Upon arriving back home to New York, I must confess that the idea of unemployment held a certain romantic mystique for me. After all, this is the city of Rent and unofficial capitol of la vie boheme. My lack of work presented a unique opportunity to enjoy the city without responsibility, while using my apartment as a personal zen chamber in which I could pass the days bettering myself through quiet, thoughtful introspection.
But as with so many plans that begin with "I'll just quit my job and hang out for a while...," there's always a rub. And in my case, it has come in the form of a 245 lb recovering drug and alcohol addict that has taken up permanent, half-naked residence in my living room. The human equivalent of the great Exxon Valdez oil spill of 1989, he sprawls out like a giant, harry tarp, rendering any hope of coexisting life futile. Not a moment goes by that he isn't posted up in the middle of my sanctuary, blaring noise at a near deafening pitch. Whether it's the most incoherent drivel that basic cable has to offer, or even better - an endless loop of electro-pop-rock crap: I can count on my daily auditory bombardment beginning promptly at 10:00 a.m and continuing on for the next 8 to 10 hours.
It's look of contentment as it flagrantly wastes its days - wallowing in its own sloth, oozing out a total indifference to any kind of self betterment or movement of any kind - never fails to shatter my chi in a million different directions, leaving me in a perpetual state of repulsion.
Do I resent it? HELL YES. This is my time - my opportunity to find clarity. And that time is being ruined day after day by a massive, omnipresent, inescapable blob.
But the worst part is that at the end of the day, there's really no tangible difference between the two of us, At the end, it... is ME. And regardless of how romantic my vision of my unemployment may be, when the cards are down, I am this human oil spill - no better. Its presence serves as a constant reminder of my own refusal to sack up and get moving. Because regardless of how I'd like to justify my lifestyle, every time I look down at that couch, I can't help feeling like I'm staring my alter-ego square in the eye. Like looking at one of those distorting mirrors at the State Fair fun house, it's difficult not to feel just a tad nauseous.
In the words of the legendary Snoop Dogg, "He is I and I am him."
And I fucking can't stand it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
You down with OPP?
A few too many drinks combined with the promise of riches beyond our wildest dreams set off a chain of events that ended with two upstanding young do-gooders being dragged from the jewel of New Orleans' downtown skyscape and crammed into a patrol car like evil spirits into Pandora's Box. It was the first time either Tammer or I had breached the doorway of famed Harrah's Casino Resort, but we never got the chance to lay eyes on the roulette tables that had called out to us with their siren song. Our removal was unceremonious, and by the time we reached the notorious Orleans Parish Prison (or OPP as it is less than affectionately known) our anebriation had long since plateaued and we were suspended in a state of groggy fear. It was around 5:30 a.m. when our personal effects were taken and we were led into what would be our home for the next 20 hours.
My first observation upon assuming a post in the corner nearest the cell exit was that this was no college drunk tank. I quickly scoured the room, looking for the requisite group of frat boys who had been picked up for being a little too forward with their requests of the Burboun Street ladies. Alas, none to be found and thus, no obvious candidates for commiseration. Instead, what my eyes found was a collection of about 60 men that looked like they'd been pulled straight out of central casting for "The Wire." Then there was Tammer, who like myself, was shaking like a pale, sickly leaf under the blinding fluorescent rays.
My second observation was that I was freezing my fucking scrotum off, and that if I didn't start making things happen in a hurry, I was going to have to be excavated from the cell. Most of the crowd had already attempted (with varying degrees of success) to tuck themselves into their tee shirts, rendering them as chattering amputees laying or standing in whatever spot they had convinced themselves was least susceptible to the industrial AC vents. Tammer and I quickly followed suit.
My third observation was that the man next to me had commenced masturbating and that I had better find a new place to shiver, should I value remaining out of the line of fire. At this point, I would have started to cry, but dehydration saved the day.
Seeing this spectacle, Tammer's survival instinct kicked in and he quickly slid along the wall to a spot underneath a bench, where he could watch the scene unfolding while hiding underneath the feet of a few unknowing inmates. Sharing his nook with discarded bologna sandwiches and stale urine, Tammer had the look of a lemur that had been smeared in fish guts and thrown into a polar bear cage. Watching him balling up into the fetal position, I was equal parts disgusted by how quickly he'd sacrificed his dignity and admiring of his will to live through the day. Regardless of which sentiment was most appropriate, the fact remained that I was left to my own devices for the next several hours.
