(Adam's) Big Apple: Male Seeking Room and Justice

I am clean. I am responsible. I am considerate. I am easy-going. I am not female.

And the last of these disqualifies me from many Room/Share situations on Craig's List, where I am currently looking for a permanent place to live here in New York.

It can be frustrating. I see a listing for a roommate in a neighborhood I like, it's in my price range, the room is only 8 x 10, but then again I'm only 6 x 2 so why not? I read on to find out that the person is looking for someone who is relatively neat (check!), professional (indeed! in a manner of speaking), a non-smoker (only when I drink... ha! Just kidding! Not at all. See? See how amiable I am?), only to say that it is also required that I am a female. Which is not something I am, and all wardrobe choices aside, would be hard to fudge.

So, I ask now: who will speak for the vaginally-challenged apartment seeker?? I will. I will not stand idly by while the stereotype of the irresponsible, shady and odiferous male is shamelessly propagated. We all have our little peccadilloes and idiosyncrasies, regardless of our sex. For my part, I sometimes get out of the shower without a towel or bathroom carpet on the floor, leaving puddles. And as a prodigious snacker, I sometimes leave popcorn or potato chip remnants strewn on the floor in common areas. But we are all human, subject to regrettable flaws. If I cut myself while shaving with your razor, do I not bleed?

Sure, there are the males out there who would not make a good roommate: who would use your blender without asking or use your cat as piñata target practice. But if we give in to these broad generalizations, well... then the gender terrorists have won.

To all that would discriminate against me: I will not go gently into that dank, dark, dimly lit, "cozy" back room in an “up-and-coming” tenement community. I will not yield my masculinity for square feet and wireless internet. I will wear my Y chromosome like a badge; a resplendent badge of defiance in the face of injustice—an injustice to my considerate, clean, responsible and easy-going manhood.

Brother, can you spare a raft?

There was a man standing at the center of Fulton Street Rapids today, staring at a payphone.

I'll call it the Fulton Street Rapids because it is a landing in the middle of four different ramps at the Fulton Street subway station in Lower Manhattan; each ramp is going to a different train line, and each ramp is a river of blurred humans with subway-tunnel vision. It's a commuter riptide, a class 5 rush-hour rush. A leisurely pace at this crossroads could get you trampled or, worse yet, spited by the underground hordes.

As I said, there was a man standing alone at the center of all of this, right in front of the pay phone. He was definitely dirty, probably homeless, likely under the influence. I could see him playing with the coin return lever, holding the reciever, and then looking around at the people walking past with a confused and pathetic look on his face. It was a silent, transparent and laughingly awkward plea for money this guy was making. But the people just rushed on, ambivalent or oblivious.

Now, the reason I am able to recall this so clearly is not because I'm particularly observant between trains. I made a point of slowing down this time and watching this man because he did the exact same thing yesterday. Same spot, same clothes, around the same time with the same "wait, you have to pay to use these things? can't somebody help me out?" face. This was his stationary routine in the middle of everybody else's frenetic routine. Same fake phone call, different day.

I didn't give him a quarter. But if I see him there tomorrow, maybe I will. Maybe I'll just flip him a coin in a cool way, say something profound and detached, and then strut off into the rapids again...

Ungoogling The Pirate Kelly Clarkson

I try to listen to what my subconscious tells me.

I saw a poster of Kelly Clarkson in a record store. I heard her on the radio in a cab. Then, I was buying pants, and her song was on the PA system at the store.

So Kelly came to me in a dream. I was running down a hallway, one I wasn't familiar with. I went into the room at the end of the hall. It was a room full of sunlight. There was a computer in the room, on a desk at the far corner. Everything was white--the walls, the drapes, everything. I sat down at the desk, and I pulled up Google. I googled Kelly Clarkson.

An image of Kelly Clarkson came up, and took over the entire screen. She had an eye patch on. She growled through the corner of her mouth "Arrrrrgh! It was because of you!" Then she reached out of the screen and punched me in my nose, and I started bleeding. Then I woke up, frightened.

So, near as I can tell, my subconscious is telling me that I have complex feelings about Kelly Clarkson (and pirates), that I shouldn't eat jalapeno poppers after 9pm, and that some things are better left ungoogled.

