Waiting for a triple CD collection of Robert Pollard creepy drunken uncle themed holiday jingles.

So what happens on the day after my very first post where I briefly mention the toxicity of my former neighborhood but more proof of how my former roommates and I were sleeping above some cancerous ticking time bomb:

“For decades, people in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, have lived with the possible health hazards from oil spills in their industrial waterfront…Now residents have a new anxiety: Toxic gases may be rising into their homes from below, the legacy of dry-cleaning plants, foundries and other manufacturers.”

Yuck. I don’t even want to think about the nasty set of radioactive antlers my first born’s going to have. But what’s even more striking about is how the residence are reluctant to let inspectors in their houses for fear of their property value going down. “Sure, the upstairs neighbor sounds like Wezzy Jefferson and please pay no attention to the Toxic Avenge looking kids playing soccer down the street, but you’re lucky to have found an 8 x 10 studio around here for $1800 a month.”

But I’m not going to get started on New York City real estate again as it’s Christmas time! The Vince Guaraldi “Charlie Brown Christmas Special Soundtrack” vinyl is dusted off, our dollar pine tree branch that’s glued to a block of wood is several feet from the ceramic Nativity scene that’s already been knocked over twice from an overexcited pet poodle who thinks there’s a treat for him every time you walk towards the refrigerator and my favorite, hearing the local TV/Stereo shop blast steel drum renditions of Christmas carols. Puts a smile on my face every time.

In celebration, here’s a list of random good Christmas songs that I can’t post Mp3s of because yours truly doesn’t have the technical know how to do that yet.

Run DMC: Christmas in Hollis.
James Brown: Santa Clause Go Straight to the Ghetto.
The Sonics: Don’t Believe in Christmas
New Bomb Turks: Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)

Now I’m just waiting for a triple CD collection of Robert Pollard creepy drunken uncle themed holiday jingles. Oh, you know he has like ten shoe boxes full of them in his attic. Probably right next to his “Budweiser Sessions.” Anyone?

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The internets is a funny place. I mean, yeah, there’s now an endless sorce of vast information about anything you want to find out about –whether or not any of it’s true I guess is up to who ever happens to be writing it –but it’s also made the world significantly smaller. I remember back in 1997 how amazing it was when an old friend of mine was able to correspond with someone from the Czech Republic by e-mail! Woah. These days, my inbox is littered with several messages a day form what I can tell are Russian dealers who REALLY want to sell me discounted Viagra.

Then there are those moments where your past that you thought you left behind come back to haunt you. You didn’t just burn those bridges, you nuked them in hopes they’ll never rear their ugly head and remind you of your shameful, embarrassing past. I’m not talking about high school reunions! No! Worse than an easily ignored invitation, but a Facebook message from someone who’s now your best friend because they happen to be in the same class as you. All of a sudden, you turn on your computer to find a slew of new friend requests from all those whom you don’t recognize because they either got married, gained 100 pounds or both since I last saw them minutes before I moved far, far away 14 years ago!

Bah! Delete! And I might see one of you next time I’m in town and you pull up next to me at a traffic light, like that one time I saw D.H. in a Wonder Bread delivery truck or Daughter of a Renowned Local Judge who went through more than one stint of rehab. Not that I’m spiteful or anything.

Even more unusual though was a message from a former friend who was more than happy to send me a warm greeting along with a friend request which was weird for a couple of reasons: I hadn’t spoken to him in over 12 years and the last time we did speak was him physically threatening me if our paths ever crossed again. At least it was something to that effect because I kinda sorta tried to kiss his wife. In his car. When he wasn’t around. After I told her in so many words that I was in love with her. While she was nine months pregnant with his baby. Go me!

I’m pretty sure whatever my reasoning was going through my 19 year old mind seemed like a good idea at the time (and to think I couldn’t understand why he was more than a little peeved at me). But 13 years later, there he was with his snowboard, long nasty dreadlocks and a hearty “what’s up in da big apple!” Nice to know that there are people out there who don’t hold lifetime grudges (heck, I’d hate me to), but I’m still going to take a rain check on whether or not I’ll accept his friend request. He did after all threaten my life, but I guess that’s what social networking sites are for: Awkward reunions that you can digitally keep at arms length.