For most young children, having a best friend is very important. Luckily, the criteria for friendship could be as simple as having the same backpack, or knowing the kid next to you will trade his Gushers for your Fruit by the Foot (sucker). But as you grow older, the superficial strings that held your ultimate BFF relationship begins to unravel, and before you know it, it's 2004, you're 19, and posting cryptic Brand New "70 x 7" lyrics on Livejournal.
As you grow older, it can sometimes be hard to establish strong bonds with other people your age. The friends you had true common ground with begin to falter away into adulthood, and your main method of communication becomes via Facebook. As you establish new social circles, you begin to find that most of your friends are based solely on convenience; either you work together, you have 3 classes together and have agreed that she'll ditch every other Thursday and you'll ditch every other Tuesday and then you'll trade notes, or you both really like tequila and find yourselves running into each other every Friday night at your neighborhood liquor store.
Of course, once you begin to realize you work with complete psychopaths, the semester ends, and the hangover clears up, you find yourself alone and sullen again, accepting your life of cat hoarding and basement dwelling.
As a result, to cut out the extra work and potential disappointment, I have come up with a few scenario questions to present to any future acquaintances to instantly determine whether we are really meant to be or if our friendship will strictly be based on being occasionally recommended on each others' "Who to Follow" list.
1.) You go on a date with a wealthy, good looking, well educated, and sincerely nice stranger that a mutual friend set you up with. You find yourself having a genuinely good time and enjoy getting to know each other. At the end of the date, in your state of euphoria, you make an obscure, season 4-ish Simpsons reference. Your date's shoulders suddenly stiffen, and belligerently proclaims that any episode of that stupid show that came before season 16 is unfunny, uncreative, and historically irrelevant trash. Despite this setback, the stranger asks you out again. Do you accept the second date?
2.) You have suddenly found yourself in constant pain that profoundly affects your quality of life, and over the counter medicine isn't alleviating your symptoms. Knowing your highly addictive personality and family history of drug abuse, you are reluctant to try the stronger, prescription only medication that can quickly turn habit forming. You go to your doctor and inquire about any other alternative medicines to sooth your chronic pain. You try all of her suggestions, including herbal remedies, Eastern medicine, therapy, etc., but none of them work. Finally, she mentions that studies have shown that putting Train's "Hey Soul Sister" and Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are" at full volume have been clinically proven to eradicate all of your symptoms for 30 minutes, and then you must listen to them again or continue to suffer in pain. To your dismay, this unorthodoxed method actually works. Do you use it?
3.) You are trapped in a room with absolutely nothing in it other than a small television. Sleep is impossible, and no one will be able to help you out for at least a day. The only option you have on the television is to watch paid programming for the Magic Bullet, which you've already seen five times, or geriatric aerobics demonstrations, which you've never seen. Which do you watch?
4.) Why?
5.) You are given the opportunity to travel back in time and immediately take up the offer. However, while in time travel, you accidentally kill a fly, and you are told that this action will severely affect an aspect of the modern world. The scientist has empathy for your situation, and allows you to determine what the consequences for this dead insect will be: In one scenario, Nickelback or any similar sounding music will not exist, the Kardashian family will be exiled to a small foreign island in 1989 and are never heard from again, and both Casey Anthony and OJ Simpson are found guilty of murder. The second scenario is that Paul Rudd will never be born. Which do you choose?
6.) A brilliant architect offers to build you a mansion pro bono with no limits to its size, structure, logic, or amenities. In fact, you are encouraged to ask for outrageous and normally impossible to accommodate demands, such as a room full of roller coasters, a 9 screen movie theater complex, a concert venue, the library from Beauty and the Beast, a meadow, the Las Vegas Strip, etc. The laws of gravity, physics, size, etc. will not apply in your new home, as you see fit. You will never have to pay a single bill and you will be supplied with hired help to clean, modify, repair, etc.. The only catch is that if you live here, you will never be able to go on the internet of any kind (including on cell phones and other devices) inside OR outside of the mansion again and your mansion's interpretations of the rules of logic will not help you get out of this compromise. Do you accept this offer?
7.) Much like the famous Kafka story, one day you awaken to find yourself transformed into an insect-like creature. Your roommate is absolutely terrified of all bugs and immediately kills them mercilessly upon discovery. It is inevitable that if she finds you, you will die an excruciating and painful death. However, you have the ability to communicate with her. You are not allowed to state your true identity, that you are actually a human, or the circumstances surrounding your metamorphosis. In fact, these statements would be deemed useless anyway because your roommate is only persuaded by speeches and logic that are chock full of obscure RL Stine Fear Street references. You are given exactly one minute to move your roommate into granting you mercy before she kills you. What do you say in your speech?
