Greetings you lovely lovers of celluloid magic!!!
Nate's Verbal Hootenanny is proud to present to you the FIRST EVER
HOOTENANNY AWARDS....dedicated to honor the Best (and Worst) in Film of 2010!
Here's the deal...I love movies. Always have, always will. As a matter of fact, I love movies and acting so much I've subjected to myself to the ShitFest that is being an actor in LA for over 7 years now. haha...just kidding. Slightly.
As a lover of film, I like to see artists/films get rewarded for their work. I also think it's just as important to point out the RAMPANT amount of CRAP that is being produced these days.
Sooooo...without further adue:
The Stinkies
The "Meh" Category- films that just didn't do it for me, despite having potential/setting expectations high/what everyone else thought.
1) DATE NIGHT: with 2 of the funniest people in the country and a premise that would have worked in the 80s, there's no reason why this movie should not have been funnier.
2) GET HIM TO THE GREEK: just a ridiculous mess of a turd of a movie. Jonah...whatever his name is...belongs in that Michael Cera group of actors who have a shtick and not much else. Oh, and Russell Brand is...well, stupid. I don't mind vulgarity, but seriously...grow up.
3) DINNER FOR SHMUCKS: again, Steve Carrell=funny. It's a simple formula. Not to mention you add in a gem of a premise and WHY DID THIS MOVIE SUCK SO BAD???
4) HARRY POTTER AND THE blah blah blah: First Harry Potter movie I didn't like. I mean you can't hate a Harry Potter movie, so I didn't. I get that it's supposed to be dark and broody...but the Brits even managed to make magic boring this time around.
The Goodies:
Cheap Fun Awards- movies that will never be called great (or maybe even good) for the most part, but were worth the price of the ticket and were fun anyway. This is an honor which cannot be said for many movies today, unfortunately.
1) THE CRAZIES*- A fun, simple thriller that they managed not to mess up. Well played, sir.
2) PIRANHA 3-D*- if you haven't seen this movie, you're missing out on one of the most fun experiences of 2010. Never taking itself seriously, this movie is a hoot. A HOOT, I tell ya!!! None of you will be able to top my experience of seeing this with 15 friends in a theater in Edinburgh, Scotland after about 20 mimosas and "some other kinds of influence" while being glared at by lots of Scots that were angry with our extremely vocal reactions to this film's absuridity...but you'll enjoy it nonetheless. :-)
3) DEVIL- ok, I think this movie turned people off because M Knight Shyamalan was attached. And for that I cannot blame you. However...this movie- with a plot that is almost impossible to pull off perfectly- did a really good job of being a moody, creepy, Twilight Zone-esque tale.
4) ROBIN HOOD- a well-made action flick. Plain and simple.
5) GREASE SING-ALONG- Don't lie...you want to do it. And you know it.
6) THE LAST EXORCISM- despite an abomination of an ending, this film was effectively creepy and suspenseful. A nicely developed character played by the actor who played Prof Lasky on "Saved By The Bell: The College Years". The scariest thing about this film might be that he has not aged since that show was on, what...15 years ago?
7) JACKASS 3-D- shut you f*ing mouth. It was genuinely funny...though I almost vomited on a number of occasions. Here's the thing, though...someone somewhere is going to do a study on these guys and find out that they hold the key somewhere in the recesses of their brains that explain WHY guys do stupid shit.
Special Categories:
The Ouch Award
BLUE VALENTINE- A lot of people put this movie on their Best lists. And if you're talking about performances, absolutely. Michelle Williams has scored a well-deserved Oscar nomination. Ryan Gosling was unforgivably snubbed. More on that later... My problem with Blue Valentine is that I just couldn't take it. When watching a movie that is painful, it'd be nice to think that the characters at least have a CHANCE at being happy. That infuses the pain of what you're watching with hope...which makes the pain bearable. However, the main characters in BV NEVER, EVER seem to have a chance of making it. The few times they seem to be pulling it back together, they fuck it up. The result is a movie that, despite being made by a group of very talented individuals, feels like a 2 Hour Punch In The Stomach. I might never watch that movie again- solely because it hurts too much. Consequently, I cannot call this one of the Best of The Year.
The "I Mean...?" Award
BURLESQUE- I don't know what else to say about this movie other than "What the fuck?" It was enjoyable...but maybe that had to do with the alcohol I was consuming at the time. It was funny...but maybe that was the lesbians in the row behind me who kept hissing at Kristen Bell on-screen. It was scary...but maybe that was Cher's face. And then there was Christina Aquilera's voice- amazing as always. Which prompted my grandmother to call me and ask "Who is this girl in Burlesque?! She should be a HUGE star! She sings like Ethel Merman!!!" Gotta love my Nanna...
