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Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Hot like me

"Establishing goals is all right if you don't let them deprive you of interesting detours." ~Doug Larson

I had this rather garrulous literary masterpiece three quarters written about my propensity for being a lush, versus my roommate’s propensity for looking at me funny when I say “holy fucking hangover”. All of which went to the wayside when during the premiere of ANTM, there was a long preview for a new reality show in search of the next…great…PUSSYCAT DOLL. Almost like being the next…great…BEATLE, but with less clothing and more eyeliner and acrylic nails.

I watched in awe as girl after girl sat teary eyed and confessed that being a pussycat doll was what they wanted in life more than anything. How it would change their world forever and all carried signs that said “Live Pussycat or Die!”

I’ve had some crazy goals in life, ranging from neonatology to fictional novelist to Ballerina, which I know, right with the size of my ass. But never before nor will I ever, get on camera, in front of a million and ten people and announce that I, Heather B, have the aspirations to dance in my bra and boy shorts, with my ass cheeks hanging out, lip synching that I would love nothing more than for Snoop Dogg to push up on my buttons, baby.


Monday, February 26, 2007

Some people may remember this night

This post brought to you by the letter 'H' for 'Hmmm...maybe she'll stop bitching and start drinking again and be funny, then maybe I won't want to poke my eyeballs out after every other paragraph'

“A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you've been taking.” ~Earl Wilson

Sunday evening I was directed toward a Facebook photo album courtesy of a friend from another life. ‘Another life’ that involved packing up my possessions and going to play with the monkeys in Gibraltar and wondering around in the dark night after picnics on the beach. The photos had been long forgotten. But as soon as I saw Clay making the word ‘poop’ out of his fingers like gang signs, I remembered the bottle of Bacardi that we hid in the tree and how much we drank in the hotel. And that Thekla covered herself in yogurt to help the sun burn and I too this day, do not recall how we got home that night.

What happened that night is unimportant and only the five of us would remember, but it was the deluge of memories that took over me. Like the nights of wandering around Madrid drunk at 3 AM or the Valentine’s Day spent in an Amsterdam coffee shop or the numerous bus trips through the Moroccan mountains without getting shot. All of which done without a care in the world and frivolous at best.

Things have been shitty. Not “I have cancer and my boyfriend died and my dog got shot by a cop and I have worms coming out of my eyeballs” shitty, but severely inconvenienced and stressed out shitty. It’s more like the type of shitty that you explain to others and they say ‘That’s nice, take a fucking number’*. I’d enjoy that life of frivolity again. The ability to say ‘fuck it’ and drink grey goose and tonic like water. I say these things like a 47 year old with kids and a mortgage trying to pay the Pepco bill, trapped in a 23 year olds body.

So I’m doing what any normal person my age who realizes their incessant bitching is really fucking annoying, would do; I bought a ticket to Boca: Because nothing screams, “I’m embracing my responsibility and saving my money by investing in my 401K” like spending your last $14 on a vacation.

*as said by Schnozz** and her infinite wisdom.

**leave it to her and her crazy editor skills to notice that there was even an asterisk there in the first place.


Sunday, February 25, 2007

Always on a Sunday

"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show." ~Andrew Wyeth

Why never on a Monday? Wednesday, even. I'm not that picky.

*these are over at flickr as well, but since I'm an idiot who can't figure out how to upload them from flickr to here, this will have to do.

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Thursday, February 22, 2007

Interruptions and complications

“If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you got a problem. Everything else is inconvenience.” ~Robert Fulghum

I began saying things with extra emphasis and added dramatic flair: “Can you believe that the bar ran out of all hard liquor and then my car blew up and HE is the father of HER child?” Just like that, with much purpose and expression and a little hyperbole. Because if there is anything I know, it is how to be as hyperbolic and exasperated as possible without any really imminent disaster looming.

But that’s how it feels at time: one thing inevitably will need to lead to another equally disastrous circumstance and my death is threatening because of the lack of Pinot Noir at Trader Joe’s and so help me God, if I have to deal with another inept leasing office I’m going to climb through the phone and choke a motherfucker.

