The other night, a crew of five or six boisterous gentlemen decided to hold a rowdy game of touch football in the parking lot that resides directly to the left of my apartment building in Manhattan. I've lived in this place for more than three years, and nothing along those lines has ever happened before. So, as you can imagine, I was a bit caught off guard by the whole thing.
The game commenced at around 11:45, and as the action escalated the decibel level increased at a similar pace.
"Out of bounds . . . out of bounds," the guys would yell at the top of their lungs, along with things like "interference" and "yeeaaaaaah boooyyeeeee . . . bring it . . . bring it."
My best guess is that the Knicks or Rangers game had probably just let out up the block, and the fellas were not yet willing to allow their testosterone levels to subside.
"You gotta be kiddin' me, Joey! That was a freakin' fumble."
They sounded like they might have been from Jersey, but who knows.
"Throw the ball . . . throw the ball. I'm open, man."
The affair just went on and on, loudly.
It wasn't that late. I wasn't trying to get to sleep. I didn't have any work to finish. And by now I've completely conditioned myself to effectively ignore sirens, whistles, horns, machinational grindings of garbage trucks, and all the other noises that go hand-in-hand with efforts at city living.
Still, something prodded me to take action with respect to the vacant lot Vikings.
After thinking about my options for a minute or two, I decided to make like a native New Yorker and take the appropriate action. That is . . . I screamed out the window at these guys.
Now, before I go on, let me just say that the practice of screaming things out of windows at drunk and/or unreasonably noisy people is much underrated. It really is a cathartic activity that, given the right set of circumstances, can result in gobs of enjoyment and hilarity.
Thankfully, when it comes to the art of screaming things out of windows, I was fortunate enough to learn from one of the best.
During my first year at Syracuse University, I inhabited a dorm room adjacent to one shared by two fellows named Ethan and Jeff. One of these guys was extremely short and the other was remarkably tall, but at this point in time I've forgotten which is which. Anyway, the tall one was quite the prankster, and, if memory serves me correctly, he bounced around from one campus rock band to another as a guitar player during that year. Though he struck me as a bit condescending, I suppose he was a nice enough person. Aside from being tall, and maintaining the demeanor of a dorky drama student and a general appearance reminiscent of "The Simpson's" Sideshow Bob, this guy was known for one thing.
He absolutely hated frat boys.
Couple this with the fact that there was a gigantic fraternity house across the street from our dorm, right outside our windows, and you have the components of a volatile mix.
By the middle of first semester, this guy had taken to screaming out his window in the direction of that fraternity house on a near nightly basis.
With shades fully drawn, of course, he'd curse the frat guys out for being loud and obnoxious. The targets of his barrages would, more often than not, respond in kind, resulting in full-fledged verbal sparring matches.
To make a long story short, lots of people's mothers were called numerous not-so-nice names, and so on and so forth. The tall guy, though, was also adept at integrating bizarre, nonsensical, and eminently frustrating comments into his diatribes.
"I demand that you stop housing goats in your basement . . . it's animal cruelty," he'd shout.
"Morticia Adams is on the phone for you guys."
"Do you think Beethoven had to put up with this crap when he was in college?"
These random comments never failed to trigger fits of laughter on my part, but the efforts of the frat guys to make sense of, or address, such statements was even funnier.
"I'll kick Beethoven's ass right now," They'd retort. Or, "if anyone has the goats, man, it's you."
Though these bouts rarely ended in a clear-cut winner, the genius of the whole endeavor was that the frat boys never knew exactly where their cunning combatant was yelling from.
The side of the dorm facing the fraternity house was at least eight floors high, and each of the floors was adorned with approximately 20 windows. That's a lot of potential screaming vessels for the average person to try to narrow down, much less a band of drunken frat guys. What's more, in addition to keeping his blinds closed during these episodes, the tall drama dude would always keep his lights off when shouting. He realized full well that all the noise would draw students living in other rooms in the dorm to their windows to see what was up, and thus that these poor saps would be the ones to catch the hell that should've been directed toward him--as the frat boys would always assume these curious onlookers to be responsible for the recriminations aimed at them.
"I see you up there," they'd yell. "Floor . . . one, two, three, four. Floor four, eight windows over. I'm coming up there and you're dead, man."
It was always amusing to hear unsuspecting female students yell back things like "what are you talking about?" or "Why are you screaming at my room? Who are you?"
Eventually--and much to the satisfaction of the tall guy who lived next to me--the frat boys burned down their house to collect the insurance money and the shouting matches stopped. But this was not before my angry neighbor's coup de grace, his crowning moment.
As noted, this guy was a rock musician. And during one exceedingly noisy night a few months before the great fire, he made the most of his garage band heritage.
I remember it like it was just yesterday.
After a few opening salvos, my neighbor went noticeably silent for a few moments. "Is that it?" I thought. "Is he giving up? Have they finally broken his spirit?"
Then, out of nowhere and loud as all getout, the words "SHUUUUUUUT UPPPPPPPP!" emanated from next door over and over again as if they were shouted into a crowd of revelers by the lead singer of Metallica, or Howard Dean or something.
This time, the frat boys could do little in the way of a reply. In truth, they could do little to even hear what they themselves were saying . . . as the guy next door to me had decided to bring his big ass Fender amp into the battle. And, let me tell you, he turned that thing up as loud as it would go.
Simply put . . . it was game, set, and match.
Armed with the power of super amplification, the tall guy railed against those frat guys like never before. And when they tried to respond he simply drowned them out by yelling "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH," into his mic.
After a few minutes of attempting to counter that which clearly could not be countered, the frat boys turned to their not-yet-burned-down home and walked inside--heads hung low, and clearly beaten.
"Nice work last night," I told the tall guy when I saw him in the bathroom the next morning. "The amp was a great idea."
He responded in the way that you'd imagine a tall, goofy, drama student who screams out of his window would: That is, he smiled, raised his hands in the air as though they gripped some imaginary championship belt, and then walked out.
Now, if there's one thing that I learned from my crazy, frat-boy-hating next-door neighbor at Syracuse it's that victory in window-to-street shouting matches is foremost contingent on one's ability to control the circumstances involved. The whole key is to know your environment. To prevail, one must make the most of every potential advantage at his or her disposal--e.g., the blinds, the darkened room, and, of course, the amp. When there's no access to said advantages, you've gotta be able to bite your tongue and put off the shouting for another day. So, in essence . . . DO . . . scream out the window of a 16-story apartment building that features hundreds of windows and has blinds to shield your physical presence from those below. DO NOT . . . scream out the front window of your small, one-window home while shining a flashlight upwards toward your face so as to appear more scary.
