Tag: Humor

I feel the urge to text my exes, “Marry me?”

Julian2 Comments

I feel the urge to text my exes, “Marry me?”

It’s not a serious question. I’m not a serious person. I’d text them for the same reason I took the side running path this evening to follow a guy wandering down it to pee. I wanted to see his reaction as I approached, catching him with his pants down. ‘Twas a sweet and savory surprise and amazement with impressively little (I saw no) fear. I wanted him to doubt for a moment the reality of the world around him.  I didn’t stop beside him or start up a conversation—that would make him feel unduly uncomfortable—but continued running as though our meeting were happenstance.

As long as I can remember, I’ve considered myself the Jester. Not the king or ingénue but the comic relief. The one who enthralls the world by showing people a side of themselves they forget exists. The side that compulsively touches every street sign and picks up a tree branch to smash it in half. The side that caws at women squatting across the creek and still, at 25, enjoys high-pitched “ting” sounds. The side we all share that’s exhilarated by destruction.

I’ve had this notion—text “Marriage?”—more than once. I’ve never done it, because it would hurt a person and ruin a relationship.

My relationships with exes have recently lost their importance. What if I picked a small one—one of my many lesbians, like the woman who wanted my babies at eighteen and has now been married to another woman for the past three years? What if I tried it–just a little, you know, to see how it feels? It’s mean, yes, but also I’m curious. Great art often ruffles the comfortable and comforts the ruffled, and I’m clearly quite ruffled in this here mood. Some people simply want to fluff the world. 

I pranked a friend last year, setting him up for a surprise lunch with Mormon missionaries. I thought he’d enjoy it. I never lied to either party, but also didn’t tell each who was coming. My friend was minorly annoyed that I’d wasted his time and majorly peeved I’d been rude to the Mormons—as he put it, “by using them in a prank.” I’m sure the Mormons were fine—we remain friends to this day. They received a free lunch and a warmer lead than their typical method of knocking on random doors. Still, I miscalculated. The friend didn’t appreciate it. I miss my former image of that friendship. I miss the friendship I thought we had. I miss feeling less alone, less one-of, less off.

In college, a friend turned my room into its mirror image. He moved every item to its exact opposite location. Clever prank. Great friend. I had to move each item back. Every prank comes with a cost. I wish I had more friends who played pranks on me.

When life feels like today, I’d even take an engaging negative: the loss of a beloved pet or someone breaking my heart. But those take investment—devoting enough love to something that losing it hurts. I’ve had trouble doing that since my most recent breakup. I’ve claimed it’s because I haven’t found a new someone. It’s really because I haven’t been looking.

Self-Portrait of the Author as a Hungry Man

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At sixteen, Julian could eat a whole pizza in one sitting. He’d be stuffed before downing those last few slices but finish anyway, because he hungered for achievement long after satisfying his hunger for pizza.

Yesterday, twenty-five-year-old Julian stayed awake for twenty-six hours. As he puts it, “one should spend times of plenty preparing for times of famine.” He calls it a “sleep fast” and planned to reach a whole day-and-a-half, but ended it early when he realized sleep fasts should be undertaken on days that don’t require driving.

Julian is most familiar with this style of self-disciplined self-deprivation from his multi-day foodless fasts, the longest totaling one hundred thirty-six hours (five-and-a-half days). He has completed a total of fifteen foodless fasts (each a minimum of three days long). There are known health benefits of foodless fasting. There are no known health benefits of sleep fasting, but he feels a calm sense of power for the following few days.

To cap off his sleep fast, Julian devoured a large $10 Costco pepperoni pizza. While you technically don’t have to be a member to eat at the food court, you certainly don’t have to be a member if you walk past the ID checkers when they’re not looking. If you employ this method, you also get to feel smug. There are no known health benefits of eating a whole large $10 Costco pepperoni pizza, but he did anyway. What a rebel.

The Anti-Hero Triumphs.

