Wednesday, September 07, 2011

Two Twenty Five is a lot for Some People

New York City the self -proclaimed "Greatest City in the World." Sure it's expensive but that money pays for non-stop excitement-even at 11:00am on a Saturday morning in the safe neighborhood of 59th Street and Lexington Avenue in Manhattan.
The Commute
Rachael Parenta
Saturday August 6, 2011  11:00am. 
My boyfriend, Patrick, and I are on our way home from work.  I work with moving companies, which specialize in corporate moves, disconnecting and reconnecting the moving employees’ computers.  Yes, this is a job.*   My job requires me to crawl around under desks, and I dress appropriately for the task at hand.  I’m wearing baggy, camouflaged, cargo pants I bought at a store called Phat Alberts* in their boys section ($10), perfectly complimented by my company issued gray golf shirt ($0).  The shirt sort of fits my five foot one inch frame.   It looks like I’m wearing an older brother’s hand-me downs.   Patrick who stands a foot taller than me also dons the grey, company-issued, golf shirt. We are one of those adorable couples who wear matching outfits.  Just to complete the picture that is us, I have my brown curly hair pulled back into a bun. Patrick doesn’t have enough dirty, blonde hair to pull into an anything.
On this day we work near Lexington Avenue and E. 59th street*.  Sak’s and Brooks Brothers are located here.
Patrick passes through the turnstile ahead of me with ease and waits, lost in his thoughts. I stand with my metro card* in hand ready to swipe it at the turnstile.  I continue to stand in the non-crowded, subway station repeatedly swiping my card. The little, swipey machine mocks me over and over as it tells me to "please swipe again at this turnstile." “You’re going too fast.”  Swipe. “No, now it’s too slow.” Swipe. “No, you didn’t swipe it with enough class.” Swipe.  “Again, for the cheap seats in the back.”  Swipe. “Try flicking your wrists.”   Yes, through all the fare hikes the NYC MTA* has levied they have yet to upgrade their magnetic strip reading device.*  I think to myself,  I'm lucky that a bunch of ambitious, in-a-rush New Yorkers aren't in back of me telling me to fuck myself!  
Silly and optimistically, I count my lucky stars so soon. As I battle with the turnstile I notice a woman standing in front of me on the other side of the turnstile. Kind of like if one of us was visiting the other in prison.  She seems to want to exit the subway platform, but she does not move to one of the many empty turnstiles to my right. Weird. 
Finally, the steel Praetorian Guard of the 4,5,6,Q,N, R trains reads my metro card and let me pass.  
However, this lady does not let me pass.  She mumbles something at me that I cannot make out.  I just keep walking down the subway platform toward the stairs that lead to my train, ignoring the pale lady with dull, orange hair.  She follows me, her chunky body surprisingly nimble.  She starts out behind me standing near the turnstile to all of sudden inches from the right side of my face. She repeats her inaudible utterance toward me. What do I do?  The only sensible thing.  I yell in her face, "WHAT?!" and run.  She follows me. I stop running. I could keep running but that means running down to the next level where the QNR trains travel. Running down a flight of stairs is dangerous. Then of course I could run all the way downstairs keeping my footing the whole time only to have to stop and wait for my train to arrive. It’s a Saturday I could be waiting until Monday for a train.* Will she follow me on the train? Will I have to out run her when I arrive in Flatbush?* No, I’ll just stop now.
I assess she is not a panhandler. Beggars in NYC don’t chase you.  Instead, a person in need asks for money.  Then you either give it to him or her, ignore the person, or say, “No.” Next the individual walks away or lets you walk away. This is a city of 8 million people someone else will be along shortly.
Why do I run? I don’t know.  I’m stopped by random strangers all the time. Usually people want directions.   It’s one of the many burdens of looking non-threatening; if only I were long-legged and sexy people would be intimidated by my beauty. This is the first time I respond with a 17 yard dash.  Maybe it is the way the pupils of her green eyes looked kind of like “Children of the Corn” eyes.  Maybe it is her own horrible outfit:  too tight, jean shorts and an ugly white t-shirt, which was tight in all the wrong places. Maybe it is everything put together. My instincts said to run, and those instincts were right.
She gets in my face and yells at me for yelling at her. I try explaining to her this is New York and her behavior is threatening.  Yes, I’m trying to rationalize with a person whose two eyes refuse to focus on the same point.  As quickly as a speed ball stops a heart she randomly changes tactics. She starts telling me a sob story. She tells me all she needs is some help. And then she keeps talking. I now know more about this woman than I do any of neighbors and none of them have ever chased me.  She hails from South Boston, she claims she is pregnant, which explains why her shirt fits weirdly. She is on her way to her first-born’s birthday party.  Apparently, she and her mating partner don’t want to let a single egg go unfertilized.