Since no one really wants to get attacked by a bunch of drunk guys, the ability to avoid a beatdown is the bedrock upon which all subsequent shouting-out-the-window-at-people techniques are built. It's the golden rule, or whatever.
So, fast-forward to the other night, with the game of touch football still going strong at midnight.
"SHUUUUUTT UPPPPPP!" I yelled--the drapes adoring my window fully closed, and with all lights in my room switched to off. "SHUUUUT UPPPPP! It's late, and people are trying to rest."
Immediately, the noise from outside stopped.
"Who is that?" one of the players screamed angrily. "Where are you? Why don't you come down here and make us shut up, tough guy?"
Clearly, I had them hook, line, and sinker . . . right off the bat.
"SHUUUUUUTT UUPPPP!" I screamed again, at the top of my lungs. "What kind of losers play touch football in a parking lot?"
"You're dead, man," another of the guys yelled. "We'll find you."
By this time, the men were running all around trying to figure out which window my shouts were coming from. But considering that at least 10 apartments are within shouting range of the parking lot where the game was being played, I knew that they had absolutely no hope in finding the source of my needle-in-a-haystack needling.
"We're coming up to find you man," they repeated.
"Well, I hope you guys are better at finding people than you are at throwing a football," I screamed, "because you all throw like a bunch of sissies. I've never seen such a wussy game of football in my life."
This, as you can imagine, really set the boys off.
Their initial reaction was chaotic in nature--as they all attempted to shout obscenities back in my direction at the same time. After a few seconds of that nonsense, they seemed to realize that the multiple screams only served to ensure that none of the individual tirades would be fully heard or understood.
"SHHHHH!" one of the players stated. "Let me say something."
"I'm waiting," I said quickly, before he could shout again. "Speak, oh great captain of Team Wuss."
Thereafter, the guy strung together another poorly-constructed rant consisting mainly of slurs having to do with sexual orientation.
"Oh, how clever," I shot back. "Gay jokes. Man, you're a smart guy. How long did it take you to come up with those?"
When he responded with more obscenities, I realized that this back and forth had the potential of going on forever. And I had no desire to yell at these dudes all night.
Thankfully, a few moments later, while the leader guy was screaming something about my mom, I remembered my neighbor from college and decided to follow the path that he'd blazed years ago in Syracuse.
I may not have had an amp . . . but I did have another surprise at my disposal.
"Do you think Beethoven had to put up with this stuff when he was in college?" I yelled down to the boys as loud as I could.
Clearly, they were caught off guard.
After a second or two of silence, "What," "What the hell," "What's that supposed to mean," and a host of similar questions were all posed by the players to one another at a normal, conversational volume.
"What the hell are you talking about man," the main guy yelled upwards into the night air that, by this point, had begun to infiltrate my room, alerting me that it was probably time to wrap things up so as to avoid resigning myself to chilly sleeping conditions.
"Listen close, Einstein," I yelled. "Do you think Beethoven had to put up with this when he was in college?"
"Whatever, man," the guy screamed. "We're coming up to get you now . . . you're dead."
"Yeah," I responded. "Well, just thank your lucky stars that I don't have an amp, buddy."
And with that last exchange, the noise ended and my homage to the tall, goofy drama student who lived in the room next-door to me in college was complete.
The football dudes, surely realizing that they could not possibly "find me," took off like a crew of beaten frat boys.
As I returned to my desk victorious--though not holding my hands above my head as if grasping the ends of a championship belt--the only sounds I heard from outside were those of car alarms, horns, and sirens.
On the first day of class at law school, I met a woman named Laura. After the two of us exchanged a bit of trite, cursory small talk, Laura asked me where I was from. "Pittsburgh," I replied swiftly. "That can't be," she said in response. "You're not from Pittsburgh. Where are you really from?" Confused, I immediately asked Laura why she questioned the veracity of the statement I made about where I grew up. "You don't talk like you're from Pittsburgh," she stated. "I've met some people from Pittsburgh and you don't sound anything like them." I knew exactly what she meant, of course--being that everyone I know from back home does indeed "talk like they're from Pittsburgh"--but I decided to pursue things a bit further. "What do people from Pittsburgh talk like?" I asked her. "I forget, specifically," she said after thinking about it for a second. "But they don't speak like you, that's for sure . . . you talk like you're from nowhere. You don't have any of that Pittsburgh dialect, or, as a matter of fact, any dialect at all." After explaining that I'd lived in Syracuse for the three years prior to my transition to Ann Arbor, and thus could've subconsciously cast aside the Pittsburgh drawl and vernacular during that time, I noticed that she still seemed a bit skeptical about my geographical heritage. "I do say 'pop,' though," I assured her. "Does that convince you?" After pausing for a second, she informed me that it was a start, but that my manner of speaking pegged for someone who was most certainly not raised in Pittsburgh. Since that conversation in 1996, I have convinced Laura that I am indeed from Pittsburgh. But, I'm afraid to report, I now talk even less like my brethren back in the 'burgh. When I make a trip to the Seaport or the financial district, I state that I will be going "down town," not "dahntahn." I unfortunately no longer refer to groups of two or more people as "yinz," and while I remain a huge fan of Pittsburgh's NFL team, I don't refer to them as the "Stillers." For a more comprehensive assortment of Pittsburgh-inspired words and phrases that I no longer use, check out this wacky website. Frankly, I kinda wish I did still talk as though I was from somewhere, but I have a feeling it may be too late to turn back. Still, as I told Laura eight years ago, I do say "pop," and that's gotta count for something. If nothing else, it puts me alongside my fellow Pittsburghers on one of the research maps created by Harvard University linguistics scholar Bert Vaux. Professor Vaux is heading a super cool project that entails the collection and mapping of survey data relating to how people all across the country pronounce and use certain words. As part of his study, Vaux received more than 15,000 survey responses and was thus able to map out things like where in the country a "hoagie" is a "sub," and where people stand "in line" as opposed to "on line." The results, which you can access by clicking on this link, are, in many cases, fascinating. For instance, did you know that the country is split almost evenly (46% to 52%) between people who call sleeping clothes "pa-JAM-as" and those who call them "pa-JAH-mas"? Or, what about this one . . . did you know that while 52% or Americans refer to a "sale of unwanted items on your porch, in your yard, etc," as a "garage sale," and 36% call it a "yard sale," there are pockets of people in Arkansas who call it a "car boot sale." In areas of the Northeast, Texas, and California, what I refer to as a "milkshake" is known as a "cabinet." My "lightning bugs" are "fireflies" on the West Coast and, get this, "peenie wallies" in Texas. While U2's Bono mentions a "supermarket trolley" in the 1991 release "Tryin' to Throw Your Arms Around the World," only .23% of Americans refer to the "wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket" as such. Most (77%) call it a shopping cart, and 4% of respondents, like me, call it a "buggy." I was shocked to find that less than 1% of those surveyed refer to "the gooey or dry matter that collects in the corners of your eyes, especially while sleeping," as "sleepy bugs," but frankly Americans are all over the place on that one. My favorites are "eye crunchies" (.13%), "gunk" (7%), and "eye shit" (.45%). Props also go out to respondents in the metro-Detroit area for referring to what I call "rubbernecking" at an accident site as "gawk blocking." That one now officially has one New York City adherent. On a more personal note, Professor Vaux's research informed me that I'm among a very small minority of people who say "UMbrella" instead of "umBRELLA," and that my family is apparently the only one in the nation that refers to one's grandfather as "pap pap." And, just to be clear once and for all, when someone refers to "the City," they are most likely talking about New York City (47%). So take that Boston (2%), L.A. (1%), and "other" (42%). Anyway, while I'd be the first to admit that living in "the City" has probably changed my outlook on things to some extent and has likely served to further raze the Pittsburgh vernacular that once dominated my speech, I'm still damn proud to be among that 25.08% of Americans who refer to Coke and Pepsi and the like as "pop."
