So, I walked into (insert friendly neighborhood book conglomerate here) about a month ago. I had decided to treat myself to a night of walking around and finding three books to read over the next month or so for pleasure reading and well....you know, stimulate the ol' imagination.
Apparently, that sorta thing is good for us actors or whatever...
Long story short, one book that really just jumped right off the shelves at me was a little novel called "Noogie's Time To Shine" by Jim Knipfel. Interesting title, no? Moreover, the cover art consists of a black and white of Edward G. Robinson looking as if he just got his hand caught in Al Capone's Cookie Jar.
Based on the fun title and image, I read the synopsis. The book billed itself as a lovable loser/everyday Joe Shmoe (Noogie) with an obsession for movies (specifically ol' gangster films) who pulls a Bonnie and Clyde, knocks off his company and lives his dream by going "on the lam." Immediately I get images of some ol' hefty shmuck barrelling down the highway, belly laughing hysterically, $100 bills flying out the window, his cat Dillinger clinging to the van's seats for dear life while the coppers attempt to stop him with a hailstorm of bullets. I buy it.
As it turns out, the first half of the book (aptly entitled Part One) is a very charming character study that evolves into Noogie's heist plot- which is in itself a charming storyline as Noogie never fully understands the gravity of what he is doing and is just searching for a change.
However, Part Two (DON'T READ AHEAD IF YOU PLAN ON READING THIS BOOK) - which follows a 16 page "Intermission" that is to a degree very confusing and doesn't really seem to lead anywhere- finds Noogie dead!
Dead. Yes, that's right.
And by quite possibly the MOST anticlimactic death I can imagine. The latter half of the novel completely changes perspective- the antagonist becoming a very unlikeable detective solving both Noogie's death and crime. No, wait...solving is not the right word- BECAUSE WE NEVER FIND OUT WHAT EXACTLY HAPPENED TO HIM! The title character who we've all kind of fallen in love with and are rooting for has shown up dead and we don't even get the chance to "witness" it. It's certainly not a heroic death- which would be acceptable if there was tension leading up to. If the death was EARNED, which it was not.
So, not only was this novel NOT about the Regular-Joe-Turning-Butch-And-Sundance or even a heroic tragedy like "Dog Day Afternoon", it didn't even finish the story that it promised- of Noogie living out his dream of being in his own movie.
I was, in a word, heartbroken. Noogie was a GREAT character. It's one thing for him to die. Heck, in my own writings I often give my characters the axe...or I at least place them in a situation where the prospects are dim. Sometimes there are just WAY too many happy endings in the world of fiction. But ol' Jim Knipfel kinda gave us all the shaft by making him alive one chapter and then, with a turn of the page to the next, he's dead. Out of the story. 86ed. Done. Nixed. The victim in a sudden and unexciting murder investigation.
I guess my disappointment comes mainly from the potential this story had; the expectations set by the title, the cover art and the synopsis were SO high- and yet no unreasonably so. I really just want to find Jim Knipfel and ask him if I can write an alternate ending to his story, one in which maybe Noogie still doesn't live, but he at least gets The Ending his character would have wanted. A comically heroic end worthy of Cagney or Robinson. After all, who says the hero has to live? But, at least send him off with some fuckin' class!
Anyway, I needed to share this. Maybe to get me motivated enough so that I can imagine my own ending to this story. Maybe in the hopes that someone else has read this rather obscure book and can grieve with me. Or maybe so I can own my disappointment and move on to my next literary adventure.
RIP Noogie.
"Here's lookin' at you, kid."
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Gym I Go To Makes Me Want To Do Naughty Things To People
It's kinda sad when you think about it.
One goes to the gym to work on himself. To train, to sculpt one's physique, to improve one's overall health and peace of mind. While it is not necessary, the work one does at a gym is most effective if concentration on the task at hand is acheived.
That's the idea anyway...
I was at the gym today. Upon entering I was very excited to be there, to get in a good, focused work out. And no sooner had I entered this gym than I found myself walking behind and below the most gorgeous ass my eyes have seen in a while. Now, this ass was completely at eye level to me. And it was marvelous.
Suddenly, my gym experience, while ultimately still accomplishing my goal, became periodically about all the freakin eye candy! They were out in droves! Of both sexes- so a little treat for everyone I guess you could say. I don't consider myself one of those embarassingly out of place older folks who walk around the locker room naked (you know the type...the kind of people whose motives you immediately question because they're standing there in their birthday suits and yet the towel draped over their shoulder could be just as easily wrapped around their pale-as-the-driven-snow, wrinkly white asses), but looking back on today, I wonder if I am how they got their start: innocently coming to the gym to work out and being increasingly more and more distracted by all the dirty thoughts racing through their heads about the bodies and faces around them.
