I've recently discovered that one of my college classmates is much too dull to be allowed to facebook. I feel bad saying it as he is a very nice guy from what I can recall, but the status posts are unbearable!
Today we have....well, lets just call him John Smith.....
John Smith is savoring a glass of red.
On another occasions we had:
John Smith thinks red wine is yummy!
I'm noticing a pattern here.
Theres been:
John Smith Grrrrrr!
John Smith was thrown for a loop.
John Smith is considering his option.
John Smith is inspired!
I wish these were the exceptions but this is basically every day several times a day. Mind
numbing dullness spilling out onto the pages of facebook. As a friend of mine put it, he posts about ever bowel movement.
He is so dull, that me and said friend started following his every post because the dullness has begun to provide us with a strange voyeristic pleasure I cant fully understand. How can anyone be so delisciously dull?!
Incredibly, he has a wide collection of equally dull friends who want nothing more then to facilitate and encourage the production of more dullness.
John Smith is savoring a glass of red.
Friend #1 what happened to Glen?
John Smith Blazed through that last time. Must buy more !
Friend #2 I thought it was Chivas!!!!
Friend #3 The days of wine and juries!
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Great Bed
Ok, since I have no stories of my own at this point, I would like to share other people’s stories. Yes, it’s come to that.
This is a favorite of mine from me mum’s Essential Soviet Communism collection.
All Russian college students were required to spend their summers engaged in some sort of manual labor somewhere far from home. It was the communist way. Laboring away on The People’s Collective Farm by day, me mum and a random collection of college kids from across the republic lived in a facility on farm grounds by night.
The management of this farm had all of the college students of both genders sleep in one large room. Wait! Wait! To further enhance the communist experience, it was decided that rather then building multiple beds, they should build a single giant bed for everyone to sleep in. How could this work? A single six foot wide wooden plank sitting on top of supporting wooden legs was constructed to stretch across the length of the room. Each kid was given a mat and a few inches between him and the next kid and his mat. Normally, Collective Farm management provided laborers with dorms and individual beds, but who needs such bourgeois individualism and privacy when you can pocket the savings…..errrr help your workers more fully embrace communist ideals.
Ahhhhh, such happy class-agnostic sharing makes me want to sing a glorious proletarian hymn!
Of course you must know where this is going.
It wasn’t long before two virgins found themselves in the throes of passion that only a summer camp….errrr labor camp experience can conjure. Eventually, their little mats found each other and Victor and Laura canoodled silently when the lights went out.
One night, while canoodling, things went to the next level. I suppose Victor and Laura somehow imagined that no one noticed. However, lying in their shared bed listening to two virgins playing “find the right hole” was not something The Fraternity of the People could sleep through even after an exhausting day of manual labor. Not knowing what to say, all 50 bed-inhabiting members of The Collective lay awake and irritated while staring into darkness until a booming voice shattered the stillness with words that probably haunt poor Victor and Laura to this day. “Go Victor! Go!” he hollered followed by a squad of boys who joined in cheering and screaming various encouragements. Laughter roared from all parts of The Great Bed.
Laura joined the Nunnery. Victor became a porn star.
This is a favorite of mine from me mum’s Essential Soviet Communism collection.
All Russian college students were required to spend their summers engaged in some sort of manual labor somewhere far from home. It was the communist way. Laboring away on The People’s Collective Farm by day, me mum and a random collection of college kids from across the republic lived in a facility on farm grounds by night.
The management of this farm had all of the college students of both genders sleep in one large room. Wait! Wait! To further enhance the communist experience, it was decided that rather then building multiple beds, they should build a single giant bed for everyone to sleep in. How could this work? A single six foot wide wooden plank sitting on top of supporting wooden legs was constructed to stretch across the length of the room. Each kid was given a mat and a few inches between him and the next kid and his mat. Normally, Collective Farm management provided laborers with dorms and individual beds, but who needs such bourgeois individualism and privacy when you can pocket the savings…..errrr help your workers more fully embrace communist ideals.
Ahhhhh, such happy class-agnostic sharing makes me want to sing a glorious proletarian hymn!
Of course you must know where this is going.
It wasn’t long before two virgins found themselves in the throes of passion that only a summer camp….errrr labor camp experience can conjure. Eventually, their little mats found each other and Victor and Laura canoodled silently when the lights went out.
One night, while canoodling, things went to the next level. I suppose Victor and Laura somehow imagined that no one noticed. However, lying in their shared bed listening to two virgins playing “find the right hole” was not something The Fraternity of the People could sleep through even after an exhausting day of manual labor. Not knowing what to say, all 50 bed-inhabiting members of The Collective lay awake and irritated while staring into darkness until a booming voice shattered the stillness with words that probably haunt poor Victor and Laura to this day. “Go Victor! Go!” he hollered followed by a squad of boys who joined in cheering and screaming various encouragements. Laughter roared from all parts of The Great Bed.
Laura joined the Nunnery. Victor became a porn star.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
My beef with Medical Insurance
With all of the political noise regarding the upcoming vote in Congress over the national health care legislation, one would think that this is my effort to contribute my perspective on the issue. No. I’m much too narcissistic to care about someone else’s health care issues when I have my own. Also, I am not ashamed to admit that I am completely confused and lost as to what the legislative flavor of the month is for that mess of a bill.
This is not about Obama, Pelosi or anyone else that I’ve indirectly handed my tax dollars to in the hopes that they would take care of me and my neighbors. This is about me and Aetna.
Aetna sucks.
I am about to go into a whiny ass rant over nickels and dimes. This topic may be much too boring for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
A seriously weird 6 week illness caused me to miss 4 weeks of work including 3 weeks of pay. Those 6 weeks included 3 trips to the ER, 3 trips to my doctor and 2 specialists my doctor sent me to. With all of my previous insurance companies, I’d never had to pay anything other than co pays which were miniscule but with so many visits to health care professionals, I started feeling the pressure of the co pays adding up.
As I make my recovery, the bills start arriving. First for a co pay the ER worker was too busy to charge me for while at the Hospital. Not a problem, knew that was coming. Then I get a crazy bill from the ER for hundreds of dollars. Huh?! When I went online to Aetna’s claims page, I found that so far, I owe various entities $800 and counting. Geez! I do have medical insurance don’t I?! Do these people know I’ve lost 3 weeks of pay?!
Frantic, I start shuffling through the claims trying to understand what I’m being billed for. As an example, I found one claim for $228 for a visit to a Dr.Rollon of which I owed $85. I called Aetna and explained that I never saw a Dr.Rollon. They said it was part of my bill for the ER visit and that Dr.Rollon was probably the Physician overseeing the Physician’s Assistant I actually did see.
I asked why I owed such a large percentage of the bill. Aetna explained that although the ER I went to was in their network, Dr.Rollon (whom I never saw) was not, thus I had to pay out of network fees for the visit. Additionally, supposedly the Physician’s Assistant gave me an “oxygenation” test that I don’t recall receiving and billed $60 for it. Well, Aetna thought the test was unnecessary and decided I should pay 100% of the test bill. Did anybody ask me if I wanted to purchase this test?! Of course, this bill is in addition to the $348 I have to pay just for walking through the ER door and lying down on a bed.
In the end, although there were tests she could have run to actually identify my ailment, the Physician’s Assistant opted to simply guess that I had the flu and tell me there’s nothing they can do for me. What followed was another 4 weeks of mysterious and severe illness and two more trips to the ER which resulted in a misdiagnosis in both cases…..that I had to pay an additional $300 for.
