September 7th, 2009
L& L’s wedding last night. Liane looked stunning, Larry has like mad dancin’ skillz , the “crew” was reunited & the Rabbi tested some one-liners that are sure to kill at a Jewey Grossinger's-like Catskills resort.
I was standing at the bar talking to the “Is it really that big of a deal that he’s just out of college hottie” British cousin..then I’m approached by Pam and Dan. They’re the next to be married couple. I love them because they have a palpable love AND and are polar opposites. She’s endearingly yenta-licious and he’s an artist. He’s the Yin to her Yang , the Bert to her Ernie, the black Michael Jackson to her white Michael Jackson. They just work and it’s inspiring to watch. The only thing that confuses me is that they refer to each other as Monkey. The fact that I most likely will not get invited to the wedding is where this gets fun. It is questionable if I’ll get to watch the official union “live” in a few months because I am..wait for it..wait for it..A CUSP.
Now I’m OK with this and truly not surprised. I get how these things work. In fact, I offered to “out” myself to take some pressure off of them. No offense taken. Seriously.
I own my cuspness.
The formal definition is “A transitional point and time.” I am rather cuspy as I am frequently in some form of transition in time and strive to be a transitional-esque comedian who aims to coalesce the points with the funny.
So Monkeys, I’m cool with what could go down. Easy breezy…much like a Sunday morning.
However, I would like to throw out another option that you might find surprisingly appealing. Have a wedding and ONLY invite THE CUSPS
Everyone wins
I’ll be super content because cuspers aren’t expected to be there early for pictures and never deal with playing psychotherapist during the almost newlywed's pre-wedding jitters . We’re totally happy appreciating an open bar and swimming in the endless sea of pigs in the blankets. You won’t be offended(or notice) when I leave for an hour to hit the Lebedevitch Bar Mitzvah party in the other reception hall. I’ll return once I grow winded from Macarena-ing with the hired dancers and the dirty uncle becomes inappropriate.
On your end, old deep-rooted family issues won’t get triggered because well, you haven’t invited your relatives because they didn’t make the cusp list. You get to avoid the awkward “What unwanted details could they reveal about me” information that will undoubtedly be exposed during the best man/maid of honor speeches. Hey, I’ll give the speech. “Pam, remember when we got the seared tuna salads at Houston’s in the winter of 2006. That was awesome.” Plain and simple. No sucker punches and tears.
I really sense that the Cusp Only trend can change the wedding industry as we know it. Monkeys, you can be pioneers of what is certain to be the new hot wedding fad. When I’m on the subway and see a passenger reading the latest copy of the magazine, “Cusp Enthusiast”…I’ll think of my Monks and give them the ultimate Jax compliment: An internal high five.
Viva La Cusp!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Day 29 - Elmo. Don’t tickle Me. Seriously, Hands Off.
September 6th, 2009
Questions that I would answer “no” to:
1) Didn’t we used to tailgate together in college?
2) Would you like to join me for a really moving John Tesh concert?
3) Have you ever dressed up in a giant chicken costume?
Let’s run with # 3 ...
Mascots of all sorts SCARE the hell out of me.
Actually any “live” oversized, furry or hairless creature, symbol or person with an exaggerated smile causes me nervous shivery apprehension.
My fearful uneasiness goes back to a trip to Disney World when I was four years old. One of the “costumed” seven dwarfs(who ironically happened to be ginormous) was taunting my brother. I don’t even have a very clear memory of what exactly went down but I think the McDwarf put his giant shirt over my brother’s head causing him to justifiably freak out. Seeing my big brother freak out ..caused me to freak out. The weird thing is that i’m not 100% sure if this incident really happened. Either way, I have firmly held onto some real or altered memory of the traumatic episode. Evil dwarf combined with me being tickled by a giant Elmo last Halloween has just confirmed that there is no space in my energy field for these beings or entities.
No one aspires to be a questionable giant masked person, animal, or thing. “What do you wanna be when you grow up Timmy?” “I’d like to dress up as a mountain lion and run around a football field inspiring enthusiasm and glee. It’s sure to get me laid.” Even though Timmy’s “uniform” will imply that he possesses a jovial spirit…he will undoubtedly grow up to be a man who is crying on the inside.
I saw a chicken suited individual passing out flyers the other today and I absorbed that someone actually gets paid to wear that thing. What's fascinating is that there is a person that did not have what it takes to land the job of spokeschicken. What becomes of him? I fear that “Mr. not good enough for feathered costume” might have an irrational response that could inspire an after school special that will warn today's youth that such a rejection could lead to death and destruction. It can be called "Eggscentric". The height of the production will show the disgruntled chicken reaching his boiling point and grabbing an AK-47 and going on a bloody shooting rampage at what should have been his place of employment. A lot of chickens will die that day. The overall message would be: "Kids, playing with dairy is never the answer."
