I once had a friend, years ago, who told me she never had to go to an interview in her entire life. She inherited a ass-load of money from her grandmother, bought a gym, sold it, and now dabbles in real estate. Never worked for anyone but herself, if you can say she ever really worked a day in her life. She was - and probably still is - oblivious as to what an honest day's work actually feels like. And to not know how to go through an interview, well, that's one of those teeth-gritting rituals the rest of us love when it's over - sort of like visiting that one crazy aunt who loves gossip, watches cheesy talk shows and wears a lethal amount of cheap, flowery perfume.
Everyone remembers when they went on their first interviews after finishing whatever level of schooling they completed. Guys in ties borrowed from dad sitting uneasily in generic waiting room chairs, Adam's apples bobbing up and down like a possessed super ball; young women in their one dark business suit they received as a graduation present, hair as conservatively pressed as necessary, practicing to themselves over and over about how they want to be "a team player" and anxious to express their plans to eventually get their Master's degree.
I remember when I went on my first "serious" interviews. It wasn't like those knucklehead summer jobs where the questions went something like:
Manager: "So, do you do drugs?"
Applicant (lying): "No, sir"
Manager: "Are you sure?"
Applicant (still lying): "Yes, sir"
Manager: "Can you handle a mop? Can you work weekends? Can you get here on time? Are you planning on leaving at the end of the summer? Are you willing to be humiliated by me every day?"
Applicant (to self): (Man, I wish I had some drugs right now)
Back then, all you really cared about was getting enough money for gas, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and maybe a dime bag of reefer (back when you could still buy a dime bag). Life was all about the weekend, who was having a party when their parents went away and finding creative ways to call in sick when you partied too much the night before. Today, it's about paying off the credit cards, paying for day care and fighting the urge to break into your 401k to give you some financial breathing room.
I remember some of those early "serious" interviews. I'd be sitting there, whipping out impressive-sounding answers, maintaining eye contact, and always remembering to ask questions at the end - all by the book. What was really going on in my mind was:
"I wonder if there are any hot chicks who work here?"
"The pay here better not suck."
"Man, the receptionist has a great rack."
For some people, holding interviews is an unpleasant little piece of business that takes them out of the rhythm of their day. I've seen some people put off the applicant so they could finish their lunch so their soup doesn't get that awful "skin" on the top. I've seen others hold off an interview so they can finish giving little kissy noises on the phone to their a) partner, b) children, c) dog. Then, they bring the applicant in and promptly eviscerate them.
And don't you just love the assembly line questions you get? It's like the interviewer puts absolutely no effort into the process - kind of like my writing. Stop me if you've heard these before. I added some suggested responses:
"What would you say is your biggest weakness?" ("Falling asleep in the bathroom stall so that I have toilet paper holder marks on my face, cruising the Internet for dirty jokes, borderline sexual harassment")
"What's the difference between the words "Manager" and "Leader"? (The spelling)
"Where do you want to be in five years?" (Setting you on fire and throwing you off the roof of the building and then river-dancing on your parking space)
It's nice to be the person interviewing the applicants, but it's a shame you can't say what you REALLY want to say; something along the lines of "This is the worst resume I've ever seen" or "You're pissing me off. Just say you don't know the answer or I'm going to put your head through the wall." Usually, you have a pretty good idea if that person is a good fit in the first five minutes, but you allow that person the luxury of either talking themselves into or out of an opportunity. Most of the time, the person you hire isn't someone who blows you away as much as someone who doesn't suck as much as the other candidates.
But, no matter how many interviews you conduct, you know that, eventually, you will be sitting on the other side of the desk again and breaking out the same awful answers that you yourself endured so many times before. After each response, you think to yourself sarcastically, "Well, that didn't make me sound TOO much like a horse's ass" or "Yep, that's it. I'm getting drunk tonight." Was it worth it? Was jumping through all those hoops, filling out all those forms and turning your resume into a masterpiece of creative fiction worth all of that when you finally land that job?
Ask me in five years. Apparently, that's where I want to be.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
"So, Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?"
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Bar None
One of the guys in my office had a going away party thrown for him at a local bar this past Friday. The bar isn't actually a bar, to be exact. It's one of those multi-purpose thingamajigs that has a proper bar, dance floor, private club, arcade and deck where bands like REO Speedwagon, Loverboy and the remaining members of Blue Oyster Cult play to crusted-over baby boomers with ponytails, earrings and at least one NASCAR sticker on their vehicle (the men) or winners with acid-washed jeans, tobacco-stained fingers and cheap whore-shoes (the "women"). Anyway, it was a nice little get together. People letting their hair down just a little, talking about work and then turning around and complaining that all anyone does outside of work is talk about work.
We were out on the deck. It is done up in some sort of fake-me-out Polynesian motif with thatched roofs over the island bars, dime-store surfboards and loads of beer posters and advertisements with sun-blasted blondes in bikinis. It went well with the hard cement we were standing on and stools that look like they came from your parents' basement decades after they stopped throwing "cool" adult parties. It gave a nice view of the river - an unobstructed view of the wildlife, majestic marsh grass and weekend mafia hits floating downstream. It was a bit warm and the humidity brought the alcohol flush right to the surface of your skin.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I did find the constitution to power down a couple of White Russians (shut up!). I don't drink beer, wine or hard liquor. I used to, but I lost my taste for them - kind of like my Summer of the Peppers. I told you about that in an earlier story and if I didn't, you can wrestle with the uneasy shifting of feet that comes with feeling like an outsider. The drinks weren't bad, but they tasted a little weak. I basically paid an arm and a leg for what amounted to a melted coffee milkshake. But, since I go out drinking about as often as the spaceships from Mars land on the Harvest Moon (what, didn't get the memo?), I figure what the hell. It's either this or spend my money on food, gas or Internet porn.
There is a phenomenon out there in the world of bars and nightclubs. I never understood it, even though I, personally, experienced it firsthand. For some reason, people - mostly females - oh hell, almost all of them are female - look at bartenders like they are rock stars. I blame the movie "Cocktail" for creating these ridiculous images. Actually, there are probably a thousand things to blame on that movie. Googly-eyed idiot women fawning all over bartenders, flirting with them and then actually having the low self-esteem to BRAG to their friends that they have a date with one! Hey, I'm not saying this out of jealousy - I used to be a bartender! And what's more, I used to be the one with all the easy leg being thrown my way. It was easier than spotting zits on a teenager.
Now, this next part you are not going to like, ladies: Bartenders talk. If you are looked at as a cheap, easy woman by a bartender (and all it takes is sleeping with one), you are looked at as a cheap, easy woman not only by every bartender in that establishment and other nearby establishment, but by every guy and most girls who frequent those places. Why? Because bartenders talk. Go on one date with a bartender and you might as well break out the glittery "I'm a Whore" shirt. Sad but true. Bartenders are NOT rock stars, they are not noble, and there is nothing sexy about being one or dating one. I had been one for years, I've dated female bartenders. Unless you can take being looked at like a slut by everyone in the bar or club, find yourself someone else to flirt with.
Anyway, back to the fun. There was a knock-off reggae band opening up for the main act. They played all the reggae songs you know. Know how I know that? Because EVERY knock-off reggae band plays the same damned songs. Sure, it works for the bloated businesswomen and the khaki-slacked businessmen, both of whom wouldn't dare introduce anything slightly different to their musical palates, but for people who have even a slightly remedial love of music, you'd rather go bobbing for urinal cakes in a public toilet than have to hear yet another reggae version of "Hot, Hot, Hot!" The main act was a local band that has been around for a handful of years and has its own loyal fan base. You know the type of "band" I'm talking about - a bunch of tousle-haired post-college grads who imitate the annoying formulaic styles of the day, adding as much whiny vocal as humanly possible and dress so non-trendy that they actually are uber-trendy. They do lame covers of lame bands like Third Eye Blind, Matchbox 20, or other identical-sounding lame bands and have groupies who are both hotter than anyone in the band deserves and also about 15 years older than the oldest member of the band. Reflected glory is a mental disease, good citizen. Fling them into the Twinkie van and behind the bars of the nuthouse for a decade or so.
