Archive for November, 2007
people kill my dreams »
Monday, November 19th, 2007
That’s a play on words. I hope that our country can come out of this, that we can prove to the world that we aren’t as retarded as we look. I think our future is bright and that we will see ourselves as global players instead of the loathed ignorant coach of a losing team. I even think we have the ability to lead the way into a sustainable, prosperous world-wide future. And then I walk through the grocery line and realize we’re all fucking idiots and our country is a fluke.
Why are we doomed? Because of magazines like People. It’s an example of a growing trend toward insignificant celbrocentric media that feeds the fire of our own stupidity. The popularity of magazines like this one gives any enemy we may have the confidence they need to overrun us. Any country reading this shit has to be made up of silver medalists of the Special Olympics.
Here’s the website because it gives you more insight into the mag than the print cover. Below is a screen shot of the website as of 11a this morning:
Click for full-size image
Beyonce pronounced be-ah-nce singing country is the main call out. Country is based on a four count system just like pop. The third count is different or something; i don’t do music, but has nothing to do with her singing over the fucking track. Beyonce singing country instead of pop is like me ordering a chicken sandwich instead of a burger.
In “The News Now,” we have Kidman tweaked over a car chase. The guys scaring the shit out of her probably sold the fucking photos to People afterward. And wait, what’s this? Heigl is planning her own wedding? Who the fuck cares? Kanye’s emotional breakdown wait, he’s emotional after his mother’s passing? he really is ‘just like us’…fucking idiots is mentioned three times on this page alone. The top five stories of the week are all bullshit. “Don’t miss this” is filled with things you should miss.
I could go on and on but my favorite part is at the top right. “Pop Quiz: Tom & Katie’s Married Life.” Unbelievable. Do they put this up here as a joke? I feel like taking this quiz would immediately increase my debt fifteen fold, spark a I’m-going-to-have-your-baby-no-matter-whatchu-say phone call from someone i’ve never had sex with, and transport me to some town in north-western Minnesota where there’s a post office, three bars, and an average yearly income of seven grand. Anyone taking this quiz should be logged. They should be mailed a letter informing them that they will be charged with criminal indecency and neglect if they breed.
This shit is peddled to the poor, fat, single, trailer trash of the country and bought by the middle-aged, bored, mothers. That this magazine gets purchased is a direct statement on the news media and the population’s general idiocy. It promotes a society more interested in manufactured icons than realistic events. It’s no wonder the leaders of this country ignore public opinion. From appearances, asking any of us to address a foreign relations problem is like getting financial advice from a fine art painter.
Minneapolis’ most popular local news personality is a bitchy gossip columnist. Reality television gets better ratings than creative programming. Literacy has dropped to the level of reading this shit. Most of the reporting is done by journalists who fear losing their job to industry-wide cost-cutting. Our educational system is in so many piles of pathetic that the next generation will barely be able to tie their own shoes.
That’s how I know we’re fucked. With the income distribution of a third world country, the health care system raping the sick and working poor, leadership that couldn’t win are you smarter than a fifth grader, and this magazine, our demise will be all too quick.
Let me put this out there. Anyone that can provide a rational response that argues for this magazine’s existence will get not only my apology, but ten american dollars and be treated to a drink out of my pocket. Give me something in the comments and it’s yours. I’d prefer to have met you in person, but it’s technically an open offer.
for the gifters out there »
Friday, November 16th, 2007
You, like myself, may be wondering what to buy a person in want of nothing. A person so content in his own humility, handsomeness, and greatness that he transcends materialism. Someone that scoffs in the face of corporatism and openly mocks the hippie ideal delicious contradictions. Someone who is so inundated with wealth he must burn two hundred american dollars each week to avoid pretentiousness. More importantly, what do you buy someone who’s pissed off at everyone and annoyed by everything. methinks it may be the latter more than any of the formers, but those are personal problems of mine so I can’t expect you to sympathize.
I have done all the thinking for you. I have searched my underutilized neurons and created just what you need: a list. Some refer to it as a Christmas list. I would rather it be called: things I’d buy on my own, but would rather hold off until the second week of January to give you time to prove your life of me through material donations… list. hindsight: that’s sort of long. We’ll stick with Christmas list in order to happily ignore entire swatches of our culture.
There are two actual items on the list: The first two seasons of always sunny in philadelphia priced very affordably on amazon.com and I am America (and so can you) add them both to the order and you qualify for super saver shipping; just saying. I need some headphones too, but because I’m picky and an asshole, I’ll leave that for my own purchase.
