I'm not sure, but I think there may be a crew of crows following me. Either that or these famously baleful birds are in the process of acquiring the book smarts needed to initiate a massive overthrow of humankind such that crows would thereafter rule the earth with an iron claw and create a society where all humans were slaves and worms replaced paper money as the currency of choice. Under this regime, the head crow would be flanked by a cadre of super-shrewd advisors, and the military would consist solely of the air force. Common crows, those not in the leadership ranks, would be loyal, loud, and grumpy, and . . .
Ok, let me slow down and back up here for a second. Let's see . . . where to start? From the top . . .
I've visted a great number of college campuses, but, so far, I've only spent tuition money at two--Syracuse University and the University of Michigan.
Both schools have their strengths and weaknesses, but on the whole I would categorize each of them as excellent institutions of higher learning. These schools have several, fairly run-of-the-mill things in common--crummy weather and above average athletic programs immediately come to mind. But, I found out recently that they are also connected by a commonality that is much less predictable and much more creepy.
That is, they both have crow issues.
Anyone who's been to the University of Michigan campus in the winter, after dark knows exactly what I am talking about and can immediately skip to the Syracuse part of this essay. For the others, I offer you the following:
I would venture to guess that State Street is what most would consider the main thoroughfare of Michigan's Ann Arbor campus. It extends out past the university for miles on either side and is at those times fairly boring and pedestrian. But as it runs through the center of the college, State Street is suddenly abutted by campus buildings, coffee houses, and the other stalwarts of university enclaves. At perhaps its most famous stretch, the street is home to the Michigan Union and other bastions of the Michigan experience. Across from the union and right beside the art museum is a huge, Treasury-Department-looking building called Angell Hall. It's got vast pillars that tower skyward for about 30 or 40 feet, and is, I would say, around 50 yards long. It's easily one of the largest buildings of this type that I have ever seen. In addition, Angell Hall is the home of the undergraduate and graduate social sciences departments and is adorned with an uppity, overly-formal, Romanesque inscription that always struck me as strange because, if my memory serves me correctly, it has to do with the value of religion in education or something.
Anyway, a giant tree resides right in front of Angell Hall.
In the spring and summer this massive tree is a sight to behold. It overflows with radiant green leaves and provides an appropriate backdrop for the myriad photos taken by parents decked out in maize and blue and deemed dorky by their soon-to-be-free, incoming freshmen children. In autumn, the leaves that fall from this tree provide the sidewalks of State Street with a cornucopia of color that is just what one would expect to see on such a campus at that time of year. And, in the winter, the circle of life draws to a close for this majestic tree.
Put another way, all the leaves are gone, the tree takes on an ominous appearance, and it is overtaken by a covey of giant crows that bellow eerily to one another and transform the area into something out of a Tim Burton flick.
In fact, by about three or four in the morning on any given winter night, the crows seem to be the only ones awake in Ann Arbor. And if you're unlucky enough to be walking alone along State Street at said hour, the confluence of cold, crows, and "caw-caw"-ing can make the experience quite frightening.
At least two or three of my law school classmates confided in me that when they found themselves confronted with such a situation, they felt it best to break into a light jog, or, depending on the volume of the crows' calls, a full-on sprint in order to reach the law school dorms more quickly. Now, such a response may seem a bit extreme to outsiders, and is one that I have never taken, but I will not go as far as to say that I don't understand it or that it is to be classified as outlandish.
This is not five or six crows we're talking about here, people.
It's hundreds, maybe thousands--they keep coming and going in a manner that makes it impossible to get an exact count. Many land and remain perched on the higher-up branches, but numerous others just circle above the tree. There are always new ones landing, always. And they are always loud--really, really loud. After I moved out of the law quad, I could still hear those damn birds from my new apartment, which was about 15 blocks away.
Although they didn't creep me out as much as they did others--my association with them was not so much based on a horror movie type of fear, but rather the fear of getting pooped on--I always wondered what in the hell the deal was with these crows. I wondered why they all convened around that particular tree, why they wouldn't just shut up, and why, on some nights, every now and again, they wouldn't come around.
Then I graduated, became a lawyer, and forgot all about those stupid birds.
Until . . .
Fast forward to a recent trip that myself and a few other alums made to Syracuse to visit a mutual friend in the midst of acquiring his Ph. D in geography at the university. This friend lives in an apartment off-campus, and on the corner of his street there is a big tree.
I think you see where this is going.
The tree is strangely reminiscent of the one outside Angell Hall in Ann Arbor, and was, during our trip, overflowing with crows--big-ass, noisy, creepy crows. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. It's hard to tell how many exactly because . . . well, you know why.
The sight of these birds really freaked me out. Were the following me? Or was I just being egocentric? And, if the latter was the case, was there some reason why I've only seen something like this in the college campus setting? Am I doomed? Or, worse yet, are we all doomed?
The questions just kept coming.
Since that trip, I haven't seen any more crows. But if I look up one night and notice that the Empire State Building is teeming with these black birds of brimstone, or, even worse, if I notice a congregation of them at Columbia or NYU, we really need to put our heads together and figure out how to best thwart the oncoming invasion. ----------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 88 (none) 2) Jason Nypaver: 76 (7 points for livable, cleansing, becoming, misaligned, dangling prepostition, Hacking, and Worn-out, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors.) 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 6 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 5 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) livable 2) cleansing 3) becoming 4) misaligned 5) sentence ending with "to" creates a dangling prepostition 6) "Hacking" should have been capitalized 7) "Worn-out" should have been capitalized
posted by mjxm at 3:04 PM |
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Both my room and, more generally, my apartment always seem to need cleaning.
Things get dirty and dusty very quickly in New York, and the fact that most apartments are quite small means that stuff will simply pile up if you hold on to it for too long. After a few years, it's not uncommon for someone living here to notice that their previously 10 x 12 room has shrunk to 8 x 8 due to an amalgamation of knickknacks that first found a place against the wall and has been working its way inward ever since. Once this phenomenon reaches a certain point, one must simply cut bait and throw away an amount of stuff that will allow the place to become liveable again. I took up this task a few Saturdays ago, and it was quite a scene. Old books, ill-fitting shoes, folders filled with dated legal documents, and stuffed toys won at church carnivals back home were all jettisoned in a single, clensing afternoon. I just loaded everything into trash bags and that was that. I even threw away my favorite pair of shorts--the green mesh ones with the white paint stains on the sides.
I must say that I was indeed relieved to reclaim some floor space in my room, but after completing this task I realized that it was just the tip of the iceberg. When I opened the door to the outside world that is the rest of my apartment, I noticed nothing but dust bunnies and yuckiness.
Thankfully, there were only three more days before Tuesday.
Every other Tuesday, a woman comes over and cleans the apartment. I don't know who she is, and I had absolutely no role in the acquisition of her services, but she's been doing her thing for a while now. The four of us living here pony up $120 a month for two cleanings, and in return for this payment we get an apartment that is dusted, mopped, sponged down, and otherwise made sparkly within a day or so of it becomming unbearably filthy. She does the floors, cleans the bathroom, takes the garbage down to the basement, that sort of thing. When she leaves, the cleaning lady takes with her a check signed over to an entity called European Maids.
