Exercise. What a heaping pile of shit this idea turned out to be. Certainly I have the wherewithal to recognize that any sort of physical activity is good for me. If nothing else, it's my attempt to counteract the heap of cigs I scarf down each day. What really bothers me are the cretins that pretend they're having the time of their lives, merely by exercising. When did we all start pretending that grueling exercise is a super fun time for all involved? In addition, each of these creeps have glommed on to their favorite exercise and they then spend the rest of their free time telling fatties like me how great it is.
RUNNING
"Have you heard about running? Oh ya, it's so freeing. I played running in college but I'm into this new thing where I don't wear shoes when I run and it's really changed my life."
Hey running enthusiast, you're an asshole. I get that there's an entire magazine dedicated to you and everything but stop trying to pretend that this is a new religion that we're all missing out on. You're simply going nowhere at an accelerated pace. That doesn't strike me as all that profound. Did you know that running was essentially invented in the process of hunting animals? Yet you continue to come back from your runs empty handed. You're doing a bad job runner. It's just exercise. Take it easy.
YOGA
"I'm not religious, I'm spiritual. You know, like yoga."
Um....what? Just because you can suck your own dick, doesn't mean you're now a spiritual guru. While I do appreciate that yoga classes usually end with "Shavasana" also known as "Sleeping," I find the majority of their so-called "poses" to be a real slap in the face. I also don't appreciate how calm everybody seems to be while suggesting that I rest my entire body on my forearms and then touch my toes to my ears. What kind of freak show is this? And why are we all chanting? I get that we're in West Hollywood but not every activity has to incorporate a song and dance. So take your little sleeping bag or magic carpet or whatever you call it and calm the fuck down. I get it, you're enlightened AND you've been to India. I didn't come here for a pep talk. I just want my ass to be smaller.
SPINNING
"Oh you HAVE to come to my spin class. You burn SO many calories."
I mean...probably but you're also forced to torture your nuts or vagina for 50 minutes while someone screams at you, to the tune of Lady Gaga. Has anyone realized yet that spinning is riding a one-wheeled bike? You basically took a totally functional piece of machinery, made it immobile, and called it exercise. It's actually worse than running because at the end of the class you unicycled in place for an hour and probably gave yourself a Urinary Tract Infection in the process.
Its fine everyone! Exercise is a thing that helps people, hooray! But ya know what else helps people? Root canals, insulin and chemotherapy. But when was the last time you heard a diabetic talking about the awesome new syringe he got? Never. Because sometimes things that are good for you are actually terrible. You are living a lie exercise aficionados. Exercise is horrible. It hurts, it's time-consuming and sometimes it threatens to rip away at your private parts. Pretending to like exercise is like pretending that the man who beats you is misunderstood. Well he's not. He's a horrible person and exercise is a terrible torture chamber that we all participate in begrudgingly. I just wish we could be honest about it. I'd rather be doing anything other than using any of my muscles at any time. If I could spend the rest of my life eating buckets of chicken in bed, I would. And I am no longer going to sit idly by while the rest of you feign excitement each time you approach the treadmill. So the next time you ask me how my workout was I will answer honestly, "It was God damn terrible. I hated everything about it and all the people there. Save yourself and never participate in soul-crushing exercise. Eat pie instead."
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
HollywoodLand
I'll do just about anything to fit in. As a result, upon arriving in sunny California, I became obsessed with the idea of seeking therapy. I didn't necessarily believe that I needed therapy, but every man that I've ever dated felt differently. Regardless, I knew that having a therapist was a super cool thing to do in LA, just like being a Scientologist or battling a drug addiction. I had a feeling that the mere addition of a therapist to my life would rocket me into the inner-world of Hollywood. I was sure it would be a direct connection to celebrities but I could not have anticipated how true this theory would turn out to be.
After a few weeks of aggressively seeking a therapist, I began to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that this process would be at all challenging. I hit immediate roadblocks, all of which I was determined to overcome. For starters, everyone I called asked the same stupid question, "What problems would you like to discuss with the doctor?" First of all, Doctor? Take it easy. That's a bit bold, don't you think? I get that you went to therapy school or whatever but let's try to scale back the doctor claims, shall we? Second of all, I was only calling the doctor so that I could advance my acting career, but I had an innate sense that this was not a good enough reason. Instead I chose to tap into any real problems that I found to be lingering. It went a little something like this:
Me: Hi, I'd like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.
Dr.: Ok, what's wrong with you?
Me: *hysterical crying*
Dr.: We're booked. *click*
Can you believe it?! Every single one of those clowns claimed to be booked! Listen, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, "supposed doctors", but perhaps you should reveal your scheduling issues prior to opening the vault which is my inner-child. I was getting fed up with the entire process and it was becoming clear that literally everyone in L.A. had gotten on the therapy bandwagon long before I had arrived. I was upset and outraged. I needed therapy just to help me work through the fact that I couldn't find a therapist. I had never felt so alone and I began to do what I often do when the world becomes overwhelming, I pretended that I was Brenda Walsh from the critically acclaimed 90's classic television show, Beverly Hills 90210.
Man, that bitch had it so good. Perfect parents, bomb house, incredible bangs. Not a Wednesday at 7pm went by, during my adolescence, when I wasn't saddled up to the television, carefully following the trials and tribulations of that chunky Midwestern girl from Minnesota who found herself in the throes of Beverly Hills. I bet Brenda Walsh never had a problem finding a therapist. She didn't even need one! She had supportive parents, a hot brother, and slew of available, rich, potential boyfriends. As I settled into my Brenda Walsh fantasy, the phone rang. FINALLY!!!! There was one, lone therapist who was covered by my insurance and could meet on a Saturday. I didn't remember calling her, I didn't recognize her name, I knew zero about her but I could tell she was the one.
