Tag Archives: Frustration

Honest Fight

19 Jan

There should be a way to fight this, “dirty. ”

…There should be a mental equivalent of brass-knuckle-packin’ fisticuffs you can haul out…and hair you can pull. You ought to be able to scratch it’s mutherfucking eyes out, bare-handed. You should be able to draw and see blood, to leave a wound with a scar that you can visualize later at other shitty times,  so you can point at it and say: “See?!  Kicked your ass that time, so I can damn-well do it again! ”

…If there was a way to fight this shit, dirty. I’d have long since done it by now. 

 …It can’t possibly be more taxing on my body than the only way I have to fight it: which is this absolutely exhausting step-by-step process…which besides the drudgery of “sameness, ” costs more and more frustration and stress with less and less yield. Because my brain is not playing fair. 

…So, IT can fight dirty as hell…and I’m stuck with throwing walks and meditation at it, feeling like some chumped up asshole whose just letting the inmates run the asylum from plays of sheer overpowering insistence. 

I don’t like losing. I don’t like being tied and strapped up in a helpless configuration of a straight jacket that my brain from time to time gets thrown into. I am in one right now…truth-told: I have been for a while. I am exhausted from fighting it. I keep waiting to find the combo out, and can’t. I’m doing all the “right” things,  fighting cleanly by all the “right” rules. 

…And it all means dick. 

It is beating the shit out of me. 

…And I have no choice…none whatsoever…but to let it. 

And it makes me mutherfucking FURIOUS. 

I am exhausted. I can’t work any harder than I am. I can’t screw a pretend smile and positive outlook on my face any more hours a day than this. I am losing my sense of personal strength as I try to temper my temper…my ONLY available asset I feel confidence in. I want to let the Hulk out and do a shit ton of damage…to show my brain that my will and fight IS stronger than “it.”

…And while that would feel absolutely AMAZING for a while: liberating and ass-kicking and power -infusing…I know that you cannot strong-arm this shit to “win. ” It is a lie that makes you feel good for a time..but it ends up costing so much more in the end. 

Like: your sanity. In full. 

…My rage right now is so great, that to unleash and feed it would be to throw a fifth of whiskey down it’s throat, tear off all it’s clothes, and go on a wild ride of nights full of random, wild, fuck-you, abandon. 

…Which is all fun and games and liberation. Until you wake up alone, in some other person’s bed you don’t know, and can’t remember what the hell even happened. 

My rage at my mental illness is exactly like an alcoholic blackout binge. 

…How else am I supposed to fight it? How else do I feel like I have any power at all?  When every “good for me” weapon is so supposedly “peaceful” and “enlightening ” and so very often feels totally and completely ill equipped for the monster fight it wakes up to…every day now for quite some time. 

I am tired of fighting an honest fight. 

I am tired of taking long walks every day in fresh air. 

I am tired of trying to refocus and meditate. 

I am tired of pretending I’m not scared about 11,000 ordinary things on any given day. 

I am tired of trying to spin my mental nightmares into something funny to laugh at in public, as they continue to privately terrify me. 

You are my people. This is this fucking blog’s purpose. I am standing here saying,  “I know I’m not alone. There are a lot of us. And we are all fighting and all tired.”

I know that. 

In the same “deep-truth” place where I also know that in some nondescript amount of time…just from out of nowhere, I will turn a corner…my brain will settle down a bit, and some semblance of peace (or at least far less struggle)  will come again. 

…But that time is not now. And while I fight on, I needed to stand up in the room and say:

It’s bad times. 

I am frustrated. 

I am very angry. 

I am tired. 

I am still FUCKING IN HERE. 

~D

Gallery

Donna Reed Disease

30 Oct

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Am in desperate need of a vacation.  

Somewhere not here.  

…Not where paperwork and same-routine waits at my office desk.  A place where phones don’t ring, or even exist.  

…I need a break from the depression of sitting on my couch for hours on end streaming Netflix until two a.m., and not taking showers on weekends till show call. I need a place with fresh air and detox facials…with yoga stretching, and books…with no beach bods in bikinis reminding me how horribly out of shape I am. 

…Also, no children.

And it needs to be virtually free.  

…If you google all these qualifications, you come up with a few pilgrimage monasteries and not much else.  But I hate dirt.  And road trips. And camping.  
I’m a sucky pilgrim. 

…Not as bad as the ones who swapped smallpox blankets for Indian corn…(I have morals)…but I can admit my limits.

Thing is, I’m still depressed from “Rita” closing.  I miss the work it took, the challenge, the journey.  “Dial M” is like being in a radio show with costume changes. I go home afterwards, tired and depressed from doing nothing but crying…because it’s all I’m scriptually allowed to do. Ten or twelve different ways. And then I go home and drink while chanting, “suck it up, you have a job, other people don’t.”  

I wish I could do that.  

…Instead, I’ve contracted Donna Reed Disease.

Donna Reed the PERSON was one of the first women executives in television history.  She launched her own production company, siting lack of roles being shopped her way, even after winning an Oscar four years previously… proceeding to then create her own vehicle to star in, which ran for 8 seasons.  

…But nobody knows that part.  

You say “Donna Reed” and everyone immediately thinks of the stepford-like perfection of 1950’s housewife: subservient to her husband, dutiful to her children, vacuuming the carpets in high heels and circle-skirts, with a full five course home-cooked meal on the table… greeting hubby at the door in formal wear with a cocktail in hand, every evening by five.

I love the 50’s…don’t get me wrong.  But after playing a lot of back-to-back ball-buster women in a row…I have never, until now, been so keenly aware of the backslide in women’s lib, post-40’s.

The 1940’s were my years.  

…Women tossed off the housedress and went to work and fucking OWNED it.  Cuz they had to…cuz they could.  Cuz War happens.  Then the War ended and the fellas came back and womanity backslid about 5 paces, right off the bat.  Again, because they had to…because PTSD’s are fucked up…and the women respectfully backed off to help heal and encourage the fellas to find their footing again.  

…But they bowed down and backed off so far, it became the social equivalent of going from Egyptian pyramid-building with full septic systems, to log-cabins with outhouses.  It was an entire decade of backtracking so hard we became virtually a sex of soap opera stars: melodramatic damsels in distress, consumed in Barbie doll perfections.  

…This should not be new to me.  The concept isn’t, but fighting this script to find SOMETHING to do with this role, became nothing more than a frustration of limitation.  You can only serve the script as writ.  I came in hoping for that 40’s Noir dame of awesome, whose seen some things, done some things, and knows some things…a woman of the world. None of which is written, nor supportable in this text. 

…She is a flat-out victim.  Written as a flat-out victim.  At every man’s whim to either destroy or save her.

I’m a pretty damn capable actor who can sniff out good dirt just about anywhere…but when there is none, there is nothing you can do.  

…But cry.

…As many different ways as you can.

…Then disappear for 20 – 30 pages at a time, and come back to cry some more.

It is frustrating.

…It’s a job. I’m thankful to have something. I’m trying to enjoy it.  To at least gain some level of cathartic channeling from a bad day in it or something.

…But it doesn’t work.

Donna Reed Disease.

