The Blogging Affairs Desk

When It’s Good, It’s Good, When It’s BAD, It’s Better…

Last One Out, Hit The Lights!

I’m closing down The Desk.

It’s been a sweet ride.  By far, in my nearly ten years of blogging, The Blogging Affairs Desk has been my most successful attempt at shouting to the masses from my cyber-soap box.

It’s been swell.

But my domain name … whatever you wanna call it…. thing is expiring in about 30 days and WordPress makes it exceedingly difficult to re-register it.  Exceedingly.  I mean, dude, come on, I’M TRYING TO GIVE YOU MONEY!

Which is kinda the trend on this blog anyway… over the last few years.  My struggles with trying to GIVE PEOPLE MONEY have been documented far and wide.

So yeah, I figured it’s kinda time to move on to something else.  I haven’t really had much motivation to keep writing, I’ve abandoned my post over at IRdC; it was hard enough to keep THIS blog up to date, let alone churn out an article once a week for an entirely separate blog.

And I’m waist deep in training for not one, but at least TWO triathlons coming up later this year.  Couple that with work picking up, I just don’t have the time, nor the energy to sit down and churn out the quality work all my readers have come to expect from The BAD.  It’d be a disservice to put out anything less.

So yeah, with that, I’m snapping the desk lamp shut, powering down the workstation, packing up my box of shit and leaving this site to decay like unattended grapes on the vine.  Sure, I could go out with flare, like The Good Doctor did, but I hate messes, and well, my wife would be sorta pissed.

Too soon?

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my take on life as much as I enjoyed sharing it. You can still follow me on twitter, by the way, for my 140 character-at-a-time takes on life.

It’s like a condensed version of The BAD, right in your pocket.  If you’re not poor and own an iPhone.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have fifteen hours of “Parks and Recreations” saved on my DVR that need to be watched.

…Just kidding.

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March 30, 2010 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Getting Older, Gonzo Journalism, Not Enough Time, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , , | 2 Comments

My Driving Doesn’t Suck, You’re Just a Shitty Passenger.

My wife tends to think that my driving is the product of a one night stand where the devil failed to pull out of a 1980 El Camino, which he was slapping while fucking doggystyle.

Now that you’ve surely digested that bit of mental imagery, I’m here to say that my driving doesn’t suck; I’m actually a very good, well-trained coxswain of the highway.

Let’s look past how I barely passed my MCJA EVOC (Emergency Vehicle Operators Course) with an 80, the lowest passing score, on my second of only two tries.  If those parking cones had really been children, I’m sure most of them would have jumped out of the way.

The car had sirens for a reason, people.

But no, let’s analyze my driving right now:  The faults I have are numerous; however I make up for it by being attuned to what’s going on around me.  My wife will be quick to point out that I miss things while driving, like apparently a giant rock that hit her windshield while we were driving out to Niagara a short while back.

I didn’t even hear this “rock” hit the windshield.  If it was so big, why didn’t I hear it, huh?

She’ll also be quick to point out that I miss other things, like objects on the side of the road.  Mind you, they’re usually on the passenger’s side of the road, and if I noticed them, I likely would miss the toll booths we’d be racing towards at 80 mph and the dithering toll collector crossing between the booths.

My wife’s driving is terrible, far worse than mine, not for lack of skill, but for lack of concentration.  Often she’s fiddling with something, like the car’s AC,

or her phone,

or her phone charger,

or her Altoids,

or her cup of coffee,

or trying to fill out a bank slip long before we’re even at the bank

or glancing at “interesting” shit on the side of the road, and will miss an exit.  This, and the fear of being killed while I’m asleep, means that I stay bolt upright and awake during all of our travels where she drives.

Hence, why 4/5s the time I’m usually the one in the driver’s seat.

