Filed under: Late Night | Tags: all nighter, breakfast, college, morning, night, sleep, Top Ten Lists
10. All the streetlights are flashing red.
9. Whatever message you inked on your hand is just as smudged as your eye makeup.
8. Channels 4 and 7 are still playing infomercials.
7. You didn’t even notice that your right heel was broken.
6. Yesterday’s outfit is becoming today’s ‘slightly-disheveled-chic’ look.
5. You are having illusions of grandeur, including a need to exercise as soon as the gym opens, random pancake cravings, and a shrinking to-do list.
4. You greeted the man who delivered the Wall Street Journal.
3. Coca-cola is an acceptable alternative to coffee.
2. The look like you have two black eyes and a fever, but it’s really just from too few naps and too many calories.
1. Your Crackberry vibrates incessantly as your roommate, bestfriend and boyfriend ask you where you are and if you’re alright.
UPDATE: Add somewhere on this list “You sent an important email to someone you corresponded with from Craigslist by accident.” I just did that. Idiot.
One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself walking on a crowded sidewalk with strangers of the present, in their crew neck t-shirts and their leather sneakers. You’ll see all the standard conventions of life and social acceptability. You’ll look at yourself and realize you are no different from the rest of them, other than that radiant blonde hair that turns white in the sunshine. The holes in your favorite navy shirt will never stop you from wearing it, even after the German words fade from yellow to a crispy shade of brown. You’re gonna wonder what the hell happened, when did you get so boring. When did any of it matter?
You’re going to run into the middle of the street and shout out loud, and the only one that will hear your voice is you. The people who stride down the sidewalks won’t give you another look. Their iPods will continue to pulse black music into their skulls without hesitation. You shout, your arms raised above your head, and your neck outstretched, as if to greet the rain. It feels like nothing. An old taxi cab will stop just short of you. You will look at the sad, confused cabbie for a brief moment and you will continue to walk to the other side of the street.
It’s gonna hurt to see that, despite the news and the passing of time, not much will have changed.
You’re going to wonder why you wasted afternoons watching SportsCenter, if you should’ve written better papers. You’re going to debate your own moderation, or lack thereof. But not until your numb walk down dirty buzzing city blocks leaves you standing in front of the familiar turquoise vinyl of your apartment. Wind will rip through your coat but you won’t even notice that you’re convulsing with shivers. You’ll trudge up the staircase and fall into your studio as the wimpy key finally catches the lock. You’re going to look at the white walls, the grease on your TV screen and the empty bottles on your decaying coffee table.
It will be the first time you’ve ever realized how alone you are, but you still can’t feel the cold.
When you think your fearlessness will carry you through, you will look back at the burnt bridges and ransacked buildings you left in your home. You’ll realize that fearlessness is not enough. You will have to go back from whence you came, shovel snow and pick up trash and chop fallen tree limbs before you can return to your white walls of the present. You’ll swim against the tide. It would’ve made sense to change, but sitting, half drugged by your own emotions, you will realize that it didn’t have to be this way.
You’re still too proud.
Filed under: Song of the Day | Tags: love, love songs, music, open your eyes, Snow Patrol, video
I am convinced this is the world’s most perfect love song.
I don’t know much, if anything, about love. I’ve never been married, and none of my relationships could be classified as serious. As far as most people are concerned, I am just a kid.
I don’t understand Snow Patrol’s intentions or meaning behind the phrase “Tell me that you’ll open your eyes.” But I do think that the tempo of the music mimics every emotion that love incites. The bridge could represent something good, or something gone horribly wrong, or something gone horribly wrong that ends up arguably perfect. It is the beat of love. One that, strangely enough, seems painful to hear, yet also seems undeniably beautiful. It is continuous and moving and exhausting.
The song is not about the lyrics, although the decisive verbs and feelings spoken of certainly reflect love. They serve to complement the beat. They provide some melody to the tones of the bass and drums.
Every time I hear this song, I am taken back to every romance I have ever had, whether they meant a lot to me or not. I think of everything that ever tasted of love. They are all there, nights driving around, on beaches, in each others arms, eating ice cream. It’s overwhelming. I don’t know where all this came from. But last week, when the instructor played it during our five minutes of “do whatever you want on your bike” time, I realized that this is the world’s most perfect love song. It frightened me.
I am convinced this is the world’s most perfect love song. Turn it on. Close your eyes, do something else, focus. You are gonna hear it and say “Wow.”
Filed under: College | Tags: Apple, Charlie Sheen, iPad, jealousy, laptop, Mac, Microsoft, PC vs Mac, technology, winning
I think I have a case of Mac envy.
