Python Dee

I am Michael Butler

2006-03-13T06:54:00.000-08:00

I went out on Saturday night in NYC. I was with some old friends. We laughed and drank and stayed out until 4:00 in the morning. I wasn't really drunk...just mildly drunk.

I went to bed at 4:35 a.m. A buddy permitted me to sleep on a blow-up mattress in his living room. It was a full-sized blow-up and even had comfortable 250 thread count sheets.

I woke up at exactly 6:00 a.m. - 1 hour and twenty-five minutes after I went to sleep. I needed to use the bathroom like an absolute madman. That is about all I remember. I was exhausted.

Next thing I knew, I was out in his hallway in my boxers with the door slamming shut (and locking) in my face. Suddenly I was jarred awake by panic. I knocked on the door to no avail. I didn't want to bang too hard as it was rather early on a Sunday morning. I didn't think his neighbors would appreciate. Not to mention that I was in Chelsea in my boxers. I could have easily been taken advantage of in my current state.

I looked around for a trash can or something to urinate in. No such luck. I went down to the ground floor to see if I could find a good nook or cranny. There I realized how I might possibly get back in. If I could just hold the door open with my leg while reaching out to the buzzer, I might be able to waken him from his slumber.

After several minutes of balancing on one leg and holding down the buzzer, my dazed and confused buddy let me in. It took a while because he been trying to turn off his alarm (to no avail).

Scrubbing the insides

2006-03-08T16:06:00.000-08:00

I decided to attempt an experiment this week. I was to my own lab rat.

I knew a woman at my old job who spent somewhere between several weeks and a month "cleansing her body" from all unwanted chemicals. She did so by eating only specified "healthy" foods and drinking only water. No coffee, no alcohol, no Grilled Stuffed Burritos. Seemed like a ridiculously stupid idea to me at the time.

As I shook off a minor hangover on Sunday morning, I decided that this was the perfect week for me to attempt to cleanse my body. It is spring break and I am at home hanging with the P's. I know nobody in my hometown anymore and therefore have no chance of going out during the week. I also have a fairly event-filled weekend coming up, so I thought a good cleansing was the perfect way to prepare.

I laid down the ground rules.

Each day I would consume:
1) 1 large glass of oj at breakfast
2) A healthy breakfast consisting of fruit and/or a bran or fiber-based cereal
3) 1 large glass of V8 juice at lunch
4) At least 1 16 ounce glass of water per hour

I would not consume:
1) Coffee or caffeinated beverages
2) Alcohol
3) Sh-itty foods

Sunday: got home from NYC; had light supper; drank tons of water.

Monday: wanted a cup of coffee in the morning, but held off; drank water all day; really wanted just a teeny drink with dinner; remembered that 1 glass of red wine is actually good for your heart; enjoyed small (4 oz) glass with dinner.

Tuesday: what I wouldn't have given for a cup of coffee, but again, I maintained will-power; went to a murder trial down at the courthouse; stomach was growling like crazy around noon; thought I would faint if I didn't eat asap; was about to pass out as I pulled into Yacco's Hot Dogs - the only place around where I could get something to revive myself; had 2 cheese dogs with everything (secret chili sauce, chopped onions, spicy mustard), a small order of pierogies (2), and a large chocolate milk;
blood sugar levels rose and I survived, thankfully; was tasked with making dinner for my 6 year old nephew, who can be a picky eater; finding little else to make, served up breakfast for dinner - scrambled eggs and bacon; McDonald's sundae for desert since he ate his applesauce at dinner; small glass of red wine for the old heart.

Wednesday: dying for coffee; decided that I should try some of mom's decaf "Chock Full of Nuts" since it was technically allowable under the rules; it wasn't great, but at least I kind of tricked myself into thinking that the world had returned to normalcy; continued on my water-drinking bender; utilized the bathroom more times in one day than I have since I moved out and went to college; ate at least 2 pounds of greasy Chinese food for dinner - couldn't complain (and didn’t feel like explaining the rules) as it was what my sister wanted for her birthday dinner; red wine and ice cream cake (with chocolate crunchies) to top it off.

So, I haven't fully stuck to the plan. But, I do feel as though I've been at least mildly successful in cleansing my body. No caffeine and little alcohol for 4 days now. I feel good. Good and ready to debaucherize myself in T-48 hours.

