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johnnynolan's LiveJournal:
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| Friday, February 22nd, 2008 | | 10:18 am |
The McPolitics of an American Institution
While antithetical to my steadfast belief that fast food is the product of a lazy society that values clowns and convenience over quality and portion control, I make a shameful pilgrimage to McDonald's every 4 months or so and become a big, fat McHypocite. Suffice it to say, McDonald's is more than just a fast food restaurant; it's also a nostalgia factory for scores of Irish-American children who undoubtedly view a trip to Chez le clown as welcome refuge from home cooking protocol that requires all food to be charred, devoid of taste and eaten in whole for the sake of hungry children in underdeveloped nations (Irish Catholic guilt is in a league of its own, folks). In other words, McDonald's serves a purpose, even if its food will destroy your health. your dignity and the whole of civilization, one unhappy meal at a time. You have to applaud McDonald's for pioneering early efforts at thwarting childhood obesity by equipping their franchises with the highly ineffective safety hazard know as The Ball Pit. Only McDonald's would encourage children to burn energy after consuming a 2,000 calorie meal fried in trans fats by allowing them to dive into a contraption designed to maximize immobility. The 9th Street McDonald's had a HUGE ball pit, but I never wanted any part of it. The one and only time I waded in those spherical, plastic waters was at the urging of my slightly older brother who made me feel uncool when I initially declined. With much trepidation, I stepped off the platform and began flailing my little arms immediately after sinking beneath the first layer of balls. Who am I kidding? My arms weren't little. I was a chubby kid, losing my breath and my grip on life. In the process of trying desperately to resurface, I touched several arms and legs that belonged to other little children. No movement whatsoever. How long had their bodies been in the ball pit? Maybe they were those milk carton kids from the 80's who everyone thought had been abducted from their elementary school by a candy bearing bald man with black frame glasses. I kept thinking of the shame I would bring on my family if I died in the middle of a McDonald's ball pit. The eternal ignominy that comes with a front page newspaper picture of their youngest child's corpse being plucked from a ball pit by a medical examiner, bulging neck and blue face from the plastic ball lodged in his windpipe. A miracle saved me from certain death, and common sense kept me out of the ball pit for good. Maybe I never cared for McDonald's (and this was the only one in this part of Brooklyn) because I always felt like such an outsider. Most children embraced the clown and his carefree, jump suited ways, but I found little identification with any man who wore lipstick and sported a red Afro. For me, Ronald McDonald was a definitive answer to the question of "Whatever happened to Baby Jane?" Creepy. And what of the power structure within McDonald Land? What voting body ushered Mayor McCheese into decades of unopposed, tyrannical rule? Having a brother in jail made me very sympathetic towards criminal types, so I found the longstanding campaign of persecution against the Hamburglar, fast food's version of Jean Valjean, completely unacceptable. 
McCronyism defined: Mayor McCheese made sure his brother, a giant, sesame-seeded hamburger head, was given the title of police commissioner despite a questionable public service record. I passed by the 9th St. McDonald's just the other day and even though I was in a hurry, I was taken aback by how different it looks. Remodeled from top to bottom it was hardly the zoo I remember it being. It's one of those McDonald's (like the one near Wall Street) that's valiantly attempting to pass itself off as a classy eating establishment. I don't know if they removed the ball pit, but I hope they chose to keep it. One day, years from now, I will have a child and together to McDonald's we shall go. I will show little Benjamin Diablo the McDonald's his daddy made infrequent visits to when I was his age. We might even go inside and I'll march him right up to the ball pit. He's quivering. "Daddy...no!!" That's my boy. We'll sit down and order some food and plot a coup d'etat to overthrow the McCheese regime. Once the Hamburglar is freed and installed as the supreme ruler, there will be some real changes in that place. You'll see. 
