No car, no cry

It has been 110 days since I have operated a motor vehicle.

I don't miss it at all. No insurance premiums, no gas tank to fill, no flat tires, no dead batteries, no oil changes (which I never really kept track of anyways - sorry Grandpa), no filling the windshield washer fluid, no window scraping in the winter, having to replace headlights and wiper blades... the list goes on and on. We have been in a standard size vehicle two times since we've lived in New York and it was surprising how claustrophobic I felt both times. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way where I immediately took notice that I hadn't been in a car or thought about being in one in quite some time. Sitting in a car used to feel completely normal, but now it feels like being in a glorified upholstered Rubbermaid storage container.

Old fashioned mp3s

I bought a new vehicle once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away: a Chevy S-10 pickup back in 1993. It featured the Tahoe trim package which basically meant the tires looked more bitchin' than the standard S-10 and it had a sweet-ass Delco AM/FM cassette player. It had a manual transmission which is something that I had never laid hands on prior to signing my life away to GMAC on that fateful autumn day. An automatic transmission would have added $700 or so onto the final price of the vehicle, not to mention there was only one black S-10 on the lot which is what I wanted. In spite of the manual transmission, that wasn't going to stop me from learning how to drive it. It was a bit unnerving watching my salesman Rick Cherry ("Like the fruit," he'd say when telling people his name) walk towards me with freshly typed up loan papers to autograph in exchange for a new vehicle that I didn't know how to make go. Just like most of the others in the handful of big risks I've taken that could have resulted in complete and utter catastrophe (make note of the word "most"), everything worked out fine. After a few weeks of letting up on the clutch too fast, slamming the brakes and killing it on hills and at stop signs, that is.

For several years that truck was my life. Not so much in the way that other dudes look at their cars as babe magnets or status symbols - to me my truck was a glorified private stereo system on wheels that I liked to keep shiny. As a teenager I'd always fantasize about having my own vehicle with a tape deck in it so I could aimlessly drive around and crank my tunes by myself. Kind of like the solitude that a bathroom offers but with driving and loud music instead of pooping and reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone. When I bought my truck I loaded up my 24 cassette tape suitcase with all of my favorites and DROVE. For once in my life I had a reliable vehicle, and being that I was 20 at the time and hadn't been outside of the St. Paul area all that much, I explored. I've always taken a fancy to wandering around in unfamiliar territory so did a lot of driving around outside of the St. Paul city limits to places like *gasp* Edina and sometimes even *ohmygawd* Minnetonka, simply because I could. Although these places were only 15-20 miles away they seemed like different worlds to me. This was back before the internet came around and fucked everything up for independent record stores and guitar shops, so more often than not I'd look up music shops in the Yellow Pages and go cruisin'. As convenient as the internet is sometimes I miss the old days of having to hunt and gather my music rather than just typing it into a magic box and downloading it within seconds.

I don't know if it's the holidays making me nostalgic or the fact that we don't live in MN anymore is truly sinking in, but lately I catch my brain randomly remembering Twin Cities roads and highways and which routes I'd take to get places. It's only been three months but it seems like we moved out here a couple of years ago. A few nights ago just before falling asleep I found myself trying to accurately recall as many details as I possibly could of the Lyndale exit ramp off of 94 and what everything looked like getting from there to our place on Grand Avenue. Although I pretty much remember all of it, there are some things that I'm sure have evaporated from my noggin. I'm sure there's many snippets within the Twin Cities scenery that I subconsciously absorbed, but not until next time I'm in MN and see them will think "Oh yeah, I remember that!" I also play video in my head of the route from 80th Street in Cottage Grove to my parent's house a lot. I'm still batting at 97-98% on that one because I grew up in the Grove for 18-19 years, but now on top of that my brain has additional new cud to chew: What will it look like next time I'm there? When will I be there next? Whose car will I be in? and a bunch of other junk that didn't really occur to me until we recently became so geographically displaced from our roots. We used to get out to Rancho Relaxo about once a month on average, so this three month stretch is a new record. I'm not sure how to feel about that, but it is what it is. Thankfully Google Maps has street view (plus there's Google Earth) so I can always visit places that way, but that's sort of like cheating.

Good ol' Cabbage Grove.