I had to take a cold shower when I got home. Seriously.
I mean, it is summer after all...summer usually finds me- shall we say friskier- than the rest of the year. Heat, I believe they call it. And my imagination kinda parties like it's 1999.
To all my friends: don't let me become a pervert.
I maybe have 4 years left that this story is humorous before it becomes creepy.
Thank you, that will be all.
(From an earlier blog entry on Myspace 8/5/08)
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Putting My Mouth Where My Money Is...
The following is a letter sent by me to Chase customer service on Sunday, December 12, 2010...
Dear Chase Bank...
This is not an inquiry so much as an open letter to you and your customer service department. I was a loyal customer of Washington Mutual for 5 years before your company took over. Despite all the troubles that bank may have had on a larger scale, I never had one single complaint or issue or concern with them. Then your company came along...
In the 1 1/2-2 years that I've dealt with Chase, I have been unhappy with the service on numerous occasions. Last year I discovered you were taking $20/month out of my savings account because I did not meet the minimum balance requirement. To give you some background, my main savings account is with one of your competitors who offers a better interest rate and service- I was only keeping a small amount of money in my Chase savings as a formality. I unfortunately did not realize that Chase was taking the monthly fee from me until you had already taken close to $100 of my hard-earned money from me. When I confronted a Customer Service Rep and was told for the first time about your minimum balance fee, I demanded to know why I was not made aware of this policy when you took over Washington Mutual. The representative dismissively informed me that a letter had been sent...to my former address. At that point, I had not been living at that address in over a year and Chase was regularly sending me correspondence to my new address. Conveniently, the notice of a Minimum Balance Fee was sent to an address that had not been used by either myself or your company in a long while. When asked if I could have my money back, I was coldly rebuffed and told "that's not our policy."
Obviously, your institution's policy is to take as much money away from your customers as possible.
Yesterday I received notice that Chase is now going to begin charging me a Monthly Service Fee for my Checking Account, the only account I still hold with Chase. This service can be avoided if I do A or B or C or D. If I don't do those things (one of those options requires paying you money to not take my money), you will take $10 a month of MY MONEY from me.
So, basically you're telling me I have to pay you to hold my money for me?
In this economy, could you be anymore short-sighted and just plain stupid???
After the previous experience I had with your bank, do you honestly believe I will continue to do business with your bank if there's a chance you will take even more of MY MONEY from me?
Absolutely not.
If you do not respond to me in writing with your intent to COMPLETELY WAIVE the Monthly Service Fee from my account, I will pull every cent of my money from your bank with a big smile on my face. I will follow the advice of a friend of mine and begin working with one of your main competitors here in Los Angeles. Additionally, I will post this letter I am currently writing you on every public forum that I can so that the world will know that your banking practices are utterly ridiculous.
I urge to reconsider saving yourself the business and saving me the trouble of having to switch banks by foregoing your absurd proposal to charge for being part of your customer base.
I suspect you will not, but it was worth a shot.
As I expected, I received a stock apology from some mindless CS rep "apologizing" for my experiences with Chase and then trying to upsell my on "all the positive aspects of being a Chase customer!"
So thank you, Chase Bank, for giving me the gift of dumping your money-grubbing ass for Christmas.
Dear Chase Bank...
This is not an inquiry so much as an open letter to you and your customer service department. I was a loyal customer of Washington Mutual for 5 years before your company took over. Despite all the troubles that bank may have had on a larger scale, I never had one single complaint or issue or concern with them. Then your company came along...
In the 1 1/2-2 years that I've dealt with Chase, I have been unhappy with the service on numerous occasions. Last year I discovered you were taking $20/month out of my savings account because I did not meet the minimum balance requirement. To give you some background, my main savings account is with one of your competitors who offers a better interest rate and service- I was only keeping a small amount of money in my Chase savings as a formality. I unfortunately did not realize that Chase was taking the monthly fee from me until you had already taken close to $100 of my hard-earned money from me. When I confronted a Customer Service Rep and was told for the first time about your minimum balance fee, I demanded to know why I was not made aware of this policy when you took over Washington Mutual. The representative dismissively informed me that a letter had been sent...to my former address. At that point, I had not been living at that address in over a year and Chase was regularly sending me correspondence to my new address. Conveniently, the notice of a Minimum Balance Fee was sent to an address that had not been used by either myself or your company in a long while. When asked if I could have my money back, I was coldly rebuffed and told "that's not our policy."
