8.25.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

There is a haunted mansion in Savannah, GA that is said to be something like the most haunted place in all of the United States. It has been known to cause you pain in your groin, it is so haunted. The real kicker here is that there is a mysterious staircase that appears some times to some people, and not at other times to other people. In fact, even two people viewing it at the same time may only result in one of them seeing this staircase. Such was the case with Ben and his friend Sarah. He saw the staircase.

We were talking about this haunted staircase this evening, and I raised what I feel to be a very valid point--how can a staircase be a ghost? It is not undead. It was not ever alive. How can you or a house be haunted by the ghost staircase? If is it only the ghost staircase that makes this house the most haunted place in America, I am confused as to how exactly it works that this staircase can in fact do hauntings.

I guess I believe in ghosts. There was once this lake we had to swim in at camp, and sometimes I could feel very cold spots when other spots were very warm. Was I experiencing a haunting? I like to think that it was more me experiencing the result of some kind of contamination or the changes in temperature exist because of acid rain or it is a by-product of global warming. But you know how they say ghosts always make the space around them very cold? Maybe I was experiencing a ghost. I would just move to the warm spots because those cold spots made me very uncomfortable.

But I don't know if I can say that water can exist as something "haunted" and then turn around and say that something as un-alive and inanimate as a staircase could not be haunted. I wonder if the staircase moves around at night, all Marley style like "A Christmas Carol". I imagine that would sound like earth quakes, and would in result in a little more than some groin aches. Which brings me to this--THIS STAIRCASE CANNOT BE HAUNTED!

Perhaps there is someone who is haunting this house that moves the staircase back and forth depending on who is doing the leering from the front door. It could operate like those giant staircases they use to get to the top shelves at Staples and Office Depot, maybe it's all on wheels. But that is really giving this haunting thing too much credit. I've already disavowed the theory that that lake from childhood was haunted due to the actuality of it being contaminated by something of some sort. So this staircase also cannot be haunted because it is a staircase. Case closed. Right?

What do you think? Is this worth pursuing? Should I devote some if not all of my current state of free time to researching this phenomenon? Let me know.

Jon

8.20.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Yesterday I saw this lady in the street. We are sort of acquaintances, I suppose. We greet each other. She always talks about how cute our dogs are. Her dog is a bit of a beast, so I don't really say anything. I know neither her name nor her dog's. But we greet each other as if we hang out all the time, or something. She seems nice. We've been living here over a year and I don't feel appropriate asking her her name. Is that bad?

There is a similar situation with a couple down the street. They also have a dog. And this dog loves our beagle. I mean, he is awesome. But this dog loses her shit, lays down in the street or the dirt, gets on her back, and proceeds to attempt to seduce him every time she sees him. I think if dogs had a mating dance that it would look like this. These two ladies are super sweet and they always ask about my job and how things are going, and we exchange that sort of pleasantry. They each have a name, which they have told me. And I even said when this happened, "I was wondering if it was too late to introduce ourselves after we've been greeting each other for so long!" She said no, so it was cool. But that was like five months ago. I know their collective names, but I don't know which name matches which person. Is this bad?

All of this makes me think of what might make me a really bad person. During my sophomore year of college I lived in an on-campus apartment. Looking back, it was no where near as insane as my last two years which I spent on a residence hall, complete with freshman and creepy RAs. But it seemed so weird at the time. I lived with two brothers and a friend of mine. The brothers were okay, they liked to play video games a lot and one ate dinner alone by candle light. And by candle light, I mean a big fat candle with three wicks. But they were nice and put up with my incessant Lil Jon music playing.

My friend decided he was going to do an internship or something, so he would be moving out. He never told me any of this. We might have had a falling out related to my eating of his roasted turkey or when I flipped my shit about someone drinking my orange juice that was actually hidden behind the milk. I may not have been the best roommate, but he could have told me he was leaving! I come back from winter break, knowing my friend is gone, and wondering if we were going to be getting a new roommate. Oh, one weird thing about these apartments is that the rooms were seriously eight-by-eleven. I could reach the computer, fridge, and door all from my bed, which was nice but also a little weird.