11:10am (the sob story)
She is lost. Someone took her purse and her wallet. “Don’t you feel guilty now?” she asks. “Um, no.” I reply. And here I discover her motive for blocking the turnstile. She asks, “How would you like it if I took your bag and wallet?”  This is some sort of attempted mugging.  And that’s the thing, being mugged by a woman. It takes forever.  There is so much talking. “Dude,” I respond “I don’t have any money.”  Which isn’t entirely true.  I have three dollars in my wallet; that is in my black messenger bag; that is slung across my left shoulder.
 She continues the mugging by guilt trip and I think “Are you trying to mug me or are we breaking up.”  I walk away. She steps in front of me and takes a fighting stance.
My knight in a grey polyester shirt finally appears. Patrick steps in between us.
Patrick was waiting for me to beat her down. When I didn’t he thought maybe he should prevent me from receiving a beat down. 
My assailant changes from ex-con to doctor Phil and asks Patrick, “What are you doing with her? You could do so much better.”  And I was like, “Thank you. I knew my mother was wrong about him, he is a catch.”  I can’t wait to shove the opinion of a crack head in mom’s face. I guess Miss Southy 2011 figures if she can’t steal my money she can try to steal my man. I know dating in New York City is cut throat, but to have your boyfriend mugged away from you—only in New York.
 She remains in her fighting stance as she flirts with Patrick. Patrick tries to defuse the situation. He raises his hands and frames his face -- like a human sunflower. He stands between us. “Hey let’s all relax here.” Yadda yadda, Soothing soothing.
The emotional mugger, who I now decide looks like one of those third-party, mayoral candidates* and is as logical, would not be deterred.  She tries to get at me by going around my boyfriend. So I put up my fists. And she starts criticizing my fighting stance. “What are you doing? You don’t even know how to fight? You got to put your hands up like this." Rocky Marciano proceeds to bring her hands so far up that her elbows are by her chin and her forearms are completely blocking her vision.  I see my moment, not to diffuse the situation, but to prove that it is she who has the stupid fighting stance.  I reach around my boyfriend and push her hands in her face. 
Or so I wanted to. Instead I just feel a little hurt. She reiterates that she is pregnant. I snap back, “Pregnant or just fat?” Hey, she started with the insults.
I ask myself why am I not putting my fist through her throat?   Why am I standing here dealing with this?  It’s about ten minutes already.   We’re just standing here. I studied karate for 20 years. Yes. Surprise! I know how to throw a punch and a straight forward kick. This could have ended 8 minutes ago after she chased me. She is only 3 inches or so taller than me.  But no. I wasted 20 years of study, training, and practice.
We  are in this stand-off underground. Every now again a random person passes us and says nothing. They call no one.  And she keeps telling us she’s pregnant. I keep saying random things like, “How can you be pregnant? You’re drunk at 11:00am.”  Why the time of day she was drunk is supposed to disprove her claims of pregnancy I don’t know.   Patrick keeps trying to calm everyone down. She denies being drunk. In fairness she is probably on something illegal.
She does not walk away.  I will not shut up and Patrick still has his hands up—sunflower still in full bloom.
This thought does not occur to me “Well, she is between us and the track and we can turn around and run out of the subway station.”  
I notice there is an underground newsstand. Maybe the purveyor of the stand has a land line. My little legs make a break for the newsstand. I leave Patrick in the dark about my plan because she isn’t deaf.  She chases me. Patrick tries to stay in between us. But he can’t. And he can’t hit her.  He’s a 6 foot tall man.  He’d get arrested even though she was in the wrong. He might not get convicted, but who wants to be finger printed, and spend the day at the precinct as this all gets sorted out.
I get to the convenience store that really is just an alcove in the wall of the subway station.  Panicked. I ask the man behind the counter to call the cops. He declines. The phone hangs on the wall 15 feet in front of my face. His inertia mocks me.  Why can’t this guy be one of those blue collar heroes the Daily News* loves to write about? Dude, think of the free publicity.  Who wouldn’t want to buy a bag of peanuts from the “Subway Bodega Hero?”
She arrives seconds later and goes for me. I step back and throw a lame kick. I move backward while throwing it.  It lands in her abdomen, but not very hard.   Candy bars fall from pyramid of snacks for sale. The store owner yells at us to get out of his store. “Just call the cops. She’s terrorizing me!”  Patrick gets in between the two of us again. “No, get out. Go to the station agent.*” A little audience has gathered to see the free drama.  They kept a safe distance. I implore them to “HELP!” but they don’t. Now Ms. Crazy starts saying, “You kicked me in the stomach. I’m pregnant. All these people heard me tell you before you kicked me.”
