Exhausted but lying here awake because pain. Can’t figure out what happened to me to cause it. Recall a too-big-to-be-carried almost 3 year old insisting on being held while we trekked downtown and crosstown (and back) and yeah, that’s why I’m stiff and everything is terrible.
After barreling over fellow catcher Michael Barrett in a play he considered hard but clean, A.J. Pierzynski is surprised when the Cubs’ catcher shows his displeasure by punching him the face. The incident ignites a bench-clearing brawl between the crosstown rivals that leads to a 15-minute delay and four ejections during the White Sox’ 7-0 victory at U.S. Cellular Field.
I was fascinated by strangers, wanted to know what food they ate and what dishes they ate it from, what movies they watched and what music they listened to, wanted to look under their beds and in their secret drawers and night tables and inside the pockets of their coats. Often I saw interesting-looking people on the street and thought about them restlessly for days, imagining their lives, making up stories about them on the subway or the crosstown bus.
The first mixtape I ever made was probably in the early ’90s because it
had Ace of Base and Ice Cube on it, and it was the kind of mixtape that
you go and tape off the radio. It was funny, too, because I remember
you’d have to wait for the song you liked to come on. You’d have to
press play and record at the same time, and most of the times when you’d
get the mixtape, it’s like static, or you’d get the radio DJ’s voice,
or you’d cut, like, halfway through the first verse. It was also nice
because you learn to love it that way, like, “Well, that’s the song.
That’s the song I know, so that’s what I’m accepting as the truth.” I
would find that even with CDs. I had a Jimi Hendrix record that had a
scratch in the middle of Crosstown Traffic,
and I was, like, “Wow, that’s really cool! It’s ‘You jump from the
front of my— you jump from the front of my—you jump from the front of my
car.’” I was, like, “I didn’t know he was into sampling.” So you learn
it how you hear it. I like the idiosyncrasies.
Musing on the idea of setting someone on fire doesn’t mean you really want to set them on fire: it’s just the thought of it makes you really happy. But only for a second, then you feel bad, but then that second would feel like a lot of fun.
You thinkin’ of settin’ someone on fire?
No, I was just speaking in the figurative, but figuratively speaking, someone should set you on fire for throwing my heart under a bus when you told me congress doesn't like my fiscal plan.
That was the Truth Bus.
That wasn’t the Truth Bus: that was the Bitchy Crosstown Express.
By "bitchy," you mean "frank" and "honest."
If I want Frank and Honest – well, I don’t want Frank and Honest. I never want Frank and Honest, so let’s just take it off the docket. While we’re on the subject of Frank and Honest, I don’t like Jefferson. Not one bit.
i’ve lived in nyc for fifteen years and, this year, the day after christmas, i’m moving to los angeles.
nyc has taken this opportunity to relentlessly scatter crunchy leaves that smell like every memory i have ever made ever anywhere amidst all of its sidewalks. soon, to add insult to injury, it will begin to wrap up its lampposts in twinkling lights and then, monster that it is, will start to offer me steaming cups of hot apple cider from its holiday fair tents.
its people will begin to remember all the ways they can wrap scarves around their necks, all the ways puffy coats can mash together during rush hour, all the ways they can fit fourteen shopping bags between their knees on the crosstown bus.
any other november and i’d be bracing for the snow or ice, the chaotic shoppers, the overcrowded trains, the madness of it all. this year i am just standing here, wide-eyed, trying not to miss a single, beautiful, perfect moment.