Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Eyes and ears (but mostly eyes)
I'm of the school of thought that being a good talker requires one to be a good listener; I'm pretty confident I've always been both, but perception is a very subjective thing.
When my parents convinced me to forego the glory of Ivy League academics--in all fairness, my grades played a part, too--I was left with a single option: City University of New York.
I'd achieved the minimum SAT score to gain entrance to the CUNY school of my choice, a feat unbelieved by the college counselor who told me I'd "be better off aiming for the realistic options offered by trade schools like Chubb Institute and Devry." Not many bigger buzz kills than being told you're only fit to enter the highly intellectual world of the free toolbox mafia.
I settled on Brooklyn College because I was resigned to living at home with my parents until an undetermined date. On the day of my orientation, the incoming freshman were feted by the department chairs, who were all decked out in absurd Hogwartian robes, sashes, and, most ridiculous of all, an organ player fumbling his way through Pomp & Circumstance to an auditorium full of denim-clad post-high schoolers.
Later, we made our way out to the quad to sample the club offerings of BC. Almost without any hesitation, I gravitated to the table for WBCR, the college radio station. A club spokesperson mentioned the need for new blood, so I signed up right away.
The station became my home for the next 3.5 years. I met my first real girlfriend there. I learned how to not be afraid to talk. More importantly, I learned how to listen.
Flash forward to 2004, when I was heartbeat away from homelessness, crashing on the bedbug-infested couch of my former boss, a gay opera singer named Jonathan. One night, during one of many nights of wanton disregard for common decency brought on by consumption of illicit substances, Jonathan said, "You used to be a good listener, but now you're as good as deaf." I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but he was absolutely correct. One of my more prized attributes had been jettisoned from my body, a heavy price for placing faith in Alexei vodka and generic Robitussin.
I think I've changed quite a bit since then. In the course of regaining my sense of self, I realized that I could finally be a good listener again. Stupid, I know. But what some people have to say to me--the good, bad, and ugly--means everything to me. I don't always have the answers, but I always have a pair of ears and an open heart for anyone needing to unburden themselves.
Monday, October 15, 2012
The nights where the air is thin as your ego
On a stormy morning in 1984, I was reborn as a labored breather in the eye of Hurricane Gloria. The name of the storm was as benign as the countless old ladies who shared its namesake. Maybe only Hurricane Gladys would have struck less fear in the hearts of New Yorkers unaccustomed to such storms.
As the Cape Verde winds bore down on the 5 boroughs, my brother and I awoke with a sense of excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning. With nature playing Santa and hurling a gift right at our new storm windows, my brother and I watched with anticipation. Except my excitement quickly morphed into terror as I found myself gasping for air.
My parents agreed that I was a bit too young to try and wait this sudden malady out, so my father got ready to take me to the hospital. Getting ready meant shaving, and each stroke at his stubble with his disposable razor seemed like an eternity.
Compounding matters, my older brother was significantly more concerned with the fate of my uneaten pancakes. His persistent badgering was causing me even more anxiety, so I laid my head gently on his shoulder and sank my teeth into his arm. His scream spurred my father into action as he scooped me up and dashed out the door.
At the hospital, I was given a very large shot of epinephrine, which provided one of the most ecstatic feelings I've ever experienced. I could breathe again.
Three weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital. Almost immediately after leaving, I was sent to an allergist for evaluation. An allergy panel revealed allergies ranging from cats to mold. To ease the asthma symptoms, I was prescribed Marax cough syrup, a vile concoction that tasted like old Nyquil.
As my asthma attacks increased, so did my Marax intake. My mother refused me an inhaler because she'd read that they encouraged "dependency"; instead, I spent many nights laying awake for hours, unable to get back to sleep. During those many sleepless hours, my mind would wander to thoughts of self worthlessness. I could not comprehend the fairness of not being able to sleep while the rest of my family slumbered soundly. To me, it meant I had been plucked from the universal norms and seated in a corner of the cosmos reserved for those underserving of peace.
As it turns out, Marax was a cough medicine based in ephedra, the precursor to methamphetamine. Hardly the ideal medication for a grade schooler--which the FDA recognized when they eventually banned Marax.
When I finally got an inhaler, I think my mother saw it as an act of rebellion against her sense of superior judgement.
I just wanted to breathe.
I did. And I haven't stopped since. The nighttime pontifications on my place in the universe continue, though. Sometimes, I still feel like an anomaly in the grand patchwork of existence. It comes and goes. But it's there.
It's too bad there isn't a portable medical dispenser that can rescue you from those moments.
As the Cape Verde winds bore down on the 5 boroughs, my brother and I awoke with a sense of excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning. With nature playing Santa and hurling a gift right at our new storm windows, my brother and I watched with anticipation. Except my excitement quickly morphed into terror as I found myself gasping for air.
