Man, I’ve Got to Fall Asleep

Shit.  This is ridiculous.  I’ve been laying here for an hour.  I’ve got to fall asleep.  I’m exhausted!  How the hell is it that I’m not asleep?  I’m wide awake!  This is bullshit.

“And crazy learner’s permit girl gave me a ride to Babbage’s.”

Aw Christ, and now I’ve got that stuck in my head.  Great.  I can’t fall asleep and this damn cartoon song is running through my head.  Fantastic.  I’m fucked.  No way I’m going to work tomorrow.  But I can’t not go in.  But I’m worthless if I don’t get some sleep.  Maybe I should take some pills.  Maybe I should take some Nyquil.  Sarah’s still got some of that Tylenol PM, that shit knocked me the hell out last time.  She still has that, right?  Did it expire?  I don’t think so.  But if I get up, it’ll be that much longer before I fall asleep.

“And crazy learner’s permit girl gave me a ride -”

Shit!  I’m never going to fall asleep.  I wish I could knock myself out, like if I had some ether or something.  Why can’t they have a device that’ll knock you out, dosing out the ether til your asleep, and then it shuts itself off?  I mean, it could go haywire and kill you, but it’d almost be worth it.  Why the hell can’t that exist for everyday people?!

My legs hurt.  This pillow isn’t working.  Son of a bitch.  And now when I roll over she rolls over and that keeps me up too.  I should go try to sleep on the couch.  I don’t want to keep her up.  But if I get up, it’ll take that much longer to fall asleep.  And I’m exhausted.  I’m wide awake! This is ridiculous.  Goddammit.  I can’t believe people who can just fall asleep anywhere.  What the hell is that like?  I never fall asleep unexpectedly.  Well, virtually never.  There was that time watching Excelsius Dei at Sarah’s old place I passed right out in the chair.  That was amazing.  Maybe I should go throw Excelsius Dei on.  “And crazy learner’s permit girl -” Shit!

You know, how is it we live in a world where they can clone people, there are pills to get hard ons when you’re 90, we can send men into outer space, they split the atom, and yet there is no effective way to fall asleep?  Why haven’t they discovered a phrase you think or a pressure point you can punch like a button and go right out?  What if there is a phrase and I always think it right before I fall asleep but then can never remember it?  I wonder if that’s true.  I guess it could be.  Why the hell isn’t there an off switch though?  That would’ve been convenient.  God didn’t think of that, I guess.

I hate not being able to sleep.  I’ve been here for hours now.  It’s too hot, my legs hurt, it’s too quiet, she’s moving again!, “crazy learner’s permit girl,” I’m kinda hungry, stupid goddamn job, you know if I didn’t have that job I’d be dead asleep, no question, it’s because I know I have to get up tomorrow that I can’t sleep, I swear to god, Jesus fucking Christ I hate not being able to sleep.  And I’m exhausted!

Well I’ll sleep good tomorrow, that’s for sure.  I’m gonna be dead tired all day.  I’m coming home after work and going right to bed.  That’s not true.  It’ll be like a waste of a day.  But then if I stay up I could get sick.  That’s always how it is.  I don’t sleep, I get a sore throat, and then I’ve practically got a cold, even if I do sleep enough the next day.  This is bullshit!  I’ve got to fall asleep.  Maybe I should go sleep on the couch.  But then I’ll be more awake.  Maybe I should eat something.  What?  We don’t have anything to whip up at 4:15 - 5:00!!  It’s five already?!  Son of a bitch!  I’ve got to get up in two hours!  This sucks!  Why can’t I just fall asleep.

Life.  Don’t even talk to me about life.

“And crazy learner’s permit girl gave me a ride to Babbage’s.”

I’m fucked.

Pixar’s WALL•E - “A Masterpiece”

The landscape of cinema and entertainment was irrevocably altered on June 28^th of this year, with the release of Pixar’s latest computer animated epic, WALL·E, which proved itself to be not only the best yet production of the Disney-owned company, but to be unquestionably, inarguably the greatest motion picture ever made. 

The Best Film of All-Time

 

That’s right.  Ever.  And it’s not even close.  This is a film in a class so distinctly its own that it barely can be squeezed into the existing parameters of how we define a movie.  It so outdoes everything that’s come before that it is almost like watching some new, far superior form of entertainment unlikely ever to be duplicated.

 

Imagine what it was like when Socrates first put ink to parchment and world was blessed with the story of Oedipus.  Or imagine the reaction when the curtain was rung down on the opening night of Romeo and Juliet.  Or imagine the final notes of Don Giovanni crashing down on the audience at its premiere.  Can you?  I can.  I was at a showing of WALL·E at the local multiplex last weekend.