I just read Paul Shaffer and Craig Ferguson's books, both of which interestingly enough go into detail about moving far away from Mom and Dad and their families and ultimately ending up in New York City... that subject matter certainly hit me on a much different level now than if I would have read those books back in Minneapolis. Instead of reading it and thinking Man, that would really suck I read it and think Yeah, it really sucks (we miss you, family and friends!) Life in Minneapolis didn't involve two hours on the train every weekday for me to sit and read, so I probably never would have read those in the first place had we not lived here. Right place/right time, I guess. If we were still in MN I would have given them a half assed read at best and never finished 'em. Not because they weren't good - they were incredibly excellent books. My attention span just doesn't allow me to finish books unless I'm in a situation where I'm forced to, such as sitting on the train trying not to stare at the asses and crotches in my face of people who got on at Times Square and have to stand and hold the bar above my seat (I believe they're lovingly referred to as strap hangers even though there aren't straps in the subways anymore). Times Square is the stop on my way home from work where everyone and their mama boards the train; I'm incredibly grateful that I get on three stops before it when seats are still available.

I've been wondering when I'll be behind the wheel of a motor vehicle next - we just scored tickets to a Jeff Beck gig in June which will require 6 hours of driving upstate, so it looks like that might be it at this point. Maybe instead of renting a car I'll bust out Grand Theft Auto and brush up on my carjacking proficiency. That and maybe one of the Need For Speed games to familiarize myself with getting past the road spikes they'll put up as we approach the Newark Turnpike at 110mph.

It's Beginning to Look a Not Like Chrissss-mas!

Wow... Here we are three and a half months into this whole NYC thing already. It's interesting thinking back to August not knowing how in the world this was all gonna pan out. I remember thinking "What happens if we don't have jobs and savings runs dry?" and envisioning having to sell my amp and a guitar to pay for a moving truck back to Minneapolis, but lo and behold our savings account is still alive and we both have jobs. It feels strangely like home here rather than some big scary intimidating city you always see in the movies that we packed up and moved to.

Every day during my lunch break I religiously walk to south Central Park, down to Times Square, and then take the train back to work. We honeymooned in that general area so it's always quite nostalgic walking past all of the spots and remembering seeing them for the first time. When you see a building or even a doorway that you remember from a movie or TV show for the first time it's almost as cool as seeing a celebrity. Maybe it's better than seeing a celebrity now that I think about it... buildings and historic sites can't talk. Unless you're on some sort of illegal mind altering toxin, I guess. Then they probably talk a lot.

Will Lee, man on bass

On that walk I make a point of it to pass under the Late Show marquee outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater and remember a) crapping my pants in delight when we turned the corner onto Broadway from our hotel and seeing it IN REAL LIFE and b) waiting outside for tickets to Dave's show a few days later wondering what it would be like to live here. A few days ago I saw Late Show bassist extraordinaire Will Lee outside the building for the second or third time - he's pretty hard to miss. I always get a little musician-giddy when I see him. Not just because of his undeniably stellar bass skills and his place in Letterman history, but also because he laid down some pretty kickass bass lines on Ace Frehley's 1978 solo album (which also features equally kickass drumming by Late Show drummer Anton Fig who I hope to see roaming the streets some day). That record has been a staple of my music intake ever since Santa's elves made it for me and left it under the tree on Dec. 24th of 1979 or 80 (thanks, Santa!) My sister and brother both remember those songs simply because I played the shit out of it and still do to this day - I'm sure it has been embedded into Bryn's brain as well at this point.

I also unwrapped the Paul Stanley and Peter Criss solo albums that morning, completing my collection of KISS record awesomeness that my Aunt Cookie started the previous July by giving me the Gene Simmons record for my birthday. Ace's was and always will be by far my favorite. I wonder what Will looked like back then. I'm guessing he sported a sweet beret and a moustache. Pretty much every good rock bassist back then seemed to look like they were in the Doobie Brothers.
Speaking of Santa giving me KISS records, Christmas is right around the corner, yet life feels strangely UnChristmas. This is not a bad or a good thing, it just is what it is mainly due to the following two circumstances:

1. Friends and family are 1,200 miles away. If I were The Dude from The Big Lebowski this would certainly register at the top of my "Major bummer, man" list.
2. New York City's weather is currently 49 degrees. Minneapolis' is that minus 50. I don't miss that by any means, but it's certainly different living without it at this time of the year.
   

