Selfish Crab

And I’m back home. Moving had some complications, but I am finally back in my ancestral home in the en-jay. What sort of moving complications? Well, gee, maybe the fact that I practically CRIED MYSELF TO DEATH in moments of sorrow when I had to leave my suite for the last time. I was one of the last ones to leave and it was hard to walk down that hallway towards the kitchen, and just see the whole place, emptied out and deserted. Packing was especially hard, because you see everyone literally disassembling your home, your world, piece by piece, poster by poster, personal-item by personal-item. In the last couple of months, I grew to love the suite and I had oodles of fun, partially because of softe bonding. I take back every negative
thing I ever said about the suite.

Seeing this is also the passing of another academic year, it’s good to look back and meditate on one’s successes and one’s god-awful moments of unending embarrassment and shame. Sometimes, it is a bit hard to think back, because it’s difficult to distinguish when previous, previous years ended and when sophomore year began. However, there does exist a marker which I’m sure is sharp in everyone’s mind. Think back to the terrible 24 hours of September 11th, 2001. That was the beginning of the year. Now, think of all the days between then and now. That was sophomore year. Quite a chunk of time. That day seems so freaking far away.

To put it briefly, my year was frickin’ awesome. Acquaintances became best friends, my neurosis blossomed into some sort of weird charm, and the stick came out a little from my ass. During my breaks from school, I visited family and traveled to beautiful central american countries. I watched the world some more, took some notes, and prepared for my moments as a full-fledged adult. It’s coming soon. Gotta get warmed up.

# 2002 May 19    {rompin' years}    #

Sometimes there are these special moments when everyone just gets together and talks. A big deadline or a special date, like the start of finals or the night before move-out, and almost as if compelled by a universal procrastination, people will mill around at these moments and begin to talk. They just feel in that mood, sometimes because they are so unwilling to return to their work, sometimes because it just feels right.

These are special times. Not always are people willing to sit down and speak earnestly and honestly about their lives. Usually we’re so busy bullshitting and talking smack to even say a shread of truth. But here, people just talk. They talk about what girls they have a crush on, about who’s their type, about the farthest they’ve ever gone, about their religion, about what kind of people they are and about the kind of people they want to be, about the lives they’ll lead and about the lives they want to live. These moments of bonding come and go, and when they do happen, you hold on to them dearly because they are rare and special animals.

Right now, I want to just talk. The year’s ending and I want to look someone in the face and tell them about my year and how it was unbelievable and how I made friendships to last me a lifetime. I want to spill my guts and divulge every little secret that I hide away in my cagey personality. I want to tell people what I thought when I first met them. I want to talk to the girl I developed a crush for, to the guy I wished would become my best friend, and to the one that I thought was a complete weirdo.

The moment’s passing… I’m going to bed. goodnight.

# 2002 May 17    {rompin' years}    #

Oh, yeah. This blog is back. Gotta love CSS. Took me only about an two hours to casually implement a redesign of the entire blog. I’m excited about the future! Today: finished with exams and with being a sophomore. Good times behind me, more good times ahead. Look ahead, and bring your sunglasses! woohoo!

# 2002 May 15    {meta, rompin' years}    #

I arrive 20 minutes late to dinner with some old high school friends at Zen Palate on the Upper West Side. I pull up a chair, apologize for my lateness, and try to make sense of the yuppified asian menu. Soon enough, our waitress (who’s cute, of course) comes over and starts to take our order.

Sitting on the outside, I naturally start the order. But hey, I suck at ordering. Of course, on my face, is my classic dumb I’m-clueless-help-me grin. Hurriedly, I ask, “Hmm… what do you think is better, the Nandoo Noodles or the Sweet & Sour Sensational?” She looks at me and says:

“Well, I tend to prefer the noodles, but the sensational is pretty popular with many of our customers, and they tend to really enjoy it.”

“Oh. what’s it taste like?”

“Well, it’s really sweet. Some customers say it’s a bit much and they get sick of it.”

“Oh.”

“Do you like sweet things?,” she asks, and even though I’m looking at my menu, I know she looking straight straight at me with those eyes. “Do you like sweet things,” she says again with a bright smile.

“Ummm…uhh…”

I’m stuttering.. hunched over my menu… and I blurt out while she’s in the midst of another comment, “OK, Nandoo noodles! I’ll take the nandoo noodles!” I peek upward.

She smiles, nods, and moves on.

Now, cmon, [crab], what were you thinking? When a cute waitress smiles and asks you, “Do you like sweet things?”, the appropriate response is a grin, a look into her eyes, and a “Mmm-hmmmm. Just how sweet is it?” Or maybe a “You know I do, sweet thang.” Or even “Uh-huh. Whatchu got to sate me?” The correct answer to “Do you like sweet things?” is never, ever: “Nandoo noodles!”

::sighs:: more reasons why I’m single.

# 2002 May 11    {greatest hits, rompin' years}    #

For my Jazz, History and Musical Elements of: class, we have to attend various jazz performances and write reports about them (I happen to be finishing up one now.) So, NYC has probably one of the best jazz scenes in the world, and of course many of the venues for jazz are jazz clubs. The trick to many of these places is to stay at the bar and avoid sitting at a table (where there is often a hefty food minimum.)

So, when I was at Birdland last week, I sat down at the bar, feeling all cool. Normally, young’uns like myself aren’t allowed to sit at the bar (city law). But, the place was pretty empty at the time, so I don’t think they cared. It was the 9pm set. The bartender leans over to me and says, “What can I get cha?”

Of course, I didn’t want to sound like a stupid kid that knows he’s limited to only soft drinks and water. So I dig deep, and with a mature wave of my hand, I maturally growl at him, “Ehhh, just start me off on with a Coke.” As if I was going to order more. As if this Coca-cola was just to wet my thirst before I really start to guzzle the booze, before I start to throw back shots, before I order the REAL stuff.

That would be my only beverage for the night. I nursed that puppy through a two hour set.

# 2002 May 2    {rompin' years}    #