As I write this, the top Yahoo! News headline is: "Bush 'troubled' by gay weddings in SF." While I'm tempted to use this entire post as a space to rant about the utter stupidity of conservatives getting all amped up about the fact that people who are in some ways different from them want to get married, I've decided against doing such. I'm sure that anyone who knows me or reads this blog on a regular basis realizes full well where I come down on that issue, and I'd imagine that the prospects of me once again railing against the close-minded, change-averse contingent in this country is not something that readers are hankering for. Instead, I've decided to come up with a quick, off-the-top-of-my-head-type, non-exhaustive list of the things that I am "troubled" about. Now, I'm no sitting president or anything, but to me these things are somewhat troubling:
Nearly three million jobs have been lost in this country since 2000.
Most of the jobs lost over the last four years have been of the working-class variety.
During the last four years, the unemployment rate in America has increased by 49%.
The budget surplus that existed in 2000 has been transformed into a deficit of more than $500 billion.
More than 40 million Americans have no health insurance.
America waged war based on a misguided premise.
Osama (remember him?) is still on the loose.
Our efforts at "Homeland Security" are exemplified by a zany, color-coded alert system.
America's status internationally has plummeted since 2000.
Since 2000, our federal environmental statutes have taken a decidedly anti-protectionist, anti-public health turn.
The majority of our public schools suck.
Aside from those earning more than $200,000 annually, most Americans are not better off now than they were four years ago.
Sure, my list may be noticeably short on stuff like whether two dudes can get married. But I suppose that the president and I just have different priorities. Interestingly, a few notches below the wire piece about Bush's "troubled" mindset there's a link to an Associated Press story with the following headline: "White House Backs Off Jobs-Growth Forecast." The lead graph of the piece states: "The White House backed away Wednesday from its own prediction that the economy will add 2.6 million new jobs before the end of this year, saying the forecast was the work of number-crunchers and that President Bush was not a statistician." First off, the president just released this prediction like last week. Anyone who bought into it hasn't really been paying attention, and my initial reaction to the report was to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of such an assertion, but I never thought for a moment that it would be officially abandoned so quickly. Secondly, I don't need the White House Press Secretary to tell me that our president is "not a statistician." I'm fairly certain that, by this time, most Americans understand full well that this guy isn't a whole lot of things, least of which being a statistician.
Postscript: As I finished this post up, a new story was added to the Yahoo! News front page. Its headline: "Laura Bush calls gay marriage "shocking." I'm not going to read the story, and, as much as I'm inclined to do so, I am going to spare you from having to read a list of some things that I find "shocking." Aside from saying that Mrs. Bush strikes me as someone who really needs to rent some porn, I don't have anything else to add.
Sure, it's also about going to class, and writing papers and such, but it truly is foremost about the freedom to do pretty much whatever the hell you want for the first time in your life.
If you're currently in college and aren't doing anything ridiculous or crazy, you need to get a move on--for the latitude and entitlement to debauchery that you now enjoy will be severely constrained after graduation. Whether your destination is grad school or the real world (gasp!), after college you're simply not going to have the same motive, opportunity, and nurturing environment necessary for really solid efforts at rousing rabble.
I'm not saying that life after college has to be boring, or that you can't succumb to fits of water balloon throwing or crank calling once you've received that diploma, but I assure you that those outbursts of zaniness will start to become far less frequent the further down the line you get from commencement ceremonies. So it's absolutely essential to squeeze your college experience for every last bit of crazy juice that resides, waiting to be tapped, within the confines of those four, all-too-quickly-passing years.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating an ascent to a level of lunacy that would mandate a fifth year of matriculation or anything along those lines. I'm simply saying that one's college years should be filled with hijinks, revelry, and skylarking of a degree that will net you myriad stories to be told with fondness countless times over the subsequent 60 or 70 years of your life. Take my word for it, much more than any piece of paper handed off at graduation or a statement on one's resume confirming fulfillment of degree work at this or that university, the real, lasting value of college lies in the acquisition of stories.
Now, on a 1-to-10 scale of partying--with one being quiet conversation about knitting and kittens and 10 being two-day-long heroin binges with Courtney Love that include an entire 24-hour period where Courtney wears your clothes and you wear hers, and the two of you roam the streets of L.A. looking for the perfect milkshake and saying things to each other like, "Fuck the solar system . . . you know. Who the hell ever decided that the solar system had the right to have all the planets"--I fall somewhere between two and three. That is, I don't like talking about knitting, but prefer Pictionary and Kool Aid to upside down beer bong contests. This basically means that none of my killer undergrad stories are about me waking up next to some garbage cans outside of a freshman dorm after a night of heavy drinking, or involve me smoking so much weed that I made out with an ottoman I kept referring to as "Sharon."
Not that there's anything wrong with those types of stories . . . they're just not mine, that's all.
My best college stories seem to involve shenanigans, practical jokes, and other assorted stupidity. Mooning alone, of course, accounts for somewhere between five and 15 stories. Squirt-gun-related tales are quite prevalent as well. Tomes of petty theft--street signs, dorm cafeteria cereal dispensers, mannequins, etc.--abound. Phony phone calls turn up again and again, and stories of something--whether food, water, or vaguely foreign accented shouts--being hurled out of a dorm window are almost too prevalent. Tales involving alter ego scenarios or other forms of harmless deception are also strewn about, but by now you pretty much get the picture.
Basically, my best udergrad stories involve me and my college cronies partaking in some sort of childish zaniness.
