Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Hmmm, maybe I'm digging myself a hole here because being 1/3 the bitch that I am is still pretty bad. Let me rethink that and get back to you.Anyway, later on I related to you the strange tale of how I once stalked Jenny by embroidering her a pillow and sending it to her in the mail along with a secret admirer letter. Somewhere in the comments section that followed the tale I mentioned that Jenny and I had actually reunited on Facebook. Which means that I could contact her any time I wanted.
The result of this confession is that avid commenters GetKristiLove and Chris ganged up and goaded me into confessing the whole story to Jenny while taping it live for the cringy-embarrassment of whatever readers I have left after having neglected my blog for so long.
Mainly because I love to be ganged up on (sick fetish) I took the bait and did contact Jenny. Live. On video. And confessed to her that I was the stalker who hand embroidered her the ugly pillow.
Here is the result. Admittedly, it may not be as enticing as any of the classic Mama Gin videos, but I hope some of you will enjoy it anyway.
ps: There are several cat cameos in this video. There's an especially good one near the end, where Grover pounces into my lap, demanding attention as I try to wrap up the phone call.
I'm almost late for work but I just had to take the 5 extra minutes to post this.
Longtime fans of Coaster Punchman's World know about my addiction to the CMTVM (Cheesy Made for TV Movie) and it's oh so important sub-genre, the CMTVMMB (Cheesy Made for TV Movie with Meredith Baxter.)
Well Gentle Readers, my favorite uber-mommie-turned-crazy-beyotch has revealed that she is a big ole' lezzie. And I mean that as a compliment.
Some days at CPW are good days, and this is one!
Love and Coasters,
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thanks for bearing with me as I continue to drag out this story, that is if anyone still cares. Part 4 is posted here on the World of Progress online magazine where my saga has been renamed Coaster Punchman and the College Boys. Please leave comments there if you don't mind, although I don't mind if you leave them here too. I'm such a whore for affection, it's pathetic.
Since even Albert Einstein wouldn't remember what this story is all about, I'll provide links to the first three installments:
Read Part One here
Read Part Two here
Read Part Three here
With love and coasters, I remain yours truly,
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Our pastry-chef friend Jin recently posted a contest on her blog. She wants her readers to leave a comment stating the most embarrassing story about themselves they can think of. Whichever story makes her laugh the longest and loudest will entitle the reader to one of her special Sweet Boxes.
Now I’m not all that competitional or anything, but seeing as how embarrassing stories (about myself and others) are one of my specialities, I could not resist the urge to throw my name in the hat.
I started to type my comment to Jin (wherein, as you will note below, I state for the record that I could in no way compete with her reader Jay Ferris who boasts a horrifying story of jock itch and professional nudity) but alas, the “comment” was too long for Blogger to publish – leaving me with no choice but to post my entry on my own blog.
So, without any further ado, I respectfully submit the following entry in Jin’s Sweet Box Contest:
I would really like to play this game, but I simply don't believe I could beat Jay. That story is just so nasty.
But actually, I have thought of a story from my childhood that is just so stupid, it's more embarrassing just to think about what was going in my 12 year old pea-brain rather than the embarrassment of being discovered. (I actually never was officially discovered.)
Here's the set up: You may or may not recall a post I did some time ago about my childhood ex-neighbor Jenny. She and I had been best buddies earlier in life but had started to grow apart as we hit the tween years. One time when I was 11 or 12 I decided to mess with her and send her a "secret admirer" letter, not because I secretly admired her, but just because I was a mischievous imp and wanted to screw with her head.
But this was to be no ordinary secret-admirer letter, mind you - that would have been too normal for my pea-brain. Instead I decided she needed something homemade, something artsy and craftsy to show my fake-love for her. So I decided to make her a pillow.
Yes, that would be a pillow, the kind of thing on which you lay your head down at night to help you go to sleep. I have no idea where this random thought came from, but I took to the project with much aplomb.
