2 years…..
June 7, 2009Yesterday marked the beginning of my third year in Colorado.
Matlack and I moved out here on D-Day, also his birthday, June 6th 2007, a month after I graduated from Rutgers.
I didn’t have my shit together, at all, when I first got out here. Matlack and I were on a policy research trip all around the country (like ya do), and had no plans for what we would do for money after August. When we got back, I started a temp position at Crocs (WORST FUCKING JOB EVER, NO JOKE), writing for a blog on what used to be Iggli, and teaching SAT classes at Kaplan in Denver. I was able to make the rent and all that, but it took away from my time to, you know, meet people and hang around in Colorado.
I’ve climbed mountains, I’ve fallen in and out of love.
To this day, all of my friends (with the exception of Mitch, Reise, and H) I met as a result of either
a) Being friends with Sarah McCall, or
b) Meeting them as a result of moving in with them a-la craigslist.
This is in no way to disparage those friendships, they’re the best ones I’ve had in years. Some truly remarkable people live here in little Boulder; yet I am loathe to call it my home. As I write, I can hear the sounds of a table saw, hammers hitting chisels, Jessi yelling “owwie!” every 3-6 minutes, H playing his out of tune ukulele, and the overwhelming, uncomfortable, genuinely mysterious silence that is Matt and Kaitelyinngngnn (never cared to learn the proper spelling of her name, but I think that’s as close as I’m gonna get).
I live in a house with more people than bedrooms, and i’m 23.
I wear a suit to work.
Sometimes, I come home and there’s a tattoo being done in my living room.
Sometimes, I come home and the entire house smells like there was a skunk holocaust in the basement.
Sometimes, I come home and there is a hot water heater preventing me from going into my bedroom.
Sometimes, I come home and I can smell something burning, but we never locate the source of the scent.
But never, never do I come home to an empty, lifeless, boring house.
I’m moving to Denver in August, into my own place, just me; because I’m a big boy now.
Didn’t you hear? I wear suits to work now.
But I’m a bit anxious about the whole thing. I’ve never in my life lived on my own, here’s the flowchart of roomates I’ve had:
Ages 1-3 – Ed and Terry
Ages 3-17 - Ed, Terry, and Alex
Ages 17-18 – Gavin
Age 18-19 – Fafa, Egg, Rob, Greg, Carly, Bif, Twins, and some other people I don’t remember (there were 11 of us)
Age 19-20 – Sonjelle, Noah, Sean, Doug, Gavin (again), Izzy, Emily, Andrew, Daryl, Joe, Neil, Heather, Jason, some kid who lived in Jason’s room for a minute
Age 20-20.5 – In a car with Sonjelle and Noah, then in Boulder with Sarah
Age 20.5-21 – My Parents, for senior year of college
Age 21-22 – Matlack, Riker, Dave
Age 22-23 – Jessi, Greg, H, Matt, Katelisngsghlyn, Porter, LoLo,
Age 23-24 – me.
So, as you can see, I’ve never ever lived alone, not for a minute, or a day, in my life; unless you count the endless months I’ve spent in hotel rooms all over the country.
Still, someone makes your bed and cleans up after you.
Needless to say, this is a nerve-racking experience; and I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I like coming home to relatively controlled chaos. I like getting into fights with my roomates about “who the fuck drank all my milk” (it wasn’t me, i only drink almond milk). I like coming home to tattoo machines whirring and that undeniable smell of incense and patchouli.
I will miss it, but this is the right thing to do. I won’t burn my bridges, time and wildfires do a fine job all on their own.
Year 3 of the great experiment. Most of the kids I know either have moved back in with their parents, or are in the process of doing just that. And more power to them. If my parents lived in Colorado, you bet your ass I’d be living with free food and free rent; and probably have a lot, a lot, a lot, of extra cash.
Hysterical.
May 15, 2009This morning, one of my best friends called me crying hysterically. She said her mother had been in two minor car accidents in the last two days straight, and had totally lost touch with reality, and totally lost track of what was going on around her. I mean, she was completely out to lunch, and planned to stick around to see the dinner special. My friend was incredibly worried, didn’t know what was wrong with her mom, and wasn’t easily comforted. I had just downloaded an old favorite game which had been converted into an iPhone app, “Pocket Tanks”. It’s a lot like Worms, or even farther back, Fortress. To cheer her up, I asked if she wanted to play pocket tanks with me.