“You attacked me.” I reply with incredulity.
“No. You kicked a pregnant woman.”
“I barely kicked you” it was a shameful kick, I’m humiliated by that kick.
            Her constant mentioning of her pregnancy was really weird. Maybe this isn’t a mugging but con. Her plan: to harass me until I beat her. Then she sues me for injuring her and her unborn child that doesn’t exist. She claims I caused the miscarriage, an extra $50,000.  Or she never actually sues me, but threatens suit in order to get paid cash on sight.    
She picked the wrong mark. I have no assets. Sure there’s my college education, but all that’s worth is a part time job plugging in computers. She’d be better off suing her crack dealer.
The news stand idea was a bust. No one helped us.
 I run again. She stops by the station agent booth. Good go report me, whore. You’re the one with criminal record. And again instead of running out of the station I run down the stairs toward the NRQ trains.   I don’t want to have to pay an extra $2.25 to get back into the subway. I figure we have time to wait for our train it’s going to take forever for the cops to come and her to file a report. By that time I’ll be cruising over the Manhattan Bridge. Huzzah!
The train arrives. We are about to get on the train.  Wait. Where is Patrick? He is still upstairs.  Apparently, he is distracting her and trying to keep her from coming down the stairs. How am I supposed to know that?  Unaware of what is going on upstairs I yell for him from the lower level platform. I yell, “Eileen! Eileen.” That’s the name his mother would have named him if he were a girl. I don’ want to yell his actual name. I don’t want her to know it. Shockingly, Patrick does not reply to “Eileen” being shouted.
 I can’t just leave him with the nut job. If I get on the train who is going to stand-by his side? Who will agitate her more while at the same time not subdue her?  The train pulls out of the station with none of us on it. Oh how I just want to go home.
They came down together, thankfully, not hand in hand.  Patrick again stands between us where she then starts trying to coax me to fight her. “You’re\a such a coward? You’re sucha pussy you have to hide behind your boyfriend?” 
"Uh. This is actually the gender appropriate response. I'm a girl.  I'm not supposed to have an ego so fragile that I can't walk away from a fight. You can’t emasculate me.  I was never born with testicles.” 
Another Q train arrives at the station within a couple of minutes. This one is going in the wrong direction to Queens*.  There are people down here waiting for the subway. They of course make their way to different cars as the Q train doors open. We take our Sartre play on the Q train to Queens. 
We stand near the doors. She has her back to the end of one bench. Patrick stands facing her with his back to me. I stand behind him with my back to the beginning of the next bench of seats. The handful of passengers in the car with us are very engrossed in their books, smart phone solitaire, and their music.
 We ride east through the darkness of the subway tunnel.  I guess the con is over because now she just tries to grab Patrick’s wallet out of his back pocket. But I stand right there. I pull her hand off his wallet.  I take his wallet and put in my messenger bag. I don’t put her hand in a wrist lock.    Now she grabs after my messenger bag. I take her hand off my bag. Oh the germs she probably carries. Ugh!  She never gets a good grasp because she has to reach around Patrick.
"Look, lady! I’m not willing to spend an extra 2 dollars to get away from you. What kind of money do you think I have?”  She tries kicking me despite Patrick being in her way.  She calms down for a second, collecting herself.
She whips out a hypodermic needle and waves it in Patrick’s face, “You don’t want me to stick you with this.” Patrick’s sunflower wilts as he says, “OK now you’ve threatened me with deadly force. I will punch you in the face.”  She puts the needle away and says, “I have no reason to live.”
Light begins to slide into the subway car. Sun! Hope! The train was in Queens on an elevated rail. Never have I been so happy to be in Queens.
“Queensboro Plaza next stop,” the PA system informs me.  You better believe it is!  I grab my cell phone and call the cops.  The human brain cannot multi task. To remove myself from the distraction that is this walking Lifetime movie I walk across the car to the opposite door. Oops. Now Patrick is no longer between us. As I dial 911 and try to talk to the operator as our assailant continues to assail me with kicks. Unable to talk to the  911 operator and defend myself the Ginger lands a kick on my shin.  “She just kicked me in the shin, “ I told 911.  I repeated “Q train at Queensboro Plaza” 4 times. It kind of reminded me of the turnstiles 30 minutes ago. The train doors opened.
She fled.  “She ran away,” I informed 911. We hung up. Of course the train doors didn’t close right away, “We are delayed. Please be patient.” *  She doesn’t return. We travel two more stops into Queens just to be safe.
 We wait for a train to Brooklyn.
One uneventful hour later we were home.

