| What's new |
[Jul. 8th, 2009|12:32 am] |
Ah boy, a lot's happened in the past little bit.
I quit Dave & Buster's at the turn of the April, and have been unemployed for the past few months. Restaurant service jobs don't come easily to dudes. There are signs in the window that say "Waitresses wanted," ads on Craig's List that say "Looking for female bartenders," and even a manager who told me "You look like exactly what I need. I just hired a few girls and they look like they're all going to work out, but training is slow because they all have second jobs. I'll give you a call if something comes up." Ah well, if she'd rather inflict a ton of scheduling conflicts on herself than hire someone without a rack, let her complicate her life.
Luckily, I've got enough saved up that this hasn't been a problem. But it puts me in an odd situation where I've [i]got[/i] money, but am still scrimping at every corner because I don't know how long I need to make it last. Friends will occasionally buy me a drink, and I don't know how to respond. Yes, I don't have a job and so I accept their generosity, but I'm continuously reminding them to save it for someone who's actually destitute.
Recently, though, gainful employment has found me. Sort of. I applied to be a tour guide at the Museum of Science and Industry, and somehow ended up getting hired to work the Omnimax theatre for the upcoming release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Good thing the interview process didn't include a quiz about the Harry Potter universe, because I've never seen any of the movies or read any of the books.
It seems like it'll be a good job- it's easy, I am thus far quite fond of my coworkers, and the only song I have to listen to all day is this badass little ditty.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0DqPSF2fyo
Beats the hell out of remixes of Perhaps You Would Like a Piece of Me.
And the management seems to have a genuine respect for what we do. For instance, we rotate jobs every 25 to 45 minutes so that nobody is standing in the same place for too long. While this makes things needlessly complicated as I have a tendency to lose track of time, I'm glad to see the supervisors showing an extra bit of concern for us.
There are some downsides, of course. The pay is only 8.50 an hour, nowhere near enough to support me (so I must continue my self-deprivation of restaurants, store-bought liquor and fancy cheeses). The commute is an hour each way, and that's not considering my safety (the fastest route home involves waiting for a train in a place I would NEVER traverse at night). And it's a temporary position, ending in September (around the time the prime hiring season for servers will end). But the museum's a big place with a lot of jobs going around, so I'm sticking to this for now and hoping that after the movie closes I'll be able to get the job I actually applied to do.
Meanwhile, my roommates have suddenly become surprisingly hostile to me. I'll never divulge details in a public medium, but I will implicate what I believe is the source of the scuffle. You see, a lot of the complaints they've made about me in the past are completely legitimate concerns. But they tend to let things boil until they snap. Trouble is, they're all things I could have (and would have) stopped doing in a second if I'd known that I was bothering them. My advice to those of you looking to preserve your roommate relations: if you're ever mad about something, just speak up! You're not being "nice" by not raising a fuss, you're just letting people unwittingly trample all over you for no good reason. And if you're worried about looking like a nitpicker for bringing up insignificant stuff, meet with your roommates once a month to air whatever little grievances pop up, so that you won't find yourself shouting at somebody over a towel.
In any case, things seem to have cooled down a little bit here. It looks like one of them has moved on. But I wouldn't be surprised if the other one never speaks to me again. And they're moving out in August, so I'm hoping I don't get one last fuck-you at the end of the month.
Ah well, I'm glad I've still got a lady who makes sense to me. She is still a highly positive bit of glory.
So is my team. We're just out doing improv for the fun of it all, which makes for the best shows despite our individual disagreements on the finer points of improvisational theatre. We had a pretty good one about a week ago. It's up on Facebook...
http://www.facebook.com/inbox/readmessage.php?t=1169161625010#/video/video.php?v=927185485759&ref=mf
...but I wouldn't expect any of y'all to actually sit through it, as it was taken from the back row and you have a better view of the backs of peoples' heads than you do of us. Oh, and the ending is cut off. So yeah, I'll hold no judgment against anyone who wants to wait for a better video before they check out what I've been up to. I know time is a precious commodity. And with my Improv Olympic student graduation shows coming up in seven weeks, there ought to be a better videographic opportunity in the near future.
Take fabulous care. |
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| A game |
[Jun. 12th, 2009|10:30 pm] |
Let me tell you about a wonderful way to spice up your everyday journeys.
