Friday, May 28, 2004
Summer Lovin’
Okay, so crazy calendar lovers will certainly try to tell you otherwise, but Memorial Day marks the beginning of summer, otherwise known as the only season that is actually livable in Chicago. Since I’m an intensely civic-minded individual, I’ve come up with some tips to help everyone make the most of the next few months:
– It is impolite to comment on the odor emanating from your cab driver. Instead, try giving him a light sponge bath when he turns to adjust the rear view mirror.
– Remember, leaving work early to enjoy the nice weather is just like stealing from your employer. So you might as well grab a stapler or two on your way out.
– Large animals may become uncomfortable and irritated during the hot summer months. So whatever you do, do not taunt Oprah.
– Three words to spice up your summer barbeque: spam ka bobs.
– Don’t forget to water your plants regularly to beat the heat, or you will kill the only friends you have.
– Summer romances can be a lot of fun, but remember that both parties should generally be aware that they are going on.
– Make sure to hire only illegal immigrants to staff your yacht. They are easier to “get rid of” if they become insolent.
– Everyone at the beach really does want to see you in that Speedo; they just have a really funny way of showing it.
The blog will be memorializing on Monday; Tuesday has been docketed for the triumphant return.
Okay, so crazy calendar lovers will certainly try to tell you otherwise, but Memorial Day marks the beginning of summer, otherwise known as the only season that is actually livable in Chicago. Since I’m an intensely civic-minded individual, I’ve come up with some tips to help everyone make the most of the next few months:
– It is impolite to comment on the odor emanating from your cab driver. Instead, try giving him a light sponge bath when he turns to adjust the rear view mirror.
– Remember, leaving work early to enjoy the nice weather is just like stealing from your employer. So you might as well grab a stapler or two on your way out.
– Large animals may become uncomfortable and irritated during the hot summer months. So whatever you do, do not taunt Oprah.
– Three words to spice up your summer barbeque: spam ka bobs.
– Don’t forget to water your plants regularly to beat the heat, or you will kill the only friends you have.
– Summer romances can be a lot of fun, but remember that both parties should generally be aware that they are going on.
– Make sure to hire only illegal immigrants to staff your yacht. They are easier to “get rid of” if they become insolent.
– Everyone at the beach really does want to see you in that Speedo; they just have a really funny way of showing it.
The blog will be memorializing on Monday; Tuesday has been docketed for the triumphant return.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Nice Guy Finished, at Last
I have decided that I am perhaps too polite. No, not in the sense of sending lovely embossed thank-you cards to people who sell me stereo equipment or expertly wielding multiple salad forks; when it comes to that stuff, Miss Manners can quite frankly bite me. My excessive politeness is purely conversational, whether I’m struggling to let a telemarketer down gently in his 4 AM attempt to get me to order Seventeen magazine or apologizing to the woman who just rammed me with her umbrella in the train as though I have committed some crime simply by having weight and taking up space. Sure, I’m a master of passive aggression – I don’t think anyone can cram as many layers of icy disapproval into a simple “fine” – but there’s not nearly enough senseless lashing out in my life. Somebody needs to put that nose-picking Subway sandwich artist in her place, right?
Perhaps the finest example of my rudeness deficit is my relationship with Frank, Your Friendly Neighborhood Panhandler. Frank specializes in taking over cumbersome household tasks that you’ve already almost completed and demanding cash. If you’re nine-tenths of the way done clearing the snow off your car or moving a couch, Frank will be right there to pantomime some form of assistance without asking if you need it and bill you five dollars. Of course, most people just tell Frank to fuck off. Me, I made him a sandwich. Now I’m filed in Frank’s Rolodex under “Easy Target,” and he has redoubled his efforts. He once spent an entire day staked out in front of my building, causing me to craftily disguise myself Jacko-style by putting on sunglasses and a hat before sneaking out the back door, only to be spotted in my car as I returned and chased, Terminator-style, for several blocks. Trust me, Frank may not be workative, but lord is he fast.
All of which is just to say that there are times when it does not pay to be nice. I’m fairly sure I’m not going to get in touch with my inner rageaholic overnight, but if I were you I’d think twice before you cut in line ahead of me at Taco Bell.
I have decided that I am perhaps too polite. No, not in the sense of sending lovely embossed thank-you cards to people who sell me stereo equipment or expertly wielding multiple salad forks; when it comes to that stuff, Miss Manners can quite frankly bite me. My excessive politeness is purely conversational, whether I’m struggling to let a telemarketer down gently in his 4 AM attempt to get me to order Seventeen magazine or apologizing to the woman who just rammed me with her umbrella in the train as though I have committed some crime simply by having weight and taking up space. Sure, I’m a master of passive aggression – I don’t think anyone can cram as many layers of icy disapproval into a simple “fine” – but there’s not nearly enough senseless lashing out in my life. Somebody needs to put that nose-picking Subway sandwich artist in her place, right?
Perhaps the finest example of my rudeness deficit is my relationship with Frank, Your Friendly Neighborhood Panhandler. Frank specializes in taking over cumbersome household tasks that you’ve already almost completed and demanding cash. If you’re nine-tenths of the way done clearing the snow off your car or moving a couch, Frank will be right there to pantomime some form of assistance without asking if you need it and bill you five dollars. Of course, most people just tell Frank to fuck off. Me, I made him a sandwich. Now I’m filed in Frank’s Rolodex under “Easy Target,” and he has redoubled his efforts. He once spent an entire day staked out in front of my building, causing me to craftily disguise myself Jacko-style by putting on sunglasses and a hat before sneaking out the back door, only to be spotted in my car as I returned and chased, Terminator-style, for several blocks. Trust me, Frank may not be workative, but lord is he fast.
All of which is just to say that there are times when it does not pay to be nice. I’m fairly sure I’m not going to get in touch with my inner rageaholic overnight, but if I were you I’d think twice before you cut in line ahead of me at Taco Bell.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
The Learning Annex
It’s the end of the academic year, and as a service to all those crazy kids out there studying for finals (and surely not as a simpleminded joke that will amuse only myself), I’ve put together these handy-dandy one-sentence summaries of literary masterworks:
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath – Even smart girls who get good summer jobs at magazines can go crazy.
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky – People deal with their daddy issues in some pretty silly ways, such as murder.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger – Who would have thought that prep school would be full of phonies?
Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes – Crazy people are fun, although there’s always the danger that they’ll bash someone’s head in.
The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser – Some English professors are really, really mean.
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad – Maybe save your vacation to Africa for another year.
The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton – If you’re not socially popular, you might as well just go ahead and die.