.is that a mortar shell in your pocket or blahblahblah.....
She thought I was making a dick joke while her mother was in the hospital.
I went out and had some meetings, and then went to a very interesting seminar of sorts.
When I talked to her later, my friend was all happy and laughing, and didn’t even mention her mom. When I asked about it, she said, “yeah so, mom accidentally took ambien instead of her thyroid medication in the morning for the last two days, whoops”.
Yeah, they sell this shit at Walgreens but marijuana is illegal. I get that you’re not supposed to take ambien during the day, but people DO IT ALL THE TIME. Xanax, valium, percocet, paxil, oxyfuckingcontin (which is exactly one carbon chain away from being Afghan quality HEROIN) and a whole host of other mind altering psychoactive drugs are available at your local pharmacy.
Guess what? Pot isn’t a gateway drug. Your family physician who is bought and sold by the pharmaceutical companies more-so than the current House Minority is the pusher, and the candy in the medicine cabinet is the real gateway drug.
We could be clever Or we could seek pleasure Either way, i just hope it’s t-gether forever and ever, never let us be severedabsolutely. – enhanced for blind joe
May 9, 2009- it’s my last night in miami
.i shit you not, it said "oy gvalt".
we’re all too good at our jobs, and i volunteered to go home early
got shit to take care of, nahimean? plus:
.i hate the "art" here.
don’t get me wrong, it’s incredibly beautiful here. hot as hell, but that’s why old people move here. to be warm. it’s like the air is hugging me, because my grandkids never visit. i was a good jewish grandson, and visited my grandmother in boca; of course, while i was down here. more on that in a minute. first, irony:
.too easy.
matlack and i went out for indian food the other night. we sat down and ordered, i got chana masala, which i love to death. i said “oh man this looks great” and this INSANE MAN with red framed glasses to match his red pocket square (or vice versa?) came over and tackled my peripheral vision with his crazy head and said “IT IS GOOD, IT’S THE BEST THERE IS, YOU MUST EAT IT WITH FOOTBALL BREAD, AND ALSO, IT’S FREE!” then he walked away, as he was heading back toward the kitchen he made a point to turn around and say “IT’S FREE FOR ME, BUT NOT FOR YOU”
turns out, the maître d’ was the uncle of a kid i went to high school in new jersey with, named raul. he was our server. in fucking miami. i recognized him, and when matlack and i were exiting the restaurant he asked if i was from jersey, i said “I FUCKING KNOW YOU” and i was right.
.small world full of crazy people and odd words that seem to mean other words that mean "thing that holds boobs" but really doesn't.
.i never learned how to frame a shot.
.palm trees play volleyball with the moon.
.the lakers are allowed to win IFF i'm allowed to drink.
last night after work and dinner i sat down at the bar with some colorful older gentlemen and got drunk and yelled at lebron james about being a pedophile (which matlack informed me can be properly spelled 3 different ways, what on earth possesses someone to possess this fact is beyond me, but hey, now i know it, and now you do too) and i got ready to go see grandma today.
nana and i went to a place called the sweet tomato for lunch. it’s a fucking enormous salad bar. “your mother said you’re a vegetarian now? we go to salad bar” we gorged.
.look at all this beautiful food h/t joe/edan.
then she showed me around her old people development. we went to their crazy huge rec center (15 fucking card rooms, a 1200 seat movie theater, indoor pool, and a gym that rivals anything in boulder, i shit you not) and i found this:
¿how do you spell microfische?
which nana, being 85 years young, thought was a computer. it looks like it belongs in a dharma hatch on THE ISLAND. i had never heard exactly what happened to her during the war; she lived in Lodz, Poland, where the ghetto was. they fenced her family in. these people are her parents:
her father died of cancer 6 weeks before the germans came. she said it was for the best. i suppose i agree. i’d go into the whole thing, but i haven’t yet taken it all off the voice recorder yet, and it’s a little heartbreaking. i try to keep the tenor of this thing pretty upbeat generally; and i think i’ll lose the little audience i have and gain a whole other i don’t want if i start pontificating about the holocaust.
.generationsandgenerationsandgenerations.
on that note; out
