Recently, I met a girl at a bar. Meeting new people is not an unusual occurrence as I tend to talk to everyone all the time so I could just as easily say recently I met this dude near the Gowanus Canal. In point of fact, the bridge over my favorite Superfund Site was up the other night and a bodega delivery guy and I were both stopped on one side. We started talking and it turns out his brother works in a piano repair shop and I’m going to buy a guitar from him and I’m getting off topic.
Let’s start over. Recently, I met a girl at a bar. I called her afterwards but didn’t hear back until over a week later. Apparently, she went searching for me on the web and didn’t find a Facebook page but did find this blog. And she called! If you couldn’t tell from the exclamation point, I was completely shocked. So I looked through all 78 posts on this electronic chalkboard of nonsense and tried to figure out what in God’s name prompted her to call. Was it the three posts about quitting smoking? Maybe it was the post about getting my ass kicked the morning I tried to get to work early. I know it wasn’t the post about the two old people I saw walking in front of me one afternoon – that one made very little sense to everyone except for my girlfriend at the time as it was sort of a love note to her.
After an hour or so I gave up trying to figure it out but started looking at the page views and statistics of this grammar Guy Fawkes. Ready? My blog has been viewed almost two thousand times. Two thousand. Who in the Christ is reading this? It turns out, there are some commonalities: some people are searching for innovative ways to dust off a desk. Understandable as the whole, wipe with damp cloth thing can be a bit overwhelming for some. Some folks are looking for me or any number of my Portuguese doppelgangers. (Spoiler alert: if you see a tilde over the second “a” in my last name, you’re looking at a different James Guimaraes. In fact, you’re looking at James Guimarães.)
In any case, I’m not an expert at interpreting web statistics but apparently somebody read this and I’ve been itching to start writing again so here we go with round two. Hopefully, my current employers won’t mind and my future employers will be as entranced as that girl that one time.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Friday, May 6, 2011
Six Days
Against the wall to the right of my computer screen is a torn-out page from the March/April 2010 issue of Motorcycle Classics Magazine. The temptress-picture of California Highway 58 on it has mocked my office life for longer than I can remember. Next to frayed edge of desert is a Triumph poster showing the 2011 Speed Triple. Although I can't see inside the rider's helmet, I can hear what he's saying. I've had motorcycles on my mind for over five years. It started as an idea, morphed into an obsession and finally: reality.
Everything I've experienced so far has felt different on the inside than it appeared on the outside. College, first love, joining the almighty work-force. But in all honesty, I don't have any expectations about next week. I know where my skills are at and what I'll need to do to improve them. I know where I'm starting and ending on a map. I know what I'm wearing and what I'm carrying. But I have no clue what it will feel like rolling through Green Mountain National Forest (right past Killington Resort). Not an inclination what "pushing the bike down" at 60 miles per hour will feel like. I don't know what it will sound like, look like or taste like.
With the exception of the drums, there is nothing in this world that I have wanted more than this. In six days, I am riding my very first motorcycle.
Edit on September 11, 2012: You know, looking back on this over a year later, I have to correct something. The last sentence of this post reads as if I had never rode a motorcycle before. That's simply not true. The first time I rode a motorbike was in Burkina Faso in 2007. I acquired my motorcycle license in the spring of 2010. Thus, I've been riding for a couple years. The emphasis of that last sentence was meant to be on the "MY" indicating I'd be riding the first motorcycle I've ever owned. Also, please note, I bought the motorcycle in February of 2011, a full four months before picking it up.
Everything I've experienced so far has felt different on the inside than it appeared on the outside. College, first love, joining the almighty work-force. But in all honesty, I don't have any expectations about next week. I know where my skills are at and what I'll need to do to improve them. I know where I'm starting and ending on a map. I know what I'm wearing and what I'm carrying. But I have no clue what it will feel like rolling through Green Mountain National Forest (right past Killington Resort). Not an inclination what "pushing the bike down" at 60 miles per hour will feel like. I don't know what it will sound like, look like or taste like.
With the exception of the drums, there is nothing in this world that I have wanted more than this. In six days, I am riding my very first motorcycle.