One day, as I was driving around Cincinnati, it occurred to me that when stopped at a red light, in a lane reserved strictly for turning left, few bother to employ their signal. However, if I took this prudence, those behind me would most often follow suit. These experiments with herd mentality gave birth to a standardized term:
Sheep- v.- to cause another person to do something for no discernible reason other than having witnessed you do the same.
Nowadays, my sheeping most often happens at crosswalks. The most basic sheepery is to disobey unnecessary "Don't Walk" signs and hope that others will follow. If you catch somebody trying to sheep you like this, you can counter it by looking both ways and deciding of your own volition that crossing is a good idea; even if seeing that person cross was what inspired you, it only counts as being sheeped if you follow blindly.
My greatest sheep to date occurred as I was exiting a bus. I saw that the walk light was blinking to warn me of an unfavorable change. I undoubtedly could have safely crossed at my normal speed, but I cut a mad dash for the fun of it. This sprint took me past a calmer pedestrian, who, upon seeing my haste, rapidly quickened his pace despite being mere feet from the safety of the next sidewalk.
Have you ever sheeped anyone? Or been sheeped? |
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| A lasting impression |
[Apr. 19th, 2009|09:34 pm] |
Brett Payton, one of the five people I stayed in touch with after high school, spent a year of his college education in Japan. He returned bearing gifts; among them, a bag of dry seasoning to sprinkle over rice. There was no English on the package other than the word "shiso," but he claimed I would be able to find it in Asian grocery stores. Nonetheless, I used it sparingly, fearing I would never see another package of it.
On a warm September day, I stuffed the preserved empty bag into my pocket to show to potentially confused shopkeepers, and Lisa and I boarded the El-train toward Chinatown. We sat on the sideways row of seats- the one place on a Chicago train where there are seats that face each other- and I met eyes with a young man sporting a messenger bag and a hipstery hat that evoked memories of Fidel Castro, though he was clean shaven except for a pair of wicked sideburns.
I thought he was trying to get my attention, and shot him an inquisitive glance. He responded deferentially, and I dropped pursuit. But suddenly I was seized with a bizarre inspiration and continued this cycle three or four times, making a wordless game out of an endless loop. Having a little too much fun, I escalated things too quickly and bellowed a "WHAT?" A fearful look filled his face, and he stammered "Nothing."
From that point on, we avoided eye contact. However, as there was nothing else happening, there was no alternative place to look, no event to distract us from what had just occurred. Our focus would inevitably turn back to one another, and then we would realize we had been caught looking at the other guy and sheepishly turn away.
I turned to Lisa and began to give a play-by-play analysis of the aforementioned events, ending with "That was funny at first, but then when I raised my voice I became That Guy." But I wasn't really talking to Lisa, or at least not for her sake; I was whispering at a volume loud enough for the startled stranger to hear, so that he would know that I felt as awkward about the situation as he did. This was the only way I could communicate with him, since I could not even look him in the eye with any degree of confidence.
Suddenly, the tension was cut. A woman walked between us, lost her balance as the train jolted, and fell forward. When she landed six feet away, her belongins scattered everywhere. As the surrounding passengers helped her up, she loudly exclaimed, "I tripped! Oh my god, I can't believe I tripped!" He and I smiled at each other, sharing the moment we had just seen. I wasn't That Guy anymore.
But she didn't have the crown for very long either. At the next stop, three ten-ish-year-old boys entered the train. They each produced sets of drumsticks, which they used to strike empty seats as well as the poles that people would be using for support were the train more crowded. One of them started yelling something unintelligble; I suppose it could have been some sort of African language, but I'm pretty sure it was gibberish. As the train slowed, they approached passengers with a flier which they briefly held in front of our faces before snatching back, presumably because they only had one copy. Then they exited at the next stop and skipped away, hollering and producing their rhythms on an unfortunate railing.
At this point the stranger looked at me and said, "Now I kind of want to follow you guys around, just to see if this kind of thing always happens wherever you go." It turned out he too was headed for Chinatown, and like us he was searching for something of tenuous detail- an unnamed restaurant at a nonexistent intersection- so we travelled together briefly before parting ways.
I didn't find any shiso that day. Brett lives in Philadelphia, where the Chinatown has a presence of other Asian influences. Chicago's Chinatown, on the other hand, is far more strictly Chinese, so I received a great deal of confused and slightly offended looks when I asked shopkeepers about an herb with a Japanese name that they had never heard of. However, a few days later Lisa found shiso at a Japanese market two blocks from my apartment, which I had never entered because I thought it was a clothing and art shop.