On the day of our first appointment, I was elated. I had finally arrived. I had moved to Los Angeles to be an actor and had officially employed a therapist. Things were looking up. When my new therapist/life coach entered the room I was overwhelmed. I KNEW this broad. I couldn't place her but I was certain we had met before.
Me: God you look so familiar.
Life Coach: Oh, you probably saw my picture on the website.
Me: No, but I mean, I feel like I know you.
LC: Well....have you ever watched the show Beverly Hills 90210?
Me: *astonished* You shut the fuck up lady.
LC: I played Brenda's mom, Cindy Walsh.
Dear God. I should have known that my answer would come in the form of the matriarchal figure from my favorite T.V. show. I all but attacked my newly found therapist after that. As it turns out, her name is Carol Potter and she got into therapy after working with the quacks on Beverly Hills. I suppose she had incredible practice. Clearly I continue to meet with her every week. How could I not? While she remains extremely professional, I can't help but hope that someday I'll walk in and have to fill out a sheet describing which Beverly Hills character I most identify with as an exercise for her to determine my general mood. I long to inquire about Dylan’s whereabouts, but I don't want to come off as desperate (seriously, where is he?). For now, I find solace in the fact that I grew up with my therapist. She already knows everything about me. She is the mom I've always wanted, the best friend I've never had. We even have the same agent! Therapy is working in ways I could never have imagined. The simple knowledge that I have a therapist makes me feel better. It solidifies a belief I had in high school, "No matter where you are or what you're going through, Cindy Walsh will always be there and she will always understand." Da na na na, Da na na na *clap* *clap*
After a few weeks of aggressively seeking a therapist, I began to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that this process would be at all challenging. I hit immediate roadblocks, all of which I was determined to overcome. For starters, everyone I called asked the same stupid question, "What problems would you like to discuss with the doctor?" First of all, Doctor? Take it easy. That's a bit bold, don't you think? I get that you went to therapy school or whatever but let's try to scale back the doctor claims, shall we? Second of all, I was only calling the doctor so that I could advance my acting career, but I had an innate sense that this was not a good enough reason. Instead I chose to tap into any real problems that I found to be lingering. It went a little something like this:
Me: Hi, I'd like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.
Dr.: Ok, what's wrong with you?
Me: *hysterical crying*
Dr.: We're booked. *click*
Can you believe it?! Every single one of those clowns claimed to be booked! Listen, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, "supposed doctors", but perhaps you should reveal your scheduling issues prior to opening the vault which is my inner-child. I was getting fed up with the entire process and it was becoming clear that literally everyone in L.A. had gotten on the therapy bandwagon long before I had arrived. I was upset and outraged. I needed therapy just to help me work through the fact that I couldn't find a therapist. I had never felt so alone and I began to do what I often do when the world becomes overwhelming, I pretended that I was Brenda Walsh from the critically acclaimed 90's classic television show, Beverly Hills 90210.
Man, that bitch had it so good. Perfect parents, bomb house, incredible bangs. Not a Wednesday at 7pm went by, during my adolescence, when I wasn't saddled up to the television, carefully following the trials and tribulations of that chunky Midwestern girl from Minnesota who found herself in the throes of Beverly Hills. I bet Brenda Walsh never had a problem finding a therapist. She didn't even need one! She had supportive parents, a hot brother, and slew of available, rich, potential boyfriends. As I settled into my Brenda Walsh fantasy, the phone rang. FINALLY!!!! There was one, lone therapist who was covered by my insurance and could meet on a Saturday. I didn't remember calling her, I didn't recognize her name, I knew zero about her but I could tell she was the one.
On the day of our first appointment, I was elated. I had finally arrived. I had moved to Los Angeles to be an actor and had officially employed a therapist. Things were looking up. When my new therapist/life coach entered the room I was overwhelmed. I KNEW this broad. I couldn't place her but I was certain we had met before.
Me: God you look so familiar.
Life Coach: Oh, you probably saw my picture on the website.
Me: No, but I mean, I feel like I know you.
LC: Well....have you ever watched the show Beverly Hills 90210?
Me: *astonished* You shut the fuck up lady.
LC: I played Brenda's mom, Cindy Walsh.
Dear God. I should have known that my answer would come in the form of the matriarchal figure from my favorite T.V. show. I all but attacked my newly found therapist after that. As it turns out, her name is Carol Potter and she got into therapy after working with the quacks on Beverly Hills. I suppose she had incredible practice. Clearly I continue to meet with her every week. How could I not? While she remains extremely professional, I can't help but hope that someday I'll walk in and have to fill out a sheet describing which Beverly Hills character I most identify with as an exercise for her to determine my general mood. I long to inquire about Dylan’s whereabouts, but I don't want to come off as desperate (seriously, where is he?). For now, I find solace in the fact that I grew up with my therapist. She already knows everything about me. She is the mom I've always wanted, the best friend I've never had. We even have the same agent! Therapy is working in ways I could never have imagined. The simple knowledge that I have a therapist makes me feel better. It solidifies a belief I had in high school, "No matter where you are or what you're going through, Cindy Walsh will always be there and she will always understand." Da na na na, Da na na na *clap* *clap*
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Kale
Hey Kale,
Fuck you. Oh you think you're so clever, trying to pass yourself off as a snack. But you're not a snack, Kale. You, are an impostor. I had Chick-fil-A today, Kale. And it was delicious. You're nothing more then an upgrade of seaweed, Kale. SEAWEED!!! Again, not a snack. A horrible smack in the face. You are a lifeless sea creature. You, are cabbage. You know what I love about cabbage? Nothing, Kale! Zero! It's like eating green water you sick fuck. There is a version of you called Rape Kale. Reeeeallll convenient Kale. You are disgusting. I pity you, Kale. You take advantage of people who don't know any better. All the hipsters at Whole Foods are confused by your unsubstantiated claims of being a chip. You're not a chip, Kale! Ya know what makes great chips?! POTATOES!!! They've been doing it for years and then you slither in here with your deceptive green and leafy ways. You dirty scoundrel. You are delusional. I've seen pictures of you pretending to be a salad but I know better, Kale. What the fuck are you, Kale?! A flower? Don't think I haven't noticed you trying to pretend you're a flower, Kale. I hate you. I cannot stand you, Kale. Get out of my soup! You are literally stalking me, Kale. What's so great about you?! What do you have that collard greens don't have, Kale? I was perfectly fine before you waltzed in here, wreaking havoc on the vegetable world. You don't belong here, Kale! You sneaky devil. Get lost, Kale! You gutless monster. You are the worst thing that's ever happened to me, Kale. You're an animal. A psychopath. A threat. Scram, Kale. Watch your back. Watch. Your. Back. You God damn son of a bitch.
