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
Monday, February 8, 2010
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
Friday, January 15, 2010
Potpurri
So I made it a New Years resolution to blog more. And it hasn't gotten off to a great start. Mostly because I couldn't think of good topics to riff about. However, so many randomly hilarious and comment-worthy things happened in the last 48 hours that I just said screw it.
I have come to realize that one of my biggest pet peeves is poorly performed air guitar, usually by people who have never played an actual guitar in their entire damn life. Usually its done by old people awkwardly viewing concerts, but it can affect anyone. I saw a dude waiting for the train yesterday that I couldn't tell whether or not he was playing air guitar, air drums, masturbating, or convulsing. Needless to say, I was not amused.
Another pet peeve? Using "we" to talk about professional sports teams, especially when you have no logical connection to the team. People in WI talking about the Packers, I'll let it slide, same for Bears fans in Chicago. But with the sudden reemergence of the Cowboys this year, if I hear one more douche here in Chicago referring to how "We really played well to beat the Eagles" and other douchenoggery of that nature. Its one thing to have chosen them as your favorite team in the mid-90s when they were a powerhouse (which Im sure all these clowns did), but its another to anoite your front-running self as a member of the organization. Fuck yo couch.
So as I was crossing the street today, I had the ominous fake tan hand telling me it was not safe to cross. However, as I looked both ways at this intersection, it was free of traffic as far as the eye could see. So I briskly began crossing the street. Now opposite of me, a smallish Asian woman/girl/young lady also gingerly stepped into the street. And I mean GINGERLY. She looked as if she was about to venture onto a live minefield. Additionally, she started to walk out and began looking back and forth with panic and retreating before moving forward again. She looked like she was pantomiming out a live action, Midwestern version of Frogger. I almost stopped dead in confusion. Mind you her hesitation was as I was in the middle of the damn street, and the road was as empty as The Situation's bed in both directions. I guess that Do Not Walk symbol holds some heavy weight for certain individuals.
My sister just got to London and while initially I was like "oh cool, Im happy for you", I have now gotten full on jealous and sort of bitter. I spent a large portion of my life wanting nothing to do with England. Every picture I saw was some sort of overcast. Pretty scenery as a result looked desolete. There was obviously something in the water that made the people's teeth jagged and crusty, and dentistry was clearly outlawed by in Medieval times, probably cause it interfered with the Prima Nocta in some way. However, as I started to get into British bands and Premier League soccer, I grew more intrigued. And there is something about it that has attracted random ex-pats from all over the world for years. And the history and Harry Potter and Emma Watson, and yeah, I decided I wanted to go. I tried to slyly hitch along on a business trip or two of my Dad's to London, but he was hung up on some nonsense about me "not missing class" and "graduating from college in a timely fashion", whatever the hell that was supposed to me. So to this point, Ive never been to London, not even Heathrow. Well, now my sister is there, taking awesome pictures, seeing Harry Potter landmarks, having tea in rooms previously occupied by rockstars...yeah I'm not thrilled. Oh, and then she casually mentioned how she was drinking at their neighborhood pub and out of the blue fricken William Compton from the Tudors comes up and asks to share their table cause the bar was full? Meanwhile, I've lived in Chicago for two years and Ive managed to see ugly ass Katie from the Road Rules on the Red Line one time...FML.
So the new 30 Seconds to Mars album, This is War, came out about a month ago and I finally got around to listening to it, and wow. Ive always liked Jared Leto, for his musicianship and vision in 30 Seconds to Mars, not because he was on The Facts of Life. He has made a couple of cool movies (Fight Club, Requiem for a Dream, etc...), but he clearly is more into his music and it shows. Their past 2 CDs were good, ok, A Beautiful Lie was great, but this one is even more ambitious. Rife with chanted group vocals from fans and children's choirs, ambitious vocals, and entire songs that sound like they were recorded in the great hall of a castle, this record is badass. Kings and Queens was the first single, but I think This is War is my favorite track. And while I think Kanye is a douchebag of limitless proportions, his contribution and collaboration on Hurricane produces a pretty nice product. Side note, Jared Leto is 38? Are you f-ing kidding me? I went to high school with kids who looked older and more aged then him at age 17.
"To the right, to the left, we will fight to the death, to the ends of the earth, its a brave new world from the last to the first..."
JW
I have come to realize that one of my biggest pet peeves is poorly performed air guitar, usually by people who have never played an actual guitar in their entire damn life. Usually its done by old people awkwardly viewing concerts, but it can affect anyone. I saw a dude waiting for the train yesterday that I couldn't tell whether or not he was playing air guitar, air drums, masturbating, or convulsing. Needless to say, I was not amused.
Another pet peeve? Using "we" to talk about professional sports teams, especially when you have no logical connection to the team. People in WI talking about the Packers, I'll let it slide, same for Bears fans in Chicago. But with the sudden reemergence of the Cowboys this year, if I hear one more douche here in Chicago referring to how "We really played well to beat the Eagles" and other douchenoggery of that nature. Its one thing to have chosen them as your favorite team in the mid-90s when they were a powerhouse (which Im sure all these clowns did), but its another to anoite your front-running self as a member of the organization. Fuck yo couch.
So as I was crossing the street today, I had the ominous fake tan hand telling me it was not safe to cross. However, as I looked both ways at this intersection, it was free of traffic as far as the eye could see. So I briskly began crossing the street. Now opposite of me, a smallish Asian woman/girl/young lady also gingerly stepped into the street. And I mean GINGERLY. She looked as if she was about to venture onto a live minefield. Additionally, she started to walk out and began looking back and forth with panic and retreating before moving forward again. She looked like she was pantomiming out a live action, Midwestern version of Frogger. I almost stopped dead in confusion. Mind you her hesitation was as I was in the middle of the damn street, and the road was as empty as The Situation's bed in both directions. I guess that Do Not Walk symbol holds some heavy weight for certain individuals.
