My vacation? I'm not going to write about sweltering heat. I had enough of that in Phoenix, where I knew it was pointless to say so, but I kept saying, "Damn, it's hot. Like, really really hot." No, I'm not going to talk about that. I'm not going to say that it got so motherfucking hot, my shoes actually melted to the ground and I had to call the fire department to get me loose. Of course I wouldn't say that. It didn't happen.
Fuck Me, It's Back to Work
I'm sure most people are sick of me complaining about how much I hate my job, so maybe I shouldn't talk about that either.
But I will.
Goddamnit. Why do I have to work? Why couldn't I have been born into a nice, healthy trust fund?
I was commiserating with a fellow low-level government functionary today as we walked over to Starbucks. "If there was just some sort of way to get the money, but not have to do this job to get it, I'd be fine," I told him. "Even better," I added, "I'd prefer taking the money, and not working for it at all."
Because therein lies the crux of the situation. You like that word? Crux? Okay. Good. The issue is that all jobs suck.
Oh, you bastard. You're probably saying right now, "I'd be really happy if I had that promotion," or, "Life would rule if I had such-and-such a job," or, "I'd get bored if I didn't work."
Fine, keep telling yourself that, you poor, miserable wretch. I'll stand here with my feet firmly planted on the plane of reality knowing that all jobs suck. If you woke up one day and suddenly had a billion dollars (or whatever amount would sustain you at a rockstar-like level for awhile), you can't say you wouldn't quit your job, no matter how great a job it is.
You can't sit there and honestly say you wouldn't write your resignation letter on your manager or boss's wall in permanent marker (and by resignation letter, I mean you'd write up, "FUCK YOU, CUNT!"). It doesn't matter if they were nice or mean to you--you'd do it. You think I wouldn't? My resignation letter would be in smoke signals: I'd gather up all the office supplies I could get my hands on and collect them in a biiiiiiig pile in my manager's office, throw on some toner and dry-erase board cleaner (which is really just rubbing alcohol--shhh, don't tell), and light it up. Yes, I'd light a huge office supply bonfire. Who needs to give two weeks notice when the smell of burning plastic really gets the point across for you?
First day back from vacation was obviously a shitty one. I change my voicemail to say, "Hi, you've reached Mr. Medinski in Los Angeles, California. I will be out of the office May 27th and May 31st for the Memorial Day holiday." Six fucking messages. Why? The subtext of my voicemail was this: "I'm on vacation bitches. Leave me alone." Fuck. I hate voicemail. Voicemail is like some sort of Work Creation Device. People leave these messages. Our agency actually has a 24 hour call return policy. All calls must be returned within 24 hours. THEN, I found out that nobody really checks to see if calls are returned within 24 hours. What's that mean? The 24 hour call return policy does not exist.
I had two meetings today, though. Somehow, this made life MORE difficult. Usually, I enjoy meetings simply because they're not work. I believe the Webster's Dictionary defines 'meeting' this way: Group of people sitting in a room trying not to work. Usually, donuts are present.
Yes, for entertainment I always push the donuts down towards the morbidly obese man to see how many he'll eat. Don't tell me I'm cruel, or an asshole. I don't like him. And it's somewhat entertaining. You ever see a man nonchalantly eat a donut in two bites? Nonchalant is the key, here.
But the meetings made life difficult, because they were interspersed with work. Since the meetings didn't take up the entire day, that means I had to keep returning to my desk to do shit to look productive. I think printing out Quizno's coupons online and emailing my coworkers to say, "Hey, I just printed out Quizno's coupons," gives the perfect image of productivity. Also, if you stand over a coworker's computer and stare intently at the screen while talking about the grumbling in your stomach, this can work as well.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
An Image of Hell
(Hey, anybody ever read this blog anymore?)
It's true. I saw Hell, today.
People think of Hell as really hot, flames everywhere, pitchforks poking you in the ass, little devils scratching at your flesh, etc. That's not Hell. Let me explain.
I was driving on the I-10 freeway* from Phoenix back to Los Angeles. I was pulling a solid 85 miles per hour (or, for you Unamericans, somwhere in the neighborhood of 135 kilometers per hour). Traffic was flowing. And yet I knew it was coming--traffic.
Let me interject to say that I figured that if I left Phoenix at 11:30 AM, I would be home by about 5 PM. My calculations depended on the traffic not happening until about twenty or thirty miles out of LA.
No. I was wrong. So wrong. And when I saw the brakelights, I announced to nobody, "I shall never, ever drive to Phoenix--ever, ever again."
My friends, about 110 miles outside of LA (just before Palm Springs), I saw the brakelights, and then found myself in stop-and-go, rushhour-like traffic. But it was not rushhour-like. Why? Because it was a looooooong line of traffic that I assume was jammed all the way into LA. I thought, "Hopefully, it's just a really bad traffic accident and it'll speed up again once they scrape the body off the highway."
But then, at about 10 miles per hour (16 km/h), I crested a hill and saw the longest line of traffic I'd ever seen. My imagination could not produce a sight like this. At the top of this hill, I could see out about twenty or thirty miles in front of me. The road stretched out and sort of zig-zagged across the plains and then disappeared into the horizon. And covering this were cars. As the road got farther away, it just looked like a ribbon of sparkles, hardly moving. Do you think I saw this, and did not weep? To quote The Big Leboski, "Strong men also cry. Strong men...also cry." Are you surprised at my tears, sir?
And there I was, stuck in it. It's not that it didn't move, either. It moved at about ten to fifteen miles per hour. Luckily, my assumption about the jam stretching all the way to LA was wrong--the long traffic jam only lasted to Redlands (about fifty miles).
But that's what Hell is. Hell is sitting in your car (a stickshift, mind you) shifting from neutral, to first, to second, to third, to first, to neutral. To first. To neutral. To first, to second--BRAKE!--to neutral. Stop. You can't just stop and take a nap or read or shoot-up, because traffic was actually moving (albeit slowly). I had to keep my attention on the road. And yet I knew that the idea of getting home by 5 was now out the window, though my bladder was depending on this. Luckily, I have a good AC, some good radio reception, and my mommy packed me some sandwiches.
However, this was just a glimpse.
What Hell Really Is
In Hell, your destination isn't another 103 miles. It's 8,384,929,948 miles with the next rest stop in 168 miles and you bladder is ready to burst (the rest stop will be closed; in fact, all of them will be closed). The AC won't work. It'll be stickshift. Traffic will move no faster than 10 miles per hour, but will usually be between 4 miles per hour and 8 miles per hour--fast enough that you're moving, but slow enough that you can't take your foot off the clutch or you'll go too fast and hit the car in front of you. And the CD collection you'll have available will consist of three CDs you've already heard a 450,000 times. No radio reception. No company. Nothing to see, so you can't even play "I Spy" with yourself.
Now, what would you prefer? I'd prefer the little dudes with pitchforks and all those flames.
Vacation was fun, by the way. And thank you for your concern.
*FUN FACT: Around Palm Springs to about Redlands, the signs proclaim that this is called the Sonny Bono Memorial Freeway. Come on. That's wierd, right?
It's true. I saw Hell, today.
People think of Hell as really hot, flames everywhere, pitchforks poking you in the ass, little devils scratching at your flesh, etc. That's not Hell. Let me explain.
I was driving on the I-10 freeway* from Phoenix back to Los Angeles. I was pulling a solid 85 miles per hour (or, for you Unamericans, somwhere in the neighborhood of 135 kilometers per hour). Traffic was flowing. And yet I knew it was coming--traffic.
Let me interject to say that I figured that if I left Phoenix at 11:30 AM, I would be home by about 5 PM. My calculations depended on the traffic not happening until about twenty or thirty miles out of LA.
No. I was wrong. So wrong. And when I saw the brakelights, I announced to nobody, "I shall never, ever drive to Phoenix--ever, ever again."
My friends, about 110 miles outside of LA (just before Palm Springs), I saw the brakelights, and then found myself in stop-and-go, rushhour-like traffic. But it was not rushhour-like. Why? Because it was a looooooong line of traffic that I assume was jammed all the way into LA. I thought, "Hopefully, it's just a really bad traffic accident and it'll speed up again once they scrape the body off the highway."
But then, at about 10 miles per hour (16 km/h), I crested a hill and saw the longest line of traffic I'd ever seen. My imagination could not produce a sight like this. At the top of this hill, I could see out about twenty or thirty miles in front of me. The road stretched out and sort of zig-zagged across the plains and then disappeared into the horizon. And covering this were cars. As the road got farther away, it just looked like a ribbon of sparkles, hardly moving. Do you think I saw this, and did not weep? To quote The Big Leboski, "Strong men also cry. Strong men...also cry." Are you surprised at my tears, sir?
And there I was, stuck in it. It's not that it didn't move, either. It moved at about ten to fifteen miles per hour. Luckily, my assumption about the jam stretching all the way to LA was wrong--the long traffic jam only lasted to Redlands (about fifty miles).
But that's what Hell is. Hell is sitting in your car (a stickshift, mind you) shifting from neutral, to first, to second, to third, to first, to neutral. To first. To neutral. To first, to second--BRAKE!--to neutral. Stop. You can't just stop and take a nap or read or shoot-up, because traffic was actually moving (albeit slowly). I had to keep my attention on the road. And yet I knew that the idea of getting home by 5 was now out the window, though my bladder was depending on this. Luckily, I have a good AC, some good radio reception, and my mommy packed me some sandwiches.
However, this was just a glimpse.
What Hell Really Is
In Hell, your destination isn't another 103 miles. It's 8,384,929,948 miles with the next rest stop in 168 miles and you bladder is ready to burst (the rest stop will be closed; in fact, all of them will be closed). The AC won't work. It'll be stickshift. Traffic will move no faster than 10 miles per hour, but will usually be between 4 miles per hour and 8 miles per hour--fast enough that you're moving, but slow enough that you can't take your foot off the clutch or you'll go too fast and hit the car in front of you. And the CD collection you'll have available will consist of three CDs you've already heard a 450,000 times. No radio reception. No company. Nothing to see, so you can't even play "I Spy" with yourself.
Now, what would you prefer? I'd prefer the little dudes with pitchforks and all those flames.
Vacation was fun, by the way. And thank you for your concern.
*FUN FACT: Around Palm Springs to about Redlands, the signs proclaim that this is called the Sonny Bono Memorial Freeway. Come on. That's wierd, right?
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Scandinavian Car, Scandinavian Furniture
Let me make one thing straight.
I drive a Scandinavian car. Not only that, but I drive it to Ikea. This makes me not only straight, but also a real man. Real men drive Scandinavian cars to buy Scandinavian furniture--because then it's official. I walk right into that store, buy a Pello, look at the Klakbo
And typically, I'm the only guy with a Scandinavian car parked in the Ikea parking lot. Everyone else has their big, stupid-ass American SUVs. Assholes.
Tomorrow, I return to LA. This is a good thing. My lungs were getting used to the unadulterated air. I need to get right back into the exhaust and haze that the San Gabriel Valley offers.
My boy's film premieres at the Seattle International Film Festival tonight in 20 minutes. People think Marcel is Polish, and this actually seems to help him out. Whatever. Just because the actors seem to be speaking Polish, it's really gibberish. The film is Holiday. Don't be a dick; check it out. And if you have the chance to see it, do so.
I drive a Scandinavian car. Not only that, but I drive it to Ikea. This makes me not only straight, but also a real man. Real men drive Scandinavian cars to buy Scandinavian furniture--because then it's official. I walk right into that store, buy a Pello, look at the Klakbo
And typically, I'm the only guy with a Scandinavian car parked in the Ikea parking lot. Everyone else has their big, stupid-ass American SUVs. Assholes.
Tomorrow, I return to LA. This is a good thing. My lungs were getting used to the unadulterated air. I need to get right back into the exhaust and haze that the San Gabriel Valley offers.
My boy's film premieres at the Seattle International Film Festival tonight in 20 minutes. People think Marcel is Polish, and this actually seems to help him out. Whatever. Just because the actors seem to be speaking Polish, it's really gibberish. The film is Holiday. Don't be a dick; check it out. And if you have the chance to see it, do so.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
***REMOVED***: Another rejection...Goddamnit!!
Yes, the latest in a long series of rejections. Unfortunately, I've removed this story. Want to read it? Email me at rybreadmed@yahoo.com and I'll consider. I've got to consider innocent parties, and a fucking Cease and Desist Order by her fucking lawyer (who knew she even had legal counsel?). Goddamnit.
I will let you read my NOTE TO SELF: Never loan out any other movies or DVDs without some type of collateral. I actually did this twice due to watching too many Seinfeld episodes. If you remember the episode where George leaves the Russian hat in the woman's apartment as a way to have a reason to talk to the woman again AND get back into her apartment, then you understand. You also understand that George never gets his Russian hat back and she ends up hating him.
Perhaps our dinner failed because my advocacy of revolutionary socialism is a "bad thing to talk about." You know, if it is considered "bad dinner conversation," then maybe she could have clued me in.
I will let you read my NOTE TO SELF: Never loan out any other movies or DVDs without some type of collateral. I actually did this twice due to watching too many Seinfeld episodes. If you remember the episode where George leaves the Russian hat in the woman's apartment as a way to have a reason to talk to the woman again AND get back into her apartment, then you understand. You also understand that George never gets his Russian hat back and she ends up hating him.
Perhaps our dinner failed because my advocacy of revolutionary socialism is a "bad thing to talk about." You know, if it is considered "bad dinner conversation," then maybe she could have clued me in.
My Big Gay Brother (not that there's anything wrong with that)
And not that he's really gay.
He emailed me some digital pictures of his latest vacation with his wife and their friends. Good, normal vacation pictures. What somewhat stopped me, though, were the pictures of my brother in the pink polos.
I'm for gay rights more than most. I believe all gay couples deserve the same rights as married couples. We let people destroy their lives with drugs and alcohol. It does not matter if you are gay or straight; anyone (any race, gender, sexuality) can become a drug-addicted alcoholic. My point? Marriage should be the same way. If you want to destroy your life without the use of substances, then anyone should be able to get married.
Back to my brother in the pretty pink polos. He's not gay. He's quite married, and quite heterosexual. I know this, though, because I know my brother. He dislikes reading, gets bored by art, and is a slob. He's straight. But the pretty pink polo says, "Hey sailor, how long you in town for?!" even more than a clean-shaven, pierce-tongued man dressed in a rainbow shirt and white Birkenstock sandals screaming at the top of his lungs, "I'm gay! Gay, gay, gay!! I shop at Ikea and drive a Subaru!"
Hm.
A mystery, right?
Perhaps he doesn't know. I know he likes polos. Is he perhaps colorblind? No. He's not colorblind. Maybe he just likes pink.
But a boy that likes pink? Oh, shit. We're right back to square one. Boys don't like pink. That's a girl's color. So why's he wearing pink polos?
And let's get back to gay rights. How can anyone discriminate against people just because of their sexual orientation? That's why God gave everyone a race, gender, and nationality to discriminate against. I hate hearing someone being called a fag. I would totally support a gay man yelling out racist or nationalistic epithets, though.
