Jeez, where does the time go? Its been 2 months since I posted? Oh my word. I'll try not to compensate by writing a gargantuan novel and just get back into a writing flow.
So another Thanksgiving has come and gone. Much conversation has been had between me and others about their particular loves for Thanksgiving and my competing lack of enthusiasm. For me, it really breaks down to a lack of harmony between traditional Thanksgiving foods and my discerning palate. For a holiday which is almost exclusively centered around food, this is akin to not loving gifts and attention so you don't like birthdays, or you love continuous and uninterrupted postal service and delivery, so you hate President's Day.
Let me break this down, traditional food by traditional food:
Turkey: Some people absolutely fucking LOVE turkey. For me it is pretty far on the protein scale ranking below such consistent favorites like beef, bacon, and shellfish and slightly above duck testicles and geoduck. The white meat is drier than your grandmother's *&^ and slightly less flavorful. The dark meat, my personal preference, while a bit more delicious tends to be kind of greasy and thus I won't dabble in more than a piece or two. FAIL.
Mashed Potatoes: I don't have a dislike of mashed potatoes. I merely prefer my potatoes in other forms, you know, tots, fries, or kugel. If the traditional dish was mashed skin on red potatoes or garlic mashed potatoes, then I would be singing such a different tune. Additionally, this starchy mess goes hand in hand with gravy, which I will speak to in a moment.
Corn: I love corn. This is actually a win. But I eat corn 1-2 a week throughout the year, so I refuse to venerate before Thanksgiving for the mere presence of this veggie.
Cranberry: Every Thanksgiving I attend seems to have that cranberry shit from a can. Its like a poor man's Jello and tastes like some sort of congealed fruit garbage. I am obsessed, like Justin Beiber fan obsessed, with cranberry juice, yet I cannot get into cranberry goo or cranberry sauce.
Stuffing: I have had stuffing in various incarnations and I can't enjoy any of them. So its bread that you put some nuts/meat/fruit into and then stuff it back into the turkey? So its basically like when penguins eat fish and regurgitate it back up for their young? I'll just have a roll please.
Finally..Gravy: What a failure of an item. Most relatives of mine cover their entire plate with gravy, flooding every bit of turkey and side item with a floating mess of congealed fat and velvety flavor. To me? It looks gross, tastes just as bad, and makes me feel like I am about to undergo a quadruple bypass, but not in an awesomely satisfied sort of way.
But all that being said, I do like being with the fam, not having to work, and watching the Cowboys choke away sure victories. Huzzah!
On a more disturbing note, I had one of the most uncomfortable exchanges with a street urchin last week. As I was meandering down the street towards Walgreens, I passed a man who was mostly unremarkable, save his pair of gold hoop earrings, ragged appearance, and horrifically lecherous smile. As we converged, I believe I heard him murmur, mumble, or otherwise moan with pain? pleasure? hunger? I thought nothing of it and carried on with my purchase in the store. As I walked out and back from whence I came, I noticed the homeless looking lothario hovering in a doorway. As I passed, he uttered the following phrase, in a voice that could only be described as a combination of Jafar dressed as an old man from Aladdin and Herbert, the old pervert from Family Guy...
"I am gonna just explode if I don't tell you. You are absolutely gorgeous..."
It took everything I had not to run away in a combination of revulsion and terror of him attacking me with a rag full of chloroform. My looks have been called many things...boyishly good looking; "you're a freshman in college right...oh you're 23? My bad"; smoldering, etc... but never "gorgeous". So to have that first time be from a crusty old candidate for molester of the year, needless to say I was a bit disappointed. I would honestly rather eat a whole bowl of gravy smothered canned cranberry than go through that exchange again.
So its pretty well known that I am always on the lookout for the hottest new joints in the rap game. I trade multiple texts a month with a good friend from college sharing our favorite new beats and hottest verses. But I can say, I don't think I've been excited about a new emcee in a long time as I am about Nicki Minaj. She has pretty much exploded into pop culture, but I was enthralled from the first time I heard her on Lil Wayne's Sweet Dreams remix on the No Ceilings mixtape. Then she started dropping disturbingly good verses on Kanye's Monster, her absolutely retardedly awesome verse on Trey Songz' Bottoms Up, and her bit in 2012. Her new album is dropping soon and I am both nervous and excited. She has been so perfectly spot on and ridiculous with all of her guest spots that I have the same expectations of her new releases as I do for people like T.I. and Lupe Fiasco who I only expect fire from. Nicki seems to have her shit together and has an almost Lady Gaga like feel for her musical character and identity, so I look forward to being surprised with tracks I did not expect. She is both gritty and a bubble gum R&B pop princess. Love it. Bottom line, unless you hate rap (which is totally not awesome) or like really terrible rap, you totally need to be learning to love Nicki Minaj, cause to quote a great man, "She go haaaarrrddd."
"I aint Mike Jack but "This is it", Wo Wo Wo Boy I'm everywhere,You like ballon boyMama you was never there"
JW
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
An Ode to the Uncomfortable...
Dear Bathroom Attendant,
Seriously, you make the simplest everyday task of using the restroom at a bar into a clumsy ballet of awkwardness and forced gratuities. Now I understand your purposes: to keep the bathroom clean, stop people form urinating all over the floor or starting fights with dispensed hand soap, as well as inevitably preventing people from a most cherished act, fornicating in filthy bathroom stalls. However, that all takes a backseat to your more commonly executed functions, namely turning on the sink, giving me soap, and dishing out a paper towel to dry my miraculously washed hands, all actions I clearly would not have been able to do myself. Is this what it was like to have servants back in the day? Ive become to rethink my position of jealousy to robber barons and their household staffs of 20 and rather think it must have been unpleasant or awkward at times.
Once we get past the ridiculousness of you turning on the faucet for me or dispensing soap, we get to the most unpleasant situation of all, your tip basket. Note, it is almost always a basket, with some soft hand towel lining the bottom. If I was able to use that particular towel to gently dry my hands, maybe its a different story, instead I am stuck using the industrial grade paper town that has gravel and sandpaper infused into its wax paper like texture. But I digress. Your tip basket glares at me as I cleanse my soiled hands, imploring me to pay tribute. But for what? I appreciate your hustle sir, but if I tipped for idly standing by as I pursue a normal night at the bar, then I would have to dish out singles to all those sweaty mouthbreathers who exhale heavily from the sidelines as they watch my get my grind on out on the floor, cause they make me feel about as uncomfortable.
Some of the more entrepreneurial attendants have quite an impressive spread of colognes, gum, and assorted candies. These gentleman I have a bit less disdain for because they have maneuvered into a sort of bathroom attendant/convenience store hybrid. I also have no problem "tipping" these chaps as I see it as more of a traditional, if overpriced, purchase to keep my breath minty fresh or mask the odor of a packed establishment full of sweaty CBS (common bar skanks). I prefer these little setups to other bathroom commerce centers, say, the vending machine that always manages to be foul and sticky looking, distributing prophylactics most likely manufactured during the Nixon Administration.
Finally, let me express my most significant annoyance with your overall presence: your seemingly constant ability to always be on the phone. I never thought it was possible for one to possibly spend as much time on their cellphone as a Middle Eastern cabbie, but no, you have them seemingly surpassed. I have come to realized that teenage girls have been savagely misrepresented as comical scapegoats of excessive cell phone usage. At least when my public chauffeur is chatting away, there is a possible time change involved and his conversational partner may be sitting watching TV midday, and its in the relative quiet of a cab cockpit. But you, Mr. Attendant, who the hell are you chatting with at 1:30 in the morning? Better yet, at 1:30 who has nothing better than to have a conversation with you, punctuated by the flushing of urinals, slamming of doors, and who knows what other cacophony of bodily sounds fill a Men's Washroom. All that nonsense aside, how am I honestly expected to tip when you can't even hang up the phone to squirt me some soap? Child please.
In fairness, there are the gregarious, usually older, gentlemen who transcend the awkwardness and even elicit a chuckle from my cold cynical bathroom outlook, but they are as rare of the CBS who is pure of heart as well as pure of loin. They also tend to have climbed the ladder to be working in baller steakhouses and the like, not grubby bars where the presence of an attendant is as baffling as a preference for Bud products over Miller.
Now Jeeves, spritz me with some of that Acqua di Gio and hand me a piece of your finest chewing gum so I may be off. I'll see you again, unfortunately, in about a half hour...
JW
Seriously, you make the simplest everyday task of using the restroom at a bar into a clumsy ballet of awkwardness and forced gratuities. Now I understand your purposes: to keep the bathroom clean, stop people form urinating all over the floor or starting fights with dispensed hand soap, as well as inevitably preventing people from a most cherished act, fornicating in filthy bathroom stalls. However, that all takes a backseat to your more commonly executed functions, namely turning on the sink, giving me soap, and dishing out a paper towel to dry my miraculously washed hands, all actions I clearly would not have been able to do myself. Is this what it was like to have servants back in the day? Ive become to rethink my position of jealousy to robber barons and their household staffs of 20 and rather think it must have been unpleasant or awkward at times.
Once we get past the ridiculousness of you turning on the faucet for me or dispensing soap, we get to the most unpleasant situation of all, your tip basket. Note, it is almost always a basket, with some soft hand towel lining the bottom. If I was able to use that particular towel to gently dry my hands, maybe its a different story, instead I am stuck using the industrial grade paper town that has gravel and sandpaper infused into its wax paper like texture. But I digress. Your tip basket glares at me as I cleanse my soiled hands, imploring me to pay tribute. But for what? I appreciate your hustle sir, but if I tipped for idly standing by as I pursue a normal night at the bar, then I would have to dish out singles to all those sweaty mouthbreathers who exhale heavily from the sidelines as they watch my get my grind on out on the floor, cause they make me feel about as uncomfortable.
Some of the more entrepreneurial attendants have quite an impressive spread of colognes, gum, and assorted candies. These gentleman I have a bit less disdain for because they have maneuvered into a sort of bathroom attendant/convenience store hybrid. I also have no problem "tipping" these chaps as I see it as more of a traditional, if overpriced, purchase to keep my breath minty fresh or mask the odor of a packed establishment full of sweaty CBS (common bar skanks). I prefer these little setups to other bathroom commerce centers, say, the vending machine that always manages to be foul and sticky looking, distributing prophylactics most likely manufactured during the Nixon Administration.
Finally, let me express my most significant annoyance with your overall presence: your seemingly constant ability to always be on the phone. I never thought it was possible for one to possibly spend as much time on their cellphone as a Middle Eastern cabbie, but no, you have them seemingly surpassed. I have come to realized that teenage girls have been savagely misrepresented as comical scapegoats of excessive cell phone usage. At least when my public chauffeur is chatting away, there is a possible time change involved and his conversational partner may be sitting watching TV midday, and its in the relative quiet of a cab cockpit. But you, Mr. Attendant, who the hell are you chatting with at 1:30 in the morning? Better yet, at 1:30 who has nothing better than to have a conversation with you, punctuated by the flushing of urinals, slamming of doors, and who knows what other cacophony of bodily sounds fill a Men's Washroom. All that nonsense aside, how am I honestly expected to tip when you can't even hang up the phone to squirt me some soap? Child please.
In fairness, there are the gregarious, usually older, gentlemen who transcend the awkwardness and even elicit a chuckle from my cold cynical bathroom outlook, but they are as rare of the CBS who is pure of heart as well as pure of loin. They also tend to have climbed the ladder to be working in baller steakhouses and the like, not grubby bars where the presence of an attendant is as baffling as a preference for Bud products over Miller.
Now Jeeves, spritz me with some of that Acqua di Gio and hand me a piece of your finest chewing gum so I may be off. I'll see you again, unfortunately, in about a half hour...
JW
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sweating like Patrick Rafter
So as tomorrow is September 1st, many people with a complete lack of understanding about solstices and seasonal cycles, consider the summer over for all intensive purposes. Well, I guess the labor day weekend is many people’s official end to summer, but you catch my meandering drift. And while this is cause for alarm for some people, tearing of clothes and gnashing of teeth for others, I kind of look at it with a casually arrogant indifference. Summer’s that drunk girl you were making out with at the bar who was just a little to sloppy, and as she is dancing/stumbling/walking out the door and begging you to follow her, you realize you will be just fine without, plus she bit your lip and you can taste a little blood. Good riddance.
I don’t know what it is about summer that leaves me so nonplussed about its departure. Well, actually, there are 3 things now that I think about it.
1) I love fall. College football, track jacket weather, Halloween, homecoming dances, wait, I mean HC dances suck. Either way, the end of summer signals the beginning of fall, my favorite season, so its all good. Once you got to college and realized summer break was secondary in debaucherous fun to the actual school year, fall suddenly became so beautiful siren that meant it was time to start stumbling around Uptown and passing out in bushes, without fear of parental disapproval or knowledge. Now, post college, its still beautiful emotional crescendo. People running, arms flailing, headlong into the best month of the year, tanned and full of irrational exuberance. Thats how I like to imagine fall.
2) Summer weather gets to be a bit of a bitch when you have to do adult stuff like go to work, run errands, and, you know, be generally presentable and not look like the obnoxious missed behaved kid at the birthday party, all sweaty and disheveled cause they'd been running around constantly. However, once the temperature rises above 80 and you toss in a splash of humidity, I become horrifically unable to seemingly regulate my own body temperature and sweat through all my clothing with the greatest of ease. So its particularly fantastic when I arrive in the office already looking like a hot mess and then get to sit and try not to roast in my own juices. Thus, the arrival of cooler weather is more than welcome. I anxiously look forward to being able to sit in a bar and talk to a girl without looking like an obese judge from a Civil War themed film, dabbing my sweating brow with a handkerchief, trying not to say "I do declare the weather in South Carolina these days is mighty stifling." Its just not a good look for me. Save my few trips to the beach and trying to run through the neighborhood kid's sprinkler, I have more use for a cooler temperature anyways.
3) The final beef I have with summer...the expectations. I think this is where the let down of summer lies. Everyone enters summer with their grandiose plans. They want to go to 4 museums, the beach 3 times a week, go on 6 different roadtrips to 3 different continents, have no less than 5 summer flings, and get the perfect tan, all while drinking to excess. Thus as late August rolls around, they wildly panic because their list is only 25% complete and thus either a)feel the need to scramble to accomplish tons of things in a short time, or b) most likely sulk as they feel the summer wasn't a complete success. Now this isn't everyone, but I've heard similar sentiments from enough of my friends that I feel it is a fairly common diagnosis. Summer is much like prom, if you just go into it looking to have fun, it probably will be. But if you expect it to play out like a John Hughes film, you may be disappointed. Fall on the other hand is an open book. Playing with house money, going out on Saturday night after an awesome Friday.
I really don't have anything against summer, I love summer. Not Summer from 500 Days of Summer though. That movie was awesome but what a completely heartless ice queen bitch she was. Ive had relationships end that didn't make me as angry as her whole character. Wait what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Fall. Its awesome and its coming, hurrah!
So I'm still reserving judgment on Drake. Part of me says he is incredibly overrated, his flow is slow, and there are a bunch of other rappers far more deserving of the accolades and hype he gets. However, I do think he is a clever lyricist, and above all, the dude can ride a beat. The new hotness, Ready for You, is no exception. I fancy myself a bit of a beat connoisseur. Not only in the fact that I judge a rap song by its beat more than its lyrical content, but to the obsessive extent where I excitedly explain to people my favorite 5-7 second snippets where the 808 kicked in, or where they faded the synth line just a little. So this new jam really has it all, cause the beat builds so perfectly and Drake does what he does and lets himself stay within the beat and compliment it. For that I give him props and look forward to spinning this all, thats right, fall bitchez. Enjoy. Oh yeah, who the hell is DJ Alex? Frankie J seems to love him, but he really needs to stop creeping on my new Youtube jams.
"I could produce for your future, I could co-direct your past..."
JW
I don’t know what it is about summer that leaves me so nonplussed about its departure. Well, actually, there are 3 things now that I think about it.
1) I love fall. College football, track jacket weather, Halloween, homecoming dances, wait, I mean HC dances suck. Either way, the end of summer signals the beginning of fall, my favorite season, so its all good. Once you got to college and realized summer break was secondary in debaucherous fun to the actual school year, fall suddenly became so beautiful siren that meant it was time to start stumbling around Uptown and passing out in bushes, without fear of parental disapproval or knowledge. Now, post college, its still beautiful emotional crescendo. People running, arms flailing, headlong into the best month of the year, tanned and full of irrational exuberance. Thats how I like to imagine fall.
2) Summer weather gets to be a bit of a bitch when you have to do adult stuff like go to work, run errands, and, you know, be generally presentable and not look like the obnoxious missed behaved kid at the birthday party, all sweaty and disheveled cause they'd been running around constantly. However, once the temperature rises above 80 and you toss in a splash of humidity, I become horrifically unable to seemingly regulate my own body temperature and sweat through all my clothing with the greatest of ease. So its particularly fantastic when I arrive in the office already looking like a hot mess and then get to sit and try not to roast in my own juices. Thus, the arrival of cooler weather is more than welcome. I anxiously look forward to being able to sit in a bar and talk to a girl without looking like an obese judge from a Civil War themed film, dabbing my sweating brow with a handkerchief, trying not to say "I do declare the weather in South Carolina these days is mighty stifling." Its just not a good look for me. Save my few trips to the beach and trying to run through the neighborhood kid's sprinkler, I have more use for a cooler temperature anyways.
3) The final beef I have with summer...the expectations. I think this is where the let down of summer lies. Everyone enters summer with their grandiose plans. They want to go to 4 museums, the beach 3 times a week, go on 6 different roadtrips to 3 different continents, have no less than 5 summer flings, and get the perfect tan, all while drinking to excess. Thus as late August rolls around, they wildly panic because their list is only 25% complete and thus either a)feel the need to scramble to accomplish tons of things in a short time, or b) most likely sulk as they feel the summer wasn't a complete success. Now this isn't everyone, but I've heard similar sentiments from enough of my friends that I feel it is a fairly common diagnosis. Summer is much like prom, if you just go into it looking to have fun, it probably will be. But if you expect it to play out like a John Hughes film, you may be disappointed. Fall on the other hand is an open book. Playing with house money, going out on Saturday night after an awesome Friday.
I really don't have anything against summer, I love summer. Not Summer from 500 Days of Summer though. That movie was awesome but what a completely heartless ice queen bitch she was. Ive had relationships end that didn't make me as angry as her whole character. Wait what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Fall. Its awesome and its coming, hurrah!
So I'm still reserving judgment on Drake. Part of me says he is incredibly overrated, his flow is slow, and there are a bunch of other rappers far more deserving of the accolades and hype he gets. However, I do think he is a clever lyricist, and above all, the dude can ride a beat. The new hotness, Ready for You, is no exception. I fancy myself a bit of a beat connoisseur. Not only in the fact that I judge a rap song by its beat more than its lyrical content, but to the obsessive extent where I excitedly explain to people my favorite 5-7 second snippets where the 808 kicked in, or where they faded the synth line just a little. So this new jam really has it all, cause the beat builds so perfectly and Drake does what he does and lets himself stay within the beat and compliment it. For that I give him props and look forward to spinning this all, thats right, fall bitchez. Enjoy. Oh yeah, who the hell is DJ Alex? Frankie J seems to love him, but he really needs to stop creeping on my new Youtube jams.
"I could produce for your future, I could co-direct your past..."
JW
Monday, August 16, 2010
Who's that skank talking to my brother?
"I was serving it up to her, still all friendly like. You know? I hadn't brought it predator, wolf style yet. She like, spoke Italian and Spanish. Totally, like, a girl on my level bro..."
I can't properly articulate how much I wish I blithely quoting Jersey Shore, not retelling one of the most pathetic gym conversations Ive had the pleasuring of overhearing. How can people honestly talk like this? I mean, if this is how you recant the tale of a scintillating 1 AM courtship, I can't fathom what sort of prose spills out of your mouth when you are wooing this exotic dame.
I never realized that it was possible to nearly choke on your own spit, but I came damn close. Its even harder to pretend you weren't reacting to the sleeveless orangutan who was rubbing the super original Gothic cross on his meaty bicep as he looks over midstory. I finished, you know, busting out my 250th bench press rep and briskly walked away to ponder what the hell I just heard. It also made me think, as pretty much everything ridiculous and trivial does.
