My life toggles between Boston and LA, as I fly back and forth every two months or so. It is astounding how different the two cities are. Boston is an old historical city with a lot of character and old architecture, is an intellectual mecca of sorts, housing over 50 universities, is full of ugly people and belligerent drunks, honking and evergreens, and suffers through a 7-month absolutely frigid period annually. LA is a relatively new city with virtually no character or history, places zero value on intellect, is full of beautiful tan peaceful cokeheads, there's no honking, lots of palm trees, and it's always 75 and sunny.
The end result is that I went home to Boston last week without a jacket. I spent most of the week in a hoodie, but then the hoodie became covered in cat hair (my Dad recently married a woman and three evil cats) and every time I put it on it would ruin my life. I'm an allergic Jewish man. So I was in short sleeves most of the week. Chilly.
Then on Thursday I stumbled into a 15-person Thanksgiving dinner horribly hungover, exhausted, allergic, and in the same clothes I had worn the night before since my bags were in an apartment I couldn't get into. I don't want to continue writing about this. In fact, I never want to talk about this Thanksgiving dinner again.
What I will talk about is my high school 5-year reunion that happened on Friday. As the former class president, I had the privilege of organizing the hideous event. So while my friends pregamed together, I was driven to the club where the reunion would be by my mother and her inexplicably hot inexplicably young friend,* I put some balloons around (balloons are a phenomenal invention) and talked with the club owner and bouncer about the details of the night to come. It was calm. Then, chaos ensued. Some highlights:
8:00- The reunion officially begins. The crowd consists of myself, a 75-year-old coat-check lady, and Tony, the large bouncer.
8:01- The single most random member of the Newton North Class of 2000 shows up, sporting sunglasses and upsettingly long hair. He and I stare into each other's eyes, both horrified with the awkwardness of the situation. He has a "I can't believe I showed up exactly at 8" look on his face, and then leaves to "go to the ATM," and I can breath again.
8:10-8:30- Joined now by the two other organizers, we stand in the doorway as 50 or so people trickle in, most of whom I haven't seen since high school. Everyone's drunk, and I'm sober. I ask a lot of questions about what people are up to, and listen to none of the answers.
8:30-9:00- The flow increases. Imagine running into a random ex-classmate on the street who you don't really want to talk to, but you have to, and it's a really awkward 40 seconds, and then it's over. Now imagine that that happens 150 times in a row in rapid fire succession, each with a different ex-classmate.
9:00- I make the decision to become "liquored up." I start buying jack 'n cokes and spiking them with old whiskey I had poured in a flask I stole from my mother's liquor cabinet.
9:00-9:30- Suddenly, standing at the door is extremely fun. The rush continues and I begin hugging incoming people, one of whom I've always insisted is a 62-year-old overweight Jewish woman trapped in the body of a 23-year-old overweight Jewish man.
9:30- We've hit 300 people, well over the estimate. I'm thrilled with everything.
9:40- A friend shows up with his 20-year-old girlfriend, who is being turned away at the door due to her age. My friend gives me a pleading glance for help. I pull Tony the bouncer aside and tell him this guy's a friend of mine and ask if he'll let the girl in. He complies. The first and last strings I'll ever pull at a dance club. Clubs tend to find me remarkably unimportant.
9:45- The flow begins to tail off, and I head in to the party.
10:30- The doors officially open to the public. The reunion itself is over, but everyone stays.
10:30-11:00- Apparently "the public" includes every Newton kid from the age of 15-21.
11:00- I run into my 18-year-old sister. It would have been uncomfortable but I was about 31 drinks deep.
11:05- I run into my 16-year-old sister, who's dressed like a whore. Not ideal.
11:05-1:30- This whole chunk of time is a dark cloud of haze in my memory. There are flashes of things I remember, and I'm not printing them, because there's a small chance the 12-year-old I tutor has googled me at some point and found this blog.