To wit: the great "Bird Library Bamboozle."
During my three years at Syracuse University, I made a habit of studying on the sixth and top floor of the school's main library. It was quiet up there, and the higher up you went in that place the less likely you were to be distracted be people milling to and fro. As I was fairly big on doing well in school, I spent a great deal of time at the sixth floor of Bird Library and burnt mucho midnight oil within its confines.
When I think back on those days, I'm a bit surprised at just how disciplined and regimented I was about getting my work done. That said, spending huge blocks of time on the top floor of a nondescript, lazily adorned library will drive even the most conscientious student to find creative solace in something other than staring down at textbooks.
For me, that solace came in the form of the "Bird Library Bamboozle."
It started off quite simply, really. One Sunday afternoon, I was studying with my roommate Clay at the library and had all but reached my limit in terms of the ability to read and process information. Just before I was about to suggest that Clay and I call it a day and head back to our place, he got up to go to the restroom.
For whatever reason, Clay's trip to the toilet sent me into a fit of mischeivous action the origins of which I have yet to really pin down.
As soon as he sauntered out of sight, I grabbed his textbook and took off. I jogged across the hall and down the steps, and then to the very back of the fifth floor stacks. I snatched a book from the shelves, replaced it with Clay's text, and walked hurriedly back upstairs with the new book.
When I reached the table where Clay and I were studying, I opened the library book to a random page and set it where Clay had left his text. He'd not yet returned from the bathroom, so the whole bit worked out perfectly.
While I'm not sure where I came up with this whole switcheroo idea, I am indeed sure that it was a great friggin' idea.
"What the hell is this?" Clay asked upon returning from the loo.
"Huh?"
"What happened to my book?" he inquired more specifically.
"What do you mean," I responded. "That's not your book there? What is that book?"
"Awwwwwww come on," he exhaled, laughing. "Where's my book, man."
I never told him where it was--or, for that matter, even admitted that I'd hidden it--but eventually he put two and two together and tracked down his stashed sociology text.
Then, a few days later, he returned the favor and exacted revenge in the name of kidnapped sociology books everywhere by making off with my copy of "Native Son" and transporting it all the way to some shelves located on the third floor.
As our rivalry expanded, Clay and I got more clever. We began not only exchanging the other's book for a work currently existing in the library, but also exchanging the replacement book for a different library book on a different floor, and so on and so on.
A few months in, if your book disappeared you were pretty much resigned to a library search that could take anywhere from five to 15 minutes. Once you found the location of the book that was left on the table where your text previously resided, you'd realize that the book holding its place was not your book at all, but instead another link in a series of misplaced publications that would, if you were lucky, eventually lead you to your missing book.
Clay and I both went to great lengths in our efforts to create elaborate trails that would leave the other teetering at the cusp of insanity by the time the relevant missing book was located: We used the periodicals holdings on the ground floor; We recruited unknowing accomplices to serve as links in our convoluted hidden-book chains; We made use of shelves that mandated the manipulation of special rolling ladders in order to reach them. In short, many, many staircases were trudged up as a result of this stupid serve and volley.
Still, there were some positives that accrued. Eventually, we each got super good at knowing exactly where any book in the library was shelved based on the alpha numeric listing that was printed on its spine. We also got good at holding our fluids and not taking pee breaks until we got home from the library, so as to avoid the scavenger hunt scenario that was bound to ensue otherwise. If we really had to go, we'd take all our books to the restroom with us . . . but it was always safer just to hold out.
Though our silly competition ended with no real winner and culminated in a lasting truce that followed on the heels of several, um, non-lasting truces, the Bird Library Bamboozle would not be put to rest without causing Clay and I at least a bit of disquiet.
Right around the time when fissures were beginning to appear in the Treaty of Ostrom that Clay and I had tentatively agreed to, we mutually decided that we were just not all that good at complying with agreements that called for us to halt textbook hiding. As such, we concluded that we were either going to go on snatching and stashing each other's books forever or we were going to have to find another outlet for our book-related mischief.
When I flat out ignored the Ostrom Treaty and created a book trail that culminated in one of Clay's texts ending up on the magazine racks in the library's basement, he'd had enough.
"We've gotta do something," he told me, disappointed that all the Ostrom-related negotiations were for not. "I may have a solution."
His alternative was simple, and it made perfect sense.
"Let's just hide the books of the people sitting around us," he said, matter-of-factly.
No one was going to suffer, he stated, because nothing was being taken. These were college kids who would quickly figure out that the book missing from the study table upon their return from the bathroom was likely to be found in the place where the book currently residing on that table was to be properly shelved.
I needed little if any convincing.
"Let's do it," I said almost immediately. "It'll be hilarious."
"We can't laugh though," Clay warned. "If we laugh when someone notices that his book's been switched we're totally gonna give ourselves away, and then we'll have to admit to doing such a dumb thing for absolutely no reason."
Clay was right, of course. And I was worried. I'm not good at stopping myself from laughing when something silly happens that I'm not allowed to laugh at it. In fact, I'm really bad at doing that.
But I promised Clay that I'd do my best to rein in the giggles, and thereafter we quickly went about the process of coming up with a plan for pulling the Bird Library Bamboozle on unsuspecting undergrads.
After setting forth some initial ground rules--things along the lines of, "Let's not try to pull this on anyone bigger than we are" and "If something goes wrong and one of us gets busted, we should promise not to sell out the other guy"--we came up with a fairly simple and efficient plan for pulling the whole thing off.
We remained patient during a couple of library visits when conditions just weren't right due to the fact that our area of the library was either exceedingly crowded or riddled with people who seemed like they could probably take Clay or I in a fight.
But one Sunday afternoon, a few days after we had made our initial plans, we realized that our section of the library was almost completely empty save for a random-looking kid who appeared to be about the same build as us. He was alone and was wearing a light brown sweater and a pair of jeans. A goofy-looking, brown checkered Nautica jacket rested on the chair to his immediate left, along with a brown leather bookbag.
"That's the guy," Clay whispered to me.
And with that, it was on.
Once the kid got up to go to the restroom, the plan was for me to take the book he was reading and scamper off to another floor for an exchange. Thereafter, I'd meet Clay at the top of the stairwell with a replacement book. He'd place the new book on the kid's table, and quickly return to his seat, where I'd meet him a minute or so later.
We knew, of course, that we'd have to work quickly. It doesn't take a guy very long at all to pee--we thought about pulling the stunt on a girl for that very reason but just couldn't bring ourselves to do such a thing--and there was a lot of territory to be covered if the plan was going to work properly. We figured we had no more than one and a half minutes to complete the switch and have Clay seated back at our table, but just to be on the safe side we were shooting to wrap up the whole endeavor in under one minute.
