from 3/26/08
How To Recognize Certain PATH Stations From Quite A Long Way Away
Last October, my friends invited me to go to The Hunt, which is a giant tailgate party that takes place inside a horse track. It's in New Jersey, but I went anyway, and we ate tons of food, drank a lot of beer and had a great old time.
Late in the afternoon, I felt myself sobering up. Not wanting to be hungover before the sun even set, as has been the case on similar occasions I rationalized, I decided I had to get drunk again quickly. I grabbed a bottle of vodka and downed a double shot. It felt smooth going down, so I took another single shot for good measure. Around 4:30, it was time to go, and as we were getting ready, my friend Jason asked me if I wanted them to drive me back to the PATH station in Hoboken. I live in Manhattan and had taken New Jersey Transit out, and as I had no desire to repeat that experience in reverse, said, "I would love that."
That's the last thing I remember from that day.
I woke up in an emergency room, lying on a cot, having no memory of how I got there. The nurse there asked me if I knew where I was. I had overheard someone say it, but only caught the last syllable. I said, "Brooklyn?"
She answered, "Hoboken." I thought, "Well that didn't sound very good," and fell back asleep. I came to again when I received a text message from Jason. "You left your wallet in our car."
I typed back, "Hold on to it, I'll get it back from you monday," and promptly passed out again. It turned out they'd dropped me off, and I'd disappeared into the station when Jason realized my wallet was still there. They waited for me to come back, which obviously I never did, and Jason figured I had the cash on me to get through to the train.
The nurse came in and out repeatedly through the night to check on me, and by the time morning came around, she was my buddy, the welcomed sight that made the experience slightly less disastrous. I woke up around 6am to overhear someone outside cheekily say, "I HATE drunks." At which point the nurse looked at me and said, "Well, there's my friend Michael here," and continued, "Time to go."
I thanked her and asked where the bathroom was. When I got inside and looked at the mirror, the first thing I noticed was the right side of my face was all red. I figured it was sunburn, then I saw the rest. There were cuts and scrapes all around my left eye and a deeper gash below my neck. I had bruises below my left elbow and I realized my entire left arm was sore. I had big bruises below both my knees and a big swollen bump below my right one. And I thought, "What the hell happened to me?" I'd been thinking this whole time that I was there because I was drunk, they never even told me I was hurt. I even found out later that they'd given me a head CT. And they never told me any of this! I'm not a doctor, but if I gave someone a head CT, I'd mention it to him. The best theory I could piece together was that I'd fallen down the stairs, but as I have no memory of the incident, that remains speculation to this day. I firmly believe I was concussed, I've been plenty drunker than I was that day and I've never lost that much memory.
I walked out looking for the nurse, but she wasn't there. I needed to get the hell out of there, so I just left. Now, I didn't have my wallet, so I had no cash to get home, and I was too embarrassed to hit them up at the hospital for it. I don't go to Hoboken very often, or New Jersey at all for that matter, so I don't know it too well. I was hoping maybe there was a bridge with a footpath like the Brooklyn Bridge has nearby so I could walk to the city. I asked the security guard by the entrance if such a thing existed, and he said, "Go outside, make a right, go down three lights, make a left, go down and make a right at the stop sign, then go down . . . "
And I just asked, "Can you write this down? Because I'm never gonna remember this ."
"Just make a right out the door, you'll see it."
I ventured out as the sun was just rising, made a right out the door, walked down a few lights and had no idea where the hell I was. I wandered around Hoboken for about forty-five minutes. I asked I guy at a gas station if there was anyway to get to Manhattan, but he said the nearest bridge was about ten miles away. With visions of panhandling in my head, I kept walking until I found a cop car. Trying to play into the policeman's sympathies, I told him I'd been mugged and was trying to get back to Manhattan. He said, "Make a right then the first left and go down two blocks to the PATH station." Much simpler directions than the last ones, so I went and managed to find the Newport/Pavonia Station. More after the fact revelations, this is over a mile from the hospital; not that far on the grand scheme but nearly three times the distance farther than the actual station I was looking for.
It was about a quarter to seven and no one was around, so I hopped the turnstile and sat, waiting for the train, wishing desperately to get out of New Jersey and back to my New York home, which I could have reached ages ago if I was Jesus and could only walk on the water.
