So recently 105.9 FM has rebranded and become another "Lite" rock station. I think their tag line is "Because the world doesn't have enough crap in it(TM)." So now Chicagoland has three--count 'em--THREE "Lite" rock stations. Why do I know this?
Because "the girls"* in my office have started listening to it.
I have my own office at work, meaning that I have 4 walls and a door (which I rarely close.) But no matter, because when I'm in my office, I cannot hear their music, mostly due to the fact that I'm listening to my own. However, when I walk OUT of my office to grab something that I printed or to fax something or to go back into the shop or whatever, I can hear the Liteness emanating Litely from their corner.
Man, there are some BAD songs. I mean, like REALLY bad. Stuff I had forgotten about. Or maybe blocked out.
For as long as I can remember, I have when prompted gladly reported that my least favorite song of all time is "(I've Had) The Time of My Life," cutesy parentheses and all, by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warner, made famous by, of course, "Dirty (Dancing)."
(My wife brings up an cogent argument: that "She's Like the Wind," by The Swayz, may in fact be a worse song. To that, I refute thusly: yes, it IS a worse song, but it is also HILARIOUS in its striking putridity, albeit unintentionally so. "Time of My Life" is NOT funny, even in the least, and has absolutely no merit whatsoever: musical, comical, musicomical, or otherwise.)
Now, however, after having been periodically subjected to little bits of terrible, terrible songs on and off for the last 3 weeks or so, I may have to rethink this, this quick-shot, ardent declaration of odium. And trust me: I'm not a "hater." (“Hatah?”) I can freely and unequivocally admit when a song or songs by some uncool artist are good and similarly I can convincingly assert when some well-respected (or even ironically hip) artist's songs are shitty.
For instance, I actually like a Britney Spears song. "Toxic." Heard it? It's a GOOD SONG. I don’t particular care for her performance of it but I think that the song itself is an interesting, well-written song.
Similarly, I think Journey SUCKS. It's cool for some reason in the late aughts to embrace the over-the-top arena rock sound of these guys, but I think it's the musical equivalent of going to a bar and paying $4 for a can of PBR. It's fucking SWILL, people. Just because the guy wearing skinny jeans and egregiously over-paying for it thinks it's cool doesn't mean it is. It just means you look like a clown drinking your shitty clown beer. Fucking clown.
Anyway...
Based on the last 4 weeks of subjection to the lowest of the low, the most banal of the banal, supremely inane of the supremely inane, I list below what I think are some of the worst songs known to humankind, in no particular order. I comment when compelled. Please free to make suggestions of your own or comments on those which I have noted. Bare in mind that I consider these "terrible" songs. Not "songs that need to be retired from circulation." (Although since they are terrible, they can in fact be retired. Wouldn't bother me.) The latter is another blog entry entirely, one that I'm actually working on.
"This Kiss": Faith Hill
Ugh. I don't care how pretty she is or how nice her hair is or how gorgeous her husband is or how long that stupid black cowboy hat's been glued to his head...this is just a terrible song.
You can kiss me in the moonlight
On the rooftop under the sky
You can kiss me with the windows open
While the rain comes pouring inside
Kiss me in sweet slow motion
Let’s let every thing slide
You got me floating, you got me flying
Good gravy, that's awful. It's almost as if we haven't gotten any farther than Dick and Jane: "See Dick. See Dick kiss Jane. See Dick kiss Jane in a house. See Dick kiss Jane and a mouse."
And it’s NOT country, people. It’s POP. Just because it’s got a lap steel and a little twang doesn’t make it Hank Fucking Williams.
"Sweet Escape": Gwen Stefani / "Big Girls Don't Cry": Fergie
Is there a connection? Sure.
Both these women are in their mid-30s. Both have experienced some pretty consistent success, albeit one significantly more than the other. Hell, Stefani’s a mom, with another incredibly hip little child on the way. (I think. Is she pregnant again? I can’t remember. Everybody’s having babies in ’08.)
How can they continue making music which is only ostensibly supposed to appeal to teenagers (and really, really dumb adults) when they themselves have more in common with someone like me or someone like you than a 12 year old girl trying out for the JV basketball team? Quoth the Ferg:
And I'm gonna miss you
like a child misses their blanket
But I've got to get a move on with my life
It's time to be a big girl now
And big girls don't cry
Don't cry
Don't cry
Don't cry
Like a child misses their blanket? Time to be a BIG GIRL?!? Are you kidding me? I swear, she may as well sing the song like this:
And I'm gonna miss you
wike a chiwd misses theiw bwanket
But I've got to get a move on with my wife
It's time to be a big giw now
And big giws don't cwy
Don't cwy
Don't cwy
Don't cwy
(And then she cries. –Ed.)
To her credit, none of her “fans” realize how old she is. My niece who is 12 was literally SHOCKED when I told her that Fergie was MY AGE (and I’m of course as old as the Pyramid of Giza.) “I thought she was like 21!” Uh, no, sweet niece of mine. No.
Quoth A Girl, Just:
If I could be sweet (be sweet)
I know I've been a real bad girl (bad girl)
I didn't mean for you to get hurt 'soever,
We can make it better
And tell me boy, now wouldn't that be sweet?
Sweet escape
Move over, Coleridge! Go fuck yourself, DANTE!
How about making music for grown ups?
“La Vida Loca” : Ricky Martin
What’s sad is that—when you think about it—this was the song that ushered in the mainstream Latin explosion of the late 90s. Que calor!
It gives Latin music a bad name, unless Latin is Spanish for “complete dog shit,” in which case this would give Latin music the perfect name.
“Anything by Bon Jovi After 1990” : Bon Jovi
I’m no fan of Mr. Buongiovi and his Merry Band of Hirsute Dirt People. But the chicks like “Slippery When Wet,” so I’ll let ‘em have it. Yeah, I’m cool like that.
But anything else is pretty ghastly. And now? Hell, JonBon can BARELY sing. I was in the car the other day flipping around and I stumbled upon a Bon Jovi “country” song. I am going to write that again so there’s no mistaking my meaning: I was in the car the other day flipping around and I stumbled upon a Bon Jovi “country” song. I had to pull over and find some Kleenex to stuff in my ears to stop the bleeding. And I swear, this might be my favorite unintentionally hilarious couplet in all of musicdom:
When the world gets in my face
I say, “Have a nice day.”
That’s telling that world! You go, girl!
Jon: you’re a handsome(ish) guy with an impressive helmet-like head of hair, eerily like that of a female sportscaster. Ritchie: you divorced Heather Locklear and immediately starting banging her best friend, Denise Richard. Drummer, Keyboard Player and Possible Rhythm Guitarist: uh, you’re a coupla dudes. Playing music. And one of you has really kinky longish blonde locks like a fair-haired Sideshow Bob. Which is cool. But guys: let’s stop with the new stuff, OK? You wanna go out on the road and play “You Give Love a Bad Name” and have 35 year old groupies snort coke off your cocks, that’s great, and I applaud you. (**applause**) But do we all have to be subjected to BON JOVI COUNTRY? You’re from fucking Jersey, OK?
Oh, and have a nice day.
"The Hollywood Casino Theme Song" : Shit, I don't know...Hilter? Whatever. Someone fucking evil
Simply the best!
Hollywood Casino beats all the rest
Now it's better than any place
Any place in the Chicagoland
Hollywood is the BEST!
