Anyone with half a brain would have seen that there was no opening to market anything to these guys.

I left that building pissed off. I told Roger to drop me off at the nearest Greyhound terminal – the guys at RI tell us where the closest one is, it’s only ten minutes away. I get out of his car and call my boss, tell him I won’t be in on Friday and they’ll still reimburse me for my airfare. I take two buses but finally get to Boston and spend the weekend with Robin. I have some fun and then fly back home on Sunday. On Monday I tell my boss off, saying he should have looked into this marketing opportunity more. I tell him I’m done with this project and with Roger.

Later that Christmas I get a card from Roger. That’s the last I ever hear from him.

Labels: mitc, travel

Long Island: My Own Caper

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Seven Harvey Nominations for ELK'S RUN. Told you the book was good. I think this a good time to remind everyone that I'm available for editing gigs.

I owe you guys a story – wouldn’t want to slack off too much. Believe me, I have great reasons. 8 issues of Elk’s Run needed to be tweaked and proofed and delivered and exciting POSTCARDS related news has added substantially to my workload but it’ll pay off. Combine that with my broken AC and the fact that this DC fucking humidity is making my office into a sauna and I have a ton of great excuses.

But excuses only go so far so it’s story time…

_____________________

The Long Island situation came to a head when Roger, from MH, approved additional funds for us but wanted me in Long Island full-time. I was at the meeting where he laid this new plan down and I actually said, “No fucking way.” My boss put his hand on my shoulder to get me to chill out.

It was sort of the breaking point for me. I was tired of going to Long Island, it was lonely. Robin was in Boston and I didn’t get to visit her nearly as much as I’d of liked to because of the constant trips. I already got my raise and my bonus. I told TAO that I want off the project unless they hire somebody else that can alternate these trips with me – that’s how I got my friend since the second grade, James, to join up at TAO.

The first trip we went together – one week on Long Island – so I can introduce him to everybody. Since we were both traveling at the same time (and renting a car), and since we couldn’t get the weekly rate at the Extended Stay America (and the nightly was a hundred and change), we just got rooms at some cheap motel for the four nights we were down there.

We check in that first night – they only take cash and the room’s 40 bucks a night. I give them money and ask for a receipt and the woman behind the counter gives me a blank receipt to fill out on my own.

Let me explain per diem to you. You see, the government only allows you to spend x-dollars per day on hotels and x-dollars per day on meals and incidentals. Every job I worked for so far doesn’t require M&I receipts provided no meals go over 20 bucks. Since the M&I rate rarely goes above 50 bucks, you just say you spent 50 bucks a day on three meals and nothing was over 20 bucks. If you’re diligent you can pocket some extra cash but usually the excess (and then some) gets blown on alcohol and strippers.

Hotels, on the other hand – you need to hand in receipts. The per diem for the area of Long Island we were in, at the time, if I remember correctly, was around 90 bucks per night. You better believe I put $80 dollars on that receipt. You better believe I asked for extra receipts (and the lady behind the counter obliged) and you better believe I turned those receipts in every night I stayed in Long Island, even over weekends when I stayed at my parents house.

If MH was going to trap me in Long Island, I was going to juice them for every fucking penny in our contract.

A two-week trip would total 11 nights in a hotel room, of which I’d actually spend 8 nights there. At 40 bucks a night it would end up costing me $320. I’d turn in $880 dollars worth of receipts, however, and every trip down there would net me an extra $560 just by cheating the hotel system.

I figured how to cheat the taxi system, too – I’d collect blank taxi receipts and fill them out for transfers between the airport and the hotel for 50 bucks. Then I’d take the train out for a couple of bucks and take a taxi from the train station to the hotel for five.

It became a little side business – I’d challenge myself. I’d eat a muffin in the morning, steal people’s lunches, drink nothing but water and have a small pizza for dinner and charge the full 50 for M&I. Every trip to Long Island would fund two trips to Boston to see Robin.

And the best part?

There were five subs working on that contract plus MH, the prime – it was supposed to be a 20-million dollar effort. I went up for the briefing to the admiral in charge of the project and watched MH struggle as they told him that they were currently 50% (10-million dollars!) over budget. But my little piece was under-budget and ahead of schedule.

And the real kick-in-the ass?

I was introduced to the admiral before that meeting by a coworker. At the meeting, as everyone’s going around and introducing themselves and the admiral’s giving them a shit look, he gives me a smile and mini-conversation when they get to me, holding up the meeting and the introduction process.

I looked like King Shit of the group and had the numbers and performance to match.

The project died shortly after that, but not after one last trip and one last attempt to hire me. This one took place at Roger’s home, however, and will forever go down as the worst recruiting attempt of all time.

But that’s for another day.

Labels: mitc, travel

Long Island: Learning to Trip (And Failing)

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

About a month after rescuing a project and getting its budget quadrupled I was off to Long Island for the first of my many two-week long business trips. These trips will end up becoming the loneliest chunks of time I’ve yet to live through.

I didn’t have a license. I just got my license three years ago. Part laziness, partly no need to get one, but the fact remains that I couldn’t rent a car. So I took a taxicab from JFK to the office out in Long Island, a trip that ended up coming close to a hundred-bucks (with tip) and left me hoping that TAO would reimburse me (for subsequent trips I reserved a town car – much cheaper).

I get to the office and Roger assigns me to a cubicle which was a pleasant break from the roomy office I had back in DC (that was internet-sarcasm, doesn’t always work well). Thankfully, over the past seven years, MH was the only company to put me in a cubicle. When I ended up applying for my second job my requests were “X-dollars per year and an office” (I got a signing bonus, too, though).

I don’t even know what I ended up doing in Long Island. Same shit I’d end up doing in DC except without any friends, honestly. It was pretty obvious having me work on Long Island was Roger’s grand plan to get me to leave TAO to work for MH and I think it goes on the record as being the worst plan of all time. You want to steal a 22-year-old kid who impressed the shit out of you away from his current employer? Truckloads of money. Don’t take him away from his home for weeks at a time and constantly ask him if he’d like to move down here for good. Money. That’s how my second job won me over. I went into TAO to tell them I was leaving, my boss said they’d like to make a counter-offer, I told them what the new job was paying, and my boss said, “Fuck – that’s a lot of money.” That’s all MH had to do.

Anyway, after work one of the guys from MH dropped me off at my hotel – an Extended Stay America. ESA – no bar attached, no pool – nothing. A snack machine. Two blocks away was a Costco and a Hostess outlet (does that make sense – do they even have Hostess outlets?) A couple of blocks further on and you had a diner and a Wendy’s. And that was it. I was done with work by six or so and had nothing to do but go to Wendy’s or the diner for dinner. I couldn’t even go to Costco’s since I didn’t have a membership.

I watched a lot of TV. Ordered Domino’s. Drank a six-pack daily to wash the “two packs of smokes” taste out of my mouth. Called Robin almost every night. She was back in Boston at this point, finishing up her last year of school. I’d call my parents, read a book at the diner. I didn’t have a laptop at this point so that took out the possibility of playing video games or watching DVDs. It was honest-to-shit the most depressing two weeks imaginable. Luckily I have plenty of family and friends in Brooklyn because Friday I hopped on the LIR and spent the weekend having some fun.

Masturbated a lot, obviously. Had to use my imagination, though, since the room didn’t have pay-per-view porn. There wasn’t even a convenience store nearby where I could get a porno mag. Want to know what the definition of pathetic is? Guessing what potential porno phone-line numbers could be so I can have something to spank to. I’ve never called a porno line but here I was dialing 888-123-4CUM because it could have been one.

It was sad. Sad, sad, sad.

I didn’t know the rules of reimbursement – if I was going to be paid back for cab rides. First business trip and all, you get worried, you know? So I just stayed in that hotel room and watched Seinfeld reruns.

I took baths. I’m not a bath guy. I’ll take a cold one on occasion if it’s wicked hot out but here I was, in an Extended Stay America, taking a bath to pass the time.

No bubbles. Just bath water.

One time I go to the ATM outside of the Wendy’s. The girl in front of me leaves her card in the machine. I get so excited; I think this is my chance to make a friend. I take her card out and flag her down. Give her the card and tell her she left it in the machine, try to let her know I’m a nice guy.

“You didn’t take any money out, right?”

“What? No!”

“You know they got cameras on there and they’ll find you?”

“I didn’t take any money out!”

“Better not.”

She storms off. I get a chicken sandwich from Wendy’s.

That’s it. Two weeks out of every month. No-one at GH got really friendly with me; they didn’t understand why I was there. I wasn’t an employee and all Roger did was say how great I was. I didn’t understand why I was there. My second trip down there they invited me to join their Wallyball league. I’m a decent Volleyball player but the whole time playing Walleyball consisted of me fucking up and my team rolling their eyes.

A couple of months into it all Roger suggested I stay down in Long Island full-time. Thankfully my boss stuck up for me on that one. I swear, I was ready to leave my job, fuck the bonuses and the raises.

Thank God for James coming on-board. That’s when Long Island got a little more fun. That’s when we discovered how to make money on these business trips, too. Fuck it, if we were going to get shipped out to LI every month we might as well make some paper doing it, right?

Labels: mitc, travel

Long Island: The Day Trip

Monday, May 15, 2006

Two months into my job at TAO and my boss decided to see if I was worth my salary. They put me on a lame-duck project – I was doing some work for a major contractor, we’ll call them MH. It was actually a fairly large programming project for the Navy, the guy at our company that was working on it up and quit about a month before it was due.

He did nothing.

TAO believed our involvement in the project will come to an end shortly, since we spent a chunk of money to do jack shit, so they put me as the main guy on it in order to get me used to heading a project.

I had to write code – something I’ve never done in the past. But I looked at all the shit we had, read some books, and after a month I put something together that was thoroughly incomplete but looked decent. I also put together a balls-to-the-wall presentation that was 80% marketing, 20% progress report.

One of my bosses (Bob) and ADEA (pronounced ah-dea and stood for A.D. Eats Ass, A.D. being ADEA’s real name – he’ll be in the peanut gallery eventually), and I flew down to Long Island to meet with MH. We rent a car, drive down to MH and check in with security. Roger, the prime on the project, shakes our hands and shows us to the conference room. We all sit down, get comfortable, and Roger starts the meeting off by saying:

“I want to get this straight. TAO will no longer be working on this project. This meeting is solely so you can transition the software to us. We will only release enough funds to transition the software.”