Okay, let's return to the pink polo. Pink. Maybe it was on sale. In fact, knowing my brother and our shared sense of cheapness (hint: shalom), it had to be on sale.
Arizona's great, by the way. And thanks for asking. Not that anybody did. It's hot here. As in, so hot that I felt my organs cooking inside my body today. That was so strange. I swear, everyone felt like it was actually heating up from the inside out. God's own convection oven.
I go back on Monday. Returning to LA is akin to charting a course across the Pacific Ocean--but probably more difficult. Traffic is the enemy. If I leave too early, I'll hit lunch traffic. If I leave too late to go home, I'll hit the returning-from-vacation traffic. Not only that, but there's my freeway choices:
1) The 10 to the 605 up to the 210 west to Pasadena?
2) The 10 to the 15 up to the 210?
3) The 10 to the 215 up to San Bernardino, to the road that turns into the 210?
4) The 10 out to El Monte, and then take a variety of surface streets to get home?
5) Ditch the car and walk?!
This is what I think about. Others think about the meaning of life. Others think about society, books, other people, good jokes, funny stories, the universe. I think about how I'm going to make it through traffic to get home. Because if you choose incorrectly, you'll be trapped in traffic...FOREVER.
He emailed me some digital pictures of his latest vacation with his wife and their friends. Good, normal vacation pictures. What somewhat stopped me, though, were the pictures of my brother in the pink polos.
I'm for gay rights more than most. I believe all gay couples deserve the same rights as married couples. We let people destroy their lives with drugs and alcohol. It does not matter if you are gay or straight; anyone (any race, gender, sexuality) can become a drug-addicted alcoholic. My point? Marriage should be the same way. If you want to destroy your life without the use of substances, then anyone should be able to get married.
Back to my brother in the pretty pink polos. He's not gay. He's quite married, and quite heterosexual. I know this, though, because I know my brother. He dislikes reading, gets bored by art, and is a slob. He's straight. But the pretty pink polo says, "Hey sailor, how long you in town for?!" even more than a clean-shaven, pierce-tongued man dressed in a rainbow shirt and white Birkenstock sandals screaming at the top of his lungs, "I'm gay! Gay, gay, gay!! I shop at Ikea and drive a Subaru!"
Hm.
A mystery, right?
Perhaps he doesn't know. I know he likes polos. Is he perhaps colorblind? No. He's not colorblind. Maybe he just likes pink.
But a boy that likes pink? Oh, shit. We're right back to square one. Boys don't like pink. That's a girl's color. So why's he wearing pink polos?
And let's get back to gay rights. How can anyone discriminate against people just because of their sexual orientation? That's why God gave everyone a race, gender, and nationality to discriminate against. I hate hearing someone being called a fag. I would totally support a gay man yelling out racist or nationalistic epithets, though.
Okay, let's return to the pink polo. Pink. Maybe it was on sale. In fact, knowing my brother and our shared sense of cheapness (hint: shalom), it had to be on sale.
Arizona's great, by the way. And thanks for asking. Not that anybody did. It's hot here. As in, so hot that I felt my organs cooking inside my body today. That was so strange. I swear, everyone felt like it was actually heating up from the inside out. God's own convection oven.
I go back on Monday. Returning to LA is akin to charting a course across the Pacific Ocean--but probably more difficult. Traffic is the enemy. If I leave too early, I'll hit lunch traffic. If I leave too late to go home, I'll hit the returning-from-vacation traffic. Not only that, but there's my freeway choices:
1) The 10 to the 605 up to the 210 west to Pasadena?
2) The 10 to the 15 up to the 210?
3) The 10 to the 215 up to San Bernardino, to the road that turns into the 210?
4) The 10 out to El Monte, and then take a variety of surface streets to get home?
5) Ditch the car and walk?!
This is what I think about. Others think about the meaning of life. Others think about society, books, other people, good jokes, funny stories, the universe. I think about how I'm going to make it through traffic to get home. Because if you choose incorrectly, you'll be trapped in traffic...FOREVER.
Friday, May 27, 2005
From Deep Within the Family Compound...
I've shoved off to Arizona to visit my parents and their dogs for the Memorial Day weekend.
It's so beautiful out here. No traffic, not a lot of smog. And you can actually see the stars at night. It feels so rural compared to LA.
Last night, when I pulled into the compound, my dad met me with a shotgun. He patrols the property at night. This is sort of a new thing. He and my mother became neurotic survivalists when they moved to Arizona.
"Dad, can you put the shotgun down?" I asked.
"Can't son. I've got to protect the compound against the Commies."
"Cold War's over, Dad."
"Republicans." Then he pulled out his 9 mil and loaded a new clip, and put it back on his belt. "Gotta protect ourselves against the Goddamn Republicans."
Patrolling the property is a bit odd. It is in a nice neighborhood right in the middle of the city. But since all the neighbors do it, I guess it's only right for my parents to do it too.
It's a different world in Arizona. There are a lot of conservatives out here. Lots more trucks. More bumper stickers that support the president. And they don't put license plates on the FRONT of their cars, here. Nuts!
When you look out across the desert, it seems to go forever. It's beautiful. And I think, "Wouldn't it be awesome if that was covered with hot fudge?" Fudge with SPRINKLES as far as the eye could see...I suppose that would make it a desert dessert.
I've got to go. I've got patrol duty on the compound tonight. I've never used a gun before, but that doesn't seem to stop the native Arizonans.
It's so beautiful out here. No traffic, not a lot of smog. And you can actually see the stars at night. It feels so rural compared to LA.
Last night, when I pulled into the compound, my dad met me with a shotgun. He patrols the property at night. This is sort of a new thing. He and my mother became neurotic survivalists when they moved to Arizona.
"Dad, can you put the shotgun down?" I asked.
"Can't son. I've got to protect the compound against the Commies."
"Cold War's over, Dad."
"Republicans." Then he pulled out his 9 mil and loaded a new clip, and put it back on his belt. "Gotta protect ourselves against the Goddamn Republicans."
Patrolling the property is a bit odd. It is in a nice neighborhood right in the middle of the city. But since all the neighbors do it, I guess it's only right for my parents to do it too.
It's a different world in Arizona. There are a lot of conservatives out here. Lots more trucks. More bumper stickers that support the president. And they don't put license plates on the FRONT of their cars, here. Nuts!
When you look out across the desert, it seems to go forever. It's beautiful. And I think, "Wouldn't it be awesome if that was covered with hot fudge?" Fudge with SPRINKLES as far as the eye could see...I suppose that would make it a desert dessert.
I've got to go. I've got patrol duty on the compound tonight. I've never used a gun before, but that doesn't seem to stop the native Arizonans.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Bobby Fischer Took my Grill. How the Fuck Will I Make My Steaks?
Reminder: This same shit appears at blog.myspace.com/medinski. But since you're already here, don't worry about putting your pants back on...
To impress a girl, I told her I'd make her dinner. Not just to impress her, of course. There's something about showing a woman that you know your way around a kitchen. To show you can put different raw ingredients together and, with a little heat, transform them into something far more stunning. There's something primitive. There's something in this that links us with our forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers as they took control of FIRE and figured out how to correctly apply it to cook a piece of meat, or make a brilliant creme broulee.
Okay. So it is just to impress her. Fuck you.
I have a bunch of concerns I need to address before I do this. I'm about to shove off to the grocery store, but really need some direction...
1) What brand of frozen pizza should I get?
Obviously, store brand just won't cut it here (don't suggest getting Kroger-brand and stuffing it into a Tombstone Pizza box, either). I need a brand that says, "Homemade." Obviously, DiGiorno is supposed to look like it was delivered. That won't cut it. It's got to look like I made it, God damnit! Okay...don't panic, Ryan.
2) Does adding a sprig of parsley to a TV dinner give it that 'made from scratch' look?
I bought assloads of parsley. I figured I could cover up the entire TV dinner tray with it. I figured that she'd be so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of parsley piled in front of her, her attention would be drawn away from the fact that I hadn't removed the food and put it on a tray.
3) Roscoe's is delicious, but I don't want to spend that kind of money. Do you think she'll pay if I pretend to completely ruin dinner, and then say, "I was trying to make fried chicken and waffles--just like they make at Roscoe's. I'm such a Goddamn fuckup. I really wanted to eat Roscoe's like food. You know, like the one less than five minutes from here up on Lake Avenue, but I spend all this money on this chicken in the oven and I'm broke...What are we ever going to do?"
Roscoe's is delicious. And it's not that I don't want to spend that kind of money; I just wish it was free. And if I can get her to pay, then it is free (at least to me). I think the key to doing this right is to take a bucket of KFC and put it in my oven at 550 degrees for an hour and a half. That should set that "burnt chicken--better go out to dinner" mood right away.
4) If she keeps kosher, do you think she'll enjoy eating imitation soy ham?
I mean, obviously I'm not going to spend the extra money on the goofy, strange-tasting imitation soy ham when the real ham is half the price. I suppose the real question is this: Will she notice? The same question applies to crab meat, and imitation crab meat. Discuss.
5) What should I serve for dessert?
And by this question, I suppose I mean to ask how fast you think she'll clean my kitchen. Would you expect her to clean it better and faster if the food's really good, or are there other variables I should take into consideration? Maybe I'll leave my vacuum cleaner out for her, too--just in case she's in the mood.
6) I promised I'd make steak. If I serve cold cereal, do you think she'll remember my "promise?"
Promises were meant to be broken. Like rules. But breaking a promise tends to make you more of an asshole. And I went looking around for a cereal that resembled steak, so I could at least say, "No, no, take a look. It's Steak Flakes!" No cereal that resembles steak, though (at least I didn't see it on the shelf at Trader Joe's. However, I realized that I could get a couple of bags of beef jerky and shred it. Then, I can pour nice cold milk over it when she gets here and *VOILA!* Ryan is suddenly eating dinner by himself...
7) How should I make the steaks?
There's so many ways: on the George Foreman grill, a barbeque grill, in the oven, in a cast-iron skillet, broiled, etc. However, the George Foreman's on the fritz. I lost my barbeque grill, and suspect it was stolen by...well, nevermind my conspiracy theories. The fact is, the barbeque grill is gone*. Basically, all the other methods won't really work. At issue, also, is that I really like a woody, mesquite flavor from my steak. When you roast something over an open grill, mesquite or applewood chips really add a lot of flavor. But again, I have no grill. I'm thinking of taking the steaks and wrapping them up in wax paper with the woodchips, then throwing them in the microwave for about 10 minutes. I think that should do it, but do you think that'll work? It shouldn't be too different than if I did it on a grill, right?
Wish me luck. If you need any culinary advice, just ask.
* I suspect Bobby Fischer. Seriously. He used to keep his shit in storage here in Pasadena, and then the property owner of the storage place sold it all at public auction because Fischer never paid his rent. Bobby Fischer got really mad that all his shit got sold. I figure that he saw my grill just sitting there and the bastard took it! That anti-semitic chess-playing prick stole my grill! Obviously, he illegally came back into the country to do it, and then left undetected with my grill.
To impress a girl, I told her I'd make her dinner. Not just to impress her, of course. There's something about showing a woman that you know your way around a kitchen. To show you can put different raw ingredients together and, with a little heat, transform them into something far more stunning. There's something primitive. There's something in this that links us with our forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers' forefathers as they took control of FIRE and figured out how to correctly apply it to cook a piece of meat, or make a brilliant creme broulee.
Okay. So it is just to impress her. Fuck you.
I have a bunch of concerns I need to address before I do this. I'm about to shove off to the grocery store, but really need some direction...
1) What brand of frozen pizza should I get?
Obviously, store brand just won't cut it here (don't suggest getting Kroger-brand and stuffing it into a Tombstone Pizza box, either). I need a brand that says, "Homemade." Obviously, DiGiorno is supposed to look like it was delivered. That won't cut it. It's got to look like I made it, God damnit! Okay...don't panic, Ryan.
2) Does adding a sprig of parsley to a TV dinner give it that 'made from scratch' look?
I bought assloads of parsley. I figured I could cover up the entire TV dinner tray with it. I figured that she'd be so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of parsley piled in front of her, her attention would be drawn away from the fact that I hadn't removed the food and put it on a tray.
3) Roscoe's is delicious, but I don't want to spend that kind of money. Do you think she'll pay if I pretend to completely ruin dinner, and then say, "I was trying to make fried chicken and waffles--just like they make at Roscoe's. I'm such a Goddamn fuckup. I really wanted to eat Roscoe's like food. You know, like the one less than five minutes from here up on Lake Avenue, but I spend all this money on this chicken in the oven and I'm broke...What are we ever going to do?"
Roscoe's is delicious. And it's not that I don't want to spend that kind of money; I just wish it was free. And if I can get her to pay, then it is free (at least to me). I think the key to doing this right is to take a bucket of KFC and put it in my oven at 550 degrees for an hour and a half. That should set that "burnt chicken--better go out to dinner" mood right away.
4) If she keeps kosher, do you think she'll enjoy eating imitation soy ham?
I mean, obviously I'm not going to spend the extra money on the goofy, strange-tasting imitation soy ham when the real ham is half the price. I suppose the real question is this: Will she notice? The same question applies to crab meat, and imitation crab meat. Discuss.
5) What should I serve for dessert?
And by this question, I suppose I mean to ask how fast you think she'll clean my kitchen. Would you expect her to clean it better and faster if the food's really good, or are there other variables I should take into consideration? Maybe I'll leave my vacuum cleaner out for her, too--just in case she's in the mood.
6) I promised I'd make steak. If I serve cold cereal, do you think she'll remember my "promise?"
Promises were meant to be broken. Like rules. But breaking a promise tends to make you more of an asshole. And I went looking around for a cereal that resembled steak, so I could at least say, "No, no, take a look. It's Steak Flakes!" No cereal that resembles steak, though (at least I didn't see it on the shelf at Trader Joe's. However, I realized that I could get a couple of bags of beef jerky and shred it. Then, I can pour nice cold milk over it when she gets here and *VOILA!* Ryan is suddenly eating dinner by himself...
7) How should I make the steaks?
There's so many ways: on the George Foreman grill, a barbeque grill, in the oven, in a cast-iron skillet, broiled, etc. However, the George Foreman's on the fritz. I lost my barbeque grill, and suspect it was stolen by...well, nevermind my conspiracy theories. The fact is, the barbeque grill is gone*. Basically, all the other methods won't really work. At issue, also, is that I really like a woody, mesquite flavor from my steak. When you roast something over an open grill, mesquite or applewood chips really add a lot of flavor. But again, I have no grill. I'm thinking of taking the steaks and wrapping them up in wax paper with the woodchips, then throwing them in the microwave for about 10 minutes. I think that should do it, but do you think that'll work? It shouldn't be too different than if I did it on a grill, right?
Wish me luck. If you need any culinary advice, just ask.
* I suspect Bobby Fischer. Seriously. He used to keep his shit in storage here in Pasadena, and then the property owner of the storage place sold it all at public auction because Fischer never paid his rent. Bobby Fischer got really mad that all his shit got sold. I figure that he saw my grill just sitting there and the bastard took it! That anti-semitic chess-playing prick stole my grill! Obviously, he illegally came back into the country to do it, and then left undetected with my grill.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
"Welcome to Santa Monica. Go Fuck Yourself."