King Lear by William Shakespeare – Your elderly father could definitely have it a lot worse than the nursing home, even taking square dance night into account.
To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf – It may be a while before you actually get to a lighthouse, so don’t hold your breath.
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka – Bugs are people, too.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce – Hey, James Joyce is pretty cool, and most likely highly symbolic.
Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust – Shit happens.
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner – Southern people have some crazy ideas, like, say, slavery and cutting off people’s gonads.
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway – Besides death, war can lead to impotence, drunkenness, and occasionally even bullfighting.
It’s the end of the academic year, and as a service to all those crazy kids out there studying for finals (and surely not as a simpleminded joke that will amuse only myself), I’ve put together these handy-dandy one-sentence summaries of literary masterworks:
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath – Even smart girls who get good summer jobs at magazines can go crazy.
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky – People deal with their daddy issues in some pretty silly ways, such as murder.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger – Who would have thought that prep school would be full of phonies?
Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes – Crazy people are fun, although there’s always the danger that they’ll bash someone’s head in.
The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser – Some English professors are really, really mean.
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad – Maybe save your vacation to Africa for another year.
The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton – If you’re not socially popular, you might as well just go ahead and die.
King Lear by William Shakespeare – Your elderly father could definitely have it a lot worse than the nursing home, even taking square dance night into account.
To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf – It may be a while before you actually get to a lighthouse, so don’t hold your breath.
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka – Bugs are people, too.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce – Hey, James Joyce is pretty cool, and most likely highly symbolic.
Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust – Shit happens.
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner – Southern people have some crazy ideas, like, say, slavery and cutting off people’s gonads.
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway – Besides death, war can lead to impotence, drunkenness, and occasionally even bullfighting.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Current Events
– Friendster. Finally, a safe, electronic way to stalk people without ever leaving your home! An added benefit? No one has to know that you’re not really David Hasselhoff.
– Cab Drivers. Thank you so much for all the advice on how to live my life. My advice to you is to back up and see what happened to the bicyclist you hit a few blocks back. Feel free to drop me off at the corner first, though.
– Natural Athletic Grace. I have now fallen down the back steps of my apartment building twice in the past week. If I were eighty, my family would be looking into affordable nursing care right now. But none of this would have happened if they had just put in a fireman’s pole like I asked.
– Wedded Bliss. Before the summer is over I’ll probably drop several thousand dollars on celebrating various friends’ perfect loves. Someone better name a kid after me or something so I can get some return on my investment.
– American Idol. Doesn’t it feel like it should have been over like five years ago? Unless they decide to select the winner through hand-to-hand combat, I’ve kind of lost interest. I do hope Omarosa gets it, though.
– Friendster. Finally, a safe, electronic way to stalk people without ever leaving your home! An added benefit? No one has to know that you’re not really David Hasselhoff.
– Cab Drivers. Thank you so much for all the advice on how to live my life. My advice to you is to back up and see what happened to the bicyclist you hit a few blocks back. Feel free to drop me off at the corner first, though.
– Natural Athletic Grace. I have now fallen down the back steps of my apartment building twice in the past week. If I were eighty, my family would be looking into affordable nursing care right now. But none of this would have happened if they had just put in a fireman’s pole like I asked.
– Wedded Bliss. Before the summer is over I’ll probably drop several thousand dollars on celebrating various friends’ perfect loves. Someone better name a kid after me or something so I can get some return on my investment.
– American Idol. Doesn’t it feel like it should have been over like five years ago? Unless they decide to select the winner through hand-to-hand combat, I’ve kind of lost interest. I do hope Omarosa gets it, though.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Visiting Hours
There are some events that are so magical, so delicately and intricately woven into the very fabric of our lives, that their import is well beyond our poor power as humans to express. I fear that my parents’ recent visit to Chicago may be just such an event. In terms of historical importance, frankly, I have no doubt that Dr. John & Dr. Barb’s trip to Chicago will rank right up there with Nixon’s trip to China and Neil Armstrong’s trip to the moon. I can never hope to truly share in the greatness of these moments; all I can do is share my observations as a spectator to destiny.
We began things with a trip to Second City, where we enjoyed the delicious awkwardness that only the classic combination of broad sexual humor and essentially Amish parents can bring. Not since the Lewinsky scandal forced my mother to explain oral sex to my 93-year-old grandmother have we had this much fun. (Her answer, by the way? “It’s when they have sex out loud.”) We followed this up with an engagement at the Cubs game, where a hyperactive, personal-space-invading redneck taught us all how to love again. Whether he was utterly failing to connect with the beat as he enthusiastically clapped along with the crowd’s chants or loudly making witty comments about the various physical attributes of beleaguered beer vendors, he gave until his poor little Big-Johnson-T-shirt-sporting heart could give no more. Of course, no parental summit could conclude without a stop at Navy Pier, where purchasing a hot dog requires a financing plan. Given my mother’s sudden and pathological fear of ferris wheels, this was an especially grand plan. I don’t know if a location can legally procure a restraining order against people, but I would definitely support that in this case.
There’s more, of course, but I ought to leave something for the historians. My mother’s attempt to bust a credit card fraud at H & M is the stuff of pure poetry.
There are some events that are so magical, so delicately and intricately woven into the very fabric of our lives, that their import is well beyond our poor power as humans to express. I fear that my parents’ recent visit to Chicago may be just such an event. In terms of historical importance, frankly, I have no doubt that Dr. John & Dr. Barb’s trip to Chicago will rank right up there with Nixon’s trip to China and Neil Armstrong’s trip to the moon. I can never hope to truly share in the greatness of these moments; all I can do is share my observations as a spectator to destiny.
We began things with a trip to Second City, where we enjoyed the delicious awkwardness that only the classic combination of broad sexual humor and essentially Amish parents can bring. Not since the Lewinsky scandal forced my mother to explain oral sex to my 93-year-old grandmother have we had this much fun. (Her answer, by the way? “It’s when they have sex out loud.”) We followed this up with an engagement at the Cubs game, where a hyperactive, personal-space-invading redneck taught us all how to love again. Whether he was utterly failing to connect with the beat as he enthusiastically clapped along with the crowd’s chants or loudly making witty comments about the various physical attributes of beleaguered beer vendors, he gave until his poor little Big-Johnson-T-shirt-sporting heart could give no more. Of course, no parental summit could conclude without a stop at Navy Pier, where purchasing a hot dog requires a financing plan. Given my mother’s sudden and pathological fear of ferris wheels, this was an especially grand plan. I don’t know if a location can legally procure a restraining order against people, but I would definitely support that in this case.