Bob, ADEA and I were, well, speechless. Bob gathers his composure and gives his little update about where we are, money-wise, and then introduces me.

Here I am with this marketing presentation when just ten minutes ago Roger tells us we’re done working on this project. I figure, “what the fuck,” and I just go for it.

I spend an hour up there, giving my presentation and answering questions. Honestly. If any of the MH guys asked if we can do something and we couldn’t do it – I’d tell them “no” but say what we can do. I was just on the ball – commanding the room.

When I was done we decided to take a fifteen minute break. I was in the bathroom taking a leak when Roger asked me if I wanted to work for them. I politely told him “no”, said I was happy with TAO, and if he wanted to keep me on the project he’d need to send us some more funds.

When we reconvened for the remainder of the meeting, the tone was much different.

We had 60k left on our contract. They upped it to 250k and added more work for us to do. Our transition meeting turned into a planning meeting. Afterwards we shook hands, Roger offered me a job one last time, within earshot of my boss, and we were on our way.

The plus side? I got a ten-percent raise and a ten-percent bonus. I also got to hire my friend James to work on the project which got me a 5k referral bonus and a buddy at work. Between bonuses, raises and referrals that little trip netted me an extra 15k that year and job security for as long as I wanted to stay there. 22 year-old kid not only rescues a project but quadruples the budget.

The downside, in an effort to get me to work for them, Roger put a clause in the contract that stated I needed to spend two weeks out of every month working onsite at MH. For about eight months I spent half my time in Long Island. And there’s no amount of money in the world that’s worth that.

Labels: mitc, travel

Furnishings

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I haven’t been around here in a while and I apologize for that. Work, traveling, and POSTCARDS been keeping me busy. Over the next couple of months I’ll be in NYC, Boston, Cleveland, Chicago, somewhere in Iowa, and San Diego – if you’re in any of those cities and if I like you send me an email and maybe we can get a beer.

Real quick, POSTCARDS is shaping up nice, the Live Journal is being updated more frequently than MITC, and I’ll probably have a themed week here next week – all about Long Island.

As mentioned, our new place on Connecticut Avenue had nothing but a suitcase filled with clothes, an air mattress, and some ramen noodles for the first week we lived in it. We didn’t have much money to spend on furniture so we needed to prioritize our purchases.

We stole towels from the hotel so we didn’t really need those yet. We got a skillet and a sauce pan to make dinner. Stole some plastic forks, knives, spoons and sporks from a variety of fast food restaurants. As far as necessities for survival went – we were doing ok.

So the next obvious step was to purchase a TV.

A 32-inch RCA that I got for free at Radio Shack in exchange for signing up for MSN for five years; an agreement I ultimately defaulted on and, to my surprise, they never tried to collect what I owed them. The Radio Shack was about ten blocks downhill from our apartment and there was no way in fuck I was going to carry that monstrous TV uphill. Brought that shit on the bus, pushed everybody out of the way. Even the bus driver said I shouldn’t bring the TV on the bus but I gave him this sad look and explained it was only for ten blocks.

Get the TV home and drag that shit up to our fourth floor apartment. Robin’s chilling at home and I walk in with this TV and surprise her – she was all worried that she was going to miss WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE? The shit we do for love.

Of course, I realized I forgot to buy an antenna for the TV (no cable at this point) so I go all the way back to Radio Shack to buy one. We got everything set just in time for prime time shows and fought with the antenna all night to try and get a better reception. The next day we ordered cable.

You’d think our second purchase would be a futon or, perhaps, a couple of stools to put around the little kitchen island so we didn’t need to eat our breakfast on the floor. What we actually purchased was, well, kind of embarrassing.

A Papasan Chair from Pier 1 Imports.

There was a Pier 1 about seven blocks downhill from us. We were in there pricing furniture when Robin pointed out they had Papasan Chairs, something she ALWAYS wanted, on sale. So we bought one.

I carried it home, of course.

Shortly after that the packages I had in storage in Boston showed up and we found ourselves with a bunch of books and trinkets – things that seem like high priority in college but when you don’t have anywhere to put them you realize how ridiculous they are.

So, third item? A book shelf. Pier 1, again.

I carried it home, of course.

Finally got some stools and a little cabinet for the TV. Around this time, though, the air mattress started to grow tumors. The stitches were popping out and our bodies would be draped across a semicircle as we slept – we’d wake up with back and neck pain. We finally had to buckle down and get a futon.

After getting denied because of bad credit at two mattress stores, we finally found a place that would sell us a futon. Big-ass thing, cherry stained wood frame, queen sized, extra plush mattress.

We got that one delivered, thankfully.

So, after a month we had the apartment relatively well furnished. Most of it on credit, of course.

Labels: mitc

Peanut Gallery: The Boss

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Don't forget to check the new Live Journal for musings and fun little bits. This past week I delivered an essay on the Gas Face which'll be part of an ongoing feature on the site (the next one will be an Essay on the early 1990's Back to Africa movement).

___________________

Let’s get this out of the way – in order for you all to understand what my four years at TAO was like, you need to understand The Boss.

And The Boss deserves to be the President of the Peanut Gallery.

Pencil necked, tight collar, big fucking head – looked like Mr. Garrison from South Park and honest-to-shit talked like Bill Lumbergh from Office Space. He’d always wear these suits that were too big for him – big shoulders, long sleeves that went well past his wrists – ugly-ass ties, too – red ones with green stripes, homeboy always looked like he was wearing Christmas Wrapping Paper around his neck.

He lived about an hour and a half away from the office so he worked from home three days a week. I have no problem with people working from home, I try to do it once a week, myself – but the dude was a fucking manager. We’d find ourselves needing him – to sign a purchase order or something – and he just wouldn’t be there.

He was a church going guy, even played guitar, I believe, for his church band. Made him tons of fun on business trips. I go to strip clubs on business trips. Whether with a group or by myself. I’d go to strip clubs during lunch time, bring a notebook and get some work done while eating a burger and stuffing dollar bills in a girl’s g-string. Everyone I worked with knows how much I love strippers. And yet every night on a business trip he’d invite me out to some gay-ass thing like a comedy club somewhere in Podunk, Mississippi – I’m sure it’s quality stuff. I’d tell him, “No thanks – I’m going to get some titties in my face.” Come into work the next day with bloodshot eyes and caked in glitter and cigarette smoke, asking how the comedy show was.

One of my favorite quirks with him is that he doesn’t want people to know he shits. We’ve formed the theory after this one time where he was observed walking into our bathroom, seeing there were people in it, and then caught five minutes later walking out of another office’s bathroom. For those who don’t know – that’s the staple move for a shy-shitter. But, in the interest in fairness, we had to test our hypothesis, it’s bad juju to falsely accuse someone of bathroom complexes.

The Boss couldn’t go to the bathroom without passing my desk. Every time I observed him making a break for the restroom I’d go in there about thirty seconds later. Most times he wasn’t going to the bathroom, other times he was just taking a leak, but after a month or so of stalking him I walked in on him shitting. And I put our theory to the test.

I sat in the stall next to him. For about thirty minutes, reading the paper. Not a sound came from his stall – he didn’t even shift for a full half-hour. By the time I was done my legs were asleep, I could hardly even walk. I wiped up (although, after thirty minutes there’s really no need to wipe, you need a spatula to peel it off at that point), flushed, washed my hands and stumbled out of the bathroom, my legs buckling with every step.

Sure enough, two minutes later The Boss leaves the restroom, stumbling. He sat there the entire time and waited until I left to ensure that I didn’t know HE was taking a shit.

There are so many things to rag on him about and we’ll get to them in time but I’ll leave you with this last tale…

My job flew me out to Yuma Proving Grounds in Arizona quite often to fire off canons and mortars. We’d set up this sound equipment in the field and we’d occasionally sit out by it and left the firing squad alone to do their thing. We had to rent at least one pick-up truck or SUV to haul shit around in the desert and this one time The Boss goes ahead and rents a minivan.

So we drive up to the gates of the military base in a red minivan, the guard looks at us funny, checks our IDs and passes us through. We’re driving out to our storage shed – this minivan is bouncing like mad, it has no clearance so big rocks keep scraping the undercarriage. Equipment flying all over the place. It was such a fucking mess.

Later in the day we’re conducting firing tests – there are a bunch of gunners on the scene loading up the canons and dropping the mortars – while The Boss sits in the minivan with a portable DVD player and watches THE SANTA CLAUS 2. I will never forget that scene for as long as I live.

Labels: mitc

Blowing Up

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Only stories here from now on. Go to POSTCARDS for production stuff and Live Journal for everything else.

______________

By the time Friday rolled around I thought I was going to get laid off. I honest to shit thought my boss was going to lay me off after my first week of work. I really didn’t do anything. I read some stuff – sent some emails, met my coworkers and filled out documentation. I left before 5PM everyday of the week.

I was so afraid that my boss was going to lay me off that I snuck out of the office that Friday without saying goodbye to anyone, thinking that would buy me some time.

My relocation check cleared and Robin and I were able to explore the city a bit more. I was excited to look up my boy James, the only person I knew who lived in DC, but he was out of state that weekend at some mini-baja competition. I was the youngest person at my first job, a little over 22 – everyone else was well over thirty and most of them had families. Living in a hotel doesn’t do much for the social life, either. Robin and I were on our own for our first weekend in DC where we actually had some money in the bank.

The concierge at the hotel told us to check out Adams Morgan, the busiest area for DC’s nightlife. We take the metro there and walk outside to find a McDonald’s, a deli and two Indian Restaurants. We were…upset…and figured we just moved to the lamest city in America.

Of course the bumping part of Adams Morgan is about ten blocks from the metro station but we didn’t know that – we just went to an Indian Restaurant, ate well, drank even better and made our way back to the hotel thinking we made a huge mistake moving to this city.

The second day we went apartment shopping but ended up in a whole different type of ghetto. Robin went to look for apartments earlier in the week and came back with pictures of some nice ones but they were all studios – she couldn’t find an affordable one-bedroom in the District that was in a “recommended” area. I was determined to find one, however, so I picked out some places that happened to be in South East DC.

Let me tell you a little bit about DC. One of the worst crime rates in America. People think the whole city is a shit-hole but that’s not true – 90% of the crime takes place in Southeast DC and the surrounding areas.

After looking at one apartment we called the Ellicott House and told them we’ll take the studio. (This apartment wasn’t even Anacostia, either, 90% of the crime in Southeast DC takes place in Anacostia – I have only two stories that takes place there and they’re both fucking excellent).

