Apocalypse… Now?
Posted on: May 12, 2011
(Editor’s note: We aim to entertain, amuse, frighten, and offend. The blue font means you’re about to read something borderline insane… By Duke. Got that glimmerheads? Duke blogs in blue.)
“I don’t know how many of you people believe in astrology… Yeah, that’s right. That’s right baby. I am a sagittarius… the most philosophical of all the signs… But anyway, I don’t believe in it. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, myself. But I’ll tell you this, man, I’ll tell you this… I don’t know what’s gonna happen, man, but I wanna have my kicks before the whole shit house goes up in flames…”
-Jim Morrison
He was the Lizard King – the great prince of cosmic philosophy and mystic wisdom. I’m just the chameleon trying to blend in – the kid with my head down in the back of class, hoping the cruel sadist of a teacher won’t call me up to the chalkboard. But having my kicks has always been a top priority in life, especially now that I know the shit house goes up in flames in just a few days… WHAT?!
Pull a little closer, because it’s about to get real… Harold Camping, a ministry leader and retired civil engineer from Oakland, CA, has decisively calculated the date of The End based on prophecies from the Book of Revelations, and claims that “beyond a shadow of a doubt, May 21 will be the date of the Rapture and the day of judgment.” Ho-ly shit. TIME, NPR, Huffington Post, and even ABC News are running with this story like it’s the birth of Mariah’s twins! After all, what does the media love more than celebrity offspring? Right – death, destruction, and mayhem – ratings, baby! Now, as a sinner and total non-Christian, I admit that this “Rapture” is a new concept to me. So I did some googling, as any young man does when he’s searching for God… and came across the official website for the End of Days, www.wecanknow.com (pronounced “we can know, dot com”). Go ahead, check it out, I’ll wait…
Back? So, 9 days from today, approximately 200 million good little boys and girls will magically ascend into heaven, leaving the rest of us miscreants to suffer wars, plagues, fire and brimstone here on Earth until the end of the world… which will take place on October 21st (looks like there really won’t be a basketball season next year). But wait, hasn’t almost every generation believed it would be the one to see the apocalypse? I mean, every time the tribulations of mankind become seemingly insurmountable, isn’t there someone standing on a soapbox crying that the end is near? Are things so bad these days? I know the economy sucks, and we’re still in Afghanistan even though Bin Laden is dead, but come on – in 1914 the whole world went to war. Then in 1929 the stock market crashed so hard they named the shanty towns built on broken dreams of investors after a poor schmuck who wasn’t even a year into his presidency (Hoovervilles, you don’t have to look it up). THEN, in 1939, the world went back to war… AGAIN! Man, that would have been a pretty climactic way for the Almighty to draw the curtains – He is one for showmanship and pageantry, let’s be honest.
“But Duke,” you exclaim, “nobody has ever mathematically predicted the end of the world based on the actual word of God!” Oh no? Harold Camping (yup, same guy) originally predicted that the Rapture would occur on September 6th, 1994. Hmm… well… human error can get the best of anyone, so he went back to the drawing board with his Bible and his calculator until finally he grew a media empire large enough to spread his doomsday message. Err… I mean, until he got the date right. His “non-profit” broadcasting company, Family Radio, currently has a net worth of $122 million which is used to control radio and television stations across the globe. The man has a following, so you may want to check if your surgeon really thinks you’ll need more than a few months to live before you go under the knife anytime soon.
My real problem with this whole notion of a fully calculated doomsday… is that he came up with the algorithm based on numbers he assigned, out of his ass, to occurrences referenced in a fairy tale. Yes, I said it, fairy tale. Religion is fine, faith is great, belief keeps hope alive – I’m totally with you, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. But, like all fairy tales, they were written by human beings as a means of convincing children and simpletons that there are rewards for being a good person, and consequences for being a bad one. You know, because being a good person for the sole purpose of doing the right thing just isn’t enough. People need incentives, which was especially true thousands of years ago when it wasn’t common knowledge that murder, rape, theft, and dishonesty are counterproductive to societal advancement. I do believe in God in the sense that there’s some force tending the light at the end of the tunnel. I do not believe He’s ever written a book – men wrote those books to control the behavior of brutes and barbarians, and they’ve served that purpose well – not counting the wars that have been fought over their claims.