My parents agreed that I was a bit too young to try and wait this sudden malady out, so my father got ready to take me to the hospital. Getting ready meant shaving, and each stroke at his stubble with his disposable razor seemed like an eternity.
Compounding matters, my older brother was significantly more concerned with the fate of my uneaten pancakes. His persistent badgering was causing me even more anxiety, so I laid my head gently on his shoulder and sank my teeth into his arm. His scream spurred my father into action as he scooped me up and dashed out the door.
At the hospital, I was given a very large shot of epinephrine, which provided one of the most ecstatic feelings I've ever experienced. I could breathe again.
Three weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital. Almost immediately after leaving, I was sent to an allergist for evaluation. An allergy panel revealed allergies ranging from cats to mold. To ease the asthma symptoms, I was prescribed Marax cough syrup, a vile concoction that tasted like old Nyquil.
As my asthma attacks increased, so did my Marax intake. My mother refused me an inhaler because she'd read that they encouraged "dependency"; instead, I spent many nights laying awake for hours, unable to get back to sleep. During those many sleepless hours, my mind would wander to thoughts of self worthlessness. I could not comprehend the fairness of not being able to sleep while the rest of my family slumbered soundly. To me, it meant I had been plucked from the universal norms and seated in a corner of the cosmos reserved for those underserving of peace.
As it turns out, Marax was a cough medicine based in ephedra, the precursor to methamphetamine. Hardly the ideal medication for a grade schooler--which the FDA recognized when they eventually banned Marax.
When I finally got an inhaler, I think my mother saw it as an act of rebellion against her sense of superior judgement.
I just wanted to breathe.
I did. And I haven't stopped since. The nighttime pontifications on my place in the universe continue, though. Sometimes, I still feel like an anomaly in the grand patchwork of existence. It comes and goes. But it's there.
It's too bad there isn't a portable medical dispenser that can rescue you from those moments.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Price is Wrong
When Myspace was still rocketing toward its apex (circa 2002), I met an online friend named Phillip. Phillip took a liking to the Classic Concentration group I created; it was my extremely banal attempt at passing the time. Through several chats via AIM, I came to discover that Phillip was not only a Classic Concentration enthusiast but a batshit crazy game show fanatic.
While my only claim to prize-winning glory was 3rd place in a "Why Your Mom is the Best Mom" contest in 1988, Phillip managed to drink from the holy grail of game show victory: he won a car on The Price is Right. Over the next few months, Phillip spoke in glowing terms of Bob Barker, the Barker Beauties, and the unique fraternity he'd joined by winning "The Big Prize." I grew bored of these conversations, and maybe old Phil sensed that--because he one day stopped talking about game shows and instead started talking about slippers.
Yes. Slippers.
I'd already found the one man who loved game shows more than all of the others, so I was a bit surprised to learn of his passion for evening footwear. More torturous than enduring a verbatim recap of the episode of The Price is Right where a dowdy homebody named Myrna managed to win an RV AND a washer & dryer (a real Middle American coup, I suppose) was an at-length AIM chat about the pros and cons of Isotoner slippers. Longing for the days of Phil's astonishing total recall of specific game show episodes, I gave the boy the social network "kiss of death" and blocked him on Myspace and AIM. Problem solved.
About a year later, I accidentally unblocked a bunch of people on AIM. Phil pinged me right away, almost as if 365+ days hadn't elapsed since our last exchange. What follows is a sad record of what happens when you give a slipper fetishist one more shot:
BigPhil32000 (1:47:43 PM): Hi.
SymptomsofMadrid (1:47:56 PM): hey phil! what's shaking?
BigPhil32000 (1:48:02 PM): Not a lot...you?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:54 PM): working working...you know the drilkl
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:57 PM): drill*
BigPhil32000 (1:49:00 PM): I do
BigPhil32000 (1:49:12 PM): I've been browsing at random stuff
BigPhil32000 (1:50:43 PM): http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&Item=230361540197&Category=63850&_trkparms=algo%3DLVI%26its%3DI%26otn%3D2
SymptomsofMadrid (1:51:14 PM): those are really swanky, man...good price, too
BigPhil32000 (1:51:26 PM): you'd look cool in them
SymptomsofMadrid (1:54:13 PM): I haven't owned slippers in ages! maybe I should get a pair
BigPhil32000 (1:54:52 PM): You think you might wear them with socks or without?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:56:48 PM): I'm thinking without...socks would probably make my feet overheat with the slippers
BigPhil32000 (1:56:59 PM): Smart man
SymptomsofMadrid (1:57:37 PM): Thanks! 10 bucks is a really good price
BigPhil32000 (1:58:02 PM): I wish they'd come back in style
BigPhil32000 (2:01:45 PM): http://i.ebayimg.com/09/!BZCgpLg!mk~$(KGrHgoOKisEjlLl7pG)BKkuECRu8g~~_12.JPG
BigPhil32000 (2:08:33 PM): How about those, Ryan?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:09:26 PM): they're ok. a bit round, though.
