Thursday, August 31, 2006

Didn't Rain in Maine--Jealous?

McCarthy Missed a Whole Group of Commies

I declare that the New Hampshire state police are anti-capitalist! In fact, it is not just the coppers from New Hampshire but all troopers throughout The Union. State-troopers are more than anti-capitalist they are also red-commie fascists. (Sure, historically, communists and fascists hate each other but it’s 2006. Everything is postmodern these days, even antiquated political philosophies.) These armed hall-monitors impose fines on the good citizens of this land for traffic law violations, thereby taking money out of the American economy. Should all of the U.S. suffer because some person, with a decent soul, chose to travel at a speed of 86 miles per hour in 65 mile per hour on a section of interstate 95? This isn't Bolshevik Russia. We don't share our resources here. We are rugged individuals who need jobs so we can buy toilet paper without standing on line for hours. How can we buy anything if cops take our money as punishment? See, this is how capitalism works. (And capitalism is God's plan). Money is created. Then people take that money and buy stuff. But you can only get money if you have a job (or if your parents die and leave you their house and you sell it). You can only get a job if people buy things for you to manufacture, sell, manage, or fix. People can only buy things if their money isn’t robbed from them at gun point by men in silly, wide-brimmed hats. If a person is fined $350 for traveling 21 miles an hour over the speed limit then she doesn't have $350 to spend on movies, vodka, books, highballs, groceries, red wine in a box, notebooks, Astro Glide, hard cider, batteries, thunderbird, or passes to Acadia National Park, etc. When cops strip our capitalist hero of her money they strip her of her power. That money churns the butter that is Capitalism. Without the money the businesses she frequents will close. These businesses, no longer in business, will lack the funds to order supplies from distributors. Distributors will go out of business, laying off workers who then will have no money to purchase products, and the next thing you know...BAM! The U.S. is toppled. Way to go New Hampshire's finest. I guess that's why people call cops "finest" because they fine citizens the most.

And let’s face it. This fining system doesn't deter people from breaking traffic laws. So is it really worth destroying America-destroying freedom- just to harass people who drive "outside the box?" If you want to curtail disobedience make people temp in an office for a month, but fully paid, or do what restaurants do when a patron screws up. Make them wash dishes.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Friday, August 25, 2006

I'll Be Gone For a Few Days Next Week

Today I leav to visit Acadia National Park and Nova Scotia. I need to see these place before the world ends. I don't know if the world is going to end this year or not, there have been some signs that the apocolypse is nigh, but nothing is certain. However, why take a chance. I might as well go while I can.

And in honor of the upcoming national holiday, Labor Day I've posted a song from a sketch show I co-wrote with Mark Bridges back when I lived in Portland, OR. One of the through lines of the show involved an evil corporation that turned it's employees into zombies to save on labor costs. (notice that Rachel is spelled sans the extra 'a' my name is spelled with. That's how we knew she wasn't me, ahh meta theatre.)


(Cody Sings)

Don’t ask questions
Don’t make suggestions
For God’s sake don’t ever whine
Don’t stick your neck out
Unless you want to check out
The unemployment line

RACHEL:

So they’re a tough bunch, eh?


CODY : (joined by coworkers)

Just keep your head down
Keep your nose brown
Keep thinking of the bottom line
We know that you’re thinking
Of taking up drinking
(one lone drunk worker: )May I suggest fortified wine

Chorus:
You could be working for happiness
You could be working for dreams
But instead you persist to stay off the list
Of workers assigned to the volleyball team

This is the big city
No one said it was pretty
It sure beats the alternative
If we go in the red
You’ll wish that you were dead
For as long as they let you live

It’s the plan for survival
We’ll squash every rival
Our CEO is not that forgiving
This is the big city
No one said it was pretty
Or promised you’d make a living

Chorus:
You could be working for happiness
But you made a deal with the devil
But instead you persist to stay off the list
Of workers assigned to the factory level

If you don’t have it in you
You’ll be on the menu
For one of our new hirees
It only gets worse
and your life is a curse
when they dig up the retirees

