ce•leb•ri•ty

Pronunciation: (su-leb'ri-tē),
—n., —pl. -ties for 1.
1. a famous or well-known person.

In 1809, Lord Byron wrote the seminal work of his lifetime, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, and was catapulted into history as one of England's great satirists. English Bards... was written specifically in response to scathing reviews his previous works had received in a Scottish newspaper, and it was this antagonism that fueled the mischievous satyr within him. When this work of retribution was met with open appeal and huge success, Byron was overwhelmed. He is quoted in Memoranda from his Life, "I awoke one morning and found myself famous."

The only problem with being an instantly successful and celebrated satirist, in Byron's view, was that he was, ranked on par with Shelly and Keats, a Romantic poet.

The lesson here is that "celebrity" is out of our hands. It is, by it's very definition, mob-rule. Byron was a great poet, but it was his satire, encompassing a small fraction of his work, that represented the commercial success of his living years. Fame is hoisted upon celebrities by the non-famous, there's no better proof of that than the doughy kid from New Jersey (previously know as the "fat Dutch kid.") If you haven't already seen it, I suggest you crawl out of that spider-hole, shave your beard and take a look. This dude recorded a video of himself bobbing and jiggling like a like Star Jones Reynolds on the Tower of Terror, to the infectious beat of a Romanian pop song. This video somehow managed to make it onto the global ridicule circuit (a.k.a. the Internet) and it was an instant hit. I mean, even this doofus knew about it. This video has seen record downloads and emails (if such a thing can be accurately tracked) and even been featured on CNN, ABC and most recently, in the New York Times.

It's funny, it's cute, it speaks humanity's cross-cultural love of music ("All music is dance music," according to Afrika Bambaataa) and frankly, people like to make fun of people that do the same things we all do, but just don't have the forethought to keep it in front of the bathroom mirror. Celebrity, albeit minor, has been thrust upon this guy by the unwashed masses because that's how celebrity is obtained: through thrusting.

There are those that think that all celebrities are talentless, vapid, overpaid, self-centered, "it's time for my dog's acupuncture," shit-bags, just check out HOPE and Kid Protocol. For the most part, unfortunately, they would be right. One of the biggest reasons the resentment for these people is so palpable, is that their celebrity status is handed to them like Excalibur from the hand of the Lady of the Lake, and suddenly they become elitist, Scientology-believing, coke-sniffing, political activist assholes. For the most part, they seem to have forgotten that their fame is a gift from us, the plebians of the world. Without us buying their records, going to their concerts, watching their movies, or television shows, they'd be sucking mud like the rest of us. Of course, there are also those that, no matter what a celebrity does, his or her innocence will be shouted from the rooftops by some group of squish-head fanatics.

The concept of "celebrity" is so nebulous that it can hardly be defined more succinctly than "a well-know person." The things that draw the world's attention making that person a celebrity vary so greatly, they can rarely be fully understood, much less predicted. Just look at Paris Hilton and the amateur porn escapade that most people have never seen, but everyone knows about.

According to the NYT, the 19-year-old Gary Brolsma (fatty-fatty-boombalatty) is not too happy about all this attention his gelatin-like antics have received, and would like it if everyone just left him alone. Good luck with that one, Gary. According to Andy Warhol, you've still got about eight minutes left, I would suggest you enjoy them while you can. While taking out the garbage, Gary's grandfather, a Hungarian immigrant, was approached by a reporter and asked about his grandson's distaste for recent events, "I don't know what's wrong with him," he replied.

Gentle readers, the winds of change swirl about our dazed and tousled heads, and change we shall undertake. Yesterday, I listed my Toshiba laptop for sale on Craigslist. “But why?” you have certainly, by now, gasped in quiet desperation. I’m done with it, done with it all. The spam, the pornography, the viruses, the shoddy, intellectually vapid political blogs, the pornography, stolen intellectual property, internet dating, “god loves you” chain emails, “god hates you” chain emails, dancing pickles, the pornography, “furries,” penis enlargement and, of course, the pornography…. I’m done with it all. I am officially exiting the Internet, stage right. No more advertisements for cheaper pharmaceuticals, no more pop-up banners for websites playing to my wanton desire to urinate on horses, no more emails from family member with animated GIFs of waving flags and acrobatic teddy bears, no more.

I’m free. I’m finally free.

Okay, that’s not true. I’m selling my laptop because I’ve been eyeing this SWEET Averatec 6000 for the last few weeks and the price is almost too good to pass up. I mean it’s got everything: 15” screen, Pentium 4, 3.0 GHz, DVD burner, AND built-in wireless. This thing is two generational improvements away from being able to get tomato sauce stains out of my jeans WHILE stimulating me to full climax. If things keep on their current track, I’ll be able to fly back to Boston and marry this damned thing.

