Categories for biographic

0

Maybe I Could Write More?

Mon 03.07.16

Life is hectic. One day you’re getting married and the next day is actually 2 years later and you have barely updated your website. Maybe I could stand to draw more? I could upload all the sketches I never show anyone. Perhaps I could get myself to write more? I use to write on the internet on a weekly basis. Now, I write once every few years. Maybe I could start uploading photos again? I’ve taken a few photos in the last 5 years that aren’t of gravestones or cats. Perhaps I could just delete this whole paragraph and never speak of it again. No, it’s too late for that, I guess I’ll press on.

Until I begin to write more, I’m just going to leave this on my website. It will stand as a constant reminder to myself that I said I was going to do something and then I did not do that thing. The shame should help motivate me to write more or to ignore this website until the heat death of the universe removes all of the work we have ever done.

But until the universe collapses in on itself, why don’t you follow me on Twitter: HyphenateMe

 

3

That Time It Rained In My Apartment

Wed 11.21.12

Thanksgiving is this week and this brings us one very particular thing that I am thankful for: this year I did not come home to water pouring down through the ceiling of my apartment.

The year was two thousand and eight. I was living in a spacious 4 bedroom apartment, with 2 friends from high school – Tom and Erica – and an acquaintance – Dominic. We were on the second floor of a 4 story building, living well in Brighton. I was working for Harvard, which meant that I got perks. One such perk is that the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, every employee got a pie. I arrived home around 5:45pm, apple pie in hand, feeling exuberant. Tom worked until late in the evening, Erica disappeared for weeks at a time, and Dominic was in New Jersey. I was looking forward to a little quiet time. Just me and the pie.

Opening the door to my apartment, I noticed that something was amiss. I didn’t remember leaving a waterfall on in my bedroom when I left for work in the morning! I grabbed a nearby umbrella and passed through the threshold to my bedroom, like bursting through a wall of water. I checked all the important things first, my computer and comic books. Both were dry. Sadly, I could not say the same thing for all of my work shirts hanging in the closet, which were covered in damp plaster and also what I can only assume was water.

I placed our only bucket under my newly implemented waterfall and threw a few towels about. I sat on the couch, eyeing my pie, when I heard a commotion in the hallway. I stepped outside to find the girls in apartment 3 and the girl in apartment 1 having a powwow. It seems my apartment wasn’t the only one filling with water. Using the combined brain power of 3 apartments, we came to the conclusion that we didn’t know what the Hell was going on, but whoever lived on the 4th floor was going to have a very damp evening. Someone also called 911.

A tenant of apartment 4 arrived before the police did. He looked like he had just come from an internship at a law office, his tie undone only just barely. Apartment 4 lead us up the stairs like Fred of Mystery Incorporated, I brought up the rear like Scooby. Apartment 4 was hardly phased by the water pouring from the ceiling. This was such a frequent occurrence for him that he already had a 10 gallon trash can in place. What wasn’t a frequent occurrence (I assume) is that Apartment 4’s mattress was soaked.

A hour passed. My bedroom was only dripping water now. I had called my landlord and all my roommates. Erica made an appearance long enough to unlock her bedroom, which she dead bolted shut whether she was home or not, because no burglar would ever break into a locked room. This was the first time in the 1.5 years I lived with her that I had seen the inside of her room. It was like looking into her very psyche,  full of clothing and clutter. The fire department was doing a check of all the rooms, looking for water damage in the walls.  The power was cut to prevent any circuits from shorting out. I sat alone on our couch, eating a moist apple pie by candlelight, listening to firefighters run up and down the apartment stairs. At 8:30pm, a state representative appeared in my doorway. She told me that we needed to be evacuated by 10pm, and that our building was now considered “uninhabitable”.

