Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Star of the Class Pt. II

So, the poetry class still goes on and Randall from Monsters, Inc. has not ceased to be creepy and confusing.  Although, we (and by we I mean my entire class who seems to have united under the basis of finding Randall from Monster's Inc. both amusing and frightening) may have found the cause.

I entered the classroom on that fateful day, instantly cold (this was not for dramatic effect, it's actually very cold in that room), my nose peaking at a familiar and infamous smell. Is it my imagination or do I smell a bit of Mary Jane, I wonder as I prepare for class.  I look up to see the kid across from me staring at Randall from Monsters, Inc. who looks doleful. Kid across from me glances to his friend and does the universal pantomime for smoking a doobie.  Friend nods and mouths: that explains a lot. I find myself sighing. First of all, I'm not so innocent that I was mistaken in my thought that I had smelled pot and secondly, thank you, baby Jesus, he's not just like that in real life. OF COURSE he's blazed all the time. Beautiful/intelligent/black-frame-glasses-wearing professor walks in, his nose peaking at the odor that has permeated the class.  I wonder if he'll say anything, already picturing in my mind how that would play out.  He doesn't say anything and begins class, ignoring the REALLY noticeable stench of pot in the air.

A few other tales to tell:

His last poem began with the line (or maybe this was the title, I couldn't tell): I think she may have fucked a glittery dolphin once or twice. I think that's all that needs to be said about that.

He's taken to giggling in class... all throughout class. When it gets particularly bad, Laughs-at-my-jokes-professor will nod at him and say, "oh yeah?" as if trying to figure out what the fuck is so funny.

He's moved on from saying "I like the words in this poem," and has taken to saying "This poem is hilarious" regardless of whether the poem is about gay anal sex (oh yeah, it happened), or a really butch chick who you've described as trollish, much to the poet's offense (I think she may have been dating this butch girl).

Most frighteningly however was when he chased a group of us down after class yelling "HHEEEYYY!" we all turned to see his black curly locks bouncing in the wind, his face lit up in that crook smile.  Our eyes collectively widened in horror. He closed the distance between us, and looked directly into one of my classmate's eyes inquiring, "do you have a lighter man?" I marvel at his urgency.

Perfect Professor is ordering pizza for our final class. When asked who wouldn't eat pizza, Randall from Monsters, Inc.'s hand shot up instantly.  His was the only one. Typical. I am now wondering if he will bring pot to share. Sweet/lovely/I-will-miss-him-forever-professor did say that we could bring something if we so choose.

Monday, May 21, 2012

That Time I Got Trapped In The Women's Bathroom

I'll preface this with: I am a male. This is important to the story, as indicated by the title of this post.

So, I'm just strolling through JCPenny's, which is nobody's ideal shopping paradise, when I realize that I should probably find a bathroom before I make this place even more of a nightmare by projectile shatting all over a mannequin. I look up and see a sign that has this picture on it, more or less:

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Ah. A woman, a man, a child, and Professor X - everyone can use this bathroom, even mutants.

I follow the ceiling signs and finally find the bathroom. Now, mind you, I have been doing this brisk walk for fear of an early bomb toss, so I really just plow right into the bathroom without a care and head for a stall.

I sit down in peace and let the good times roll. Everything is peachy. Someone enters the stall next to mine, she has some nicely painted toenails and is most definitely Asian by the look of those toes. To the left of me another person enters the stall. She also has some lovely painted toenails and is most definitely a chubbier, white mom with short spiky blond hair - I can just tell. (If you have never tried guessing at someone's appearance simply based on their feet, give it a go; you may surprise yourself.)

Wow, a lot of women and only women have been coming in and out of this family/mutant friendly bathroom. I start to get nervous and shift around a bit, noticing how ugly my boat shoes must look to all of the pretty, painted toenails around me. I even drop my shorts lower to cover up my hairy legs. All of the sudden, paranoia sets in. I break into a gentle sweat and realize that I should not be here.