There’s a lot more here of wasted wealth…and no one will see it or give a shit. And it bothers me.  I said it.

…In the end: I’m not good at being the “just-stand-there-and-look-helpless-and-pretty” character. I don’t do any one of those things good enough to fulfill my artistic needs.

…But what I DO get (thankfully) is a cast and crew of great people.  The fellas are hilarious and dandy drinking buds, and if I’m pressed to admit it: I kinda do really like that blue dress in scene one. Even if it is girl-clothes. 

Also: the murder scene doesn’t suck.  So there’s that.

…Which is why I think, most of all, I just really need a vacation right now.  Followed by some kind of steak-sized role to dig into, directly after.

“Hedda Gabler” for Christmas, anyone???

~D

 
 

* Enter Title Here

9 Aug

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I was just saying to m’carpool buddy last night…as we unlocked our seatbelts and began collecting our bags of crap to take with us into the theatre…that it’s prob’ly a really good thing that I’m doing a show right now, else I’d be pretty plowed with this cloud of “suck” I’ve got stalking me.

Work at the office it just hell-squared and multiplied, with too muchness and no rest or reprieve in sight…and finances are for total shit, with now added stress of getting license fees paid so I can rejoin the rest of the adult driving population, plus some personal stuff has really gotten me down.

I dunno ’bout you, but every so often, life likes to hit me these shitty ground balls, that keep popping up at the last second and smacking me in the face.  It’s never just the one, it’s often three or four…they are always in close succession, and at the most inconvenient times. 

This is one of those times.

…And it’s hard to find a good balance to that.

You know what I mean?

…Turning the crap parts off, at the end of the day, has become like a third job for the past several weeks.  And carpooling with Mr. Director means I have less than the average time to do that in, as his schedule requires earlier arrivals for production meetings.  Which means for the past week, I have not “been done” yet in the converting process of Part “A” into Part “B,” by the time I’m supposed to be moving on into “the next thing.”

…Plus, for the past TWO days of that, I’ve been hormonal as well.

…Which meant my needing (for sanity purposes) to unplug from the world the second I get into the car, until nearly the second we arrive at the theatre…in which time I’m over my head with blaring music coming at me through my earbuds, and trying my very best NOT to fixate on the crap that I cannot control across about thirty minutes of commute time, after which, I’m supposed to magically emerge as: “funny.”

“Funny” isn’t easy in any circumstances, and it’s even harder when you really, really, really, would rather just sit and cry…alone…in the bathtub…for a few minutes.

…Not in a total melt-down capacity.  Not because life is beyond the point of undertaking, but rather because you are frustrated, and tired, and broke and see no reason that won’t continue for a great deal of time to come. Or, like Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News” where she gives herself that 5 minute pre-cry release every morning, as a prep for all the shit that will likely be flung at her that day.

I feel like this kind of depression needs it’s own name, really.  It surpasses a “groan,” but isn’t as bad as “travesty.” 

…It’s “important” and constantly “present”…like the reverse gut-fear feeling of an adrenaline rush, but it isn’t a major disease, and you aren’t being evicted.

…It makes sleeping spotty, involuntary sighs a natural byproduct, and stupid people annoy you a little bit more than they usually do, but you haven’t burst into tears due to a malfunctioning stapler, punched a wall, or set your desk on fire. (yet.)

Actually, this emotional space I’m currently at, is what I picture a LOT of poor adult bastards live in…like 80% of the time.  So I should be glad that it’s just come to my attention as being a current “thing” and not a life-long “constant”…which is about two steps lower than my average emo state…which still puts me better off than the chick with 5 kids, working the drive thu at McDonalds right now.

…And I can appreciate that fact. 

Some of the time.

…Only mostly, this week, I have not.  Appreciated it, that is.  Not even the part where I “get to” go to rehearsal every night. 

Nope.

This week, absolutely everything but breathing and sleeping has been one gigantic personal pain in my ass.  Even eating. 

…And yet, every night in it, by the end of a rehearsal that I sincerely did NOT want to go to, where I insisted to myself that there was no fucking way on god’s green earth that I would ever be able to be FUNNY at, (because why in the hell SHOULD I, given the current circumstances?!) Every night (by the end), I had somehow or another been slapped out of it.

…Which ended up helping a lot more than I originally thought it did.

It meant, going to bed every night, minus the cloud of “shit.” 

…Sure, it would come in throughout the night, like a light fog, and start to seep and settle and collect and grow by morning, back to it’s original size. But in the meantime, at least I got some sleep outta the deal.  Some laughs the night before…

…And every once in a while…for reasons surpassing understanding…for about three hours or so, I could even be “funny.”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with all that.  But whatever it is, involves art somehow, and how it’s a good thing, I guess. 

So: now you know.

  ~D

Time Out

1 Aug

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Hello.

I am here on a self-imposed “time out.”

…In my second hour of script study for the night, I’ve become revved up to such a level of frustration that I want to tear that sunofabitch to shreds. 

And I kinda need it still. 

Like, we haven’t even started blocking yet. 

…So, instead of dousing it with alcohol and lighting it a-flame, while watching the ashes crumple into a mighty heap…I’ve decided to take a break and blog.

It’s the “healthier” choice, I think.

…Also, better in product preservation.

Listen: this isn’t m’first night of work on this thing.  I may be behind where I originally set myself to be at this point (aren’t I always?)…but I’ve nailed two of the three dialects to the ground, am off book for all of the German (with the bulk of my nonsense monologues) and several scenes of the English.  I had skipped the Scottish on purpose, you see.  For two weeks. First, in order to get the German where I wanted it, and then: to make an easier segue going from English work, so at least we are dealing with somewhat the same mouth shapes and sounds scenarios.

…Which brings us to today.

In my head, I was gonna be off freakin’ book entirely and halfway into character physical work by now.  In reality, I’ve got a truly terrible German dialect (as it should be), and a hoity-toity English Finishing School “Call The Midwife” thing going.  I’ve slapped the worst of the bulked monologues into memory slot submission, and shoved “Gwendolen” from my consciousness to allow a new kind of bratty Brit to take her place.

…Things could be a whole lot worse, is the point I’m trying to make to me, right now.

…Only all I can see at the moment, is the three scenes of Scottish I’ve been working on…all fucking night long. 

I am in Glasgow hell. 

…It sounds like every place except Glasgow. And mostly like Newark.

I haven’t been so incredibly dialect-frustrated since I learned that north west Lancashire one for “Accrington Pals,’ forever ago. 

…Of course, what I should take from that was the fact that I eventually totally nailed it.  But instead, all I can think of was the sheer-terror-panic just before I finally did.

…And how it all just sorta “happened” one day.  With the speed of a snap.  A switch flipped and I “got it.”  I still dunno why or how.  And up to that point, (and since) I’ve never met an accent I couldn’t blitz with fifteen minutes of study time.  Dutch. Swedish. Italian. French. Irish. Russian. German. Canadian. Any mass variety of English. Any mass variety of American.  To me: it’s like music.  I hear it done well, by a native.  I listen to the musicality of the cadence.  And just like learning a song, I learn the accent.

It’s usually that simple.

