After a recent foray into some very sexist ads inspired an expedition into the modern world of feminists, I have decided that I don't at all want to be what some women think it means to be a feminist. A few weeks ago I read an article in Bust magazine that was....enlightening. After that I found myself enjoying the "honor" of being involved with a feminist blog. My teeth have literally been ground to the pulp. Questions like, "If I want to get a breast reduction does that make me a bad feminist?" in conjunction with statements like "Every man that has sex with you is sexist and is trying to degrade you" inspire me to believe that maybe our top minds aren't being showcased, ladies. I like baking and don't feel that makeup is evil but I also enjoy fist fights and beer. The article that I read was an interview with Diablo Cody. You can make your own mind up about her but I just sat, magazine in hand thinking, Is a feminist a woman who shakes her tits for tips, BUT only because she wants to and not because someone else is making her? Women like Diablo Cody can certainly be labeled something, I'm not sure if it's feminist or not. Currently in the works, as I'm sure you have seen, she is responsible for the steaming pile of excrement that is "Jennifer's Body". It stars Megan Fox and is about a demon that eats men. This could be a cool story but there are so many problems. First off, Megan Fox is not my favorite person, considering her audition for Transformers (thought provoking film that it was) was her washing Michael Bay's car in a bikini, second off....it's a horror movie...this combination of fembots is raping my favorite genre. This is not ok. There aren't many horror movies that can be considered progressive, what with gender stereo-typing and racial pigeon holing. But as far as the Girls-Gone-Wild-Feminists, (I actually have to imagine that they all have voices like the Bush twins from Robot Chicken. It truly, truly is the only thing that keeps me from drop kicking girl babies in an effort to end the stupidity.) Also, I would just like to point out how much kiddy porn is being pedaled these days. Isn't it a little strange that Lady Gaga (age 23) can talk about how she wants to have a foursome with the Jonas Brothers (the youngest of which is 14) and Hannah Montana can dance on a stripper pole at the kids choice awards?? Ok so maybe the older Jonas Brothers are 18 and 19 and Hannah Montana is 16. I have no problem with them wanting to shed their childish images. Start by getting off the Disney channel and smoke a fucking cigarette. Sure, lets edify our sexuality but maybe it would be a good idea to let kids grow up enough first to have a solid definition of what their personal sexuality is. Why does sexuality automatically refer to people displaying a certain type of behavior? Being amoral and a liberal thinker are not synonymous. Today's women are already bombarded with magazines that read more like self help books. The headlines should be "5 steps to making yourself good enough" or "Things that you need to do to keep your man because there is no way he's with you because of your looks". If you want to give your confidence a nice solid hit, pick up one of the magazines as you wait to check out in the grocery store. Bullshit "ad-azines" rife with lamely veiled attempts at bolstering girl power when all that's actually happening is a not so subtle mind fuck. All guys need to do to understand why girls are insane is flip through a few issues. I have actually been to parties where the dialogue went something like this:
Boy: Hey how you liking the party?
Girl: Good! It's a lot of fun. I hadn't seen a lot of these people in like forever.
Boy: You know what would make this party a lot better?
Girl: No! What?!
Boy: If you took your shirt off.
Girl: OK!
(Again the girl sounds like one of the Bush twins from Robot Chicken.)
These are the guys who think that respecting a woman is patting them on the head and telling them they look pretty and the girls they think that they're revolutionary because they are the only "girl" doing something in their group of friends. Then there are the women who think that feminism means you can't enjoy cooking or be a proponent of hygiene. Maybe we should let kids be kids while they can and stop buying into the bullshit. Why can't we just be people?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Brambling
When I was little we didn't have much money. There were five of us: my mom, dad, my two older brothers and me, the baby. I should probably say that my life was a little unconventional. There was quite a bit of violence in my house. I mean, I had seen my dad (a police officer at the time)beat the father of one of my classmates on his front lawn for no reason. I very much doubted most kids had seen the same. So, it was volatile to say the least. But, once in awhile, we would find ourselves on the same page. Just to be in the same book was a happy surprise but being on the same page, that was unheard of.