Obviously, your institution's policy is to take as much money away from your customers as possible.
Yesterday I received notice that Chase is now going to begin charging me a Monthly Service Fee for my Checking Account, the only account I still hold with Chase. This service can be avoided if I do A or B or C or D. If I don't do those things (one of those options requires paying you money to not take my money), you will take $10 a month of MY MONEY from me.
So, basically you're telling me I have to pay you to hold my money for me?
In this economy, could you be anymore short-sighted and just plain stupid???
After the previous experience I had with your bank, do you honestly believe I will continue to do business with your bank if there's a chance you will take even more of MY MONEY from me?
Absolutely not.
If you do not respond to me in writing with your intent to COMPLETELY WAIVE the Monthly Service Fee from my account, I will pull every cent of my money from your bank with a big smile on my face. I will follow the advice of a friend of mine and begin working with one of your main competitors here in Los Angeles. Additionally, I will post this letter I am currently writing you on every public forum that I can so that the world will know that your banking practices are utterly ridiculous.
I urge to reconsider saving yourself the business and saving me the trouble of having to switch banks by foregoing your absurd proposal to charge for being part of your customer base.
I suspect you will not, but it was worth a shot.
As I expected, I received a stock apology from some mindless CS rep "apologizing" for my experiences with Chase and then trying to upsell my on "all the positive aspects of being a Chase customer!"
So thank you, Chase Bank, for giving me the gift of dumping your money-grubbing ass for Christmas.
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Fall Of Mickey Q
We let go of the rope.
Not because we were weaker. Or dumber. Or because we cared less about making an impression.
It was because we were awesome.
The Senior Class of 2000 at Jesuit High School in New Orleans, LA had never- to my recollection- won a single Annual Tug-Of-War in the 5 years since the class had been formed in 8th grade. Up to '99 we'd lost to upperclassmen. But in our Junior Year we did something unthinkable...we lost to the sophomore class. It was a joke.
And because we were a joke, we were determined to keep it that way. So, when the whistle blew during lunch period on that hot Spring day in 2000, instead of heaving and ho-ing with all our collective Senior Class might...we let the Junior Class- our slayers from the previous year- apply the pressure to the rope.
And we let go.
I can tell you...there is nothing more satisfying than seeing an entire class of loudmouthed, whiny little pricks fall on their asses at the same time, completely bewildered and dumbfounded. And in pain. It was the most glorious end to a winless run of any sport that has ever existed. But what happened next will remain in my mind as one of the most inspired strokes of ballsy genius that I will ever experience in this short life...
Our celebration turned into frenzy. Having technically lost, the victory was ours. We ran around the school yard slapping lunches out of people's hands, cheering, turning our rings around and slapping little underclassmen over the heads (as we had had done to us in our day), and ripping our military khaki shirts.
Then, the riot became focused. Someone- I'm not sure who but could probably quickly put together a list of about 5 very likely suspects even 10 years later- screamed out "Mickey Q's Office!!!"
"Mickey Q" was our nickname for Mr. Mick Quinlan, the disciplinarian of Jesuit High School. The Muscle. The Man. Now that I think it over, it must have been a very unpleasant job to do- to be the embodiment of all the rules and detentions and Penance Halls and suspensions that our Catholic high school doled out to miscreants. Consequently, Mickey Q became the target for a hell of a lot of crap during our tenure.
Perhaps it was lucky for us. We got to his office...all 50 or so of us...and Mickey Q was nowhere to be found. Only Ms McCabe (Juanita, as we all affectionately called her outside her office) was there, processing the day's paper work with her usual diligence. She looked at the oncoming mob and knew. Almost as if she'd been expecting this day in all her years working at an all-boys Catholic high school. Yes, it must have been inevitable.
We stormed the office. She put up no fight. She only stood behind her desk and held up her hands as if to say "Have at it, boys. I ain't gonna stop you." We threw his books, his papers, his pens/pencils and his ridiculously abundant collection of neck ties all over the place. We yelled and screamed and laughed and somebody started rapping...I can't remember what- only that it seemed absurdly out of place which made it funnier.
But why stop there?
