Kicks

That title could also be used for a post about sneakers, which is a plausible post topic for me as well. But this post is about the kicks I get on about certain things (like, sneakers, for example)...

I get on these weird kicks where I just get completely obsessed with something to an insane degree for a couple of weeks then I forget all about it and move onto something else. Usually they're about food, but sometimes the kicks are hobbies. I was on this big corndog kick for a while where I bought big boxes of corndogs and ate, like, four of them a day for about three weeks. Then I got on this milk kick where I wanted to drink a glass of non-fat milk with everything. It just always sounded good and delicious and satisfying. Right now I'm really into Froot Loops. They're delicious, and the left over milk is all flavorful and great too.

For a while I was in to blogging, then that wained. I got into painted and haven't done that in a while. When I was in high school I got completely obsessed with current research regarding quantum teleportation. That was kind of a long one, then one day I was just like "nope, don't care about that anymore!"

And while I think part of it is an inclination to move on and try new things, and part of it is necessity, as keeping all of those interests would eventually distract from everything else in your life and you'd spend 5 minutes a day doing about 1000 different little quirky things. But I like to think some of the kicks I just sort of temporarily put on the back-burner and they're not completely forgotten. Like painting, I still have the paint, and think about it, but I'm doing other things right now. Where as quantum teleportation is probably something I won't start looking into again--at least not in the foreseeable future.

So, if you ever want to know just a little bit of introductory knowledge about: turntables, Japanese cars, mountain bikes, baking, building your own furniture, tee-ball, competitive diving, professional wrestling, French childrens books from the 18th century, or croquet, give me a call. Or if you have a new and interesting hobby that I could really enjoy for a relatively short amount of time, those suggestions are not only welcome, but encouraged.

Some Words

Here are some words I like:

Esophageal
Syphilitic
Alternatively
Conversely
Extemporaneous
Languor
Vitriolic

My New Album

I'm not musical, and I'm the first person to admit that. I think I have rhythm and all that, but I never took the time to learn an instrument. My mother played the clarinet for years, and my father is pretty much a natural at anything he picks up. As long as it makes a sound, he can figure out how to play it inside of 10 minutes. Most notably, he plays guitar really really well. But probably the most shining display of his musical talent, to me, was when we had a piano in the house. During high school I got this wild hair and decided I needed to learn how to play the piano. So my mom rented a piano and signed me up for lessons with this horrible old woman down the street. As I struggled to pull myself away from the instant gratification of TV and practice, my dad would sit at the piano and compose actual songs, with chords and notes and everything IN HIS HEAD. Needless to say, it was endlessly demoralizing--which isn't to say it wasn't impressive.

That said, if I ever did put out an album of banjo music or whatever, I would call it "Live-blogging My Loneliness," and I would put this picture on the cover:

Then I'd just wait for the Gawker stories to roll out. I'd reach fameball status, date one of those self-publicizing talking heads who's marginally famous for divulging personal aspects of her life publicly. I'd decide to quit the banjo and take up the harpsichord, then I'd give up the harpsichord to start a new band with a chubby Puerto Rican guy I met at the Brooklyn Brewery, then I'd give up music altogether and start writing poety. I'd get really into fashion but ignore my personal hygiene so essentially I'd look like a homeless person that Hugo Boss felt sorry for. I'd get married, to the talking head, and we'd have a child. Then we'd divorce and she'd get custody because I would have a nasty drinking problem that makes me difficult to be around but I would be convinced makes me more fun at parties. After I shave my head, I'd hire a life couch who winds up being a fraud and taking the remainder of my savings. In a moment of desperation I'd re-visit the banjo and after a week of delirium tremors that make it hard to play right, I'd start writing new songs. I'd get back into the studio and do tracks with guest stars like Tony Bennett, Lucinda Williams, and Ludicrous. At the age of 30 I'll look 45, but I'll do a string of self-important interviews about how I found Jesus because Jesus is more marketable than spontaneous self-improvement. Ultimately, "Live-blogging My Lonliness" would make it to China, where the citizens would listen to its message, realize their value as an angry mob, and would initiate a mass-exodus out of the country into Japan, France, Hawaii, and Alaska (respectively). My child will call a lawyer named "Chet" daddy. Chet will be flamboyantly gay but will convince everyone that he's straight by marrying my ex-wife and taking an interest in muscle cars. My child will attend a private school, the same one Chet went to as a boy. I'll send birthday cards with large checks that have outrageous messages written in the memo line. Chet, for all his fraudulent malingering, will be a better father-figure for the boy, and I will never appeal for custody. Incidentally, David Cassidy will sue me for fraud, and I will appeal when he wins and I have to award him $412,000 dollars for not upholding my contractual agreement to appear in his Las Vegas spectacular at the Bellagio. My last day on earth will be spent drinking beer on my next door neighbor's shed. I'll get a sunburn and I'll have little sunglass lines around my eyes. I will go to my ex-wife's condo and ask if the boy is around. I'll give him my banjo and tell him to play it when he feels like live-blogging. He'll ask me what live-blogging is and I'll tell him it was a disease from the early 2000's where self-important assholes would watch "Top Chef" and feel personally invested to the point where their opinion matters to people other than themselves. I will summarize by saying it was a lot like syphilis. When I get home I'll rub aloe all over my body and sit in my favorite rocking chair. With my last breath I'll say "chrysanthemum," because that was the name of my childhood sled, and I'll disappear because none of this ever happened.

