Wondering why the economy is in the shape its in? Take a look at the "working class" behind it and its easy to see. (By the way, these are true events, however no names are added, so to protect the stupid).
1. Recently, when I went to McDonald's I saw on the menu that you could have an order of 6, 9 or 12 Chicken McNuggets. I asked for a half dozen nuggets. 'We don't have half dozen nuggets,' said the teenager at the counter. 'You don't?' I replied. 'We only have six, nine, or twelve,' was the reply. 'So I can't order a half dozen nuggets, but I can order six?' 'That's right.' So I shook my head and ordered six McNuggets
2. I was checking out at the local Wal-Mart with just a few items and the lady behind me put her things on the belt close to mine. I picked up one of those 'dividers' that they keep by the cash register
and placed it between our things so they wouldn't get mixed. After the girl had scanned all of my items, she picked up the 'divider', looking it all over for the bar code so she could scan it. Not finding the bar code she said to me, 'Do you know how much this is?' I said to her 'I've changed my mind, I don't think I'll buy that today.' She said 'OK,' and I paid her for the things and left. She had no clue to what had just happened
3. A lady at work was seen putting a credit card into her floppy drive
and pulling it out very quickly. When I inquired as to what she was doing,
she said she was shopping on the Internet and they kept asking for a credit card number, so she was using the ATM 'thingy.'
4. I recently saw a distraught young lady weeping beside her car.'Do you need some help?' I asked. She replied, 'I knew I should have replaced the battery to this remote door lock. Now I can't get into my car. Do you think they (pointing to a distant convenience store) would have a battery to fit this?' 'Hmmm, I dunno. Do you have an alarm, too?' I asked. 'No, just this remote 'thingy,' she answered, handing it and the car keys to me. As I took the key and manually unlocked the door, I replied, 'Why don't you drive over there and check about the batteries. It's a long walk.' (she had no clue either!)
5. Several years ago, we had an Intern who was none too swift. One day she was typing and turned to a secretary and said, 'I'm almost out of typing paper. What do I do?'
'Just use copier machine paper,' the secretary told her. With that, the intern took her last remaining blank piece of paper, put it on the photocopier and proceeded to make five 'blank' copies.
6. I was in a car dealership a while ago, when a large motor home was towed into the garage. The front of the vehicle was in dire need of repair and the whole thing generally looked like an extra in 'Twister.' I asked the manager what had happened. He told me that the driver had
set the 'cruise control' and then went in the back to make a sandwich.
7. Police in Radnor , Pa. interrogated a suspect by placing a metal colander on his head and connecting it with wires to a photocopy machine. The message 'He's lying' was placed in the copier, and police pressed the copy button each time they thought the suspect wasn't telling the truth. Believing the 'lie detector' was working, the suspect confessed.
8. A mother calls 911 very worried asking the dispatcher if she needs to take her kid to the emergency room, the kid was eating ants. The dispatcher tells her to give the kid some Benadryl and it should be fine. The mother says, 'Okay, but, I just gave him some ant killer..... '
Dispatcher: 'Rush him in to emergency room!'
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
30
In this age, turning 30 isn't exactly easy Call it an end to my 20s meltdown. The past few years ushered in an unexpected personal wave of panic. Despite all the goals I had accomplished, or thought I was supposed to accomplish, I suddenly began to question prior decisions and worry about those I had yet to make.
After all, my 30th birthday was just around the corner. And the thought of turning 30 didn't bring with it unbridled joy, but a feeling of dread.
Surely I wasn't about to enter one of the best decades of my life. So far, I had followed the script to the letter - college, career and marriage. With 30 staring me down, what road would I take next? At this milestone, was I truly where I wanted to be and doing what I wanted to do?
Where was the "30s for Dummies" book when I needed it?
Change is never easy, regardless of age. It seems, however, that I wasn't the only one grappling with this bizarre period. The economic downturn hasn't helped this crisis much for us Generation Xers.
People who vowed never to suffer the same fate as their parents are scrambling for work and accepting positions they would have scoffed at a few years ago. They didn't want to stick around long enough to get a pink slip or a customary gold watch, and yet they're being forced to reconsider more "stable" work.
They're mapping a different route, which sometimes leads them back home. That's scary when you've had your heart set on living your dream.
Whether self-inflicted or imposed by peers or parents, I believe there's an underlying expectation that you're supposed to have it all figured out by the time you're 30.
Maybe it's the increased competition that's so pervasive in our society. It's no longer acceptable to graduate high school and merely go to a college. You have to earn a 4.0 GPA, get an SAT score that's off the charts and apply to a prestigious university.
Then there's pressure to get into the best graduate or professional school, and land a job making a six-figure salary. Of course, you have to climb the ranks, buy a house (if you can afford one) and a cool car, and travel to remote corners of the world.
If you're lucky and the planets are aligned, you might find a mate. If you believed the hype back in the dot-com days, it seemed as if loads of people from my generation were striking it rich just in time to have all this and more.
The reality is that most of us were struggling just to keep up.
I suppose people in every generation feel they've drawn the short straw. Even so, the stakes seem a lot higher today.
