Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Go With The Flow

It's 2:37 AM, I'm sitting in my dining room and drinking a Sam Adam's Summer Ale. It must be time to discuss my random thoughts with my dozens upon dozens of readers!

Why is there always an older guy at basketball pick up games? Almost every time I play a pick up game, be it at school or at the courts in Montvale, there is always a guy having a mid-life crisis trying to ball with the 20 year olds. He is always wearing white basketball shoes, like ones that JUST went out of style, and has on a grey shirt that he will almost immediately sweat through if he hasn't already shooting free throws to decide teams. Sometimes he'll have some "awesome" accessories, like a headband made out of an American-flag bandana, or an awesome "I'm trying too hard" goatee. They almost always unequivocally suck, but make up for their lack of game by talking a great deal. Some find it funny, while I find it to be a hassle. Sort of like how he finds a sore back detrimental to his shot, I find him to be holding back my good time. If you're old and play pick up basketball with 20 year olds, just suck and be quiet about it, ok? No need to overcompensate. We're just happy you can jog back and forth without having us call the EMTs while your complain about a cramp in your left arm.

I keep seeing commercials for "employee pricing" on cars. If I worked for Chrysler and some schmuck is getting the same price for his girls' 17th birthday president as he is working on the assembly line, I'd certainly make some axels a little loose if you know what I'm saying.

My Mom's on my case about getting a passport, because, as she says, they are going to be the universal way to get anywhere or get anything. Want to hop on a plane? Passport. Want to do anything at the bank? Passport. Want to piss? You should see the stamp for that one. I just find it completely silly that we're basing everything off of a glorified pamphlet. Passports have been the laughing stock of international identification forever. It is cumbersome and cannot easily fit into a wallet, much like the drivers’ license or school ID. Also, my class made our own passports in like second grade, and mine was pretty convincing for a 7 year old. At least drivers’ licenses have crazy holograms and the like. I'm putting my vote in towards a national ID card, mostly because I can get it tossed in the wash and not have it crumble up like old tissues I left in my jeans.

Who do I call to have "the Entertainer" removed from Cedric the Entertainer's name? Is there a national fraud agency I can call up? Someone get me a number, an e-mail address at the very least, because this false advertising needs to be put to an end immediately.

People really need to stop leaving their incredibly bright lights on outside by the entrances to their houses. Bugs are attracted to bright lights and heat. Guess where they are all going? As I walk into a house I'd rather not be attacked by moths, flies, and whatever ungodly creatures are fluttering about by the door. For all that's good and holy cut the lights out or at least flip to a 30-watt bulb. If your doorknob is golden, shiny, and protrudes from the door slab, I think I'll be able to find it.

I am very uncomfortable with groups of people that feel the need to name themselves like they're a gang. At one point in high school, during yearbook time, I had to refer to my eight other friends as "The Table" out of necessity and lack of space. It was either to allude to the group of guys at my lunch table than say "Meyer, Hespe, Jassim" etc. Kids nowadays have cutesy little nicknames, like "The Crew." A few friends of mine made a big deal out of being "The Crew," plastering it all over the back hallway of our theater. Now I look at it and see the big name, all of the girls' signatures, the cute in-jokes they had, and giggle at the fact that they rarely, if ever, talk.

The allure of having a name is just lost on me, especially when it's like four of five people. My ex-girlfriend actually had her Crew get into a fight with a rival group of guys who decided to name themselves the "M Crew," as if they were infringing on copyrights. Recently I was almost thrown into a group, named The Six, which really scared me because I was not cognizant of such a group ever really existing, let alone having a name for it. Thankfully, it was just drunken talk and I didn't have to launch into this whole spiel at 5:30 AM while playing Drink Ball.

Ever wake up singing some obscure song in your head? Today's weirdo cut was Live's "Selling the Drama," a throwaway cut that is only memorable because it was their song on the Woodstock '94 CD (the song is off the stellar Throwing Copper. I have not thought of the song in a while, but it popped right into my head during this really weird dream I had, that I will of course share with you.

There was a party at my place, which of course wasn't actually where I lived. It looked instead like a summer place you rent and have three or four friends over and we all crash on a floor. It was my house because my Dad stopped in and said that there were people here for me, but I said, "no father. I'm much more content to sit here and put up an away about how I'm miserable and alone and want to be left that way." Before I could put the away up, my friends came in and pulled me out of the room into some foreign place that I felt was "mine." I turn to my left and from out of a sliding glass window I see a girl who I don't know on some guy's lap who yells "hey!" like we're BFF (best friends for life, mom). I turn to her and yell, "who the fuck is that?" I then go to piss and hear someone commenting on where I sleep in a very negative fashion. The quote was, "ew, who lives like that? Who would sleep here?" This agitated me, and I hurry up the urination so I can give her a stern talking-to, possibly without even washing my hands. At that point, Neel Patel (a kid I haven't seen since we graduated two years ago) walks up and goes "hey!" with two ladies on his arm while I yell, "holy shit, Neel Patel?"

Cue the Live - Selling the Drama. I truly wish I was making this up. I would be able to sleep a lot easier...and wake up without alt-rock album cuts on my mind.

Finally, you'd be so surprised what you could find while cleaning your car (yeah, I've been home for three months and leave in 20+ days, so it's a perfect time to clean up!). For example, I found about 8 coins mysteriously glued into my cup holder by a mystery syrupy liquid. That was fun. The real prize, however, was finding the shamrock-covered small Ziploc bag that once held something quite important: the first Valentine’s Day gift I got my ex-girlfriend Haley.

We had only be dating for about 6 weeks, so I couldn't avoid getting her something. I had the unique pressure of getting her something somewhat cheap that didn't look cheap. There was also the pressure of my teacher, Mr. Kovacs, who had been telling me for the last week that I needed to "get her something good," or, well, irreversible damage would be done to my name and my person. I went to the Garden State Mall where I remembered seeing a Claddagh ring, the Irish ring with the two hands and the hart in between that shows if someone is single or not. I knew it simply as "that ring Angel gave Buffy!" cause I'm a giant loser. I gave it to her in my car, discarding the little shamrock bag that held the small ring (I definitely undershot her finger size) to the depths of my console, not to be found until today, about five months after we broke up. Now, that little baggie will be used to stow illegal drugs, because it is the perfect size. What was once the first gift for a budding love is now nothing more than a handy container for a more fleeting feeling of euphoria: weed.

The circle of life.

1 comment:

Cara said...

Guilty. In college...COLLEGE, I say...my group of friends freshman year and part of sophomore year was called The Fab Five. You can tell we were the Greenwich Village sort.