I quit my job again.
Surprise, surprise.
I didn't last too long at this one, either. Last fall I quit my first job. Here we are, in the dead of Springtime, and already I've quit my second job. They say (and They are always right) that the average person makes an average of seven career changes over the course of their average lifetime. Well, I guess if I was Average I'd have five more chances to get my shit together and amass my fortune.
But I'm not average. Am I.
Nope. I consider myself to be quite un-average, and in some cases even above average. It was true when it came to my BMI as a 9 year old. It was true when I took the SAT II Writing Exam (I am brilliant, clearly), and it is especially true now as I explore the very awful, unfriendly, and disconcerting world of Work. You don't believe me, perhaps, but I am something of a phenom when it comes to Working. Allow me to explain...
Regarding my experience in the workforce, my contributions are nothing short of astounding, and my potential to be an Outstanding Employee has only been overshadowed by my potential to be a Disgruntled Employee. In the last year, I have discovered that I have what some people might call "Extraordinary Abilities."
For example, I have the extraordinary ability to start showing up late once I have decided I am going to quit. And in fact today, having quit early last week and sensing the end of my tenure nearing, I left for two hours at lunch without remorse, nor regret. No one seemed to notice or care and I received all of ONE email over that span of time. So now that I have established this precedent, I will most likely not rush back to the office on my next much anticipated lunchtime voyage to the Northridge Trader Joe's.
Another example: I also have the extraordinary ability to take simple tasks that would take an "average" worker a few hours and stretch them out over the course of a workweek, thus achieving the two-fold goal of appearing excessively busy throughout the day while successfully using most of my time to chat online, draw nonsense pictures on MS Paint, and click on randomly selected links to Youtube videos that I am sent by people I love and trust - who are also extraordinarily talented workers.*
A third notable sample of my unparalleled, uninspiring on-the-job talent is my ability to manufacture water-tight, non-negotiable excuses to leave. Among those excuses have been: "I'm sorry, but I hate this job, and actually I'm not sorry," and "This is more inconvenient for you than it is for me, but I'm moving, and I won't be taking this job with me." Such exemplary reasons for quitting my job(s) have only come about as a result of my OTHER extraordinary ability to complain about my place of work and the duties I am forced to perform there. Chances are, if you have ever actually talked to me (and the chances are good), you will know just how overly-achieved I am at this (I guess some things never change). I like to list it on my resume under Special Skills. Yes, Future Employer, not only am I bilingual - for someone who looks Mexican I speak some damn good broken Spanish - I will also think of and vocalize to my friends and family a thousand reasons your company sucks, and how upon hiring me the work you'll make me do will drain my soul of its ability to feel.
My list of extraordinary qualifications goes on and on...
But the gist of it is, I quit jobs...like it's my job.
Which makes me think a few things.** The first being, is it possible to be a Serial Employee? We've all heard of Serial Killers and hip, trendy 21st century catch phrases like "Serial Monogamist," so why not Serial Employee? I could make my living by going from job to job, nailing interviews, breezing through training, getting promptly into the swing of things and then lowering the axe - BOOM! BAM! TWO WEEKS BITCHES I QUIT!
If there is a job out there for someone who quit jobs, then I'm definitely a qualified candidate.
"Tell us, Ms. Zine, what was it you did at your last job?"
"Oh, well, I quit my last job. And the job before it."
"Fantastic! You appear to be just what we're looking for. We'd love to hire you, but we hope you'll leave soon."
Only in a perfect world...
Let the blog-record show that I have indeed quit my job and will be moving to Northern California sometime this summer. Instead of two weeks, I gave them two months. And while I have never used the excuse, "I hate this job," I really do hate working.
*We should form a League, and call it The League of Extraordinary Workers. Who's with me?!
** I have a very active mind, despite its being numbed by hours of mundane, drawn-out tasks.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Summer Heat Makes Me Sorta Bitchy, or The Bummer Of Imperfect Genetics
Damn, it is hot.
I mean, good Lord, it's only April.
Spring itself is but a babe in arms, just barely a month old (not even off the breast!) and yet she somehow displays the unbecoming heat of her adolescent sister, Summer - complete with slutty outfits and bad attitude, to be sure.
Point is, it's been fucking hot out, and I'm so over it already. In just two days of turning on the A/C I've grown weary of going to sleep at night splayed atop my covers like a dead animal, my t-shirt sticky against my lightly sweaty skin. Hard to believe, right? since it sounds so fun. I've tried sleeping with a re-freezable cold pack, which kind of helps but not really since the unbearable warmth between my breasts ultimately sucks the cold right out of it. I've also tried keeping a glass of cool water at my bedside, which again fails me miserably not only because it's lukewarm by about 12:30am, but because it causes me to have to pee at regular intervals throughout the night. This is both terribly uncomfortable and disruptive to my sleep cycles and sends my resting heart rate through the roof; that is, once I can stop battling the voices in my head that tell me to stay in bed it's a-ok to piss my pants.
My final method of choice is, I believe, a pretty common fall-back heat fighting option: The Cold Shower. Sure it calms my nerves when I'm feeling unbearably sexy with no place to go*, but it's also in theory a good way to lower one's core temperature and relieve oneself of the awfulness that is Summer heat. Of course, once I'm actually IN the shower with the water ON, it's all but impossible to heat the water right back up. Goosebumps and shivers are hardly a cure to heat exhaustion. God, nothing helps. It's so annoying.
But this brings me to my actual point, and it is this: Some things are really only good in theory.
Yeah, yeah I know. This is hardly a new thought. I'm not claiming to forge new philosophical ground, people. Never claimed to do nothin' of the sort. Allz I do is write what I think, and right now I'm thinking it's an effing hotbox in my room, and yes sometimes my thoughts are terrifically ordinary. So what. You can stop reading.
That aside, I think it actually is an interesting notion to ponder, because I often find myself doing or thinking things that work in my head, but in reality (or in practice, as they say) fall somewhere short of realistic.
Take, for instance, this two-headed baby.
In theory, if I saw this double-faced baby say, at the grocery store with her/their mom, or playing on a swing at the park, I would be very gracious and kind. I would try not to make the parents feel awkward or judged by their child's (or is it children's?) genetic misfortune. No, in theory I would be the model compassionate citizen and politely offer the little girl(s) two Otter-pops whenever I hosted a backyard BBQ, and two goodie bags at my kid's birthday party. And I would even be cool enough to casually dismiss the existence of the child's two faces by blurring my eyes when I looked at them so that the two faces created one. In theory, I would NOT make puns about the child's "duplicitous nature," or watch Batman Forever in her presence (the one where Tommy Lee Jones plays Two-Face... that would be so brutal).
But that's just in theory.
In reality, if I saw this poor little baby with two faces in the arms of its mother, I would almost certainly have trouble not gawking. Of course I wouldn't make faces, or stare with my mouth agape**... but I'd probably stare. Just a little. I'm sorry! It's just so rare, and COME ON TWO FACES! I know, there should be a place where all the people who have unbelievable curiosities about them can get together and showcase their absurd genetic "gifts!" And this place should be under a big red and white striped tent.... with a circle in the middle where they can go display themselves in brightly colored clothing... and people can come and eat peanuts and watch them eat Otter-pops.... Oh, and there should be elephants.
