 | Current mood:  content Shelly, freshly released from a day's work, boarded the north Another 20 minutes passed, then another, and another. Shelly couldn't believe how calm she was considering the fact that it had been over an hour since the conductor came on the intercom and almost accusingly informed the passengers that "the brakes were broken." Shelly chuckled at the brute honesty of the driver. No words of reassurance, no appeals to remain composed, just a short statement of fact – broken brakes, deal or squeal, and no use in squealing.
Suddenly, a noise from the front shook the car. everyone held their breath in silence awaiting the return of the gentle humming that signified moving wheels on tracks. However, rather than the anticipated hum, the passengers heard nothing but their own defeated exhalations. For a moment, shelly entertained the idea of prying open the doors and walking out into the open tunnel. After all, she was almost home. The train's brakes decided to give out only minutes before arriving at her final destination. As it turned out, the masses beat her to the punch. An asian man tore open the closest doors, letting the passengers flood out onto the elevated walkway beside the tracks. Shelly followed the people, stifling the bouts of laughter emerging from her throat. She observed how the hilarity of this situation seemed lost on the unamused fools surrounding her. She did her best to control the increasingly strong urge to proceed into hysterical cackling but the impulse had already began to tickle her belly and refused to be ignored. She let out a jolly "HA" and then quickly bit her lip so as not to endure any scornful glances. Stepping out from the center car in which she had been seated, shelly now found herself up against a wall in a subway tunnel with a line of people on both sides of her extending for what seemed like miles. A sign on the wall said she was roughly in between two stops; there would be 8500 ft to walk in either direction. But no one was moving. Shelly wanted to race ahead and lead these people to freedom but the walkway was only one person wide. She would have to climb down into the tracks, go to the front of the line on either side of her, and climb back onto the walkway to do so. She decided that the idea was unwise. Then the shouting began. "move" the people to her right began. "we have to walk the other way" the people to her left shouted back. Faceless voices argued back and forth deciding on which direction to walk. Shelly wondered on the whereabouts of the rude conductor and why wasn't he "conducting" this fleet of abandoned commuters through an appropriate exit plan. She envisioned him cowering in his driver's seat, refusing to come out to face the angry mob. Finally, the people to shelly's left began to walk forward, headed west as the signs claimed. Every so often, the line in front would stop moving. Shelly quietly wondered why they kept stopping but felt grateful for these quick picture-taking opportunities. She wished they'd stop delaying but what really got under her skin were the people behind her screaming at the people in front of her to "KEEP WALKING." an Indian gentleman was the most audible, his words were undistinguishable due to the thickness of his accent, but his message was clear - It said, "get the fuck going." Shelly was tempted to put on her headphones so as to drown out these insufferable peoples' whining and complaining, but then concluded that in doing so she'd miss out on observing the panic. their laughable hysteria summoned feelings of gratitude in the young observer. Not the retching "happy to be alive" feelings as seen in cheesy films or rubbish books, but the "happy to witness the vanishing sanity of a mass of intolerable morons." She almost looked forward to the moment when some imbecile would climb down into the track just as the train would unexpectedly launch forward, crushing him and his incessant whining. 8000 ft to go. Shelly tried to record some video on her phone, asking the person walking behind her if he'd like to say anything to the camera. She quickly realized that he didn't speak any English and probably couldn't understand why she was waving her phone in his face. "this is what refugees must feel like," she decided, "alone, desolate, but determined to walk on - to freedom." After walking another 1000 ft., the train's headlights, which still shone on in the distance, began to grow brighter. It was moving and, what more, it was coming fast. Shelly imagined that it would zoom right past them, that the air it cut would make for an intense wind, that it might even knock her into the next person and cause the line of people behind her to fall like dominos. The train skidded to a stop and a flamboyant man in an orange metro vest stepped out and told the pilgrims to get back on the train. Shelly grudgingly compiled but half wished she could have completed the journey to the next stop. She imagined climbing out of the train pit at the next station, clawing at the ledge. She imagined the bystanders' astonished looks, their bewilderment. She would have hammed it up, of course. "that would have be fun," she reflected as the train whooshed her and the others to the final stop. "maybe next time." |
Monday, May 18, 2009
a tale of two stops
The News
| Current mood:fuckin jolly as santee claus I swear, in taking in the news I often feel like I'm reading The Onion. For instance, in an article titled "Vatican: It's OK to believe in aliens," Rev. Funes, director of the Vatican Observatory, is quoted saying, "Just as we consider earthly creatures as 'a brother,' and 'sister,' why should we not talk about an 'extraterrestrial brother'? It would still be part of creation." Apparently, some in the Holy Church would like to make up for persecuting Galileo when he publicized his then blasphemous theory of heliocentrism - 400 years ago. Funes states, "The church has somehow recognized its mistakes. Maybe it could have done it better, but now it's time to heal those wounds and this can be done through calm dialogue and collaboration." I guess you can't blame the church for trying, although it seems rather absurd that "calm dialogue and collaboration" about ALIENS will make up for generations of firm idiocy regarding the supremacy of the bible over scientific facts. I'm not complaining, I honestly don't care about the ways of the church as long as it doesn't affect me. But I can't help but be amused by it's antics. Last month, the papacy decreed that LITTERING is a mortal sin. So if you mash up that used cigarette on the pavement and walk away, you will go to hell. If you eat pistashios and carelessly let those shells fall to the ground, you will burn. And if you even dare discard that gum wrapper out your car window because you think no one will notice, you're wrong, God will notice and you will pay. I wonder what would be eternal punishment for such a sin. |
so it goes...
