Hot Times, Summer in My Pants
The last time I checked in here was a long time ago. There are a few reasons for that. Number one being I’m arguably the laziest man alive. I spent many years of half-assed writing to arrive at a point where I could start a Web site with two good friends and have my own column. Almost immediately after securing a column, my ambition to write for said column evaporated much like any hope I had that I’d actually win a free iTunes song from my many cursed Diet Pepsi bottle caps. (1 in 3 wins my ass; I was like 13 for 178. So now I’m the asshole? There’s someone walking around with 42 free songs that should have been mine, goddammit).
So I’m back for today. This could change tomorrow. My colleague has suggested I put an Outlook reminder in my calendar for every week reminding me to write. That should work but I usually ignore those. I miss a shitload of meetings at work when I “dismiss” all my appointment reminders. This could be a significant breakthrough in understanding why I’ve had six jobs in seven years.
I might have a solution though that would motivate me to get back into the writing habit. I think I need a monkey. Not just any monkey though, I need a smart one. Something like an intern. The job responsibilities won’t be extensive—a little reminding here, a little musing there, some basic manual labor like turning a wrench once in a while and maybe some fellatio thrown in. Do monkeys even do that? I’m sure they can be taught. They’re teaching dolphins to jump for treats for crissake, I’m sure monkeys can handle it.
One of the first tasks I would assign my monkey would be to commute with me to the Bronx. This would be a seasonal thing; I only need his services in the summer. Everyday when I get off the train at Marble Hill and 225th Street, I’m met by an open fire hydrant. It’s not terribly bad seeing all the little kids playing in the stream as cars come hurtling down the narrow street at stupid-fast speeds (it’s an industry term). It’s just when the teenage kid that puts his hands in front of the stream so that it goes an additional 10 feet that gets my hose in a knot. I’ve been soaked a few times now. It’s always unintentional apparently. If I had a monkey, the monkey could go and stick his head in the fire hydrant hole until I successfully passed through the water stream. Or he could call 311 and wait on hold to report the hydrant. Or, best yet, the monkey could do a monkey dance and mesmerize the teenage stream warden until I passed through, dry and fit as a fiddle.
Monkeys wanted. Room and board not provided. Neither is money. You can put it on a monkey resume though. I’m taking applicants.
I’d also utilize my monkey on the commute into work. Being one of the last stops on the train before we hit Grand Central, I never ever, ever, ever, ever, ever get a seat. I could have one of those middle seats but I’m reluctant to be that asshole that sits in the middle. I’m not riding bitch for anyone, anywhere, MTA, my Grandfather’s Buick Regal, I don’t care. This guy right here is not a bitch! My monkey could be though. It just kills me as I stand by the door, annoyed beyond belief that I can’t have a seat despite the enormity of empty seats. Someone should be using them, someone small like a monkey.