…Except today. 

Being mostly Latina, I’ve never been called upon to pull out a Scottish accent before this.  Like the other more white-bred ones, I thought I’d simply slap it on when and if I needed it.  Because prepping for an all-inclusive what-if accent arsenal for a character actor is insane. I have no idea how many I even know. I’ve played just about everything except what I actually am, at this point. 

…So, silly me, I thought: “whelp, I’ll put a half hour in on this one, and I’ll be good to go.”

Only I ain’t.

Which is just STUPID.

…It’s only Scottish, for shit-slingin’-sake.

…Yet, here I sit, frustrated beyond belief, as I keep trying to prevent the width of it from sliding all the way to the back of the throat like that Lancashire I know, and not go too crazy with the cut-off endings so the lilt doesn’t slip into Irish, and the double “O’s” don’t float into some weird kind of Canadian, while the “R’s” are tapped just right and and not wandering lazily off into French ones.

It’s just too damn much happening at the same time ‘tween the circuits of my brain.  Maybe I know too many fucking accents.  And now it’s like every cocking one of them, that side of the pond, got together in my head and started to have a party.

…Who invited these people, even?!? 

I sure as hell didn’t!

…And I wish they’d go home already! I have work to do…and they’re just freakin’ me the fuck out right now!

(beat.)

So, yes.

…I’m really glad I took that “time out”…

~D

Point Me To A Boxing Ring, & Place Your Bets

10 Jun

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I’m pissed.

…Not pissed as in “drunk” (yet)…but pissed as in “holy reign of terror.”

…It is 100% fueled by frustration.  Frustration in a field issue, I only rather recently overcame to begin with.  So this is pissed over an old wound being re-administered for the same reasons, in a different region.

The region is immaterial. 

This is still a compound fracture of nerve-temper being fucked with.

Which isn’t good.

It’s not good in my head.  Not good on a sunny day.  Not good with a week of work still ahead, and shows to open and bills to pay, and all the things that go with being a grown-up.

What I want right now, is a goblet of whiskey, certain pictures tacked on a wall, and some butcher knives for aiming practice. 

…No it’s not.  Why lie?  What I WANT is an explosive confrontation that leaves flames and general carnage in BBQ’d after-wake.

…What I have, instead, is a bottle of wine and plans to watch a super blast-your-fucking-ears-out action movie.

I am hoping the explosions help eradicate the rage.

…And as for the grape in lieu of grain: I learned long ago not to feed the Hulk beast with the hard stuff.  It only makes him Hulkier. 

Technically speaking, the wine isn’t practiced medical procedure either.  In fact, they frown on it.  I know, having been in therapy.  But if I’m not aloud to break things, or yell a lot…(and I refuse to take a Xanax)…then this is my deal breaker, people.

Me: and this bottled vineyard.

Much like morphine, it does absolutely nothing at fixing the actual problem, but does (if given in heavy enough dosage) keep you absolutely from even giving a flying fuck.

…Which, given the time crunch, day of week, and mental obstructions, is about the best I can hope for at the moment.

So: Go Me!

I will drink this fucking fermented grape juice, STUPID, and unnecessarily blast my TV sound system in something supremely obnoxious, and try my damndest to intoxicate the living-a-shit out of my current situation so that at some point tonight, I will be not-pissed-off-enough to actually sleep.

How the hell I deal with it all again tomorrow, is of course, an entirely other deal.

Suggestions are welcome.

…But only if they are artfully retaliatory, deliciously devilish, or painfully pointed in overall plot and procedure.

I have zero patience for reasonable, responsible, resolutions at the moment. 

Thank you.

~D

Plowed

14 May

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Rehearsal kicked my ass tonight…or rather, I kicked my own ass AT rehearsal tonight.  Every moment not consumed in my first fitting or on stage was spent pacing at furious speeds outside, while running my lines, hoping it would somehow help them stick with the sheer force of energy.

…This went on for 3 hours.

…And for all of that, I kept screwing them up when I really actually needed them, anyway.

I don’t know what the fucking mental block on this is, but I’ve easily dedicated twice the amount of time to these lines than my last two shows put together, and the cocking things just won’t fucking stick.

…All my usual bag of tricks have been applied. The retention is massively slow, and occasionally word-spotty.  I might get three of the four direct adjectives in a row, but always forget that one middle one…the one that begins with an “R”…and ALWAYS screws up the flow of my recitation by going AWOL whenever possibly able.

I really just can’t do any more tonight. 

…Off book for Act 1 and half of Act 2, which would be great at one-week in…if that didn’t take me about 18 hours to accomplish, and still in a lot of cases, only “tentatively.”

…Things at work weren’t really the greatest, either, actually.

It all adds up.

I’m tired.

I’m gonna go to bed now and think of “not-lines” and forget about Corporate Reports on PURPOSE.

…Possibly contemplate how I’m going to clean my entire house in like 15 minutes tomorrow, after work, before some road tripping California Cousins arrive.

…And also: pay bills.

Gawd. I could really go for a glass of wine right about now…

And a thing of chocolate, with a side of grease.

And potatoes.

Instead, I’ll gargle mouthwash and go to bed.

Not a cool trade-off, friends.

~D

Dear SWAL 3.0

31 Jan

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Welcome back to Dear SWAL…our monthly installment of where Marty fwds me her Customer Service woes and I answer them the way we would all want to, if it wouldn’t get us fired by doing so. For last month’s episode, click here. For the rest of us, let’s move on to a review of a common problem: Blatant Customer Stupidity, or BCS.

…A lot of us who deal with BCS on a daily basis, have figured out a variety of trouble shooting exercises and go-tos that can help, when their common sense has all but failed them. But sometimes, you’ll get someone in such an advanced stage of BCS that even the tried-and-true tricks of the trade are beyond their capabilities. And sometimes those people aren’t even customers really, their whole purpose is to review your product and write about it. These people are called just plain BS’s. (Conveniently this abbreviation works for both the placeholder of what they are AND what they DO, for a living.) And this is Marty’s exchange (in edit form) with them.

…SWAL’S comments are bolded for your convenience.

***

BS: I’d be interested in checking out a review copy of “X” so at least I’d know how to promote your new book…I doubt I’ll make it to your top ten list on this promotion. Since I haven’t started a list of my own yet. But, I do get over 1,800 visitors a day…so, I may be able to sell a few.

Thank you for the heads up about this

~BS

Marty: The first link is for the sign up and the second is to an affiliate copy of the program

(Link 1) (Link 2)

Login: “login”

Password: “password”

~ M

***

SWAL: …So far, so good…

***

BS: Oh, you’re such a tease. (SWAL: Uh, what??) If you didn’t want to send me a review copy why did you bother sending me this e-mail? (SWAL: She fucking sent you a link. TO THE COPY.) Clicked your first link and signed up, fine, I went through your first hoop like a trained puppy dog. (SWAL: Ummm…) Second link, put the e-mail and the password in you sent me and NOTHING! NOT-A. A waist of time.

…So, I’ll tell you what. If you’d like for me to get the review copy so I can promote the book then jump through the hoops for me and the download link should end up in my e-mail box. (SWAL: Woa buddy, excuse me?!) Or better yet just send me a download link and not waist each others time with this busy work non productive stuff.

