Tuesday, November 29, 2005

the plague

They’re everywhere.

On the subway. In my fucking way in a grocery isle. Queing up just to make me wait an extra 30 minutes to buy a fucking thing of OJ. Clogging the very narrow middle of the bus so I can’t barely breath. Chinese, prolific and touring. The terror of the year coming to a theater near you.

You know what they are? They’re People.

Don’t give me this “I’m a person. I have thoughts and feelings, a family and friends just like you.” No you don’t. You’re not a person. You’re People. You’re in my way. I want you to get out of my way. And stop trying to convince me that you’re anything other than vile, isle clogging, coughing into my airspace People.

People can’t make up their mind. They zig and zag down the sidewalk blocking you every time you try to pass them. If they’re walking toward you, when you try to move out of their path, they move the same way. Then they say things like, “Wanna dance?” and think that it’s funny. No it’s not funny. People are not funny. They’re People.

People are the reason you’re late to work. People are the reason the subway breaks down. People are the reason there’s no sour cream left in the grocery store. People talk with thick Staton Island accents and grab your ass while you’re in the club. People ask questions like “Whatcha readin’?” while you’re on the airplane. Even though you’re clearly burying your nose in a book to avoid conversation with People!

People say things like “Mami!” And “Do you have the time?” And “Does this train go uptown?” Even though THERE’S A SIGN ABOVE THEIR HEADS THAT CLEARLY STATES THE TRAIN’S DESTINATION. But People are illiterate. And they can’t tell time. I would say…give them a break, what do you expect…they’re People. But do not be fooled. Do not buy into their doe eyed innocence. Do not give them a break. Do not excuse their stupidity. Why? Cause they’re People.

Do I think I’m a bad person for this? No. Do I think my karma is gonna plummet like Crispin’s reputation? Of course not. Anne Frank, good sweet dear Anne Frank said, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” And then People came and put her in a gas chamber. In the end, caring for People can only send you to a concentration camp. But that’s what you get for loving People.


Sunday, November 27, 2005

sorority poncho

Last night in the pre shift meeting the staff was informed that we would be hosting a celebrity that night. Big fucking deal. I hate it when celebrities come. They’re usually cheep, tipless, and create this huge fucking traffic stopping mob in the club that makes it impossible for all us non celebrities to work. (Can you imagine if ad people were overpaid and famous? And if we got our own episode of “Driven” on VH1? Ahhhh….) But a few of us seemed a little more starstruckable than me, and begged our manager to tell us who was coming in.

And it was none other than my one and only celebrity makeout, Matt Damon.

A long time ago a little bit younger and much more naïve girl sat in her orange cocktail dress in a little Miami beach dive bar. She had just got off from work and hadn’t planned on going out, but the lure of cocktails and cocaine was too tempting. So there she was, still wearing her orange work dress (because she hadn’t brought a change of clothes) and her University of Florida sorority poncho on top of it. (This might speak for Matt’s taste, as he was letting himself make out with a nobody, still in uniform, post-shift cocktail waitresses, who hadn’t yet retired her sorority rain gear.) She knew Matt was in town, as she had served (btw…why an I writing in the 3rd person?) him earlier at a pass hors d’oeuvres party. The kind of party I told you about before, that rbrown can’t seem to find. And then, as she sat on that bar stool in the corner, sipping a rum and coke and watching her friends play a game of pool, a friend jabbed her side and said…”Omigod, Matt Damon’s here.”

“Elli, remember when I made out with matt damon?” I asked my manager last night.

“Yes, I do, you little whore. You and all the hostesses at Pearl made out with him. “

That, I didn’t know until last night. But I laughed it off pretending I did. But what should I expect for someone with his non discriminant tastes? That I was special?

But I thought I was that night. “I’m gonna go talk to him,” I informed my friend and took my place at the bar next to where he was standing. The details of that conversation, like the details of most of my first year in Miami, are a little hazy. I know that we talked for a bit and he excused himself. At that point I figured he was blowing me off. Oh well, no loss, I thought. And resumed my position on the bar stool in the corner.

But then he did the unthinkable. He came back over to talk to ME. Walked right back over to where I was sitting and struck up a conversation. My first attempt in the exchange was to explain why I was wearing an orange dress/uniform, and why I was even a cocktail server at all. I was starting ad school next month. I was going to study copywriting, but that wasn’t the only thing I was interested in. I went on and on about how I really liked editing and maybe would like to get into production, so I would look like more than just a waitress and show that we had some career interest in common. But much to my try-way-too-hard-to-impress-a-celebrity dismay, the only common interest he shared with me was figuring out a way to get under my poncho.

Sitting in the dressing room last night before work, the girls discussed celebrities.

“I heard Vin Desiel is gonna be at Stereo [another club] tonight,” one said.