Fuck you. Oh you think you're so clever, trying to pass yourself off as a snack. But you're not a snack, Kale. You, are an impostor. I had Chick-fil-A today, Kale. And it was delicious. You're nothing more then an upgrade of seaweed, Kale. SEAWEED!!! Again, not a snack. A horrible smack in the face. You are a lifeless sea creature. You, are cabbage. You know what I love about cabbage? Nothing, Kale! Zero! It's like eating green water you sick fuck. There is a version of you called Rape Kale. Reeeeallll convenient Kale. You are disgusting. I pity you, Kale. You take advantage of people who don't know any better. All the hipsters at Whole Foods are confused by your unsubstantiated claims of being a chip. You're not a chip, Kale! Ya know what makes great chips?! POTATOES!!! They've been doing it for years and then you slither in here with your deceptive green and leafy ways. You dirty scoundrel. You are delusional. I've seen pictures of you pretending to be a salad but I know better, Kale. What the fuck are you, Kale?! A flower? Don't think I haven't noticed you trying to pretend you're a flower, Kale. I hate you. I cannot stand you, Kale. Get out of my soup! You are literally stalking me, Kale. What's so great about you?! What do you have that collard greens don't have, Kale? I was perfectly fine before you waltzed in here, wreaking havoc on the vegetable world. You don't belong here, Kale! You sneaky devil. Get lost, Kale! You gutless monster. You are the worst thing that's ever happened to me, Kale. You're an animal. A psychopath. A threat. Scram, Kale. Watch your back. Watch. Your. Back. You God damn son of a bitch.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
I'm Bad At This
Someone asked me today how often I update my blog. I responded, “Literally every day.” He then went to my blog and pointed out how horribly untrue my reply was. It was then that I realized that not only do I have no concept of time, but I’m also a terrible blogger. Let me walk you through a few things that are holding me back.
#1 Somehow I broke my wireless internet connection. I think we both know that I barely have a grasp of what the internet is and I certainly have no skill set for how to make its magical wonder reappear in my apartment. I did manage to put the cable in my lap top but I hate sitting at my desk so I basically just stopped updating my blog. Today I realized that you don’t need to write the blog on the internet, you just need to post it there. That entire process and then realization lasted about two weeks hence my lack of updates.
#2 As I said, I have no concept of time but I think it goes beyond that. I’m bad with numbers. I don’t really know the time period in which I broke and then slightly fixed my internet problem. I also have no idea what time it is right now, how much money I have in my checking account, what I spent on dinner or how old I am. I believe that numbers are holding us down and I refuse to participate in them. If I say I update my blog every day then I do God damnit!
#3 I’m afraid of computers. I don’t know what they do and when I begin to contemplate their possibilities I become terrified. My friend Mike recently suggested I add pictures and a background design to my blog and then slapped me in the face by sending me a sample of his blog which contained all sorts of things that enraged and confused me. I tried to explain to him that the only thing I know how to do is type. I’ve wanted to post pictures but I don’t own a camera nor do I have any awareness around where to get one or how to use it. Even if I did, I couldn’t possibly fathom the next step required to put those pictures on a computer, or as I call it, the technological death trap. Every time I want to do something on my blog, I gchat whoever I think is smart and tell them what I want.
I think that’s everything. I want you to know I’m going to try to do better. How about I just give my password to one of you and you make my blog better. Actually, if you can guess my password, the first picture I put up will be of you.
#1 Somehow I broke my wireless internet connection. I think we both know that I barely have a grasp of what the internet is and I certainly have no skill set for how to make its magical wonder reappear in my apartment. I did manage to put the cable in my lap top but I hate sitting at my desk so I basically just stopped updating my blog. Today I realized that you don’t need to write the blog on the internet, you just need to post it there. That entire process and then realization lasted about two weeks hence my lack of updates.
#2 As I said, I have no concept of time but I think it goes beyond that. I’m bad with numbers. I don’t really know the time period in which I broke and then slightly fixed my internet problem. I also have no idea what time it is right now, how much money I have in my checking account, what I spent on dinner or how old I am. I believe that numbers are holding us down and I refuse to participate in them. If I say I update my blog every day then I do God damnit!
#3 I’m afraid of computers. I don’t know what they do and when I begin to contemplate their possibilities I become terrified. My friend Mike recently suggested I add pictures and a background design to my blog and then slapped me in the face by sending me a sample of his blog which contained all sorts of things that enraged and confused me. I tried to explain to him that the only thing I know how to do is type. I’ve wanted to post pictures but I don’t own a camera nor do I have any awareness around where to get one or how to use it. Even if I did, I couldn’t possibly fathom the next step required to put those pictures on a computer, or as I call it, the technological death trap. Every time I want to do something on my blog, I gchat whoever I think is smart and tell them what I want.