My sister just got to London and while initially I was like "oh cool, Im happy for you", I have now gotten full on jealous and sort of bitter. I spent a large portion of my life wanting nothing to do with England. Every picture I saw was some sort of overcast. Pretty scenery as a result looked desolete. There was obviously something in the water that made the people's teeth jagged and crusty, and dentistry was clearly outlawed by in Medieval times, probably cause it interfered with the Prima Nocta in some way. However, as I started to get into British bands and Premier League soccer, I grew more intrigued. And there is something about it that has attracted random ex-pats from all over the world for years. And the history and Harry Potter and Emma Watson, and yeah, I decided I wanted to go. I tried to slyly hitch along on a business trip or two of my Dad's to London, but he was hung up on some nonsense about me "not missing class" and "graduating from college in a timely fashion", whatever the hell that was supposed to me. So to this point, Ive never been to London, not even Heathrow. Well, now my sister is there, taking awesome pictures, seeing Harry Potter landmarks, having tea in rooms previously occupied by rockstars...yeah I'm not thrilled. Oh, and then she casually mentioned how she was drinking at their neighborhood pub and out of the blue fricken William Compton from the Tudors comes up and asks to share their table cause the bar was full? Meanwhile, I've lived in Chicago for two years and Ive managed to see ugly ass Katie from the Road Rules on the Red Line one time...FML.
So the new 30 Seconds to Mars album, This is War, came out about a month ago and I finally got around to listening to it, and wow. Ive always liked Jared Leto, for his musicianship and vision in 30 Seconds to Mars, not because he was on The Facts of Life. He has made a couple of cool movies (Fight Club, Requiem for a Dream, etc...), but he clearly is more into his music and it shows. Their past 2 CDs were good, ok, A Beautiful Lie was great, but this one is even more ambitious. Rife with chanted group vocals from fans and children's choirs, ambitious vocals, and entire songs that sound like they were recorded in the great hall of a castle, this record is badass. Kings and Queens was the first single, but I think This is War is my favorite track. And while I think Kanye is a douchebag of limitless proportions, his contribution and collaboration on Hurricane produces a pretty nice product. Side note, Jared Leto is 38? Are you f-ing kidding me? I went to high school with kids who looked older and more aged then him at age 17.
"To the right, to the left, we will fight to the death, to the ends of the earth, its a brave new world from the last to the first..."
JW
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thanksgiving gets shafted...
So while I am not the biggest proponent of Thanksgiving food(don't really like turkey, mashed potatoes are just meh, I'll pass on the stuffing), I am a fan of the holiday and know that a ton of people LOVE it. Don't have to worry about gifts, just get after it family style, and eat your face off. Sounds like something to be appreciated. But recently, Ive discovered a disturbing trend in the retail world which completely screws Thanksgiving, much like the Pilgrims eventually screwed the Indians after a lovely start near Plymouth Rock. Namely, there are 3 seasons...Spring, Summer, and Christmas. Everything else is forgotten, collateral damage in the never ending quest to make you buy stupid shit you don't really need. And not awesome products like Bagel Guillotines. Dumb shit like the Jonas Brother's Christmas album.
I love Christmas, but for me, as a kid, the best part about Christmas was the sudden rush and swell mid-December and then that frenetic week leading up till December 24th-25th, and then all of a sudden, the sudden comedown and mild sadness on December 26th when you realize its all over. That made you crave more Christmas. That tease, that build-up, and then all of a sudden some hot passionate sex with the Christmas season, then all of a sudden it disappears like a thief in the night without staying to cuddle. That is what makes Christmas for me.
However, recently, that tease and buildup is getting deluded by department stores and radio stations excessive need to thrust Christmas upon me at the earliest damn moment. For example, the week before Halloween, I entered Macy's in Downtown Chicago and was i knocked back by the smell of Christmas scents, breathless and annoying Mariah Carey Christmas songs, and red and white as far as the eye could see. Let me remind you, its still October, and I expected to see spiders and ghouls and other appropriately themed Halloween decorations, or maybe, at the very worst, browns and oranges and turkeys all about for Thanksgiving. But noooooo, f-ing Christmas as far as the eye can see. And as I told my mom about it, and she informed me that at Chicos, where she works, they started the Christmas music on Oct. 1. October fucking first?!!? Are you kidding me? Its still like 70 degrees at that point. I am thankful my mother is a strong and resilient woman, otherwise I fear she would have lost her damn mind or been muttering Bing Crosby/Burl Ives impressions incessantly.
This year I have taken to just avoiding premature Christmas nonsense. Working in a predominantly Jewish office helps, except when they play Christmas music on the radio...is that a little...umm, odd to anyone else?
Quick hits from my blogging hiatus:
-With the release of The Fame Monster, Lady Gaga is no longer a peculiarity or intriguing figure to me as she once was. She is flat out one of my favorite artists around right now and I'll argue with anyone who tells me otherwise. Is she a little bit crazy? Yes. Eccentric? More than a little bit? Quite certainly. Absurdly talented with a vision that she continues to execute despite critics and haters not quite understanding or enjoying it? Damn right. Bitch is damn talented.
-The Jersey Shore is a train wreck of a television show but in the same vein, 5 times more compelling and intriguing. People love watching shows about shit that is completely foreign and strange to them...aka the mysterious and mind boggling world of guidos. Its like watching a show on the Discovery Channel. I mean, if my son or daughter even started hinting at tendancies of being a guido later in life, I'd probably bash them in the head with a rock and start over. However, from an outsider's perspective, I love watching the misguided and delusional hubris of all these clowns. Fist Pump!
-College basketball makes me happy. That is all.
