Hold the Glimmer

Archive for the ‘Not A Tyler Perry Post’ Category

Whatsup, Ireland? How’s it going, Ecuador? Good to see you Germany and Indonesia!  Thanks for stopping by, Alaska! (Listen, it’s practically its own country and I betcha a few Palin’s will 2nd the motion. (and in one swift sentence, there go all of our Alaskan readers, floating away on glaciers with their polar bears and igloos…TRACY, SHUT UP ALREADY.)) 

I wanted to start this post with a big shout out, thanking all of our international readers for checking out the blog!  We’re so happy to be a click in your day! Now, you are more than likely an actual friend (shock- we actually have them) reading these words, who’s left the warming embrace of political, social, and economic turmoil, also known as “The United States of America,” for greener pastures in other countries (ya, I’m talking to you, Hamburg), but you have no idea the absolutely absurd amounts of value I place upon you.  While some may believe that hounding your friends to read your eloquent words formed into barely readable sentences is hardly considered notable “hits” for a blog, I have much lower expectations (morals/values/whatever) and appreciate each and every one of you bowing down to peer pressure.  Not only have you accepted my bullying, you’re actually passing this blog around to your little commie/socialist/grass skirt wearing friends (we are an actual blog. We have stats. I know exactly who you are.  Don’t trip…I know no names, only exact locations where blog was accessed.  I kid. We’re not that creepy. I think…)

Can someone explain to me the significance of daylight savings time in 2012?  Yes, I specified 2012.  I did not ask the significance of daylight savings time in 1912, where every household had at least four working family members, a block of ice for a freezer, and a butter churner in the back yard.  Ok, maybe it wasn’t that drastic. Maybe it was?  Any time period pre- regular automobile ownership is something I will never comprehend.  I have a hard enough time watching Don Draper manually change the TV channel on Mad Men (but MAN I can TOTALLY get behind drinking scotch and smoking in the workplace..), let alone understanding the complexities of a 1912 lifestyle.  What I’m trying to get at here is that we no longer need to subscribe to the idea that farmers need more daylight, while we’re dragging ass for a few days adjusting to a time that was forced upon us. 

And what the fuck, world? Some states participate, some don’t? Some countries do, some countries don’t?  Apparently, Indonesia sat down last year and said “meh, we don’t want to do daylight savings time this year…” What? How? Who declared this and why can’t we vote on it in California? And, really, what kind of ass-backwards state do WE live in requiring more daylight and fewer homos?  SWITCH THAT UP PLEASE.

PS- Do you know how incredibly depressing it is watching the sunrise on your morning commute and then watching the sunset during your afternoon drive home?  (Don’t get me started on new traffic congestion because people are now blinded by the rays on the drive home.  Buy some sunglasses, flip your mirror down; we’ll all get through this together.)  Although my office is awesome, it’s still INDOORS.  It’s like the world is telling me “HAHA! How much would you have enjoyed THIS today?!?”

-Tangent- It’s an incredibly sobering feeling when you realize you can no longer online date for lack of quality men.  Listen, I’m not searching for the finest cut filet mignon.  Although I love filet mignon, I would choose a New York (unless you’re buying, because HELLO- New York cut is ten times more flavorful without that bougie filet price tag…).  Ya, I’m using steak as an analogy for online dating.  You understood it, so stop judging me (and if you didn’t, brush up on your beef knowledge before messaging me on facebook again.  You’ll have even more potential to become my actual friend. Need even more of a backstory? Go here:http://wp.me/pHfRF-3m ) Almost every single person I’ve met online has been a complete opposite of what their elaborate profile described to me.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve met a few (very, very, VERY FEW) genuine guys from this whole experience, but not enough to make me believe that you’re not all a bunch of liars.  A couple tips, guys: 

  • Don’t send me a picture from 2008, hell anything earlier than August 2011.  I don’t care that you seemed to be the “man” in a picture with a sombrero and 30 stacked solo cups in Cabo.  It’s Cabo.  My parents have the same exact pictures, in the same exact bar, at their time share.  I’m sure it was an awesome trip, and you just love the way your skin glows, but you’re 40 lbs heavier in real life and balding.  Fortunately, you’re still moderately attractive in real life, but how can I not judge someone creating this “I’m wealthy with a full head of hair and ripped abs” persona online, who shows up at a bar in Tevas with a gut. 
  • We’re in LA, not the Colorado outback. Get rid of your Tevas.
  • I’m sure your bff4LYFE is this super hot chick that you drooled over in high school, only to become besties over facebook in college after being rejected too many times.  That’s awesome, really.  Maybe refrain from putting every single picture of the two of you on your profile?  I promise there is little to no competition, but I want to know you’re not looking for a third in the bedroom as I peruse your digital problems.
  • It’s weird emphasizing your mom is your best friend.  My mom is my best “mom” friend, but my best friend is my best friend, not my mom.  My parents are awesome and we’re super close, but (and they’ll remind you..) they’re not my friends.  They are my parents.  They have friends that are a lot cooler than some “20 something chick” they created that drunken, hazy night in the 80’s.  True story- At 10 years old, I tried “running away” after an argument  and in the midst of searching for my favorite stuffed animal (totally necessary)my Dad swooped into my room, packed my bag, walked me downstairs, opened the front door, ushered me out of the house and said “Best of luck! Call me when you find a family better than this one!”  Real bonding moment with Dad there… As excited as I am in wow-ing your folks with my…charm…I have little to no interest in shopping for lingerie with your Mom or calling her to gossip about orgasm articles in Cosmo.  You should feel the same way.

