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Saturday, June 20. 2009
Wow. Talk about getting sidetracked and letting your baby go hungry; your vase of prize-winning flowers wilt away. Anyway, I don't want to devote too much energy to posting about how I haven't posted in three (3!) months, so I'll just leave you with a picture of the NYC skyline in springtime. My favorite time of the year. 
Wednesday, March 18. 2009
Last Friday, in an attempt to feel accomplished, I arose before the sun to watch its ascent into the sky from a place called Sunrise Mountain. Makes sense, right? Well, I got up at 5:30 a.m., after getting in rather late due to going to a friend's show in NYC, drove myself for about 30 minutes, stopping for coffee and Yoohoo, and came upon the realization that I would not be watching the sunrise from my intended spot. 
Okay run-on sentence, how you doin'? You see, whenever I get these urges to go someplace far away to catch something that usually has a small window of opportunity, I never actually plan it out properly. Had I done this beforehand, I would have still been sleeping when the daylight crept itself up and over the gate that blocked my path. Oh well, at least the coffee was good.
Wednesday, March 4. 2009
Before I continue forth with this week’s, err, column, I would like to warn the readers that there is no point to the following drivel. With that said, enjoy. I have been sick for over two weeks. Although I haven’t been properly diagnosed via WebMD, the virus that has infected my body must be on steroids like the kind Alex Rodriguez has been injecting, and smoking the dope like our former pal and Kellogg’s face, Michael Phelps. Of course, after those incriminating photos broke surface, Mr. Phelps was promptly scratched from Tony the Tiger’s Valentine’s party guest list. I bet there is nothing worse in the world than being shunned by Tony the Tiger. But all things considered, it’s only fair that the [somewhat] young and famous fall hard on their faces. But that’s another story for another time. Back to super infection!
Now, usually when I get sick the process is pretty routine. I cough a bit, sneeze and blow my nose raw. This time, however, after an extended coughing period, I lost my voice. What the hell is that all about? You really don’t appreciate written word until you lose your oral communication abilities. Doing everything and anything to keep the vocal chords stationary and the mouth closed becomes a tedious task during waking hours, and it’s not uncommon to find a notepad in my back pocket for brief written requests and simple queries. The reason behind this is primitive: survival.
If anyone recalls, or cares, I had a rather somber piece last semester on my career choice in the automotive sales field. It wasn’t the most rewarding towards the end, and I finally chose to leave it all behind for sanity’s sake and take a sabbatical of sorts to collect my thoughts, ideas, and whatever ounce of reality I had left. You see, when you sell cars, your life schedule changes a bit more than a lot. Your coworkers become your new family and your showroom becomes your new home. In laymen’s terms, you work a shit-ton of hours. Bye-bye social life. Now the point of mentioning the departure from my last career attempt is because what I gained in free time and social activities, I lost in health benefits. Therefore, the littlest sniffle and the slightest cut on any of my nine digits is cause for concern. The healthcare system in the Divided States of Lamerica does not favor those without Aetna or Cigna going to bat for them. In fact, if you require the assistance from a trained medical professional for an extended period of time (read: longer than a 10 minute outing of barroom conversation), and you do not have health coverage, you’re better off dying. For real.
So needless to say, the past two weeks I’ve been battling what I hope is not AIDS or SARS, and the outlook is looking pretty bleak. If I had any smarts, I would be writing my last will and testament, instead of this frivolous column. I should be making amends will all those I have wronged in the past and writing letters to lost classmates and forgotten romances. Remember, my voice has vacated my mouth so calling is clearly out of the question.
Hopefully, without the aid of pharmaceutical drugs and a doctor’s visit, my body will man up and overcome the invasion of the body snatchers that has bunked in my bloodstream and definitely overstayed its welcome. Talk about annoying, or write actually, but I’m sick (pun – barf!)(barf - pun on a pun!) of not being able to pronounce words that don’t sound like Grandpa’s voice box subjected to lifetimes of Lucky Strike inhalations. I think as soon as my tone returns, I’m going to attend every Open Mic night I can, and even record a number one hit single. There is a void to be filled after Chris Brown decided it was a good idea to beat up Rihanna. Even if she deserved it, which is still under investigation, he could have at least waited until I was in top performing shape. How selfish.
Anyway, if you do not see any bylines bearing my name next week, you will know that whatever illness ails me now has gotten the best of me. I will be six feet under, enjoying my everlasting sleep, my new earthen friends, and the itch on the bottom of my foot that I will never be able to scratch. That would be unfortunate. Originally published in the February 12, 2009 issue of the Ramapo News.
Saturday, February 28. 2009
Today's featured editorial is brought to you by the letter 'P'. I did something wild the other day. Something crazy. Something that probably hasn’t been done in years.
I wrote a letter. With a pen. In fact, I had to reteach myself the proper holding technique of the writing implement, since my hand had form fitted itself to keyboard tapping and text messaging thumbing. It was painful, and at the end of my first sitting I had a black eye and ink all over my favorite shirt. But I persevered and at the fin of my second session, I was back on the penmanship bicycle, riding my way towards a complete thought transcribed to college lined notebook paper. It was epic, and epoch, if you will. The sun could not have possibly shined any brighter. I sealed it safely in a security envelope and placed a stamp on the upper most corner of the right side. Oh fizzlebits, the stamp is only good for 32 cents. Postage fail.