Questions that I would answer “no” to:
1) Didn’t we used to tailgate together in college?
2) Would you like to join me for a really moving John Tesh concert?
3) Have you ever dressed up in a giant chicken costume?
Let’s run with # 3 ...
Mascots of all sorts SCARE the hell out of me.
Actually any “live” oversized, furry or hairless creature, symbol or person with an exaggerated smile causes me nervous shivery apprehension.
My fearful uneasiness goes back to a trip to Disney World when I was four years old. One of the “costumed” seven dwarfs(who ironically happened to be ginormous) was taunting my brother. I don’t even have a very clear memory of what exactly went down but I think the McDwarf put his giant shirt over my brother’s head causing him to justifiably freak out. Seeing my big brother freak out ..caused me to freak out. The weird thing is that i’m not 100% sure if this incident really happened. Either way, I have firmly held onto some real or altered memory of the traumatic episode. Evil dwarf combined with me being tickled by a giant Elmo last Halloween has just confirmed that there is no space in my energy field for these beings or entities.
No one aspires to be a questionable giant masked person, animal, or thing. “What do you wanna be when you grow up Timmy?” “I’d like to dress up as a mountain lion and run around a football field inspiring enthusiasm and glee. It’s sure to get me laid.” Even though Timmy’s “uniform” will imply that he possesses a jovial spirit…he will undoubtedly grow up to be a man who is crying on the inside.
I saw a chicken suited individual passing out flyers the other today and I absorbed that someone actually gets paid to wear that thing. What's fascinating is that there is a person that did not have what it takes to land the job of spokeschicken. What becomes of him? I fear that “Mr. not good enough for feathered costume” might have an irrational response that could inspire an after school special that will warn today's youth that such a rejection could lead to death and destruction. It can be called "Eggscentric". The height of the production will show the disgruntled chicken reaching his boiling point and grabbing an AK-47 and going on a bloody shooting rampage at what should have been his place of employment. A lot of chickens will die that day. The overall message would be: "Kids, playing with dairy is never the answer."
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Day 28 - Let's Give Them Something to Talk About
September 5th, 2009
Who REALLY knows us? Our true selves, our essence & soul, our secrets, our be-all and end-all. I imagine the stock “go to” answer for the majority would be under the umbrella of individuals like our parents, spouse, children, best friend, therapist..perhaps even our psychic. Most of us can be guilty of exuding only our ‘best selves” to those who are closest to us. I don’t think there is malicious intent with our holding back. In fact, it might come from a place of protecting these people from aspects of ourselves that could concern them. Who witnesses us when we are stripped of our facade, at our rawest and our truth is revealed? I will tell you loyal blog reader: Our pet, pharmacist and doorman.
I’ve had animals most of my life and they are amazing listeners, willing to volunteer their affection and sympathetic as hell. Their loyal qualities are so consistent that it doesn’t even bother me if my domesticated furry friend wants to lick his ass while I’m crying about a recent break up. It just proves another one of his meritable qualities. Multitasking. Ironic that we leash our animals...yet they inspire an “unleashing” in us. Have you ever been self conscious about walking around naked in front of your pet? Exactly.
Pharmacists also are in the unique position to comprehend us at our very core. They hand us our medication. No questions asked. Just with a knowing(and sometimes loving glance.) People. Listen to Jax. Seriously consider a romantic relationship with your pharmacist because if he or she still loves you after distributing you psychotropic drugs or questionable rash cream… Total keeper.
But I think at the top of the list of who knows us best is our doorman. If you never have lived in a doorman building there is a good chance that you’ve never been in the position to have the truths of your life reflected right back at you. I no longer live in a building with a ‘keeper” that provides courtesy and security. A little piece of me has gone missing. In an effort to work through the loss I would like to salute my long lost doorman with an artistic expression that combines beat poetry with the grand eloquent movements of interpretive dance. Please envision me delivering the dialogue below while wearing a spandex body suit and miming the action of catching an imaginary butterfly.