I am both utterly ashamed and totally thrilled about this. Here’s why:
I was born and raised on a PC. Until a few years ago, I saw anything with the annoying MacIntosh label on it both inferior and wasteful. Why would anyone want those shitty computers? They use them in schools because they are so worthless. I would never be caught dead with anything with that annoying, hipster, goofy, happy APPLE on it. Pah. Even my father backed up my thoughts, however ridiculous they may have been. Then again, he was the man behind giving me Reader Rabbit for my fourth birthday. (We ran it on a ginormous block of a PC with Windows 95. Ah, those were the days.) He devoted his collegiate career to computer science, and since then, has become a reputable figure in the IT community. The man will use Windows until the day he dies.
So naturally, I aimed to please (I hope someone laughed at that,) and I, over the years, committed myself to all things PC.
Our home was always relatively up-to-date in computer technology. We cycled through a couple of desktops, a few operating systems, mp3 players, dvd players, video game consoles. We got high-speed internet very soon after it was offered in my town. After some nagging, I convinced my father that we had waited long enough for Windows XP to work out the kinks and that we could get rid of Windows 2000 NT (or whatever weird OS we had at the time.) I was one of the first kids I knew to get one of the first generation of iPods with video. My nannie even bought me an iHome to go with it — because after all, what fun is an iPod if you can’t blare the music loudly for the entire neighborhood to hear?
Senior year, I convinced my parents to invest in a laptop for me. The desktop computer is slow, practically worthless at this point. Can we get a new computer? Or, can I get a new computer? Although the demise of the family desktop was mostly my own fault, thanks to the lovely world of peer-to-peer file sharing (Hellooo free music!), everyone in the house seemed to have their own functioning computer with all the technology and doodads they desired — except me. Maybe I felt entitled, and maybe I was being a brat, but I got that laptop, just like I wanted.
SIDENOTE: I was a very thankful brat. I waited on the front stoop every afternoon for over a week in anticipation of its delivery via FedEx. When the man finally came, on the third attempt at delivery, I almost shouted at him, “Where the fuck have you been?!?” I kept it together, though. When I got inside and opened the glorious, shiny box, I danced like a winner for the Publisher’s Clearing House and I blabbered to my girlfriend, Bridget, on the phone, about how it glistened and smelled fabulous and was everything I could ever hope it to be.
This was my laptop. I am positive I thanked my father so many times that at one point he asked me to calm down.
It ran on Windows Vista. I wasn’t thrilled with Vista, but eventually I adapted to it. But that little wonder of Dell machinery worked well enough for me. I was happy.
Fast forward eight months or so. It’s the middle of July and my college, Villanova University, has just sent me a new computer in the mail.
It’s heavy and clunky and black. It looks professional and I hate it. The OS is different (Windows 7) and I am less than thrilled. What is this business school brick? Who decided to purchase this fucker en mass? Really now? It was somewhat glitchy from the day I cracked open the cover. I hated the background of the St Thomas of Villanova Chapel, and all the weird icons, whose function I knew not, and I especially despised the big silver sticker that tarnished the outside cover. I hated seeing my name and the numbers and “Property of Villanova University.” Oooh, it made me mad, (especially because it reminded me so much of college, which I was rather hell-bent on not attending. But that’s another story.)
Oh, it pains me to know thousands of people suffer with this piece of crap.
I tell my peers at work about the new laptop. One kid, Tyler, overheard.
‘I’ve heard really bad things about Villanova laptops,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, my friend goes there and says it is the worst.’
‘I don’t think it will be so bad. I don’t really mind it,’ I said. What I really wanted to say was Fuck off, Tyler. You’re just jealous I have my own laptop with tuition. (Never mind that I could purchase a home in Florida for the price I am paying for four years of education.)
Little did I know, I would eat those words; Tyler was right. Half the time, the mousepad doesn’t even recognize my finger running frantically across the pad, praying and cursing the stupid arrow cursor to appear. The hard drive was replaced within the first month of school. I have pieces that have fallen off the bottom, making it difficult to open the damn thing without a nasty cracking sound. The battery life sucks. It always looks dirty.
If the keyboard didn’t light up, I think I would have already thrown it off the roof of Dougherty Hall by now.
I don’t want to talk about my Villanova laptop anymore. Point is, all my life I thought I was happy with my PCs. I thought that Microsoft would always rule the world and that I would continue happily, if not blissfully, in my Windows World.
But at several points in the last year, I have found that that was not necessarily the case anymore.
Arguably, the first turning point was when I won my iPad. I opened the unmarked FedEx box and had a bowel movement. Okay, I did not poop my pants, but I danced like a Publisher’s Clearing House winner, yet again. (Ironically enough, that same week, my family had been talking about iPads. My uncle Grey wanted one for work — to give sales presentations, to check his mail, to travel with. My Dad argued that they were worthless to the IT world and unsuitable for any real work in a corporate environment.) I instantly fell in love with all its touch screen capabilities, the apps, the beautiful hi-def screen, its aesthetic design, its weight, everything. Though I had owned an iPod for at least the last five years, it’s existence never made me into a Mac Maniac (though I did love my iPod.)