Ah Maryland

2006-03-03T17:20:00.000-08:00

I have a newfound respect for the state of Maryland.

I've never though much of Maryland one way or the other. I grew up in a state adjacent to Maryland; drove through Maryland on my way to and from college down in North Carolina; reside in Washington about 4 miles from the Maryland border; live with a roommate who is from Maryland; and pass through Maryland once every 4-5 weeks en route to visiting the P’s.

Yea, yea, I know…crab cakes, Chesapeake Bay, Civil War sites, big aquarium, US Naval Academy. Maryland is one sweet state.

To my point.

I covered about 25 miles on US Route 15 in Maryland today. Roughly Frederick to Emmitsburg. During that 20 minutes of my life, I saw no less than 3 chain gangs working along the highway. They were picking up trash, trimming hedges…things of that nature. Basically making the highway look a little nicer for us as we zoom by at 65 mph. Ok, I cannot confirm that they were actually “chained,” but there were definitely guards with shotguns and church vans equipped with large signs that read (something like) “Department of Corrections, Prisoner Work Release.”

I could be wrong, but I feel like chain gangs are underutilized these days. I know I’ve seen them before down in the deep-south, but I can’t recall ever seeing one in the northeast. Why?? We’ve got tons of able-bodied individuals at our disposal who are doing absolutely nothing but racking up bills for the taxpayers. Yea, I think that part of being in prison needs to be sitting around being bored and thinking about how bad it sucks to be there. But, when there is as much sh-t as there is on every highway in the country, why not make someone who has nothing else to do go out there and pick it up? Makes sense to me.

To show my support for the continuation of this fantastic program, I chugged the rest of my 32 ounce Gatorade, poured a 2/3-full pack of M&M’s down my throat, and flung the bottle and wrapper out of my car window. I then gave the next chain gang I saw a loud toot of the horn and two big thumbs up as I whizzed by.

Over and out until Sunday. Should you require me tomorrow, I can be found at:
The Corner Bistro (NYC) @ 12:30 p.m.
The MOMA @ 3 p.m.
Lombardi’s Pizza @ 8:30 p.m.

Gym blues

2006-03-02T09:46:00.000-08:00

I think I need to quit my gym.

I joined a gym last September. I no longer had the time or energy to drag my stuff and my self down to the school gym. I had classes in the morning, worked in the afternoon, and had more class in the evening. It wasn’t cheap, but I knew I’d get my money’s worth.

I joined the closest gym to my apartment – about a brisk 7 minute walk. I took a tour one September afternoon. The place was really nice. It was big and had new-looking equipment. Plus, there was almost no one there. Most importantly though, it was close to home. I probably would have joined it for that reason alone.

The day after I joined, I arrived at the gym for an early morning work out. It was about 6:30 a.m. The place was packed. Somewhat to my surprise, it was all guys – mostly working out in pairs. Lots of tank tops and short-shorts. Yes, I was a straight man in a sea of gay men.

I don’t think that my gym is a “gay gym” per se. It is more de facto gay. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It would be like joining a gym that had 97% female membership. A little weird at first, but whatever. This isn’t why I need to quit.

As I am walking down the stairs this morning to grab my stuff from the locker room, I notice that a new shipment of gym apparel must have recently arrived. There amongst assorted small-sized tee shirts, yoga mats, and jockstraps was a white tank top with the inscription “Morningwood Basketball” on the front. I mean seriously, come on.

Looks like it’s back to lugging my stuff down to school.

Who doesn't love a good eggs benedict?

2006-03-01T08:00:00.000-08:00

I love the weekend brunch. When I lived in NYC, I went every single weekend. Often I'd go both Saturday and Sunday mornings. Saturday morning was usually a little more casual. We'd hit the diner around the corner for some good grease. Sunday you didn't mess around. Nicer place, better food - a little taste of joy and happiness before work came and quashed all positivity the next morning.

Sure, I've had my share of love affairs. 2000 was the year of two eggs, over-easy with sausage and homefries. Coffee, light and sweet. (Boy, was I an amateur back then!)

In early 2001 I went on a ham and cheese omelette tear. Once in a while I tossed in a western just to mix things up.

