We're 98% sure that the footage of Dick Clark was filmed six years ago. Either that or they were using a robot double.
Happy New Year everyone!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
New Year's Eve
I'm at the internet café again. There are some extremely loud Noo Youhkuhs standing behind be screaming into my ear. It appears there's some sort of sports thing happening on the TV behind me.
Oh, wait, upon looking over my shoulder, I see that nothing's going on. People here are just loud.
It's New Year's Eve. I never did get around to sending out a Christmas or New Years card or letter. Three closing shifts in a row sort of suck out whatever remaining energy you might have used by writing a reflective letter. No, instead, you come home, have a shot of whatever's nearby, brush your teeth, play a video game, and turn out the lights.
I have to marvel at this year. It was such a turbulent one for me. Starting with that production of 'Fiddler' in the spring, a trip to New York to see the Cat Circus, then my granddad died, then came all the 'Midsummer' madness and the ab stuff, then I left Everycity and moved to New York.
Wow...I just summed up my entire year in a three-sentence paragraph. Woot!
I don't know what 2007 is going to bring. For one thing, (ding-dong) Sadaam is dead. Seems meet and right for a new villain to step into the limelight. Will 2007 be the year the nuke goes off in Crime Square? Will I still be here when it does?
I also got cast in an off-off-Broadway one act that performs at the end of January so expect to see posts about that in the coming weeks. I'm going back to the office again, as well. Yes, I'm returning to REAL temp work (as opposed to "temp work") starting January 8th. Honestly, Numbtindoughland has been fun and all--I wouldn't trade this experience for anything. But all this legitimate WORK--stuff that makes you collapse into bed when you get home--it's for the birds. I'm ready to go back to fake work. You know, sitting at a desk and answering phones or typing copy and getting paid bags of money to do it.
Oh sure, I'll do some "temp work" every now and then. I've become a "Casual Friday" kind of guy. It's in my very marrow.
But 2007...I have a feeling about this year. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and give it the title, "The Year I Figure Things Out."
It'll be fun to see if it lives up to its name, won't it? And, as always, our crack team of reporter will be there to give you the latest updates from Supercity X.
But for now, I need to get to the gym. My abs are looking a little soft.
So long, ot-6. We hardly knew ye.
Oh, wait, upon looking over my shoulder, I see that nothing's going on. People here are just loud.
It's New Year's Eve. I never did get around to sending out a Christmas or New Years card or letter. Three closing shifts in a row sort of suck out whatever remaining energy you might have used by writing a reflective letter. No, instead, you come home, have a shot of whatever's nearby, brush your teeth, play a video game, and turn out the lights.
I have to marvel at this year. It was such a turbulent one for me. Starting with that production of 'Fiddler' in the spring, a trip to New York to see the Cat Circus, then my granddad died, then came all the 'Midsummer' madness and the ab stuff, then I left Everycity and moved to New York.
Wow...I just summed up my entire year in a three-sentence paragraph. Woot!
I don't know what 2007 is going to bring. For one thing, (ding-dong) Sadaam is dead. Seems meet and right for a new villain to step into the limelight. Will 2007 be the year the nuke goes off in Crime Square? Will I still be here when it does?
I also got cast in an off-off-Broadway one act that performs at the end of January so expect to see posts about that in the coming weeks. I'm going back to the office again, as well. Yes, I'm returning to REAL temp work (as opposed to "temp work") starting January 8th. Honestly, Numbtindoughland has been fun and all--I wouldn't trade this experience for anything. But all this legitimate WORK--stuff that makes you collapse into bed when you get home--it's for the birds. I'm ready to go back to fake work. You know, sitting at a desk and answering phones or typing copy and getting paid bags of money to do it.
Oh sure, I'll do some "temp work" every now and then. I've become a "Casual Friday" kind of guy. It's in my very marrow.
But 2007...I have a feeling about this year. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and give it the title, "The Year I Figure Things Out."
It'll be fun to see if it lives up to its name, won't it? And, as always, our crack team of reporter will be there to give you the latest updates from Supercity X.
But for now, I need to get to the gym. My abs are looking a little soft.
So long, ot-6. We hardly knew ye.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Trained Monkeys
Monkeys are in charge of our store. We have hundreds...HUNDREDS of Numbtindough Giis in the back room. And guess what?! We're not selling them! I mean, sure we sell about 200 every morning to the people in line (yes, there's still a line forming in front of the store). But the demand is through the roof, the crowds this past week have been worse than launch day AND Black Friday put together... Common sense would tell you, "Hey, Christmas is over. While the demand is still high and people have Christmas money to spend, why don't we sell as many of these bad boys as we can?"
But what do the monkeys do? They've decided NOT to sell them. SERIOUSLY! They ration these Giis like we're about to run out--but we have a couple of thou in the back and a warehouse full of 'em in Jew Nersey!
Here's a conversation I had with one of the managers today:
Me: Hey Carlo, why don't we just sell all the Giis we have? Y'know. Just...sell 'em all.
Carlo: Because imagine how bad Numbtindoughland would look if we sold them all and then had to wait two or three weeks for our next shipment?
Me: Why would we go weeks without getting a shipment? Since November 19th, we haven't gone four days without getting several hundred units.
Carlo: (silence...then leaves)
* * *
Then there's this new bright idea one of the managers had. What if we randomly sell units throughout the day without telling anyone?! Not even the EMPLOYEES! Maybe that will cut down on the line in front of the store every morning! Yeah, fat chance!
So imagine how much fun it is to be in a store FULL of angry people looking for the Gii, telling them we're sold out, then three minutes later watching in horror as boxes and boxes are brought out onto the floor?
"YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE SOLD OUT!"
It's such a shockingly stupid move that I almost can't believe we're doing it. It makes me even more furious than the supposed "recall" (which was completely untrue, by the way). It's even worse when perfectly nice, genteel people calmly approach you and politely ask for the product. You lie to their faces and watch them leave the store, crestfallen. Then, minutes later, out comes Scrappy Malone chomping on a cigar, shouting, "I GOT A GII! YUK! YUK!"
The other reason we're not selling Giis?
Because the managers know that the customers know we have them.
No, I'm not kidding. All it took was two days of randomly selling a "surprise afternoon shipment" before those crafty consumers caught on. "Hey! Maybe they're not getting shipments at all. Maybe they have a bunch in the back room! If I hang around here in the afternoons, there's a good chance I'll get a system!"
That's when the managers say, "Well, since we've got a bunch of people waiting for the Gii upstairs...we're not going to sell any. That'll show them."
This, of course, is all in attempt to perpetuate this effing lie that we get daily "shipments". Rather than be called liars, the managers simply won't sell the units at all! All so they can say, "See, I told you our shipment didn't come in today."
We had a very angry customer today (see below). Instead of going out and doing anything about him, the managers retreated to the bunker downstairs and let the man frighten everybody.
Another Poor Man came to the store very upset about a major screw-up one of the cashiers made when he purchased a Gii weeks ago. He came back a few days later and spoke to Manager A about it. That manager said to come back a few days later and talk to Manager B. Manager B tells him to talk to Manager C next week. Manager C says the problem will be fixed when Manager A gets back from vacation.
Poor Man comes in VERY upset. I attempt to diffuse the situation by asking him what the problem is, agreeing that, "Yes, someone should have done SOMETHING to help him by now" and running downstairs to grab Managers Carlo or Fayette.
Carlo looked legitimately busy counting someone's register. Fat Fayette was sitting at her desk watching her portable DVD player (yeah, while Gii-steria is going on upstairs, she's hiding downstairs. For real).
"Hey Carlo, Fayette, we've got a customer upstairs who really needs assistance from one of you guys. He says he needs help with..." I describe the situation
Carlo just looks up. Says nothing. Fayette doesn't even take her earbuds out of her ears. She gives me this look like, "This isn't MY problem!" and mutters something to Cashier Bob.
The next time I see Cashier Bob, he's standing there telling the very upset Poor Man, "Sorry. We can't do ANYTHING for you."
To which I say, "WTF?"
Location: The Gii Sports station. Me and a tiny toddler.
Me: Okay, you can play tennis, baseball, bowli--wow. You're really little. You're like a Who.
* * *
Location: The Same
Me: Okay, you can play tennis, baseball, bowling, golf, or boxing. Don't say golf...don't say golf...
* * *
Location: The Same
Snooty McLaine: (tossing her luxurious hair) Do you have any more Numbtindog Golden Retrievers?
Me: (busily trying to assist kid with Gii Sports) Sorry, ma'am. I have no idea.
Snooty McLaine: (again with the toss) That's what the man at the Gii upstairs said. How am I going to find out.
Me: I don't know. Do I look like a psy-op?
* * *
Location: The Same
Me: (to Disgruntled Dolores) I'm so sorry, ma'am. We sold our last Gii several hours ago. We're completely sold out of Giis for today. (Happy Man walks by with a newly-purchased Gii in a bag)
* * *
Location: Outside, immediately after it was announced we were "sold out" of Giis.
Crazy Carl: I WANT TO SPEAK TO A MANAGER! I WANT NINTENDO ON THE PHONE! THIS IS NOT FAIR! I WANT THE MANAGER OUTSIDE NOW! I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEONE FROM NINTENDO NOW! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ALL THE PEOPLE WAITING IN LINE!
* * *
Location: Inside, a few hours later.
Crazy Carl: I WANT TO SPEAK TO A MANAGER NOW! GET THE MANAGER OUT HERE! I DEMAND TO SPEAK WITH A MANAGER!
* * *
But what do the monkeys do? They've decided NOT to sell them. SERIOUSLY! They ration these Giis like we're about to run out--but we have a couple of thou in the back and a warehouse full of 'em in Jew Nersey!
Here's a conversation I had with one of the managers today:
Me: Hey Carlo, why don't we just sell all the Giis we have? Y'know. Just...sell 'em all.
Carlo: Because imagine how bad Numbtindoughland would look if we sold them all and then had to wait two or three weeks for our next shipment?
Me: Why would we go weeks without getting a shipment? Since November 19th, we haven't gone four days without getting several hundred units.
Carlo: (silence...then leaves)
* * *
Then there's this new bright idea one of the managers had. What if we randomly sell units throughout the day without telling anyone?! Not even the EMPLOYEES! Maybe that will cut down on the line in front of the store every morning! Yeah, fat chance!
So imagine how much fun it is to be in a store FULL of angry people looking for the Gii, telling them we're sold out, then three minutes later watching in horror as boxes and boxes are brought out onto the floor?
"YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE SOLD OUT!"
It's such a shockingly stupid move that I almost can't believe we're doing it. It makes me even more furious than the supposed "recall" (which was completely untrue, by the way). It's even worse when perfectly nice, genteel people calmly approach you and politely ask for the product. You lie to their faces and watch them leave the store, crestfallen. Then, minutes later, out comes Scrappy Malone chomping on a cigar, shouting, "I GOT A GII! YUK! YUK!"
The other reason we're not selling Giis?
Because the managers know that the customers know we have them.
No, I'm not kidding. All it took was two days of randomly selling a "surprise afternoon shipment" before those crafty consumers caught on. "Hey! Maybe they're not getting shipments at all. Maybe they have a bunch in the back room! If I hang around here in the afternoons, there's a good chance I'll get a system!"
That's when the managers say, "Well, since we've got a bunch of people waiting for the Gii upstairs...we're not going to sell any. That'll show them."
This, of course, is all in attempt to perpetuate this effing lie that we get daily "shipments". Rather than be called liars, the managers simply won't sell the units at all! All so they can say, "See, I told you our shipment didn't come in today."
We had a very angry customer today (see below). Instead of going out and doing anything about him, the managers retreated to the bunker downstairs and let the man frighten everybody.
Another Poor Man came to the store very upset about a major screw-up one of the cashiers made when he purchased a Gii weeks ago. He came back a few days later and spoke to Manager A about it. That manager said to come back a few days later and talk to Manager B. Manager B tells him to talk to Manager C next week. Manager C says the problem will be fixed when Manager A gets back from vacation.
Poor Man comes in VERY upset. I attempt to diffuse the situation by asking him what the problem is, agreeing that, "Yes, someone should have done SOMETHING to help him by now" and running downstairs to grab Managers Carlo or Fayette.
Carlo looked legitimately busy counting someone's register. Fat Fayette was sitting at her desk watching her portable DVD player (yeah, while Gii-steria is going on upstairs, she's hiding downstairs. For real).
"Hey Carlo, Fayette, we've got a customer upstairs who really needs assistance from one of you guys. He says he needs help with..." I describe the situation
Carlo just looks up. Says nothing. Fayette doesn't even take her earbuds out of her ears. She gives me this look like, "This isn't MY problem!" and mutters something to Cashier Bob.
The next time I see Cashier Bob, he's standing there telling the very upset Poor Man, "Sorry. We can't do ANYTHING for you."
To which I say, "WTF?"
* * *
SOUNDS WHILE SELLING
* * *
Location: The Gii Sports station. Me and a tiny toddler.
Me: Okay, you can play tennis, baseball, bowli--wow. You're really little. You're like a Who.
* * *
Location: The Same
Me: Okay, you can play tennis, baseball, bowling, golf, or boxing. Don't say golf...don't say golf...
* * *
Location: The Same
Snooty McLaine: (tossing her luxurious hair) Do you have any more Numbtindog Golden Retrievers?
Me: (busily trying to assist kid with Gii Sports) Sorry, ma'am. I have no idea.
Snooty McLaine: (again with the toss) That's what the man at the Gii upstairs said. How am I going to find out.
Me: I don't know. Do I look like a psy-op?
* * *
Location: The Same
Me: (to Disgruntled Dolores) I'm so sorry, ma'am. We sold our last Gii several hours ago. We're completely sold out of Giis for today. (Happy Man walks by with a newly-purchased Gii in a bag)
* * *
Location: Outside, immediately after it was announced we were "sold out" of Giis.
Crazy Carl: I WANT TO SPEAK TO A MANAGER! I WANT NINTENDO ON THE PHONE! THIS IS NOT FAIR! I WANT THE MANAGER OUTSIDE NOW! I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEONE FROM NINTENDO NOW! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ALL THE PEOPLE WAITING IN LINE!
* * *
Location: Inside, a few hours later.
Crazy Carl: I WANT TO SPEAK TO A MANAGER NOW! GET THE MANAGER OUT HERE! I DEMAND TO SPEAK WITH A MANAGER!
* * *
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Which Pudding is it Anyway?
I'm sitting here at the internet café. A family of seven seems to think it's their living room and are trying to get their toddlers to perform a rousing rendition of "We Wish You A Merry X-Mas (and a Happy New Year)."
They got to the part about pudding.
"Oh, bwing us uh piggy pudding, Oh, bwing us uh piggy pudding and bwing it wight now!"
The pudding. I'm pretty sure scholars have debated what KIND of pudding they were talking about ever since the first person sang this song and muttered the name of the pudding at that concert before the queen centuries ago.
"What did he just say? Did he say 'bring us a piggy pudding'?"
"No! It was totally FIGGY pudding."
"I could have sworn it was biggy pudding. You know, like a LOT of pudding."
I have to get to work so I don't have time to research this. In traditional 42nd Floor fashion, I'll let you all decide it for me.
Which Pudding Is It Anyway?
Is it...
Piggy Pudding
Figgy Pudding
Biggy Pudding
or
Gimmie Pudding
Your vote will count for double if you also include a list of basic ingredients. You never know, I might just make some!
Monday, December 25, 2006
Merry
Merry Christmas to all from the great mega-lega-lopolis of Supercity X! Enjoy being with your family today!
Friday, December 22, 2006
It's December 22nd. I have the day off. I haven't done and Christmas shopping because I'm afraid to spend money. I haven't written a Christmas letter because I don't know what to say. I haven't stopped eating the Christmas cookies my sister sent me because they make me feel happy.
I have a confession to make.
"What? Another? Honestly, every time I read this blog I feel like I'm Forky's priest or something. And he's not even Catholic. OR Episcopalian!"
Spending Christmas by yourself really sucks.
Up until now I've tried to put on a brave face. I've told myself lies about how cool it is that I'm spending Christmas in the coolest city on planet earth. I've tried to distract myself with my job. It works--but eventually I have to clock out and make the lonely walk home, knowing that, in just a few short days, everybody is going to be doing pagan jigs around their Christmas trees with the entire family.
Everybody, that is, except me.
No, on Christmas Eve, I'm leaving work and descending into the subway once again (oh yes--a few drunken nights ago I did this) and playing sweet, sweet Christmas tunes on my ocarina, hopefully making some change in the process. Then I'll walk home, turn off my phone, mutter, "There's no such person as Santa Claus!" and go to bed.
At Numbtindoughland, we're all doing Secret Santas. When approached about participating I thought, "Sure! This'll be a cute, inexpensive little thing to do."
Thing is, since there are so many temps, none of us were exactly sure of what to get one another. So up went the Santa's Wish List in the break room.
"Holy crap," I thought. "Someone's asking for the new Sellda game. That's $50. Good grief--here's someone asking for a $35 Numbtindough BS game! Geeze! What is wrong with these people?? Secret Santa is supposed to have a $20 limit!"
I asked around. Turns out OUR Secret Santa has a $20 MINIMUM!
What does my Secret Santa want? A big bottle of Jameson. No. I'm not kidding.
I know we're all video game nerds and techno geeks so our tastes are naturally more expensive, but come on. At $12 an hour in NYC, I can't afford to drop $40 on a near-stranger! That's cruel!
