So Predictable

     

      The Psychic of the Village sat on a plush red chair inside her shop on 6^th Avenue right off Houston St. She was wearing a purple tracksuit and chewed gum as she stared at her iPhone. On the small table next to her were a stack of tarot cards and some candles. She was going to tell me my future. Not my whole future. That would require a $75 tarot card reading. Instead I opted for the $10 face reading. She would tell me all about myself just by looking at my face.

       She looked at me and told me I will live a long and happy life. That’s a relief. I will have a successful career and my work will involve people. That’s so vague, how could it not be true? And there was more good news: I have many admirers.  One in particular stood out to her. There was an age gap between the mystery admirer and me. I asked if the admirer was older or younger. The Psychic of the Village told me it could be either one, she wasn’t sure. Nobody’s perfect.

Little House of Horrors

Curious Expeditions, Flickr

If I’ve learned anything from the mystery solving teens on Scooby-Doo, it’s that ghosts are nothing more than profit hungry realtors wearing sheets over their heads. With this in mind, I was skeptical that Manhattan’s most haunted house was actually haunted. For years, staff and visitors at the Merchant’s House Museum on East 4^th St have claimed to have supernatural encounters. They say they can’t explain the phenomena, but they believe that something other than antique furniture lurks through its corridors. 

Thanks For Nothing

Unfortunately, none of us were high on heroin in this picture.

       I grew up with a secure, loving family in a nice suburban area. This is the worst possible way for a writer to grow up. If I were raised by drug addicts in the ghetto I'd already have the makings of an interesting memoir. Unfortunately, there's no built-in struggle to the story of my childhood, and it’ll probably be a while before I’m able to write a memoir and become a famous writer. My parents encouraged me to follow my dreams and made sure I always had everything I ever needed and more. I never worried about having a roof over my head. I never went hungry and anyone who knows what I looked like from ages 8 to 16 can attest to this.

What Dads Are For

        

      I found the perfect Father’s Day present. It’s a book called What Dads Are For, which features about a sentence per page with sappy lines about the importance of a dad. Things like, “to teach me how to be honest in the face of hardship,” but sorely missing the more realistic reasons such as, “to put money in my checking account.”

     If I get this for my dad, he will cry and I will win. This was it, a way out. I could buy this for him and call it a day. But I decided not to take the easy way out, I’m almost 20 years old and I should be capable of buying my dad a more meaningful, personalized Father’s Day gift. This book is the type of thing a mom would give to her husband saying it was from their 2-year-old child. I needed something that would pack the same emotional punch as What Dads Are For while also being something personal.

That Signature Look

     I need to be more like Hitler; he had the right idea. Right now I’m too much of an Osama. In case you’re wondering, I’m referring to appearances. I’m not referring to these men’s ideologies; let’s keep this superficial.

      I was on the subway last week and a Muslim man got on the train, dressed to the nines. He had on the full garb (yes, I know I am being insensitive by not using the proper terms for Muslim clothing, but I do not know the actual terms and “garb” is a lot better than calling someone a “towel head,” so we’ll stick with “garb”). The second this man stepped on the train, I immediately thought “Osama Bin Laden!” It wasn’t as though I thought this man was a terrorist but my thought was more of a “Hey, that’s how Osama Bin Laden used to dress.” Still, making this immediate association was a disappointment to me. “Really Chris?” I thought, that's what some Kansas hillbilly in New York for the first time would think. I wanted to go up to this man and apologize and tell him that I respected his religion and maybe buy him some ice cream. But then again, I’m sure almost everyone else in the subway car thought the same thing I did. If I didn’t offer him guilt-ridden ice cream, then someone else would. 

Cats Who Speak English

A FAREWELL TO THE SPANISH LANGUAGE

      I never have to speak a word of Spanish again, which is probably a good thing since I haven’t retained all that much of it. As of the end of this semester, I have officially achieved exit level status in my studies of the Spanish language. But if I had my way, I would have been done with it 12 years ago.

     One day in the second grade, without warning, a small Hispanic woman who was most likely an illegal immigrant came into our classroom and started speaking to us in broken English. She was there to teach us the Spanish language. I was familiar with Spanish from my younger years, when Big Bird tried to shove it down my throat every few months on Sesame Street. Other than that I had very little interest in learning a new language. I was seven, I had just mastered reading and writing in English and already I was being forced to start from scratch with a weird alphabet where some of the letters had marks or squiggly lines above them. This was not all right.

Hidden Talent

    

     By the time I was in seventh grade, my parents began to worry I was useless. I had no discernable hobbies or talents, and I showed early signs of being unemployable and homeless. My parents always told me how much they loved me, but I doubt either of them planned on spending their retirements taking care of the 30 year old on their couch. So, my mom decided it was time I developed into better person, and she had the perfect way to do it. She forced me to take guitar lessons.

