Things In My Parents' House, Volume One

I’m typing this on a giant Dell desktop computer in my parent’s living room after taking part in the yearly ritual of Vinayaka Chathurthi. If you're too lazy to click on that link, it involves a lot of sitting down and reading very long passages in sanskrit, with brief interruptions for ritualistic things involving water, plants, incense, and setting small fires. My brother can’t get out of work and since I don’t really have a “job,” I said I would head to Queens and be there. I spent most of the time being distracted by a) the pain in my bum, and b) several ants that were walking all over the assembled fruits and sugar cubes. Do ants “think” and “feel’? One of them was “scratching” its leg and it reminded me of my cats, who can definitely “think” and “feel.” Then I thought about being an Indian man who keeps multiple cats as pets, something which I’ve never encountered before. Underneath these deep thoughts was the constant pain of my ass bones and having to readjust my sitting position every 30 seconds. I think, years ago, I lost weight in such a way that my ass disappeared and I can’t sit on unpadded things for an extended period of time. It’s similar to an episode of King of the Hill where Hank has to get an orthotic device because he, too, is an assless man. Overall, another spiritual failure.

I took the F train to Queens late in the middle of last night after taking part in a documentary about social media on W. 29th Street. There was a white frat kid on the train (he literally had some Greek letters on a sweatshirt) which in and of itself wasn’t strange, but he didn’t get off the train by the Kew Gardens—Union Turnpike stop. In my experience, white people under 50 aren't usually still on the train by this point, and everybody took turns looking at the fellow (who eventually got off on my stop—the last, at 179th street). What followed was a classic dilemma for those of us who refuse to, or can't, drive a car: whether to wait for the bus, which is possibly longer than the time it takes to walk, or just walk (and possibly see the bus whiz by you shortly after). I usually walk because I don’t trust the government.

Every time I walk into my house I immediately inspect the place for new, strange items and old classics. Here is some of what I found.

Years ago, representatives from various medical and pharmaceutical companies would come by hospitals and give out free samples, pens, clipboards, shirts, tickets to sports games, or food, while pushing their wares. They rightfully outlawed this practice a few years ago, but not before my parents hoarded several lifetimes' worth of free pens. I guess a lifetime’s worth of clipboards is one or fewer clipboards? Regardless, I’ve never had to buy a pen once in my life. I was wearing oversized long sleeved shirts with things like “TEQUIN (GATIFLOXACIN)” emblazoned across my chest regularly in middle school. My most prized possession was a grip of Viagra pens from 1998, all of which I’ve lost since then. I made a lot of shitty jokes with those Viagra pens. My current favorite is Aggrenox. I have no idea what it is, but I always imagined a Hulk-like superhero throwing down half a bottle before smashing through a wall.

I always come home to find a few of these sitting on a coffee table. They are largely comprised of photos of elderly and middle-aged Telugu men standing next to each other and/or holding plaques, along with community news and a long directory of addresses and telephone numbers. A real bonus is an awkward photo of someone’s family sitting on a sofa. The parade of shameless self-promotion, self-aggrandizement and incredibly unflattering low-resolution photos is mind-numbing. And unbelievably sexy.

In the third grade, our teacher was cleaning out the closets during class (instead of teaching us to read) and came across a giant box of old National Geographics. She told us we should take them home since she was throwing them out anyway and I grabbed up about a dozen and put them in my Eastman backpack. They’re filled with wildly outdated information about places like Afghanistan and India and incredibly old advertisements for luxury cars with “computer chips” in them. I like to read them on the toilet. Did you guys know that ice is melting all over the world and it’s bad and we’re going to burn and then drown? I do, now.

This is one of my most prized possessions. I’ve read this Interpol-covered issue of Spin at least a hundred times cover to cover over the last eight years it's been in this bathroom. There’s a fascinating 50 Cent interview in which he discusses the creepy sexuality of “Lollipop” and if he’s a “phony” for making songs about smoking weed and drinking alcohol while remaining sober. There’s the 66.6 greatest moments in goth history listicle. The long advertorial for MLB 2K5 where bands like “The Used” and “Bowling for Soup” have long, fake testimonials about how much they like the game. There’s even a profile of my buddinsky Derrick “Pinky” Beckles and his TV Carnage project. Overall, it’s a complete piece of shit. No wonder they don’t print this magazine anymore. Christ, even I've been on the cover!

Gongura is the Hibiscus cannabinus plant, which is a staple of Andhra cuisine. Andhra Pradesh is a state in South India where my parents are from. Well, technically, the state just split in two and they are now from a new state called Telangana, but moving on.. gongura is sour and usually combined with proteins (shrimp, mutton, lentils) or made into a pacchadi (same thing as a chutney). It also looks a lot like weed! My parents have been growing it for years because it is so specific to the Guntur region of Andhra Pradesh that Indian stores rarely carry it. My mother smuggled some seeds backs from India decades back. She has this story to tell about growing it in Jackson Heights:

“For some reason the soil in Jackson Heights was very conducive to growing gongura. It would grow to be six feet tall. Your brother would say 'I’m going into the forest' and walk into the plants. Our neighbor at the time was a middle-aged Italian wife and husband. One day the woman called me to the fence and told me, 'It’s illegal to grow that around here, so be careful.' I told her it was a vegetable and she just looked at me disbelievingly. The next day I made a curry or something and gave her some with some rice. She liked it, and after that I would occasionally give her some whenever I made it.”

At this point I told my mom they probably threw it directly into the trash and she stopped talking to me. She also repeatedly mentioned the fact that gongura is “iron-rich,” which I omitted from the story.

Dapwell hasn't been on the cover of National Geographic… yet. He's on Twitter — @dapwell

Also, If you're in New York this weekend and like talk shows, music, art, documentaries, and alcohol, come support the party/fundraiser he put together with UnionDocs.