Last week, I was at my cousin's wedding and talked to one of my other cousin's husbands. And naturally, being in his early 30s and married, he was eager to chat and hear stories about my dating trials and tribulations. Over my 5th gin and tonic, I was telling him how I realized I had grown up just a smidge, cause I could no longer hit on dumb girls. (Now I am not some intellectual snob, umm usually, but if at this point in my life, not matter how gorgeous you may be, if you're wearing a Hollister tank top, my attempts at wit and humor are probably not gonna work and its going to be frustrating for me. Id ask you to read this blog, and you would stop a few lines in cause you don't understand the word articulate and I don't have an Taio Cruz playing in the background.) After he stopped laughing at me and introducing me to the bridesmaids as The Most Interesting Man in the World, he leveled. He said the thing he doesn't miss at all about dating is the moment where you realize you just aren't into the other person. It was a pretty dead on point. I mean, you all know what I'm talking about. You lock eyes with a seductive stranger across the bar, you amble over, excitedly start chatting about what beautiful weather we've been having, and suddenly, you realize that you've have more symbiotic and meaningful conversations with your little cousin Spencer, and he still thinks that its possible to be a Lion when he grows up. I mean, this is a new thing for me. My 20 year old, hell, my 22 year old self was still pretty much believing that if a girl was pretty, she had to have a myriad of qualities that would keep me entertained and interested infinitely. I'm pretty sure I was in love with Natalie Portman's character from Garden State for a solid 3-4 months cause she was pretty and I liked how she phrased certain characters...who cares that she wasn't actually real. This whole point was driven home as I talked to one of the bridesmaids later that night. We began to bond over our mutual love of silly bands when she informed me that all she knew about relationships, she learned from romantic comedies. Like literally, in all sincerity, she took life lessons from Hope Floats or some nonsense. 20 year old Justin would laugh, pretend that he found that endearing, and plan what hallway I would awkwardly try to make out with her in. Newly 25 year old Justin drained the rest of his drink and tried not to throw himself off the balcony out back. And still, I feel like I am light years away from the maturity that would make me ready to participate in wedding festivities I witnessed early that night. Maybe thats why I was seated at a dinner table with a motley crew which included my 12 year old cousin...FML
The other thing I discovered is that no matter how much I've "grown and matured", I still regress in rather rapid fashion when I'm around my sisters and my family for an extended period of time. Less than 24 hours after having aforementioned mature discussions with my cousin's husband, I'm attempting to give one of my little sisters a wet willy as she sleeps in the car or splashing another with water as we are waiting in line for a Smithsonian museum. Maybe by "too much family time" they are really alluding to the fact that you transform back into your prepubescent self. I couldn't tell you the last time I was around one of my friends and I felt the need to kick one of them in the back of the knee and chuckle as their leg buckles, but with my family, my sisters and I felt that it was the best game ever and participated in it frequently. Mind you, my sisters are 14, 16, and 21, its not like any of us are little kids...except at heart, *sigh*.
I'm clearly a sucker for pop punk music with sappy lyrics about girls and undertones of how much they suck. But I've gotten close to critical mass. I have so many great pop punk bands from the last 5-7 years, that I don't find myself discovering any new ones, or really wanting to. I just cycle through, unless something catches my ear. Well, I came across a band from the ever prolific New Jersey scene which stirred me. Seriously, for all the ripping on NJ, that state produces amazing music, whether it be the Boss, or countless amazing bands like Saves the Day and Midtown. Well "I Call Fives" has slide into that realm for me. Tons of energy, awesome melodies, and some stripped down acoustic gems. They remind me alot of Hit the Lights, who crept up on me with their hook-filled badassery and then promptly changed lead singers, meh. More than I Can Handle is amazing and This Town is fantastic as well. Their full band stuff is frenetic and catchy, but the acoustic stuff sets them apart.
"I will make this out, to be more than I can handle, baby I never had a doubt..."
JW
I can't properly articulate how much I wish I blithely quoting Jersey Shore, not retelling one of the most pathetic gym conversations Ive had the pleasuring of overhearing. How can people honestly talk like this? I mean, if this is how you recant the tale of a scintillating 1 AM courtship, I can't fathom what sort of prose spills out of your mouth when you are wooing this exotic dame.
I never realized that it was possible to nearly choke on your own spit, but I came damn close. Its even harder to pretend you weren't reacting to the sleeveless orangutan who was rubbing the super original Gothic cross on his meaty bicep as he looks over midstory. I finished, you know, busting out my 250th bench press rep and briskly walked away to ponder what the hell I just heard. It also made me think, as pretty much everything ridiculous and trivial does.
Last week, I was at my cousin's wedding and talked to one of my other cousin's husbands. And naturally, being in his early 30s and married, he was eager to chat and hear stories about my dating trials and tribulations. Over my 5th gin and tonic, I was telling him how I realized I had grown up just a smidge, cause I could no longer hit on dumb girls. (Now I am not some intellectual snob, umm usually, but if at this point in my life, not matter how gorgeous you may be, if you're wearing a Hollister tank top, my attempts at wit and humor are probably not gonna work and its going to be frustrating for me. Id ask you to read this blog, and you would stop a few lines in cause you don't understand the word articulate and I don't have an Taio Cruz playing in the background.) After he stopped laughing at me and introducing me to the bridesmaids as The Most Interesting Man in the World, he leveled. He said the thing he doesn't miss at all about dating is the moment where you realize you just aren't into the other person. It was a pretty dead on point. I mean, you all know what I'm talking about. You lock eyes with a seductive stranger across the bar, you amble over, excitedly start chatting about what beautiful weather we've been having, and suddenly, you realize that you've have more symbiotic and meaningful conversations with your little cousin Spencer, and he still thinks that its possible to be a Lion when he grows up. I mean, this is a new thing for me. My 20 year old, hell, my 22 year old self was still pretty much believing that if a girl was pretty, she had to have a myriad of qualities that would keep me entertained and interested infinitely. I'm pretty sure I was in love with Natalie Portman's character from Garden State for a solid 3-4 months cause she was pretty and I liked how she phrased certain characters...who cares that she wasn't actually real. This whole point was driven home as I talked to one of the bridesmaids later that night. We began to bond over our mutual love of silly bands when she informed me that all she knew about relationships, she learned from romantic comedies. Like literally, in all sincerity, she took life lessons from Hope Floats or some nonsense. 20 year old Justin would laugh, pretend that he found that endearing, and plan what hallway I would awkwardly try to make out with her in. Newly 25 year old Justin drained the rest of his drink and tried not to throw himself off the balcony out back. And still, I feel like I am light years away from the maturity that would make me ready to participate in wedding festivities I witnessed early that night. Maybe thats why I was seated at a dinner table with a motley crew which included my 12 year old cousin...FML
The other thing I discovered is that no matter how much I've "grown and matured", I still regress in rather rapid fashion when I'm around my sisters and my family for an extended period of time. Less than 24 hours after having aforementioned mature discussions with my cousin's husband, I'm attempting to give one of my little sisters a wet willy as she sleeps in the car or splashing another with water as we are waiting in line for a Smithsonian museum. Maybe by "too much family time" they are really alluding to the fact that you transform back into your prepubescent self. I couldn't tell you the last time I was around one of my friends and I felt the need to kick one of them in the back of the knee and chuckle as their leg buckles, but with my family, my sisters and I felt that it was the best game ever and participated in it frequently. Mind you, my sisters are 14, 16, and 21, its not like any of us are little kids...except at heart, *sigh*.
I'm clearly a sucker for pop punk music with sappy lyrics about girls and undertones of how much they suck. But I've gotten close to critical mass. I have so many great pop punk bands from the last 5-7 years, that I don't find myself discovering any new ones, or really wanting to. I just cycle through, unless something catches my ear. Well, I came across a band from the ever prolific New Jersey scene which stirred me. Seriously, for all the ripping on NJ, that state produces amazing music, whether it be the Boss, or countless amazing bands like Saves the Day and Midtown. Well "I Call Fives" has slide into that realm for me. Tons of energy, awesome melodies, and some stripped down acoustic gems. They remind me alot of Hit the Lights, who crept up on me with their hook-filled badassery and then promptly changed lead singers, meh. More than I Can Handle is amazing and This Town is fantastic as well. Their full band stuff is frenetic and catchy, but the acoustic stuff sets them apart.
"I will make this out, to be more than I can handle, baby I never had a doubt..."
JW
Sunday, July 25, 2010
At 12:00 we go live...
So its been a long time since I've posted. I told myself I would go on a self-imposed hiatus until I finished my first grad school course cause the times I would be tooling around on a new blog could probably be better spent reading or taking notes for class. Those two things I have always been completely remiss to do, and they were never a strong point even in undergrad. Now I am officially finished with my first grad school class, done till the fall, I can retrospectively look back at it and begin to assess what is probably the most significant thing going on in my life right now in terms of potential impact. Oh also, I got an A. I felt like such an academic gangster.
Going back to school is exciting, a bit intimidating, and a bit foreign feeling all at the same time. On one hand, my motivation for doing so makes it feel a bit more tangible and pressing than some of my "lacking" intentions when I was at Miami which makes it way more easy to get fired up about some of the more mundane and troublesome aspects of higher education (aka actually preparing outside of class and studying). At the same time, its sometimes far more difficult to adequately dedicate the time and mental resources to the material that is necessary when you just finished a full work day and just want to watch garbage dating shows on VH1.
The weirdest thing for me about going back to school (other than all the classes being at night after work and getting out at 9) was the varied demographics of the classes. I always associated college courses with a bunch of 18-22 year olds, with maybe the assorted non traditional student tossed in. I remember a couple of Psych courses I took at Miami featured a 40 something townie going back to school who was the prototypical class gunner (always asks questions, has to be heard, more obnoxious participation) on steroids. She always had to incorporate her life into things, and as a 21 year old asshole, I cared more about finishing class so I could go to happy hour or leer at new freshman "talent" than how she worried her son has Asperger's (he totally didn't, he was just quiet) or that her ex-husband might have antisocial personality disorder (surprise, he was just an asshole!) Anyways, I digress.
My class was largely late 20s or so, I think I may have been the youngest in there at 24, but there were definitely a large number of older individuals. For example, a group member of mine, Dan, was in his late 40s. This was very interesting cause it was a completely foreign and unique perspective on post graduate study incorporated with business that was actually pretty helpful for me. There were multiple times where I completely bitched about my current job situation during group discussions and his advice about patience, staying driven and hungry, and riding out seemingly incompetent managers, while complimenting my drive and intelligence was one of the highlights of the class. After my last 2 years at Miami were primarily made up of me and my direct aged peers in addition to tons of younger students, it was cool to have classmates who, while still my "peers", had a lot more I could learn from. Also, so many people were married, WTF, why is everyone in the world settling down! Will I never find love? *sob*
Of course, as with any academic setting over 10 people, there were the token outspoken douchebags. I could go on forever about them, but I will highlight my 2 favorites. First, I will call Mother Russia. Mother Russia was originally from Siberia and had lived in the States since undergrad. He had an odd accent and basically sounded like Kermit the Frog...if he had sucked some helium and grown up behind the walls of the Kremlin. This name dropping cosmonaut asked a question withing 10 min of class starting in EVERY CLASS. These questions were about as relevant as me mentioning that today at the gym I benched my own bodyweight 8 times (and I totally did, aren't I a beast?) Once, in a discussion of reward structures, he mentioned a meeting he had at "my former employer, a pharmaceutical company, Abbot Laboratories (pronounced lay-bor-ay-tories). This meeting had nothing to do with anything, he just wanted us to know he worked there. Needless to say, there was no stirring in my loins or any rush of blood to my head with excitement knowing I was in the presence of an ex pharmaceutical salesmen, so I guess he was about as successful with that as his homeland was at creating a long lasting and sustainable communist government. Boom roasted.
The other chap, less pervasive, but no less annoying, I'll call Smug Asshat. SA was in my assessment group for a leadership skills assessment in the second class. In this assessment we were placed into small groups to simulate various meetings in a corporation, like discussing possible CEO candidates, or deciding on various customer service initiatives. Well SA realized that points were given for keeping people on task and outward expressions of teamwork, so he went out of his way to cut me and others off (as we began to start the meeting and discuss the topics at hand) to basically read the titles of the meetings and the rules. Imagine the annoying moderator at the start of your standardized tests. He would recite this meaningless drivel with a shit eating grin and then be largely silent for the rest of the discussion before pulling the same pea-brained stunt to end the meeting. He tried to do it in class as well when we discussed things as a large group, but he couldn't master 40 other people with his need to please Big Brother. He also gave a cultural presentation, for extra credit, on business in Brazil. As he gave a decent, but Wikipedia-esque, presentation, he was asked if he had ever done business in Brazil. Oh no, but his wife was Brazilian so he knew all about it. Oh and by the way, he told us Brazilians are the most beautiful of all women, here is a picture of his wife and him in Rio to prove it. Now I don't normally make fun of people's spouses, but SA was a condescending cock holster with no real reason to be as such. So lets just say that when viewing he and his wife, in matching blue shirts, I thought he was standing next to the large blue globe on the Brazilian flag.
So class was all fine and dandy, but probably the most significant recent event took place last Wed. What was that you ask? The Silver Anniversary (25th) of my birth, naturally. Now for whatever reason, turning 25 kind of freaked me out. My friends, most of whom have been 25 for many months, or gasp! years now, mostly told me to shut up cause I sounded ridiculous. But its weird, probably because I am now out of my "early 20s." It also probably has to do with the recent influx of the class of 2010 into Chicago. There are now 2 graduating class between me and college, and I am now officially in my "mid-20s", so I feel like there is some gravity to that fact. Will it prevent me from being an idiot and acting like I am still a youthful 23? Probably not, but I was thinking about the fact that I am now officially older than my mom was when she had me. And that is kind of nuts. It all kind of forced to me to look at my life and the fact that now, more than ever, I have a responsibility to decide where my life is going. Not make major life decisions or do something drastic, or anything in any sort of specific time frame for that matter. But to realize that I, not anyone else, are responsible for my own happiness and I'm in the drivers seat. Life is not about finding yourself, its about creating yourself. It seems lame that it took a birthday to finally process that, but I have always looked at my birthday as more of a benchmark than New Years. Its officially the start of a New Year of my life, and I might as well steer my ship to a heading I want to be pointed at. And while I can say that I am far from content with how everything is currently sitting in my life, now, more than in years past, I can say that I am not just bitching to anyone who will listen, and rather trying to fix it myself.
Wow, that may sound like the disjointed ramblings of someone with far to much time on their hands...cause it is. Its summer and work has slowed down immensely. I basically sit and ponder like all great philosophers when they worked petty jobs. I want to get drunk and write great novels at work like William Faulkner did, but my "mom-ager" (yeah thats a manager/mom hybrid, what a professional company I work at!) claims I need to focus on work more. This doesn't mean I get any new projects or that my time is more effectively filled. I still have nothing to do, I just must be extra sneaky in my killing of superfluous downtime, and not have open Word documents that may be stories, letters...or college papers.
So the last week I have been spinning some "older" bands I haven't listened to in a bit. And buy older, I mean, I listened to them in High School, way back in the 2002 and such, on those shiny disc things. The Starting Line. No band has ever written such simplistic lyrics that so accurately and emotionally capture the dynamics of relationships (or lack thereof). Also, the band depicted on the only T-shirt I ever purchased from Hot Topic (aside from all my vampire accessories...natch) But I stumbled upon a B-side of the Starting Line that is so baller. Nights and Weekends. Released only on the Japanese version of their second CD, Based on a True Story. Japan? They seriously got this bomb track? I thought the Japanese were still obsessed with Cheap Trick and male covers of Whitney Houston songs. For good measure, my other favorite TSL B-side is their cover of Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now. Such an awesome band, can't wait for their reunion...
"She said, I've been thinking alot about you. Is it true, do you hate me?"
JW
Going back to school is exciting, a bit intimidating, and a bit foreign feeling all at the same time. On one hand, my motivation for doing so makes it feel a bit more tangible and pressing than some of my "lacking" intentions when I was at Miami which makes it way more easy to get fired up about some of the more mundane and troublesome aspects of higher education (aka actually preparing outside of class and studying). At the same time, its sometimes far more difficult to adequately dedicate the time and mental resources to the material that is necessary when you just finished a full work day and just want to watch garbage dating shows on VH1.
The weirdest thing for me about going back to school (other than all the classes being at night after work and getting out at 9) was the varied demographics of the classes. I always associated college courses with a bunch of 18-22 year olds, with maybe the assorted non traditional student tossed in. I remember a couple of Psych courses I took at Miami featured a 40 something townie going back to school who was the prototypical class gunner (always asks questions, has to be heard, more obnoxious participation) on steroids. She always had to incorporate her life into things, and as a 21 year old asshole, I cared more about finishing class so I could go to happy hour or leer at new freshman "talent" than how she worried her son has Asperger's (he totally didn't, he was just quiet) or that her ex-husband might have antisocial personality disorder (surprise, he was just an asshole!) Anyways, I digress.
My class was largely late 20s or so, I think I may have been the youngest in there at 24, but there were definitely a large number of older individuals. For example, a group member of mine, Dan, was in his late 40s. This was very interesting cause it was a completely foreign and unique perspective on post graduate study incorporated with business that was actually pretty helpful for me. There were multiple times where I completely bitched about my current job situation during group discussions and his advice about patience, staying driven and hungry, and riding out seemingly incompetent managers, while complimenting my drive and intelligence was one of the highlights of the class. After my last 2 years at Miami were primarily made up of me and my direct aged peers in addition to tons of younger students, it was cool to have classmates who, while still my "peers", had a lot more I could learn from. Also, so many people were married, WTF, why is everyone in the world settling down! Will I never find love? *sob*
Of course, as with any academic setting over 10 people, there were the token outspoken douchebags. I could go on forever about them, but I will highlight my 2 favorites. First, I will call Mother Russia. Mother Russia was originally from Siberia and had lived in the States since undergrad. He had an odd accent and basically sounded like Kermit the Frog...if he had sucked some helium and grown up behind the walls of the Kremlin. This name dropping cosmonaut asked a question withing 10 min of class starting in EVERY CLASS. These questions were about as relevant as me mentioning that today at the gym I benched my own bodyweight 8 times (and I totally did, aren't I a beast?) Once, in a discussion of reward structures, he mentioned a meeting he had at "my former employer, a pharmaceutical company, Abbot Laboratories (pronounced lay-bor-ay-tories). This meeting had nothing to do with anything, he just wanted us to know he worked there. Needless to say, there was no stirring in my loins or any rush of blood to my head with excitement knowing I was in the presence of an ex pharmaceutical salesmen, so I guess he was about as successful with that as his homeland was at creating a long lasting and sustainable communist government. Boom roasted.
The other chap, less pervasive, but no less annoying, I'll call Smug Asshat. SA was in my assessment group for a leadership skills assessment in the second class. In this assessment we were placed into small groups to simulate various meetings in a corporation, like discussing possible CEO candidates, or deciding on various customer service initiatives. Well SA realized that points were given for keeping people on task and outward expressions of teamwork, so he went out of his way to cut me and others off (as we began to start the meeting and discuss the topics at hand) to basically read the titles of the meetings and the rules. Imagine the annoying moderator at the start of your standardized tests. He would recite this meaningless drivel with a shit eating grin and then be largely silent for the rest of the discussion before pulling the same pea-brained stunt to end the meeting. He tried to do it in class as well when we discussed things as a large group, but he couldn't master 40 other people with his need to please Big Brother. He also gave a cultural presentation, for extra credit, on business in Brazil. As he gave a decent, but Wikipedia-esque, presentation, he was asked if he had ever done business in Brazil. Oh no, but his wife was Brazilian so he knew all about it. Oh and by the way, he told us Brazilians are the most beautiful of all women, here is a picture of his wife and him in Rio to prove it. Now I don't normally make fun of people's spouses, but SA was a condescending cock holster with no real reason to be as such. So lets just say that when viewing he and his wife, in matching blue shirts, I thought he was standing next to the large blue globe on the Brazilian flag.