A few hours later, I was at Back Bay station, waiting the the midnight train to my mom’s in Rhode Island. I had abandoned half a pie in my uninhabitable kitchen. I had enough clothes for a week in my bag. There was no way to know when we would be allowed to go back into our apartment or if we’d be homeless by Monday. After calling my landlord a dozen times, I, thankfully (a little holiday humor for you guys), got some news about the place I kept all of my things. We would not be homeless! Best Thanksgiving ever.

1

A Post

Sun 11.06.11

I am starting my new job tomorrow. After almost 5 years sitting in a cubicle working on Excel Spreadsheets I have now moved on to sitting in a cubicle working on cascading style sheets. I’m fairly nervous about this whole event. It’s like starting kindergarten all over again. As history repeats itself, I have not stopped filling my diaper every time I remember I have a New Thing soon. All New Things are scary. It’s a design flaw.

Enjoy some industrial photos, I’m going to go puke on myself again. Here’s a “photo.”

Industrial

Oiled Up

Yup.

6

That One Time I Got Caught Selling Cigarettes to a Minor

Thu 08.18.11

I began working at Cameron’s Pharmacy when I was 15. It was one of those small all-purpose stores, located in historic Pawtuxet Village. Cameron’s had a pharmacy, a small selection of groceries, a hardware section, and a liquor license. You could get a bottle of wine, a dozen roses, lubricated condoms, a thank-you card, and a refill on your prescription of Valtrex, all in one stop. The store was ran and owned by a fat Italian-American by the name of Anthony.

Before proceeding with my story, let’s talk about Anthony. He was a big, fat Italian man in his mid-forties who would always tuck his shirt in, emphasizing his big, fat Italian stomach. You could never tell when he was angry or when he was joking because his facial expression never changed. His beady little eyes, which rested above a thin, woolly, graying beard, bore a perpetually flat affect. Rumor has it that he was arrested 5 years ago for filling the prescriptions with free medical samples rather than going through the proper channels. Anyway, he was a big, fat moron.

I was making less than minimum wage at the time, selling liquor and cigarettes to old men who smelled like liquor and cigarettes. I found Anthony intimidating, what with how he would creep up behind me or make snide remarks that may have been funny if he his face were not a sullen, dead-eyed waste land. Whenever Anthony was looming around I would get nervous and make mistakes. He would complain I was ringing people up too slowly, then he would “help” me by scanning in items and taking money. Every time he “helped” the till was always off.

It was a Sunday, I think. My family was home, enjoying someone’s birthday dinner while the Cameron’s staff was also enjoying some cake for a completely unrelated reason. I was left to man the register. The store was quiet when a police officer waltzed through the automatic sliding doors. He looked a lot like Detective Sipowicz from NYPD Blue, but with less hair, less height, and more weight. He came up to my counter and cited that Cameron’s Pharmacy was in violation of this law and that law and it will be fined. I was then told that a clerk had sold cigarettes to a 14 year old girl.

“I hope it wasn’t me,” I joked.

“It was.”

Apparently, I was caught in a sting. A DARE sting. I was caught in a sting, by DARE.

Now,  I did not sell a minor cigarettes because I was trying to earn the store more money. No. Likely it was because Anthony was berating me for not ringing people up quickly enough, so I panicked and began skipping steps. Sipowicz handed me a citation. I sat behind my counter, depressed, unsure if I will have a job tomorrow or if I will have to pay a fine with the little bit of money I had saved. To make matters worse, when Sipowicz got back into his is car, he called my mother. All he really told her was that he “had me.”

I quit my job in shame and Anthony ignored me for the rest of my life. I had a meeting with the chief of the Cranston Police, which was somewhat intimidating for a 15 year-old who had never done anything wrong, ever. The chief understood that it was an oversight on my part and that Sipowicz was a little overzealous about his big bust.

Eleven years later and Cameron’s Pharmacy still stands in Pawtuxet Village. It is now owned by Anthony’s big, fat son, who I think was also named Anthony. Rumor has it, this was to evade losing the business after being arrested. I now make a living not selling cigarettes to anyone.

End.