The muthafuckin' best, y'all!
“Can You Feel the Love Tonight” : Elton John
No. No, Elton, I cannot feel the love. Tonight. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. What I CAN feel, however, is the wind from the trail of $100 bills flying in your pants.
This country went ape-poopy (lion-poopy?) over “The Lion King,” and one would think that the Lion King Fever would have subsided by now to make way for Pochahontas Rubella or Finding Nemo Blocking My Colon, but we have a “Lion King” musical that’s been playing for like 10,000 years all over the country. So I guess we all shed a little Lion Tear for Simba when his Dad buys it hyena-style every time we hear this song.
Does anyone else find Elton’s use of the word “vagabond” a little grating, too, while we’re at it? As far as I’m concerned, there are only 3 people who can get away with using the word “vagabond” in a song without sounding like an idiot:
1. Bob Dylan
2. Tom Waits
3. Johnny Cash
So that’s that.
“Tell It To My Heart”: Taylor Dayne
I’m kind of at a loss. The lyrics are your run of the mill drivel so it doesn’t make sense to post anything here. And you already know is: is it love or just a game?
I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is that this song makes me want to run through the glass front of my office to end my misery.
And the final two:
“Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” : Shania Twain
I'm going out tonight--I'm feelin' alright
Gonna let it all hang out
Wanna make some noise--really raise my voice
Yeah, I wanna scream and shout
No inhibitions--make no conditions
Get a little outta line
I ain't gonna act politically correct
I only wanna have a good time
Hey, I hear that. I also don’t want to act politically correct (unlike the fucking JEWS [Kidding! --Ed.]) and I also enjoy having good times. Good times are…good. Times. Moving on…
The best thing about being a woman
Is the prerogative to have a little fun (fun, fun)
Really? I thought it was the boobs. Silly me. (ASIDE: Does anyone find the spelling of the word “prerogative” just ridiculous, like some asshole said “Hey, let’s really fuck with them and throw an extra “R” in there!”? Well, I do.)
Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy--forget I'm a lady
Men's shirts--short skirts
Oh, oh, oh, really go wild--yeah, doin' it in style
Oh, oh, oh, get in the action--feel the attraction
Color my hair--do what I dare
Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free--yeah, to feel the way I feel
Man! I feel like a woman!
This is where she looses me. I don’t get it. It might be the tangential and half-assed reference to cross-dressing; it might be the “color my hair” line. What’s being said here, exactly? She wants to feel like a woman? Great! Go ahead, honey. Feel away. That she still just wants to have a good time? Fine. Whoop it up.
The girls need a break--tonight we're gonna take
The chance to get out on the town
We don't need romance--we only wanna dance
We're gonna let our hair hang down
Ah ha. Okay. This is some spurious attempt to imply that a woman doesn’t need a man to be a woman. I guess. And it’s cute because she says “Man!” before she says “I feel like a woman!” Get it?!?
Ladies, I implore you: you want to feel like women? You want to listen to someone who’ll tell you that the last thing on earth you need to feel like a woman is a man (which is true)? Great. Listen to:
Billie Holiday
Joni Mitchell
Liz Phair
Amy Winehouse
Neko Case
Alison Krauss
Among others. You’re welcome.
“That Don’t Impress Me Much”: Shania, again
Guh. Guuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Okay, so you're Brad Pitt
That don't impress me much
So you got the looks but have you got the touch
Don't get me wrong, yeah
I think you're alright
But that won't keep me warm in the middle of the night
That don't impress me much
Lady, are you kidding me? I’m pretty fucking impressed by Brad Pitt, OK? I think he’d keep me nice and warm at night. Am I right, fellas? Fellas?!? (**crickets**)
Anyhoodilydoodle, Shania basically states within the three minutes and 30 some-odd seconds that is the Rattan death march of this song that she’s not impressed by:
1: Brad Pitt
2: Rocket scientists
3: Guys with cars
4: Guys who carry combs in their pockets (she’s got us there!)
5: Cool guys
Well…then WHAT DO YOU WANT?!? Let’s see, based on the list above which outlines in grave detail that by which you are summarily UNimpressed, it would then stand to reason that your ideal (aka “impressive”) man would be:
1: This guy http://images.mygirlyspace.com/myspacegraphics/images/graphics/prod_228_5900.jpg
2: Who works at Arby’s
3: And rides a pogo stick to work
4: And who doesn’t carry a comb with him
5: And who is very, very uncool…like a nerd even!
Congratulations, Shania. You married him! http://www.robertjohnmuttlange.com/mutt_lange_3.jpeg
I think this is my least favorite song of all time now. Thanks, Shania. I’m sure my future kid will manage to find this out and torture me with it.
*I am not some anachronistic pig who thinks that all women are "broads" or "girls" and like to be slapped on the tush and called "doll." Some do, however, and those women are AWESOME. But that's beside the point, I suppose. EVERYONE in my office calls them "the girls," even though they are 31 and 28, respectively. My boss calls them "the girls," T calls them "the girls,"...hell, I think they call themselves "the girls." So I'm not going to fight it anymore. Now get me a cup of coffee, doll. **swat** And wear skirts more often. You look better in skirts.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
What I Need To Do, Part 1
Ever see that "Top 100 One-Hit Wonders" on VH-1? I did. Probably twice. (I'm a sucker for those sorts of arbitrary musical countdown list thingies.)
Somewhere in the 60s was "Play that Funky Music" by Wild Cherry. So they explain how the song came about and show the band members in their insane bellbottoms and mustaches rocking out on some TV show back in the day, probably coked to the gills. And then it's time for the "So, where are they now?" portion of the segment.
The guy who wrote the song...where is he now? Probably on his boat with his thumb up his butt in Florida. He doesn't do SHIT. He just sits on his ass, all day long, collecting royalty checks, rockin' that same 'stache from '76 which probably still has coke stuck in it, and rides around the Intercoastal Waterway on his boat.
So you know what I need to do?
#1: Write semi-OK ballad for female vocalist du jour (Carrie Underwood, Taylor Swift, et. al.) which doesn't require any self-reflection or insight into the human condition on my part yet nevertheless still allows me to face self in mirror every morning
#2: Sell said song to her management company for use on her next album
#3: Wait for album on which song is contained sells 6,000,000 copies and blows up like fucking "Pyromania" circa '86 or whenever that piece of garbage was released
#4: Commence sitting on ass in Belize with my wife, our children, the Internet, a DVD player and endless cases of ice-cold Belikin (the national beer of Belize, imagine a cross between Corona and Red Stripe...it's fucking delicious, and I'm not a lager man at all)
Because this shit right here, in the cold and the snow in an office with no windows and people screaming at me about fucking signs? This shit right here? Right here?
This is BULLshit.
Somewhere in the 60s was "Play that Funky Music" by Wild Cherry. So they explain how the song came about and show the band members in their insane bellbottoms and mustaches rocking out on some TV show back in the day, probably coked to the gills. And then it's time for the "So, where are they now?" portion of the segment.
The guy who wrote the song...where is he now? Probably on his boat with his thumb up his butt in Florida. He doesn't do SHIT. He just sits on his ass, all day long, collecting royalty checks, rockin' that same 'stache from '76 which probably still has coke stuck in it, and rides around the Intercoastal Waterway on his boat.