The train came and soon I was back in Manhattan, where I walked from the last PATH Station at West 33rd, all the way to my apartment in the east 90s, all the while with a splitting headache and raging nausea. I thanked god I still had my keys, threw myself onto my bed and fell asleep for a long time.
And that, my friends, is how I gave up vodka.
Namaste.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
from 8/19/08
Tell Laura I Love Her
Anybody else fucking sick of hearing about Michael Phelps? I'm happy for him, but I really don't give a fuck about swimming, and in about a week and a half, neither will anyone else. I don't care, he wants to impress me, he can pay my rent. I'm glad the U.S. is getting all these gold medals, but they're acting like he's the second coming. You know, Jesus walked on the water, he didn't swim the backstroke through it.
But I don't want to talk about him, I want to talk about my favorite Olympian. I talked about her back in 2004 after the Athens games, any old schoolers remember who she is? No? Good, that means I can tell this story again.
Her name is Laura Wilkinson and she's a diver. For those of you who don't know her story, she was training for the 2000 Sydney Olympics when she took a nasty spill and broke three bones in her foot. She was laid up in bed for six weeks and had to train by visualizing the dives in her head. When she got to the Olympics to compete in the Ten Meter Platform, she had to wear a special shoe just so she climb up the ladder, and do most of her dives starting from a handstand because she couldn't stand on the edge of the platform. With three dives to go in the finals, she was in fifth place and considered to be out of medal contention. Then she nails the last three dives, the Chinese divers mess up theirs, BAM, she wins the gold.
I thought, "What a wonderful story." And I didn't hear it until 2004. I didn't watch too much of the Sydney games because I didn't really care. But I watched the 2004 games in Athens because I was holed up for a week in my parents house, because my grandmother had died. Grandma had taken ill earlier that summer, and for two months she was going back and forth; she'd get better, she'd get worse. Finally, the morning that the opening ceremonies were due to start, I got the call, saying it could be any minute now. So I sat in my room, waiting for my Grandmother to die, for two full days. Finally, I got the call saying Grandma was dead.
As you can probably guess, I didn't take it all that well. She was my last grandparent, and also, my other grandparents all died before I graduated from college, so she was my only grandparent for my adult years. So this one really hurt. Now, in Judaism, we have something called "sitting Shiva," which is a morning period where you're not supposed to leave the house. So I went out to my parents' place in Long Island and spent the week there. The Olympics were going on, and at the time, the Olympics were the last thing that I cared about. But I had no control over the tv, so I was gonna watch it whether I liked it or not. But I became fascinated with Laura Wilkinson's story. I thought, "This girl's a fighter! She's awesome!" And she's really cute, that counts for something.
I became obsessed with following her; I watched her dives and I checked the paper and caught the rounds and followed her progress. Because, it was the only thing that could take my mind off the fact that my grandmother was dead. So by the time the finals came around, I was glued to the tv. And it was like, she wasn't just doing it for her, or for the USA, she was doing it for me, she was doing it for Grandma. Unfortunately, she didn't win, she took fifth place that year. But I still loved her, I still think she's awesome. And I didn't care that she turned out to be a major league bible-thumper. Her favorite movie is Passion Of The Christ, I mean holy fucking shit. She might think I'm a Christ-killer, who knows. But that didn't matter to me.
Then I went and I did something really stupid. I wrote her a fan letter. I never do that, but you can do a lot of dumb things when you're grieving. I told her the whole story, about Grandma, about how I loved her fighting spirit, everything. I just needed to get it out there, in her direction, it was comforting to me. So I did it, and forgot about it.
Then about three months later, I get an email. In the "from" line, it just says, "Diver." And I had no idea what it was, I thought it was spam, probably short for muff diver, they're trying to sell me something about cunnilingus, I thought, "I know, push up the hood, look for the little man in the boat and lick the alphabet, I got my technique down already." Then I see the subject line says, "Big Fan," and thought it sounded familiar. I open it, it's from Laura Wilkinson. I know, it could have been an assistant or something, but she's not a rock star, she's just a diver, so I choose to believe it actually came from her. She wrote:
Tell Laura I Love Her
Anybody else fucking sick of hearing about Michael Phelps? I'm happy for him, but I really don't give a fuck about swimming, and in about a week and a half, neither will anyone else. I don't care, he wants to impress me, he can pay my rent. I'm glad the U.S. is getting all these gold medals, but they're acting like he's the second coming. You know, Jesus walked on the water, he didn't swim the backstroke through it.
