stupid customer: "Can I please have a ticket for Savvi?"
employee: "Excuse me?"
stupid customer: "Savvi?"
employee: "um...could you point to the movie you want?"
stupid customer ::points to Saw VI::
employee: "Uh, oh. You mean Saw VI?"
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
no thanks
I've been sitting with this keyboard perched on my lap for 20 minutes now. In that time I have typed 3 opening sentences to this entry, all of which were frantically deleted into oblivion. Fuck me.
I won't reduce my recent lack of productive writing to any conveniently packaged "writer's block." In truth, it's tied more to a state of being that I loathe more than Stephanie Meyers. (In all fairness, I've never read Twilight. I am actually just that much of a snob.)
It pains me to even bring up the word. It's so ugly. But if you have to know, I haven't been writing because I am so damn BORED. Phew. I haven't said that since the fourth grade. It feel so juvenile to admit to boredom at my age, which is why I'd never ever say it aloud. Can you imagine what that would sound like? A twenty-three old woman who is supposed to be starting out, enjoying everything life has to offer...and she's what? Bored?
But I am. Bored with Buffalo. Bored with babies. Bored with cold weather and facebook status updates and people who talk about their cell phones.
You see, boredom is a killer precisely because it allows you to see how empty your life really is.
But, I think, if you can get over the fact that your life is mostly empty (or that you see it as mostly empty) then you can make a change. So that you won't be so bored. And then you could be excited about life again. And then you could get back to writing. And writing, in any amount, might be enough to keep you in the game.
I won't reduce my recent lack of productive writing to any conveniently packaged "writer's block." In truth, it's tied more to a state of being that I loathe more than Stephanie Meyers. (In all fairness, I've never read Twilight. I am actually just that much of a snob.)
It pains me to even bring up the word. It's so ugly. But if you have to know, I haven't been writing because I am so damn BORED. Phew. I haven't said that since the fourth grade. It feel so juvenile to admit to boredom at my age, which is why I'd never ever say it aloud. Can you imagine what that would sound like? A twenty-three old woman who is supposed to be starting out, enjoying everything life has to offer...and she's what? Bored?
But I am. Bored with Buffalo. Bored with babies. Bored with cold weather and facebook status updates and people who talk about their cell phones.
You see, boredom is a killer precisely because it allows you to see how empty your life really is.
But, I think, if you can get over the fact that your life is mostly empty (or that you see it as mostly empty) then you can make a change. So that you won't be so bored. And then you could be excited about life again. And then you could get back to writing. And writing, in any amount, might be enough to keep you in the game.
Monday, November 9, 2009
santa's little helper
I don't give a hoot about all the negative crits out there. I thoroughly enjoyed Men Who Stare at Goats. George Clooney+Jeff Bridges+Kevin Spacey+Ewan McGregor...could you ask for more? Apparently, you could. But I wouldn't.
I am tempted by the following ad I found on Craigslist:
Santa's and Elves Wanted!
You bring the Jolly- We'll bring the suit!
Want to make some extra cash for this Christmas? Up to 20+ per hour?
Do you love performing and interacting with young children?
TEC Entertainment is an entertainment company looking for great people to portray popular christmas characters this winter at parties and events!
We provide the costume and supplies, you bring your amazing acting abilities!
If you have your own costume- it's a plus- please send us a photo. Each job ranges from 1-2 hours or more. Jobs booked by an on-call basis.
No previous experience necessary! Will train! We are currently scheduling interviews reply today!
I am tempted by the following ad I found on Craigslist:
Santa's and Elves Wanted!
You bring the Jolly- We'll bring the suit!
Want to make some extra cash for this Christmas? Up to 20+ per hour?
Do you love performing and interacting with young children?
TEC Entertainment is an entertainment company looking for great people to portray popular christmas characters this winter at parties and events!
We provide the costume and supplies, you bring your amazing acting abilities!
If you have your own costume- it's a plus- please send us a photo. Each job ranges from 1-2 hours or more. Jobs booked by an on-call basis.
No previous experience necessary! Will train! We are currently scheduling interviews reply today!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
ahead by a century
Because she had the requisite bob haircut, a co-worker decided to go as a flapper for Halloween. Chatter about cigarette holders, swinging necklaces, and high heels ensued. I gushed about how much I love 20's fashion.
And then it occurred to me:
By the time I have grandchildren of my own, I won't be able to say things like "I dig '50's nostalgia" or "'20's fashion is resurfacing" (not that I'd ever want to say things like that).
As a member of a generation that essentially straddles 2 centuries - one foot planted firmly in the tumultuous 20th, another tiptoeing tenuously into a new slew of undefined decades - there will come a time that requires us to specify not only a decade but also a century in casual conversation. Our grandchildren will identify with their OWN 20's...a decade that will, I'm sure, diverge in every way possible from its 20th century counterpart. We'll have to disengage automatic associations and rewire the way we define the 30's, 40's...even my beloved 60's. With time, those decades will have to be permanently fastened to their "19__" prefix in order to make any sense.