Back out in the yard, there were 4 Coke Machines. For some reason, our rebellion took us to the Coke machines where the rest of the class re-joined us. It seems someone thought that by shaking those machines enough, we'd somehow receive lots of free Cokes. It didn't work.
At about this time, Mr Barry Neuberger- our soft-spoken and respectable principal- who I'm sure had only moments before become only partially aware of the riot our class was producing, came scrambling up to me. Me...in a mob of 100-200 Seniors!
"You better get this under control, Frizzell!"
Now, apparently Mr Neuberger over-estimated my powers. I assume that because I occupied the office of Senior Class President, he looked at me as a leader. And perhaps I was. But, honestly Barry (I didn't dare call him by his first name- but in my insolent state, boy did i want to!), what do you expect me to do??! Jump atop the Coke machines, flash my school name tag which also happened to have my Title and quell the Great Revolution of 2000 with a wave of my hand? Do you expect me to part the Red Sea of angry testosterone-ridden Seniors? I'm sorry, but I'm not a one-man SS...
I did not say any of that.
Instead, I laughed. His eyes exploded. The riot continued.
The underclassmen watched with admiration. The Junior Class, our foes, were completely unable to savor any ounce of victory because, on that day, no Tug Of War victory in the world could have matched the rampant Cool currently being displayed by the Class of 2000.
Because the uproar had been perpetrated by a large majority of the class, no one could be or was singled out. I had been worried for a few days that I would be made an example out of, but I was too well-liked by the student body and the faculty for that to have had the desired effect. We did not, however, receive a Senior Gift of any kind. Those were usually lame anyway. And at the end of the year, much to our chagrin, the Senior Day Crawfish Boil was somehow reduced to the Senior Day Shrimp Boil. May not sound like a huge difference to most of you, but if you've ever lived in New Orleans you know it's just not the same.
It all worked out, though...because we conquered. The reigning Senior Class of one of the most respected private schools in the country with a feared discipline program and a reputation for turning students into smart, proud, respectful men who would never dare go against the grain had turned the school on its ear for a day.
And not one person even got detention.
I loved my school. I respected- and still do respect- my school.
But that event will always be one of devilish pride for me.
Sometimes, rebellion is a good thing.
Not because we were weaker. Or dumber. Or because we cared less about making an impression.
It was because we were awesome.
The Senior Class of 2000 at Jesuit High School in New Orleans, LA had never- to my recollection- won a single Annual Tug-Of-War in the 5 years since the class had been formed in 8th grade. Up to '99 we'd lost to upperclassmen. But in our Junior Year we did something unthinkable...we lost to the sophomore class. It was a joke.
And because we were a joke, we were determined to keep it that way. So, when the whistle blew during lunch period on that hot Spring day in 2000, instead of heaving and ho-ing with all our collective Senior Class might...we let the Junior Class- our slayers from the previous year- apply the pressure to the rope.
And we let go.
I can tell you...there is nothing more satisfying than seeing an entire class of loudmouthed, whiny little pricks fall on their asses at the same time, completely bewildered and dumbfounded. And in pain. It was the most glorious end to a winless run of any sport that has ever existed. But what happened next will remain in my mind as one of the most inspired strokes of ballsy genius that I will ever experience in this short life...
Our celebration turned into frenzy. Having technically lost, the victory was ours. We ran around the school yard slapping lunches out of people's hands, cheering, turning our rings around and slapping little underclassmen over the heads (as we had had done to us in our day), and ripping our military khaki shirts.
Then, the riot became focused. Someone- I'm not sure who but could probably quickly put together a list of about 5 very likely suspects even 10 years later- screamed out "Mickey Q's Office!!!"
"Mickey Q" was our nickname for Mr. Mick Quinlan, the disciplinarian of Jesuit High School. The Muscle. The Man. Now that I think it over, it must have been a very unpleasant job to do- to be the embodiment of all the rules and detentions and Penance Halls and suspensions that our Catholic high school doled out to miscreants. Consequently, Mickey Q became the target for a hell of a lot of crap during our tenure.
Perhaps it was lucky for us. We got to his office...all 50 or so of us...and Mickey Q was nowhere to be found. Only Ms McCabe (Juanita, as we all affectionately called her outside her office) was there, processing the day's paper work with her usual diligence. She looked at the oncoming mob and knew. Almost as if she'd been expecting this day in all her years working at an all-boys Catholic high school. Yes, it must have been inevitable.
