Re-watching The Wire with my two roommates this week. One of the best shows I've ever seen. Better than American Horror Story. Even better than Fraggle Rock. Remember that intro?
Anyway, I've started using phrases like "the produc" to describe Bermuda to journalists at work. "You wanna' know more about the produc? See even when the economy doing bad, we still doing pretty good. Everyone still needs a vacation. Caribbean islands man...that shit is forever."
I often find myself whistling while walking around the office, peering into offices and giving people strange glares when I need a monthly report done or a newspaper scanned. Monooo comin'.
I even told my roommate that a girl at the bar looked "right." "She was right, man." Unfortunately, she thought I was wrong.
Not sure what it is that makes me bring out these wire-esque lines. Could be the fact that I'm presently watching The Wire (definitely the case). Or maybe it's because I'm from the dirty Waterbury, where the water's brownin' and the economy drownin'. Maybe it's living in Spa-Ha with the wonky-eyed bodega owners and rats feasting on cats? Sheeeeeettt man. Guess I'm just a gangsta, I suppose...
I just wanted to post this song again. Incredible, funk-filled beat. It's been in my head all day. I actually wrote "Rock the Casbah" as a press release title three different times today.
The song is so good Big Will made time to sample it on Willenium. Which version is better? I can't be the judge of that.
What am I thankful for this year? Global Warming? Tim Tebow? Having a job? Yes. Definitely having a job. A very important component to living in New York City and being able to frequent the bars, neighborhoods and dining establishments located throughout this great metropolis:
Turtle Bay on 42nd and 2nd continues to be one of the greatest drinking dens this side of the Equator. The sweet smells of Bukoff Vodka and week-old vomit offer a strange feeling of comfortability seen nowhere else in the city. You can also count on Pitbull, Ne-Yo, Maya being played at least 26 times throughout the night. Take a picture of that with a Kodak.
Iggys, a karaoke bar on the UES, is the house where angels sing every Friday and Saturday night. 80-year old women dance to Britney Spears and young men sing Hall and Oates until ears bleed.
Spanish Harlem remains one of the great neighborhoods in the big apple. Ample bodegas and halal street food are probably the two predominant reasons. Halal, how are you?
But everyone can read more about NYC and all its treasures at www.CityPath.com! One of the greatest web sites for finding what's really good in your hood. Check it out. Phenomenal writers.
Anyway, here are few other things I'm thankful for this year.
Clever Girl? If you haven't raged, you haven't lived. RageFace is an i-phone app that uses outlandish and almost demon-like faces to symbolize emotions. Lonely - pictures an overweight oaf watching a static TV in the dark. Sorry - depicts a toothless woman begging for forgiveness. Many of the expressions are downright creepy, making them hilarious to text to senile grandparents, unbeknownst girlfriends and 3 am love interests. It's one of the best apps to ever hit the I-phone. Better than Facebook. Better than the I-phone itself. Honestly, I wish I just had a rage face machine instead of a phone. I rarely use words in texts anymore. AWWWWW YEAHHH!!
Old Mix CDs
Have you ever found an old burned CD from high school/college? Maybe one you made during prom season or for a big party or sporting event? I have a bunch that I've made over the years with names like "Springtime 09," "Will Smith & Friends" and "Lonely Mix." Not sure when I made Lonely Mix? Maybe after the Mets collapsed in 07'? I was pretty lonely then. It does have some gems such as "Lonely" by Akon, "Tired of Being Alone" by Al Green and half the Donnie Darko soundtrack. Could serve as a quality powerhour playlist.
Anyway, I found a blank CD labeled "Ultimate Mix" in my sister's car this past weekend and it was in fact one of the greatest mixes I've ever heard. Will Smith, Boys are Back in Town, Rolling Stones, Madonna. Legendary. It had me crying, laughing and yelling at different points throughout. I even started sending sporadic RageFaces to express my emotions. I was zonin' all over Connecticut.