Keep your head down
Keep your nose brown
Feel your life go down the drain
Better make it your dream
To join our happy team
Or you’ll be working for brains

RACHEL:
Got it. Thanks

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Anna Don't Take that Shit

My best friend Anna called me yesterday from union square. "Hi Rachael. I'm just killing time. I'm early meeting my date."
"He's not there yet?" I asked.
"No. I'm early I said." Anna replied
" If he can't get to a date early he's just not that into you. What is this your first date and he's already playing games. Red herring, Anna, watch out. If he were really into you he'd at your meeting spot already waiting with passionate anticipation for your arrival. Obviously he has his head to far up his own ass to consider your feelings and your schedule. Did it ever occur to him you might be early and he shouldn't leave you waiting in Union Square. No, he didn't. He's too busy playing cool and being aloof. You could be spending this time writing songs and getting ahead in your career. Instead you waiting for some man who can't even be early for a date. You are worth more than this, Anna. Have some self respect and go home."
"Rachael, aren't I supposed to be the crazy one in our friendship?"
"Well, you will be if you wait around for some guy to be on time."

-----
Friday night I patronized a local watering hole and struck up a conversation with a young man. After four hours of conversation he said, "You're really easy to get along with." I said, "Today."

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Why Gentrification Sucks

About ten years ago there was a riot in the neighborhood where I now reside. Back then the block I lived on was still considered Crown Heights. The realitors have since dubbed my block and the surrounding blocks Prospect Heights. Since the renaming, coffee shops and organic markets have been cropping up all over the place.

Tonight, I missparked my car scratching my front bumber against the rear bumber of a parked car. Unfortunately, for me there were two people in the parked during the mishap at 2am this morning. If this were the good old days before gentrification two people would not be hanging out in their car talking at 2 in the morning and I could have driven away undedetected. Though, back then there might have been two people in a car "talking" which would also have been fine because then one of the occupants would have shot me. I'd now be dead instead of having to deal with my insurance company.

God damn you Guillani and Mike Bloomberg!!!

Monday, August 21, 2006

Higher Education

I was 17 years old sitting in my grandparent's backyard. Somehow the topic of my going to college came up. My grandfather told me that I shouldn't bother with college. If I were smart I'd go to secretary school. I tried to explain that studying theatre produced the same result as secretarial school, but college had the added bonuses of living away from home and meeting a panoply of gay men. My grandmother was on the side of college rather than secretarial school. She said, "No, Rachael should go to college. This way she'll have something to talk about. Look at us we sit here what do we have to talk about?" You hit the nail on the head, I gots to have something to talk about. I went to college to become a better conversationalists. I can now carry-on conversations with pretentious assholes on myriad of subjects--liberal arts subjects.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Kill the Wabbit

"The rabbit died" is an old school term meaning a woman is pregnant. It's very old school like one a room schoolhouse with an outhouse as a bathroom. The term comes from an old practice humans used to engage in. See, back in the day before EPT if a young lady missed her period she'd pee in a jar and then poor the contents on her rabbit. In the olden days everyone had rabbits even poor people. If the rabbit died that meant the woman was preggers. OK, I don't know if there was urinating in a jar or what, but I know some kind of fluid from the lady was placed on or near the rabbit and if the rabbit died the chick had "one in the oven."

Here's my question. Where were the "right-to-lifers?" They just stood by as rabbit after rabbit was killed. Seems like bullshit to me. Kill all the rabbits you want but don't touch those fetuses. It's kind of backwards if you ask me. I mean, bunnies are adorable. Fetuses, not so much. And you can't pet a fetus. Well, you could but your hand gets all full of goo. Fetuses are all slimey and disgusting. Rabbits, on the other hand, are fuzzy, soft, funny, and smart. Let's put it this way have you ever seen a fetus out smart a talking duck or red neck southern with humougous hat? Have you ever seen or heard a fetus perform a Wagner opera? Nope. But that's right kill the bunnies long live the fetuses. Stupid right-to-lifers.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

List of Non-Logical Actions Brought on by an Office

1. Though, the predicted temperature for today is above 80 degress Farhenheight I dressed in long pants and a sweater.

2. Despite needing at least two more hours of sleep when I awoke at 7:40am this morning, I still got out of bed and left my apartment.

