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Friday, November 21st, 2008
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9:01 pm - Travel Intern/Lover
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| Saturday, September 13th, 2008
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7:54 am - Eyes Wide Shut RomCom Trailer
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| Friday, June 6th, 2008
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11:45 pm - The Mysterious Correspondence
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Last week I got an email from someone I don't know named Suzanne regarding something I knew nothing about. The subject line read, "Wendy's Going Away Party." I decided to write back.
Here is the result:
To Scott
From Suzanne
HI Scott, Just wanted to touch base to see if you have had any responses to Wendy's party invitations? I've heard nothing around lobster orders at this point. Are you & Toddy interested? If you are, or know of anyone who is interested, let me know soon. Thanks Suzanne
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To Suzanne
From Scott
Wendy has been busy with the move, and for some reason I haven't
gotten many replies. Maybe people are still mad with what happened
between Wendy and Steven.
I hope your cat is doing well. I'd heard it was sick. I went to the
aquarium last week and saw a dolphin. They let me pet it but got mad
at Toddy when he covered the blowhole. You know Toddy.
Have you discussed these plans with Geoff or Bobby? I heard Geoff
likes lobster but Bobby prefers chicken fingers.
Thanks Scott.
--
To Suzanne
From Scott
Suzanne,
Haven't heard back, what's the word?
Scott
--
To Scott
From Suzanne
Sorry Scott, Things are a little out of whack, she had to stay another day due to Patsy having a little repair work done, and the fact that she is very busy trying to get everything organized. Wendy is now scheduled to leave tomorrow am. We aren't able to see her off tomorrow but we will see her today as we are getting the washer and dryer we were supposed to get yesterday. I'd give her a call. Suzanne
--
To Suzanne
From Scott
Suzanne,
Ahhhhhhhhhh, I see. Man, I don't think I'm going to get to see her,
but I really want to. That's fantastic that are you getting the washer
and dryer, because now you can clean your clothes!
Toddy is very pleased with Wendy leaving because of the incident at
the birdcage. You know the one that I am referring to. It's the one
with the feathers. But we don't discuss that anymore because Toddy
gets very agitated and I don't like it when he shakes. Everyone knows
what happened between them, even Phylis and Bob Atkinson. It's
disgusting. But I turn the other way because if I don't nothing will
ever be accomplished.
We are considering changing swimming pools. We don't like the way
Toddy is treated and we no longer think it's a coincidence.
I am going to miss Wendy but I am not going to miss the chaos she has
brought to everyone's lives. Is it possible that she didn't choose to
move, but that she was chosen to move? I ponder things like this while
standing on top of my ladder painting blue brush strokes against the
summer sky. I do not regret the lack of a party to celebrate her
leaving, even though I celebrate it each moment in my heart.
Still, it would have been nice to get lobster.
Scott
--
To Scott
From Suzanne
Hello Scott, You funny bastard!! You had me right up until the last 2 sentences. You even had the characters of Wendy and Toddy to the nail, how did you do that? Wendy is known to get herself into trouble with her no filter personality, and Todd would put his had over the blowhole of a dolphin and the poetic tone in Scott's feelings about her leaving sounds just like him. This is too funny!! So just to let you know, we did have the party on Sat. May 31. When I received your email asking what was happening, I thought I had too much too drink and promised that we would see her off Thursday (June 5) and couldn't remember. So, I tried to play it off as if I did remember saying it (I'm laughing my ass off). Anyway, you missed a good time on the beach and there was lots of lobster! Oh, and Patsy Recline is her RV Camper and it's doing fine, however Wendy is still here, it's friday June 6, and the sale of her house closed today, she's still cleaning and packing. I'll keep you posted!! Oh, very impressive resume you have, you funny bastard!! Suzanne
--
To Suzanne
From Scott
Hello,
I agree that Wendy's no filter personality has caused a lot of
trouble, still, I regret I could not make it to the party. I don't
know if I understand the majority of your email, but when Toddy put
his hand over the dolphin's blowhole he got in a lot of trouble. Was I
mentioned? If I don't go to a party it's important that I be there in
some form, even if it's in GOSSIP FORM.
Perhaps you didn't realize that Wendy and I had such an intense
relationship. Her deception in the matter of Wendy v. Scott will not
soon be forgotten. It's possible you are taking her side because you
are both females, but science has shown that we all start off in the
womb as females, so I don't think it's fair to draw lines based on how
I came out in the end.
I hope that when the lobsters were lowered into the boiling pot of
death that you took a moment to recognize their sacrifice for someone
as callous and disturbing as Wendy. I hope that the lobster butter
created from their eggs signals a new beginging for all of us.
Someone needs to tell Wendy that flapping her wings on the wind of
danger is a good way to get caught in the butterfly net of
destruction.
I'm glad the party was nice, though. I wish I could have been there.
We must talk more. Do you know any gossip about Toddy? I am never
taking him to the water zoo again.
Yours in poetry,
Scott
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, February 15th, 2007
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7:15 pm - Apples and Apples
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General Mills Inc.
P.O. Box 9452
Minneapolis, MN 55440
February 15, 2007
Dear Mr. Fruity Cheerios’ Representative,
My name is Scott Taylor and I am a 27-year-old straight male. I love Fruity Cheerios! They are delicious. I eat them every morning with my mouth and I feel great. I am in much better shape now than when I existed solely on a diet of Cocoa Pebbles.
When you are a straight man like me you spend a lot of time thinking about things that are not gay so you don’t become gay by accident: Sports, pasta, cereal, boy bands. Oops! I slipped. I have to watch what pops into my brain or it’s bye bye bye to my straightness.
The worst part of my week is the inevitable moment when I discover my box of Fruity Cheerios is empty. That means it’s time to go to the store! But here’s my problem. My local store is full of petty employees who constantly harass me while buying your product. They call me “gay,” with their eyes just because the word “fruity” is in your cereal title! I don’t remember clipping a coupon for prejudice and small-mindedness along with the one for a box of juicy Fruity Cheerios, but they are given to me free of charge, all the same. I endure this injustice because of the delicious crunch and white-hot burst of flavor that explodes in my mouth every time I devour Fruity Cheerios (Feel free to use that as a tagline in future commercials.)