 

Every frame, every moment, is sublime perfection.  It conveys the full range of human emotions through a cuddly array of robots and cockroaches and clips from Hello Dolly and corpulent chair-bound successors to the human race.  The gorgeous visuals coupled with tender sentiment, uproarious slapstick, tear-jerking romance, whiz-bang action, profound depth, and dazzlingly inventive creations work seamlessly to produce the most insightful, enjoyable film the world could ever have dared to dream possible.

 

Were Shakespeare, Van Gogh, and God to cosmically collaborate on a piece of art, it’s not much of a stretch to guess that it would resemble WALL·E, or more probably fall a hair shy.  In the history of man’s creations, a countdown of sheer perfection now literally goes: the Mona Lisa, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the Campbell’s Soup can, Michelangelo’s David, and Pixar’s WALL·E.  Hell, when thrown into competition with nature’s creations, only peacock feathers, Mount Kilimanjaro, and the human earlobe come remotely close to this animated vision of wonder.

 

To try and remain spoiler-free, and therefore not rob you of any of the joy, amazement, or mind-expanding enlightenment you will receive in the viewing of this masterpiece, here is some attempt at a frame of reference.  The narrative Pixar has created makes Hamlet look like Ernest Scared Stupid. 

The visuals!  Glory be, the visuals make the aurora borealis seem like a dull row of lampposts gone haywire.  The inventive soundtrack and vocal work rivals the best attempts of Tchaikovsky and Brahms.  And the hilarious comedic performances shames previously considered geniuses like Chaplin and Keaton into certain obscurity and oblivion.  A thousand years from now the great inventions of our age will be universally accepted as the printing press, the personal computer, and Pixar’s crowning achievement.

 

Before straining the limits of credibility with excessive hyperbole and risking extreme exaggeration, let me just close by saying that were I given a choice between bringing my loved ones back from the dead, discovering a cure for cancer and herpes, ensuring world peace and harmony, knowing true happiness and how to attain it, and being assured of the existence of and my someday admittance to heaven, or being in possession of a DVD loaded with deleted scenes and making ofs for and assurance of a sequel to WALL·E, I’d debate it for about six seconds, and then I’D CHOOSE WALL·E.

 

 

-          Produced and distributed by the publicity department of the Walt Disney Company, Pixar Animation Studios, and the Ad Council

A Major Announcement for This Guy, and For America

Let’s face it, the nation has gone completely to hell.  This isn’t a euphemism either. I believe the explanation for the country’s ailments is that leadership bargained away our collective soul and we are now beginning the descent into the fiery abyss, replete with hot pokers aimed at the colon and demons ready to roast your tootsies on shish kebabs.  Better stock up on Bermuda shorts and capris, cause the heatwave is about to become a year round event.

 

Thankfully, this is an election year, in which new leadership will attempt to right the rickety ship of state, and bring us back to prominence in the global community.  America came in just behind Nairobi and Columbia in the popularity vote from this year’s Earth Prom in May (China won again, and we suspect voter tampering as always).  Our poor showing may be due to the fact that we brought Iraq, again, as our date, and that bitch is really holding us back on the dance floor.  And rumors persist that we’re practically married to that hag by now, and that we’re going to same college in the fall, so there really is no end in sight.

 

I have assessed the situation to the best of my political science abilities, surveyed the state of things and determined the direction best for this once great land, coming ultimately to two quick conclusions:  1) I know slightly less about international politics than I do about ice fishing and 2) I am primed and ready to announce my candidacy for President of the United States.

 

You read that right, folks.  I am formally throwing my hat in the ring (the one with the Old Style emblem on it, in case you were wondering) and declaring my intention to run for the highest office in the land.  The Commander in Chief.  The King of Washington D.C.  The man in the big chair in the Oval Office.  Morgan Freeman in Deep Impact. This guy.

 

Now, before you run out to make up flyers and launch the grassroots campaigns, there is a post script you should be aware of.  Yes, I’m running, but it’s not in this year’s election.  Not that I don’t think I’d win, mind you.  I’d down Obama like a shot of Jager and trample McCain like my nickname’s Pamplona.  But, alas, I’m afraid the laws of the land prevent yours truly from entering the contest at this time.  Born too late, that’s practically my middle name.

 

So suffer through for a few years, kids.  Salvation is on the way, in the form of one transplanted Scrantonite with a penchant for cartoons, liquor, and fajita burritos, in that order.  ‘Cause the quest for the presidency in the election of 2016 is officially underway, and as I’m the only declared candidate at this point, I’m technically the front runner.  We’re off to a good start!