I dug through some drawers and found some old pieces of upholstery that my mom had used to recover the seats of our dining room chairs a number of years before. I chose for one side of the secret-love-pillow a patterned fabric with a kind of plaid-paisley thing happening. For the other side of the pillow I chose plain green.
Why just plain green for the other side, you may ask? Because I needed a plain side so that I could do some special embroidery work on it. Just to make it extra special.
I took a needle and a spool of ordinary white thread from Kmart and carefully stitched in a large letter "J" on Jenny's pillow. (You know, so it would be an initial of her first name and all to make it really nice.)
I sewed up the sides of the fabric pieces and stuffed it with some old rags or something. The finished product was the saddest little thing I'd ever seen - like a school art project for which even a special-ed kindergartner would have received a D-minus. It was pathetic, but I was still really proud of it.
Then I proceeded to write her a letter (not even disguising my own handwriting) which read something to the effect of "I like you very much and so I made you this pillow. Signed, your secret admirer." And then I mailed it.
A few weeks later my cat had kittens, and when I saw Jenny across the yard one day I asked her if she (and her new best friend Joanne) wanted to come see them. Sure, they said, and they came in to see the new kitties.
As Jenny held one of the sleeping kittens in her hand she said, sotto voce to Joanne, "this kitten is so cute sleeping like this - I should go get her a small pillow." Joanne started snickering, and I asked what was so funny.
Jenny looked at me and rather flatly stated "a secret admirer sent me a pillow."
"A pillow?" I asked, in the sort of "what the fuck" tone that would properly befit that kind of statement.
"Yes, he made me a pillow. You should see it - it has got to be the ugliest thing ever." I couldn't tell if she suspected me, but I played along. She went and got me the pillow and the letter and we all had a good laugh. I could tell she was genuinely confused, as was I, frankly. To this day I still have no idea what possessed me to do such a strange thing.
But as an adult I have come to appreciate it as a kind of private performance art. I would consider doing the same to other people I know today except that technology is so much more sophisticated now - it would be much easier to sniff me out. And as an adult I could probably get arrested - or at least slapped with a restraining order - for doing something so awkward and creepy.
I've never told anyone this story, not even Poor George. Consider this my humble submission to the Sweet Box context.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
This is part 5 of a CPW series.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
I was invited by Lori, author of Hahn at Home, to write for the GLBTQ page of her online zine called A World of Progress TeamZine. I'll be publishing there once a month if all goes as planned.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Listen Gentle Readers,
You all need to stop judging me for my beliefs. I am entitled to them - this is a free country.
I have never said ANYTHING against black people. My beliefs have nothing to do with black people. I just think whites should have their own drinking fountains, that's all. That's just the way I was raised.
I hope we can all agree to respect each other. I have nothing against any of you.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
If you've been following the news at all lately, you might be aware of the vicious attacks on me because of statements I made during my on-stage interview in the Mr. Gay California pageant last week.
I have nothing against the Jewish people. I just think that Europe should have remained Aryan and Christian and that we took a wrong turn in 1945 by getting involved in all that. This has nothing at all to do with the Jews.
It saddens to me to see that my beliefs cannot be respected.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Join CP as he explores his father's abandoned childhood home in Oklahoma.
Poor George and I stopped through my dad's hometown on the cross-country trip we took to move PG and all our stuff from New York to California.
I wasn't absolutely positive at the time of filming that I had the right house, but I later confirmed with my dad that we were on target. He is very excited to see the video, which is why we shot it in the first place. Unfortunately I would never let him see this blog, so I'll have to get it to him another way.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Thank God Bubs asked us to help promote Nora in the Fangoria Spooksmodel Contest. If it hadn't been for Bubs' asking us to help out, I never would have tried to give Nora a perma-link on my sidebar, never would have failed miserably at it, and subsequently never would have decided I needed to revamp my blog to join the 21st century (post aught-four.)
