Blog-block makes you start scrounging for ideas and posting things you never thought you'd post. This is one of them. A few years ago, a friend and I tried a writing exercise. We sent each other random photos and we had to write something about the story taking place in the photo. The photo that prompted this writing is lost to the mists of time, but it was a black and white shot of two girls and a guy leaning over the railing of a ferry heading for the Statue of Liberty. The date is the actual date I wrote this, and I thought of it immediately after 9/11.
Journal Entry
4/10/01
Look at that stupid bitch. She has no idea that in about an hour, she's going to rank with the all time stupid bitches. Typhoid Mary, Mrs. O'Leary's clumsy cow, and whoever decided that a giant wooden horse was a lovely gift. I can't even look at her cute, dumb little blond self without laughing...I get the most inappropriate emotions at very important moments. She's even taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty for my "brother", even though she works there. Which is basically why the poor bitch is in this situation. I think she might really love him, even after only a few weeks. I'm almost embarrassed for her. It kind of irks me that he's fucking her, but it's all for the mission. He still comes home to me at night. I kind of want to tell her this when it's all done...let her live with her shame, even if only for a moment.
I'm sorry to whoever finds this, I'm not being very clear. My name is Heather. My boyfriend's name is Josh. And we're currently on a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. When we get there, Josh's carefully cultivated 'girlfriend' of three weeks will let us in the employee entrance, where security is just a word. We’ll take the elevator to the torch, like good tourists. Then Josh will escort her to the rail to enjoy the view. Then I will plant this thermonuclear bomb that's in my bag, detonate it, and pretty much melt everything from here to the Bronx.
Yeah, so I have a flair for the dramatic. I'm entitled, I'm about to be the most storied terrorist in history. The President is in New York. They're busy patting everyone in the damn city down for a gun, and here I am carrying around Hiroshima X 5 in my Saks tote bag. I guess it's like that old adage about how the bigger the lie, the easier people will believe it. So, the President will be dead. And the Vice-President, who's tagging along. Which means that soon, a third rate senator will be running a country that just lost the largest city in the world.
My dad is just not going to believe this. Dad was an oil company executive, and I spent about half my childhood in Syria. So did Josh. There was a little enclave of American oil types, and that's where I met him. We would go on little expeditions into the city, out of the safety of our little Americatown. We made friends, and got invited to dinner, and did sleepovers, and all the stuff kids do everywhere, I guess. We also saw Islam. And we liked the purity of it. You can bet that the recruiters loved us. We can walk around all over America without being suspected of either bombing things or selling Slurpees. These fucking Americans and their 'religion'. They bitch about going to church for an hour once a week, and then bitch some more when they are forced to eat lobster and crab on Fridays during Lent. I never realized how soft Americans were until I discovered Islam. Our people are killing and dying for religion all over the world, and that's why we're going to win. It's so poetic too...America never thought that in the marketplace of ideas, one of their own might find their merchandise rotting from the inside. I guess that's about to bite them in the ass. They really should have expected something like this to happen. In a world where Friends is dubbed into French and Chinese kids think that the NBA is Fan-fucking-Tastic, it had to go the other way at some point.
Okay, enough of the rhetoric. We're about to dock, and I have to leave this journal here on this ferry and hope it survives. I kinda wish I could watch this from New Jersey instead of being in the middle of it. But hey, a free trip to heaven is a free trip to heaven. Praise Allah.
Showing posts with label not funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not funny. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
A New Direction
This is an older entry from the Other Other Blog. It's an apology to some, an explanation to others, and a warning for the rest.
A few months ago, I took a trip home because the stars aligned and a few family events were happening at the same time. My cousin's twins were having their 1st birthday, my aunt was celebrating her Golden Jubilee (50th anniversary of being a nun) and there was a big family reunion. And of course, I would get to see my little nephew, who as of this writing is nearly 9 months old.