I undertook the painstaking process of writing a truthful, if slightly embellished, but altogether very convincing post on CL. I listed all my computer’s wonderful qualities; it’s rugged exterior, it’s reliable moving parts, and the fact that the douche-bag that sold it to me opted for the “thank you sir, may I have another” four-year extended warranty, of which there are six months left.

As I clicked the “post” button, I almost heard my little Toshiba sigh. I was heartbroken, and I placed my hand upon the little tyke and comforted him, assuring that he would go to a good home, and would never be used for the purposes of evil, like burning Phish CDs or watching Vin Diesel movies. As my caressed my old friend, I thought about the sleek, sexy magnesium-alloy casing of the Averatec, and had to turn away to wipe away the drool with my sleeve.

I went into the office this morning and opened my email box, expecting a flood of messages, like Santa in “Miracle on 34th Street,” from people lined around the block to provide a caring, loving home for my companion, for the paltry sum of $500.00. I was greeted with only one. His name was Jason, and his brief correspondence read thusly:

“would you be interested in trading for a ak-47?”

I was stunned. The wad of bran muffin I was chewing fell directly into my lap.

Does Jason have a few extra assault rifles around, prompting him to scour the local bulletin boards for opportunities to barter with them?? Or, perhaps, he’s a hardened criminal who has decided to give up his life of violent, AK-47 related crime, and commit to a life of web-design or creative writing…

Putting aside the ridiculousness of someone trying to give a total stranger an illegal firearm in exchange for a notebook computer, the part that really scares me is where he makes reference to “a ak-47.” Certainly, basic grammar is probably beyond your average purveyor of Russian made machine-guns, but somehow this minor infraction of MLA standards troubles me endlessly.

He would spend most nights taking Polaroids of his erect penis. From every conceivable angle, in every available light source and with any inventive background, he would snap photo after photo until the floor of his small apartment was carpeted with tiny, white-bordered squares, many still in the process of giving their images life. He would then work until the wee hours of the morning sorting, arranging and categorizing them according to quality, clarity and aesthetic feel. After morning toast and coffee, carefully compiling the best of the photographs, he would don his coat and muffler, and proceed to the public library only blocks from his apartment. He would slip the photos, randomly, into books in the children's section, all the while trying to hide, not just his giggles, but the growing bundle in his trousers.
I would meet with him on Tuesday afternoons, in the park near that very library. We would sit on the bench and he would tell me things about the people that went by. This woman has had sex with over four hundred men, he would say. This man eats because he want to die, he would say. This woman... he paused. I had never heard him pause before. I looked to see his face in awe, his eyes becoming milky and moist. She has never known true pain, he said. He turned his stricken face to mine, And she has never know true love, he said.
She carried herself like an aged thing, but had the hands of a much younger woman. She strode purposefully through the park, almost awkwardly at times. In passing, in seemed as if she was deliberately avoiding the sunshine; the very treat that brought so many to the park that day. As I watched her, I realized she was the first one I had ever really seen. The others I had only given passing glances, but gazing upon her I knew she was the first I had ever truly noticed.
He truly believed that when it rained while the sun was shining, it meant the Devil the devil was beating his wife and these were her tears. He also believed that the world was a tree and that God was a squirrel, hoarding nuts for the inevitable emptiness of winter. He believed that he had a machine inside of him, but could not determine its purpose.

We're all smart, right? I don't mean the swish-wristed, intelligence relativist,"No one is smarter than anyone else," "I'm OK, you're OK" -mentality bullshit, but we all posess a modicum of intelligence, right?

A grand fear of mine as a younger lad, was that as I grew older, I would come to reliaze that my notch on the door frame of brain-power would be far lower than I had imagined. The relativity of it all placed my fears somewhere between "College Drop-Out"" and "Guy That Puts Bologna in the VCR." It seemed to me that all I had was my blisteringly razor-sharp intellect. Sure, I had very supportive parents that still tell ne how impressed they were with my retention of "Black Beauty" (which I read in fourth grade), but what if they're just slightly stupider than me?

I would apologize to my folks for heaping my insecurities on them, and insulting them to boot, but no one reads this silly Blog, so why bother.

This frightening scenario has been playing on my mind of late. The questions abound: What if I'm not that smart? What if the kernel of intelligence I do claim, is just a charade, doomed to shatter the moment I first conceive to insert deli meat into a major household appliance? It all get significantly worse when I consider the possibility that truly intelligent people don't question their intelligence. Does the very act of pondering the truth of my self-conceived acumen make the contention true?

I praise Jeebus that there aren't enough hand-wringing weenies like me to make a singinficant market target. If we did, I'd would be one of the suckers dialing the number on my screen for the latest and greatest in brain-enhancing pills, creams, salves, juices, eye-drops, hats and support-cups.

This whole self-absorbed worry session is obviously steeped in my personal insecurities, but hell... what isn't? I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night wondering what the hell I'm doing with my life?

Scratch that.