| Last Tuesday, my Beta fish Kiwi committed suicide. Why? Although I'll never really know the answer, I like to think that he just couldn't take anymore of the cruelty pervading our little world. Maybe he'd look over at Ruby, the Beta in the next bowl over, and be so overwhelmed with his biological urge to kill his neighbor, his own kind, that it made him sick to his tiny little stomach. As the recently deceased author Kurt Vonnegut once said, "I think a lot of people teach savagery to their children to survive." Darwin 's "Survival of the fittest" proves that the most ruthless and fierce creatures will stick around the longest; that's why we preach this cut-throat attitude to our young. Likewise, Beta fish (aka Chinese Fighter Fish) are naturally inclined to kill each other, to be savage, in order to survive. Throughout time, this trait probably evolved due to heavy competition over a lack of food, or something like that. Vonnegut concluded the previous thought by adding, ""They may need the savagery, but it's bad for the neighbors." I like to think, despite Kiwi's urge to kill his neighbor Ruby, he understood the horrendous implication of such a will to kill and bravely decided to take his own life instead. I can almost picture the scene that took place as I unknowingly slumbered. He mustered up all his courage, maybe released a fishy tear or two, then jumped out of his watery home into the dry suffocating unknown….sigh…
…or not. fuck if I know |
MAMI
| Current mood:  contemplative the following is a message i received earlier today. "DAMN MAMI I WANNA FUCK AND EAT THE HELL OUT YO PUSSY .. KISSES" question: do men actually think it’s ok to send random females messages like this? at first, i attributed these unfortunately more than seldom occurences to porno spam, simply because i’d like to think most men have tact. but now, i’m beginning to think that messages such as the one above are actually from real people who honestly think that this pick up line will work. So what’s this guy expecting? that i’ll wet myself in anticipation and rush to set up a fuck date? do i appear to be some starved indivudual who would be so turned on by his typical muscular no shirt myspace body shot that i’ll just reduce myself into being his banghole simply because he took a moment to call me "MAMI"? then i start to wonder what is it about my profile that is a magnet for this kind of lewdness? is it my blog about constipation? i guess that must be the ticket. wait, no. it’s the boob shot, isn’t it? can’t a girl show some cleav without verbal molestation? i guess this should probably prompt me to set my shit to private. but then i would be censoring myself from random male perversity. and if that happens, where will i get my laughs? what a dillema. |
warm and cozy christmas
| have you ever wondered what all those lonely jews do on christmas? i mean, nothing is open, friends are celebrating with their families, and other jews are just, well, jewish. who'd want to hang out with them? well, other then eating chinese food and dealing with the continuous panic attacks relating to our inevitable eternal damnation, i can't really tell you what us jewbies do on this day. however, i can let you in on what one daughter of hashem did this christmas. she looked within and gave a good think to all the things that have happened in the past year, to who's really been there when needed, and to what is worth holding onto in the years to come. i feel good knowing where i stand, and i hope that all of you out there can say the same. with this mind, mieko and i would like to share our warm and cozy feelings with you this christmas day. . |
the good american
| Current mood: contemplative "Those of you who know me, even in the slightest, may perchance have noticed my appreciation of the smaller things in life. For instance, I love to laugh. I also love releasing a hearty poop at least once a day. Since I've been blessed with constant activity on both these fronts, I arrogantly mix the two fortunes of my nature together – I laugh at poop. I'm really not all that particular on the specifics. I giggle at the mention of the word, chuckle in response to a vulgar reference, etc. Yes, I am immature. It's really not that much of a problem. You laugh at the antics of Raymond Romano, I'll laugh at bowel movements. Potato, potaato. Anypoo (teehee)… Like mentioned above, I think this amusement stems from the fact that I take my regularity for granted. You know, like when rich people laugh at poor people. It's easy to laugh at poop when it's in abundance. Well, let me tell you, dear friends of mine, this world - in which we are all puppets - is a cruel place. It is full of mockery and condemnation. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy irony as much as the next yahoo over… you know, when it happens to other people. but this! THIS recent dealing of the cards was just plain maliciousness. "is this your idea of joke!" i cursed while shaking clenched fists at the heavens. But, alas, my efforts were in vain. There was no amount of fist shaking that would loosen my bowels of shame…" I wrote the above passage while abroad  Exhibit A but then, I recalled experiencing this same rumbling sensation once before. It was four years ago when, after a 15 hour flight, I touched ground on foreign soil. And, in mounting terror, I remembered that I had No-Poop Syndrome (NPS) for the duration of that entire trip. It was such an fruitless experience that I had totally blocked it out of my memory. You know, like when people get abused as children and then block it out only to remember it in bits and pieces after years of psychoanalysis and shock therapy. "no," I whimpered, "not again." But yes, again! To cut a short story even shorter. My suffering ended the moment I walked into my home in  Exhibit B Shawarma at its finest. "Eat a Pita" on  Exhibit C as a side note, did you know that  Exhibit D Some people have told me that NPS is a mental problem, but I have my doubts. I can assure you that the most ascetic of monks couldn't have concentrated harder than I at beating this thing into the ground. No, the only conclusion that makes sense is that my excretion system knows when its on its home turf and, likewise, when it is on foreign ground. My butt was born an American, and, by golly, it will stay an American. I suppose it just refused to remain in business knowing that all its profits would just get cycled into the foreign sewage exchange. That's just how hardcore it is. I purchased a small American flag for the little fella, so that it may wave the red, white, and blue with pride. |
when life hands you lemons...
| Current mood:i’m just peachy keen squirt its citric acid in someone's eye, preferably in the eye of the person who handed you the lemon. cause i mean...what the fuck man? a lemon! what am i? an 8 year old on a hot day in need of three dollars in change and something to do!? make your own god damn lemonade. |
a day in the life
| My mother once expressed interest in seeing where I work and what I do on a typical day. I said "you should come visit me sometime." She replied with an "ehhhh." i guess laziness is hereditary because I would have answered in the exact same fashion. "Alright then, I’ll take some pictures and save you a trip," said the good daughter. so I’ve been snap snapping here and there, and I got to thinking. "wouldn’t it be grand to write a picture blog entry regarding a day in the life of me?! I mean, everyone would appreciate that, right? Cause I’m so fucking interesting!" …well, interesting or not, a day in the life of shelly is what I’m posting. Read on friends, read on. so, as I’ve already spent a number of entries focused on the metro aspect of my day, I’ll skip ahead to the point where park my rump in a chair for 7.5 hours. .... .. .. Here is my desk. ....
  ....He knows I call him that but he doesn’t mind. adam once told me that he showed his mom my myspace page and my default picture was the one where I’m grabbing tits. He said, "that’s my boss." I’m such a professional. ....Yup.....
....I’m pretty much the handy gal around here. Have I mentioned yet how much I enjoy power tools? They make me feel bigger than I really am and, for a petite person such as myself, feeling big is radical. So today I had to go on another furniture hunt. As mentioned above, everything that was left behind by the old occupants is up for grabs, including all their nifty furniture. This is how I acquired my desk. BUT the problem is that all the furniture has been jammed into small rooms. This is one such room..... ....In order to see all that the room has to offer, you must climb over tipped over desks that are piled one on top of the other. Now comes the fun. Never mind my office appropriate skirt, it’s time to climb. (Yes, I brought my camera). .... Just so you know, this is a "real" face of alarm. I put the self-timer on and just as it went off, the unit I was sitting on began to violently titter. This is me actually trying not to fall and kill myself. I’m so in action! But motivated to continue nonetheless. Save the jitters for the quitters. Perched atop a wall cabinet, I spotted what I was looking for in the back corner of the room. ....
Of course, it was in the hardest most innermost spot to reach so I had to remove everything from the crammed room just to get at this small drawer unit. After much struggle, success was mine. ....
