An imaginary conversation with a passive-agressive, subway riding fixed-gear biker

A dramatized "I should have said this"

(We are on the L train, around eight o clock on a weekday night. It's crowded. Two kids are standing with their bikes around the center pole by one of the middle doors of the car. Zach is standing, leaning over and talking with Justine, who is sitting. As the train pulls into the Bedford stop, Zach, followed by Justine, moves to the door in front of fixed gear kid #1, whom we will call Passive-Aggressive Pete. His friend will be Silent Sal.)

PETE: (Sarcastic) Oh, thanks a lot. Really cool.

ZACH: (Looking back, surprised) Sorry, dude.

(Everyone gets off the train. Imaginary part starts here.)

PETE: I don't think you are sorry. You totally just cut me off.

ZACH: You know what? No, I'm not sorry. The train was stopping and I didn't want to be stuck in a big rush of people behind a bike. So I moved into the empty space by the door, which was left completely open, so I could get off the train.

PETE: So fucking typical, with your fucking leather shoes and your laptop. Just because you're hurrying home to your fucking condo to watch tivo's of Big Love you think you have the right to step right in front of me and my friend, and all the people behind us trying to get off. God, what a prick you are.

JUSTINE: Hey now, asshole...

ZACH: (To Justine) Hold on a second. (To Pete) First of all, fuck you and your petty little sanctimony, you self-righteous needle-dick fixed-gear douche-eating bastard. I don't live here. Judging by how nice your bike is, I probably make less money than you. And as for condos and Big Love, I live in a fucking converted warehouse that leaks all over my bedroom floor when it rains, and I haven't owned a TV since mine got stolen out of my old Bushwick apartment. You wanna talk about me inconveniencing people? How about you and your buddy? Last time I checked, a bicycle was a mode of conveyance, not a goddamn lifestyle prop on the subway. You know how I get around town when I have a bike with me? I ride the bike. So to all the people who were behind you trying to get off, I'm sorry I didn't fully consider the ramifications of this guy's inconsiderate act before commiting my inconsiderate act.

(Passive-Aggressive Pete makes a look as if he is is considering trying to rip my head off, but restrains himself.)

SAL: (To Pete) Come on, man, let's go.

(They turn and walk away.)

PETE: (Over his shoulder) Fucking hipster yuppie. Go eat your designer pizza.

ZACH: (Calling out) Yeah, have fun pissing off everyone on the road. Hey, I think your pantleg's coming out of your socks. Oh, and you forgot your powdered wig!

(exit, Sal and Pete.)

JUSTINE: (making a stabbing motion) I'm gonna knife him.

So we're in practice last night at the Sweatshop, this dingy rehearsal space for unsigned bands and aspiring musicians. The sounds that come out of this place are really terrible - not excluding our own practice, I’m sure. In one of these late night practices Donnie is singing for this song "Two Dead Horses in the Road". He always mumbles his lyrics, but also I am famous for making up my own lyrics that completely distort the artists poetic meaning.

But to add to the problem . . . Donnie's voice is too quiet in the speaker (plus he can never decide how to phrase them). The real lyrics are as follows:

"And in my absence, you will find her"

But for the last 8 months we've been playing this tune and I always sing something completely different. I’m mouthing along the words and I realize I they are completely different. I've always heard:

"I leave my ass a your reminder"

Right then, I began to giggle with all of my inner-child. I know I have a third grader's sense of humor, but potty-talk never ceases to tickle me.

* * *

In Tall Cotton-- reviewed on thisisfakediy.com.

Check out this, from reviewer Lucia Hodgson, our new favorite person:

http://www.thisisfakediy.com/articles/albums/my-sister-in-1994-in-tall-cotton

window washer dream

last night I dreamt we were window washers

even in 2035 there were still windows to wash

we were doing this job
on these little ladders
hanging from the tip of the CNN tower

there were no ropes

and we had to wear these space gloves

'

Donnie was goofing off, doing one-handers and shit

I was like, “Donnie, you would die from this height”

right then he fell a quarter mile towards the city below

when he landed I was sure he was dead

but he got up

he puked and ran off between the buildings

I guess window washing isn’t as dangerous as people think

In my sleep, my dreams tell me.