I got a lovely little note on my car from the Santa Monica Police Department. They care about my safety. They care about your safety.
Obviously, I was endangering lives by parking in an empty parking lot next to the beach of the Pacific Coastal Highway at 2:30 in the morning. The friendly note basically said, "We care about your and your car's safety. Your car is sitting alone in an empty parking lot. We are afraid your car may be a target for vandalism." Basically.
Of course, the attention and concern of the SMPD costs $47.
And it wasn't really a note, so much as a motherfucking parking citation. Evidently, the SMPD likes scavenger hunts. You only need to find one object. If you can find the sign that says, "No parking sunset to sunrise," you win! What do you win? You win the right to pay $47 to SMPD. And if you lose? You have lost, and have to pay $47 to SMPD.
God dammit. "No parking sunset to sunrise?" What is this? Did I somehow park on the set of Fiddler on the Roof? What kind of wording is that? Obviously, someone is quite the creative romantic on the staff of the Santa Monica Municipal Code Production Office. Their speed limit signs should say, "Your speed shall be like that of a wild, galloping stallion--STRICTLY ENFORCED." Their stop signs should say, "0 Velocity Zone."
I'm thinking of appealing. All of this--the appeal, the payment--is done online now. So this gives me some freedom to come up with an appeal. In coming up with an appeal, I must be able to draw on the compassion and sympathy of the person reading my appeal. After all, just about everyone probably says, "I didn't see the sign." Those are the suckers that have to pay the $47.
But what about this? "I was looking for a scenic place to kill myself, but returned to the car because I hadn't taken enough pills. I was really sorry to see the citation on my car. It had already been a pretty bad day." Would that work? Would you abate the penalty?
Or, "I hadn't meant to park there. But I was supposed to go to my family reunion, and I found out everyone there ate Aunt Maybelline's egg salad that had sat in the sun all day--and I found out everyone was dead. So I pulled over at the first parking lot I came to. I didn't think about the sign, what with me being the only person left in my family."
Maybe one of these will work.
Goddamn it. I'll have to pay $47. For a government employee, that's just about a month's pay.
Obviously, I was endangering lives by parking in an empty parking lot next to the beach of the Pacific Coastal Highway at 2:30 in the morning. The friendly note basically said, "We care about your and your car's safety. Your car is sitting alone in an empty parking lot. We are afraid your car may be a target for vandalism." Basically.
Of course, the attention and concern of the SMPD costs $47.
And it wasn't really a note, so much as a motherfucking parking citation. Evidently, the SMPD likes scavenger hunts. You only need to find one object. If you can find the sign that says, "No parking sunset to sunrise," you win! What do you win? You win the right to pay $47 to SMPD. And if you lose? You have lost, and have to pay $47 to SMPD.
God dammit. "No parking sunset to sunrise?" What is this? Did I somehow park on the set of Fiddler on the Roof? What kind of wording is that? Obviously, someone is quite the creative romantic on the staff of the Santa Monica Municipal Code Production Office. Their speed limit signs should say, "Your speed shall be like that of a wild, galloping stallion--STRICTLY ENFORCED." Their stop signs should say, "0 Velocity Zone."
I'm thinking of appealing. All of this--the appeal, the payment--is done online now. So this gives me some freedom to come up with an appeal. In coming up with an appeal, I must be able to draw on the compassion and sympathy of the person reading my appeal. After all, just about everyone probably says, "I didn't see the sign." Those are the suckers that have to pay the $47.
But what about this? "I was looking for a scenic place to kill myself, but returned to the car because I hadn't taken enough pills. I was really sorry to see the citation on my car. It had already been a pretty bad day." Would that work? Would you abate the penalty?
Or, "I hadn't meant to park there. But I was supposed to go to my family reunion, and I found out everyone there ate Aunt Maybelline's egg salad that had sat in the sun all day--and I found out everyone was dead. So I pulled over at the first parking lot I came to. I didn't think about the sign, what with me being the only person left in my family."
Maybe one of these will work.
Goddamn it. I'll have to pay $47. For a government employee, that's just about a month's pay.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Going to a NEW Blog Schedule
I'm making a huge change to my blog.
To improve quality, I will be going to blog posting every other day, rather than every day. This will make the work fresher, better, and more palatable.
I'm working on a new hobby. I figure that if I spend half the time on my new hobby as I do on my blog, I should get pretty good at it.
My new hobby is the craft of popsicle sticks. I made an ashtray out of a bunch of popsicle sticks and decided, "This is a potentially high-profit area. And I enjoy making things out of popsicle sticks."
So I made a lampshade out of popsicle sticks. That original ashtray didn't turn out to work so well; somebody's cigarette completely burned it. I feel that it may have been arson. So I made a large anti-smoking banner out of popsicle sticks.
The bitch is in eating all those goddamn popsicles. It's an enjoyable hobby, but I get all these ice cream headaches. It fucking hurts. And it's pretty expensive. Considering that the cheapest box of store-brand popsicles comes with 8 popsicles and costs $.89 at Von's, the costs really add up.
So, wish me luck in my new hobby. My next project: I'm going to make a large king-sized quilt to put over the king-size bed I plan on making out of popsicle sticks (though the bed will come later). It's going to be awesome.
And then I'll sell the comforter and bed. And then I'll be living high on the hog.
To improve quality, I will be going to blog posting every other day, rather than every day. This will make the work fresher, better, and more palatable.
I'm working on a new hobby. I figure that if I spend half the time on my new hobby as I do on my blog, I should get pretty good at it.
My new hobby is the craft of popsicle sticks. I made an ashtray out of a bunch of popsicle sticks and decided, "This is a potentially high-profit area. And I enjoy making things out of popsicle sticks."
So I made a lampshade out of popsicle sticks. That original ashtray didn't turn out to work so well; somebody's cigarette completely burned it. I feel that it may have been arson. So I made a large anti-smoking banner out of popsicle sticks.
The bitch is in eating all those goddamn popsicles. It's an enjoyable hobby, but I get all these ice cream headaches. It fucking hurts. And it's pretty expensive. Considering that the cheapest box of store-brand popsicles comes with 8 popsicles and costs $.89 at Von's, the costs really add up.
So, wish me luck in my new hobby. My next project: I'm going to make a large king-sized quilt to put over the king-size bed I plan on making out of popsicle sticks (though the bed will come later). It's going to be awesome.
And then I'll sell the comforter and bed. And then I'll be living high on the hog.
A Warning to my Friends...About my Friends
My friend and I were on our way to a restaurant-bar in Pasadena.
In the car, I warned her, though. "Uh...I may introduce you as a recovering heroin addict."
She was silent for awhile. "What?"
"I may introduce you as a recovering heroin addict. I may say, 'This is my friend, Matilda. She's a recovering heroin addict,'" I told her. I tried being matter-of-fact about it, but she really wanted to force the issue.
"Why?" she asked.
"It's kind of funny."
"Heroin addiction?"
"Yeah, I guess it's not that funny. But it's kind of funny."
She looked contemplatively (I hate that word) out the window. "Are you going to let them know that I'm not a heroin addict?"
"Are you kidding? Then they'll think I'm a liar. Say one thing and then tell them another? That's not right," I told her. I felt like I was explaining simple, common etiquette.
"Why do you plan on doing this?" she asked me, this time with less hesitation. "I don't even know these people, and they're going to think I'm a heroin addict."
"I'll look like a strong, supportive friend," I told her.
"That's it? Just because your friends think I'm a heroin add-"
"Recovering heroin addict."
"Why do your friends think you'll look like a strong, supportive friend."
"Because I'm there for you as you go through this really rough time in your life as you try to quit heroin."
"But I don't use heroin."
"They don't know that."
"I don't have track marks."
"Tell them you shoot up between your toes."
"I'm not telling them that."
"Fine. Jesus. I'll do it myself, then."
In the car, I warned her, though. "Uh...I may introduce you as a recovering heroin addict."
She was silent for awhile. "What?"
"I may introduce you as a recovering heroin addict. I may say, 'This is my friend, Matilda. She's a recovering heroin addict,'" I told her. I tried being matter-of-fact about it, but she really wanted to force the issue.
"Why?" she asked.
"It's kind of funny."
"Heroin addiction?"
"Yeah, I guess it's not that funny. But it's kind of funny."
She looked contemplatively (I hate that word) out the window. "Are you going to let them know that I'm not a heroin addict?"
"Are you kidding? Then they'll think I'm a liar. Say one thing and then tell them another? That's not right," I told her. I felt like I was explaining simple, common etiquette.
"Why do you plan on doing this?" she asked me, this time with less hesitation. "I don't even know these people, and they're going to think I'm a heroin addict."
"I'll look like a strong, supportive friend," I told her.
"That's it? Just because your friends think I'm a heroin add-"
"Recovering heroin addict."
"Why do your friends think you'll look like a strong, supportive friend."
"Because I'm there for you as you go through this really rough time in your life as you try to quit heroin."
"But I don't use heroin."
"They don't know that."
"I don't have track marks."
"Tell them you shoot up between your toes."
"I'm not telling them that."
"Fine. Jesus. I'll do it myself, then."
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Someone Who's Never Seen a Copier...
This is mirrored at http://blog.myspace.com/medinski. Don't be a bitch. Check it out.
Buyakasha!
I directed my first movie. It's called Bitches are Whack. You can view it at the following address: http://mm.dfilm.com/mm2s/mm_route.php?id=2414096. The actors were such a bitch to deal with.
So this attractive chick at my gym learned that I work for a large government tax agency. Great. Really, I don't care. I stopped telling people what I do. It's usually easier to tell people I'm unemployed, or a serial killer than to tell them what I really do for a living. But some people are interested in what I do. I'm not; it bores me to tears. But they just want to know everything. This chick at the gym (attractive, by the way) wants to see my office.
"Uh...well, you want to see my office?"
"Yes! Very much! I've always wanted to see what goes on in a [large government tax agency] office."
"Um...I'd have to check with my manager. But you know what a cubicle looks like, right?"
And she laughed, as if there was somehow some special magic in our miserable cubicles. "Of course!"
"And you're familiar with filing cabinets, and copy machines?"
She laughed again. "Yes! I really want to see the inside of a [large government tax agency] office."
You know, things in the office are pretty secure and all. Besides, some people feel uncomfortable with outsiders walking through because they might take the food or coffee we have sitting out. And what if they make unauthorized copies? In the past, though, people have brought in close family members or spouses.
So I asked my manager about this today. "There's this really attractive girl at my gym who wants to see what an IRS office looks like. And she wants to take a tour. I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable if I told you I was bringing in a family member or something, so...if I tell you this girl's my wife, can I bring her in to the office?"
My manager asked me if she'd ever seen a copy machine before. I told her she claimed she had, but I didn't know if it was something I should believe. "And filing cabinets?" Yes, I already asked these questions. GOSH!
So I told the girl at the gym that I asked the manager. She asked what the manager said. I realized that my manager had talked about how funny this girl's request was, and then we talked about television sitcoms. So, really, we didn't come up with an answer. Of course we didn't, though. There's the right way to get things done and questions answered...and then there's the government way.
RIGHT WAY:
"Can you tell me what time it is?"
"It is 4:00 PM."
GOVERNMENT WAY:
"Can you tell me what time it--Hey, is that chocolate?"
"Yeah!"
"Sweet! Can I have some?!"
"There's a bag of chips in the vending machine just hanging there. If we hit the machine hard enough, I think we can make it fall! FREE CHIPS!"
"Let's eat the chocolate, and then we'll go get the chips!"
"Sweet!"
Cookie Seizure
I saw a cookie on someone's desk today. A chocolate chip cookie from Costco. I like Costco cookies. They're somewhat soft and and oh so tasty. And I was really hungry. And it was just sitting there.
"Marvana, what's the status on that cookie? I don't want it or anything, but...I was just curious what your plans are with it?" I asked.
She said, "Well, it's going to sit awhile, and then I may eat it later in the day-"
"LATER IN THE DAY?!" I asked. "But it's a cookie! How can you not eat it NOW?!"
She shrugged her shoulders and walked away. There was the cookie--just sitting there. Some people really abuse the 'system.' There's starving kids in China, and I wanted a Goddamn cookie (specifically that one).
So I seized it. By seize, I did a full administrative tax seizure. I went and found these seizure stickers (when property is seized, you HAVE to put one of these stickers warning that the property is now seized and in possession of the government). I slapped the sticker on that cookie and filled out the information. I guess I'd moved from a little practical joke to something far more idiotic.
She came back, "What's this?"
"Your cookie has been seized."
"You used the seizure stickers?"
"Yeah!" And I laughed.
"It's a felony to use those stickers for nonofficial purposes."
Then she picked up the cookie and took a bite.
"You idiot!" I yelled. And everyone in the office looked at me. "You're eating seized property!"
Her eyes bulged and she spit the cookie out all over her desk.
"That was supposed to go to public auction. How are we going to sell damaged goods?"
So she gave me the rest and we called it square.
Buyakasha!
I directed my first movie. It's called Bitches are Whack. You can view it at the following address: http://mm.dfilm.com/mm2s/mm_route.php?id=2414096. The actors were such a bitch to deal with.
So this attractive chick at my gym learned that I work for a large government tax agency. Great. Really, I don't care. I stopped telling people what I do. It's usually easier to tell people I'm unemployed, or a serial killer than to tell them what I really do for a living. But some people are interested in what I do. I'm not; it bores me to tears. But they just want to know everything. This chick at the gym (attractive, by the way) wants to see my office.
"Uh...well, you want to see my office?"
"Yes! Very much! I've always wanted to see what goes on in a [large government tax agency] office."
"Um...I'd have to check with my manager. But you know what a cubicle looks like, right?"
And she laughed, as if there was somehow some special magic in our miserable cubicles. "Of course!"
"And you're familiar with filing cabinets, and copy machines?"
She laughed again. "Yes! I really want to see the inside of a [large government tax agency] office."
You know, things in the office are pretty secure and all. Besides, some people feel uncomfortable with outsiders walking through because they might take the food or coffee we have sitting out. And what if they make unauthorized copies? In the past, though, people have brought in close family members or spouses.
So I asked my manager about this today. "There's this really attractive girl at my gym who wants to see what an IRS office looks like. And she wants to take a tour. I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable if I told you I was bringing in a family member or something, so...if I tell you this girl's my wife, can I bring her in to the office?"
My manager asked me if she'd ever seen a copy machine before. I told her she claimed she had, but I didn't know if it was something I should believe. "And filing cabinets?" Yes, I already asked these questions. GOSH!
So I told the girl at the gym that I asked the manager. She asked what the manager said. I realized that my manager had talked about how funny this girl's request was, and then we talked about television sitcoms. So, really, we didn't come up with an answer. Of course we didn't, though. There's the right way to get things done and questions answered...and then there's the government way.
RIGHT WAY:
"Can you tell me what time it is?"
"It is 4:00 PM."
