This woman on Oprah was talking about how we all have our acts of desperation, and she said, "That's when you're eating a bag of potato chips over your kitchen sink at 6am."
And I'm just like, Fuck you and your hidden cameras in my house, that is ILLEGAL!
Yesterday I had to pack all my shit up and get on another flight to trek another obscene distance in the air during peak holiday travel dates. When I booked this flight, I figured everyone would be sleeping off their hangovers and checking my bags swiftly and jumping on my flight just as fast would be no problem at all. The only problem with this scenario is that I gave myself only two hours before my flight departed to complete just this one task, and the line to do said task was roughly 5,000 people long.
As I wandered from the train platform through the parking structure and up to the terminal entrance, I thought it was really weird that there were so many people just standing around the parking lot with their suitcases. Had I looked more closely at their formation in the parking structure, I would have noticed that they were neatly aligned in a zigzag pattern across the entire floor of the garage, winding their way backwards through the ticketing terminal and all the way back to the doors I was about to walk through. Which meant my quick jaunt to check my bag was really going to be a three hour ordeal which included a cast of thousands of weary travelers just like me who were all just standing around in the freezing parking garage.
I typically spend my entire life avoiding all situations where I have to stand in any sort of line. At the airport, certainly some waiting is going to happen, but hours and hours of it alongside upset people drains your very soul. It has to, because nothing else would explain the fistfight that broke out between two grown men over a spot in line or what looked like the National Guard that was on hand to usher people to the end of the line, all those 400 yards away. At this point, maybe and hour and a half of standing in line behind me, I reached my absolute limit of calmness and collectedness. It started slow and snowballed before I could stop it. The horrible line mixed with memories of things that happened the day before started to flood over me and I did something I haven’t done in years, something I’m entirely ashamed of and confounded by: I started crying in public.
It wasn’t weeping or sobbing it was just a quiet release of pent up tears and sadness and hurt, stuffed down to the recesses of my being for years and years. I just stood there like an asshole with my stupid toile suitcase and stupid purse and coat with tears running down my cheeks because, apparently, I am no longer able to deal. I didn’t want to be that person who can’t keep their shit together because of some stupid line at the airport but I was that fucking person, and everyone knew it, and I just stood there letting them watch me fall to pieces.
And then as the line moved forward I ended up standing next to this behemoth of a man, tall and rugged like a statue of Zeus in a fancy corduroy blazer and expensive jeans. I looked up at him all pathetic like with this heartbreak and confusion pouring out of me, and he reached over the line divider with his big strong hand and wiped away a single tear that had stuck itself to my cheek. It was like his entire purpose in life was to reach out to the faces of poor little girls and catch their tears in his special tear catching apparatus that takes the form of the arm of some kind of Greek god. He must have some purpose for the tears he collects, perhaps to mix them altogether to form the most pitiable human being on the planet, who knows, but he does it wonderfully.
He said to me, “It’s gonna be ok. You’re almost to the end.” And I thought OMG I AM ALMOST TO THE END! The end of everything! Of this stupid line and this stupid heartache and these stupid feelings I never should have had, he’s right! It’s almost over! And by the time I checked my bag in he was gone in the crowd of boarding passes and carryon luggage, lost into the ether of his own goodwill, I presume. I went to the bathroom to try and compose myself and look myself in the eyes and say, It will be ok. You’ll get through this. Hang in there.
I practiced my speech all the way through my personal patdown at security, through the crowded terminal, past hundreds of people in restaurants and shops and lines for this and that until I got to the bathroom and walked straight to the mirror above the sinks. I looked myself right in the face and realized that the mysterious angel who had comforted me in my time of need had also wiped some disgusting black shit all over the right side of my face. In the process of catching my falling tears and leading me to believe I could get on with my life, he had used his dirtiest hand that was covered in some dark, sticky coal-like substance to wipe my face dry.
The woman washing her hands next to me grimaced and said, “What’d you get on your face!?”
And I just sighed and said, “I let some stranger in the ticketing line rub his hands on me because I kind of thought he might be Jesus.”
This weekend at brunch, my friend Courtney tried to order poached eggs but was told by the waitress that they don't poach on Saturdays or Sundays.
This was probably the weirdest statement ever uttered by man, but what was even more weird was that the whole time Courtney was finding something else to order I was coming up with this elaborate joke in my head about how the poachers take the weekends off, and how every other week they get three days off, because elephants are so heavy. There was this other part about how the one poacher always tries to work overtime, his name's Larry and he likes the extra hours, but poaching labor laws won't allow it.