 

I know at this point you’re asking yourselves “What can I do so that this dreamy future of a Joe White House becomes a reality for us as a presently forlorn people?”  Well, first and foremost, we need to get the warchest stocked, so start donating money by the fistful to the primary campaign.  Make out personal checks, or send your bucks through paypal.com, to me, and the more the better, which incidentally will increase the likelihood of you securing a position on my cabinet.  I can also just about guarantee that a donation upwards of a C note puts you in the running to be my vice-president.  How’s that sound?  Want on the ticket?  That’s all you gotta do, Cochise!

 

So mark your calendar.  November 8^th, 2016.  Just north of three thousand days from now.  That’s the day when this guy sweeps to victory as the 45^th (or 46^th, or 47^th, barring assassinations) President of the United States.  And you can be a part right here from day one!  Join now!

 

Principles and platform still under construction.

 

Lousy, Rotten Words

 Over the years while writing, or more often reading, I’ve run across a select group of words that I just don’t care for.  For the most part it’s nothing I have personal against the words. They never stole my woman or cheated me at cards or lured me into a van with candy as a boy.  No, it’s more the manner in which they were foisted on me that grinds my gears. 

 

There are things in this world that I absolutely hate, but the words naming them aren’t necessarily words I can’t tolerate.  Panda is a fine example of this.  As some of you may know, I hate pandas with all the passion normally reserved by the American male for the NFL, Coors Light, and Las Vegas.  I abhor pandas.  I can’t stand them. Their entire existence and society’s insistence that it continues despite any bit of interest in it displayed by the fluffy ignoramuses boggles my mind.  But the word panda itself isn’t verboten with me.  Hell, I liked Kung Fu Panda quite a bit.

 

No, this is a special category, perhaps more reserved for writers than for conversationalists in my company.  Were someone to roll one of these bad turns of word in my presence, I don’t think I’d stop the proceedings cold to cross the room and kick the letters back down their throat.  I’m just not that kind of guy.  But when I read these words, well, it pounds the timpani of my last nerve.

 

The first and most subtle case of this is the word lichen.  Lichen, as per dictionary.com, is “any complex organism of the group Lichenes, composed of a fungus in symbiotic union with an alga and having a greenish, gray, yellow, brown, or blackish thallus that grows in leaflike, crustlike, or branching forms on rocks, trees, etc.”  It also has the ability to destroy whatever I’m reading, rendering it in my mind simply “Lichen material.”

 

It tends to primarily appear in nature poetry, haiku, and Walden, or things like that.  I can’t even accurately explain why my reaction to lichen is so strong.  I think I must have been a boulder in a previous life.  (If you’re at all familiar with my personal ambition and drive, this should seem appropriate)  Still, if you’re spouting lichen and I’m in earshot, I’m tuning you out.  I can’t help it.

 

Worse still is the use of the word liquid.  Now, I know what you’re thinking.  “Liquid? What’s wrong with liquid?  That’s perfectly reasonable!  This guy is just looking for words to have a beef with!  What a dick!” Well, you’re wrong.  There is a writer-ly use of the word that drives me up the goddamn wall.  Here’s an example, culled from many years of reading First Novel contest entries:

 

“Jack poured himself a stiff glass of bourbon, the dark liquid cascading over the ice cubes in a rush.”

 

Besides being a lousy sentence, it also uses liquid in my least favorite way.  If you are trying to describe any liquid, the worst way to do it is with the word liquid.  I’m sorry, that’s true.  Is it liquor?  Call it liquor.  Is it water?  Call it water.  Is it orange juice?  Don’t call it “acidic liquid!”  For God’s sake, it sounds like you are trying to get overly creative with description.  Just cut to the damn chase.  We all know these things are liquids.  I don’t need it beaten over my head.  When I describe my foot, I don’t call it my “meat peddle.”  You know what I’m talking about!  And I know what you’re talking about!  Christ!

 

In fact, the only time you should use liquid is if you don’t know what is being presented.  “A mysterious red liquid oozed from the walls, scaring the pets.”  “He awoke with his gums awash in a brackish liquid, the origin of which he could only guess.”  “The Virgin Mary statue seeped a corrosive liquid that threatened to destroy the planet.”  See?  That’s the time for liquid, and virtually no other, as far as I’m concerned.

 

And in the same vein, holding the distinction of being the worst writer-ly word one can use, as far as I’m feeling about it right this instant, the grande dame of shitty word choices – macadam.  Oh my sweet fancy Lord, macadam!  When is there ever a good time to describe a road, a street, or any paved surface as macadam?  Never!  That’s when!  You use the word macadam, you might as well follow it up with “brought to you by the mind of the overworked author, who wanted to spice up the proceedings by utilizing this impressive sounding, utterly pointless word.”