Can & apostrophe T

There are things and people that can't. They simply can't.

For instance, 30 inches of snow in New York City in a matter of hours can't be normal.

The dog that I sometimes see being walked on my street can't be wearing little green galoshes to match its little doggie rainjacket. And its owner can't be serious.

The train can't fit one more human being. The guy next to me on the train can't really be trying to practice calligraphy while standing up at rush hour. I can't, and won't, critique his kaisho technique.

I can't have been sitting in a cube again today after nearly 9 months spent gleefully away.

But it did, it was, god-help-me she is, it somehow does, he definitely is, I just couldn't, and sweet mother of God I was. The city streets are buzzing again despite the ubiquitous slush, and I'm grinning. Why?

Because I can't not.

Feelin' Crappie??

I'd like to tell you about a website called Crappie USA. The Crappie USA website is a tribute to all things Crappie. You can get Crappie apparel, Crappie attractants, Crappie artwork and Crappie jewelry. And before you get all class-clown on them, you should know that they’ve heard them all. So, please… don’t embarrass yourself.

Please consider giving a Crappie gift this February 14th. A decorative Crappie pendant is a perfect way to tell your special someone how you feel. Plus, a portion of the proceeds benefits the Crappie Kids Scholarship Fund! Have a heart this Valentine’s Day, and get Crappie!

Seriously, get Crappie, and check out the Crappie USA Online Store on the left navigation bar!

Anyway, I just thought you should know.

P.S. For the angler with a more international flair, check out Crappie World magazine.

P.P.S. For those who prefer to judge Crappie USA rather than experience it, I will simply say that there are no finer patriots in this country than those that are members of Crappie USA! We are proud to be Americans. E Pluribus Unum.

P.P.P.S. Crappie are fish.

Rick Springfield's Maturity (and Knowledge of Rocking)

I just heard the song "Jessie's Girl", and I couldn't help thinking what it would be like to be Jessie. You would be at work some day in the early 80s, and one of your co-worker's would say to you, "Hey Jessie, have you been listening to the radio? Your buddy Rick wants to sleep with your girlfriend." What a crappy way to learn that.

I think Rick Springfield must have had a lot of growing up to do back in the 80s. I wanted to follow up to see if he'd changed. So, I went to his website -- where I was greeted with the warning:

Some material may be inappropriate for people who don't know how to rock.

So, I figure he has grown up. Only a grown-up person would say such a thing.

It's Story Hour

I am spending a large majority of my time these days at a coffee shop near my apartment. The place offers free wi-fi, so it has become my home office for the job search. I get a muffin, get a coffee, and get to flagging down potential employers on the information superhighway.

Obviously, though, my office is not solely my own. It is a place of business, and as such it draws all manner of people from the mild-mannered entrepreneur to the confused looking exchange student in the corner of the room. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, however, a new subset is added to the coffee-loving amalgam – toddlers.

A stroller nation descends on the coffee shop for an hour on these days for “Story Hour”, and the place transforms. Pleasant adult alternative music is drowned out by high-pitched screams. Conversations move from discussions of the detriments of unilateralism to whether little Corey needs to tinkle or not. Juice boxes abound. Finally, all of the children sit down with their mothers and nannies in the back room on the couches and hardwood floors. A woman in a jester’s hat begins the sing-along.

All this time, I alternately smile at the bouncing, giggling herd and furrow my brow at the prospect of working in this environment. The sing-songing starts, and it can be difficult to concentrate. For instance, I might be writing a cover letter to a hiring manager during a particularly catchy tune, and end up writing a sentence like:

I feel that my experience and expertise are a great fit for this position, and would like to put the slimy frog in my shoe.

This is the mental intrusion of a story about a slimy frog, which is in turn placed in the kitchen sink, your brother’s pants, and your daddy’s shoe. The moral of the story is to not put slimy frogs into things because it upsets people. It’s good advice, but it can be distracting to a job seeker.

I also may find myself answering a call on my cell phone from a prospective employer during Story Hour. I try to get to a quiet corner of the room, but there are no quiet corners—only walls deflecting children’s songs right to my phone.

Interviewer: “Yes, Philip, we received your resume. It says that you worked with….”