There’s more, of course, but I ought to leave something for the historians. My mother’s attempt to bust a credit card fraud at H & M is the stuff of pure poetry.
Friday, May 21, 2004
The Resistence of Memory
My mind works in very, very strange ways. I’m not suggesting that I’m in Rain Man territory here; I don’t have the rugged good looks and I’m not nearly sharp enough at math. No, my problem is that my brain seems to function solely as a repository for old sitcom plots and Avril Lavigne songs, leaving important information to languish like the studio audience at a Suddenly Susan taping.
For instance, the other day at the video store I found myself utterly stumped when asked merely to contribute my home phone number. If they’d asked me for the name of the kid who threw up on my Mother’s Day card in second grade, however, I would have been all set. I am eternally 100% unable to recollect my account number at the bank, but as to the 37 different showtimes for 13 Going on 30 at the River East theater I have total recall. And during the bar exam, I found myself struggling to concentrate on important concepts like commercial paper and judicial abstention, but completely focused as to the weird break-time behaviors of the mullet-headed, romance-novel-toting exam taker three rows down from me. It’s like my body’s sitting there trying to live like an adult in the real world, but my brain is in the next room watching General Hospital.
So what do I plan to do about this? Nothing, really. I mean, if the government wants to commission a study on this rare mental condition, I’ll gladly take their money and spend it on CDs and candy, but otherwise I’ll just be sitting around at home remembering the dialogue from old Budweiser commercials verbatim. Assuming, that is, that I can figure out my address.
My mind works in very, very strange ways. I’m not suggesting that I’m in Rain Man territory here; I don’t have the rugged good looks and I’m not nearly sharp enough at math. No, my problem is that my brain seems to function solely as a repository for old sitcom plots and Avril Lavigne songs, leaving important information to languish like the studio audience at a Suddenly Susan taping.
For instance, the other day at the video store I found myself utterly stumped when asked merely to contribute my home phone number. If they’d asked me for the name of the kid who threw up on my Mother’s Day card in second grade, however, I would have been all set. I am eternally 100% unable to recollect my account number at the bank, but as to the 37 different showtimes for 13 Going on 30 at the River East theater I have total recall. And during the bar exam, I found myself struggling to concentrate on important concepts like commercial paper and judicial abstention, but completely focused as to the weird break-time behaviors of the mullet-headed, romance-novel-toting exam taker three rows down from me. It’s like my body’s sitting there trying to live like an adult in the real world, but my brain is in the next room watching General Hospital.
So what do I plan to do about this? Nothing, really. I mean, if the government wants to commission a study on this rare mental condition, I’ll gladly take their money and spend it on CDs and candy, but otherwise I’ll just be sitting around at home remembering the dialogue from old Budweiser commercials verbatim. Assuming, that is, that I can figure out my address.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Odds ‘N Ends
The Chicago Historical Society – History is fun when it involves making fun of costumed guides and almost maiming yourself by climbing around on a railroad car without supervision. I’m just waiting for them to add the Women’s Suffrage Thrill Ride and Lincoln: The IMAX Experience.
Requiem for a Dream – I realize that everyone else saw this movie like four years ago, but I was probably too busy seeing Erin Brockovich for the seventh time. Anyway, it’s good, in a so-depressing-you-want-to-kill-yourself kind of way.
The GAP – I swear to God I will let you know if I need some help. Now back away before I strangle you with these stress free khakis.
Job Interviews – Not fun from anyone’s perspective. When I was the interviewee, I was once subjected to a twenty minute conversation about hats. Now that I’m an interviewer, I mainly just talk about myself a lot. I like to think of it as affordable therapy.
One Tree Hill – It’s like Dawson’s Creek without the foreplay. And can we please pass legislation to bar MTV VJs from making awkward attempts to act? Because I hear Sway is planning a revival of Sweet Charity.
E-mail Etiquette – What is the proper response when receiving someone’s “funny forward” (most likely about cats or our enjoyable stereotypes of lawyers)? I have to stop short of murder, right?
Salad Spinners – Cool because they allow you to put things in your salad that defeat the point of having salad. I like the potato chip/gummy worm salad with chocolate dressing.
The Chicago Historical Society – History is fun when it involves making fun of costumed guides and almost maiming yourself by climbing around on a railroad car without supervision. I’m just waiting for them to add the Women’s Suffrage Thrill Ride and Lincoln: The IMAX Experience.
Requiem for a Dream – I realize that everyone else saw this movie like four years ago, but I was probably too busy seeing Erin Brockovich for the seventh time. Anyway, it’s good, in a so-depressing-you-want-to-kill-yourself kind of way.
The GAP – I swear to God I will let you know if I need some help. Now back away before I strangle you with these stress free khakis.
Job Interviews – Not fun from anyone’s perspective. When I was the interviewee, I was once subjected to a twenty minute conversation about hats. Now that I’m an interviewer, I mainly just talk about myself a lot. I like to think of it as affordable therapy.
One Tree Hill – It’s like Dawson’s Creek without the foreplay. And can we please pass legislation to bar MTV VJs from making awkward attempts to act? Because I hear Sway is planning a revival of Sweet Charity.
E-mail Etiquette – What is the proper response when receiving someone’s “funny forward” (most likely about cats or our enjoyable stereotypes of lawyers)? I have to stop short of murder, right?
Salad Spinners – Cool because they allow you to put things in your salad that defeat the point of having salad. I like the potato chip/gummy worm salad with chocolate dressing.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Penance
Have you ever noticed that members of certain professions seem to make an extra effort to heap as much guilt as possible into every transaction? There are, for instance, some doctors who apparently still believe that illness is a punishment for sin, and must always imply that if you had done five more ab crunches or made your appointment five minutes earlier, you would not be suffering from five stab wounds to your back. Dentists, too, operate on this principle, hemming and hawing over your tartar buildup and showing you pictures of gummy Appalachian smiles until you agree that you will, by god, floss every minute of every day until the day you die if it will only buy you some silence. This weekend, however, it was the air conditioning repairman who insisted on treating me as though he had just caught me slaughtering a family of Croatian immigrants.
“So, what’s the problem here?” he asked.
“Uh, I don’t know... it’s not working,” I answered helpfully. “I mean, it hasn’t been, uh, putting out cold air.”
My engineering knowledge is clearly impressive.
“But how did it happen?” he pressed further. “Did you try to do something to it? Were you running it really high or something?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” I defensively replied, sounding as guilty as the sleazy wife-beating husband from a Lifetime movie. “We just tried to turn it on like a month ago, and we noticed it wasn’t working.”
“Uh huh.” His skepticism was obvious. “Well, you know, the fan’s not even working now. I don’t know how that would happen.”