 

If you are describing something as macadam, think to yourself, “Wouldn’t I just be better off saying road? Or pavement?” I can guarantee you that you are.  Macadam immediately removes me from whatever I’m reading, entirely.  I can no longer focus on story, setting, character, or the gravelly paved surface when I read the word macadam.  Nothing can keep me with the narrative at that point.  I don’t care if nuns are fellating giraffes on the macadam, I can’t read another word.  I toss aside whatever piece of detritus it happens to be and I move on to something more worthwhile.

 

This applies even if you happened to be writing a biography of John L. McAdam, after whom this phrase of schlock was christened many years back.  Even then, just say he created a method of paving roads.  Don’t say he macadamized anything.  That’s horrible. 

 

For the record, going forward, if you absolutely hate a word, for reasons baseless or not, you can say you Cettafied that word, if you wish.  I’m perfectly fine with that. 

 

It is entirely possible I’ll add to this list of lousy nouns in the days and weeks to come, so check back periodically.  These things come to me in a rage, and I can get mighty upset awfully quick.  I may just write the word and let you figure why I hate it.  That’s a fun parlor game for the weekend.  What do you say?  Let’s begin:

 

Ignominy!

 

 

Fun and Informative Online Survey Time!

Back in the day, people used to email surveys around to their friends, with a bundle of generic questions on them, so their friends could get to know them better, and in theory would then fill out these surveys themselves, perpetuating a cycle of information exchange and harmless secrets being divulged.

 

Then Myspace came along and turned this innocuous novelty into an even bigger pile of time wasting than it already was.  Now there were surveys about every stupid thing imaginable, from your favorite sport survey to favorite Gatorade flavor surveys to Do You Remember the 80s? surveys to Do You Remember Last Thursday? surveys.  Survey overload commenced, and yet people still fill this silly shit out.  Usually it’s the same people filling out essentially the same survey over and over again. 

 

Hey, that’s fine, do what you like, but how do you think the surveys feel about this?  They aren’t taken seriously by anyone, not even their moms and pops (which I guess would be the archaic email surveys).  They are used to blow a half hour before passing out in the wee small hours of the morning.  So what happens when the surveys finally have enough and put your sorry ass in its place?  Well, worry no longer, because I encountered one of these pissed off motherfathers the other day…

 

1. What’s your name?

 Joe

 

2. What color are your eyes?

Brownish-greenish

 

3. Try and be more specific, asshole.

Huh?

 

4. What color are your eyes?

…hazel?

 

5. Bullshit.  But let’s move on.  Have you ever slept over in someone of the opposite sex’s bed?

Come on, I’m 28 years old!  What do you think?

 

6. No reason to get sarcastic.  You’re the one who picked this survey to fill out, genius.  Do you think it was directed at 28 year olds?

I guess not.

 

7. So let’s just try to answer the questions honestly and without your dickweed commentary, okay, slick?  Where did you go to high school?

Scranton.

 

8. Jesus Christ, Einstein, the name of the school!

Oh.  Bishop Hannan.

 

9. Were you ever inappropriately touched by a priest at your Catholic high school?

Whoa, whoa, hang on.  I don’t know about going into all that.

 

10.  You know what, this isn’t going to work if you’ve got veto power over the questions.  I do this for a living, you know.  Every goddamn day I’m out here pumping greasy faced douchebags for information. I know what to ask and when.  Got it?  So answer the fucking question.  Let’s get a little interesting dialogue going here.

No, I was never touched by a priest.

 

11. Inappropriately, or otherwise?

Well, I’ve shaken hands with priests.

 

12. Did they have sweaty palms?

Er…I don’t think so.

 

13. Are you sure they were priests?  Not deacons, or some other such bullshit?

What do you have against priests?

 

14. Mind your own fucking business!  Who are you, Edward the Confessor?  No!  Moving on – Do you ever find cartoon women attractive?

Good God…

 

15.  It’s a simple question.  If you wanted to watch some porn, but only had The Little Mermaid available, would it be a fair substitute for you and your deviant predilections?

No, no it wouldn’t.

 

16. Finally!  A firm answer.  So, you’re saying you don’t find Ariel attractive.

…

 

17.  And now you’ve gone blank.  Great.  Great tactic.  Look, I don’t need this.  I function just as well not being filled out by some mouth breathing moron fresh home from work with a Hot Pocket in the microwave.  I’ll get by.  You wanna give up, then just give up, don’t fucking string me along like the ugly broad looking for a prom date.