1:30- While making out with someone at the bar, I glance up at the crowd and make eye contact with my teenage sister, who's dancing on a table. Somewhere, a fairy dies.
1:45- I get a call from a girl in which I'm called an asshole. Drama ensues. I will not explain further.
And there you have it. My high school reunion. And another Thanksgiving out the door.
*My mother having a hot, young friend is the most random and surprising event since my mother picked me up at the airport two months ago alongside a man everyone knew she had been dating for over two weeks-- only no one had bothered to inform me about the matter, so I had no idea who he was, and I spent the drive furiously text-messaging my sisters from the back seat trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
A Dessert Turned Sour
Two friends and I went to a gelato/ice cream place tonight. I chose to get the "green apple with caramel" flavor, and this decision was instantly met with disgust and mockery. Then I ate it and thought it was a 6 out of 10, but I pretended I thought it was an 8 out of 10 out of anger and spite.
Friday
I'm thirsty. Which makes no sense because in the last 40 minutes I've gotten up and walked to the kitchen to get water 4 times, but each time I got distracted and did something else and ended up back here without water. One of the times I got a banana, and I'm enjoying my banana, but I'm a bit uneasy because I don't know what to do with the peel. If I put it in the trash it will start to rot.
This was an uneventful, yet honest, blog entry.
Part of you is frustrated that you spent a part, no matter how small, of your day reading this blog entry. But part of you, no matter how small, enjoyed it. Which keeps me ticking.
This was an uneventful, yet honest, blog entry.
Part of you is frustrated that you spent a part, no matter how small, of your day reading this blog entry. But part of you, no matter how small, enjoyed it. Which keeps me ticking.
Rather than me lighten up, you eat shit
I briefly dated a girl last year from Northern California who was extremely "chill." She was laid back. She took it easy. She went with the flow. She kept it real.
I hated her.
Every time I would act vaguely excited or animated about anything, she would put her hands on my shoulders and say "relaxxxx...take a deep breath." This is infuriating.
People who take pride in being "chill" are dreadful. They're the type of people who you can't get in an intelligent discussion with because inevitably, as soon as you talk too loud or too fast, they'll chuckle in a cool, calm way and tell you to chill out. They hate getting competitive because it messes with their whole relaxed vibe. They're the people that always said, "Whoa, we're not in class anymore" anytime their friends were discussing something academic out of school.
Anyway, the nail was drilled into the coffin when we watched an episode of The Family Guy together-- a good litmus test for a girl's "keeper" status by the way-- and not only did she not think it was funny, but during the funniest, most absurd part, she went, "ooooookayyyyy..." Every muscle in my body tensed up at that moment and that was the last time I ever saw her.
There is, however, a decent chance that she reads this blog. If so, this is ridiculously awkward.
I hated her.
Every time I would act vaguely excited or animated about anything, she would put her hands on my shoulders and say "relaxxxx...take a deep breath." This is infuriating.
People who take pride in being "chill" are dreadful. They're the type of people who you can't get in an intelligent discussion with because inevitably, as soon as you talk too loud or too fast, they'll chuckle in a cool, calm way and tell you to chill out. They hate getting competitive because it messes with their whole relaxed vibe. They're the people that always said, "Whoa, we're not in class anymore" anytime their friends were discussing something academic out of school.
Anyway, the nail was drilled into the coffin when we watched an episode of The Family Guy together-- a good litmus test for a girl's "keeper" status by the way-- and not only did she not think it was funny, but during the funniest, most absurd part, she went, "ooooookayyyyy..." Every muscle in my body tensed up at that moment and that was the last time I ever saw her.
There is, however, a decent chance that she reads this blog. If so, this is ridiculously awkward.
Living On the Edge
There is no jaywalking in LA. Today I stood at a street corner with a bunch of people. There were no cars coming in either direction, but the red hand made it very clear that we would be waiting anyway.
And then I did it.