3. This office has internet access yet restricts access to hotmail, gmail, yahoomail, etc. Huh? What's the point of the internet? Besides porn.

4. Every employee here has voicemail and caller ID, yet they insist I answer other people's phones anyway.

5. Instead of working on the new, weekly, variety show, "I Love Jack," I'm producing this fall (that will take place every Sunday 8pm at Shanghai's Den in Williamsburg) I have to enter business cards into some guy's microsoft outlook contacts folder.

6. Instead of editing and rehearsing a piece I'm to read tonight at Mo Pitkins I continue entering business cards into some dude's contacts folder.

7. Instead of picking up my replacement phone at a Fedex depot in Brooklyn, because Fedex didn't seem to be able to handle delivering it to my apartment on Tuesday, I'm scanning investment magazines for some unexplained reason.

8. They haven't fired me. I started Monday and it's Thursday.

Music Theory

It's amazing how uplifting gospel music is, despite the fact there's no god.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Literary Observation

Working in an office is like living in George Orwell's 1984. Everthing is monitored and no one can be trusted.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

3 Things the Middle One's a Little Weak

Lately, my mind keeps fixating on an idea about cell phones. I wonder what would happen if you took a 100,000 cell phones or so, put them on vibrate, buried them deep in the Earth, and then called them all at the same time. Ehh. They probably don't get reception down in the lower depths of the Earth. But what if we first put in a system like the one they have in Tokyo so strap hangers can get reception in the subway? Yeah, we could vibrate the Earth, man.
------
Today I temped for yet another investment bank. I don' t know if I've been fired or not because my phone is not working, and none of my roommates are home for me to borrow their phones and check my messages. I know this is not going to end well. I arrived today with the understanding from my agency that this would be a one week assignment. This afternoon my "buddy" (yes, that's what this firm calls the veteran admin assistant who is to show me the ropes) explained they're looking for to hire someone permnantly. As the day wore on some of my past office employment came to light in casual conversation. My "buddy" kept asking, "Oh how come you didn't stay with that company?" I didn't know how to explain, that my work ethic has been inspired by the great Italian people. (Note, not Italian Americans. Those fools work their asses off, just like most other Americans, bleck.) How do I explain I really admire the six weeks of vacation time the Italians get a year and the siestas they get every day? (I also love how many Italians don't go back to work after their siesta.) Because I'm sure the next question would be, "Why don't you move to Italy?" I'd have to answer, "Because I don't speak Italian, and with my kind of work ethic I probably won't ever get around to learning Italian."

Basically, I'm not working for an investment bank longer than week, people. Though, it's quite possible that I'm not working their longer than a day, but I don't know because my parents won't check their email, and read my request for them to check my voicemail and email me my messages if I have one! Come on! Parents! I'm 333 days away from being 30 I'm barely an adult, I could use some help here!
------
It seems that Israel is not a comedian. That might have been obvious to you all. You see Israel as a country. I saw Israel as a land full of Jews. And we all know Jews make great comedians. And what are comedians but people who desperately need to be liked by strangers and non-strangers, miltants and passificists. Turns out Israel doesn't give a shit if people like them. As a comedian this baffles me. I watched the news last night I heard Lebonese people saying, they didn't hate Israel at the begining of the war. In fact they were really pissed at Hezbulah, but now that Israel has inhilated their homes and killed their families while Hezbulah has given them a free place to stay, these Lebonese really hate Israel.

Listening to that news broadcast mortified me. What have you done tiny nation of Israel? You have people not liking you. Doesn't that bother you? It bothers me and I'm not even you. I don't even live in you, Israel. Don't you want to try to win them back with some dick jokes or something? Sure Hezbulah took a couple of your soldiers, we've all been heckled, but if you hold you're shit together you could get the rest of the crowd on yourside. And when you have the rest of the people on yourside you can do the old "1, 2, 3 Shut the fuck up Hezbulah!"

