I'm going to go against my better judgement right now - as I dislike when writer's do this, most of the time - and sound off a definition.
De-cen-cy: 1. behavior that conforms to accepted standards of morality and respectability.
Okay, now that I've done that, keep it in mind during this article.
Are you like me and while you're floating back and forth between your pre-req sites (ie; facebook, imdb, twitter, etc.) do you happen to go past the Yahoo homepage and scroll through what's "hip" & "new" & "trending" or "popular" or whatever? Well, I've been doing that lately, and you know what I notice a lot? Their Top Searches.
Eleven days ago, an 8.9 earthquake devestated Northern Japan regions and was followed up by a wallop of a tsunami that carried away more than 130,000 souls, who are either missing or confirmed deceased(it's not like I really need to tell you). Shortly after, another crisis reared it's unfortunate head, as their nuclear reactors began to fritz, and when I say fritz, I mean possible melt-the-fuck-down scenarios began to play out as the survivors fled for the literal hills of the island and panic set in.
So, when I go by the Yahoo homepage and see that the top Searches for the day are Justin Bieber or his haircut, or El fucking Chupacabre, or Christina Aguilera's mugshot photo, it really, and I mean really, pisses me off. I will give Yahoo a piece of credit as they have raised some Six million dollars towards the relief, but they are not what makes the vein in my forhead throb: the Users are.
America, I'm guessing.
Have we all become that...self involved and vain? I don't even know if those are the right words. But I can guaran-fucking-tee that if you looked up most American's searches, and I mean picked a single guy or gal out and checked their history, it's full of who wore what and who fucked who and who's getting naked on film this week(not that I have never searched those things) and most likely their own name - and again, not the worst thing in the world - but when the collective population of six billion people are doing it...well, that's soemthing to kind of worry about, don't you think?
A good friend of mine's son is over there, and she's breaking her freaking neck trying to get him out safely, and if I prayed to a God, his and her name's would be first on my list at the end of every day, so I guess I am a little bias, but it's erks me. It really does.
Has America lost an overall sense of decency? Yes. Are we all horrible people who wouldn't help a person in need if they were bleeding onour freaking doorsteps? No. We're all just selfish fucks, bumbling around, running into each other, trying to exist - it's just that sometimes, we're not very good at it all. We believe we all have hearts of gold, and when put in the right situation, we would all be heroes. Haven't we all had that daydream? Swooping in and saving the day? I know I have. Maybe it's that it's not directly affecting us. Sure, we have neighbors and classmates who have family there, but that "in"directly affects us. It doesn't hit quite the same spot, though, as if it were our mothers or fathers, brothers and sisters. In a few words, it doesn't hit home.
I hope, one day, when the situation presents itself, I have the oppurtunity to do the right thing. To save the day. To be a hero. Or, just to be decent.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Death of the Marathon
Remember drinking until four am, sleeping several hours, getting a greasy breakfast and then doing it again that night? Worse though, remember when you did it all the time?
God. I think I just threw up in my mouth at the memory.
Mel and I were talking, and we think that we figured it out all out. We're "over the hill," you could say, when it comes to the Marathon Weekend Party, either that or we're just not those people anymore, but we've grown out of it, to say the least. Now, when I drink, it consists of one night only, and the entire day afterwards is shot to hell. Recovery takes it's due and I am bedridden until I get up and go to Jack in the Box or some freakin' diner to satiate my need for fatty food to soak up whatever's left of the previous night's debauchery. We think that it all stems from when you first dipped your toes in the pool of drunken sunrises and stumbling sidewalks. How old were you when you had your first 40? I believe I was 14.
Damn, fourteen.
Yeah, see, I feel like that was early. I got everything out of the way during High School and a little afterwards. Then, it kinda got old. I can't go drink a bottle of Jack, puke and do it all over again. The alcohol takes a toll on my body like it didn't used to. I guess, some people can do it and other people can't. And I'm starting to believe that I may fall into the latter catergory.
I see these kids, hell, freakin' adults, night after night doing the circuit. My 50 year old neighbors party it up like it's 1982 or something - stumbling up the walkway, falling down the stairs, screaming at 3 in the morning and I can't tell if I'm missing out on something, or maybe that it's just fuckin' sad. It's like, " Damn girl, you're a retired stripper, you're getting on the better side of heavier, and you make Lindsay Lohan look like an amateur."