Yes I drive “hard”; I speed, tailgate, get agitated with slower moving traffic, and often cuss under my breath at the unbelievable bullshit I see while operating on a motorway.  I see Barbie texting like crazy, while diddling the radio knob.  I see Ken eating a goddamn cheeseburger and steering with his knee.  I see Old Man Smithers jacking it to a yellowed copy of Hustler from 9 years ago.

I said it was unbelievable bullshit.

So what if I check Google Maps from my phone to ensure we’re going the right way (which is what I was doing in the photo from her article)?  So what if I nudge into traffic with the gentleness of a PCP snorting elephant?  So what if I cut through a DO NOT ENTER and travel a quarter mile down a one way street at night with my lights off while fumbling around with a loaded pistol?

I’m not hurting anyone.

I refuse to admit that I’m a ‘bad driver’ only because I try really hard not to text and drive…. It’s only because with an iPhone it’s next to impossible to text and drive and have anything come out that’s remotely coherent.  It’s just easier to make an actual phone call.

And on farting?  I crack the window an inch to create greater suction.  There’s a scientific name for it, but I can’t remember it.  But keep in mind, I’m not going to crank down the windows to air out my shitty smelling farts; no that would only trap the fart in the back of the car with the dog, beating it senseless (the fart), confusing it, not letting it escape until some sort of cellular dispersion occurred and all the shit crystals spread far enough away from each other so you wouldn’t be overpowered by the stench.  No, a small, one inch crack in the window will sufficiently suck the offensive, strict-protein-diet-fueled gasses out and put them on the street with everything else that smells: Trash, Hookers and The Mets.

And while I’m driving the bus, let me tell you this:  My wife farted on me once.  We were in bed, she thought I was fast asleep, she had her legs up over mine, and she let out a little tooter.  Yes, a quiet little “toot” escaped her rear end.  The thing is, I wasn’t fast asleep, I was wide awake with my eyes closed.  So when I opened them to make her face the shame of her crime, she quickly snapped her eyes shut to pretend that she had been sleeping all along.  So I just stared at her until she tried to crack one of her eyes back open to see if I noticed her little fanny burp.

I was staring directly at her, with a cold expression on my face that was something caught between betrayal and hatred.

Yeah, talk some shit about my driving.  See if I don’t put you on blast for being gassy.  That’s how I do.

November 23, 2009 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Out and About, Shameless Self Promotion, Smells Like Children | , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Hey, Hold The Phone…

Just wanted to shout out all the folks migrating over to my site from IRdC. Thanks for stopping by.  I try to post at least twice a week, but with my work schedule it’s not always possible, so stay tuned, check back often.  Next article will be up probably Monday.

But in the meantime, why not check out my wife Ang’s blog? She’d also want me to tell you that she got locked out of our house the other day by some dipshit realtor who was showing our apartment when neither one of us was home, causing me to nearly kick through someone’s chest cavity.

That said, go check out her blog. I bet she’ll write about her experience.

Thanks again for stopping by, and see you Monday folks!

November 20, 2009 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Not Enough Time | , , , , | Leave a comment

Watching a Dinosaur Die

I was just reading in the NYT about how the last Virgin Mega Store in NYC has shuttered its doors in Union Square this last weekend, marking an end to a culture that I can’t really put my finger on.

That culture is not the trendy, ironic hipster culture of the vinyl record store or independent music store that are locally owned and operated, but the culture of the chain music store, the analog iTunes of adolescent’s past, a Wal Mart for music if you will.

I don’t know how I feel about the slow death of this Brontosaurus of business, because it’s been so drawn out over the years that it’s practically stayed under my pop culture radar.  All over the country over the past ten years chain music mega stores, like Tower Records and now Virgin, have been folding due to the lack of business.  People were no longer flocking to these locations to buy their music.  No longer was there a niche market for people to go to one giant store to find all the music they could possibly need, and discover.

We had Napster, then (the much more legal and albeit coolly efficient) iTunes.  But before that we had Wal Mart and Best Buy, which took away from the variety but passed on the savings to its customer.