And, according to my watch, we did just that.
As soon as the kid turned the corner and headed towards the lavatory, I raced into action--snaring the book in a hasty yet nonchalant fashion, then motoring for the stairs. I rambled down the steps, quickly reached the fourth floor, hurried into the stacks, exchanged the kid's textbook for one on the highest shelf I could reach, and then scrambled back to the stairwell to hand off the new book Clay.
"Nice," he said before jogging away in the other direction for the book replacement. "24 seconds."
It couldn't have gone more smoothly.
Simply put, we'd done this sort of thing so many times and thought it through so diligently that we'd become complete badasses at the fine art of textbook switcheroo.
I had a vainglorious air about me and walked with a noticeably conceited swagger as I returned to meet Clay at our table a minute or so after I'd given him the library book to replace at the guy's study area.
At that moment, we were untouchable . . . and it felt great.
It was not until the very next moment that I realized we were in a shitload of trouble.
As I reached the waiting area outside the elevators on the sixth floor, and just as I was about to turn left and head towards our table, I saw Clay jogging towards me in the way that people do when they want to sprint in one direction but simply cannot do so without looking either crazy or guilty of some sort of offense.
"Go, go, go," Clay half-yelled to me from about 10 feet away, teeth clenched and mouth opened wide so that I would have no problem grasping the implication that things had not gone according to plan.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Just move, man," he replied. "Go."
So I went . . . fast.
And Clay was right behind me.
When we got outside the library, Clay immediately suggested that we take a circuitous route home so as to make sure that no one was following us. And as we began to proceed in some odd direction, I noticed that he was glancing over his left shoulder an awful lot.
I could only assume that when Clay returned to the kid's table with the replacement book, the guy was there waiting for him and was none too happy. But that wasn't what happened at all.
"That guy was fucking pissed," Clay told me as we continued to walk swiftly in the wrong direction. "He came back to the table, found the replacement, and immediately came over to me huffing and puffing. He was like, 'Where the fuck is my book, man. I know your friend took it . . . you were the only two people up here.'"
In response, Clay, god bless his soul, refused to rat me out. What's more, he not only disavowed any knowledge of my participation in the publication swap, he categorically denied any knowledge that such a swap had even gone down.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Clay told the kid. "I'm just trying to study."
After going back and forth for a bit with the guy, and refusing to cave, Clay told him that he'd had enough of such accusations and wasn't going to listen to it anymore. He then packed up his stuff, and bolted.
That's when he ran into me near the elevators.
"I'm telling you, that guy wanted to kick my ass," Clay said, now laughing, as we finally reached the dorm where we lived. "Our asses . . . actually. He kept saying that he knew you stole his book. I thought he was going to tackle me. When I was packing up, he was like, 'You're not leaving here until I get my book . . . you're not going anywhere.' I just looked at him like he was crazy and walked away. He claims he's gonna find us somehow."
Surprisingly, although the switcheroo snafu resulted in our not visiting Bird Library for a week or so following the debacle, nothing else really ever came of it.
We never saw that kid again, and when we checked a few weeks later the book I'd grabbed from the shelves to replace with his was back in its proper place. So the guy got his textbook back and everything was fine.
Clearly the whole take-some-total-stranger's-textbook-and-hide-it thing was a bad idea, and it's not something that I'd even think about trying again. But doing crazy stuff like that, learning something from the experience, and then being able to tell the story years later while laughing about how silly the entire episode was . . . is one of the things that makes going to college most worthwhile.
Well, here it is: mjxm.com version 2.0. First off, I'd like to thank Richard Kriheli for his tireless efforts on the redesign. Seriously, if you're ever looking for someone to handle your web design needs, Richard is the first person you should contact. He's one of the most talented and creative people that I know. He's a true professional and someone whose work I would recommend without any reservation. You can get in touch with him by clicking on his name at the very bottom of this page. As for the thinking behind the various changes that have been made, the vast majority of them can be traced back to suggestions made directly by readers like yourself. A few weeks ago, I asked folks to fill out a brief reader survey about mjxm.com. In short, the response was overwhelming. Tons of people returned those surveys, and I've worked with Richard to address as many of the suggestions as possible. Specifically, here are some of the reader comments that we implemented into the new design: 1) a bigger text box so there's more room to read the blog entries and less scrolling; 2) a bigger font size for easier reading; 3) more color; 4) the addition of a "frequently asked questions" section. Anyway, I'm a huge fan of the new design, and I really do hope that you like it as well. After all, the whole impetus for the change was a desire to the mjxm.com experience as enjoyable as possible for my readers. As always, thanks for reading my stuff. I truly appreciate it.
Following on the admittedly not-too-hard-to-top heels of "Fun with eBay Vol. 1," I present to you: "Fun with craigslist Vol. 1."
If you don't know what craigslist is, your best bet would be to take a quick gander at www.craigslist.org and thereafter come back to finish the rest of this bliz entry. For those of you too lazy to make that double click thing happen, I can offer a thumbnail description of the site by stating that craigslist is essentially a well thought out, web-based bulletin board that allows people to post and answer classifieds for free. It's divided up into various categories (e.g., personals, housing, for sale, jobs), and then those categories are broken down into numerous sub-categories that are even more specific (e.g., casual encounters, housing swap, bikes for sale, skilled trade/craft jobs).
In New York City, craigslist is a staple.
This is foremost because the website really is the best place to find deals on apartment rentals in a town where quality housing is scarce and expensive as all getout. Believe me, if Satan himself ran a site where he served as webmaster and dark overlord of a place on the web where folks could sign on for eternal damnation in return for access to top-flight apartment opportunities, Manhattanites would rush to www.yoursoulforaniceonebedroom.com, or www.lotsoflightandbreakfastnookandevil.com, or whatever. They'd also keep the web address hush-hush out of fear that if word spread too rapidly all the good listings would be snatched up by newbies. The whole losing-your-soul thing would be about fifth or sixth on the list of issues that people around here would fret about in regards to a website that offered a plethora of pagan rental opportunities.
Anyway, I first became acquainted with craigslist back in '99--when I drove from Ann Arbor to New York City prior to securing a place to live in this fair town. At that time, the website was a secret weapon of sorts. Few people knew it existed, and only a small subset of that camp realized that craigslist was one of the only entities that connected people looking for apartments with those who were willing to rent their spaces without charging a broker's fee--which all New Yorkers know usually amounts to something along the lines of two months rent . . . up front. Looking back, it really was a godsend. Hell, if it weren't for craigslist it likely would've taken me seven months rather than that number of weeks to find a home base for my legal/journalistic endeavors here.