Last Thursday was typical of my many experiences at the market. I entered the store and went directly to the cereal aisle. I looked to both sides to make sure no one was looking, snatched a couple of Fruity Cheerio boxes, tucked them under my arm, and headed to the check out. A man named Steve scanned the Fruity Cheerios and looked me up and down. “These looks good,” he said, licking his lips. Then he told me the price. I was sweating, but somehow I managed to pay him. “Have a nice day!” he said. I fled for home and cuddled up with my new box of Fruity Cheerios. It smelled like Steve. Damn you, Steve, what are you doing to me? I fell asleep on a pile of filthy clothes clutching my box of Stevey Cheerios and wondering why a straight man like myself had to go through such pain.
I felt disgusting. They never actually SAY anything about their absurd accusation that I am a gay, but I can FEEL IT, y’know? It hurts so much. I don’t know what to do. I think about it constantly. And, I mean, of course it was Steve that was serving me, the one man there who seems to know what’s going on. He’s a special, gorgeous man. I wish he didn’t hate me. I just want to find out more about him but I feel like Fruity Cheerios keep getting in the way.
I have tried ordering your product on the Internet but it has always ended in confusion and chaos. I found a website offering a “Fruity Cheerio” and placed a midnight order. A nearly nude British man arrived at my door and started waving at me. “Cheerio!” he said. He wanted to come in. I was anxious to see if he had any cereal hidden in his bowler hat but my disapproving mother was visiting so I sent him on his way. I went to bed hungry that night.
For cereal. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Perhaps you could think of a less bi-curious name for your cereal. I have spent a lot of time thinking about how your product is affecting my sexuality, and so I have some ideas about a more Fox News-safe name for your product. Let’s look at what makes up the Fruity Cheerio and break it down to its essence. Here are my three favorite things about the Fruity Cheerio:
1) It’s full of color
2) It’s for men (like me!)
3) It has a hole in it.
How about “Colored Man Holes” cereal? I think that’s a much better name. Odd, though. Suddenly I started thinking of a report I read on gawker.com about Denzel Washington shopping for a thong in Chelsea. It’s winter, Denzel, you need more coverage than a thong can provide! I mean, just imagine Denzel in a thong running around in the snow kissing all the people he can find. He’d be so cold! Although I guess he’s hot enough any time of year. Argh! I slipped again! You can see the kind of trouble your cereal has put me in.
Thank you, General Mills, for your prompt attention on this matter. I come to you with a spoon full of non-fat milk and Fruity Cheerios in my hand. I look forward to a time in the near future when I can buy your cereal without bigoted looks from grocery store personnel and the face I see every day when I look in the mirror.
I will always be yours,
Scott Ryan Taylor
Fruity Cheerios/Colored Man Holes Fan
“Fruity Cheerios: The cereal with a white-hot burst of flavor that will explode in your mouth”
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, October 28th, 2006
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11:43 pm - Old hope chest delivers child's toy back into man's heart
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SEATTLE - In a tale of redemption 19 years in the making, a New York man has been reunited with the small, plush toy he thought he'd never see again.
"I wept when I got the photos," said Scott Taylor in an interview Saturday with The Associated Press. "He still had his Band-Aid on and everything."
The toy, a well-loved 2-foot-tall figure of "Sesame Street" character Big Bird, went missing in 1987 after the Taylor family moved from Burley, Idaho, to Kent, Wash.
In a video Taylor crafted this summer in memory of the bird, grainy family video footage captures the wide-eyed excitement of the youngster on his second birthday as he ripped the toy from its packaging and held it aloft triumphantly.
"BEEG bird!" the little boy proclaims on the video.
Saturday, Taylor had the same joy in his eyes upon receiving photographs of the bird, which had been discovered in a forgotten hope chest shipped from the Taylor family home in Hawaii to relatives in Seattle.
With a few phone calls, Taylor had arranged to have the toy make the final leg of its journey to Manhattan.
"He's going in a place of honor, next to my Buffy DVDs," he said. "I'm never letting him out of my sight again. I always loved you, Big Bird."
--
Related videos: This is Big Bird and Me.
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(10 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, October 23rd, 2006
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4:40 pm - Shoes
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| Thursday, September 7th, 2006
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5:07 am - The Chelsea Post Office is a Paper Tiger
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The Chelsea Post Office is a Paper Tiger
The post office in Washington Heights is the worst post office in the whole of these 50 United States. When I first moved to New York City last winter I was unemployed. My only duty was serving my fiancé Allison by preparing her cereal in bed and obtaining her many packages from our local post office. Allison, see, is an Ebay fiend. We normally receive AT LEAST one package a day. My girl can shop.
The postal deliverymen and women who serve our building will often leave notes asking us to retrieve packages from the post office even if we are at home. They will leave those slips with the name and date and the “sorry we missed you!” B.S. I’m sorry you missed me, too, by not bothering to ring my bell and see if I was home. My only job was obeying the unforgiving God that is GTA: San Andreas and I never left the house. These people were LIARS.
On the small orange notes the post office leaves in your box (or, even more brazenly, on your door when you are sitting on the couch) there is a section where you can assign an “agent” to pick up your package for you. Allison would fill my name in the agent section and send me on my way. Yay! A task!
The 10032 Post Office of Washington Heights holds much anger. Lines are long and temperatures are sweltering. The first time Allison sent me to this hellish place I encountered a creature known as “Wiggins.” Wiggins doles out the packages, see, and she takes this task seriously. On this day Allison had assigned me to pick up TWO packages. I handed the two slips to Wiggins and she looked at me. “You’re not Allison,” she said. “I know Allison.”
“I know,” I said, “I’m Scott.” I pointed to my name on the slip where it said you can have someone pick up your package. “That’s me.”
“That means nothing to me. I don’t know what that is,” she said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“I don’t know if this is from her. You could have signed this yourself. You tell Allison she should come pick her own packages up.”