Despite my iPad lust (and my happiness in telling everyone my quirking winning story, which happened before Charlie Sheen even made it cool to be a winner, mind you,) I didn’t use it as much as I had hoped. I always seemed to need my laptop, which I learned after one lack-of-flash-induced-crisis on the iPad, for classwork. I still named it ‘Lucky’ and found it made a great distraction at the gym (an episode of Dexter is the perfect length of time to run,) but it never became the sidekick I hoped it would be.
What is not to love?
January begins. I start working for the editorial staff of the school newspaper. All the layout software, on Macs. I cringe for the first few weeks. What the fuck? Copy, paste you big white block of meth! Oh, I cursed those computers out. But once I got the hang of it, I started enjoying the huge white screen, the comfort of the dock, and of course, Photo Booth! How else could Mary Grace and I take stupid photos together to pass the time? Of course, every one in a while I would have my indiscretions about the OS, but as my computer disintegrated, I became more and more drawn to the Mac. There were many weeks where I would be unable to copy and paste like a normal human again until Thursday because I was so stuck in the Mac mindset.
It was upsetting. But not really.
Today I formatted, installed, and uploaded music onto an iPod Shuffle that was given to me by my aunt several years ago. For whatever reason, I had never used it. But given the old, slow, low capacity nature of my old standby, the Great White iPod, I don’t bring it around often. But I figured this little thing would be perfect. It turns out I was right. I rejoiced in its little greatness even more when I realized my six year old cousin, Ellie, had also just received a Shuffle. (She won it at the Girl Scout Father-Daughter Dance. Since when do Girl Scouts get kickass prizes!?! Also, her mother was the one who gave me this Shuffle, which she won three or four years ago for doing well in sales that year.)
I enjoyed watching Ellie and her younger brother dance to their own separate music, continually fidgeting with the earbuds that wouldn’t stay put in their ears, dancing to their own beat, each with a Shuffle clipped to their jeans, separate but together.
I’ve also had the joy of using their massive Mac desktop computer, complete with fast processing, glossy screen, and the generally beautiful Mac OS 10 interface that I have grown to love. I want to unplug it from the wall, jam it into my Osprey pack, and take it back with me to Philly.
I am having Apple Envy. I want to switch teams. I would gladly forfeit my shitty, shitty, shitty Villanova Dell laptop for a piece of Mac hardware (arguably living artwork.) I want it, I want it, I want it. I want it now.
I know that I should feel totally and completely guilty about this. My entire technological existence is based in the PC world of Windows software. There was never an option; it was Windows or nothing at all. I have a history with PCs. I know how to use them and I know that I like them and I know that they are generally rather reliable. Macs used to frustrate me, even anger me. They made me want to shout out in rage against their stupid hipster cute-y computer vibes and everything else they stood for.
Now it’s not that I want an Apple computer because it’s trendy (which it arguably is,) but because I am starting to think that it is the better computer, overpriced hardware and software. I can’t help my feelings. I would even say they are pretty objective feelings at that. I am totally and completely hooked. I am jealous of my friends with Macs, and I want one for myself.
When Johnny Damon left the Boston Red Sox for the New York Yankees
, the man was often referred to as Judas (which is pretty bold, even without acknowledging that back when he played for the Sox, he looked like Jesus Christ, or so they say.) Is the PC world going to call me Judas for switching sides? Would joining Team Mac be as rotten as joining the Evil Empire? Would I even be welcomed back to the PC world, if say, in fifteen years, I want back in? Can computers make us more existential beings? Can computers make us more compassionate beings? Is all this Mac Envy going straight to my head?
I have no questions, only answers.
But I still really want a Mac to call my own. That cheeky little Apple is such a nice accessory to the monitor, don’t you think?
Filed under: College | Tags: all nighter, coffee, college, night, perks of college, shit list, slacking, sleep, Stress, work
College is excruciating. At least sometimes. Thankfully not always.
Every college student must master the ‘all nighter.’ While some students are better than others at planning out their studying and eating and internet surfing, it’s downright essential that everyone completes at least one, if not five, each semester.
Given my propensity to wait until the last minute (I’m convinced I work better under pressure,) I’ve pulled more than I can count. (Then again, my mind tries to block out the memories.) Tonight, for instance, I pulled an all nighter. An all nighter can only be considered excruciating, God awful, horrible pain when you reach that time when the caffeine makes you lightheaded, especially when you tilt your head a little to the left, and you feel as if the only way you could possibly keep your eyes open is by physically peeling your heavy eyelids open with your thumb-and-forefinger crane. Other than that, if you have an objective, a decent attitude and all the right materials, you can’t go wrong.
