My wallet would be entirely functional with only four objects: card, cash, ID, Metrocard. But the other stuff, the stuff that doesn’t need to be there, is much more interesting to talk about.
I have four forms of ID in my wallet: my New York State ID, an expired learners permit, my college ID, and my ID card when I interned at MTV. Only the first can get me alcohol. This makes the other three obsolete. The MTV ID should offend me, considering that I’m violently opposed to unpaid internships. 40-hour a week unpaid internships, at that. But this reminder features me in a blue shirt from Express and a gold tie. It’s possibly the last good photo I’ve taken. It can stay.
There’s a Long Island Railroad Ticket Stub. 31 dollars for a round trip ticket from Grand Central Station to Fire Island. I was working there, handing out Zico Coconut water for a beach party with 5,000+ gay men. I was pretty self-conscious when I got there. Not because I felt uncomfortable with gay people. I just felt super out of shape. Once I got over my body issues, it was super fun. Dancing. Cocktails. I got hit on, which, is one of those situations where one does not per se enjoy it, yet would have been offended if it did not happen.
There are two fortune cookie fortunes inside my wallet. One says, “People enjoy your fun-loving attitude.” I’m sorry. That is not a fucking fortune. The other, produced by a factory run by Jedi wannabees, says “As one grows to understand life less and less, one learns to live it more and more.” This, too, is lame. I’m not sure when fortune cookie makers got so timid. Plus, as a general rule, I don’t trust any fortune cookie that doesn’t include 18 as one of the lucky numbers. For that reason alone, I probably should throw them away. But I might need to learn the Chinese word for “excited” one day.
The most meaningless thing in my wallet are two used Metrocards. Even allowing for the possibility that they might still have cents on them, they are almost entirely worthless. There is also a Breeze card, the transit pass for the Atlanta Transporation System. It’s blue. It’s entirely lame. I’ve $6.30 on a Farecard from Washington D.C.’s Metro. I hate the Metro. But I can’t throw away money. Not when the Spy Museum is calling me back.
There is a VIP card from Rafael’s Barbershop. Why any black man should get a haircut in the Lower East Side is in a mystery. But I needed an emergency shapeup. And I found an Persian looking man who, I prayed, had cut a black man’s head before. He did all right. Would I go back? Probably not. Except, if I get seven more, I’ll get a free cut.
There’s almost no reason to give me a business card. I’ve zero connections, prospects and can provide no opportunities. Yet, somehow a member of the US Women’s Olympic Basketball Team from 1972 liked my smile and gave me her card as I handed her a free American flag working one day in Times Square. This could be removed but she was nice.
A Latin woman from a record label once gave me her business card. Clearly, she’d never heard me sing. But her name was Melanie and that name has nice energy. So it could stay.
My wallet currently has two dollars in it. Which, even for me, is pretty lame. Which isn’t to say two dollars is something to sneeze at. It’s just that a dollar menu can only take a man so far. Still, Two Brothers Pizza welcomes my two dollars. With a decayed slice that (almost) always tastes very good.
My wallet looks like the kind of wallet that would only have two dollars inside of it. Inside it claims to be genuine leather. I believe it. It has stayed together, despite the ripping of and strands. I should get a new one. But a wallet isn’t one of those things that can’t be selected casually. Of course, this wasn’t my wallet. It was meant to be a replacement one. My mother gave me an old wallet when I lost mine. For that reason, it has no pictures. No in case of emergency numbers. But it does have the drawing of an Anime looking bear a Japanese girl.
This wallet is a centimeter too big. If I was the kind of person who didn’t need jeans to fulfill a pathetic indie rock fantasy, it would be fine. But they bulge out like a tumor and if I was sensible I’d remove all the little bits of history inside.
I’ve an old receipt from Burger King I swore I’d take back and get redeemed after filling out an online survey. But times were tough then. And I figured I’d take the free sandwich. I’m sure it’s expired.
Coldplay at the Izod Center. Passion Pit at Governor’s Island. The Swell Season at the North Carolina Museum of Art. Third Eye Blind at Elon University’s Alumni Gym. Great nights. Great memories.I’m also reminded how much I paid in Ticketmaster fees to attend these concerts. Which is annoying.
On June 1st, 2012. Johan Santana pitched the first no-hitter in the history of my favorite baseball team. It was a big deal. It was a moment I was waiting for my entire life. I wasn’t there to watch it, live or on television. Instead I was watching Snow White and the Huntsman. I know this because I’ve the evidence. When I watched Sportscenter that night, I was furious. I’d missed one of the greatest moments in the history of my favorite team to watch Mr. Miley Cyrus-in-Law.
Was it worth it? Fuck no. But I’ve always thought Kristen Stewart is underappreciated as an actress. I’ll watch the sequel.