Thursday, June 30, 2005

Oh, the Movie Never Ends--It Goes On and On and On and On

I guess I was asking for it. I'm the one who insisted wearing flagrantly inappropriate work attire today and believed wholeheartedly there would be no payback. In my world, flip flops elicit accusatory stares. Ebay-begotten Journey concert t-shirts, therefore, invite weirdness on a whole different cosmic level.

This morning--after waking to find that someone in my house had eaten my lunch sometime between midnight and five a.m.--I was nearly all the way to the train station before I realized I had not a single dollar in my wallet for parking. Last night's War of the Worlds festivities (see Brad's journal for details) drained me of my liquid assets like so much blood sucked from a human into an alien tripod. With a fancy last minute left turn, I screeched up to the only bank before my station and withdrew twenty dollars from the ATM.

Parking costs three dollars. If you put anything greater than a dollar bill in the machine, it gives you back your change in Sacagawea coins. Not wanting six pounds of the most unwelcome of all currency, I picked through my bag and managed to find $2.85 in change. The ten minute interim between parking my car at the station and paying for the space was spent fishing change out from under the passenger seat with a ballpoint pen. There is no greater way to spend the wee hours of the morning than ass-up in your car, sorting through the mire under your floormats, picking through old french fries and ponytail holders all covered in eyeliner, which fell under the seat sometime in the fall, to find fifteen measly cents. Which I did, eventually, find.

The minute I got to the parking meter, though, it ate my first quarter and I ended up having to use the twenty anyway. Needless to say, I played the pissed-off reindeer on my walk to the office, what with the festive jingle of seventeen Sacagaweas in my pocket.

Not that this is necessarily strange, just irritating.

What is strange is the uncapped bottle of water appearing in my favorite office bathroom stall every day for the past two weeks or so. At first I assumed that someone had filled a Dasani bottle to brimming and left it on the tile ledge by accident, and that its continued existence was due more to shoddy custodial service than some kind of weird compulsion. Until the bottle started changing brands, at least. I've seen a Poland Springs bottle, an Aquafina bottle, and a few encores of the Dasani bottle, but every day I face off with some confoundingly mysterious full-to-the-meniscus bottle of water as I pee.

This is also something. These girls are staging some kind of public art project by attempting to teach everyone in New York City the choreography from Michael Jackson's "Beat It" video, and inviting all of their students to perform the dance in its entirety in Central Park on July 4th. Happy Birthday, America! I guess there is no way to better celebrate the freedom of our nation's consitution affords than by dancing, en masse, the choreography of a man who just hit the jackpot in the big American Justice System slot machine.

And then I came across this little gem, which is more than just strange, it's downright disturbing. In an interview between Whitney Houston, Bobby Brown, and Time Out New York about the new Bobby Brown reality show, this dazzling tidbit came to light:

TONY: Evidently, you’re very close. There’s a moment in the show when you describe helping Whitney with constipation by using your, uh, hand. Were you kidding?
BB: Oh no, I had to. She couldn’t go boo-boo. Sometimes, when people are constipated, you gotta help them out.


Yeah. I know. I won't be able to go to sleep tonight without seeing that playing out in my mind either, so you can just keep your bitching to yourself.

It turns out, though, that the Journey shirt may still bring all the power of Steve Perry's vibrato to my luckless life; I just got an e-mail telling me I'm getting paid today instead of tomorrow, and that they hope this doesn't cause me any "inconvenience." I mean, it is kind of rude to hand me my paycheck a day early, a paycheck that I want so badly my mouth tastes like nickels and I see George Washington's face when I close my eyes, but I'll persevere.

If anyone else is having such a great financial windfall (maybe try humming the first couple of lines of "Don't Stop Believing" and see what happens?), an author of some really good stuff on the internet like this, and this here, is having some moneytroubles. There's a donation button down at the end of that second link, so, should you feel inclined to maybe send a dollar north of the border (it's like eighty cents! the conversion rate's in your favor!), it would be a very nice karmic thing to do. Throughout the day it has become an increasingly important thing to me that a bunch of strangers will keep someone's lights on, just because they can.

And, also, because they are STREETLIGHT! PEOPLE! Oh-ooh-OOOOHHHH! Don't stop! Believin'!

1 Comments:

Blogger ktiv said...

Wow. That was hilarious. I am so glad I hit the "next blog" button by accident.

Just a side note: your blog is funny enough that, if you ever have any trouble going boo-boo, I'll be glad to help out.

Eww. I take that back...funny blog, though.

10:08 AM  

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