Category Archives: Stories

Hostiles

This has to be one of the most beautiful hostiles in California, but still. The coed dorms are the real deal. You’re the last one to arrive at night, so you have to take the bunk above the oldest jolly-fat-fellow in the room. The problem isn’t that he snores, it’s that he snores in such an amusing and inconsistent way. You’re forced to listen, ears and nose molested by everything he emits into the air. He’s snoring and snoring, breathing too much in your opinion. Then it goes away for a few minutes. Oh thank gawd, you can sleep now. Suddenly a soft explosion penetrates the silence and air forces it way down his throat again. Sleep apnea—great—why don’t you rent yourself a private room. You’re talking to him, not yourself.

In the morning, you try to sleep as late as possible, because you couldn’t fall asleep until 3am. Everybody gets up around 7:30, and you try not to let the commotion wake you completely. The Dutch brothers wake up earliest and talk back and forth in Dutch, probably because they miss hearing their mother-tongue. No, but seriously, I’m sorry, there are no Dutch brothers, just one guy who talks to himself in Dutch. I speak a little German and it seems that he really does miss his mother.

The eastern European guy shuffles through all his belongings three or four times until the bathroom opens. He seems nervous, like he’s inventorying his stuff to make sure nobody jacked anything. Maybe he didn’t read about Marin County in the in-flight magazine and he’s worried all these nice rich people are just a front. I don’t remember from whence he came. Probably that communist country. He came here because he’s such a materialist.

So you’ve chosen the hostile path instead of a hotel. Great! You might save a lot of money, which is significant. But recognize that if it is sleep you seek, perhaps look elsewhere, because you will be fighting off all those hostile dorm demons—gas, breath, sneezes, coughs, moisture (don’t underestimate this one), shifting, shuffling, communists, and possibly a schizophrenic or two or just one. None of this will happen if you stay at the Ritz Carleton. They don’t allow the riff raff inside.

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Portland Professional

I love Portland.

The winters are rainy, but I love the rain.

I’m a total rain person.

Rain keeps me busy.

Exactly. Keeps you focused.

What’s your profession?

I’m working on my resume.

Between jobs?

Nope.

Where are you looking for work?

I’m not looking.

What about the resume?

That’s what I’m working on now.

So you’re not looking?

I’m moving back to Brooklyn next fall to look for work.

I guess there aren’t a lot of jobs in Portland.

Yeah. I don’t want to waste my time. I’m looking for work in Brooklyn this fall then moving to San Francisco next summer to invent an iPhone App.

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You Know What I Did That Summer

I went to opera camp. I can’t say which one. I have been advised not to comment. I’ll just say, New Jersey. My parents decided to send me to opera camp after I played Oliver in a middle school production of Oliver! They thought my voice was above average. Numbers such as, “Whe-e-e-e-ere is Love?” “Boy for Sale,” “Who Will Buy?” “I’d Do Anything,” “That’s Your Funeral,” and “Food Glorious Food,” really spoke to me, I guess. I sang and sang all over the place. Literally, all over New York City. My Mom was worried, but thought it was pretty cool. My Dad thought it might have been Tourette’s. My teacher assured them both it was a pre-pubescent phase and that her son had also behaved mysteriously at my age.

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The summer after Oliver! opened off-off-off-wayoff Broadway, I told my parents how much I loved singing, so they enrolled me in opera camp. Opera camp turned out to be very different then I had imagined. They woke us up early to train our voices in cooler air temperatures—I don’t know why. Then they put us down again from 7:30am until 9:30am, but during this time, we weren’t left alone. The counselor watched over us. Literally, watched us sleep. He explained this was a familiarization technique, so he could study our breathing. He was a castrato; you opera sophisticates might be familiar with the ways of the castrato.

I remember lying on my cot, eyes closed, trying to master my breath, to breathe rhythmically. When you didn’t breathe rhythmically, he woke you up and breathed at you—in-out-in-out, heavily, without a word. Just breathed in your face—I guess to show you how they do it off-off-Broadway. There were other exercises they made us do that didn’t make sense. I can’t get into it now, but if you keep reading, maybe in a few years I’ll be able to disclose the entire experience without risking entrapment. Not that I, myself, am at risk. Anymore. I just don’t want to risk taking on more legal fees. It’s for my own protection. And yours, honestly. You may already know too much. In brief: I had imagined I would love opera camp. I did not love it in the least.

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My Little Bastard

There’s this professional athlete who is called A. Bastardo. Antonio Bastardo. I’m not going to say which sport he plays because I don’t want to defame him or anything. Apparently he’s a great guy. He’s a solid player and he throws hard, low 90s, which is decent for a relief pitcher. Ok, it’s baseball. My point is not to debase Bastardo for having un nombre desafortunado. Instead, I want to prove his name isn’t all that unfortunate and furthermore that baseball fans enjoy giving their favorite players endearing appellations when they perform well, like they would their children or their pets. Growing up, I cheered that way for Mike Piazza, the greatest New York Mets catcher of all-time. I used to call him “the pizza man.” When he hit a homerun, he had “delivered a pizza,” or “the pizza man delivered.” You get the point. Baseball players have weird names. Rollie Fingers, Mookie Wilson, Chipper Jones, Wade Boggs, Coco Crisp, Gaylord Perry, just off the top of my head. If you want to try Google, you might be a little shocked. It gets bad pretty quick, and by bad I mean nasty. Just pertaining to genitals: Randy Johnson (top 10 pitchers of all time), Randy Bush, Rusty Kuntz, Johnny Dickshot, Dick Hoover, Dick Littlefield, Dick Burns, Dick Green, Dick Cox, Dick Wantz, Dick Pole, Dick Hunt, Dick Manville, Dick Coffman, Dickie Flowers, Pete LaCock, and that’s just what Google wants you to know. I love the name Heinie Manush. It makes me want to rename my own body parts.