It's strange, to me at least, that my generation will live through decades I associate with history textbooks and vintage art posters.
And since I opened this post with a reference to Halloween costumes, I feel like it's ok to jump back a bit and say that, after much deliberation (too much, really), we went with Team Zissou apparel. Easy, cheap, hip.
And then it occurred to me:
By the time I have grandchildren of my own, I won't be able to say things like "I dig '50's nostalgia" or "'20's fashion is resurfacing" (not that I'd ever want to say things like that).
As a member of a generation that essentially straddles 2 centuries - one foot planted firmly in the tumultuous 20th, another tiptoeing tenuously into a new slew of undefined decades - there will come a time that requires us to specify not only a decade but also a century in casual conversation. Our grandchildren will identify with their OWN 20's...a decade that will, I'm sure, diverge in every way possible from its 20th century counterpart. We'll have to disengage automatic associations and rewire the way we define the 30's, 40's...even my beloved 60's. With time, those decades will have to be permanently fastened to their "19__" prefix in order to make any sense.
It's strange, to me at least, that my generation will live through decades I associate with history textbooks and vintage art posters.
And since I opened this post with a reference to Halloween costumes, I feel like it's ok to jump back a bit and say that, after much deliberation (too much, really), we went with Team Zissou apparel. Easy, cheap, hip.
Monday, October 26, 2009
another case of the crazies
That's it. I am so over delegating this year's costume search to Google. One more exposed bosom falling out of gray sweater combo that looks like it was swagged from the closet of a sluttier version of Hermione Granger, and I am going to upchuck the remnants of my spaghetti and meatballs dinner all over this laptop screen.
And Patrick's baptism? One quick anecdote should sum it up -
(I should preface this by stating loud and clear: my sister has more than one major mental illness. So family events are, as a rule, synonymous with uncomfortable conversation, wardrobe malfunctions, and wack-a-doos galore. I do not say this to be uncouth or insensitive. It's just the way things are.)
I am sitting at the kitchen table, munching on broccoli, trying to ignore the odd few people in the adjacent dining room as gracefully as I can. Who are these people? Where did they come from? I often ask myself how my sister ever manages to meet anyone (if you've met her once, you understand)...but then I remember: the people that she "facebooks," the people that she is perpetually texting while her children run wild, the people whom she considers worthy of a baptism party invite...these people are, for the most part, as crazy or crazier than herself. Which is why I was keeping myself occupied with broccoli. Broccoli is safe. It doesn't wear purple spandex pants or fanny packs. It doesn't hypothesize that the Swine Flu originated from aborted fetuses. And it certainly never snorts when it laughs.
Broccoli and I were enjoying ourselves just fine when one "them" crossed into our territory. I'm not a total snob nor am I lacking some sense of social decorum, so I said "Hello." Cheerfully. With a smile.
Apart from her peculiar getup and eyeliner run amuck, this girl seemed...OK.
Not so.
She says hello or its equivalent. Then...THEN - she grabs a bottle of wine. Scratch that - THE bottle of wine, the one and only for this particular occasion. At first, I don't think anything of it. That's what wine is for. It's on the counter for everyone's enjoyment. She pours a full glass, takes one sip, throws the rest in the trash. Without a word.
Horror! Charlene makes her trademark "only in our family" face and the girl leaves the room. At which point Charlene whispers, rather harshly (it was her wine, after all) - "that's the third time she's done that!!! She takes one sip, then throws it in the trash!!!! I can't believe it!!"
"I can."
It didn't take long before my mom hid what little remained of the bottle. Enter crazy girl again (sorry to call her that, but I don't remember her name). She rummages briefly around the counter, mumbling about how she wants some more wine, but she just has to be careful about how much she drinks. Too bad we don't have that luxury, sweetie. Even cheap wine costs moolah.
I remember having at least one conversation with this girl over the course of the afternoon. It was weird.
She also helped herself to a Labatt she found in the refrigerator, which was apparently enough to get this poor girl drunk because for the rest of the day she was glued to a kitchen chair, eyes roaming, head drooping -she really pulled out the works. Then she stood up and nearly fall flat on her face, practically taking the chair with her. To which she giggled "haha, I was just kidding."
And Patrick's baptism? One quick anecdote should sum it up -
(I should preface this by stating loud and clear: my sister has more than one major mental illness. So family events are, as a rule, synonymous with uncomfortable conversation, wardrobe malfunctions, and wack-a-doos galore. I do not say this to be uncouth or insensitive. It's just the way things are.)