Sweatpants at the Bar
Although I didn't actually see someone sporting them during break, I heard from a trusted source a woman was in fact wearing a pair. Word has it, she was dressed in an entire grey sweatsuit at a Thomaston, CT karaoke bar while singing "Rock the Casbah."
Sweatpants in a bar takes guts and a certain self-confidence/self-deprecation that is unique to find. It's a look that is comfortable for you but uncomfortable for others to look at. In college, I loved wearing sweatpants to the bar. No belt, no wrinkles, no care. Glad it's a trend that's still surviving. I may sport them out this weekend. Hope Turtle Bay allows for it.
Larger than life. No regrets. No complaints. My grandfather passed away early last week and with it will leave a large gap in family reunions, holiday gatherings and my heart. 99 Restaurant may go out of business. Bleacher basketball referees will lose one of their more devout members. The makers of honey mustard pretzels should see a huge drop in sales. Golden Retrievers will see an increase in average life expectancy.
Losing my grandfather has been different than any other death in my family. He was a guy you loved to see and who loved seeing you even more. His stories were legendary and carelessly exaggerated. Almost Big Fish-like:
His grandchildren came before anything. He was kind to all walks of life and could pick up a conversation/develop lasting relationships with anybody--whether it was the waitress at Century Buffet, my sister’s middle-school boyfriend or my high-school Spanish teacher.
He thought of others before himself and never, ever complained. That’s probably the most important thing I think I took from him and I try to reflect each and everyday. No matter how difficult the situation, there are people who are worse off. Don’t complain. Just push on through (maybe with the help of few martinis)
When I think of Papa or say his name to my Mom or Dad, it’s hard to believe he’s not around anymore. Then I suddenly realize he’s gone and choke up at the thought. I’ll miss the big man and his stories. I’ll miss the smell of cigars coming from his Buick as a kid. I’ll miss him backing out of our driveway and clipping our hedges with his back bumper. I’ll miss going to Bradley Street and hearing his bellowing “Hello!” when I walk through the door. Although I know that wherever he is now he’s making new friends and not complaining. I know he’s fine and happy because he always has been.
Lynch and I were up on the roof enjoying an ice, cold bohemian-style beer; courtesy of the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank State Prison.
Shoot, sorry! Got carried away. I mean we were drinking a warm Coors Light after our first softball win. We had 10 run ruled a team and walked off Randall's Island with our heads held high. A feat that is very rare when entering or exiting the former NYC landfill. Home to about 30 softball fields, abandoned factories and a mental hospital, there's not much to be happy about on the island. With the infrequent bus schedules, frequent crackheads and isolation from Manhattan, you sometimes feel as if you'll never get off Randall's ever again.
I've had a similar below conversation with Lynch while sitting in the dugout during a tough loss.
But, we made it off the island and everyone was excited. Lynch and I were reviewing our base hits and staring into the foreboding Spa-Ha night.
Then we heard it.
Boom, Boom, Boom!
We figured it was just a car backfiring and continued analyzing our victory. Then we heard screams. People scattered back and forth across the street about a block north of our apartment. Shots fired in Spanish Harlem!
About 10 cop cars rolled up with detectives and yellow caution tape. The deli owner below us (who honestly probably was the one who committed the murder) was being questioned at the scene of the crime.
We're not sure why there was a shooting or what the ultimate verdict was but c'mon Spanish Harlem. Stop the shooting. Stop the looting.
I was out on my lunch break today, passing by The Palace Hotel (across the street from the true palace of New York City: Lou Hammond & Associates).
Anyway, outside The fake Palace, a small crowd had gathered behind a set of ropes. With about 15 minutes left in my lunch break, I decided to investigate the situation.
I walked over and asked what all the fuss was about.
I didn't actually say "What's all the fuss about?" That would've been just strange. I did it in a much more casual and cool demeanor. As if I didn't really care. As if it couldn't be that important.
"Hey, what's the deal over here?"
