Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Ya Fat Fucks...
So, smoking is down among tweens. What the frig do you expect when you charge $8 for a pack? But, instead of fashioning these pre-pubes out for a "Marlboro Miles Iron Lung" we can always look forward to burying them in a piano case. The obesity epidemic is now threatening to be this countries most major concern for the future (next 20 years), next to Cancer. Not lung, but all cancers. So, when are we going to impose taxes on some of these fatties favorites. Yeah, I think obesity might get the shot in the arm it needs once we start adding a 6 dollar tax to Big Macs or boxes of Russell Stovers. How about weighing stations for the two ton Tessie's I always see getting out of tiny Japanese cars at the local Wendy's drive thru. I'm not being this pissy because I'm a smoker. I just can not see why we have to pay for government programs with the huge taxes we pony up on every pack. Maybe all the taxes should be put in a fund for when and if we come down with emphysema or other smoking related diseases. Meanwhile Marty Menthol who is most likely shooting blanks is putting 5 kids through aftercare.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
It Lives
I never would have imagined I would regain those feelings you get when you are younger and in lust. The feelings I mean are akin to dropping a bowling ball on your relaxed stomach while you are laying down, shooting your legs up with novicaine and drawing the breath out of you like the Grim Reaper. I can't recall ever really going with these feelings and hooking up with the person with whom I experienced them from. Once, when I was 17, I was a messenger for the summer in Lower Manhattan. Unlike the other messengers you would see around bearing bike gear or carrying one of those boxy suitcases, I worked for this respectable place where I had a cool attache case and I wore a tie. My deliveries were mostly to import/export shipping offices which were all located in and around the World Trade Center.
After a week or two of walking up and down lower Manhattan you would recognize repeat people, which is kind of weird considering the magnitude of the square miles and the people within them.
I was still a virgin by this time in both genders, but I was more educated. I had a stash of porno mags and after 12 years of Private Catholic School which stunted my sexual education education as well as explorations, I knew more than ever and was eager to act on my feelings towards either sex. I thought.
My first foray was with this other messenger. he dressed as well as me, but I would always see him walking around. He was a great looking Latino guy, my age, great olive skin and black oily hair. Kind of a pre-pube moustache and a great Romanesque nose (one of my favorite facial features). He attracted me enough so that when I first noticed him I got a little flushed with attraction and when I turned around 10 feet later to see which direction he was going in, he turned and stared at me. I nearly fainted on the spot and when I had to double check if it was me he was looking at again, 5 feet more down the line, he turned and I had to sit down.
Now, maybe "Juan" was more adept at this than me in the cruising department, because if I knew than what I know now...
This continued for about 2 months. Everyday I would scan the busy streets looking for a glimpse of the attache he would carry or I would retrace the places where we would infrequently pass. I had a sighting about every three or four days and after each one I told myself I was going to say 'hey' or 'what's up' or in my wildest scenario's I would just stop him, grab his hand and duck into battery Park for a make out session and more.
I had about two weeks left on my job before I went to college and I wanted so bad for something to materialize. I was in one of the WTC towers which I knew like the back of my hand. I had to pee, so I went to a floor which I knew was completely vacant, construction crews were remodeling this floor and all the bathrooms were unlocked. I got in the express elevator that would whoosh you up to 79 or so and transferred to the 'local' that would take me to 87. As I was getting off the local @ 87 he was getting on. I stood there, completely wrecked of all possible functions of how to proceed with this "GIFT ENCOUNTER". I stared at him for what seemed like a minute but in real time was only a second or two as I let him get on the elevator and another second later, I got off.
Long Story Short
I was walking down the street in Queens the other day and feeling pretty good. I saw this total hottie approaching (rare in this particular area) from about 20 feet away. I checked him out for a good second or two and worked my way up to his eyes which were consequently doing the same to me. All of a sudden, those feelings of the novicaine and the bowling ball from the above story came flooding back. Feelings I thought I was too grown up to ever feel again. Too jaded to ever feel again. And you know what, I am so glad I can feel again.
Acceptance Speech if their was an award for this story
I would thank the makers of Welbutrin, Lexipro, my Therapist, the Medicaid System for allowing me to afford these drugs, My New Fuck Buddy and God.
After a week or two of walking up and down lower Manhattan you would recognize repeat people, which is kind of weird considering the magnitude of the square miles and the people within them.
I was still a virgin by this time in both genders, but I was more educated. I had a stash of porno mags and after 12 years of Private Catholic School which stunted my sexual education education as well as explorations, I knew more than ever and was eager to act on my feelings towards either sex. I thought.
My first foray was with this other messenger. he dressed as well as me, but I would always see him walking around. He was a great looking Latino guy, my age, great olive skin and black oily hair. Kind of a pre-pube moustache and a great Romanesque nose (one of my favorite facial features). He attracted me enough so that when I first noticed him I got a little flushed with attraction and when I turned around 10 feet later to see which direction he was going in, he turned and stared at me. I nearly fainted on the spot and when I had to double check if it was me he was looking at again, 5 feet more down the line, he turned and I had to sit down.
Now, maybe "Juan" was more adept at this than me in the cruising department, because if I knew than what I know now...
This continued for about 2 months. Everyday I would scan the busy streets looking for a glimpse of the attache he would carry or I would retrace the places where we would infrequently pass. I had a sighting about every three or four days and after each one I told myself I was going to say 'hey' or 'what's up' or in my wildest scenario's I would just stop him, grab his hand and duck into battery Park for a make out session and more.
I had about two weeks left on my job before I went to college and I wanted so bad for something to materialize. I was in one of the WTC towers which I knew like the back of my hand. I had to pee, so I went to a floor which I knew was completely vacant, construction crews were remodeling this floor and all the bathrooms were unlocked. I got in the express elevator that would whoosh you up to 79 or so and transferred to the 'local' that would take me to 87. As I was getting off the local @ 87 he was getting on. I stood there, completely wrecked of all possible functions of how to proceed with this "GIFT ENCOUNTER". I stared at him for what seemed like a minute but in real time was only a second or two as I let him get on the elevator and another second later, I got off.
Long Story Short
I was walking down the street in Queens the other day and feeling pretty good. I saw this total hottie approaching (rare in this particular area) from about 20 feet away. I checked him out for a good second or two and worked my way up to his eyes which were consequently doing the same to me. All of a sudden, those feelings of the novicaine and the bowling ball from the above story came flooding back. Feelings I thought I was too grown up to ever feel again. Too jaded to ever feel again. And you know what, I am so glad I can feel again.
Acceptance Speech if their was an award for this story
I would thank the makers of Welbutrin, Lexipro, my Therapist, the Medicaid System for allowing me to afford these drugs, My New Fuck Buddy and God.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Shit Happens...a lot!
