GivingThanks

What do I have to be thankful for this year?

My health? I think I'm healthy. Although, I haven't been to a doctor in about 2 years. I don't even know the name of my physician. Or do I still see a pediatrician? Am I supposed to sign up to see a new doctor in NYC? Does Connecticare Healthcare work in a different state? Guess I just need to stay healthy.

My friends? Facebook tells me I have 671. Aguis to Zalewski. Girls, boys, men, women, grandmothers, dogs, about 300 fake profiles I created and friended myself with. Love hanging with all my friends, except for you Zalewski. I'm actually de-friending you right now.

My family? Dad, Mom, Big Mono and Claire. I'm thankful for you guys every single day of the year. Except for family reunions and other holiday celebrations. Just Joshin'.

But let's look at some other recent happenings I'm thankful for:

1. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. A big mac, 2 Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, a Chinese finger trap and a leprechaun. Oh...sorry. Kanye puts out an amazing album for only 3.99 on Amazon.com. No matter how much you hate his cocky, arrogant, elitist, selfish, ignant ways, Kanye is a fantastic producer and has some of the best collaborations on his LPs. He also has some great lines like: "Too many urkels on your team, that's why your Wins-low." You can't make this stuff up. Only Kanyecan.

2. That I'm not in South Korea right now. Or North for that matter. Although I would love to be working a 4-10 pm schedule and tallying 24 hours per week rather than 24 hours in 2 days. I also wouldn't mind a slice of that sweet egg bread and a hot plate of dalkalbi. You know what, maybe I'm not thankful for this. The conflict may look as if it's escalating, but there seem to be a few problems with the new NK leader. Some feelings of inadequacy for Kim Jong-Un. Nothing may happen at all. Read here.

3. Skoreit.com. I saw a plug for this site on Mike and Mike in the morning the other day and have since put in 30 bids for products like the i-pad, i-pod touch and assorted HDTVs. It's a live auction site with countdowns for each prize. Flashing lights, buzzer beaters, $500 gift cards going for .86 cents. It is an actual beautiful, dark, twisted fantasy...or a recipe for a full-blown seizure. I haven't won anything yet, but have gotten down to "going once!" "going twice!" a couple times. It's tough when there are people on this site with names like: CantStopNeverStop, BidFromTheWombToTomb, SeriouslyHaventSleptIn5Years. Check it out. Bid till you did.

4. ThanksGiving Eve. What a night. Back home at a local bar; seeing friends from middle school, high school, preschool, juvenile delinquent prison. This past Eve was made utterly delightful with some delicious whipped cream vodka, Sam Adams and No Speak Americano on the dance floor. If you haven't tried whipped cream vodka, I suggest you don't. Ice cream alcohol. Disgusting.

Side note: I have Twitter set up on my flip phone so I can text and provide updates to my online account. After looking through my calls from Thanksgiving Eve, I actually phoned that 4-digit Twitter number. Don't know why or what the conversation entailed. The duration of the call was 4 minutes.

5. And finally, Thanksgiving Dinner. The FOOD!

We No Speak Americano

Can't get enough of this song right now. Was jamming to it on my i-pod walking to the elevator this morning and almost knocked over a very attractive girl mid-dance move. I quietly muttered "Hello" and took the stairs.

Or the even more popular Jersey Shore Version:

There is a Rose in Spanish Harlem

I'm finally off the couch! Have my own bed and apartment in Spanish Harlem (101st and 3rd Avenue) as of November 5 with Bryan Lynch.

It was kind of strange sleeping on a bed for the first time in 3 weeks.

A few good things are that there is no more bottomless pit of nothingness, a living room and bedroom are now two separate entities and I'm free to juggle q-tips on my nose or blow bubbles out of my ears on either side of my sleeping pad.

Surprisingly, there were also some bad things about making the switch from couch to mattress. After sleeping on a couch for 3 weeks, my body was not used to the ample surface area and softness a bed provides. As a result, I was incredibly sore my first week sleeping on the mattress. The comfort was simply too much for my body to bear.

Also, I didn't have a TV to fall asleep in front of any longer. In fact, we didn't have cable at all in our apartment until about a week ago. For the first couple weeks, we would sit indian-style around the radio listening to football games, Rick Ds and the Weekly Top 40 or Mike'd Up. We were even able to find lost episodes of Lone Ranger late at night. People came over for a party and we played drinking games to a War of the Worlds recording.

My roommate Bryan discovered a newfound love for the archaic entertainment device. He was constantly listening, reciting lines from Boomer and Carton and singing the latest top 40 hit in the shower. One night I came home and found Lynch at the ultimate breaking point:

Now, we finally have cable and haven't said a word to each other in about a week. With classic films like Leprechaun: Back 2 tha Hood and Superhero Movie, why waste our breaths?