BigPhil32000 (2:09:36 PM): Yeah, the first pair I showed you are better
SymptomsofMadrid (2:10:23 PM): much better
BigPhil32000 (2:11:04 PM): do you think you'd like them tight or loose?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:12:10 PM): loose...I mean, who really wants to come home and take off some tightly tied shoes and replace them with another pair of tight footwear
BigPhil32000 (2:12:17 PM): smart move
BigPhil32000 (2:13:26 PM): You seem like the halfway on/off relaxed person
BigPhil32000 (2:14:00 PM): You're watching GSN, and you're playing with the slippers with the bare soles popping out of them.
BigPhil32000 (2:15:28 PM): What if one falls off your foot?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:16:27 PM): I guess you could just put it back on
BigPhil32000 (2:16:50 PM): That'll work
BigPhil32000 (2:17:23 PM): I'd like to have a roommate like you in those
Needless to say, I blocked Phil immediately and took a bath. It's not a bad thing to go with your gut. And if your gut tells you that your being hit on by a guy whose idea of fun would be dressing you up in slippers and probing you with the Bob Barker microphone, you need to heed that instinct. And run.
While my only claim to prize-winning glory was 3rd place in a "Why Your Mom is the Best Mom" contest in 1988, Phillip managed to drink from the holy grail of game show victory: he won a car on The Price is Right. Over the next few months, Phillip spoke in glowing terms of Bob Barker, the Barker Beauties, and the unique fraternity he'd joined by winning "The Big Prize." I grew bored of these conversations, and maybe old Phil sensed that--because he one day stopped talking about game shows and instead started talking about slippers.
Yes. Slippers.
I'd already found the one man who loved game shows more than all of the others, so I was a bit surprised to learn of his passion for evening footwear. More torturous than enduring a verbatim recap of the episode of The Price is Right where a dowdy homebody named Myrna managed to win an RV AND a washer & dryer (a real Middle American coup, I suppose) was an at-length AIM chat about the pros and cons of Isotoner slippers. Longing for the days of Phil's astonishing total recall of specific game show episodes, I gave the boy the social network "kiss of death" and blocked him on Myspace and AIM. Problem solved.
About a year later, I accidentally unblocked a bunch of people on AIM. Phil pinged me right away, almost as if 365+ days hadn't elapsed since our last exchange. What follows is a sad record of what happens when you give a slipper fetishist one more shot:
BigPhil32000 (1:47:43 PM): Hi.
SymptomsofMadrid (1:47:56 PM): hey phil! what's shaking?
BigPhil32000 (1:48:02 PM): Not a lot...you?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:54 PM): working working...you know the drilkl
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:57 PM): drill*
BigPhil32000 (1:49:00 PM): I do
BigPhil32000 (1:49:12 PM): I've been browsing at random stuff
BigPhil32000 (1:50:43 PM): http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&Item=230361540197&Category=63850&_trkparms=algo%3DLVI%26its%3DI%26otn%3D2
SymptomsofMadrid (1:51:14 PM): those are really swanky, man...good price, too
BigPhil32000 (1:51:26 PM): you'd look cool in them
SymptomsofMadrid (1:54:13 PM): I haven't owned slippers in ages! maybe I should get a pair
BigPhil32000 (1:54:52 PM): You think you might wear them with socks or without?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:56:48 PM): I'm thinking without...socks would probably make my feet overheat with the slippers
BigPhil32000 (1:56:59 PM): Smart man
SymptomsofMadrid (1:57:37 PM): Thanks! 10 bucks is a really good price
BigPhil32000 (1:58:02 PM): I wish they'd come back in style
BigPhil32000 (2:01:45 PM): http://i.ebayimg.com/09/!BZCgpLg!mk~$(KGrHgoOKisEjlLl7pG)BKkuECRu8g~~_12.JPG
BigPhil32000 (2:08:33 PM): How about those, Ryan?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:09:26 PM): they're ok. a bit round, though.
BigPhil32000 (2:09:36 PM): Yeah, the first pair I showed you are better
SymptomsofMadrid (2:10:23 PM): much better
BigPhil32000 (2:11:04 PM): do you think you'd like them tight or loose?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:12:10 PM): loose...I mean, who really wants to come home and take off some tightly tied shoes and replace them with another pair of tight footwear
BigPhil32000 (2:12:17 PM): smart move
BigPhil32000 (2:13:26 PM): You seem like the halfway on/off relaxed person
BigPhil32000 (2:14:00 PM): You're watching GSN, and you're playing with the slippers with the bare soles popping out of them.