The Ellicott House on Connecticut Avenue – our first apartment. A six-hundred square foot studio on the fourth floor of a 14-story building. Tennis courts, a gym, an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, a hot-tub – all stuff we hardly ever used during the year we lived there. I took the place based on pictures Robin took and got developed at CVS. We were moving into the place in two weeks. The only problem was that we couldn’t afford to stay in our current hotel for another two weeks – we’ve already been there for over a week and the room cost us over a hundred bucks a night.

So we needed to find a new hotel. And that’s where the Rosslyn 50 or whatever the hell they used to call it came in. Comfort level was about to decrease and it only gets worse.

Labels: mitc

Decapitating Corporate America

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Greater resolution!

The Moose in the Closet, the blog you’re reading right now, will only be for stories. POSTCARDS’ Blog will only be for the production of the anthology (and James Powell is posting there now, as well). And now, The Moose’s Musings will be my Live Journal where I just shoot the shit, occasionally lay down some attempts at comedy writing and try to get a little discussion going. So stop by, if you have an LJ let me know so I can add you to my friend list and feel free to do the same for mine.

On that note, it’s story time…

__________________

I woke up two hours early for my first day of work. The hotel was only a couple of blocks away and my clothes were already ironed – the lead time might have seemed excessive but I needed to tie my tie, something I’ve only done several times before.

It was a smart move; it took me about twenty minutes to get a decent knot put together without having the tip of my tie lie somewhere around my nipples.

Robin made me coffee and asked if I wanted breakfast – I was too nervous to eat and I wasn’t going to kid myself and pretend we can afford to go out for some quality omelets. I grabbed a banana from the hotel lobby on the way out and walked to TAO.

Orientation took the entire morning. My boss, David, took me around to all of the offices and introduced me to my coworkers – most of them seemed like a friendly lot with the exception of this guy Curt who will be featured prominently future stories. Curt’s not a bad guy at all, let me get that out of the way right from the start, but he’s everything a storyteller wants from a character.

I had to meet with the human resources woman who was kind of cute and one of my early thoughts upon seeing her consisted of bending her over an office table and pushing up. It was a great image to juxtapose against her talking about the sexual harassment policy. I can’t help it, though; I think I’ve pictured myself having sex with nine girls out of every ten I’ve ever met. I’m always thinking about sex. Seriously, I went to a therapist because of it.

I remember when I was a kid and I’d say my prayers at night, naked women would always pop into my head. I’d feel so dirty, here I was opening my soul to God and I couldn’t stop pornography from running rampant in my subconscious. I’d argue with myself – I’d be on my knees praying and it would go something like this:

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with [naked woman appears in my head]. I’m sorry, Blessed Virgin. Hail Mary [naked woman]. Stop it! Why can’t you just stop it! Hail Mary, full of [naked woman].”

It would take me ten-minutes to get through one prayer, the Virgin Mary sitting on high and asking me to hurry it up. In order to combat the image, I used to picture a record player in my mind and the record player was reciting the Hail Mary. And then, I shit you not, a naked woman would come and push the record player out of the way.

I had no control in an almost comical way – and it was a pretty destructive behavior in the workplace. Not so much as people knew what was going through my head but that I never paid attention to female coworkers because I kept fantasizing about having sex with them.

I don’t know, remember that for later. I’m actually much better now. Well, better.

After I signed up for health insurance, 401k and life insurance (and I split my life beneficiaries between my sister and Robin in case you were wondering) I had to meet with the security officer. She put this fucking book in front of me, a thirty page application for my security clearance which, as I already talked about, I lied quite extensively on.

The security officer told me to get it in to her “within a week or so”. It took me about two months – paperwork and I don’t get along very well.

Then I finally got to see my office. It’s a great moment, walking into your first office. I had a nice one, too – it was designed for two people but I had it all to myself – it was long and had floor to ceiling windows running its entire length. My computer was already set-up and there were some supplies on my desk already – my nameplate was already attached to the entryway.

My boss told me to take some time to set-up my office and read over the company handbook, a hundred page document that got shoved in my drawer the moment he left, never to be seen again. I called Robin first, I put my feet up on the desk and turned towards my window to try and emulate the executives you see in the movies. I told her all about my day so far, everything except the whole wanting to have sex with the human resources woman, and let her know some of the guys from the office were going to take me out to lunch.

After talking to Robin I emailed my parents, my mom wrote back within minutes to tell me how proud she is of me. I went to lunch afterwards with some people, came back and read some of the stuff the HR woman gave me and left early, around three, telling my boss I needed to go apartment hunting.

My first day at work and I left two hours early. TAO was the kind of company a man can take advantage of, the tales of my exploits at work that I’ll be laying down over the next couple of months will both shock and inspire you. Corporate America is a fucking piece of cake.

On the way home I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, lying in the gutters – it was a New Years 2000 refrigerator magnet. Big fucking deal, right?

Robin and I had the same one back in Boston. But I’m sure they made plenty of them, you know?

Well, the one we had in Boston – it was a gift from Robin’s mom that fell off the fridge, causing the head to break off – it’s the reason we threw it out. The magnet I found on the street didn’t have its head, either. I naturally took it back to the hotel me, Robin would never believe it if I just told her that I saw it, and we still have it today – prominently displayed on our fridge.

I get to the hotel, excited to tell Robin about my day. She’s not in the room, unfortunately – she went into DC to look for apartments and left me a note – she didn’t expect me to be home so early. I leave her a note and go down to the bar, start munching on free mozzarella sticks and putting down Bud Lights on the hotel’s tab.

Robin meets me about an hour later – big kisses and excited talk about my first day at work. She found some apartments that I might have been interested in, but that’s for tomorrow’s story. I told her about the magnet and she naturally didn’t believe me until I showed her the decapitated body of the pudgy woman that played music when you pressed her tits.

We got drunk and passed out early in the comfort of our hundred-plus dollar a night hotel room – having no idea that there was only a couple of weeks of comfortable sleeping left for us before we spend several months with back pains and stiff necks.

Labels: mitc

Fun and Games in McLean, Virginia

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

I went to my third baseball game of the season last night, Mets vs. Nationals – it was also my third ballpark. So far I’ve been to Camden Yards, RFK Stadium and whatever you call the park the Phillies play in. I’ll be going to Fenway, Shea, Wrigley, Cleveland and Colorado to catch some games as well this year. Last year I did Shea, Yankee Stadium, Fenway, Camden, RFK, San Francisco, San Diego and Chicago White Sox. I’d love to catch a game in Milwaukee but I really can’t come up with an excuse to visit Milwaukee beyond going to see a baseball game. At least Cleveland has the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Anyway, I guess what I want to say is, LET’S GO FUCKING METS!

Story time…

___________________

Five days.

That’s how much time I had between the day I arrived in Virginia and the day I started work.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday.

Five days to get out and explore our nation’s capital (and its outlying neighborhoods). Five days to meet some new people and see some sites. Five days to sample local restaurants, bars and neighborhoods – try and decide where we wanted to live. Five days to stake my claim, to adjust myself – five days to get comfortable.

I was fucked.

We had no money. We had a credit card with a modest limit that we were using to hold the hundred+ dollar a night hotel room and that’s it.

A 75% relocation advance was mailed to me in Boston; unfortunately it didn’t get there before I moved out. I needed to get TAO to issue me a new check that I picked up my second day in the DC area. I had to open a bank account with that check, because I closed my Bank Boston account before moving. It was going to take a couple of days for the funds to clear – I had a couple of bucks cash on me and that was it.

Robin wasn’t in any better shape – her parents gave her some cash but it was essentially enough to cover really cheap meals for a couple of days.

So whereas we got down there early to explore the area, our limited funds restricted us to packing a book bag with bread and peanut butter and staying close to the hotel. McLean, Virginia, unfortunately, didn’t have a lot to offer a couple of 22 year-old kids excited to be in a new city.

That’s where Tyson’s Mall comes in. It was a fifteen minute walk to get there and we could spend a couple of hours there – slowly walking around and planning what we’ll get for our eventual apartment. Checking out Crate & Barrel and picking out a headboard for our bed – the one piece to a standard bedroom-set we have yet to purchase in the past six years. Why buy a headboard when you can buy a 42-inch plasma HDTV is my motto – priorities.

We’d ask the kiosk guys if we can use their computers to check our email and they almost always agreed – we’d spend a couple of minutes searching online for apartments because we didn’t learn our lesson the first time around.

Dinner at McDonald’s – Robin and I were practicing vegetarians at the time (well, Robin was, and I was trying really hard). French fries, salad cup and a drink of water was the standard dinner for those five days (peanut butter sandwich for lunch, obviously).

The hotel had a bar and we were able to charge up our drinks to the room – no matter how broke we were we always found a way to drink alcohol – I think that’s a universal constant. That first Saturday night we tried to go to the hotel bar but they were having some comedy show and there was a cover – we ended up crossing the Pike and going to Mr. Smith’s where we actually had a decent meal and decided to use the credit card, figuring we’ll deal with the potential “insufficient funds to pay for hotel room” when and if it happens.

We found ways to pass the time – we made up theme songs for each other, for instance. Robin’s was sung to the beat of TALK’S TO ANGELS and went like so:

She never takes the tags off
The clothes that she buys
That’s so she can return them
If the neeeedd arise

She says she talks to sales clerks
About their return policy

Mine was sung to the beat of a generic children’s song:

I’m a sensitive homo erectus, a sensitive homo erectus
I have a hard on all day
I’m a sensitive homo erectus, a sensitive homo erectus
Won’t you come out an play

I’m a sensitive homo erectus, a sensitive homo erectus
I got something I’d like you to touch
I’m a sensitive homo erectus, a sensitive homo erectus
I’m sorry that it isn’t much

Ah…inside jokes. This one isn't tough, though - you see, I tend to always be ready to go.

We made it into DC once. The first time was to go apartment shopping – we took the train to the U Street stop because it was the closest stop to the first apartment we were going to check out – our first exposure to DC was a touch of the ghetto. Now, I have no problems with the ghetto, but when you move to DC everyone reminds you how bad the crime rate is there. You just brush it off, say it’s fine, and you step out of the metro to be surrounded by a touch of ghetto – you get a little worried.

I get a little worried, at least, Robin starts walking faster.