I had visited the Virgin Mega Store at Union Square a number of times while I was living in NYC, and it was a cool place for Manhattanites whom weren’t “too cool” to avoid big business and simply wanted an album or maybe a book or concert dvd.  I enjoyed the layout of the store, the variety of the wares and found the employees to be pretty knowledgeable, which in a big box store is incredibly rare (looking at you Home Depot.)  I guess what I’m saying is that I’m surprised it’s taken this long for these types of stores to finally lay down and become dust, simply due to the fact that they tended not to fully function in our preconceived notions of today’s society.

In today’s world people aren’t really buying albums anymore, they buy songs.  CD purchases are actually dwindling probably more so for the fact that buying an actual, physical plastic disc is colorless, odorless and has all the personality of that sheet of paper sticking out of the top of your printer.  You simply go into whatever local entertainment store is nearest to you, browse the unkempt racks of over packaged, under priced, bulky cases until you (maybe) find what you’re looking for, take it to the register and leave for home where you’ll push the disc into your computer and import the songs on to your iPod, discarding the disc to some dusty grave on the corner of your computer desk.  That is, if you don’t support your neighborhood’s local music store (looking at you Wulfgar.)

If you do support a local record shop, good for you, but I’m sure even that experience has lost some of its luster.  I’m not terribly old, though my wife loves to point out to waitresses that I’m closing in on 30, but even I can remember the sense of community that surrounded the local music emporium.  I would spend no less than an hour digging through the Used CD bin looking for something interesting to give a listen to for under ten bucks (this was probably 1995, when it was still reasonable to pay more than 15 dollars for a compact disc…).  My best friend at the time and I would compare finds, egg the other one on to make a purchase and run home and give our treasures a listen.  It was an experience.

Now-a-days I load a prepaid iTunes Gift Card for X amount of dollars into my computer and browse through songs, buying each one individually and loading them on to my iPod.  Ashamedly I’ll purchase songs and won’t even remember it, recalling them later on when they come up in a workout shuffle.

This is why the music industry is losing ground; music no longer means anything to anyone anymore.  We have generations coming up who will never experience what it’s like to waste a Saturday afternoon digging through boxes of CDs.  We’ve lost the human touch of music, that connection.

What was your first album that you bought with your own money?  Do you remember what the album was?  Do you remember where you bought it from?  Do you remember the experience?

Here’s mine:  I paid nine dollars for a used copy of Ice Cube’s “The Predator” from Music Plus back home in Biddeford Maine when I was 13 years old.  The old guy behind the counter asked me if my parents knew I was buying this album because of the huge Parental Advisory sticker on the front cover.  I lied and said yes.  I figure he knew I was lying but wanted to make the sale anyway.  My bicycle was parked just outside the door, by the front window, and the store’s owner, this old man gave me a tiny plastic bag to take the cd home in.  I got home, snuck the cd into my room, put my head phones on, the ones with the fuzzy ears, and listened to the whole album uninterrupted as I watch tv with the sound off.  It was a Friday afternoon in the Summer.   I earned the money to buy the cd from weed whacking around the property for my dad.

What’s our kids’ first album memory going to be?  “I logged into my parents iTunes account and clicked ‘buy for $9.99’.”

I’m not advocating for the return of the music store, because it’s a lifeless body.  To call for its return to our neighborhoods would make as much sense as to demand a frozen over corpse be reanimated after it had stayed under a sheet of ice all winter.  I’m just wishing that, not so much music as a whole, but the purchasing of music, still had some sort of community-like tie to it.  I wish it was personal again, and not so fucking ….

Dehumanized.

