Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Saving Gaysus
I have a camera phone. I know how to operate it, yet I have no idea how to use it. I always see so many interesting things and picture-worthy moments, but as they typically involve the ineptitude of a perfect stranger, discreetness is key. When it comes to being discreet, I'm about as slick as Fly Paper. Unfortunately, as in other previous occasions, you the reader has to develop a sense of imagination to make up for the lack of skill I possess.
Living in a large city allows you to see many different and interesting types of people. Today I'll focus on Gay men. With innovative and well managed coiffes, wardrobes comprised of the hottest trends, fitness routines that promote healthy bodies, and flawless complexions, they really test the theory that men cannot be pretty.
Despite my assessment of the overall stereotypes, every once in a while, in every overall group, there exists a deviation from the norm. Small deviations are not uncommon, however full-scale change is always a bit more difficult to fathom.
There is a kid that rides my train on a nearly regular basis. He cannot be more than 25. With Crystal Gayle hair circa 1985, a bright orange puffy jacket, too-tight and faded black jeans, sandals--did I mention it is 25 degrees outside--from middle-school, this kid who bares a striking resemblance to Jesus, is a walking fashion disaster. At first I thought he was just perhaps a poor or destitute college student with no means to do better. But then one day, as the crowd waits for the train, I watched as he sat at a nearby bench running algorithms and programming language on his more-expensive-than-my-house computer.
That totally dismissed my theory. Even if he is still a college student, with brains like that, he could afford going into debt for a few years just to make sure he continued to look good, knowing that he'll be making six figures in just a few more years.
So what makes me figure that Gaysus (that's what I'm calling him) is a misguided gay man looking for the road to salvation? He could just be an introverted computer nerd with little care for such superficial nonsense. Well, it could be the 36" gay pride umbrella (rainbow and pink triangle included) that he sports on rainy days. Or it could be the accidental gay porn spotting I saw on his computer the one day I sat behind him on the train. I'll let you decide how I drew my conclusions.
I like to look for the beauty in everyone. I'm actually not kidding--for real. I make fun of everyone, but that's all in the name of getting a cheap laugh. But I'd rather have to work much harder to find good material. This one needs excessive help. I'm afraid that too much at once might just push him over the edge however, so perhaps we could start with some straight eye for the queer guy and then infuse him with regular booster shots.
I think it was the Reverend Billy Graham that said "The road to salvation is often bumpy". I don't know if anyone expected the road to Gaysus' salvation would be THAT bumpy.
Living in a large city allows you to see many different and interesting types of people. Today I'll focus on Gay men. With innovative and well managed coiffes, wardrobes comprised of the hottest trends, fitness routines that promote healthy bodies, and flawless complexions, they really test the theory that men cannot be pretty.
Despite my assessment of the overall stereotypes, every once in a while, in every overall group, there exists a deviation from the norm. Small deviations are not uncommon, however full-scale change is always a bit more difficult to fathom.
There is a kid that rides my train on a nearly regular basis. He cannot be more than 25. With Crystal Gayle hair circa 1985, a bright orange puffy jacket, too-tight and faded black jeans, sandals--did I mention it is 25 degrees outside--from middle-school, this kid who bares a striking resemblance to Jesus, is a walking fashion disaster. At first I thought he was just perhaps a poor or destitute college student with no means to do better. But then one day, as the crowd waits for the train, I watched as he sat at a nearby bench running algorithms and programming language on his more-expensive-than-my-house computer.
That totally dismissed my theory. Even if he is still a college student, with brains like that, he could afford going into debt for a few years just to make sure he continued to look good, knowing that he'll be making six figures in just a few more years.
So what makes me figure that Gaysus (that's what I'm calling him) is a misguided gay man looking for the road to salvation? He could just be an introverted computer nerd with little care for such superficial nonsense. Well, it could be the 36" gay pride umbrella (rainbow and pink triangle included) that he sports on rainy days. Or it could be the accidental gay porn spotting I saw on his computer the one day I sat behind him on the train. I'll let you decide how I drew my conclusions.