I'm not against drinking or going to bars - I just don't do it very much anymore. To each his (or her) own. I would have hoped that things might have changed since I was a regular customer. Maybe you feel the same way. Maybe you don't. And yet, in every bar that you go to, you are bound to find about a dozen examples of everything I just explained above.
Bar none.
We were out on the deck. It is done up in some sort of fake-me-out Polynesian motif with thatched roofs over the island bars, dime-store surfboards and loads of beer posters and advertisements with sun-blasted blondes in bikinis. It went well with the hard cement we were standing on and stools that look like they came from your parents' basement decades after they stopped throwing "cool" adult parties. It gave a nice view of the river - an unobstructed view of the wildlife, majestic marsh grass and weekend mafia hits floating downstream. It was a bit warm and the humidity brought the alcohol flush right to the surface of your skin.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I did find the constitution to power down a couple of White Russians (shut up!). I don't drink beer, wine or hard liquor. I used to, but I lost my taste for them - kind of like my Summer of the Peppers. I told you about that in an earlier story and if I didn't, you can wrestle with the uneasy shifting of feet that comes with feeling like an outsider. The drinks weren't bad, but they tasted a little weak. I basically paid an arm and a leg for what amounted to a melted coffee milkshake. But, since I go out drinking about as often as the spaceships from Mars land on the Harvest Moon (what, didn't get the memo?), I figure what the hell. It's either this or spend my money on food, gas or Internet porn.
There is a phenomenon out there in the world of bars and nightclubs. I never understood it, even though I, personally, experienced it firsthand. For some reason, people - mostly females - oh hell, almost all of them are female - look at bartenders like they are rock stars. I blame the movie "Cocktail" for creating these ridiculous images. Actually, there are probably a thousand things to blame on that movie. Googly-eyed idiot women fawning all over bartenders, flirting with them and then actually having the low self-esteem to BRAG to their friends that they have a date with one! Hey, I'm not saying this out of jealousy - I used to be a bartender! And what's more, I used to be the one with all the easy leg being thrown my way. It was easier than spotting zits on a teenager.
Now, this next part you are not going to like, ladies: Bartenders talk. If you are looked at as a cheap, easy woman by a bartender (and all it takes is sleeping with one), you are looked at as a cheap, easy woman not only by every bartender in that establishment and other nearby establishment, but by every guy and most girls who frequent those places. Why? Because bartenders talk. Go on one date with a bartender and you might as well break out the glittery "I'm a Whore" shirt. Sad but true. Bartenders are NOT rock stars, they are not noble, and there is nothing sexy about being one or dating one. I had been one for years, I've dated female bartenders. Unless you can take being looked at like a slut by everyone in the bar or club, find yourself someone else to flirt with.
Anyway, back to the fun. There was a knock-off reggae band opening up for the main act. They played all the reggae songs you know. Know how I know that? Because EVERY knock-off reggae band plays the same damned songs. Sure, it works for the bloated businesswomen and the khaki-slacked businessmen, both of whom wouldn't dare introduce anything slightly different to their musical palates, but for people who have even a slightly remedial love of music, you'd rather go bobbing for urinal cakes in a public toilet than have to hear yet another reggae version of "Hot, Hot, Hot!" The main act was a local band that has been around for a handful of years and has its own loyal fan base. You know the type of "band" I'm talking about - a bunch of tousle-haired post-college grads who imitate the annoying formulaic styles of the day, adding as much whiny vocal as humanly possible and dress so non-trendy that they actually are uber-trendy. They do lame covers of lame bands like Third Eye Blind, Matchbox 20, or other identical-sounding lame bands and have groupies who are both hotter than anyone in the band deserves and also about 15 years older than the oldest member of the band. Reflected glory is a mental disease, good citizen. Fling them into the Twinkie van and behind the bars of the nuthouse for a decade or so.
I'm not against drinking or going to bars - I just don't do it very much anymore. To each his (or her) own. I would have hoped that things might have changed since I was a regular customer. Maybe you feel the same way. Maybe you don't. And yet, in every bar that you go to, you are bound to find about a dozen examples of everything I just explained above.
Bar none.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Isn't That Cute?
I observed a conversation the other day between a man and a woman. Actually, she was talking and he was listening. Come to think of it, he was pretending to listen. I'm a man, and I can always tell when one of my brothers of the species is pulling the old clenched-jaw, glazed-eye stare while reviewing highlights of last week's football game in his head. She made the fatal mistake of saying to him, "Look, I just got pictures of my little dog! Isn't he the cutest thing you've ever seen?" See, ladies, unless we are rabid dog enthusiasts, we couldn't care less about your little dogs, and even those men who are fans of dogs certainly aren't going to give a damn about your little rat-dog.
We're men. We HATE "cute".
"Cute," to us, is reserved for women's backsides or sardonic responses to idiot co-workers changing the letters on our computer keyboards. As men, we are conditioned to capture, kill, and eat "cute". See that little deer over there? The fairer sex may give that ever-annoying cry of "awwwwwww" while men are thinking what we were created to think: "Mmmm, venison".
It was funny watching that conversation because I could see him casting his eyes about for someone - anyone - to rescue him from a painful encounter. Panic can set in if you don't have the wherewithall to drift off into football scores, fantasy duels with fire-breathing dragons, or sex with super models. Often, a guy will have the following thoughts going through his head in such a situation:
"She must be on the Olympic Talking Team"
"I wonder what she looks like naked."
"Do I have to poop or just fart?"
We speak different versions of the same language. For example, women may actually refer to a certain room of a house as a parlor. For men, it's a living room. And in that parlor, there may be a sofa. Men don't own sofas. We own a couch. And on that sofa, a woman might enjoy a cocktail - while we drink booze. Women might bawl during an AT&T commercial while we reserve the right to get slightly misty at the end of Field of Dreams.
This is nothing new. The history of differences between men and women is as old as the divvying up of fig leaves in Eden. Both genders have survived this long so I guess something works. Don't get me wrong, there are men who just "adore" kittens, shopping, and gossip and there are women who are rabid sports fanatics, love movies with explosions, and are addicted to pornography. However, in general, a woman should not be surprised when she wants to show you dozens of pictures of her puppy's first bath and you recoil in horror. Would she be as enthusiastic about sudden-death overtime?
That's a mistake we both make. We figure that if WE find it interesting then others should find it interesting. We look at women as if they should respond as men do and vice versa. Women aren't bitchy - they're just women acting like women have always acted. Men are not immature - we're just acting like men have always acted. Who is to say men are immature? Women? That is beyond ridiculous and just plain stupid. Women are bitches? According to whom? Men? Who are we to say when women "act like men" they are bitches? We both have gender-bashing blood on our hands and we are both equally guilty.
However, we should not deride our differences, in fact, we should celebrate them. That certainly doesn't mean we can't cross over to the other side and indulge in what the opposite sex typically enjoys. Just let the other person voluntarily cross that bridge and don't try to drag him or her by their hair to your side. The next time I am cornered with a girl wanting to show me pictures of her stupid little dog and ask "isn't that cute?," I'll dig out an old Bob Gibson baseball card and ask her, "Look, in 1968, wouldn't you say Gibson's ERA was one of the modern era's most impressive pitching records?" It might bring the conversation to a thankfully brief halt.
Then, while watching her walk away, I can lower my gaze slightly and say, "yep, that sure is cute."
We're men. We HATE "cute".
"Cute," to us, is reserved for women's backsides or sardonic responses to idiot co-workers changing the letters on our computer keyboards. As men, we are conditioned to capture, kill, and eat "cute". See that little deer over there? The fairer sex may give that ever-annoying cry of "awwwwwww" while men are thinking what we were created to think: "Mmmm, venison".
It was funny watching that conversation because I could see him casting his eyes about for someone - anyone - to rescue him from a painful encounter. Panic can set in if you don't have the wherewithall to drift off into football scores, fantasy duels with fire-breathing dragons, or sex with super models. Often, a guy will have the following thoughts going through his head in such a situation:
"She must be on the Olympic Talking Team"
"I wonder what she looks like naked."
"Do I have to poop or just fart?"