“Huh.” I said, racking my brain for some way to prove how much I genuinely loved and cared for the fan, but eventually deciding just to make a break for it. “Well, I’ll just let you work here.”
But I wasn’t going to get off that easily.
“Okay, well, I can fix this, but you’ve got to understand that you can’t have it be sixty degrees in here all the time. This unit isn’t built to handle that kind of stress.”
I briefly considered seeing if his unit could handle the stress of several sudden strikes from a monkey wrench, but finally concluded that this would be too risky, as I could not afford to lose the only repairman I had met who had a sufficient grasp of the English language to avoid communicating through a series of grunts and clicking sounds. So I simply went about my business and let him go about his. Of course, it’s been about thirty degrees in Chicago ever since then, so I can’t really be sure that he actually fixed anything, but I sure am grateful for all the important lessons I got to learn along the way.
Have you ever noticed that members of certain professions seem to make an extra effort to heap as much guilt as possible into every transaction? There are, for instance, some doctors who apparently still believe that illness is a punishment for sin, and must always imply that if you had done five more ab crunches or made your appointment five minutes earlier, you would not be suffering from five stab wounds to your back. Dentists, too, operate on this principle, hemming and hawing over your tartar buildup and showing you pictures of gummy Appalachian smiles until you agree that you will, by god, floss every minute of every day until the day you die if it will only buy you some silence. This weekend, however, it was the air conditioning repairman who insisted on treating me as though he had just caught me slaughtering a family of Croatian immigrants.
“So, what’s the problem here?” he asked.
“Uh, I don’t know... it’s not working,” I answered helpfully. “I mean, it hasn’t been, uh, putting out cold air.”
My engineering knowledge is clearly impressive.
“But how did it happen?” he pressed further. “Did you try to do something to it? Were you running it really high or something?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” I defensively replied, sounding as guilty as the sleazy wife-beating husband from a Lifetime movie. “We just tried to turn it on like a month ago, and we noticed it wasn’t working.”
“Uh huh.” His skepticism was obvious. “Well, you know, the fan’s not even working now. I don’t know how that would happen.”
“Huh.” I said, racking my brain for some way to prove how much I genuinely loved and cared for the fan, but eventually deciding just to make a break for it. “Well, I’ll just let you work here.”
But I wasn’t going to get off that easily.
“Okay, well, I can fix this, but you’ve got to understand that you can’t have it be sixty degrees in here all the time. This unit isn’t built to handle that kind of stress.”
I briefly considered seeing if his unit could handle the stress of several sudden strikes from a monkey wrench, but finally concluded that this would be too risky, as I could not afford to lose the only repairman I had met who had a sufficient grasp of the English language to avoid communicating through a series of grunts and clicking sounds. So I simply went about my business and let him go about his. Of course, it’s been about thirty degrees in Chicago ever since then, so I can’t really be sure that he actually fixed anything, but I sure am grateful for all the important lessons I got to learn along the way.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Things Fall Apart
So I had prepared a touching & hilarious blog entry for today, one that most surely would have changed the course of human events and most probably would have ended war, poverty, and hunger for the rest of time immemorial, but somewhere along the line my computer decided to turn my incomparable genius into two pages of random characters roughly resembling what it looks like when Beetle Bailey swears. Which, come to think of it, probably qualifies my computer to become an editor at Vanity Fair, if it hadn’t gotten into that ugly brawl with Annie Liebowitz. But anyway, the point is that society has suffered a terrible loss today, along with the parents of the diskette I threw at the wall and then stomped on repeatedly. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
And while I’m delivering bad news, I might as well confess that there will be a break in programming this Thursday while I am escorting my parents around town. I say this is bad news not because I believe the loss of this website for a day is such a blow, but simply because I have met my parents. They are lovely people, but I will spend the day searching for new food courts they can eat at and trying to keep them from haggling with cab drivers. So let’s all tune up our coping mechanisms, and rest assured that there will still be plenty of good times to come.
So I had prepared a touching & hilarious blog entry for today, one that most surely would have changed the course of human events and most probably would have ended war, poverty, and hunger for the rest of time immemorial, but somewhere along the line my computer decided to turn my incomparable genius into two pages of random characters roughly resembling what it looks like when Beetle Bailey swears. Which, come to think of it, probably qualifies my computer to become an editor at Vanity Fair, if it hadn’t gotten into that ugly brawl with Annie Liebowitz. But anyway, the point is that society has suffered a terrible loss today, along with the parents of the diskette I threw at the wall and then stomped on repeatedly. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
And while I’m delivering bad news, I might as well confess that there will be a break in programming this Thursday while I am escorting my parents around town. I say this is bad news not because I believe the loss of this website for a day is such a blow, but simply because I have met my parents. They are lovely people, but I will spend the day searching for new food courts they can eat at and trying to keep them from haggling with cab drivers. So let’s all tune up our coping mechanisms, and rest assured that there will still be plenty of good times to come.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Unsolicited Advice
Sometimes it seems like there just aren’t enough hours in the day. That may be because of all your alcohol-induced blackouts, but I’m not one to judge. I am one to create random lists, however, and I’ve prepared some amazing time management tips to help you make the most of your day:
-- Start by making a list of everything you have to do today. Then, destroy the list so it cannot be used as evidence against you.
-- Break down large tasks into smaller, easier-to-handle tasks. For instance, the task of “discovering a cure for cancer” can be broken down into “buying some notepads” and “tirelessly performing epidemiological research for one’s entire life.”
-- Try to limit your compulsive handwashing to only ten times per hour, rather than twenty. Believe me, the tiny invisible bugs all over your body will still be there.
-- Gradually phase out all friends and loved ones. Just because someone bore your children doesn’t mean she should be allowed to waste ten minutes of your time blabbering on and on about some stupid death in her family.
-- Pick only one episode of 60 Minutes to watch each week. You’ll want to have the rest on tape for your collection, anyway.
-- Don’t forget to multitask! You can cook dinner while you give the dog his bath. Just don’t confuse the two.
-- Delegate less desirable tasks to a subordinate. Let your secretary take your mother to her AA meeting, for God’s sake!
-- Consider stalking a celebrity who lives geographically closer to you. Because, let’s face it, Roberto Benigni just isn’t working out any more.
Sometimes it seems like there just aren’t enough hours in the day. That may be because of all your alcohol-induced blackouts, but I’m not one to judge. I am one to create random lists, however, and I’ve prepared some amazing time management tips to help you make the most of your day:
-- Start by making a list of everything you have to do today. Then, destroy the list so it cannot be used as evidence against you.