Breathing though mandatory seems like something not being done ever. I had the gall to say that I hadn’t been drinking. This said smugly with a pat on the back for being so responsible and not drowning my sorrows in pear flavored vodka. The response was less than optimal, a head shake and an ‘oh honey, now is the time to start drinking. Now run for the hills with that bottle of Tempranillo under your arm.’ Sage advice that landed me in bed until 5:45 PM the next day with a headache much like the one I had been experiencing for days on end prior.

I relayed this all to Kris, with a heavy sigh and to Peg with a few choice words and to the women at my leasing office with a few more choice words. All of these incessant things are annoyances, I know this. But the build up of annoyance leaves me thinking that Albany is a fine place to spend the rest of one’s natural life. In the comfort of one’s true home. Or perhaps curled up in the fetal position with the aforementioned bottle of wine.

I said that life is one big shit sandwich. She says that she wants her youth back. I’m left wondering when exactly I lost mine and how I get it back.

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Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Last but not least: Citizen of the Month

-My final guest post, because really now, is by Neil of Citizen of the Month.

"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important."~Bertrand Russell

I moved to Los Angeles to go to film school and become a screenwriter. I was surprised by how quickly I got a job involving screenwriting at a major Hollywood studio. Unfortunately, it was not a job writing scripts. It was a job READING scripts.

Yes, I was a low-paid, low-on-the-totem-pole script reader (or script "analyst" as we liked to call ourselves). It was the worst job I ever had.

"What's so bad about getting paid to read?" you might ask. It sounds like the ideal job for an English major and someone who loves to read. First of all, a true "reader" reads for enjoyment or enlightenment. A Hollywood script reader reads and reads and reads and reads endless piles of CRAP. Serial killer movies. Vampire movies. Retreads of whatever comedy was successful the year before. If a dumb movie like "A Night in the Museum" is successful, be assured that within three months, there will be a hundred similar scripts about "A Night at the Zoo" or "A Night in the Art Gallery."

Step one of being a reader is reading the material. Step two is doing the "coverage." Coverage is the equivalent of writing a little book report for each script or book submitted to the company. It is never-ending homework. You summarize the written material. You write a one sentence "log line." You give your opinion of the story, the characters, and the writing. You decide whether the material deserves a "pass," "consider," or "approve."

Within the first week, I was called into the producer's office and told that I was being TOO honest in reviewing the terrible scripts. As a newbie, I didn't realize that Hollywood is mostly based on relationships. My job was not so much to review the script, like a critic might review a book in the New York Times. My main goal was to read the script so the producer didn't have to, but still enable him to LOOK like he read it. Part of my job description was to help the producer be like Paula Abdul on "American Idol" -- finding something positive to say while still rejecting the person. Since you never know who a script may come from, it is always important for the producer to be able to say SOMETHING positive. For instance, if Tom Cruise's aunt wrote a really bad screenplay about a League of Superheroes, the producer should be able to say "the script had some fine moments of dramatic action, but we aren't going in that direction right now." This way, the producer can look like a cool guy -- and blame someone else for the script's rejection.

During the second week, I was called into the producer's office again because I "approved" a script about women's wrestling during the Depression. I thought it was a moving story with great characters, exactly the type of oddball movie I would want to see. No one else agreed with me. Even worse, by "approving" a script as noteworthy, the producer actually READ the script, and HE doesn't like to have his time wasted. That's why he is paying YOU. So, out of fear of losing their jobs, most script readers rarely approve a script unless box-office gold is dripping off the pages (which is rare). In four years of reading scripts, I think I "approved" four projects, all of them vehicles for popular actors.

During the first month, I was called into the producer's office a third time -- this time to learn about a new wrinkle to my job. The producer had taken on a partner and they disagreed over some projects. "My" producer said he would appreciate it if I "liked" certain materials more than I did, in order to convince his partner that a script was not as bad as it seemed. For example, he handed me a script that "he knew had major rewrite problems" but wanted his partner's approval because he thought he could get Eddie Murphy to be involved. So, surprise, surprise -- my coverage of the material contained only mild criticism, with expressions like "flawed, but with a little work, this can be a rollicking comedy, maybe for someone like Eddie Murphy."