Great idea, right? IN THEORY. (Cue Old Man in a derby waving his hand across the sky saying in his most convincing voice, "I got big dreams kid. We're gonna be rich!") I fear in reality this would be a lot like the circus, which is a frightening, horrible place to take a child. Even a two-faced child.
I'm a horrible person.
In a perfect world no one would have four eyes and two mouths. In theory, even in our completely imperfect world "no one" really has four eyes and two mouths. But then again, the world is a much nicer place, in theory...
Take a second and re-read the circus comments.
Looks like I, too, am much nicer in theory.
*That's actually plainly untrue. Nothing helps.
** Yes I would.
I mean, good Lord, it's only April.
Spring itself is but a babe in arms, just barely a month old (not even off the breast!) and yet she somehow displays the unbecoming heat of her adolescent sister, Summer - complete with slutty outfits and bad attitude, to be sure.
Point is, it's been fucking hot out, and I'm so over it already. In just two days of turning on the A/C I've grown weary of going to sleep at night splayed atop my covers like a dead animal, my t-shirt sticky against my lightly sweaty skin. Hard to believe, right? since it sounds so fun. I've tried sleeping with a re-freezable cold pack, which kind of helps but not really since the unbearable warmth between my breasts ultimately sucks the cold right out of it. I've also tried keeping a glass of cool water at my bedside, which again fails me miserably not only because it's lukewarm by about 12:30am, but because it causes me to have to pee at regular intervals throughout the night. This is both terribly uncomfortable and disruptive to my sleep cycles and sends my resting heart rate through the roof; that is, once I can stop battling the voices in my head that tell me to stay in bed it's a-ok to piss my pants.
My final method of choice is, I believe, a pretty common fall-back heat fighting option: The Cold Shower. Sure it calms my nerves when I'm feeling unbearably sexy with no place to go*, but it's also in theory a good way to lower one's core temperature and relieve oneself of the awfulness that is Summer heat. Of course, once I'm actually IN the shower with the water ON, it's all but impossible to heat the water right back up. Goosebumps and shivers are hardly a cure to heat exhaustion. God, nothing helps. It's so annoying.
But this brings me to my actual point, and it is this: Some things are really only good in theory.
Yeah, yeah I know. This is hardly a new thought. I'm not claiming to forge new philosophical ground, people. Never claimed to do nothin' of the sort. Allz I do is write what I think, and right now I'm thinking it's an effing hotbox in my room, and yes sometimes my thoughts are terrifically ordinary. So what. You can stop reading.
That aside, I think it actually is an interesting notion to ponder, because I often find myself doing or thinking things that work in my head, but in reality (or in practice, as they say) fall somewhere short of realistic.
Take, for instance, this two-headed baby.
In theory, if I saw this double-faced baby say, at the grocery store with her/their mom, or playing on a swing at the park, I would be very gracious and kind. I would try not to make the parents feel awkward or judged by their child's (or is it children's?) genetic misfortune. No, in theory I would be the model compassionate citizen and politely offer the little girl(s) two Otter-pops whenever I hosted a backyard BBQ, and two goodie bags at my kid's birthday party. And I would even be cool enough to casually dismiss the existence of the child's two faces by blurring my eyes when I looked at them so that the two faces created one. In theory, I would NOT make puns about the child's "duplicitous nature," or watch Batman Forever in her presence (the one where Tommy Lee Jones plays Two-Face... that would be so brutal).
But that's just in theory.
In reality, if I saw this poor little baby with two faces in the arms of its mother, I would almost certainly have trouble not gawking. Of course I wouldn't make faces, or stare with my mouth agape**... but I'd probably stare. Just a little. I'm sorry! It's just so rare, and COME ON TWO FACES! I know, there should be a place where all the people who have unbelievable curiosities about them can get together and showcase their absurd genetic "gifts!" And this place should be under a big red and white striped tent.... with a circle in the middle where they can go display themselves in brightly colored clothing... and people can come and eat peanuts and watch them eat Otter-pops.... Oh, and there should be elephants.
Great idea, right? IN THEORY. (Cue Old Man in a derby waving his hand across the sky saying in his most convincing voice, "I got big dreams kid. We're gonna be rich!") I fear in reality this would be a lot like the circus, which is a frightening, horrible place to take a child. Even a two-faced child.
I'm a horrible person.
In a perfect world no one would have four eyes and two mouths. In theory, even in our completely imperfect world "no one" really has four eyes and two mouths. But then again, the world is a much nicer place, in theory...
Take a second and re-read the circus comments.
Looks like I, too, am much nicer in theory.
*That's actually plainly untrue. Nothing helps.
** Yes I would.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Craigslist.org Truly Blows My Mind, or "WF, 23, well-Endowed, Seeks LTR with the Internet."
My God, I do love Craigslist.
If and when I have a baby boy (fingers crossed- I don't want to have to drown a girl!) I'm going to consider naming him Craig. Or at least nicknaming him Craig. I'm not sure that the name Craig is actually a name I'd give my child, but I want the point to be clear that I'd fucking fight lions for Craigslist and love it enough to briefly mention in my blog that I might possibly, but not probably, consider naming my future son Craig.
I know! I'm going to name my dog Craig. No, strike that. I'm naming my dog CRAIGSLIST!
Here boy! Fetch mommy a new couch!
Perhaps you're reading this and have thus begun to scratch your chin, deep in thought as to why exactly I am so in love with Craig and his infamous list. In fact, I'm sure that's what you're doing right now. Even if you weren't before, I bet you just scratched your chin. Don't lie, I know you did, I sawl it.
My first reason for loving Craigslist is that it has provided me with countless hours of free entertainment in the form of the Craigslist Personals. Take for random example, Chris: a 39 year-old pantyhose lover from Brentwood.
Reply to: pers-652725528@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-22, 8:18PM PDT
I have always loved the look and feel of women's legs in nylon. I especially like sheer suntan pantyhose worn with casual clothes, like shorts and sneakers (but skirt and heels are nice, too!). I am not looking for sex necessarily; just some pantyhose modeling, maybe a little role play and all the leg and foot massage you want.
Hope to hear from you,
Chris (Pantyhose lover in Brentwood)
Chris is just a regular guy, right? He's just your average, hosiery-loving Dude. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Hell, he doesn't even want sex! Chris just likes a little hose on his ho's... you knows? And he lives in Brentwood, the birthplace of Class. How convenient that would be for me, if only I were a woman who wore pantyhose* and enjoyed disturbing role play... and wanted to DIE while getting a foot massage.
A match made in heaven, surely, for some lucky broad.