The family reunion is the interesting one. It was a gathering of my mother's side of the family. About 150 people attended. I knew about 15 of them well, the people that I think of as "my family" at holidays and such. About 10 more I had met perhaps once or twice at some point in my life. The rest were complete strangers. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I thought, "well, I'm home anyway, it'll make my mom happy, and it's only 4 hours". My attitude was one of annoyance, not dread. But that all changed the second we walked in the door.
Now, those of you who know me well know that I am quite shy, and that at times it goes past merely shy and all the way to anxious and fearful. I can honestly say that this reunion provoked an anxiety in me that I have not felt in as long as I can remember, at least all the way back to high school. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted and given name tags to stick to our shirts. It started right then. I don't know why, but this overwhelming feeling of anxiety and dread took hold of me. The event was held in a church cafetorium, and our family group of about 15 staked out a table right in the middle of the room. We settled in, and then the others started to mingle and head for the bar. I sat and didn't move until we left. Four hours in a folding chair at that table and I did not so much as stand up. I was so afraid that I can't even describe it. I did not get in line for the bar and I did not get in line for food, because I was scared that someone would talk to me. My parents and others in my family kept asking me questions. "Why don't you get a drink?" "Aren't you going to eat something?" "Are you feeling all right?" I just said I was feeling sick because I couldn't possibly tell them what was really going on. Honestly, even if someone brought me food or drink I wouldn't have had any because my insides were so jumpy that I would have thrown it up.
The worst part was toward the end. The guy who had organized the reunion was giving away door prizes for things like "oldest person here", "longest married couple" and things like that. He announced one for "person who came the longest distance". I froze, as I knew that except for one person from San Diego, it was probably me. And I also knew that my mother would immediately jump up and point to me.
My mother is the most extroverted person I know, and she has never understood my shyness. Further, I really don't think that deep down she thinks it's even real. When I've displayed shyness before, whether it's been refusal to dance or reluctance to talk to people, she just accuses me of being surly, sullen and an "old fart". Like I'm just doing it to be a jerkoff. The thing about mothers is that they are certain that everything you do is done to them, for them, in response to them or as a representative of them.
As expected, my mother's hand shot up like a teacher's pet and she squealed "Los Angeles! Los Angeles!" while gesticulating wildly in my direction. I immediately wished the the floor would open and swallow me up. I was feeling the same as I would if I were standing on the table naked and doing an Irish jig. I turned around and shot my mother a look of absolute anger and violence. A look that said "If you don't shut your mouth right now I'll come over there and shut it for you". She noticeably recoiled and threw her hands up. To make things worse, no one immediately went up to claim the prize, and many people had heard "Los Angeles". A brittle woman whom I am apparently related to leaned over from another table to urge me to go up. I told her that someone else here was from San Diego, and silently prayed that Ms. San Diego would finish up in the bathroom and save me. This woman, rather than take the hint, proceeded to engage me in a geographical debate about which city was further from Philadelphia. I was flustered, so I don't remember exactly how that played out. But in the end, a shambling, mulleted Rhode Islander, a savior in striped Zubaz pants, staggered away from his pitchers of beer and up to the stage to claim the prize. Soon after, someone's child was urged/commanded to sing what turned out to be a quite lovely version of "Danny Boy", and the event was over. On the way out, Mrs. Rand McNally said goodbye and made a subtly snide comment that made me want to knock her out and that I wish I remembered.
On the way home, I apologized to my mother for snapping at her. She didn't ask what the hell was going on, and I didn't offer.
I don't know why this happened. Ostensibly, these people are family and should have nothing but kind things to say to me. And if this had never happened to me in a group of strangers, why should it happen now? The only thing I can think of is that since these people were family and this was a reunion, I was actually expected to talk to them. In a group of strangers nobody cares. I wish I weren't like this. "You just have to get out there and mingle, meet people!", I hear from well-meaning people. "Everyone is nervous around new people and if you don't start being more outgoing, you're going to wind up alone." Well, this is what I am. I can't change it. It's not a matter of just deciding to be more outgoing. You might as well tell a blind man that if he doesn't start opening his eyes, he's going to keep bumping into things. But they are partly right. I really do think that it's going to cause me to wind up alone. I'm not saying, "oh woe is me", because I've done just fine so far being alone. I just wish I were like everybody else.