We checked out a couple of apartment in the Adams Morgan area but didn’t settle on anything – we made our way to the Mall and saw the monuments for the first time, fed the ducks with the bread in our backpack. Robin discovered the wonders of the Mall popsicle stands – these Asian guys who sell every popsicle ever made, it seems. I shit you not – I actually purchased one of those WWF cookie/ice-cream pops, shit had to be made in the late 80s. Had Jimmy Superfly Snuka on it. There was no way it wasn’t expired but I ate it anyway – Robin had a Pink Panther popsicle with gumball eyes.

That was really it. Tyson’s Mall, hotel bars, theme songs and one trip into DC. No closer to finding an apartment, no money in the bank. I started work on a Tuesday – ironed my clothes the night before and went to bed early. It was time to start making a living.

Labels: mitc

The Return of the Moose: Denying the Projects

Monday, April 10, 2006

Early March I wrapped up my year-long, 5 day a week writing experiment where I told true stories about growing up in Brooklyn and going to school in Boston. POSTCARDS was in the early development phase and I figured I needed time to publish the book. I decided to update this site twice a week for a while and eventually come back to the storytelling once I had the time.

Well, guess what? An unstructured blog is much more time-consuming than a structured one. The Moose in the Closet was easy to write after a while - I'd knock down a story in ten minutes. So, I'm going back to the Moose starting today. I won't be doing it five days a week but between this site and the POSTCARDS Production Blog I'll be putting something new up every Monday-Friday. If I was to guess at a schedule, I'd say POSTCARDS and the Moose will alternate between Tuesday/Thursday and Monday/Wednesday/Friday updates.

I'm probably going to try to do this round of stories in chronological order - there's a bit more structure here, this is the story of moving to DC, building a life and, more importantly, building a healthy relationship with Robin. I'll probably drop back to the Brooklyn/Boston stories now and again, there are quite a few stories left to tell.

Anyway - let's just get to the stories, shall we?

______________________

We left off with Robin and I spending our first night in DC - a hotel in McLean, Virginia, actually, several blocks from my first job out of college - a company we'll call TAO. They gave me a two-thousand dollar relocation account and our hotel was over a hundred dollars a night. We realized we were cutting it close but the apartment we secured (online without ever seeing it) will be ready for us in two weeks.

Our friends warned us about putting money down on an apartment but the rent was 800 a month in Arlington - supposedly the hip and trendy DC-metro area.

Let me tell you about Arlington. Ten, fifteen years ago, all of Arlington was straight ghetto. As communities built up around the orange line certain neighborhoods began to become more affluent. First Rosslyn, a quick walk from Georgetown across the Key Bridge - its closeness to DC and the fact that buildings within Rosslyn are actually allowed to be taller than the Washington Monument made it primo location for business development. Following the orange line you hit Courthouse, Clarendon, Virginia Square and Ballston (which is now being built up quite rapidly).

My current apartment is between Rosslyn and Courthouse - I live within a block of eight restaurants, three bars, four fast-food joints, one video store, one grocery store, three coffee shops and one 24-hour CVS - it's everything I expected from the Arlington apartment we found online for 800 a month.

That apartment, however, wasn't on the orange line. It wasn't on any train line, actually - it was an hour long bus ride from our hotel. After trekking across Arlington to get to the building we notice the area around it - it's kind of run down, pawn shops and check cashing joints line the strip malls. Our apartment building has a seven foot iron gate topped with barbed wire. I grew up in Red Hook when Red Hook was bad - but there was always this sense of neighborhood - I rarely felt unsafe walking around Red Hook as a kid - I never felt like people were trying to keep me out. This part of Arlington was filled with ugly mid-rises and people who didn't want to live there - people who didn't feel safe.

We buzz the office from outside the gate and explain to the intercom that we're moving into the building in a couple of weeks and wanted to take a look around. We get rung in and make our way to the lobby - the smell of curry and sofrito hit us like a brick wall. We go to the office and ask the building manager if we're allowed to see our apartment and she tells us, "No."

That's really it. "No." No reason, no apologies. No offer to see a different apartment. Robin and I just decide to check out our floor at least, we get into the elevator that's littered with trash and sticky substances and ride up to the seventh floor.

The place reeks - the hall hasn't been cleaned in a while. Within several minutes we see a variety of bugs. Loud music - people yelling. I grew up in Red Hook, I remember visiting my Aunt Sophie's apartment as a kid - I knew what this was.

It was the Projects. It cost 800 bucks a month, they were probably trying to attract people with money - change the demographic within their building one renter at a time, but beyond that there was nothing about this building that didn't scream Projects.

I need to put you in our mindset and in order to do that I need to disclose some information that I'm not entirely comfortable disclosing. Robin and I both grew up in struggling families - you all know that. I got through college on grants and loans and stipends - the first person in my family to go through the four years. My first job was paying me a healthy 50k a year with a raise after six-months if I was performing - at the time I was making about the same amount of money my father was making.

I was proud - my family was proud. I could not have them visit me to find me living in the Projects. I told Robin I can't live here, she agreed - we walked away from our 300-dollar deposit, hopped a cab and made our way back to McLean, realizing that we'd need to find a new apartment as quick as possible.

Nothing's ever that easy, however.

Labels: mitc

Finding Wisdom in the Oddest Places and My Future

Monday, April 03, 2006

Last night I had to go for a little ride and left the Sirius radio receiver in the apartment. Instead of going back in for it, I decided to dig through the collection of scratched up CDs in my car to find one that’ll play for me. I ended up pulling out ODB’s THE RETURN TO THE 36 CHAMBERS – an album I haven’t listened to in years.

I get to the sixth track – RAWHIDE – and ODB drops out some wisdom that I’ll be using as my motto for the road ahead. He says:

Tired of sitting on my fucking ass, niggas I know you run around with mad fuckin’ cash.
Who the fuck wanna be an MC if you can’t get paid to be a fuckin’ MC?

Replace “MC” with “publisher” and you got some words to live by. Albeit words that really don’t flow well with a beat behind them. Of course, ODB goes on to say:

I came out my momma’s pussy, I’m on welfare 26 years old and still on welfare
So I gotta get paid fully, whether it’s tru-fully or un-tru-fully

So, much like I do with the bible, I’ll pick and choose what ODB wisdom I take with me while publishing POSTCARDS.

_________

Thursday’s post about my new food shopping habits inspired Mark Fossen to write this in the comments section:

Once/If you have kids of your own, all those lovely organic goods in your grocery sack get replaced by hot dogs, mac 'n' cheese, and chicken nuggets. It'll go full cycle ...

I realized that I never disclosed mine and Robin’s horribly racist plan for our future. Now, whenever I tell this plan to anyone they think I’m joking. Please, make no mistake, this is the plan – this is what we’re going to do. This isn’t a joke.

Ok, we may or may not get married. I was kind of prepared to, she wants to finish grad school first and now I don’t want to anymore and she seems to agree. I’m sure that’ll change once we hit thirty but, for now, no marriage.

But we’ll still have kids. Three, actually – two adopted kids and one “real” child (what’s the PC term for the non-adopted kid?).

For the first kid – well, Robin and I love baseball. We fucking live baseball. Every season I order up the baseball season pass on cable and we just watch games all the time – doesn’t matter who is playing. Last year alone we went to eight different pro-stadiums. There is nothing that would make us more proud than having a kid who plays baseball professionally – so we’re adopting a Dominican.

Now, that may sound horrible but I’m allowed to make that stereotype because I’m Puerto Rican. And, as some of you may know, Puerto Ricans HATE Dominicans. Can’t stand them. We think they all smell and run through caves barefoot (whether or not there are caves in the Dominican Republic is irrelevant). I am genetically predisposed to hating Dominicans – my family reunion consists of a hundred Puerto Ricans making fun of the darkest family member by calling him Dominican. As kids, when we played tag, you weren’t “It”, you were “Dominican”.

Adopting a Dominican kid, even if we don’t enroll him in school but instead force him to play baseball twelve hours a day, would be considered an act of charity in my family. When he starts making that baseball paper we may even let him eat some pernil.

Now, if the Dominican kid doesn’t quite become the next David Ortiz, we really don’t want to support his ass – especially since we won’t be sending him to school. Last thing we want is some uneducated Dominican sitting around, stinking up the sofa and whistling at girls that walk by our window. Wearing some denim, Dominican flag shirt. So we’re going to adopt an Asian kid and make sure he’s real good at math – make sure he gets some cushy government job crunching numbers for the rest of his life. This way he can support his Dominican brother and Robin and I can focus our love and attention on our real kid.

Our real kid is going to be a healthy male because we already have the name picked out and because we don’t have the time to deal with a sickly kid – a kid is a novelty, not a job. Ty Rex Rodriguez – T. Rex for short. We’ll use our adopted kids as teaching tools to help shape T. Rex into a man – teach him valuable lessons like, “You’re lucky you’re not Dominican” and “The Asian kid’ll do your math homework for you if you twist his nipple.”

Best case scenario - one son’s a famous baseball players, one son’s a noble prize winning scientist, the other son has a hot wife I can hook-up with since I won’t be married. Worst case scenario has me going out for cigarettes and never coming back – admitting that the plan has failed – and never having to file for a divorce.

It’s a good plan.

Labels: mitc

What the fuck happened to me?

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Villes of Brown, Postcards from the Hive, Lovin' Ma Country and Deez Nuts

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Tomorrow is your last day to claim a free copy of Neil Kleid and Jake Allen’s Brownsville – please, go, post, read my review, get a copy of an amazing book.

_____________

There’s a new Hive going up shortly, I’ll link to it when it does (and here it is)– we start talking distribution and I start the column off with a bit of an announcement that ultimately leads people here. Good times are ahead, my friends. Good times.

_____________

I watched DEAL OR NO DEAL from Monday night – I have an overwhelming fascination with that show. I would say it’s the only trashy show I watch except I can’t get enough 24 this season.

And Taylor Hicks is my American Idol.

Anyway, there was this cat on DEAL OR NO DEAL; dude came up to the stage with this Texas Flag Shirt, big ass belt-buckle, tight-ass Levi’s – I’m talking straight Texas Hick. He gets on the stage and Howie asks him to tell the audience a little bit about himself and he says, “My name’s blah, blah, blah. Wife, kids, blah. And I love my country.”

Now, look. Despite its faults, I love my country, too. I really do. I’ve been to other countries and with the exception of England I’ve never have this desire to live in any of them. When it comes down to it, I love America. I don’t really like our current policies, 50% of our population or Connecticut but despite its faults it’s a pretty good place to live 72% of the time. Despite my love for this country, I cannot fathom someone responding, “And I love my country,” when giving a little mini-bio about themselves.