I can imagine the response he'll get, ultimately from an EXTREMELY classy ol' cougar, crusty with uneven self tanner and Tahitian-Temptress nylons (obviously trying to hide the unsightly spots with which Time has cursed her). "Well hello there young man," she'll write (in her sexiest font - let's face it, probably Lucida Calligraphy). "I may be old enough to be your mother, but I'm kinky enough to pretend I really am. I just LOVE role-play and at 67, I'm no stranger to close encounters with death. I've had three orally-induced strokes already! I hope you're ready for this gray-haired goddess!"
Oh, Chris. You are hilarious. And pathetic. And you've successfully humiliated yourself in front of everyone in the whole world. I hope I see you at Coral Tree on Sunday morning with a nylon-donning dame on your arm. And I hope it's Dame Judi Dench, cuz damn that old bitch is fly.
So perusing other peoples' lamentable love-quests is one really good reason for naming my future doggie Craigslist. Because this magical place has the power to bridge the gap (sometimes the gaping hole, if we're still talkin' old broads) between people. Craigslist supports Honesty and the Power of Love, which is the most powerful force in alllll the land!
Another reason I love Craigslist is that it provides me with a sense of possibility. When I get bored at work, which is all day every day, I often like to take a look at real estate in far away places. Places like Greece, and Indonesia (yeah right, jk), and Costa Rica. Did you know you can rent a studio apartment in Athens for 300 Euro per month? If that doesn't suit you, Costa Rica generously offers beach front properties for as low as $500/mo. - and that INCLUDES the Doberman out front to guard you from the dark, dark night!
All cheekiness aside (okay, it's never actually aside, that was a bald-faced lie**), I like knowing that there is a world beyond my own, where people rent cozy flats in foreign cities, or fasten hammocks to backyard palm trees. Because some days, mine feels like a soul-sucking vacuum.
Call me a Craigslist Escapist, because dammit, that's what I am.
Sure I could tell you romantic tales of how I found my sage-green Plummers sofa, or my bed-frame, or my newly-repaired car on Craigslist. Or how I sold off a wool rug and a twin-size mattress (who needs it!) using the very same free, web-based community forum. But those stories lie at the mere edges of my Venn diagram of reasons for loving Craigslist. They are but the film atop my pudding snack - sure they keep it tasting fresh, but they are a far cry from the best part!
By now, of course, Craigslist is nothing new to people, and someone has probably already thought to name their pup Craigslist and my idea has already been ruined, and the Internet has probably already found a girlfriend (that pantyhose wearing WHORE)... but I still love every part of it, from concept, to boredom browsing, to actual point-of-sale execution. And I will continue to love Craigslist...
Until I have nothing left to post.
*I'm half Lebanese and thus God has painted my skin a certain shade of caramel. I don't need no lousy pantyhose!
** The expression is indeed "Bald-Faced Lie," though it is often confused with "Bold-Faced Lie," which is wrong. [http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Is_the_correct_term_'bold_face_lie'_or_'bald_faced_lie'_or_another_variation]
If and when I have a baby boy (fingers crossed- I don't want to have to drown a girl!) I'm going to consider naming him Craig. Or at least nicknaming him Craig. I'm not sure that the name Craig is actually a name I'd give my child, but I want the point to be clear that I'd fucking fight lions for Craigslist and love it enough to briefly mention in my blog that I might possibly, but not probably, consider naming my future son Craig.
I know! I'm going to name my dog Craig. No, strike that. I'm naming my dog CRAIGSLIST!
Here boy! Fetch mommy a new couch!
Perhaps you're reading this and have thus begun to scratch your chin, deep in thought as to why exactly I am so in love with Craig and his infamous list. In fact, I'm sure that's what you're doing right now. Even if you weren't before, I bet you just scratched your chin. Don't lie, I know you did, I sawl it.
My first reason for loving Craigslist is that it has provided me with countless hours of free entertainment in the form of the Craigslist Personals. Take for random example, Chris: a 39 year-old pantyhose lover from Brentwood.
Pantyhose lover seeks same... - 39 (Brentwood)
Reply to: pers-652725528@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-22, 8:18PM PDT
I have always loved the look and feel of women's legs in nylon. I especially like sheer suntan pantyhose worn with casual clothes, like shorts and sneakers (but skirt and heels are nice, too!). I am not looking for sex necessarily; just some pantyhose modeling, maybe a little role play and all the leg and foot massage you want.
Hope to hear from you,
Chris (Pantyhose lover in Brentwood)
Chris is just a regular guy, right? He's just your average, hosiery-loving Dude. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Hell, he doesn't even want sex! Chris just likes a little hose on his ho's... you knows? And he lives in Brentwood, the birthplace of Class. How convenient that would be for me, if only I were a woman who wore pantyhose* and enjoyed disturbing role play... and wanted to DIE while getting a foot massage.
A match made in heaven, surely, for some lucky broad.
I can imagine the response he'll get, ultimately from an EXTREMELY classy ol' cougar, crusty with uneven self tanner and Tahitian-Temptress nylons (obviously trying to hide the unsightly spots with which Time has cursed her). "Well hello there young man," she'll write (in her sexiest font - let's face it, probably Lucida Calligraphy). "I may be old enough to be your mother, but I'm kinky enough to pretend I really am. I just LOVE role-play and at 67, I'm no stranger to close encounters with death. I've had three orally-induced strokes already! I hope you're ready for this gray-haired goddess!"
Oh, Chris. You are hilarious. And pathetic. And you've successfully humiliated yourself in front of everyone in the whole world. I hope I see you at Coral Tree on Sunday morning with a nylon-donning dame on your arm. And I hope it's Dame Judi Dench, cuz damn that old bitch is fly.
So perusing other peoples' lamentable love-quests is one really good reason for naming my future doggie Craigslist. Because this magical place has the power to bridge the gap (sometimes the gaping hole, if we're still talkin' old broads) between people. Craigslist supports Honesty and the Power of Love, which is the most powerful force in alllll the land!Another reason I love Craigslist is that it provides me with a sense of possibility. When I get bored at work, which is all day every day, I often like to take a look at real estate in far away places. Places like Greece, and Indonesia (yeah right, jk), and Costa Rica. Did you know you can rent a studio apartment in Athens for 300 Euro per month? If that doesn't suit you, Costa Rica generously offers beach front properties for as low as $500/mo. - and that INCLUDES the Doberman out front to guard you from the dark, dark night!
All cheekiness aside (okay, it's never actually aside, that was a bald-faced lie**), I like knowing that there is a world beyond my own, where people rent cozy flats in foreign cities, or fasten hammocks to backyard palm trees. Because some days, mine feels like a soul-sucking vacuum.
Call me a Craigslist Escapist, because dammit, that's what I am.
Sure I could tell you romantic tales of how I found my sage-green Plummers sofa, or my bed-frame, or my newly-repaired car on Craigslist. Or how I sold off a wool rug and a twin-size mattress (who needs it!) using the very same free, web-based community forum. But those stories lie at the mere edges of my Venn diagram of reasons for loving Craigslist. They are but the film atop my pudding snack - sure they keep it tasting fresh, but they are a far cry from the best part!