So you know what I need to do?
#1: Write semi-OK ballad for female vocalist du jour (Carrie Underwood, Taylor Swift, et. al.) which doesn't require any self-reflection or insight into the human condition on my part yet nevertheless still allows me to face self in mirror every morning
#2: Sell said song to her management company for use on her next album
#3: Wait for album on which song is contained sells 6,000,000 copies and blows up like fucking "Pyromania" circa '86 or whenever that piece of garbage was released
#4: Commence sitting on ass in Belize with my wife, our children, the Internet, a DVD player and endless cases of ice-cold Belikin (the national beer of Belize, imagine a cross between Corona and Red Stripe...it's fucking delicious, and I'm not a lager man at all)
Because this shit right here, in the cold and the snow in an office with no windows and people screaming at me about fucking signs? This shit right here? Right here?
This is BULLshit.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Why Radiohead is the hand-down, no-contest, don’t-even-bother-arguing greatest working band
“In Rainbows” was released 1/1/08 to the general public and ever since I acquired it about a week later, I really can’t stop listening to it. It’s SO GOOD. The more I listen to it, the more I’m convinced that Radiohead is not only the greatest working band, but possibly one of the top ten greatest bands who ever existed.
#1: Everything they do, like it or lump it, is interesting
“OK Computer” was the best album of the 90s. Yes, better than “Ten.” Yes, better than “Nevermind.” Yes, better than “Achtung Baby.” Yes, better than The Blue Album (Weezer.) Yes, better the The Black Album (Metallica.) Yes, better than…well, you get the idea. THE. BEST. So I never really warmed up to anything Radiohead did after “OK,” because—well—it’s WASN’T “OK Computer.” But now that I’ve gone back and listened again to “Amnesiac” and “Kid A” and the others with new ears, they are all very, very good. Very good. The worst Radiohead album is 10,000 times more interesting and important than 95% of the music out there.
#2: They follow a more dynamic and older template for songwriting than other bands
They don’t make “hits.” They don’t make “singles.” They craft songs. They are half organic Beatles, half beautiful cyborg. Half Tin Pan Alley, half sweaty Euro-trash nightclub.
#3: They basically told the record industry to collectively go fuck itself
By taking 100% control over their music, they have shown that following a more 21st century model for selling music WORKS (much to what I imagine is the dismay of the record companies.) Radiohead released “In Rainbows” for download only from their website before it was officially for purchase through Amazon and other retailers. You could pay whatever you wanted to download it. Nothing, 5 bucks, whatever. They also sold on their website a super-ultra-luxury $80.00 edition which came with 12” vinyl records and artwork and other crap I don’t need, despite me being a huge fan.
After New Year’s Day, when they released the CD for purchase to the general music-buying public, it went to #1. What does that say?
It says that it’s possible to do business in the midst of the digital music revolution without crying foul about illegal downloading and file sharing all that other bullshit. The problem with the record companies isn’t the fact that people are illegally downloading music. The problem is that the record companies release absolute GARBAGE that no one wants to pay for. Here was music that anybody could have downloaded for free for months and they STILL were willing to pay for it. Do you want to pay $18.00 for a CD with one decent song you’ll be completely sick of in 3 weeks? No, because you’re not a moron and you can think of 1000 better things to do with $18.00. The record companies, however, thinks we’re all just a bunch of morons who’ll pay good money for dog shit, based on the antiquated model for the music business which they have been following since the 50s.
#4: They are one of a handful of bands who write and perform something that rocks and that is incredibly beautiful at the exact same time
Very, very, VERY few bands can do this. A couple examples, off the top of my head: Nirvana (“Lithium,” specifically), U2 (many examples, notably “Mysterious Ways”), Led Zeppelin (“Kashmir,” among others), The Beatles (“While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” “I Want You [She’s So Heavy]”), and maybe a couple other artists. It’s a hard thing to do and a testament to Radiohead’s unflinching conviction to making beautiful things, regardless of the ends they serve or the conventions they follow.
#5: They embrace the idea of the “concept album” without sounding hacky or dated
If you want to be a pretentious piece of shit, release a “concept album.” (See “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness” by the Smashing Pumpkins. Actually, wait. Don’t.) Few bands can pull it off, fewer can make it work. Radiohead’s ultimate template for releasing records is the fact that each one is essentially a little efficient machine of music. Thought in, beauty out. Ideas in, impressions and opinions out.
#6: Their music makes me want to eat a bag of mushrooms, stare at the walls and just let it drip all over my body (which I won’t do)
Their music makes me want to do things to heighten the experience of hearing it. Illegal things. Unhealthy things. Things not really concomitant with becoming a father soon. Things I shouldn’t do. But I nevertheless WANT to do them. I want to find new ways to hear them. That’s not to say that I can’t or don’t enjoy their music sober or “get something out of it”; I certainly do.
But remember when you were younger and you’d get fucked up on something and put on a pair of headphones with something you really dug blazing its way into your brain and you’d be like, “Whoa. Yes…yes…YES!!!” I miss that sometimes. Radiohead MAKES me miss it.
#7: They could give a FUCK what you think of them
And if there’s anything more rock and roll than that, I don’t know what it is.
Oh, and Wilco’s pretty good, too. ;)
#1: Everything they do, like it or lump it, is interesting
“OK Computer” was the best album of the 90s. Yes, better than “Ten.” Yes, better than “Nevermind.” Yes, better than “Achtung Baby.” Yes, better than The Blue Album (Weezer.) Yes, better the The Black Album (Metallica.) Yes, better than…well, you get the idea. THE. BEST. So I never really warmed up to anything Radiohead did after “OK,” because—well—it’s WASN’T “OK Computer.” But now that I’ve gone back and listened again to “Amnesiac” and “Kid A” and the others with new ears, they are all very, very good. Very good. The worst Radiohead album is 10,000 times more interesting and important than 95% of the music out there.
#2: They follow a more dynamic and older template for songwriting than other bands
They don’t make “hits.” They don’t make “singles.” They craft songs. They are half organic Beatles, half beautiful cyborg. Half Tin Pan Alley, half sweaty Euro-trash nightclub.
#3: They basically told the record industry to collectively go fuck itself
By taking 100% control over their music, they have shown that following a more 21st century model for selling music WORKS (much to what I imagine is the dismay of the record companies.) Radiohead released “In Rainbows” for download only from their website before it was officially for purchase through Amazon and other retailers. You could pay whatever you wanted to download it. Nothing, 5 bucks, whatever. They also sold on their website a super-ultra-luxury $80.00 edition which came with 12” vinyl records and artwork and other crap I don’t need, despite me being a huge fan.
After New Year’s Day, when they released the CD for purchase to the general music-buying public, it went to #1. What does that say?
It says that it’s possible to do business in the midst of the digital music revolution without crying foul about illegal downloading and file sharing all that other bullshit. The problem with the record companies isn’t the fact that people are illegally downloading music. The problem is that the record companies release absolute GARBAGE that no one wants to pay for. Here was music that anybody could have downloaded for free for months and they STILL were willing to pay for it. Do you want to pay $18.00 for a CD with one decent song you’ll be completely sick of in 3 weeks? No, because you’re not a moron and you can think of 1000 better things to do with $18.00. The record companies, however, thinks we’re all just a bunch of morons who’ll pay good money for dog shit, based on the antiquated model for the music business which they have been following since the 50s.