Now, if you're like me, when you hear the words "European Maids," visions of a crew of cute brunettes with skimpy little outfits and feather dusters immediately come to mind. The moniker connotes nothing short of fetish and fantasy. This, after all, is not just a European maid we're talking about here. This is "European Maids" . . . plural. What could be better than that? I can think of no organization or group that I would rather dole out my hard-earned money to. It's perfect, I couldn't be happier. Well, except for one little thing . . .
My European Maid is gross. Actually, she's worse than gross. She's downright disgusting.
I would say she's in her late forties. She has bleached blond, badly permed hair and looks as though she really, really likes cigarettes. Her teeth are a grayish-brown shade that does not exist in nature and are quite malalligned. In fact, when she smiles it appears that each individual tooth is trying to abscond from those adjacent to it--each veering off in a different direction like a group of marbles sent flying by a perfectly aimed shooter. She is neither thin nor fat, but rather teeters in that annoying in-between category that plays host to the likes of, for instance, Hillary Clinton and Bea Arthur. Her skin is two parts pasty and one part flabby, yet she almost always sports tank tops and too tight shorts. Plus, she coughs an awful lot.
Picture Courtney Love at 50. Now picture her wearing socks with flip-flops and scrubbing out your tub. If you can do that, you're starting to get the picture.
And the picture ain't pretty, believe me. Now, I suppose the fact that the company is not called "Pretty European Maids" does to some extent temper my cries of false advertising, but I still feel like I'm getting ripped off here. She's really that bad.
But don't get me wrong. My European Maid is nice enough. She smiles when she passes me, and, although she appears to know very little English, will usually give me one of a few stock greetings that she has obviously memorized. All in all, I'd say we get along just fine. I've gotten over the fact that she's gross and have been able to look beyond outward appearances to realize that she does a damn good job.
She was here yesterday.
It was the same old story. She looked like an absolute mess, but the place is now spotless.
As she was leaving, right after she said goodbye to me, something about her caught my eye. At first I couldn't put my finger on it. So I walked closer to her as she was waiting for the elevator to arrive at our doorway.
Bad hair, check. Bad teeth, check. hacking cough, check. worn-out tank top, check.
I wondered to myself what I was missing, what had brought me to take a second and third look at a woman who I usually try to avoid making eye contact with.
Then it hit me.
Her shorts were always too tight, but the pair she was wearing yesterday were not of her usual cotton jogging variety. On this day, her shorts were green mesh and had paint stains on the sides.
"Nice shorts," I said as she got on the elevator.
"Yes," she replied right before the door closed between us.
I could still hear her coughing as the elevator descended to the basement, where she had to stop and drop off the garbage before leaving the building. ------------------------------ CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 88 (of delivering, manageable, incorrect math re dimensions, manila, retrieve, missing comma after "window," pseudo, missing comma after "go," and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors.) 2) Jason Nypaver: 67 (manageable, manila, retrieve, pseudo, roommates, "The New Yorker," "ESPN") 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 6 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 5 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) of delivering 2) manageable 3) incorrect math re dimensions (each roommate has a 1' x 12' area of space) 4) manila 5) retrieve 6) missing comma after "window" 7) pseudo 8) missing comma after "go" 9) roommates 10) "The New Yorker" 11) "ESPN"
posted by mjxm at 3:38 AM |
Monday, August 25, 2003
Mailboxes don't exist in Manhattan.
At least not the mailboxes that I'm used to--the ones that are affixed to a post, a bit larger than a bread basket, and adorned with a little red flag used to signify when the mail carrier needs to take something out of the box in addition to putting the mail in. There's simply no such animal here.
What we have here are better referred to as mail compartments. Each apartment has rows of such compartments somewhere near its entrance, and while I assume that these receptacles do indeed make the process delivering mail more manageble for the person putting stuff into them, there's no debating the fact that they often make the process of retrieving mail a big, huge mess.
First off, these compartments are small, very small. I'd say mine is about a foot high and four inches deep. That's not much space to start with--the notably oversized ESPN magazine is mangled every time, without fail--but things get even hairier when you consider that I share this space with three other individuals. I did the math. If we assume that all four roommate receive approximately the same amount of mail, then we each have a space of about one inch by three inches for our own stuff. That's tight. Try getting some homemade chocolate chip cookies under such an arrangement, or just a manilla envelope of vacation photos. Hell, when the "New Yorker" does a double issue the whole apartment is pretty much screwed.
On heavy mail days--those when J. Crew sends a catalog to all four of us, or a bunch of bills were received--the carrier simply smashes everything into a bunch and smushes the resulting bunch into the compartment. It's an absolute mess akin to meatloaf of mail. And because it's been shoved in there so tightly, the mailloaf actually appears to jump out at you when you open the little door.
What's worse is when you're expecting something that will not fit in the relevant compartment. Let me give you an example. Two weeks ago, I won an eBay auction and paid somebody in Iowa $8.45 for the "Ghost World" DVD. "Ghost World" was by far my favorite movie of 2001, and I had been looking to purchase the DVD for quite a while. Rather than pay $25 for the thing at Sam Goody, I decided to check out eBay and was surprised to find that a brand new copy had only been bid up to about $3.50. Because of the stupid mail compartment issue, I had reservations about bidding. But when I realized I could win the auction for $4.45 (the other $4 was for shipping), I just couldn't hold back.
After a few days, like clockwork, the DVD arrived. Then the clock stopped.
While the DVD did indeed arrive in Manhattan, it did not end up in my compartment . . . because it would not fit. In these situations, the carrier places a little orange slip in with the unfortunate recipient's other mail. The slip tells you that your package is waiting for pickup at the post office and that you can come by anytime between the hours of 9 and 5 to retreive it. In theory, it seems like a tight little system. The problem is that my post office is also known as the "General Post Office," and is the largest such office in the nation. It spans two entire city blocks--from 31st to 33rd Street--and is two avenues deep. I'd say it's probably as big as three football fields, but when you're looking for your "Ghost World" DVD it may as well be as vast as the state of Texas.
I'm not exaggerating when I tell you there are like 97 separate windows in this post office, each with its own designated name and purpose. The stuff that does not fit in mail compartments can be picked up at window #29, a place that the little orange form refers to as "Held Mail." Over the last three or four years, I've become a bit of a regular at window #29--which is adjacent to an extremely long-lined passport window the number of which I do not recall--and I grow less and less fond of the place with each trip.
Transactions at window #29 are nearly always identical regardless of which grumpy attendant is on duty. There's usually one or two people in line, and when it's your turn to go someone will say the following four words to you in the order below:
"Slip?"
"ID?"
"One minute."
You can respond to any of the four words if you want. But there's really no reason to, and I've found that things tend to move more quickly when I say nothing. Such a strategy allows the hunt to begin immediately and signals to the relevant attendant that you're not a rookie, that you'll be watching them like a hawk. You see, when you're standing at the window, you have full view all the waiting parcels, piled up in accordance with absolutely no order or system. You can actually watch as the attendant rummages through all the boxes in search of your item, and you can make sure that he or she is actually looking as opposed to simply going through the motions.
Either way, though, the laggard looker will come back to you with news that is not of the good variety.
