He’s not just a hummer

Now I know I’ve described the gentleman before who enjoys (ugh!)  humming to his heart’s content.  Well, now I’ve discovered some other random annoying talents (if you can call them that). No, it would be too restrictive for this man to have only one skill.  This guy’s an artist!  He cannot be a mere hummer!  He must also excel at such things as “Phrasology” and “Random Outbursts” as well as “desk tapping”!  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this guy DOES IT ALL! He’s a desktop virtuoso!There’s no level to which he wouldn’t stoop, no mountain that he couldn’t climb to reach (that’s right) excellence.  He is an American hero; an icon of the Age of Creativity; a poster-child for amateur underachievers everywhere.  Just watch as he mesmerizes onlookers with the speed and precision of his tapping hands!  How can one’s ability to tap “Bohemian Rhapsody” or Van Halen’s “Jump” be so overlooked? Words like, “mediocre” and “passe” could never apply to such renditions!  But, just sitting near this guy will cause you hours of extended (aggravation) bliss as you realize that the tapping isn’t all he’s about.  No. That’s where the (pain) fun begins!  This guy can say things like: “Heavens to Mergetroid!” or ”Good Gosh!”.  His mere presence showers those around him with the (chilling) exciting feeling that they have come in contact with a demi-god. No one can rock harder than a desk “tap” specialist!  Get ready to be shocked and (annoyed) amazed. If he were a performing monkey, he’d deserve a banana.  C’mon.  Give it to ‘im folks!

The Vocal Stylings of the Weekend Crew

There is a new most unpleasant, habitual entertainment that I did not sign up for when I moved.  I experienced just a bit of it before when I commented about the late-night warblings of drunken skunks in the bar below me.  Hey, that’s what makes the rent cheap.  On a normal day, the alcoholics keep it down to a low roar.  That’s cool.  It is sort of a respectful way of saying, “Hey, it’s the weekday and we all gotta live here.”  Cohabitation is what makes the world go ’round.  But I know that utopic bliss doesn’t go far when you live in New Jersey.  And I also know that it’s a pub and some drunken escapades are warranted.  It’s like going to a concert.  You sort of subscribe to the fact that some people will be foolish and over-indulge.  Same here.  I got it.  TRUST ME.

The Rolling Stones (is) used to be my favorite band:

Apparently, the alcoholics enjoy the beautiful melody, “Angie”. A lot.  Try over and over at various intervals. Ad nauseum.  Then, add the vocal stylings of some random drunken alley cat and now you understand the horror, the horror!!!  There is a sunny side, though.  If you get tired of the guy who’s belting out “Angie”, there’s always the more sedate mumbling ballad, “Yellow” by Coldplay.  Hell, they’ll even play the whole CD for you for free!  Yippee!  Yeah, nothing like listening to the smoothe sound of Coldplay at three-in-the-morn!  What I’m surprised not to hear is more Bon Jovi, Billy Joel, and Bruuuuuucccceee!!!!!!!!  I guess they wore the heck out of the jukebox CD.  Boo and/or hiss. 

 

Riding the Oscar Wagon

I didn’t see Crash, but I “broke”-down (pardon the pun) to see Brokeback Mountain.

First off, Carlos just didn’t want to see this movie.  Not because of the gay theme, but because he felt that he would be bored by a “paced” movie.  He also said that he didn’t want to ruin his view of cowboys.  Coming from the John Wayne era of Westerns, I could see his point.  So I left him home.  I went with my mom.  I was pleasantly surprised at how beautifully filmed this movie is.  It was believable, committed, subtle, and it left just enough inference, respecting the audience.  I really hate films that “dumb” difficult subject matter down assuming that the audience is filled with slack-jawed yokels who don’t understand the concept of voluntary suspension of disbelief.  “Ain’t that Heath Ledger?  And ain’t he dating the woman that’s in the movie?  Ain’t she preggers with his baby?  What’s he doin’ in a gay movie?” Now even though I’m sure some of these people still exist, I wouldn’t want to be around ‘em when I’m watching this film.  There’s a whole ritual that I undergo when watching movies, but that’s another entry.  For now, let’s focus on the greatness that is Brokeback.