“Big deal,” answered another. “I don’t wanna wait on Vin desiel. I already fucked him once so what’s the point? He’s got a big dick, though.”

But I’ve never been one to just fuck. Getting under my poncho takes more than a few drinks and a celebrity name. And although that night (or morning…the sun was up) Matt took my friend and I back to his mansion after the bar closed, I was pretty intent on making sure his home was not the evening’s final destination.

“Really, I should go,” I said in the middle of kissing him. “The sun’s up.”

“No, no…stay here,” he protested.

“No really, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea…”

“It’s okay,” he said. “If you don’t wanna have sex than I can just go down on you.”


I pulled away. “Can you tell your driver to take me home now?”

And then I went home. Went to ad school. Went to Europe. Snagged the Rican. Moved to new york. Traded my orange cocktail dress for a black one. And after all that, i was about to face my former make out again. Doing the same old job. Seemingly not moved on with my life at all.

But was he going to remember me? Of course not. Having gone through all the hostesses at Pearl that same week I was just another orange dress to him. (And since that night I added a poncho to my ensemble, I’m sure I was the one he tried to forget.) So my plan was to just hang low, hide in my section and hope sans rain gear, I’d only look like just another dumb waitress trying to make a few bucks in new york. Nothing special. Nothing at all.

Eight hours later, I was standing in front of a hot dog vendor buying a late night snack.

“You work in the club over there, right?” The vendor asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“I recognize you. I always see you walking down this street around this time.”

I laughed. “Yeah, this is when I get out.”

“You make big money tonight?”

“Yeah, actually I did.”

“Congratulations, my friend. And see you tomorrow.”

“We’re not open tomorrow.” I said, “So next week.”

A cab pulled up and I got in it. As I shut the door, I realized that Matt had never showed up. And I was glad. If the random hot dog vendor recognized me, then maybe he might have too. But I was safe in cab and on my way home. On my way home and happy. I’ll take the Rican and a two-dollar hot dog, over his “I can just go down on you” celebrity ass any day. It may not seem like much to Matt, but to me it's pretty special.

i'm a stinking lazy filthy 2 job whore

sorry I’ve been off for a while, I actually got some freelance so I’ll be working two jobs till the end of the year. But don’t worry. Just because I’m double employed does not mean the bitterness will disappear. I’m writing a post right now…and I’ll be back and as bitter as ever.

I’m also planning on being much more devoted to this site….i’m hoping it gets popular and I can start selling concha merchandise and maybe do a concha pop album. I’m also open to suggestions…This is after all, one of my hobbies….

Friday, November 18, 2005

look at me i'm famous!!!

check it out...i made it on overheard in new york!


unfortunately i put it under my real name tho...now my concha cover is totally blown.

(but i made it on overheard...so it's totally worth it)

Monday, November 14, 2005

Alex, be subservient

Today I got one of my three times per week Creativity emails. It’s rare that I fully read them. But when I saw Crispin Porter in the first paragraph, I perked up a little, curious to see what the boys down south were doin’. Then I was brought to adcritic, where I watched one of the worst ads I have ever seen. (If I knew how to do links, I’d bring you to it. But remember, I’m an idiot waitress). I watched them borrow interest from a passed his reincarnated fame celebrity, Flava Flave. Then I saw them make an idiotic parallel between his name and being a “taste expert.” Then conclude with a completely irrelevant outcry that succumbs to the humor of tasteless drunk college students who have no idea what kind of formerly insightful and thoughtful work use to flow out of that place. They went from seeking praise at Cannes, to going for the laugh from your average Bevis. He hu he hu.

What happened, Crispin Porter? My once favorite agency. You were one of the reasons I got back into advertising. Yeah, you rejected me for that AE job I interviewed for. But instead of getting bitter, I enrolled in ad school, eager to be just like you. “Oh isn’t that cool!” I thought. “They put a Mini on an SUV!” I adored the Mini small thoughts copy. Reading the last words…”Be careful of long advertisements. The ones that go on and on. Those…will…get…you…every…time.” Yes, you got me and you can get me over and over again! I got choked up the way those pathetic chick flick watching girls do when they recite their favorite dialogue from Beaches. I went on Subservient Chicken at least three times per day and commanded him to hump the couch….HUMP THE COUCH!!! It was inspiration I thought only Oscar Wilde could provide. But then, like Poor Oscar did so many years ago, Crispin Porter Bogusky, laid down and died.

How could the same agency that wrote Ikea Lamp approve Chilltop? The same Creative director who inspired the Office (“That’s not cool.” “You’re not cool.” Oh so very cool!) decide to hire HOOTIE AND THE FUCKING BLOWFISH to sing the praises of the same fast food? Ugoff, you were my homosexual fashion designing fantasy. But now the King conceptlessly runs across a football field to say what, exactly? It’s like Dorothy parker coming back to life and writing Mandy Moore lyrics. Oh CPB, to quote Clare McNalley, “WHAT ARE YOU [FUCKING] TRYING TO SAY!!!!”

