Chatty Clyde, Dry Baby

Many of my friends have recently started families. While I certainly notice the differences in our lives becoming more distinct, I always try to see the similarities as well. For instance, many of my friends have had less than the ideal amount of sleep because their babies wake them up all night.

Now, I don’t have a baby. What I do have, however, is my roommate’s cat Clyde. He’s a house cat, but given his ample fur, backwoods striping and considerable heft, I think he would fit right in with a pack of ocelots. Looks, however, are where the comparisons end—Clyde is about as domesticated a cat as they come.

Cats are supposed to be aloof. They are well-known for not caring whether you’re around or not. Feed them, empty their chamber boxes, give them the occasional scratch under their chin… but other than that, stay out of their way. Not all cats are like this, but the ones I’ve had all were. They would all look at me with half-closed ambivalent eyes, before dutifully getting back to licking themselves in fascinating places. I like cats, but they could take or leave me.

Not Clyde. Clyde yearns for affection, day and night. Usually when I get home, he’s there waiting, rubbing up against my leg – and that’s great. It’s good to have a pet that is affectionate like that. And he meows. Isn’t that nice?

But Clyde meows all the time. I don’t think even he knows why he’s meowing. It’s like he’s perpetually impressed with his working vocal chords. The wailing isn’t restricted to daylight, of course; Clyde sometimes does his feral ancestors proud by meowing all night. He will mew deep and low—from his preternaturally enormous diaphragm—in repetition and with gusto. He often reaches his peak during the dawn hours, like the bastard kitten of a lynx-rooster moonlight tryst. Earplugs work sometimes, but not always.

There are things you can do to train pets. I might even try one to see if it works. But, see, that’s where the similarities with my friends end—we may both be up at night, but they aren’t spraying their newborn child in the face with water from a Windex bottle.

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And for those of you who read the blog from my trip, you'll remember that this is the third different animal that has woken me up. Three. Apparently, animals band together across species-pyhla, even(there were some rough mosquito nights)-to change my sleep patterns.

Netty's Pitch

The Internet has, in so many ways, changed the world in which we live. I can’t even remember what it’s like to look at a paper bank statement. Instead of reading a morning paper, I read several and save a tree in the process. And sometimes when you’re drunk at 3am and looking up lyrics to an old Chaka Khan tune, you wonder how we ever survived without the web.

But one of the most important ways that the Internet has changed our lives is in the area of commerce. Not too long ago (evolutionarily speaking), people still sold things door-to-door. Encyclopedias, Tupperware, salvation--you name it. I didn’t really experience much of this, but the way I understand it, a man in a plaid sport coat and feathered fedora would knock on your door and ask you if your child’s education was important to you, or if you had ever been frustrated by a stubborn stain on the carpet. In the spiritual sales pitch, a man in a suit and tie would ask if you’d like to experience eternal joy, to which you would answer “Ya look sharp in that suit, Bo Peep. Jesus buy that for ya?” Well, you would if you were me.

In the information age, however, there is no need for salespeople like these. You just need several million email addresses and something to peddle. The products seemed to have changed from encyclopedias and vacuums to watches, dvd players and… ahem… appendage improvement. The only problem for the people selling these things is getting their foot in the proverbial door; most spam emails are filtered by the email provider’s software and never seen. So, the people sending them have to find a way around those filters. The circumvention device? Gibberish.

Apparently, the only way to get your email message through filters is to write completely outlandish and nonsensical drivel. That’s the salesman’s pitch of the now. To wit: A woman (I think) named Netty Marsh knocked at my electronic door this morning. I don’t usually get emails in my inbox from people I don’t know, so I was intrigued. The subject of her message said “Fitful”. She was implying that I was a spaz. I opened the door anyway, and Nelly introduced herself:

“Cramp to doghouse condiment Communion a lite.”

I was slightly thrown by the sacramental reference (an Atkins-friendly Eucharist?), but allowed Netty to continue—I am always polite. These people are only doing their job.

“Forget-me-not crack litter constant Girl Scouts an primrose as tollgate castration poke dynasty.”

Hmm. Interesting. Go on.

