Posted by Stan on April 4, 2008 5:56 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)

March 31, 2008

Photo Blog: Over the Counter

In January, I received a helpful e-mail from my health insurance provider. It informed me that Zyrtec — the allergy medication I’ve taken since I was 15 — would now be providing prescription-strength pills over the counter, so if I attempted another prescription refill, they’d have no problem charging me $145 instead of the usual $15.

I don’t usually take my allergy medication in winter, because there aren’t as many outdoor allergens to ruin my life. But allergy season is upon us, and as such I finished my Zyrtec prescription on Sunday and had to take a trip up to Walgreens to find the over-the-counter version. They had a bunch of options: five tablets, 14, 30, or 45. I would have preferred to go big, for maximum value, but the 30- and 45-tablet options were locked in little cabinets. I don’t really like pushing the button and having someone from the pharmacy assist me, because, aside from the other sordid reasons, there’s a girl working in that pharmacy who I unintentionally stalked for about three months about eight years ago.

Now, when I say that, don’t get all in a tizzy thinking I’m some psycho nutbar. Different people have different definitions of “stalking” (apparently). Standing behind a tree in her front yard, chain-smoking and staring at her bedroom window — that’s stalking. Asking a girl on a date multiple times, including prefacing one or two of them with flowery (and, I’ll admit, embarrassing) declarations of love — that’s just a delightful cocktail of persistence and stupidity. No matter how you define it, there’s nothing more humiliating than seeing her. She actually stopped working there for awhile, but now she’s back, and I’m compelled to switch over my prescription pickup location to a slightly farther but much less awkward location. But fuck, it was Sunday, I didn’t want to drive 10 minutes when I could have driven three.

I also didn’t want to risk having to see or speak with her if I could avoid it, so I didn’t push the little assistance button. Even though it was kind of a rip-off, I grabbed two 14-tablet thingies and went home.

Then I tried opening them. I’m usually not easily daunted by something as simple as medication, but look at the way it’s packaged:

In case you can’t tell from the photo, that’s 14 pills, each individually packaged in plastic about five times larger than it needs to be. I went to the tool drawer to grab an array of tools I thought might help.

Unfortunately, when push came to shove, the only thing that could possibly work were my fingers.

Here’s the thing: perhaps the only parts of my body that have any kind of strength or dexterity are my hands. I’m a sloppy guitarist, an incompetent video game player, and a fast typist — my hands have developed Samson-like power.*

I flipped over the package and found some handy instructions:

Easy enough, until I pushed the damn tabs and yanked it back

That’s right: the size of the holes are too small to get the pill packages out. I’m sure they did this so the packages wouldn’t all spill out at the same time, but they made them too small. It took a concerted effort just to get one out. I decided to improvise.

Yanking off the entire back worked wonders. Not only did the individual packages not spill out — the plastic packaging acted as a handy bowl to hold them.

I got my first look at the individual package:

There’s some nice, handy perforation. I’ll bet that’s how you get to the pill.

Hmm, TEAR BEND TEAR. That seems like more effort than what’s needed, but still, I’ve dealt with worse over-the-counter packaging. Or I thought I had, until I attempted to TEAR.

With what I can only describe as a Herculean effort, I tore off the little tab. Unfortunately, my hands are only at a Samson strength level, so it took an unreasonable amount of effort to accomplish very little.

In fact, it accomplished practically nothing. It tore, but it didn’t exactly burst forth with the sweet nectar of allergy relief. Still more effort was required, because I did not yet BEND and TEAR (again). So I bent.

Bending opens up a tiny slit in the foil. I slid one of fingers underneath it, tore, and —

What the FUCK?! How is it still not open?! One more swipe finally got it:

That was completely unreasonable, a waste of time and effort that took more than five minutes when it should have taken about three seconds (like it does with every other over-the-counter medication on the planet).

I discovered an easier way, which I will pass along to the few readers who have stuck with this post. Fuck TEAR BEND TEAR. Here’s what you do: bend it, hard, with the brute force of a powerful hand (or perhaps a pair of pliers, if you’re a weakling) and slam that fucker in half. It’ll pop open a much wider, more useful slit that penetrates both layers of that shitty foil. You’ll know you did it right if you hear the distinctive pop that normal would suggest you’ve done something very, very wrong.

Tear that open like a Hershey bar on Easter, and you get to the pill:

There you have it. Putting forth a minimal amount of effort, you can bust apart that shitty packaging. If you get no other regular exercise, you may want to do it the hard way. Keep in mind you’ll need to do this 13 more times (or 27 if you doubled up like I did), so by the end of it you should be pretty bulked up, at least in the general hand-wrist-forearm area. On a related note, you’ll accumulate a bit of a mess:

Is this why they’re charging so much for the over-the-counter variety?

Edit 3/31/08 — I can’t find any kind of explanation for the ridiculous over-packaging. There are some blurbs about Zyrtec-D getting the usual meth treatment — behind-the-counter, photo ID, etc. — but regular Zyrtec doesn’t have pseudoephedrine. What the hell?

*Please don’t cut them off.

Posted by Stan on March 31, 2008 2:22 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (2)

March 26, 2008

Meanest Prank of All Time?

About six months after posting the surprisingly famous R. Kelly rant, I received my first confused/misguided request for R. Kelly’s e-mail address, from someone clearly thinking I was R. Kelly, despite the decidedly anti-Kells sentiment I spewed at the time (I’ve since learned the error of my ways and have come to love and respect the man’s tortured genius). This started an echo-chamber effect that has lasted to this day, with commenters from places as distant as Cameroon and as close Louisville posting their desire to contact R. Kelly. Around October of last year, I decided I’d start pranking them all. Nobody responded to my e-mails, in which I pretended to be R. Kelly by affecting poor spelling and an awful attempt at “street” patois, except for one guy. This is his story.

He left this comment in late September:

hi Kelly this is a fan.i know what people say about u but man,never mind.i personally like u for u have helped me without knowin.i started singing and as a matter of fact even won awards with some R and B tracks all under students entertainment.because of u ihave lot of songs which iwill like to give some out.they are really good and since u put the spirit in me must give them back to u.how do ido that?i need ur email address.mine is [e-mail address omitted despite the fact that you could just go over to the R. Kelly post and find it].ineed ur email.u will not be disappointed when u hear the songs.Thanx for ue help

I responded…

Date: Sunday, October 7, 2007 12:20:21 AM CDT
From: Robert Kelly
To: Samuel Anang
Subject: Kells callin

hey man, Mr. Samuel Anang, i first off got to say i appreciate ur
support more than every at this stone cold time in my life. i been
goin thru this trial n my law-bro twan be juicin galz n tryna get up
in they faces with a gat when he better off chillaxin in the club.

it’s great to my ears that u sing and that i been such a inspiration
to u all thru out ur life. i wold like to hear ur music as soon as
possible, bro. u can hit me back at this email for now until time
stops. i got me a blackberry so i can hear ur shit, even in the club.

~kells~

To my surprise, he got back to me by morning:

Date: Sun, 7 Oct 2007 09:59:40 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Re: Kells callin

wow,is this really u Kells?how do i let u hear the songs?i will like to send just one to u to hear first.u will like what u have helped me put together.should i send it through an EMX or what?plzzzzzzzzz let me know how to get the song to u ,plzzzzzzzzzz.if it is really u,then i am more than willing to give ur songs out.[they are urs cus u helped me.remember?]i will expect ur reply soon.
bye,
Samuel

I didn’t respond to this one. The moment I started sending these prank e-mails, I felt a mixture of guilt and immaturity I hadn’t felt since the time in fifth grade one of my friends and I set fire to a plastic shopping cart behind Kmart. (If you’re thinking that’s impossible to do, here’s how you do it: take a piece of easy-to-ignite cardboard, light it, and toss it in the cart. You can thank me later.) I spent almost a week hemming and hawing, without responding, because this ignorant sap had already bought into something that was clearlyfake.

However, when he responded again, I decided not to feel guilty. He sorta had it coming. Yes, that’s all I need to justify immoral and unethical behavior. Feel free to enlist my help in your next crime spree.

Date: Sat, 13 Oct 2007 10:55:37 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Whatz up?

Yo Kells,
             howz life?i do not know if u got my last message but i know u kinda busy so might not reply that fast.actually this is the guy who said will like to give some tracks out since u helped him do that.i will please like u to give me a contact adress so that i will send the song.i will go to an underground studio and have a recording of one of the songs in order to send it to u.i just want u to know that u really put ur spirit in me and i have got lot of songs to give up.plz give me a contact address to send the CD after the recording .plz do let me have it cus u will not be disappointed.i only want u to have trust in me before i send the other ones.Once again, it is my greatest desire to give my songs out to u cus u helped me write them and as i am not out as a musician ,will give what i have for now up to the one who helped me write them..Hope to hear fromu soon.
Samuel Anang

Because (once my guilt was alleviated) I’m the meanest person in the universe, and pranking was the whole point, I honed in on the sheer desperation and kiss-assiness. I decided to come up with a convoluted, ridiculous method of sending a CD to ensure Kells would get it.

