Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Don't listen to this vol. 4

I woke up this morning with the following A Taste of Honey lyrics in my head:

Get down, boogie-oogie oogie
Get down, boogie-oogie oogie
Get down, boogie-oogie oogie


I immediately tried to stop the infantile lyrics from further infecting my body, but they had spread quickly: within one verse, I was already back in the womb sucking my thumb and trying to find a cool spot on the pillowcase with my pinky. After rehearsing my phone pitch for a "mental health day" in Baby Talk, I rolled over and tried to block further contamination, but all I could think of was Queen's Radio Ga Ga. Still sucking my thumb, I wondered what the world would be like if all songwriters composed their lyrics in Baby Talk.

Billie Joel would sing "You're Always a Woman to Me, Yes, Yes, You Are." Jewel and Nelly would actually sound normal. Pacifier lollipops would break out of the rave scene and go mainstream, and Tipper Gore would surely find 2 Live Crew's lyrical odes to rim jobs a little more tender when peppered with endearing phrases like "poopsies" and "wittle wons."

Would this bring happiness and peace to the world? We'll never know. Schookums-wookums had to stop hitting the cute little snooze button and go to workey-workey with Boogie-Oogie Oogie in her precious (yehhhhhhhhhhs, it is so very precious) head, and she was very, very mad!

Guilty pleasure rating: Equivalent to the joy one might derive from putting a polka dot headband on a small dog or allowing yourself to publicly drool in rainbow colors while chewing enormous gumballs.

Monday, October 18, 2004

Wiggiddy-wiggidy whack

I love cover letters.

Even though my resume might not reflect its contents, in a cover letter I could make the case that my experience in skillfully maneuvering a GI Joe doll up my cooch in the bathtub as a child and not causing sterilization might make me proficient in gynecology, or that despite my lack of fashion industry experience, I know that ponchos are so the new black this winter.

A successful "attention-grabbing" cover letter will assure you that your potential boss already buys your bullshit, a necessary step (with numerous long-term advantages) in convincing the consolidation-minded employer that you're the copywriting/graphics design whiz with experience in rock-climbing instruction, IT support and pharmaceutical sales they've been looking for.

Unless, of course, you're answering a job posting like the following gold I found on craigslist:

Marketing Communications Manager

REPORTS TO: Vice President of Marketing and Communications

• Coordinates co-marketing programs with partners. Manages opportunities, working directly with partners, various departments and staff and outside vendors
• Responsible for production of in-house marketing communications’ materials, including PowerPoint presentations, collateral, etc.
• Coordinates and tracks speaker participation for speaking engagements
• Works closely with public relations, publications and online vendors to ensure consistency and efficiency in execution of marketing communications’ campaigns to meet program goals.
• Works with various departments and staff to support overall goals.

What "goals" will I be supporting? Ensuring that every household in America receives a cherry-scented douche sample in their Sunday Parade or saving the children through Sprite Remix* twist caps? How can I falsely extol the virtues of myself and the opportunity if I don't know who these people are? And if they're not giving me anything besides a vague list of responsibilities, why should I tell them anything?


Dear People:

I saw your advertisement on craigslist.org, and I am writing to express my interest in your Marketing Communications Manager position.

It sounds really...neat. I've coordinated campaigns for people before, and I've always reached their goals, so I could definitely reach yours. I manage opportunities daily, and I am confident in my ability to deliver for your speakers when they decide to speak on those things that they speak of.

Attached is my resume for your consideration. I have blacked out the names of my employers and the specific tasks I performed at each job in an effort to more precisely match the criteria you are looking for, and am certain that my experience is a good fit with your company/nonprofit/governmental agency/cult.

I look forward to hearing from you soon, and am excited to learn exactly what it is that you people do.


Sincerely,
The girl who does things too


Just wait 'till I'm in charge of their stuff!


*By the way, what the fuck is Sprite Remix? "Yeah man, we threw down some drum and bass over the lemon lime and made this wicked clear shit that tastes like a peach wine cooler. Yo!"

Urine or whiskey?

Friday, October 15, 2004

The sharp colleague

Mother Martyr came into my office today to announce that we were out of pencils. Not just pencils. #2 pencils.

The gravity with which she delivered this statement struck me as odd, as to the best of my knowledge, our office did not have plans to administer SAT tests to thousands of college hopefuls or defend ourselves against a gaggle of bloodthirsy zombies in the near future.

Mother Martyr was still standing in the doorway of my office with her highlighted Office Depot catalgoue and a perplexed look waiting for me to respond. I had never seen pencils in the supply closet, but that was mainly because I lived in fear of MM's intense interrogations about my pen use and penchant for White-Out.

"Um, ok, so order some #2 pencils then."
"Well," said MM, "it's just that we ran out of them a long time ago, and I didn't re-order them as I didn't know if people really liked using them or if they would rather use pens, as pencils can't be used on official documents and it's just that it's a lot of work for me to fill out the form and order them if no one's going to use them because I could order another box of ballpoints instead..."