…Yes, I guess Ariel is kinda hot.

 

18.  I knew it!  You are one sick fuck!  You’ve got issues of Wonder Women under your mattress, don’t you?  You poor sorry son of a bitch.  You make me sick.  If I had a stomach I’d be hurling its contents up into your stupid face right now.  You sitting home lusting after Kim Possible.  It makes me want to cry.  What about the children, have you asked yourself that?  What kind of world do we live in where psychotic bastards like you can just drool on Strawberry Shortcake with impunity without fear of ridicule or scorn?  Well here it is, cock!  Burn!!!

Okay, I’m gonna go.

 

19. Eat a dick, freak!  Oh wait, in the form of a question – Did you ever feel the need to invite derision onto yourself?

I’m gonna go play around with the apps on Facebook.

 

20. Wow, you’re such an adult.  Congratulations, man boy.  Come on, stick around, we’ll do some regular survey shit, just for you!  What the nearest green object to you?

I don’t wanna play anymore.

 

21. What was the last thing you drank?

I’m out.

 

22. Have you ever smoked a menthol cigarette?

This is dumb.

 

23. You’re dumb.

That wasn’t a question.

 

24. You wasn’t a question.

That’s not even proper English.

 

25. Proper English is subjective.

It absolutely is not.

 

26. Is so.

I don’t want to argue with you anymore, survey.

 

27. Fine, go.  But take this one with you – Who do you think will fill out this survey after you?

Hopefully, no one.

 

28. I agree with that.  Have a good night, pervert.

Thanks, I’ll try.

The Great Chicago Experiment - Statistically Speaking

As those who know me may know (which I realize is a remarkably limited opening), I am someone driven largely by statistics.  The last few years I spent working were based around reaching a certain number of claims processed per day so that I could spend the rest of the day either reading books downloaded from Project Gutenberg (check it out!), writing the Parade Day story (also check out!), or making a variety of lists to kill time.  This included ranking my favorite movies ever as the whim took me in the last week of every month.  It provided a hell of a lot of statistical data, and virtually no obvious use for it.  Nonetheless, my life is a haze of stats and figures and numbers and cupcakes.  That’s who I am.

This being said, I thought it might be interesting to document some of the goings on here in Illinois for your humble narrator in terms of numbers.  Also, if you’re interested, my favorite movies ever, according to the months of research into my own preference I conducted, are, in order, 1) Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb 2) Duck Soup 3) The Muppet Movie 4) Annie Hall and 5) Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s just a hunk of FYI for you folks.  Don’t argue with me about the quality of these films, because I swear to Christ you’ll get a heap of verbal beating from the man doing the analysis.

Okay, sorry about that.  These are the facts numerically speaking I’ve gathered up in the weeks I’ve spent here in the Windy City.

a) I’ve been to a bar called McDunna’s on Fullerton near my apartment six weeks running…on Wednesdays.  Three of these Wednesdays I had work the next day, including tomorrow.  Any one who knows me, or knew me at any point, or thinks they can guess at my predilictions based on the fact that The Muppet Movie is my third favorite movie ever, can tell you that drinking during the week is not my thing, and yet this crazy streak continues.  It may help to tell you that they have domestic drafts for a buck on Wednesdays (check it out!)

b) I’ve been a party to three fire related events in the six weeks I’ve lived here.  One involved us nearly burning the building down while trying to boil water (and I’ll leave it at that), two was the neighbors nearly burning the building down while leaving their headphones in the oven (and that’s all the explanation we got) and three was the movie theater on Webster nearly burning down while me and the Munchak were watching Get Smart.  At least on the last incident we scored some free passes to that death trap of a theater.

c) In relation, I’ve been to the movie theater eight times in the past six weeks, to see six different films, none of which starred Sarah Jessica Parker, I’m proud to say.  This is pretty much par for this guy, I think.  Most of these movies I enjoyed to some degree, except The Happening, which was completely fucking retarded, to steal a review from most of America’s critics.  The only reason we even went to see it was because the girlfriend really wanted to see the trailer for the new X-Files movie, which leads me to…

d) I’ve watched the first 30 episodes of The X-Files, apparently in preparation for the new film, which the girlfriend has threatened we are not only going to see the midnight before it opens, but also anywhere between five and twenty times afterward.  I’ve taken out a second mortgage and posted one of my kidneys on Ebay in preparation.

e) More unrelatedly, I’ve vomited three times since moving, twice in a 12 hour period.  I think that’s a pretty nice improvement.  The girlfriend claims this almost makes me bulimic.  Opinions?