#4: They are one of a handful of bands who write and perform something that rocks and that is incredibly beautiful at the exact same time
Very, very, VERY few bands can do this. A couple examples, off the top of my head: Nirvana (“Lithium,” specifically), U2 (many examples, notably “Mysterious Ways”), Led Zeppelin (“Kashmir,” among others), The Beatles (“While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” “I Want You [She’s So Heavy]”), and maybe a couple other artists. It’s a hard thing to do and a testament to Radiohead’s unflinching conviction to making beautiful things, regardless of the ends they serve or the conventions they follow.
#5: They embrace the idea of the “concept album” without sounding hacky or dated
If you want to be a pretentious piece of shit, release a “concept album.” (See “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness” by the Smashing Pumpkins. Actually, wait. Don’t.) Few bands can pull it off, fewer can make it work. Radiohead’s ultimate template for releasing records is the fact that each one is essentially a little efficient machine of music. Thought in, beauty out. Ideas in, impressions and opinions out.
#6: Their music makes me want to eat a bag of mushrooms, stare at the walls and just let it drip all over my body (which I won’t do)
Their music makes me want to do things to heighten the experience of hearing it. Illegal things. Unhealthy things. Things not really concomitant with becoming a father soon. Things I shouldn’t do. But I nevertheless WANT to do them. I want to find new ways to hear them. That’s not to say that I can’t or don’t enjoy their music sober or “get something out of it”; I certainly do.
But remember when you were younger and you’d get fucked up on something and put on a pair of headphones with something you really dug blazing its way into your brain and you’d be like, “Whoa. Yes…yes…YES!!!” I miss that sometimes. Radiohead MAKES me miss it.
#7: They could give a FUCK what you think of them
And if there’s anything more rock and roll than that, I don’t know what it is.
Oh, and Wilco’s pretty good, too. ;)
Friday, February 15, 2008
Twit Kid
Sometimes the installers in the shop do night work since the city won't allow us to block traffic on a major street in the Loop during the day, so the guys will come in around 2 pm instead of 6 am. There's a lot of standing around and finding little piddly stuff for them to do until they start the night job. In many ways, they are like children: they get "into things" and make little messes.
I recently ordered a very, very, VERY large mesh banner for a client of mine. I have been working with this client on this particular banner for no fewer than 6 months. I have probably done 12 different designs, innumerable size changes, several site visits and surveys, and invested at least 40 real-time hours (both personally and in conjunction with other co-workers of mine). The client for some reason had to hire a structure engineer to make certain that the banner we were proposing to make wouldn't damage the building or the balcony railings onto which we were proposing to attach it. We finally, finally, FINALLY got approval last week, so I reviewed all the details with my boss and then placed the order.
We got the banner.
Imagine this montrous thing: 90 FEET high and 11 FEET wide, unfurled on a shop floor. Imagine no less than 6 installers, 1 foreman, and ME, standing around it, looking at it, quizzically, as if it were an ancient, foreign language to be deciphered.
"How the fuck are we supposed to put this thing up?"
"Why did you get it ordered like this?"
"Who's bright fucking idea was it to put the grommets [the metal rings through which one attaches a banner to some structure] there?"
"We can't put this up! There's no way!"
"Someone's going to get KILLED!"
So then they listened to my explanation: how my boss, the client, the construction company, the engineer and myself all agreed as to how we were planning on installing this behemoth.
"That'll never work!"
"Impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!!!"
They plead with me.
"Can we drill into the building?"
"Can we use cables?"
"Can we weight the bottom?"
"Can we...can we...can we...?!?"
I breathed. Calmly. I spoke.
"I don't care what you do. All I know is that we have to protect the building and the railings from any damage. They are EXTREMELY concerned about this. They hired an engineer to figure out where it would be best to attach this thing. So glue it, wire it, paint it, screw it, cable it, nail it, stick it...whatever. I don't care. Just please don't damage the building."
"Can we...can we...can we?!?"
I probably came off like a total dick, but what am I going to do?
These guys all have years (from 5 to 25) of experience with signs: installing them, building them. I have worked for sign companies in one capacity or another for about 8 years now, on the OTHER side of the equation: designing them, pricing them, selling them, ordering them, drawing them. So you know what that means?
I have no idea how to put up this fucking banner. No idea.
Sure, I can use words like "turnbuckle" and "stringer" and "neoprene." And I even know what they mean. (Sort of.) But I can't APPLY them to real-life situations. Because I don't know what I'm doing!
Look, I was a fucking ENGLISH major in college, you know? I read Chaucer and shit! I read Dante's Inferno in my FREE TIME. I wrote poems about poetry. About POETRY! Did you know that at least half the poems out there are about poetry? Well, I do! And they are! It's ridiculous!
I composed long-ass, self-important papers on Gustav Mahler and Wallace Stevens and how Richard Wagner's concept of the leitmotif is the template for all American film music! And I enjoyed it! I willingly took classes called "Love & Romance in Ancient Greek & Rome" and would have done well in them if the prof wasn't such a fucking snore.
I'm a big, giant twit and I'm about to have a big, giant twit kid. (Sorry, Kid.) S/he won't know which end's the business end on a screwdriver (at least from me) but, man, s/he'll have heard all Bach's Flute Partitas by the time s/he's 7 years old! (So s/he's got that going for him/her. Which is nice.) In all honesty, my wife is roughly 10,000 times more "handy" than I am, God bless her. And you know what? I'm totally comfortable with that. I don't feel any less of a man. I really don't.
But now I'm this fish out of water here at work sometimes. It's like bringing me to Home Depot: I'm surrounded by a bunch of loud, expensive things with sharp edges and I have no idea what 99.7% of them are for. I just want to find my infinitessimally tiny item and go home.
So don't ask me how to put up a banner. I have no idea. You wanna talk about some Viola de Gamba Sonatas, though? Well! Then I'm your man.
I recently ordered a very, very, VERY large mesh banner for a client of mine. I have been working with this client on this particular banner for no fewer than 6 months. I have probably done 12 different designs, innumerable size changes, several site visits and surveys, and invested at least 40 real-time hours (both personally and in conjunction with other co-workers of mine). The client for some reason had to hire a structure engineer to make certain that the banner we were proposing to make wouldn't damage the building or the balcony railings onto which we were proposing to attach it. We finally, finally, FINALLY got approval last week, so I reviewed all the details with my boss and then placed the order.
We got the banner.
Imagine this montrous thing: 90 FEET high and 11 FEET wide, unfurled on a shop floor. Imagine no less than 6 installers, 1 foreman, and ME, standing around it, looking at it, quizzically, as if it were an ancient, foreign language to be deciphered.
"How the fuck are we supposed to put this thing up?"
"Why did you get it ordered like this?"
"Who's bright fucking idea was it to put the grommets [the metal rings through which one attaches a banner to some structure] there?"
"We can't put this up! There's no way!"
"Someone's going to get KILLED!"
So then they listened to my explanation: how my boss, the client, the construction company, the engineer and myself all agreed as to how we were planning on installing this behemoth.
"That'll never work!"
"Impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!!!"
They plead with me.
"Can we drill into the building?"
"Can we use cables?"
"Can we weight the bottom?"
"Can we...can we...can we...?!?"
I breathed. Calmly. I spoke.