I drifted to a happy, happy place far away from civil servants and city government midway through her explanation of the predicament. I thought of things like puppies and bacon. And flowers. And puppies wrapped in bacon riding flower-scented unicorns.

"Why don't you do a survey to see if people actually want #2 pencils, and then you can base your decision on that input?"

MM nodded and walked away. I could hear her typing furiously from the other room. After taking a bathroom break a half-hour later, I promptly filled out the following survey that was on my chair upon my return:

Name (optional):
Left blank, of course, to protect my anonymity in an office of five when sharing my very personal views about #2 pencil use.

If #2 pencils were available, do you think you would use them more often than ballpoint pens?

If #2 pencils were available, not only would I use them for all correspondence I normally perform with ballpoint pens, I would throw my computer out the window and hire a pigeon courier to fly my handwritten notes (in #2 pencil of course) to their respective recipients as #2 pencils would virtually render all technology useless.

If #2 pencils were not available, would you still be able to perform your job?

If #2 pencils were not available, there is no way in hell I would be able to do my job because I make a lot of missteaks and neehd to have ahn ehrasher neerbye mee.

What would you use your #2 pencil for?

Desk graffiti. Ear wax removal. Masturbation. Doodling during boring meetings. Rubbing it together with another #2 pencil in an effort to start a fire and burn this hellhole down.

How many #2 pencils do you think you would use in a typical week?

42.9

Additional comments:

If we do order pencils, will I have to sharpen my own or can we hire an intern?

I handed in my survey and am now awaiting the results with baited breath. Will my other four office mates share my views on pencil use or will I be forced to bring my own #2s from home? Will Mother Martyr's survey summary include pie graphs, or will I discover the results on my own in the supply closet?

Who cares? I'm off to sit with my head between my hands on the public toilet under the guise of taking a hefty and lengthy #2.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Don't listen to this vol. 3

In a Hell’s Kitchen bar called The Electric Banana, a verifiable jukebox whore raced past me with a fistful of ones while I tripped over the barstool and admitted dj defeat. It turned out that in addition to a penchant for the Moody Blues, jukebox whore was an adjunct professor of creative writing at Columbia who was starting a writer’s collective to study the similarities between the narrative structures of poetry and popular music. After leading us halfway through his drunken, impassioned argument, he went to the bar while the mind fuck continued and our foreheads wrinkled further.

Later that night, we drank Maker’s Mark, air-drummed and contemplated the following Gerry Rafferty lyrics on loud repeat:

He’s got this dream about buying some land
He’s gonna give up the booze and the one night stands
And then he’ll settle down in some quiet little town
And forget about everything.

But you know he’ll always keep movin’
You know he’s never gonna stop movin’
Cause he’s rollin’
He’s the rollin’ stone


He’s the rollin’ stone could very well be one of the most powerful lyrics I’ve ever heard (or maybe I had had one too many), but what did it mean within Baker Street’s ode to the melancholy of big city life? Nick was convinced that the lyric evoked the frustration found in the myth of Sisyphus, while I ventured that the protagonist’s restlessness referred to the old cliché “a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

As we continued to debate character motivation in a Gerry Rafferty song through dawn, I realized that we weren’t just talking about a song that made me long for a penis, a handle of Jack Daniels and a spectacular sunset. We were talking about context and subtext and meaning in the manner one would contemplate the meaning of allusion in the works of Bukowski, Baraka and cummings. Jukebox whore was right: even one-hit wonders like Rafferty could arguably be considered poets.

The next morning, I woke up with a splitting headache and the uncontrollable urge to re-enroll in school and destroy every Gerry Rafferty album in sight. Then I played Baker Street just one more time…

Guilty pleasure rating: 8

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Don't listen to this vol.2

Oh, Alanis! Why are you so intent on proving, with the cooperation of Celine Dion and Bryan Adams, that everything that comes out of Canada is utter crap?

I forgave Ms. Morissette for "You Oughta Know," even though its release subjected me to women who would scream the lyrics in clubs as if it were Generation X's own feminist anthem and not some self-indulgent lyrical memoir about her fear of fellatio. I even forgave her for her recent concert where she wore a flesh-colored body suit in some half-assed moral stance about the FCC's treatment of the whole Nipplegate incident.

And even though her music and "activism" are atrocities of monstrous and unforgivable proportions, I found it in my heart to pardon the non-artist for the majority of her crimes, with the exception of Isn't It Ironic?

Alanis, the answer to your lyrical pondering is NO. While irony is misused today to justify everything from the coincidental to the cynical to the Backstreet Boys, Alanis' song (and no, I'm not being ironic) is, quite simply, not ironic.

Webster's defines ironic as: humorously sarcastic or mocking; "dry humor"; "an ironic remark often conveys an intended meaning obliquely"; "an ironic novel"; "an ironical smile"; "with a wry Scottish wit."

Alanis defines irony as: "a black fly in your chardonnay", "a death row pardon two minutes late", "the good advice that you just didn't take", "rain on your wedding day", "a no smoking sign on your cigarette break" and "a free ride when you've already paid."