It seems that a lot of people filled with the spirit of a divine creator are always stating, "There are no coincidences". I'm with these thinkers on a lot of things, but what do we call these 'happenings'? My friend Lisa calls them "synchronizaties" and I've kind of adopted this word as well, but it pains me to say it sometimes because it reminds me of Sting and I hate Sting so much. (The Police had an album, "Synchronicity").
It never fails but everytime I look at the clock it's my birthday. Two times a day, it happens like...clockwork. Someone intellectual remarked that "You probably look at the clock a lot." Au Contraire mon frere...He went on to state that these things are just the law of averages and we only notice it as a 'coincidence' (me with 9:24) because that # means something to me.
The other day I had an interview for a decent managerial job. As I was showering I was trying to pick out my wardrobe in my head. I was going to wear this hot Hugo Boss suit I have and I was imagining what shirts I had here with me at the halfway house. I went to get my clothes out to iron when I came upon a shirt that I had totally ruled out because it required cuff links. But wait, I thought. My brother Philip gave me a pair of his @ Christmastime. Cool, because this shirt is one that I bought @ a Thrift Store a year ago for a buck,and it was hand tailored in Hong Kong.
As I was getting dressed, I was putting on the links when I noticed that the cuffs were monogramed. "Shit".
I put on the suit jacket and figured the monogram would be covered by the jacket sleeves anyway, no biggie.
I was on the train, 3 stops away and I closed my book and was checking out my fingernails when I saw the initials. I smirked and started basically inventing an alter ego with those initials or thinking of Celebrities with them.
Union Square stop, I walk up the stairs to see my possible new employer, Whole Foods.
My heart stopped for a second. I glanced at my shirtsleeves to check...The monogramed initials were: W F
It never fails but everytime I look at the clock it's my birthday. Two times a day, it happens like...clockwork. Someone intellectual remarked that "You probably look at the clock a lot." Au Contraire mon frere...He went on to state that these things are just the law of averages and we only notice it as a 'coincidence' (me with 9:24) because that # means something to me.
The other day I had an interview for a decent managerial job. As I was showering I was trying to pick out my wardrobe in my head. I was going to wear this hot Hugo Boss suit I have and I was imagining what shirts I had here with me at the halfway house. I went to get my clothes out to iron when I came upon a shirt that I had totally ruled out because it required cuff links. But wait, I thought. My brother Philip gave me a pair of his @ Christmastime. Cool, because this shirt is one that I bought @ a Thrift Store a year ago for a buck,and it was hand tailored in Hong Kong.
As I was getting dressed, I was putting on the links when I noticed that the cuffs were monogramed. "Shit".
I put on the suit jacket and figured the monogram would be covered by the jacket sleeves anyway, no biggie.
I was on the train, 3 stops away and I closed my book and was checking out my fingernails when I saw the initials. I smirked and started basically inventing an alter ego with those initials or thinking of Celebrities with them.
Union Square stop, I walk up the stairs to see my possible new employer, Whole Foods.
My heart stopped for a second. I glanced at my shirtsleeves to check...The monogramed initials were: W F
Thursday, March 09, 2006
GLINT
A friend who doesn't bullshit told me that the "Strangers with Candy" movie should be out in the next 2 months. I wish I could post a picture of Geri along with this.
Grace
New York City (Manhattan especially) allows one to explore their KooKoo side. I mean, you could basically be the biggest nutbag and you would be shouldered alongside Mr. Investment Banker on the train. And this scene, viewed from anyone but a stranger to this City, seems so normal, yet a snapshot of it would seem surreal.
My shuffle was loaded with new songs. A lot of the music I picked up in Florida when I went to retrieve some of my stuff. A Jeff Buckley song came on which I had not heard in a long time, and I, oblivious to the surrounding people on the train felt the need to "air sing" this song with so much passion you would think I was auditioning for a role in "Dreamgirls". It felt so good. I could care less of what I may have looked like ( a major issue of mine). The whole scenerio was perfect; the lyrics, the accompaning music, the train, the way I was dressed, the effect of the Welbutrin & Neurontin. I hit replay, Brilliant.
My shuffle was loaded with new songs. A lot of the music I picked up in Florida when I went to retrieve some of my stuff. A Jeff Buckley song came on which I had not heard in a long time, and I, oblivious to the surrounding people on the train felt the need to "air sing" this song with so much passion you would think I was auditioning for a role in "Dreamgirls". It felt so good. I could care less of what I may have looked like ( a major issue of mine). The whole scenerio was perfect; the lyrics, the accompaning music, the train, the way I was dressed, the effect of the Welbutrin & Neurontin. I hit replay, Brilliant.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Reminds Me Of...
Man, Sienna Miller is just morphing into Edie Sedgwick every time I see her in a photo. From what I've read, I thought the movie "Factory Girl" had already finished filming. If she is still going around flaunting this Edie look, she might be a little unstable ala George Reeves (Superman) and that guy who played Jesus. (<---- I tried IMDB to find his name. Do you know how many people have played Jesus? Tons, is the answer; and I'm on a timed computer)
Monday, March 06, 2006
"Falling" <--- Not the Alicia Keyes Version either
I thought long and hard while I was waiting to get my ashes. I mean, I usually blow whatever it is that I decide to give up for Lent, but I seem to do better than I would if it was a New Years Resolution.
For those who are wondering what the frig is this guy talking about. Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. That is the day you may see people walking around with coal like smudges on their foreheads (this happened last Wednesday by the way), eventually lasting 40 days and nights leading up to Easter Sunday. Someone (Can Hallmark be blamed for this one?) came up with the idea to abstain from something for this time period. It carries the same false promises one might make to themselves on New Years Eve as well.
Since I am free of Alcohol and Drugs and I do not eat chocolate I tried to think of some vice of mine that I need to chill on. I was at a loss @ the time, probably owing to my Narcissistic personality, so I basically was going to ride this Lenten Season out.
Epilogue
I have been a major c word lately (rhymes with Linda Hunt). I've given up on all the 'earthy crunchy love thy neighbor/There- but- for- the- Grace- of- God- go- I' stuff. People are assholes no matter how you slice em. People are stupid no matter if I teach them the right way or not. And finally, I am so much 'better' than these people, that I pity them.
This type of thinking makes for great conversations in my head, but being short on nearby acquaintances and not really being a 'phone talker', I have begun to notice myself slipping into this negative mode.
This as you will learn when you see my movie and the educated person in the goofy counselor role wearing the requisite dangling earring and smoking like a fiend will explain that this shift in personality is the number one cause of relapse. Throw into the mix me walking from my job the other night after receiving my seventh week in a row paycheck lacking my supposed correct salary and the fact that I have to find a place to live within the next two months and all you have to do is know basic math as to what followed.
