so sick

This is disturbing.

Every night I come home to my apartment and open the kitchen trash can.

Let me explain:

I moved into my Newark apartment a month ago. My roommates are perfectly pleasant and conscientious of common spaces (mostly because one seems to never leave his room and the other seems to never leave Manhattan), but if they have a vice, it would be their selective blindness toward a garbage can that has met capacity. Since neither cooks, they don't produce much garbage and probably aren't used to taking the trash out more regularly than the changing of the seasons.

One day, the garbage was full and my roommate, Dmitry, instead of taking the trash out, left the bag from his take-out dinner on the floor next to the trash can.

I am as curious as a kitten born into a world of yarn balls and crippled mice.

Naturally, as I assume everyone would do, I untied the plastic "Thank you for shopping" bag and peeled it back to reveal a paper bag within whose mouth I uncurled as quietly as possible (Dmitry's room is not far from the kitchen and the sound of my foraging). Inside was a styrofoam container which I placed on the counter. I pushed the tabs in and the lid popped open like the hood of a car.

My knees buckled. I suppressed a gasp.

Uneaten french fries! Dozens of them! And uneaten chicken skin! Sheets of the stuff: flabby, cold, salty, and tempting me with its calories.

I love chicken skin.

Armin the Kitten now learns that the yarn balls of his world are laced with catnip and the crippled mice have tiny bluefin tuna swimming in their bloodstream.

I stole away with my treasure so i could enjoy it privately in my room.

Ever since that day, I open the trash can hoping for the same luck. If i find what I'm looking for, I pull the styrofoam carton out, but put the paper bag back into the plastic bag and puff it out a bit before tying the whole thing shut so that it looks untouched and full. I'm well aware of the risk of my behavior. Not disease-wise. The risk that Dmitry will walk in on me with my hands in the garbage and my feet too giddy to keep still. it's as if a part of me wants to get caught with a mouthful of salty, cold fries in my mouth.

Also disturbing is the fact that I'm not even doing this out of hunger. Usually I'm coming back from my mom or sister's place having just had dinner and carrying leftovers for the week. And, if I really wanted half a chicken and french fries, I could walk four blocks down the road and buy my very own sytrofoam carton of it, hot, for $4.50 and tax. I have a sickness.

Last weekend, I took Dmitry out for dinner to celebrate his earning a PhD in math. He loves discussing all varieties of controversial topics and somehow the discussion strayed to gun ownership.

"A person has the right to stop a crime occuring against him on his property, even if that means using a gun," he said.

"Even if it's a non violent crime?" I ask.

"Yes. If a man is in your house carrying your TV away, how can he hurt you? His hands are tied holding your TV. But you have the right to shoot him to stop him."

"What if someone is on your property rummaging through your trash to steal your identity?"

"I believe as the law is written, the garbage is still your property until it is picked up by the sanitation department. So yes, that's a crime on your property and you should have the right to shoot him."

I paused. How much does he know? Are a couple handfuls of fries and chicken skin (and sometimes meat stuck to cartillage) worth getting shot?

I still peeked into the garbage last night, so I think we know my answer.

post racial?

I recently took a trip to my local CVS to find an anniversary card to send to my girlfriend. I sifted through the displays, but unfortunately, most cards are now of the talking variety and while I love those weird green and purple creatures with the high voices that star in most of the Hallmark cards, they're not always the most appropriate for every occasion.

I live in a neighborhood heavily populated by Portuguese and Spanish speaking people, so there was a large selection of cards in Spanish. I don't think it was prejudiced of me to ignore that section. I wanted to pick a card I could read. However, my prejudice did become harder to defend when I got to the Mahogany section of the Hallmark brand. I found a card that showed a happy young black couple dancing. Jenny and I have gone dancing and enjoyed it. The couple seemed to be in our age range. There was nothing on the card that made it seem exclusive to a religion, culture, or way of life. It was just a happy, young black couple dancing with a background of jazzy colors. It seemed appropriate enough.

And, yet, I just couldn't picture sending it to her. There's no guarantee that if I saw a white version of this card, I'd be more inclined to get it. However, I'm sure that because they were black I was immediately less inclined.

I remember as a kid my mom and I went shopping to buy a birthday gift for my baby cousin. I watched a lot of TV back then and knew all the toys from the commercials. I was pointing out different dolls to my mom (this one can eat and afterward you can clean the poop out of its diaper; this one can suck its thumb and sing the chorus of "Hey Hey, We're the Monkees") and I pointed out a new doll that was all the rage. I don't remember what made it special. Maybe it got good gas mileage and doubled as an espresso machine. Anyway, my mom was appalled I'd even suggest it because the only one left at KMart was the black version.

At the time I could distinguish between race, but I just didn't see why it was a big deal, especially since we're not even white. It's not like Mattel makes a little Filipino doll that sells Chicklets on the street corner and rolls lumpia for holidays*.

*As a complete aside, does anyone else find it odd that the only picture I could find of children rolling lumpia turns out to be a picture of black kids?

