So my brother went to college. We are all very proud that he didn't end up sitting in the basement playing his video games for the rest of his life as he had planned. Besides, basement is occupied. Hehem.
We flew to New York to help him in case he got lost, or in case he needed a band-aid. I think we went cause it was New York and any excuse to get us to New York was good enough for me. In reality we did end up getting him band-aids and numerous maps so that would get used to subways and streets. My parents flew back early and I stayed on, just in case he needed anything. It turns out he needed plenty.
So we shopped for his essentials -
We set up his room - (lucky man got his own room! what a luxury!)
We even decorated his room with Mark Rothko posters (hate) that we had to get at the MET, and some Pollocks (more hate) that we traveled specifically to MOMA to get. Mind you, we didn't actually go into MOMA- just the store. Apparently, we are those people.
My brother's only contribution to the whole room decorating business was telling me where to put the posters. By the fourth crooked Pollock (like anyone can tell when its upside down or not) I had some choice words about where he can put it.
But then something weird happened-
- when I wasn't looking, nagging, or tucking his shirt in - he went and found little (tall) weirdos just like him. Tears ran down my face,(not really, after years under California sun, my eyes have learned to act without water) the little boy wonder was all grown up.
Looking at him made me think back into the long forgotten past, when it was I who was going to college, and he was the one standing in the corner crying. (and he was really crying)
That is me, and my first roommate Wendy, and our third unofficial roommate Helen. In the corner is my little brother. Not yet crying.
My roommate and I had one little room on the top floor of Wolberg Building. It has since been announced unlivable and has been turned into art animation studio or something like that.
For some bizarre reason, probably designed for suicide prevention, yet in reality probably providing motive for the said suicides, there were no windows on our floor. And those of lucky enough to have windows in the rooms, this is what they looked like-
We didn't know if it was day or night. If it was rain or sunshine. If we wanted to know how we should dress, one of us had to run down to another floor and look out of their window. One time in May I walked out and it was snowing. That's really not a window problem as much as Chicago weather problem, but still a real window would have helped.
Anyway the window was not the only problem- the low ceilings gave us quite few headaches.
We learned not to get up abruptly and instead wake up very, very slowly. This practice is one I have carried on with since my college years.
My roommate Wendy and I got along fine. We had to, we lived in tiny quarters and there was literally no room for fights. While some people went out drinking, and others smoked pot in their room, we did such wholesome things as debate religion before falling asleep, sometimes to the point of getting very loud and angry(on my side mostly). We would eventually get carried away, sit up in bed and bang our heads on the ceiling. Best way to get to sleep is to get knocked out by your own ceiling.
Wendy and I acquired a third unofficial rommate by the name of Helen.
Helen was weird. Still is, but now in a different way. Back then Helen was shiny and shy and a bit slow when it came to humor.
We would watch The Simpsons on Wendy's TV (while one us held the antena just right). About an hour after the show was done and forgotten, suddenly we would hear Helen cracking up. 'I just got it' she would explain. I am not making this up.
One night, bored and restless( since we didn't have any crack), we decided to paint on the ceiling. I think it was after an unfortunate incident with Dunking Donuts shop. I was thrown out and not permitted to film int here for my video project. I vowed then to get even! And I have- but that's another story.
So we painted on the ceiling
Helen was confused. 'Why are you doing this?' she had asked. 'Cause it's fun Helen, God, you are so slow.'
But Helen wasn't slow- Helen was smart. When our RA came in and saw the FUCK words we had used to decorate the paining on the wall she demanded we take it down. Art school my butt. Where's the freedom of expression? Where's the love of the arts? Sure we had a porn class, but Lord forbid if someone painted on the corporate walls or ceilings. Yes, we had a porn class, no I wasn't in it and it didn't last long. Neither the class, or the actors. At eighteen, who can last?
Despite all my protest, our RA made us remove the paint. I would have rather joined the porn class- less pain.