We stormed the office. She put up no fight. She only stood behind her desk and held up her hands as if to say "Have at it, boys. I ain't gonna stop you." We threw his books, his papers, his pens/pencils and his ridiculously abundant collection of neck ties all over the place. We yelled and screamed and laughed and somebody started rapping...I can't remember what- only that it seemed absurdly out of place which made it funnier.
But why stop there?
Back out in the yard, there were 4 Coke Machines. For some reason, our rebellion took us to the Coke machines where the rest of the class re-joined us. It seems someone thought that by shaking those machines enough, we'd somehow receive lots of free Cokes. It didn't work.
At about this time, Mr Barry Neuberger- our soft-spoken and respectable principal- who I'm sure had only moments before become only partially aware of the riot our class was producing, came scrambling up to me. Me...in a mob of 100-200 Seniors!
"You better get this under control, Frizzell!"
Now, apparently Mr Neuberger over-estimated my powers. I assume that because I occupied the office of Senior Class President, he looked at me as a leader. And perhaps I was. But, honestly Barry (I didn't dare call him by his first name- but in my insolent state, boy did i want to!), what do you expect me to do??! Jump atop the Coke machines, flash my school name tag which also happened to have my Title and quell the Great Revolution of 2000 with a wave of my hand? Do you expect me to part the Red Sea of angry testosterone-ridden Seniors? I'm sorry, but I'm not a one-man SS...
I did not say any of that.
Instead, I laughed. His eyes exploded. The riot continued.
The underclassmen watched with admiration. The Junior Class, our foes, were completely unable to savor any ounce of victory because, on that day, no Tug Of War victory in the world could have matched the rampant Cool currently being displayed by the Class of 2000.
Because the uproar had been perpetrated by a large majority of the class, no one could be or was singled out. I had been worried for a few days that I would be made an example out of, but I was too well-liked by the student body and the faculty for that to have had the desired effect. We did not, however, receive a Senior Gift of any kind. Those were usually lame anyway. And at the end of the year, much to our chagrin, the Senior Day Crawfish Boil was somehow reduced to the Senior Day Shrimp Boil. May not sound like a huge difference to most of you, but if you've ever lived in New Orleans you know it's just not the same.
It all worked out, though...because we conquered. The reigning Senior Class of one of the most respected private schools in the country with a feared discipline program and a reputation for turning students into smart, proud, respectful men who would never dare go against the grain had turned the school on its ear for a day.
And not one person even got detention.
I loved my school. I respected- and still do respect- my school.
But that event will always be one of devilish pride for me.
Sometimes, rebellion is a good thing.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Harpist Wants A Diet Coke...and Other Tales Of Servitude in the Southland
(the following is from an old Myspace blog I wrote in Oct 2007)
"Excuse me... the harpist wants a diet coke."
I stared at the man. What was that? I repeated it to myself.
The Harpist? Wants a Diet Coke?
Really?
(beat)
I didn't even know there was a harpist here. And, how is she gonna be able to drink it while playing a harp? Furthermore, sir... why did you insist on grabbing me and passing along the profound information that "The Harpist Wants a Diet Coke" when you see I have a tray full of glasses and another handful of dishes, and I am jogging-not strolling, not even walking- through the crowd of wedding-goers you see before you? Do you not see the bar 15 yards from you?
But, I understand the consequences of actually asking such questions out loud. No, no... instead I must internalize this frustration/annoyance, smile at this man (who later gave the blessing of the meal at this wedding and talked about "turning the love here tonight into energy and that energy nurturing our hearts, minds and souls" woo woo), reply with a charming and very Southern 'Yes, sir', empty my tray and head to the bar to get a Diet Coke for the previously invisble harpist in the corner.
For a moment, the frustration of an earlier incident in the day crept back into my mind. You see, the wedding I was working was a default. I had gone to work at my current place of steadiest employment, Maggiano's. Upon arriving there (to make a long story short), I got "made an example out of" by my boss and sent home. Like I was in third grade. Again. Only minus the fun, innocence, and irresponsibility and instead of a teacher I have a balding, miserable, dickhead boss. So, I left.