June 15, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, The Great Indoors, World Wide Events | , , , , | Leave a comment

Of New Englanders, Colonial and Otherwise…

I’m reading like three books at once (with another two in my queue), giving about two days to each at a whack.  One of those books is the history of Paul Revere, called fittingly “Paul Revere’s Ride” by David Hackett Fischer.  There’s one short passage that I recently read that sticks out, and I haven’t been able to shake it.  So I thought I’d share it with you all:

“The Regulars of the British Army and the citizen soldiers of Massachusetts looked upon military affairs in very different ways.  New England farmers did not think of war as a game, or a feudal ritual, or an instrument of state power, or a bloodsport for bored country gentlemen.  They did not regard the pursuit of arms as a noble profession.  In 1775, many men of Massachusetts had been to war.  They knew its horrors from personal experience.  With a few exceptions, they thought of fighting as dirty business that had to be done from time to time if good men were to survive in a world of evil.  The New England colonies were among the few to recognize the right of conscientious objection to military service, and among the few to respect that right even in moments of mortal peril.  But most New Englanders were not pacifists themselves.  Once committed to what they regarded as a just and necessary war, these sons of Puritans hardened their hearts and became the most implacable of foes.  Their many enemies who lived by a warrior-ethic always underestimated them, as a long parade of Indian braves, French aristocrats, British Regulars, Southern planters, German fascists, Japanese militarists, Marxist ideologues, and Arab adventurers have invariably discovered to their heavy cost.”

Something about that block of text, those 200-sum-odd words, puts a smile on my face every one of the dozen or so times I’ve read and re-read it.  I’ve always felt that to be of New England, to carry the heart of a New Englander, is special in ways that being from another part of the country can’t compare to.  Yes, we’re stodgy and arrogant and honestly, a lot of what you tourists come to see in our lands during the Summer and Fall is largely overrated, but only because we have conceded those parts to your highway trash and generic, duplicated Fried Seafood Shacks that you so covet.

The real Heart of New England is in its blood, its people; those who can trace their lineage back a couple of generations – at least – to those hard, salty, weathered New Englanders who struggle through winters on fishing boats, slog through muddy Springs in potato and blueberry fields, sit in congested traffic on our antiquated highway systems under a blistering sun with AC that can’t work hard enough, to the crisp Falls that usher in those damn winters too quickly.

New Englanders are more steeled than any other regional species of American, bar none.  Show me a more unyeilding type of American, and I’ll eat a Sam Adams bottle.  And smile the whole time.

May 30, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion | , , | 3 Comments

Of Mothers and Sons

You birthed us.

You fed us.

You tried to make us into men in a way that was different from dad’s arm’s-distance approach.

You had to force yourself to push us away from your apron strings.

You taught us how to respect women.

You went to bat for us when no one else would.

You know we can do no wrong, no matter what.

You went gray after we moved away, probably out of worry.

You are always there for us, no matter how old we get or how high the bail.

You make it easy for us to come to you with broken bones, broken hearts, or broken promises.

We love you, because we know it took a real woman to make a real man.

May 10, 2009 Posted by | People I Love, Written Works | , | 2 Comments

The Hobo On The Corner of 59th St Had a Sandwich Board Sign That Read: @ Everyone: THE END IS NEAR!!

By now I’m sure you’ve heard of Twitter, the micro-blogging site that keeps the kids tapping on their keyboards and smart phones while you try to have a civilized dinner for once.  Twitter is the fastest growing web-application-based program on the internet as of the time I write this article (Sunday evening), meaning that by the time I post it sometime tomorrow afternoon people will be pretty much over it.

If you’re part of that 2/3rds collective that still has no clue what Twitter is, but frustratingly keep hearing about it in every news media outlet, let me explain it to you:  You get to update your friends and “followers” with “tweets” or 140-character-or-less posts on the Twitter site.  When you post one of these “micro-blogs” everyone who has been following you will be notified of the update telling them that you’re waiting for your laundry to finish up in the dryer, or doing other fascinating things in your mundane life.

I don’t Twitter; I see no need to Tweet the banal ins and outs of my day-to-day life because I already do this for the most part on my Facebook page.  This brings me to my next point, which is Twitter is essentially a status update for people without a Facebook page, or want to update their going-ons without all the hassle of setting up some ridiculous social networking site-page.

