Busy Busy Busy

So for the first time in almost 10 years, I have a job that is fun. Not a little bit of fun. A lot of fun. Basically, my days are filled with meetings.

Meeting Type #1 - Meetings with people who want something from me.

These are fun. Partly because its nice to be able to actually help someone with something and partly because it's nice to not be the one asking for something. People who want stuff often attempt to ply me with pens and stress balls and free food and booze. I usually eat the food and drink the liquids, but I throw the stress balls back at them and say, "Where were you 2 months ago before I quit my last job? That's when I needed the stress ball. How 'bout you invent a time machine, go back 8 weeks ago and give me this thing. Jerk." Actually, I usually politely accept the schwag and then distribute it to people who come by my office or who fall into meeting type #2.

Meeting Type #2 - Meetings with people from whom I want something.

"Why hello sir. You look quite stunning today. May I offer you a beverage? Perhaps a pen with some company logo on it? Stress ball? Anyway, the reason I asked you here is..." These meetings rarely go well. It's not because my lack of charm. It's the shitty schwag that people from Meeting Type #1 gave me. They really need to step that stuff up.

The third type of meeting known is the Informational Meeting. The informational meeting is the one where I randomly jot words down on a page while I nod my head like I am listening to every word coming out of the other person's mouth. Then I doodle around all the words on the page. I like to draw eyeballs, but sometimes the eyeballs look like boobs floating in the middle of a page, so then I have to draw an entire face. But then sometimes I get worried that if the person with whom I am speaking glances at my notebook, they'll think I'm drawing a picture of them, so then I have to add weird punk rock hair, because its the easiest to draw to make it not look like the person with whom I am meeting. Unless they are a punk rocker. And then I have to draw moustaches and sideburns. After the meeting my boss usually asks to see my notes from the meeting, because he saw me scribbling away furiously and thinks I probably wrote down a lot of the details we discussed. Then I have to lie and tell him that I write in shorthand and it's going to take me time to transcribe it. And then I have to type up notes from the meeting based on randomly written words that may or may not be covered by eye balls.

I love my job.

Strippers Galore

So this past Saturday night I ventured to a strip club with my friend and his wife. Strip clubs always evoke a weird sort of childhood nostalgia. Growing up, there used to be this ridiculously tacky and large strip club that I passed twice a day on Admiral Wilson Boulevard in Camden. The name of the place was Showgirl Palace. The Palace had color photos of scantily clad ladies with mall hair and lingere that looked like it would be really hard to figure out how to put on. And the best part was that the photos were literally 20 feet tall. For a while, I figured the place only employed giant strippers. I always imagined it the kind of club where every lap dance could be your last. Dozens of unwitting fools crushed beneath the weight of silicone and hair extensions. So my childhood (read: 20 year-old) imagination was delt a devastating blow when the Republican National Convention came to town. Essentially, people decided that the GOP delegates would be offended with all the lady bits on display and razed pretty much all of the Boulevard including the Palace. 'Twas a sad end to a fine establishment.

Anyway, driving past a strip club on almost a daily basis, if anything, dulled the natural curiousity about such establishments. I didn't go to my first strip club until after I had moved to Florida. It was called the "Booby Trap." And I almost got kicked out because I threw a beer at some guy wearing a Varsity Mickey Mouse jacket. I don't know why I was so offended that he would where Disney gear in the strip club, but I distinctly remember screaming about him not "lettering" and not deserving his "supple leather sleeves."

So Saturday night I met my friends at a strip club in Center City. Now, I expect most strippers to be unattractive. I did not quite prepare myself for the series of total train wrecks that were undulating around the pole upon my entrance. I don't do well in strip clubs for a variety of reasons. First, I don't go places that charge covers. Second, I don't go places where a beer costs more than four dollars. Third, I don't go places where people talk to me and I have to pay them a dollar to go away. Essentially, that's what my entire night can be summed up as. Plus, I don't like when people touch me. I've got personal space issues. Unless I'm comfortable around you, attracted to you or some combination of the two, I don't want to touch or be touched by you. Shaking hands, fine. Pat on the back. Great. Other than that, hands to yourself, lady.