I like to look for the beauty in everyone. I'm actually not kidding--for real. I make fun of everyone, but that's all in the name of getting a cheap laugh. But I'd rather have to work much harder to find good material. This one needs excessive help. I'm afraid that too much at once might just push him over the edge however, so perhaps we could start with some straight eye for the queer guy and then infuse him with regular booster shots.
I think it was the Reverend Billy Graham that said "The road to salvation is often bumpy". I don't know if anyone expected the road to Gaysus' salvation would be THAT bumpy.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I can only imagine the 2-ply count
Have you ever laughed out loud in the public restroom? I only ever did once; the magazine article was really funny! Today I had to add twice to my count.
Our stalls have those giant TP dispensers that despite the fact that they're 1-ply, probably contain enough cleaning cloth to toilet paper the houses of an entire high school football team on Senior Night (not that this ever happened to the band geeks; actually I think my mom finally got the last of it about a year ago).
I was washing my hands when I heard that familiar rumble of the toilet paper roll coasting around its cylindrical holder, signaling that the person was just about finished with his business. The rumbling took place at a quick pace over an overly-extended amount of time. I figure he must have taken about 20 yards. I was just about to leave the restroom when it started again, equally as long. Curiosity got the better of my and I then had to know why it took so long. No less than 10 such repetitions of this behavior occurred. The toilet also flushed 3 times. By my calculations, he used 200 yards of toilet paper. Granted, we're talking Scott Brand cheap white toilet paper, so it really only equals about 10 yards, but who honestly needs even that much? The last time I took more than 2 yards, I was just getting over the stomach bug!
This struck me as particularly funny for some reason. I had stuck around to listen to the fun unraveling (I know that was really lame) and couldn't contain myself any longer. I let out a nice yelp followed by a quick belly laugh. The door unlatched, I caught a split second glimpse of the mystery wiper and ran off, hoping I had left in a big enough blur as to conceal my identity.
DO NOT. I repeat. DO NOT linger in the bathroom waiting for funny things to happen to other people. You only get yourself in trouble!
Our stalls have those giant TP dispensers that despite the fact that they're 1-ply, probably contain enough cleaning cloth to toilet paper the houses of an entire high school football team on Senior Night (not that this ever happened to the band geeks; actually I think my mom finally got the last of it about a year ago).
I was washing my hands when I heard that familiar rumble of the toilet paper roll coasting around its cylindrical holder, signaling that the person was just about finished with his business. The rumbling took place at a quick pace over an overly-extended amount of time. I figure he must have taken about 20 yards. I was just about to leave the restroom when it started again, equally as long. Curiosity got the better of my and I then had to know why it took so long. No less than 10 such repetitions of this behavior occurred. The toilet also flushed 3 times. By my calculations, he used 200 yards of toilet paper. Granted, we're talking Scott Brand cheap white toilet paper, so it really only equals about 10 yards, but who honestly needs even that much? The last time I took more than 2 yards, I was just getting over the stomach bug!
This struck me as particularly funny for some reason. I had stuck around to listen to the fun unraveling (I know that was really lame) and couldn't contain myself any longer. I let out a nice yelp followed by a quick belly laugh. The door unlatched, I caught a split second glimpse of the mystery wiper and ran off, hoping I had left in a big enough blur as to conceal my identity.
DO NOT. I repeat. DO NOT linger in the bathroom waiting for funny things to happen to other people. You only get yourself in trouble!
Friday, March 10, 2006
Graphic Farts
Dear SEPTA:
Seriously? Your passes aren't usually awe-inspiring, but at least they are usually tasteful. Your February pass had bright orange flowers in preparation for the Philadelphia Flower Show. December had a non-denomenational holiday theme. January, while it was a picture of a bus stuck in the snow--not a wise PR move there--at least it was well photographed. I would have been able to show examples of your previous works of art, but Matt has made me start to throw them away in an effort to reduce clutter in my empty spare room. Too bad the clutter is actually in my head, but I digress.
The March 2006 pass is the ugliest thing I've seen since a 7', 300-tooth drag queen in Miami this past October. Observe:
Seriously? Your passes aren't usually awe-inspiring, but at least they are usually tasteful. Your February pass had bright orange flowers in preparation for the Philadelphia Flower Show. December had a non-denomenational holiday theme. January, while it was a picture of a bus stuck in the snow--not a wise PR move there--at least it was well photographed. I would have been able to show examples of your previous works of art, but Matt has made me start to throw them away in an effort to reduce clutter in my empty spare room. Too bad the clutter is actually in my head, but I digress.