I walked across the street, in defiance of the red hand. People looked at me in horror. Mothers covered their children's eyes. They had seen me standing there like everyone else, not yet knowing that I dance to my own beat. That I boil water to my own temperature. A few seconds later the little white man* appeared and set the throngs of people free. But for a moment there, as I moved on with my day while dozens of people put theirs on pause, I felt extremely rational.
*In New Zealand there is a stern red man and fun-loving green man instead of the hand of discipline and the white man. I always wondered if the whole thing was an act and after work red man was actually an easy-going guy, and he and green man were actually friends. Or maybe green man let the whole thing go to his head and started acting like an insufferable "chill" person, saying things like, "Hey man, I just want to live and let live." What a douche.
And then I did it.
I walked across the street, in defiance of the red hand. People looked at me in horror. Mothers covered their children's eyes. They had seen me standing there like everyone else, not yet knowing that I dance to my own beat. That I boil water to my own temperature. A few seconds later the little white man* appeared and set the throngs of people free. But for a moment there, as I moved on with my day while dozens of people put theirs on pause, I felt extremely rational.
*In New Zealand there is a stern red man and fun-loving green man instead of the hand of discipline and the white man. I always wondered if the whole thing was an act and after work red man was actually an easy-going guy, and he and green man were actually friends. Or maybe green man let the whole thing go to his head and started acting like an insufferable "chill" person, saying things like, "Hey man, I just want to live and let live." What a douche.
10 Ugly People Who Everyone Insists Are Good-Looking
Uma Thurman
Meryl Streep
Heath Ledger*
Giselle
Sean Penn
Madonna
Penelope Cruz**
Barbra Streisand
Venus Williams
Nicholas Cage
*I don't care what anyone says, Heath Ledger, Orlando Bloom, and Joaquin Phoenix are all the same person.
**Take it easy-- she's not ugly, but she's definitely weird-looking.
Meryl Streep
Heath Ledger*
Giselle
Sean Penn
Madonna
Penelope Cruz**
Barbra Streisand
Venus Williams
Nicholas Cage
*I don't care what anyone says, Heath Ledger, Orlando Bloom, and Joaquin Phoenix are all the same person.
**Take it easy-- she's not ugly, but she's definitely weird-looking.
Google Earth
Yesterday I discovered Google Earth. Since then I've told a bunch of people about it and everyone's reaction has been the same: "You didn't know about Google Earth?" The fact that no one has pointed this out to me is infuriating. Nothing has ever been up anyone's alley as much as this is up mine (alley). Even my turtle said he knew about Google Earth. Either way, this is my safe space to say what I want and no one can tell me they've already seen it before. So here we go.
It's the coolest fucking thing ever. It's mindblowing. I zoomed in on my car in my driveway in Newton, and 15 seconds later I was looking at a swimming pool in Delhi, then at the Egyptian pyramids, then at the Eiffel Tower, then at Las Vegas, then at the mountain I hiked in New Zealand, etc. etc. etc. For five hours last night.
Today, I was tired.
It's the coolest fucking thing ever. It's mindblowing. I zoomed in on my car in my driveway in Newton, and 15 seconds later I was looking at a swimming pool in Delhi, then at the Egyptian pyramids, then at the Eiffel Tower, then at Las Vegas, then at the mountain I hiked in New Zealand, etc. etc. etc. For five hours last night.
Today, I was tired.
Sitcom Ratings
I've spent too much time trying to explain why I can't watch the American version of The Office. It's excruciating to watch. If I had never seen the British Office*, I would enjoy the American version. I wouldn't love it, but I'd enjoy it. But I'm one more "Dwight's the funniest character ever" away from throwing my laptop into my desktop, which would make both computers unusable and bring down my quality of life rating significantly. I really need those computers.