       I use the word “forced” for a reason. I did not do this willingly. To me, it seemed pointless to take up a hobby. I was perfectly content with my musical inabilities and saw no reason to change things. I tried rationalizing with my mom. I was already 12, I told her; if I had musical talents we would’ve figured it out already. I was too old to be learning new tricks. At the time, I honestly thought I had fully developed as a person and that I knew everything there was to know. Shockingly, this turned out to not be true. Do you guys know about that secret arrow in the FedEx logo? That shit’s crazy.

You Only Live Once, And Then You're Dead

     

      I just ate 490 calories worth of pudding. It wasn’t even that good. I should have been writing my final paper for 18^th Century Wit, but instead I decided to buy pudding because, as I told myself, “I deserved a treat.” To be clear, I did not deserve a treat.

      A draft of my paper is due tomorrow and I have no idea what to write about. To make matters worse, I haven’t read the book I’m supposed to be writing about. Nevertheless, I put my books away after 15 minutes and made my way outside to purchase some pudding. I saw the large cup of pudding in the refrigerated container and knew it was a lot. I knew it would be better not to buy it, there were some perfectly nice bananas close by. But, guess what. I bought it and ate it. Then I made the mistake of looking at the label. 490 calories, 16 grams of fat, 580mg of sodium.

     This entire weekend had been incredibly self-indulgent as evident by my laundry hamper, which smelled like an episode of Mad Men. I had made some questionable choices, but no regrets, just love. After all, you only live once. The pudding, however, was a whole other animal. Suddenly, it seemed wrong to have eaten so much pudding. Why had I made such a bad choice? Suddenly, it seemed like I had been making a lot of bad choices lately. I haven’t been reading or writing as much, I don’t get enough sleep, I’m behind on all my work, I go on Twitter when I’m at my job. I shouldn’t even be typing this right now because I need to go to my professor’s office hours to talk about the paper I haven’t started yet. Where’s my initiative? Why don’t I care? Where is my life headed? Should I get some more pudding?

      YOLO, or for the unhip “you only live once,” is a good motto to live by. It means taking risks and throwing convention to the side. You have nothing to lose, so you might as well go for it, right? Well, maybe. But, dear readers, I can say without a doubt that YOLO is best not applied to pudding. If you buy pudding and eat too much of it, you’ll be forced to question where your life is headed and become even more self-indulgent by writing about it. Yes, it’s true, you only live once, but after eating 490 calories of a shitty dessert the romanticism of the motto wears off and you realize after life comes death. And after too much pudding comes a really bad tummy ache.

Such a Tease

      

     “I want to rub my naked breasts all over your face,” she whispered into my ear.

     “Wow, I’m flattered, but no thank you,” I replied.

      This middle-aged stripper was being incredibly forward.

     “I want to touch you and feel you,” she said in broken English through the gaps in her teeth, “I’m not just saying this, I like you.”

      “No thank you,” I said, trying to get her to leave me alone. All I wanted was to have a relaxing night out, but obviously I had done too good a job looking sexy that night; the strippers were all over me.

Today's Scoop: Evil Sandwiches Infiltrate Library, Nobody Cares

        

     The New York Public Library is opening two ‘wichcraft sandwich stands inside the building starting on March 1 and today at work (I’m a reporter now) I decided to cover this story. Since you read my piece from a few months ago, you know I am concerned about the rising level of commercialism in and around books. Sadly, I must be objective in my reporting for WFUV radio, so I wasn’t able to go off on a humorous rant about how I don’t think the NYPL needs a tourist-attracting food stand inside their building. But here, on my blog, I can do just that, so here we go: There are tons of places to eat right across the street! This shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise, of course people don’t want to have to go outside (in the sun!) to get food. How ridiculous! Anywhere you are in America, it should be a given that there will be some sort of food within minimal walking distance that also protects you from the harmful rays of Vitamin D. With all these ideas swimming in my head, I went downtown to find someone with similar ideas who I could record and put on the radio. I wanted the public’s opinion, but I wanted the public’s opinion to match mine.

Story Books

      

        In America, if you want to visit a bookstore your choices are simplified to either a Barnes & Noble or Borders. Wait, what? Borders is no longer a thing? Ok, so your choice is Barnes & Noble. There you will find lots of information about the newest edition of the Nook Tablet along with calendars, stationary, games, puzzles, coffee, muffins, magazines, and DVDs. A trip to a Barnes & Noble ensures a shiny pamphlet with lots of Nook related information, a coffee frapp with whipped cream, and a Seinfeld version of the Clue board game. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll see some books there too.