I’m thinking of writing my representatives and letting them know I won’t vote for them unless there’s a clause in the health care bill that ensures that Aetna will be stopped! …preferably with the use of predator drones.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Nothing Happened
The other day I was talking to a friend about not having blogged in a while. We both agreed that neither of us have been blogging much because nothing has been happening. She worked too much, I spent weeks in bed with the flu. Nothing interesting or amusing happened.
This week, I began feeling the burn to make life more interesting, more eventful, more bloggable. After all, I dont know if future me lieing on her death will much like looking back on a life that can be summed up as, "nothing happened." Then again, its hard to predict the wants of future me. For all I know, she may say, "so glad nothing happened."
Hmmm. Whatever.
This week, I began feeling the burn to make life more interesting, more eventful, more bloggable. After all, I dont know if future me lieing on her death will much like looking back on a life that can be summed up as, "nothing happened." Then again, its hard to predict the wants of future me. For all I know, she may say, "so glad nothing happened."
Hmmm. Whatever.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
in search of serenity
Picture yourself floating in a raft on a perfect summer day. Your winding down a lazy river between hills of lush, tall maple that climb rolling mountain peaks reaching for plumes of white clouds. Now imagine three gallons of water slaming you in the face from 25 feet away.
Last weekend, I went white water rafting with a group of 24 folks from an adventure meetup group. Everyone I spoke with was adventurous, educated, articulate, surprisingly unafraid of risk in all aspects of their life and had a wild sense of optimism. They were the coolest group of people......until guides put them into rubber boats and handed them buckets. Suddenly most of the men turned into 8 year olds who literally spent the next 5 hours (non-stop!) chasing rafts so that they could assault unsuspecting rafters with a bucket full of water in the face.
One of my raft partners, April, kept saying, hour after hour, “I cant believe this doesn’t get old.” April ended up getting hit in the neck with a bucket which was thrown from another boat by a man in his 50s while his teen aged son looked on in embarrassment. I would have imagined that had I lost control of a bucket that nailed a woman 20 feet away in the neck, I would have stopped with the bucket nonsense but alas no. The fact that she got hit in the neck with a bucket and lived only served to encourage him.
In all, it was a supremely fun experience with a wonderful group of people in a stunningly beautiful location that everyone should experience. Next time though, I'm taking a kayak.
If while looking at these pictures you think to yourself, “I don’t know what Julie’s problem is. That looks hilarious! Matter of fact, I think I’ll go down to Home Depot right now and buy me a bucket”…….you are probably a grown man. *sigh*
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Me and my shadow
I stood in the street at the corner of 26th and 5th in the pouring rain gesturing at unsympathetic cabbies as they zipped away all carrying passengers. After five fruitless minutes of this, I decided I was too sleepy to wait any longer. It was past my bed time and I was soaked from my workout anyway. So I began the .75 mile shuffle toward home.
As I crossed the dark, empty street I heard a womans voice say something indistinct. She seemed to be right behind me but when I turned, there was no one there. I looked all around and there wasn't a sole within 50 feet of me. Was I loosing it?
I've seen a lot of people loose it in new york. The worst is seeing individuals who still have one foot in the saine world while the other plunges into the abyss. I always feel like I should do something. But in the end, I just watch helplessly as the rest of new york shuffles past.
There was the nicely dressed man with the CD player screaming lyrics into bushes. There were the many old ladies who walked past me carrying shopping bags from upscale stores having a grand old conversation with themselves. One cocky good looking 18 year old classmate turned into a 21 year old (I suppose) schizophrenic who would gesture in strange jerky movements. Another, a very bright kid who read a lot of philosophy, stopped maintaining his hygene and dropped out of school to go live off the land in Alaska......as a vegan. And at the far end of that, the man on the subway with the paper hospital bracelet around his wrist who knew which stop he needed but was too confused to get off at the right place.
Was this my future?
A few blocks later, I heard the woman's voice again. This time I realized I could make out some of the words. "Please drive the highlighted route."
As I crossed the dark, empty street I heard a womans voice say something indistinct. She seemed to be right behind me but when I turned, there was no one there. I looked all around and there wasn't a sole within 50 feet of me. Was I loosing it?
I've seen a lot of people loose it in new york. The worst is seeing individuals who still have one foot in the saine world while the other plunges into the abyss. I always feel like I should do something. But in the end, I just watch helplessly as the rest of new york shuffles past.
There was the nicely dressed man with the CD player screaming lyrics into bushes. There were the many old ladies who walked past me carrying shopping bags from upscale stores having a grand old conversation with themselves. One cocky good looking 18 year old classmate turned into a 21 year old (I suppose) schizophrenic who would gesture in strange jerky movements. Another, a very bright kid who read a lot of philosophy, stopped maintaining his hygene and dropped out of school to go live off the land in Alaska......as a vegan. And at the far end of that, the man on the subway with the paper hospital bracelet around his wrist who knew which stop he needed but was too confused to get off at the right place.
Was this my future?
A few blocks later, I heard the woman's voice again. This time I realized I could make out some of the words. "Please drive the highlighted route."
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Unresolved Resolve
In the middle of reading a self help book recommended to me by its author, I resolved to become a better human being. "I must not bash people" I decided, "no matter how much fun it is." Really, we are all social creatures with fragile egos. Why do I take such satisfaction in tarnishing the life others have so carefully constructed for themselves with my judgement and belittling? Of what benefit is it to me or anyone else when I rub an individuals face in their personal or professional short comings? Or, almost equally as bad, when I bash behind their back? In fact, I postulate that it actually makes me less in some cosmic sense.
Pretty good, right?! Yeah, that lasted about two days. Now as much as I would love to resist. I must bash. MUST.
I went to a local toastmasters meeting where I happened to sit in the seat next to a man who introduced himself as the "club mentor". As the meeting continued, I eventually realized that there was no official role of "club mentor". We conversed during breaks when he told me he had a work life that spanned forty years which doing the math....he should be in his early to mid sixties.
The next day he sent an email welcoming me and another new comer to toastmasters(although I didnt see the other new comer's email in the header). I thanked the Mentor and told him I enjoyed myself and that I would be back but wanted to try out different clubs to see which would be the best fit. The next message came:
I am glad you had a good time. I would like to see you again, so, could I take you to dinner,coffee/tea? Your convenience... lol
He could have flirted to see if I was interested....he could have asked in person........he could have ended the email with something like "sincerely" instead of "lol"?????? Seriously?! Normally I would have been flattered, but I dont think anyone has asked me out than "laughed out loud" since I was thirteen. I was tempted to write back, "no. lol."
Pretty good, right?! Yeah, that lasted about two days. Now as much as I would love to resist. I must bash. MUST.
I went to a local toastmasters meeting where I happened to sit in the seat next to a man who introduced himself as the "club mentor". As the meeting continued, I eventually realized that there was no official role of "club mentor". We conversed during breaks when he told me he had a work life that spanned forty years which doing the math....he should be in his early to mid sixties.
The next day he sent an email welcoming me and another new comer to toastmasters(although I didnt see the other new comer's email in the header). I thanked the Mentor and told him I enjoyed myself and that I would be back but wanted to try out different clubs to see which would be the best fit. The next message came:
I am glad you had a good time. I would like to see you again, so, could I take you to dinner,coffee/tea? Your convenience... lol
He could have flirted to see if I was interested....he could have asked in person........he could have ended the email with something like "sincerely" instead of "lol"?????? Seriously?! Normally I would have been flattered, but I dont think anyone has asked me out than "laughed out loud" since I was thirteen. I was tempted to write back, "no. lol."