And of course through this whole saga of running, being chased, screaming to onlookers, "She's terrorizing me! She's terrorizing me," and the harassment by one crazy bitch, not one New Yorker did anything. No one even bothered to whip out a cell phone and record it. I mean that could have been my big break, a viral You Tube video. I could have been a guest on the Today Show or Letterman. They would have introduced me to America as the girl who wouldn’t spend an extra 2dollars and 25 cents to save her own life.

Monday, July 18, 2011

trophies are only important to parents

A month or so back there was a little league game. This little league game was a blowout. One side was kicking the tiny asses of the other side. At one point an umpire called a kid from the ass kicking team out at first base--supposedly, the kid was safe by a figurative mile. When the umpire was asked (or more likely harassed by parents) about his call he replied, "I was trying to even things out." The parents in the stand for the ass kicking team were completely up in arms. The parents so blinded by their rage, totally overlooked the fact the umpire clearly lied. The umpire just wanted to go home. Umpires get paid by the game not the hour.

Somehow this story made it's way from the little league field to my parents' dinner table. Yes, my parents, who are not grandparents, whose only child is a 30 something woman were discussing this little league. My parents who don't watch professional sports never mind little league games were nearly as livid as those parents. "This is the problem with this country. The kids are coddled. 'They're' killing competition. No one's feelings can get hurt anymore." Is that what this was about? I mean, one team did get to win, and win by a large margin. What about the lesson of compassion and being a good winner?

If those little league parents (or my own parents for that matter) saw a little springer spaniel puppy on the street and she seemed hungry would they just pass the adorable puppy with the sad, droopy eyes. "Suck it puppy. Learn to fend for yourself. It's Darwinism. Only the strong shall survive. You can't find food on your own. You are loser, puppy. " And the springer spaniel comes over to you slowly because it's so hungry and tries to lick your face because it's a springer spaniel it loves everyone. And those parents would respond, "Get away, springer spaniel! I'm trying to hurt your feelings and make you a tough self-reliant citizen. I want you to be cut throat. When you see a pregnant dog on the subway don't give up your seat. That fat bitch should have moved faster or worked harder so she could afford a cab."

I wonder if these heartless parents realize how unimportant sports is in the lives of children. I played soccer, softball, and basketball as a kid before I ever entered high school. I might remember three coaches I had in that time. The remember snippets of a handful of games, though not the outcome of a single one. What I do remember from childhood is trying to convince one of the girls who lived on my block that the baby powder that I had put in a small container was cocaine. Yes, at 10 years of age me and a couple of other kids wanted to trick our other neighbor we were doing coke. Sadly, for us she never believed us. That was the same girl we tried getting to jump out of the second floor window she used to lean out of to talk to us. She almost did, but because we had compassion and really didn't understand the principles of "survival of the fittest" we said, "No. No. No! We were just kidding."

In the end I really just think the umpire wanted to go home. Stop picking on puppies and less than smart neighborhood kids.

Some Advice for Overseas

If you haven't heard the country of Greece has a debt crisis. So Greece in an effort to pay back their loans is trying to cut spending. I say to Greece, "Why?" Be like the million of Americans and just default. What's the worst that could happen? Will Greece's wages be garnished? Of course not no one works to have wages to be garnished. You can't put a whole country in debtors prison. Are some bond holders going to reposses your car? No, they didn't lend you money to buy a car. Greece, just go on as if nothing happened. And don't answer the phone when you get a call from a number you don't recogonize or a "restricted number" don't answer. It's been working for college students for generations why not for one of the oldest civilizations in the world?

Sunday, July 17, 2011

The Wrong Strategy

Congratulations to Japan's women's soccer team. Sure the Japanese women played a good game, but really the American ladies gave the game away. The never instituted the Puppy Offense. Yes, the Puppy Offence, a well know though seldom used formation that can be very effective against the right opponent. Germany of course would not be the right opponent. However, Japan has that particular weakness that is vulnerable to the Puppy Offense. The Japanese are obsessed with all things cute. So if the Americans had armed their bench players with adorable, little, cuddley, puppies and then at the precise moment bumrushed the sidelines waving the puppies over their heads, well the Japanese women would have had no choice but to gawfaw over the puppies. Distracted by cuteness the Americans would have scored easily, several times perhaps.