GOVERNMENT WAY:
"Can you tell me what time it--Hey, is that chocolate?"
"Yeah!"
"Sweet! Can I have some?!"
"There's a bag of chips in the vending machine just hanging there. If we hit the machine hard enough, I think we can make it fall! FREE CHIPS!"
"Let's eat the chocolate, and then we'll go get the chips!"
"Sweet!"
Cookie Seizure
I saw a cookie on someone's desk today. A chocolate chip cookie from Costco. I like Costco cookies. They're somewhat soft and and oh so tasty. And I was really hungry. And it was just sitting there.
"Marvana, what's the status on that cookie? I don't want it or anything, but...I was just curious what your plans are with it?" I asked.
She said, "Well, it's going to sit awhile, and then I may eat it later in the day-"
"LATER IN THE DAY?!" I asked. "But it's a cookie! How can you not eat it NOW?!"
She shrugged her shoulders and walked away. There was the cookie--just sitting there. Some people really abuse the 'system.' There's starving kids in China, and I wanted a Goddamn cookie (specifically that one).
So I seized it. By seize, I did a full administrative tax seizure. I went and found these seizure stickers (when property is seized, you HAVE to put one of these stickers warning that the property is now seized and in possession of the government). I slapped the sticker on that cookie and filled out the information. I guess I'd moved from a little practical joke to something far more idiotic.
She came back, "What's this?"
"Your cookie has been seized."
"You used the seizure stickers?"
"Yeah!" And I laughed.
"It's a felony to use those stickers for nonofficial purposes."
Then she picked up the cookie and took a bite.
"You idiot!" I yelled. And everyone in the office looked at me. "You're eating seized property!"
Her eyes bulged and she spit the cookie out all over her desk.
"That was supposed to go to public auction. How are we going to sell damaged goods?"
So she gave me the rest and we called it square.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Another Rejection Leads to the Formation of the Female Reserve
You should check out the blog at the new address. I'm going to start having the blog at both sites, I think.
That address again? Okay. It's http://blog.myspace.com/medinski. Write it down. Tattoo it on something you don't use (which, if you're reading my blog on a semi-regular basis, is probably your penis).
Tonight, another rejection. I was aiming for a second date. Strategically, I felt I lost little (in terms of self-respect, pride, worth, etc.) by trying. The first date was bad enough. It wasn't bad, so much as it was uncomfortable. I can't even say that everything that went poorly was my fault. And nothing went wrong--just poorly.
So I tried for a second date. She said that she didn't think we had anything in common. Which I have to agree with. After all, she said she didn't use a lot of profanity unless she was really really angry. My response? "That's fuckin' crazy. I cuss all the Goddamn time." She said I was cute. She said all her friends thought I was cute, too. I told her to put in a good word for me. She said she thought I was really, really cute. Which is good. I told her she was cute--which she most definitely is. And then she said no, I am most definitely cuter than she is. And I said, "Okay. I'll have to agree."
Another rejection.
Again.
Goddamn it.
Granted, I wasn't surprised. I tried for a second date because I wanted to give it the ol' college try. Why not? If the first date goes poorly but doesn't end in yelling, you're in a dating gray area. It's like getting dealt 16 in blackjack at the casino. Some people hit for another card; others stick with what they've got. I hit; she decided to stick. Which is cool, too, because maybe I stand a chance with her hot friends.
But I got to thinking. Wouldn't dating be easier if there was a system worked out like the Federal Reserve?
When banks run into trouble, they get assistance from the Federal Reserve. If a man (ie. me) gets in trouble, I think it'd be helpful (not just to me, but society) to turn to a sort of Female Reserve for assistance.
"Shit, I really want to go out on a date, but have nobody to go with. I know! I'll borrow a woman from the Female Reserve." And with that, you'd get a phone number (and, thus, access to a female). It's brilliant. Of course, you'd have to pay for the opportunity of holding that phone number--the cost to the Female Reserve, if you will. So, I guess you'd have to buy the Female Reserve a drink or something.
Yes, this is a good idea. There'll be 12 Female Reserve Banks spread out across the country--JUST LIKE THE FEDERAL RESERVE.
It'll be brilliant. I think we could get Alan Greenspan to quit his job at the Fed to run the Fem.
It will be awesome.
That address again? Okay. It's http://blog.myspace.com/medinski. Write it down. Tattoo it on something you don't use (which, if you're reading my blog on a semi-regular basis, is probably your penis).
Tonight, another rejection. I was aiming for a second date. Strategically, I felt I lost little (in terms of self-respect, pride, worth, etc.) by trying. The first date was bad enough. It wasn't bad, so much as it was uncomfortable. I can't even say that everything that went poorly was my fault. And nothing went wrong--just poorly.
So I tried for a second date. She said that she didn't think we had anything in common. Which I have to agree with. After all, she said she didn't use a lot of profanity unless she was really really angry. My response? "That's fuckin' crazy. I cuss all the Goddamn time." She said I was cute. She said all her friends thought I was cute, too. I told her to put in a good word for me. She said she thought I was really, really cute. Which is good. I told her she was cute--which she most definitely is. And then she said no, I am most definitely cuter than she is. And I said, "Okay. I'll have to agree."
Another rejection.
Again.
Goddamn it.
Granted, I wasn't surprised. I tried for a second date because I wanted to give it the ol' college try. Why not? If the first date goes poorly but doesn't end in yelling, you're in a dating gray area. It's like getting dealt 16 in blackjack at the casino. Some people hit for another card; others stick with what they've got. I hit; she decided to stick. Which is cool, too, because maybe I stand a chance with her hot friends.
But I got to thinking. Wouldn't dating be easier if there was a system worked out like the Federal Reserve?
When banks run into trouble, they get assistance from the Federal Reserve. If a man (ie. me) gets in trouble, I think it'd be helpful (not just to me, but society) to turn to a sort of Female Reserve for assistance.
"Shit, I really want to go out on a date, but have nobody to go with. I know! I'll borrow a woman from the Female Reserve." And with that, you'd get a phone number (and, thus, access to a female). It's brilliant. Of course, you'd have to pay for the opportunity of holding that phone number--the cost to the Female Reserve, if you will. So, I guess you'd have to buy the Female Reserve a drink or something.
Yes, this is a good idea. There'll be 12 Female Reserve Banks spread out across the country--JUST LIKE THE FEDERAL RESERVE.
It'll be brilliant. I think we could get Alan Greenspan to quit his job at the Fed to run the Fem.
It will be awesome.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Migration
I'm thinking of moving the blog over to myspace. The new address is http://blog.myspace.com/medinski.
Check it out. Become a member if you have to. If you don't like Myspace, tell me why and I'll think about leaving the blog here.
Check it out. Become a member if you have to. If you don't like Myspace, tell me why and I'll think about leaving the blog here.
Monday, May 16, 2005
To Clarify...
To clarify, I never have referred to any woman as a 'hoe.'
I've never said, "Oh, that bitch is one big hoe."
No, I typically use it in the plural form: "Those bitches are some big fuckin' hoes."
Now that I've clarified my position, let's move on.
It's difficult to concentrate. It seems that there are several Chinese people about twenty feet from my front door arguing about how to fix an air conditioner. Obviously, the argument is in Chinese, so I don't know how far along they are in fixing it. Are they singing now? What the hell are they doing out there?
How many Chinese people does it take to fix an air conditioner? Maybe I should go ask the Chinese guy screwing in the light bulb right near them.
I'm working on my book. I must get back to it. Today is a short post.
I've never said, "Oh, that bitch is one big hoe."
No, I typically use it in the plural form: "Those bitches are some big fuckin' hoes."
Now that I've clarified my position, let's move on.
It's difficult to concentrate. It seems that there are several Chinese people about twenty feet from my front door arguing about how to fix an air conditioner. Obviously, the argument is in Chinese, so I don't know how far along they are in fixing it. Are they singing now? What the hell are they doing out there?
How many Chinese people does it take to fix an air conditioner? Maybe I should go ask the Chinese guy screwing in the light bulb right near them.
I'm working on my book. I must get back to it. Today is a short post.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
A Guest Blog By Gevin Kant
I demanded a Guest Blog entry from my old psychology teacher from high school, Gevin Kant.
His handlers allow him an hour a week in front of a computer at the mental institution. Usually they put an Etch-a-Sketch in front of him and he's content. This time, however, he demanded a computer.
Quick background of Gevin Kant: Mr. Kant, or Mr. Golf Course as the students called him due to a strange obsession with golf courses and gardening implements, received Teacher of the Year twice in a row from the Albakurkee Public School system. He makes a bitchin' stew. He coaches women's junior varsity skeet shoot, and is an active member of the mental institution glee club (Gleeful and Crazy their group is called).
So, without further ado, I present...
The Guest Blog From Gevin Kant
So Ryan Medinski, my old student. A good boy, except for all that cursing he does that sometimes makes me a wee tad uncomfortable, and itch in awkward places. Ryan Medinski has asked me to write a guest blog, and how could I refuse such an offer from such a good-except-for-the-cursing boy?
The answer of course is that I couldn’t. So here I am, reminiscing first about how he was so engaged in my, er, psychology class, back in ’78, that he felt it necessary, when I wasn’t looking, to use the goddamn scotch tape from my desk to tape my pencils to the desk, the discovery of which frequently resulted in my emanating, audibly, a phrase like, “Ryan you mutherfucker”
Oops! Did I just curse?
Ryan Medinski, such a good boy, but sometimes you want to curse around him, or because of him, and is that what is going on with the ladies? I don’t understand his difficulty with women, to which he alludes constantly. I can tell you that every time we would speak, when he still lived here in Albakurkee he usually had an anecdote to relay on about why the most recent girlfriend and Ryan, such a good boy, had broken up, like, “she didn’t like it when she told me that her cat had died, and I laughed,” or, “she didn’t like it when I removed all my body hair with a belt sander in a rite of penitence,” or, “I can’t stand that hoe.” I could never understand why he didn’t like a hoe, because my wife uses one in the garden, and it works really well with the weeds and whatnot, so maybe he didn’t like the way his girlfriend hoed her garden, or maybe she wouldn’t let him plant his seed, or something like that, but now it seems as though his difficulties emanate from his job, and I think to myself, “Why didn’t Ryan go into MY field – you know, psychology?” which perplexes me still, since he was good at psychology and he worked hard at it, though maybe not hard enough since he obviously had time to tape my writing implements to the goddamn desk, that little pissant motherfucker.
Ryan, such a good boy. It’s so nice that he has a blog.
His handlers allow him an hour a week in front of a computer at the mental institution. Usually they put an Etch-a-Sketch in front of him and he's content. This time, however, he demanded a computer.
Quick background of Gevin Kant: Mr. Kant, or Mr. Golf Course as the students called him due to a strange obsession with golf courses and gardening implements, received Teacher of the Year twice in a row from the Albakurkee Public School system. He makes a bitchin' stew. He coaches women's junior varsity skeet shoot, and is an active member of the mental institution glee club (Gleeful and Crazy their group is called).
So, without further ado, I present...
The Guest Blog From Gevin Kant
So Ryan Medinski, my old student. A good boy, except for all that cursing he does that sometimes makes me a wee tad uncomfortable, and itch in awkward places. Ryan Medinski has asked me to write a guest blog, and how could I refuse such an offer from such a good-except-for-the-cursing boy?
The answer of course is that I couldn’t. So here I am, reminiscing first about how he was so engaged in my, er, psychology class, back in ’78, that he felt it necessary, when I wasn’t looking, to use the goddamn scotch tape from my desk to tape my pencils to the desk, the discovery of which frequently resulted in my emanating, audibly, a phrase like, “Ryan you mutherfucker”
Oops! Did I just curse?
Ryan Medinski, such a good boy, but sometimes you want to curse around him, or because of him, and is that what is going on with the ladies? I don’t understand his difficulty with women, to which he alludes constantly. I can tell you that every time we would speak, when he still lived here in Albakurkee he usually had an anecdote to relay on about why the most recent girlfriend and Ryan, such a good boy, had broken up, like, “she didn’t like it when she told me that her cat had died, and I laughed,” or, “she didn’t like it when I removed all my body hair with a belt sander in a rite of penitence,” or, “I can’t stand that hoe.” I could never understand why he didn’t like a hoe, because my wife uses one in the garden, and it works really well with the weeds and whatnot, so maybe he didn’t like the way his girlfriend hoed her garden, or maybe she wouldn’t let him plant his seed, or something like that, but now it seems as though his difficulties emanate from his job, and I think to myself, “Why didn’t Ryan go into MY field – you know, psychology?” which perplexes me still, since he was good at psychology and he worked hard at it, though maybe not hard enough since he obviously had time to tape my writing implements to the goddamn desk, that little pissant motherfucker.
Ryan, such a good boy. It’s so nice that he has a blog.
Southern Cali Discomfort
See what time it is? It's almost 3 in the morning. I had a date and got home not long ago.
Did it go well? I'm adding to my blog at close to 3 in the morning. What the fuck do you think?
I think I may have made her uncomfortable. I like to make conversation. I like to talk about interesting things.
I like to talk about Communism. I talked about how the Russians and Chinese really had something going, and we (as Americans) should not rule out Communism just because we're a democratic country. I pointed out that Cuba has one of the highest literacy rates in the world; if it works for an island country, why not us? This was all met with a mixture of skepticism and disgusted shock.
Then we headed off to a movie. We went to see Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in Redondo Beach. Redondo Beach--I thought it'd be a nice, classy place. It was quite ghetto. She asked, "Are you sure this is Redondo Beach?" I insisted it was, and she even asked a couple of employees. Indeed, it was not Inglewood or Compton as we though; we were in Redondo Beach. So we watched the movie (though I'd somehow gotten us to the wrong theater).
Later, I thought things would pick up if I said, "Hey, we could go find a liquor store and split a 40? I'll pour some out on the ground. You know, for the homies." It was about this point she said she was tired. Hell, so was I.
Did it go well? I'm adding to my blog at close to 3 in the morning. What the fuck do you think?
I think I may have made her uncomfortable. I like to make conversation. I like to talk about interesting things.
I like to talk about Communism. I talked about how the Russians and Chinese really had something going, and we (as Americans) should not rule out Communism just because we're a democratic country. I pointed out that Cuba has one of the highest literacy rates in the world; if it works for an island country, why not us? This was all met with a mixture of skepticism and disgusted shock.
Then we headed off to a movie. We went to see Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in Redondo Beach. Redondo Beach--I thought it'd be a nice, classy place. It was quite ghetto. She asked, "Are you sure this is Redondo Beach?" I insisted it was, and she even asked a couple of employees. Indeed, it was not Inglewood or Compton as we though; we were in Redondo Beach. So we watched the movie (though I'd somehow gotten us to the wrong theater).
Later, I thought things would pick up if I said, "Hey, we could go find a liquor store and split a 40? I'll pour some out on the ground. You know, for the homies." It was about this point she said she was tired. Hell, so was I.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
The Wedding Bells Will Sound Like Tubular Bells
Let me start by saying it's motherfucking hot in my apartment. It's about 90 degrees up in this motherfucker. It's not even summer yet. Fuuuuuck. In LA, it's like people don't understand the utility of air conditioners. Most buildings I walk in are hot. Most apartments I walk in don't have central AC. Those that do are still weak. My own apartment has a window AC. Within three feet of the window, you'll get frostbite. Outside of those three feet, it's sweltering hot. It's an odd sensation to feel sweat dripping down your back, and simultaneously be freezing your balls off.