We speak different versions of the same language. For example, women may actually refer to a certain room of a house as a parlor. For men, it's a living room. And in that parlor, there may be a sofa. Men don't own sofas. We own a couch. And on that sofa, a woman might enjoy a cocktail - while we drink booze. Women might bawl during an AT&T commercial while we reserve the right to get slightly misty at the end of Field of Dreams.
This is nothing new. The history of differences between men and women is as old as the divvying up of fig leaves in Eden. Both genders have survived this long so I guess something works. Don't get me wrong, there are men who just "adore" kittens, shopping, and gossip and there are women who are rabid sports fanatics, love movies with explosions, and are addicted to pornography. However, in general, a woman should not be surprised when she wants to show you dozens of pictures of her puppy's first bath and you recoil in horror. Would she be as enthusiastic about sudden-death overtime?
That's a mistake we both make. We figure that if WE find it interesting then others should find it interesting. We look at women as if they should respond as men do and vice versa. Women aren't bitchy - they're just women acting like women have always acted. Men are not immature - we're just acting like men have always acted. Who is to say men are immature? Women? That is beyond ridiculous and just plain stupid. Women are bitches? According to whom? Men? Who are we to say when women "act like men" they are bitches? We both have gender-bashing blood on our hands and we are both equally guilty.
However, we should not deride our differences, in fact, we should celebrate them. That certainly doesn't mean we can't cross over to the other side and indulge in what the opposite sex typically enjoys. Just let the other person voluntarily cross that bridge and don't try to drag him or her by their hair to your side. The next time I am cornered with a girl wanting to show me pictures of her stupid little dog and ask "isn't that cute?," I'll dig out an old Bob Gibson baseball card and ask her, "Look, in 1968, wouldn't you say Gibson's ERA was one of the modern era's most impressive pitching records?" It might bring the conversation to a thankfully brief halt.
Then, while watching her walk away, I can lower my gaze slightly and say, "yep, that sure is cute."
Tele-bitchin'
It's time to take another pitchforked lunge at a common enemy. That enemy is television. It sure as hell is common and it is my enemy. Time was when you could flip on the tube and be treated to any number of decent television programs. We didn't have cable, VCRs, or...
...hold it a second. No time for meandering. Here is my beef: There are too damned many pretty people on television. I was driving around and decided to get a bite to eat at a local hash-sling joint. When I dine alone, I want something to read. Hell, when I dine with others, sometimes I'd rather have something to read. I went to the convenience store to pick up some harmless piece of periodical nonsense. The selection was slim. I read the newspaper earlier that day, so my choices were either hot rod magazines with a vacant blonde bending over a souped-up Chevy, stupid teen girl magazines with the Queen of the Idiot Clowns, Jessica Simpson, on the cover, or Entertainment Weekly (EW). When faced with choosing the lesser evil, you still choose evil. My evil was EW.
I cruised into the restaurant and into the thoroughly uninteresting booth by the window. To my horror, when I looked at the cover of the magazine, it was the Fall Television Preview DOUBLE issue. Just think, I could have been looking at chrome manifolds or learning about where Nick likes to be scratched. So, I took several deep breaths and opened it up.
I was expecting bad. What I saw was worse. Is it me or is every non-reality show about cops, doctors, lawyers or sitcoms where the father is a freaking idiot, the wife is the corner-of-the-mouth voice of reason, and the multiple wise-cracking kids are thoroughly unfunny? I don't know about you, but the last people I want to be rubbing elbows with at the strip club as we're doing body shots off of dancers are cops, doctors or lawyers. I am sure there are some of each who are certified hell-raisers, but, in general, I'd much rather hang out with guys who don't have a professional code of ethics - and I especially don't want to throw in my lot with people who continually BREAK their codes of ethics when they're off the job.
And where in God's name are the ugly people? See, this was my problem with "Friends." I need to see ugly people on a show for me to buy into it even a LITTLE bit. That's why M*A*S*H, Cheers and Northern Exposure worked for me. Ugly people. Not vomit-inducing ugly, but at least not the kind that people would be fantasizing about while they're in the bath tub.
All the men on television now have to be steely-eyed, slightly-unshaven, muscular hunks. All the women have to be tall, leggy, sexual bitches who always "get what they want." EVERYONE! Even the ugly people are several levels more attractive than you or I could ever dream to be. I can see the pitch meetings, "It'll involve a family of lawyers/cops/doctors. One will be the rebel, another the practical joker, still another the straight-laced one with a dark secret, and the fourth will be the strong, sensitive one. Oh, and of course, they have to all be drop-dead gorgeous."
How breathtakingly boring.
I want to think that television studios are complete jackasses for continually putting garbage like this on the airwaves, but, they're just sating the appetites of an even more idiotic American public. Yes, the American public is full of complete idiots who watch shows like this. Then again, if the networks just went with good programming and didn't try to pander to the lowest common denominator by emphasizing story over aesthetics, then...
...get a hold of yourself, man! You're talking nonsense! We all know that will never happen. Fully 75% of those beautiful people have zero talent whatsoever. They could always earn some scratch by hiring themselves out as mannequins for cut-rate dry goods stores. At least we could buy into believing that
Commercials for these shows are a joke, too. The MTV-style editing is annoying and unnecessary. It's not new or cutting-edge anymore, and it does not heighten our desire to watch the show. If anything, it turns us off from ever wanting to tune in. Sometimes there is a too-serious-to-be-taken-seriously voice-over person who cannot possibly buy into what he's saying and the whole thing wraps up with the ensemble cast all copping that laughable "tough-guy" and "tough-chick" pose. You know the one where they pull the arrogant bitch-face and dramatically cross their arms like it is supposed to impress us. Wow.
Can't we just have a show where people look like us - stupid, ugly and out of shape? Well, besides game shows, that is. Mr. (and Ms.) Television Studio Executive, America is only as stupid as you make us, and right now, you are the Prometheus of stupidity-as-entertainment in America. If every act of destruction is indeed an act of creation, then please destruct us with a little more class.
(I actually held back in my rant, otherwise I could have really been ugly.)
(But then, I'd never get to be on TV.)
...hold it a second. No time for meandering. Here is my beef: There are too damned many pretty people on television. I was driving around and decided to get a bite to eat at a local hash-sling joint. When I dine alone, I want something to read. Hell, when I dine with others, sometimes I'd rather have something to read. I went to the convenience store to pick up some harmless piece of periodical nonsense. The selection was slim. I read the newspaper earlier that day, so my choices were either hot rod magazines with a vacant blonde bending over a souped-up Chevy, stupid teen girl magazines with the Queen of the Idiot Clowns, Jessica Simpson, on the cover, or Entertainment Weekly (EW). When faced with choosing the lesser evil, you still choose evil. My evil was EW.
I cruised into the restaurant and into the thoroughly uninteresting booth by the window. To my horror, when I looked at the cover of the magazine, it was the Fall Television Preview DOUBLE issue. Just think, I could have been looking at chrome manifolds or learning about where Nick likes to be scratched. So, I took several deep breaths and opened it up.
I was expecting bad. What I saw was worse. Is it me or is every non-reality show about cops, doctors, lawyers or sitcoms where the father is a freaking idiot, the wife is the corner-of-the-mouth voice of reason, and the multiple wise-cracking kids are thoroughly unfunny? I don't know about you, but the last people I want to be rubbing elbows with at the strip club as we're doing body shots off of dancers are cops, doctors or lawyers. I am sure there are some of each who are certified hell-raisers, but, in general, I'd much rather hang out with guys who don't have a professional code of ethics - and I especially don't want to throw in my lot with people who continually BREAK their codes of ethics when they're off the job.
And where in God's name are the ugly people? See, this was my problem with "Friends." I need to see ugly people on a show for me to buy into it even a LITTLE bit. That's why M*A*S*H, Cheers and Northern Exposure worked for me. Ugly people. Not vomit-inducing ugly, but at least not the kind that people would be fantasizing about while they're in the bath tub.
All the men on television now have to be steely-eyed, slightly-unshaven, muscular hunks. All the women have to be tall, leggy, sexual bitches who always "get what they want." EVERYONE! Even the ugly people are several levels more attractive than you or I could ever dream to be. I can see the pitch meetings, "It'll involve a family of lawyers/cops/doctors. One will be the rebel, another the practical joker, still another the straight-laced one with a dark secret, and the fourth will be the strong, sensitive one. Oh, and of course, they have to all be drop-dead gorgeous."