At 30, my Grandfather had a secure job, a house and children. He had desires and dreams, but if he didn't achieve them by a certain time, he wasn't labeled a failure. No one was keeping score.
Sure, my parents surpassed their parents. But by no means were they the best, the brightest and the wealthiest people at my age. To them, success meant doing their best given the cards they were dealt. They kept on going, despite setbacks and obstacles.
In the Internet age, young women and men have more options and opportunities. Perhaps those choices make life more complex and difficult to navigate. But these new challenges don't have to be crippling.
No one has all of the answers or reaches every goal. The important thing is to keep striving toward one.
So you're not where you thought you would be at 25, 35, 55 or 65? Everyone's life plan deviates off course at some point. What matters is that we make the most of the journey.
Now that I've turned 30, I'm no longer afraid of what's in store. Unlike a birthday present, life is not always neatly packaged and tied with a bow.
After all, my 30th birthday was just around the corner. And the thought of turning 30 didn't bring with it unbridled joy, but a feeling of dread.
Surely I wasn't about to enter one of the best decades of my life. So far, I had followed the script to the letter - college, career and marriage. With 30 staring me down, what road would I take next? At this milestone, was I truly where I wanted to be and doing what I wanted to do?
Where was the "30s for Dummies" book when I needed it?
Change is never easy, regardless of age. It seems, however, that I wasn't the only one grappling with this bizarre period. The economic downturn hasn't helped this crisis much for us Generation Xers.
People who vowed never to suffer the same fate as their parents are scrambling for work and accepting positions they would have scoffed at a few years ago. They didn't want to stick around long enough to get a pink slip or a customary gold watch, and yet they're being forced to reconsider more "stable" work.
They're mapping a different route, which sometimes leads them back home. That's scary when you've had your heart set on living your dream.
Whether self-inflicted or imposed by peers or parents, I believe there's an underlying expectation that you're supposed to have it all figured out by the time you're 30.
Maybe it's the increased competition that's so pervasive in our society. It's no longer acceptable to graduate high school and merely go to a college. You have to earn a 4.0 GPA, get an SAT score that's off the charts and apply to a prestigious university.
Then there's pressure to get into the best graduate or professional school, and land a job making a six-figure salary. Of course, you have to climb the ranks, buy a house (if you can afford one) and a cool car, and travel to remote corners of the world.
If you're lucky and the planets are aligned, you might find a mate. If you believed the hype back in the dot-com days, it seemed as if loads of people from my generation were striking it rich just in time to have all this and more.
The reality is that most of us were struggling just to keep up.
I suppose people in every generation feel they've drawn the short straw. Even so, the stakes seem a lot higher today.
At 30, my Grandfather had a secure job, a house and children. He had desires and dreams, but if he didn't achieve them by a certain time, he wasn't labeled a failure. No one was keeping score.
Sure, my parents surpassed their parents. But by no means were they the best, the brightest and the wealthiest people at my age. To them, success meant doing their best given the cards they were dealt. They kept on going, despite setbacks and obstacles.
In the Internet age, young women and men have more options and opportunities. Perhaps those choices make life more complex and difficult to navigate. But these new challenges don't have to be crippling.
No one has all of the answers or reaches every goal. The important thing is to keep striving toward one.
So you're not where you thought you would be at 25, 35, 55 or 65? Everyone's life plan deviates off course at some point. What matters is that we make the most of the journey.
Now that I've turned 30, I'm no longer afraid of what's in store. Unlike a birthday present, life is not always neatly packaged and tied with a bow.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Church and hate
Boy, what ever happened to the separation of church and hate? Everybody take it easy. I'm pretty sure God's registered as an independent.
Its amazing how, in the past election year, God's name gets thrown around like the drunken dwarf at a biker rally. Personally, when I try to picture what God looks like, I always see some guy wearing a white robe and frantically working a huge panel of switches and knobs while answering prayers like a hopped-up Larry King taking phone calls. Columbia, South Carolina, go ahead--how many times do I have to tell you, take that Goddamn flag down.
Now! Every religion has its own concept of God, and every religion is wrong. They have to be. We're talking about the ultimate totality here, and no one creed can have absolute dominion over its definition. Man, I wish I'd said that sophomore year when I was trying to do Brenda Wilkins. I had teen spirit playing, we were splitting a bottle of Coke, talking existentialism. If I had this pseudo-philosophical bullshit down back then, I would have gotten laid like Mothra's egg.
Western religions tend to imagine God as either a burning bush or Wilford Brimley with a beard and dreadlocks. In the East, you get a little more leeway: one God is a bare-breasted woman with six arms, another is a man with the head of an elephant. There is no doubt in my mind as to who has the better weed.
What happens to gods when people cease to worship them? Do they sit lonely on Mount Olympus wondering what the fuck Harry Hamlin was doing in Clash Of The Titans, or do they simply fade away? Or do they instead descend to earth and take jobs as wisecracking bloggers? Whoops, I've saideth too much.