A few weeks later, I received a call from an unknown number. It turned out Lisa had given him my number, though she had neglected to ask for his. We caught an improv show together, and as we were socializing afterwards, I caught him trying to get away with increasingly nerdier references.
Finally having somebody to argue with about whether or not Halo redefined video games and hum Super Nintendo songs together, Swan and I have been hanging out ever since. You could chalk it up to chemistry, but I think we both just wanted to say we're hanging out with a guy we met on an El-Train to Chinatown. |
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| The Champeenship! |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|02:17 am] |
On Monday, I went to bed at 4.
On Tuesday, I went to bed at 2.
On Wednesday, I went to bed at 1.
On Thursday, I made and refrigerated a batch of steel-cut oatmeal and tempeh. I have never been enthusiastic about tempeh, but I was led to believe it is packed with B vitamins, which I'm further told are a way to boost one's energy. I also burned a CD to wake up to, so that I wouldn't ignore my current rising theme, of which I am well past bored. I located a bottle of my emergency medicine; my heart's been tachycardia-free since February 2008, but if it tried anything funny I would be ready for it. Then I cleaned my work shoes for the first time in 1.5 years, and went to bed at midnight.
On Friday, I talked Dave & Buster's into letting me out of the party at 10:00. When I arrived at 7:00, it turned out they had goofed and the party did not start until 9:30. They sent me home, after buying me a disappointing meal. I took this as a sign that I was on the right path. I declined several social invitations, then went to bed at 10:30. At 11:00, my roommate began to watch a movie outside my bedroom, and I braved the awkwardness of being that guy who asks everybody to keep it down at 11:00 on a Friday night. Nothing would come between me and my eight hours.
On Saturday, my alarm sounded at 7 AM. I hit the ground stretching, and was fully awake by the end of the song. I shaved, showered, ate my pre-made breakfast, opened and de-pinned a brand new white button-down shirt, donned my nicest jeans and a pair of shoes now free of hamburger taint, and marched out the door.
When I saw that the Clark Street bus was not coming, I trekked southward to where Broadway Street sheds its independence and merges with Clark for a few miles. Along the way, my eyes were opened to the fact that I was awake at 7 in the morning, and for once I didn't hate the world because of it. I marvelled at the gorgeous sunny day, as I watched trucks unload their cargo and newspapers filling their dispensers. Life was beginning, and I was a part of it.
At last, I arrived at my strategic bus stop. Now I was putting my faith not in one bus, but two. And sure enough, the Broadway bus came and filled the shoes that the Clark bus had left empty. And that, friends, is how I made it to The Perennial fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
Finding the door locked, I wandered around the side of the building and strolled into an unmarked door to find myself in the kitchen. I stated my business, was greeted by a manager, and introduced to a server who would take responsibility for my growth. I hung my jacket in the locker room, and was handed a stack of soft fabric napkins to carry upstairs and begin rolling into neatly-bundled silverware sets.
...at which point the manager took me aside and told me the position had already been filled.
I left without a word. They'll never know how hard I trained for this. The only memory they have of my passing is seven silverware rolls of questionable craftsmanship. |
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| A quandary |
[Mar. 31st, 2009|04:08 pm] |
Yesterday I went in for an interview at The Perennial, a fancy restaurant in Lincoln Park.
I had been there before for an open call, and hadn't heard back. The manager immediately recognized me, and it was the shortest interview ever.
"Oh, I remember you. Still trying to escape Dave & Buster's?"
"Yeah."
"Anything else new?"
"Not really."
He told me I had been ruled out last time because I was deemed too inexperienced for a fine dining environment. But he said with patio season about to start there would be some more shifts to go around. He said I could come in Saturday and follow along for a brunch shift, starting at 9 AM.
Great, right? You'd think so. Except that on my way out of my last day at Dave & Buster's, I backpedaled a little and offered to stick around Fridays and Saturdays. And I volunteered to work a party on Friday night. I don't know the details, but it starts at 8 PM and it's for 400 people. Could last awhile.
The general consensus is that The Perennial is giving me a shot largely because of my persistence, so if I cancel for Saturday then I probably won't get another chance. And it's going to be difficult to get the party covered- I've got plenty of allies at Dave & Buster's who would volunteer, but pretty much everyone is going to be scheduled already. I could tell Dave & Buster's I can't do the party, but I want to keep my doors open there too. Just in case.