8.) Long before the bitter contract disputes and subsequent faltering of the Gilmore Girls series, creator Amy Sherman-Palladino claimed she already knew what she wanted to the last scene to be and already had the final four words of the finale in mind very early on in the series' inception. Of course, fans never got to see her ultimate envision and it has since become a fandom mystery. What are the last four words?
9.) Your absolute favorite band/artist in history (dead or alive) are at your disposal for 24 hours. You can request any and every song, hear any unfiltered story with complete truth, get private musical lessons, do as many wacky activities as you want, and even partake in consensual sexual activity, if you wish. However, once these 24 hours are up, you are never allowed to speak of what happens during this time, and they will never acknowledge you again. In fact, you will never be allowed to go to another concert (for any artist) for the rest of your life. If you decide not to do this and want to continue going to shows and freely speak of your adventures, it is inevitable that you will never be more than a face in the crowd and will never establish any sort of special memories with any artist or become part of an interesting anecdote at the shows you attend. Which would you prefer?
10.) You are offered your absolute dream job with a salary and benefits that will guarantee you and your family's comfort for life. It also grants you unlimited access to any and all of the perks of your dream job industry. However, your boss is Lady Gaga and the only way you can keep this position is if you make her a.) happy b.) the Western Baptist Church members' favorite artist of all time c.) relevant and viewed universally beloved by the public and critics alike for the next thirty years and d.) allow her to dress you every day with no exception. Otherwise, you will continue working in a medial job below your level with horrible supervisors, shady employees, undesirable tasks, and little opportunity for advancement. The job market is incredibly poor and will remain that way for many years. The chances of you breaking into something better (or something you actually want) isn't looking too good and while it's not impossible with your current job salary, you are having a hard time making ends meet. Do you accept the new dream job offer?
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Denise's Great Idea
Like most girls that grew up in the 80's and early 90's, I was a huge fan of the "Babysitter's Club" book series by Ann M. Martin for much of my youth. I first discovered them at the end of 3rd grade, when I randomly picked up a hardcover copy of "The Truth About Stacey" at the library. I instantly became enamored with these glamorous teenagers and the awesome adventures they had. I was already a fan of reading, but after getting into the series, I immediately became a huge, unapologetic, nerdy bookworm. I'd never be seen without a book, and nine times out of ten I'd be holding onto a BSC novel. My parents would comment about how I always had my nose in a book. I felt like they were nagging me, but I think they were relieved. Every month I'd beg them to take me to Target or Wal Mart so I could spend my hard earned allowance on the latest title. I'd be giddy with excitement every time I realized a new series (Super Specials, Mysteries, etc) would come out. I knew the characters as well as I knew myself.
Of course, like all good things, I eventually grew out of the series. By sixth grade I moved on to R.L. Stines' "Fear Street" collection, and my huge stacks upon stacks of BSC books got pushed to the back of my closet to make room for horror stories about people falling and their heads making a sound like the "cracking of an egg."
I hadn't put much thought into the BSC lately until I wandered around a local used book store the other day. Like my trips to my local record store, I only go to the book store once ever few months, but when I do, I spend hours searching every corner to find a few old gems. While perusing the nonfiction section, I noticed a small closet-like cubby of children's books. On one shelf was a huge stack of BSC books. Instantly amused, I picked them all up. They were only a dollar, after all. When the girl behind me in line side eyed me and asked if they were for me, I lied and said they were for my niece. I didn't need any literary snobs judging me.
When I got home, I began to feel the same giddiness and excitement I felt as a child when I checked out a fresh copy at the library. I thought reading them would be a nostalgic, if not hilarious, trip back to my youth. Maybe after getting into a few chapters I'd suddenly find a flood of childhood memories coming back to me. In a span of three hours, I read a book I'm pretty positive I never read as a child ("Dawn and Little Miss Stoneybrook"), one I definitely read a zillion times as a child ("Welcome Back, Stacey!"), one I probably read as a child but don't have any real definitive memory of ("Jessi and the Superbrat") and one that came way after my time ("Krisy's Worst Idea").
Unfortunately, I soon realized that it's just a bunch of bull shit about stupid teenagers who act/speak/think nothing like real 13 year olds, and shitty brats they all love an uncomfortable amount. It didn't have the same lulz or imagination that I remembered as an eight year old. I was so disillusioned with the contrived writing, that I continued reading only for the opportunity to try to pinpoint the exact time when everything went wrong in my life. Or has my adult cynicism just ruined the last of my youthful innocence?
By the way, fuck you, Ann M. Martin. I will never forgive you for giving me a completely distorted and medically inaccurate depiction of diabetes. You know what you did.