Date: Saturday, October 13, 2007 9:23:30 PM CDT
From: Robert Kelly
To: samuel anang
Subject: Re: Whatz up?

i got to say it make me a little surprize 2 no the impact i have. i mean, i hear all it all tha time be it from a young hunny or a fan on tha street or @ mcdonald’s, “kells, u give me so much spirit.” i feel so happy when i hear those words comin out a persons mouth, & i’m real happy i get 2 connec wit u, Samuel.

u want 2 get yo records out 2 me, hear what u do. it might sound a lil tricky but i tell u, follow tha directions & i’ll get ur stuff. i’ll listen & tell u how i feel wit honesty. i get tha feelin i’ll luv it, tho.

hear how u do it. find 1 of them CD mailing envalopes wit tha bubble rap, a black one. if u can’t find black, get yo self a sharpie & color it black. it GOT 2 b black, ALL black. also get urself 1 of them silver glitter markers. u need it later but i figure it save you some time 2 get it with the sharpie & envalope.

so u got tha black envalope, what u do is put ur CD in there and mebbe drop a note sos i no it u & why u sendin (i get lots of emails, that’s why i never answer before sorry!), seal that fucker up.

then wit tha silver marker, write this address up top 2 send it 2:

Zomba Recording Corporation
Attn: R. Kelly 2389104
137-139 West 25th Street
New York, New York 10001

it b eazy this way. them numbers 2389104 b a sekrit code 4 just me & my special friends 2 send stuff. i will get it this way. i’d send my home address but i b hones: i don’t know u at all.

if u want, u can also email some tracks to me, mp3 tracks, i can get em thru email if u can send em. it b eazier 4 sho, but if u can’t i understand. just send the CD 2 that address, k?

~kells~

—————————————
Sent using BlackBerry

Get Kells on yo ringtone @ http://www.r-kelly.com/mobile.html

I still think the Blackberry joke is funny. I came up with it after receiving a series of e-mails from the Big-Shot Producer with that footer, and since Double Up had recently come out and I found the “Ringtone” song hilarious, I decided to include an ad, as well.

This sent Samuel on an epic quest to do right by Kells. It didn’t end well.

Date: Wed, 24 Oct 2007 09:20:17 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Re: Yo Kells

Hi Kells’
sorry its a long time since u heard from me after ur last reply.i actually had to put some things in place to get about half the amount of money for the recording.also i spent day s trying to find the black CD envelope which i could not find.i actually had to colour another envelope all black but it was also rejected.Finally i had to use a brown envelope and a pen to write the address.please forgive me.i also registered it so it gets to you safely,if not i will hold the post office responsible so i know it will get to you.expect it in a week’s time.i do not have much to say but will wait for ur coment on the song.once again sorry the procedure was altered.
Samuel

It was around this time where I realized the prank had plateau’ed. I had nowhere else to take it except chastise him and end the “relationship” because he disobeyed my procedure. I just kinda sat on it. He sent a few more e-mails, which became increasingly needy and desperate. They made me start to feel guilty again.

Date: Thu, 1 Nov 2007 06:42:28 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Got It?

i know its been long.As i said in my last reply,i sent the CD but not in a black envelope cus we do not have that type here and a coloured envelope is not accepted.that is why i put it in the brown one and wrote the address boldly in pen on it.once again i am sorry for that.but i registerd it ;therfore it must get to u and that should be latest by 3RD of Nov.please let me know immediately you get it.u might like to talk to me too.i should have asked for ur number but for a person like u,u cannot do that.mine is [phone number omitted].i know this will also help us to know each other better.i will be expecting your call too when you have the CD.PLEASE DO NOT GET ANGRY WITH ME cus of the difference in envelope.Once again,i am very SORRY.
hope to here from u soon.
Samuel

In the e-mail above, he at least seems a little excited — he’s so confident in his life-changing songs, he’s handing out phone numbers. A few days later, he gets a little desperate:

Date: Mon, 5 Nov 2007 10:59:56 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: I am worried

Hi Kells,
           i have been waiting for your reply to know if you have had the CD.Did u check from the Zomba Recording Corporation?i registered the CD and so i expect it to get to u by now.if it hasn’t,i will have to hold the post office responsible for misplacing it.i have already told you why i could not send thru a black envelope ;we do not have it here and a coloured one is not acceptable.i appologised cus the rules are inevitable.please forgive me if it will give u a hard time trying to have it from the corporation but i have got to know if u have requested for it from the corporation.Please reply cus i am kind of confused now.hope to hear soon.
Samuel

In this next one, he attempts to send one of the songs by attaching one of those .cda shortcut files that you see on Windows if you double-click on an audio CD. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

Date: Thu, 8 Nov 2007 11:55:24 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Track

Yo Kells,
i do not know if you have still got the track but i have finally sent it to you through the mail.Kells i know you will get the CD itself since i have already sent but for now this is the same track.Let me know immediately you get it and do not disappoint me.i wrote the whole song though but was helped by some one with the chorus.i did the rest of the verses and the backing of the last chorus.Kells i trust in you to let me know when you get it that is why i have sent it to you.
Samuel

This time, I contemplated writing him back. Since he was so excited about sending this stuff through e-mail, I decided maybe encouraging him to download iTunes and rip some MP3s would do the trick. At the very least, I could get some mild amusement out of his low-quality songs.

I decided not to reply until he sent two more…

Date: Sat, 10 Nov 2007 02:00:40 PM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: i sent song into mail too

Hi Kells,
            i have sent the song into ur mail cus it might delay to have the CD and i do not know the comment you will have on the track but this is what i got to say supposing you like it.i am adding this before the reply cus i will like you to combine all the reply since it might take a long time before i hear from you again.
  Reasons why i will like to give my tracks to you
1]Anybody i ask to help me come out with my tracks either want me to sell it out to them to sell it to other artistes or will like to take them forcefully from me.[probably its cus of my age]
2]i am a student who will like to further my education and so either i give the songs out or i combine it with formal education but as i said i cannot trust anyone in my country so far to help me.
3]U are the mentor that led to writing the tracks so if i have got to give them out,it must definitely be u.

Reasons why i will like to come to US
1]The only sound engineer i can trust has travelled so cannot have any more recordings here and send to u;moreover i will like you to see me for”seeing is believing” in order to know what i have got in me and if the track is actually from me.
3]i have a track which talks about the problem u are going through and that means ,even if i can trust another engineer here u will have to do it yourself.
Kells i know the reasons i have given is enough to let u know how close i want to be to u just because u are my mentor.plzzzzzz Kells i mean whatever i have said so please do something about it so i get to u in US.I CAN COME BACK AFTER THAT.If you still doubt,u can let me take care of the neccessary documents to come there and if u do not like my songs u can send me back that very day.i must get to you early so u can decide to send me an invite ticket which i can take to no where but u.i will need your telephone number if it will be cool with u.i have sent mine in a previous mail.
Kells i want to make it up to u so please respond to my calling.u might like to see my pic so will send to u.
Your homie,
Samuel

Here’s where I started losing my guilt again: he’s a leech. He’s kissing R. Kelly’s ass for a free trip to join his entourage and be rocketed to superstardom by Kells. What the fuck? But before I could respond, he sent the second one:

Date: Sat, 10 Nov 2007 02:08:25 PM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Fwd: My pic

in the second pix,i am the one in yellow and receiving the award ;;Best Solo Artiste” in High School

Note: forwarded message attached.
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around
http://mail.yahoo.com

The following are the headers for this message/rfc822 message.
Date: Mon, 30 Jul 2007 07:27:52 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: My pic
From: Selorm Eckert Lotamey
To: samuel anang

You’ll notice something subtle here: the photos he sent of “himself” were forwarded directly from some other dude’s e-mail, subjected “My pic” — and meanwhile he’s telling Kells not only that it’s him, but that he’s winning an award for music! This eradicated my guilt once and for all: I didn’t know what, other than money and famewhoring, Samuel Anang wanted out of Kells…but he was clearly running some kind of low-level scam attempt. I don’t know if he unraveled the ruse or just really thought R. Kelly wouldn’t see through such a transparent lie, but I decided to throw in the towel and just be as obnoxious as possible, trying to get him to send as much music as possible and generally mindfuck him until I got bored with it.

I wrote him an e-mail, which unfortunately I lost, about iTunes and requesting he rip some tracks for me to take a listen to. It took him over a week to respond with two songs:

Date: Sun, 18 Nov 2007 09:00:22 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: I finally sent it//////////

My Man,
         i am happy that a new album will be out soon.And 4 the trial i am with u thru it.Cus of that i have written a track 4 you but does not offend anybody and talks about u and the hatred some people have 4 u.U’ve got to hear it and know how to arrange the verses cus u must do it urself.
Anyway, i know u’ve now heard the song.i actually wrote it looking at how ur wife might feel after all what is being said about u.[especially the second verse of song].It is therefore dedicated to her and my future wife .
Kells,got about 10 tracks to give out but as said and explained in previous mail,cannot have anymore
recordings hear .It will be faster if documents will be made and sent to me or an invitation.I guess u can let some1 cater 4 that since u are damn busy.U can decide to let him come and check if i really can deliver here in my country.I will be expecting ur reply on
1]The song and what u intend to do with it cus u might re-do it or ask me to do it again since it is not a masterpiece.
2]My coming to the states.if yes let me know what to do;if no,let me know why?
3]A comm. number that will make comm faster. Kells got to be there cus’Seeing is Believing’
Samuel

It’s kind of important the he says he has “about 10 tracks to give out.” Trust me.

Once again, I listened to the music, I reveled in the badness, but I…didn’t respond. By that time, it had less to do with stringing him along and more to do with getting busy in my embarrassing social life. I just couldn’t take the time to respond to prank e-mails. He sent me two, spaced almost two months apart.

Date: Fri, 7 Dec 2007 11:59:34 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: hope u heard it

Hey Man,
i sent the track on 17 Nov.this time i did it right.but man i think thewre is so much about u on air but i know i will be the last guy to stand by u.i now got so much trax i want to give out.they will only need few re arrangements from the king of R and B himself.i will be very if u can make the arrangements for my coming to the states soon and u can have another album soon.
Samuel

I love the exploitative promise that his songs will lead R. Kelly to another blockbuster album.