Background singing -- There’s a little white duck, swimming in the water…..

Interviewer: “Excuse me?”

Me: “Nothing, nothing at all.”

Interviewer: “Anyway, it appears you have experience….”

Background -- A little white duck, doing what he oughta…

Interviewer: “Did you just call me a white duck?”

Incidentally, the white duck is in the water with a bug and a snake, who I think eats the duck. And there is diversity amongst them -- I believe the bug and snake are not white. It's an equal opportunity body of water. Anyway, I try to speed up the conversation so that the interviewer will not think that I called him a snake.

There’s a reason that they choose these stories: they are catchy. I find myself smiling and bouncing my head to the story of the engineer. He just pulls his little lever, and puff, puff, toot, toot… off we go! And for a second, I’m an engineer on a train enjoying the sound of the whistle’s toot and not a professional with several years experience in managing myriad marketing projects.

The songs continue. When I hear them sing the ABCs, I misspell words. When I hear Itsy-Bitsy Spider, which is basically a story of thwarted persistence and watery graves, I am momentarily troubled that the kids will get the wrong idea. When they sing a song about the sticky toad stuck in the bubble gum, I wonder how toads can be so careless.

But eventually, the story hour is over, and the pre-school platoon leaves crying. I get back to my mission with a renewed vigor. I continue my cover letter, letting one particular company know my potential value to their organization:

I consider a company like a finely-tuned machine; a bus, if you will. I would like to be the wheels on that bus, going round and round with efficiency and innovation. I feel that I could help take your company all through the “town” of success.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

In the clouds

I just saw that Larry King is having a reunion of the cast of "Growing Pains". That should be nice. That Tracy Gold has had a tough go of it; I hope she's doing okay.

Wow. What a beautiful, cold day.

You know what I need to do today? I need to buy.... like, seven cotton candies and give them to little kids on the street. And I can dress like a clown. Do they even sell cotton candy in February? I don't know. I need to find a cheap costume shop. Maybe I can make the cotton candy at home.

I've seen all of this hub-bub in the news about the cartoon and how people are dying over it. I hope that they don't die anymore, because the world is an amazing place, and death is so harsh, you know?

Wow, ma'am. Beautiful dress. Did you buy it recently? It's very stylish, and seems to be impeccably made. Do you need a quarter for the meter, or perhaps a penny for your thoughts on this glorious morning?

All children love ponies, right? Why would these orphans be any different? I hope to have a job soon, at which time the enormous cost of buying baby horses wouldn't be such a burden. You can't put a price on orphan happiness.


--------------------

Amazing what thoughts you have when your team wins the Super Bowl. I can't help but wonder if everyone had a Lombardi trophy, that the world might be a better place.

There are Steelers fans everywhere. And to them, right now, either side of the street is sunny, every last cloud has a platinum lining. I myself am enjoying a spot on my own platinum-lined cloud, lounging comfortably and basking in the glow of the first Steelers championship in 26 years. That cloud, of course, is number 9, and it's all due to ring number 5.

The Tarsal Serenade

The New York subway system can be difficult for a novice to navigate. The map is alphabet soup with numeric croutons: a mass of colored lines that criss-cross so much it can be hard to tell which station belongs to which line. The 4,5 and 6 trains can take you to the A, C and E, but if you need to get to the V you’d better take the 9 Local to the F Express. I get by, but it can take me awhile of staring a hole in the map to figure it all out.

Once safely inside the train, you are in an enclosed space with a potpourri of personalities (I use the word potpourri with intention, as some of the personalities give off an aroma) that make for an entertaining ride. I can already tell that the subway train is one of the spots that will be uniquely NYC; one of the places where the city defines itself on a daily basis.

Definition One was a wide man wearing a red sweatshirt with a dirty hood. He was bulky and hunched over, the sort of man that might make you call the cops if he was hanging out near a playground. He was swaying back and forth a bit, in an unsettling way, and staring sharply at his feet. He started mumbling something. A woman next to him said took exception with the conversation he was having with his shoes.

He laughed. It’s not funny, she said. He laughed again, and continued staring at his shoes with a smile on his face. His feet seemed to comfort him; even entertain him. He clicked his heels in a happy, there’s-no-place-like-the-4-train way.

