Oh. My. God. Just got this invite in my inbox.
The cast of Entourage hosting an event at the HAWAIIAN TROPIC ZONE????? It's like the Halley's comet of douche supernovas.
I hope K-Fed's free. If not, I've got this one guy who tried to sexually assault me at an MSU frat party in 1996 as backup.
I'm out of drawers. I've been freeballin' in mom jeans for the past 2 weeks. The mom jeans I didn't know were mom jeans when I bought them.
They looked cute in the dressing room then I looked in the bathroom mirror at work and noticed my ass was all puffy in odd places, like I was wearing adult diapers.
Couldn't take it anymore and I'll be a freeze-dried piece of fish jerky if I'm going to do laundry.
Went to Old Navy and picked out some drawers. 5 for $20. Can't beat that. I grab those and a velour hoodie and glance at myself in the mirror on the way to the register.
I notice I have three bright red welts on my face, a raccoon-like mask of blotches spanning my cheeks. I look like an Irish version of the Hamburglar or that Seal guy.
Something about that store - I don't know if it's the cleaning products they use or some chemical they spray on their clothes. This is not the first time it's happened. I have to remember when I'm shopping to not touch my face.
It's kinda fucked up. Can't be healthy. But the upside to all that child labor and carcinogens is this: T-SHIRTS FOR $8! TANK TOPS FOR $1.99.
You know who doesn't shop at Old Navy? Those kids on that TLC show, Kids By The Dozen.
Man I love the Winters family. They take the best parts of being Amish (living simply, shunning modern bullshit) and leave the Jesus and sexism out of it.
They make their own SOAP! They bake bread! Life is one big bake sale and I like to imagine they never have any problems.
I'm going to order one of their dresses then invite some bearded hipster dude over. We'll roll around on straw ticking and muslin sheets and do a little Charles giving Laura Ingalls a spanking role play.
Yeah, it's been a while. I've been really wrapped up in my job lately.
Tonight was a nice change. I left work early and went to the Bialystoker nursing home on the Lower East Side to make Thanksgiving cards with New York Cares.
Each person has to make 8 cards and then deliver them to/chat with 8 different residents. That's the assignment. NY Cares provides all the supplies and for the first part it's basically craft hour as you sit at a table, cut out paper turkeys, and shoot the shit with other volunteers.
When looked at in comparison to my advertising job, it was the most fulfilling, creative thing I've done in weeks.
I did not have to attend a series of kickoff meetings or map out a schedule of deliverables. I just started making the card. I didn't get in a fight with an information architect over whether the card should be folded lengthwise or horizontal for maximum usability. I didn't have to go through 5 sets of revisions to change the copy from "Happy Thanksgiving" to "A Very Happy Thanksgiving" then "A Very Happy Thanksgiving But Not to People Who Don't Celebrate Thanksgiving" then back to "Happy Thanksgiving" once again. No.
I just wrote exactly what I wanted and the clients were happy. Well, the ones that were awake were happy. Some were sleeping, some were taking baths. One was masturbating and didn't seem to be at all embarrassed by the interruption.
"OH HELLO THERE! I WILL JUST PUT YOUR CARD OVER HERE!HAPPYTHANKSGIVINGTHANKYOUBYE!"
Oh God.Oh God.Oh God.Oh God.Oh God. I have just seen an 80 year old man masturbating.
Until then, my biggest fear had been waking up Alma. I know her from bingo, and she's one mean bitch. Let me tell ya. She doesn't get bingo she will cuss you the fuck out. She doesn't like volunteers and she doesn't like our shitty old cards, either. I knew she'd make fun of my Turkey sticker first round deliverable and yell at me.
I tiptoed in her room like it was the lion's den. She was asleep, despite all the lights blazing and Jeopardy on the TV.
I put the card on the bulletin board next to the one someone made her for Halloween and hightailed it out to see the next resident, a Latino gentleman blasting salsa in his room.
It amazes me how much nursing homes and college dorms are alike. Loud TVs. Loud music. Casual pajama dress code. Communal eating. Card games. Gossip. Sleeping in. Heavy drug use. And it's really expensive to stay there, even though you'd much rather be on your own and kind of don't want to.
Someone call up the Animal House cast and see what they're doing. I've got a great idea for a reunion movie...
being a regular makes me uncomfortable. like a pervert. especially when you're in that floaty period between person who comes in there a little too often and the person whose own mother didn't attend but has a cadre of bodega workers weeping and throwing themselves on the casket at his funeral.
there's something about walking in the door, night after night, and asking someone to make something for you that you should be capable of making yourself that just feels imposing.
it's like,
"oh great. here comes the girl who orders a turkey burger, pays, accepts her purchase and politely thanks me. EVERY SINGLE TIME. piping hot cup of christ cocoa, WHAT'S WRONG WITH HER??!"
i'd say about 4 out of the 5 guys know me. but they all look alike. and I CAN'T GAMBLE. because then i'm a racist. also i might get the wrong order.
and i can't ask them their names, either, because that's mad patronizing. i had an old boss who used to do that. get everyone's name, the minute he spoke to anyone on the phone.
"hello, who's this? desiree? hello desiree. i'd like three calzones..."
DON'T ASK DESIREE HER NAME. JUST ORDER THE GODDAMN CALZONES. dudes used to do that when i worked at bennigan's. go practice your dale carniege elsewhere. this is not the russian tea room. just eat your jalapeno lobster steak poppers, make a cell phone call, and take a giant shit in the men's room. i'll be in the back smoking pot with the dishwashers if you need me. wait. what's your name? arnold? i'll be in the back smoking pot with the dishwashers if you need me, ARNOLD.
Some Saturdays I get out of the house early and bum around and do a bunch of shit. Get papers, groceries, walk through the park, see my methamphetamine dealer.
Other Saturdays I lay on the couch, eat a bagel as big as a toilet seat and catch up on my programs.
It's the second kind of Saturday.
One of the shows I'm watching is called Taboo. It's on the National Geographic Channel and is basically