2 Days in Scranton

Just got back from a business trip in Scranton, PA. Saying I was on a "business trip" makes me sound like I'm trying to sound all adult and responsible and important and cool, but the truth is, I'm just trying to be clear. I don't want anyone to think I was in Scranton, PA on vacation.

Whatever, Scranton is like every other small town. I didn't see much of it, not that there was much to see, but I'm sure there are nice parts. I think I've fallen victim to an intrinsic snobbery toward all towns smaller than my hometown, which is larger than most towns to begin with. I think I just like having options, having the capability to have whatever I want when I want. In a small town you lose that, the security you feel in knowing that if you want to see a new movie you don't need to worry if it's at the theater in your area. Maybe security is the wrong word, maybe freedom is a better word. Yeah, I think it is.

I can't tell you how anxious I was to turn 21. Not because I was all keyed up to start drinking legally, to be honest, drinking was much more fun when it was illegal. I was really looking forward to being able to go wherever I wanted. Being of shy mind and spineless body, I constantly worried that I would walk into a place to sit down and write or whatever and someone would come over and tell me I'm too young to be there. That kind of weird confrontation stood as a constant source of anxiety to pre-21-year-old Marc.

When I turned 25 I got excited about being able to rent a car, but not really. I'd rented cars in the past. When my Subaru was stolen the insurance company gave me a rental, which was nice, but it didn't supply me with any sort of rebellious sensation of freedom beyond my years. I went to high school next to a freeway on-ramp. I'd sit in class and daydream about getting on the freeway and just driving away. I'd half-listen to Mr. Norton's lecture on To Kill A Mockingbird and wonder if tomorrow would be the day I'd take that wide turn and drive off down I-90. But by the time I was 25 I lost that sensation.

Because when you're in your mid-twenties you find new and interesting ways to escape like that. This isn't a segue into why I love crack cocaine or anything, I'm just saying as you get older you gain more power over your environment. I know now that I could buy a plane ticket and move across the country tomorrow if I wanted--could completely uproot my life entirely in the blink of an eye. I could rent that car, drive to Nevada, get a fake ID and fall off the grid. But it's like drinking, once it's acceptable it's not as interesting. It goes from being rebellion to being personal choice. Pulling onto the on-ramp before school was a statement about being confined in the trappings of my own melodramatic adolescent life as much as it was actual escape.

After 18 you make the life decision to smoke. At 21 you choose whether or not to go into bars and drink. You graduate college, it's now your choice to move away and chase a dream or get a job and fade into obscurity.

So what am I getting at? I suppose I have to conclude this post with some poignant single sentence that will make you see what a clever person I am. But let's be honest. I started typing because I was bored and wound up with a diatribe about whatever this was. Maybe a couplet? Ok, a couplet:

Just the possibility of you reading my blog makes me happy,
And when I see that I only have 5 comments I feel very crappy.

No, I don't want you to feel obligated to write comments, that was just the first thing that came to mind. Maybe I should end my posts with a diamante. At least then I wouldn't have to rhyme. Or maybe I'll just cut off the posts where I feel like it, after all, I write about whatever I want. I don't know, there's a weird compulsive neuron floating around my brain that makes me feel like I have to conclude things.

I'll leave you with something interesting I've discovered about myself, rather, that I discovered years ago but have never been able to change and I fear people think it's just me being pretentious:

I spell "theater" like "theatre" and "gray" like "grey." These spellings just make more sense to me, they're what come out when I'm typing phrases like "The carpet in the theatre was grey." This isn't because I want people to think I'm sophisticated or that maybe I am English (for whatever reason), it's just how I've always spelled them.

So when I write you a note that reads: "Hey, I decided to go for a run today, it was grey out and looked like it would rain. I ate some of your peanut butter, sorry." You should know that I'm conveying a straight-forward message with absolutely no sub-text, other than that I love peanut butter enough to steal it.

Voting in Bay Ridge

It's Election Day in America, can you feel it? I mean, like, it was Election day a little while ago, and did you feel it then? Ugh, I felt so confident about that intro before I wrote it out... obviously I'm a little rusty, give me a second...