Of course, like all good things, I eventually grew out of the series. By sixth grade I moved on to R.L. Stines' "Fear Street" collection, and my huge stacks upon stacks of BSC books got pushed to the back of my closet to make room for horror stories about people falling and their heads making a sound like the "cracking of an egg."
I hadn't put much thought into the BSC lately until I wandered around a local used book store the other day. Like my trips to my local record store, I only go to the book store once ever few months, but when I do, I spend hours searching every corner to find a few old gems. While perusing the nonfiction section, I noticed a small closet-like cubby of children's books. On one shelf was a huge stack of BSC books. Instantly amused, I picked them all up. They were only a dollar, after all. When the girl behind me in line side eyed me and asked if they were for me, I lied and said they were for my niece. I didn't need any literary snobs judging me.
When I got home, I began to feel the same giddiness and excitement I felt as a child when I checked out a fresh copy at the library. I thought reading them would be a nostalgic, if not hilarious, trip back to my youth. Maybe after getting into a few chapters I'd suddenly find a flood of childhood memories coming back to me. In a span of three hours, I read a book I'm pretty positive I never read as a child ("Dawn and Little Miss Stoneybrook"), one I definitely read a zillion times as a child ("Welcome Back, Stacey!"), one I probably read as a child but don't have any real definitive memory of ("Jessi and the Superbrat") and one that came way after my time ("Krisy's Worst Idea").
Unfortunately, I soon realized that it's just a bunch of bull shit about stupid teenagers who act/speak/think nothing like real 13 year olds, and shitty brats they all love an uncomfortable amount. It didn't have the same lulz or imagination that I remembered as an eight year old. I was so disillusioned with the contrived writing, that I continued reading only for the opportunity to try to pinpoint the exact time when everything went wrong in my life. Or has my adult cynicism just ruined the last of my youthful innocence?
By the way, fuck you, Ann M. Martin. I will never forgive you for giving me a completely distorted and medically inaccurate depiction of diabetes. You know what you did.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Hollywood is a bitch goddess
I grew up in an uncomfortably small town (also, to all of you who live in suburbs with a population of 100,000 and complain about how you live in such a tiny community and how repressed you are, fuck you. A population of 2,000 is small. 100,000 is not. 9,000 is still pretty small though. You guys can maintain complaint rights) where there was literally nothing to do other than play soccer and watch the Simpsons on syndication (I lived so far deep into the orange groves we couldn't even get cable or high speed internet. It was a sad, sad childhood). In most cases, living in a dilapidated town with an incredibly underfunded public school system meant a lack of music education. Surprisingly, it was quite the opposite. In fact, by seventh grade, being in some sort of music program was mandatory. If you weren't in band, you were stuck in choir by default (suckers). And because our house was in the middle of nowhere, I was able to practice my flautist skills without neighbors yelling and children crying tears of blood (instead, it was just my parents yelling and my brother crying tears of blood).
This musical requirement paved the way for us to prepare and audition for a high school band and fulfill our geeky destinies. Our high school was a town over with a more respectable population (still way too small for my likings, however). Most who have not grown up in this community often thinks I'm simply trying to make myself feel better about my life when I say that being in band was considered cool, but for some reason, the surrounding community really liked their bands. A lot.
This was especially noted the year that my high school's band was chosen to lead the Hollywood Christmas Parade. It was a nationally televised event that officially kicked off the holiday programming season. Our band had been a part of this tradition many times, but it was the first time that we had been asked to lead in decades. And on top of that, we'd also be performing at and causing havoc in Disneyland. Fuck yes!
Once word traveled on this good news, local media immediately began to milk it as obnoxiously as it could. It wasn't just good press for our high school, it was great press for our entire community. Even outside, larger news publications began reporting on it. This obviously put an enormous amount of pressure on us. Not only did we have the parade to focus on, but we also were in the middle of perfecting our half time show that was prominently featured in every home game, as well as the highly popular Band-a-Rama (like I said, we were a band town). Additionally, the parade route was over 2 miles long, so it was hard to properly prepare for the length we'd be marching, even with our daily rehearsals and Tuesday and Thursday night practices.
However, as we got closer and close to the end of November, the buzz and excitement continually grew. We were asked to play the beginning of "Hurray for Hollywood" prior to our Christmas-themed march, and we'd be taking off on a red carpet in front of the Chinese Mann Theater before bringing cheer down the Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards. Additionally, the coordinator for the parade informed us that we'd be getting 3-4 minutes of television time, over twice the length of all the other bands. Our already on edge band conductor began barking orders on line formation and proper uniform attire. I don't think he slept the entire month of November. Consequently, I had nightmares about bobbing my head in the middle of the parade and chipping my clarinet reed (I hadn't played the clarinet in 6 years).
