Archive for writing

Hero Application

Posted in interactions, odd, Philadelphia, philly, pop culture, success with tags , , , , , , on March 20, 2008 by staticity

I have come to the conclusion that I need a new hero for this year.  Frequently I have random, amazing, hero’s that I write about, create stories for, and admire.

In years past, I have had the following heros:

*The guy who dresses up like Flavor Flav. on South Street and rides his bicycle with a viking helmet

*A man who danced at the Dawning just like Seth Green from Party Monster

*The woman who used to pretend she was pregnant by wearing a pillow under her shirt

*Someone who dressed up as Ronald Mcdonald and sat on a park bench drinking beer on week nights.

If you would like to be my hero, there are a few requirements:

You must be interesting.

You must have some sort of odd talent worth writing about

You must have a sense of humor

You must not mind being stalked or having random photos snapped during odd hours.

If interested, please send me a photograph and a paragraph on why you should qualify to: Nosika13@aol.com

PLEASE serious inquries ONLY

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The Hide Out

Posted in adventure, distant, flowers, insanity, interactions, life, philly, relationships, shower with tags , , , , , , , on November 15, 2007 by staticity

nine p.m.

Stripped. Into the shower with the fluffy white tissue sponge that reminds me of a flower.  Organic soap.  Baby shampoo- not used. I turned one of the knobs in the wrong direction and couldn’t figure out which knob was the hot and which one made it colder. Low spray until someone flushed a toilet.  Is fifteen minutes too long for a shower? I thought about twenty, I tried about ten.

The window facing the shower was steamed up so no one could see (or at least I hoped it that way.)  As usual, just as I finish hooking my bra, someone barges in. I scream. It’s Stephanie.

oh wait.no.it’s okay,I didn’t know it was you.

Lipstick is pressed onto my face. I should really remove my makeup at night. Acne never felt so painful.

She giggles, says it’s fine and closes the door on her way out.

wait.come back.I miss you and I didn’t even know you.

I can hear her loud laughter and playful screaming at Eric from the next room. “You would PUNCH your girlfriend?” The way she says it makes it seem like ‘gurrlfriend’ instead. I smile hearing them laugh as the wall is bounced against.  I knock anyway. My excuse is to let Stephanie know I’m out of the shower. No answer.

The flowers I bought Nic didn’t last too long. There was a show in the basement and one rose fell out of the vase and seemed limply on it’s way into death. I hung it upside down to dry on Niccolo’s ceiling pipe. Today it was on the ground. The greenery was still hung on the pipe, the rose had fallen plump to the floor.  I picked the petals off and scattered them over his carpet.  I feel a little like Mrs. Bridge today.  Desperately trying in insignificant ways and knowingly putting myself in ignorable situations.

I didn’t knock loud enough when I was locked out of the house this morning. Maybe I should have knocked louder on eric’s door.  onemayneverknow hiding out in the basement garden.

into the fog of 5 a.m.

Posted in adventure, grunge, life, philly, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 15, 2007 by staticity

So I had the great idea (one of many) to walk into the fog of five in the morning and mosey my way down to 5th and Washington. I could buy some doughnuts, Joe could let me in the front door and maybe my boyfriend would be happy about the doughnuts and forget about the time.

I left the row house just as the sun was starting to come up.

“Don’t go out in the fog! You’ll get mugged!” My much concerned roommate could be heard from her bedroom, but alas… I was too cool for safety.

Past Dickinson and several half streets I can make out the bus stops along the way but not much more than a block ahead of me can I see past morning. Several un-charmed large ghetto-looking women sat on their benches and stared as I stuck out like a ghost. I can only imagine what they think as some skinny white girl clunks along in her boots, hopelessly smiling because ‘hey…. everyone should be polite, right?’

Up to the main street I slink into a corner store and drop all of my 89cents onto the counter. Two ”tastykake” doughnuts. Success.

The woman behind the counter looks at me funny. She turns and says something to the two guys behind the deli stand, apparently they agree. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window, I notice my hair is slightly damp from the fog and my once gothic-applied eyeliner has smeared heavy into the mascara. Why haven’t I gone to bed yet? The question still lingers.

I’m waiting patiently (meaning grabbing my coat collar every few seconds and checking the electronic clock bill board with the other few seconds) when a group of boys in dirty jeans and faint mustaches riding in the back of a pick up truck, turn and start shouting. I can’t really hear what they are saying, a lot of whisteling. I nervously dig through my pocketbook in hopes of a distraction. No such luck. Unfortunately the hooker appearance is roaring it’s ugly head.

I finally get on the 47. Safe. Now I only have roughly ten blocks on a city bus until I am in the clear. (so to speak) For five thirty in the morning I have never seen a more packed bus. Sequined pollyester rubbing against fake jewels and afro’s with ‘phillies’ baseball caps smooshing the look. They were all pressed up against everyone standing, grabbing, poking, holding on to whatever possible as the insane Septa Bus driver sped through the empty streets.

Lurch. I’d fall forward. Poor grade school kids with their backpacks are trying not to fall out of the sliding door.

Lurch. I’d fall backward. Sleezy guy in back could be felt poking below.

Lurch. I’d grab on to the rail. And then suck in as grandmothers with their matching suit jackets would scramble off on 15th street.

The whole thing was rather exciting and deathly frightening. I clung onto my pocket book the whole time until it started to clear a little and I could get a seat.

Through out the ride, no one seemed to pay much attention to the crowd except one man who got on when the road started to narrow. We were all sitting down when he got on, said hello to the driver, tipped his brown top hat and said in the nicest,most upstanding way possible,

“Good Morning Folks. Sure is a nice Wednesday morning out there, ain’t it?”

He gripped his walker with a reassuring ease as he sunk down in a seat near me. His suit was entirely made out of nice brown linen and it looked like it had been ironed. He turned to the woman who was now smiling sitting next to him, and asked her how her kids were doing.

I got off at the next stop, but it made me wonder just where they were going further and further down the narrow foggy road to nowhere. Another adventure. Another morning.washingtonave.jpg

By six I reached my destination but my savior in the living room, Joe, did not answer my calls. I called several times. I called from the window. I banged on the door. I rang the doorbell 8 times in a row. After twenty minute incriments I would do the whole routiene over again. At eight thirty I was let in by another roommate who had a salary job at 9 a.m.

Thank God for people who have it together.