Hold the Glimmer

Archive for the ‘Because I Care’ Category

   Here at HTG (Hold the Glimmer…see how I did that…we already have an abbreviation!!!), we have an interest in keeping you entertained, maybe even mildly amused.  While there has yet to be and most likely never will be a rhyme or reason to any of this blogosphere madness, we are genuinely interested in making this site a worthwhile click in your day.  In the last few weeks, we’ve realized there may be more than 4 regular readers, and while that’s close to the most awesome thing I’ve ever experienced, it also scares the shit out of me for two reasons: 1.You may actually enjoy the site, meaning I have to follow through with commitments and write, and 2. Well…ok..so there is only one reason.  But, I’m a people pleaser.  Do you see how well this relationship is working out already?  We have every intention of keeping this site awesome, and welcome any and all feedback, comments, knock knock jokes, even a little inspiration at holdtheglimmer@gmail.com, not to mention- we’re on that twitter thing @holdtheglimmer! And with that, Hold the Glimmer has the distinguished honor to introduce you to one of the finest degenerates Los Angeles has to offer, my good friend and HTG’s new feature writer, Duke.  Hold your applause, please.


     It seems like every great author started off composing stories about drunken struggling writers – themselves.  Hemmingway, Bukowski, Thompson – drunk, drunker, and druggie – all started out writing about how lost in the world they were as failed journalists and story tellers.  No wonder I identify with these degenerates so well… as a drunken struggler, I also fancy myself a writer, or at least someone with the gift of linguistic artistry.  But a writer without a topic is like a painter without a picture in his head or a naked muse on his couch – he’s just another alcoholic.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s no shortage of subject matter on which to pontificate these days…  Our political discourse is crumbling.  Our international relations are falling apart.  Our heroes are dead or making GAP commercials.  The prospect of finding true love in our society is about as real as Charlie Sheen’s respect for women.  And, it seems like the Earth is trying to swallow us whole after years of getting raped and abused by the big dick of industrialization.  Jesus H. W. Christmas, are you as depressed as I am yet?  No wonder there’s nothing to write about – every time I try to put a pen to a paper I have to go searching for a tissue!  I start off thinking to myself, “tonight I’ll have a drink and do some writing.”  Then a drink turns into four or five… I watch the news for some inspiration… lose all hope; take an ambien and go to sleep. 

 Then, one morning, a dear friend asks me to write a piece for her blog.  No problem, right?  Well half a day’s work goes by (the day goes by, not the work, it’s still there) and it finally occurs to me!  I bitch about not writing because I don’t have the inspiration.  So, I’ll start where my drunken forefathers started – with the struggle.  See, the only real difference between someone striving to write (me), and a normal person, is that a normal person doesn’t feel the need to make excuses or hate himself for not writing.  In the last year, I’ve written as much as this cup of tea I’m drinking.  That kills me inside, because I know I have the ability.  I look at the world around me and note some astute observations, but just as soon as I think I have a grasp on some concept, my point alludes me and I’m back to staring at three dots at the end of a sentence…

That’s when you search the bottom of your scotch glass for a quick tangent.  Speaking of which, The Flintstones WAS Liz Taylor’s last movie (or as far as I’ve seen, her only movie).

My favorite part of telling people I’m a writer though (fuck you, don’t judge me – sometimes you have to lie to be interesting) is when they ask me, “What do you write?”  I usually say children’s books about drug safety and proper usage of profanity.  Then when they settle their feigned outrage, I admit that I just scribble philosophical musings and fiery political rants on the back of cocktail napkins and TPS Reports.  Hey, I may not have a strong audience, but right now it’s more about keeping sane than about getting published. 

I guess it’s not so much that I’m a writer, at this point I most certainly am not.  I’m more like an observer of life and the world.  Sometimes those observations amount to lengthy pieces I aspire to turn into articles and books… and other times they sum up to a twelve word status update that nobody comments on (assholes).  The point, if there was one, is that – no matter what keeps you up at night, be it lack of creativity or the presence of strong drink – we all start out with the struggle.  And this is where mine begins…


(Glimmer- held.)