I'm with Webster. The events that Alanis describes may be considered unfortunate, but they're not ironic. While some will argue that this song legitimately uses the definition of irony that describes the incongruity between what you expect to happen and what actually happens, I still say Alanis has butchered the English language in an incomprehensible manner (and nonetheless, while displaying a blatant disregard for style and emotion).

What about a glass of chardonnay precludes a winged insect (that is naturally attracted to sweet smells) from dropping in your wine glass? And, since I live in fascist California where you can't even exhale in public following a fast food meal, why would I not expect to see a no smoking sign even when I was smoking?

Perhaps Alanis just needed some songwriting assistance. For instance:

existing lyric: a black fly in your chardonnay
rewrite: a black fly in your chardonnay while you're sipping out of a straw because you've covered the entire top of the glass in fly paper

existing lyric: an old man turned 98/ he won the lottery and died the next day
rewrite: an old man who was declared the strongest, fastest and healthiest man in the world turned 98
he won the lottery and died the next day when the truck carrying the prize money ran his ass over while he was sprinting away

While I began Don't listen to this with the intent of rating guilty musical pleasures, I can't even rate this song. For me, this song isn't a guilty pleasure, but a rally cry for people who give a shit about grammar throughout the world played against a completely non-descript musical background.

So why do I listen to this song? Because I'm being ironic...

The Bush excuse

I was reading this morning's paper while shuddering violently (as I'm often prone to do given the combination of caffeine and lazy American journalism), and came across today's article about George Bush once again defending the invasion of Iraq. In reacting to weapons expert Charles Duelfer's report that Iraq's weapons of mass destruction program was basically defunct when Bush decided to invade Iraq, Bush insisted that we were still right to declare war, and that "America is safer today with Saddam Hussein in prison."

Brilliant! Why wasn't I privy to this rational school of thought while I was in school? Had I gotten caught by a teacher in a lie about homework (dog ate it, my pants caught on fire then burned my binder, my pencils were stolen by a Thai army on the way home from school), I could have simply defended myself by saying that I was still right to lie because "America is safer today without my book report."

Since we "the people" are technically the boss of Bush, and since he has been limping through this lie for months with the same excuse and STILL has a viable position in the polls, it clearly works, and should now be utilized by people throughout the United States to justify "mistakes" that are a lot less serious than bombing the hell out of Iraq. Spread the love...

Handbag of the week

This gorgeous Gucci stunner http://www.raffaello-network.com/raffties/detail.php?itemid=36768&rangeid=23 enjoys long walks down Madison Avenue, Cosmopolitans and minimal gold accessories. Last sighted in a duty free shop in Hong Kong for over a thousand dollars, this handbag is looking for an owner that can transition her from day to evening seemlessly.

"I'm afraid of going on ebay," said the stunner. "I've heard stories from my peers about young ebay shoppers who purchase bags like me with their parents' credit cards then pair us with non-descript, chunky black shoes when we clearly belong with stilleto stunners from the likes of Manolo Blahnik."

While this spunky handbag is ultimately looking for true love, she says she'll settle for someone who can "at least wear me through Spring 2005."

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Everything's a sign of my astrology

Even though I generally tend to stick horoscopes in the Celestine Prophecy/Dr. Phil category of things that are strictly off-limits for me for mental health reasons, I read my horoscope nearly every day.

What makes me laugh, besides the fact that they're rarely applicable, is how specific some daily readings can be while others can be completely vague. For example, my horoscope today reads:

You're a fantastic host or hostess. If your guests arrive early, you aren't likely to be flustered -- luckily, you've thought out every last detail ahead of time, so nothing is going to throw you off. If more partners show up than you had originally planned, that's not a problem either -- you've probably got extra seating and food on hand just in case something like this happened. Pat yourself on the back -- your hard work has certainly paid off!

What? First of all, I'm not hosting a dinner party tonight, and if I was, I wouldn't be able to locate an egg or can opener in my house right now, much less orchestrate a fabulous dinner party with "extra seating and food on hand just in case something like this happened."

Why can't they just be vague and tell me that I'm about to come into a huge amount of money or land my dream job tomorrow? And who are these psychics? Retired fiction writers who dream up these improbable scenarios to spread their misery and misperceptions to the general public?

I emailed the horoscope page to express that their assessment of my day was a complete fabrication of my actual day, which would read more like this:

Around noon, you will go outside to discover that the cloudy morning has turned into a beautiful day. You will light a cigarette, wonder what the fuck you're doing spending your days in a cubicle surrounded by moronic questions and idiotic leaps of logic, and nearly burst into tears. You will blame all your problems on Dick Cheney, smoke another cigarette, rip your pantyhose on concrete, say "shit," go back to the office and write a blog entry (while you should be working) and once again rationalize your blogging by muttering "i hate this hellhole" under your breath. Your coworker will hear you, once again, look concerned and keep typing. You will barely make it to the end of the day, and when you do, you will probably try and invite yourself over to someone's house for dinner (since you have no food) or go home and pretend that you're little orphan Annie and starve yourself till morning while wallowing in self-deprecating pity.