So class was all fine and dandy, but probably the most significant recent event took place last Wed. What was that you ask? The Silver Anniversary (25th) of my birth, naturally. Now for whatever reason, turning 25 kind of freaked me out. My friends, most of whom have been 25 for many months, or gasp! years now, mostly told me to shut up cause I sounded ridiculous. But its weird, probably because I am now out of my "early 20s." It also probably has to do with the recent influx of the class of 2010 into Chicago. There are now 2 graduating class between me and college, and I am now officially in my "mid-20s", so I feel like there is some gravity to that fact. Will it prevent me from being an idiot and acting like I am still a youthful 23? Probably not, but I was thinking about the fact that I am now officially older than my mom was when she had me. And that is kind of nuts. It all kind of forced to me to look at my life and the fact that now, more than ever, I have a responsibility to decide where my life is going. Not make major life decisions or do something drastic, or anything in any sort of specific time frame for that matter. But to realize that I, not anyone else, are responsible for my own happiness and I'm in the drivers seat. Life is not about finding yourself, its about creating yourself. It seems lame that it took a birthday to finally process that, but I have always looked at my birthday as more of a benchmark than New Years. Its officially the start of a New Year of my life, and I might as well steer my ship to a heading I want to be pointed at. And while I can say that I am far from content with how everything is currently sitting in my life, now, more than in years past, I can say that I am not just bitching to anyone who will listen, and rather trying to fix it myself.
Wow, that may sound like the disjointed ramblings of someone with far to much time on their hands...cause it is. Its summer and work has slowed down immensely. I basically sit and ponder like all great philosophers when they worked petty jobs. I want to get drunk and write great novels at work like William Faulkner did, but my "mom-ager" (yeah thats a manager/mom hybrid, what a professional company I work at!) claims I need to focus on work more. This doesn't mean I get any new projects or that my time is more effectively filled. I still have nothing to do, I just must be extra sneaky in my killing of superfluous downtime, and not have open Word documents that may be stories, letters...or college papers.
So the last week I have been spinning some "older" bands I haven't listened to in a bit. And buy older, I mean, I listened to them in High School, way back in the 2002 and such, on those shiny disc things. The Starting Line. No band has ever written such simplistic lyrics that so accurately and emotionally capture the dynamics of relationships (or lack thereof). Also, the band depicted on the only T-shirt I ever purchased from Hot Topic (aside from all my vampire accessories...natch) But I stumbled upon a B-side of the Starting Line that is so baller. Nights and Weekends. Released only on the Japanese version of their second CD, Based on a True Story. Japan? They seriously got this bomb track? I thought the Japanese were still obsessed with Cheap Trick and male covers of Whitney Houston songs. For good measure, my other favorite TSL B-side is their cover of Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now. Such an awesome band, can't wait for their reunion...
"She said, I've been thinking alot about you. Is it true, do you hate me?"
JW
Monday, June 14, 2010
Cause enough isn't enough this time...
Wow, so much to riff about. Might as well start at the beginning.
So, I returned to my own personal Disneyworld, Las Vegas, 2 weeks ago. My anticipation per usual was super high, because lets face it, its Vegas. I tempered my expectations cause I realized I would have to work during the day, so I couldn't bank on sleeping off the previous night's nonsense as I would normally. Thursday night was largely uneventful except for O'Sheas forcefully violating my neither regions for $250 in their clever legalized form of casino rape. I did, in a gin soaked revelation, discover that the 21 year old idiot who had been splashing chips at my blackjack table looked just like Nick Jonas. So I began berating him, asking how his friendship with Hannah Montana was, asking where his purity ring was. He began to get annoyed when I implored his female companion as to why she was with an underage Disney pop star and didn't she realize that he and his brother's purity pledge meant she would be getting nary a heavy pet later that night. She found it hilarious and recognized the resemblance. Our large African American dealer was singing Party in the USA at him every time he won a hand. It was all fun and games till he angrily informed us he was going to law school at NYU in the fall and could "sue our asses". Right, keep on "Burnin' Up" young Nicholas.
The rest of my weekend consisted of me making some money back, then losing my entire stake I took out there with me. Whoops, Saturday night got ugly. I did run into one of the Real Housewives of New York in the Venetian however. One of the girls I work with evidently is obsessed and in her post dinner drunkeness spies a woman who she decides looks like Kelly from the show. Now I have seen maybe one episode for 10 min, so the hell if I know who she is talking about, but she proceeds to scream "Kelly!" twice. And only in Vegas, the woman turns around and its Ms. BravoTV herself. Much hugging and excitement ensues. She actually was incredibly gracious, friendly and overall talkative. During the 5 min conversation in which I said next to nothing, cause I certainly didn't feel like talking about jewelry or anything of that nature, she did spot me out and compliment my Silly Bands, cause face it, they are pretty sweet. She rocked one herself and suddenly I looked pretty awesome. Color me impressed that a reality TV celeb famous for no real reason was legit cool in real life. Now I still won't watch that show cause I prefer my reality TV to be 7 strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives taped, and then those same strangers when they aren't strangers duking it out in feats of strength challenge style, or Top Chef. Either way, it was a decent Vegas style celebrity interaction.
Speaking of jewelry, the huge show I was at also solidified for me how much I really don't care about the industry I'm in, which was both weird and a bummer. I love my Dad's company and find it extremely interesting and intriguing. However, it is essentially a technology company that happens to work in the diamond industry. The diamond and jewelry industry itself really holds no allure to me and that was never more evident that at the marquee event of the year. There were plenty of pretty things to look at and ridiculous displays of product ego and hubris, but as a whole I found it very meh. I get more excited from looking at articles on Yahoo Finance. That's not to say I will never find myself involved in my Dad's company and thus in the industry, but just not directly immersed in it like I am now. It just further clarified my need and desire to pursue my professional aspirations wholeheartedly. More on that in a minute.
Travelling of course was eventful as usual. Most notably, on the way out to Vegas, I had the consummate pleasure of sitting in front of the 3 "oh my gawd its out first time going to Vegas, its soo awesome" girls who proceeded to be annoying from boarding till we touched down. Highlights included buzzing the stewardess to ask if they could get drinks AS WE WERE TAXIING FOR TAKEOFF, followed shortly by one of the girls breaking into hysterics because she was scared of flying (complete with hyper-ventilating and shrieks), and overall obnoxious behavior as they tried to hit on the disinterested guy trying to sleep across the aisle from them.
Annoying skank: "So you live in Vegas, thats so amazing!"
Guy: (with headphones still on) Yeah, its alright.
AS: So you must go out like every night right?!
G: Not really, I, like, have to still work and stuff, I have a job.
AS: But do you like gamble at the casinos everyday?
G: (visibly exhausted by her questions) No, I keep away from the Strip. You don't go to the Sears Tower everyday do you?
AS: NO! But its different. Its like Vegas! This is so gonna be like Sex and the City...
I wish I was kidding about that last line. But no, she was serious as my headache from listening to her whore babble. I'm not sure what episode she was referring to, but unless there is an episode in which a handsome gentleman sitting in the seat in front of her opens the exit row door and chucks her incessantly inane ass out into the desert below, I'm sure it was not appropriate for the situation. I could go on about the other retarded things they said, including the girl freaking out about every bit of turbulence and plane movement to the extent that I was getting psyched out, but I don't have 4 hours to write it all down...especially because they sat within 2-3 rows of me on my flight back as well. I wish I was kidding. I resisted every urge to sprint through the concourses and out of O'Hare just to evade a single moment more of mind numbing conversation. It makes me scared to think they will probably all be wives and mothers someday.
On a more euphoric note, the Blackhawks are the motherfucking Stanley Cup champions. I resisted posting immediately about how excited I was and just let it all sink in. I have been an overly emotional sports fan for the majority of my life and have had my share of heartbreaks. I mean, I'm a Cubs fan after all. Coming into the Stanley Cup finals, the closest I had ever come to my favorite team in any sport winning a championship was Marquette's Final Four run in 2003 or the Bears Super Bowl loss in '07. Frankly, as much as I love them, I knew the Bears weren't gonna win that game against Peyton Manning and the Colts. The Marquette run was probably one of the most memorable and fun 2 weeks of my life, but it was all overshadowed by the curb stomping they received from that Keebler Elf Kirk Heinrich and his Kansas Jayhawk douche friends in the Final Four down in New Orleans. Of course I was there and felt as if I had been maced while being stiletto'd in the groin. I remember vehemently arguing with my Dad that I didn't give a damn about our flight, I just wanted to drive home to Milwaukee like a petulant child. Luckily cooler heads prevailed and I saw a pretty awesome Championship game in which Kansas then lost in heartbreaking fashion (haha, suck it Kirk!) but needless to say, I was still waiting for that sweet minty taste of championship.
So when everyone's favorite cab patron, Patrick Kane, slipped in that game winner in overtime, my head nearly exploded. I tackled my roommate, screamed nonsensically, and ran down the hall to jump into a closed door like it was the boards at the United Center. I texted around 20 people (half of which, including my father, had no idea what I was talking about or frankly didn't really care), and insisted on Chelsea Dagger being played on repeat. Walking outside, it was pandemonium. A fire truck rolled down Division full horns and sirens blaring. Every cabbie was laying on his horn, probably in tribute to Kane. Let me stop for a second and comment on the irony of cabbies celebrating. Most of these foreign gentlemen probably have little to no idea what hockey actually is, and had no real idea what ice was till recently, but they were LOVING it. That is what its all about.
The chaos continued through the parade on Friday. 2 million people downtown? For rizzeal? I can honestly say that I had goosebumps as the parade trolleys rolled by and maybe some misty tears in my eyes (though that could have been from the stench of alcohol rolling off of the countless high schoolers from the suburbs who invaded downtown. Seriously, its 10 AM, do you need to be wasted to enjoy such badassery?). At that point, I stopped giving a damn about fairweather fans, or who really loved the Hawks and who just wanted to party. There was a buzz and positivity to the entire city that I wanted to bottle up and wear around my neck like an amulet, or maybe fashion into a musky cologne that would stir the loins of any fair dame who happened to like watching a little puck. Either way, it was just special. I can't be more proud of the team, my city, or the cabbies. It was an amazing playoffs and to finally be able to end a sports season without the normal side dishes of longing and disappoint me, that leaves me full and satiated.
As any of you loyal serfs of the King of the South know, T.I. is no longer incarcerated for being a gun-toting badass trying to protect himself from hood rats who are jealous and want to cause him harm. So now he can go back to punching them straight in the face with banging tracks. Normally you would assume an artist would need a bit of time to get their flow fresh and tight again. Not ol' TIP. Yeah You Know is absolutely absurd. I mean, 5 seconds of the beat and I already knew it was going to be a staple of my summer playlists. I cannot express how much I love and respect T.I. as a musician. My first ever blog post praised Paper Trail and I can say that the man continues to impress and pump up. I hope I can bring the same level of swagger and flow to the diamond industry as T.I. brings to the rap game. Those Israelis better watch out.
"Make magic happen with cash I’m actually catchin magic, In the market for lavish mansions and NBA expansions..."
JW
So, I returned to my own personal Disneyworld, Las Vegas, 2 weeks ago. My anticipation per usual was super high, because lets face it, its Vegas. I tempered my expectations cause I realized I would have to work during the day, so I couldn't bank on sleeping off the previous night's nonsense as I would normally. Thursday night was largely uneventful except for O'Sheas forcefully violating my neither regions for $250 in their clever legalized form of casino rape. I did, in a gin soaked revelation, discover that the 21 year old idiot who had been splashing chips at my blackjack table looked just like Nick Jonas. So I began berating him, asking how his friendship with Hannah Montana was, asking where his purity ring was. He began to get annoyed when I implored his female companion as to why she was with an underage Disney pop star and didn't she realize that he and his brother's purity pledge meant she would be getting nary a heavy pet later that night. She found it hilarious and recognized the resemblance. Our large African American dealer was singing Party in the USA at him every time he won a hand. It was all fun and games till he angrily informed us he was going to law school at NYU in the fall and could "sue our asses". Right, keep on "Burnin' Up" young Nicholas.
The rest of my weekend consisted of me making some money back, then losing my entire stake I took out there with me. Whoops, Saturday night got ugly. I did run into one of the Real Housewives of New York in the Venetian however. One of the girls I work with evidently is obsessed and in her post dinner drunkeness spies a woman who she decides looks like Kelly from the show. Now I have seen maybe one episode for 10 min, so the hell if I know who she is talking about, but she proceeds to scream "Kelly!" twice. And only in Vegas, the woman turns around and its Ms. BravoTV herself. Much hugging and excitement ensues. She actually was incredibly gracious, friendly and overall talkative. During the 5 min conversation in which I said next to nothing, cause I certainly didn't feel like talking about jewelry or anything of that nature, she did spot me out and compliment my Silly Bands, cause face it, they are pretty sweet. She rocked one herself and suddenly I looked pretty awesome. Color me impressed that a reality TV celeb famous for no real reason was legit cool in real life. Now I still won't watch that show cause I prefer my reality TV to be 7 strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives taped, and then those same strangers when they aren't strangers duking it out in feats of strength challenge style, or Top Chef. Either way, it was a decent Vegas style celebrity interaction.
Speaking of jewelry, the huge show I was at also solidified for me how much I really don't care about the industry I'm in, which was both weird and a bummer. I love my Dad's company and find it extremely interesting and intriguing. However, it is essentially a technology company that happens to work in the diamond industry. The diamond and jewelry industry itself really holds no allure to me and that was never more evident that at the marquee event of the year. There were plenty of pretty things to look at and ridiculous displays of product ego and hubris, but as a whole I found it very meh. I get more excited from looking at articles on Yahoo Finance. That's not to say I will never find myself involved in my Dad's company and thus in the industry, but just not directly immersed in it like I am now. It just further clarified my need and desire to pursue my professional aspirations wholeheartedly. More on that in a minute.
Travelling of course was eventful as usual. Most notably, on the way out to Vegas, I had the consummate pleasure of sitting in front of the 3 "oh my gawd its out first time going to Vegas, its soo awesome" girls who proceeded to be annoying from boarding till we touched down. Highlights included buzzing the stewardess to ask if they could get drinks AS WE WERE TAXIING FOR TAKEOFF, followed shortly by one of the girls breaking into hysterics because she was scared of flying (complete with hyper-ventilating and shrieks), and overall obnoxious behavior as they tried to hit on the disinterested guy trying to sleep across the aisle from them.
Annoying skank: "So you live in Vegas, thats so amazing!"
Guy: (with headphones still on) Yeah, its alright.
AS: So you must go out like every night right?!
G: Not really, I, like, have to still work and stuff, I have a job.
AS: But do you like gamble at the casinos everyday?
G: (visibly exhausted by her questions) No, I keep away from the Strip. You don't go to the Sears Tower everyday do you?
AS: NO! But its different. Its like Vegas! This is so gonna be like Sex and the City...
I wish I was kidding about that last line. But no, she was serious as my headache from listening to her whore babble. I'm not sure what episode she was referring to, but unless there is an episode in which a handsome gentleman sitting in the seat in front of her opens the exit row door and chucks her incessantly inane ass out into the desert below, I'm sure it was not appropriate for the situation. I could go on about the other retarded things they said, including the girl freaking out about every bit of turbulence and plane movement to the extent that I was getting psyched out, but I don't have 4 hours to write it all down...especially because they sat within 2-3 rows of me on my flight back as well. I wish I was kidding. I resisted every urge to sprint through the concourses and out of O'Hare just to evade a single moment more of mind numbing conversation. It makes me scared to think they will probably all be wives and mothers someday.
On a more euphoric note, the Blackhawks are the motherfucking Stanley Cup champions. I resisted posting immediately about how excited I was and just let it all sink in. I have been an overly emotional sports fan for the majority of my life and have had my share of heartbreaks. I mean, I'm a Cubs fan after all. Coming into the Stanley Cup finals, the closest I had ever come to my favorite team in any sport winning a championship was Marquette's Final Four run in 2003 or the Bears Super Bowl loss in '07. Frankly, as much as I love them, I knew the Bears weren't gonna win that game against Peyton Manning and the Colts. The Marquette run was probably one of the most memorable and fun 2 weeks of my life, but it was all overshadowed by the curb stomping they received from that Keebler Elf Kirk Heinrich and his Kansas Jayhawk douche friends in the Final Four down in New Orleans. Of course I was there and felt as if I had been maced while being stiletto'd in the groin. I remember vehemently arguing with my Dad that I didn't give a damn about our flight, I just wanted to drive home to Milwaukee like a petulant child. Luckily cooler heads prevailed and I saw a pretty awesome Championship game in which Kansas then lost in heartbreaking fashion (haha, suck it Kirk!) but needless to say, I was still waiting for that sweet minty taste of championship.
So when everyone's favorite cab patron, Patrick Kane, slipped in that game winner in overtime, my head nearly exploded. I tackled my roommate, screamed nonsensically, and ran down the hall to jump into a closed door like it was the boards at the United Center. I texted around 20 people (half of which, including my father, had no idea what I was talking about or frankly didn't really care), and insisted on Chelsea Dagger being played on repeat. Walking outside, it was pandemonium. A fire truck rolled down Division full horns and sirens blaring. Every cabbie was laying on his horn, probably in tribute to Kane. Let me stop for a second and comment on the irony of cabbies celebrating. Most of these foreign gentlemen probably have little to no idea what hockey actually is, and had no real idea what ice was till recently, but they were LOVING it. That is what its all about.
The chaos continued through the parade on Friday. 2 million people downtown? For rizzeal? I can honestly say that I had goosebumps as the parade trolleys rolled by and maybe some misty tears in my eyes (though that could have been from the stench of alcohol rolling off of the countless high schoolers from the suburbs who invaded downtown. Seriously, its 10 AM, do you need to be wasted to enjoy such badassery?). At that point, I stopped giving a damn about fairweather fans, or who really loved the Hawks and who just wanted to party. There was a buzz and positivity to the entire city that I wanted to bottle up and wear around my neck like an amulet, or maybe fashion into a musky cologne that would stir the loins of any fair dame who happened to like watching a little puck. Either way, it was just special. I can't be more proud of the team, my city, or the cabbies. It was an amazing playoffs and to finally be able to end a sports season without the normal side dishes of longing and disappoint me, that leaves me full and satiated.
As any of you loyal serfs of the King of the South know, T.I. is no longer incarcerated for being a gun-toting badass trying to protect himself from hood rats who are jealous and want to cause him harm. So now he can go back to punching them straight in the face with banging tracks. Normally you would assume an artist would need a bit of time to get their flow fresh and tight again. Not ol' TIP. Yeah You Know is absolutely absurd. I mean, 5 seconds of the beat and I already knew it was going to be a staple of my summer playlists. I cannot express how much I love and respect T.I. as a musician. My first ever blog post praised Paper Trail and I can say that the man continues to impress and pump up. I hope I can bring the same level of swagger and flow to the diamond industry as T.I. brings to the rap game. Those Israelis better watch out.
"Make magic happen with cash I’m actually catchin magic, In the market for lavish mansions and NBA expansions..."
JW
Thursday, May 27, 2010
In this life, there are nothing but possibilities...
So I was reading an article the other day and the overreaching topic was motivation. Not Tony Robbins "I'm gonna go all motivational speaker on your ass" or "You can touch the stars if you are light enough at heart" or some cotton candy bullshit like that. It was more sincere, like, when you strip away the frustration, the bluster, the counterfeit senses of accomplishment that you may or may not truly be behind, what really motivates you? And anyone who knows me realizes that this probably put me into a deep thought trance that burdened me for hours. Actually it was only 20 minutes until some angry Israeli called and flipped out because I dared, just dared, to act like the world didn't revolve around him for 30 min. Yes I will call and harass my customer who has only had the stone for 2 days (which, for perspective, is no time at all) just so your over caffeinated Zionist ass will make like a tree and shut the fuck up.
But I digress. I took it as a healthy opportunity, as I am on the verge of a new step in my professional growth, to truly think what I am about. What drives me? Some people would say "Money, Cash, Hoes", but really, I'm from the hood stupid, so what kind of facts are those? I mean, does money drive me? Abso-flippin-lutely. Its always on my mind. And honestly? Its because its the most tangible thing to me right now. Being successful has many different forms, mutations, and stations. But for me, right now, at 24 years of age? Success right now is having a wallet-full of Benjamins and having the freedom to do something with them. Unfortunately, that isn't a scenario that I am living, so I question my success, while others would call me successful to this point (thanks Dad!). As with much in life, its all a matter of perspective.