The starch-based mafia was acquitted of jury tampering in the 1st trial against Hamburglar despite the presence of trans fat oils at the house of a dead juror | | Saturday, December 22nd, 2007 | | 4:04 pm |
Amateur partying of alleged professionals
Two weeks ago, my co-worker correctly identified my persisting ailment as a sinus infection. She's not a doctor, but she described the symptoms right down to the attractive stream of snot that annoyingly exteriorizes itself every few minutes. If it truly is a sinus infection that I have, then I've had one for months, because that's how long I've had these symptoms. My co-worker tells me that I should make an appointment to see my doctor, but I refuse to take from work so I can be diagnosed with a fancier term for a runny nose. Still, this didn't stop me from pulling the sinus card and calling out of work the other day. It was for a good cause, though. Both of my jobs (weekday and weekend) had their holiday party on the same day. Unfortunately, the party for my weekend job was from 1-4pm, right in the middle of my workday. I had no real desire to go to my job job's party because it entailed being crammed into a narrow space, being shoved and trampled by co-workers vying for a spot at the open bar in the kind of club I used to make fun of a few years ago. I had no use for ANY of that, so I took what my therapist convinced me was a "mental health break." I'll buy that. It wasn't the most trying or difficult week, but I spent the better part of Monday getting yelled at by a woman from our Connecticut office who informed me that the lunch I ordered for her and her client group was less than acceptable. I believe she compared the presentation to a school lunch. To say that she went slightly overboard would assume that this woman was on the boat to begin with. The road less traveled was a lot of fun for a sober holiday party. Apparently, they went dry a few years ago after a giant snoopy pool was filled with punch and spiked with enough vodka to humble a fleet of sailors or, in this case, an office of workers for a non-profit theater. The secret Santa gift exchange was a little dysfunctional because if you didn't like your gift, you could use a one time "steal" and take someone's . Needless to say, some gifts were overwhelming (digital camera---at LEAST $100) and others underwhelmed (mini construction set for your office desk...wtf?) so a few people were left holding novelty gifts that probably graced the window of a 99 cent store prior to their purchase. A few nights ago, Haley and I went to see the 2nd Annual Aimee Mann Christmas Show in the Manhattan Center Grand Ballroom. It's the first time I've ever been to a large venue in the city that was NOT on the ground level- Grand Ballroom is on the 7th floor of this building on 34th street. The decor of the venue was impressive, although it seemed like a better fit for a bar mitzvah, not a bizarre, yet wholly enjoyable music show. I was never much for reviewing music or musical events, so I'll end my summary there. I'll have something more meaningful to say later when something meaningful happens :) | | Tuesday, December 4th, 2007 | | 2:28 pm |
A neighborhood in decay
Yesterday, there was an interesting turn of events in the otherwise predictable routine known as my life. I received an email, followed shortly therefater by a call from a reporter at the New York Times. She's doing a story on an architectural oddity in Park Slope known as the Landmark Pub. The building and the connected properties (owned by the same woman) elicits a varying range of opinions from Park Slope inhabitants. Some are very vocal about their belief that the Landmark Pub is an eyesore that has no place amongst the picturesque brownstones of Park Slope, and should be razed to the ground accordingly. Other people feel that while the building is a sad waste of available housing (nearly 20 units have been vacant for nearly 25 years...unheard of in a hot housing market like Park Slope), it's a relic of Park Slope's pre-gentrification history that should remain untouched. I subscribe a little more to the latter opinion myself, but since I no longer live in Park Slope, I'm not exactly passionate about the fate of the building.
The reporter caught wind of a thread I posted on the Brooklynian.com message board, an online community that has created one of the less pretentious cybersocial communities on the web. I was immediately suspect when she sent me and email and said she was interested in my take on the "Nash" properties (named after the woman who owns or owned the ex-pub and adjoining buildings) because three months prior to her contacting me, I received the following message, both cryptic and moronic due to the sender's attempt to pilfer information/gossip from me:
"hey im dating ether, the younger sister. I would like to read some stuff about her. She claims that she is an extreamely wealthy, elegent, virgin, at the age of 27. Everything about her seems, i dunno. Please post some stuff in return."
A few days later, I was solicited for more dirt, this time in exchange for money. As politely as possible, I suggested that this gossip hound get a life and stop assuming that I knew the personal details of someone's life just because I mentioned their name in a message board thread.
As it turns out, this reporter approached me for information regarding a very legitimate story she is writing for the metro section of the New York Times. I guess all those years of non-activity have caused the Landmark Pub to move from local curiosity to newsworthy phenomenon. We spoke for 20 minutes about everything from the Landmark Pub's active years (circa 1980-1997) to the proprietor and any recollection I had of the vacated storefronts located on the 2nd street side of the building. I remembered that in the early to mid 80's, there was a pet food store and a laundromat located around the corner in the storefronts connected to the pub, but that was about it.
As an outsider looking in (I was a teenager when the Landmark Pub was in its prime and therefore, unable to enter the premises) I could only speak to my experiences as a casual passerby. Since the door to the establishment was almost always open, it was not uncommon to pass by LP and observe broken doll strewn across a bar table, and a homegrown folk singer playing concert to a captive audience of severed barbie heads. It wasn't the classiest joint, and I think most people would balk at the opportunity to down a few brews in the company of mutilated dolls, but you couldn't fault the Landmark Pub for lack of originality.
Park Slope did not become a yuppie haven because of the absurd number of banks and real estate agencies that grossly outnumber all other businesses on 7th Avenue. I like to think that a lot of the newcomers who came and bough property in droves during the 80's looked at a place like Landmark Pub and appreciated its originality and eccentricity enough to put down roots within walking distance from it. While LP was not the sole representative of 7th Avenue's dearly departed creative spirit, it was a perfect example of a kind of individuality that should be celebrated, not destroyed. I'm would love to see the new owner of the property, whoever that may be, make an effort to preserve the facade of the building. Despite the abandonment issues suffered by the building, I think of it as a staple of 7th Avenue life and would miss seeing it during my visits to Park Slope.