 My bigger problem is figuring out where one goes once realizing online dating just won’t work.  Do I join an anonymous help group? Is there some kind of “singles only” farm we get shipped off to?  Speaking of farms…..I was going through some old photo albums a while ago and found a picture of our first family dog, Samantha. 

“Aww, Mom! Look! Samantha! She was so sweet to me…” –me

“Ya, until she tried to attack your brother when we first brought him home from the hospital.” –mom

“Um…What?” –me

“Your brother was sleeping on your lap and Samantha was insanely jealous.  She jumped onto the couch and almost bit his face off. We had to put her down after that.” –mom

“EXCUSE ME?!” –me

“Honey, how many times do we have to go over this?  She also attacked the neighbors, the neighbor’s kids; she was an old, aggressive beast.  There was no other option.” –Mom

(my face goes blank. My jaw drops to an almost unhinged level.)

“Mom. Wait. Are you fucking kidding me right now?” –me

“Oh, come on. What’s wrong now?” –Mom

“MOM. YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU AND DAD TOOK HER TO A FAMILY THAT HAD A FARM OUTSIDE OF SAN DIEGO WHERE SHE COULD RUN AROUND AND HAVE MORE DOGS TO PLAY WITH!!!!!!” –me

“Oh, you believed that?” –Mom

“WHAT WAS MY OTHER OPTION, MOM?!?!? I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU NEVER TOLD ME AND LET ME LIVE THIS LIE FOR TWENTY YEARS?!?!?” –me

Don’t get me started on the story of my second best friend and pet fish- Bubbles.  I’m still fuming.

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He awoke from the haze of a six month hangover on March the 8th, in this foul year of our lord 2012…

Shit.  It’s Thursday.  I’m stuck in a box with no windows.  And somewhere outside this dim closet the sun is shining on people who’ve probably made far better life choices than myself – or yourselves, for that matter.  Because if you had any brains you’d be out there enjoying the day too, instead of slaving away for time off you’ll never get to take.

Let’s stop right there before I take you to the dark place too early.  Explanations will not be administered for where I’ve been and why I haven’t written.  Those of you who know me understand that I tend to disappear for hours, days, months at a time.  If you don’t know me… well, you’re starting to get the picture.  Our inconsistent rapport will eventually lead you to the conclusion that I’m the trainwreck cousin who shows up at Thanksgiving with a different look and new trashy girlfriend every year, only to rail against an establishment I never quite challenged head-on, then leaves sloppy drunk and doesn’t call again until Christmas – to tell you things have changed and I’ll be doing missionary work in Liberia through spring.

There I go rambling again.  The point I was trying to make is that Whitney Houston was a terrific singer, and it’s a fucking tragedy what happened.  Whitney, and Amy Whinehouse, and Lindsay Lohan… what? Oh Lindsay’s still alive?  She can’t sing, either?  Sigh… where have all the talented drug addicts gone?  I wonder if heaven’s got a coke dealer…

Alright let’s reel this thing in, because I haven’t even started yet, I don’t think.  So let’s focus on the substance.  The real reason I haven’t written, besides the lack of motivation, time, or thoughts worthy of wasting paper/webspace – is that nobody reads anymore.  Sure, you read the headlines that NPR posts on facebook.  But when was the last time you finished the article?  No, you’re into the internet memes about what your parents think you do and what you really do (spoiler: your parents think you do nothing that matters, you actually do nothing that matters).  You’re checking out the gif of some kitty falling off a table, or the latest youtube video about Shit Douchebags Say (something  something something FAG! something something let’s get some PUSSY!).  And if you  feel the itch to make a difference in the world, update your status to what color bra you’re wearing to fight against breast cancer, or grow out your chest hair to show solidarity with Greek austerity.  But you’re certainly too busy being interesting to care about what anyone really has to say, or what’s actually going on around you.  You’re too fucking busy being an armchair activist.  Maybe you’re sitting there saying “well what the hell have you ever done to make a difference?”  “Not a mother flippin’ thing,” I reply.  And even if I had (which I have), I wouldn’t tell you – because I’d rather entertain you with my sins, and hedge them privately with good deeds, like putting strippers through college.

All you have to do, to change the fucking world, is watch this goddamn video, and share it with 13 people, or else Kony is going to steal your grandmother in the night and make her a Ugandan prostitute. Isn’t this just a sophisticated version of the old chain emails from myspace?  Facefuck has become an amazing place, where information is shared and movements have taken shape.  But I hate to burst your bubble, awareness is not a movement.  Cures, solutions, revolutions, they don’t come about because you’re aware of the problem.  If people sat around at work and sent each other videos of kids dying from Staph infection – we’d still be waiting for someone to invent penicillin.  Hitler didn’t burn in a bunker because of viral internet memes making fun of his Michael Jordan mustache and love for killing Jews.  And, as powerful as twitter is, it still couldn’t stop Ahmadinejad from stealing another election and throwing anyone who protested in jail.  So keep updating your statuses to complain about gas prices – just don’t forget who’s slapping economic sanctions on who next time you’re at the pump.  Hashtag just sayin…

Oh, hi.  Come here often?

Shall we just get all of the apologies and excuses out of the way?  I can’t possibly write another exquisite piece knowing all 2 (yes, we lost 2 of you) of our readers would rather stab themselves with dull, diseased envelope openers than see me have the gall to actually blog/write/rant/complain again.  In fact, after discussing blog topics with a few trusty friends, I have a pretty strong feeling you’ll all hate me in less than 8 minutes and 2000 words, so who really cares? We move along.