First off, this movie is subtle.  It doesn’t (contrary to the conservative’s belief) shove homosexuality down your throat.  It isn’t traditional, but it is a love story.  The sweeping landscapes, the longing, the awkwardness, the interludes are all the same as any love story.  But more so, there is a distance here that cannot exist in say, a Meg Ryan romantic comedy.  Longing is an understatement because these men are not only bound by a society that doesn’t accept any love between two men, but especially not cowboys.  I mean, it may be okay to dress up like one to sing, “YMCA”, or to wear chaps in a cliched-pseudo-sexual-homo-erotic movie, but not in classic Western.  Cowboys are always depicted as such “men’s” men thanks to Turner Classic movies and Marlboro ads.  That’s why despite myself and my progressiveness, I still cringed when these two wrestled each other in a tent.  It was the first time that a same-sex relationship–among cowboys–was treated with honesty on the silver screen.  They could have been any other couple roughing it out there on a mountainside. 

Sometimes you just have to worry about the grout

The other day, I was sick with worry.  I sat in front of my pc pondering the meaning of life, wondering where I’d be in the next few months (job-free) and sulking to my heart’s content.  I went to a bad place, a very bad place.  On the verge of tears and self-pity, good ole Carlos showed up and began talking up a storm: exasperated.  

Carlos - “Babe, I’m almost finished with the closet.  Do you want me to put those shelves up in the kitchen?  Because I want what you want.  Let me know if you like that idea.  If not, let me know.  Oh, and the painter’s finished the grout in the bathroom.  Go check…”

Me - “Where is my life going? What’re we going to do?”

Carlos - “Relax, babe.  Okay, listen…the painter wants to start on painting the bathroom and then we’ll lay down the floor tile…and…”

Me - (sigh) “I mean look at me, Carl.  I’m thirty-two years old and about to lose my job–”

Carlos - “Babe, it’ll be alright.”

Me - “But how do you know that?  We have so much to do in this apartment.”

Carlos - (looking pensive) “You know, we can put those two smaller cabinets in the corner and replace the water-cooler.”

Me - “Are you listening to me?”

Carlos - “Babe, but these are your decisions.  I want this apartment to look the way you want.”

Me - “I trust your judgement.”

Carlos - “That’s not right, y’know?  All of this stuff is what I said I was gonna do and I’m gonna do it.  As for all that other stuff, you want me to do…what?  Everything will be alright when I get this apartment fixed.  I’m doing this for you, babe.”

Me - “I know.  But I’m so worried…”

Carlos - “Don’t worry about those things.  I’ll take care of it.  So do you want those shelves that I showed you?  C’mere…I put them in a corner in the kitchen.”

Carlos walks over and holds them up.

Carlos - ”Do you like them?”

Me - (walking towards the kitchen) “They’re nice.”

Carlos - “…because if you don’t, I’ll get rid of ‘em.”

Me - “No, no, that’s okay.”

Carlos - “Maybe you’ll help me put them up later?”

I mumbled something under my breath and I stopped listening to him for a minute.  I was actually marvelling at Carlos’s inability to sink into depression.  He just doesn’t worry about things like that.  And as I mulled over the future and all of life’s uncertainties, I realized what I should be wasting my energies on.  The only stuff that really matters is the day-to-day.  Sometimes, you just have to worry about dinner or calling your mom just to see how she’s doing.  It’s the little things that you take for granted.  The little insignificant things that make the world go ’round.  Maybe losing my job was God’s way of saying–slow down.  We spend so much time worrying about where we are in the universe, that the dishes pile up in the sink.  We focus on the inconvenience of our morning commutes without thinking that maybe we can take those extra moments to smell the roses.  You can actually acknowledge the things that you’ve missed or overlooked.  It’s all around you.

You may not be able to control your life, but hey, you can control grout.  That’s what it’s all about.

What the hell is wrong with Christina Ricci?

So I’m watching “Dinner for Five”, a show on the IFC channel where various celebrities from the Indepent circuit sit around a table and chat about whatever young talent talks about.  The mix of talent is really good and can theoretically be quite entertaining, actually.  For reality tv junkies like myself, it offers a refreshing change from watching Project Runway and American Idol Rejects.  Enter this series that attempts to engage the viewer by making the famous relatable and hopefully interesting.  The fly-on-the-wall concept is good.  Every viewer would love to hear what is said at the table at awards ceremonies.  The problem is that it doesn’t deliver. At least, not with this group. 

Now I’ll admit that this cast involved a rather ennui-ridden panel that left it up to one contributor: Adam Goldberg to offer his views on literally EVERYTHING.  Adam, comfortably talkative, was a master at dominating the conversation.  We can all stand to learn a lot from him.  He was funny, silly, and very outspoken.  Not so of the rest of the group he was carrying. 