I'll check the paper everyday, with the youthful ebullience of little Ralphie, who religiously attacked his mailbox in anticipation of a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring in 'A Christmas Story." Mmmm...Ovaltine! | | Tuesday, July 3rd, 2007 | | 4:10 pm |
wow....
This picture is so incredibly old. I derive such a sense of bittersweet nostalgia just from looking at it. I took that from my camera phone in 2002. What's changed since that picture was taken? I'm no longer working at Simpson Thacher & Bartlett (where the picture was taken), I'm no longer living with the woman I was seeing at the time, I'm no longer 23 years old, James' girlfriend Danyell (sorry if I misspelled that) could actually attend my birthday party in a bar (she couldn't that year since she was under the legal drinking age), I was probably intoxicated or on the verge of being intoxicated when this picture was taken. It was such a given back then...I don't have to know what day it was, or what time. If it was a day in 2002 then, yes, I was either drunk or on my way their. A lot has changed since 2002....girlfriends, friends, climate, fads, and so on. Still, I have changed a great deal, too. I've been sober for over 5 months now, and the feeling is indescribable to those who haven't traveled this road. If you do have a problem (like I do), I'd highly recommend taking a similar journey. If given a choice between an endless string of nights wrought with debauchery, and a chance to settle down and figure out who you REALLY are and what you REALLY want, I implore of you to opt for the latter. Also, those seemingly endless nights of partying will come to an end. Believe me. And it's rarely ever pretty. | | Saturday, October 29th, 2005 | | 12:38 pm |
Had to post this one for old times sake...
Lately, I've been neglecting the white supremacist community on myspace. shame on me! we all need a little love...even bald people with ugly suspenders and rage issues. so I found this rotund lad on myspace...and decided to send him the letter appearing below his profile. make sure you cut and paste his profile first: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=29071066&Mytoken=9B6E636E-9521-848A-AC195EAA0A67019F72056353You appear to be an absolute tool. If you are the best the "master race" has to offer, then it turns out I'm none too worried at all. also, Andy Griffith is the only white man in America who has earned that right to wear suspenders. And ever since "Matlock" was canceled, I think we can safely put that little sartorial anachronism to bed, yes? And can I ask...did you REALLY read ALL of Mein Kampf? Because if you did, I'd be very impressed. It's a very big book, you know, with no pictures. You can tell me...you read the Cliff Notes, right? Or you listened to the Books-On-Tape as read by David Duke? Also, I just KNOW this will get your suspenders in a knot...when I click on your page, there's a pop-up quiz asking the reader of said quiz to name the black musician pictured. I noticed that you have a paucity of hip hop listed in your musical interests, so I wanted to help you out with the quiz. The celebrity isn't NAS, and it isn't Kanye West...it's Lil Bow Wow. Actually, he goes by simply Bow Wow now, because that's what black kids do when they grow up to be successful men. They mature, unlike angry white meat heads who sit in the shed back on the old farm plotting revenge against anybody who doesn't own Skewdriver's Greatest Hits. Who happen to be a TERRIBLE band, by the way. Since your profile says you want to meet more people in the Illinois White Power movement, I suggest you write a letter to your Senator, Barrack Obama. You know him, don't you? He's the charismatic black Senator from your state, who is the odds on favorite to be the first black president in the United States! I'm sure he, and perhaps Oprah Winfrey, could arrange a heartfelt reunion-type special on national tv, where all the angry, white power kids in Illinois could gather and embrace in a moment that would bring a tear to the eye of even the most hardened neo-nazi. P.S. Remember to pick Lil Bow Wow. The prize is free ringtones. Just remember to set the ringtone for Biggie Smalls...so I can call you while you're attending the next Klan rally. I can just imagine the look under the hoods of your fellow klansmen when your cell phone starts spouting some Big Poppa! UPDATE: Homeslice deleted himself, or got deleted, like ten minutes after I sent him this email. Which is unfortunate....because I'm firmly against censorship of ANY kind. This guy should be allowed to have a profile on myspace, complete with all the anti-semitic, "protocols of the elders of zion"/black-hate bullshit. He just should not be too surprised when he discovers that the majority of people on myspace do not subscribe to such sentiments. | | Sunday, June 5th, 2005 | | 3:43 pm |
How to walk like a robot
Prepare a meal that will NOT hinder your bowels from performing their duty (no pun intended here). You might try mexican, as you will want to expedite the process of solid intestinal waste expulsion, because the robot fun awaits you. As soon as the gopher wakes up and begins to climb out of his hole, complete the following steps: 1) Run, and I do mean RUN with the able legs of a prizewinning colt to the bathroom, and remove the toilet paper from the little rolling pin. 2) Immediately bring the toilet paper to the room farthest from the lavatory. 3) Return to the bathroom and commence with shitting. 4) Reach for the toilet paper when done. But where is it?? That's right...in the room farthest from the lavatory. 5) I needn't remind you that at this stage, you should NOT pull your underwear and pants back up when attempting to retrieve the toilet paper. 6) Fetch the bootay roll, briskly walking to retrieve it while your pants and underwear hug your ankles. 7) You are now walking like a robot! Moral: I've imparted some valuable knowledge to you children today. Technology is blooming at an unprecedented rate, and by all accounts, the robots will soon be taking over. Doubt the validity of my claim? Just observe Cheney...the man is more wired up than a mob informant. Thus, learning the delicate intricacies of walking like a robot may, in the likely event of a full scale war against humanity, render the metal devils unable to distinguish you from one of their own. As a result, you will have saved yourself from certain torpidity by the all powerful zapper ray gun. Coming soon: HOW TO MAKE LOVE LIKE A ROBOT!! | | Wednesday, June 1st, 2005 | | 5:01 pm |
I'm beginning to transcribe my memoirs...