Then I noticed the nerds. Five or six teenagers, a couple mid-20 year olds and one 30 year old wearing an LA Dodger yamaka. They all were sporting some type of Dodger gear and holding booklets with hundreds of baseball cards. They clutched pens in their hands, waiting with bated breath for Matt Kemp, James Loney, Mike McDougal or even the Spanish language broadcaster.
They were fanatics from the f all the way to the s. I'd never seen such joy and excitement from a group of young men. Not since the Paris Hilton sex tape or KFC's introduction of the Double Down Sandwich. They giggled and snickered back and forth at my question.
"The Dodgers are staying at this hotel for the weekend. Duh! They're coming out right now to board the bus to Citi Field!"
I felt like an idiot. How could I not know this!!??
"Oh yeah," I responded. "That's right." F-ing nerds, I thought to myself.
And then I got behind them in line.
Not really to get an autograph (although I wished I'd brought a pen with me. Thought about just giving one of the dorks an atomic wedgie until he coughed his writing utensil up).
The thing was, I was really interested in scoping out the situation and seeing these fanatics in action. I was also hoping to catch a glimpse of Hong Chih-Kuo.
Well, the 10 minutes I spent out by The Palace really made my Friday. Every time someone walked out the front doors, the nerds would scramble through their cards, trying to put a face to the image. A few times they ran up to regular guests just checking out of the hotel or taking an afternoon stroll down 51st Street. And once one nerd chased after somebody, all the rest would follow suit. Bombarding normal pedestrians with Lance Cormier cards and stabbing arms with pens.
It also seemed like these nerds knew each other on a first name basis. Some were 40 years old, others seemed around 20 and still others were definitely teens. But they seemed like they'd known each other for years and traveled in packs to these gigs.
"Hey Jimmy, you got that Chad Billingsly rookie card?"
"No. Traded it to Tom. Got a Kershaw in exchange. Steal!!"
"Nice dice!" (high fives all around)
The guy standing next to me described it well. He also carried a book of cards but stood back from the rest of the nerds. A vet in the stalking other grown men game. He could get a better view from the back of the line and snipe his prey from afar.
"They just follow each other around...like ducks. Like little bugs. What're those things called? They jump off those cliffs? Dem flemmies?"
He was exactly right. But I think he was referring to the Lemmings.
Honestly, there were a couple moments when I thought about going in the back door of the hotel, throwing on a pair of shades and walking out the front door to sign a few autographs. These guys were literally chasing everyone down. Think I deserved a few autographs after my busy morning. I'd made a couple clutch magazine scans and polished off two monthly reports.
Aside from the jokes and dorky nature these guys embodied, it was refreshing to see people who still have an undying passion for a game that has been through tough times in the past 10 years. It's love for a team and group of guys that really don't care much about you. An unrequited admiration that comes back strong every summer no matter what happened the season past. I mean, look at me. I'm still as much a Mets fan as I was back in 1999 or 2002 or 2004 or 2006 or 2007 or 2008. Maybe even more so. Although ticket prices are high than ever, players are paid ridiculous salaries and Shea Stadium has been demolished, it is a game that has survived and will hopefully be around forever.
"Baseball reminds us of all that once was good and could be again."
Heading to Bermuda tomorrow for a work/golf trip. Presently watching Happy Gilmore to prepare. Hopefully I can keep the ball dry. Hopefully I can put the ball in its home before my 10th stroke. Hopefully I don't slice a drive into someone's face or chip a divot into a spectator's Rum Swizzle.
Hopefully I don't look like THIS GUY! Just plain turrible...
She works ridiculous hours, sacrifices weekends for her job, cleans Spa-Ha dirty laundry, breathes in poisonous fumes, and yet, she seems happy. Every week, she greets us with a smile. Actually, I can't be positive that she's smiling. She wears a medical mask over her mouth. She could be grinding her teeth and cursing all of us under her breath.
She calls me the big guy. "Heyyy, it's the big guy!!" A phrase I've grown accustomed to since my time in Korea.
She even sewed a slight tear in my pants together...FO' FREE! I tried to slip her a 5 dollar bill. She kindly declined. "No, no. Merry Christmas." It was February 5th.