The first uncomfortable touching of the night was when one of the strippers ran her fingers through my hair. Word to the wise: by 8 pm, my long hair is essentially a rat's nest. You're lucky you didn't lose a finger in there. The second uncomfortable touching of the night was when the busted stripper gave me a kiss on the cheek. I almost threw up a little bit. I could feel the kiss burning into my skin and had to use all my will-power not to lose my shit right then and there. Lady, I don't even let my family members kiss me. Especially not during flu season. My grandmother, with whom I have one of the closest relationships, is not allowed to lips-to-cheek kiss me. She's lucky if she gets a cheek-on-cheek peck. And that's my grandmother. Not a 26-year-old with four kids who was bragging about the huge porn contract she just scored. Mwwwwaaahh. That's the sound of me saying hi to the $7 jack and coke I just downed.

Sinking Feeling

So, you may have noticed the lack of posts over the last couple of weeks. The simple explanation is that I've been super busy. The more complicated explanation is that I've switched jobs, and my new job is actually enjoyable, which leaves me less time to whine and moan via blog. Anyway. When I restarted the blog, I vowed that I would try to update at least once a week. Now that I'm settled into the new job, I'm going to try to do that. Anyway.

I don't consider myself particularly intuitive. I think I'm good at reading people and situations, but I believe that this is a result of my observant nature rather than any sort of sixth sense. I usually write any accurate predictions off as coincidence rather than intuition. However, I cannot help but have a sinking suspicion that one day I will find a dead body. And not in a, "I-was-the-one-who-came-home-and-found-that-great-grandmom-had-passed-on" dead body. I'm talking murder victim in the woods dead body. I can't help but feel like I'm going to be the "hiker" or "jogger" that stumbles upon a cadaver when my dog takes off and I chase him down only to be led to a makeshift gravesite.

That being the case, when interviewed by the Police about the discovery, you won't hear me say anything like, "At first I thought it was a department store mannequin that someone had dumped in the woods." Nope. Unlike every other hiker or jogger that stumbles upon a dead body, I'm kind of expecting that the corpse-like figure peeking out from a crumpled refrigerator box is going to be a body, not a mannequin. And frankly, that's only logical. Do people think it's common to dispose of old mannequins by dumping them in the woods? Really though, when was the last time a hiker stumbled upon what he or she thought was a mannequin and they were right? I bet it's pretty rare.

Anyway, I'm not saying that I'm looking forward to discovering a dead body, or that I want to discover a dead body or that I won't be totally devastated and mentally warped by the discovery. I'm just saying that I think at some point in my life, I'm going to be that "jogger" or "hiker" that you read about in the paper.

The Philadelphia Hipster

Philadelphia hipsters are everywhere. They are a plague upon my fair city. Their sustenance consists solely of PBR from Bob and Barbara's and irony. They spend hundreds of dollars on their frayed and worn messenger bag. The obligatory messenger bag complements their retro track bike, which gets them around NoLibs or SoSo (not Midtown though. Hipsters hate Midtown). They spend hours picking out an outfit that reflects just how much they don't care what they look like, while at the same time demonstrating their disenfranchisement with main stream culture. They don skinny jeans and skinny tees and get their hair cut from their friend Kristy who used to go to cosmetology school but had to drop out because the teachers and their rules were destroying her creativity. "It was soooo beat, man. I'm not a robot. I've got to experiment. It's my passion." They say things like, "What, you don't spin your own vinyl?" They believe that they are the only people on earth who truly understand and appreciate indie rock. Their favorite band at any given moment is a group of whiny guys in skinny jeans who they describe as "totally intense." Should you or I happen to know and/or like their favorite band, then that band is immediately dismissed as "so yesterday" and/or "sell outs."

Hipsters have great disdain for non-hipsters. This pisses me off. Listen mother fuckers - I've been wearing Chuck Taylor's since I was in second grade. I remember when they weren't cool and you could buy them for $20.00 a pair. Now I'm paying $50.00 for a pair of low-tops because you assholes decided that they are rad. That's the true difference between a hipster and a non-hipster. Non-hipster's do things because they like or want to do them. Hipsters do things because after conferring with their other hipster friends, a general consensus has been reached that it would be "deck."

And while we're at it, some of us can't live our lives looking like we just rolled out of bed in the morning. Some of us have jobs that don't entail being a barista at Starbucks. Some of us have to wear collared shirts and pants that need to be ironed. That doesn't make me a sell out. You, hipsters, are the ultimate sell outs. Your clothes and your hair and your beard and your stretched ear lobes do not make up for a total lack of personality or individuality. Contrary to popular hipster belief, really cool leggings do not compensate for the fact that you have no sense of humor.

