The Toilet Trenches:
It's 9 am on a Thursday morning and you stumble into your work bathroom for a post-coffee piss. You close your eyes and hum the Cure song stuck in your head as you listen to the faucet drip and attempt to control your urine stream to the beat of both; (not an unusual morning feat for you). Let it drip, stop, retract, drip, drip, retract, jiggle, drip, flush; "Boys Don't Cry" remember? Dress shoes shuffle against tile floor and you see two black wingtips disappear beneath a stall door. What was that creature? What is this unidentified cockroach penetrating my morning haze?
This is what we in the work world call a culprit, a victim of unspoken bathroom blackmail and bribery. It is not a crime to use the work bathroom to export goods on the no.2 train to Empty Stomach City, in fact we all must exercise this right from time to time. But be prepared for bathroom mutiny; if you are identified as the culprit you mine as well flush your respect down with that horrid turd.
Ever notice how that Gucci toed criminal will not, positively not come out of his stall of ambiguity until you have "5 second rule" left the bathroom? C'mon people; I know it destroys the office myth that you are indeed a superhero but we all know you shit. It is just one of those things in our society and especially in the workplace; admitting you shit is like admitting you can blow bubble gum with your asshole, or that you fantasize about slumber parties with 2nd grade spelling bee finalists. So what do we do instead? We pretend "hey I'm a janitor I'm fixing the toilet paper mechanism" jiggle jiggle "be out in a sec". . . see proof, and then as soon as the bathroom is exited we leap from our stall, (where we probably completed the hardest task we will attempt all day), and we walk on over to the sink, otherwise known as home base. From that point on if Tim from business affairs comes in we can say "Ahhh Tim, nice day, Lakers or Celtics huh? Ohh that smell I don't know just peeing, just peeing in here, that's all Im actually capable of, don't know if you know this but I was born with coloneferus.. . .. it basically means I am incapable of excreting feces, huh, yea it means I cant take a crap." Why the lie, why the embarrassment, oh terrified one?
I don't necessarily get it; why this balance of power changes when we know our colleagues take a mean one every now and again; but hey “shitstalking” is what gets some of us our first raise. "I saw you shit;” the strongest words ever uttered in the work place, you mine as well give that person your wife, house, kids, and car because they own you.
Here is what I ask you, yes you I saw you in there yesterday; brown Paul Smiths and the grey Calvin Klein dress pants humming the first two versus of "Walking on Sunshine": Why wait until someone else has left the restroom, we know you shit, we know your not in that stall researching satellite orbits for NASA. "Hi my name is Bob, I'm a shitter. . . .I shat last night I shat this morning, and I'm going to go shit again right now!" Is that so hard? Don’t let the man take the power from you.
So what do I suggest and what do I do when I notice fashion clad employee #1 resting on the throne, how do I handle this situation? Well first off I must admit in all honesty I don't shit, never. . . .never have, never will I'm like the guy with coloneferus. But my game "shitstalking;" I want to see you sweat, I stay in that bathroom as long as possible while someone is in that stall, I want to catch them on the job; I am the reason for your IBS. I am a bathroom spy trying to infiltrate your hidden identity. "I can see your shoes, and your pants, as soon as I go back to my desk I will identify you!!" I will know who the shitter is, the pooper, the plopper, the turd philanthropist. Perhaps you say I am interrupting your quiet time, I say your the cause of the skip in my morning piss track. A shuffle of feet and I'm on you, ready to barter for a raise. It is not nearly as unacceptable to know someone who pees; my sister pees, my mother pees, Jim from accounting pees big deal, I saw Mother Theresa pee. . . granted she did it while floating on a cloud of recycled bibles. But to know someone that sits on the thrown and embarks on that most holy of journey's that’s something else. Just once I want to go in there and have a guy come out and go "high five buddy, I just shat!" and then I'll say something like, "Yea let's wash our hands first.. . . . and I know you shat, I've been watching you."
-655321
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Food it's TV You Eat
Random/Revolutionary Thought:
If you are in "The Industry" (Entertainment that is, no porn doesn't count. . .yea I know it's entertainment, give me a break ok) the only television channel you should be watching in your spare time is the Food Network.