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Cutthroat
It was an exciting evening trip to the UPS distribution center on 43rd st to pick up my cappuccino machine. As I approached the entrance, I noticed a biker locking his bike to a pole. He was cute. I decided to try to chat him up when we got inside.
We all filed into line, eventually giving our tickets to the dispatcher. The place was so new york, I wanted to burst out of my skin. A tiny office in the front area of a humongous warehouse with a stout pot bellied middle aged Italian with a thick new york accent trying to shuffle the wildly diverse patrons through the assembly line as they buzzed with impatience. People were generally civil but after something around 30 years of "Where's my package?", the dispatcher was only marginally interested in anything other then collecting tickets and sending gofers to fetch the corresponding boxes.
I glanced at the good looking biker but didn't have the courage to make eye contact so I grabbed a seat, watched the commotion, watched the tv on the wall, gestured at the deaf patron who couldn't understand the questions the UPS dispatcher was asking of him and in general tried to soak up the moment.
A crazy looking toothless guy would occasionally take to complaining at the crowd at large. He had the jerky body language of a long time cocaine user. He had tattoos all over his emaciated body including a strange tattoo across his throat. I saw the word "cut" and what kind of looked like "throat". Cutthroat? No wonder people were backing away. He yammered at the dispatcher and the other patrons something about waiting for two-and-a-half hours for his package. Everyone including the dispatcher ignored him. He seemed not to notice and carried on about how lucky they were that he isn't a younger man since his younger days would have carried more spit and fire.
I know that the druggy crazy stuff should have put me off more, but you have to feel for a guy who has been waiting for a package for 2.5 hours with someone telling him it will arrive in 10 minutes every 10 minutes for an hour and a half even if he did have "cutthroat" tattooed across his throat. I offered him my sympathize and the next thing I know, he is sitting next to me telling me that he stopped using drugs after he got AIDS 25 years ago. Oh no! Did I ask for this?!
He went on about how the best thing about surving AIDS was seeing his grand kids grow up, how he wished they had told him it would be such a long wait since he needed to get back to finish a job he was doing free of charge for a friend, that he is by profession a general contractor who can build or install any part of a homes interior, about his dad insisting on teaching him everything from carpentry to electrical wiring, how he truly loves his job to the point of perfectionism, loves executing his vision of the perfect finished bathroom and wont take a job were he cant control the outcome, how he learned to play the conga drum and piano while working as a roady for Latin bands.
Then a backroom worker handed me my package. I stood and moved toward the door. Last chance to make contact with the cute biker. Whats this? Whats happening?! I dodge eye contact with hot biker to turn and wish Cutthroat luck with his package. He smiled and returned some pleasantries as I stepped out into the muggy night.
I love new york. Anywhere else, I would have gone to my neighborhood UPS store and sat silently with a bunch of other self absorbed, impatient, college educated white collar drones breaking the silence to sigh loudly about the long wait.....not that theres anything wrong with that............except that it makes for a very uninteresting life.
We all filed into line, eventually giving our tickets to the dispatcher. The place was so new york, I wanted to burst out of my skin. A tiny office in the front area of a humongous warehouse with a stout pot bellied middle aged Italian with a thick new york accent trying to shuffle the wildly diverse patrons through the assembly line as they buzzed with impatience. People were generally civil but after something around 30 years of "Where's my package?", the dispatcher was only marginally interested in anything other then collecting tickets and sending gofers to fetch the corresponding boxes.
I glanced at the good looking biker but didn't have the courage to make eye contact so I grabbed a seat, watched the commotion, watched the tv on the wall, gestured at the deaf patron who couldn't understand the questions the UPS dispatcher was asking of him and in general tried to soak up the moment.
A crazy looking toothless guy would occasionally take to complaining at the crowd at large. He had the jerky body language of a long time cocaine user. He had tattoos all over his emaciated body including a strange tattoo across his throat. I saw the word "cut" and what kind of looked like "throat". Cutthroat? No wonder people were backing away. He yammered at the dispatcher and the other patrons something about waiting for two-and-a-half hours for his package. Everyone including the dispatcher ignored him. He seemed not to notice and carried on about how lucky they were that he isn't a younger man since his younger days would have carried more spit and fire.
I know that the druggy crazy stuff should have put me off more, but you have to feel for a guy who has been waiting for a package for 2.5 hours with someone telling him it will arrive in 10 minutes every 10 minutes for an hour and a half even if he did have "cutthroat" tattooed across his throat. I offered him my sympathize and the next thing I know, he is sitting next to me telling me that he stopped using drugs after he got AIDS 25 years ago. Oh no! Did I ask for this?!
He went on about how the best thing about surving AIDS was seeing his grand kids grow up, how he wished they had told him it would be such a long wait since he needed to get back to finish a job he was doing free of charge for a friend, that he is by profession a general contractor who can build or install any part of a homes interior, about his dad insisting on teaching him everything from carpentry to electrical wiring, how he truly loves his job to the point of perfectionism, loves executing his vision of the perfect finished bathroom and wont take a job were he cant control the outcome, how he learned to play the conga drum and piano while working as a roady for Latin bands.
Then a backroom worker handed me my package. I stood and moved toward the door. Last chance to make contact with the cute biker. Whats this? Whats happening?! I dodge eye contact with hot biker to turn and wish Cutthroat luck with his package. He smiled and returned some pleasantries as I stepped out into the muggy night.
I love new york. Anywhere else, I would have gone to my neighborhood UPS store and sat silently with a bunch of other self absorbed, impatient, college educated white collar drones breaking the silence to sigh loudly about the long wait.....not that theres anything wrong with that............except that it makes for a very uninteresting life.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday
Since getting my new fridge, I've found that everything feels chilled rather then cold. I bought a refrigerator thermometer that promptly fell apart on me. I carefully reassembled and tucked it in the fridge. In the morning the fridge, cranked to max only registered about 42 degrees on my barely-held-together fridge thermometer. I was right! Before I demand a new fridge, I decide to get another fridge thermometer, one that is still intact, asap and retest.
On Wednesday after work, all I want to do is hit the gym. But no! I need a refrigerator thermometer.
I rush off toward Bed Bath and Beyond in the hopes of getting to the gym at a resonable time.
Starving, I decide to stop along the way at a wholefoods for some vegis. As I frolick in the salad bar among the many isles of colorful foods filling up my little paper box with choice goodies, someone brushed past behind me turning to get a very close look into the food box I'm holding. There's something strangely familiar about my food oggler. I glance in his direction. Is that....? Is that Harrison Ford? No. Another glance as he scurries away like a frightened bunny around the very long and crowded lines leading to the cashiers. Small frame, messy
blondish hair under a white cap, a 60 year old with an earing. Harrison Ford. I stole one more subtle glance simply because I could.
I dodnt know how I should feel about the moment. Having my dinner inspected turns out to be a surprisingly intimate experience. I feel a bit violated and volnerable but at the same time excited. He was so close. So close that I could have touched him. So close I could have torn a piece of clothing off of his body and sold it on ebay. At the same time, I cant help but feel there is something bigger happening here. First Harrison wanted to park in Ginger's spot in Brentwood, now he shows up in midtown manhattan to monitor my diet. Is there a bigger cosmic event slowly building with Harrison Ford as its executor? Eh, whatever. I need a fridge thermometer.
