It has. Mostly because since my move to Philadelphia in mid June, I've spent most of my days lounging about in blissful ignorance of every other activity I SHOULD be doing, (sorry GRE flash cards). An update or two, I tend bar at a (serious) dive bar near my apartment. There are stripper poles on the third floor. More on this later. I drink french press coffee in the morning and drink bottles of red wine at night. I read. I write. I listen to music and then I drink more wine. This is punctuated with the occasional (read: nearly every day) stroll to the restaurant where my roommate works in order to scam on the bartender that I crush on. Tough life, I realize. With all of this wine drinking and hours of relaxation and people watching in Rittenhouse Park, you can understand why I just haven't had the time to blog about my interesting experiences. And there have been many.
Bartending always means I meet interesting people. The last bar I worked at was a gay dance club in Pittsburgh (yes, there are gay people in Pittsburgh, a question that has been offered on more than one occasion), and now I work at, as I said, a total dive, where I unfortunately get hit on by less than attractive members of the opposite sex. Clearly, this was never a problem at my last place of employment. And for anyone who has worked in a service industry, you know, this is not complimentary "hitting on." It's more like, really fucking annoying hitting on. Just a tip, if you have children and an ex wife... chances are, most females in their early 20s are not interested. We deal with enough baggage from irresponsible, unavailable men of our own age, thank you very much.
One man in particular, a 60ish, long-haired, Vietnam war vet who enjoys playing pool and never paying his bar tab, also enjoys giving me gifts. The first time I tried to refute the gift, saying thank you, but I just couldn't accept the gold angel earrings thrust into my hand with a swift shake and a warning to "not ever wear them here!", failed. He stared straight into my eyes and said, in a surprisingly stern voice, "When given a gift, you accept it." That was it. What else could I say? So, I took them. And threw them away the second I got home.
The next gift came the following week. It was a small silver bracelet with hearts and moons decorating the band. I'm sure it was stolen from Claire's. It went in the trash.
The third gift came as I was leaving my shift for the day, hurriedly racing out the door to try to make it home in time to start drinking heavily, when a plastic bag was thrown heartily into my stomach. I knew the culprit immediately. As I turned to look at him, he said nothing. Instead, he winked and turned away. Opening the bag in the privacy of my own apartment just in case my new friend decided to wrap up a hooker's arm, I found a black purse, probably from a hooker, with a small, dirty plastic toy hidden in the bottom.
...
I threw it away. There was really nothing else I could do. Perhaps if my apartment had more room I would start a collection.
I'll let you know when I receive a 7even-themed head in a box.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Why Bill O'Reilly Should Take Lessons From Bon Iver
I really don’t know why I watch it. Fox News is profoundly the worst network on television. This is not an exaggeration; they literally have a headline on their website as I write this that reads, “Studying Gay Sex – On Your Dime.” Really Fox? Is that what is really happening? Shut up.
Not that I particularly care for any of the 24-hour news networks (CNN, I’ve lost my respect. Sorry, Wolf. But don’t worry, I still love you, Anderson.) But Fox News definitely takes the cake. Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible not to watch, if only to laugh at the absurdities that come out of the mouths of Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, and countless others who know little to nothing about anything. I mean, they have Karl Rove as a contributor. Really? And Glenn Beck is so passionate about the shit the comes out of his mouth, he literally cries. Seriously.
Despite all of the stupid pundits, there is no one who unnerves me more than Mr. O’Reilly. This self-proclaimed “middle of the road” pundit’s ego is so large, it needs a chair of its own behind that bedazzled desk. O’Reilly spends the first 30 minutes of his program, unsurprisingly named after himself, The O’Reilly Factor, complaining about everything and anything he determines to be under him, which is generally everything from a liberal perspective.
The next thirty minutes involve interviews with like-minded buffoons who usually don bad dye-jobs and tight blouses to compliment their over-tanned, over-makeup-ed faces. On occasion, there is an interview with someone level headed, with whom O’Reilly exhorts his testosterone by yelling over the other person and interrupting them continuously until his producers tell him it is time for a commercial break, where he deems himself the winner of the argument, as such. This is followed by a segment where O’Reilly picks who he feels are “Pinheads” and “Patriots” with zero backing besides his own opinion. The show is then wrapped up with love letters to O’Reilly of ridiculous viewers who share the right wing Limbaugh mentality.