"I don't know, I don't see it here," someone will say. "Let me check again."
Most times, the second check of the pile will net you your parcel.
"Ah, here it is. . . . I don't know how I missed it," is the typical wrap-up dialogue. And that's where the story usually ends.
But things have been especially unfortunate for my beloved--or, more aptly, my possibly soon-to-be beloved--"Ghost World" DVD. When I made an appearance at window #29 the day after receiving my slip, a man who seemed even more aloof than the normal host of bumblers who take up residence at the window looked around and made puzzled faces for about 15 minutes before giving up. "Man, I don't think it's here," he said. "I don't know what to tell you. Come back in a couple of days."
So I did.
That time, last Thursday, a woman wearing a U.S. Postal Service name tag with the words "Tammie Jackson" etched into its hard plastic face failed to find the package and informed me that, "I'll call you if I see it."
As you would imagine, I have received no phone call from Tammie Jackson. I'm headed back over there tomorrow, but at this point I'm not holding my breath. It doesn't look good for "Ghost World."
I'm not happy about this, but I'll manage.
Just pray that the "Big Boi" and "Andre 3000" Outkast action figures I ordered the other day meet a better fate. 'Cause if those things vanish in the black hole that is window #29, Ms. Jackson is going to be sorry . . . very, very sorry. And I am for real. ------------------------------ CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 78 (4 points for chalk, missing comma after "Boy," embarrassment, try-to-look-cute-and-harmless, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors.) 2) Jason Nypaver: 60 (embarrassment, improper use of "majorly,") 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 6 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 5 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) chalk it up 2) missing comma after "Boy" 3) embarrassment 4) try-to-look-cute-and-harmless 5) the psudo word "majorly" should be "seriously"
posted by mjxm at 11:40 PM |
Friday, August 22, 2003
I'm all for bringing back bartering as a legitimate form of exchange.
It's always been a fine idea, and one that has netted numerous folks a great deal of someone else's "this" in exchange for their "that." It's fair, even-handed, and premised on notions of mutual sharing. I really am baffled as to why it fell out of favor in the first place, but I say we bring it back . . . starting now.
In a barterer's world, I think I'd do just fine. There are lots of things that I do quite well. Ok, I lied. There are at least six or seven things that I do well. Alright, alright, I can do a few things at a competent level. I know how to throw a curve ball. I am quite familiar with Bluebook legal citation form, and I know how to craft any college or graduate level term paper such that it results in an "A."
What I can't do is speak Spanish.
My on-again-off-again effort to learn Spanish has been a huge bust, and I'll be the first to admit it.
I'd like to chock it up to that whole "it's harder to learn a second language as an adult" thing, or the fact that my brain may simply be too tired for such an endeavor after four years of college and three years of legal instruction.
But the fact of the matter is that it's really all my own fault.
Evelyn, my girlfriend, is bilingual. Fairly early in a relationship that is now more than three years old, she and I cooked up the idea of me learning Spanish. Frankly, I thought it would be no sweat. I'd already followed along with a few of the Spanish soap operas she watched on a regular basis and figured that the transition from vixen catfights to verb conjugation would be a relatively simple one.
Boy was I ever wrong.
I remember early on saying something really uninformed like, "Just give me a list of all the words . . . I can memorize anything." Since then, it's been all downhill.
At the moment, I know virtually no Spanish.
This is the case despite the fact that I was provided with all the tools necessary to get the job done. Evelyn's whole family speaks fluent Spanish, and her father teaches the subject at a high school in the Bronx. As if that weren't enough, I received a Spanish instructional CD from the family as a gift on the first Christmas I spent in the relationship.
Talk about a hint.
When the CD didn't work--or, more precisely, when I failed to implement it . . . the CD itself worked fine--Evelyn's father brought home a series of like 30 videos from school that presented the material in the form of an ongoing mystery novel. I thought those things were the coolest. They kept me interested, featured neat little review sessions after each episode, and moved at just the right pace.
I got as far as video number three.
Next up was a series of videotapes and books that worked in tandem to provide easily digestible lessons. Evelyn's father sat with me as I watched the first video in the family's home. He instructed me on how to work with the book while following along with the tape, and gave me the scoop on how to fill out the worksheets. It was actually a pretty cool little system.
I took all the books and videos home and didn't even give lesson two a try.
Honestly, I don't know what my problem is. Nearly three years after I first vocalized a desire to learn Spanish, I know three words . . . maybe. And the words I know are ones that don't even really count--words like "si" and, well, I can't even think of another one . . . that's how bad it is. In fact, the only non-"si" Spanish word that I know offhand is "mira"--which translates to the English word "look." But I only found out that it was spelled "mira" a month or so ago when a friend told me that it wasn't spelled "mita"--which is what it sounds like when it's pronounced, and thus how I spelled it.
So, technically, I don't even know that one.
I knew "cat" at one point. But I'm not sure that I do anymore. I think it's "gato" or something like that, but whether that's right or not, it's quite clear that I am an embarassment to the Spanish language and all who have actually worked hard to learn it.
Nowadays, Evelyn's dad greets me in Spanish and then starts conversing with me in the language. He may as well be speaking Alien. All I can do is nod and put on this stupid little face that I would describe as one that would appear on the face of someone whose grandmother just saw him or her accidentally break a vase with a tennis ball--a guilty, try-to-look-cute and harmless, pitiful look. The man is majorly disappointed in me, and I always feel like a stupid punk when I can't say anything back to him.
Things really have gone too far at this point, and I realize that I have no one to blame but myself.
So, if you know of a Spanish instructor who is looking to get a sharper break on his curve ball, have him give me a call. I'm sure we can work something out that's mutually agreeable. And this time, I'll do the work. I promise. ------------------------------ CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 72 (improper comma, squad, crueler, unfortunate, I, about) 2) Jason Nypaver: 58 (6 points for squad, porn star, crueler, Soup Nazi, unfortunate, and I, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 6 (none) 7) Bill Sherman: 5 (none) 8) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) improper comma before "front-line" 2) squad 3) porn star 4) crueler 5) Soup Nazi 6) unfortunate 7) "I" improperly lowercased 8) extra "about" after the word song
posted by mjxm at 12:39 AM |
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
The 1991 South Park High School varsity baseball team was a solid group. The team had two, front-line, all-area-type starting pitchers and trotted out a lineup of hitters that made the kids at places like Thomas Jefferson High and Serra Catholic cower.
Despite the fact that a rather large upset derailed the 1991 sqaud early on during the playoffs, in the regular season this was a team like no other in Western Pennsylvania. Most of its games ended something like 13-4 or 8-0 in favor of SPHS, and quite a few of them were called off prior to their completion due to a 10-run "mercy rule."
1991 was my junior year at South Park High, and I played centerfield on the team that year. I batted leadoff and, oddly enough, would either rack up four hits in a game or go zero for four. There was no in-between for me. I either rocked it, or I didn't. But this story isn't about me.
This story isn't about Jason Bradburn and his monumental home runs, or Brad Kraus' ability to strike out nearly every opposing batter without what I would deem to be a good breaking ball. It's not about Division I recruit Jason Nypaver--who served as the team's anti-mjxm, going 2-4 every game . . . no more and no less--or occasional pinch hitter Scott Slate.