so...love me or hate me, or don't really have an opinion of me...I require your help. I can't keep track of all of the personal experiences and events that have affected my life during my 7-year tenure on the net. Therefore, I'd greatly appreciate your assistance in recalling anecdotes, tragedies, triumphs, and general experiences regarding this would-be author. Thanky muchy. | | Thursday, February 17th, 2005 | | 9:41 am |
| | Monday, February 7th, 2005 | | 12:54 pm |
Due respect
Tennis, anyone? Lately, I find myself drifting away from livejournal and utilizing the blog feature on Myspace. I just got finished watching a tape of my favorite tennis player, Marat Safin, make mince meat out of that arrogant little Aussie ho, Lleyton Hewitt. I've been using the terms "bitch" and "ho" with alarming frequency as of late. And rarely, if ever, do I use these adjectives in reference to women. I'm making it my plight to decriminalize these terms, at least in how they are applied to the female species. It occurred to me that what constitutes derogatory nomenclature regarding male promiscuity isn't nearly as defamatory as the ignominies levied at women for their own carnality. Being referred to as a "pimp" or "player" aren't, in my view, denunciations of my masculinity. In fact, as adjectives go, they are downright complimentary. Call me a pimp, and I will thank you, and perhaps, even hug you for your misguided (albeit flattering) belief that I have a well-paying job in the female sex farm industry. And to be labled a player? I would never scoff at being classified as a male capable of juggling a multitude of women. The very concept of sexual legerdemain on the part of men is not only archaic in practice, it's virtually encouraged as a means for nurturing a robust male libido. The notion of the sexually promiscuous female is in stark contrast to the hegemonic discourse that equates the sanctity of the woman's virginity as the criterion for her own self-worth. I can still remember as a kid, growing up on the block and hearing men (with mouths, most likey, far bigger than their dicks and their vocabularies) vociferate passing women with insults like "ho" and "bitch". Their crime? Apparently, these women had the audacity to ignore the tactless catcalls of little boys pretending to be real men. I guess these "men" viewed the unwillingness for these women to immediately drop their knickers in broad daylight in eternal greatfullness for the lewd, verbal immaturity freshly bestowed upon them as a sign of disrespect. So there you have it. A ho is just an arrogant bitch. With that said, I was thoroughly pleased to see Lleyton Hewitt, the biggest ho on the ATP tour, get bitch-slapped on his home turf. He earned that title when, in the middle of a match two years ago, he stopped just short of calling his opponent James Blake, a nigger. He never apologized and claimed that his comments were taken out of context. I always knew he was a phony, little bitch, and he finally got his comeuppance in front of his entire nation at the hands of Marat Safin, the biggest player and the most consumate gentleman on the ATP tour. And don't think for a single moment I forgot about my girl, Serena Williams...congratulations on a well-deserved victory by the biggest pimp in tennis today. | | Monday, January 17th, 2005 | | 9:50 am |
My Own Private Camden
My little excursion across the river began innocently enough, but expeditiously deteriorated into a mind-numbing experience that truly tested my will to survive. Rather than spend another thrilling weekend shackled to the chair in front of my beloved computer, I decided to venture out to Jersey and visit my friend Kristen. This trip was ill-fated from its inauguration as I had far less than the capital required to make such a trek. I borrowed $20 from my roommate and headed out. For the record, riding the NJ Railway is among my LEAST favorite pastimes. Something seriously irks me about the bridge and tunnel crowd; they swarm into the city come weeks end, fill our bars with obnoxious suburban chatter, and then congest the living shit out of Penn Station when they decide it’s time to return to the vinyl siding utopia from whence they came. Anyway, it’s always nice to see Kristen, despite the fact that her baby daddy lives out of the backseat of her car. I got to “bond” with baby daddy while Kristen finished up her shift at The Gap. Apparently, baby daddy was in the mood to take me on a little expedition to one of the WORST neighborhoods I’ve ever had the displeasure of visiting. To call Camden a bad neighborhood is a little like calling the recent tsunami an incident involving water. Camden appeared to be the very embodiment of criminal activity in all of the United States. The streets looked so war torn, they made Sarajevo look like Club Med by comparison. While baby daddy visited the house of an “associate”, I sat in the backseat of the car, watching grown men ride by on bikes in almost slow motion. Grown men, probably no older than 40 years of age, with steel grey afros and depleted motor functions…the likely product of amphetamine abuse. There’s an almost polyvalent quality to such men, souls in an eternal quest to revisit a virgin euphoria that can never be felt again. Peel away