The Favor
I told my friend I'd do her music for her wedding. Not that she asked. And not that I've ever had experience doing this. But when I told my friend, "Hey, I'll do you a favor. I'll choose the music for your wedding."
It was really out of the blue. In fact, I don't even know if we were discussing her wedding. I know I don't know her or her fiance well enough to choose music that fits their personality. Ergo, I guess I must work that much harder.
While the guests arrive, they'll need to have a few different songs playing (in order from least intense to most intense before the ceremony starts):
1) "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash
2) "Crying Game" by Boy George
3) "Viva Las Vegas" by Elvis
4) "Scream" by Michael Jackson (from his album Pederass)
5) "Der Kommiser" by Falco
6) "Gin and Juice" by Snoopy D-O-double-Gizzle
Each of these songs means something.
I enjoy television theme songs. I was thinking that, instead of the Wedding March, there could be the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show. Ah, makes you think of the country, of a nice rural setting. I think it will contrast well with the formal urban environment where the wedding is sure to take place.
DURING most wedding ceremonies, it's silent. No music. Just the priest/rabbi/minister/satanist performing the ceremony. However, at this one, I was thinking that they could play Mike Oldfield's "Tubular Bells" during the service. That's a great album, and long enough to perhaps cover the entire service.
After the ceremony as the bride and groom head off down the aisle, they need music to demonstrate that this is the beginning of a long journey. The two are united as one--one against the world (or several worlds). They face a lot of obstacles and hurdles to jump. Yes, that's right--the theme music to Super Mario Brothers.
The Favor
I told my friend I'd do her music for her wedding. Not that she asked. And not that I've ever had experience doing this. But when I told my friend, "Hey, I'll do you a favor. I'll choose the music for your wedding."
It was really out of the blue. In fact, I don't even know if we were discussing her wedding. I know I don't know her or her fiance well enough to choose music that fits their personality. Ergo, I guess I must work that much harder.
While the guests arrive, they'll need to have a few different songs playing (in order from least intense to most intense before the ceremony starts):
1) "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash
2) "Crying Game" by Boy George
3) "Viva Las Vegas" by Elvis
4) "Scream" by Michael Jackson (from his album Pederass)
5) "Der Kommiser" by Falco
6) "Gin and Juice" by Snoopy D-O-double-Gizzle
Each of these songs means something.
I enjoy television theme songs. I was thinking that, instead of the Wedding March, there could be the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show. Ah, makes you think of the country, of a nice rural setting. I think it will contrast well with the formal urban environment where the wedding is sure to take place.
DURING most wedding ceremonies, it's silent. No music. Just the priest/rabbi/minister/satanist performing the ceremony. However, at this one, I was thinking that they could play Mike Oldfield's "Tubular Bells" during the service. That's a great album, and long enough to perhaps cover the entire service.
After the ceremony as the bride and groom head off down the aisle, they need music to demonstrate that this is the beginning of a long journey. The two are united as one--one against the world (or several worlds). They face a lot of obstacles and hurdles to jump. Yes, that's right--the theme music to Super Mario Brothers.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Culmination of Jealousy and Personal Dissatisfaction
I'm postponing the release of my picture book until the weekend (my media staff is aiming for Saturday to get it up online).
I've been announcing to people recently that I've decided to go to law school.
Today at lunch, I was asked why I wanted to go to law school by some friends.
"Ryan, you seem to hate lawyers-"
"Yes. I hate fuckin' lawyers."
"And do you even like law?"
"Well...I don't know. I don't know much about it. I guess I'd learn if I liked it. You know, during law school."
"Ryan, this is a pretty big committment. I mean...you seem somewhat unsure."
"Oh, I'm not unsure about this."
"But why?"
"It doesn't seem that it would be that hard. I'm pretty smart. I have a couple of degrees. I like school."
"But why?"
The WHY. WHY do I want to go to law school. I explained the things about wanting to improve myself, expand my horizons, learn new things, and all that shit. But then I moved to the real reasons.
The real reasons...
A) I hate my fuckin' job. I hate every day that I work. I like my coworkers, which is a good thing. But if offered the chance to get paychecks for doing my job, or paychecks for chewing on glass--well, I'd have to seriously consider. I mean, how much glass are we talking about here?
B) Money. A whole lot of money. And yes, everyone says that lawyers don't make that much. Everyone says that. But think of all those lawyers out there, and all those law schools. There's some pretty shitty lawyers out there, and some pretty shitty law schools. But if I went to something in the top ten, my chances to make lots of money increases quite a bit.
C) Jealousy. All my friends and acquaintances from college are doing some really cool things. Among them are criminal investigators, doctors, lawyers, pharmacists, teachers. They're all moving on to cool things, and I'm...here...doing nothing. So lets go back to Reason A.
D) Reason A (second round). I need to have a job my friends and those who know/knew me are jealous of. I need to have a job where everyone says, "Fuckin' A. Ryan's job is so cool, and I'm just a lowly brain surgeon. Me and my dumb luck."
E) Reason B (again). I want to make soooo much money, that I can buy a big motherfuckin' house in Beverly Hills. I want to wipe my ass (pardon the expression if you're reading this, grandma) with fifty dollar bills. I want to drive to work in a Lamborghini Gallardo and home in a Mercedes CLS55. Yeah, bitches. Yeah. It's all about the Benjamins, bitches. And if my friends aren't jealous of all this, I'll buy new friends that WILL be.
F) Law seems pretty interesting. I think I'd do pretty well with it. Especially something like entertainment law. Why not? I think this could actually be something I like. Perhaps this is the top reason.
G) Bitches love lawyers. No, this is the top reason.
COMING SOON!!!
Gevin Kant has announced he will be doing a guest post! Look for it SOON!
I've been announcing to people recently that I've decided to go to law school.
Today at lunch, I was asked why I wanted to go to law school by some friends.
"Ryan, you seem to hate lawyers-"
"Yes. I hate fuckin' lawyers."
"And do you even like law?"
"Well...I don't know. I don't know much about it. I guess I'd learn if I liked it. You know, during law school."
"Ryan, this is a pretty big committment. I mean...you seem somewhat unsure."
"Oh, I'm not unsure about this."
"But why?"
"It doesn't seem that it would be that hard. I'm pretty smart. I have a couple of degrees. I like school."
"But why?"
The WHY. WHY do I want to go to law school. I explained the things about wanting to improve myself, expand my horizons, learn new things, and all that shit. But then I moved to the real reasons.
The real reasons...
A) I hate my fuckin' job. I hate every day that I work. I like my coworkers, which is a good thing. But if offered the chance to get paychecks for doing my job, or paychecks for chewing on glass--well, I'd have to seriously consider. I mean, how much glass are we talking about here?
B) Money. A whole lot of money. And yes, everyone says that lawyers don't make that much. Everyone says that. But think of all those lawyers out there, and all those law schools. There's some pretty shitty lawyers out there, and some pretty shitty law schools. But if I went to something in the top ten, my chances to make lots of money increases quite a bit.
C) Jealousy. All my friends and acquaintances from college are doing some really cool things. Among them are criminal investigators, doctors, lawyers, pharmacists, teachers. They're all moving on to cool things, and I'm...here...doing nothing. So lets go back to Reason A.
D) Reason A (second round). I need to have a job my friends and those who know/knew me are jealous of. I need to have a job where everyone says, "Fuckin' A. Ryan's job is so cool, and I'm just a lowly brain surgeon. Me and my dumb luck."
E) Reason B (again). I want to make soooo much money, that I can buy a big motherfuckin' house in Beverly Hills. I want to wipe my ass (pardon the expression if you're reading this, grandma) with fifty dollar bills. I want to drive to work in a Lamborghini Gallardo and home in a Mercedes CLS55. Yeah, bitches. Yeah. It's all about the Benjamins, bitches. And if my friends aren't jealous of all this, I'll buy new friends that WILL be.
F) Law seems pretty interesting. I think I'd do pretty well with it. Especially something like entertainment law. Why not? I think this could actually be something I like. Perhaps this is the top reason.
G) Bitches love lawyers. No, this is the top reason.
COMING SOON!!!
Gevin Kant has announced he will be doing a guest post! Look for it SOON!
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
The Press Release Revolution
I promised my picture book. However, it's been delayed again, due to unforeseen circumstances: I'm fuckin' tired. I got home from the gym and I've got other shit to do.
However, I must share my excellent idea.
The Foundation:
Important people seem to place a lot of importance on the Press Release. And what is a press release, after all? It is a release of information from an organization that is cloaked to look like news rather than advertising. For example, "Poopy Teas today announced the production of their new flavor of tea, Cat Vomit and Peepee Herbal Tea. Marcus Hardballingfuckstikk, CEO of Poopy Teas, said that blah blah blah."
Government agencies, corporations, non-profits--they all put out press releases. Governor Schwarzenegger got in trouble for releasing press releases that were actually disguised as real news. But he didn't get in THAT much trouble.
News releases appear to be unregulated.
The Idea:
Imagine swaying people's buying habits and perhaps changing the course of human history through the use of press releases--perhaps illegitimate, but so odd that nobody's going to check them out. The first press releases would be from the fringes of normal news. It could be a mult-pronged attack.
Commerce
Imagine the AP getting a press release from Poopshoot Industries about a new laxative product. "Poopshoot Industries announces the introduction of Poopyshooters Cereal, a cereal that if eaten regularly, will cause regular regularity. Each delicious pellet of Poopyshooters Cereal is packed with chemicals that will cause near-instant defecation..." Okay, maybe the AP won't print it. But imagine that press release faxed to every wire service, every TV station, and every publication in the United States.
So, okay, Poopyshooters Cereal. No big deal. Maybe it'll be ignored. But then imagine the next press release. "According to the United States Institute of Bowel Regularity, Poopyshooters Cereal cures most forms of malignant cancer." This could start drumming up interest for Poopyshooters Cereal--a cereal that doesn't even exist (because of information from a nonexistent organization). More publications start running the story, and people go out looking for Poopyshooters Cereal.
Next, "Demand for Poopyshooters Cereal is skyrocketing. Poopshoot Industries announces the opening of a seventh plant in North America that will exclusively produce Poopyshooters Cereal..." Not one, not two, not three--but seven plants. And General Mills is getting concerned. They're thinking, "We've never seen this cereal, but we better come up with something to compete." And then they come up with their own laxative-laced cereal, Shitflakes. And what the hell, they find a cure for cancer (though they probably already have it sitting around) and throw it in. And Bob's-your-uncle (though he's mine too), you've got a cancer-curing laxative cereal sitting on the shelf of every grocery store in America (and possibly Canadaland and Australia).
Government
All right. You don't like Republicans, I don't like Republicans. People who want equal rights for everyone (not just us Americans, but those poor sods unlucky enough to live in Iraq and Afghanistan right about now) don't like Republicans. John Howard likes Republicans (he's in Bush's pocket), but I don't want to stray from my point.
My point is that the Democratic Party thinks the way to beat the Republicans is to make themselves stronger. This could be true, but it'd be easier (through the simple use of press releases) to weaken them.
Imagine a press release introducing a major party even more conservative than the Republican Party. "Have you been waiting from a sign from your Lord and Saviour to get out of the leftist Republican Party? The Christ Party met today to announce their official split from the Republican Party. Burt Shwaggison, interim chairman of the Party, explained, "The Republican Party leans too far to the left. We need to get prayer in school, because politics should be firmly planted in the glory and all-encompassing of the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, there's too many homos and Jews, so we need to take care of those problems as well." The Christ Party will be holding a huge Revival Rally..."
Then you'd have members of CONGRESS discussing changing their party affiliations. More and more people would become more dissatisfied with the left-leaning Republican Party. "They're just not killing enough sinners, homos, and Jews," they'll say before setting out to switch to the Christ Party. Then you send out press releases discussing the masses of people switching party affiliations. Mix in some facts with the fiction. You find out which members of Congress are interested in changing party affiliations, and send out press releases stating, "So-and-So is pursuing switching to the Christ Party..."
Huge rift in the Republican Party. A Christ Party that doesn't exist. This spells a recipe for a Democratic return to the Capitol.
Of course, they could catch wind of the scheme and switch it around. Damn them and their switching around! "After much deliberation, many progressive members of the Democratic Party have split and formed the Jerry Garcia Party..." Uh-oh.
And you never know what the Republicans are going to do. They're a bunch of slimy weasels.
However, I must share my excellent idea.
The Foundation:
Important people seem to place a lot of importance on the Press Release. And what is a press release, after all? It is a release of information from an organization that is cloaked to look like news rather than advertising. For example, "Poopy Teas today announced the production of their new flavor of tea, Cat Vomit and Peepee Herbal Tea. Marcus Hardballingfuckstikk, CEO of Poopy Teas, said that blah blah blah."
Government agencies, corporations, non-profits--they all put out press releases. Governor Schwarzenegger got in trouble for releasing press releases that were actually disguised as real news. But he didn't get in THAT much trouble.
News releases appear to be unregulated.
The Idea:
Imagine swaying people's buying habits and perhaps changing the course of human history through the use of press releases--perhaps illegitimate, but so odd that nobody's going to check them out. The first press releases would be from the fringes of normal news. It could be a mult-pronged attack.
Commerce
Imagine the AP getting a press release from Poopshoot Industries about a new laxative product. "Poopshoot Industries announces the introduction of Poopyshooters Cereal, a cereal that if eaten regularly, will cause regular regularity. Each delicious pellet of Poopyshooters Cereal is packed with chemicals that will cause near-instant defecation..." Okay, maybe the AP won't print it. But imagine that press release faxed to every wire service, every TV station, and every publication in the United States.
So, okay, Poopyshooters Cereal. No big deal. Maybe it'll be ignored. But then imagine the next press release. "According to the United States Institute of Bowel Regularity, Poopyshooters Cereal cures most forms of malignant cancer." This could start drumming up interest for Poopyshooters Cereal--a cereal that doesn't even exist (because of information from a nonexistent organization). More publications start running the story, and people go out looking for Poopyshooters Cereal.
Next, "Demand for Poopyshooters Cereal is skyrocketing. Poopshoot Industries announces the opening of a seventh plant in North America that will exclusively produce Poopyshooters Cereal..." Not one, not two, not three--but seven plants. And General Mills is getting concerned. They're thinking, "We've never seen this cereal, but we better come up with something to compete." And then they come up with their own laxative-laced cereal, Shitflakes. And what the hell, they find a cure for cancer (though they probably already have it sitting around) and throw it in. And Bob's-your-uncle (though he's mine too), you've got a cancer-curing laxative cereal sitting on the shelf of every grocery store in America (and possibly Canadaland and Australia).