The concept of God lets us imagine there's something more, that when you die you stumble out of this demented funhouse and there's someone there to explain what the hell you just went through, like the epilogue on a Quinn Martin show. That's all I want--I want everything clarified, you hear me Lord? Everything. I want a perfectly logical reason for all the wars, shootings, tortures, rapes, murders, cruelty and pain. And when You're done with that, can you please explain the frogs in MAGNOLIA to me?
You know what else I've realized about God? Even though Jesus once admonished, "Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's," God and commerce do frequently overlap. Did you ever notice the phrase "In God We Trust" only appears on the lesser denominations of our currency? You get up around the $1000 bill, and it just says "God, I Think I Can Take It From Here." I don't think there's any doubt that people often yell, "Oh God" during sex because He wants to be appreciated for his best invention. If you don't shout His name when smelling a rose, well, that's OK. Not really bowled over by the sight of a glorious sunset? Fair enough. But if you don't give Him props for orgasms that make your toes curl like frying bacon, well, you're about to feel the awesome wrath of the Almighty's lightning-bolt enema. Yes, some of God's handiwork is flawed. There are rivers that overflow, volcanoes that aren't quite sealed and tectonic plates that tend to crack over time. But isn't it comforting to know that even God has trouble finding a reliable contractor?
And for someone who is so great and all-powerful, Yahweh's got an awful lot of people talking for him these days, doesn't he? God's got more phonies claiming to know His will than Howard Hughes. Jerry Falwell says homosexuality and abortion are sins. Yeah, well, so is gluttony, Jerry. So why don't you drop about 50 or so and then talk to me about what people should or shouldn't be doing with their bodies. OK?
Don't get me wrong. People are certainly entitled to worship as they see fit, but don't go using God as a convenient template for your petty, bigoted views. If you want to ban interracial dating at your college because your father once caught you masturbating to a picture of Pam Grier and punished you by making you paint the house, and now every time you smell wet DuPont Latex Exterior it makes you think of Foxy Brown and you get all confused and horny and humiliated at the same time, and you want to make someone pay, just fucking say so. Don't put it on God.
Its amazing how, in the past election year, God's name gets thrown around like the drunken dwarf at a biker rally. Personally, when I try to picture what God looks like, I always see some guy wearing a white robe and frantically working a huge panel of switches and knobs while answering prayers like a hopped-up Larry King taking phone calls. Columbia, South Carolina, go ahead--how many times do I have to tell you, take that Goddamn flag down.
Now! Every religion has its own concept of God, and every religion is wrong. They have to be. We're talking about the ultimate totality here, and no one creed can have absolute dominion over its definition. Man, I wish I'd said that sophomore year when I was trying to do Brenda Wilkins. I had teen spirit playing, we were splitting a bottle of Coke, talking existentialism. If I had this pseudo-philosophical bullshit down back then, I would have gotten laid like Mothra's egg.
Western religions tend to imagine God as either a burning bush or Wilford Brimley with a beard and dreadlocks. In the East, you get a little more leeway: one God is a bare-breasted woman with six arms, another is a man with the head of an elephant. There is no doubt in my mind as to who has the better weed.
What happens to gods when people cease to worship them? Do they sit lonely on Mount Olympus wondering what the fuck Harry Hamlin was doing in Clash Of The Titans, or do they simply fade away? Or do they instead descend to earth and take jobs as wisecracking bloggers? Whoops, I've saideth too much.
The concept of God lets us imagine there's something more, that when you die you stumble out of this demented funhouse and there's someone there to explain what the hell you just went through, like the epilogue on a Quinn Martin show. That's all I want--I want everything clarified, you hear me Lord? Everything. I want a perfectly logical reason for all the wars, shootings, tortures, rapes, murders, cruelty and pain. And when You're done with that, can you please explain the frogs in MAGNOLIA to me?
You know what else I've realized about God? Even though Jesus once admonished, "Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's," God and commerce do frequently overlap. Did you ever notice the phrase "In God We Trust" only appears on the lesser denominations of our currency? You get up around the $1000 bill, and it just says "God, I Think I Can Take It From Here." I don't think there's any doubt that people often yell, "Oh God" during sex because He wants to be appreciated for his best invention. If you don't shout His name when smelling a rose, well, that's OK. Not really bowled over by the sight of a glorious sunset? Fair enough. But if you don't give Him props for orgasms that make your toes curl like frying bacon, well, you're about to feel the awesome wrath of the Almighty's lightning-bolt enema. Yes, some of God's handiwork is flawed. There are rivers that overflow, volcanoes that aren't quite sealed and tectonic plates that tend to crack over time. But isn't it comforting to know that even God has trouble finding a reliable contractor?
And for someone who is so great and all-powerful, Yahweh's got an awful lot of people talking for him these days, doesn't he? God's got more phonies claiming to know His will than Howard Hughes. Jerry Falwell says homosexuality and abortion are sins. Yeah, well, so is gluttony, Jerry. So why don't you drop about 50 or so and then talk to me about what people should or shouldn't be doing with their bodies. OK?