      But in London, for some crazy reason, the books are the primary focus of bookstores. And your choices are not limited to one chain store. During my summer in London, I made sure I visited every bookstore I saw. If I was with a group traveling somewhere and passed an interesting bookstore, I made a mental note of its location and revisited it another time. There was the used bookstore on Kensington Church Street on the walk to school, a few other shops in Notting Hill, and perhaps most impressive, the block in Covent Gardens that had four bookshops.

Santa Hates Poor People

      I first became skeptical of Santa Claus at the age of seven. Never mind that I had no visual proof of his existence and that the fourth graders on my bus told me he was fake, the real reason I began questioning him was when I learned he neglected poor people.
     Every year my elementary school held a present drive for poor families. Each classroom was assigned to one family and each student would get a family member along with their age, a list of things they needed, and their clothing sizes. Our teacher told us that by getting presents for this family, we would make them very happy and give them a Christmas to remember. In first grade, I didn’t think to ask why we needed to buy things for these people; I was too busy studying the Sears Wish Book with a marked determination to leave no toy un-circled.

The Perfect Present

Chris Williams’ Holiday Guide To Not Pissing People Off

      Well, it’s that time of year again. December. You know what that means. Cold weather and crowds at department stores; pushing, shoving, trampling, screaming, and kicking. And for what? Presents, of course. But not just any presents, cheap, discounted, 50%-off presents. These are the coveted items that cause people to neglect the cries of others lying on the gum filled floor of a Target lobby desperately trying not to get their head stepped on by a sweat suit wearing soccer mom who is sprinting towards the electronics department to get that new e-reader for 30% off. But really, we must admire these persistent shoppers. Their dedication cannot be matched. I know for certain that I would never trample anyone for a sale on scented candles. But, there are people who would take any measure necessary to get their hands on those treasures found on aisle 6.

Poor Eleanor

     In fifth grade, I was given an assignment in which I had to write about one of the US presidents. I can’t say I was particularly excited about this since I preferred book reports. Book reports were good because I would pick one of the Harry Potter books that I had read a year ago and would refresh my memory by watching the movie. This president essay wouldn’t be as easy. I actually had to read about one of the presidents since I couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to watch a movie about one of them. None of them interested me, so I figured I would write about Abraham Lincoln. Our school’s closet-sized library was out of the Lincoln books, so I chose Franklin Roosevelt.

Always Be Prepared and Stuff

     

       The motto of the Boy Scouts of America is “always be prepared.” While at first this might sound like a warning against the perils of unprotected sex, its real purpose is to drill into young boys the value of thinking ahead. I think this is perhaps where I went wrong when my Boy Scout troop visited a local nursing home at Christmastime when I was eight.

Party Pooper

How I Single-Handedly Ruined a Murray Family Tradition

A Confession by Chris Williams (In His Own Words)

     The Fourth of July has never been that exciting to me. Fireworks and flag colored cupcakes pale in comparison to presents under brightly lit trees, Pilgrims and Native Americans “sharing a meal,” and zombie Jesus rising from the dead and asking his friends to stick their fingers in his wounds. Now those are the exciting holidays filled with family, turkey, dancing elves, more food than I would like to admit that I ate, and cards stuffed with $20 bills. Fourth of July has been more of an enigma in my family. Year after year, I would reluctantly go to see the fireworks and feign interest in the history of our nation. However, in September of 2010, I suddenly became more interested in the Fourth of July than all the other holidays combined.

TB Determined

     In my senior year of high school I decided that it was time to become an even better person. Obviously, this would be difficult for me since I was already so wonderful, but I was up for the challenge. I was in a course which required me to do some type of community service. Most of the guys in my class opted to volunteer with school children. Helping black kids learn algebra didn’t exactly have much of a zing to it. Anyone could do that. Me? I wanted to volunteer with hospice patients. I was pretty sure at the time that if there was a heaven, volunteering with dying people pretty much means you have a guaranteed spot up there. It would be difficult, sure, but I would have so many stories to tell and people would praise me for my bravery. It would be like Tuesdays with Morrie or Driving Miss Daisy or something like that. I would connect with a patient and they would connect with me, and we would change each other’s lives (that is, of course, until the person died and I moved on to the next life-changing bundle of death). So, without even considering helping school kids, I signed up with Grace Health Care Services. Give me my badge, and I’m off to meet some dying people. Unfortunately, there was training. A lot of training. Training that required me to rub oil on a 65-year-old woman’s veiny hands. Training that also required medical tests. Medical tests that would reveal, or seemingly so, a startling fact about my then current state of health.