Swimming in Money in My Pool Made of Gold

I hate that I am awake in the middle of the night. It's ridiculous. I was asleep; now I am awake. I used to be a terrific sleeper. It's really always been a strong point in my repertoire, ranking probably...first, I guess. Now I'm all washed up. A hack. I've even bragged about my ability to fall asleep quickly and remain dead to the world until I must wake up. I have said, several times, "I just don't understand how anyone can be an insomniac! I mean, how do you do that and not go nuts?" Well, the answer is that insomniacs probably do go nuts. I don't know. I've never asked. And, look, I am not an insomniac. I just dabble in it.

Only lately have I been unable to sleep well, and I can only remember one time that I couldn't sleep as a kid. I had a radio which was also a night light. It had a mouse sitting on a moon, and there were stars, and a yellow light shone from behind them. I wish I could find a picture, but it's probably nowhere, now. "Dreaming of You" by Selena came on the radio and I was deeply moved, and I stared at the little moon and stars and the mouse for what felt like hours, but was probably more like minutes. (Update: my mother was insulted that I could even imagine that she didn't still have this nightlight. She has it...somewhere...she thinks.)

And in addition to this sleeping thing, I've developed ringing in my ears. It's not really ringing, I suppose, it's a faint high-pitched noise that I hear when I am in a silent room. Everyone knows how much I love silent rooms, usually, but lately silence drives me crazy, because it doesn't exist! I'm not saying I'd rather be in a room where people are talking about nonsense loudly, or making food noises or, god forbid, whistling, but this noise in my head has got to go.

Let's see. What else would I like to complain about? I guess that's it. Now I will move on to the good news, which is that I quit my job. I don't have another one or anything, but two Fridays ago, after months (really...months) of contemplation, I gave my notice. You might say, "Yikes, in this economy, while living in the most expensive city of all time in the history of the world?" To that I say, "Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence." I'm not saying I'm not nervous about it. I'm very nervous about it. But, you know, I'm just kind of a nervous person in general, but as of Friday I will be a nervous person without a job that stresses me out and is not right for me. I'm 23. I should be going wild...setting shit on fire...tearing shit up. Not literally, about the shit. The proverbial shit. The shit the man puts in my way! To bring me down!

I'm not sure what I will do next. Probably finish writing that book and immediately sell it and it'll come out and everyone will be like, "WHAT? GIVE ME THAT BOOK! I WANT TO BUY IT! TEN COPIES! HARDCOVER!" and people will wait in crazy lines*, and they'll be dressed up as, I don't know what. I guess one of two of my characters who are just kind of normal guys. Yes, everyone in the line will be wearing just some jeans and a t-shirt, but maybe some of them will be kind of mixed-up types, so they'll also have some dumb fake scar on their foreheads, or wands or something. People just like to line up and dress up, and I will let them do it, because I'll be swimming in money, in my pool made of gold. New money, though...most money in circulation is lousy with poop and cocaine.


*When I worked at Hastings Music and Books as a teenager, we once stayed open late for the release of one of the Harry Potter books and most of the people there who weren't children were, pardon my French, fucking weird.

Natalie Portman, Dirty Rap

One of my greatest friends, John Warren, sent me an email the other night, the subject of which was an interview of Natalie Portman. It was conducted by Jake Gyllenhaal, but that is not important, and since his last name is so hard to spell, I won't take up any more time mentioning him. The unimportant interviewer asked Ms. Portman about the music she likes. Here's what she said:

PORTMAN: [laughs] I don’t know. I’ve mostly been listening to dirty rap lately. That’s sort of my scene. Really, really obscene hip-hop. I love it so much. It makes me laugh and then it makes me want to dance. Those are like my two favorite things, so combined . . . I’ve been listening a lot lately to “Wait (The Whisper Song)” by the Ying Yang Twins, where the lyrics are like, “Wait ’til you see my dick”—which is just amazing because it’s whispered. [whispers] “Wait ’til you see my dick . . . ” [laughs] Crazy. So I just listen to it like I’m a five-year-old, like, “Oh my god! I can’t believe he just said that!”

I share this affection for offensive rap, and Natalie Portman, of all people, illustrated the exact reason I love it. The song she mentions is one of my very favorite songs for the purposes of giggling, but also, I genuinely enjoy it. Ying Yang Twins are the perfect vehicle for these sorts of songs. Their big hit of 2000 was "Whistle While You Twurk", and I loved it, despite my deep and primal hate of whistling. Also, I don't know what "twurking" is, but I can guess. Master P is another good one. Nelly will often do quite well. Ol' Dirty Bastard (rest his soul) was a wonder.