My old template would simply not support Nora in all her nursely ghoulishness, and I so wanted to help that I actually began the arduous task of reformatting. Which turned out not to be arduous at all. And is the reason y'all are (maybe not?) enjoying my whole new look.
I lost the bulk of my regular Gentle Readers over the past months, probably ever since Proposition 8 passed when I began to spend months being all angry and serious about it, and losing my mojo for writing in the process.
But that's all water under the bridge now, Gentle Readers, and we start anew.
What has changed the most is that the new template enabled me to do that coolio link thing where I can see immediately which of my stalkees has posted. This saves me the arduous task of clicking into all 50+ of my stalkees' blogs every day to see what is going on. That is the primary reason why I hadn't been reading & commenting on your blogs - it just got too damn hard to keep up with everyone.
So now, I am lovin' the ability to keep up with y'all more easily, Gentle Readers. And I hope you love me stopping over more often now.
Oh please, like we're not all attention whores.
Love & coasters,
Monday, April 06, 2009
Laughter is indeed the best medicine, if I can say that without sounding trite, which I can't really, because it is trite --- but c'mon, work with me here for a minute. Chris over at Some Guy's Blog has developed an interest in those special moments in life where something not quite definable just makes you lose your shit. And he has taken to recording himself enjoying such moments, for example, as in this post.
I've taken it upon myself to find one such moment of my own and foist it upon you, my Gentle Readers. And I'm hereby inviting you to do the same. Find your special moment, record it for future generations to enjoy and post it on your blog as part of the brand new "Some Guy's Lose Your Shit Video" series.
Here's where I lost my own shit:
A few weeks ago, while I was driving to see some clients, I was listening to Margaret Cho on the car stereo. For those who are unfamiliar with Margaret's work, words can't quite describe how vile she can be. She's completely insane. Also, she and I have something in common in our taste for comedy: we both get our kicks making fun of elderly Asian women (she her mother, I my mother-in-law, the infamous Mama Gin.)
Margaret is also big on potty humor, which sometimes I find funny and sometimes not so much. But this bit she does about having to crap her pants while she's in the car just struck me as so hilarious I could not stop laughing. I laughed so hard I was practically hyperventilating and thought I might have to pull over.
I thought this was a fitting first video in this new series on Losing Your Shit, since what made me laugh in the first place was Margaret talking about shitting her pants.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
As fun as it was to meet all these famous people, every now and again I became self conscious because I wasn't famous myself. The last thing a mildly retarded Punchman needs is another reason to feel down about himself.
Though really, I shouldn't have worried much about it, because I found not a small number of people in L.A., people who lived, ate and breathed Hollywood, who were fascinated by me and my life because I just had a regular nine-to-five job. Something completely alien to them. I remember one conversation I had with a woman at a party:
"So, like, what do you DO?"
"I'm a computer consultant for a publishing firm."
"Wow. So what IS that?"
"Well, I visit customers who use our products to make sure everything works, and I get them to install upgrades and that sort of thing."
"Ok dude, I am like totally tripping....do you like, have an OFFICE or something?"
"Yes, I am in an office when I'm not visiting customers."
"Oh my GOD, I can't even IMAGINE...."
The fact that I didn't get screamed at regularly or that I had never been fired for forgetting to put two sugars in somebody's coffee was a completely foreign concept to this woman.
One time at a party I met a guy who worked on the "Larry Sanders Show." We kind of hit it off, and spent much of the evening talking together. I was upfront about the fact that I had never seen his show, so at the end of the night he invited me to come over to watch a few episodes sometime.
"I'd love to, thanks!" I replied.
A few days later this guy called and instead of inviting me over, asked if I wanted to go to the movies.
"Sure! What would you like to see?"
He went through some song & dance about how he needed to go see "The Secret Garden" because someone he knew had worked on it and he's promised he'd take a look - or something to that effect, because as you know I don't really listen to anything a person says when I'm slightly nervous, as I was here.
In any event, I agreed on "The Secret Garden" and told him to pick me up at 5:30 - and that I would find out where it was playing. After we hung up I looked in the paper and saw it was playing at the "Beverly Center" at 5:45. Perfect.