After a long day of being told you’re worthless, throwing out rotten strawberry Yoplait’s, getting paper cuts from horrible reality television show sheets, placing calls to people incapable of picking up their own phones, and sitting through the kind of traffic that makes you want to pull over your car and use your tail pipe as a pacifier; the only saving grace is a little thing called food TV.
Do you really want to watch the efforts of the people you work so closely with everyday, and the job you pour your 20,000 salary and failed dreams into, plastered on your television screen during the 4 hours, (if that), of free time you get a night? No, I’ve got that one for you, the answer is no. Do you really want to watch the half rate movie, with the failing star/waiter, and the straight to DVD distribution deal you worked on all winter expecting a career changing credit, on your “me time” weekend? No, the answer is no yet again.
When you get home from work and your trying to think about what you should do with those two hours after eating your microwaved dinner, after exercising your administrative soul with a four mile run, and after making those urgent phone calls to your dead end contacts to further your career, you should not turn on the tv or go to a movie that reminds you you’re nowhere near your goals. What you should do, what you should really do is turn on the Food Network.
You should watch the carefree chefs of the best channel in the world create the Chicken Parmigian recipe your mom used to make you after school on Wednesdays before karate. You should watch the eclectic talent on Have Fork Will Travel move around the globe sampling the finest cuisines from countries you can’t even draw a line to on a map. Sit back and relax as Ace of Cakes try and tackle mango flavored frosting in the shape of a palm tree on a desert island mirage cake. Flip on Diners, Drive-In’s and Dive’s and reminisce about that diner back home where Paulie used to fry eggs in the center of your pancakes, or where Chef Molly used to bake homemade Twinkies on Fridays after baseball practice.
The Food Network reminds us of what’s good in this world, it reminds us of where we came from and where we would eventually like to go back to. It reminds us of the white shingled suburbs, of the nooks of the city, of the beach and the mountains. It reminds us of little league, of the donut shop downtown, of skipping out to the crab shack during lunch in high school, of family get togethers, of movie nights with friends, of barbeques on the first warm day of spring, of summers at the beach, of hot cocoa at the homecoming game, of an ice cream treat after surviving your first trip to the doctors office; it reminds us of what truly is important in this world. The Food Network reminds us of a simpler time when we used to ask “Mom, what’s for dinner?” and it reminds us that there doesn’t have to be a point to everything we do. So go home, ignore the perils of life in your chosen career, and remember what once used to be important to you, and what can be important once again. Get back to your roots and your values and have a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheddar, or you know skip the cheddar . . . . .because pie and cheese don’t mix well.
-655321
If you are in "The Industry" (Entertainment that is, no porn doesn't count. . .yea I know it's entertainment, give me a break ok) the only television channel you should be watching in your spare time is the Food Network.
After a long day of being told you’re worthless, throwing out rotten strawberry Yoplait’s, getting paper cuts from horrible reality television show sheets, placing calls to people incapable of picking up their own phones, and sitting through the kind of traffic that makes you want to pull over your car and use your tail pipe as a pacifier; the only saving grace is a little thing called food TV.
Do you really want to watch the efforts of the people you work so closely with everyday, and the job you pour your 20,000 salary and failed dreams into, plastered on your television screen during the 4 hours, (if that), of free time you get a night? No, I’ve got that one for you, the answer is no. Do you really want to watch the half rate movie, with the failing star/waiter, and the straight to DVD distribution deal you worked on all winter expecting a career changing credit, on your “me time” weekend? No, the answer is no yet again.
When you get home from work and your trying to think about what you should do with those two hours after eating your microwaved dinner, after exercising your administrative soul with a four mile run, and after making those urgent phone calls to your dead end contacts to further your career, you should not turn on the tv or go to a movie that reminds you you’re nowhere near your goals. What you should do, what you should really do is turn on the Food Network.
You should watch the carefree chefs of the best channel in the world create the Chicken Parmigian recipe your mom used to make you after school on Wednesdays before karate. You should watch the eclectic talent on Have Fork Will Travel move around the globe sampling the finest cuisines from countries you can’t even draw a line to on a map. Sit back and relax as Ace of Cakes try and tackle mango flavored frosting in the shape of a palm tree on a desert island mirage cake. Flip on Diners, Drive-In’s and Dive’s and reminisce about that diner back home where Paulie used to fry eggs in the center of your pancakes, or where Chef Molly used to bake homemade Twinkies on Fridays after baseball practice.
