DEAR, (random Jamaican), FINKELSTEIN, BASK1, (random jamaican#2), ZEN2 in Jamiaca 1998.One glorious benefit of being a city kid, is that friendships made in the city can often last since most people from NYC tend to live in 3 places. NYC, LA, or San Francisco. Mostly because to live anywhere else, for somebody used to 10 million neighbors, is akin to finding oneself submerged in a vat of light whipped mayonnaise.
So that being said, the other day i went to a Yankee game, as is a hopeful tradition recognized by a core group of buds from high school. it has already become a tradition to us and we have already designed a somewhat regular itinerary. first we meet at the giant Bat at Yankee stadium, then we insult anybody who is late and mock how we are going to leave them high and dry sans their ticket, then we pile in, get drinks, get hot dogs, and commence to speaking so loudly and grotesquely that people for rows stare at us incredulously and grab the ears of their children. we don't care. fuck them, where are THEY from anyways?! this is the Bronx goddammit. fuck that pussy suburban shit. what?
we actually tend to increase our volume on and around any moment where the surrounding fans want silence, like the national anthem, even during fleet week. not that we don't care about our nation, or about the soldiers, to the absolute contrary. we just don't think that being a bunch of idiot meat heads, singing all at once like sheep, proves our patriotism. being a patriot doesn't mean we feel it at moments, no, we feel it all the time. meaning that every second of every minute of the last eight years has been a constant slap in our patriotic faces. we're not singing or caring about this song or these people because we get the impression that its this mob sentiment that got us Bush shit in the first place. no, we need to think outside the box FOR our country. we drop loud "F" bombs and laugh for freedom, m'kay?! we pay a LOT of taxes so we don't have to put a stupid yellow ribbon on our cars and vote for people who then veto educational bills for vets. fuck-faces, all of them (Yankee fans sitting near us). real new yorkers like the Mets by the way.
Or, i might be reading too much into it, maybe conversations about how hairy some girl's bush was in high school is, no doubt, way more interesting then some song we've all heard a thousand times. not that we are even hearing about the special vagine for the first time, heck no, we talk about the same shit over and over, but even after all these years...it's STILL more interesting then the anthem. never underestimate the pull of hairy vagine in a loud group conversation.
so anyways, it came to my attention from two individuals that i have neglected to mention some of my most important buds on this online journal o' random turd-like thoughts and memories. so first off i'd like to mention Mr. Finklestein, a wiz kid with the writing thing and the books thing while still maintaining the "cool guy" status. nowadays he's a famous News Reporter, although it remains to be seen how long he can maintain the coolness with that shirt and tie on(sucka). a guy who guided me through my hard transition from inner city school of lawless-sex-crazed-xylophone-players to liberal-money-pseudo-boarding-school-drug-lovers of Fieldston. When the two worlds collided, he and i recognized in each other similar needs. like subtle, yet palpable destruction for the biologically inferior chump ass guidos of Riverdale.
So he and I and two other hooligans decided one day that Manhattan college, just down the block, needed some healthy defacing and humiliation at the hands of youthful, don't give a fuck, future leader prodigies. just what they wanted, really, seeing as how they were still rocking out in mullets and acid wash despite being at the tail end of the eighties IN one of the five boroughs. so we broke onto the campus, found (or maybe it was a happy accident) the administrative building, ran down the hallways tearing down bulletin boards, filled the elevator buttons with chewing gum, knocked over the school alter (god i hope you're not into those weird leftovers from the dark ages, cause i'm not), and terrorized the president's secretary (that was before we called them executive assistants). it was going along great until suddenly, out of nowhere, two of us got pinched by the cops. Finklestein and I looked at each other, and immediately knew the two caught chumps would sing on us, so we opted for the free ride back to our school.
Another friend who shows up to the Yank game, is a guy i have mentioned as a fellow train gamer and train fart witnesser, is also a partner in crime in both writing (he writes DEAR), but also a fellow blogger. and the man who once got me to a hospital after i was knocked in the eye with a flying bagel. don't laugh, it's not funny. we used to have something called bagel Mondays in high school, it was some kind of deal with H&H bagels that our school would get bags and bags of NY bagels. we loved them like smart girls love gossip magazines, or dare i say it, like fat kids love cake. i could eat 3-4 without any milk or cream cheese. actually we didn't have either, which is why i even mentioned that.
but what would always end up happening, is that Tuesday would roll around and there would be a large supply of stale bagels left over. naturally, these bagels were discovered to have the gift of flight. being slightly UFO shaped and all, they tended to make great missiles. we, of course, soon developed a little game of...dodge-bagel. it was all fun and games, until one day i was coming around the main corner in our freshman year corridor. i came under fire from several people and had to duck incoming bagels. unfortunately i stood up too soon. just in time to see my friend Half-E whip one right at me. i literally watched the bagel, my eye was on it like a baseball, right up to the point where it lodged in my eye socket and stayed there motionless. i think i could make out the individual molecules of the hard bread up against my cornea, or maybe it was the crushed and damaged optical nerves misfiring off fake scientific visual information.
either way, the bagel had to be pulled out by somebody...whole. my eye ended up having a scratch right next to the pupil. it was at that point that all i could do was ask for help to get to a doctor. it was also at that point that my now old friend, Dear, volunteered to guide me down to the train to get to the hospital. we hardly knew each other before that, but ever since that forced march, we have been buds of the first order. i might be wearing a patch and in the middle of a lawsuit with H&H if it weren't for his random act of kindness. thanks for being there Mr. Finklestein and Dear. you guys suck, d'i mean, you're cool.
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