the layers, the physical shell of men so battered and bruised on the exterior, it’s hard to fathom how their 100 pound frames can contain the stress they put on themselves, and you’ll likely find a soul. Aspirations? Perhaps once, but no more. I don’t ever want to go back there again. Camden is clearly the birthplace of pity and despair, and ultimately where dreams go to perish. Imagine being born in a graveyard, and you’ll have some idea of what I witnessed Saturday night. Okay, even I was getting depressed typing that. Finally, baby daddy made his way back to the car with a rather pissed off look on his face. Apparently, his “associate” had been locked up no earlier than 48 hours prior to our little visit. Did I mention that baby daddy was NOT the master conversationalist? For the ride back- much like the ride TO Camden- I was forced to endure the cumbersome task of listening to innumerable stories about getting high, getting wasted, going to jail and growing up white in a black neighborhood. I just nodded, and occasionally laughed, even though I was unsure if he was trying to evoke a guffaw. It’s terribly difficult to communicate with someone who begins every story with, “So then there was this time we were shootin’ up smack…” Eventually, I got to hang out with Kristen and crashed at her place due to the lateness of the hour. Against all of my good judgment, I had spent the money intended for my return fare to New York. I was operating under the assumption that, according to Kristen, her incredibly sweet-faced, darling friend Katie would be able to lend me the money necessary to return to the Empire state. Well, assumptions are often the undoing of faithful fools such as I. As it turns out, Kristen, Katie, and myself- put together- formed a tripartite entity of the brokest motherfuckers this side of the welfare office. The situation got so desperate that at one point, Kristen suggested that I take a $5 item off the shelf of her own store, and return it so I could get the cash back. I pointed out that this might’ve been a feasible tactic had she not just introduced me to ALL of her co-workers. That decidedly made any socks-for-cash scam somewhat hard to pull off. In the very least, Kristen was able to drop me off at the Hamilton train station, where I waited from 1:30 pm to 5:30 pm for my roommate to show up with enough cash to get me out of New Jersey. To state that the man was unhappy would be severely understating things. Hell, I would be too, considering the ride back to New York proved to be less-than picturesque. So, this weekend’s desperate, and somewhat sad little adventure has left me urgently looking to secure gainful employment. I saw an add in the Village Voice seeking sperm donors with a bounty of $50 a shot. This strikes me as very easy money, but I’m somewhat disturbed at the prospect of what ultimately amounts to my future progeny, sitting in the popsicle factory waiting to be jettisoned into some stranger’s vagina. I’m trying to NOT sound arrogant when I ponder this, but how would I know that the recipient of my little ivory commandos was truly worthy? I shudder to think that my sperm could end up going to some bridge and tunnel floozy, or worse, a republican. After my nerve-wracking, albeit brief, trip to Camden (affectionately known as the murder capital of the United States) I came to the conclusion that I would be a TERRIBLE drug dealer. Firstly, I don’t own a car. Secondly, my wardrobe doesn’t fit the criteria for being a street narcotics salesman. I own way too many bright colors to satisfy the sartorial requirement of subtlety, necessary for a successful career in the trafficking of illegal pharmaceuticals. I wouldn’t last five minutes on the street before attracting the attention of some law enforcement agency, thereby earning me a one way ticket to a federal penitentiary. Furthermore, I wouldn’t last five minutes in a federal penitentiary before attracting the attention of a large individual, eager to permanently attach my head to his genitals. Any job leads or ideas are welcomed and greatly appreciated. Though nothing TOO illegal, I ask. Contrary to what my dress code might indicate, my street credibility is at an all-time high. | | Saturday, January 8th, 2005 | | 10:23 pm |
Stolen from Ron, who is filling in for James Lipton...
1. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it. 2. Am I lovable? 3. How long have you known me? 4. When and how did we first meet? 5. What was your first impression? 6. Do you still think that way about me now? 7. What do you think my weakness is? 8. Do you think I'll get married? 9. What makes me happy? 10. What makes me sad? 11. What reminds you of me? 12. If you could give me anything what would it be? 13. How well do you know me? 14. When's the last time you saw me? 15. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't? 16. Do you think I could kill someone? 17. Describe me in one word. 18. Do you think our friendship is getting stronger/weaker/or staying the same? 19. Do you feel that you could talk to me about anything and I would listen? 20. Are you going to put this on your livejournal and see what I say about you? | | Friday, January 7th, 2005 | | 5:12 am |
They looked like the feds, all parked up and idyl...