I was in the neighborhood where I grew up: a suburban midatlantic neighborhood, with lots of old trees, and big backyards, and short chain fences you could jump over easily if you were playing.
But I had just come back to the neighborhood, and it became a super-dangerous war zone while I had been away. Like, you couldn't show your face outside during certain hours, or enemy marksmen would shoot you full of holes with their AK-47s. We were at active war with communists, in my dream.
Next door in the dream lived a beautiful southeast Asian girl, I think she was Vietnamese. She wore a black uniform. The first time I saw her, I was running for cover as she raked my back yard with bullets from her assault rifle, and as I dove for cover behind a wall of cement bricks, I realized I was in love with this girl, and pretty sure she was in love with me. We had to hunt each other, see, because she was Viet Cong and I was American, but through the kicked-up dust I saw her smiling sweetly with one eye closed as she aimed her Kalashnikov. I was pretty sure she was intentionally not killing me.

Later on inside, as I was loading up my arsenal to go out in the family station wagon to hunt the Vietnamese girl, a hippie uncle, who does not exist in waking life, called my mother on the phone. I could hear him saying that, while he acknowleged the necessity, he was frightened of the kind of stuff my generation was into. I ignored him and went out to the car with my shotgun, pistol, and my own AK.
The girl and I would only hunt each other during the daytime, when it was generally safe to be out and about. We had an understanding about one another, both being off the beaten path as we were, and we were both deadlier than the average soldier.
I drove around all afternoon looking for her, with my rifle pointed out the window, and I never did find her. My alarm woke me up, and I was relieved because it meant I never had to decide whether or not to pull the trigger.

the end

TELL YOUR DREAMS YOU’RE SLEEPING
a story from the road
by Travis Stewart and Ben Engel
photographs by Brynne Mason

We all came down to DC from Brooklyn for a couple shows. Its only 20 bucks on the Chinatown, which is not the safest way to travel, but it is cost effective. We came down with a bunch of gear cause the night before “My Sister in 1994” was playing Wonerland.






On this particular night we were playing a double keg party at Mike Glick’s house. His basement was being renovated and we decided to play in the construction site (cause we’re edgy Brooklynites)




















Earlier on, I started talking to this older Indian guy named. . . uh . . . we’ll I forget his name, but he was weird. He told me that he was into monkey psychology, and furthermore that his relationship with monkeys has restored him from a deep pessimism in humans.

During the middle of this super-chuddy jam, the older Indian guy started having a bit of fun. We all started rocking out a bit.


Don’t get me wrong - I’m down for the fun - and so was this guy, he was lovin’ the music.

Every lick that Fichter played,

he was feelin it.

totally feelin’ it.

We just kept jamming. But after a while the Indian bloke looked a bit woozy. Jon is a guitar playing funk-master; so before long we know we’re gonna turn this party into a giant jam session, ripping licks and all of that nonsense. Then mid jam, the Indian bloke takes a huge spill on the metal rods lying in the middle of this construction site.



He just sort of sprawled out on the dusty floor, putting his hands behind his head in pre-nap position. We all thought it was hilarious when we realized that he wasn’t hurt . .



We just kept jamming of course . . .



Ben: I wanted to stop the jam cause this old Indian dude. . .




















And then we look over at the guy and he is reaching down at his nether region, touching his johnson. And then he unzips his pants and starts toying with the monkey.




The band tried to keep playing but this bloke is tickling his monkey. . .



Ben: This was hilarious but it needed to stop, so I threw both drumsticks at him. The dude just kept going at it. So I launched the splash cymbal at his chest. He woke up for a moment, slicked his hands through his hair and went right back to sleep.

* * *