I've worked early shifts on little or no sleep before. I can easily phone it in. But Saturday will be a day to impress, so I'm going to need to be as alert and aware as possible, and bags under my eyes will be a turnoff.
So, anyone got any sleep advice? I'm making a concerted effort to go to bed earlier this week, so that by the time Saturday comes, getting up at 7 won't be much of a stretch. Or should I just sleep until 5 PM on Friday, so that I will have only been awake 16 hours when the brunch shift comes?
Keep in mind caffeine is not an option here; as far as I know I've been heart-condition-free for over a year now, but since it did come back after the first surgery it's best not to push my luck. |
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| Where I am |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|05:23 pm] |
Good day, folks! In light of my lack of recent bloggeries, I felt it sporting to drop a few humdrum details of my recent livings.
Improvisational pursuits are pushing along nicely. I'm currently in level 4B at Improv Olympic, meaning I have about five months left in their program. Meanwhile, I'm finally starting to gain some comradery with my classmates outside of faces I see for three hours a week. A few of us broke off and started our own team. We don't have any shows yet, but for the moment we're rehearsing once a week and at the very least keeping our brains fresh between classes. I'm also about to start writing classes at The Annoyance.
All's well on the lady front. I don't understand why people break up with their significant others and then say "Well, at least I'm free now." I've never felt more imprisoned than the time between breaking up with Heather and hooking up with Lisa. Every time I went out, I always had to look my best, out of fear that I would meet the love of my life and she wouldn't take me seriously because I had a neckbeard and a gaping hole in my jeans, or write me off as gay because I was dressed like a watermelon. But as it stands now, I enjoy a great deal more liberty. If the only clean clothes I have are unflattering, fine. If my bedroom is in a sorry shape that would scare off an unexpected lady visitor, the danger is moot. I'm a lot better at keeping a woman than I am at getting one, so I'm in my element now. Of course I still try to maintain my appearance, and still try to pass myself off as an appealing specimen, but there's a lot more room to do what I please.
Chicago and I are getting along, now that I've survived the murderous winter. I love chasing down buses, and being able to walk most anywhere I want to go, even though all my driving soundtracks are collecting dust. I suppose I'll have to bust out the iPod at some point.
My living situation is still working out. Sharing a three-bedroom apartment is a lot different from sharing a dorm room; Zachary and I survived for three and a half years with a co-existence largely powered by the strength of our friendship, but now I'm living with people who have opposite schedules and personalities. They're at work when I wake up, and asleep when I come home. For the most part, all they know about me is the messes I leave behind. So I've had to man up and do my best to keep the disarray largely confined to my bedroom. Everything else- most notably, spending my leisure hours without waking them up- is second nature to an amateur ninja. At this rate, I plan to stay here for a good while.
The one thorn in my side continues to be my job. Yesterday we had a meeting announcing the implementation of General Service Staff. As it stands, I am a dining room server; I work only in an area where people are sitting down to enjoy their meal. Elsewhere in the building, cocktail servers wait on people playing billiards or shuffleboard, or maintain booths in the arcade area. But these designations have been eliminated, and soon the two staffs will become interchangeable.
I have no interest in the idea of my charms being viewed as a distraction from video games. It appears it may be time for me to become a full-time job hunter. I don't want to abandon my employment without finding a suitable replacement, especially in an economy like this. But the sad truth is that I may never find another job without first feeling the urgency of unemployment. I have enough savings to survive several incomeless months, a girlfriend who hails from an impoverished background and knows how to make a dollar last, a simple mind that can be amused cheaply, and intel that suggests that this is the prime time to find another serving job. I can only hope my motivation will strengthen in this time of need. |
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| Conflict Resolution |
[Feb. 12th, 2009|01:03 am] |
For my birthday, Lisa purchased me these guys.
Meet the MacGregor twins (Zeebs on the left hand, Murray on the right). In addition to being generally awesome, they have the added bonus of making me look like less of a criminal as I walk down the street in a ski mask.
Lisa also happens to own these guys:
Meet the Muttons. And while you're at it, meet some kind of fucking bunny pig hat. I guess she knows what she likes.
One night we found ourselves in an argument on the subway. As it intensified, we agreed to lighten the mood by letting the MacGregors and the Muttons argue on our behalf. Which was a well-conceived plan, because it's difficult to be mad when you look down and see this:
To paint a clearer picture, I should elaborate on the argument. Lisa had promised to make me "seitan with potatoes and curry." But when she delivered, I was surprised to find that she was simply referring to curry powder. I contended that the dish, though delicious, could not be called "curry" because of a single ingredient. We've never actually resolved the debate, despite coming to terms with each other's positions.