By now, of course, Craigslist is nothing new to people, and someone has probably already thought to name their pup Craigslist and my idea has already been ruined, and the Internet has probably already found a girlfriend (that pantyhose wearing WHORE)... but I still love every part of it, from concept, to boredom browsing, to actual point-of-sale execution. And I will continue to love Craigslist...
Until I have nothing left to post.
*I'm half Lebanese and thus God has painted my skin a certain shade of caramel. I don't need no lousy pantyhose!
** The expression is indeed "Bald-Faced Lie," though it is often confused with "Bold-Faced Lie," which is wrong. [http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Is_the_correct_term_'bold_face_lie'_or_'bald_faced_lie'_or_another_variation]
Monday, April 14, 2008
I Got Into A Car Accident But It Taught Me A Lot About The World, or My Fender Bender As A Metaphor For Other Things
I hate it when people start speeches or essays or blog entries with basic word definitions. But because I'm feeling a bit contrary tonight, I'm going to do exactly the shit I hate, and start this entry with a basic word definition.
The word is:
Accident (ak-si-dent): Any event that happens unexpectedly, without a deliberate plan or cause.
There are other definitions, this is true, but I like this one because it doesn't have a point of view. No side-taking, no partiality. It's the Argon of the available definitions on Dictionary.com, and so I'm going with it. This is how I want to think of the word Accident, and how I want you to define it for the duration of the time it takes you to read this entry. If you're a fast reader, I promise that'll only be like, 3 minutes max. After that, you are welcome to think of Accidents however you please and I'll be none the wiser.
I'll argue for just a minute why I like this definition of Accident. Firstly, I think my friend Accident gets confused too often with his evil (fraternal) twin, Mistake. You've heard your friends parents casually slip the word into their conversations about how your buddy (let's call him Chucky, because who doesn't want a buddy named Chucky?) came into the world. "Well you know, our little Chucky was a mistake!" Sure, you're taken aback at first, because you love your friend Chucky, and he's no stinkin' mistake. In fact, you're pretty glad he exists. And so are his parents, when you really get down to it. Aside from the constant chatter and fake gun noises and lizard squashing, alongside the high emotional cost and financial burden of raising a child, Chucky's mom and dad are probably pretty happy they decided against abortion.* What they meant to say in front of you at the neighborhood BBQ after one too many pomegranate ciders (Chucky's mom is a lightweight), is that as parents are happy that Chucky happened into the world. But the fact remains that Chucky was an accident. A happy little Ritalin-popping, bundle-of-joy Accident.
Have I made myself clear? Not all accidents are mistakes. That's the point I just made in case you missed it. And this is the lens of enlightenment through which I have decided to view something that happened recently to me... something that happened unexpectedly and without deliberate plan.
Let's call it a car accident.
I call it that because that's what it was. Gosh, you're really reading into this aren't you.
Yeah, so a couple of weeks ago, I was cruising along at my normal pace (my Life-Pace I like to call it), which is a mind-dulling 10 mph, waiting my turn to get onto the freeway. Down here in paradise, I often find myself in interminably long lines, waiting to pick up the pace. So bored, I do often get. And nothing could have been truer on that fateful Monday morning.
I was in traffic on Sunset Blvd. (man, fuck Sunset Blvd.), waiting to get on the 405 (man, fuck the 405) and I stopped paying attention to the path laid out before me for just a split second. LITERALLY JUST A SECOND, I swear - when BOOM! came the impact of the fateful fender bender. The Crash Heard 'Round the World, I like to call it.
I was immediately shaken. (Shaken, not stirred, mind you). I saw the crunched hood of my car and the pieces of shattered headlight on the pavement - which are still there, by the way. My stomach dropped at the sight of my front end violently kissing (more like raping, I guess?) the bumper of the Honda CRV in front of me. Fuck me, I thought ever-so-sweetly to myself. I have... a situation.
A situation indeed. An unexpected situation. An unplanned situation.
An accident, if you will.
Useless details aside, I was actually astounded with the chain of events that followed. Or more accurately, I was both astounded and delighted with the people involved in the events that followed. First, the young woman whose rear-end I violated with my huge metal machine could not have been nicer about it. She was more concerned with my safety and well being than with the pretty minor damage I did to her (and her car... oh snap!). Her understanding was only paralleled the thoughtfulness of my co-worker who came to pick me up from the scene of the accident. Oh, not to mention that the woman I spoke with at AAA, Diane, was both sincere and accommodating. Diane even went to the trouble of sending me a tow-truck driver on a great white steed who actually gave me a hug and told me that because I was so beautiful he'd take my car anywhere I wanted! Oh boy, I thought. Take my car to Disneyland, please!
And then the guy at the auto shop was so sweet and helpful. For the low price of $5,000** he even got my car done a few days ahead of schedule. What a gem, that guy. Chris, if you're reading this, you made my collision repair experience borderline enjoyable. Thanks a load.
So after it was all said and done, my Situation... well it turned out all right. Sure it was kind of rough, but I'm not going to say I wish it never happened. I can't say that. It was unexpected, and out of nowhere, and cost me a bit of time, energy, and frustration. Oh, and money (dammit! I wanted new shoes, too!). It's the feeling of helplessness, of being far away from the problem and unable to fix it immediately that causes the greatest stress. But I did learn something. I learned how to handle it. I learned to see things from a more hopeful angle, and to trust that things would be OK in spite of whatever damage may have been done. Accidents happen, we all know this. But it's how you choose to react and move forward that really matters.
Remember Chucky? Well I know that even though he's fictional, he's still glad he exists. Even if it's just here in the blogosphere (it's a real place, shut up okay?). Some accidents can cost you six years of little league, a thousand sleepless nights, and the price of a college education, while other accidents can cost your insurance company $5000... but that certainly doesn't make those things Mistakes.
Give adversity (and the asshole who rear-ended you) your most insulting middle finger! Fuck you, adversity! I choose to stand up to you! I will beat you down, wreck your face, and overcome your torture. Because I am strong, and capable - and now I guess, flat broke.
Yes the situation sucked for awhile. But I'll be damned if I didn't learn something good about the world.
It's not so bad out there.
*One would hope. I've met some people who I suspect really were mistakes. God's mistakes.
**Don't worry! I'm in good hands with AllState.
The word is:
Accident (ak-si-dent): Any event that happens unexpectedly, without a deliberate plan or cause.
There are other definitions, this is true, but I like this one because it doesn't have a point of view. No side-taking, no partiality. It's the Argon of the available definitions on Dictionary.com, and so I'm going with it. This is how I want to think of the word Accident, and how I want you to define it for the duration of the time it takes you to read this entry. If you're a fast reader, I promise that'll only be like, 3 minutes max. After that, you are welcome to think of Accidents however you please and I'll be none the wiser.