I exit the Wholefoods, shoving sprouts in my mouth as I push forward toward Bed Bath and Beyond.
One blocks later, I'm passing a Best Buy inside of which is a large crowd gathered around.....a lousy band playing covers? Inside the Best Buy?! As I get closer, I see that the lead singer is noticably at least 7 months pregnant. A Preggo rock entertainer?! Eh, whatever. I need a fridge thermometer.
Later, Bed Bath and Beyond trip accomplished, fridge thermometer in hand and heading toward the gym, I decide to pop into the Home Depot wanting to find out what will be the protocol for replacing my fridge if I confirm my fridge temperature suspisions. I hunt down and accost disinterested clerks, one of which tells me "this is a really low end fridge, it doesnt get very cold". I press, the fridge should be cold enough to preserve my food (40 degrees minimum). Otherwise, whats the point of having a fridge?! It turns into such a hassle, I decide to go ahead and request a new fridge on the spot and get it all over with. Thermometer test or no thermometer test! A clerk explains that a fridge must be purchased to leave the floor of the store. erefore, to get my malfunctioning fridge replaced, I need to buy a second fridge and recieve a refund when the first fridge is returned to the store floor 3 days later. Say what?! Can I have something in writing saying I'll get a refund. No. Say what?!!! Eh, whatever. I need a fridge.
So as my day is concluding, I've had my sprouts oggled by an A-list celebrity and am now the proud owner of 2 refirigerators one of which hopefully works. Not bad for a wednesday night.....but the night is still young.
On my way home from the gym at 11pm, streets still crowded with restaurant goers and shoppers, I pass a young man in a wheel chair walking a 3-legged dog. That puts it over the top. I'm callin it a night.
On Wednesday after work, all I want to do is hit the gym. But no! I need a refrigerator thermometer.
I rush off toward Bed Bath and Beyond in the hopes of getting to the gym at a resonable time.
Starving, I decide to stop along the way at a wholefoods for some vegis. As I frolick in the salad bar among the many isles of colorful foods filling up my little paper box with choice goodies, someone brushed past behind me turning to get a very close look into the food box I'm holding. There's something strangely familiar about my food oggler. I glance in his direction. Is that....? Is that Harrison Ford? No. Another glance as he scurries away like a frightened bunny around the very long and crowded lines leading to the cashiers. Small frame, messy
blondish hair under a white cap, a 60 year old with an earing. Harrison Ford. I stole one more subtle glance simply because I could.
I dodnt know how I should feel about the moment. Having my dinner inspected turns out to be a surprisingly intimate experience. I feel a bit violated and volnerable but at the same time excited. He was so close. So close that I could have touched him. So close I could have torn a piece of clothing off of his body and sold it on ebay. At the same time, I cant help but feel there is something bigger happening here. First Harrison wanted to park in Ginger's spot in Brentwood, now he shows up in midtown manhattan to monitor my diet. Is there a bigger cosmic event slowly building with Harrison Ford as its executor? Eh, whatever. I need a fridge thermometer.
I exit the Wholefoods, shoving sprouts in my mouth as I push forward toward Bed Bath and Beyond.
One blocks later, I'm passing a Best Buy inside of which is a large crowd gathered around.....a lousy band playing covers? Inside the Best Buy?! As I get closer, I see that the lead singer is noticably at least 7 months pregnant. A Preggo rock entertainer?! Eh, whatever. I need a fridge thermometer.
Later, Bed Bath and Beyond trip accomplished, fridge thermometer in hand and heading toward the gym, I decide to pop into the Home Depot wanting to find out what will be the protocol for replacing my fridge if I confirm my fridge temperature suspisions. I hunt down and accost disinterested clerks, one of which tells me "this is a really low end fridge, it doesnt get very cold". I press, the fridge should be cold enough to preserve my food (40 degrees minimum). Otherwise, whats the point of having a fridge?! It turns into such a hassle, I decide to go ahead and request a new fridge on the spot and get it all over with. Thermometer test or no thermometer test! A clerk explains that a fridge must be purchased to leave the floor of the store. erefore, to get my malfunctioning fridge replaced, I need to buy a second fridge and recieve a refund when the first fridge is returned to the store floor 3 days later. Say what?! Can I have something in writing saying I'll get a refund. No. Say what?!!! Eh, whatever. I need a fridge.
So as my day is concluding, I've had my sprouts oggled by an A-list celebrity and am now the proud owner of 2 refirigerators one of which hopefully works. Not bad for a wednesday night.....but the night is still young.
On my way home from the gym at 11pm, streets still crowded with restaurant goers and shoppers, I pass a young man in a wheel chair walking a 3-legged dog. That puts it over the top. I'm callin it a night.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The New Me
I’ve spent most of my life bouncing around from place to place and have always had an easy time absorbing the culture. I know everyone does this. I, however, do it instantly and with no ability to control myself.
Initially, it had been an asset. By the time I was eight, I’d lived in 4 different countries and had found that people don’t generally like foreigners. The faster you can become one of “them” the better. We were too insulated from the Italians to learn their culture, but I had a relatively easy time becoming a “Soviet Georgian”, then “an American”, later “a Texan”. So far so good. Then things got a little strange.
I became a trombone player and as a teen found myself surrounded by guys. Naturally I started “to become”. I went into my parents closet and emerged as my step dad borrowing his pants and t-shirts. My parents thought it was all cute until they found I was still dressing and acting like a boy well into college.
At some point, I recall them grabbing and shaking me screaming “Stop it! We had a daughter!” Ok maybe it didn’t quite go like that. In reality, they sat me down and tried to explain that people don’t know how to categorize me, that I’m “neither this nor that“, and people don’t generally like those they don’t understand. I shrugged. I didn’t really understand most people either and decided the world at large and I had a perfectly reciprocal relationship.
A while later, my mom sat me down again and explained that if I continue to dress and act in a masculine way, I would attract feminine men. She had concocted this theory about how each relationship seeks a balance between the feminine and the masculine counterparts and that women who trended toward the masculine would attract weak effeminate men to keep a sort of gender role balance within the relationship. “Of course that’s totally fine,” she added, “if you’re into that sort of thing”. Ewwwwww. I immediately went into my parents closet and reemerged as my mother. I’m still not sure if she is right, but I couldn’t take any chances!Since then, I’ve been happily and somewhat awkwardly bouncing through life as my mother until my life in Chelsea began.
One of the many distinctive characteristics of Chelsea is it’s disproportionate population of young gay men. After a week of watching very trendy, good looking gay boys sashaying past me down 7th and 8th avenue, and following a long conversation with my fabulous gay neighbor, Britt, about his plans for renovations of our bathroom, I suddenly found myself morphing into.....thats right, a gay man. I’ve actually caught myself striking a pose calling everything I liked “fabulous” and everyone I liked “sweet”. I’ve become completely obsessed with accessorizing my apartment which has suddenly become immaculate. The other morning I actually caught myself saying to someone, “I’ll need a nice suit for the big supervisors meeting. Oh darn! An excuse to go shopping!” Dear god! I’ve always hated shopping! What’s happening?!
Initially, it had been an asset. By the time I was eight, I’d lived in 4 different countries and had found that people don’t generally like foreigners. The faster you can become one of “them” the better. We were too insulated from the Italians to learn their culture, but I had a relatively easy time becoming a “Soviet Georgian”, then “an American”, later “a Texan”. So far so good. Then things got a little strange.