We ended up getting a new roommate. He was moving his stuff in, and I greeted him, told him my name, asked if he needed any help moving in. He introduced himself. I didn't really hear what he said because I was distracted by the weird smell coming from one of the brother's cooking in the kitchen, so I was maybe only half-listening. I didn't hear his name. But I felt bad for possibly asking him to repeat it so I just smiled and nodded like I heard him. "Welcome," I said as I turned up my music and settled in.

I did not know this man's name for the entire semester. We would see each other on campus and just do the bro-nod in the other's direction. His name was either Brian, Jeff or Scott. We never hung out or really pretended to be friends. I probably ate his chips, or something. It now seems like this is a bit of a pattern--forming sort-of relationships with veritable strangers that I interact with on a somewhat constant basis, who know who I am, but I don't know who they are. I know all the names of the people I love, and all the names of the Jackson children. But for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of that lady who walks her dog. And she's so nice!

I am convinced there is a point at which it is no longer appropriate to ask for someone's name if you have had interactions with them for an extended period of time. It just feels weird. "Hi lady who I say hello to every morning for the past 365 days. What is your name?" That sounds weird! But she knows my dogs' names! Ack!

Maybe this isn't such a bad thing. I tend to get pretty attached to things when I care about them, so if I keep these people at a distance and they move, or their dogs die, it won't be such a big deal. I don't know. I still feel kind of bad.

Tell me what you think.

Jon

8.11.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I just drank two glasses of Chinese herbs. I am supposed to drink three glasses a day and I already drank one, and it was getting late so I figured I should just do the last two at the same time. Now, I am washing said herbs down with a Miller High Life. I wonder what my acupuncturist would say about all of this.

I have come into a lot of free time recently and I have tried to make the most of it. I have decided that this $1500 bag that I wanted may not be the most responsible purchase, ever. In fact, the entire thought process I had about the purchase of said bag reminds me of a similar pattern of thoughts I had as a kid. Do you remember when everyone had a beeper? I think the technical term was pager, but only doctors and moms called them pagers. Looking back, I am not sure if I completely understand why beepers were so completely pervasive. What exactly was their purpose? I think it was to let the person you are beeping know that they need to call you or maybe get in verbal communication with you in some way. Remember folks who had special codes all worked out with their family or their fifth grade boyfriends? I think it was some pretty serious business.

My mom had a beeper. She wasn't a doctor. She just had one. I think MCI got her a good deal. I remember doing anything I could so that I could just hold it, maybe carry around when we were at the mall, you know, let the clip hang out of my pocket. I had no business with a beeper. I didn't have any friends who needed to get in touch, I was a fifth grader. I was always with my parents, so they didn't need to do anything to find me because, hello, I was right there. But it seemed all the cool kids had beepers. And they had them in cool colors. I remember beeping my friend Naseem from time to time just to see if she would call back.

I wanted a beeper so badly! One day when we were at the mall, I knew it was time. I had been pricing beepers, so I knew how much they cost. But what the world didn't know was that I was so about to fool them. When I was pricing beepers, I was also pricing beeper cases. You know, the actual brightly colored thing the beeper slid into. This is what people recognized if they thought you had a beeper, the case and maybe the clip hanging on the outside of a pocket on your hip. I knew that if I just bought the beeper case then it would look like a full-blown beeper and my place as a cool kid would be cemented.

The thing cost $16, so I saved and saved. I don't remember ever really having lots of cash as a kid, but I remember there was this extremely vague idea that we were to get $1 per week as an allowance. But I don't remember how often that actually happened. All of this is to say I don't know where exactly the money came from, but I had it. I had been preparing for a while now and I knew that I wanted the neon yellow beeper case. My family was down at Pizza Hut. We loved the Book It program because it allowed us to get those awesome personal pan pizzas from the Hut, which for some reason we only ever got at the mall. The beeper store was down near the entrance to the food court.

I begged off standing in line at Pizza Hut saying that I needed to go to the bathroom, which was next to the beeper place. I walked down there. "I want the neon yellow beeper case please."

"Do you know what kind of pager you have?"

"Of course I do, why would I buy a paaager case with no paaaaager?" I replied.