But money as a driver 10 years down the line? No its not the end all be all. When I was trading, I was making a nice chunk less than I am now (and I've brilliantly articulated before what a princely sum that is), however, I loved every second of my job. I knew that if I was good to great at my job, the money would absolutely come. But for the time being, it was honestly secondary to me being thrilled to do what I was doing. Now, that desktop euphoria isn't there, so I am a little less patient with the idea of "paying my dues" or "letting the money come in time." But, all that being said, it taught me a bit about the idea of loving your job being more important than loving your paycheck. Down the road, I have every want, desire, and attention of being that mythical "rich". Its different for everyone, but I want to be in a situation where I don't have to worry about money. That theoretically is never the case, but it can be to a point where without spending like a Saudi prince, you are doing pretty damn well for yourself. My parents both were extremely smart, financially prudent, and above all, hard working in my youth. My dad still is to this day, all in an effort to make sure we didn't want for anything. I was blessed enough to have a lot of things I took for granted, and I can only hope one day to achieve a similar level for whoever is dependent on me. And I want to be able to be like "Yep, Dad, I screwed up and took that victory lap in college, and you wasted alot of money on me 'finding myself', so here is a Porsche. Happy Birthday." Yeah, I said it, I want to buy my dad a $70,000 sports car someday, thats just how I'm wired. Love it or leave it. I'm not going to pretend some of my monetary dreams and motivations aren't materialistic, cause they totally are. And I frankly see nothing wrong with that.
What else motivates me? In all sincerity, I want my name to be known. Not to be uber famous like Bill Nye the Science Guy or Mr. T, but in whatever field I end up in, I want people to know who I am. Part of it is arrogance, sure. But that "arrogance" is firmly centered in a confidence in myself and a respect for what I feel are my own abilities. Another part is I just feel like it shows you are doing something right. For example, I respect my Dad for alot of things, but the thing that always gets me is that fact that most people in the diamond industry know who my dad is. Now they may not like him or his company, might think he is full of shit and never desire to work with him (in which case they are clearly ass-faced tools), but they know who he or his company are to some extent. That to me is incredibly cool and says that you are doing something right. My Dad isn't some hotshot who is commonly known for his business exploits like Bill Gates or hmm, Lee Iacocca, but he has been successful enough, influential enough, aligned himself with the right people enough within the industry to become a name of note. I would absolutely prefer that to being a nameless upper level executive at a major corporation. Now I have nothing against large corporations and the vital business functions they serve, but I would rather be some maverick running a small company, and maybe making less money than VP X at Big Company Inc., but people within the industry knew who I was...probably because of my chiseled good looks showing up in trade publications and my gunslinger attitude, naturally. I never wanted to be a movie star. I wanted to be a rock star, but less for the notoriety and more because I love being on stage. I have absolutely no desire to be deluged by paparazzi. That being said, I love seeing my name in print, loving hearing myself on playback and would want nothing more than to give a bunch of interviews later in life, preferably to Forbes and Crains Chicago Business, not just my children's school newsletter. Again, no shame, I'm 24, I can be motivated by the most grandiose and seemingly self-important of factors. I'm sure in 10-15 years my motivation will be completely different, but thats how it stands now.
Well, on to more merry and mirthful topics. As Chicago is warming up, it has seemingly woken the homeless from their complacent winter hibernation. This past Friday, while grabbing some late night food, my roommate and I were approached by a hobo inside the establishment. Up till that point, he was loudly chirping about the Blackhawks and "getting out the broom" for a sweep and other nonsensical hobo chatter. I could sense, in my endless drunken cynicism, that he was merely buttering up the drunk masses for his transient sales pitch. Then without warning, he began working his way through the line. As he approached us, unsuccessful up until that point, I immediately thought "Daniel-San is going to buy him whatever he wants cause he is 1) a genuinely nice person and 2) going to think it is more of a hassle to say no than to order what the dude wants." Now I am not a heartless bastard, but I get annoyed with some of the more overbearing and aggressive homeless. My annoyance is confirmed as this pungent ruffian attempts to commandeer our order. This spot has a spectacular "Buy 1 Get 1 Free" gyro special which worked out as I was craving some lamb-filled goodness and it also got our new "friend" a gyro at no real extra cost. But this demanding fuck starts trying to assume he is getting both by requesting cheese (aka that shitty Cheez Wiz) on both gyros. All I could think of was how dare he defile a gyro with cheese and how much he looked like a darker version of Jafar dressed as an old man from Aladdin (or at least his crusty teeth). So we managed to fend him off, get our orders and start to leave. Leading to this exchange:
Jafar: "Hey man, give me some fries too!"
Me: (thinking how these are Dan's fries from his order) Here...(gives 2 fries).
Jafar: "You gotta give me more than 2 fries man!"
Me: "Umm, take those and like it dude."
Jafar: "Y'all are cheap!"
Ok, seriously? Luckily I just wanted to go home and eat otherwise I would have been peeved. When the nature of your existence, by misfortune or not, is to leech off the kindness of others, one would think you wouldn't act entitled? But no, you feel the need to not only take more than was offered, but then complain that the portions were not to his liking? Get bent you dirty rapscallion.
Enough of that rant. The weather has been just superb as of late. I stood on my porch last night, around 8, it was that cool-ish 75 degrees and wanted to clap my hands with glee. You really dont appreciate the quality of early summer weather until you endure a crappy winter and then a spring that is about as pleasant as the awful new promos for the final season of the Hills. So hooray for that. The upcoming weekend features a birthday celebration, trolley rides, a Cubs game, and most importantly, Game 1 of the Stanley Cup (aka the first time a favorite team of mine has ever been in the position to win a championship, the 2007 Bears were just not gonna beat the Colts). Ive watched the ESPN previews and read the articles multiple times, I just want this puck to finally drop on Saturday. We all know nothing good has ever come out of Philly, so lets send the Flyers and their stupid jerseys back to the city of Brotherly Sadness ASAP...and scene.
I don't really have any new music recos right now or bands that I feel the need to highlight, but I have been spinning these 3 tracks alot, so dive right in...
Tegan and Sara-Where Does the Good Go
Brand New-Last Chance to Lose Your Keys
Elliot-Blessed by Your Ghost
"What do you do with the leftover you?"
JW
But I digress. I took it as a healthy opportunity, as I am on the verge of a new step in my professional growth, to truly think what I am about. What drives me? Some people would say "Money, Cash, Hoes", but really, I'm from the hood stupid, so what kind of facts are those? I mean, does money drive me? Abso-flippin-lutely. Its always on my mind. And honestly? Its because its the most tangible thing to me right now. Being successful has many different forms, mutations, and stations. But for me, right now, at 24 years of age? Success right now is having a wallet-full of Benjamins and having the freedom to do something with them. Unfortunately, that isn't a scenario that I am living, so I question my success, while others would call me successful to this point (thanks Dad!). As with much in life, its all a matter of perspective.
But money as a driver 10 years down the line? No its not the end all be all. When I was trading, I was making a nice chunk less than I am now (and I've brilliantly articulated before what a princely sum that is), however, I loved every second of my job. I knew that if I was good to great at my job, the money would absolutely come. But for the time being, it was honestly secondary to me being thrilled to do what I was doing. Now, that desktop euphoria isn't there, so I am a little less patient with the idea of "paying my dues" or "letting the money come in time." But, all that being said, it taught me a bit about the idea of loving your job being more important than loving your paycheck. Down the road, I have every want, desire, and attention of being that mythical "rich". Its different for everyone, but I want to be in a situation where I don't have to worry about money. That theoretically is never the case, but it can be to a point where without spending like a Saudi prince, you are doing pretty damn well for yourself. My parents both were extremely smart, financially prudent, and above all, hard working in my youth. My dad still is to this day, all in an effort to make sure we didn't want for anything. I was blessed enough to have a lot of things I took for granted, and I can only hope one day to achieve a similar level for whoever is dependent on me. And I want to be able to be like "Yep, Dad, I screwed up and took that victory lap in college, and you wasted alot of money on me 'finding myself', so here is a Porsche. Happy Birthday." Yeah, I said it, I want to buy my dad a $70,000 sports car someday, thats just how I'm wired. Love it or leave it. I'm not going to pretend some of my monetary dreams and motivations aren't materialistic, cause they totally are. And I frankly see nothing wrong with that.
What else motivates me? In all sincerity, I want my name to be known. Not to be uber famous like Bill Nye the Science Guy or Mr. T, but in whatever field I end up in, I want people to know who I am. Part of it is arrogance, sure. But that "arrogance" is firmly centered in a confidence in myself and a respect for what I feel are my own abilities. Another part is I just feel like it shows you are doing something right. For example, I respect my Dad for alot of things, but the thing that always gets me is that fact that most people in the diamond industry know who my dad is. Now they may not like him or his company, might think he is full of shit and never desire to work with him (in which case they are clearly ass-faced tools), but they know who he or his company are to some extent. That to me is incredibly cool and says that you are doing something right. My Dad isn't some hotshot who is commonly known for his business exploits like Bill Gates or hmm, Lee Iacocca, but he has been successful enough, influential enough, aligned himself with the right people enough within the industry to become a name of note. I would absolutely prefer that to being a nameless upper level executive at a major corporation. Now I have nothing against large corporations and the vital business functions they serve, but I would rather be some maverick running a small company, and maybe making less money than VP X at Big Company Inc., but people within the industry knew who I was...probably because of my chiseled good looks showing up in trade publications and my gunslinger attitude, naturally. I never wanted to be a movie star. I wanted to be a rock star, but less for the notoriety and more because I love being on stage. I have absolutely no desire to be deluged by paparazzi. That being said, I love seeing my name in print, loving hearing myself on playback and would want nothing more than to give a bunch of interviews later in life, preferably to Forbes and Crains Chicago Business, not just my children's school newsletter. Again, no shame, I'm 24, I can be motivated by the most grandiose and seemingly self-important of factors. I'm sure in 10-15 years my motivation will be completely different, but thats how it stands now.
Well, on to more merry and mirthful topics. As Chicago is warming up, it has seemingly woken the homeless from their complacent winter hibernation. This past Friday, while grabbing some late night food, my roommate and I were approached by a hobo inside the establishment. Up till that point, he was loudly chirping about the Blackhawks and "getting out the broom" for a sweep and other nonsensical hobo chatter. I could sense, in my endless drunken cynicism, that he was merely buttering up the drunk masses for his transient sales pitch. Then without warning, he began working his way through the line. As he approached us, unsuccessful up until that point, I immediately thought "Daniel-San is going to buy him whatever he wants cause he is 1) a genuinely nice person and 2) going to think it is more of a hassle to say no than to order what the dude wants." Now I am not a heartless bastard, but I get annoyed with some of the more overbearing and aggressive homeless. My annoyance is confirmed as this pungent ruffian attempts to commandeer our order. This spot has a spectacular "Buy 1 Get 1 Free" gyro special which worked out as I was craving some lamb-filled goodness and it also got our new "friend" a gyro at no real extra cost. But this demanding fuck starts trying to assume he is getting both by requesting cheese (aka that shitty Cheez Wiz) on both gyros. All I could think of was how dare he defile a gyro with cheese and how much he looked like a darker version of Jafar dressed as an old man from Aladdin (or at least his crusty teeth). So we managed to fend him off, get our orders and start to leave. Leading to this exchange:
Jafar: "Hey man, give me some fries too!"
Me: (thinking how these are Dan's fries from his order) Here...(gives 2 fries).
Jafar: "You gotta give me more than 2 fries man!"
Me: "Umm, take those and like it dude."
Jafar: "Y'all are cheap!"
Ok, seriously? Luckily I just wanted to go home and eat otherwise I would have been peeved. When the nature of your existence, by misfortune or not, is to leech off the kindness of others, one would think you wouldn't act entitled? But no, you feel the need to not only take more than was offered, but then complain that the portions were not to his liking? Get bent you dirty rapscallion.
Enough of that rant. The weather has been just superb as of late. I stood on my porch last night, around 8, it was that cool-ish 75 degrees and wanted to clap my hands with glee. You really dont appreciate the quality of early summer weather until you endure a crappy winter and then a spring that is about as pleasant as the awful new promos for the final season of the Hills. So hooray for that. The upcoming weekend features a birthday celebration, trolley rides, a Cubs game, and most importantly, Game 1 of the Stanley Cup (aka the first time a favorite team of mine has ever been in the position to win a championship, the 2007 Bears were just not gonna beat the Colts). Ive watched the ESPN previews and read the articles multiple times, I just want this puck to finally drop on Saturday. We all know nothing good has ever come out of Philly, so lets send the Flyers and their stupid jerseys back to the city of Brotherly Sadness ASAP...and scene.
I don't really have any new music recos right now or bands that I feel the need to highlight, but I have been spinning these 3 tracks alot, so dive right in...
Tegan and Sara-Where Does the Good Go
Brand New-Last Chance to Lose Your Keys
Elliot-Blessed by Your Ghost
"What do you do with the leftover you?"
JW
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
That's a lovely accent you have...New Jersey?
So every once and awhile, you just need to get the hell out of Dodge. I love Chicago and impending summer has me giddy, but the stress of life (most of it self-created) and work and whatever else just starts to grate on you. Thankfully, my little trip to Gotham rolled around and I was on a Thursday night flight to the Big Apple.
Side note: For being ridiculously trafficked and being the central hub for the biggest and most flashy city in America, La Guardia is really a piece of shit. No offense to anyone who feels it is beloved. Besides the delays, its just an aesthetic abomination. It feels old as hell (probably because its 70 years old). In 1960, La Guardia was voted "the best airport in the world". Well congratu-fucking-lations, cause I feel like its 1962 everytime I'm in it. Each time I land there, I should be wearing a skinny brown tie and smoking 14 cartons of unfiltered cigarettes as I walk to a meeting on Madison Avenue with Don Draper, except way less sweet.
I don't often compare New York and Chicago cause its just not fair to either city cause they are so different in feel and makeup. Its like comparing ex girlfriends. Sure Girl A had a tremendous rack but she was a complete bitch. Girl B wasn't well endowed, but she had a great personality and cute dimples. Comparing the 2 will just devalue the positives of both and leave you thinking both are lacking. They really don't have anything in common except that you used to romp between the sheets with them, just like Chicago and New York are dissimilar except for the fact that they both are large cities. However, there are a few things New York has going for it that I wish could be injected into Chi-city.
Primarily, the corner stores. They are like the convenience store/deli hybrids that are all over Manhattan. I mean, if you go outside the central hub of Chicago into some of the more urban neighborhood-like places, I'm sure they exist. However, these strongholds of culinary greatness are nowhere to be found in either my general area or closer to downtown Chicago. I blame a lack of Middle Eastern influence. When I'm in New York, I go to these things at least once a day for Falafel, or Schwarma, or lest I forget the best thing ever, the chopped salad bar. 6 bucks for a salad and like 5 toppings? And I can get an H&H bagel with it for another 50c? Are you kidding me? Dear reader, I would punch each and every one of you in the eye if one of these took over the pet supply store that currently stands on the corner of Wells and Division near my house. Your anger would be well worth it for a limitless supply of reasonably priced Middle Eastern food and tossed salads made to order. That stuff is far harder to acquire in Chicago than friendship.
The other thing? There is just a much more striking diversity of people. I mean, yeah, I meet more unique and different people from varying backgrounds in Chicago than I would back in Milwaukee, but by and large they are all from the Midwest. So despite their differences, there is a homogeneous feel to it all. Now New York, thats a horse of a different color. Friday night I met a girl who was very distinctly Cajun who had transferred to NYU when Tulane got overrun by Katrina and then Saturday, I met a couple of Puerto Ricans from San Juan and Ponce (more about that later). Meeting either of those people would have been a standout, semi-rare occasion here (where everyone, for better or for worse, seems to have went to a Big Ten school and is either an accountant, consultant, or in grad school), but it was just another night in New York. The other thing is the unique racial makeup of Manhattan. I grew up in Milwaukee which is one of the most segregated cities in the country. Chicago is not as severe, but its similar. When you go out in the areas I've lived or grown up, you're around mainly white people with a decent dose of Asians, and then some other races tossed in here or there. You go to the South Side of Milwaukee or the Southwest side of Chicago and you see a more distinct Latin flavor, and so on and so forth. Its just how it is. Whereas Manhattan, its like goddamn racial potpourri. I think thats what makes the nightlife and just social scene so interesting. Naturally, New York has its pockets as well, but it seems like there is alot more random juxtaposition of backgrounds on the island. For example, running into my new Puerto Rican friends at the bar we were at.
So we enter this bar in Midtown Manhattan behind a group of 3 extremely attractive women and a (im not ashamed to admit it) good looking dude. And when I say attractive, they turned around and my buddy without thinking muttered "Dear God..." And strangely enough, the rest of the bar was similarly populated. An easy 65-35 ratio of girls to guys, with the majority being aesthetically pleasing to say the least. It looked like a damn beer commercial. I was tempted to chuck some paint on the wall to see if a train would come rushing out. Maybe go order a fucking Disaronno on the rocks to see if the bottle would spin open in slow motion and some sultry Eastern European dime would lock eyes with me from across the bar cause I ordered some crappy almond flavored liqueur. But anyways, after a few minutes, said companion of mine (who is in a wonderful 2+ year relationship with serious potential, so he could care less about being humiliated by the Latin Mean Girls) saunters up and strikes up conversation. So soon enough, I'm drawn in and we converse. I don't remember much of the conversation verbatim but I pretty much recall... "We are laughing and we are very good friends. Good buddies sharing a special moment." There was much jealousy rampant throughout the striped shirt douche-pocalypse leering at us around the bar. Its pretty hard to carry on an engaging conversation with an interesting young lady when you are winking and making shooting motions at each assclown who attempts to shoot you an icy glare. The best part was the fact that all of these vixens and their male companion were intelligent, well spoken, and with baller careers. One was a top fashion designer back in San Juan, the gentleman was a surgery resident in Manhattan, one of the other girls was a lawyer, and the girl my buddy and I talked to the most was a personal stylist for Caroline f-ing Kennedy among others. I was gleefully clapping and prodding her to name drop more, but unfortunately her class and professional courtesy prevented it. What a Puerto Rican Buzz Killington. Either way, it was just another one of those cool "only in New York" moments. That being said, I think thats part of the fun and excitement when I go there. I've been there 10+ times, lived there for 3 months, so its not like I'm a tourist when I go back *cough* everybody look at how cool I am! *cough*, but at the same time, its still such a dramatic change of pace. It also makes Chicago seem a bit more intimate and personal, which I can totally dig.
At CVS today, my checkout girl was named Mignon. Yep, you read that right. Like Filet Mignon. I wanted to ask if her sister was named Bisque.
Finally, this weather better stop fucking around. Pardon my French, but fuck me 55 degrees. In New York, it was 85 and I was melting like I was in a Zima commercial. And I get back to Chicago, and I need to put long sleeves back on? I was ready to start going to work wearing a t-shirt because F this, I'm overheated. But nope, back to sweaters till June when most likely 85 degrees will appear out of nowhere and make leaving your house feel like getting in a car thats been left in the sun, cause thats soo fun!!! If I can just get some nice 72 degree days strung together here, I'll be getting weird looks up and down Division because I'll be trying to slap high fives with everyone I meet...provided that they appear to have showered in the last 48 hours...so about 50% of the people I would pass.
I've heard alot about this Chicago band, I Fight Dragons, but I never got around to checking them out. Glad I finally did. They label themselves "NES rock". Before you start pooh-poohing them as some nerdcore band, give them a legit spin. Its electronica-influenced pop-punk with Nintendo video game sounds instead of run of the mill synths. Think HelloGoodbye but more of a rock sound and occasional snips of a sweet jingle from Zelda or the sound you heard when you crushed some stupid looking Goomba. The lead singer kind of sounds like Max Bemis from Say Anything. Heads Up Hearts Down is catchy as hell, and with a little luck, hopefully you won't hear it in f-ing Abercrombie like every HelloGoodbye single. I swear their music makes me subconsciously smell Abercrombie Fierce and I nearly wretch.
"I try to find my strength inside the sound, But I can't fight the darkness all around, I'm bleeding 'til I drown..."
JW
Side note: For being ridiculously trafficked and being the central hub for the biggest and most flashy city in America, La Guardia is really a piece of shit. No offense to anyone who feels it is beloved. Besides the delays, its just an aesthetic abomination. It feels old as hell (probably because its 70 years old). In 1960, La Guardia was voted "the best airport in the world". Well congratu-fucking-lations, cause I feel like its 1962 everytime I'm in it. Each time I land there, I should be wearing a skinny brown tie and smoking 14 cartons of unfiltered cigarettes as I walk to a meeting on Madison Avenue with Don Draper, except way less sweet.
