Lonely, Pathetic

One in a Thousand

I am going to a wedding tonight. I forgot I was going to this wedding until yesterday, and I have a guest in town. I feel … bad? I feel fine. I feel as though if I hadn’t been going to visit people, having people visit and shit I would feel guilty, but I’ve done my good deed. Hanging out is a deed.

We went to a restaurant yesterday where a teenager had booked a spot to play his guitar and sing a couple octaves higher than he could and flatter than the chests of his not yet developed groupies. There was a large crowd there to watch him play. None of them were there to see him play. They were all there because this was an excuse to hang out. This was the excuse they could give their parents to be out of the house, to see other people their age. They couldn’t just go somewhere to chill. They couldn’t just get a call from their friend and be like: “My porch 10 minutes.” They had to go see their awful friend whine into a microphone.

I don’t miss being a teenager.

There was one kid there who accidentally got invited during science class. It’s a public area and it’s a kid’s “show” so nobody can kick him out. He doesn’t really have any friends so he doesn’t know that he could just leave and no one would care. He sits awkwardly at the bar waiting until this is done and he can go home and he can think he socialized so that he can pretend he’s not as pathetic as he knows he is.

I still find myself doing that sometimes. I still find myself sitting at a bar with people I don’t know and really don’t like – forcing myself to sit through the night hoping this is the night where something interesting happens. 99.9% of the time I’m wrong and I’ve made myself more lonely than I was before, but on that .1% of the time that I have a misadventure: I have a misadventure.

This is so terribly written so far. I haven’t edited a single sentence, but I also care so little about what I’m writing that I don’t want to read it again. I feel like this is so obvious – this is an obvious way to live life: To go against my desires to sit on my couch playing NBA2K10 while eating sandwiches and chips and instead hope for the 1 out of 1000 chance that my life provides me with interesting things.

Maybe this wedding will be interesting. I doubt it. I also have to wake up at 6:00am tomorrow for work. This wedding is gonna suck, but I really have to go and play the lonely-lottery.

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Lonely, My favorites

Feel My Ass

Coming back to NYC after a week away really makes you realize how much it smells like pee, and how much the smell of urine has become a smell of home.

Some middle school friend of a friend found us at a bar and demanded/exclaimed “Beyond any sexual fantasy anyone might have, feel my ass.” I want that to symbolize the trip so here’s my attempt at forcing some shitdrivel.

I sit on the subway writing this as the R train screams slowly down the tracks. Two people have been forced to plug their ears out of pain. At home a British friend who is visiting has accidentally fallen asleep on my roommates bed making me feel guilty for forcing her into our home but also for how disgusting  my bed is – therefore not making it a viable option to rest one’s head in unless that head is filled with the self obsessed ramblings  of a lazy neurotic. New York smells like urine, remember.

Charlotte was full of friends, parents who tried to force kindess on me in a way that made me so comfortable I couldn’t feel uncomfortable (that sentence is profound not stupid – you’re stupid) and it was cheap and fun.

New York has always been and still is my fantasy. Partially this is because only here can I hone my comedic skills so often and for so many people, but partially because my fantasies include the romanticized idea of filth – of the struggling artists with morals but no means. When we fantasize, sexually, we fantasize about body parts all over but one of those is typically the ass. I love a good ass. The ass is also a thing that has been referred to by my dad as “the shit factory.” The ass  is gross, but that’s part of the fantasy. We may not want to believe tat poop factors into our masturbation habits, but we like to be so sexually and emotionally connected that we are willing to get down with the dirtiest part of the person. It is beyond our sexual fantasies – feel my ass.

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Lonely, My favorites

How Sports Learned me Geography, and how they’re ruining names

I collected basketball cards as a kid. I also collected baseball cards as a kid. I also had no friends as a kid. These little glossy photos became my friend substitutes – my “I can’t believe they’re not friends!” When i hung out and played games it was with Tim Hardaway, Byron Russell, Fred McGriff, and Wade Boggs. One of the games I would often play involved splitting up players and battling their statistics against each other. I would create juvenile efficiency ratings and weight positions differently in my attempts to determine which of my made up teams would win in this fantasy battle of bball. One method I used often was to split up players based on the geographic area of their team. This way I could have a team of Jason Kidd (First Mavs run), Clyde Drexler (of Houston), Jamal Mashburn, David Robinson and Hakeem Olajowon battle it out against the Northeast powerhouse of Sam Cassell (Nets), Allan Houston, Jerry Stackhouse, Antoine Walker, and Patrick Ewing. I was soon organizing the players on the imaginary map that covered my floor.