I'm not gonna be one of those guys. I just asked for the $6 Mario plush. We'll see if Santa delivers.
In the meantime I'm going to spend the rest of my day sitting here and sighing as if my heart will break.
I think I'm going to pretend Christmas has been cancelled this year. Or maybe it would be best to take the Ebeneezer Scrooge approach and look down on people celebrating while I secretly longing to be among them.
I'll let you know what I come up with. One way or another, it's gonna be good.
I have a confession to make.
"What? Another? Honestly, every time I read this blog I feel like I'm Forky's priest or something. And he's not even Catholic. OR Episcopalian!"
Spending Christmas by yourself really sucks.
Up until now I've tried to put on a brave face. I've told myself lies about how cool it is that I'm spending Christmas in the coolest city on planet earth. I've tried to distract myself with my job. It works--but eventually I have to clock out and make the lonely walk home, knowing that, in just a few short days, everybody is going to be doing pagan jigs around their Christmas trees with the entire family.
Everybody, that is, except me.
No, on Christmas Eve, I'm leaving work and descending into the subway once again (oh yes--a few drunken nights ago I did this) and playing sweet, sweet Christmas tunes on my ocarina, hopefully making some change in the process. Then I'll walk home, turn off my phone, mutter, "There's no such person as Santa Claus!" and go to bed.
At Numbtindoughland, we're all doing Secret Santas. When approached about participating I thought, "Sure! This'll be a cute, inexpensive little thing to do."
Thing is, since there are so many temps, none of us were exactly sure of what to get one another. So up went the Santa's Wish List in the break room.
"Holy crap," I thought. "Someone's asking for the new Sellda game. That's $50. Good grief--here's someone asking for a $35 Numbtindough BS game! Geeze! What is wrong with these people?? Secret Santa is supposed to have a $20 limit!"
I asked around. Turns out OUR Secret Santa has a $20 MINIMUM!
What does my Secret Santa want? A big bottle of Jameson. No. I'm not kidding.
I know we're all video game nerds and techno geeks so our tastes are naturally more expensive, but come on. At $12 an hour in NYC, I can't afford to drop $40 on a near-stranger! That's cruel!
I'm not gonna be one of those guys. I just asked for the $6 Mario plush. We'll see if Santa delivers.
In the meantime I'm going to spend the rest of my day sitting here and sighing as if my heart will break.
I think I'm going to pretend Christmas has been cancelled this year. Or maybe it would be best to take the Ebeneezer Scrooge approach and look down on people celebrating while I secretly longing to be among them.
I'll let you know what I come up with. One way or another, it's gonna be good.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Best Brain of Friday
Location: the Gii Legend of Sellda station on the second floor. I'm passing out controllers and going through the basics of the game for people trying it.
Suzy Fourth-Grader: Okay, I have no idea how to play this.
Me: Oh. Well, then this isn't going to be much fun for you OR me, is it?
Happy weekend!
Suzy Fourth-Grader: Okay, I have no idea how to play this.
Me: Oh. Well, then this isn't going to be much fun for you OR me, is it?
Happy weekend!
Best Brains of the Day
Location: The Gii Sports station on the first floor. Louie Lefty, a toddler of about four years, is playing the baseball game.
Mad Mom: SIR! SIR! My son lost at home run derby because he's left-handed and you had the game set as right handed!
(without saying a word, I pluck the controller from the twerp's hand. I go to the character-select screen and began shouting "Merry Christmas to all! Happy, happy holidays! Christmas is magic!" as I made the character left handed for every sport in the Gii Sports game. I plunk the controller back in the whelp's southpaw and run around the corner to cool down. I observe the kid's lousy batting from there)
Me: Maybe you're better off batting righty, kid.
(Fortunately, Mad Mom is on the other side of the store, not paying a lick of attention. Apparently she, like so many other soccer moms, just wanted to fight about something. The kid starts swinging uncomfortably close to the plastic display cube the Gii is sitting in. I know I have to do something)
Me: Excuse me, buddy. I really don't want to touch you because I'm afraid of your mom, but could you take a big step back? Thanks.
Mad Mom: SIR! SIR! My son lost at home run derby because he's left-handed and you had the game set as right handed!
(without saying a word, I pluck the controller from the twerp's hand. I go to the character-select screen and began shouting "Merry Christmas to all! Happy, happy holidays! Christmas is magic!" as I made the character left handed for every sport in the Gii Sports game. I plunk the controller back in the whelp's southpaw and run around the corner to cool down. I observe the kid's lousy batting from there)
Me: Maybe you're better off batting righty, kid.
(Fortunately, Mad Mom is on the other side of the store, not paying a lick of attention. Apparently she, like so many other soccer moms, just wanted to fight about something. The kid starts swinging uncomfortably close to the plastic display cube the Gii is sitting in. I know I have to do something)
Me: Excuse me, buddy. I really don't want to touch you because I'm afraid of your mom, but could you take a big step back? Thanks.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
It's Raining (and Best Brains of Yesterday)
So much for a White Christmas. I'm killing time in an internet café waiting for the deluge to freakin stop. Seriously! Supercity X is going to be seeing stormy skies and temperatures in the 50s and 60s over the next several days!
Best Brains of Yesterday (today's my day off)
Deadbeat Parent: Excuse me, do you have any games that would be good for a three/four year old?
Me: (aside, mockingly) I'm looking for a good game for my zygote. Any recommendations?
* *
It's 9:00am I'm stationed on the second floor, setting the Gii systems up for the day. I go downstairs to get the controllers. The main store manager is surrounded on all sides by furious customers who were unable to purchase a Gii after getting in line at 4am. He talks to them for a minute, then calls out to the assistant store manager in training on the other side of the store, "Hey Tyrone! Raise your hand!" Tyrone, confused, does so. "THAT'S the guy you wanna talk to!" says the store manager. The crowd mobs Tyrone while the manager ducks out. There are so many and they're all so angry (imagine a cartoon fight cloud) that Tyrone actually manages to slip away and help me...while the cartoon fight cloud continues to fill that corner of the store...you really had to be there to fully appreciate the Bugs Bunny-ness of the situation.
* *
Location: the Gii Sports station on the first floor
Judy Jewess: Excuse me, sir...but can my Little David be next?
Me: Certainly. Right this way, Little David.
* *
Location: the first floor, Gii accessories
Robby: You know, Forky, you really shouldn't tell people "You don't need this accessory." That's really bad salesmanship. You're supposed to stay away from negative statements.
Me: Okay...how about if I say, "You really wouldn't like that" instead?
* *
Seriously, guys. It's just like the scenes in the original Willy Wonka movie where the people storm the candy stores looking for a golden ticket. It's Wonkamania...
Best Brains of Yesterday (today's my day off)
Deadbeat Parent: Excuse me, do you have any games that would be good for a three/four year old?
Me: (aside, mockingly) I'm looking for a good game for my zygote. Any recommendations?
* *
It's 9:00am I'm stationed on the second floor, setting the Gii systems up for the day. I go downstairs to get the controllers. The main store manager is surrounded on all sides by furious customers who were unable to purchase a Gii after getting in line at 4am. He talks to them for a minute, then calls out to the assistant store manager in training on the other side of the store, "Hey Tyrone! Raise your hand!" Tyrone, confused, does so. "THAT'S the guy you wanna talk to!" says the store manager. The crowd mobs Tyrone while the manager ducks out. There are so many and they're all so angry (imagine a cartoon fight cloud) that Tyrone actually manages to slip away and help me...while the cartoon fight cloud continues to fill that corner of the store...you really had to be there to fully appreciate the Bugs Bunny-ness of the situation.
* *
Location: the Gii Sports station on the first floor
Judy Jewess: Excuse me, sir...but can my Little David be next?
Me: Certainly. Right this way, Little David.
* *
Location: the first floor, Gii accessories
Robby: You know, Forky, you really shouldn't tell people "You don't need this accessory." That's really bad salesmanship. You're supposed to stay away from negative statements.
Me: Okay...how about if I say, "You really wouldn't like that" instead?
* *
Seriously, guys. It's just like the scenes in the original Willy Wonka movie where the people storm the candy stores looking for a golden ticket. It's Wonkamania...
Monday, December 11, 2006
Best Brains of the Day
Location: The Gii Sports station on the first floor.
Me: If you press left and right on the control pad you can adjust the character's viewpoint.
Gamer Gary: (in all earnest sincerity) But I don't even know who this character is!
"Dude! Dis is jus' like beatin' someone up in duh hood!" -Harlem Harry on the Gii Sports boxing game
"You gotta be f*#!ing s+!#ing me!" -Average response when we tell folks what time they need to get in line in order to buy a Gii from our store.
Me: If you press left and right on the control pad you can adjust the character's viewpoint.
Gamer Gary: (in all earnest sincerity) But I don't even know who this character is!
"Dude! Dis is jus' like beatin' someone up in duh hood!" -Harlem Harry on the Gii Sports boxing game
"You gotta be f*#!ing s+!#ing me!" -Average response when we tell folks what time they need to get in line in order to buy a Gii from our store.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Wait...Maybe Christmas Really IS Magic
Hold on to your sugar-plum fairies, folks. Because I'm about to pull a total reversal. That's right. I'm here today to tell you the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular is the most spectacular damn thing I've seen in a month of Christmases. In fact, it was so Christmassy, I'm afraid I have to confess that I might have been wrong. Maybe Christmas really IS magic.
It was so spectacular, in fact, that no words in the vernacular can describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment.
The only thing the show DIDN'T have was the Amazing Acrobats of China. If that show had had the Amazing Acrobats of China, that would have been it. I'd've pooped my pants.
Still, Chinese Acrobats or no, the quality and orbiting-the-moon production values of this show gave me pause.
How can "they" allow other people--like your average lame-o theatre in Everycity, for instance--how can they allow those folks to put on shows that claim to be chock full of hours of forget-your-worries entertainment that never deliver, when there exists an event, an experience, a bedazzlement like that line of legs? The cartwheeling midgets? The ice skating rink that appears on stage? The donkeys, camels, and flock of sheep???
I'm telling you. Those ladies in that show take a licking and keep on kicking. And what's more, they melted my Scroogified heart with their snappy ditties, their ukuleles, and tap-tap-tapping. How could any Ebenezer resist THAT?
Of course, the best part came when we took a 3D ride on Santa's sleigh. At one point, some presents fall out of his bag and hover in front of our 3D-spectacled faces. The audience fell over themselves with screams as they reached out greedily for the imaginary packages that promised to fill that void in their hearts. I laughed and made a mental note of the event. If I ever become a preacher or something, I think that would make a swell sermon.
Meanwhile, it's business as usual at Numbtindoughland. The CD of video game music I made for the store keeps being rejected by the DVD player in the back room. We still have lines of people camping out for Giis.
It was 20 degrees this morning and, fool that I am, I didn't bring my gloves. So I thought, "I know, I'll get a cup of coffee!" Problem is, to hold the coffee, one of my hands had to be out in the elements. It wasn't long before I exclaimed, "DANG! My hand is freakin COLD!" I switched hands. And seconds later, "DANG! My other hand is freakin COLD!" This charade continued until I was a mere two blocks from the coffee shop. I could take it no more. To keep me from having to amputate my frost-bitten fingers, I dumped the completely full $2.05 cup of Starbucks Christmas blend in the trash and plunged my hands into my pockets.
It was so cold my nose froze. Seriously. I had to go inside somewhere and warm up for a second before continuing my five block journey. And when I got to the store, guess what? There was ANOTHER line of people waiting to get their hands on the Numbtindough Gii. It was 7:30am! These people got in line at 4am! I couldn't stop myself. I said MUCH too loudly as I walked, "You're crazy! You're ALL CRAZY!" Fortunately, none of them heard me. And even if they did, I look really different with my hair pulled back in a pony.
Never being one to pass up a buck, I did accept some "temp work" on my day off a couple of days ago. I also failed to pick up a cup of coffee. That afternoon, in the middle of a particularly languid pose--er--power point presentation, I fell asleep for a few minutes. For real.
So imagine how I felt when I woke up, having forgotten where I was.
"Oh my gosh! Who are all these strangers looking at me? Why am I sitting next to an ironing board with a pair of antlers on it? Holy crap! Where are my clothes? I must be dreaming! Oh...wait...no. I'm just at work."
It was so spectacular, in fact, that no words in the vernacular can describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment.
The only thing the show DIDN'T have was the Amazing Acrobats of China. If that show had had the Amazing Acrobats of China, that would have been it. I'd've pooped my pants.
Still, Chinese Acrobats or no, the quality and orbiting-the-moon production values of this show gave me pause.
How can "they" allow other people--like your average lame-o theatre in Everycity, for instance--how can they allow those folks to put on shows that claim to be chock full of hours of forget-your-worries entertainment that never deliver, when there exists an event, an experience, a bedazzlement like that line of legs? The cartwheeling midgets? The ice skating rink that appears on stage? The donkeys, camels, and flock of sheep???
I'm telling you. Those ladies in that show take a licking and keep on kicking. And what's more, they melted my Scroogified heart with their snappy ditties, their ukuleles, and tap-tap-tapping. How could any Ebenezer resist THAT?
Of course, the best part came when we took a 3D ride on Santa's sleigh. At one point, some presents fall out of his bag and hover in front of our 3D-spectacled faces. The audience fell over themselves with screams as they reached out greedily for the imaginary packages that promised to fill that void in their hearts. I laughed and made a mental note of the event. If I ever become a preacher or something, I think that would make a swell sermon.
Meanwhile, it's business as usual at Numbtindoughland. The CD of video game music I made for the store keeps being rejected by the DVD player in the back room. We still have lines of people camping out for Giis.
It was 20 degrees this morning and, fool that I am, I didn't bring my gloves. So I thought, "I know, I'll get a cup of coffee!" Problem is, to hold the coffee, one of my hands had to be out in the elements. It wasn't long before I exclaimed, "DANG! My hand is freakin COLD!" I switched hands. And seconds later, "DANG! My other hand is freakin COLD!" This charade continued until I was a mere two blocks from the coffee shop. I could take it no more. To keep me from having to amputate my frost-bitten fingers, I dumped the completely full $2.05 cup of Starbucks Christmas blend in the trash and plunged my hands into my pockets.
It was so cold my nose froze. Seriously. I had to go inside somewhere and warm up for a second before continuing my five block journey. And when I got to the store, guess what? There was ANOTHER line of people waiting to get their hands on the Numbtindough Gii. It was 7:30am! These people got in line at 4am! I couldn't stop myself. I said MUCH too loudly as I walked, "You're crazy! You're ALL CRAZY!" Fortunately, none of them heard me. And even if they did, I look really different with my hair pulled back in a pony.
Never being one to pass up a buck, I did accept some "temp work" on my day off a couple of days ago. I also failed to pick up a cup of coffee. That afternoon, in the middle of a particularly languid pose--er--power point presentation, I fell asleep for a few minutes. For real.
So imagine how I felt when I woke up, having forgotten where I was.
"Oh my gosh! Who are all these strangers looking at me? Why am I sitting next to an ironing board with a pair of antlers on it? Holy crap! Where are my clothes? I must be dreaming! Oh...wait...no. I'm just at work."
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Christmas is Magic
A very upset French woman asked me, of the Gii Sports compilation game, "Why doesn't this have basketball on it?"
She then started ranting about the fact that it was so difficult to find a Numbtindough Gii. She kept looking at me like it was my fault.
"Maybe I vill punish Numtindough by buying somesing else, like zee Spraystantion 3!"
Okay, lady. You do that. You teach that Numbtindough a lesson.
Yesterday someone called me Mr. Numbtindough. Today someone called me Mr. Numbtindough Guy. To get my attention, customers whack me on the shoulder and shout, "ExCUSE me!" usually three at a time.
The soccer moms are still the worst. When you ask who's next in line, they give you this...this LOOK and say, of their child, "THIS little boy has been waiting PATIENTLY for a VERY LONG TIME." That's when you secretly give their child the hardest difficulty setting and watch them flounder around while their dumb mom praises their failures.
Some soccer mom said her child was next. Her child was not waiting in line. I directed her to the line. She flipped.
"The security guard told me this was the line for Selda!! My child does not WANT to play Selda!! Now you tell me I'm supposed to get in line!! I want you to walk right up to that security guard and tell him he was WRONG because I have three babies with me and they ALL want to play BloodLust 2!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. The security guard is on his break."
"Then I'm going to wait here till he comes back and I'm going to come get you so I can see you tell him myself!"
I'm serious.
It's like they want someone to blame for their inability to find this product. You know what? Maybe in five years when the next big system comes out, how about we do what we should have done THIS time...and PREORDER the dang thing?
"How do I get a Gii for my son?"
"You have to get in line before the store opens, sir."
"Oh--THAT'S not gonna HAPPEN! The little twerp can wait till next August!"
I walk through Crockafella Center and hear all the stupid Christmas music about how Christmas is magic and it makes people nice and children happy.
Yeah, like the dad who told his son, "JESUS CHRIST, you little--you'd better get away from me right now before I--"
Or the children who scream and whack their parents with Gii remotes when they try to help their little darlings with the games.
Or the seven year old girl who still rides in a stroller.
Or the mobs of school children who sweep through the store on field trips to Crockafella center and their chaperones who stand idly by as they terrorize everybody.
