Bumb Fights. Part Une

So we may be the worst bloggers ever. When we have to stop blogging about ourselves then we flat out stop blogging. Well I can tell you it is not out of lack of blog worthy material, with that said I present the beginning of what I'm sure to be a turbulent set of blogs. The Bumb Fights.

I work retail and it's Christmas. The characters are as follows.

Old man- in his, let's say 60's but as gay as the day is bright!

Young man- 'round 25.

Young man's girlfriend- similarly aged.

This is how the scene played out.

Our line for the register was wrapping it's way through the store making it difficult to get to some of the merchandise on some of our shelves.

Young man and Girlfriend are in said line.

Old man is pressing his way though people to locate something on said shelves, in the process bumps into Young Man's Girlfriend. Old Man then comments on Young Man's Girlfriend's virtue or rather (he assumes) her lack of. At this, the Young Man leapt into defense of his true love by commenting on the Old Man's alternative life choices, also I believe there was talk of the Old Man becoming intimate with some one's Mother. The Old Man, still spouting his own myriad of slang filth, pushed his way out of the crowd and began to walk away, suggesting over his shoulder the Young Couple should go and become intimate with themselves.

Now up to this point nothing truly worthy of report happened. It is after all New York and we are counseled to kick Satan where the sun don't shine from our pulpits. So we are used to flowery language.

But something here snapped. Deep inside the Young Man rage grew and flourished, screaming through his sinus and gained momentum as it raced. Sparking and whirling it ricochet through his body and finally combust.
The Old Man with his back turned never saw him coming.
All those in line and at the register and, at this point, in the store were certainly expecting the worst. Which is what they witnessed.
The Young Man, a 25 year old man with a girl friend in line, with an entire store looking on ran with all his might, then stopped, prepped and KICKed the Old Gay Man in the butt. Not a punters kick, mind you, a twelve year old who's pants are too baggy that non-kicking leg also lifts off the ground. In such a position ones balance can only be sustained by clinching the fists and biting the lower lip. Both were completed in this case.

The rest of the story goes as you would expect: The Old Man called for security. Jessica, a 4 foot 8 inch cashier said, "We don't got no security, iz jes us." O.M. demanded we call the police, which we did. Young Man suggests they 'Rumble' out side where he will be waiting to kick the Old Man derriere, which he had done and we all believed would again. While waiting for the Police, Old Man berates all those in his path until Crazy Customer No One Knows pipes out of the line about how when the Police get here he's going to tell them that he deserved what he got (kicked in the Butt) because he was callin' that guys girl names. I suppose because he say that the line was against him and that the Police were actually coming he tossed out some blanket offences that covered us all and he left passing four (yes FOUR) New York City Police Officers. We were quick to point out the man who had called for their aid was now a block up the street but Jonathan was pretty sure he could recognize the back of his head. Which he did and they spent a half hour deliberating the importance of staying at the scene of the crime, even if the crime was your butt was kicked in public.

I don't have a morel. I don't believe in them, but I would like you to take a moment and dig down deep inside yourself and try to find the place where you decide that the absolute only rational rebuttal for any grievance is to rear back and with all the force you have in you to muster, propel your foot into a violent ascension to the ripe bumb of your offender. I hope it takes more then a moment to find. But I take secret pleasure in knowing that it's there.

Cricket...Cricket...

Okay, sorry, we're lame. No new updates for three weeks! I only wish we were as dedicated as Liz, who writes everyday, but alas...we're not. Back to posting at the end of this week, though, when we will avail you of the beauties of Christmas in New York! (Except that it's been 60 degrees here--weird).

What can I say?

So, I blush at the attention my doting wife bestoes. What can I say, as all of you who know us (which is all of you) know that it took a combination of wit, talent, a dog and some drugs to doop my wife into loving me, but I had to nail that down. Now I would like to take a moment to gush about the things that I love about her... and then we'll be done with this chapter in blogging about each other and we'll go back to drunks on the subway.
I could write about her buckets of class, or her vats full of brains, or her deep well of sprit, but rather then focus on things that I can't post in picture form on a blog, I present the many hair styles of my wildly adored wife. Enjoy.

testing

I'm Thankful For...

I really think this photo speaks for itself...I somehow managed to land the funniest, handsomest, most creative, most loving, charming, (insert your own hyperbole here) man that I've ever met.

This started out as a thoughtful, meaningful post about all the things that I'm thankful for this year, and I still plan to do that, but my catch deserves his own post to tell him that he's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Tomorrow, we will share pie, and I will remember why I'm so thankful for my husband.

A story...A True One.

So, maybe the best part of living in New York is that you get to share your life with millions of people. We all have our own lives and have no intrest in getting to know each other, but at times we share, or hear, or watch very intimate moments of each others' lives. It is just such a moment that I feel needs to be shared here.

Once, late--very late--at night we were riding the PATH train (the subway that heads under the Hudson and takes us to New Jersey--not only a subway but a Jersey subway). Our fellow passengers were, for the most part, wildy drunk. We had found seats which allowed us to sit and watch the performance that was about to take place.