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I don’t tolerate perceived bullshit and can be abrasive in the best of times. After a month of cold showers and a 2am night followed by a 6am wakeup for an 8-hour-long hike, when the gate agent tells me I can’t board the airplane home, I get pissed. When pissed, I get creative.
I can’t get on the plane because my bag is too big. It won’t fit in the overhead compartment, says fiery-haired young gate agent Miguel.
“Can you check it?” I ask.
“The bag-check counter closed an hour before departure.” I did arrive only 55 minutes before departure. This whole kerfuffle–all that follows–is my fault.
“I was here 5 minutes before the hour,” I say. “The counter was closed.”
“No you weren’t,” he says. “I was the one who closed it.”
Our relationship has begun on… rocky footing.
“Take a seat over there,” Miguel tells me. “We’ll reschedule you after this plane leaves.”
“When does the next flight land?” I ask him.
“Tomorrow.”
This is an implementation of what I call manaña culture:
“The willingness to put up with unsatisfactory solutions, especially ones that involve delays or wasting time.”
The first cultural difference I noticed in Colombia was the propensity of slow-moving lines. Fixing the bathroom door in my AirBnB apartment took a whole week. Purchasing an official SIM card required a 45-minute wait for the saleswoman. That’s like walking into Verizon and the phone seller being “out.” Here, “tomorrow” feels like never.
I try other tactics, beginning with bribery. “Is this a problem that can be solved by money? Because I’d be willing to pay any number of pesos.” An implicit bribe and plausible deniability: very proud of this move.
“No,” Miguel says. “Take a seat over there.”
Creativity: “Can I ship it? Mail it? Give it to a friend?”
No, no, and no. “Take a seat over there.”
Emotional appeal: I screw up my face and sob. Great move. Really proud. I didn’t even know I could.
“Don’t cry,” says Miguel. “Take a seat over there.”
I continue crying and not-moving-toward-the-seats-over-there. After a minute of crying, the tactic clearly won’t work. I cease the tears and take a seat over there.
The problem is my suitcase. What if I didn’t have it? I move the valuable items to my backpack and unpack the suitcase into a large gray trash bag. How to dispose of the suitcase? In the garbage, of course. I dump it beside the trash in the single-stall family restroom.
Returning to Miguel, I offer him my boarding pass. “Take a seat over there,” he says as though it’s his catchphrase.
“I don’t have the bag. I threw it away.”
“This is an international airport. You can’t just throw away your luggage.”
“What do you mean I can’t?”
“For security reasons.”
Still now, in my calmer mind, I find this absurd:
  1. It’s unenforceable. Someone could very easily trash a suitcase without being noticed. Not me, of course, because Miguel has an annoyingly normal memory.
  2. The suitcase itself has come through security. What’s the point of security if it doesn’t screen items?
  3. What constitutes luggage? If I carry in a bag of McDonalds, eat the food and trash the bag, that’s clearly allowed. What if I transport clothing in a shopping bag (as many people do)? If I move the clothing to my backpack, is the plastic bag un-disposable?
This whole situation makes no logical sense. It only exaggerates my belief that terroristic security measures are more dangerous than the actual threats.
I did, however, tear the name off my luggage when I left it in the bathroom. I was clearly aware someone might find this disposal suspect.
“Can I talk to your manager?” I should have played this card earlier.
“Yes, when the gate closes. Take a seat over there”
I begin crying again. “It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow.” Another lie. Not proud of this. Also not very strategic. If emotional appeal didn’t work previously, it’s unlikely to now.
I try talking to the other gate attendant. She doesn’t speak English and pretends not to hear my broken Spanish. I don’t like her. I’m a customer and she literally ignores me. I can see why she does it. I just don’t respect the tactic from a customer-service perspective.
The fight pauses when I ask Miguel his name. He points to his badge. “Miguel,” I say. “You must have a hard job. You have to deal with passengers like me every day.”
“Not every day,” he says.
“Where are you from?”
“Here.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“Here.”
“Why do you speak with a British accent?”
He points to the flags on his badge. One is the Colombian flag, the other England. My question remains unanswered. Our ceasefire ends:
“Repack your suitcase and sit over there.”
I retrieve my suitcase from the single-stall restroom and insert the plastic garbage bag in it. The suitcase is thinner now that the bulk is in my backpack. There’s also an expander—I zipper it down. It might even fit now. I bring it to the gate. “Can we try?” I ask Miguel. “See if it will fit?”
Miguel eyes the bag and assents to the test. He scans my boarding pass and escorts me down the gangway. “If it doesn’t fit,” he says. “You can’t board the plane.” He obviously wants to be rid of me (or is just doing his job).
Lo and behold, the collapsed bag fits. I solved every problem before the one he actually named.
The man in the seat beside me, Juan Pablo of Mexico, asks what the problem was. He probably saw me crying. I tell him my stupidity and don my eyeshade. The anti-hero could clearly use a nap.