I got off the train @ 2 pm and walked the long stretch of Rooservelt Avenue looking for a Liquor Store. For all the bigots out there who cling to their cry of 'drunken' when describing Latino's I couldn't find a store that sold Hootch in about a half a mile. When I finally did see that familiar type of Italy Shaped logo saying "Liquors" down a side street, I had no regrets upon entering. I chose a nice potato Vodka which was triply distilled and bought a couple of Mango Arizona drinks in those big cans. I went back to the halfway House and drank the bottle. At 4 am I had to wake for my flight to Florida, and the only thing I can remember from the night before while I rode in the taxi was not procuring a better hiding spot for the empty bottle while I was gone for the next two days.
I cringed on the plane ride down as certain faces from the previous night popped into my head and wanted to hide my head in the sand when I checked out my phone to see who I drunk dialed as well. One happened to be this guy 'friend' from Rehab that I felt unceremoniously dropped me from his life like a stalker.
The first few hours in Florida with Joyce and Sloan seemed to have me acting 'jet lagged' and distant as I thought of myself being kicked out as soon as I arrive back in NYC. All the 'losers' I made fun of who got kicked out before me (the girl who dreamed she was smoking crack with her ex and actually turned up positive, the guy who I had pegged as a closet case and a possible prospect for a quick bj in the 'broom closet' who got kicked out for being in a police/hooker sting, et al) seemed to pop into my head as I wondered where they were living. I wanted so much for this weekend not to end; being in the womb like comfort of my friends but all I could think of was what was going to be my plan of action if I did get kicked out. I wore a fake smile the whole time having in the back of my head visions of garbage bags full of my stuff waiting outside the house.
I could not even pray for help, because I felt so guilty (thanks Catholicism).
After arriving back, a block from the house I had a cigarette. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by two guys who I kind of talk to. I expected to hear "Your back for your stuff" or something of the sort, but they just said hello as I walked up to my room which was still the same as I had left it. The Oliphant Vodka was still in the same bad 'hiding' space and I felt glad to have escaped eviction. This Time.
For those who are wondering what the frig is this guy talking about. Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. That is the day you may see people walking around with coal like smudges on their foreheads (this happened last Wednesday by the way), eventually lasting 40 days and nights leading up to Easter Sunday. Someone (Can Hallmark be blamed for this one?) came up with the idea to abstain from something for this time period. It carries the same false promises one might make to themselves on New Years Eve as well.
Since I am free of Alcohol and Drugs and I do not eat chocolate I tried to think of some vice of mine that I need to chill on. I was at a loss @ the time, probably owing to my Narcissistic personality, so I basically was going to ride this Lenten Season out.
Epilogue
I have been a major c word lately (rhymes with Linda Hunt). I've given up on all the 'earthy crunchy love thy neighbor/There- but- for- the- Grace- of- God- go- I' stuff. People are assholes no matter how you slice em. People are stupid no matter if I teach them the right way or not. And finally, I am so much 'better' than these people, that I pity them.
This type of thinking makes for great conversations in my head, but being short on nearby acquaintances and not really being a 'phone talker', I have begun to notice myself slipping into this negative mode.
This as you will learn when you see my movie and the educated person in the goofy counselor role wearing the requisite dangling earring and smoking like a fiend will explain that this shift in personality is the number one cause of relapse. Throw into the mix me walking from my job the other night after receiving my seventh week in a row paycheck lacking my supposed correct salary and the fact that I have to find a place to live within the next two months and all you have to do is know basic math as to what followed.
I got off the train @ 2 pm and walked the long stretch of Rooservelt Avenue looking for a Liquor Store. For all the bigots out there who cling to their cry of 'drunken' when describing Latino's I couldn't find a store that sold Hootch in about a half a mile. When I finally did see that familiar type of Italy Shaped logo saying "Liquors" down a side street, I had no regrets upon entering. I chose a nice potato Vodka which was triply distilled and bought a couple of Mango Arizona drinks in those big cans. I went back to the halfway House and drank the bottle. At 4 am I had to wake for my flight to Florida, and the only thing I can remember from the night before while I rode in the taxi was not procuring a better hiding spot for the empty bottle while I was gone for the next two days.
I cringed on the plane ride down as certain faces from the previous night popped into my head and wanted to hide my head in the sand when I checked out my phone to see who I drunk dialed as well. One happened to be this guy 'friend' from Rehab that I felt unceremoniously dropped me from his life like a stalker.
The first few hours in Florida with Joyce and Sloan seemed to have me acting 'jet lagged' and distant as I thought of myself being kicked out as soon as I arrive back in NYC. All the 'losers' I made fun of who got kicked out before me (the girl who dreamed she was smoking crack with her ex and actually turned up positive, the guy who I had pegged as a closet case and a possible prospect for a quick bj in the 'broom closet' who got kicked out for being in a police/hooker sting, et al) seemed to pop into my head as I wondered where they were living. I wanted so much for this weekend not to end; being in the womb like comfort of my friends but all I could think of was what was going to be my plan of action if I did get kicked out. I wore a fake smile the whole time having in the back of my head visions of garbage bags full of my stuff waiting outside the house.
I could not even pray for help, because I felt so guilty (thanks Catholicism).
After arriving back, a block from the house I had a cigarette. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by two guys who I kind of talk to. I expected to hear "Your back for your stuff" or something of the sort, but they just said hello as I walked up to my room which was still the same as I had left it. The Oliphant Vodka was still in the same bad 'hiding' space and I felt glad to have escaped eviction. This Time.
Crushed
It's so weird. Some of my earliest memories involving my mother and myself together involve us both watching award shows and/or beauty contests. I would always have my list of picks. At six or seven I had not seen any of the movies up for awards so I just went on aesthetic impulses, like someone who goes to the racetrack for the first time and knows nothing about odds or jockey's and just picks the prettiest horse or the one with the most interesting name (which is what I still do when I have to pick something in the animated short or other minor awards like that). I always use to draw my favorite stars with a bubble caption saying "and the winner is..." This is way before they started saying "...and the Oscar goes to". It would usually be females like Tina Louise or Sophia Loren with some unidentified male; holding the statuette clad in a creation of my own smushed cleavage drappery.
In the years of VCR's I would tape every award show and then edit them onto a seperate favorite parts tape with my second VCR. I would buy every follow up magazine to scour pictures containing probably the one or two people I cared about who might posssibly be at the ceremony. Check out what they were wearing and all.
And then, about 4 years ago it all came to an abrupt end. I can recall being at a friends house and someone was watching it in the living room and I just breezed by a few times to see what award they might be up to and exit the room. It was not intentional, it just seems that I had something else to do. I guess the days of someone on the short list of favorites of mine winning seemed as long a shot as I have in procuring a rent stabalized apartment. MTV awards, Emmy's and my last hold out, The Golden Globes all went unwatched these past two years.
