Two Amazing Stories

This vacation has been absolutely horrid, I am worked to the bone and tired beyond all reasoning.

But in exchange, I have two of the best stories of my life. These are completely true down to the last detail. Pull up a seat and have a listen.

STORY 1: The Time I Probably Made a Guy Pee His Pants in Fear

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is my least favorite day of the year. I work at a bar, which is normally occupied by older people but on this night is filled to the brim with people from my age group, which are my least favorite kind of people. They're assholes when they're drunk, they tip horribly, and they wont move out of the goddamn way even when they see me trying to get by with two cases of bear I have just lugged up the stairs.

This year, honestly, was not nearly as bad as the last one. I didn't have to pull the bartenders off of unreasonably rude customers (I did last year), they didn't write "fuck you" in the tip lines of their checks instead of money (they did last year), but it is still a personal hell made up specifically of the things I like the most, and I am forced to be there all goddamn night.

So by 1 am, I am really super done with the night. We have stopped serving a while ago, and we're trying to get people out. I go into the banquet room to check it, and see two guys talking drunkedly inside. I tell them that they have to get going, turn around and walk out.

As I'm walking away, one of them yells "FUCK YOU!"

Completely by instinct I turn around immediately, and shoot him a look. Apparently this look is pure malice and Greek fury, because the kid's eyes widen and he begins to apologize profusely, and tries to bolt, which requires him dragging his chubby and nigh-catatonic friend. On his way out he begins to try to joke with me, to lighten the mood after he apparently saw his life flash before his eyes. Because I am a wise an benevolent warrior, I allow him his jokes.

I have to say, in all honesty, I was grateful. I have never felt like such a goddamn badass.

STORY 2: In Which Some Middle Aged Woman Totally Wanted my Sh*t

This story takes place tonight, another crazy busy night. I am holding a tray with four or five items of food, which a waitress is transferring to her table. The table next to them is seated by three middle-aged women, one of whom is apparently gazing at my...tray.

I have transcribed our conversation as close to verbatim as I can manage.

Her: "Hey, that looks good, what is that?"

Me: "This is a philly cheesesteak."

"Wow, that looks so tasty!"

"Yeah, we make them really good here."

"Hey, doesn't he look just like that picture?" She points to a painting of Apollo we have on the wall.

"Well, they did base that portrait on me," I reply.

"Ooh, do you have a six pack too?"

"As long as you have no intention of checking, absolutely I do." I turn on my heels and walk off, silently proud of myself.

Later on, she comes up to the counter.

"Did you hear what I was saying about the Twilight thing?"

"Uhm...no, I didn't."

"Well, you know, in Twilight all the werewolves walk around without shirts...why can't you Greek boys do that?"

"This ain't that kind of restaurant," I reply. "Catch me during the week."

Every once in a while, a couple of seconds every several weeks, I kind of almost like my job.

In the Business, We Call This a Plug

Do you have ears?

Do your ears like hearing sounds?

Well, you're in luck.

http://dl.dropbox.com/u/437723/Hyperlinc.zip

My good e-friend David Clark (Alias Hyperlinc, which I came up with because his middle name is Lincoln. In fact, he is a direct descendant of Abraham Lincoln. How goddamn cool is that?) has released an album of electronic music he's made over the last year. There is some damn good stuff here. I particularly like tracks 7, 10 and 12.

Oh, did I mention I make a guest appearance? The PAL Project is a song he, I and our friend Sieg did together. I did the last section.

So take a listen, and feel free to express how much you like it (available levels are A Lot, So Much, and The Most).

P.S. he has a blog over at http://davidlinc.blogspot.com/ where he posts pictures of himself sleeping with well-known celebrities.

Do you even want to take the chance that that is not what he really posts? Click the damn link, no one will judge you.

EXCEPT FOR ZEUS.

P.A.Q. Volume 2

I am pleasantly surprised to find that people have been commending me on my hair post. I was actually pretty reluctant to post it, but sometimes I forget just how interesting I am to absolutely everyone. I said I'd talk about my social life next, but that was a bitter lie told by a cruel, deceitful man.

Q: Where did you get [item of clothing]?

A: 90% of the time the answer to this question is H&M. The reason why is a little circuitous: I started getting this question a couple of years ago, and realized that nearly every damn time it was being asked by someone who liked something I'd bought from H&M. So, naturally, I started shopping more at H&M. A lot more. Like, if I say I'm going clothes shopping, that's where I'm going.