Date: January 22, 2008 12:22:54 PM CST
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Ur son Samuel

Hi Kelly,
            its been more than 2 months now.but i know its cus of the tour and all the accusations people put on you all because u evergrow in the music industry.plz pardon me cus i am about to say a lot.i sent u the track in Nov but since i had some 1 sing the chorus u might think it is not mine cus of that,i made another song all cus of the troubled mind u have in recent times and named it ”troubled mind”. i sung as if i am u so everywhere u hear ”I” that is ”U”. but for the intro,that is my message to u.Somewhere in the the middle there is a place starting with ”I said Kells is the man”;that will be whom u will feature.i am jxt saying so even tho you might change a lot of things.Once again i am sorry for the poor recording so u will have to use earpiece.i did it in a friends room not a studio yet he took an extra $200 in addition to $300 that i gave him cus he did not want me to use his room.i had to borrow the extra $200 so even if u will like to see me before u show ur appreciation plz send the $200.All what i ask for is to be a songwriter to u since things dont always go well with me financially.I will be happy if u can also send an invite to me sos i can come and give the remaining 9 tracks in addition to the ”wat u gonna do”.For i wil like u to put the ”troubled mind” on air as an exclusive one because of the problems being put on u.
NB;
1] U can send the money thru Western Union or any other to Ghana and with info given
i will go for it.
2]in case u want to send the invite
[mailing address omitted]
3]my number is [phone number omitted]
4]If this is not Kells plz let him have the track and if u will not link me,i will still work with u sos i can make a living. Hope to hear soon.

He forwarded this same message two weeks later when I didn’t respond, but mainly what I was waiting for (in addition to being too busy/lazy to respond) was more music. When he didn’t send any, I decided to kickstart this prank.

Date: February 8, 2008 11:14:27 AM CDT
From: Robert Kelly
To: samuel anang
Subject: Re: Ur son Samuel

yo samuel, how u be?

i sure’s sorry bout not gettin back 2 u sooner, it just so hard like u said cuz of tha tour & such & my blackberry done broke so i had ta wait until i got near a computer. listen i got tha trax u emailed to me.

i got 2 say, it a little raw, but there somethin there. b4 i go 2 all tha trouble of sendin finances ur way, i just wonder if u can send another track or 2 so i can get a better feel 4 ur styles. if u could do that plz it’d help out a lot.

thx samuel

~kells~

I’m not saying “b4 i go 2 all tha trouble of sendin finances ur way” is an explicit admission that I’d help pay for shit, but I could see how somebody would get the wrong idea. The way I read it (and what I meant when I wrote it) is, “If you send me more songs and they don’t suck, I’ll consider bringing you to America.” Nonetheless, even though this time it nearly took him a month to respond, seeing the phrase “sendin finances” apparently got Samuel salivating:

Date: Mon, 3 Mar 2008 10:08:39 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Subject: Done it

Hi Kells,
    i finally did it.i payed$500 for them.i plead with u to send at least the money i borrowed to do this so that u can decide to send something later or let me come there.i ill expect u very soon.and please any bank here ill do.
bye
Samuel

With that, he sent three additional tracks. He also changes his story quite a bit. First, it’s “I paid $300 for 10 tracks but now the dude is demanding an extra $200”; now he’s actually he just recently paid a full $500 for these three “new” tracks he sent me. Did he really pay $1000 to record 13 tracks with bargain-basement technology? Seriously, I need to move to Ghana. I could make a living there.

I listened to the songs, but I felt like the prank had pretty much run its course. The combination of me lying to him, and him lying to me, made me feel like the whole thing was a wash.

Samuel disagreed.

Date: Mon, 17 Mar 2008 08:07:57 AM CDT
From: samuel anang
To: Robert Kelly
Reply-To: Samuel Anang
Subject: Are You Still There?

Hi Kells,
           What is keeping you that long after i sent three tracks on 3rd Feb? i can wait for long but as i told u the money used for the recordings even though rough was borrowed and now the lenders are putting the pressure on me.U can at least check the mails once in two weeks to respond to some of us.If the problem on you is now too much u can link me to someone else to help me if possible cus u have known me for seven months but it seems to me as if we just met.Please if there is too much on u such that things will not work out between us,let me know.At least i can sell some few things i possess to pay those who lent me the money and may look somewhere else for help.i would not blame u ,i will understand.please do reply soon.
Sam

I hope I’m not the only one who notices the not-entirely-subtle shift in tone from friendly/hopeful/desperate to mildly hostile — but not too hostile, so as to avoid pissing “Kells” off. His e-mail made me feel a little uncomfortable, like if I didn’t respond, he’d send his “lenders” to go kidnap Kells — or, worse, he’d expose me and send them in my direction. Nobody wants that, least of all the person I intend to trick them into thinking is the real culprit, so I decided to officially end this prank, not just leave it hanging.

look bro, i wanna beleeve tha best in peeps but i don’t get this attitude. i ain’t promise u nothin but that i’d listen ,n i did. u got somethin, thay ain’t no doubt bout that but i think its real hard 2 beleeve u spend $500 on them trax

i ain’t tryina hurt but u dont know what it like bein kells lately shit b gettin RAW. i got a trial goin on n it cost all kind a $$$ n my new record ain’t b sellin like back in 94…started real good but now it goin down. ran way over tha top on my new trapped chapters. and to top that off, some punk stoled my blackberry. so hear u r, not catchin my pain, jus askin 4 handouts like all tha rest

i think we need to end this. u won’t hear from me again.

~kells~

(Note that I have a continuity error of my own: earlier I said my Blackberry was broken, but now I changed it to stolen. Oops!)

I’m about 98% sure Samuel Anang is full of shit. He may owe some people $500, but I don’t think it’s for those recordings. He’s trying to get R. Kelly to be his sugar daddy, and when he doesn’t get his way, he gets angry and, I don’t know, I sense a little fear in that last e-mail.

But what if he’s telling the truth? If he’s gullible enough to believe I’m R. Kelly, he’s gullible enough to pay $500 for some worthless recordings. That makes me feel guilty for stringing him along, but I can’t get over the real, concrete lies (which make me assume the implicit lies are just as concrete). Am I the only person in the world who could overthink a prank like this? Maybe…

I’m going to give him a few days to send a response. If I don’t hear from him, I’m dismantling my R. Kelly mailbox to ensure Samuel won’t hear from “him” again.

Posted by Stan on March 26, 2008 4:53 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)

March 24, 2008

Stupid Bloggers Need the Most Attention

About a month ago, Ken Levine posted a really stupid critique of No Country for Old Men, written by Bob “Back to the Future” Gale. (Some of the nitpicks are reasonable, but the bulk of them are either a side effect of not paying attention or just not understanding what was happening. I don’t understand why people, especially professional writers, found the movie so difficult to follow.) This post isn’t about that.

No, it’s about the comments, many of which fawn over Levine’s incisive and insightful criticism, while failing to realize he didn’t actually write it. From these comments, I found a gem of a blog, somebody who wrote in the comment that she read the screenplay and “didn’t get it.” I thought, “Hmm, that might be interesting.” I clicked on the blog…

…and found pretty much the stupidest analysis of a screenplay I’ve ever seen. I’m not the smartest guy in the world, and I’m often the last person to accuse someone of outright stupidity — hell, even in this case, after examining the full breadth of her posts, I’d chalk it up to a toxic combination of ignorance and naïvete — but her blog post was full of woefully misguided arguments, mainly because she doesn’t understand certain English words. Quite seriously, this was the problem with her post: even though she admits she understood these confusing passages in the context of the next sentence or two, the Coens’ (or Cohens’, as she repeatedly calls them) are at fault.

I’m not going to link to the blog specifically, but I will posted excerpts that will easily trace back to it, because I’m that kind of guy.

The windshield stars.

A quick second round pushes part of the windshield in.

“The windshield stars”? As clever as that may sound, it’s confusing. I had to stop a second and reread the line because I wasn’t sure what it meant. So I was like, huh? Wha…. oooh.

I don’t understand this at all. Has she never read a novel? She’s really gone through her whole life, gotten a Masters in creative writing, and never seen or heard “stars” used as a verb to indicate the unique way windshields shatter? Even beyond that, the next sentence makes it very clear. It’s a sudden, surprising — dare I say confusing? — moment in both the screenplay and the film.

Later, she writes:

Part of me wants to chalk that up to style points and get over it. But part of me does not like the way I had to constantly pay close attention to understand what the hell was going on in this script. The story should flow like a story, not feel like an assignment for my college English class.

Here are the flaws in that logic:

1. She’s a writer, but she doesn’t like a script that requires you to pay attention to the words on the page?
2. “The story should flow like a story”? Yet the bulk of her criticism revolve around the script being too novelistic in its approach.

Nobody in Hollywood wants to read, so you want to pack as much power into each individual word as you can — that’s where the challenge lies. A screenplay’s a blueprint for something that will appear on the screen, and like a blueprint, everything has to be very carefully planned out — especially for unsold spec writers. For instance, you don’t want to “direct on the page,” so you have to use the power of suggestion — if you write it well enough, the director will take an individual sentence and shoot it in the exact way you want it shot. Those sensitive folks don’t want you doing their job for you, which is why so many scripts loaded with camera jargon go nowhere.

