A Post About Nothing

I write about once a week. Which is good. It makes me feel this is more than a blog; it's a literary magazine (with only one subject: me). When I write, I try to avoid subjects other people can't relate to. I write about my relationship with my father, and readers can find their own strained relationships there. I write about my wish to be a good father, and you can find your own doomed wishes, or laugh with scorn or with love because I'm bound to make mistakes throughout this parenthood thing. Just like everyone else. And I can talk about the book I'll write one day and the need to escape mediocrity and you can smile and say to yourself, "Wouldn't that be grand? To be somebody? Or maybe as long as we strive for that greatness we keep ourselves alive," and look, I've made you think and reflect about your own life. Which is what I'm trying to do here even though I am indeed using only one subject. Me as a metaphor.

But sometime... Sometimes I look at blogs of people who write every day and have nothing to say. Pages and pages of literary masturbation (Welcome, Google Perverts). And I'm so goddamn jealous.

So here:

I went to the dentist. It hurts like... what's a good swear word? Shit. It hurts like shit. He has two rooms. One has a peeling wallpaper with "Floss Daily" written everywhere, and the other room has this fun drawing that for a brief moment makes me forget this shit is torture. I should floss more often.


I'm sick. No big deal.

I got into Cribbage lately.


Hollywood Writers, no one cares about you. Now you know.


Saw this billboard. Gotta love Baltimore. Sometimes.


Got me a webcam. It's easy to say, "Mom, I didn't move to the other side of the world just so you could see me every day," but I couldn't say much to her "I want my grandson to know he has a grandmother in Israel." So I got a webcam and I got Skype, and now my computer is slow, and waiting for pages to load makes me want to strangle a puppy. It reminds me of a word people used in the last millennium: modem. Remember these things?


Ahhh, man it feels good to let it all out. You know what? I said it wasn't a big deal but I hate being sick, and between the dying computer and the lack of good night sleep and the dog who hurt her thigh, and the running nose, and couldn't they make a visit to the dentist less painful, and Please God: make me strong enough to ignore American Idol, and Has it been six weeks already? and watching those idiot Republicans on TV, and watching CNN in general, and the goddamn sinuses--I'm allowed, every once in a while, to write a goddamn post about goddamn nothing!

This guy is so cute.

Baltimore -- Christmas Parade 2007

Someone asked me today what it was like to live in Baltimore. "It's interesting," I said.

Merry Christmas.

My New Job IV

I read the other day about a woman who attended a meeting with social workers and stormed out, taking her one-year-old baby with her. When the social worker and the security guard followed her she stood in the middle of the road, held her baby with one arm and said, “If you come any closer I’m gonna kill the motherfucker.”

I meet the people who will die soon from overdose, or from a bullet to the back of the head, or from AIDS, or quietly in jail. They fall asleep while they talk to me because they just don’t give a damn. Society gave up on them a long time ago and they gave up on themselves even sooner. They laugh when I ask for their fathers’ names but at the same time they have six children they’ve never met and never will.

And legalizing all drugs will solve some of the problems. Addicts will not spend their lives in jail but will be treated and some will come out and see life for what it could be, the way they saw life when they were children rather than as something they need to endure between highs. And the drug dealers will be forced to find something else to do. And the police won’t spend all its resources staring at street corners but will actually work to make the streets safer from violent crime… I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I love this city; don’t get me wrong, but going back to work after a two-day weekened takes away the illusion. Here I am with my unborn child and my Honey and my doggies and my house and my mortgage and should we take the carpet out in the guest room and what do I do about the poison ivy in the backyard and the drycleaner messed up the clothes again and Comcast costumer service department sucks. And here is a generation of people who won't live to see forty.

There’s an all-encompassing truth hidden there for me. Between all the filth and the fury there’s something begging to be understood. Maybe it’ll make me get out of my shell and devote my free time to volunteer work or to spread the message of drug-law reform or prison reform or public education reform. Maybe it’ll make me see the unity of the human race in its collective pain and beauty.

Or maybe I’ll eventually get a new job and forget about it all.

Happy Birthday, Honey

It was my American girl's birthday today. I got her some presents, nothing too crazy. It's a joint account, after all. Girlie stuff, like bracelets and earrings and a necklace and a thing people with hair use. She needs to feel like her normal self again, now that people start treating her like a would be mother and all that. She's used to men looking at her boobs but now they all stare at her belly, which must feel strange and foreign. I think.

