ø - Razorcake

MADDY
MADDY
SHIFTLESS WHEN IDLE
At this moment, one thought came shining through my alcoholic stupor.
I DO NOT WANT TO MAKE OUT WITH A UKRAINIAN MAN IN HIS MID-FFORTIES!
Greetings from the international
headquarters of the Tight Pants
Enterprises! From deep in this lair,
tuned to the sweet sounds of an
album that, curiously, is called Emo
but still gets a high TP-rating (ah,
the strange wonders of Mr.
Weasel!), and wearing a
Vindictives shirt and the most
dreaded pant-item of all time
(sweatpants), a CRISIS is brewing!
No, not the latest Earth Crisis
album! Not Desert Crisis or Life
Crisis or the song “Identity Crisis”
by Thrice! (Ah, the wonders of a
google search for “Crisis Punk!”)
No! This crisis affects the heart of
the Tight Pants operations! Yes, this
crisis could very well SHUT THE
WHOLE SYSTEM DOWN! (And,
no, black bloc punk, I’m not talkin’
‘bout Seattle!)
Right next to TPH (Tight Pants
Headquarters) in Brooklyn, in the
same building, on the same floor,
with only about two feet of drywall
in between, lurks – Ukrainians!
Allow me to explain.
I live on the third floor of a
three-floor building. Two apartments
on each floor. On the first
floor, there’s an Israeli couple and
some guys with a Get Up Kids
bumper sticker on their car. On the
second floor, there’s a bunch of
Latino families. And, then, on the
third floor, there’s us. And several
Ukrainian men. Since I know about
twenty sentences in Russian,
including “What filth!”, “You are a
mistake!”, “Stalin speaks the
truth!”, “What a beautiful businessman!”
and “What lies!” I figured,
you know, we’d hit it right off, and
be toasting to Mir in no time!
At first, things went pretty well.
The Ukrainians (one fat guy and
one skinny guy, both in their mid
forties), would help me carry my
groceries upstairs, open the front
door for me, and exchange the standard
Nod-and-Smile (NAS) to indicate
their goodwill. Alright!
Perhaps in no time at all we’d be
singing traditional Russian peasant
songs together! Or, if I was really
lucky, the Internationale! (Which,
being the dork that I
16
am, I have printed out, in phonetic
pronunciation, in Russian. If that
wasn’t proof enough of my idiocy, I
can also sing it in both French and
English, and I have a CD with a
Hungarian version. And I’m not
even a Communist! Fuck punk,
dude! Let’s hear it for uniting the
human race!)
It all seemed to be leading in
that direction, especially when, one
day, I came home only to realize
that I had locked myself out. I got
into the building, but couldn’t get
into my apartment. To make things
worse, it was the middle of a huge
blizzard. I contemplated my
options. 1.) Attempt to break down
the door by ramming into it. (This
option was rejected after a cursory
glance of my five feet 105 pound
body and the seven foot tall metal
door.), 2.) Walk thirty minutes to
the nearest coffee shop and wait it
out. (This option was rejected after
I realized that it was eight hours
until my roommate got home.), 3.)
Suicide. (I dunno, it’s ALWAYS an
option!), 4.) Pretend to be at a
Minor Threat show and spend the
afternoon thrashing around in the
hallway. (There ARE worse, if not
dumber ideas…), and 5.) Knock on
my Ukrainian neighbor’s door and
ask them to climb out on the fire
escape – which was already covered
in ten inches of snow – and
climb through my kitchen window,
opening my door from the inside of
my apartment. Yes! That was it!
Luckily, they were home, and performed
the required task in no time
at all, braving snowy fire escapes
and possible death! And they even
gave me some Russian chocolate
when they were done! Punk!
So everything was going great,
and the Ukrainians and I were on
our way to a beautiful friendship.
And then, one night, when I was
getting off the bus, I ran into them
on the way home. Using the five
English words they knew “You, us,
bar, drink, food?” they invited me
to a bar at the corner of our street to
drink with them. This, I knew, was
not an opportunity to be missed! So
I joined the Ukrainians, who were