This story is about the team's catcher, Mike.
It's not the ability to throw out would-be base stealers or a penchant for driving home runners in scoring position that has made Mike my muse--truth be told, he was average at best as a catcher, and his occasional wild overthrows probably cost us a few games that season. In retrospect, his skills on the diamond don't really matter. We are now more than 12 years removed from that magical 1991 season, and all that really matters about Mike at this point is that his name was . . .
Mike Nicewanger.
I'm not kidding. There's no need to do a double take. You read it right. There is no typing mistake or missing letter, His name was Mike Nicewanger, and it's pronounced exactly how it looks:
"Mike Nice Wanger."
Yup. That was his name, his real name. It wasn't some fake, made-up pornstar name, or some silly nickname he was given in grade school when his trousers accidentally fell during a game of dodge ball. This was no joke. Well, at least the fact that his name really was Mike Nicewanger was no joke. The name itself is, of course, one big, huge joke. It is among the most silly names I have ever heard, and I can say for a fact that I've never met or been friends with anyone with a name even remotely as silly. I mean, Joe Head--a friend of mine from undergrad--is a funny name. But, come on, Mike Nicewanger? That's a joke on a rope, a joke akin to the ones where someone is led to exclaim, "that's just too easy," or "set 'em up, and knock 'em down."
Now, the fact that some guy I went to high school with had a silly name is not all that big of a deal, and I surely wouldn't have written anything about this kid if it wasn't for an additional part of the story that cannot go without some sort of documentation.
That is, all these years later, I have realized that somehow none of us got the joke.
In an era where kids, even at the elementary school level, can be creuler than the soup Nazi, and where any perceived deficiency, physical flaw, or unfotrunate wardrobe choice will have tons of ramifications on the playground at recess, Mike managed to get away clean.
Nobody busted his chops about his name--not in grade school, not in middle school, and not in 1991 on the baseball field.
As I sit here in 2003 writing in my apartment, I find this fact to be absolutely astonishing. But, i assure you, it was indeed a fact. It was so.
Mike lucked out. I don't know how and I don't know why, but he did.
In thinking about this aberration of all playground aberrations, I simply cannot put my finger on what Mike did right, or how he escaped the "Wrath of Jon"--Jon Salvini, a bully notorious for picking on kids with silly names. He didn't get off scott free because he was a big dude or had powerful friends, or something. He was about average in the height and weight departments and for the most part hung out with those who were, back then, branded with the "loser" or "hood" moniker.
And Mike wasn't a saint, either. So it's not like people just felt that he was too nice to pick on. He was actually quite a joker himself, and had a knack for making people laugh by doing silly things. He was perhaps best known for an uncanny ability to transform classic rock tunes into songs about about someone else's mother. Hence, hand Mike the Doors' classic "Riders on the Storm," and, poof, you had "Riders on your Mom." Clapton's "Cocaine," was easily converted into "Call Jane." Jane, of course, was the mother of our right fielder, and Mike seemed to never tire of the line, "If you want to get down...down on the ground, call Jane."
In response to his songs, many disses were hurled Mike's way. But none ever made use of his incredibly silly name.
It was not until I moved to Manhattan and told my girlfriend about Mr. Nicewanger--actually, Mr. Nicewanger was what we all called Mike's dad when we said hello, but you know what I mean--that I began to realize just how odd it was that no one really thought about what a crazy name he had or caught themselves laughing when saying the name. Simply put, the whole thing was just off our radar screen.
My girlfriend couldn't believe this. And now neither can I.
I mean, if you pause just a bit between the saying of his first and last name you have, "Mike, Nicewanger."
That's damn near straight out of a porno. Cue the cheesy music and the, "Thank you very much, you're not so bad yourself" response from a well-endowed, mustached man and you have just about every opening scene in old-school, 70s porn.
Boom, chica, bow-wow . . . Boom, chica, bow-wow.
It's clear as day, beyond obvious. Yet, we all missed it like a Brad Kraus fastball. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 66 (8 points for Detroit, forward, affirmative, Uniform Commercial Code, about two, reached, suspense, and capitalization inconsistency, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 2) Jason Nypaver: 50 (Detroit, forward, affirmative, reached, suspense) 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Tim Wells: 6 (Detroit, forward, affirmative, reached, suspense, about two) 7) Bill Sherman: 5 (bonus points for successful site-marketing strategy) 8) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 9) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 10) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 11) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) Detroit 2) forward 3) affirmative 4) Uniform Commercial Code 5) improper "a" between "about" and "two" 6) reached 7) suspense 8) song title capitalized inconsistently
posted by mjxm at 9:33 PM |
Sunday, August 17, 2003
I was attending law school in Ann Arbor when Trina and Trick Daddy first got together on wax.
The year was 1998, and the track was "Nann Ni**a." It was a song rife with braggadocio and booty shaking, and at the time it was burning up the airwaves on Detriot's radio stations. It bellowed out of the trunks of cars downtown, and BET's "Rap City" seemed to play the video at least once a day. In case you don't remember it, you can check out the lyrics at the website below. They may spark your memory. But, a word of warning, sit this site out if you're under the age of 18 or are easily offended.
http://www.lyricsdomain.com/lyrics/21119/
Ok, so there you have "Nann Ni**a." Straight foward, to the point, raunchy to be sure, but a huge hit nonetheless.
Of course, those of us at the law school who knew of the song had no idea that it was called "Nann Ni**a." We only heard the radio-friendly version that saw the N-word replaced with silence--not a buzzer, or bell, or a scratching sound that would alert you to the fact that something was cut out, it was just mere silence over the instrumental. Thus, we heard the lyrics as, "You don't know Nann [pause on the beat] who dress fresher than me . . .," etc. We had no clue that anything was missing from what we heard and thought the song was called "You Don't Know Nann."
Unfortunately, we had no idea what "Nann" was.
My friend Morenike thought it might be another guy or girl--the proverbial comic foil, if you will. I postulated that it may be vernacular for the words "no one" or "nothing." That is, "You don't know no one [pause on the beat] who dress fresher than me . . ." But neither of us really knew. What we did know was that Trick Daddy and Trina had provided us with a hilarious new dis line to use on each other at all times. Eventually, some other friends caught on and things just escalated from there.
If someone failed to calculate a tip correctly after a meal, it was inevitable that one of the others would chime in, "Give it to me . . . you don't know Nann."
Accidentally trip going up the steps . . . you get the picture.
The saying was a huge hit in our admittedly small circle of law school 2Ls who watched "Rap City." We had brought it into our crew and made it our own. It became like a hip form of codespeak in a universe of unhip, dorky law students. It served as a connection of sorts to the outside world--a world where people didn't have time to worry about the uniform commercial code or forum selection controversies because they were too busy, in the words of Miss Trina, "flossin' they thang" and "representin' they grill." In short, it kept us grounded.
One afternoon, Morenike, our friend Nada, and I had just sat through one class and were waiting for our next class--Litigation Ethics, I believe--to begin in the same lecture room. We were the only ones left in the room and had about 20 minutes to kill before the next class began. After chatting for about a minute, I raced up to the front of the room and started a giant game of hangman on the oversized blackboard behind the podium. We started off with a few run-of-the-mill games. Categories ranged from "TV Show" to "A Professor's Favorite Saying."