D.E. (his initials) picked me up at 5:30 and drove us over to the theater, which was on the top floor of a shopping mall- so it took a few minutes to get up to the ticket booth. STRIKE ONE: We arrived at the booth only to find that the movie was not playing there at all.
"Oops...." I said. "It must be at the Beverly CONNECTION...." (the theater across the street.)
He let out one of those polite laughs, the kind you use when you are slightly annoyed but want to show what a good sport you are.
We rode the mall escalators down five floors to exit the building, after which we crossed the street to go over to the other theater. It was about 5:43 when we approached the ticket counter. I took out my wallet to discover I had no cash with me. STRIKE TWO.
I swear, I have no idea how people lived before ATM machines."Um, D, I'm afraid you're going to have to pay for my ticket," I said. "I'll have to go to an ATM after the movie to pay you back."
This time he looked downright annoyed - probably not because he had to pay for the movie, but because I was obviously a complete dingbat AND totally unprepared for the date. Oh, well.
After the movie we wanted to get something to eat. "Ever been to El Coyote?" I asked him.
"No, I haven't. But I've heard about that place and always wanted to try it." So off we went! I could feel the evening was about to improve.
Now I already told you in Part 1 or Part 2 of this series that whenever I brought someone to El Coyote for the first time, I would launch into my little story about how I hoped to see Carol Burnett there because my boss had sat next to her there once. Et cetera.
Something told me to hold off on that with this guy, though. He seemed like he might be a little too famous, or a little too connected to famous, to think this story was cute. He would probably find it annoying, or maybe even slightly stalkerish.
Thank God a Punchman knows how to follow his instincts.
As soon as we were seated and sipping on our drinks (he on an iced tea and I on a margarita, under what I detected as a subtle air of disapproval from him) we started talking about where we were from. I told him I hailed from the Upper Midwest, and he was also from somewhere "back East."
To Californians, anything East of the state line is referred to as "back East." They're almost as bad as New Yorkers that way."So what brought you out to L.A.?" I asked, as the obvious next question in any conversation of this nature.
"I was working on a TV movie with Carol Burnett."
Although I was glad I'd had sense enough to hold back on my stupid "I hope we see Carol Burnett!!" story, I was mortified at the possibility that I very well could have shared that with him. I was also mortified that I was not famous enough to be there with him. I felt completely worthless.
Telling my Carol Burnett story would surely have been STRIKE THREE except that it didn't matter: the evening ended shortly after dinner, D.E. having refused my invitation to stop up for a cup of coffee.
And he never called me again.
...... to be continued ....................
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Jeff and I would enjoy many more dinners together, and one time he commented on the paltriness of my food tray, which consisted of a bare dinner plate with one thin slice of ham accompanied by a side dish of about three lettuce leaves and a glass of milk.
Of course I wasn't able to eat a thing, but I did stand next to the counter, making small talk about God-knows-what for the next 20 minutes. I'm actually quite proud of my ability to become social upon demand. Normally, given the choice, I keep my nose in a book or glued to the TV set or in the face of someone who's known me for 20 years. I've never felt comfortable talking to new people.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
(Note that I never use their real names in these posts for fear of being Googled. I am still in possession of a shred of dignity, although that is quickly wearing away.)
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Actually, I realize John Wayne Gacy didn't eat his victims. It just sounded better that way.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
It’s just a tag game where Bubs professed his undying love for my blog (and seven other blogs) and I’m supposed to return the favor. Glad to – I have so many great blogs on my list that I can’t even keep up with them all.
I’m supposed to post THESE WORDS:
“These bloggers are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find
and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that
when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated.
Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight
bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into
the body of their award.”