"Ok, that will be $16."

"Fine. I have it all. My mom would not appreciate you treating me like this. In fact, that's her paging me now..."

"Here you go! Enjoy it!"

I was elated. I didn't make it past the Arby's, though, before complete and total buyers remorse overtook my sub-adolescent conscience. I don't really have a beeper! How will I explain to my parents that I spent all that money on a beeper case, only to just have it so that people will think I have a beeper! I did ponder using it to hold gum, as there was a bubblegum beeper they sold at the Media Play. I wanted to buy that one because it made a little more sense for me as I was a child and all, but the clip didn't look right and I don't like fake things!

After a moment or two, I turned right back around and returned to the beeper store, which really was just a counter in a wall that displayed beeper paraphernalia. "My mom said this cost too much. I need to return it for a refund."

That was that. My brush with the beeper case was swift, and for just a second I felt like I could really be going places. But it seemed like the only place I was actually headed was one of those situations where you do something dumb, your parents find out, and then you have to make up some kind of story about why what just happened just happened. I didn't have many friends, so using the one I had made no sense. I couldn't justify this extravagance.

I never got a beeper, but I did carry my mom's for a while after she got her service cut off. This was a few months or maybe years after the fad had passed on from my fifth grade. But I will tell you, there was something a little cool about turning on the vibrate alert and saying, "Oh, that was my friend from Atlanta! I'll be right back!" as I would walk away, laughing to myself.

Talk to you soon.

Jon

8.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I had an accident at acupuncture this morning. Not really an accident, I guess. It may have been more of a misunderstanding. But it does involve my forehead having this weird bruise.

The first time I did acupuncture was last week. I didn't have much of a fear of all the needles and the sticking, although I once ran out on a pediatrician who tried to give me a hepatitis vaccine. This experience was relaxing. He put needles in my stomach, my legs, my neck, my ears, almost everywhere. Then he took those out and I flipped over and we did it all over again. Sometimes I fall asleep really fast when I'm on my stomach so I almost passed out this time.

My second time was this morning. I walked in, said hello, read a little about the Saved By The Bell reunion perpetrated by People magazine. Then it was time. He brought me to a new room, one that had four beds. One had a lady in it already, and she seemed to be pretty zonked out. I tried not to look at her so as to make sure I didn't interrupt anything going on. So we're whispering, he's asking me about my stomach and how it's been since the first time. Things have been good, I say. I've really noticed a difference already. Great to hear, he whispereplies. He instructs me to take off my shoes, which I almost misinterpreted as take off your shirt. I didn't expect that, so I just removed my shoes which turned out to be the right move.

He gets right to putting the needles in. They don't really hurt when they go in, only sometimes. And I let him know when it does hurt. There was one in my stomach that got a "Nuh uh, no thank you" and he fixed that one up quick. He needles me all up, and he says he'll be back. The first time, each side of my body got between fifteen and twenty minutes. I figure he'll be back soon and it will be time for the changeover.

I lay there, and lay there, and lay there, and lay there. I tried to fall asleep, I swear but I could feel parts of my body going numb. I didn't know if that was from the needles or the fact that my feet were raised just a little. I couldn't move my toes on my right foot! But I powered through, in anticipation of explaining this new back pain I've had a few times over the past month that decided to come back two days ago. And I kept waiting for him to come back. Nope, this was it--we were done.

After all was said and poked, and an hour later, I was out of there. I had no idea what was going to happen so I was surprised so much time had passed! It turns out, because I'm broke as a joke, I am part of the acupuncture community, which means cheaper rates, but also means group rooms and one side of your body at a time. All of which is totally fine with me, I just didn't know. He started explaining this as he was taking the needles out of my body. He has been sticking one in my forehead, to help clear and calm the mind. This one made me bleed a little. He patted the blood out and warned about the bruise.

I was feeling and looking good when I got out of there. Then around 2 or 3 this afternoon, I notice this bizarre coloring on my forehead. It is clearly a bruise, right between my eyebrows. It's not that it looks totally weird, I mean maybe some people get hickies on their foreheads. I guess my forehead is just sensitive. I had forgotten all about this forehead bruise until my boss asked me about it. We laughed because I told her the story after explaining that I completely forgot that I had this purplish-brownish spot on my face.