First things first: make a shit list. Make sure to write “SHIT LIST” in big letters at the top, and list everything that you need to do before the sunrises, in order of importance. Include check boxes next to each item so that way you can track your own progress. It will also help you feel accomplished once you can tick off ‘Read 6 chapters of macroeconomic theory’ at five AM (several hours after you began reading.) Little moral boosters like this are key to organization and a successful sleepless party for one.
Every all nighter needs all nighter provisions. What kind of caffeine source do you have? While coffee is your best bet, at most colleges, the coffee shop does close for the night. Lukewarm coffee is gross, so make sure you have a back up if yours gets nasty. I recommend Coke Zero. 
None of the calories of regular cola and just as much caffeine. It won’t leave you shaking like Monster and other energy drinks. It’s also the cheapest option, making it great for sustained intake. Snacks are also key to all nighters. Screw your diet for one hot minute. If it’s sold in a vending machine, it is fair game. Snacks serve as a great motivational tool, and eating serves as a great way to reel you back in to your studies. Bring something and keep it handy for the two AM munchies. (It happens every time!)
You might not think to ask yourself “what am I wearing?” But this can make your all nighter all the more effective. Make sure you are comfortable. No pants that cut, shoes that make your feet ache, or distracting accessories like scarves. The less you have to worry about yourself, the better. Make sure you layer in case you break out in hot flashes from all your anxiety or the room is so frigid that you wonder if you’re inside a meat locker. The boy scouts say be prepared, and I tend to agree, at least when it comes to clothes.
Pick your spot. Make sure it’s familiar enough that you don’t want to explore, yet not so familiar that you know exactly where that TV is hidden and a great place to practice for the wastepaper basketball tournament. A clean space, with few distractions and a minimal level of noise is ideal. Extra points to places without internet access. That virtually eliminates all possible distractions! Remember- if you are going to stay up all night to finish something, you want to get it done! Picking a space is key to your success. Avoid bedrooms, friend’s apartments, cafeterias, and other high traffic/high distraction areas.
The most important preparation for your all nighter: bring all your books! If you think you could possibly need it for whatever you are working on all night, bring it with you. Trust me when I say that you are not going to want to walk a third of a mile through the cold to retrieve a notebook or file at 3:38 AM. The only way you’re going back to your room is to jump into that warm, inviting bed of yours. If you can show yourself you’re actually prepared, then you will help motivate yourself to work.
If all nighters were easy, they’d call them “You after a bottle of wine.” Okay, maybe not. But really, it is difficult to stay on track while pulling an all nighter. My solution: give yourself time to fool around. You can’t realistically work for 8 hours straight without stopping for air. Give yourself ten minutes here and there to check your email, blog, tweet, or buy more provisions. If you think you won’t get back to studying, bring an egg timer or set that obnoxious alarm on your cell phone to bring you back to reality and force you to get back to work.
This might seem a bit elementary. Why Katie, of course we should stay hydrated and focused and… wh-why would anyone wear pants that are too tight? Well, there’s one thing people always forget: college students are children. We really are. Tell us that there will be a cartoon marathon or that they are giving away free cookies somewhere, and we jump right on that shit. So, keep that in mind when you’re pulling an all nighter; the more basic logic you use, the better off you will be. So if I reward my inner child I will succeed? Uhm, yeah, something like that. Just try not to put yourself up against standards that cannot be achieved. If you think the ever dubious but always satisfying 8AM all nigher nap will do you good, then go for it. Sleep for ninety minutes before your first class. Kids nap. And I’ve never met a college student who didn’t love to sleep…
Filed under: Things I Like | Tags: changes, Facebook, friends, life without facebook, ridiculousness, social media, updates
I have gone at least a month without using my Facebook.
Some people find this admirable. Some people find this disgusting. Some people find this unbelievable. I really don’t care if you think I am crazy for getting rid of it, deactivating my profile from the pernicious view of the world. Actually I do care: you might be crazy if you’re actually so addicted that you can no longer live without it.
Giving up Facebook has been one of my greatest ideas. I feel like I have more time for living, as opposed to mindlessly surfing profiles, indulging in games inspired by procrastination made for procrastination, and shouting at my laptop in frustration over the ever-changing Facebook home page. While my reversion back to normal sleeping habits may have nothing to do with signing off of Facebook for good, I like to think that it played a part. I do more homework, spend more time on Twitter (reading news as opposed to worthless ‘Notes’ and ‘Status Updates’), and use the internet as a tool, not as a means to connect with my every friend, foe, cousin, viral video, and new game.
I am really enjoying life without Facebook.
Some people gave up Facebook for Lent, like this guy.