How breathtakingly boring.
I want to think that television studios are complete jackasses for continually putting garbage like this on the airwaves, but, they're just sating the appetites of an even more idiotic American public. Yes, the American public is full of complete idiots who watch shows like this. Then again, if the networks just went with good programming and didn't try to pander to the lowest common denominator by emphasizing story over aesthetics, then...
...get a hold of yourself, man! You're talking nonsense! We all know that will never happen. Fully 75% of those beautiful people have zero talent whatsoever. They could always earn some scratch by hiring themselves out as mannequins for cut-rate dry goods stores. At least we could buy into believing that
Commercials for these shows are a joke, too. The MTV-style editing is annoying and unnecessary. It's not new or cutting-edge anymore, and it does not heighten our desire to watch the show. If anything, it turns us off from ever wanting to tune in. Sometimes there is a too-serious-to-be-taken-seriously voice-over person who cannot possibly buy into what he's saying and the whole thing wraps up with the ensemble cast all copping that laughable "tough-guy" and "tough-chick" pose. You know the one where they pull the arrogant bitch-face and dramatically cross their arms like it is supposed to impress us. Wow.
Can't we just have a show where people look like us - stupid, ugly and out of shape? Well, besides game shows, that is. Mr. (and Ms.) Television Studio Executive, America is only as stupid as you make us, and right now, you are the Prometheus of stupidity-as-entertainment in America. If every act of destruction is indeed an act of creation, then please destruct us with a little more class.
(I actually held back in my rant, otherwise I could have really been ugly.)
(But then, I'd never get to be on TV.)
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Essence of Style
I have had some interesting conversations about my writing style. I think it's funny that anyone thinks I have a style at all. Writing came to me almost by mistake, and, like a lot of people who are brutally honest about their creative endeavors, I don't regard myself very highly. However, I don't take that as a burden. I take it as a freedom. I tried copying the writing styles of many different writers - everyone from Ernest Hemingway to Alexander Pope to Nathaniel Hawthorne to Edgar Allen Poe to Bill Bryson to Andy Rooney. It was a fun exercise to see if I could try to capture the essence of their styles. I also realized that I could not truly write like any of them to fool the public, but it helped me shake off the nettles of what I thought writing should be. I decided that, hey, I don't WANT to write like them. It would be like toiling in obscurity as a tribute band to some pop music star with nothing but the pity and disdain of my friends as a receipt for my efforts.
As I have mentioned before, I was told to "just write, young man!" Just sit my ass down and start typing. Something worthwhile will eventually come blasting out of your fingers. So I did. I sat my ass down and just started writing. I like to call it "Improv Writing." Just take the smallest shade of an idea and run naked with it. Some have told me that it goes against the convention of structured or proper writing. Well, that's kind of my point. It's NOT supposed to be like anything else. I also am thoroughly convinced that many, many people out there write in the same fashion. How refreshing! It's exciting to whip your literary steed into a full gallop and then just get the hell out of the way and let it go wherever it wants to go.
I once had a professor in college by the name of W. D. Snodgrass. It was Poetry 351 or something, and you had to submit works to be able to be accepted into the class in the first place. Personally, I cannot stand poetry - never could. But, I took it for two reasons: 1) I needed it for my English major, and 2) I wanted to explore ALL disciplines of writing in order to improve myself as a writer. Confused? Let me paint it this way: I cannot stand rap music. I won't share my reasons, but it's probably not what you think they would be for a white, 40-ish male. Yet, I think rap is important for music as a whole. Without rap, music would still have a much more narrow sluice into our lives. I am not much for modern music, but some of the modern music I do like owes a debt to the expansion of the canvas that rap has created.
Now, back to the wonderfully-named Mr. Snodgrass.
Do you remember those scientists that Gary Larson used to draw for his outstanding comic "The Far Side"? well, he looked like that. Tall, bald on top, with a mesmerizing shock of grayish-white hair that circled his head like a thick, bushy reef. Stately spectacles, gloriously full beard, corduroys, and he drove a wood-paneled station wagon to boot. Plus, he had a booming voice that commanded respect and conveyed compassion at the same time. He was a force of nature. Oh, and he also happened to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1959 for "Heart's Needle". This man came to the classroom with credentials. Yet, none of that impressed me as much as something he said on the first day of class. My words won't do him justice, but, to paraphrase, he hit us with this:
"If you do all of the assignments and complete them on time, you will get a B in my class...I am not here to tell you if your poetry is good or bad. I am only one man with one opinion. I am not one to judge whether something is good or not."
It went something like that. Now, writers are some of the most egotistical, back-stabbing, jealous people on this planet. Well, that pretty much goes for most people in any artistic profession. But, here was a frigging Pulitzer Prize-winning poet sublimating his well-earned chops for the betterment of a classroom of people who can't wait to get back to their dorm rooms and binge drink themselves into the morning. He didn't just impress me as a professor, he impressed me as a man, and I've never forgotten what he did for us, and for me.
It was being armed with that message that really helped propel me to write more frequently. I am not a writer. I am a man who writes. I don't care if I write a hundred books, I will never be a writer. Writers generally have a clue, or a concept, of what they are doing. Some write the endings before they write the beginnings of their books and just find ways to connect the wires in between. I just sit down and start typing. Where the story goes is completely up to the story itself. This piece here started with just a shadow of an idea. For the cynics and critics out there, here is a free shot at me.
I've always wanted to meet regularly with like-minded people for a sort of Improv-Writing workshop. Each meeting would have assignments to be completed at the meeting. For example, if there are six people in the group, everyone suggests one noun. That's six nouns, total, for those of you scoring at home. The assignment? Write a paragraph or two that contains all six nouns. Or maybe a poem with all six, or a song. Maybe get into groups of two and write a skit that contains all six nouns. Read them in front of the group and everyone votes on the best. Nerdy? Sure. But, one person's Improv-Writing group is another's Renaissance Festival or Drum Circle. Hey (hey), you (you), get offa my cloud.
So, if you have an idea, no matter how big or how small, for God's sake, write it down. Does it matter that no one else may see it? Does it matter that it may only be one sentence long? Photographs and videos capture moments in time - visual moments in time, a time that will never grace this good Earth ever again. Once it's experienced, it's already passed. Images are the hearts of memory. The documented words that you put to paper, computer screen, or whatever your chosen conveyance may be, is the essence of the soul of memory. Never miss a chance to put both to work for you. And do it with style.
Yours.
As I have mentioned before, I was told to "just write, young man!" Just sit my ass down and start typing. Something worthwhile will eventually come blasting out of your fingers. So I did. I sat my ass down and just started writing. I like to call it "Improv Writing." Just take the smallest shade of an idea and run naked with it. Some have told me that it goes against the convention of structured or proper writing. Well, that's kind of my point. It's NOT supposed to be like anything else. I also am thoroughly convinced that many, many people out there write in the same fashion. How refreshing! It's exciting to whip your literary steed into a full gallop and then just get the hell out of the way and let it go wherever it wants to go.
I once had a professor in college by the name of W. D. Snodgrass. It was Poetry 351 or something, and you had to submit works to be able to be accepted into the class in the first place. Personally, I cannot stand poetry - never could. But, I took it for two reasons: 1) I needed it for my English major, and 2) I wanted to explore ALL disciplines of writing in order to improve myself as a writer. Confused? Let me paint it this way: I cannot stand rap music. I won't share my reasons, but it's probably not what you think they would be for a white, 40-ish male. Yet, I think rap is important for music as a whole. Without rap, music would still have a much more narrow sluice into our lives. I am not much for modern music, but some of the modern music I do like owes a debt to the expansion of the canvas that rap has created.
Now, back to the wonderfully-named Mr. Snodgrass.
Do you remember those scientists that Gary Larson used to draw for his outstanding comic "The Far Side"? well, he looked like that. Tall, bald on top, with a mesmerizing shock of grayish-white hair that circled his head like a thick, bushy reef. Stately spectacles, gloriously full beard, corduroys, and he drove a wood-paneled station wagon to boot. Plus, he had a booming voice that commanded respect and conveyed compassion at the same time. He was a force of nature. Oh, and he also happened to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1959 for "Heart's Needle". This man came to the classroom with credentials. Yet, none of that impressed me as much as something he said on the first day of class. My words won't do him justice, but, to paraphrase, he hit us with this:
"If you do all of the assignments and complete them on time, you will get a B in my class...I am not here to tell you if your poetry is good or bad. I am only one man with one opinion. I am not one to judge whether something is good or not."