But I don't want to talk about him, I want to talk about my favorite Olympian. I talked about her back in 2004 after the Athens games, any old schoolers remember who she is? No? Good, that means I can tell this story again.
Her name is Laura Wilkinson and she's a diver. For those of you who don't know her story, she was training for the 2000 Sydney Olympics when she took a nasty spill and broke three bones in her foot. She was laid up in bed for six weeks and had to train by visualizing the dives in her head. When she got to the Olympics to compete in the Ten Meter Platform, she had to wear a special shoe just so she climb up the ladder, and do most of her dives starting from a handstand because she couldn't stand on the edge of the platform. With three dives to go in the finals, she was in fifth place and considered to be out of medal contention. Then she nails the last three dives, the Chinese divers mess up theirs, BAM, she wins the gold.
I thought, "What a wonderful story." And I didn't hear it until 2004. I didn't watch too much of the Sydney games because I didn't really care. But I watched the 2004 games in Athens because I was holed up for a week in my parents house, because my grandmother had died. Grandma had taken ill earlier that summer, and for two months she was going back and forth; she'd get better, she'd get worse. Finally, the morning that the opening ceremonies were due to start, I got the call, saying it could be any minute now. So I sat in my room, waiting for my Grandmother to die, for two full days. Finally, I got the call saying Grandma was dead.
As you can probably guess, I didn't take it all that well. She was my last grandparent, and also, my other grandparents all died before I graduated from college, so she was my only grandparent for my adult years. So this one really hurt. Now, in Judaism, we have something called "sitting Shiva," which is a morning period where you're not supposed to leave the house. So I went out to my parents' place in Long Island and spent the week there. The Olympics were going on, and at the time, the Olympics were the last thing that I cared about. But I had no control over the tv, so I was gonna watch it whether I liked it or not. But I became fascinated with Laura Wilkinson's story. I thought, "This girl's a fighter! She's awesome!" And she's really cute, that counts for something.
I became obsessed with following her; I watched her dives and I checked the paper and caught the rounds and followed her progress. Because, it was the only thing that could take my mind off the fact that my grandmother was dead. So by the time the finals came around, I was glued to the tv. And it was like, she wasn't just doing it for her, or for the USA, she was doing it for me, she was doing it for Grandma. Unfortunately, she didn't win, she took fifth place that year. But I still loved her, I still think she's awesome. And I didn't care that she turned out to be a major league bible-thumper. Her favorite movie is Passion Of The Christ, I mean holy fucking shit. She might think I'm a Christ-killer, who knows. But that didn't matter to me.
Then I went and I did something really stupid. I wrote her a fan letter. I never do that, but you can do a lot of dumb things when you're grieving. I told her the whole story, about Grandma, about how I loved her fighting spirit, everything. I just needed to get it out there, in her direction, it was comforting to me. So I did it, and forgot about it.
Then about three months later, I get an email. In the "from" line, it just says, "Diver." And I had no idea what it was, I thought it was spam, probably short for muff diver, they're trying to sell me something about cunnilingus, I thought, "I know, push up the hood, look for the little man in the boat and lick the alphabet, I got my technique down already." Then I see the subject line says, "Big Fan," and thought it sounded familiar. I open it, it's from Laura Wilkinson. I know, it could have been an assistant or something, but she's not a rock star, she's just a diver, so I choose to believe it actually came from her. She wrote:
Michael,
(She called me Michael!)
Thank you so much for your email. I completely understand how difficult it can be to lose someone you love. My family has lost several loved ones in recent years. It's wonderful that you were able to stay with your parents during that time.
Sometimes we have to go through difficult times, but they can definitely make you stronger inside.
Well, I will be using that "fighting spirit" as you called it to try to win gold again in the 2008 Olympic Games. I have a long road ahead of me and many battles I'm sure, but I feel like each time I face an obstacle, when I trust Him, God turns it into an opportunity.
Laura
The Preliminaries start tomorrow. So I'd like everybody to join me, let's pray for Laura Wilkinson:
God, I'm sorry about all the times I said, "Fuck you." And you don't like me, that much is clear, and I don't like you. But please, instead of praying for that thing with Marissa Miller and the massage oil, I'm taking a break, and praying for this, please, bring Laura Wilkinson the gold.