It's 4am and I cannot sleep. Furthermore, the occupants of apartment 2H (located above mine) have flushed their toilet a total of 14 times in the past hour. I not only find this quite disturbing, I'm lead to believe that one or more of the following is true of my flush-happy neighbors: A) Someone in 2H suffers from an eating disorder and can't quite get it all up on the first try. Or the second. Or the twelfth. B) The toilet bowl has some messianic quality I am, thus far, completely unaware of. C) The people in 2H are colonial time travelers and are understandably excited by modern day advances in waste management. I'll likely be up the remainder of the night, and as a result, be forced to stay awake until at least 11pm, to give my circadian rhythm a fighting chance at re-establishing normalcy. Thank you, dearest 2H. If I could somehow send my shit careening up the pipeworks, and into your home, I'd spend all of tomorrow consuming a steady diet of corn, waffles and prune juice. Still, today was far from a waste. A semi-reunion of the Radio Renegades took place, and I'm still lambent from the experience. I only reconnected with one Renegade, Sid, a few days ago. We were supposed to meet for lunch, but it never happened. Today, Sidney IM'd me, informing me that he was open to have lunch and he'd be accompanied by a "mystery" guest. I waited outside for a good twenty minutes, but to no avail. I decided to make a quick stop over at Brooklyn College and pick up a Spring schedule of classes. When I arrived back at my building, I noticed a car parked adjacent to the entrance. Upon closer inspection, I observed two caucasian individuals sitting in the driver and passenger-side seats. Blessed Saint Bonaventure! Sidney, and none other than the irrepressible Michael Prescott Conlon IV :) I'm sure you'll understand what I mean when I say that there are some individuals in this galaxy you just "vibe" well with. Sid and Mike are certainly two examples of this all too uncommon camraderie. Although I hadn't seen either of my fellow radio delinquents in excess of two years, we seemed to almost pick up wherever our last, feckless conversation ended. We remembered the good old days, when a scorching summer night in Brooklyn meant driving out to Brighton Beach and hurling eggs at Russian prostitutes. There is nary a more sorrowful sight than that of a depreciated lady-of-the-evening, staring at you in disbelief as yolk runs down her cheek into the great abyss that lay between her grotesque breast implants. Actually, I don't think we ever hit any of the hoes, but we certainly tried our best! We stopped by Kingsgames to surprise Mike Olivson. I don't think I've seen Mike so happy in quite some time. He administered big hugs to Sid and Mike, in a spectacle that recalled a Yeti in heat. Unfortunately, this was pretty much the conclusion of an afternoon that terminated all too quickly. So, boys...if you're reading this...let's set up a WBCR/Renegades reunion ASAP. For old time's sake, I'll even fill up a plastic shopping bag with piss and hurl down three flights of stairs in James Hall...not that I ever did that sort of thing ;) Any other WBCR members reading this, please shoot me a note and let me know if you'd be interested in a quaint, occasionally rowdy gathering of commuter school talent. | | Thursday, January 6th, 2005 | | 9:03 am |
Clues about the origin of primordial being...