I’ve missed you HTG! To say that I’ve been going through A LOT in the last few months is a major understatement and disservice to my life, but apparently some higher up form decided I paid enough dues in real-estate hell to earn a position at my DREAM COMPANY.  I’m sure you all remember Duke’s fabulous announcement a few posts back, congratulating my meager crawl across a now noted plateau in my career history, but this is different. This is major.   In fear of divulging too much and the very real possibilities of actually losing said job because of said blog, I will try and remain as anonymous about it as possible- but you should know I’m pretty important now (not like you thought differently before…), and I welcome any and all forms of flattery and bribery. 

In addition to my new title of “severely important”, I’m also officially a commuter!!  I’ve been in some form of working world since I was 16 and never had to drive more than 20 miles to any job.  For a few years there, my commute was 13 miles round trip.  I know. I was lucky…and incredibly ungrateful.  On a good day (and leaving before 7am…gross…), I’m faced with 40 minutes of concrete, commentary (thank you always, Howard Stern), and cars.  On a bad day, it’s 2 hours of planning how quickly I can get out of my car on a moving freeway to gently tap on someone’s window and ask how they became such a shitty driver in a city that doesn’t walk.  As horrible as it seems, I truly do find a sense of peace thinking there’s a “we’re all in this together” hidden attitude in each and every car on that freeway.   I’ll stop being positive now; my friends say it’s ruining our relationships.

With all this new found time to….be by myself….I’ve started having some profound conversations…with myself.  Please note- I’m really not interested in your idea or definition of profound.  This is my blog after all.

  •  If we commuters could all collectively agree to drive a minimum of 40 mph on the freeway between the hours of 7am-9am and 5pm-7pm, we’d all be far less disgruntled and I’d imagine additionally having a generally happier demeanor.  What’s most disturbing is that I would assume 75% of drivers on the freeway at those given times are every day users (I mean, only an idiot or tourist would get on an LA freeway before 9am for fun…which is describing pretty much all of LA. Fuck.), which means they have an already decided on ramp and off ramp.  Can we all just start pinky swearing to stay in our lanes til appx 2 miles from our exit?  Also- sorry trucks, but you’re out of this equation entirely.  You are awesome and ohsonecessary for too many reasons to list, but you’re officially not allowed on that freeway between those times either.  I can’t tell you how many trucks I’ve been stuck behind IN THE FAST LANE at 8am.  No. mas. Profound- right.
  • I’m going to start the campaign to turn the 101 into a toll road.  I’m positive this will come off as elitist, but this is what happens when you’re stuck in a car for 15 hours a week.  Not only will the city benefit from the major influx of funds from said toll, our “thriving” public transportation will pick up and actually become of use to this city.  Mass transportation seems to work in every other city besides our own, so why not try to make ours, at the very least, half as good as San Francisco’s (pipe dreams….).  Additionally- fewer cars on the freeway, fewer accidents, fewer carbon emissions, less of a need to punch people in the face every time they ask where you commute from…
  • Stereotypes are true.  Take that statement as you will.
  • The lack of windows on a car/truck/van is directly related to the amount of whistles I receive.  Apparently, I give off the “PLEASE do me in your creepy vehicle immediately” vibe.  Still working on that one… (ps- I really just need to know if that has ever worked.  Please, someone just chime in and let me know if you have ever whistled at a girl and she walked over to your car and banged you.  I just, I need closure and to know this actually works for me to understand the whistling phenomenon.)
  • Speaking of banging, can we just get over Chris Brown being the worst human being alive already? I GET IT. He beat our favorite princess up. He’s already the spokesperson for those needing anger management courses, must we hate him forever (for ev ev ever, for ev ev ever…had to, sorry..)???  Sean Penn laid a few fingers on Madonna and his box office sales didn’t fall- hell he’s friends with Venezuela now (ok maybe this isn’t good).  What about Bobby and Whitney (bad example again, Tracy)???  He beat the crap out of Whitney, but New Edition still tours, so I’d assume we got over it.  Or the infamous Ike and Tina?  Ike died revered as one of the best producers of all time and he beat the absolute SHIT out of Tina FOR YEARS!  And lest we forget Mrs. Hilary Clinton.  Yep, good ol Hil use to beat up Bill.  We never really questioned who wore the pants in that relationship, but clearly- we got over it.  Can we all just agree that Chris is kind of a douchebag that makes records I really want to dance to?

Told ya you’d hate me..

Dear, sweet, beautiful readers… I’ve missed you.  I hope you all had a great summer staring longingly out of your office windows at the birds chirping in the sunlit trees.  My office doesn’t have windows.  And the door is locked from the outside.  But that’s neither here nor there.  I truly missed you.  I tried to just have fun and not think about the wonderful times we’ve spent together – but, in the end, I just couldn’t stay away.  I care too much about your entertainment, and have far too many thoughts to leave them rotting in my own head.  So much has happened in the world since we last spoke.  Michael Jackson’s drug dealer, Dr. Murray, went on trial; Charlie Sheen got roasted like a crack rock in Amy Whinehouse’s apartment; Georgia put an innocent man to death and let a guilty man go free (guess which one wasn’t White);  Sarah Palin fucked an NBA player and her husband’s business partner (guess which one wasn’t White); protests on Wall Street have been going on for three weeks now (but American news only caught wind of it about two weeks after foreign journalists broke the story – whaaat a country); and of course Tracy got a new job!  Congrats on your success and happiness, dear friend!
 
The topic for discussion today, however, is politics… dun dun duuuunnnnn.  Can you feel that weird energy in the air?  We don’t know what the problem is, who the culprit is, how to solve it, why it happened, or to which country we should emigrate.  All we know is, Americans are not happy – and it’s the dark fella’s fault.  We’ve been tread on by new taxes (false), new government run health insurance (false) – new mandates to confiscate all firearms, force abortions, and subsidize flamboyantly gay roommates for everyone (false, false and false).  But never mind all that – it doesn’t matter what is true or false anymore because real hardworking Americans (wink wink) have decided they’re going to take their country back – so you better nail down the furniture, board up the windows and brace yourselves.
 