Unfortunately, craigslist could not remain a secret forever.
Shortly after I found a place to live, word about the urban utility of craigslist somehow reached the masses and the idea simply took off. Craigslist is now part of the New York City vernacular, and it's reached both national and international prominence. Lame cities like Providence and Minneapolis have their own craigslist branch sites. London's got one . . . Honolulu, too. Even my beloved, rapidly-crumbling-under-the-weight-of-fiscal-mismanagement hometown of Pittsburgh has its own version.
So, the bottom line is that craigslist is a popular place on the world wide web for people to buy, sell, trade, and interact. Combine that with the fact that I'm a very silly guy and you have the basic idea for "Fun with craigslist Vol. 1."
In short, I placed goofy advertisements on the website. Then real people answered the ads by sending email to an anonymous account, the messages in which craigslist forwarded directly to my personal inbox. If you read the eBay version of this bit that I posted a few months back, you pretty much have the idea.
Below you'll find the actual ads that I placed, followed by the responses received for each ad and any miscellaneous comments that came to me after getting in the relevant responses. The comments that I make subsequent to the responses below were not sent to the individuals who answered the ads, but rather just represent my personal thoughts about the communications that they sent me.
Finally, everything from here on out is verbatim. Most of the ads are still accessible on craigslist if you don't believe me and want to verify for yourself whether someone would willingly post such ridiculous stuff. But if you know me then there should be no question to that effect.
Enjoy . . .
1) AD PLACED IN "ITEMS WANTED SECTION"
SUBJECT HEADING: Looking for a MANHOLE COVER--pref. pre-1980
hello.
i am a grad student in urban studies and an avid collector of nyc memorabilia. i am looking to purchase a real manhole cover.
please let me know if you have one you'd like to sell or know of where i can get one. any and all help or advice would be much appreciated, because i have had absolutely no luck finding one on my own.
thanks
RESPONSES RECEIVED:
1) Do you have any idea how much a manhole weighs? It takes two of us to lift one up. How would you transport one if you could get a hold of it?
COMMENT: This guy has a good point. I have no clue why he would take the time to email me that manholes are really heavy, but he's definitely right on point.
2) If you are looking for a good manhole cover, I would recommend BVDs.
COMMENT: After receiving this response, and figuring out what the hell the person was talking about, I was sure that I'd unknowingly set myself up to receive hundreds of gay-sex-related emails by placing the ad that I did. This is New York after all. Thankfully, nothing of the sort occurred.
3) we've got a number of manhole covers which we got from the city, legally. it was, and still is, something of a hassle. we've used them as tops for tables-anyhow........ since we have a number predating 1980, maybe we can help you out. btw, what's the significance of 1980? i'm not as up on the subject as you may be. we have some real antiques, but we'd probably have to ask too high a price for those, or are you floating in cash? do you know how heavy these things are? would we have to deliver this for you? are you by any chance interested in a base for the thing, i.e., one of our table designs? or at least a cylinder of steel for the cover to rest in/on? we're asking $100, some would be more. is that doable? do you have diana stuart's book? get back to me and we'll try to help you out.
COMMENT: Wow . . . where to begin? I guess I should start by noting that this respondent seems to be a very nice, courteous person and that her email made me wish that I really was in search of a manhole cover. I especially appreciated her deferring to my expertise on the subject by noting that she's "not as up on the subject as [I] may be." Also, the thought of "floating in cash" seems to me something that would be cool to experience. The sensation of floating alone, I'd imagine, is pretty fucking cool. But to be able to float in cash . . . that seems like it would be even better. I'd probably want to wash afterwards, but I'm definitely game to try it someday. Finally, this person's mention of "Diana Stuart's book" resulted in an immediate google search on my part. Within moments, I was perusing the materials at . . . no lie . . . www.nycmanholecovers.org. You really must check out this site. Among other things, it informs us that: "The society for the Preservation of New York City Manhole Covers (SPNYCMC) was established to raise awareness of these industrial artifacts and to work for their Landmark status. The city's historic covers are fast disappearing, often scrapped or buried under concrete during road work."; "The Society for the Preservation of New York City Manhole Covers does not maintain a dues paying membership. Affiliation with the organization is acquired through appreciation of these everyday objects."; and that Diana Stuart, who's known as "The Manhole Cover Lady," will be releasing a book that "tells the story of the city's historic covers and the foundry's that cast them."
2) AD PLACED IN "CLOTHING & ACCESSORIES" SECTION
SUBJECT HEADING: amazing pair of glasses left at my apartment . . . for sale. - $100
ok, here's the deal:
i'm not trying to brag or anything, but i make gobs of money. i have a phat apartment that you would not fucking believe if you saw it, and i have parties there every month or so. i invite my friends over, and they invite their friends, and before you know it there's fifty to one hundred people up in here.
anyway, my friends also (for the most part: not including Fran) make a great deal of money and have lots of nice stuff. to make a long story short, at my last party someone left a killer pair of gucci glasses that have got to be worth at least $500. i checked with all of my friends and they all said that they don't know who the glasses belong to. so, i'm assuming that they belong to a friend of a friend . . . who is now assed out, cause i'm selling those badboys (hey, i didn't get rich by being nice . . . right?)
like i said, they're real nice glasses that some rich, drunk dumbass left at my apartment. $100 or best offer by fri.
get in touch with me if you have any questions.
RESPONSES RECEIVED:
1) do u have a picture of them...there is really no description in the ad.
COMMENT: Fair enough.
2) I'm interested....when can I come by to pick them up? Thanks
COMMENT: I've realized that, For whatever reason, some people are just more likely to trust the veracity of statements or assertions made by those who profess to be either wealthy or an expert, regardless of whether there's anything to back up such a profession. I mean, this guy's willing to buy the glasses without even checking them out, in a city where Gucci knockoffs are as common as foul-smelling street corners. My ad walked the walk in terms of sounding like it was written by a rich dude, so this guy's sold. Good grief.
3) You are a pompous ass. I hope your glasses are fakes and that your next party at your phat apartment is a complete dud.
COMMENT: Finally someone calls out my ad for what it is: the ramblings of a self-absorbed egomanic who deserves to be humbled. The sad thing is that there are people in this town who post ads like this all the time. Hey, buddy, listen, I'm looking for cheap seats to the Yankees game on Friday . . . not for a story about how your high-paying job provides you with season tickets that you will be not be able to use this weekend because you're flying to St. Barts. Anyway, you get the point.
4) Are these real?
COMMENT: No. Not only are they not genuine Gucci sunglasses . . . they don't even exist.