I became a trombone player and as a teen found myself surrounded by guys. Naturally I started “to become”. I went into my parents closet and emerged as my step dad borrowing his pants and t-shirts. My parents thought it was all cute until they found I was still dressing and acting like a boy well into college.
At some point, I recall them grabbing and shaking me screaming “Stop it! We had a daughter!” Ok maybe it didn’t quite go like that. In reality, they sat me down and tried to explain that people don’t know how to categorize me, that I’m “neither this nor that“, and people don’t generally like those they don’t understand. I shrugged. I didn’t really understand most people either and decided the world at large and I had a perfectly reciprocal relationship.
A while later, my mom sat me down again and explained that if I continue to dress and act in a masculine way, I would attract feminine men. She had concocted this theory about how each relationship seeks a balance between the feminine and the masculine counterparts and that women who trended toward the masculine would attract weak effeminate men to keep a sort of gender role balance within the relationship. “Of course that’s totally fine,” she added, “if you’re into that sort of thing”. Ewwwwww. I immediately went into my parents closet and reemerged as my mother. I’m still not sure if she is right, but I couldn’t take any chances!Since then, I’ve been happily and somewhat awkwardly bouncing through life as my mother until my life in Chelsea began.
One of the many distinctive characteristics of Chelsea is it’s disproportionate population of young gay men. After a week of watching very trendy, good looking gay boys sashaying past me down 7th and 8th avenue, and following a long conversation with my fabulous gay neighbor, Britt, about his plans for renovations of our bathroom, I suddenly found myself morphing into.....thats right, a gay man. I’ve actually caught myself striking a pose calling everything I liked “fabulous” and everyone I liked “sweet”. I’ve become completely obsessed with accessorizing my apartment which has suddenly become immaculate. The other morning I actually caught myself saying to someone, “I’ll need a nice suit for the big supervisors meeting. Oh darn! An excuse to go shopping!” Dear god! I’ve always hated shopping! What’s happening?!
Friday, June 26, 2009
Shoebox apartment in all its glory
The shoebox in all its glory.
The kitch-bath. Its actually pretty nice. The down side is that its a very powerful gas stove and makes the apartment extemely hot when I cook.
The loft. Where this photo ends, the cieling begins. I can sit up in bed if I cock my head to the side.
View from the loft.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I Dont Wanna Go Potty
…..this entry is not for the squeamish or anyone in the middle of their lunch……
I just had several harrowing days trying to deal with the communal bathroom. I'm not a picky person when it comes to that sort of thing. You give me a hole and a target sign and I'm good to go. I've lived with all kinds of shared bathrooms: college dorms, hostels, camp sites, bushes, litter boxes, etc... No big deal....until now.
I didnt think it would bother me (that faint constant urine odor in the hallway). But eventually it started driving me nuts. Not to mention every time I would open the bathroom door, I would get hit in the face with a cloud of organically generated ammonia and mental images of how a bathroom could be driven to smell THAT bad within hours of being cleaned.
I used the good smelling bathrooms on the 4th and 1st floor and figured walking a couple of flights was an acceptable trade off.
Then on Friday night I heard a woman screaming about something in the hallway. When I awoke on Saturday morning, my two clean potty alternatives were locked! Oh the horror!
I decided I wasn’t going to let the potty win! I began with chlorine tablets which freshened up the hallway, but left the bathroom still largely gross. I was undeterred. I bought handy wipes and would just do whatever necessary. Then horror of horrors! I went in with my little handy wipes and began wiping down the seat when some dark streaks on the back of the toilet seat started coming off. Through what contortion magic can you possibly leave thin poopy streaks on the back of the toilet?!
KO. It was official. The potty had finally won.
I decided that on Monday I would call the super and tell him to either get me a key to the first floor bathroom or I was calling the health department.
On Sunday morning as I made the long and painful 6 foot journey from my apartment to the stinky bathroom, my fabulously gay neighbor stopped me and asked if I want to use “our” bathroom. What?! What?! What?! Our bathroom?! “Yes, but you have to keep it clean and locked”. I was so overjoyed, I had to restrain myself from humping his leg. He then opened the door to what I thought had been a storage closet leading the way to a wondrous and odorless potty world with fashion magazines, a decorative vase and a little mirrored cabinet. This must be what Alice in Wonderland must have felt like.
I just had several harrowing days trying to deal with the communal bathroom. I'm not a picky person when it comes to that sort of thing. You give me a hole and a target sign and I'm good to go. I've lived with all kinds of shared bathrooms: college dorms, hostels, camp sites, bushes, litter boxes, etc... No big deal....until now.
I didnt think it would bother me (that faint constant urine odor in the hallway). But eventually it started driving me nuts. Not to mention every time I would open the bathroom door, I would get hit in the face with a cloud of organically generated ammonia and mental images of how a bathroom could be driven to smell THAT bad within hours of being cleaned.
I used the good smelling bathrooms on the 4th and 1st floor and figured walking a couple of flights was an acceptable trade off.
Then on Friday night I heard a woman screaming about something in the hallway. When I awoke on Saturday morning, my two clean potty alternatives were locked! Oh the horror!
I decided I wasn’t going to let the potty win! I began with chlorine tablets which freshened up the hallway, but left the bathroom still largely gross. I was undeterred. I bought handy wipes and would just do whatever necessary. Then horror of horrors! I went in with my little handy wipes and began wiping down the seat when some dark streaks on the back of the toilet seat started coming off. Through what contortion magic can you possibly leave thin poopy streaks on the back of the toilet?!
KO. It was official. The potty had finally won.
I decided that on Monday I would call the super and tell him to either get me a key to the first floor bathroom or I was calling the health department.
On Sunday morning as I made the long and painful 6 foot journey from my apartment to the stinky bathroom, my fabulously gay neighbor stopped me and asked if I want to use “our” bathroom. What?! What?! What?! Our bathroom?! “Yes, but you have to keep it clean and locked”. I was so overjoyed, I had to restrain myself from humping his leg. He then opened the door to what I thought had been a storage closet leading the way to a wondrous and odorless potty world with fashion magazines, a decorative vase and a little mirrored cabinet. This must be what Alice in Wonderland must have felt like.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Home Sweet Home
I have mixed emotions about my new building. Its surprisingly residential for virtually kissing the train station. Its a 300 sq ft loft apartment with one toilet and shower per floor to be shared with the other lovely tenants.
To me it was all about location because I refuse to get up a second earlier then I have to and this place basically allows me to roll out of bed and onto a long island rail road train seat. The rest I chose to ignore.
This is the generic first time viewing experience: As you approach the building you think, this street is quiet and cute with its brownstones. I cant believe we are steps away from one of the most chaotic neighborhoods in Manhattan! As you enter the building you think, whats that
smell? Ah yes! Third world half way house. The doors are packed together so closely, initially you are convinced they are storage units. No, no, someone has managed to squeeze into every single unit and through some advanced contortion techniques, close the door and lock
themselves inside. In the hallway, theres even a little toilet closet and a little shower closet. No sink. That would be found inside the unit in the form of the kitch-bath sink....which is actually kind of a handy way to find out which friends wash after using the toilet. Its really not too bad unless the bathroom door is open. It literally smells like a wino stepped inside and peed all over himself. How do you make a bathroom smell that bad in one day?! The odd thing about it is that its just my floor and the floor below that reek of wino. The ground floor and 4th floor smell fine-ish. Lord, you scream, why me?! Why does it always have to be me?! No wait, sorry,
that was me screaming, you would be screaming, what the hell am I doing in Julie's apartment?! This is so bizarre!......but then you would notice that for the tininess of the unit, its actually really quite nice.....and then everything would be ok.