It’s also why reading a shooting draft, especially by a writer-director, isn’t the best study tool for an unsold screenwriter. It’s useful in a lot of ways — you can see what they cut out, you can see how they wrote out a particular sequence, reordering of scenes in the editing room (for instance, the Point Break screenplay opens with the big robbery/backyard chase, then flashes back — horrible for the movie, but what a great way to open a script) — but you have to learn to ignore endless sluglines marking shots and angles, overuse of the dreaded “we see,” etc. When it’s at the shooting draft stage, all bets are off. It’s been sold, greenlit, and it’s on its way to being made. You can be as lazy as you want.

Or you can be as dense and novelistic as you want. I’ve read several Coen scripts, and they all read that way — slugs are rare and vague, action blocks are loaded with purple prose, often with unfilmable character details that one assumes is there for them to remember while directing. You know why? Because they’re a writing/directing/producing team that has made a shitload of successful movies. At this point, even with the stinky recent legacy of Intolerable Cruelty and The Ladykillers, they could shit out pretty much anything and get a greenlight. They’re the Coens.

So if they write “the windshield stars,” do they really care about Joe or Jane Schmoe seeking it out online or buying it from one of those scuzzy guys on Hollywood Boulevard who makes his living selling tattered, fifth-generation Xeroxes to wannabes? They know what it means, one assumes the cast and crew know what it means it if they realize reading comprehension involves stringing many sentences together to form understanding — so who cares?

This blogger does, and that’s the problem. I started reading forward in her blog, but it took awhile for the obsession to set in. The more she wrote, the more ignorant and irritating she seemed. (Especially when she started mocking the writing skills of her students, rather than lamenting the total institutional failure their poor writing represents.) I started to wonder, “Has she always been like this, or is she getting a little too hoity-toity now that she’s directed a short film?” So I went back to the archives…

…long story short, this is not a new thing. And after reading obsessively, it occurred to me what her problem is. It’s not just the ignorance and the naïvete coloring her judgment and causing ill-informed, dumbass opinions. It’s the fact that she blames everything and everyone else for anything bad that happens in her life. Since I’ve already belabored the point with the Coens excerpt, I will use that as the example: she didn’t like the script because she doesn’t understand English words and (apparently) has a problem with putting thought into what she reads. Somehow, this is the Coens’ fault.

The entire blog is littered with examples of this blameless attitude. Sometimes it’s justified; more often, it’s just shrill stupidity. But after reading through the archives, it made me wonder:

Do people think the same thing about this blog?

That implies people read it to begin with, but what if they stumbled on me randomly? What if I started commenting on others’ blogs to generate traffic, and before you knew it people were clicking through, reading posts they find stupid, ill-informed, and offensive, and then they go back through the archives and make judgments about my character that are, quite simply, the unvarnished truth?

It’s the way shit goes when you let it all hang out, but I’d hate for someone to jump the wrong conclusion, like if they read a post where I do something nice for somebody and assume I’m not conniving and hateful. I guess that alone justifies the recent About Stan link on the sidebar.

Posted by Stan on March 24, 2008 11:42 AM  | Permalink  | Comments (2)

September 11, 2007

Killer Bees!

Nothing terrifies me more than insects and spiders. Little creepy crawly piles of shit. You hear things like you swallow an average of five spiders a year (in your sleep), or that flies use you as a toilet, and it reduces my comfort level to 0. I know I shouldn’t be afraid of something tiny and mostly harmless, but you know what? I don’t like things touching me that I haven’t specifically asked to touch me. This isn’t limited to insects and spiders, but they seem to be the ones with no regard for other living objects, especially ones with rolled newspapers and fly-swatters. I’m pretty sure it goes deeper than that, though. Dogs jump on me and try to lick my crotch, and it doesn’t bother me. Cats look at me like I murdered their parents and will pay for my crimes, and it doesn’t bother me (P.S.: I no longer eat cats). Animals of all kinds have unusual perceptions of space (including humans — what is up with fuckers crowding you in line at the grocery store?), but most of the time if you do something like gently push a dog away from your penis so you can try licking it yourself, or saying to the guy behind you to take THREE FUCKING STEPS BACK before you stab him, they will take the hint. Not so with insects.

Also, every time I see one — even if it turns out to be a piece of lint, or something — I get a queasy “fight-or-flight” feeling, and my typical instinct is to RUN FOR MY FUCKING LIFE. From something 5000 times smaller than me. I may have had some insect-related trauma in my past, because that kind of instinct doesn’t even kick in when I see a vicious dog, foaming at the mouth, with no owner in sight and no fence to keep us apart. I get into my Mr. Furley karate stance and it’s fucking on.

A few years ago, I got stung by a yellowjacket. Shortly thereafter, I launched a misguided water-based assault while in a Vicodin haze (there would have been a link there, except I apparently forgot to blog it; enjoy this, instead!). This hasn’t improved Stan-insect relationships at all.

At lunch today, I sat in my car reading. Usually I go for a vigorous constitutional and return more in love with my job than ever, but I haven’t been able to do that so far this week. Here’s why (that’s right, you’re getting two blog entries for the price of one — brought to you buy Laziness™):

I work on a street that curves around, sort of like an L but with a reeeeeeeally curvy corner. I usually park on one end of the curve, so I have to clear traffic on both sides, causing quite a bit of head motion. Also, I lack depth perception (seriously!), so I sometimes have a rough time doing things like walking without looking down at my feet to make sure the ground is still there. And, to add insult to injury, the shoddy lawn curves downward, so the curb is a lot higher. These forces of nature, combined with traffic coming in my direction from either side of the curve, led me to trip on the raised curb and tumble into the middle of the street.

I staggered to my feet, waved the cars (both of which had to stop) past while I stared down like the embarrassment that I am, and limped to my car. Did I mention I was wearing a pair of jeans I’ve had since high school, which have become so threadbare they’re basically a loose conglomeration of patches with bits of the original denim in key, load-bearing areas? Yeah, so those broke apart without much difficulty, resulting in me scraping the shit out of my knees. Also, I scraped one elbow as my arms valiantly attempted to protect my valuable, valuable face from the asphalt.

The drive home was a little difficult, with all the vibration and the blood and pain. I bandaged the shit out of myself, but Friday was pretty miserable. I had to limp all over the place. It was good to have the weekend to recuperate, but I’m still not at 100%. The knees, with their annoying flexibility, are not the easiest body parts to heal, considering it’s not easy to keep them from moving around. I’m taking it a little easy on the “power-walking” until I don’t need to, you know, re-dress each wound every day.

So I was reading, and it’s a pretty nice day — cooler than it’s been in months, sunny, with a nice breeze blowing. After awhile, I got a little tired of the turgid prose of what I’m reading, so I got out my iPod and, I’m only partly ashamed to admit, cranked up some of my own disgusting songs, since I can’t very well listen to them during work hours. About halfway through this song, a particularly strong gust blew something into my car. It landed on the door handle. I turned to look at —

A bee. One inch from my arm.

I panicked and began thrashing around like the autistic boy who proved Fermat’s Last Theorem.* I’m pretty sure this is the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do when faced with a nearby bee, but I can’t help myself. I react, do stupid things, then either apologize or complain about how nobody will accept my insincere apologies.

I rolled into the passenger seat, got all tangled in the headphone cable (with the iPod somehow finding itself behind my back, whipped open the passenger door and rolled out on the grassy knoll next to my car. I whirled around to get a visual on the bee —

— which hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Is it dead?” I wondered, considering the slight (disgusting) coolness factor in having a bee die, fall out of the air, and be pushed by the wind into my car.

Then I saw it move. Nausea rose. I had no idea what to do. I considered trying to shoo it out, but I thought it would either get confused and end up deeper in the car, or worse, turn on me. The first thing I did, to keep up the appearance that I’m not a creepy weirdo, was whip out my cell and dial Lucy, to give the impression I’m just a normal guy making a call, unable to get a signal from inside my car. Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s less weird than standing outside of a car for no apparen reason.

While I yammered, it occurred to me that I felt excruciating pain coming from the general knee area. Oh, that’s right: when I rolled my ass out of the car, I ended up slamming my semi-injured knees all over everything — adrenaline took over, but it was gone now, replaced with pain and a mild oozing sensation. Clearly, the scabs were obliterated. Lucy pretended to be sympathetic, even though I knew she was laughing on the inside, and then announced she had to hang up. I muttered some obscenities as a goodbye.

I went over to the driver’s side and whipped my jacket over the window, in an attempt to thwack the bee and either kill it, drag it out, or set it in motion so it got the fuck out of my car. When I removed the jacket, I peered into the car, and found…nothing.

The fuck? I checked the jacket out and saw neither bee guts nor a carcass fall out. I saw nothing fly away. I opened the door and gave a cursory examination around the area it would have fallen if it had, indeed, died. Nothing there.

Was it, perhaps, a ghost bee?

No, you idiot.

It might have gotten wedged under my seat accidentally. It might have flown away when I was distracted.

I left my windows cracked a little so it could fly or crawl out if it is indeed alive, but I’m dreading the drive home.

*I may have made up the autistic boy.

UPDATE, later on 9/11/07: Here’s an unusual conclusion. When I decided to crack my windows, I put my jacket and backpack into the trunk so my eggplant-colored 1993 Chrysler Concorde with the missing door panel wouldn’t entice any criminals. I drove home without incident, with the windows open as wide as possible (just in case). When I got home, I popped the trunk, pulled out my jacket — and saw a yellow streak blast off toward an evergreen. The fucking bee was on my jacket and just sat there, on the jacket, for four hours. I’ve been told my sweat has the distinctive odor of brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tarts. Could this have lured the bee to my jacket?