-I hang out with a few kids that still are in school at Depaul. They are now on Winter Break for a month and a half or so. And pretty much all of them, with the exception of like 2 weeks or so, are staying in the city. The worst part about winter break was that after New Years, things got kind of boring till you went back to school. If I had been down in Oxford, its a damn ghost town, so that kind of sucks. And back home, I love being home and my family, but I get a bit stir crazy once my little sisters go back to school and my parents are busy during the day. If I had gotten to have 3 weeks of awesomeness essentially at school, but without the school work and responsibility? Kickass. Those lucky bastards. Meanwhile, I have to work on Christmas Eve and still haven't accrued much vacation to take days off. FML...and why you should avoid those damn college kids (life used to be so easy.)
So, Manchester Orchestra, I just can't say enough about this band. I've liked them for awhile, but when I saw them a little while back with Brand New, it was like I was hearing them for the first time. Such an electric stage presence, such intelligent melodies, cryptic lyrics, really the total package. One of those bands who finally got a little radio play recently, but ironically, it was not what I would consider anywhere near one of their best songs. I Can Feel a Hot One is hauntingly smooth and lyrically brilliant and may or may not be a song I've fallen asleep to multiple times. Shake It Out literally shakes you to musical consciousness. And finally, The River closes out their most recent cd and has some of the most appropriate and meaningful lyrics I've heard in awhile. I highly recommend you giving it a spin if you are a fan of the Backstreet Boys, Jay-Z, Led Zepplin, Abba, or badass music in general.
"I think I talk to you best when I sing, I sing about almost everything..."
JW
I love Christmas, but for me, as a kid, the best part about Christmas was the sudden rush and swell mid-December and then that frenetic week leading up till December 24th-25th, and then all of a sudden, the sudden comedown and mild sadness on December 26th when you realize its all over. That made you crave more Christmas. That tease, that build-up, and then all of a sudden some hot passionate sex with the Christmas season, then all of a sudden it disappears like a thief in the night without staying to cuddle. That is what makes Christmas for me.
However, recently, that tease and buildup is getting deluded by department stores and radio stations excessive need to thrust Christmas upon me at the earliest damn moment. For example, the week before Halloween, I entered Macy's in Downtown Chicago and was i knocked back by the smell of Christmas scents, breathless and annoying Mariah Carey Christmas songs, and red and white as far as the eye could see. Let me remind you, its still October, and I expected to see spiders and ghouls and other appropriately themed Halloween decorations, or maybe, at the very worst, browns and oranges and turkeys all about for Thanksgiving. But noooooo, f-ing Christmas as far as the eye can see. And as I told my mom about it, and she informed me that at Chicos, where she works, they started the Christmas music on Oct. 1. October fucking first?!!? Are you kidding me? Its still like 70 degrees at that point. I am thankful my mother is a strong and resilient woman, otherwise I fear she would have lost her damn mind or been muttering Bing Crosby/Burl Ives impressions incessantly.
This year I have taken to just avoiding premature Christmas nonsense. Working in a predominantly Jewish office helps, except when they play Christmas music on the radio...is that a little...umm, odd to anyone else?
Quick hits from my blogging hiatus:
-With the release of The Fame Monster, Lady Gaga is no longer a peculiarity or intriguing figure to me as she once was. She is flat out one of my favorite artists around right now and I'll argue with anyone who tells me otherwise. Is she a little bit crazy? Yes. Eccentric? More than a little bit? Quite certainly. Absurdly talented with a vision that she continues to execute despite critics and haters not quite understanding or enjoying it? Damn right. Bitch is damn talented.
-The Jersey Shore is a train wreck of a television show but in the same vein, 5 times more compelling and intriguing. People love watching shows about shit that is completely foreign and strange to them...aka the mysterious and mind boggling world of guidos. Its like watching a show on the Discovery Channel. I mean, if my son or daughter even started hinting at tendancies of being a guido later in life, I'd probably bash them in the head with a rock and start over. However, from an outsider's perspective, I love watching the misguided and delusional hubris of all these clowns. Fist Pump!
-College basketball makes me happy. That is all.
-I hang out with a few kids that still are in school at Depaul. They are now on Winter Break for a month and a half or so. And pretty much all of them, with the exception of like 2 weeks or so, are staying in the city. The worst part about winter break was that after New Years, things got kind of boring till you went back to school. If I had been down in Oxford, its a damn ghost town, so that kind of sucks. And back home, I love being home and my family, but I get a bit stir crazy once my little sisters go back to school and my parents are busy during the day. If I had gotten to have 3 weeks of awesomeness essentially at school, but without the school work and responsibility? Kickass. Those lucky bastards. Meanwhile, I have to work on Christmas Eve and still haven't accrued much vacation to take days off. FML...and why you should avoid those damn college kids (life used to be so easy.)
So, Manchester Orchestra, I just can't say enough about this band. I've liked them for awhile, but when I saw them a little while back with Brand New, it was like I was hearing them for the first time. Such an electric stage presence, such intelligent melodies, cryptic lyrics, really the total package. One of those bands who finally got a little radio play recently, but ironically, it was not what I would consider anywhere near one of their best songs. I Can Feel a Hot One is hauntingly smooth and lyrically brilliant and may or may not be a song I've fallen asleep to multiple times. Shake It Out literally shakes you to musical consciousness. And finally, The River closes out their most recent cd and has some of the most appropriate and meaningful lyrics I've heard in awhile. I highly recommend you giving it a spin if you are a fan of the Backstreet Boys, Jay-Z, Led Zepplin, Abba, or badass music in general.
"I think I talk to you best when I sing, I sing about almost everything..."
JW
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I was never much for popularity contests...
So searching for a job could be the most arduous, stressful, and mind twisting situation ever. It doesn't matter if you are unemployed or not fully satisfied and looking to switch it up, any way you paint it, it is about as much fun as a bag of dicks. I mean, piece by piece, every step of the process is obnoxious. I mean, the part that worries people the most, the interview, is the stage of the game where I am most comfortable and confident.