But, Israel's not a comic. Israel isn't emotionally needy. Israel doesn't seek approval from strangers. Israel has a sense of self, Israel doesn't tell dick jokes. Well, ladee da Israel. You're so much better than me. I'm sure I'd have your sense of self worth if I could bomb hecklers. But, I'm just a lonely angry little comedian girl and all I have is hate and need for the rest of the world not to hate me.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Making Friends

I've been making new friends lately...because my old friends don't want to hear me talk about my exboyfriend anymore. It's only been five years I'm not done talking about it. New friends are awesome. They don't say snarky things like, "yeah yeah I know. Then you ran into him and his wife but weren't sure if she was pregnant or had just put on some weight. How many fucking times are you going to relive this?" New friends aren't snarky at all they laugh at those old classics.

Friday, August 11, 2006

An Email From Anna Dedicated to My Parents

I would like to repost an email my best friend Anna sent me about a blind date she went on last night. Rachael, Oh my god. I'm going to kill my uncle. (Anna was raised by her aunt and uncle, kind of like Lana Lang in 'Smallville--' or as my friend, Rob, likes to call it "Superman on the Creek') I told you how a month ago or so, actually longer ago god it was late June you were on the road I think. So maybe we didn't talk about this. I got a myspace message from some dude in Ohio that read, "Your Uncle said, I could date you." Immediately, I call my uncle and ask if he knows a dude named, Carl because Carl says you said he could date me. "Oh yeah," my uncle says, "I see him at dishwasher repair conventions. He's a sales rep for a dishwasher parts company. I told him he could contact you through your website." Then, I had to take 20 minutes to try to explain what the hell myspace is. You'd think that at least my uncle would know about myspace due to the pedophile publicity the site has been getting these last 6 months or so. Here's the beginning of my downfall. He knows my uncle so I thought I'd be polite and myspace message the guy back. Granted my message was a little Taming of Shrew like, but I didn't swear or insult his family just a little snarky banter. Carl then suggests next time he's in New York we get a drink. Rachael, I'm like you, I could always go for a free drink. I respond, "Sure, if you ever are in NYC I'll get a drink." That was late June. All of July passes you'll remember it as the month you were in and out of depression and didn't have much time for your best friend here. Not that I'm complaining, I'm glad to have you in back. Anyhoo. Last week I get another myspace message from this Carl. He's going to be in NYC he wants to get a drink. Let me note that I'm reading this myspace message at 1:30 in the morning kind of inebriated. I respond curtly, "yeah sure, whatever." I then look at his myspace profile and his pictures. Why I didn't do this in June I'll never know. His myspace pictures, not attractive and I'm not sober while looking at him. So I get on the phone at 1am and call my uncle. "Uncle George, he's not attractive!" Uncle George has no idea who I am or what I'm talking about because you know I woke him up and am now shouting at him. I tell him I saw Carl's pictures on myspace and I'm highly disappointed. We have the whole defining myspace discussion again. My uncle asks me if I'm a pedophile. Ugh. How can a person be so out of touch? My uncle then says, get this I can't believe he said this he says, "He's better looking then most of the guys I've seen you date." Execuse me?!?! He continues "He's better looking than Melaria." Melaria is what he calls Mel. (Mel's a dude she dated for a spell) And no, I'm not misspelling malaria; Uncle George thinks he's being clever with his little nickname. So now I'm on the phone at 1:something in the morning defending Mel's looks to my supposedly straight Uncle who's been married to my aunt for over 30 years. I think I said something like Mel had a lovely head of hair (she's right he did). My uncle gives me some bullshit about how I've always wanted men to like me for my inner beauty. Which might have been true years ago, but now I want someone who thinks the way I look is hot. He said something stupid to that and I yell into the phone, "Whatever, it's my turn to date a really hot guy, God damn it!" The next week I go on the date. He turns out to be decent looking and to be a fucking alcoholic. We went to Los Dos Molinos, the place with margaritas as large as your head. He had finished one before I arrived. Before I can sit down he orders us a pitcher of margarita he drinks three fourths of it. Then he proceeds to order two more as big as your head margaritas after that. He tells me I should get another one. I say no, I have to work early tomorrow. I go to the bathroom, when I get back there's another fucking margarita there. As I nurse mine he orders yet another margarita for himself, the wait staff was reluctant to bring it to him. The bill came I was not going to even fake offer to pay any of this. I had a chicken burrito he had an enchilada. The bill was $168.00. I don't want to go home and lie in bed feeling drunk so I decide I'm going to go that folk bar hangout and see who's there. Carl comes with me. We run into three buddies of mine two of which are girls. He hits on both of them and orders everyone three rounds of shots. I did not partake. I'm heading home for the evening he tries to get me to come back to his hotel room. "What part of I have to work at 7am don't you get?" Then he tries to come home with me. I say he can't I don't want a scandal in the machine washer repair industry. I hop on the subway alone and free. I call Uncle George at 7am and leave a message, "Don't interfere in my love life again. It seems you are no better at picking men than I am. " Rachael, I'm 29 years old and I still do things my guardians want me to do even when I know it's a bad idea. My Aunt said to me "So you're not going to see him again?" Even if he were cool, you know didn't have a kid, or wasn't divorced -- Yeah he's 28 years old with a kid and an ex-wife-- He'd still live in OHIO! I'm 29. Anna