For four years, I never read a book for pleasure. Writing became a chore for me. I saw how difficult for any screenplay to get past a reader. There was always going to be a jerk like ME, some frustrated writer, dismissing my script after reading it in a coffee shop at three o'clock in the morning. I lost my ability to distinguish between good and bad. When everyone said a movie sucked, I would just be impressed that the project actually got made!

Eventually, I quit this job and my mind got a needed rest.

In the scheme of things, being a Hollywood script reader isn't the worst job in the world. You can do a good portion of your job sitting in Starbucks. You don't have to shovel horse manure. You don't have to wear a suit.

But for me, it was the worst job I ever had, because it was soul-destroying.

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Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Guest Post: Pink Lemonade Diva

One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important. ~Bertrand Russell

-Oh yes, this is a series. To be concluded on Wednesday or when every other sentence isn't 'holy motherfucker'. Today's guest post is brought to you by the lovely Pink Lemonade Diva.

My milkshakes bring no one anywhere

Not a long time ago, I went into a McDonald’s to order a McFlurry and the cashier looked me in the eye and told me the machine was broken.

Karma, it seemed, was having the last laugh.

I have a confession to those in the Annapolis, Maryland, area who wanted frozen yogurt milkshakes in the mid-to-late 90’s: the milkshake machine wasn’t always broken.

But when you’re 16 and working at a national chain yogurt franchise, you’re not interested in giving the customer what they want, rather what’s easiest for you to make.

And that was – always – a small (cup) single flavor with no topping.

And even though the pre-made ice cream sandwiches in the freezer would seem like a preferable option, we made them by hand every time the supply got low, so please not those either.

Yes, I was not the Super Scooper I purported to be and now, as a mature and responsible adult, I’d like nothing more than to find that franchise owner and apologize for being such a sludge. I would also like to apologize for not locking the door at 8 pm exactly even though those people walking through the parking lot were clearly heading into your store to spend money, and, not least, for being caught by the mystery shopper for wearing sweatpants instead of a uniform pant, although I’d like to know how the hell that person caught that detail. I’d apologize for making up our own names for flavors and for the time my friends came into help clean up and sampled the flavors without using new sample spoons. We should also probably apologize for the trivia contests we’d hold offering winners a free topping, but that was just to make the shift a little more interesting – no one buys ice cream or frozen yogurt in winters, as the franchise owner later found out.

I probably should apologize for that Styrofoam tip cup that we put out to earn a few extra dollars each shift, but the one thing I will never apologize for, however, was for letting the customers in the back to customize their own Happy Birthday cakes. Calligraphy with icing is a bitch, and at least when it looked crappy, the customer had no one to blame but themselves.

So just a warning: if you’re ever given the special opportunity to write the custom happy birthday message on the sheet cake you’ve just purchased, know that A) the person behind the counter has shitty handwriting, and B) it’s amazing what those icing roses and balloons can cover.

And to all those kids with tip cups for college funds on the counter of their ice cream shop – I promise to never order a peanut butter shake, and I’ll always give you the spare change.

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Sunday, February 18, 2007

Guest post: Chirky

"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important." ~Bertrand Russell

-From Jes of

Considering Heather B.’s recent misery with [redacted] life, and Isabel’s guest entry about her worst job EVAH, I thought it only fitting for me to write a similar entry.

And so I sat at work all day yesterday thinking about all my past jobs.

I thought about my first job: I worked as an assistant to an elderly man two days a week. My job was to (a) iron his shirts and pants, (b) cook him dinner and (c) vacuum his house. For this he paid me $15 per day. He loved me, naturally, because I’m a good ironer. I love starch. And so did he. It was a match made in heaven, except he was a good 60 years older than me. That didn’t stop Anna Nicole Smith, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Also: gross.

I’ve contemplated other jobs I’ve held – jobs during college and jobs post-graduation. I’ve thought about my current position and I’ve considered my last position.

The problem is that I have a terrible, terrible memory. I watch a movie and ten minutes later don’t even recall its name. A friend tells me what she did last weekend and I call her the next night to ask how her weekend went.

I think this is because my tendency to forget pain that I’ve endured has spread to other areas of my life. Now I just forget. Period.

Sometimes I walk around in a fog, flouting the negative. Often it just doesn’t occur to me. On the other hand, when it does occur to me I am fully aware of how much I dislike my job, I have no problem complaining. But once I’m out of that situation I have almost immediately forgotten it again.