Fast forward to being desperate for money and booking a catering gig. And now, here I am working a wedding in Malibu, face-to-face with a man who has just interrupted a nice bussing rhythm because he wants me to fetch a Diet Coke for a Subtle Harpist. Through the course of the night, I will find myself cornered by a drunk couple who think our company staffs just about the cutest waiters they've ever seen, enduring park rangers who insist we expand our catering contract to include janitorial service, listening to an absurd toast by the bride's astrology-obsessed drunken father, attempting to tune out the band (2 white guys who insist on jumping from Spin Doctors to Blues Traveler to Digital Underground to The Gorillaz), passing hors d'oevuers to people who get a kick out of pissing me off by challenging my knowledge of the ingredients contained within said appetizer and then not taking any off of my tray (thereby not lightening my load) and explaining over and over again to the drunk guy at a table that I am not the chef and therefore could not tell you how our mini-quiches were made so small.
On top of it, I was distracted. My thoughts kept drifting to someone in particular. Someone I like. It was just one of those days following one of those nights and you just keep thinking about this someone. And this is going to sound horrible following that romantic thought, but I was also distracted by the LSU-Florida game which I needed updates on every few minutes and was a close as fuck and a game that I regretted missing. (Apologies to the someone in question that the football game was as big a distraction, but you were distracted at the time too by a big mouse in a magic castle, so we remain equal on points...)
All in all, however, the gig wasn't bad. I made good money.
I notice that serving is getting to be a part of my life that settles into some form of two extremes: ridiculous and maddening or profitable and tolerable. Sometimes the two meet. Today was an example of such a meeting. My restaurant debacle was ridiculous and maddening, the gig was ridiculous and tolerable, but the whole day turned profitable. As I am now in my mid-20s, I am beginning to feel slight and perhaps self-imposed pressure to create a more stable life for myself. This past year has been both a successful and profitable year for me acting wise. Thank God for that. But service-tude is becoming an increasingly less acceptable form of income to me. It's a lot of shit to deal with even on the days when you make good money. But many folks say it's a necessary evil. And, unfortunately, they're right I think. Which leads to the conclusion (hopefully it's just a temporary one, though, while I figure out a way to dump the server thing) that I just need to shut my mouth and pay the damn bills.
So, for now, the Harpist can have her Diet Coke, no ice, with a wedge of lemon.
Never mind it's out of the way...
it's what they pay me for.
"Excuse me... the harpist wants a diet coke."
I stared at the man. What was that? I repeated it to myself.
The Harpist? Wants a Diet Coke?
Really?
(beat)
I didn't even know there was a harpist here. And, how is she gonna be able to drink it while playing a harp? Furthermore, sir... why did you insist on grabbing me and passing along the profound information that "The Harpist Wants a Diet Coke" when you see I have a tray full of glasses and another handful of dishes, and I am jogging-not strolling, not even walking- through the crowd of wedding-goers you see before you? Do you not see the bar 15 yards from you?
But, I understand the consequences of actually asking such questions out loud. No, no... instead I must internalize this frustration/annoyance, smile at this man (who later gave the blessing of the meal at this wedding and talked about "turning the love here tonight into energy and that energy nurturing our hearts, minds and souls" woo woo), reply with a charming and very Southern 'Yes, sir', empty my tray and head to the bar to get a Diet Coke for the previously invisble harpist in the corner.
For a moment, the frustration of an earlier incident in the day crept back into my mind. You see, the wedding I was working was a default. I had gone to work at my current place of steadiest employment, Maggiano's. Upon arriving there (to make a long story short), I got "made an example out of" by my boss and sent home. Like I was in third grade. Again. Only minus the fun, innocence, and irresponsibility and instead of a teacher I have a balding, miserable, dickhead boss. So, I left.
Fast forward to being desperate for money and booking a catering gig. And now, here I am working a wedding in Malibu, face-to-face with a man who has just interrupted a nice bussing rhythm because he wants me to fetch a Diet Coke for a Subtle Harpist. Through the course of the night, I will find myself cornered by a drunk couple who think our company staffs just about the cutest waiters they've ever seen, enduring park rangers who insist we expand our catering contract to include janitorial service, listening to an absurd toast by the bride's astrology-obsessed drunken father, attempting to tune out the band (2 white guys who insist on jumping from Spin Doctors to Blues Traveler to Digital Underground to The Gorillaz), passing hors d'oevuers to people who get a kick out of pissing me off by challenging my knowledge of the ingredients contained within said appetizer and then not taking any off of my tray (thereby not lightening my load) and explaining over and over again to the drunk guy at a table that I am not the chef and therefore could not tell you how our mini-quiches were made so small.