Edit on September 11, 2012: You know, looking back on this over a year later, I have to correct something. The last sentence of this post reads as if I had never rode a motorcycle before. That's simply not true. The first time I rode a motorbike was in Burkina Faso in 2007. I acquired my motorcycle license in the spring of 2010. Thus, I've been riding for a couple years. The emphasis of that last sentence was meant to be on the "MY" indicating I'd be riding the first motorcycle I've ever owned. Also, please note, I bought the motorcycle in February of 2011, a full four months before picking it up.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Pool & Pizza
Pool is for the rich.
Pool is for the poor.
In the grimiest, rat-infested, warm beer, lousy food dive, you'll find a pool table with a couple of guys playing.
In the Central Park penthouse apartment, in the living room with an oriental rug, original Van Gogh and hundred-year-old wine, you'll find a pool table with a couple of guys playing.
It's a magic game to say the least, and I don't even like playing that much. But respect is given where respect is due. What else exists to serve the richest and the poorest simultaneously?
Enter the pizza place on 49th and 2nd. The pizza isn't religious conversion epic good, but it's good and it's close to my office. A quick look around and you'll see one of the two UPS drivers for this area. (The other prefers the cookies at subway next door). A couple of construction workers have every spice known to man at their table, but they keep passing the shakers to the suit&tie boys next to them. Both tables are so engrossed in their lunch/conversation that they don't notice how profoundly different they are despite more-or-less sharing a meal.
Only in a place with a sensibly liberal attitude and a diverse population could you find a perfect (multi-cultural) salad at a pizza joint. From the Italian who served it to me, the Mexican who made the pie, the Romanian girl who rang up the sale, the black guy who paid before me to the U.N. rep who held the door for me and the Albanian driving the cheese delivery truck... I am a happy New Yorker.
Pool is for the poor.
In the grimiest, rat-infested, warm beer, lousy food dive, you'll find a pool table with a couple of guys playing.
In the Central Park penthouse apartment, in the living room with an oriental rug, original Van Gogh and hundred-year-old wine, you'll find a pool table with a couple of guys playing.
It's a magic game to say the least, and I don't even like playing that much. But respect is given where respect is due. What else exists to serve the richest and the poorest simultaneously?
Enter the pizza place on 49th and 2nd. The pizza isn't religious conversion epic good, but it's good and it's close to my office. A quick look around and you'll see one of the two UPS drivers for this area. (The other prefers the cookies at subway next door). A couple of construction workers have every spice known to man at their table, but they keep passing the shakers to the suit&tie boys next to them. Both tables are so engrossed in their lunch/conversation that they don't notice how profoundly different they are despite more-or-less sharing a meal.
Only in a place with a sensibly liberal attitude and a diverse population could you find a perfect (multi-cultural) salad at a pizza joint. From the Italian who served it to me, the Mexican who made the pie, the Romanian girl who rang up the sale, the black guy who paid before me to the U.N. rep who held the door for me and the Albanian driving the cheese delivery truck... I am a happy New Yorker.
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Early Program Coordinator Catches the Elbow to the Ribs
There are two breeds of morning commuters in New York City: the early-birdies and the later-losers. I'm not talking about the commuters chosen at birth - the type-A personalities down on Wallstreet who get to work around 5:30 in the morning - I'm talking about the 9:00 a.m. crowd and the 9:30 a.m. crowd. A few years or decades ago, New York decided that some offices would open at 9:00 a.m. and others would open at 9:30 to ease the transit congestion. Generally, the 9ers go home at 5 and the 9:30 peeps bounce at 5:30.
Although genetics doesn't guide the 9/9:30 distinction, something else certainly does although I'm not sure what it is. When I come in to work at 9:30 (yup, I'm a later-loser), the people on the subway next to me are relaxed even when we're packed in so tight that someone else is holding the newspaper I'm reading. We roll towards Manhattan, reading books, sipping a latte and listening to Coheed & Cambria. Yes, all of us on the subway listen to Coheed, didn't you know that? But on a morning like today, when I come in to work early... holy shit.
It's as if someone put just a pinch, a smidge, a dash of crack cocaine in everyone's coffee. And it's not what you're picturing - no no, it's not a twenty-something throwing elbows and cross checking people in his way. No, it's a seventy-year-old woman with an umbrella, a granny cart and a serious case of gout ready to throw down and whip the ass of anyone and everyone for the hell of it. When we lined up to get out of the train, I swear I caught the glint of brass knuckles or a rusty chain on the other side of the door. Picture the Giants and the Patriots facing off at the line of scrimmage: steam jetting out of our noses, sweat dripping off our chin, ready to pull the head off the animals on the other side.