Inside the unit theres the "loft", a lovely built in bunk bed of sorts (not intended for use with claustraphobics).Theres the kitch-bath sink for maximum efficiency for those on the go multitaskers! Why waste time just brushing your teeth when you can rinse a head of lettuce at the same time?! Yeah, I stole that from a Seinfeld episode.
On my way from the a shower in the hall way, I tried to set down my toiletries near the kitch-bath sink and managed to hook my bra strap in one of the stove prongs. How many people do you know who can say THAT?!
The shower has one and only one amenity. Hot water. Its probably 2.5 x 5 feet with a little curtain separating the changing area (2 feet) from the shower area (2 feet). A great chance to rough it a bit and really get the new york experience. There's no hooks, no where to put your soap or toiletries which just gives you a chance to get creative! The towel can be placed on top of the broom handle while you hang your cloths from the door knob. What about soap and shampoo and such.....well, you just hold them in your hand while you shower because bending down is a bit tricky in such a small space. Thank God for the 24 hour fitness down the road! I must have taken about a 30 minute shower in there last night.
Overall I'm actually really happy with it, and I'll be even happier if I learn not to pee.
....pictures to follow.....
To me it was all about location because I refuse to get up a second earlier then I have to and this place basically allows me to roll out of bed and onto a long island rail road train seat. The rest I chose to ignore.
This is the generic first time viewing experience: As you approach the building you think, this street is quiet and cute with its brownstones. I cant believe we are steps away from one of the most chaotic neighborhoods in Manhattan! As you enter the building you think, whats that
smell? Ah yes! Third world half way house. The doors are packed together so closely, initially you are convinced they are storage units. No, no, someone has managed to squeeze into every single unit and through some advanced contortion techniques, close the door and lock
themselves inside. In the hallway, theres even a little toilet closet and a little shower closet. No sink. That would be found inside the unit in the form of the kitch-bath sink....which is actually kind of a handy way to find out which friends wash after using the toilet. Its really not too bad unless the bathroom door is open. It literally smells like a wino stepped inside and peed all over himself. How do you make a bathroom smell that bad in one day?! The odd thing about it is that its just my floor and the floor below that reek of wino. The ground floor and 4th floor smell fine-ish. Lord, you scream, why me?! Why does it always have to be me?! No wait, sorry,
that was me screaming, you would be screaming, what the hell am I doing in Julie's apartment?! This is so bizarre!......but then you would notice that for the tininess of the unit, its actually really quite nice.....and then everything would be ok.
Inside the unit theres the "loft", a lovely built in bunk bed of sorts (not intended for use with claustraphobics).Theres the kitch-bath sink for maximum efficiency for those on the go multitaskers! Why waste time just brushing your teeth when you can rinse a head of lettuce at the same time?! Yeah, I stole that from a Seinfeld episode.
On my way from the a shower in the hall way, I tried to set down my toiletries near the kitch-bath sink and managed to hook my bra strap in one of the stove prongs. How many people do you know who can say THAT?!
The shower has one and only one amenity. Hot water. Its probably 2.5 x 5 feet with a little curtain separating the changing area (2 feet) from the shower area (2 feet). A great chance to rough it a bit and really get the new york experience. There's no hooks, no where to put your soap or toiletries which just gives you a chance to get creative! The towel can be placed on top of the broom handle while you hang your cloths from the door knob. What about soap and shampoo and such.....well, you just hold them in your hand while you shower because bending down is a bit tricky in such a small space. Thank God for the 24 hour fitness down the road! I must have taken about a 30 minute shower in there last night.
Overall I'm actually really happy with it, and I'll be even happier if I learn not to pee.
....pictures to follow.....
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
All the Comforts of Home
So I thought I was "roughing it" when I stayed at the Motel 6 in Santa Ana for $52 a night because the computer station was primitive and the walls smelled smokey. Baha! Then I came to long island and tried to live the cheapo business relocator traveler life.
Thanks to some awful golf tournament, the price of all of the local hotels doubled and tripled. Last night I found myself paying $109+tax for a grand total of $122 for a room at the Days Inn. Pulling up, I thought it was a dumpy ethnic neighborhood, but whatever, I grew up in a dumpy ethnic neighborhood and it was actually kinda nice seeing all of the black and Hispanic families enjoying their weekend shopping with the kids. I shrugged off my reservations and just went with the flow.
At midnight, jet lagged, still awake and starving to death, I decided to investigate the snack machine inventory. I slipped my sockless feet into my sneakers and (too lazy to lace up) I clip clopped over to the vending machine. But there was no vending machine. Just an ice machine. I glanced across the street and the empty lot beyond it at a Gulp gas station 50 yards away. I got that queasy "gosh its dark and spooky" knot in my stomach I'm convinced men know nothing about. But then I thought, 50 yards, hungry, 50 yards, hungry....
I got there and the apparently bored attendant started trying to reel me into a conversation which quickly turned weird. He asked, "How much are the rooms at the Days Inn". I explained that I went through travelocity and gave him the rate. He asked, "is that for 12 or 24 hours"? Huh? Who rents by the half day? He tried to keep me there talking, but I cut it short. I was too tired to be patient with this guy.
As I walked around the chain linked fence separating the gas station from the spooky parking lot on my way back to the hotel, a truck pulled around on the other side of the fence and asked, "How are you doing?" It suddenly dawned on me that I cant even run in my unlaced shoes! "Good" I barked and shuffled toward my hotel as quickly as my sneakers turned flip flops would take me. My God, this guy could kill me, eat my liver, dress up in a suite made from my skin, and be gone hours before anyone would even notice the stench. After 20 yards, I looked back, but he was gone. I should have known. Serial killers clearly prefer affluent neighborhoods. Nope. It was a John. Mom would've been so proud!
When I returned to my room, I read reviews from a Days Inn patron who claimed to have been stuck next door to a hooker. How would he know it was a hooker?!
At around 1:30am I heard weird sex. I've been next door to newly weds before and this was nothing like that. There was grunting and moaning followed by pleading then more grunting. My sleep was awful that night! Every time I heard a noise I'd sit up and listen closely to hear if the sounds were indicative of the guy next door trying to hide the hookers body.
At 3:30am, awake again I searched for a hotel for the next night. The price for a room at the Days Inn had gone up to $148+tax.
Thanks to some awful golf tournament, the price of all of the local hotels doubled and tripled. Last night I found myself paying $109+tax for a grand total of $122 for a room at the Days Inn. Pulling up, I thought it was a dumpy ethnic neighborhood, but whatever, I grew up in a dumpy ethnic neighborhood and it was actually kinda nice seeing all of the black and Hispanic families enjoying their weekend shopping with the kids. I shrugged off my reservations and just went with the flow.
At midnight, jet lagged, still awake and starving to death, I decided to investigate the snack machine inventory. I slipped my sockless feet into my sneakers and (too lazy to lace up) I clip clopped over to the vending machine. But there was no vending machine. Just an ice machine. I glanced across the street and the empty lot beyond it at a Gulp gas station 50 yards away. I got that queasy "gosh its dark and spooky" knot in my stomach I'm convinced men know nothing about. But then I thought, 50 yards, hungry, 50 yards, hungry....
I got there and the apparently bored attendant started trying to reel me into a conversation which quickly turned weird. He asked, "How much are the rooms at the Days Inn". I explained that I went through travelocity and gave him the rate. He asked, "is that for 12 or 24 hours"? Huh? Who rents by the half day? He tried to keep me there talking, but I cut it short. I was too tired to be patient with this guy.