I realize that these are big words from the unemployed. And if I hadn’t slept in almost 3.5 years my career may be equally plummeting. But Alex, I’m not ready to see your tombstone erected yet. I don’t want to lay you to rest in the graveyard of Y&Crap and McCrap Erikson. Let your writers sleep, Alex. Give them a vacation. Visit each of their offices and one by one pull their heads out of each of their asses. Because it’s dark up there. And they can’t see what’s going on when their view is obstructed by their own colons. Get a nap, take some asprin and HUMP THE COUCH, GODAMIT! After a head clearing orgasm, maybe you can come back to us and bring all that brilliance back from your quickly approaching grave.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

pigs in a blanket

On the train to work Saturday night, I tried to convince myself that I was lucky. Yeah, I don’t have a job yet and my schedule has reduced my Rican visitation rights down to about 2.5 hrs per week. But, even though the night would earn me 600 dollars so I could afford new boots at 300 dollars, as if I’m living in a fucking Mastercard commercial, I’ve learned that respect is priceless.

And there’s no better way to win the no respect contest than when your job decides to host a sweet sixteen birthday party, and turns you into a teenager’s servant.

Just like any other party, they made us treat it like it was for a bunch of relatively sane 35yr olds. We had to pass hors d’oeuvres and then run a buffet. (I use the term “hors d’oeuvres” loosely since it was mostly chicken fingers and pigs in a blanket.) But they forgot one thing. Kids don’t want to eat. Kids want to fuck. Adults get older, realize all the problems and hassle that comes with fucking, and settle down by the buffet. But these kids snubbed me and my chicken like I was carrying a Saturday night math assignment in favor of starting an orgy on the dance floor.

“I know I didn’t act like that when I was sixteen,” I told the chef as brought an ignored tray of mozzarella sticks down to the kitchen.

Upstairs in the main room, everyone watched the dance floor orgy in horror, convinced they’d always possessed the maturity of 35 year olds. But the truth is at sixteen we all acted the same way. I probably would have chugged a cup of vodka outside, came in and made out with some 10th grader. Then, like they looked at me and the food I was carrying with pity, I too probably would have rolled my eyes at the nobody waitresses. Because I was in national honor society for fuck’s sake. These girls didn’t deserve any respect. Maybe if they would have known their adult life would be reduced to serving chicken fingers to high school students they would have thought twice about studying for that algebra test, now wouldn’t they? Then they could have gone to a little something called “college” and avoid this whole embarrassing blue-collar mess.

“I hope this is a new low for me,” said my fellow high school servant coworker. “I hope this is the lowest I’m gonna go.”

Feeling as big as an hors d’oeuvre, I slumped my shoulders over and sighed. My job pays the bills and affords the boots, but it can’t ever buy me the thing I want most.

There was only about a half hour left of the party. A few of the kids reconsidered some of the food, and came to the buffet for a serving. But most of the early bumpin’ and grindin’ had turned into rhythmic make out sessions on the dance floor.

“If I was a rich girl
na na na na na na na na na na na…” sang Gwen Stefani on the speakers.

And my inner DJ replied,

“I could tell all these kids to go fuck themselves
If I was a wealthy giiiiiiiirl.”

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

small meaningless excerpts from my life

Last night the Rican announced that his Playstation was in the mail and would soon be arriving at our house. I realized right away that my once peaceful evenings in the shoebox were now going to be filled with sounds of bling blong bloop. (Come on, we all got the first Nintendo. We all can hum the tune to Super Mario Brothers Level 1-1.) I was immediately filled with intense feelings of resentment and hatred. Sentiments which I immediately articulated.

“You can’t deny me my Playstation,” he argued. “ It’s one of my hobbies.”

Playstation? A hobby? Playstation is not a hobby. Painting, Music, Photography. These are all perfectly acceptable hobbies to me. Because after you devote a Saturday to one of them, you usually have something to show for it. More importantly, if you’re good, you’ll also have something to sell. Become skilled enough, and one day you may get a book or a record deal. So basically, a hobby is anything that puts you on the path to riches and/or fame. Otherwise you’re just wasting your time.

Playstation. A hobby. What’s next? Blogging?

Ever the literalist he sent me this definition to prove his point.

hob·by n
1. an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation during spare time

“So there,” he said.” It does count as a hobby. Just like smoking weed. That’s also one of my hobbies.”

“Smoking weed is not a hobby!”

“Don't get mad cause you don't have any hobbies.”

I scanned my brain for a few examples. “I do too have hobbies.”

“What, like busting my balls?”

Well, maybe I can relax my definition, just this once.