Don't get me wrong. People are certainly entitled to worship as they see fit, but don't go using God as a convenient template for your petty, bigoted views. If you want to ban interracial dating at your college because your father once caught you masturbating to a picture of Pam Grier and punished you by making you paint the house, and now every time you smell wet DuPont Latex Exterior it makes you think of Foxy Brown and you get all confused and horny and humiliated at the same time, and you want to make someone pay, just fucking say so. Don't put it on God.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
I hate my Name
Hey every body, its me Chris. I don’t know about you but I’m really tiered of the name Chris. Do we really need one more human on the planet named Chris? You say, “O Chris is such a nice name”. Yeah maybe for the first 50 million Chris’s. “O look it’s a boy what should we name it?” “I don’t know, Chris?” If your not named Chris you have a friend named Chris or a brother named Chris. God even my brother has a brother named Chris. I’m going to change my name; I’m changing my name to…..My Lord.
Recently from a blog by… My Lord, I bloged about knocking coffee from a table and on to the feet of a Skank. Shortly after it posted I received this e-mail from 42-year-old Glenda from Utah:
Dear Mr. Gibson,
I am a mother (O no). I recently found your blog link off my son’s mySpace, and I feel deceived. If you insist on swearing in your blogs I don’t think you should use things like “coffee Time” in the title. This implies your blogs may be cute. I read all four of your posted blogs and I do not find the Skanks, covering of your boyfriend’s face, masturbation and put-downs of America cute. Your blogs are dirty! They are not cute.
Thank you for your letter Glenda. I’m sorry I’m dirty. I had no idea you would be traumatized by….. words. The blog of me spilling coffee on the foot of the skank was my artistic interpretation of how some times others can make life unpleasant for us. For example, when a lady hates your blogs, but insists on reading all your blogs so she can write you a letter telling how dirty you are.
Also I’m glad you’re a mother Glenda. But I would like to point out what your husband had to do to you to become a mother…… is kind of dirty.
So let me make it up to, cause I want you be happy. Cause my blogs would be pointless with out readers like you! So here’s a quote for you “Blow me bitch”.
You know I really do think to many people these days name their babies Chris. If just one famous Chris in the world would do something herbal, we wouldn’t have this problem. I mean no one names their baby Adolf any more.
That’s all for now, but leave me comments by clicking on the comment link below and will see you next time at bottom on top blogs by My Lord.
Recently from a blog by… My Lord, I bloged about knocking coffee from a table and on to the feet of a Skank. Shortly after it posted I received this e-mail from 42-year-old Glenda from Utah:
Dear Mr. Gibson,
I am a mother (O no). I recently found your blog link off my son’s mySpace, and I feel deceived. If you insist on swearing in your blogs I don’t think you should use things like “coffee Time” in the title. This implies your blogs may be cute. I read all four of your posted blogs and I do not find the Skanks, covering of your boyfriend’s face, masturbation and put-downs of America cute. Your blogs are dirty! They are not cute.
Thank you for your letter Glenda. I’m sorry I’m dirty. I had no idea you would be traumatized by….. words. The blog of me spilling coffee on the foot of the skank was my artistic interpretation of how some times others can make life unpleasant for us. For example, when a lady hates your blogs, but insists on reading all your blogs so she can write you a letter telling how dirty you are.
Also I’m glad you’re a mother Glenda. But I would like to point out what your husband had to do to you to become a mother…… is kind of dirty.
So let me make it up to, cause I want you be happy. Cause my blogs would be pointless with out readers like you! So here’s a quote for you “Blow me bitch”.
You know I really do think to many people these days name their babies Chris. If just one famous Chris in the world would do something herbal, we wouldn’t have this problem. I mean no one names their baby Adolf any more.
That’s all for now, but leave me comments by clicking on the comment link below and will see you next time at bottom on top blogs by My Lord.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
eHarmony could make millions
As homosexuals, we can learn a lot from the success of eHarmony’s “dimensions of compatibility.” On that popular heterosexual dating site, the premise is that the more alike the partners are, the more likely the relationship will succeed. In fact, eHarmony claims that 90 couples get married every day due to the success of their compatibility profile.
Apply this logic to gay and lesbian couples. Just by virtue of being the same sex, we have an amazing level of compatibility over heterosexual couples. Here are 5 “dimensions of compatibility” that all homosexuals share:
Sex drive. It’s a well documented fact that, on average, men have a greater sex drive than women do, due to testosterone production. This is best evidenced by the testimony of female-to-male transgender folks who start receiving the hormone and suddenly experience a revved up sex drive. That is not to say that any given gay or lesbian couple has the same sex drive, but that they are more likely to be in sync than heterosexual couples are on average.
Emotional Intensity. If men are more sexual, women rate higher on the emotionally intuitive scale. This similarity allows gays and lesbians to connect with each other on a level they are most comfortable with. Lesbians are renown for their deep levels of emotional attachment.
Communication. Men and women simply communicate differently. Men tend to share experiences and women share feelings and thoughts. Men use conversation to establish position; women use conversation to form consensus. An excellent book on this subject is You Just Don’t Understand, by Deborah Tannen. Homosexuals have an advantage in that they are communicating on the same level and with the same intent.