As I write this post about the American election I think it's entirely too funny and ironic that I'm listening to a french song called "Beaucoup Beaucoup" by Sylvie Lalibert. It's funny and ironic because our current, soon to be not current, President hates the French because they hate Democracy: American Style - Big D, Big A.

I'll start at the beginning, because no one ever went wrong starting at the beginning of a story. Incidentally I'm a little distracted because it's gorgeous in Brooklyn today. Seriously, the sun is shinning and we have a light reprieve from the gray, rainy, horror (I like to spell it "whore-er") that was the last week or so.

My journey begins whilst I sat in my office on the 15th floor in Midtown. I received an email about Proposition 8 and immediately became concerned about where I will vote three days in the future. Obviously I have no say in the not passing of Proposition 8, but it got me all worked up that people who would vote for such a proposition probably already knew where they were voting. When I called the office they informed me that I was, in fact, registered to vote in New York City, but that I failed to change my address information in time, which meant that I had to vote in my old voting area: Bay Ridge.

When I heard this I dropped the phone, I had a panic attack, I cried a single tear and called my mom. It's just so far away! As I've said numerous times, I don't dislike Bay Ridge, it's just so fucking far away. Voting in Bay Ridge is like wanting a cup of coffee in Midtown and choosing to go to a Starbucks in the West Village to get it. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Starbucks, it's an international coffee chain that has about 1000 locations surrounding you, regardless of your location, at any given moment. That's why that analogy is funny.

So I took the morning off and prepared to make the trek down to B. Ridge: across from Staten Island, on the way to Coney Island. I was originally going to wake up at 6:00 and try to get to work on time, but then I realized that if I woke up early and arrived to find that the polls weren't yet open I would feel like an ass. So I slept in until 8:00.

When I left the apartment I knew I would need coffee. I always need coffee, so this was an obvious realization that shouldn't even fall into the category of insight. It should just be fact, like, I know when I wake up I'm going to need to put on pants. Yet still, I deliberate every morning on whether or not I'm going to spend that $1.50 on a cup of sugary, delicious deli-style coffee.

Because my usual place was out of the way, I stopped by a different deli to get my coffee. I was immediately put off by their use of Styrofoam cups. Additionally, when I pulled back the lid tab I realized that it wasn't easily removable. Typically, I tear these tabs off and throw them in the nearest available refuse bin, but this particular lid was impossible to remove. Because it was early, and I was shaky, and cold, and tired, I had a little Parkinson's moment and spilled coffee all over my hand. Damn you weird Styrofoam coffee cup, what is your deal?!

Covered in coffee, still shaky and cold and lonely and tired and scared in a world of bright lights and loud noises, I walked into a bodega to get a napkin. Inside there was a large group of men speaking excitedly in Spanish at 9:00 in the morning, which seemed out of place to me. Who is that animated and excited at the un-godly hour of 9am? I immediately revisited that wish that I knew Spanish that I have occasionally when walking through my neighborhood. Eaves-dropping is, like, my favorite thing ever. I love it so much I'm thinking about learning another language just to do it more effectively.

Incidentally, does anyone remember that movie D.A.R.Y.L, about the kid who's a robot?

Inside the bodega the elderly man behind the counter tears off a paper towel for me, and sends me on my way. I walked to the J train, got on, and proceeded unmolested to Manhattan, where I switched to the N train. The whole train ride part of this story is pretty boring, so I'll just skip to when I got to Bay Ridge. I think there were interesting people on the train, something crazy happened, and there are particular instances that I'm leaving out that were really absurd and hilarious, but I don't remember any of them... so yeah...

When I got off at the 86th street stop I looked over my shoulder and re-familiarized myself with the most over-priced little Chinese market that resides inside of the 86th subway stop. It doesn't have a name, but they sell hand-made knit caps and have a boundless selection of pornography for purchase.

Above ground there was massive construction that tore up the road next to the subway stop. I don't really know what the purpose of the construction was or anything, but something about road construction always gives me a little pang of excitement. Like, OK, so they're tearing up the road and they're going to replace it and make it smooth and better, or they're going to add another lane or something, right? These are big changes! These are things that actively make the community better, make driving easier! These are changes that facilitate the efficient movement of traffic, that get people to work faster! That ease stress and build community! These are your tax dollars at work!

Carried by the promise of a new day, I stalwartly walked to my voting destination. As I passed Century 21 I thought about buying boxer briefs, because you can never have too many pairs of underwear, and they're practically giving them away at Century 21's prices! But I kept it in my pants and walked past... I kind of wish I bought some boxer briefs, or some v-neck t-shirts, or at least a set of decorative candles. Incidentally, it looked like Century 21 was adding another level to their already massive store! So, you know, that's pretty dope.