Or the smarty-pants parents who have "figured out" Numbtindough's market strategy and tell everyone around them while shooting dirty looks at me and the other employees as if we have something to do with it.
Screaming. Yelling. Horrible parents. Bratty kids. Greed. Blame throwing.
I've got news for you, folks: Christmas is not magic. Christmas is dumb.
She then started ranting about the fact that it was so difficult to find a Numbtindough Gii. She kept looking at me like it was my fault.
"Maybe I vill punish Numtindough by buying somesing else, like zee Spraystantion 3!"
Okay, lady. You do that. You teach that Numbtindough a lesson.
Yesterday someone called me Mr. Numbtindough. Today someone called me Mr. Numbtindough Guy. To get my attention, customers whack me on the shoulder and shout, "ExCUSE me!" usually three at a time.
The soccer moms are still the worst. When you ask who's next in line, they give you this...this LOOK and say, of their child, "THIS little boy has been waiting PATIENTLY for a VERY LONG TIME." That's when you secretly give their child the hardest difficulty setting and watch them flounder around while their dumb mom praises their failures.
Some soccer mom said her child was next. Her child was not waiting in line. I directed her to the line. She flipped.
"The security guard told me this was the line for Selda!! My child does not WANT to play Selda!! Now you tell me I'm supposed to get in line!! I want you to walk right up to that security guard and tell him he was WRONG because I have three babies with me and they ALL want to play BloodLust 2!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. The security guard is on his break."
"Then I'm going to wait here till he comes back and I'm going to come get you so I can see you tell him myself!"
I'm serious.
It's like they want someone to blame for their inability to find this product. You know what? Maybe in five years when the next big system comes out, how about we do what we should have done THIS time...and PREORDER the dang thing?
"How do I get a Gii for my son?"
"You have to get in line before the store opens, sir."
"Oh--THAT'S not gonna HAPPEN! The little twerp can wait till next August!"
I walk through Crockafella Center and hear all the stupid Christmas music about how Christmas is magic and it makes people nice and children happy.
Yeah, like the dad who told his son, "JESUS CHRIST, you little--you'd better get away from me right now before I--"
Or the children who scream and whack their parents with Gii remotes when they try to help their little darlings with the games.
Or the seven year old girl who still rides in a stroller.
Or the mobs of school children who sweep through the store on field trips to Crockafella center and their chaperones who stand idly by as they terrorize everybody.
Or the smarty-pants parents who have "figured out" Numbtindough's market strategy and tell everyone around them while shooting dirty looks at me and the other employees as if we have something to do with it.
Screaming. Yelling. Horrible parents. Bratty kids. Greed. Blame throwing.
I've got news for you, folks: Christmas is not magic. Christmas is dumb.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
New Blogger
My apologies. This new blogger is so difficult to sign in to on my Blockberrie that most of the time, when I feel like writing, all I have to do is think of how much trouble I have to go through just to get to this page and I quietly slip the gizmo back into the holster.
There's no real reason for this post, just to let you all know that I'm still here, still alive, and still...still...
We got our first blast of Wint'ry air last night. It's been unseasonably/uncomfortably warm up here the past week and suddenly--WHAM! It's blissfully chilly outside! It's supposed to snow on Monday! Woot!
However, it still doesn't feel very Christmassy. I mean...it's New York City. And Nelson is miles away living it up with the leo Files.
Still, life goes on. Expect me to eat my words about loving this cold weather in the next couple of weeks. And, just for fun, do a Google search for North Brother Island.
There's no real reason for this post, just to let you all know that I'm still here, still alive, and still...still...
We got our first blast of Wint'ry air last night. It's been unseasonably/uncomfortably warm up here the past week and suddenly--WHAM! It's blissfully chilly outside! It's supposed to snow on Monday! Woot!
However, it still doesn't feel very Christmassy. I mean...it's New York City. And Nelson is miles away living it up with the leo Files.
Still, life goes on. Expect me to eat my words about loving this cold weather in the next couple of weeks. And, just for fun, do a Google search for North Brother Island.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday Blue
Black Friday
Have no fear, gentle readers. I’m not dead. Nor was I swallowed up by the hoards on Friday. I’m made of tougher stuff. Having worked a theme park job for two summers in a row (Fourth of July and Christian Concert Day, anyone?), and also surviving the launch of the Numbtindough Gii just a few days before (that’s a separate post that’s so long I might never get around to posting it), Black Friday (or, as one very confused customer called it, Friday Blue) was a cakewalk.
Of course, with Christmas being closer, people were much pissier than usual. “I want to see a manager!” seems to be the shopping credo for many of the good folks in the Supercity X area. The girls at the register took the brunt of it, mostly because they don’t know how to “play dead” when a rabid soccer mom or stereotypical Supercity male (rotund, hairy, moustache, and thick accent) comes careening their way. I mean, no matter how you say, “I’m sorry, sir, but you bein’ ignint,”—it just seems like that would only make things worse. Fuel to the fire. Best thing to do is just smile sweetly and take the wind out of their sails.
But all the smiling in the world couldn’t help me with one customer.
An older man in a beret approaches me at the Numbtindough Gii station I’m manning. He’s pleasant and friendly and asks me several questions about the system and how the wireless controls work. I explain as best as I can (“There are sensors! Sensors inside this thing that sense what you’re doing with the controller!”). He asks me about the new Selda game. I tell him a little bit about it.
“You see,” he says to me, “We have a grandson in Central America who heard about this video game system and he said nothing would make him happier than getting a Numbtindough Gii and the new Selda game.”
I smiled sweetly at the touching story and thought quickly of a few things that might actually make him happier than getting a toy, but those thoughts went away when the gentleman called his wife…Mama…over.
“How much is?” she asked in a very thick foreign accent.
“Is—er—it’s two-fifty.”
“Ah. And with tax. Is two-eighty, no?”
“More like two-seventy.”
“Ahh. Two-seventy. And this…this Selda. How much is?”
“Fifty. All the Gii games are fifty dollars each.”
“And with tax is fifty-five. And plus the two-seventy is…” She mutters to herself, doing the math.
“Is more than three hundred dollars! For toy.”
A disgusted, superior look washes over her. She raises a finger and wags it at me.
“No! NO! We do NOT want! We buy things for poor grandchild in third world! We do not SPEND our money on this! Is TOY. Is ca-ca! Is for rich people in Ameeee-dica! We go!” She sweeps out of the store.
Papa says softly, “She will change her mind,” and follows.
I’m left standing there completely dumbstruck, eyes wide, but sweet smile still plastered to my face.
I mean, what was I supposed to do? I thought carefully about what Mama had just said. She was absolutely right. When your rent is almost $2,000 a month, you don’t have a lot of money to just throw around. And still, I set aside a couple hundred bucks to buy games and accessories for my new gizmo—a toy that will keep me entertained and sedate instead of getting my butt out there and making a difference for the world!
An abrupt wake-up call.
NOW I’m ready to really celebrate Thanksgiving. Where’s the turkey?
Have no fear, gentle readers. I’m not dead. Nor was I swallowed up by the hoards on Friday. I’m made of tougher stuff. Having worked a theme park job for two summers in a row (Fourth of July and Christian Concert Day, anyone?), and also surviving the launch of the Numbtindough Gii just a few days before (that’s a separate post that’s so long I might never get around to posting it), Black Friday (or, as one very confused customer called it, Friday Blue) was a cakewalk.
Of course, with Christmas being closer, people were much pissier than usual. “I want to see a manager!” seems to be the shopping credo for many of the good folks in the Supercity X area. The girls at the register took the brunt of it, mostly because they don’t know how to “play dead” when a rabid soccer mom or stereotypical Supercity male (rotund, hairy, moustache, and thick accent) comes careening their way. I mean, no matter how you say, “I’m sorry, sir, but you bein’ ignint,”—it just seems like that would only make things worse. Fuel to the fire. Best thing to do is just smile sweetly and take the wind out of their sails.
But all the smiling in the world couldn’t help me with one customer.
An older man in a beret approaches me at the Numbtindough Gii station I’m manning. He’s pleasant and friendly and asks me several questions about the system and how the wireless controls work. I explain as best as I can (“There are sensors! Sensors inside this thing that sense what you’re doing with the controller!”). He asks me about the new Selda game. I tell him a little bit about it.
“You see,” he says to me, “We have a grandson in Central America who heard about this video game system and he said nothing would make him happier than getting a Numbtindough Gii and the new Selda game.”
I smiled sweetly at the touching story and thought quickly of a few things that might actually make him happier than getting a toy, but those thoughts went away when the gentleman called his wife…Mama…over.
“How much is?” she asked in a very thick foreign accent.
“Is—er—it’s two-fifty.”
“Ah. And with tax. Is two-eighty, no?”
“More like two-seventy.”
“Ahh. Two-seventy. And this…this Selda. How much is?”
“Fifty. All the Gii games are fifty dollars each.”
“And with tax is fifty-five. And plus the two-seventy is…” She mutters to herself, doing the math.
“Is more than three hundred dollars! For toy.”
A disgusted, superior look washes over her. She raises a finger and wags it at me.
“No! NO! We do NOT want! We buy things for poor grandchild in third world! We do not SPEND our money on this! Is TOY. Is ca-ca! Is for rich people in Ameeee-dica! We go!” She sweeps out of the store.
Papa says softly, “She will change her mind,” and follows.
I’m left standing there completely dumbstruck, eyes wide, but sweet smile still plastered to my face.
I mean, what was I supposed to do? I thought carefully about what Mama had just said. She was absolutely right. When your rent is almost $2,000 a month, you don’t have a lot of money to just throw around. And still, I set aside a couple hundred bucks to buy games and accessories for my new gizmo—a toy that will keep me entertained and sedate instead of getting my butt out there and making a difference for the world!
An abrupt wake-up call.
NOW I’m ready to really celebrate Thanksgiving. Where’s the turkey?
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Gamey
I wish I could submit blog posts by writing them in my mind and sending them via brainpower.
After all, as your elementary school librarian might tell you, the human brain is the greatest computer of all. Of course, you shouldn't believe her for one minute. The brain does not have high-speed internet or Microsoft Paint.
Numbtindoughland is great fun, folks. In fact, there are times when I forget that I ever was an actor. Then my feet start to hurt and ANOTHER person tells me, "I already KNOW how to play this game!" when they DON'T and I'm brought back to reality.
After all, as your elementary school librarian might tell you, the human brain is the greatest computer of all. Of course, you shouldn't believe her for one minute. The brain does not have high-speed internet or Microsoft Paint.
Numbtindoughland is great fun, folks. In fact, there are times when I forget that I ever was an actor. Then my feet start to hurt and ANOTHER person tells me, "I already KNOW how to play this game!" when they DON'T and I'm brought back to reality.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Stritch
The readers have spoken!
It looks like we're in all this trouble because of--guess who?--Elaine Stritch!
When it comes to placing the blame for all the turmoil around the world, point that finger of yours at the last of the great Broadway divas! She deserves it!
It looks like we're in all this trouble because of--guess who?--Elaine Stritch!
When it comes to placing the blame for all the turmoil around the world, point that finger of yours at the last of the great Broadway divas! She deserves it!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Whose Fault Is It Anyway? (text version)
Due to the limited capabilities on BlackBerry Jamiqua, I can't post snazzy pictures with these. I can't even center the text. Still, you know what to do.
Whose Fault Is It Anyway?
All-Text Version
Is it...
Donald Rumsfeld
Elaine Stritch
Cheesesteak Factory
Dumb Video Game Console Names (Numbtindough Gii)
Chicked Fried Steak and French Fries
The Cotton-Eyed Joe
Katrina
Cuddly Baby Penguins
Little Mexican Children ("Mommy mira...!")
"Temp Work"
or our previous reigning champion...
Bare Ankles
Time to vote! Polls close at midnight on Sunday! Happy weekend!
Whose Fault Is It Anyway?
All-Text Version
Is it...
Donald Rumsfeld
Elaine Stritch
Cheesesteak Factory
Dumb Video Game Console Names (Numbtindough Gii)
Chicked Fried Steak and French Fries
The Cotton-Eyed Joe
Katrina
Cuddly Baby Penguins
Little Mexican Children ("Mommy mira...!")
"Temp Work"
or our previous reigning champion...
Bare Ankles
Time to vote! Polls close at midnight on Sunday! Happy weekend!
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Sick Joke
Sometimes, when I'm very, very hungry, I pause for a moment to remember the many culinary delights I left behind in Dallas. Specifically, the ones cooked up at the all-around greatest restaurant ever conceived: the Cheesecake Factory. There's nothing finer than the Thai Chicken Pasta, except for maybe the Spicy Cashew Chicken, the Jumbo Chicken Chop, the Factory Famous Meatloaf, the Orange Chicken, the Santa Fe Chicken Salad, the Louisiana Chicken Pasta, the Pineapple Upside-down Cheesecake... the list goes on.
So imagine how excited I became...
I was walking around the City one evening when I saw a sign that made my heart skip a beat. Could it be? Does New York City really have a Cheesecake Factory? Yes! Yes!! YES!!! I was running a bit late for some "Temp Work" but that could wait. I turned on my heels, crossed the street, and found myself washed in the warm light of the bright neon sign, enveloped in the arms of a dear friend from days gone by. I was finally home.
Then I looked a little closer.
Is this somebody's idea of a joke? Because if it is, I'm not laughing.
So imagine how excited I became...
I was walking around the City one evening when I saw a sign that made my heart skip a beat. Could it be? Does New York City really have a Cheesecake Factory? Yes! Yes!! YES!!! I was running a bit late for some "Temp Work" but that could wait. I turned on my heels, crossed the street, and found myself washed in the warm light of the bright neon sign, enveloped in the arms of a dear friend from days gone by. I was finally home.
Then I looked a little closer.
Is this somebody's idea of a joke? Because if it is, I'm not laughing.
If I Can't Take...My Coffee Break...
...Something within me doesn't DIE, but something DOES find it much more difficult to stay awake.
Yes, folks. Somebody buy me some teeth whiteners because I, humble blogger and freelance poet, Forky Fourchette, have finally succumbed to "the coffee thing."
For a while I was nervous about getting addicted to the stuff. You know--getting horrible headaches because I didn't get my caffeine fix for the day.
Fortunately, I know to ask for half decaf.
I know, that sort of defeats the purpose, but when you've been practicing caffeine abstinence as long as I have, it doesn't take much to give you that jittery feeling in your stomach, the clarity of thought, and the wide, wide eyes that are all part of what we know to be the caffeine high.
Thing about asking for half decaf is that most of the street vendors here don't have a very good grasp of consonants (when was the last time you heard an illegal immigrant use their consonants? I rest my case) and they think you're asking not for half-decaf, but for half and half (or trans-fat cream, as I like to call it). They say, "Gracias senior" and, with all the flourish of a matador, they pour a pint of liquid lard into your cup.
While I'm new to the whole coffee thing, my tastes are developed enough to taste the difference between vendor "coffee" and the corporate stuff. And I'm here to tell you that, as much as it pains me to say it, the corporate stuff tastes worlds better. I don't know what kind of steroid bacon grease they put in the pot to make their coffee taste so much better, but dang. It goes down so much smoother than the metal-tinged dregs from the rusty tin pot at the vendor's on the street corner.
In other news, my futon bunkbed must be magic lately because I sleep like a ROCK these days and have some really twisted dreams. Last night I dreamed my late Grandfather walked into the room with my Grandmother clinging to him with these wild eyes. I asked, "What's going on here? Granddad died months ago." I think it was my mother who explained that doctors sometimes make mistakes and all he needed was for someone to give him a good shake and he woke right up. Everyone had a good laugh, but I kept feeling uneasy about the way my Grandmother was hanging onto him. Nevermind the fact that he wasn't supposed to be alive.
Isn't that weird?
Maybe I need to play more video games.
Yes, folks. Somebody buy me some teeth whiteners because I, humble blogger and freelance poet, Forky Fourchette, have finally succumbed to "the coffee thing."
For a while I was nervous about getting addicted to the stuff. You know--getting horrible headaches because I didn't get my caffeine fix for the day.
Fortunately, I know to ask for half decaf.
I know, that sort of defeats the purpose, but when you've been practicing caffeine abstinence as long as I have, it doesn't take much to give you that jittery feeling in your stomach, the clarity of thought, and the wide, wide eyes that are all part of what we know to be the caffeine high.
Thing about asking for half decaf is that most of the street vendors here don't have a very good grasp of consonants (when was the last time you heard an illegal immigrant use their consonants? I rest my case) and they think you're asking not for half-decaf, but for half and half (or trans-fat cream, as I like to call it). They say, "Gracias senior" and, with all the flourish of a matador, they pour a pint of liquid lard into your cup.
While I'm new to the whole coffee thing, my tastes are developed enough to taste the difference between vendor "coffee" and the corporate stuff. And I'm here to tell you that, as much as it pains me to say it, the corporate stuff tastes worlds better. I don't know what kind of steroid bacon grease they put in the pot to make their coffee taste so much better, but dang. It goes down so much smoother than the metal-tinged dregs from the rusty tin pot at the vendor's on the street corner.
In other news, my futon bunkbed must be magic lately because I sleep like a ROCK these days and have some really twisted dreams. Last night I dreamed my late Grandfather walked into the room with my Grandmother clinging to him with these wild eyes. I asked, "What's going on here? Granddad died months ago." I think it was my mother who explained that doctors sometimes make mistakes and all he needed was for someone to give him a good shake and he woke right up. Everyone had a good laugh, but I kept feeling uneasy about the way my Grandmother was hanging onto him. Nevermind the fact that he wasn't supposed to be alive.