Anyway, I guess as you grow older, you notice differences more. I ended up getting one of those cards that shows two little kids pretending to be adults. You know, the kind that has the four year old boy dressed in a suit and the girl gives him a kiss before he takes the train. Isn't a card that implies toddlers engaged in adult behavior and forced to grow up too fast much more disturbing than a card showing adult black people dancing?

I guess I know the answer based on my choice.

worth sharing today

Here's a poem worth sharing today from one of my favorite writers, X.J. Kennedy.

"September Twelfth, 2001"

Maybe it's even more important to reflect today that it was yesterday.

everybody plays the fool, concluded

On April Fools Day of 2008 I wrote a post called Everybody Plays a Fool detailing a couple humiliating moments in my life and promised that a third "Armin Plays the Fool" story was soon to come. I assumed everyone would start salivating for this last embarrassing story, like the third secret of Fatima.

But no one seemed very interested, though I was under the impression that "Armin makes an ass out of himself" stories were the bread and butter of this blog.

So here it is, whether anyone cares anymore:

3. I shat my pants.

Is that the proper conjugation of the verb? I shitted my pants? I had shit my pants?

Regardless, the take home point: I lost control of my bowels while still wearing Dockers. Not when I was six. Not when I was ten. Well, actually, I probably did shat/shit/had shit my pants at those ages, but the the story I'm recounting took place when I was twenty four.

I was working as a teacher's assistant at a high school and, as a side gig, I went to the house of a special needs kid in the morning before school started to help him with his hygiene routine. I was supposed to make sure he showered, combed his hair, shaved, and found clean clothes to wear. For some reason, they picked me for this job even though I could use my own minimum wage earning teacher's assistant to help me with all of these things, too.

At the time, I was not a regular coffee drinker, but some mornings were so rough, I needed to stop at Dunkin Donuts before I got to his place at 6:15 AM. This morning, I left his place after drinking a large coffee (probably recuperating from a week day night out, which most likely also aided in my gastric turmoil). Halfway to school and stuck in greater metro boston traffic, I realized I was in serious trouble. My intestines were reenacting the French Revolution.

Worse yet, I got a call from my boss saying a potential new student was visiting. I had just been promoted to lead teacher of my own classroom for the coming school year and a parent was bringing in her son to see if I would be the right teacher for him. You know, the kind of teacher that is caring, attentive, in control of his bowels...

After thirty minutes of agony, a wave of hope flooded me when I got past the traffic, turned into the school parking lot, and began the penguin waddle to the restroom, trying to walk with haste, but keep my butt cheeks clenched simultaneously.

The high school where I worked was like a college campus, comprised of a bunch of separate buildings instead of one large building. The building containing my classroom had a restroom, but I didn't want to risk the students seeing me, so I headed to the cafeteria instead.

I was in the faculty bathroom (private, thankfully), had just enough time to lock the door, pull down my pants, but was a second too late. Disaster. Do you remember that swimmer in the Beijing Olympics who lost to Michael Phelps by a millionth of a second? I know exactly how he feels. I was that close to surviving this ordeal with my pride intact.

The excitement over, I sat in the bathroom pondering my choices. I called my boss and lied saying I had a flat tire. I don't condone lying to a supervisor, but even Jesus and Abe Lincoln would have had a hard time fessing up at that moment. Since the students walked between the classroom and cafeteria, I was terrified that a student already saw me on campus. The next day, one girl said she did see me, but it was easy to convince her otherwise because she's retarded. I don't mean that as an insult at all. She's mentally retarded and it's easy to convince her she didn't see me even though she really did see me walk the horrible walk of shame from the bathroom to my car.

Here's a bonus: that same year, I was living with three other people in a one bathroom apartment. One morning after drinking too much, there was someone in the bathroom and without another option, I took a shit in a Hefty garbage bag in my room, then left that garbage bag on the street because I didn't know what else to do with it.

I don't deserve to be part of the civilized world and I atone for all my sins. But, as a warning, if we're driving in your car and I say I need a bathroom, I'm not just trying to make small talk. You best be finding the nearest rest stop or Arbie's.

worst decision of my life

I just joined Facebook. I'm not sure how civilization is still functional with FB (as the cool kids call it) in existence. The response time from people's messages are staggeringly fast which leads me to believe that humans who once spent their time working, feeding, and expelling waste, have forsaken all those basic activities for Facebook time. Remarkable.

I know you all told me this already, but I'm still shocked that there's a whole little world in Facebook of which I've been completely ignorant. People I knew in person, people I thought I knew at least, have had these Facebook lives, of which I had no knowledge. Some of my closest friends have had personal goals and aspirations I was unaware of, such as achieving high scores on Bejeweled Blitz.

You think you know someone, right? Then it turns out they're the world's greatest Bejeweled Blitzer or Mafia Warrior and you question whether your entire relationship has been hollow because you were only "face to face" friends who saw each other in person, not Facebook friends who can be in contact 24hrs a day.