Amen.
Thanks.
Namaste.
Author's addendum, 8/21/08
Sadly, troubled by a strained tricep muscle, Laura made the Finals, but failed to medal, finishing in ninth place. She did, however, nail her last dive, capping a worthy and fitting end to an incredible career.
(She called me Michael!)
Thank you so much for your email. I completely understand how difficult it can be to lose someone you love. My family has lost several loved ones in recent years. It's wonderful that you were able to stay with your parents during that time.
Sometimes we have to go through difficult times, but they can definitely make you stronger inside.
Well, I will be using that "fighting spirit" as you called it to try to win gold again in the 2008 Olympic Games. I have a long road ahead of me and many battles I'm sure, but I feel like each time I face an obstacle, when I trust Him, God turns it into an opportunity.
Laura
The Preliminaries start tomorrow. So I'd like everybody to join me, let's pray for Laura Wilkinson:
God, I'm sorry about all the times I said, "Fuck you." And you don't like me, that much is clear, and I don't like you. But please, instead of praying for that thing with Marissa Miller and the massage oil, I'm taking a break, and praying for this, please, bring Laura Wilkinson the gold.
Amen.
Thanks.
Namaste.
Author's addendum, 8/21/08
Sadly, troubled by a strained tricep muscle, Laura made the Finals, but failed to medal, finishing in ninth place. She did, however, nail her last dive, capping a worthy and fitting end to an incredible career.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
from 8/5/08
Perhaps I've Gone Too Far
. . .
. . .
Do you think Morgan Freeman narrated his own car crash?
Too soon?
This is the morbid sense of humor I was referring too last week. I work at a pharmaceutical advertising agency, and one of the drugs we represent is Ambien. And I came up with what I thought was a pretty good tagline, so I told it to one of the copywriters:
Ambien. So good, Heath Ledger can't stop taking it.
They didn't seem to like it either.
Tonight's theme is milestones, and I haven't really had any recently, the closest I've had is last week when I came back to the open mikes for the first time in nine months. The thing that truly shocked me about that was people actually noticed I was gone.
The only major milestone that even comes to mind is when I turned thirty. I wanted to celebrate by doing something I'd never done before. I didn't know what, but I hoped it would come to me by the end of the night. That night I went to a club with some friends, and after we left, I was walking back to the subway and I really had to take a piss, so I pissed on the sidewalk, and I realized, "I've never done this before. Mission accomplished."
I pissed on a subway platform once. Not my proudest moment, but when you've fallen asleep on the subway and wake up in the south Bronx seventeen stops past yours and it's 4am, you do what you have to.
But I what I really wanted to talk about is my neighborhood. I live in the East 90s, which I consider to be a subset of the Upper East Side. I'm not saying that we're better, it's still the Upper East Side. It's still frat boy hell and yuppieville, but there's a few things that distinguish it. First of all, it's right by the First Avenue Projects, which is First Avenue and around 92nd to 94th Street, and East Harlem, which officially starts at 96th Street. So it's a much more diverse area than your typical whitebred Upper East Side neighborhood.
This is unrelated, but we also have a very impressive population of rats. Not the little ones, I'm talkin' the big nasty Willard rats. And it's not like you hear them scuffle around and every now and them catch a glimpse, you see them running across the sidewalk every night. So if you know any city vampires who don't want to bite people and need to find some form of nocturnal wildlife to feed on, send them up to 93rd street.
Also, because of it's vicinity to East Harlem and the projects, it's the only Upper East Side neighborhood that's regularly patrolled by police. Crime used to be really bad there but it's been cleaned up for a long time. It used to be you didn't go above 86th Street, there were gangs and violence back fifteen, twenty years ago. But then they started developing the neighborhood, which they're still doing. More and more high-rises are going up. Remember that crane that fell about a month and a half ago? That was three blocks from my apartment. Usually when you gentrify an area, it becomes a safer neighborhood. Apparently that's not how we roll up there.
But the one thing that we still have a lot of is homeless people. It's not overrun or anything, but I see more homeless in my neighborhood than I do downtown. And the homeless people up there are, well, I'll just say it, they're assholes. Something about the place, it's like, "You spare some change?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!!!"