Utilizing the USPS to its full abilities was only the initial step towards the road of realizing that there are many trite topics on developing technology and archaic forms of communication. It can, however, seem so fresh when it hits you for the first time. I mean, I’ve realized that letter scribing died shortly after the dinosaurs and Donald Trump’s hairpiece, but without being a part of the funeral it’s tough to put two and two together. But it’s not five, dammit, so let’s stop using that idiom. Digression. And I didn’t even reveal what my letter was about. It was a menial scribble to a pal back East. Someone I met when I served in ‘Nam, a real brute of a feller, not more aged than 19 years. Kidding. In fact, I can’t recall the thoughts placed on paper. Must have been important, eh?
In other news of reaching back to days passed, my good friend, Courtney, and I took a trip to Liberty Science Center today. It was frigid but thankfully the duration of the visit was spent indoors, except for the 20 minutes rocking back and forth in the frosty air due to an unplanned fire alarm. But more on that later. It’s amazing how a span of over a decade can change one’s perception of a place. The last time I ventured there, I rode Yellow Bus MS-22 with brown vinyl seats and a driver more fitted to piloting a hearse, patience wise. And apparently it wasn’t memorable at all, besides the collapsing ball in the main entrance hall, because it seemed all new to me. Maybe that’s the problem with being in third grade; you’re too caught up in the moment and not interested in committing anything to memory. What’s that, LSC director guy in a black suit and younger than me, you say they did a complete overhaul in 2005? Okay, that makes sense now. I was wondering where the ambulance from Cannonball Run was. If I saw that, old dudes in hideous sweaters couldn’t have smacked me back to 1994 harder than that. So scratch my rant towards third graders. At ease, soldier.
Okay friends, let’s get back to why our day was interrupted by a false fire and a trek into the arctic wilderness that is a parking lot in Jersey City. My guess is that one of the inner city schoolchildren, clearly not interested by blue-tongued skinks and the Crab Nebula, decided to yank on the fire alarm. Thus rendering the entire building helpless towards continuing touring and taking 20 minutes of my life that I will never get back. I could have been reading about the silt at the bottom of the Hudson, you inconsiderate…okay then. I have to say it was funny though, and unexpected, and random. I always find that it’s the little things in each day that stack up to make great stories.
In no strategic order, I would also like to add that the facilities were clean and there were no bums sleeping in any of the stalls, or exhibits for that matter, besides the Homeless in America display, which replaced the Touch Tunnel in the most recent renovations. Shame. Counterproductively, the aforementioned renovations increased the size of the gift shop considerably, which means that they can now fit more stuffed tarantulas and robotic arms than will ever be sold. Inventory manager, how I envy thee.
Closing time can sooner than expected, or wanted, and before I knew it we were heading out to the car. Time flies when you appreciate having fun.
By now, folks, you’re no doubt wondering the point, possibly even the moral of this tale. Well, it’s a simple request: send a letter and visit a place that your third grade class journeyed to when you were a wee one. If anything it will exercise your fingers and your mind, concurrent or consecutive. But if you find yourself bored, don’t feel the need to pull the fire alarm. There may be other twenty-somethings there reminiscing on their lost childhood. Just leave. Cheers. Originally published in the February 5, 2009 issue of the Ramapo News.
Sunday, January 25. 2009
I cannot believe that the first word ever published on the premier Wasted Wit blog is I. Surely, more thought should have been given to this unprecedented event of open-mic creativity, sarcasm, reader involvement, and the all important et cetera bestowed upon the vast audience of blog followers. No doubt, this will be marked as a launch event in history so botched, so unorganized, that we, the Wasted Wit Empire, are deemed to fail right from the get go. Well folks, if you were over analyzing the first word like I was, then you're in the right place.
Wasted Wit will strive to be a household appliance that does not cater to a certain demographic. We're there for you when you get home from school or work for a nice afternoon snack, as well as being accessible 24-hours a day. We aim to have a meal for every dish. Think a refrigerator with all the best leftovers.
Our goals are simple: start small and grow to epic proportions, continuing to expand to unknown reaches. There is no limit at Wasted Wit, just like there should be no limit to your creativity. Whether it be pointing your camera at the perfect moment of the most natural pose of your subject matter, or penning prose where it's never been taken, the restraints have been lifted.
Now, without touching upon any more metaphors that only make sense to me, I present to you, Wasted Wit. The navigator bar at the top of the screen will help you explore the rest of the site. Lavatories are down the hallway to the right. Please visit our gift shop on your way out to properly spend that $5 souvenir money that mom gave you this morning. And please be interactive on our message board. Also, if you have an idea, question or concern about the site, please drop it in the suggestion box area of the forum. Everyone has a voice here.
Sincerely,
Bryan and Courtney
The Wasted Wit Team
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