The best way I can describe my experience watching the American Office is this: imagine a new version of Seinfeld, except all the new actors were much less funny and much worse at acting, the writing was significantly worse, and all subtlety was drained from the show and replaced by cheesy one-liners. That's the situation I'm dealing with here. (Of course, my roommate Will, who hates everything I like and likes everything I hate, cackles his wretched heart out watching the American version.)
While we're on the topic, my sitcom ratings on a scale of 1 to 100.
The Office (British version) = 99
The Family Guy = 96
Seinfeld = 94
The Simpsons = 87
Curb = 84
Friends = 80
Cosby = 76
Scrubs = 75
American Dad = 73
Married With Children = 71
South Park = 69
The Office (American version) = 66
Roseanne = 59
Mad About You = 54
Family Matters = 48
The Single Guy = 9
*The British Office is the only sitcom I've ever consistently rewound during episodes to see lines again. It is also the only sitcom I've seen that is funnier the sixth time than it is the first.** Even an episode of The Family Guy loses something by the sixth viewing.
**Interestingly enough, most people don't love the British Office the first time they see it, including myself. It has to grow on you, which takes two or three episodes.
UPDATE: Since writing this post, I have learned to love the American Office, and would give it a solid 86 now.
The best way I can describe my experience watching the American Office is this: imagine a new version of Seinfeld, except all the new actors were much less funny and much worse at acting, the writing was significantly worse, and all subtlety was drained from the show and replaced by cheesy one-liners. That's the situation I'm dealing with here. (Of course, my roommate Will, who hates everything I like and likes everything I hate, cackles his wretched heart out watching the American version.)
While we're on the topic, my sitcom ratings on a scale of 1 to 100.
The Office (British version) = 99
The Family Guy = 96
Seinfeld = 94
The Simpsons = 87
Curb = 84
Friends = 80
Cosby = 76
Scrubs = 75
American Dad = 73
Married With Children = 71
South Park = 69
The Office (American version) = 66
Roseanne = 59
Mad About You = 54
Family Matters = 48
The Single Guy = 9
*The British Office is the only sitcom I've ever consistently rewound during episodes to see lines again. It is also the only sitcom I've seen that is funnier the sixth time than it is the first.** Even an episode of The Family Guy loses something by the sixth viewing.
**Interestingly enough, most people don't love the British Office the first time they see it, including myself. It has to grow on you, which takes two or three episodes.
UPDATE: Since writing this post, I have learned to love the American Office, and would give it a solid 86 now.
A New Friend
He's a tortoise.
He was born in 2005 but he won't die until the late 22nd century, when I'm almost 200 years old. By that time, he'll be 2 feet in diameter and weigh over 100 pounds. Right now, though, he's about 2 inches across and I can hold him in a spoon. I put him on a 3 foot-long table today and he started running and got to the edge of the table after 40 seconds. Then the idiot walked off the table but luckily I was there to catch him. He can't climb. He can't bite. He can't scratch. He's slow as shit. He's dumb as nails. But I like him through and through. He demolishes my slinky as my new favorite toy. He and I make a great team. With him in my breast pocket, no one can stop us.
He says very little.
He was born in 2005 but he won't die until the late 22nd century, when I'm almost 200 years old. By that time, he'll be 2 feet in diameter and weigh over 100 pounds. Right now, though, he's about 2 inches across and I can hold him in a spoon. I put him on a 3 foot-long table today and he started running and got to the edge of the table after 40 seconds. Then the idiot walked off the table but luckily I was there to catch him. He can't climb. He can't bite. He can't scratch. He's slow as shit. He's dumb as nails. But I like him through and through. He demolishes my slinky as my new favorite toy. He and I make a great team. With him in my breast pocket, no one can stop us.
He says very little.
A New Friend?
Today outside a restaurant I saw three dogs tied to a post: A large golden retreiver, a large labrador, and a tiny white bichon. It put me in a great mood and made me remember how much I like dogs. I want a pet. Best toy ever. If I get a dog now, though, I'll definitely regret it.