We can, however, agree on one thing: on that train we were "that guy" together. As Lisa fondly recalls: "Every guy on that train was looking at us like he wanted to strangle us. And there were no women around." |
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| Symbolic Journey |
[Jan. 2nd, 2009|10:44 pm] |
A few days ago, Lisa introduced me to the belief that whatever you're doing on the first day of the year is what you'll be doing for the rest of the year. So we decided to start things off right. Hopefully, the following events will characterize 2009 for me:
-Cooking a glorious meal for good company.
-Climbing a wall.
-Using video games as a tool to bring people together.
-Being called a ninja by a stranger in the street.
-Meeting a bizarre but harmless person on public transportation.
-Seeing justice delivered to my least favorite, hopefully ex-coworker.
-Inventing a groundbreaking new cocktail.
-Infiltrating a party held by the greatest improvisers in Chicago.
-Declining to eat a three-hour-old cheesesteak.
-Finishing a movie, and uploading it on YouTube.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaSLeeTE5YA
Nothing special, and apparently nothing comprehensible either (according to the one person who's seen it). But I'm glad to be producing any new material at all, and for the record this is based on a true story.
Have a splendid year. |
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| A tangled web |
[Dec. 28th, 2008|04:38 pm] |
A lot of video games changed hands in the Rinsky household in the last month. Let me pitch you the whole soap opera- you don't need to know anything about video games to follow this (I drop names for reference only):
When I came home for Thanksgiving, my brother Isaac splurged and bought me a shiny new Xbox 360 from Microcenter. Included were two games: Fallout 3 (from my cousins), and Fable 2 (from my parents).
But I didn't want Fable 2, so I went with my father to exchange it for Left 4 Dead. But Microcenter didn't have any copies, and they would only give us store credit. We talked them into refunding the price of game on Isaac's credit card, then we went to Best Buy and my dad bought me Left 4 Dead. But Isaac was no longer in town at that point, so at press time he still owes them a reimbursement.
Isaac also told me he has a copy of Fallout 3 that he's not using anymore, so if I left mine in the package I could have his and then exchange it. I stared at it on my mantle for all of last month, and then sure enough, he gave me his this past weekend. But he left his receipt in Columbus, and I left my shrinkwrapped copy in Chicago. So when he comes up to visit in February, we will take the game and the receipt to Microcenter Chicago and put an end to this business once and for all.
Oh, and Isaac didn't make a gift list for the Rinsky Family Non-Denominational Holiday Funtime Fiesta. So I gave him a little coin purse stuffed with $64.04 (the price of an Xbox 360 game after Franklin County sales tax). He used it to buy Fable 2.
But all the complication was worth it when I popped in Fallout 3 last night, and the character creation screen informed me that I could give my protagonist a "muttonstache." |
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| Damn |
[Dec. 19th, 2008|05:22 pm] |
I had the most precious dream last night.
My father gave me a list of the eight kinds of women I needed to avoid. It was arranged like a spreadsheet, and he told me to fill it with lists of women I knew who fit under each label. Kind of like a post-eductional homework assignment.
The first three categories were "Stragglers," "Hagglers," and "Sexy Tail-Waggers."
I'm kind of pissed that I can't remember the others. |
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| More Relationship Wisdom |
[Dec. 5th, 2008|05:19 am] |
Never eat a slice of turkey, yell "Thanksgiving makeouts!" and then forcefully romanticize someone who's a much stricter vegetarian than you are.
And the sad thing is, she's still luckier than my last girlfriend. |
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| Details |
[Nov. 28th, 2008|12:12 am] |
Let me tell you about this here lady of mine.
Meet Lisa:
-She is a fellow improviser. She's a year ahead of me on the path I travel toward comedic fulfillment, so she has been a wonderful resource for my inquiries on how the improv world actually works.
-She is dedicated to her craft. She'll go outside during the roughest of Chicago weather to make a movie, even while she's on her period.
-She is a teriffic listener. If I am ever interrupted by something, she will always come back and ask me what I was about to say, even if it takes five minutes to get back to it. This also means she will catch and ridicule me if I so much as mangle a single consonant, but like a good improviser she treats every mistake like a gift. This results in an environment where everything I do is the right choice, and it is quite comfortable.