Government
All right. You don't like Republicans, I don't like Republicans. People who want equal rights for everyone (not just us Americans, but those poor sods unlucky enough to live in Iraq and Afghanistan right about now) don't like Republicans. John Howard likes Republicans (he's in Bush's pocket), but I don't want to stray from my point.
My point is that the Democratic Party thinks the way to beat the Republicans is to make themselves stronger. This could be true, but it'd be easier (through the simple use of press releases) to weaken them.
Imagine a press release introducing a major party even more conservative than the Republican Party. "Have you been waiting from a sign from your Lord and Saviour to get out of the leftist Republican Party? The Christ Party met today to announce their official split from the Republican Party. Burt Shwaggison, interim chairman of the Party, explained, "The Republican Party leans too far to the left. We need to get prayer in school, because politics should be firmly planted in the glory and all-encompassing of the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, there's too many homos and Jews, so we need to take care of those problems as well." The Christ Party will be holding a huge Revival Rally..."
Then you'd have members of CONGRESS discussing changing their party affiliations. More and more people would become more dissatisfied with the left-leaning Republican Party. "They're just not killing enough sinners, homos, and Jews," they'll say before setting out to switch to the Christ Party. Then you send out press releases discussing the masses of people switching party affiliations. Mix in some facts with the fiction. You find out which members of Congress are interested in changing party affiliations, and send out press releases stating, "So-and-So is pursuing switching to the Christ Party..."
Huge rift in the Republican Party. A Christ Party that doesn't exist. This spells a recipe for a Democratic return to the Capitol.
Of course, they could catch wind of the scheme and switch it around. Damn them and their switching around! "After much deliberation, many progressive members of the Democratic Party have split and formed the Jerry Garcia Party..." Uh-oh.
And you never know what the Republicans are going to do. They're a bunch of slimy weasels.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
It's Not a Job Interview
I got emailed from one of my blog readers. He wanted to do an interview to put on his blog, http://adamisntgoinganywhere.blogspot.com. I thought this was cool, since I've never been interviewed before, outside of a job interview, or when I was caught trying to sell heroin to cops (and they weren't even undercover). SO, without further ado...the Interview.
THE MOTHERFUCKIN' INTERVIEW, BITCHES
Hey is this Ryan Medinski, talented author of the ever popular http://medinski.blogspot.com?
Yes.
How are you today?
Shitty. I asked a friend to find out if this one girl liked me. This is the one from the bar last Friday who I said may have rejected me. I told him to "work his magic" and find out what she thought about me. However, I told him to go easy on me--put a positive spin, because I'm sensitive. I didn't want him to tell me that she wasn't into me, or that she thought I was an idiot; I wanted a positive spin. Give me the bad news in a good way. So that was yesterday.
He came back to me and told me, "You're too good for her." I had no idea what he was talking about, since I'd forgotten about the positive spin.
"What? What's that mean?" I asked.
"Uh...You're too good for her..." he said with a raise of the eyebrows.
"Oh...oooooh...The positive spin thing. Goddamn it. I still feel shitty," I said.
Hey, clearly yours is my second favourite blog ever, but it has made me laugh more than anything else on the internet. How the hell do you come up with this stuff? Are heavy drugs or Red Bull involved?
I don't enjoy drinking heavily, so I rarely do it. I noticed you wrote that it's your "favourite" blog ever. That's so funny. You spelled "FAVORITE" as "FAVOURITE."
I enjoy energy drinks and coffee, but those have nothing on my discontent. Discontent is what motivates me.
So much of it is stupidly funny and very well written, are you secretly a famous author pretending to work for the government?
I really dislike my job in such an intense way, it should come off as pretty obvious. I've written one book so far, but it's not published as of yet. It's called Aiming for Failure: Because Falling From the Ground Hurts Less. It's a book about accepting and embracing failure as a way of life. I have West coast representation and everything (everything except a book deal).
I'm at work on my second book. Think of Eli Goldratt's The Goal and Fidel Castro's invasion of Cuba.
People the world over believe that our American cousins don't really know too much about the world outside their waters, would you say this is true?
Yes. Cases in point: the Bush Administration and Fox television (though Rupert Murdoch is one of yours, is he not?). Thank you, Australia, for giving us fuckin' Rupert Murdoch. You gave us Mel Gibson--wasn't that enough (NOTE: It has come to my attention that Gibson is American, not Australian. Well, he spent enough time there, right? I'd say that's enough to be Australian in my book)?
Don't think all Americans sit around loving the Bush domination. There's people who disagree, and protest, and generally get angry. However, those who are vocal about it and make a stand are castigated. I love Michael Moore; he's a peaceful dissenter with a strong voice, but few others feel that way.
Don't think all Americans sit around loving the Bush domination. There's people who disagree, and protest, and generally get angry. However, those who are vocal about it and make a stand are castigated. I love Michael Moore; he's a peaceful dissenter with a strong voice, but few others feel that way.
I know that I don't even know enough about what happens outside of our waters. But it doesn't matter. I'm American. Have hope, though. I applied for a post in the Foreign Service, and failed their tests miserably. Unfortunately, we've got someone heading up the State Department who possesses about as much compassion as I have magic powers (might I add, I have no magic powers).
How is the engaged chicky going? Is she fun in that flirt totally with because she's totally taken kind of way?
No. Nothing flirtatious. No subtle subtext of "I want you now." Which is fine, because I don't chase engaged women (contrary to my actions).
You know, we are totally hanging for your picture book to hit your blog. Do you have a release date?
It'll take some editing and explaining. I'll have to put up a mad disclaimer, too. I meant to bring it home today. But I was driving home with my friend, and we were already on the freeway leaving downtown when I exploded. "MOTHERFUCKER! MOTHERFUCKER!! GODDAMNIT! I left my picture book back on my desk. Fuck!!!" I showed it around today to other employees. I need to make a copy for my manager. Either she'll laugh, or she'll fire me. We'll have to see.
DISCLAIMER: Any similarities with persons living or dead are purely coincidental. This picture book is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of someone who works for a large tax organization, or an employee of the United States Government.
I have sooooooooooooooo many Jewish female friends in Australia that are looking for love. Ever thought of travelling here? Can I send them up to you? Do you prefer to goy it up instead?
I love the goyim. I enjoy the Agnostic/Atheist women. Agnostics and Atheists don't force their religion on you. Jewish women are okay, I guess. I really haven't met too many. Asian women are awesome. I used to date an Atheist Jew--that was pretty cool.
There are so many attractive, single females in this Goddamn city (it's the second largest fucking city in the US), and I can't meet one. Motherfucker.
The permanent government employees are driving me nuts. Any suggestions?
Man, if I had any fucking clue what to do, I'd already have done it. Just don't make yourself permanent; that's MY suggestion.
I decided I want to apply for law school. Not for any good reason, really. I already have a masters in something. But I hate my job so much and feel unqualified for most REAL jobs. I feel law school would be cool because:
A) Another 3 or so years to fuck around
B) Get to quit my job
C) Meet more women
D) Get out of school, and make waaaaay more money than I'm making now.
The Los Angeles metro area is one of the most expensive Goddamn areas in the country--the second most expensive in the West (after San Francisco). I can hardly afford to pay attention.
Thank you for your time young man, it's always a pleasure (by that, I mean, this first time has been a pleasure).
This and yoga in the same day. I feel enlightened.
Monday, May 09, 2005
IMPORTANT UPDATE
It has been confirmed that Australia celebrates Mother's Day. I guess it's not all-American like Memorial Day, Labor Day, and Easter; I mean, everyone knows that these are exclusively American holidays.
Adventures of the Tax Man
I wrote a picture book illustrating a day in the life of yours truly. I did this over today, Friday, and Thursday at work.
You see, sitting in training can be dull. After entertaining myself, and others around me, by constructing the tallest tower of candy the world has ever seen, I decided to stray away from architecture and civil engineering (both quite important during the massive construction undertaken on my desk).
So I wrote the picture book. I sit in the front row, and I did nothing to hide this from the lecturers. They kept looking at me. But I think they did this out of reverence. After all, my picture book must be REALLY good if I choose to ignore them and pursue my writing during training. I finished my book today. I plan to give a copy to my manager to show how much I accomplished during training.
I will scan the book and post it online. You (yes you, asshole) should enjoy it, though it'll probably take some explanations. I forgot it at work, so look for it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever I remember to bring it home.
This morning, the lecturer urged me to write a haiku on the white erase board before she started. The haiku was called "MORNING HAIKU: My Weekend" and it went a little something like this:
I stole some chickens,
Woke up in jail--I feel fowl,
I want my mommy!
Brilliant, I know. I even alluded to Mother's Day. Is this even celebrated in Canada and Australia? And what about the British? Any South Africans able to answer this? This is a holiday where you call your mother and wish her a happy Mother's Day, sorry I didn't send you any chocolate or a card or flowers, but I know that
A) You don't like flowers, because you have to put them in a vase. And then they die.
B) You don't like it when people send you chocolate, because you're OCD and you end up eating the entire box in one sitting because you can't put a partially eaten box of chocolate down. And then you get mad, because you think we're trying to make you fat.
C) Okay, you like cards. FUCK! I forgot to send my mom a fucking card!!!
I do plan on visiting my mother for Memorial Day. We're going to turn it into a Memorial Day/Mother's Day/Father's Day Gala Bash!! HOLY CHRIST!!!!
My friend, Gevin Kant, says I need to go out and meet with nature more often. He thinks my extended exposure to the Concrete Jungle is tearing me apart. I agree with him. However, I could really use some input as to where an actual nature area is in or around LA. I know they exist, but where the fuck are they? Most nature areas I've seen so far are well-manicured areas surrounded by large houses engineered to LOOK like nature (ie. Glendale, Griffin Park, north Pasadena). I want to see some actual forest. No trash. No large houses bordering it. No putzes from the city sauntering through. A real motherfucking forest with real motherfucking trees. And not trees planted by the city or commercial developers. Trees that were already there. And I find these areas more depressing than the Concrete Jungle. I feel more at one with nature on the 405 near LAX at rush hour than when I'm stepping over the irrigation pipes while "hiking" in Glendale.
You see, sitting in training can be dull. After entertaining myself, and others around me, by constructing the tallest tower of candy the world has ever seen, I decided to stray away from architecture and civil engineering (both quite important during the massive construction undertaken on my desk).
So I wrote the picture book. I sit in the front row, and I did nothing to hide this from the lecturers. They kept looking at me. But I think they did this out of reverence. After all, my picture book must be REALLY good if I choose to ignore them and pursue my writing during training. I finished my book today. I plan to give a copy to my manager to show how much I accomplished during training.
I will scan the book and post it online. You (yes you, asshole) should enjoy it, though it'll probably take some explanations. I forgot it at work, so look for it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever I remember to bring it home.
This morning, the lecturer urged me to write a haiku on the white erase board before she started. The haiku was called "MORNING HAIKU: My Weekend" and it went a little something like this:
I stole some chickens,
Woke up in jail--I feel fowl,
I want my mommy!
Brilliant, I know. I even alluded to Mother's Day. Is this even celebrated in Canada and Australia? And what about the British? Any South Africans able to answer this? This is a holiday where you call your mother and wish her a happy Mother's Day, sorry I didn't send you any chocolate or a card or flowers, but I know that
A) You don't like flowers, because you have to put them in a vase. And then they die.
B) You don't like it when people send you chocolate, because you're OCD and you end up eating the entire box in one sitting because you can't put a partially eaten box of chocolate down. And then you get mad, because you think we're trying to make you fat.
C) Okay, you like cards. FUCK! I forgot to send my mom a fucking card!!!
I do plan on visiting my mother for Memorial Day. We're going to turn it into a Memorial Day/Mother's Day/Father's Day Gala Bash!! HOLY CHRIST!!!!
My friend, Gevin Kant, says I need to go out and meet with nature more often. He thinks my extended exposure to the Concrete Jungle is tearing me apart. I agree with him. However, I could really use some input as to where an actual nature area is in or around LA. I know they exist, but where the fuck are they? Most nature areas I've seen so far are well-manicured areas surrounded by large houses engineered to LOOK like nature (ie. Glendale, Griffin Park, north Pasadena). I want to see some actual forest. No trash. No large houses bordering it. No putzes from the city sauntering through. A real motherfucking forest with real motherfucking trees. And not trees planted by the city or commercial developers. Trees that were already there. And I find these areas more depressing than the Concrete Jungle. I feel more at one with nature on the 405 near LAX at rush hour than when I'm stepping over the irrigation pipes while "hiking" in Glendale.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Earthquake Sleepwalk
My recollection of this is unclear, but I think I sleepwalked last night. I'm not positive, but I think I did. I have no witnesses, but I remember it kind of like a dream. And there were other clues.
I have a paranoia of earthquakes for some reason. I've mentioned this in the past. They happen all the time in LA, supposedly, but we can't feel 99.9% of them because they're so small.
So here we go to my sleepwalking. I awoke because I swear I felt a huge jolt. Of course, perhaps it was just me jolting awake and I somehow took that as an earthquake. It was, after all, 2 in the morning--not my peak time for logical, cohesive thought. I know it was 2:00 AM because I looked at my alarm clock. What came next, I don't know. I thought I should check around my apartment. Why? Fuck if I know. I, for some reason, equated EARTHQUAKE with SOMEONE MUST BE IN MY APARTMENT. I have no idea why I thought this. I hadn't had anything to drink before bed.
So I got up, and walked around my apartment. From there, things get a little fuzzy. I remember walking into my living room and standing there for a long time. Nothing had fallen off the shelves, so I continued to the kitchen, where I opened the fridge and closed it again. Here is where there is a huge gap. All I remember next is tripping over my shoes and then staggering to my bed.
Bizarre isn't it? And when I looked back at the clock, about an hour had
I have a paranoia of earthquakes for some reason. I've mentioned this in the past. They happen all the time in LA, supposedly, but we can't feel 99.9% of them because they're so small.
So here we go to my sleepwalking. I awoke because I swear I felt a huge jolt. Of course, perhaps it was just me jolting awake and I somehow took that as an earthquake. It was, after all, 2 in the morning--not my peak time for logical, cohesive thought. I know it was 2:00 AM because I looked at my alarm clock. What came next, I don't know. I thought I should check around my apartment. Why? Fuck if I know. I, for some reason, equated EARTHQUAKE with SOMEONE MUST BE IN MY APARTMENT. I have no idea why I thought this. I hadn't had anything to drink before bed.
So I got up, and walked around my apartment. From there, things get a little fuzzy. I remember walking into my living room and standing there for a long time. Nothing had fallen off the shelves, so I continued to the kitchen, where I opened the fridge and closed it again. Here is where there is a huge gap. All I remember next is tripping over my shoes and then staggering to my bed.
Bizarre isn't it? And when I looked back at the clock, about an hour had
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Big Ding Dong
No blog for today. You'll have to come back tomorrow. Now I'll tell you why I'm not writing a blog today: I have decided to party hearty. I have chosen not to be productive and write in my blog. I instead have decided that hemmoraging money would be a good way to spend my weekend.
Therefore, I cannot write a blog for today.