She's cute. She laughs at my jokes, runs to the front counter when I walk in and has to be the most beautiful girl...in the...room. Depending on the room of course.
He's up earlier than most of us, yet, he has the energy of Richard Simmons after drinking six Red Bulls. His hands smell of ink. His legs are tired from standing. He spits. He smiles. He yells. He works through rain, snow, sunshine, atomic fallout. His job must be done. He's the AM-NY guy.
His office is just up the stairs from the 6 train. The place where rats feast on trash and sandwiches get crushed in subway doors. His mouth never stops moving and his attitude is refreshingly positive on these cold, weekday mornings.
"Yup, yup, yup. AM! Freebie! Here we go! Whoooop!"
His yelps reverberate throughout Spanish Harlem. Usually he just repeats the above phrases, but sometimes he mixes it up. Adds a little spice.
One morning as I was reaching for the paper he came up with a phrase that sent Alex and I cackling into the subway.
"Yup, Yup. Here we go! I like it when you grab and go! Whoooop!"
I like it when you grab and go? Imagine hearing someone say that at 7 in the morning. Someone you don't even know? Was that what I was doing? I was grabbing and going? Kind of dirty, no? Either way, it was a great line.
I began to wonder if he stayed up late at night brainstorming new phrases for the following morning. Does he practice these in front of the mirror?
Of course, there are those commuters that can't stand this burst of noise and positive energy at 7 am. One woman actually began yelling at AM during his performance.
"You can't be this loud this early! Why can't you just be like the Metro lady?!
Metro lady, "Metro...Metro...Metro..."
But instead of backing down and shying away from the angry grouch, AM walked right up into the woman's face and did a little dance.
"You know you love it. That's right! Whooooopp!"
AM has not been challenged since.
My roommates and I also wonder about AM's life.
Lynch sees AM as an angry, disgruntled middle-aged man with turrets syndrome. He loves to yell at people and is actually a psycho serial killer in his spare time.
Alex seems to think AM is a CEO of a fortune 500 company somewhere downtown. He lives in a posh penthouse in midtown, drinks Courvoisier for breakfast and does this newspaper gig as a hobby. He just loves the feel and smell of that early morning paper. He's also dating the Metro lady.
I do think he loves the paper, but I'm not sure if he's a CEO. Although, that would be a great story. Definitely AM-NY worthy.
I was traveling down south this week for work. Gone from Tuesday to Friday.
Now, you'd think that one of the 3.5 days I was traveling would be the most interesting of the week. The most memorable. The coolest of the uncool post-college work week.
Surprisingly enough, Monday was the one day that stood out during this past week. Monday morning to be exact. Not really because it was cool or interesting. But because it was particularly awkward, uncomfortable and amusing.
It started out like any other Monday. Late. I snoozed my alarm 3 separate times and didn't make it into the shower until 7:15. Five minutes off my scheduled pace to ensure Lynch and Alex could get adequate shower/shave/Lady Gaga on the bathroom i-pod dance time. I was out by 7:40. Still had about 30 minutes before I had to leave for work. I grabbed my phone and set my alarm for 8 a.m. Quick nap before breakfast.
Lynch left a little before 8 to study for his CFA (Driver's Test) at work. That left Alex and myself. Just like during the holiday season, Alex is especially cheery on Monday mornings.
Alex and I ripped our sandwiches out of the fridge and threw them in our work bags. It was the first time I'd made a sandwich in about 2 weeks. I felt responsible and my wallet thanked me.
We headed to the elevator, slamming our apartment door behind us and cursing the long week ahead of us.
We hit the elevator button and after passing by us both on the way up and back down again, it stopped on the 7th Floor. By that time, our hallway neighbor had joined us for the ride down to the 1st floor.
Now, the only thing that makes a Monday morning worse is being forced into conversation with someone. Whether it's some bum on the subway, the Metro delivery woman or an old coworker you never actually liked.