Enter: Two deeply drunk men. They cross to train right and put themselves too close to two lesser drunk girls. The only way to really convey what happened is to put it in the form of a play, so ladies and gentelmen... 'The PATH Home: A True Story"

Steve: Hey, so where are you two going?

Kimberly & Jenny: Hoboken

Steve: Oh yeah, us to.

Greg: Yea, where are you two going?

Kimberly & Jenny: Uhh, Hoboken.

Greg: Oh Yeah!

Steve: Sorry about him, he's really drunk.

Greg: Ohhhh Yeah!

Girls giggle

Steve: No really, he is so drunk!

Kimberly: Yeah we can see that.

Steve: Hey, kick him in the crotch.

Girls do not giggle

Steve: No, serious, kick him in the crotch.

Greg: Yeah! Go ahead, kick my crotch.

Jenny: Um, no thanks.

Girls back away

Greg: It's ok... you probably won't hit anything anyway.

Steve: He has very small testicals.

Greg: Yeah...but they get the job done.

Long Pause

Greg: If it's a very small job...I don't even know if you could call it a job.

At this point the train stops. Enter: Drunk Man Number 3. His drunkeness far surpasses the latter 2, and so the rest of the train ride is Greg and Steve trying to get drunk man number 3 (a complete stranger) to vomit on the train, while the passangers, like those on the sinking Titanic, all press to one end of the train to avoid the inevitable.


There is no moral to this story, but if there were, it would have to be: Drunk people are funny, unless you're trapped with them and they might throw-up.

Photographs from Beyond the Grave

Last year at this time, the Metropolitan Museum of Art hosted an incredible exhibit titled "The Perfect Medium: Photography and the Occult." The exhibit consisted of pictures from the late 19th century that were used to trick people into believing that the new-fangled cameras could capture the paranormal. The picture above was taken by a French gentleman who became wildly wealthy from his extra-sensory photos (he was also arrested for fraud later in his life). The photos were often created by double exposure, creating the ghostly, haunting image next to a much more solid one.

This is all fine and good and interesting, but what was really fascinating was the other pictures in the exhibit--pictures of people with their ghostly loved ones looking over them, protecting them, it seems. In this case, the photographer would either use a nondescript enough model that it could pass for anyone, or he would take a picture of the actual person and fade it enough that the ghost looked related, but different. He would then put one plate on top of the other to create the full, final image.

The aspect of this that really captivated me was this longing for your loved ones, a pressing, burning desire to know that when they died, they didn't disappear. Photography was a new enough medium that it was still surrounded by superstition and mysticism, and it was not such a far stretch to believe that it was possible to capture parts of the world that are uncapturable to the naked senses, particularly the world of spirits and paranormal phenomenon.

This desire is perfectly understandable. It's horrible to lose those you love, and incredibly reassuring to discover that they are still there, just over your shoulder--unseen, but present. Of course, this was just an illusion. A particularly cruel one, and the photographers were punished for their role in the trickery.

I remember after my grandmother died, my mom found a tape from the answering machine that had a recording of my grandma's voice on it. For a brief, delightful moment, it seemed as if my grandma was still there--unseen, but present. Then, of course, the realization that it was only a recording set in, along with the fresh pain of her absence. I also have a tape of my friend speaking at his mission farewell; the talk delivered a few weeks before he died. I've never worked up the courage to listen to it, but it's reassuring to know that his voice is still there, just the same. And perhaps it is this melancholy reassurance that makes the photographs so interesting to me as well.

~L

SPOOKY!

We love Halloween, a ridiculous amount. My little sister hates it, and never dresses up, which I just cannot understand. P and I wait all year for the one night that we .can dress up and relive our high school drama glory days, yet still blend right in with the Wall Street crowd. All of us, anonymous, goofy, enchanting; pretending that it's acceptable for grown-ups to go out in public dressed as angels, sexy inmates, vampires and the rest.

Along with the dressing up, we decorate every year. October 1st (P made me wait), we pulled out our old lights, and went to Target to stock up on webs, gummy mice, and spiders. The spiders promptly invaded the lamp, while the mice nested on top of the television and on the window.

Our hearth (by hearth, I mean television console) is a dark menagerie of candles, pumpkins, and candy corn.

And this ghoulish display, craftily engineered by P, greets visitors from the street:


It would be nice if we had children, and could blame them for this obsession.

Oh well.
I guess we'll just have to own up to our demons.

-L

Why us? Why now?

So, who do we think we are? I've been thinking about blogging and what I think I would say and about what and about who, and the pressure to be witty almost crushes me. But then from the back corners of my mind comes a mothers voice, calm and sweet, gently nudging me that she has not seen the Halloween lights in our window or the pumpkins picked from a mowed field. Well, it is to that voice I write, that lovely high pitched swaying voice, asking what color our hair is, or what the dog is being for Halloween. So if you find yourself reading and find yourself wondering, "Meeah" just remember someone out there is thinking, "Really!"

-P