-- Break down large tasks into smaller, easier-to-handle tasks. For instance, the task of “discovering a cure for cancer” can be broken down into “buying some notepads” and “tirelessly performing epidemiological research for one’s entire life.”
-- Try to limit your compulsive handwashing to only ten times per hour, rather than twenty. Believe me, the tiny invisible bugs all over your body will still be there.
-- Gradually phase out all friends and loved ones. Just because someone bore your children doesn’t mean she should be allowed to waste ten minutes of your time blabbering on and on about some stupid death in her family.
-- Pick only one episode of 60 Minutes to watch each week. You’ll want to have the rest on tape for your collection, anyway.
-- Don’t forget to multitask! You can cook dinner while you give the dog his bath. Just don’t confuse the two.
-- Delegate less desirable tasks to a subordinate. Let your secretary take your mother to her AA meeting, for God’s sake!
-- Consider stalking a celebrity who lives geographically closer to you. Because, let’s face it, Roberto Benigni just isn’t working out any more.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Hot Fun in the Summertime
Yes, kids, it’s true; May sweeps are here, and soon all of your favorite shows (paging Dr. Becker) will be in reruns (or “classic episodes,” as they’re more properly known). But don’t worry, there’s still all kinds of fun programming for you to watch this summer! Like all of these new shows I just made up:
The Academy. Life’s just one complicated turn after another when you’re a disaffected, disadvantaged teen (Jena Malone) sent to live with the stiffly starched grandmother you never knew you had (Rue McClanahan) at her exclusive East Coast boarding school. Making friends is a bitch, literally, when you run afoul of the school’s reigning social queen and captain of the cheerleading squad (Ashlee Simpson) by beating her in the model UN competition. And it doesn’t help matters to be caught up in a tawdry love triangle with the hunky lacrosse-playing class president (Nick Lachey) and a shy but soulful musician (Bow Wow). Featuring Molly Ringwald as a free spirited art teacher with lupus.
Showgirls, the Animated Series. Nomi Malone (voiced by Tori Spelling) and all her unforgettable friends from the Cheetah Club are back and having magical adventures with the club’s new owner, a sassy talking ape named Sam (Jason Alexander). But they’d better watch out, because an evil wizard (Michael Eisner) is working on a smile-stealing machine that could turn Sin City into Sad City! Can Nomi and Sam travel back to medieval times to avert disaster by winning the royal jousting match and preventing the wizard’s parents from falling in love? Maybe with some help from a few good showgirls...
Untitled M.C. Hammer Sitcom. That’s right, everyone’s favorite pant-related trendsetter is back, and he’s taking his funky hip hop style to – uh oh! – the suburbs! Hilarious culture clashes abound when Hammer moves in next door to retired army colonel George White (Ed Asner) and his brittle, pill-popping wife, Claire (Christine Baranski). Rap music... at the fall cotillion? An Escalade... at the PTA meeting? All we can say is please, Hammer, don’t hurt ‘em!
The Workplace. This new reality series centers on the wacky characters at a Tulsa-based accounting firm as they turn out some crazy tax returns for their major corporate clients. Meet Bob, who is going through his second divorce after being caught making awkward and poorly-received advances towards the family’s teenaged babysitter in the Grand Caravan, and Trudy, who has an interest in model railroads! And get ready for fun when the folks from Ralston-Purina come to town to discuss a few wild deductions they have in mind for fiscal year 2006. Double-entry bookkeeping has never been this sexy!
Yes, kids, it’s true; May sweeps are here, and soon all of your favorite shows (paging Dr. Becker) will be in reruns (or “classic episodes,” as they’re more properly known). But don’t worry, there’s still all kinds of fun programming for you to watch this summer! Like all of these new shows I just made up:
The Academy. Life’s just one complicated turn after another when you’re a disaffected, disadvantaged teen (Jena Malone) sent to live with the stiffly starched grandmother you never knew you had (Rue McClanahan) at her exclusive East Coast boarding school. Making friends is a bitch, literally, when you run afoul of the school’s reigning social queen and captain of the cheerleading squad (Ashlee Simpson) by beating her in the model UN competition. And it doesn’t help matters to be caught up in a tawdry love triangle with the hunky lacrosse-playing class president (Nick Lachey) and a shy but soulful musician (Bow Wow). Featuring Molly Ringwald as a free spirited art teacher with lupus.
Showgirls, the Animated Series. Nomi Malone (voiced by Tori Spelling) and all her unforgettable friends from the Cheetah Club are back and having magical adventures with the club’s new owner, a sassy talking ape named Sam (Jason Alexander). But they’d better watch out, because an evil wizard (Michael Eisner) is working on a smile-stealing machine that could turn Sin City into Sad City! Can Nomi and Sam travel back to medieval times to avert disaster by winning the royal jousting match and preventing the wizard’s parents from falling in love? Maybe with some help from a few good showgirls...
Untitled M.C. Hammer Sitcom. That’s right, everyone’s favorite pant-related trendsetter is back, and he’s taking his funky hip hop style to – uh oh! – the suburbs! Hilarious culture clashes abound when Hammer moves in next door to retired army colonel George White (Ed Asner) and his brittle, pill-popping wife, Claire (Christine Baranski). Rap music... at the fall cotillion? An Escalade... at the PTA meeting? All we can say is please, Hammer, don’t hurt ‘em!
The Workplace. This new reality series centers on the wacky characters at a Tulsa-based accounting firm as they turn out some crazy tax returns for their major corporate clients. Meet Bob, who is going through his second divorce after being caught making awkward and poorly-received advances towards the family’s teenaged babysitter in the Grand Caravan, and Trudy, who has an interest in model railroads! And get ready for fun when the folks from Ralston-Purina come to town to discuss a few wild deductions they have in mind for fiscal year 2006. Double-entry bookkeeping has never been this sexy!
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Up, Down, & Around Town
– Family Ties. The other day I actually told my parents that I felt our phone conversation had “jumped the shark.” I don’t care what anyone says; twenty minutes spent talking about my grandmother’s trip to the optometrist is twenty minutes too many.
– Family Ties, Part II. Wasn’t that show awesome? And not just because of Tina Yothers. Also because of its gritty portrayal of the world of public television stations run by former hippies.
– The Catholic Mass. Since when do we hold hands for the Our Father? If I’d wanted to be touched inappropriately, I would have become an altar boy.
– Showbiz Moms & Dads. Because four-year-olds should be subjected to spray-on tans and lectures about “acting their age.” Do you really think Meryl Streep would have gotten where she is today if she hadn’t won all those toddler beauty pageants?