I think that’s everything. I want you to know I’m going to try to do better. How about I just give my password to one of you and you make my blog better. Actually, if you can guess my password, the first picture I put up will be of you.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Reggie
Being friends with me isn’t fun for anyone. I’m loud, aggressive, unruly, and have spent the majority of my life in a blackout. It’s shocking that I have any friends at all…yet I do…loads of them…ok 7…minus my parents…5. I have 5 friends. No but seriously, I have a lot of friends. And I ask you, what is wrong with these people? Initially, I thought I’d take this opportunity to thank all of them for dealing with my constant insubordination but upon further review, I’m actually deeply concerned with their choices in comrades. Specifically, I’m concerned about my friend, Reggie. Reggie has known me for about 10 years and he has suffered a myriad of consequences, as a result. I recently screamed at Reggie for not reminding me that it was his birthday and he suggested that I write an entire story about him as his birthday gift. As you can see, Reggie is intensely selfish. Nonetheless, Reggie, this is for you.
I first met Reggie when I was living with 3 boys in Chicago. Like most formidable moments in my life, I remember none of this, however, Reggie claims he was in my bathroom one day and that I walked in and said, “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?” Seeing as Reggie didn’t live there, I find that to be a fair question but apparently he was dumbfounded. As noted earlier, he made the horrible decision to seek me out and be friends with me. Based on my hostile greeting, we can only assume that Reggie has deep-seeded emotional issues. There’s no other explanation for why he would continue to pursue a wretched shrew like me. Let’s all say it together…daddy issues.
I don’t fully recall the 2nd time I met Reggie. I just know he started dating my friend Josh and then he was around all the time. And he was constantly yelling at me for things I didn’t remember. Apparently, he had been stranded on the side of the road one day with my roommate Julius and when Julius called me for help I denied him and went back to the very serious business of making pot brownies. Again, this strikes me as perfectly reasonable. Why should I let these damn cookies burn because you forgot to put gas in your car? And furthermore, I didn’t even know Reggie yet but not a hangover went by that didn’t consist of Reggie screaming at me for leaving him on the side of the road like a brute.
As the years went on, Reggie tricked me into liking him. He’s crass, vulgar and judgmental which, are all the qualities I admire in a person. I liked Reggie so much that I would often call him in a blackout and invite him over to my house only to be fully passed out by the time he arrived forcing him to break into my apartments by way of neighbors, roommates and drug dealers, all of whom had keys to my abode.
The final blow was on one of my birthdays. I was very drunk and everyone knows that when I get loaded I start acting unreasonably. I maintain that everyone should have known better than to have my birthday party at my coke dealer's bar but those God damn clowns were relentless. On this particular night, I was feeling decidedly playful and opted to participate in one of my favorite drunken games entitled, “Circus Tricks.” Circus Tricks is a game where I get drunk and beat people up. On the night of my birthday party, it involved me running and jumping on Reggie only to catapult him in and through a glass table. Being the sneaky devil that I am, I lithely pounced away without being noticed, leaving Reggie alone in a pile of glass.
Somehow, this was not the end of our friendship. I suppose he had compassion for me as Circus Tricks typically results in me getting hurt as well. Literally all of my Circus Tricks have resulted in major injuries. Examples include fighting a newspaper stand and bruising my entire body, falling through a glass table and getting stitches, and jumping over a railroad track and breaking my leg. All of these incidents were precipitated by me attempting to run and jump on someone. It always struck me as hilarious at the time and no one ever complained because I was already in shambles. Did I ever tell you about the time I had a tie-dyed cast? It was awesome.
So on my birthday, as I stood in the corner laughing and barefoot for some reason, Reggie didn’t yell at me. He didn’t throw a drink in my face. He merely got up, shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the bar.
Overall, Reggie is a moron. Look at what I’ve put him through. As my final birthday wish, I hope you can get a grip on whatever demons you’re haunted by that lead you to pursue this tumultuous companionship. I love you Reggie and unless you’ve secretly been getting money this entire time from some non-profit that focuses on befriending drunken women, you’ve got real problems. Either way, happy birthday….you sicko.
I first met Reggie when I was living with 3 boys in Chicago. Like most formidable moments in my life, I remember none of this, however, Reggie claims he was in my bathroom one day and that I walked in and said, “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?” Seeing as Reggie didn’t live there, I find that to be a fair question but apparently he was dumbfounded. As noted earlier, he made the horrible decision to seek me out and be friends with me. Based on my hostile greeting, we can only assume that Reggie has deep-seeded emotional issues. There’s no other explanation for why he would continue to pursue a wretched shrew like me. Let’s all say it together…daddy issues.
I don’t fully recall the 2nd time I met Reggie. I just know he started dating my friend Josh and then he was around all the time. And he was constantly yelling at me for things I didn’t remember. Apparently, he had been stranded on the side of the road one day with my roommate Julius and when Julius called me for help I denied him and went back to the very serious business of making pot brownies. Again, this strikes me as perfectly reasonable. Why should I let these damn cookies burn because you forgot to put gas in your car? And furthermore, I didn’t even know Reggie yet but not a hangover went by that didn’t consist of Reggie screaming at me for leaving him on the side of the road like a brute.
As the years went on, Reggie tricked me into liking him. He’s crass, vulgar and judgmental which, are all the qualities I admire in a person. I liked Reggie so much that I would often call him in a blackout and invite him over to my house only to be fully passed out by the time he arrived forcing him to break into my apartments by way of neighbors, roommates and drug dealers, all of whom had keys to my abode.