Actually finding available positions is wrought with pitfalls and epic wastes of time. For example, employers love dressing up awful jobs with clever names and euphemistic descriptions. When I still wanted to be in marketing and advertising, I was really looking for a creative position, or one involved with account due diligence and client contact. So naturally I was drawn to positions with names like "Account Executive". In reality, most companies should rename such a position "Cold-calling sales bitch". Now I understand that alot companies have you start in sales and work your way up to "better" positions, but don't attempt to decieve me as my mind is slowly turning to gelato from sitting on Monster.com all day. So if you are lucky enough to find jobs you actually want to apply for, then the real fun begins.
First of all, resumes. How awesome would it be if there was a standardized format for resumes that people could rely on? Blah blah resumes give you a chance to stand out and differentiate yourself blah blah. Or it is just another way for you to get screwed out of a job or interview you deserve because some anal retentive, gum smacking, HR professional doesn't enjoy your choice of font. Helvetica makes her wet but heaven forbid you dare use Geneva, that would march your resume down to the paper shredder like a fattened calf. Or she may get all bent out of shape because you put your academic information in the wrong portion of the page. Or maybe your work experience is just not sufficient for the position. Bottom line, you never fucking know. Thus, whenever you don't get a response or a denial, you begin tweaking your resume and before long, you have 17 different copies with your name presented in 12 different ways in order to keep all the files separate and uniquely tagged. Resumes...making normal people neurotic since then advent of the typewriter.
Whats the next step? Cover letters. Honestly, I would rather fellate a curling iron than continue to craft unique and special cover letters for each position I apply to. I would wager that 75% of cover letters flow straight into the trash heap completely negating the annoying amount of time painstakingly used with Word's thesaurus assuring your excellent verbal skills come across. And ask any HR or recruiter and they will tell you that you should create a different one for each position because a standard draft will easily be recognized and frowned upon. Well isnt that dandy? This is all secondary to the actual content of the letter which is basically informing the company why you are right for the position. Good luck writing that without sounding pompous, full of yourself, and like a cheesy asshat. Not to mention, all that you mentioned will be restated if and when you are granted the privilege of an interview. So cover letters can take a long walk off the shortest pier they can find.
If you find 10-15 positions you are interested in, you are lucky to get 1-2 interviews. So there is no excuse for not KILLING it. This job climate can bite me.
But when I start to get annoyed, I can at least fall back on my continual source of perspective and amusement, Chicago's homeless. They honestly continue to amazing and astound me on a daily basis. Last week, I saw a homeless dude on an Iphone. Swear to science. And I thought for a second that he might just be a grungy pseudo-hippie until I noticed his telltale cup and ratty sign. I mean, are you kidding me? I can't even afford an Iphone with my full time employement and this dude smells like Gary, IN and he's flipping through his apps. Homelessness...there's an app for that.
The new breed of quasi-homeless I see alot lately are the young-ish people with some sort of sign informing passers-by that they are travelling and ran out of money and can't get home. What the fuck? How does one do that? Were they on a meth tour of the Midwest and smoked their bankroll and now they can't get back to Grand Rapids? I mean, if/when I would be travelling to a large city, cross country, etc, my main concern would be "do I have enough $$ to get home or to my destination." But then again, that is just me and I've never sat in downtown stranger staring down annoyed businessmen for nickels.
Finally, I've noticed alot of assertive homeless lately too. I mean, beyond just asking for change or announcing that ever little bit helps. I'm talking about the guy who picks out individual people passing and tells them he is hungry or homeless.
"Hey man in the pink shirt, could you buy me some lunch?"
"Hey lady with the sweet ass, I'm homeless, got a dollar?"
Its a brazen but admirable attack. I mean, kudos for being proactive and not chilling in some fog. But then it can get annoying, such as the man rocking on his guitar in the subway. As he finished a song, he noticed that a girl nearby was swaying a bit. However, she had some headphones in so clearly she was rocking to her own jam. This didn't deter Subway Springsteen.
"I noticed you grooving to my tune, how about a donation?"
Really? She embarrasingly muttered something about not having any cash. I would have informed him I was actually grooving to the bridge from Lovestoned, but carrying on rocking out without regard for proper tuning or pitch. Then again, this man caused a few women with sensative olfactory systems to nearly seizure with his natural aromas, so he probably wasn't to be reasoned with.
So for the last 2-3 years or so, my favorite "indie" band has been Tegan and Sara. Interesting in make-up, they are identical twin sisters, Canadien, both lesbians, and both badass musicians on a variety of instruments. And they have managed to transition from an alt-folk sort of sound into power-indie goodness. The Con is one of my all time favorite songs, regardless of genre. Their vocals, lead and backing, compliment each other so comfortably and smoothly. Anyways, they just released Sainthood which is incredibly written. It just draws from all their previous work and just takes them to another level. I am still getting through it properly, but I recommend it to anyone that likes music that doesn't suck. Start with The Con; Nineteen; I Know I Know; Call It Off; and Walking with a Ghost. Then stumble upon the amazingness of Sainthood. Happy rocking.
"Calm down, I'm calling you to say. I'm capsized erring on the edge of safe..."
JW
Actually finding available positions is wrought with pitfalls and epic wastes of time. For example, employers love dressing up awful jobs with clever names and euphemistic descriptions. When I still wanted to be in marketing and advertising, I was really looking for a creative position, or one involved with account due diligence and client contact. So naturally I was drawn to positions with names like "Account Executive". In reality, most companies should rename such a position "Cold-calling sales bitch". Now I understand that alot companies have you start in sales and work your way up to "better" positions, but don't attempt to decieve me as my mind is slowly turning to gelato from sitting on Monster.com all day. So if you are lucky enough to find jobs you actually want to apply for, then the real fun begins.