The entire sixty minutes is punctuated by reminders that The O’Reilly Factor is the supposed top rated program on Fox News, which is the supposed top rated network on television. I’d like to know who are taking these polls. Finally, at the very end, O’Reilly uses words that he believes to be highly uncommon so as to make him seem the picture of wit and intelligence (his favorite is pithy). Surely he learned these from an astute intern who majored in Journalism at some accredited university and has found himself fetching coffee and feeding into the ego of Mr. O’Reilly.
Where does Bon Iver fit in? Well, merely because I am listening to the band currently, but on a more thoughtful note, because Justin Vernon’s (the band’s lead singer) voice could bring Hitler to tears. A few words O’Reilly… Calm. thefuck. Down.
And here’s another few to add to your repertoire…
Your circuitous lexicon merely justifies your position to yourself and your other (to borrow your own word) “pinheaded” worshippers. Your attempt at pedagogy makes you sound like an idiot to everyone else who holds a more intelligent view of society than you, which is, most everyone.
And pithy sucks as a word.
Not that I particularly care for any of the 24-hour news networks (CNN, I’ve lost my respect. Sorry, Wolf. But don’t worry, I still love you, Anderson.) But Fox News definitely takes the cake. Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible not to watch, if only to laugh at the absurdities that come out of the mouths of Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, and countless others who know little to nothing about anything. I mean, they have Karl Rove as a contributor. Really? And Glenn Beck is so passionate about the shit the comes out of his mouth, he literally cries. Seriously.
Despite all of the stupid pundits, there is no one who unnerves me more than Mr. O’Reilly. This self-proclaimed “middle of the road” pundit’s ego is so large, it needs a chair of its own behind that bedazzled desk. O’Reilly spends the first 30 minutes of his program, unsurprisingly named after himself, The O’Reilly Factor, complaining about everything and anything he determines to be under him, which is generally everything from a liberal perspective.
The next thirty minutes involve interviews with like-minded buffoons who usually don bad dye-jobs and tight blouses to compliment their over-tanned, over-makeup-ed faces. On occasion, there is an interview with someone level headed, with whom O’Reilly exhorts his testosterone by yelling over the other person and interrupting them continuously until his producers tell him it is time for a commercial break, where he deems himself the winner of the argument, as such. This is followed by a segment where O’Reilly picks who he feels are “Pinheads” and “Patriots” with zero backing besides his own opinion. The show is then wrapped up with love letters to O’Reilly of ridiculous viewers who share the right wing Limbaugh mentality.
The entire sixty minutes is punctuated by reminders that The O’Reilly Factor is the supposed top rated program on Fox News, which is the supposed top rated network on television. I’d like to know who are taking these polls. Finally, at the very end, O’Reilly uses words that he believes to be highly uncommon so as to make him seem the picture of wit and intelligence (his favorite is pithy). Surely he learned these from an astute intern who majored in Journalism at some accredited university and has found himself fetching coffee and feeding into the ego of Mr. O’Reilly.
Where does Bon Iver fit in? Well, merely because I am listening to the band currently, but on a more thoughtful note, because Justin Vernon’s (the band’s lead singer) voice could bring Hitler to tears. A few words O’Reilly… Calm. thefuck. Down.
And here’s another few to add to your repertoire…
Your circuitous lexicon merely justifies your position to yourself and your other (to borrow your own word) “pinheaded” worshippers. Your attempt at pedagogy makes you sound like an idiot to everyone else who holds a more intelligent view of society than you, which is, most everyone.
And pithy sucks as a word.
Monday, May 4, 2009
sometimes I write silly poetry.
Daily Digressions
He asked me if I’m still faking and have I been keeping up with my daily flossing. I tell him no to both, but only because I enjoy the bright red color and mild tingle when on occasion, I do. Let us begin this brazen journey by moving to Brazil. I’ve read that in Rio the roses grow higher and the women remove their wear. It’s the summertime, so those plutocrats will make a mild push toward the Hamptons, swimming in hammocks and drinking daydreams. Happy happenstance.
It’s the summertime, so the berries will eat the trees while we are both picked from the bush and placed neatly in the woven basket with the checkered cloth. Then he’d smile and chastise me for my bleeding gums and white feminine form. It’s times like these that I love him the most, directly before the quagmire and the Quaaludes. Or whatever he calls it these days.