Now, my favorite part of the holidays, the gift cards. Here’s where you can pull ahead and prove you love me more than my family and Jessica Biel. this will take some effort, they’re quite devoted. shout out to j. timberlake: muchos thankos for the coverup-o. Chunks of magnetized plastic, branded with names like Cub, Landmark Theaters because occasionally I enjoy quality cinema, not just remakes of shitty 70s shows, AMC $8 for matinee? really? fucking unreal, Target, or BlockBuster, are welcome.
The best part? The amount is flexible. Say, on the off chance I’ve somehow offended you depending on how far you think back, the odds could run into a 1:1 situation; for my sake, think last couple months, you can just get me $10 at blockbuster so easy. If you’re a blood relative you may even want to give more. And if you don’t because you realize you’ve netted a terrifying financial loss since my birth, please watch the news. The failing social security, health care costs increasing exponentially, an almost certain recession see: depression, and the inevitable progression of age could turn you around.
In this season of reds and greens and the gluttonous purchasing of others’ affection especially children who still think some white-haired, obesity clinic regular can shimmy down their non-existent chimney—those dumb bastards, no one’s love is more for sale than mine. I’ll give you my word on that. In fact, as long as you’re not in one of those mainstream cults like scientology, mormonism, and christianity, blind devotion can be had for the right price.
But remember, purchasing anything on november 23 will give you a yet unnamed disease. It effects every system of the body. Skin will stretch and wrinkle. Memories will fade and your mind will dull. Day to day functions, like bathing, dressing, toileting and eating will become arduous. Fat deposits will grow, mobility will deteriorate, and joints will seize more frequently. You will spend countless hundreds of dollars to slow the process with no success. The world will speed up and force you into disrespectful seclusion.
Ok, that may not be disease, but it has a name $5 to the first person who knows the answer. Seriously, stop buying shit the day after Turkeyday. The stores will be fine until the economy fails, but that’s at least two years off, holiday ads will still start running at the end of July, and you still have an entire month to buy the perfect gifts to make others love you more than you love them.
Take a fucking break. Some offices realize everyone takes off and close down anyway. It’s a free day off. Do you really want to wake up at five in the morning, race to your local shopping superplex, and fight unfit mothers, devoted grandmothers, and bitching children the entire day?
erroneous digital sweetness »
Wednesday, November 14th, 2007
This weekend, filled with movies and laziness, created a mini-saga. It’s about as close as I get to a soap opera and it’s barely interesting. Have any of you faithful viewers been texted or dialed by someone assuming they had inputed their number correctly? I had an interesting exchange on saturday that didn’t end until monday afternoon. I’m going to assume it’s because the box on the other end has some sort of neuron deficiency i feel for her; in the way that doesn’t have any sympathy, respect, or actual feeling.
Here goes my responses are bold, because I’m better:
9.11a saturday: hey baby
I realize the number isn’t in my contacts, look up the area code with the help of Wikipedia (also known as, the place of all things awesome), and realize it’s charlotte, north carolina. I think hard (not so hard) and try to picture anyone i know from even remotely close to that geographical region. finding no one, i decide to inquire.
9.29a: don’t much know many from around n.c. who’s this? and hey back.
9.29a: ha ha you are such an ass! you still with shelby?
such an ass. maybe this person does know me. i feel mildly guilty in deleting someone’s number, but the shelby thing brings me right back to normal. Who the fuck is shelby? And what asshole parents decided this would be a solid choice in naming their kid? I can’t imagine shelby’s all that bright though. She has friends like this texter. Maybe being named shelby was deserved. and when did the ! replace the . in sentence structure? I mention the exchange to hair and fish, who happen to be sharing the living room at the time.
9.48a: don’t know a shelby. check your digits?
10.03a: no cock fuck stay the fuck away from my mother fucking woman!
and a warm welcome to psychosis. either this is a boyfriend or texter is akin to the man in the wheelchair from that movie, identity. I laughed out loud at this one, wishing hair or fish were around when I got it. the boyfriend is so classy and imaginative that i had to respond.
10.39a: yep. definitely wrong digits. good luck with all that. let me, in W.I., know how it goes.
maybe giving them my location will help drive the hint home. maybe they’ll realize that, being more than five states away, they have the wrong number.
10.58a: sure thing buddy
——
1.19p monday: jason you are such an ass! love you though!
fuck, i was wrong. she’s retarded. but she’s wicked friendly. maybe boyfriend beats her into happiness. he seems like the type, but I can’t report him because we’re buds now. he did call me “buddy” after all.