Posted by Stan on September 11, 2007 2:14 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (2)

May 1, 2007

My Subconscious Says: Woodland Creatures Want Me Dead

This winter, during the excitement and fun of hibernation season, we discovered a small animal had taken shelter in our attic. It had pulled up insulation to create a nest of sorts and had dragged food and disgusting clumps of leaves and branches (one assumes to make the place more homey, since it didn’t appear that it was part of the nest). It wasn’t there when we discovered it, but it seemed like it had been gone awhile so my dad assumed it was hibernating.

How’d it get there? It chewed through an old vent screen. My dad took off the screen, leaving a gaping hole, thinking, “I have months to replace this.” But he’s lazier than I am, so it goes without saying that there’s still a gaping hole, now that animals have come up from their burrows.

I had forgotten about this, and then about a month ago I had a really weird, vivid dream that an animal had gotten into my room and was on my bed, a la the “gift” Tom Hagen leaves for Jack Woltz. Except alive. It woke me up and was so vivid still that I leaped from my bed, ran out of the bedroom, slammed the door, and I swear I heard it chasing me. After a few seconds of waking up, I realized how stupid and irrational this was, so I went back into my room. No animals, living or dead, anywhere. Big surprise.

The next morning, my mom announced, “I heard an animal crawling around in the attic last night.” Huh. Is it possible that I heard the scratching and clawing, as well, and this is what caused such a vivid dream? I didn’t know…

…until I had a very similar vivid, creepy dream of animals crawling around and had the same involuntary reaction upon waking. This time, at least, I didn’t think I heard anything chasing me. I went back into my room; obviously, nothing there. I didn’t hear any scratching or crawling, though. That’s the weird thing — I’ve never heard it while I’m awake, yet I have these dreams.

The next morning, my mom said the same thing: “That animal’s back. We really need to do something about the screen.”

So since I’ve never had these dreams on any other night in my entire life, is it safe to conclude that the animal crawling around in the attic is causing my subconscious undue agony? It’s a well-known fact that I hate and fear all living creatures, including (especially?) humans, so it’s pretty reasonable to assume my subconscious would interpret the mild scratching of a squirrel or raccoon as a murderous, demonic animal that wants me as dead as possible.

But that sorta sucks, because I like sleeping.

Posted by Stan on May 1, 2007 9:12 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)

June 30, 2006

Degas’s Hecklers in Shitter

So my mother has this job now, and she has a co-worker who she says loves to hear himself talk about himself. He was late to work today, and the explanation as to why disturbed her:

He recently moved to our little slice of suburbia (although he’s a west-of-53’er, which is why it comes to no surprise that he’s a self-obsessed yuppie) and, last weekend, took his kids to a pool park we have called Rainbow Falls. It was recently rebuilt, which I guess is a detail that isn’t germane to the story, but I feel compelled to share it. I guess it accounts for the lack of any kind of detail or knowledge in the rest of the story; it’s been at least a decade since I went to the old Rainbow Falls, but I’ve never been to (and probably will never go to) the new one.

At any rate, at some point during this little trip to Rainbow Falls, he needed to take a shit. So he goes into the can, he’s by himself, he’s doing his business, and — three junior-high-aged kids rush into the bathroom. They’re making all kinds of noise, screaming, heckling, beating on his stall door. All this culminates in what I’d consider an ultimate act of humiliation: they crawled under the stall walls and doors and basically watched the man finish his shit, all the while heckling him in a Beavis & Butt-Head manner.

Why did something that happened last weekend make him late to work today? Was he trapped in the stall all week with these three depraved boys? No; after the incident, the guy immediately tracked down somebody who works there and had her file a report. But that wasn’t enough to quell his outrage and disgust; he tracked down some “big-wigs” at the Park District to not only explain the situation in more detail, but to politely tell them how to handle it. His scheduled conference call with them was this morning, which made him late to work.

He felt they should post high-school-aged attendants in all the bathrooms. He also apparently felt they should act like bouncers, and that any kids under 16 should be forced to use the “family bathroom.”*

My thought on this? Well, after the initial disbelief regarding certain aspects of the story (the most gaping hole was how he got out of the stall; they’re tiny, so I can barely imagine that many people crammed into it — another flaw of the story — and with these borderline-sociopathic attempts at intimidation, I really don’t see them just lettin gthe dude walk away without a fight), I kind of chuckled at the idea of high school students trying to ward off gangs of bizarre, creepy kids only a few years younger than themselves. Sure, they’ll stand watch, but at Park District wages, you’re gonna have a lot of kids unwilling to get involved in such bizarre situations. They might run and try to get security**, a cop, or some other kind of adult authority figure, but it’s not really a great preventative measure.

My mother, who worked at the Park District for many years, didn’t quite have the heart to tell him that they probably burst out in uncontrollable laughter as soon as he hung up the phone. She also felt like he should be pursuing this with the police rather than telling the Park District how they could prevent further incidents (especially when his idea was fairly half-assed). Kelly, one of my best friends from high school, is a part-time manager at Rainbow Falls, has told me enough disturbing stories that, combined with this incident and with the pedophilia issues, maybe having an actual security guard — not a high school student but possibly, a dude with a gun or a huge, bouncer-like fellow — wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. They apparently have some kind of security surveillance that was installed after the pederast stuff, but that doesn’t really prevent so much as it helps them catch suspects.

The whole thing seems unfeasible to me, however. How many more people would be creeped out by some armed man or gentle giant just standing there, probably in sunglasses, watching everything that happens? I’m sure it’d prevent a lot of unseemly incidents, but wouldn’t it be perceived as just one big unseemly instance itself?

With the overall disbelief still fresh in my mind, wondering why somebody would not just share the story in general but want to share it with everyone in the office on an individual basis, I turned to Kelly for answers. I wanted to know, before I put too much thought into this, if it had even happened. I know about Park District gossip, and I know Kelly herself as an almost pathological need to spread gossip to every corner of the universe. If something this odd had happened, she would know either from the rumor-mill or just from the bosses over her head telling her and other managers to do something about it.

Conveniently, right as my mom was finishing telling me the story, Kelly IM’ed me, from — even more conveniently — the scene of the crime, Rainbow Falls. I told her the entire story, and after “lol”-ing at a few key moments, she said, “Never happened. There’s no way.” Of course, she also said things like, “Around here, that would actually be a normal thing. It doesn’t even put a dent into the crazy-ass shit I’ve seen over the past 10 years.” This prompted a flood of little nuggets from stories I had, until that moment, blocked from my mind.

So from that point, I realized the story was total bullshit, which led me to the even more disconcerting question of why? Why would this guy make up a story like this, with such elaborate detail, just to explain getting to work late? What happened to “I had a flat tire”?

Did it start with a little granule of truth — maybe some obnoxious junior high kids actually were harassing him, but in a much milder way — and he just rolled with it? Because he has to be the hero of all his stories?

I don’t know. Stuff like this confounds me. Sometimes, when I have no interesting stories to write on this blog, I’m tempted to just make shit up, but that just seems so lame and half-assed. Instead, I go for weeks — possibly months — without a post.

*One of the many things I know almost nothing about, I’m told they installed a “family bathroom” in addition to the men’s and women’s rooms to circumvent reported incidents of pedophilia. Understandable.

**I don’t even know if they have security guards. It would stand to reason, what with the pedophilia, but I don’t remember them having security when I went there many years ago.

Posted by Stan on June 30, 2006 3:00 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (1)

March 17, 2006

The Horror of Spandex

I had a discussion earlier today about the horrifying fashion trends of the early ’90s: IOU shirts, Z. Cavaricci pants, the array of HyperColor apparel available (my favorite were the pants/shorts, because if somebody farted, there’d be a quarter-sized discoloration around their ass; that was comedy gold in fifth grade), multicolored “zinc oxide” to shield the nose from harmful UV rays, L.A. Gear “Lights,” Reebok Pumps. The neon-drenched horrors of the early ’90s couldn’t compare to the relatively tame turned-up-collars on polo shirts and tutu-like dresses that preceded it. But nothing — nothing! — was worse than the visual assault of spandex biking shorts.

This was one of the few trends to which I could fall victim. Did I look at spandex biking shorts and say, “I must have them!” No. My friends looked at my jean shorts and snickered because I had not embraced the latest, greatest fashion trend. I was stuck in a past that didn’t want me (fortunately, it would catch up three years later, thanks to grunge). Since all my parents could afford were a pair of Pump knock-offs and a few HyperColor shirts, I couldn’t expect anything exciting like IOUs or Air Jordans, but I could lobby for spandex biking shorts. For one thing, I went biking on almost an hourly basis, so I could argue that they were vital to my survival as an athlete. Also, they were cheaper than regular shorts.

So I got my wish — a single pair of spandex biking shorts, just for me. They were a violent, blinding shade of electric orange, with eye-stabbing fluoescent-green stripes along the sides. The only thing that could burn corneas with more ferocity was our harshest goddess, the sun. But I was thrilled — I had my own pair of spandex biking shorts. I put them on, leaped onto my 10-speed, and raced around our apartment complex to show off both the shorts and my burgeoning, pubescent package, prominently exposed thanks to the extreme tightness of the material.

I was immediately laughed at by older kids. Not for my usual problem of finally catching up with fashion trends just as they’re out the door — no, I came in right in the middle of the spandex phenomenon. I was humiliated for, once again, having “off-brand” spandex. Rather than having ultra-cool shorts that were almost entirely black, with fluorescent racing stripes, I wore a glowing target that may as well have said “I’m a big homo, so kick my ass.” It was initially humiliating, but I remained undaunted — as is the way of big kids, they’d mock anyone who was younger and/or smaller than they were. My friends would respect me.