#1 is a given to throw anyone's holiday spirit for a humdinger of a loop. I love being around my families, all two of them, and wondering what spending the holidays without seeing them all sucks. It's one of the first things that weighed quite heavily on my mind when planning to move out here. Christmas + No family = Major bummer, man. The only thing I can really compare it to is the feeling I had when I was 14 and couldn't go see Ace Frehley's 21+ show at Ryan's... there was something awesome going on that I really wanted to be part of but couldn't go. We made it through our first Thanksgiving on our own last month just fine though, so there is hope. Missing everyone aside, it was quite the lovely holiday to be quite honest. It still felt like Thanksgiving rather than a day of feeling like we were the only two people left on the planet missing our family and friends. Hopefully Christmas will be the same... we'll miss everyone like crazy but as Tony Soprano would say, "What da fugg yagonnado?"

#2 The weather. This one kind of took me by surprise. In my happy little pretend la la land world I choose to walk around in most of the day, in order for Christmas to occur there needs to be snow on the ground accompanied by nose leak-inducing temperatures. Rumor has it that does occur around here on occasion, but at the time of writing this it's 49 degrees and all I see when I look at the ground are the beautiful filthy gum-spotted sidewalks.

There is a #2.5 to this that I just realized: There aren't any tacky yard ornaments or lights to see on people's homes... I'm assuming that is because there are no yards in most areas of the city. When one does not have a yard, one cannot decorate one's yard. Makes sense, I suppose. There are front stoops of course, although I have yet to see any of them completely pimped out for Christmas (there were some really well done Halloween stoops so I know they've got it in 'em). There are three Christmas tree vendors on our street alone, and every time we walk past them I get in a good huff of Christmas tree smell which will forever give me the warm fuzzies and flashbacks of things such as watching John Denver hanging out with the Muppets, the smell of wrapping paper, and eagerly awaiting the two week break from school. Those are things that encompass true meaning of Christmas, after all. Man... I miss the two week break from school. I work at a school of sorts now and have a copious amount of envy when I see the unspoken anticipation in the faces of students of not having to come here for two weeks. Lucky sonsabitches.

Christmas will come and go, as will New Years, and then it's onto that long stretch to spring. We certainly aren't going to get the same amount of frozen crystalline precipitation that I'm used to in Minnesota which is primarily a good thing. Once winter is over perhaps we will catch a glimpse of the East Coast's own special extreme weather treat: Tropical cyclone season. I'm not sure that we're close enough to get any of that action firsthand, but a guy can always hope. I've always wanted to hold onto a tree for dear life while my body is parallel to the ground as a result of 150mph winds. Perhaps I will shave all of my hair off so that I'm more aerodynamic.

Dear Santa:

This Christmas in preparation for East Coast tropical cyclone season I would like an adjustable hair trimmer, a bottle of Nair, and a nerd strap for my eyeglasses to keep them on my head while I'm holding onto a tree for dear life and being blown sideways by torrential winds.

Sincerely,

Micycle.

Gainfully employed and Back In The (better) NY Groove

To quote one of my editorial heroes Jim Anchower, "It's been a while since I rapped at ya." It seems to be getting increasingly more difficult to find the patience to sit and type out one of these things nowadays having been conditioned to the world of things like Facebook where it's a little more instantaneous and concise when you type something you want to share with the world. I have this huge backlog of stuff in my mind I could write on and on about but I prolly won't get around to simply because I want to put my time into focusing on NOW vs. writing about something that happened a month ago. It's been a wonderfully crazy two months in NY of doing nothing and everything simultaneously if that makes sense. We've covered a lot of ground but have barely scratched the surface of what this city has to offer.