I don't know, am I jaded or something? Twenty five is too young for that, for sure. I just know I ain't gettin' any younger and each drink hits a little harder and take a little longer to shake off. All I know is that I want a cigarette right now. But I quit. Damn. Oh well. Til next time, I guess. And Remember...
Complaining is dialogue, too, you know...
God. I think I just threw up in my mouth at the memory.
Mel and I were talking, and we think that we figured it out all out. We're "over the hill," you could say, when it comes to the Marathon Weekend Party, either that or we're just not those people anymore, but we've grown out of it, to say the least. Now, when I drink, it consists of one night only, and the entire day afterwards is shot to hell. Recovery takes it's due and I am bedridden until I get up and go to Jack in the Box or some freakin' diner to satiate my need for fatty food to soak up whatever's left of the previous night's debauchery. We think that it all stems from when you first dipped your toes in the pool of drunken sunrises and stumbling sidewalks. How old were you when you had your first 40? I believe I was 14.
Damn, fourteen.
Yeah, see, I feel like that was early. I got everything out of the way during High School and a little afterwards. Then, it kinda got old. I can't go drink a bottle of Jack, puke and do it all over again. The alcohol takes a toll on my body like it didn't used to. I guess, some people can do it and other people can't. And I'm starting to believe that I may fall into the latter catergory.
I see these kids, hell, freakin' adults, night after night doing the circuit. My 50 year old neighbors party it up like it's 1982 or something - stumbling up the walkway, falling down the stairs, screaming at 3 in the morning and I can't tell if I'm missing out on something, or maybe that it's just fuckin' sad. It's like, " Damn girl, you're a retired stripper, you're getting on the better side of heavier, and you make Lindsay Lohan look like an amateur."
I don't know, am I jaded or something? Twenty five is too young for that, for sure. I just know I ain't gettin' any younger and each drink hits a little harder and take a little longer to shake off. All I know is that I want a cigarette right now. But I quit. Damn. Oh well. Til next time, I guess. And Remember...
Complaining is dialogue, too, you know...
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Death of Communication
With all the accessable forms of communication today, it makes reaching out just that much easier. E-mail, cell phones, texts. Shit, you hardly ever hear another person's voice unless it's through you're head phones/speakers during a skype session.
So when the lines of communications fail, it makes it that much more disheartening.
Recently, I applied for a job. A good job, too. A massive resort was looking for someone to work their way up the ropes and perhaps take over a managing position. It would require some finagling, maybe some deceptive measures, and a lot of extra work, but damn if it wasn't worth the extra bucks. Three interviews(that went amazingly well) later, each a week apart, and I had my foot slipped right in the god damn door.
Then (in)Human Resources reared that ugly business-like head of theirs. They had requirements of me.
I met with an older woman in a maroon pressed business suit, who strut like she owned the place. She played the part to perfection; plastic-ivory smile, aqua-net hair, stockings(propably panty hose) and a well determined thought process applied to each click of her tongue. She was even twenty minutes late. Make em sweat a little. She sat me down, asked me mundane, nothing questions that were on a form somehwhere, memorized behind her face paint, and I gave perfect answers. She told me I had the job.
Pending...
I was like, " Pending? Pending what?"
First and foremost, my piercings had to go. My plugs aren't the biggest things in the world, black, and honestly, they've been a thorn in my side for close to seven years. Made of a pyrex glass, they were practically indestructable, and not too mention they had a major flange going on. I had jammed them in their when I was still in High School, and there they have remained since the day I swore I would not stretch them any further, I just wasn't that big a fan of the blood. Thery're stuck. Needless to say, yet I say it, I must have gave something away with my expression. I told her my predicament, but that I was also more than willing to get them out. I'd do everything in my power, save for tearing my damned ears off, to get them out. Baby. Bathwater. You get it.
Next. I had to shave. Everything. All of it. Wipe the slate clean and start over. ...okay. I could do that. Sure. Haven't shaved completely since before my voice completely changed(I've had a ghoatee since I was 15), but change is good so, yeah sure, I could do it. On board.