3) AD PLACED IN "FOR SALE-HOUSEHOLD" SECTION
SUBJECT HEADING: PISSED OFF TOASTER OVEN! - $20
i've had enough. every time i try to cook something in this stupid thing it burns the food . . . no matter what. even when i put it on a low setting, the food still gets burned. just last night the thing turned my pizza bagels into a flaming mess. it was a housewarming gift from an ex-girlfriend of mine who moved to chicago. i figure that she either cursed it or the thing has somehow channeled her perpetually pissed off demeanor.
anyway, if you want it, it's yours. maybe you can "cure" it, or whatever.
$20 or best offer. i'll even deliver it. i've seriously had enough of this thing.
RESPONSES RECEIVED:
1) Were you by any chance dating my mother in law?
COMMENT: Clever.
2) hi. i am not interested in buying your toaster. but you may want to try turning it down to a lower level and waiting in the room while your food cooks so you can save the meal in case it starts burning. GOOD LUCK!
COMMENT: Who said New Yorkers aren't courteous, helpful people?
3) (IN EMAIL SUBJECT HEAD) This is a message from your toaster . . .
(IN BODY OF THE EMAIL) Fuck you!
COMMENT: Also clever.
4) I am not going to pay you $20 for a broken toaster oven. But I will take it off your hands for free. Let me know. It seems like you don't want it anymore.
COMMENT: I had a feeling that I'd set the bar too high with that $20 asking price.
4) AD PLACED IN "FOR SALE-COMPUTERS" SECTION
SUBJECT HEADING: COMPUTER! sale item. $500 or less!
hi.
have computer to for sale. must go. cannot afford. best offer good.
ibm mac and printer device as well.
works solid.
please ask any qustions if interest.
RESPONSES RECEIVED:
1) What model computer are you actually selling?
COMMENT: Good question. (Note: Nothing drives computer geeks nuts more than a lack of specificity.)
2) what type of computer is this? i don't really understand the ad.
COMMENT: See previous comment.
3) IBM or Mac . . . Which one? And what kind of computer is it specifically? And how much do you want for it?
COMMENT: See previous comment.
4) this has got to be the worst ad i've ever seen on craigslist.
COMMENT: You've obviously not read the Gucci glasses posting from the "Clothing & Accessories" section of the website.
posted by mjxm at 8:13 PM |
Friday, February 06, 2004
bliz: A United Nations of the Toweled
I have two gym memberships.
The first one grants me access to Bally Total Fitness centers, and the second validates my entrance into New York Sports Clubs. While it's true that Bally is roundly panned for maintaining the lousiest, most bare bones gyms in Manhattan, the company is also, by far, the least expensive option in the city. So, when it came time for me to pick among gyms a little more than three years ago, the choice amounted to one between joining Ballys for $65 per month or investing that amount into a stockpile of Oreo cookies--as I did not have the scrilla to plunk down upwards of $100, or more, each month for a fancier alternative.
A year or so after choosing Ballys over Oreos, I happened upon a gig as the editor of a new magazine being produced by the New York Sports Club--which is head and shoulders above Ballys in the Manhattan gym hierarchy and rests comfortably somewhere above Crunch but below Equinox on said spectrum. One of the perks of the job was a comp membership that now gets my previously Ballified ass into New York Sports Clubs all across the city approximately four times each week.
While I'm still a member at Ballys--they make you commit for three years when you join, but after that time your monthly membership dues is cut by about 75% . . . and even I can afford $24 per month, or whatever it is--I only show up at their crappy gyms when the more posh Sports Clubs are overly crowded or something along those lines.
Basically, Ballys has become yesterday's news to me. And until my comp membership runs dry, there's little likelihood of anything changing on that front.
There's just no reason to frequent the local Ballys--with its consistently flawed temperature regulation, shabby machine maintenance, and overly annoying personal trainers--when you've got access to a gym that boasts the opposite of all the stuff residing between the em-dashes in this sentence. Even the casual observer would notice that Ballys and New York Sports Club are two completely different animals, and that in most ways they're as different as, well, fat and thin.
Still, there's one particular element of both gyms that I've found to be strikingly analogous, despite the other marked differences that predominate. That is, the locker rooms in each and every gym maintained by both companies are equally bizarre.
I mean, I don't know if you've ever noticed, but the locker room in just about any gym is a fascinating and awfully strange place.
Noah Webster and his cadre of wordsmiths define the words "locker room" to mean simply, "a room, as at a gymnasium, equipped with lockers for storing a person's clothes and equipment." But anyone who frequents the gym realizes that the area known as the locker room is much more than simply a "room . . . equipped with lockers."
It's a universe all its own, a microcosm, if you will.
Think about it. Aside from the whole "single sex" thing, the locker room has it all--short, tall, skinny, fat, hairy, hairless, black, white, brown, and yellow, it just goes on and on--and people from all walks of life pack into this relatively small space in almost ritualistic fashion to partake in activities that are normally quite private.
It's akin to a unique and highly dysfunctional United Nations of the toweled.
In such a forum, the confluence of humanity pretty much guarantees that anything can, and will, happen. And here, each and every man and woman--regardless of age, income, race, or anything else--is in pretty much the same boat. That is, we all have to show some skin. Of course, the locker room is also the home of extremes, so exactly how much skin one shows can run the proverbial gamut. And, in this place where egos can be shattered in a New York minute, those confined within the locker room's parameters often hold tightly to whatever shred of power they have to control what others in the fishbowl-of-flesh get to see of them.
That power, most often, manifests itself in the form of a towel--or, in some cases, several towels.
Those riddled with real or imagined flaws can choose the largest, and most, towels. And those who find perfection in the mirror somehow never seem to be able to locate one. It is not often that one breaks from the "all or nothing" approach to towel usage in the locker room. But when it happens, you'll know it. The "middle grounders" are easy to spot. These folks, rather than tying the towel on the side of the body--as you or I would when, for instance, spending the weekend visiting grandma's house--strategically place the knot in the towel at the belly button region, and make sure that the descending flaps drape downward at just the right angle so as to preserve the all-important money shot.
Although the novice gym-goer would likely assert that these folks are defeating the purpose of the towel, "middle grounders" appear to see the utility of a towel solely in its ability to frame that which they deem worthy of appreciation. As such, sharing space with a locker room full of "middle grounders" can be much like a trip to the art museum. That is, some pictures are breathtaking and some are hideous, but they all have frames.
Towel or no towel, the locker room will always find a way of exposing the truth lurking at the core of both those steeped in precaution and those who rely on posturing and puffery. After all, it is here where the ever-so-pedestrian of those working out in the gym can suddenly be ratcheted up the desirability scale, and the most toned and fit among us can slide way down that very same scale, with one slip of the towel.