Dominance. Heterosexual relationships are not built on a level social field. Whether we like it or not, men have more status in our society than women do, as evidenced by salary discrepancies, corporate glass ceilings and political representation. This skews the power in heterosexual relationships toward men. Power imbalances also exist in homosexual relationships, but they may be more fluid or based on personality needs rather than the accident of one’s gender.
Shared social experience. Gays and lesbians can be considered ethnic groups. As such, we share a certain humor, culture and experience. We are drawn together and made stronger as a group by social marginalization. Homosexual relationships can benefit from this by having more in common with each other.
So what is the significance of these compatibility advantages? They potentially allow gays and lesbians to experience a much deeper level of connection than heterosexual couples do. Given these points, imagine how many successful matches eHarmony could claim if they accepted gay and lesbian customers!
Apply this logic to gay and lesbian couples. Just by virtue of being the same sex, we have an amazing level of compatibility over heterosexual couples. Here are 5 “dimensions of compatibility” that all homosexuals share:
Sex drive. It’s a well documented fact that, on average, men have a greater sex drive than women do, due to testosterone production. This is best evidenced by the testimony of female-to-male transgender folks who start receiving the hormone and suddenly experience a revved up sex drive. That is not to say that any given gay or lesbian couple has the same sex drive, but that they are more likely to be in sync than heterosexual couples are on average.
Emotional Intensity. If men are more sexual, women rate higher on the emotionally intuitive scale. This similarity allows gays and lesbians to connect with each other on a level they are most comfortable with. Lesbians are renown for their deep levels of emotional attachment.
Communication. Men and women simply communicate differently. Men tend to share experiences and women share feelings and thoughts. Men use conversation to establish position; women use conversation to form consensus. An excellent book on this subject is You Just Don’t Understand, by Deborah Tannen. Homosexuals have an advantage in that they are communicating on the same level and with the same intent.
Dominance. Heterosexual relationships are not built on a level social field. Whether we like it or not, men have more status in our society than women do, as evidenced by salary discrepancies, corporate glass ceilings and political representation. This skews the power in heterosexual relationships toward men. Power imbalances also exist in homosexual relationships, but they may be more fluid or based on personality needs rather than the accident of one’s gender.
Shared social experience. Gays and lesbians can be considered ethnic groups. As such, we share a certain humor, culture and experience. We are drawn together and made stronger as a group by social marginalization. Homosexual relationships can benefit from this by having more in common with each other.
So what is the significance of these compatibility advantages? They potentially allow gays and lesbians to experience a much deeper level of connection than heterosexual couples do. Given these points, imagine how many successful matches eHarmony could claim if they accepted gay and lesbian customers!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Need to be Cool
Cool is a gift. It's having eight pounds of hip in a five-pound bag. It's not bought, bred orbequeathed. Clinton lost it, McCain can't buy it and Bush thinks it's spelledwith a "k."
America's drive to be cool is like an endless game of "Follow the Leader," withall of us in a dog-sled-train, struggling to keep up with the alpha maletrendsetter, when all we can make out are the hazy, glistening outlines of hisice-flecked, rhythmically pumping butt cheeks. Sorry, I got a little carriedaway, there. I'm still recovering from Gay Week on Animal Planet.
The United States is the birthplace of cool. If the world was a high school,America would be making out in study hall with Sweden, picking on India, andsmoking in the U.N. restroom with France and Colombia.
Coolness appeals to us because it represents being free from the constraints ofsociety while still living within it, dropping in to give Richie and Chachi adose of hard-earned street wisdom, and then headin' off to Arnold's to grab ashake and pound a free song out of the jukebox when the Cunningham scene gets alittle too "square." (By the way, almost triggering a petite mal seizure bydoing the finger quotes thing - uncool).
Now, there are many types of cool. There's the classic, iconic, Brian Kinney/Queer as Folkapproach: cryptic and unflappable, squinting through the smoke from thecigarette dangling between your lips, never letting a trace of emotion showexcept for an occasional sardonic half-smile at the foolish world around youthat you couldn't give a rat's ass about.
As a matter of fact, some celebrities reach a cool of such mythic proportions,it transcends their physical being. Jack Nicholson is so cool, he hasn'tbothered to take a breath for years, and he could still kick the shit out ofyou.
Then there's the demographically researched, pop-media faux-cool, the type ofinsouciance that bears the corporate patina of mass-marketed nonconformity.This is shopping mall cool, easily attainable: You don't have to Harley toSturges; or Master the Guitar; or Trek through Nepal-- just plunk down yourDiscover card and buy some threads at Urban Outfitters or a barbed-wirebicep-tattoo at the Henna Hut, and not only will you enter the kingdom of cool,you'll also get a valuable cash-back bonus that can be applied to cruise travelor a Reader's Digest subscription.
I think some manufacturers may be trying a little too hard to envelopeverything with a hip aura. I was at a drug store and watched an old man spend15 minutes trying to decide if he wanted his Ex-Lax in Extreme Orange orTotally Wacked Wintermint.
There are certain places and situations where it's virtually impossible to putup a cool front. For example, when your doctor gives you a prostate exam, orwhen the supermarket cashier calls for a price check on super-small-sizecondoms.