Still freezing, still nearly blind from the intensity of the bulbs above, I commenced a feeble effort to play nicely with my fellow inmates. There was 'Spoon, the pocket sized thug who passed his time hurling half eaten sandwiches at anyone who dared fall asleep in his line of vision (each time squealing with laughter and then running over to comfort the disoriented victim). Then there was Shiloh, one of the few white inmates and a guy who was just a little too willing to recite his history of petty assault charges. All in all, a pleasant enough crowd, but not one that I was eager to make happy hour plans with upon our release. I couldn't speak for Tammer, though, who had now reached an uneasy sleep on his bed of soggy rainbow bread. 
Over the subsequent 15 hours, I watched: a Korean American guard beat the shit out of a mentally challenged Mexican inmate for reasons unknown, a black inmate calling said guard a "chink faggot that should go eat a fucking egg roll," a female guard tell me that I looked like a deer in headlights and that I needed to "sack up," more men shitting than I wish to see in my entire life, a 300 pounder and a 150 pounder huddling together for warmth, a mad scramble for mystery meat and the total emasculation of my friend Tammer.
When we were finally released sometime during the middle of the next night, we kissed the free ground like we'd just escaped from Shawshank. After a 45 minute walk back to the parking spot where the car had been left 24 hours earlier, we two novice convicts made our way to the nearest all night diner. We then straggled back to our respective apartments, burned our clothes, showered... 4 times... and went to sleep.
Neither one of us plan on visiting to OPP ever again. For that matter, I don't think we'll be making a return visit to Harrah's New Orleans Casino anytime soon either.
My first observation upon assuming a post in the corner nearest the cell exit was that this was no college drunk tank. I quickly scoured the room, looking for the requisite group of frat boys who had been picked up for being a little too forward with their requests of the Burboun Street ladies. Alas, none to be found and thus, no obvious candidates for commiseration. Instead, what my eyes found was a collection of about 60 men that looked like they'd been pulled straight out of central casting for "The Wire." Then there was Tammer, who like myself, was shaking like a pale, sickly leaf under the blinding fluorescent rays.
My second observation was that I was freezing my fucking scrotum off, and that if I didn't start making things happen in a hurry, I was going to have to be excavated from the cell. Most of the crowd had already attempted (with varying degrees of success) to tuck themselves into their tee shirts, rendering them as chattering amputees laying or standing in whatever spot they had convinced themselves was least susceptible to the industrial AC vents. Tammer and I quickly followed suit.
My third observation was that the man next to me had commenced masturbating and that I had better find a new place to shiver, should I value remaining out of the line of fire. At this point, I would have started to cry, but dehydration saved the day.
Seeing this spectacle, Tammer's survival instinct kicked in and he quickly slid along the wall to a spot underneath a bench, where he could watch the scene unfolding while hiding underneath the feet of a few unknowing inmates. Sharing his nook with discarded bologna sandwiches and stale urine, Tammer had the look of a lemur that had been smeared in fish guts and thrown into a polar bear cage. Watching him balling up into the fetal position, I was equal parts disgusted by how quickly he'd sacrificed his dignity and admiring of his will to live through the day. Regardless of which sentiment was most appropriate, the fact remained that I was left to my own devices for the next several hours.
Still freezing, still nearly blind from the intensity of the bulbs above, I commenced a feeble effort to play nicely with my fellow inmates. There was 'Spoon, the pocket sized thug who passed his time hurling half eaten sandwiches at anyone who dared fall asleep in his line of vision (each time squealing with laughter and then running over to comfort the disoriented victim). Then there was Shiloh, one of the few white inmates and a guy who was just a little too willing to recite his history of petty assault charges. All in all, a pleasant enough crowd, but not one that I was eager to make happy hour plans with upon our release. I couldn't speak for Tammer, though, who had now reached an uneasy sleep on his bed of soggy rainbow bread.
Over the subsequent 15 hours, I watched: a Korean American guard beat the shit out of a mentally challenged Mexican inmate for reasons unknown, a black inmate calling said guard a "chink faggot that should go eat a fucking egg roll," a female guard tell me that I looked like a deer in headlights and that I needed to "sack up," more men shitting than I wish to see in my entire life, a 300 pounder and a 150 pounder huddling together for warmth, a mad scramble for mystery meat and the total emasculation of my friend Tammer.
When we were finally released sometime during the middle of the next night, we kissed the free ground like we'd just escaped from Shawshank. After a 45 minute walk back to the parking spot where the car had been left 24 hours earlier, we two novice convicts made our way to the nearest all night diner. We then straggled back to our respective apartments, burned our clothes, showered... 4 times... and went to sleep.
Neither one of us plan on visiting to OPP ever again. For that matter, I don't think we'll be making a return visit to Harrah's New Orleans Casino anytime soon either.
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