And y’all? I have something to admit to you. And you may hate me a little. But I really can’t remember a job that I’ve hated with such a passion that I’d rather lick the bottom of my purse after setting it on the concrete floor of a public restroom at the State Fair of Texas. That would be misery.

So while I’ve been intimidated and been inundated and been irritated with work, I’ve also had very cushy jobs. I’ve held positions that pay me well to do relatively little work. I’ve held positions that pay me little to do relatively a lot work.

But mostly I’ve loved the jobs I’ve had because of the friendships I’ve made. Is that a little corny? Maybe. But the good thing is that tomorrow I won’t remember what I just wrote.

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Friday, February 16, 2007

An ode to my sanity

"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important." ~Bertrand Russell

So the other night I had a bit of a crying/screaming* fit and it was a lovely throwback to the tender age of four. There might have even been some laying on the floor and kicking of my arms and legs and flailing. Then I had some thin mints and did some yoga and suddenly I was rational again. Amazing how that happens.

* crying/ screaming = saying fuck, a lot and hanging up on el Madre.

The truth is that I was and am suffering from a severe case of ‘oh my holy fucking shit’ syndrome. Symptoms include severe swings between ennui and eating macaroni and cheese in while watch Oprah and sitting on my ass furiously typing and hoping and then typing some more. Then my eyes started to burn and I thought they would fall out of my head if I kept scrolling up and down on my little Bordeaux and/or I’d go blind. So! In lieu of me going blind and/or postal I did the most rational thing I could think of: ignore everything else except for my blog. Duh.

Did y’all know that if you ask the internet for help, they will help??? Especially if you write that you are about three seconds away from a straight jacket embroidered with your initials. Oh they will. Ergo, a few of them, whom I now would like to make out with decided to lend a helping hand at guest posting, while I try to just be…

And so I present to you an entry by the lovely Isabel, of Hola, Isabel

Look at me; first time guest blogger, long time fan. Heather, thanks for giving me the chance to guest blog at your shiny site. I never thought I’d see my words posted next to pictures of the glorious Miss Foxy Brown. I like it.

So let’s get right to it.

Let me tell you about the time I stayed at a job about 2 years longer than I should have.

My family moved the summer before I graduated from college. By the time I graduated and moved back home they were settled into their new town. My younger brother and sister were enrolled at the local high school and doing just fine. They didn’t move far away. Really only about a 20 minute drive from the town I had grown up in. The town where all my high school friends still lived (you know, except for the ones that moved away to college to). So while I wasn’t really that far away, I still was far enough away that life wasn’t going to be the same for me.

I decided that I needed to make the best of the situation. I needed to make some new local friends. I figured the best way to do this was to get a job which would force me to meet new people. A job where people my age worked. A job where I could be surrounded by people my age. Preferably hot guys who were my age.

I kept my eyes open for a job like this every weekend when I came home to wash my laundry and eat my parents food. (Dude, I was a poor starving college student. Of course I came home on the weekends to do my laundry. Plus, my Dad would always fill my car up with gas. Thanks Dad.) I finally found what I thought was the perfect job at the local convenient store. I had been in there a ton of times and realized that all the girls that worked there were super cute. And super chipper. They wore cute little uniforms with the store’s log on it and had cute hair. Plus, all the hot guys from town were always in there getting sodas, chewing tobacco and filling up their trucks. And there was a drive-thru window. How cool is that?

I had a few more months before I graduated, so I kept scouting out the joint. By the time I moved home, I was sure this was where I wanted to work. Lucky for me they had a “Help Wanted” sign in their window. I promptly applied and got called in for an interview. I was pretty confident that I could get this gig. Being fresh out of college, I knew I needed to wear a skirt and look all professional. (For a job at a convenient store? What in the hell was I thinking?) Anyway, I showed up for my interview in a nice skirt. There were about 8 other girls there for interviews. I got a little nervous until I looked around the room and realized I was the only girl there not wearing cut-off shorts and a tank top. I wanted to scream; Hello, have any of you ever heard of job interview etiquette? I guess not.