The World's Gone Crazy

Newly Discovered Rodent or Baby R.O.U.S?
According to an AP article, "Researchers in a remote jungle in Indonesia have discovered a giant rat and a tiny possum that are apparently new to science, underscoring the stunning biodiversity of the Southeast Asian nation."

How is this news? Apparently scientist are totally unfamiliar with the book and film, "The Princess Bride." Everyone knows that the three dangers of the Fire Swamp are: 1) Flame Spurts; 2) Lightening Sand, and; 3) R.O.U.S.', otherwise known as Rodents of Unusual Size.

Above, you have the allegedly "new creature" which I think is best described as a baby R.O.U.S. Below, you have a fully grown R.O.U.S. which can be dispatched with swords, guns, or by holding the screaming creature over a flame spurt.

Jamie Lynn Spears is Pregnant

Jamie Lynn Spears, Britney's 16-year-old sister, is preggers. All along I thought it was KFed's boys that were freakishly strong swimmers, but now that JLS has a bun in the oven, I, if a guy, would refuse to share even a hot tub with these chicks out of fear of having to pay child support for the next eighteen years. Wouldn't this be awesome if this whole thing was a stunt to take some heat off of Britney and her mothering woes? This whole time I've been calling Britney the worst mother ever, but now I'm having second thoughts. Maybe JL's and Britney mom, Lynn, is truly the worst mother ever. How many more kids does Lynn have whose lives she hasn't destroyed? Isn't there a Spears brother running around out there somewhere? I'm suprised he hasn't managed to shoot up a day care center or a mall by now.

Embarassing iPod Material

I researched and wrote 32 pages of motions and accompanying memoranda of law today, so I'm going to be lazy and post one of the few interesting surveys floating out on the interweb. I totally stole this from Lora, which may or may not be payback for her theft of homage to my hobo camp post.

Doing this "survey" I realized that I have some pretty fucking embarrassing music on my iPod. What's the most embarrassing thing on your MP3 player machine?

If your life was a movie, what would the soundtrack be?

Step 1: Open your music library.
Step 2: Put it on shuffle.
Step 3: Press play.
Step 4: For every question, type the song that's playing.
Step 5: When you go to a new question, press the next button.

Opening Credits: "What I'm Fighting For" - Matisyahu
Waking Up: "Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak
First Day of School: "Admit It" - Say Anything
Falling in Love: "Let's Dance" - David Bowie
Fight Song: "Kiss" - Prince (Is he saying sign or size?)
Breaking Up: "Oh Timbaland" - Timbaland (slightly embarrassed I own this album)
Prom: "G-Thang" - Snoop Doggy Dog and Dr. Dre ('Twas a pimps and hoes theme)
Life: "Gonna Make You Sweat" - UB40 (totally embarrassed this song is on my iPod)
Mental Breakdown: "The Pioneers" - Bloc Party
Driving: "March Into the Sea" - Modest Mouse
Flashback: "Bust a Move" - Young MC
Getting Back Together: "Thank You Very Much" - The Kaiser Chiefs
Wedding: "Don't Stop Believing" - Journey
Birth of Child: "No Brakes" - The Bravery
Final Battle: "Neon Bible" - Arcade Fire
Death: "Think Twice Before You Go" - John Lee Hooker

And in case anyone is wondering, I'm currently obsessed with the following music items:

• The Bravery and their self-titled album
• B101 for playing non-stop Christmas music since the day after Thanksgiving
• Bloc Party - A Weekend in the City.
• Kaiser Chiefs for providing my dog with his own theme song
• The ringtone for my phone, "Last Christmas" by Wham, and how fucking excited people get when someone calls me
• Jessica Simpson's vagina for sucking the talent out of Tony Romo (keep up the great work!)

Denial is a Sportcoat, not a Blazer

Holiday office parties tend to unleash all of the pent up energy and frustration that work has built up over the last 12 months. Add the stress of the holidays, and being forced to make nice with work people after hours and throw in open bar and you have a recipe for disaster. I'm not even talking about my own office party which saw enough inappropriate, debaucherous and borderline illegal behavior to make me think twice about downing the next Makers Mark and Coke. (No Jack! I know, right?!) You see, yesterday, I got to do what very few have ever done before. I observed an office party while stone cold sober.