To protect your own team from the use of the Puppy Offense you make sure the team spends at least a week caring for the puppies. The Americans have to walk the dogs 4 times a day, feed them, play with them, nurture them and sometimes clean up their doggy mess by the time the game rolled around the Americans would have been "so over" those little shit machines and therefore immune to their cuteness.

When playing the Germans you just have to say, (in German of course) "Ooo. Look. The French!" And watch the ladies run off the field to invade.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Let's Keep it Right Here

So, last week we discussed the (OK, fine I had the discussion with 3 people in the internet ether.) attitudes of the people over 55. Today we stay on this topic.

Not only do people, of advanced ages, think the world is going to hell, they also think today's youth is soft. The examples frequently cited are how they all get trophies without regard to actual performance, bullying is now against the law, the kids are all medicated, etc etc. I wonder if their grandparents had the same complaints. "Look at these kids today, they live in apartment building with either hardwood floors or carpets. In my day we had to fight the Cherokee for our land, then kill a bunch of buffalo for food, clothes and use their bones to make a home. We slept on dirt floors next to all types of vermin. These little pansies go to go school all day. How does easy living in a school prepare someone for citizenship? You got to either till the land from dawn to dusk or lose half your digits in a factory, that's the way to build character. Do you see how now they got this thing air conditioning? Death by heat just thins out the heard, kills off the weak. Now we’re going to have all these lesser people walking around sucking up resources the rest of us could be using. I'll tell you, these children born past 1938 are soft. I pray for the future of this country."

I'm just saying, suffering doesn't make you a better person it just makes you suffer.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

The Inverse Age Hypothesis: Caring

Why is it the older a person is the more the seem to care that the world is going to shit? The older you are the less years you have left on the planet. What do you care about what happens to the world? You'll be dead in few years anyway. Older Americans like to say things similar to, "Ahh. no one speaks English anymore." I respond, "So? In 6 months your dementia will be full blown. You won't be able to understand any language."

Meanwhile, people in their early 20s don't seem to bothered by the direction their world is taking despite having 6 more decades to live through.* You tell them about nuclear waste leaking from corroding pipes into the bay and they respond, "Bummer. You know what? Fast and Furious 6 is coming out next week. I'm so excited.

*exception to this rule is when they are being drafted into a war.

Monday, June 20, 2011

It's Been Awhile. It's Time to Contribute More Chatter Into the Void

The politicians from NY State are at it again, more digital sending of what are supposed to be sexy pictures to random strangers found on the internet. I am not concerned about taking time out of my day to write on this subject because I'm sure Anthony Wiener will not be the last politician to "sext" so any funny I come up with I'll be able to use again down the line.

I'm so sure this isn't the last we'll see of this stupidity because the technology will continue to exist. Politicians could never do this kind of thing in the past. Think about how time consuming it would be to send a revealing picture of yourself in the 1800s. First, you'd have to hire a sketch artist, preferably some who works with charcoal. Next, you have to find time in your day to pose for the artist and god forbid the temperature in the room changes you'll have to start all over again. After you get your drawing done you have to send your assistant down to the pony express office and mail your drawing. The drawing would be addressed to "First 19 year old girl you see in the main square, Wichita, Kansas." If you want to send more than one you have to do the whole thing over again it could take months.

Even the sexually free Ancient Greeks couldn't really do this. A Greek senator would have go up to random women and ask them back to a cave to see some shadow puppets.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

I Get It!

So for years I've been very against these wars in the Middle East. It's clear they are for oil. I don't care about oil. I have a bike, I have two working feet. Granted without oil I couldn't travel internationally or across the country, but I have Netflix and 8 seasons of Monk I can stream for years and year of enrichment and enjoyment. We have plenty of coal and natural gas right here in the USA to keep my computer and wireless router running for as long as need to stream Netflix videos.

That was my mind set. I thought only evil sociopaths like Dick Cheney were for oil wars. I couldn't sympathize with these war hawks. But then everything went nuts in the Ivory Coast. The chocolate supply chain has been ruptured. Chocolate prices will soon reach record heights. Why did it take the UN so long to go in and stabilize the region. People were suffering. A man refused to acknowledge he lost re-election. And I need my chocolate at affordable prices.