The problem that I saw with this particular installment, was that despite all of this young talent, some stars are too ensconced in the traditional “I’m-broody-don’t-talk-or-look-at-me” attitude or the “I’m-too-important-to-comment-on-such-things” stand.  Then there are those who–let’s face it–have NOTHING to say. Those actors/writers/musicians/artists are just happy to have been invited.  There was Christina Ricci who succeeded at doing what she does best: appearing wan, puffing away on cigarettes to appear secure.  She reminded me of, dare I say, Anna Nicole Smith with her slow, slurred drawl. Maybe she was just drunk.  I can’t tell.  The highlight of her contribution to this episode?  An impersonation of a Mister Rogers puppet in The Land of Make-Believe, which seems fitting considering her line of work.  Make-believe.  I don’t think she even bought her performance.  But she should be given marks for at least attempting to appear normal.  Jon Favreau, who should be guiding his “peers” to gain some forward momentum in the conversation, waited to let his peers shine on without him.  Sensing that the ship was going down in a blaze of glory, he wisely switched gears toward the end, directing his attention to the only student contributing to the class: Adam. 

What I felt the most gypped on, was that I was left with nothing memorable.  There was no conflict (save for the little tidbit from Christina about some nasty remarks from Vincent Gallo).  Steve Drozd also had nothing to say.  They kept placing the description, “Steve Drozd from The Flaming Lips” underneath his name just to remind the viewer of who he was.  Likewise, Giovanni Ribisi shyly added that he was not aware of the experience he’d had as Phoebe’s brother on “Friends”.  That was a big let-down because I can scarce remember his performances in anything else.  Oh, except maybe “Gone in 60 Seconds”, which is just about the length of my attention span whenever Mr. Ribisi mumbled to himself in the corner.  Where I wanted to go, they were unwilling to go.  I can get more from Inside the Actors’ Studio with James Lipton! 

Underneath it all, these artists want to keep working.  They cannot be brutally honest for fear that they may be blacklisted.  Thus, the conversation is limited to talk of “creative challenges” on various “projects”.  In order to succeed, Mr. Favreau needs to make sure that the artists he chooses are present and accounted for.  Otherwise, what the hell’s the point?

I Know You’re Dying to Know

Why’d I leave Blogspot?

Two reasons, really. OK, there’s more…probably. The first is the simple strikethrough feature. I wanted to be able to strikethrough my text; a trend that Jamelah started. Yes, Jam you started a “trend”. I also thought it’d be cool to be able to customize my header, but I haven’t gotten that far in the tutorial yet.

STOP WITH THE HUMMING!

Occasionally, I become acutely aware that as I get older, I get a wee bit judgemental. No matter how big or small the infraction, I have a tendency to go postal to the point of plugging my ears and stomping my feet in a childlike tantrum fit. So why, kiddies, why do I have to go through the torture of enduring other people’s stupidity? Please note that I am not neurotic. Ok, maybe just a little. But still…

Since I woke up in a good mood this morning, I thought that today would be special. I sincerely believed that if I made it to work without something bothering me, then I would be experiencing what some believe is utopia. Off I went. I made it successfully to the station without one thing bothering me–not a bad start. Surely though, I would get on the lightrail and some sort of incident would happen that would ruin my day. Maybe it’d be that random commuter out for a leisurely stroll why I slowly have a heart attack over how long they’re taking to get on the lightrail…especially when the driver is clearing waiting for them to get on. That’s always a favorite of mine. Or maybe there would be the half-asleep commuter who realizes at the last moment–as the train is about to depart–that they forgot to STAMP THEIR TICKET. That one is one of my personal faves. But, no. By some miraculous workings of the divine, I made it to work without a hitch. Enough chance to daydream while I passed the back highways and byways. So far, so good. Yet I was convinced that perhaps I would have one of my traditional elevator situations. (See Feb. 10’s entry) But surprisingly, nothing occured. All was well.

I still wasn’t convinced. Since–like Neo in the Matrix–I had a pre-conceived notion; a self-fulfilling prophecy was imminent. Maybe it was more like a sixth sense (like Haley Joel Osment’s character only without dead people) or a woman’s intuition (minus cornball Jewel song and closeups of a women’s shaver).

Sure enough, as soon as I took off my coat, settled in my cube, and logged onto my computer…it happened. The annoyance was unavoidable given the relative proximity between myself and the party who ruined my “perfect day”. The person sitting next to me is…*gasp*…a HUMMER!!!! That’s right boys and girls. You heard me. Not since grade school, have I been more annoyed by a natural reflex or an unconscious behavior.

