20 August 2008

Boys and Their Sticks

What is it about sticks, especially of the five to six foot long variety, that makes dudes pick them up and treat them as play things? It's like, "Look at this long stick I found. It's a bo!" They must have picked that one up from TMNT (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, for those too old or young or outdoorsy as in not staying inside to watch cartoons, to be in the know). The bo was Donatello's weapon of choice.

"Hey guys, watch me flip this thing around like a very long baton, except way more manly, oops I dropped it!!"
"Let me try so I can out man you!"

Well, that's how it seemed to be going down this morning on my slightly less smelly (now that Bobo has closed down) commute along Broome. Those delivery guys hardly ever seem to be working when I'm walking by.

On an unrelated note, last night I burned the top of my mouth on melted cheese from my matzoh pizza (I was desperately starving), and now I'm experiencing a very distracting pain.

12 August 2008

You'll Be a Woman Soon

There's an article in last week's New Yorker about the Strawberry Festival in Plant City, Florida. Apparently Plant City, a close neighbor of Tampa, is a pretty major national supplier of strawberries in the winter. I'm always surprised when people know of Tampa when I tell them where I'm from; know of it, have been there, and/or have family there. The mind boggles. I guess it's a bit narrow minded of me to think that the paces I've found somehow or other displeasing to my person, might actually be pleasing to other persons. I'm just as shocked when I'm told about exciting adventures in Brighton Beach, where I served time for about a year when I first moved to New York (and it did have a prison like atmosphere), and heck, a few years ago I read an article in one of those in flight magazines about how Springfield, MA (my true motherland) was all up and coming. Last time I went for a visit it seemed just as dingy and soulless as before, but apparently Departures thinks otherwise, as does everyone who's been to or driven past the Basketball Hall of Fame in that glorious city.

I never made it to the Strawberry Festival while I lived in Florida. We tried once: me, my younger sister, and my mother. It's a massive festival with bands and all that nonsense, and draws quite a crowd. I think that's why we ended up turning around at the gate. No parking, was it? Maybe we got there late and it was ending soon? The point is, we ended up going to the movies instead; I suppose because my mother wanted to spend time with us somehow. I'm not sure how or why we came to pick Pulp Fiction, or by whom it was selected. Was it 14 year old me, my 13 year old sis, or my pious (when she wants to be) Catholic mother? Something inside of me is whispering that I was the likely culprit. The soundtrack was all the rage back then, that and the soundtrack to The Crow, man that was a good one, NIN, Joy Division, Stone Temple Pilots. 9th grade was a good time for soundtracks, it seems. I couldn't have realized what, exactly, we were in for when I undoubtedly took the reins in convincing mom that the R rated Pulp Fiction was a good quality family film. The violence wasn't so bad, I guess, but the part where they compare a foot massage to eating a pussy? Now there's a squirmworthy moment.

10 August 2008

On the Subject of Pain

Today, for the first time in maybe like, ever, I willingly engaged in team sports. I don't think the basketball team fiasco in first grade really counts; all the other girls were in second grade, and I'm pretty darn sure it wasn't my idea at all. Just because I was tall for my age didn't mean I would be good at basketball! I'm a flying solo kind of gal; I much preferred dance and violin lessons to running around on a field/court, passing and hustling and scoring. But today, despite my lack of skillz on the field/total lack of experience in regards to the game of soccer, and on top of having a slight hangover, I quite enjoyed myself.

Nevertheless, all I could think about as I walked up the stairs to my fifth floor apartment was: how will I ever find the strength to climb these stairs tomorrow, the dreaded day after?? My leg muscles are already sending frantic signals to my brain, signals that are saying things like "what's all this activity down here" and "mayday, mayday!" and "going offline in t-minus..." I need to get me one'a those big walking sticks to prop myself up as I make the ascent. Something like what Moses had when he climbed that mountain to talk to the God bush about blind obedience to a higher power. Yeah, that was a good stick.