What the hell will I have accomplished when my life is over? It's the inevitable conclusion of truly embracing secular aethism; it's empowering, liberating, self-actualizing and incredibly scary. You realize, after it's all said and done, that you alone are responsible for the content of your life's accomplishments, and that you don't have the cushy convenience of a second chance.

Ironically, the concept of intelligence is so subjective, that I should be able to think myself into near cultish delight about the squishy gray blob between my ears. Unfortunately, a side-effect of the self-empowering, "I am my own God" business is that if, in this equation God is you, one must deal with the fact that God is not just imperfect, He's so fucking incompetent that he can't remember to put the cap back on the toothpaste.

I don't really know what to say about this. I just don't know.

This will be the last post regarding that pathetic whale-beast, not only because devoting so much attention to her self-abuse is making me sick, but mostly because yesterday was my last day. That's right I quit. Not just because of her, or that horrible, vile, troll-manatee lovechild with the nebulizer, but because all of them together (including the fat whore that yelled at me for coughing, that woman with the moustache that wears silk, pirate blouses and always says "ding-dang," and the condescending office administrators).

In any case, I only want to share what I think is an occurrence of note. Last Thursday, some of the folks in the office ordered out for lunch. After Cynthia (that's her name) begged and screamed for a few minutes, the group acquiesced to her request and decided to go to Don Pedro's, a shitty Mexican place on 82nd Avenue. She got fish tacos. On Friday, the same thing happened. She got fish tacos. On Monday, it happened again. She got fish tacos. In case you don't know, a fish taco is merely a wad of fried fish (read: fish sticks) stuck in a tortilla. It was Tuesday, when she was eating her third fish taco, that I asked, "Cynthia, since last Thursday, how many fish tacos had you eaten?"

She paused.

She began to count on her fingers; both hands.

She looked me in the eye and said, "eighteen."

Apparently, I hadn't taken into account that she had some over the weekend. I turns out that on the previous Saturday, she had taken her breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Don Pedro's, and then dinner on Sunday. She eats four tacos in a sitting, the errant two were devoured Saturday at lunch.

Once again (says the circus ringleader) this is all entirely true, to the best of my knowledge.

On Wednesday, my last day, she got fish tacos again.

“Why are you depressed, Alvy?” asked the doctor. “Tell Dr. Flicker. It’s something he read.” said his mother. Alvy’s head lolled depressingly around his shoulders. “The Blogosphere is expanding.” “The Blogosphere is expanding?” asked the doctor, somewhat skeptically. “Well,” said Alvy, ”the Blogosphere is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything!” Alvy’s mother began to scream and gesture excitedly, “What’s the Blogosphere got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn! Brooklyn is not expanding!”


My friend publishes a website, pontificating into the howling void of the Blogosphere about his life and interests. It’s a sad hobby, but if it gets him though the day, it’s fine with me. He has this neat site tracker that allows him to track, not just site hits, daily averages and from what IP addresses the hits come from, but keeps a running tab of the internet search terms that punt people to his site. His site somewhat revolves around movies (as does his sad, pathetic life), so it was no surprise to me to see on this last many, many search queries including the terms “nude,” “naked,” “ or “xxx.” Jennifer Aniston, Blanchard Ryan, Matt Damon, these names made appearances again and again.

Frankie Muniz?

That’s right, someone, somewhere, probably typing one-handed, wanted, for whatever reason, to see “Malcolm in the Middle” naked. This disturbing fact begs several questions:

1. What kind of twisted sex maniac wants to see a 19-year-old, male, television sitcom actor naked. We’re not talking about David Duchovny (of whom nude images do exist; actually quasi-nude, his naughty bits are covered with a teacup). We’re talking about Cody Banks, here.
2. What makes this fiend think that these images might actually exist? Does Frankie Muniz really seem like the kind of guy that is regularly approached by publication begging him to strip for the enjoyment of their readers? Does he seem like the sort of actor who would agree to have such photos taken?
3. The randomness of Frankie Muniz is strange. Sure, Jessica Beil posed for Playboy, but she’s HOT! Is it really worth the precious seconds required to search for existence of naked photos of “Boner” from Growing Pains?
4. Who the fuck is this person and what happened to you as a child? If you happen to be reading this, please contact me as soon as possible. Please, show me on the doll where they touched you.

Show of hands....Who wants to see my wedding tackle?

Lately, I've been feeling as if blogging, in and of itself, has become a detriment. I seem more occupied about the subject of the next blog than the subject of my next story. The reason I began this blog was simply to have an outlet, a bulletin board in the void of the world. It's purpose was to have an external "inbox" to store ideas and force me to work them out into cohesive tales. I never intended for anyone to actually read it, and thankfully that much has held true. However, blogging is fun, even if (perhaps especially if) no one ever reads this crap.