I don't remember a lot of my past. There are big chunks cut out and things are really vague. Mostly my recollection is just like fuzzy videos being played in a really terrible theater. Or maybe a theater that Tyler Durden worked in and instead of splicing in the snuff, he left these gaps where there is just nothing. Which, don't get me wrong, in a lot of accounts it's comforting to not be able to remember. Some memories though, are fairly vivid, still in soft focus but in a sort of technicolor.
I remember the ebb and flow of seasons. Each one distinct in sight, sounds and smells or linked to specific activities. Winter to me is sledding and putting snow sodas instead of ice. Spring is a series of wildflowers growing on the hillsides and my birthday. Autumn was always my favorite because of Halloween, bonfires and the smell of dead leaves, spicy and reminiscent of cloves. Now summers are BBQ and riding my bike until 9 because the sun refuses to set. And then there's the suffocating humidity.
Summers in the Midwest are described by polite people as being "sticky". The rest of us feel that these summers are best described as being "balls hot". Generally, people worshiped their AC, TV, any other number of abbreviations really and if we wanted to be fancy we would take a trip to the city pool. There were times though, we would shake off the heavy coat of languor that summer would weigh us down with and become somewhat more industrious. In our crests of these brief moments we would venture outside and forage.
Just a mile down the road from my house, maybe a little less, was this maze of brambles adorned with the biggest, juiciest, blackest blackberries that yuppie bullshit people will never find in their nearest whole foods super center. (Because that's the thing about whole foods stores. They aren't these small, quaint, mom-and-pop owned places. They're actually enormous, corporate and just as pretentious as you would expect them to be. Also, shopping in one of these cash cows will save your soul about as fast as it will save you money.)Anyway, the blackberries.
The patch was just off the gravel, as most things tend to be in towns of a thousand people. The berries next to the road couldn't be picked because they were covered with an impermeable layer of dirt and grit. So, we made our way past the barbed wire fence, which in the country seems to be more a cautionary device for cows rather than a serious deterrent for trespassers. Then again, it was several years ago and in a town where everyone knows everyone else. I would not suggest trying this now as yes, it is true, all country people have guns, big ones. They issue you one as you come out of the birthing canal. That being said, the blackberries in the back were the money berries.
When you begin a task that is mindless like this, something happens to you. Barring the occasional start from a black snake underfoot, you could almost be hypnotized. There's this wonderful combination of the repetitive motion, the humidity cradling you and your dehydration that coaxes your brain into mush. The brambles twine and spiral around each other becoming a puzzle or like that trail out of Hansel and Gretel. You convince yourself that you really haven't gone that far and even if you do you are perfectly capable of finding your way out but this equation has an answer. Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't.
Either way this artful, tangled distraction, so like the hair of that one girl in your office or in your class, careless and deliberately tousled all at once, lures you in like a helpless lamb. The leaves are broad and flat with serrated edges. They provide a measure of protection, shading their delectable charges until they droop with sweet maturity. The sunlight catches on the berries themselves, tantalizing the eye. You reach. Then you notice the wicked looking thorns curving protectively en masse. While they are cause for hesitation, these sentinels are docile and really aren't all that big.
That day, I gathered berries like a zombie, shuffling this way and that. Or maybe it was more graceful. Maybe I was a hummingbird, lighting for a moment or two and then moving on. Probably not but eventually I realized that the sky had become overcast and ominous. The bloated clouds rumbled out their message; a storm was coming and it was time to go. My family started calling to me and that was when I noticed that the brambles had become walls of green, trapping me. My fingers began throbbing as my panic welled up. I hadn't realized how many battle wounds I had received.
The once dormant thorns now seemed to be reaching for me. When had they gotten so big?! The last thing I wanted to do was panic and stumble into the clinging vines. I imagine that falling into a blackberry bush feels like being stuffed into a bag with 15 angry cats. I stood anxiously, feeling small, shifting from foot to foot and willing an escape route to expose itself. For a moment I felt like a princess in a fable. Except, well, my mom insisted on giving me a mullet and no princess I had ever seen had sported a lady mullet (Also known as the fullet, female mullet.) Also, my family was screaming at me to get the hell out of the bushes.
I hyperventilated a lot as a kid. How much, you ask? I could have instructed a class on paper bag breathing by the time I was 8. I could feel my chest tightening second by second. I was going to cry, which my mom hated. She said it made a person look weak. I could see why. I mean, what exactly did it accomplish? On the other hand, sometimes you didn't have much of a choice. You could either cry or break your hand punching something. I have done both and the first one definitely doesn't satisfy in the same way or give the same cool bruises but when the pressure changes and my hands ache, I'll take the crying.