"I don't care what you do. All I know is that we have to protect the building and the railings from any damage. They are EXTREMELY concerned about this. They hired an engineer to figure out where it would be best to attach this thing. So glue it, wire it, paint it, screw it, cable it, nail it, stick it...whatever. I don't care. Just please don't damage the building."
"Can we...can we...can we?!?"
"I don't care."
I then walked back to my office.I probably came off like a total dick, but what am I going to do?
These guys all have years (from 5 to 25) of experience with signs: installing them, building them. I have worked for sign companies in one capacity or another for about 8 years now, on the OTHER side of the equation: designing them, pricing them, selling them, ordering them, drawing them. So you know what that means?
I have no idea how to put up this fucking banner. No idea.
Sure, I can use words like "turnbuckle" and "stringer" and "neoprene." And I even know what they mean. (Sort of.) But I can't APPLY them to real-life situations. Because I don't know what I'm doing!
Look, I was a fucking ENGLISH major in college, you know? I read Chaucer and shit! I read Dante's Inferno in my FREE TIME. I wrote poems about poetry. About POETRY! Did you know that at least half the poems out there are about poetry? Well, I do! And they are! It's ridiculous!
I composed long-ass, self-important papers on Gustav Mahler and Wallace Stevens and how Richard Wagner's concept of the leitmotif is the template for all American film music! And I enjoyed it! I willingly took classes called "Love & Romance in Ancient Greek & Rome" and would have done well in them if the prof wasn't such a fucking snore.
I'm a big, giant twit and I'm about to have a big, giant twit kid. (Sorry, Kid.) S/he won't know which end's the business end on a screwdriver (at least from me) but, man, s/he'll have heard all Bach's Flute Partitas by the time s/he's 7 years old! (So s/he's got that going for him/her. Which is nice.) In all honesty, my wife is roughly 10,000 times more "handy" than I am, God bless her. And you know what? I'm totally comfortable with that. I don't feel any less of a man. I really don't.
But now I'm this fish out of water here at work sometimes. It's like bringing me to Home Depot: I'm surrounded by a bunch of loud, expensive things with sharp edges and I have no idea what 99.7% of them are for. I just want to find my infinitessimally tiny item and go home.
So don't ask me how to put up a banner. I have no idea. You wanna talk about some Viola de Gamba Sonatas, though? Well! Then I'm your man.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Listening to White People* Rap is Like...
Listening to white people* rap is like...
...finding out that Ashley Simpson is releasing a Nick Drake tribute album.
...watching "hotel" porn: all the good stuff is cut out, leaving only sex faces and man ass.
...lifting a gallon of milk thinking it's more full than it really is, so you practically chuck it across the kitchen with the force of your stupidity.
...realising that the #1 comedy in the country is "Two and a Half Men," on which Charlie Sheen is probably being paid more money I'll ever see in my lifetime per episode to essentially play himself: a sex-addicted, puerile sleazebag who's NOT FUNNY AT ALL.
...being told that a celebrity you admire and/or respect is a Scientologist.
...getting kicked in the chode.
...biting your cheek not once but TWICE in the same spot.
...watching Matthew McConaughey "act."
...Domino's pizza.
...bad, squalky jazz.
...a hangover on a plane heading somewhere you don't want to end up.
...really having to pee while stuck in traffic on the expressway.
...anal rape.
...those stupid "Real World versus Road Rules" shows on MTV. Who watches that shit?
...Celine Dion's mongoose-like face.
...scrambled eggs from Denny's.
...calling Avril Lavigne "punk."
...listening to politicians pretend they give a rusty fuck about you.
Listening to white people rap is like watching white people DANCE. So let's stop. K?
*Exceptions: Marshall Mathers, Michael Diamond, Adam Yauch, Adam Horovitz, and Conan O'Brien. Not that Conan has or ever would, but I think it'd be funny since it'd essentially be the whitest person EVER rapping. So we'll let him.
...finding out that Ashley Simpson is releasing a Nick Drake tribute album.
...watching "hotel" porn: all the good stuff is cut out, leaving only sex faces and man ass.
...lifting a gallon of milk thinking it's more full than it really is, so you practically chuck it across the kitchen with the force of your stupidity.
...realising that the #1 comedy in the country is "Two and a Half Men," on which Charlie Sheen is probably being paid more money I'll ever see in my lifetime per episode to essentially play himself: a sex-addicted, puerile sleazebag who's NOT FUNNY AT ALL.
...being told that a celebrity you admire and/or respect is a Scientologist.
...getting kicked in the chode.
...biting your cheek not once but TWICE in the same spot.
...watching Matthew McConaughey "act."
...Domino's pizza.
...bad, squalky jazz.
...a hangover on a plane heading somewhere you don't want to end up.
...really having to pee while stuck in traffic on the expressway.
...anal rape.
...those stupid "Real World versus Road Rules" shows on MTV. Who watches that shit?
...Celine Dion's mongoose-like face.
...scrambled eggs from Denny's.
...calling Avril Lavigne "punk."
...listening to politicians pretend they give a rusty fuck about you.
Listening to white people rap is like watching white people DANCE. So let's stop. K?
*Exceptions: Marshall Mathers, Michael Diamond, Adam Yauch, Adam Horovitz, and Conan O'Brien. Not that Conan has or ever would, but I think it'd be funny since it'd essentially be the whitest person EVER rapping. So we'll let him.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Further Adventures of T & B
T hadn't been in for a couple days. Last Monday she had "bronchitis." Last Tuesday she had a doctor's appointment for some "women's issues," which she called and told me about since our boss was marooned in Vegas due to the weather. After the appointment for her hoo-hah, I guess she just took the rest of the day off since she never showed up.
So last Wednesday was the first time she'd been in all week. There was probably 24" of files sitting there on the cabinet, waiting to be put up. She didn't even look at it. Didn't even register.
After the new calendar year, paperwork becomes difficult to find: is it in 2007? Or 2008? Top that off with the fact that normally any old even semi-recent file can be in one of like 7 different locations (in the shop; with accounting; in the salesperson's or project manager's office; in the safe awaiting approval by my boss; in my boss' office, still awaiting approval; with T, awaiting invoicing; in the bin, awaiting filing), and I was really getting frustrated. So I took 40 minutes and did all the filing myself. I even created new hanging holders and made sure that all the 2007 files went into 2007 and all the 2008's into '08.
So after I was done with all of that, needless to say she was pretty high on my shit list. At the time, it probably looked something like this:
#1: George Bush
#2: Donald Trump
#3: Fergie
#4: Rachael Ray
#5: T
#6: Ty Pennington
Etc....with Hitler, Stalin, Osama bin-Laden and Jim Belushi probably rounding out the top 10.
Another part of her job is running the dishwasher 3 times a week. She's not responsible for loading the dishwasher or collecting the dishes, nope. Just filling it up with soap and pressing a button. And since she hadn't been at work for 2 days, we didn't even have one clean coffee mug available.
I'm not above ANYTHING. I'll mop, I'll sweep, I'll do whatever...I don't care. So I ran the dishwasher Tuesday night. To avoid any confusion, I put a large post-it note on the front of the dishwasher:
Me, understandably perplexed: "Why is the dishwasher running, T?"
T: "Because the dishes needed to be done!" (ask a stupid question...)