The March 2006 pass is the ugliest thing I've seen since a 7', 300-tooth drag queen in Miami this past October. Observe:
Both look very scary. March is keep the seats neat month? Your trains are older than me, I'm lucky they still have seats, let alone keeping them neat and pristine. Insanity is all I can say.
The only good thing that did come out of it is that you inspired everyone to leave a clean recovery place for Trixie. How nice and charitable. Now that you have made me all warm and fuzzy, fire your Graphic Artist!
Sincerely,
The one who enjoys pretty things in life.
Ah Springtime!
It has been a while since I could go outside for the 6:30 AM start to my day and not feel the slightest bit of an early nip. I'm so excited. That's why I'm blogging instead of working. Shhh.
Aside from the lower clothing amounts associated with the warmer spring and summer weather, all of the crazies usually come out of the wood work too. Once it is warm enough to spend time outdoors, most of the insanity we are kept from in the winter hours make themselves everpresent at first thaw. Oh yes, spring is my favorite time of year, as the psychometer (below, with links illustrating each level of psychosis: Severe, High, Elevated, Guarded, Low) is usually at its highest alert level.
Aside from the lower clothing amounts associated with the warmer spring and summer weather, all of the crazies usually come out of the wood work too. Once it is warm enough to spend time outdoors, most of the insanity we are kept from in the winter hours make themselves everpresent at first thaw. Oh yes, spring is my favorite time of year, as the psychometer (below, with links illustrating each level of psychosis: Severe, High, Elevated, Guarded, Low) is usually at its highest alert level.
This morning, Phil and I finally had Marianne back on the train after a nearly week-long Psychology drought. Phil discussed the book he recently finished--it involved a cop who slept with midgets and was confused as a pedophile--and Marianne discussed her fantastically fun Spring Break helping Rob test drunk teenage rats for brain damage. Sadly I call these people friends, despite the fact that each deserves at least a yellow rating.
But once we had the chance to examine our surroundings this morning, we were privy to a red-level vixen of mammoth proportions. Marianne got on the train first and didn't notice the haggardly whore sleeping in the two seater nearby; she was on a mission to find an open 3-seater for us all.
As the conductor came through, our crack whore--let's call her Trixie just for fun--wiped the spit from the corners of her mouth and handed him several crumpled bills and uttered some destination. He replied that our train was an express and wouldn't be stopping there. This leads me to believe that she was en route to one of the northern inner city stops known heavily for thier lovely surroundings of abonded shacks and overgrown fields of misplaced dreams, rather than the college-based stops from Manayunk through East Falls. He informed her that she must get off of this train and take another one coming about five minutes later. Trixie looked at him with the same bewilderment as a two-year old who just had her ball stolen from a 7th grader during recess. She proceeded to lay down in her seat and pretend not to hear him as she rocked back and forth coming down from her high.
Two stops later he made her get off of the train. Trixie got up and fell as though the train had lurched to a sudden stop. We had been parked for a good minute by this point. She gathered her collection of crumpled bills and proceeded to leave the train, but only after falling 3 more times.
Phil noted that the medical professional now sitting in her abandoned seat has no idea he might be sitting in crack drool. Hopefully they make an ointment for that.
Spring doesn't officially start for another 11 days, but if this morning's preview was any indication of what 2006 has in store, dear readers, we're going to have a fun few months!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Random
I get our company's info mailbox e-mail. So anything that comes from our website to info@url.com comes to me. I just thought I'd share the most random one ever.
Welcome to a new concept in manhole covers
Seriously? Its still round. Big deal, it has a hinge and a lock to make sure it doesn't go anywhere. But when was the last time you saw kids out in the street lifting manhole covers anyway?
If you're going to make a huge new announcement, make it worthwile. I know round objects are the only ones that cannot fall in on themselves, but give me something more creative. And did I mention that my company has nothing to do with manholes?