-She is an unapologetic dork. Though our interests diverge (she leans more toward Star Wars, while I align myself with video games), I am tremendously thankful to have found someone who can appreciate the appeal of all forms of nerdic arts.
-She grants me the right to catch myself digging a conversational hole, say "The Right Answer," and then change the subject with no further question.
-She pays for her half of dinner.
-She is comfortable with me hanging out with other girls.
-She enjoys my company enough that she has no qualms about hanging out with me while I clean my room or do laundry (I try my best not to abuse this).
-She is committed to the prevention of overexposure, and raises no complaints when I want a night off from her.
-She loves a good adventure. She'll make a mad dash with me to catch a bus, stop to decipher graffiti we find, and cheer me on while I try to climb stuff.
So yeah, life is good up here. |
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| Bursting at the seams |
[Nov. 7th, 2008|11:57 pm] |
Whenever my mother turned on the radio, it was to listen to the news. As a result, I grew up listening to none of the music you did (aside from Weird Al Yankovic). My brother had an exquisite taste in hip hop, some of which he passed on to me, but for the most part I was forced to discover my musical tastes in college.
I have a strong sense of individualism, and this translates to a desire to find songs that nobody else is listening to. If everyone's talking about a particular song, it is a turnoff for me, even if I acknowledge that it is a work of quality.
These pursuits give me an air of pride for making my own way and the pleasure of introducing countless people to a wave of awesome tunes, but they have left me painfully ignorant of the world around me. I have mistaken Smashing Pumpkins for The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I didn't know who Johnny Cash was until a year ago. And I usually can't even tell you anything about my favorite bands, because I find their albums in bargain bins and most of them aren't famous enough to have even a wikipedia page.
I have worked at my current job for a year now. In the game room, there is a machine that blasts a digitized version of an Andean song I enjoy. Take a listen (the version I have is better, but I couldn't find it on the internet):
http://www.imeem.com/timidoprodukktionzz/music/ayRVgjqV/jorge_meza_llorando_se_fue/
When I first heard this, I was thrilled. It would only be a matter of time before I would get a chance to show that I knew this song. Then all the people who had scoffed at my lack of knowledge, who had judged me for confusing The Cure with The White Stripes, would be put in their place.
But for a year, nobody cared. Every activation of the candy machine mocked my ambitions as the melody faded beneath the noise of zombies getting their heads blown off with 12-gauge shotguns, while my coworkers strolled past in blissful disregard of their imminent comeuppance. I bode my time, clinging to my one bit of truth as I lurked in the shadows of obscurity, waiting for the time to come.
A week ago, it came during an unusually slow shift.
Carlos: Do you know the name of the song the candy machine plays?
(My eye twiches)
Me: Which candy machine are you talking about?
Carlos: Um...
Me: Here, come with me.
(Hasty escort to the game room)
Me: This one?
Carlos: I think so...
Me: Well, that's a pretty old song. The melody's been reappropriated by several cultures, but-
Carlos: I just want to hear it.
Me: (Fighting to contain my well of facts)It should be playing on its own...
Carlos: You got a game card?
Me: Yeah, here.
Carlos: This isn't working.
Me: Oh right, the employee cards don't work on anything that gives prizes.
Carlos: Damn. (Walks away)
Me: (Giving chase) Wait! It's called Llorando se-
Carlos: So, make any good tips tonight?
HOLD STILL SO I CAN BE SMARTER THAN YOU, DAMN IT!!!
Later...
Me: You know, I actually have a few different versions of that song on my computer. If you-
Carlos: What song?
Me: Llor- the candy machine song.
Carlos: Oh, that. What about it?
Me: If you give me your email address, I can send it to you.
Carlos: Nah, I don't want to go to all that trouble.
Me: It'll take fifteen seconds! I know exactly where it is on my computer! I would enjoy the privilege of sharing it with a fellow fan!
Carlos: Don't worry about it.
FUCKIN' A!!! SHIT COCK VULVA!!!
I was content to wallow in my despair, and bitch to my girlfriend about this. But today he pulled a finisher on me...
Carlos: Does anyone know what song that machine plays in the game room?
Me: YES! We had this conversation a week ago!!!
Carlos: "Luck be a lady tonight..."
Me: Huh?
Carlos: You know, that machine where you try to launch the coin at the target?