1.22p: still not jason and don’t know you. check the area code and stop texting me, thanks.
I haven’t heard back since. I miss her a bit, not going to lie. I’ve always wanted a pen pal. Well, technically I’ve had a few in grade school and such, but they’ve never held my interest. I think it was the waiting. Now, with email, I think it’s about time to pick one up and i thought texter might be just the one to initiate this correspondence deluge. Ah well, maybe another will fill this gaping void that texter created with her sheer blockheadedness fingers crossed.
Speaking of wrong numbers, do you think this may have something to do with the economy failing?
managerial hilarity »
Wednesday, November 14th, 2007
This would only be funny to me and that’s unfair to the twos of you so I’m going to start out with a little back story, an exposition if you will. By the end you may think I’m living within the three panels of a Tuesday Dilbert strip.
A month or so ago, my immediate super (i.s.) made a wager regarding a series of weekly meetings this department subjects itself to. The meetings were designated three times a week and took just over a half hour that’s an hour and a half each week that I will never get back; like watching the terminal; fuck you Tom Hanks. Her goal was to make them efficient, make the players accountable for their own projects, and to streamline the process into two update meetings. She wagered treating the print lady (p.l.) and I to a free lunch in the overwhelmingly likely event there wasn’t marked improvement.
I’ll go easy on the i.s. here. She made a valiant effort. The meetings have been reduced in number, to two. There is a new system in place for organizing the list of projects. Unfortunately, her target date of Nov. 2nd was a bit out of reach as in, it’ll take another month for any actually efficiency to be eked out of these folk. She fully admitted falling short of her ridiculously optimistic goal and, last week tuesday, a lunch “meeting” was set as payment. I’ve been looking forward to the lunch since, well, since she proposed the wager because I knew she’d lose confidence was entirely based on realistic outlook and having worked with the folk her winning relied upon; i’m not psychic and i don’t read palms; stop asking.
In other, related you’ll have to trust me for a bit here; like a falling backward exercise; with someone else; i hate those damn exercises; just warning you in the case we end up in trust exercises is all because you’ll likely end up bruised or worse, moving on; it is related, news, the head of creative (h.c.) had a monday meeting set to discuss our company’s annual meeting. b.t.w., do meetings in regard to meetings form a rip in the space-time continuum? because we’re nip-deep in oh shit if that’s the case. She rescheduled it for today at lunch even though p.l. and i.s. are key players in said meeting. Key players meaning the main production and organization responsibilities falling on them; no big deal.
Another key point is h.c.’s assistant having been born on November 14 some decades ago one does not ask a precise number because one appreciates having a job and testicles. You’re now all caught up. Let’s get to it, shall we?
Today, I came into the office to find a series of emails. The first, was from one of the other participants in the rescheduled annual meeting meeting. It was an apology for the rescheduling because it overlapped the preexisting payback lunch.
In response, i.s. sent an email to p.l. and I, moving our lunch to either 1p today or noon-ish tomorrow. It’s reasonable and cooperative. I, even without bringing a lunch today in anticipation, can appreciate that and accommodate. Because I’m a good person, that’s why. I just hide it very, very… very well.
But here’s the kicker. This is why my day started with an internal laugh and why I’ve wasted your time thus far. The next email was from h.c. She, in celebration of her assistant’s birthday, has invited the department to Pizza Luce for lunch. Today. The day she rescheduled a lunch meeting from Monday about a meeting in August. The day she scheduled the meeting whilst ignoring that two key attendees of that meeting already had a lunch meeting sorted. If it weren’t for sharp objects, the human race would have died off within forty years for the better?.
Outlook is not a difficult program. It’s cumbersome and unintuitive, but that’s because it has a shitton of worthless features in order to make it easier to use. She has it on her computer. I’ve seen it. It’s not a ridiculous mistake, but wouldn’t it have been beneficial to glance at its calendar before creating these overlapping events? But I’m not a manager, and this is why my response, when p.l. made some related observations, was those that can’t do, teach; those that won’t do, manage. Before you ask, I doubt I made this up and it’s not insightful. You’re welcome to use it.
But, when all has been said and done, I have a free lunch today and a free lunch tomorrow. Add that to lunch yesterday at fogo de chao and I’m not hungry yet and the early arrival of the s.o., and you have yourself a solid week.
infirm »
Tuesday, November 13th, 2007
The sun is already a half hour below the horizon. The sky’s pale blue has been replaced by blackness. The streetlights are spaced about one to a block and form yellow hazy patches on the ground beneath them. Patches of darkness and black shadows try to infiltrate those patches. The street is bare, only just recently finished after months of construction. Most of the traffic still avoids it because drivers are unaware of its completion.