I imagine the look of pure disgust and shame that spiky-haired mother would give me as she wraps a protective arm around her young daughter while I exit the incriminating stall. What a sick mother fucker, is all she would think while she shook her head in slow motion. The daughter would be crying, of course, with nothing but pure fear in her eyes as she looked at me. At this point, I'm convinced I'm a terrible person.

Some girl has this horribly loud walkie-talkie and it sounds like she is getting paged by the store. Naturally, I assume she has been sent to find me for violating women's rights or something. But she, too, sits in a stall. Then, who I assume to be her grandmother, also sits in a stall and takes an obscene amount of toilet paper, wipes once and leaves. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE.

Finally, I have waited for about 15 minutes... the coast has just cleared after walkie-talkie granddaughter taught grandmother how to dry her hands with an air dryer. I whip my shorts up, don't take the time to flush and book it out of there, only to be greeted by my friend, whom I was with, and some sales employee he had enlisted in the search for me. Apparently, I had been paged throughout the entire JCPenny's, while I was trapped in a women's bathroom, surrounded by glossy toenails.

To end, I glanced at the bathroom door. It said WOMEN'S BATHROOM. So clearly, JCPenny's needs some ceiling signs that match what's on the actual door for God's sake.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

A Belated Mother's Day Post: how my family knows how to do up a holiday

I understand that Mother's Day has already passed and is nearly a week behind us all, however, mothers still deserve to be honored and that is why I am telling the tale of my mother's Mother's Day. I'm not good at blogging on time. That is a fact.

So, the day starts rather wonderfully. I snap one eye open at 8 a.m. and look out of my bedroom window to see my mother and father sauntering away from the house in preparation for a run. Perrrrfect (conniving, one-eyed, lazy smile - I can only open one eye in the morning, whaterr.) Little did I know, this would not be like most other runs (we will come back to this). Normally my parents take a specific route on their runs so, naturally, I assume they will follow this trend.

I skillfully and dexterously tiptoe down the stairs, taking caution as to not be spotted through the windows by my all too unsuspecting parents. Seeing as how I just got a new set of temporary wheels, I plan to sneak to Wegman's and purchase a devilishly gargeous, not gorgeous, but GARGEOUS, bouquet of flowers for my mother. My little brother wakes. For some reason, I did not expect him to be home.. he is only 10, so this is a foolish assumption and I mentally slap myself.

"Come to Wegman's with me," is all I say. He complies and grabs a prepaid Visa, while I fumble with some crumpled cash. Something isn't right here.

We get into the car, which has a manual transmission - something I know how to drive but am super rusty at. Therefore, first gear is smooth sailing. Shift to second, car gives a protesting lurch, however, we continue on. Third gear, all is well, save my white knuckles clenching the steering wheel and my perpetually (while driving this car) tense toes.

Once onto the main street, I begin to relax. We saw no sign of my parents, meaning that they took their usual route and the path to Wegman's would be clear.


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My parents were directly in front of us on the sidewalk. I ineptly pulled into a "deliveries only" parking lot to somehow avoid driving past them and ruining everything. Like a dumbass, I pulled out almost immediately after I had pulled in. I think I was afraid of getting chastised for not having anything to deliver other than a really lame story about how I wanted to surprise my mom with flowers.

The inevitable happened. I pulled up to the the red light right by where my parents were running. My little brother, like the stealthy spy that he is, pokes his head up and looks them dead in the eyes.

"Oh, great! Now they definitely saw us!" I poorly blame him.

My parents have literally stopped running now and are just looking at me. The light goes green. I pull into an empty PetSmart parking lot.... what I thought this would accomplish, I have no idea, but I did it. SO. Flowers - busted. I did end up buying her some anyways.

Later in the day: family golfing! Not bad, I think. I'm ready to dress like a douche and swing a club, so I'm all for it. We're going along, hitting our balls, some better than others, when we finally reach hole 6 or something. It's an elevated hole, so where you tee off from is raised quite high. High enough that there is the top of a small apple tree to the left of the tee.