Monday, August 07, 2006

Art Inspiring Art

The following will be musings on my experience at the Garden State Art Center this past Sunday where hair-metal bands Cinderella and Poison rocked it 80s style. This shall be fractured and transitionless, I have to report to BearStearn's India Conference at 6:45am today the rent needs paying and the blog don't pay the rent.

"New Jersey, are you ready to Rock?" shouted Tom Kiefer, the lead singer of Cinderella.
"My name is Rachael." I retorted, but he couldn't hear me over the roar of the several 100 people at GSA apparently named New Jersey who were indeed ready to rock. Tom Kiefer is the poor man's Steve Tyler for those not in the know. Keifer's lips were big and his voice scratch but his microphone stand only had 2 hankerchiefs.

Poison took the stage and the place errupted. Bret Michaels, the lead singer, kept saying how great it was to be back home. After some research earlier today on allmusic.com I learned 3/4 of the band, including Bret, are from Pennsylvania---er...close enough I guess.

It also turns out that C.C. Deville (lead guitarist) either has Attention Deficist Disorder or can not count musical measures because Mr. Michaels kept having to tell him "Play that guitar C.C." You'd think after 20 years of playing the same songs C.C. would know when it was his turn to solo. I guess that's how they keep it fresh.

At one point Mr. Deville sang a Poison song I had never heard before, however it was not new. Poison don't do new. The chorus of the Deville lost classic contains these words, "I hate everybone in your body except mine." Hard to believe this man is still single.

I was surprised by the lack of hipsters in attendence. You'd think a hair metal show in NJ is choc' full of irony. But, alas, I saw not one thick rimmed pair of glasses, and my messenger bag was the only one in the whole place. Perhaps, it was the lack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer offered for consumption at GSA that kept the hipsters in Williamsburg. There were, however, a number of bandannas worn about the heads of men with greying beards.

The Garden State Arts center seems to have accepted that their patrons smoke pot on their premises. To accommodate these patrons GSA has vendors walk the grounds selling ridiculously marked-up candy. Brilliant. I think those kids on the NYC subway who sell candy should take a page out of GSA's capitalist handbook. Get off the subway kids and start selling your goods at Tompkin's square park, Prospect Park, Washington Square Park--Hell, any park in NYC will do. Of course, if the kids change their sales territory would force these candy pedlers to change their sales pitch. Right now it goes, "Ladies and Gentleman I'm not selling candy for no sports team or school club. I'm selling candy to make money and keep myself out of trouble." Which is code for, "Buy my box of peanut M&Ms now, or I'll be forced to mug you later."
When I see these kids I always like to ask, "What team do you play for?"
"I don't play for no team." Is the response
"Exactly. Which one?"
"I just told you I don't play for no teams."
"Oh do you mean you play for all teams?"
Then I get pistol whipped with a snickers.
I know you're thinking, "Rachael, who are you to judge someone else's grammar?" I'm a hypocritical smartass with a splitting pistol-whipped headache. Anyway, the kids' new sales pitch, when they move their operations from the dripping underground to the open air of New York's parks, should be, "Execuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I'm selling candy to provide a service for our cities' parks' stoners. I want to make your altered state most enjoyable, God Bless you. M&Ms $8."