Sitting here at my desk, safely typing away, I thank God for delivering me safely. My bruises will heal, cuts will dry up and I'll never come in to work early ever again.
Although genetics doesn't guide the 9/9:30 distinction, something else certainly does although I'm not sure what it is. When I come in to work at 9:30 (yup, I'm a later-loser), the people on the subway next to me are relaxed even when we're packed in so tight that someone else is holding the newspaper I'm reading. We roll towards Manhattan, reading books, sipping a latte and listening to Coheed & Cambria. Yes, all of us on the subway listen to Coheed, didn't you know that? But on a morning like today, when I come in to work early... holy shit.
It's as if someone put just a pinch, a smidge, a dash of crack cocaine in everyone's coffee. And it's not what you're picturing - no no, it's not a twenty-something throwing elbows and cross checking people in his way. No, it's a seventy-year-old woman with an umbrella, a granny cart and a serious case of gout ready to throw down and whip the ass of anyone and everyone for the hell of it. When we lined up to get out of the train, I swear I caught the glint of brass knuckles or a rusty chain on the other side of the door. Picture the Giants and the Patriots facing off at the line of scrimmage: steam jetting out of our noses, sweat dripping off our chin, ready to pull the head off the animals on the other side.
Sitting here at my desk, safely typing away, I thank God for delivering me safely. My bruises will heal, cuts will dry up and I'll never come in to work early ever again.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Deja Vu
I'm completely caught up at work. I went in yesterday (Saturday) morning from nine to noon and decimated the pile of papers that's been sitting on my desk since August. Destroyed 'em. And I knew I would. I knew I would do exactly that because on Friday afternoon, as I was telling my boss I'd be coming in over the weekend, I was overcome with a feeling of Deja Vu so strong that I could've sworn we were reading off a script.
There are a lot of instances in my life where I act on my instincts twice as fast as it would've taken me to stop and figure something out. There are a lot of instances in my life where I'm blown away by the feeling that I've had the exact conversation a year before. Same room, same people, same clothes. What if this wasn't a neuro-glitch? Supposedly, Deja Vu is your brain making too many associations releasing chemicals of familiarity. What if those feelings were based on memories? Meaning you did do exactly what you remembered a year before. And for some reason, someone hit rewind on the world and made you live it all again?
It would certainly explain why the answers come so easily sometimes. If you'd already solved the problem twelve months ago, it would take you no time at all to solve it again. But this is really just a fantasy, right? It's not possible to hit rewind on time, is it?
There are a lot of instances in my life where I act on my instincts twice as fast as it would've taken me to stop and figure something out. There are a lot of instances in my life where I'm blown away by the feeling that I've had the exact conversation a year before. Same room, same people, same clothes. What if this wasn't a neuro-glitch? Supposedly, Deja Vu is your brain making too many associations releasing chemicals of familiarity. What if those feelings were based on memories? Meaning you did do exactly what you remembered a year before. And for some reason, someone hit rewind on the world and made you live it all again?
It would certainly explain why the answers come so easily sometimes. If you'd already solved the problem twelve months ago, it would take you no time at all to solve it again. But this is really just a fantasy, right? It's not possible to hit rewind on time, is it?
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Inside Out
Angelina Jolie is ugly. Angelina Jolie is beautiful. Angelina Jolie rides the line between insanely irresistible and mannishly robotic like a pro surfer turning on the crest of a tsunami. She's like the stinky cheese of women. The smellier the cheese, the better it tastes. In fact, I've definitely smelled food and thought it was shit and the other way around. The Wagon wheel effect. You know, where the spokes are moving in such a way that it looks like the wheel is turning in the opposite direction of it's true motion. (You know why that is? It's because essentially, your eyes are taking twenty-four pictures of the wheel every second. When the wheel is slowly turning forward, you see the spokes moving in the appropriate direction. But you can move the wheel so fast that by the time your eyes "take another picture of it," the spokes are slightly behind where they were a 24th of a second ago. Prego! Wheel turning backwards.)
So Angelina Jolie smells. Wait, I mean, she's moving so fast that she's ugly. No, she's a wheel. Shit.