With that, here are a few of my besties, my crazy-about-ya-eights, in completely random order:
Grizzbabe’s Den – this gal has a good soul
The Pop Eye - everyone nominates her but I know she feels neglected by me so I’m hoping this will make up for it
A Twist of Lemon – I am simply charmed by his use of only partial words
Gifts from a Broad – cracks me the f*ck up
Tenacious S – another real life bestie
Two Minutes in the Box – she goes on great vacations and didn’t really mean to ignore me in Chicago that one time.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
In an attempt not to drag this on for a year as I did with the story of how PG and I met, I'm getting a move on with this tale. See here for Part 1.
Just figuring out Jeff's name seemed like such an important feat that I hadn't even thought of what I might do with the information once I acquired it. I was always a fairly shy person and had never, at least in my own memory, manipulated a situation so that I would have a chance to talk to someone in particular. I was used to letting things happen and unfold as they may, which would probably explain the many disastrous events of my life up to that point.
I decided it was time to take control.
A few days later as I was walking toward choir rehearsal I saw him about 20 yards ahead of me. I knew I needed to get his attention and slow him down right then before he reached the choir room, depriving me of a chance to walk with him and chat him up for a few minutes.
"Jeff!" I called out. He stopped and turned around.
"Oh, hey Tom! What's going on?" I quickened my pace to catch up to him.
"Not a lot." (Yeah, right Tom.) "So how are classes?"
I was so nervous that I had absolutely no idea what he said in response. I had always been like that; it was so unusual for me just to start talking to someone I barely knew that my self-consciousness overrode anything else about the situation, including the ability to listen to the other person. Most of us shy folk can compensate by developing an ability to recognize the cadences of typical small-talk, and are able to imitate having an actual conversation with all the perquisite give-and-take.
It's remarkable how many people in life have told me I'm a "good listener." If they only knew.
I could not have repeated even five minutes later what either of us said to the other. There was just one very important part of the conversation that had to, and did take place: setting the stage so that I could run into him again and casually suggest having a meal together.
Over the next several weeks I took note of the various directions from which he approached the music building before choir practice, which was three afternoons a week, and made sure to be in the general vicinity each day so that I would be in place to chat him up. It worked.
One day, as we were approaching our rehearsal I said "So are you doing anything for dinner after choir? Want to go to the caf afterward?"
He he, the caf. It still makes me laugh today when I think about the caf, as we called the dining room at St. Olaf. Having a companion at meal times was crucial in the caf because it was this large room with two separate entrances, filled with long rectangular tables spaced out in perfect symmetry. It was a cold, glaringly lit stark room with a decorative motif that would be best described as "church basement pot-luck industrial."
No one ever wanted to sit alone in the caf, especially not at dinner time, because there were no safe corners in which a lone diner could tuck him or herself away to hide. If you went to the caf alone, there you were for the entire student body to see, pathetic and friendless under the glare of the unwaveringly Lutheran interrogation lamps---I mean, white lights.
In other words, asking someone to eat with you was a foolproof way of getting face time with the object of your interest. No one in modern history has ever turned down an invitation to have a dining companion in the St. Olaf caf, at least not until the college upgraded its facilities long after I graduated.
"Yeah Tom, that sounds great! I'll meet you at the door after choir?"
SCORE!! An actual dinner date!!! I thought. And I even had the rest of choir rehearsal to think up things to say to him!
.....to be continued.......
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Quite a while back I wrote about my more significant childhood crushes and in doing so promised to tell you a certain story from my college days. No one can ever accuse CP of not keeping a promise, even if it takes me three or more years to deliver.
Well Gentle Readers, today is your lucky day because I'm going to tell you a story that has kept many a friend on the verge of his or her seat when I've told it in person. A story of early 20-something romantical suspense, one that is sure to melt your heart. Or melt something.
In college I was just barely out of the closet - I had only told three or four people about my feelings for other guys, and most of these friends didn't live anywhere near me. Lulu was one of the lucky ones who knew, partly because I considered her "safe": she lived far away and didn't know any of my other friends, so there was almost no chance of her being able to rat me out inadvertently.