The fascinating part is that I didn't open my mouth. That kind of self-control is never alloted to me in social situations, especially not when I have a fucking brilliant set up like, "Our poacher doesn't work on the weekends." For a split second I worried that I'd lost my edge, that perhaps I was getting sucked into that comedic vacuum feared by so many that's called "losing it," or perhaps I was just going through a maturation of humor? Skipping over the obvious in lieu of a greater, more intellectual joke down the line?
But maturity is stupid so I told the joke anyway. The end.
I've been watching a lot of daytime TV lately and one of the things you can't help but notice is all the screaming that goes on in the audience of these shows. It starts out slowly while the live audience of Good Morning America is trying to make up for standing in the street for three hours by wailing at every nearby camera with the hopes of getting some attention for it, and then Regis gets the people in his audience to scream consistently for thirty minutes while they countdown to possibly winning something in some drawing. The screaming, it seems, is catalyst to getting something for it.
On Ellen, the audience screams and screams and SCREAMS until they get something, usually it's like her book or her HBO special or two or three people get tickets for a cruise. These people are really excited to get a cruise, so they start screaming more, then the people around them starts screaming more, thinking if they all scream more maybe they'll all get a cruise? They don't, so the screaming dies out by the third guest and they go home empty handed.
Then some guy comes on The View and dry humps Rosie O'Donnell on a bear skin rug, and all the ladies in the audience start screaming furiously, and they get the entire third season of Nip/Tuck on DVD. Obviously there is a trick to this screaming and getting things for it: You have to keep screaming excitedly at even the most disgusting image put before you, you have to scream and mean it, whether you're happy or terrified that your retinas will have scorched in them forever the horrendous image of Rosie O'Donnell dry humping someone on the ground.
Now that's I've figured it out, my plan is to head down to LA and get tickets for the Ellen Degeneres show, and from start to finish just sit there screaming at the top of my lungs the whole time. I'm hoping I can go home with some awesome rechargeable batteries, or maybe a lifetime supply of Crest White Strips and a coupon for some Tostitos.
Because I follow ridiculous Southern news, I just found out that Carrie Underwood is going to be the spokes pop idol for a literacy program in Oklahoma called - wait for it - "Read Ya'll!" This is obviously going to work out very well.
I have nothing against Oklahoma. I've never been there but most of my family tree splits its roots between the panhandle and the deepest parts of Kentucky. I'm not one to speak on the ridiculous nature of someone from the South advocating literacy since my people routinely made alcoholic drinks in their bathtubs and then sold bottles of it to all their friends. Who am I to judge.
What I think is odd is the title of this program, this program to improvethe literacy of children throughout the state and promote reading and writing. It’s colloquial, which I’m ok with, but it’s not, “Hey! Let’s start reading!” Or, “Reading is fun and awesome!” It’s “Read, Ya’ll!” which sounds the same to me as saying, “DUDES: Words.”
Couldn’t they have come up with something a bit more literary sounding? It seems the stupidity of the program’s title cancels itself out, like an Air Force ship in the middle of the ocean. At first it sounds like a good idea, then once you start thinking about it you realize it really doesn’t make sense at all. I know they have Air Force ships so planes can land at sea, but why not just give the planes to the Navy and stop acting like it’s not all the same thing?
Why have a literacy program called “Read, Ya’ll!” at all? Why not just say to all the kids in Oklahoma, “Reading isn’t really as important as we tell you it is, since as you can tell we are adults and really aren’t using our reading or writing skills properly, because we won a singing contest on the T.V. More importantly than learning to read, learn to count, so you know how many fingers to hold up to the viewing audience when they’re about to vote for you. Number two, Ya’ll!”
I've been going to the same nail girl on and off for about 6 years. She's very good at doing nails, but she's not so good at speaking English. It's ok though, because we have our own language, one made up of hand motions and smiles and me pointing at things then nodding my head when she picks them up, and emphatically raising both arms in distress and repeating, "NO NO NO" most of the time I'm there.
We tend to laugh a lot while she
does my nails, mostly because we can't understand one word the other is
saying, and cultural diversity is so funny all the time. I think it's a good thing that we can find humor in our
differences as people, and perhaps even as two representatives of
cultures historically opposed to each other's welfare we can be ambassadors, the goodwill
kind of ambassadors even. I'd do my best to forget Vietnam and the
smells of the Asian market down the street, and she'd overlook all the
jokes about how badly she drives and questions about her SAT math scores. We'd be like Tango and Cash, two
horribly different people who can't survive without the other but who make for the best kind of buddy-slapstick comedy.