Then things got interesting.
In thinking back, I'm not sure whether it was Morenike or me who put the final clue up on the board.
The category was "Mystery," and the clue read as follows:
"_ _ _ / _ _ _'_ / _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ _!"
I think the two guessing players had it down to "_O_ / _O_'T / _ _O_ / _A_ _!" when people started filtering into the classroom. Without even thinking about it, we just kept playing.
Within about a two minutes, the room was half-full, and most of our arriving classmates became immediately intrigued by the game that we were set on finishing. They were laughing at the absurdity of playing giant-sized hangman in a law school classroom. But they were also--as good, stereotypically competitive law students--trying themselves to figure out what the answer was to the clue on the board.
Now, mind you, just because Michigan trumpets the value of classroom diversity and recently triumphed in the most important education-related afffirmative action case in our nation's history does not mean that its classrooms are actually diverse. For the most part, the law school seats are filled by uptight white people from places like Bucknell and Princeton. Most of these folks are not bad people, and I would actually venture to say that many of them are quite good people. But, don't get it twisted, virtually none of them would "know Nann."
So, there we were, a three-person game of insider hangman had transformed into a huge game with about 25 out-of-the-loop law students throwing out guesses that weren't even close. When it got down to "_O_ / _ON'T / _ NO_ / N_NN!" the professor had just reched the doorway to the classroom.
The suspsense was building as, by this time, a whole classroom filled with students wondered what on earth the answer to this riddle for the ages could be.
"You don't Know Nann!" Nada yelled out.
"YES!" I shouted.
Immediately, an air of confusion saturated the room. Puzzled looks were myriad.
Let down was everywhere.
Morenike, Nada, and I laughed quite hard as I erased the board.
Everyone else seemed a bit perturbed.
"Who or what in the hell is 'Nann?'" some guy from the back row yelled out as the three of us were taking our seats.
I looked at Nada. Nada looked at Morenike, and Morenike looked at me.
"That's what we want to know," I responded. -------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 56 (5 points for exponentially, wielding, missing question mark, Pharrell, and inconsistent song lyric, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 2) Jason Nypaver: 45 (exponentially, wielding, Pharrell, inconsistent song lyric, improper colon, missing quote marks, swelteringly, Death row, improper single quote, improper period) 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (none) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 7) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 8) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 9) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) exponentially 2) wielding 3) missing question mark after Roof Two's first response 4) Pharrell 5) inconsistent "De ne ne ne na" song lyric 6) swelteringly 7) "Death Row" should've been "Death row" 8) improper colon after Roof Five final song chant 9) missing quote marks after Roof Five final song chant 10) improper single quote after "Woo!" 11) period should have been a question mark after Roof One's question
From the annals of "The Dark Night Returns" and the "Free the Power Coalition," I give you the following:
The power at my apartment was out from approximately 4 p.m. on Thursday to almost exactly 9 p.m. on Friday. As my place is on the top floor of a building and gets sweltering hot when not air conditioned, I spent most of the aforementioned hours on the apartment's roof--where there was both a breeze and access to a confluence of interesting sights and sounds.
On Thursday night, folks in my neighborhood had yet to become really pissed about an outage that got exponentialy more annoying later on. So, as dusk turned to night--the first near pitch-black night in the city since 1977's famous SNAFU--the full moon seemed to draw giddy, powerless jokers like myself to the rooftops of the metropolis in spades.
By about midnight, I was the only one left on our roof, but small groups of candle-weilding neighbors were still amassed on each of the adjacent buildings. After checking out the stars for a while, I decided to simply be quiet and listen. Here's a sampling of what I heard and observed:
1) If some guy on one roof yells something like "Woo!" it immediately sets off a domino effect of "Woos" from the other rooftops. This is the case every single time. There are no exceptions. People cannot resist yelling "Woo!" back to someone who has yelled "Woo" to them. End of story.
2) 12:15 a.m
Roof One: "Base" (yelled out) Roof Two, across the street and a few buildings down: "What" (yelled back) Roof One: "How low can you go." Roof Two: "Huh . . . How low can I go? What?" Roof One: "Base . . . How low can you go? Death Row . . . What a brother know." Roof Two: "Whatever . . ."
2) 12:23 a.m.
Roof Three: "Hey!" Roof Four: "Yeah?" Roof Three: "We've got lots of beer and cocaine." Roof Four: No response.
3) 12:30 a.m.
Roof Five: Turns on a radio that is blasting that single by Pherell Williams where he sings like Prince did on "Kiss." Roof Three: "Wooo!" Roofs One, Two, and Six: "Woo!' (simultaneously) Roof Four: "Woo!" Roof Three: "Turn it up." Roof Two: "Wesssssst...siiiiide."
4) 12:37 a.m.
Roof One: "Hey . . . over there . . . how are you." Roof Four: "Hi." Roof One: "Isn't this great?" Roof Four: "Yeah." Roof One: "It's like the 1920s."
5) 12:45 a.m.
Roof Three: "Let's Go Blue!" (screamed in football chant mode) Roofs One, Two, Four, and Five: No response.
6) 12:51 a.m.
Roof Five: "De ne ne ne na . . ." Roofs One, Two, Three, and Four: No response. Roof Five: "I said . . .De ne ne ne na" Roofs One, Two, Three, and Four: No response. Roof Five: "Come on people, help me out here." Roof Three: "No." Roof Five: "Come on . . . somebody . . . De ne nen ne na . . .: Roof Two: "HEY!" Roof Five: "It's about time. It's like pullin' teeth to get a 'HEY!' around here."
1) John Gnodtke: 49 (5 points for 15-minute, Giulaini, immediately, aluminum, and Samaritan and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 2) Jason Nypaver: 35 (missing question mark, immediately, aluminum, and Samaritan) 3) Evelyn Segura: 23 (15-minute, Bleecker, immediately) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 7) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 8) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 9) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) 15-minute 2) Bleecker 3) immediately 4) aluminum 5) Samaritan 6) missinig question mark in Bootsie quote
I'm fully aware that Washington Square Park is cheating. But I was desperate.
I'd already walked from my apartment on 28th Street down through the Village, over to Broadway and then down to Canal Street. I left my place to pick up a few items around Union Square and was sure that I'd come across something of interest to fill this space during that 15 minute walk. This is New York City, after all.
I had no intention of going anywhere past Union Square. But there I was at Canal Street--past Chelsea, past NYU, past SoHo, but, as it turns out, not past anything of interest.
By the time I got to Canal, I had tried on about six different pairs of shoes, purchased two, and had eaten two slices of pizza at Two Boots on Bleeker. When I left the apartment, I had no intention of buying new shoes--much less two pairs--and was not the least bit hungry, thanks to a heaping bowl of Cocoa Pebbles from the box that my mother gave me when I was back home a few weeks ago.
I'd been out a long time. And, frankly, it never should have come to this--the two pairs of shoes and the pizza. It should've been a quick story-getting walk. But I just couldn't settle. Somewhere around 22nd Street I saw a guy who looked like Dustin Hoffman. Immediately, potential story ideas ran through my head. I almost convinced myself to write something based on the fact that New York is one of the few cities where if you see someone that looks like Dustin Hoffman, that person really could be Dustin Hoffman. I thought maybe I could string that one out into something.