"You've got the job, " she told me, as she swiveled her chair back to her computer. " Pending you're drug screening. But get out those ear rings, call me, and I'll get you the paper work." She handed me her business card. " That's my direct line. Call me, and we'll finish this up." I smiled and was ushered out the door, questioning, what the hell just happened? I stood outside with a lopsided smile. I have the job? Or don't I?
Curiouser and curiouser.
So, I decided to use this oppurtunity as a...spring board you could say. Change. Keyword here, if anything, is change. I'll flip it all. I needed it. Shit, I'm 25 and sometimes I feel like I'm 16. Get it together, should be the motto.
So, I did.
First, I quit smoking. I bought one of those e-cigarettes(saved my life!) and have been using that now for over three weeks, feeling great. Next, the plugs. Took a pair of plyers, yes, I said PLYERS, and crushed them while they sat in my earlobe. Wonderful. Next, threw everything else out the window, no more nothing. Any sort of toxin, quit, over, out. Good, done. Next, detox. Bought a kit, did it, wonderful. Next, start pounding 100% unfiltered cranberry juice, flush those toxins! Done. Uncomfortably so, but done. Then, start the excercise. Started running, couple times a week, no biggie. Again, done.
I called them. Over. And over. And over again. The direct line. The other lines. I left message after message.
Yet, no one returned a call. Again, curiouser and curiouser.
Finally, after another week or so, I got a hold of the original woman I interviewed with, sweet lady, really liked me. She said HR had said that I wasn't interested because of the ear rings. What? " I crushed them with plyers! I want the job!" She told me she'd have HR call me the next day, get the paperwork in order and we'd get me to work.
Eureka! I've got the job. Again...
Yet, when tomorrow came, my phone never rang. Or the day after that. And the day after that.
I get in touch with the girl again, the one I interviewed with, yet, something has changed. She doesn't seem to like me very much anymore, something in her tone. " Yeah, um, HR said they sent you an e-mail," she says. " Unfortunately, we filled the position while we were waiting for you to respond. Sorry." Click.
WTF. What e-mail?
So, as aptly titled, The Death of Communication, I say, screw you corporation; with your fancy dress suits and your stupid circular driveway with the BMW's. Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.
And by the way, fuck off.
A phone call would have been nice.
So when the lines of communications fail, it makes it that much more disheartening.
Recently, I applied for a job. A good job, too. A massive resort was looking for someone to work their way up the ropes and perhaps take over a managing position. It would require some finagling, maybe some deceptive measures, and a lot of extra work, but damn if it wasn't worth the extra bucks. Three interviews(that went amazingly well) later, each a week apart, and I had my foot slipped right in the god damn door.
Then (in)Human Resources reared that ugly business-like head of theirs. They had requirements of me.
I met with an older woman in a maroon pressed business suit, who strut like she owned the place. She played the part to perfection; plastic-ivory smile, aqua-net hair, stockings(propably panty hose) and a well determined thought process applied to each click of her tongue. She was even twenty minutes late. Make em sweat a little. She sat me down, asked me mundane, nothing questions that were on a form somehwhere, memorized behind her face paint, and I gave perfect answers. She told me I had the job.
Pending...
I was like, " Pending? Pending what?"
First and foremost, my piercings had to go. My plugs aren't the biggest things in the world, black, and honestly, they've been a thorn in my side for close to seven years. Made of a pyrex glass, they were practically indestructable, and not too mention they had a major flange going on. I had jammed them in their when I was still in High School, and there they have remained since the day I swore I would not stretch them any further, I just wasn't that big a fan of the blood. Thery're stuck. Needless to say, yet I say it, I must have gave something away with my expression. I told her my predicament, but that I was also more than willing to get them out. I'd do everything in my power, save for tearing my damned ears off, to get them out. Baby. Bathwater. You get it.
Next. I had to shave. Everything. All of it. Wipe the slate clean and start over. ...okay. I could do that. Sure. Haven't shaved completely since before my voice completely changed(I've had a ghoatee since I was 15), but change is good so, yeah sure, I could do it. On board.
"You've got the job, " she told me, as she swiveled her chair back to her computer. " Pending you're drug screening. But get out those ear rings, call me, and I'll get you the paper work." She handed me her business card. " That's my direct line. Call me, and we'll finish this up." I smiled and was ushered out the door, questioning, what the hell just happened? I stood outside with a lopsided smile. I have the job? Or don't I?
