Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, October 21, 2004
homeless self-love, the Red Sox, Asian ladies, computer problems, elevator problems, dry cleaning and my terrible neighborhood
This morning I got off the local 6 train at Grand Central and switched to the express 5 train. While waiting for the 5 to come, on the platform across the tracks from the one on which I was standing was a homeless man, sitting on a crate, reading a magazine. I looked a little closer, and noticed the magazine was a porno. I looked even closer, and I noticed he was masturbating.

If this isn't the best possible way to start your day, well, I don't know what to tell you.

[I'm not sure what I mean there: Do I mean that seeing a homeless man masturbating is a great way to start your day, or do I mean that sitting on a crate and masturbating in public is a great way to start off? I'll leave it to you to decide.]

And really, good for him. He's thinking to himself, "Shit, I got no job, no home, no nothing - but that ain't gonna stop me from beating my dick right here on this crowded subway platform."

I salute you Mr. Homeless Man. If more of us had your courage, fortitude, and willingness to satisfy ourselves sexually in any place and at any time we wanted, the world would be a much better place.

And, naturally, when he finished, I applauded. Say what you will about me, but I always give credit where credit's due. Unfortunately, my slow clap didn't catch on and I think it weirded him (and the other commuters) out, but then the train came, so it was cool.


So...anyone happen to catch that game last night?

All I'm going to say is that if Boston wins the World Series, I will die. I know this, and I am ok with it. I'm planning on going up there if Boston takes any sort of 3 to whatever lead, so I can go apeshit with the rest of the city, loot stores and burn down houses, and maybe conceive a child.

Surely, this celebration will only end in my death, be it at the hands of Mr. Stolichnaya, at the feet of hundreds of rampaging Massholes running from the cops after burning an effigy of Babe Ruth and a fat dude who looked like Babe Ruth in Faneuil Hall, or because of blunt force trauma to the head because I tried to make out with some toothless Dorchester skank while her boyfriend Sully and his buddies Mikey, Tommy, Joey, Jimmy, and Billy looked on.

But you know what? We all have to go out sometimes, and only a lucky few are able to make our exit doing what we love. In my case, civil disobedience - pantsless.


On second thought, I don't want to die, because I've never made out with an Asian girl. How has this not happened? Say what you will about me (my new favorite phrase), but I've made out with a lot of chicks in my lifetime (not so much recently though). Big and small, tall and short, crazy, and, well, crazier, but I've never made out with an Asian girl.

Every guy I know has made out with an Asian girl. Shit, my buddy Doug is married to an Asian girl. What gives? Just another thing to add to the "Things I Must Do Before I Die" list, along with having sex while skydiving and beating up a cop in uniform.

I mean, damn.

[And yes, my email address is eiwwm@lycos.com. But please, I can't afford more than $40. Thank you.]


STILL this fucking searchmiracle thing is on my computer, highlighting key words on every damn page.

That's it - I'm just going to retire. Not resign, but retire. I'm going to walk into my boss's office, thank him for the opportunity he gave me to work here, and then calmly explain that I spend 75% of my work day writing dick jokes on the internet. I'll then continue to explain that I was quite content doing this and working at the same time, but a bug infected my computer and it drove me crazy because it highlighted the word anal every time it appeared on a god damn web page.

Then I will go to some warm climate where I will wait for death with flair, telling the local children stories from my travels in the South Pacific, stealing inconsequential items from supermarkets, and selling fireworks.

Sounds pretty good to me.


Re: my elevator troubles. Many of you wrote in with two suggestions:

1) Take the stairs. I can't do this; I'm on the 21st floor. Sure, I'd have gravity on my side, and gravity has always been a friend of mine, but the thought of walking down 21 flights of stairs to start each morning just isn't appealing to me. But that's not saying much - the thought of putting on pants when I wake up (I sleep in a t-shirt and nothing else; and not a long t-shirt either) isn't so appealing either.

2) Take the elevator up and just ride it back down. I can't do this either; I'm on 21, and the building has 35 floors. It's bad enough to get in at 21 and stop at 15 of the remaining 20 floors to have the doors open, see pissed off residents sigh in disgust as the doors slowly close on the packed elevators that they can't fit into, and continue on to the next floor. I think this might even be worse than just sitting there waiting.

The good news is that as a quitter who is used to bad things happening to him, I've resigned myself to this inconvenience. So there.


My dry cleaning/laundry bill today? $46. That's for one week's worth of laundry, five dress shirts, and a suit. Ouch.

In my current Upper East Side neighborhood, I probably spend about $120/month on laundry/dry cleaning. In my old one in the Lower East Side, I had Korean immigrants who not only didn't speak any English, but I don't think they spoke Korean or any other language for that matter, happy to do my laundry and iron all my shirts for about $50 a month. Also one time I paid one of them $20 to come to my place and shower and let me watch. I thought it would be a little awkward, but both he and I were actually quite comfortable.

I know I've said it before, but I will say it again: moving to the Upper East Side was the worst mistake I've made in recent memory. Do NOT move here. Ever. I'm not saying you have to go to the super cool LES, which is so chock-full of hipsters I had to take 50mg of Valium before I went out every day lest I start kicking their asses indiscriminately for being such pampered, supercilious because they're so cool pussies, but do not come to the Upper East Side. Trust me.


And now I'm all hot and bothered.

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