As I walked around the chain linked fence separating the gas station from the spooky parking lot on my way back to the hotel, a truck pulled around on the other side of the fence and asked, "How are you doing?" It suddenly dawned on me that I cant even run in my unlaced shoes! "Good" I barked and shuffled toward my hotel as quickly as my sneakers turned flip flops would take me. My God, this guy could kill me, eat my liver, dress up in a suite made from my skin, and be gone hours before anyone would even notice the stench. After 20 yards, I looked back, but he was gone. I should have known. Serial killers clearly prefer affluent neighborhoods. Nope. It was a John. Mom would've been so proud!
When I returned to my room, I read reviews from a Days Inn patron who claimed to have been stuck next door to a hooker. How would he know it was a hooker?!
At around 1:30am I heard weird sex. I've been next door to newly weds before and this was nothing like that. There was grunting and moaning followed by pleading then more grunting. My sleep was awful that night! Every time I heard a noise I'd sit up and listen closely to hear if the sounds were indicative of the guy next door trying to hide the hookers body.
At 3:30am, awake again I searched for a hotel for the next night. The price for a room at the Days Inn had gone up to $148+tax.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Terror at Cruising Altitude
I honestly have no idea why I'm more afraid of being killed flying then driving. We all know the odds. You are less likely to die in a plain crash then drowning in a bucket. Yet the site of an air plain just automatically triggers the thought, "hey, there goes a flying tomb". I'm not kidding. Somehow in the last 7 or so years, my mind inexplicably and without provocation decided that airplane = death.
It started with me hearing somewhere that the take off and the landing were the most dangerous part of the flight and culminated with me trembling for all 45 minutes of a flight from Vegas to Burbank as I felt the plain descending violently......for all 45 minutes......even while we were ascending. It was awful. Literally, 45 non-stop minutes of the little voice inside my head thinking "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I don't know how I got to be so nuts.
Tomorrow I fly again. Six hours. I was planning on driving the 3000 miles to new york largely to avoid flying until more then one person pointed out that the drive was far more dangerous. I actually considered doing multiple lay-overs and in a sense hop scotching my way across America, but I couldn't decide what was more horrible, 3 take offs that stretched the trip into a 15 hour ordeal or one 6-hour long miserable stretch of non-stop terror.
The new plan: ship the car and fly direct while completely stoned on herbal supplements. That's right, too chicken to use illegal drugs, too lazy to get a prescription for real drugs so I'll be popping Valerian root like there's no tomorrow.
The one time I've attempted taking Valerian Root to calm myself on a flight, I accidentally overdosed. That's right, I overdosed on herbal supplements and it was fantastic! The high itself wasn't actually enjoyable. No. It was basically the out of it feeling you get when you take strong cold medication that leaves you very sleepy and too fuzzy headed to understand anything. The enjoyable part in that experience was in thinking, "right now, I don't care if we do crash" followed by mirth and giggling (hopefully to myself and not out loud). I plan to recreate the experience with alcohol as my backup plan.
My step dad wanted to know how I would find the emergency exit if I'm drunk.
Damn him!
It started with me hearing somewhere that the take off and the landing were the most dangerous part of the flight and culminated with me trembling for all 45 minutes of a flight from Vegas to Burbank as I felt the plain descending violently......for all 45 minutes......even while we were ascending. It was awful. Literally, 45 non-stop minutes of the little voice inside my head thinking "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I don't know how I got to be so nuts.
Tomorrow I fly again. Six hours. I was planning on driving the 3000 miles to new york largely to avoid flying until more then one person pointed out that the drive was far more dangerous. I actually considered doing multiple lay-overs and in a sense hop scotching my way across America, but I couldn't decide what was more horrible, 3 take offs that stretched the trip into a 15 hour ordeal or one 6-hour long miserable stretch of non-stop terror.
The new plan: ship the car and fly direct while completely stoned on herbal supplements. That's right, too chicken to use illegal drugs, too lazy to get a prescription for real drugs so I'll be popping Valerian root like there's no tomorrow.
The one time I've attempted taking Valerian Root to calm myself on a flight, I accidentally overdosed. That's right, I overdosed on herbal supplements and it was fantastic! The high itself wasn't actually enjoyable. No. It was basically the out of it feeling you get when you take strong cold medication that leaves you very sleepy and too fuzzy headed to understand anything. The enjoyable part in that experience was in thinking, "right now, I don't care if we do crash" followed by mirth and giggling (hopefully to myself and not out loud). I plan to recreate the experience with alcohol as my backup plan.
My step dad wanted to know how I would find the emergency exit if I'm drunk.
Damn him!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Gossip junkey
I parked at a 24 hour fitness and was finishing up my call to my grandma when an incoming call went to voice mail. It was a singing voice mail from a buddy I met 8 years ago while on a horrible tour of The Music Man.
Julie Kalu,
I miss you.
Call me back
You fucking bitch.
What girl can resist poetry?! I called him back right away.
A little background about me and my road buddy: We were on quite possibly the worst tour. Most of the company was very inexperienced, very young, not particularly good, and going nuts. To make things worse, the not so young members of the tour were 40-something year olds who never made it in the industry.......and for good reasons. It was the sort of experience that sent almost every member of the company looking for some way to drown their misery. Unlike most of our coworkers, neither my buddy nor I were into partying. As a result, we were the only two members of the 50-60 member company who would be up early, wandering the streets of America looking for a decent cup of coffee. That's when we discovered each other and our drugs of choice: coffee and gossip.
We had plenty of material to work with. We were on tour with beauty obsessed actors and dancers whose need for attention and positive affirmation was nearly unquenchable, thus they hooked up with everyone. There were troll like musicians who showed up to work drunk or stoned releasing beer and pizza death farts in the pit, then venturing out to bars every night until 3am trying to hook up with everyone. And of course, there was the crew, largely arrogant recluses who stopped acknowledging me as soon as they realized I wasn't going to hook up with them. You notice a common theme here? Yeah, we did as well and it kept us busy enough for 7 months to keep from slitting our wrists. It was Jerry Springer meets Melrose Place at a frat party kind of stuff where a love triangle wasn't interesting enough to be worth mentioning unless it was a married mother of an 8 year-old actor hooking up with one of the adult actors who had been gay for all 42 years of his life.
I work in a completely different environment now. Since we don't live with our coworkers, the gossip is mostly conjecture and office squabbling. I had forgotten how intoxicating it all had been until he called.
After some chit chat about gigs and such, I warned him that my phone battery was running low. He promised to hurry.
"You know I've been with my girl for three years now."
"Yeah." This might be good, I thought as I smelled the mild, sweet aroma of ripening gossip.
"Well, in all of that time, I haven't even wanted to look at another girl."
"Yeah?!" More! Feed the monster!
"Yeah." Beep. Phone shutting down.
"No!" I screamed, "No! No! No!" I thought about trying to power up my phone again. I'd just need about ten seconds. Just a quick, "Is it good or is it bad? Hurry!" The battery had been threatening me for a while and I knew there just wasn't any juice left. But I need the gossip! I need it bad! It was already 10 o'clock at night. Where could I score a gossip fix at such a late hour?!
*Sigh* Maybe its just as well. That was a dark period in my life. Maybe its better to go without.
Julie Kalu,
I miss you.
Call me back
You fucking bitch.