(As an aside I will note that while I was close to Mindy June, she and I weren't super close at this particular time because she had just abandoned me by transferring colleges, and besides, I feared she would judge me for having dated one of our mutual female friends just a few months prior to all this. She told me in later years that I was cracked to think she wouldn't have sided with me, although it's always easy to say that in retrospect.)
The year was 1987, and I was especially touchy about anyone at my college knowing about me because, above all, I feared scandal in my dormitory: I had three male roommates, not to mention a whole floor of guys I had to share a shower with.
Although I'm sure it still happens today in some parts of the country, back in those days it was par for the course that if a straight person found out their roommate was gay, they would raise a stink, go to the housing director and demand that the gay person be removed. This chain of events would result not only in the serious upheaval of one's routine, but also public shaming and involuntary outing. And trust me, being outed involuntarily as a gay person in 1987 was not what you wanted.
It distresses me to this day that so many of us had to live in that kind of fear during our most formative years, years that are supposed to be filled with the magic of youthful self discovery, first kisses, heavy petting (and, if you were a girl, seat-wetting).
So to summarize our story thus far, we've set the scene with a 21 year old gay boy living with a bunch of straight guys, afraid to be discovered yet starved for affection and also in possession of the normal 21 year old boy hormones. In other words, quite the dilemma.
My 21 year old boy hormones led me to take an acute interest in a certain guy who sang in the same choir I did. I didn't remember where I had met him, but I must have met him somewhere because several different times he walked by me and said "Hi Tom!"
"Hi Tom!" Wow! What on earth could this MEAN????
I had no idea who he was or even what his name was. But I kept a close eye on him for weeks, until one day I noticed him wearing a monogrammed crew neck sweater. (Parenthetically, should I actually have been wondering if this guy in my choir with a monogrammed sweater was gay?)
So that day, after memorizing the initials on his sweater, I went up to the music rack where each choir member was given a shelf to store his or her music, and scanned all the names on the rack until I found one that matched his initials. This uncannily brilliant detective work on my part led me to the irrefutable conclusion that name of the object of my interest was Jeff Henderson.
(For the record, Jeff Henderson is not this person's real name. But I hope you can sense in this story the first stirrings of a first-rate cyberstalker in the making!)
to be continued........
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
This reminded me that I'm about due for a new phobia.
I spent most of my childhood and early adulthood being afraid that I would develop schizophrenia, because I have a brother who has it. Not only did the genetic factor frighten me; being told that "you're acting just like your brother" was always my mom's favorite method of trying to control her other children.
While this issue with my mother still plays a role on my parental grudge list, my fear of schizophrenia subsided more and more the older I got, and was almost gone by my mid-thirties. (Schizophrenia usually strikes in the teens or early twenties.) This fear was then replaced by the fear of Tourette's.
I haven't read up extensively on Tourette's, but I'm pretty sure I don't want it. I have a hard time resisting my strong urges to talk to myself, and sometimes wonder whether I may actually already have a mild case of Tourette's that might get worse as I age. The last thing I need right now is an affliction that will cause me to shout obscenities at strangers.
But if you ask me, I think the best thing that has happened to Tourette's patients is the advent of cell phone Blue Tooth technology, which involves those wireless ear phones that you're seeing more and more cellular customers using. At least once a day I see some guy walking down the street, talking to himself. I used to assume a guy like this was just another crazy until I could actually see that he was talking on a wireless cell.
But now my default belief in such situations is exactly the opposite. When I see someone who looks like he's talking to himself, I automatically assume he's using a wireless headset on his cell phone. In other words, a high percentage of the crazies (i.e. the ones who aren't totally dishevelled looking) now have a free pass because everyone just assumes they're saying "cunt!" to someone over the phone.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
1. I love reading everyone on my blog roll, but I haven't been doing so for a while. When I start to think about logging on and catching up with all of you, I get overwhelmed and then I don't do it. I am starting to understand why some of our blogging friends have closed up shop. But I simply refuse to let CPW die.