In an effort to kick myself in the pants, I been poring over virtually everything I've written since 1995. This is the first time I've ever undertaken this task, and it proved far more laborious, embarrassing and contemplative than I ever imagined. Frankly, I don't know what the hell was wrong with me. I had it all; a nice house, a semi-cohesive family, a car, a hot girlfriend (who, I might add, is now my hot wife), tons of great drinking buddies, and few great friends. Why the hell was I so depressed all the time!? Seriously, some of the stuff I came across sounded like Edgar Allen Poe's death hymn as read by Emily Dickinson. I must admit, however, while I was rather obsessed with science fiction, some of that stuff was pretty original. I'm not sure I could even duplicate that kind of originality now. Turns out drugs do make you more creative!

But then it occurred to me; the reason I began writing was because I was depressed, and writing made me feel better. Obviously, most of the stuff I put on paper would be dismal because, at that time, I only wrote that shitty, shitty poetry when I was feeling dismal.

I would simply like to take this opportunity to thank my parents (thought they'll never read this...) for doing well by me. You were both incredible, if slightly overly concerned, caregivers and I thank you for all that you sacrificed to ensure that myself and my brothers always had everything we needed, and most of the stuff we really wanted.

I love you both, and really miss you right now.

That being said, I wanted to share something I found. I had (and still have) a huge problem of finishing stories. Sometimes there is a neat phrase, or collection of words, or a feeling I just have to convey, bouncing around in my head and I have to put it on paper just to exorcise the demon. The result is a Herculean pile of paper (scraps, sheets, wads and otherwise) with which to contend. They never get fleshed out into stories, not just because I always get sidetracked by another, equally catchy phrase or idea, but because I'm a lazy piece of shit.

If anyone would like to help me with this massive problem of tree-killing clutter (this is directed to all my terrifically wealthy family members that don't read this blog, or even exist), you can get me the one thing I asked for, but didn't get for Christmas. I want it so bad I wanna throw up. The Dana.

This bit is juvenile, but I like the feeling because it's common and identifiable. To all the folks that don't read this blog, I thank you for your non-patronage. Your lack of support is what's really gotten me through these last few months.

The music faded and stopped. The DJ came on the microphone and announced the end of the evening. A muffled groan came from the dance floor as people began to clear off to collect their jackets, handbags and dates. Debts were paid off, and dance floor romances ended as they had begun; wordless stares into slightly bloodshot eyes.
One-night stands began and all night binges ended with a call for a cab or a suicidal fumble for the car keys. The last bit of alcohol was consumed, and, in the back alley, those who overestimated their own strength spilled more onto the concrete. This crowd of people, packed into a small, dingy room for one night of self-defiance and deprecation, finally began to quiet. As they began to disperse, like a single cell breaking apart from the inside in an effort to grow, the noise settled and the lights began to shine brighter than ever before.
The bartenders poured the last drinks, and the dealers moved into the parking lot to make their last sales. Hookers hooked and users used, but now they would have to go elsewhere. The night, the creature that it is, had been fed and was now bloated and lethargic. The true identity of those who survived, fishing in their pockets for their last cigarettes, or other fixes, seemed to hit them hard in the face with that first blast of cold air, the scent of fresh sunlight doing battle with the smoke and sweat.
The night itself was bedding down for its’ daily rest and it’s followers, the order of the night, the church of after hours, rescinded to their alternate selves, their mild-mannered identities, just to get some sleep. Their bones will still cry out for release, though. They cry to be set free, into the underbelly of the weekend.

Okay, this just isn't funny anymore. This began as an amusing way to fill the gaps in my work day. Now, I'm just depressed. This study is officalliy over, not just because I just quit my job, but because I'm beginning to feel a bit like P.T. Barnum. Please keep the "Jumbo" refernces to yourself.

However, for posterity, I would like to make a final analysis.

RAMEN IN NOT A FOOD, YOU FAT, IGNORANT SLUT!

I feel much better.

This poor dear has lost her battle with weight, depression and that giant Twix bar that runs her down in her dreams. I pity this woman. I feel guilty for pitying a woman whom I've seen eat sunflower seeds off the carpet. I'm really fucked on this one.

I've decided to include a few notations of the things she says during the course of the day. I feel they would provide a unique insight into her anthropoidal eating habits.

I remind you, these notations are in no way exaggerated or imbellished to make them funnier. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.