In any case, I feel a bit cooler for having something in common with Natalie Portman, who is universally thought of as one of the coolest people on the planet. Literally, literally, everyone, everywhere, thinks so.

The Saga of Sleepy Frownin' Jodes

In my two decades (plus change) on this earth, I have learned that time goes quickly if you're doing something. Whether this is having fun or entering data into Excel spreadsheets, it does not matter. All that matters is that you are too busy to look at the clock every two minutes and think, "That's it? Only two minutes has passed since I looked at the clock what seemed like nine hours ago?!" and if you're me, that pisses you off. The work that I do has become easier with every day that I trim the fat and effectively organize (I'm not trying to brag...I'm just pretty sweet at administrating an office), and this work was very easy to begin with, human element excepted.

Two or three hours into my workday, I usually find myself staring at my computer screen, having looked at the entire Internet, making my fingers into a gun and pointing it at my head. Don't worry, it's not loaded, and I don't believe in suicide. Still: how is it only six o'fucking clock?

I decided that I might as well write a blog. I know I haven't done it in awhile. It's not that I've had nothing to say, or that I've been too busy, it's that every time I have cracked the ol' knucks and given it a go, I have drawn blanks left and right. In other news, I finished writing a novel. Just kidding, I didn't do that either.

So, let's see. What's new? Well, I moved again. I've lived in New York for less than three years and I have lived in four different apartments. This was an exciting one, not only because it's the first apartment where I don't have to rely on the G as my only train (don't worry...the G is still around. I just don't ever have to take it ever again if I don't want, thankfully), but also because I moved in with the fella. We're shacking up. Living in sin. Cohabiting. It's pretty awesome. We have a lot of laughs, and both Vince and Jesse seem to love what I've done with the bathroom.


NOT! I would run with that wonderful theme, but unfortunately, it wouldn't go with the portrait of Eric Bischoff that is hanging in front of the toilet. This is not a joke.


What else? What else besides that? I started jogging, for one. A week ago. I'm not really one for sticking with things. I've had a lot of hobbies in my life, a lot of discarded ambitions. And, I'm one of the least athletic people I know. In my school days, I played almost every sport I could, and never became good at any of them. Mostly because I was just doing it because my pals were doing it, and mostly because I never paid attention when I was supposed to be learning the rules. I was usually looking at all of the other kids, looking around the gym, digging at the dirt with the toe of my shoe, hoping I wouldn't totally suck when it was time to actually play. Also, though, I'm just not physically graceful. Everyday living leaves me bruised. I run into things. I smack my hands on tables because I'm flopping them around too much. These things really happen.

This makes the choice to take up jogging a curious one. I decided I needed to start exercising because of all of the mopey shit (I think it's called...depression? Does that sound right?) I'm always up to. So far, it's been pretty cool. I enlisted the help of Vincent to wake me up in the morning and make me stick to it, which is an extremely tall order. He's a saint for challenging the beast known as "Sleepy Frownin' Jodes," who is my morningtime alter-ego.

The first day I shuffled very slowly, for a very short amount of time, and had to practically crawl up the stairs to my apartment, only to feel like I was going to barf everywhere. And then I barfed everywhere. Ok, not everywhere, but I did barf. Each day after has gotten better, and though I'm only a week in, I find myself looking forward to it. We'll see.

Lastly, I would like to call to your attention the blog of my favorite (and not just because he's my only) little brother's blog. It's called Tyler's Week in Review, and it's genuinely funny. I'm constantly amazed at how this tiny little baby I used to hold is now taller than me and a burgeoning young writer. So please, check it out and tell him how cool he is.

Where's Susan?

It's Sunday and it's seven a.m. and I've been up for quite a few minutes. This is fine now, because the weather is nice and it always feels good to get a jump on the old day. Later, though, I will be yawning and rubbing my eyes like a child. I'll need to don a sleeping cap and my eye-mask and hop into bed no later than eight p.m.! Eight p.m., can you imagine it? How embarrassing! How dreadful! How unlikely! It will never happen. I can most usually be seen howling at the moon all night long, going nuts, partying until the sun comes up.

Last Monday was my birthday, and I spent it well. I'm not too keen on birthdays, to be honest. It's not that I'm sad about growing older. I'm aware that the transition from twenty-two to twenty-three is nothing special or impressive. I like celebrating the birthdays of others, and I remember a time when I was stoked on my own, but it's been awhile. I wonder when the switch happened. Probably the year that I had a sleep-over and we watched IT, because the film caused me to fear showering, and dirty is no way to enter a new year of life.