As the tears welled up I tried desperately to squelch them. My home life was already a wreck and I didn't want to give anyone one more thing to deal with. Luckily, I was saved, in more ways than one. My brother crashed through the thicket, snatched me up and grumbling the entire time, deposited me safely away from the snatching bushes.
This is where I tie things together. Where I say that life and bramble bushes are the same. You reach for the berries of life, get stuck by the thorns but just keep reaching. Then we all laugh, there's a freeze frame, a star wipe and boom, credits roll. The thing is, I just don't know. So far my life has been a series of broken mirrors and briar patches. I don't know when the bad stops and the good starts. Or if the bad and the good are like one of those swirl cones you get from ice cream parlors; separate but intermingling. I'm jealous of people who have the good things. The only thing I ever seem to do is wreck everything and attract the worst case scenario. I take a lot of steps in these dances but they're all the wrong ones. The good things I can count on one hand. Some people peak in high school. I would just like to get on the chart.
At the very least I would call for a little balance. I'm fine with the bad as long as I can get a chance to surface every now and again. I am not ungrateful for the things I do have. I just wonder, is it someone's idea that these things are all I get and the rest of my life is spent in punishment? I am also a whole within myself that deserves a break, to win the lottery occasionally, to not stumble so much at the very least or maybe an apology. I want to make my own way. I want to be able to choose and I don't want to be crushed under a heel every time I try to look up. I am not trash.
I don't remember a lot of my past. There are big chunks cut out and things are really vague. Mostly my recollection is just like fuzzy videos being played in a really terrible theater. Or maybe a theater that Tyler Durden worked in and instead of splicing in the snuff, he left these gaps where there is just nothing. Which, don't get me wrong, in a lot of accounts it's comforting to not be able to remember. Some memories though, are fairly vivid, still in soft focus but in a sort of technicolor.
I remember the ebb and flow of seasons. Each one distinct in sight, sounds and smells or linked to specific activities. Winter to me is sledding and putting snow sodas instead of ice. Spring is a series of wildflowers growing on the hillsides and my birthday. Autumn was always my favorite because of Halloween, bonfires and the smell of dead leaves, spicy and reminiscent of cloves. Now summers are BBQ and riding my bike until 9 because the sun refuses to set. And then there's the suffocating humidity.
Summers in the Midwest are described by polite people as being "sticky". The rest of us feel that these summers are best described as being "balls hot". Generally, people worshiped their AC, TV, any other number of abbreviations really and if we wanted to be fancy we would take a trip to the city pool. There were times though, we would shake off the heavy coat of languor that summer would weigh us down with and become somewhat more industrious. In our crests of these brief moments we would venture outside and forage.
Just a mile down the road from my house, maybe a little less, was this maze of brambles adorned with the biggest, juiciest, blackest blackberries that yuppie bullshit people will never find in their nearest whole foods super center. (Because that's the thing about whole foods stores. They aren't these small, quaint, mom-and-pop owned places. They're actually enormous, corporate and just as pretentious as you would expect them to be. Also, shopping in one of these cash cows will save your soul about as fast as it will save you money.)Anyway, the blackberries.
The patch was just off the gravel, as most things tend to be in towns of a thousand people. The berries next to the road couldn't be picked because they were covered with an impermeable layer of dirt and grit. So, we made our way past the barbed wire fence, which in the country seems to be more a cautionary device for cows rather than a serious deterrent for trespassers. Then again, it was several years ago and in a town where everyone knows everyone else. I would not suggest trying this now as yes, it is true, all country people have guns, big ones. They issue you one as you come out of the birthing canal. That being said, the blackberries in the back were the money berries.
When you begin a task that is mindless like this, something happens to you. Barring the occasional start from a black snake underfoot, you could almost be hypnotized. There's this wonderful combination of the repetitive motion, the humidity cradling you and your dehydration that coaxes your brain into mush. The brambles twine and spiral around each other becoming a puzzle or like that trail out of Hansel and Gretel. You convince yourself that you really haven't gone that far and even if you do you are perfectly capable of finding your way out but this equation has an answer. Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't.