~ BS

***

SWAL: …Oh HELL no…!

***

Marty: I am very sorry but when I click on that link and type in the below, I get logged into the program no problem. What problems did you have? There is no need to be rude, I will help you.

login: “login”
password: “password”

~ M

BS: Hey, I apologize, I didn’t mean to sound rude! (SWAL: Coulda fuckin’ fooled me.) I’m just frustrated now. My e-mail address is (“his personal email”) Right? The password you give me was (“password”) Right? It still doesn’t work for me. So, when I click lost password it says there is no such e-mail address in your data base or something along that line.

…I’m really getting tired of playing around with something so simple yet still won’t work for me. (SWAL: **facepalm**) Can you just send me a download link PLEASE? I don’t know what else to do.

~ BS

Marty: I am very sorry for any confusion, but I now see what the problem is. You need to use the login I gave you, as well. The (“login”) login.

login: “login”
password: “password”

~ M

***

SWAL: Its one thing when you “hear” something and mix it up so can’t follow it properly…but when the fucker is IN TYPE, what is your excuse then??)

***

BS: I know we are both speaking English here, (SWAL: ARE you though? ARE you?) maybe I’m just too stupid to do this… (SWAL: Well, OBVIOUSLY. Yes.) …but when I click login: and login…It takes me to a screen to write an e-mail. Is that what you want before you send me a download link? An e-mail with the password you gave me? Well here you go: “Account” (SWAL: **Double facepalm**)

…Now, it may be on my end (SWAL: Yuh think?!) …but, we are having a really bad misunderstanding of each other here. (SWAL: Only YOU, buddy, she understands you perfectly. Unfortunately.) All I asked for was a download link for the preview of this book so I could read it to get the jest of this book to know how to promote it without making promises to my readers the book won’t fulfill. Saving us both refunds and hurting our rankings in clickbank. (SWAL: And I believe that is exactly what she did.)

No other marketer has made me jump through this many hoops to promote their book before. (SWAL: What is with the fucking “hoops” crap?!) I’m confused and frustrated now. Skip the password stuff and PLEASE just send me a download link because I’m tired of these games where I’m on the losing end. (SWAL: She can only help your incompetence so far, pal…) …Maybe you’re getting paid to play e-mail tag but, I’m NOT. The time I’ve spent in our correspondence with this issue could have been spent writing a blog post promoting something else. (SWAL: And based on your performance here, no doubt with efficiency and intelligent, educated judgement.)

I’ll tell you what, if you can make your link work for you and the password work for you (which it doesn’t for me) I’ve tried it. Do me a favor and do it with using my e-mail address…
(SWAL: **Triple facepalm.** Have run out of faces and palms and am now borrowing other people’s.) …and I should see the download link in my e-mail box.

…One thing for sure is my blog readers will ask for a refund before they go through this much hassle to get a download. (SWAL: I would hope your blog readers are smarter then this, but then if they follow your blog, we can only hold out so much hope.) … And I’ve never had a return so far and don’t want to start now.

My goal of this e-mail was to be a simple thank you note to express my appreciation to you for even bothering to deal with me (SWAL: As well it SHOULD be.) …and say I got the download link and I was able to read the book now.

…But instead I have to admit I’m a stupid asshole that had to bug you again still without a clue what the heck I’m suppose to do to get a review copy. (SWAL: JUST FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS! ) Oh sure I could have just said still can’t get the book to download for me (but where’s the fun in that?) I never made it to a download page to begin with. (SWAL: HOW?! HOW?! HOW can you STILL not figure it OUT?!) …And I’m not known for short and sweet anyway. I hope I didn’t sound too bitter or offensive with my comments here though.

Your Frustrated Buddy,

~ BS

***

SWAL: Dear Lord…how does she DEAL with this shit…

***

Marty: Am very sorry if any of this isn’t clear and will do my best to make it more clear. Apologies

Please click on this link

(“Link”)

That link should take you to a page where you are asked to type in a login and password. For the login please type: (“Login.”) For the password please type: (“Password.”) Do not type in your own personal email for the login. Please use the login and password I have given you.

I cannot send you a download of the book to read because we don’t have a direct download link for the book. The book is separated into modules and we do not have a link for all the material that we can give out right now. I hope those instructions are clear.

~ M

***

…And he was never heard from again.

That concludes this month’s edition of Dear SWAL. Here’s hoping all our retail friends in Customer Service, here and abroad, have less BCS and BS’s in their lives this month. And if not: at least you now know: you ain’t alone.

~D

The Teakettle Effect

29 Jan

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Sometimes you just need to blow off steam.

…Funny how something with no “physical” presence can take up so much space in your mind and irk you to such astronomical levels, that all you wanna do is find an outlet…just a blip…just a fart of relief even…from all that build-up.

…And today’s ripping belch is about being a woman.

Today, after being “pacified” by Boss (with blatant eyerolling), and doubted my own intelligence in my own selling field, by a customer requesting to, “speak to a man”…then getting in reports of Ma being talked down to by the Car Shop, regarding her still unworking car ($5,000 later), and the asshole taking the phone away from her while she was trying to stick her point…so the two dudes could belittle the cause amongst one another, as if she wasn’t just fucking standing right there…which in turn meant I was therefore gonna have to step in again…I had fucking HAD IT.

Had it with the assumptions.

Had it with the belittling.

Had it with the blatant head-patting.

Had it with the entire fucking thing.

Look, I dunno why days like this seem to bulk up the way they do, but it happens all the time to me.  Like some kind of “uuber test”…I seem to get “themed shit days.”  You prob’ly get them too.  It’s not just bad enough to have a crappy scenario.  It needs to be several…and needs to be of the same family of aggravations so that it continues to wear on that same little already compromised nerve and just ride that fucker like a bucking bronco.

I dunno what exactly the point of it is. 

…If it is a “test” of some sort…what is the “good score” versus the “bad”?  Is it the ability NOT to lose your shit with impatience? Or is it the point where you finally arrive at “enough is enough” and start standing up for yourself?

I choose to think it is the second thing. 

…Cuz I am not built to be slapped around. 

Nor belittled for ANY reason. 

Nor to turn the other cheek. 

Fuck that noise. 

…You smack me, I smack you back! Any sonofabitch who feels obliged to give it a “go,” should just know that right now.  And I feel like I conduct myself in such a way on a personal basis day-to-day, that this is certainly no secret.

…Which means: ya’ll have been warned!  All you bastard people who feel like making misery of my life and other people’s around me who are m’friends and family. 

…Also, I’m very unforgiving.

So add one to twelve, and that is the kind of frustration and retribution that was just lived through about fifty second before I started this blog for the day.  The point being: I already blew off the steam…at the appropriate humans who had earned it…and now with the final haze of excess smoke still in the air…I’m trying to talk myself into putting the top back on, and going on with m’day. 

…Cuz I’m only about half way through it, and still have shit to do.

And you do too.

…But I just thought: if you were having a day of frustration like I am…and if it might also be themed along the same lines as mine: find solace.  I won some shit back for the lady-sex today.  Not that it’s always about that.  But today it sure as hell seems to be. 