THE SCRIPT:
He’s my New York City Doorman
New York City Doorman
He wears short sleeve button downs and comes from a faraway tropical land
The Island of Staten
He’ll buzz up my Chinese delivery and even feed my cat when I'm out of town
That’s right .Oh New York City Doorman, in a city full of misfits.. I seek solace in your lack of education and grammatically incorrect English
It’s so classy when you stare at my breasts, gossip with the UPS man about the strippers you fuck and I adore when you’re remarkably nicer when it comes time for your Christmas bonus
Thanks for just judging me behind my back after you wrongly assume that all my male friends that come and go from my apartment are a string of one night stands
I often fantasize that one day we can be together
I like the sound of Mrs. New York City Doorman
But in the meantime, I just want to thank you for making me like the way I feel about me
You’re my New York City Doorman
THE END
Let’s have some quiet time and digest that it is OK that the above populations have gotten “in” and broken our barriers. They’re the real deal. Besides, if we’re withholding information from our therapist because we don’t want to cause her any distress..it could be to our benefit to discuss this matter with our pet, pharmacist and doorman.
Who REALLY knows us? Our true selves, our essence & soul, our secrets, our be-all and end-all. I imagine the stock “go to” answer for the majority would be under the umbrella of individuals like our parents, spouse, children, best friend, therapist..perhaps even our psychic. Most of us can be guilty of exuding only our ‘best selves” to those who are closest to us. I don’t think there is malicious intent with our holding back. In fact, it might come from a place of protecting these people from aspects of ourselves that could concern them. Who witnesses us when we are stripped of our facade, at our rawest and our truth is revealed? I will tell you loyal blog reader: Our pet, pharmacist and doorman.
I’ve had animals most of my life and they are amazing listeners, willing to volunteer their affection and sympathetic as hell. Their loyal qualities are so consistent that it doesn’t even bother me if my domesticated furry friend wants to lick his ass while I’m crying about a recent break up. It just proves another one of his meritable qualities. Multitasking. Ironic that we leash our animals...yet they inspire an “unleashing” in us. Have you ever been self conscious about walking around naked in front of your pet? Exactly.
Pharmacists also are in the unique position to comprehend us at our very core. They hand us our medication. No questions asked. Just with a knowing(and sometimes loving glance.) People. Listen to Jax. Seriously consider a romantic relationship with your pharmacist because if he or she still loves you after distributing you psychotropic drugs or questionable rash cream… Total keeper.
But I think at the top of the list of who knows us best is our doorman. If you never have lived in a doorman building there is a good chance that you’ve never been in the position to have the truths of your life reflected right back at you. I no longer live in a building with a ‘keeper” that provides courtesy and security. A little piece of me has gone missing. In an effort to work through the loss I would like to salute my long lost doorman with an artistic expression that combines beat poetry with the grand eloquent movements of interpretive dance. Please envision me delivering the dialogue below while wearing a spandex body suit and miming the action of catching an imaginary butterfly.
THE SCRIPT:
He’s my New York City Doorman
New York City Doorman
He wears short sleeve button downs and comes from a faraway tropical land
The Island of Staten
He’ll buzz up my Chinese delivery and even feed my cat when I'm out of town
That’s right .Oh New York City Doorman, in a city full of misfits.. I seek solace in your lack of education and grammatically incorrect English
It’s so classy when you stare at my breasts, gossip with the UPS man about the strippers you fuck and I adore when you’re remarkably nicer when it comes time for your Christmas bonus
Thanks for just judging me behind my back after you wrongly assume that all my male friends that come and go from my apartment are a string of one night stands
I often fantasize that one day we can be together
I like the sound of Mrs. New York City Doorman
But in the meantime, I just want to thank you for making me like the way I feel about me
You’re my New York City Doorman
THE END
Let’s have some quiet time and digest that it is OK that the above populations have gotten “in” and broken our barriers. They’re the real deal. Besides, if we’re withholding information from our therapist because we don’t want to cause her any distress..it could be to our benefit to discuss this matter with our pet, pharmacist and doorman.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Day 27 - God's Subway
September 4th, 2009
I think the subway gets a bad rap. Sure, it’s not glamorous but there is something to be said that 99% of the time I find that the passengers are remarkably courteous and there tends to be a general sense of harmony. It’s pretty phenomenal considering the diversity. It’s almost like a reality show premise: “Let’s take people of every race, religion, sexual preference and lock them in a steel electric railway car that zooms through underground tunnels."
Yesterday I was cruising on the underground choo choo train and began eavesdropping in on a conversation between two 14 year old boys. It was just a paella of awkwardness and it became increasingly clear to me that I have never been a 14 year old boy.Prepubescent’s horror really is God’s cruel joke and college must be our reward for surviving puberty. Everything is physically and emotionally out of wack and someone figured that this is the time to be handed keys to a car. “Mikey is covered with zits, irritable, self conscious about his awkward body and cracking voice and filled with rage.…I think he should be operating heavy machinery."