Then I realized that the sentence that I just wrote was pretty much all there was to say on the topic, so I kept walking.
A few blocks later, I ran across some bearded rotund guy who had parked his truck on 6th Avenue--which was a crowded bee's nest of activity due to the flea markets that take over the street on Sundays in Chelsea--opened his door to shield his lower body from view, and then proceeded to take a wizz. Now, there was probably a story in the making there somewhere. But I decided it was best for me to hurry along and avert my eyes.
After two near misses, two purchased pairs of shoes, and two slices of pizza, there I was . . . standing on Canal Street. I was hot, tired, and a bit shocked that I had not run across anything worthy of this space. Plus, it had just started to rain, and I had no umbrella. By this time, my desire to take it on faith that I would soon run into a story had completely vanished from my body as if it was part and parcel with the sweat that dripped down my forehead and enveloped my plain, white T-shirt.
So, I cheated.
I headed straight for Washington Square Park. For those of you not familiar with the park, it is the centerpiece of NYU's campus and serves as a breeding ground for weirdos, freaks, street performers, pickpockets, et al. It's a friendly and consistently interesting setting worthy of at least an hour or two if you're visiting from out of town. Guiliani did away with all the small-time weed dealers who used to practically own the place, but it still reeks of their . . . um, spirit. And, as you would imagine, it's a great place to go if you're looking to steal a story for your blog so that you can just get home already.
The one I stole centers around this professorial looking gent in his 50s or 60s who had set up shop at the base of a big rock near the center circle of the park. He had placed a makeshift, laminated book of what appeared to be his musings on science and government atop a music stand for all to see, and was in the process of debating another man--a slightly overweight twenty-something guy with a full head of tightly curled hair--about what I can only assume were the contents of the book. There were six or seven people standing around and listening to the conversation when I joined the fray.
As if they knew that my quest for a story had already been a long and arduous one, the back and forth between the two men became quite heated almost immdiately after my arrival. As the younger guy was flailing his arms and pointing directly at the guy with the book, the older man forced him to stop talking.
"Look," the old man barked loudly. "Another analogy you might want to think about is the old one about throwing paint off of the side of a mountain. You can't just throw two buckets of paint off a mountain and expect to have it land in the form of the Mona Lisa . . ."
Now, I don't really understand what the guy was talking about or what the big deal is with this analogy, but it instantly infuriated the other man.
"What are you talking about," the younger man yelled while grabbing his hair and pretending to pull it out by the roots. "You are absurd. And to think that . . ."
There would be no more words from the young man after "that."
In working himself into a tizzy, he had obviously failed to realize that the concrete in the section of the park where he stood had become slick from the light rain that had stopped a few minutes earlier. His jumping around and overly dramatic mannerisms were not suited for such environs, and, after one last hearty stomp, the poor guy went down.
He went down hard and he went down awkwardly--still waving his arms about while in the process of falling.
To make matters worse, he fell into a bit of a puddle. And although it all happened so fast, I definitely got the sense that the guy had been hurt to some extent by the fall. He seemed to be floundering mightily in an attempt to get up as quickly as possible so as not to draw even more attention to himself. When he stumbled and went down again, this crazy, Bootsie Collins looking fellow with a big yellow hat and an outfit--shoes included--that appeared to be made entirely out of alluminum foil descended on the fallen philosopher and grabbed for his hand so as to help him up.
"Are you ok, man," Bootsie said.
In response, the guy, now on one knee, snapped his head upwards and gazed at the good sumaritan. He did a double take, shouted "Who the hell are you supposed to be" to the man, and then tore off toward 8th Street in a full sprint.
Finally, after two pairs of shoes, two slices of pizza, and two buckets of paint, I could head home. ------------------------------- CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 42 (3 points for drunkenness, visible, improper "$" before "25 bucks and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 2) Jason Nypaver: 31 (too, drunkenness, visible, improper "$" before "25 bucks) 3) Evelyn Segura: 18 (too) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (none) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 7) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 8) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 9) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) in "none to enamored," "to" should have been "too" 2) drunkenness 3) visible 4) improper "$" before "25 bucks"
posted by mjxm at 1:44 AM |
Saturday, August 09, 2003
From the "Department of Costly Scooting," the "Unhappy Birthday Department," and/or the "What Ever Happened to Letting Folks Off with a Warning Department," I offer the following:
Scooters seem cute and harmless, but they're not.
You know those little scooters . . . the ones that were all trendy three or four years ago. They've got the small wheels and the stainless steel frame. You know the ones I mean.
Well, I ride one.
My scooter cost me $25. Although I got it a few years back when this company that sold them out of an office adjacent to mine decided to give away their demo models for free, the scooter still, eventually, cost me $25.
For the last couple of years, the thing sat, unused, in my apartment. I always thought the adults who scooted to and fro on these toys in the city looked quite silly, and never really gave much thought to actually riding mine. Then one day I realized that I was doing a lot of work at offices that were relatively close to my apartment, but still far enough away to be considered an annoying walk. In my mind, a five or ten minute walk is cool, fifteen is pushing it, and anything that takes longer than that is annoying. Well, I grabbed the scooter on my way out one day and, presto! Suddenly, an annoying 17-minute walk was transformed into an utterly manageable eight-minute scoot.
I thought maybe this was an aberration, so I gave the scooter another shot one day when I needed to get to Grand Central Station in a hurry. The 19-minute walk became a 12-minute scoot--a variance maybe not as impressive as the previous trial run, but one that nonetheless comes in handy when trying to make a train.
So, I was hooked. Two experimental scoots were all I needed. Now I scoot everywhere, and, believe me, I look absolutely ridiculous. Thankfully, one of the things that I am very, very good at is not worrying about how silly I look. I can look silly and not care with the best of them--as most of my friends will attest--so this whole grown-up riding a scooter thing is right up my alley.
Now, I cannot emphasize enough how different scooting on the tree-lined streets of Westchester or the paved jogging trails of South Park is from attempting the same endeavor on the crowded streets of Manhattan. While I love the fact that this toy has surely saved me countless hours in travel time, I am none to enamored with all of the near accidents with cabs, collisions with pedestrians, and wheel-jam-in-sidewalk-crack tumbles.
Still, there is no question that the single most unfortunate turn of events to result from my city scooting fetish had nothing to do with the hazards normally associated with the use of these things.
One night a few months back, I was leaving Brooklyn to return home after visiting a friend. It was about two in the morning, and I was pretty tired. Although the subway ride back to my apartment would only last about 12 minutes, I was not looking forward to both the trip and the wait that normally ensues for trains late at night in Brooklyn.
After entering the subway station and walking down a long flight of stairs, I swiped my metro card and noticed a long uphill incline that preceded the waiting area for the train. The incline was about 40 yards long and culminated in a set of steps that would take me to the area where the subway picked up and dropped off patrons.
Not thinking twice, I scooted the incline.
Thereafter, as I waited on the platform, I watched as two cops dragged themselves up the stairs and walked up to a large group of people who I assumed were about to get busted for public drunkeness. Then the cops walked past those folks, came over to where I was standing, and stopped in front of me.