Either way this artful, tangled distraction, so like the hair of that one girl in your office or in your class, careless and deliberately tousled all at once, lures you in like a helpless lamb. The leaves are broad and flat with serrated edges. They provide a measure of protection, shading their delectable charges until they droop with sweet maturity. The sunlight catches on the berries themselves, tantalizing the eye. You reach. Then you notice the wicked looking thorns curving protectively en masse. While they are cause for hesitation, these sentinels are docile and really aren't all that big.
That day, I gathered berries like a zombie, shuffling this way and that. Or maybe it was more graceful. Maybe I was a hummingbird, lighting for a moment or two and then moving on. Probably not but eventually I realized that the sky had become overcast and ominous. The bloated clouds rumbled out their message; a storm was coming and it was time to go. My family started calling to me and that was when I noticed that the brambles had become walls of green, trapping me. My fingers began throbbing as my panic welled up. I hadn't realized how many battle wounds I had received.
The once dormant thorns now seemed to be reaching for me. When had they gotten so big?! The last thing I wanted to do was panic and stumble into the clinging vines. I imagine that falling into a blackberry bush feels like being stuffed into a bag with 15 angry cats. I stood anxiously, feeling small, shifting from foot to foot and willing an escape route to expose itself. For a moment I felt like a princess in a fable. Except, well, my mom insisted on giving me a mullet and no princess I had ever seen had sported a lady mullet (Also known as the fullet, female mullet.) Also, my family was screaming at me to get the hell out of the bushes.
I hyperventilated a lot as a kid. How much, you ask? I could have instructed a class on paper bag breathing by the time I was 8. I could feel my chest tightening second by second. I was going to cry, which my mom hated. She said it made a person look weak. I could see why. I mean, what exactly did it accomplish? On the other hand, sometimes you didn't have much of a choice. You could either cry or break your hand punching something. I have done both and the first one definitely doesn't satisfy in the same way or give the same cool bruises but when the pressure changes and my hands ache, I'll take the crying.
As the tears welled up I tried desperately to squelch them. My home life was already a wreck and I didn't want to give anyone one more thing to deal with. Luckily, I was saved, in more ways than one. My brother crashed through the thicket, snatched me up and grumbling the entire time, deposited me safely away from the snatching bushes.
This is where I tie things together. Where I say that life and bramble bushes are the same. You reach for the berries of life, get stuck by the thorns but just keep reaching. Then we all laugh, there's a freeze frame, a star wipe and boom, credits roll. The thing is, I just don't know. So far my life has been a series of broken mirrors and briar patches. I don't know when the bad stops and the good starts. Or if the bad and the good are like one of those swirl cones you get from ice cream parlors; separate but intermingling. I'm jealous of people who have the good things. The only thing I ever seem to do is wreck everything and attract the worst case scenario. I take a lot of steps in these dances but they're all the wrong ones. The good things I can count on one hand. Some people peak in high school. I would just like to get on the chart.
At the very least I would call for a little balance. I'm fine with the bad as long as I can get a chance to surface every now and again. I am not ungrateful for the things I do have. I just wonder, is it someone's idea that these things are all I get and the rest of my life is spent in punishment? I am also a whole within myself that deserves a break, to win the lottery occasionally, to not stumble so much at the very least or maybe an apology. I want to make my own way. I want to be able to choose and I don't want to be crushed under a heel every time I try to look up. I am not trash.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Horror Movies and the like
I have always been different than other girls. As a teen in the boy band era, one would think I would be listening to something pop oriented but when a friend loaned me NIN: The Downward Spiral and then another friend, Marilyn Manson: Antichrist Superstar, there was no way I was going to buy that disposable crap. My parents listened to a lot of classic rock so I'm slightly burned out on Van Halen, Santana and The Eagles. I do find that if “Hot For Teacher” comes on I can't help but roll the windows down and turn it up, no matter how many times my dad blasted that album. So, basically, it didn't take much to encourage me to find my way into darker music. We were coming off of the grunge peak and we were depressed. We just wanted music that represented that and there was plenty under that corporate mucous crust.
I also found that I could not be satisfied by the so called “norm” of other media. Horror movies were my poison and I was swimming in them. Not necessarily the popular ones but “The Howling V” or “Waxwork”. I watched those movies a gazillion times. My best friend and I often went to a video store in the next town over called Bestway. It was a video rental/laundromat combination that had some of the most obscure horror movies ever. With titles like “Redneck Zombies” and Cannibal Hookers” what more could one ask for?