“Uh,” I said, “ I live with her. Allison’s a nurse and works nights and she asked me to come get the packages for her. That’s why she signed this.”
She looked at me.
“Hold on,” she said, disappearing into the back. A few moments passed.
Wiggins returned with one package. “I will give you this one, but not the other one, because it is insured. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
This is one of the stupidest solutions to any problem I have ever heard. She thinks I am not legit, so she only gives me HALF of what I came for? Call me crazy, but I think I should be leaving with either zero or two packages. One makes no sense. I pleaded, but no, this was the Wiggins way.
“You tell Allison to call Wiggins.”
Fine. I left with my one package.
Several days later Allison and I returned to pick up her remaining package together. Wiggins was not there.
Allison and I spend a good %15 of our overall conversation fantasizing about living in an area with a nice post office. So it was with tremendous excitement that today we walked into the Chelsea Post Office between 15tth and 16th on 9th. I had a bill to send and I wanted to check out what a rich person’s post office looked and smelled like.
“Air conditioning!” Allison said. It was swanktastic. My envelope was already stamped, so I looked for a place to drop it.
I didn’t see one. There was a worker talking to an employee behind some glass. The employee was shaking her head as the customer spoke with her. The customer left in a huff and I handed her my envelope.
“We don’t take mail here. There’s a mail drop across the street.” I looked behind me. Indeed, on the curb, there was a postal drop.
I laughed. In New York City there is a post office that doesn’t sell stamps or take mail. And it has air conditioning. And an employee whose sole task is to send people away.
Beautiful.
I am currently flying to Seattle high above mighty South Dakota. The person next to me has been watching my screen as I type, and I type this for you: I hate you. Are you reading this? What are you to do if the person who is sitting next to you is typing about you and you are reading it and pretending not to?
It must be a tough position.
Currently you are pretending to sleep. But were you sleeping when I was watching the Stonecutter episode of THE SIMPSONS? I don’t think you were, friend. I think you were watching my every move. And to think I moved so you could get a blanket. Don’t expect me to get up again.
When I got on the plane I noticed my female flight attendant had a shaved head. “Cool,” I thought, “This girl looks like an interesting human being.” Girls who voluntarily shave their heads are cool and/or abuse victims, two traits that can lead to a fun filled plane ride. Since I am traveling alone it is SHE who I will share my observations about the couple with the albino baby in the back and the woman sitting next to me who announced loudly that, “if we taxi for 30 minutes before take off I am getting off this plane!” Based on her southern accent, though, and the fact that she appeared cross when I dared to ask for a bag of animal crackers IN ADDITION to my request for a bag of Classic Munchies Mix, she is not in my favor.
My theory has changed: I now think she has or had a disease of some kind. That sucks for me. I was hoping to make a new bald friend. And for her, too, I guess. Because of the dying and the shaving. And people like me, they probably don't make her life any easier.
Ah, well. I have my own problems. It took like 15 tries to get my brother's WEP Wireless password to work. Life really sucks sometimes.
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(8 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, July 26th, 2006
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1:26 am - I love you.
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| Wednesday, July 19th, 2006
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11:44 pm - Scottcast
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| Tuesday, July 4th, 2006
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11:30 pm - HAT-endum: An explana-HAT
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Dear Readers,
My last blog has become what can only be described as a sensation on the "Internets," receiving literally 17 hits. My audience is world wide. If we pretend that we can convert that amount as we convert the American Dollar to the British Pound, it has also been viewed by 9.23411 subjects of the British Empire. This is an interesting, if completely untrue, fact.
You have spoken, with your hits and your endless hypothetical page reloads from across the Atlantic. Thank you. Some have been supportive ("I hate large sun hats. That guy was an idiot, even though he may have actually HAD the right of way," writes "S" from Manhattan) but many have accused me of being some sort of vagina-cum-albino paper tiger bully. To those who are against me, let me break it down and all around:
Picture a hat you own, one you need to battle the accursed sun despite its horrifying appearance. You know this hat is not of your personal style, in fact, you've ALWAYS known. It makes you feel weird. If you are a man it makes you feel like a woman. If you are a woman it makes you feel like a woman who looks like a man. But your concerned and loving S.O. insists you wear it to the park. "Don't get sun face cancer," your uneducated partner pleads. "I will always love you. Until you get sun face cancer."
And so you wear the hat.
Time passes. Maybe you don't even actively think about it. Maybe your insecurities have danced to the back of your brain. You are happy. You are walking through your life the only way you know how, by compromising for the sake of the commitment, by wearing the hat and having your lover at your side.
I AM RELATING YOU, YES YOU, TO THE BALD MAN ON THE STREET!
That's where I entered the scene, a pudgy man lacking pigment and chatting on his cell phone (I was calling my mom HATERS) while driving a silver SUV. I saw the man walking. SURE, MAYBE he had the right of way. OK, he did for sure. But he also had that hat. And that beard. And he was staring me down.
He rushed to the street. This was his battle.
WWJD?
I don't know, but I know WSWD.
I took him out. My barb was harder to dodge than the five Dimebag took in the back of the head. I devastated my opponent. He was left with nothing but a shriveled member and a brutal reminder of his high school experience. In addition, from my rear view mirror I detected that his woman wanted to mount my pale temple of dough flesh.
Flawless fucking victory. It felt good, as natural as Brit-pop in a Wes Anderson movie.
Dear Readers, I am not a pussy because I swiftly drove away and not over his beard. I got in his head. I live there now. I just bought condos and I'm gonna rent them out to his nightmares. I will always be the one who reminded him, in front of his female companion, that he rules nothing. As long as Avis rents SUV's to me for $15 a day it is possible that I will be just around the corner, driving in circles, waiting to strike.
Dress sharp, bald man. And leave your woman at home. I got my own, I don't need that hen pecking at my door.
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(comment on this)
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11:29 pm - 4 Months Later, When the Author Attacks Strangers In Front of Their Women...
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I recently returned from a week back in Seattle. While I was there I noticed that, since I've moved to New York, I have changed in small ways.
