Good day, Sunshine!

Some days you just want to sock a person right in the kisser (One of these days, Alice...)

But let me back up.

Every morning that I am late to work (most mornings) I encounter a stampede of smartly dressed New Yorkers entering the subway station turnstiles that I need to exit. These people, with their perfectly styled or still wet hair, carry their coffees, their purses, their newspapers and their brief cases, and none of them, not a single one, smiles. (Truthfully, I don't smile either. What New Yorker smiles on the way to work in the morning??)

Over the years confronting the daily stampede has taught me a couple of tricks about how to get out of the subway station when you're one of the salmon swimming upstream (that is two, count em, TWO animal references in one sentence folks). One trick when you're trudging up the stairs is to square your shoulders, stay by the rail on the right, and most importantly, LOOK UP. When you look ahead and stare at the people coming down the stairs 98% of the time they try to step aside and make room. I don't know why this works but it does.

The other trick is that if you see an open turnstile, RUN to it. I have stood staring for what felt like an eternity (but was probably more like 3-4 seconds) walking up and down the turnstiles, waiting for someone to let me out. But they don't. No person in seven and a half years has ever been just about to swipe their card when they saw me standing there, waiting with my sad face trying to get out, and stepped aside to let me out. Not one person.

Every now and then I exit a turnstile that I think is open when it really isn't. It is only half open. Meaning someone is preparing to swipe their card and enter but they're a little slow and I exit before they swipe. To put it not so nicely: I'm cutting in line. But I'm cutting in a line that no one would let me get into (out of?) otherwise. So it's justified. Isn't it?

Because I consider myself a nice person most of the time, I don't enjoy exiting this way. I do feel like I'm cutting. And if I were the person trying to get in, I'd be mad at the other me that was cutting to get out. Some days I even whimper a, 'sorry' when I cut. But then I get angry and think that I shouldn't have to apologize...someone should be nice and let me out!

Today was a typically crowded day. I walked past one... two... three turnstiles with a constant flow of people entering, each with a long line behind. No chance of getting out. Then I saw a turnstile that had an opening and I thought, "I can get out of that one...she's still pulling out her MetroCard!" and I quickly walked through. And all of a sudden I thought I heard something and then I tripped. I caught myself so that I didn't fall down all the way. Which would have been embarrassing because there were a LOT of people around me. A little confused, I turned to look around, and I saw that the woman who I passed still had her foot cocked out, deliberately, to trip me. She swiped her card, entered through the turnstile, turned back to stare at me, and gave me a snotty sneer. I ran at her but started laughing, because I was shocked, and then yelled, "Bitch!" (I realize this was neither nice nor Christianly of me). It was an odd sensation. I was confused, laughing, and wanting to grab her and hurt her and yet knowing this was wrong and that I couldn't...all at the same time.

Reeling from what had just happened, I started walking towards the crowded exit. I glanced to the side and through the gate I saw the awful dragon lady snarky bitch that tripped me. She was walking down another set of stairs to the express train. I noticed she was probably around my age and that she was attractive and that she didn't look like an awful dragon lady snarky bitch. Then I noticed that she was staring back and me and saying something.

Still shocked and angry and laughing, I raised my arms up in the air and shrugged my shoulders and gave my best, "What the...?" expression because I was speechless and that was the best I could come up with in the moment. I leaned in closer and realized that she was saying, repeatedly, "You're ugly! You're ugly!" Then she said, "Nice nose! Your nose is ugly!" And then she disappeared down the stairs.

She WAS an awful dragon lady snarky bitch.

As I turned, squared my shoulders, and started walking up the last set of stairs, I noticed that I was still shocked, still laughing, still angry, but now also a little insecure about my nose.

Then I remembered something that made me feel better. Several years ago an actor friend of mine who may or may not be named David Douglass had surgery on his nose to fix a deviated septum. However, in the process of this surgery the appearance of his nose changed slightly (on purpose). When I spoke with him about his surgery I told him I'd often thought about whether the same surgery would be good for me. I meant the surgery to fix a deviated septum, not the other thing he had done. However, I think he misunderstood and said, "No! You have a perfect nose! You should never change it!"

True story. All of it. So take that you sad, mean, snarky lady who needs a good kick in the kiester! David Douglass thinks my nose is perfect. And my wife doesn't think I'm ugly. So there.

And also, peace be with you.

Tis the season

I thought it may be time for a new post because it has been well over two years since this darn blog has been updated.