She frowned, and at the next stop, moved to sit on the other side of the train.

He began to sing. It was difficult to tell what he was singing over the rattle of the rails, but it sounded like a spiritual song. He was swaying back and forth, and I would occasionally hear “lake” or “deedeeedadadadeeee”. More people moved to the other side of the train. He just continued smiling and looking at his feet.

After a while, even I started to look at his feet. Mine never made me smile or deedadee or anything. Was it his shoes that brightened his day? The fun of wiggling his toes? In the end, the only thing I knew for sure is that singing a song to your feet gets you extra space on a crowded train…. so I took a mental note to learn the art of the Tarsal Serenade.

Loo Life: In the Absence of Gus

Technology makes our lives easier, or so it would seem. Billions of dollars are spent every year tightening our grasp on what’s possible; in creating a world where precious time and energy can be saved for lofty pursuits like not getting out of your seat. I have always embraced the cuddly, goofy puppy that is technology— all it ever wants to do is please us. Or does it?

The public bathroom has for years been a do-it-yourself kind of place; if only for the simple fact that you are not likely to find someone who wants to do it for you. Basically, you are on your own in the WC, with the occasional exception of bathroom attendants. These people always used to bother me. It always seemed to be some dude named Gus (he always had a nametag) who fidgeted and stared at the ceiling until you approached. I didn’t really need Gus’s help, but I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. He held the paper towels hostage, and if he gave me one, I was expected to tip. So, I tried to get all I could out of the transaction—towel, spritz, moisturizer, news, career advice. Basically anything so that I felt I was getting my money’s worth.

Technology is the new bathroom attendant, and it offers its services gratis. Where once I would drop an elbow or a foot on the flusher, there is only a dark and knowing infrared sensor waiting for me to leave. The problem here is that, after I am done, it doesn’t always realize I’ve left. So, I walk by again and again, shuckin' and jivin' like a bantamweight boxer to interrupt any laser beam that it may be projecting. I am trying to trick the computer into making it flush, but it doesn’t flush. Thinking that it will eventually know that I’m gone, I move on….

To the sink. Again, where once there were hot and cold knobs, there is only a cycloptic laser-eye. So, I do my little hand dance in front of this eye—an arrhythmic hand-jive offering to the faucet gods—and still it offers no agua. Fine, I think, beginning to become petulant. I will start with soap. The soap dispenser is also electronic, but it actually does respond. It spits a miniscule amount of liquid soap in my hand in an almost snobby way; like a haughty countess throwing scraps to a dirty beggar. I lather, and do the hand-jive again. Nothing. Son of a…..

I walk to the paper towel dispenser, which is a futuristic see-through blue that allows me to see the paper towels inside. When I was in grade school, there was a crank you turned that delivered the paper towels. This one makes you wave your hands at it. You actually have to flash your hands by its strange little red eye in order to dry your hands. So, there I am, doing an odd “wax on, wax off” impression in front of a bathroom wall. No towels. I am making a fool of myself for a stretch of rough, semi-absorbent paper that never arrives. The red-light is blinking now, in what I imagine to be a silent laser-giggle. I huff, and storm out the door, wiping my still-soapy hands on my pants as the door closes behind me.

And all I can think about is how much I miss Gus.

Unbalanced Breakfast

In addition to the hopeful start of a new career here in New York, I am also now beginning my career as an uncle. Several very good friends have had children recently, and now my sister is expecting.

I think I am going to like being an uncle. I think about running around and playing with my niece or nephew in the backyard. I can hear them giggling and saying “Tag! You’re it, Uncle Phil!” or “Mommy, Uncle Phil just smashed my snowman”. I think it’s going to be an experience watching them grow up; it might even help me to grow up a bit just by acting like a kid again.

Given this change in my life, I am starting to become more focused on the welfare of children. It’s not that I was a baby-juggler before; it’s just that now it is more front-and-center in my life. I am more aware of the dangers that children face: traffic, rusty nails, diphtheria, the odd ravenous dingo. It’s like a danger radar has been born in me. I am now seeing potential threats everywhere, both physical and psychological.