It’s almost comical the responses some of these back peddling yokels come up with to cover their bases. MSNBC spoke to one of Camping’s followers from North Carolina who claimed, “If May 21 passes and I’m still here, that means I wasn’t saved. Does that mean God’s word is inaccurate or untrue? Not at all.” Alright, fair enough, if you’re still here then you weren’t saved. But the assertion still stands that 200 million people, or roughly three percent of the world’s population, will ascend to the Pearly Gates. So, if there isn’t an astronomical hike in the number of missing persons, and nobody is seen floating into the sky by the 22nd, then can we agree God’s word is inaccurate? How about when we’re still around to celebrate Halloween? Do we get a public apology? Will Family Radio sell off its assets and give $122 million to science, or better yet… the poor? Shit, I probably have a better shot at 4 foot 10 inch White Jesus coming down from the heavens and choosing me as the first person to join him in the kingdom of glory and uneventfulness. Say your prayers, kids. I’ll stay behind for the five month blowout orgy before we all meet again in Hell.
The Game
Posted on: May 10, 2011
I’ve started playing a few new games at work that are revolutionizing my 8 committed hours to the office. You have to understand, I work in the epitome of corporate, at the assumed “bottom of the totem pole”, titled CEO’s slave. It’s a daily lottery of which farm animal my duties will most resemble or which exec decides to skip their therapist for the night and just hang around my desk, complaining about compensation, as if I’m making more than a PE teacher in Wichita. Finding ways to entertain myself is difficult, especially when the “soul” count is at a very depressing bare minimum and diminishing with every broken copier complaint. Staying sane becomes the pinnacle of importance and most difficult of tasks, especially when it’s expense report day and not one executive is expecting less than your monthly salary in a single report.
First, I say “good morning” and “how are you” to every single person I pass on the way to my desk. Seriously- Every. Single. Person. This game would be irrelevant if its sole intent was to learn more about the people I work with- of which I promise to have no interest. Seriously. I have my clique here, my inner circle of “normals” if you will, and have no interest in further friending from “how are you”. It’s just too dangerous to stray. The last thing I need to hear at 8:30am and before my first cup of coffee is how you stayed up until 2am cleaning your daughter’s throw up from witnessing your son’s explosive diarrhea. What’s your problem asshole? Why would I ever want to know that you were knee deep in kid shit a mere 6 hours ago? Don’t you know that I can tell the last time you washed your hair, and it wasn’t yesterday; what about those fecal hands? I’m not interested in breeding and you’re only further scarring me from the thought. I’m simply buying time, folks, not friends. Sometimes, people get out on the right side of the bed and acknowledge your existence then respond with their go-to of the day, usually the weather (corporate lives for weather conversations, especially in elevators. It’s a phenomenon I have yet to understand, but is on my list to conquer before I send out my “FUCK THIS PLACE, YOU SHMUCKS” mass email.) Most times, a trusty head nod or half grin to symbolize lack of ability to communicate well with others, but still appreciated in my book.
Now, you should know that my desk sits at the end of a green mile-esque hall (electric death chair and all), right in front of our trusty CEO’s lair. The location of my desk, and the number of people I pass by in the morning, enables me to spend a solid 27 working minutes before I even press the button to turn on the worlds slowest computer. I’d hate to pull out Charlie Sheen’s last and only form of compensation; but in my book, by 9am, I’m already winning.
If you’re interested in a real time cruncher, try the water game. Every 18 minutes (more or less depending on who signs your paycheck), get up and get yourself a cup of water. You deserve it. Take the long way, of course. Not only are you hydrating that numb corporate body, you’ll also be making a new, wonderful, anonymous, full of games friend: the corporate bathroom stalls. You see, if you’re drinking three cups of water every hour, your bladder has no other option than being holed up in the handicap stall (it’s spacious. There’s a handle bar and a place to put your purse, coffee, laptop…whatever. I feel no guilt in fully appreciating one of the minimal luxuries offered to the handi-CAPABLE. Besides, I’ve yet to see anyone on the third floor wheeling their ass in here. Equal opportunity employer? I think not.) The benefits are countless; a healthier lifestyle, a little exercise, and of course the few minutes of quiet meditation before bossman throws a fit over the temperature of his coffee.