Me: "But they were clean. Didn't you notice the note I put on there?"
I still don't know what to make of her response. I wonder: does she ALWAYS run her dishwasher twice at home? Does her asshole husband Mr. Pxxxx who wears sunglasses indoors like a fucking child molester like really, really, really clean dishes or something?
We may never know.
OH...and I almost forgot the BEST T STORY EVER:
One day I come into work and I see her already at her desk, looking down at something on the floor. Normally, she's dispensing the over-enthusiastic "Good Morning!!!"s immediately so I wonder why she hasn't looked up and noticed me yet.
Me: "Hey, T? You OK over there?"
T: "Yeah. I just noticed that I'm wearing two different shoes today."
She sticks her legs out of the side of her desk and shows me one brown and one blue. Not different socks. Different SHOES. One was a higher heel and the other a flat. I swear to God. How is that possible?
Awesome.
So last Wednesday was the first time she'd been in all week. There was probably 24" of files sitting there on the cabinet, waiting to be put up. She didn't even look at it. Didn't even register.
After the new calendar year, paperwork becomes difficult to find: is it in 2007? Or 2008? Top that off with the fact that normally any old even semi-recent file can be in one of like 7 different locations (in the shop; with accounting; in the salesperson's or project manager's office; in the safe awaiting approval by my boss; in my boss' office, still awaiting approval; with T, awaiting invoicing; in the bin, awaiting filing), and I was really getting frustrated. So I took 40 minutes and did all the filing myself. I even created new hanging holders and made sure that all the 2007 files went into 2007 and all the 2008's into '08.
So after I was done with all of that, needless to say she was pretty high on my shit list. At the time, it probably looked something like this:
#1: George Bush
#2: Donald Trump
#3: Fergie
#4: Rachael Ray
#5: T
#6: Ty Pennington
Etc....with Hitler, Stalin, Osama bin-Laden and Jim Belushi probably rounding out the top 10.
Another part of her job is running the dishwasher 3 times a week. She's not responsible for loading the dishwasher or collecting the dishes, nope. Just filling it up with soap and pressing a button. And since she hadn't been at work for 2 days, we didn't even have one clean coffee mug available.
I'm not above ANYTHING. I'll mop, I'll sweep, I'll do whatever...I don't care. So I ran the dishwasher Tuesday night. To avoid any confusion, I put a large post-it note on the front of the dishwasher:
This way, when T walked in on Wednesday, she'd know that someone ran the dishwasher and that it would be acceptable to empty it (which is also part of her job.)
So when I walked into the lunch room and found the dishwasher on, I was even less pleased.
Me, understandably perplexed: "Why is the dishwasher running, T?"
T: "Because the dishes needed to be done!" (ask a stupid question...)
Me: "But they were clean. Didn't you notice the note I put on there?"
T: "Yeah, but I figured they could probably stand to be washed again."
I still don't know what to make of her response. I wonder: does she ALWAYS run her dishwasher twice at home? Does her asshole husband Mr. Pxxxx who wears sunglasses indoors like a fucking child molester like really, really, really clean dishes or something?
We may never know.
OH...and I almost forgot the BEST T STORY EVER:
One day I come into work and I see her already at her desk, looking down at something on the floor. Normally, she's dispensing the over-enthusiastic "Good Morning!!!"s immediately so I wonder why she hasn't looked up and noticed me yet.
Me: "Hey, T? You OK over there?"
T: "Yeah. I just noticed that I'm wearing two different shoes today."
She sticks her legs out of the side of her desk and shows me one brown and one blue. Not different socks. Different SHOES. One was a higher heel and the other a flat. I swear to God. How is that possible?
Awesome.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Fun with A. Fuck.
So A works in the shop as an installer. He's from Albania. I suppose he's a nice enough guy; I really don't know him all that well. He happened to notice that I have lost like 20 pounds in the last couple months (probably more like 15 now) and said something nice to me about it (in the non-gayest way possible, of course). I also know that he really likes strippers and gambling. And he hates pizza, which is just WEIRD. Who hates pizza?
Anyway, he's really high-strung. I mean REALLY high-strung. Like a large squirrel in Carhartt. Eveything's histrionics, all the time. Full bore. It's crazy.
And he liberally peppers every conversation he has with me with curse words. And when I say "liberally peppers," I mean "liberally fucking peppers cockgobbler shithat motherfucker jism tits--FUCK." And I like a good curse word as much as the next asshole fuckbag, so you know that THIS guy can really curse a blue streak. So dealings with A are...interesting.
He comes to my office and I'm on the phone. I can clearly see him waiting for me. Whatever he needs: it's URGENT. He looks like Jack Bauer. He's almost shaking and sweating. Despite that fact that I'm clearly engaged in something else (phone to my ear, moving mouth, emitting sounds intended to communcate information, instructions and/or requests to another human being), he asks me: "Briandoyouhaveaminute?" I hold up a finger, assuming that this international sign for "just a sec, there" will be readily understood by an Albanian. Nope. "CauseIthinkyouorderedsomethingandit'shere." So I then FORCEFULLY hold up a finger. How does one forcefully hold up one's finger, exactly? No idea. I must just live in the moment, man, because I did something and it worked. He quieted.
I finished my call and walked out to the dock with him. "Didyouorderthisshit?" he asks me. He shows me 7 boxes. "Uh, I don't know. What's in the boxes?"
"HowthefuckamIsupposedtoknow?Whatthefuck?What'sinthesefuckingboxes?Whatisthisshit?"
"I have no idea. I order stuff all the time. Could be mine. No idea what's in the boxes?"
He shoves a packing slip under my nose. "That'syourfuckingname,right?"
"Yup. That's me."
"Idunnowhatthefuck'sintheresoIdunnowhatthefucktodowiththisshit."
"Ok, ok. Give me a second."
So I go back to my office, look up the purchase order number, and go back into the shop to find him.
He left.
Guess it wasn't that urgent after all. What a weirdo. Fuck.
Anyway, he's really high-strung. I mean REALLY high-strung. Like a large squirrel in Carhartt. Eveything's histrionics, all the time. Full bore. It's crazy.
And he liberally peppers every conversation he has with me with curse words. And when I say "liberally peppers," I mean "liberally fucking peppers cockgobbler shithat motherfucker jism tits--FUCK." And I like a good curse word as much as the next asshole fuckbag, so you know that THIS guy can really curse a blue streak. So dealings with A are...interesting.
He comes to my office and I'm on the phone. I can clearly see him waiting for me. Whatever he needs: it's URGENT. He looks like Jack Bauer. He's almost shaking and sweating. Despite that fact that I'm clearly engaged in something else (phone to my ear, moving mouth, emitting sounds intended to communcate information, instructions and/or requests to another human being), he asks me: "Briandoyouhaveaminute?" I hold up a finger, assuming that this international sign for "just a sec, there" will be readily understood by an Albanian. Nope. "CauseIthinkyouorderedsomethingandit'shere." So I then FORCEFULLY hold up a finger. How does one forcefully hold up one's finger, exactly? No idea. I must just live in the moment, man, because I did something and it worked. He quieted.
I finished my call and walked out to the dock with him. "Didyouorderthisshit?" he asks me. He shows me 7 boxes. "Uh, I don't know. What's in the boxes?"
"HowthefuckamIsupposedtoknow?Whatthefuck?What'sinthesefuckingboxes?Whatisthisshit?"