Also, I'm determined to outblog S. Haragan, or my name isn't Stanley Czuchlowski.

An update of the past couple of years:
-Bought an apt
-Got married (!)
-Job - same
-Haircut - same
-Acting - did a play and some goofy commercials, but the highlight was a magic video with the Amazing Huck
-Joined Facebook but am resisting the Tweet
-I got a new driver's license and I have a beard in the photo (the beard was short lived.) There are hologram-like graphics on the license that line up perfectly with my face so that when you turn it the graphic goes across my mouth and makes me look like the Joker.
-I bought some new socks and underwear. The socks got holes right away (they were from an outlet store) but I sewed them up.
-I learned how to snorkle on Johnny Depp's Island in the Bahamas. He didn't know I was there and I didn't know it was his island.
-I'm learning how to ski. I'm not very good at it.
-I repainted our kitchen.
-I was diagnosed with hereditary dermatitis (eczyma). That is fancy talk for, "my legs is itchy."
-I went bowling for the first time in Port Authority. It's dark in there which makes it hard to line up the ball with the arrows. (this fact, while true, is also a set up for a Russell Sharman joke)
-It turns out I like to cuddle, and since being married, I am almost never on time for work in the morning.
-Marriage has made me happier in life. Even though it came along with worse allergies and the aforementioned skin issues. I'm lucky.

That's all for now. To all of my legions of fans, I have two words, "Stay cool."

Warmest regards,
Stanley

Oh, the pressure

Part of the reason I haven’t written for this blog in a long time is that I feel pressure to write something eloquent and/or funny. And most of the time I don’t feel eloquent or funny. Most of the time I feel very serious and like I have nothing important to say. Or I think everything I have to say is important. And that cancels out anything from actually BEING important. It’s a mind scramble, really.

So, in rebellion, I’m posting a very serious entry today. This is serious. Because there is no hiding the fact that I’m a very serious person. Seriously. It isn’t all fun and games in my life. My life is filled with serious stuff. Serious and important stuff. Serious and important and top secret stuff.

There are little children starving around the world today. (See how serious I can be?)

Also, I have to return the stools I bought for the counter in my apartment since I ordered the wrong height. And they’re heavy and I don’t have a car and have to get them all the way to Target or pay a LOT of money to have UPS pick them up. See? Serious.

I have almost no clean underwear and I have NO IDEA when I’m going to have the time to do laundry. The dilemma!

So chew on those things today folks. Or Shannon. Chew on those things Shannon. And Megan. Because I think you are the only two people who read this blog.

metro what?

Tonight my girlfriend and I are going to a fancy schmantzy New York City red carpet movie premiere. There will be a couple of celebrities and far too many photographers present. I paid a lot of money for our two tickets. And today I feel ashamed for a couple of reasons.

The first reason is the obvious guilt over being so shallow that I paid a large sum of money to eat popcorn with celebrities. Fortunately, the tickets were bought at a silent auction that benefits an organization that I like. However, I did not buy the tickets because I wanted to support the organization. I bought the tickets because I am shallow.

The second reason I feel shame is much more difficult to confess. I'll just say it. I have been so obsessed over what to wear over this damned event that I do not deserve to keep my penis.

My obsession has come in stages. At first it was 'cute giggly little girl' stage. I was excited about the prospect of buying really cool clothes. You know what I mean; the clothes you see celebrities wearing in magazines that you are too self conscious (and too practical) to buy for yourself. In this case: hipster expensive jeans, funky shoes, casual blazer and colored ironic t-shirt to wear underneath.

However, once I started shopping, the cute stage gave way to something much more scary. I immediately slipped into 'obsessive and paranoid teenage girl' phase. I could not find anything I wanted. I went to 8 stores in a multi-hour day of shopping with my saintly girlfriend who never once made fun of me. And I could not find a blazer. Where are all the blazers?? I see them all the time at H & M! Finally I purchased the one blazer I could find, but I immediately panicked about it. Was it the right kind of blazer to go with funky jeans? Was it the right color? Did I pay too much? Should I have spent more money and got a better one?

After sitting on it a few days, I started to regress into 'whinny/crabby self-obsessed pre-teen girl' phase. Did I even like the jacket? Where can I find the right colored t-shirt to go with it? Nothing matches! Is my potbelly too big? It IS too big! I'm TOTALLY going on a diet. Shut up! I'm not eating today. I have to find a tight t-shirt or the jacket won't look good. I'm going for a long run today. It's hopeless! I'm ugly. Should I stuff my bra?