Moving to NYC without jobs and living off savings which was purposely saved with this exact goal in mind is an interesting position to be in. I've told a few people it's similar to going to Six Flags and just sitting in the parking lot all day eating homemade sandwiches and reading a book. A world of blissful fun is at your fingertips... but then again at the same time it's not. It felt incredibly safe, yet at the same time there was always an underlying sense of urgency to find a gall damned job. We knew we'd be fine for quite a while, but every time money was spent on anything from groceries to a slice of pizza to a bag of crack (just kidding on that last one, I think) there was a lingering cartoon bubble over my head of a gunnysack labeled SAVINGS getting kicked by a big hairy guy named Vinnie resulting in a few dozen origami butterflies made of money flying out of it every time. And then that would trigger another cartoon bubble; one containing the scene towards the end of Back to the Future where Marty McFly is holding the picture of his slowly disappearing family - but with us substituted for Marty and a picture of the NYC skyline disappearing instead.

It was getting rather discouraging the past few weeks after sending out well over 150 cover letters and resumes over the span of the past month and a half and hearing NOTHING from any prospective employers. It didn't matter how much I tried to correspond and follow up. Out of the 150+ aforementioned cover letters and resumes sent out (each one tweaked to accommodate the job posting I was responding to, mind you) I only heard back from three people: 1. The hiring manager of the place I started at last week, and 2: Two "thanks but no thanks/we'll keep you in our database" emails from other companies. But persistence paid off - all it took was that one hiring manager to make me an offer I couldn't refuse (no, it's not a job with the mafia).

SO. As of now we've both finally secured ourselves jobs that we love, and they tie in with our personal interests to boot. Uncertainty has since been replaced with reassurance that we're going to be able to "keep" New York after all. Thank goodness for that, because I really don't think we would be partial to a 1200 mile drive back to MN in a moving truck crammed full of our stuff with no jobs, nowhere to live, and our tails between our legs. From what we've been told by the locals it's a pretty impressive feat to have only been here 8 weeks and already have jobs, so I'm just going to go ahead and take that as a glass-half-full sign of things to come.

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Commuting to work in NYC is a rather peculiar experience having come from MN where for the past four years I could conveniently bike to my last place of employment in 15 minutes. Now in order to get to work I take the morning train. I take the B from 7th Ave in Park Slope to Columbus Circle in Manhattan and quickly learned that it just so happens that basically everyone and their mama get on the train prior to my stop. People are literally packed in like sardines... it's similar to being in the front row of a really, really crowded standing room only concert sans the loud music and alcohol. Now that I think about it I suppose depending on which train you take and what time of day it is it's highly probable that there will be loud music and alcohol on the train, but that's another story...

There are only so many poles on the subway to hold on to and stabilize yourself when the train stops/starts/turns, so when it gets packed and you can't find something to hold onto, well... tough shit! Such was the case on Friday - I was part of an aimless subway inertia mosh pit with a few other riders who only had their feet and surrounding people to fall back on. We danced and we danced hard. I'm starting to get the hang of riding without bracing myself on a post though, it's actually a pretty good workout on the calves. It's all good; as long as I have my trusty iPod to keep my brain happy I'm set. It's New York City, after all. For someone to voluntarily move here and then complain about something like that is, and I quote Paul Stanley in an interview from the 80s when he was washed up the first time, "... like winning the lottery and complaining about the taxes. If you're lucky enough to get what you wanted, then shut the fuck up." Thankfully my rides home are much more mellow than that and there's always multiple open seats. I'm much happier it's that way after work than the other way around...

And now It's FINALLY time to focus on the music and being creative, which is what pretty much led us here in the first place. I've been corresponding with numerous musicians via online musicians wanted ads and it's mind boggling how flighty people can be here (not just musicians, either - people in general). One minute they're really interested and the next minute they fall off the face of the earth never to be heard from again. It will happen, though, there's no doubt in my mind about that.

In the mean time, it's time to make it to that first paycheck which will cement in the notion that this all really is for real. And maybe start exploring and getting out to some new places that we've been eyeballing since we've been here. There's this restaurant in Atlantic Center we've been meaning to check out called McDonald's... I've heard really good things about it, so maybe it's time to go see what it's all about. With a name like that I'm guessing it must be some sort of authentic Irish or Scottish cuisine.

Is that a pole in the subway or is it just happy to see me?

