funny, that ten years after i stomped out of the fish delivery service in san francisco i'm back in the same racket, but this time at a crazier, more absurd place, more hyped and trendy with terrible terrible cackling women with caked on makeup as customers, and no cute funny boys to work with.
oh hell. this is what i get, isn't it.
by this time next week i will have quit.
this i pledge to myself i guess, because it's not like anyone reads this.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Good things in the box
So Kari and I are at trader Joe’s. To yous that don’t live in New York City, you can’t understand what a mission it is. I found a Trader Joe's when I used to have the Frog (car/jetta/happy little thing) and drive people to the airport. But Blue Laws don’t allow groceries in NY state to sell wine, so what is the point? That cream cheese/pesto/sundriedtomato thingy was amusing when I was 19, but now, in poverty years, TJs is all about 2buckChuck. And when Ande and Steph found TJs by the Elizabeth airport, whenever I went to see them in LBI I would stop there on the way home. Just like the drinking helps me be a better actor (and a worse friend) it helps me write (not so pretentious) so I bribed Kari (and her tuff truck) to take me there by taking care of Lucy (the coolest yet craziest dog (oh shit is Luce just like me and Kari and most of my friends? Crazy—not like a fox, but like a person who already gets it before it happens) because she’s like an idiot savant—she can catch a bottle cap from the ground and be happy to do it forever but will never put her head in your lap when you’re sad.) And made her take me on a road trip to Trader Joe’s.
It’s in New Jersey, someplace called Westwood or Westwind or WestHampton or Westfield mall or someplace that says “west” but doesn’t mean west at all.
And Kari and I, who like pretentious food, not just because it’s pretentious, because we like pizza and mac and cheese too, but because it’s good and good for you, mention the Kashi.
Kari: I refuse to buy that shit. I can’t stand the box.
“Kari, it’s okay. Even though you're black and I’m white and we both look, on the box of cereal, that we have been life-partners, we’re not, were open to friendships against the grain.
Trader Joe’s Almost Cute With Beard (but short and TJs Hawaiian shirt stealing masculinity from him) what are you saying? (grin? Hope? Indie rock chicks braless in sweats? How did they end up in Wainfleet NJ?)
“just laughing about the PC UnForwardness of Just Friends Cereal.”
Kari: “like they can tototally hang out, but, it’s never more than friends.”
TJ hopefull: “No, It’s GOOD FRIENDS.”
(shows box. Salt and peppa older lady with English-teacher-like-black-man)
I laugh sheepishly for getting it wrong. Kari laughs out loud.
“Good Friends.” Nods. “That’s what you say when you fuck but you’re unwilling to say you’re involved.”
So like I come to be Nanny Anne to Lucy—and what does Kari have? The Vandyke (Ava that is homage to you) version: Good Friends: the gay woman version. All those health freaks in Ohio (0r like my Mom who chooses not to notice that some of her (amazing brilliant smart cool as shit) friends are most likely lesbians) think it’s okay, this tuff black chick and tuff white chick are “Good Friends.” And there are octagonal eatables full of fiber in the box.
Hot white women and hot black women are “good friends” with good things in the box
It’s in New Jersey, someplace called Westwood or Westwind or WestHampton or Westfield mall or someplace that says “west” but doesn’t mean west at all.
And Kari and I, who like pretentious food, not just because it’s pretentious, because we like pizza and mac and cheese too, but because it’s good and good for you, mention the Kashi.
Kari: I refuse to buy that shit. I can’t stand the box.
“Kari, it’s okay. Even though you're black and I’m white and we both look, on the box of cereal, that we have been life-partners, we’re not, were open to friendships against the grain.
Trader Joe’s Almost Cute With Beard (but short and TJs Hawaiian shirt stealing masculinity from him) what are you saying? (grin? Hope? Indie rock chicks braless in sweats? How did they end up in Wainfleet NJ?)
“just laughing about the PC UnForwardness of Just Friends Cereal.”
Kari: “like they can tototally hang out, but, it’s never more than friends.”
TJ hopefull: “No, It’s GOOD FRIENDS.”
(shows box. Salt and peppa older lady with English-teacher-like-black-man)
I laugh sheepishly for getting it wrong. Kari laughs out loud.
“Good Friends.” Nods. “That’s what you say when you fuck but you’re unwilling to say you’re involved.”