My other gripe with Twitter is that it’s a flashy “of the moment” kind of fad that I can see Dave Navarro commenting on in the next “I Love the 00s” episode.  At 140 characters, is there enough room to really get the point across that you’re out of bread or that the line at DMV is too long?

I did hear a report recently that a heart surgeon tweeted one of his open heart surgeries.  Awesome… as I’m lying on my back with my chest open and heart in a stainless steel dish next to me, the surgeon is busy bending over his keyboard instead of my slowly cooling body.

Oprah is now Tweeting too.  Great, so now my mom can be more thoroughly brainwashed.

Twitter is a lazy way to get attention and be inundated with ridiculous advertisements should you decide to “follow” a particular commercial brand or product.  My comrade in blogging arms, Hokie recently wrote about his falling out with a local brewery that he had been following on Twitter, after the company tracked him down and DEMANDED he follow them.  What came were a bunch of lame ads.

In a culture where we digitally record our favorite television shows just so we can fast forward over the commercials, we are now volunteering to be bombarded with ads from our favorite places to shop.

And maybe that’s just the ticket that companies and advertisers alike have been looking for.  Commercials On Demand.  Instead of making viewers of whatever sit through three and a half minutes of ads that we don’t care about (local used auto dealers, heavy flow maxi pads) we could curtail what ads we are subjected to by just clicking on the brands that we favor the most.

I have done this on my Facebook page, where I have become a “fan” of different brands, stores, etc, and I receive regular “status updates” from these pages which are, in fact, basically ads.  I found this to be very irksome at first, however I’ve grown to accept it.  I clicked on those items and to be associated with them, I pay the price:  which is being bombarded by daily updates from fucking Banana Republic and Outback Steak House.

But back to the topic at hand:  I hate Twitter, and I feel like its one more step in the direction of the Fall of Man.  Text messaging has crippled civilization, socked the art of conversation in the mouth, and kicked polite etiquette down a set of stairs.  How soul crushingly annoying is it to be with another human being in the same space, an in mid conversation, the faint sound of a buzzing cuts through the air, they stop mid-sentence to dig into their pocket, and return a text message on the fly.

I’m just as guilty as the next guy, because I do the same thing.  I resent my dependency on connectivity to everyone at all times, and my inner Luddite dies a little more when I follow through with ignoring of my wife, therapist, co-worker, mom, whoever  for a few seconds to send a babble of short words or phrases through the air via cellular stream.  I need to work on this; but like I said, since about the age of 16 I’ve been addicted to being connected.

This week, starting on Monday is “Digital Detox” Week, which is leading up to Earth Day next Sunday I think.  I’m not sure on those dates, and my caseworker, …er… fact checker is out of the office for some goddamn reason, but it’s a week where we can unplug ourselves from technology in order to reconnect with a life less complicated.  As granola as it sounds, it wouldn’t be the worst idea for certain people to try to get back to a life before Blackberrys, high speed internet downloads, online poker tournaments and “sexting” your high school-aged next door neighbor.

…Wait, what am I saying?  You know how many hits to my site I’d lose?!  Jesus!

Anyway, forget I said anything….

April 20, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, People I Hate, The Great Indoors | , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Blog Roll

Just a quick house keeping note here at IJS:  We’ve updated Jim’s blogroll, making some subtractions and additions that Jim and his editorial staff felt that were needed.  Some people were cut just because they weren’t writing on topics we felt best complimented what you would come to find here at IJS, while others were let go due to having blogs that they no longer regularly updated.

But some were added!  We invite you (and especially Wulfgar) to check out Andreas Diller’s Post-Nuke webcomic.  It’s amazing art work and an awesome story line.  I don’t know how often he updates his work, but there’s like ten full-ish comics.  We really encourage IJS readers to check him out and give him the web traffic he richly deserves.

We also dabbled around with the naming of links, so … check them out and have a laugh!