All of this is to say that if you do acupuncture, sometimes they only do one side of your body. And if your person warns that there might be bruising, ice that spot quick!

Ok, honestly, it's really not that bad.

Hope you are well.

Jon

7.29.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am listening to Whitney Houston's new song, "I Look to You" right now. And I am now beginning my second listen of the song. I can't decide how I feel about it. It's a slow one. And she sounds kind of different. I mean, we know she's been through a lot--Bobby's no longer around, Bobbi Kristina is a mess, and she also sort of dated Ray J. She's seen it.

Normally we're used to hearing Whit belt it the eff out. This song is restrained, almost calm. I can see her doing this at an awards shoe and bringing the house to tears. R. Kelly wrote it, which accounts for most of the melodrama. Wouldn't it have been more interesting if she had taken on her own sort of "Trapped in the Closet"? The first 12 chapters from Kells were not enough, and who better a storyteller than Whitney Houston, herself? I'm just saying.

Ok, I am now forming a much more solid opinion about this one. It doesn't even really sound like Whitney Houston, at all. There are elements of her phrasing and flavor, but Whitney circa any time in the 1990s this is not. I'm giving it a third listen just to be sure.

I swear, we love comebacks. And she is ripe for one. I think many of us can admit that we loved "Being Bobby Brown" not for Bob, but for Whitney's cameos. It was insane to watch her train wreck every week. But I am dying for her to come back with a huge bang. "Just Whitney" did not do it for me. At all. As this "I Look to You" keeps playing, I am kind of getting into it, I think. I think I like her new voice. It's almost like how Aretha's voice got all husky and dirty as she's aged, the talent is still there but the instrument is different. We know Whit can do it, but maybe it's a little nice to hear her do it a little differently this time around. I won't even lie, I will buy her album the day it comes out. I know she could use the money, and I want her to be on top.

Let's wish her luck.

Jon

7.20.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am not my hair. That is a song by India Arie, that chick who wanted to be Tracey Chapman but lost her flava when she shaved off her dreds. For a long time, I thought I was my hair--that my self-confidence was negatively correlated with the length of my hair. The shorter it was, the better I felt. Whenever it got long, I swear I always did begin to feel bad about myself and the world. So in what could only be described as a fit, I would buzz off all of my hair in the middle of the night to wake up the next day with a lighter load and an eighth of an inch of hair.

The past year has seen me growing out my hair a bit. Many people like it, I'd say. I like it, and I still feel good. Of course, there are those haters like my mom, sister, and friend Megan who say they prefer me with shorter hair. I wonder if all their negative comments in the past might have caused me to feel bad, all the "But you look so much better when your hair is shorter" or "I just like it better, you look older, more mature when you hair is shorter". These are the things I'd hear when I would come home from college on breaks. But as a sort of rebellion, I've been growing out my hair this past year and it feels good. I no longer cut my hair myself, which I had been doing for the previous year and a half, or so. I get it professionally tamed, which I think adds to its manageability and general awesomeness. That is until it is humid or if it is rainy.

The new hair length has let me play with different kinds of products because I finally have hair to put product in. I don't know yet if I've figured out the right amount because some days I look super greasy and other days I am a hot frizzy mess. But today, I thought I might have achieved the right balance of hair product. By the time I got to work I thought I might have used too much. But the rain was doing things to my head.

After the first hour or so, my hair had officially become a poof. This is one of the main reasons I didn't grow out my hair in the past. When my hair gets long, it tends to gain size and volume, leaving this huge mess of bristly and coarse poofiness. But I had been combatting that recently by having it cut by a professional. But I think I am in need of a haircut. My hair curled up and frizzed out today. It looks like it's standing about four or five inches off the top of my head, which reminds me a little of Gene Wilder (who I almost just called Gene Hackman) in "Willy Wonka".

It's probably not even that bad. I really just wanted to see what you thought and what you used to tame your hair. I wonder what your hair looks like when you wake up in the morning. Ok, I really don't wonder that. Anyway, here's to taming the poof. Pun intended.