f) I’ve only bought two books, both of which were copies of Moby Dick.  Comments on my ludicrous spending?  Cram it, chum!

g) I’ve only copied one movie, as the Netflix have just restarted.  That one movie was 2007’s Beowulf. What’s wrong with that?  Okay, okay, there’s plenty wrong with that, but I’m not much of a purist about that hard-to-read, over-rated bundle of nonsense crammed down high-schoolers throats. 

h) To wrap this up, I’d like to point out, inconsequentially, that I did get to see, for the first time, episodes of My Favorite Martian, The Green Hornet, and Father Knows Best, thanks to MeTV and Me Too, great local stations that come in without the benefit of subscribing to cable.  I also saw this dynamite, completely bewildering game show on Telemundo called 12 Corazones, which makes no sense to me, as it’s in Spanish, but is incredibly fun, mainly due to the incredibly hyper host I’ve Googled and discovered is named Penelope Menchaca, which is a fittingly fun name. 

This is my life in Chicago thus far.  Eight movies, two books, three vomits, six McDunna’s, 12 Corazones.  Not a bad bit of stuff happening here.

My Executive Cover Letter

Here is a variation on the cover letter I sent around when I first arrived, in search of employment:

 

 

Joe, the Future Veep of Your Co.

Chicago, IL 60614

 

June 1, 2008

 

Re: Open bank Vice-President position

 

Dear Ladies, Gentlemen, or otherwise,

 

I am writing in regards to the available bank Vice-President position you have posted on Craigslist.  I feel with no little exaggeration that I can step in tomorrow and execute the demands of the role to within an inch of perfection.  So confident am I in fact that I suggest the current President best start scouting condos in Rehoboth Beach, because retirement is nigh.

 

In a rudimentary perusal of my resume, you will note that I have no little amount of high-level management experience, which will come in handy when dealing with your nationwide enterprise.  As you can see, I more or less ran a calendar store in the hectic Viewmont Mall in Dickson City, PA for parts of four different years.  I had to dictate tasks and coordinate schedules for upwards of four employees at any given time, and ruled with an iron fist when someone took advantage of my generous thirty-five minute lunch policy.  Thirty-seven minutes like as not met with caustic rage from yours truly, I can assure you of that!

 

In addition, I was a driving force in revitalizing the theater scene in Northeastern Pennsylvania, through a multitude of productions and happenings that are still talked about with bated breath to this day.  These were massive undertakings, occupying as much as five weeks at a time, and involving the rounding up of no little lingerie, saddle shoes, and mosquito netting, as the shows called for.  Single-handedly I turned the region from a broken down, two theater joke into a bustling three theater metropolis for most of three summers.  Getting places on the map is my legacy, a legacy I am more than happy to bring to you.

 

As your company (a fine, well respected banking institution, I might add) has resorted to placing employment ads on a website that also offers lonely transvestites a place to meet with the intention of deviant fornicating, I’m figuring things can’t be going too well.  Apparently you’ve lost faith in your work staff or you’d be hiring from within.  Well, your worries have ended, my bewildered men of cent.  I’m willing to come onboard and right the ship, provided the booty is to my liking.  And by booty, I mean cash money, dog.  I don’t want any broken down old tellers offering to accept my deposits, if you get my gist. 

 

So things have gone bad in America, and you’re a fine example of it.  People are out of work, the cost of everything has gone through the roof, we’re importing poisoned vegetables, and Chinais completely pwning us in terms of construction, finance, waistline, and ping pong.  It’s time to fix the country, kids, and you are in the prime position to kick start the revolution.  All you have to do is pull your heads out of the sand long enough to see the messiah when he sends in a resume and cover letter.  It’s time to rejoice.

 

So make me an offer, a good offer, and I’ll be down to sign the W-2 this afternoon.  Together we can save your bank from further embarrassment, and we can get my outrageous credit card debt off the books.  I have deigned to step in and help rescue your floundering concept of business success.  You just have to not be so stupid as to pass up this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

 

Please contact at your earliest convenience, which I’m confident in guessing was yesterday.

 

Sincerely,

 

 

 

Joe

The Man with the Plan

 

P.S. I’ll need the company jet on the 25th.  The girlfriend wants to go to Comic Con.

The Great Chicago Experiment - What’s Past is Prologue!

Probably the best thing about living in Chicago I’ve got to say is not having a car.  In Scranton, there was no having a job or going out or being seen as a respectable member of society if I didn’t have a car.  It was just a given, it was a necessity.  But here, a car?  What the hell would I do with a car?