A few months ago, I took a trip home because the stars aligned and a few family events were happening at the same time. My cousin's twins were having their 1st birthday, my aunt was celebrating her Golden Jubilee (50th anniversary of being a nun) and there was a big family reunion. And of course, I would get to see my little nephew, who as of this writing is nearly 9 months old.
The family reunion is the interesting one. It was a gathering of my mother's side of the family. About 150 people attended. I knew about 15 of them well, the people that I think of as "my family" at holidays and such. About 10 more I had met perhaps once or twice at some point in my life. The rest were complete strangers. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I thought, "well, I'm home anyway, it'll make my mom happy, and it's only 4 hours". My attitude was one of annoyance, not dread. But that all changed the second we walked in the door.
Now, those of you who know me well know that I am quite shy, and that at times it goes past merely shy and all the way to anxious and fearful. I can honestly say that this reunion provoked an anxiety in me that I have not felt in as long as I can remember, at least all the way back to high school. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted and given name tags to stick to our shirts. It started right then. I don't know why, but this overwhelming feeling of anxiety and dread took hold of me. The event was held in a church cafetorium, and our family group of about 15 staked out a table right in the middle of the room. We settled in, and then the others started to mingle and head for the bar. I sat and didn't move until we left. Four hours in a folding chair at that table and I did not so much as stand up. I was so afraid that I can't even describe it. I did not get in line for the bar and I did not get in line for food, because I was scared that someone would talk to me. My parents and others in my family kept asking me questions. "Why don't you get a drink?" "Aren't you going to eat something?" "Are you feeling all right?" I just said I was feeling sick because I couldn't possibly tell them what was really going on. Honestly, even if someone brought me food or drink I wouldn't have had any because my insides were so jumpy that I would have thrown it up.
The worst part was toward the end. The guy who had organized the reunion was giving away door prizes for things like "oldest person here", "longest married couple" and things like that. He announced one for "person who came the longest distance". I froze, as I knew that except for one person from San Diego, it was probably me. And I also knew that my mother would immediately jump up and point to me.
My mother is the most extroverted person I know, and she has never understood my shyness. Further, I really don't think that deep down she thinks it's even real. When I've displayed shyness before, whether it's been refusal to dance or reluctance to talk to people, she just accuses me of being surly, sullen and an "old fart". Like I'm just doing it to be a jerkoff. The thing about mothers is that they are certain that everything you do is done to them, for them, in response to them or as a representative of them.
As expected, my mother's hand shot up like a teacher's pet and she squealed "Los Angeles! Los Angeles!" while gesticulating wildly in my direction. I immediately wished the the floor would open and swallow me up. I was feeling the same as I would if I were standing on the table naked and doing an Irish jig. I turned around and shot my mother a look of absolute anger and violence. A look that said "If you don't shut your mouth right now I'll come over there and shut it for you". She noticeably recoiled and threw her hands up. To make things worse, no one immediately went up to claim the prize, and many people had heard "Los Angeles". A brittle woman whom I am apparently related to leaned over from another table to urge me to go up. I told her that someone else here was from San Diego, and silently prayed that Ms. San Diego would finish up in the bathroom and save me. This woman, rather than take the hint, proceeded to engage me in a geographical debate about which city was further from Philadelphia. I was flustered, so I don't remember exactly how that played out. But in the end, a shambling, mulleted Rhode Islander, a savior in striped Zubaz pants, staggered away from his pitchers of beer and up to the stage to claim the prize. Soon after, someone's child was urged/commanded to sing what turned out to be a quite lovely version of "Danny Boy", and the event was over. On the way out, Mrs. Rand McNally said goodbye and made a subtly snide comment that made me want to knock her out and that I wish I remembered.