It was in the summer of 2001 that I reinvented myself and began ordering pancakes - mostly blueberry (thanks EJ's at 73nd Street!).

Then 9/11 hit the city. We were all in a funk. We did what we had to do. I myself realized that there was something deeper and more meaningful out there. I shifted course once again and moved into the realm of the eggs benedict. Yea it cost a little more, but oh how I loved that zesty hollandaise sauce!

My love affair with E.B. continued for nearly a year. Then, in August of 2002, tragedy struck my brunch table. My girlfriend and faithful bruncher packed up and headed off to business school. I was lost. I started eating McGriddle sandwiches and Starbucks scones for breakfast. I was a real wreck. It wasn't until early in 2003, after a lot of soul-searching, that I decided it was time to move on. And move on I did - with a vengeance.

First, I went cold-turkey on sugar in my coffee. Now it's bold with a touch of half-and-half. Then, I decided that not only could I enjoy that zesty hollandaise sauce, but I could have something of some nutritional value at the same time. Thus, eggs florentine became the new breakfast in my life. My love of poached eggs, spinach, english muffins, and (you know it) hollandaise has lasted ever since.

I have realized, in looking back at these love affairs, that I don't have to be a one-breakfast guy. I can share a little piece of myself with each of my former loves. These days I often go omelette on Saturday, pancakes on Sunday. Or I'll throw a good-old sunny-side eggs in there every once in a while. Sometimes (when I'm feeling a little sassy) I'll even pull a huevos rancheros out of left field. And damn-it do I love them all!

Dear old New Orleans

2006-02-28T04:30:00.000-08:00

Easter Sunday, New Orleans, 2001.

It was day 3 of “Spring Break 2001.” We weren’t in college any more, but did that really matter? We didn’t think so.

The last 48 hours were largely a blur. They had been filled with 4-for-1 beers, po-boys out the wazoo, oysters on the half-shell, gambling, and more 4-for-1 beers.

I had one self-imposed condition on this trip - I, being the good Catholic boy that I am, would go to Easter Sunday mass. It was going to happen.

As we rolled out onto the street that morning, our heads were pounding. I didn't want to spend another day in this city. I wanted to be back at my apartment in NYC. Ideally, my mother would be there with a bowl of chicken soup, and would rub my back and reassure me that everything will be alright. No such luck.

I located a nearby Catholic church. Mass was at noon. We had about 2 hours to kill. Maybe some breakfast would pull us out of our funk. We found a cafe; they gave us seats on the upstairs porch. Pretty cool. Boy did I feel terrible though. The waiter came around. "Can I offer you gentlemen one of our famous bloody marys?" he asked. Hesitantly we answered, "why not...we can't feel any worse." And then the miracle happened. After one bloody, the haze began to clear. After two, we decided that it might not be such a bad thing to spend one more day in N.O. After three, a band stuck up out in the street, and we started getting excited about life again. Four bloodies. Five bloodies. Ack! Mass in ten minutes!

We went into the church. I knelt down and began to say a prayer. I was trying – really I was. I could smell the alcohol on my own breath. I couldn’t concentrate. I’d been to church at least a thousand times in my life, but this was the first time I was drunk. I actually felt like a sinner being in church in the state I was in. “Let’s get out of here,” I said to my (Protestant) buddy who was sitting patiently nearby.

Out in the street, I felt as though I had let God and myself down. We started walking back toward our hotel. In the middle of the street was a henna tattoo stand. I am actually fairly opposed to the idea of getting a tattoo. But, we’d had 5 bloody marys before noon. My buddy sat down first. He got one of those “penalty – unoriginal barbed wire tattoos” on his upper left arm. It was my turn. What to get?? This was going to hang with me for at least 2-3 weeks according to the sign. It struck me. I could make it up to God right here and now.

Fifteen minutes and twenty dollars later it was done. My left forearm was emblazoned with an 8 inch Celtic cross. I looked like a Scottish sailor. As my buddy and I got up, proudly displaying our new and improved selves to all around, a cop walked up and began chatting with us. Realizing that we were two more pieces of riff-raff that infested the streets of his city, he asked us the ultimate question. “Are you boys part of the problem around here?” “No sir,” my buddy retorted, “we’re part of the solution!” The cop laughed. Truth be told, we were part of the problem.