I figure if we can spend billions of dollars to keep oil prices down why can't we spend billions to free chocolate producing countries from tyranny as well? Women everywhere will be grateful.

Monday, April 04, 2011

Kids Don't Do It!

No today's blog title is not missing a comma.

Listen folks if you are the fence about whether or not to have children show yourself some tough love. Find a movie theater showing "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" the sequel and go watch it. If after sitting through that movie you think you still want kids, now with the knowledge of what kind of movies you'll be spending top dollar to sit through year after preteen year, then you never were really on the fence about kids at all. And may I suggest becoming Amish.

As for the rest of you. You are welcome. Having kids isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's filled with plot-less movies with bad acting and bad cinematography. I never knew I could notice the way a movie was shot. Let that movie be a lesson to you.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Religious Beliefs Hiding out in the Empty Closet

For all you Atheists out there let me give you some advice. Don't go telling people you're an atheist. It's all very simple. If you tell people you're an atheist and then random fate forbid something bad happens to a person you know (examples, cancer, car crash, death of a spouse etc.) what do you say to them. Non-atheist (including the non-committal spiritualists and Universal Unitarians) can say my thoughts and prayers are with you. What are you going to say my thoughts are with you? What are you some sort of obsessed stalker? That's not comforting. Or is that your thoughts have magical powers? So you don't believe in god but you believe in super powers. No way. It's not going to fly. You could try saying "I know everything is going to work out for the best." How do you know? Is god talking to you? If god is, you sure aren't listening.

No man if you just keep your mouth shut about the idea of god making absolutely no sense, then you get to say, "My thoughts and prayers are with you." Not only does it seem caring and solemn. It also seems like you're taking action on behalf the injured. Otherwise you spend your day baking brownies and making gift baskets, which will be resented because of the high calorie count. And while your diligently baking and curling ribbons those Deists are done and putting extra time in the office kissing way more of the boss's ass and making that promotion happen for themselves.

It really is just better to lie and say the polite socially acceptable thing. It's not like some god is going to smote you for lying.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Why Do We Have To Do this Crap?

I was thinking why doesn't ExxonMobile, Sunnaco, BP, and Shell form their own allied coalition and bomb Libya and Iraq themselves? With their revenues I'm sure they could afford a handful of fighter jets. They can hire hire their own soldiers. The use of the American military as a middle man really isn't very efficient. All the money wasted on lobbyists to garner support for these military operations is just one example. Then you have to deal with all the care that America tries to take to avoid civilian causalities. Dude oil companies just have stock holders to answer to. They don't have bleeding heart cry baby humanitarians in their constituency. Hell they don't even have a constituency. Further, the American Soldier costs a lot of money. Why pay high first world wages when you can get cheap Chinese , Bangladeshi, and or Vietnamese labor to fight your war? This way you can have all the gay or straight soldiers you want. As many women as you want in your army and even children. The usefulness of children has really been lost to history and the early industrial revolution. And you don't have to worry about those guys unionizing. Could you imagine unionized mercenaries? I have to admit that would be kind of cool.

This corporate war works out for those Americans who aren't interested in paying for these wars. All you have to do is not drive car. Just ride a bike or skate everywhere. That's got be a great trip rollerskating across America. It will probably take you a few days, but coasting up and down the Grand Tetons has got to be a ride of a life time.

Monday, March 28, 2011

A different Definition

My boyfriend says he has ADD I think he's just a Gemini.

I was talking to my aunt the other day and she was talking about her tendencies to impulsively shop. Her in ability to throw out things she never uses, and I noticed she wasn't much for listening to other people complete their thoughts while she is engaged in conversation with them. I was like wow, my boyfriend has these traits, could my aunt have ADD? Then I remembered my aunt is a home owner her ran her own business for forty years she can't possibly have attention deficit disorder. That's when I remembered my boyfriend and my aunt had birthdays in the same week. These must be traits of Geminis. Case solved.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Spec Commercial

In these hard economic times I'm thinking of changing professions. I thought maybe I could venture into the world of Advertising. I present to you my faithful readers my spec ad campaign, well not a campaign just a commercial, and not really spec this is just the idea, I'm not going out and shooting this thing. Don't let my lack of work ethic on this project dissuade from my committment to a career in advertising.

The product: Desenex

Use: Cures Athlete's foot and Jock Itch

The commercial will be a jingle type of commercial as well as a song parody. The music will be from "Venus" the song made popular for my generation by Bananarama. For those not familiar with the song I have included the music video at the end of this post.

Opening shot a man at the beach swimming in the ocean.