Before I left New York I was surprised to hear myself yelling at an aggressive hobo at 72nd street. But that at least made some sense. I mean, he was trying to give me grief for not giving him any coin. I had just cause. Plus, he smelled.
The other day in Seattle, I surprised myself again.
I was renting a car for the week and really enjoying being behind the wheel. The Subway is great, even with the belligerent hobos that ride the rails. But it's nice to have the window down and the tunes blasting every few months.
It was close to 4pm and I was driving down a steep hill. I saw a man and woman walking towards the intersection, but they still had some ground to cover before they hit asphalt. They were dressed nearly the same, with large sun hats and shorts. The man had a red beard and, as I got closer, I thought he looked like he was bald. Clearly he had something to prove.
Anyhow, I was driving, you know, enjoying the nice day, and the man darted for the corner in an attempt to beat me to the road. I slammed on the brakes as he walked across the street alone, leaving his lady friend in the dust, staring me down like he was still in his glory years. I'm staring back, waiting to see what he does, admittedly enjoying the sight of a middle aged man in a sun hat attempting to menace me. As he reached the safety of the sidewalk he said, "Real cute."
I looked at him hard and then said, loudly, in front of his woman, something I thought might stick with him and make him question his manhood.
"Nice hat."
With that, I rolled up the window and sped off down the hill. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw his back slump a bit as his partner rushed to his side.
I've only been here a few months, but it looks like the place is rubbing off on me.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, June 17th, 2006
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9:20 am - The Sad, Strange Saga of Jill Smiley and Friends: Part 2
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Part 1 here.
Regular college was treating me well. I enjoyed living in the dorms with my own private room, and I was still close enough to visit my friends in Seattle and play Goldeneye every weekend. I was in a film program at The Evergreen State College, a liberal arts college of note primarily for being boasting Matt Groening, creator of The Simpsons, as an alumni. More recently it has become well known in my home for lacking the prestige to secure me gainful employment in New York City. ("You went where?")
At the time, though, I was enjoying myself. I had lost nearly 40 pounds and figured pretty girls were right around the corner. I briefly dated a girl who worked in the gym on campus. I think her name was Whitney. She terrified me. After hanging out twice she began showing up uninvited at my dorm. I knew things were bad when once, while driving late at night, she told me she found it safer to drive over the large yellow line in the middle of the road. Driving in the middle of the road in darkness through a wooded area isn't my idea of a good time, so eventually I did what any man would:
I enlisted my friend Alison to help me break up with her by email.
I wish I'd kept a copy. It was a cowardly, desperate act, but considering I'd spent the previous two weeks pretending I wasn't home as she called over and over again, I felt like I made the right choice. When I was younger I had joked that I wanted to be stalked, but if stalking was like this, but worse, I decided I wanted no part in such an activity.
After Whitney there was not a lot of action. Things slowed down, and I got into a routine that involved peanut butter cereals and Nintendo 64 Tetris. Then, one day, much like I had two years prior, I suddenly decided I wanted a date.
My past failure with Devon had taught me very little. I once again selected a girl I hardly knew from class. I remember her name, but I also remember shame, so I will give her a nice new name: Angelina. Angelina was a bit of an odd duck, but she seemed nice enough. She was skinny and blond and I hadn't, to this point, dated a skinny and blond girl. I decided this was reason enough to misuse our class call sheet for the purpose of asking her out.
I worked myself up. I picked up the phone and dialed. Once again, that Goddamned Lloyd Dobler was my insperation.
This time I was on the phone. This time it would be different.
Ring ring.
"Hello?" a female voice on the other end of the phone asked.
"Hi, is Angelina there?"
"Who is this?"
"Scott," I said. That's me. I'm Scott.
Silence on the other end. "Who?"
"Scott."
Another pause. Then: "Jesus?"
Perhaps the connection was bad, perhaps I was unclear or mumbling, or perhaps God hates me. Whatever it was, the woman yelled, "Angelina, JESUS is on the phone!"
There was some movement and laughter on the other end of the phone and then I heard Angelina's voice. "JESUS?"
"No," I said, "It's not Jesus. It's Scott, from class!"
"Jesus?!??!?!?!" she asked again.
"Scott!"
"Who?" She asked.
At least she knew who Jesus was.
"I'm in your class," I managed, "I'm the blond guy." I could have been more descriptive, but that usually does it. I am very blond.
"Oh," she said. "How did you get my number?"
"The class call sheet," I said.
"Why did you say you were Jesus to my roommate?"
"I didn't, I said I was Scott!" I stammered.
I didn't like how this conversation was going. I hadn't even gotten a chance to be charming and funny and winning because of this Jesus debacle. And in what universe does SCOTT sound like JESUS?
I could hear laughter in the background. "It's not Jesus!" she yelled at her friend. "Why are you calling?" she asked.
Despite what could be interpreted as a sign from Jesus Christ himself to end this before it spiraled further out of control, I continued. "I was just wondering if you, you know, wanted to go out sometime?"
In retrospect, I should have elaborated more, explained it was no big deal and put her at ease. But the fact is I was on a foolish mission, and no dancing around it was going to save me.
She didn't say anything at first, besides, if I recall, a contemplative, "Oh." Then she waited, because it's more fun for everyone that way.
I don't know if she could have picked more memorable or sad words.
"Is it OK....if I say no?"
I can still hear every pause bouncing around in my head. I think I heard her stifling a small laugh at the end.
There was so much pity. And she ASKED me, as if I could say, "No, it's not OK. You must go on a date with me. Let's go to the Olive Garden. They have unlimited bread sticks."
Also, there was trepidation in her voice. Was she afraid of me? Maybe she thought I would snap if she did not put her rejection in a way that wasn't clear and gentle and go on a blond rampage.
It was as humiliated as I had ever been. I could picture her, holding the phone a foot from her face, wincing. Not a pleasant image.