Bud Ice should be banned

2006-02-26T18:09:00.000-08:00

Last night I forgot that I am 28 years old. I thought I was 21 or perhaps 22. I did several kegs stands at about 3 a.m. I don't know the last time I did a keg stand. I can honestly say that I hope there will never be a next time. It is now Sunday and it is time to commence the week of health and wellbeing. I leave you with this photo from my high school cheerleading days.

Soho not cool

2006-02-25T14:27:00.000-08:00

New York City. August, 2002. Excitement permeated the air. A buddy and I had just secured what seemed to be a promising apartment in a really sweet spot in Soho. 203 Spring Street – the northwest corner of Spring and Sullivan Streets. Sh-t yea, we were part of the cool downtown crowd now.

My first two years in NYC were spent living on the Upper East Side – 88th Street and Second Avenue. I liked it up there. I wasn’t very “hip,” but it was comfortable, near the park, and there were plenty of restaurants and bars to keep us occupied. After two years though, it was time for a change.

We found the apartment through one of those “no fee” broker guys. He was a nasty, sweaty guy who spoke with some sort of Eastern European accent. Pushy, like all of them. “Take this apartment…you need to do it today…it will be gone if you leave it till tomorrow.” Yea, whatever.

He showed us a bunch of crap around 23rd Street when we made it explicitly clear that we refused to live above 14th Street. Just as we were beginning to grow impatient, he said he had “the one” to show us. It was “a little small” he warned, “but such is life in Soho.”

As we exited the subway at Spring and 6th Avenue, we looked about ourselves with amazement. This was where we needed to live. Up Sullivan Street we could see the Empire State Building; down Sullivan we could see the tops of lower Manhattan skyscrapers peeking out above Tribeca lofts. It was a weekday afternoon and yet people – attractive, non-yuppie-mom people – were all over the place. They were shopping, eating, drinking, socializing. We wanted…we needed…to be a part of all of this.

We entered an old wooden door, walked up one flight of stairs and entered a newly painted apartment. “Small” was a bold understatement. A price tag of $2,500/month didn’t help. We looked around and then looked at each other. “We’ll take it!” And with that, an unfortunate chapter in our lives began.

As we moved our things into the apartment, we realized that we faced a few initial obstacles:
1) We couldn’t really have any guests over since we could only fit a loveseat and small coffee table in the living room.
2) There was a full-sized window in the shower; we needed to become comfortable with our nakedness quickly.
3) Our bedrooms could accommodate little more than our beds. I had recently acquired a queen-sized bed (with frame). That had to go - only a full would fit. I remedied that by trading beds with a girl that I worked with. Nice and broken-in is how I like it.

We quickly got over these little inconveniences. As sweaty-guy said, “such is life in Soho.”

First night sleeping in the apartment. 6 p.m. Just as I’m sitting down to enjoy my first gin and tonic in the new pad, I hear a knock at the door. At the door is an elderly woman – probably in her 70s – who introduces herself as our across-the-hall neighbor. I barely get “nice to meet you out” when she drops the A-bomb on me. “I just want you to know that the bar down below us has been the bane of my existence for three years now.” The color drains from my face. I gasp. “Bar…what bar?” I asked. I had noticed that there was some sort of store-ish looking place below us, but the drapes were always drawn when I walked by, and there was no sign or anything out front. I assumed that whatever it had been, it was currently out of use.

6:30 p.m. The ants are pouring out of work; they need a drink. The bars open up for happy hour. Below, the faint, but distinct sound of dance music can be heard.

7:30 p.m. The music kicks up a few notches.

10:00 p.m. The bar is in full throttle. Music is pumping; voices screaming; cigarette smoke wafting up from the sidewalk outside the bar. I realize that there will be little sleep that night.

There was little sleep that night or any Monday through Saturday night for the next nine months of my life. Soho hotspots are great, especially when they are open until at least 4 a.m., six nights a week…as long as your bedroom in not above the subwoofer in one. Monday was “thank god it’s Monday” night. Tuesday was couples night. Wednesday was singles night. Thursday was karaoke night. That was the worst. Not only did you have to hear “Come on Eileen” at 3:10 in the morning, but some a-hole who can’t sing worth a sh-t was belting it out.