It's late. My new Car and Driver came. I'm excited to read it. You should be excited for me. And I only got about three or four hours of sleep last night, which definately isn't enough. I have to cut into my sleep to read this magazine. That's a bit stressing. And I can't add having to update my Goddamn blog to this stress.
I hung out with my new friend today--the engaged one. She warned me that she possibly wouldn't recognize me. And she sure didn't. I wouldn't have recognized her either, except she was a small Asian girl in the section of the bookstore where she said she'd meet me.
Did you know there's a Goddamn castle in Pasadena? The Green Castle. Who would have thought? Right in the middle of a block and *BAM* a Goddamn castle. Whoa, where'd that come from? For my reader's benefit, here's a word of advice: Don't try hopping the fence to try getting into Green Castle, because evidently there are many, many surveillance cameras.
Hey, Schlomo...Stay Jewish.
Therefore, I cannot write a blog for today.
It's late. My new Car and Driver came. I'm excited to read it. You should be excited for me. And I only got about three or four hours of sleep last night, which definately isn't enough. I have to cut into my sleep to read this magazine. That's a bit stressing. And I can't add having to update my Goddamn blog to this stress.
I hung out with my new friend today--the engaged one. She warned me that she possibly wouldn't recognize me. And she sure didn't. I wouldn't have recognized her either, except she was a small Asian girl in the section of the bookstore where she said she'd meet me.
Did you know there's a Goddamn castle in Pasadena? The Green Castle. Who would have thought? Right in the middle of a block and *BAM* a Goddamn castle. Whoa, where'd that come from? For my reader's benefit, here's a word of advice: Don't try hopping the fence to try getting into Green Castle, because evidently there are many, many surveillance cameras.
Hey, Schlomo...Stay Jewish.
Another Rejection
Last night, I went out and got drunk with a couple of friends. However, I've got a low tolerance for alcohol, so it didn't take as much for me to get toasted, though I wasn't blasted or "fucked up."
What was fucked up was when my friends said there is really little difference between me when I'm sober and when I'm really drunk. I was a bit surprised, maybe a little insulted.
"Well?" they said, "You act the same either way. You actually seem pretty normal right now. For you."
I'll grant that I walk into things. I slur my words a little. I get dizzy. I say idiotic things. I do all of this when I'm drunk, too, but I figured there'd be some sort of visible difference.
Another Rejection
Fast on the heels of last week's excitement of hitting on the engaged woman, I tried my hand at wooing another girl. This time, this girl was prescreened by my friend: really nice, about my age, Asian, not married, not engaged, no children.
I was already drunk when she arrived at the Howl at the Moon in Universal City. My friends, however, swore they couldn't tell. So I bought her a shot--I had to try to even the score. And so we hung out. It was so loud, we could hardly talk. However, I mostly (stupidly) talked about how I was drunk, but how I always insist on using correct grammar. And then we all left after listening to some music, and I bought us some chicken tacos. Great. Chicken fucking tacos. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "I'll worry about how much I'm spending when I sober up." I spent money like I wasn't a broke government employee.
After the chicken fucking tacos, I sobered a little (which was a downer) and we went to the Rumba Room and we danced. Okay, that was pretty fun. But before dancing, she was really nice and seemed to be really receptive to me. Then after dancing, I could sense that my skills on the dance floor had been so poor, she'd lost all respect.
And here it is. I asked if she wanted to hang out, go out, do something sometime. I'd noticed my approval rating rapidly dropping--DROPPING--but it wasn't to "Governor of California" levels yet, so I didn't want to beat around the bush any more than I had to. Her answer? "Oh, I hang out with these guys (my friend and his fiance, who are both her friends as well) every week."
So there it was. Rather than a 'no,' I got, "I hang out with these guys every week." This meant that if I go out next Friday, I'll be able to see her. Translation: "Go fuck yourself."
Hmmm.
This single thing doesn't seem to be working out too well. I need to find an inventive, unique way to get the lay-deez. And why are all the cool chicks engaged? Fuck!
What was fucked up was when my friends said there is really little difference between me when I'm sober and when I'm really drunk. I was a bit surprised, maybe a little insulted.
"Well?" they said, "You act the same either way. You actually seem pretty normal right now. For you."
I'll grant that I walk into things. I slur my words a little. I get dizzy. I say idiotic things. I do all of this when I'm drunk, too, but I figured there'd be some sort of visible difference.
Another Rejection
Fast on the heels of last week's excitement of hitting on the engaged woman, I tried my hand at wooing another girl. This time, this girl was prescreened by my friend: really nice, about my age, Asian, not married, not engaged, no children.
I was already drunk when she arrived at the Howl at the Moon in Universal City. My friends, however, swore they couldn't tell. So I bought her a shot--I had to try to even the score. And so we hung out. It was so loud, we could hardly talk. However, I mostly (stupidly) talked about how I was drunk, but how I always insist on using correct grammar. And then we all left after listening to some music, and I bought us some chicken tacos. Great. Chicken fucking tacos. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "I'll worry about how much I'm spending when I sober up." I spent money like I wasn't a broke government employee.
After the chicken fucking tacos, I sobered a little (which was a downer) and we went to the Rumba Room and we danced. Okay, that was pretty fun. But before dancing, she was really nice and seemed to be really receptive to me. Then after dancing, I could sense that my skills on the dance floor had been so poor, she'd lost all respect.
And here it is. I asked if she wanted to hang out, go out, do something sometime. I'd noticed my approval rating rapidly dropping--DROPPING--but it wasn't to "Governor of California" levels yet, so I didn't want to beat around the bush any more than I had to. Her answer? "Oh, I hang out with these guys (my friend and his fiance, who are both her friends as well) every week."
So there it was. Rather than a 'no,' I got, "I hang out with these guys every week." This meant that if I go out next Friday, I'll be able to see her. Translation: "Go fuck yourself."
Hmmm.
This single thing doesn't seem to be working out too well. I need to find an inventive, unique way to get the lay-deez. And why are all the cool chicks engaged? Fuck!
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Your Taxes Pay These People's Salaries (unless you're from Canada or Australia)
I've spent this entire week in training. This is where I sit with my colleagues in a classroom and listen to lectures. Imagine sitting in a room for eight hours listening to people read--yes, read--the United States tax code (otherwise known as United States Code Title 26, Internal Revenue Code) out loud. Tax law. Eight hours. To pass my time, I've decided to grow a brain tumor.
I keep hoping my heart stops. When my heart stops, my pain stops. And then, there is peace.
I observe those around me. There are people in government service that you just don't see outside in private industry. I watch and learn; by this, I mean I watch the others and think, "Why are these people walking around without helmets on their head?" What a bunch of fuckin' putzes. I write about those that stand out...
The Questioner
This one woman repeatedly asks questions and makes comments that just don't seem to connect--with anything. She averages one question per 5 minutes, or approximately 96 questions or bizarre comments during a single day.
Let me try and illustrate what this woman does. Let's say the lecture is in the neighborhood of a balance due on a personal income tax return. Let's say it's $455, and this wasn't paid because the person died right as they wrote the check to send to the IRS. All right, a decedent case; you check the probate records and find the executor of the estate--oh, Shanika, you have a question?
"Yeah, what happens if the taxpayer was writing the check to pay the $455 with a red pen? Because let me tell you something, I know somebody who died once because they choked on a piece of raw chicken. How they were eating raw chicken in the first place, I don't know. Because don't you think she'd have died of Salmonella anyway, because you can get that from raw chicken? And what was odd was that she had a checkbook in her hand when she died. So...what about that? Do you see? I mean, what happens with that $455 and the Salmonella?"
And the instructors stand there and stare at her completely befuddled, and then attempt to answer her question as if she's a reasonable, intelligent human being. There is no such thing as a stupid question? Oh, I beg to differ. The instructors have started just letting her ramble on, and then answer her questions with, "Okay...So we're just going to go ahead and move on."
The Fucking Genius
Well now, this is the person that knows the answer--to every single question you could possibly think of. He puts in his two cents at every opportunity, because he obviously knows the answer. Obviously. Today, he was telling the group some wierd horseshit law about seizing and liquidating securities (stocks, bonds, poop, etc.) in Nevada, since states have different laws about certain asset seizures. And then he said, "I have a good understanding of this. My wife is a financial advisor--excuse me, I mean a certified financial advisor."
I immediately turned to my neighbor and wrote him out a prescription for Percodan. My parents are both pharmacists and my uncle is a doctor. Why not? Obviously, if his wife is a certified financial advisor and she took some finance courses, that makes him suddenly qualified to pontificate freely about securities and finance (things he knows nothing about). Therefore, I am qualified to write out prescriptions. I excused myself so I could wash up for surgery. I decided to remove my neighbor's tonsils to prove my medical expertise.
Obviously, this guy's wife taking a few finance courses and getting some horsecock frou-frou certification means more than my Goddamn masters degree in finance. Fuck.
The Government Lifer
This is the situation with many of the instructors, but one in particular stands out. He worked his way up through the ranks. He put himself through college and started a family while working up through public service. He works at the same office he started at almost 30 years ago. He seems to love it. This man takes his job very, very seriously.
If I spend another year at my job, I will probably eat a box of rat poison. He's been there 30 years. I wonder how people can spend so much time in such a slow-moving, boring environment. I can't even figure out how I'm going to make it to the end of next week. If I were him, and I woke up one day to see I'd spent 30 years of my LIFE working for the same agency in the same organizational division in the same city in the same office, I would cry. I would cry, and cry, and then quit my job and move on a kibbutz. I would sky-dive without a parachute. And then I'd probably do something drastic.
I keep hoping my heart stops. When my heart stops, my pain stops. And then, there is peace.
I observe those around me. There are people in government service that you just don't see outside in private industry. I watch and learn; by this, I mean I watch the others and think, "Why are these people walking around without helmets on their head?" What a bunch of fuckin' putzes. I write about those that stand out...
The Questioner
This one woman repeatedly asks questions and makes comments that just don't seem to connect--with anything. She averages one question per 5 minutes, or approximately 96 questions or bizarre comments during a single day.
Let me try and illustrate what this woman does. Let's say the lecture is in the neighborhood of a balance due on a personal income tax return. Let's say it's $455, and this wasn't paid because the person died right as they wrote the check to send to the IRS. All right, a decedent case; you check the probate records and find the executor of the estate--oh, Shanika, you have a question?
"Yeah, what happens if the taxpayer was writing the check to pay the $455 with a red pen? Because let me tell you something, I know somebody who died once because they choked on a piece of raw chicken. How they were eating raw chicken in the first place, I don't know. Because don't you think she'd have died of Salmonella anyway, because you can get that from raw chicken? And what was odd was that she had a checkbook in her hand when she died. So...what about that? Do you see? I mean, what happens with that $455 and the Salmonella?"
And the instructors stand there and stare at her completely befuddled, and then attempt to answer her question as if she's a reasonable, intelligent human being. There is no such thing as a stupid question? Oh, I beg to differ. The instructors have started just letting her ramble on, and then answer her questions with, "Okay...So we're just going to go ahead and move on."
The Fucking Genius
Well now, this is the person that knows the answer--to every single question you could possibly think of. He puts in his two cents at every opportunity, because he obviously knows the answer. Obviously. Today, he was telling the group some wierd horseshit law about seizing and liquidating securities (stocks, bonds, poop, etc.) in Nevada, since states have different laws about certain asset seizures. And then he said, "I have a good understanding of this. My wife is a financial advisor--excuse me, I mean a certified financial advisor."
I immediately turned to my neighbor and wrote him out a prescription for Percodan. My parents are both pharmacists and my uncle is a doctor. Why not? Obviously, if his wife is a certified financial advisor and she took some finance courses, that makes him suddenly qualified to pontificate freely about securities and finance (things he knows nothing about). Therefore, I am qualified to write out prescriptions. I excused myself so I could wash up for surgery. I decided to remove my neighbor's tonsils to prove my medical expertise.
Obviously, this guy's wife taking a few finance courses and getting some horsecock frou-frou certification means more than my Goddamn masters degree in finance. Fuck.
The Government Lifer
This is the situation with many of the instructors, but one in particular stands out. He worked his way up through the ranks. He put himself through college and started a family while working up through public service. He works at the same office he started at almost 30 years ago. He seems to love it. This man takes his job very, very seriously.
If I spend another year at my job, I will probably eat a box of rat poison. He's been there 30 years. I wonder how people can spend so much time in such a slow-moving, boring environment. I can't even figure out how I'm going to make it to the end of next week. If I were him, and I woke up one day to see I'd spent 30 years of my LIFE working for the same agency in the same organizational division in the same city in the same office, I would cry. I would cry, and cry, and then quit my job and move on a kibbutz. I would sky-dive without a parachute. And then I'd probably do something drastic.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
G-d Damnit!!
Australia seems to make waste as much a part of their government system as ours does.
I just feel that if all the money spent on waste in the operation of our Government were instead spent on education, we'd have a bunch of brilliant little bastards running around understanding calculus by the 4th grade, and speaking Latin in the halls of public schools. If the money were instead spent on defense (and let's face it, there's a better chance that the money would go towards the president's dry-cleaning fund than education), every American would have a built-in Commie-seeking laser gun built into their forehead. I suppose waste, though, is a necessary cost of government. '
Speaking of Waste...
Meanwhile, my major accomplishment of the day was building a tower out of candy. Is this what my life has come to? Forget reading an exciting new book. Forget writing a poem, or even a haiku, or G-d (yes, let's be Jewish for a moment) forbid a short story. The very highlight of my day was taking several candies and stacking them into a tower. Granted, it was a large tower, and everyone else in the room thought it was distracting. And they also all got angry that I was taking their candy to build my tower. But I told them, "Listen, this is the cost of progress. You've got to give up some of your candy for us to move forward." They're so fucking close-minded.
I was thinking of taking Legos tomorrow. Fuck the candy. You can't snap candy together. And when I ran to the john, people ate part of the tower. People won't eat the Legos.
Also, I ate lunch in the building where Judge Ito (you remember him from the OJ trial) works. Isn't that crazy? It's a federal judicial building. They've got an okay cafeteria. They don't serve liquor, though. But then no federal building does, I guess. I asked some friends if they thought I'd get in trouble if I went in reeking of alcohol and stumbling drunk. The general concensus? No. But they'd be concerned.
I think it's experiment time.
I just feel that if all the money spent on waste in the operation of our Government were instead spent on education, we'd have a bunch of brilliant little bastards running around understanding calculus by the 4th grade, and speaking Latin in the halls of public schools. If the money were instead spent on defense (and let's face it, there's a better chance that the money would go towards the president's dry-cleaning fund than education), every American would have a built-in Commie-seeking laser gun built into their forehead. I suppose waste, though, is a necessary cost of government. '
Speaking of Waste...
Meanwhile, my major accomplishment of the day was building a tower out of candy. Is this what my life has come to? Forget reading an exciting new book. Forget writing a poem, or even a haiku, or G-d (yes, let's be Jewish for a moment) forbid a short story. The very highlight of my day was taking several candies and stacking them into a tower. Granted, it was a large tower, and everyone else in the room thought it was distracting. And they also all got angry that I was taking their candy to build my tower. But I told them, "Listen, this is the cost of progress. You've got to give up some of your candy for us to move forward." They're so fucking close-minded.