First of all, resumes. How awesome would it be if there was a standardized format for resumes that people could rely on? Blah blah resumes give you a chance to stand out and differentiate yourself blah blah. Or it is just another way for you to get screwed out of a job or interview you deserve because some anal retentive, gum smacking, HR professional doesn't enjoy your choice of font. Helvetica makes her wet but heaven forbid you dare use Geneva, that would march your resume down to the paper shredder like a fattened calf. Or she may get all bent out of shape because you put your academic information in the wrong portion of the page. Or maybe your work experience is just not sufficient for the position. Bottom line, you never fucking know. Thus, whenever you don't get a response or a denial, you begin tweaking your resume and before long, you have 17 different copies with your name presented in 12 different ways in order to keep all the files separate and uniquely tagged. Resumes...making normal people neurotic since then advent of the typewriter.
Whats the next step? Cover letters. Honestly, I would rather fellate a curling iron than continue to craft unique and special cover letters for each position I apply to. I would wager that 75% of cover letters flow straight into the trash heap completely negating the annoying amount of time painstakingly used with Word's thesaurus assuring your excellent verbal skills come across. And ask any HR or recruiter and they will tell you that you should create a different one for each position because a standard draft will easily be recognized and frowned upon. Well isnt that dandy? This is all secondary to the actual content of the letter which is basically informing the company why you are right for the position. Good luck writing that without sounding pompous, full of yourself, and like a cheesy asshat. Not to mention, all that you mentioned will be restated if and when you are granted the privilege of an interview. So cover letters can take a long walk off the shortest pier they can find.
If you find 10-15 positions you are interested in, you are lucky to get 1-2 interviews. So there is no excuse for not KILLING it. This job climate can bite me.
But when I start to get annoyed, I can at least fall back on my continual source of perspective and amusement, Chicago's homeless. They honestly continue to amazing and astound me on a daily basis. Last week, I saw a homeless dude on an Iphone. Swear to science. And I thought for a second that he might just be a grungy pseudo-hippie until I noticed his telltale cup and ratty sign. I mean, are you kidding me? I can't even afford an Iphone with my full time employement and this dude smells like Gary, IN and he's flipping through his apps. Homelessness...there's an app for that.
The new breed of quasi-homeless I see alot lately are the young-ish people with some sort of sign informing passers-by that they are travelling and ran out of money and can't get home. What the fuck? How does one do that? Were they on a meth tour of the Midwest and smoked their bankroll and now they can't get back to Grand Rapids? I mean, if/when I would be travelling to a large city, cross country, etc, my main concern would be "do I have enough $$ to get home or to my destination." But then again, that is just me and I've never sat in downtown stranger staring down annoyed businessmen for nickels.
Finally, I've noticed alot of assertive homeless lately too. I mean, beyond just asking for change or announcing that ever little bit helps. I'm talking about the guy who picks out individual people passing and tells them he is hungry or homeless.
"Hey man in the pink shirt, could you buy me some lunch?"
"Hey lady with the sweet ass, I'm homeless, got a dollar?"
Its a brazen but admirable attack. I mean, kudos for being proactive and not chilling in some fog. But then it can get annoying, such as the man rocking on his guitar in the subway. As he finished a song, he noticed that a girl nearby was swaying a bit. However, she had some headphones in so clearly she was rocking to her own jam. This didn't deter Subway Springsteen.
"I noticed you grooving to my tune, how about a donation?"
Really? She embarrasingly muttered something about not having any cash. I would have informed him I was actually grooving to the bridge from Lovestoned, but carrying on rocking out without regard for proper tuning or pitch. Then again, this man caused a few women with sensative olfactory systems to nearly seizure with his natural aromas, so he probably wasn't to be reasoned with.
So for the last 2-3 years or so, my favorite "indie" band has been Tegan and Sara. Interesting in make-up, they are identical twin sisters, Canadien, both lesbians, and both badass musicians on a variety of instruments. And they have managed to transition from an alt-folk sort of sound into power-indie goodness. The Con is one of my all time favorite songs, regardless of genre. Their vocals, lead and backing, compliment each other so comfortably and smoothly. Anyways, they just released Sainthood which is incredibly written. It just draws from all their previous work and just takes them to another level. I am still getting through it properly, but I recommend it to anyone that likes music that doesn't suck. Start with The Con; Nineteen; I Know I Know; Call It Off; and Walking with a Ghost. Then stumble upon the amazingness of Sainthood. Happy rocking.
"Calm down, I'm calling you to say. I'm capsized erring on the edge of safe..."
JW
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Fuck boutonnieres
Oh early fall. The chill in the air, the High School football, the early days of the school year where things are still fresh and new and hearts are atwitter. It can only mean one thing...homecoming season. Having a sister who is a soph in HS, it has managed to make its way back in discussions I have with my family. Homecoming, the magical week of school spirit culminating in a dance where young bucks looking to hone their social skills can essentially ask out girls they otherwise wouldn't know how to. Show evidence of their interest while cautiously testing the temperature of the girl's reaction to their affection under the guise of a harmless dance.
Well, unfortunately, this grand tradition is a source of perma-shame and embarrassment whenever I make the mistake of calling upon my memories. Contrary to what my swagger and smoldering looks ripped from the pages of a GQ may convey, I was not always such the Don Juan. I had this false ideal in my head that any of the male-female shortcomings I endured in middle school would vanish in this vast new frontier that was HS. We had 2 middle schools that merged into one HS which basically afforded me a whole school of people who had no clue what a tremendous mullet-wearing fail I was in middle school. My longing for attention from the fair sex would finally be ended...
...or not. I approached the Homecoming season with unbridled enthusiasm. I eagerly started conversations with my friends and Cross Country teammates about potential dates, and pre-dance restaurants, and the street cred said dates would bring. I was positively stoked. Little did I know this time of year would frame my biggest fails.