It went something like that. Now, writers are some of the most egotistical, back-stabbing, jealous people on this planet. Well, that pretty much goes for most people in any artistic profession. But, here was a frigging Pulitzer Prize-winning poet sublimating his well-earned chops for the betterment of a classroom of people who can't wait to get back to their dorm rooms and binge drink themselves into the morning. He didn't just impress me as a professor, he impressed me as a man, and I've never forgotten what he did for us, and for me.
It was being armed with that message that really helped propel me to write more frequently. I am not a writer. I am a man who writes. I don't care if I write a hundred books, I will never be a writer. Writers generally have a clue, or a concept, of what they are doing. Some write the endings before they write the beginnings of their books and just find ways to connect the wires in between. I just sit down and start typing. Where the story goes is completely up to the story itself. This piece here started with just a shadow of an idea. For the cynics and critics out there, here is a free shot at me.
I've always wanted to meet regularly with like-minded people for a sort of Improv-Writing workshop. Each meeting would have assignments to be completed at the meeting. For example, if there are six people in the group, everyone suggests one noun. That's six nouns, total, for those of you scoring at home. The assignment? Write a paragraph or two that contains all six nouns. Or maybe a poem with all six, or a song. Maybe get into groups of two and write a skit that contains all six nouns. Read them in front of the group and everyone votes on the best. Nerdy? Sure. But, one person's Improv-Writing group is another's Renaissance Festival or Drum Circle. Hey (hey), you (you), get offa my cloud.
So, if you have an idea, no matter how big or how small, for God's sake, write it down. Does it matter that no one else may see it? Does it matter that it may only be one sentence long? Photographs and videos capture moments in time - visual moments in time, a time that will never grace this good Earth ever again. Once it's experienced, it's already passed. Images are the hearts of memory. The documented words that you put to paper, computer screen, or whatever your chosen conveyance may be, is the essence of the soul of memory. Never miss a chance to put both to work for you. And do it with style.
Yours.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Tom, Dick and Harry Potter
I might have mentioned before that I am not a big fan of fiction. If I haven't, I am now. It's always nice to read about constructed and contrived characters and circumstances, but I'd much rather see it on the big screen while munching on criminally large handfuls of Raisinettes. I've always found facts much more interesting than anything that could spring from the imagination of a writer - no matter how talented that writer is or was. The fact that some of the most bizarre things have actually occurred, and cannot be dismissed with a wave of the remote control, well, it makes my short hairs dance.
Now that we're sweeping the crumbs of my preamble off the table, I'm going to reverse field 180 degrees. Why? Well, because I can. Also, because I am human, I am a living, breathing hypocrite whose actions counteract my beliefs from time to time to serve my short-term interests. What is the source of this paradigm-in-the-rough? Harry Potter. There. I've said it. Harry freaking Potter. I am a fan. A big fan. A really big fan. Not a really, really big fan, but fan enough to know the difference between Diagon Alley and Privet Drive. The stories are extremely well-written, the characters are well-developed (and continue to develop in impressive, yet logical, style), and the atmospheres J.K. Rowling has created, well, who among us who have read the stories and/or watched the movies hasn't imagined taking up residence at Hogwarts in some capacity? To those muggles on the outside looking in who have no idea what I am talking about, go and watch one of the movies, or, better yet, pick up one of the books. If you lack the childlike imagination to immerse yourself in either the books or the movies, I pity the cynicism that has co-opted your minds.
However, I come not to braise those Caesars, but to serve them on toast points with a Hollandaise sauce. If I was a child and reading the ballast-heavy novels or watching with moon-eyed wonder the spectacle of a Harry Potter movie at the cinema, I would have completely bought into the fantasy of REALLY being able to cast spells, fly, and have cute little Hermoine Granger rob me of my lunch money. It would be slightly similar to when Dungeons & Dragons came out when it was cool - for all of about three months - to show up at your friend's house with a pouch of 20-sided dice, a homemade sword and Rick Wakeman's "Journey to the Center of the Earth" album under your arm. You'd spend the evening arguing that there was no way your +3 arrow didn't kill the bugbear since you had the "initiative" and were able to get off two hits per round. To this day, I have no idea what a bugbear is; however, introduce one in a Harry Potter story and I'm naming my first three kids "Bugbear."
One thing that I'll never be able to get past, however, are when our heroes are walking through dark, strange places with sheets of cobwebs in their way. And it's not just in the Harry Potter stories. Look at any classic horror movie where someone just HAS to investigate the vampire's basement - spider webs are everywhere, like some sort of silky, sticky gauntlet. Our heroes think nothing of ripping through the webs to get to their obsessive destination. Me? I walk into a spider web in the morning on the way to work and I break into what can only be described as a combination of demonic possession and St. Vitus's Dance. To the casual observer, I look like a water bug in a popcorn machine, arms flailing, swatting at my head, and praying out loud that the spider in question, which probably weighs less than half a gram, won't spin me into a cocoon and steadily suck me dry by the time my co-workers are reaching for their second cups of coffee. If you want to really get to know someone, there are three ways to cut to the chase: see them naked, watch them throw up, or observe them when they walk into a giant spider web. Of course, if you see all three of these actions at the same time, legend has it that you can look into their soul.
But, I digress.
Ever lose yourself in a story where you emerge wanting to fight space aliens, rip off the clothes of an imaginary lover, or make the world's best egg salad sandwich*? It's pretty intoxicating. Dog-earring a chapter or walking out of the nuclear chill of a movie theater can put a powerful glide in your stride. Your mind races along, levitated by still-smoldering thoughts of tan-chested Latin lovers or charred carcasses of alien invaders. You not only want to read or see more of it, you want to become part of the story. Hell, you want to BE the story. It's heady and dizzying, bringing you to heights of intellectual, spiritual, and primal orgasm. Blood pumping, teeth gritting, toes curling... Lines have blurred, you are one with the story. Dry throated and sweaty-palmed, the ecstasy of synergy overwhelms your senses...
...then a telemarketer calls and you're left cold and void, an empty husk of the salacious person you were just moments earlier. Reality has a way of knocking your dork into the dirt. Good books, like good movies, can make us revisit those passions over and over again. I used to read "The Catcher in the Rye" every year and I have probably watched "The Godfather" often enough to emcee an OCD convention. It is only the book that grabs me by the pleats that bears rereading. Almost always, for me at least, that book is a work of non-fiction. It is a rare piece of literary confection that keeps me coming back for more. You can have your tired Tom Sawyers or your pulp private dicks - I'll take my Harry Potter every time.
* - All apologies to "What's Up Tiger Lily?"
Now that we're sweeping the crumbs of my preamble off the table, I'm going to reverse field 180 degrees. Why? Well, because I can. Also, because I am human, I am a living, breathing hypocrite whose actions counteract my beliefs from time to time to serve my short-term interests. What is the source of this paradigm-in-the-rough? Harry Potter. There. I've said it. Harry freaking Potter. I am a fan. A big fan. A really big fan. Not a really, really big fan, but fan enough to know the difference between Diagon Alley and Privet Drive. The stories are extremely well-written, the characters are well-developed (and continue to develop in impressive, yet logical, style), and the atmospheres J.K. Rowling has created, well, who among us who have read the stories and/or watched the movies hasn't imagined taking up residence at Hogwarts in some capacity? To those muggles on the outside looking in who have no idea what I am talking about, go and watch one of the movies, or, better yet, pick up one of the books. If you lack the childlike imagination to immerse yourself in either the books or the movies, I pity the cynicism that has co-opted your minds.