I had noticed that this convenient store only hired girls, and cute girls for that matter. I felt pretty confident about how I did in the interview, but what if I wasn’t cute enough to actually get the job? What if they had interviewed some other girls that I hadn’t seen? Girls that were cuter then the ones I had interviewed with? And what if they actually liked girls who wore cut-offs? I started to psych myself out.

Whatever. I got the job. I started the following week. They gave me my uniforms, spent a few days training me on the proper way to fill a refill mug with Pepsi, and I was good to go.

Good to go!

The girls I worked with were all awesome. (Okay, the older ladies that also worked there weren’t as awesome. That’s because, I’m convinced, they were jealous of my youth.) We all bonded instantly. They were really good gals who were funny and made the new job even better. And then there were the hot guys who came to the drive-up window all day. Glorious, glorious hot guys with their youthful bodies and their yummy, kissable lips (and which I didn’t fully appreciate at the time). You would be surprised at how much Pepsi a 19 year old can throw back in a day. And since I was new to town, it was even better. Have you ever been asked out on a date through a drive-thru? It’s exhilarating. Really.

(Okay, not really. Are guys so lazy that they can’t walk inside to ask you out on a date? Yes, they are that lazy.)

I had a lot of dates. I met a lot of the customers. I met my (first) husband through the drive-thru window at the convenient store (I can’t remember, but let’s pretend that he actually walked inside to ask me out). I met some of my best friends working there. Heck, I even got my life in order through the example of the other awesome gals I worked with. So what’s the problem?

The problem is that after I married the hot younger guy, I stayed on at the convenience store for a few more years. I was a married, college graduate who worked for peanuts at a small town convenient store. I filled refill mugs all day for people who were too lazy to get out of their car and come in to get their own damn Pepsi. I cleaned the public restroom after high school students shit all over the walls because they were too drunk to poop in the toilet. I swept the parking lot twice a day because people are slobs and can’t seem to throw their cigarette butts into the garbage cans. I put up with being sexually harassed by the owner of the store (and select customers) on a daily basis. I worked the opposite shift from my husband. I worked every weekend and Holiday. I was forced to wear a “uniform” with a picture of a scantly clad pin-up girl riding a bull. A bull that glowed in the dark.

I shudder just thinking about this. I’m mad at my younger self for putting up with this for so long. I’m mad at my former husband for not encouraging me to quit. I’m mad at my parents for not advising me to get a real job. I’m mad at my friends for not taking me with them when they quit and went on to get better jobs.

I can usually look back on past experiences and see though all the rubbish and be able to appreciate the good that came from the experience. To know that I’m a better person because of it. But I can’t with this. All it does is make me feel ashamed. And while I did gain some new friends, which was really all I set out to do, I also lost a lot. I missed out on chances to spend Holidays with my husband and family because I was working. I missed out on actually working towards a career. I missed out on life because I didn’t make enough money to do anything fun. I even think me working opposite shifts as my husband lead to the demise of our marriage.

What’s the moral of this story? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m giddy I don’t have to wipe shit off the bathroom walls anymore.

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Tuesday, February 13, 2007

That's just the way it is

“If you're going through hell, keep going.” ~Winston Churchill

If I could find the proper analogy for this, I would use it. I don’t think that there are words from the English language that I could put into almost paragraph form that would adequately describe this.

I’m standing on a street and everything is moving past me. Everything is normal. Postal trucks go by, a woman walks her terrier, a man is gently stroking the top of his child’s head as she is nestled into a bjorn. Meanwhile, I’m just standing and staring and everything keeps moving – just like normal – everything except for me.

I want to write fuck a million times and tell the truth, but I cannot. I just suffer and tell Kris and pray that my head doesn’t explode from the ridiculousness of it all. And of course a little self medication.

Thin mints, Amy’s Kitchen mac & cheese and Augusten Burroughs. Shockingly enough, NO WINE. So not only am I miserable but hell has apparently frozen over.


Sunday, February 11, 2007

Write the rage

“When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

As children, we’re taught to ‘use our words’. That screaming and throwing ourselves on the floor in a fit of rage, isn’t the answer to our problems. It will not get us what we need and want, but instead we should express ourselves eloquently and be articulate, using the words of the English language.

