Easy Rider

There was a reason the Buddha wandered for years --and it wasn’t because he was busy touring the Midwest with Peter Fonda. He probably spent too much time sitting in cafés, drinking lattes, getting a little belly and thinking about his mom. In essence, he was sort of a buzz-kill.

I’m just like the Buddha but more popular. Most people like me. They say things like “You have such pretty hair.” “You are so funny.” “Be my maid of honor!” “I’m going to name my first child after to you.”

Nevertheless, I relate to Buddha and his self-imposed isolation and it’s not that I have a fear of commitment. Because I don’t.

I have a fear of other people's commitments. To get out of the last relationship I was ensared in, I actually had to chew through my own femur. Now I hobble around with a fifth of gin, shaking my nub at people and offering sage advice. “Always wear a helmet. Moisturize after showers. Don’t date men who wear fishnet…”

It can be so stressful sometimes, knowing everything at such a tender age. I suppose it has its rewards. I am always either content in my omnipotence, or in some cases, pleasantly surprised when my garbage can hasn’t been stolen.

I’m doing pretty well. It's special. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who would leave me alone and I am not particularly good at, nor am I fond of, intimate relationships.

Unfortunately, I am fond of gin and intimacy seems to go really well with gin; as do cigarettes and more gin. The Buddha and I do not have these particular vices in common, which is why he is not touring the countryside with Peter Fonda-and why he will probably never have his head blown off by a homicidal, mustache-fearing redneck.

Race you to the Bodi tree. Fool.

Market Principle

Statistically speaking, I am likely to land a job eventually. The more interviews I go on, the more likely I am to get one right. By some act of God or administrative desperation, some organization will hire me whether or not my fly is down or if I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Otherwise, I don’t know…I’m too old to do anything sexy and get paid for it but maybe I could get paid doing things for people who can get paid for being sexy. For example, I could “bathe the maidens” at the XXX Forum on 23rd & Market Street.

I’ve also looked into selling the contents of my ovaries locally, but I’m too old to do that too. My brother gave me a tip that In NYC they’ll take eggs up through age 34 but the clinic wants to monitor you every day for 2 weeks while they pump you full of hormones.

I’m not sure what my problem is. It could be that, even in an interview setting, I absolutely cannot pass up a chance to make a good joke. I also have trouble asserting anything about myself without negating it in the very next sentence. And as it turns out, I really, really enjoy not working.

I can justify my unemployment with a little economic model called “The Law of Supply and Demand.” I do not work because no one is paying me to work.

It’s the founding principle of a free market, dude. The lack of demand for my services is justly reflected by the absence of my services. I’m only being responsible to the market.

In fact, no one is paying me to do anything. And until I do find a job, I am more than happy to pass the time drinking free trade coffee for hours until I can actually feel the sweat droplets forming in my balmy armpits and cascading down my sides. By night, I play darts, take Cha Cha lessons and most recently, bowl. It’s probably un-American of me, but for the time being, this totally feels worth whatever I’m not making.

The Value of Cultural Experience

I know everything about West Philadelphia, the land of promise, diversity, strong artistic communities, cultural connections, economic empowerment and opportunity for all.

I also know all about the deranged crackhead who stands outside of the video library demanding high-fives. The police are glad to have my story as they shove my favorite crack addict into the back of a cruiser with his paper cup and imaginary machete.

After giving my name and ID, I am told I need to give an official report at the Southwest Police station. Regardless of the cultural revitalization in my neighborhood, I indicate that I will not be visiting that particular area unless escorted in a police vehicle. The cop opens the back door of the cruiser for me and says, “Uh. Sorry about the smell. I had a whole bunch of guys in there earlier. I’m not sure what they ate…”

I’m lucky. I am unharmed. I’ve lived in West Philly for about 5 years and I’ve never been to the police station or in a cop car. But I highly recommend this form of transport. Police cruisers are exactly like taxis but cheaper, the cops have to open the doors for you (so it’s kind of like a limo service) and the back seat is made entirely of hard plastic. I press my face close to the window and laugh, thinking about how great it would be if I stuffed my scarf into my own mouth and started pounding on the windows with my feet.
“You okay back there?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. It smells like cherries.”

I make a note of the all the signage in the waiting room. No firearms permitted beyond this point. If you are armed please notify desk supervisor. To the left of that sign is color print-out with some writing taped to the glass. It’s a photo of one of the Philly detectives. Hi. My name is Todd. I really need a date.

About 32 “detectives” come out of the office to visit the vending machine throughout my stay. They all want to know what happened, am I alright and could I describe the suspect, to which I reply, “Yeah. It’s guy you arrested.”
“We arrested him?”

The couple who initially reported the crime and I wait on that bench for over an hour. The woman is a Ph.D. cantidate from UCLA. They’ve only been living in West Philly for 6 months they've already been mugged once and had to deal with a gun battle on their block. The husband apologizes profusely about “dragging” me into this. The wife looks like she is about to cry. “I can’t wait to move back to L.A. This is crazy. Do you think they’ll deliver a pizza here?”

I feel better about the ordeal after meeting a nice girl who’d just been robbed at gunpoint with her 2 year-old. The robber got a bag of sippie cups and her student ID.


Finally, I am escorted into the central office, which, not surprisingly, turns out to be 32 fat white guys watching “The OC.” Joe, the detective who interviews me, laments, “It makes no sense at all. The City can pay millions of dollars for a new sports stadium but we can’t get enough together for another prison. What do you think about that?”
“Um. I think the stadium generates a little more revenue for the city than another jail. Besides, I’m not sure Wachovia would want their name on a brand new prison.”
He nods his head and says, “But think of all the license plates…”

We begin the interview. As an explanation for spelling of the crime scene “video libery,” Joe points out that, unlike me, he did not go to “some fancy college.” To expedite the process, I offer to type the report for him and he accepts.

The head detective looks over my shoulder at the computer screen and puts his hand on my shoulder. “46th street? Oh my goodness sweetie. How long have you lived there? When is your lease up?”
“Oh, not until next September. It’s actually not a bad neighborhood. It's really multi-cultural. You know, ‘up and coming’.”

False Impressions, False Pride

Somebody put calories in my salad dressing...

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I Can't Take it Anymore

I plead with you to make it stop. I hold my breath until my face turns blue to no avail. Without looking back I run to the window, gasping, and I tearfully hoist myself onto the edge of the windowsill. The reverberations of my final shriek of terror echo through the streets of West Philadelphia as I plunge to my death.

I don't like your feet.

Tucked inside dirty socks with the absorption capacity of the average sandwich baggie, they simmer in your sweat for the entire day and most of the night. That you dare unleash them ever, much less in my company, should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.

I hate your feet more than I hate "A Prairie Home Companion." I would rather shove my right arm into an active garbage disposal than be subjected to crimes against humanity like “Guy Noir” but I would relocate to Lake Woebegone to escape the ineffable tyranny of your feet. Their stink, so foul and pungent, seems to carry its own primal scream. They are purple and weird and hairy and bony in ways that no part of any living human should be.

They are the children of Satan.