I don't often compare New York and Chicago cause its just not fair to either city cause they are so different in feel and makeup. Its like comparing ex girlfriends. Sure Girl A had a tremendous rack but she was a complete bitch. Girl B wasn't well endowed, but she had a great personality and cute dimples. Comparing the 2 will just devalue the positives of both and leave you thinking both are lacking. They really don't have anything in common except that you used to romp between the sheets with them, just like Chicago and New York are dissimilar except for the fact that they both are large cities. However, there are a few things New York has going for it that I wish could be injected into Chi-city.
Primarily, the corner stores. They are like the convenience store/deli hybrids that are all over Manhattan. I mean, if you go outside the central hub of Chicago into some of the more urban neighborhood-like places, I'm sure they exist. However, these strongholds of culinary greatness are nowhere to be found in either my general area or closer to downtown Chicago. I blame a lack of Middle Eastern influence. When I'm in New York, I go to these things at least once a day for Falafel, or Schwarma, or lest I forget the best thing ever, the chopped salad bar. 6 bucks for a salad and like 5 toppings? And I can get an H&H bagel with it for another 50c? Are you kidding me? Dear reader, I would punch each and every one of you in the eye if one of these took over the pet supply store that currently stands on the corner of Wells and Division near my house. Your anger would be well worth it for a limitless supply of reasonably priced Middle Eastern food and tossed salads made to order. That stuff is far harder to acquire in Chicago than friendship.
The other thing? There is just a much more striking diversity of people. I mean, yeah, I meet more unique and different people from varying backgrounds in Chicago than I would back in Milwaukee, but by and large they are all from the Midwest. So despite their differences, there is a homogeneous feel to it all. Now New York, thats a horse of a different color. Friday night I met a girl who was very distinctly Cajun who had transferred to NYU when Tulane got overrun by Katrina and then Saturday, I met a couple of Puerto Ricans from San Juan and Ponce (more about that later). Meeting either of those people would have been a standout, semi-rare occasion here (where everyone, for better or for worse, seems to have went to a Big Ten school and is either an accountant, consultant, or in grad school), but it was just another night in New York. The other thing is the unique racial makeup of Manhattan. I grew up in Milwaukee which is one of the most segregated cities in the country. Chicago is not as severe, but its similar. When you go out in the areas I've lived or grown up, you're around mainly white people with a decent dose of Asians, and then some other races tossed in here or there. You go to the South Side of Milwaukee or the Southwest side of Chicago and you see a more distinct Latin flavor, and so on and so forth. Its just how it is. Whereas Manhattan, its like goddamn racial potpourri. I think thats what makes the nightlife and just social scene so interesting. Naturally, New York has its pockets as well, but it seems like there is alot more random juxtaposition of backgrounds on the island. For example, running into my new Puerto Rican friends at the bar we were at.
So we enter this bar in Midtown Manhattan behind a group of 3 extremely attractive women and a (im not ashamed to admit it) good looking dude. And when I say attractive, they turned around and my buddy without thinking muttered "Dear God..." And strangely enough, the rest of the bar was similarly populated. An easy 65-35 ratio of girls to guys, with the majority being aesthetically pleasing to say the least. It looked like a damn beer commercial. I was tempted to chuck some paint on the wall to see if a train would come rushing out. Maybe go order a fucking Disaronno on the rocks to see if the bottle would spin open in slow motion and some sultry Eastern European dime would lock eyes with me from across the bar cause I ordered some crappy almond flavored liqueur. But anyways, after a few minutes, said companion of mine (who is in a wonderful 2+ year relationship with serious potential, so he could care less about being humiliated by the Latin Mean Girls) saunters up and strikes up conversation. So soon enough, I'm drawn in and we converse. I don't remember much of the conversation verbatim but I pretty much recall... "We are laughing and we are very good friends. Good buddies sharing a special moment." There was much jealousy rampant throughout the striped shirt douche-pocalypse leering at us around the bar. Its pretty hard to carry on an engaging conversation with an interesting young lady when you are winking and making shooting motions at each assclown who attempts to shoot you an icy glare. The best part was the fact that all of these vixens and their male companion were intelligent, well spoken, and with baller careers. One was a top fashion designer back in San Juan, the gentleman was a surgery resident in Manhattan, one of the other girls was a lawyer, and the girl my buddy and I talked to the most was a personal stylist for Caroline f-ing Kennedy among others. I was gleefully clapping and prodding her to name drop more, but unfortunately her class and professional courtesy prevented it. What a Puerto Rican Buzz Killington. Either way, it was just another one of those cool "only in New York" moments. That being said, I think thats part of the fun and excitement when I go there. I've been there 10+ times, lived there for 3 months, so its not like I'm a tourist when I go back *cough* everybody look at how cool I am! *cough*, but at the same time, its still such a dramatic change of pace. It also makes Chicago seem a bit more intimate and personal, which I can totally dig.
At CVS today, my checkout girl was named Mignon. Yep, you read that right. Like Filet Mignon. I wanted to ask if her sister was named Bisque.
Finally, this weather better stop fucking around. Pardon my French, but fuck me 55 degrees. In New York, it was 85 and I was melting like I was in a Zima commercial. And I get back to Chicago, and I need to put long sleeves back on? I was ready to start going to work wearing a t-shirt because F this, I'm overheated. But nope, back to sweaters till June when most likely 85 degrees will appear out of nowhere and make leaving your house feel like getting in a car thats been left in the sun, cause thats soo fun!!! If I can just get some nice 72 degree days strung together here, I'll be getting weird looks up and down Division because I'll be trying to slap high fives with everyone I meet...provided that they appear to have showered in the last 48 hours...so about 50% of the people I would pass.
I've heard alot about this Chicago band, I Fight Dragons, but I never got around to checking them out. Glad I finally did. They label themselves "NES rock". Before you start pooh-poohing them as some nerdcore band, give them a legit spin. Its electronica-influenced pop-punk with Nintendo video game sounds instead of run of the mill synths. Think HelloGoodbye but more of a rock sound and occasional snips of a sweet jingle from Zelda or the sound you heard when you crushed some stupid looking Goomba. The lead singer kind of sounds like Max Bemis from Say Anything. Heads Up Hearts Down is catchy as hell, and with a little luck, hopefully you won't hear it in f-ing Abercrombie like every HelloGoodbye single. I swear their music makes me subconsciously smell Abercrombie Fierce and I nearly wretch.
"I try to find my strength inside the sound, But I can't fight the darkness all around, I'm bleeding 'til I drown..."
JW
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Cause its all stuck in my subconcious, built up, from everyday...
So as of late, I've had this little, idk, just nagging feeling that something is off, something is missing, something is rotten in the state of Denmark. For the life of me, I couldn't quite place it. I mean, work, sure but thats nothing new, nothing to propel me into a mini-lull. Girls? For once, girls are not the issue. (Well, they are always an issue. I'm sure I'll be married and think, for once in my harried and frazzled life, girls are not an issue. Then I will have a little hellraiser of a daughter and it will be a whole different kind of mental anguish. Its coming, I think its karma...) Work is an issue, sure, but we have been over that before. Its kind of like getting your arm lopped off in a helicopter accident like that douche from ER. At first its like "Son of a bitch, I only have one fucking arm. This is totally awful. I hate the world, not fair." Then after awhile, you kind of deal with it, and while it would be way cooler to have to functional arms, you gotta play the hand you're dealt. So my pathetic bonus a few weeks ago was a figurative helicopter severing one of my limbs. Fun visual right?
Anyways, I digress. So I break all of these factors down, reflect on a conversation I had with a friend and realize, I am just really restless. Not the kind of restless that you can fix by going on a run or taking a vacation, but the restless deep down where you need some sort of sea change in your life. Let me tell you, its not a great feeling. Its the kind of nagging urge that makes people do stupid things like transfer colleges or move cross country only to regret it months later. Thankfully despite all my worry that I will never be satisfied, I came to realize I was just in one of life's little lulls and it would be over soon. I start grad school in a month and a half, and despite the work and time that will inevitably be involved, I can't be more excited. Sitting in this professional rut, day in and day out, knowing that even though I've only been here 9 months, if I am here in another 9 months, not much will have changed. That's enough to drive any ambitious non-apathetic young governor crazy. So 3 cheers for chasing things you want in a drive to remain sane.
So in the next chapter of "Life never goes as planned", barely 2 years after graduating college, I am going back to grad school, part-time, to get my MBA. Now for those of you who know me, I was never a stellar student. Not for lack of ability or intelligence, but rather a lack of drive and perspective. I didn't blow off classes and coursework in college, but I never really put my nose to the grindstone and strove for the best possible outcomes. I chose to learn via social interactions, musical exploration, and the ancient art of procrastination and diversion. As much as I loved college as an experience and time in my life, I couldn't wait to be finished with the academic course load and move onto a professional life where my evenings were my own and I didn't have to drag around thick textbooks like a caveman's club. So the thought of going back to school initially seemed pretty foreign, but as I examined it, got more and more intriguing. By all accounts, its incredibly different than undergrad and the course work is much more focused towards what you are really actually interested in learning and revolves more around your reasons for continuing your education at the graduate level. So that, to me, is pretty exciting.
I actually had my advisory session on Monday morning. I naturally started like a dumbass, walking into the bursar's office, completely confused, and inquired where I would go for my academic advising session. When the helpful young lady informed me I should go to the 7th floor, I briskly walked away, supremely confident that I knew exactly where to stroll to next...except that the building takes up most of a city block and the 7th floor is thus fucking huge. So I pulled the oh so classic "talking on the phone to my mom" while, I "absentmindedly" looked at a map.
"Oh yeah mom. Of course, yep, mmhmm, oh I need to go to my meeting, bye!"
All those students who gave me odd looks probably had no idea I was completely lost. Peasants...
Anyways, the session was so different than when I was 18. For one, I actually welcomed the help and knew questions to ask instead of being some punk ass freshman who knows everything and chews gum while listening to my Walkman blowing bubbles instead of listening, cause, pssh, I know everything. So that was different. I left the meeting really excited to get back into the classroom and start this next step towards being where I want to be professionally. Its interesting too, cause its like a second chance to be that academic rockstar. I never thought it would make a difference professionally, and then with my recent professional adventures that little Jimminy Cricket on my shoulder appeared "Hey Justin, maybe you should have cared a little more in Stats or Behavioral Psychology and then you would have that awesome job with a hedge fund. HAHA!" Of course I swatted the shit out of that annoying little bastard, but his message rings true. So not only am I now excited about getting a new degree, I'm hell bent on shooting for cum laude. And despite all of this, the thought of a second degree on my wall still seems both strange and funny. We'll see.
I'm off to NYC this weekend to see two of my old roommates from college as well as spend some quality time with my madre. Its really the best of both worlds. Do some shopping and eat at some baller restaurants on the parental dime but also get to hang out with 2 of my best friends in my second favorite city in the country. Its funny, I was only there for 4 months (continuously in the summer of 07, not including my 7-8 odds trips there otherwise) but I feel a sort of weird connection to it. For a city that is so dynamic and fast moving and eclectic, there is an element of stasis that makes it comfortable to go back. For example, last summer, I saw the same man walking a bulldog in front of my Dad's apartment that I used to see all the time. I mean, of course he lives there and probably has for years, but its still neat. And when I return, its not like being a tourist, I don't feel the need to consume as much New York as possible. Just enjoy the city for all its worth. It is so incredibly different that Chicago, but thats what makes it fun to go there now. The contrast is stark. Though I am sure the same roving gangs of Asian tourists perfecting their crouching camera angles and invisible platters pose will make my life a bit more frustrating per usual.
I think the next big rapper out of Atlanta is gonna be B.O.B. Kid is young, seems on his game, I love his flow, and he just seems to have his swagger up. Naturally, being on Grand Hustle Records and affiliating himself with T.I. (someone you all know how much I worship), I think will serve him well. You probably have heard Nothing on You all ready, as its pretty widespread, but it wasn't till I heard Airplane that I really thought he was something special. Hayley Williams, mi amor, from Paramore kills the hook, and there is a ridiculously sweet alternate version where Eminem delivers just a merciless verse towards the end. I mean, vintage fire Em. B.O.B's album just dropped yesterday, so check it out. Its guaranteed solid. He just has the feel of a good one...
"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, I could really use a wish right now..."
JW
Anyways, I digress. So I break all of these factors down, reflect on a conversation I had with a friend and realize, I am just really restless. Not the kind of restless that you can fix by going on a run or taking a vacation, but the restless deep down where you need some sort of sea change in your life. Let me tell you, its not a great feeling. Its the kind of nagging urge that makes people do stupid things like transfer colleges or move cross country only to regret it months later. Thankfully despite all my worry that I will never be satisfied, I came to realize I was just in one of life's little lulls and it would be over soon. I start grad school in a month and a half, and despite the work and time that will inevitably be involved, I can't be more excited. Sitting in this professional rut, day in and day out, knowing that even though I've only been here 9 months, if I am here in another 9 months, not much will have changed. That's enough to drive any ambitious non-apathetic young governor crazy. So 3 cheers for chasing things you want in a drive to remain sane.
So in the next chapter of "Life never goes as planned", barely 2 years after graduating college, I am going back to grad school, part-time, to get my MBA. Now for those of you who know me, I was never a stellar student. Not for lack of ability or intelligence, but rather a lack of drive and perspective. I didn't blow off classes and coursework in college, but I never really put my nose to the grindstone and strove for the best possible outcomes. I chose to learn via social interactions, musical exploration, and the ancient art of procrastination and diversion. As much as I loved college as an experience and time in my life, I couldn't wait to be finished with the academic course load and move onto a professional life where my evenings were my own and I didn't have to drag around thick textbooks like a caveman's club. So the thought of going back to school initially seemed pretty foreign, but as I examined it, got more and more intriguing. By all accounts, its incredibly different than undergrad and the course work is much more focused towards what you are really actually interested in learning and revolves more around your reasons for continuing your education at the graduate level. So that, to me, is pretty exciting.
I actually had my advisory session on Monday morning. I naturally started like a dumbass, walking into the bursar's office, completely confused, and inquired where I would go for my academic advising session. When the helpful young lady informed me I should go to the 7th floor, I briskly walked away, supremely confident that I knew exactly where to stroll to next...except that the building takes up most of a city block and the 7th floor is thus fucking huge. So I pulled the oh so classic "talking on the phone to my mom" while, I "absentmindedly" looked at a map.
"Oh yeah mom. Of course, yep, mmhmm, oh I need to go to my meeting, bye!"
All those students who gave me odd looks probably had no idea I was completely lost. Peasants...
Anyways, the session was so different than when I was 18. For one, I actually welcomed the help and knew questions to ask instead of being some punk ass freshman who knows everything and chews gum while listening to my Walkman blowing bubbles instead of listening, cause, pssh, I know everything. So that was different. I left the meeting really excited to get back into the classroom and start this next step towards being where I want to be professionally. Its interesting too, cause its like a second chance to be that academic rockstar. I never thought it would make a difference professionally, and then with my recent professional adventures that little Jimminy Cricket on my shoulder appeared "Hey Justin, maybe you should have cared a little more in Stats or Behavioral Psychology and then you would have that awesome job with a hedge fund. HAHA!" Of course I swatted the shit out of that annoying little bastard, but his message rings true. So not only am I now excited about getting a new degree, I'm hell bent on shooting for cum laude. And despite all of this, the thought of a second degree on my wall still seems both strange and funny. We'll see.
I'm off to NYC this weekend to see two of my old roommates from college as well as spend some quality time with my madre. Its really the best of both worlds. Do some shopping and eat at some baller restaurants on the parental dime but also get to hang out with 2 of my best friends in my second favorite city in the country. Its funny, I was only there for 4 months (continuously in the summer of 07, not including my 7-8 odds trips there otherwise) but I feel a sort of weird connection to it. For a city that is so dynamic and fast moving and eclectic, there is an element of stasis that makes it comfortable to go back. For example, last summer, I saw the same man walking a bulldog in front of my Dad's apartment that I used to see all the time. I mean, of course he lives there and probably has for years, but its still neat. And when I return, its not like being a tourist, I don't feel the need to consume as much New York as possible. Just enjoy the city for all its worth. It is so incredibly different that Chicago, but thats what makes it fun to go there now. The contrast is stark. Though I am sure the same roving gangs of Asian tourists perfecting their crouching camera angles and invisible platters pose will make my life a bit more frustrating per usual.
I think the next big rapper out of Atlanta is gonna be B.O.B. Kid is young, seems on his game, I love his flow, and he just seems to have his swagger up. Naturally, being on Grand Hustle Records and affiliating himself with T.I. (someone you all know how much I worship), I think will serve him well. You probably have heard Nothing on You all ready, as its pretty widespread, but it wasn't till I heard Airplane that I really thought he was something special. Hayley Williams, mi amor, from Paramore kills the hook, and there is a ridiculously sweet alternate version where Eminem delivers just a merciless verse towards the end. I mean, vintage fire Em. B.O.B's album just dropped yesterday, so check it out. Its guaranteed solid. He just has the feel of a good one...
"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, I could really use a wish right now..."
JW
Monday, April 12, 2010
Don't call it a comeback...
Holy mother of pearl, I haven't blogged in 2 months? Now I know, that despite my deepest wishes and self-aggrandizing desires, the world doesn't revolve around my literary musings nor do people earnestly await my next post like a bored housewife awaits the next Danielle Steel novel. But for those of you who have enjoyed my work and supported me through feedback or just informing me that you are indeed reading, I apologize for my absence and I vow to write more in the coming weeks.
The last time I started to punch the proverbial typewriter, it was the final week in March and it had just started getting nice out. Not nice in the "I can get golden brown by setting on my porch for an hour" nice, but more like "Just when I started to believe I was inflicted with that bullshit Seasonal Affective Disorder, I suddenly feel nice cause I can wear a lighter jacket" nice. And with that gentle turn of Mother Nature's thermostat, I have felt myself trending towards a, wait for it, sunnier disposition. Yeah, sometimes cheesy can be awesome.
Its kind of amazing really how a 60 degree day has saved me. How so? Lets start here. I hate my job. It has went from an occasional nuisance to a more persistent and debilitating sort of frustration that won't go away. Now I really, honestly try to avoid over the top complaints and bitchfests, not because it doesn't feel therapeutic at times (cause it totally does), but rather because it makes people uncomfortable, and the people whom I would choose to share these gripes with, are those who I truly care about and value their opinions. As such, I try to exempt them from my morose complaints as I would much rather have them fresh and attentive for a situation where I truly need their attention and empathy more so than a time I am annoyed that there is no more Diet Coke in the kitchen at work because certain gargantuan coworkers feel the need to polish off half a case per afternoon. But I digress (and I only articulate this next stanza to properly illustrate my overall point). Yes, I hate my workplace and my job. I am a vital cog in the company, but that is used and abused to a disgraceful level. I am a garbageman, cleaning up the messes of more unprofessional and selfish people. Professional selfishness is one of the more unbelieveably unfair things someone can do to their coworkers. Everyone knows someone like that. They may be competent or good at their job, but they go about their day in a way that only serves as a means to their own ends without regard for anyone else. Thus, those that work closely in conjunction have to scramble because a team members is acting like an only child? Does that make sense? Hopefully, cause 75% of my office functions in such a way. Guess who gets violated like underage drinking laws because of it? Yep, the eager young professional who still doesn't want to adapt that "I don't give a fuck attitude" quite yet.
Couple this all with the fact that I am severely and embarrassingly underpaid. Yea yea, I know everyone says they don't make enough, but I'm talking getting my paycheck and forgetting that I have a college degree when I look at it. I made more in my internship after my sophomore year of college. The secretaries at work...make more than I do. I wish I was joking. Money is not the end all be all, but when you are doing something where you have no future at the particular company and the actual work is nauseatingly simple and mundane, you slip to compensation as some sort of way to justify your time there. Anyways, the point I was making from that particular diatribe, is that it all really grates on me. As many of you know, I am absurdly driven, and beyond that, I have RIDICULOUS goals, aspirations, and ambitions for myself and what I think I should accomplish. So, this is all swirling in my head, creating the potential for melancholy that I could write an entire shitty emo album about...
But I walk out the door, its 60 degrees and I almost laugh, cause I get this wave of emotion crashing on my shoulders and I think, its almost summer, life isn't all that bad, really Justin, it could be way worse. And honestly, thats what life is all about. It took me a LONG time to realize it, but deep down, you need to find that one thing, doesn't have to be the same thing every day, but that one thing each day that you can be happy/excited/proud about, latch onto it, make out with it, hell propose marriage to it, and you'll be ok.