I'll argue for just a minute why I like this definition of Accident. Firstly, I think my friend Accident gets confused too often with his evil (fraternal) twin, Mistake. You've heard your friends parents casually slip the word into their conversations about how your buddy (let's call him Chucky, because who doesn't want a buddy named Chucky?) came into the world. "Well you know, our little Chucky was a mistake!" Sure, you're taken aback at first, because you love your friend Chucky, and he's no stinkin' mistake. In fact, you're pretty glad he exists. And so are his parents, when you really get down to it. Aside from the constant chatter and fake gun noises and lizard squashing, alongside the high emotional cost and financial burden of raising a child, Chucky's mom and dad are probably pretty happy they decided against abortion.* What they meant to say in front of you at the neighborhood BBQ after one too many pomegranate ciders (Chucky's mom is a lightweight), is that as parents are happy that Chucky happened into the world. But the fact remains that Chucky was an accident. A happy little Ritalin-popping, bundle-of-joy Accident.
Have I made myself clear? Not all accidents are mistakes. That's the point I just made in case you missed it. And this is the lens of enlightenment through which I have decided to view something that happened recently to me... something that happened unexpectedly and without deliberate plan.
Let's call it a car accident.
I call it that because that's what it was. Gosh, you're really reading into this aren't you.
Yeah, so a couple of weeks ago, I was cruising along at my normal pace (my Life-Pace I like to call it), which is a mind-dulling 10 mph, waiting my turn to get onto the freeway. Down here in paradise, I often find myself in interminably long lines, waiting to pick up the pace. So bored, I do often get. And nothing could have been truer on that fateful Monday morning.
I was in traffic on Sunset Blvd. (man, fuck Sunset Blvd.), waiting to get on the 405 (man, fuck the 405) and I stopped paying attention to the path laid out before me for just a split second. LITERALLY JUST A SECOND, I swear - when BOOM! came the impact of the fateful fender bender. The Crash Heard 'Round the World, I like to call it.
I was immediately shaken. (Shaken, not stirred, mind you). I saw the crunched hood of my car and the pieces of shattered headlight on the pavement - which are still there, by the way. My stomach dropped at the sight of my front end violently kissing (more like raping, I guess?) the bumper of the Honda CRV in front of me. Fuck me, I thought ever-so-sweetly to myself. I have... a situation.
A situation indeed. An unexpected situation. An unplanned situation.
An accident, if you will.
Useless details aside, I was actually astounded with the chain of events that followed. Or more accurately, I was both astounded and delighted with the people involved in the events that followed. First, the young woman whose rear-end I violated with my huge metal machine could not have been nicer about it. She was more concerned with my safety and well being than with the pretty minor damage I did to her (and her car... oh snap!). Her understanding was only paralleled the thoughtfulness of my co-worker who came to pick me up from the scene of the accident. Oh, not to mention that the woman I spoke with at AAA, Diane, was both sincere and accommodating. Diane even went to the trouble of sending me a tow-truck driver on a great white steed who actually gave me a hug and told me that because I was so beautiful he'd take my car anywhere I wanted! Oh boy, I thought. Take my car to Disneyland, please!
And then the guy at the auto shop was so sweet and helpful. For the low price of $5,000** he even got my car done a few days ahead of schedule. What a gem, that guy. Chris, if you're reading this, you made my collision repair experience borderline enjoyable. Thanks a load.
So after it was all said and done, my Situation... well it turned out all right. Sure it was kind of rough, but I'm not going to say I wish it never happened. I can't say that. It was unexpected, and out of nowhere, and cost me a bit of time, energy, and frustration. Oh, and money (dammit! I wanted new shoes, too!). It's the feeling of helplessness, of being far away from the problem and unable to fix it immediately that causes the greatest stress. But I did learn something. I learned how to handle it. I learned to see things from a more hopeful angle, and to trust that things would be OK in spite of whatever damage may have been done. Accidents happen, we all know this. But it's how you choose to react and move forward that really matters.
Remember Chucky? Well I know that even though he's fictional, he's still glad he exists. Even if it's just here in the blogosphere (it's a real place, shut up okay?). Some accidents can cost you six years of little league, a thousand sleepless nights, and the price of a college education, while other accidents can cost your insurance company $5000... but that certainly doesn't make those things Mistakes.
Give adversity (and the asshole who rear-ended you) your most insulting middle finger! Fuck you, adversity! I choose to stand up to you! I will beat you down, wreck your face, and overcome your torture. Because I am strong, and capable - and now I guess, flat broke.
Yes the situation sucked for awhile. But I'll be damned if I didn't learn something good about the world.
It's not so bad out there.
*One would hope. I've met some people who I suspect really were mistakes. God's mistakes.
**Don't worry! I'm in good hands with AllState.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
The Anatomy of a Spinning Class, or "This Seat Makes Me Feel Funny..."
I'm about to give you too much information.
Like, in a few minutes I will acknowledge the existence of my vagina, and if that in any way disturbs or disgusts you, I suggest both a) growing up and 2) not reading any further.
Still reading? Ok, fine. It's your choice. You've been properly warned, and I will make no further apologies.
Some of you may be aware of my recent obsession with spinning. Others may not. So be it, now you know. I spin, Ok? I spin and I don't care who knows it!
"Spinning, Lisa. Really?" you say inquisitively to me through the computer-screen-wormhole (I can't hear you! Speak up!). "Like, moving around the room in circles until your face throbs and you want to throw up?" No silly! Not that kind of spinning. I only do that when I've been drinking. "Oh, so you must mean those skeletal bikes that have a vague resemblance to medieval torture/death tools? The ones that sit positioned like a swarm of killer bees in the dimly lit room next to the weight-machine-sausage-fest?"
Yes. That room. Those bikes. Those sausages.
Haha. Sausage fest. God, it's so true...
So since this blog is really just a self-serving way for me to tell everyone who reads it about all the awesome things I think and do on a daily basis, I'm going to describe for you, in as much relevant detail as possible, what it is like to become, and ultimately have the physical experience of a Spinner.
Because in the absence of a promiscuous sex-life (which very good exercise - just ask this kid!), this is how I burn the extra calories.
For people who have never tried spinning, I'll be the first to agree it is initially quite intimidating. Everyone in class seems to already know what they're doing. You walk cautiously into the room, certain that everyone in it has been there before. They come wearing their pretentious spinning shoes, with smug, self-loving looks on their faces. So proud of their fancy footwear, they are! And so quick to judge you for wearing sneakers...
Then slowly, as if the eyes of the world were watching, you mount the saddle for the first time. Self-consciously you check yourself in the mirror. Is it really that obvious? Can they tell? Is everyone actually staring at your non-exercise-specific-shoes? You can sense their judging eyes on you and you get even more awkward, feeling as though you're the only one who has ever turned pedals for the first time. The only one feeling the strangely erotic discomfort of the seat pressed firmly against your pubic bone...
Sure it's scary at first, because riding something new is always gonna shake you up a little bit the first time you ride it. And at the first few attempts I'll be honest, it kinda hurts, but once you get the hang of it, it comes pretty naturally.
And then, kids, it gets really good.