You've got the hot water so hot that it feels cold. Your senses are all fucked up.
Glass is a liquid - old stained glass windows are thicker at the bottom then they are at the top. Go look if you don't believe me.
Try to play too fast without practicing and you'll end up playing slower than if you relax and try not to play fast.
Oh fuck it, you're not even listening anymore.
So Angelina Jolie smells. Wait, I mean, she's moving so fast that she's ugly. No, she's a wheel. Shit.
You've got the hot water so hot that it feels cold. Your senses are all fucked up.
Glass is a liquid - old stained glass windows are thicker at the bottom then they are at the top. Go look if you don't believe me.
Try to play too fast without practicing and you'll end up playing slower than if you relax and try not to play fast.
Oh fuck it, you're not even listening anymore.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Why I Hate Facebook & Why I Hate Celebrities... I don’t.
Two for one, you lucky lucky people.
Okay, I don’t hate Facebook. Actually I don’t hate celebrities either but that’s in the second half so just be patient.
What I get upset about is how busy everyone is all the time and how plugged in we all are. I love technology – I love cars that go fast and speakers that play loud and my retina-display iPhone. But when everyone is linked in sending notes to each other about what they’re doing, they’re absent from the physical reality around them. It takes too much of their time and no one can come play in the sandbox with me! And it’s a balance, no doubt. On the one side, you want to send a quick note, a picture, or say hello to someone far away (temporally or geographically). On the other, updating your status as you walk is fucking dangerous. Find a balance, people.
And celebrities.
Do something really well and get famous. I’m for it. Do nothing and get famous. I hate you. Honestly, I don’t think I have to explain it any more than that but if I don’t write at least two more full paragraphs, Microsoft Grammar Check tells me my Flesch-Kincaid Reading Level is negative forty and I should take up another hobby. If someone is famous for their craft, I think, "Gosh, I gotta work a little harder and quit watching movies all the time. Look at how big that guy is!" Apparently, he spent all day, everyday finding the best note for the song. (See: Beatles in Hamburg, Mozart’s father dragging his four-year-old son around Europe to play piano, and Tyler Perry living in a car before he broke out).
But I don’t know what the Kardashians have done to merit their attention. The idea behind reality television is that people are acting like themselves. So the Kardashians are famous for acting like themselves… in front of a camera? Son of a bitch! I act like myself twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and I’m not famous. What gives?!? It’s the camera! Shit, I gotta get a camera crew on my ass, stat.
So yeah, find a balance between tech-connecting and real-connecting. And work hard if you’re gonna get famous. Then I won’t hate you. Cause I know you were worried about it.
Okay, I don’t hate Facebook. Actually I don’t hate celebrities either but that’s in the second half so just be patient.
What I get upset about is how busy everyone is all the time and how plugged in we all are. I love technology – I love cars that go fast and speakers that play loud and my retina-display iPhone. But when everyone is linked in sending notes to each other about what they’re doing, they’re absent from the physical reality around them. It takes too much of their time and no one can come play in the sandbox with me! And it’s a balance, no doubt. On the one side, you want to send a quick note, a picture, or say hello to someone far away (temporally or geographically). On the other, updating your status as you walk is fucking dangerous. Find a balance, people.
And celebrities.
Do something really well and get famous. I’m for it. Do nothing and get famous. I hate you. Honestly, I don’t think I have to explain it any more than that but if I don’t write at least two more full paragraphs, Microsoft Grammar Check tells me my Flesch-Kincaid Reading Level is negative forty and I should take up another hobby. If someone is famous for their craft, I think, "Gosh, I gotta work a little harder and quit watching movies all the time. Look at how big that guy is!" Apparently, he spent all day, everyday finding the best note for the song. (See: Beatles in Hamburg, Mozart’s father dragging his four-year-old son around Europe to play piano, and Tyler Perry living in a car before he broke out).
But I don’t know what the Kardashians have done to merit their attention. The idea behind reality television is that people are acting like themselves. So the Kardashians are famous for acting like themselves… in front of a camera? Son of a bitch! I act like myself twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and I’m not famous. What gives?!? It’s the camera! Shit, I gotta get a camera crew on my ass, stat.
So yeah, find a balance between tech-connecting and real-connecting. And work hard if you’re gonna get famous. Then I won’t hate you. Cause I know you were worried about it.
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