So, Bastardo, I just want you to realize how normal your name is, juxtaposed with some other names in baseball history. Unfortunately, Antonio Bastardo plays for the Phillies, and I’m a diehard Mets fan. But rest assured, if he were a Met, and he pitched well, he would always be My Little Bastard.

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Gas-N-Go

I got so used to living in Oregon, when I stopped for gas in California, I waited twenty minutes for the attendant to come out of the Gas-N-Go. I thought the guy was busy filling up other cars or taking a piss or whatever. Then somebody waiting behind me honked and yelled, “hey, buddy, what are you delusional?” and I realized I was in a self-service state, so I handed myself the credit card and asked if I could fill it up with Regular.

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I’ll Have Another

And they’re off! Germologist flashes early speed towards the outside Trundleberg is right there and so too is Birdymeister with Daddy Long Legs right on the inside rail and it is Birdymeister taking Trundleberg and then on the outside Germologist is in third. Hansen-the-grey between horses on the inside with Daddy Long Legs—those are the first five. Followed then by Take Charge Didn’t He racing in sixth towards the outside. I’ll Have Another is in seventh. Daddy Knows Best is in eigth. Around the outside, Liaison is racing in ninth. Creative Clause is in tenth. Dollar Hand is in eleventh. Optimizer is racing in twelfth. Alpha is thirteenth. Lasercat is in fourteenth. Went the Day Well is racing in fifteenth. And those are being followed by Perspective as they head down the backstretch. Arousing Sermon also in the rear. Communion Rags only has two behind. Done Talking is last, but El Padrino is last.

The half in 45 and 1 at half way in 138 and Bodemeister leads the parade. Trinniberg is in second. In third is Hansen. In fourth towards the outside is Germologist. Then on the inside Take Charge Indy, followed by I’ll Have Another. Then Liason with an awkward head carriage. He’s very wide going around the turn. He’s carried his head past Creative Cause. Rousing Sermon is now taking up ground towards the inside together with Daddy Nose Best. Daddy Long Legs is right out the back of the field. So too is Perspective, as the Derby field turns for home and out in front it is Birydemeister!

Birdymeister is clear by three lengths now! Hansen in second! Trundleberg! I’ll Have Another! Creative Clause is staying on down the outside. Dull at Hand is also picking up very deep on the track! Followed by Lays On inside the final Furlong! And it is Birdymeister and Mike Smith out in front! I’ll Have Another and Mario Gutierrez now coming alongside! Dull at Hand still has a chance and then Creative Clause! I’ll Have another! I’ll Have Another! I’ll Have Another takes the lead in the Derby and that’s the line. I’ll Have Another wins the Derby—a first winning ride for twentyfiveyearold #MarioGutierrez taking #Derby138!

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Naked Bike Ride

I want to clear something up: The Portland Naked Bike Ride, any Naked Bike Ride for that matter, is notrace. It’s a see-and-be-seen. I’m disappointed I have to explain this to you. Not a race.

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Wish

The other day, I stopped to watch a sexy woman teaching horseback riding lessons. She was coaching little Teddy on his posting and rein control and how to ask the horse to do what you want. The horse looked like the owner had taken it to a beauty salon in Chelsea for an expensive perm. But this wasn’t New York or London. The owner clearly prioritized appearance overall, because the horse kept fucking up what little Teddy asked it to do. The hairs stuck straight up and bobbed side-to-side as the horse pranced around the corral, waving its mane and swishing its tail. I mean, his tail. It was manifest. I had dressed myself carefully and expensively to attract the sexy woman, and it seemed she was taking the bait. As I watched her teaching little Teddy how to canter, an older lady came over and stood next to me. “Is he yours?” she asked. “Oh no, I’m just here to watch her,” I said, then added, “I wish. He’s beautiful.” The lady made no reply and left. A guy in a suit and sunglasses came over and casually sat down next to me. We chatted for a while about things—work, stress, sexuality, life after death. Writing this, now, I realize she was referring to Teddy.

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Philisteins

Last week, I met a JewBu in the wholefoodsparkinglot. I know what you’re thinking, there aren’t any Jewish Buddhists on the westcoast, but you’re wrong. There are a few. I stumbled into one right before sundown last Saturday. I know, I would have asked him why he was driving on shomer shabbat, but he looked like he could spare the guilt. We talked about New York and New Jersey. I was renting a car with NJ plates (mistake), which was how we started talking. He’s from Jersey, whatever. We talked about Portlanders, passive aggressive bicyclists, bad drivers, clean air, how everybody thinks they’re so smart because they live in the same city as Powells, and what we miss about the City. well, what “I” miss about the City. He’s from Jersey. He looked at my plaidshirt, asked me why I was hiding my Jewish”ness” and I was like, “I have to. You know that.” So yada yada yada, he asked me out on a dinner date, which I tried not to read as sexual, which it wasn’t, which was a relief, gave me his number and told me a JewBu joke, which I forgot.

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Let’s do this

I’m so motivated. I finally have a blog that you read and like on Facebook and talk about in real one-on-one conversations. I read in the Atlantic that Facebook makes us lonely. I mean, I didn’t read it, I saw the cover. But still, whatever it says, I don’t think I’m lonely because of Facebook. It’s because I don’t have any friends. So I’m starting this blog so people start noticing my shit. So yeah, it’s a good feeling.

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