Well that was kind of heavy. In lighter things, I just returned today from my city of origin, the beautiful city of Milwaukee. I went up for a pair of nights to fraternize with some of my old comrades from Miami in town for our business frat's National Convention. Now I don't feel like regaling my loyal readers with stock tales of drunken conversations or hilarious moments cause frankly for so many of such events, you really needed to have been there. Thats not to say they were not hilarious, but they don't exactly stand alone. However, one such incident was to surreal not to relay.
The convention took place at the Pfister Hotel. This is, without a doubt, probably the nicest hotel in all Milwaukee. Beautiful old hotel, the lobby is ornate and extravagant with tons of tropical plants and frescoed ceilings. The rooms have thick curtains, elaborate bedspreds, and everything about this place screams quality. So naturally it seems like a grand idea to host a convention of 400-500 college shitheads all over this historic establishment. Couple this with the fact that the Pfister is also the preferred hotel of whatever professional teams are in town to play the Bucks and Brewers, and you have the potential for something interesting. The Celtics were in town on Saturday night to play the Bucks, but despite my arduous searches and patient surveys of the penthouse bar, I could find no sight of the boys from Boston. All I wanted to do was go up to Kevin Garnett and tell him that, indeed, "Anything is Possible." However, much to my chagrin, the St. Louis Cardinals were staying there as well, and were all over said bar. Now I HATE the Cardinals. I don't really hate many professional teams, but for some reason, as a Cubs fan, I loate the St. Louis Cardinals. I truly respect Albert Pujols' class and ability, but the rest of the team can suck it.
Well, as we arrived at the bar on Saturday night, 5-6 Cardinals players had posted up at a table joined by 8-10 stereotypical bar skanks. I mean, I would be completely and utterly dishonest if I said that I didn't find 2-3 of them attractive. But at the same time, I would rather set myself on fire than reveal to my family that I was dating any of them in their current state. The best part is that I am almost positive they were all girls from the convention. So as we sat nearby, we watched the intricate courtship dance and subsequent selection process take place.
*SIDE NOTE* Before I forget, Mark Mcgwire, yes the juiced up meathead who captivated the world with the HR chase 10 years ago, was in the group as he is now the hitting coach for the Cards. And despite being in the presence of such a huge member of baseball history, I was completely unenthused. Ive seen random NBA players in the airport and turned into a 5 year old child and got really pumped when I saw the Baltimore Ravens plane on the runway, but here I am 5 feet away from a, for better or worse, MLB legend, and I couldn't have cared less. It was kind of interesting. My friend on the other hand, took it upon himself to shamelessly follow Big Mac to the bathroom to chat him up and I can't help but imagine attempt to discover if his testicles did indeed exhibit trademark steroid-related shriking. Unfortunately, the Pfister puts up the privacy shields...bastards.
So these players are basically sitting there as girls attempt to audition for the opportunity to return with them to their hotel room and contract crabs that the Cardinal's RF unknowingly got from a similar strumpet in Pittsburgh last weekend. Its really quite funny, as Sarah Smith from Purdue's chapter attempts to interview for the position of Colby Rasmus' ball washer for the evening, we began to place wagers on prospective pairings. The overeager girls usually rose to the top by taking advantage of the fact that these guys aren't looking to put in any effort. They are rivaled only by girls that clearly exhude the crisp and clear DTF vibe (google it if acronyms are not your jam.) The other interesting factor is that the majority of these girls are the prototypical clubby snobbish type. Dressed to the nines, spent 3 hours getting ready, only want to be seen at the coolest spots, while the majority of these ball players they are lusting after are country boys who view class as something they avoided by playing minor league ball and who these girls would never speak to if they didn't throw a baseball 95 MPH. Its quite curious.
Anyways, there was a mild upset as one of the more, umm facially challenged girls, clearly with an assist from the smoky lighting of the bar and the heavy hand of the barkeep, left with a player, while her far cuter friend was rendered slightly confused and needed to scramble in an attempt to get her batting gloves on a Louisville Slugger before the night ended. I also liked how each "grouping" left separately. By separately, I mean 10 seconds apart, as if such a clever rouse will fool anyone observing in the 25% full bar. So basically, regular guys can't get laid if professional athletes are within a 3 block radius, because bitches be drawn to that like Kanye to an opportunity to make an ass out of himself. This event was only trumped by the time I was at a bar with the Blackhawks and found out that all 5 cute waitresses gave their number to Jonathan Toews. I mean, when its that easy, its no wonder these athletes develop ridiculous sexual deviancies, you're bound to get bored.
So Ive been getting into a lot of, for lack of a better descriptor, British electro-pop. Its new, fresh, and there is alot of different ways you can go with it. My main man at the moment is Dan Black. His style and talent is way more impressive than his mundame moniker. He did this pretty money cover of Hypnotize by Biggie and sampled his own track to create Symphonies, which he then made even sweeter by remixing it with Kid Cudi, who is rap's King Midas right now. Both are just ridiculous. Other favorite is probably U + Me. But on the real, you can't go wrong with any of it. Both chill and inspiring, its the new soundtrack to your party life. Cop it.
"Give me give me Symphonies, give me more than the life I lead..."
JW
The last time I started to punch the proverbial typewriter, it was the final week in March and it had just started getting nice out. Not nice in the "I can get golden brown by setting on my porch for an hour" nice, but more like "Just when I started to believe I was inflicted with that bullshit Seasonal Affective Disorder, I suddenly feel nice cause I can wear a lighter jacket" nice. And with that gentle turn of Mother Nature's thermostat, I have felt myself trending towards a, wait for it, sunnier disposition. Yeah, sometimes cheesy can be awesome.
Its kind of amazing really how a 60 degree day has saved me. How so? Lets start here. I hate my job. It has went from an occasional nuisance to a more persistent and debilitating sort of frustration that won't go away. Now I really, honestly try to avoid over the top complaints and bitchfests, not because it doesn't feel therapeutic at times (cause it totally does), but rather because it makes people uncomfortable, and the people whom I would choose to share these gripes with, are those who I truly care about and value their opinions. As such, I try to exempt them from my morose complaints as I would much rather have them fresh and attentive for a situation where I truly need their attention and empathy more so than a time I am annoyed that there is no more Diet Coke in the kitchen at work because certain gargantuan coworkers feel the need to polish off half a case per afternoon. But I digress (and I only articulate this next stanza to properly illustrate my overall point). Yes, I hate my workplace and my job. I am a vital cog in the company, but that is used and abused to a disgraceful level. I am a garbageman, cleaning up the messes of more unprofessional and selfish people. Professional selfishness is one of the more unbelieveably unfair things someone can do to their coworkers. Everyone knows someone like that. They may be competent or good at their job, but they go about their day in a way that only serves as a means to their own ends without regard for anyone else. Thus, those that work closely in conjunction have to scramble because a team members is acting like an only child? Does that make sense? Hopefully, cause 75% of my office functions in such a way. Guess who gets violated like underage drinking laws because of it? Yep, the eager young professional who still doesn't want to adapt that "I don't give a fuck attitude" quite yet.
Couple this all with the fact that I am severely and embarrassingly underpaid. Yea yea, I know everyone says they don't make enough, but I'm talking getting my paycheck and forgetting that I have a college degree when I look at it. I made more in my internship after my sophomore year of college. The secretaries at work...make more than I do. I wish I was joking. Money is not the end all be all, but when you are doing something where you have no future at the particular company and the actual work is nauseatingly simple and mundane, you slip to compensation as some sort of way to justify your time there. Anyways, the point I was making from that particular diatribe, is that it all really grates on me. As many of you know, I am absurdly driven, and beyond that, I have RIDICULOUS goals, aspirations, and ambitions for myself and what I think I should accomplish. So, this is all swirling in my head, creating the potential for melancholy that I could write an entire shitty emo album about...
But I walk out the door, its 60 degrees and I almost laugh, cause I get this wave of emotion crashing on my shoulders and I think, its almost summer, life isn't all that bad, really Justin, it could be way worse. And honestly, thats what life is all about. It took me a LONG time to realize it, but deep down, you need to find that one thing, doesn't have to be the same thing every day, but that one thing each day that you can be happy/excited/proud about, latch onto it, make out with it, hell propose marriage to it, and you'll be ok.
Well that was kind of heavy. In lighter things, I just returned today from my city of origin, the beautiful city of Milwaukee. I went up for a pair of nights to fraternize with some of my old comrades from Miami in town for our business frat's National Convention. Now I don't feel like regaling my loyal readers with stock tales of drunken conversations or hilarious moments cause frankly for so many of such events, you really needed to have been there. Thats not to say they were not hilarious, but they don't exactly stand alone. However, one such incident was to surreal not to relay.
The convention took place at the Pfister Hotel. This is, without a doubt, probably the nicest hotel in all Milwaukee. Beautiful old hotel, the lobby is ornate and extravagant with tons of tropical plants and frescoed ceilings. The rooms have thick curtains, elaborate bedspreds, and everything about this place screams quality. So naturally it seems like a grand idea to host a convention of 400-500 college shitheads all over this historic establishment. Couple this with the fact that the Pfister is also the preferred hotel of whatever professional teams are in town to play the Bucks and Brewers, and you have the potential for something interesting. The Celtics were in town on Saturday night to play the Bucks, but despite my arduous searches and patient surveys of the penthouse bar, I could find no sight of the boys from Boston. All I wanted to do was go up to Kevin Garnett and tell him that, indeed, "Anything is Possible." However, much to my chagrin, the St. Louis Cardinals were staying there as well, and were all over said bar. Now I HATE the Cardinals. I don't really hate many professional teams, but for some reason, as a Cubs fan, I loate the St. Louis Cardinals. I truly respect Albert Pujols' class and ability, but the rest of the team can suck it.
Well, as we arrived at the bar on Saturday night, 5-6 Cardinals players had posted up at a table joined by 8-10 stereotypical bar skanks. I mean, I would be completely and utterly dishonest if I said that I didn't find 2-3 of them attractive. But at the same time, I would rather set myself on fire than reveal to my family that I was dating any of them in their current state. The best part is that I am almost positive they were all girls from the convention. So as we sat nearby, we watched the intricate courtship dance and subsequent selection process take place.
*SIDE NOTE* Before I forget, Mark Mcgwire, yes the juiced up meathead who captivated the world with the HR chase 10 years ago, was in the group as he is now the hitting coach for the Cards. And despite being in the presence of such a huge member of baseball history, I was completely unenthused. Ive seen random NBA players in the airport and turned into a 5 year old child and got really pumped when I saw the Baltimore Ravens plane on the runway, but here I am 5 feet away from a, for better or worse, MLB legend, and I couldn't have cared less. It was kind of interesting. My friend on the other hand, took it upon himself to shamelessly follow Big Mac to the bathroom to chat him up and I can't help but imagine attempt to discover if his testicles did indeed exhibit trademark steroid-related shriking. Unfortunately, the Pfister puts up the privacy shields...bastards.
So these players are basically sitting there as girls attempt to audition for the opportunity to return with them to their hotel room and contract crabs that the Cardinal's RF unknowingly got from a similar strumpet in Pittsburgh last weekend. Its really quite funny, as Sarah Smith from Purdue's chapter attempts to interview for the position of Colby Rasmus' ball washer for the evening, we began to place wagers on prospective pairings. The overeager girls usually rose to the top by taking advantage of the fact that these guys aren't looking to put in any effort. They are rivaled only by girls that clearly exhude the crisp and clear DTF vibe (google it if acronyms are not your jam.) The other interesting factor is that the majority of these girls are the prototypical clubby snobbish type. Dressed to the nines, spent 3 hours getting ready, only want to be seen at the coolest spots, while the majority of these ball players they are lusting after are country boys who view class as something they avoided by playing minor league ball and who these girls would never speak to if they didn't throw a baseball 95 MPH. Its quite curious.
Anyways, there was a mild upset as one of the more, umm facially challenged girls, clearly with an assist from the smoky lighting of the bar and the heavy hand of the barkeep, left with a player, while her far cuter friend was rendered slightly confused and needed to scramble in an attempt to get her batting gloves on a Louisville Slugger before the night ended. I also liked how each "grouping" left separately. By separately, I mean 10 seconds apart, as if such a clever rouse will fool anyone observing in the 25% full bar. So basically, regular guys can't get laid if professional athletes are within a 3 block radius, because bitches be drawn to that like Kanye to an opportunity to make an ass out of himself. This event was only trumped by the time I was at a bar with the Blackhawks and found out that all 5 cute waitresses gave their number to Jonathan Toews. I mean, when its that easy, its no wonder these athletes develop ridiculous sexual deviancies, you're bound to get bored.
So Ive been getting into a lot of, for lack of a better descriptor, British electro-pop. Its new, fresh, and there is alot of different ways you can go with it. My main man at the moment is Dan Black. His style and talent is way more impressive than his mundame moniker. He did this pretty money cover of Hypnotize by Biggie and sampled his own track to create Symphonies, which he then made even sweeter by remixing it with Kid Cudi, who is rap's King Midas right now. Both are just ridiculous. Other favorite is probably U + Me. But on the real, you can't go wrong with any of it. Both chill and inspiring, its the new soundtrack to your party life. Cop it.
"Give me give me Symphonies, give me more than the life I lead..."
JW
Monday, February 8, 2010
Why was the Terminal a bad movie? Cause everyone hates airports...
So as I previously alluded to, the Atlanta airport and I have a relationship that has worked out about as well as Tiger and fidelity. I think I read somewhere that the Atlanta airport is now the busiest in the world, which would make one believe that it would excel in efficiency and information control/supply. Pfft, what a naive and Utopian conjecture. My last two trips through the joyous Hartsfield-Jackson International airport have been sullied with ridiculous delays, which alone are not aggravating as I understand backups happen when you are running so many damn planes, coupled with a pathetic lack of updates and mass confusion and hysteria. I would have most likely sworn off the airport long ago if one of the aforementioned trips hadn't included a conversation with Ne-Yo which left the entire airport wondering if I was Justin Timberlake or some sort of powerful record executive, most likely the former.
Prior to my recent trip to the Dirty Dirty, I flew through ATL on the way to visiting a friend in Phoenix for Spring Break. Entering the trip, I was mildly annoyed as I had a prodigious 2.5 hour layover in Atlanta before heading on to Sky Harbor (I had to name drop cause that could be the best airport name possible. I think they had George Lucas name it). This quickly became a positive as "inclement weather" caused Atlanta to ground all their planes. Thus I figured my time buffer would allow me to safely and casually roll into Atlanta, despite the delay, and still board my flight, no problem. But as I sat in Dayton's sparse, driving through the cornfields of Indiana-level boring (seriously, every airport needs a variety of diversions more exciting than Max and Erma's) airport, I suddenly became mildly concerned. Time was passing and I watched the flight before me leave and realized it had to fly to Atlanta and back before we could depart. Wow, so as I watched yet another overweight couple shuffle by wearing an OSU sweatshirt and either stonewashed Levi's or ill fitting stretch pants, I texted my friend in Atlanta to get a grip on the weather situation. He informed me that the skies were clear and he was on his porch grilling out. Ok, now I was just peeved. I went to the bookstore and flipped through a photo spread of the newest MTV reality skank and attempted to stay calm. Finally, a fortnight later, we boarded and departed the Dayton airport, a place I had now spent more time in than Miami's King Library.
We touched down in Atlanta a full 3 hours later than scheduled, and as the flight attendant announced the local time and that cell phones could now be used, there was an outbreak of wailing, tearing of clothes, and gnashing of teeth. If a good old fashioned stoning was tossed in, the plane could have been mistaken for biblical Jerusalem. While I attempted to crawl under my seat in an effort to escape the overreactions of these cretins, I called Delta's customer service number to check on my flight status. Much to my amazement, I actually caught a break, and my flight out of Atlanta to Phoenix had been delayed by an 1:15, so it actually was not scheduled to leave for 45 min. I breathed a sigh of relief and sank in my seat while people around my frantically punched in numbers and made phone calls, presumably saying goodbye to their loved ones, cause clearly potentially missing your flight is a fate worse than death.
But wait, if this story ended here, it would just be your standard airport aggravation but happy ending story. Nope. We then proceeded to sit in the plane for a full hour waiting for a parking spot, I kid you not. I didn't even know this kind of shit happened. Its like driving around a packed Wal-Mart parking lot for an hour looking for a parking spot on Black Friday, getting sheisted along the way as your spot gets stolen by a rusted out 87 Corolla, but I was missing my connecting flight, not a $35 food dehydrator. So as the minutes cruelly ticked away, I saw my flight get delayed another 15 minutes, aka just long enough to stroke me to hopeful erection, before leaving me with blue balls like my cuckolding Senior prom date as the flight left 5 min before I stepped off the plane. So now, flightless, I made my way to the Delta help counter. There I was greeted with a squalid mass of annoyed people in two lines that stretched so far into the distance, they merged like an annoying optical illusion at a Children's Museum. I joined these somber little urchins in this Depression era bread line as we waited to approach the counter only to have some Delta employee punch a few, likely fictional, keystrokes only to tell us we were f-ed harder than a guy whose girlfriend already has advanced tickets to "Valentines Day". So after a pleasant wait which was about as enjoyable as showering in battery acid, the gate agent flashed me a fake smile and handed me a bag of complimentary toiletries which basically said: "Thanks for paying hundreds of dollars for this plane ticket so you can now be rewarded by finding a place to sleep in this overcrowded, stressed airport like a transient hobo. Hope you brought your bag on a stick!" So I spent a fitful night sleeping for a combined 45 min as I constantly worried about having my possessions pilfered by airport leprechauns or missing my 745 flight the next morning. This worry, coupled with the fluorescent lights that never dim, making it feel like I was sleeping on an operating table, makes airport slumber a nonexistent reality.
The trip back was uneventful, save for my Ne-Yo chat sesh, so I thought I had paid my dues and future trips through that airport would be clean, clear, and under control. This was further reinforced by my flight down which actually arrived ahead of schedule. I had developed a sort of karma-induced travel swagger so as I left for the airport to come back to Chicago, I wasn't very worried, even as it poured rain and reports of thunderstorms and tornadoes swirled about the Peach State. I got to the airport, went on through security, and was relieved to see that my flight was still on schedule for around 5:45. Haha, fuck you weather and weather related delays. But as I got settled in to wait for the last hour or so till my flight, I started to feel ominous vibes that shit was about to go down. This started when I went to my gate and saw that the flight that was 2 before mine, and was supposed to have left 20 min ago, had yet to board. Then, after hours of consistency, my flight finally got bumped to "delayed" by an hour. Son of a whore. I then realized not only was the weather affecting the situation and making travel a bit dicey, the airport decided to ignore all forms of communication updates with their passengers. Thus flights were still listed as on time even though they were 10 min past their boarding time and their gate was occupied with the 2 hour past due flight to Poughkeepsie. It was also at this point that I could see the emotions, attitudes, and temperaments of the people in the airport change, like when the first survivor is bitten in a zombie movie and the air just changes.
Stressful situations, like travel difficulties in an airport, really seem to bring out the true nature in people. And their reactions and performances in said situations are really quite a treat to observe. For example, look at the gate agent, whose only responsibility is to tell you what seat you are in, print out a boarding pass for those on standby, or tell you "No, you dirty hippie, there are no Vegan meals on this flight, we are not in Oregon." They, contrary to popular belief, do not operate the control tower, schedule when flights leave, or, even more confusing the collective dumbasses of the American public, control the weather. It's no wonder that these people have short tempers and are difficult to work with even when things are smooth. They deal with chromosome-mutated mouthbreathers who don't understand how transportation works unless you put Dale Jr's number on the back wing and tell them they are actually at Daytona. No, you walking past the line of 20 people to the side of the counter to inquire about why things are delayed is not going to help. No, complaining loudly to everyone in line how you NEED to catch your flight is going to make any difference you pompous, cowboy hat wearing idiot. No, telling the gate agent you are never going to fly their airline again is not going to make a difference, they will probably thank you for not having to deal with you and the fact that your fat ass takes up 1 and a half seats ever again. They also don't control the update monitors, so leave them the fuck alone.