Curiouser and curiouser.
So, I decided to use this oppurtunity as a...spring board you could say. Change. Keyword here, if anything, is change. I'll flip it all. I needed it. Shit, I'm 25 and sometimes I feel like I'm 16. Get it together, should be the motto.
So, I did.
First, I quit smoking. I bought one of those e-cigarettes(saved my life!) and have been using that now for over three weeks, feeling great. Next, the plugs. Took a pair of plyers, yes, I said PLYERS, and crushed them while they sat in my earlobe. Wonderful. Next, threw everything else out the window, no more nothing. Any sort of toxin, quit, over, out. Good, done. Next, detox. Bought a kit, did it, wonderful. Next, start pounding 100% unfiltered cranberry juice, flush those toxins! Done. Uncomfortably so, but done. Then, start the excercise. Started running, couple times a week, no biggie. Again, done.
I called them. Over. And over. And over again. The direct line. The other lines. I left message after message.
Yet, no one returned a call. Again, curiouser and curiouser.
Finally, after another week or so, I got a hold of the original woman I interviewed with, sweet lady, really liked me. She said HR had said that I wasn't interested because of the ear rings. What? " I crushed them with plyers! I want the job!" She told me she'd have HR call me the next day, get the paperwork in order and we'd get me to work.
Eureka! I've got the job. Again...
Yet, when tomorrow came, my phone never rang. Or the day after that. And the day after that.
I get in touch with the girl again, the one I interviewed with, yet, something has changed. She doesn't seem to like me very much anymore, something in her tone. " Yeah, um, HR said they sent you an e-mail," she says. " Unfortunately, we filled the position while we were waiting for you to respond. Sorry." Click.
WTF. What e-mail?
So, as aptly titled, The Death of Communication, I say, screw you corporation; with your fancy dress suits and your stupid circular driveway with the BMW's. Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.
And by the way, fuck off.
A phone call would have been nice.
The Death of the Neighbor correction
In the last blog I stated,"...a few poor people I can get along with." The correction to that is, " a few MORE people." Yeah.
Oops.
Oops.
The Death of the Neighbor
Trouble has moved in.
And that's not a euphemism. He calls himself Trouble. He's the opitome of hermosa beach, the posterboy for all that is fowl and wrong with the pier's community. I thought trailer trash would at least stay near the trailer park but I was wrong.
Normally, I find first impressions are everything. It takes a lot to change my first impressions about someone, if something strikes me as wrong about a person, it sticks. End of story. That is, until recently. I started trying to get past those first impressions and I found that there are a few poor people out there that I can get along with, talk to without mentally retching.
This guy isn't one of them.
I tried. Severa times. But alas, this guy is a prick. Pure and simple, I don't like him. I don't like his hats, curved up at the brim like a duck bill. I don't like that he stencils 'Trouble' on every piece of clothing he owns, I don't like his VW bug(and I love VW - we'll get into that in a minute) with the custom
' TROU3LE' license plate wrapped in chain and I don't like that he's in my apartment building all the goddamn time.
The first time I met this guy, I noticed that he had a VW belt buckle. I said to myself, " I used to have one like that, bought it on eBay." The next time he passed my door, I told him that. He stops, puffs his chest out and prompty takes a step in my direction. " No you didn't. I made this. It's the only one there is." Then, turns, and struts away.
Dick, right?
Next time I meet him, he insults my girlfriend, and dissapears just as quickly, not giving me the proper time to put together my witty retort. And if you know me, you know how much I revel in the fun of witty retorts. I live and breathe them. And it's not like a need a lot of time to form them. Just a couple seconds...
Maybe I need to give it time. Maybe I need to insulte his unit in aluminum foil and set it on fire. Only time will tell I guess.
And that's not a euphemism. He calls himself Trouble. He's the opitome of hermosa beach, the posterboy for all that is fowl and wrong with the pier's community. I thought trailer trash would at least stay near the trailer park but I was wrong.
Normally, I find first impressions are everything. It takes a lot to change my first impressions about someone, if something strikes me as wrong about a person, it sticks. End of story. That is, until recently. I started trying to get past those first impressions and I found that there are a few poor people out there that I can get along with, talk to without mentally retching.