When my girlfriend had to go out of town, I even consulted one of my guy friends and asked him to shop with me. He said yes, because he understands my pain. Or at least pretends to. We ended up emailing each other about clothing all week. We were both so embarrassed about this fact that we referred to each other as 'dude' multiple times in each email to remind ourselves that we are not gay.

And then finally, at church yesterday, I re-centered and realized how ridiculously materialistic and obsessive I have been. I decided to return the jacket, because I never liked it and would have never worn it again after tonight. In it's place I bought a nice, practical shirt that I will wear again, for $20 less.

However, in full disclosure, I did stare at my buddy's ass with him while we tried to decide whether or not he should buy a particularly expensive pair of jeans. ...It is about progress folks, not perfection.

Even so, after the premiere tonight I plan to drink three beers and then make out with my hot girlfriend for a little bit. Never hurts.

blog name

To copycat my friend Shannon, (which is how this blog initially came into existence) I thought I'd comment on my blog's name. It comes from a 'you had to be there' moment. I state this only so that your expectations for hilariosity (or mere chortleosity) will be, well, lessened.

Just for sheets and giggles, let's play choose your own adventure. The history of farmer pants (he's in my genes!) is as follows:

a) an awkward night of camping, ala brokeback mountain, while interning in san francisco during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college

b) while visiting my grandparents in nebraska last summer, i awoke one morning to find that i had misplaced my new $79 pair of uniquely dark washed/strategically shredded Lucky jeans. only to discover that my grandfather, who rises at 4:30 to perform his daily farm chores, had mistakenly pulled my jeans from the dryer when he dressed that morning. and then later in the day returned with fresh pig poo 'dingling' from his (my) pant legs

c) while visiting my friends 'the charming sharmans' in costa rica last summer, i characteristically made a non-segue comment about feeling at peace in the country by stating, "there is a farmer in my genes." which was followed by howling laughter and cheryl sharman exclaiming, "you said there was a little farmer man in your pants!"

d) an inexplicable conversation about the skills listed at the bottom of my own personal "superhero/alter ego" resume

e) having eaten quickly at mcdonald's one clear day in virgina last fall, and then going for a light jog on a wilderness path with my brother, i subsequently realized that i had "gambled and lost"

f) your own funnier story that i will steal and use as my own

Lunchkin Land

I have been eating lunch every day with first graders in a hot little cafeteria that cannot contain the sound of 45 children. There are two badly painted life-size portraits of ancient presidents on the wall. One of the presidents is George Washington and the other is someone I should know but don't. Each day the boys walk in, or rather, flop in, mostly quiet and in some semblance of a line. They all have button down shirts in various states of being tucked in or not, and ties that hang messily around their necks and chests and sometimes knees. Some of the boys have sleepy eyes and bedhead hair. Some are bouncing with energy. One or two of the boys proudly march in everyday with their arms straight in the air and their fingers flashing a peace sign. This is the quiet signal.

I am not a teacher. I work in the business office as an accountant. But this year the school employed fewer coaches and needed adult bodies to serve lunch. I was asked to help. I have trouble saying no. Unfortunately, because first graders are still guided by unencumbered intuition, the boys discovered immediately that I am an imposter.

As fate would have it, the most annoying boy at my table is seated directly on my left. He does not eat, he does not listen, and he does not like me. He doesn't even fear me. Today I told him at least seven hundred and fourteen times to put away the green pencil he was playing with. It has a soccer ball eraser top. He would pretend to put it in his pocket for a few minutes. And then the soccer ball eraser would mysteriously reappear, tapping on something, or rolling on the floor. I threatened to take the pencil away if I saw it again. And then when I saw it again I threatened to take it away if I saw it again. This happened many times. At one point the boy got up, for the third time I must add, to go to the bathroom without asking. I told him he couldn't go. He stood behind my chair and stared me down. I told him he needed to sit. He replied that he didn't have to sit. I said, "yes you do" with my fake military voice. He squinted his eyes, after he had dramatically rolled them at me, and sarcastically spat out, "why?" This stumped me. So I squinted my eyes back, and fumbled out incoherently, "Because that's the rules we have" or something similar with poor grammar that trailed off into meaninglessness.

