Tuesday, August 24, 2004

Fierce Street Fare
So Sunset Junction is Donesville. It was, above all else, prime people-watching. I don't know where some of these folks hole up the rest of the year. I can only guess that they walk around disguised as Normals, and then cut loose during the Junction. At its worst, it was a melting pot of the trendiest dipshits in LA. Not as many piercings as I expected, but the tattoos -- especially on Sunday which was unofficially dubbed Gay Day, marked by the surplus of shirtless, brawny, inked up gay men and drag queens -- were not to be looked at wrong, thought poorly of, or spoken to (unless spoken to first). Fierce.

But a lot of cool, fun people came out too, homies and strangers alike, which kept me entertained through all the sitting and drinking and more sitting. And I got paid, so I've nothing to complain about, especially considering the education. Some things I (re)learned:

-Dude on dude porn has video release in-store signings by its actors at sex shops, just like any other "respectable" film. BTW, I hear "Pokin' in the Boy's Room" holds up just as well on DVD.

-People attend these signings

-I suck at selling things. Granted, convincing people that $16 duct tape wallets were worth it got easier and easier with every try/cocktail, but I just don't think I have the energy for a career of it... which is unfortunate considering I'm in an industry where I have to sell myself... especially when my go-to technique is to sarcastically make fun of the thing I'm trying to sell.

-Most people, despite how hipstered out or insane they might appear, are actually pretty nice when you say "hi" to them.

-Celebrities do not like the Junction. Except for Fred Durst.

-Dousch bags do like the Junction (see above).

-Roasted corn on the cob dipped in butter is AWESOME!!!

-Bush/Cheney booths don't attract much of a crowd among people whose beliefs range from Left to Anarchist.

Then yesterday I took the day off to remember what it was like to not be drunk, surrounded, and exhausted.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

People, my ass is BRIZOKE
Not broke for real, as in repo men are hunting me as I walk shoe-less to Bankruptcies R Us. But broke as in I have debt. I fell into a lucky situation where a friend of a friend needed an editor for his book on entrepreneurship (please contain yourselves), so I'm making some extra bones there. Then I'm helping out at Marah's store this weekend for what promises to be the craziest (stuffed to the rafters with people), trendiest (it's in Silverlake), gayest (more leather, mesh, and sass than you can shake a stick at) block party of the year (unless you count the Halloween parade in WeHo, which just shoots off the Crazy, Trendy, and Gay charts). But still, this sweet moonlighting coin isn't enough to do what I want to do. I think I'm going to start looking for part time work. Maybe a couple nights a week. Anyone filling a position for Totally Rad Person?

And lest there be doubt, this is definitely not a woe-is-me, Rachel-esque plea for donations. So burn the cash and/or eat the cheque you just wrote me. After all, I grew up on the streets of Poway. I gots my own back. Check it.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Shirt: The Aftermath
Today this woman stopped when she saw what I was wearing and said, "You're back with the old stuff again, huh?". Then she reiterated her praise for the shirt and its cottony, patterned ways for a couple minutes, and suggested a trip to Ross to "update myself". It's worth noting that this is the same woman who inadvertantly insulted my life a while back by warning our college-bound intern to study hard so he wouldn't have to end up here later in life. I don't dislike her. She's actually sweet and means well, I'm sure. She just has this annoying way of playing the wacky character in a bad movie who grates on the uptight friend to loosen up by going on zany adventures. Well let me tell you, Queen Latifah she ain't!

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

High Fashion
I don't shop a lot, which is curious given my forever-mounting debt. But once in a while I feel the consumer pull and/or rip holes in my clothes, and decide to hit the malls. So Saturday I bought a new shirt. It's nice. That is, it's from Banana Republic and has a collar and buttons and isn't a T shirt. I wore it to work today, and almost every single person has stopped and looked at me. I'm waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind a cubicle: "You're so punk'd, dawg!" (this is how Ash talks in my imagination... also, he goes by Ash). My favorite observations so far from co-workers have been, "Whoa... went shopping, huh?" and "This is a new thing for you". Part of me thinks this is sad and suggests I really need new clothes (it's just hard when there's so much un-drank beer to be bought). Another part of me knows how hot my shit is and expects more. I also tucked it in. Maybe that's it. Or it could be I've pretty much worn the same five or six shirts since I started working here two years ago. Or maybe I'm just totally FAB-U-LUSS!!!