But I don’t think that that is enough. I would be willing to bet that there are some Christians obsessing about their lack of social media. They are probably begging themselves to log in. ‘My precious farm!’ ‘What will I do without Jackie’s default to jerk off to?’ ‘Qué necesito para jugar serpiente!’ Those people are planning on returning to Facebook in the near future. I, on the other hand, am not. I think that is the part that gets people.
Facebook has become a necessity. It’s how you stay in the loop with friends, and people you aren’t friends with, and the security team at the mall, and the chemistry club, and your favorite TV shows, and the news about worldwide disasters (including, but not limited to, tsunamis, earthquakes, and that house party you weren’t invited to.) To some, Facebook is as necessary as breathing and bathing. Facebook is a drug. Once you get on, you don’t want to leave — even when you’re bored with Facebook! Is it wrong that I don’t miss it… at all?
Some people think so. I have gotten comments like “I don’t know how you do it,” and “Are you coming back?” and “I would never get rid of my Facebook. I love it.” But do you really? Do you really love your profile page? Isn’t that a little ridiculous? Aren’t we supposed to love family, and that runner’s high you get after a good run, and when your little brother makes you a birthday card? Are we supposed to love the embodiment of commercialism, materialism, laxism, pessimism, nihilism, absurdism, skepticism, solipsism and every other ism you can think of? Can Facebook really be loved? Should it be loved? Or is it due to be burned like a controversial book? I never felt that Facebook love. Perhaps the lust, the hunger for Facebook.
Facebook has revolutionized the world we live it. We now have things like “Facebook Activism” (The illusion of dedication to a cause through no-commitment awareness groups. Specifically in reference to Facebook groups centered around political issues http://bit.ly/fnRjmk ) and different types of friends (“Facebook ‘Friends’” A “friend” on facebook whom you added after meeting for a brief period of time. A friend of a friend of a friend, someone you met at a bar, or just a random acquaintance who happened to add you. You rarely, if ever speak to this person http://bit.ly/fcUwMd ) and we can even decide if those “friends” are worth of looking at our page or not (Facebook audit The act or practice of de-friending people on Facebook, mainly due to excessive status updates. Although this may apply to the de-friending of individuals, it more commonly refers to going through one’s “Friends” list and removing a relatively large number of people, such as people you met at a party once and haven’t seen since, friends of exes, and high school classmates that you actually kind of hated http://bit.ly/dJiAgf .) Even my parents were ‘creeping’ on my page. Anyone could see a snippet — or a decent size photograph — of my life, as of today.
So I when people ask “Why did you do it?” I say “I got sick of Facebook.” It’s not a lie. I was really sick and tired of Facebook. It was a nuisance. It was something I didn’t want in my life anymore, like a crazy ex or a two faced friend.
You don't have to delete your Facebook profile. But it has been nice to take a step back from the digital world of social media.
I don’t mind when people accuse me of being crazy for deactivating my page. I may be crazy, but I am not crazy because I excised Facebook from my life. I know that much. It has been a positive change. It’s one less thing to waste my time with, and it’s one less thing I have to worry about. My social life has not suffered; the people who want to call me, call me. I’m fine. I’ve survived.
One day, I may reactivate it. Never say never. We’ll see how things go. But for now, I like my life without Facebook.
I don’t see going back anytime soon.
Filed under: College, travel | Tags: bus, cell phones, complaining, frustration, life, music, quotes, rules are meant to be broken, silence, strangers, travel
“Buses are like a box of chocolate. You never know what you’re gonna get.” – Forrest Gump, or someone like that…
All my life I have taken the bus. Before I went to school, I took the bus with my parents from the Newton Campus to Shea Stadium for Boston College football games. I went to school, and every year, I took the bus. I even took the bus senior year when I had no car and no ride. (Yes, I was mortified.) Now that I am at college, I take the bus to get around. I take it on campus, to CVS, to the mall, to go home, to go anywhere.
After all this bus riding, I have learned that a bus is, in fact, a box of chocolates. No two buses are ever alike. I have had phenomenal bus rides, complete with cool neighbors, no car sickness, and a great playlist. But I have also had God awful bus rides. ones that make you want to attack the driver, shank your neighbor, and drown yourself in the lavatory toilet at the back.
There are a lot of factors that can make or break a bus. For example, showing up early can be beneficial. I’ve been the first one in line before, so therefore, I got my pick of every seat on the bus. However, sometimes it is nice to be in the middle of the line. You get to pick your bus buddy, as opposed to the other way around. This can ensure that you don’t end up next to someone with body odor or listens to their music just a little too loudly. Usually, in either scenario, the bus ride will be rather bearable.
But if you miss the bus, like I did this weekend on an impromptu jaunt north, you should just consider yourself destined for a crappy ride.