I love the subways here. LOVE. THEM. I love how from the outside they kind of resemble 1950s aluminum airstream camper trailers. I love the way the insides look. The gust of warm subway wind you get blasted with when one whizzes by in the underground terminals (wow, that was a very farty sounding sentence). I relish the smell of subway air; Bryn can attest that I actually huff it when we walk through a strong cloud of it. The sound and feeling of one rumbling the sidewalk from below as you're walking outside. I enjoy looking for rats on the tracks and observing the trash while waiting for trains. The subways are seriously one of my favorite things about NYC - from the newer ones which are bright and clean to the older ones with off-yellow interiors which resemble a pair of stained undies from the 1970s at Goodwill... I love it all.

One night last week while getting nestled in the oh-so-comfortable seats of the Manhattan-bound F train to meet up with some peeps, I looked at the suspension/people-holder-upper post in front of us and mentioned how if one was a talented female stripper, one might be able to make some extra money on the ride home from work. More people would use the subways, generating more revenue for the MTA maybe even lowering the current $2.25 fare. The subway cars might not be wide enough to accommodate the "hold onto the pole sideways and swirl down" stripper move, but who knows... if horny dudes are dumb enough willing to go give all of their hard (pun intended) earned money to hot babes that aren't going home with them in the first place, maybe they wouldn't mind getting whacked in the head by a whirling pair of trashy clear stiletto heels, either. If you ask me, the latter of the two actually makes more sense.

Now that I think about it however, the stripper idea might be too much of a security risk, and worse yet a bacterial risk. I already get the heebie jeebies holding onto those subway posts and warsh my hands as soon as I can after making contact with 'em. There's no need to add more body juice of strangers into the mix at this point.

Maybe they could put merry-go-round horses on the posts which riders could hop on and read the paper while in transit. They could even equip each post with headphone jacks so that if you wanted, you could plug your earbuds or headphones in and listen to carrousel music while going up and down on the horsie. Think of how much fun that would be!

I need to digress for a moment: I just went to good ol' Google to verify that I was using the correct spelling for "carrousel" due to Firefox's spell check wanting to correct it. I had it right (carrousel/carousel = same thing) , but made a rather disturbing discovery: when executing a Google query for "carrousel music", this site is one of the first on the list: music.carouselstores.com. I listen to some pretty disturbing music, but this goes far beyond even my palate. If you willingly search out and buy a CD full of carrousel music I'm sorry, but that's kind of creepy. The only use I think there would be for something like that is to play the CD on repeat super loud on the surround sound when leaving the apartment for the day just to make neighbors wonder a little.

Back to the topic at hand. The subway posts. The only other idea that immediately came to mind is putting something on the floor similar to a Sit-N-Spin where one would hold onto the post, stand (or sit if you're tired) on the platform, and spin around until you're silly in the head and feel like you're going to blow chunks. That might be the most affordable add-on out of all of these options so far and make those after-bar rides home rather entertaining. Get the throwing up done on the train so when you get home you can just pass out on the floor. What a great time saver that might prove to be.

The thought of affixing a tetherball onto the posts just crossed my mind, but I'm not sure I want to get conked in the melon by a tetherball soaring around the post at dangerous speeds. The only thing we did with tetherball in elementary school was whack the ball really hard in the same direction until it was completely wound around the post... I would imagine there would be more of that than actual games of tetherball in the subways. Which I guess isn't a bad thing if you're on the train and have some frustrations you need to get out.

They could also consider going the Willy Wonka route. The posts could be replaced with delicious candy cane sticks which riders could lick while in transit. Not only would it be a delicious snack for all to enjoy, but the cars would smell minty fresh at all times. I guess I wouldn't want to hold onto something like that though. It would be all sticky and grody and full of things like jacket residue, hair, and other people's spit.

I dunno. I'll think of something to do to enhance those darned posts. They do serve a purpose and a great one at that by holding both the ceiling of the cars up as well as people during jerky train departures... but they're so plain. I think something like a carrousel horse would really make it pop and bring the overall experience of wasting time sitting in the innards of a subway to a whole new level.

Micycle's 2009 Music Buffet by micycle

Micycle's 2009 Music Buffet by micycle

Earlier this year I cranked out three new Iced Ink tunes. Only one of them ("Ikki Lake") got around to being rehearsed enough to be played live by the "real" band, and unfortunately the summer got a little too crazy and zero of th...em were recorded by the actual band.