If you haven’t seen any of the Republican primary debates, let me paint a picture for you – it’s like watching 8 used car salesmen auction off the General Lee to a group of recently paroled hate-criminals.  In other words, it’s a fucking hootenanny.  The candidates, while terrifying in their own right, have been scrambling to match intensity with the frenzied audience of psychotics and sociopaths who clearly smell impure African blood in the water – and I’m not talking about Herman Cain, the most out of place Black guy since Token from South Park.  Herman Cain is an ex pizza boy; the former CEO of Godfather’s – probably the worst cardboard excuse for pizza available on the market.  He made the company profitable by closing over half its locations – so he’s obviously qualified to create jobs during these tough economic times.  Now I could tell you he’s a mathematician, master of computer science, syndicated columnist and former ballistics engineer for the US Navy – but that would be neither funny nor entertaining… And although Mr. Cain is probably the candidate least likely to earn a reality TV spin-off – he’s still crazy enough to say out loud, in front of cameras, that Planned Parenthood was created to “help kill Black babies,” and that communities should have the right to ban mosques.  Furthermore, he’s proposing to somehow balance the budget by only charging 9 (NEIN NEIN NEIN) percent across the board on personal/corporate/sales taxes.  Look people, I know nobody wants to pay taxes, but that’s how our government funds things like roads, bridges, schools, law enforcement, national security, disaster relief, social services, et cetera, et cetera.  Despite the masses in the streets crying bloody murder over the possibility of the highest of the high class getting taxed at 39% instead of 35% (which will certainly usher in a new era of communism), back in the fabled 1950’s (“when the streets were safe” and bathrooms were segregated) the top bracket was taxed 70%.  Yeah, you read that right – rich people, err I mean job creators, were paying SEVENTY PERCENT of their income in taxes and STILL living like royalty. 
 
Enough of the sane and sober Herman Cain, you won’t be hearing much about him in the coming months anyway.  Let’s pick on someone a little more fun – like the esteemed governor of Texas.  James Richard “Rick” Perry is the guy George W. calls up when he needs someone to beat at checkers.  He was a real crowd pleaser at the debates when roars and cheers boomed from yahoos upon the declaration that his great state had murdered, I mean executed over 230 prisoners under his watch – mentally handicapped and women included!  Hot damn, now that’s something he can feel proud of while relaxing at his favorite retreat, Niggerhead Hunting Camp.  And, much like Dubya, Perry too was a male cheerleader with a distaste for academia in college; who also happens to think our nations problems can be solved through prayer, instead of, you know – science and stuff.  Are you ready for a story?  This year the lone star state suffered through a terrible drought.  In early April, about 15% of the state was under extreme duress from lack of rain – and wildfires had slowly begun to spread.  Governor Perry, knowing it was time for a leader to spring into action, did the most logical thing – he held a statewide prayer-a-thon, dubbed “Days of Prayer for Rain in the State of Texas” from April 22-24.  So all the good citizens took the weekend off from lassoing cattle and shooting beer cans, to hunker down and ask Jesus to send water from the sky to nourish their crops and stop the fires.  But God, angered by the insufficient amount of cross burnings, turned His back on His faithful servants until nearly 80% of the state was charred and dried like a tasty hunk of jerky.  Though I suppose Rick can’t be blamed for the Almighty’s negligence, it does beg the question – is God reliable enough to be called upon when President Perry takes office? 
 
Speaking of reliable negligence – Michele Bachmann.  Did you laugh just then?  I did.  I wonder how far she could fit a corn dog in her mouth…  
 
 
Oh Lord.  Tracy… I just… I can’t… I… alright, fuck it.  So here’s Michele Bachmann gagging on a huge dong, I mean dog.  How’s that for Presidential?  Looks like she learned the skill from her husband, Marcus (right) – who, by the way, is totally not gay, and totally doesn’t run a camp for psychologically converting homosexuals.  They’re just good people on a mission from God to teach children that evolution is an unfounded theory, and everyone in the world came from one couple, sharing the same genes – which is why it’s OK to marry your sister.  She’s against educational programs like the International Baccalaureate because they don’t expressly recognize Christianity’s superiority over all other religions.  But, this isn’t about Christian bashing – don’t let me make this a religious issue.  Michele is so much more than a socially conservative fundamentalist – she’s also openly stupid, or at least assumes we are.  This is a woman who, upon hearing China’s suggestion in 2009 that the world should stop using the Dollar as its reserve currency – immediately claimed the Obama administration was trying to force Americans to use the Yen, and proposed a resolution to bar the dollar from being replaced by foreign currency.  Seriously.  She even attacked Rick Perry on probably the only logical piece of policy he ever saw through – the mandatory free vaccination of women for the Human Papillomavirus, which if left untreated could turn into cervical cancer (God’s way of punishing fornicators – fuck, I went religious again).  Bachmann is firmly rooted in the belief that the President of the United States of America, as well as many members of Congress, are secretly anti-American – and the media should embark on an in-depth exposé on just how many of these public officials actually hate our country.  As much as I would love to dismiss her as just another Sarah Palin/Christine O’Donnell idiot yokel with a snowball’s chance in hell at the presidency – that would be naive.  The woman has a law degree from Oral Roberts (teehee), a masters of law from William and Mary, and is a serious political junkie.  She’s been an advocate from a young age, and even pounded the pavement for Jimmy Carter back in the 70s; yet lays into President Obama by comparing him to the “socialist” Carter.  She was a tax attorney for the IRS, yet is somehow completely against taxes.  Must be hard talking out of both sides when your mouth’s full!  So who is Michele Bachmann and what’s really going on behind that crazy evangelical scheming blank stare of hers?  Keep crying about “Obamacare” and you might just have the displeasure of finding out…
 