The air is chilled, but still a few weeks from frigid. Leaves are scattered under shrubs and large trees and all over the sidewalk. They shatter between my shoes and the concrete. The cool wind blows lightly against my exposed cheeks. The music in my headphones drowns out the hum of metropolitan noise. I’m far from downtown and I’ve already walked a half-mile from the main traffic route, but it’s there.
I continue walking, an even stride, consumed in the music, and my thoughts drift. It smells like cold mud, or stacks of fresh sod after a frost. It smells slightly of decay, a cool mustiness that reminds me of my grandmother’s basement. I pass the rows of construction barricades, the orange flashing lights blinking in coordination with one another. There are plastic, reflector-trap wrapped orange barrels and large road closure signs stowed at the side of two of the streets.
After passing the brightly lit main intersection, it seems darker still. The only light comes from the streetlights and the dim glow of lights inside the houses I pass. Up ahead, about a quarter mile, a figure appears to be standing still on the sidewalk. If it’s moving—I can’t tell from this distance—it’s moving very slowly. It’s between two streetlights, making it harder to see. It’s probably someone waiting for his or her dog. Waiting to grab hold of the leavings through a plastic bag and walk back to the warmth of a nearby house.
I’m gaining on the figure. I can’t tell if it’s walking in the direction I am, or just very slowly in the opposite. With the dim light, I can’t be sure if it’s a man or a woman. I can see that his or her walking is hitched. It’s slow, with short steps. He or she is pushing something. It looks to be a small cart. A car approaches from behind me. Its headlights spray light ahead of me. My shadow darkens and I can see the back of the figure.
His hair is disheveled, going in every direction and he wears a flannel shirt, far too thin for the temperature of the night. I’m within a few blocks now. His pace is arduously slow, only a few inches with each step, and appears painful. His shoulders are uneven, the left dipping about four inches lower and his back is curved to accommodate. The only sound is the light scraping of his Velcro shoes against the pavement and the rhythmic squeaking of his cart’s tires.
It feels colder. His halted gait forces a sense of unease. My mind wanders to the empty stares from wheelchairs parked in the lobby of every retirement community I’ve ever been in. I used to move furniture into and out of places like this. The air is stale, sanitary, and smells manufactured. The carpet is too clean, the hall too quiet, and there is ominously still. The nurses are friendly, but guarded. Security and office help are disgruntled and aggressive. I can feel the boredom; the feeling of waiting for the end is almost tactile.
I can feel the sidewalk under my feet, then the asphalt as I cross another street, but I’m not there. I can see the faces of the almost-dead men and women as they watch me roll furniture past them. The excitement of a new neighbor or the mild mourning of another, soon to be forgotten, partner in cards, are glints in their otherwise prosaic eyes. Their flesh, worn and stretched on their frames, drapes over their deteriorated joints and musculature.
The man is only a few feet ahead now and approaching a patch of yellow light from a streetlight close by. His hair is only slightly grayed, but greasy and unkempt. The cart holds groceries, about what would fit in two paper bags. I cut left a few feet to pass him quickly. I realize my heart is racing and I’m breathing quickly. Though unintentional, I have this reaction often when around the men or women like him. I have no reason to feel this way, but it’s as if their helplessness overwhelms me.
He is just a man, a very old man, who likely goes about his day with great difficulty. It will be decades before I will reach a similar point. He’s probably knowledgeable and friendly, but his pace and failing body make me uneasy. I still see the lobby filled with old men and women. Assisted living communities make me exceedingly uncomfortable. The thought of being so reliant turns my stomach. The unease of walking into those sterile buildings filters through my body as I step past him on the grass.
It’s irrational to fear death or attack or accidents or other events either against all odds or definitively certain. It’s irrational to fear age and the failing of one’s body as well, but I still do. I see the twilight of my twilight in the feeble eyes of those in wheelchairs. I taste the stale air and smell the musty medical surrounding as I pass this man.
Probably, it took him hours to go to and return from the grocery store. I could stop and help, but I don’t know what assistance I could offer. I’m past him now. I can’t hear the scraping of his soles and my heart is beating at a normal rate. By the time I enter my room the thought of him has almost faded, but for the images of imaginary women and men, sitting in their white rooms, watching me place their furniture, which just hours before was extracted from their homes, in the last room they will likely occupy. Those images don’t fade for another hour or so.