It just doesn’t go anywhere, you know? You tell someone you like baseball and they ask you what team you cheer for. You tell them you like pizza and they ask you what your favorite topping are. You tell them you love your country and there’s really no response beyond “me too” or “fuck your country”.

I don’t understand when loving one’s country became a political statement. And I really don’t understand where political statements, even quasi ones, fit in with gameshows.

“Well, Howie, my name is Jason; I come from Arlington, Virginia where I live with my lovely girlfriend of seven years, Robin. We have three cats, a dog, a bird and I support a gay couple’s right to adopt children.”

Anyway, just found that kind of funny. The guy walked home with over a hundred-grand. That’s a lot of jerky.
_____________

So my boy G sent me this link yesterday, it’s the Wikipedia entry on how to play “Deez Nuts”, complete with the rules of the game. As a kid that grew up in Brooklyn, this has got to be the weakest variation of Deez Nuts I’ve ever seen. According to the guy who wrote this, all you need to do is get someone to say “What” and you can respond with “Deez Nuts”. They even gave an example:

P1. Hey did what’s his name get at you yesterday?
P2. Who?
P1. Deez Nuts!

That’s just fucking insulting. A true master at Deez Nuts knows to wait for the perfect moment – a good Deez Nuts joke is spontaneous, you can sometimes go months without delivering a single Deez Nuts joke. But when you do, when there’s the perfect blend of conversation momentum and background noise, the joke is a thing of beauty. I’d like to give you some of the more memorable Deez Nuts jokes from my own past.

Please remember the good ones only work within the confines of the conversation, you need your opponent to be off guard and not notice the slightly-off pronunciation you’re using. You should never stress the “deez” and never smile, never make it look like this is a set-up, and 9 times out of 10 your opponent will fall for it.
_____________

I was at a bar once in Boston, Mets vs. Yankees. Guy’s sitting next to me with some friends, he’s decked out in Yankee apparel – I have on a Mets hoodie and hat. He’s the typical loud and obnoxious Yankee fan – after his fifteenth “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH” I turn to him and say…

“You really like’ta yank-deez, dontcha?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So why don’t you yank deez nuts!”

There was a quite moment where I thought we were going to rumble. Then he laughs and buys me a beer, showing respect to the master Deez Nutsman. This joke can also work with the Rock-deez and if your opponent is drunk enough and not really paying attention, the Pheel-deez.
_____________

Sophomore year in college, I work nights in the cafeteria. Slow night, one of my coworkers brings some home-made chocolates with her – they were quite delicious. She’s telling us how she makes them, we’re all listening intently – she mentions how she loves to make all kinds of candy. I ask her…

“Can you make rock-an-deez?”

“Rock candies? Yeah, you just blah blah blah…”

“Woah, hold up. That’s not how you were rockin’ deez nuts last night!”

No-one gives me a high five, no one gets it – but I was proud of myself, at least.
_____________

My favorite Deez Nuts jokes are the ones where you make up a word that sounds like it could be a real word and your opponent doesn’t question it. Like this one time…

“I don’t know, man, I’m having some insertindeez.”

“About what?”

“About insertin’ deez nuts in your mouth!”
_____________

This one gets credited to G although I’ve used it once. My friend mentions how much she loves Dunkin’ Donuts to which I throw on this disgusted face and say…

“You like dunkin’ doughs-nuts?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t you dunk deez nuts in your mouth!”

Again, blank stare.
_____________

Hit and runs are always fun but Robin gets embarrassed so I can’t do it too often. Like last summer at Sea World when we walk by an exhibit and a tour guide standing nearby says…

“And right here is where we house the manatees, Florida’s…”

“Man-a-deez nuts!”

Doesn’t make sense, really, but still fun to say.
_____________

I’m all reminiscent now – I want to start telling Deez Nuts jokes again. It’s so easy to do in comics, too:

“You support in-deez?”

“Yeah, I always try to sample books from Fantagraphics and Drawn & Quarterly, especially anything from…”

“No, no! I wanted to know if you’re supportin’ deez nuts!”

Labels: mitc

All Grown Up

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Well, it’s 1:30AM and I just got home from work (got into work at 9AM).

It’s not like I had to be at work as late as I was, I was the last one in the building when I was going to leave (around 8:00PM) and I discovered that the alarm system was busted. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to leave my building with the alarm turned off (government secrets and all) so I had to call the company that handles our security system and since we’re a DoD system they had to dispatch their “emergency technician” who I was told will be at the office “within 4 hours.”

Well, it was pretty much exactly 4 hours before he showed up.

But it was fine, I got a lot of work done and I’ll probably stay home tomorrow in the name of “comp time”. Plus, I had a pretty cool epiphany last night that I’d like to share.

Last year the DC Conspiracy took a road trip to the Frank Frazetta Museum. I was one of the drivers and I had Chris Piers, Evan Keeling and Deb Orgel in my car. On the ride up there, in between rounds of “Fuck, Marry, Kill” and “Who Would Get Laid First” we’d throw out some profound questions that everyone needed to take turns answering.

One of these questions was, “When did you first feel like an adult?”

At the time my answer had to do with a recent situation with my parents, when they got into a little trouble and needed my help and I actually had the resources available to help them out. Within 24 hours of their request I had everything settled. It was a very “adult” moment – my parents, the people who guided me and helped me through the years, felt like they could turn to me in their time of need and I was able to take care of everything.

Tonight, however, I kind of remembered a moment that pre-dates that story and is likely the true moment I first felt like an adult.

It was my second month out of college, I’ve been working at my new job in my new city and I had my first big project – I had to work late to prepare for a presentation later in the week.

At the time Robin and I were still getting our shit together – when we first moved to DC we spent three weeks living in two different hotels until finally moving into this little studio apartment. The first night we make makeshift pillows out of our clothes and sleep on the floor, the second night we buy an air-mattress but no pump – we spent the evening blowing it up with our mouths while downing cans of Budweiser. The next day I bought a TV, a week later we got a chair.

And that was it for about a month. An air mattress, a JVC TV I got for free from Radio Shack by signing up with MSN for three years and a chair. So, it was still kind of like college except with a $900 rent.

No car, either, so I’m taking the bus and train to work – again, still feels like college life.

But this one night I was working late. The other people in the office began to trickle out until I was the last one in the building. I had my top button opened up, my shirt untucked, my tie thrown in my desk drawer – I reeked of cigarettes because I’d go out every thirty or forty minutes and suck down two Parliament Lights in an attempt to clear my head.

I was putting in the hours and by the time I left work it was a little past 2AM. I set the alarm in the building and took the elevator down to the first floor – step outside to the humid air and the dark streets, this was in McLean, Virginia – a city that shuts down at around 10PM every night, right when the mall closes.

There’re no cars in the parking lot – no cars in any of the parking lots for the neighboring buildings, either – I’m likely the only person out and about on Jones Branch Drive since the street is nothing but a strip of office buildings. I have a cigarette and dig out my cell phone, call a cab company and they tell me it’ll be thirty minutes.

I sit outside chain smoking, on the steps of my building, just thinking about life, DC, Robin – whatever was going on at the time. Cab pulls up and I tell him where I live, he lets me know it’ll be expensive to go all the way to DC and I just kind of smile and he understands – I really don’t have a choice.

We talk all the way home – I tell him I’m new to the city and that I’m starting to like it, starting to feel comfortable. In retrospect he likely took me for a ride because we’re coming up Connecticut Avenue from Adams Morgan (a route which makes no sense) when I see the 7-11 and ask him to let me out.

I go into the 7-11 and get a coffee, just felt like drinking one, and walk the rest of the way. It’s about two miles (uphill) but it was a nice summer night, I was already late, and I just felt like doing some thinking. I put the headphones on and walk slowly. By the time I get home it’s close to 3:30 in the morning, Robin’s already sleeping.

I take a shower, go on-line and check some email and lay down to fall asleep. And I was laying there drifting off, I distinctly remember feeling proud. I think that night was the first night that I really felt like I was “on my own” – and that’s a pretty adult feeling.

It popped into my head tonight when I was leaving at 1AM, no cars in the parking lot. Driving home on the empty streets – looking for a parking spot – finally getting home and seeing Robin sleeping in bed, dog barking at me from under the covers. I remembered exactly what it felt like on that night.

Anyway, I should go to bed. – what about you all? What was the first time you felt like an adult?

Labels: mitc

Only in Brooklyn

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Today You Tell Me Something (Y Manana Es Otra Cosa, Mentirosa)

Thursday, March 02, 2006

What a fun week. I worked 15+ hours on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. I was pretty tired, having already done 45 hours this week I was going to take today off and catch-up on some good ‘ole fashioned comic editing and publishing. My boss had other plans. You see, he wanted to “reward” me for working so hard so he booked me for a two day conference that he thought I’d enjoy.

It’s in Virginia; mind you, not some exotic island somewhere. That would be an actual reward.

So now, after averaging four hours sleep the past two nights, I need to be in McLean, Virginia at 7:45AM to register for a conference that’s going to go until 4PM. I have to give Josh notes on WORLD’S END, I need to give JJ notes on ROSE-COLORED CRASH, I need to follow-up with a couple of creators that want to contribute to my book – all this shit I need to do and instead I get to hang out with old people and eat a boxed lunch.

Fun!

I got to watch 24 last night, though. I’ve been making fun of them this season for doing no research into nerve gas but the shit they pulled this past Monday is unforgivable. All the nerve gas shit, I can let that slide, because they made up a gas. That’s fine; I really don’t know the rules of this “sentox” gas. It doesn’t behave like any other nerve gas but that’s cool. It’s magic gas.

But holy shit, when Jack Baur went into the contractor’s office building and didn’t need to have a badge or an escort – that’s just fucking nuts. Nuts, I tell you. And the people that were watching saw he did the thumb print scan and his picture came up and you were all saying, “Wow, that’s some high tech shit.”

Let me tell you about clearance.

When I applied for my clearance I had to fill out this form. It was about twenty pages long filled with wonderful questions about my psychiatric history, drug use, debt and criminal record. I lied my ass off. MY ASS OFF. I’m thinking to my self, “I’m 22 years-old. My job is paying me crazy money. There’s no way I’m fucking this up.”

Ever done drugs? Nope.

Ever been to a psychiatrist? Nope.

Are you currently in debt? Nope.