Where Have All the…(Flowers?–no, Cowboys?–no) Hummers Gone?
If the world all hummed, what would it sound like? A cacophony of voices similar to that of a busy New York street, perhaps? Besides whistling, can there be any other more annoying activity?! Ok. I could think of a couple, too. So scratch that. I guess it’s just that I am so used to the office being as silent as a church that maybe I feel less than sensitive to society’s hummers. I’m sure the company doesn’t mind humming if it increases productivity. I’m also sure that the hummer is thoroughly unaware of his or her’s ability to annoy those around them. Wouldn’t it be cool if it was discovered that hummers did indeed increase productivity by annoying people into doing their work quicker to avoid the humming? Can one really be hired as a professional hummer? Or are there repercussions? Can one die from hearing too much humming? Can one go dumb or feel numb from The Hum(ming)? Instead of Pavlov’s dog what if the pet were trained by humming? Wait a minute, now that I think about it: Isn’t there like hum-therapy or something like that? I could’ve sworn I saw that on one of the Surreal Life episodes.

Maybe ultimately, humming should be entered as an Olympic sport. Why not? I mean, who really likes the sport of “curling” anyway? Wouldn’t it be better to watch incessant hummers annoy each other for days on end in order to reach Olympic gold? I mean it would take stamina and endurance and heck, it may even go as far as this movie: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116481/ Just read the premise. And yes, if you watched these slack-jawed yokels in that film vie for a monster truck (like I did ~ thanks, Seth), you’d giggle just the same. Yeah, you would.

Cheers to Human Ingenuity…”Hip, Hip, Hooray!”

Apparently, all you need to get creative is a blizzard. That’s right, folks. Snow makes Man (or Woman for that matter) turn to their most primitive natural instincts to find abstract solutions to their problems. A most beautiful concept. So it is without further ado that I inform you of the nature of my goddess-like ability to adapt to change…quickly.
I know–I haven’t mastered modesty, right? Well, one thing at a time, people!

Before you bask in the glory that is My Mighty Brain, let me first explain (try not to complain)…Hey, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it! Okay, I’ll stop before I drop–but I digress. There was a huge snowstorm now aptly titled, “The Blizzard of 2006″ (not to be confused with the Blizzard of ‘88). Unbenownst to me, however, was a lovely batch of laundry just a-swinging in the chill winter breeze.

By now your probably thinking:

1. What, no Laundromat? - Nosireebob! I am of the belief that those places take advantage of the huddled masses yearning to wear clean clothes. Based on necessity, people haul large sacks of laundry from home to mat, mat to home. I am too spoiled for that. There is also an addiction to nostalgia and doing things the good, ole-fashioned way. And I can’t afford all the quarters. *tee, hee*
2. What in the heck were you doin’ laundry in the wintertime fer? - Excellent question. Truth is, I wasn’t. I actually had forgotten them from the last time I did wash and left them on the line. In my own defense, it wasn’t that long ago. Remember those unseasonably warm days for a winter in Jersey? Yup, I took advantage. I guess I’m just that kinda girl.

So here I am reveling in the Christmas-like scenery–large flakes falling on cedars–when all of sudden it hit me. My wash! Oh. My. Gosh. MY WASH! Just then it was as though the sky opened up and everything started to grow dark and ominous. It was as if I were doing everything in slow motion. The world was fading to black… “NOOOOOooooooooo!!!!” I screamed from the rooftops. My legs propelled forward as I made it to the second-floor window overlooking the top of my roof in record time. I could see the remains of my laundry strewn about like bodies of dead Confederate soldiers and wounded Union Army men. Only, decorated with snow on top like icing. Umm…icing…

Light Bulbs Aren’t Just an Edison Invention:

Divine Inspiration came over me as I reflected on what needed to be done here. First, there were clothes and they were stranded on the roof. I was the only one who could save them from their fate. Unfortunately, I am not Plastic Man and can’t reach that far. I also didn’t have any means by which I could physically jump on the roof to rescue the laundry. What to do? I began first by gathering my thoughts enough to invent a solution that would do MacGuyver proud. I needed something long enough to be able to give me the added reach I desired. In this case, the only thing that I had was…a broom handle. It’s good to know that the dang thing finally was put to some good use (albeit not the one that was originally intended). Next, I needed something that could grip. I knew that chewing gum doesn’t work except in Little Rascals episodes. What could I get? After much labored thought, I imagined clothespins. I tried and tried and couldn’t get that to work. What other thing could I use?