Thanks,

The Editors

February 18, 2009 Posted by | Shameless Self Promotion, Too Much Time | , | 4 Comments

Over The Hump

Apparently my new health kick-suffering has inspired others to share in my misery.  You can read about Jake and Hokie’s no-booze for a month tribulations here (proclamation) and here (first update).

On the real world front, I’ve also been inspiring some of my co-workers to shed the flub around the office.  Rog and Nate have been on a Nazi-like fitness regime which consists of hitting the gym 6 days a week, each day is a different style of work out.  I’m pleased to say that I’ve seen noticeable changes in their appearance and stamina.

Kev also tried to get on the health nut band wagon, but fell off about two weeks in.  He was on the Kashi Go Lean diet and realized that he was becoming a bulimic in reverse.

For me, it hasn’t been easy either.  I’ve gotten over the mood swings, the short-fused angry outbursts and depressions.  Now I actually feel guilty if I get even half a portion extra with my meals.

And that’s where I’ve been focusing; my portions have been small to the point where I don’t think I’m getting the proper amount of caloric intake and I feel weak as hell going about my daily routine.  I went for a three mile run the other day and by the time I finished, I felt as winded as if I hadn’t been running in over a year.  What the hell?

I consulted my wife, our family’s health professional and she stated that portion control is good, but I can’t starve myself either.  My body is used to a certain amount of calories each day and similar to our bank accounts and spending, if we’re conditioned to have X-amount of dollars in our banks at a given time, and suddenly we don’t due to some circumstance, we suffer for it.  My body is like a bank account, the calories are like dollars, and my day to day activities are like a budget, dig?

So I’m spending more than I’m making it would seem.  This is the next step in my diet: Taking in enough of the good so I can live my regular day without being a zombie, without the bad stuff that’s going to either kill me or embarrass me come surfing season.

You heard me:  surfing season.  That’s my goal.  I want to look hot as shit for my wife this coming summer, because she’s going to teach me how to surf.

..that and she’s buying me a Wii.

To be completely honest with everyone, I have had a little fast food recently.  Ang and I had an exceptionally long day the other day and when we finally got home, I went to make us some tuna melts on the Foreman grill and I realized I only had enough tuna for one.  So I made her one and when I skipped out to pick up her prescriptions I stopped at Burger King and got a Whopper Jr, but that was it.  No fries, no soda, nothing.  Just the sandwich, which I ate in her car in the CVS parking lot, hating myself the entire time.

I’m just saying…

February 15, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , | 1 Comment

Tag, I’m It.

I was hit the with “Splotchy virus” a few days ago, and am just now getting around to posting it.

It works like when you used to spend your summers sitting around a camp fire with your friends or family and… wait, you never did that?  You grew up in a city and never went camping?  Oh… well ok, someone starts a story and then others are tasked with adding to it.  It goes around and around and becomes a big mess.

So here’s the story so far… look for my addition towards the end:

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn’t prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Surreptitiously, I tried to establish, without giving it away, if anyone else had seen what I had. For ten years I had been looking for that box. What looked like an ordinary cardboard box to most contained something most precious. Only by the small golden “P” was I able to identify what I was looking at. (Freida Bee)

How the box got here, or how I happened to be on this bus with it now–these questions were immaterial. I just had to get that box. The bus slowed to a stop, so I steadied myself. Just as I was about to make a grab for the box, however, it moved. Someone else was picking it up to take it away! I had to stop her! (Dguzman)

What? This couldn’t be happening–to get this close and watch some quick-footed little dwarf just up and snatch it away from me…no! I got up and just as I did the sweaty hillbilly in front of me stood up and stepped into the aisle. Moving like a bad mime imitating a man in a box he extended his arms and stretched, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. The dwarf with the box–I couldn’t be sure if it was a man or a woman, but something about her seemed feminine–slipped out the front door and off the bus. I took a deep breath and slumped back down into my seat.(Bubs)

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I mumbled under my breath. I leaned my head against the cold window and watched the dwarf threading her way through the crowd. She held the box tightly to her chest as she leaned into the wind and rushed forward. The small gold P on the box flashed teasingly between the coats and legs of the passersby. I bit my lower lip, trying not to cry.