Netty then let me know that my stock portfolio could double or even TRIPLE in value with a certain pharmaceutical stock. According to her, the company she works for finds the golden needles in the stock market haystack and makes you RICH. I wasn’t interested. As I closed our one-sided conversation, Netty thanked me for my time.

“Pledge as tomcat bird repository.”

I wonder if Netty wears a fedora to work.

Lord of the Beep

I have a somewhat troubling affinity for beeping. Yes, beeping—the antiseptic siren-call of electronics. For some reason, it’s become an obsession for me. When I hear a beep (or some other machine chirp) I feel a compulsion to imitate it. I can control it most of the time, but I often just have to admit to myself that I am about one pair of K-mart underpants shy of being Rainman.

After discussing this peculiarity with someone recently, I started to wonder what it was about beeping that I was inextricably drawn to. My first hypothesis was that I simply had always thought beeps were funny, and that somewhere along the way my whimsical simulation of the beep became a surreptitious tic. This seemed plausible enough, and so I decided to let it go for a while.

But I started to pay attention to the background of my day, for once, and I was amazed at what I heard. I removed my phone from its charger-beep! I swiped my fare card at the subway turnstile-booop! I bought my coffee at the register—beep,beep,boopitycheep, and have a nice day! In the elevator at work—dip,dip,dip,BingBong! Flashed my magnetic badge to get in the door on my floor-beeep, click! I bought a drink from the vending machine—beepbeepBOOOP (woops, wrong button), beep, whirrrrrrrrr, beepbeep and the final percussive Blam! of an arriving beverage.

It’s clear to me now. These boops and dings and beepitycleeeeeps are the soundtrack to living. They are the maternal heartbeat in my worldly womb. Beeps are the music of life. I am merely singing along.

Beep.

In Honor of Saint Patrick

Today is a holy day. It is the feast of St. Patrick of Ireland. Kidnapped and forced into slavery in Ireland by foreign marauders, young Partricius had a rough go of it as a young lad. Somehow, however, he escaped. From that point, he became a Christian, became a priest, became a Bishop, and through tireless missionary work, is credited with converting the whole of Erin to Catholicism. Patrick was truly a man of faith, sacrifice and love.

In celebration of his life, I will take to the streets of New York later today. In tribute to him, I will be jostled by strangers in a bar packed to the bursting point with drunken revelers. While pondering his selfless life, I will stand next to a guy in a green Afro wig named Ike, who is pounding on the bathroom door and asking if the person inside “fell in”. In homage, I will lift many Guinness in his name, spilling an appropriate tithe of which on the front of my green shirt. With his pious words echoing in my mind, I will bellow the occasional “woooooo!” and “shots-shots-shots” and “has anybody seen my jacket?”.

May we all pay tribute in our own way, on this day, to Patrick: a man of God, an inspiration to millions, beatific champion of drunk people with green face paint, and patron saint of March 18th misery.

Different Posts for Different Folks

I am still on the search for a place to live, and Craig’s List is still where I go every morning to find it.

As with any public site, online or not, CL is subject to the personalities and quirks of those that use it. That’s one of the reasons I like it—it’s like people watching without actually seeing or smelling or making awkward eye-contact with people.

The Room/Share section is great for this cyber-people watching. There are even enough similarities between certain posts for informal categorization. For instance, there is the capitalizer. This person believes that their message is more likely to be noticed if THEY CAPITALIZE EVERY LETTER IN THE WHOLE THING. I sometimes sit and wonder what these people are like in person. Do they shout everything they say? Are they perpetually strung out on coke? If I were to meet them, would they stand close to me and shout quickly in my ear that they are INSANELY easy to live with?

There are also those that decide that punctuation and spelling are either unimportant, or require more time than they have to give. These people tell you how great the room is with windows and light they are never their so it will be like you own place and if your a partier then you can forget it but if not you could move in on the 15th know pets utilities included pleas call. At the end of a "sentence" like that, I feel dizzy and grammatically violated--and that is no way to start things off with a new roommate.