It's like they have the same sense of entitlement that the yuppies do. That's why it was so nice when, a couple of weeks ago I was coming home and decided to stop by the bodega for a soda, and there was a homeless guy sitting on a milk crate in front of it. It's his regular spot, and as I walked over, I see him jump up and run around the corner. When I came out of bodega, he's sitting there with a pizza box. I guess someone was gonna throw it out and he asked for it. Anyway, he holds up his cup and shakes it, and says, "God bless you sir." I was feeling generous, so I dropped a few coins in there, and he said, "Hey, are you hungry? They gave me all this pizza."
I laughed and said, "No, that's ok," and realize, that's the first time a homeless person ever offered me food. What a pleasant surprise.
Namaste, motherfuckers.
Perhaps I've Gone Too Far
. . .
. . .
Do you think Morgan Freeman narrated his own car crash?
Too soon?
This is the morbid sense of humor I was referring too last week. I work at a pharmaceutical advertising agency, and one of the drugs we represent is Ambien. And I came up with what I thought was a pretty good tagline, so I told it to one of the copywriters:
Ambien. So good, Heath Ledger can't stop taking it.
They didn't seem to like it either.
Tonight's theme is milestones, and I haven't really had any recently, the closest I've had is last week when I came back to the open mikes for the first time in nine months. The thing that truly shocked me about that was people actually noticed I was gone.
The only major milestone that even comes to mind is when I turned thirty. I wanted to celebrate by doing something I'd never done before. I didn't know what, but I hoped it would come to me by the end of the night. That night I went to a club with some friends, and after we left, I was walking back to the subway and I really had to take a piss, so I pissed on the sidewalk, and I realized, "I've never done this before. Mission accomplished."
I pissed on a subway platform once. Not my proudest moment, but when you've fallen asleep on the subway and wake up in the south Bronx seventeen stops past yours and it's 4am, you do what you have to.
But I what I really wanted to talk about is my neighborhood. I live in the East 90s, which I consider to be a subset of the Upper East Side. I'm not saying that we're better, it's still the Upper East Side. It's still frat boy hell and yuppieville, but there's a few things that distinguish it. First of all, it's right by the First Avenue Projects, which is First Avenue and around 92nd to 94th Street, and East Harlem, which officially starts at 96th Street. So it's a much more diverse area than your typical whitebred Upper East Side neighborhood.
This is unrelated, but we also have a very impressive population of rats. Not the little ones, I'm talkin' the big nasty Willard rats. And it's not like you hear them scuffle around and every now and them catch a glimpse, you see them running across the sidewalk every night. So if you know any city vampires who don't want to bite people and need to find some form of nocturnal wildlife to feed on, send them up to 93rd street.
Also, because of it's vicinity to East Harlem and the projects, it's the only Upper East Side neighborhood that's regularly patrolled by police. Crime used to be really bad there but it's been cleaned up for a long time. It used to be you didn't go above 86th Street, there were gangs and violence back fifteen, twenty years ago. But then they started developing the neighborhood, which they're still doing. More and more high-rises are going up. Remember that crane that fell about a month and a half ago? That was three blocks from my apartment. Usually when you gentrify an area, it becomes a safer neighborhood. Apparently that's not how we roll up there.
But the one thing that we still have a lot of is homeless people. It's not overrun or anything, but I see more homeless in my neighborhood than I do downtown. And the homeless people up there are, well, I'll just say it, they're assholes. Something about the place, it's like, "You spare some change?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!!!"
It's like they have the same sense of entitlement that the yuppies do. That's why it was so nice when, a couple of weeks ago I was coming home and decided to stop by the bodega for a soda, and there was a homeless guy sitting on a milk crate in front of it. It's his regular spot, and as I walked over, I see him jump up and run around the corner. When I came out of bodega, he's sitting there with a pizza box. I guess someone was gonna throw it out and he asked for it. Anyway, he holds up his cup and shakes it, and says, "God bless you sir." I was feeling generous, so I dropped a few coins in there, and he said, "Hey, are you hungry? They gave me all this pizza."
I laughed and said, "No, that's ok," and realize, that's the first time a homeless person ever offered me food. What a pleasant surprise.