Well, Alex and I were thrust into that position on this cold, Monday morning. We'd actually met this girl before in the same situation and already exhausted all conversation topics during the 5 minute walk to the 6 train. We had nothing more to say to her.
Neighbor: "Hey guys! How are you? I literally just woke up 10 minutes ago!" (lol!)
Alex: "Monday morning. Wish I never woke up."
Neighbor: Nervous laughter.
We continued to bombard the poor neighbor with Monday morning misery and senseless inside jokes. She had no idea what was going on. This continued up until the three of us were standing on the subway station. Once here, our isolating humor died down. Now only long, awkward pauses.
The subway pushed into the station, packed to capacity with people from all points north of 103rd Street. The car doors creaked open, but no one came out. Nobody was getting off in Spa-Ha. Where the players play and the ballers ball. Where Maria, Maria grew up. Where Blue Magic ran the boys in blue.
So Alex began forcing his way into the subway. LW needed to get into work. He flipped strollers, pushed old women to the floor and elbowed a homeless boy in the face. I watched all this from the platform with our neighbor. I suddenly realized I needed to follow Alex's lead. I couldn't be left with this girl. As mentioned before, all conversation topics had been explored.
I squeezed into a tiny space just as the doors were closing, leaving our neighbor alone. Just as our inside jokes had left her alone. But I had also left something else outside the dirty, unrelenting subway doors. Half of my work bag had become lodged in the unforgiving threshold. I tugged at my briefcase, but couldn't free it from the door's tight grasp. My sandwich? Completely crushed.
Alex and I couldn't stop laughing at the situation and the circumstances leading up to it. We reiterated why we should never have woken up or called in sick to the office. I vowed to never make a sandwich again. Other passengers on the subway also found our predicament funny and smirked at our misfortunes. They smiled! Smiles on a Monday morning in a New York City subway! Unheard of. Rare. Rare like Mr. Clean with hair.
The rest of my Monday was pretty uneventful. I spent a couple hours trying to scan a newspaper article at work and ate chicken burgers for dinner. But the Monday morning was definitely one of the more memorable yet. A time when laughter is hard to come by.
March. It's my favorite time of the year. A month when brackets burst, birthdays boom, seasons change and baseball begins.
This year my bracket has stayed relatively strong. Besides picking the St. Pete's Peacocks to advance to the Sweet 16 (a team nicknamed the Peacocks will never advance anywhere in any tournament), my bracket is healthy. As long as Kansas St. makes its epic run to the Elite 8 and Steve Lavin packs his team into the DeLorean, beats Gonzaga and BYU and moves on to the Sweet 16, I should be in good shape.
Birthdays in March are like striped shirts in my wardrobe. They're everywhere and always a good time. My birthday fell on a Friday this year. So instead of ordering Asian food and listening to Sheryl Crow, I went to an Asian karaoke restaurant and sang Sheryl Crow! About 20 friends went down to Japas 38 and sang, drank and threw sushi rolls all over the room from 10-12. It was a great time. I don't think I gave up the mic. Not once. We did some 3EB, 80s hits and I sang a duet with another girl who was celebrating her birthday. What song did we do? La Vie En Rose? Always Be My Baby? No way. Nelly and Kelly FTW. Welcome to Nellyville, girl.
Winter turns to Spring. The snow disappears, people are happier and the projects are poppin'. It's the one and only time I wish I still drove the tram in the New York Botanical Gardens. Magnolia Way, the Twin Lakes and the Ruth Rea Howell Family Garden are all in their prime this time of year. FYI. "The long, low brick wall marks the entrance to the Ruth Rea Howell Family Garden..."
America's pastime. The Mets may not be great. In fact, they may not be mediocre or even below average. But baseball is baseball. A game so pure (sans HGH, Barry Bonds and anybody who played from 1988-2009 (sans Mike Piazza)) and undeniably beautiful, it can make/break a little leaguer's childhood, cause grown men to cry and bring warm feelings of nostalgia and tranquility to those hot, summer nights. There's nothing like a late July ball game. I remember driving down to Camden Yards two years ago for a three game set between the Orioles and Mets. Nothing beats that atmosphere. Nothing beats that hazy glow under those soft, ballpark lights. It sort of reminds me of this MasterCard commercial from back in the day. Can "Summer Wind" please be played at every game?