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Words, What Bitches
Sometimes I'm retarded. Not in the real way (at least, not in the diagnosed way), but in that four year old way when my brain wants to express something, and scrambles over many phrases, and the result is a kind of nonsensical potpouri. Like refrigerator poetry. Or our president. It always happens when I'm lost in thought, and have to suddenly shift focus.

So today I'm writing an email, and mid sentence this guy walks in and wants me to sign something. I suspect my mind ran a gamut of possibilities like, what's happening?, how's it going?, and -- though I usually reserve this gem for people I know -- how's it hanging? But what stumbled out of my mouth before Self Awareness could slam on the breaks, was

What's hanging?

(loooong pause)

When I realized what I said, I followed with a big "HOW ARE YOU?!", hoping that would somehow negate or at least cover up the first thing. But he definitely looked at me suspiciously...... or was it sexily??

In any case, I don't think there's any hope in fighting it 'cause I'm pretty sure I inherited this habit from my dad, who's famous in our family for thinking out loud, which of course is a euphamism for talking to yourself. Sweet!

Monday, August 09, 2004

Quote of the Day
I overheard one of the partners talking to our Office Manager about a traumatic elevator experience he had this morning. Apparently, the thing stalled in-between floors, dropped some, and stalled again before stabilizing. As he walked away, the OM told him he should call Maintenance and/or Security, to which he replied free of irony: "Top executives don't have time for that".

I sensed the supreme suckage that would be work, driving in today. I just knew it somehow. At least it's good to know this environment hasn't dulled my intuition. Bleh.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

The Scene
So Muso has invaded Glendale. We played The Scene last night, which was a lot less divey than anticipated. They've got a decent stage and floor, and the walls are lined with booths. The highlight was the rad jukebox featuring a vast selection of indie and rock. 13 songs for a buck!

Unfortunately, the downside to this was the show itself. We followed an hour of stand up comedy. Really bad stand up comedy. One guy insulted the crowd when we didn't laugh, which in his defense, was often. One girl ripped off Sara Silverman joke for joke. The best, though, was Tacky Jackie, a 30something woman who wrote zany lyrics to the music of real songs. One was about her ex-boyfriend who liked to cum in her face. Don't get me wrong, that's hilarious. I'm sure The Beatles would be tickled over this outside the box re-interpretation of their music, especially with all her flubbed chords. But it got very uncomfortable when Jackie's brand of side-splitting raunch turned to bitter diatribe -- Face Gizzer walked all over her (metaphorically). Then, before she launched into a song about "trying the lesbian thing out of desperation" (that last part was only implied), she went on about how guys suck. Sweet.

We followed these clowns at 10 (an hour ahead of schedule) to a very hip, mostly unresponsive crowd. Marah (who gets huge mad-ass props for sticking out the "comedy" and sitting alone while we set up, played, and loaded), says they tapped and head-bobbed to the music despite themselves. Clearly though, we lacked the proper ironic thrift store gear and severe mod dos to earn more than a stolen glance. I felt like Eugene Levy performing his schtick to the catatonic retirement home at the end of Waiting for Guffman. Everyone got up on their Jack Parcels to watch the bands after us who looked like poorer versions of The Strokes.

I guess it's possible they just didn't like our music..... Nah.

Apologies to Egan who showed up on time of all things at 11. And for that matter, to anyone reading this who tried to go but only found hipsters for days. We'll getcha in free at The Good Hurt on September 1. 'Cause we're good people.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Dear Mick Jagger,
There's a 50something woman in Accounting who dresses like she's 18. While staying just mature of Hillary Duff's Duff Stuff, her clothes suggest the teenage girls' section of a department store (a section I came to loathe while working at Robinson's May, as I was responsible for climbing up a broken ladder every day to turn on the TVs -- there were 8 -- that played Blues Traveler videos all day long. Who knew teens lost their shit for pre stomach-staple John Popper? Then again The Macarena also thrived in '97, so I guess anything was possible).

Anyway, this woman. Now look, people should look how they want to look if it makes them happy, despite how ridiculous and ridicule-inducing it may be. But yesterday Accounting took it too far. As she walked by, I saw her struggle to pull her pink stretchy pants up over an exposed chain link thong. I mean, c'mon. She's not fat. Just very 50something. Remember when aging gracefully was a thing?... Yeah, me neither, I guess. Maybe I'll feel differently when I'm older, but I've more respect for the unabashedly shapeless and sore bodies of middle age than I do for the stretched gloss of faux youth. Just let it go, dude. Desperation's got an ugly stink.

Crotchedy McRantsalot

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