Daily Grind

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Waking after 9 am and sleeping only 13 hours later, I’m struck by all the grinding ground up in today:
  1. I ground myself out of bed
  2. by grinding my teeth
  4. then ground through 6 hours of work
  5. while my video game characters ground levels in the back-ground.
  6. Despite skipping my daily meditation, I still felt grounded.
After days like today, I even smell like the ground.

Twice Now I’ve Danced at a Salsa Club That Isn’t There

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On Sunday the carpenter fixing my bathroom door tells me, “You must go to this salsa club. Only tourists are allowed so you can dance without feeling self-conscious.”

“Sure,” I say and have the apartment manager write down the information: “Tuesday, 6-11pm, in front of La Clinica Tequendama.”

Tuesday, I arrive to La Clinica at 6:15pm. I can’t find the club, so I text my Airbnb host. “Thursday,” he responds. I call this the “Tuesday/Thursday Problem.” I wander the streets until I find a mariachi band playing Parcheesi.

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They teach me the game in a language I barely understand, start me at a disadvantage, neglect to teach me two rules that end up resetting my pieces, and I still kick their asses to the tune of $3000.

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From Left to Right: Julian, Alberto, [I wish I remembered his name], Nacho (Yes, that’s what he said his name was), [That asshole who said it was my fault that I didn’t know that capturing an opponent’s piece was a mandatory move], [The singer, whose name I also forget].

One man, the one in the back of this photo, asks if I have a girlfriend. I say no. “My daughter is 24,” he says and makes obscene gestures. The only one of these gestures repeatable in polite company is his repeated tugging down on his lower eyelid to signal a wink, coupled with the sultry words, “muy bonita.” He asks for my phone number. I give it to him. He asks for my father’s number. I politely decline. He doesn’t call me, so I suppose the match is off.

Tonight, Thursday, six Ubers cancel on me. I arrive to La Clinica at 7:10pm. The clinic receptionist points me in the wrong direction, or maybe I don’t speak Spanish. The druggists at the store across the street don’t know the club I seek, but they’re a bored, fun couple so we talk for a while. I ask whether they sell earplugs. They say, “for swimming?” and I say “For music.” They say, “You mean headphones?” and I say, “For when the music is too loud.” They think I’m French because my Rs are French. I don’t take offense because my Rs are French. They ask if I learned Spanish back in San Francisco.“Just here, this week,” I say, so they’re impressed. They don’t know I’ve already had this conversation six times.

I watch a futbol match while drizzling honey on a fried chicken wing.

IMG_6167.JPGNo kidding: they even give me gloves for the honey.

The religious man on my right asks me to buy him a coffee. The boy on my left asks whether I came to Colombia on a boat or a plane. The kid leaves. I buy the man coffee. He shows me his bible. I teach him to pronounce “Gideon.”

I walk to the far, far corner drugstore. I finally find earplugs. They’re expensive, but so is my hearing. They cost 13 marranitas (pork belly stuffed inside a ball of green plantain) or 31 empanadas. That’s not how the locals count money—just how I do.

I walk by my mariachi buddies. They aren’t playing Parcheesi so I only stop for a moment. Don’t want to get engaged too many times in one week. I order an Uber and eat a marranita while I wait. The vendor moved to Cali 6 months ago. In Venezuela, where he used to live, he didn’t have food for 4 days. His mother and brother moved here too, but his father’s still in Venezuela because he loves the land.

My Uber’s choice of music is the Latin version of alt-rock. I tell him I like his music taste. We get into a rhythm. He loves salsa dancing. I love salsa dancing. He loves marranillas. I love marranillas. He has a nine-month-old son. I use condoms. We exchange numbers to hit up a club together sometime.

Home, I realize the salsa club was inside me the whole time.

(Editor’s note: $ is also the symbol for Colombian Pesos. Total value of the $3000 COP I won in Parcheesi? Approximately $0.94 US.)