Some people on CL define themselves, and then they define you as you would be in their dream roommate scenario:

Me – Mid 20’s, responsible, professional.
You – 420 friendly, LGBT friendly, pet friendly, vegan friendly, friendly, not loud, not too old, female (see previous rant on testo-discrimination)

One person’s ideal roommate as posted on CL was a Quaker. Another was a ticklish 20-something woman. I enjoyed sitting for a while and thinking: what if a Quaker accidentally showed up at the tickle-happy apartment for an open house? The scene would be fantastical --the aggressive test-tickling of a giggling Quaker, who is battling the conflicting feelings of elation and self-loathing. It's drama, it's laughter... it's an interpersonal Chernobyl, with cackling.

In reviewing these Craig's List posts over the last several weeks, and then seeing some of what they describe, I have learned quite a bit. I have learned that almost every roommate situation, as described by those who are posting the room, is “pretty chill”. I have learned that I don’t care if I have a foosball table if they water pressure in the shower sucks. I have learned that people think a clawfoot tub in the bathroom makes up for a room that measures 10 feet by 40 inches (plus, windows!). I have learned that “quaint” means small, that “rustic” can mean rats, and that a “nearby 24-hour grocery store” can also mean nearby 24-hour vagrant hovel if you are talking about the wrong neighborhood.

I still don't have a permanent place to call home, but hopefully I will soon. Now, at least, I have developed an appreciation for the search itself, and for how hard it must be for all the Quakers who would just as soon not be tickled.

Caught between

Every time I am walking through New York City on a clear-sky, moon-drenched night—every.single.time.—I get that old song stuck in my head like an anvil in quicksand. You know the one, from the movie Arthur. If I say the name, it’ll just get stuck in my head again.

Damn you, Christopher Cross. Damn you and your catchy, crazy truths.

Bridging the iPod Divide

Based on reports in the media of rampant iPod theft, I changed the color of headphones that I use with mine. I had read stories about people having their pods ripped from them on the subway train, before the culprit ran out the closing train door. The trademark white headphones were the giveaway—the culprit could see who on the train had an iPod vs. say, another personal entertainment device. iPods are the coolest, totally the bomb, everyone knows that, and so they are most in demand on the street.

Patting myself on my back for a huge stride in street-savvy, I bought black headphones for my iPod. This, in my own mind, made me a conundrum to the shadowy underworld of iPod snatchers. You didn’t know what you were getting if you stole from me, man. You could get a circa-1995 Walkman, for Christ’s sake. And I kept my iPod in my jacket pocket, so you couldn’t even see if the headphones were attached to anything. Maybe I was just baiting. I taunted all would-be kleptos with my wide, inquiring eyes--a look that said “Go ahead, but ask yourself first if you know who you are dealing with. Yeah, I thought so.”

So, my pod has stayed in my possession, but I now find myself with another situation. I am being judged. In the silent, head-bobbing collective of NYC music listeners, something in the neighborhood of pity is being thrown at me with every white-headphoner I see. People assume I am listening to something other than an iPod. I am not part of their crowd anymore. The looks they give me are like those of parent to child: someday you'll understand, but you enjoy your innocence for a while. It’s a chasm they create, probably unknowingly, but no less effectively. The white headphoners, with their white iPods, up in their Ivory Audio Towers, so smug and condescending. Was I once like that? I think maybe I was, which only adds to the profundity and bitterness of my discovery.

Though I am one of podders, I am saddled with the knowledge of what it’s like on the other side of the iPod divide. I long for a world filled with gray headphones, and my new look says something entirely different:

“Can’t we all just get along?”

Warm, with Uncomplicated Hair

I can’t wait for Spring. It will not just be the beginning of warmth and outdoor fun, it will be the end of winter hats and me looking like a moron.

Because of this season’s chill, I wear a winter hat every morning on the walk to the subway. The hat does its job; it keeps my head warm. But the unfortunate collateral damage of a cozy scalp is ridiculous-looking hair. When I take off my hat, the resulting static-y cowlicks and matted swaths of hair make me look like Slow Country in the Big City. I look like a half-wit Appalachian that got too chummy with the turpentine. I look like Sling Blade after a three-day bender; like someone should’ve given me water wings for the gene pool.

And I may ask someone for the time, or if they know where they keep the pushpins around this office, and they’ll cock their head to the side in a sympathetic way and answer me. Me and my rube coiffure.