IFHNY

"I wanna be a part of it...NY NY"

So I came home from work last night and one of my wonderful new roommates was all flustered. “Why are you flustered?” I asked. She was flustered because she had to travel to New York. Plain and simple, she had to go there in order to fly to Costa Rica for the week. And the biggest worry she had was being in NY. Not a new third world country. NY.

Naturally Walker and I were discussing the events of the day during our late night semi-regular recap, and this subject came up.

Los – “Mel’s distraught about traveling to New York en route to Costa Rica, and I don’t blame her, NY sucks.”

Walker - “You don’t like New York?”

Los – “I fucking hate New York.”

Walker – “Why?”

and here is the bulk of the reason for the post.

Y IFHNY.

1. You smell like a combination of homeless pants, urine, rat/chinesefood, sewer malfunction and Jason Giambi’s hair (yes I know he was traded, but that hair is repulsive)

2. You sound like a mechanical automated souless machine stuck in reverse.

3. You are decaying. Your core is rotted and you have been sitting on your laurels (1920-1960) with no positive action since.

4. With the exception of the New York Giants and Peyton Jr.  You have done nothing in the realm of athletics for the last 10 years.

5. Rats.

6. Hipsters.

7. The amount of money it costs to visit…is retarded.

8. The Yankees.

9. You think you are the greatest city in the country, but fail to notice that in all the years that you have been asserting that, you have lost a grip on reality.

10. You killed Broadway.

11. You made Times Square look like a plastic surgery addict gone horribly wrong.

12. Your neighborhoods are so gentrified, and still blase and boring.

13. You are rude.

14. Pushy.

15. Your subway, while the biggest, baddest, most efficient, makes me feel like I’m either a. going to get arrested because someone is saying something about seeing something, or b. shot. (or c. both)

16. You are a soul sucker. People are raised to go there to follow their dreams, and then they are cornered in, and become just another lemming. You promise big and deliver small. Just like the2001-2009 Yankees/Mets/Jets/Knicks.

17. You also stole one of “her” from me.

18. Wall Street. That’s all, just Wall Street.

19. Bernie Madoff.

20. The Yankees.

That is the gist of what i said.

Walker agreed on a factual level, and god bless his soul, those things haven’t led him to hate NY.

Yet.

Ok Ok Ok, some sneak peaks.

Concept, Designer, Web Developer

Concept, Designer, Web Developer

Concept, Designer, Web Developer

Coming Soon.

New Wallpapers.

Created using CS4. contact me if you want a high rez version.

I found Irony!

taken from Mental Floss -(which I visit daily, and you should as well)

The technical name for the Statue of Liberty is Liberty Enlightening the World, and it was given to the United States in 1886. Grover Cleveland unveiled the statue at a ceremony on October 28, 1886—this was ironic because when Cleveland was Governor of New York prior to becoming president, he vetoed a bill approved by the state legislature to contribute $50,000 to the building of the pedestal on which the statue stands.

Scouting the Museum of Science

A Butterfly fell in love with me/my bag. Watched Chickens hatch. Had an awesome time with Ms. Scout.

This South American Beauty would not get off my bag for about 15 minutes. It was amazing. (also about 3 hours later I realized the unintentional humour in the previous sentence)

My Museum Visit on Flickr.

If we haven’t seen each other in a while.

Paint.

Today, after years, i started painting again. I started 3 new projects, and whoa..look out.

I forgot how much i can release when it’s just the canvas and I.

I have my first “art show” at a coffee shop in August, so I’ll be letting everyone know.

“You can sheer a sheep 100 times, but you can only skin it once” – BD

To a Tee.

I consider myself a passionate human being. To a flaw. I sometimes get mad at myself for how old fashioned I can come across. It’s been something that has definitely caused me a boatload of strife in my life. But, I also am pretty confident that it has earned me the loyalty of many people.  One thing I have never been able to figure out is where I draw the line between loyalty to my friends and just plain stubbornness. I’ve often times found myself good friends with a significant other  of one of my close friends. More often then not I end up serving the role of confidant, or elder statesmen, due to my extra years on the planet. This is great, both sides come to me for advice, and I rely on my extensive resume of failed relationships to help guide them clear of some of the obvious pitfalls. Everything is hunky-dory. Until the breakup happens. Then what? An old fashioned man inside me says, that I cannot continue to hold the same bond with the significant other (SO), for fear of hurting the original friends (OF) feelings. It’s stupid, I know, but I would never want to say to the OF that I can’t hang out because I have plans with the SO. And to further compound things, I tend to become a tad bit cold and distant with the SO, so as to prove where my allegiance lies. It’s stupid, I know. But It’s like I’m stuck in the “old” era of chivalry and stuff.

