Tuesday, February 27, 2007

"Hey! Who's in the garage!?"

I get a LOT of wrong numbers. I have a Chicago number for my cell phone and am loathe to change it for fear of having to then deal with telling everyone I've ever known that I have changed it. So, I continue to get a lot of wrong numbers from Chicagoans.

The most frequent are calls for The Family Medical Network, a subsidiary of the Resurrection Health Services of Chicago. My number is FOUR digits off from there and I know this because my old doctor in Chicago was part of this network. (Funny story: Co-Pay checks for his office were to be made payable to "Resurrection Services," which I thought was a pretty ambitious claim for an MD. "Doctor, quick! Get the Lazarus device!")

These tend to be dull. Tonight, however, I got a perturbed woman who wanted to know, "Hey! Who's in the garage?!"

Nobody here but us chickens.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Bitter lamentation of one who is frustrated by hipsterdom (but secretly kinda wants to be a part of it.).

Things bicycles are:

1) A means of transportation.

End List.

Things bicycles are not:

1) A political statement.
2) A fashion accessory.
3) A lifestyle choice.
4) A hipster-phallus extension.
5) Anything other than a fun and healthy way to get around.

Get over it. You WILL NOT change the world by welding bike frames together and going to critical masses. If you wish to change the world, quit wasting your time feeling superior to those around you because you built your own fixie and join a goddamn non-profit or volunteer for a campaign or even write a goddamn poem. The power IS NOT BETWEEN YOUR LEGS, jackass. Were there to be any power in you, it would be located between your ears. Alas, perhaps your image-consciousness has blinded you to that.

Also...that mustache looks silly. So do those girl-jeans.

I am cantankerous grump, I know. Also, the cool kids rarely ask me to come out and play.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Nap time.

Take a nap. Indulge in the olfactory narcissism of finding the smell of your pillow uniquely appealing and comforting. Unwrap, unwind, slip away. Sure, at some point you'll have to come back and it will all still be here, but for 20, 30, 40 minutes in a day, there is room for a brief respite from the attendant demands of selfhood.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Universal Truths. (or at least, I think they are....)

1) Andy Dick is not funny. Nope. Not even a little bit.
2) Jonathan Safran-Foer is overrated. VERY overrated.
3) David Foster Wallace is NOT.
4) The Food Emporium on 42nd St. and 10th Ave. is, apparently, run by drunken chimps who don't know shit about produce.
5) Andy Dick is still not funny. Not even his last name.
6) NPR is the last worthwhile broadcast news outlet in the United States.
7) Barack Obama could well become president, as long as people stop spending all their time and energy telling everyone that he can't.
8) Peter Francis Geraci is the most important litigator of his time.
9) I really ought to be asleep right now.

Wednesday, February 7, 2007

New Word!

Interrobang! An interrobang is the delightful combination of the exclamation point and the question mark. If ever a new punctuation mark was necessary, it is this one. When written, it looks vaguely runic, but far less clunky than "?!". Sadly, the blogger typeface does not allow me to type one, so you'll have to look for it at a typeface near you.

Combining this with my quibbling over addressing letters in New York it's amazing that A) I ever managed to hold down gainful employment B) I have ever known the touch of a woman. For those curious, I have blissfully enjoyed both, thank you very much!

Just the sort of quotidian minutiae that concerns me and keeps me from more pressing matters...

I have been sending out an almost unfathomable number resumes (EDITORIAL NOTE: I don't know how to put the damn accents in on this blogger, please forgive me) and cover letters over the past few months. As of yet, I do not have full time employment. Perhaps my distraction by niggling details such as this keep me from actually doing enough to get my ass hired. Regardless, I am disheartened by the lack of standardization in the style with which one writes an address in New York City.

For example, I have seen an address such as the one for the Hunter College School of Social Work written the following ways:

129 E. 79th St.
129 East 79th Street
129 East Seventy-Ninth Street
129 East 79th St.
And any and all other permutations thereof.

I, myself, have chosen to write the direction out and abbreviate the street, because I have felt most comfortable with that. Regardless, in Chicago there was a defined system. I used to work at 25 E. Jackson Blvd. The direction was ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS abbreviated, as was the street. Numbered streets on the South Side were ALWAYS written numerically. New York seems to have NO standards. Is there a New York style guide I failed to receive upon crossing the GW in my Budget Rental truck? Moreover, why should I give a good goddamn about such minor things? Yet it bugs me, nonetheless.

It's a good thing no one else reads this. I don't know who but me could be interested in such things. Don't even get me started on the hyphenated street numbers for addresses in Queens, either...I have no idea WHAT the hell they mean.

Thursday, February 1, 2007

Art School Toilet Humor.

I am temping, currently, at the New School. Bohemian such as it is, I am heartened by any institution whose bathroom graffiti send me to a dictionary in order to decipher their wit.

(EDITORIAL NOTE: For those who wish to quibble about number agreement in the previous sentence, "graffiti" is a plural noun. JUST LIKE "DATA!" One piece of graffiti is a graffito, one item of data is a datum. And I am an elitist ass for knowing so. Somewhere, however, my paternal grandmother is smiling upon me for knowing these things. Of course, the rest of my blog is stained with the red ink of judgment from beyond the grave, for all my previous usage and grammatical errors. C'est la vie.)

That being said the graffito in particular that caught my attention was a drawing of two Pac Men, seemingly drawn by different hands at different times. A response to the other. What I can only assume was the original was a Pac Man simply asking, "Precarity?" The adjacent Pac Man responded, "INDEED!" Additionally, the responding Pac Man--drawn in purple--had gigantic, sharp teeth like a child's drawing of a dinosaur. Initially, I figured that "precarity" as a mistake, when really the author wanted "precariousness." Ok, so I'm playing like I'm really friggin' smart in my blog. I was PRETTY SURE that the noun form of "precarious" was "precariousness," awkward a word though it may be. I, however, second guess myself constantly, so I looked it up. What I learned is that, rather than misusing "precarity," the creator of this particular tag is much more clever than me. Instead, it's something of a neo-Marxist statement about labor. According to the good folks at Wikipedia, "Precarity has been adopted in leftist circles as the English-language equivalent of Precariedad, Précarité, Precarietà, terms of everyday usage in Latin countries that refer to the widespread condition of temporary, flexible, contingent, casual, intermittent work in postindustrial societies, brought about by the neoliberal labor market reforms that have strengthened the right to manage and the bargaining power of big and small employers since the 1980s." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Precarity ) Hence, I suppose, the teeth on the respondent's Pac Man.

Regardless, this particular bit of bathroom art packed a particular poignancy for me as I saw it while taking a shit on my lunch break at a woefully underpaying temp job. Irony? Nay. PROPHECY!