Welcome to a new concept in manhole covers
Seriously? Its still round. Big deal, it has a hinge and a lock to make sure it doesn't go anywhere. But when was the last time you saw kids out in the street lifting manhole covers anyway?
If you're going to make a huge new announcement, make it worthwile. I know round objects are the only ones that cannot fall in on themselves, but give me something more creative. And did I mention that my company has nothing to do with manholes?
Monday, March 06, 2006
I'm not crazy!
I really started to second guess myself. Perhaps my granola bar wasn't stolen. Perhaps I had snacked unknowingly and now was just trying to place blame.
This afternoon, as my coworkers and I discussed that the cafeteria prices had risen over 50% last week, I mentioned that I now was going to bring more food to work rather than purchase it from the forever-increasing fees that are food Bank of America. But I needed to hide my bounty as last week I had a granola bar stolen.
"How do you know it was stolen" asks Ashley.
"Well because," I started to recount my mathematical deduction of six days divided by six bars does not equal 1 day left. Before I could even utter the first word, I hear her admit "it was me. I stayed late, the vending machine didn't work, and I was hungry. I'm sorry".
I don't care, but I'm shocked at the level of cover-up required for this deed. First, it is a $0.48 granola bar. Second, you know I'll say yes if you ask. Third, it was a $0.48 granola bar. Why try to cover it up with "how do you know it was stolen"?
Tsk, tsk, tsk. She is totally off of my Christmas Cookie list. Too bad I don't make cookies, and that she's Jewish. But the ill intent is still there!
This afternoon, as my coworkers and I discussed that the cafeteria prices had risen over 50% last week, I mentioned that I now was going to bring more food to work rather than purchase it from the forever-increasing fees that are food Bank of America. But I needed to hide my bounty as last week I had a granola bar stolen.
"How do you know it was stolen" asks Ashley.
"Well because," I started to recount my mathematical deduction of six days divided by six bars does not equal 1 day left. Before I could even utter the first word, I hear her admit "it was me. I stayed late, the vending machine didn't work, and I was hungry. I'm sorry".
I don't care, but I'm shocked at the level of cover-up required for this deed. First, it is a $0.48 granola bar. Second, you know I'll say yes if you ask. Third, it was a $0.48 granola bar. Why try to cover it up with "how do you know it was stolen"?
Tsk, tsk, tsk. She is totally off of my Christmas Cookie list. Too bad I don't make cookies, and that she's Jewish. But the ill intent is still there!
Mother Lovers
The 78th Annual Academy Awards were last night. They begin with the normal rigmarole and soirees as every Hollywood A-list event, except this is the really big one.
I tuned in for about 10-15 minutes of the pre-show that highlights everyone's arrival onto the red carpet. I watched Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams of Brokeback Mountain arrive and participate in perhaps the most ill-prepared interview of all times.
The reporter, some C-list celebrity reduced to nothing but a fashion commentator, asked Mr. Ledger what it was like having his career so definitively marked and changed by his performance in this movie. I cannot recall his uninteresting answer, but I remember it coming off as sublimely unremarkable. The reporter then turned to Heath's baby's momma and asked what it was like for her to "take a relatively small part and make it something special enough to be nominated for best supporting actress". Looking like a star-struck twelve year old that just got to take her picture with Justin Timberlake, Michelle sports a million dollar smile, capitalizes on the innocent sparkle of her eyes, and replies "It was easy; I had a great actor to react to".
Are you nuts? You KNEW this question would surface at least once throughout the evening, and you couldn't prepare a better answer than that? You were soooooo brilliant in Brokeback. Jen Jen Jen, you and Joey and Pacey and Dawson always spoke so eloquently as teenagers. Too eloquently if you ask me, but you didn't so I'll move on. Because of this, I had such high hopes that your vocabulary would just continue to improve as you matured. I was sadly mistaken. Now I realize that you were a struggling B-List actress until you started knocking boots with the gay cowboy and are probably a bit starstruck. But as long as he's hot--and with you--you will be too, so snap out of it and get a better publicist that can teach you how to think on your own feet.
This was the beginning and end of my date with Oscar--I only agreed to go anywhere with him to make sure Desperate Housewives wasn't going to be on. So I grabbed the remote and showed him to the door. Luckily, there's Fox, always known for being easy and entertaining and often quite edgy.