Jon

7.15.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was thinking. Today is my birthday and you haven't really done much for me lately. I don't ask for much, just to hear from you every now and then. Maybe a call here or there, to make sure you're alive or at least continuing to receive checks from SNL and/or Tina Fey. But I've decided to ask you to help make me an internet celebrity or just a plain celebrity.

I was on Facebook just now and it suggested I become a fan of B. Scott. I had no idea who this B. Scott person was, so I clicked to go to his page. He is a blogger who has used his interviews with some B and C list celebs to get a job with Access Hollywood. I do not want to be a celebrity blogger, and I don't want to work on Access Hollywood, I will leave that to Mark McGrath. However, I was wondering if you could help me secure a book deal.

After I just said that, I don't know if it's the right thing right now. I find it hard enough sometimes to find time to write to you on a semi-regular basis. I am trying to write an essay about this one night of craziness during grad school, and am finding that unless I just happen to be inspired when in front of the computer, I don't write. Colette, my writing partner, and I have decided that we would start to bring pieces that we worked on during the week to our meetings, rather than use our meetings as a time to write. I had so much trouble getting inspired last week and getting anything written. Until the last minute. Then, in a fury, I wrote like 800 words of awesomeness. But it made me feel a little like I did when I was in grad school--that general feeling of anxiety that I wasn't doing any work and that I had work I needed to get done. But there wasn't any work here, and I like writing this kind of thing. But for a minute I was thinking, "Oh my god, please don't make me write about jails and witches! I promise I will get it all done. I swear!"

Although, if I had something to aspire to, like a collection of essays then I would get so much out of doing the work and having a finished product. This is why you need to get me a book deal--so basically, I can do something awesome. As I read this out loud, I realize this is a little selfish. Which is why if you get me the book deal, I promise to be your best friend. Forever. We would make such an awesome team. We could make lots of weird and awkward faces at each other. I would let you call me "lovah". You could tell me all about what it was like to play Elizabeth Taylor that one time. We could get brunch on the weekends, our dogs could play together. Oh man, which reminds me.

Lyle, the beagle, has been diagnosed as having epilepsy. This was insanely scary, as Ben and I watched his first major seizure in the kitchen. Jesus. But the dog is a survivor. I just found out that Hugo Weaving and Lindsey Buckingham are also epileptics. Lyle is in good company, I think. I wonder if this means we can get a handicapped hangtag for our car. I once saw a Porshe with a handicapped hangtag. I can't judge--handican, my friend!

Well, I guess I should get going. I wish you could come to the party tonight, but you're probably busy. That's cool.

Jon

7.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

So this past weekend was the 4th of July. I always get the 4th and New Year's confused. But I don't think I've ever watched fireworks on New Year's eve. I guess it's all the other shiny and exploding things the two share that has them being the same holiday, but in winter and summer versions, for me. We went and visited some friends who just married and who live in the town where Ben went to school. It was great to see them and great to see the town and campus.

I don't know if we realized how attached we are to our college campuses until we go away for a while. Then, like the road you take to your house, you get that feeling of familiarity and comfort when you get close. The signs look familiar. You remember that time when you almost got a ticket for going the wrong way on a one-way street. You remember how awesome you thought it was to mix beer and wine together when you were eating chips and sour cream. There's just something about coming back to a place you hardcore knew that is nice.

I love knowing people's favorite things about their favorite places. When we moved to The Hill, I was always pointing out my favorite burrito place, the place that has the best drink specials, the place that we must avoid unless we want to smell like tortilla chips and grease for three days. Being up there with Ben was great because I finally got to put real life things together with all the stories. Like this one place he lived in that included the Door to Nowhere. Like, it's an upstairs door that has no balcony or even little porch or anything to step out on above the main house door. You open the door and if you step out, you will step on some air and promptly hit the ground. We don't know why this door ever existed, but it does. And to see it for real after hearing about it is kind of like seeing a bigfoot. You sort of believe when people tell you it exists, but once you see it you are a believer for life.