The final blow was on one of my birthdays. I was very drunk and everyone knows that when I get loaded I start acting unreasonably. I maintain that everyone should have known better than to have my birthday party at my coke dealer's bar but those God damn clowns were relentless. On this particular night, I was feeling decidedly playful and opted to participate in one of my favorite drunken games entitled, “Circus Tricks.” Circus Tricks is a game where I get drunk and beat people up. On the night of my birthday party, it involved me running and jumping on Reggie only to catapult him in and through a glass table. Being the sneaky devil that I am, I lithely pounced away without being noticed, leaving Reggie alone in a pile of glass.
Somehow, this was not the end of our friendship. I suppose he had compassion for me as Circus Tricks typically results in me getting hurt as well. Literally all of my Circus Tricks have resulted in major injuries. Examples include fighting a newspaper stand and bruising my entire body, falling through a glass table and getting stitches, and jumping over a railroad track and breaking my leg. All of these incidents were precipitated by me attempting to run and jump on someone. It always struck me as hilarious at the time and no one ever complained because I was already in shambles. Did I ever tell you about the time I had a tie-dyed cast? It was awesome.
So on my birthday, as I stood in the corner laughing and barefoot for some reason, Reggie didn’t yell at me. He didn’t throw a drink in my face. He merely got up, shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the bar.
Overall, Reggie is a moron. Look at what I’ve put him through. As my final birthday wish, I hope you can get a grip on whatever demons you’re haunted by that lead you to pursue this tumultuous companionship. I love you Reggie and unless you’ve secretly been getting money this entire time from some non-profit that focuses on befriending drunken women, you’ve got real problems. Either way, happy birthday….you sicko.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Strangers
Ya know those posters or books that claim that everything we needed to learn we learned in kindergarten? While I don't find those claims to be so far off, I never learned the things you're supposed to learn in kindergarten. Or rather, I heard these rules, ignored them, and quickly moved on with my life -- a life where I don't share, I don't play fair, I've been known to hit people and mostly, I talk to strangers. All the time. This has always struck me as a pretty unreasonable rule. For starters, there's the obvious fact that if we didn't talk to strangers, none of us would have friends. Don’t most deep, long-lasting friendships begin with two strangers talking? And what about dating? I took this rule a step farther by not only talking to strangers, I went on to sleep with strangers. Loads of them. While sleeping with strangers typically backfired with a slew of STDs and pregnancy scares, talking with strangers has predominantly worked out for me.
One of my earliest memories with a “Stranger” was at a time when my well-intentioned parents took me to serve food at a homeless shelter. Even as an adorable 12 year old, I was willing to take things a step further than my parents could have ever anticipated. Not only did I want to serve food to these turkeys, I wanted to hang out for a while, share a meal, and possibly take them to a movie later. I believe this was a church outing, one of the few I've ever attended in my life. We drove from the predominately white, crispy clean suburbs, all the way to Joliet where we could find ourselves some hungry homeless people. This is one of those things that white people do to feel better about themselves. They drive to a homeless shelter that's not too far away so that they can still have time to come home and garden. They smile and nod at the homeless people. They shake hands through a plastic glove. Then, they all jump back into the church van and talk about how grateful they are to be white and have homes. Well, I wasn't buyin' it. I wanted in on this homeless organization and I wasn't going to leave until I could really figure these people out.
Luckily, I found myself a very eager and willing teacher named, "The Candyman." The Candyman was this HUGE black guy with the biggest, most crooked smile I had ever seen. If I remember correctly, his teeth looked like Chiclets, he wore huge 1980's plastic glasses and he walked with a cane. Oh, and he always had candy on him.... obviously, cause he was The Candyman. We were doing bits and I had never felt more comfortable. By the time my parents dragged me out of there and tried to explain to everyone why I was acting so peculiar, I started in on them. Why is it bad to hang out with The Candyman? Weren't we going there to help people? What do you mean dangerous? We were scooping gravy in a church basement, how bad could it be? The hypocrisy of all the church-goers really rawed my hide and it became evident that all future gatherings with strangers, like most other things in my life, were going to have to be done behind my parents’ backs. This was the day that my parents and I entered into a silent “don't ask, don't tell” policy and that policy has been in place ever since.
More recently, I came home from work to find a man in my dumpster. This is pretty standard in my neighborhood. We have an unlocked gate into our parking lot and at the back of our little driveway lies a dumpster. This is a treasure trove for homeless people. After I got out of my car, I realized that this man was full-on, inside the dumpster and when he saw me coming he queried, "Can you believe it’s going to be Christmas next week?" Now I was still trying to get my bearings cause I wasn't sure what this clown was up to and I had to be sure before we could chat. When I replied that no I couldn't believe that Christmas was next week he went on, "Well I guess it doesn't matter cause my whole family is dead." Well, now I was hooked. Partly because I wanted to know why his whole family was dead, partly because he sounded so chipper but mostly because I wanted to know what the happiest man in America was doing digging through my dumpster.
As it turns out, Anthony has been homeless for 2 years. He's addicted to crystal meth and he's shooting it but remains HIV negative... supposedly. He told me that he was digging through trash because his "aunt" is really hard up for money. Oddly, I believed this story. I believed that meth-head Anthony wants to recycle a few plastic bottles so he can give his aunt the 35 cents. Also, Anthony really had me because if there's one breed of person that I love more than strangers, it drug-addicted strangers. They are my favorite people. There is nothing more predictable in the world than the behavior of a drug addict but they always think they're being so clever. At the end of my conversation with Anthony, I had given him my phone number, a roll of quarters to call me and a pack of cigs. Obviously, Anthony never called. Worst case scenario, he used my $10 worth of quarters to buy drugs, best case scenario he used it to get an HIV test.