Namaste, motherfuckers.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
From 7/29/08
What'd You Do That For George? (Oh, God, He Knows)
George Carlin's posthumous cd It's Bad For Ya came out today, and it made me think about the impact that George has on my life. Not only is he my favorite comedian of all time, he's been a major influence on me; I'm not a comedian but he's influenced me as a writer, both through the love of social criticism and by teaching me to be unafraid to be morbid or sick. I have a very morbid sense of humor. Here's an example: last week, my friend Krista wanted me to go to a happy hour benefit for the Jimmy Fund Cancer Institute. I couldn't go, so Krista tried to convince me by saying, "Come on, it's for a good cause," and I said, "So what? My brother's already dead." Because my brother died of leukemia years ago. I find this funny. Krista didn't seem to think so. I guess she's not a Carlin fan.
But one thing that people who know me know is, I curse a lot. I used to attribute this to being from Long Island. It's a regional trait, like NEVER wanting to "change at Jamaica." Also, you either really love or really hate Billy Joel. I fucking hate Billy Joel, he's not bad but I'm sick to fucking death of him. To make things worse, I went to college in Allentown Pennsylvania, people used to sing that fucking song to me all the time, and I'd think, "Ooooooh, please get a tumor in your eye the size of a basketball."
ANYWAY
Sometimes people are surprised when they hear how much I curse, I guess the angelic face throws them. But the people I work with are used to it. In fact, I've become the benchmark by which cursing is measured. A number of times, I've been told by someone, "I was so mad last night, I was cursing as much as you." It feels good to be so accomplished. One person once told me I had a remarkable ability to string together a sentence with such a high number of uses of "fuck." I myself didn't even remember doing this, but apparently the sentence was something to the effect of, "I swear to fucking god, if I ever fucking find out who took my fucking folder, I am gonna fuckin' kick their fucking ass." Or something like that. Another coworker told me, "You use the word "fuck" more than anyone I've ever met." And she's an editor, she gets paid to notice things about words.
The cursing come out the most when I get mad or when I get caught up in a rant about something. Like when I read what that fuckwad Donald Trump said about gorgeous actress Anne Hathaway when she dumped that loser cumfuck con man asshole boyfriend of hers. She should have stood by him? Is he out of his fucking mind?! He turned out to be a scumbag and so she dumped his ass! So if he kills somebody she's just supposed to fucking hang around?! Smile and nod and talk about we don't know the better side that we don't, the one that doesn't fucking kill people?! And who the fuck asked Trump anyway?! You know who? NOBODY!!! He didn't say this in an interview, he issued a press release. What, is he working for fucking TMZ now? He's gotta open his fucking mouth about celebrities? I hope he dies. I hope he fucking dies, I hope that fucking thing on his head comes to life and fucking eats his brains, that fucking scumbag fuckwad MOTHERFUCKER!!!
And at this point, one of my coworkers will ask me if I've taken my medication, and I'll say, "Sadly, yes I have." This is me with my mood stabilized. Be grateful.
ANYWAY
When George died, I looked back and realized that I've been listening to him since I was five years old. It was 1975 and Class Clown was still popular, so my grandparents used to listen to it all the time. I'd hear it when I visited them and eventually they'd let me borrow it and I'd run it over and over again at home. And amid all the stories about Catholic school, Muhammid Ali and knuckle cracking, was the famous Seven Dirty Words routine. And so, at a young, impressionable age, I was introduced to the idea of profanity as high art. Maybe being from Long Island isn't reason I curse so much, maybe George had more of an impact on my life than I realized.
But one thing I'd like to add, something that really pissed me off when George died; the day after he died, they did a show about him on Larry King Live, and he was interviewing Jerry Seinfeld. I gotta be honest, I could give a fuck what Jerry Seinfeld has to say about George Carlin. Now, I know he's one of the more famous comedians in the world, but they're both comedians in the sense that Adam Sandler and Laurence Olivier are both actors, it's just not the same.
To be honest, I've hated Jerry Seinfeld ever since he hopped on the laptop bashing bandwagon. "These people buy a cup of coffee and they think they're opening a business." No, I don't think I'm opening a business, I just like to get out of the house every once in a fucking while. I live in a studio, I don't live in a mansion-sized apartment, that was bought with money earned, FROM A TV SHOW, THAT SOMEBODY ELSE FUCKING WROTE!!! FUCK JERRY SEINFELD!!!
NAMASTE, MOTHERFUCKERS!