The Food Network reminds us of what’s good in this world, it reminds us of where we came from and where we would eventually like to go back to. It reminds us of the white shingled suburbs, of the nooks of the city, of the beach and the mountains. It reminds us of little league, of the donut shop downtown, of skipping out to the crab shack during lunch in high school, of family get togethers, of movie nights with friends, of barbeques on the first warm day of spring, of summers at the beach, of hot cocoa at the homecoming game, of an ice cream treat after surviving your first trip to the doctors office; it reminds us of what truly is important in this world. The Food Network reminds us of a simpler time when we used to ask “Mom, what’s for dinner?” and it reminds us that there doesn’t have to be a point to everything we do. So go home, ignore the perils of life in your chosen career, and remember what once used to be important to you, and what can be important once again. Get back to your roots and your values and have a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheddar, or you know skip the cheddar . . . . .because pie and cheese don’t mix well.
-655321
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Mouth the City Lived in
A journal entry from LA's finest Madame::
Hi, I'm from LA by way of New York, Chicago, Akron Ohio, Virginia Beach, Fredericksburg Texas, and Melbourne Florida but yes I'm from LA. Me I hitchhiked out here in 78, worked as a street vender specializing in body parts; ears, eyes, toes, lips. . . . .(yes both sets), whatever you're into. Bought a car and an apt in Korea Town where I ran my business. My mouth was open 24/7 and the back door was revolving. Businessmen poured in and out of this office. The front, well I left that locked for love unless I couldn't make rent that week.
“Ahhh Mr. H R Puff n' Stuff good to see you good to see you- do you have a job for a 20 something aspiri. . ahh. . oooh. . brrrrrb ooh sorry I didn't realize we weren’t going to talk this time, wow someone is an eager beaver. Can I take out my retainer first? Oooh yes you're right that’s me, right beaver funny it’s like a pun.”
They all used code names, as if it mattered, and I was the hottest, cleanest, most innocent bull’s-eye on the market. Girl next door looks, with Ivy League wit, but they wouldn't know since mouths weren't for speaking when you charge by the hour. An Ivy League Whore makes for a snappy business card. Hey I'm an entrepreneur- we are all good at one thing and me, I know how to run a business, Korea Town to Silver Lake, Silver Lake to WeHo, WeHo to Beverly Hills. This bumpkin moved up and over and out, I can do it all and done it all.
“Well hello mister DeLlama and Snorcese, how imaginative you both are, sure all at once lets give it a shot, and by the way you wouldn't happen to have a position at your companies for a smart, willing (obviously), attentive young, oh yes, uh huh I just got tested yesterday, yes for sure.” Who do you have to fuck to get ahead in this town. . . . I dunno but I'm sure I fucked them and I didn’t get a head, I gave a lot though. This is not a business you want to get old in. “You wouldn't happen to have a job for a 30 something, desperate, eager. . . . ahh the bed this time.” “Hello, good to see you again Mr. Brant, no no, sorry no ladies here that look like futbol players, you're in America, here take one that looks like Brad Pitt in Fight Club.” That’ll be in the trades tomorrow.
I can go to parties, I can hand out my card, I am a confident, intelligent entrepreneur I run a business that is a necessity. “Well hello, yes call me when she's out of town, let’s talk.” “You sir you wouldn’t happen to need a clean 50's something development girl with an ivy league education. . . .oh yes, I role play as well. What huh? You cant hire me because nobody in town wants to look me in the eyes. . . . contacts, numbers . . . well I know all their code names, did you know Christian Slater used to like to be called Officer Ballbearings, yea had something to do with really firm testicles. . . I have dirt on ‘em all.”
I am a business woman, I make the movies now, I give you the ideas when you're curled up in a ball telling me bout your daughters drug problems post coital, how bout a detective who can see the future, or a dog that can talk. But yes to answer your question I love it here it defines me, I am LA, I'm its tits, I AM THE TITS OF LA. Though I'm more like the silver lake these days, if ya know what I mean. . . . .grey pubes. LA defines me it is home, it is life, it is death . . . is that the right answer, please tell me I passed? I know this, this is my job, this is my town, if Yale taught me one thing it's don't bite off more than you can chew. . . .I know how much I can bite, and lord knows if you cause a problem with me. . . or my girls I sure as shit know how much I can chew.
