Thursday, June 29, 2006

Fustigate Means to Beat with a Stick: A Bat is a Stick

Wednesday night I attended a baseball game at Fenway Park in Boston. I witnessed the Redsox pummell the Mets. I went with a Mets fan who wore a Mets jersey. Everyone assumed I was a Mets fan, though I wore no jersey--fandom by association. I'm in fact a Yankees fan. I lacked the courage to correct any of the red sox nation. I figured why get fustigated when my team isn't even playing. Many people in and out of New York judge me for my allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. I explain that I would have been a Dodgers fan but they left Brooklyn before I was born, and there was no way I was going to be a Mets fan, they play all the way out at the end of Queens, that's almost Long Island. And if there was one place I was taught to hate growing up in NJ it was Long Island. (Yes, it's kind of like a Nazi hating a fascist for the fascist's political philosophies.)

I could go on about my experiences at Wednesday's game but I'd rather go back in time: I believe it was late May 2005. I attended another inter-league game at Shea Stadium.

I had been invited to witness the Yankees take on the Mets at Shea Stadium. The owner of the tickets had informed me that the game started at 7:30pm. Groovy. I had time to run errands during the day and then head out to Queens. I rode my bike into Manhattan to meet with an Eastern Athletic gym manager about my teaching kickboxing there. As I rode I realized I had made a poor wardrobe choice. I wore a long sleeve, navy-blue, heavy cotton shirt. Turns out and I have different ideas of what morning is. stated that it would be in the mid-60s in the morning. I woke up at about 11 am and I traversed the Manhattan Bridge near noon. At that point in the day the temperture had exceeded 65 degrees by a good 15 degrees. (This of course is all Farenheint. If it were Kelvin I'd be dead.) No problem. I'll meet with Eastern Athletics and then go home and change. As I sit talking to the gym gal, my phone buzzes. I can't really answer it right then. A few minutes go by, the phone rings again. I glance down at the display, it's the Mets fan. (That's actually his legal name.) Still I can't answer the phone. The phone rings again, I'm still in discussion with the gym lady. Finally she leaves me to fill out w-2s and I-9s. I, having worked in an office, was able to multi-task. I listened to my messages and entered my social security number on sheets of paper. The messages said, "Rachael, uhh I read the tickets wrong. The game starts at 1:15pm. Call me back." "Hey, Rachael. Where are you?" "Rachael, what the fuck? Call me back."

I quickly finish up with the gym lady, lock my bike up downtown on Church Street, and hop on the subway.

We made it to the game on time, but our seats are right underneath the Sun and right behind die hard Mets fans. I'm baking in that long heavy dark shirt of mine. I ask the Met's Fan who is wearing a Mets jersey over a t-shirt if I could borrow his T-shirt. He only offers me the jersey, because I seem to only surround myself with smart asses. "Come-on just let me borrow the non-affilated t-shirt." I'm denied. Weak from impending heat-stroke I submit to the offer to wear the Mets jersey.

So now, the Yankees are loosing. The drunken, gregarious Queen natives are very excited. Everytime the Mets turn a double play, or the Mets score a run the Queens guys-- who like to refer to Alex Rodreguiez, nickname A-Rod, as Gay-Rod-- they turn around and give me high-five. I don't want to give them a celebritory high-five, my team is loosing, but I'm in this huge Mets jersey. So everytime I awkwardly and dis-heartenedly engage them in their hand slapping. I don't think they really have the time to hear the crazy circumstances that landed this Yankees fan in a Mets jersey. I don't think they'd understand if I explained, "Thanks for including me and all, but actually I hope your team looses. Sorry for the confusion. Go Yankees! High-five right here guys."

Lesson: don't befriend Mets fans they're ball-busters.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

The Saga of the Ham Continues

Oh that Anna. My best friend Anna sent me an email today. In the subject she wrote, "God Damn that Florist." I don't know if any of you remember the story of Anna sending an ex a ham in an attempt to get him to take back his break up. Read about it here.