Chapter 1: He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion. No, he romanticized it all out of proportion. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin...
Forget about where you're from. Forget about where you're going. Forget about where you work.
Book a beer crawl in Brooklyn, queue the Q Bar line in Queens, bump some Dion and the Boys down Belmont in da Bronx, mix a martini and maneuver maniacal madams in Manhattan. (Not because you don't like them. Just because you can't talk to them. Maybe if you stop mixing that Martini. OK bartender. No ice. Straight Gin.)
Staten Island you say? Where is that? How do I get there? Honestly, I'd rather live on Alcatraz Island. How about a rock surrounded by lava. I've seen kitchens in homes that have better islands.
What about City Island? Let's make that the 5th borough. It's just across the LI Sound in the Bronx and has all the makings of a true island. The food is spectacular, the people are friendly and there are even bright, green parrots living amongst the trees. Seriously. I don't know if they speak with a Bronx accent, but they do exist on this tiny getaway. At least, that's what I've heard and seen in films. Never been.
The island resembles a New England fishing town. It's a change from the big city right across the bay. Yacht clubs, otters and a successful seafood industry make it a unique, quick escape for New Yorkers during the summer months. Get out the way, Bermuda! Just kidding, Bermuda.
What's the point of this blog post? I need to explore NYC more. While I'm young and living in one of the greatest cities in the world (save dirty H20), I need to see more and do more. Don't get me wrong. SpaHa and the Upper East Side are great locations. But there's more to this city than 99 cent stores and the "gorgeous" girls at Dorians. There are other places to discover.
Who knows? I'm 24 tomorrow. Getting older everyday. I could find a girl, settle down, if I want, I could marry. Soon I'll be living in Hackensack with 3 kids, a dog, and maybe one of those green parrots from City Island.
Friday Night. It's that long exhale you've been waiting to take all week.
Many times, the exhale will be accompanied by a waft of cigarette smoke. Sizzling through your lungs and exploding into a stranger's face on the walk from work back to your apartment.
Later on, the exhale can become foul and dank. It is usually laced with a mixture of tequila, whiskey and Natty Light. Beware all breathalyzers and close-talking, grind-happy beezie-beneezies.
By 3 am, the exhale has become short, weathered and reeks of either cheesesteak wiz or pepperoni from a late night visit to Passione Pizza.
Honestly, at this point, the exhale contains such a strange combination of odors, they all just combine into one grey block of wackness. Wintergreen can't save you. Breath mints are powerless. Maybe down a bottle of cologne and wear a car freshener around your neck?
So about that Friday night exhale. Still feel refreshing? Hello ladiesss. Who wants to make out?
Due to these escapades and awful smells that occur on a Friday, we've been taking the night off and saving ourselves for Saturday. One night a week feeling that disgusting should suffice.
Exhales have been fresh and clean on Friday night and Saturday morning for the past couple months (minus a few to more than a few slip-ups) and life has been good.
So what do we do on Fridays instead of drinking beers and eating cheesesteaks?
This past Friday was pretty great. We ordered delivery from Moon House (a Chinese restaurant that's located directly underneath our apartment) and watched reruns of Jersey Shore. I fell asleep on the couch at around 10:30 pm and woke up around midnight to our speakers humming the below song on loop. I have no idea how it came on, but it is a song we all have, and every man should have on their i-pods. Both Lynch and Alex had gone to sleep. Maybe cheesesteaks and beers would've been a more exciting option?
In all my times doing karaoke at Iggys on the Upper East Side (about 15), I've never had a pretty girl come join me in a song. Only Lynch, a few Fordham buddies and an 80 year old grandmother with more eye makeup than Krusty the Clown. Here's to next weekend. I'll be looking for you, Marissa.