Don't Need Nothin' But a Good Time


Did you think I was fibbing about the Poison concert. Nope. Not only that in a glorious 80s hairband surprise the band Cinderella opened the show. Sing with me all you suburban kids born befor 1982 "Don't know whatcha got 'til it's gone." Jealous?

This week I'll have more on the concert. Plus, my best friend Anna's uncle has set her up on date. Also I'm a huge cable access star. Hopefully, I'll have a chance to share all this with you in the days to come. Now, I must retire.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Heat Wave 2006!!!!

It's been hot here in NYC. You know how I know? Because the television told me so. If it weren't for the evening news I probably wouldn't have known why my flesh was melting. Hell, I might not even have noticed. On the news they kept talking about how we all needed to conserve energy. Suggestions they made included: Keeping lights off, turning thermostats to 78 degrees, using fans instead of A.C., have a power outage in your Queens neighborhood for over a week, etc. They did not, however, suggest to shut your television off. They didn't say, "stop watching the news and listen to a transistor radio station instead." Not only did they not suggest to stop watching their broadcast immediately, they further suggested we turn on our computers and log onto their website for more tips on how to conserve energy. Brilliant.

You'd think that during heatwaves where the sun is shining down on us sizzling our skins and emptying our pores we could make like Superman and harness the power of the sun. We could fly about saving kittens from trees and powering airconditioning units without Con Edison and thier flimsy grid.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Napoleonic? Perhaps. Or Maybe She's A Stupid Whore.

This past Sunday my friend Melinda and I went down the shore. We had a lovely day of sun, sea, surf, and sniffing ocean breazes. As the northeastern part of the US spun away from the Sun our stomachs began to grumble. It was time for a seafood dinner.

We walked the streets of Belmar reading menus. We decided upon Jack's Tavern. At the entrance to the dining area we observed a "Please wait to be seated" sign. We stood politely and waited for seating in the half empty eatery. After 7 minutes of our life had vanished into the past the waitress move toward Melind and me and snidely said, "Execuse me," and then proceeded to try to seat a couple who walked in several minutes after we had. The couple stood behind us, clearly they arrived after us. The couple explained to the woman we arrived before them. Undaunted, the waittress pleasantly sat the couple before Melinda and myself. I thought the rudeness pretty ironic as the place shares a the name of my ever- loving boyfriend Jack. More minutes vanished into the ether. Eventually, the waitress sat us, but she never looked at us and her manner and voice were full of abraisive contempt.

The waitress' bullshit atittude combined with my stabbing hunger pains got my temper flaring.
Just because it's questionable whether I'd be allowed to ride the rides at the boardwalk did she think she could be an offensive whore? A whore so undesirable she had to get a 2nd job as a waitress to make ends meet. "Just because I'm small doesn't mean I can't kill you, bitch." I said to Melinda, projecting. Melinda suggested, I wait until after we ate before I "cut" any of Jack's Tavern's Employees.

I agreed with Melinda's coarse of action, but I still raved on. "Does she know the horrible things I'm capable of doing to her? Does she think I'm a little munchinkin she can treat me as she pleases. She thinks all I might do is complain to a manager? No, you vile medussa. I'm going to slay you. Don't judge me by my size 'cause you know who else is small? Israel. That's right. I'm the Israel of this dining establishment. You take two of my soldiers I'm going to invade you ass with a tank. You going to seat people ahead of me who arrived after I did. I'm going to buzz your primeminister's residence with fighterjets. Yeah! If you want start shit lady, fine. I'll finish it. I'll destroy you. Don't think I can't because I'm small and the world hates me. You know who doesn't hate me? Melinda. Melinda's like the US except not rich, influential, full of big business, nor does she have a need to dominate the rest of the world. But, she likes me and that's all the confidence I need to kick your ass!"