Yesterday I flew back from Florida, where I went for the weekend and had the option of doing a few things. I picked entering all my cd's that I brought back with me into my laptop for my iPod. I didn't want to watch Catherine Keener graciously clap for the other winner (Rachel Weisz) or see Dolly Parton lose out ala Aimee Mann to some asshole (too true: Dolly lost to some rappers from Hustle and Flow and Aimee to (gasp) Phil Fucking Collins).
I was listening to the BBC news last night as I fell asleep and I heard no mention of any of the winners until this morning when I heard a blurb of upcoming stories on 'All Things Considered'. I nearly blew the contact lens I was about to put into my eye when exclaiming a loud "Holy Shit" upon hearing "Crash" had won Best Picture.
In the years of VCR's I would tape every award show and then edit them onto a seperate favorite parts tape with my second VCR. I would buy every follow up magazine to scour pictures containing probably the one or two people I cared about who might posssibly be at the ceremony. Check out what they were wearing and all.
And then, about 4 years ago it all came to an abrupt end. I can recall being at a friends house and someone was watching it in the living room and I just breezed by a few times to see what award they might be up to and exit the room. It was not intentional, it just seems that I had something else to do. I guess the days of someone on the short list of favorites of mine winning seemed as long a shot as I have in procuring a rent stabalized apartment. MTV awards, Emmy's and my last hold out, The Golden Globes all went unwatched these past two years.
Yesterday I flew back from Florida, where I went for the weekend and had the option of doing a few things. I picked entering all my cd's that I brought back with me into my laptop for my iPod. I didn't want to watch Catherine Keener graciously clap for the other winner (Rachel Weisz) or see Dolly Parton lose out ala Aimee Mann to some asshole (too true: Dolly lost to some rappers from Hustle and Flow and Aimee to (gasp) Phil Fucking Collins).
I was listening to the BBC news last night as I fell asleep and I heard no mention of any of the winners until this morning when I heard a blurb of upcoming stories on 'All Things Considered'. I nearly blew the contact lens I was about to put into my eye when exclaiming a loud "Holy Shit" upon hearing "Crash" had won Best Picture.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Young @ Indie Heart
The other night I was watching the movie 'Paris, Texas' and I realized that my window for getting my script made is probably over. I remember in the early 90's me and my friend Yasmine would go to the movies a lot after our shifts at The Russian Tea Room. We knew the ins and outs of the Angelica and the other Art House Theaters, because this was the fair we both enjoyed. At the time I had been playing ping pong in my head with a story called 'Alter Ego' which was loosely based on me because @ night I would turn into this club crawling bar fly/slash sexually charged risk taker while in the daytime I was this normal 20 something. Indie films were getting bought by the handfuls (meaning a lot), few getting made but securing nice paying jobs for some of the writers.
In 1997 I had a friend of mine budget my recent tome at the time to the tune of 3 million to make. It was still do-able enough to gather up an audience and make a still profit and perhaps garner a few awards and accolades.
Now it 2006. I just feel that the state of the movie making business is going to fucking hell. Reese Witherspoon is getting 20 something million for her next picture and all the piracy going round. The fact that "The Squid and the Whale" hardly made a dent in audiences except those in major cities and it was a really good movie. The fact that I heard Don Cheadle talking the other day about Crash (he was a producer), and that no studio wanted to touch it and only did so after Brendan Frasier was on board, not the fact that the director and writer just won tons of acclaim for "Million Dollar Baby". It's all bullshit. The way we are all going to be subjected to shopping at 'Wal-Marts' and 'Sports Authority's' and 'Costco's' is the reflection of movies starring only safe box office stars (for the moment) vehicles. So be prepared to walk into your local Cineplex Odeon Million Theater and see 30 movies with Tom Cruise and Reese Witherspoon and Reese Witherspoon and Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts and Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts and all will have narration by
In 1997 I had a friend of mine budget my recent tome at the time to the tune of 3 million to make. It was still do-able enough to gather up an audience and make a still profit and perhaps garner a few awards and accolades.
Now it 2006. I just feel that the state of the movie making business is going to fucking hell. Reese Witherspoon is getting 20 something million for her next picture and all the piracy going round. The fact that "The Squid and the Whale" hardly made a dent in audiences except those in major cities and it was a really good movie. The fact that I heard Don Cheadle talking the other day about Crash (he was a producer), and that no studio wanted to touch it and only did so after Brendan Frasier was on board, not the fact that the director and writer just won tons of acclaim for "Million Dollar Baby". It's all bullshit. The way we are all going to be subjected to shopping at 'Wal-Marts' and 'Sports Authority's' and 'Costco's' is the reflection of movies starring only safe box office stars (for the moment) vehicles. So be prepared to walk into your local Cineplex Odeon Million Theater and see 30 movies with Tom Cruise and Reese Witherspoon and Reese Witherspoon and Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts and Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts and all will have narration by
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Gateway Pleasures
Pot was never anything more than pot to me. It never led me to do anything I did not want to do, and for a while I basically became immune to it. I could do everything in my day perfectly fine while being stoned.
Due to weekly piss tests at this place I'm at, I can not get high (now), hell I can not even take cold medicine without facing an evict.
Here's the conundrum. I need a dube for my screenplay. Like the heroin addict who needs to get through his withdrawals with a hit, I need that extra creative part of my synapses exposed so I can get over this one hump, and the only way that I know to rectify this safely is with a joint. I started thinking of excuses I could make to the administrators of this place if I get busted. I pictured myself exclaiming "I work with all these Rastas" and blame it on second hand smoke, but how frigging lame is that. Freaking United States with it's puritanical ways. Holland as my home land is getting closer and closer to being real.
Ohio and 17 other states are trying their hardest in Legislature to pass a bill that would prevent anyone who is gay from adopting children. Some asswipe was talking on NPR the other day about how he had one 'victim' from a lesbian household explain how she herself turned gay and is so unhappy about her life now.
Is this their precise for this ban? I could get blue in the face (or fingers) typing out what is so wrong with these 'legislators' warped thinking. Sexual abuse among Hetero's, Your Born gay you don't vicariously become gay et al.
I get so disillusioned by this country so often. I get pissed and wish I could follow half of these mother fuckers who start these bills around and see if this is not some hidden agenda with a Roy Cohn like self hatred. I want to expose these bastards, what right do they have from preventing ANY child from having a home.