One of my favorite pastimes is to look around and try to determine who thecoolest person in the room is. For example the other day at Starbucks, as Iobserved the 20-something counter jockey with the pierced prefrontal cortex andthe dust bunny on his chin, and the as-yet un-produced screenwriter sitting inthe corner staring at a four-year-old script-in-progress that still has fewerwords in it than his latte order, or the heavily perfumed walking designer racktalking into her cell phone like she was trying to be heard over a fuckingchainsaw, I realized with some pride that I could honestly say I was thecoolest person in the immediate proximity, until I looked out the window andcaught the eye of the Guatemalan landscaper trimming the hedges outside,obviously wondering what kind of schmuck I was to pay three dollars and seventyfive cents for a cup of coffee.
Let's bottom line this. For me, the only real cool people left are those whodon't buy into the coolness mystique. People who don't take themselves tooseriously and don't screw over other people and understand that life goes on,the earth abideth forever, and what is cool today may not be cool tomorrow.That's why it's best just to be yourself. You know, unless, of course, you'rean asshole.
America's drive to be cool is like an endless game of "Follow the Leader," withall of us in a dog-sled-train, struggling to keep up with the alpha maletrendsetter, when all we can make out are the hazy, glistening outlines of hisice-flecked, rhythmically pumping butt cheeks. Sorry, I got a little carriedaway, there. I'm still recovering from Gay Week on Animal Planet.
The United States is the birthplace of cool. If the world was a high school,America would be making out in study hall with Sweden, picking on India, andsmoking in the U.N. restroom with France and Colombia.
Coolness appeals to us because it represents being free from the constraints ofsociety while still living within it, dropping in to give Richie and Chachi adose of hard-earned street wisdom, and then headin' off to Arnold's to grab ashake and pound a free song out of the jukebox when the Cunningham scene gets alittle too "square." (By the way, almost triggering a petite mal seizure bydoing the finger quotes thing - uncool).
Now, there are many types of cool. There's the classic, iconic, Brian Kinney/Queer as Folkapproach: cryptic and unflappable, squinting through the smoke from thecigarette dangling between your lips, never letting a trace of emotion showexcept for an occasional sardonic half-smile at the foolish world around youthat you couldn't give a rat's ass about.
As a matter of fact, some celebrities reach a cool of such mythic proportions,it transcends their physical being. Jack Nicholson is so cool, he hasn'tbothered to take a breath for years, and he could still kick the shit out ofyou.
Then there's the demographically researched, pop-media faux-cool, the type ofinsouciance that bears the corporate patina of mass-marketed nonconformity.This is shopping mall cool, easily attainable: You don't have to Harley toSturges; or Master the Guitar; or Trek through Nepal-- just plunk down yourDiscover card and buy some threads at Urban Outfitters or a barbed-wirebicep-tattoo at the Henna Hut, and not only will you enter the kingdom of cool,you'll also get a valuable cash-back bonus that can be applied to cruise travelor a Reader's Digest subscription.
I think some manufacturers may be trying a little too hard to envelopeverything with a hip aura. I was at a drug store and watched an old man spend15 minutes trying to decide if he wanted his Ex-Lax in Extreme Orange orTotally Wacked Wintermint.
There are certain places and situations where it's virtually impossible to putup a cool front. For example, when your doctor gives you a prostate exam, orwhen the supermarket cashier calls for a price check on super-small-sizecondoms.
One of my favorite pastimes is to look around and try to determine who thecoolest person in the room is. For example the other day at Starbucks, as Iobserved the 20-something counter jockey with the pierced prefrontal cortex andthe dust bunny on his chin, and the as-yet un-produced screenwriter sitting inthe corner staring at a four-year-old script-in-progress that still has fewerwords in it than his latte order, or the heavily perfumed walking designer racktalking into her cell phone like she was trying to be heard over a fuckingchainsaw, I realized with some pride that I could honestly say I was thecoolest person in the immediate proximity, until I looked out the window andcaught the eye of the Guatemalan landscaper trimming the hedges outside,obviously wondering what kind of schmuck I was to pay three dollars and seventyfive cents for a cup of coffee.
Let's bottom line this. For me, the only real cool people left are those whodon't buy into the coolness mystique. People who don't take themselves tooseriously and don't screw over other people and understand that life goes on,the earth abideth forever, and what is cool today may not be cool tomorrow.That's why it's best just to be yourself. You know, unless, of course, you'rean asshole.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Coffe Time
You came into the Cafe, in the Break Room
You are the 30ish, 5'5", 120#, "Blonde" girl with the spackled foundation and knock-off bronze-metallic Prada bag. You were on your cell, blabbing with an artificial "Laguna Beach" accent and blissfully absorbing the "attention" of everyone else. You were in line for about three minutes. I'd like to inform you of a few things:
1. We are not staring at you because you are hot, cool or interesting. Believe me, most of us could care less about your insipid desperation to appear cool. We care much more about you leaving.
2. The Cafe does not serve "venti latte’s". I'm sure your a little dizzy (not eating will do that) and though you were at Startbucks. You wouldn't go to McDonald’s and ask for a Whopper, you twit.