The only thing I've ever stolen was a box of Tic-Tacs when I was 8 years old. They were in the front of the grocery store with all the other candy. For any 8 year old, the amount of candy in this front aisle of Stop & Shop, Duane Reade or CVS seems endless. The packages upon packages of skittles, snickers, twinkies and butterfinger beebies. Even the black liquorish looks good. Just ask this guy.
Long story, short. I was reprimanded by my mother. She was not happy. Although, I don't know if she was more disappointed in the actual robbery or the fact that I chose to steal orange Tic-Tacs.
Anyway. Back to the socks.
I was in the laundrymat in my building. Yes, I do wash my clothes on occasion. I wasn't just hanging out in the laundry room.
My clothes had finished their wash cycle and were ready for the dryer. I moved the wet, soggy mess over to the other side of the room, hoping to get rid of it as soon as possible. One problem. Although not all were being used, every dryer had clothing inside.
I was with my roommate Lynch. For those of you who don't know Lynch, he's a kid that seems innocent and polite on the outside, but has a dangerous, dark streak that appears in certain circumstances. Like Bruce Banner has Hulk, like Mike has The Miz, Lynch has Lynch-Eyez. The laundry room on that fateful, blistery Sunday night was one of those circumstances where Lynch transformed. Lynch wan't waitin'. He needed his clothes dry and he needed them dry now.
So, we pulled out clothes that were finished drying and lying lifeless inside two machines and placed them on the table in the middle of the room.
It is a bold move in any communal laundry room. The person could've walked through the door at any second. The girl could've waltzed in as Lynch was scrambling to take out her bra. The guy could've seen me handling his jock strap.
But Lynch was adamant on getting the deed done. He was giving me the Lynch-eyez. No one's ever crossed Lynch-eyez and lived to tell the tale.
Happy one minute, Lynch-eyez the next:
So we did it. I didn't feel good about the whole process, but sometimes you have to do what Lynch-eyez want you to do.
We headed downstairs and came back up about an hour later. Now, there were people in the laundry room. There was a guy standing right next to the area where the incident had happened. We peaked through the window and thought about just waiting him out. I was prepared to leave my clothes in there for days to avoid any confrontations; willing to go commando or pick up some Spa-Ha tighty-whities at the 99 cent store.
Alas, we decided to enter the madness. The guy was standing above the same dryer that I had removed clothes from. We walked around the other side of the room, pretending we were doing a wash or simply taking an evening stroll amongst the noisy machines.
"Hey! Whose clothes are these?!" the guy suddenly said.
"They're his," Lynch quickly responded, pointing at me.
I couldn't believe Lynch. He ratted me out. No "I don't know" or "Shucks, beats me." BAM! That kid over there who's staring out the window at a light post and brick wall.
"Yeah. I think those are mine," I said.
"Well, you threw my clothes out on this table and I'm missing a sock," he sneered, holding up the unmatched foot warmer.
"Oh. Yeah. (As if I'd known). Let me see if I can find it," I responded apologetically.
The sock was almost as pathetic as the kid holding it. Small, frail and smelly. Honestly, I would've had trouble fitting the thing around my thumb.
But I felt guilty and ashamed. I began combing through my laundry and the dryer, searching for this tiny article of clothing that I probably could've mistaken for a piece of lint.
The kid was staring down at me, watching my every move. Lynch was next to me, smiling, knowing the Lynch-eyez had caused another's misfortune yet again.
I looked through my clothing twice, stretching boxers out, shaking shirts in the kid's face and putting my head through pant legs. What could I do? It wasn't there. Would this kid make me buy him a new pair of socks? Would he make me give him a foot massage? Cut his toenails?
"I've just lost too many socks in this place," he kept uttering.
Well, of course you have! This is a laundry room, right? That's what happens! It's part of the deal! Idiot!
Finally, he gave up and stormed off back to his apartment. The one sock still dangling from his left hand. Maybe he can use it as a pen grip.
I've never met anybody who felt attached to a sock like this kid. I'm sure his apartment looks pretty similar to the one in this clip.