January,12 2005

8:06 AM ***Her husband packed her lunch today. She opened the plastic grocery sack to find a package of pork Top Ramen and a Ziploc FULL of hard candy.***
8:09 AM ***“I’m hungry” ***
8:14 AM Coffee with Swiss Miss cocoa powder
8:17 AM ***”I’m starving!”***
9:02 AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with Taco Bell hot sauce
9:26 AM Reese’s peanut butter cup
9:50 AM ***”I don’t feel so good. I ate too much.”***
10:08 AM Watermelon flavor Jolly Rancher
10:25 AM Grape flavor Jolly Rancher
10:49 AM ***went home complaining of a stomach ache***

January, 13 2005

8:03 AM Small coffee with both “French Vanilla” and “Mocha Java” flavored non-dairy creamer, chocolate chip muffin (I don’t know the serving size, but the muffin is about the size of a softball.)
9:47 AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with hot sauce, handful of peanuts in the shell
11:09 AM Banana (first fruit!!)
12:23 PM Unidentified candy, “Tropical Fruit” flavor
2:42 PM Twix candy bar(s)
2:43 PM 2 day old doughnut (I’m not kidding, it was wrapped in a tissue in her desk.)
2:46 PM Cheetos (1.2 oz. package)

January 14, 2005

8:48 AM Coffee with Swiss Miss hot cocoa powder.
9:18 AM Nestle Crunch with caramel, handful of “Cream Smoothie” Skittles (eew.)
11:57 AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with Taco Bell hot sauce and MAYONNAISE!!
12:12 AM Diet Pepsi
2:16 PM Twix candy bar(s)

January 17, 2005

9:18 AM Coffee with Swiss Miss cocoa powder
10:54AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with Sriracha
11:56 AM Baloney and mayonnaise on white bread (okay, she bragged about this one: bread, mayo, baloney, kraft cheez, baloney, cheez, mayo, baloney, cheez, mayo, bread. The sandwich is about two inches thick. This is not a joke.)

I declared this study over when, after pestering everyone in the office for hours about where lunch was coming from, I actually saw her devour FOUR fried fish tacos, smeared with mayonnaise she brought herself. She then began to pontificate on the many uses of this fine condiment, divulging that her absolute favorite is corn on the cob dripping with mayo.

I don't know what disturbs me more; the fact this woman seeks ways toincorporate mayonnaise into virtually every meal she takes, or, upon review, discovering that, over the course of this laborious study, she comsumed two non-processed food items, and that assumes you would count Iceberg Lettuce as a serving of vegetables.

If I had to choose one thing that made me want to vomit most, it would be the coughing. Those rasping, phlegm filled hacks; those body convulsing expulsions of lung butter that we, here in the office, so enjoy every six minutes or so.
Or perhaps I’d go with the smell. That odor of stale, urine filled ashtray mixed with the ungodly aroma of what I can only imagine is the Alaskan malamute you so often dote about. I was walking by your workstation last week, you were out with bronchitis, (again) and as I passed your desk, your stench smacked me in the face like a brick. My eyes began to water AND I ACTUALLY DRY HEAVED.
But who can forget the way you look? The giant, tent-like cosby sweaters, the stirrup pants, the billowy leather jacket that surely, in a previous life, was most of a herd of cattle, or at least the interior of a minivan. Your shoulder length, bleached, stripped and thinning hair,; those pompous and dramatic bangs, looping and dangling on your forehead like a writhing sea cucumber.
Your skin tone varies so greatly, how could I choose which one I hate the most? Most of the time its’ color is a tepid, jaundiced yellowish-gray, indicative of your regular diet of processed meats, corn syrup and nicotine, or perhaps a tapeworm. You must certainly rue the day you accepted a job on the second floor of a building with no elevator. When you emerge from that stairwell, your skin tone falls somewhere boiled lobster and the flaming stay-puft marshmallow man. You clutch your knees for support and wheeze until your beet-color fades, and you try to forget the daunting eighteen steps that just kicked your gargantuan ass.
And do you think you garner any sympathy when you whine about the state of your bone structure? Do you think any of us believe that, if you weren’t plagued with a bad back and knees, you’d be running marathons or something? How the fuck do you think you got there in the first place?! I mean, fuck! I can think of car frames that have to support less weight than your unfortunate frame!
And we can’t forget your attitude, now can we? We can’t leave out the fact that you do nothing but talk shit about everyone else in the office. Sure, it’s my bad luck I have to sit within ten feet of you, but nowhere in my contract did it state I would be forced to listen to you flap your gums, to an equally corpulent sack of crap a mere thirty feet away, about how no one in this place does as much work as you!
I almost forgot about the banana bread. You know what I'm talking about. The banana bread you brought to the potluck last Christmas, going on and on about how late you were up baking the night before. That’s right, the banana bread no one ate because tasted like a wet dog. After the Christmas party, you could see plates scattered around the office with untouched slices of that vile bread on each one. I actually remember you saying that imitation banana extract tasted better than real ripe bananas. This must be true because you showed up to work clutching a fucking BANANAS FOSTER CAPPUCINO FROM 7-11!! What species are you!? From what cesspool did you escape to torture me?!
Today, however, you’ve outdone yourself. I was focusing on my computer monitor, trying to forget you were even there, when I heard what sounded like a gas-powered generator coming from your cubicle. I slowly turned and saw you with an oxygen mask on your putrid face. A FUCKING NEBULIZER!? The droning sound of the thing was literally shaking the walls of you cubicle, but as it’s held together with masking tape, that’s not surprising. What was really weird, no one else was looking! You were violently sucking vaporized water from a machine that sounds like a shitty old lawnmower, and no one seems to notice!
Just when I though you couldn’t disgrace yourself any further, you turned off the machine (my ears ringing) and proceeded to stand up, coughing and wheezing as those last alveoli in your lungs, clinging to dear life, tried so hard to pass oxygen into your bloodstream, you slipped on your giant leather coat. YOU STEPPED OUT TO HAVE A SMOKE!
I don’t revel in your impending demise, I just hope I don’t have to smell you.

