I had an idea for my dorm’s t-shirt. On the bulletin board in the hallway, just inside the main entrance to the building, our dormitory council would post the minutes from its weekly meetings, and occasionally post announcements. On this bulletin board had been posted a flier asking for t-shirt ideas, and I had a damn good one and submitted it. All my friends agreed with me how damn good it was, and since many of them lived in my buildiing I figured I had a decent shot at making my idea a reality.
The name of our dormitory was Custis Hall, after Mary Custis, our first president’s something or other.
My idea was for a simple black shirt, across the front printed the slogan “CUSTIS IS THE BUSTIS.”
I loved this idea, and lobbied it hard with all the appropriate people, as well as some of the inappropriate ones.
“Kate!” I yelled to my high school friend and dormitory council president, “Kate! I need to ask you about the t-shirt!”
“We haven’t decided yet, Andrew.”
“Well do you have any alternative ideas?”
“Yes, Krista suggested a top ten list.”
“Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Kate, that’s ridiculous. Really? A top ten list? We’re gonna be another shirt with a top ten list? You can’t be serious. I refuse to believe that you are serious. If you are serious I will take my underwear off over my head. Sincerely. Holy Christ, that’s dumb.”
“Well, Andrew, I appreciate that you fell strongly about this, but some of us on the council feel that your idea might be too, well, simple.”
“Simple?!”
“And nonsensical.”
“Excuse me please, I’m going to my room to drink a bottle of vodka.”
That week I went from door to door in our little building trying to muster support for my shirt.
“It’s a plain black t-shirt, and across the front it says: ‘CUSTIS IS THE BUSTIS!’”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly make sense, that's why it's good. It sounds like it means something positive, but it’s just nonsense really. It also rhymes.”
"Alright, thanks- we’re gonna get back to watching Titanic.”
I wasn’t there when the council met, I found out from the minutes posted on the bulletin board-- they decided on a top ten list. Not only that, they bastardized my idea and named their shitty top ten list, “The Top 10 Reasons Custis is the Bustis.” They seemed to think this was a compromise, but I was outraged. “CUSTIS IS THE BUSTIS,” was the complete antithesis of a top ten list-- it was a proud declaration of absurdity and silliness, a bold statement that our dorm thought for itself, a joke that felt inside but wasn’t, good and pure and hilarious on a dozen different levels, and they had taken my precious gift, wiped their unimaginative, mediocre asses on it, and gone back to watching Titanic.
With a sharpie I wrote across the minutes, “CUSTIS IS UNJUSTIS,” and stormed off to the campus center for an overpriced chicken sandwich.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Steven Soderbergh and the Second Degree Burn
“Jon, I’ve burned my hand.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jon.
“What should I do?”
“Have you run it under cold water?”
“Yes.”
“Is it blistering?”
“I don’t know, maybe?”
“See if it blisters, and if it does a lot, then you should probably go to the emergency room. If no blistering, or not much, then don’t.”
“Thanks, Jon.”
I put the phone down, and picked up my bag of frozen peas. When I first burned myself I’d used frozen blackberries, but they had thawed, and I switched to peas. With my good hand I picked up my fork and resumed eating the dinner I had burned myself making.
I un-paused the DVD and began again to watch Andie MacDowell flail about James Spader’s tiny, sparsely-furnished apartment. She thought James Spader was a pervert, and she was unhappy about it.
As I watched I gnawed at chicken thighs, alternating with forkfuls of mashed potatoes. My hand began to get cold, so I put down the peas, leading my hand to burn and sting, so I picked the peas back up, only to put them down again a minute later. As Andie MacDowell left James Spader in an awkward huff, I went to my wallet for my insurance card. I found the number I wanted on the back, dialed it, and soon was speaking to a registered nurse with a Mid-Western accent.
“What have you done to treat your burn?” she asked me, and I told her in detail.
“Take the frozen veggies off,” she told me, “I know they feel good but they cut off the circulation to your hand and might cause more harm than good.”
The nice lady told me I could soak my hand in cool water for up to fifteen minutes at a time, “for comfort.” I should then keep it out of the water for a half-hour, to let the blood circulate. I thanked her and returned to Andie MacDowell, whose bushy-eye-browed husband was sleeping with her sister.
I was able to follow the movie while my hand soaked, but when my fifteen minutes expired, and I dumped the water, I couldn’t think of anything but my hand, which felt like I was still holding the 400 degree panhandle from two hours previous. I was vaguely aware that Ms. MacDowell’s character was divorcing her husband.
I considered chopping my hand off.
There was some fighting; not sure between whom.
With my good hand, I began smacking myself in the head.
James Spader was onscreen again, looking uncomfortable, presumably because he could see what kind of pain I was in. I looked at the clock to see that it had been less than ten minutes since I took my hand out of the water.
“I could call someone,” I thought. “Call them and talk about what, how much your hand hurts?”
Back on the TV there was about to be sex, but I didn’t care at all. It had only been fifteen minutes, but I decided I’d had my fill of blood circulating, and refilled the bowl with cold water in time to see the closing moments of the movie I’d barely followed. Things appeared to have worked out. I turned on David Letterman and waited for the pain to go away so I could sleep.
The next day I had a hell of a blister. I showed it off to many gratifying “Oohs,” “Aahs,” and “Oh sicks.” It isn’t much by way of compensation, but it's better than nothing at all.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jon.
“What should I do?”
“Have you run it under cold water?”
“Yes.”
“Is it blistering?”
“I don’t know, maybe?”
“See if it blisters, and if it does a lot, then you should probably go to the emergency room. If no blistering, or not much, then don’t.”
“Thanks, Jon.”