Isn't that weird?
Maybe I need to play more video games.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The Devil's Birthday
We mortals enjoy making a wish and blowing out the candles on our birthday cakes when it's our special day.
I guess the Devil makes a curse and blows the candles on? That would make the most sense.
I'm working at Numbtindoughland now. I could sell the upcoming system to Sadaam. Seriously. If he walked in--no--if OSAMA walked in, I could sell him a Numbtindough Gii. I'm that good. Then again, the Gii isn't OUT yet, but if it was I'm sure he'd buy one at my urging. He might call off project Doomsday because he'd have so much fun with his Gii. I'd save the world. And all because I managed to convince him that he couldn't possibly live without it.
That's one of the fun things about retail--trying to manipulate the customers who wander into my path. I'm like a black cat in that regard. That's why theycall me the Black Forkat. Of course, I've never worked retail a day in my life, but my pregnant twin sister Forkette worked at a gas station one summer and I learned a lot from just observing her there. I also learned a lot from working at Sux Flags. And from listening to Bibb leo File's horror stories.
So, in many ways, Numbtindoughland is a homecoming of sorts.
I'm almost afraid I'm going to never want to play video games again since I'm around them all the time.
Wait.
I don't know what I'm saying. That's got to be the dumbest thing I've ever said.
Oh! And in case you missed it, it's Halloween today! Well, it was. Unfortunately, I missed it. I had to work all day. No trick or treat for me. Unless you count the spiked protein smoothee I made for dinner. That's kind of a trick AND a treat, if you know what I mean.
Happy 'ween, folks. Don't forget to wish the Devil a happy b-day!
BOO!
By the way, today some French woman tried to buy her two sons a Numbtindough BS and two BS games with--wait for it--a fake credit card. She might as well have paid with Monopoly money. I knew the French were stinky, but they're thieves too? I just wasn't prepared for that. With their high and mighty attitudes about barbaric Americans, I thought they'd at least have SOME kind of class--something to make me feel bad about being an uncultured, boorish American swine.
Nope. I'm glad to report that I'm still happy not to be French.
I guess the Devil makes a curse and blows the candles on? That would make the most sense.
I'm working at Numbtindoughland now. I could sell the upcoming system to Sadaam. Seriously. If he walked in--no--if OSAMA walked in, I could sell him a Numbtindough Gii. I'm that good. Then again, the Gii isn't OUT yet, but if it was I'm sure he'd buy one at my urging. He might call off project Doomsday because he'd have so much fun with his Gii. I'd save the world. And all because I managed to convince him that he couldn't possibly live without it.
That's one of the fun things about retail--trying to manipulate the customers who wander into my path. I'm like a black cat in that regard. That's why theycall me the Black Forkat. Of course, I've never worked retail a day in my life, but my pregnant twin sister Forkette worked at a gas station one summer and I learned a lot from just observing her there. I also learned a lot from working at Sux Flags. And from listening to Bibb leo File's horror stories.
So, in many ways, Numbtindoughland is a homecoming of sorts.
I'm almost afraid I'm going to never want to play video games again since I'm around them all the time.
Wait.
I don't know what I'm saying. That's got to be the dumbest thing I've ever said.
Oh! And in case you missed it, it's Halloween today! Well, it was. Unfortunately, I missed it. I had to work all day. No trick or treat for me. Unless you count the spiked protein smoothee I made for dinner. That's kind of a trick AND a treat, if you know what I mean.
Happy 'ween, folks. Don't forget to wish the Devil a happy b-day!
BOO!
By the way, today some French woman tried to buy her two sons a Numbtindough BS and two BS games with--wait for it--a fake credit card. She might as well have paid with Monopoly money. I knew the French were stinky, but they're thieves too? I just wasn't prepared for that. With their high and mighty attitudes about barbaric Americans, I thought they'd at least have SOME kind of class--something to make me feel bad about being an uncultured, boorish American swine.
Nope. I'm glad to report that I'm still happy not to be French.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Flabby
Unless my pedometer is incorrectly calibrated, these were my walking stats for last week.
86845 steps
39.749 miles
2306.8 cals
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the gym.
86845 steps
39.749 miles
2306.8 cals
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the gym.
Monday, October 23, 2006
A Shutterbug Foiled
What a day for me to leave my camera at home.
I was on my way to the gym when I usual route was interrupted by a procession of purple-robed Latinos processing with a giant, incense burning float dedicated to the worship of Blessed Mary the Eternal Virgin, Queen of Heaven, Allelu, Allelu. Lots of coupleaños were blaring away on their horns. It felt like Fiesta. It was really something.
I got to the gym and began my workout. I looked up and saw a massive figure with a bleached-blonde mullet, handlebar moustache, and bandana. It was Bulk Bogan, the WWF wrestling star from the 80s! Queen III had seen him at the airport in Vegas about a year or so ago and said he had an old man paunch. Let the record also show that Bulk Bogan now has scrawny legs and no rear end. Just like every other man approaching his golden years. I guess it's true what they say about the ravages of time. That...uh...they're ravaging.
Then me and Ronald, one of my new buddies who is Episcopalian by day and Presbyterian by night (literally), and I hopped the train to Harlem to rehearse our music for the worship service of our upcoming church retreat this weekend (Gerrick, the worship leader, lives in Harlem so we had to take our cracker selves uptown to meet him).
Our conversation about why Bulk Bogan would want to work out in, as Ronald put it, a dirty old gym like mine and not a fancy new gym like his was interrupted by--wait for it--a trio of Cirque du Subway performers. One manned the boombox and kept rhythm while the tall one threw his kid sister over our heads, who flipped and flopped on and over the hand bars before finishing with a triple soumersault and landing in the legs of her handstanding, breakdancing older brother.
And me without my camera!
I was on my way to the gym when I usual route was interrupted by a procession of purple-robed Latinos processing with a giant, incense burning float dedicated to the worship of Blessed Mary the Eternal Virgin, Queen of Heaven, Allelu, Allelu. Lots of coupleaños were blaring away on their horns. It felt like Fiesta. It was really something.
I got to the gym and began my workout. I looked up and saw a massive figure with a bleached-blonde mullet, handlebar moustache, and bandana. It was Bulk Bogan, the WWF wrestling star from the 80s! Queen III had seen him at the airport in Vegas about a year or so ago and said he had an old man paunch. Let the record also show that Bulk Bogan now has scrawny legs and no rear end. Just like every other man approaching his golden years. I guess it's true what they say about the ravages of time. That...uh...they're ravaging.
Then me and Ronald, one of my new buddies who is Episcopalian by day and Presbyterian by night (literally), and I hopped the train to Harlem to rehearse our music for the worship service of our upcoming church retreat this weekend (Gerrick, the worship leader, lives in Harlem so we had to take our cracker selves uptown to meet him).
Our conversation about why Bulk Bogan would want to work out in, as Ronald put it, a dirty old gym like mine and not a fancy new gym like his was interrupted by--wait for it--a trio of Cirque du Subway performers. One manned the boombox and kept rhythm while the tall one threw his kid sister over our heads, who flipped and flopped on and over the hand bars before finishing with a triple soumersault and landing in the legs of her handstanding, breakdancing older brother.
And me without my camera!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Hopping M@D!!1!
I did some "temp work" at Edward Hopper's childhood home last week.
The whole thing was a little adventurous. The model coordinator for this group saw me at Venus DeMilo's "temp work" try outs several weeks ago and called me up about posing for an afternoon and evening class. I agreed and waited for him to give me the address.
He replied by saying I needed to take the A train all the way up to a hundred and zillionth street and he'd be waiting for me in his beat-up blue Chevy to transport me out of Supercity and to a secluded little forest town twenty minutes away.
I know what you're thinking.
Hell no.
Oh, HELL no.
I will admit that the same thought DID cross my mind. But remember, when I was a kid living in Alaska, I once prayed to God to make my life a big adventure. An AWFULLY big adventure. And so far He hasn't let me down. I've toured the country in holocaust dramas for children, worked on the 42nd Floor, rode the skycoaster at Six Flags, and moved to Supercity X. If that's not high adventure, I don't know what is.
So seeing as how God has decided to let adventure come a-banging on my door whenever I least expect it, I figure, if God is spending all this time cooking up wild and wooly things for me to experience, who am I to say no to them?
After all, the guy sounded legit. He had a website, an answering machine set up specifically for the group... I knew what I would do. I'd be smart. I'd flash my Blockberry whenever I got a chance. That way he'd know he was dealing with a person WHO WOULD BE MISSED.
I emerged from underground on one hundred and zillionth street, fully prepared to suddenly catch a cold or develop a migraine should my Jeffrey Dahmer appear and give me the creeps.
While the guy DID have a moustache, I reasoned very quickly that lots of nice people have creepy moustaches. Just because he had one didn't mean he was a psycho rapist. What kind of society do we live in if we can't accept rides from moustachioed strangers without worrying that they're going to gut us and stick our body parts in refrigerators?? I ask you! What kind of society??
We crossed the bridge and left Supercity X. I made polite conversation. I told him about how my mom bought me a Blockberry so she'd always know where I was. Just in case I ever ran into any trouble.
We hit the woods.
"Hey," he said suddenly, "we have a few minutes before we need to be at the class. Let me show you something."
Before I could say, "I'd rather not," he steered the quivering car off the road and onto a dirt path leading straight into a secluded thicket of trees and brambles.
"Well," I thought, "I guess this is it. What a way to go. Dear God, please give me peace as my captor plunges his knife into my naiive bosom and eats my foot."
"Look over there," said my psycho killer. I obeyed, knowing my obedience might soften his heart or at least cause him to let his guard down.
"Gee...it looks like an abandoned barn or factory," I said, heart palpitating.
"That's the world's first diet pill factory. They were little sponges that expanded in your stomach when you swallowed them."
"Oh," I said.
And that's the end of the story.
Well, there's the whole doing temp work in Edward Hopper's childhood home thing, but that's not nearly as interesting as almost being killed by a psycho art teacher...who was neither a psycho nor a killer.
Yes, my life has been one long adventure.
The whole thing was a little adventurous. The model coordinator for this group saw me at Venus DeMilo's "temp work" try outs several weeks ago and called me up about posing for an afternoon and evening class. I agreed and waited for him to give me the address.
He replied by saying I needed to take the A train all the way up to a hundred and zillionth street and he'd be waiting for me in his beat-up blue Chevy to transport me out of Supercity and to a secluded little forest town twenty minutes away.
I know what you're thinking.
Hell no.
Oh, HELL no.
I will admit that the same thought DID cross my mind. But remember, when I was a kid living in Alaska, I once prayed to God to make my life a big adventure. An AWFULLY big adventure. And so far He hasn't let me down. I've toured the country in holocaust dramas for children, worked on the 42nd Floor, rode the skycoaster at Six Flags, and moved to Supercity X. If that's not high adventure, I don't know what is.
So seeing as how God has decided to let adventure come a-banging on my door whenever I least expect it, I figure, if God is spending all this time cooking up wild and wooly things for me to experience, who am I to say no to them?
After all, the guy sounded legit. He had a website, an answering machine set up specifically for the group... I knew what I would do. I'd be smart. I'd flash my Blockberry whenever I got a chance. That way he'd know he was dealing with a person WHO WOULD BE MISSED.
I emerged from underground on one hundred and zillionth street, fully prepared to suddenly catch a cold or develop a migraine should my Jeffrey Dahmer appear and give me the creeps.
While the guy DID have a moustache, I reasoned very quickly that lots of nice people have creepy moustaches. Just because he had one didn't mean he was a psycho rapist. What kind of society do we live in if we can't accept rides from moustachioed strangers without worrying that they're going to gut us and stick our body parts in refrigerators?? I ask you! What kind of society??
We crossed the bridge and left Supercity X. I made polite conversation. I told him about how my mom bought me a Blockberry so she'd always know where I was. Just in case I ever ran into any trouble.
We hit the woods.
"Hey," he said suddenly, "we have a few minutes before we need to be at the class. Let me show you something."
Before I could say, "I'd rather not," he steered the quivering car off the road and onto a dirt path leading straight into a secluded thicket of trees and brambles.
"Well," I thought, "I guess this is it. What a way to go. Dear God, please give me peace as my captor plunges his knife into my naiive bosom and eats my foot."
"Look over there," said my psycho killer. I obeyed, knowing my obedience might soften his heart or at least cause him to let his guard down.
"Gee...it looks like an abandoned barn or factory," I said, heart palpitating.
"That's the world's first diet pill factory. They were little sponges that expanded in your stomach when you swallowed them."
"Oh," I said.
And that's the end of the story.
Well, there's the whole doing temp work in Edward Hopper's childhood home thing, but that's not nearly as interesting as almost being killed by a psycho art teacher...who was neither a psycho nor a killer.
Yes, my life has been one long adventure.
Friday, October 13, 2006
The Blacker the Berry...
I just found out my new BlackBerry (the one that replaced Blackwell who was sick and died two weeks ago--send me your addresses so I can add them to my new one! Oh...that was a long parenthetical. Now you don't remember what I was saying. Let me start over)...
*ahem*
I just found out my new BlackBerry is a black woman!
Don't ask me how I know this. I just do. Maybe its because she's got this maternal quality about her. Maybe it's because she's well-built and sturdy. Maybe its because she's knocked up and we don't know who the baby daddy is.
Whatever the reason, irreverent or otherwise, she needs a proper name. So far we've got:
Shantiqua
Lemonjello
Mochalatte
Clairneesha
Tanaynay
Write-ins eagerly accepted. And if you're with the NAACP, chill out. As you can see by my profile picture, I'm black.
Happy weekend! See you Monday!
*ahem*
I just found out my new BlackBerry is a black woman!
Don't ask me how I know this. I just do. Maybe its because she's got this maternal quality about her. Maybe it's because she's well-built and sturdy. Maybe its because she's knocked up and we don't know who the baby daddy is.
Whatever the reason, irreverent or otherwise, she needs a proper name. So far we've got:
Shantiqua
Lemonjello
Mochalatte
Clairneesha
Tanaynay
Write-ins eagerly accepted. And if you're with the NAACP, chill out. As you can see by my profile picture, I'm black.
Happy weekend! See you Monday!
Lucky!
There's so much to tell, I don't really know where to start.
Head over to Bibb leo File's blog and read his latest Halloween entry. It's supurb. It made me seriously long for that one Halloween in Wackytown--October was particularly chilly that year and the sequel to the Blair Witch Project had just come out. Ever since then, he and I have always shared a special bond when it comes to Halloween.
I don't know that we'll ever top our Hippiecity Halloween though--watching Nosferatu, Bela Lugosi's Dracula, then Bram Stoker's Dracula, then reading Poe's "the Raven", then dressing in our costumes and going on a ghost tour of downtown Hippiecity. Good times.
A conversation overheard here at "the office":
(opera music plays in the background)
Girl 1: Hey, this sounds just like Miss Piggy.
Girl 2: I guess Miss Piggy was a mezzo soprano.
1: Do you think a man did her voice?
2: I doubt it. It's possible though.
1: Man, I always hated Miss Piggy.
2: Yeah, I know! She was so annoying. And she was, like, the only woman Muppet.
1: Have you SEEN her eyeshadow? She looks like a prostitute.
2: Kermit would irritate me too. He was such a wimp.
1: Miss Piggy walked ALL over him.
2: Yeah.
We had our first snap of cold weather today. I woke up in my bunk bed almost unable to breathe thanks to the heating pipes that run through my room. So don't worry. I'm not going to freeze. In fact, I had to open a window.
Aunt Ellope is visiting Supercity X this weekend! My first visitor! Now I have to play the difficult role of tour guide in the City that Ever Sleeps. Hopefully I'll get a cup of porridge out of it.
Oh, and I can't forget to mention...
It's Friday the 13th, considered by many to be the luckiest day of the year! That's because, as legend has it, this was the day the black cat walked under a ladder and saw its reflection in a broken mirror. If the cat sees its reflection, experts say, rabbits feet will be rendered useless. However, if the cat turns up its nose and walks away from the mirror, flicking its tail wildly, that means two more weeks of winter.
In honor of this day of days, if anything lucky happens to you, be sure to post about it!
Something lucky (?) happened to me. I got hired at Numbtindoughland! Turns out, the pay IS peanuts! Am I going to work there anyway? Uhh...I...guess.
Hope you all have the luckiest weekend in town! Cheers!
Head over to Bibb leo File's blog and read his latest Halloween entry. It's supurb. It made me seriously long for that one Halloween in Wackytown--October was particularly chilly that year and the sequel to the Blair Witch Project had just come out. Ever since then, he and I have always shared a special bond when it comes to Halloween.
I don't know that we'll ever top our Hippiecity Halloween though--watching Nosferatu, Bela Lugosi's Dracula, then Bram Stoker's Dracula, then reading Poe's "the Raven", then dressing in our costumes and going on a ghost tour of downtown Hippiecity. Good times.
A conversation overheard here at "the office":
(opera music plays in the background)
Girl 1: Hey, this sounds just like Miss Piggy.
Girl 2: I guess Miss Piggy was a mezzo soprano.
1: Do you think a man did her voice?