After I heard this story and the purported 'home-made lesbo's' denial, I was thinking of the first time I was attracted to guys ( I try to think of this often). Each time I think of an example I could pre date it with another. It's kind of fun because my attractions towards guys (even before I knew about sex) were always different from what attracted me to the females I liked. Like, the male attractions were saying to me, "More will be revealed later".
Due to weekly piss tests at this place I'm at, I can not get high (now), hell I can not even take cold medicine without facing an evict.
Here's the conundrum. I need a dube for my screenplay. Like the heroin addict who needs to get through his withdrawals with a hit, I need that extra creative part of my synapses exposed so I can get over this one hump, and the only way that I know to rectify this safely is with a joint. I started thinking of excuses I could make to the administrators of this place if I get busted. I pictured myself exclaiming "I work with all these Rastas" and blame it on second hand smoke, but how frigging lame is that. Freaking United States with it's puritanical ways. Holland as my home land is getting closer and closer to being real.
Ohio and 17 other states are trying their hardest in Legislature to pass a bill that would prevent anyone who is gay from adopting children. Some asswipe was talking on NPR the other day about how he had one 'victim' from a lesbian household explain how she herself turned gay and is so unhappy about her life now.
Is this their precise for this ban? I could get blue in the face (or fingers) typing out what is so wrong with these 'legislators' warped thinking. Sexual abuse among Hetero's, Your Born gay you don't vicariously become gay et al.
I get so disillusioned by this country so often. I get pissed and wish I could follow half of these mother fuckers who start these bills around and see if this is not some hidden agenda with a Roy Cohn like self hatred. I want to expose these bastards, what right do they have from preventing ANY child from having a home.
After I heard this story and the purported 'home-made lesbo's' denial, I was thinking of the first time I was attracted to guys ( I try to think of this often). Each time I think of an example I could pre date it with another. It's kind of fun because my attractions towards guys (even before I knew about sex) were always different from what attracted me to the females I liked. Like, the male attractions were saying to me, "More will be revealed later".
Sunday, February 26, 2006
What to do...What to do...
Do I Compromise my integrity and watch this freaking 'Spanglish' movie because I love Tea Leoni and absolutely abhor Adam Sandler and have always consciously said I will never watch anything he is in? The Elmhurst Library's pickings are slim.
***UPDATE: I'm glad I watched it. Tea was great and she floored me in this one scene where she was having sex w/ Adam S's character and he pats her body and says"Look at this body", and MAN, you had to she her body in this shot. She had like a freaking 8 pack going on. Screw shadow make up and lighting, this was a hard core body. A lot of reviewers were saying when this first came out that she would be nominated for an Oscar, then all that buzz slowed down and everyone was on the bandwagon of an over the top preformance. Having lived in both L.A. and UES and UWS of Manhattan, I have seen these women. I have dealt with these women. Any Nanny or Maid or Butler will concur, but usually they do not speak English to blab this.
Adam Sandler looks like a 5 year olds drawing of a man. Just a blobby looking guy with a fro and sallow skin and such. It's such a fucking shame that casting couches are not around for schlubs like him, denying him roles that someone with any sort of pedigree in acting could have made a little bit more interesting. Shit, it happens to women all the time.
Maybe now I will watch "Punch Drunk Love" because I dig Emily Watson tons as well.
***UPDATE: I'm glad I watched it. Tea was great and she floored me in this one scene where she was having sex w/ Adam S's character and he pats her body and says"Look at this body", and MAN, you had to she her body in this shot. She had like a freaking 8 pack going on. Screw shadow make up and lighting, this was a hard core body. A lot of reviewers were saying when this first came out that she would be nominated for an Oscar, then all that buzz slowed down and everyone was on the bandwagon of an over the top preformance. Having lived in both L.A. and UES and UWS of Manhattan, I have seen these women. I have dealt with these women. Any Nanny or Maid or Butler will concur, but usually they do not speak English to blab this.
Adam Sandler looks like a 5 year olds drawing of a man. Just a blobby looking guy with a fro and sallow skin and such. It's such a fucking shame that casting couches are not around for schlubs like him, denying him roles that someone with any sort of pedigree in acting could have made a little bit more interesting. Shit, it happens to women all the time.
Maybe now I will watch "Punch Drunk Love" because I dig Emily Watson tons as well.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Payton Revisited...
One of my favorite scenes in moviedom has to be when Rebecca DeMornay as Payton in "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle" confronts the little boy @ the schoolyard who has been picking on the girl she has been tending to. I'm paraphrasing here, but 'Payton' is alerted to the fact that the little boy is present in the playground. he is surrounded by a few of his cronies and she grabs him by the collar and says, "Call her one more name and I'll kick your fucking ass to the ground..."
Again, I'm paraphrasing (Every movie of my past must be reviewed as a sober dude), but it reminded me of how I acted no longer than 20 minutes ago.
We are all waiting for the library to open (@ 10 am) and everyone is on line. It's about 3 minutes to 10 when these two Paki kids walk up and sort of hover around the front door. I actually saw the fatter of the two look at the long line and decide not to get on it, nudge his friend and park it by the door.
The doors open and the little fucks squeeze in behind the oblivious 3rd and 4th person.
Now, I would not be pissed if it was not for the fact that I knew that these little bastards were going to use the computers, and the fact that there are only a few of them made me more incensed because that is why there is a line. I could just see them getting a PC so they can send Emails and check their MartyrSpace.Com web pages, but I'll be damned if I get shut out.
When everyone started lining up for the computers we were told that they were down. I knew this was probably temporary so I started looking for a new book to read (having ditched "Drink" by A. Burroughs at page 78 <------ quite possibly a first for me, that I can recall; and I just finished "Strong Motion" by J.Franzen).
As I'm going down the aisles I see the little turd and I cornered him and his friend and told the fat one, "Do you know what a line is?" And he looked at me as if I was asking for directions or something. But I interceded and said, "If I ever see you cut the line again I am going to personally throw your ass into the street." His glasses fell off his face and the skinny one looked like he had to go take a quick shit as the sand color drained from his face.
I kind of felt triumphant, thanked my Wellbutrin for the Assertiveness (albeit to a child!) and left.
Again, I'm paraphrasing (Every movie of my past must be reviewed as a sober dude), but it reminded me of how I acted no longer than 20 minutes ago.
We are all waiting for the library to open (@ 10 am) and everyone is on line. It's about 3 minutes to 10 when these two Paki kids walk up and sort of hover around the front door. I actually saw the fatter of the two look at the long line and decide not to get on it, nudge his friend and park it by the door.
The doors open and the little fucks squeeze in behind the oblivious 3rd and 4th person.
Now, I would not be pissed if it was not for the fact that I knew that these little bastards were going to use the computers, and the fact that there are only a few of them made me more incensed because that is why there is a line. I could just see them getting a PC so they can send Emails and check their MartyrSpace.Com web pages, but I'll be damned if I get shut out.