"I have no idea. I order stuff all the time. Could be mine. No idea what's in the boxes?"
He shoves a packing slip under my nose. "That'syourfuckingname,right?"
"Yup. That's me."
"Idunnowhatthefuck'sintheresoIdunnowhatthefucktodowiththisshit."
"Ok, ok. Give me a second."
So I go back to my office, look up the purchase order number, and go back into the shop to find him.
He left.
Guess it wasn't that urgent after all. What a weirdo. Fuck.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The Loch Ness Asshole
So I had a really poopy day yesterday. I was in the worst mood from start to (almost) finish.
Regardless of how many times I am unpleasantly reminded, I still cannot help but become disgusted and morose at how some people have chosen to act, to exist within society.
My company has this client who is a notorious asshole. Everyone thinks he's an asshole, even my boss. I've never had to deal with him personally, but I've heard stories. Up until yesterday, as far as I was concerned he was like some mythic asshole, the Loch Ness Monster of Assholes or something. The Loch Ness Asshole. Heard about only through lore and legend, most of it probably apocryphal.
Phone rings. Since T hasn't been at work for the last two days (more on this in another post), we all have to answer it. So I do.
Me: "Good afternoon...H.M. Witt?"
LNAH: "Is MATT [my boss and the owner] there?"
Me: "No, I'm sorry he's out of t..."
LNAH: "Is there another WITT there?"
Me: "Uh, no, I'm sorry but perh..."
LNAH: "Well, who do I have to talk to do get something DONE around here?"
Me: "Uh, well, that depends on what you need. Perhaps I can help you?"
Continuing to bark at me, I find out that it's him: The Loch Ness Asshole. He proceeds to tell me that we were given the approval to install a certain sign for him LAST WEEK and it's STILL not up yet. I ask him for the address and look it up.
Me: "Well, actually, the order went in Monday at 8:09 AM and I believe that it will be installed tomorrow [Wednesday]."
LNAH: "No, NO! That is INCORRECT! You were given the approval LAST WEEK! LAURA! [his assistant, who I can only assume subsists on a diet of appletinis, cocaine, and reduced fat Triscuits] When did you send at approval to Witt?"
**indisinct feminine mumbling in background**
LNAH: "Friday! Friday at 3:53 PM!"
Me: "Oh, OK. Well, our shop closes at 3:30 PM, so I didn't get the order into the shop until first
thing Monday morning."
LNAH: "Did we KNOW that the shop closes at 3:30 PM?!?"
Me, non-plussed: "Uh, I...don't...know...but I'm sure the sign will be installed tomorrow and I will forward completion photos as soon as it's done."
LNAH, suddenly and randomly sane: "Thanks very much. 'Preciate it" **click**
Once a long time ago, at least a year, I was flipping channels and inexplicably stopped for not more than 10 seconds on the E! channel, on which they were showing a commerical for that show "Dr. 90210," which I guess is a reality show about plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. Anyway, this particular commercial featured a young, handsome doctor: first in his office, thoughtfully cupping a blonde woman's balloonish breasts and apparently dolling out his professional advice to have them rendered MORE (or maybe less, but I doubt it) balloonish, then out with his "bros" on the town, a-drinkin' and a-carousin'.
He turns to the camera amidst the cigars and striped shirts and booze and music and proclaims, "You know, you hear all the time how people want to come back reincarnated as a bird or Gandhi or something stupid like that after they die. Well, you know what? I just want to come back reincarnated as ME."
When I bear witness or am directly involved in situations like the above, I first get angry. Then, I get angry at allowing these dickheads to make me angry. After the anger has subsided, I get sad.
Sad that our society considers these people "successful." Both Dr. 9021Douche and The Loch Ness Asshole are probably millionaires. They probably drive around in awesome cars and listen to awesome music on their awesome car stereos wearing their awesome sunglasses. They probably get awesome chicks (or at least cheat on their not-so-awesome-anymore wives with awesome chicks) and eat awesome meals out at awesome restaurants every awesome night.
How a person chooses to go on with their lives treating other people like dogshit and/or not being able to see outside of themselves is totally beyond me. Don't get me wrong: I am a pretty self-centered person, but I know who I am. At least I TRY to see the world beyond the borders of my mental self. At least I understand why it's "good" to attempt to do such a thing. These types of people, however, are essentially REWARDED for not having any such desires or insights.
I just hope I can convince my kid that it just shouldn't be done and doesn't have to be that way, that you don't have to shit on people or think you're somehow greater than fucking Gandhi because you grab tits all day in order to be considered--by both self and society--successful. My wife says that these guys are probably really unhappy and "what goes around, comes around."
I don't care if they're unhappy or not. They probably don't even understand the concept of unhappiness, at least in terms of how it applies to them.
But I guess I have to believe that The Wheel does turn. For all of us.
Regardless of how many times I am unpleasantly reminded, I still cannot help but become disgusted and morose at how some people have chosen to act, to exist within society.
My company has this client who is a notorious asshole. Everyone thinks he's an asshole, even my boss. I've never had to deal with him personally, but I've heard stories. Up until yesterday, as far as I was concerned he was like some mythic asshole, the Loch Ness Monster of Assholes or something. The Loch Ness Asshole. Heard about only through lore and legend, most of it probably apocryphal.
Phone rings. Since T hasn't been at work for the last two days (more on this in another post), we all have to answer it. So I do.
Me: "Good afternoon...H.M. Witt?"
LNAH: "Is MATT [my boss and the owner] there?"
Me: "No, I'm sorry he's out of t..."
LNAH: "Is there another WITT there?"
Me: "Uh, no, I'm sorry but perh..."
LNAH: "Well, who do I have to talk to do get something DONE around here?"
Me: "Uh, well, that depends on what you need. Perhaps I can help you?"
Continuing to bark at me, I find out that it's him: The Loch Ness Asshole. He proceeds to tell me that we were given the approval to install a certain sign for him LAST WEEK and it's STILL not up yet. I ask him for the address and look it up.
Me: "Well, actually, the order went in Monday at 8:09 AM and I believe that it will be installed tomorrow [Wednesday]."
LNAH: "No, NO! That is INCORRECT! You were given the approval LAST WEEK! LAURA! [his assistant, who I can only assume subsists on a diet of appletinis, cocaine, and reduced fat Triscuits] When did you send at approval to Witt?"
**indisinct feminine mumbling in background**
LNAH: "Friday! Friday at 3:53 PM!"
Me: "Oh, OK. Well, our shop closes at 3:30 PM, so I didn't get the order into the shop until first
thing Monday morning."
LNAH: "Did we KNOW that the shop closes at 3:30 PM?!?"
Me, non-plussed: "Uh, I...don't...know...but I'm sure the sign will be installed tomorrow and I will forward completion photos as soon as it's done."
LNAH, suddenly and randomly sane: "Thanks very much. 'Preciate it" **click**
Once a long time ago, at least a year, I was flipping channels and inexplicably stopped for not more than 10 seconds on the E! channel, on which they were showing a commerical for that show "Dr. 90210," which I guess is a reality show about plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. Anyway, this particular commercial featured a young, handsome doctor: first in his office, thoughtfully cupping a blonde woman's balloonish breasts and apparently dolling out his professional advice to have them rendered MORE (or maybe less, but I doubt it) balloonish, then out with his "bros" on the town, a-drinkin' and a-carousin'.