2: I doubt it. It's possible though.
1: Man, I always hated Miss Piggy.
2: Yeah, I know! She was so annoying. And she was, like, the only woman Muppet.
1: Have you SEEN her eyeshadow? She looks like a prostitute.
2: Kermit would irritate me too. He was such a wimp.
1: Miss Piggy walked ALL over him.
2: Yeah.
We had our first snap of cold weather today. I woke up in my bunk bed almost unable to breathe thanks to the heating pipes that run through my room. So don't worry. I'm not going to freeze. In fact, I had to open a window.
Aunt Ellope is visiting Supercity X this weekend! My first visitor! Now I have to play the difficult role of tour guide in the City that Ever Sleeps. Hopefully I'll get a cup of porridge out of it.
Oh, and I can't forget to mention...
It's Friday the 13th, considered by many to be the luckiest day of the year! That's because, as legend has it, this was the day the black cat walked under a ladder and saw its reflection in a broken mirror. If the cat sees its reflection, experts say, rabbits feet will be rendered useless. However, if the cat turns up its nose and walks away from the mirror, flicking its tail wildly, that means two more weeks of winter.
In honor of this day of days, if anything lucky happens to you, be sure to post about it!
Something lucky (?) happened to me. I got hired at Numbtindoughland! Turns out, the pay IS peanuts! Am I going to work there anyway? Uhh...I...guess.
Hope you all have the luckiest weekend in town! Cheers!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
October 11th
I survived October 11th.
I know some of you have been hitting the refresh button on this blog for several hours, hoping--just hoping--that I'd post some kind of update, some kind of insight into this crazy Nude Fork City day.
Yuh want insight? Here 'tis:
Another plane crashed into another NY building on the 11th day of a month ending in "ber".
Only this time it wasn't kooky Arabs done did it. It was a Yankee. One of our own. My neighbor. My brother.
Now, I don't know the first thing about flying planes. All I know is I scoff at people who don't like to fly because they use the excuse, "I'm not in control of the plane."
Okay, for those of you control freaks out there, answer me this question:
What is the correct procedure for lowering the landing gear?
There. The pilot already knows more about flying this B4-87 than you do. Maybe you should take a swing of grape-flavored Dimatapp and wake up once you're safely on the ground.
Sheesh. People and their logic.
Still...can't help feeling sorry for the Yankee pitcher. The coneys at Shea stadium won't taste quite the same.
In other news, I feel it worthy of note that, while Texans may not know how to drive in the rain, New Yorkers don't know how to WALK. It's disgraceful is what it is. I mean, it's rain. Quit walking s'dang slow!! What? Are you afraid you're gonna spin out and hit a tree? Maybe you should get those rain-proof treads for you sneakers.
Okay. Time for bed.
I know some of you have been hitting the refresh button on this blog for several hours, hoping--just hoping--that I'd post some kind of update, some kind of insight into this crazy Nude Fork City day.
Yuh want insight? Here 'tis:
Another plane crashed into another NY building on the 11th day of a month ending in "ber".
Only this time it wasn't kooky Arabs done did it. It was a Yankee. One of our own. My neighbor. My brother.
Now, I don't know the first thing about flying planes. All I know is I scoff at people who don't like to fly because they use the excuse, "I'm not in control of the plane."
Okay, for those of you control freaks out there, answer me this question:
What is the correct procedure for lowering the landing gear?
There. The pilot already knows more about flying this B4-87 than you do. Maybe you should take a swing of grape-flavored Dimatapp and wake up once you're safely on the ground.
Sheesh. People and their logic.
Still...can't help feeling sorry for the Yankee pitcher. The coneys at Shea stadium won't taste quite the same.
In other news, I feel it worthy of note that, while Texans may not know how to drive in the rain, New Yorkers don't know how to WALK. It's disgraceful is what it is. I mean, it's rain. Quit walking s'dang slow!! What? Are you afraid you're gonna spin out and hit a tree? Maybe you should get those rain-proof treads for you sneakers.
Okay. Time for bed.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Numbtindoughland
I forgot to tell you the Numbtindoughland story.
So Numbtindoughland is about a fifteen minute walk due east of my apartment. I mean DUE east. It's on the same street.
I love Numbtindoughland. I've been several times already, just browsing, enjoying all the different things there are to see in the store. It probably doesn't hurt that I've been playing Numbtindough video games since I was still in short pants. It's marvelous.
I got to thinking, "Hmm. I wonder if they're hiring for seasonal part-time help any time soon. The pay is probably peanuts but it might be really fun to work in one of the most impressive video game stores in America."
I asked one of the clerks about possible part-time work.
"You have to apply through the Numbtindough corporate website," came the reply.
I decided I didn't like his response. I went upstairs and asked another clerk.
"You have to apply through the Numbtindough corporate website," came the reply.
I called my parents that night. They asked what I had been up to and if I was enjoying myself. I mentioned the whole Numbtindoughland thing--you had to apply online, but I only had limited access with my Blockberry so I'd probably have to forget the whole thing.
The End
Actually, that's where it WOULD have ended if not for my mother's efforts.
In our next phone call, she gave me the news.
"I submitted an online application for you to work at Numbtindoughland!"
"What? You did? That's great!"
"Yes! I couldn't find your business resume though, so I sent them your acting resume instead."
"Wait...what?"
"I think it makes you seem very interesting. I'd call you in for an interview if I were hiring."
I felt like I was in one of those sitcoms where the well-intentioned parents meddle in their grown children's lives and hilarity ensues. You know. Like accidentally replacing the main character's important business presentation CD with baby pictures of him in the bathtub.
I was about to sarcastically ask if she included a headshot, but I left it alone. There was no way Numbtindoughland would ever take me seriously now. I'd just have to be happy with model--er--temp work.
Last week, however...
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Me: (answering the phone) Hello?
Woman: Hello, may I speak with Forky please?
Me: Speaking.
Woman: My name is Henrietta Hammersmith and I'm calling from the Numbtindough corporate offices about your resume posting for seasonal part-time work. You sound very interesting. We'd like you to come in for an interview.
After a phone interview with Ms. Hammersmith and an interview at the actual store (which I blazed through with flying colors, I might add), I have one final interview to go this Thursday afternoon.
Maybe next time I'll think twice before getting frustrated with my mother. Thanks, Mom! You're the best!
I'll keep you guys posted. I expect I'll be hopping on turtles and shooting fireballs before long.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some...*ahem* temp work I need to get back to. And I don't have to worry about Mom sending them naked baby pictures of me because...well...
You know.
So Numbtindoughland is about a fifteen minute walk due east of my apartment. I mean DUE east. It's on the same street.
I love Numbtindoughland. I've been several times already, just browsing, enjoying all the different things there are to see in the store. It probably doesn't hurt that I've been playing Numbtindough video games since I was still in short pants. It's marvelous.
I got to thinking, "Hmm. I wonder if they're hiring for seasonal part-time help any time soon. The pay is probably peanuts but it might be really fun to work in one of the most impressive video game stores in America."
I asked one of the clerks about possible part-time work.
"You have to apply through the Numbtindough corporate website," came the reply.
I decided I didn't like his response. I went upstairs and asked another clerk.
"You have to apply through the Numbtindough corporate website," came the reply.
I called my parents that night. They asked what I had been up to and if I was enjoying myself. I mentioned the whole Numbtindoughland thing--you had to apply online, but I only had limited access with my Blockberry so I'd probably have to forget the whole thing.
The End
Actually, that's where it WOULD have ended if not for my mother's efforts.
In our next phone call, she gave me the news.
"I submitted an online application for you to work at Numbtindoughland!"
"What? You did? That's great!"
"Yes! I couldn't find your business resume though, so I sent them your acting resume instead."
"Wait...what?"
"I think it makes you seem very interesting. I'd call you in for an interview if I were hiring."
I felt like I was in one of those sitcoms where the well-intentioned parents meddle in their grown children's lives and hilarity ensues. You know. Like accidentally replacing the main character's important business presentation CD with baby pictures of him in the bathtub.
I was about to sarcastically ask if she included a headshot, but I left it alone. There was no way Numbtindoughland would ever take me seriously now. I'd just have to be happy with model--er--temp work.
Last week, however...
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Me: (answering the phone) Hello?
Woman: Hello, may I speak with Forky please?
Me: Speaking.
Woman: My name is Henrietta Hammersmith and I'm calling from the Numbtindough corporate offices about your resume posting for seasonal part-time work. You sound very interesting. We'd like you to come in for an interview.
After a phone interview with Ms. Hammersmith and an interview at the actual store (which I blazed through with flying colors, I might add), I have one final interview to go this Thursday afternoon.
Maybe next time I'll think twice before getting frustrated with my mother. Thanks, Mom! You're the best!
I'll keep you guys posted. I expect I'll be hopping on turtles and shooting fireballs before long.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some...*ahem* temp work I need to get back to. And I don't have to worry about Mom sending them naked baby pictures of me because...well...
You know.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Mr. Squeakers
When you move to Supercity X, make sure you don't leave any food out on your kitchen counter.
My roommate did.
Yesterday morning I woke up to go to church and I noticed two more poison granola cubes on the kitchen counter.
"Uh oh," I thought. "The roommate must've met Mr. Squeakers last night."
A small, adorable shape skittered across the kitchen counter. I stepped back in alarm and hit the light switch. the little critter hopped up on the toaster, winked at me, and scurried into a nearby burner on the stove, his furry tail disappearing last of all, like a stubborn spaghetti noodle being sucked up.
After I got past the initial cuteness of the whole thing (his widdle mousie tushie disappearing into the oven..."Uh oh! Thur's no cheez here! I's bettur hide!"...so pwecious!), I examined the loaf of bread that had been carelessly left out. Mr. Squeakers had gotten in. I shook my head and uttered,
"We're getting a cat."
Mr. Squeakers is adorable. And Mr. Squeakers must die.
* * * *
In less adorable, unrelated news, it's Columbus Day in Supercity X and that can only mean one thing: fewer people on the subways this morning! Thanks, C-Co, for proving just how much like an egg the world really is!
Hopefully there will also be fewer people at the audition later this afternoon but somehow I doubt it.
My roommate did.
Yesterday morning I woke up to go to church and I noticed two more poison granola cubes on the kitchen counter.
"Uh oh," I thought. "The roommate must've met Mr. Squeakers last night."
A small, adorable shape skittered across the kitchen counter. I stepped back in alarm and hit the light switch. the little critter hopped up on the toaster, winked at me, and scurried into a nearby burner on the stove, his furry tail disappearing last of all, like a stubborn spaghetti noodle being sucked up.
After I got past the initial cuteness of the whole thing (his widdle mousie tushie disappearing into the oven..."Uh oh! Thur's no cheez here! I's bettur hide!"...so pwecious!), I examined the loaf of bread that had been carelessly left out. Mr. Squeakers had gotten in. I shook my head and uttered,
"We're getting a cat."
Mr. Squeakers is adorable. And Mr. Squeakers must die.
* * * *
In less adorable, unrelated news, it's Columbus Day in Supercity X and that can only mean one thing: fewer people on the subways this morning! Thanks, C-Co, for proving just how much like an egg the world really is!
Hopefully there will also be fewer people at the audition later this afternoon but somehow I doubt it.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Word to Your (Conservative) Mother
Hey gang.
I have great parents. They're decent folks who've worked hard to raise me right, to make good choices, and not whore around.
I think this whole modeling thing has shocked them a little.
So even though I've named my current painful pose "Samuel's Calling" in honor of the Old Testament prophet who inspired it (it's quite good, this one--I could make a killing doing the saints. They say I have very "soulful" eyes that look best when turned Heavenward), I feel that in this instance, instead of fighting my family, I need to honor their request.
That is, any mention of modeling is heretofore referred to simply as "temp work".
Okay, so it's kinda lame. I'm posing in the classical tradition of the Renaissence, not "Loverbois 4". But when you consider we're related to what can be best likened to the Kennedys of the South (the Republican ones, natch), I can certainly see how exposing myself could cause an uncomfortable scandal at this year's Thanksgiving dinner table.
So, as Mary Poppins would say, in every lie that must be told, there's a hint of comic gold.
This is where you come in. I need help cooking up different code words for this modeling thing--words commonly used by office temps. That way, when people ask me what I'm doing, I can tell them without fear of divine retribution (Rev 21:8). In other words, I'm not lying. They're just not up on the latest art model slang.
I need office-friendly alternatives for words such as:
Art studio
Art students
Drawing/painting
Pose
Modeling
Nude
Bathrobe
and Labrador.
I'll check back Monday morning to see what you've come up with! Happy weekend!
I have great parents. They're decent folks who've worked hard to raise me right, to make good choices, and not whore around.
I think this whole modeling thing has shocked them a little.
So even though I've named my current painful pose "Samuel's Calling" in honor of the Old Testament prophet who inspired it (it's quite good, this one--I could make a killing doing the saints. They say I have very "soulful" eyes that look best when turned Heavenward), I feel that in this instance, instead of fighting my family, I need to honor their request.
That is, any mention of modeling is heretofore referred to simply as "temp work".
Okay, so it's kinda lame. I'm posing in the classical tradition of the Renaissence, not "Loverbois 4". But when you consider we're related to what can be best likened to the Kennedys of the South (the Republican ones, natch), I can certainly see how exposing myself could cause an uncomfortable scandal at this year's Thanksgiving dinner table.
So, as Mary Poppins would say, in every lie that must be told, there's a hint of comic gold.
This is where you come in. I need help cooking up different code words for this modeling thing--words commonly used by office temps. That way, when people ask me what I'm doing, I can tell them without fear of divine retribution (Rev 21:8). In other words, I'm not lying. They're just not up on the latest art model slang.
I need office-friendly alternatives for words such as:
Art studio
Art students
Drawing/painting
Pose
Modeling
Nude
Bathrobe
and Labrador.
I'll check back Monday morning to see what you've come up with! Happy weekend!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
What Price Art?
I've made a huge mistake.
I'm currently in my first week under the employ of a fantastic drawing group. The students are all exceptionally talented. They wanted to get some good paintings and portraits out of my month with them. As a result, I am sitting in one pose every morning for four hours for the next two and a half weeks.
And once a pose is set, there can be no changing, no tweaking, no bellyaching, and absolutely no utterance of, "Umm...this feels a little bit like Chinese water torture."
That tiny tilt of the head...
That slight twist of the spine...
That bend in the knee...
(Sorry...some man just came into our subway car saying, "I'm a Philly chicken head. Like em spicy. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, all for you." (plays harmonica, then returns to chorus). Felt like I should share that with you.)
As I was saying, all those little things you do, they're all "marked". You hold the pose for 20 minutes, then break for 5.
My body can now tell me when 18 minutes have passed. Because my muscles begin quivering and I bite my tongue to try and take the focus off the PAIN.
Here's a fun thing to try. Where you're sitting, right now, sit up so your back is off the chair. Now twist your torso so your chest is facing to the right. Now turn your head so you're looking off to the left. Prop yourself up slightly with your hands on the seat behind you and make your shoulders uneven.
There--perfect. A lovely, dramatic pose with a nice torque and twist (artists LOVE that).
Now hold still. I'm going to paint you.
Mmm hmm dee hmm...
Excuse me, but you shifted your right shoulder. Could you put it back the way it was?
Yes, just like that.
Daa dee mmm bum dum...
No, your head moved. Bring it back to the left. The lighting hits your face differently when it's over there.
Paint, paint, la la la...
I'm sorry, but you keep fidgeting. You need to hold as still as possible for the next 18 minutes. Ah, I know. I'll put this soothing CD of classical music on. That will help you stay focused.
Draw, sketch, draw...
Is something the matter? Your eyes seem to have trouble staying open. And speaking of your eyes, could you now look to the extreme right? No, don't move your head, just the eyes. Thanks.
.....
.....
.....
Well? How's the pose holding up? Has it been ten minutes yet?
The point of all this falderal is to help you see that, while your career as an artist's model may bring shame to your family and loved ones, it also requires an enormous amount of focus, concentration, and, most of all, endurance.
The latter of which I'm already running dangerously low on. For real.
In my desire to give the art students something really nice to draw, I added a few liiiiiiitle twists and tilts when we set the pose.
Remember how I mentioned Chinese water torture earlier?
Yeah. It's kinda like that.
I'm paying for my artistic generosity. And there's no turning back.
I'm currently in my first week under the employ of a fantastic drawing group. The students are all exceptionally talented. They wanted to get some good paintings and portraits out of my month with them. As a result, I am sitting in one pose every morning for four hours for the next two and a half weeks.
And once a pose is set, there can be no changing, no tweaking, no bellyaching, and absolutely no utterance of, "Umm...this feels a little bit like Chinese water torture."
That tiny tilt of the head...
That slight twist of the spine...
That bend in the knee...
(Sorry...some man just came into our subway car saying, "I'm a Philly chicken head. Like em spicy. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, all for you." (plays harmonica, then returns to chorus). Felt like I should share that with you.)
As I was saying, all those little things you do, they're all "marked". You hold the pose for 20 minutes, then break for 5.
My body can now tell me when 18 minutes have passed. Because my muscles begin quivering and I bite my tongue to try and take the focus off the PAIN.
Here's a fun thing to try. Where you're sitting, right now, sit up so your back is off the chair. Now twist your torso so your chest is facing to the right. Now turn your head so you're looking off to the left. Prop yourself up slightly with your hands on the seat behind you and make your shoulders uneven.