On top of it, I was distracted. My thoughts kept drifting to someone in particular. Someone I like. It was just one of those days following one of those nights and you just keep thinking about this someone. And this is going to sound horrible following that romantic thought, but I was also distracted by the LSU-Florida game which I needed updates on every few minutes and was a close as fuck and a game that I regretted missing. (Apologies to the someone in question that the football game was as big a distraction, but you were distracted at the time too by a big mouse in a magic castle, so we remain equal on points...)
All in all, however, the gig wasn't bad. I made good money.
I notice that serving is getting to be a part of my life that settles into some form of two extremes: ridiculous and maddening or profitable and tolerable. Sometimes the two meet. Today was an example of such a meeting. My restaurant debacle was ridiculous and maddening, the gig was ridiculous and tolerable, but the whole day turned profitable. As I am now in my mid-20s, I am beginning to feel slight and perhaps self-imposed pressure to create a more stable life for myself. This past year has been both a successful and profitable year for me acting wise. Thank God for that. But service-tude is becoming an increasingly less acceptable form of income to me. It's a lot of shit to deal with even on the days when you make good money. But many folks say it's a necessary evil. And, unfortunately, they're right I think. Which leads to the conclusion (hopefully it's just a temporary one, though, while I figure out a way to dump the server thing) that I just need to shut my mouth and pay the damn bills.
So, for now, the Harpist can have her Diet Coke, no ice, with a wedge of lemon.
Never mind it's out of the way...
it's what they pay me for.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Why Have I Never Noticed This Before???
FANCY Ketchup huh???
As opposed to what, Unsophisticated Ketchup? Plebian Ketchup?
I'm happy to know I can get nothing but the best from the Golden
Arches...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Conspiracy Theorists Of The World, Unite!
I have a skeptical side.
I do not usually allow it to appear enough in the Public of my Personality to color my overall outlook on life. People that spend too much time criticizing, judging, or doubting usually have a demeanor that is about as pleasant as a shooter of vinegar.
However, there are times when I feel as though I can see the forest for the trees. And I know that in this country, we the citizens (because of our power to fire and re-staff our government every 2-4 years) have high expectations of the government. By and large, the US is also a land populated by folks with a fairly high morality...in most areas. This is, in my opinion, a very good thing for this planet. The natural consequence, of course, is that those who are honored by victory in our electorate immediately feel obligated (more often to themselves than to their constituency) to keep their jobs. Occasionally this does work in our favor.
But sometimes...ah, sometimes...well, we just have to face it. Sometimes the desire to keep one's job in our government carries with it the belief that that office has the right to inform us of their actions solely on a "need to know" basis. And, well, let's be honest here- none of us are hopefully stupid enough to believe that every decision, every action our government undertakes (note the terminology there) is noble.
No, sir...
Presidents, Senators, Representatives, even military and local officials have to make tough decisions. Or take actions that are- to put it nicely- less than savory. Often, they just plain fuck up.
And then what happens? Then, the Big Red Machine gets goin'.
The gears and bells and whistles begin to turn and blow and then is born what we call...
a Conspiracy. Or a Cover Up.
The following is a link to a story that very quickly spread across the nation last night:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_upshot/20101109/od_yblog_upshot/no-one-seems-to-know-where-mysterious-missile-launched-near-la-came-from. In this interview, former Deputy Secretary of Defense Robert Ellsworth (a man who SHOULD know what he's talking about...be sure to watch the video) names this object in the sky "a big missile."
The following is a link to a story that is now very quickly spreading across the nation:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_upshot/20101110/od_yblog_upshot/experts-think-that-california-mystery-missile-was-merely-a-plane. Didn't take long did it?
In this follow-up story that is part of a campaign that began this morning, even as I awoke and had not yet heard of this mystery missile, there are immediate attempts to explain-away. I turned on the local NPR station and heard a man who was brought onto the show specifically to not only debunk any speculation that this was actually a missile but also to (with the aid of the less-than-bright and somewhat grating female host) laugh said speculation off with tales of famous "conspiracies" that were later "proven" hoaxes. Pardon me for believing Dept Sec Ellsworth- a man who should not only have enough experience to identify weapons employed by our country but who also should know when is the right time to open your mouth and when is not. Oh, and by the way... did you catch the part about Ellsworth saying the US has done this before?
What bothers me is not that the US would be launching a missile from 35-40 miles away from where I reside. No sir...what bothers me is that, well, they just don't 'fess up to it.
What I'd like to hear is something along the lines of: "We were testing a missile off the coast of California and every possible precaution was taken to ensure the test was succesful and no one was hurt."