It was a really great weekend. Of course, I got crazy sunburned. I feel like I don't have fair skin and can handle the sun. But when if you've been indoors for six months, like I have, you sit out for even a second too long and you get burned. Whatever. I love burned knees. And it was worth it!

We should talk soon.

Jon

6.21.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was doing some thinking as I was walking to the gym one morning this past week. The gym is close by so I walk there. There is a bald-headed older gentleman who has a mid-life crisis convertible that he drives there every morning instead of walking. He vroomed past me as I was trying to collect some thoughts earlier this week, kind of jarring me awake. It was early in the morning and I was still getting used to the light. We've started this new workout plan this is kind of kicking my ass. I mean, I'm seeing results and muscles are getting bigger and harder but it's hard work!

On the way there I was in mid-dread about the impending leg presses I was to do. The leg press is the first exercise of the new plan. Back during my days in the bodybuilding club in college, I dreaded dreaded dreaded the leg press. And now it's back in my life, in full effect. So far, it's been easy to handle. But then I am not doing so much weight that I am getting stuck in the leg press machine, needing the help of three burly dudes to help pry me out of it. That happened.

Anyway, I'm walking to the gym when I see him--the man, who in the past week I have decided to call Spooky. When I saw him this past week I had to slow my roll a little because he makes me a little afraid. I am beginning to see what a problem homelessness is becoming, even here in little old North Carolina. These people have no where to go but the street. I wish I could do more.

The first time I saw him it was a night. We were driving back from somewhere and it was late and dark. Having just turned the corner coming off the off-ramp, we were merging into the most left lane so that we could follow it down two lights to our house. Then I looked to my right. Gasping, "Was that a ghost?" I didn't know exactly what I had seen. Ben replied, "Jon, why would a ghost just be walking down the side of the road?" I didn't understand that it was indeed a man that I had seen, as he was moving slowly as if moseying to the beat of an apparitional drum. Ben clearly knew what he saw, and it was a guy who was moving very slowly and kind of side to side, more like a pirate with a wooden leg than perhaps a ghost.

Because I was convinced Spooky was indeed a ghost, I never thought we would encounter him again. I mean, unless your home is haunted or you did something bad to some lady right before she died, I like to think that if you were to encounter a ghost it happens just once. All of this ghost talk comes from the shows we sometimes watch on the History Channel. They are mostly concerned with the search for cryptids--you know things like ghosts, blood-sucking wolf/cats, and swamp things. These shows will have you convinced you are seeing crazy shit if you believe that these things could possibly be real. I guess I believe because the second time I mistook Spooky for Big Foot. And again, like the idea of ghosts I have in my head, Big Foots also move slowly and side to side. Ben again cleared this confusion up for me. Spooky is a man, not a cryptid. He just moves real slow.

Over the course of the past week, I have encountered Spooky twice. And both times I have reacted in the same way. I slow my walk to a crawl and begin to whisper, whether to someone I'm with or inside my head. "There's Spooky. Don't let him see you. If you move slowly and keep far enough away he can't get you." It really is as if I am treating this man like he is actually a ghost or Big Foot and I am the Crocodile Hunter, but of cryptids. I don't exacly fear for my life, but my skin does get a little cold and I lose feeling in my extremities.

Ok, I should probably be honest. Those feelings have to be from the new workout, and not from Spooky. At least with the new workout I'm not doing all those crazy muscle enhancing pills and powders like last time. Then I could always blame my crazy on something I took. I guess now I'm just crazy, and all people are cryptids. Consider this a cry for help.

Hope you are well,
Jon

6.14.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

It seems I have been away for longer that I anticipated. Well, things have been busy. I realized that during much of May, I did not do many of the things I had been doing for many of the months prior: I was not writing, I was not meeting with my writing partner (shoutout to Miss C.). Now that I think about it, that may have been all that I didn't do. I still went to work, I still ate, I became even more obsessed with the Kardashian family. So it really seems I only neglected you during May. And for that, I apologize.