On my way to the polling station, voting location, whatever it's called, I stopped by the old apartment. I saw that Meg has hung some Tibetan prayer flags, which is a nice touch. It also helps me distinguish my old window in the picture below, which is also appreciated.


When I arrived at the post office, that I was certain was my voting location (it would have been foolish to write down the address!) a nice mentally-challenged custodian informed me that there were not, in fact, any voting machines at this location. I asked him if he knew where the nearest voting location was, as I knew it was really close to where I used to live. He said he did not, continued to mop, and somehow kept me rapped up in a conversation about me being lost. I honestly don't know how it happened, but we wound up talking and conversing about nothing for an inordinately long time.


As I walked down the street in the direction I thought was correct, I noticed a pair of signs in the window of a local hardware store. The signs were hand-made in Microsoft Paint and printed on what was likely a Hewlitt-Packard 350PW home color printer. If you cannot make out the picture below, one sign simply reads: McCain/Palin. The other sign: NObama. See what they did there? They added an "N" to the front of "Obama" and made it a statement about how they don't want him, how they are rejecting him, how they are, essentially, saying "NO" to Obama as the next President. See? See how that works? Bay Ridge, you scamp.


When I wiped the streaks of "hilarity tears" from my eyes, and regained my breath from all the hearty, breathy laughter, I pulled myself off the pavement on which I was rolling and soldiered on. Only a few steps past the hardware store I was lucky enough to stumble upon the sounds of one of Bay Ridges' crown citizens, who repeatedly shouted "Dumb Whore, Dumb Whore, Dumb Whore!" The "Dumb Whores" were directed toward a very stylish, and seemingly nice, African-American woman in a gold jeep. Apparently there was some kind of traffic dispute that resulted in his strategic repetition of "dumb whore" and her shouting "you're an asshole!" The whole episode concluded with him shouting back, "Why don't you go vote for Biden!"

Wait, what? It turns out that's something you angrily shout at someone in a derogatory fashion. Let's back up and dissect that from my perspective. That's, fundamentally, like having an argument with someone and then concluding it by shouting: "hey, why don't you go have a cupcake with a glass of milk, then get to bed early and welcome the following morning with a sense of joyful optimism!" But in Bay Ridge, you see, screaming "why don't you go vote for Biden!" is like, a bad thing, because in Bay Ridge/Bizarro World, Biden is the bad guy. When I heard this I half expected the Yellow Lantern to swoop down and slap me across the face.

Editorial Note: The above Yellow Lantern reference is a reference so obscure and geeky that if you recognize it I will buy you a cookie. The rational part of me that likes to make these stories universally relatable told me not to include it, but I couldn't let it go.

I eventually had to call my co-worker so she could look at the legal pad on my desk and give me the address of the voting location. As it turned out, I remembered the address wrong, which is why I kept skulking around that Mazda dealership, looking for voting booths.

I walked in and saw that they didn't have the standard paper with pin, hanging chad-style voting booths, but that they had these crazy mechanical, steam-punk-style voting booths that I'd never seen before. I started running scenarios in my head: what if I accidentally vote wrong? what if I don't flip every switch I need to and my vote isn't counted? what if I flip too many switches and the big scary mechanical booth transforms into a people-eating robot? Then that would be on me, and I'd feel like such an asshole.

The location volunteers were all spectacularly nice and helped me understand the switch system. Being of sound mind and high neurosis, I took a picture of my checked vote for Obama/Biden, just so I could assure myself that even though the booth itself was a weird old system, I managed to get done wanted I was there to do.


On the way out of the booth I asked the nice elderly gentleman in the red sweater if they have any sort of ballot receipt or "I Voted" sticker. He regretfully informed me that they did not, which kind of killed the companion piece to this one: "Free Shit I Got Just For Voting."

Unsatisfied, I reached into my messenger bag, found some stickers, and made my own:


There are some missing because I passed them around the office when I got to work.

On the way back to the subway I stopped at Brooklyn Bagels for one last Bacon Egg Cheese on an Everything Bagel. The owners had changed, as had some of the employees. The guy who took my order was a young, excitable type who seemed to value customer service, which kind of threw me off. I ate my bagel and drank my Vitamin Water on the subway like a hobo, violently tearing into my food like I hadn't eaten in three days. I realized, shortly after I finished, that it was noon, and I hadn't eaten anything all day, when I should have been constantly fortifying myself during my voyage to the other end of the earth.


I got back to work, sat down, Larry came by and made a joke about how I dress more and more casual every day, and started organizing spreadsheets. Everything was back on track, the routine resumed and I settled back into the daily whatever it is that I do, and as I starred blankly at a column of 13-digit ISBNs it became apparent that everything really was back on track, and I welcomed the day with joyful optimism... and hope.


... and THAT is a cheesy conclusion I think we can all get behind.