It became a bit too painful to continue listening to Zack and Scooter’s grievances. I started perusing my neighbor’s New York Post and nausea continued. My only option was to read a poster across from me for Bowlmore Lanes. Their marketing angle is Celebrities Bowl With Us.” “Ethan Hawk, Matthew Broderick.…Rudolph Giuliani.”I was glad that they didn’t overlook Rudy because I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve thought “You know, I’d really like to bowl with that guy.”
Then right as nothing(besides my fingernails) seemed to be capturing my attention... God spoke to me. Well, not directly. A very passionate man on the subway was kind enough to pass along the message.God and I have had a bit of a turbulent relationship over the past few year and he was curious as to why I wasn’t returning his texts. We used to be real tight. I’d refer to him as “God-Dawg.” But I felt like he wasn’t really stepping up to the plate so I just needed a “break.” I feel like we’ll end up together in the long run.I just needed some space to flirt with other higher powers. I’ve been feeling that it’s about that time to stop playing “hard to get” and reestablish my connection with God. I needed some questions answered so I figured that the subway preaching conduit could relay my inquiries to the deity. I asked if he would be my channel and he replied that he’d be happy to “do me the solid.”
Questions for God:
Why did you cancel Arrested Development?
Why does Al Roker have celebrity status when he is a nasty man with zero talent and sex appeal?
How does a Bill become a Law?
Why are there so many commercials about yogurt that keep middle age women’s digestive tracks in order?
Is testing makeup on animals really that bad? Have you seen what a little mascara can do for a bunny?
Aren’t the Pope and Klan members essentially wearing the same thing?
Why do you allow people to dress up in chicken costumes?
Homosexuals get the Gay Pride Parade. Can heterosexuals have a “Straight Shame March?”
The questions were just flowing through me like rapid fire and my new “between worlds” friend looked winded. I could have kept going but my stop was approaching. I felt so cleansed. Space had been cleared. I figure that God will arrange for another “chance” meeting with "Mr. Sure the Lord chats it up with me.” And if you want to know the answers…join us at Fox for next week’s episode of “UNDERGROUND REALITY!”
I think the subway gets a bad rap. Sure, it’s not glamorous but there is something to be said that 99% of the time I find that the passengers are remarkably courteous and there tends to be a general sense of harmony. It’s pretty phenomenal considering the diversity. It’s almost like a reality show premise: “Let’s take people of every race, religion, sexual preference and lock them in a steel electric railway car that zooms through underground tunnels."
Yesterday I was cruising on the underground choo choo train and began eavesdropping in on a conversation between two 14 year old boys. It was just a paella of awkwardness and it became increasingly clear to me that I have never been a 14 year old boy.Prepubescent’s horror really is God’s cruel joke and college must be our reward for surviving puberty. Everything is physically and emotionally out of wack and someone figured that this is the time to be handed keys to a car. “Mikey is covered with zits, irritable, self conscious about his awkward body and cracking voice and filled with rage.…I think he should be operating heavy machinery."
It became a bit too painful to continue listening to Zack and Scooter’s grievances. I started perusing my neighbor’s New York Post and nausea continued. My only option was to read a poster across from me for Bowlmore Lanes. Their marketing angle is Celebrities Bowl With Us.” “Ethan Hawk, Matthew Broderick.…Rudolph Giuliani.”I was glad that they didn’t overlook Rudy because I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve thought “You know, I’d really like to bowl with that guy.”
Then right as nothing(besides my fingernails) seemed to be capturing my attention... God spoke to me. Well, not directly. A very passionate man on the subway was kind enough to pass along the message.God and I have had a bit of a turbulent relationship over the past few year and he was curious as to why I wasn’t returning his texts. We used to be real tight. I’d refer to him as “God-Dawg.” But I felt like he wasn’t really stepping up to the plate so I just needed a “break.” I feel like we’ll end up together in the long run.I just needed some space to flirt with other higher powers. I’ve been feeling that it’s about that time to stop playing “hard to get” and reestablish my connection with God. I needed some questions answered so I figured that the subway preaching conduit could relay my inquiries to the deity. I asked if he would be my channel and he replied that he’d be happy to “do me the solid.”
Questions for God:
Why did you cancel Arrested Development?
Why does Al Roker have celebrity status when he is a nasty man with zero talent and sex appeal?
How does a Bill become a Law?