2. I am having dinner with Tanya Espanya tonight. She is here with Rowbear and spawn, and after threatening to cook for me has now decided to take me out for Mexican.
3. My friend Sarah and her husband and two spawn are coming to my house tomorrow. I'm supposed to feed them drinks and then take them somewhere local for dinner. I've considered cooking but I get frustrated when I think of things to make and then realize 3 of the implements I would need are still with Poor George in New York.
4. Poor George plans to be here next month, with the rest of our stuff. Except that he's decided (with my approval) to give my piano to some good friends of ours. Because we want to buy a grand piano, so why pay to move my console across the country? I have mixed feelings about this because I don't want to live without a piano for too long, yet I don't know when we'll be able to afford a grand. Poor me.
5. 30 Rock is the funniest show ever. Except for The Office. But 30 Rock may even be funnier. I can't decide, and you can't make me.
6. Our bedroom is lavender and purple. Is that really gay or just a little gay?
7. I love my job. I don't make enough money, but it's the perfect job for me. The only downside is that since I'm no longer a Strategic Sales Executive I don't have as much to bitch about, which makes for much less entertaining reading for you. Suffer.
8. My life is so quiet compared to living in the big city. It's strange. I like it, but it's strange.
9. I go country western dancing every Thursday now. I've been toying with the idea of having a country western wedding reception, since PG and I originally planned on having a "big" party to invite our friends and family to with more than a week's notice. It would be really fun. We could have an instructor for a few hours to teach the novices how to do the steps. Help me sell PG on this.
10. [deleted by the censors]
11. My friend Shelly and I got really drunk at a work conference a few weeks ago, and decided (while drunk) that it would be a good idea to go into a video booth and make a tape of ourselves drunkenly pitching one of our products. We both had remorse the next morning, but even more so a day later when they decided to play it in front of 2,000 of our colleagues. Apparently we "won" second place for the "best pitch." We each got a $250 gift card as a prize, but I asked my boss if I could be fired instead. I looked like a TOTAL dork.
12. On the same night that I made the drunken pitch video, I told my work friend Lori over and over how much I loved her. I think I've become too isolated in this job because I don't go to an office, and the only people I talk to during the day are my clients. I'm getting weirder by the second.
13. It's Friday the 13th, so I think I'll end on 13. Anyone have any good tips on how to stop procrastinating? Or how to treat a harelip?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Facebook started out as a fun little thing where I was able to touch base with people from college and other past lives - people I hadn't invited into the Blog World, either on purpose or because I didn't know where they were.
Occasionally I am friended by someone whose name sounds vaguely familiar but that I wouldn't know from Adam if you mentioned it to me in passing. And then when they friend me and I see our mutual friends, it all clicks into place. In one example I've enjoyed a lovely online reunion with someone I knew only marginally at St. Olaf but whom I always liked a lot. It turns out that he had grown up in my Brooklyn neighborhood before moving to Minnesota for college.
(Insert audible "oohs" and "ahs" of the excitement from among my Gentle Readers.)
I still maintain that Facebook is a silly, fun little thing to pass the time and mess around with, whereas blogging is for the big guns, people who can and do take the time to write thoughtful essays rather than just doing a bunch of dumb quizzes and telling people what they are doing every given moment. I had a show-down at my wedding with an old friend who mocked my "blogging" as if it were some stupid teenage chatroom hobby.
"I don't see how you have time for that," she said.
"Time for what? You don't think writing is a commendable hobby worthy of an intellectual person's time?"
The fact that I am not an intellectual person was irrelevant, of course. In any event, I think she came around a bit after I tied her down and bitch slapped her for being so ignorant. Blogging is for writers. The rest of it (MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, Twitter, and God knows what else) is for hacks.
But all of that was just a silly prologue to what I really want to talk about tonight, Gentle Readers. For it is now a fact that I opened my Facebook door to one person I adored from high school, a person I have not otherwise kept in touch with. A person who adored me back, and who, in addition to befriending weirdos like me, was a cheerleader and ran with a very popular crowd.