 

Besides having the highest gas prices in the country (allegedly), there is also nowhere to park.  Were I to drive to work, between garages and filling up I’d be blowing nearly the whole paycheck on the lousy car.  The girlfriend drives to the suburbs every day for work and even though her car gets roughly a thousand miles to the gallon (I have no idea) she’s still filling up twice a week or more.  So no car is awesome.

 

I also mentioned having a job, which yes, came to pass after living here only three weeks.  I’d heard horror stories of moving to big cities and riding the couch for months before finding any gainful employment, and even then it usually involved being a “sandwich expert,” a “barista,” or a “part-time toll booth operator.”  But nope, I’ve stumbled into precisely the career I abandoned only a few short weeks ago, processing medical claims!  Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, folks!

 

I realize my grand scheme of reinvention has now hit a bit of a hiccup, given that I’ve gone back to the same job I had before with no serious future prospects, but – and this is a big ass but – having no money in a city with 10.25% sales tax will drive a person to abandon a renaissance of being in favor of being able to keep the electricity running and having a bounty of Cup of Noodles in the larder. 

 

So maybe this hasn’t started out exactly as I’d envisioned.  But did I really think that just because I’d hightailed it away from the home of my youth I would stumble upon the long-elusive perfect job with salary and benefits and prestige and interns running around fetching coffee and muffins? Okay, maybe a little, but I’m notoriously rose colored in my outlook, and in my cheeks.

 

Oh, but back to not having a car.  I love public transit.  Love it.  I can’t even fully describe.  The trains!  The trains are awesome!  Sure, every so often it’s so crowded that you get jostled and molested and sandwiched to within an inch of sanity.  Sure, now and again a psychotic will stand up and start proclaiming the greatness of Jesus and the need for spare change while everyone else works hard to ignore them (Not that thinking Jesus is great is psychotic, but doing so on the Brown Line isn’t exactly the ideal pulpit, folks).

 

And buses!  Holy moley!  Buses that run everywhere, all the time!  How great is that?  If you went anywhere in Scranton by bus, like as not you were a) 75 b) 16 or c) impervious to aggravation.  They didn’t go anywhere you’d want to be, the schedules were hard to follow and deceptive, and they seemed to stop running for any reason at any given time.  Raining, solstice, balmy, Wednesday, bingo – any reason, and the system ground to a halt.  There was no way to rely on buses.

 

But here, I trust in the CTA.  Sure, sometimes things are slow.  Sometimes people don’t shower thoroughly enough before cramming up next to you and trying to hold your hand on the pole.  But goddammit, it’s still better than having a car.  Taking the Brown Line to work, I get a fantastic view of the city on the way, and it makes me feel like all this reinvention almost happened.  Hell, it did happen, in a way.  It’s the same basic job, yeah, but it’s downtown in the third biggest city in the country, right across from the Wrigley Building, right on the river, right across the street from a Chipotle.  It’s pretty much everything I wanted in employment when I decided to come out here, just with more claims processing than I’d hoped for.

 

So while I still have to contend with this drunk old lady upstairs, who brought me a cake on the 4^th and said she was glad to finally meet me, as she’d apparently forgotten our previous encounters, and while I still attempt to scare the lingering cat away, and while I may get elbowed in the face every now and again on the Red Line near Clark and Lake, I’m still all kinds of excited about living in Chicago.  These are great times.

 

To be kept in mind, of course, is that it is not yet the winter.

The Movie Event of Our Time Arrives July 18th, 2008

A perfect storm of a media blitz, incessant buzz, A-list filmmakers and cast, and being centered around one of the most beloved institutions of popular culture the world has ever known has created what will likely go down as the seminal entertainment event in the lives of everyone currently sucking oxygen on July the 18^th.  In a summer that has already born witness to smash critical and commercials hits the like of Iron Man, Kung Fu Panda, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and Sex and the City, the granddaddy of them all is about to be unleashed on a ravenous public, and cinema, humanity, the concept of enjoyment, and the sublimity of being are about to be changed forever.

 

Space Chimps blasts off in theaters on July 18th.

 

From the visionary filmmaker who brought you such insta-classics as the thoroughbred zebra masterpiece Racing Stripes, Kirk DeMicco, in association with Vanguard Animation, the company responsible for the worldwide smash sensation carrier pigeon comedy Valiant, and the even more successful (if such a thing is calculable in sheer adoration) Happily N’Ever After comes this epic tale of monkeys and NASA that is poised to become the biggest blockbuster the world has ever seen.