Anna had some free time yesterday and rode her bike past the ex-non-monogomous romantic partner's apartment in Staten Island. The bitch of it, she said, was inflating the floatable wheels to ride across the New York Bay and then pedaling a bike across a body of water. I've told her to get a sail for that thing, but who listens to me. Anyway, she hadn't been to his place or even his borough since the break-up. But something in her just couldn't leave well enough alone. So she pedaled on land and water past her exe's home. When she looked up she noticed the address. That was not the address she had given the florist a year ago. "Rachael, who the fuck did they deliver that ham too? They charged me for a ham that he may never have received. God damn it! I'm not resending the Ham. It makes no sense now. Shit. Do I have to resend the ham?"

I wrote back: "No, you don't. Just find out who got the piece of pig and start dating him."

She responded: "But the card read, 'reconsider.' What does the stranger have to reconsider?"

Me: "Maybe the other dude reconsidered his whole existence. He's now an emotional marvel."

Anna: "Maybe the dude is a girl!"

Me: "Shit."

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

If You Found This Blog Via Stay Free

Well, I'm back from my comedy tour of the Ohio River Valley area. While I was away my friend and comedian, Charles Star of Stay Free Magazine,
mentioned me in a post about rape jokes. I'm against them in general. Most of them are told by men who think they're being shocking and edgy. Maybe if this was 1957, but in 2006 when an audience member has to endure 6 or 7 different comedians tell a rape joke in one evening it no longer is shocking or edgy but borders on hack.

Anyway, several Stay Free readers had stopped by "Smallhands ick" thanks to Charles' kind link. However, when these people clicked on the link they did not find my above expressed opinion, instead they found my post about stalkers killing the people they are obsessed with. But, that kind of violence is funny.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Fixed Post From Monday

So here's a day dream I keep having--I'm murdered. Following my violent demise the city of New York call in Briscoe and Logan of NBC's "Law Order" ("But, Rachael, niether Briscoe nor Logan currently star on 'Law and Order.'" Shut up. It's my death fantasy and if I want to imagine the world stuck in the mid-nineties then so be it. Long live Chris Noth and Jerry Orbach-my he rest in peace.) Briscoe and Logan search my room and find my journals. "Rachael, don't you mean your diaries? You're so 13 years old." May I continue? Thank you. Mike Logan and Lenny Briscoe read everyword I wrote because I am an amazing writer who's life and philosophies are real page turners. After hours of laughing, weeping and even some fist pounding they close the last journal and go in search of my killers. They start their investigation with the clique of girls I was "friends" with as a youth. The cops develop a theory that these girls' need to destroy carried over into adulthood. They were not satisified with simplycreating an untrusting, guarded, hate spewing with their emotional manipulations. They had to actually finish me off and kill me. Turns out they all have alibis. Next my heros focus their attention on all the boys I've ever written about. Each one takes a trip downtown for questioning. The new theory is that one of these men has become obsessed with me and therefore had to kill me. They needed to end the suffering they had caused me. But when each one them interrogated they all turn into a quivering, weeping girly-men. They all ball their eyes out when they learn I've been killed and they've lost their chance to win me back, forever. At this point I stop daydreaming never discovering who's robbed the planet of me and my sunny disposition.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Rational Emotional

Let's see how this goes. Before I left for the big week long tour. I had a chat with my best friend Anna. Back in the day we both agreed that stalkers who killed the object of their affection or killed the object's romantic partner or interest were foolish. If you kill you're object then they can't date you because they are dead. Further, if you kill the romantic partner of your object and get caught well, it's hard to court from jail. And, I doubt that your object is going to want to date a murderer. Anna and I were, and I still am, big proponets of non-threatening stalking. A little run-in here at a bar, a little google search there. Maybe a trip to the New Orleans Jazzfest. But you never go on their property and you don't kill them.

That's all changed for Anna. She told me the other night how she now understands why you might want to kill the object of your affection. She said, "Rachael, if he were dead I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. If he were dead the possiblity of dating him would cease to exist, and I could move-on. Same goes for the chick he may or may not be dating. If she were gone then he definitely wouldn't be dating her. Simple. My mind would be at ease and I could put more mental effort into song writing."

"I guess," I said. "Hey, Anna do you want to date me?"
"No. Why?"
"That's cool. No reason."