This guy isn't one of them.
I tried. Severa times. But alas, this guy is a prick. Pure and simple, I don't like him. I don't like his hats, curved up at the brim like a duck bill. I don't like that he stencils 'Trouble' on every piece of clothing he owns, I don't like his VW bug(and I love VW - we'll get into that in a minute) with the custom
' TROU3LE' license plate wrapped in chain and I don't like that he's in my apartment building all the goddamn time.
The first time I met this guy, I noticed that he had a VW belt buckle. I said to myself, " I used to have one like that, bought it on eBay." The next time he passed my door, I told him that. He stops, puffs his chest out and prompty takes a step in my direction. " No you didn't. I made this. It's the only one there is." Then, turns, and struts away.
Dick, right?
Next time I meet him, he insults my girlfriend, and dissapears just as quickly, not giving me the proper time to put together my witty retort. And if you know me, you know how much I revel in the fun of witty retorts. I live and breathe them. And it's not like a need a lot of time to form them. Just a couple seconds...
Maybe I need to give it time. Maybe I need to insulte his unit in aluminum foil and set it on fire. Only time will tell I guess.
The Death of the Vampire
It's official. Hollywood has finally killed the eternal.
Did you know that Anne Rice actually hated the idea of Tom Cruise as Lestat, in the 1994 hit, Interview with the Vampire? The notion that Ethan Hunt, Jerry Maguire, fucking Maverick(!) could be the canine clicking renassiance man, that Cruise embodied in the film, was detested by the now famous writer. Yet it somehow worked out alright for everybody, especially the Studio's involved. Except, it was a great film! Flashforward fourteen years and what has happened? The Vampires nowadays are the indie scum of the planet. The Twitards and the Truboppers have officially killed the unkillable. They've finally jammed that skinny jean clad stake into the heart of American cinema, the last nail in the proverbial coffin of all that does not suck, and left us with 16 year old's playing 18th century hopeless romantics who fall for the high school closet wrist cutter. They gawk and scoff and huff and puff for an hour and half, and we the audience, pay double what we did in 1994 to see it, and we're supposed to say " Thank you, sir, I'd like some more"? Should we bend over and cough while we're at it?
Nay, I say!
I do not wish to forever watch the night-time darkness dwellers, the descendants of Bram Stoker's masterpiece, be trashed by bad romance soap opera garbage. I want the blood, the fear, the suspense, and I want it now. I do not wish to see the Chicken Soup for the Soul's version of Tod Browning's 1931 Classic adapatation played off like a 12 year old girl's wet dream. We the people need to set our feet firm and take a stand against these atrocities. I, for one, will not go quietly into the night and I hope that you won't either.
Did you know that Anne Rice actually hated the idea of Tom Cruise as Lestat, in the 1994 hit, Interview with the Vampire? The notion that Ethan Hunt, Jerry Maguire, fucking Maverick(!) could be the canine clicking renassiance man, that Cruise embodied in the film, was detested by the now famous writer. Yet it somehow worked out alright for everybody, especially the Studio's involved. Except, it was a great film! Flashforward fourteen years and what has happened? The Vampires nowadays are the indie scum of the planet. The Twitards and the Truboppers have officially killed the unkillable. They've finally jammed that skinny jean clad stake into the heart of American cinema, the last nail in the proverbial coffin of all that does not suck, and left us with 16 year old's playing 18th century hopeless romantics who fall for the high school closet wrist cutter. They gawk and scoff and huff and puff for an hour and half, and we the audience, pay double what we did in 1994 to see it, and we're supposed to say " Thank you, sir, I'd like some more"? Should we bend over and cough while we're at it?
Nay, I say!
I do not wish to forever watch the night-time darkness dwellers, the descendants of Bram Stoker's masterpiece, be trashed by bad romance soap opera garbage. I want the blood, the fear, the suspense, and I want it now. I do not wish to see the Chicken Soup for the Soul's version of Tod Browning's 1931 Classic adapatation played off like a 12 year old girl's wet dream. We the people need to set our feet firm and take a stand against these atrocities. I, for one, will not go quietly into the night and I hope that you won't either.
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