Happier New Year? 

It’s been said the only time a man can think with true, unmitigated lucidity is the thirty seconds immediately following an orgasm. Conventional wisdom would have us believe that a man’s body, the walking sperm-gun that it is, allows the occupier (namely, the brain) a brief moment of reality before it reloads the cannon, so to speak. This is what alcoholics refer to as a “moment of clarity,” a point in time wherein all is seen as it truly is, all is known as it truly exists, and all truths are self-evident.

This is complete bullshit.

I know this to be complete bullshit because it was during that very time, huffing, puffing and experiencing, what I thought to be, a instant of unchecked vision, I made the decision to join this damned fool idealistic crusade (as my uncle would say) and hereby currently find myself locked in the trunk of a 1978 Camaro careening down Route 66 at nearly the speed of sound, pursued by at least a dozen obnoxiously loud law enforcement vehicles, several pick-ups full of well-armed civilians, and what I can only imagine is an FBI helicopter.

Both literally and figuratively, fuck.

Happy New Year 

Her name is unimportant. Her girth is estimable. Her desk sits approximately four feet from mine, and while I like her, she has the eating habits of Marlon Brando in Wonka's Chocolate Room. I've been meaning to do this for months, but hadn't the chance until recently; we lost a big client and my workload has decreased significantly. I have to look busy, right?
When I began this study, I originally considered tracking, by the hour, her insanely variable blood sugar level, gaugung by number of giggles, guffaws and snorts, charted against the number of groans, complaints and personal insults muttered under her breath. This proved far too laborious.
Some might say it was unfair to begin this anthropological study during the holidays, but I assusre you, gentle reader, that this catalog represents a very normal and regular feeding schedule. I am, also, not intending to deride those of you that choose never to consume fruits or vegetables, or anything born of earthen soil, but what the hell is wrong with you people!? Would an apple friggin' kill you!?
But I digress. I have attempted to list the approximate the serving size when I thought it important. Items enclosed in *** are occurences of note, and items enclosed in ( ) are merely editorial comment.

December 30, 2004

8:19 AM Russell Stover’s Peanut Butter Turtle
8:28 AM Almond Joy, Coffee with Swiss Miss cocoa powder
9:19 AM Hershey’s Kiss
9:35 AM Cigarette break #1
10:10 AM Chocolate/ caramel covered macadamia nuts, Coffee and Swiss Miss #2, Cheez Nips (3-4 oz)
10:35 AM Cigarette break #2
12:48 PM Cup-O-Noodles with Taco Bell hot sauce
1:08 PM King Size Nutragous bar, Chocolate Rice Krispie treat, Diet Pepsi
1:12 PM Jerkied “Beef Nuggets”


January 3, 2005

***Note: For Christmas, her fiance’ gave her tickets to a basketball game, Blazers vs. Clippers. She is not a basketball fan.***

8:14 AM Double-shot mocha with whipped cream
9:57 AM “Cool Ranch” Doritos (1.5 oz )
10:09 AM Knotts’ Berry Farm Raspberry Shortbread Cookies (2 oz package)
10:21 AM Diet Pepsi
11:02 AM “Big Meal” extra-large Cup-O-Noodles (it’s twice the size of the original, I didn’t know these existed.)
11:57 AM Plain M&Ms (1.69 oz package)
2:14 PM Microwave popcorn (Butter Explosion!!!)
3:19 PM Twix candy bar(s)
3:44 PM Small stack of HoneyMaid graham crackers
3:47 PM Candy cane

January 4, 2005

8:29 AM Small regular coffee
9:02 AM Cup-O-Noodles (chicken flavor)
11:03 AM Baloney and mayonnaise on white bread
12:10 PM Coffee with Swiss Miss cocoa powder, Candy cane
12:38 PM Handful of shelled peanuts
12:49 PM Piece of Dentyne Ice gum (which she admits to swallowing)
2:10 PM ***Complains of stomach ache***
2:11 PM Hershey’s Kiss
2:44 PM ***Histrionically complains of being hungry, and scolds herself for eating too much***
2:45 PM Candy cane
3:43 PM Palmer chocolate bell

January 6, 2005

8:41 AM Small coffee, Snickers Marathon energy bar
9:18 AM Bagel with cream cheese
9:44 AM Candy cane
11:16 AM Cup-O-Noodles (chicken flavor) with taco bell hot sauce
11:48 AM Chicken taco, tortilla chips and salsa ***first vegetable: iceberg lettuce**
1:58 PM Mini Reeses peanut butter cup
2:23 PM Mini Reeses peanut butter cup
2:43 PM Mini Reeses peanut butter cup
***she jokes, “I should eat some chocolate every time I type something.”***
2:46 PM Palmer chocolate bell
3:10 PM Ranch flavored sunflower seeds (once again, I didn’t know these existed.)