Then I got her some stuff from her favorite candle-and-soap-and-lip-gloss-and-other-stuff shop. This earned me a few extra points because that place has always been a bit too much for me, too scenty and candle-y and perfect. She asked me later that night how I was doing there so I told her I made a joke.

--"Oh no, what did you say?"
--"The saleswoman was trying to help me but I couldn't find anything, so she looked at some cookbooks and asked if my wife liked to cook, and I told her, 'I don't know, she hasn't tried it yet.'"
--"Why did you say that? I cook."
--"Yes. But I couldn't miss a joke opportunity like that, right?"
--"I guess not."

So I met her at work and we walked to Camden Yards in time for the Cal Ripken Jr. bobblehead giveaway. And the Orioles won, which makes the day even better.

So, happy birthday, Honey. I know you don't read this because you think it's weird that I write my thoughts instead of saying them, but just in case you happen to read this, know that when you're asleep I'm downstairs thinking about you, and know that you're more beautiful and sexy than ever and that I appreciate you and respect you if you cook or if you don't cook and if you like my jokes or if you like me in spite of them, and I hope you had a good birthday and my only true wish in this world is to be there with you next year to celebrate another one.

Anyway, before I ruin the mood with the next video, just a happy birthday to my niece and a happy birthday to Shelli. And of course, congratulations to Susie.

Last year I talked Honey into going to a lame bar downtown but when we got there I surprised her with tickets to see Robert Schimmel. Or maybe it was two years ago?

My IKEA Story

Last year, during my five months of unemployment, I went to a job interview for a call-center rep. position at IKEA. By then I had already been rejected by many places, which didn’t do much for my self esteem. I mean, you call Comcast costumer service and think, What kind of idiots are they hiring? Apparently, not this one.

During those five months I learned to readjust my values in order to play the game of employment-seeking. If on the first interview I thought they would obviously see my genius (can I use my mom as a reference?), by the time of my triple-digit interview I learned that I wasn’t fired from my last job, but that “The position ended.” I learned that I wasn’t simply a cashier in a store but a “Senior Sales Associate.” I learned I had people skills! Yes! And I bought a suit. I was ready.

So here I was in the hub of Swedish Minimalism, waiting for HR. I was sitting on a low sectional IKEA couch. Do I need to describe how ugly the couch was or can you already imagine it for yourselves? Good. Now, they had two items on the coffee table: Time Magazine and the IKEA catalog. “Is this a test?” I thought as I started leafing through the catalog of urban decay.

I repeated to myself: Inexpensive products for people who love designer furniture or It has everything for everyone or even the original Affordable solutions for better living—one of these mantras was getting into the interview. I was going to get this job.

So here comes this elderly lady, shaking my hand like she was a ghost, doing the ol’ “Did you have any problem finding this place?” (Another thing I learned: They don’t really care). And we go into a tiny room, and she slouches in her chair and asks me to tell her about my past experiences, so foolishly I start doing just that.

At the end of the interview she says, “Looks like you’ve lived an interesting life,” which in English (or Swedish) means You’re not what we’re looking for. So I ask, “What kind of person are you looking for?” and the elderly lady from IKEA raises herself slowly and lifts her finger to accentuate the last words of the interview. “We’re looking for someone who could sell, Sell, SELL.”

And that was it.

A Life-Changing Moment

On my twenty-third birthday, five months after I left the army and six months before I was supposed to start University, I received two postcards in the mail. One was from a friend on a trip to India, the other from a friend who moved to London, both telling me I had to join them. I remember holding the two postcards, one in each hand, rereading them and trying to make up my mind.

One postcard described sitting on top of mountains in India watching the sun rise, feeling lonely and complete. The other friend wrote about insane parties and new friends and about a band he had started and about being a part of the London music scene.