The boy on my right is small, polite, cute and wears nerdy classes. His shirt is always tucked in, and his tie is always on straight. He is missing a front tooth. The first two days of lunch he started counting from the moment he sat down until the end of the lunch period. He got into the thousands so I'm pretty sure he one, two, skipped a few. Thousand. But nonetheless, he impressed the other boys at the table and both days they cried out in amazement, "you're the best counter in the whole school, Patrick!" To which he smiled his sheepish, toothless smile.

There is one boy at my table who may be retarded. When words are spoken to him I can count a solid 7 seconds before he responds. And his response is generally only a nod of some sort. I like him. He eats more than I do. And he almost always asks for a third serving. One of the other boys, who is prissy and has a devilish grin and a lot of energy, sits right next to the possibly retarded boy. The devilish boy doesn't obey anything I say, but his disobedience is generally of the misdemeanor type. So I don't waste the energy to correct him. On the first day of lunch he kept saying to me, "Yes Mr./Mrs." This made the retarded boy laugh. Now he generally calls me Mr. O’Gravy. (My name is O’Grady). However, today I was addressed as “your highness” with a smart ass bow and subsequent snicker. This landed him a seat right next to his teacher.

My favorite boy sits the farthest away. The first day of lunch he talked to me for the entire lunch period. Regardless of whether or not someone else was talking to me. But because he sits at the end of the table, and because he has a quiet, soft, high pitched first-grader voice, I can't ever hear a word he's saying. So every now and then I nod my head and smile at him when he's talking and he smiles back. He gets up all of the time without asking to go to the bathroom, but I'm pretty sure he's really going to the bathroom. So I let it slide. The first week of lunch I kept calling him Robert. But his name is Thomas. So one day he smiled, hit his hand on his head, rolled his eyes and said in his high pitched voice, "not again!" Now I try and remember to call him Thomas.

I have another boy who sits at my table who always talks very loudly. He sometimes has so much energy that he puts up his fists in the air and shakes his body until his face turns red. Like the other things I don’t know how to handle at lunch, I pretend I don’t notice this behavior. I think this boy has Asperger’s Syndrome. He is incredibly intelligent and obsessed with monster movies. One day he sang “The Monster Mash” throughout the entire lunch. He often quotes movie lines and other movie trivia that go far beyond my film knowledgebase, which is quite extensive in its own right. On any given day he will mention so and so from Hitchcock’s first film that was released on this or that date. Because I don’t know better I assume he is correct. Once I asked him if he was going to be a film director when he grows up and he lost it. He stared me down, pursed his lips together, and with more drama than a Susan Lucci character on daytime television, slowly articulated, “I’m not going to be a movie director when I grow up, I AM a movie director now!” I immediately apologized for my foolishness. And then I laughed at him.

There is another boy, Andrew, who talks like he is 4. This is annoying, because he is 7. He doesn’t talk really, he more just barks. Like a puppy. An annoying puppy. One day last quarter I had had all the barky yelpy sounds I could handle, and I snapped. And when I snap, sometimes I use fake teacher speak that I have picked up, which is embarrassing. I yelled, “Andrew! What is with all the silliness today!?” (Silliness is the teacher speak word). He immediately calmed down, looked at the floor, sighed, and then said, while still staring at the floor, “I don’t know. I guess it’s because I got extra sleep last night.”

I am learning a lot about first grade food preferences. Some boys eat everything. Some boys eat nothing except bread. Some boys wait and choose only what they see the boys they look up to eating. No one likes salad. No one likes fruit for dessert. They all want only the juice the fruit sits in when we have fruit for dessert. And the most interesting discovery is that lime green Jello is heroin. I have to count every single square and weigh it on the spoon, to make sure everyone gets an equal portion. And I have to dish out every last sliver. If I don’t do these things, the boys get junkie eyes. And I'm telling you, if you want to know scary, just look at the eyes of a first grader with a lime green Jello junkie craving.

Today my table seemed like something out of Lord of the Flies. The boys finished their lunch very quickly. This means there was dead time until lunch finished. This means chaos. By the end of the period I was tired of hearing my own voice, and since the boys don't listen to me anyway I stopped trying to make them behave. Eventually their teacher, who sits at the next table, came over and quelled the chaos. She did it quickly with grace and authority and power that I fear I will never possess. I was embarrassed. But I figure I'm volunteering in this lunch capacity, so it isn't like they can fire me.

trial blog

the only purpose of this blog is to see what my cheesey template looks like.

go raiders.