 This one is for all my libertarian freedom-from-government friends who have been blinded by the smoke and mirrors of Ron Paul’s hypocrisy.  Nevermind the fact that he won’t get anywhere close to winning this election.  Forget that he is absolutely a conspiracy theorist and probably batshit crazy (almost as much as his idiot son, Rand Paul).  Yes – the Fed is bad.  They have fucked us.  Yes we need to get out of Iraq and Afghanistan.  And yes, medical marijuana should be decriminalized.  Now that we got that out of the way – how about this… Ron Paul is against a woman’s right to choose.  He thinks his religious beliefs regarding when life begins should give the government the right to ban abortion.  He made a huge splash at the GOP debates when he was asked if an uninsured man who slipped into a coma should be treated.  Doctor Paul’s response, “What he should do is whatever he wants to do and assume responsibility for himself.  That’s what freedom is all about, taking your own risk.” Right, pull yourself up by the bootstraps, you fucking vegetable.  No handouts!  Atlas Shrugged!  Zig Heil!  Sorry, I got ahead of myself there… but when pressed on whether he thought this person should die, the crowd – again hungry for blood – screamed “YEAH!”  Holy shit people!  What fucking country do I live in?  I don’t know how you can claim to be, or aspire to be, the greatest nation on Earth if you’re completely against the idea that everybody, no matter the circumstance, should at least have the right to medical treatment.  I get that the government isn’t a charity, but maybe it’s my crazy liberal upbringing that makes me believe that as the overseer of this massive state, it should at least provide the basic services that aren’t supposed to turn a profit.  Libertarians like to hang their hat on the idea that we don’t need government; that private businesses and non-profit organizations can take care of everything.  They won’t.  They do not.  Private businesses beget greed and turn simple services into dollar signs.  Non-profit organizations can hardly stand on their own two feet most of the time.  But the government – which is not some foreign entity, it’s us – people, much like yourselves – could provide those services if we just allowed them.  Instead, you clamor for them to raise your kids for you, tell you what you shouldn’t do with your body, and decide which country we should be meddling with this week.  Freedom from government when it suits my fucking purpose is more like it.
 
 Are you starting to feel my frustration here?  Let me abandon this form and just shoot you straight.  There’s a lot of complaining going on out there about how ineffective Barack Obama has been.  It’s been a tooth and nail battle, and his opposition has played power politics every step of the way.  So do not, for one second, think this is the best that could have been done.  But also don’t be fooled – it could have been way, way, way waaaaaay worse.  You could have Mitt “buy nearly bankrupt companies, fire 90% of the labor force and sell for profit” Romney.  You might get Newt “blow me in the parking lot while my wife is in chemotherapy”  Gingrich.  Or, God forbid, Rick “reinstate Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” Santorum.  It’s a bleak pack out there, and the rest of the also-rans aren’t even worth mentioning.  I can tell you this much though – no candidate in the running has absolutely any plan of moving this country forward.  The only resolution being suggested (in about 9 different flavors) is to roll back the progress we’ve made, and stick to the original status quo of letting the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.  I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be let down by someone who shares my sense of social and financial justice, than proper fucked by someone who couldn’t care less about anyone making less than seven figures.  So check your bank account before making your final decision – because there is 1 guy who isn’t working for the best interest of millionaires, and a hungry fucking pack of hyenas who are.  We’ve got 13 months until the Presidential election, and now is the time to get over all disappointments and disillusionment.  As hard as it is to sell “not as bad as it could have been” you really have to realize how bad it almost was.  Word around the rumor mill is that Sarah Palin (even after everything) is quietly looking to throw her mama grizzly hat into the ring, so look forward to more fiery political rants in this space [note: as of right now, 4pm 10/3/11 Palin announced she will not be running – but that won’t derail the Fear Party Express or our countinued coverage].  Till next time.  Vote responsibly.

Why hello there, glimmerheads! It’s been a hot minute (week, month, whatever) since we’ve spoken, but how are you?  Me? I’m alive! Believe it or not, I held the glimmer long enough to not buy a gun and “go corporate” and instead got a new job!  (Pause for gasp, shock, sigh, and breathe….)

Now, said new job is still within the same company, but at the absolute very least, I’m no longer responsible for spoon feeding or physically wiping my bosses’ asses.  I no longer have to scrub coffee out of the poor, tantrum ridden carpets!  No more verbal abuse over the phone as bossman blames me for his chauffer’s poor driving skills in Omaha! I survived hell! Can you believe it?!  I now have actual responsibilities, and yes, that scares me closer to death than I need to be, but ultimately a pretty goddamn rewarding drive home, full of reflections of daily accomplishments and accolades.  Who would have guessed how far a simple “you’re awesome” or “thank you” really goes?  My new job makes me feel needed, wanted, appreciated- basically how any normal human being should feel.  This may explain my lack of posting, but after switching to this new position and thanks to multiple comments from coworkers, I realized I was on suicide watch for the last three years.  Apparently, once you start smiling again, people get weirded out by the lack of somber attitude, and wonder what’s really wrong.  I’ve been elated to inform them, my absolutely freaked out parents, and all of you that I’m actually HAPPY! 

Ahhhh fuck. 

This blog is sooo gonna die soon.

Nope, I will not let it.

There are so many other aspects of life in which holding the glimmer is absolutely crucial.  I’d tell you the recent events of a gorgeously long legged pedestrian (ya, that’s actually me, all five foot five of me) crossing the street and getting hit by a drunk driver AFTER said drunk driver had already hit a car and was trying to flee the scene around 3am in Hollywood, but I still have anxiety and leg spasms, so why not dive into where holding the glimmer is most needed- my love life.