Another game I suggest, nay, implore you to try is modestly titled the paper clip chain. I know it sounds slightly above a preschooler’s level of competency, but it’s a wonderful mind occupier. You’re on an hour long phone call with AT&T regarding the Iphone you DIDN’T drop in the toilet? Make a chain. You were just asked to make 20 copies of a 200 page presentation due in two hours? Grab yourself a chair by that copy machine and make a chain. See, it’s not the chain that’s entertaining, it’s the “after chain”. These chains will give you minor gratification while assembling, but it’s when you hear the “What the FUCK” from the copy machine at 3pm and realize the eighty clip chain you worked on earlier that morning has been found that really gets your endorphins running. haHA sir! Those paper clips aren’t gonna separate themselves! This game is also an awesome way to see who’s the new scumbag that takes things off your desk while you’re away. You see, having to detach ONE paper clip from a chain of FIFTY takes time. This isn’t an easy process and only the most skilled of assistants can unchain a paper clip swiftly. So, while I’m casually walking back to my death lair after my tenth cup of water before 11am, you’re still untangling my paper clips, and 9 times out of 10 I will catch you. And then I’m allowed to assume you’re the asshole not shutting the supply room door, or the prick that leaves his dirty forks in the break room sink for some maid (read: me) to clean, or the shithead that “forgot” to refill the paper after making one thousand copies of your MLB fantasy league. That’s just how it is folks. I didn’t create the game; I’m just the MVP.
Glimmer Talk
Posted on: April 27, 2011
Are five days enough to let the heat cool off from the Spike Lee/Tyler Perry black-on-blacker race wars? Speaking of which, I think that bitch Madea snuck into my dresser drawer and replaced all my ties and dress socks with panty hose and a do-it-yourself home weave kit! Hey, if the mumu fits… no no, fuck that shit, I’ll keep my day job, thanks very much. It may be hectic and thankless, but it’s dignified – sort of. Anyway enough about transgendered millionaires, here’s a bitch-fit about you and me…
Look, I get it. You’re busy at work. I’m busy too. I work for one of the biggest defense contractors on the planet. The team I work with, the shit we do – it represents roughly 9 billion dollars in potential revenue. So trust me, I am fucking busy. But, I also have needs. I get lonely in this tiny office with no windows. Our understaffed team is made up of a tough skinned little old lady and two over-the-hill programmers. While they are all friendly and great to work with, they couldn’t understand me on a personal level if their pensions depended on it. Alright, I’ll be honest, I’m one of those people who needs constant communication with someone… ANYONE… but preferably someone who cares enough to reciprocate my attention. So when I’m not training stubborn financial experts, testing software modifications, troubleshooting user issues, answering calls and emails, or working one of the many side projects that totally aren’t in my job description – I like to reach out and touch who ever is available, digitally I mean. I’m talking about my only medium of sanity between the 8 to 5 hours, gchat. If you’re on it, if I see your name on a daily basis, chances are I’ve asked what you’re wearing at least a few times. And if you’re cool, you’ve probably lied and described something far more interesting than the bland corporate costume you bedrudgingly threw on that morning. Maybe it’s kind of sad, but that’s the best entertainment I get all day.
People are different, though. We all have different schedules, responsibilities and distractions swirling around our heads. We have diverse needs and communication abilities as well. So it’s no surprise that there are so many various types of gchatters. How many, you ask? Did I take the time to categorize them and compile a list one day while stuck on a teleconference that really had nothing to do with me? Maybe I did. And maybe now you have something to read as you multitask between facebooking and pretending to give a shit about your job…
The Ghost – I IMed you three hours ago and you still haven’t responded, even though your status never went idle (yeah, I noticed, that’s what it’s there for). Do you have me on the pay-no-mind list? Did you die at your desk and your twitching rigormortis-stricken hand just keeps moving the mouse to fool your friends into thinking you’re still alive? I know, I know, you’re furiously firing off emails and other such banalities that are paramount to your career. Seriously though, everyone has a few a minutes in their to day to say hi to a friend and see how they’re doing. In some cultures, that’s how they show they care.
