June 17th, 2007


first post in new apartment

It's real. I'm here. I opened the door with my own keys.

Fuck yeah.

One advantage of the former tenant being a student (a student moving to Africa, no less!) is that she left all sorts of shit here. She must have been in a real hurry to move out, because in addition to a fair amount of nice furniture (which I bought for $1000) she left behind a mostly stocked fridge, a microwave, some toiletries, a DVD player, a stereo, a collection of empty wine bottles, a box of assorted hair care products, a men's fall coat, some heavy blankets, and a half-finished bottle of Miller Lite. I guess I should be peeved because she didn't bother vacuuming the floor (which is covered with extension cords and dustballs and such) and I'll have to spend an afternoon or so throwing out all the perishables in the fridge and the pantry, but I can't really complain. It's like being a guest in my own apartment, with everything set up for me already. I just hope her haste doesn't indicate that she had a hit on her or anything. I'd hate to wake up one morning to the sound of a handgrenade crashing through my window. Oh well. Wrong part of town for that, anyhow.

My stuff arrives later this week. Pictures will come sometime after that, hopefully. Updates this week may be intermittent, though, as I'm leeching off a shaky wireless connection before I talk to the phone company about getting DSL set up. And the job starts this Monday! So excited. So nervous.

Before then--if you're in New York, hit me up.
  • Current Music
    Joshua Morse - Mitochondriatic Phase (Parasite Eve)

the adopted children of god

It's rush hour, and the A train (express from downtown to 207th St.) swarming with exhausted and irritable commuters. We must be passing by Chinatown, because there's an unusually large number of beige-jacketed Asians aboard, struggling to maintain the dignity of consciousness against unrelenting fatigue. Suddenly a wiry black man in a Yankees baseball cap gets up from his seat, claps his hands together, and announces disruptively, "ALRIGHT EVERYONE I GOT A LITTLE SURPRISE FOR Y'ALL TONIGHT." To the chagrin of several nearby commuters (who huddle into their jackets and scowl at him) he taps the ring on his finger against the handrail to a catchy little beat, and violently bursts into song. It's a gospel hymn, Southern Baptist or Pentecostal maybe, and it's pretty upbeat despite the fact that it's about the tribes killed in the Flood and the Egyptian soldiers killed in pursuit of Moses and all the other groups of people who heard the call of God and missed the boat, so to speak. He ends with a smile and shouts "ALL RIGHT THANK YOU EVERYBODY MY NAME IS RAYMOND I'M FROM SOME CHURCH IN NORTH CAROLINA IF YOU LIKED THE SONG FEEL FREE TO MAKE A DONATION OR A THANK YOU OR A GOD BLESS WILL DO JUST FINE." Most of the passengers on the bus are scowling at him or trying very hard not to look at him, and apparently this is the reaction he anticipated, because he is quickly shambling down the subway car to get away before the TSA can apprehend him for making a disturbance. As he passes by, I tap him on the sleeve and say, "God bless you, sir." He looks at me, genuinely startled, and smiles, and says, "The Lord be with you too, son."

The other passengers scowl at me for encouraging such behavior, but I don't care. It's not every day that a guy has the opportunity to receive a singing telegram from God.

I attend a night service at a tiny Latino Pentecostal church in my neighborhood. I can't understand a word they're saying (until the translator hops onto the stage), but it is absolutely terrifying. The pastor does not really need a microphone but he uses one anyway, and the result is deafening. The message is the same as I'd expect from a Presbyterian church (oppression is not God's wrath, but Satan attacking you because he knows the Holy Spirit is within you) but it is spoken much louder, with shouting, crying, screaming, and all manner of hysterics. Volunteers are picked for fasting--they're trying to get a church of their own (the service is held on rented space), and with their small membership they have more to gain from faith than from fundraising. At some point I am inexplicably adopted by the church, and lots of people are crying and hugging and shaking my hand. They feed me rice and pasta and beans. I talk to a bunch of the younger members, schoolkids mostly--their English is much better--about video games and racism and theology, before departing in a theological stupor.