A month later I moved to London. I went to the parties and met the new friends. I learned to play bass guitar and joined the band. I dyed my hair purple. I found myself in the first ever “Reclaim the Streets” demonstration, and just before the police came, left to get my ears pierced. I called my parents and told them I wasn't coming back. I went to Glastonbury Festival and saw the sun rise over the green hills. I fell in and out of love. Moving further from the city and forced to commute, I started reading on the Tube. On a trip to Amsterdam, sitting alone in a coffee shop, I wrote my first short story. I danced in a cage in Heaven club, and made out with drunk girls in Camden Town. I found out things. I sat in a room and listened to Mogway and Beethoven and stared at a world map, watching the oceans move slowly with the music until morning came and the world stood still. I met my American Honey and here I am in Baltimore.

What if I chose differently? And maybe even if I had chosen to go to India rather than London I would still be sitting here, with my Honey sleeping upstairs, struggling in her sleep to stretch her legs because Buddy and Ginger are so goddamn needy. Maybe I didn’t have a life changing moment on my twenty-third birthday because no matter what, I would have been sitting here at this exact same spot, writing this exact same sentence.

My New Job III

So when I finished my training period I moved to the new location, which is a surreal place in the middle of Baltimore. Most of the people who work there wear black, which clashes with the light-green walls. The smell is an odd mixture of stinky shoes and industrial cleaning materials. Fun.

The other day a guy was having a nervous breakdown so I quickly called one of the women in black. She asked him if he was okay. He said, "I'll be okay. I just need some fresh air." She said, "Sir, there's no fresh air here."

But the people I work with aren’t insanely retarded anymore, which is a vast improvement after my training period.

Still, here’s a conversation I heard in my first week in the new place:

A: I can’t explain my parents. They will have a problem with me dating a black guy, but the funny thing is, my sister married a Jewish guy and they don’t seem to care. And, you know, what’s the difference between a black man and a white man? It’s just different skin colors. But there are real differences between Christian and Jewish people.

B: You’re absolutely right. Jewish people go to church on Saturday.

A: That’s right.

B: And they peel their food.

My New Job II

So in my new job I have to wear a tie. You know this world exists, and you know some of your neighbors live in that world and follow its deranged logic, but until you step into this environment you have no idea what’s it really about. Apparently, ties have to match your clothes. Your shoes as well. Everything has to match.

It’s this whole new culture that exists under your nose, but unless you’re a part of it you simply have no idea what’s it about and how prevalent it is. You just live your own life as if it’s the only possible way to live, not thinking for a second there are others all around you who do heroin, or sharpen their teeth and dress like vampires, or practice voodoo, or have crazy orgies, or wear ties.

I get compliments on the ties Honey bought me. People ask me about brands and stuff. I search for a label.

“Nautica? Is that the brand? Nautica?”

“Ahh, Nautica is good,” they say.

One of the guys straightened my tie today. Apparently this thin piece of cloth has to be centered.

Personally, looking at tie patterns make me dizzy. I’m not even mentioning fun ties; that’s a whole new type of evil I’m too scared to get into. What’s going on here? Who randomly decided men can only look professional if their upper body is divided symmetrically by patterns? I would have loved to be in on that meeting.

My New Job

I have a new job. The girl who trains me says marijuana kills.
“It doesn’t… really…” I say.
“No. But if you’re high and you drive then you can kill someone. So marijuana kills.”

You can’t argue with great logic like that.

She shows me a picture of her trip to the Philippines.

“What do you see in the picture?” she asks.
“A mountain?”
“No.”
“It sure looks like a mountain. It’s not a volcano?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s a volcano.”
“Then…”
“You said mountain.”
“But… A volcano is a mountain. It’s just got a hole in the middle.”
“Well, it’s a volcano, not a mountain.”

She shows me how to write my notes: “Just read my example and copy my notes.”

So I read Contract recieved and signed.

“Wait… ” Because I’m new, you see, and I’m not in a position to stand out as That Guy. But of course, I am that guy, and I can’t help myself, being an English Major and all… “I think in received the E comes before the I.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“I thought so too, but that’s how I’ve been told to write the notes, so…”
“But it’s a spelling mistake. I mean…”
“It’s not a big deal.”

No, it’s not.

Oh My God!

A bit late, the Christmas parade

Street Fountain

Screw you, Mayor O'Malley, and screw you "J. Fletcher Creamer & Son," for taking 4 hours to turn a screw off.



That's a bit harsh. At least it looked nice. So what if our basement was flooded?

Baltimore Flugtag 2006

Sorry for the shakes. That's what happens when you quit smoking.