When everyone started lining up for the computers we were told that they were down. I knew this was probably temporary so I started looking for a new book to read (having ditched "Drink" by A. Burroughs at page 78 <------ quite possibly a first for me, that I can recall; and I just finished "Strong Motion" by J.Franzen).
As I'm going down the aisles I see the little turd and I cornered him and his friend and told the fat one, "Do you know what a line is?" And he looked at me as if I was asking for directions or something. But I interceded and said, "If I ever see you cut the line again I am going to personally throw your ass into the street." His glasses fell off his face and the skinny one looked like he had to go take a quick shit as the sand color drained from his face.
I kind of felt triumphant, thanked my Wellbutrin for the Assertiveness (albeit to a child!) and left.
Friday, February 24, 2006
"Living inside my head, not much room for the two of us..."
...The Lemondrops.
- The subways in Queens are all mostly run above ground and requires all patrons to climb two, three and sometimes four flights of stairs. Why in the world do I always get stuck behind this fat assed meanderer who seems like he/she just got shot with a tranquilizer gun from Marlon Perkins and they are about to collapse at any second. It's either that, or I get behind the mother who is finally teaching her kid how to walk stairs and decides what better place than the freaking 'Stairway to Seven'.
- Like Bart, I am wondering why I am not famous (or near there). It seems every week or so, someone I hung around is making it. Last week I was reading the poster to Harrison Ford's new movie "Firewall" on the subway platform and as I read the credits I noticed a name of someone I was pretty well acquainted with. So much so, that she sent me a 'homemade ' Valentine's Day Card. I mean, good for them. I sincerely mean this, but...(In rehab they have a saying: everything after but is bullshit). So, does this mean when I finally give an interview I could say, "Yeah, it was myself, so & so and so & so hanging around The Formosa Bar..." Kind of like the crew of Scorsese, Lucas and Speilberg et al who hung around L.A. in the early 70's or this one: Kevin Spacey, Val Kilmer and Mare Winningham all being classmates!
- I read today that most men would choose to have Tom Cruises' teeth and smile. Who the fuck do they ask these things to? I have never been 'poled' in my life about stupid nonsensical bullshit like this. And most of all, how the hell do they get this tidbit in the newspaper? First off, Tom Cruises smile? That forced 'Glamour Shot' that he has been sporting since his third or fourth movie. It's like I want to hear a canned soundtrack playing "Ahhhhh" when he smiles. In porn it's called the money shot. On him it is this forced botox frozen expression that internally is saying, "I am such a fraud"..."I am so fucked in the head"...
- These Muslim leaders are getting picked off like flies on a screen door. I think Joyce DeWitt has better security than these Imams.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Do newspapers have a retirement age?
| I freaking hate Liz Smith and Cindy Adams. There. I wrote that first sentence so many times, all the while trying to use a different word than hate, but none of them had the impact or resonated enough. These two bitches should be a GreenPeace target. The amount of paper and squid ink these two morons waste with their blathering senile comments and kiss ass bold face names is deplorable. Liz Smith, who "by the by" ( I FUCKING HATE when she writes that! It reads like she's a fucking nosy bitty in a bad Harlequin Romance.) came out of the closet at like, 96 years of age, makes so many mistakes in the name of Gossip. Doesn't this woman have IMDB? How she can GO TO PRINT with so many errors is beyond me. In spite of that, yesterday she was talking about the 'controversial ' movie, "Crash". If any of you have seen this movie you would see that it was a contrived piece of bullshit ripping off Magnolia so badly that I wrote about it here months ago, and weaving a story around all these coincidences it felt like a Disney flick with it's amount of unbelievableness. Cindy Adams on the other hand comprises her columns by going to real interviews that celebs give other publications. If Meg Ryan says she likes Gouda Cheese in 'Lady's Home Journal' you can bet your ass it will be a whole column along with others who enjoy cheese in this bitches daily parrot cage filler. I used to picture myself bumping into Rupert Murdoch's son (he was kind of a hottie) somewhere in NY and asking him why the fuck he employs these two bats. I need to start an impeachment trial for these two. Only in New York Kids!! |
Monday, February 20, 2006
Short Yellow Bus
So, I take a couple of Seasons of the Soprano's on DVD from my moms house and watch like an episode a night. I've seen them all, once, twice or ad nauseum (sp). But, I was wasted as well, so what I thought was excellent then, might seem unbelievably great now. I'm checking out this one episode and Carmela is in the supermarket and as she is about to round the corner of the aisle she notices one of the moles of a now deceased Mafiosi demoing pigs in the blanket. I shut the dvd off and contemplated life.
Since I am living in the halfway house of horrors, a working one, there are certain specifications that I must follow. We have two mandatory meetings per week in which all must attend, these being on Tues and Thurs @ 6 pm. Whichever job you take, you must allow for these, which kind of sounds like no biggie, but it does act like the monkeywrench a lot of the times. Add to this the fact that we can not come into the house past 11 pm or you will be tossed out. (Actually, the person on duty refuses to answer the door after 11 pm). So, with a background in food service and management and cooking, it's kind of hard to finagle something other than corporate dining around these stipulations.
The job I have is bullshit, I know and add to it the fact that I'm on the Upper East and West Side of town and you can see where my insecurities lie. Manhattan has always made me feel 5 inches shorter and 25 pounds overweight and now throw into the mix a seemingly smart looking guy, like myself, wearing a baseball hat and an emblazoned store apron handing out gourmet food. I wonder if I was me as a customer, would I stop and ponder this situation. Like, "How did that guy end up with this?''
I'm putting the finishing touches on my second original script which I hope to present as a 'calling card', along with the first for any writing assignments in idea arid Los Angeles.
Just thought I'd let you know.
Since I am living in the halfway house of horrors, a working one, there are certain specifications that I must follow. We have two mandatory meetings per week in which all must attend, these being on Tues and Thurs @ 6 pm. Whichever job you take, you must allow for these, which kind of sounds like no biggie, but it does act like the monkeywrench a lot of the times. Add to this the fact that we can not come into the house past 11 pm or you will be tossed out. (Actually, the person on duty refuses to answer the door after 11 pm). So, with a background in food service and management and cooking, it's kind of hard to finagle something other than corporate dining around these stipulations.
The job I have is bullshit, I know and add to it the fact that I'm on the Upper East and West Side of town and you can see where my insecurities lie. Manhattan has always made me feel 5 inches shorter and 25 pounds overweight and now throw into the mix a seemingly smart looking guy, like myself, wearing a baseball hat and an emblazoned store apron handing out gourmet food. I wonder if I was me as a customer, would I stop and ponder this situation. Like, "How did that guy end up with this?''