...Isn’t it pretty. Oh yeah, while I was surveying the other rooms, I found this tacked to the wall and was thoroughly amused. In case you were wondering, don’t put a plastic bag over baby’s head. But enough about me, how was your day? .... |
Metro = Weirdos + Shelly
| Ok so the metro freaks are starting to get to me. Wait. Before getting into this rant, I need to establish the fact that I enjoy my daily train rides. It's ME time; a time when I can sit undistracted by television, phone conversations, or the internet. It's a time to think or zone out. Either way, this time is important to me. But more than ever, people are popping my bubble of solitude and invading my ME time. Usually they start out by saying, "Whatcha reading?" If only I had the ovaries to say, "It's called 'Don't bother people with stupid questions while they're reading. asshole." Once in a while, it's ok, sometimes even quite interesting. For instance, my meeting with the youngish fellow from Yesterday, on the way home from work, I was taking a snooze when I awoke to a sort of wimpering. I immediately regretted opening my eyes for, there, hovering over the poor woman sitting next to me was this middle-aged drunkard. He was literally begging her (and yes, fake crying) to give up her seat so that he could sit next to me as I "sweetly slumbered." Creepy… as soon as he saw me awake though, he leaned over her completely and got directly in my space, demanding to know my name. I said it was Amelie (I always wanted to do that). After a good five minutes of politely refusing to reveal any more information about myself, he got off the train. But I didn't even have enough time to let out a sigh of relief when he pressed his body up against the window from the outside. At this point he had everyone's attention. They were all looking at him and then looking at me. So much for ME time. Thank you very much Mr. drunk ass fucker for stealing away precious moments of my life, moments that could have been used thinking about Prince Charming as I quietly rested my eyes. Motherfucker! Then, this morning!!! I was listening to my favorite Bjork song "Five Years," thoroughly enjoying myself, when this asshole (whose sweatpants were tucked into his socks) sat next to me and asked what I was listening to. "NOT YOU MOTHERFUCKER". with nowhere to escape, i was then forced to listen to a long-winded speech about illegal immigration and how the Mexicans are cockroaches and should have Hilter(!) unleashed on them. and jesus christ! this guy was Mexican himself. what the hell man? He said he was gonna take his views to city council - that he had respect for |
other such tales of merriment
| Current mood:  mellow  Does this remind anyone else of high school? I found it in the "Don't" section of this month's Vice Magazine. I understand it's "don't"ness; using a can to smoke weed is probably the worst way to go about it. Breathing in burning aluminum can't be good for you, plus a Pabst Blue Ribbon can is not as asthetically pleasing as a tighly rolled J or my long deceased Petey (sigh). But there's something so innocent in the "oh boy, so-and-so just gave me this nug but all I have is this cheap beer can and a single match." As I had never bothered buying paraphanalia back in the days of A-town (or ever since), this was a frequently occurring situation.. No worries though; I enjoyed the challenge of taking normal household items and creating the ultimate smoking device. I guess I was (and still am) crafty that way. The best part though was going down to the creek with Nicole, the usual accomplice, and enjoying the fruits of our labor. .. behind the bushes of course. And giggling continuously. And sometimes feeding the roaming peacocks... and then getting frightened by their fighting stance... and then running, stumbling over ourselves, after suddenly realizing that a prolonged stay with Kix-hungry peacocks may result negatively. But Vice is right, people. Use an apple. It's better for you. But please, don't eat it afterward. That's gross. (Did anyone else notice the Michael Jackson poster in the background? What is that - a cat on his knee? Could this picture be any better? Pabst Blue Ribbon, a Match, Michael Jackson + Cat, and what appears to be an Ice Skating Skirted Leotard. No... I don't think so.) |
true story
| Current mood: calm I'll never forget the time I got caught stealing watermelons from old Mr. Barnslow's watermelon patch. I was with my friend Bobby. We were giggling so hard I thought I'd wet my pants! At first we tried to steal two watermelons each, but they were too heavy and we dropped them, and that made us laugh even harder. Finally, we each picked out a good one, and we were just about to sneak back through the fence when we heard a low, deep voice behind us. "Just where do you think you're going with those watermelons?" I gulped and turned around. It was old Mr. Barnslow, pointing his shotgun at us. Bobby dropped his watermelon, then pulled out the .38 revolver he kept in his waist, turned, and fired. But the turning must have thrown off his aim, because the shot only hit Mr. Barnslow in the thigh. Mr. Barnslow immediately fired both barrels at Bobby. One blast of buckshot missed entirely, but the other tore into Bobby's shoulder. He tried to fire back, but his shoulder was so torn up he couldn't raise his arm. Just as he was trying to switch to his left hand, Mr. Barnslow ran up and cracked him across the face with the butt of his shotgun. Bobby fell to the ground in a heap. Mr. Barnslow raised the butt of his gun to finish him off, but just then Bobby pulled out his hunting knife and plunged it into the farmer's big white belly. After that, I don't think I stole watermelons for at least a year. (j. handey) |