We've also been on a search for the "Rose in Spanish Harlem" that Ben E. King sang about so many years ago. I don't think there are actually roses anywhere in Spanish Harlem. In fact, I don't think I've seen a blade of grass since moving into the building. The only green comes from the liquor store sign down the street.

Perhaps, it was a metaphorical rose. What about the "Church of Holy Agony" across the way? (Seriously, that's what it's called). Instead of serving as a refuge, the priest screams and makes fun of his audience, causing even more pain and suffering. Everyone comes running out in tears. Is this the said "Rose" in Spanish Harlem?

Maybe it's the concrete playground further down on 3rd Avenue? The place where players wanna play and ballers wanna ball? The court where teenagers skip school to play ball, slang yayo or holla' at a skeeza-beeza.

Honestly, I believe the rose to be The Emmerson Home. Our building on 101st and 3rd Ave. It includes a rooftop, ample lounging areas and a free gym (still haven't seen the inside). I like to think that this is what Ben E. King was talking about. If you want to see the place for yourself or even live here for a couple months, we do have an extra room at an incredible $900/month! And if you see the 2nd half of this post as an advertisement for a 3rd roommate, you would be correct.

Please contact mmonagan@gmail.com for more information. Or comment on my blog. Remember to also become a follower.

This song plays on a continuous loop in our lobby.

Manhattan

Nothing like it.

And I thought Korean was hard....

I step off the 6 train clutching AM New York in my right hand. The combination of the dank, subway air and my tie being tighter than a toddler and a treasured toy makes it difficult to breathe. I wait for my moment in the turnstile and arise out of the depths of the city into the crisp, October day.

Everything is going well. Everything is routine so far.

I walk across Park Avenue, dodging a bike messenger and squinting towards my office on 51st Street. All is normal. All is calm.

Now comes something different. Something strange. It's one of the more nerve-racking, stressful times of my day (Besides sending a fax or trying to scan a magazine cover).

I need to get a cup of coffee. Starbucks is located right next to my building and the most convenient cafe when I'm rushing into work. It is also probably the best. But that's where any positives end.

I hang a right before my office and head towards Starbucks. There's a long line that wraps around the entire inside of the small shop. My palms begin to gather sweat. My heart rate quickens. Lips chap. Mouth dries. I'm terrified. I take a deep breath and pull open the door. It doesn't budge. Then I notice the PUSH in bold, green letters on the front glass. Ahh yes. Right. Something I've seen everyday for the last 2 weeks, but still haven't processed. Must be the nerves.

I push the door forward and walk into the cafe. But it's more like walking into some alien world. A female employee with a green apron seems to be speaking in tongues.

"pike pilly, tazo chai zen, frappachino monichato, bilboozi-bananafatto!" she screams.

Even the customers in front of me are speaking in a similar lingo. The woman points to them and they respond with "pike zowie" "diddly doodie" "ponowi bonowi." I think I even hear someone order a "boombastik shaggy fantastic."

It's like everyone is possessed or brainwashed by this green demon behind the counter. And she's getting closer and closer to me. I don't know if I should just turn and make a run for it or be a hero and destroy this creature.

Finally she gets to me and points her narrow, twisted finger at my confused face. I pause and everyone spins around to look at me. Even after two weeks, I don't understand this foreign culture and language. I quietly say "medium coffee?" Because really, that's all I want. It's a coffee shop, isn't it? Shouldn't a medium coffee suffice as a reponse?

The woman's face twitches into a grin and she begins laughing. A high-pitched, evil laugh. Similar to that of the Wicked Witch of the West.

Then everyone starts laughing and pointing at me. "A medium coffee? He said he wanted a medium coffee? Hahahahahaaaaa"

The woman then says something quickly in her language to a co-worker. I think my order went through, but I really can't tell.

I shuffle off to the side of the counter where the coffee is being brewed. The man at the helm is yelling in the same, odd language. I feel bad believing him to be a victim of turrets-syndrome. He also seems to be in the midst some mad, science experiment. Smoke is shooting out of the contraption in front of him. Whistles are sounding. Pots are clanging. Babies are screaming. Looks something like this.

At this point my vision is blurry and I'm becoming dizzy. I'm starting to hallucinate. Coffees are being dropped on the counter and picked up by the queue of zombies. I want to get out of this madhouse, but don't know what my drink is called. Was it a pike grande? A picky chao? Largey in chargey? I can't take it anymore.

I race to the front counter and reach for a coffee.

"Pike grande?" the woman snaps.

I nod. Ashamed to speak my native language in this wild world.

I throw her some bills and escape without even collecting my change. I don't even know if this is my coffee. What is coffee? I needed to leave and get back to real life.

Hopefully, someday, I will understand this strange culture and not feel like an outcast. But for now, Starbucks remains a wild, wild world.