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

People Say The Darndest Things

There's a saying out there, "I don't trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die." I find this saying very peculiar. Why wouldn't you trust a creature with such resiliance and obvious will to live? To me anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die sounds like a superhero. Everyone loves a superhero. I think the next action movie should be "The Bleeder." "You can cut 'The Bleeder' but 'The Bleeder' won't die! "

Hey, the rest of the week here at "smallhands ick" might be sporadic. If you're west of the Delaware River and East of the Colorado you might be able to check me out in a bowling alley or the like near you. We'll see what happens.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Al Gore Don't Know Nothing

There's all this talk about Al Gore's movie, "An Inconvenient Truth" covering the topic of global warming. I haven't seen it but that doesn't stop me from having an opinion. I'm sure this movie just like the articles in my Natural History magazine blame the burning of fossil fuels for the expidiating of our global warming problem. Bla bla bla. We've heard it all before. And frankly, I don't know how true it all is. Fossil fuel burning and conventional mass-farming (that releases excess nitrates back into the atmosphere) can't be the only thing making the planet hot. I mean what about heaters. They warm up rooms, homes, and office building for months at time. Also you've got stoves and ovens. Have you ever accidently put your hand on lit stove? Ouch. Might as well have touched the sun. And then you have your computers giving off heat and running cars. I ride my bike past idylling cars sitting in traffic all the time and let me tell you the heat they give off is hotter than sexual tension. Woo Eee.

But what I think is the major contributing factor to the increasing tempeture on planet Earth is people. And, not because humans created stoves and heaters. Rather it's because humans are hot. I dont' mean sexy hot, though some are, but just hot. Have you ever been in a room crowded with people? It's friggin warm not to mention filled with stank. Further, when people talk it just makes everything hotter. And boy do people like to talk. Think about it. Why is India so hot? Because they have a shitload of people. And in China the hot places aren't in their mountains but in the crammed crowded stinky cities. There are over 10 million people in NYC and it was very hot today. I rest my case.

So before Al "I invented the internet" Gore starts running his mouth or Natural History Magazine decides to run another article about global warming maybe they should do some more research. Let's face it people. Neither Al nor Natural History magazine are human, which makes them not part of the problem, but shut up anyway.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Father's Day

I have to tell you that being an only child is not easy, people, especially, around the holidays like Mother's Day and Father's Day. While you with siblings can pool your resources to plan a wonderful day and buy a wonderful present for your parents, or of course just dump all the responsiblity of thoughtfulness on the middle child, the entire responsibilty of parental happiness heavily burdens the shoulders of the only child.

This year for Father's Day I'm giving my dad the gift of a happy wife. I am allowing his wife, my mother, to take me shopping for some new clothes on Father's Day. My mother is very dismayed by my wardrobe, and she does not stop complaining about it to my father. I felt it only right to take one for the Parenta team and head to Jersey and allow my mother to spend money on me in honor of my father.

Happy Father's Day, dad!

Thursday, June 15, 2006

I Continue to Rejoice That I'm not Single

I posted a month ago or so how I was glad to be not single and related a horrifying dating scenario that tormented my sleep. Well, it occurred to me out of the blue other ways that singlehood would suck.

I imagine that if I were single and not with the most amazing Jack that I'd only meet men who were comedians or friends of comedians. Now, I could never date a comedian because if it didn't work out (and it wouldn't work out because I'd be a single person and single people lack competency in having a romantic relationship. If they were capable of such a feat then they wouldn't be single. Because, really who chooses to be single?) I'd have to see them again. They would not vanish into the ether like a regular ex-datee. So, all I'd be left to date would be friends of comedians. And not the good friends of comedians. The choice friends have better things to do with their time than hang out at comedy shows in the east village on a weekday. Instead my single self would be left with the "other" friends. I could just see me in my singledom finding one of these dude's cute and relaying such a sentiment to the related comedian. I then imagine nothing happening for months and months. We'd run into each other and talk, and nothing. As the months carry on I find myself less and less attracted to this dude because I'm sure this dude would be single too and therefore wouldn't have theories, opinions or philosophies on life. Only people in relationships have those because they are interesting. That's proven by the fact that someone wants to be with them for a great deal of time. And I'm sure this friend would not banter. If he could banter then he too would be a comic and dating someone. Finally, after he's completely killed any kind of attraction I would have had for him with his personality (that's right men foreplay starts with the chatting) he would kiss me. But it'd be too late. I'd know him to well to be able to "get it up" for even a one night stand. I'd flee into my apartment and avoid phone calls. I'd call him back when I thought he'd be unavailable to answer his phone. I could just see it. A few days later we'd both attend the same birthday party and I'd have to be nice and do the brush off. A vapid girl would talk with him and I pray into my drink, "Please take the vapid girl home. Please take the vapid girl home."