Finally, the big weekend came and my friends and I excitedly (and tiredly) squeezed into the charter busses en route to Los Angeles. Before we knew it, we were impatiently waiting on the red carpet listening for our cue to start, shaking from the cold winds and buzzing with nervous energy. Once we began, it became a blur of bright lights, rapid cheering, and intrusive cameras in our faces. I always had a difficult time properly marching (I think I put too much weight on my shins, so I'd end up with leg cramps half way through), but that night was perfectly. I felt like I was floating down the streets, and when we finally reached the end of the route, I felt a strange sort of accomplishment.
After huddling back into our buses, we headed back to our hotel. Because of the west coast delay, we were actually able to watch the parade "live" in the lobby. Alex Trebec and Nancy O'Dell were the hosts, and introduced us as we kicked off the parade. As we played "Hurray for Hollywood," there were some night shots from different angles. We tried to spot each other and hi5'd when we did.
(We all know my drawings are shitty. Dealwithit.gif, etc).
At first we felt fucking awesome.
And then about 20 seconds in, something strange happened.
We went through many emotions.
(None of the aforementioned names were there that night, but I think they should have been).
And that is why I hate Nancy O'Dell.
Editor's note: Upon checking references, I have come to realize that I actually hate Nancy O'Dell for the atrocity that was the Grammys challenge of season 2 of "Project Runway," NOT the parade. I apologize for the inconvenience.
This musical requirement paved the way for us to prepare and audition for a high school band and fulfill our geeky destinies. Our high school was a town over with a more respectable population (still way too small for my likings, however). Most who have not grown up in this community often thinks I'm simply trying to make myself feel better about my life when I say that being in band was considered cool, but for some reason, the surrounding community really liked their bands. A lot.
This was especially noted the year that my high school's band was chosen to lead the Hollywood Christmas Parade. It was a nationally televised event that officially kicked off the holiday programming season. Our band had been a part of this tradition many times, but it was the first time that we had been asked to lead in decades. And on top of that, we'd also be performing at and causing havoc in Disneyland. Fuck yes!
Once word traveled on this good news, local media immediately began to milk it as obnoxiously as it could. It wasn't just good press for our high school, it was great press for our entire community. Even outside, larger news publications began reporting on it. This obviously put an enormous amount of pressure on us. Not only did we have the parade to focus on, but we also were in the middle of perfecting our half time show that was prominently featured in every home game, as well as the highly popular Band-a-Rama (like I said, we were a band town). Additionally, the parade route was over 2 miles long, so it was hard to properly prepare for the length we'd be marching, even with our daily rehearsals and Tuesday and Thursday night practices.
However, as we got closer and close to the end of November, the buzz and excitement continually grew. We were asked to play the beginning of "Hurray for Hollywood" prior to our Christmas-themed march, and we'd be taking off on a red carpet in front of the Chinese Mann Theater before bringing cheer down the Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards. Additionally, the coordinator for the parade informed us that we'd be getting 3-4 minutes of television time, over twice the length of all the other bands. Our already on edge band conductor began barking orders on line formation and proper uniform attire. I don't think he slept the entire month of November. Consequently, I had nightmares about bobbing my head in the middle of the parade and chipping my clarinet reed (I hadn't played the clarinet in 6 years).
Finally, the big weekend came and my friends and I excitedly (and tiredly) squeezed into the charter busses en route to Los Angeles. Before we knew it, we were impatiently waiting on the red carpet listening for our cue to start, shaking from the cold winds and buzzing with nervous energy. Once we began, it became a blur of bright lights, rapid cheering, and intrusive cameras in our faces. I always had a difficult time properly marching (I think I put too much weight on my shins, so I'd end up with leg cramps half way through), but that night was perfectly. I felt like I was floating down the streets, and when we finally reached the end of the route, I felt a strange sort of accomplishment.
After huddling back into our buses, we headed back to our hotel. Because of the west coast delay, we were actually able to watch the parade "live" in the lobby. Alex Trebec and Nancy O'Dell were the hosts, and introduced us as we kicked off the parade. As we played "Hurray for Hollywood," there were some night shots from different angles. We tried to spot each other and hi5'd when we did.
(We all know my drawings are shitty. Dealwithit.gif, etc).
At first we felt fucking awesome.
And then about 20 seconds in, something strange happened.
We went through many emotions.
(None of the aforementioned names were there that night, but I think they should have been).
And that is why I hate Nancy O'Dell.
Editor's note: Upon checking references, I have come to realize that I actually hate Nancy O'Dell for the atrocity that was the Grammys challenge of season 2 of "Project Runway," NOT the parade. I apologize for the inconvenience.
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