When my friend Ryan caught his first glimpse of me, his face twisted with disapproval. “Dude,” he said in his reedy voice, “you’re not supposed to wear your underwear with them.”

What?! Who made up that rule? But as I looked down, I started to panic at the sight of my own visible-panty-line. Not only could you see the v-shape where my briefs ended — you could see all the stitching and, most prominently, where the elastic waistband started and ended. Such was the sperm-destroying tightness of the spandex movement.

So in order to fit in, I decided to freeball it for the first time in my entire life. This turned out to be the worst mistake of my entire life. As I had recently hit puberty, I started to notice fur where there was no fur before. And when I put on those brightly colored shorts and walked around unashamed, I noticed all the kids — especially the girls — giggling and whispering. At the time, this wasn’t common practice — I was actually, as a small child, considered reasonably cool. This ended when the grunge movement made me sullen and withdrawn. Then I got a computer and vented my frustrations at the world by writing hilariously bad short stories. Then I got the Internet and found like-minded trolls, and my life was ruined forever.

Sorry, slight digression. As I walked around, with kids snickering, once again Ryan approached and pointed out the problem: thanks to the magic thinness of spandex, coupled with the obscenely light color of the shorts (which apparently protected the freeballing older kids, with their black shorts), my recent growth of crotch hair was visible for the entire world to see. It not only slightly discolored the orange of the shorts, it tufted out slightly, so every single fiber of hair was visible to the naked eye, as the hot summer sun beamed down on Li’l Stan. I gasped like an idiot and ran back homet to change into normal clothes.

And I never wore spandex again.

Posted by Stan on March 17, 2006 2:27 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (1)

December 12, 2005

Free Gas!

My “low tank” light came on during my lunch break, as I was driving up Meacham Road. Fortunately, there’s a BP right at Golf. I kinda hate BP for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it makes my car run assier than usual, but my car doesn’t give me a whole lot of warning before flashing the “low tank” light, so desperate times…

So I’m filling up my tank, and this portly, middle-aged gentleman holding a clipboard walked up to me and exclaimed, “How would you like some free gas?!” The jovial tone in which he said this made me think if I said “yes,” he’d fart in my general direction. Instead, he went into this weird, long pitch session about how if I “took a survey,” he’d give me a free $50 gift card for 93 octane gas (which, with these prices and the premium gas, probably wouldn’t even be enough to fill my tank — but still, paying $0 is better than paying $50).

I said, “Okay,” and was about to add, “But only if it doesn’t take long,” when he started in with the questions.

“Do you live in Illinois?”

“Yes.”

“Are you over the age of 21?”

“Yes.”

“Are you licensed and insured to drive in the state of Illinois?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that’s it,” he said, slipping me the gift card. Then he whipped out the clipboard and insisted I sign an affadavit saying that he did, in fact, ask me those questions. I gave a fake address, took the card, and drove away. I’m…not actually sure it’s legitimate. It seems a little bit too good to be true, but I dimly remember reading a similar tactic being used in the ’70s — gas prices too high? Well, we’ll just give you some free gas, loyal customers. So I snicker at the fact that I’ll use this gas card next time I fill up my tank, and then I’ll probably never use BP again unless it’s another emergency situation.

Posted by Stan on December 12, 2005 4:04 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)

July 1, 2005

The Audition

The first step I planned to take in my revised life roadmap was to find a job or career I can stand for more than nine seconds. So far, the only job I didn’t want to leave was Tully’s, and while my sister offered to have me come and stay with her in Seattle and resume work there, Seattle sucks and $7.85 an hour without benefits won’t pay the pickle-man (I do not know what this expression mean; I assume the explanation involves gigolos).

As it turns out, in another life I was a highly skilled office assistant, and in still another life I’m a really big (if not particularly bright) nerd, so the prospects don’t end with low-paying retail jobs. I’d be decently happy in a job like this if the job pressure is at a minimum; I used to while away the hours at crappy temp jobs thinking about my writing, and then I’d come home and write. Or I’d wake up early the following morning and write for several hours. I tend to write better when I’m not fully awake.

But I need some fun in my life, but I have a complicated conundrum: I’m tired of staying at home, but I invariably dislike almost all people. What the hell can I do, aside from pulling weird office pranks that only I’m aware of, to both be (sort of) social and enjoy myself?

I’ve flirted with the idea of gathering some of my loser screenwriter friends, the ones too afraid or prematurely bitter to go to LA, and having a little support group as we attempt to write, market, and hopefully sell our screenplays from afar. I’m not sure they’d go for it, but it could be fun.

Even better, my L.A. freakout happened to coincide with the departure of the bass player in a local Chicago band I kinda-sorta know. So, I thought, “I play guitar, I kinda learned bass, and I like this band — what could possibly go wrong?” I asked them if I could audition, and they took pity on me and reluctantly agreed.

Their singer/songwriter told me, “Learn these four songs, then come in and audition on Monday.” This was on Friday. It proved to me that they really had no interest in auditioning me; they wanted to do me a solid because I’ve supported the band and tinkered with their website, but they mostly wanted to get it over with so they could get on with their lives. Since I have so little faith in myself, I have a difficult time when others don’t have faith in me, either. Sometimes, I’ll say, “Fuck you, motherfuckers — I’ll show you!” but other times, particularly when I have legitimate reasons to not feel confident (like, for example, the fact that, while I regularly play guitar, I haven’t picked up a bass in about two years), I’m mentally crippled.

“I can’t do this,” I kept saying to myself, despite the fact that I learned the chord structures of all four songs in about an hour and learned most of the fills after a few more hours of practice.

I had some support. My friends, some of whom are fans of the band, thought it was really cool. My dad, who spent most of his teens and early 20s wishing he could be Ozzy Osbourne, gave me a lot of support.

Monday didn’t work out for any of us, so we rescheduled it for Tuesday. Another 24 hours to contemplate not auditioning, but also another 24 hours to get really polished.

“We practice at 16th and Western,” the singer/songwriter told me. My mind skittered toward a mental recollection of the general area. Near the decimated blocks along Roosevelt that were destroyed in riots in the ’60s and never rebuilt, in some weird warehouse district. One of the good things about LA was that, since I didn’t really know much about the area, I’d fearlessly venture pretty much anywhere. I’d usually find dead dogs and people riding in shopping carts.

In Chicago, I kinda-sorta know most areas, which usually scares me away from doing anything at any point in time ever. But now I have valerian root, which relaxes me to the point that my irrational fears slip away. (Perhaps this will lead to me chronicling a hilarious addiction to anti-anxiety medications. Stay tuned!) I didn’t even freak out when I asked for a specific street address and received the response, “There isn’t really one,” followed by a set of instructions to make sure I ended up at the correct unmarked warehouse.

So I drove out, following the instructions to the letter, and found the building. I could hear their music bleeding through the brick wall. Though I was about five minutes early for my supposed 10PM start time, but they had called me while I was driving to inform me they’d need 15-30 minutes to practice for their show on Wednesday night (the farewell show for their current bass player). I called the singer/songwriter to let them know I was there, and she said she’d run down and get me in a second (the front door was locked).

A second later, they started playing again. The hell? That’s kind of rude.

A few seconds after they finished the song, a door popped open and some random, goateed man came out. I wondered if maybe he hung out with the band or something, so I pulled my bass out of the trunk, went up and asked him if he was with the band.

“No,” he said placidly. “I just jam here.” At this point, it finally dawned on me that this warehouse was a multi-room practice building for various musicians. I’m a slow, slow fellow.

“Right,” I said, “well, I can hear them playing. I guess I’ll just wait down here.”

“Oh man, if you can hear them, go on in. Just follow the sound,” he said.

“Right,” I muttered. I walked up the stairs and down a hall, half of which was painted lime green, the other half white. Very narrow, lined with numbered wooden doors, it reminded me of the hallway of every dorm I’ve ever seen.

I found the door from which the sound of the band came, and I stood outside it for a few minutes, listening to them play, wondering whether or not I should knock. I finally decided to use the fact that they were playing songs they had asked me to learn to my advantage — I pulled out the little chord cheat-sheet I had written out and eyeballed it as they played a couple of the songs. For the songs I hadn’t learned, I just tried to get a good feel for what their bass player was doing, so that if they chose me, I’d at least have some idea of what I was doing.

They made me wait for about 40 minutes, all told, and I wished I had brought a book. Instead, I just tried to eavesdrop between songs. They didn’t know I was standing right there, so I paid close attention to the issues the singer/songwriter was having with the rest of the band, to try and figure out what she liked and so on.

At one point, she started complaining to the bass player about somebody they had auditioned the previous night. My ears perked up. “He just stood there, hitting the root notes,” she said. I was worried that I didn’t have the fills down pat, but I felt a little better that I hadn’t just planned to plunk out the top note of each chord. “We played about half of it; then we stopped him and sent him home.” I knew if they didn’t do that to me, at least things would go marginally well.

She went on about somebody else they had auditioned, a girl, and how hard-working she seemed. “Oh fuck,” I thought. “That’ll do me in for sure!”

Eventually, they went back to practicing, and finally they let their bass player pack up and popped open the door to find me standing there like an idiot.

I had been worried that the room would be a huge, cavernous practice space, and that my brain would get swallowed up in the untrustworthy sounds I heard. I’ve always been an auditory learner, so even if I were to do what I was supposed to do, staring at the drummer for dear life to make sure I was in sync, my brain would get distracted by what I was hearing and totally ignore what I was seeing, and I’d fail. But this place was tiny and echo-free — I’d be in the band before they realized I can’t play in an actual musical venue!