For whatever reason, I found myself in the company of people who either A) had never ridden a bus before or B) were just plain inconsiderate. They didn’t make mistakes by accident. These people were in blatant violation of the Laws of Travel.
Here are some of the atrocities I witnessed in my weekend travels.
Bitching about the process. In Philadelphia, those headed toward New York had to go through a minor security check. They asked us if we had any drugs, alcohol, weapons, cell phone tasers, whatever. These two women in line with me gave the guard so much lip. It was unnecessary and totally against the rules. Rule #1: No complaining about anything. If you acknowledge something as a problem, it becomes a problem. You don’t want other people to get in a bad mood because you’re in a bad mood. But when you think about it, is it really that bad? It took one minute of your time, and for crying out loud, we were sitting around on benches in the middle of the night anyway. It did more good than harm, so just shut your pie hole and relax.
These women went on to also Complain about the driver. There is nothing that can be done about this one. (Actually, there is one thing you can do: drive your own car!) I know that we almost crashed into Jersey barriers, and that the bus practically flipped over when we sped through the hairpin turns before the Lincoln Tunnel. But gossiping about it and saying ‘Oh lord!’ loudly for the bus to hear, well, that accomplishes nothing.
Don’t disrespect the art of packing. While I am aware of the difficulties of packing reasonably (even I just want to throw it all in,) as well as the difficulties of sleep (my habits borderline nocturnal,) you need to follow Rule #2: Be smart. This being said, don’t carry more than two bags and don’t sleep outside. I watched this girl break a lot of rules at once. Not only did she over pack, complete with an animal print rolling suitcase, with the expansion zipper, a backpack whose seams looked like they wanted to scream out ‘TAKE SOME SHIT OUT OF HERE!’, and a sad purse, who hung limp and broken from the crook of her arm; but she also decided to throw it all on the ground and sleep on it. Luggage aside, she should’ve known Rule #37: Never sleep in Port Authority. But she had the gall to sleep on the ground, on top of her luggage! She made some novice mistakes, but God did she make me mad. Learn how to pack properly. There is no way she could’ve needed all that shit. There is no way any self-respecting person would have slept on that filthy tiled floor like a bum from the streets of New York! Were you tired from lugging all that shit around? I bet you were!
What if your mother was riding the bus with you? You would probably follow the standard conventions of life. Which is to say that you don’t make out on the bus. It is such an easy rule to follow. But the preppy couple in front of me couldn’t resist. It was as if he was leaving with the army tomorrow and they just had to get in every last passionate moment together. This violates Rule #3: Keep your shit together. I really didn’t want to watch these two make out, or snuggle, or share sweet-nothings. I’m sure that I was not the only one. I don’t feel the need to elaborate on this one… If you wouldn’t do it with Mom around, then don’t do it on a bus. (And don’t try to tell me you’ve made out in front of your mom. That’s bogus.)
Music related crimes. There are several ways to go wrong with this one. This weekend, I witnessed them all. There is always the classic ‘I listen to my music so loud that my earbuds have microexplosions every beat that cause you to hear the music too’ debacle. I listened to one woman’s second rate rap music for ninety minutes. I wasn’t sure if the old ladies nearby noticed, but I know it drove me crazy. This was a violation of Rule #7: Be aware of your surroundings. This doesn’t happen quite as often as one would think, but today was a terrible case- the lady in front of me was rocking the Dr. Dre headphones… and singing out loud. She sang well, but she also sang very LOUDLY. Although she sat in the front seat, I am sure the entire bus could hear her. An unusual first happened today: some schmuck tested out all the ringtones on their phone, trying to pick a new one. The bus was silent aside from the murmur of wind and the buses engine. But then, the phone starts singing… and after one song, it sings another, and another. At that point, I was ready to turn around, stand up and shout “HEY FUCKER KNOCK IT OFF” in my big scary voice. I didn’t, but I am sure you can imagine me actually doing this. This brings me to another set of crimes:
Phone related crimes. These crimes are the equivalent of rape and murder in the travel world. In fact, Peter Pan bus lines outright banned cell phone use on the bus because it is so disruptive. It’s just as awful as farting in an elevator. Do not talk on your phone on the bus. I repeat DO NOT TALK ON YOUR PHONE ON THE BUS. If you don’t believe me, it’s Rule #10: Don’t talk on your phone on a bus. Today, I on my four hour leg from Boston to New York, I sat next to the world’s worst bus buddy. Not only did this bitch schmuck look at me through her mascara crusted eyes as if I were swine, but for at least three of those four and a half hours, she talked on the phone. (I should have known it would be bad from the moment I asked if I could sit next to her.) She tried to be quiet, I’ll give her that. But after twenty minutes of hearing her repeat “Mhmm, mhmm” over and OVER, I wanted to smash her Blackberry against the ground and cripple her fingers in an unbelievably vile and painful way. I debated telling her how much I hated her for being “that guy” when the ride was over, but I kept my mouth shut.