The future os this study is in peril, as my employment may change soon. If you wish to donate to support this study, I accept personal checks, and Visa/Mastercard donations.

If you're one of the many mouth-breathing squish-heads that believes this tripe, I have great difficulty apologizing because this is one of the funniest damned things I have ever read. I love you James Randi.

It seems to happen to me about one a year. I get sick of my job, I psyche myself up by reading the classifieds (“I could be vet, right? Oh, they mean war vet….) I sit down to update the ol’ resume, and all hope is dashed to the ground when I discover how woefully unqualified I am to even be holding the job I currently have.

It’s starts wonderfully, with imaginings of being everything from a massage therapist to diesel mechanic. Nurse’s assistant, insurance salesman, construction worker, sous chef, housekeeper, the ubiquitous “customer service specialist,” canvasser for Greenpeace (scratch that one.), marketing, healthcare, food, WHERE DOES IT END?

And this only includes the jobs I can identify. What the hell is a journeyman?

Oh my, Santaland is hiring. I know I’ve already ripped off the entire errant humor thing, shall I be so callous?

The resume is always the worst. Objective: To obtain an entry-level position in an exciting and professional [fill in the blank] firm, group, or organization with real potential for advancement and future career opportunities. What bullshit. I want $14.50 an hour doing anything that doesn’t involve putting my hand into anything alive, and even that is negotiable. Experience: Medical billing. Shoot me now. I may as well have gotten a shitload of experience weighing elephant testicles. Sure, it’s a skill that’s in demand, but there’s a reason no one has ever heard of it. When I moved to Portland I told myself, using these word exactly, “I would rather dig my eyes out with a spork than go back into medical billing.” Three weeks of unemployment was all it took until I was going crazy at my ocular cavities with a plastic spoon/fork. Education: This is about the time I erase everything I’ve already written (using the backspace, character by character, I'm very dramatic that way) and then begin to write a worthless stream-of-consciousness explication of how I'm feeling, fully intending to put it in my blog, knowing full well no one is going to read it. I need a drink.

Okay, I'm back. Ice quietly tinkling in a tumbler of scotch, I realize I’ve already lost my train of thought. Am I really this pathetic? My mind turns to the filthy crab pot that’s sitting in my backyard waiting for a scrubbing, the dvds that have to be returned by midnight of last night (don’t forget honey!), the library book that is literally months overdue (current fines: $16.85, I get email alerts), the myriad of blogs, humor columns, political notations and jokes that lay, incomplete, on computer disks around my office, my god there’s even an article about Darwin in this month’s National Geographic that I haven’t even finished!! What the fuck is wrong with me!

Check it out, fuck is an accepted word in this fucking word processing program! Fucking, shit ain’t that a doozy! Fuck all fuckin’ shit hell damn fuck ass bitch. Shit, they’re all acceptable!

An hour of my life is gone and all I’ve accomplished is a page of text that, in the miniscule chance it graces someone’s computer screen, I deeply hope they will not tell me.
(slurp)

I love scotch. Actually love is not the right word, the word “love” is so abused by pop culture that I will invent a new word, “lurv.”

I lurv scotch.

The worst part is, for something I love so much, I know next to nothing about it, mainly because I could never afford really good scotch. I can’t afford it because I don’t make enough money. I don’t make enough money because I have a shitty job. I have a shitty job because I never finished college. I NEVER FINISHED COLLEGE BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY DRINKING SCOTCH!!

My friend Neil is an engineer at Ball Aerospace in Colorado. That’s right, he’s a rocket scientist. My friend Jess is a panty designer for Victoria’s Secret and travels the world extensively, currently residing in Hong Kong. Meghan is a staff graphic designer for a huge metropolitan glossy in Boston. Luke is an accountant with a big firm in New Orleans. Ben is a teacher in L.A. Joe is a brain surgeon. That’s right, a brain surgeon.

I need another drink.

I think I may have identified the problem.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

(slurp).

“Are you in high school?” I was somewhat thrown off by the question. When I think of myself as a high-schooler I picture a wavy, pitch-black mullet and braces on my bottom teeth. Images of the bushy, carefully manicured sideburns (also dyed black) that just barely extended past regulation length. We could go so far as to mention the bright red Converse tennis shoes, at least two sizes too large, but we haven’t the time.