That's it for now, kiddos. Enjoy it...
more Hootenanny Awards to come in Part 2!!!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Inevitable Loss Of Zen (A Short Story)
Our Hero ends his day at the office.
On a typical day, his exodus from His fancy Beverly Hills highrise consists of slipping in his headphones, bounding out of the office and entering the elevator without making eye contact with a single person- be they boss, assistant or janitor. Yes, it is usually a frenzied escape worthy of an Olympic sport...especially on a Friday.
But not today. No sir...today is Hump Day.
And not a thing in the world will shake Our Hero's calm today. The smile has been present to some extent or another all day- even during His boss's sudden and nonsensical shit-fit right after lunch. You see, like the myth of the rainbow, Hump Day has a Pot o' Gold waiting at the end of it: the weekly pick-up basketball game. A chance to release, to blow off mid-week steam, to create, to compete and to exercise a set of skills He possessed that are genuinely appreciated by those that play with Him.
With this in mind, Our Hero glides calmly to his car. He climbs behind the wheel of his beloved Jeep Wrangler and connects his iPod to his radio and finds a radio station with the least static to broadcast his own personal radio broadcast. Immediately, He dials his iPod to Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Have You Ever Seen The Rain"...a marriage of classic rock music taste with modern technology that almost doesn't make sense and yet makes perfect sense all in the same instant. As He winds down 12 dizzying circular levels of his parking structure and turns left onto the Beverly Hills Street that we'll just call Annoyance Avenue and towards His pickup game, Our Hero continues to grin- life is beautiful.
The Evil Spirit that is The Los Angeles Commute will never allow that belief to stand.
He turns left and, for the first time in months, catches the insanely long red light on the corner.
Funny, He thinks.
Sometime before New Year's Eve, the light turns green. And as He takes his foot off the brake, He sees that a homeless man has shuffled into the crosswalk in front of Him. Unable to go without risking collision with this frail human body, He reapplies his foot to the brake.
As if his brake and the horn of the car behind Him were linked: "Woooonnnnnnnnkkkk"- a bright black BMW (yes, it's possible) shouts at Him at the behest of its operator. Obviously not seeing the homeless man, the horn operator continues until Our Hero is finally cleared and can move forward.
Our Hero breathes. It's Hump Day...don't pay him any attention.
As if some spell has been cast, He manages to catch every single light for the next 2 miles on Typical St.
Our Hero continues to breathe and even begins rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles to maintain his stronghold on the happy place He's in. He turns The Who a bit louder.
After a while, the curse wears off and He catches 4 green lights in a row- a minor miracle in LA. But...the Spirit still has plans. No sooner has Our Hero left the zone of Persistent Red Lights than the 2 lane road narrows to one due to construction.
His knuckles clench. He knows this is not good.
And, indeed, it is not. He spends the next 33.75 minutes in the same spot. Unbelievably, He manages to be stuck in front of the only 2 people in the 13 block traffic jam that are under the false impression that car horns and the occasional call from their car windows "Come on, move it asshole!" somehow actually makes traffic move.
Suddenly, not even Pink Floyd can keep the tension at bay. His back muscles tighten again and his face gets hot.
Finally, the traffic inches bit-by-bit past the construction zone. In Los Angeles, inching is good. Forward progress is a saving grace in both traffic and football.
The road opens at long last...
But only long enough for Our Hero to pick the right lane. Of course he had to pick that lane. Why? Because He always seemed to pick the spot on the extremely rare open road behind the Ol' Bitty on the road who- despite never having Open Road in Los Angeles- drives as though she's drinking in the scenery in the countryside on a nice Sunday morning in Spring. And today was no exception. He was stuck.
He flipped his blinker to move to the opposite lane. This move seemed to offend most people- for everyone in the opposite lane (grateful for their newfound construction zone-free road) began to speed up and past him. Finally sensing his chance in between 2 well-spaced cars, Our Hero begins a dash into the lane...just as the rear car applies his gas pedal and horn with impressive synchronization. As if that were not clear enough that Our Hero wasn't welcome in this lane, Douchebag Driver #7 shouts from his window while passing:
"Don't cut me off DICKHEAD!!!"
Our Hero's place of calm is almost a memory now...as his middle finger shoots up and out of his window. And, yet, that does nothing to get him to his game faster.
Focus, he commands himself. I'm almost late! If I'm late, they'll fill my spot with someone else at the park.
Shit.
He decides Typical St is not going to be any nicer to him. So, it's time to brave the maze of side streets and residential neighborhoods that will eventually wind him up to his park.
As soon as he turns off Typical, the satisfying sounds of classic 70s-era rock suddenly give way to staticy, annoying Mariachi noise. No, he thinks. No! Come back! This is the clearest station I've ever found in Los Angeles!!!