On my ride home from work the other day, I saw Anthony crossing the street. I wanted to stop to say something but now that we actually knew each other, it was kind of awkward. I knew just enough about him now for him to feel judged whereas before, when I knew nothing, he was just a perfectly normal guy, digging through my trash. I guess that's the thing that I like about strangers. They're the perfect person at the perfect moment and they teach you something and then go away. In Anthony’s case, he taught me that if you shoot crystal meth you’ll end up living in a dumpster. What if all the homeless people are angels? It seems unlikely that angels would be meth heads, and big scary men named The Candyman. But what if our horrible kindergarten teachers got it wrong? What if we're supposed to be talking to strangers? I'll tell you what. If I ever end up balls deep in a trash can, I'd want you to talk to me.
One of my earliest memories with a “Stranger” was at a time when my well-intentioned parents took me to serve food at a homeless shelter. Even as an adorable 12 year old, I was willing to take things a step further than my parents could have ever anticipated. Not only did I want to serve food to these turkeys, I wanted to hang out for a while, share a meal, and possibly take them to a movie later. I believe this was a church outing, one of the few I've ever attended in my life. We drove from the predominately white, crispy clean suburbs, all the way to Joliet where we could find ourselves some hungry homeless people. This is one of those things that white people do to feel better about themselves. They drive to a homeless shelter that's not too far away so that they can still have time to come home and garden. They smile and nod at the homeless people. They shake hands through a plastic glove. Then, they all jump back into the church van and talk about how grateful they are to be white and have homes. Well, I wasn't buyin' it. I wanted in on this homeless organization and I wasn't going to leave until I could really figure these people out.
Luckily, I found myself a very eager and willing teacher named, "The Candyman." The Candyman was this HUGE black guy with the biggest, most crooked smile I had ever seen. If I remember correctly, his teeth looked like Chiclets, he wore huge 1980's plastic glasses and he walked with a cane. Oh, and he always had candy on him.... obviously, cause he was The Candyman. We were doing bits and I had never felt more comfortable. By the time my parents dragged me out of there and tried to explain to everyone why I was acting so peculiar, I started in on them. Why is it bad to hang out with The Candyman? Weren't we going there to help people? What do you mean dangerous? We were scooping gravy in a church basement, how bad could it be? The hypocrisy of all the church-goers really rawed my hide and it became evident that all future gatherings with strangers, like most other things in my life, were going to have to be done behind my parents’ backs. This was the day that my parents and I entered into a silent “don't ask, don't tell” policy and that policy has been in place ever since.
More recently, I came home from work to find a man in my dumpster. This is pretty standard in my neighborhood. We have an unlocked gate into our parking lot and at the back of our little driveway lies a dumpster. This is a treasure trove for homeless people. After I got out of my car, I realized that this man was full-on, inside the dumpster and when he saw me coming he queried, "Can you believe it’s going to be Christmas next week?" Now I was still trying to get my bearings cause I wasn't sure what this clown was up to and I had to be sure before we could chat. When I replied that no I couldn't believe that Christmas was next week he went on, "Well I guess it doesn't matter cause my whole family is dead." Well, now I was hooked. Partly because I wanted to know why his whole family was dead, partly because he sounded so chipper but mostly because I wanted to know what the happiest man in America was doing digging through my dumpster.
As it turns out, Anthony has been homeless for 2 years. He's addicted to crystal meth and he's shooting it but remains HIV negative... supposedly. He told me that he was digging through trash because his "aunt" is really hard up for money. Oddly, I believed this story. I believed that meth-head Anthony wants to recycle a few plastic bottles so he can give his aunt the 35 cents. Also, Anthony really had me because if there's one breed of person that I love more than strangers, it drug-addicted strangers. They are my favorite people. There is nothing more predictable in the world than the behavior of a drug addict but they always think they're being so clever. At the end of my conversation with Anthony, I had given him my phone number, a roll of quarters to call me and a pack of cigs. Obviously, Anthony never called. Worst case scenario, he used my $10 worth of quarters to buy drugs, best case scenario he used it to get an HIV test.
On my ride home from work the other day, I saw Anthony crossing the street. I wanted to stop to say something but now that we actually knew each other, it was kind of awkward. I knew just enough about him now for him to feel judged whereas before, when I knew nothing, he was just a perfectly normal guy, digging through my trash. I guess that's the thing that I like about strangers. They're the perfect person at the perfect moment and they teach you something and then go away. In Anthony’s case, he taught me that if you shoot crystal meth you’ll end up living in a dumpster. What if all the homeless people are angels? It seems unlikely that angels would be meth heads, and big scary men named The Candyman. But what if our horrible kindergarten teachers got it wrong? What if we're supposed to be talking to strangers? I'll tell you what. If I ever end up balls deep in a trash can, I'd want you to talk to me.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Poverty Is Boring...
It should be noted that my trip to Thailand and the story that followed are what precipitated my desire to have a blog. I think it's only fair to share that story here. Good luck.
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Many of you were doubtful when I announced that I’d be visiting Thailand and Cambodia. In this case, you’ll be shocked to know that I write this note from Pattaya, Thailand. I have not, nor will I make it to Cambodia. I attribute this to Josh’s understanding that I would have likely died there. Truth be told, I’m not doing all that well adjusting to Thailand. I forced Josh to let me eat at Sizzler today. It was delicious.
I knew very little about Thailand when I boarded my flight at LAX mere days ago. Actually, I had never done any research at all. As I settled into my Cathay Pacific flight, I heard the pilot announce that our trip to Hong Kong alone would be 15 hours. This was a real slap in the face. I had never put any actual thought into how long my flight would take but I did know that this sounded aggressive. I looked around the plane waiting to identify some other white person who was just as horrified as I was by this news. Instead, I was faced with a sea of Asians and crying babies. This would become a theme on my journey. I was often confused and people around me seemed to think that everything was perfectly reasonable.