3. Make a decision before you get to the front of the line, bitch. I know… you’ve got low blood sugar so its haaaaard to decide, but settling on a fat-free muffin and a low-fat latte shouldn’t take one hundred twelve seconds. Especially since you’ve been in line for three minutes saying, "I knoooow. Ohmigod, I KNOOOWWWW! Really? I know…". And you get the same thing every day, you should be able to pull the three brain cells you have together, and put your order together. Could you please die, or at least spontaneously bleed or do something interesting and painful, like a seizure.
4. Leave a freaking tip. That little jar isn’t there to TAKE CHANGE FROM. If you need change for a paper, simply ASK the nice gal behind the counter. Don’t dig around in her tip jar for quarters while smacking your gun in the ear of your feeble-minded phone-mate. We all know you only got dollars for tips while shaking the tattered remnants of your shriveled dignity on some poll at Stars last night. Skank.
5. Get your fucking bag off my table! Just because I’m seated at the table next to the no-calorie sweeteners doesn't mean I want your greasy, cum-stained whore-sack on my paper; nudging my drink and getting dangerously close to contaminating my bagel. Not even an "excuse me" or a "do you mind". In fact, I might have let it pass had you bothered to engage some semblance of decency. But, there you go, no concern for my space.
6. It was not an accident that my coffee "fell" onto your feet while you were adding the Spleda to your beverage. I carefully planned knocking it "just so" in hopes of getting at least one of your feet covered in scalding bean juice. Did that burn a little? Don’t worry about the shoes. Pleather cleans up nicely. The sugar should get nice and sticky soon. Kind of like your thighs and tits felt before you used a handi-wipe on them this morning when you came to.
7. It was funny to watch you drop your phone, prance on your little feet, and protest with "Ohmigod! Ohmigod!" while everyone else took delight in your suffering. Did you believe me to be sincere when I said, "Oh, wow. That must hurt." Notice how I didn’t apologize? Of course you didn’t.
8. Yes, I purposely chose that moment to get up and leave. I definitely meant to bump the table and knock your bag to the floor. I admit it: I wanted to cause you as much inconvenience as possible without actually breaking any laws.
9. The people behind you in line were purposefully rude in pushing around you to get sugar, cream and stuff. They grinned when they observed my work. They wryly smiled. They hate you as much as I do. Probably as much as your mother did when she dropped you off at the orphanage.
10. Even though I had significantly slowed the pace of everyone’s day, there wasn’t a bit of anger directed at me. Rather, there was joy, gratefulness, even one woman who mouthed, "Awesome". You are disgusting and unwelcome. Move away. Get crippled. Go blind. Just leave.
You are the 30ish, 5'5", 120#, "Blonde" girl with the spackled foundation and knock-off bronze-metallic Prada bag. You were on your cell, blabbing with an artificial "Laguna Beach" accent and blissfully absorbing the "attention" of everyone else. You were in line for about three minutes. I'd like to inform you of a few things:
1. We are not staring at you because you are hot, cool or interesting. Believe me, most of us could care less about your insipid desperation to appear cool. We care much more about you leaving.
2. The Cafe does not serve "venti latte’s". I'm sure your a little dizzy (not eating will do that) and though you were at Startbucks. You wouldn't go to McDonald’s and ask for a Whopper, you twit.
3. Make a decision before you get to the front of the line, bitch. I know… you’ve got low blood sugar so its haaaaard to decide, but settling on a fat-free muffin and a low-fat latte shouldn’t take one hundred twelve seconds. Especially since you’ve been in line for three minutes saying, "I knoooow. Ohmigod, I KNOOOWWWW! Really? I know…". And you get the same thing every day, you should be able to pull the three brain cells you have together, and put your order together. Could you please die, or at least spontaneously bleed or do something interesting and painful, like a seizure.
4. Leave a freaking tip. That little jar isn’t there to TAKE CHANGE FROM. If you need change for a paper, simply ASK the nice gal behind the counter. Don’t dig around in her tip jar for quarters while smacking your gun in the ear of your feeble-minded phone-mate. We all know you only got dollars for tips while shaking the tattered remnants of your shriveled dignity on some poll at Stars last night. Skank.
5. Get your fucking bag off my table! Just because I’m seated at the table next to the no-calorie sweeteners doesn't mean I want your greasy, cum-stained whore-sack on my paper; nudging my drink and getting dangerously close to contaminating my bagel. Not even an "excuse me" or a "do you mind". In fact, I might have let it pass had you bothered to engage some semblance of decency. But, there you go, no concern for my space.
6. It was not an accident that my coffee "fell" onto your feet while you were adding the Spleda to your beverage. I carefully planned knocking it "just so" in hopes of getting at least one of your feet covered in scalding bean juice. Did that burn a little? Don’t worry about the shoes. Pleather cleans up nicely. The sugar should get nice and sticky soon. Kind of like your thighs and tits felt before you used a handi-wipe on them this morning when you came to.