He tries to pause his iPod while also finding a suitable station with no static or background noise which usually consisted of some foreign DJ screaming into the microphone/Baptist minister who was catching the Holy Spirit and drowning out Our Hero's beloved iPod music.
Mission: failed. In a full-on rage now, Our Hero snaps off the radio and slams on the gas pedal. Neighborhood be damned...I'm getting out of this piece of shit car and to my game in time.
Funny how things change, no?
With perhaps 10 blocks and 3 minutes to go, Our Hero dashes down Needlessly Curving Lane. He's making good time. Things are going to work. And then...
He hits a pothole. A pothole that must have been the beginnings of a major disaster-area-sized- sinkhole placed by God himself. Never in Our Hero's memory could he recall levitating in his seat while driving...but it happened after hitting this pothole. Change flew out of his change tray, the remnants of this morning's coffee spilled all over him and his messenger bag fell off the passenger seat- spilling papers and pens all over the floor of his Jeep.
Suddenly, there was a rattling coming from underneath his car. A rattling that anyone who knows cars knows can't be a good thing. Not at all. And most likely, it's a very-expensive-ruin-your-week-and-weekend-getaway-plans-not-good-thing. His face reddens, his blood boils, his hair stands up on end, his stomach tightens and he wants to snap his steering wheel in half. Until he summons all remaining strength to say:
Never mind that shit.
Almost there.
Just get there.
There it is! He can see it! The lights of the park. He applies even more pressure to the gas!
And look! From the street, He can even see The Holy Grail of Parking Spots. He NEVER gets that spot! Maybe it's not such a bad day after all!
Without slowing down, he plows into the parking lot. Victory, he exclaims.
It would have been hard to see The Dark Grey Lexus even if he'd been looking. Especially in the fading light... Indeed, Our Hero didn't truly see it until his front bumper was halfway through the car.
After the shock of the airbag deploying in his face wore off and he realized he was alive, Our Hero had only one choice:
He screamed a scream louder than any scream He'd screamed before. A deep, gutteral, soul-cleansing, and vocal chord-ripping scream that ultimately accomplished nothing except the most minute bit of stress relief.
Before getting out of His car to approach the oncoming onslaught of anger, passive aggression and insurance info exchange with the owner of The Dark Grey Lexus, the last thing He noticed was his clock:
7:03.
3 minutes late to His game.
They probably had His spot filled 5 minutes ago...
On a typical day, his exodus from His fancy Beverly Hills highrise consists of slipping in his headphones, bounding out of the office and entering the elevator without making eye contact with a single person- be they boss, assistant or janitor. Yes, it is usually a frenzied escape worthy of an Olympic sport...especially on a Friday.
But not today. No sir...today is Hump Day.
And not a thing in the world will shake Our Hero's calm today. The smile has been present to some extent or another all day- even during His boss's sudden and nonsensical shit-fit right after lunch. You see, like the myth of the rainbow, Hump Day has a Pot o' Gold waiting at the end of it: the weekly pick-up basketball game. A chance to release, to blow off mid-week steam, to create, to compete and to exercise a set of skills He possessed that are genuinely appreciated by those that play with Him.
With this in mind, Our Hero glides calmly to his car. He climbs behind the wheel of his beloved Jeep Wrangler and connects his iPod to his radio and finds a radio station with the least static to broadcast his own personal radio broadcast. Immediately, He dials his iPod to Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Have You Ever Seen The Rain"...a marriage of classic rock music taste with modern technology that almost doesn't make sense and yet makes perfect sense all in the same instant. As He winds down 12 dizzying circular levels of his parking structure and turns left onto the Beverly Hills Street that we'll just call Annoyance Avenue and towards His pickup game, Our Hero continues to grin- life is beautiful.
The Evil Spirit that is The Los Angeles Commute will never allow that belief to stand.
He turns left and, for the first time in months, catches the insanely long red light on the corner.
Funny, He thinks.
Sometime before New Year's Eve, the light turns green. And as He takes his foot off the brake, He sees that a homeless man has shuffled into the crosswalk in front of Him. Unable to go without risking collision with this frail human body, He reapplies his foot to the brake.
As if his brake and the horn of the car behind Him were linked: "Woooonnnnnnnnkkkk"- a bright black BMW (yes, it's possible) shouts at Him at the behest of its operator. Obviously not seeing the homeless man, the horn operator continues until Our Hero is finally cleared and can move forward.
Our Hero breathes. It's Hump Day...don't pay him any attention.
As if some spell has been cast, He manages to catch every single light for the next 2 miles on Typical St.
Our Hero continues to breathe and even begins rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles to maintain his stronghold on the happy place He's in. He turns The Who a bit louder.