I'm so glad to be with Jack. We never have awkward run-ins. How could we. We're in love and when you're in love you know the other person's schedule.

Or I could see my single self getting drunk with some other comedian's friend. I'm sure this dude would have been recently dumped by his girlfriend of four years whom he still lives with because this is NYC. And though it would be wiser for me to be single in some other town, I wouldn't know that because single people are stupid. If they weren't then they wouldn't be single. Right? And it would be this stupidity that would make me think it was a fine idea to take this emotional wreck home with me. I'd reason hell, I don't have to work Wednesday and he's just been fired, so he doesn't have to work Wednesday. What the hell. (My relationship self didn't work Wednesday but I don't see how that would change due to my relationship status. )

We'd fool around for a couple of hours. I'd be falling asleep and he'd decide he needed to leave which my single self would prefer. As we all know single people like sleeping alone, if they didn't well they'd be in a relationship. And let's face it my single self would not want to make out with this man in the sober light of morning. Don't get me wrong I love having sex in the mornings with Jack, but Jack's whole being turns me on.

In the morning my body would yearn for water and vitamin B. I'd straighten up my room and find this dude's keys. I'd have to decide to throw them away or contact the comic who's friend I had as guest about the keys, and thereby admitting I messed around with their emotional wreck of a friend.

So once again, thank God I have Jack. Not because he's the epitome of marvelous, but because single is stupid.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Extended Metaphor, Analogy or Neither?

Love is the most ridiculous and frustrating thing. It’s kind of like the lottery, you can’t do anything about what you want except want it and wish. Actually you have more control over the winning of a lottery because you can purchase one ticket or a million. There are no tickets to purchase to win love.

And love is not a career. To pursue a career you take steps toward your goals. This gives a person a sense of control of his or her own destiny. Even if that sense of control is a delusion. But in romance there are no steps to take. There was no college or university that offered a degrees in Jack Kundera, or even related field like his brother Alex. I could not get an internship with his best friend hoping that I could parlay that internship into a relationship with Jack. In love there is no schmoozing you can do. There are no conventions or cocktail parties where I could be introduced to Jack’s affection. There isn’t even a skill set that one can develop to have one’s feelings reciprocated. And nepotism is out of the question.

However, you can temp in romance. You can flirt at a bar for a few hours. Put some attention funds in the bank. You can take someone home whom you really have no interest in. Deposit some sex credits. But, like a temp job it isn’t going to be good and there’s no way your going to accept it as a perm position.

Love is random luck that no one can do anything about.

Monday, June 12, 2006

I'm a Little Late

Put the hanger down. I'm not late in that way. I'm just a little behind in my commenting on the news. A few days ago or a week, whatever, a constitutional amendment banning same sex marriage did not pass.

It's a goddamn travesty. We haven't even begun the campaign to ban the use of coal and now this defeat. I know. You are wondering what banning coal and same sex marriage have in common. First off, they're both bans, so they have that in common. Secondly, they both cause cancer. If you don't know-- semen carries the Human Paplova Virus, otherwise referred to as HPV. HPV causes cervical cancer. If two men have sex that doubles the semen flow doubling the chance to spread HPV thereby causing a whole generation of men to develop cervical cancer. Just like coal. Right before they cave in coal mining tunnels causing “breaking news” which interrupts our favorite soap. Inciting me to shout at the television, "What is this shit? A rescue? What about Philip and Beth? Are they getting back together or not? Those miners have 2 days of oxygen left, but this could be the end for my young lovers." I'm then forced to pop in a "Sex and the City" DVD just to get through my morning. This is all succeeds the coal industry strip mining mountains and killing little bunnies and Bambi - not the stripper the deer. Then 'they' burn the coal, you all inhale it like you inhaled glue in the 70s, you get high like some God damn hippie, and you start protesting gay marriage bans. You exclaim, gay people have the right to get cervical cancer. The more you shout the more coal you inhale; the more intoxicated you become; the more cysts grow in your lungs; forming lung cancer, but that’s not before you breed some deformed children.