For those interested, I'm opening Pandora's box by way of my diaryland diary. I started this one back in 2000, back when I was a considerably lamer and less able bodied humanoid. I'm amazed at just how piss poor my writing was back then. How piss poor, you ask? Let me just put it this way...my diaryland journal makes Golden Books look like complicated literature. Enjoy! http://ryan79.diaryland.com/older.html | | Sunday, December 26th, 2004 | | 4:05 am |
12-25-2004
It's quite late, and as much is indicated by the "heartfelt" Fox News tribute to the troops. A teary-eyed soldier has just informed the viewing audience that the most touching gift he received during his tour of duty in Fallujah was a care package consisting almost totally of pudding. Tearjerking moral that sometimes big gifts come in small, plastic packages, or a semi-staunch endorsement of Swiss Miss desert products by the increasingly monopolistic Murdoch media empire? Having never been in combat, nor brought to tears by the sight of pudding, i'm opting for the latter. One key piece of evidence in this "tribute" leads me to believe it may be facetious in content: Is pudding not quite perishable? I highly doubt that a care package, en route from the USA to an arabic country, is conducive to the refrigeration conditions required for the survival of a semi-solid dairy product.*sidenote: I now know that store bought pudding can survive a nuclear holocaust without refrigeration, despite my prior assertion. Still, I'm suspicious of Murdochian motives* I'll chalk this little pudding tale up to media sponsored jingoism playing on the sympathies (and intellectual shortcomings) of mid-Western housewives who desperately need to know which products in their refrigerators support The War on Terror. That aside, this was the first Christmas I've ever spent completely alone. In fact, I had little social contact with alleged humanoids until about 5:30pm. Earlier in the morning, I completely blew out my back. In the past, I had scoffed at that term, deeming "blowing out" one's back some kind of harsh medical patois created by armchair quarterback doctors. Now, I shall hold that term in much higher regard following a failed mid-morning attempt at channeling my atavistic self by removing my socks with my feet. The result? I blew my fucking back out. I cringed in an unimaginable pain that I'm positive was second to only the Ebola virus in terms of sheer paroxysm and torment. From the hours of 12-5, I was reminded just why, each year, I eagerly anticipate the end of Christmas before it ever begins. Left with only a back malady and remote control, I was subjected to nearly five hours of torment in the form of the airing of EVERY film EVER made about Jesus. By hour four of the interminable Christ cinema marathon, I was in such a state of delirium that I became convinced that my back ailment was a form of stigmata. Was my back pain an affliction meant to forever link me to the suffering of the Son of Nazareth? Doubtful. Jesus had optimum back support on the cross, clearly minimizing any discomfort he felt in his extremities. The Roman's missed a golden opportunity by NOT crucifying Jesus on my futon. Therelin lie the true suffering of man's soft, vulnerable flesh. Around 5pm, the phone began to ring. And ring. And ring. The only thing I could surmise from the sudden influx of phone activity was that, indeed, the phone was working. I couldn't tell who was calling because the answering machine volume was turned down, rendering all voices inaudible. Figuring I was destined for traction anyway, I summoned Aladdin and turned my comforter into a magic carpet. Actually, magic is too strong an adjective considering my quioxtic quest to the phone was akin to a riverboat ride through half-dry cement. By the time I made it to the bedroom where the phone resides, you can imagine my abject horror upon discovering that nobody had actually bothered to leave a message. Dejected, I lay sprawled out on the floor and waited and waited for the phone to ring again. I kept eyeing a bottle of Ibuprofen that sat on a far away bookcase like some pain relief prophet atop a holy temple mount in an amber colored cathedral. Okay, that description was a tad gratuitous, but my back really fucking hurt. I started to wonder if I was somehow being punished for a year spent in excess. Excessive trips to non-descript Irish bars to partake in the age old ritual of intoxication. Excessive time spent with other malicious substances. Excessive nights in the company of Lady Debauchery. Was this my gift (on a holiday I scarcely acknowledge) for a year plus spent in the throes of excess and self-induldgence? I'd like to say I thought especially hard and long on this, but then the phone rang. It was my friend Grace, who is nothing short of a godsend in a year that has delivered me much self-attained misery. We talked the way we always do, equal measure importance and trite. My realization that this would be would be my first Christmas spent alone, lead me to my epiphany that I wasn't alone at all. I owe it to myself to acknowledge all of those people who have truly mattered, when I felt I really didn't. Without sounding too effusive, I just wanted to thank Grace, Mike, Justin, Alexis, Jonathan, Jeff, Frank, Theresa, Debra, James, Janus, and anyone else who still thought about me when I was too busy thinking about myself. Some of you may read my journal, and some of you may not, but each of you are irreplaceable gifts to me, essential to my everyday sanity and growth. Back when I was holed up in a hospital bed this past summer, I began to wonder if I'd ever care about writing, or anything for that matter, again. As it turns out, I do. If all it took was an excruciating back ache to bring me to this point of my life, then so be it. As it turns out, I'm fully capable of committing a coherent thought to paper WITHOUT the aid of alcohol, or any of a number of psychotropic substances. Maybe my writing isn't any better. In fact, maybe it's worse...but I certainly feel much better. By the time 11pm had rolled around, I made up my mind to grin and bear my back pain and get outside for what remained of Christmas Day. I'd love to tell you that a miracle occured and that the holy spirit filled my spinal cord and chastened my back of it's ailment. But as I sit here typing at 5:51am, my back is pulsating in undulated agony. Still, at 11:55am on December the 25th, 2004, I found myself in a gaming shop just off Kings Highway. I spent the remaining 5 minutes of Christmas 2004 in an SUV, driving down a cold Brooklyn street towards Mike Olivson's apartment, with my company being two Russian guys and one orthodox jew. Exactly how Jesus would've wanted me to spend his birthday. | | Tuesday, August 31st, 2004 | | 10:18 pm |
The sadness of being a Mets fan...