After a while, the curse wears off and He catches 4 green lights in a row- a minor miracle in LA. But...the Spirit still has plans. No sooner has Our Hero left the zone of Persistent Red Lights than the 2 lane road narrows to one due to construction.
His knuckles clench. He knows this is not good.
And, indeed, it is not. He spends the next 33.75 minutes in the same spot. Unbelievably, He manages to be stuck in front of the only 2 people in the 13 block traffic jam that are under the false impression that car horns and the occasional call from their car windows "Come on, move it asshole!" somehow actually makes traffic move.
Suddenly, not even Pink Floyd can keep the tension at bay. His back muscles tighten again and his face gets hot.
Finally, the traffic inches bit-by-bit past the construction zone. In Los Angeles, inching is good. Forward progress is a saving grace in both traffic and football.
The road opens at long last...
But only long enough for Our Hero to pick the right lane. Of course he had to pick that lane. Why? Because He always seemed to pick the spot on the extremely rare open road behind the Ol' Bitty on the road who- despite never having Open Road in Los Angeles- drives as though she's drinking in the scenery in the countryside on a nice Sunday morning in Spring. And today was no exception. He was stuck.
He flipped his blinker to move to the opposite lane. This move seemed to offend most people- for everyone in the opposite lane (grateful for their newfound construction zone-free road) began to speed up and past him. Finally sensing his chance in between 2 well-spaced cars, Our Hero begins a dash into the lane...just as the rear car applies his gas pedal and horn with impressive synchronization. As if that were not clear enough that Our Hero wasn't welcome in this lane, Douchebag Driver #7 shouts from his window while passing:
"Don't cut me off DICKHEAD!!!"
Our Hero's place of calm is almost a memory now...as his middle finger shoots up and out of his window. And, yet, that does nothing to get him to his game faster.
Focus, he commands himself. I'm almost late! If I'm late, they'll fill my spot with someone else at the park.
Shit.
He decides Typical St is not going to be any nicer to him. So, it's time to brave the maze of side streets and residential neighborhoods that will eventually wind him up to his park.
As soon as he turns off Typical, the satisfying sounds of classic 70s-era rock suddenly give way to staticy, annoying Mariachi noise. No, he thinks. No! Come back! This is the clearest station I've ever found in Los Angeles!!!
He tries to pause his iPod while also finding a suitable station with no static or background noise which usually consisted of some foreign DJ screaming into the microphone/Baptist minister who was catching the Holy Spirit and drowning out Our Hero's beloved iPod music.
Mission: failed. In a full-on rage now, Our Hero snaps off the radio and slams on the gas pedal. Neighborhood be damned...I'm getting out of this piece of shit car and to my game in time.
Funny how things change, no?
With perhaps 10 blocks and 3 minutes to go, Our Hero dashes down Needlessly Curving Lane. He's making good time. Things are going to work. And then...
He hits a pothole. A pothole that must have been the beginnings of a major disaster-area-sized- sinkhole placed by God himself. Never in Our Hero's memory could he recall levitating in his seat while driving...but it happened after hitting this pothole. Change flew out of his change tray, the remnants of this morning's coffee spilled all over him and his messenger bag fell off the passenger seat- spilling papers and pens all over the floor of his Jeep.
Suddenly, there was a rattling coming from underneath his car. A rattling that anyone who knows cars knows can't be a good thing. Not at all. And most likely, it's a very-expensive-ruin-your-week-and-weekend-getaway-plans-not-good-thing. His face reddens, his blood boils, his hair stands up on end, his stomach tightens and he wants to snap his steering wheel in half. Until he summons all remaining strength to say:
Never mind that shit.
Almost there.
Just get there.
There it is! He can see it! The lights of the park. He applies even more pressure to the gas!
And look! From the street, He can even see The Holy Grail of Parking Spots. He NEVER gets that spot! Maybe it's not such a bad day after all!
Without slowing down, he plows into the parking lot. Victory, he exclaims.
It would have been hard to see The Dark Grey Lexus even if he'd been looking. Especially in the fading light... Indeed, Our Hero didn't truly see it until his front bumper was halfway through the car.
After the shock of the airbag deploying in his face wore off and he realized he was alive, Our Hero had only one choice:
He screamed a scream louder than any scream He'd screamed before. A deep, gutteral, soul-cleansing, and vocal chord-ripping scream that ultimately accomplished nothing except the most minute bit of stress relief.
Before getting out of His car to approach the oncoming onslaught of anger, passive aggression and insurance info exchange with the owner of The Dark Grey Lexus, the last thing He noticed was his clock:
7:03.
3 minutes late to His game.
They probably had His spot filled 5 minutes ago...
Friday, January 7, 2011
Noogie's Time To Shine
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."
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."
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.
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