While I never had the chance to watch these films, I did get to watch “The Graveyard Shift”. I have to admit, I stifle a sigh as I type this title. “The Graveyard Shift” is a very graphic vampire movie about a taxi driver who takes sanguine and sometimes a little more than sanguine advantage of his passengers. I watched this movie so so so much and the blue, rock-n-roll 80's lighting never got old.
Perhaps I should say that my love of vampires began in the fourth grade. My best friend loaned me a book simply titled “Vampire” by Richie Tankersley Cusick (Thank you Haley and your Mommy who worked at Heritage Bookstore and brought home all sorts of fun books that you shared with me.) It was along the lines of the Fear Street books in which, holding hands is taboo and kissing equates to some sort of baseball analogy. Over time, my interest grew and in high school, it seemed only natural for the evolution of my interests to effect my appearance. Then came the JNCO jeans, of which I had but one pair because I was P-O-O-R. Next, a spiked dog collar and then the unfortunate pantyhose-on-the-arms phase. My Dad was not pleased and I couldn't care less. He wanted me to wear sweater sets and be a lady and I wanted to sit in my room writing gloomy poems about suicide and playing make believe vampires with my friend. He also cursed my existence when he caught me watching “Strangeland” and “The Crow, which I never understood because neither one were scary. They were maybe a little dark but not that disturbing. Well, not that disturbing to me at least.
However, I believe that some responsibility has to be taken. Was it my fault someone rented the entire “Friday the 13th” collection and left it lying around for me to find and watch all by myself? Or that the only non horror movie I watched all summer one year was “The Big Lebowski” only to be book ended by Stephen Kings “The Stand”? The first time I saw “Poltergeist” both of my parents were in the room and as I sat on the arm of the couch nervously sweating in my jammies, I was the one who quietly spoke up to say I didn't think I wanted to finish it. But did they stop me from seeing it? No. They simply sent me to bed. Does that make them bad parents? I don't think so. When I finally snap and start grocery shopping wearing only a cat tail and ears then maybe someone will have a chat with them. Besides, they were involved with me in other ways. They jumped right on it that one time I choked on a cherry Lifesaver. I didn't get to eat Lifesavers again until I moved out.
Anyway, I am now a 25 year old woman who is unemployed, writing on Office Writer because my laptop sucks standing, and I have no horror movie t-shirts because they don't come in my size. Apparently, horror movie apparel is reserved for only the jolliest of viewers. The bottom line is I love horror movies. I want to see more of them. My standards have definitely changed but I am the proud owner two of those DVD's that you can buy at the Dollar Tree around Halloween time. They have two horror movies on each of them and were made by the same 6 people no matter which one you watch. That's right people, I have seen “The Screaming Skull” and “Vampire Bat” and I'm proud of it. Also, a special thanks to Melissa for introducing me to “Night of the Creeps” (which I have yet to finish) and also “Basket Case” which features a guy that carries around a basket with him. Inside said basket is a lump of flesh that is his Siamese twin brother!!!! This film also features dudity in a dream sequence and a disturbing rape scene involving brother lump-o-flesh and an idiotic blond girl. So, yeah. You should see it.
I also found that I could not be satisfied by the so called “norm” of other media. Horror movies were my poison and I was swimming in them. Not necessarily the popular ones but “The Howling V” or “Waxwork”. I watched those movies a gazillion times. My best friend and I often went to a video store in the next town over called Bestway. It was a video rental/laundromat combination that had some of the most obscure horror movies ever. With titles like “Redneck Zombies” and Cannibal Hookers” what more could one ask for?
While I never had the chance to watch these films, I did get to watch “The Graveyard Shift”. I have to admit, I stifle a sigh as I type this title. “The Graveyard Shift” is a very graphic vampire movie about a taxi driver who takes sanguine and sometimes a little more than sanguine advantage of his passengers. I watched this movie so so so much and the blue, rock-n-roll 80's lighting never got old.
