"Shit. We're out of crack again."
"Yep."
"Do you have any money?"
"No, you?"
"No."
"We'll have to sell something."
"We don't own anything. We already sold it all. For..."
"crack, I know."
"There's gotta be something around here. (rummages) Hey! How about this dish drainer?"
"A dish drainer? What kinda money do you think you could get for a used dish drainer?"
"Twenty bucks."
"You're nuts."
"Okay, twelve bucks."
"Who would pay twelve bucks for a crack-head's used dish drainer when they could get a new one in the grocery store for five?"
"Look, do you want to get some more crack or what?"
(pauses, thinking) "Well, it is in 'like new' condition."
(Walking the dog behind two stylish Williamsburg yoots.)
She: So what ever happened to that girl you were seeing...Kira?
He: Kayla. Oh, I don't know. Things were cool and everything, but she was like a blogger and stuff. Really into it, ya know?
She: She had a blog?
He: (disappointed) Yeah.
She: Did she have one of those stupid fucking dogs she carried around in a purse, too?
He: (laughs)
She: (laughs)
She: Wow, a blogger.
He: (laughs)
Okay. So my official return last week became a "peeking in of the head" shortly after another guest arrived and work beckoned and my universe ground to a dark, soul-sucking halt. But I'm not complaining! I'm not one of the complainy-pants people. No siree! However--and this is totally unrelated--I would appreciate any and all advice on how one might politely ask overnight guests to keep their visits to a four day maximum, no more than twice a year. Or buy me a 3,000 sq. ft. loft with guest quarters in Chelsea.
So what else has been going on?....hmmm....well, I was just accosted in the street by a sketch comedy troupe. Rapscallions. Which, if you care to keep track, brings my lifetime 'accosted in the street by a sketch comedy troupe' total up to 11. They set me free after I promised (a lie) to attend their show tonight, which each member guaranteed was going to be "really funny". Have you ever met someone who described themselves as "really funny"? And were they? Moving on...
Star Wars-Revenge of the Sith. I could produce a geekfest on the topic that would drive a sane person to suicide. Put it this way: if you were around eight or so when the first movie came out, experienced the age-appropriate yet totally fucking OUT THERE madness over the original trilogy, and then waited TWENTY FLIPPING YEARS for prequels that were so heinous they caused a wildly important part of you die, and you SWORE you were done with it, swore you would give up hope for any cinematic redemption on the part of Lucas and friends, promised you would not--come hell or high water--under any circumstances go and see Revenge of the Sith so that you may at least retain whatever fondness and goodness you have left for the franchise, and yet you physically could not stop yourself from going, on opening weekend, because you knew they had you from the first pirated trailer you illegally downloaded from a guy in Japan a year ago--then you, my friend, will not be disappointed by this movie. Prerequisites, there are.
Casually, and correctly, refer to "torts" during your interview with the attorney for the defendant.
Or you could go the route of the sweet elderly woman sitting next to me. She excitedly explained how she was "particularly qualified" to sit on the case because she is "retired and watches a lot of Judge Judy."
They couldn't get her out of there fast enough.
I gotta be honest; I'm not the biggest fan of Spring. Each and every grumpy-making, shitty, awful, heart-breaking, up to and including life-ruining thing that has ever occurred during my days on earth did so in Spring. And shut up about coincidence/causation, it gives me a headache. Things happen, I make them happen...what the fuck ever. I'll be more receptive to any "I am the sum of my attitude" conversations in October. Right now I'm pretty much deaf on account of all the sucking. Birdsong and blooms notwithstanding.
And I start jury duty tomorrow. Which I'm excited about, contrary to all things reasonable. However between the lawyer with whom I sleep and the shameful amount of hours clocked watching courtroom dramas, I'm sure I'll pop off with something that will earn me a beating on (or about) the first day. Or I'll be made foreman. Person. BMOC. No, BMOJ. Shit. B"W"OJ. See? Damn.
Fucking Spring.
Sometimes an extended trip (hell, a weekend) out of the city can cause you to seriously question your life in New York. One of those visits with out-of-town friends (who live in whole houses where you sleep in their guest room and have dinner in the back yard), anywhere really with grass and trees and flowers and birds and lack of screaming and dirt and garbage and such puts your 300 square foot shit-hole, for which you pay three times more than said friends whole house, into perspective. "Okay, why do we live here again?" is a common question for myself and my friends in that two seconds after your key goes in your door, the two seconds it takes to set your things down and have them consume your entire apartment--which you notice is smaller, darker, dirtier, and in much more disrepair than you remember. Then a siren goes off outside. A neighbor turns their stereo up on cue, shaking the roaches out of the wall.
Not this time kids. I got back from my stint with the country living and I couldn't believe my good fortune. This is MY apartment? My ceilings are huge, huge! And that bathroom...have you seen my tub? Yeah, all the enamel wore off forty years ago and soap scum has turned it a permanent grey, but dude--you can get like five people in there. My kitchen sink is six feet deep. Okay two. Deep enough that you can't even see the dishes until it's two week's worth. My bed is enormous. It's still the same queen size bed, but it's shape-shifted or something, pulled off an impossible feat of outer-dimension physics. The size of the bedroom likewise. All my stuff, the stuff I hate, the stuff I'm too poor to replace that soooo doesn't suit me or my taste or my sense of style; man, it looks great in here. That craigslist second-hand pull out couch was such a smart choice. The side-of-the-road armoire that I converted into a computer station for G, which STILL smells like the nasty-ass foot funk of its previous owner? Stunning. Hardwood floors, windows overlooking a busy row of stores. It's a showplace I tell you. Seriously, you should come over and see.
Total and complete satisfaction with things exactly as they are, what a freaking concept. And it only took 28 days of back-breaking labor (17 of which consecutively) for ultimately less pay than had I been working at McDonalds to achieve.
Is my monitor bigger? I swear it's bigger. And the computer has never screamed so fast.