So I resolve to attempt to rid myself of some of these silly notions, but my only concern is where to do toe the line? Or do I even have to? I enjoy knowing that everyone knows that I’ll go to bat for them when needed. I will add more as suggestions come in.

Excerpt #3

November 1997
It was like clockwork.

The name of the movie escapes me, but I know that Giovanni and I saw it at the Sony Cheri Movie Theatre, which no longer exists. It’s now an upscale bowling alley that I have yet to set foot in. The Cheri was a dirty dirty old theater. It had seen it’s hey day, but the only thing remaining from those glorious golden days was a chandelier and some cool carpeting. Besides those relics it smelled and had awful seating. Nonetheless, back in the 90’s, in Boston, it was the big movie theatre in the area. It even had 70 mm film capabilities.

So here we were, enjoying a great piece of cinematography, I really wish I remembered what movie it was. Anyhow. The fun begins post screening. Giovanni and I are walking through one of the tunnel like hallways that took you from screen to screen and we came upon a box. A rather large box. A box comparable to a twin size bed. It had “Fragile” and “Movie Promotion” labels all over it. Now the details get fuzzy, for reasons latter events will justify, but somehow we decided it would be a great idea to borrow this box, indefinitely. Sony Cheri had a freight entrance that led out to a sketchy alley running along side the mass pike. I think we either called a cab, or had our friend Kizzy meet us with her car. We loaded the box into the back seat and proceeded to drive to my humble college abode.

Once there, like a rabid pack of wolves, we opened the box and strew the contents about my room. 10 light fixtures, huge decorated pieces of cardboard made to look like black and yellow metal. And the big one. As we slid it out, I found myself blushing at the size of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet’s beautiful faces. Yes, we had purloined marketing materials for the biggest movie ever for the biggest movie theatre in Boston. Amazing. What to do? If you build it… and build it we did. And It was glorious. A Light Box Titanic display that filled up a third of my already small double. And had enough light emitting out of it to send a distress signal, from the real titanic itself if needed be.

I need to add a small detail. Gas. All throughout the night I had, or so I thought, some serious gas. Having been in college for all of 3 months, my eating habits had deteriorated faster then a keneysian supporter’s speech length at a GOP rally. The discovery of no curfew and alcohol for the first time in my life led to introduction of full meals at 2 AM. Frequently. From the now defunct 24 hour Buzzy’s Roast Beast, at the end of Charles St. To the nowhere near as cool now as it was then South St Diner. So here I was, with an upset stomach during the movie and even more abdominal pain during the second building of the Titanic.

Gas, I resolved was the culprit.
Being a freshman in college meant a 6-7 am bedtime, so we still had another movie in us. And from our fresh batch of purchased VHS tapes we decided on Pirates of Penzance (see earlier chapter on Musical Theatre) Music and Kevin Kline…it didn’t get much better. We popped in the movie and even though laughing bothered me, we continued.

The morning came.
It was like clockwork.

The pain, to this day has been rarely matched, and I’ve been through some ridiculous visits to the ER. I opened my eyes, soaked in sweat. And I yelled for Gio, who had spent the night and was only a few feet away. He, being the elder had an idea what was going on, and called public safety (college campus cops), after a brief conversation he convinced them that time was of the essence and they, against protocol, escorted me in their cruiser to New England Medical Center. I was whisked into triage and sure enough after a few doctors probed my abdomen, Giovanni’s earlier prognosis that my appendix was about to burst was all but confirmed.

They would have to operate. Now I need to fill you in on a few things about myself. I, as mentioned earlier, hate the site of blood. Add needles, sharp operating tools, and basically anything inside a hospital. So the notion of having all of this happening to me within the next few hours really had my freaking the fuck out. I remember having to have blood taken in order to operate, and I’ll never forget getting wheeled out of the blood room, after having hallucinated that the needle was indeed the size of large shoot of bamboo. I was in tears and hysterical, prompting Giovanni to ask “What happened?!” I explained that I had to give blood. His response? Gold. “Shut the fuck up! You’re appendix is about to explode, possibly killing you, and you’re whining about a little needle?!” Point taken. I settled down for a bit. My parents were notified, I was prepped and taken into the OR. “Please countdown from 10…”

“10, 9, 8 out.” No one ever gets to 5.
I woke up with a majestic view of Cambridge, with my family, Giovanni included, there. Hospital beds are purposely made uncomfortable. I felt carved out, hollowed out, but this pain, while uncomfortable, was 1% as bad as the merriment I had been dealing with before I passed out.
My first operation. Check.