Perhaps I should say that my love of vampires began in the fourth grade. My best friend loaned me a book simply titled “Vampire” by Richie Tankersley Cusick (Thank you Haley and your Mommy who worked at Heritage Bookstore and brought home all sorts of fun books that you shared with me.) It was along the lines of the Fear Street books in which, holding hands is taboo and kissing equates to some sort of baseball analogy. Over time, my interest grew and in high school, it seemed only natural for the evolution of my interests to effect my appearance. Then came the JNCO jeans, of which I had but one pair because I was P-O-O-R. Next, a spiked dog collar and then the unfortunate pantyhose-on-the-arms phase. My Dad was not pleased and I couldn't care less. He wanted me to wear sweater sets and be a lady and I wanted to sit in my room writing gloomy poems about suicide and playing make believe vampires with my friend. He also cursed my existence when he caught me watching “Strangeland” and “The Crow, which I never understood because neither one were scary. They were maybe a little dark but not that disturbing. Well, not that disturbing to me at least.
However, I believe that some responsibility has to be taken. Was it my fault someone rented the entire “Friday the 13th” collection and left it lying around for me to find and watch all by myself? Or that the only non horror movie I watched all summer one year was “The Big Lebowski” only to be book ended by Stephen Kings “The Stand”? The first time I saw “Poltergeist” both of my parents were in the room and as I sat on the arm of the couch nervously sweating in my jammies, I was the one who quietly spoke up to say I didn't think I wanted to finish it. But did they stop me from seeing it? No. They simply sent me to bed. Does that make them bad parents? I don't think so. When I finally snap and start grocery shopping wearing only a cat tail and ears then maybe someone will have a chat with them. Besides, they were involved with me in other ways. They jumped right on it that one time I choked on a cherry Lifesaver. I didn't get to eat Lifesavers again until I moved out.
Anyway, I am now a 25 year old woman who is unemployed, writing on Office Writer because my laptop sucks standing, and I have no horror movie t-shirts because they don't come in my size. Apparently, horror movie apparel is reserved for only the jolliest of viewers. The bottom line is I love horror movies. I want to see more of them. My standards have definitely changed but I am the proud owner two of those DVD's that you can buy at the Dollar Tree around Halloween time. They have two horror movies on each of them and were made by the same 6 people no matter which one you watch. That's right people, I have seen “The Screaming Skull” and “Vampire Bat” and I'm proud of it. Also, a special thanks to Melissa for introducing me to “Night of the Creeps” (which I have yet to finish) and also “Basket Case” which features a guy that carries around a basket with him. Inside said basket is a lump of flesh that is his Siamese twin brother!!!! This film also features dudity in a dream sequence and a disturbing rape scene involving brother lump-o-flesh and an idiotic blond girl. So, yeah. You should see it.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Irritating
So, I'm looking for a job, just like everyone else, and I don't have a lot to do while I'm waiting for people to ignore my emails so here I am.....blogging for no one to read. I just moved to Vancouver, Washington not Canada. I think that Canada is the next step though. I want to go just to see. It doesn't take a million dollars to travel if you do it right. It takes more money just to live somewhere. However, get ready for a lot of people asking you stupid questions. People are so scared. They live like little paranoid things, jumping at every shadow, worried that someone is going to take their money, their house, their whatever and they're not bothering to live anymore. Jobs are scarce because businesses see that they can't afford to take a risk. A job can have a laundry list of requirements, bureaucratic hoops so complicated that you need a technical translator just to figure out what the job is and when you look at the pay it's generally minimum wage. Employers are hiring more family members, whether qualified or not, reviving a mafia mentality that used to be reserved for movies and Grand Theft Auto games. You pull the people who share your blood closer because that's just what you do with family. In such a tenuous world it's easy to feel hopeless with people asking so much and exploding when you get the slightest thing wrong. Just to get in an apartment we had to pay a fifteen hundred dollar deposit. A lot of places treated us like we were fugitives. Luckily, we had saved up money. Good ol' America, where if you throw enough cash at it there's a chance it can work. Even creativity is becoming more bland and restrained. Commercial art; isn't that a contradiction? Don't get me wrong, I don't like for people to manufacture an "edgy" aesthetic. However, if something isn't genuine, when it comes to art, it's painfully obvious. I went to an art gallery the other day to show a woman some of my photos and she had another artist drop by. This woman used to do ceramic pottery but she decided to quit and become a pastry chef. She told me to just get a job, any job, then work on finding the perfect job. In this conversation came up the suggestion that people who want to see art would rather