I got this, friends.

(And dude readers: thanks for not being assholes, like lots of the other guys.  We super appreciate it.)

~D
 

The Parable

17 Jan

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I’ll not write what this is really about…instead it’ll be an exercise in restraint, specificity and coded themes.

…How can one mix such an oxymoronic cocktail?

I dunno.  But people seem to frequently, so lets see if I can keep up.

(And, I can.)

…I’m actually getting better at this all the time. 

The power of print is a heady beast.  Ask anyone who has it, or takes it, or prostitutes it at will.

As bloggers, we all do.  In some way. 

A point of view struck in type is just our slant on the world, coded in html text, and slapped on a server.  Used to be more of a “to-do” than that, requiring physical paper and ink…and (for a readership,) usually an editor and some kind of talent.

But not anymore. 

…Even with the editor and paper and ink, the written word often seems a dieing artform. Any idiot with a computer or cell phone can vomit words on a “page” now, with nearly limitless readership…for instance: case in point:

I have a blog.

And you are reading it.

Sucker.

Now, some will take what I say as fact.

Some will not.

Some will agree with what I say.

Some will claim that I am full of shit.

…But I suppose what I find most interesting about all this (in fact “interesting” is not quite the correct word, I suppose “annoyingly irritating” comes as a two-part substitution), is when words are put to politicking use, where there was absolutely no reason to, in the least.

…Like all those annoying FB updates belching extremism all over the place.  Cuz THAT is what you wanna scroll through on your finally achieved coffee break, or while slamming a sandwich at lunch.

…And add to that, the “hipster” craze of ridiculousness, and really…sometimes my stream makes me want to just close the account and walk away forever. Only I can’t. Cuz I’m a fucking human. But that doesn’t change the fact of how goddamn irritating it is, that it’s a “fad” now for people to quote principles they don’t necessarily believe in, or go against the agreed-upon plan or opinion, just because it is the different, non-mainstream thing to do.

It is fucking asinine to me. 

Really?

…You can’t like your favorite band now, because other people have actually heard of them at this point? 

…You’ll vote against that one dude just because they are the current establishment? 

…You hate that brand, movie, actor, car, restaurant…because other people actually enjoy them? 

…Because it makes you smarter than them to not have partaken of the Kool-Aid (or some shit), and everyone in power now is always wrong, and every choice was poorly made because you weren’t the one to make it, and now your frustrated little poser heart, (which unfathomably seems to get-off on taking the opposite opinion view, just because its “different”)…can secretly orgasm with delight tonight (alone, of course, because no one is good enough to actually sleep with you…and if they were, you wouldn’t want them anyway…)

…Or maybe not.

…Maybe I’m misjudging them, like they do to the us’s.

Is it “fair” that I should get to, if my gripe is all about them doing it first?

Do two wrongs make a right?

This is me: trying to understand what it really means…the frustration that I feel…why I feel it…as well as using the best of my conscious ability to see it from all (even the asinine) points of view.

Which is more than most people will give you.

…And you know what? It STILL pisses me off and is wrong.

…But that’s just my own humble opinion.

Only let me tell you this one thing. As my own little “case in point.” And then I’ll shut it down.

For now.

…A kind of parable if you will:

A woman walks into the ER, and after showing her ID, is taken into the IC ward. There is a young person laying there, face beat to shit, bones broken, bruises everywhere, blood seeping through the sutured wounds.

“That’s my son,” she says as she looks on in horror.

“Are you sure?” the Doctor says, bringing her closer to the bed. “He had no ID on him at the time of the accident…and he’s severely wounded.”

“I know my son,” the woman says, reaching her hand out to grasp the one on the hospital bed. “I’d know him anywhere. By smell, by feel, the way his eyelashes fall..that freckle by his left ear…I know the way he breathes when he sleeps, like he’s doing right now. There’s nobody can tell me different. I carried that boy inside of me for months. My whole body labored for him. I’ve nurtured him, cried with him, laughed with him…I know him better than anyone else in the world…because it was my job to. And no manner of beatings or broken bones or bruises could ever disguise what I know to be true. Nothing anybody says or does, will ever change that.”

“I’d guess you’d know best,” the Doctor then agrees, with a scribble on the chart before him. “Can’t argue with the woman who gave birth to him, now can I?”

“Well, you could, Doctor,” the woman comments from her station beside the bed, “but you’d look like a damn fool if you did.”

~D

Contagious Hangovers

7 Jan

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For some reason, I thought that once Boss got a steady girlfriend,  he would start to calm down. 

…He strangely enough, actually picked an age-appropriate one, so I got some silly idea that a grown woman just wouldn’t put up with his mid-life-crises-boozopoly-of-ridiculousness, insisting he suck it up and stay somewhat in control.  So far she hasn’t been much in the way of positive  influence.  He’s not getting any worse, so at least there is that, but it’d be a damn feat of major achievement to sink lower on the scale than he’s already resting at…in the direction of which his personal life of woe has taken him.

To be fair, his wife DID leave him for a woman.

…If you weren’t here for that episode, by all means catch up here.

I find, (after years of careful study), that when a man of a certain age who has been married forever, all of a sudden finds himself wifeless once more…he’s gonna do either one of two things:

1) Revert back to his early College years of never shaving, showering, changing his underwear, doing laundry, eating anything not out of a fast food bag, and walking around smelling like a distillery all the time.

2) Revert back to his later College years of bathing in Aqua Velva, buying ridiculous man-toys (usually in red, with rims), sporting sunglasses (even when it’s raining, and dark, at 7 a.m.), wearing his hat all the time (only backwards), to cover thinning hair…and dressing in tracksuits (with the crotch down to his knees) with blinding white trainers…like he thinks he’s Lil Wayne, and not a 260 lb-plus, bald, white man.

…Boss took the second option, threw in a case of energy drinks and a lot of cheap whiskey, and ran with it.

It’s been a very disturbing ride to have to witness.

I don’t think he owns actual “pants” anymore, for instance. 

…Certainly his Dockers and belts have gone by way of the Caveman, now that there is no one to pick out his clothes for him in the morning.  I suspect that the new line of track suits he’s been living in ever since the break up, are actually servicing as both PJs AND day-wear, as most days (when or if he actually comes into the office…at or around noon or later) he looks like he’s just rolled out of, if not “bed,” at least directly off a counter top, or couch or the seat of his truck cab, and walked in the door. 

You can’t hide the perpetual hangover look, even with Oakleys and ten gallons of aftershave splashed on to attempt it.
 
…Then there is the potty mouth. 

I have ALWAYS owned the title of Absolute Curse Master, here at the office. Always.  This has never in the history of ever, (going on it’s sixth year), ever been disputed.  I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it.  Almost no one, outside of David Mamet, could out “shit-to-the-asshole-pissing-dickface-sunofabitching-pigfucker” their natural inclination to get verbally, offensively, pissed off…with more power…than me. 

…But Boss has been trying.

…And it sounds ridiculous.