Hand that big ass form in and get an “interim secret” clearance. I get to go to meetings and work on secret shit. That lasts for about a year. During that year some agents visited my father and my neighbors, asked a bit about me, and I was granted a secret. With a form I lied my ass off with.

Couple of months later I needed a top secret. You’d think I’d need to update my form but I didn’t, all the information still pertains, nothing to update.

The day of my interview comes. Agent comes into the room, tells me how important it is that I’m honest – they won’t get me in trouble, they just need to know if there’s any information in my past that can be used for blackmail. He goes over the application I handed in almost two years ago.

Ever done drugs?

Yep.

You wrote no.

You know new job and all.

What kind of drugs?

Marijuana.

Anything else?

Shrooms.

Anything else?

No.

How many times have you done marijuana?

Couple.

Shrooms?

Once.

Have you done marijuana in the past six months?

Nope.

Ever been to a psychiatrist?

Yep.

How many times?

Three.

For what?

Well, the first time was after my cousin died. Having problem dealing. Second time I went because a friend was going and needed support. Third time I went because, I don’t know, relationship problems.

With who?

Girlfriend.

Abusive?

No, just kind of like, you know. [makes gesture with hands]

Ok. Are you currently in debt?

Yeah.

Is everything on this application a lie?

After about an hour of this grueling ordeal where I admitted to lying on everything on my application except my name the agent gets up, thanks me, and leaves.

A month later I get my top secret.

So, basically, clearance is a joke. This was all pre-September 11th and admittedly I’ve never worked on anything so secret that I’d have to report you if I accidentally told you about it but still, not the hardest thing to get.

But god-dammit it, if you ever get caught walking around a base or a contractor’s office without a badge on you are FUCKING DONE. Game over. Guys with walky-talkies will swoop on your ass in ten seconds and go to work on you with gloves. Right now, Jack Baur should have a lubed hand up his ass.

The nerve gas, fine, it breaks all laws of physics. Not wearing a badge at a company that makes nerve gas? I’m sorry, 24, but you went too far.

Labels: mitc

NYCC Report and Reminisce Over You

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

EDIT: I'm getting emails asking me about Speakeasy. You should go to Josh's blog for anything about the fate of Elk's Run. As far as my own opinions and what I'm getting from all this, I learn from it - just like I always do.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I had a blast at NYCC – and I was there on Saturday, the day everyone got turned away, fire marshals showed up and people were waiting on line for hours to get back onto the convention floor. I stole an exhibitor badge so I can come in and out freely, only got held up on a line once, and we were passing exhibitor and press badges back to the outside to sneak folks in. If I was one to trivialize struggle and elevate the importance of 32 pages of excessive cleavage I’d say we were like the NYCC Underground Railroad. But I won’t, ‘cause I’m not that guy.

But it was good, talked to a lot of people about the book I’m putting together, got a couple of people to commit to the project and have a couple of people at (hopefully) a halfway point. One cat in particular would be a dream come true, so much so I’m holding off on following up with anyone else until I hear back from him.

Pop Culture Shock’s after party was pretty dope, good turn out – good people. DJ was bangin’ and I always thought white people dancing was funny because, you know, I’ve seen video of myself dancing and it’s all my momma’s side, but goddamn there’s nothing funnier than white comic fans dancing. They were spinning some funk towards the end of the night and this one cat looked like James Brown doing the Humpty Dance while having an elliptic seizure.

And we'll do a little old school Moose style story, why the hell not...

___________

I got to hang out with my cousin RJ all day Saturday at the con which was a blast. I don’t get to see the dude enough and it’s too bad, we’ve been through a lot of shit together. Back when his brother got sick, me, RJ and Luis used to chill every Friday at my place and just watch stupid B-horror movies until three in the morning.

Some good, some bad. The best call we made back then was renting SALEM’S LOT. Not that it was a good movie by any means, but some dude dubbed over the VHS copy of the movie at the video store. He did it well too; it took us a little bit to catch-on as to exactly what the fuck was going on.

For instance, when the opening title came on you heard the guy say, “Salem’s Lot: The Movie. Staring George Duzunddrada…” We were sitting around and wondering why the guy reading the credits didn’t even bother to pronounce the actor’s name right. During the opening scene a car whizzes by the camera and you hear, “Mee-meep! Hi!”

We couldn’t stop laughing, you know? We just figured it was the worst fucking movie ever made. It wasn’t until the old dude “farted” that we realized some genius laid his own audio embellishments down. Pegasus Video closed down recently; I wanted to stop by and buy the dubbed SALEM’S LOT but kept forgetting to.

We found other gems, of course. 976-EVIL PART 2 was a favorite of ours – the scene when the nerd on the moped says, “See ya later, doll” and then crashes. Good shit, right there, many a laugh. Of course there was the Jerry Springer TOO HOT FOR TV joint, the scene when the redneck says, “Oh dang, I’m falling!” as he’s falling. We watched that scene about fifty times in one night, 49 of them in slow-motion.

We’d always get into arguments over the movies we watched. RJ and I firmly believed STAR WARS was the greatest trilogy of all time. Luis thought it was POLICE ACADEMY, despite the fact that there were six of them made at that point. But there was one thing we always agreed on, THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM would be better if it was called THE LAIR OF THE WHITE DILL.

Ah, inside jokes.

But it was all escapism, you know what I mean? We were teenagers, we could have went out on Friday nights and prowled the streets of Brooklyn, we occasionally did, but at home – ragging on shitty movies and eating calzones from the House of Pizza – it was the kind of entertainment that was guaranteed to take your mind off of what was going on in the family at the time. We all needed it, RJ the most, and the time spent hanging with cousins on a Friday evening will always be one of my favorite memories from my teenage years.

The night Steven took a turn for the worse, RJ was over my place. I remembered pretending to sleep on the floor when my mom got him, I remember him stepping over me and trying not to wake us up. Shortly after Steven passed away – it just goes to show you that escapism only takes you so far. When life wants to be fucked up, it just gets fucked up.

Sorry for depressing you all – but at the heart of it, RJ and I can still get together for 15 hours at a crowded convention and the whole time act like we did over thirteen years ago – a couple of goofy kids obsessed with pop-culture and hell-bent on making fun of everything and everybody. You take something away from all your experiences in life; I took a friend out of this particular one. Hanging with him now-a-days just brings it all back – you’re not supposed to forget shit like this and you’re not supposed to hide it, know what I mean?

Labels: mitc, travel

Travelin' Man

Monday, February 20, 2006

Let’s start with a little secret project hint, shall we:

Ok, moving along. Yesterday was my birthday. I didn’t do much – I had to work and Robin had class until 10. Plus I had a ton of fun at the DCC meeting on Sunday and that held me over fine. Tonight I’m getting dinner at Ray’s the Steaks, the best steak joint in the DC area that’s conveniently located next door to me and yet I’ve never been there. So, you know, happy birthday to me.

June is going to be crazy – I’m going to be in Cleveland, Chicago, Fort Madison and San Diego. Robin will be in all four of those cities plus she’s spending two and a half weeks in Malaysia and Singapore.

It’s just weird – I never really traveled as a kid, you know? Parents just didn’t have the money; vacations were limited to the occasional 20-hour drive down I-95 to visit my Nanny in New Port Ritchie, Florida. Every so often we’d stop off at Disney World and brave the long lines and the sweltering heat – a rare treat that resulted in a weekend of fun for me and a year’s worth of debt for my dad.

That was most of our vacations, though – visiting family somewhere. Titi Sophie moved to Virginia and that became a popular vacation spot for us. We’d sometimes couple the drive to Richmond with a trip to Virginia Beach – it was during one of these trips that I slept through the gunshots, helicopter noise and looting that is now known as the Greek Fest Riots.

My dad, like all men who struggle to get by while trying to make a good life for their children, got offered opportunities that seemed like dreams come true but in reality there was some sleazy guy in a knock-off suit behind it all. My dad finds out he’s in the running for a free car and we just need to spend a weekend at Outdoor World to see if we’ve won – hear a pitch about their timeshare program.

Two months later we’re locked into some multi-generation contract where we pay monthly fees for the right to rent poorly constructed log cabins in such beautiful locals like Southern New Jersey and The Poconos. My father goes into it because it seems like a good way to get the kids out of the city for a while, vacations close by that are relatively cheaper than Disney World and Virginia Beach. Years go by and we stop going to Outdoor World and there’s basically no way out – I remember my dad on the phone with these guys, trying to find out how he can get out of this contract, and even then you can sense that feeling of being trapped – again – lied to again.

My parents never even took a honeymoon – this January was their 30th wedding anniversary and they never even went away to some island for a week and sucked slushy pina coladas out of coconuts. When I first started working, out of college and all, there was a pang of guilt that went with every trip. Most of them were business trips so you chalk that up as paying bills, but after my first year of working I went to Spain for two weeks. The following summer it was St. Lucia. Than Robin and I started doing two vacations a year, cruises, visiting London a couple of times – just going to cities we’ve never been to on a whim, four or five mini-vacations and one long vacation each year.

Sometimes I wouldn’t even tell my parents we were traveling. If it was a weekend trip I figured it would be better to just keep it to myself. I’d accidentally let it slip occasionally, my parents would ask me what I was doing for the weekend and I’d say, “Going to Miami – oh – I told you that, I think, yeah?”

Anyway, with the house sold and money in their pockets I think they’ll finally be going on that honeymoon soon – maybe my mom will leave the country for the first time – even if it’s just to an island. It’s funny, even my 16-year-old sister is going to Eastern Europe in a couple of months, her first time leaving the country. It’s just a testament to how my parents always put their kids ahead of themselves.

And on that note it’s bedtime. I did end up having a nice dinner tonight, actually, Robin got home from class early and took me to Il Radiccio, got me some of the best Italian food the DC Metro area can offer. I’m going to bed well-sexed and stinking like garlic – 28-years-old and feeling confident about the coming year.

Labels: mitc, travel

In Too Deep

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Couple of comic things before I talk about strip clubs.

I’m editing JJ Khars’ very first graphic novel. Honestly? One of the best concepts I’ve heard recently. Seriously, the kind of pitch you hear and you go ape-shit insane because it’s so perfectly simple yet full of potential. We’re working on the execution of the plot now but I promise you all – when this is molded and ready to go, you’re going to want to get your hands on it badly.

Neil Kleid’s serializing his novel THE COFFIN. Trapped on a NYC train after a suicide bomb and how the passenger’s cope and survive – sounds like some good suspense and drama right there. I’ll be following along; I suggest you do as well.