poopular
| Current mood:  dorky jesus christ. i'm a freaking nerd. no, it didn't just dawn on me or anything, but a situation today proved to be a supreme reminder of this irritating fact. so i'm on the metro subway and this guy walks on the train and sits next to me. his nose is buried in a book. he looks really into it - like he somehow swiped the only copy of the secrets to the universe and he's intent on memorizing every sentence. so, of course, i'm wondering what he could possibly be reading that is so fucking fascinating. i mean, he didn't even look at me once! wow, that sounded really bad. i'm not like that, really! it's just that everyone watches everyone on the subway. i get starred at by little old ladies just as much as creepy day laborers - but that's another blog in itself. ok, so i sneak a peek at the cover and, lo and beyond, he's reading Wuthering Heights. what the fuck! that's one of my favorite books. it's even listed in the "books" section of my page. check it out. so i'm thinking, "wow, this guy totally digs wuthering heights. emily fucking bronte! he feels the tradegy, he appreciates the beauty of the prose. that's radical. this could be the beginning of a subway romance" i start to wonder if i should say something, like "so... how about that heathcliff..." my mind is going over a thousand things i could say to this person when i notice he's wearing a backpack... and there's a question sheet in his lap. ok alright, ha HA! i get it. he's a student and this reading is an assignment and there's probably a test and he didn't do the reading so now he's frantically trying to catch up on the metro on the way to school. he's not captivated by the fanciful storytelling nor the cruelty of the characters. he's simply doing his homework...sigh... figures that this should be just another instance of me being a douchebag dorkface book junkie. i actually thought i could use "good book, huh?" as a pick-up line! god, i'm awkward. i then fell into thinking about my bat-mitzvah. you know how every bar or bat matzvah has a theme, like movies or the beach or something remotely cool like that? well, my mother had the grand idea that mine should be "books." of course i protested, but when she fired back with "what else do you do?", all i could do was bow my head and say "fine." and let me tell you! "books" is a real winner with a bunch of 13 year olds. no wonder i was so popular... more like poopular. |
Beat the shit out of it
| Current mood:  accomplished no, i'm not talking about masturbating. silly. i'm talking about your ipod. for all you out there who have experienced the heartbreak that is brought on by the smirking frown (is that possible?) of the sad ipod face, take heed of the following antedote. i hate the ipod. it is a fancy piece of shit that was made to break down. but since experiencing the thrill of endless entertainment for so long, i can no longer sustain sanity without pod in pocket. god forbid i am ever bored or alone with my thoughts. the horror! i've had a fourth generation ipod for 2 years, 2 months, and 18 days. i've seen the dreaded sad ipod face 3 times. for those of you who have never witnessed the sad ipod face, let me explain the implications of this frowny beast - you're fucked. the first time i saw it, my pod still had 5 days left on warrenty (note - that means it didn't even last one year before complete failure....errrrrr!) oh, and by the way, i treat the god damn thing like a fucking baby bird so screw you apple guy at the genuis (asshole) bar for implying that i'm a bad pod mommy. anywho, as it was still on warrenty, i was simply handed a new pod, no fuss no muss. one year, one month later - i see the fucking frown again. this time, i am no longer under warrenty (yes, i did buy the apple care warrenty for another year only to miss the window by a month... it's a cruel world). fortunately for me, instead of the guy at the bar saying "tough luck" as i assumed he would, he went in the back and came out again with a magically repaired pod. how did he do it? i didn't know, i didn't care. my baby had returned to me. now, just yesterday, i see it again and this time no magic, no mystery, no dice. instead i am informed that i can get 10% off a new ipod if i turn in the dead one. fuck that. no way am i buying another one of these things so that i can deal with this bullshit in another year's time. still refusing to come to terms with my loss, i hit the internet and browsed every nerd forum i could find. apparently, the sad ipod face occurs, not only when the battery's life runs out (as i had been told at the asshole bar), but also when there is a loose hard drive cable - a problem that can be easily fixed by banging the shit out of your ipod. with nothing to lose and a need to unleash the wrath of shelly on crap technology, i beat the thing until it came back to life. that's right, it actually worked. apparantly, the banging jarred the loose hard drive cable into place. of course, it probably would be better to open up the case and gently reset them cables but if you're anything like me - lacking tools, patience, and sanity, i suggest the aforementioned path. i think thats what the genius at the bar ended up doing the second time around when he went in the back. so save yourself a trip. besides, being totally fed up with this apple monopoly, i thoroughly enjoyed letting off some steam on my ever-disappointing piece of poop. its the most fulfilling thing i've done in quite some time. when this technique stops working though, i'm switching to the creative zen. fuck ipod. or maybe zune. we'll see. |