Then I looked at the menu and decided on the soft shell crab special. A different waitres with a pleasant demeanor took our order. I don't know where she came from or why she wasn't available for the seating part of our experience at Jack's Tavern, but I was glad to see her. She so obviously was not a whore--though, I'm sure if she did enter into that line of work she'd make a fortune. I wound up not killing anyone that day, but know that I could have.

The soft shell crabs were sauteed in a lemon-butter sauce and were excellent. I highly reccommend them, unless you're an Israeli--crab isn't kosher.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Eerie: Not the Canal or the Lake (rewritten)

The strangest thing happened to me today. I woke-up, peered down at my phone, and observed I had missed a phone call. I dialed the number by highlighting the caller's name in my phone and selecting "send." The call connected. Then the bizarrest thing occurred. I heard this curt repeated tone. It definitely wasn't ringing. Hmm? Was it some strange Morris Code voicemail greeting? After listening to it for six minutes without hearing a long tone indicating I should leave a message nor did the tones themselves vary in duration I realized it wasn't Morris Code. Though, how clever would that have been?

There was something familiar in the rhythym pulsating in my ear. Maybe it was from my childhood. But it wasn't the sound of a school bell. What was it? Could it be? The thought that presented itself seemed completely outrageous. Was it? Was it a busy signal? Had I awoken in 1989? Had I fallen through a wormhole while sleeping? Or was I still dreaming? Turns out it was a busy tone and I was still living in 2006. Very strange. Very strange indeed.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

The New Label for an Old Fashion Choice

There are men in the world who take time to groom themselves and look spiffy, but they aren't gay. We call these men "metrosexuals." I am a woman who takes very little time to look spiffy. Instead, I wear baggy pants and comfortable foot wear like Teva sandles. Because of my "style" some people think I'm a lesbian but I'm not. I'm "granola sexual."

Like a Shitty Car and My Formely Busted Ankle

Several days ago I publicly reported that I was on the verge of tip top mental health. I'm afraid the claim was premature if not completely false. Just as my formely broken ankle will never be 100% again, the same is true for my emotional mental health. You might say I have a slight emotional limp. Not a big deal, I've learned to live with five titanium pins in my ankle accompanied by a slight yet constant pain. I'm sure I can learn to live with a slow gnawing pain in my soul.

It's no big deal. So, I frequently get so sad I rather not live. Yeah, at times my mind obsesses with the one or two things not going well in my life that I fail to see how fortunate I am. Whoop-dee-do, I become distraught by unreciprocated affection (affection I never explicityly expressed myself) that I have great need to move far away like to Thailand or San Franscisco, thereby, uprooting not just my life, but also the life of my marvelous boyfriend Jack. I figure if I have adjusted to not being able to position my left foot to throw a straighforward kick anymore than the issues listed above should be a snap to adjust to.

Why waste energy trying to fix that part of me when I can just accept who I am and plan accordingly? Kind of like a traveling salesman who drives a car that only gets 13 miles a gallon and the tank only holds seven gallons of gas. The salesman knows he has to leave earlier than other salespeople to reach a client because enroute he'll constantly have to stop to fill up his car. He also knows he'll have to secure that many more accounts to pay for all the gas his trusty steed guzzles. Some might say he could change his car. Trade it in for a more fuel efficient model. Perhaps, tinker with the car he has to make it more fuel efficient. But let's face it people, those two suggestions are ludicrious. What person or dealership would trade fuel efficient car for our salesman's car? And with all the extra money he has to spend on gas how could he possibly save enough to buy a new car? As for tinkering with the one he already owns, he's a salesman, if he had skills like fixing up cars I'm sure that's what he would be doing for a living instead of travelling around trying to sell people crap they don't need.

In conclusion I accept my self and make allowances for my short comings as the salesman accepts his car with a 7 gallon gas tank and I'm much happier for it.