I think I just don't like the type of attention birthdays bring. It embarrasses me. While I'm sure it's not as visible as I think it is, I get awkward and shifty about the whole thing. And also, I didn't really do anything on that June 1st two decades ago. My mom did all of the work. She walked around the hospital corridors alone and tried not to barf while the big, fat, sweaty nurse with major body odor took blood and things in a tiny, June-hot room. While my heart feels squeezed when I think of that, it really was the most appropriate way for a difficult person like myself to arrive, and here I am, still.

So, I took off work Monday and hung out at Central Park. I snagged an epic spot and read a bit of P.G. Wodehouse. I also got a hair cut, used FAO Schwarz for their nice bathroom and ended up looking at all kinds of toys, and then ate Shake Shack for the first time. It was delicious and only made better by Tim Robbins being in line ahead of us. Vince noticed first and said, "Shawshank Redemption guy?" and I said, "Huh?" and he said, "In line ahead of us," and I said, "WHERE'S SUSAN!?!?" At least, that's how I remember the conversation.

I really love seeing celebrities, if we're being honest. Not so much because of who they are, but because of how people, myself included, react to them. Once while I was enjoying some alcohol with Chelsea, I thought I saw Darrell Hammond. He's not exactly on the top of his game or anything, but I was still young and excitable.

I nudged Chelsea and said, "Chelsea...CHELSEA....don't....look....now.....but Darrell Hammond is right over there!" She proceeded to look around and I scolded her, "Don't look like that, he'll see you!" When she spotted the person I was talking about, she laughed at me and said, "That is not Darrell Hammond." I meekly argued for thirty seconds before conceding that not only was it not Darrell Hammond, but also that it didn't look anything like him at all. I had jumped the celebrity spotting gun, and Chelsea continues to make fun of me for it to this day.


And apparently Hammond was in the film with the most Photoshopped DVD cover ever. Good for him.

Disgusting Mouth Noises

I assure you that it has not been weeks since my last post, it only feels like that, and only if you believe that time is real and measurable, and you don't believe all that, do you? Alright, alright. So it has been awhile, and the previous sentence was silly.

Nothing too exciting has happened in the past few weeks, I've just been battling with depression. This is not news, exactly, and let's not bring down the mood by dwelling on it, because that's what probably got me there in the first place. That and my brain, I suppose, but I'm not going to fault a bunch of gray matter. One thing I will say is that when I am depressed, or d. in the d. (down in the dumps), I feel drastically less creative than when I am just bummed, or annoyed, which is the typical state under which I operate.

This all makes me wonder about the stereotype of the dark, mentally ill artiste (artiste: "a person with artistic pretentions," moi, bien entendu), harnessing his/her manic thoughts into a masterpiece. When I am depressed, I mostly stare blankly and say, "I don't know...." a lot. Where is my creative prize for dealing with myself? I would like it. I would like it here, and I would like it now.

Enough about all that. Last weekend, Vince and I escaped the city on the illustrious L.I.R.R. and took a trip to Long Beach for some beach fun. Somewhere along the way, an old couple sat near us, and as soon as the woman unwrapped a few hard candies, I knew there would be trouble. And there was. Judging by the sounds coming from the mouths of these people, I can only assume that they were eating Warheads, or that neither of them had ever been taught how to eat. Everyone knows that I am not a fan of extraneous, intrusive noise, and food noises are very near the top of my List of Things I Hate. The smacking of lips and gross saliva sounds soon sent me over the edge. I gave Vince a look that he understood, and quickly took out my headphones and started listening to music.

Later, Vince told me that while I was busy practicing escapism, the lady of the couple was talking insane trash on me. He heard her say, "Tattoos and iPods, we're so outta the loop! People don't even talk to each other any more," etc. I won't repeat the rest, because I don't remember it, and also because that old bag doesn't deserve the press.

It is both good and bad that I didn't hear her. Good because I don't find the idea of getting into an argument with an old lady attractive or flattering. The last time I got into a fight with an old lady was at P.S. 1 last summer when my mom was visiting, and not only did I feel stupid (even though I was totally right and she was nothing but a mean ol' bitch), but I also now refuse to ever go back to P.S. 1, which I've heard can be lovely, but actually really sucks.

On the other hand, I regret not having the chance to tell the woman that I am not the hip, totally tatted out, disconnected iPod devotee that she took me for, and that if she and her husband had not been sucking on their candy like pigs, I would have been fine without listening to the music I was listening to only to drown out their disgusting mouth noises. And, had I said that to this old woman, I would have felt really great for five or so minutes, followed immediately by burning shame. But oh, how good that good would have felt.

The problem is that I am conflicted with the whole "respect your elders" thing. My mom is big on it, and I think it's generally a very good rule of thumb. If an ancient man is slowly inching up the stairs in front of me, I am not going to say, "Move it, oldie!" no matter how much I might be thinking it. But, there are loads of assholes in the world, and some of them are old...it's a scientific fact.