"Oh, yeah," I said, laughing, like I called up skinny blond girls all the time and asked them on non-destination specific dates. I don't recall everything I said, but I remember my mission changed immediatly from asking a girl out to not seeming like a creepy dude who calls up strangers pretending to be Jesus and then ask them out. I bumbled on for a few moments and got the hell off the phone.
The funny thing is, when I hung up the phone I felt OK. There was nothing ambiguous about the situation. I had made a fool of myself, but at least I knew where I stood. That was something.
I was grasping at straws, sure, but sometimes it's nice to find one and hold on tight. And then turn up the stereo and wallow.
I had asked out Devon out at the end of the semester, which ended up working out well. When she wholly rejected me and made me feel worthless at least I never had to see her again. This time I had to see Angelina, and not only that, I had to screen my work in front of her, fear her telling everyone what an idiot I was, and generally be within 50 feet of her judging eyes for several months. I swear to God sometimes I'd see her looking at me with a pitying smirk.
I don't know if she ever told anyone in class about the Jesus phone call. I wouldn't have to wait long for public humiliation, though, because Jill Smiley was coming. And this time I wouldn't be alone in my shame. Everyone I knew would be there with me.
It's a good thing I was dressed as Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
CONTINUED IN THE FOLLOWING EDITION.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, June 15th, 2006
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1:48 am - I Love Food
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I just went here.
Now I am home. It is approaching 2am and I am watching a very special episode of Cheaters.
And I have one question: Fruit Loops or Peanut Butter Crunch (the Captain Crunch variety)?
This is rough. Maybe I will combine them. There is too much cereal in this world, and I want it all. It is sad I have to die one day, because I'm sure new cereal will come after I am gone.
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, June 2nd, 2006
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3:35 am - The Sad, Strange Saga of Jill Smiley and Friends: Part 1
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My late teens and early twenties were a zit filled and hormone fueled nightmare that I only recently emerged from.
I've always been something of a romantic, but more in my brain than in real life. I used to have fantasies of singing to women and giving them flowers and showering them with gifts. Luckily for the female population this never actually happened. Instead I just wrote the girls I pursued overly verbose emails. My life lacked the magic that I wanted it to have as a kid. I was nowhere near being the Indiana Jones figure I’d always dreamed of becoming.
It wasn't for a lack of putting myself out there. By the time community college rolled around I'd already had a few serious relationships under my belt. They had all ended in tears, sure, but I knew I was capable of getting a girl to kiss my face. That was big. It's like knowing you can take a punch. Or so I'm told. I haven't been punched yet, so that still scares me.
I was ready for something new and great.
There was one little problem: I didn't really know any girls that I could ask out. I didn't drink and the only place I stayed past 11pm was the Scott-shaped dent in the couch in front of my TV. My social life consisted of waiting in line for 12 hours to see Star Wars Episode I. School was the only pool of available women I had at my disposal. I decided to become obsessed with a girl from one of my film classes named Devon. She'd gone to my high school and always seemed to have a good attitude. She was a cheerleader, but not the stupid, bitchy kind. At least, she didn't look like she was. I had no idea what she was actually like. But she looked nice.
We were the perfect hypothetical couple. She was a gorgeous girl with fetching short hair and a crooked smile. I was a 19 year old boy on Accutane, a particularly harsh acne remedy that brutally burned a layer of skin off of my face for six months. How could it go wrong?
The quarter was winding down and summer was on the way. Time was running out. Action was needed. I decided I would be direct and just go up and ask her out. Why not? How else do people go out on dates? It all made perfect sense to me. I sat awake late into the night, my stomach in knots, as I went over my plan. Where we went didn’t matter. That was for later, after we agreed to go there together.
The day before the quarter ended, I made my move.
"Devon, can I talk to you?" I asked.
"Sure," she said.
I suddenly felt as if I was channeling Lloyd Dobler, the awkward and yet charming hero from the movie Say Anything. Lloyd moved his arms a lot and paused when he spoke at the perfect moment, especially while on the phone asking out Diane Court. I decided to go with the feeling.
"So, uh," I said, "I was wondering if, uh, you know," I was really waving my arms a lot and moving my head like George Clooney had on ER, "you wanted to, uh, go out some, you know, uh, time."
I was no Lloyd, and I quickly realized my major miscalculation: I wasn't on the phone, walking around my bathroom alone in kickboxing gear. I was me, in a classroom, with a face that was red and hair that was white and lips that were cracked because of medication I was taking for my bad skin. I must have looked like a half-splattered tomato with a wig made of straw that was parted down the middle.
I can't imagine what Devon was thinking, but her face didn't register any disgust. Maybe this was a normal thing, this asking out of people you hardly know. I was just new to the world, this adult place where people just randomly go out with anyone in their peripheral vision.
"Sure, that sounds great," she said.
I couldn't believe it. I had asked out a stranger and she said YES. "I'm in a hurry, though," she quickly added, "Can I give you my number tomorrow?"
A perfectly reasonable request. We all had classes or lunches or jobs to get to. I agreed and she left, melting into the crowd in the hall and out of sight.
I had never used drugs, but I felt positively high. I remember I ran into my friend Jeff as I walked to my car and announced that I had a date. I felt a thousand feet tall. I was grinning so wide that the sides of my mouth, broken from my meds, began to bleed. It hurt like hell. AND I DIDN’T CARE.
I drove home singing Phil Collins' version of "Two Hearts" with my window down. I had visions of myself dancing and singing to Devon on a bar like Ewan McGregor did to Cameron Diaz in A Life Less Ordinary. I could even see the white suit and the open collar. I'm not sure exactly how I pictured myself in those days, but it must have been 40 pounds lighter and with a completely different face and hair style. I didn't live anywhere near reality.
The next day I got to my film class early and sat down. I was excited. I had a date, although I had no idea where a former high school cheerleader would want to go with me. A movie? What else did people do? Maybe she had some ideas, I thought. This was going to be an amazing day. Our class got along really well, and our last session was going to be a wrap up of our time together. The capper was that we were going to be learning our grade, so I knew everyone was going to be there, even some of the cool kids that didn’t always bother to show up to class.