– Tropical Punch Flavored Sugar Free Kool-Aid. Okay, so I’m pretty confident they’ll find out it causes cancer or something twenty years from now, but the taste is amazing. And sugar or no sugar, I feel like busting through a wall myself after a couple of glasses.
– Writing Theory. Yesterday, one of my supervisors told me my memo was boring. Next time I think I’ll slip in a couple of sex scenes and a grisly murder. I’m gonna be the M. Night Shyamalan of legal writing.
– Family Ties. The other day I actually told my parents that I felt our phone conversation had “jumped the shark.” I don’t care what anyone says; twenty minutes spent talking about my grandmother’s trip to the optometrist is twenty minutes too many.
– Family Ties, Part II. Wasn’t that show awesome? And not just because of Tina Yothers. Also because of its gritty portrayal of the world of public television stations run by former hippies.
– The Catholic Mass. Since when do we hold hands for the Our Father? If I’d wanted to be touched inappropriately, I would have become an altar boy.
– Showbiz Moms & Dads. Because four-year-olds should be subjected to spray-on tans and lectures about “acting their age.” Do you really think Meryl Streep would have gotten where she is today if she hadn’t won all those toddler beauty pageants?
– Tropical Punch Flavored Sugar Free Kool-Aid. Okay, so I’m pretty confident they’ll find out it causes cancer or something twenty years from now, but the taste is amazing. And sugar or no sugar, I feel like busting through a wall myself after a couple of glasses.
– Writing Theory. Yesterday, one of my supervisors told me my memo was boring. Next time I think I’ll slip in a couple of sex scenes and a grisly murder. I’m gonna be the M. Night Shyamalan of legal writing.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Conspiracy Theory
I have many enemies among the world of inanimate objects—stairs, beanie babies, Dan Rather—but revolving doors have recently risen to the level of a full-on nemesis. It all began last summer when, getting off the train with my sunglasses on, I accidentally walked into the same revolving door compartment as the gentleman in front of me. Shocked to be suddenly intimate with a complete stranger in a space too small to hold even a single post-Trimspa Anna Nicole Smith, all I could do was stammer an awkward “I’m sorry, I didn’t INTEND to do that” as my newfound friend weighed the pros and cons of calling the police. I vowed to exit through the turnstyles from then on.
Last week, however, I was leaving the Thompson center after lunch and I saw a young lady struggling to operate a revolving door while carrying several large packages. Never one to allow damsels their distress, I ran to assist her, despite the fact that I had no idea how to do so. Of course, she sensibly concluded that I was trying to assault or kidnap her, and ended up nearly broadsiding me with the door. It was only then that I realized I knew her. At the time, I wasn’t sure if that made things more or less embarrassing, but looking back on the one or two minutes of bad stalker jokes I made in the aftermath, I’m going to have to go with more.
Even that, however, wasn’t the end of it. Immediately after I finished telling a friend these stories the other day, the shoulder strap from my gym bag became caught in one of the spokes of the train station revolving door, causing it to yank me backwards and slap some poor unfortunate gentleman in the face. I tried to pass it all off as part of my enormous gift for physical comedy, but the truth of the matter is clear: revolving doors are plotting against me, and this is one battle I intend to win, or at least avoid.
I have many enemies among the world of inanimate objects—stairs, beanie babies, Dan Rather—but revolving doors have recently risen to the level of a full-on nemesis. It all began last summer when, getting off the train with my sunglasses on, I accidentally walked into the same revolving door compartment as the gentleman in front of me. Shocked to be suddenly intimate with a complete stranger in a space too small to hold even a single post-Trimspa Anna Nicole Smith, all I could do was stammer an awkward “I’m sorry, I didn’t INTEND to do that” as my newfound friend weighed the pros and cons of calling the police. I vowed to exit through the turnstyles from then on.
Last week, however, I was leaving the Thompson center after lunch and I saw a young lady struggling to operate a revolving door while carrying several large packages. Never one to allow damsels their distress, I ran to assist her, despite the fact that I had no idea how to do so. Of course, she sensibly concluded that I was trying to assault or kidnap her, and ended up nearly broadsiding me with the door. It was only then that I realized I knew her. At the time, I wasn’t sure if that made things more or less embarrassing, but looking back on the one or two minutes of bad stalker jokes I made in the aftermath, I’m going to have to go with more.
Even that, however, wasn’t the end of it. Immediately after I finished telling a friend these stories the other day, the shoulder strap from my gym bag became caught in one of the spokes of the train station revolving door, causing it to yank me backwards and slap some poor unfortunate gentleman in the face. I tried to pass it all off as part of my enormous gift for physical comedy, but the truth of the matter is clear: revolving doors are plotting against me, and this is one battle I intend to win, or at least avoid.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Death Comes by Van
This weekend I had an invitation to attend a Cubs game with my friend and her grandparents. Since I am a huge fan of both pathos-laden sports and octogenarians, I seized the opportunity. What I did not realize, however, was that our shuttle van ride to the game would take on an intensity generally reserved only for David Mamet plays and the Snow White ride at Disney World.
Our driver got things off to the right start by announcing that it was his first day and that he did not really know where any addresses in Chicago were. He followed that up with a number of hairpin turns and rapid-fire lane changes apparently picked up during his days on the set of The Dukes of Hazzard. His true highlight, however, came when he not only dropped some of our tourist friends off at the wrong train station but also dumped the contents of their luggage on the pavement. Tips were not freely forthcoming.
There is no “I” in “crazy van,” however, and our driver happily shared the spotlight with a big-haired, big-sunglassed woman who frequently and furiously let everyone know that she had a baby shower to get to, stat. She accused the driver of “lying to her” about our itinerary with a ferocity that caused me to wonder if perhaps they had once been romantically involved. Then, in a flourish that invoked the best in dysfunctional family cliches, she turned to the rest of the van and said “you agree with me, don’t you?” Not wanting to get involved, we didn’t, but I did feel a sudden urge to applaud.
All good things must come to an end, though, and we soon arrived at the Friendly Confines, where we were forced to leave behind our new friends, who ought to be confined. Sad as we were to see them go, we knew that our time had come, and that there were passengers that needed berating and pedestrians that needed striking elsewhere.
This weekend I had an invitation to attend a Cubs game with my friend and her grandparents. Since I am a huge fan of both pathos-laden sports and octogenarians, I seized the opportunity. What I did not realize, however, was that our shuttle van ride to the game would take on an intensity generally reserved only for David Mamet plays and the Snow White ride at Disney World.
Our driver got things off to the right start by announcing that it was his first day and that he did not really know where any addresses in Chicago were. He followed that up with a number of hairpin turns and rapid-fire lane changes apparently picked up during his days on the set of The Dukes of Hazzard. His true highlight, however, came when he not only dropped some of our tourist friends off at the wrong train station but also dumped the contents of their luggage on the pavement. Tips were not freely forthcoming.
