On my way home yesterday afternoon, I passed a hot dog stand that regularly sits on our corner. A crowd of men in khakis and Polo button-downs was gathered around, each ordering up hot dogs – most with extra ketchup.
“How much per dog?” someone asked. The normal price: $1 even. But the guy behind the stand looked down at the Republican National Convention Delegate tags hanging around their necks, looked back up, and with only a slight small replied, “$2.50 a piece.”
Learn Braille so I can read in the dark.
As noted in my last post, I’m reasonably good (especially while drunk) at passing myself off as Australian. It’s a hard-earned talent, certainly, though one I put to good use for years, while under-age, drinking on an Australian fake ID.
For any underage drinkers reading along, it’s an approach I heartily endorse, as it left me with scores of entertaining experiences, from berating liquor store clerks who tried to look up the ID for verification in their US license picture books between Arkansas and California (“You fucking American twat, it’s a country, not one of your little ‘states'”), to waxing philosophic about the Australian public transportation system (something I’d never actually used) in conversation with a cute grad student in Cincinnati writing her thesis on subway systems of the world.
Women, it seems, love Australians, though explaining the lack of accent the following morning can be a bit tough. And while bartenders are happy to spot such out-of-towners a round of drinks, the round is usually comprised of Fosters. (Bartender: “Here you go man; it’s Australian for beer.” Me: “More like Australian for watered down piss. Aside from Victoria Bitter, I wouldn’t even rinse my arse with the swill Fosters bottles.”)
Throughout my years of being part-time Australian, though, there was only one fake ID experience that left me feeling a bit guilty about it all. Right around the corner from Yale’s dorms was a small liquor store, Quality Liquor, that was notorious for being brutal on fake ID’s – the wall behind the register was lined by at least a hundred confiscated fakes. So, in part because they really did have New Haven’s best liquor selection, and in part because I wanted to see how well my accent and ID stood up to the test, I headed in the first week of Freshman year.
Not only did I pass with flying colors, I quickly became a favorite of the owners, who referred to me as “Crocodile Dundee”, and gave me free liquor and significant discounts. Over the years, I got quite friendly with them, regaling them with tales from the Outback. But, then, the summer after my Junior year, I turned 21. And I was faced with a dilemma: do I keep pretending to be Australian so as not to offend them after years of friendship under false pretenses? Or do I come clean? (In my native California accent: “Sorry about that Australian thing, dudes, but an alcoholic’s got to drink.”)
Not really life-and-death, I know, but honestly something I worried about for a considerable amount of time. So, when I returned after the summer to New Haven, my sadness was tinged with considerable relief when I discovered the store had closed. I was spared the chance of revelation altogether, and, at least for two fat middle-aged Italian guys, will forever be as Australian as they get.
For the most part, I think of myself as a merely moderately funny person. Sure, some of the posts here are (to me, at least) reasonably amusing, I’ve done my share of improv comedy in the past, and, like most people, I’ve at least toyed with the idea of leaving it all for a career as a bumper-sticker writer (“Honk if you’re Amish” being an easy hit). But, really, I don’t see myself headed off on the stand-up circuit any time soon.
Still, in the past few months, I’ve been told repeatedly that, with a couple of drinks in me (and here, by “a couple”, I mean seven or eight), I’m pure comedy gold. While I’ve long had a vague sense that I’m at my best with all sheets to the wind, I rarely have clear enough memories of the conversations that take place in such a state to suspect any talents beyond drunken self-delusion.
With a slew of recent confirming reports, however, I’m now increasingly sure that I really am in prime form when liquored up. Perhaps that’s because alcohol inhibits my (admittedly already meager) desire to be liked, leaving me free to make all the sarcastic, assholish (albeit self-deprecatingly sarcastic, assholish) comments that spring to mind.
At first, I was only vaguely pleased with this inebriated talent, as I suspected it might push me past the level of belligerence that even the bitchiest girls would find charming. But that opinion changed when I awoke this morning with some young lady’s phone number scrawled on the back of my hand, though with only a vague recollection of to which young lady in particular that phone number might belong.
With a quick phone call to another party attendee, I was able to attach a name to the number. But I was also advised that actually calling the girl (at least while sober) might not be the best idea, as I’d apparently convinced her that I was a.) an Australian illegal immigrant, and b.) a performance artist who’s signature piece is a lengthy strip routine, while in black-face.
When it comes to the pick-up potential of ironic humor, it seems there really is no such thing as too much.
With an extended stretch of actually staying in the same place ahead of me, blogging should be back to some vaguely regular schedule. Try to contain your excitement.
Without it, my life would be far less interesting.
Last night, while drunk, I convinced my brother to let me sharpie a bannered “MOM” heart tattoo on his right arm. At which point, he did the same to me.
It wasn’t until this morning, getting into the shower, that I noticed he had actually replaced the contents of the banner with “MEN”; apparently, the kid has a sense of humor.
By now, I feel like I’ve gone through law school second-hand, having spent countless hours and dollars collaborating with pricey lawyers on tech and film contracts.
Even after returning, fairly sloshed, from a party on the roof of exceedingly attractive friend-of-a-fried Lexa, as my brother and I catch the middle of the Yankee’s game in my living room, betting the over/under on pitching speed, I can still churn out emailed phrases like “it will be our position that, due to prior agreement, such clauses related to rights of distribution approval are wholly invalid or unenforceable.”
Nothing left but to sit back and wait for my Supreme Court appointment.
“The only thing more unpalatable than a logophile is perhaps one who types.”
– The inimitable Vic Sarjoo, in response to my earlier repartee.
These days, with nearly 40 gigs of music spinning inside my iPod, I listen most any time I hit the subways or streets. And, by and large, it’s great. With sound-isolating high-fidelity buds in my ears, I barely hear the city grinding noisily away around me. With a click of ‘shuffle songs’, my entire CD collection pours seamlessly into my brain – from Aaron Copland to Zoot Sims, reminding me constantly of songs and bands I’d forgotten how much I love.
The problem is, from years of playing music, I can’t help but move in time to the beat. A year back, enrolled with a friend in a ballroom dance class, I was constantly amazed by the number of people with no sense of time – couldn’t they hear the music pulsing away? But, as iPodding goes, an overdeveloped feel for the rhythm is a bit of a disability – I can’t not move in time to the song. So, as my listening shuffles from slow ballad to up-tempo rocker, my walking speed shifts way up and down – a problem today when, already running late for a morning production meeting, I hit a stretch of laid back Clem Snide, Nico, Iron & Wine and Love is Hell Ryan Adams.
Despite broadening my (in-time) stride, I still arrived late. But it won’t happen again – just downloaded to the iPod is a ‘running behind’ playlist with enough Pixies, Donnas and Yeah Yeah Yeahs to have me fairly sprinting towards wherever I’m bound.