He turns to the camera amidst the cigars and striped shirts and booze and music and proclaims, "You know, you hear all the time how people want to come back reincarnated as a bird or Gandhi or something stupid like that after they die. Well, you know what? I just want to come back reincarnated as ME."
When I bear witness or am directly involved in situations like the above, I first get angry. Then, I get angry at allowing these dickheads to make me angry. After the anger has subsided, I get sad.
Sad that our society considers these people "successful." Both Dr. 9021Douche and The Loch Ness Asshole are probably millionaires. They probably drive around in awesome cars and listen to awesome music on their awesome car stereos wearing their awesome sunglasses. They probably get awesome chicks (or at least cheat on their not-so-awesome-anymore wives with awesome chicks) and eat awesome meals out at awesome restaurants every awesome night.
How a person chooses to go on with their lives treating other people like dogshit and/or not being able to see outside of themselves is totally beyond me. Don't get me wrong: I am a pretty self-centered person, but I know who I am. At least I TRY to see the world beyond the borders of my mental self. At least I understand why it's "good" to attempt to do such a thing. These types of people, however, are essentially REWARDED for not having any such desires or insights.
I just hope I can convince my kid that it just shouldn't be done and doesn't have to be that way, that you don't have to shit on people or think you're somehow greater than fucking Gandhi because you grab tits all day in order to be considered--by both self and society--successful. My wife says that these guys are probably really unhappy and "what goes around, comes around."
I don't care if they're unhappy or not. They probably don't even understand the concept of unhappiness, at least in terms of how it applies to them.
But I guess I have to believe that The Wheel does turn. For all of us.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Next Stop: Crazytown
I have moved on from worrying constantly about impending parenthood and from trying to bargain my way out of being a father; I am now fully ensconced in the "insane with happiness" phase. Which sounds like a good thing, and I suppose it is. But feeling insane--regardless of its genesis or reason--isn't a smooth ride. Too much of a good thing is...um, I mean ISN'T...uh...no, no...too much of a good thing is...NOT GOOD.
I am not the kind of person who thinks that a woman is this emotionally-inebriated bitty who has to be calmed and corraled by the strong, silent, sensible hand of her man. BUT...since my wife is the one with the hormonal typhoon in her veins and with the anxiety of having to actually expel something living out of her body, I consider it my responsibilty to at least be the less-insane one in the house. She has many, many reasons to act crazy. Me? Not as many.
I'm losing the battle here, though.
I can literally start crying at the drop of a hat. Add a couple beers to this equation and here come the water works. I'm not upset. I am beside myself with happiness. I have never felt anything like what I have been feeling for the last couple of weeks with respect to the baby. I'm just so EMOTIONAL. It's really disorienting.
Example #1:
A friend of ours got us a big bag of baby stuff as a present for announcing the pregnancy, which she gave to us New Year's Eve. Of course, we forgot the stuff at the party, and didn't get the bag until just a week or so ago. The bag was just sitting in the office / litterbox / future nursery and since I hadn't really inspected it at all I dug around in there. The main item is this fairly large (at least it would be to a baby) stuffed dog, sweetly holding a blue fleece blanket. When you squeeze the dog, it "barks." (Sort of. It's really more of a honk, but it's still really cute.) So I squeezed it. It honk-barked. I squeezed it again. Another honk-bark. And then: tears. Why? Because I'M INSANE. Mind you, I'm not sobbing uncontrollably or anything, nor am I'm crying for very long. 10 seconds, tops. But it's still happening.
Example #2:
I'm in the car driving downtown to meet a client or something for work a week or so ago and I'm listening to this Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings song, "Natural Born Lover." There's this really funky part in the song and I was kind of "eye-dancing" to it: looking to the left, then to the right, back to the left, etc., as the music changes. Given that a song called "Natural Born Lover" may not be appropriate for a toddler, I nevertheless had this image in my head of my kid mimicing me and doing the "eye-dance" with me, looking left when I looked left, right when I looked right.
Tears.
Example #3:
I'm in the elevator yesterday at some parking garage downtown heading back to my car after a couple appointments and for some reason, I just looked down, as if I was looking at a face that was approximately 24 inches above the floor. A toddler's face.
Tears.
This one I REALLY had to reign in quickly, since there were other people in the elevator. So I got all gym-teacher on myself: "SHIPKIN! HOLD IT TOGETHER, YOU PANSY! GIVE ME FOUR COUNT BURPIES! READY?!? ONE! TWO! THREE!..." Well, not exactly. But you get the idea.
So if I start crying for no apparent reason in front of you, I apologize. Yell at me, address me solely by my last name, and I'll snap out of it immediately.
I am not the kind of person who thinks that a woman is this emotionally-inebriated bitty who has to be calmed and corraled by the strong, silent, sensible hand of her man. BUT...since my wife is the one with the hormonal typhoon in her veins and with the anxiety of having to actually expel something living out of her body, I consider it my responsibilty to at least be the less-insane one in the house. She has many, many reasons to act crazy. Me? Not as many.
I'm losing the battle here, though.
I can literally start crying at the drop of a hat. Add a couple beers to this equation and here come the water works. I'm not upset. I am beside myself with happiness. I have never felt anything like what I have been feeling for the last couple of weeks with respect to the baby. I'm just so EMOTIONAL. It's really disorienting.
Example #1:
A friend of ours got us a big bag of baby stuff as a present for announcing the pregnancy, which she gave to us New Year's Eve. Of course, we forgot the stuff at the party, and didn't get the bag until just a week or so ago. The bag was just sitting in the office / litterbox / future nursery and since I hadn't really inspected it at all I dug around in there. The main item is this fairly large (at least it would be to a baby) stuffed dog, sweetly holding a blue fleece blanket. When you squeeze the dog, it "barks." (Sort of. It's really more of a honk, but it's still really cute.) So I squeezed it. It honk-barked. I squeezed it again. Another honk-bark. And then: tears. Why? Because I'M INSANE. Mind you, I'm not sobbing uncontrollably or anything, nor am I'm crying for very long. 10 seconds, tops. But it's still happening.
Example #2:
I'm in the car driving downtown to meet a client or something for work a week or so ago and I'm listening to this Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings song, "Natural Born Lover." There's this really funky part in the song and I was kind of "eye-dancing" to it: looking to the left, then to the right, back to the left, etc., as the music changes. Given that a song called "Natural Born Lover" may not be appropriate for a toddler, I nevertheless had this image in my head of my kid mimicing me and doing the "eye-dance" with me, looking left when I looked left, right when I looked right.
Tears.
Example #3:
I'm in the elevator yesterday at some parking garage downtown heading back to my car after a couple appointments and for some reason, I just looked down, as if I was looking at a face that was approximately 24 inches above the floor. A toddler's face.
Tears.
This one I REALLY had to reign in quickly, since there were other people in the elevator. So I got all gym-teacher on myself: "SHIPKIN! HOLD IT TOGETHER, YOU PANSY! GIVE ME FOUR COUNT BURPIES! READY?!? ONE! TWO! THREE!..." Well, not exactly. But you get the idea.
So if I start crying for no apparent reason in front of you, I apologize. Yell at me, address me solely by my last name, and I'll snap out of it immediately.
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