I can only take solace in the fact that the Yankees just lost to the Indians 22-0...the worst shutout in Yankee history and the worst in the American League since 1900. Yep. Bittersweet hapiness galore! | | Saturday, July 17th, 2004 | | 11:44 pm |
| | Thursday, June 10th, 2004 | | 1:17 pm |
Friends Only...drop me a line if you'd still like to follow my travels. | | Tuesday, May 25th, 2004 | | 10:54 am |
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WARNING | | johnnynolan is radioactive. Wear protective clothing at all times. |
From Go-Quiz.com | | Friday, May 21st, 2004 | | 8:36 pm |
MTV isn't exactly on aesthetic/talent overload these days, is it? Three videos I saw yesterday are solid evidence of this observation: 1) "The Reason" by Hoobastank Firstly, I will need someone to write me back with the phonetic pronunciation of this band. So, this is basically a video about bored, wannabe hipsters who've spent way too much time watching neo-noir heist films, and have decided to rob a pawn shop that has an apparently-valuable jewel that actually looks like a piece of hard candy that fell off of a novelty pimp ring. In reality, most pawn shops sell half broken accordians and third rate bling bling. Apparently, this pawn shop is the exception. I decided to break the law and download some of Hoobastank's earlier songs, and discovered that they were essentially Punk Rock meets Romper Room. "The Reason" seems like part of their premeditated maturation. The Hoobastank wants you to know that The Hoobastank is all grown up now. No more kiddie punk songs. They rob banks now, like big boys. Still, the minute you hear the lead singer begin to whine in that pretend-artsy falsetto voice, you know you aren't dealing with grown ups. Clearly, we are dealing with a man who can no longer afford his weekly estrogen injections. This is why they are robbing the pawn shop. To help their friend. Capatain Hoobastank. The woman. I bet people in the midwest love Hoobastank and that's very nice for them. 2) "????????????" by Avril Lavigne I have a soft spot for the mentally challenged, so anyone who likes Ms. Lavigne shall have my sympathies. I can't quite remember the name of the song, but it involves Ms. Lavigne inviting a young man up to her room, taking her shoes off, showing socks and then crying out in the chorus, "Did you really think that I was gonna give it up to you-eee-ou..." Okay Ms. Lavigne...let's review. You invited a boy up to your room. You laid with him on your bed. You took off yor shoes. And now you're mad that he had expectations of getting laid? If you had no intention of putting out, why did you take off your socks? Is there a Canadian colloquialism equated to cocktease? 3) "100n Years" Five for Fighting I always thought it was the duty of baby boomer musicians to write songs about fear of a natural death. I expect such songs out of Eric Clapton, or Don Henley. But this Five for Fighting guy seems rather young to be worrying about death. In fact, seems downright sad. Sad enough to borrow the falsetto whiny parade from the aforementioned Captain Hoobastank. Trust me, Mr. Fighting...dying won't be so bad. Unless your kids throw you in an outerborough nursing home where a Haitian nurse beats you until you soil your depends. I'm sorry Grandfather. | | Wednesday, April 21st, 2004 | | 2:19 pm |
A plethora of "events" have happened (mostly negative)that have altered the course of not just my journal, but my life. I believe I spoke about my robbery at knifepoint and how it DIDN'T stress me out at the time. As it turns out, it affected me pretty harshly in the ensuing weeks following that event. I was briefly hospitalized for acute vertigo, which I can't quite explain unless you've actually suffered from it. I will encourage you to see the film "Vertigo" to better understand how stress affects one's equilibrium. The worse my sleep paralysis got, the more creepy my dreams got. Part of vertigo is an uneasy feeling that you are repeating the same day and the same events in a purely cyclic fashion. To help offset the symptoms, I consulted the great sage of my mid-collegiate years, Dr. Mom...aka Robitussin. The post-consumption anesthesia turned out to be quite temporary. Sadly, I helped the Germans out, it seems, when I sent a fax to the wrong location. The result was my termination and subsequent e-mail sent to the entire firm of Simpson Thacher & Bartlett by yours truly. I really burned my 60ish Scottish supervisor, and it felt pretty good. I would say that the breaking point came when I was invited to a "housewarming" and all of the guests were people I was hanging out with at the infamous holiday party of 2002 when I was trounced by a gang of Mexicans. Following the party, I began to have strange dreams and paranoid delusions of alien abduction. And who were the aliens, you ask? None other than the people at the party. Uh huh. The long of the short is that I began therapy about a week ago, and so far it's been quite beneficial. With my free time, I've knocked off 10 pages of a screenplay I will one day turn into a film. Lately,I've been doing things that seem right for my growth as a human. Unfortunately, one thing that always held me back from my potential being realized (besides shitty fax jobs) is the vast world of the cyberspace. For too long, I've used Diaryland or Livejournal as a crutch...and excuse to not leap forth and seize the day. Online journaling (for me, at least)has become this unbreakable ceiling that has placed a deadly gaugue on my creative flow. By calling it a crutch, I mean that Livejournal has allowed me a platform to bandlead the pity parade whenever things get tough. I no longer have a use for the validation it provides. It's quelled my growth for too long so it's time to go. Adieu! |
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