The Brick Wall – Hi. OK. You? Yeah. Oh. Cool… I don’t think talking to one of these ice boxes even qualifies as a conversation. I don’t know a lot of people who are completely bereft of personality – but maybe being at work just sucks it right out of you. Perhaps you’re really quite interesting and have fascinating stories and opinions in real life, but you’re just illiterate or can’t type well. No no, I understand. You’re busy. If you don’t even have the time to formulate full sentences or share a complete thought, maybe you should cut the bullshit and go handle your business. I don’t want to tell you how to be a better slave or anything, it’s just an idea.
The Cliffhanger – You could be the greatest storyteller ever, if you could just finish a god damn story. You escaped from the whore house brawl, stole the cop car, chased by thugs, you jumped from the speeding vehicle, hid in the bushes, then suddenly…. Ten minutes go by, twenty minutes, your name turns idle, you get logged off… What happened? Did the thugs catch you as you were finishing that sentence? No warning, no “hey, I’ll be right back, sorry.” I don’t hear from you again for two days and when I finally do, you don’t even have the decency to finish the story! In the meantime, I broke three office chairs from hanging on the edge of them for so long. It’s not just the stories, either. It happens during just about every conversation we have online. They never end, you just disappear as if we weren’t even talking. Imagine if we were having a discussion in person, and right as you were about to make a point, I turned around and walked away…
The Emo Queen – God, life is SO hard, isn’t it? Shit, I pat myself on the back just for getting out of bed in the morning. But once I’m caffeinated and showered, I lose the morose attitude and brighten up quite a bit. After all, it’s just life – no big deal. Then I get an IM that goes something like, “Kill me pleeaaaase, my mom said my green shirt is uglyyyyy. I want to dieeee.” Wow. Relax, sweetheart. Don’t kill yourself just because your mom is a shallow bitch and you have no taste… my mom points out that I’m losing my hair all the time. You want to know why I’m losing it? Because of her. That’s no reason to cry. Check my wrists – no scars, Ma! So get over yourself, throw a sweater over that tragedy, and make your mom happy for a change. Try doing it with a smile – it’s easier than you’re making it.
Tracy- The Perfect Gchatter (she put me up to it, I swear) – How am I? Well besides choking on my tea from disbelief, I’m great! Thanks for taking the time to ask. Oh and you have an interesting anecdote, follow up commentary, and a warm, positive outlook? Holy cow, it’s almost like there’s a human being on the other end of this electric window! Perfect gchatter, I know your name isn’t always Tracy, but I am always happy to hear from you. Hell I might even stop what I was doing just to say I miss you and make plans to hang out. Then, when all that show of emotion is done, we’ll actually bid each other farewell before getting back to the insanity of corporate life. I’ll do it with a smile on my face, because my day has just been MADE – you can bet your sweet ass on that.
I could go on for days, I’m sure. But in the interest of time and space, I’ll wrap this up. Let’s be real, nobody is perfect. We’re all different. I’m guilty of being all those characters at some point or another (and so is Tracy, but don’t tell her I said so). My only goal here is to poke fun and make people aware of how they come across when they’re click clacking with their buddies. Next time you’re escaping the monotony of your work day, just remember that’s a real live person you’re talking to – probably a friend. So act like it. lol. omg. asl? gtfohwts.