Earplugs (wax or rubber) didn’t work. Calls to the bar to turn down the music didn’t work. Nightly calls to the local police precinct didn’t work. Jumping off the loveseat onto the wooden floor didn’t work. Pounding on the floor with a broomstick didn’t work. Letters to the landlord didn’t work. Even weekday drinking to knock ourselves out didn’t work (very well). Finally, it was three months of not paying rent that finally got our landlord’s attention. Probably because he was also the bar’s landlord and he didn’t seem to like them too much either. Considering the fact that they were selling $8 Bud Light bottles like hotcakes, he knew he could squeeze more rent out of them than they were paying.

Long-story short, the little guys won the war for once. Not only did the bar pay a broker to find us a new (freaking sick) apartment (in the West Village), they subsidized our rent there since it was several hundred dollars more than we were paying to live above them. They also paid us our security deposit back, which put us ahead a couple months in rent. Only down-side was that I had to put on my best tough-guy face once a month when I went to the bar to collect our rent subsidy. Just to be a nice guy, I usually bought an $8 Bud Light to show them that there were no hard feelings.

What the hell is it with streaking?

2006-02-23T18:55:00.000-08:00

Streaking. Its an event that every blue-blooded c0llege male has participated in at some point in time. But why? I can think of only a few possible explanations:
1) We long for the pre-apple days of Adam and Eve when nakedness simply wasn't a bid deal.
2) Our bodies are so hot that we want everyone to enjoy them as much as we do. The act of running while naked allows all of our features to get the exposure they rightfully deserve.
3) (More plausible) We are (highly) intoxicated. We peer into the closet looking for just the right outfit. "There they are!" we exclaim with excitement and joy. "My bad idea jeans!" No sooner than both legs slide in, they slide right back out.
4) Rationale #3 plus peer pressure from older frat brothers.
5) Rationale #4 plus some additional alcohol and testosterone.
6) Rationale #5 plus the promise that "we'll get a good chase from the police" and the reassurance that "seriously, no one has ever been caught."

Why, you might ask, do I address this topic today?

I was rummaging through some of my old belongings in my bedroom at my parent's house. There, in a shoebox, tucked way back in my closet, I came across this article from the student newspaper at my college:

Although I was not one of the two nude rollerbladers, I know who they were. I also know why they were caught. The cardinal rule of streaking is that once the pants are dropped, you don't stop running until you find a "safe harbor" or are re-connected with your pants. These clowns forgot that rule. They thought it would be more fun to take a load off their weary feet and chat with a group of co-eds who were congregated outside of their sorority house. Admirable intentions; bad timing.

Word on the street after this incident was that a third suspect - possibly a freshman pledge - was seen by campus police fleeing the scene (naked) at high speeds on what appeared to be a 16-speed mountain bike, toe-clips and all.

Why does Python Dee exist?

2006-02-23T08:31:00.000-08:00

On the morning of Friday February 17, 2006, as the name “Python Dee” entered the world, you may have asked yourself “why is another g-d law student writing a blog?” This is an important question to ask. With you I shall share the answer.

A good friend of mine, who shall remain unnamed, has her own long-running blog, in which she shares the trials and tribulations, thoughts and feelings, of a young architect-turned-law student who grew up in Louisiana and now resides in Washington, D.C. I read my friend’s blog often, and it is both amusing and touching at various times.

Sometimes, after reading one of my friend’s entries which particularly spoke to me, or evoked a memory similar to that being discussed, I took the liberty of posting a comment of my own. I felt as though that were my way of saying, “yes, friend, I understand what you are saying. I too have felt that way. We understand where each other are coming from.” It was comforting to me I suppose.

One day, my friend was asking for suggestions of things that she could teach a class in less than 2 minutes. I posted a comment suggesting that she teach her class how to make a ham and cheese hot pocket. This seemed only natural to me since I eat a lot of hot pockets and they take exactly 2 minutes to nuke. After posting that, I began thinking about my favorite foods. Visions of spinach lasagna and Philadelphia cheese steaks danced in my head. And then, as my stomach began to growl, thoughts of Indian food flooded my brain. I thought of all the delicious Indian meals I’d had in the past, and I just began to type. I wasn’t even thinking…the words simply flowed into the comment. Anyway, long-story short, my comment was apparently beyond the scope of that day’s posting, and I was made aware of this fact loud and clear. Strike one.