Like the other day, when I pointed to the bottle of clear polish and she thought I was pointing to the picture of an airbrushed mountain scape with waterfall and eagle soaring, indicating that I wanted such a scene painted on each of my fingernails. She pointed to the mountain scene and I emphatically waved both hands like I do, and we laughed and laughed as she pantomimed starting up the airbrush machine. It's a good thing she laughed at this, because we wouldn't be laughing if she actually painted a mountain scape with waterfall and eagle soaring on my fingernail. No one would be laughing because they'd be too busy prying the airbrush out of her forehead after I'd jabbed it there in a fit of goodwill.
I find it very funny, and perhaps perverse, that the lady in the KY Warming Touch commercials is now staring in ads for Miracle Grow.
ME: I didn't really do anything, I have all the movie channels now so I watched that pants around the world movie.
Shannon: Ha ha ha. Pants around the world?
ME: The Moving Pants
ME: The Pants That Go On Their Own
ME: The Magic Pantalones
Shannon: HA ha haha. I love that movie. Ha ha ha Pants Around the World.
Shannon: I can't seem to find a simple scientific calculator.
ME: You mean a dashboard widget for it?
Shannon: Uh, yeah. That is what I meant. Sorry, that was like 3 convos ago.
ME: Pants Around The World Widget. That would be a good widget.
Shannon:HA HA HA HHAHA. Seriously. Where are the pants now?! Ahhh, Louisville, good to know.
ME: Who's week is it for the pants? I need to invoke Rule #11!
"My life is brilliant.
My love is pure.
I saw an angel.
Of that I'm sure."
This is a poor way of introducing the narrator as it sets a tone of arrogance and self-confidence not fitting for a good character struggle. Perhaps think of starting with something like, "I never knew my mother."
"She smiled at me on the subway.
She was with another man.
But I won't lose no sleep on that,
'Cause I've got a plan."
Obviously the narrator is a man of low morals, preparing to seduce the love of a rival and steal her from him. This can be seen as either very evil or very chivalrous, depending on what period this piece is set in. Also, I appreciate his resourcefulness, and not complaining about his situation but rather doing something about it.
"You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
I saw you face in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never be with you."
Unclear. The narrator said in the previous paragraph that he had "a plan," but now he's confused as to "what to do." Does he have a plan, or not? And who is beautiful? The woman he saw, or the other man? Who does the narrator eventually want to be with?
"Yeah, she caught my eye,
As we walked on by.
She could see from my face that I was,
Fucking high."
This clarifies which character the narrator wants to be with, but why is he suddenly inebriated? If he so wanted to be with this person who he claims is "beautiful," why would he pass her by, or present himself in such an intoxicated way? Reconsider the narrator's sobriety, and his giving up on his previous plan.
"And I don't think that I'll see her again,
But we shared a moment that will last till the end."
Now this story is becoming very confusing. Why will he never see her again? He had a plan in the beginning of the story, was his plan to get high and not act on his feelings? If so, this is going to turn out like a Candace Bushnell novel, and I don't think that's a wise choice. Reconsider the climax of the story and include a more reasonable solution to the narrator's problem.
"You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true."
I appreciate restating the narrator's greatest statement for emphasis, but it seems repetitive. Perhaps restating his mission only once is more appropriate.
"There must be an angel with a smile on her face,
When she thought up that I should be with you.
But it's time to face the truth,
I will never be with you."
This story is obviously a statement about man defeating the will of God. I don't think "the subway" is the strongest metaphor possible, but it is a good alternative to the landscape of Pilgrim's Progress or The Crucible. The urban backdrop lends to the frailty of the human existence, and emphasizes man's need for deliverance from making his own decisions. I think it would be a better idea to start the story with a stronger focus on God's sovereignty, and less focus on what a huge fucking whiny pussy the narrator is.
To: JF
From: SH
Date: Thu Feb 09, 2006 10:49:39 AM PST
Subject: !
I just walked into the bathroom and was struck by my own reflection in the mirror, and realized that the tank top I'm wearing is TOTALLY SEE THROUGH and I have on the sluttiest bra ever made underneath it. Like, you can easily make out every single detail of THE LACE right across my enormous chest.
Hi, I'm so professional. Thanks for the new job.
To: SH
From: JF
Date: Thu Feb 09, 2006 10:52:12 AM PST
Subject: Re: !
WHORE!!!!
To: JF
From: SH
Date: Thu Feb 09, 2006 10:54:05 AM PST
Subject: Re: Re: !
What you didn't know is that the lace actually does spell out the word "WHORE," but in an incredibly intricate victorian pattern. You should see the thing. Amazing craftsmanship.