Who knows when/if these will be played by live musicians anytime soon.. that said, I think these demos deserve to be heard (FYI - these were recorded all by my lonesome at home in my undies with a handful of guitars, my computer and a drum sequencer). Without further ado, here they are! Sorry, no lyrics are available at present time. (ps - Joe and Barry: Miss you guys!)

Song-ographies:

"Don Julio" We went to Cabo in February 2009. I immediately became enamored with Don Julio Anejo tequila and this is my little love song I wrote for it.

"Ikki Lake" Iced Ink played a gig in spring of 2009 and shared a bill with a self-proclaimed "Leading female guitarist in America". Not only did I accidentally catch It bending over to pick up Its amp, which I still need to go to therapy for - but It also expected to keep the $20 that all three of the bands made that night. A week or so later, the song "Ikki Lake" was born as my angst-ridden musical diary of the whole experience. If you think you're a rock star and you really, really aren't, I'm sorry - but you're going to have to go fuck yourself.

"People Syrup" My my my.. Now here's a happy, light little piece of subject matter! This one is the result of a sick lil' musical experiment of forcing myself to not tell anyone about something rather horrifying that I saw until AFTER I'd gotten it out in music: A few months ago I was biking home and at a red light in DT Mpls... looked over to the corner on my right and there was a guy laying on the ground in a frozen mannequin-like position with a steady flow of translucent red drips coming from his head (thankfully he was facing the other way). A stranger was standing over him on his cell looking around frantically for police.

It freaked the shit out of me thinking I'd just seen someone who was likely dying or already dead.. and who knows why or how it happened. That's something I've never really experienced before and it's kind of hung with me, so what better way to let the demons out than through a really fucked up new Iced Ink tune?! People Syrup = the translucent red stuff leaking out of his head. There was a little dried sidewalk stain when I biked past the scene next morning (I HAD to look for it). Ish.

Major chain store grocery shopping excursion in Brooklyn

Ever wonder what it's like to buy groceries in one of the busier hubs in one of the busiest cities in the world? Last Friday I got my chance and let me tell you... I haven't had that much fun since reading The Great Gatsby in 11th grade! Apparently I wasn't too interested in that book - I didn't read a single page of it. That and a few other assignments I neglected ultimately led me to having to retake 11th grade Engrish in summer school with a teacher who would make little movements with her mouth while you'd talk to her.. sort of like she was secretly trying to lip sync to your talking. Good times.

Back to the shopping trip: I needed some canned goods and produce the other day with which to make chili, salsa, and bean soup (we're very regular around here if you know what I'm sayin'). I could have very easily strolled two blocks down to Key Foods, but they're better for smaller/last minute trips being that everything costs a bit more and the selection isn't as vast.

There's this little place called Pathmark down at Atlantic Center which I figured I'd walk down to, explore, and buy all of the items needed to make the aforementioned entrees. From the outside to a Pathmark virgin such as myself I first thought it was a massive dollar store, but once I walked in for the first time when we first got to NY I realized that I'd entered another dimension... The Pathmark Zone. (insert Twilight Zone theme here) This particular location is a quick 15 minute walk from us and conveniently next to the Target we frequent. I figured I might as well jump in and see what it's all about. Here's a street view of the area courtesy of Google maps:



View Larger Map

Pathmark is to the left. If you click your mouse and drag around to the right and look up, there's Target. We all on the same page now? Good.

That photo doesn't accurately represent the day to day hustle and bustle at this intersection - it's smack dab in the middle of 6 subway lines and 2 bus routes which makes it a bit of a clusterfuck to walk through at times, but everyone is generally nice in a "We're all in this together" kind of way which is cool. You have to go there in the mindset that yeah, it's going to be busy and suck.. that's just part of the "charm" of living in the big city.

It was raining out and I had nothing to lose but calories, money, and time. I put on my boots and made the 15 minute walk to Pathmark with Bryn's gramma's trusty grocery cart in hand. It was pretty weird walking into a new grocery store in a new state for the first time. Everything is the same but different. The produce department is like the size of a small football field - and although 90% of it is in horseshit condition and inedible, I realized that if I did some digging that I pretty much found everything I needed - except for jalapeno and Anaheim peppers which seem to be a rarity in this area.