However, I come not to braise those Caesars, but to serve them on toast points with a Hollandaise sauce. If I was a child and reading the ballast-heavy novels or watching with moon-eyed wonder the spectacle of a Harry Potter movie at the cinema, I would have completely bought into the fantasy of REALLY being able to cast spells, fly, and have cute little Hermoine Granger rob me of my lunch money. It would be slightly similar to when Dungeons & Dragons came out when it was cool - for all of about three months - to show up at your friend's house with a pouch of 20-sided dice, a homemade sword and Rick Wakeman's "Journey to the Center of the Earth" album under your arm. You'd spend the evening arguing that there was no way your +3 arrow didn't kill the bugbear since you had the "initiative" and were able to get off two hits per round. To this day, I have no idea what a bugbear is; however, introduce one in a Harry Potter story and I'm naming my first three kids "Bugbear."
One thing that I'll never be able to get past, however, are when our heroes are walking through dark, strange places with sheets of cobwebs in their way. And it's not just in the Harry Potter stories. Look at any classic horror movie where someone just HAS to investigate the vampire's basement - spider webs are everywhere, like some sort of silky, sticky gauntlet. Our heroes think nothing of ripping through the webs to get to their obsessive destination. Me? I walk into a spider web in the morning on the way to work and I break into what can only be described as a combination of demonic possession and St. Vitus's Dance. To the casual observer, I look like a water bug in a popcorn machine, arms flailing, swatting at my head, and praying out loud that the spider in question, which probably weighs less than half a gram, won't spin me into a cocoon and steadily suck me dry by the time my co-workers are reaching for their second cups of coffee. If you want to really get to know someone, there are three ways to cut to the chase: see them naked, watch them throw up, or observe them when they walk into a giant spider web. Of course, if you see all three of these actions at the same time, legend has it that you can look into their soul.
But, I digress.
Ever lose yourself in a story where you emerge wanting to fight space aliens, rip off the clothes of an imaginary lover, or make the world's best egg salad sandwich*? It's pretty intoxicating. Dog-earring a chapter or walking out of the nuclear chill of a movie theater can put a powerful glide in your stride. Your mind races along, levitated by still-smoldering thoughts of tan-chested Latin lovers or charred carcasses of alien invaders. You not only want to read or see more of it, you want to become part of the story. Hell, you want to BE the story. It's heady and dizzying, bringing you to heights of intellectual, spiritual, and primal orgasm. Blood pumping, teeth gritting, toes curling... Lines have blurred, you are one with the story. Dry throated and sweaty-palmed, the ecstasy of synergy overwhelms your senses...
...then a telemarketer calls and you're left cold and void, an empty husk of the salacious person you were just moments earlier. Reality has a way of knocking your dork into the dirt. Good books, like good movies, can make us revisit those passions over and over again. I used to read "The Catcher in the Rye" every year and I have probably watched "The Godfather" often enough to emcee an OCD convention. It is only the book that grabs me by the pleats that bears rereading. Almost always, for me at least, that book is a work of non-fiction. It is a rare piece of literary confection that keeps me coming back for more. You can have your tired Tom Sawyers or your pulp private dicks - I'll take my Harry Potter every time.
* - All apologies to "What's Up Tiger Lily?"
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Special Delivery
Don't ask. It was a wonderful day in my world. I'll spare you the sex and violence and just tell you that my car broke down. I've taken it to the same place several hundred times over the past four months and something is always going wrong. It's worse than chasing the March Hare down the rabbit hole - more like trying to grab liquid mercury with boxing gloves. My car is the heavyweight champion of mechanical malingerers - so why is it me that ends up with the headaches?
I came home and dealt with this latest unfortunate expense in the only way I knew how. I took a nap. It was one of those guilt-free naps where you know you have nothing to do later that day other than check the scores on ESPN, order a pizza, and maybe change the toilet paper roll. Speaking of ordering pizza, that's exactly what I did after I peeled myself off the bed. I saw a commercial where they put an entire side of beef on a pizza - and you can get the other side added for $2 more. Seeing as the only contributions I made to the food nutrition pyramid so far today were some chips and something called a watermelon cocktail while my car was getting a shiatsu, I decided to put a bullet into the chamber and called my local franchised pizza chain. I gave my order and address and repeat my name about a dozen times ("Um, that's "K" as in "kinky", "E" as in "edible", "V" as in "virginal flesh"..."). They seldom ask me again after I spell it out like that. I don't eat onions, mushrooms or peppers. I just don't. Sure, I may have French onion soup, but at least the onions don't taste like onions there. Something about the texture and acrid spray of a freshly-crunched onion ranks a few slots below ipecac for me. Peppers? Well, there was a summer - one summer - where I went on a pepper-eating binge. Came out of nowhere. I was gobbling jalapenos and guzzling hot sauce like I was competing for a position on the Olympic team. Then, I met a habanero. My eyes watered and I wiped them with my fingers. They swelled shut like walnuts. Summer of the Pepper was over. As far as mushrooms are concerned, I won't eat anything that grows naked in cow feces without the benefit of a skin or husk - especially not fungus that grows naked in cow feces.
Now, for pizza toppings I do like, well, color me carnivorous. The Flesh-Eaters Pizza definitely appeals to me. It has everything the average American glutton could want: steak, ground beef, pepperoni, chicken, mutton, lobster, bacon, fried cuttlefish, ass...pretty much any once-breathing animal tissue. However, I'm not a big sausage fan (insert sophomoric snicker here). Those little caraway seeds, or whatever the hell you call them, are disgusting. Biting into one of them tastes like that piece of chicken that was lodged between your molars over the weekend. You know the one that you tried to dislodge with your tongue several hundred times but couldn't, so you used pen caps, envelope corners and elastic from a tube sock to pry it loose. I always have to watch myself when I tell the girl taking my order to "hold the sausage" when I order the Flesh-Eaters Pizza in case she makes a call and two goliaths in dark suits come banging down my door and make me register as a sex offender.
My success rate for ordering hovers around 75% - that is to say that my order gets screwed up about 25% of the time. I'm not sure if I am above or below the national average, but feel free to conduct your own study. 90% of the time the order is snafu-ed by, you guessed it, onions, mushrooms and/or peppers. It gets to the point where I have to say when I am ordering, "Yes, I'd like to order the enormo-pizza with ham and black olives but no onions, mushrooms or peppers because I am allergic and it will cause me to die a little. Then, I would have to sue your company, and you personally, so that you will only have enough money to fashion clothes out of dryer lint. Now I'm going to put my attorney on the line to get a statement." Sometimes you have to play hardball to get what you ordered.
And talk about quick delivery! "Yes, we'll be there in 45 minutes to an hour - or however long it takes for our driver to stop by his girlfriend's apartment, get a quick handjob and bong hit and finally make it to your house as the sun starts peeking over the horizon." By this time, your hunger has taken hold of you and you're no longer a thinking, rational human being - you're an eating machine. Cheesesteak is cold? Hell with it. French fries soggy? No problem. Pizza cheese whipped violently to one side of the pie so that it resembles the face of a Dick Tracy villain? Dealt with. As the great philosopher,Socrates once said, "Pizza is like sex - when it's hot it's good. When it's cold, it's still good." I always was a sucker for the classics.
I'm sure the life of a delivery person is a bit interesting. You get to travel, eat for free, and have interesting people shove guns in your face. Also, let us not forget the bountiful opportunities to have mammoth-chested hot girls answering the door naked and telling you they don't have money for a tip but asking if there is anything they can do in place of one. Now, if food delivery people don't have that carrot on the stick, I've been watching the wrong movies. It's not a bad way to make a few extra quid if you need the money or just have a jones for driving fast and helping yourself to someone else's french fries. Just keep your tank filled, your muffler noisy and your music loud.
And keep it out of the shop.