I am sitting at the kitchen table, munching on broccoli, trying to ignore the odd few people in the adjacent dining room as gracefully as I can. Who are these people? Where did they come from? I often ask myself how my sister ever manages to meet anyone (if you've met her once, you understand)...but then I remember: the people that she "facebooks," the people that she is perpetually texting while her children run wild, the people whom she considers worthy of a baptism party invite...these people are, for the most part, as crazy or crazier than herself. Which is why I was keeping myself occupied with broccoli. Broccoli is safe. It doesn't wear purple spandex pants or fanny packs. It doesn't hypothesize that the Swine Flu originated from aborted fetuses. And it certainly never snorts when it laughs.
Broccoli and I were enjoying ourselves just fine when one "them" crossed into our territory. I'm not a total snob nor am I lacking some sense of social decorum, so I said "Hello." Cheerfully. With a smile.
Apart from her peculiar getup and eyeliner run amuck, this girl seemed...OK.
Not so.
She says hello or its equivalent. Then...THEN - she grabs a bottle of wine. Scratch that - THE bottle of wine, the one and only for this particular occasion. At first, I don't think anything of it. That's what wine is for. It's on the counter for everyone's enjoyment. She pours a full glass, takes one sip, throws the rest in the trash. Without a word.
Horror! Charlene makes her trademark "only in our family" face and the girl leaves the room. At which point Charlene whispers, rather harshly (it was her wine, after all) - "that's the third time she's done that!!! She takes one sip, then throws it in the trash!!!! I can't believe it!!"
"I can."
It didn't take long before my mom hid what little remained of the bottle. Enter crazy girl again (sorry to call her that, but I don't remember her name). She rummages briefly around the counter, mumbling about how she wants some more wine, but she just has to be careful about how much she drinks. Too bad we don't have that luxury, sweetie. Even cheap wine costs moolah.
I remember having at least one conversation with this girl over the course of the afternoon. It was weird.
She also helped herself to a Labatt she found in the refrigerator, which was apparently enough to get this poor girl drunk because for the rest of the day she was glued to a kitchen chair, eyes roaming, head drooping -she really pulled out the works. Then she stood up and nearly fall flat on her face, practically taking the chair with her. To which she giggled "haha, I was just kidding."
Monday, October 19, 2009
i'm turning myself into a demon
Fleet Foxes song titles are perfect for Fall. And their music... hot damn. This year, they are my go-to band for sunny Autumn afternoons (however far and few between they've been this season). I practically knocked over my second glass of beer when a local band started playing "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" at a bar last Friday. Then they stopped after like 3 lines!!! Big wtf moment! I was so out of my mind that I marched right up to the singer and demanded an explanation.
"Why did you stop playing that song!?"
"Um, the drummer doesn't really know it."
"Well...can you just sing it then? You've got a guitar."
"Yeah. Uh, I think we're heading out though."
"Oh. You guys are awesome. Really, really good."
"Thanks."
"K. Bye!"
"Bye."
I'll be back later in the week with a run-down of baby Patrick's baptism. There's much to be said whenever the Halls gather under the guise of Catholic tradition. (teaser: one bitter divorcé, vomit, houseful of mentally deranged kooks)
"Why did you stop playing that song!?"
"Um, the drummer doesn't really know it."
"Well...can you just sing it then? You've got a guitar."
"Yeah. Uh, I think we're heading out though."
"Oh. You guys are awesome. Really, really good."
"Thanks."
"K. Bye!"
"Bye."
I'll be back later in the week with a run-down of baby Patrick's baptism. There's much to be said whenever the Halls gather under the guise of Catholic tradition. (teaser: one bitter divorcé, vomit, houseful of mentally deranged kooks)
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Must go faster!
It could be the scads of zombie/horror/slasher films that necessarily arrive with the dawn of October that triggered this thought:
I wonder what it's like to run for your life.
I mean like really, really running top-speed from what could be, potentially, a gruesome bloody end. A limb-tearing, flesh-shredding death. Involving, I dunno, a T-Rex...or a guy in a hockey mask.
The fangs of death dripping at your worn Keds.
Lungs bursting, your throat catching.
I mean, what would you be thinking about? Would you be kicking yourself for skipping out on the gym all season? Would you ever reach the point where you just couldn't take it anymore and you'd gladly choose a quick death over running one more second? I personally loathe running (I wish I liked it) so this would be an awful way to go. Running and running and running and then - dead. Damn.
Thankfully, it mostly just happens in the movies.
I wonder what it's like to run for your life.
I mean like really, really running top-speed from what could be, potentially, a gruesome bloody end. A limb-tearing, flesh-shredding death. Involving, I dunno, a T-Rex...or a guy in a hockey mask.
The fangs of death dripping at your worn Keds.
Lungs bursting, your throat catching.
I mean, what would you be thinking about? Would you be kicking yourself for skipping out on the gym all season? Would you ever reach the point where you just couldn't take it anymore and you'd gladly choose a quick death over running one more second? I personally loathe running (I wish I liked it) so this would be an awful way to go. Running and running and running and then - dead. Damn.
Thankfully, it mostly just happens in the movies.
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