Here is my declaration: I’m officially an on-line dater. Go find me. I don’t care.  I just told you I’m online dating; do you think my integrity, morals, or values really matter anymore?  Actually, are you mildly attractive with a steady income, little to no emotional or personal issues that need fixing (ie: mom/dad issues, past major drug problems, abandonment anything…)and need a date?  Needle in a haystack I say, but hey, maybe you’re out there!  Blog dating is still online dating, right?  Duke, I think I’m on to something here…

Online dating, you are a beast of many colors.  After a slightly too long “off and on” relationship, I decided I was interested in feeling actual worth again and with little to no interest in wading  through the pudding-like consistency of a  bar scene to find my next beau, signed myself up for some good ol internet fun (don’t you dare define fun, ok?) And fun I found!

After completing the unnecessarily arduous profile, I sat back and relaxed, hoping Mr. Right (now?) would show up in my inbox.  Roughly 39 seconds later, I received this: (please note, every single name below HAS been changed (kinda), in fear of repercussions and, well, I slightly feel bad for them…)(Ok. Maybe some haven’t. Sue me.)

___________________________________________________________

Ikeepawordforyoualways:

Gorgeus Halo my beautiful.  I am in study to become doctor at UCLA. GO BRUINS! Wanna meet to talk to me possible today ? Ciao

____________________________________________________________

Ok. Who the fuck is in charge of admissions at UCLA, because this person either needs to be fired, or sue the shit out of Ikeepawordforyoualways for slandering such an institution. 

____________________________________________________________

Justthetip:

Wanna cuddle?

____________________________________________________________

Right. Let’s cuddle.  Is this before or after you saw my legs off with a dull machete and carve out my arms then spoon feed me my toes with my own (now detached) hand?  (Let’s be real honest. Screen name Justthetip- hilarious. Do I want to cuddle?  I don’t even remember what it’s like to cuddle, let alone if I even know HOW to cuddle, but you bet your ass I want to.  Unfortunately, I have to trust my instincts and anyone willing to be that forward in a “first impressions” kind of world gives me the heebee jeeb’s.)

After countless “let’s bang” or “will u marrie me plz” emails, I thought I found gold when I struck up a convo with a seemingly literate and attractive man.  After a few email exchanges, we decided on meeting for drinks.  I mean, what could go wrong over drinks?

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing went wrong.  There was good conversation, he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we shared some similar stories, parted ways with phone numbers and decided to meet up for dinner a week later.  Easy enough, right?

The day of date, he suggested Hamburger Hamlet (let it be known- this restaurant was AWESOME…. in 1972.  It was a celebrity hot spot, dark and intimate, couldn’t get a table for hours.  This place is now an elderly melting pot, tables always available, a sad old hostess and a menu full of tasteless “creations” with a Rockefeller like price tag.) I cringed inside and thought to myself, “with all the awesome restaurants in Los Angeles, of all places to ever choose, of any restaurant that serves to the under 80 crowd, WHY THIS PLACE?”  It wasn’t fair to judge, so I kept my first instinct quiet and decided to make the best of the decision and show up. 

I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar about 10 minutes before anticipated date and ordered a Jack and Coke.  As I’m waking my senses with whiskey, and realizing my date is now 10 minutes late, in walks M (that’s what we’re calling him. Just go with it.), wearing a zip up hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and with ear buds still in ear, because who could stand to walk in to a restaurant without music, right?  Kill me.

We say hi, give an awkward hello hug and he comments, “Oh, you’ve already started?” 

Well OF COURSE I’ve already started drinking.  I hope my eyes didn’t roll back too far into my head when making eye contact, because I promise they would have if I were fully sober.

“Excuse me, bartender? Can I get a screwdriver?” –M

A Screwdriver. Really. A. Screw. Driver.  A screwdriver? Are your parents in Laughlin for the weekend? Are we in your mom’s garage playing beerpong and listening to Blink182? Is this your first time consuming alcohol? Honestly, think of the last time you ordered a screwdriver from a bartender, waiter, hostess, whomever.  I’m sure it won’t take too long for you to think about because you NEVER HAVE.  Screwdrivers are for children who don’t drink.  Screwdrivers are in lieu of Mimosa availability. 

Sigh. Just go with it Tracy, just fucking go with it.

We get a table and start trying to form a conversation, but I’ve never sat next to a man who’s ordered a screwdriver, so I’m a little off myself.  The waiter comes by and asks if we need more drinks and I order another Jack and Coke and M orders a Corona.  Yes, a Corona.  Because, what better beer would you want to quench your thirst while sitting at a restaurant that charges $50 a person minimum. I was under the impression that Corona’s were reserved as a “pool” beer, a “beach” beer, maybe an “on sale at a great price” beer, but never have I thought Corona’s were an “order at a restaurant” beer.  Maybe it’s just me.

After being informed of M’s lack of interest in shell fish because it “tastes weird”, we are ready to order.  As a connoisseur of the soup, I ordered the lobster bisque with a half chicken sandwich.  Probably not my best order, and damn those garlic fries looked good, but I was on a date.  One must be aware on a date. 

“I’ll have the 12oz angus rib eye.” –M

“How would you like that prepared?” -waiter

“Well done, of course.” –M

woah.

Excuse me.  I said excuse me.  Are you joking?  Are you fucking kidding me right now, sir? Did you honestly just order a well done steak, and then further emphasize how well done you enjoy your steak with an “of course”?! Of course you enjoy the taste of footwear for dinner?  Of course you’re cooking off a campfire in Uganda?