I’ve spent the last 79 minutes trying to figure out how to deposit a check via Iphone.  I’m positive you just read that and thought “oh right, 79 minutes…more like 3.”  If that’s the case, you clearly don’t know me well enough.  “Trivial details” are my middle names, followed closely by “obsessive” and “compulsive.” When I say 79 minutes, I mean 79 minutes.  Or, I’m under exaggerating as to not be assumed even more psycho than usual.

It’s not that I’m stupid or technologically inept, it’s that my bank (rhymes with face, race, pace, lace, mace…) has a problem with advertising.  Have you seen the commercial where the perfect bride and groom are snuggled up in their post coital plushy expensive bed, looking over their new found wealth through marriage and debating how they’re going to get the millions of thoughtless wedding presents (read: checks) into their bank accounts before they whisk away to Bali, only to realize their bank now offers easy snap shot deposits with same day account approval? They pull the sheets closer and take a picture of one check, most likely valued at $17 (sheets tell all about a person), giggle and smile at each other as if they just stole a paraplegic kids popsicle (“he can’t catch us!!!!”), flagrantly throw the check off their love den bed, and repeat process again.

Well, I wasn’t entirely anticipating that outcome for a few reasons; mainly because I’m not married nor anywhere close to it, I would never smile so deviously as to assume hurt on a paraplegic, and I have really nice sheets.  But, I was definitely anticipating ease and this process has been far from it.

The easiest of tasks is to take a picture, right? WRONG….and here we go again with the false advertising.  Remember that beautiful wedded couple taking pictures in bed of their checks (not a porno…not a porno…)?  Well, the instructions clearly state the check must be flattened and gently placed on a dark surface, as to prevent any color issues when capturing the image.  HOW DID THEY DO IT?! I took 23 different pictures with different dark backrounds WHILE standing up (as instructed to do…because for some reason taking a picture of a check on an oak desk while standing as opposed to seated has a drastic impact on said uncapturable image ((…callin your bluff Chasey…)) yet all THEY had to do was lay back in bed and snap away!?!?  Needless to say, it took 24 pictures and one approval.  So easy Chase, so so easy….

—-Can I just switch topics for a minute here?

I thought Elizabeth Taylor died after The Flintstones movie? Haven’t we been mourning for years?

—–And we’re back…

So, the 24th attempt at said picture was “approved”, but with the ominous warning of “Cannot display amount on check, please enter manually.”  Personally, I’m under the impression that approved means approved.  Approved means “all things good”.  Approved means “this is correct and ok”.  Approved does NOT mean “this kinda works, but this kinda doesn’t.”

So, like any normal sheep, I follow directions and enter the amount only to be told “the amount does not match.”  Well HOW THE FUCK COULD IT IF YOU JUST TOLD ME YOU CANNOT DISPLAY AMOUNT. I AM HELPING YOU AND GIVING YOU THE AMOUNT.  What kind of technology is this?!  You’re forcing me to wait in line with those people just to deposit a check? Ya, well, I don’t stoop to those levels, Chase.  I don’t stoop.

Guess what I just found out?  You can get panic attacks from writing experiences and I’m officially doomed as a writer. Happy Wednesday.

I’m a person of interests, as my therapist would say. I’m rational. I enjoy having an assumption of how my day will begin and end.  I love knowing at 8am what I will be eating for dinner (duh..I’ll sacrifice a breakfast burrito for taco night ANY DAY.) I get excited picking out my outfit for the next day, selfishly knowing I will receive an additional 9 minutes of crucial sleep in the morning.  I’ve been fascinated by recent current events and have compiled a list for all 4 of you, my wonderful readers.  Grab a chair, maybe some vodka, and enjoy the things I do not do.

1. Charter a boat anywhere near East Africa.

Listen.  God speaks to me too.  I am friends with God.  God tells me all kinds of things every day- “Maybe you really don’t need another cup of coffee”, “Try and not flip off every driver you’ve deemed a horrible freeway merger”, “That cheese dip for your soft pretzel isn’t necessarily intended as a shooter.  Yes, I understand the design of the cheese cup fits perfectly to your lips, but have some restraint and maybe a little class.”