I had a brief flashback to the last time I’d seen that box. Agnes and I had just enjoyed a concert at Crew Hall. We ducked into her father’s book shop for some tea. As we shrugged off our wraps, we heard her father arguing animatedly in French with someone in the back room.

Agnes laughed and waved her hand dismissively at me when I looked at her questioningly. “Eetz nussing!” she whispered. “Eetz, mon pere and mon oncle! Zay are deescussing an order.”

Just then Agnes’s father jerked open the door to the back room and hurried out. His face was ruddy with anger and he was carrying the box with the small. gold P. A second later, Agnes’s uncle followed. He opened his mouth to say something, but seeing Agnes and me staring at him, closed it again with a snap. His large mustache quivered.

The bus pulled away from the curb, jerking me out of my reverie. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and searched the crowd on the sidewalk for the dwarf. There she was! Keeping my eyes glued to her, I stood again and yanked the bell cord. I’d get off at the next stop and see if I could catch up to her. The bus pulled up to the curb a couple of blocks away. I could still see the dwarf as she hurried in and out of the crowd. I lurched to the front of the bus and ran down the steps, still not taking my eyes off the dwarf and the gold P on the box. (DCup)

I hit the sidewalk hard, my ankle actually bowing out and causing me to limp a little, but that fucking dwarf was still in my sight, and I’ll be damned if I was going to let her get away with what was rightfully mine.  And besides, didn’t she see the signs on the bus?  Those, “If you see something, say something” anti-terror signs that are on every subway train and bus and fucking cab in this city?  The ones that warn about suspicious unattended packages?  Who did she think she was just grabbing some random box from under a bus seat and hustling off with her little fucking legs, the goddamn cripple she was.

I snaked through the crowd, the majority of which was against me, walking towards downtown as I hustled uptown, like a salmon trying to fight the down current.  I was quickly within hailing distance (largely due to that fact that one of my strides was at least two or three of hers) and unplugged from my ears my white ear buds and shouted.

“You, shorty, with the box!”  I called out, my voice cutting like that of an authoritarian.  Most of the jaded urbanites barely noticed my command to stop, but from the distance of about twenty feet I could see the little bitch jump with a start.  She knew I was coming for her, and I wasn’t about to let a fucking hillbilly or a mime or even a goddamn Elvis Impersonator get between me and that box.

What the box really meant to me, aside from a connection to my kindred past, was the sense that it was something that personally belonged to me, that someone else had in their possession for a number of years.  It was insulting, damn near infuriating to see someone else just skip off with what was properly yours.

I’m blocked!  A pair of piano movers are moving a large upright, lacquered brown, covered in movers tape and styrofoam, from the store to the back of their truck, and that little twat of a munchkin just ducked under the instrument and got an extra thirty or so feet on me.

Fuck this, I thought to myself and ran around the outside of the truck, narrowly being smooshed by a speeding cab.  I saw a chunk of concrete from the side of a building, roughly baseball sized laying on the sidewalk, and the bitch with my box had entered a clearing, void of worker drones on their way home.  In my mind I called back to my old baseball days at State, picked up the chunk of rock, and hurled it at the back of the dwarf’s head.

The chunk of concrete smacked home with the accuracy of a 6-4-3 double play, and she went down hard, face first at the end of the side walk.

This would’ve been fine if not for the fact that the box skidded down the ramped end of the sidewalk and stopped roughly fifteen feet out into the busy street.  A quick glance in the way of on-coming traffic showed a big Mack Truck barreling down,  it’s front tire right in line with my box.  (J. @ IJS)

I’m tagging Jake and Hokie, Wulfie and Arkay.  Do your worst.

I’m just sayin…

December 15, 2008 Posted by | People I Love, Too Much Time | , , , | 1 Comment