The awkward tingling sensation in your nethers eventually goes away,* and before you know it, you're UP! You're DOWN! Up. Down. Up. Down. UP! UP! UP! With expert speed and timing, you pump your legs to the beat of the music! Suddenly the song changes and your instructor's iPod shuffle skips to Cake's "Going the Distance." Yes! I LOVE this song! You think to yourself. Pump. Pump. Pump. The bass pulsates throughout room, invigorating your core, and it's all you can do to stay focused and stare intently at whoever's ass is 5 feet in front of you, bouncing sloppily over the saddle...
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Bodies sweating. Heavy breathing. Equipment creaking.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
And this goes on for about 50 more minutes.
Of course, by the end of class you're pretty much out of breath. Your muscles are damn near exhausted, and there's a disgusting, messy puddle of sweat dripping from your face down the front of your shirt onto a spot on the floor directly beneath your handlebars. It's horrifying to look down, to catch a glimpse of your haggard reflection in said puddle and realize that your body has lost that much fluid (not to mention whatever you juiced onto the seat - sorry, it's a fact). But it's only horrifying in the same way popping a huge zit might be - sure you're totally grossed out, and maybe a little shocked, but damn it feels good to watch that sucker blow.
And then you stretch.
And then you leave.
And then you get afuckingddicted.
When I tell people about spinning, they usually don't believe me when I state emphatically that it's the best thing ever. Low impact! Won't hurt your joints! I say. A killer workout! I say. You'll never go back to the treadmill again! And I repeat this, over and over and over again, only to hear the naysaying protests of non-believers. Who knows, you may get really good and on top of a great workout, you might actually achieve multiple orgasms.
Oh! Ye of little faith!
I mean, sure I'd rather be burning my excess booze calories in "other ways," but in my situation that's not exactly feasible.** So don't badger me if I'm willing to take the next-best hard thing I can get away with having between my thighs.
You'd best be believin' ...it's a bike.
*Gentlemen, I can only assume you'd get this sensation as well, albeit in the absence of a vagina I think it'd be more in your grundle-region. Enjoy!
** :(
Like, in a few minutes I will acknowledge the existence of my vagina, and if that in any way disturbs or disgusts you, I suggest both a) growing up and 2) not reading any further.
Still reading? Ok, fine. It's your choice. You've been properly warned, and I will make no further apologies.
Some of you may be aware of my recent obsession with spinning. Others may not. So be it, now you know. I spin, Ok? I spin and I don't care who knows it!
"Spinning, Lisa. Really?" you say inquisitively to me through the computer-screen-wormhole (I can't hear you! Speak up!). "Like, moving around the room in circles until your face throbs and you want to throw up?" No silly! Not that kind of spinning. I only do that when I've been drinking. "Oh, so you must mean those skeletal bikes that have a vague resemblance to medieval torture/death tools? The ones that sit positioned like a swarm of killer bees in the dimly lit room next to the weight-machine-sausage-fest?"
Yes. That room. Those bikes. Those sausages.
Haha. Sausage fest. God, it's so true...
So since this blog is really just a self-serving way for me to tell everyone who reads it about all the awesome things I think and do on a daily basis, I'm going to describe for you, in as much relevant detail as possible, what it is like to become, and ultimately have the physical experience of a Spinner.
Because in the absence of a promiscuous sex-life (which very good exercise - just ask this kid!), this is how I burn the extra calories.For people who have never tried spinning, I'll be the first to agree it is initially quite intimidating. Everyone in class seems to already know what they're doing. You walk cautiously into the room, certain that everyone in it has been there before. They come wearing their pretentious spinning shoes, with smug, self-loving looks on their faces. So proud of their fancy footwear, they are! And so quick to judge you for wearing sneakers...
Then slowly, as if the eyes of the world were watching, you mount the saddle for the first time. Self-consciously you check yourself in the mirror. Is it really that obvious? Can they tell? Is everyone actually staring at your non-exercise-specific-shoes? You can sense their judging eyes on you and you get even more awkward, feeling as though you're the only one who has ever turned pedals for the first time. The only one feeling the strangely erotic discomfort of the seat pressed firmly against your pubic bone...
Sure it's scary at first, because riding something new is always gonna shake you up a little bit the first time you ride it. And at the first few attempts I'll be honest, it kinda hurts, but once you get the hang of it, it comes pretty naturally.
And then, kids, it gets really good.
The awkward tingling sensation in your nethers eventually goes away,* and before you know it, you're UP! You're DOWN! Up. Down. Up. Down. UP! UP! UP! With expert speed and timing, you pump your legs to the beat of the music! Suddenly the song changes and your instructor's iPod shuffle skips to Cake's "Going the Distance." Yes! I LOVE this song! You think to yourself. Pump. Pump. Pump. The bass pulsates throughout room, invigorating your core, and it's all you can do to stay focused and stare intently at whoever's ass is 5 feet in front of you, bouncing sloppily over the saddle...
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Bodies sweating. Heavy breathing. Equipment creaking.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
And this goes on for about 50 more minutes.
Of course, by the end of class you're pretty much out of breath. Your muscles are damn near exhausted, and there's a disgusting, messy puddle of sweat dripping from your face down the front of your shirt onto a spot on the floor directly beneath your handlebars. It's horrifying to look down, to catch a glimpse of your haggard reflection in said puddle and realize that your body has lost that much fluid (not to mention whatever you juiced onto the seat - sorry, it's a fact). But it's only horrifying in the same way popping a huge zit might be - sure you're totally grossed out, and maybe a little shocked, but damn it feels good to watch that sucker blow.
And then you stretch.
And then you leave.
And then you get afuckingddicted.
When I tell people about spinning, they usually don't believe me when I state emphatically that it's the best thing ever. Low impact! Won't hurt your joints! I say. A killer workout! I say. You'll never go back to the treadmill again! And I repeat this, over and over and over again, only to hear the naysaying protests of non-believers. Who knows, you may get really good and on top of a great workout, you might actually achieve multiple orgasms.
Oh! Ye of little faith!
I mean, sure I'd rather be burning my excess booze calories in "other ways," but in my situation that's not exactly feasible.** So don't badger me if I'm willing to take the next-best hard thing I can get away with having between my thighs.
You'd best be believin' ...it's a bike.
*Gentlemen, I can only assume you'd get this sensation as well, albeit in the absence of a vagina I think it'd be more in your grundle-region. Enjoy!
** :(
Monday, March 17, 2008
Keeping Catholicism Cool With Groovy New Sins, or "Let's Get Legalistic!"
Disclaimer: I'm sorry if I offend any Catholic people. I'll apologize to you personally if you need me to.
Today is St. Patrick's Day, and so to honor this most sacred of days, the following will be a meandering discussion of Catholicism.
First, let it be known, I love me a defected Catholic. My dad, who luckily does not insist on being called Father (hallelujah!), long ago opted out of the Church himself. And I sure do love my dad. However, in all his infinite wisdom I often do find flaws,* and in the same way I question much of he says, I feel it's appropriate to question pretty much everything I recently read regarding the Vatican's latest updates on Sin.