I mean, I really do feel bad for some people. Like the couple I spoke to with the incredible patient and well behaved, though extremely tired and cranky children, who just wanted to get home to Baltimore after traveling all day. It's bad enough that they have to go back to Baltimore without the fact that their flight got moved back even farther than mine, and to a different gate, which they were not quite aware of, because the airport didn't feel like updating the monitors and the only notification was this big on a scrolling bar at the bottom of the gate screen, going about as fast as the heart rate of the people screaming at the gate attendants if they found out
they would not be receiving a complimentary soft pretzel for their troubles.
However, I did not feel bad for the cocksucker who decided to take out his frustrations on the staff of the Sam Adams Brewhouse. Naturally, when the delays began to pile up around dinner time, this place got SLAMMED. And the staff was rushing around, doing the best they could while being extremely pleasant. Well, the aisles in the place were about as wide as a cokehead's hips, so you would occasionally get bumped which was always followed by a prompt apology. Well, some douche, who ironically was wearing a church youth group's polo, took offense to being bumped for the second time. Besides the fact that he was sitting sideways, Paul Wall style, with his legs in the aisle, he had no reason to get upset. But he proceeded to call the waiter an asshole and utter other nonsensical statements causing him to almost be removed from the restaurant. I mean, what the hell. I hope the next time he goes to a restaurant, he acts this way before his food comes, not after, and some crusty line cook urinates on his patty melt.
All ridiculousness aside, my flight was finally announced to be departing at 9:05, so I sat down and began to watch people board. I also got to watch the gate agent, who by this time had morphed into a stereotypical angry black woman, threaten to throw multiple people off the plane if they didn't settle down. Meanwhile, next to me, two LARGE women, the kind I mentioned before that could take up most of an exit row themselves, began to gripe about the number of carry-ons people boarding had. Before, they had been complaining because they had been charged extra cause their claimed bags were barely over 50 lbs. I mentally called shenanigans on their weight approximations because listening to them talk, they were also probably the ones who would describe themselves as "curvy" or "voluptuous", instead of the more appropriate "morbidly obese" or "possessing a gravitational pull". Well they tsk'd as a woman boarded with a small duffel, a purse, and a wristlet.
"That agent ain't complainin' about that. She got 3!"
"Mmhmm, typical white woman bullshit. We best get our 3!"
I immediately tuned them out because such stereotypically accurate noggery does nothing but infuriate me, and I was very pleased with my calm demeanor all things considering. However, my ire for them was reignited as I saw them begin to board themselves. Each woman had a wheeled suitcase, no lie, that I could have folded my 5'10 self into. They were BIG. Additionally, they each had a large duffel that was more than borderline too large and a big, Mary Poppin's style bag. Now I was ticked. And they had the nerve to complain about their checked bag being too heavy? You cheap skanks. Now they were trying to board with luggage, which in addition to their prodigious girths, could take up an entire first class cabin. Luckily their protests were in vain as the gate agent forced them to gate check their shipping trunks. Of course, I managed to sit right behind the more vocal woman as she lazily and inconsiderately tossed her duffel bag into the overhead bin. My main pet peeve on planes is people with oversized luggage who accompany it with an attitude or sense of entitlement. My suitcase is borderline big, and I worry every time I board with it, and try to take up as little space as possible. Meanwhile, people are shoving coffins into the overhead compartment and complaining if the FA DARES to move it. Selfish clowns. I read somewhere that deregulation was the worst thing to happen to the airline industry. Cause now derelicts, who should be taking their sweaty unwashed asses cross country on a Greyhound, are ruining air travel with their cheapness and disregard for anyone who may brush up against their Looney Tunes t-shirt. It's time to thin the herd...
Most times that I hear a REALLY good song by a respected artist, chances are when I check out the CD, there will be at least one or two other songs I truly enjoy. Not the case this time. I heard Hometown Glory by Adele on some crusty British TV show I was watching and was immediately struck by its awesomeness. Haunting, beautifully melodic, great piano riff. I was hooked. So I copped her CD because I had heard a lot about her. While it may be very good for the genre, I was utterly and completely bored by it. I couldn't listen to it on the train for fear of becoming comatose and injuring myself. It's just very blah. Hometown Glory is amazing and I highly recommend it, but she just isn't my cup of tea. Then again, I think Michael Buble is HORRENDOUS, talented, but his music makes me want to put cobras in my ears, so what do I know about this sort of stuff.
"Is there anything I can do for you dear, is there anyone I can call?
JW
Prior to my recent trip to the Dirty Dirty, I flew through ATL on the way to visiting a friend in Phoenix for Spring Break. Entering the trip, I was mildly annoyed as I had a prodigious 2.5 hour layover in Atlanta before heading on to Sky Harbor (I had to name drop cause that could be the best airport name possible. I think they had George Lucas name it). This quickly became a positive as "inclement weather" caused Atlanta to ground all their planes. Thus I figured my time buffer would allow me to safely and casually roll into Atlanta, despite the delay, and still board my flight, no problem. But as I sat in Dayton's sparse, driving through the cornfields of Indiana-level boring (seriously, every airport needs a variety of diversions more exciting than Max and Erma's) airport, I suddenly became mildly concerned. Time was passing and I watched the flight before me leave and realized it had to fly to Atlanta and back before we could depart. Wow, so as I watched yet another overweight couple shuffle by wearing an OSU sweatshirt and either stonewashed Levi's or ill fitting stretch pants, I texted my friend in Atlanta to get a grip on the weather situation. He informed me that the skies were clear and he was on his porch grilling out. Ok, now I was just peeved. I went to the bookstore and flipped through a photo spread of the newest MTV reality skank and attempted to stay calm. Finally, a fortnight later, we boarded and departed the Dayton airport, a place I had now spent more time in than Miami's King Library.
We touched down in Atlanta a full 3 hours later than scheduled, and as the flight attendant announced the local time and that cell phones could now be used, there was an outbreak of wailing, tearing of clothes, and gnashing of teeth. If a good old fashioned stoning was tossed in, the plane could have been mistaken for biblical Jerusalem. While I attempted to crawl under my seat in an effort to escape the overreactions of these cretins, I called Delta's customer service number to check on my flight status. Much to my amazement, I actually caught a break, and my flight out of Atlanta to Phoenix had been delayed by an 1:15, so it actually was not scheduled to leave for 45 min. I breathed a sigh of relief and sank in my seat while people around my frantically punched in numbers and made phone calls, presumably saying goodbye to their loved ones, cause clearly potentially missing your flight is a fate worse than death.
But wait, if this story ended here, it would just be your standard airport aggravation but happy ending story. Nope. We then proceeded to sit in the plane for a full hour waiting for a parking spot, I kid you not. I didn't even know this kind of shit happened. Its like driving around a packed Wal-Mart parking lot for an hour looking for a parking spot on Black Friday, getting sheisted along the way as your spot gets stolen by a rusted out 87 Corolla, but I was missing my connecting flight, not a $35 food dehydrator. So as the minutes cruelly ticked away, I saw my flight get delayed another 15 minutes, aka just long enough to stroke me to hopeful erection, before leaving me with blue balls like my cuckolding Senior prom date as the flight left 5 min before I stepped off the plane. So now, flightless, I made my way to the Delta help counter. There I was greeted with a squalid mass of annoyed people in two lines that stretched so far into the distance, they merged like an annoying optical illusion at a Children's Museum. I joined these somber little urchins in this Depression era bread line as we waited to approach the counter only to have some Delta employee punch a few, likely fictional, keystrokes only to tell us we were f-ed harder than a guy whose girlfriend already has advanced tickets to "Valentines Day". So after a pleasant wait which was about as enjoyable as showering in battery acid, the gate agent flashed me a fake smile and handed me a bag of complimentary toiletries which basically said: "Thanks for paying hundreds of dollars for this plane ticket so you can now be rewarded by finding a place to sleep in this overcrowded, stressed airport like a transient hobo. Hope you brought your bag on a stick!" So I spent a fitful night sleeping for a combined 45 min as I constantly worried about having my possessions pilfered by airport leprechauns or missing my 745 flight the next morning. This worry, coupled with the fluorescent lights that never dim, making it feel like I was sleeping on an operating table, makes airport slumber a nonexistent reality.
The trip back was uneventful, save for my Ne-Yo chat sesh, so I thought I had paid my dues and future trips through that airport would be clean, clear, and under control. This was further reinforced by my flight down which actually arrived ahead of schedule. I had developed a sort of karma-induced travel swagger so as I left for the airport to come back to Chicago, I wasn't very worried, even as it poured rain and reports of thunderstorms and tornadoes swirled about the Peach State. I got to the airport, went on through security, and was relieved to see that my flight was still on schedule for around 5:45. Haha, fuck you weather and weather related delays. But as I got settled in to wait for the last hour or so till my flight, I started to feel ominous vibes that shit was about to go down. This started when I went to my gate and saw that the flight that was 2 before mine, and was supposed to have left 20 min ago, had yet to board. Then, after hours of consistency, my flight finally got bumped to "delayed" by an hour. Son of a whore. I then realized not only was the weather affecting the situation and making travel a bit dicey, the airport decided to ignore all forms of communication updates with their passengers. Thus flights were still listed as on time even though they were 10 min past their boarding time and their gate was occupied with the 2 hour past due flight to Poughkeepsie. It was also at this point that I could see the emotions, attitudes, and temperaments of the people in the airport change, like when the first survivor is bitten in a zombie movie and the air just changes.
Stressful situations, like travel difficulties in an airport, really seem to bring out the true nature in people. And their reactions and performances in said situations are really quite a treat to observe. For example, look at the gate agent, whose only responsibility is to tell you what seat you are in, print out a boarding pass for those on standby, or tell you "No, you dirty hippie, there are no Vegan meals on this flight, we are not in Oregon." They, contrary to popular belief, do not operate the control tower, schedule when flights leave, or, even more confusing the collective dumbasses of the American public, control the weather. It's no wonder that these people have short tempers and are difficult to work with even when things are smooth. They deal with chromosome-mutated mouthbreathers who don't understand how transportation works unless you put Dale Jr's number on the back wing and tell them they are actually at Daytona. No, you walking past the line of 20 people to the side of the counter to inquire about why things are delayed is not going to help. No, complaining loudly to everyone in line how you NEED to catch your flight is going to make any difference you pompous, cowboy hat wearing idiot. No, telling the gate agent you are never going to fly their airline again is not going to make a difference, they will probably thank you for not having to deal with you and the fact that your fat ass takes up 1 and a half seats ever again. They also don't control the update monitors, so leave them the fuck alone.
I mean, I really do feel bad for some people. Like the couple I spoke to with the incredible patient and well behaved, though extremely tired and cranky children, who just wanted to get home to Baltimore after traveling all day. It's bad enough that they have to go back to Baltimore without the fact that their flight got moved back even farther than mine, and to a different gate, which they were not quite aware of, because the airport didn't feel like updating the monitors and the only notification was this big on a scrolling bar at the bottom of the gate screen, going about as fast as the heart rate of the people screaming at the gate attendants if they found out
they would not be receiving a complimentary soft pretzel for their troubles.
However, I did not feel bad for the cocksucker who decided to take out his frustrations on the staff of the Sam Adams Brewhouse. Naturally, when the delays began to pile up around dinner time, this place got SLAMMED. And the staff was rushing around, doing the best they could while being extremely pleasant. Well, the aisles in the place were about as wide as a cokehead's hips, so you would occasionally get bumped which was always followed by a prompt apology. Well, some douche, who ironically was wearing a church youth group's polo, took offense to being bumped for the second time. Besides the fact that he was sitting sideways, Paul Wall style, with his legs in the aisle, he had no reason to get upset. But he proceeded to call the waiter an asshole and utter other nonsensical statements causing him to almost be removed from the restaurant. I mean, what the hell. I hope the next time he goes to a restaurant, he acts this way before his food comes, not after, and some crusty line cook urinates on his patty melt.
All ridiculousness aside, my flight was finally announced to be departing at 9:05, so I sat down and began to watch people board. I also got to watch the gate agent, who by this time had morphed into a stereotypical angry black woman, threaten to throw multiple people off the plane if they didn't settle down. Meanwhile, next to me, two LARGE women, the kind I mentioned before that could take up most of an exit row themselves, began to gripe about the number of carry-ons people boarding had. Before, they had been complaining because they had been charged extra cause their claimed bags were barely over 50 lbs. I mentally called shenanigans on their weight approximations because listening to them talk, they were also probably the ones who would describe themselves as "curvy" or "voluptuous", instead of the more appropriate "morbidly obese" or "possessing a gravitational pull". Well they tsk'd as a woman boarded with a small duffel, a purse, and a wristlet.
"That agent ain't complainin' about that. She got 3!"
"Mmhmm, typical white woman bullshit. We best get our 3!"
I immediately tuned them out because such stereotypically accurate noggery does nothing but infuriate me, and I was very pleased with my calm demeanor all things considering. However, my ire for them was reignited as I saw them begin to board themselves. Each woman had a wheeled suitcase, no lie, that I could have folded my 5'10 self into. They were BIG. Additionally, they each had a large duffel that was more than borderline too large and a big, Mary Poppin's style bag. Now I was ticked. And they had the nerve to complain about their checked bag being too heavy? You cheap skanks. Now they were trying to board with luggage, which in addition to their prodigious girths, could take up an entire first class cabin. Luckily their protests were in vain as the gate agent forced them to gate check their shipping trunks. Of course, I managed to sit right behind the more vocal woman as she lazily and inconsiderately tossed her duffel bag into the overhead bin. My main pet peeve on planes is people with oversized luggage who accompany it with an attitude or sense of entitlement. My suitcase is borderline big, and I worry every time I board with it, and try to take up as little space as possible. Meanwhile, people are shoving coffins into the overhead compartment and complaining if the FA DARES to move it. Selfish clowns. I read somewhere that deregulation was the worst thing to happen to the airline industry. Cause now derelicts, who should be taking their sweaty unwashed asses cross country on a Greyhound, are ruining air travel with their cheapness and disregard for anyone who may brush up against their Looney Tunes t-shirt. It's time to thin the herd...
Most times that I hear a REALLY good song by a respected artist, chances are when I check out the CD, there will be at least one or two other songs I truly enjoy. Not the case this time. I heard Hometown Glory by Adele on some crusty British TV show I was watching and was immediately struck by its awesomeness. Haunting, beautifully melodic, great piano riff. I was hooked. So I copped her CD because I had heard a lot about her. While it may be very good for the genre, I was utterly and completely bored by it. I couldn't listen to it on the train for fear of becoming comatose and injuring myself. It's just very blah. Hometown Glory is amazing and I highly recommend it, but she just isn't my cup of tea. Then again, I think Michael Buble is HORRENDOUS, talented, but his music makes me want to put cobras in my ears, so what do I know about this sort of stuff.
"Is there anything I can do for you dear, is there anyone I can call?
JW
Friday, February 5, 2010
Only stupid people are breeding...
So while I have a full Atlanta airport tirade in the works, I felt the need to share a bit of the insanity that I have to deal with in the workplace on a daily basis.
My company's main business is "call diamonds" which are sent out on memo. Much like a doctor, these diamonds are called when needed, to fill a customer's potential order cause the store doesn't normally carry a large inventory. The normal memo terms are 10 days, planning a day on each end for shipping and then a week for the stores to work on the stones. Well, certain diamond dealers are inpatient covetous bastards, so after 3-4 days, they begin calling me to pester me about their stones. Despite years of business with them, and them understanding how our business works, they assume we are either hoarding all these diamonds to swim in like Scrooge McDuck, or that by some bending of the laws of time and space, we are able to receive the diamond from them in NYC, and send it to a customer in say, California, and give them time to show it to a customer, and get it back to us, all in 3 damn days. Its absurd and unnecessary.
This brings me to the delightful experience I just had. Most companies we work with are either owned/staffed by Israelis or Indians. Don't ask me how Indians suddenly became big players in the diamond game, but in the last few decades they have. Israelis by nature are rough, impatient, and demanding, if sometimes incompetent (they can fire machine guns and defend against terrorist attacks, but they cant properly run a computer program), while Indians are more laid back and understanding. This particular customer of mine is Indian and they are usually great to work with as we keep their stones for weeks at a time, they are flexible and accommodating, and things work smooth as silk. However, they have a trade show coming up, so they need their inventory that we have back so they have it for display. So they are in a tizzy cause the show is coming up soon, so soon!...its in the first fucking week of March. Its still 3 weeks away, calm your curry-infused asses down. This lead to the following exchange today with a woman there named Patricia...
P: Yes, I am calling to check on (random stone number), I need the status or we need to have it back.
J: Umm, Patricia, we just got that stone from you on Tuesday, the store has only had it for 2 days, they are working on it.
P: Yes, but we have a show coming up and I told you we needed these stones back promptly.
J: I understand this, but we still need to let these stones breath a bit. I will get them back as soon as possible.
P: No you don't understand, we have a show coming up! Plus, you have a bunch of our larger stones, which are specifically what we need back the most.
At this point, I am starting to get pissed. Yes, Latika, I know you have a show coming up. But verbally hanging me up by my thumbs and tasing me is not going to get me to confess to cheating... i mean, get you your stones back. Oh yeah, these "large stones", usually that is stones over 2 cts, we had nothing over 1.25 cts, which is very averaged size. So she is getting her sari in a bunch over a bunch of false information.
J: Ok, I am doing the best I can. I will stay on top of it. But we don't have anything large and the stone you asked about will need to see after the weekend.
P: Can you get it back today?
J: No! They told me there is a customer coming in to see it this weekend, so I will know on Monday.
P: So you can't get it back today?
J: *sigh* It wouldn't be back till Monday anyways cause its Friday...
P: Just know that you guys have alot of goods, and we need them back, cause we have the show.
J: Fine.
*Click*
Side Note: This is all in heavily accented English. It was like arguing with the dude from the internet classic "You kicked my Dog", except it was an irritated female.
Now I know it is just her reacting to pressure from her superiors, but lets be honest, she doesn't know how to handle any sort of pressure. And her grasp of the workings of these memos seemed to be as tenuous as my grasp on their worship of bovines.
TGIF.
JW
My company's main business is "call diamonds" which are sent out on memo. Much like a doctor, these diamonds are called when needed, to fill a customer's potential order cause the store doesn't normally carry a large inventory. The normal memo terms are 10 days, planning a day on each end for shipping and then a week for the stores to work on the stones. Well, certain diamond dealers are inpatient covetous bastards, so after 3-4 days, they begin calling me to pester me about their stones. Despite years of business with them, and them understanding how our business works, they assume we are either hoarding all these diamonds to swim in like Scrooge McDuck, or that by some bending of the laws of time and space, we are able to receive the diamond from them in NYC, and send it to a customer in say, California, and give them time to show it to a customer, and get it back to us, all in 3 damn days. Its absurd and unnecessary.
This brings me to the delightful experience I just had. Most companies we work with are either owned/staffed by Israelis or Indians. Don't ask me how Indians suddenly became big players in the diamond game, but in the last few decades they have. Israelis by nature are rough, impatient, and demanding, if sometimes incompetent (they can fire machine guns and defend against terrorist attacks, but they cant properly run a computer program), while Indians are more laid back and understanding. This particular customer of mine is Indian and they are usually great to work with as we keep their stones for weeks at a time, they are flexible and accommodating, and things work smooth as silk. However, they have a trade show coming up, so they need their inventory that we have back so they have it for display. So they are in a tizzy cause the show is coming up soon, so soon!...its in the first fucking week of March. Its still 3 weeks away, calm your curry-infused asses down. This lead to the following exchange today with a woman there named Patricia...
P: Yes, I am calling to check on (random stone number), I need the status or we need to have it back.
J: Umm, Patricia, we just got that stone from you on Tuesday, the store has only had it for 2 days, they are working on it.
P: Yes, but we have a show coming up and I told you we needed these stones back promptly.
J: I understand this, but we still need to let these stones breath a bit. I will get them back as soon as possible.
P: No you don't understand, we have a show coming up! Plus, you have a bunch of our larger stones, which are specifically what we need back the most.
At this point, I am starting to get pissed. Yes, Latika, I know you have a show coming up. But verbally hanging me up by my thumbs and tasing me is not going to get me to confess to cheating... i mean, get you your stones back. Oh yeah, these "large stones", usually that is stones over 2 cts, we had nothing over 1.25 cts, which is very averaged size. So she is getting her sari in a bunch over a bunch of false information.
J: Ok, I am doing the best I can. I will stay on top of it. But we don't have anything large and the stone you asked about will need to see after the weekend.
P: Can you get it back today?
J: No! They told me there is a customer coming in to see it this weekend, so I will know on Monday.