There--perfect. A lovely, dramatic pose with a nice torque and twist (artists LOVE that).
Now hold still. I'm going to paint you.
Mmm hmm dee hmm...
Excuse me, but you shifted your right shoulder. Could you put it back the way it was?
Yes, just like that.
Daa dee mmm bum dum...
No, your head moved. Bring it back to the left. The lighting hits your face differently when it's over there.
Paint, paint, la la la...
I'm sorry, but you keep fidgeting. You need to hold as still as possible for the next 18 minutes. Ah, I know. I'll put this soothing CD of classical music on. That will help you stay focused.
Draw, sketch, draw...
Is something the matter? Your eyes seem to have trouble staying open. And speaking of your eyes, could you now look to the extreme right? No, don't move your head, just the eyes. Thanks.
.....
.....
.....
Well? How's the pose holding up? Has it been ten minutes yet?
The point of all this falderal is to help you see that, while your career as an artist's model may bring shame to your family and loved ones, it also requires an enormous amount of focus, concentration, and, most of all, endurance.
The latter of which I'm already running dangerously low on. For real.
In my desire to give the art students something really nice to draw, I added a few liiiiiiitle twists and tilts when we set the pose.
Remember how I mentioned Chinese water torture earlier?
Yeah. It's kinda like that.
I'm paying for my artistic generosity. And there's no turning back.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Naked Truth
Someone recently asked me what I "do" here in Supercity X.
That's a common question, usually met with an equally common response.
"Oh, I work as a file clerk to pay the rent."
"Oh, I'm a waiter."
"Oh, I train seals."
When the question was posed to me by one of my new Supercity buddies, I told him simply, "Oh, I do temp stuff."
I'm here to tell you that, while that is partially true, it's not entirely true.
You see, this last summer, after getting tanned and toned for Midsummer, I discovered a way to make money that's really easy--and you don't really have to do anything but lie there!
If they ask for a reclining pose, naturally.
No, I'm not a male prostitute. But I'm not much better. Yes, boring, conservative, religious, nothing-going-on-upstairs Forky has, up until now, made the bulk of his living in Supercity X (or is it Nude Fork City?) as an artist's model.
"Now do you mean you're COMPLETELY naked?" my mother asked when I told my mother and father.
And I tell you now what I told them: Yes.
I'm not exposing myself to you all just to get a rise out of you. It's just difficult to accurately chronicle my many misadventures here while leaving out stories like "In the Garden of Earthly Delights" or "the Graphic Design Students Who Just Didn't Care".
But I think what really makes this kinda funny is that if you had told me six months ago that I was #1, going to move to Nude Fork City and #2, make my living as an artists model, I would have called you a liar. I mean...THINK about it.
Desperate times...
I know what you’re thinking. “That’s kind of like prostitution! You’re a whore!”
To which I must reply: whores are not paid to sit perfectly still for hours on end. They’re paid to…y’know. Move.
It’s perfectly educational! These are classical poses in the tradition of the Greeks and Romans! The Renaissance! Michelangelo! Leonardo da Vinci Code! It’s not like I’m walking into some kind of red plush painters bordello, the smell of opium heavy in the halls, where I dine on succulent fruits from the garden of earthly delights and swill wine from the goblet of lust and temptation before reenacting the famous scene from Rosemary’s Baby where she gets gang-raped by Lucifer and a mob of clutching demons.
Well—actually, that did happen. Once. But that’s a whole ‘nuther post. Maybe we’ll save that one for Halloween.
I can tell what you’re doing this very minute. You’re judging me. You’re thinking, “Dear gawd. Forky gets naked in front of complete strangers! Disgusting! Shameful!”
I suppose it would be…if I wasn’t making anywhere from $15-$20 an hour!
Gosh, somehow that makes it sound like prostitution all over again.
Okay. At this point, if you’re still shocked, just think about the natural progression of things. The original ‘Saved by the Bell’ was a wholesome romp for the after-school crowd that originally premiered on the Disney channel as a vehicle for an aging Haley Mills. Then came ‘Saved by the Bell: the College Years’ and everything changed. Risks were taken. New characters were introduced. The show was cancelled.
Consider this MY ‘Saved by the Bell: the College Years’. Riskier. Newer. Changier. And if you don’t like it, well, just…tune out! That’s what they did to ‘Saved by the Bell’ and look what happened! Now they’re a limited edition DVD!
Venus DeMilo's school for artists is a well-respected--uh--school for artists and once every few months or so, they have tryouts for new models. I showed up and did my stuff and suddenly my schedule went from doin’ nuthin’ to being being jam-packed as overnight I became the darling of the Supercity art circles.
Well, maybe not darling, but dang.
“Honey, do you want to do this full time?” Ms. DeMilo asked, an imaginary cigarette dangling from her lip.
“I dunno,” I said stupidly. “I just think it’s fun.”
“You do know you could do this full time, don’t you?”
“I…I could?”
I’m booked for the entire month of October and into November.
I guess it’s kind of like…Christian porn?
To be continued…
VERY continued...
That's a common question, usually met with an equally common response.
"Oh, I work as a file clerk to pay the rent."
"Oh, I'm a waiter."
"Oh, I train seals."
When the question was posed to me by one of my new Supercity buddies, I told him simply, "Oh, I do temp stuff."
I'm here to tell you that, while that is partially true, it's not entirely true.
You see, this last summer, after getting tanned and toned for Midsummer, I discovered a way to make money that's really easy--and you don't really have to do anything but lie there!
If they ask for a reclining pose, naturally.
No, I'm not a male prostitute. But I'm not much better. Yes, boring, conservative, religious, nothing-going-on-upstairs Forky has, up until now, made the bulk of his living in Supercity X (or is it Nude Fork City?) as an artist's model.
"Now do you mean you're COMPLETELY naked?" my mother asked when I told my mother and father.
And I tell you now what I told them: Yes.
I'm not exposing myself to you all just to get a rise out of you. It's just difficult to accurately chronicle my many misadventures here while leaving out stories like "In the Garden of Earthly Delights" or "the Graphic Design Students Who Just Didn't Care".
But I think what really makes this kinda funny is that if you had told me six months ago that I was #1, going to move to Nude Fork City and #2, make my living as an artists model, I would have called you a liar. I mean...THINK about it.
Desperate times...
I know what you’re thinking. “That’s kind of like prostitution! You’re a whore!”
To which I must reply: whores are not paid to sit perfectly still for hours on end. They’re paid to…y’know. Move.
It’s perfectly educational! These are classical poses in the tradition of the Greeks and Romans! The Renaissance! Michelangelo! Leonardo da Vinci Code! It’s not like I’m walking into some kind of red plush painters bordello, the smell of opium heavy in the halls, where I dine on succulent fruits from the garden of earthly delights and swill wine from the goblet of lust and temptation before reenacting the famous scene from Rosemary’s Baby where she gets gang-raped by Lucifer and a mob of clutching demons.
Well—actually, that did happen. Once. But that’s a whole ‘nuther post. Maybe we’ll save that one for Halloween.
I can tell what you’re doing this very minute. You’re judging me. You’re thinking, “Dear gawd. Forky gets naked in front of complete strangers! Disgusting! Shameful!”
I suppose it would be…if I wasn’t making anywhere from $15-$20 an hour!
Gosh, somehow that makes it sound like prostitution all over again.
Okay. At this point, if you’re still shocked, just think about the natural progression of things. The original ‘Saved by the Bell’ was a wholesome romp for the after-school crowd that originally premiered on the Disney channel as a vehicle for an aging Haley Mills. Then came ‘Saved by the Bell: the College Years’ and everything changed. Risks were taken. New characters were introduced. The show was cancelled.
Consider this MY ‘Saved by the Bell: the College Years’. Riskier. Newer. Changier. And if you don’t like it, well, just…tune out! That’s what they did to ‘Saved by the Bell’ and look what happened! Now they’re a limited edition DVD!
Venus DeMilo's school for artists is a well-respected--uh--school for artists and once every few months or so, they have tryouts for new models. I showed up and did my stuff and suddenly my schedule went from doin’ nuthin’ to being being jam-packed as overnight I became the darling of the Supercity art circles.
Well, maybe not darling, but dang.
“Honey, do you want to do this full time?” Ms. DeMilo asked, an imaginary cigarette dangling from her lip.
“I dunno,” I said stupidly. “I just think it’s fun.”
“You do know you could do this full time, don’t you?”
“I…I could?”
I’m booked for the entire month of October and into November.
I guess it’s kind of like…Christian porn?
To be continued…
VERY continued...
Monday, October 02, 2006
Waiting for the E Train
I met some actual starving artists this morning at the modeling sesh. One of them lives in Boroughcity (south of Supercity X) and shares an efficiency with two other guys. You can't beat the rent though...he only pays $300 a month. Not bad for one room and a toilet! Still, in a town like this, you get what you pay for. Most of the time, anyway. He's hopeful to begin work at a nearby bookstore for $9 an hour. Gads! Makes you kind of glad to have the work you do!
The V train just pulled up. Who takes the V train??
And some guy in front of me is practicing his golf swing. He almost clocked somebody.
Just standing in this subway station makes this keypad feel...sticky.
It's Supercity X!
I met the newest member of our apartment family this weekend. His name is Mr. Squeakers. He's a mouse. He's adorable. And he'll be dead soon.
The V train just pulled up. Who takes the V train??
And some guy in front of me is practicing his golf swing. He almost clocked somebody.
Just standing in this subway station makes this keypad feel...sticky.
It's Supercity X!
I met the newest member of our apartment family this weekend. His name is Mr. Squeakers. He's a mouse. He's adorable. And he'll be dead soon.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Sunday Night Musings
I walked seven miles today. That's 15679 steps. Unfortunately, walking that far does not burn as many calories as you would think. You'd imagine that burning, like, a thousand or two. Nope. Try a paltry 636.9 cals. You'd think it would be more, wouldn't you? But it's not. Not by a longshot.
Yes, I bought a pedometer. I expect I'll get pretty obnoxious with it.
Sorry for the lapse in posting. Blackwell the Blackberry went to technology heaven. He had been sickly for a while and finally busted this morning. I have a new Blackberry. I think this one might be a girl, but it's difficult to say. if she is, her name might be Maria Sophia. Don't axe me why. In fact, if you can come up with something better, feel free to suggest it.
Just bear in mind that Babette is already taken. That's my PC.
I begin my big-time modeling gig tomorrow morning. Oh, for those of you I haven't told for fear of...oh, what's the word? I can't think of it. But, I'm modeling. I actually have been for some time. I don't know why I neglected to share that. It just never made its way into any of these posts. I'll get around to posting the full story sometime this week. That is, if Cecile doesn't die on me like Blackwell did.
I also have a phone interview with Numbtindough Planet tomorrow! They're hiring "greeters" for the Christmas rush! I'll be sure to let you know how it goes!
It feels like there's so much to tell...I lost a week of updates. Oh well. I guess I'll just fill you in starting tomorrow...
Unless, of course, Pansy quits working.
Yes, I bought a pedometer. I expect I'll get pretty obnoxious with it.
Sorry for the lapse in posting. Blackwell the Blackberry went to technology heaven. He had been sickly for a while and finally busted this morning. I have a new Blackberry. I think this one might be a girl, but it's difficult to say. if she is, her name might be Maria Sophia. Don't axe me why. In fact, if you can come up with something better, feel free to suggest it.
Just bear in mind that Babette is already taken. That's my PC.
I begin my big-time modeling gig tomorrow morning. Oh, for those of you I haven't told for fear of...oh, what's the word? I can't think of it. But, I'm modeling. I actually have been for some time. I don't know why I neglected to share that. It just never made its way into any of these posts. I'll get around to posting the full story sometime this week. That is, if Cecile doesn't die on me like Blackwell did.
I also have a phone interview with Numbtindough Planet tomorrow! They're hiring "greeters" for the Christmas rush! I'll be sure to let you know how it goes!
It feels like there's so much to tell...I lost a week of updates. Oh well. I guess I'll just fill you in starting tomorrow...
Unless, of course, Pansy quits working.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Two Weeks Old and First Audition
Hey guys. Hope your Monday was as swell as mine. I'm now two weeks old!
The pangs of homesickness are starting to subside. Who has time to think about home when one is hacking on secondhand smoke?
Seriously, these "enlightened" New Yorkers act all superior to everybody else, hate the president and Corporate America, yet as soon as they cross any threshold and take a step outdoors...
BAM! They've lit up again. Maybe someone should tell these morons that Big Tobacco counts as the Corporate America they loathe so well.
Seriously, at this rate, I'll never need to take up smoking. I already get a lethal dose of nicotine and carbon monoxide just walking down the street next to these monkeys!
But a rant about the vices of Supercityzians isn't why you came here is it?
This morning I had my first New York audition! It's for a Shakespeare company. Seeing as how I could do Shakespeare in my sleep, rolling off a log, with a fox, in a box, on a train, in the rain, I decided, "What the heck?! I'll knock 'em dead!"
The alarm on Blackwell the Blackberry gently knudged me off of my air mattress and into a smart audition outfit. I walked the ten minute walk to the equity office and marched proudly inside.
"Wow! It's a good thing I didn't come any earlier!" I thought. "There's nobody here and the doors don't open until 8am! I guess I'll just sit here and twiddle my thumbs."
A man in a rainbow-streaked shirt walked in.
"You know there'th a line out-thide."
"Yeah, I know," I replied casually. "Janet Jackson is signing at the record shop this morning."
"Nooo-uh," he said. "For auditions. You have tuh get in line. Outside."
"Oh! Whoops! Sorry. First time!"
My attempts at tried-and-true Texas charm were wasted. The poof rolled his eyes and slammed the door behind me.
I walked outside and found the line. And what a line! Chock full of people dressed a variety of clothes, from rags to their Sunday best. Most of them had books of Shakespeare and were animatedly talking to the air in front of them.
Say what you will, Janet Jackson can still draw a crowd.
Wrong line.
I looked around and found the other line. The one that also had people talking animatedly to thin air, but with dead eyes, pasty complexions and sunken-in cheeks from eating nothing but cat food to pay the rent.
Actors. Bingo.
They corralled us in at 8:00 sharp and divided us into two lines. One to the left, one to the right. Those in the left were immediately sent to the gas chambers. Those to the right were non-union and signed their Li'l Jackie Hancock on a long list.
I was in the line to the right. I survived.
I'm supposed to check back at 9:20 to see if they'll have time to see non-union folks. Since I live so close and not in some borough like Yonkers or Bonkers, I decided to swing by the ol' Internet Café for a "cup on joe" (that's what New Yorkers call coffee!) and to give yawl the most up-to-the minute breaking news!
Check back for an update later today! If I get in, you can bet I'll knock 'em dead with my Billy Bard!
The pangs of homesickness are starting to subside. Who has time to think about home when one is hacking on secondhand smoke?
Seriously, these "enlightened" New Yorkers act all superior to everybody else, hate the president and Corporate America, yet as soon as they cross any threshold and take a step outdoors...
BAM! They've lit up again. Maybe someone should tell these morons that Big Tobacco counts as the Corporate America they loathe so well.
Seriously, at this rate, I'll never need to take up smoking. I already get a lethal dose of nicotine and carbon monoxide just walking down the street next to these monkeys!
But a rant about the vices of Supercityzians isn't why you came here is it?
This morning I had my first New York audition! It's for a Shakespeare company. Seeing as how I could do Shakespeare in my sleep, rolling off a log, with a fox, in a box, on a train, in the rain, I decided, "What the heck?! I'll knock 'em dead!"
The alarm on Blackwell the Blackberry gently knudged me off of my air mattress and into a smart audition outfit. I walked the ten minute walk to the equity office and marched proudly inside.
"Wow! It's a good thing I didn't come any earlier!" I thought. "There's nobody here and the doors don't open until 8am! I guess I'll just sit here and twiddle my thumbs."
A man in a rainbow-streaked shirt walked in.
"You know there'th a line out-thide."
"Yeah, I know," I replied casually. "Janet Jackson is signing at the record shop this morning."
"Nooo-uh," he said. "For auditions. You have tuh get in line. Outside."
"Oh! Whoops! Sorry. First time!"
My attempts at tried-and-true Texas charm were wasted. The poof rolled his eyes and slammed the door behind me.
I walked outside and found the line. And what a line! Chock full of people dressed a variety of clothes, from rags to their Sunday best. Most of them had books of Shakespeare and were animatedly talking to the air in front of them.
Say what you will, Janet Jackson can still draw a crowd.
Wrong line.
I looked around and found the other line. The one that also had people talking animatedly to thin air, but with dead eyes, pasty complexions and sunken-in cheeks from eating nothing but cat food to pay the rent.
Actors. Bingo.
They corralled us in at 8:00 sharp and divided us into two lines. One to the left, one to the right. Those in the left were immediately sent to the gas chambers. Those to the right were non-union and signed their Li'l Jackie Hancock on a long list.
I was in the line to the right. I survived.
I'm supposed to check back at 9:20 to see if they'll have time to see non-union folks. Since I live so close and not in some borough like Yonkers or Bonkers, I decided to swing by the ol' Internet Café for a "cup on joe" (that's what New Yorkers call coffee!) and to give yawl the most up-to-the minute breaking news!
Check back for an update later today! If I get in, you can bet I'll knock 'em dead with my Billy Bard!
