Chicken Teriyaki

A while back my friend Sep forwarded me a link to Midtown Lunch, a blog promoting a new Midtown Manhattan teriyaki chicken restaurant with a contest that would award three winners a year supply of 'yaki. As a massive chicken teriyaki fan who lives in a city that lacks an affordable 'yaki bowl, this was my pretty much my only chance at happiness in life.

I entered the contest and patiently waited for the editors to contact me and tell me I won. Then the editors never contacted me, which was bullshit in my mind, so I wrote them to express my grievances. Midtown Lunch's editor agreed that my entry was the best, but said they selected winners randomly and as a consolation prize of sorts he offered me the chance to be a profiled Midtown Lunch'er.

I obliged and filled out his questionnaire in a voice that was equal parts: cockiness from just landing a new, cool job, euphoria from just landing a new job outside of Midtown, and hatred for Midtown Lunch for denying me a year's supply of 'yaki bowls.

This was the result.

I was extremely happy with it when I submitted it. Then when I read it online, I was slightly concerned at how I came off, but I think that had more to do with me lonely in British Columbia and slightly depressed from Vancouver's excessive rain. But that is a story for another post.

The comments are all pure genius as well, especially because it allowed for one of the few times in my life where I could've worn a "Hi Hater" t-shirt.

Ultimately it's a silly food blog profile, but it's more than that. Those motherfuckers wronged me and I got my retribution (I think) while showing the whole world how much I love teriyaki chicken and in the end isn't that what life is all about.

Pretending

Aside from strap-hangers who rap about McDonald's for change*, teachers are my favorite subway riders. I have an immense respect for anybody who edits a stack of papers on the subway and for some reason the sight of a teacher working on his commute brings me great joy.

A few weeks ago my friends at Gelf asked me to edit another writer's article. I printed it out, grabbed a red pen and went to work on the subway. I made sure I held the red pen in my mouth so everyone would think I was a teacher and respect me. I also exaggerated all my edits and smiled a lot hoping people would draw the connection that I was grading the paper of an inner-city kid who I had helped to overcome his unfathomably terrible background and learning disabilities to finally understand our class's lesson.

When in reality I was editing an interview of Matt Timms, who was promoting his World's Biggest Jerk Off (SFW) event, by a writer who is a Yale graduate.

Still I feverishly scribbled down all my edits and shook my head a lot so other strap-hangers could see what a hard-working teacher I am. As I approached my final stop, I scribbled an A+ atop the first page, which made about as much sense as writing a blog post full of grammar errors about editing.

*I never give money or attention to singing bums unless I'm high and there is an group harmonizing Lion King songs a Capella or The McDonald's rapper is in my presence. I have only seen the McDonald's rapper once, but he killed it. He boarded the train, politely told everyone he was gonna rap and then began the most passionate and sincere rap about McDonald's.

The hook was something along the lines of "Yeah I love Mickey D's!" which was good enough for a single and a single dollar in my book. But once he dropped a line about McFlurries (a line I was waiting for the entire song) I realized I needed to give him a few more, mainly because you can't buy a McFlurry for $1. His flow was amazing, he managed to hit every item on the menu and he rapped with a passion for McDonald's that was truly inspirational. After he finished I handed him a few singles and he gave me the most heart-felt smile I have ever received from a human not named Seth Janiga.

Forging Happiness

On the same day I posted a desperate attempt to help the St. Labre Indian School and make it look like I still write regularly on this blog, I received another letter at my work. This one was not quite as depressing as the parched Native Americans, as it was just an 8-year-old from Staten Island asking Dustin Pedroia for his autograph and some other trivial questions.

My immediate thoughts were to write him back an extremely bizarre letter. The kid asked Pedroia if he uses steroids, and I had already wrote the first two paragraphs of a letter from Pedroida graphically describing his steroid use in my head. Then I thought to myself, do I really want to write a letter to this kid that will surely baffle him and leave him hating his childhood hero? No, because I'd prefer waste the five minutes it would take to write the letter doing stuff even less productive. And also because it seemed like a mighty fucked up thing to do for a kid who already lives in Staten Island.

So I followed my protocol of handling letters from misguided fans and let it collect dust on my desk. Then I got a new job and I was feeling very good about life. As I cleaned up the clutter on my desk, I decided I should return the kid's letter. So I wrote him a quick letter thanking him and encouraging him to enjoy life and not play video games so much, which accompanied a freshly-forged autograph of Dustin Pedroia on the card he sent with his letter.

I felt really good about myself especially because I am 100 percent certain this will spark the butterfly affect which will make this Staten-Island-Dustin-Pedroia fan help every underprivileged Native American in Montana and all will be right in the world.