The waiter awkwardly walks away, and M goes right back in to full conversation.

“WOAAAAHHHH woah woah woah.  Hold on a second.  We need to assess something here.  You’re from Chicago and you just ordered a well done steak?” –me

“Ya, I don’t really like raw meat.” –M

“Oh of course, I mean, who eats raw meat.?  But a well done steak?  You should have just ordered a hamburger, or we could have gone to 7-11 and gotten you some beef jerky.  Medium? Medium rare? Both non-raw options that give you full flavor of the steak.  That just seems like such a waste of perfectly wonderful meat.” –me

“It’s just how I’ve always had it.  That’s not going to change.” –M

“Well ok, I uhhmm, I have to go to the bathroom……” –me

I take out my phone and text Courtney- “he ordered a well done steak.”

“I’ll call you in 5. Get out of there immediately.”

And I did.  I pulled the “my friend needs me and I have to go” card.  Of course I felt guilty, but I couldn’t sit with this man and watch him attempt to cut that poor piece of meat, knife grinding into the gristled, tasteless product.

Maybe I’m that girl.  Maybe all I could think of was introducing this specimen to my father at a dinner table and he orders a well done steak, with repercussions of us both getting verbally berated by the man for wasting meat, money, and time.  Maybe this makes me sound like the biggest bitch of the west coast, but what else would I discover from a man who orders….screwdrivers…and eats leather? I’m just not willing to take that chance. I may be single, but I’m not desperate.  

So yes, justthetip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.

Ahh the sweet taste of recovery.  Anyone who had the unfortunate displeasure of talking to me yesterday knows it was an all day marathon hangover here at Duke’s desk.  I had a pretty wild Tuesday night in Hollywood… watching Gustavo Dudamel drop BOMBS on The Bowl while conducting Mozart.  Weren’t expecting that one were you?  Well we like to keep you on your toes here at HTG, so I switched venues to something a little less dangerous and traded in the UNTZ for the pleasant fluttering of flutes and cellos.  I have to say, it was a blissful experience.  Classical music isn’t something I typically go out looking for, but I’m not ashamed to say I found it… or it found me.  I won’t sit here pretending I took it seriously the entire time – because I spent the first few minutes scanning the orchestra for Black people (just out of curiosity) – and I was disappointed, yet hardly surprised, not to find any.  However, somewhere around the second bottle of Pinot (you stay classy, glimmerface), I found myself sitting there with eyes closed just focusing on the multitude of notes filling my ears.  Albert Einstein once said that Mozart’s music sounded as if he had just stumbled upon it – like it had always existed as part of the inner beauty of the universe.  I thought of it as listening to calculus – like a brilliantly solved equation unfolding in my mind.  I mean, I never passed calculus (3 tries), but it was how I imagine a brilliantly solved equation would sound if I possessed the ability to solve one, and then turn it into music.  Moving on…
 
It’s important, I feel, to get a well rounded sampling of the stimulus available out there.  So often we limit ourselves to a certain genre of music or events – that we forget to take time to open ourselves up to the diverse plethora of pleasurable experiences.  When was the last time you went to a jazz bar and listened to the blues?  How often do you participate in wild haired drum circles?  Ever have your face melted by the metropolitan opera?  Maybe you’re just too busy posturing in line at Club Douché, waiting to pay $18 for a glass of ice with three drops of vodka in it…
 
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to shit on anybody’s idea of a good time – I did that enough last week.  If you like clubbing, if you’re really into following around that one band I probably never heard of, if you’re at Avalon every Friday night for a dose of boom boom (see you on the dancefloor, Tracy) – that’s great!  Have at it.  I’m just saying, be open to switching it up a little, because there’s a lot of interesting shit out there.  There’s plenty of fun, cool, alternative places to have a few drinks and a few laughs with good company… Festivals, wine tastings, art exhibits, comedy clubs, concerts, plays, carnivals, jazz bars, 1980’s clubs, 1780’s clubs.  No wait, seriously.  What if there was an after hours spot that played Vivaldi and only served 18th century cocktails?  Powdered wigs and tights optional, of course.  That might sound like a Renaissance fair, but I think going out should be about more than just getting sauced and looking for sex.  It should involve all the senses, and require some active thought and participation.  What about a reggae joint that’s also a medical marijuana dispensary – so you could get irie when the bomboclat rasta tells you to?  I’m just spit balling here, but If those kind of places exist, tell me – I’m there.  If not, feel free to run with these ideas or come up with your own, because the recreational landscape needs even more mind blowing fully immersible experiences.  Places where you can really get a feel for alternate perceptions, cultures, and lifestyles.  We live in the future, and although we have yet to invent a time machine, I want to walk through doors that transport me to other times and places.  I don’t want cheesy theme bars, I want to transcend.  Challenge accepted?  Good.  Go.

One would think taking some serious time off from writing would provide an opportunity for thoughts and ideas to cultivate in the mind.  One would think…
 
I can’t say with any degree of accuracy where or who I’ve been since I last disgraced the interwebs with my complaint-laden gibberish.  Hazy snapshots come to mind, but much like a conversation with my parents – I can never divulge anything more than generalities and insignificant details.  I’d like to say that I’ve grown as a person, learned about myself and the world, gained culture and wisdom and understanding; but the reality is I’ve burned off too many brain cells to have possibly gained anything more than an early onset of alzheimer’s and a lifetime ban from… well, it’s not important.
 