I'm putting the finishing touches on my second original script which I hope to present as a 'calling card', along with the first for any writing assignments in idea arid Los Angeles.
Just thought I'd let you know.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Evil Ugly Twin
Did you ever meet someone you liked a lot while being a supporter or fan of this person. Like a musician or an actress/tor or a politician or writer? How many of us have the clarity or hindsight afterwards of now determining if something they kind of did sort of irritated us and well, I'm really not into them anymore. The lack of love and support does not just end there but it sort of wanes over time whereas a couple of months back you may have circled a day on your calendar regarding this persons newest book or album or movie, now it seems you notice it while you come across it in the bargain bins or when it's on cable. This happens to me a lot with everyone, but in celebrated people more often. My favorite actor/actress/musician list dwindled considerably after working with a lot of my favorites at my job in Los Angeles. It could be their phone manners or the way I would observe them treated their crew members or fans or the way they acted outside when that imaginary 4th wall (or is it 3rd) is broken down.
I also sour on some when their fame is too big for their once small britches.
I've seen some of my favorite bands play clubs with 15 people and now all they play are stadiums. I've gone through reams of order forms and hours of search time trying to obtain movies that are so rare but they star someone I'm totally into. And then, one little song or scene might propel them into the stratosphere of Joe Buttcrack in Peoria and then I lose interest.
I'm reading "Drink" right now by Augusten Burroughs and is it me, or is he trying too hard to make me laugh? Or am I skeptical because he is the author most often thought to be a member of the Bullshit Memoir Club that James Frey started up? A book that I would have consumed with glee in two days now has the potential of a library late charge and a bookmark opage 38.
I also sour on some when their fame is too big for their once small britches.
I've seen some of my favorite bands play clubs with 15 people and now all they play are stadiums. I've gone through reams of order forms and hours of search time trying to obtain movies that are so rare but they star someone I'm totally into. And then, one little song or scene might propel them into the stratosphere of Joe Buttcrack in Peoria and then I lose interest.
I'm reading "Drink" right now by Augusten Burroughs and is it me, or is he trying too hard to make me laugh? Or am I skeptical because he is the author most often thought to be a member of the Bullshit Memoir Club that James Frey started up? A book that I would have consumed with glee in two days now has the potential of a library late charge and a bookmark opage 38.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
The Gift
About 12 years ago I gave up the coolest apartment in NYC right across the street from Washington Square Park to move down to the up and coming town of South Beach: Miami, FL.
This had to be the biggest scam I ever was a part of. Bigger and more self deprecating than the time I bought those Stereo Speakers from the guy in the parking lot of a Mall in Jersey, only to have purchased empty shells of speakers with bricks inside. But I digress. South Beach was supposed to be this burgeoning Mecca of show business, with supposed studios in the works and production crews scouting around and blah, blah, blah. I took the bait hook line and sinker and like a good addict, I took someone very close to me along for the ride. I ended up staying there about two months. This after shipping every single thing I owned down there via Parcel Post and cutting all ties with my hometown. Why the frig didn't I sublet or contact a corporation that puts up out of town employees, I don't know. What I do know is that South Beach was a bust. You saw the same people everyday, in the 8 square blocks of usable terrain. So, if you saw Joe and Beth at the gym, you then saw them at the supermarket, and then you bumped into them when you were buying your Cuban Coffee, and then you saw Joe rollerblading Ocean Avenue while Beth was tanning on the beach and you wrapped up the day with seeing them at one of the clubs. Every Fucking Day, every Fucking Person Living There. I had just went through my fifth job in a month, and the square mile or so mentioned above turned into square footage of space where I could possibly show my face.
My friend Brian whom I had coerced into moving down was experiencing similar woes with the modeling business for which he was pretty successful at. He ended up quitting the business due to the caliber of people who amass the industry, from the bookers to the agency heads and to the cut throat models he was having to see (repeatedly) at go sees. His new Cocker spaniel, Ben was dying of the heat that also permanently stained the armpit spots of many a cherished shirt of mine. Walking one block in the Summer in South Florida is akin to being a break dancer on the Equator.
I, besides hating most of the above, could not stand to be around these so called hipsters and nellies who basically got 86'd from New York for one thing or another. Every drag queen who burned his bridge in the club scene in NY was manning (for lack of a better word) the doors of the clubs in Sobe, as they tried to called it, but embarrasses me just to write it. Every failed waiter and waitress, which means actor and dancer from NYC (myself included) scurried down there. The lure of cheap and plentiful drugs could not entice anyone with half a brain left to consider planting your feet there. So, I left.
Epilogue: I cringed when I read in yesterdays gossip column how Jon Bon Jove could not contain his loud guffaws as Chris Kattan (of SNL) did his Night @ the Roxbury dance as Paris Hilton looked on as well.
This had to be the biggest scam I ever was a part of. Bigger and more self deprecating than the time I bought those Stereo Speakers from the guy in the parking lot of a Mall in Jersey, only to have purchased empty shells of speakers with bricks inside. But I digress. South Beach was supposed to be this burgeoning Mecca of show business, with supposed studios in the works and production crews scouting around and blah, blah, blah. I took the bait hook line and sinker and like a good addict, I took someone very close to me along for the ride. I ended up staying there about two months. This after shipping every single thing I owned down there via Parcel Post and cutting all ties with my hometown. Why the frig didn't I sublet or contact a corporation that puts up out of town employees, I don't know. What I do know is that South Beach was a bust. You saw the same people everyday, in the 8 square blocks of usable terrain. So, if you saw Joe and Beth at the gym, you then saw them at the supermarket, and then you bumped into them when you were buying your Cuban Coffee, and then you saw Joe rollerblading Ocean Avenue while Beth was tanning on the beach and you wrapped up the day with seeing them at one of the clubs. Every Fucking Day, every Fucking Person Living There. I had just went through my fifth job in a month, and the square mile or so mentioned above turned into square footage of space where I could possibly show my face.
My friend Brian whom I had coerced into moving down was experiencing similar woes with the modeling business for which he was pretty successful at. He ended up quitting the business due to the caliber of people who amass the industry, from the bookers to the agency heads and to the cut throat models he was having to see (repeatedly) at go sees. His new Cocker spaniel, Ben was dying of the heat that also permanently stained the armpit spots of many a cherished shirt of mine. Walking one block in the Summer in South Florida is akin to being a break dancer on the Equator.
I, besides hating most of the above, could not stand to be around these so called hipsters and nellies who basically got 86'd from New York for one thing or another. Every drag queen who burned his bridge in the club scene in NY was manning (for lack of a better word) the doors of the clubs in Sobe, as they tried to called it, but embarrasses me just to write it. Every failed waiter and waitress, which means actor and dancer from NYC (myself included) scurried down there. The lure of cheap and plentiful drugs could not entice anyone with half a brain left to consider planting your feet there. So, I left.