I grew accustomed to the 4-foot python we had in our room in college and have considered getting one of those for the apartment. I'd regret that too, each time I had to feed it a live rat.
One time I was tutoring at a house and the kid had a bird. He was trying to show me the bird and the fucking thing started flying around the room and I jumped into the bed and the kid and his mother frantically tried to get ahold of the little fucker and finally got it and put it back in the cage. Then they realized I was cowering under the covers and they laughed. Scarring. And yet, it has crossed my mind to get a bird.
I also seriously considered getting an antfarm when I saw one of those at someone's house this year, but I realized I didn't know how. I could get a hamster too, but I only want one that doesn't bite and there's a solid chance I'd get one that does bite and then I'd never play with it (snake idea has same problem and a biting snake is infinitely less fun than a biting hampster).
A goldfish is the worst pet ever. It's extremely unintelligent, hates playing, and never acknowledges your existence. I guess you can put a spoon in the bowl and push it around and harass it for fun sometimes.
I could get a fox but that would ruin my life. I could get a rabbit but that's just retarded.
A monkey would be a dream, but I'd feel the need to pay attention to it and keep it entertained. And I'd feel guilty caging a monkey. But god a monkey would be great.
A seal is a terrible idea. And I don't know how to get one. Plus the seal in March of the Penguins scared the shit out of me.
For a second just now I considered getting a tarantula, and then I immediately stopped considering that. A frog is shitty. A chicken would be hilarious on many levels, but I don't think you can just go get a chicken.
What I'd want more than anything in the world is a miniature elephant. One that was the size of a shoebox.
But fantasizing about nonexistent pets won't get me anywhere. I have a decision to make. Tomorrow. I'll post another message tomorrow and reveal the pet I got. I hope I don't end up with a goldfish.
I grew accustomed to the 4-foot python we had in our room in college and have considered getting one of those for the apartment. I'd regret that too, each time I had to feed it a live rat.
One time I was tutoring at a house and the kid had a bird. He was trying to show me the bird and the fucking thing started flying around the room and I jumped into the bed and the kid and his mother frantically tried to get ahold of the little fucker and finally got it and put it back in the cage. Then they realized I was cowering under the covers and they laughed. Scarring. And yet, it has crossed my mind to get a bird.
I also seriously considered getting an antfarm when I saw one of those at someone's house this year, but I realized I didn't know how. I could get a hamster too, but I only want one that doesn't bite and there's a solid chance I'd get one that does bite and then I'd never play with it (snake idea has same problem and a biting snake is infinitely less fun than a biting hampster).
A goldfish is the worst pet ever. It's extremely unintelligent, hates playing, and never acknowledges your existence. I guess you can put a spoon in the bowl and push it around and harass it for fun sometimes.
I could get a fox but that would ruin my life. I could get a rabbit but that's just retarded.
A monkey would be a dream, but I'd feel the need to pay attention to it and keep it entertained. And I'd feel guilty caging a monkey. But god a monkey would be great.
A seal is a terrible idea. And I don't know how to get one. Plus the seal in March of the Penguins scared the shit out of me.
For a second just now I considered getting a tarantula, and then I immediately stopped considering that. A frog is shitty. A chicken would be hilarious on many levels, but I don't think you can just go get a chicken.
What I'd want more than anything in the world is a miniature elephant. One that was the size of a shoebox.
But fantasizing about nonexistent pets won't get me anywhere. I have a decision to make. Tomorrow. I'll post another message tomorrow and reveal the pet I got. I hope I don't end up with a goldfish.
One Great Thing About Being the Tutor and Not the Student
We're there in the office, working hard. We're trying to outline a big research paper that's due in a week. And we're behind. There are notes and sources all over the place. We're not sure if the thesis works. It's stressful.
But then our session ends.
Now it's still her problem, but I'm free.
But then our session ends.
Now it's still her problem, but I'm free.
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