-655321
Hi, I'm from LA by way of New York, Chicago, Akron Ohio, Virginia Beach, Fredericksburg Texas, and Melbourne Florida but yes I'm from LA. Me I hitchhiked out here in 78, worked as a street vender specializing in body parts; ears, eyes, toes, lips. . . . .(yes both sets), whatever you're into. Bought a car and an apt in Korea Town where I ran my business. My mouth was open 24/7 and the back door was revolving. Businessmen poured in and out of this office. The front, well I left that locked for love unless I couldn't make rent that week.
“Ahhh Mr. H R Puff n' Stuff good to see you good to see you- do you have a job for a 20 something aspiri. . ahh. . oooh. . brrrrrb ooh sorry I didn't realize we weren’t going to talk this time, wow someone is an eager beaver. Can I take out my retainer first? Oooh yes you're right that’s me, right beaver funny it’s like a pun.”
They all used code names, as if it mattered, and I was the hottest, cleanest, most innocent bull’s-eye on the market. Girl next door looks, with Ivy League wit, but they wouldn't know since mouths weren't for speaking when you charge by the hour. An Ivy League Whore makes for a snappy business card. Hey I'm an entrepreneur- we are all good at one thing and me, I know how to run a business, Korea Town to Silver Lake, Silver Lake to WeHo, WeHo to Beverly Hills. This bumpkin moved up and over and out, I can do it all and done it all.
“Well hello mister DeLlama and Snorcese, how imaginative you both are, sure all at once lets give it a shot, and by the way you wouldn't happen to have a position at your companies for a smart, willing (obviously), attentive young, oh yes, uh huh I just got tested yesterday, yes for sure.” Who do you have to fuck to get ahead in this town. . . . I dunno but I'm sure I fucked them and I didn’t get a head, I gave a lot though. This is not a business you want to get old in. “You wouldn't happen to have a job for a 30 something, desperate, eager. . . . ahh the bed this time.” “Hello, good to see you again Mr. Brant, no no, sorry no ladies here that look like futbol players, you're in America, here take one that looks like Brad Pitt in Fight Club.” That’ll be in the trades tomorrow.
I can go to parties, I can hand out my card, I am a confident, intelligent entrepreneur I run a business that is a necessity. “Well hello, yes call me when she's out of town, let’s talk.” “You sir you wouldn’t happen to need a clean 50's something development girl with an ivy league education. . . .oh yes, I role play as well. What huh? You cant hire me because nobody in town wants to look me in the eyes. . . . contacts, numbers . . . well I know all their code names, did you know Christian Slater used to like to be called Officer Ballbearings, yea had something to do with really firm testicles. . . I have dirt on ‘em all.”
I am a business woman, I make the movies now, I give you the ideas when you're curled up in a ball telling me bout your daughters drug problems post coital, how bout a detective who can see the future, or a dog that can talk. But yes to answer your question I love it here it defines me, I am LA, I'm its tits, I AM THE TITS OF LA. Though I'm more like the silver lake these days, if ya know what I mean. . . . .grey pubes. LA defines me it is home, it is life, it is death . . . is that the right answer, please tell me I passed? I know this, this is my job, this is my town, if Yale taught me one thing it's don't bite off more than you can chew. . . .I know how much I can bite, and lord knows if you cause a problem with me. . . or my girls I sure as shit know how much I can chew.
-655321
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
All of you Please, Drink until you're Real
“They’re not even drunk those girls.” We stare at each other through knowing eyes- maybe even a bit judgmental, as if that isn’t a factor here. But we know it is. Here's the thing about LA girls- about all these self-loathing transplants and LA people in general, If they aren’t drunk then it's “Oh I live in East Hollywood. . . .you know its on the line (what the fuck is East Hollywood), Brentwood is my home, yea Bel Air born and raised. . . . before that, well there was nothing.” None of these girls were “Born to Run.” New Jersey? No I took that trash out with the garbage last night. None of these girls were Knicks Fans, Cheese heads, part of the Big Apple, Georgia Peaches. . .. . ewww whats with all the food references, I heard you can get fat by reading about calories.