A crowd that, well, let's just say they didn't all think much of me.
One of the problems with Facebook is that once you friend somebody, you are subjected to seeing little blurbs flash across your screen about who else they are friending, who is commenting on their wall, who is tagging them in old pictures, and on & on.
This became a problem because Popular Mary is regularly friended by all sorts of people from the crowd that didn't think much of me. And even though it's been 25 years since I left that place, it still stings when I see some person who wouldn't give me the time of day popping up all over my screen when they comment on Mary's page.
I was marginally friends with a few of these really popular people, so I decided to friend them. Jared, Janie, Lorrie, Shawn and a few others. They all replied and made me their friend - but no personal response at all. No reply to my little messages when I sent them my friend requests. "Hi Janie, wow, it's been a long time! How are you?" Nothing but a generic "Janie has accepted your friend request."
Like I'm supposed to be so fucking honored. Grrr.
The last straw came this weekend when Jared, Janie, Lorrie, Shawn and others were all sending each other that stupid "25 Random Things About Me" thing. They were all writing their 25 things, mentioning each other, tagging each other and I'm still sitting here like some loser wallflower.
It's not to say that I have to be friends with everyone. I also had a lot of my own friends in high school, not to mention college and later years, and I wouldn't trade any of them for the world. Furthermore, I'm very comfortable in my misfit station in life.
But there still remain a few high school memories that are a little painful to relive. Maybe I'll write in more detail about some of them as part of my letting go process - "give til it hurts posting" as Dale calls it.
But for now, suffice it to say that this whole Facebook experience is making me feel like sh*t and I've decided to go up the river and take names. No one who makes me feel like shit gets to remain my friend on Facebook.
And while I still adore Popular Mary and will keep her as a FB friend, I have now officially unfriended Jared, Janie, Lorrie and Shawn. And because of a special test that Mindy June and I ran to examine the consequences of unfriending someone on Facebook, we know that the website is subtle, i.e. FB does not alert the unfriendee that they have been dumped.
So, the only way Jared, Janie, Lorrie and Shawn will know I've unfriended them is if they notice that their number of friends has decreased and they go on a fishing expedition to figure out why. Which I know they would never do, on accounta they are all popular and shit.
I don't know how all this Facebook crap will play out at the end of the day. But I do know one thing, Gentle Readers. And that is that you can all look forward to more painfully awkward posts on this and related topics.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
My answers are below.
Love and coasters,
1. 16 was my first time with a person. It just sort of happened, and I regretted it. Still do. Things were very awkward after that and we never spoke again.
2. This is a gross. What a disgusting question. Why on earth would you write something like this, CP? Anyway, the last time I threw up was a few years ago when I ate some cheap Chinese take-out. I didn't feel sick for very long - all at once I was in the bathroom blowing major chunks. It was nasty. So nasty that I --- well, never mind.
3. Too many mean things to count. One mean thing I still feel bad about was when I made fun of my younger cousin in front of all her friends at her own birthday party. She had been crying a few days before that because one of her friends had called her a "dumb dumb" and I thought it was really funny so I kept imitating her crying and saying "Kathy called me a dumb dumb!" I was only 10, but still, what a complete little shit.
4. One time in law school I told a complete stranger this barely relevant story about how one time I was late to kindergarten and we had a substitute teacher that day and I got all upset because I thought I was in the wrong classroom. I told this story in front of about 10 other people, and no one made any reply at all. Then I felt shame.
5. No, but there have been too many times when I wish I had done that.
6. Just recently at an office party where we had a grab bag, I loudly proclaimed the one I received to be a re-gift based on the age of the box it came in. Someone groaned, and now everyone thinks I'm an asshole.
7. I think Poor George is making it up, but if it is true we should offer him up for medical experiments. My earliest memory is sitting on the couch eating toast. I kept saying "I'm two and I'm having toast."
Wow, that was all really stupid.