Why are there so many commercials about yogurt that keep middle age women’s digestive tracks in order?
Is testing makeup on animals really that bad? Have you seen what a little mascara can do for a bunny?
Aren’t the Pope and Klan members essentially wearing the same thing?
Why do you allow people to dress up in chicken costumes?
Homosexuals get the Gay Pride Parade. Can heterosexuals have a “Straight Shame March?”
The questions were just flowing through me like rapid fire and my new “between worlds” friend looked winded. I could have kept going but my stop was approaching. I felt so cleansed. Space had been cleared. I figure that God will arrange for another “chance” meeting with "Mr. Sure the Lord chats it up with me.” And if you want to know the answers…join us at Fox for next week’s episode of “UNDERGROUND REALITY!”
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Day 26 - Topless Hot Dog
September 3rd, 2009
Every now and then I go to that place that is bedazzled with wonderment. This occurs when I put some attention on the reality that this very moment was determined by every grandiose and seemingly microscopic choice that I have made up until this point. I have no interest in getting into the “Is fate predetermined” debate. Although I have a hard time believing than any higher entity in the universe could have predicted that I would be having an exceptionally good hair day today based on switching conditioners. On the most basic level, there seems to be something almost science fiction about allowing ourselves to just accept that the rewarding and challenging experiences of our lifetimes are based on free will.
Getting into a summer theater program at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was what initially brought me up to New York right after college. While I appreciate the craft of acting, I have never resonated with it..mind, body and spirit like I have with comedy. I prefer to write my own things and have a bit more creative control. Luckily I tapped into the New York comedic community very early on. This granted me a strong network and a variety of opportunities that continues to grow since performing with my first improv troupe in the Dean and Delucca basement in 1997. I have paid my dues.
However, there were a few months before I was nestled into the safe bosom of comedy. Being an “actress”..I hit the audition circuit and sat in casting rooms with 200 other tall blonds. Two memorable opportunities came my way..both of which I declined. Oh how life could have been altered if I had given the green light.
First missed opportunity. I was offered a part in the HBO show Oz…you know the wholesome family drama about men in a maximum-security prison. If you don’t recall this series, let me share some dialogue with you:
Schillinger: But Beecher knows too much about both of us. He's gotta die.
Keller: Yeah.
Schillinger: I'll deal with it.
Keller: No, I'll kill Beecher.
Schillinger: You?
Keller: Before I whack him, I just wanna fuck him in the ass one more time.
Yeah. That was from one of the more tame episodes. The part that I was offered involved me being topless. My ethics overrode the benefit of having an HBO credit on my resume. Moreover, I couldn’t stomach my brother and father catching that episode.Just wrong in every way.
The second “I accept the honor but decline the nomination” opportunity that I rejected was for the part of the mother in a Hebrew National Hot Dog Commercial. Mind you, I was 22 years old so I assumed my offspring would be some form of a baby. No. The marketing and advertising geniuses felt that the child should be a teenager. A few months later I ended up seeing the commercial on television and it went like so: Mom and child (that she evidently had when she was 7) drive up to the Hebrew National Hot Dog Window(..because those are everywhere?)
The mother undresses the hot dog with her eyes and then takes an alarmingly seductive bite then exclaims, (after an extended giggle) Thaaaaanks, I’ll have another!” Her delivery implied that the director required that she watch a B-grade porn film entitled, “Romancing the Bone" to get that deep bite “just so.”
Sure, I could have accepted those jobs but life would have flowed in the opposite direction. And I want to be where I'm at. I feel that I need to thank my 22 year old self and my comedy career as a whole for sparing me a lifetime of eating hot dogs topless.
Every now and then I go to that place that is bedazzled with wonderment. This occurs when I put some attention on the reality that this very moment was determined by every grandiose and seemingly microscopic choice that I have made up until this point. I have no interest in getting into the “Is fate predetermined” debate. Although I have a hard time believing than any higher entity in the universe could have predicted that I would be having an exceptionally good hair day today based on switching conditioners. On the most basic level, there seems to be something almost science fiction about allowing ourselves to just accept that the rewarding and challenging experiences of our lifetimes are based on free will.
Getting into a summer theater program at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was what initially brought me up to New York right after college. While I appreciate the craft of acting, I have never resonated with it..mind, body and spirit like I have with comedy. I prefer to write my own things and have a bit more creative control. Luckily I tapped into the New York comedic community very early on. This granted me a strong network and a variety of opportunities that continues to grow since performing with my first improv troupe in the Dean and Delucca basement in 1997. I have paid my dues.