I was in the grocery store the other day and walked into the cereal aisle. This was a place, as a child, that I loved. I loved cereal and its part-of-a-nutritious-breakfast cartoon army. They all looked so happy, and as a kid I adored the colors and the careless lives my friends seemed to live on cereal boxes.

Now I just think it’s weird.

A cereal box is a part of a child’s life, and the things that are on these boxes look like escapees from the Cartoon Center for the Criminally Insane. It’s like The Teletubbies meet The Shining. Surely it can’t be good for an impressionable young mind to be subjected to these characters every morning:

Lucky the Lucky Charms Leprechaun -- First off, the derby hat reminds me of A Clockwork Orange. I haven’t seen that movie—but the reason I haven’t seen that is that the prospect of ultra-violence is not one I’m cozy with. Don’t even get me started on the movie Leprechaun. Finally, the whole “magically delicious” thing just reeks of a cult commune sipping peyote tea in the Arizona desert. Not with my niece/nephew, you won’t.



The Trix Rabbit –He’s obviously on some sort of extreme Wonderland bender. This lunatic actually steals the cereal from kids, and is too hopped up to not get caught doing it. This cereal is probably laced with angel dust, anyway. Silly rabbit, stay away from my family.





Sonny the Cocoa Puffs cuckoo bird– If someone introduced you to a guy with crazy hair named Sonny that freaked out every time he saw a frosted corn puff, would you ask him to be your nanny?





Captain Crunch – Nothing says wholesome goodness like a mustachioed old man in a French Admiral’s costume. The maniacal look in his eyes suggests that the only ship he’s the captain of is the U.S.S. Pedophilic Meth Addict. I can’t even look at that mug without getting the shivers. Save your “crunch” for your sailor parties, pal.


Count Chocula – This is a vampire. A vampire. A creature whose life depends on sucking the life out of others. Whose idea was it to put this thing on a children’s cereal? I don’t care if he’s smiling. He has fangs. Dingoes don’t even have fangs.


And there are many, many more. It’s not really even the sugar in these cereals that I have a problem with. I just refuse to let my niece or nephew be influenced by a morally bankrupt cabal of shady caricatures. We’re just going to have to find something more suitable for their breakfast mascot. I may see fit to recommend Quaker Oats, but first I want to meet this guy’s supposed Society of “Friends”.

Form and Function's Love Child

I am 31 years old, living in a new city, and have recently come to grips with the fact that the only piece of furniture I own is an ironing board. For a little while, I kept it folded up until I needed it--which wasn't that often since I'd rather molt than iron.

The board has since become a permanent part of my new room, though. I am in a sublet now, so I am trying to avoid getting a lot of furniture that I will just have to move in a few months. Leaving the ironing board out allows me to avoid getting actual furniture. In essence, it's minimalist living based on a future plan to be lazy. It's a sort of slothful practicality that I think suits me.

My ironing board has a cover with pastel polka dots that came with it, and I am already looking into secondary and tertiary covers--a cover for every mood. Bright colors for when I am happy, elaborate edgy designs for when I am ambitious, soothing red velvet for when I’m anxious (like right before I start ironing). Sure, the ironing board is there for its utility, but that doesn't mean it can't have a little fun too, right? It works hard; but it can let its hair down and rock out if you let it.

I really just needed a place to put some stuff; that’s how it started. Keys, change, phone... iron. I even added picture frames, with smiling scenes full of friends and family. Like everyone else, I need a surface to place little odds and ends, and putting things on the floor was starting to become inconvenient. An added advantage is that the board comes to just the right level; I don't need to lean in order to place things on it. It’s the perfect height. It’s almost if the ironing board was screaming to be more than just an ironing board. It’s capable of more than that.

For instance, I had never noticed how much ironing boards look like little metal surfboards. Surfboards with retractable (maybe even motorized?) legs. They don’t float, but I am sure there are attachments that could remedy that. Also, an ironing board would make a great full-length riot shield. The point is: an ironing board has limitless possibilities. And if people can't see that, then maybe it's their imaginations that are wrinkled!

In truth, I think I may be spending too much time with--and relying too much on--my ironing board. But I refuse to pick my keys up off the floor anymore. So, I guess we’re at an impasse, and we may be here for a little while, in the room where form and function awkwardly meet.