What'd You Do That For George? (Oh, God, He Knows)
George Carlin's posthumous cd It's Bad For Ya came out today, and it made me think about the impact that George has on my life. Not only is he my favorite comedian of all time, he's been a major influence on me; I'm not a comedian but he's influenced me as a writer, both through the love of social criticism and by teaching me to be unafraid to be morbid or sick. I have a very morbid sense of humor. Here's an example: last week, my friend Krista wanted me to go to a happy hour benefit for the Jimmy Fund Cancer Institute. I couldn't go, so Krista tried to convince me by saying, "Come on, it's for a good cause," and I said, "So what? My brother's already dead." Because my brother died of leukemia years ago. I find this funny. Krista didn't seem to think so. I guess she's not a Carlin fan.
But one thing that people who know me know is, I curse a lot. I used to attribute this to being from Long Island. It's a regional trait, like NEVER wanting to "change at Jamaica." Also, you either really love or really hate Billy Joel. I fucking hate Billy Joel, he's not bad but I'm sick to fucking death of him. To make things worse, I went to college in Allentown Pennsylvania, people used to sing that fucking song to me all the time, and I'd think, "Ooooooh, please get a tumor in your eye the size of a basketball."
ANYWAY
Sometimes people are surprised when they hear how much I curse, I guess the angelic face throws them. But the people I work with are used to it. In fact, I've become the benchmark by which cursing is measured. A number of times, I've been told by someone, "I was so mad last night, I was cursing as much as you." It feels good to be so accomplished. One person once told me I had a remarkable ability to string together a sentence with such a high number of uses of "fuck." I myself didn't even remember doing this, but apparently the sentence was something to the effect of, "I swear to fucking god, if I ever fucking find out who took my fucking folder, I am gonna fuckin' kick their fucking ass." Or something like that. Another coworker told me, "You use the word "fuck" more than anyone I've ever met." And she's an editor, she gets paid to notice things about words.
The cursing come out the most when I get mad or when I get caught up in a rant about something. Like when I read what that fuckwad Donald Trump said about gorgeous actress Anne Hathaway when she dumped that loser cumfuck con man asshole boyfriend of hers. She should have stood by him? Is he out of his fucking mind?! He turned out to be a scumbag and so she dumped his ass! So if he kills somebody she's just supposed to fucking hang around?! Smile and nod and talk about we don't know the better side that we don't, the one that doesn't fucking kill people?! And who the fuck asked Trump anyway?! You know who? NOBODY!!! He didn't say this in an interview, he issued a press release. What, is he working for fucking TMZ now? He's gotta open his fucking mouth about celebrities? I hope he dies. I hope he fucking dies, I hope that fucking thing on his head comes to life and fucking eats his brains, that fucking scumbag fuckwad MOTHERFUCKER!!!
And at this point, one of my coworkers will ask me if I've taken my medication, and I'll say, "Sadly, yes I have." This is me with my mood stabilized. Be grateful.
ANYWAY
When George died, I looked back and realized that I've been listening to him since I was five years old. It was 1975 and Class Clown was still popular, so my grandparents used to listen to it all the time. I'd hear it when I visited them and eventually they'd let me borrow it and I'd run it over and over again at home. And amid all the stories about Catholic school, Muhammid Ali and knuckle cracking, was the famous Seven Dirty Words routine. And so, at a young, impressionable age, I was introduced to the idea of profanity as high art. Maybe being from Long Island isn't reason I curse so much, maybe George had more of an impact on my life than I realized.
But one thing I'd like to add, something that really pissed me off when George died; the day after he died, they did a show about him on Larry King Live, and he was interviewing Jerry Seinfeld. I gotta be honest, I could give a fuck what Jerry Seinfeld has to say about George Carlin. Now, I know he's one of the more famous comedians in the world, but they're both comedians in the sense that Adam Sandler and Laurence Olivier are both actors, it's just not the same.
To be honest, I've hated Jerry Seinfeld ever since he hopped on the laptop bashing bandwagon. "These people buy a cup of coffee and they think they're opening a business." No, I don't think I'm opening a business, I just like to get out of the house every once in a fucking while. I live in a studio, I don't live in a mansion-sized apartment, that was bought with money earned, FROM A TV SHOW, THAT SOMEBODY ELSE FUCKING WROTE!!! FUCK JERRY SEINFELD!!!
NAMASTE, MOTHERFUCKERS!