So like I come to be Nanny Anne to Lucy—and what does Kari have? The Vandyke (Ava that is homage to you) version: Good Friends: the gay woman version. All those health freaks in Ohio (0r like my Mom who chooses not to notice that some of her (amazing brilliant smart cool as shit) friends are most likely lesbians) think it’s okay, this tuff black chick and tuff white chick are “Good Friends.” And there are octagonal eatables full of fiber in the box.
Hot white women and hot black women are “good friends” with good things in the box
reasons why i'm not allowed out
you, my friend, looked cute tonight all dressed up.
sorry i couldn't talk.
i was already drunk and going to meet my touchy (not in the liking to touch but needy way) friend who's perfect girlfriend just dumped him (for the right reasons) and felt like an asshole for being all over the place, drunk, and scattered because…ell you know. when i walked into Lemongrass "You are the woman that I always dreamed of" was playing. when your friend needs you to be all about them and you're busy realizing how ripe for parody the writer who wrote you the recommendations (name excluded) to all the schools you didn't get into and even though your intentions are to take care of your broken hearted friend all you say are dumb things (like my cool line at brunch with him and his buddies on sunday "don't any of you have a 5''8"ish girlfriends who need to buy my 161 snowboard?" uh....duh.) so instead you try and make up for it by saying pedestrian things like "there are a million and five hot women in the 21 to 37 year old bracket who want to date an attractive man with a salary who likes fun stuff in new york and he tells you he signed up for Nerve this week and used his friendster profile and then read the women’s' that all said "I'll watch the game with you. I'll drink a beer." and i said, "dude, you won't even go to a knicks game with me. you won't use that 79 inch tv someone left at your house to watch the world series." he shrugged and knew that his girlfriend (who he didn't tell me, but i know broke up with him for wanting to party and not wanting to "settle down" (next year, after you've read my novel, but before it's published, you'll get why the "terror" of the quotes (picture them as air quotes) is so fucking bad. ) when'"I'll be all right without you" is when we had to leave.
you doing your comedy show on thursday?
i was planning on crashing--tho i don't know where it is--but it turns out there is a reading at school and i'm going to insist on reading before i fade into "I have an MFA in creative writing" waitressland so am not going to my advisor's reading at pete candy store.
sorry i couldn't talk.
i was already drunk and going to meet my touchy (not in the liking to touch but needy way) friend who's perfect girlfriend just dumped him (for the right reasons) and felt like an asshole for being all over the place, drunk, and scattered because…ell you know. when i walked into Lemongrass "You are the woman that I always dreamed of" was playing. when your friend needs you to be all about them and you're busy realizing how ripe for parody the writer who wrote you the recommendations (name excluded) to all the schools you didn't get into and even though your intentions are to take care of your broken hearted friend all you say are dumb things (like my cool line at brunch with him and his buddies on sunday "don't any of you have a 5''8"ish girlfriends who need to buy my 161 snowboard?" uh....duh.) so instead you try and make up for it by saying pedestrian things like "there are a million and five hot women in the 21 to 37 year old bracket who want to date an attractive man with a salary who likes fun stuff in new york and he tells you he signed up for Nerve this week and used his friendster profile and then read the women’s' that all said "I'll watch the game with you. I'll drink a beer." and i said, "dude, you won't even go to a knicks game with me. you won't use that 79 inch tv someone left at your house to watch the world series." he shrugged and knew that his girlfriend (who he didn't tell me, but i know broke up with him for wanting to party and not wanting to "settle down" (next year, after you've read my novel, but before it's published, you'll get why the "terror" of the quotes (picture them as air quotes) is so fucking bad. ) when'"I'll be all right without you" is when we had to leave.
you doing your comedy show on thursday?
i was planning on crashing--tho i don't know where it is--but it turns out there is a reading at school and i'm going to insist on reading before i fade into "I have an MFA in creative writing" waitressland so am not going to my advisor's reading at pete candy store.