...beep b-beep beep... b-beep beep beep...
THIS JUST IN! HOT OFF THE ALTAR! IN A GROTESQUE EFFORT TO BE CONNECT WITH TODAY'S "HIP" YOUTH, CHURCH OFFICIALS IDENTIFY NEW MORTAL SINS!
That's right! Just when you thought you were fucking up a lot already, the Vatican has offered up a few more areas we can all "work on" to "ensure" our safe passage into Heaven. These new areas include the following:
1. Drugs.
2. Pollution.
3. Genetic Manipulation.
4. Social and Economic Injustice.
Now, I'm not Catholic, but like most rational people I deal with my share of self-inflicted guilt. I feel guilty when I eat too much (Gluttony). I feel guilty when I loaf around the house for entire days watching TV on DVD (Sloth).* I feel guilty (or I guess just disturbed to the point of guilt) when I have to use my memory of Kevin Spacey's character in "Se7en" when trying to recall the list of mortal sins (Indifference - not really a sin, but probably will be in 8-10 years).
But seriously, I either commit, contribute to, or am a victim of all of these new sins, not to mention all the old ones! Even though I don't abide by or agree with the notion of unforgivable sin, I don't want to deal with even more quasi-guilt than I have to. So I think the best solution is to email the Pope (benedict16@urgoingtohell.org, in case you were wondering) several of my thoughts on this eco-friendly, anti-science, anti-capitalist list of new sins.
It would go something like this...
First, let's discuss the Drug thing, briefly. How 'bout instead of saying Drugs are a new area of sin, maybe we tighten that up and say that perhaps Drunk Driving, or Choosing Alcohol Over Your Children, are sins. Drugs as defined by "any chemical substance used in the treatment, cure, prevention, or diagnosis of disease or used to otherwise enhance physical or mental well-being," should not be vaguely deemed Sinful. If I have a disease called Hating My Job (HMJ- the symptoms are similar to TMJ), I'm going to need a chemical substance called Alcohol to enhance my mental well-being. I will not repent and I refuse go to Hell for that. End of story.
Second, I agree that Pollution is a bad thing. It is a very bad thing indeed. But how far do we take it here? I admit I sometimes throw my gum in the bushes once it's lost its flavor. And the simple task of living in America somehow causes me to produce a lot of garbage that surely ends up in some stanky landfill somewhere. Is that a sin? As much as I want to start a compost pile, I can't really do that without a bigass yard. So is my lifestyle sinful? Apparently. Sorry Vatican, but pollution is everywhere. Maybe you should think about the white smoke you release into the air once every 50 years when you pick a new Pope, huh? If ya'll are gonna get nasty about reducing our carbon footprint, I say lead by fucking example.
Third, define genetic modification. Are we talking human cloning, because yes that is very weird, or are we talking big, juicy red tomatoes? Because I love a big, juicy, red tomato.*** I've never tried Grapples, but I've heard things...
Lastly, I'm going to hope - nay, I'm going to assume - that this last "new" sin is the Vatican's way of singling out Heather Mills for the atrocities she has committed against Sir Paul McCartney. The crazy, legless biatch expressed her happiness at having been awarded a $50 million (talk about economic injustice!) divorce settlement from former Wings lead-man. :
"It was an incredible result, in the end, to secure my and my daughter's future, and that of all the charities that I obviously plan on helping."
So, does the fact that Heather Mills is straight up stealing $50M from Paul McCartney count as a sin? Or has she already absolved herself by promising to donate her blood-money to charities, assuming that one of them is The Catholic Church? Riddle me that, Pope-man! This is the man who wrote "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," and "When I'm 64," for crying out loud! He's at least 25% responsible for at least 25% of the music made after 1960! I bet you the whole fifty-mil Paul McCartney didn't think that at 66 he'd be getting ass-raped by a crazy ex-wife. This is both socially and economically unjust, if you ask me. But nobody asked me.
Funny thing is, they met at a charity event.
Basically this is just a cry for attention. These are indeed these trying times for organized religion, but there have got to be better ways for such an institution to keep itself vital. Sex scandals were a good way to reinvigorate the public interest, and nailing down Pope Bennyboy turned peoples' heads in Rome's direction for about a minute. But making people feel bad for breaking rules... that's just bad PR.
All that having been emailed to his Holiness the Pope, in honor of St. Patty's Day, I hope everyone who reads this drinks a shit-ton of beer tonight, leaves the bottle on the sidewalk, eats a basket of Grapples, and rocks out to "Give Ireland Back to the Irish."
Sin, all ye believers. Sin in the name of Justice!
*Sorry, Dad. You should be glad I at least listen.
**I actually feel entitled to this. Not guilty at all.
*** Who remembers that episode of The Wonder Years?
Today is St. Patrick's Day, and so to honor this most sacred of days, the following will be a meandering discussion of Catholicism.
First, let it be known, I love me a defected Catholic. My dad, who luckily does not insist on being called Father (hallelujah!), long ago opted out of the Church himself. And I sure do love my dad. However, in all his infinite wisdom I often do find flaws,* and in the same way I question much of he says, I feel it's appropriate to question pretty much everything I recently read regarding the Vatican's latest updates on Sin.
...beep b-beep beep... b-beep beep beep...
THIS JUST IN! HOT OFF THE ALTAR! IN A GROTESQUE EFFORT TO BE CONNECT WITH TODAY'S "HIP" YOUTH, CHURCH OFFICIALS IDENTIFY NEW MORTAL SINS!
That's right! Just when you thought you were fucking up a lot already, the Vatican has offered up a few more areas we can all "work on" to "ensure" our safe passage into Heaven. These new areas include the following:
1. Drugs.
2. Pollution.
3. Genetic Manipulation.
4. Social and Economic Injustice.
Now, I'm not Catholic, but like most rational people I deal with my share of self-inflicted guilt. I feel guilty when I eat too much (Gluttony). I feel guilty when I loaf around the house for entire days watching TV on DVD (Sloth).* I feel guilty (or I guess just disturbed to the point of guilt) when I have to use my memory of Kevin Spacey's character in "Se7en" when trying to recall the list of mortal sins (Indifference - not really a sin, but probably will be in 8-10 years).
But seriously, I either commit, contribute to, or am a victim of all of these new sins, not to mention all the old ones! Even though I don't abide by or agree with the notion of unforgivable sin, I don't want to deal with even more quasi-guilt than I have to. So I think the best solution is to email the Pope (benedict16@urgoingtohell.org, in case you were wondering) several of my thoughts on this eco-friendly, anti-science, anti-capitalist list of new sins.It would go something like this...
First, let's discuss the Drug thing, briefly. How 'bout instead of saying Drugs are a new area of sin, maybe we tighten that up and say that perhaps Drunk Driving, or Choosing Alcohol Over Your Children, are sins. Drugs as defined by "any chemical substance used in the treatment, cure, prevention, or diagnosis of disease or used to otherwise enhance physical or mental well-being," should not be vaguely deemed Sinful. If I have a disease called Hating My Job (HMJ- the symptoms are similar to TMJ), I'm going to need a chemical substance called Alcohol to enhance my mental well-being. I will not repent and I refuse go to Hell for that. End of story.