Back to life…
Posted on: April 22, 2011
Ya…
So…
Apparently, when you don’t write something for 20+ days, people go ape shit crazy, start questioning your morals and integrity (jokes on them!), and lose any glimmer of hope in the definition of “commitment.” I get it. I do. I’m the asshole. I told you wonderful people that I would be posting on a regular basis, and I’ve slightly dropped the ball in keeping you entertained. Ok, ok….OK! I beyond dropped the ball. I slashed the ball with a machete, doused it in gasoline, and threw it in my bbq at Coachella (I mean, you can’t eat raw hamburgers…) With the explanation always comes the excuse, and boy do I have a good one: life. Life, you say? Yes. Believe it or not, I have a life. People actually enjoy my presence from time to time and really, who am I to judge them. It’s a phenomenon I have yet to fully understand, but in the last 20+ days, I have been busy fully embracing life. And life, well…life punched me in the face with a cold, gave me a 103 temperature, hacking cough, and snot faucet nose. Thanks, life. Really.
And, with that……I’m following up the last, slightly too awesome post with one about Tyler Perry (there go our 4 readers, Duke, sorry…).
AND WHAT? I was in the gifted class throughout 8th grade. We were elite. We always beat those regular kids in spelling bees (I’d specifically call myself out on those wins, but with last weekend’s conversation with my elementary school teacher, apparently I didn’t win first place in 5th OR 6th. At the time of hearing this, my world entirely slightly fell apart. But, talking about it makes it ok, or something? I didn’t need to win every spelling bee. My future children will still like me. Right? Whatevs- the regular kids didn’t even place. I have enough room in my purse to hold that grudge. You know, not EVERY child makes it into that program.) I can wow your mind-holes with a post on Tyler Fucking Perry.
I can admit to not knowing enough about Tyler Perry to flagrantly judge him; but judge I will. There’s more than enough judging to go around in this blog, and why not judge Emmitt Perry Jr?
Wait. Who?
Yep. Emmitt Perry Jr is in fact Tyler fucking Perry.
And where do we go when searching for understanding, knowledge, or random facts on Chernobyl? Wikipedia, of course. And WHAT a Wikipedia HE has! Tyler’s early life is too incredibly emotional and somber for me to discuss, and even had me contemplating switching topics. Nobody enjoys a rant on some guy with a sordid history; but, like any good writer/actor/porn star: the show must go on.
I have one nine hundred burning questions in my mind: At what point did America collectively say “We need more movies about men in dresses”? At what point did we think to need not one sequel or two about a man wearing a dress and acting like some form of grandmother/dear abby/every neighbor you hate, but SEVEN sequels?? At what point were we dumbed down enough to pay $10+ to see a character scream “hallalujER”? I’ll admit to never seeing anything Madea related, but how did Mr. Perry become one of the highest paid directors of our time….all while looking like this:
and this:
Now, I am ALL about making money (mainly because my bank laughs at my bi-weekly direct deposit and I’m contemplating ebay-ing my mexican turtle collection to fill my gas tank for the month (it’s a REALLY good collection)), but one has to question what lengths one will go through to obtain such paychecks, all while keeping some shred of dignity intact. Sure, Mr. Perry is a self made gazillionaire- but I can’t help to pity the stereotypes he perpetuates to attain it. And now for some IMDB love:
At long last, Madea returns to the big screen in TYLER PERRY’S MADEA GOES TO JAIL. This time America’s favorite irreverent, pistol-packin’ grandmomma is raising hell behind bars and lobbying for her freedom…Hallelujer!
After a high-speed freeway chase puts Madea (TYLER PERRY) in front of the judge, her reprieve is short-lived as anger management issues get the best of her and land her in jail. A gleeful Joe (TYLER PERRY) couldn’t be happier at Madea’s misfortune. But Madea’s eccentric family members the Browns (DAVID and TAMALA MANN) rally behind her, lending their special “country” brand of support.
Meanwhile, Assistant District Attorney Joshua Hardaway (DEREK LUKE) is on the fast track to career success. But Hardaway lands a case too personal to handle – defending young prostitute and former drug addict Candace Washington (KEISHA KNIGHT PULLIAM) – and asks his fiancée and fellow ADA Linda Holmes (ION OVERMAN) to fill in on his behalf. When Candace ends up in jail, Madea befriends the young woman, protecting her in a “motherly” way as only Madea can.
Really. High speed freeway chases. Prostitutes. What exactly is “country” brand of support? Is that better or worse than good ol fashion…support?