See? God and I get down. He’s a good guy really, just drastically misunderstood with all those tsunamis and earthquakes and such.  Here’s where I get confused.  I have yet to recall a time where God told me he really needed my help in Somalia.  God’s got a lot on his plate and I am positive Somalia isn’t even on this year’s menu.  Maybe our relationship isn’t one of pointing fingers on whom and how to fix things, but I think God and I are both very aware of two things: do NOT build a house near any kind of levee and do NOT go to Somalia.  You will die. 

 I have compassion- I swear I do (hello, GOD AND I SPEAK), but I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would willingly go near a country known for maritime warfare.  Scratch that.  Maritime warfare is (slightly) dignified.  These are pirates.  PIRATES.  Have you recently researched the actual term “pirate”?  Well good god, do NOT google it yourself because there are far too many sites related to AWESOME pirate names and costumes.  But because I care, I found this for all of you:

pi·rate n.


a. One who robs at sea or plunders the land from the sea without commission from a sovereign nation.

b. A ship used for this purpose.

2. One who preys on others; a plunderer.

HELLO WORLD- ONE WHO ROBS at SEA, One who PREYS on others, a PLUNDERER?!?!?  Next.

Now, if Johnny Depp were an actual pirate who trolled the seas, you bet your ass I would be on the first red-flagged “catch me pirates” dingy out.  Alas, only a Disney movie….like most of my dreams.

2.  Travel to and report from a protest in a country where women are treated worse than dogs

Sounds simple, right?  Well, apparently I am wrong.  Anyone who willingly goes to a country known for STONING PEOPLE TO DEATH AFTER THEY ARE RAPED should have some idea what they are getting in to.  Any blonde haired, blue eyed beauty reporting (hahahah…reporting) from a country of above mentioned civil unrest should have a slight notion that she will be tousled around a bit in my book.  Again, there is compassion. There is always compassion for…self inflicted victims. Kinda.  My bosses make me do all kinds of crazy shit, which I happily lazily agree to do solely because of that meager paycheck.  That paycheck makes my frivolous world go round.  Here’s the difference-

“Hey, you’re gorgeous and we need you to cover the protest in Egypt, so that the American viewers back home have something to look at as they watch those crazy Ay-rabs.” – bossman.

 “No” –me. 

That’s all. 

That is all it takes.


Did she truly believe this was HER story and couldn’t say no to this wonderful opportunity? Did this woman honestly expect to get out of that country unscathed?  Did she really believe that waltzing in to Egypt with her new faboosh Hermes scarf draped around that pretty little head would deter MANimals from ripping her dignity (and possibly/likely loins) to shreds? 

3. Go to rural Mexico; hell- MEXICO in its entirety

 First things first- Can we all agree that Texas is just the “richer, whiter, slightly more economically and fiscally stable” north mexico?  Ok, good. Moving On. 

Mexico is good for three things: Food, cheap alcohol, and prescription drugs.  I’m almost positive I’ve been in a pharmacy that offered all three, and I’m confident that’s ok.  That was 10 years ago in the tiny resort town off the tip of the Baja Peninsula, Cabo; this is today, where cartels use acid to get rid of your body, which is after they’ve cut off your head while you’re still breathing….and then force feed it to your dismembered, but still slightly breathing friend.

 Do you know why your email is aflutter with “OFFER OF A LIFETIME!!!!!” discounts on flight, room, food, booze cruise, banana boat rides, donkey shows (it’s worse than it sounds- if that’s even possible), and all around fabricated merriment in Mexico? It’s not the economy.  It’s definitely not the exchange rate or the general cheery disposition of their sorely corrupted population.  It’s to help those 16 year old, machine gun touting mercenaries snatch up as many gringos as possible, in hopes of accruing enough of a ransom to benefit their new flourishing import/export business. Hell, even the federales and paid Mexican journalists disappear in to that same desert where they’re looking for you and your donkey interested friends. SOUNDS. AWESOME. Sign me up, and here’s my home address for fun.

Honorable mentions-

peel oranges, eat onions, filing for my boss, and reading articles on being “20-something”(I’m experiencing it.  I live it. Daily. I don’t need to constantly re-live my day to day existence in actual words on New York Times, because it’s SOOOO relevant to my life.)

….but those are far less interesting topics.


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