Second, I agree that Pollution is a bad thing. It is a very bad thing indeed. But how far do we take it here? I admit I sometimes throw my gum in the bushes once it's lost its flavor. And the simple task of living in America somehow causes me to produce a lot of garbage that surely ends up in some stanky landfill somewhere. Is that a sin? As much as I want to start a compost pile, I can't really do that without a bigass yard. So is my lifestyle sinful? Apparently. Sorry Vatican, but pollution is everywhere. Maybe you should think about the white smoke you release into the air once every 50 years when you pick a new Pope, huh? If ya'll are gonna get nasty about reducing our carbon footprint, I say lead by fucking example.
Third, define genetic modification. Are we talking human cloning, because yes that is very weird, or are we talking big, juicy red tomatoes? Because I love a big, juicy, red tomato.*** I've never tried Grapples, but I've heard things...
Lastly, I'm going to hope - nay, I'm going to assume - that this last "new" sin is the Vatican's way of singling out Heather Mills for the atrocities she has committed against Sir Paul McCartney. The crazy, legless biatch expressed her happiness at having been awarded a $50 million (talk about economic injustice!) divorce settlement from former Wings lead-man. :
"It was an incredible result, in the end, to secure my and my daughter's future, and that of all the charities that I obviously plan on helping."
So, does the fact that Heather Mills is straight up stealing $50M from Paul McCartney count as a sin? Or has she already absolved herself by promising to donate her blood-money to charities, assuming that one of them is The Catholic Church? Riddle me that, Pope-man! This is the man who wrote "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," and "When I'm 64," for crying out loud! He's at least 25% responsible for at least 25% of the music made after 1960! I bet you the whole fifty-mil Paul McCartney didn't think that at 66 he'd be getting ass-raped by a crazy ex-wife. This is both socially and economically unjust, if you ask me. But nobody asked me.
Funny thing is, they met at a charity event.
Basically this is just a cry for attention. These are indeed these trying times for organized religion, but there have got to be better ways for such an institution to keep itself vital. Sex scandals were a good way to reinvigorate the public interest, and nailing down Pope Bennyboy turned peoples' heads in Rome's direction for about a minute. But making people feel bad for breaking rules... that's just bad PR.
All that having been emailed to his Holiness the Pope, in honor of St. Patty's Day, I hope everyone who reads this drinks a shit-ton of beer tonight, leaves the bottle on the sidewalk, eats a basket of Grapples, and rocks out to "Give Ireland Back to the Irish."
Sin, all ye believers. Sin in the name of Justice!
*Sorry, Dad. You should be glad I at least listen.
**I actually feel entitled to this. Not guilty at all.
*** Who remembers that episode of The Wonder Years?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Nice Girls Don't Go To Silverlake, or "Dear Mr. Hipster...You Kind Of Suck"
Dear Mr. Hipster,
Hi, it's me. It's Lisa.
I am the girl who stood behind you at El Cid the other night when that really cool underground band was playing. You know, El Cid? That really cool underground place in Silverlake with the grungy bouncer and the overgrown ficus on the patio? Yeah. You probably didn't notice me. Or maybe you did. I was kind of hard to miss. After all, I was standing RIGHT behind you. I was actually standing in my spot before you so rudely took your spot directly in front of me. You're quite a bit taller than I am, you do realize. I know I had a lot of makeup on, but it only makes me appear more sexually desirable, it doesn't actually give me x-ray vision. It was impossible to see through you. Maybe you thought that since I had the bad sense to wear leggings out in Silverlake it was worth blocking my view of the really good looking lead singer.
Was that it? Was it the leggings?
I know that living on the Westside has destroyed my sense of what is socially acceptable in other parts of LA and The World, but you can't blame me for that, Mister Hipster. I just live where it's really homogenous and distasteful to stand out. Everyone over here is white and educated, and that's soooo not my fault. See, I'm used to meeting fratty meatheads who graduated from USC at karaoke bars, and all the girls here on my side wear leggings and uncomfortably high heels when they go out. I straighten my naturally curly hair in order to fit in and I won't be ridiculed for that. At least it's still brown, Ok? I know that in Silverlake most women are difficult to look at and wear thick rimmed glasses, but where I'm from people make an overstated effort to be attractive. People wear contacts, you get? I have no control over these social mores so stop effing giving me a hard time over it and move out of my way, would you? By planting yourself directly in my line of sight you've made me feel inferior for not hanging out in more places where the lights are red and the chicks are fugly. Your bad attitude and harsh judgment are getting me down and I don't appreciate it.
Oh, and also, why are you standing so still? I don't get it. The music that this really dope band is rocking is actually pretty good. Like, it has a beat. Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Hipster - a beat is like a rhythm; it's usually repetitive, and once you've been listening for a few seconds you can predict the thump-thump-thumping of it and it makes you want to have sex. Maybe you're not familiar with the concept of a beat since most of the music you listen to is "experimental" and features a synth and the sophomoric vocal talents of some whiny, lonley-heart greaseball who's really 35 but looks 19. And I'm sure you'd like to have sex at some point in your life, but probably not with any of the homely, flannel-donning types I'm seeing around here. That's your own damn fault - this is LA and hot girls are a dime a dozen, but you've chosen to kick it all Eastside and whatever, so I have zero sympathy for your unwanted virginity. This music is darn catchy, and your refusal to move your body in a display of delight or enjoyment is downright baffling.
You don't look hip, Mister Hipster. You look deaf.
Is your herring-bone sport coat your way of telling me to get back to where I once belonged?* Is your grandpa style golf cap keeping the glare of the stage lights off your furrowed brow? Do you really need glasses or are you just trying to look like Rivers Comou circa the Blue Album? I guess reading McSweeny's and looking like an extra from The Mary Tyler Moore show is our generation's best attempt at reinventing Cool. It's so Now to be retro.
Oh, shit. I just spilled my red wine on your tweed elbow patch.
Yeah, sorry. That was me. I didn't mean to do that. I was just dancing really sexy-like when my 4-inch heel got caught in the crack of these old-school wooden floorboards. I guess I lost my balance and got distracted criticizing you behind your back. Literally, from behind your back. You've been standing motionless in front of me for like 20 minutes...
Oh, that's OK I can still hear the music... Yeah, it's good isn't it? I really like these guys... You do too? That's cool... You like my leggings, too?... Haha. I'm sorry I didn't expect that, I guess I'm just really jaded... Yeah, sooo... Oh, you have to go home and get rest because you're volunteering at an animal shelter all day tomorrow?... Hey, you're actually disarmingly sweet and sincere and kind of attractive... Oh, thanks. I try... Sure, you can have my number... It was really nice meeting you, too.
Ok, well, have fun petting cats tomorrow. I like your hat! Call me!
Sincerely,
Lisa
*Intentional Beatles reference.
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