However, there were a few months before I was nestled into the safe bosom of comedy. Being an “actress”..I hit the audition circuit and sat in casting rooms with 200 other tall blonds. Two memorable opportunities came my way..both of which I declined. Oh how life could have been altered if I had given the green light.
First missed opportunity. I was offered a part in the HBO show Oz…you know the wholesome family drama about men in a maximum-security prison. If you don’t recall this series, let me share some dialogue with you:
Schillinger: But Beecher knows too much about both of us. He's gotta die.
Keller: Yeah.
Schillinger: I'll deal with it.
Keller: No, I'll kill Beecher.
Schillinger: You?
Keller: Before I whack him, I just wanna fuck him in the ass one more time.
Yeah. That was from one of the more tame episodes. The part that I was offered involved me being topless. My ethics overrode the benefit of having an HBO credit on my resume. Moreover, I couldn’t stomach my brother and father catching that episode.Just wrong in every way.
The second “I accept the honor but decline the nomination” opportunity that I rejected was for the part of the mother in a Hebrew National Hot Dog Commercial. Mind you, I was 22 years old so I assumed my offspring would be some form of a baby. No. The marketing and advertising geniuses felt that the child should be a teenager. A few months later I ended up seeing the commercial on television and it went like so: Mom and child (that she evidently had when she was 7) drive up to the Hebrew National Hot Dog Window(..because those are everywhere?)
The mother undresses the hot dog with her eyes and then takes an alarmingly seductive bite then exclaims, (after an extended giggle) Thaaaaanks, I’ll have another!” Her delivery implied that the director required that she watch a B-grade porn film entitled, “Romancing the Bone" to get that deep bite “just so.”
Sure, I could have accepted those jobs but life would have flowed in the opposite direction. And I want to be where I'm at. I feel that I need to thank my 22 year old self and my comedy career as a whole for sparing me a lifetime of eating hot dogs topless.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Day 25 - Nice Helmet
September 2nd, 2009
Sophomore year at the University of Georgia I was driving in the car with my college roommates, Laura and Joanna. I was sitting in the back seat and came across Laura’s bicycle helmet. Of course I had to immediately put it on. Who wouldn’t? Then inside that protective headgear and even further inside my special brain, an idea was birthed: All massive head wounds could be prevented if people would just wear helmets at all times. AT ALL TIMES. I shared this with the girls..at first they laughed..then there was a short pause and then they simultaneously admitted, “You know, that’s actually a good idea.” Nice. Validation. Just what artists love.
Helmet wisdom has already been applied to obvious endeavors like hockey, motorcycling and football. But I’m certain that much pain and potential serious injury can absolutely be avoided if we wore them while we’re driving, having a bar brawl and participating in kinky sex. Sure doubt me. But don’t come to me bleeding after you were hit by an armoire that fell out of a window right as you were walking by. The benefits to permanent helmet wearing can positively alter existence as we know it.
Severe anxiety in the world of haircare will be obliterated. Guys. Suffer from male pattern baldness? Who cares. The hot girl that you’ve been eying in the elevator will have no idea. Ladies. Getting your roots done every 4-6 weeks? Now you have a 4-6 month grace period. Although you are still in the position of explaining why the carpet doesn’t match the drapes. Cross that bridge when you get to it.
Common dialogue will even turn helmet-centric. If you see a cute girl at the bar at TGIF , you can approach her with this “ he’s got game“ pick up line. “I couldn’t help but notice your helmet. It really accentuates your neck.” I guarantee that within three minutes you’ll be sharing potato skins. Within 3 hours you’ll be rubbing helmets. Within 3 months..married and pregnant with helmet wearing fetus. Baby is born. Visitor comes over and raves that the child “really has his father’s helmet.”
This trend will inspire never before seen risk taking. Crowd surfing won’t be limited to the more adventurous entertainers. Above our heads, we will be supporting the weight and passing the bodies of Barry Manilow, Obama and Betty White
Helmet mania will sweep the nation..the world. Every country can still excerpt their national pride through varying symbolic styling options. French helmets come with berets, Canadians with patches and maple leaves, Irish are equipped with convenient beer holder with a hose to their mouth. The Israeli Palestinian conflict will come to a resolution when they arrive at the peaceful reality that we are all just the same people..wearing helmets.
It’s just win win. Well, most of the time. There was one glitch when terminal helmet wearing failed us in the annals of history..Darth Vader. Having a protected head offered him a longer span of ruthless, dark and frowned upon hobbies. Word on the helmet blog was that this antagonist was spared severe head wounds after tripping on his cape and falling down a spiral staircase in his TIE fighter.