On the way home, I apologized to my mother for snapping at her. She didn't ask what the hell was going on, and I didn't offer.
I don't know why this happened. Ostensibly, these people are family and should have nothing but kind things to say to me. And if this had never happened to me in a group of strangers, why should it happen now? The only thing I can think of is that since these people were family and this was a reunion, I was actually expected to talk to them. In a group of strangers nobody cares. I wish I weren't like this. "You just have to get out there and mingle, meet people!", I hear from well-meaning people. "Everyone is nervous around new people and if you don't start being more outgoing, you're going to wind up alone." Well, this is what I am. I can't change it. It's not a matter of just deciding to be more outgoing. You might as well tell a blind man that if he doesn't start opening his eyes, he's going to keep bumping into things. But they are partly right. I really do think that it's going to cause me to wind up alone. I'm not saying, "oh woe is me", because I've done just fine so far being alone. I just wish I were like everybody else.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I've Got Your Parking Spot Right Here
"Phillies suck!"
That's what the Dodger cap-clad 10-year-old boy said to me as he approached the bus stop. "Not tonight, kid", I replied. I was on the way home from the Phillies' 7-2 victory at Dodger Stadium, and amazingly enough, I was taking the bus.
Dodger Stadium is one of the few sports stadiums in the country not served properly by public transportation. It's surrounded on all sides by acres of asphalt parking lots, and the nearest actual street is hundreds of yards away. I'm sure that seemed like a great idea in car-culture mad Los Angeles when the stadium opened in 1962. It's considerably less of a good idea in today's traffic-choked metropolis.
The place is an absolute nightmare to get in and out of. I went to a game last month where it took me an hour just to snake the last few hundred yards into the lot and park. It took the same amount of time to make my escape from the grounds after the game. That day I met a couple who got down while gridlocked on the way in and had the baby in the traffic jam on the way out. True story. Aside from the hazards of boredom-induced childbirth, the Dodgers collect $15 for the privilege of sitting in your car and fouling the air with $5 worth of gas. And that $15, dear reader, is at the root of why there is no public transportation to Dodger Stadium.
During the 2008 season, the LA Department of Transportation introduced the Dodger Trolley, a free shuttle that transported fans the two miles from the nearest subway stop to the stadium. It was wildly popular and deemed a unqualified success. After the 2008 season, however, the LADOT announced that the Dodger Trolley would be no more. The $600,000 cost per season was not in the budget. Cries arose that the Dodgers themselves should foot the bill, since the Trolley served only them and their fans, not the general public. The team countered that they are "not in the business of public transportation", and that since the Trolley used public streets, it was the responsibility of the LADOT. Consequently, with no one to pay for it, the Dodger Trolley ceased operations after one season. It would seem to be in the Dodgers' best interest to fund the shuttle for the paltry sum of $600,000 (or 1/42 the annual salary of suspended steroid user Manny Ramirez.) After all, it would likely result in higher attendance. But the Dodgers actually don't want to make it easier for you to get to the game.
Frank McCourt purchased the Dodgers in 2004 from News Corporation for the sum of $430 million. McCourt made his fortune in real estate, and the bulk of his profits were made from a chain of parking lots he owned in Boston. If anyone understands the kind of money to be made from parking, it's McCourt. It's no surprise he raised the parking fee from $10 to $15. It's also no surprise the team held on to a stiff named Chan Ho Park for so long. Dodger Stadium has 16,000 parking spaces at $15 each. That's $240,000 a game in potential parking revenue, or nearly $20 million over the course of a season. No wonder the Dodgers don't care about making their stadium more accessible. Making you sit in gridlock for two hours is very, very profitable.
