The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, I Guess, or Whatever.

Listen, guys, it's time for the holidays and all that. Hanukkah started last night, Kwanzaa...well, I'm not racist, but I don't know when that is, exactly. Still, I'm sure it's great. Christmas is some time next week? If you can't tell, I'm not too thrilled about the holidays. In fact, aside from Thanksgiving, WAKE ME UP WHEN IT'S OVER, is my attitude.


I think my disinterest stems from the past few years, when I've not gone home for the Christmas. Now it just seems like any other day. In fact, last Christmas Eve, I was home alone, watching television and eating an entire cake. An entire cake. You read it right. An entire cake. It was kind of depressing, because it made me look around and think, "Hm. This is not how I ever imagined anything." But, the next day, I celebrated with a bunch of good friends and good food, so it all worked out.


Still. I don't have the type of personality that allows me to even think about buying a tree, or listening to Christmas music (I will tell anyone who will listen that Hanson's album "Snowed In" is genuinely great). I'm just not together enough to do these things. I did, for the first time ever, make a gingerbread house this year. Vince and I threw it together one night and it was more challenging than I anticipated. The Sweet Tarts on the top of the roof are clearly hiding something.

(We each designed a side.)


The good thing about this year is that I get to go home for a few days. Because I'm living under the poverty line, I'll only be able to afford something small for my niece and nephews, and maybe a razor for my little brother's fourteen-year old mustachio. Just kidding, Tyler. I like your mustachio. This kind of stinks, because, I love buying presents. It makes me feel nice when I find something that I know is perfect for a loved one. Alas, this year, all adults in my life will have to settle for the gift of my presence. A presence present.

Anyway, Happy Holidays, all you guys.

I would like to tell you about my Grandpa Bud. After a year-long battle with cancer, he passed away a few weeks ago. Though he was sick for a year, and in a lot of pain toward the end, I still can't believe or accept that he's gone. He was an incredibly kind, generous, and funny person. He didn't usually talk a lot, but when he did, it was always something worth hearing.


When my mom married their son, Papa Bill, Grandpa Bud and Grandma Linda immediately treated me and my brother as if we'd been their grand kids all along. That's something rare, especially since I was a very sullen fifteen year old who had just moved to a new town.


As it usually goes, I've learned a lot more about my grandpa now that he's gone than I knew when he was alive. I didn't know he was an incredible athlete, or that he'd been a paratrooper with the 101st Airborne Division, or that he built the business my parents run today out of nothing.


I'm so thankful for the memories I have of Grandpa, and that he raised my Papa Bill to be the great man he is.


William "Bud" Riner III (1939-2009)

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.