What I hear when supposed experts and Yes Men call something that is obviously more than a mere plane or jet just that is: "Oh shit...um, this test had completely unintended consequences and we just blew the shit out of some little island in the South Pacific completely unintentionally (or otherwise) but we are currently sending billions of dollars to said island to kept their mouths shut. By the way, we're going to raise your taxes to pay for this covering-of-our-collective-government-ass."
Maybe I'm way off base here. Maybe I have an over-active imagination. Maybe I like a good mystery too much. Maybe...
But don't you worry, boys and girls, as long as there are things that go bump in the night and lights in the sky and Men In Black and Black Hawk helicopters that fly overhead without us knowing about them...and yes, missiles that are launched and then called planes...I will be sitting here in my little Booth In The Sky, watching.
Watching and reporting.
After all, someone's gotta do it.
I do not usually allow it to appear enough in the Public of my Personality to color my overall outlook on life. People that spend too much time criticizing, judging, or doubting usually have a demeanor that is about as pleasant as a shooter of vinegar.
However, there are times when I feel as though I can see the forest for the trees. And I know that in this country, we the citizens (because of our power to fire and re-staff our government every 2-4 years) have high expectations of the government. By and large, the US is also a land populated by folks with a fairly high morality...in most areas. This is, in my opinion, a very good thing for this planet. The natural consequence, of course, is that those who are honored by victory in our electorate immediately feel obligated (more often to themselves than to their constituency) to keep their jobs. Occasionally this does work in our favor.
But sometimes...ah, sometimes...well, we just have to face it. Sometimes the desire to keep one's job in our government carries with it the belief that that office has the right to inform us of their actions solely on a "need to know" basis. And, well, let's be honest here- none of us are hopefully stupid enough to believe that every decision, every action our government undertakes (note the terminology there) is noble.
No, sir...
Presidents, Senators, Representatives, even military and local officials have to make tough decisions. Or take actions that are- to put it nicely- less than savory. Often, they just plain fuck up.
And then what happens? Then, the Big Red Machine gets goin'.
The gears and bells and whistles begin to turn and blow and then is born what we call...
a Conspiracy. Or a Cover Up.
The following is a link to a story that very quickly spread across the nation last night:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_upshot/20101109/od_yblog_upshot/no-one-seems-to-know-where-mysterious-missile-launched-near-la-came-from. In this interview, former Deputy Secretary of Defense Robert Ellsworth (a man who SHOULD know what he's talking about...be sure to watch the video) names this object in the sky "a big missile."
The following is a link to a story that is now very quickly spreading across the nation:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_upshot/20101110/od_yblog_upshot/experts-think-that-california-mystery-missile-was-merely-a-plane. Didn't take long did it?
In this follow-up story that is part of a campaign that began this morning, even as I awoke and had not yet heard of this mystery missile, there are immediate attempts to explain-away. I turned on the local NPR station and heard a man who was brought onto the show specifically to not only debunk any speculation that this was actually a missile but also to (with the aid of the less-than-bright and somewhat grating female host) laugh said speculation off with tales of famous "conspiracies" that were later "proven" hoaxes. Pardon me for believing Dept Sec Ellsworth- a man who should not only have enough experience to identify weapons employed by our country but who also should know when is the right time to open your mouth and when is not. Oh, and by the way... did you catch the part about Ellsworth saying the US has done this before?
What bothers me is not that the US would be launching a missile from 35-40 miles away from where I reside. No sir...what bothers me is that, well, they just don't 'fess up to it.
What I'd like to hear is something along the lines of: "We were testing a missile off the coast of California and every possible precaution was taken to ensure the test was succesful and no one was hurt."
What I hear when supposed experts and Yes Men call something that is obviously more than a mere plane or jet just that is: "Oh shit...um, this test had completely unintended consequences and we just blew the shit out of some little island in the South Pacific completely unintentionally (or otherwise) but we are currently sending billions of dollars to said island to kept their mouths shut. By the way, we're going to raise your taxes to pay for this covering-of-our-collective-government-ass."
Maybe I'm way off base here. Maybe I have an over-active imagination. Maybe I like a good mystery too much. Maybe...
But don't you worry, boys and girls, as long as there are things that go bump in the night and lights in the sky and Men In Black and Black Hawk helicopters that fly overhead without us knowing about them...and yes, missiles that are launched and then called planes...I will be sitting here in my little Booth In The Sky, watching.
Watching and reporting.
After all, someone's gotta do it.
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