I hit the ball, it's beautiful - soars right to a nice spot on the green (this happens to me about 3% of the time I play golf). My little brother skips on up to his tee and swings his club with the might of eighty men. It must have been too much for his tiny body to handle because the club flies forth from his tiny hands and wedges itself comfortably into the top of the apple tree. My poor father, one of the champion golfers at this country club, mind you, climbs the apple tree. The ten year-old brother failed miserably at climbing. So my Dad is up there for a good ten minutes, I would say. My Mom and I are dying laughing because all you can see is the occasional hand reaching for the club and the rare foot dangling from the leaves. To make matters more embarrassing for my father, golfers have caught up behind us. Oh, and the daughter in the bunch has a scholarship to play golf at Rutgers, so we're feeling pretty good right about now.

"Yeah, I don't know.. I think he is in the tree," I hear someone say.

Dear God, we just need to leave this place.

Finally, my Dad is able to free the golf club and it falls to the ground. Freeing himself from the tree was not as easy. Let's just say, when the first thing you see coming out of a tree is someone's ass, it's likely to be a difficult descent.

Happy belated Mother's Day. I hope you all were able to maintain your dignity.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Advanced People-Watching

So I find out that the fine people at my university managed to get the one, the only Skrillex to come give a free concert.  Not quite my thing but I’ll bite, and after listening to a nineteen year-old rapper sing about how he certainly would never pay for sex, I was set to experience some live dub-step.  Which, I found, allowed me to engage in one of the most interesting and terrifying people-watching sessions of my people-watching career.

            Amidst a giant, four-minute countdown, my fellow sister and I made our way through the crowd of people at various stages of stupor and excitement; our noses instantly inundated with the smell of cigarette smoke and Mary Jane.  Who would have ever thought that there would be drug use at a Skrillex concert? Certainly not me! As the countdown dwindles, we find an acceptable place to stand; though we were not granted it.  People push forward as if magnetized to the elevated man turning knobs up on stage.  Shining their light-saber pen things, people are starting to rage and I begin to realize that you probably shouldn’t be at a Skrillex concert dead sober. I also come to the realization that I won’t breathe toxin-free air until I leave the concert and worry that I’ve inadvertently slipped into the filming of Cloverfield 2 given the number of shaky iPhones that are recording this thing that I’m at. I call it a thing because it is incomparable to any concert I’ve attended. Surrounding me is a variety of people.  Couples hold onto one another prom-photo style and sway blithely to the beat; bros circle up, rip their shirts off and throw their bodies around; a few move and jerk faster than I’ve ever seen anyone move or jerk, others continually move through the crowd in a daze; and finally a select few stand absolutely still.  Going back to people constantly moving through the crowd, there was this one chick in aviator sunglasses (WHY do people wear sunglasses at night, WHY!?) who seemed to take pleasure in pushing people roughly into others when they tried to weave by her.  She was a real sweetheart.  A few guys wheeled around, ready to deck the guy that just shoved them for no reason, only to find that the person they were just about to hit was, in fact, a female.  She also seemed to find pleasure in this prospect: daring these unsuspecting bros to take a swing.

            Now, let’s take a moment to explore the idea of a Skrillex concert shall we? Now, I’m not necessarily discounting him totally, I’m sure it took him a long time to master the art of pushing buttons and twisting levers to make cool weird sounds out of other people’s songs.  Although, what, other than getting to rage around with hundreds of other people, is the draw to seeing him in concert.  Couldn’t you get the same effect listening to one of his songs really loudly with some good speakers? Though I do suppose it is simply the experience of seeing him live with hundreds of other people that draws the major crowds. Whether or not you enjoy dub-step or not, seeing Skrillex is indeed an experience. I’ve never been so certain that a ritual, human sacrifice was going to occur in my whole life, and I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing. Nor could I have predicted how comforted I would feel by Nelly’s “Ride With Me” playing in a plaza close to my house after I’d left the concert. Sometimes, after listening to a straight half-hour of dub-step amidst a fog of illegal substances and flashing lights, you just want to hear someone say, “AY! Must be the monay!”