It's not that I don't like variety; the other 10% of clothes people tell me are nice is almost exclusively from Express. In fact, I desperately wish my wardrobe was more mixed but I am really not a great shopper. I find it difficult to find clothes for myself without getting overwhelmed either by too much choice or lack of choice and just going home.

Here's the thing. I goddamn love fashion. It is, as far as I'm concerned, an art like any other, and that's how I approach it. I think the coming and going of trends is really interesting, and I also think guys get the total shaft when it comes to clothing because women have a billion options and we have a handful of styles to choose from and most of them look dumb.

That's besides the point, though. I think it's amazing that people can dress in so many different ways. I used to dress like a skater, although I have not once skated on my life. Mostly I just looked good in baggy clothes, and skater companies have cool logos.

My first couple years of college, however, I ended up losing roughly 40 pounds. That's a pretty big change, and makes fashionably baggy clothes look like potato sacks. So I embarked on a Phil Level Up Initiative (not what I had it named back then, but I've forgotten) to redo my look (this is also when my hair grew out and started to curl for the first time), and a big part of this was refining my wardrobe. As I did this, people started to comment on it. Now, in 2009 going on 2010, I get complimented on my clothes pretty often, which means either a whole lot of people are trying to not make me know I look like a bloody fop or I'm actually dressing pretty nice.

I would say my style is very bipolar. I like to either be classy as shit or rocked out and crazy, but I'm way too self-conscious to really go as far as I'd like in either direction. The truth is I feel like I don't go anywhere where I can really do it; I'd feel like an idiot going to UConn looking all fly (though I still do it occasionally) and I'm not edgy enough nor do I go anywhere cool enough to wear lots of rocker stuff.

So mostly I occupy a gray area between the two, and wear increasingly more purple as I realize that everything I own in that color is my favorite garment of that type. I actually have to actively resist it because I'd honestly be fine wearing purple and black for the rest of my life.

It could be said I used this question as an excuse to springboard into a discussion on my feelings of fashion at large. It could be said. But it wont.

You've been warned.

This probably should have been a short story

Run


I wake up with a start.
I don't even have to look
At the clock. I know what time
It is, the pounding of the war drum
In my chest tells me. It always happens
Like this, every damn time:
it's midnight.

I pack what things are small
And quiet; I can't afford to
Wake her up, so I'll leave whatever
I can't live without. I try not to
Look at her while I do it, no reason
To make this any worse. Only one
Glance, before I go out the door.

It's almost 12:30 by the time
I get to my beat-up pickup, a
Starless night offering no guidance.
It's gonna rain by morning, it always
Does. One deep breath, then gun it,
Get away, and hope I got out
In time.

I feel bad for Charlotte.
I always feel bad when I do
This, but Charlotte was probably
The best woman I ever met. Too
Sweet for this world, and way too
Good to be abandoned by a guy
Like me. She deserved better.

But I can't help it. It always
Goes like this, find a nice girl,
Get a place to stay, maybe even
Sometimes fall in love. But then
I wake up at midnight, and I know
I have to get the hell out of there,
No matter what, as soon as I can.

It's not that I don't want to commit,
Rather I can't. If I don't get out fast,
If I don't listen to the feeling and run,
Something terrible will happen.
So this is what I do, a couple of months,
A handful of kisses, and I'm gone
By morning.

It's 6:30 and I've just stopped driving.
My chest feels less like imploding
Now, I can finally breathe. I hope
I've gotten far enough away. I enter
A small, dusty diner and order some
Rubber eggs and soggy toast. It's
raining. It always rains.

When he comes in, I don't even
Look up. I take a sip of coffee,
Wait for him to sit down. He stares
At me a while, waiting for me to talk,
But I don't say a thing to. A pale man
In a black raincoat. He's soaked,
And he's smiling.

“Record time, m'boy,” he says,
A voice of oiled gravel. He smells
Of tobacco and paint thinner, and
He watches me like he'd watch
Roadkill. “You sure got out of there
fast, eh? I wonder, was it fast enough
This time?”

One time, a few years ago,
I didn't leave. I thought I
Could beat it, thought Rachel
Was worth staying for. I resisted
The beating in my chest, let the chills
Pass, told myself this was it.
Rachel's dead now.

I let him see my eyes now.
“Is she okay?” I ask, try to
Sound in control. He smiles
Wider than a person should
Smile, and he licks his lips.
“Don't mess with me, old man.
Tell me if I made it.”