But this is not to say that there were things that happened that were not worth mentioning. We made a little vacation trip up to the Big Apple. The other times I've been up there, I've always flown into JFK. But this time, using Hotwire (shoutout to Hotwire), we got a killer deal but it involved flying into Laguardia. Neither of us had been to this airport, but I had made a vow to myself that if I were to ever move to New York I would live in Queens because that's where the Mets play and it is the home to my favorite Latina familia de television, The Suarezes. Laguardia, here we come.

We fly into Queens and into Laguardia. My first impression was that it was much smaller than JFK. We didn't have to take seven different trains around and within the airport. In fact, we just stepped off the plane and into the terminal and there was the foodcourt and those shops that sell books and those neck-pad-brace-pillows. I've never even seen those at JFK. In fact, I've only seen what look like mall kiosks at JFK--the kind that hawk flat irons, cell phone cases, and Rosetta Stone. I was impressed so far with Laguardia, to say the least.

We're out, we're walking around in the terminal. We see the sun so we figure that must be where our exit is and where we will meet the bus to take us into The City. Finally making it outside, we see some bus stops. Do you notice that regardless of what city you're in, bus stops all kind of look the same. And it seems to not matter whether you are at the airport or at the gas station across the street, there are always the same kind of looking people who hang out at the bus stop. Without describing the variety of people that fit this genre of loiterer, you can think about it and know who I'm talking about--especially if you know that angry little midget from Nashville, who always seemed to be weilding a knife or a Fanta bottle. These are the people who love bus stops. And they hang out at the airport bus stops, too.

The weird thing about this area, the loading/unloading area of the airport, was that there was no place to buy a metro card. I didn't understand how we could use public transportation in the Apple if we didn't have one, because hello, who carries cash around. I guess people who hang out at the bus stop carry cash because they all seemed to understand what was happening when the bus showed up and a few of them wandered on to it. I knew we would need the metro card to get on the train once we were abandoned by the bus driver in Harlem, and I wanted to be prepared. Also, I wanted to be able to just get on the bus and not worry about quarters and dimes and nickels. I guess regular bus riders only think in change.

Both of us were a little confused. We went back inside and asked the kind lady at the information desk where we could find a machine or a person that would sell us some metro cards. She thrust a thick visitor's guide in our hands and said something about Hudson News. This was the name of the airport bookstore. And it is also apparently the name of the place that we where we could find the key to The City--the metro card.

You know how I said Laguardia seems smaller than JFK? It's only smaller if you have an idea where you are going. Where we were once following the light of the sun, we were now staring at every neon and flourescent light, hoping it would read Hudson News. We went off in one direction that put us back in the area where we first entered the terminal and we were accosted by a sort of kindly sir who offered us his taxi services. We had just heard the announcement to not accept offers of rides from people who aren't in real taxis or buses. I don't understand why there isn't a train that goes to the airport, which could prevent the kinds of things that happen when you get into a stranger's car. Queens!

Figuring out that this is probably not where the Hudson News was, we turned in the opposite direction. We passed the lady who gave us all The City information. We ended up leaving the bible-thick tome of New York, along with the coupon book that included discounts to the Times Square Red Lobster and Phantom of the Opera, in our hotel room. Gross. So we're moving and I started to get frustrated because I was tired and for the first time since I've visited New York, I felt overwhelmed. I was tired and confused, and everything seemed to be in non-English. And there was no direct, overt or even neon-flourescent sign that there were metro cards to be purchased anywhere in this airport.

There might have been a bit of flared tempers during all of this. Neither one of us knew where we were going, and both of us were confused by the lack of clear and present signage. We eventually found the Hudson News where the metro cards could be found. Naturally, they were only available in denominations of $7. Weird, but we took two.

The rest of the trip was less taxing. We made it to our waaay downtown hotel--so downtown that it was on the corner of Wall Street. Both of us scowled at the bankers and financiers we saw Monday morning. I was hoping to see Ms. Bernie Madoff, but apparently she has been keeping a low profile. Lots of good food, lotttts of good drinks. Shoutout to Laura, Maura & Jane. I didn't realized how exhausted I was until we got home on Monday and promptly crashed after some Jimmy John's.

Next time, we'll probably fly into somewhere else. To say the least, I think Laguardia is a bit of a mess. Or it may just be one giant bus stop.

Jon