7. It was funny to watch you drop your phone, prance on your little feet, and protest with "Ohmigod! Ohmigod!" while everyone else took delight in your suffering. Did you believe me to be sincere when I said, "Oh, wow. That must hurt." Notice how I didn’t apologize? Of course you didn’t.
8. Yes, I purposely chose that moment to get up and leave. I definitely meant to bump the table and knock your bag to the floor. I admit it: I wanted to cause you as much inconvenience as possible without actually breaking any laws.
9. The people behind you in line were purposefully rude in pushing around you to get sugar, cream and stuff. They grinned when they observed my work. They wryly smiled. They hate you as much as I do. Probably as much as your mother did when she dropped you off at the orphanage.
10. Even though I had significantly slowed the pace of everyone’s day, there wasn’t a bit of anger directed at me. Rather, there was joy, gratefulness, even one woman who mouthed, "Awesome". You are disgusting and unwelcome. Move away. Get crippled. Go blind. Just leave.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Dear Internet Porn
Dear Internet Porn
These last ten years have been quite a trip, have they not? My letter to you now, however, is not one of celebration... I don't feel like we are the same anymore. We just don't have that passion we used to.
When we first met I was a loser, and you were there for me. My parents told me that you were no good for me, but I didn't listen. You showed me there were plenty of people like myself getting laid. It was beautiful and passionate. Your soft core erotic videos were a tasteful introduction to my budding sexuality.
As I got older I started seeing guys on the side. I knew you were jealous, but you have always held a special place in my heart. You became naughtier and it affected my relationships. I started wanting all the things I had seen you do. I wanted to be just like you. I wanted to cover my boyfriend's face, put it up his ass, choke him.
But that's when I realized your dark secret, Internet Porn. You are a fake and shallow individual. Not every one wants a load on their face! Anal sex hurts, and choking only leads to bruises that friends and loved ones ask about. You lied to me and changed my sexual expectations.
I know it isn't all bad. You've taught me so much. I can surf the internet with either hand and I know all the keyboard shortcuts for my browser. I know positions that aren't even in the Kamasutra. But you have such a dark side. I've been late for work more than once and I find myself wanting to jerk off at six in the morning. That's what you've done to me.
Even once on the eve of Christ's birth, I sat hunched over my computer, penis in hand. I had to turn the nativity scene around so that Jesus wouldn't see your filth. Try as I might, I can never hide you well enough either. It is harder to find you squirreled away on my hard drive than it is to get into my online bank account. And there is always lingering evidence. I've told you time and again to stop leaving your things at my place. But you ALWAYS forget something: a shortcut here, an unclear history there.
There's no acceptance when you are discovered either. It might have been ok when we started - just innocent flirting with soft core. But now when some one discovers my asphyxiation collection, or that one goat video..... o the shame. I hate that you always invite your shadiest friends over when you come. So I have one request. I know I can't get rid of you... you are the psychopathic stalker to my teenage horror film. But if you won't leave me alone, can you at least do me one favor? If I ever die, can you please format my hard drive? All of them? If you can't do that, just burn my place down. My family can never know of my shame.
These last ten years have been quite a trip, have they not? My letter to you now, however, is not one of celebration... I don't feel like we are the same anymore. We just don't have that passion we used to.
When we first met I was a loser, and you were there for me. My parents told me that you were no good for me, but I didn't listen. You showed me there were plenty of people like myself getting laid. It was beautiful and passionate. Your soft core erotic videos were a tasteful introduction to my budding sexuality.
As I got older I started seeing guys on the side. I knew you were jealous, but you have always held a special place in my heart. You became naughtier and it affected my relationships. I started wanting all the things I had seen you do. I wanted to be just like you. I wanted to cover my boyfriend's face, put it up his ass, choke him.
But that's when I realized your dark secret, Internet Porn. You are a fake and shallow individual. Not every one wants a load on their face! Anal sex hurts, and choking only leads to bruises that friends and loved ones ask about. You lied to me and changed my sexual expectations.
I know it isn't all bad. You've taught me so much. I can surf the internet with either hand and I know all the keyboard shortcuts for my browser. I know positions that aren't even in the Kamasutra. But you have such a dark side. I've been late for work more than once and I find myself wanting to jerk off at six in the morning. That's what you've done to me.
Even once on the eve of Christ's birth, I sat hunched over my computer, penis in hand. I had to turn the nativity scene around so that Jesus wouldn't see your filth. Try as I might, I can never hide you well enough either. It is harder to find you squirreled away on my hard drive than it is to get into my online bank account. And there is always lingering evidence. I've told you time and again to stop leaving your things at my place. But you ALWAYS forget something: a shortcut here, an unclear history there.
There's no acceptance when you are discovered either. It might have been ok when we started - just innocent flirting with soft core. But now when some one discovers my asphyxiation collection, or that one goat video..... o the shame. I hate that you always invite your shadiest friends over when you come. So I have one request. I know I can't get rid of you... you are the psychopathic stalker to my teenage horror film. But if you won't leave me alone, can you at least do me one favor? If I ever die, can you please format my hard drive? All of them? If you can't do that, just burn my place down. My family can never know of my shame.
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