BUT overall, I hope that I have presented a convincing argument and we can initiate helmet permanency by all holding hands and running headfirst into a brick wall.
Sophomore year at the University of Georgia I was driving in the car with my college roommates, Laura and Joanna. I was sitting in the back seat and came across Laura’s bicycle helmet. Of course I had to immediately put it on. Who wouldn’t? Then inside that protective headgear and even further inside my special brain, an idea was birthed: All massive head wounds could be prevented if people would just wear helmets at all times. AT ALL TIMES. I shared this with the girls..at first they laughed..then there was a short pause and then they simultaneously admitted, “You know, that’s actually a good idea.” Nice. Validation. Just what artists love.
Helmet wisdom has already been applied to obvious endeavors like hockey, motorcycling and football. But I’m certain that much pain and potential serious injury can absolutely be avoided if we wore them while we’re driving, having a bar brawl and participating in kinky sex. Sure doubt me. But don’t come to me bleeding after you were hit by an armoire that fell out of a window right as you were walking by. The benefits to permanent helmet wearing can positively alter existence as we know it.
Severe anxiety in the world of haircare will be obliterated. Guys. Suffer from male pattern baldness? Who cares. The hot girl that you’ve been eying in the elevator will have no idea. Ladies. Getting your roots done every 4-6 weeks? Now you have a 4-6 month grace period. Although you are still in the position of explaining why the carpet doesn’t match the drapes. Cross that bridge when you get to it.
Common dialogue will even turn helmet-centric. If you see a cute girl at the bar at TGIF , you can approach her with this “ he’s got game“ pick up line. “I couldn’t help but notice your helmet. It really accentuates your neck.” I guarantee that within three minutes you’ll be sharing potato skins. Within 3 hours you’ll be rubbing helmets. Within 3 months..married and pregnant with helmet wearing fetus. Baby is born. Visitor comes over and raves that the child “really has his father’s helmet.”
This trend will inspire never before seen risk taking. Crowd surfing won’t be limited to the more adventurous entertainers. Above our heads, we will be supporting the weight and passing the bodies of Barry Manilow, Obama and Betty White
Helmet mania will sweep the nation..the world. Every country can still excerpt their national pride through varying symbolic styling options. French helmets come with berets, Canadians with patches and maple leaves, Irish are equipped with convenient beer holder with a hose to their mouth. The Israeli Palestinian conflict will come to a resolution when they arrive at the peaceful reality that we are all just the same people..wearing helmets.
It’s just win win. Well, most of the time. There was one glitch when terminal helmet wearing failed us in the annals of history..Darth Vader. Having a protected head offered him a longer span of ruthless, dark and frowned upon hobbies. Word on the helmet blog was that this antagonist was spared severe head wounds after tripping on his cape and falling down a spiral staircase in his TIE fighter.
BUT overall, I hope that I have presented a convincing argument and we can initiate helmet permanency by all holding hands and running headfirst into a brick wall.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Day 24 - Part Time Model
September 1st, 2009
There are a few things that are perplexing me more than usual at this moment: Al Roker’s career, the pan flute and young women on Facebook/Myspace who post pictures that they have (poorly)taken of themselves. Along with Russian strippers, the population most guilty of the “lamest online portraiture on Facebook” are girls ages 18-23 who generally come from smallish town USA and are relatively new to urban living. You know who you are… the breed that still dots their I’s with circles, hearts and smiley faces, wears scanty outfits while passing out shots at a Stoli’s promotion. All while while claiming to be “models.” Girls. Some tough love here. You’re the Gary Buseys of the Nick Noltes of the modeling world. You’re not entitled to possess the term “model” as your own when your “agent” has an AOL address.
Let’s visit some lyrics from a poignant Flight Of The Conchords song - The Most Beautiful Girl In The Room
And when you're on the street
Depending on the street
I bet that you are definitely
In the top three
Good looking girls on the street
Depending on the street
Cause you're so beautiful
Like a tree
Or a high-class prostitute
You're so beautiful
You could be a part-time model
But you'd probably still have to keep your normal job
A part-time model
Ladies, I fear that you could be on the horrifically ugly road to diner waitress in 3 to 5 years. Getting by on your “good enough” looks without bettering yourself…bad idea. I feel as if I have some credibility in this area because I ‘ve lived in New York for 12 years and comedians are trained observers. Believe me, it never ends pretty. You might get a boyfriend who puts being with a “kind of hottie” at the top of his list of “what he’s look for in a special lady” attributes. But once you wear that inappropriate short dress that barely covers your ass with 6 inch heels to a wedding that his parents happen to be attending …he will have a smack of reality. There will be yelling and tears. I’ve seen it.