Familiar face after familiar face trickled in, but no Devon. Must have slept in, the lovely minx. I tried to imagine her getting ready, trying to decide on the perfect outfit to wear when she finally gave me her phone number after a night of excruciating build up.
Class started and there was still no sign of her. My heart sank a little. I hoped she was OK. Clearly there must have been some sort of accident, a car crash or something. Perhaps her father was like Diane Court’s, a criminal whose unsavory activities somehow kept her from attending school that day.
I was so worried for her safety that I couldn't concentrate on having a good time in the class or celebrate the fact that, unlike high school, I hadn’t earned a failing grade. I smiled the whole class, but it was accompanied with an intense pain in my stomach and lower body. I felt glued to the chair. I laughed and pretended to have a good time, but I was in a private hell. It was not a pleasant mix of feelings.
Fifteen minutes into our class discussion the door opened. I looked up with great hope, but it wasn't her, just some lost student who walked into the wrong room. I began to face the crushing truth: She was so desperate to avoid going out with me that she skipped class.
I was devastated, and it wasn't the brutal smack of being stung in a single moment, but a cancerous growth that intensified with every moment of the class period that she didn’t appear. I lingered around a bit after class, figuring that at the very least she'd pop in to find out her grade. Even then I held out some hope, but she never showed.
I saw her on campus the next year, but she didn't make eye contact. At first I hoped she saw me, but then I realized she probably didn’t even remember who I was.
I met a girl a few months later and dated her for about a year. After we broke up I once again got the silly idea that I just NEEDED a date, and it didn't matter with whom.
Which led to the most horrifying phone calls since Drew Barrymore was fucked around with at the beginning of Scream.
CONTINUED IN THE FOLLOWING EDITION
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, May 29th, 2006
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8:30 pm - Shower Heads
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Rm 1112
11/F.
Yuen Long Trading Centre
33 Wang Yip Street West
Yuen Long, N.T.
Hong Kong
May 29, 2006
Dear KWM (H.K.) Limited,
This MIGHT sound a little crazy. I don’t know. I mean, it’s been awhile. How are you? I’d ask for you to ask me how I am, but you probably know. That’s your business.
After several weeks of research I have determined that your company manufactured the shower head that was in my childhood tub.
While in third grade it occurred to me that your shower head was recording everything I did in the bathroom. I imagined it snaking out and peeking above the curtain as I popped zits and stared at my face in a trance. There was a lot of oil and puss to look at. At first I was alarmed, and I would attempt cover myself while I bathed. I was particularly paranoid that a red haired girl down the street was somehow able to access these recordings.
With the success of websites such as YouTube and Myspace, it’s more important than ever for me to have wacky video footage of myself. I have many fond memories of being in the shower, and I am excited to share them with the world. I used to dance, read, write and tell stories to the shower head. I also did other things. Please disregard those.
For a short time, “Showy (pronounced like “Howie” with an “sh” in front of it) the Shower Head” was my closest friend and confidant. I shared everything with him. EVERYTHING.
I have not been able to maintain a healthy relationship with a woman, and the women I have dated are damaged and delusional. That is why I am consulting a shower head company with recordings of me from twenty years ago. I want to get a little perspective.
The Internet can be a powerful tool. For me, an albino who roams from city to city taking jobs as a light bulb changer, it’s been rough going. Did you know that many women won’t even entertain dating a man who can’t go out in the sun? I am hoping to meet a woman online who will send me her photo before I am forced to send her mine. Then I will be able to charm her with videos from my past.
I am looking for copies of all the surveillance footage obtained of me at my house between 1987-1993. You may have filed the tapes under “Albino,” “Kent, WA,” or “Unsettling Shampoo Bottle Encounters – The Suave Years.”
I remember I did a monologue from A Few Good Men to Showy once that made me cry. If I make myself I cry then I think I’m pretty talented. You’ve seen the footage, you know what I mean. We live in a world that has walls! You can’t handle my truth!
Please name your price. Also, if you are hiring, I am desperate for work. I need a new scene. Be advised, I don’t speak Hong Kong, but I am willing to learn if you pay me.
In brotherhood and shower heads,
Scott Taylor
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, May 10th, 2006
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1:43 pm - New Friends
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I was wandering around lower Manhattan by myself at 1:30am last night because, well, I'm an idiot. I walked out of where I was and looked around. Pretty empty street, save for a black dude with a yellow shopping bag and a stocking cap. I head towards the Bowling Green subway station for the long, long ride home.
The man from the street walks into the station right before I do. When we get there, some transit workers let us know the station is closed. I head out of the subway station and look at my pocket map, attempting to decide which alternate route I'd like to take home.
The man sees me standing there, and comes up and asks me a question about the J train that I can't answer. He asks where I am heading and I say Washington Heights. I tell him I'm gonna head to a station at Fulton Street. He says he's heading that way, too. "Let's walk together," he says.
"What are you doing out so late?" I ask.
"Oh, I just got out of jail," he says. "I was just getting drunk with my friends." He tells me when he got out he went to Staten Island to get some clothes from his sister, but his sister threw all his stuff away. "Probably to make room for the next guy," he says.
It takes all my will power to not ask him what he did to go to prison.
He doesn't know how long he will be out, he says, but for now he is enjoying the sweet air. I breathe it in. It smells not unlike urine.
"This is the city that never sleeps," he says. "For as much to do there are layers of things you shouldn't be doing underneath." He looks up at a building and stops in the street. "TURN THE LIGHTS OFF!" He yells, as loud as he can, and the sound echoes. He tells me the lights are always on so planes don't fly into Manhattan buildings. Huh.
He asks what I am doing in the area and I tell him I picked up some night work. His eyes get wide. His woman bailed him out, see, but he only has sweats because his sister is a bitch. I ask him what kind of work he is looking for. "Anything, man," he says, "I am real sharp. Once it's in here I master it." He points at his head.
He points out the World Trade Center site. Tells me he was in a hospital in Brooklyn when a young Chinese doctor said "there's something freaky going on." Then he went to the window and saw the first plane hit. That's some interesting timing.