Are you friggin, beatnik cancer-lovers happy? Why don't you go smoke bowl of coal with your activist judges. That'll keep you're motor running. You make me sick.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

For Jared on his 9th 21st Birthday

My friend Jared turned 30 a couple of weeks ago. His roommate through him a birthday party where his friends had to present a this is your life type piece. The following is what I wrote for the occassion. This might be a little to inside jokey, but I have faith in you all.

Jared do you remember the most romantic 30 minutes of your life? If you don’t I’ll kill myself right now. We were in paradise-a tropical wonderland just south of California. Our day started out normal enough: walking around, taking in the sights, some Mexican-blanket shopping, but then it all changed. I don’t know if was the two for one margaritas we downed at noon or the strippers we saw who possessed that oh so sexy vacant, disinterested come-hither look, but the next thing we knew we were on romantic voyage to the coast. We climbed aboard our chariot painted white like a bridal gown. The paint was chipped because love is chipped and imperfect.

We de-bussed and the sun shown down upon us like a spotlight on actors in a Shakespearean romance. We separated from our gaggle of friends to steal a few moments just the two of us. We walked down to the Mexican waters where we saw a man with horses to rent. We looked at each other and knew it was right. We handed over our pesos to the man, and he handed over his horses. You let me pay for my own horse to let me know you thought of me as equal.

Your callused hands grabbed the reigns as your manly leg swooped over your horse’s back the same time I mounted my steed. I knew it was kismet as our horses trotted down the shoreline in unison. Two hearts riding as one. Well, four hearts riding as one-- we shan’t forget the horses. Not that the horses were upstaging you romantically. I knew somewhere they were just in it for the money, but I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to ruin our time together with thoughts of their whoring.

And so we rode—faster and faster as the wind flew through our hair wildly, the sun glistening off the water, the salt sea air burning our nostrils. It was heaven. It was ecstasy. I wanted to keep riding, and riding. I figured we could ride down to Peru and live in a thatched roof hut on the shores there. I knew these horses could swim through the Panama Canal, I had seen footage of the diving horses in Atlantic City. But before we could pass the boarders of Rosarita, Mexico our ½ hour was up and we had to return the horses or be shot. We turned around, dismounted, and rejoined the others. Our friends never knew of our romance. It stayed in Mexico with Mexican Jared. You went off to marry WGBH and I took up with Jack.

No regrets. (a little wimper) No regrets.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Blame it On the Rain-- Yeah Yeah.

Five years ago when I announced I was moving to Portland, OR my friends and family living in the NYC tri-state area told me not move the Pacific Northwest because it rains all the time there. As I watch the animals in Prospect Park march two by two toward an ark I'm so glad I moved back to sunny New York City.
Jack and I had a fight today, it got ugly and I actually thought we might break up. He wants me to move into his place. I'm not ready for that step, I'm too broke and creatively directionless. Yadda Yadda. Maybe I'll post the transcript of the fight later. Jack and I have stenographer present at all times so that not one moment of our time spent together is lost. This way when one of us dies the other can emerse themselves in our magnificent past. Pretty clever, heh?

Anyway we had this fight and I thought we might break up. My mind raced. I saw myself angry and crying for a couple of months refering to him as that "Lanky Hungarian Fuck." Then one evening I'd feel restless and head into a bar to drown my sorrows. As I walk into the bar I notice there's a commotion. A circle of patrons surround a drunken ruffian harassing a lanky gentleman. I hear the lanky fellow say, "Listen, man I just want a drink." It's Jack. I push my way through the circle of onlookers. I arrive just in time to intercept the ruffian's punch. I block the incoming assualt, throw a quick kick to the ruffian's knee, apply an arm bar that enables me to drag the dude to the floor, throw another kick to his rib cage saying, "Don't touch him." I turn around and flee the bar. I don't want Jack to see me crying because beating up a ruffian is exhausting and upsetting. As is seeing your ex-boyfriend.

Jack follows me out and finds squatting at the side of building weeping. He kneels down on the filthy sidewalk--love cares not about bacteria or urine-- and he puts his arm around me. "I'm sorry I say." He replies, "I'm sorry too." He envelops me in his arms and kisses my temple. We walk silently to the Q train knowing all is forgiven and our love is forever.