Without further ado, the first of my 3 epic homecoming fails.I carefully picked out the lucky girl who was going to have the privilege of joining me on my first foray into the dating world, Samantha (Sam) R. She was the top runner on the girls CC team, adorable, and just an overall sweet girl. I couldn't think of a more perfect date. We had talked a bit at races and such, and I thought I could be in a decent spot. I had my good friend CJ, who was also a CC guy with me and also one of her good friends from middle school, to diplomatically talk to her on my behalf. Gauge my chances a bit. "No problem," he assures me.
The next day, he informs me that I am "good". I take this as a sign and immediately feel my confidence swell. I plot my next move. Now in those days, I lived for just seeing and saying hello to girls I liked. Yeah, how fucking weak is that. I would plan my walks to class, sometimes talking extra long, meandering routes just to pass a [articular hunny and hopefully catch her eye and get a greeting. Thus, I had figured out the perfect time when I passed Sam in a fairly empty hallway on my way to Bio. I already was looking forward to smugly informing my parents that not only did I have a date to HC, she was one of the top 10 CC runners in the state, booyah. So, without fear, as I approached her, I stopped her and hurriedly vomited out my impassioned plea:
J: "HeySamIknowCJtalkedtoyouaboutit, soIwaswonderingifyouwantedtogotoHomecomingwithme?"
*Yes, there was no breath and I can scarcely believe she understood what I even said.*
S: "Aww, thanks. But sorry, I am already going with someone. Sorry, Jason"
What...the...fuck! I wanted to eviscerate CJ. I'm good? Did he mean, I'm good in the sense that she knew who I was? Cause certainly having a date doesn't mean I'm good. And did she fucking call me Jason? Do I look like the leader of the Argonauts? She doesn't even know my real name? To make matters worse, in my frustrated confusion, I decided to kick the wall. In doing so, I managed to bruise my toe allowing me the honor of walking with a limp the rest of the day and sitting out of practice that afternoon. It would have been less embarrassing to just tell my coach I couldn't run cause I forgot my tampons.
Side note: Sam and I ended up being pretty good friends and she managed to tease me about this particular incident until graduation. You can't escape your past.
Well, deluded into thinking that the only reason I didn't have a date yet was because Sam already was spoken for, I readjusted my focus and figured I would still have no problems. So I zero'd in on another CC runner, this one whom I had talked to a TON, sat next to on bus rides to meets, and had a class with. Greylen wasn't my uber crush, but nonetheless, I would be really excited to go to HC with her. So on one of our typical walks after class, I nonchalantly popped the question and prepared for a positive response. She kind of stuttered for a second as I sat with a grin looking like the cat that ate the canary. "Umm, let me think about it for a bit"...oh shit. I quickly stated that it wasn't a problem and nearly sprinted away. My mind began to swirl
"This isn't good, if she wanted to go, she would have said yes."
'Maybe she just has another offer, and she needs to let the other fool down softly."
"Oh fuck, maybe she needs to think of a way to deny me and not be bitchy..."
"Maybe she just really likes me and is stunned so it has to set in! Yes, thats it, has to be it."
I twisted myself up mentally so intensely that next period I was as confident as ever. My friend Teddy asked me if I had a date to HC. "Oh yeah, I'm going with Greylen. It should be awesome," I quickly replied. What could go wrong?
Well I went to lunch next period and mildly dreaded the next point in which I would see her. Well after lunch, walking to class, my destiny called. She was walking behind me with her friends and as I turned down a hall, she called my name.
G:"Hey"
J: *with look of complete terror*"Whats up"
G:"I just don't feel I know you well enough to go to HC with you. Sorry..."
With that she quickly rejoined her friends. I promptly began looking for a garbage can cause little miss had punched me in the stomach and I felt like I was going to hurl. And it only got better the next day when Teddy asked me what was up cause he talked to her and she said she wasn't going HC with me...oh FML. With that I gave up on freshman HC and continued to perpetuate the lie to my parents that I just wasn't that into girls really.
Well the next two years, buttressed by my humiliation of freshman year, my fear of rejection pervaded everything. Oh I would still ask hot girls to HC, I just would be a tremendous pansy about it. Sophmore year, Ali, wow. This girl was and still is stunning. My memories of her at 15-16 is still the most gorgeous girl I've ever known at any point in my life. And I still had the stones to ask her to HC...via note. Oh yes, I gave her a note asking if she wanted to go to HC...which I put in her locker. There was no MTV Laguna Beach cute theatrics with a teddy bear holding it or any of that nonsense. I just slipped a note in her fucking locker. How I possibly could have envisioned this situation turning out well, I have no damn idea. Well, I wasn't the least bit surprised when she called later that night and thanked me, but no thanks. I mean, kudos to her for at least having the dignity to call, and not do something lame...like give me a note. Fortunately, she didn't go on to make my life a living hell like some teen movie, we actually were cool throughout the end of HS, but sweet lord, I had trouble looking her in the eye, and they were such pretty eyes too.
So junior year rolls along, and my confidence is melting like an iceberg. More like I was a polar bear stranded on one of said icebergs as it broke with teenage normalcy and floated off towards a vast sea populated by Dungeon and Dragon aficionados and those who wore "Im with Stupid" shirts. However, I had one last gasp in me. Hallie. This was my quintessential childhood crush. I had a solid, unwavering crush on this vixen from 4th grade straight through 8th grade. I'm talking "drawing initials in frost and quickly erasing them out of embarrassment" and "saying her name with my last name just to see how it sounds on a daily basis" level of infatuation. However, it waned a bit as I was a year older and when I went to HS, I got caught up in other stuff. Yet, it came roaring back after she had been in HS for a bit and we had hung out in groups like the golden years. So HC came around and I decided it was time to act on all those years of adoration and just ask her...by giving her a note. See a theme here?