And then there's the aisles: hardly anything on the shelves is in the right place. The general area is right but as far as things like cans matching up with shelf labels? Fegeddabaddit. The neighboring Target store is the exact same way every time we go; if you were to walk in there on any given day and pick 10 random items off of the shelves, I'll bet you 8 of them would differ from the shelf label area they were stocked over. It's really quite impressive! I imagine the job interview process for stock people at these places is something like this:

Pathmark: "Can you take things out of boxes and put them on shelves?"
Interviewee: "Yep."
Pathmark: "True or false: Canned tomatoes go in the canned vegetables aisle."
Interviewee: "Umm... purple?"
Pathmark: "When can you start?"

After about an hour of aimlessly wandering around and exploring all of the glory Pathmark had to offer, I had all of my items in the basket and was ready to pay. Now here's where it gets painful: Every time we've walked by this store and I've peeked in I'd see about 40 checkout aisles all so crammed full that the lines actually curl around into the shopping aisles. I used to think it was just coincidentally busy whenever I'd look in but I'm pretty sure now that it's always that way. There are no short lines or better lines than other ones - they all suck. You just have to find one and start standing. Which I did.

Thank goodness for my iPod, that's alls I have to say. While standing in line I listened to 27 minutes of a Podcast, called Bryn, and read some of People Magazine's special 1970s flashback issue. They lost major points with me for not mentioning KISS in the music section. They mentioned Elton John and The Eagles as if they were the Beatles of the 1970s but nothing about KISS. Don't get me wrong, I love Elton and The Eagles, but no KISS? What's wrong with the people at People?

I was almost at the finish line. The man ahead of me had one of those 24 roll packs of toilet paper. You know how at Target they'll put those plastic tape handles on for you sometimes? Not at Pathmark. I kid you not - I watched the cashier casually tie five plastic bags together to form a belt which she wrapped around the cumbersome package of asswipe while myself and a dozen other people behind me waited. It was like watching MacGyver in ultra-slow motion. That's treading a rather thin line between exceptional customer service and Beeitch.. what the feck you doin'? He bought it, let him figure out how to carry it home.

My turn finally came and I was fearing what the total was going to be for my pile of stuff. I kept thinking Aw man... this would cost me around $30 in MN and I'll bet it will be $50 here. Surprisingly it all came to $34. What you don't pay in money you certainly pay for with time, but thankfully I've got time right now (thank you, savings account). I loaded up the grocery getter cart and pushed that sucker home in the rain, proud that I'd survived my first big trip to Pathmark. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the grocery shopping life at a major chain store in Brooklyn.

It's really not that bad as long as you're in the right mindset and have tunes to listen to. There's another Pathmark the same distance from us as the Atlantic Center one which we briefly ventured into last week. It doesn't seem nearly as crowded there, so I think we'll hit that one next time and up until we become members of the Park Slope food co-op a few blocks from our place. Everything at the co-op is a bit cheaper, far superior in quality from anything else I've seen around here, and although it gets crowded in there too it's not nearly as draining as Pathmark. There's a one month waiting list to get into the co-op and we have 28 days to go before we're in. That's going to be awesome. I'm sure I'll miss Pathmark when that time comes.

Out East and Up, Unloaded and Walkin' (Part II of 2)

Yesterday we hit the one week mark since our now legendary cross country move occurred. We attended a quaint, loverly BBQ at our friends-of-a-friend-and-now-our-friends-too's place. It's nice to know that yards do exist within the city, and nice ones at that. In order to get into their backyard you have to walk down through the basement then up and out through a stairway where if you don't remember to duck it's highly probable that you'll conk your melon on the top of the doorway. That's what I love about New Yolk; everything is compact in its own unique way... even access to the backyard. I'm sure there are traditional backyard portals here where one can remain outside on ground level and walk from the front of the property around the perimeter of the house to the back, but what fun is that? Kudos to J&I for having a cool yard which can only be accessed via the elusive cellar door. Defenestration via their kitchen window would likely get you there as well unless a strong wind was present and knocked you into their driveway on the way down.