Then he said he hoped I wasn't secret service and going to arrest him right there, but he is sure that Bush knew about 9/11 and planned it as an excuse to go to war in Iraq and get revenge for his father. He then acted out the My Pet Goat fiasco, but swapped the story to Mary Had a Little Lamb.
As I saw the station on Fulton across the street I pointed to it. A cab pulled to the side of the road and a man asks what I am pointing at. I say the subway station. He then asks if everything is OK. I say yes. "What was that about?" I ask, but I've seen Black.White. I know what it was about, the cab driver saw a black guy and, uh, a me talking at 1:30am in lower Manhattan and thought I was in trouble. I tell him I am going to head to the station and he says he is going to keep walking. I shake his hand and say, "Good luck."
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, April 29th, 2006
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1:51 am - Double Snap
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Dear Brain Doctor,
My relationship was recently terminated by a human female against my will. It wasn’t fun at all. She took all of my coats and jackets and now sometimes I get cold. When we first met I never used coats and jackets but now I am addicted to them. After she moved away I was watching the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind while drinking peppermint schnapps and playing blackjack against myself (I won! 21! Double down!)
The film deals with a cruel woman who hurts the funniest man in the world. I think. I was pretty drunk. Anyhow, this reminded me of my relationship. I know tons of jokes and my girlfriend doesn’t know any. I mean ex-girlfriend. This kind of thing is hard to talk about because everything is subjective. Not with me, but I am just covering my bases, because sometimes people hear about a man and his ex-girlfriend and they think the man did something wrong. I’m trying to be clear about how my relationship ended, but if you take her point of view into account things might get muddled.
I have a book of jokes. At parties, when the conversation lulls, I quickly pull my joke book out. If there is silence for even five seconds I will come to the rescue. “Oi,” I’ll say, “Look what I have in my pocket!” Then I reach for my fly. This is kind of a mini-joke, separate from the others but still lots of fun. I don’t always need my book.
At this point my ex-girlfriend would usually try and make me put it away (the book), but I wouldn’t listen to her and proceed to wow the crowd until they were so laughed out that they would walk away silently and refuse to speak with me the remainder of the evening. People can only laugh so much, I am told, and then they get sad and grumpy. And pretend they don’t know you.
The book I own is called “Double Snaps.” It is about “snapping” you enemies into submission. My copy is worn from constant use. Here is a snap for you to chew on: Your mother is so overweight, she sits next to EVERYONE at the cinema.
I am baffled as to what has gone wrong between me and my lover. Perhaps she is mentally unwell. Or maybe she didn’t like me to “snap” her while she prepared for work. Here is a conversation I remember having before she decided that she “couldn’t go on like this anymore anymore.” I am unsure why she said “anymore” twice. As of this time three years ago, she would only say it once during fights.
Anyhow, the conversation went something like this:
ME: I think we are out of Pringles. Can you buy some on the way to your job? Your mother is so overweight that she had her highschool photo taken by a satellite.
MY GIRL: You’ve been out of work for fourteen months. I need some money from you, whatever you can come up with, or we’re in real trouble. And my mother weighs 125 pounds and is 5’7”.
ME: Never trust a big butt and a smile! I never eat a pig ‘cause a pig is a cop!
It’s hard to say where we went wrong. I miss her very much even though she has hurt me.
I decided to watch several movies about dating and women. One such viewing, of the film “How to Lose a Guy In Ten Days,” was very important to my personal growth. I was drinking heavily and the alcohol was beginning to affect me in ways it never had before. Perhaps mixing Goldschlager with acid was not the correct way to view this particular film.
At one point early in the third act Ms. Hudson's character morphed into a three dimensional hippo and began attacking my ankles. I took this opportunity to pause the film and take a nap. While sleeping I had visions that I was trapped in my shower and my shower curtains were all that was protecting me from the world discovering I was a loser and a charlatan. I came to realize after a time I was not in fact asleep and that the Hudson Hippo was waiting for me in my bed. For what purpose, I dare not suppose.
I waited in the shower for first light and then retreated to my backyard, where I passed out next to a squirrel that was eyeing me suspiciously. I do not remember what happened immediately following this, but I do remember not caring for being judged by police officers and medical personnel who do not know me or my circumstance.
I am looking to find a scientist to develop technology that will erase this woman from my mind. She just won’t leave my head! Argh and blast! Perhaps you have already developed this science since you study the brain. When I asked my local bartender if he had any ideas he gave me a discount on a bottle of Jack Daniels and the number of a local escort service. Their prices were outrageous and I was concerned about the moral boundary I was crossing by paying for sex with a stranger. I shouldn’t have been worried, though, the woman’s performance was incredible. I was unsure how to tip her, however, and this became a point of contention immediately after our encounter. Come to think of it, maybe we should erase this event, too. And while we are at it, let’s wipe the following:
*The time I tried to ride the bike off the mountain and broke my jaw.
*7th-9th grades.
*Season 4 of The Sopranos. Please save Joe Pantoliano’s last episode and summaries of the events surrounding it so I have a reference point. Otherwise I will be lost when I remember how Tony (spoilers) kills (end spoilers) him.
*The time I fell off Laddy the Ladder and burned him to a crisp in a small field under a moonlit sky. R.I.P.
*My desire for soda. I am trying to lose weight.
*My addiction to Deal or No Deal
*The lyrics to “Poison” by Bel Biv DeVoe and “Jump Around” by House of Pain. People sometimes get cross when I start singing these songs without warning. Sometimes I combine them in a “mash up” session.
I am hoping these changes will make me more desirable to a potential mate and help me to move on from this painful period in my life. Though I have done nothing to deserve the suffering I am enduring, I endure it, and that is not acceptable to me. Thank you so much, man of science, for helping me. I hope you develop an outpatient procedure to help me soon. Your mother is so beautiful and fit I tried to take a picture of her with a satellite and I couldn’t see her in it because she was so pretty. Then I took a picture of a star and she was riding it.