From here, I watched Bad Boys II with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. Yes, I know. I'm crazy. I saw the first one and liked it. And it takes place in Miami which, despite my ill-fated experience there during Hurricane Wilma, still holds a special place in my heart. Well, thank you to Janet Jackson for ruining a perfectly unexciting movie with over censorship. Darn, crap, Fooey, and (my favorite) Mother Lovers replaced the normal expletives that make action movies about drugs and violence so great. To top it off, the sound was out of synch with the video giving me the feeling that Will Smith and Bruce Lee were suddenly long lost brothers.
So Sunday nights, usually the best night for entertainment, severely disappointed me. I had a very short date with Oscar that didn't go well, the Simpsons weren't home, Wisteria Lane was blocked by a runaway red carpet, and the Bad Boys looked more like the Hardy Boys. Perhaps I should reexamine my viewing habits, or maybe even pick up a hobby that doesn't require so little thought.
I tuned in for about 10-15 minutes of the pre-show that highlights everyone's arrival onto the red carpet. I watched Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams of Brokeback Mountain arrive and participate in perhaps the most ill-prepared interview of all times.
The reporter, some C-list celebrity reduced to nothing but a fashion commentator, asked Mr. Ledger what it was like having his career so definitively marked and changed by his performance in this movie. I cannot recall his uninteresting answer, but I remember it coming off as sublimely unremarkable. The reporter then turned to Heath's baby's momma and asked what it was like for her to "take a relatively small part and make it something special enough to be nominated for best supporting actress". Looking like a star-struck twelve year old that just got to take her picture with Justin Timberlake, Michelle sports a million dollar smile, capitalizes on the innocent sparkle of her eyes, and replies "It was easy; I had a great actor to react to".
Are you nuts? You KNEW this question would surface at least once throughout the evening, and you couldn't prepare a better answer than that? You were soooooo brilliant in Brokeback. Jen Jen Jen, you and Joey and Pacey and Dawson always spoke so eloquently as teenagers. Too eloquently if you ask me, but you didn't so I'll move on. Because of this, I had such high hopes that your vocabulary would just continue to improve as you matured. I was sadly mistaken. Now I realize that you were a struggling B-List actress until you started knocking boots with the gay cowboy and are probably a bit starstruck. But as long as he's hot--and with you--you will be too, so snap out of it and get a better publicist that can teach you how to think on your own feet.
This was the beginning and end of my date with Oscar--I only agreed to go anywhere with him to make sure Desperate Housewives wasn't going to be on. So I grabbed the remote and showed him to the door. Luckily, there's Fox, always known for being easy and entertaining and often quite edgy.
From here, I watched Bad Boys II with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. Yes, I know. I'm crazy. I saw the first one and liked it. And it takes place in Miami which, despite my ill-fated experience there during Hurricane Wilma, still holds a special place in my heart. Well, thank you to Janet Jackson for ruining a perfectly unexciting movie with over censorship. Darn, crap, Fooey, and (my favorite) Mother Lovers replaced the normal expletives that make action movies about drugs and violence so great. To top it off, the sound was out of synch with the video giving me the feeling that Will Smith and Bruce Lee were suddenly long lost brothers.
So Sunday nights, usually the best night for entertainment, severely disappointed me. I had a very short date with Oscar that didn't go well, the Simpsons weren't home, Wisteria Lane was blocked by a runaway red carpet, and the Bad Boys looked more like the Hardy Boys. Perhaps I should reexamine my viewing habits, or maybe even pick up a hobby that doesn't require so little thought.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Not Even a Hefty Bag is Enough to Contain this Trash
I recently received some great news. Matt found a website that predicts your home's resale value. I'm fairly certain that the website exaggerates a little bit. Even in our inflation-happy housing market, I didn't make $19K in seven months. What I'm even MORE certain of, is that I couldn't actually get that price once the prospective buyers meet Debbie.
Yes, this is the same Debbie I have spoken of on more than occasion (Instance 1, Instance 2). She has sadly made her way into regular topics of conversations about ineptitude. While I used to be just an observer of her family's daily displays of insanity, I find that I and many of my neighbors are now cohorts in her surreal life.