When In Doubt, Think of Pasta:

I tried a spatula, another handle–to what I think was a vaccuum extension, and a bunch of nondescript items. Nothing was working. I then had what can only be described in Oprah terminology as an “Aha! moment”. Don’t ask me why I turn to Oprah during these distressing times. I just do. I thought of food. Not just any food, mind you, but pasta. Yes, in order to capture those clever little slippery noodles, you need to get a spoon and a fork. It wasn’t just to get one of those two utensils. It was the understanding that I needed the circular motion–similar to the noodle-spinning–to get a grip on the slippery laundry. What a breakthrough! I know it doesn’t sound like much to you, but when I succeeded in pulling up the articles of clothing piece by piece from off my roof, I felt like the Goddess Queen of the Universe that I am.(Don’t believe me? Goto: http://www.roomwaview.blogspot.com)

This was my Mona Lisa, my Tower of Piza, my triathlon all in one.

Now, bow down and kiss my feet.

The Girl from Iponima & Other Elevator Scenes

In case my fans haven’t heard, there is such a thing as elevator ettiquette. How do I know? Well, believe it or not, our company once held a training seminar about it. Yeah, I know. But I actually did come away with something more than at the “Sexual Harrassment in the Workplace” seminar.

Allow me a quick digression here:
BusinessMan walks up to BusinessWoman and says, “Is this felt?”
BusinessMan proceeds to be all Cro-Magnon and starts touching BusinessWoman’s sleeve.
Then, he says, “…it is now.”
Cut and print. 

Laughter ensues (only we are supposedly there to learn about Sexual Harrassment)! It was meant to be serious! No, really.

Back to the elevator topic. I mean, it really is important and useful to know these things. That way, you can tell your friends and they can tell their friends and so on and so on…

1. Mommie, what are elevator eyes? - Well, honey, it’s when someone is being rude and perusing your very person by looking you up and down, up and down like an elevator. Get it? Well, it’s RUDE. So stop it.
2. Get outta my way or I’ll mow you down! - Yes, some people still think it is alright to hit you with the force of a Mack truck just because you’re slow in getting in. Trust me, even if the person in front of you moves as slow as whale shit, YOU WILL GET TO YOUR FLOOR…eventually.
3. It’s my turn to push the red, candy-like button - Just for clarification, a good indicator that the button has been pushed already is the glowing circular light at the center of it. That means, basically, that frequent incessant pushing/tapping/clicking of the button will not make the elevator appear any faster. Once pushed, it’s been registered. It’s not a mouse and therefore doesn’t require double-clicking. Review Diagram Below:
4. Stop the world, I wanna get off! - For those unfortunates who are forced to take the elevator to the 2nd or 3rd floor, remember that you’re not browsing at the mall. No, this isn’t Ladie’s Lingerie or the Big and Tall Men’s Department. Just keep saying to yourself: ‘This is an elevator I’m riding. This is an elevator I’m riding.’ That way, when you get to your floor, you’ll remember to GET THE HELL OFF! I cannot tell you how many times I’ve got dazed and confused people going to the second floor, when I have to get off on the 10th!
5. Hold the Door Please… - If someone is tripping over themselves racing to catch the elevator, please let them on. If you’re near the door, please press that nifty button that reads, “Door Open” NOT the “Door Close” button. These buttons were specially designed for you to save your soul. Stop faking hitting the button or God won’t let you into Heaven. Even if you’re athiest or agnostic: JUST HIT IT, ok?
6. When is Holding the Door Not Cool? - If it’s 5 o’clock on a Friday and the means by which I can get home faster is by getting downstairs as quickly as possible, please DO NOT hold the door for a friend. Monday morning going to work? That’s ok. It just seems that people pick the most incovenient times to be gracious. Let’s face it: if you didn’t do it before, don’t try to redeem yourself at an inopportune time.
7. Don’t hum to the Muzak - Even if the song is the muzak version of 50 cents’ “Everybody in the Club”, please don’t hum, sing or dance in the elevator. Unless, of course, you are me. But you’re not, so stop playin’.
8. Moo-ve Over, You Cow! - As with letting people on, there is a certain finesse–a dance if you will–to letting people off. First, give them room to maneuver around you or just get out of the elevator so they can go on their merry way. Either way, try incoveniencing yourself to convenience others. You can get back at them another time.
9. Keep It To A Low Roar - I don’t really want to hear about your boyfriend troubles or listen to the electronica music blaring on your earphones. Correction: I do want to hear about your boyfriend troubles, but that’s only ’cause I’m nosy.
10. Don’t Release the Stink Bomb - I really didn’t want to mention this one, but it begs to be mentioned. If you feel a rumble in your stomach and you know you had a taco for lunch, please hold your body’s functions until your floor. Don’t get on if you can’t hold it. Please.

So Quiet, You Could Hear Crickets Chirping

You won’t hear a peep from me on where I’ve been, my dears. It’s all relative to where I am. And since it is all about me, I think that I’ll spill the beans when I’m good and ready. Or, at least until they’re cooked to perfection.