The most important rule of all: Rule #100: Roll with it. Let people do what they do. Accept things for what they are. People break the travel laws, just like people break the real laws. Maybe I was destined for a less-than-awesome weekend full of bus rides, but maybe I had nothing to do with it. There were times that I wanted to hurt myself (okay, mostly others,) but sometimes it is just better to let off some steam by abusing the courtesy wifi. After all, if you can’t verbally harass them, then you might as well get even by using all the bandwidth.
Filed under: Things I Like | Tags: broadway, Ghetto Klown, John Leguizamo, life, new york city, review, theater
I arrived almost thirty minutes late and entirely sick of the sea of tourists congesting the sidewalks of Times Square. Fuck fuck fuck was all I could think, despite my commitment to swear less for Lent. The usher showed me through the blackness to my seat. He seemed a little high. When I ran into him again later, he clearly didn’t have much of an idea as to what was going on.
I came into John Leguizamo with no expectations. I knew he was a funny guy, an actor, that he had a show in New York. But I had no idea what I was in for, or if I would like it, or if it would be shitty.
But within thirty seconds of taking a seat, I was laughing. This won’t be so bad, I thought to myself. Leguizamo danced. He opened fake doors. He made fun of every man he ever worked with. He danced. He made me feel.
It was unexpected. I went to see the show so I could laugh, not to have an emotional moment and think Wow I wonder if my relationship with my mom is as bad as his is with his father. Will we ever have this cry-in-each-others’-arms-movie-moment? I came for an escape from reality, yet it was the exact opposite—it threw me right into the life and times of John Leguizamo, Latino actor from Queens, ever disappointed by himself, his father, and the Mets.
Arguably, I felt more real cold hard emotion than I felt carefree with laughter.
I enjoy hearing people’s stories. I enjoy seeing something and saying ‘Hey, maybe I will have a story as lively and exciting as this one.’ I’m eighteen and I have not a clue as to what I want to do, who I want to be, where I want to end up. When someone else tells me their story, it piques my interest.
Maybe that is why I am part of the features section.
The simplicity of the set and props, the images that flashed upon the on-stage billboard, his costumes, they complimented the play well. His story contrasted the static of the stage. He was dynamic, emotional, fast.
What I liked most about Leguizamo’s one man show was that it was clear he was human. Yes, he acted, it was clear he embellished a little here and there. Yet he was telling his story in his own words and with a flair only he could produce. He stumbled over names here and there. He focused his energy on the story telling, not so much his every step and smile.
It wasn’t a play. It was a story telling. It revealed something about a man I had only known for his roles in comedic movies and television.
Was it the best show I had ever seen? No, but it’s reality and honesty and personality was refreshing. It was unlike anything else I have ever seen on stage. I liked it. It was worth my time, and I am glad I went.
Filed under: College, travel | Tags: Boston, bus, car sickness, Dunkin Donuts, Philadelphia, South Station, travel
5:57 AM – South Station Amtrak Terminal
It is about 6 AM. I just got in from Philly, over forty minutes early, even after we had to stop for a mechanic to fix some piece of rubber that was flapping both loudly and precariously on the side of the bus. Anything that arrives before schedule is a gift.
Nonetheless, however, as with just about all of my bus excursions, I feel dreadfully carsick. Although — it has mostly subsided to heart burn now, I suppose. But still, even on my walk to the adjacent terminal, I thought I was gonna die.
After the bus ride I was in the ladies room, standing on that fine line between ‘I need to take care of this’ and ‘Some sprite will do the trick’… You know how things that don’t usually bug you seem weird and exaggerated when you don’t feel well? The room smelt a little funny… as if someone spilled soap everywhere, yet they also managed to pee in the sink. It made the whole room smell like cheap piss-soap. The cockatoo store seemed to have invited itself in, chattering and squawking and making a racket. Some woman had a fog horn coming out her ass, too. It was far too loud to vomit. But what it really came down to is I’m not a quitter, so therefore I am not a puker either. (SIDENOTE: I am in no way fearful of throwing up, like some people, but I definitely wouldn’t put it on my list of top ten favorite activities.)
I am a huge fan of taking the bus. Mostly because it is dirt cheap. I have had meals in restaurants that were more expensive than my 500 miles of traveling on a fucking charter bus. But one would think that I hate everything that stupid bus stands for—most certainly because it makes me sick as a dog. The second we even start maneuvering through the streets of Philadelphia (Christ Almighty, it’s lateral movement as violent as that stupid Star Wars ride at Disney World,) I have to put everything down, close my eyes, fervently clutch my stomach and brace myself for the next thirty minutes. (Read: out of the city, over the bridge, and bombing along down the Jersey Turnpike at stop and go speeds that are fast enough to kill an animal but not fast enough to make the ride seem worthwhile.)