Sure, you might “claim” to have a talent like singing. But the sad reality is that girls prettier than you with worse voices and easier access to pre-recorded vocal tracks will get the job. Sorry.
But what disturbs me the most are these “self portraits” that you proudly post online. Features include: awkward closeup angle that emphasizes over glossed/lined exaggerated pouty lips, severe eye makeup and an expression that suggests that in high school you were voted “Most Likely to Get an STD.”
What breaks my heart even more is that it is implied that you don’t even have a network of family and friends to even take your picture. So sad. You used to surround yourself with fat girls so you’d be the “pretty one” and stand out..but even they grew tired of this below par image you seemed unjustifiably content with. You are alone. No one to explain Grey’s Anatomy to you.
Here is where I come in. Mom and dad instilled the importance of philanthropy in me and I think(as a relatively self aware girl) that I can shift this potential train wreck. I’ll say to you Lacey(Katrina, Ginger..) “Let me take you under my wing.” I’ll go to your apartment, scrub the paint off your face, say something like, “Young lady you are not leaving the house wearing that,” and then we’ll sign you up for some continuing education classes.You want to be a dental assistant? Fine. And before I set you on your newly directed path... I will take your Facebook picture.
As I leave shedding a tear, I am overcome with emotion and just tell myself, “If you love something…set it free.”
There are a few things that are perplexing me more than usual at this moment: Al Roker’s career, the pan flute and young women on Facebook/Myspace who post pictures that they have (poorly)taken of themselves. Along with Russian strippers, the population most guilty of the “lamest online portraiture on Facebook” are girls ages 18-23 who generally come from smallish town USA and are relatively new to urban living. You know who you are… the breed that still dots their I’s with circles, hearts and smiley faces, wears scanty outfits while passing out shots at a Stoli’s promotion. All while while claiming to be “models.” Girls. Some tough love here. You’re the Gary Buseys of the Nick Noltes of the modeling world. You’re not entitled to possess the term “model” as your own when your “agent” has an AOL address.
Let’s visit some lyrics from a poignant Flight Of The Conchords song - The Most Beautiful Girl In The Room
And when you're on the street
Depending on the street
I bet that you are definitely
In the top three
Good looking girls on the street
Depending on the street
Cause you're so beautiful
Like a tree
Or a high-class prostitute
You're so beautiful
You could be a part-time model
But you'd probably still have to keep your normal job
A part-time model
Ladies, I fear that you could be on the horrifically ugly road to diner waitress in 3 to 5 years. Getting by on your “good enough” looks without bettering yourself…bad idea. I feel as if I have some credibility in this area because I ‘ve lived in New York for 12 years and comedians are trained observers. Believe me, it never ends pretty. You might get a boyfriend who puts being with a “kind of hottie” at the top of his list of “what he’s look for in a special lady” attributes. But once you wear that inappropriate short dress that barely covers your ass with 6 inch heels to a wedding that his parents happen to be attending …he will have a smack of reality. There will be yelling and tears. I’ve seen it.
Sure, you might “claim” to have a talent like singing. But the sad reality is that girls prettier than you with worse voices and easier access to pre-recorded vocal tracks will get the job. Sorry.
But what disturbs me the most are these “self portraits” that you proudly post online. Features include: awkward closeup angle that emphasizes over glossed/lined exaggerated pouty lips, severe eye makeup and an expression that suggests that in high school you were voted “Most Likely to Get an STD.”
What breaks my heart even more is that it is implied that you don’t even have a network of family and friends to even take your picture. So sad. You used to surround yourself with fat girls so you’d be the “pretty one” and stand out..but even they grew tired of this below par image you seemed unjustifiably content with. You are alone. No one to explain Grey’s Anatomy to you.
Here is where I come in. Mom and dad instilled the importance of philanthropy in me and I think(as a relatively self aware girl) that I can shift this potential train wreck. I’ll say to you Lacey(Katrina, Ginger..) “Let me take you under my wing.” I’ll go to your apartment, scrub the paint off your face, say something like, “Young lady you are not leaving the house wearing that,” and then we’ll sign you up for some continuing education classes.You want to be a dental assistant? Fine. And before I set you on your newly directed path... I will take your Facebook picture.
As I leave shedding a tear, I am overcome with emotion and just tell myself, “If you love something…set it free.”
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