Isn’t anyone mad about this? Is it just me, the bored little white girl who has a problem with blockbuster movies titled “Madea Goes to Jail” and “I Can Do Bad All By Myself” and…..Oh god. I just got racial. Stop the presses. Everyone breathe for a minute- we’re gonna get through this together. Look, Spike Lee is on my team:
“”Each artist should be allowed to pursue their artistic endeavors, but I still think there is a lot of stuff out today that is coonery and buffoonery. I know it’s making a lot of money and breaking records, but we can do better … I see these two ads for these two shows (“Meet The Browns”,”House of Payne”) …. and I am scratching my head,” he said. “We got a black president, and we going back to Mantan Moreland and Sleep ‘n’ Eat?”
I’m almost positive Spike feels the same way about Mr. Martin Lawrence. Remember that guy? Remember Def Comedy Jams, Martin, or Bad Boys? HUMOR! ENTERTAINMENT! Well, “Daaaamn Gina” is now running around in a dress and a fat suit and who do we have to thank for that? No…not Will Smith- Would we ever catch him in Women In Black? (The answer is no- stop thinking about it) This is entirely Tyler Emmitt Perry’s fault.
Ultimately Tyler, you are doing bad all by yourself (see what I did there!) You have the money and power, you know the right people and you’ve made your name in the industry; so maybe it’s time to stop dumbing us down and maybe we should start questioning your actual writing abilities. See, with this somewhat new found success and status as Oprah’s bff, I expect more out of you. If and when you decide to make a movie that doesn’t involve glamorizing every negative stereotype ever created; I may change my opinion on your wasted talents. Until then, and I’ll use your words: “Put the shut to the up, okay?”
Glimmer, On The Rocks
Posted on: March 31, 2011
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.)
Chase. This.
Posted on: March 23, 2011
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.
Camp Kill
Posted on: March 9, 2011
If one defines the word “survive” as “still breathing”; then yes, I survived boot camp. Barely. Let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?
On that fateful Wednesday afternoon, I saw a shadowy grey cloud loom over the San Fernando Valley and thought to myself, “Self. It’s going to rain. You are in the clear.” To further support my notion that an exercise class would never force its poor, fat students to stand out in the cold rain as they threw medicine balls to each other, I gave the boot camp a call.
The phone rings, and a burley sounding man answers, with (I shit you not) patriotic band music in the backround. I cringe.
“Hi……..(long, awkward pause), is this Feel the Burn Boot camp?” –me
“Why yes it is! Are you registered for our class tonight?” –burley man
“Well, yes. But it’s my first class and I was just curious if you still hold classes in the rain? I mean, it’s very cold outside and with the rain, I’m afraid I’ll catch some kind of pneumonia!” –me
“Rain or shine sweetie; just like the coupon says.” –burley man
“Oh. Ok. Well, but what if it starts raining really hard?” –me
“Rain or shine lady.” –burley man
“Right. Hmm… well…What about snow?” –me
“Lady, were you even alive the last time it snowed in Los Angeles?” –burley man
“Do you mean last weekend in the foothills, or in 1989? And my answer is yes to both.” – me
“What’s your name?” –burley man
“Tracy? Why?”-me
“Well, I will see you in two hours, Tracy.” –burley man
(fuck.)
*sigh*
(super fuck.)
And thank God for that rain.
Remember my pretty sweat issue? Well, when you’re covered in mud and grass, tree branches and leaves hitting your head, heavy rainfall and surrounded by beached whales, my now fairly reasonably attractive sweat wasn’t even noticeable. In fact, at one point I mentioned to one of the whales that I couldn’t tell if I was sweating, crying, or if all this “wet” was my soul escaping my body, which resulted in a few laughs. At that point, Sgt Burley Man picked up on my comedy routine, called me out by name and promptly asked yelled at me to do jumping jack/push up combos. I rolled my eyes, of course, and fell flat into the mud and in push up position. You better believe I was getting every single penny out of this horrible “work out”.