Monday, April 11, 2005
the emperor's new clothes
i knew i couldn't get a day job and pretend that the things they were all freaked out about were important--winning the account--renaming the ad program--or even talking to the lamest people in the world (the only thing i agree with my first boss about "i'd rather my son be a janitor than a media planner") but i didn't think anyone could be that crazy at a restaurant.
the other night, me delivering fish (athought this time around i'm just the dispacher) with the one table left at the end of lunch, the table full of an office group, with the chinoed self important "give me lemon and no dressing because i fatting out of my 36 waist chinos but i want fish and chips" dude table, being all patronising to his underlings that he's "taking out for lunch" on his corporate card to get moral up, and if i went back there, he'd have to (but he'd be to lazy to get a restraining order, even though i would against me in that tacky t-shirt, too.) had my boss tell me, when a guy (biz guy, customer) said something about the Fox news story. "wow check that out."
okay, you and i know he, unlike my table, doesn't even have assistants to go to lunch with him, that's why he's sitting at the bar and trying to chat up a waitress (who in that shirt looks ugly and yet pathetic enough for him to think of the possibilty) because he knows, like a prostitute, he's paid for service.
yet i say.
"dude. alligators are supposed to be loose in miami. they live there."
he's shocked. he's worried about maybe one of his future wives, who are rollerblading in their g-sting losing a limb in a big old chomp and could he still love her less a limb?
but no worries.
boss: don't look at the TV
What?
boss: we need you to focus on the floor (translation for those of you who haven't worked in restaurants, that means the tables that we wait on, not the crab shells the white trash barbarians have thrown there.)
If I go back there they're going to get a restraining order on me for stalking them.
boss: (no smile. no acknowledgment of joke. does not he know that there are 8,000,000 restaurants in NYC.) well do your sidework.
what i think is CHEF (they all refer to the man, french that he is, as Chef, as if that's a title like prince.) is afraid they will find out that WAITERS oh im sorry SERVERS (who made Server more PC than Waiter?) are people and not just a robotic delivery system for the beer battered (receipe=Budwieser+flour and fish if you don't know how already, which really by now, you should) fish to get to their table. if those people who pay $25 for fish and chips found out we were people with taste buds and smarts and wrote for magazines and shit, they might find out that we're lying through our teeth when we say something is good.
we've never tasted it.
the other night, me delivering fish (athought this time around i'm just the dispacher) with the one table left at the end of lunch, the table full of an office group, with the chinoed self important "give me lemon and no dressing because i fatting out of my 36 waist chinos but i want fish and chips" dude table, being all patronising to his underlings that he's "taking out for lunch" on his corporate card to get moral up, and if i went back there, he'd have to (but he'd be to lazy to get a restraining order, even though i would against me in that tacky t-shirt, too.) had my boss tell me, when a guy (biz guy, customer) said something about the Fox news story. "wow check that out."
okay, you and i know he, unlike my table, doesn't even have assistants to go to lunch with him, that's why he's sitting at the bar and trying to chat up a waitress (who in that shirt looks ugly and yet pathetic enough for him to think of the possibilty) because he knows, like a prostitute, he's paid for service.
yet i say.
"dude. alligators are supposed to be loose in miami. they live there."
he's shocked. he's worried about maybe one of his future wives, who are rollerblading in their g-sting losing a limb in a big old chomp and could he still love her less a limb?
but no worries.
boss: don't look at the TV
What?
boss: we need you to focus on the floor (translation for those of you who haven't worked in restaurants, that means the tables that we wait on, not the crab shells the white trash barbarians have thrown there.)
If I go back there they're going to get a restraining order on me for stalking them.
boss: (no smile. no acknowledgment of joke. does not he know that there are 8,000,000 restaurants in NYC.) well do your sidework.
what i think is CHEF (they all refer to the man, french that he is, as Chef, as if that's a title like prince.) is afraid they will find out that WAITERS oh im sorry SERVERS (who made Server more PC than Waiter?) are people and not just a robotic delivery system for the beer battered (receipe=Budwieser+flour and fish if you don't know how already, which really by now, you should) fish to get to their table. if those people who pay $25 for fish and chips found out we were people with taste buds and smarts and wrote for magazines and shit, they might find out that we're lying through our teeth when we say something is good.
we've never tasted it.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
pollyanna
If you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.
Alice Roosevelt Longworth (1884-1980)
Alice Roosevelt Longworth (1884-1980)
Sunday, February 27, 2005
platypus with an attitude
we are all afraid of the sublime.
those who can see it are terrified by the possibility of achievement but the knowledge of that everyone is incapable. but it that whole shoot for the moon thing. cant’ reach it if you don’t try. *
angels are terrifying—to those of us who see them--because they represent something so far beyond what we find possible. the fear is the failure to exalt.
