Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Me Want Food

Ladies and gentleman, we are living in the future. Stem cells can essentially be programmed to become any type of cell in the body. HIV is no longer a death sentence. There's even a chick in Georgia with bionic hands.


Medical and technological breakthroughs are happening every day, but none of this compares to the fact that you can now order food on your phone without having to actually talk to anybody.

My phone has essentially become a food ordering device, and I'm not even ashamed a little.


Having food delivered is an exciting experience. It makes me feel elite, like Tywin Lannister or Suri Cruise. It's summer, so my giant standing air conditioner is always on full blast, and because it's noisy I don't always hear the delivery guy knock on the door. To combat this, I'll position myself at the front window so I can see anyone approaching. I'm on the first floor, so I have a perfect view of the sidewalk outside.


Yesterday, while waiting for my spicy tuna rolls to be delivered, I noticed a portly woman approach my building and take a seat on my stoop. This didn't bother me, as I'm used to my front steps being utilized by the public. I live a block away from a 24-hour nightclub called COMPLEX, and on the weekends, there's a steady stream of drunks collapsing on my front steps to call cabs or take quick naps.


I don't mind the drunk folks pausing on my steps at night to smoke cigarettes or give each other Rusty Trombones (or whatever they do, it's dark, gimme a break). They typically don't linger, but it was a different story on this particular afternoon. I stared out the window at the woman, sitting on my steps like an old tater tot. "You better bounce before my food arrives," I muttered to myself. "I ain't sharin' my spicy toons."

She remained there, and about fifteen minutes later the delivery guy arrived on a scooter. I was about to hop up and run around to the front door when I noticed the man say something to the woman on my stoop. I couldn't hear him, but he pointed to the food. I watched as the woman waved her hand at him, seemingly annoyed. The man looked around confused, said something else to the woman, who threw up both her hands and shouted something back. The delivery man furrowed his brow and left. Since I couldn't hear the conversation from behind the glass, I had to estimate.


What it boils down to is that this woman sent my food away because she did not personally order it. I had never felt so utterly betrayed by another human being in my entire life. Flummoxed, I leapt to my feet, wheeled around to the hallway and out my front door to chase down my food. On my way I made sure the stoop goblin knew I was displeased.


The delivery guy had already hopped on his scooter and was buzzing away, so I had to actually run in order to catch up to him. Luckily he hit a red light at the end of the block and I was able to intercept my food. He searched his pocket for a pen, I signed the receipt, took my bag of food, and trudged back toward my apartment.

Approaching my building again, I could see a small crowd had gathered on my front steps. The same woman from before was still there, but she'd been joined by another woman who looked like she might be related, along with a chubby young boy. Either this was the woman's family, or she had somehow started multiplying like a gremlin after midnight. I preferred to imagine the latter, because it allowed me to hate these newcomers and assume they were treacherous villains.

Fun fact: this is also how Kardashians are created.

I assumed this woman and her relatives had chosen my corner to meet up before heading off to someplace else—probably Century 21 or a cave full of orange Fanta and a hundred VHS copies of Encino Man. The woman from earlier had slid down the stoop to make room for the kid, who was seated next to her playing a Nintendo 3DS.  I stood for a few moments, waiting for the lady to notice me hovering over her and make some room so I could march up the steps and get back into my apartment, where I planned to angrily eat my lunch while glaring out the window at this family of stoop stealers, but the woman didn't even glance my way. She just stared off into the distance while I waited impatiently. She seemed to be almost pointedly ignoring me. Finally I became fed up and craned my neck down at her.


"You're blocking the way to my building," I replied coldly. "Please move." The women let out the most laborious sigh, and scooted a mere six inches. I glared at her and wedged past.

I ate my food at my desk in rapid agitation, the rich flavor of tuna barely registering on my tongue. The bitter taste of loathing was too powerful for any savory dish to penetrate.


The Stoop Witch of Astoria and her band of gremlins soon disappeared, and haven't returned since. I feel like I should take some precautions against future problems, though. Does Amazon sell bear traps?

Author's note: Well holy shit, Amazon does sell bear traps.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

The Blunder Years is in stores!


My book The Blunder Years is released today! To celebrate I got a new kitten. Her name is Pepper and she sneezed into my coffee while I was typing this.

Here are some handy dandy links to purchase my book, which has been called "hilarious" by friends who are hoping to get something out of me.