Now that it is cold as fuck and I've stopped running every day after work, my usual routine is to go to my local watering hole on the way home from work. Some nights it means a couple of beers and then heading home. Some nights (read: last Thursday) it goes from a couple of beers to buying 40s and staying up to beat Super Mario Galaxy on Wii.

Monday, I left work around 5:30 and headed to my de facto favorite watering hole. This bar and I have a very dysfunctional relationship. It's very love hate. It's like the cycle of abuse in a domestic relationship. Everything seems to be great and then *boom* I go for happy hour and it takes me 20 minutes to get a beer. I threaten to leave forever and they make it up to me and then all is well for awhile until they cancel Guitar Hero night to put on a division III football game. You get the picture. Despite its shortfalls, I love this bar because they have an awesome drink special and the bartenders know my drink, my name and what it means when I point at someone and tap my upper left arm.

As I arrived at the bar yesterday evening, it was absolutely packed with a group of late 20 / early 30 somethings. I elbow my way through girls in dresses and dudes in suits and plop myself down in an empty bar stool. One of the new bartenders, who is quickly becoming a favorite, comes over to confirm that I want a lager. "Dude," I say. "What the fuck is going on?" He shakes his head, "Office party. They've already run up a $2k bar tab. Open bar until 6." "Well," I reply. "You know what that means, right?" He laughs, "It means your drinks are on the house till six." And this is why I keep coming back to this bar despite the repeated abuse. (Not the face though, they know better).

So I begin to drink and observe the office party that is supplying me with my beer until six. After only a few minutes of observation, it is obvious that they've been here a while. For example:

1. One girl is walking around in bare feet. Which would be awesome. Except that we aren't on the beach in fucking Punta Cana. We are in a bar in Philadelphia in December.

2. The bartenders ran out of shot glasses.

3. A spontaneous dance circle formed when Akon's "Smack That" began to play.

4. "It's Not Over" by Chris Dautry caused one dude to start hugging and swaying while singing along at the top of his lungs.

5. Ties were being worn as head bands.

At this point, my friend and I are chatting with another lady bartender we know from a different bar. A guy in his early 30s wanders over from the office party. He looks Irish, medium build with dark hair. He's staring creepily at us and as he walks by he "brushes" up against our bartender friend. The brush wasn't an incidental brush, but more of a "I'm gonna brush by you and smell your hair and then go masturbate in the bathroom." The brush can be done subtly and often goes unnoticed in the cramped quarters of a bar. Except that we weren't in cramped quarters. So the first time he walks by and does "the brush" we laughed it off as "Dude, that guy is fucking wasted." However, after three more brushes and one full-on butt grab, I went to go get the manager. So the manager talks to the guy and sends him back to the office party on the other side of the bar. The manager apologizes and promises to keep his eye on the Creeper. Five minutes later, Creeper is back on our side of the bar touching some lady playing Megatouch.

There are few things in life that I hold as sacred as a game of Erotic Photo Hunt on Megatouch. Nobody should be distracted and/or interrupted while playing EPH. That's fucking bullshit. The Creeper cost this lady at least one magnifying glass. Total crap. The manager sees this whole thing play out and literally chases Creeper back to the other side of the bar. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, he is leaning into my friend. Now the manager literally drags him out of the bar and tells him not to come back inside.

A group of the girls from the office party start to follow him outside to find out why Johnny Grabass isn't allowed back in the bar. One of the women comes over to me and asks, "Do you know why they kicked that guy out?" I tell her, "Yeah. Because he's a total Creeper that's been groping my friend for the last hour." "That can't be!" she responds. "That's my husband. What was the guy who was groping your friend wearing?" I would have been happy to draw a sketch of the Creeper had I had some charcoals or colored pencils or say, talent. Nonetheless, I described him as follows: "He is about 5'9", dark brown hair, looks to be of Irish heritage. He was wearing khaki pants, drinking what looked like a Hoegarden, had a black mock turtleneck on and a light colored blazer." Her response?

"Well that couldn't be my husband! He's wearing a sportcoat, not a blazer." Yeah. I'm sure there's a doppelganger of your husband running around in a blazer instead of a sport coat groping strangers. My bad. Please send my apologies to your innocent, husband who isn't the guy acting like he's tripping on E for the first time. Boy is my face red.

Denial must be awesome.