Friday, September 22, 2006
A Job...(adjective)...Done
21st Floor
Day 4/4
Free at last...free at last...
Almost.
I'll be free at 5:30.
While this place certainly could have been much worse, I AM glad to be finished with Waulmarque Entertainment...for now.
Still, can I just tell you what a curious feeling it is to emerge from this building and look around? "Holy crap," I think to myself. "I just finished a day of work in NEW YO--er--SUPERCITY X!"
It's a very strange feeling. Sort of pride, sort of disbelief, sort of "that wasn't so bad", sort of "I wish I has more money".
It's a complicated feeling.
The Great Dane struck again. Just when I started to think that we were safe...this morning...there was a fresh log.
Okay, I need someone to tell me...
Why on earth does any Supercity X-ian need a DOG? Those teacup chihuahuas I understand. But Irish Wolfhounds? I mean, considering that the most expensive apartments in this town cost seventy times seven times more than my old apartment in Everycity and are still no bigger than said apartment, do these "dog people" not realize that their massive, drooling poop machines don't help pay the rent?
Now, if the dog could do a little soft shoe, I'd understand.
Happy weekend!
Day 4/4
Free at last...free at last...
Almost.
I'll be free at 5:30.
While this place certainly could have been much worse, I AM glad to be finished with Waulmarque Entertainment...for now.
Still, can I just tell you what a curious feeling it is to emerge from this building and look around? "Holy crap," I think to myself. "I just finished a day of work in NEW YO--er--SUPERCITY X!"
It's a very strange feeling. Sort of pride, sort of disbelief, sort of "that wasn't so bad", sort of "I wish I has more money".
It's a complicated feeling.
The Great Dane struck again. Just when I started to think that we were safe...this morning...there was a fresh log.
Okay, I need someone to tell me...
Why on earth does any Supercity X-ian need a DOG? Those teacup chihuahuas I understand. But Irish Wolfhounds? I mean, considering that the most expensive apartments in this town cost seventy times seven times more than my old apartment in Everycity and are still no bigger than said apartment, do these "dog people" not realize that their massive, drooling poop machines don't help pay the rent?
Now, if the dog could do a little soft shoe, I'd understand.
Happy weekend!
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Half the Man I Used to Be
21st Floor
Day 3/4
Honestly, being in a strange office is making me miss the normal, hum drum office in Everycity all the more.
Can you believe it? I actually MISS the 42nd Floor!
Well, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. I mean, Supercity is a totally different beast than Everycity. Totally different. I mean, Grime Square is my backyard. If I want to see a Gaudway show, I just have to show up and ask if they have discount tickets. I don't have to make reservations. Why? Because if they don't have tickets, I can just walk home and try back tomorrow!
It is a somewhat treacherous walk, however. According to the good folks in my block association, I'm "far west" even though I only live one block over from the rest of them. My block is also a taxi depot. At the end of the day, the street is crawling with taxi drivers who don't speak Engrish. Lish. Which is fine if being around foreign tongues is your bag. Me, I'm always afraid they're making fun of my nose or something.
Then there's the Great Dane. I've never seen the Great Dane but I know he's there. You can tell. You have to hop over logs of poop in order to get to my place. It's illegal to not curb your dog in New York, but somehow, the Great Dane has gotten away with it. Probably because no one wants to mess with a Great Dane. I've taken to calling the street in front of my apartment Poo Poo Parkway.
Stupid dog.
Donna Donnitore, the woman I'm supposed to be supporting this week, is out for the next two days. You know what that means...
(Forky pulls out his Nintendo DS)
Day 3/4
Honestly, being in a strange office is making me miss the normal, hum drum office in Everycity all the more.
Can you believe it? I actually MISS the 42nd Floor!
Well, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. I mean, Supercity is a totally different beast than Everycity. Totally different. I mean, Grime Square is my backyard. If I want to see a Gaudway show, I just have to show up and ask if they have discount tickets. I don't have to make reservations. Why? Because if they don't have tickets, I can just walk home and try back tomorrow!
It is a somewhat treacherous walk, however. According to the good folks in my block association, I'm "far west" even though I only live one block over from the rest of them. My block is also a taxi depot. At the end of the day, the street is crawling with taxi drivers who don't speak Engrish. Lish. Which is fine if being around foreign tongues is your bag. Me, I'm always afraid they're making fun of my nose or something.
Then there's the Great Dane. I've never seen the Great Dane but I know he's there. You can tell. You have to hop over logs of poop in order to get to my place. It's illegal to not curb your dog in New York, but somehow, the Great Dane has gotten away with it. Probably because no one wants to mess with a Great Dane. I've taken to calling the street in front of my apartment Poo Poo Parkway.
Stupid dog.
Donna Donnitore, the woman I'm supposed to be supporting this week, is out for the next two days. You know what that means...
(Forky pulls out his Nintendo DS)
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
On the 21st Floor
It's not as high as the 42nd floor, but in a lot of ways, it feels curiously more...impressive.
Maybe it's because, looking out the window, you're surrounded by a bunch of buildings a lot taller than yours. Well. Yours might be just as tall, but there's no way to tell because you're only on 21. You can also make out what's going on down below. Where before you were too high up to even care what those little specks were doing, here on 21 they're real people with real hopes and real dreams.
And real smoking problems! Gack! I know we all want to be shwanky like the Europeans, but for real, people!
Anyway, this week's temp job (and my first since landing in Supercity X) is at Wawlmarque Entertainment. You know, the people who make all the mini serieseses you watch on the TV.
I know, right?
It's pretty interesting. I'm covering for this woman in the scripts development department. She and her boss do all this research trying to find ideas for new serieseses.
However, when the big boss calls it's easy to lose your nerve and fail to answer the phone. After all, he's this ancient man with a thick German accent. For all I know, he strangled puppies with the Hitler youth.
I don't want him to strangle me.
Tomorrow should be the hardest day. The woman I'm covering for did a Consuela-riffic job of preparing me (that is, she was totally unclear and didn't really tell me WHAT I was doing). But her boss (not the Nazi--this one is a power hungry woman from the Bronx) will be gone through the end of the week. No supervisors.
I'd better bring the charger for Blackwell the Blackberry. When the cat's away...
Maybe it's because, looking out the window, you're surrounded by a bunch of buildings a lot taller than yours. Well. Yours might be just as tall, but there's no way to tell because you're only on 21. You can also make out what's going on down below. Where before you were too high up to even care what those little specks were doing, here on 21 they're real people with real hopes and real dreams.
And real smoking problems! Gack! I know we all want to be shwanky like the Europeans, but for real, people!
Anyway, this week's temp job (and my first since landing in Supercity X) is at Wawlmarque Entertainment. You know, the people who make all the mini serieseses you watch on the TV.
I know, right?
It's pretty interesting. I'm covering for this woman in the scripts development department. She and her boss do all this research trying to find ideas for new serieseses.
However, when the big boss calls it's easy to lose your nerve and fail to answer the phone. After all, he's this ancient man with a thick German accent. For all I know, he strangled puppies with the Hitler youth.
I don't want him to strangle me.
Tomorrow should be the hardest day. The woman I'm covering for did a Consuela-riffic job of preparing me (that is, she was totally unclear and didn't really tell me WHAT I was doing). But her boss (not the Nazi--this one is a power hungry woman from the Bronx) will be gone through the end of the week. No supervisors.
I'd better bring the charger for Blackwell the Blackberry. When the cat's away...
Monday, September 18, 2006
One Week Anniversary
I'm one week old today.
In honor of the fact that I now know the subway, I haven't been mugged, and actually gave someone ELSE directions how to get someplace, I think it's time for another famous 42 Floor poll.
Those of you who have been with us for some time know that in our blogosphere, we always use pseudonymns for everyone and almost every thing. This is so we can easily defend ourselves when our bosses accuse us of blogging about people and events going on at work. And it's just plain fun.
How can he argue when you tell him that this mystery blogger lives in colorfully named places like Wackyton or Everycity? YOU certainly don't live in either of those places.
I may have been able to get my apartment almost completely furnished in the span of a week. I may have a gym membership. I may have seen them filming the evening news for FloxNews and gotten giddy as I saw those faces that my family and ADub & Dr.No know so very well. I may have been to Numbtendo World more times than I can count.
But there's one thing I haven't got.
Rhythm.
No, wait. That's not it.
A pseudonym for this fair City. Yes. That's what I MEANT to say.
It's time to vote for your favorite! Write-ins will be accepted. Oh, and...
Happy anniversary to me.
The Choices:
Mugville
Le Cite Grande
Supercity
Supercity X (my personal fav)
Notjustanycity
Everycity Redux
This Fair City
Now vote! I expect this place to be hoppin' when I get back from my first temp job tomorrow!
In honor of the fact that I now know the subway, I haven't been mugged, and actually gave someone ELSE directions how to get someplace, I think it's time for another famous 42 Floor poll.
Those of you who have been with us for some time know that in our blogosphere, we always use pseudonymns for everyone and almost every thing. This is so we can easily defend ourselves when our bosses accuse us of blogging about people and events going on at work. And it's just plain fun.
How can he argue when you tell him that this mystery blogger lives in colorfully named places like Wackyton or Everycity? YOU certainly don't live in either of those places.
I may have been able to get my apartment almost completely furnished in the span of a week. I may have a gym membership. I may have seen them filming the evening news for FloxNews and gotten giddy as I saw those faces that my family and ADub & Dr.No know so very well. I may have been to Numbtendo World more times than I can count.
But there's one thing I haven't got.
Rhythm.
No, wait. That's not it.
A pseudonym for this fair City. Yes. That's what I MEANT to say.
It's time to vote for your favorite! Write-ins will be accepted. Oh, and...
Happy anniversary to me.
The Choices:
Mugville
Le Cite Grande
Supercity
Supercity X (my personal fav)
Notjustanycity
Everycity Redux
This Fair City
Now vote! I expect this place to be hoppin' when I get back from my first temp job tomorrow!
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Back in Action!
Hey gang!
Sorry to leave you hanging like that. I've only just been able to figure out how to get this dag-blasted (yet much appreciated) Blackberry to make posts. But I'm back now...
And better than ever!
I haven't been in the City a week and already I feel like I've been here five days! There are lots of things to tell you about but the Spanish-speaking carpenters appear to be tearing down the outside hallway so I'll wait till things settle down a scosh.
In the meantime, I guess I'll head on over to the gym. That's right. Gym.
I still have abs to consider.
Sorry to leave you hanging like that. I've only just been able to figure out how to get this dag-blasted (yet much appreciated) Blackberry to make posts. But I'm back now...
And better than ever!
I haven't been in the City a week and already I feel like I've been here five days! There are lots of things to tell you about but the Spanish-speaking carpenters appear to be tearing down the outside hallway so I'll wait till things settle down a scosh.
In the meantime, I guess I'll head on over to the gym. That's right. Gym.
I still have abs to consider.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
New York Eve
I sit here, as my mother watches the Clinton-edited version of The Path to 9-11, typing this last blog entry before New York Day. It's kind of like Christmas Day, only you don't get presents. I mean, unless by presents you mean an apartment in New York City a mere ten minutes walk from Times Square.
Once again I'm thinking, "Wow. Maybe all this September 11th stuff wasn't such a good idea." I mean, I went to my Mom and Dad's Sunday school class today and they said a special prayer for me, not JUST because I'm moving to Le Cité Grande, but also because I'm traveling on this particular day.
It's especially comforting to look over at the TV and see a bunch of Arab actors firing guns into the air, shrieking the Xena battle cry, "ay-ay-ay-ay!" (that was sarcasm, by the way). Why do they want to kill me? I don't have a lot of money. I don't make important decisions. I just want to sing and dance on a stage so people will love me. What's so wrong about that?
Why can't they show something like...oh...I dunno...Tomb Raider? I like Tomb Raider.
"In memory of those who fell on September 11th...
...the world premiere of...
Angelina Jolia as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider!"
That'd be so cool.
Once again, I think I crossed a great big line there. But you know. That's what the 42nd Floor is all about.
But, as Dr. No observed, flying into New York on the fifth anniversary of the September 11th attacks is kind of like giving the big middle finger to Osama. And that makes me feel very...patriotic.
Unfortunately, these past few days at home have wrecked havoc on my abs. Havoc. It will take weeks--no--months to repair the damage that has been done by all the food my parents have been shoving down my all too-eager gullet.
More ab updates to follow.
It's kinda funny to think that tomorrow night I'll be in New York City. *thoughtful hmm*
More tomorrow!
Once again I'm thinking, "Wow. Maybe all this September 11th stuff wasn't such a good idea." I mean, I went to my Mom and Dad's Sunday school class today and they said a special prayer for me, not JUST because I'm moving to Le Cité Grande, but also because I'm traveling on this particular day.
It's especially comforting to look over at the TV and see a bunch of Arab actors firing guns into the air, shrieking the Xena battle cry, "ay-ay-ay-ay!" (that was sarcasm, by the way). Why do they want to kill me? I don't have a lot of money. I don't make important decisions. I just want to sing and dance on a stage so people will love me. What's so wrong about that?
Why can't they show something like...oh...I dunno...Tomb Raider? I like Tomb Raider.
"In memory of those who fell on September 11th...
...the world premiere of...
Angelina Jolia as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider!"
That'd be so cool.
Once again, I think I crossed a great big line there. But you know. That's what the 42nd Floor is all about.
But, as Dr. No observed, flying into New York on the fifth anniversary of the September 11th attacks is kind of like giving the big middle finger to Osama. And that makes me feel very...patriotic.
Unfortunately, these past few days at home have wrecked havoc on my abs. Havoc. It will take weeks--no--months to repair the damage that has been done by all the food my parents have been shoving down my all too-eager gullet.
More ab updates to follow.
It's kinda funny to think that tomorrow night I'll be in New York City. *thoughtful hmm*
More tomorrow!
Friday, September 08, 2006
A Confession
I have a confession to make.
My mother asked me, upon my triumphant return from the Great New York Apartment Hunt (GNYAH), when I was planning on going back up.
"Oh, I thought something like the 15th."
"Why do you want to wait that long?" she asked. "Every day you're here is money you aren't earning in New York!"
"Okay Mom," I said. "How about September 11th?"
A pause.
"Well," said Mom, "You'd probably get really good rates with the airlines."
So September 11th it was. Plans were made. The non-refundable plane ticket was purchased. I started jovially telling people that I was flying into New York on September 11th. Flying into New York on September 11th. Flying into New York on September 11th.
Okay. I confess. I thought it would be cute when and if I become famous to tell the talk show host that I flew into New York on the fifth anniversary of the attacks and my life has been one nutty adventure ever since. Isn't that kinda funny? You know. Like how people make Pearl Harbor jokes?
But now that I'm at my parents' house and I'm seeing all these "Never Remember, Never Forget" specials on the evening news, my "Ha ha ha! I'm flying into New York on September 11th! Ha ha ha!" has rapidly become "Uhh...ha...ha ha...I'm flyiiiiing...into *gulp* New York on *shiver* September 11th! Ha...um...ha ha...."
I've made a huge mistake.
My mother asked me, upon my triumphant return from the Great New York Apartment Hunt (GNYAH), when I was planning on going back up.
"Oh, I thought something like the 15th."
"Why do you want to wait that long?" she asked. "Every day you're here is money you aren't earning in New York!"
"Okay Mom," I said. "How about September 11th?"
A pause.
"Well," said Mom, "You'd probably get really good rates with the airlines."
So September 11th it was. Plans were made. The non-refundable plane ticket was purchased. I started jovially telling people that I was flying into New York on September 11th. Flying into New York on September 11th. Flying into New York on September 11th.
Okay. I confess. I thought it would be cute when and if I become famous to tell the talk show host that I flew into New York on the fifth anniversary of the attacks and my life has been one nutty adventure ever since. Isn't that kinda funny? You know. Like how people make Pearl Harbor jokes?
But now that I'm at my parents' house and I'm seeing all these "Never Remember, Never Forget" specials on the evening news, my "Ha ha ha! I'm flying into New York on September 11th! Ha ha ha!" has rapidly become "Uhh...ha...ha ha...I'm flyiiiiing...into *gulp* New York on *shiver* September 11th! Ha...um...ha ha...."
I've made a huge mistake.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Packing Update
When people ask me what was the hardest thing about moving to Le Cité Grande, I'm sure they're thinking I'll say something about the apartment hunting, the wandering about, the feelings of fear and hopelessness, the stress of saying goodbye to my friends and closing a chapter of my life and all that sort of thing.
But the dag-blamed hardest thing about this move?
The freakin' PACKING! Now that all my stuff is located in one room in Countryville, I have to go through ALL OF IT and decide what will fit in my three suitcases. Do you know how freakin' hard that is? I've spent most of the day standing in my room thinking, "Wow. This is hard."
I guess the thought that my mother will come up and say, "Oh honey...you don't need to take all this stuff. Here, let ME pack FOR you" doesn't help either.
As Little Edie would say, "I think I must have the saddest life."
But the dag-blamed hardest thing about this move?
The freakin' PACKING! Now that all my stuff is located in one room in Countryville, I have to go through ALL OF IT and decide what will fit in my three suitcases. Do you know how freakin' hard that is? I've spent most of the day standing in my room thinking, "Wow. This is hard."
I guess the thought that my mother will come up and say, "Oh honey...you don't need to take all this stuff. Here, let ME pack FOR you" doesn't help either.