Lately I’ve been wondering how much is too much?  How far is too far?  At what point do we stop pushing the limits of public intoxication and weekend warriorhood?  When do we make the jump from running-into-the-stands Ron Artest to sweet charitable goofball Metta World Peace?  What the fuck does Metta even mean, anyway?  (Editors note: I’ve decided that Metta is my new favorite word and officially a new glimmer game.  See how many times you can use that word in a day; via email, casual conversation with your boss, to the girl crying in the bathroom stall next door…you get the picture. Game on!)
 
Maybe I was supposed to cut the shit after college, but it has only gotten worse – or better, depending on your perspective.  These days I have money to party in ways I always wanted when I was a broke student living on spaghetti and Italian dressing.  Now, every year feels like a competition to outdo last year, and the result is always the same – I’m the big winner.  The best is yet to come, which is both exciting and frightening, because as I keep surpassing myself – I’m almost positive that my body is losing.  It has to be.  Something has to give at some point.  It’s only a matter of time…
 
Normal people chalk up their hazy years to youthful rebellion and move onto the long boring phase of domesticity as a result of their ensuing maturity.  They get real jobs, settle down, have kids, and everything else takes a backseat to “life.”  I’ve started a career, not a star-studded one, but a career to be proud of nonetheless.  One that requires me to be a responsible upstanding adult, which I appear to be during work hours.  I’m surrounded by nice people – friendly grown folks who work hard even on their days off, pick up their kids from school, pay their mortgages, remodel their homes, and occasionally play golf or poker if they have a couple of hours free.  Nice people – fucking squares.  Did they start off that way?  God forbid.  Was it a gradual breaking of the exuberance and spirit that once had them preaching free love and Tuesday night skinny dipping?  It seems that even the ex-hipsters and night owls eventually sold out in the name of practicality and parenthood – two concepts with which I’m entirely unfamiliar.  
 
The other night I tried something completely outrageous and out-of-character.  It was despicable, unforgivable; my parents would be proud.  I stayed home, and did nothing.  Actually, I stayed in my hotel room.  I’m living at the Marina Del Rey Marriott right now, not that it matters or that you care – it’s just a detail to flesh out the story.  So, on a weekend night (it was Thursday, but I had Friday off), I sat in my hotel room, ordered room service, and watched my view of the pacific ocean with its sandy beaches and docked sailboats.  It was quiet, serene; just lovely.  I remember thinking, which is already a big deal for me… “Maybe I can do this – mellow out and step back from the edge.”  I’ve always been attracted to the locomotive lifestyle of monsters and rockstars.  All my heroes had the grit to push their limits, and as a result cranked out some incredibly profound bodies of work.  But, then again, all my heroes are either dead or in rehab.  Perhaps there’s something to this simple life of sobriety.  It seems a moment can be enjoyed without slurring obscenities over loud music, or offending patrons at late night diners.  Of course by 10pm I was absolutely bored with the view, the television, the room, the book I brought, and myself.  I hit the 8th floor for some free concierge Chivas, and the rest of the weekend was a blur from that point on…
 
Some might call that a failure in abstinence.  Clearly I’m a little off when it comes to prioritizing my free time.  My idea of fun can range anywhere between high-fiving dancing midgets to looking into the very face of God (sometimes in the same night).  In the middle of a year when I’ve lived harder than ever before, asking to stop and smell the proverbial roses is a tall order.  In all honesty, it feels like the only time I have to reflect on this hellish existence is the thirty minutes after pouring myself into my desk chair, before the calls start coming in and the meeting notices pop up for the day.  Break up the monotony of work through play – earn the right to play through work, and sleep when necessary.  Sounds great, but every system or schedule heads toward chaos.  A wrench in the machine, or a week or two off the grid might be just the necessary break it takes to perpetuate the craziness and keep the plates spinning in the air.  Hah, a week or two… I could barely stand four hours.  Like any exercise though, one can’t just max out right off the bat.  You build up.  So my four hours can be expanded to an entire evening, and eventually a weekend, and then a whole week.  A whole week… I can feel the neurons regenerating at the thought.  It sounds like madness comparing relaxation and sobriety to working out, but I suppose some people have to try to eat more pizza, watch more television, and remind themselves what a sunset looks like through fresh clear eyes.   
 
So I do admit, a holiday (that’s English for vacation) from the insanity is in order, but I don’t plan on slowing down permanently anytime soon.  This year will pale in comparison to next year, and that’s just how I like it.  How far is too far?  We’re not there yet.  Taking a break gives me the chance to reflect on the good times passed, and plan bigger and better ways to conquer the night.  This has nothing to do with rebellion, or having trouble appreciating myself, or running away from any deeper issues.  I know what I’m looking for – to fulfill a dream – the American Dream, the fucking Global Dream.  The dream of participating without restraint in the human condition.  To use up the body I’ve been given tasting the fruits of life all over the world.  The operative word for the unattainable here would be balance.  Personally, I don’t believe in it.  If everything is in equilibrium and you’re feeling comfortable, you’re probably sleeping too much.  At our age, only the flounders feel any consistent level of comfort.  Monsters thirst for more – not as an indulgence in gluttonous bullshit, but as a quest for the kind of experiences mere mortals only see with their eyes closed; not to repeat the same fun and games until we grow tired and give them up, but to challenge ourselves to break out of the box we live in and truly feed our souls.  When my time is up, I won’t be looking back to say I missed out by sitting on the sidelines.  What would be the point?  To live in consistent boredom until the end of time, in hopes that heaven will make up for everything that passed you by on Earth?  Sounds a little uncertain to me.  Because when I finally do settle down – it won’t be because I was too scared to find what I really wanted.  In the meantime, I’m going to test my tolerance for discomfort by taking deep breaths and experiencing some calm.  And if you see me sitting there obnoxiously tapping my feet, it’s not because I’m fiending – it’s just to remind myself the ground is still there…
 

This is my life

 

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