As I watched a few of the whales wander off from the “too brutal” work out (it was fucking ridiculous and I have no idea how I even mustered the idea or energy to get out of my car, let alone complete the class), my integrity kicked in…or something like that. I told myself: “Self, you are not allowed to leave. If you leave, you will become a beached whale. Nobody likes a beached whale.” So I stayed. And my body still hurts. A week later. Maybe it was from the medicine ball sprint throw? Maybe it was from leap frog with your hands tied together with weights? We’ll probably never know seeing as I’d rather push needles into my own eyes instead of attending that god awful class again.
And I now see nothing wrong with beached whales. People help beached whales, right? Maybe they just wanted to lay in the sun for a bit? What’s wrong with that??
PS- What ever happened to Missy Elliot?
Editor’s note: I cannot emphasize how mad I was at myself for even blogging about this, which then forced me to actually attend the class, in complete fear that my 4 readers would verbally and then physically attack me for fabricating such an exquisite piece of writing. But, I showed up. And, well, as we can see, it took a mere 7 days to compile my thoughts, let alone have the actual ability to type one post. You win again, Groupon.
Call Courtney
Posted on: March 2, 2011
I lost my legs somewhere in the valley.
Sweat, baby
Posted on: March 2, 2011
My mom would consider my fitness routine to mirror that of a sloth. Or Paula Dean, “TWO sticks of butter, ya’ll!!” (thanks mom) But really, who am I to argue? Sloths are cute (SO CUTE) and I love butter. I live for butter. Butter makes the world better. I’m not entirely adverse to burning a calorie or two, in fact I sometimes even enjoy it (all fabrications, I fucking hate it.) The worst part for me though- the sweating. You know that scene in Along Came Polly, where Ben Stiller is playing basketball with a bunch of overgrown MANimals, and poor little Ben is stuck covering the sweatiest, moley-ist, downright grossest man on the team? Oh, right. This guy-
Well, that’s how I feel every time I try and burn a calorie. No, not like poor Ben Stiller, but more like The Moley man in all his shirtless, sweaty glory. That’s me…without the moles. That’s my problem. I don’t sweat pretty and it affects my life to no end. I have friends who work out in their makeup. I have friends who wear ONLY sports bras when they jog. I have friends who leave the gym and then go see their boyfriends, only to further infuriate me for not having pit stains, red face or wet sweat hair. I don’t entirely hate them with their pretty sweat; I just hate my genes.
Well mom, guess who got bored doing spreadsheets and splurged on yet another Groupon? This girl. And take an even wilder guess at who will be attending “Feel the Burn Boot Camp” tonight at 6pm.? *sighs*
This girl.
And of course, gchat to the rescue:
Duke: Nice. So what does this boot camp involve?
me: an hour of hardcore something something that i bought on groupon
guaranteed to burn 1700 calories
is that safe?
isn’t that my daily intake?
*assumed
Duke: Yeah in order to lose weight you should be burning more than your daily intake
me: well i get that
but not in ONE HOUR LONG CLASS
Duke: Lol there’s a lot of exercises that burn ridiculous calories like that
me: i again agree
but not in ONE HOUR
Duke: Lol I’m sure it’s not dangerous for a 26 year old with no heart conditions or asthma
me: that smokes a pack and gram a day
and eats little to nothing before 4pm
Duke: Yeah you might want to eat something today
Skinny bitch
me: FINE! I’ll eat some egg beaters
which strangely remind me of wife beaters
which then turns me to wanting to beat someone up
with a hammer
Duke: And off you go, trolling the corporate hallways for wimpy kids and scared accountants to rough up and shake down for loose change and paperclips…
So, here I am with an urge to hurt people and burn calories. I’m hoping for women over 220 lbs (duh, so I can look AWESOME), little to no military back rounds or fatigues, and rain….so that the class will be canceled.
Clearly, I’m also hoping to live through this experience and repost tomorrow. And if that doesn’t happen, please call Courtney and ask her to delete my porn and emails.
To be continued……we hope….
The Things I Don’t Do
Posted on: February 25, 2011
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.
1.
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.
“NO”.
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.
Hold the Glimmer 