I usually really like old people. They've got great stories that they never seem to think are that great or impressive, and that they usually recount in beautiful detail. And a lot of old people are super-funny. Old couples, especially. My own grandparents are an old couple, and they're great. Then again, they know how to eat food, and they don't talk shit on me, so those are two huge things they have going for them, in addition to countless others.

Recap: depression, Long Beach, old people.

I need to sort some things out, I think.

Franz! Franz!

This morning on the train, there was a big Latino man with a small Chihuahua wearing a pink sweater. The dog was wearing the pink sweater, not the man, though had they matched, the whole thing would have been elevated to a mind-blowing plane.

I was spaced out, thinking about a million different things, and I didn't notice either the man or the dog until I heard an offensive noise (I hate noise. I hate it. I am a noise-hawk. I hear it and I swoop my noise-hawk head toward it, looking for the kill)and I followed the noise to find that the man was brushing the Chihuahua's teeth. With a tiny toothbrush. On the train.

When he was finished, he pulled a paper towel out of the bag beside him and proceeded to wrap the tiny toothbrush up, and then out came a rubber band to hold the whole thing together. The dog was sitting in the man's lap, and when the rubber band ricocheted and landed on the floor of the train, the man put down the dog to pick it up.

As soon as the dog's feet hit the floor, everyone was watching it. We had just arrived at Graham Avenue and I wondered how many other people were wondering if the dog would bolt for the door when it opened. It stayed where it was, looking up at its owner, shaking as Chihuahuas tend to do, because they are nasty, which is not only my opinion, but also actual science. We watched as the train went, to see if the dog would fall or slide. It didn't. Even the goth kid, wearing a shirt that said, "Celebrating 666 Years of the Plague" and ill-fitting black and white striped pants, even he was watching and smiling a little bit.

When the man successfully bundled up the toothbrush and then pulled a pink baby bottle out of his bag, which I realized was a diaper bag, made for a human baby. After the bottle came a pink bejeweled dish, which he sat on the floor in front of the dog. He squirted water from the bottle into the dish and said, "Franz! Franz! Drink!" Franz was not thirsty, and snubbed the dish, so the man emptied it in the logical place: on the train floor. He put the dish away and then tilted the bag to the floor, and said, "Franz! Franz! In the bag!" For a brief moment I could see inside; it was lined with a soft pink blanket. Franz jumped into the bag and disappeared and the fun was over.

There's No Way I'm Ever Sleeping Again.

It is five thirty-eight a.m., and I have been awake for over an hour. This is a huge problem, not only because it's nowhere near the time I usually wake up, but also because it makes me feel like quite a failure. Sleeping is the only thing I've ever been almost one hundred percent consistently great at, unless you take off points for strange behavior and/or talking/yelling.

Because I am at least a little bit insane, two restless nights (last night I tossed and turned and twice proclaimed, "I feel like I haven't slept at all!" and this after bragging to someone that the nap I had earlier wouldn't affect my sleep one bit...nuts!) in a row is telling me that I am now an insomniac and will forever more have trouble falling asleep. If you want a sure-fire way to not fall asleep, it's probably thinking about how you're not falling asleep. Though, honestly, I wouldn't know, because until the night before last I was the best sleeper in the entire world.

I also decided it would be a good idea to listen to a "How Stuff Works" podcast on "The Great Pacific Garbage Patch" and now I'm worried about recycling, and mermaid tears. And upon Google image searching "mermaid tears," now I'm worried about this guy:


He's the love child of Tate Donovan and today's Anthony Michael Hall. And he's saying, "Look at these tiny pieces of plastic. What are you going to do about it?" And I'm saying, "Look, I'm already awake at five fifty-seven a.m. thinking about it, what more do you want?"


Yikes!

In other news, I've finally written a short essay about my foray into the world of ostrich racing. It is called "Let's Go to the Races" and it can be found over at Glasses Glasses. Please G.T.T.P. (go to that place) and R.T.T. (read that thing) and also read the things that the other people have written. I think that's the worst sentence I've ever thought of.


Tate Donovan is disgusted.

Moving on. While it feels strange to say, "Hey, look at these photos of me," I'm going to do it. A few months ago, my dear roommate Emily stole my soul multiple times, and has posted a few of the results on her website, alongside her other fine, fine photos.

At this point, I'm trying to decide if it's even worth it to stay in bed. Did I say bed? I meant to say "pile of bricks stuffed into a mattress cover", as that is what I sleep on. Why am I so poor?

Finally, I give you the following video via Mikey C. (whose newly-published story "Pinecone" is a must-read):


There's no way I'm ever sleeping again.