I set myself up in the most awkward way possible. Not only has it been a long time since I’ve played with a band — and even then, I’m using a very loose definition of the word “band” — it’s been an even longer time since I’ve even used an amplifier; I took my acoustic guitar with me to California, but I never really thought once I got back that maybe I should refresh myself on basic amp shit. I faked my way through it pretty well, but I got tripped up for a second on “line out” and “line in.”

Then came the tuner. I’m a singing dork, so I’ve made a practice of tuning by blowing an “A” in a pitch pipe, tuning my A string, and then matching the other strings to the perfect “A.” I left my pitch pipe at home, figuring somebody could just hit out an “A” for me… Instead, when it came time to tune, they told me to plug into their pedal tuner, an exciting piece of technology, commonplace in almost every rock band in existence, that I haven’t used in about seven years. I embarrassed myself first by not plugging into it properly, then by taking way too long to tune the bass strings. It felt like way too long, anyway; nobody else seemed to mind.

I ended up tuning the bottom two strings a half-step sharp, because I didn’t see the tiny, tiny light that goes on when it’s tuned sharp. Fucking electric tuners — what the hell, man?!

Finally, I got tuned properly, and we launched into a song. I, ever the professional, missed my first entrance and started thudding out the complete wrong chord structure for the first verse. I knew it was all over. I had already bombed the audition, and I’d be surprised if they went through the whole song. But they didn’t stop me, and gradually, throughout the song, I got my groove thang on, I busted out the fills, and by the end I was pretty solid.

“Holy shit,” I thought, “I might actually be able to do this.”

After I was done, the band congratulated me on not sucking. Their drummer pointed out, “He doesn’t look at the frets,” which seemed to wow them all; I didn’t really think it was anything special, being that I’ve been playing for over a decade at this point, and one of the first things I learned — which is fortunate, considering my lack of depth perception — is to find the frets by feel and look down as infrequently as possible.

We did another song, which started with a mighty bass-driven intro, and this made me very uncomfortable. A friend of mine from high school had taught me various things about bass picking and fingering techniques, but I could barely remember any of it; I was plodding away, holding my guitar pick in a guitar style and approaching the frets like Tony Iommi instead of Geezer Butler. In short, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, technique-wise, but nobody fucking cared.

We went through the entire song, which once again surprised me, and the singer-songwriter actually looked over at me and kept nodding with approval every time I matched one of the bass player’s fills.

After this song, she said to me, “That’s really awesome. We’ve seen some other people who just learned the root notes, but it seems like you really made an effort to figure out the little things he does.”

“Yeah,” I responded, my trademark wit hard at work.

We moved on to the last song — because of the time they spent practicing, they only wanted to do three songs — which I actually fucked up quite successfully. I kept hitting a “C” instead of a “G,” and it stuck out like a sore thumb; in the end, I apologized, but nobody even remotely cared, and they apologized for not taking into account that I’d actually be nervous about fucking things up. They felt like my ability to approximate the basslines concocted by their current player overshadowed the few mistakes I had made.

As we broke down the gear, we chatted about a variety of stupid crap; by that point, the root had fully kicked in and I no longer felt I had anything (audition-wise) to worry about, so I actually was legitimately witty. They knew I had a sense of humor, at least, and we discussed the practical side of touring.

The final word from the singer-songwriter was that if — if! — they found somebody who equaled my skill — equaled! they never even implied they’d find somebody better! — who had touring experience, they would go with that person over me. However, they didn’t appear to be holding their breath. She pointed out that everybody who was currently in the band — except her — hadn’t toured at all before they were in the band, so they were much more open to it than other bands would be.

Unfortunately, they haven’t finished all the auditions, and the singer-songwriter is going out of town this week, so I won’t hear back from them for awhile. But still, without getting my hopes up too high, this audition made me think maybe I can actually build a reasonably enjoyable life in a place where I’m comfortable.

If not, there’s a bottle of liquid Drano under the sink.

Posted by Stan on July 1, 2005 4:08 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (3)

May 25, 2005

Motherfuckers on the Sidewalk

Today, I was walking along a somewhat narrow sidewalk in Century City. Now, this sidewalk wasn’t as bad as a lot of the ones in Hollywood, where you can barely squeeze two people across. There was easily enough space for four people to walk side-by-side comfortably. But here’s a little thing about sidewalk etiquette: when you’re in a group walking four-wide, and the sidewalk can only fit four people, your entire group consists of big fucking douchebags. This only changes if you, seeing somebody coming from the opposite direction (or being aware enough to know people are approaching you from behind), make room for the other pedestrians.

Having been in LA for several weeks and accustomed myself to the self-absorbed nature of this town, I’ve pretty much gotten used to this kind of thing. It’s not quite as annoying as people who very slowly merge into lefthand turn lanes and make me miss a green light, but it’s pretty irritating. Here’s how I’d handle it back in Chicago: as I approached the person nearest me, I’d slam into them with my shoulder, intentionally whacking them a little harder than necessary. I’m not sure this is a “Chicago thing,” per se. I’m just not a very nice person, and I believe very strongly in certain types of human decency.

But here’s how I’ve handled it here so far: I shy away and walk in the grass, or stand around like an idiot and wait for them to pass me, then resume my walk. This has happened to me almost every time I’ve been out walking (which hasn’t been often, thanks to this sprawling horror of a city), but why do I shy away from being as rude (ruder?) to them as they are to me? Because of the Columbia College mantra: “When you’re in LA, don’t piss anyone off, because they could be your boss someday.”

Back to today: I was walking, fresh cup of coffee in tow, to my car, when in the opposite direction came a four-wide group of yuppies eating ice cream and having an enjoyable conversation about, I assume, money and the virtues of capitalism. As I approached, the person on the end nearest me looked away from the conversation, looked right at me — directly into my eyes, even — then turned back to the conversation. He didn’t move or swerve to avoid me; no, I ended up in the grass, again, in order to avoid him and not spill my coffee.

I stood there for a moment, my “Hulk smash”-style rage boiling. I turned around and looked at their backs as they continued to walk in that “la-de-da, I’m so great” way, and I made a decision: fuck every single one of them. I’m sick of being a less-than-nothing toad. If, someday, I’m a candidate for a job and I happen to run into a guy that I smashed into and spilled both coffee and ice cream on, and he recalls the incident and refuses to hire me — fuck him, because I don’t want to work with people like that anyway.

More importantly, that led me to the decision that I’ll be who I am, because being that person is way better than being the monkey-boy to some fucking tan surfer dude. Will it lose me jobs? I don’t think so. You know why? Three cubicles away from me, the assistant to a lawyer sits there and screams at his boss all day long (his boss screams back). He is who he is, and he’s making a living, and they have a mutual respect for one another because the lawyer wants to be a ball-buster but the assistant will not allow his balls to be so thoroughly decimated.

So there you have it: I’ll bottom out in a year and return to Chicago.

Posted by Stan on May 25, 2005 8:26 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (1)

January 24, 2005

Bum Stories

For whatever reason, I was inspired to write up the following stories in a post on an Awful Forums thread. I realized I haven’t blogged in awhile, and cursory inspection of the archives leads me to believe I never even blogged these stories, which is a shame, because they are my two favorite bum-interaction stories.

Enjoy.

One day, I was walking up Michigan Avenue by myself, and this bum spotted me and starts talking to me. I’m not usually a big bum target, but this is along a strip of sidewalk between Roosevelt Road and the big Hilton on Balbo. Despite the enormous condos, I rarely see any pedestrian traffic when I walk up this section of sidewalk. So basically, I was the only one around for him to bother.

He said to me, “Buddy, I gotta get down to Aurora. Now, it cost $6.50 to get down there, and I ain’t got no money.”

On the rare occasions that hobos attempt to bum money specifically from me (as opposed to the guys on the corners rattling cups of change and muttering to anybody who will listen), I try to ignore them. It’s easier if I’m in conversation with a person, or if there’s a lot of pedestrian traffic for them to get distracted with, but the circumstances were different. Also, he was following me. I felt I had to respond, so I said, “Uh…I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, come on!” he screamed. “Look, I ain’t gonna lie to you. I just got outta jail.”

My eyes widened.

“Yeah,” he continued, “I killed a guy, I ain’t gonna lie.”

This was bad. I glanced around to see if any pedestrians were around, so if I needed to scream like a woman, somebody might actually help. Then I saw it: a cop! Standing in the intersection at 9th and Michigan. The short, fat old lady will surely save me!

Wait, no need to panic…he just got out of jail. He’s not going to kill me over $6.50, especially in sight of a cop and the heavy automobile traffic on Michigan Avenue. Right?

“Come on, man,” he repeated, “I gotta get down to Aurora. I gotta see my little girl.”

He pulled out his wallet and opened it up to a picture of a toddler girl. I started to feel bad, but I actually legitimately didn’t have $6.50.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You don’t understand!” he said. “I been in jail! My lady, she left me for my best friend! My best friend!”

“That’s horrible,” I said sincerely.

“Yeah, so now I gotta get down to Aurora and kill him,” he said. I’m actually not sure if he said “him” or “‘em,” but I’d like to think the less murdering, the better.

“Here,” I said, fumbling through my pockets for whatever loose change I had. It probably didn’t amount to more than thirty-six cents.

“Thankya,” he said, slowing down and staring down at the small amount of coins in his hands.

I looked back over at the traffic cop and thought, “Should I tell her he just told me he’s planning to murder one, if not more, people?”