Luckily, we didn't break-up, because with the city genetrifying like it is ruffians are harder and harder to find. And, without a ruffian how is anyone supposed to make-up with their ex-boyfriend?

No, I'm not moving in with Jack. Not yet.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Men Don't Like Sex

Today I would like to debunk a great 1st World myth that men enjoy sex. If we look at our society logically we can see that the truth is that men don't enjoy sex.

If you're reading this blog most likely you live in a patriarchial society just like me. Our society has been dominated by men for over 10,000 years. Meaning men have been in charge and are still basically in charge. Here's my question: If you're a man and therefore in charge why would you create a system where you can't get the thing you want most--sex? Why raise women to refuse sex. Why develop an stigma toward women who like to give it up. The words whore and slut are insults. On the contrary the word cook is not an insult. In fact until recently women have been raised to be fine cooks. Which leads me to believe men love food, but hate sex.

If men liked sex they would have established laws that outlaw the wearing of pants. A person could get tax credit for sleeping with as many men as possible. Instead of what we have now, where a person gets credit for having a spouse and we all know married people don't have sex. And did you know that receiving money for sexual favors or paying for sexual favors is illegal in most states in the US? Well, it is. However, it's not illegal to buy or sell food. Do you get it. Men, love food and not sex.

"But, Rachael the porn industry is a billion dollar industry." Yes it is. But, porn workers are not well esteemed in this country. A regular actor may hold political office but not porn actor. Further, porn aids in masturbation, not so much in two (or more) person sex. Why? Because you can watch porn, masturbate, and eat a sandwhich. The eating of a sandwhich or even a bowl of pasta is not really condusive to two person sex.

If we look at our moraes and laws we can see that men do not like sex, but do like food.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Just a Couple of Jokes

Work isn't for everyone. Just like mussles arent' for everyone. Or muscles for that matter. I happen to be a big fan of both mussels and muscles, but work...that's not really my thing. It's not for me, so I try to avoid it just like most people avoid ordering mussels or going to the gym.
I hate using condoms so much I only sleep with guys no one else will.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Occupational Change

I'm thinking I need to branch out and explore other career opportunities. So I'm going to become a screenwriter. Pretty original job idea? My first project will of course be a romantic comedy. Write what you know, and I know romance, and I know comedy. I'm going to use this blog to practice "pitching." I will "pitch" to you my movie idea and you will "green light" it or demand a sexual favor in the pretense of funding my project but really you'll just degrade me and forget my name.

"Hello Mr. Movie Executive/Beef Industry Tycoon who wants to get into the pictures, I have a great idea for a 'Chick Flick (that's industry for romantic comedy--I did my homework.)' Here's the idea. A sensitive womanizer has come up with the perfect way to break-up with women as to not break their hearts. After getting what he wants from his gentle-ladies--sex-- he asks them to marry him. He's only been on a couple of dates with these ladies so a marriage proposal is preposterous. They think he's nuts and/or clingy, so the decline his proposal and flee. The women break off relations and feel very wanted in the process. Meanwhile, our protagonist gets to have sex with a plethora of women. That is until he meets our antagonist, Rhonda. After one night of average sex (because how often are one night stands amazing?) Our Gentleman asks Rhonda to marry him. She says yes, cause what the hell, having a wedding might be fun. She could use a good blender and some cash. That's when hilarity ensues.

It's kind of like the "Philadelphia Story" meets "Dr. Strangelove" meets "Terms of Endearment."

Thursday, June 01, 2006

They Pay You?

The other day an audience member proclaimed to be a professional housewife. Is that just another term for whore?

Does a professional house wife get health insurance and 401K? I think perhaps she a volunteer housewife, like a volunteer firefighter. Or maybe the household intern. A household intern that's not bad. She gets meals, granted she has to prepare them. Unlike other internships there is no photocopying or data entry, sweet. You might even get a movie stipend. Granted you have to go see "Toy Story 8: Tom Hanks Finally Buries the Memory of Jimmy Stuart." I imagine household interning has the worst hours of any internship-- 24 hours a day on call (that kind of sucks.).