Those who can’t recognize beautiful forms as angels can see only see ghosts—scary things that don’t make sense and therefore frighten and those non-angel identifying folks to combat the angels with every foot solder of mediocrity they have. better to make armies of the average than to face the unknown or the powerful.
if you can see it, you can’t give up, even if you know you can never quite reach it even if you know how elusive the angel and how far away is the moon.
So what.
you keep trying.
you know it exists. you’ve seen the sublime in a subway car seen through the window of a subway car through a door of a subway car over the heads of a long haired laughing boy in boots talking to a bearded blonde in vans. you’ve seen it when the lights changed on fifth avenue. you’ve seen pigtails fly when girls in backpacks were late for kindergarten. you’ve heard it in the bridge of the song. you’ve seen it in the light shining from the blue sky through the fast flying pigeons over the red brick buildings of willamsburg. you’ve read it in the perfect words.
you’ve seen an artist make it happen for you, even if it can never be good enough for the artist, it can be good enough for the viewer.
that’s why the origin of irony--seeing beauty in life’s constant delivery of the opposite of what we need-- meant the right thing, but the lazy use irony as a passive tool to be sophomorically cynical. base cynicism is useless. there is no point to demeaning the banal. it is that already, it loses nothing by our wasting our time on it, or demanding it to be better. obsessing about the repetition of the ordinary is true failure. it’s complaining about boys in khaki’s listening to classic rock. so what. move on. and then complaining by fighting with the “be different” trucker cap that proceeded to become the khakis of the “being different” within the box. so what. the intention was pure or the intention was pedestrian. either way it can’t matter.
* (the whole moon as sublime now looks like a really obvious metaphor that artists—or maybe art historians--used-to illustrate what they meant, but perhaps before it was banal, it meant something…like the beginning of the trucker hat or the ironic t-shirt—finding beauty in the unexpected and un observed—but then becomes so overdone that it’s trite—like the moon as sublime.)
those who can see it are terrified by the possibility of achievement but the knowledge of that everyone is incapable. but it that whole shoot for the moon thing. cant’ reach it if you don’t try. *
angels are terrifying—to those of us who see them--because they represent something so far beyond what we find possible. the fear is the failure to exalt.
Those who can’t recognize beautiful forms as angels can see only see ghosts—scary things that don’t make sense and therefore frighten and those non-angel identifying folks to combat the angels with every foot solder of mediocrity they have. better to make armies of the average than to face the unknown or the powerful.
if you can see it, you can’t give up, even if you know you can never quite reach it even if you know how elusive the angel and how far away is the moon.
So what.
you keep trying.
you know it exists. you’ve seen the sublime in a subway car seen through the window of a subway car through a door of a subway car over the heads of a long haired laughing boy in boots talking to a bearded blonde in vans. you’ve seen it when the lights changed on fifth avenue. you’ve seen pigtails fly when girls in backpacks were late for kindergarten. you’ve heard it in the bridge of the song. you’ve seen it in the light shining from the blue sky through the fast flying pigeons over the red brick buildings of willamsburg. you’ve read it in the perfect words.
you’ve seen an artist make it happen for you, even if it can never be good enough for the artist, it can be good enough for the viewer.
that’s why the origin of irony--seeing beauty in life’s constant delivery of the opposite of what we need-- meant the right thing, but the lazy use irony as a passive tool to be sophomorically cynical. base cynicism is useless. there is no point to demeaning the banal. it is that already, it loses nothing by our wasting our time on it, or demanding it to be better. obsessing about the repetition of the ordinary is true failure. it’s complaining about boys in khaki’s listening to classic rock. so what. move on. and then complaining by fighting with the “be different” trucker cap that proceeded to become the khakis of the “being different” within the box. so what. the intention was pure or the intention was pedestrian. either way it can’t matter.
* (the whole moon as sublime now looks like a really obvious metaphor that artists—or maybe art historians--used-to illustrate what they meant, but perhaps before it was banal, it meant something…like the beginning of the trucker hat or the ironic t-shirt—finding beauty in the unexpected and un observed—but then becomes so overdone that it’s trite—like the moon as sublime.)
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