I came home and dealt with this latest unfortunate expense in the only way I knew how. I took a nap. It was one of those guilt-free naps where you know you have nothing to do later that day other than check the scores on ESPN, order a pizza, and maybe change the toilet paper roll. Speaking of ordering pizza, that's exactly what I did after I peeled myself off the bed. I saw a commercial where they put an entire side of beef on a pizza - and you can get the other side added for $2 more. Seeing as the only contributions I made to the food nutrition pyramid so far today were some chips and something called a watermelon cocktail while my car was getting a shiatsu, I decided to put a bullet into the chamber and called my local franchised pizza chain. I gave my order and address and repeat my name about a dozen times ("Um, that's "K" as in "kinky", "E" as in "edible", "V" as in "virginal flesh"..."). They seldom ask me again after I spell it out like that. I don't eat onions, mushrooms or peppers. I just don't. Sure, I may have French onion soup, but at least the onions don't taste like onions there. Something about the texture and acrid spray of a freshly-crunched onion ranks a few slots below ipecac for me. Peppers? Well, there was a summer - one summer - where I went on a pepper-eating binge. Came out of nowhere. I was gobbling jalapenos and guzzling hot sauce like I was competing for a position on the Olympic team. Then, I met a habanero. My eyes watered and I wiped them with my fingers. They swelled shut like walnuts. Summer of the Pepper was over. As far as mushrooms are concerned, I won't eat anything that grows naked in cow feces without the benefit of a skin or husk - especially not fungus that grows naked in cow feces.
Now, for pizza toppings I do like, well, color me carnivorous. The Flesh-Eaters Pizza definitely appeals to me. It has everything the average American glutton could want: steak, ground beef, pepperoni, chicken, mutton, lobster, bacon, fried cuttlefish, ass...pretty much any once-breathing animal tissue. However, I'm not a big sausage fan (insert sophomoric snicker here). Those little caraway seeds, or whatever the hell you call them, are disgusting. Biting into one of them tastes like that piece of chicken that was lodged between your molars over the weekend. You know the one that you tried to dislodge with your tongue several hundred times but couldn't, so you used pen caps, envelope corners and elastic from a tube sock to pry it loose. I always have to watch myself when I tell the girl taking my order to "hold the sausage" when I order the Flesh-Eaters Pizza in case she makes a call and two goliaths in dark suits come banging down my door and make me register as a sex offender.
My success rate for ordering hovers around 75% - that is to say that my order gets screwed up about 25% of the time. I'm not sure if I am above or below the national average, but feel free to conduct your own study. 90% of the time the order is snafu-ed by, you guessed it, onions, mushrooms and/or peppers. It gets to the point where I have to say when I am ordering, "Yes, I'd like to order the enormo-pizza with ham and black olives but no onions, mushrooms or peppers because I am allergic and it will cause me to die a little. Then, I would have to sue your company, and you personally, so that you will only have enough money to fashion clothes out of dryer lint. Now I'm going to put my attorney on the line to get a statement." Sometimes you have to play hardball to get what you ordered.
And talk about quick delivery! "Yes, we'll be there in 45 minutes to an hour - or however long it takes for our driver to stop by his girlfriend's apartment, get a quick handjob and bong hit and finally make it to your house as the sun starts peeking over the horizon." By this time, your hunger has taken hold of you and you're no longer a thinking, rational human being - you're an eating machine. Cheesesteak is cold? Hell with it. French fries soggy? No problem. Pizza cheese whipped violently to one side of the pie so that it resembles the face of a Dick Tracy villain? Dealt with. As the great philosopher,Socrates once said, "Pizza is like sex - when it's hot it's good. When it's cold, it's still good." I always was a sucker for the classics.
I'm sure the life of a delivery person is a bit interesting. You get to travel, eat for free, and have interesting people shove guns in your face. Also, let us not forget the bountiful opportunities to have mammoth-chested hot girls answering the door naked and telling you they don't have money for a tip but asking if there is anything they can do in place of one. Now, if food delivery people don't have that carrot on the stick, I've been watching the wrong movies. It's not a bad way to make a few extra quid if you need the money or just have a jones for driving fast and helping yourself to someone else's french fries. Just keep your tank filled, your muffler noisy and your music loud.
And keep it out of the shop.
Friday, September 02, 2005
It's a Jungle Out There
"I have a dream..."
- Martin Luther King, Jr.
I had one, too. Last night. No, it wasn't as unifying or noble as the great Dr. King's, but it rousted my psychic antennae just the same. Whereas I believe MLK, Jr. was referring more to a daydream, since they are less prone to the rogue crackling synapses than an according-to-Hoyle REM dream, I am referring to the surreal McCoy. Sure, I've had the dreams with the floating gazebos, talking squirrels and gothic Eastern European castles that house an unseen evil. I've also had the pleasure of the universal reveries of:
- Being back in school. This one is always a crowd-pleaser. You are back in high school or college. You forgot your locker combination, you don't know if you have the right textbooks, you have a test in God-knows-what subject in five minutes...and, you're buck-ass naked. Let the good times roll.
- Being in your underwear or completely naked. I was going to type "nude," but there is a quasi-elegance to the word "nude" that "naked" just doesn't possess. You don't really notice you're naked until someone in your dream points it out. Then, you rapidly attach whatever palms and arms you can over the naughty bits and shrink down to reduce as much surface area as possible. You end up looking like Pete Rose crouched over home plate or Quasimodo with a hernia. But, beware, ladies, you have more areas to cover and you simply do not have enough hands, so you sacrifice your hineys (yep, that's how I'm spelling it) to the leers of the faceless men whose eyeballs have descended upon you. Having underwear on in those situations doesn't really help much and the embarrassment meter is pinned to "mortified." Nudists and exhibitionists tend to get a free pass here.
- The flying and falling rigmarole. Stop me if you've had one or both. That's what I thought. 'Nuff said.
My laptop sits conveniently about an arm's length away from my bed. I wanted to write an email to someone but I was feeling a bit testy, so I decided to cool off first by sneaking 40 winks. Since it was near the end of the prime time television schedule, 40 winks became a full-fledged Sleep-a-palooza, complete with requisite drooling, heavy machinery snoring, and sleep lines etched so deeply in my face they resembled wood-cut art. I woke up, sent my email and went back to sleep. That's it? Yep, that's it...except that it wasn't. I woke up to realize that I only dreamed I sent that email. I shook off the cobwebs, gave myself one of those "oh, you kid" laughs, and really sent the email. Well, I'd like to say it ended there, but it didn't. Turns out, yep, that THAT was a dream, too, and now I was REALLY awake. So, I sent the email, only to wake up and find... Well, I am sure you can see where this is heading. This happened about 7-8 times last night and each time I was DAMNED sure I sent that email.
By the time I actually woke up, looking like Mr. Heat Miser and feeling like a living, breathing practical joke, I decided to go on the back deck and drink in the cool night air to clear my senses. It was dark. Most things are at 5 AM. But, it was a dead dark, like I wasn't supposed to be there, like I had wandered into the Dexter Lake Club with Boone, Otter and Flounder. I looked up at the sky, and in between thick, cottony spears of nimbus clouds were the stars, regal and aloof. They weren't twinkling benignly as they seem late at night. No, these were morning stars, before the dawn. They were crisp and bold, with sharply-defined patterns and disciplines. Over there, Orion, stoic and confident - a prima donna. Right there are the Seven Sisters, gossiping and giggling at the audacity of my curious gaze. Way over there is Cassiopeia, matronly and dignified, sort of like the Maggie Smith of the skies. They were watching me as intently as I was them. It was a John Ford sky, a Sergio Leone sky. It was brusque, heartless and immediate...and it was magnificent.
It was the first day of September, well, technically the second day, and the heat waves had eased off the pedal a bit. However, the humidity was the smart-ass kid brother to the bully, so even 82 degrees felt miserable. This particular morning, however, I found both the heat and humidity asleep at the wheel. It was actually a tad nippy. I mean it wasn't burn-the-sofa cold, but in contrast to the recent weather, it was a jolt. I'm out there in my bare feet, mindful of carnivorous splinters and large spiders with many-angled legs. I saw this one spider earlier in the week crawl across the deck with all the subtlety of a belching cab driver at a Barbara Cartland book club meeting. Each leg seemed to have more angles than a schizophrenic grifter as it came barreling across the deck. It was huge. If enough people saw it, there would be legends spun about it at the local bait and tackle shop. a festival in its honor, complete with virgin sacrifices, and ultimately, a skip-rope rhyme fashioned around the beast:
"Big ol' spider was on the deck
Big ol' spider made me a wreck
It's big and hairy with big brown fangs
How many legs below it hangs...
One...two...three..."