…Because these words do not come to him with the natural poetic fluidity that it does to one who has studied it as an artform…so it is forced and heavily repetitive and wholly without imagination or love of the language and musicality of it.

You have to fucking respect the goddamn structure of a correctly pissed-off sentiment, for shits sake.  You don’t just throw “fucks” around at random, every third word.  Unless you’re from the projects, a gang, Boston, Scotland, or Ireland.

EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT.

…Basically, his current lifestyle, (since snipping free from the Lipstick Lesbian who has been training him on how to be a human for the past I-dunno years)…has become a wincing, sigh-inducing, train wreck…leaving us nearly perpetually without an authorizing signature when we need things, a WHS Pimp at his wit’s end without any building report projections, or correct Inventory accumulations, literature and sign prep…a thoroughly pissed-off contingent of Contractors still waiting (since November) for authorization on expense checks and Hotel per diems…and a me…getting yelled at for the 11th time, cuz the “who-de-haw” on that one build STILL hasn’t been repaired, due to the fact that we STILL haven’t gotten a fucking truck order in as yet.

…And this is just ending the “slow season.”

This Friday, we will be opening THREE road shows at the same time…which coincidentally, is ALSO my show’s Opening Night.

…And Boss KNOWS this…

…As I have been reminding him of it DAILY for two weeks.

…So, as my sleepless, perpetually line-running brain, arrived at work at 7:52 this morning and was told by WHS Pimp that Boss wouldn’t be in today, because he didn’t want us to catch his hangover…cuz he’s thoughtful that way…I sorta, a little bit, lost my shit.

It was really a pity he wasn’t here to hear it.

…Cuz I feel it would have grown his cursing lexicon of available string-theory vocabulary, significantly.

And I feel really bad about that.

~D

I’ll Auto-Pay Your Face!

5 Nov

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This new everything digital world really blows, a lot of the time.  And where it blows most is when your money is involved.

…’Member when it was bill-paying time, and you’d sit down with your check book and balance everything, and categorize all the bills in date order, and start John Hancocking until your hand would start to cramp and the ink on your pen would go out?  And ‘member how then you’d send them all out into the world, where based on postage times and then check holding, you knew you could easily buy yourself a grace-period of say 3-5 days, wherein even if the money wasn’t in your account now, it would be by then, and yet it wouldn’t be seen as a “late payment,” because the date on your check was within the window of time, and it wasn’t your problem that snail mail and lazy tellers were holding the money back from where it needed to be, cuz by that point, your job was already done?

…I fucking miss that.

…Now everything is automatic and instant.  There is no grace at all. In the period of time that you pop your tire, and need to buy a replacement NOW, (even being obviously unplanned and not in your budget), instant deduction is merciless.  Even the 75 cent candy bar at the gas station, comes out of your account before you’ve even opened the foil on the wrapper.

…And they try to sell this “automatic” world of deductions to us, like it’s a GOOD thing.  Like we will never have to worry about anything ever again, simply because our money is in their hands, and we can feel free to go whole months at a time without so much as seeing a literal penny of it. 

…Money is now, just a code of numbers to our banks and bill services.  It is nothing tangible and what little control we once had if it, is almost completely depleted now with the advent of “Automatic Bill Pay.”

I fucking HATE it.

…First of all…I don’t have student loans or a credit card, and yet I am so fixed on my income that I need to have total control of every dime at all times.  I do not live in a financial world wherein you can just suck pockets of money from my account anytime between the 1st and the 5th, or 15th and 22nd at random, for amounts that constantly change due to service use, and/or emergency non-budgeted needs…like a popped tire, for instance.

…I cannot have you just deducting things at your whim.  And I tell the bill-people this…because you HAVE to tell them it now, or–in keeping with the theme–they automatically enroll you in it.

I was put on hold for 54 minutes this morning to fight about just this, after checking my account balance.  Finally getting a human person, their mind was blown that I was upset for having to wait so long, and that they were moving my money without permission.

…$50, now gone.

Me: Who said you could auto-deduct the $50?

Them: Its automated process now. We just do.

Me: Not my money, you don’t. I already had this conversation last month, with some other guy at your location. You should listen to the recording of the conversation –that I know you have due to the fact you declared you were doing it at the beginning of this one.

Them: Well, we sent you a contract in the mail stating the terms agreed on in the conversation.

Me: Right, and nowhere on there did it say “automatic.” In fact I was very specific on that.

Them: Only twice at the beginning, of your recording, but at the end when he said–

Me: –Twice. Twice I stated it. So stop the auto-pay.

Them: …But in the letter we sent you, we indicated that the payments would be set up in this way.

Me: Which disregards my entire conversation with him?

Them: Per the terms in the letter–

Me: –Look, I didn’t sign any letter agreement–

Them: You don’t need to sign it. It is a paper copy of the original agreement made.

Me: It is not, or it would say that I distinctly mentioned it TWICE in the phone call NOT to auto-pay. Under ANY circumstance. My authorization was verbal then, and it’s verbal now…and recorded. Take the auto-pay off now!

Them: There’s no need to get upset ma’am…

Me: No?! You don’t think so?

Them: We can rearrange the agreement.

Me: We can put the agreement back where it was before you “rearranged” it to begin with, in that when the bill is due: I will pay it, with the several options of payment method allowed to me — up to and including a check –and not at any time involving you, sucking the money out of my account without my authorization. You got all that?

Them: Cancelling auto-payment. Yes.

…Look. I know it’s this chick’s job, on behalf of her company, to suck us all dry and stupid once a month with “procedure” and “contract negotiations.” I get that. But it doesn’t mean that knowledge will keep me from being pissed off about it, and — yes — even taking it out on her, because she happens to be good at being conniving. If she wants a pat on the back for her talents in this, she should look to her boss.

…I am going to take it personally when it is made personal, and I won’t feel even a little bit bad about being a dick to people, when it seems to be the only way to communicate with them. And I gotta say, what really is not helping them (in this world of “automated absolutely everything”) is being put on hold for nearly an hour by a machine, so you’ve been stewing already, and are pissed off ten times what you were before you even called to begin with, before a live human actually picks up the phone.

This is my statement to the financial world as a whole:

If you touch my shit without permission: I go all Lorena Bobbitt on you. That happens to be MY “automated process.” M’kay?

~D

Cracking The Code

23 Oct

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This one fucking monologue…

…I gotta figure it out. 

So far have tried 11 different ways, and so far have found 11 ways how NOT to do it.  It’s killin’ me. It starts my second Act, and is all high hysterics and ridiculousness, but not quite farce…which is really fucking difficult to gauge, not least of which because everyone on stage just looks at me with egg on their face watching it like a freak show, and it is the total opposite to my natural style of humor. 

…I am dry and bitchy, by nature. (hello, have we met?)  If you exaggerate that, you get dryer and bitchier.  “Hysteria,” is this whole other deal.

We do things to challenge us as performers, so I’ve done my fair share of farce and comedy, and though I’m not horrible at it, it ain’t exactly my forte.  So, the information I get outta rehearsals like last night’s, is that: “It didn’t work. Again.” 