For instance, when I landed in Hong Kong I ordered a cappuccino and then received a bill for $55. I was outraged. After like 45 minutes, I realized they meant 55 Hong Kong dollars. I still had no idea what that meant and opted to just hand the cashier my wallet so that she could grab what she needed. I did this a lot. I still have no idea how much anything is or how much I’m spending which quite frankly isn’t all that different from me in LA.
When I arrived in Bangkok, Josh was not at the gate and I had zero back up plan. I just assumed he’d be there to greet me. I froze there for a while until some man in a uniform asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. That seemed like a pretty reasonable solution so I did that for a while, an hour to be exact. Luckily, it did eventually occur to me that I still hadn’t found Josh and that I was in Bangkok. I finally decided to walk about 50 feet further than where I was and that is where I found Josh who had been there the entire time but hadn’t been able to get through security.
With Josh on my arm, I quickly got used to people assuming we were married. It seems that if you check into hotels and resorts with a man and a king bed, people jump to conclusions. I thought about explaining that Josh was my gay best friend and that we like to cuddle but it was pretty clear that no one spoke enough English to understand full sentences which eventually led to me just screaming words and pointing at things. It was a big game of charades. Check! Marlboro Reds! Gay! Even the ATMs don’t speak English. My options for whether or not I wanted a receipt were Want or No Want. Idiots.
Sidenote: All the cig packages here have horrifying pictures on them. Face growths and yellow teeth decorate each pack. I finally found one that wasn’t as upsetting to me and I took to asking for a pack of Marlb Reds with the picture of the man blowing smoke into a baby’s face.
The first night, we went to the most expensive restaurant in the city and I began to think that slumming it wasn’t so bad. Little did I know that this would not be the norm. Josh is real hip to eating street food and I took to eating bread only. It was terrifying. Unless the restaurant had a white table cloth, I was not having it. Bangkok streets smell horrible and I couldn’t understand why you would want to eat like a homeless person. That is until I understood that literally everyone is homeless...or poor...Whatever, I hated it.
I was totally trusting of Josh on this trip which often led to me almost dying. Like the time he tricked me into eating street food that he said he got from a restaurant we had been to. Or the time he allowed a stranger to drive us to a sex show which ended up being a few prostitutes at a VFW. Or the time he had us following some gangster looking Thai man down a dark alley. Or last night when he said we were going on a cruise but it ended up being a non-moving, roach infested wagon in the middle of the sea. Of course I never learned my lesson yet somehow I’m still alive.
It’s very hard to be VIP here. The bus which I typically consider to be homeless fare is literally just a pick up truck with 2 benches in the back. My other options for transport would be a tuk tuk (wagon) a moto (death trap) or a supposedly regular taxi (they’re pink and they smell like curry). Last night I rode on a cart attached to a motorcycle that was covered with blue x-mas lights.
Everyone bows here which I find to be alarming. Each time someone bows at me I find that I’m holding something or lighting a cig and I’ve taken to doing a one handed bow which I’m pretty sure everyone hates. Its not my fault that they keep catching me off guard.
Also, there are a ton of massage places here but when I asked for a mani/pedi these Asians had a total meltdown. They wanted the business but they weren’t sure what I was asking. It took 2 of these geniuses to finally get my nails painted and they ended up essentially tearing my toe nails off in the process. At the end of the day, I considered it a wash cause they were eating something that looked delicious and I found out it was street food. As usual I couldn’t communicate so I eventually just pointed and said, “gimmie it” and they did. I had knowingly eaten street food and I felt pretty accomplished. I did manage to get a massage in. In Thailand, a massage basically consists of some Asian broad crawling all over you for an hour and then they tell you to shower. Not all that different from every sexual experience I’ve ever had except replace the Asian woman with a frightened man and add crying.
Oh by the way, I keep getting bitten by mosquitoes which means I probably have malaria. No big deal.
Pattaya is crawling with prostitutes, which I chose to avoid. I did get some action each night when Josh would attack me in his sleep. By the 3rd day, we built a pillow barrier so that he would leave me alone. He claims he’s doing it on accident but I’m pretty sure he’s into me.
Thailand is not good for the ego if you’re a chubby white American. All these men want are Asians and they’re willing to pay up to $8 to get it. Its horrifying and I’ve taken to refusing to leave our resort which in the end didn’t really work. I was in the pool today and a 4 yr old Asian boy was playing near the water. He threw a ball in, I went to throw it back, and he started screaming bloody murder. Josh has taken to calling me the Big Scary Sea Monster. It’s lovely. The one night Josh and I tried to go out and score some action, I found myself at a Russian Hookah bar. Everyone was so wasted and Josh kept pointing out potentially cute guys. I felt dirty just looking and eventually resolved to eliminate the nightly pillow barrier between Josh and I.
Josh is currently napping which we do every day. When he wakes up, I’ll try to trick him into ordering room service and he’ll try to trick me into eating street food. We have big plans to walk down the beach tonight, ride elephants tomorrow and then go back to Bangkok. Basically, if I make it through the next 48 hrs, I will have successfully completed my first trip to Southeast Asia. I plan to never come beaeeacck.
***************************************************************************
Many of you were doubtful when I announced that I’d be visiting Thailand and Cambodia. In this case, you’ll be shocked to know that I write this note from Pattaya, Thailand. I have not, nor will I make it to Cambodia. I attribute this to Josh’s understanding that I would have likely died there. Truth be told, I’m not doing all that well adjusting to Thailand. I forced Josh to let me eat at Sizzler today. It was delicious.