"Can I see some ID?" the younger of the two officers, who both appeared to be younger than me, asked. Without saying a word, I handed him my driver's license.
"Do you know why we're here?" the other guy said.
"No, I don't."
"It's the scooter," the cop with my license said. "You can't ride that thing in here. We saw you when you were coming in."
I couldn't believe it.
"It's late," I replied. "And I'm tired. I didn't think it was a big deal."
Thereafter, the two men informed me that what I had done was, in fact, a big deal--and one that was going to cost me $25.
"Please keep your hands out of your pockets, sir," the helper cop stated calmly while his pal wrote me out a ticket.
As I laughed to myself at the thought of a dork like me on a kid's scooter being viewed as a dangerous guy of the variety that would need to have his hands visable at all times, the officer writing the ticket gave me an opening that I decided to run with.
"It must really suck to have your birthday be on 9/11," he said while examining my license. "I feel bad for you."
Hmmm.
"It does suck," I responded. "But now the question is whether you feel bad enough for me to cut me a break and save me $25 bucks?"
The cop glanced at me, looked over at his partner, looked back at me, and then up at the ceiling.
"No," he stated matter-of-factly. "No I don't." -------------------------------------
CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 37 (Grizzly Adams, Balki Bartokomous, informed, friggin', plugging, I) 2) Jason Nypaver: 27 (Grizzly Adams, extra space after em-dash, Balki Bartokomous, informed, friggin', plugging, flunky, I, state-of-the-art) 3) Evelyn Segura: 17 (3 points for informed, friggin', and plugging, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 16 (Grizzly Adams, Balki Bartokomous, informed, friggin', plugging, flunky, I) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Michael Shagalov: 5 (none) 7) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (none) 8) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 9) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) Grizzly Adams 2) extra space after em-dash ("hawk of some sort-- was pretty big") 3) Balki Bartokomous 4) informed 5) friggin' 6) plugging 7) flunky 8) improper lowercase "I" 9) state-of-the-art
posted by mjxm at 3:36 AM |
Friday, August 08, 2003
CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 31 (missing period after "Mr," abruptly, grimy, visibly, powwow) 2) Jason Nypaver: 18 (missing period after "Mr," abruptly, grimy, visibly, powwow) 3) Evelyn Segura: 12 (2 points for visibly and powwow, and two points for being the first to reply with errors) 4) Kevin Pimentel: 9 (missing period after "Mr," abruptly, grimy, visibly, powwow) 5) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 6) Michael Shagalov: 5 (missing period after "Mr," abruptly, grimy, visibly, powwow) 7) Cheryl Stafford: 5 (missing period after "Mr," powwow) 8) Richard Kriheli: 4 (none) 9) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) missing period after "Mr" 2) abruptly 3) grimy 4) visably 5) powwow ---------------------- From the "Department of Medieval Methods" and/or the "Department of Parkland Security," I provide you with the following story:
Clay and I saw this coming. Well, maybe we didn't exactly see it coming, but we did wonder aloud what the hell was going on.
We've met and hung out at Bryant Park numerous times over the summer--as the Parks Department is now realizing, the provision of free wireless internet access to laptopped patrons like Clay and I goes a long way toward filling up all those wooden chairs that are amassed around the usually roped-off lawn. Free wireless internet access, it turns out, is akin to fireworks night at the old baseball stadium. In both cases, those in charge want desperately to believe that you've shown up at their establishment for one reason--to watch a baseball game or to enjoy the lush scenery of a park in the summertime, depending on the situation--but it's clearly the giveaway that got you off your ass and into their seats.
On one of the days that we had decided to enjoy 42nd Street's idea of nature, Clay beat me to the park and, upon my arrival, recounted with great precision and care what he had seen a bit earlier.
"Yo, there was this huge fucking bird here with this guy, and it was swooping all over the place," he said hurriedly.
When I asked him to explain, Clay told me that some Grizzley-Adams-looking mountain man of a character had brought his bird to the park and was running training exercises or something right behind the public library. The bird--which, if i remember correctly, Clay deemed a hawk of some sort-- was pretty big according to my fellow laptopper, and it could really motor. The bird's owner, Clay said, would send it off into flight only to have it eventually return to his heavily gloved arm, where a dead mouse or something along those lines waited as enticement. So, smack dab in the middle of Manhattan--amidst the corporate lawyers, computer geeks, and curmudgeons who had gravitated to this oasis of sorts--folks were witnessing some good old fashioned hawk training.
As if this wasn't zany enough, the bird apparently had a mind of its own when it came to obeying the burly guy with the big glove.
"This thing would be flying all over the place, and wouldn't come back," Clay continued. "It would just fly up to a tree and hang out, and the guy kept having to chase it around and yell at it to come down. It just wouldn't listen."
When Clay finished telling the story, and laughing about the guy's travails, I infomed him that what he saw was no hawk. It was a falcon, and the guy playing sidekick to the bird was likely one of those falconers that you hear about every now and again. He agreed, I expressed a sincere hope that I would get to see the falconer's follies at some point soon, and we went on with our business.
The next time Clay and I went to the park, thankfully, the birdman and his beast were in the proverbial house. And Clay was right, that bird just did not know how to listen. The result was madcap, sitcom-type humor reminiscent of, say, Balki Bartakomous and Cousin Larry when "Perfect Strangers" was just hitting its comedic stride. It was really something to be seen, and there's no denying it was silly as all getout. Still, Clay and I thought all along that something wasn't right about the whole thing.
Fast forward to this week, and this little news item:
Ok, first off, rumor has it that Chihuahua was talking smack to the bird and got what it deserved. I heard it from some of the other dogs that hang out at the park, and while none of them want to come out and say it directly, this was not just a random act of violence on the part of the hawk. Second, it was indeed a hawk, not a falcon. And third, Ward Miller is an idiot. You can't tell me that there is no better way for the largest city in the nation to control its pigeon population than to hire some creepy looking guy with a bunch of scary birds that don't listen to him and like to eat dogs. The whole friggen park is equipped with a state-of-the art wireless internet system that allows thousands to access information from around the world within a second or two without pluging anything into anything else, but yet we've turned to flunkie birds of prey to rid the grass of pigeons? I'm no city planner, but something about that just doesn't seem to add up.
1) John Gnodtke: 26 (nickname, myself, Frenchy's Girl, Eddie Murray, Smush Face) 2) Jason Nypaver: 13 (4 points for nickname, comma after "Smush Face," Smush Face, and improper apostrophe after "grandparents." Two points for being the first to reply with errors) 3) Evelyn Segura: 8 (none) 4) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 5) Richard Kriheli: 4 (nickname, Frenchy's Girl, Gordon Elliott) 6) Kevin Pimentel: 4 (none) 7) Cheryl Stafford: 3 (none) 8) Eric Garr: 2 (none)
errors recognized:
1) nickname 2) improper usage and placement of the word "myself" 3) Frenchy's Girl 4) missing comma after the words "Smush Face" in the series 5) Gordon Elliott 6) Eddie Murray 7) Smush Face 8) improper apostrophe after the word "grandparents" the first time it is used with an apostrophe ------------------------ From the "Can I Get a Do-over Department," and/or "The Department of Malappropriated Stories," I give you the following:
The other day, an SUV ran over the foot of one Mr. Richard Kriheli of Rego Park, Queens, New York. And although this is the part in most stories where the teller will usually say something along the lines of, "I know it sounds horrible, but it really wasn't as bad as it sounds," this is not such a story. In this case, that which sounds bad was, in fact, bad--really bad--and in more ways than one.