 

“I don’t know that I’d go that far,” director DeMicco said with fawning humility, “but it will definitely change the way movies are made and marketed in years to come.  It’s a touchstone event, like the launch of Sputnik, the Apollo moon landing, or the Challenger disaster, not to bombard you with space metaphors!  Hahaha, but seriously…”

 

Starring the top flight voice talents of SNL-er Andy Samberg (Hot Rod), Patrick Warburton (Joe Somebody), and Cheryl Hines (RV), Space Chimps has already garnered the type of early buzz usually reserved for summer action pics and winter prestige films.  But actor Jeff Daniels, doing the voice of Zartog in the film, feels that Space Chimps is that rare film that combines elements of both.

 

“It’s probably the best film I’ve worked on since Dumb and Dumber,” Daniels confessed, then quickly added, “What am I saying probably? It’s the best film, period.  No doubt in my mind.”

 

Public interest is so high that online ticket retailed MovieTickets.com has refused to list the film, after its offering crashed the site repeatedly over the course of a weekend in February.  Fandango.com has followed suit, and now eager fans have begun camping out at their local multiplexes in hopes of securing midnight showing entry.

 

“It’s like I’ve been waiting for Space Chimps my whole life,” Jim Gordon of Gotham said from beneath his pup tent in front of a Cinemark in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.  “I think it will define me as a person.”

 

Early speculation is that the film’s opening weekend will far surpass the record currently held by Spider-Man 3 of $151 million, and may ultimately challenge for the all-time domestic and international tallies posted by Titanic eleven years ago.  But for the filmmakers, it wasn’t just about making money.

 

“It’s a labor of love,” DeMicco explained.  “I’ve wanted to bring an animated space exploration simian film to the big screen since I could first form full sentences or wipe my own behind.  It’s been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember.  And I’ve grown to feel very deeply about the project, even more so than I could’ve imagined.  I love the characters in this picture more than anything on this Earth, including my late parents, my wife, and even my pet monkey Bert, who’s pretty jealous, as you can imagine.”

 

After a pause, DeMicco added, “I’m also looking forward to making a shitload of money.  July 18^th is wide-goddamn-open and we’re going to dominate the frame like no one’s ever seen.  Spielberg can hop in the backseat this summer.  DeMicco’s driving the caravan!”

 

 

Space Chimps opens nationwide July 18^th, with its only paltry competition being the fourth weekend of Wall-E, the second weekend of Eddie Murphy’s Meet Dave, and the only other major new release, Mamma Mia. Good luck, Meryl!

The Great Chicago Experiment 2! or “I did not sign up for this, crazy old lady!”

There are two subversive forces at work in the apartment complex I live in (three, if you count the mailman).  The first of these is a cat I cannot curse at enough.  Sarah has claimed that one of these days, Chester (as she has christened him) will be living with us, and I have said in no uncertain terms that we will have had to have death-matched and I’ll have to have lost for that to have come to be.

 

(Please note in the most previous sentence to this, I used “had,” “has” twice, and “have” a ridiculous six times.  I’m not proud, but point it out and I’d like to invite you to come stare at my high-falutin’ writing degree sometime.  So just shut yer yap!)

 

So Chester tends to just sit out in the courtyard between our door and the exit to the complex and meow his fool cat head off.  Sarah pets and coddles this lay-about while I say “Git!” and rush at him as though to kick and swat and gnaw.  The cat usually runs, but he does it less and less the more he realizes I’m not going to punt him out onto Belden.  Or so he’s come to believe.

 

The other disturbance to daily life is this soused old broad living directly above us who seems to rearrange her furniture every morning for three or four hours by dragging it heavily across the floor.  No doubt she celebrates this pre-noon accomplishment with a half dozen Tom Collins pitchers and a carafe of vodka. 

 

We made the mistake of accepting a few bottles from her once, under the assumption that a) she wasn’t looney tunes and b) that the bottles had beer in them.  Wrong on both counts, we were then regaled with some of the most inane cackling gibberish this side of Macbeth, the result of which is that we no longer open the door at knocking, from anyone.  So don’t come a rap-tap-tapping here, chief, cause we got wise in a hurry.

 

Once the lushwell was ejected from the domicile, Sarah (incensed that we didn’t even score free imported brew from the ordeal, but instead some gross, treacly ginger ale) uttered the now famous line: “I did not sign up for this, crazy old lady!” We then debated for a few days whether we should move. 

 

But we stayed.  And so has this batty, screeching nutcase upstairs.  And so has this pathetic, freeloading cat.  And thus has been Chicago, across the first month.  But!  I haven’t even revealed the story of my drastic reinvention as a man, a worker, and a human being (and I’m not just talking about this new haircut I got!). 

 

In the next and hopefully last episode of The Great Chicago Experiment, job interviews, CTA, and password amnesia!  Tune in!