Another freaky thing: seeing that two girls you once dates are now friends independently of you and post on each other's Facebook Walls. I have been blind and now, by joining Facebook, the scales have been removed from my eyes and I am sure to fail my first semester of school because I need to update my wall with breaking news such as "I ate a hard boiled egg."

the next episode

I spent three days of driving with my car seat more upright than comfortable in order to fit everything I own into the back seat. Made it from Portland, OR to New Jersey and now it's time to move on. I think back to the other times I've moved to a new city, but the hard part about those moments you want most to record and preserve for posterity is that they are the moments when you have the least free time to sit and write about them.

I left Baltimore in 2004 after living there only a year. But almost everyone I knew was leaving town, too, so it wasn't too hard to say goodbye. I remember my last day I had picked up a U Haul to help my roommate Mandy move her stuff, then I went to Taco Bell with my friends Tim and Kim. I was younger then, so I was more excited than sad. I was sure I'd see everyone again. Five years later and I realize I haven't seen Kim since 2005 or 2006.

I left Boston in 2007 after three years. My last day, I walked around my apartment with my friend Robbie. He was sticking around for a few more months, but a lot of the people I knew had already left or were in the process of leaving. maybe that made it easier for me to leave. Or maybe I was just burnt out from work and failed relationships and was ready for something new. I don't remember crying. Even though I still knew a lot of people in the city and felt very established there, it felt like the right time to move on.

I left Portland, OR in 2009 after almost two years. The night before I left, my friends threw me a going away party. We made dioramas out of shoe boxes, watched Bloodsport, then went to a bar I frequented often to drink absinthe for the first time. The next day I packed up my stuff and said goodbye. There was a lot of crying this time for me. Part of it was because maybe I wasn't ready to leave this time, like my time in Portland hadn't run its full course. Or perhaps I'm just getting older and the lack of stability in my life is now catching up to me, making me feel lost and tired.

Now I'm back on my native soil, in my new apartment in Newark where my roommates seem nice but keep their doors closed all the time and do not seem like the type who want to have impromptu ukulele jam sessions. That's okay. As Nate Dogg says, "hope you're ready for the next episode."

breaking news, added a half hour after original post:

I just took my first shower in my new apartment and found out my roommate also uses Selson Blue shampoo! I'm gonna be okay after all.

summer jams

It doesn't matter how expensive gas becomes because people will still drive cars. There's few experiences more relaxing than driving a car at night in the summer, windows rolled down, without any real destination or estimated time of arrival. It makes you remember a time when you could say, "Give me $5 of regular," and that would last the week.

Summer lends itself to long drives and big changes (everyone i know seems to move away in the summer) so it's understandable that the songs playing during the summer are more memorable. Here's a list of the songs that dominate the last ten summers for me.

1999: Break Stuff - Limp Bizkit

This isn't a year any of us should be proud of us. Sure, you can blame the music industry, but really it's our fault that Ricky Martin became so big. I'm not proud of the songs I was humming back then, especially this one.

2000: Gnome Enthusiast - Clutch

I can't really remember which earworm had infected me that summer, I had gotten the Clutch album, Jam Room, from my sister that year. Usually I hate when a metal band goes soft, but Clutch just gets better and better each year.

2001: Whenever, Wherever - Shakira

It was easy to think after first seeing this video that Shakira was not a human being at all, but a family of highly intelligent, well trained snakes taught to move in synchronization.

2002: Complicated - Avril Lavigne

She was almost 18 when this video came out, so that made it a little less creepy that I stayed up until 3am hoping it would play on MTV during this summer.

2003: Remix to Ignition - R. Kelly

Can you separate the love of an artist's work from the artist as a person? Roman Polanski fans have asked themselves the same question for years. You don't have to like R. Kelly as a person. That doesn't change the fact that this song is incredible.

2004: Tipsy - J-Kwon

Many of you would have guessed that this summer would have been dominated by Outkast's "Hey Ya!" But, that song had been in such heavy rotation throughout the winter that by the summer of 2004, it was time for another hit jam. And, I'm just a sucker for songs that involve counting. It keeps my math skills sharp.

2005: Mr. Brightside - The Killers

This was a tough year to decide. I really don't remember a song that stuck out from that summer. But I do remember this Killer's song stuck in my head a lot, especially because of its delightful tongue in cheek rhyme scheme

Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag
Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his... chest?

They got you! They got you good!

But anyone can call me out and say that I was singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" much more.

2006: Stars are Blind: Paris Hilton

Make any joke you want. Doesn't matter how untalented you think Paris is. She's smart. She got someone to write her a song that sounds just like The Tide is High by Blondie with the same catchy, upstroke, reggae guitar rhythms that made ska so popular in the 90's.

2007: Beautiful Girls - Sean Kingston

The first song I learned on the ukulele.

2008: Bubbly - Colbie Callait

I don't remember many songs from this year and that's not surprising because I didn't have a car that summer. Despite the lack of competition, it's a cute, vapid song which is perfect for summer time.

2009: The Fixer - Pearl Jam

Here's a surprise. I'm not a big Pearl Jam fan, but I do love elongated vowels. Just ask the Big Bopper.