We weren't even half way through, but my fingers were already bleeding, Wendy was cursing under her breath and Helen, well Helen was having the last laugh.
We flew to New York to help him in case he got lost, or in case he needed a band-aid. I think we went cause it was New York and any excuse to get us to New York was good enough for me. In reality we did end up getting him band-aids and numerous maps so that would get used to subways and streets. My parents flew back early and I stayed on, just in case he needed anything. It turns out he needed plenty.
So we shopped for his essentials -
We set up his room - (lucky man got his own room! what a luxury!)
We even decorated his room with Mark Rothko posters (hate) that we had to get at the MET, and some Pollocks (more hate) that we traveled specifically to MOMA to get. Mind you, we didn't actually go into MOMA- just the store. Apparently, we are those people.
My brother's only contribution to the whole room decorating business was telling me where to put the posters. By the fourth crooked Pollock (like anyone can tell when its upside down or not) I had some choice words about where he can put it.
But then something weird happened-
- when I wasn't looking, nagging, or tucking his shirt in - he went and found little (tall) weirdos just like him. Tears ran down my face,(not really, after years under California sun, my eyes have learned to act without water) the little boy wonder was all grown up.
Looking at him made me think back into the long forgotten past, when it was I who was going to college, and he was the one standing in the corner crying. (and he was really crying)
That is me, and my first roommate Wendy, and our third unofficial roommate Helen. In the corner is my little brother. Not yet crying.
My roommate and I had one little room on the top floor of Wolberg Building. It has since been announced unlivable and has been turned into art animation studio or something like that.
For some bizarre reason, probably designed for suicide prevention, yet in reality probably providing motive for the said suicides, there were no windows on our floor. And those of lucky enough to have windows in the rooms, this is what they looked like-
We didn't know if it was day or night. If it was rain or sunshine. If we wanted to know how we should dress, one of us had to run down to another floor and look out of their window. One time in May I walked out and it was snowing. That's really not a window problem as much as Chicago weather problem, but still a real window would have helped.
Anyway the window was not the only problem- the low ceilings gave us quite few headaches.
We learned not to get up abruptly and instead wake up very, very slowly. This practice is one I have carried on with since my college years.
My roommate Wendy and I got along fine. We had to, we lived in tiny quarters and there was literally no room for fights. While some people went out drinking, and others smoked pot in their room, we did such wholesome things as debate religion before falling asleep, sometimes to the point of getting very loud and angry(on my side mostly). We would eventually get carried away, sit up in bed and bang our heads on the ceiling. Best way to get to sleep is to get knocked out by your own ceiling.
Wendy and I acquired a third unofficial rommate by the name of Helen.
Helen was weird. Still is, but now in a different way. Back then Helen was shiny and shy and a bit slow when it came to humor.
We would watch The Simpsons on Wendy's TV (while one us held the antena just right). About an hour after the show was done and forgotten, suddenly we would hear Helen cracking up. 'I just got it' she would explain. I am not making this up.
One night, bored and restless( since we didn't have any crack), we decided to paint on the ceiling. I think it was after an unfortunate incident with Dunking Donuts shop. I was thrown out and not permitted to film int here for my video project. I vowed then to get even! And I have- but that's another story.
So we painted on the ceiling
Helen was confused. 'Why are you doing this?' she had asked. 'Cause it's fun Helen, God, you are so slow.'
But Helen wasn't slow- Helen was smart. When our RA came in and saw the FUCK words we had used to decorate the paining on the wall she demanded we take it down. Art school my butt. Where's the freedom of expression? Where's the love of the arts? Sure we had a porn class, but Lord forbid if someone painted on the corporate walls or ceilings. Yes, we had a porn class, no I wasn't in it and it didn't last long. Neither the class, or the actors. At eighteen, who can last?
Despite all my protest, our RA made us remove the paint. I would have rather joined the porn class- less pain.
We weren't even half way through, but my fingers were already bleeding, Wendy was cursing under her breath and Helen, well Helen was having the last laugh.
No comments:
Post a Comment