Although this phenomenon may be more pervasive in the size-obsessed men's locker room, even the most curve-hugging bodysuit or spandex outfit allows some things to be hidden away by the gals--lines, veins, wrinkles, random accumulations of unwanted hair, oddly-located pimples, and just about every other blemish imaginable remains invisible while a seemingly perfect woman strokes smoothly on the glider. But, the locker room sees no spandex, and neither do its inhabitants.
That said, the propensity of the locker room to expose to everyone that which may otherwise remain for our eyes only is no reason to hold a grudge. The locker room, you see, can also be a riotously entertaining and funny place. In fact, it's a boon for the perceptive.
Here you'll find folks who refuse to touch anything in the locker room with their bare hands or feet standing right next to people who have no qualms about walking barefoot to the toilet, hopping on the scale sans flip-flops, and sitting butt-naked on the floor. It's like having both the boys from Guns n' Roses and the Kennedy clan over for a house party without even having to shell out for fancy invitations.
For those who thrive on the resolution of ethical dilemmas and spur-of-the-moment decision-making, the locker room offers numerous interesting quandaries: Do I walk around completely naked, or do I leave my underwear on? Do I leave my towel over my privates while changing, or not? Do I look? They just keep coming, but you get the picture.
And, for the more easygoing among us, the locker room serves as confirmation that choosing the path of least stress is indeed an enlightened way of living. There are very few other places in the world where it is not uncommon to run across physical altercations over lockers, shouting matches initiated over the fact that one giant meathead accidentally splashed water on an equally buff meathead at the sink, and beautiful women huffing over hairdryer monopolization.
Those cool enough to laugh at such trifles can gain an emotional windfall from their trip into the land of slippers and stainless steel. And, at the same time, the locker room allows those fighting for their favorite locker a means for blowing off steam, gives the ego-ridden some room to show off, provides the barefooted belcher with a smooth surface to traverse, and grants cover those who prefer to remain clandestine.
In actuality, the locker room is not only a microcosm--it can be anything to anyone at any time.
Now, if you're anything like me, you spend most of your locker room time attempting to keep your eyes focused squarely on the floor so as to avoid seeing something that will make you grimace, laugh out loud, gasp, barf, or all of the above. But if you're ever feeling brave or for some reason have decided the people who inhabit this planet are, for the most part, fairly normal and quotidian . . . try keeping your eyes peeled the next time you hit the showers at the gym.
I'm telling you, you won't believe some of the crazy stuff you see.
posted by mjxm at 12:35 AM |
Monday, February 02, 2004
LIL' ZOGGIE: SAY WHAT?
For Christmas, my girlfriend's family bought me one of those balance board thingies. It's basically a skateboard without the wheels and is intended to be used indoors by balancing it on a rounded piece of wood. The idea is to stand on the board, balance yourself such that the wooden piece below the board does not roll out from underneath it, and then rock to and fro while attempting not to get yourself killed. If done properly, the endeavor engages the same muscles that are used in skateboarding or snowboarding--and that's pretty much the point. In essence, and in the simplest terms possible, the balance board is a super-dangerous toy that any reasonable parent would forbid his or her child from using inside the house for fear of major vase breakage and the like. Thankfully, my parents live 800 miles away. And I, as a renter, care little about the sanctity of the hardwood floors beneath my feet in this apartment. So, I use that thing in my room constantly. The other day, while attempting some crazy ollie kickflip that I saw someone demonstrate on the website produced by the toy's manufacturer, I noticed a small, white, warning-type sticker with writing on it stuck to the underside of the board. It was quite generic in appearance and was along the lines of something that I've probably seen 1,000 times on all sorts of products. If you look closely, you'll be amazed at how many stickers and tags of this sort are on nearly everything these days. Most of them--at least 80%, I'd venture to guess--we never even bother to read. These mini-messages--like their cousins the car alarm and the indemnity clause that finds its way onto nearly every ticket stub--have become virtually invisible to those traversing the information overload reality that is our modern society. They're so common, that is, that most of us tend to look right past these little efforts at communication without even noticing. Interestingly enough, though, when you start writing a blog something funny happens. You start reading stupid little warning stickers. You also notice when people's socks don't match, make a mental note when someone knocks over a bunch of items at the grocery, and linger around icy patches on Seventh Avenue for a bit just to see if anyone slips and falls on their ass. Simply put, as a blog writer of substance, you're always looking for material. Anyone who thinks that it's easy to come up with stuff to write about on a fairly consistent basis is just plain fooling themselves. I mean, sure, for the first month or two I'll admit it's a bit of a cakewalk--all you really need to do at that point is mine old stories or give your take on one or another current event topics. But after that, if you're looking to do more than the folks who maintain those oh-so-common blogs that dole out one or two sentence posts every day and move on, then you've gotta hunt for literary fodder. And if it takes reading stickers on the backs of things or . . . say . . . forcing yourself, against all urges otherwise, to, i don't know, watch footage of Janet's boob popping out of her top at the Super Bowl over and over and over again in slow motion, in order to come up with something to write about, well then, damnit, that's exactly what you do. So, cut back to the sticker on my balance board. I assumed that it was going to alert me to the inherent dangers of attempting to balance on a piece of wood suspended above the ground by a round, wooden block. But, to my surprise, the sticker offered no such warning. Rather, it states the following, verbatim:
WARNING:
Keep this away from babies and children. The thin film may cling to the nose and mouth and prevent breathing. DO NOT use in cribs, beds, carriages or playpens.
Um, say what? Now, it's quite obvious to me that this sticker is of the misplaced variety--an attempt at getting the balance board to "cling to the nose [or] mouth [so as to] prevent breathing" would be successful only if you smashed someone across the face with it, and if I have trouble keeping my equilibrium on this thing while it's resting on my hard, flat floor, attempting to use the device in a crib or a playpen, of all places, would likely result in a fall of epic proportions. What's weird though, is that the sticker is placed in a spot on the underside of the board that could not possibly be more suited for it. It is secured, quite firmly, between the groove in the board and its edge, such that there is no overlap of sticker or extra space where the sticker fails to cover the board. In short, it really does appear that this sticker was created and designed specifically to fit in the place where it now resides. So, I'm not sure if what to make of all this, as it appears to me to be more than just a simple mistake--and, if anything, something better classified as a mistake compounded by a fairly amazing turn of coincidence. I can say, though, that in deference to both the instructions on the sticker and my best judgment, I will refrain from using the balance board on my bed. And if I come across any playpens during my travels in this fair city, no amount of compensation or coercion will be enough to convince me that a balance board exhibition within the confines of said pen would be appropriate.
posted by mjxm at 5:06 PM |