Me: You... you said the candy machine. I specifically led you to it.
Carlos: Which candy machine?
Me: The one that goes (humming Llorando se Fue).
Carlos: What's THAT?
(...)
Me: Nothing. |
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| Tips for preserving a relationship |
[Oct. 29th, 2008|07:48 pm] |
While walking with down the street with your girlfriend, if you are passed by an 18-wheeler with a ledge sticking out of the side, do not point to it and shout "I want to get on that!" until you have checked to make sure the truck is not also adorned with a billboard-sized picture of a topless woman.
You will live longer. |
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| Sin Week 2, Part 2 |
[Oct. 8th, 2008|09:50 pm] |
(Part one is friends-only. Suck it up and make an account.)
In addition to being a restaurant, my workplace is also a prime spot for private parties. During the holiday season, we get lots of people looking for a place to have a company Christmas party. Once last December, however, we had a Channukah party, and as the only Jew around I was consulted on how to decorate for it.
I told them to decorate the tables with blue and gold, and take down any potpourri that could be strongly identified with Christmas. Then I went into the room the night before to look at their work.
( There was still a big fuckin' Christmas tree in the middle of the room. ) |
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| The stuff of legends |
[Sep. 22nd, 2008|09:22 pm] |
One day I went to clock in, but was met with the following error message:
"The system is currently down. If you wish to log in, please enter your password or contact an administrator or lpeaches (LEROY PEACHES)."
TMX Clock, you have no IDEA how badly I want to contact somebody named Leroy Peaches. |
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| Twist |
[Sep. 22nd, 2008|05:18 am] |
For the past week, my armpits have smelled like maple syrup.
The woman verifies this 100%.
Right now, that's fuckin' awesome. But I know that I'll never be able to eat pancakes again because from now on they're going to smell like my armpits. |
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| Progress |
[Sep. 17th, 2008|06:57 pm] |
I had an audition on Saturday for an new improv team at The Playground, another theatre that doesn't have quite the same brand name recognition that iO does. Figured it would be a great start, and would do me well to be doing improv more than three hours a week.
The audition went horribly. It wasn't necessarily that I did a terrible job, but I was outclassed by nearly 100% of the competition. I know I'm out of practice, but that's no excuse for THAT kind of universal skill gap.
Then I realized something. The qualities of a strong improviser are all things I practice constantly in my daily life. I put myself in other people's realities and build on them, I recognize little quirks in daily interactions and explore them, I bring back jokes at the perfect times, and I commit full-on to what I'm doing even though I usually have no idea what's going on.
And yet... these qualities frequently fail to manifest themselves on the stage. I have a habit of just going out there to deadness, or worse- not going out at all because I haven't got a clue what to do. Part of the problem is that when you impose a vague directive for me to work around I can come up with the occasional moment of absolute brilliance, but when I'm allowed to do anything I most often do nothing.
Luckily, I didn't have to beat myself up over this for very long, because it all came together in class the very next day. Teacher told us that if you play yourself, you won't be able to immerse yourself in the quirks of the scene because your natural impulse will be to question them.
Which makes perfect sense, because when I'm doing my daily-life version of improvisation, I'm still working around the rules of society. When a customer at Dave & Buster's wants something ridiculous, my response still has to factor in the fact that we can't give them a free meal, a million dollars, a Corvette and a partridge in a pear tree (and yes, I've been asked for all of those). On the other hand, while in improv it might not necessarily be the best answer to just hand them whatever they want, I'm still limiting myself by playing with that mentality.
And then she said something directly to me. She had just forced me out on stage to one of the weakest initiations I'd ever made, and then told me I was holding back as though I hated every scene I was in. She told me to stand on the sidelines slightly leaning forward, and that engaging my spine would make all the difference.
Fuckin' A was she right! We repeated the exercise, and just shifting my weight half an inch forward exposed me to a world of possibility. Not only did I know exactly what to do when my turn came, but I had an answer to what I would have done differently on everyone else's turns. And let's compare initiations:
First time: "Stop flailing your arms!"
Second time: "Wow Uncle Skeeter, you sure shot that duck good! You'll make a man out of me yet."
And to think, all I had to do was lean forward, which is how I've been slouching most of my life. |
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| Might as well |
[Sep. 2nd, 2008|05:34 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Thoroughly unsurprised | ] |
Aaaaannnnnd.... girlfriend. |
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actionjack's journal
Fuckin' proud
starry-eyed