As Little Edie would say, "I think I must have the saddest life."
Back in Countryville
Move Update:
The countdown begins. Four days left.
I'm back home with Mom and Dad in our fine house in Countryville. It's time for the final sorting. I have two large suitcases and one carry-on size suitcase. Now that all of my worldly possessions...and I do mean ALL...are in my bedroom here, it's time to go through the final sorting and decide what goes, what stays, what gets chucked, what gets hawked, what gets boxed and what gets burned in the furnace. Now I know how God must feel with the whole sheep and goats thing.
"You please me little teddy. You are soft and warm and being back happy memories. Enter in and join me at the banquet table."
or
"Depart from me, O ye cursed socks! Ye old, old socks! And you too, ye books! Ye books who I have read only once but for some reason insisted on keeping for years and years. Out! Out! Out damned sock!"
I was curiously unemotional as I left my empty apartment yesterday morning. I tried to work up some tears by listening to sad songs on my iRene as I drove out of town, past all my familiar haunts, knowing that there's a chance I might never see them again. But even the sad songs didn't do anything for me.
It wasn't until I passed through Wackytown and hit the miles and miles of rolling hills and feilds that I realized I might never make this particular drive again. Then I thought about Queen III all alone in Everycity with that nutty little poodle of hers, ADub and Dr. No starting back at good ol' Alma Mater U, Bibb Leo File and his Little Woman having just moved near Everycity from Pfarawayville, Matt and Kimmie G and their theatre company, the Cachinnator and Boscoe and Beeki and the cocker spaniels and all those other crazy folks...and just when the cool weather was starting to creep into the Everycity forecast...
Who could ever bear to leave?
Oh yes. And Nelson. Nelson, everyone's favorite cat (seriously...he really is everyone's favorite cat. Ask around if you don't believe me), is staying with the Leo File family for a time. I don't know that he has city life running through his little kitty veins. We'll see.
I leave for Le Cité Grande on the morning of September 11th. That's this coming Monday. I feel like I'm going off to war or something. But hey...it's just a city like anyplace else. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?!
(feel free to answer those famous last words in the comments section)
The countdown begins. Four days left.
I'm back home with Mom and Dad in our fine house in Countryville. It's time for the final sorting. I have two large suitcases and one carry-on size suitcase. Now that all of my worldly possessions...and I do mean ALL...are in my bedroom here, it's time to go through the final sorting and decide what goes, what stays, what gets chucked, what gets hawked, what gets boxed and what gets burned in the furnace. Now I know how God must feel with the whole sheep and goats thing.
"You please me little teddy. You are soft and warm and being back happy memories. Enter in and join me at the banquet table."
or
"Depart from me, O ye cursed socks! Ye old, old socks! And you too, ye books! Ye books who I have read only once but for some reason insisted on keeping for years and years. Out! Out! Out damned sock!"
I was curiously unemotional as I left my empty apartment yesterday morning. I tried to work up some tears by listening to sad songs on my iRene as I drove out of town, past all my familiar haunts, knowing that there's a chance I might never see them again. But even the sad songs didn't do anything for me.
It wasn't until I passed through Wackytown and hit the miles and miles of rolling hills and feilds that I realized I might never make this particular drive again. Then I thought about Queen III all alone in Everycity with that nutty little poodle of hers, ADub and Dr. No starting back at good ol' Alma Mater U, Bibb Leo File and his Little Woman having just moved near Everycity from Pfarawayville, Matt and Kimmie G and their theatre company, the Cachinnator and Boscoe and Beeki and the cocker spaniels and all those other crazy folks...and just when the cool weather was starting to creep into the Everycity forecast...
Who could ever bear to leave?
Oh yes. And Nelson. Nelson, everyone's favorite cat (seriously...he really is everyone's favorite cat. Ask around if you don't believe me), is staying with the Leo File family for a time. I don't know that he has city life running through his little kitty veins. We'll see.
I leave for Le Cité Grande on the morning of September 11th. That's this coming Monday. I feel like I'm going off to war or something. But hey...it's just a city like anyplace else. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?!
(feel free to answer those famous last words in the comments section)
Monday, September 04, 2006
"Hey New York!"
I need your help.
When I get off the bus at Penn Station or emerge from the subway in Times Square...
What do I say? You know, you're supposed to say something. Like, "Hey New York! Here I am!" or "Hey you big buildings! Hey you big lights! You pay attention because here I am!"
What do I say?
When I get off the bus at Penn Station or emerge from the subway in Times Square...
What do I say? You know, you're supposed to say something. Like, "Hey New York! Here I am!" or "Hey you big buildings! Hey you big lights! You pay attention because here I am!"
What do I say?
Gettin' Ready
The apartment is almost completely empty. Tomorrow I'll make one last trip to the Goodwill drop-off station, make sure everything is loaded up in boxes... Then Wednesday morning, I'll roll off my air mattress, go on a jog, do some crunches, and turn in my keys.
Happy Labor Day!
Happy Labor Day!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
"The Marble Faun is moving in..."
I'm not the only one who wants to move to New York City. Little Edie has been threatening to do just that since moving in with her her mother for 24 years ago. Of course she never will. At 55, she'll continue to practice her dance routines in the front hall while her mother yowls out 1930s showtunes from her filthy, cat-covered bed upstairs.All this is strictly routine at Grey Gardens, a rotting, 28 room mansion in the Hamptons, surrounded by an almost impenetrable thicket of overgrown trees and bushes.
Playing out like some kind of Tennessee Williams nightmare on the eastern seaboard, Grey Gardens, the cult documentary film from 1976, has two film makers silently following Little Edie Bouvier Beale, Jackie O's first cousin (the aforementioned showtune singing mother was Jackie's aunt), around for six weeks.
And what a six weeks it is. With the emotional maturity of a 13 year old girl, Little Edie both delights and disturbs with her bizarre fashion sense, her manic ramblings about "the Marble Faun", and, best of all, her dance recitals. In what feels eerily like a real-life Glass Menagerie, she also tells us about a line of beaus, each of whom proposed to her but were driven away (in 15 minutes flat) by her domineering mother.
Meanwhile, bedridden Mad Mama Bouvier-Beale sits upstairs, cooking pots of corn on the free range by her bed, feeding their eight cats liver pate (It needs a little lemon--it's not awfully good), cackling, screaming for Edie, and singing loudly along with the scratchy old phonograph, attempting to relive her bygone days as a chanteuse.
Of course, these faded relics of American aristocrazy are only able to feign politeness for the filmmakers for so long. It's only a matter of time before the two women begin going at each other with the fierceness of all eight pate-eating cats put together. That's when the fun really begins--when the tensions run embarrassingly high and the truth behind these women's retreat from the outside world creeps to the surface.
It's tragic. It's hilarious. It's like a horrible car wreck or a beached whale. You can't help but marvel at this horror. If you don't roll over on your couch at the 45 minute mark and slur, "I need a drink to get through this" you're made of tougher stuff than I am. The optional DVD commentary by various Hollywood filmmakers and designers attempts to elevate the two bickering protagonists to some sort of tragic artist level--they're tortured geniuses, frustrated by their unrealized potential.
I guess if you consider feeding whole bags of Wonder Bread and puppy chow to the family of raccoons that live in your walls to be a hallmark of repressed artistic expression then sure, these two ladies make Isadora Duncan look like a C student. But for the rest of us who are a bit more willing to cast our pretentions aside, the analysis of these woman can be summed up simply: these bitches is crazy.
Despite all that, the film is totally mezmerizing. And, seeing as how it's headed for Broadway in musical form this fall and a film remake (of a documentary??) is scheduled for 2007 with Jessica Lange and the talentless Drew Barrymore, you might as well track this baby down and see what all the fuss is about. As Little Edie would say, you'll be pulverized by this thing. And that's very good. * * *
Little Edie in the "best costume for the day"
Careers
In the words of the young George Washington Carver after he cut down that famous peanut tree, I cannot tell a lie. I have been a bad blogger lately. Gone are the days when I would spend two hours on a single post, using this blog as a way to keep creatively active in the dull ol' corporate job. For that I apologize. The golden days of the 42nd floor may be gone for now, but I'll continue to keep you updated on things.
Like my recent trip to New York City for example. The apartment is swell, just swell. I can't wait to get really moved in and see what all this New York City fuss is all about. I figure I'll give it a year and if I hate it, I'm moving somewhere with mountains. Maybe I'll move back to Alaska. However, I'm not entirely sure what I'd do there.
I could
Like my recent trip to New York City for example. The apartment is swell, just swell. I can't wait to get really moved in and see what all this New York City fuss is all about. I figure I'll give it a year and if I hate it, I'm moving somewhere with mountains. Maybe I'll move back to Alaska. However, I'm not entirely sure what I'd do there.
I could
be a fisherman
be a lumberjack
get a normal job
be a prospector
drive dogsleds
or
be a traveling boys band salesman.
Which shall it be?
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Mission Accomplished
I went to New York City to find an apartment in which to live for the next year...
And I found one.
More details to follow.
But for now, let me leave you with the following observation:
Those Yankees may make fun of us Texans because of our weight, but honestly, after spending a week walking up and down Times Square, I found your average New Yorker to be just as flabby as your average Texan. Sure, they were thinner on the whole, but in the end, the spare tire around the mid-drift still jiggled as much as anybody's from such places as El Paso or College Station. Maybe they're not clinically obese, but damn. For all the walking they do, those New Yorkers sure are out of shape.
And that's why out of shape Texans are this week's
And I found one.
More details to follow.
But for now, let me leave you with the following observation:
Those Yankees may make fun of us Texans because of our weight, but honestly, after spending a week walking up and down Times Square, I found your average New Yorker to be just as flabby as your average Texan. Sure, they were thinner on the whole, but in the end, the spare tire around the mid-drift still jiggled as much as anybody's from such places as El Paso or College Station. Maybe they're not clinically obese, but damn. For all the walking they do, those New Yorkers sure are out of shape.
And that's why out of shape Texans are this week's
BEST EVER
Wait...it's not friday? Oh, who cares? I'm still schnookered from my Welcome Home party! Don't tell mamma!
Friday, August 18, 2006
Best Ever
BEST EVER
Choco-Mary
She prays for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, and she's sinfully delicious! Also available in holy white chocolate!
All joking aside, I'm glad Mary can find the time to appear in the everyday objects. With the world coming down around our ears, it's comforting to see Mary appearing in stains under overpasses, toast, chocolate drippings...who needs signs from heaven when you can have Mary on a potato chip?
And that's why Choco-Mary is this week's
BEST EVER
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
In other news...
My hair is now long enough to be tied back. I look a little bit like a pirate. With abs. I don't have an earring though, but I HAVE been considering getting one. Then again, my ears are pretty freakishly tiny. I don't know that I want to draw attention to that. The front is still a little short to make it all the way to the rubber band, but it's trying really hard. It'll make it. I know it will. Unless I go bald in a few weeks. And then won't we all have a great laugh?
I've also cooked up a grand scheme to make money for my move to New York. I'm selling these swell bootleg audio recordings of 'Midsummer' for ten bucks each. I've sold two. Ain't that a grand and glorious feeling?
Nelson knows something's happening in this apartment. And he's right. In a couple of weeks we're going to have a little party in this empty apartment. I have four bottles of champagne that I need to get rid of. You're all invited.
Oh yeah, Candie is taking my old job as file clerk. She'll be working hand-in-hand with Consuela and Mr. Archibald. Poor Yasriel. I almost feel sorry for her. I mean, she was so sure she was going to get my job when I left. I've never seen someone so confident. She got a new haircut, started wearing smart secretary outfits with spiked heels. Then she gets the boot. Geeze. I hope she didn't cry. Schadenfreude is so much harder to revel in when you know there's real pain involved. I mean, hell, I'd probably feel sorry for Saddam if he started crying. I'm no good when people start to cry. No good at all.
I've also cooked up a grand scheme to make money for my move to New York. I'm selling these swell bootleg audio recordings of 'Midsummer' for ten bucks each. I've sold two. Ain't that a grand and glorious feeling?
Nelson knows something's happening in this apartment. And he's right. In a couple of weeks we're going to have a little party in this empty apartment. I have four bottles of champagne that I need to get rid of. You're all invited.
Oh yeah, Candie is taking my old job as file clerk. She'll be working hand-in-hand with Consuela and Mr. Archibald. Poor Yasriel. I almost feel sorry for her. I mean, she was so sure she was going to get my job when I left. I've never seen someone so confident. She got a new haircut, started wearing smart secretary outfits with spiked heels. Then she gets the boot. Geeze. I hope she didn't cry. Schadenfreude is so much harder to revel in when you know there's real pain involved. I mean, hell, I'd probably feel sorry for Saddam if he started crying. I'm no good when people start to cry. No good at all.
It's the times. They're a-changin'.
Something's blowin' in the wind...
I should have anticipated this. I mean, the happy, yet bittersweet finale to the MegaMan Battle Network series made me feel like something I loved just...sort of...died. Those games had come out like clockwork--a new one every summer for the past six years. I guided MegaMan through the cyber world as he hacked through mainframes, busted evil computer viruses, and swept me up in a simple, yet engaging storyline that has finally come to a close.
Then came the end of my time at Eventual Practical Financial Services. While I knew it was on the horizon, I guess I didn't really think of how it would feel to suddenly not go to work. I mean, I'd been there for two years. Day in, day out. Sunrise, sunset. 9 to 5. Now
Then, as if that wasn't enough, I finally made it to the end of Kingdom Hearts 2 for Playstation. The entire 3-game series (don't ask me to explain that) was dozens and dozens of hours long. I think I clocked in a grand total of about 40 hours on Kingdom Hearts 2 alone--I'd been playing since I got the dang thing in March. And it's over. It's all over. The epic storyline has drawn to a close, the characters found their way home, and they even cried a little.
My mom and I have spent the last several days making a zillion trips to the Goodwill drop-off center, putting things in boxes, throwing old stuff away, pretty much lightening the load, and drawing this chapter called "Everycity" to a close.
And best of all?
Yasriel got fired yesterday.
Is it wicked of me to be happy about that?
I should have anticipated this. I mean, the happy, yet bittersweet finale to the MegaMan Battle Network series made me feel like something I loved just...sort of...died. Those games had come out like clockwork--a new one every summer for the past six years. I guided MegaMan through the cyber world as he hacked through mainframes, busted evil computer viruses, and swept me up in a simple, yet engaging storyline that has finally come to a close.
Then came the end of my time at Eventual Practical Financial Services. While I knew it was on the horizon, I guess I didn't really think of how it would feel to suddenly not go to work. I mean, I'd been there for two years. Day in, day out. Sunrise, sunset. 9 to 5. Now
Then, as if that wasn't enough, I finally made it to the end of Kingdom Hearts 2 for Playstation. The entire 3-game series (don't ask me to explain that) was dozens and dozens of hours long. I think I clocked in a grand total of about 40 hours on Kingdom Hearts 2 alone--I'd been playing since I got the dang thing in March. And it's over. It's all over. The epic storyline has drawn to a close, the characters found their way home, and they even cried a little.My mom and I have spent the last several days making a zillion trips to the Goodwill drop-off center, putting things in boxes, throwing old stuff away, pretty much lightening the load, and drawing this chapter called "Everycity" to a close.
And best of all?
Yasriel got fired yesterday.
Is it wicked of me to be happy about that?
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Out of Touch
Hey gang. Sorry for the dearth of updates lately. Who knew unemployment could be busier than life on the 42nd Floor!
Yes, you read that right, piglets! Unemployment. Seeing as how the bump on my head has still not been taken care of, I asked Jerrie, the office manager, to see if I could get my employment extended for two more weeks--long enough for me to see the doctor and hopefully get the procedure done without having for fork over $8,000.
First things were a-okay. No sweat. Jerrie attempted to impress Mr. Archibald by telling him how she had the power to do anything...anything at all. Including extending my departure date.
She called me on my cell phone the next day to say that, surprise, she messed up and would I please, please, pretty please consider leaving.
That's when I told the woman to take this job and shove it.
In so many words.
But do you think I'm sleeping till noon every day? Tut, tut! If you do, you obviously know nothing about me!
I rise with the sun every morning and go on a fun jog! I do crunches! I take my time making a super-healthy, yet delicious, breakfast! But most important to my morning routine, I play one level of Kid Icarus.
Yes, you read that right, piglets! Unemployment. Seeing as how the bump on my head has still not been taken care of, I asked Jerrie, the office manager, to see if I could get my employment extended for two more weeks--long enough for me to see the doctor and hopefully get the procedure done without having for fork over $8,000.
First things were a-okay. No sweat. Jerrie attempted to impress Mr. Archibald by telling him how she had the power to do anything...anything at all. Including extending my departure date.
She called me on my cell phone the next day to say that, surprise, she messed up and would I please, please, pretty please consider leaving.
That's when I told the woman to take this job and shove it.
In so many words.
But do you think I'm sleeping till noon every day? Tut, tut! If you do, you obviously know nothing about me!
I rise with the sun every morning and go on a fun jog! I do crunches! I take my time making a super-healthy, yet delicious, breakfast! But most important to my morning routine, I play one level of Kid Icarus.
Why they never turned this game into a big next-gen franchise I'll never know. It's got the most hummable theme music of any Nintendo game this side of Ghosts N Goblins!
Hmm. I think I'll take a nap now. Just because I can.
ZZzzzzzzzzzzz
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