And finally, I wanted to drop another hint about the secret project:

There’s a website in the works.

But you can’t see it yet.

________________________

The weekend of the Super Bowl my dad came up, excited to watch the game on my new 42-inch Plasma HDTV. Robin and I threw a little party, about eight people – can’t fit a lot of people around the TV – and we all had a good time, plenty of sopressata and mozzarella was washed down with tasty beer.

The Saturday before the game, we dragged my dad out with a group of friends – probably about 15 people – and played pool all night and, you know, drank a lot of beer. Towards the end of the night my friends were going out to a strip club and I really couldn’t go with my dad AND Robin, if it was one or the other we’d tag along but all parties agreed that going to a strip club with my girlfriend and my father was just weird. So the three of us hopped in a cab and went home.

Anyway, got me thinking about strippers and how much I love them. It’s probably the one “masculine” trait I still cling to. I mean, I leave tags on my clothes in case they don’t provide me enough “impact” the first time I wear them, I buy skin care products, I occasionally take baths and god dammit I love me some good candles now and again. I’m 80% chick, honestly. But man, that all goes away at a strip club.

When I decide to restart the Moose story telling there will be plenty of strip club stories. In the past six years I’ve been on around 30 or so business trips – I can remember two trips where I did not visit a strip club at least one night (and on one of those trips my coworker and I drove around San Antonio looking for one only to end up at some sketchy joint where this guy outside told us, “Parking is free but if you pay me a couple of bucks I’ll make sure no-one breaks your windshield.” We left, obviously).

And that’s just business trips – there are strip clubs in DC and trips home to New York were almost always partnered with at least one 3AM cab ride to The Wild West over on second avenue and 39th street in Brooklyn (if the girl with the bar code on the back of her neck is reading this I want you to know I still love you and my drunken promise to take care of you forever still stands – just look me up, baby).

The problem with strip clubs is, sometimes you get a little too into it. And I’m not talking about the times when you blow two hundred bucks or get tricked into the VIP room – that shit just happens and is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol you’ve drank. I’m talking about when you get a little too caught up in the “stripper lifestyle”.

My first year out of college my job was sending me to work out on Long Island two weeks out of every month – there wasn’t much to do during the week except visit the closest strip club. Eventually, my coworker started traveling out there with me and we’d hit a club together. This one time, G hopped on the Long Island Rail Road and met us at our hotel – we all went to a new place together to see what it has to offer on a Wednesday night.

For the most part we were the only guys there. We sat by the stage and one girl at a time got up and danced only for us. One of the girls got really friendly with us, sat down next to us (naked, of course), and actually bought us drinks which, if you’ve ever been to a strip club, you’d know is not just rare – it’s fucking unheard of.

Anyway, she was cool shit and she kept inviting other strippers over. As the night progressed the three of us were sitting amongst a group of naked chicks – having beers and chain smoking cigarettes. The original girl was the ring leader – she’d occasionally declare boredom, point to one of the other girls, and tell her to go dance for us.

I shit you not – it was like having our own harem of women – even if it was only for an hour.

We were talking about real shit too, you know? Asking them about life outside of stripping, talking about some of the most mundane shit – it’s amazing how much the nudity becomes wallpaper when you just sit there with a bunch of naked women and shoot the shit.

We were getting along fine until the ringleader stripper asked us if we wanted to go into the back with her and do some blow. The three of us just sort of freeze – we’re not fans of the llallo – and realize that we went too deep into the stripper world. We politely decline, she goes into the back and comes back high as a kite, the other strippers aren’t sitting with us anymore and the night ends rather abruptly.

That was my last time really engaging strippers on that level – I realize I would just be setting myself (and them) up for disappointment. No – I’ll just throw some dollars in the g-string, get my lap dance(s) – smell that sweet stripper smell that only they have, feel that soft stripper skin lightly rub against my arm, get that perfect stripper leg placed firmly against my crotch – and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster. I can’t party with them. Offer to “take them away from it all”, sure, I did that once (bar code girl, I’m looking at you, my love).

But I can never truly “hang”.

Labels: mitc

A Ninja in a World of White Shirts

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Couple of things going on in my little world of comics, first.

First off, Josh made the Punk website public (and shared some pages). Great little book, first issue is massive amounts of fun, art by Kody Chamberlain – get on it early. And while you’re getting on books early, swing on by the World’s End blog and give us some love.

Caleb Monroe’s Red Chapel is available for preorder over at Dimestore – get yourself a copy, it’s illustrated by Noel Tuazon (from Elk’s Run) and there’s a five page back-up story in it I did with Jacob Warrenfeltz (of the soon to be released Alberic Heresies). So please, go, order the book – you’ll like it.

Also, since I’m now 92% sure the secret project is going ahead and I’m starting to bring more and more people into the fold I think I should start teasing you all a little bit – you know, to keep this blog interesting (just keep in mind there's a chance this may not happen). So every time I post I’ll drop a hint. And today’s hint is…

It’s going to be using ideas we come up with at The Hive – essentially putting my money where my mouth is.

Juicy. Speaking of The Hive, the third column is up – it’s all about handling preorders and getting your book to pay for your book. Go, read, comment – throw out your own ideas. Keep in mind you’re not just mouthing off – the output of these discussions are going to guide the production of an attempt at creating a new market for comics - so please, people, spread the word - the stakes are likely going to get much higher.

__________

So yesterday I had a meeting with a guy who’s notoriously long-winded – there’s no “quick chat” with the dude, he keeps going off on tangents and he’s so bad at it that people call him on it, to his face, and constantly remind him to stay on subject. I did what any sane man would do when confronted with such a meeting, I text-messaged Robin and told her to call me in seven minutes.

Seven minutes later I’m free and my coworker is left to deal with the rambler.

Back a couple of years ago I was much more efficient with this process – I had this dinosaur of a phone, all the keys exposed with nice, big buttons so it’s easy to guide my finger along the key pad. If I found myself stuck in a position I didn’t want to be in I was actually able to put my hand in my pocket and within thirty seconds – without once looking at my phone – send Robin a text message that said, “Call me”.

It looked like I was playing pocket-pool, of course, but I was usually pretty smart about when I made my move.

I’d use that technique all of the time – seriously, certain people would comment about how weird it was that my cell phone would always ring whenever I talked to them.

“I know, right? How weird…”

Now my phone is this crazy-ass Motorola that’s only available in China. Touch screen, fucking stylus – I can’t get out of those impromptu meetings anymore and I when I find myself stuck; I need to start making up excuses as to why I need to leave.

So – someone needs to invent a little device that can be used to trigger your cell phone in five minutes. You don’t want to be, well, this guy…

One day I was at a friend’s place and just needed to get the fuck out of there – unfortunately Robin was with me and I couldn’t use my mammoth phone to text message her discretely. So I kept ducking behind walls and quickly setting the alarm on my phone since it’s essentially the ring tone. Except I kept fucking up – setting AM instead of PM, finally getting it right only to realize the phone is on vibrate (and you really need the ring – the ring just feels more urgent – tells the person you’re talking to that you need to take this call).

After several attempts at getting my phone to ring (accomplished by me inexplicably disappearing for thirty seconds every couple of minutes), I finally get it right – it rings, I take it out of my pocket, put it up to my ear and walk away from my friend while saying, “Hello”. I have some fake conversation in the kitchen for a minute, come back and tell Robin we need to go.

It was honestly the most pathetic attempt at conversation dodging of all time – and everyone knew it.

I need a device that saves me from ever doing that again. I mean, I can’t put my hand in my pocket and have my phone ring instantly – it needs to work on a timer so no-one correlates my hand being in my pocket with my phone ringing.

But until that day…

During the five minutes I was at the meeting yesterday, the guy went off subject about four times and said “like what I did during the Gulf War,” about 20 times. Nothing better than someone who’s still ego-tripping over something he did fifteen-years ago.

Labels: mitc

Beginnings: The First Day

Friday, February 03, 2006

Well, this is it. 263 stories with 207,744 words – averages out to a 790 word story every Monday through Friday for a year. If you count the blurbs and the 10 guest stories (which I edited a little bit, did some work there) that’s 286,582 words published on this blog since mid-January of last year – 1,090 words every Monday through Friday for a year. If you count NanNoWriMo that puts me at 336,914 words this year. Plus editing two books, 17 Here’s the Thing… columns, two comic shorts, several pitches, full-time job, keeping the lady happy and heavy drinking.

I’m proud of that.

So, story time…

____________________

My family offered to bring me to DC but I had this inexplicable need to go my own, get set-up, and then have them come down. Play the roll of an independent man. They offered me extra money but I didn’t take it – it’s not like they didn’t need it anymore than I did. I was going to get by on my own now, I didn’t need to burden them anymore – the only way for me to do this was to throw myself into it, unprepared, with only five hundred dollars and a suitcase of clothes to my name.

I graduated on a Wednesday, got back to New York on a Thursday. That Saturday I was off to DC, no time off. I was to start work on the following Wednesday. My mom was sad, she wanted me to stay home for a little longer, kept asking me to call up my boss and see if I can start work a week or two later. He’ll understand, she tells me, he was a college graduate once too.

My friends all shared similar philosophies as my mother. They’re getting odd jobs and traveling, letting off some steam before going out into the real world – before putting the things they learned in college to work. I was just never that way, with the exception of the summer between sophomore and junior year I held a job since I was thirteen and now I’m going to have a job where I’ll be making a decent amount of money – I was too excited to take time off.

Here I was – 22 years old – first in my family to graduate college – making about the same amount of money as my dad (making more than most of the people who graduated with me). When life presents you with that, you tend to jump right into it.

My father takes me to JFK, on the ride up there he’s telling me he’s proud of me, I’m feeling good about the move, new city is scary and all but sometimes things just feel right – they just click. We get to the airport – he parks in the short term lot so he can walk me in. I go up to the ticket counter only to discover my flight is about an hour and a half delayed. No cell phones for any of us at this point, neither me nor Robin, so I get to the payphone and call Logan Airport and have them leave a message with Robin to tell her I’ll be late.

My father hangs with me for a bit, we just talk for a while – going over everything, the job, the apartment.

Robin and I actually found an apartment online; we put our deposit down without even seeing the place. It was in Arlington – I asked around a bit and found out Arlington was a relatively hip place to live. The price was right, if I remember correctly I believe it was $850 for a one bedroom, much cheaper than the places we were looking at in The District. Best part was that it was a short term lease – 6 months, I believe.