find an artist in a gallery than online, which I think is unfortunately false. In a world of instant gratification, where people point and click and have the ability to get anything they want. A world of digital cameras that fool people into believing they're photographers and no end to the line of people who do arts and crafts rather than creating....what's the point of trying? We're a people who can't seem to see the value of art until the artist dies anyway. Saying this feels and tastes bitter. I feel stupid just putting this in words. Pretentious. I've spent my entire life working the only job I could get, waiting for the right thing to come along. Actually, that has been a theme in all aspects of my life. Does everyone do that? Does anyone say they want to sell vacation packages? Aren't we all just waiting when we should be looking? I'm tired of not being good enough. Tired of people's top shelf advice being to settle. Tired of worrying about what people think of me even while I have to sit and wonder if this will burn the only bridges I've made here. And really why should I worry, when we can't even tell anymore what's disposable and what will last? I am not by any means saying that if you have a digital camera, do arts and crafts, or sell vacation packages that you are somehow less. I don't know much about being an artist. I know that when I listen to and play music I get goosebumps. I know that when I take pictures I can see things I normally would not. I know that when I run, even when my lungs are weeping, I feel like I can do anything. We are a world of strays and we would rather have something than nothing, even if nothing is a slap in the face every day. I'm not looking for the perfect job. I'm not asking to have things handed to me. I just want a toe hold. I won't settle for the Devil I know.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Operation: Senior Stripper
Today, for some reason, I can stop thinking about this weird day that I had at my old job. I was in my "office".... See quotations are applicable here and not just pretentiously obnoxious because my office was one of those portable buildings that had been converted into an office space. I know what you're thinking and yes it WAS rather glamourous, complete with 2 large standing filing cabinets, my desk, which didn't have a real drawer just a space that pulled out and had no sides on it. This guaranteed that daily, my desk contents would vomit themselves out onto the floor. Also in this glorified closet were the desk that belonged to my boss (which had real drawers) and a printer that made so much noise it sounded as if a small jet airplane had settled itself onto said filing cabinets. There was also a window unit, for heating and cooling purposes, directly behind me. I feel the temperature settings would be best described in terms of sports drink titles. Those titles would be something like "Arctic Chill" or "I'm sweating my fucking balls off because it's so mutherfucking hot in here". So, maybe that last one isn't a sports drink flavor but maybe it should be. Anyway, I was just getting ready to go to the conference room to get a cup of coffee, even though I didn't like coffee and still don't free will always be the right price. I was thinking about how I'm ok with vanilla flavoring, artificial creamer and instant coffee but my God if they don't have real sugar I might set a baby on fire. I was in luck and they had all of them. I walked back to my office, meager goals having been completed for the day and then I see him. An elderly man, quite elderly, just in his boxers.... Let me explain that where he was getting undressed was the floor of a large gas and haz mat plant and not his personal old guy dressing room! In fact, it is a big warehouse sized room, with pumps for putting very dangerous gases into very dangerous cylinders. There were a few offices sectioned off but he was standing right in the middle of the floor, in the path that the forklifts took to haul pallets of aforementioned "blowing your face off" materials to and from staging areas, for loading and unloading. I double taked and then made a bee line for my office. Allow me to describe this zealous senior citizen for you. He was wearing plaid boxers with the super baggy bum, that all grandpa's seem to have. Not that I'm checking out the bums of the elderly just that, well, it's something I noticed. He also had on a white undershirt, black socks, loafers, giant molester sunglasses and my favorite part an Indiana Jones type hat. What clothing he was changing into I have no idea because for one thing I thought I was imagining things, seeing ghosts or something and for another thing, he was fucking getting dressed and it would have been rude to gawk.....for much longer than I already had. The next day I asked everyone about the man. Was it exhibitionist Wednesday and I just didn't get the memo? Did I finally snap and for some reason the one thing I was imaging was old men changing? No one knew anything. It was like a bad sitcom. People thought I was crazy for the majority of the day. My boss mounted an investigation, which brought at least five of the guys to the office to laugh at me but no information. Operation Senior Stripper was not going anywhere until one of the guys at the front counter said, "Oh, yeah! That guy came in and asked if we had a bathroom. I told him where it was and I guess he didn't find it." ............Yeah.....I guess not.
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