“No, I’m not in high school.” Introspective pause. “Do I look like I should be?” This was a trick question. ”I don't know. It’s just that the only people I know as big as you are either grown-ups or are in high school.” He was six years old, so some slack must be given, but that hurt. I pictured myself floating in the gelatinous void between high school and adulthood. Without a tether of some kind, I would simply sink into the nothingness and be lost to the world forever. No one would notice, after all, who reads this crap? This train of thought, inevitably led to my questioning, not just what the hell I’d been doing for the last few years, but what the hell am I poised to accomplish in the very brief time on planet Earth. The tears were beginning to well at the corners of my eyes.

I could have taken a seat next to the boy, and begun the lengthy explanation about why I decided not to join the Peace Corps, but frankly didn't want to have to explain the unique relationship between the Playstation 2, gin and how an organization's Nazi-like adherence to deadlines can lead down the path of self-destruction and low personal expectations. I was saving that speech for the Scared Straight crowd.

I started imagining this very child, crying and lamenting all the horrible crimes he committed against society. Apologizing for the horrible things he'd said to his mother, admitting to a room full of fellow “troubled youth” that he stole candy from his grandmother’s jar, even after she'd said he'd had enough. In a low, mouse-like voice, he would divulge clandestine activities involving the Iranian government, yellowcake uranium and vast sums of money in diamonds and Venezuelan oil futures. I would sit next to him, lightly touch his shoulder and admonish him for betraying his country and his grandmother, and then forgive him, knowing that my word of repentance and hope were his life line. The hot lozenge of a good deed well done would swell in my chest, and it would feel good.

Shortly after that escapade, had it been allowed to continue, I would have realized that “Scared Straight” speakers are always in prison (or worse) and generally have had to do very bad things to get a gig like that. Fortunately, I was rudely interrupted.

“Don’t you think it's weird that ALL kids want to be grown ups and ALL grown ups want to be kids?” This conversation was going downhill and fast. I was poised to make one of those extremely loud sarcastic responses I give to people at parties like, “Yeah! And why do all children seem to think I want to talk to them?” but thought better of it. All I could muster was, “If high school or adulthood are my only choices, then I'm going to have a drink.” I began thinking about the bottle of Dogfish Head 120-minute Pale Ale I'd had in the fridge for the last year, waiting for just the right occasion to open. Masturbatory depression exacted by a pre-teen seemed just the right occasion.

He looked me directly in the eye,” I'd like to drive a car and have a dog, but I can see why being an adult is not all that great, what with taxes and all.”

Biking downtown, I’m smiling and waving at all the wonderful people I know. Without warning, a drunk, behind the wheel of daddy’s new Bentley tears around the corner and connects. I’m thrown several yards, tattered and bloody, but miraculously I survive. There is no permanent damage, but the injuries will require a lengthy hospital stay. “It’ll be paid leave, of course,” Cal tells me. He and Julie come by almost every day, Julie’s cooking (which has significantly improved) spares me from the hospital cafeteria. The settlement is substantial, on account of all the witnesses. Between the big screen projection television and that laptop I always wanted, my recovery is speedy and I am escorted from the hospital clutching the new great American novel, publisher’s lined around the block, salivating for the rights to my inspiring story.
Julie had been pressuring me to go with her on some sort of vacation. The problem is she can’t think of a single place to go. I suggest Mississippi and receive an interesting look. She suggests Florida. I counter with Mexico. She parries with Canada and I twist, and thrust with London, but she’s on top of that with Amsterdam. We eventually call it a draw and decide on Bangkok because once we were in the grocery store and saw a book of Asian recipes. On the cover was a plate piled with bright red, boiled creatures resembling giant armored, multi-legged telephone receivers. The caption read, “Pepper Crab, Native to Thailand.”
Randall’s uncle Jake runs a pawn shop in Biloxi. We pack into Finn’s nineteen eighty-seven Chevy van, a.k.a. “Van-Halen,” and we drive down, Julie, Randall, Finn and I. Julie was none too happy about my including these two but the only was we were able to afford the trip was to stay Jake’s beach house, which required Randall, and Finn had the van.
Shortly after entering Biloxi, Beachfront Blvd. driving east, one starts to notice a pattern. On your right, the view of the Gulf of Mexico is obstructed by casinos, one after the other, for miles of Mississippi coast. On your left, opposite each casino is one pawn shop and one church, usually Catholic, directly across the street. This situation seems to me to create a sort of win-lose scenario. Or rather a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” mentality. Conceivably, a person could come to Biloxi, lose every dime they have, sulk across the street and pawn the watch, ring, antique armoire, etc. Brimming with new-found wealth, and a the need to “win it all back” so the Mrs. never becomes the wiser, that person could dash all the way back to the Blackjack table before their rum and coke goes flat. After losing it all again (and perhaps repeating the cycle several times over) this person could, head drooping in a free drink haze, enter the house of God and repent it all, fully admonishing themselves of any wrongdoing and beginning life anew with fresh perspective and joy. They could do all this, and never have to travel more than a block.