The ladies sing,
"You went swimming in the ocean all day/ Your trunks never dried don't dismay"

Cut to the Ladies dancing with their backs to us but their heads turned to the camera as they sing,
"We've got it, ooo baby we've got it."

Then crotch shot of a man

"I'm your penis/ I'm on fire/cure from this mire"

The ladies spin round and we see they are holding canisters of Desenex.

The pitch man's voice speaks over the scene,
"Desenex extinquishes penis fires." (that aren't viral or bacterial...just fungal)

Monday, March 14, 2011

Abbra Ca Dabbra: Magic.

I'm a lost soul wandering the earth, mostly from room to room in my apartment (that is the cheapest way to wander and of course it exposes you to a minimal amount weather.) I thought it was time to find some direction. Perhaps, out of my door onto the streets, maybe even a place where people would pay me money.

But I found I couldn't leave. From my research, which encompassed watching TV and listening to the radio, I learned things are crazy out there. All you have to do to succeed is keep telling yourself you'll be successful. All you have to do to get an enemy shot is just use words that evoke violent images. The whole time you're saying things to change the environment you won't be paying attention and you'll get hit by a bus. If you're knocked unconscious or knocked dead you won't be able to say anything to change your predicament. You'd have to hope a doctor knew enough to state that you'll recover.

No no no. Having direction is very dangerous.

Monday, February 28, 2011

Hodge Podge

I'm scared I made a terrible mistake. I planned a trip out of the country during the time period my internet astrologist wrote, "career opportunities will come my way." I can't believe I've yet again self-sabotaged my career like this. Let us hope there is big time entertainment industry in Peru at the Top of Machu Picchu, or at least an agent on the plane.
Meanwhile, the country seems to have declared wars on teachers. I don't think this really had to do with the budget or unions, I think we hate teachers. It's their own fault really. If they weren't so yelly and demanding while we were in school we probably wouldn't hate them so much. How many of you actually liked being forced to go to school 180 days a year? Exactly, not even the ones who are smart and got good jobs. Of course we think they're stupid and inept they were at school all day for years and years. They only reason we were there was because we were forced to by the government. What kind of an idiot would choose to go to school past 12th grade?

We don't hear so much hub bub over the police and we hate them too. What with them writing us tickets and cheating on their wives. The difference is they have guns. I'm thinking teachers need to get guns. Not only will they get to keep their collective bargaining, but they might actually get the kids to shut-up and learn something.
Sadly, the "Kings Speech" won four Oscars and not the stupid ones, like sound design that no one cares about. It won best lead male actor, best picture, best screenplay, and best director who looks like Jams Cameron. The movie was good and all but we need to ban these back stabby Britts from our award show. I once was in London during the Oscars and I think the "English Patient" won a bunch of awards. All their British papers were so braggy about how awesome Brittish film making is. How superior they are. Sorry that you put all your countries resources into making one film while we make 1 billion films a year. And then the ones who were born over there but live here in the USA they all smile and act polite but that's just to get us to pick up their bar tab and pay for dinner. I read Bonfire of the Vanities. I know how much they truly loathe us and here we are giving them Oscars and the good Oscars at that.

Well, let me tell you something you cheap elitist bastards. Harvey Weinstein, an American (A Jewish one at that), distributed your movie. That's right if it weren't for the Yank you'd have to be all Ani Difranco. Going from town to town living out of your car and screening the movie one half filled coffee house at a time. And can you guys make a movie that takes place in the present?

Thursday, February 24, 2011

My Boss Doesn't Pay Me Anything, But She's Awesome.

Now, I know most of my readers are not comedians, so let me fill you in on something. There have been a number of comedians over the past couple of years who would send out mass emails to other comedians, and, I guess, their fans (and by fans I mean people who's email addresses they found and put in their contacts list for mass mailing occasions.) bragging about how they have an article or essay on the Huffington Post. My response whoopidy doo!

These mailings and facebook updates confused me. Was I supposed to be impressed that these people were able to give their writings away for free? I do that everyweek and at one point every week day. The big difference is that I'm not working for Arrianna Huffinton (who I'm sure would make me spell her name correctly). I'm working for me. And yes, I don't pay myself. But I know me, and I'm a pretty cool person. Yes, I do have a temper, but I'm always there for me and I know that if I sell my blog for $100 million (it could happen...maybe...shut-up) I know that I'll pay myself a good percentage of the proceeds for all the hard work I've done on my blog. That's just the type of girl I am. In fact I'd make sure to pay at least something to everyone who has ever contributed to this blog. And if you are a person who has edited things on occassion (clearly not often. This thing is pretty typo laden and grammatically unsound) or...well...that's it I guess I'll totally pay you. Of course if you're a person who isn't good at returning emails and phone calls you won't get to cash in. (these last two sentences were kind of an inside joke between me and my boss. She's had some unattentive friends in the past, oh just never mind I'm sure to get a bonus for writing it.)