This time, I decided to sink even lower. I crafted a cute and clever note with an all too familiar punchline...and gave it to my friend...to give to her...and this friend also happened to be her ex-bf from last year. I mean, kudos to him for being a good friend and helping me out. Even more kudos when he said "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, are you sure you want to do it like this?" with concern, and hope I was kidding, in his eyes. I assured him I totally was and again I committed to an embarrassing legacy of pussification.
A group of us all went to dinner later that week and towards the end, my dearest angel pulled me aside into the hallway and sat me down. As she sweetly and kindly explained that I was a close friend but she was gonna have to say no, I began to feel like Lennie right as George was about to shoot him in the back of the head. The kiss on the cheek sealed my hatred for Homecoming for all time and taste in my mouth I would be brushing my teeth for years to rid myself of.
My sisters are both really pretty young girls and I have no doubt they will probably the girls who will be mentally scarring all these awkward young giraffes as they comically try to walk into adulthood. Especially the youngest, she has a mean streak and I could see her leading a merry band of dream wreckers that gain considerable strength around this time of the year. I weep at the thought of every freshman boy that is not already a ladykiller. Hopefully I will be able to arm my future sons with an arsenal of weaponry to avoid such humiliation, that my wounds are still fresh enough that my advice is useful and not all goofy fatherly awkwardness. Who wants a damn corsage anyways?
So Howie Day was my JAM in High School. I still listen to She Says, and More You Understand, and Morning After all the time. Then his second CD came out when I was a freshman, everyone got obsessed with Collide, and I thought he was about to explode. Well he kind of did. He got wasted on a plane and was kicking seats and got arrested. Ended up in rehab where I'm pretty sure he hooked up with Britney Spears if I recall. So, maybe he had the right plan all along. But he is back. And I am supremely glad cause in his "prime" his talent was undeniable. I saw him live and he was ridiculous. His use of looped guitar riffs, looped vocals, creating this insane melodies, he is awesome. At a time when all those "guys with guitars" were getting popular, I latched onto him cause he was unique and just had a different approach to it all. His new CD is hopefully evidence that he is back in the saddle and is ready to continue saucily seducing my ear drums. Be There is the first single and its a good place to start. Pretty cool video too. Enjoy it while reminiscing about how lame HS was...or if it was awesome for you...I hate you.
"If you're gonna be there, be there. If you're gonna stay, then stay tonight. Start living, out with the old. I'm all lit up, must be the good life..."
JW
Well, unfortunately, this grand tradition is a source of perma-shame and embarrassment whenever I make the mistake of calling upon my memories. Contrary to what my swagger and smoldering looks ripped from the pages of a GQ may convey, I was not always such the Don Juan. I had this false ideal in my head that any of the male-female shortcomings I endured in middle school would vanish in this vast new frontier that was HS. We had 2 middle schools that merged into one HS which basically afforded me a whole school of people who had no clue what a tremendous mullet-wearing fail I was in middle school. My longing for attention from the fair sex would finally be ended...
...or not. I approached the Homecoming season with unbridled enthusiasm. I eagerly started conversations with my friends and Cross Country teammates about potential dates, and pre-dance restaurants, and the street cred said dates would bring. I was positively stoked. Little did I know this time of year would frame my biggest fails.
Without further ado, the first of my 3 epic homecoming fails.I carefully picked out the lucky girl who was going to have the privilege of joining me on my first foray into the dating world, Samantha (Sam) R. She was the top runner on the girls CC team, adorable, and just an overall sweet girl. I couldn't think of a more perfect date. We had talked a bit at races and such, and I thought I could be in a decent spot. I had my good friend CJ, who was also a CC guy with me and also one of her good friends from middle school, to diplomatically talk to her on my behalf. Gauge my chances a bit. "No problem," he assures me.
The next day, he informs me that I am "good". I take this as a sign and immediately feel my confidence swell. I plot my next move. Now in those days, I lived for just seeing and saying hello to girls I liked. Yeah, how fucking weak is that. I would plan my walks to class, sometimes talking extra long, meandering routes just to pass a [articular hunny and hopefully catch her eye and get a greeting. Thus, I had figured out the perfect time when I passed Sam in a fairly empty hallway on my way to Bio. I already was looking forward to smugly informing my parents that not only did I have a date to HC, she was one of the top 10 CC runners in the state, booyah. So, without fear, as I approached her, I stopped her and hurriedly vomited out my impassioned plea:
J: "HeySamIknowCJtalkedtoyouaboutit, soIwaswonderingifyouwantedtogotoHomecomingwithme?"
*Yes, there was no breath and I can scarcely believe she understood what I even said.*
S: "Aww, thanks. But sorry, I am already going with someone. Sorry, Jason"
What...the...fuck! I wanted to eviscerate CJ. I'm good? Did he mean, I'm good in the sense that she knew who I was? Cause certainly having a date doesn't mean I'm good. And did she fucking call me Jason? Do I look like the leader of the Argonauts? She doesn't even know my real name? To make matters worse, in my frustrated confusion, I decided to kick the wall. In doing so, I managed to bruise my toe allowing me the honor of walking with a limp the rest of the day and sitting out of practice that afternoon. It would have been less embarrassing to just tell my coach I couldn't run cause I forgot my tampons.
Side note: Sam and I ended up being pretty good friends and she managed to tease me about this particular incident until graduation. You can't escape your past.