Epilogue: I cringed when I read in yesterdays gossip column how Jon Bon Jove could not contain his loud guffaws as Chris Kattan (of SNL) did his Night @ the Roxbury dance as Paris Hilton looked on as well.
Monday, February 06, 2006
We are DOOMED
The recent activities of Muslim Extremists has me questioning one part of that sentence. Is their any Muslim NON-Extremists. Doesn't it seem that for every single outcry by this fanatical sect, they all jump and caterwall and light fires and throw rocks and denounce a WHOLE COUNTRY by the actions of one person. These people are doing exactly what they tell us they do not do. Generalize. They freaking generalize every situation. If Denmark pisses them off, then it is Death to every Dane, if it's Somalia or freaking a Antartican they fucking write in their 900 newspapers "Death to the Antarcticans".
You probably heard about the ferry crash where their are like 900 presumed dead Muslims (hand me a tissue, please) coming back from work. Did you hear that while the Shippers where out helping in the search, all these "fanatics" torched their offices. Did you hear that the captain of the boat evacuated first? All these Koran thumpers spew venomous quotations at the media, yet when their backs are half turned they contradict themselves by doing the opposite.
We are doomed folks. Would you trust any one of these fuckers with the rights to a Nuclear warhead? I wouldn't, I'd have trouble giving them a freaking water pistol. Look how they make weapons out of the most primitive sources of nature. People still get stoned to death on a regular basis. The inciter of this whole Danish rigmarole happens to be a buddy of one of the 9/11 hijackers.
Not to leave you in limbo, but I now live with this Muslim guy in the halfway house, I feel like a sixth grader saying this, like I was talking about my new love, but I can not wait to tell you about this CHARACTER!!
You probably heard about the ferry crash where their are like 900 presumed dead Muslims (hand me a tissue, please) coming back from work. Did you hear that while the Shippers where out helping in the search, all these "fanatics" torched their offices. Did you hear that the captain of the boat evacuated first? All these Koran thumpers spew venomous quotations at the media, yet when their backs are half turned they contradict themselves by doing the opposite.
We are doomed folks. Would you trust any one of these fuckers with the rights to a Nuclear warhead? I wouldn't, I'd have trouble giving them a freaking water pistol. Look how they make weapons out of the most primitive sources of nature. People still get stoned to death on a regular basis. The inciter of this whole Danish rigmarole happens to be a buddy of one of the 9/11 hijackers.
Not to leave you in limbo, but I now live with this Muslim guy in the halfway house, I feel like a sixth grader saying this, like I was talking about my new love, but I can not wait to tell you about this CHARACTER!!
Sunday, February 05, 2006
More Agita
So I do what might be construed by the typical reader as Demo-ing. Which means that I hand out shit to people as they shop at the store I represent. Now, this isn't Cosco we are talking about here, this is an Upscale Upper East Side Gourmet Store, where customers get their hair done before coming to shop and the soccer moms have Bentley's instead of Dodge Astro's. But, just like you can not buy class it seems that the Manners Store also went out of business where these people are concerned.
I take Neurontin for my anxiety and shit, and these fuckers really seem to test the RDA of my Rx. Besides the grabby old men who come up and reach for the first thing they see; these the men for whom "Please Wash Your Hands" signs in bathrooms were invented, the same old bastards who dribble their honeycomb yellow piss all over the seat that they leave down in all bathrooms, the same guys who forget to flush and constantly pick their ears and noses with no avail to who is watching. Their screechie voiced shorter spouses whose vitrolic comments to anything resembling a pleasantry come up grab and than go, "Whats this?" like I fucking owe them something and It'll just make my day if they like what I'm showcasing. And they will take it anyway. These ladies are a few dollars away from being like their ilk down in Florida who attend functions with plastic baggie lined pocketbooks so they don't have to eat cat food in the coming week.
The ones who really fucking kill me are these uglyish Broker Types who make a decent salary and attended an East Coast University whilst coming from Buttfuck Red State. This type of Lifetime watching chick who buys a gym membership on January 2nd of every year and is looking for a refund on January 16th. The kind who does not have a cat, but everything she owns has cat-like potential in it's cheesey down on the farmness. This one c word was showing some visiting yokel our store, going up to every counter and showing off her new cosmopolitan lifestyle. Calling guacamole with a mole at the end of the word instead of mole-ley and telling her dimwit friend that those mushrooms are pronounced Shi-take, instead of shitcakes like he was trying to read. She came up to me and she was like: "What in God's name is this" and I answered "A Demo" as someone would say, "Duh" and she was like "I have never seen such a thing at C___________." And I replied, "We do it 5 days a week" to which she had to pretend an excuse because she knows dam fucking well that she never shops here, she knows we do not sell "Chunky Monkey" here, the only item she indulges herself with to mask her miserable phoney life.
This is my misery!
I take Neurontin for my anxiety and shit, and these fuckers really seem to test the RDA of my Rx. Besides the grabby old men who come up and reach for the first thing they see; these the men for whom "Please Wash Your Hands" signs in bathrooms were invented, the same old bastards who dribble their honeycomb yellow piss all over the seat that they leave down in all bathrooms, the same guys who forget to flush and constantly pick their ears and noses with no avail to who is watching. Their screechie voiced shorter spouses whose vitrolic comments to anything resembling a pleasantry come up grab and than go, "Whats this?" like I fucking owe them something and It'll just make my day if they like what I'm showcasing. And they will take it anyway. These ladies are a few dollars away from being like their ilk down in Florida who attend functions with plastic baggie lined pocketbooks so they don't have to eat cat food in the coming week.
The ones who really fucking kill me are these uglyish Broker Types who make a decent salary and attended an East Coast University whilst coming from Buttfuck Red State. This type of Lifetime watching chick who buys a gym membership on January 2nd of every year and is looking for a refund on January 16th. The kind who does not have a cat, but everything she owns has cat-like potential in it's cheesey down on the farmness. This one c word was showing some visiting yokel our store, going up to every counter and showing off her new cosmopolitan lifestyle. Calling guacamole with a mole at the end of the word instead of mole-ley and telling her dimwit friend that those mushrooms are pronounced Shi-take, instead of shitcakes like he was trying to read. She came up to me and she was like: "What in God's name is this" and I answered "A Demo" as someone would say, "Duh" and she was like "I have never seen such a thing at C___________." And I replied, "We do it 5 days a week" to which she had to pretend an excuse because she knows dam fucking well that she never shops here, she knows we do not sell "Chunky Monkey" here, the only item she indulges herself with to mask her miserable phoney life.
This is my misery!
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