I was thinking of taking Legos tomorrow. Fuck the candy. You can't snap candy together. And when I ran to the john, people ate part of the tower. People won't eat the Legos.
Also, I ate lunch in the building where Judge Ito (you remember him from the OJ trial) works. Isn't that crazy? It's a federal judicial building. They've got an okay cafeteria. They don't serve liquor, though. But then no federal building does, I guess. I asked some friends if they thought I'd get in trouble if I went in reeking of alcohol and stumbling drunk. The general concensus? No. But they'd be concerned.
I think it's experiment time.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep
I've attempted to explain to a friend what it's like to have a government job.
My explanation actually also answers everyone's question at work: "Ryan, why do you always look tired?" I always tell them it's my contacts. But that's not it.
Every night, I go to bed later and later. I go to bed later and later, because the later I go to bed, the longer I'm awake. Once I go to sleep, that means I'll have to wake up. And when I wake up, I have to go to work. So I stay awake, because it seems to put off me having to go to work. And that is why I always look tired. It is procrastinated insomnia--a disorder of my own invention.
"Ryan, you look like you're about to fall asleep." I get this all fucking day at work. People say this because I have bags under my eyes and my eyes are bloodshot. However, no matter how little sleep I get, I can't fall asleep. I don't sleep in public places.
I go to work for eight hours, plus 45 minutes for lunch. Those eight hours stretch out. This morning already feels like it happened a week ago.
Of course, most of my colleagues seem to enjoy it. They really seem to be able to wrap themselves into the role of a mindless low-level government functionary. I seem to be having problems adjusting. I've been thinking longer and harder about delving into alcoholism as a new hobby, but my blog might suffer.
And we can't have that.
Anybody else out there have a government job? Does it suck balls as bad as mine?
My explanation actually also answers everyone's question at work: "Ryan, why do you always look tired?" I always tell them it's my contacts. But that's not it.
Every night, I go to bed later and later. I go to bed later and later, because the later I go to bed, the longer I'm awake. Once I go to sleep, that means I'll have to wake up. And when I wake up, I have to go to work. So I stay awake, because it seems to put off me having to go to work. And that is why I always look tired. It is procrastinated insomnia--a disorder of my own invention.
"Ryan, you look like you're about to fall asleep." I get this all fucking day at work. People say this because I have bags under my eyes and my eyes are bloodshot. However, no matter how little sleep I get, I can't fall asleep. I don't sleep in public places.
I go to work for eight hours, plus 45 minutes for lunch. Those eight hours stretch out. This morning already feels like it happened a week ago.
Of course, most of my colleagues seem to enjoy it. They really seem to be able to wrap themselves into the role of a mindless low-level government functionary. I seem to be having problems adjusting. I've been thinking longer and harder about delving into alcoholism as a new hobby, but my blog might suffer.
And we can't have that.
Anybody else out there have a government job? Does it suck balls as bad as mine?
Monday, May 02, 2005
UPDATE
So I talked to a friend about the proposal to be this girl's friend. He didn't think it sounded as odd or preposterous as I did. I told him I thought it was odd because I felt like a motherfucking moron for hitting on an engaged girl.
"Come on, Ryan, she wants to be your friend. Why not? I mean, so you're friends. You hang out with her, you talk to her, maybe you go to lunch with her or something. Hang out. What's so bad about that? She seemed nice," he said. I had to agree. "You know, why can't you just be friends with a girl without her being your girlfriend or what have you?" And I pointed out that most of my friends back home are women. "And what if she has friends that are hotties?" Well, you know, that'd be cool, but it's good to have friends. She was fun to talk to--good friend material.
"What if she has hotty girlfriends that like women, but are still straight?" Okay, friends are great, but straight lesbians that want men--those are cool.
"Maybe she has hot girlfriends that like Jewish guys to watch." Hmm. Hot lezzy action.
"Maybe those hot girlfriends will want you to watch and occasionally join in and do what you want with them." And then I pointed out how odd it was that this girl's friendship proposal had so quickly turned into an erotic lesbian daydream. However, he was right. So we hung up and I took a quick cold shower.
I then called her and said, "Yeah, all right, let's do this friends thing. Why not?"
So I have a new friend. I still feel like a motherfuckin buffoon, though.
All well. Hot lesbian action, here I come...
"Come on, Ryan, she wants to be your friend. Why not? I mean, so you're friends. You hang out with her, you talk to her, maybe you go to lunch with her or something. Hang out. What's so bad about that? She seemed nice," he said. I had to agree. "You know, why can't you just be friends with a girl without her being your girlfriend or what have you?" And I pointed out that most of my friends back home are women. "And what if she has friends that are hotties?" Well, you know, that'd be cool, but it's good to have friends. She was fun to talk to--good friend material.
"What if she has hotty girlfriends that like women, but are still straight?" Okay, friends are great, but straight lesbians that want men--those are cool.
"Maybe she has hot girlfriends that like Jewish guys to watch." Hmm. Hot lezzy action.
"Maybe those hot girlfriends will want you to watch and occasionally join in and do what you want with them." And then I pointed out how odd it was that this girl's friendship proposal had so quickly turned into an erotic lesbian daydream. However, he was right. So we hung up and I took a quick cold shower.
I then called her and said, "Yeah, all right, let's do this friends thing. Why not?"
So I have a new friend. I still feel like a motherfuckin buffoon, though.
All well. Hot lesbian action, here I come...
Make Them Give You the Finger
ADMISSION (5/13/2005): Some parts of have been edited to protect the innocent involved in this heinous event. Continue reading.
I went to the club this past Friday night. The Highlands in Hollywood. I'm still trapped in a serious error I made.
You see, as a man, I look at women in a linear fashion: face, ring finger, bosom, buttocks, and legs. Up to down.
And if I only have a split second to look at a girl to make a lightning-fast judgement, then I switch up the order: ring finger, face, followed by whatever else I have time to see.
These two Female Assessment Models work.
However, I met a woman in this club. I don't know what happened. I somehow ran through the full assessment--and she received a very high score. HOWEVER, I missed one very important attribute. We'll come back to it later.
We partied, talked, and danced all night. I bought her a drink; she bought me one. We danced. Nice girl. I asked if she wanted to go to dinner sometime over the weekend, and she said yes--she'd like to, and I asked about Sunday? Sunday's fine. I handed her my phone and asked her to put her number in. My friends, she could have said no. She could have entered a fake number. But she didn't.
And then come Saturday, I called her and she said she was busy, but she'd call me back. She said she needed to talk to me. TALK TO ME? Why? I met this woman in a bar. I hadn't had sexual relations with this woman. I hadn't impregnated her. I hadn't kissed her. Why did she have to "talk to me?"
But then she called. She said, "I don't know if you know this but...I'm engaged." Come again? She was engaged--fuckin engaged. She hadn't thought to mention this all motherfucking night. About three or so hours we danced and hung out and what have you. Engaged. So I told her I guess that this meant we weren't going to dinner, and she apologized. Okay. Have a nice life, I'm going to go feel like a dumbshit now.
I thought about this, though. Is it possible that I--with my proven female evaluation methods--missed that ring? Obviously, she wasn't wearing the ring, and perhaps it was even an excuse that she didn't want to go out with me. My friends, I obsessed over the ring.
Was she wearing an engagement ring?
Was she wearing any ring?
Ring? Ring? RING? RING?! RING??!!!!
So I called her. "Hi, this is Ryan--that idiot from the bar who didn't know you were engaged. Were you wearing a ring?" And she said...YES, she was indeed wearing her ring. And I apologized profusely and hung up.
Later that night, I told my friend, "Remember that girl I was hanging out with at the club? She's engaged." And he asked why I was so surprised, what with her ring and all. GOD DAMNIT!
And then today, she called. Yes, she called ME. "Are you busy?" I was doing paperwork to seize someone's house. The group manager was staring at me wondering why I was answering my cell phone when I had all this shit to do, so I told her I'd have to talk to her later.
When I called, she told me she wanted to be friends. With me. Her and me. Friends. Friends? What is this? A joke? "Um...you want to be...friends?" And she said she did.
"This is really strange for me. Here I was hitting on you all night in a bar, flirting, and you're engaged, and you want to be my...friend?" She said she did, though it sounded odd. I am, after all, a great, really nice guy. I agreed with her. Hmm. "Gee, uh, listen. This is really nice of you that you want to be my friend, but this is all way too odd for me."
She told me that everything would be okay, and I'd meet someone. I have no major problems or defects. I'm a pretty good guy, she said.
"Oh...okay. Thanks. Well, take care of yourself."
And that was the last (I think) of a hot, intelligent Vietnamese girl from the bar whose major flaws seemed to be engagement, and of course naivete. Damn.
*sigh*
I went to the club this past Friday night. The Highlands in Hollywood. I'm still trapped in a serious error I made.
You see, as a man, I look at women in a linear fashion: face, ring finger, bosom, buttocks, and legs. Up to down.
And if I only have a split second to look at a girl to make a lightning-fast judgement, then I switch up the order: ring finger, face, followed by whatever else I have time to see.
These two Female Assessment Models work.
However, I met a woman in this club. I don't know what happened. I somehow ran through the full assessment--and she received a very high score. HOWEVER, I missed one very important attribute. We'll come back to it later.
We partied, talked, and danced all night. I bought her a drink; she bought me one. We danced. Nice girl. I asked if she wanted to go to dinner sometime over the weekend, and she said yes--she'd like to, and I asked about Sunday? Sunday's fine. I handed her my phone and asked her to put her number in. My friends, she could have said no. She could have entered a fake number. But she didn't.
And then come Saturday, I called her and she said she was busy, but she'd call me back. She said she needed to talk to me. TALK TO ME? Why? I met this woman in a bar. I hadn't had sexual relations with this woman. I hadn't impregnated her. I hadn't kissed her. Why did she have to "talk to me?"
But then she called. She said, "I don't know if you know this but...I'm engaged." Come again? She was engaged--fuckin engaged. She hadn't thought to mention this all motherfucking night. About three or so hours we danced and hung out and what have you. Engaged. So I told her I guess that this meant we weren't going to dinner, and she apologized. Okay. Have a nice life, I'm going to go feel like a dumbshit now.
I thought about this, though. Is it possible that I--with my proven female evaluation methods--missed that ring? Obviously, she wasn't wearing the ring, and perhaps it was even an excuse that she didn't want to go out with me. My friends, I obsessed over the ring.
Was she wearing an engagement ring?
Was she wearing any ring?
Ring? Ring? RING? RING?! RING??!!!!
So I called her. "Hi, this is Ryan--that idiot from the bar who didn't know you were engaged. Were you wearing a ring?" And she said...YES, she was indeed wearing her ring. And I apologized profusely and hung up.
Later that night, I told my friend, "Remember that girl I was hanging out with at the club? She's engaged." And he asked why I was so surprised, what with her ring and all. GOD DAMNIT!
And then today, she called. Yes, she called ME. "Are you busy?" I was doing paperwork to seize someone's house. The group manager was staring at me wondering why I was answering my cell phone when I had all this shit to do, so I told her I'd have to talk to her later.
When I called, she told me she wanted to be friends. With me. Her and me. Friends. Friends? What is this? A joke? "Um...you want to be...friends?" And she said she did.
"This is really strange for me. Here I was hitting on you all night in a bar, flirting, and you're engaged, and you want to be my...friend?" She said she did, though it sounded odd. I am, after all, a great, really nice guy. I agreed with her. Hmm. "Gee, uh, listen. This is really nice of you that you want to be my friend, but this is all way too odd for me."
She told me that everything would be okay, and I'd meet someone. I have no major problems or defects. I'm a pretty good guy, she said.
"Oh...okay. Thanks. Well, take care of yourself."
And that was the last (I think) of a hot, intelligent Vietnamese girl from the bar whose major flaws seemed to be engagement, and of course naivete. Damn.
*sigh*
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Out of the Shithouse
It's time for me to concentrate on my career. Of course, I don't really have one, but when I do, I'll have to concentrate on it.
I'll be having a guest series over the next week from the failures of business and industry. Typically, people seem to look to the heroes of business: Jack Welch, Warren Buffett, the Pillsbury Doughboy. But I think we can learn more from the failures. People you might not know about, perhaps because they're in jail, the witness relocation program, or rehab.
Today's guest is Andrew Pendergasht, former chief executive of Sheisshaus Toys.
And now, our first guest post in the series, Andrew Pendergasht...
I thought kids looked up to municipal workers.
I thought kids wanted Terrance the Trashman as a role model.
A lot of kids don't go to college. A lot of kids don't want to be superheroes. Their reality is sometimes unionized municipal labor. Sometimes they look forward to being a mid-level city employee for their entire career.
So, I took all of our firm's available capital, and dumped it into my big Plan. Our company took out bank loans using not only all available corporate assets as collateral, but our houses, cars, and retirement monies. The future of toys? Municipal workers.
It's funny how things work. It's funny that 67% of the kids we asked said they would likely enjoy eating dog feces over playing with Terrance the Trashman--or even being a garbage collector. What's funnier was how fast--how very fast--all that money disappeared...*POOF*...into thin air. One day, I was yelling into the phone to get the plants to push out more Boyle the Busdriver dolls, and the next, the plants have been seized from the IRS and state tax board for failure to pay payroll taxes (since we used our tax money to invest in the Municipal Action Figure lines).
Ah, but who wants SUPER heroes, when you can have everyday heroes--dog catchers, bus drivers, meter checkers?
I learned my lesson, though. My ideas were just too progressive.
I'll be having a guest series over the next week from the failures of business and industry. Typically, people seem to look to the heroes of business: Jack Welch, Warren Buffett, the Pillsbury Doughboy. But I think we can learn more from the failures. People you might not know about, perhaps because they're in jail, the witness relocation program, or rehab.
Today's guest is Andrew Pendergasht, former chief executive of Sheisshaus Toys.
And now, our first guest post in the series, Andrew Pendergasht...
I thought kids looked up to municipal workers.
I thought kids wanted Terrance the Trashman as a role model.
A lot of kids don't go to college. A lot of kids don't want to be superheroes. Their reality is sometimes unionized municipal labor. Sometimes they look forward to being a mid-level city employee for their entire career.
So, I took all of our firm's available capital, and dumped it into my big Plan. Our company took out bank loans using not only all available corporate assets as collateral, but our houses, cars, and retirement monies. The future of toys? Municipal workers.
It's funny how things work. It's funny that 67% of the kids we asked said they would likely enjoy eating dog feces over playing with Terrance the Trashman--or even being a garbage collector. What's funnier was how fast--how very fast--all that money disappeared...*POOF*...into thin air. One day, I was yelling into the phone to get the plants to push out more Boyle the Busdriver dolls, and the next, the plants have been seized from the IRS and state tax board for failure to pay payroll taxes (since we used our tax money to invest in the Municipal Action Figure lines).
Ah, but who wants SUPER heroes, when you can have everyday heroes--dog catchers, bus drivers, meter checkers?
I learned my lesson, though. My ideas were just too progressive.
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