There is no “I” in “crazy van,” however, and our driver happily shared the spotlight with a big-haired, big-sunglassed woman who frequently and furiously let everyone know that she had a baby shower to get to, stat. She accused the driver of “lying to her” about our itinerary with a ferocity that caused me to wonder if perhaps they had once been romantically involved. Then, in a flourish that invoked the best in dysfunctional family cliches, she turned to the rest of the van and said “you agree with me, don’t you?” Not wanting to get involved, we didn’t, but I did feel a sudden urge to applaud.
All good things must come to an end, though, and we soon arrived at the Friendly Confines, where we were forced to leave behind our new friends, who ought to be confined. Sad as we were to see them go, we knew that our time had come, and that there were passengers that needed berating and pedestrians that needed striking elsewhere.
Friday, May 07, 2004
Insert "Friends"-Related Pun Here
The corpse of Friends isn’t even cold yet, and after several days of strategic scavenging in Marta Kaufman’s trash, I’ve managed to get an exclusive look at some long-lost Friends plotlines. As you can probably guess, after ten years of making television magic, there were a lot of great ideas that just didn’t quite fit into the 22 amazing minutes we saw each week. Of course, if you believe what you read in sexual harassment lawsuits, some of those great ideas involved Joey becoming a serial rapist, but hey, who can question the creative process? So grab up these last few crumbs from the Friends feast while it lasts, kids, and don’t forget to start completely loving Crossing Jordan, because NBC’s got to get the cash to feed the peacock somehow:
- Rachel befriends an eating-disorder-plagued Korean gymnast named Amy
- Monica and Phoebe trade jobs for the day; madcap mayhem ensues
- Ross reveals the horrifying secret behind his hair
- Chandler enjoys a ludicrous character shift
- Joey is murdered (possible Law & Order crossover)
- Monica eats something
- Marta Kaufman sleeps on a huge pile of money
- Joey & Chandler visit a rocking chair factory
- Ross realizes he has a child; temporarily stops being so creepy
- Rachel goes to work for Kathie Lee Casuals, with hilarious results (guest starring Kelly Ripa)
- Phoebe starts taking independent film work to build credibility as an actress
- Everyone gets fired for taking too many coffee breaks in the middle of the day
The corpse of Friends isn’t even cold yet, and after several days of strategic scavenging in Marta Kaufman’s trash, I’ve managed to get an exclusive look at some long-lost Friends plotlines. As you can probably guess, after ten years of making television magic, there were a lot of great ideas that just didn’t quite fit into the 22 amazing minutes we saw each week. Of course, if you believe what you read in sexual harassment lawsuits, some of those great ideas involved Joey becoming a serial rapist, but hey, who can question the creative process? So grab up these last few crumbs from the Friends feast while it lasts, kids, and don’t forget to start completely loving Crossing Jordan, because NBC’s got to get the cash to feed the peacock somehow:
- Rachel befriends an eating-disorder-plagued Korean gymnast named Amy
- Monica and Phoebe trade jobs for the day; madcap mayhem ensues
- Ross reveals the horrifying secret behind his hair
- Chandler enjoys a ludicrous character shift
- Joey is murdered (possible Law & Order crossover)
- Monica eats something
- Marta Kaufman sleeps on a huge pile of money
- Joey & Chandler visit a rocking chair factory
- Ross realizes he has a child; temporarily stops being so creepy
- Rachel goes to work for Kathie Lee Casuals, with hilarious results (guest starring Kelly Ripa)
- Phoebe starts taking independent film work to build credibility as an actress
- Everyone gets fired for taking too many coffee breaks in the middle of the day
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Here to Help
I know not everyone is lucky enough to be as professionally satisfied as I am. Accordingly, I have compiled the following job search tips to help all you crazy kids out there chase after your dreams:
– For an eye-catching resume, use a bold, easy-to-read font. For a really eye-catching resume, write it in your own blood.
– Don’t reveal your obsession with Donny Osmond during the initial interview. You need to save something for the callback!
– If you’re not satisfied with your GPA, just lie! But remember, the number should never be more than 4.0.
– To distract potential employers from deficits in your resume, try killing a man outside the interview room. After that, they usually don’t notice your lack of work experience.
– Ladies, for a professional appearance, wear a dark business suit with a skirt. If you actually want the job, however, wear hot pants and a crop top with “skank” written on it.
– It’s best to ignore the voices inside your head until after you leave the interview room.
– Use positive terms to describe your former employment. For instance, instead of “temp,” try “professional assistant.” Instead of “hooker,” try “self-employed.”
– Under no circumstance should you bust a cap in anyone’s ass.
– Don’t use your mother as a reference. Sure, that bitch says she loves you now, but you should hear what she says when that big consulting firm’s on the line.
– If all else fails, you can always get a job as a job search consultant.
I know not everyone is lucky enough to be as professionally satisfied as I am. Accordingly, I have compiled the following job search tips to help all you crazy kids out there chase after your dreams:
– For an eye-catching resume, use a bold, easy-to-read font. For a really eye-catching resume, write it in your own blood.
– Don’t reveal your obsession with Donny Osmond during the initial interview. You need to save something for the callback!
– If you’re not satisfied with your GPA, just lie! But remember, the number should never be more than 4.0.
– To distract potential employers from deficits in your resume, try killing a man outside the interview room. After that, they usually don’t notice your lack of work experience.
– Ladies, for a professional appearance, wear a dark business suit with a skirt. If you actually want the job, however, wear hot pants and a crop top with “skank” written on it.
– It’s best to ignore the voices inside your head until after you leave the interview room.
– Use positive terms to describe your former employment. For instance, instead of “temp,” try “professional assistant.” Instead of “hooker,” try “self-employed.”
– Under no circumstance should you bust a cap in anyone’s ass.
– Don’t use your mother as a reference. Sure, that bitch says she loves you now, but you should hear what she says when that big consulting firm’s on the line.
– If all else fails, you can always get a job as a job search consultant.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Happenings
– 10.5 on NBC. Apparently, this is a miniseries about an earthquake. Unfortunately, I thought it was a sequel to the Bo Derek movie. I am that dumb.
– Old People. Let’s face it, guys, no one wins friends by explaining how much better things were in 1940. Thanks for winning those wars and stuff, though.
– Employability. The other day my boss caught me trying to steal candy from her office while she was in a meeting. I also once ran into her as I came around a corner singing “Lady Marmalade” to myself. I think my only option now is to persuade her that I am mentally disabled. Maybe that’s not a tough sell.