As soon as I thought that, the light changed, and I crossed the street and started walking very fast toward the Hilton and sweet, wonderful pedestrian traffic. I didn’t report him because, for one thing, I didn’t know where he had gone by that point, and secondly, I got the impression that this was all an elaborate cover story to intimidate me (note: it worked). However, if he was telling the truth, and he did manage to get the full fare to Aurora, it’s possible that I aided and abetted a murderer. That can’t be a good thing.

—-

The only other good bum story I have is the story of Krazy Kelly, a krackhead who used to bum around the coffee shop I worked at last summer in Seattle. This was my only real encounter with her, since I usually worked closing shifts and (I’m told) she generally only came around in the mornings. I happened to see her one Sunday morning, when I decided to take my break outside. It was extremely warm in the shop, so I thought it’d be nice to get some cool air.

I always found the neighborhood, Pioneer Square, interesting. It’s full of beautifully restored old buildings, and after 11AM or so the streets and the square (which is across the street from our shop) are jam-packed with tourists…but it’s also home to innumerable homeless shelters, so there’s a surprisingly even hodgepodge of ignorant tourists and colorful (by which I mean “scary”) bums. Basically, it’s a shithole that tourists are dumb enough to visit because of the “old Seattle” flavor and the famous underground tour.

At any rate, Krazy Kelly was about my age (22 at the time), which both surprised and frightened me. I know Seattle’s mild weather and hippie locals make it easy for bums and junkies to survive, but man, that’s scary. (And she’s not even the youngest bum I saw…one time at a bus stop, this kid who couldn’t have been older than 12 was running around begging for change.) She approached me that Sunday morning and asked me for a dollar so she could get a cup of coffee. Gently caressing the singles in my pocket, I shrewdly lied and told her I had no money.

She sighed, disappointed, and just as she was about to move on, somebody banged on the window in the shop behind me. I looked inside the shop and saw one of the regulars beating on the window with his cane. When I turned, wondering what the hell he wanted, he pointed at Krazy Kelly and mimed lighting a and smoking a crack-pipe. As if I couldn’t tell…

Somehow, Krazy Kelly noticed his subtle demonstration. She grimaced and said, “That’s really nice, man. What a fucking asshole.” She looked back at me. “You know what?”

I suddenly found the sidewalk so fascinating that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it long enough to answer her. No matter, she pressed on. “Him and all the other evil people on the planet are going to be swallowed by man-eating sharks. I know this, because I read once that a shark ate a little boy. I’ll bet he deserved it, and I went on the ferry and made $50.”

I found it difficult to hold in my laughter. She said that last bit with such innocence, and yet there are very few innocent things I can think of that would net somebody $50 on a ferry.

Kelly started walking down the street, and I was relieved, until she turned around ten feet later and continued. “The sharks will get rid of all the evil people. You know it; I know it. One day the sharks will all end up at the bottom of the ocean and become extinct. That’s okay; Jesus loves them.”

She continued walking. I was about to sigh with relief when she turned around once again and said, “Jesus loves you, too. I know that. He told me.” It was nice to know; I was raised Catholic, so I’ve learned to believe that Jesus hates me.

She walked further, then turned around to talk to me again, but by this time she had made it far enough down the street that I could no longer hear what she was saying. She kept making progress and then turning around to talk to me some more until she finally rounded the corner.

In summary, that was the best summer of my life!

Posted by Stan on January 24, 2005 1:07 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)

July 21, 2004

The Old Man

Since coming to Seattle, I’ve been home alone a lot. It’s pleasantly refreshing compared to a house with a mother who refuses to leave the house if/when I’m at home. Still, I’m sometimes worried. See, it gets warm here, but apparently not warm enough for anybody to invest in air-conditioning. It’s not like back home, where we sometimes don’t run the air to save money. People don’t even have air-conditioning here. I don’t really understand it, because while it doesn’t get as hot as Chicago, it gets hot enough that opening doors and windows doesn’t really do the job.

So why am I worried? Do I think I’m going to die of heat stroke and dehydration? Yes, but that’s not really the problem. The problem lies in the continuous opening of the front door. We live in a house on a hill, so the windows are all right, because they’re all way too high for anybody to get into without an inordinate amount of difficulty. The back door? That’s fine, because the screen door is really little more than a gargantuan steel gate with a screen shoved into it.

The front door is different. Stairs lead up to it. A flimsy fiberglass screen is all that protects me and my considerable heft from being bludgeoned to death by a heroin addict looking for a fix or a potential thief who may have noticed Jack’s parade of Microsoft shirts and decided there may be some high-end consumer goods inside the house.

So I open the door because otherwise it’s unbearably hot. We need to air-flow in the house. So far, I haven’t had a problem. The neighbors apparently are as unemployed as I used to be, so they’re often outside on the weekdays working on their yards or whatever. It reached a point where I actually felt somewhat safe despite being relatively unsafe.

Until yesterday evening. (Cue dramatic musical sting.)

I was sitting in the living room, as I often am, typing away at the ol’ laptop. My sister was upstairs, talking to our parents on the phone. Jack wasn’t home yet. I was minding my own business when I heard somebody talking. This is not unusual. With the doors and windows open constantly, I often hear people talking as they walk up and down the street, or I hear the neighbors yelling or the menacing Saint Bernard on the corner howling in anguish that a chainlink fence generally prevents him from making the kill.

This was different, though. This didn’t have the rising-falling cadence of people passing by. It also seemed extremely close. I glanced out through the picture window in the front room. Sometimes when Jack comes home, he’ll sit on the front porch, have a smoke, and talk to one of his creepy Microsoft friends on his cell phone. He wasn’t sitting on the porch, so I glanced at the screen door.

Somebody was leaning on the screening door. Actually, physically, leaning into it, like somehow it would magically open if he pressed on it. He didn’t appear to see me, but maybe that was just because he was so distracted by our shoes, arranged in a row in front of the door.

“Got a lotta shoes,” he muttered.

It was not Jack.

Without really having to deal with anything like this before, I sat in contemplative silence for a moment. Should I leap up, slam the door in his face, and lock it, or should I call the police? Or should I do both?

I decided the first and most obvious action to take was to put a maximum amount of security between myself and the crazy hobo. If I made any sudden movements, like reaching for the phone, he might do something crazier than muttering about our shoes.

“Got some nice boots,” the hobo muttered.

Motherfucker. Nobody talks about my steel-toed boots unless they’re an invited guest. I leaped from the couch, went over to the front door, and the hobo looked me in the eyes. He had the same look in his eyes as the man on Van Buren Street who told me Jesus was going to kill me, so despite the fact that he was an old man, it was possible that he could still be a knife-wielding maniac. And, I don’t care how many hundreds of years you’ve been on the planet, when you’re coming after a fat-ass with a knife, there’s ample opportunity to do the job, what with all the extra carriage.

As the hobo looked me in the eyes, he muttered, “She sell the house? I guess she sold the house.” He sounded disappointed, but still crazy.

I took immediate and decisive action: I said, “I guess so,” and slammed the door in his face, then locked it.

I immediately ran upstairs to alert my sister, who decided we should call the police. We stood up in her bedroom, which is above the front of the house, and we stared down. The hobo ended up going on his merry way, so we decided not to alert the fuzz.

“He was probably looking for the previous owner,” Tracey said, trying to downplay the fact that a crazy person was just at our doorstep. It was heartily ineffective for two reasons: (1) they’ve been living in this house for over a year, and while the previous owner has occupied it since 1957, that doesn’t make it cool for random people to show up without really knowing who was going to be there, and (2) what the fuck happened to knocking? Or ringing the doorbell? I mean, I know the door was hanging wide open, but that’s still not an invitation to, for example, lean into the screen door and describe all the pretty shoes you see.

That is fucked up.

Posted by Stan on July 21, 2004 4:11 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)

June 14, 2004

New Names, or: What Ever Happened to Gina?

“So who is this girl?” my sister’s boyfriend, Jack, asked after my sister and I had an extended conversation about Lucy during dinner.

“Just Lucy,” I said.

“No, no, no,” he said. “This whole name thing isn’t working for me — I’m never gonna remember who they are. I need descriptions.”

“Well, she’s my best friend,” I responded.

“Are you retarded?” Jack asked.

I thought of answering with a truthful “yes,” but said nothing instead.

“What I want is a sentence-long description of this person so I know who the hell you’re talking about,” Jack said and turned toward Tracey, my sister, who is more used to this type of thing than I am.

“Let’s see,” Tracey began. “Girl who my parents think he’s bagging but he’s not bagging her at all because she’s in Iowa and —”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Unbaggable Chick. Done.”

Hrm.

“What about that Australian girl?” Tracey asked. “I mean, the one Mom said you were going to go to Australia with because you really wanted to get into her pants.” She was referring to Gina, and apparently I never blogged about our plans to disappear off to Australia and find jobs in the film industry there, because it’s much more pleasant than Hollywood.

“That’s not true,” I said.

“What ever happened to her?” she asked.

“I don’t really want to talk about it that much,” I said.

“You didn’t declare your love to her, did you?” Tracey asked.

Jeez. I haven’t done much love-declaring since my more optimistic high school days. (Note: It didn’t work.)

As I tried to formulate all the ways in which Tracey’s ancient assessment of me was totally wrong, she added, “You did, didn’t you? Jesus.”

“No, I didn’t,” I explained. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Althought it was more a declaration of lust than love.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“We got way too close, I spent more time with her than anybody else on the planet, and I insist there was some transference going on there, because she’d always talk about how m