Yesterday, I really felt like a New Yorker. The weather was getting warmer and as I walked around town smoking a cigar with Archie, I must have had the magic, the vibe, the luck that made everyone think, “I need to talk to that guy.”
We were repeatedly stopped by people — and not just for the ubiquitous, “OMG! That is the cutest dog EVER!” comments (which Archie is soooo over).
What really made me feel like I had arrived though was that for all of the questions — I had an answer. And the correct answer at that!
Now, I’ve been asked for directions many times before in NYC and usually I don’t know where the person is trying to get to — or — in a few select worst case scenarios, I’ve given out the wrong directions.
Yesterday? I was on it. I knew the best route, the cross streets, answers to follow up questions, alternative locations for the store they were trying to find, everything.
I was no longer a tourist, no longer a transplant. I was obviously a well seasoned New Yorker.
Heck, only took 4 years.
(Although I’m sure many actual born and raised New Yorkers would put me to shame. And I’m also not resting on my laurels too much — I still don’t know enough about the city. I just got lucky in a neighborhood I knew well.)
Lucky days, indeed.
The world of social networking is an unusual experiment. Especially for those of us who are not very social in the first place. My employer made me join Facebook so that they could look “cool” and “2.0” — neither of which I have contributed to. So besides the random notes from friends (actual, virtual or long lost), I’ve found very little benefit to being “social” online.
For example: I received this note this morning through Facebook.
- “Hi, I heard about you from an instructor I have at Nait whos sister worked for you and thougth you would be the perfect person to go to for finding out wrestling information and the schools in Calgary. I very much want to become a wrestler and funny enough my boyfriend wants to become a firefighter, so hopefully I contacted the right person and you can help me out. If you don’t like to answer random peoples emails, I also understand, so no worries there. lol. =)”
For the record, I do not know who this person is, I am not a wrestler and I have never been to Calgary. I also am not a firefighter. So while the business value of Facebook is obviously a myth, this note did bring up an old story in my own life.
I believe it was New Year’s Eve 2003 when my wife was on the phone with 911 explaining that there was someone passed out in the hallway, unconscious and covered in vomit. Being a former paramedic, she knew exactly how to explain the situation to 911. The 911 operator was impressed and asked her if she was a doctor. She said no, and explained, “I’m a medical student…” and our friend Greg finished her sentence with, “…and a wrestler.”
A completely random off the wall comment that is still hillarious to this day. The best part may have been that the 911 operator heard Greg’s comment and was thoroughly confused.
Side Note: The person in the hallway was awakened by firefighters, stumbled downstairs and got into a limo outside the building.
So this is my obligatory “Why I haven’t posted in a long long time” post.
Several reasons I guess.
It started with things like travel and holidays followed by things like overtime work and second jobs.
I also found that I was writing longer and longer entries. More well thought out essays requiring more and more time. Now, I love writing these essays, but couldn’t find the necessary time.
Now I’m back. Sort of. Heck, it’s my blog. I’ll write when I can, I’ll write when I want, I’ll write period.
As one grows older, one develops various hobbies. It’s recently occurred to me that I should pay more attention to the fine details of some of my hobbies. To take them a little more seriously.
To that end, I’ve started keeping track in the form of lists. It helps to refresh my memory and sometimes focus the direction the hobby takes.
You can view two of the lists in the right column: single malt scotch and cigars.
(Note: These lists are in no way recommendations or in any order, but merely a catalog of varieties I have sampled.)
What do you call a slutty, abrasive, drunk, overweight person?
This is the question my wife and I found ourselves with one evening recently.
After a night of bar fun — watching the crowd with the grateful glow of love — we were greeted by an untimely sight.
I came up with the term: Hippoho.
My wife topped me with the term: Hipposlutami.
Going to hell? Yes.
I’m not the one who got gussied up in a outfit too small for me, got hammered at a bar and paraded around making an ass of myself.
Nope not me.
Walking down the street yesterday and someone behind me kicks, steps or trips over Archie.
First Sign of Stupidity: Don’t bump into stuff in front of you.
Then this person weaves around me to my left (Archie was walking on my right) — big butt, tight jeans, big 80’s hair, loud pattern shirt, talking on the cell phone.
And that’s when I overheard her say into the phone:
“Oh my God! You’re, like, Paris Hilton with a ring!”
Second, Third and Fourth Signs of Stupidity: “OMG” “like” “Paris Hilton”
I responded by saying, rather loudly, “Stupid fucking whore,” but to no avail.
Oblivious wins again.
PS: Archie was not injured in the incident. He may be short, but he’s like a cement block.