Now, I'm no expert on spiders, and my double-dutch shoulder ain't what it used to be, but, I know mean and nasty when I see it. I'm standing there with an empty iced tea bottle in my hand, ready to strike, when the spider stops, looks at me and says, "We both know you're not going to do anything with that bottle. Just step back, chill out, and no one has to get hurt, cupcake." He had me. I was stuck. Bastard.
Well, getting back to last night, I didn't think to turn on the porch light, and whereas I could see the stars better, I couldn't see all the creepy little nasties scurrying past my feet. I was a sitting duck. Spiders have fangs, some insects have wings, rhinos have horns, heck even the platypus has a poison spur behind its heal. We have nothing. We're just soft pink creatures with no natural defense except the ability to offend others with a well-worn insult by Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker. Forget about what you read about Hiawatha or Davy Crockett killing a bear at an age that a human being's feet cannot even reach the floor when sitting on the toilet. Forget about Samson overpowering the lion or S.D. "Special Delivery" Jones wrestling Andre the Giant. They're animals. They have natural physical weapons for attacking and defending. We have nothing except our brains and the all-too-useful knowledge of remembering to zig-zag when being chased by a crocodile. I don't care if you have buns of steel, abs of iron or a crotch of diamond. It doesn't matter if you are a hardbody or a champion bodybuilder. You're nothing in the world of nature. WE are nothing. In the animal kingdom, we're the wobbly balsa end-table in the sitting room amongst the solid oak, marble and rich Corinthian leather. If another species suddenly developed the advanced ability to think, reason, and mix a decent martini, we're done. Finished. Count your tips and head for the door because we suddenly became obsolete.
After all that heavy-duty thinking, I began to teeter a bit and decided to try finishing off the rest of the sleep I thought I was getting. So, I said good night to the stars, stepped gingerly around imaginary giant spiders, and went back inside. I opened the bedroom door, saw my bed smiling at me like a long-lost lover and I nodded knowingly.
I laid down, reached over, sent the email, and went back to sleep.
- Martin Luther King, Jr.
I had one, too. Last night. No, it wasn't as unifying or noble as the great Dr. King's, but it rousted my psychic antennae just the same. Whereas I believe MLK, Jr. was referring more to a daydream, since they are less prone to the rogue crackling synapses than an according-to-Hoyle REM dream, I am referring to the surreal McCoy. Sure, I've had the dreams with the floating gazebos, talking squirrels and gothic Eastern European castles that house an unseen evil. I've also had the pleasure of the universal reveries of:
- Being back in school. This one is always a crowd-pleaser. You are back in high school or college. You forgot your locker combination, you don't know if you have the right textbooks, you have a test in God-knows-what subject in five minutes...and, you're buck-ass naked. Let the good times roll.
- Being in your underwear or completely naked. I was going to type "nude," but there is a quasi-elegance to the word "nude" that "naked" just doesn't possess. You don't really notice you're naked until someone in your dream points it out. Then, you rapidly attach whatever palms and arms you can over the naughty bits and shrink down to reduce as much surface area as possible. You end up looking like Pete Rose crouched over home plate or Quasimodo with a hernia. But, beware, ladies, you have more areas to cover and you simply do not have enough hands, so you sacrifice your hineys (yep, that's how I'm spelling it) to the leers of the faceless men whose eyeballs have descended upon you. Having underwear on in those situations doesn't really help much and the embarrassment meter is pinned to "mortified." Nudists and exhibitionists tend to get a free pass here.
- The flying and falling rigmarole. Stop me if you've had one or both. That's what I thought. 'Nuff said.
My laptop sits conveniently about an arm's length away from my bed. I wanted to write an email to someone but I was feeling a bit testy, so I decided to cool off first by sneaking 40 winks. Since it was near the end of the prime time television schedule, 40 winks became a full-fledged Sleep-a-palooza, complete with requisite drooling, heavy machinery snoring, and sleep lines etched so deeply in my face they resembled wood-cut art. I woke up, sent my email and went back to sleep. That's it? Yep, that's it...except that it wasn't. I woke up to realize that I only dreamed I sent that email. I shook off the cobwebs, gave myself one of those "oh, you kid" laughs, and really sent the email. Well, I'd like to say it ended there, but it didn't. Turns out, yep, that THAT was a dream, too, and now I was REALLY awake. So, I sent the email, only to wake up and find... Well, I am sure you can see where this is heading. This happened about 7-8 times last night and each time I was DAMNED sure I sent that email.
By the time I actually woke up, looking like Mr. Heat Miser and feeling like a living, breathing practical joke, I decided to go on the back deck and drink in the cool night air to clear my senses. It was dark. Most things are at 5 AM. But, it was a dead dark, like I wasn't supposed to be there, like I had wandered into the Dexter Lake Club with Boone, Otter and Flounder. I looked up at the sky, and in between thick, cottony spears of nimbus clouds were the stars, regal and aloof. They weren't twinkling benignly as they seem late at night. No, these were morning stars, before the dawn. They were crisp and bold, with sharply-defined patterns and disciplines. Over there, Orion, stoic and confident - a prima donna. Right there are the Seven Sisters, gossiping and giggling at the audacity of my curious gaze. Way over there is Cassiopeia, matronly and dignified, sort of like the Maggie Smith of the skies. They were watching me as intently as I was them. It was a John Ford sky, a Sergio Leone sky. It was brusque, heartless and immediate...and it was magnificent.
It was the first day of September, well, technically the second day, and the heat waves had eased off the pedal a bit. However, the humidity was the smart-ass kid brother to the bully, so even 82 degrees felt miserable. This particular morning, however, I found both the heat and humidity asleep at the wheel. It was actually a tad nippy. I mean it wasn't burn-the-sofa cold, but in contrast to the recent weather, it was a jolt. I'm out there in my bare feet, mindful of carnivorous splinters and large spiders with many-angled legs. I saw this one spider earlier in the week crawl across the deck with all the subtlety of a belching cab driver at a Barbara Cartland book club meeting. Each leg seemed to have more angles than a schizophrenic grifter as it came barreling across the deck. It was huge. If enough people saw it, there would be legends spun about it at the local bait and tackle shop. a festival in its honor, complete with virgin sacrifices, and ultimately, a skip-rope rhyme fashioned around the beast:
"Big ol' spider was on the deck
Big ol' spider made me a wreck
It's big and hairy with big brown fangs
How many legs below it hangs...
One...two...three..."
Now, I'm no expert on spiders, and my double-dutch shoulder ain't what it used to be, but, I know mean and nasty when I see it. I'm standing there with an empty iced tea bottle in my hand, ready to strike, when the spider stops, looks at me and says, "We both know you're not going to do anything with that bottle. Just step back, chill out, and no one has to get hurt, cupcake." He had me. I was stuck. Bastard.
Well, getting back to last night, I didn't think to turn on the porch light, and whereas I could see the stars better, I couldn't see all the creepy little nasties scurrying past my feet. I was a sitting duck. Spiders have fangs, some insects have wings, rhinos have horns, heck even the platypus has a poison spur behind its heal. We have nothing. We're just soft pink creatures with no natural defense except the ability to offend others with a well-worn insult by Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker. Forget about what you read about Hiawatha or Davy Crockett killing a bear at an age that a human being's feet cannot even reach the floor when sitting on the toilet. Forget about Samson overpowering the lion or S.D. "Special Delivery" Jones wrestling Andre the Giant. They're animals. They have natural physical weapons for attacking and defending. We have nothing except our brains and the all-too-useful knowledge of remembering to zig-zag when being chased by a crocodile. I don't care if you have buns of steel, abs of iron or a crotch of diamond. It doesn't matter if you are a hardbody or a champion bodybuilder. You're nothing in the world of nature. WE are nothing. In the animal kingdom, we're the wobbly balsa end-table in the sitting room amongst the solid oak, marble and rich Corinthian leather. If another species suddenly developed the advanced ability to think, reason, and mix a decent martini, we're done. Finished. Count your tips and head for the door because we suddenly became obsolete.
After all that heavy-duty thinking, I began to teeter a bit and decided to try finishing off the rest of the sleep I thought I was getting. So, I said good night to the stars, stepped gingerly around imaginary giant spiders, and went back inside. I opened the bedroom door, saw my bed smiling at me like a long-lost lover and I nodded knowingly.
I laid down, reached over, sent the email, and went back to sleep.
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