Here I sit in the office. It's Saturday. Outside I can hear the drums and calls of IMF/World Bank protesters as they gather in Franklin Square and begin to march west along L Street. I work for a global IT outsourcer. We do some good things, but basically the company is a multi-billion dollar, multi-national corporation. We send jobs to India, to Juarez, to Accra; we take advantage of chealer labor elsewhere. On my way in this morning, I passed men and women of all ages and ethnicity gathering to make their voices heard.
I don't know in which direction this post is headed, I'm just in a bad mood and need to vent. Lately, I can't seem to be comfortable with my place in the world. Perhaps I need a sort of map, like Stephen Daedalus gave himself in Portrait of the Artist...:
Chris, Office 1041, XXXX 15th St NW, Washington DC, United States, North America, The World, The Universe.
I think I feel better now.
Ok, someone take this album away from me. I need to listen to something else. Yesterday I picked up the new Modest Mouse album, Good News for People Who Love Bad News. I've probably listened to it the whole way through about 15 times. It is fantastic. Run, don't walk, to your friendly neighborhood record store and buy it.
What are you doing still reading this. I said go. DO IT! NOW!
"I smoke, if this bothers anyone I would recommend you look around the world in which we live and shut your fucking mouth-- Bill Hicks
I've posted more than a few times about the need to sell my car--I only use it about once a month and I hate driving. Today, however, I think I have come to the ultimate decision. With the advent of spring and the coming summer, I need to get rid of the automobile. I will get into an accident before the summer is through. Why do I say that? To be honest, I'll most likely be distracted by any of the attractive women in short skirts walking down 16th street in the morning.
Am I a sexist who is objectifying women? Perhaps.
Am I way to horny for my own good? Ummm, yeah.
I'd like to offer a "shout out" (this is the last time I'll use that phrase in this blog) to the guy in the beige fedora and suit standing on the corner of 16th and Biltmore this morning. He was just standing there on the corner, holding a large poster board sign which read, in black lower case lettering against the white paper, "love."
I think it appealed to the reformed hippie in me. At any rate--keep it up "love" dude in the fedora and suit.
A dyslexic man walks into a bra.
Thank you very much. I'll be here all week. Try the veal.
It is damn nice outside isn't it? I woke up this morning, and decided to kick the sleep from my eyes with a long run. So at about 8:30 this morning I tossed on my shoes, shorts, and a teeshirt and went out for a long run. There's something I love about running. It comes along at about fifteen or twenty minutes in, at about two or two and a half miles; it's that runners high that people talk about. There's nothing in the world but the rhythm of my feet on the pavement or dirt, the steady pounding of my heart, and whatever happens to be infront of me. There doesn't even seem to be a "me." That ever-present feeling of self awareness--the ego, I guess--fades into the rhythm. Thoughts, crap on one my mind, the people in my life, and the people around me all blur into something not real. The only thing that is is moving forward. It's a feeling I don't get from any other physical activity (yes, even sex, actually especially sex). So, I went down through Rock Creek Park, into Georgetown, back down the Park to the Mall and the Capitol and the north on 16th street.
I stopped at 15th and L.
And went into the office.
It's nearly 6:00 pm now. Enjoy this beautiful day folks.
Question: is it wrong to refer to the few readers of this blog as 'bitches'? It's not that I direct it at any significant gender, I just think that my blog persona-- which ain't that different from my regular persona (except that my regular persona is at work a lot, a place he can't refer to everyone as 'bitches' even though it is a sort of term of endearment for me)-- likes to use bitches instead of y'all or folks. It's as much an exclamation point as a reference to a collective. But I digress.
Today’s post is the much anticipated awards show for the First Annual Pretending Along Teen Angst / Unrequited Love Poetry Contest. That’s right, it’s just like a Hollywood awards show, we’ve got celebrities, poorly written one-liners (see the facial joke from Monday), drunk nominees, and a general self-congratulatory air about us. Unlike awards shows, however, we have a tie.
Our unbiased team of judges (none of whom visit this blog) deliberated in seclusion selected their top two poems based on objective criteria which include: the lack of basic poetic merit, the use of achingly obnoxious metaphor, and sheer narcissistic self involvement and self pity. So, without further ado, the winner are, Jaden and Randolph.
This puts me in an uncomfortable position (actually, I’ll take any position I can get these days, since I’m so not getting any-- *ba-dum-ching*)- but seriously I’d intended to present a prize (read: a couple beers on me) to the winner, but Jaden appears to reside on the left coast. So RJ gets a couple beers when I see him next, and Jaden, well, I’ll figure something out (open to suggestions).
Thanks to everyone who participated.
"Untitled"
by Randolph:
Sweedish fish are red
Blueberries are blue
You decided to make out with the captain of the football team at the party last night in front of everybody on the couch while I sat in the corner you little slutty slut
and I feel like poo.
"Untitled"
by Jaden:
Like every episode
of Three's Company;
I am
misunderstood.
Now the hatred I feel
is overpowering.
Even though the line between
is thin.
Then you told me;
Welcome to Dumpsville-
population-you.
ps. i'm gay
So after the exercise in self-pitteous rejection poetry, what's next?
Onanism.
Tomorrow? The results of our poetry contest.