What girl can resist poetry?! I called him back right away.
A little background about me and my road buddy: We were on quite possibly the worst tour. Most of the company was very inexperienced, very young, not particularly good, and going nuts. To make things worse, the not so young members of the tour were 40-something year olds who never made it in the industry.......and for good reasons. It was the sort of experience that sent almost every member of the company looking for some way to drown their misery. Unlike most of our coworkers, neither my buddy nor I were into partying. As a result, we were the only two members of the 50-60 member company who would be up early, wandering the streets of America looking for a decent cup of coffee. That's when we discovered each other and our drugs of choice: coffee and gossip.
We had plenty of material to work with. We were on tour with beauty obsessed actors and dancers whose need for attention and positive affirmation was nearly unquenchable, thus they hooked up with everyone. There were troll like musicians who showed up to work drunk or stoned releasing beer and pizza death farts in the pit, then venturing out to bars every night until 3am trying to hook up with everyone. And of course, there was the crew, largely arrogant recluses who stopped acknowledging me as soon as they realized I wasn't going to hook up with them. You notice a common theme here? Yeah, we did as well and it kept us busy enough for 7 months to keep from slitting our wrists. It was Jerry Springer meets Melrose Place at a frat party kind of stuff where a love triangle wasn't interesting enough to be worth mentioning unless it was a married mother of an 8 year-old actor hooking up with one of the adult actors who had been gay for all 42 years of his life.
I work in a completely different environment now. Since we don't live with our coworkers, the gossip is mostly conjecture and office squabbling. I had forgotten how intoxicating it all had been until he called.
After some chit chat about gigs and such, I warned him that my phone battery was running low. He promised to hurry.
"You know I've been with my girl for three years now."
"Yeah." This might be good, I thought as I smelled the mild, sweet aroma of ripening gossip.
"Well, in all of that time, I haven't even wanted to look at another girl."
"Yeah?!" More! Feed the monster!
"Yeah." Beep. Phone shutting down.
"No!" I screamed, "No! No! No!" I thought about trying to power up my phone again. I'd just need about ten seconds. Just a quick, "Is it good or is it bad? Hurry!" The battery had been threatening me for a while and I knew there just wasn't any juice left. But I need the gossip! I need it bad! It was already 10 o'clock at night. Where could I score a gossip fix at such a late hour?!
*Sigh* Maybe its just as well. That was a dark period in my life. Maybe its better to go without.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The dreaded B-word
It was my birthday today. I had almost forgotten until I was forced to offer the elliptical machine an answer about my metrics before being allowed to commence with 1.5 hours of gasping and sweating. Stupid nosy elliptical machine! It was supposed to be "ok" to get older this year because I was planning on celebrating my last day at my current job today, but they pulled the rug out from under me by "separating" from me 2 days early so instead I celebrated by going on a bike ride and having my chain literally snap in half 2 miles from the midway point. Man! I need to stop lifting weights! Either that or I need to stop buying 20 year old bicycles and deluding myself into thinking that grinding and clanking are a natural part of an uphill bike ride.
I remember my buddy Brenda leaving me a message on my 22nd birthday asking, "how does it feel to be 22? Pretty lousy, right?! Because after your 21st birthday, nothing fun happens, you just get older". She always had quite the unique perspective on things. I hope she never tries to volunteer at a suicide hot line.
She's right though. I think 34 is quite old enough. I'm done with the whole business of aging. Stop the clock! I want to get off this ride while everything still works and I can get by without botox.
I guess the upside of turning 34 is that I've had plenty of time to get used to moping about yet another birthday.
Well, that was a satisfying pitty party I just threw for myself. Please come back same time next year as the pitty party promises to be even grander!
I remember my buddy Brenda leaving me a message on my 22nd birthday asking, "how does it feel to be 22? Pretty lousy, right?! Because after your 21st birthday, nothing fun happens, you just get older". She always had quite the unique perspective on things. I hope she never tries to volunteer at a suicide hot line.
She's right though. I think 34 is quite old enough. I'm done with the whole business of aging. Stop the clock! I want to get off this ride while everything still works and I can get by without botox.
I guess the upside of turning 34 is that I've had plenty of time to get used to moping about yet another birthday.
Well, that was a satisfying pitty party I just threw for myself. Please come back same time next year as the pitty party promises to be even grander!
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Screaming Babies
Maybe its just my russian upbringing where children were seen and not heard, maybe because I've wholy sequestered myself in a world of adults, but I need to know what is the deal with bringing babies to restaurants?! Why does a baby NEED to be in a restaurant? Did you bring baby into Panera because she needs to see the menu options? Has she grown tired of the strained peas so you've decided to let her sink her 3 baby teeth into a flakey pastry and coffee? Clearly she is unhappy with the restaurant choice because she is wailing at the top of her lungs.
I cant really blame baby though. She couldn't step outside for a good cry if she wanted to as she is restrained by her idiot parents.
When did people loose all sense of decensy?! Two screaming babies in one Panera in less then three hours!
I had this bizare urge to burst into tears and start screaming at the top of my lungs as it has clearly become acceptable restaurant behavior. While I'm at it, I think I'll smear food all over my face and shove cherios into someone elses mouth. I've heard thats considered adorable.
I cant really blame baby though. She couldn't step outside for a good cry if she wanted to as she is restrained by her idiot parents.
When did people loose all sense of decensy?! Two screaming babies in one Panera in less then three hours!
I had this bizare urge to burst into tears and start screaming at the top of my lungs as it has clearly become acceptable restaurant behavior. While I'm at it, I think I'll smear food all over my face and shove cherios into someone elses mouth. I've heard thats considered adorable.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
My first post
On the advise of a friend, I will attempt blogging. In the event this goes badly, it is very important that you send all hate mail to her as I am far more sensitive then she is.
Just to forewarn you, this is not intended to inform, enlighten, educate and most especially not help you grow as a person. This is me scratching my narcisistic itch, trying to make you giggle a bit and possibly (I know this is ambitious) trying to win the Guiness Book of World Records title for Most Mispelled Words in One Posting. I will not be spell checking this primarily because I prefer the organic creative approach to grammar and spelling and also because I'm far too lazy to open Microsoft Word and run this through spell check. Plus, since my friend (who suggested the blog idea) told me that many smart people she knows don't spell well, I have now been persuaded to spell badly by the entisement of being seen as a "smart person". Not my fault. I'm a sheep.
About themes, maybe this should be about my move back to New York City after nearly 5 years of self imposed assylum in the dreaded Southern California desert. I left a cool and wreckless burned out musician and I will be returning as a boring IT consultant with a solid benefits package. That should work for now until I come up with something better.
Just to forewarn you, this is not intended to inform, enlighten, educate and most especially not help you grow as a person. This is me scratching my narcisistic itch, trying to make you giggle a bit and possibly (I know this is ambitious) trying to win the Guiness Book of World Records title for Most Mispelled Words in One Posting. I will not be spell checking this primarily because I prefer the organic creative approach to grammar and spelling and also because I'm far too lazy to open Microsoft Word and run this through spell check. Plus, since my friend (who suggested the blog idea) told me that many smart people she knows don't spell well, I have now been persuaded to spell badly by the entisement of being seen as a "smart person". Not my fault. I'm a sheep.
About themes, maybe this should be about my move back to New York City after nearly 5 years of self imposed assylum in the dreaded Southern California desert. I left a cool and wreckless burned out musician and I will be returning as a boring IT consultant with a solid benefits package. That should work for now until I come up with something better.
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