BigPhil32000 (2:15:28 PM): What if one falls off your foot?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:16:27 PM): I guess you could just put it back on
BigPhil32000 (2:16:50 PM): That'll work
BigPhil32000 (2:17:23 PM): I'd like to have a roommate like you in those
Needless to say, I blocked Phil immediately and took a bath. It's not a bad thing to go with your gut. And if your gut tells you that your being hit on by a guy whose idea of fun would be dressing you up in slippers and probing you with the Bob Barker microphone, you need to heed that instinct. And run.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
WWJD? WTF?
Ever notice how the unabashedly religious folk like to flaunt their love of deities in the oddest ways? For example, I was being whisked up and down one of Norcal's many nondescript highways the other day, and I happened to notice a slew of bumper stickers containing various odes to Jesus. It's not that Jesus isn't deserving of praise--especially if he's your "guy"--but it would seem an odd tribute to display praise for him on the part of a car most likely to be damaged in a fender bender. Would any significant damage to the Jesus fish sticker be enough to shatter unwavering faith in the almighty? I'm guessing no.
I also find humor in how some baseball players (usually of the Latino variety), in an almost self-deprecating manner, cross themselves after an on-field accomplishment. It's as if they are saying, "My hard work, training, and determination had nothing to do with stealing that base. It was actually the luge-like spirit of Christ that propelled me to base-stealing glory." I can't buy that. Why, then, should crediting God or Jesus or whomever be limited to feats accomplished in the arena of professional athletics? Do these same individuals cross themselves after a completing a particularly difficult level of a video game? Or maybe even after overcoming the tyranny of constipation? Surely, the aforementioned examples of overcoming great obstacles are divine, not personal, accomplishments.
In pondering these many questions is where I usually find myself at loggerheads with Christian doctrine. Way too much hypocrisy and contradictory behavior by the so-called "leaders." The Vatican has openly chastised rappers and other celebrities for decorating themselves with glitzy crucifixes and such. Yet, the Pope lives in an opulent palace that is such a flamboyant display of florid excess, you would be hard pressed to find its connection to a man who was supposedly born in a barn on a bed of hay, garnered a paltry sum as a carpenter, and was left to die on a cross that probably didn't meet his personal standards of quality carpentry.
I know Catholics who will speak ill of the lavish lifestyles and money-getting ploys of "born again" and evangelical sects of Christianity. But is the papal lifestyle, or even that of priests and nuns, really so modest by comparison? I known priests who frequented baseball games and bars, movies and fancy restaurants, and just about any other luxury that probably qualifies as excessive for a member of the Roman Catholic clergy. How's that vow of poverty working out for you, Father?
Of course, who am I to say that Jesus won't fulfill the prophecies heralded by Revelations and one day walk this land again--only maybe he'll return completely blinged out and pissed off that his philosophy was misinterpreted by the modern pontiffs? Or perhaps Jesus will promptly locate this blog and excoriate me for an act of heresy--which would mean that he misinterpreted my philosophy. Oh Jesus.
I also find humor in how some baseball players (usually of the Latino variety), in an almost self-deprecating manner, cross themselves after an on-field accomplishment. It's as if they are saying, "My hard work, training, and determination had nothing to do with stealing that base. It was actually the luge-like spirit of Christ that propelled me to base-stealing glory." I can't buy that. Why, then, should crediting God or Jesus or whomever be limited to feats accomplished in the arena of professional athletics? Do these same individuals cross themselves after a completing a particularly difficult level of a video game? Or maybe even after overcoming the tyranny of constipation? Surely, the aforementioned examples of overcoming great obstacles are divine, not personal, accomplishments.
In pondering these many questions is where I usually find myself at loggerheads with Christian doctrine. Way too much hypocrisy and contradictory behavior by the so-called "leaders." The Vatican has openly chastised rappers and other celebrities for decorating themselves with glitzy crucifixes and such. Yet, the Pope lives in an opulent palace that is such a flamboyant display of florid excess, you would be hard pressed to find its connection to a man who was supposedly born in a barn on a bed of hay, garnered a paltry sum as a carpenter, and was left to die on a cross that probably didn't meet his personal standards of quality carpentry.
I know Catholics who will speak ill of the lavish lifestyles and money-getting ploys of "born again" and evangelical sects of Christianity. But is the papal lifestyle, or even that of priests and nuns, really so modest by comparison? I known priests who frequented baseball games and bars, movies and fancy restaurants, and just about any other luxury that probably qualifies as excessive for a member of the Roman Catholic clergy. How's that vow of poverty working out for you, Father?
Of course, who am I to say that Jesus won't fulfill the prophecies heralded by Revelations and one day walk this land again--only maybe he'll return completely blinged out and pissed off that his philosophy was misinterpreted by the modern pontiffs? Or perhaps Jesus will promptly locate this blog and excoriate me for an act of heresy--which would mean that he misinterpreted my philosophy. Oh Jesus.
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