This woman grew up in a nice area. I'm sure she was the popular one in high school and all of the boys loved her. Unfortunately they loved her a bit too much as she was rewarded with about 4 or 5 delinquent children. Granted, one of them is currently in juvenile hall--he was the one breaking into Matt's car a few months back--making the house a bit more quiet. But I always see one or many of the family members constantly walking between their house--which I have to pass en route to my own-- and their trashtastic Suburban. I can't help but wonder what they're doing or where they're going. At any given time, there is always at least one of them sitting in the truck. Sometimes its on, and sometimes I think its just a second home. No one should be able to know that much about a neighbor that they don't even like.
Oh, but that's not all! Shortly after the break-in, Debbie--who also happens to be a board member on the Condo Board--asked me about a community-wide list serve on which I was working with another board member. Obligingly, I gave her my e-mail address so that we could communicate that way, figuring that would limit my exposure to her. I thought horribly wrong. Now I am barraged at least once or twice each day with ridiculous forwards dealing with everything from appliance sales at Boscovs to the difference between Male hunters and female hunters. Does she honestly think that interests me at all?
While this has all been going on for some time, I chose today to discuss it because of the morning incident. I don't have the luxury of having remote start, so on cold days I go out and start my car, lock it, and then go back inside for a few minutes and then enter a warm car with my spare key. As I walked out this morning, I passed the house of sin and saw the front door open wide.
This is not unusual as there are always people walking in and out. You get a great view of the wooden picnic table--with built-in benches--that serves as the formal dining room table, as well as the Rubbermaid-endorsed storage / filing system stacked sky high in the foyer and living room. I didn't pay the open door any attention, but I thought it was a waste of heat considering that this morning's temperature was 25.
When I went out again to actually leave, the door was still wide open, still with no one but that god awful picnic table in sight. I did think perhaps someone should check on them to make sure everything is OK. But then I realized that I didn't care that much.
Is that wrong?
Yes, this is the same Debbie I have spoken of on more than occasion (Instance 1, Instance 2). She has sadly made her way into regular topics of conversations about ineptitude. While I used to be just an observer of her family's daily displays of insanity, I find that I and many of my neighbors are now cohorts in her surreal life.
This woman grew up in a nice area. I'm sure she was the popular one in high school and all of the boys loved her. Unfortunately they loved her a bit too much as she was rewarded with about 4 or 5 delinquent children. Granted, one of them is currently in juvenile hall--he was the one breaking into Matt's car a few months back--making the house a bit more quiet. But I always see one or many of the family members constantly walking between their house--which I have to pass en route to my own-- and their trashtastic Suburban. I can't help but wonder what they're doing or where they're going. At any given time, there is always at least one of them sitting in the truck. Sometimes its on, and sometimes I think its just a second home. No one should be able to know that much about a neighbor that they don't even like.
Oh, but that's not all! Shortly after the break-in, Debbie--who also happens to be a board member on the Condo Board--asked me about a community-wide list serve on which I was working with another board member. Obligingly, I gave her my e-mail address so that we could communicate that way, figuring that would limit my exposure to her. I thought horribly wrong. Now I am barraged at least once or twice each day with ridiculous forwards dealing with everything from appliance sales at Boscovs to the difference between Male hunters and female hunters. Does she honestly think that interests me at all?
While this has all been going on for some time, I chose today to discuss it because of the morning incident. I don't have the luxury of having remote start, so on cold days I go out and start my car, lock it, and then go back inside for a few minutes and then enter a warm car with my spare key. As I walked out this morning, I passed the house of sin and saw the front door open wide.
This is not unusual as there are always people walking in and out. You get a great view of the wooden picnic table--with built-in benches--that serves as the formal dining room table, as well as the Rubbermaid-endorsed storage / filing system stacked sky high in the foyer and living room. I didn't pay the open door any attention, but I thought it was a waste of heat considering that this morning's temperature was 25.
When I went out again to actually leave, the door was still wide open, still with no one but that god awful picnic table in sight. I did think perhaps someone should check on them to make sure everything is OK. But then I realized that I didn't care that much.
Is that wrong?