…Now, I don’t always know WHY it didn’t work, in fact, most times I don’t at all…but I know when it does, and it has nothing to do with the reaction from the house right now…because this many weeks in, people never laugh at anything anymore, anyway. Cuz shit is only funny the first 20 or 30 times you try it.  After that, you’re kinda “over it.”  You just have to sorta trust it’s still funny, and go with it, until previews and things.

…Only I know it isn’t working.  I can feel it.  But I don’t know “why,” or what the answer is to MAKE it.

Here is how I look at comedy: Comedy is to timing, as Fosse is to a choreography. 

…That dude was fucking intricate.  One half millimeter of a finger arch and you were out of sync.  It’s like “this,” not “This.”  Specificity is the KEY. 

Comedy is like that

…One hair of a beat is the difference between HILARIOUS, and absolute crickets.  I don’t know why, but it is a fact.  Which is why Comedians don’t get NEARLY the credit they should, for an artform where one breath in the wrong place screws the entire joke up…but some chick blubbering in a corner, with snot running all down her face, will win the Oscar.  Every. Single. Time. 

…The snot isn’t “timed.”  I can almost guarantee you that anyone playing a rape victim, or watching a loved one die, would be able to work themselves up to that level of disturbed ugliness, with very little imagination and timing involved.  Drama is all on your own clock, at the viewer’s expense.  Comedy is all on the VIEWER’S time, with phantom rule books of how long to hold, turn, smile, nod, grin, hiccup, slip, fall, smack, pop, bash, wink, slobber, flash, burp, squash, run, jump, or shriek, at any given time with constantly changing table-ratios of balance, depending on which order they fall in, at what point in the scene, which characters are involved, and if the audience is sleepy, bored, restless, horny, infectious, or has indigestion. 

…It’s like the most intricate math formula ever.

It’s ALL of that, (aka: reading the room) PLUS, just knowing what works and what doesn’t…when to “play” it big and when to play it “straight,” (which is also funny, but a different kind.)

…I KNOW funny when I see it.  And I can figure out most the time, when I DO it…both while throwing it away, and doing it on purpose.  But so far, top of my second act, all I know is:  It isn’t working. 

We open in 18 days. 

So that is really starting to bother me.

…And I’m not goaling for a milk-sop fest of feedback, here.  I don’t need hysterics from them.  All I need is to complete the take without feeling like a giant scene-deflating asshole, or freak other-worldly alien, directly ending into a set change. 

So far, I have not once accomplished this. 

…And I’ve totally done it in legit, no-holds-barred, hysterics at least twice…so it isn’t that I ain’t willing to “commit.”

I need another way to look at it.

…But I don’t know what.

…Time to hit the books (aka: the DVD collection) and fish out some instances that someone used, at some point, sometime, to help me figure this out.  There IS a way to make it work.  People have only managed it for several hundred freakin’ years is all.  And if THEY can do it, I can do it!  And I can do it MY way!  I just need some quiet time, in an open space not shared amongst apartment dwellings, where I can beat the shit out of it, at full vocal level, until it knows it’s place. 

And I need to not panic that I WON’T find it in time, cuz that just is NOT fucking helping me right now.

~D

Sometimes, It’s Just Not Funny

9 Oct

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When the Whs dudes get pissed, they have this little system. 

…It involves demolishing things: product that is already compromised, trucks in the yard that no longer run…I’ve heard tell of it more than I’ve seen it in action, but I have to say, the enticement it offers, far surpasses most anything else.  Great feats in their past include forking a diesel one-ton into the air at its top-most height, than shoving it off, busting tires, shocks, struts, engine pieces and windows at random.  Another (ongoing) is to run into same said truck, with forks primed, and skewer it repeatedly like it is no more than a tin can or something made from aluminum foil.

…They will, upon occasion, shoot nail guns at the dead product pile, annihilating it further as it spews splinters in mini explosions like a machine gun in War.  I’m told that shattering cracked glass is also edifying in accomplishment, or putting a fist through a wood panel…in which case, I will just have to take their word for it.

…All I know is that in the fucked up lunatic asylum that is the “office,”  I don’t have anything to take my frustrations out on but people.  Believe me, nothing would make me happier than to slam my stapler through my office window, bursting it like a bomb instantly.  I would be very content to kick the absolute shit out of the file drawers until they are nothing but dented safes of paper that no one would be able to gain access to, ever again.  I’ve has fantasies of pitching the phone up in the air, and whacking it with a 2 x 4 for a shattering Home Run.  There were less sadistic evil tortures done during the Dark Ages, than I’d like to commit daily, to my computer.  Very few Politicians I hate get me angrier than my Boss on any given day of the week, and when I have HAD it, there is almost not a prop or piece of office equipment…right down to a paperclip, post-it, or a pen, that I could not easily forsee committing homicide with. And this all happens at LEAST once per day without fail.

…Which is NOT a good environment to be in 40 +  hours per week.

I know I am no alone in this. Plenty of people loath their jobs…but they also (most of them) seem to at some point (apparently) come to peace about it, deal accordingly and move on.  I, however, being an exceedingly stubborn person in which “fairness” and “competency” rates higher most days than breathing, absolutely CANNOT come to grips with the hand I’ve been dealt.  Some days are worse than others.  Yes.  But even the not-so-bad days, make jesting about the environment more than I can manage until I’ve put a day between me and whatever it is THIS time, that has royally pissed me off.

…And sure, I’ve had plenty of people say, “well, why don’t you just quit?” And I’ve asked myself that question too, only every twenty minutes in every day.  But the point is: I can’t.  I’m a grown up, with bills to pay, and another career to tend to.  I can’t afford to leave.  Because I can’t afford to drop in pay for 90 days, and any position higher will require me to be on salary with my time at someone else’s beck and call.

…So instead, I implode about crap, give it air time, throw it up in a blog, and try to make light of it, to take away from the power it holds over me.  But it knows it.  I don’t know who I’m really kidding, frankly.  But it seems like the more positive thing to do.  So I do it.

…And I’m doing it now, from my car (again), taking a lunch minus food…just me with my computer and some Netflix, jerry-rigging a sort of drive-in theatre environment for a half hour or whatever, just to cool me down a bit so I don’t go on a rampage shooting staples at the Boss’s face.

It’s all I could think of.

…Well, that and setting the whole place on fire.

But being in jail on arson charges doesn’t fit in my rehearsal schedule, really.

I checked.

~D

Damn Apps & Mosquitos

30 Jul

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My Olympic App has been revised and refreshed three times and it still isn’t working. 

…Since NBC is the only registered network that is allowed to show recaps and footage stateside, (and I don’t have cable), this is really starting to piss me off. 

YouTube postings are all ripped off the web almost as soon as they are put up there.  Only a few have managed to survive, and most of those are Euro country postings recorded with a potato and pixelated all to hell.  I think they are only left up for sheer amusement purposes.  And I think that is sick and wrong.

…All I wanna do is cheer on my country, people!  Things like the Olympics should be free reign to see anywhere at any time, by anyone who wants to…isn’t that kind of the freakin point?!  “Go team world” and all of that?!  Instead it’s been regulated, edited and sold on product lines like the freakin’ Superbowl.  And to top it off, even when you go the “regulated” route, you still can’t watch it, cuz the damn tech doesn’t work!