P: So you can't get it back today?
J: *sigh* It wouldn't be back till Monday anyways cause its Friday...
P: Just know that you guys have alot of goods, and we need them back, cause we have the show.
J: Fine.
*Click*
Side Note: This is all in heavily accented English. It was like arguing with the dude from the internet classic "You kicked my Dog", except it was an irritated female.
Now I know it is just her reacting to pressure from her superiors, but lets be honest, she doesn't know how to handle any sort of pressure. And her grasp of the workings of these memos seemed to be as tenuous as my grasp on their worship of bovines.
TGIF.
JW
Monday, January 25, 2010
Welcome to Atlanta where the playas play...
So I spent this past weekend in the capital of the Dirty South, Atlanta. And needless to say, it was pretty badass. Now let me preface this by saying that I pretty high expectations coming in. I didn't know what I was expecting nor what I hoped to encounter, but I just had some mentality that it was going to be an interesting/fun/cool/exciting/etc... place. Fortunately, I was not disappointed.
My previous experience with Atlanta was limited to hellacious experiences in the airport (more on that later), a brief visit when I was quite young, and then a random drive through once or twice on the way to Florida. Thus I was quite excited and open minded.
I half expected to leave the airport and be greeted with overflowing pitchers of sweet tea and balmy temperatures, accompanied by hostesses (UT-style) wearing sundresses and welcoming me to the South, all while calling me darling and inviting me to supper. In reality, I stepped out the doors into cloudy skies, temperatures in the upper 40s, and a misting of rain. Not cool Georgia, at this rate you will never be on my mind.
However, my initial destination was the vaunted Georgia Aquarium, so I was beyond the point where anything could disappoint me, as I was a mixture of excited and nervous. Why nervous? If you think I am moderately scared of sea creatures, screw you, you got your facts incorrect. No, I was nervous as I had ridiculously high expectations that I was slightly worried won't be met. I had heard it was of a caliber rivaling the Shedd Aquarium, aka my favorite place in the world, aka I would be willing to have my wedding there but nobody I am affiliated/related to would allow it. But I digress, I explored the GA for a few hours and came away quite impressed. Everything is well done, the exhibits are sleek, well put together, and the sight lines are awesome. Specifically, their 6 million gallon tank. Yes, that is correct 6 MILLION GALLONS, or slightly less than the amount of sweet tea the average Southerner drinks in a given month. It is just epic, and the viewing theater where you can look at the whale sharks...Hold on a second, lets think about this. This aquarium has multiple whale sharks, the largest damn fish in the world growing to 50 ft long, just chilling around. I mean, maybe that makes me a Jacques Cousteau-level nerd, but I think that is all sorts of badass. Anyways, there is this huge movie screen sized pane of view glass in a theater setting that I could sit and watch for, no lie, hours.
Craziest thing for me about the GA was that it is funded wholly by Bernie Marcus, aka that guy who helped found Home Depot. $250 million dollars, and he just wrote a check and said "Go along and make me a badass aquarium." How awesome does that have to be? Screw Roman Abromachov and his 54 yachts, if I ever had fuck you money like that, I totally would be all about funding shit like zoos, or aquariums, or Jurassic Park. However, I would make sure I technically owned it, so if the city ever ticked me off, I would be able to take my quarter billion dollar public masterpiece and go home like a petulant child. Thats a good method to get your way in a large city methinks.
However, despite my joy and impressed-ness with the GA, I still was subjected to my biggest pet peeve, little kids in aquariums or public places of the like. Parents feel since there is nothing breakable like a vase or pictures or something, they can let their little miscreants run free and happily observe how "cute" and "happy" they are. Meanwhile they are climbing up under you to stick their face on the glass, licking the thing like a deranged puppy, probably providing plenty of swine flu for anyone unfortunate enough to come along and touch the glass. Oh, I forgot, every dumbass little kid assumes that fucking Nemo and Dory loved it when they come and smack on the glass like its a stripper's ass. Someone a few years ago had the brilliant and insightful idea of putting the little touch screen computer monitors on which you could scroll through and identify some of the cool fish or get more information. They sadly didnt factor in droves of Satan's little minions poking and punching that thing like its a Ninetendo DS. Its built to take a beating, but then again, so is the iPhone. But if you let little Timmy play that sucker like a tom tom, its gonna break, and thus all these types of video interfaces at the Shedd and GA hardly work. I used to think it was cruel to put those kids in the harness with a leash, now I want to find their creator and give him a damn Medal. My mom used to have one of the wrist stretchy handcuff things for me, probably why I never broke anything nice or fell off a railing and broke my nose like somebody *cough* my sister *cough*. Parents, please handcuff your children until they can behave like they aren't missing chromosomes.
Well, seems like I have gotten off track. That Friday night, I dined at Woodfire Grill, which for all you Top Chef aficionados, is the restaurant of this handsome devil, Kevin Gillespie. He is probably my favorite Top Chef contestant ever, and thus I was giddy with excitement at the prospect of eating there, and possibly meeting the man. I harbored notions that I would enter, inform him what a fan I was and how I supported him from the very beginning, and so honored, he would sit down and probably dine with me. Yeah, that didn't happen, however, upon entering the restaurant, I pass the plating station and saw him in the flesh saucing a plate. I'm sure I got some bizarre looks as I clapped my hands with glee and waved to the back of his head. We also were sat at a table near enough, hell right next to, said station and I was able to creepily watch him all during dinner hoping to send him vibes which would add extra love and care to my plate. I won't describe the meal in detail, but lets just say it should be criminal to prepare pork that well. I will never see a pig as an animal or fun little barnyard creature but rather as a delicious medium for the pork Picasso Kevin Gillespe to paint all over my palatte. Oh sweet lord, that sounded wrong, but whatever, I don't even care, it was delicious. Could it get better? Oh yes, as I was leaving, Kevin had disappeared as the restaurant was winding down. Sadly I walked out, like a kid leaving DisneyWorld without seeing Mickey, when who do I spy standing near the front, the man himself. I shook his hand, told him he is pretty much the best chef to ever cook, and the Voltaggio brothers can go fist themselves, he is Top Chef to me (even though they are pretty cool dudes too). I then ran off into the night, gleefully full, only to almost be hit by a car, as it sits right on a 45 MPH road and people in the rap capital of the South don't stop for silly things like pedestrians or the police.
Which leads me to my next and final point about the wonderous Atlanta. This city is so strangely laid out and thus its nightlife is kind of odd. So Woodfire Grill is on Cheshire Bridge Rd, which sits near Buckhead, commonly known as a hip, upscale, metro area. However, located on Cheshire Bridge road are a couple of nice restaurants...and about 5-6 HUGE mega strip clubs, wha?! Like I am talking about warehouse-sized buildings with more neon than an 80s windbreaker. Included in this group is Club Onyx, also known as the strip joint where Josh Duhamel got his stripper affair on. Onyx is also notable as both of its doorways lie under giant neon oil derricks, seriously. Its ridiculous. This stretch of road is also ultra shady as there are areas where it suddenly gets really dark and the sidewalk turns into gravel and weeds. To call it urban hell would be a compliment. Not an awesome place to wander around, especially when you can't find a damn cab, cause they are endangered in Atlanta I guess. Rapid development is eliminating their natural habitat it seems, also causing them to be hella expensive. I think each one comes with its own ATM.
Buckhead itself is awesomely interesting cause its sort of like an annexed downtown. Its a couple miles north of downtown ATL, but it looks like a mini downtown from the distance. Its all upscale with high class establishments like Chick-Fil-A and the Container Store all around, and fancy cars rolling down Piedmont. So I expected the nightlife to be similarly upscale and trendy. Whoops. Let me describe for you a particular Buckhead bar I patronized called Churchills. You enter to a tiny, dingyly (is that a word? it is now) lit bar with, I kid you not, plaid carpet stained with gum, beer, cigarettes, and lowered inhibitions. The walls covered in pictures of random British shit look like a rejected set from a Guy Ritchie movie, and the bar looks like it was stolen from a backyard deck. Its a peculiar sort of dive, but nonetheless a dive. I momentarily feel self concious as I am still "suited up", if you will, from the wedding. I quickly realize that everyone else is dressed up as well. Slinky cocktail dresses, sweater vests, button downs, etc... It was utterly and entirely bizarre. It was if an SEC frat party had sex with a swanky club and birthed it into the family room from So I Married an Axe Murderer. Weird, but I loved it. Also, smoking is still legal in bars, which is so strange since between Miami and Chicago, I havent been in such a situation in almost 5 years.
I figured this particular bar was an aberration as we headed to our next spot, Pool Hall. Now from the outside, Pool Hall, with its circa 1964 Budweiser sign and rough exterior, looked like a prototypical corner bar from any street corner in a rougher part of a big city. The bouncer is huge wearing a cut off shirt and a ZZ top beard, and as I look in, I see fridges with glass doors displaying the selection of tall boys inside. Oh lord, wearing a suit is going to bring ridicule in this place right? It is even more run down than Churchills, I think there is urine on the floor, and the bathroom looks like it survived Sherman's march through the South. Just as I am about to question our decision, I realize the crowd is EXACTLY the same as Churchills. WTF? And as I enter the backroom, there is an Asian Pauly D on the 1s and 2s, and a full out dance party has erupted...in a crusty pool hall/dive bar. And more sweater vests, flop cuts, and sundresses. What the hell is this place? Now I realize there are plenty of other areas of Atlanta, but this particular cross section was ridiculous and hilariously random, but I was such a fan. The fact that everyone was bitching about how cold is was and my capillaries hadn't frozed solid was also a nice feature. Overall, I give Atlanta distinction I had previously reserved for only Chicago and New York. I would gladly reside there for any portion of time. However, I saw no rappers. Every Escalade, Mercedes, or luxury car that passed I eyed in hopes of seeing Jeezy or T.I. escaped from house arrest, but alas, it was not the case. Just more reason to go back down South. Peace up, A town down.
So recently, it was announced/rumored the Killers are going to go on a hiatus. This is sad to me, cause the Killers have always been one of my favorite underappreciated bands. Not underappreciated by fans or the media, but by me. I liked them early on, saw them before Hot Fuss came out, spun that record to death, but I still periodically find myself forgetting they are a good band. Then I listen to them, and mentally punch myself in the groin for not listening to them more. Well, they just released a live cd, Live from Royal Albert Hall, and it is tremendous. Like seemingly all good bands, when I listened, I stumbled upon a song Id heard but never realized how awesome it was. I Can't Stay is all tropical sounding, and the live version is just as good. I highly recommend it, and if you don't love it and play it on repeat, you probably never liked the Killers to begin with, so there. I also kind of want to be Brandon Flowers, except for the whole Mormon part.
"In the dark, for a while now I can't stay, so far, I can't stay, much longer, Riding my decision home..."
JW
My previous experience with Atlanta was limited to hellacious experiences in the airport (more on that later), a brief visit when I was quite young, and then a random drive through once or twice on the way to Florida. Thus I was quite excited and open minded.
I half expected to leave the airport and be greeted with overflowing pitchers of sweet tea and balmy temperatures, accompanied by hostesses (UT-style) wearing sundresses and welcoming me to the South, all while calling me darling and inviting me to supper. In reality, I stepped out the doors into cloudy skies, temperatures in the upper 40s, and a misting of rain. Not cool Georgia, at this rate you will never be on my mind.
However, my initial destination was the vaunted Georgia Aquarium, so I was beyond the point where anything could disappoint me, as I was a mixture of excited and nervous. Why nervous? If you think I am moderately scared of sea creatures, screw you, you got your facts incorrect. No, I was nervous as I had ridiculously high expectations that I was slightly worried won't be met. I had heard it was of a caliber rivaling the Shedd Aquarium, aka my favorite place in the world, aka I would be willing to have my wedding there but nobody I am affiliated/related to would allow it. But I digress, I explored the GA for a few hours and came away quite impressed. Everything is well done, the exhibits are sleek, well put together, and the sight lines are awesome. Specifically, their 6 million gallon tank. Yes, that is correct 6 MILLION GALLONS, or slightly less than the amount of sweet tea the average Southerner drinks in a given month. It is just epic, and the viewing theater where you can look at the whale sharks...Hold on a second, lets think about this. This aquarium has multiple whale sharks, the largest damn fish in the world growing to 50 ft long, just chilling around. I mean, maybe that makes me a Jacques Cousteau-level nerd, but I think that is all sorts of badass. Anyways, there is this huge movie screen sized pane of view glass in a theater setting that I could sit and watch for, no lie, hours.
Craziest thing for me about the GA was that it is funded wholly by Bernie Marcus, aka that guy who helped found Home Depot. $250 million dollars, and he just wrote a check and said "Go along and make me a badass aquarium." How awesome does that have to be? Screw Roman Abromachov and his 54 yachts, if I ever had fuck you money like that, I totally would be all about funding shit like zoos, or aquariums, or Jurassic Park. However, I would make sure I technically owned it, so if the city ever ticked me off, I would be able to take my quarter billion dollar public masterpiece and go home like a petulant child. Thats a good method to get your way in a large city methinks.
However, despite my joy and impressed-ness with the GA, I still was subjected to my biggest pet peeve, little kids in aquariums or public places of the like. Parents feel since there is nothing breakable like a vase or pictures or something, they can let their little miscreants run free and happily observe how "cute" and "happy" they are. Meanwhile they are climbing up under you to stick their face on the glass, licking the thing like a deranged puppy, probably providing plenty of swine flu for anyone unfortunate enough to come along and touch the glass. Oh, I forgot, every dumbass little kid assumes that fucking Nemo and Dory loved it when they come and smack on the glass like its a stripper's ass. Someone a few years ago had the brilliant and insightful idea of putting the little touch screen computer monitors on which you could scroll through and identify some of the cool fish or get more information. They sadly didnt factor in droves of Satan's little minions poking and punching that thing like its a Ninetendo DS. Its built to take a beating, but then again, so is the iPhone. But if you let little Timmy play that sucker like a tom tom, its gonna break, and thus all these types of video interfaces at the Shedd and GA hardly work. I used to think it was cruel to put those kids in the harness with a leash, now I want to find their creator and give him a damn Medal. My mom used to have one of the wrist stretchy handcuff things for me, probably why I never broke anything nice or fell off a railing and broke my nose like somebody *cough* my sister *cough*. Parents, please handcuff your children until they can behave like they aren't missing chromosomes.
Well, seems like I have gotten off track. That Friday night, I dined at Woodfire Grill, which for all you Top Chef aficionados, is the restaurant of this handsome devil, Kevin Gillespie. He is probably my favorite Top Chef contestant ever, and thus I was giddy with excitement at the prospect of eating there, and possibly meeting the man. I harbored notions that I would enter, inform him what a fan I was and how I supported him from the very beginning, and so honored, he would sit down and probably dine with me. Yeah, that didn't happen, however, upon entering the restaurant, I pass the plating station and saw him in the flesh saucing a plate. I'm sure I got some bizarre looks as I clapped my hands with glee and waved to the back of his head. We also were sat at a table near enough, hell right next to, said station and I was able to creepily watch him all during dinner hoping to send him vibes which would add extra love and care to my plate. I won't describe the meal in detail, but lets just say it should be criminal to prepare pork that well. I will never see a pig as an animal or fun little barnyard creature but rather as a delicious medium for the pork Picasso Kevin Gillespe to paint all over my palatte. Oh sweet lord, that sounded wrong, but whatever, I don't even care, it was delicious. Could it get better? Oh yes, as I was leaving, Kevin had disappeared as the restaurant was winding down. Sadly I walked out, like a kid leaving DisneyWorld without seeing Mickey, when who do I spy standing near the front, the man himself. I shook his hand, told him he is pretty much the best chef to ever cook, and the Voltaggio brothers can go fist themselves, he is Top Chef to me (even though they are pretty cool dudes too). I then ran off into the night, gleefully full, only to almost be hit by a car, as it sits right on a 45 MPH road and people in the rap capital of the South don't stop for silly things like pedestrians or the police.
Which leads me to my next and final point about the wonderous Atlanta. This city is so strangely laid out and thus its nightlife is kind of odd. So Woodfire Grill is on Cheshire Bridge Rd, which sits near Buckhead, commonly known as a hip, upscale, metro area. However, located on Cheshire Bridge road are a couple of nice restaurants...and about 5-6 HUGE mega strip clubs, wha?! Like I am talking about warehouse-sized buildings with more neon than an 80s windbreaker. Included in this group is Club Onyx, also known as the strip joint where Josh Duhamel got his stripper affair on. Onyx is also notable as both of its doorways lie under giant neon oil derricks, seriously. Its ridiculous. This stretch of road is also ultra shady as there are areas where it suddenly gets really dark and the sidewalk turns into gravel and weeds. To call it urban hell would be a compliment. Not an awesome place to wander around, especially when you can't find a damn cab, cause they are endangered in Atlanta I guess. Rapid development is eliminating their natural habitat it seems, also causing them to be hella expensive. I think each one comes with its own ATM.
Buckhead itself is awesomely interesting cause its sort of like an annexed downtown. Its a couple miles north of downtown ATL, but it looks like a mini downtown from the distance. Its all upscale with high class establishments like Chick-Fil-A and the Container Store all around, and fancy cars rolling down Piedmont. So I expected the nightlife to be similarly upscale and trendy. Whoops. Let me describe for you a particular Buckhead bar I patronized called Churchills. You enter to a tiny, dingyly (is that a word? it is now) lit bar with, I kid you not, plaid carpet stained with gum, beer, cigarettes, and lowered inhibitions. The walls covered in pictures of random British shit look like a rejected set from a Guy Ritchie movie, and the bar looks like it was stolen from a backyard deck. Its a peculiar sort of dive, but nonetheless a dive. I momentarily feel self concious as I am still "suited up", if you will, from the wedding. I quickly realize that everyone else is dressed up as well. Slinky cocktail dresses, sweater vests, button downs, etc... It was utterly and entirely bizarre. It was if an SEC frat party had sex with a swanky club and birthed it into the family room from So I Married an Axe Murderer. Weird, but I loved it. Also, smoking is still legal in bars, which is so strange since between Miami and Chicago, I havent been in such a situation in almost 5 years.
I figured this particular bar was an aberration as we headed to our next spot, Pool Hall. Now from the outside, Pool Hall, with its circa 1964 Budweiser sign and rough exterior, looked like a prototypical corner bar from any street corner in a rougher part of a big city. The bouncer is huge wearing a cut off shirt and a ZZ top beard, and as I look in, I see fridges with glass doors displaying the selection of tall boys inside. Oh lord, wearing a suit is going to bring ridicule in this place right? It is even more run down than Churchills, I think there is urine on the floor, and the bathroom looks like it survived Sherman's march through the South. Just as I am about to question our decision, I realize the crowd is EXACTLY the same as Churchills. WTF? And as I enter the backroom, there is an Asian Pauly D on the 1s and 2s, and a full out dance party has erupted...in a crusty pool hall/dive bar. And more sweater vests, flop cuts, and sundresses. What the hell is this place? Now I realize there are plenty of other areas of Atlanta, but this particular cross section was ridiculous and hilariously random, but I was such a fan. The fact that everyone was bitching about how cold is was and my capillaries hadn't frozed solid was also a nice feature. Overall, I give Atlanta distinction I had previously reserved for only Chicago and New York. I would gladly reside there for any portion of time. However, I saw no rappers. Every Escalade, Mercedes, or luxury car that passed I eyed in hopes of seeing Jeezy or T.I. escaped from house arrest, but alas, it was not the case. Just more reason to go back down South. Peace up, A town down.
So recently, it was announced/rumored the Killers are going to go on a hiatus. This is sad to me, cause the Killers have always been one of my favorite underappreciated bands. Not underappreciated by fans or the media, but by me. I liked them early on, saw them before Hot Fuss came out, spun that record to death, but I still periodically find myself forgetting they are a good band. Then I listen to them, and mentally punch myself in the groin for not listening to them more. Well, they just released a live cd, Live from Royal Albert Hall, and it is tremendous. Like seemingly all good bands, when I listened, I stumbled upon a song Id heard but never realized how awesome it was. I Can't Stay is all tropical sounding, and the live version is just as good. I highly recommend it, and if you don't love it and play it on repeat, you probably never liked the Killers to begin with, so there. I also kind of want to be Brandon Flowers, except for the whole Mormon part.
"In the dark, for a while now I can't stay, so far, I can't stay, much longer, Riding my decision home..."
JW
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