I managed to convince the family that I would be fine, and that I had to much work to do on campus, so they let me go back to my dorm the next day. I didn’t get much work done. I did however master the art of walking very very slowly, so as not to disturb the emptiness that was filling up with new flesh inside me. An example of this: A typical walk across campus through the Public Garden and Boston Common took about 10-15 minutes depending on the urgency. Now it took me 45-60 minutes. I discovered the 4 dollar cab ride around that same time, and estimate that half the cabbies in the city hated me, because they couldn’t turn down a sick boy in hospital pants, even though he was only going 3 blocks. I also discovered that throughout the next 12 years people will begin assume I speak Arabic…frequently.
After a few weeks, I was able to return to normal pace, and life returned to it’s wonderful and new exciting pace. I even discovered the beauty that is Post Op Hooking up. You don’t’ even have to do anything.
So here I was, with a scar on my stomach that looked like Wolverine had tried to hug me from behind. But I was alive and grateful. The funny thing is Giovanni almost had his appendix burst a few eeks later, during winter break. His scar? 4 little dots. He had his surgery in LA. Mine Boston. A slash that till this day is hideous vs 4 dots. Awful.

Excerpt #2

September 1997
It was like clockwork.

Driving down Route 93, a drive I’ve made 300 times in the last 20 years. But this one was the one that I will never forget. This one was the biggest. I got into my brother’s red BMW 528, a child, with potential. I got in and sat next to the towering figures of my life. My brother Mike, who taught me everything I ever learned about life in America. A self made man who had recently embarked on a new quest of his own, leaving behind an accolade filled job creating missiles that defended our country, and from scratch  entering the private sector for a fortune 500 company, in order to provide every whim and wish for his wonderful new family. My oldest brother George, another self made man (notice the pattern) who had created a dream life for his son and wife and was in town to take care of Dad, and see his little bro off to school. And of course, Dad. It’s fitting I write this on Father’s Day 2009, and without going into much detail, I know everyone around me in my life is well aware that this will be his last Father’s Day. Not that it matters one bit, but I’m ok with this. I am here to reflect on the past whilst plunging towards the future. This does sometimes leave me susceptible to the foils of the present, but it’s a lifestyle that though presently has left me alone, in some sense, will never leave my soul nothing short but proud to be one of my Father’s sons.

But I digress.
This ride was one that I will never forget. This was the off to college drive.  I hadn’t slept a full wink in weeks, and the horizon of adulthood that approached was so tantalizing and real that I wouldn’t believe it until I was there. In Boston. Where I belonged. In Boston, where I would become someone. Where I would make myself. I braced myself for the real world, for the chance to take all that I had learned from these men, these gods before me. Apply all their principles and one day return to make them proud.

Storrow Drive, September 7th, 1997.
The winding beauty of Storrow stops at nothing short of taking your breath away as you cradle the birth of the country on your left, with the splendor of the esplanade on your right. With the architecture of Cambridge beckoning across the Charles, through  a myriad of sailboats and joggers. As we drove by, my heart thumped along, and my grin became wider and wider.

6 Arlington St, Boston Ma.
We pulled up. The time was here. I jumped out of the car, and approached the energetic Orientation staff dressed in faux blue army fatigue print shirts with the slogan du jour “New Beginnings” or “Welcome to your future”. I told them my name, and within a few minutes I had keys and a folder of paperwork. I returned to the curb, grabbed my trash bags full of clothes and  college stuff. And approached the car. The three wise men sat, looking at me. Smiling. I felt instantly older. Promoted from apprentice to squire. The sat silently, admiring the product of years of lessons, punishment, tough love and inspiration. I waited with bated breath for the magical departing words of wisdom. My father went first. “So here you are. Remember- everything you do is what you make of it. Just make sure you make the best of it, and never forget, we are always here for you” A hug. For a man who has never said I love you, these were the greatest words ever bestowed upon my 17 year old ears. Then George. “You did it little bro. Go show Boston and the rest of the world what it means to be a Foglia” A hug, and a wad of cash deposited into my palm. I sat there, with 100 dollars, my entire capital for a new life. Then Mike. The man who was on par with a Father Figure for most of my life. The man who filled out all my forms in elementary and middle school. The man who went to all the PTA meetings, took me to Boy Scouts, football, basketball. Camping, Disney World, Canada, Six Flags ect ect… His words? “Three words. Fuck. A. Lot.”

Typical. I beamed with enthusiastic, slightly embarrassed virgin ears.

And with that they left. And with that they took the child who had been with them for 17 years with them. With that they moved on. Each to raise their own families. I was on my own and there was no other alternative. And this was the was both parties wanted it. And for that I am so very proud.

Thank you Fathers. Thank you for making me a man in 45 minutes. Thank you for teaching me that nothing is impossible. Thank you for showing me that even though my life has restarted at the age of 29, I can still do this. Here I am again, on that curb. With but a small wad of cash as my entire capital. With all your words of wisdom ringing truer then ever in my ears. I will never forget you. I will make you proud. Even though you say you already are, I know what I need to do. My first semester of new life is about to begin.

Typical Carlos.