To be exact, Mr. Kriheli's story is one of love, pain, shock, and boneheadedness. But, it's so much more palatable and cute when it's described simply as a love story. So, that's what I'm calling it.
The story begins with the kindhearted Mr Kriheli picking up some Indian takeout in Chelsea for his late-working girlfriend prior to an animation class he was scheduled to attend in Midtown. After a brief conversation with said girlfriend, Mr. Kriheli determined that rather than simply wrap up the food and give it to his girl after class, he could, if he hurried, hop a cab and present her with a hot meal instead. Time was tight, but it seemed do-able and, to the selfless Mr. Kriheli, worth the trouble.
As the taxi scooted uptown, Mr. Kriheli watched his watch. Red lights were showing up like game show whammies, and Mr. Kriheli's window of pre-class food exchange time was rapidly shrinking. As such, when the cab got to within a few blocks of his girlfriend's workplace, Mr. Kriheli decided that he would hoof it the rest of the way and asked the driver to stop the cab.
When he opened the door and put his foot down on the pavement, the aforementioned SUV ran it over. More precisely, the driver of the SUV drove atop Mr. Kriheli's sneakered foot and abrutly stopped his vehicle. After onlookers and a trapped and rightfully harried Mr. Kriheli shouted for the driver to move the car forward so that the tire would no longer be resting on the man's foot, the driver obliged.
As Mr. Kriheli hobbled to the sidewalk, witnesses came to what could've potentially been his aid. The only problem was that Mr. Kriheli--his shoe mangled to shreds, his jeans black and grimey from their brush with the filthy New York City street--was not really in the mood to be aided. He had other things to think about.
When some cops asked if he needed an ambulance, Mr. Kriheli noted that he didn't have time. "I have to get this food to the person I was supposed to give it to," he told them. "I don't have time for that. I have class."
When the cops and some onlookers mentioned that it really would be in Mr. Kriheli's best interest for him to go to the hospital, considering what their own eyes told them was an extremely painful experience, the driver and passenger of the SUV became visably skittish. No one wants to be sued in Manhattan--where juries are seen as an injured plaintiff's best friend--and these guys knew that prolonged talk about hospitals and broken bones was surely not in their best interest. Luckily for the SUV derelicts, Mr. Kriheli was not concerned with lawsuits and liability issues.
"I gotta get this food to Anna," he said again, as the driver and his pal tried hard to camouflage feelings of joy spurred by a knowledge that they had run over the foot of perhaps the only soul in this town who wasn't going to try to sue the proverbial pants off of them.
Eventually, everyone walked away. Well, everyone but Mr. Kriheli. He limped. The cops, the witnesses, the SUV guys, everyone else, they all walked away. No addresses were exchanged and no numbers were given. Aside from one extremely swollen, though not broken, foot, it would be nearly impossible to prove that the series of events even occurred.
Mr. Kriheli is currently resting at his apartment in Queens. He is the first to admit a frustration about the gaffes he made during the post-accident powow. His foot hurts like hell, he missed the animation class, and he has no lawsuit.
But this is a love story, and Anna did get her food, so none of that other stuff really matters.
posted by mjxm at 2:43 AM |
Monday, August 04, 2003
CONTEST STANDINGS:
1) John Gnodtke: 21 (invaluability, correspondingly, Willie Mays, ratcheted, advise) 2) Evelyn Segura: 8 (2 points for correspondingly and advise, and 2 points for being the first to reply with errors) 3) Craig Rathmill: 7 (none) 4) Jason Nypaver: 7 (none 5) Kevin Pimentel: 4 (invaluability, correspondingly, advise) 6) Cheryl Stafford: 3 (none) 7) Eric Garr: 2 (Willie Mays, advise) 8) Richard Kriheli: 1 (none)
errors recognized:
1) invaluability 2) correspondingly 3) Willie Mays 4) ratcheted 5) advise ------------------------ It's always interesting when you come across a personality trait or penchant that runs in the family.
When I was in college, my friends and I--like many college kids, I imagine--specialized in assigning silly nicknames to people that we didn't really know. We attended a rather large university, so there was no shortage of fodder to satisfy our fixation. The lecture and dining halls overflowed with goofballs, bad hairdos, and outdated attire, and each dorm was a cauldron teeming with folks apt for some sort of shorthand moniker. Everywhere one looked there was someone with something about them that stood out. Some were tall, some short. Some dressed like techno-goth club kids, and others would only wear replica NFL jerseys. Some boys dressed like girls, and some girls dressed like boys. But while each of these individuals maintained some level of uniqueness that could pass for his or her individuality, they all had something in common: Each and every one of them was ripe for a knickname.
To myself and my cadre of nicknamers, undergrad was a boon. And we came up with some doozies.
There was "Guy Smiley," "Touchy-Feely Dave," "Nice Guy Tim," "Frenchy," "Frency's Girl," "Unattractive-Attractive Girl," "Strangely Attractive Girl," "Smush face" "Gordon Elliot," "Jeff the Chef," "Sexy Sudha," and so on, and so on. Once a name was given, it stuck, but the naming process was far from rocket science. The guy in charge of maintenance at my dorm looked exactly like Orioles' slugger Eddie Murray, so we called him, um, "Eddie Murrary." "Smush Face," had a face that looked like it had been smushed. "Jeff the Chef," cooked in the dining hall.
We favored the simple over the complex, and we called them like we saw them. This one guy who transferred out after sophomore year pulled off the much-heralded trifecta of nicknames. His name was Joe. He hailed from Hawaii and was on the varsity crew team. Thus . . . "Hawaii Five Joe," "Crew Joe," and "Joe Crew."
After graduation, a friend of mine typed up a list of all the nicknames that we'd come up with over our tenure. It spanned like seven pages . . . single-spaced.
Fast forward to last week. As I was sitting with my grandparents' on their front porch right before the onset of a rainstorm, something interesting happened.
"Oh, here comes Dog Lady," my grandmother said. When I inquired as to what she was talking about, she was quick to explain. "Look at how many dogs this woman is trying to walk. She does this every day. All those dogs at one time. It's crazy."
"We call her 'Dog Lady,'" my grandfather interjected. "We have our names for everyone around here."
Thereafter, my grandfather proceeded to tell me about "Windows," an old lady who lived across the street and a few houses down the block. Apparently, this "Windows" person always peeked out her window when anything was going on in the neighborhood. So, a name was given, and it stuck. I guess you could say that "Windows" is their version of "Eddie Murray."
I was quite pleased to find out about our familial nickname-giving connection. Still, I couldn't help but be a bit unnerved when, upon leaving my grandparents' that day, I thought I heard my grandfather turn to my grandmother and say, "It was nice to spend some time with 'Smartass Esquire,' wasn't it?"
posted by mjxm at 2:52 AM |