“Charlotte is alive, my friend,”
He says and tilts his head. I shut
My eyes and breathe deep. I got
Out in time. Good.
“Are we done here?” I spit,
And he eats up my hate.
“Yeah, we're done. See

You in a few months, pal.”
He grabs a slice of toast
Off my plate, and gets up
To leave. I try to bite my tongue,
Try hard not to ask him
When I can stop this, stop running,
And never see his cracked old face again.

As if on cue, he turns around,
And beneath his dripping cowl
Shows a mouth of jagged teeth.
“You stop when I say you can stop,
And I'm not even beginning to get
Tired. Be seeing you.” He closes the
Door, and saunters into the storm.

As the dark day starts, I climb
Back into my car, start down the
Road. I don't know where I'll stop.
I'll find a nice girl, move in,
Be happy for a while. And then one
Day, I'll wake up, and run.
Always running.

It's not fair to them. Sure as
Hell wasn't fair to Rachel. If I
Could end the cycle, never
Have to see that bastard again,
I would. But damned if
I can stop it, and damned
If I'm ready to die.

P.A.Q. Volume 1

P.A.Q. Volume 1

What is P.A.Q., you may ask?

OBVIOUSLY it means Philquently Asked Questions. There's a lot of things that I get asked ALL THE TIME and I usually don't get a chance to answer them completely because A.) I don't think to or B.) The full answer isn't that interesting.

So here, for the people who are probably least likely to ask me these things because they already know me, is the P.A.Q.

This project will probably make me look vain as hell, I know the average person doesn't want to hear about my hair or social life, but then again I keep getting asked about them so here we are.

The two most common questions first:

Q: LIKE OMG IS YOUR HAIR REAL?!

A: For the love of god YES. This is an incredibly quick and efficient way to make me become very self-conscious on the spot. Who wants to be asked this? And what 22 year old Greek male is gonna wear a got dang weave? Seriously.

Q: LIKE OMG DOES YOUR HAIR JUST DO THAT?!

A: Okay this question seems the same but is a thousand times less offensive. Here's the skinny:

My hair is naturally this curly. It is also naturally dry as all HELL and if I don't put anything in it it becomes a frizzy, tangled mess. My hair may seem fantastic but it's actually really, really horrible. It is almost impossible to deal with and frankly I think about cutting it all off several times a day. I can't go outside my house without a shower because when I sleep it gets all messed the hell up, and not in that charming bedhead way you straight-hairs get.

Older women tell me all the time they wish they had my hair but goddamnit I'm a guy I don't want to spend my whole life trying to tame this thing. It may seem glamorous and awesome on its good days but it is, for the most part, more trouble than it's worth.

But for those who are interested, this is what I do. A lot of it may seem weird but is based on a routine developed for curly hair. I cannot tell you how much things like abandoning shampoo and not using a towel on my head have made my hair look better:

1.) Shower, only use conditioner, shampoo maybe once every few weeks or if my scalp is feeling dry.
2.) Wring hair out and blot hair with a t-shirt (it sounds lame as hell but towels destroy curly hair)
3.) Re-wet hair a little because parts of it are literally completely dry coming out of the shower
4.) Rake through some sort of cream or gel

"Some sort" can be anything. Most products I think are awesome stop working well after a while, I have yet to find anything I really, reallllly like. Generally my hair responds to thick cream-products (gay joke goes here) best.

5.) Most products make hair hard as they dry, so a couple of hours later I have to scrunch it which makes it look like it's supposed to (this is kind of a universal curly thing, lots of people claim to have ways to stop it but I've yet to find anything that worked while actually keeping my hair from frizzing out uncontrollably)


This is, perhaps, the gayest post anyone has ever made. It works out well that it's almost exclusively jealous women who ask me because I can go into detail with them that I wouldn't with dudes, probably. It seems like way more than it is: I probably only spend a few minutes actually styling my hair.

And the fact is, I get asked about it all the damn time. To be perfectly honest there are days when I think my hair rocks but most of the time I can't begin to understand why people bring it up so often.

Anyway, I wish I had straight hair. People get offended when I say this like I'm throwing away some gift, but as I said earlier it's more trouble than it's worth and I would kill for hair I didn't have to fight with.


There, don't you already know more about me than you ever wanted? The P.A.Q. will undoubtedly be my undoing.

NEXT VOLUME: school and social life