So I went to Starbucks to grab a cup of coffee for myself and some coffee-related warm beverages for some coworkers. It’s raining and I’m grumpy from the weather and the prospect of three straight weeks of uninterrupted work. After waiting for 5 minutes, behind one person in a coffee shop where employees outnumbered customers in line by a factor of 3, I order my beverages. I wait some more, and then grab my medium coffee, a medium extra-hot skim latte, and some other caffeinated abomination (the latter two for coworkers) place them in one of those carry out containers and proceed to the door. The door to this damn coffee shop, by the way, is the size of a normal door, but is actually two doors, one of which is always locked. So patrons must navigate a half-size exit with their coffee-related hot beverage(s) in hand while attempting to not spill anything. Well, after waiting patiently holding the door for the couple slowly entering (who didn’t thank me), and holding three hot beverages in my hand, I attempt to exit. At first this went well, until the half door slipped from my hand and I began to close on me. Moving quickly to ensure the door didn’t hit the coffees and completely ruin my day, I pulled the coffee up and towards me and reached to stop the approaching door. I did stop the door, however the jolt from quickly grabbing the handle caused me to jostle the beverage container and sent a spray of warm latte foam which landed squarely on my cheek and in my eye…
Oh well, at least I know now how all those women felt….
Did I just say that out loud?
I think we can all agree that that was a long way to go for a one-line facial joke.
To all those who bailed on plans, got wasted at 11:00 and couldn't go out, canceled at the last minute, or just didn't call, I have four words for you:
You Are SO Lame
Have a nice day.
What's up readers? Do we still have any? I'm not sure; I no longer check the site meter since the gradual decline in readership is a bruise which my ego can't sustain.
So, as the title of this post may have led you to believe, I have yet again been schooled in the ways of rejection. So in honor of this, we're having a poetry contest. That's right, it's the First Annual Pretending Along Teen Angst / Unrequited Love Poetry Contest.
And you bastards have to play along, because I'm "heartbroken" and I demand attention!!!!
Put your entries in the comments section, an unbiased panel of judges will select the winner based on an objective criteria which include: the lack of basic poetic merit, the use of achingly obnoxious metaphor, and sheer narcissistic self involvement and self pitty.
Let the games begin, I'll start us off:
the sun shining brightly outside
warming the street
Like an ez-bake oven
cannot thaw the black icy nothingness
that is the empty pit of my soul.
fly, blackbird
fly...
And remember, y'all have to participate... otherwise this is a completely pathetic exercise.
I've blogged before about how much I love where I live:
I'm in a great neighborhood in DC (Mt. Pleasant). I've got three great housemates. I live in a beautiful--if somewhat cluttered--rowhouse. The house has exposed brick and roof-top deck with a view of the National Cathedral. I'm a five minute walk from the National Zoo and Rock Creek Park (which for non-DC residents is a wooded park that runs through the city from north to south). I can run in for hours in the park and feel like I'm not in a city. My neighborhood is small diverse and has a couple of bars that I can enter and the bartender knows my name and my drink. I live about two miles from my office which is a fantastic walk. I find that I have everything I need fairly close at hand. And, perhaps most importantly, I'm close to many of my friends.
That said, I have been house-sitting in Rockville for the past week. I lived in this miserable suburb of DC from 2000-2002 and then again for a brief time in 2003. While I appreciate both periods in my life spent here, each time I left, I did so vowing never again to return. In terms of DC suburban living, I much prefer the time I spent in the worse suburbs in Prince George's County to this woebegone collection of identical houses and strip malls.
It has only taken five days here to reinforce what I think I already knew: I love where I live. For this area, I'm convinced that I live in the best possible place. Anywhere else in this area just ain't worth it.
Nite.
Webster’s defines the word “diva” in two ways:
1. The Latin feminine of divus, or god
2. A prima donna
Dictionary.com defines it in the following manner:
1. An operatic prima donna.
2. A very successful singer of nonoperatic music: a jazz diva.
I recently read the lineup for VH1’s “Divas 2004” concert. Here is the lineup, in the order presented by VH1.com: Patti Labelle, Jessica Simpson, Joss Stone, Cyndi Lauper, Debbie Harry, and Gladys Knight.
Read it again. Who doesn’t belong? Let’s start with Patti Labelle (been around since the 60s) and Gladys Knight (recorded the original Heard It Through the Grapevine”), no problems there. With Debbie Harry (was with Blondie) and Cyndi Lauper (was around in the 80s) we get a bit weaker. Had I not recently heard Joss Stone’s new album and thought I could be hearing the future of soul from a 16 year-old, I’d say she raises a red flag, but check out the album and then talk to me. And then we come to Jessica Simpson. Not even a has-been like Lauper, not up-and-coming like Stone, certainly not a legend like Knight or Labelle; this gal is a never-was made famous by marrying another C-rate pop failure and having their lives on the television. Makes you want to scream.
Also
In the Rite Aid pharmacy on Monday, I grabbed some dental floss to keep around the office. At least I thought it was dental floss, the box looked like dental floss, it was right there next to the dental floss, but alas, it was not dental floss. Upon opening the package on Tuesday I discovered that I had not purchased dental floss, but rather, cleverly disguised in a dental floss-like container, I had purchased “Interdental Stimulators.”
That’s right folks, fuckin’ toothpicks…