Regardless of whether they’re really from Dallas, Michigan, Seattle, East Boondocks Bumfuck Mississippi, etc. a sober Los Angelean is a native for life. Only when she’s drunk does her true Raleigh come out, only when she’s had a few too many whiskey sours does miss Evansville Indiana show her corn fed ways, only when she’s had a few Irish car bombs does Ms. Maine tell us about clam digging with pops in the summers. What does it mean that everyone in this city wants to be this city so much and that they desire to define its very essence so bad that they neglect their beginnings? How much alcohol does it take for you to tell me you aren’t really from LA.? It’s like a game, sort of like hungry hungry hippos, except the marbles are red headed sluts (the drink or the actual breed of female, you choose) and the winner gets their honesty and integrity back.
I may be a bit different I’ll gladly show you my khaki pants after one shot of Jaeger. Fuck it I’ll tell you where you can get a decent slice of pepperoni pizza on a random street in New Haven for half a shot of vodka. I’ll even let you know that I shoveled snow every winter to have a little spending money if you give me the remains of your tequila shot. You ask me and I’ll tell you all this without the liquid coaxing. Do we all really have to be that embarrassed of where we came from in this city? I grew up wearing collared shirts and fantasizing of Ivy League, I grew up with a year round white paste about me. Ghosts would laugh at me behind my back because they went surfing during the summers. How is it that this town has so much disdain for every other city? We have billboards, websites, books, magazines, television shows, movies all letting us know that you can “Disappear Here.” Everyone truly is so eager to belong to the cult that is LA. Please stop by the Scientology Center and donate your first months rent to the cause. It really is the first step if you’re looking for a sense of community.
“So no, these girls aren’t drunk,” that means they’ve lived off of Lemon Grove Avenue all their lives, or they’ve spent many a weekend in Palm Springs. Do tell, I’d love to hear the story. . . . in detail I might add. No, you’re not feeling well, let you have a drink first ok. How many shots until you can tell me about how hard your mom had to work as a single parent to raise you and your sister in rural Minnesota. How many vodka crans to raise that New York discourse from your Yankee blood? Please LA fill yourself with alcohol so each of us could have something a little bit more interesting to discuss over cocktails.
-655321
Regardless of whether they’re really from Dallas, Michigan, Seattle, East Boondocks Bumfuck Mississippi, etc. a sober Los Angelean is a native for life. Only when she’s drunk does her true Raleigh come out, only when she’s had a few too many whiskey sours does miss Evansville Indiana show her corn fed ways, only when she’s had a few Irish car bombs does Ms. Maine tell us about clam digging with pops in the summers. What does it mean that everyone in this city wants to be this city so much and that they desire to define its very essence so bad that they neglect their beginnings? How much alcohol does it take for you to tell me you aren’t really from LA.? It’s like a game, sort of like hungry hungry hippos, except the marbles are red headed sluts (the drink or the actual breed of female, you choose) and the winner gets their honesty and integrity back.
I may be a bit different I’ll gladly show you my khaki pants after one shot of Jaeger. Fuck it I’ll tell you where you can get a decent slice of pepperoni pizza on a random street in New Haven for half a shot of vodka. I’ll even let you know that I shoveled snow every winter to have a little spending money if you give me the remains of your tequila shot. You ask me and I’ll tell you all this without the liquid coaxing. Do we all really have to be that embarrassed of where we came from in this city? I grew up wearing collared shirts and fantasizing of Ivy League, I grew up with a year round white paste about me. Ghosts would laugh at me behind my back because they went surfing during the summers. How is it that this town has so much disdain for every other city? We have billboards, websites, books, magazines, television shows, movies all letting us know that you can “Disappear Here.” Everyone truly is so eager to belong to the cult that is LA. Please stop by the Scientology Center and donate your first months rent to the cause. It really is the first step if you’re looking for a sense of community.
“So no, these girls aren’t drunk,” that means they’ve lived off of Lemon Grove Avenue all their lives, or they’ve spent many a weekend in Palm Springs. Do tell, I’d love to hear the story. . . . in detail I might add. No, you’re not feeling well, let you have a drink first ok. How many shots until you can tell me about how hard your mom had to work as a single parent to raise you and your sister in rural Minnesota. How many vodka crans to raise that New York discourse from your Yankee blood? Please LA fill yourself with alcohol so each of us could have something a little bit more interesting to discuss over cocktails.
-655321
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
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