I’m guessing that the above doesn’t cover the homicidal rage and general pissed off –ness that I’m feeling right now. And all I want to do is scream “FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK” while standing at the top of the Washington Monument. Speaking of the phallus, perhaps tell those who have offended me that they can sit on the top of it and rotate.

Livid cannot even describe how things are right now. That tomorrow might very well be one of the worst days ever and I actually might rather be crushed by a large truck and then well, kicked in the mouth. Given that I’ve used the phrase “kicked in the mouth” about seven times in the past three weeks, then you will realize that I obviously have a hard time with using the English language, for that is the only thing I can think of to describe severe pain.

Usually I go off the deep end, flip my shit and am full of causticity and vitriol. This time? Though I am 79% sure that Jesus Christ hates me and finds me to be a complete waste of His time and talent, I have some sort of semblance of hope. Hope. Oh things suck and I should probably seriously contemplate fleeing the country, I still have hope and will get through this and oh my, look at me being all optimistic even in times of severe, white hot HATE.

In other news, I went out Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. Not just ‘out and kinda tipsy’ but seriously out what with the open bars and the shots of cognac and grand marnier and the awesome flip cup playing and have woken up with a hangover everyday for the past three days. Dizzy hangovers that can only be cured by a giant sized beer at 12:45 on. a. Sunday. The Lord’s Day. And then I went to Hooters and Hooters has curly fries and curly fries makes most everything momentarily better.


Saturday, February 10, 2007

Taste test

“One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.” ~Luciano Pavarotti

This morning during breakfast at Town Hall:

“You know what I had yesterday for the first time ever?”

::blank stare::

“Oatmeal. It was really good. It’s opened up a whole new world for me. You should try it”


I always want to know the little things about people. First and last names especially, since I’m prone to calling you such. Also how those names came about, favorite things, passions, and taste in music. So now I through out there food preferences. I’m often asked why I am a vegetarian; given that the odds of a black female raised by very southern parents who think that ribs should be eaten by the slab and bacon should have it’s own food group, are about 1,700,987 to 1. It has nothing to do with animal cruelty given that I am fond of sticking my nose inside of a Coach bag because leather smells delicious. It’s because I was never a big meat eater in the first place, so I figured why not. Or maybe it had something to do with the number of Big Macs consumed as a child and now I am averse to a quarter pound of meat. In fact my stomach is churning with the thought.

But yes, food. I feel passion for chevre, Trader Joe’s mac and cheese and the avacado.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Almost like 40

"None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” ~Henry David Thoreau

How it occurred, I am not acutely aware but at some point my nearest and dearest went from being solely in my age bracket to upwards of 30. Of course all of the former are people that I love and admire. I’m not kissing any ass when I say that their wisdom and reliability as good friends have made me a better person. One who tests the boundaries of trust a little more and knows that drinking eight glasses of water a day will lead to eternal hotness; or at least the ability to look 19 when about to hit 33. No matter, they’re lovely people.

My age has never been a point of discussion unless an intense discourse on Silver Spoons or Jake Ryan comes up and even then I just smile and nod and remark how hot Rick (sorry, Ricky) Shroeder was in NYPD Blue. Which leads to Mark Paul Gosseler discussion and well I’ve seen every episode of Saved by the Bell and we carry on. It’s something that one rarely notices, especially I that is until recently when the subject of birthdays came up. Specifically how excitement dwindles after a certain age.

A good friend happens to have a birthday well into his fourth decade next week. Kid looks about 24 and acts about 13 on a good day (I say that with love) so I tend to forget that he will be over a decade older than I. In fact he’s probably reading this now and contemplating ways in which to kick me in the head from afar. Ad nauseum requests of his excitement and birthday plans are all for naught because apparently the clichés are true: as one gets older birthdays tend to just become another day. Or so he said when I counted down to the minute how long until his birthday and he depressed the hell out of my by pointing out that after 25 birthdays are no longer exciting or something to look forward to. So remind me to toss myself in front of a bus somewhere around October 26, 2009, because life goes downhill from there.