Yet I really don’t mind taking the bus. Well, at least not really.
The catch is this: I almost always forget to hold out on eating before I get on that bus. One time I ate an entire sandwich and a cookie in the five minutes between when I found my seat on the bus and when the metal bread box lurched away from its curbside parking spot. This time, I didn’t do myself much more justice. While I didn’t make it to McDick’s in time for a Shamrock Shake (they always shut the machine off too early for me,) I did walk around and find an open Dunkin Donuts. ‘Damn I can’t even remember the last time I went to Dunks,’ I thought.
“What do you want?” says the dude.
“Large iced coffee — black, please.”
If only that dude could’ve warned me that was an acidic and stupid move. But I’m none too bright. Especially when I am excited at the thought of getting the fuck out of Philly, and onto the bright horizon that is Spring Break, which has creeped up on my ass like any self-respecting mid-semester break does. (Hopefully this is an indication that summer vacation will do the same.) At this point in my journey, the past three hours comprised of finishing some reading that wasn’t assigned yet, packing a suitcase with a week’s worth of clothes, cleaning my room halfheartedly, taking a shower, eating a pizza, chatting with my good friend, and fighting with the Septa conductor.
Clearly I am awake.
So why coffee? I do not know.
Lo and behold, just as I predicted, the second that tin can lurches away from the curb, I can immediately feel everything in my throat. No, not like the time I was hungover on that Greyhound and vommed in the bathroom while the driver was giving instructions about how to ride a fucking bus. That was a class act. This was just car sick.
(SIDENOTE: If you don’t know the rules of riding a bus, you don’t deserve to be on one. Did you get kicked off the bus too many times in elementary school to figure out that there even were rules? Were you homeschooled? Did your school offer a private limousine service that picked you up at your garage door, even when it was sunny, and taxied your ass to school every day where you frolicked with other youngsters in plaid jumpers and knee socks? Yeah? Well get off the fucking bus. Just get the fuck off.)
Car sickness is kind of like being on a boat. You get nauseous in waves. It comes and it goes. Sometimes you are like “What the fuck, get me the hell OUT of this mother fucking MACHINE!” and other times you just sigh and say “Well, should’ve bought myself Dramamine while I had the chance.” But car sickness is awkward. Your inner child shouts “This sucks, complain louder,” but your rational self says “Chuck, relax. The less you think about it, the less shitty you feel. Put on your iPod.” You’re uncomfortable, but you never know exactly what your limits are until you’ve reached them — then you know. So you just sit, your face fluctuating shades of green, sighing, choking back the urge to spew, and laughing at that Dane Cook bit on getting sick that seems to replay over and over in your head. That’s car sickness.
But why the hell do we get car sick when we get out of the car, too? I find it refreshing, at least in theory, to stop breathing that recycled bus air that everyone and their sick kid has coughed, burped and breathed in, to stand up on your own two feet and to do your best to combat that mild cousin-of-the-spins feeling that you sometimes get after a long drive. But then, WHAM! You’ve taken two steps outside the bus, and all of a sudden, a tidal wave of car sickness has just crashed over you yet again. When you finally manage to grab a hold of your suitcase from the heap of luggage that is piling from the mysterious belly of the bus, you still don’t know up from down and a bottle of rum from a bottle of water. Everything makes you sick.
Toady was not one of those days that I was fortunate enough to miss out on the phantom-car car sickness.
Honest to God. I walk into the terminal, take about twenty paces and say to myself, “Fuck. I haven’t even had anything to drink and I feel hungover.”
I am not quite sure what it is. But it is impossible for me to feel good while in South Station. Every single time I am in South Station, I feel sick as a dog. Hungover like Sid and Nancy — after a weekend of three sold out shows, four thirty racks and two eightballs. I could show up at South Station at random and it would yield the same nausea as when I have a bus to catch.
There is nothing I can do to stop it.
I’m not sure if there is lead paint in the walls, that the French fry oil from the McDonald’s emits pathogens, or if all that exhaust from the buses just reeks havoc on your bod, but South Station literally makes me sick.
Despite the usual headaches, nausea, sleeping body parts, spins, dry mouth, and panging bladder, I still like South Station and I still like taking the bus. Nothing can beat that dirt cheap price, or that I can work with my insomniac schedule and take a ride overnight, or those random conversations with strangers that allow one to divulge his entire life story, goals, dreams, and fetishes — which are only acceptable on bus rides.
Maybe you can drink or feel like a celebrity in the air, but I enjoy the broke-college-student-deadbeat-travel-plans so much more.