In the end just because more people may read your work doesn't mean you're getting paid any better than those in complete obscurity. And, you sure are not getting treated any better by management.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The Roaring 20s,

Has it occurred to any of you young wipper snappers that you and grandma have something in common? Happy Hour.
Happy hour is the perfect bar promotion for people who have eaten dinner at 3:30pm and now want to go out on the town. Bar owners set pricses for happy hour just right for those on a fixed income. It allows you to get your drunk on and be home in time for a rerun of Monk or Matlock. And, for those who think "Ahh there's nothing good on TV anyway," you can be on your way home before dark.

What I am saying is that happy hour is the drinker's early bird special.

Monday, February 14, 2011

More Stupid Questions from HR

"What do You Want Me to Say?" a play in one act or one blog post.

A conference room on the 21st floor of a Manhattan office building. Present day

Cast of Characters:
ME, 33 year old former theatre student and sometimes comedian with a wealth of administrative and executive assistant experience
HR CHICK, 20 something blonde (fake or real) she is perky and full of judgement.

HR CHICK: So are you comfortable with Word, Excel and Powerpoint?

ME: Yes. I feel like every job I have had-- with all those other financial companies listed on my resume in front of you-- I learn even more more and more especially about excel. I'll admit that my visual skills aren't the greatest but I can do powerpoint.

HR CHICK: And you really want to be an administrative assistant?

(lighting change to special above ME dark on the rest of the scene)

ME (aside to audience): What? Is she serious? Who grows up dreaming of administrative work? It says I have BFA in theater on that resume. Clearly, I chose theater because I wanted to either wait tables, bartend, or be a secretary. Actually, what I really wanted to do with my life is work in a coal mine. But there isn't much coal work in NYC these days. I figured the next closest thing was answering phones and scheduling meetings in a cube. Does she think this is 1920 and as a woman I just want a job that isn't in embroidery. I'll prove my independence and self worth. 'If I'm going to take care of a man for the rest of my life I'm going to get paid for it, gosh darn it. Go Rosie the Rivetter even if you're after my time.'

(lights go back to full)

ME (To HR): Yes, definitely want to be an administrative assistant. I love organizing, putting things in order, making schedules. This is where my strengths lie.

HR CHICK: Oh great. Yes, and just to let you know there will be a background check, a drug test and a credit check.

ME: Oh great. I'm glad you guys are so thorough. Good to know I won't be working alongside any car thieves or pot heads. I think it's very important that one's employer keeps tabs on their employees' private lives away from work. We can't have middle class people, which if I get this job I think I might actually be, galavanting around the city running their own lives after hours. That's just ridiculous. Look at me. I clearly wanted to be an administrative assistant since I'm a little girl, but left to my own, stupid devices I went and studied performing arts at an accredited (granted just barely) four year college in Boston. Instead of going to Berkley School of Business, a two year school in my home state of NJ. If only I worked for you guys when I was 17 think about how much...well not better... that's not the word...what's the word? More efficient, yeah more efficient my life would have been.

HR CHICK: Hmm. I don't know...hmm...I don't know that's why we do it. Umm. What?

ME: Well, then I take it back. Whatever the right answer is that's what I want to say. I like paying my rent and health insurance sounds pretty great.

HR CHICK: No. Wait, don't you have passion for working at this particular company?

ME: Of course I read all about you online. You guys manage wealthy people's money and facilitate mergers and acquisitions. It's amazing work. I believe that Goldman Sachs said it was god's work, and though I respect Goldman Sachs I much prefer to work with a company that is a little less well known like yours. I do love indie Rock and you guys are like an indie rock financial firm.

HR CHICK: No. That's not right. We are well known and respected in the industry.

ME: Yes of course a critics favorite. Like Vampire Weekend, they are well known and very well respected, but not as well known as say Metallica or Taylor Swift but Vampire Weekend gets way better press than those two bands.

HR CHICK: Yeah, OK well thank you for coming.

ME: Well, thank you for having me come in. Thank you for barely asking me anything about my experience or my actual skills. That's so predictable at an interview. You guys are mavericks, in the most conservative sense.