I put the phone down, and picked up my bag of frozen peas. When I first burned myself I’d used frozen blackberries, but they had thawed, and I switched to peas. With my good hand I picked up my fork and resumed eating the dinner I had burned myself making.
I un-paused the DVD and began again to watch Andie MacDowell flail about James Spader’s tiny, sparsely-furnished apartment. She thought James Spader was a pervert, and she was unhappy about it.
As I watched I gnawed at chicken thighs, alternating with forkfuls of mashed potatoes. My hand began to get cold, so I put down the peas, leading my hand to burn and sting, so I picked the peas back up, only to put them down again a minute later. As Andie MacDowell left James Spader in an awkward huff, I went to my wallet for my insurance card. I found the number I wanted on the back, dialed it, and soon was speaking to a registered nurse with a Mid-Western accent.
“What have you done to treat your burn?” she asked me, and I told her in detail.
“Take the frozen veggies off,” she told me, “I know they feel good but they cut off the circulation to your hand and might cause more harm than good.”
The nice lady told me I could soak my hand in cool water for up to fifteen minutes at a time, “for comfort.” I should then keep it out of the water for a half-hour, to let the blood circulate. I thanked her and returned to Andie MacDowell, whose bushy-eye-browed husband was sleeping with her sister.
I was able to follow the movie while my hand soaked, but when my fifteen minutes expired, and I dumped the water, I couldn’t think of anything but my hand, which felt like I was still holding the 400 degree panhandle from two hours previous. I was vaguely aware that Ms. MacDowell’s character was divorcing her husband.
I considered chopping my hand off.
There was some fighting; not sure between whom.
With my good hand, I began smacking myself in the head.
James Spader was onscreen again, looking uncomfortable, presumably because he could see what kind of pain I was in. I looked at the clock to see that it had been less than ten minutes since I took my hand out of the water.
“I could call someone,” I thought. “Call them and talk about what, how much your hand hurts?”
Back on the TV there was about to be sex, but I didn’t care at all. It had only been fifteen minutes, but I decided I’d had my fill of blood circulating, and refilled the bowl with cold water in time to see the closing moments of the movie I’d barely followed. Things appeared to have worked out. I turned on David Letterman and waited for the pain to go away so I could sleep.
The next day I had a hell of a blister. I showed it off to many gratifying “Oohs,” “Aahs,” and “Oh sicks.” It isn’t much by way of compensation, but it's better than nothing at all.
Friday, January 25, 2008
2:30 pm
The other day I was standing outside an elementary school talking to my co-worker Yolanda while we waited for the kids to be released from school. Our conversations usually run something like this:
“Hey, Yolanda. (sigh).”
“What’s wrong, Andrew?”
“Oh nothing. (sigh).”
“Andrew."
“Okay, you’re right I am unhappy, and it’s because of this long, involved story that isn’t really all that awful, but I am overly sensitive and frequently take things more personally than I should.”
“You’re silly Andrew. Here is some helpful common sense advice that is applicable to your story.”
“Thanks, Yolanda. Oh look, here comes a kid.”
The kids trickle out one and two at a time, and the first one this particular day was a smart, red-headed second grader who’s good at getting away with doing things he shouldn’t. His friends will all get sent to timeout, or a phone call to mom, or whatever, and this boy will slip through everytime, his wide blue eyes full of innocence and this kind of "Aw shucks, I wish I could have stopped Trevor from being SO bad, but I'm only seven," look that you believe until about five minutes after it's too late to go back and punish him. Yolanda and I helped the little escape artist onto the van and continued our conversation in a more child-friendly vein, making attempts to include him.
“How was school today?” Yolanda asked him.
“Oh fine,” he said, distracted by his book.
“What’s that you’re reading?” I asked.
The boy looked up from his book, looked me dead in the eye, and said quite seriously:
“In the future, I’m your father.”
Yolanda turned to hide her laughter, but I stared back at him agape.
“Do you mean reincarnation?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“When you die and come back as someone else. Or something else sometimes.”
“I dunno. What’s for snack?”
“French toast sticks.”
“Yay, I like those.”
“You’re a freak,” I told him, and headed back to my own van to help other, less crazy children into their booster seats.
“Hey, Yolanda. (sigh).”
“What’s wrong, Andrew?”
“Oh nothing. (sigh).”
“Andrew."
“Okay, you’re right I am unhappy, and it’s because of this long, involved story that isn’t really all that awful, but I am overly sensitive and frequently take things more personally than I should.”
“You’re silly Andrew. Here is some helpful common sense advice that is applicable to your story.”
“Thanks, Yolanda. Oh look, here comes a kid.”
The kids trickle out one and two at a time, and the first one this particular day was a smart, red-headed second grader who’s good at getting away with doing things he shouldn’t. His friends will all get sent to timeout, or a phone call to mom, or whatever, and this boy will slip through everytime, his wide blue eyes full of innocence and this kind of "Aw shucks, I wish I could have stopped Trevor from being SO bad, but I'm only seven," look that you believe until about five minutes after it's too late to go back and punish him. Yolanda and I helped the little escape artist onto the van and continued our conversation in a more child-friendly vein, making attempts to include him.
“How was school today?” Yolanda asked him.
“Oh fine,” he said, distracted by his book.
“What’s that you’re reading?” I asked.
The boy looked up from his book, looked me dead in the eye, and said quite seriously:
“In the future, I’m your father.”
Yolanda turned to hide her laughter, but I stared back at him agape.
“Do you mean reincarnation?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“When you die and come back as someone else. Or something else sometimes.”
“I dunno. What’s for snack?”
“French toast sticks.”
“Yay, I like those.”
“You’re a freak,” I told him, and headed back to my own van to help other, less crazy children into their booster seats.
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