I knew very little about Thailand when I boarded my flight at LAX mere days ago. Actually, I had never done any research at all. As I settled into my Cathay Pacific flight, I heard the pilot announce that our trip to Hong Kong alone would be 15 hours. This was a real slap in the face. I had never put any actual thought into how long my flight would take but I did know that this sounded aggressive. I looked around the plane waiting to identify some other white person who was just as horrified as I was by this news. Instead, I was faced with a sea of Asians and crying babies. This would become a theme on my journey. I was often confused and people around me seemed to think that everything was perfectly reasonable.
For instance, when I landed in Hong Kong I ordered a cappuccino and then received a bill for $55. I was outraged. After like 45 minutes, I realized they meant 55 Hong Kong dollars. I still had no idea what that meant and opted to just hand the cashier my wallet so that she could grab what she needed. I did this a lot. I still have no idea how much anything is or how much I’m spending which quite frankly isn’t all that different from me in LA.
When I arrived in Bangkok, Josh was not at the gate and I had zero back up plan. I just assumed he’d be there to greet me. I froze there for a while until some man in a uniform asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. That seemed like a pretty reasonable solution so I did that for a while, an hour to be exact. Luckily, it did eventually occur to me that I still hadn’t found Josh and that I was in Bangkok. I finally decided to walk about 50 feet further than where I was and that is where I found Josh who had been there the entire time but hadn’t been able to get through security.
With Josh on my arm, I quickly got used to people assuming we were married. It seems that if you check into hotels and resorts with a man and a king bed, people jump to conclusions. I thought about explaining that Josh was my gay best friend and that we like to cuddle but it was pretty clear that no one spoke enough English to understand full sentences which eventually led to me just screaming words and pointing at things. It was a big game of charades. Check! Marlboro Reds! Gay! Even the ATMs don’t speak English. My options for whether or not I wanted a receipt were Want or No Want. Idiots.
Sidenote: All the cig packages here have horrifying pictures on them. Face growths and yellow teeth decorate each pack. I finally found one that wasn’t as upsetting to me and I took to asking for a pack of Marlb Reds with the picture of the man blowing smoke into a baby’s face.
The first night, we went to the most expensive restaurant in the city and I began to think that slumming it wasn’t so bad. Little did I know that this would not be the norm. Josh is real hip to eating street food and I took to eating bread only. It was terrifying. Unless the restaurant had a white table cloth, I was not having it. Bangkok streets smell horrible and I couldn’t understand why you would want to eat like a homeless person. That is until I understood that literally everyone is homeless...or poor...Whatever, I hated it.
I was totally trusting of Josh on this trip which often led to me almost dying. Like the time he tricked me into eating street food that he said he got from a restaurant we had been to. Or the time he allowed a stranger to drive us to a sex show which ended up being a few prostitutes at a VFW. Or the time he had us following some gangster looking Thai man down a dark alley. Or last night when he said we were going on a cruise but it ended up being a non-moving, roach infested wagon in the middle of the sea. Of course I never learned my lesson yet somehow I’m still alive.
It’s very hard to be VIP here. The bus which I typically consider to be homeless fare is literally just a pick up truck with 2 benches in the back. My other options for transport would be a tuk tuk (wagon) a moto (death trap) or a supposedly regular taxi (they’re pink and they smell like curry). Last night I rode on a cart attached to a motorcycle that was covered with blue x-mas lights.
Everyone bows here which I find to be alarming. Each time someone bows at me I find that I’m holding something or lighting a cig and I’ve taken to doing a one handed bow which I’m pretty sure everyone hates. Its not my fault that they keep catching me off guard.
Also, there are a ton of massage places here but when I asked for a mani/pedi these Asians had a total meltdown. They wanted the business but they weren’t sure what I was asking. It took 2 of these geniuses to finally get my nails painted and they ended up essentially tearing my toe nails off in the process. At the end of the day, I considered it a wash cause they were eating something that looked delicious and I found out it was street food. As usual I couldn’t communicate so I eventually just pointed and said, “gimmie it” and they did. I had knowingly eaten street food and I felt pretty accomplished. I did manage to get a massage in. In Thailand, a massage basically consists of some Asian broad crawling all over you for an hour and then they tell you to shower. Not all that different from every sexual experience I’ve ever had except replace the Asian woman with a frightened man and add crying.
Oh by the way, I keep getting bitten by mosquitoes which means I probably have malaria. No big deal.
Pattaya is crawling with prostitutes, which I chose to avoid. I did get some action each night when Josh would attack me in his sleep. By the 3rd day, we built a pillow barrier so that he would leave me alone. He claims he’s doing it on accident but I’m pretty sure he’s into me.
Thailand is not good for the ego if you’re a chubby white American. All these men want are Asians and they’re willing to pay up to $8 to get it. Its horrifying and I’ve taken to refusing to leave our resort which in the end didn’t really work. I was in the pool today and a 4 yr old Asian boy was playing near the water. He threw a ball in, I went to throw it back, and he started screaming bloody murder. Josh has taken to calling me the Big Scary Sea Monster. It’s lovely. The one night Josh and I tried to go out and score some action, I found myself at a Russian Hookah bar. Everyone was so wasted and Josh kept pointing out potentially cute guys. I felt dirty just looking and eventually resolved to eliminate the nightly pillow barrier between Josh and I.
Josh is currently napping which we do every day. When he wakes up, I’ll try to trick him into ordering room service and he’ll try to trick me into eating street food. We have big plans to walk down the beach tonight, ride elephants tomorrow and then go back to Bangkok. Basically, if I make it through the next 48 hrs, I will have successfully completed my first trip to Southeast Asia. I plan to never come beaeeacck.
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