In college a friend challenged me to draw a map of the US by memory on a whiteboard. To my surprise I did it well and it was thanks to basketball cards. I also knew the cities of these states and I knew what these cities meant – who lived in these places. I knew Atlanta was full of birds of prey (Falcons, Hawks), and that Baltimore was the pussy-ass version of that (Ravens, Orioles). The middle of Texas was still the old west (Cowboys, Mavericks, Spurs, and Stars) and Phoenix was in the middle of the desert (Diamondbacks, Suns, Coyotes). Houston was where space was born (Astros, Rockets), Detroit had cars (Pistons, Red Wings), and Boston had defunct sects of humans that were anachronistically placed in modern times (Bruins, Celtics, Patriots).

Teams keep being formed, but with the explosion of the internet comes the opportunity for poorly done democracy in the naming process. This form of naming (polling internetians) kills the team owners power in forming children’s opinions of cities. This can be good or bad. I assumed that the Bay Area was a magical world of warring ancient gangs (Raiders, Warriors, Kings, Giants, Athletics) which wasn’t so far off, and I thought Chicago was either overrun by large animals or where Wall St. existed (Bulls, Bears, Cubs) which was very far off. Now branding of our cities is left to the lonely teenagers who spend too much time on the internet, and I would not have been creative at that time.

I learned that DC had lots of murders because the Bullets claimed it as their home, but in 1998 they asked the city to come up with a less violent name and the fans chose “The Wizards.” There is nothing magical about that city except for how fantastically slow it takes to pass legislation (WHOA!!!! BAM!). This isn’t fair, kids shouldn’t grow up thinking that there are magicians in our capital, or that Oklahoma is a constant lightening storm, or that massive jungle cats roam the streets of Charlotte (Bobcats, Panthers), or that Tennesseans are a race of powerful gods (Titans), or that Minnesota is full of people who confuse adjectives and nouns (Wild). Or maybe they should. Maybe this is the fun of democracy is that we still must listen to our stupidest members.

One thing is for sure, we should demand that teams change names when they change cities. I was full of misconceptions growing up thinking LA was the land of a thousand lakes (Lakers) or that Utah had any black people (Jazz).

Change is good, I guess I like it, but we can’t be satisfied with the fact that we changed once. We started renaming teams, great, we used democracy (sort of), great, let’s get better names, let’s educate our lonely teenagers so they vote for cooler names and let’s name teams after very prevalent and possibly less interesting things in each city.

New Team Names:

The Boston Drunks, New York Snobs,  The Miami Skin Cancer, The New Orleans People Who Should Move, The Dallas Secessionists, The Phoenix Racists, The Los Angeles Fake Boobs, The Philadelphia Unnecessary Anger, The Seattle People Who Miss Nirvana Because it Made Their City Seem Relevant, and The Detroit (This Name for Sale).

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Hungry, Socialism

Pinkowich

In middle school I loved Subway. It was the only chain restaurant that I was allowed to go to and I enjoyed the fuck out of it so much that it was incapable of an erection – it could no longer fuck, it makes sense, shut up. Subway was so good because it offered the opportunity to put whatever vegetables I wanted into the most amazing invention using sliced bread.

When I was in 7th grade they did away with the triangle cut. The triangle cut was the way Subway operated. They cut a triangle out of the bread, put all the ingredients in the new hole and then put the bread back on top for you to eat or discard or eat and discard. They moved to a method where they boringly sliced through the middle.

This is when I first realized that I hated capitalism.

It didn’t matter how many sauces they added to their menu – how many condiments I got to choose from, it mattered that they had resorted to a much worse method of sandwich making because it was cheaper, it was easier, and it was cheaper. Cheap. Fuck cheap. I would pay an extra dollar for a triangle cut. I want a good sandwich, but this wasn’t about what I wanted. This was about what they wanted – the ungrateful, stupid public. Fuck the public. If you like the way you make a sandwich, make it that way.

I had Subway yesterday and I liked it, but it would have been better with a triangle cut. I try to not eat as subway as often as possible, I used to try to eat at subway as often as possible.

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