I was tired of playing this game. I researched the transit schedules and learned I could drive ten minutes to the subway station, take the subway and change to a bus, and ride the bus to within a ten minute uphill walk of Dodger Stadium. Just about nobody does this. Maybe it's the uphill walk. Maybe it's the fact that white people don't like to ride the city bus. But they should. The trip from my front door to my seat in the stands was about 1 hour and 10 minutes each way, or just a little more than the time it takes to simply get in or out of the parking lot with a car. And I didn't use a bunch of gas or burn out my clutch in the process.
So screw you, Frank McCourt. You can't have my $15, no matter how hard you're trying. I'd rather walk up the hill.
That's what the Dodger cap-clad 10-year-old boy said to me as he approached the bus stop. "Not tonight, kid", I replied. I was on the way home from the Phillies' 7-2 victory at Dodger Stadium, and amazingly enough, I was taking the bus.
Dodger Stadium is one of the few sports stadiums in the country not served properly by public transportation. It's surrounded on all sides by acres of asphalt parking lots, and the nearest actual street is hundreds of yards away. I'm sure that seemed like a great idea in car-culture mad Los Angeles when the stadium opened in 1962. It's considerably less of a good idea in today's traffic-choked metropolis.
The place is an absolute nightmare to get in and out of. I went to a game last month where it took me an hour just to snake the last few hundred yards into the lot and park. It took the same amount of time to make my escape from the grounds after the game. That day I met a couple who got down while gridlocked on the way in and had the baby in the traffic jam on the way out. True story. Aside from the hazards of boredom-induced childbirth, the Dodgers collect $15 for the privilege of sitting in your car and fouling the air with $5 worth of gas. And that $15, dear reader, is at the root of why there is no public transportation to Dodger Stadium.
During the 2008 season, the LA Department of Transportation introduced the Dodger Trolley, a free shuttle that transported fans the two miles from the nearest subway stop to the stadium. It was wildly popular and deemed a unqualified success. After the 2008 season, however, the LADOT announced that the Dodger Trolley would be no more. The $600,000 cost per season was not in the budget. Cries arose that the Dodgers themselves should foot the bill, since the Trolley served only them and their fans, not the general public. The team countered that they are "not in the business of public transportation", and that since the Trolley used public streets, it was the responsibility of the LADOT. Consequently, with no one to pay for it, the Dodger Trolley ceased operations after one season. It would seem to be in the Dodgers' best interest to fund the shuttle for the paltry sum of $600,000 (or 1/42 the annual salary of suspended steroid user Manny Ramirez.) After all, it would likely result in higher attendance. But the Dodgers actually don't want to make it easier for you to get to the game.
Frank McCourt purchased the Dodgers in 2004 from News Corporation for the sum of $430 million. McCourt made his fortune in real estate, and the bulk of his profits were made from a chain of parking lots he owned in Boston. If anyone understands the kind of money to be made from parking, it's McCourt. It's no surprise he raised the parking fee from $10 to $15. It's also no surprise the team held on to a stiff named Chan Ho Park for so long. Dodger Stadium has 16,000 parking spaces at $15 each. That's $240,000 a game in potential parking revenue, or nearly $20 million over the course of a season. No wonder the Dodgers don't care about making their stadium more accessible. Making you sit in gridlock for two hours is very, very profitable.
I was tired of playing this game. I researched the transit schedules and learned I could drive ten minutes to the subway station, take the subway and change to a bus, and ride the bus to within a ten minute uphill walk of Dodger Stadium. Just about nobody does this. Maybe it's the uphill walk. Maybe it's the fact that white people don't like to ride the city bus. But they should. The trip from my front door to my seat in the stands was about 1 hour and 10 minutes each way, or just a little more than the time it takes to simply get in or out of the parking lot with a car. And I didn't use a bunch of gas or burn out my clutch in the process.
So screw you, Frank McCourt. You can't have my $15, no matter how hard you're trying. I'd rather walk up the hill.
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