(Well gawd damn, look at that. My Aunt Cookie taught me the word "defenestration" some 25 years ago and I just used it practically for the very first time in this here journal entry. Until now I've just casually brought it up as cool word trivia in the company of strangers in lieu of talking about the weather, but now that word's time in the spotlight has come. Thanks, Cookie!)

I digress. Back to one week ago: We arrived at our new home in the moving truck, parked it, and barreled across the street to the Realtor office to obtain our keys. As we unlocked and entered the main entry door to the building we live in, we realized that the stairway we remembered as being only 8-10 steps to our apartment door was actually more like 20 steps. Thank GAWD we'd hired movers just days prior. We were on borrowed time with the rental truck as well as mental/physical energy. Hauling 800 cubic feet worth of boxes up those "bonus stairs" we somehow didn't remember after being on the road for so long would not have been pretty at this juncture. Let me just say that those movers were by far the best $130 I’d spent since that hooker in front of the Popeye’s Chicken on Fulton Street (sorry, I’m saving that story for the grand kids).

The movers were due to show up in an hour so we decided to get some of the more fragile items up and out prior to their arrival – cats, guitars, picture frames, and our massive glass sofa... okay, I made that last one up but you’ve got to admit that would be pretty cool, especially if it had some sort of built in neon green lava lamp effect.

At any rate we climbed the Stairway to Heaven and unlocked our apartment door for the very first time. It turned out that just like the stairway, the version of the apartment in our memories differed a bit from the real thing, mainly due to the fact that it was a tad bit less spacious than we remembered. The bathroom, for example: it does not allow one to comfortably sit on the john and read unless you sit at an 8 o’clock position on the seat. Evidently this is a rather common NY apartment idiosyncrasy. I’ve managed to sit on it in the traditional 6 o’clock position a few times, but only after some ample stretching and careful planning in regard to which leg goes where and when whilst mounting ass upon seat. We are quickly learning that walls aren’t just for hanging pictures on anymore… in a small apartment they seem to double as flat closets; same goes for the ceiling. I'm finding myself looking at things like a blender and thinking Hm.. with a couple of S-shaped hooks I’ll bet I could hang that sucker from the ceiling… and probably fit a frying pan, my Etch-A-Sketch and that rolling pin in there somewhere as well. Alas, it’s our apartment, and although it’s a little bit smaller than we remembered it’s awesome and we absolutely love it as well as the city which surrounds it.

After the movers came and lugged our stuff up for us the place was wall to wall cardboard boxes with a narrow path to get from the front door to the bathroom and through to the bedroom. It was time to celebrate our official move-innance with a beverage. I cracked open a beer, Bryn made a cocktail, and we sat on the half of the couch that wasn't blocked by boxes to bask in the glory of what we'd just accomplished over the past three weeks. There we were, home at last.

Our lips didn't even make contact with the delicious celebratory beverages. 20 minutes later we both woke up still sitting upright with our drinks somehow still in our hands and filled to the rim, the glasses just as sweaty as we were when we sat down with them. Unfortunately the box spring and mattress were tilted up against the wall because the floorspace needed to lay them down was occupied by a graveyard of boxes. I remember thinking Awww HELLL maaaaaaaaan, I juss wanna duct tape maahself sideways onto that muh-fuggin bed and sleep for two days! Not an option.

We somehow stayed up a few more hours to dig out the basics we needed to get through the night and went out for our first meal at a fine Italian dining establishment two blocks down from our door. The meal consisted of spaghetti and meatballs accompanied by a glass of wine with which to wash said bawls and pasta down. I was quite fried by that time, but I recall it being rather delicious. Although I really don't remember much aside from the "OHMYGAWD WE LIVE HERE NOW!!" euphoria, I have a barely noticeable dime sized oil stain on my green pants from a piece of meatball that fell on my lap. I don't see that stain as a bad thing, it's more like a clothing tattoo. Every time I see that stain I'll remember what it took to get to that stain.

Now it's just a little over one week later and it's finally starting to look like an apartment when we walk in rather than a gigantic cardboard origami orgy gone wrong. We still have a ways to go with unpacking but honestly I don't give a rat's arse anymore. We're Home and it fucking ROCKS here.