Thank you for your time,
Scott Taylor
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(10 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, April 15th, 2006
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10:06 pm - The Best Mom Ever
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I waited 30 minutes for an uptown train this evening. It was worth the wait.
With not many trains running, the car I entered was packed. There were two seats left, and I snagged one that plastered me into a corner. I was fine with this, as I had a book and was riding alone. A large black woman sat down next to me with some luggage. Across the way was a black man with a large grey beard and several garbage bags. As I got on he was accosting an Asian tourist. "WHAT DAY IS IT, SATURDAY OR SUNDAY?" When told it was Saturday he screamed, "SATURDAY NIGHT, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN SAYING, SATURDAY NIGHT!"
Separate from this, the black woman was yelling at her young son, who had just finished his ice cream. He appeared to be upset, so she yelled at him, "Are you begging?" The homeless man thought she was talking to him, so he began screaming at her. "I AM BEGGING, DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT?!?!" The woman, not having any of this, began screaming back, "I aint got nothin', don't come beggin' to me!"
The hobo screamed in response, "I GOT PLENTY OF PIGEONS WHEN I GET OFF THIS TRAIN!"
I have no idea what this means.
He began to stand and screamed, "AHHHHHHHHHHH! UH OH!" A foul smell began emanating from the area of the train he occupied. "IS THIS 42ND STREET? THAT'S MY STOP!" Both he and the woman with her family exited to train. The smell remained.
I'm a lazy man, though, and I didn't try to switch cars. Who is to say another train might not smell worse? Plus, I've seen people try to switch cars and get stuck in between. Fuck that. The doors closed and we moved forward.
Soon the odor is gone, replaced by a Latin woman, her five year old daughter and the strong smell of cheap perfume. The mother sits in front of me and the daughter to my left, pinning me in the corner. Looking over my book I see the mother's boobs sticking out, and I look at her face. She looks like a combination of Jennifer Lopez and Mariah Carey, that kind of slutty that looks disgusting but is still appealing in some base way that makes you hate yourself. She had a garish watch, a giant diamond in each ear. Her hair, along with the hair of her daughter, is pulled back as tight as it can go. She's caked with makeup and fake eyelashes, and her jean shorts are extremely high up.
The daughter was adorable, despite the fact that she was clearly her mother's daughter and was destined for whore-dom. Her mom had apparently been on the wrong trains all day and was finally heading in the right direction. I am amazed at how often I overhear this. It's as if people just get on any old train and just hope they end up in the right place.
I tried to keep my head in my book but the mother was talking such nonsense to her daughter I couldn't look away. "Bryan's gonna pull his hair out, we're so late. Ah, he'll get over it. Why is this train running local? For once I have to be somewhere and we're running late! I can't believe we ended up in Queens. At least we are going the right direction now."
At 125th street I noticed that the mother's low-cut shirt said something...it looked like it said, simply, "FUCK."
I had to see if a woman would take her five year old daughter out in the world and wear a shirt that reads "FUCK," but it was important not be caught staring at her cleavage. This kind of dilemma always annoys me, because her breasts are hanging out for all to see, but I guess am not supposed to look them. It hardly seems fair. As she moved around a bit and her daughter licked her legs ("They're so hard, Mommy!") I noticed there were other words under "FUCK."
Finally, as I prepared to exit the train, I glanced back, and the full contents of the shirt were revealed to me:
"FUCK THE VIP"
I have no idea what this means, either, but it was certainly a more pleasing puzzle than the nonsense screamed by the bum who shat himself at 42nd street.
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, March 29th, 2006
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11:41 pm - Overheard at the movies, theater and A train
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Tonight I saw a preview of Brick in SoHo. The theater was packed with students from NYU, and some were clearly brighter than others. Behind me was a young blond girl and her friend. One of the pre-film trivia slides mentioned Michelle Rodriquez and the movie Girlfight. The girls began discussing how much they like Rodriquez on Lost, but the blond's friend heard she might be kicked off the show because of the DUI she got a few months back.
The blond considered this a moment and said, "People being celebrities and getting off for murder, that's wrong. If I got a DUI I'd lose my job at KFC."
They chatted about this for awhile, and then got to the subject of Brick, a film which they didn't know much about. Finally the blond offered:
"It's an independent film so it's probably good."
Last night I saw The Color Purple on Broadway. It was OK, but the audience was AMAZING. By far the worst crowd I'd ever seen anything with ever. There was constant talking to the stage from parties all around us. The audience was floored at the most obvious plot points and developments. Every time a new character would appear the woman behind me would ask who it was, and it would be explained to her by her friend. When one major character is found to be alive, which is pretty obvious, and fuck, didn't she see the movie, the woman gasped and said "She's alive?!?!?!"
There is a song in which it is mentioned Sofia (Oprah in the movie) is going to jail. It's all very dramatic, and not really very subtle. In the next scene a jail cell pops up. The woman behind me asked loudly, "Who in jail?"
I could barely contain myself.
Then, at the end during applause, the cast pointed at the orchestra. "Who down there?" she asked.
On the way home the A train was stuck between stations. Our car was perfectly quiet, until a woman began projectile vomiting all over the place. Puke flew all the way across to the other seats. When she finished, she just stared forward as if nothing had happened. The smell of vomit and beer began to fill the car. People fled near where my fiancee and I were sitting. A few moments passed and she started vomiting again. A man sitting somewhat near her whipped out his camera and began taking pictures, and then said "hey!" to the woman. She turned around and he got a picture with her and the vomit.
Very classy.
Finally the train moved. Our stop was next, or we would have changed cars. The stench was about to set off a chain of vomiting that I wanted no part of. Washington Heights, you are so charming, I think I might start calling you South Inwood. It won't clean up the vomit but it will warm my heart.
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(7 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, March 20th, 2006
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4:58 pm - The Day Has Come
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I maxed out Tetris DX. I am now the master. There is no dispute. The score will not go any higher.
It was hard to get the pic to come out right, but the score is currently 9,999,999, level 30 with 5,230 lines and no end in sight.
It is hard to focus the camera on the tiny Gameboy screen. Annoying.
TETRIS
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