– The Friends Finale. It’s fun to watch all of America pretend not to care, as we secretly check and recheck our VCRs. I don’t want to give away the secret ending, but I hear poison gas is involved.
– The Lakefront. First of all, if your child rams into me with a bike, I’m going to need at least a “sorry.” Secondly, if you can talk on a cell phone while you’re doing it, it probably doesn’t count as exercise.
– Slum Life. We’re going on week three without heating or air conditioning at my apartment here. Seriously, if we don’t see some progress soon, I’m going to pull up the hardwood floor and build a fire, just to prove a point.
– 10.5 on NBC. Apparently, this is a miniseries about an earthquake. Unfortunately, I thought it was a sequel to the Bo Derek movie. I am that dumb.
– Old People. Let’s face it, guys, no one wins friends by explaining how much better things were in 1940. Thanks for winning those wars and stuff, though.
– Employability. The other day my boss caught me trying to steal candy from her office while she was in a meeting. I also once ran into her as I came around a corner singing “Lady Marmalade” to myself. I think my only option now is to persuade her that I am mentally disabled. Maybe that’s not a tough sell.
– The Friends Finale. It’s fun to watch all of America pretend not to care, as we secretly check and recheck our VCRs. I don’t want to give away the secret ending, but I hear poison gas is involved.
– The Lakefront. First of all, if your child rams into me with a bike, I’m going to need at least a “sorry.” Secondly, if you can talk on a cell phone while you’re doing it, it probably doesn’t count as exercise.
– Slum Life. We’re going on week three without heating or air conditioning at my apartment here. Seriously, if we don’t see some progress soon, I’m going to pull up the hardwood floor and build a fire, just to prove a point.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Spring Cleaning
So I was at the dentist yesterday, and as I was lying there trying to figure out what the low-talking hygienist could possibly be saying to me as she apparently mined for coal in my teeth, I found myself wondering if I might enjoy a career in dental services.
“I like cleaning things,” I thought. “And the tiny instruments look pretty fun. I bet if people got insolent I could poke them on purpose.”
I really like the word “insolent.”
I started revising my resume in my head and trying to remember the details of that Sally Struthers degree-by-mail course. I got as far as mentally designing my office and picking out a fictional receptionist before I realized I’m not the world’s biggest fan of spit, which necessitated a change of course.
“Maybe I could be the receptionist.” I thought. “No spit there. And I like being really fake polite to people and telling them what to do. And I bet I could read when no one was in the office.”
But then the salary factor reared its ugly head. If I were going to leave the law, I knew I would still need to be able to afford my current lifestyle (read: Funyuns and Bud Light), not to mention the costs of institutionalization for my parents after they found out what I had done. Shoot.
“Maybe I should run an institution.” I thought, rolling with the moment. “I bet it’s really profitable if you’re corrupt. So maybe you don’t always keep really good track of who gets fed and whose pills get stolen and sold to stoned teenagers – is that so wrong? Those Lexus payments don’t take care of themselves.”
As it turned out, I had to stop just short of moral reprehensibility. Which also ruled out game show host and Tori Spelling as professions, by the way.
So by the time the hygienist told me to sit up and rinse (at least I think that’s what she said; it sounded like she was four miles away and hiding under a burlap bag) I was still without a definite career plan. Which is just as well, I suppose, because until they devise a job that involves watching The Price is Right and playing Super Mario Brothers, they’re all pretty much the same to me.
So I was at the dentist yesterday, and as I was lying there trying to figure out what the low-talking hygienist could possibly be saying to me as she apparently mined for coal in my teeth, I found myself wondering if I might enjoy a career in dental services.
“I like cleaning things,” I thought. “And the tiny instruments look pretty fun. I bet if people got insolent I could poke them on purpose.”
I really like the word “insolent.”
I started revising my resume in my head and trying to remember the details of that Sally Struthers degree-by-mail course. I got as far as mentally designing my office and picking out a fictional receptionist before I realized I’m not the world’s biggest fan of spit, which necessitated a change of course.
“Maybe I could be the receptionist.” I thought. “No spit there. And I like being really fake polite to people and telling them what to do. And I bet I could read when no one was in the office.”
But then the salary factor reared its ugly head. If I were going to leave the law, I knew I would still need to be able to afford my current lifestyle (read: Funyuns and Bud Light), not to mention the costs of institutionalization for my parents after they found out what I had done. Shoot.
“Maybe I should run an institution.” I thought, rolling with the moment. “I bet it’s really profitable if you’re corrupt. So maybe you don’t always keep really good track of who gets fed and whose pills get stolen and sold to stoned teenagers – is that so wrong? Those Lexus payments don’t take care of themselves.”
As it turned out, I had to stop just short of moral reprehensibility. Which also ruled out game show host and Tori Spelling as professions, by the way.
So by the time the hygienist told me to sit up and rinse (at least I think that’s what she said; it sounded like she was four miles away and hiding under a burlap bag) I was still without a definite career plan. Which is just as well, I suppose, because until they devise a job that involves watching The Price is Right and playing Super Mario Brothers, they’re all pretty much the same to me.
Monday, May 03, 2004
One to Grow On
I don’t know about you, but I tend to spend my weekends learning. Learning, for instance, that any evening that begins with the consumption of several bottles of wine in a hotel room is unlikely to end in the discovery of a new sub-atomic particle or the drafting of a comprehensive Middle Eastern peace accord. No, I now understand that the only logical end of such an evening is an excruciatingly slow 4 AM homeward journey in a scratched and dented van cab, accompanied by the sounds of Chicago’s Top Really Bad Reggae Station, followed by a rapid descent into unconsciousness, preferably with six-hour-old chewing gum still in one’s mouth. Admittedly, this lesson is unlikely to become an After School Special starring Tony Danza any time soon, but it is of unquestionable value, at least while Ernest and Julio Gallo remain at large.
I don’t know about you, but I tend to spend my weekends learning. Learning, for instance, that any evening that begins with the consumption of several bottles of wine in a hotel room is unlikely to end in the discovery of a new sub-atomic particle or the drafting of a comprehensive Middle Eastern peace accord. No, I now understand that the only logical end of such an evening is an excruciatingly slow 4 AM homeward journey in a scratched and dented van cab, accompanied by the sounds of Chicago’s Top Really Bad Reggae Station, followed by a rapid descent into unconsciousness, preferably with six-hour-old chewing gum still in one’s mouth. Admittedly, this lesson is unlikely to become an After School Special starring Tony Danza any time soon, but it is of unquestionable value, at least while Ernest and Julio Gallo remain at large.