“I could go for a coincidence,” he says, shining his coins. Unfortunately, I’m not one for serendipity, or even sensibility. Following the bottle of Pinot, I’d be persuaded to paraphrase this life in prose because my cheeks have turned pink. But then he’d laugh and say he is feeling facetious, so can we feign consistency? My body laughs back and says it’s all inconsequential.
He asked me if I’m still faking and have I been keeping up with my daily flossing. I tell him no to both, but only because I enjoy the bright red color and mild tingle when on occasion, I do. Let us begin this brazen journey by moving to Brazil. I’ve read that in Rio the roses grow higher and the women remove their wear. It’s the summertime, so those plutocrats will make a mild push toward the Hamptons, swimming in hammocks and drinking daydreams. Happy happenstance.
It’s the summertime, so the berries will eat the trees while we are both picked from the bush and placed neatly in the woven basket with the checkered cloth. Then he’d smile and chastise me for my bleeding gums and white feminine form. It’s times like these that I love him the most, directly before the quagmire and the Quaaludes. Or whatever he calls it these days.
“I could go for a coincidence,” he says, shining his coins. Unfortunately, I’m not one for serendipity, or even sensibility. Following the bottle of Pinot, I’d be persuaded to paraphrase this life in prose because my cheeks have turned pink. But then he’d laugh and say he is feeling facetious, so can we feign consistency? My body laughs back and says it’s all inconsequential.
Iced tea and some mild breakdowns
“I didn’t realize this iced tea would be sweet. I don’t like it sweet. Usually I order the unsweetened. If I would have known that I wouldn’t have ordered it.”My mother stirs the tall glass rapidly with her straw, as if this adds emphasis to her argument, if it even is an argument.
“Well, the description said peach. Usually peach teas tend to be a bit sweeter,”offers my aunt. This seems to be the most logical thing to say. My aunt cared enough to say it, I did not.
My mother takes a sip. “I guess it’s not that bad. Usually I order the unsweetened. I didn’t realize this was sweetened.”
Today, Friday, at approximately 12:45 p.m. at an Olive Garden in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania marks the most boring conversation I have ever heard, so far, in my life.
I sit in silence, occasionally drinking my wine. There is literally nothing I could say to add to the conversation to make it even remotely more interesting. So I don’t. And then, like clockwork, my mother then asks if I am in a bad mood.
I sat in a closed vehicle with my mother for over an hour this morning before I had had my coffee. I couldn’t speak, only utter a few words here and there so she knew I was still alive. Starbucks was closed. The Indian man at Dunkin' Donuts who handed me my coffee with an extra shot of espresso frowned and said too much caffeine is “bad for body.” I told him to fuck himself. That was a lie. I did not tell him to fuck himself, but I did smile shyly because that is what I do in such situations where I am not brazen enough to say go fuck yourself.
The limbo period after college life and before whatever "real world" is (though this may be one of the most universally overused terms for something that most people living in this supposed new realm still do not understand either), is a rough transition. Seriously, rough. Is anyone else having this problem? I swear I'm not usually this much of an asshole. I'm working on it.
“Well, the description said peach. Usually peach teas tend to be a bit sweeter,”offers my aunt. This seems to be the most logical thing to say. My aunt cared enough to say it, I did not.
My mother takes a sip. “I guess it’s not that bad. Usually I order the unsweetened. I didn’t realize this was sweetened.”
Today, Friday, at approximately 12:45 p.m. at an Olive Garden in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania marks the most boring conversation I have ever heard, so far, in my life.
I sit in silence, occasionally drinking my wine. There is literally nothing I could say to add to the conversation to make it even remotely more interesting. So I don’t. And then, like clockwork, my mother then asks if I am in a bad mood.
I sat in a closed vehicle with my mother for over an hour this morning before I had had my coffee. I couldn’t speak, only utter a few words here and there so she knew I was still alive. Starbucks was closed. The Indian man at Dunkin' Donuts who handed me my coffee with an extra shot of espresso frowned and said too much caffeine is “bad for body.” I told him to fuck himself. That was a lie. I did not tell him to fuck himself, but I did smile shyly because that is what I do in such situations where I am not brazen enough to say go fuck yourself.
The limbo period after college life and before whatever "real world" is (though this may be one of the most universally overused terms for something that most people living in this supposed new realm still do not understand either), is a rough transition. Seriously, rough. Is anyone else having this problem? I swear I'm not usually this much of an asshole. I'm working on it.
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