Of course I beg to differ solely based on what I’ve heard from others in the over 25 set, but I thought that this would be something to throw out to the internet. Especially since right now I am this close to writing a long bitter diatribe of a novel because there’s so little time until I begin to give up on life and the date of my birth. And lord knows that y’all don’t want me writing novels. Unless novels can have the word fuck thrown in every other word and then I suppose it’s all good.

Sunday, February 04, 2007


“Just remember, if you hang in there long enough, good things can happen in this world. I mean, look at me.” – Tom Smykowski, Office Space

I feel like I’ve just returned from an extended absence or a vacation that was supposed to be fun and full of sun filled days but instead I got kicked in the mouth by my horse while riding along the coast. It’s been a week with mayhem, torture and murder. Ok no murder but full of torture and drama and ask me just how many times I cried. Not just cried. No, no. But sobbing shoulder shaking tears of dismay and that’s where being kicked in the mouth comes in.

And am I going to let on as to where I’ve been? Nope. Because even better, I CAN’T. In fact I’m just writing this as a ‘teaser’ and to say woe is me and so that you all feel bad for me and so that I can remember this weekend as the weekend that I contemplated hurling myself off of the Washington Monument or moving to Albany; more than once.

I promise that tomorrow I’ll be my former prolific self and that I will be in a wonderful mood because my southern gentleman is the victor.

I suppose I should ask: How was your weekend?

Friday, February 02, 2007

Carnival of the Mundane: Part the XXIX

The following is my first time hosting of the Carnival of the Mundane and it might be my last. Be gentle.

"There are thousands of thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen and writes." ~William Makepeace Thackeray

After being named the Academy Award Winner for best original screenplay for the blockbuster movie “This Isn't Education"

Well…wow…::laughs:: I have no idea where to begin. This is beyond surprising and I didn’t even have a speech prepared. They tell you to think about it but I never really believed that I could actually win and so now I’m at a loss.


Lord, I don’t even know if we can swear during these things? Is it ok to say oh my holy fuck? That probably got bleeped out by the censors.

And speaking of um…holy, everyone seems to start out by thanking God, something about without Him all things would not be possible. And in that same vein, I should thank Jesus for turning water into wine without which I would not be able to imbibe on all the sweet, sweet syrah that I drank while producing this work. And without which I would not have the brilliance of my good friend Mad Kane to decipher those tricky wine labels for me.

You know, this screenplay was a labor of love that required hardwork and dedication, that I wouldn’t have been able to give without ample help. Like from my house keeper – the Saint that he is – for purchasing a new vacuum cleaner after mine spontaneously combusted all over my brand new carpet job. I’m also thankful that he didn’t have to go through nearly a sucky - HA! Sucky - of an experience as Postmodern Sass.

I wrote much of this screenplay – the best original screenplay – while overseas. Where I could be alone and as misanthropic as possible. I’d awake every morning on the same side of my giant bed – much like the dear Blundering American who taught me to enjoy my time alone as much as possible before I had to head back to the states and deal with others possibly wanting to share my space. But I got to write everyday with the wonderful Batya sitting next to me soaking up the beautiful view and the experience. And I’d call Abigail. But sadly Abigail would spend most of our conversation cursing Verizon and it’s lackadaisical customer service. But that would be OK because I’d spend most of our conversation by telling her of the view and the new kick ass – wait, are we allowed to say ‘ass’ – and witty t-shirts that Sara None provided. Because we all know that brilliance comes from being able to rock a shirt with a tiara and an emphatic “go die”, proudly.

::Orchestra strums::

::Actually Orchestra has been strumming for the past 27 seconds::

Gosh, I have to wrap up, I think that the constant plucking of the harpsicord means something. I just want to say that I never could have imagined all of my success in writing novels and screenplays. Who knew that all of my dreams would come true after a few lame ass blog posts – ahh remember blogging?? – about making my own granola. I’d just like to say one last thank you to my manager Karl, who always made me believe in the tallest of tales and that if I continued to contort my face into that of loathing, that it would stay that way. And finally to the production team, headed by Marisa, who knows the power of the written word and is probably spent a lot of time hoping that one day my crap ass novels would be able to be sold to the highest bidder.

Well Marisa, I hope that an Oscar is good enough for you. Goodnight.

And so ends my contribution to the Carnival of the Mundane. I think I shall drink now or at least take a very long nap.
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