All of these things should have been warning signs but what did I know? I never even had an apartment before – there was the house I grew up in and then the dorms throughout college. My resident director at the time told me that I might have been making a mistake, I should have at least checked the place out first having never been to Arlington and never seeing the place in question.

But it was perfect, you know – ten minute bus ride to the metro station which was going to be clutch since I wasn’t going to have a car.

Or a license.

I believe the move-in date for the new apartment was June 9th – I say believe because, well, we never actually moved in. As far as what happened that made two broke-ass kids give up the three-hundred dollar security deposit, well – that’s not today’s story, now is it? But the two weeks where we didn’t have a place to live we were staying at a hotel – The Tyson’s Westpark Hotel in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. A nice little place that we snagged for about a hundred bucks a night – with the three-grand relocation money I was getting from my new job we were going to be fine, right?

Let me introduce you to the college mentality, in case you never had it. Costs like food, entertainment, clothes, transportation – they don’t really exist. Whatever your biggest expense is – that’s the only thing that matters – that’s the only thing that counts towards your budget. The two weeks staying at a hotel for a hundred bucks a night – that’s our only expense. 1400 dollars of our 3000 dollar advance. No tax. No nothing. We were going to be just fine. Anyway – that’s not today’s story either.

Finally my flight begins to board, I give my dad a big ass hug, he wishes me luck one last time, and I’m on my plane and off to Dulles Airport – I can’t get there fast enough. The flight was a little bumpy, bad weather in the area – I was putting down a couple of beers because that’s what adults do, right? They drink beer; even if it’s an afternoon and you’re traveling by yourself, you’re supposed to drink beer.

Playing the role, still with no idea what was coming.

I land in Dulles and make my way to the arrival board, check on Robin’s flight – it’s delayed and isn’t scheduled to land for another two hours.

Two. Hours.

I make my way outside the terminal to get some fresh air, sit down a bit. Smoke a cigarette and watch the planes come in – go over some notes for my new job – take out this trapper keeper we bought with all the information on DC in it.

Papers on our apartment with floor plans and directions, metro maps, lists of restaurants and bars we found online that looked interesting, monument information, directions to the National Zoo – my friend Max’s phone number since he was the only person I knew in DC. I spent some time looking through it all, killed close to an hour smoking cigarettes and shuffling through hundreds of pages of information.

I get back into the terminal and see Robin’s flight was delayed an additional hour.

I call home; tell everyone I had a nice flight. My mom’s asking me if I’m excited and I sarcastically reply that I’ve spent an hour in the airport and have two more to go – the excitement is waning.

I get off the phone and just sort of wander. Go through the gift shops, the bookstores – I found the smoking lounge that used to be at Dulles airport and spent some time in there reading.

There’s nothing more disgusting than the smoking lounge at an airport. No ventilation – you come of there caked in cigarette smoke and coughing up a lung after spending just five minutes in the hotbox. I spent closer to forty minutes, chain smoking and doing crossword puzzles.

You get restless, obviously – you build up this excitement over starting a new life only to be delayed in an airport all day on both sides of the trip. I haven’t seen Robin since BU which wasn’t ridiculously long but when you’re taking a plunge like this with someone – new city, new job, and a new life – you tend to miss her a lot more when she’s away. Mainly because doubt starts to creep in, you begin to wonder if you made the right decision in inviting her – you wished she was with you so you can remember how she feels, how she makes you feel, while at the same time trying to make sure you 100% made the right call.

She’s the one and she’s not going to let you down. You’re starting a new life with the right person. That’s the kind of shit you remember when you pull her in and kiss the top of her head and smell her hair – you feel her smile as her nose buries into your chest. That’s why I wanted her plane to land – for that.

Finally her plane lands – I’m waiting by the gate. She must have been the last person out – she looks worn down but she smiles the instant she sees me. It’s a tired smile but there’s a lot behind it – I walk up to her and bring her in, kiss her hard and smile back. She apologizes for being late – as if it’s her fault – as if I could even be mad – and we make our way curbside to get a cab.

We end up getting in one of those blue airport shuttle vans you share with several parties. Hop in and tell the guy we’re going to Tyson’s Westpark – he’s pissed off as if we’re going an hour out of the way. That’s the friendly greeting we get upon stepping out into our Nation’s Capitol.

We pull up at the hotel and I go to check in. Go through the motions and the receptionist asks me for a credit card.

Here’s a story – this was my first time checking into a hotel. My father, he never used a credit card – he’d always pay cash for the hotel room. I wasn’t clear on the details but I guarantee you I’ve seen him bust out cash every time we were at a hotel together and use it to pay for our room. When the lady asked me for a credit card I kind of laughed and told her I’d be paying cash.

But I need a credit card either way, apparently. So I bust out my little Bank Boston Visa card, three-hundred dollar spending limit and about two-hundred and fifty bucks already on it. She swipes it – nothing.

She tells me there’s not enough on it to use the card. I ask her what she’s authorizing and she tells me it’s for a week staying at the hotel.

A week? But I’m paying cash.

I needed to front the first night.

But I don’t have the cash yet, the check needs to clear.

And here comes Robin, asks what’s wrong. I say to her, “They’re saying I need a credit card.” For a moment you see nothing but regret in Robin’s face. She loves me, sure, but I think she just realized that I have a lot to learn.

A LOT to learn.

She busts out her credit card – she’s always been the one with the good credit and the five-thousand dollar cards – and give it to the lady behind the counter. Card gets swiped and we’re good to go, we make our way to the room.

Nice little place – comfortable enough to spend two weeks in. In the information book it says the hotel has Happy Hour every day from 5-6 with free appetizers, we get down there with several minutes to spare and eat what’s left of the mozzarella sticks and fries – our first dinner in DC, conserving money from the start. We hang at the bar for a little bit, dollar beers, we toast almost every drink get a little tipsy, make our way back up to the hotel room.

Robin wants to stay in but I want to explore, thinking there’s actually something to explore in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. Having no idea where anything is we walk down Leesburg Pike, pass several car dealerships, McDonalds, a Container Store, a Toy’s ‘R Us – some place called McCormick & Schmick’s that we make fun, it’ll later turn out to be one of our favorite restaurants.

Tyson’s Corner is not New York, though, I learned that one pretty quick.

We finally find this place – some Mexican place with a patio bar and a bunch of people our age drinking and having a good time. We get to the bar and have some drinks, they’re closer to five dollars a pop here but the atmosphere is much better. Get to talking with some guy, tell him we just moved into town and ask him if there’s anything going on in Tyson’s. He tells us Tyson’s is whack, the district is pretty cool, but Arlington’s happening. We couldn’t be happier; we’re going to be checking out our place in Arlington for the first time the next day.

We walk back to the hotel – there was this almost perfect moon in the sky – no clouds to even hint at the shitty weather we were having earlier in the day. Make our way upstairs and take a shower together, sneak in some tired intimacy and get to bed.

A good first day in capitol area. Despite the frustrations and the lack of money and the seclusion of Tyson’s we had each other, a bed to sleep in for the moment, a good job waiting for me and no cares in the world.

Life was about to get interesting.

______________________

But you won’t hear about any of that until I decide to start this up again (and yes, you can classify the next group of stories as a “Romantic Comedy” so, you know, things change). I need a break. A lot of stories told; a lot of words written. For over a year something was posted on this blog every Monday through Friday – 263 new stories. A lot of you guys became regulars and I thank you all for reading and linking, seriously. I think I grew a lot as a writer but more importantly – I learned a lot about myself and my past relationships. This has got to be the most therapeutic exercise I’ve ever undertaken.

I had fun doing this, it became routine, you know? Every night I’d sit down, look through some pictures or some old writings to get the brain going and just write. It was hardly ever forced, especially not towards the end. You’d think this kind of thing would become a burden as time went on but it actually got easier – go figure.

I’ll still be here every Tuesday and Thursday, doing something low-key and low-stress writing. Seriously, if you come by, expect some rambling, some stories (both fiction and non-fiction), some talk of comics and some updates on the soon-to-be not-so-secret project.

Additionally there’s The Hive. New columns the 2nd and 4th Thursday of the month (growing schedule available here) – moderated discussions popping up pretty regularly in the forums beyond that.

World’s End Production Blog, I’ll be popping in there, giving updates on the book. Please come by and share your thoughts, make us feel loved. Likely taking on another editing gig, helping out an unpublished but talented writer – I’ll be updating you all on that. DC Conspiracy – I’ll be hanging there, posting from time-to-time, especially as the secret project ramps up, I’d imagine.

Everything will be announced from here, though, so keep checking back. I mean, when I announce the call for submissions I’m sure you’d want to be one of the first to get your pitches in, right?

A man cannot dominate comics by himself, after all.

Labels: mitc

Undercover Mother

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Seven Years Later

Thursday, September 11, 2008

The Moose In The Closet

Monday, August 18, 2008

Jay Dee Kay's Favorite Dance Moves

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Greatest Surgery Ever

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Greatest Hits

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Italy pt. 2: A Little Bit of Roma

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Italy Part 1: Getting There

Monday, June 04, 2007

Firsts

Monday, May 07, 2007

The Gambler

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

The Rest of the Family

Monday, March 26, 2007

This is the End

Monday, March 19, 2007

Making the Most

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Where’s the snow?

Monday, December 04, 2006

I Said Daily, I Meant Daily

Friday, December 01, 2006

Christina Aguilera Need to Learn About Meddling Kids, Hoola-Hoops, and Onion Rings

Thursday, November 30, 2006

‘Tis Better to Give…

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Making a List

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Deck the Halls

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Black Friday Gifts

Friday, November 24, 2006

Our First Thanksgiving

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Making Something From Not Much

Monday, November 20, 2006

Smart People and Stupid People

Friday, November 17, 2006

The Dirtiest Secret

Sunday, October 01, 2006

...

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Don't Hate. Legislate.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Epic Failure

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Business Destinations: Cape Canaveral

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Spain: Back Home

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Spain: The Rain in Spain…

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Spain: The Longest Trip

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Adult Parties: Woah – This Ain’t 1999 Anymore

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Adult Parties: Whig & Velvet

Monday, July 17, 2006

Baked and Baked

Friday, July 14, 2006

Man Alone: Apartment Hunting

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Man Alone: Idiot Alone

Monday, June 26, 2006

Man Alone: La Isla Ibiza

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Man Alone: My Roommate

Friday, June 16, 2006

Man Alone: Hope for the Worst

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Long Island: Night in White Satin

Friday, June 02, 2006