Way to go geniuses!

…I’d strike all you bastards and your sponsor products if I could!  Only, Coke is delicious! And so are McDonald french fries! But don’t think I haven’t considered it!

To top off these irritations,  a mosquito got caught in my pants the other day and bit me five times on one side.  I just hope the little asshole popped from the binging raid.  I’ve been miserable ever since it happened.

…You can’t scratch through jeans, and lathering up with anti-itch gell isn’t helping, it just makes you walk like you’ve shat a load in your pants. It’s really everything I can do just to make it to a bathroom every ten or fifteen minutes to scratch the hell out of them until they grow to pink welts the size of silver dollars and get hot and start hurting.  Then I cuss at ’em a bunch and lather more anti-itch gell on ’em.  Not scratching is not an option…not when there is that much poison concentrated in one square foot body of area…therefor my leg by day three, looks like it’s contracted the mumps and has more toxins in it than Joan River’s face.

Plus, it’s Monday.  And overcast.  Again.  And I started my show diet.

…Color me surprised that every customer I’ve contacted for the Bunny Ranch bookings today, has been totally incompetent on understanding procedure and prep…sucking time from me like that effing mosquito. Every call has been a twenty-minute frustration…and no I don’t even know how the math works out cuz that would make today something like 320 hours long…which it FEELS like…but they tell me it couldn’t possibly have been.

…Add all these things together and I’m just a regular Mary Sunshine.  You only wish you were around me all day. 

…But it’s almost over now.  I’ll be able to go home, and change back into boxers and scratch my leg until it falls off, if I want.  And I can make my spinach salad and Gollum juice of disgustingness and NOT watch Olympic updates that won’t actually update…and ignore all the stuff that needs doing like sweeping and laundry and all of that.

It’s just been that kind of day.

Fuck it.

~D

The Seduction Of Me

1 Jul

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Overcompensation is a large part of why people like me, become people like me. 

…I happen to be spending a great deal of time seducing myself lately, for instance. 

I don’t know why I do this.  I almost always sleep with me, end-of-the-night, regardless of whether any wining or dining has taken place to blur my better judgement. 

…As with nearly every habit I have accrued over the years, it must have happened slowly…bit by bit…like a time-release drug. I certainly don’t recall making a conscious-choice decision about it.  I’m not even sure how the entire routine even came together.  All I know is that one night, not many nights ago, I paused mid-sequence and realized I was having the most intense deja vu  imaginable.  It hit so hard, I actually paused mid-pour of alcohol, to really commune with the moment.

Now, the thing is…before her trip to CA, The BFF and I had just been talking about deja vu’s and what it is that they signify.  I don’t happen to believe in past-lives  (if I did, I was two generations older…and Jewish)…but still have always had an inkling that “time” must have something to do with it.  Maybe a burp in space, or a stutter in the plot sequence the Universe likes to watch…like a royally large and intricate soap opera on reality TV.  But BFF thinks it’s more a “linear existence colliding” kind of thing.  You know, multiple worlds wherein we live our lives unbeknownst to the fact that we are living the same exact existence,  one world over, simultaneously. Only in this one, the chair is green, and in that one: the chair is red.  Times infinity.

…Either way, you can’t deny the strangeness of the sensation when you’re having one.  A deja vu, I mean.  A little like the feeling of someone walking on your grave.  Privy to things you shouldn’t be.

…Well, I was standing there, pouring out a glass of Pinot Noir, when I realized that eery sensation of having lived that exact moment before.  So I stopped.  And with the previous BFF conversation in my head, gave it my full attention to soak up every aspect and clue that I could.

Turns out, on reflection, the deja vu, was considerably less intriguing than I originally thought.  Mostly because as I tried to trace its roots back to an original source, I realized it only reached to yesterday. 

…Or maybe the day before that.

…Or the day before…

…Or…

…Well, shit.

To the best I could compute while standing there with the wine bottle hovering over the glass, (and math has never been a strong suit, so it’s understandable that it took me a while to put it all together)…either I was living all the linear existences of The BFF’s theory (with the only change being the make of alcohol I was pouring out), OR I had to face the fact that I had formed an intricate habitual sequence whose end-game was to get me to bed every night, with a contented smile on my face.

…It goes deeper than that, but ultimately this is the hard fact.

Here is what I found out, using my best Sherlockian cross-examinations:

I’ve taken to routinely coming home from a long day at work, dropping my drawers soon as I pass the threshold in favor of something “more comfortable,” and proceeding to the kitchen to “gourmet” myself something sinful. Fetish viewing of garlics and butters and various meats searing in a pan, having the kind of slow-cooked-sex they put on HBO (usually featuring Vampires), then follows.  And as the smells of warm, caramelized deliciousness fills the apartment and  dusk falls…I begin the lighting of dozens of candles strewn about. Once the whole place looks like the bowels of the Paris Opera house during the Phantom’s reign, I move to the bar and pour out a glass of something that marries well with my dinner’s post-coitus rest from the pots and pans, set some music on  shuffle, and settle in for a candlelit dinner, for one.

…What is so unusual about this deal is that I am not one to cook foods “over time,” and let the meat and veg indulge in brine and sauce saunas.  Usually, the end-of-the-day signifies total exhaustion, where just scrambling an egg and throwing it in a tortilla is about all I can muster.  And usually, in these gray and rainy days of epic Seattle-proportions, I want LIGHT, LIGHT, LIGHT…in blinding wattage, from every outlet orifice.  And usually, I am merely a “social drinker”…certainly imbibing from time-to-time, solo, but nothing like what calculated to quite the bottle slaughter of late.

Naturally, this got me to thinking. 

Why?

How?

What does it all mean?

…Which brought me ultimately to: “Overcompensation.”

It’s why I do almost everything that is eccentric or bad for me. Either it is to compensate loss of power, loss of control, depression, angst, jealousy, worry or lust.  When you think about it, I suppose this is not outside of the norm.  If you feel shitty: you wanna fix it.  If you lose control: you wanna reclaim it.  If you have a highly stressful job, and no money: you wanna forget about it.  If your emotions tell you its time to start shopping for a significant other again, but  you really just don’t wanna deal with all the crap that goes with it: you wanna reaffirm that you are fantastic catch who needs NO ONE to wine and dine you and complement your ass.

…This is the conclusion that I have come to.

I am spending every evening courting myself into believing that having a crap job, being poor, worrying about waiting for the next shoe to drop, and that I am prob’ly going to die alone as a re-formed virgin because my junk wasn’t used so long it resealed itself up like a skin graft, isn’t my true reality.

…And I am doing this because my entire life is spinning out of my control, on a trajectory promising gross amounts of changes.  And soon. And I Fucking. Hate. Change.

I am doing this, because if you can’t have exactly what you want in this life, you go out and get the best compensation package that you can.

The ONE good realization in all of this, I suppose, is the fact that I now know at least three new things about myself:

1. I can cook. If I really want to.
2. Lessening alcohol units to “one” will save lots on the house bar tab. And my head the next morning.
3. I am a good date.  In case anyone wondered.

~D

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