Well, deluded into thinking that the only reason I didn't have a date yet was because Sam already was spoken for, I readjusted my focus and figured I would still have no problems. So I zero'd in on another CC runner, this one whom I had talked to a TON, sat next to on bus rides to meets, and had a class with. Greylen wasn't my uber crush, but nonetheless, I would be really excited to go to HC with her. So on one of our typical walks after class, I nonchalantly popped the question and prepared for a positive response. She kind of stuttered for a second as I sat with a grin looking like the cat that ate the canary. "Umm, let me think about it for a bit"...oh shit. I quickly stated that it wasn't a problem and nearly sprinted away. My mind began to swirl
"This isn't good, if she wanted to go, she would have said yes."
'Maybe she just has another offer, and she needs to let the other fool down softly."
"Oh fuck, maybe she needs to think of a way to deny me and not be bitchy..."
"Maybe she just really likes me and is stunned so it has to set in! Yes, thats it, has to be it."
I twisted myself up mentally so intensely that next period I was as confident as ever. My friend Teddy asked me if I had a date to HC. "Oh yeah, I'm going with Greylen. It should be awesome," I quickly replied. What could go wrong?
Well I went to lunch next period and mildly dreaded the next point in which I would see her. Well after lunch, walking to class, my destiny called. She was walking behind me with her friends and as I turned down a hall, she called my name.
G:"Hey"
J: *with look of complete terror*"Whats up"
G:"I just don't feel I know you well enough to go to HC with you. Sorry..."
With that she quickly rejoined her friends. I promptly began looking for a garbage can cause little miss had punched me in the stomach and I felt like I was going to hurl. And it only got better the next day when Teddy asked me what was up cause he talked to her and she said she wasn't going HC with me...oh FML. With that I gave up on freshman HC and continued to perpetuate the lie to my parents that I just wasn't that into girls really.
Well the next two years, buttressed by my humiliation of freshman year, my fear of rejection pervaded everything. Oh I would still ask hot girls to HC, I just would be a tremendous pansy about it. Sophmore year, Ali, wow. This girl was and still is stunning. My memories of her at 15-16 is still the most gorgeous girl I've ever known at any point in my life. And I still had the stones to ask her to HC...via note. Oh yes, I gave her a note asking if she wanted to go to HC...which I put in her locker. There was no MTV Laguna Beach cute theatrics with a teddy bear holding it or any of that nonsense. I just slipped a note in her fucking locker. How I possibly could have envisioned this situation turning out well, I have no damn idea. Well, I wasn't the least bit surprised when she called later that night and thanked me, but no thanks. I mean, kudos to her for at least having the dignity to call, and not do something lame...like give me a note. Fortunately, she didn't go on to make my life a living hell like some teen movie, we actually were cool throughout the end of HS, but sweet lord, I had trouble looking her in the eye, and they were such pretty eyes too.
So junior year rolls along, and my confidence is melting like an iceberg. More like I was a polar bear stranded on one of said icebergs as it broke with teenage normalcy and floated off towards a vast sea populated by Dungeon and Dragon aficionados and those who wore "Im with Stupid" shirts. However, I had one last gasp in me. Hallie. This was my quintessential childhood crush. I had a solid, unwavering crush on this vixen from 4th grade straight through 8th grade. I'm talking "drawing initials in frost and quickly erasing them out of embarrassment" and "saying her name with my last name just to see how it sounds on a daily basis" level of infatuation. However, it waned a bit as I was a year older and when I went to HS, I got caught up in other stuff. Yet, it came roaring back after she had been in HS for a bit and we had hung out in groups like the golden years. So HC came around and I decided it was time to act on all those years of adoration and just ask her...by giving her a note. See a theme here?
This time, I decided to sink even lower. I crafted a cute and clever note with an all too familiar punchline...and gave it to my friend...to give to her...and this friend also happened to be her ex-bf from last year. I mean, kudos to him for being a good friend and helping me out. Even more kudos when he said "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, are you sure you want to do it like this?" with concern, and hope I was kidding, in his eyes. I assured him I totally was and again I committed to an embarrassing legacy of pussification.
A group of us all went to dinner later that week and towards the end, my dearest angel pulled me aside into the hallway and sat me down. As she sweetly and kindly explained that I was a close friend but she was gonna have to say no, I began to feel like Lennie right as George was about to shoot him in the back of the head. The kiss on the cheek sealed my hatred for Homecoming for all time and taste in my mouth I would be brushing my teeth for years to rid myself of.
My sisters are both really pretty young girls and I have no doubt they will probably the girls who will be mentally scarring all these awkward young giraffes as they comically try to walk into adulthood. Especially the youngest, she has a mean streak and I could see her leading a merry band of dream wreckers that gain considerable strength around this time of the year. I weep at the thought of every freshman boy that is not already a ladykiller. Hopefully I will be able to arm my future sons with an arsenal of weaponry to avoid such humiliation, that my wounds are still fresh enough that my advice is useful and not all goofy fatherly awkwardness. Who wants a damn corsage anyways?
So Howie Day was my JAM in High School. I still listen to She Says, and More You Understand, and Morning After all the time. Then his second CD came out when I was a freshman, everyone got obsessed with Collide, and I thought he was about to explode. Well he kind of did. He got wasted on a plane and was kicking seats and got arrested. Ended up in rehab where I'm pretty sure he hooked up with Britney Spears if I recall. So, maybe he had the right plan all along. But he is back. And I am supremely glad cause in his "prime" his talent was undeniable. I saw him live and he was ridiculous. His use of looped guitar riffs, looped vocals, creating this insane melodies, he is awesome. At a time when all those "guys with guitars" were getting popular, I latched onto him cause he was unique and just had a different approach to it all. His new CD is hopefully evidence that he is back in the saddle and is ready to continue saucily seducing my ear drums. Be There is the first single and its a good place to start. Pretty cool video too. Enjoy it while reminiscing about how lame HS was...or if it was awesome for you...I hate you.
"If you're gonna be there, be there. If you're gonna stay, then stay tonight. Start living, out with the old. I'm all lit up, must be the good life..."
JW
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