On Monday, February 20th, my friend posted an entry in her blog that recalled a painful event in her life. It dealt with lost love…the ‘right’ love in perhaps the wrong time and place. She vividly described the pain and outpouring of emotion that she felt saying goodbye…knowing that this was the last thing she wanted, but the only thing she could do. It was more than a “goodbye, see you soon.” It was a “goodbye - forever.” It was emotional, sad, and painful even for the reader. A classic tragedy…

But, every great tragedy has its comedic interlude. There was the gravediggers scene in Hamlet and the episodes of Sir John Falstaff in Henry IV. These enable the reader to step back from the tragedy and to put things in perspective. Without a little humor, tragedy would simply consume.

Monday, February 20th. 12:20 p.m. Corporations class. P-Dee posts a comment in reply to friend’s entry: “I cried once too. I got stung 11 times in the face by a pack of angry, hungry, nursing hornets.” Strike two (and three, I guess). You’re out.

Python Dee is a creature born of rejection and alienation. It is a tragic story really. I can say my please, so long as it is on my own time and in my own place. This tragedy will, however, be permitted to laugh at itself every now and again.

A strange disease

2006-02-22T11:38:00.000-08:00

It is now time for me to be honest with myself and honest with the rest of the world. For too long now I’ve been in denial. At age 28, I’ve decided to face the realty of the situation and to confront it rather than continuing to pretend that the elephant isn’t sitting there in the living room, watching re-runs of Seinfeld with me.

I suffer from a strange disease.

This disease is 80% the result of nature and 20% the result of nurture. Sadly, two uncles on my mother’s side are well beyond the point of possible cure. This would worry me more except for the fact that I was adopted.

What is this dastardly affliction you ask? It’s called “Shirt Separation Anxiety” or “SSA” for short. The symptoms? Every shirt in my closet must be positioned such that there is at least ½ inch between them. There cannot be any touching. The mere thought of shirt-to-shirt contact can cause hives and dangerous increases in blood pressure. One time my girlfriend, visiting from out of town, threw some clothes into my closet, thinking nothing about the fact that hangers were suddenly crossing over each other and shirts were touching pants and pants were touching outerwear. The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed with IVs hooked up to my arm and an oxygen mask over my face.

After reading some literature, and watching the scene from Dodgeball with Lance Armstrong several hundred times, I’ve decided to fight back. I’m taking it to SSA. I don’t want to suffer anymore. My roommate has generously agreed to help, and I began therapy this past weekend. Each morning, I take a shirt from my closet and hang it in his, recklessly disregarding how close it is, or (oh god!) whether it is touching any of the other items in his closet. As hard as this is, I just hope that one day I can live like the rest of you.

Channa saag it is

2006-02-17T09:18:00.000-08:00

The question is, what is better: chicken tikka masala or channa saag? I really love both. It is always such a tough decision. I love when they make me feel like I am a special customer by giving me "complimentary" spicy tea and rice pudding when I am done eating. Little do they know that I saw them do the same thing for a guy and his wife just across the room from me. Oh well. It'll be out little secret.

My favorite Indian restaurants are (with applicable rating):
1) Ghandi Cafe, Inc. (Bleeker Street) - 9.87 out of 10
Always a great place to enjoy an Indian bruch with friends after a long night of drinking. I suggest a Kingfisher to ease the pain.
2) Curry Leaf (Lexington Ave in "Curry Hill" aka Murry Hill") - 9.23 out of 10
My best friend worked at the Suissinator on Park Ave at 24th Street; we feasted on Curry Leaf many a times during that 2 year span. Thereafter I, with my lovely 9-5 job, went home to enjoy the rest of my evening. He, on the other hand, headed back to work for the second-half of his day. The vegetable samosas here f'ing rule the world.
3) Anywhere in "Little India" on 6th Street - food averages 6.72 out of 10; cheapness gets a 8.8 out of 10.
This is the place to go for cheap eats, lots of red (Mexican-looking) chilli pepper lights dangling in your face, and a solid helping of claustrophobia. Places with live sitar music get a bonus point.